Happy New Year

...

What I want for Christmas...

...I want a turret, covered in ivy, with a front door and a back door. And windows. Somewhere I can see the world through 360°. A little bit of castle.

I want guarantees, but nothing big, just things that are worth the paper they're written on.

I want to be able to see squirrels whenever the mood takes me. In fact any foraging creature will do. I just want wildlife on my doorstep. Snuffling noses and twitching whiskers. Quizzical mixed with careless abandon, and a hint of quarry. Failing that a top hat would do.

I want a new heart. In fact I want new insides, better insides. More resilient. Longer lasting.

I want a Sky+ life. A microwave option so I can experience everything quicker if I want to. And slow-mo. To be able to see the world in time lapse whenever I choose. Or freeze frame moments of joy or record them. I don't want to have to rely on my memory. I could live and relive at will.

I want a clean slate.

I want to be able to smell smoke all year round. Do you know what I mean? Not just in the Autumn. I want invisible burning fields, conjuring images of the sun's rays as marble javelins.

I want to be able to mend cars. To be able to know what's wrong with cars and be able to mend them. I want to be able to to tell what's wrong with a car just by listening to it.

I want every penny I've ever wasted.

I want some foresight. Sometimes. Not all the time. Not even most of the time. Just some of the time. But more than that I want serendipity.

And I want cobwebs, in isolation. Not yards of haunted house replicas. Not long abandoned flaky spiderhomes, but fragile, freshly spun, diamond encrusted, architectural miracles.

That's about it.

I don't want much.

I don't want to be King Midas.

Halloween Poem

...so I knocked on the door
and he answered, with glee.
"My name is Paul Daniels."
"I'm Debbie Magee."
His wife hoved into view
and before I could speak
they'd both pulled me
inside
and I 'stayed' for the week.

I was kept bound and gagged
(it might sound a bit tragic)
and while Deb gave me head
I had Paul
perform magic.
Twelve times daily they came,
so did I, half the time.
The fellatio "okay"
and Paul's magic, sublime.

I was spent come the end
of a harrowing week,
then they took off the gag
which allowed me to speak.
I nodded to Debbie
shook Paul's hand, hit the street,
then turned back (I'd remembered)
as I asked,
"Trick or Treat?"

Price Comparison Website News

Agonising over which price comparison website is the best price comparison website?

Confused about which price comparison website genuinely offers you the best price comparison?

Tired and confused and wondering which price comparison website you should use?

Confused and tired and confused and confused about the number of price comparison websites?

Do you want the best deal?
Do you want the deal which is better than the other best deals?
Do you want the best deal from all the best deals?
Do you want the very best best deal?
Do you want the number one very best best deal?
Do you want the very very very best deal?

www.pricecomparisonwebsitecomparison.com

No need to thank me.

Prolificacy

I can't do it.

Labels

I bought a coat the other day.

I needed a coat, what with the weather looking like it might be turning cold.

Looking?

But, try as I might, I couldn't find one which fitted my criteria.

It had to be:

1. Cheap
2. Warm
3. Any colour including brown
4. Waterproof

I looked everywhere, even in shops which didn't sell coats, all to no avail.



Until, like I said, the other day, I found one which suited me down to the tops of my thighs.

I thought twice about buying it straight away because of the label I found stuck to the inside pocket. Instead of not buying the coat I just ripped the label off, and everything was okay.

Happy Birthday

It's a year since I started this blog. Look.

See. Told you.

Thanks for reading.

All three of you.

R.I.P.

There is no romantic way to die and there is no romantic way to be found dead. Whether you die in the arms of a loved one after a short and painless illness, or are found washed up on the banks of the Thames with your limbs in a Co-Op carrier bag fastened around your neck, the long and short of it is that you are dead.

Most, I believe, would choose the former.

Closure

This is my attempt to make everything okay.

I don’t honestly know if I care whether or not it will work any more than I know whether or not I know what work means..

I like to convince myself that I think I care in the same way that I hope you care. I don’t enjoy making you upset so please don’t change your mind about anything that we’ve said or agreed to recently.

Whilst the last two years of our marriage have ranged from a struggle, at best, to completely miserable, at worst, for the last six years we have lived our lives on fast forward. We had a relationship that was bliss. I mean it was, wasn’t it? But we know now that not everything lasts. I will always try to remember the good times, not to dwell on them and agonise over what went wrong, but just to make the future easier. I’ll try to remember things not being bad.

I know it’s over but I don’t see any danger in remembering when it was real and when it was The Best.

The result, as we both know, has been two adorable and stunningly beautiful children. We’ll always be a Mum and Dad. We shouldn’t just chalk things down to experience and relegate our marriage as a dim and distant mistake. I’m sure that we did make mistakes but learning from them must be key for the sake of our futures.

The situation at the moment is stressful and, ultimately, painful because by nature people fear change and what we’re going through is the ultimate upheaval. Time will definitely heal but we have no control over each other’s feelings or about how we think. Those thoughts and feelings are completely personal. Things we say and do can affect other people but our own reaction to these things cannot be known until they happen. Above and beyond anything else we are individuals. Our moods and temperaments change continuously. This is one of the reasons why I think our relationship has been so turbulent over the last six months and acknowledging it is one of the reasons why our relationship will improve in the future.

I will admit that in the past I have been guilty of emotional and physical neglect insofar as the girls are concerned. What I have come to realise over the last six months is my dependency on them. I couldn’t possibly even begin to imagine them not being there.

I’m sure you feel the same way.

The learning curve that we have both had to climb has turned out to be too steep. That doesn’t alter the fact that we have climbed some of it and have grown as individuals as a result. Maybe we reached the top and didn’t have any further to go? Maybe we exhausted our marriage and exhausted ourselves?

People talk about closure and I feel we’re very close to that now. It may not be until we get divorced that we have complete closure but I definitely feel its presence.

Realistically I don’t think that everything will run smoothly for the rest of our lives. There are too many issues and too many personalities involved to think otherwise. To appreciate anything good you have to experience the bad otherwise the good is irrelevant. We have to make the best of things. I want us to be sincere friends and I think we can be. But it shouldn’t need any effort. We are two people who got on and can get on. Given our mutual interest in the welfare of the girls that is how it has to be.

There must always be a place in my heart for you.

That’s just the way it is.

Time to move on.

My Mountain

I ran to ask my mountain questions
Those borne from foothills of a soul
And borrowed air as makeshift transit
The stolen time from oxygen
Inhaled and set as veins in marble
Unlike each whispered, echoed word
It sat, unmoved, unfurrowed counsel
While only lost penumbra stirred

A heartbeat peppered fractured quiet
There's nothing blowing in the wind
Then senses pricked by cacti needles
All cursed their lucky solitude
The dumbest nurture untold knowledge
Mobility is just cement
The torture of my mountain's fortune
Solutions aren't by accident

The answer isn't on a matchbox
It can't be found among parched clouds
Or hidden betwixt the leaves of trees
Nor snaking dust around the scrub
My mountain sage stood fast in silence
And truth no nodding head betrayed
The foetus of my wisdom crowning
With innocence once more decayed

Blueprint (in pencil)

Laugh like polystyrene crows are down your throat
Wake to a world through syrup crescents
and translucent lashes
Cough up sand and solar flares
Talk to goats
Fall if you feel like falling
Smile with teeth you never knew were yours
through lips which demand others

Mixing blue and yellow is innovation
Try everything twice
because people make mistakes
Wear a hat like a wig
Follow leaders
Stare in belief
Watch your back if you lie in profile
You may be in every ounce of dust you've ever seen
Imagine doors as opportunities
Use gravity to your advantage
Trust isn't a last resort
Be a sponge for inspiration
and be a brick
Prostrate yourself before gold
Brown your belly with logic
and fill it with knowledge
Consume everything

Make sure it all folds
Quit and win with equal ease
Carry your heart inside a box inside a box
Sing louder than birds conning crickets
Keep you guessing
Remember the past as photographs
and how you appear in unfamiliar mirrors
Pen people in occasionally
Addict yourself to abstinence
Consider the sky for longer than is sensible
You still need a roof when you knock down walls
Failure is guaranteed
Rollercoasters aren't the best metaphor for life
You can put flip-flops on the wrong feet
Does your neighbour even have an ox?

Play on swings and roundabouts
Swim alone if you must
Use ambition like cutlery
Embrace extremes of temperature
Patches work
All grass is green
Make Chinese people speak up
Read between the lines of blank pages
Beware of shadows
Paint towns brighter than red
Sleep when you can
The smooth used to be rough
Best clothes become rags

Steal advice

Don't bring anything down from within
Think about it

Know how to look after yourself
Know when to stop

Push

May

For four and twenty hours honour ants, before you strike the sky,
Transparent, and apparent, that this life must start and end today.

Support The Earth's extremities, let ribbons decorate the globe,
As all the while wild chamomile and wilder flora make it weak.

Next turn it under, clear your throat, let violent disorder reign,
And run this city, creative. A. N. Other; alternative.

Cede this to us and (possibly) we'll all exist and, with clenched fists,
We'll punch the air because we dare enough to spy the sun for free.

Monkey

There's no point talking
To me
I only see the things that I want
To See
It might look like I'm listening
But nothing you say
Can make me think in any sense
Except my way

There's no point talking
At all
Go have a conversation with a
Brick wall
It should seem like I care less
But probably don't
Don't try to think like I think
Because I won't

There's no point talking
Per se
It's nothing but a game that the
Humans play
Misused like a privilege
So go tell the birds
And don't forget that actions speak
Louder than words

Too-dimensional?

Do you want a piece of me? Is that what it is? Is that all this is? Because I'll tell you now, that isn't going to achieve anything.

I'm the same as everyone else. Really. If you shake me then I'll rattle. You might not think it, right now. You might think that I'm 'different', and you'd be forgiven for thinking it, but not by me. I'm pretty unforgiving. I only work one way, and you'll have to work with me if you want the best of me.

Can you see what I look like? I know you can, or at least you think you can, on the outside at least. But I'm incomplete inside, honestly. And that image, the one you can see? That isn't really what I'm like. That's not me most of the time. Most of the time I'm an unmitigated muddle. A big mess. Bigger than you imagine you know.

Don't let me frustrate you. I'd hate it if you got bored of me and I can't abide the thought of being redundant. So don't waste hours on me without getting anything back, because that might happen. You might approach me the same way you approach everyone, and you've no obligation to approach me any differently. Use your usual technique, the same tried and tested method that has guaranteed success in the past. And take your time, exercise your effort with discretion. Leave me alone for a while, go and do something else. Come back to me later, once you've had time to think, time to distract yourself from me. Don't totally forget about me though, or we'll end up having to start all over again. Although I already know it's only ever going to end one of two ways. Isn't that always the way?

Go on, please. Please try me once, or at least once, just to get me out of your system, just to find out what I'm like. I know you'll feel much better for it. You know you'll much feel better for it. It's a given. It gets easier each time, in time, like everything does. Or am I a game to you? Just some sort of fucking game? Am I...? AM I...? ...So just get rid of me. Dump me. Drop me. I'd care, of course I would, I'd go to pieces. But I swear I'd hold you responsible for picking up every single one afterwards. I know I wouldn't be in any position do it myself.

I'm an enigma: a complex soul. I'm black. And I'm white. And black and white. And grey. And a myriad of other colours and reflections of light and shades of shadow. I'm a plethora of different shapes and every shape a different shape. Every one has a pattern and everyone has a pattern. Everyone has the right to feel complete. We're all just a series of rows and columns, and corners or edges, aren't we?

No?

Okay fine. Have it your way. Go ahead. Pigeonhole me. Put me into a convenient box.

Bite Me

Hollow me out

and stuff me

Put me in the oven

and bake me

Scrape my fingers pickle my eyes
Marinade my liver poach my thighs

Peel off my skin

and mash me

Macédoine my tonsils

and baste me

Beat my buttocks curdle my cream
Microwave my nipples let off steam

Butter me up

and spread me

Roll me in some breadcrumbs

and fry me

Grate my earlobes boil my toes
Skewer my intestine up my nose

Flour my back

and whip me

Put me in a cupboard

and leave me

Soak my plums and grill my loins
Celebrate my pudding filled with coins

Now fold me in

and mix me

Put me in some foil

and roast me

Spice my kidneys batter my jaw
Barbecue my carcass

Want any more?

Knowledge

I know what I want
And if I don't know what I want
Then I know that I know
What I know I don't want

I know who I am
And if I don't know who I am
Then I know that I know
That I know who I'm not

I know what I do
And if I don't know what I do
Then I know that I know
What I Know I wont do

I know what I know
And if I don't know what I know
Then I know that I know
That I don't know a lot

Re: Lotto

Every week the National Lottery promises to make someone a millionaire. Simply pick six numbers between and including one and forty-nine and if your numbers match those chosen by the lottery machine on the following Saturday, you've won.

It all sounds relatively simple, doesn't it?

The odds are about 14,000,000-1, which are the same odds as the chance of you swallowing a badger in your sleep. And the odds of those odds being the same is also 14,000,000-1.

One way of shortening the odds is to form a syndicate, a group of friends or colleagues who all contribute a pound, or more, to purchase one ticket, or more, each. If your syndicate has two people the odds are 7,000,000-1, if it has seven people 2,000,000-1, if it has fourteen people 1,000,000-1 and so on and so forth. So if you're one of those people who doesn't have 14,000,000 friends, the chances are that you'll be pretty hard pushed to reduce the odds to evens. In fact, even if you did have 14,000,000 friends, with the average jackpot total standing at about £8,000,000, you would still lose out.

This begs the question, why form a syndicate?

They're not new, far from it. Many people form syndicates in order to win the football pools. But in this instance there is a method in the madness. The more crosses you have in one permutation, the more chance you have of matching with more score draws. The more crosses you have in each permutation, the more it costs. So, in order to be able to afford the cost of your perms (and I don't mean going to the hairdressers every week), you can split the cost between the members of your syndicate. The end result assuming you win is, of course, the same. The prize money is shared between the members of the syndicate.

More tickets more chances more expense. More crosses more chances more expense.

Hmmnnnn...

Here though is where the lottery syndicate fails to deliver. A football pools syndicate is often honed from the collective football intelligence of many people. Their foundations lie in the working clubs and pubs of Great Britain. Lifelong friends whose rights to join syndicates have been handed down throughout generations. With the football pools you have a chance to study form. It's unlikely that a cup fixture between Manchester United and Stalybridge will produce a score draw. However, a game between Manchester United and Liverpool would no doubt create some interesting debate, and might only be resolved after the seventh or eighth pint. In the event of a jackpot win the money has been won by the syndicate and each member is deserved of a share.

But compare this to the lottery syndicate. The horrible randomness of it all. Arguments over whether or not the number three is more likely to appear than the number twenty-three. There is no form, no history, no theory behind it, unless you rely purely on probability. When the lottery syndicate wins there is only one winner, the person who holds the ticket. They must then share their winnings with everyone else. Everyone who hasn't really deserved it.

Of course, for everyone else it is a dream come true.

Members of lottery syndicates nationwide should ask themselves one question. "If I win £8,000,000 do I want to give most of it away?" If the answer is no then the solution is simple. Whatever numbers you have on your ticket, buy an identical one. If a syndicate of four has the lottery's only winner, and you are that winner, and you've got two tickets, you win £5,000,000.

They only get a poxy £1,000,000 each.

Anagram Story

There are two schools of thought.

There are those who believe that Spiro Agnew was called Spiro because Spiro is a nice name, and there are those who believe he was called Spiro for a more sinister reason altogether.

One must first be privy to the knowledge that Spiro Agnew is an anagram of 'grow a penis' before one can fully grasp the rudiments of the second school since the second school believe that this seemingly random choice of forename was anything but.

Picture the scene.

Mrs Agnew has just given birth to a bouncing baby boy. Uncertain about the naming of their child, Mr Agnew - who is something of a practical joker - has what he considers a rather humourous idea. Taking away the letters in his own surname from the words 'grow a penis' he cunningly fashions the name 'Spiro'. And the rest, as they said, was history.

What, then, are future parents to do when confronted with the apparently elementary task of naming their children? Is there any need for someone to calculate every single possible permutation of anagram for a child's name before committing it to... ermmm... whatever it is people commit names to? Aren't the stresses associated with childbirth enough already, without having to worry about Richard Stilgoe waiting in the wings to point out that if Mr and Mrs Platt name their son Boris, an anagram of his name will be 'Spoilt Brat'?

If there's a lesson to be learnt from this it's a simple and fascinating one. Anagrams can be both fearful and fun.

And fascinating.

I can clearly remember the day I discovered them. It was a Tuesday. Keith Williams sparked it all off. During an exceptionally dull 'A' Level Economics lecture my mind began to wander. Keith Williams. Weith Killiams. Unassuming Keith. Ordinarily if Keith was pissing me off I would have just told him to shut up. But "why?", I thought, should I resort to such obvious intellectual depths when instead I could say, "Keith. Your name is an anagram of 'I will make shit'."?

True story.

Anagrams itself is an anagram of 'ars magna', which means 'great art'. And there are a plethora of absolute corkers out there. Famous people have used anagrams as pseudonyms, and even not so famous people, like me (Viz Top Tip c.1988). Private Eye has had an anagrams feature for as long as I don't care to remember. Competitions are run. Prizes are awarded. There's a World's Biggest One for goodness sake.

In the south sea islands
A thousand islets shine

These two lines share The Very Same Letters. Revel in their literary likeness. Marvel at their simple simplicity. Wonder about my avant-garde alliteration. I could look at those two lines for at least about roughly two minutes without getting the least bit bored. Who couldn't?

Of course, the funniest or most peculiar or chilling or clever anagram of them all isn't 'grow a penis'. It's not even someone's name. It's just a word. The word is funeral, and its anagram is quite a paradox.

Likehavewantneed

I'd like to teach the world, but not to sing.
I need to tell them what true love can bring:
A sense of immortality and worth:
The reason I've been put upon this earth.

I have to teach the world, but not to write,
That "she doth teach the torches to burn bright."
I'll thank my God that they've delivered me,
And realise that it was meant to be.

I want to teach the world, but not to read.
I have to tell them that it's love they need:
The sense of culpability and blame:
How things can never truly be the same.

I need to teach the world, but not a song.
I'd like to tell them where they're going wrong:
To trust to serendipity, not fate:
To just believe your heart and conjugate.

In Memoriam

Three years ago today my Dad passed away.

Although he had cancer, it was still a shock that it took him so quickly.

I remember going to the hospital like it was yesterday. Seeing him lying there. My Mum crying.

My sisters live away from the area so they had the choice of seeing him later, days later. I'm glad I wasn't given that choice because even today I don't know whether or not I could have made it.

My Dad was a brilliant Dad. Not all the time of course, but mostly. His own Dad died when my Dad was just six, so he did a pretty fucking good job without having had anyone to show him what to do.

Three years ago the 11th of April was Easter Sunday. My Dad's Dad died on Easter Sunday exactly 50 years before him. Weird.

I never wanted to have to live for 50 years without a Dad, like my Dad had to.

But I hope I will.

Tribute

To live inside the hearts
Of those you love
Is not to die
To love you every day
That you are gone
Is not goodbye

To live inside the hearts
Of those you love
Means that you're here
To know that if we go
You'll always stay
And still be near

To live inside the hearts
Of those you love
Shows that we care
To see you when we want
We'll close our eyes
And you'll be there

You give us all your love
And give us all
You have to give
You are inside the hearts
Of those you love
And so you live

RIP

Looking For You

I've always been finding the one
Without me really thinking that I'd ever be done
Another mouth to make my own mouth smile
Another mouth
To make it all worthwhile

I've always been seeking you out
Without me ever thinking that my search was in doubt
Another heart to make my half a whole
Another heart
For whom the bell might toll

I've always been looking for you
Without me really thinking that my one could be two
Another pair of eyes to see the light
Another pair
To heal my sore eyes sight

I've always been one of a pair
Without me ever thinking that you wouldn't be there
Another hand to hold that's not my own
Another hand
To make me feel less alone

Devil's Poem

Since negating my past
Once the last die was cast
When I swam in the sea
And proclaimed it my last
I've just lied in the sand
More supply than demand
With a head buried deep
Know my place is dry land
(Come) hell or high water
(Or) devil take daughter
I won't never go back
As I know that I oughta
Cos one day things might change
Whilst I'm home on the range
It will call from afar
Dialect Sounding strange
Then my self-doubting style
And an internal smile
Will return to the sea
To lilo for a while
Where if my toes get wet
It's a pretty safe bet
That I'll sink till I swim
And have paid off the debt

The End

Sorry about the poetry. I'll think of something else to write soon. Probably.

The End

Into my soul a fire is burnt
That only time can quell
Each passing day a lesson learnt
Heralds a fond farewell

There is a place I know is lost
That I won't see again
History now dictates the cost
As it will heal the pain

Into my arms my children run
Melting with their embrace
Making me warmer than the sun
Cushion my fall from grace

This then the world that I create
And why I must prevail
Follow the route that I dictate
So I can never fail

Shrug

Whilst most men think they're great
in bed
There's no such thing as
awful head
What they give's real it's
never fake
The truth may well be hard
to take
I'll never make that
foolish brag
I'm sure I'm just an
average shag
When you think I've loved you
all I can
I probably have
I'm just
a man

Poem Mope

Girl With A One-Track Mind

I'm wicked, ranting harlot
I adore warmth 'n' tickling
Wanking at mild rhetoric

I want a thick, modern girl
Manic whore talking dirt
Thinking crowd material?

Together

Relationships are difficult, aren't they?

All that compromise and mutual respect and trust and honesty and (sometimes) fidelity and memories and planning and effort and work and commitment and making mistakes and learning from those mistakes and in sickness and health and for better or worse and for richer or poorer and not in any particular order.

Until death do you part.

When we moved in together I knew everything wouldn't always be perfect. We'd only just met after all. But I knew that I wanted you. Wanted you to be with me. Knew that we'd learn to live with each other as we went along. And that you could make my house a home.

Where the heart is.

You looked lovely when I first saw you. I can still remember it vividly. There were others there, but you stood out. If I could have deemed a single moment in my life as too perfect, I might well have done it there and then. You were cold-looking but emanated warmth. You had an air of comfort and confidence and solidity. When I touched you I knew that I had to have you. And even though it might sound a bit daft, you were somehow... I don't know... the right size? Height and everything. I thought you had dimensions to die for.

I told you it would sound daft.

I couldn't work you out for a couple of years, not all of you. I'd pieced half of you together, from what I could see, and what I thought I knew. It's not that I didn't want to know the whole of you. I knew you were all there, and I knew it wouldn't take much, if anything, to discover all of you. A day. A snapshot. A moment of concentration and focus and dedication. I thought about you literally all the time. But something else always seemed to get in the way.

So you stayed with me, like I knew you would, where else could you go? But pretty soon it was obvious that things weren't working out as we'd hoped. I made promises I knew I couldn't keep. Claimed and blamed tomorrows as the pivot, the fulcrum of my vows. Because other stuff happens. Other stuff always happens. Things outside the things you know are more important. And The Thing is that I was so much happier to start with. Happy when I met you, happy when I took you home to stay with me all those moons ago.

I'm indebted to your patience and forgiveness. Envious of your placidity and charm. I might have said that you completed me, but when would I complete you?

I should have put you first, and finally I have.



So I'm happy again.

Somethingnothing

I've kissed your beautiful lips
Heard your mouth start gasping
And held onto your hips
There's nothing in between us then
There's something I should tell you
But I didn't say when

I've seen your beautiful smile
And your pained expression
As you start the last mile
It's something that I've not done yet
There's nothing that I couldn't
Or might live to regret

I've stroked your beautiful skin
Felt your warmth turn colder
And the sense I can't win
There's nothing now where you have been
There's something I can't let go
Do you know what I mean?

I've wiped you beautiful tears
Crying eyes like diamonds
And allaying your fears
There's nothing that I'd want to change
There's something that I couldn't
Is it really so strange?

I've held your beautiful hand
Fingers wrapped round fingers
Life slipped through them like sand
It's something that will always be
There's nothing that can change it
It is our history

I've heard your beautiful laugh
Told the world that's listening
You were my better half
It's something that I can't forget
There's nothing left to live for
At least nothing just yet

Dream #1

I woke up in tears, thinking about my Dad. He'd been in my dreams again.

We'd argued and I didn't want to argue any more. Such an ultimately senseless waste of emotion. I don't remember what we'd argued about. Is that the thing about arguments or the thing about dreams?

We were both so angry that our bodies were frigid with frustration and rage.

And then.

When the argument plateaued.

When the last drops of ire were squeezed from it.

We caught each other's glare.

I thought I saw him blink, and leapt. I wrapped my arms around his torso, my body relaxed. He wouldn't hug me back at first. I embraced a manequin. Hard and cold and fixed and matt. But gradually I sensed his body soften, his arms around my shoulders, our heads at tangents, our minds united by love and history and blood. Then finally, before I woke up, I felt his chest against mine, a faint heartbeat, and we both gently started crying our apologies. Our clinch flooded with colour.

Words #1

You should be grateful for the opportunity to say whatever you want to say and whatever you have to say. You should hate being edited or censored. You should abhor being banned or silenced.

You can't be responsible for how people react to what you say, and you can't always be held responsible. You put your thoughts out there. They're who you are, your very essence. And once those words are out there, for everyone to read, those words are there to be interpreted however anyone sees fit.

You don't need to back down from them if you know you're right.

You don't always have to compromise.

Because if you can't defend your words then you have absolutely nothing worth saying.

Owed To A Kiss

If I could hold your hips or hands
Or touch you places you can't stand
Then turn around to face my face
We'll kiss and feel our pulses race

When on the corners of your mouth
I'll dream my dreams of journeys south
To hold your cheeks in both my palms
And feel my back within your arms

Then pause to help us catch our breath
This matters more than life or death
My fingers wrapped around your throat
A paradox and antidote

Into the fray I taste your teeth
The all around and underneath
So soft and hard and right and wrong
Like singers of a wordless song

And bitten lips and nibbled tongues
And air sucked out of fondled lungs
Our mouths entwined in heedful bliss
Defining essence of our kiss

Valentine's Day

I'll probably get up about eight or nine, possibly put some washing on, maybe do a bit of ironing.

I could listen to some Love Music...



Later on I might write some poetry, dwell temporarily on my past, remembering the good times. After that I could go for a drive. Somewhere peaceful that will reflect my contemplative mood. I'll consider LOVE and the times I thought I'd found and known love. The feeling, the abandon, the gut-wrenching abstinence. Then I might recall the moments when I thought love had been lost. The despair, the redundancy, the soul-destroying gravity.

Or I'll imagine our date. At the arboretum. Where we would always have gone if you'd stayed another day. The place we'll always be going tomorrow. Walking and laughing and running and breathless, catching leaves to make wishes for each other. We could take a cool bag with some scones and clotted cream and jam, and a flask of hot tea.

On returning home I could bask in the joy of being alive and consider how fortunate I am to have the things I have. I should ring my daughters and my sisters and my Mum. Later still I might put the heating on, then run myself a nice hot bath, and afterwards just put a bathrobe on. I could even break open a bottle of wine, just to put an edge on the day.

Then finally, when the day is almost done, I'll snuggle up on the sofa, put on a DVD, and wank myself into oblivion.

Patrick Wolf

I'll try and make this brief.

I'm a 35 year old divorced father of two. If I had a job I'd be an employed 35 year old divorced father of two. It was never my intention to write about stuff like this, or to write about stuff like this like this. I didn't expect to be prompted into committing such a piece to public scrutiny. I should probably feel a bit embarrassed, but I don't. Why should I be? I'm a 35 year old divorced father of two.

Anyway. I'll cut to the chase. I've got a bit of a crush on Patrick Wolf. Although this isn't a confession any more than it should be a surprise. He's an amazingly beautiful man.

I don't really know anything about Patrick Wolf except that he sings wonderfully, in words that I can understand. And that sometimes he's like a glorious busker. And sometimes he's shinier than Liberace. And other times he's darker than diamond. And he makes me smile and he, in turn, smiles like it's a new invention. And above and beyond almost every single other thing he makes every single other thing he does look incredibly natural and unforced . In fur or feathers. Or jogger shorts with leopard print ears. Or short sleeved sequined hoodies. Or one and a half red gingham shirts.

Call it what you like. Star quality? The X Factor? All I know is that Patrick Wolf makes this 35 year old divorced father of two feel like telling you this series of gushing random comments, and hopes that they might fashion themselves into something coherent. He's got something I'm trying to define but I'm not sure that I can. It's not about how he looks or sings or acts, and yet it is about all of these things. He has it. And he wears it like it's an accident.

STOP PRESS

I will be writing something interesting soon.

Promise.

Text To A Voice

I'm really looking forward to meeting you.
More than I can believe is possible.
I'm looking forward to just seeing you,
And you seeing me,
And walking towards you,
And hold you in my arms,
Like I can't let you go,
And kissing your mouth,
Like the last kiss ever,
And feeling your body pressed hard against mine,
Like we're trying to fuse,
And your face in my hands,
Staring into your eyes for the meaning of me,
Running hands over shoulders,
And under your arms,
Cup the swell of your breasts,
And the curve of your hips,
And I want my hands straying,
Between your thighs,
And for you to involuntarily let me in,
Like it's natural,
And meant,
And destiny,
And I want you to feel me.
Inside you.
And I'm longing to feel you.
Outside me.
And I want us to be able to taste each other,
And I want to remember a moment forever,
And over and over and over again,
Wherever and whenever we want and we will.
I love you.

M(y)us(p)i(a)c(e)

Clicking on MySpace links as a means to discovering new music is actually making me feel a bit down.

I remember when I first heard A Certain Romance by Arctic Monkeys. I remember exactly how I felt and what it prompted me to do afterwards. It made me buy gig tickets on Ebay. It made me go to the gig and turn down three times the amount I'd paid for the tickets. It has subesequently made me travel hundreds of miles and write thousands of words in the name of criticism. Here are a few:

___________________________________________________________

Bristol Bierkeller - October 2005

It's sometimes difficult to know where to start. I Bet That... seems a good place. Maybe I don't go to enough gigs but rarely have I heard the assembled masses singing the hook so well it sounds like it's been rehearsed.

I'm confused.

I don't know whether or not to write a little or lots.

Arctic Monkeys are the next big thing right? A familiar blend of youthful exuberance and choons. I mean. At one and the same time they made me feel like I'm 17 and 70. Wanting to be young enough to be "involved". Wanting to claim that I was there. I might be a year late, then, in fact, looking around, I realise that I'm about seventeen years too late.

I knew what to expect. A blitzed set. A gig like a bank job. In and out. No fuck-ups. And so the gig was a blur. A million miles an hour mission statement. Tighter than tights and ten times sweatier.

After Fake Tales... and the double negative rant of Still Take You Home, I stopped remembering the tracks until the conversation that is From The Ritz To The Rubble. I was sucked into Monkey Mayhem. Wondering how anyone could get so good so quick. Thinking that I must have wasted my adolescence, knowing that I had. Reflecting in how utterly natural it all seems. How a voice can sound like another instrument. How its lilts and language and inflections can make you laugh and bounce and take a trip down its melody.

And at the end, or just before, we were told that "We ain't got owt else we can play." I was promised A Certain Romance half way through, and waited until the end before I fell in love.

No need for an encore, and nobody gave a shit.

___________________________________________________________

Today I've listened to about half a dozen MySpace bands and a couple showed a bit of potential, a couple seemed quite accomplished, and a couple were completely dogwank. I actually had to wonder, "How on earth do these people get away with it?" Why are they playing gigs, why do people like them, why do people imagine other people will like them, why do other people have to inflict this on me?

Some of it is just a racket: barely discernable from noise. And I know that there isn't anything wrong with noise, but I'm going with unpleasant or undesired as opposed to sound of any kind, in this instance.

And yes, I know that [whinyvoice]everyone is entitled to their opinion[/whinyvoice] and [screwedupnose]you don't have to click on the link[/screwedupnose] but I quite like listening to good, new, accessible music. It genuinely seems to me that everyone just wants to be breaking the next big thing, or people want to be seen to be listening to music that is increasingly inaccessible. Like it comes with a Certificate Of Exclusivity or an I Heard Of Them First badge.

Why is this?

I don't think people exercise enough discretion when they're recommending music nowadays. I also think The Arctic Monkeys Phenomenon has had a lot to do with that, even in such a short space of time. I'm cool with the fact that people want other people to know what they like, and the fact that they want those other people to like what they like too, and to like them, in turn, for liking like things. I just wish people would try to remember how they felt when they heard something incredible for the first time, rather than touting every other band/artist they listen to who sounds 'okay'.

It's the equivalent of the boy who cried wolf. Or that's at least how it seems to me.

Cake

The things I've done
Could make me cry
Or leave you asking questions
Such as why
The effort that we make
To turn a stone to chocolate cake
Result in nothing
But the state
We started off
To contemplate
That is the rock
We tried to change
A task which
(Though beyond our range)
We thought might happen
Via a blend
Of luck
And rules we tried to bend
Then realised
Like common sense
That for the sake
Of ninety pence
The sinful sweet
(Like Cleo's asp)
Was always well within our grasp
Without the need
To find a boulder
Waiting...




Only made us older
And come to terms
Once brains were wracked
That cake is cake
And that's a fact

Eureka #1

Every time someone leaves a comment on a piece on my blog I get an email telling me that someone has left a comment on a piece on my blog.

Which got me to thinking...

I wonder if there's a thing, like a thing with a special name, where you can register your email address on a blog in a special section, like a special section with a special name, so that you get an email every time a new piece appears on that blog?

Obviously if you got an email saying that I had just posted this piece you'd probably be a bit gutted, but at least technology of this kind would stop me having to look at this blog ten times a day just to see if something new is on there.

It probably does exist. I can't imagine that I've had an original idea. So if it exists, tell me where. And if it doesn't exist, invent such a thing. Please.

Thanks.

Guess what?

Guess what?

You can't, can you?

Guess what?

Two words. Two horrible words masquerading as a conversation starter or a pregnant pause filler or a sentence: the worst sentence ever. And the English language is so versatile. Look at the works of Shakespeare, Dickens, Ayres, Cartland. Truly English is plural.

"Guess what?" is an unanswerable question. It serves little earthly purpose. It's the equivalent of "ummmmm..." or "errrrr..." and it might be the singularly most useless question in the world. It's like clearing wordphlegm from your throat. What "Guess what?" actually means is, "I'm about to tell you something which not only do I know will be utterly impossible for you to predict but I don't even want you to try and predict the answer which is utterly impossible for you to predict either."

"You'll never guess what" is almost as bad, but at least it doesn't try to pretend to be a question. Its not under the impression that it's anything other than a tedious preamble.

"Guess what?" should be banned, along with the word indescribable. And just once, one time, I would like to be able to say something other than "What?" in response.

"Guess what?"
"You think that your cat leaves the house every night and metamorphosises into an amalgam of Zorro, the character of Arthur Fowler in Eastenders, and a blacksmith, in order to perpetrate an incalculable number of heinous local acts of wanton vandalism."
"!"

English makes me laugh, especially when it's written on pub blackboards.

Three Course Dinner £4.50, Children £3.00

The funniest pub notice though is 'No Jeans'. Is that discrimination, or what?

And there's another anomaly of the English language, adding "or what?" to the end of a sentence. Having asked the question, "Is that discrimination?" there is absolutely no need to fortify it with "or what?" In fact adding "or what?" to the end of a sentence actually means please swap the first two words around, ignore the or what, and treat the whole utterance as a statement of fact rather than a question. Thus "Is that discrimination, or what?" becomes "That is discrimination."

It discriminates against the clothes we wear, our right to self expression, and our individuality. It also discriminates against anyone called Jean.

The thing I love about English is that you can often make up sentences which you can be pretty certain no-one else has ever said. Among my favourites are my bed-ridden God-aunt has a pathological fear of nutmeg, closely followed by the trip to accident and emergency was peppered with detour and comedy. Feel free to use them in any conversations you might have soon. I'd hate to think they had gone to waste. Because words and phrases haunt my every waking moment, and the idea that some people don't ever seem to think about things they say, or the fact that they say things they don't mean, or even understand, fills me with a little bit of woe.

I remember watching a rugby match on TV one day. One of the players, who was a naturally right-footed kicker of the ball, had just kicked it with his left foot, and kicked it well. So up pipes the commentator, "that just goes to show the advantage of being ambidextrous." Indeed, where would any current rugby professional be without being able to use both hands with equal ease? Then, in the same game, and and and this is THE BBC mind, the same commentator said, "Lovely running there. Off one foot, then the other." No doubt any blind people listening needed confirmation that the players weren't hopping around the pitch.

Hang on.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.

Then again, the world would be a pretty dull place if everyone went around thinking about what they were saying all the time. Imagine a world without spontaneity or instinct. Imagine a world without wit and instant. A world full of people umming and erring or even errming. Imagine a world without ermine. The world needs impulsion, it couldn't survive without it.

Guess what?

Go on, guess.

I'll give you a lifetime to come up with the answer.