Sasha Say

Valentine

Not a red rose or a satin heart.

I give you an onion.
It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.
It promises light
like the careful undressing of love.

Here.
It will blind you with tears
like a lover.
It will make your reflection
a wobbling photo of grief.

I am trying to be truthful.

Not a cute card or kissogram.

I give you an onion.
Its fierce kiss will stay on your lips,
possessive and faithful
as we are,
for as long as we are.

Take it.
Its platinum loops shrink to a wedding ring,
if you like.
Lethal.
Its scent will cling to your fingers,
cling to your knife.

-- Carol Ann Duffy

I like Carol Anne Duffy, and the onion is obviously metaphor material as my cut fingers and inebriated lachrymose tear ducts will testify.

Sasha thinks otherwise. Her arguments, although not unassailable, do have an urgent pithiness which is hard to ignore. I for one would be proud to write a poem titled "My Love is Made of Ostrich Meat". Building "Andrew Motion's fun bus" sounds a bit like hard work, but I'd give it a try if there was some Meccano handy.

Brian

..................Lead on small mollusc.

I don't think I've ever met anyone interesting called Brian. It's the sort of name you expect a librarian or a minor civil servant to have. Most Brians will have garden sheds, wear bicycle clips, and regard grey socks worn with sandals as a rather fetching combination. I suppose one could just about imagine a Brian being a kiddie fiddler or a voyeur, but I very much doubt if they would have sufficient imagination to indulge in either unwholesome activity.

The only remotely charismatic Brian that I have ever encountered is Brian the Snail off The Magic Roundabout, and he was a bit dim witted.

Fortunately for Brians everywhere there may be a glimmer of hope. I was intrigued to learn that eccentric avant garde glam rock star and conceptual artist Brian Peter George St. John le Baptiste de la Salle Eno is "terribly attracted to women with ocular damage"*. What he means by this I'm not sure; perhaps he likes them to be cross eyed, or have a coquettish squint.

As I see it this is the perfect opportunity for the ladies who read this blog to grab their very own English rock star firmly by the goolies. I'm sure the prospect of joining him as he performs with his male voice choir in his London studio, or conducts interesting horticultural experiments in the grounds of his Elizabethan manor house, will be too much to resist. All that will be required is a glass eye and a wink and Brian will be theirs.


* Incidentally, he also claims that “the bottom is the large brain”. Whatever that means.

The Homo Superior

I am sure that I am not alone in my disgust at the vile and degrading accusations levelled by MJ at the Barnsley based (but Jock ginger by origin) blogger Piggy.

What MJ fails to appreciate is that Piggy is a Tomorrow Person, a Homo Superior who deigns to grace us saps with the sagacity of his wisdom. Piggy is a sensitive type, much given to extemporaneous versification on the gritty streets of a rough northern town. He isn't known as the 'Bard 'o' Barnsley' for nothing I can tell you. Not only that, he feeds poor starving orphans and is a stout defender of the rights of elderly folk.

I suppose we should really feel sorry for MJ. She can't help the fact that she is an uncouth coonskin hat wearing backwoods Canuck whose idea of an evenings entertainment is pelting harmless racoons with empty beer cans. A vocabulary limited to the word 'eh' interspersed with grunts and simian gestures is also not to be envied. Perhaps this is why her posts contain more pictures of a vulgar and puerile nature than words.

Well, I'm glad to get that off my chest. It's about time poor Piggy had some defenders.

Thtop Taking the Pith.

I recently purchased some sweatshirts from Orvis on-line and have been very impressed by their quality. Subsequently I have been bombarded with the Orvis catalogue, and now have a keen appreciation of the appropriate attire for gents who intend to venture into the depths of the steamy jungle and scrape leeches off their todgers.



Orvis amuse me as their target market appears to be fat Americans who suffer from Ernest Hemingway complexes. It's all Zambesi twill this and bush ranger that, with due nods given to the vital nature of hard wearing materials and a profusion of pockets in jungle jackets. Then there is the extortionate price of their clothing. I am particularly taken with their Over the Channel Shearling Parka which is an absolute snip at a mere £990.00 (ex P&P).

I think Herge Smith should stock up on Orvis garments and accoutrements in preparation for his journey to the mystical lands of the east. He might need several tea chests to accommodate his chattels, but I'm sure he won't regret it.

You just don't know what might come in useful when you're groping with a stoker off the coast of Kuala Lumpar.

Sulu in Gay Love Shocker

One by one the icons of my youth are proving themselves unworthy of my worship. Pete Townshend gets nicked for viewing child porn, Paul Weller announces that he sends his kids to Public school because he doesn't "want them coming home talking like fucking Ali G", and as for the preening Morrissey - the less said the better.

I don't know where it will all end; now Sulu, ice cool and unflappable helmsman on the Starship Enterprise, turns out to be a woofter. This is deeply shocking, but now I come to think about it Star Trek was always full of homo erotic undertones. From all that wrestling in tight polyester jumpers to Spocks archly raised eyebrow there were always undercurrents. It wouldn't surprise me in the slightest if the lovely Uhuru turned out to be a lezzer, or McCoy was a cross dresser in the privacy of his own cabin. As for the Klingons, they were always suspiciously butch and spoke in what was clearly homosexual code.

All in all Star Trek was less an allegory for 'truth, justice, and the American way' than an excuse for gay cruising in the nether regions of the universe.

My illusions have been cruelly shattered. I'll never be able to think about wormholes in the same way.

"What hurt you into poetry"?

I think my first inklings of the poetic occured when I lifted a stone and an earwig scurried blindly towards safety, his dark sanctuary violated in an uncouth and violent fashion. That and the sea anemone at the bottom of a rock pool, inhaling and exhaling rythmically.

I like poetry because it can interrogate the everyday; see the significance in a callous, question a glib gesture, take pleasure in a well baked loaf. It is a function of intelligence, but is also rooted in an ache below the left nipple and always pays due heed to the musicality of which the tongue on the roof of the mouth is capable.

It is a useless thing and, as such, necessary.

Here Comes Norman

Most of my relatives are slightly mental, but they have the good sense to realise that their time is best spent working, playing golf, or drinking beer. Activities of a more adventurous or esoteric nature are liable to send them completely hatstand doolally, a fact testified to by my Aunt Lorna's spell under medical sedation following an ill advised infatuation with spirit mediums.

Unfortunately Uncle Norman has completely lost it this time. As a retired police detective with a fat pension and a megaquids house anyone would think he should be as happy as a sand boy. Not our Norman; oh no. He has decided that it is his duty to divest himself of the proceeds from the sale of his humungous camper van in order to improve the lot of dirt poor Africans. Most people would give the money to charities, who would then spend it on sensible things like white Landrovers, conferences in swish African hotels (where the Africans call them bwana), and prostitutes. Not Norman. He has decided to build a village a primary school himself, employing only the villagers themselves.

This is a noble thing to do and, sour faced cynic that I am, I can't bring myself to deride what is undoubtedly a fine and selfless altruistic act. Unfortunately I can't help thinking that in ten years time the school will have holes in the roof and there will be chickens roosting on the dirt floors.

That's the African way. Sixty years of giving haven't achieved much.

Student Politicians

....and lots of free beer please.

Within approximately ten minutes of ceasing to be a student most people develop a wholly justified hatred for the malingering little scrotes. It was all very well and good for highly gifted and intellectual types like myself to stay in bed until late afternoon before repairing to the public house, but the illiterate numbskulls these days who have the temerity to do so would be better off spending their time in remedial English classes.

I imagine that the student politicians still exist. They will be big cheeses in the National Union of Students, honing their political skills for the day when they will mesmerize the House of Commons with their oratorical pyrotechnics. Although a bit thick, they will be in love with the sound of their own voices and will have already begun sharpening their knives to back stab their way to the glittering prizes.

The House of Commons is stuffed to the rafters with student politicians. None of them will have actually worked in the real sense, preferring instead to idle in local government, or pen 'lifestyle' pieces for the Guardian before wangling nominations for a safe seat.

The only solution to governance by dimwits that I can see is to remove all student politicians from public office. Unfortunately hanging, drawing, and quartering is off the agenda these days, but they should at least be pelted with rotten eggs as they trudge off into the realms of irrelevance where they rightly belong.

I would take considerable pleasure in accompanying Black Rod as he set about the egotistical little shits with his.....er, rod.

Vote Borrock

Far be it for me to attempt to sway Americans in their voting intentions, but I do feel that they will be making a grave error if they fail to support the political aspirations of Barack Obama.

Barack would definitely get my vote. I believe the correct pronunciation of his name is 'Borrock Obawma', a moniker that frankly sends shivers down my spine. He has sticky out ears. Having suffered this affliction during my yoof I feel a strong empathy with him. Most vain politicians would pin back their wingnuts with chewing gum, but Borrock is happy to let his flap gaily in the wind. If that isn't testament to his political incorruptibility I don't know what is.

Borrock may one day stand on the White House lawn as the sun shines through his ears. They will glow like beacons and summon the friendly aliens to come park their space ships and repast on eyeggs and baycon.

Man kinds salvation stands ready and waiting. I just hope the Americans have the courage to grasp the nettle.

Proper Nosh

Having overdosed on bagels the size of my head, consumed eggs Benedict on muffins roughly the size of Yorkshire, and discovered that the American for 'regular' translates as 'try and swallow that lot without exploding like Mr Creosote', I have returned to the joys of this postage stamp sized island and a howling gale.

Sauchiehall Street, Glasgow doesn't bear much resemblance to 5th Avenue, but it is good to hear incomprehensible Glaswegians shouting 'get tae fuck' at innocent passers by. It warms the cockles of me old heart.

Having overdone the calories I decided that the best thing to do on my return was to eat some proper food.



Smashing.

And no, Americans can't make tea.

At This Time

I love the United States, I love the brusque politeness, I love the easy provison of victuals and water.

I have developed a serious addicton to Snapple Grapeade.

What annoys me is the use of the phrase "this service is not available at this time."

When will the service be available? The Big Bang? The second coming of Christ?

It's hard to tell.

Leave-Taking

The Voice

Woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me,
Saying that now you are not as you were
When you had changed from the one who was all to me,
But as at first, when our day was fair.

Can it be you that I hear? Let me view you, then,
Standing as when I drew near to the town
Where you would wait for me: yes, as I knew you then,
Even to the original air-blue gown!

Or is it only the breeze, in its listlessness
Travelling across the wet mead to me here,
You being ever dissolved to wan wistlessness,
Heard no more again far or near?

Thus I; faltering forward,
Leaves around me falling,
Wind oozing thin through the thorn from norward,
And the woman calling.

Thomas Hardy


Come back Arabella.

Come to think of it that won't work, but this might. I've always admired gals who admire a three string guitar tuned to an open G.

.

The Hound of Ulster

I thought I was through with mid life crises; the lost weekend in Dublin with Nina that extended to three months of unexpurgated hell having cured my 32 year old soul of any lingering notions of romanticism. Unfortunately they recurred at the ages of 34, 36, 37, and 39.

My age today is irrelevant, I'm past caring about the encroachment of the boys bump starting the hearse. The thing is, I've bought a wafer thin digital camera that can photograph toenails at twenty paces. This has got me thinking.

My late Great Uncle Harold didn't exactly live in squalor, it's just that he accumulated piles of newspapers and was able to extract one (Sept 12, 1937) and opine that it contained a particularly interesting article on the state of pig breeding in County Tryone. He also had a wind up bakelite telephone that connected him directly to the exchange. I've no idea why he kept a loaded Lee Enfield rifle propped at the end of his bed, unless it might have come in useful if any ne'er do well had jumped through his bedroom window and attempted to steal his Woodbines.

I appear to span two centuries, and I'm not sure which I would prefer to live in.

Brass Monkeys

I'm not keen on the cold. I'm even less keen on the cold when the wind chill is factored in, exposing my sensitive nose to potential frostbite.

Thankfully I have discovered a proper Irish pub on Park Avenue. It is not dominated by flatscreen televisions showing Premiership football, food is cheaply available but not compulsory, and they have a Dublin barman who talks shoite but has wonky spectacles and ensures that your glass in replenished before you have to ask.

The dining concourse at Grand Central Terminal also provides welcome respite from the intolerable cold. I am firmly convinced that should heaven exist it will closely resemble this august institution where all manners of comestible from every corner of the globe may be purchased for remarkably few shekels. For the outlay of rather more shekels it is also possible to repast on top notch seafood at the Oyster Bar.

Spiffing.

Ignited States of Neon

I have gone here.

Whilst here I will be spending some time here and here, although there is a reasonable probability that rather more of my time will be spent here, here , here, and here.

Ta ra.


n.b There are rumours that the Faces are to join the crumbly rockers reunion brigade. This is obviously an obscenity as Ronnie Lane is dead, and without his heart and soul they will be a pale facsimile of their former selves as well as a bloated parody.

Do us a favour lads, leave us with the memories.

Gimme Shelter

Before

..and after

It is very thoughtful of Keith Richards to express his grave concern regarding the drug addled antics of Amy Winehouse. Apparently he has warned her that should she continue in her decadent ways she will end up as wizened and haggard as him.

If I was Amy I wouldn't pay much attention as there are clear suggestions of pot, kettle, and black in Mr Richards pronouncement. Anyway, Amy is a bit of a munter at the best of times so I imagine that the prospect of aging disgracefully into decrepitude won't trouble her unduly.

If I was Amy I'd be more worried that I might end up falling out of coconut trees and tumbling from the ladder in my library. If Keith had kept using smack he would have spent most of his time comatose and not been tempted by dangerous exertions.

The Po Faced Liberals Gazzette

I have nothing against the Guardian per se. It is a quality newspaper with a distinguished history, and having its roots in non conformist Manchester liberalism has a much more attractive provenance than the likes of the Daily Torygraph.

Recently it has even been published in a user friendly form which combines the best of the tabloid and broadsheet formats. This makes it eminently practical for reading on public transport (not that I travel on public transport as this is reserved for students, dolescum, and crumblies).

My problem with the Guardian is its readership. The public sector, students, and ex hippy communist environmentalists adore the Guardian. They can be observed in Starbucks nodding sagely over their skinny lattes as they devour the latest polemic from George Monbiot. George is always right about everything at all times, and isn't slow to castigate anyone who fails to concur with his world view.

The Guardianista are just irritating. Personally I would like to mug a few, just to prove that a liberal is someone who hasn't been kneed in the groin and had their wallet stolen yet.


* Oh, happy Valentines (apart from Guardian readers). No, I didn't get any either.

Ahmed the Dead Terrorist

As I see it the only response likely to really get up the Islamonutters noses is derision. People with bigoted ideologies can cope with vitriol and contempt, but they can't cope when someone takes the piss out of them.

Laugh at Hamas, giggle at al Quaeda, chortle at Hezbollah. If an attitude and ideology is beyond comprehension don't try and engage with it, treat it as the bollocks it is and laugh it out of the room.

The Dangers of Exercise

I am frankly bemused by the excessive media attention paid to the supposed dangers inherent in binge drinking, smoking 40 Marlboro a day, and chomping down on super sized cheeseburgers on a regular basis. Not so very long ago we were digging lumps of coal out of the ground and eating weasels. Why the joys provided by a little affluence should be frowned upon to the extent where one may point at a porker and cry 'you should eat less you fat bastard!' beats me.

Then there are these new fangled gymnasiums, in which one is supposed to enjoy cycling (while going nowhere) next to a fat sweaty Nigel from accounts farting and wheezing his way towards the nirvana of a six pack. Then there are the fat mommas in skin tight Lycra jogging up and down like sea cows on amphetamines. It's all more than a sensitive soul can endure.

The word 'gymnasium' needs to be reclaimed by those of us of a slothful nature. Strolling along with Plato discussing the golden mean between opposing ills, especially when contemplating what type of fried fish would be served with ones olives at luncheon, had its attractions. Admittedly some athletic grunting did go on, but that was strictly the preserve of the meatheads who didn't know their alpha from their omega.

The fable about the tortoise and the hare has always appealed to me. That's right thinking that is, and should be carved in stone above all Health Clubs and gymnasiums.

I didn't get where I am today by needlessly stressing my ligaments and joints.

Thought for the Day

If God exists why are arses exactly the right height for kicking?

Discuss.