No Fox Given

He was like a wizened and cunning fox. A knower of truths; a mastermind, possessor of a brain so nuanced and complex it seemed implausible for lesser men to have exercised sufficient intellectual cultivation to keep up…lest they had the temerity to try. For if they did (try that is), they would be instantly rebuked. He was, after all, operating on a cerebral plateau at the very pinnacle of human consciousness and thus, to all intents and purposes, he was (in his mind), a fucking god.

And to compound this enviable percipience of all things, he had perfected an aura (underpinned by a view held by his peers that his judgment was somehow paramount), that meant he could use this perceived erudition as a sort of invisibility cloak, a reality curtain, a shroud to hide what he was really like.

In a way he was a salesman. Peddling not a product or a service but a persona; a solid gold, triple A-grade persona…the all knowing, big daddy of decision making. Every opinion, every suggestion and proposal other than his own, was irrelevant; an infuriating noise and an annoyance to be subjugated. It was his way or the highway.

Those who possessed even a modicum of sensibility, however, were well aware that his aloof, confrontational style was merely a diversionary tactic designed to cloud and confuse; a way to divert the dogs from the scent. And employing this rather Machiavellian strategy meant he could get by not knowing very much and doing very little. A masterstroke, he thought.

However, the cunning fox inevitably always gets caught and of course, he ultimately succumbed to the happy happenstance of inevitability. Although he wasn’t a fox. He was just an overweight, lazy twat.

The Reluctant Exhibitionist

Pierre Ribault was an artist…of sorts. An expert in mixed media, a vocally-cultured, well coutured costume-dandy and a lover of exuberance and pomp; a truly dedicated disciple of the house of bon viveur. Most who knew him considered him to be a flamboyant pastiche of fashion invention; a fancy Dan with an aloof perception of his own visual glory, but with a look that screamed ‘cliched fashionista’ rather than groundbreaking trailblazer.

His art was often described as ‘Abstract Impressionism’, a term he despised. He took the notion that labelling of any form was inhibiting and contrary to the ethos of free expression, encouraging artists to remain confined to a narrow bandwidth of creativity. For that reason, he would often, and quite at random, create pieces that were completely at odds with his normal output, mixing renaissance with modernism, symbolism with pop art, cubism with surrealism and so on. It was precisely due to his reluctance to conform that critics had a challenging time extolling his virtues, and as a consequence he struggled to establish his brand. He was unpredictable, edgy and…poor.

But he didn’t care about all that. His focus was on his relentless pursuit of individuality, his desire to be free from the corporatisation of the arts, and his love of the high brow and exclusive underground art scene that he immersed himself in. He hated anything mainstream; that simply wasn’t him. He wanted to be immortalised for how he lived as much as he wanted to be lauded for his art.

In late August 2010, Pierre visited Connelly Plastics Limited, a small family run entity who specialised in injection mould processing for the manufacture of miniature novelty farmyard animals. He was visiting their manufacturing plant in order to ascertain whether their liquified plastic could be colour blended to produce a vibrant multicoloured swirl, an effect he wished to incorporate into his latest visionary art installation. Unfortunately, it was during this short tour of the plant that Pierre accidentally tripped while traversing an overhead gantry and fell directly into a large vat of molten plastic, rapidly becoming completely submerged. Consequently, Pierre drowned despite Connelly Plastics Limited staff’s best efforts to retrieve him; the first death at a Connelly Plastics Limited facility in a little over three years.

Few, if any of the plant’s staff had any idea of who Pierre was and, whilst recognising both the cataclysmic misfortune that had befallen him and similarly, the potential scrutiny that the occurrence might have on their health and safety policy, they reached a consensus (subject to some brief research on Google) that his loss would probably not be deemed to be a great catastrophe within the art world. Nevertheless, they were keen to ensure that they had been seen to ‘do the right thing’ and not just engage in collective ambiguity in the inevitable ensuing investigation, as they had done with other similar mishaps in the past. This time, things had to be by the book.

Connelly Plastic’s leading technician decided, due to the depth of the vat, that retrieving Pierre’s body whilst the plastic was still in liquid form would be a hazardous endeavour, and therefore decided to turn off the vat’s heating element, wait for the plastic to solidify, and literally ‘chip’ him out; an exercise that took several days. Although somewhat macabre, this process actually produced something quite revelatory. The dried plastic had created a perfect, life size ‘Pierre Ribault’ cast, complete with the vibrant, multicoloured swirl pattern Pierre was hoping for; a happily ironic happenstance.

As they stood back and admired the cast, the staff from Connolly Plastics Limited collectively agreed that it would make a wonderful objet d’art. They subsequently sold it to the Tate Modern who created an innovative ‘Immortalised Artists’ exhibition, of which the ‘Ribault Cast’ became the centrepiece. The exhibition achieved worldwide critical acclaim, attracting art lovers from every corner of the globe. Now in its thirteenth year, it has travelled to over twenty museums worldwide and remains one of the forefront creative displays in mainstream art to this day.

A Slice of Rock History

At the summit of Wendowen’s Peak stood an ancient granite monolith; a solitary motionless statue silhouetted against a bleak, unforgiving landscape. Impervious to the elements, it prevailed on the site for at least three thousand years, a silent reminder of the ancient civilisation who, with primitive tools, skilfully shaped and inscribed it, and who ultimately managed to transport it to its final location.

It was visited by an extremely small number of people, due to the fact that the surrounding terrain was so steep and undulating, and therefore challenging to navigate. Those that were lucky enough to complete the journey however, described it as a cathartic, almost life changing experience; a pilgrimage that provided an insight into the past and an opportunity to wonder at a monument unsurpassed in its historic relevance and importance.

In 1972, Abalone Kitchens, an outfit based in Bracknell UK, bought the land surrounding the monolith and began to quarry the area. By then, the monolith had already become well renowned among hippies and feckless, stoned students from affluent parents (probably on a gap year), and subsequently, a number of Abalone Kitchen’s wealthier clients began to inquire as to the possibility of acquiring a piece of the monolith for their kitchen surfaces.

Abalone Kitchens inevitably bent to economic pressure and acquiesced to their clients’ requests. The monolith was broken into pieces and the granite cut, polished and sold off. It then found its way into the houses of the rich and famous to serve as a solid base for enthusiastic vegetable preparation, and a point-scoring conversation topic at inane dinner events. Although the majority of the monolith is now sadly lost, thankfully there are a few significant pieces that remain and, despite violent protestations (predominantly from the British Museum), Abalone Kitchens have resisted the urge to let them leave their warehouse to languish in some dusty display cabinet in central London.

If you have a kitchen project that requires a large area of workspace in a granite that is frankly incomparable, and is the true epitome of tragic historical debasement, then give Abalone Kitchens a call today. They ship worldwide. You can call them on…

Memory Test

When you’re young you exude an unenviable exuberance; a life at its infancy, unencumbered by the complex occurrences that befall us all. Youthful, excited, and with our eyes wide open to endless possibilities, our young selves are yet to feel the impacts of the inevitability that lies before us, both good and bad: the pain of anguish, the depth of true, lasting friendships, and the banal tediousness of everyday life. We are yet to find a purpose, yet to find ourselves, and above all, yet to find wisdom.

And it is wisdom, the wisdom borne of maturity, that makes a half decent writer. As with most things in life, a talent for writing is made up of a history of repetition and life experience; things that can only come with time. So it stands to reason then that, on the whole, the greatest writers should be enlightened, ageing in years and carrying both the physical and metaphorical scars of life. It is the cumulative years of experience that should serve as the source of a good writer’s material. And therein lies the paradox.

As I’ve aged, I have certainly built up experiences, a whole smorgasbord of interesting occurrences that formulate the bedrock of a rich narrative tapestry that is just waiting to be unearthed at will. Although all of those gloriously interesting anecdotes are just waiting to pour out onto the page, the cruel fact is that the benefit of all of this wonderful wisdom is massively diminished by a dulling of the brain through the ageing process. So, however much I’d like to be able to write like an Olympic medal-winning wordsmith,  the simple truth is that, of all those wonderful experiences, I really can remember fuck all.

A Realisation at Ritzys

So I seen this bird coming at me in Ritzy’s, got hair on her like she cut it off a Girls World and her lipstick’s smudged like the teacher’s marked some thick kid’s homework. In one hand she’s got a loose grip on a pint of Fosters, and in the other a Marlboro Light, a burning beacon of slowly evolving infirmity; her fingers, couple of fat meat tweezers, delicately balancing the glowing embers of a centimetre and a half of Philip Morris’ finest. Nursing it like it ain’t ever going out.

Eternal Flame by the Bangles is leaking out the speakers like some eighties audio aphrodisiac…it’s eleven thirty.  She looks hot as fuck. She’s spilling her pint all over the shop in the same way she spills those stories her mates tell her in confidence. I’ve sunk a few myself, and i’m a little unsteady on my feet, but thankfully there’s a stretch of carpet from here to the dance floor, and it’s sticky ‘cos it’s got the dried remnants of twenty years worth of the top quarter of carelessly carried drinks on it. The smooth soles of my slip-ons stick to it like the lips of the two Steven Tyler lookalikes to my left. I’m struggling to tell which gender’s which, but it’s nineteen eighty nine and I’m in a part of England which suggests that the odds are…it’s probably a boy and a girl.

So anyway I’m invested…all in. She’s got me completely captivated. Her top’s fallen down on one side, like a fabric catwalk stroke in cotton and polyester. A bra strap, now clearly visible, cutting deep into the fleshy deposits on her shoulder blade. It’s a look…of sorts…and I’m falling for it. She’s strutting over to me on black stilettos like a fucking stilt walker on ice; grabbing at stuff on the way to steady herself; stools, tables, bar rails, the lot. Whatever it takes to get to me.

She’s bouncing off revellers, my mind’s where the devil is, and I’m ready…arms outstretched in case she falls on arrival. I catch my reflection in the mirror, a sinewy, wirey haired zombie arsehole in an outfit that looks like I fell into a fucking seconds bin at Burton’s. Mentally I’m naive…visually, I’m retarded.

Anyway, she finally reaches me. Got this look on her face that I think resembles the look of love so I lean my head forward, shut my eyes, and purse my lips in glorious teenage anticipation. There’s a pause. Feels like forever. I’m waiting, hoping she doesn’t leave me hanging, a desperate blind statue to a misguided dream. I can sense her, my natural intuition bolstered by an alluring whiff of three quid perfume. I’m ready to feel that connection, and then…when I’m least expecting it, it hits me.

Her clenched fist connects with my left temporal lobe with brutal force. Her right foot pivots as she swings to achieve maximum power. She’s Mike Tyson. She’s got a better hook than an old Elton John record. My head jolts sideways colliding with my pint glass that’s now suspended in mid air having been dislodged from my hand. My eyes are suddenly wide open, ablaze with fear, and before I know it there’s this massive solid thing covered in sticky carpet coming at me from the other side. Man down.

I’m lying there in a sort of catatonic state, humiliated, a pathetic spectacle of defeat. My face adhered to the Axminster.  I’m trying to work out how things went south, I mean, I thought she liked me…yes the distance between us, the challenging lighting, the deafening volume of the music, and the fact that I had consumed an inordinate amount of alcohol, could have distorted my perception somewhat. But I wanted her to like me and I thought that was the inference. Perhaps I misunderstood the brief.

Anyway, as I’m lying there evaluating what just happened I hit a realisation. Sometimes you see something you want. And sometimes, when you want something that you think is going to be amazing, it turns out not to be the thing you thought it was at all, in fact all it does is bring you pain. And most of the time, in the cold light of day it was never that good anyway.

Existentialpist

I used to be drunk on life; couldn’t get enough. I was all over it, clinging desperately to that threadbare, oft-trod rope ladder of enticement, with all the world’s treasures at its summit. When the moment took me I bought stuff; things I believed would enrich my experiences. As it turned out, they didn’t. They were just things and I was just a spendthrifty twat.

But it wasn’t just ‘things’ that excited me, I collected a plethora of meaningless friendships and acquaintances too, a rich network of like-minded revellers and libertines; fellow passengers on the euphoria-bus to Fuckwit Station. Sure, we were having a blast but blasts are exactly that…short lived moments of expended energy.

Anyway, we drank and played music and generally made merry like we were in the fucking Beatles, and at the end of each evening, instead of wrapping it up we’d just carry on into the next day. Occasionally we slept, but to be honest, that was relatively rare; sleep being the playground of the virtuous. We were renegades, pitting our wits against the conventions of biological diktat. And we were knackered.

But we didn’t fucking care…we were having it large, going off like rockets at a village firework display. Our lights shone bright (albeit fleetingly), following our meteoric social ascendancy, before slowly falling back to earth; burning embers scattered across throngs of honest souls. The big come down.

And now here we are, nursing the hangover of those heady experiences. Nurturing the headaches of our previous lives; bitter payment for the glory of fearlessness and ambivalence. Here we are in the real world, in the here and now, trudging through the thick snow of conventional existence. We are cold, tired and hungry and…we are sober.

Look But Don’t Listen

‘Look’; the staple monosyllabic opening gambit of the British politician. The go to time-buying, verbal intro of every institutional egotist from Warwick to Westminster. Almost every soundbite, every interview, every rhetorical salvo proffered by these rambling rulers seems to be prefaced with a patronising instruction to use our eyes.

‘Look…’ they suggest, as if we have forgotten how to see for ourselves. ‘Look…’ the preface of every answer; dropping it immediately after every sensible question like a patronising interaction with Ray Charles. And yet, the words which they usually follow it up with leave us blind, so indecipherable they are.

They are under the illusion that their voices are so bewilderingly smooth and soothing, they feel the desire to remind us to open our eyes based on a narcissistic assumption that we may be in a state of total relaxation; you know, just listening, sitting back and enjoying their dulcet tones (with our eyes closed) as though they are some crooning cabinet Dean Martin.

Yesterday I listened to a cabinet minister use “so, look…” to begin every single answer; this was look ‘advanced’. He clearly had the good sense to realise that almost every one of his peers used the term ‘look’ to begin their sentences and he wanted to set himself apart. Half way through the interview though I wanted him to set himself on fire (joking).

In summary then, I would suggest that the word ‘look’ is an inappropriate term to preface an answer with (to the point of being annoying). ‘Listen’ is clearly eminently more sensible, and actually makes sense. ‘Look’ is the sort of thing you say when pointing at something in the distance, or when attempting to divert attention away from an underhanded action. ‘Look over there’ for example is something a cheeky schoolboy might say before stealing your chips. And look, maybe that’s the point.

Nasty Trousers

From an early age, Denise Seine-Schuß expressed a keen interest in fashion. Her father was the driving force behind the evolution of her nascent enthusiasm, and at just fifteen she was instrumental in assisting him in the creation of one of Berlins most influential underground fashion brands. In the early 1930s a commercial tie-in with Hugo Boss proved to be the catalyst for exponential growth of the company she had helped her father create.

Although not part of the retail face of the consortium, Denise ‘s design work attracted the attention of fashionistas from across both the social and corporate spectrum, and garnered the adoration of many in the higher echelons of German society. Indeed, some of her greatest admirers could be found in military and political spheres, the Nazi party being one of her most prominent advocates. Hitler himself was a huge fan, extolling the virtues of her work and insisting that she was a key member of his clothing design steer group; the team responsible for the creation of the majority of the uniforms adopted by the Waffen SS, and the wider German military apparatus.

Denise’s designs could often be radical and somewhat left-of-field. A particular design of note, and what she often referred to as the ‘Inverted Flare’, were the black or grey woollen trousers adopted by senior ranked members of the SS. These Nazi trousers, which were extremely broad at the top, tapering into a narrow lower leg, were designed to facilitate two extremely vacuous side pockets that could be filled with looted trinkets, diminutive artworks, gold teeth, and other equally valuable items.

Of course, looting was a pastime often enjoyed by the Nazis, particularly during World War Two, and these trousers proved to be the perfect accessory. When each ‘pocket-sack’ was full, the entire upper trouser-width was deployed to accommodate its contents, the relatively thin material barely masking the swag within; somewhat akin to a hamster storing nuts in its cheeks for later use. And just like a hamster, when fully laden, a typical SS officer would feign innocence whilst knowingly packing other peoples junk close to their junk.

Sewn into the waistband of each pair was a label which read ‘Pants Herr’ which, literally translated means ‘men’s trousers’. It is widely thought that this is the derivation of the name ‘Panzer’, the term used for Germany’s highly successful heavy battle tank. The reason for this being that when viewed head on, the Panzer tank, with its narrow tracks, wide flanks, and protruding canon, resembled an SS officer wearing the inverted flare trouser with an open fly; a view often seen by young Hitler Jugend recruits before the Panzer zipped by, firing off in all directions.

Time was obviously not kind to the Nazis, their antics sullying the designs proffered by Denise and her counterparts in the fashion industry. Once the war was concluded, she set up a small footwear design shop in a village in the Tyrol mountains. The shop, which is branded simply using her own name, ‘D. Seine-Schuß’, is there to this day and offers bespoke ski-related footwear to rich tourists.

Despite its solid factual basis, there are many historians who would dispute the above and provide the counter argument that the trousers preferred by SS officers were in fact, merely a form of riding jodhpur, and that could also be right.

Conversations at the Bus Stop

…yeh, well…I’m sitting on this bench with my boy. He’s some sort of a geezer; bit of a roadman. We’re just shooting the shit, chatting about old hist’ry ‘cos I haven’t seen him for a while. He’s telling me about this business idea he’s got…it’s a long shot but if it comes off he’s gonna make a shit ton. Said he’ll sort me out but I doubt it.

I tell him that I’m focussed on my side hustle but that making beats and drawing makes no one rich. I hear myself saying (quite unconvincingly) that I’m doing it for the ‘art’. In the back of my mind though I’m secretly resigned to questioning the point of it all. He’s all full of zest and a hunger for life while I’m just this apathetic melancholy motherfucker. I don’t speak that much but thankfully he’s got a lot to say, so he’s single handedly carrying the chat for us both.

Anyway, the bus pulls up, the number forty three. A couple of kids saunter up to the door, trousers too short, dragging one leg behind them like they shit themselves. They’re full of it…a right couple of budding Bezos’s, self-assured, fully informed…talking about influencers, NFTs…how ‘real’ jobs are for losers. They got the world sussed…really fucking bossing it. That’s why they’re on the bus.

The doors open like the breaking of a seal…the hydraulic door of some intergalactic starship from Arriva with smoke and all that. That’s how alien public transport is to me. I’m staring, and sure enough, from the haze comes a troop of what could be the spawn of some other species. They’re dragging one leg behind them as well…not to be cool, but because they’re either fully laden with bags crammed full with the evening’s scran, inadvertently got their foot caught in the handle of some other passenger’s trailing bag, or maybe they had a motorcycle accident once and one leg is shorter than the other. I don’t know. Maybe it’s all of those.

They all manage to get off the bus by hook or by crook, but the doors stay open ‘cos this old dude’s making his way, excruciatingly slowly, down the aisle. He’s last. He’s gripping (for dear life) on to the handrail at the door, one foot on the exit platform and the other hovering mid air, blindly searching for terra firma. I’m watching…he’s unsteady. He’s making a real meal of it so I spring to my feet and go over to assist like I’m in the fucking Samaritans. I mutter something like

“Here, let me help you” which he acknowledges with an unimpressed grunt. I think it was a ‘thank you’ but it could  equally just as easily have been ‘fuck you’.

Once he’s on solid ground I realise how short he is; not because he’s actually short but because he’s so stooped. He’s got on this trench coat and his hair’s a mess, like he’s  some geriatric Robert Smith from The Cure. But anyway, I’ve successfully manhandled the guy onto the pavement and it’s at that point that I realise that he’s all hunched over not because he’s old, but because he has these solid-arse chains all hanging round his neck. Real heavy. There are some with medallions, a couple with Cuban links and some are just thick chains. It’s like he’s into nineties hip hop or something.

I ask if he’s alright…he tells me yeh. So I’m about to let him on his way but I’m intrigued, so I decide I’m going to get to the bottom of what appears to be a very fucking unusual fashion accessory choice for someone in his demographic. I’m like:

“Hey, that stuff round your neck…that looks heavy. You might find it easier to get around without all that clobber?”

“Very possibly young man.” He replies wearily. I figure I could leave it there but I still haven’t got any answers so I press on…

“What are they for anyway? I mean, they look cool and all, but, why wear something that’s clearly a hindrance to you?”

He sighs, looks me straight in the eye and says…

“Well, since you ask, I’ll tell you…you see, I never used to have this many. I just accumulated them over many years. At different times in life I hankered after each, and when I got them I’d polish them and wear them and people would admire them and say complimentary things about them. I guess they sort of defined me. As time passed I found it more and more difficult to let them go, despite the fact that over time they became something that people started mocking me for. So I guess, whilst I was young they gave me a certain feeling of pride, as I’ve gotten older they just seem to be less and less relevant. Now they just weigh me down.”

“But what are they? Aren’t they just old jewellery?” I ask.

“They aren’t just old jewellery.” He replies.

“They are my dreams.”

Reinvention

And again my brain is empty, like a butterfly’s cocoon, the beauty having left long ago. Where there was once a rich Savannah of creativity, brimming with ideas and thoughts, there is now desolation; the drudgery of corporate life, like the poisoning of a landscape, having rendered it a charred and lonely wilderness. Yes, new ideas create brief, fleeting moments of exaltation, but they are very swiftly dissipated. Every idea like a candle’s faulty wick.

I sometimes tell people that I could have followed another path, you know, like maybe I could have become world ping-pong champion…but it’s who you know. A well trod joke, but one borne from a deep-rooted suspicion that I could have evolved and excelled at something worthwhile had I not been so solely fixated on music. But to excel on any path you need skill and an engaging personality to match and, while one can develop skill, personality can always be a hindrance…I know mine is. Let’s face it, being endearing is just not my forte. If you agree with me then fuck you.

And anyway, I’ve been beaten to it, my career diversity joke-turned-reality having already been realised by the artist known as Bob Dylan, the sculptor known as Brad Pitt, Tom Hardy the jujitsu champion and the actress, singer, dancer, record producer, songwriter, model, film producer, pianist and self re-inventor Lady Gaga. And what do they all have in common? They stole my fucking joke. I bet they’ve got nice personalities too.

Fly Sheet, Fly…

John was an explorer, a pioneer, a pusher of boundaries who played fast and loose with convention. Although he wasn’t without wisdom and skill, he could be a dreamer, possessing a naively innocent perception of his prowess at certain tasks; a perception that significantly outweighed the results that were ultimately produced. But what he lacked in prowess he made up for in quiet confidence and enthusiasm (he had that in bucket loads), and it was exactly this enthusiasm that had led him to this moment.

The summer of 1976 was a scorcher, marked by extremely high temperatures and drought. While there were some that subsequently referred to it as an inferno, John viewed it more as an opportunity, an excuse to put the wheels in motion to convince his family to engage in that most primal of pastimes...camping. The good weather had furnished him with a sterling excuse to acquire a tent, which would, by all accounts facilitate unfettered access to unspoiled nature and untethered freedoms.

And if he was going to buy a tent...he was going to buy a tent; the biggest, grandest, most bad-ass tent he could find (and for that there was good reason). For, whilst dwelling under canvas as a concept seemed solid (particularly if only for a week), there was the not-so-minor matter of convincing Mrs. John that it was something that could be even remotely enjoyable. Mrs. John, you see, had the good judgement to realise that, to all intents and purposes, camping was shit.

John was undeterred despite her protestations. Confronted with an almost inexhaustible list of options for outdoor cloth-based shelter, he plumped for a tent that packed inside a trailer and that had to be towed (rather dangerously) by a trailer-hook fixed to the back of the car. His first mistake...for in doing so, what he had actually bought was neither really a tent nor a caravan, but something in-between; a very light, two-wheeled box that bounced around on the motorway in a way that suggested it might break loose at any moment. And in being neither a tent nor a caravan in the conventional sense, it was therefore merely just a confusing hybrid that possessed none of the benefits of either medium, divided opinion in the camping community, and instilled outright fear into the hearts of trailing motorists.

It’s inaugural outing, sometime in the summer of 1978, was when John would subject his wife and two, probably excited (and definitely misguided) children to their first taste of what camping truly meant. Sure, he had been diligent, he had carried out a couple of trial runs on the drive at home, however, nothing could quite prepare any of them for what was to ensue. This was, after all, in the heady days prior to the impact of climate change when the great British weather was still relatively uniform in its delivery of consistent and persistent abject misery. As it turned out, and after the initial euphoria had subsided, the summer of 1976 had been...well, just a blip.

So there they found themselves, in the depths of Wales. Snowdonia in fact, tentatively perched on a relatively narrow, yet flat, grassy strip-of-a-campsite half way up a hill with a suitably robust gradient either side; one side sloping up, the other sloping down. The sun was out...pure Cymryan utopia. What’s more, erecting the tent had been a dream, the children hadn’t moaned once, and Mrs. John had skilfully unpacked a volume of plastic kitchenware so immense that it would make future sea life wince had they laid eyes on it.

Yes, the journey there had been a challenge (despite the uplifting Simon and Garfunkel accompaniment) what with the requirement to navigate using road signs labelled in Welsh...light on vowels, liberally smattered with consonants. But they had arrived nonetheless and, as the sun dipped behind the hill and they all laid their heads down for some well-deserved rest, John knew this adventure was just at its infancy. He lay there for a while immersed in a canvassy dreamland, off-grid and living off the land. And then sleep...

Dawn broke early morning as did his realisation that camping was altogether real. He opened his left eye, inadvertently exposing his retina to the light coming through the canvas, the sun filtering through the fly sheet like an opaque retina-searing orb. The opposite side of his face was swollen, his right eye practically welded shut and encased in the cushioned bosom of the pillow. His tongue felt rough and pitted, like the withered arse cheek of a seventy year old spinster. He was sweating. Outside was a cacophony of sound; chit-chat, birdsong, bleating sheep and so forth. Six o’clock. Fuck.

And the heat. The heat was intense. In fact, it was on; like if Glenn Fry really meant it. Burning...sizzling even. He felt lethargic and the rudimentary nature of the fold out bed had rendered his muscles numb; unable to move as though his spine had been removed. The twix he had misplaced in his sleeping bag at some point in the night, was gone. The wrapper was still there but what was inside lacked structure. It was essentially a chocolate ghost; malleable, liquid, encased in a sealed bag. A chocolatey metaphor for himself. He knew the family was already up; his kids’ muffled voices permeating the fabric. He briefly considered drifting off again but it was no use, he was awake. He unzipped his sleeping bag and ventured out into the crisp Welsh morning. In his pants.

It was only in retrospect that he would realise quite how glorious that morning was, especially considering how the following twenty four hours was about to go down. There were of course, the usual issues to contend with...dodgy shower blocks, other people’s children and the challenge of attempting to cook lunch in an oversized frying pan on a tiny three-pronged gas stove; a feat somewhat akin to landing a DC10 on top of the Post Office tower. But in the whole scheme of things, these were mere trivialities. The real problems would raise their head much later...in the middle of the night in fact...

At approximately 2am, long after the kids were asleep and approximately two hours past his own bedtime, John was suddenly awoken. A sound, not dissimilar to a speeding fighter jet shot past his head from left to right, accompanied by a ferocious, trailing wind. He was wide-eyed, attempting to focus whilst simultaneously reaching to wake up Mrs. John. Whatever that sound was he knew it was bad. He knew this because as soon as his eyes adjusted and he looked up he could see the sky. That wasn’t there before. The wind swirled around him, pulling the remnants of the tent this way and that, causing it to act like a huge sail, pulling and buffeting the trailer it was attached to, as if it were a tiny sailing dinghy on a treacherous sea.

He scrambled to his feet, pulled on his jeans and grappled with the ripped material billowing in the wind. Objects picked up by powerful gusts spun around as if at a poltergeist’s whim, speeding past his head at break-neck speeds. Mrs. John was now fully awake and in a state of mild distress, her hair fully vertical which made her look like a frightened goth. John hurriedly grabbed the kids from the adjacent compartment, lifting them, one in each arm, and carried them to the car, enclosing them within its protective metal shield.

As the children watched through the back windows, they could just make out their parents, wrestling and coercing the remnants of the tent back into the trailer, pummelled relentlessly by the wind and rain. Everything that had been brought with them was being haphazardly thrown in; bedding, cutlery, cups, towels, the lot. As Mrs. John climbed into the passenger seat of the car, like an astronaut attempting to gain re-entry to the international space station after a challenging space walk, John pushed the top of the trailer down into place and sealed it shut. He then hooked it to the back of the car before jumping into the driver’s seat and turning the key.

And that was the end of that. An abrupt end to an unfortunately truncated stay. The gale force winds had destroyed John’s idyllic outdoor vision. His well intentioned adventure had come to a premature end and they left the campsite in silence, bewildered and emotionally scarred. The trip had been a disaster, a washout, a tragedy of epic proportions. Never to be repeated. The trailer tent was subsequently disposed of and camping as a holiday medium was not something that would ever be suggested again.

John had taken his family camping, and in doing so had subjected them to a wild experience at the mercy of nature’s extreme forces. In the face of adversity he had stood up to be counted, grappled against a powerful foe, and saved his kids in the process. Yes, it had turned out that John was no wildwood camper after all but what he had proved was that he was more than that. John was an explorer, a pioneer, a pusher of boundaries who played fast and loose with convention. John was fucking awesome. John was my dad.

Saturation

Everything is saturated. If you are a creative person you will unequivocally know this to be true. While you’re sitting there in your floral flares, paisley scarf, Afghan and top fucking hat, perusing Instagram while scoffing down egg with avocado and puffing on a Camel, you might have noticed that there are another ten billion of you toy-town Jim Morrison’s doing all the same shit. The internet’s full of them, literally two a penny.

Well, that was me a minute ago. I was one of those Jim Morrison’s, sitting here, scratching my arse, on my phone, wondering if anyone else had noticed the same thing. So I googled it didn’t I. And guess what...google is literally awash with articles about markets being saturated. Ironic because the market for articles about markets being saturated is saturated. There are literally a million blog posts about shit being saturated. I was dripping in them.

And...as I perused that list of saturation articles, I happened across an article which posed the question...’is the blog market saturated?’ For fuck’s sake.

Learnings From a Complicated Dental Hygienist Appointment

Thursday, the day before my hygienist appointment, I receive a text message from the dental surgery proclaiming that, due to unforeseen circumstances that had befallen Christine (names changed to protect the innocent), my appointment was now cancelled. Good grief...a relief...a stay of execution for my teeth. But, my relief was merely a thin veneer covering the inevitability of a reschedule. Sure enough, on Monday morning I receive a phone call from a number with an area code in the vicinity of the dental practice...

“Good morning”, came the opening salvo. I hesitated. I knew how this conversation would evolve and I had hoped to revel in my good fortune for a period longer than a single weekend. But there was no escape, I could tell immediately who I was dealing with from the receptionist’s upper middle class accent. She sounded so polished. This is, after all, a high class dental establishment with a high wage budget and consequently, a need to rinse every patient thoroughly. And that’s something that can leave a bad taste in ones mouth.

“We are terribly sorry to have had to cancel your appointment last week, however, I’m calling to book you in for a new one”

“Oh...are you?” came my reply. What a nerve I thought. “What happened to Christine?”...my second impromptu retort fired back on a sarcastic whim. I felt compelled to get to the root of the problem.

“She’s had a family emergency.” Came the response. Well, there was no way I was going to commit to anything then and there so I made my excuses, told her I would review my diary, consider my options and call her back in due course. Frankly, I was pretty pleased to have brushed her off.

Anyway, fast forward a week and I receive an email confirming my appointment for the following Monday. But...I hadn’t made that appointment? The receptionist must have...I mean, I couldn’t be sure but she seemed keen to fit me in so it made sense that she was the culprit...if the cap fits. So it was at this juncture that I realised not only was my life not my own anymore, but that my calendar was now being run by Gillian, an upper middle class sixty year old who knew the drill. It was a kick in the chops. I had become a powerless bystander in the circumstances of my own existence. And I won’t deny that this realisation bit me hard.

So Monday rolls around and I find myself adorning the foyer, perusing the glass cabinet housing a number of electric toothbrushes, a plastic model of a jaw with teeth attached, and a sign extolling the virtues of flossing. The place has a whiff of faded glory about it. Gillian’s on the blower, fobbing some poor punter off telling them this, telling them that; she’s the queen of this place, all she needs is a crown. I stare at her...she has this mark on her face, very similar to one I have, so I’m staring at it...not my mole, hers. She hangs up and I’m standing there, chewing the fat with her, telling her I hadn’t been party to today’s arrangement. I thought she might brace herself for a chastisement but  she just shrugs it off.

Well, we get done jaw-wagging and I cast a solitary figure in the waiting room. Large green sofas hug three of the four walls like a mossy cushioned crescent and I’m sitting there, a solitary white man, like a single tooth on the untended gums of a faded aristocrat. Five minutes pass. It’s nine A.M. I’m first. My name is called and I start the slow walk to the medieval torture chamber down the corridor. If I had been staring at the fluoride have noticed the contra flow arrows, but as it was I was distracted by the adverts for dental products adorning the walls. Most of them cheapened by strap lines that shamelessly embrace dental-related wordplay.

Christine ushers me in. I settle into the dentist’s chair like an apprehensive athlete on the blocks. She’s asking me questions about oral hygiene but we both know that this is merely a precursor to the real content she has lined up. It’s the dental equivalent of ‘on your marks...get set’. And then Go! She says something that makes my jaw drop...

“Open wide.” My nemesis goes at me with a metal implement fashioned from high tensile steel, that looks like it was wrestled from a midget Captain Hook. I’m crestfallen.

And then she hits me with it. The one sided conversation. She’s asking questions...not the yes, no kind, ones that warrant a lengthy reply. Does she not realise she is currently operating a sadistic torturous invasion in my mouth? She’s literally chatting like a champ. She’s busy with my mouth, and she’s busy with hers.

She has worked here for well over a year, having moved across from another dental practice not ten miles from here. At the moment she’s waiting for a call from her insurance company because someone reversed into her car and scraped it all the way down the side. A bit like what she’s currently doing to my top left incisor. There’s no way they can deliver the hire car to the practice because there is nowhere to park, so her mother is on stand-by waiting for the hire car to be delivered to her home. When did my company move to the offices they’re in? I don’t respond. It’s difficult. I grunt. She hits me with another question. I grunt again. China Crisis are on the radio, she loved them when she was young. How many days a week am I going in to the office? I make a sound that sounds like two but without the ‘T’. One of her kids is at university, the other is unsure as to his life path. He’s probably stoned.

The grinding, scraping and poking continues. The questions are coming thick and fast. I’m beginning to wonder if she realises the predicament I’m in. Answers are literally on the tip of my tongue. Random snippets of her life are fired at me like a fact cannon from what seems to be an infinite source in her brain. There’s so much to impart. There is no visible clock...I wonder what time it is. And just like that she’s done. To be fair, my teeth look great. I could tell you more but to be honest, this story’s gotten to be a little long in the tooth.

The Winter of Discontent

Computers. The final frontier of human endeavour. The culmination of humankind’s pioneering spirit encapsulated in a plastic receptacle crammed full of wires, electrical components and printed circuit boards.

They are transformational, providing the human race with a tool to unravel some of the most perplexing scientific conundrums; to answer unfathomably complex questions at speeds far in excess of the human brain. Computers are revolutionary, a game changer, a vehicle for real evolutionary change. 

In our hands, we have at our disposal the single most powerful tool in human history, with which we are able to truly change mankind. To solve the most challenging complexities of the modern world; electrification, climate change, viral vaccines, all manner of problems for which it is imperative we find a solution lest we all languish in a fiery quagmire of our own selfishness. There can be nothing more pressing, more salient, more worthy of our time than our very survival. Of that there can be no dispute. And so, as a species, individually and collectively, we spend our time immersing ourselves in a frenetic whirl, our eyes affixed to a screen, attempting to make our existence on this wildly spinning orb the very best it can be. 

And we have truly harnessed this electronic gift, this vehicle for salvation. We have partly diluted our real-world experience, subscribing to a plastic virtual utopia with its algorithms and user interfaces, its alternative realities and its artificial intellect. We have embraced what we have created and have put it to its most optimum use. Through the power of prolific, seemingly never-ending social media content and porn, we are changing the world, one cat meme, one generously shaped tit at a time. And no matter how much we consume, like us it just keeps coming. 

Every day the volume of online content is expanding exponentially somewhat akin to charity shops on a depressed high street, its audience mercilessly drawn to it like a blind man at a talking book sale. It never ends. And the banality of what we’re willing to invite into our consciousness constantly edges towards the lower boundary of our intellect. Spend just a few misguided seconds for instance, looking at an inane inspirational quote and be assured that you will be fed inspirational quotes for at least a month. Admire a well shaped pair of women’s legs for no more than thirty seconds on Instagram and you may never again be able to open your Instagram app in public (lest you may end up like Neil Parish). Such is the power of the algorithm.

So where does that leave the kids? We hope that our children progress through life and achieve at least something slightly greater than ourselves. And are they? Of course they are...they are creating contrived, poorly acted, am-dram-esque video shorts depicting overblown chivalry, unamusing outcomes of misheard statements and unfunny pranks. The adults fare slightly worse. Women are flaunting themselves to such an extent that they are casually undoing fifty years of carefully cultured, and deserved parity with men, for likes. Men are creating ‘amusing’ video pranks at their apparent partners’ expense accompanied by a soundtrack of screams and frenzied cackling, thus (and deservedly) nullifying any gender advantage they may once have had. It does my head in. Couple all that with a gazillion photos of sunsets and other peoples’ lunch and we have an online shit-show of epic proportions. I had my hair cut today, look! Who gives a fuck dickhead.

This new world and associated mindset spells the end of mastery. Beethoven has been replaced by the musical equivalent of Speak and Spell and the new Rembrandt is a 7 year old with a crayon and felt pen. For the Mona Lisa to be recognised today she’d need a ‘collab’, a branded low-cut top and a massive rack. Yes, there is content that bucks this trend and showcases human brilliance, but it is outweighed by, and mixed in with a plethora of vapid junk. Humankind is doomed. I would insert a poignant, prophetic quote here from a notable figure from the past but I’m worried that it’s already out there as a meme. 

To surmise then, every day there is more and more content and we waste more and more time consuming it. It’s a veritable minefield and for those of us who create content it makes you wonder...what’s the point? In order to create some balance, there are obviously a great number of positives to be taken from all this online stuff but, you know, highlighting virtues is for lefties and influencers, and being of a certain age precludes me from being either (although I’m happy to say I’m not a right-wing chumwit either). Anyway, all that’s left for me to say is that I thank you for reading my additional contribution to this content creation mindless fucking merry-go-round. I’m off to waste two hours on Instagram. 

Carbon-Hated

Taramandu stood motionless, surveying the valley laid out before him; an undulating blanket of green, speckled with thick clusters of trees and foliage, and literally teaming with herbivorous species (or ‘lunch’ as he preferred to think of it). High on the ridge beneath a trailing sun, his huge frame cast an ominous shadow, like a ruthless General calmly analysing the battlefield before unleashing a ferocious and merciless onslaught. This was his land and he was dominant; an unsparing, depraved monarch.

He had stood in this spot countless times before; a visible, towering beacon of death, a figure so powerful and grotesque he struck unadulterated panic into any creature that set eyes upon him. And their hysteria was warranted; Taramandu used the valley as his personal playground, terrorising its inhabitants, scything them down indiscriminately by wielding his long rows of serrated fangs. Those who he found unpalatable, or who he had not earmarked for consumption, he maimed for sadistic amusement. The ones that managed to escape he would taunt by telling them that they’d be hunted on his inevitable return.

He was soulless; a monster...a giant, villainous oppressor. He harboured no real empathy, just a deep-seated visceral desire to cause fear and misery which extended not only to those he saw as his enemies, but also to those that were close to him. His peers, and creatures that were too big even for him to tackle, were the subject of relentless psychological abuse. Taramandu was a creature whose sole intent was to be as loathsome and as objectionable as possible. Taramandu was a T-Rex. 

Although his reign was long and painful for the other dinosaurs, he was far from infallible, and, shortly after his twenty sixth birthday, he contracted a virus which ravaged his mighty figure and rendered him incapacitated. The illness lasted only a matter of weeks before he breathed his last breath, expiring in a quiet glade under a canopy of towering dawn redwoods. Those that chanced upon his body felt comfort that they were finally free of his tyranny, his carcass gradually decomposing and transforming itself into carbon; a resolving rondo to the fabric of existence. And although Taramandu the T-Rex was no more, his carbon permeated the soil to be reborn in the form of plants and vegetation, thus perpetuating the circle of life and ensuring that the spirit of that mighty creature lived on.

Approximately sixty eight million years later, a young Dutch woman, giddy with excitement, anticipation and gas and air, gave birth to a child in a small, bare hospital room in Rome. She had looked after herself well throughout her pregnancy consuming all manner of sustenance that would encourage her unborn offspring to grow strong and healthy enough to be delivered without complication, and in doing so, had unwittingly ingested a significant quantity of the remnants of Taramandu’s carbon, thus transferring a portion of that terrible creature’s DNA to her child.

And that, I can only assume, is the reason that I am such an utter dick.

Kulturklub…

Georgina Leichenberg was a highly regarded German laboratory scientist who specialised in virology and bio-containment. Her work is often cited as being at the forefront of modern proactive preventative medicine, with her methods providing a blueprint for process-driven viral-culture analysis to this day. She has been a widely recognised leading authoritative figure in her field since the mid nineteen eighties.

Georgina was born just outside Cologne to strict Evangelical parents who, daunted by the magnitude of parental responsibility, abandoned her shortly after her third birthday. Despite several failed attempts by the authorities to find willing, adoptive parents, she was eventually taken in and raised by her aunt Katrina, an eccentric and somewhat flamboyant spinster. Katrina was known locally for her over-exuberant greetings which, in addition to an allusion to her sunny disposition (usually sung in a light, often carefree manner), incorporated an exaggerated and oft-repeated arm gesture, something akin to a series of overemphasised waves. 

Georgina’s genius was apparent from an early age and her aunt, recognising her undeniable potential, gave her every encouragement. A keen interest in natural sciences proliferated throughout her teens culminating in her acceptance into the University of Würzburg; the first person to be accepted onto the course at fifteen years old. Her self-absorbed, highly focussed application to study saw her become something of a Titan amongst her classmates, and garnered a number of awards for various theses which served to substantiate her global reputation.

After leaving Würzburg with a masters degree commendation, she spent a number of years travelling the globe studying life-threatening viruses wherever they presented themselves; often taking samples back to her newly created private lab back in Cologne for further analysis. Cologne being a vibrant and progressive city, furnished her with the perfect backdrop against which she could proliferate her alternative lifestyle. She would regularly dress as a man, preferring to keep her hair cut short, adorning herself in men’s formal suits and loungewear, and conversing in a deep masculine voice. 

Her work, and lifestyle (relatively unconventional for the day), quickly attracted the attention of other leading German virologists who flocked to Cologne in order to share ideas and results, hypothesise, and to generally engage in scientific discourse. They would spend prolonged evenings at many of Cologne’s leading nightspots earning themselves a reputation as scientific hell raisers. As the leading light of this progressive group of scientists, Georgina’s peers would affectionately refer to her as ‘Das Mädchen Georgina’ (Girl Georgina) with the group becoming known locally, and quite uniquely, as Kulturklub, or ‘Culture Club’ in English; a moniker obviously alluding to the group’s invaluable lab-work combatting infectious disease.

A number of challenging relationships within Kulturklub, led Georgina to become disillusioned with the scientific community. In recent years she has turned her back on her virological endeavours, preferring to embrace her new interest as a high profile mainstream dance club DJ in Ibiza and other Balearic hotspots. Although she has retained her exuberant aesthetic, she currently dresses in a manner which could be mistaken as marginally more feminine, and she has taken to shaving her facial hair.

Freefalling…

In a bid to write more songs that start with ‘F’ and end in ‘ing’ (a dangerous game), I have a new song out called ‘Freefalling’. It’s a Philly-sound inspired ballad about an ageing skydiver who utilises the accidentally-realised gift of gravity to contract the over-elasticised skin around his facial features, in a vain attempt to appear younger to his glamorous, female skydiving partner (even if only for fifty short seconds of...Freefalling). It’s a story of lofty hopes and dreams, and an unparalleled example of a human male man attempting to endear himself to a prospective mate through the power of wind. Primates do that all the time; music’s good but the plot stinks. It turns out that in attempting to stir her innermost desires he becomes relatively proficient and sets up his own extreme sports YouTube channel. The venture snowballs and in his mind the sky’s the limit...until he listens to the song, and that brings him back down to earth again. It could be about that, but then it might be about something else...I can’t remember. Anyway, give it a spin...

The Manmarkers…

The manmarkers...two piss artists fuelled by a heady mix of patriotism and nationalistic derision who, combined, attempted to create the greatest contradictory sport anthem of modern times. A popular music enigma, the song was a gift to every music-loving football fan who had a passion for their home country...England. 

In creating Red, White & Blue, The Manmarkers had brought to the world a sporting chanson (French word) of cultural significance so iconic that it went unnoticed by Brexiters and liberals alike, predominantly due to the fact that it was both ahead of its time, and provided such a powerfully prophetic narrative that people just weren’t ready for it; like the musical equivalent of the Sinclair C5.

How it evaded the popular charts is anybody’s guess, however, based on its hastily hashed together production, equally slapdash mix and no real marketing effort, it’s a minor miracle it got off the ground at all. But following its release, its reach proliferated exponentially to a minimum of twenty five devoted listeners, and was heralded on mainstream radio worldwide from Riviera Radio in southern France to Surrey Hills Radio in the UK. It went fucking massive. Not the BBC admittedly, but you know...it’s who you know.

Love it or hate it, the track has something about it. It is packed with raw, energetic and emotional storytelling, is literally littered with historical references, and features performances from two of the least known, dubiously toned rap artists in the industry; both ageing, both dads, both twats. 

While men of a similar age were focussing on their careers, these two were focussing on the rhythmical quality of the word ‘dalmation’ and their ability to slur their way through a dubiously written rap narrative at breakneck speed (simultaneously sinking a bottle of Jameson’s and stopping periodically to blast through a few Marlboros). One take, two takes, and so on. By the fifty fifth take it was anybody’s guess as to whether the production would actually reach completion. But being the consummate professionals they are, complete it they did.

And do the results speak for themselves? They sure do. But don’t just sit there and take my poetic word for it, put some effort in for Christ’s sake...head over to Spotify and listen to Red, White & Blue by The Manmarkers for yourself...

Admiral Featherington’s Disappearance…

Not only was Admiral Featherington a highly decorated Naval mastermind, he was also…a fish.

And yet his disappearance went unnoticed. Of that there is no missed-hake.

The Accidental Plagiarist

It truly is a gift to possess the ability to write a song. It doesn’t matter necessarily if people who hear it like it, enjoy it or have a strong, negative opinion on it, the real beauty is that you have created something from your inner self; from your own mind. And there is a certain euphoria that one experiences when a vision that has been germinating in the creative depths of your soul finally blossoms, evolving into an unexpectedly glorious anthem with rich progressions layered with hooks and melodic wonderment. It can leave you with a sense of egocentric awe as you bask in your accomplishment, revelling in the realisation that you have created a pop masterpiece. 

And that’s how I felt many years ago when I realised that I had written something so brilliant, so utterly spellbinding, that I knew it would be a tough one for any publisher to ignore. It opened with two innocuous chords, repeated with slow changes; not new, not incredible and certainly not groundbreaking. The real magic lay in the tune which, like the progression, was simple, based predominantly around two notes with a rising tail at the end of each line. However, the melody possessed a syncopation in contrast to the square measure of the chords which gave it an alluringly addictive quality.

And its birth wasn’t laboured...I had just sort of come up with it. It was a tune that had come to me in a flash and which I had subsequently been humming, refining and repeating over and over in my mind for over a week. It was a little raw, all I really had was a verse (I hadn’t managed to progress it so that it evolved into a chorus of any sort), and the lyrics I had were sketchy at best. But what I had was hit-worthy I thought. All it needed was that killer chorus to give it the icing on the cake and a platinum-selling fortune generator was within my grasp. 

My brother pitched up one afternoon and, as we sat down with a beer, I told him about this knockout masterpiece I had concocted. Recognising that I had seemingly whisked myself up into an excited frenzy over this compositional masterpiece, he eventually succumbed to my offer to play it to him. And so I did. Ok it was short, it was scrappy but he got the idea, and, as I finished and looked at him trying to gauge his reaction, he said...

“Well, I think you’re right, it’s brilliant...but you see, what you’ve written there is Rocketman by Elton John”.