All Change

I am pissed off. Too much drinking, too much amiable bed hopping, too much of the same daily round. Scotland has a collective drink problem: from the rough boozers of Govan to the Highland howfs it's just constant imbibing, cars abandoned in ditches, and folk in drying out clinics.

I'm selling up, fucking off to London. Four flats in Fitzrovia: cost exorbitant, rental income tasty, the Fitzroy Tavern a short stroll.

She's back in my life. I'm not sure that's a good thing, but what can you do?

Favourite Mid Life Crisis Cars

Porsche 911

Fat arse, big gut, Thai wife.

Ferrari 308 GTB

Likes big moustaches. Avoid.

Lotus Elise

Likes darting about like an annoying bluebottle. Squish.

VW Beetle

Is obsessed with arses and talks like one. Avoid.

Ford Mustang

Takes onanism to a new level. Hence the the drop top.

E Type Jaguar

Penile erectile disfunction.

Lancia Fulvia

Tasteful. Sounds just like ladybits and is a bit slow
on the uptake.

Jensen Interceptor

Just plain stupid.

Audi RS6

Oh, just fuck off and have a wank.


I'm getting the bus.

Trilogy for X

And love hung still as crystal over the bed
And filled the corners of the enormous room;
the boom of dawn that left her sleeping, showing
The flowers mirrored in the mahogany table.

O my love, if only I were able
To protect this hour of quiet after passion,
Not ration happiness but keep this door for ever
Closed on the world, its own world closed within it.

But dawn's waves trouble with the bubbling minute,
the names of books come clear upon their shelves,
the reason delves for duty and you will wake
With a start and go on living on your own.

The first train passes and the windows groan,
Voices will hector and your voice become
A drum in tune with theirs, which all last night
Like sap that fingered through a hungry tree
Asserted our one night's identity.

Louis Macneice

Why marry?

The Walking Cure

It's a boon being bipedal; it wouldn't be much fun having to hop everywhere, and I imagine being three legged would (although efficient in an ungainly way) produce much derision from the fag smokers outside pubs.

The walking cure's the thing. Speech and walking are similar in their cadences. Many's the happy drunken hour I've spent stomping the streets to Hamlet's Greatest Hits or Yeats coming over all grandiloquent. Some people call it pub crawling, but I see a more elevating aspect to this pursuit of the kebab shop.

If I hadn't hiked so far and sat on so many park benches contemplating beds of geraniums while staring at the moon the world would be a poorer place.

This is one of my favourites:

As I Walked Out One Evening

As I walked out one evening,
Walking down Bristol Street,
The crowds upon the pavement
Were fields of harvest wheat.

And down by the brimming river
I heard a lover sing
Under an arch of the railway:
"Love has no ending.

"I'll love you, dear, I'll love you
Till China and Africa meet,
And the river jumps over the mountain
And the salmon sing in the street,

"I'll love you till the ocean
Is folded and hung up to dry
And the seven stars go squawking
Like geese about the sky.

"The years shall run like rabbits,
For in my arms I hold
The Flower of the Ages,
And the first love of the world."

But all the clocks in the city
Began to whirr and chime:
"O let not Time deceive you,
You cannot conquer Time.

"In the burrows of the Nightmare
Where Justice naked is,
Time watches from the shadow
And coughs when you would kiss.

"In headaches and in worry
Vaguely life leaks away,
And Time will have his fancy
To-morrow or to-day.

"Into many a green valley
Drifts the appalling snow;
Time breaks the threaded dances
And the diver's brilliant bow.

"O plunge your hands in water,
Plunge them in up to the wrist;
Stare, stare in the basin
And wonder what you've missed.

"The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
The desert sighs in the bed,
And the crack in the tea-cup opens
A lane to the land of the dead.

"Where the beggars raffle the banknotes
And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,
And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer,
And Jill goes down on her back.

"O look, look in the mirror?
O look in your distress:
Life remains a blessing
Although you cannot bless.

"O stand, stand at the window
As the tears scald and start;
You shall love your crooked neighbour
With your crooked heart."

It was late, late in the evening,
The lovers they were gone;
The clocks had ceased their chiming,
And the deep river ran on.

W.H. Auden

Try it next time you've been on the piss and crave carbohydrate sustenance. It might get you arrested or punched, but it might just get you the girl.

The Holy Stump

Everything is coming over all Father Ted. I believe that Craggy Island was home to several Holy Relics, although whether this included the crazy golf course on which Ted and Dougal liked to play in the pouring rain is debatable.

I've got nothing against Roman Catholics, but sometimes they fall prey to a strain of deluded credulity that is far from healthy. I'm sure there's money to made out of it. I'm thinking of announcing that I have seen a vision of the Virgin Mary in my Crunchy Nut Cornflakes and an image of Christ on a burnt piece of toast. The admission fees to view these Holy artefacts should be sufficient to keep me in beer and pork scratchings for life.

I mean, come on.

Other Voices, Other Rooms

Why Brownlee Left

Why Brownlee left, and where he went,
Is a mystery even now.
For if a man should have been content
It was him; two acres of barley,
One of potatoes, four bullocks,
A milker, a slated farmhouse.
He was last seen going out to plough
On a March morning, bright and early.

By noon Brownlee was famous;
They had found all abandoned, with
The last rig unbroken, his pair of black
Horses, like man and wife,
Shifting their weight from foot to
Foot, and gazing into the future.

Paul Muldooon.

I'm sure that most people have thought of walking out on things at one time or another. A malignant surf of red bills on the doormat or an abusive and unhappy relationship can make even the most seemingly stable individual contemplate walking.

In some ways it can seem an attractive option; the prospect of reinventing ones personality and starting afresh having cut all ties and commitments preferable to a real and present turmoil. Of course it's an illusion. You can't reinvent yourself, and in abandoning the nexus of relationships that make you who you are you become void.

There are thousands of missing people in this country, their families left in anguish by the unexplained disappearance of a loved one. I'm sure the people who disappear don't intend their absence to be permanent, it just becomes impossible for them to reconnect.

I walked out once. The agony of a failed relationship had pushed me to the verge of suicide, the palette of my colours reduced to grey and black. One afternoon I walked to the Clifton Suspension bridge in Bristol intending to jump, but chickened out as I gazed down at the river below me. Instead I went to the pub and drank six pints of beer, and then visited the off licence where I purchased a bottle of whisky. The next day I packed my bags and got the bus to Heathrow. I flew never to return

I left some very dear friends but it was necessary for me to do so to excise that period of my life from memory. Nineteen years have passed and the agony has evaporated, or so I thought.

I reconnected with those friends from so long ago, and the well of memory began to gush. I don't regret doing it, and I will never lose touch with those dear people again, but I have discovered that a deeply repressed emotion can emerge with as much vigour as it had in the distant past.

Thankfully I am a stronger man today, and can deal with this resurrected pain. Sometimes things in the past have to be confronted. There can be no true closure otherwise.

Only connect.

Days

I am melancholic by disposition, although I prefer to repress that aspect of my personality because there is a fine line between wistful contemplation and an unhealthy obsession with an unsatisfactory past that leads inexorably to depression. It can also develop into an unhealthy mawkishness that is laughable.

Maybe its a Celtic* thing; the sense that there is an underlying sadness to things, that the bright timbre of a voice or a swirl of laughing faces is a chimera. Old photographs, abandoned ways of being, the evaporation of faith, certainties debunked: they're all there, concealed behind the Ikea sofa.

The dying fall, a limp and pills, a scatter of cigarette butts. The wind blows the wrong way across the salient, the antimacassars are yellowing, there is dust in the china cabinet.

See what I mean? Melancholia sucks big time.

I'm off for a pint.

* not the football team.

Bubble Wrap

Dear

Thanks for a most wonderful holiday in "Stronsay" a week ago. The weather smiled and we had a fantastic time.
I wonder if you found our boy Rory's toy tiger "Kitty" in the single room? He has done a disappearing act and Rory is asking for him. Would be grateful if you could let us know.

Very best regards

Jane

Dear Jane

I have a shed full of cuddly toys, colostomy bags, crutches, hiking boots, mobile phones, laptop chargers, odd socks, and digital cameras. Sometimes I like to sit in the shed and look at them. They're mine you see; I've worked for them and I like to commune with them and luxuriate in their freeness.

I will happily return "Kitty" to you if appropriate legal documentation proving ownership is afforded within the next 7 days. Failing this I am afraid that that this furry creature (presumed stuffed feline) shall be stored next to the watch that the previous guest left under the sofa.

And no, they won't be getting that back either.

Very best regards

Garfer

Ageing Disgracefully

Gasping for some nicotine sustenance today I was exasperated to find myself behind a queue of wobbling crumblies at the supermarket tobacco counter. Each of the Crimean War veterans spent at least five minutes fumbling in their purses and wallets as they shuffled their way towards the cancer emporium.

Were they queuing for a half ounce of Ogden's Nut Gone Flake or a packet of el cheapo obscure brand fags? No they were not; they were queuing for Lottery tickets and scratch cards.

Tenners were lobbed across the counter with gay abandon by the Ernies and Hildas, no doubt in expectation of huge payouts to fund their hip replacements and mobility scooters. I don't for one moment imagine that they were gambling in order to shower their children and grandchildren with new cars and trust funds. Oh no, they just want to deposit lucre in their Post Office accounts and gloat.

To think that grafters like myself are toiling to pay these peoples pensions. It's enough to make even the most fair minded individual advocate euthanasia.

Harumph.

Why Abroad is Rubbish

Let's get this straight, travel does not broaden the mind. Sitting on a cruise ship while your midriff slowly expands and you develop an alcohol problem does not make you Marco Polo. Briefly sitting on an Elephant before devoting the next three weeks to serious dope bum activities on a Thai beach does not make you Paul Theroux. Driving a car (or sitting on a Greyhound bus - which just gives you piles) from Manhattan to Los Angeles does not make you Jack Keroauc.

Experiencing foreign cultures is generally just an exercise in suffering diarrhoea and having nasty little insects burrow into your skin and lay their eggs. And that's just in the more salubrious equatorial regions. When you decide to have a wazz over the side of your canoe while exploring the Amazon a small barbed fish will inevitably swim up your willy and hang on for dear life.

Europe is no better, what with its funny languages and Mediterranean blokes prancing about in too tight trousers. As for Japan, that's just compulsory karaoke, 'Love Hotels', and Pachinko.

You would think that the USA, being vaguely civilized, would be worth the trip. Unfortunately no; the delights afforded by Latino housemaids are far outweighed by the sheer nastiness of the giant American cockroach and this wholly revolting foetus of Satan.

Best stay at home and tend the petunias I say. You can't be too careful.

Bald Nobrained Pricks

Apparently you can't join the BNP unless you are a white Caucasian. I suppose this is intellectually consistent given that their membership consists of no necked *Neanderthals who like nothing better than to tuck into a nice curry while berating Pakistanis and assorted other non whitey scum.

I'm rather puzzled how a political party which denies membership to people on the basis of the colour of their skin can call itself democratic. As for splashing pictures of Spitfires all over their campaign literature, this suggests they aren't aware that a lot of these were piloted by Poles - a nationality that they regard as Polack scum nicking our jobs.

These people like to congregate and sing SS Marching songs, which would be utterly risible if there weren't people in this country stupid enough to vote for them.


* This is unfair to Neanderthals who, despite their deficiencies in the neck department, probably loved their old mums and didn't support Millwall.

Marbles

Have you found yours yet? I appear to have lost mine.

Still Life

Blinded by the headlights you paused,
Gaze pitiless and feral,
Poised before muscular flight,
Then off, twisting from peril.

Perplexed, I saw you through a lens,
Spoor print in a dark room tray,
Lithe torso intense,
Caught in a web of memory.

Still life: your arrested posture held
For what seemed an age,
Then an abrupt sensuous shuffle,
Moving from shoreline onto the page.

E J Garfer (17 and a half)

Rave on John Donne

Newfoundland.

Well congratulations, you got here first and reconnoitred the upsides and the downsides before bagging a trawl of fish and considering further horizons.

I am a frustrated imperialist: desirous of new regions of potential conquest and the prospect of a fine cockaded hat and a retinue of obsequious servants and willing stable wenches.

It's not too much to ask; a mere small domain like Sarawak, or French Polynesia with a lifetimes supply of free dancing girls and sundown cocktails would do. Unfortunately they've all been taken and I'm faced with the prospect of negotiating the rings of Saturn if I'm to have any chance of inculcating the rubric of British truth and justice in the breasts of the unruly heathen natives.

It's a tough piece of gristle to chew on, but what can I do?

I am, potentially, undone.

Made from Girders

The head honcho (or 'big heid yin' in Glasgae parlance) of Barr is to hand over the closely guarded Irn Bru recipe to which only he and an unnamed other are privy. The recipe is apparently stashed in a secret bank vault, where it is presumably guarded by various Indiana Jones type booby traps and a contingent of mean and moody Gurkhas, and has not seen the light of day for 50 odd years.

Irn bru is exceedingly popular in Scotland, rivalling even the mighty Coca Cola in sales. Its most successful export market is Russia, which may seem odd until you consider that the main ingredient of the orange elixir is sugar. Sugar rich drinks are, as we all know, rather a good hangover cure. It is unsurprising that whisky debilitated Jocks and vodka purblind Ivans should both turn to the Bru the morning after a night on the brew.

Personally I think the stuff is utterly ghastly, but I suppose it has its merits when the pains of indulgence make the sight of a full fry up a nausea inducing experience.

All power to the Bru. It might give us diabetes but we'll always be fit for a bevvy before noon. I think it's what the marketing bods call a USP, whatever that is.

Suffer the Little Children

I am compelled to devote another post to poetry given that the last one, despite my hymn of praise to Miss Dolly Parton, produced a non-existent response from all but the most ardent poetastic adepts.

It can't be helped I suppose: most of us are brought up reading the back of the Kellogg Cornflakes packet as the clock hurries us and the egg timer clicks away our tomorrows. I could draw attention to Byron's proto rock star tendencies or Burns' shag 'n' tell propensities, but it wouldn't make any difference.

I quite like: this

I can't quite bring myself to post the video (embedding disabled by request) as nobody would watch it. And quite right too.

Trawling the Depths

When in my cups I turn to poetry. At the perfect point of mild intoxication I am inclined to seek out a soupçon of iambic pentameter and a perfectly formed sonnet. When this point of perfection has passed I am prone (literally) to recite a soliloquy from Hamlet.

Perhaps this is why I get punched so much.

Trawling youtube in the one handed inebriated prone position the other night I was delighted to discover the putting a poem to music nadir. Talk about missing the point on purpose. Miss Dolly Parton (may her name be blessed) would be dead chuffed.

There's something to be said for serendipity:



I think the Kings of Leon should do 'The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock' by T S Eliot. That would be serious rawk.

Celebrity Tits

Worra Tosspot

Celebrity chefs are almost always total titheads. The likes of Anthony Worra Tosspot, Heston Bloominghell, and Hugh Fairly Windscreen Wiper make me gag on my creme caramel.

Anthony can't cook, he just does his "I'm a big cuddly bear me" routine on TV while flashing his enormous Rolex at the cameras. Thankfully he's had to shut a couple of his rip off steak restaurants due to the recession.

Heston used to be a bailiff, a profession normally reserved for psychopaths who enjoy breaking down debtors doors and scaring the hell out of them so that they pay up. It's no surprise that the bullet headed bully now charges enormous sums of money for snail porridge and engine oil tirimasu. I shall not be gracing his restaurant, The Fat Tit, with my presence.

Hugh is just too posh. I'm convinced that he doesn't like broiler chickens because they provide cheap protein for the proles. All Eton educated toffs know that it's best to keep the working classes stunted in case they get ideas above their station and start demanding foie gras pasties.

Only the saintly and extravagantly thighed Nigella is worthy of the accolade 'Celebrity Chef'. She can't cook, but that is an irrelevance. Her wholesome wobblesomeness is the reason we watch.

If Nigella is feeling a bit peckish I think she should eat Jamie Oliver and his annoying wife Jools. They would make nice carpaccio, and would also be tasty deep fried. It's important that Nigella keeps her strength up and obtains the requisite wobbling nutrients.

Soor Plums and the Consolations of Philosophy

There is a particular puckered up expression displaying extreme distaste that is as visually arresting as a baboon disporting its scarlet buttocks. It has a Scottish Presbyterian provenance, beloved of Schoolmistresses and Sunday School teachers when presented with an obstreperous urchin or intimations of untoward sexual practices. To look as though one is 'sucking on a soor plum' is to be an obvious examplar of moral rectitude and Calvinist fortitude.

Here are some soor plums:



Here is a soor plum expression:



There are a lot of soor plum expressions around at the moment, what with the recession and all. I refuse to join their number, and shall instead read Sartre's 'Being and Nothingness' and say to myself "what in the name of bejasus is that ugly little French git on about?".

Thank goodness for the consolations of philosophy.

Socks

My mother has dementia, my nephew has Asperger's, and my father has developed an unhealthy obsession with Wellington bombers and Paddy Mayne.

It's a wonder I'm normal at all.

My sister is seeking the vodka solution, but being feisty will no doubt surmount that obstacle and rediscover the rejuvenating qualities of the teacake.

I am inclined to retire to my garret and consume a nice piece of cheese, if the mice haven't got to it first. There I shall toast Carol Anne Duffy as the first lesbo Glaswegian/Somewhere else poet to be Poet Laureate. Hopefully Queenie will treat her to a large portion of Weetabix and a stern talking to.

She's not as good as Philip Larkin though. Forget the Velvet Underground: rarely has a man deployed a pair of spectacles so effecively.

I need some bifocals. If I had some I'd look intelligent and could mock peoples choice of socks.

Attack of the 50ft Woman

I was going to devote a post to The Attack of the 50ft Woman, but there's only so much you can say about 50 ft women. They're, well, rather tall and have breasts that could double as inter continental ballistic missiles.

Instead I have decided to devote a few words to slugs. I have a fiercely held (though empirically unproven) conviction that slugs appear through wormholes in the space/time continuum. They appear overnight from nowhere to deposit their slime on my hallway parquet flooring. Gratifyingly they dissolve when sprinkled with salt, but unfortunately this doesn't stop them emerging from the wormhole the next night.

There are few less pleasant experiences than a slug squelched underfoot. The resultant goo oozing between ones toes is a cross between snot and a lightly poached egg. Wiping the essence of slugness from between ones toes is not the perfect start to the day.

That is all I have to say about slugs at this time.