The things I miss about England blog

I just wanted to thank everyone who has dropped by on this blog during the course of the year. I will (by the time this goes out) have posted 129 times during the course of the year - the most by some way. I have found it an incredibly useful way to share my fears, loves, dreams, strange drinking habits and obsessions with by and large an anonymous but seemingly intrigued audience.

I started this blog when I moved to the other side of the world, with the aim of highlighting & sharing vague memories of England/UK/life for gentle amusement. I had no vision of what the future would bring, just a dim grasp of the past. 

My life has changed more in the last 10 years than in the previous 30+ by some way:

I left a buoyant England (still in Europe) under a Labour government and virus free, married, with two parents, employed, unpublished, without a record out, pet free and 20kg overweight. Suffice to say all that has changed some for good (eg: 20kg lighter!), some much less so (take your pick).

Anyway, thank you once again for popping here and by way of a thank you, why not listen to the 

Things I miss about England playlist

Wishing you all a safe and happy 2021! 

Andy

Andrew Franks (Poet)

Soul Bay Press (Publisher)

Andy Franks (Soundcloud)

Andy Franks (Mixcloud)

The Butterfly House (Website)

The Butterfly House (Bandcamp)

Day in the life

A New Year's Eve Anxiety Vibration

-- I have watched 

the film

so many times 

and I never noticed

'Greensleeves' 

playing in the 

background 

as the Group Captain 

drives from base 

to The Jackdaw Inn.

-- 'Greensleeves', 
the sound of a late

Sunday afternoon --

Langney Green --

Such a miserable tune.

The weekend ends here!

Hairs on my neck

stood up --

Fucking 'Greensleeves'!

Haunted Sundays

And then an Ice cream van

rolled by my window.

-- The Battle of Britain is safe

although the same cannot be said

for Mr Bloody Whippy! 

Day in the life...

The Long Weekend

-- Driving through

empty streets, floodlit, 

waterlogged.

A toy pistol lies

abandoned in the gutter.

All the stray dogs 

were rounded up

over the long weekend.

-- Netball courts 

cracked and overgrown.

A skateboard lies 

upside down, bleached.

The khaki torn tents 

in the car park,

twitching in the 

benign breeze

are the only signs 

of movement.

The car radio

picks up only static...

-- I suppose I should

try and find some petrol.

Day in the life

A Moment in Meads (Part 1)

-- The Sussex Sun 

hovers over Rye,

beaming along 

the paradise coast,

illuminating a 

third floor room 

somewhere in Meads.

On the wooden table

-- A bowl of fresh 

chopped tomatoes,

spinach, cucumber

and onions, 

smothered in 

olive oil, lemon

and chopped garlic.

'King of America'

on repeat --

A white cotton dress

with red poppies

swishes in to the 

kitchen. 

A broad smile and 

hint of Chanel. 

-- Time to open

the Pinot Grigio.

Time to dance...

Day in the life...

Music from the other blue

-- The clatter of vacuum,

glass shattering, 

door slam,

wind blow,

metal gate.

The perpetual racket

raw root canal buzz

of Cicada and 

clumsiness. 

--- Surrounded by 

FUCKING NOISE!

Day in the life...

 32º - South

-- Floating 
above life.

Toasted soil,

rogue clouds.

Dandelions drift

in the scorched

garden.

On the other

side of town

-- Escape routes

are agreed,

false papers issued.

We have been 

BETRAYED!

Day in the life

Trailing in the wake of genius

-- Even the sketches!

Even the sketches

...summon up 

more about love, 

loss and the torment 

of a broken mind.

Whirlpools

of Indigo and 

Ivory Black

-- Mixed with tears 

of the forgotten

muse.

A man, unshaven

sits at his desk

watching the 

sun rise over

unwashed dishes

-- Purple leaves captivate,

caught on the breeze

of another silent morning.

Even the leaves!

Even the leaves

... are left trailing

in the wake of genius.

Day in the life...

Black Flame

-- I am reconciled.

Cold nights outweigh

the diminishing days.

-- Burnt out.

Like the black flame

in my charred

heart.

Medway Man

The restless and relentless nature of the way Billy Childish seems to produce his work is something that inspires and challenges me at the same time. I'm a fan of his poetry, music & his painting. He is a compelling presence. 

He turns over different pebbles on the same beach as me. His life living in the Medway towns throws up some stark images (or more honestly dark memories) of similar experiences. 

He is neither innocent or guilty. He is Billy Childish (amongst other names). 

Today is his birthday. 

Best wishes.

Photo by Anna Huix/Contour by Getty Images

Memories of The Dirt Box and UK Clubbing in the 1980's

I had the pleasure to chat with Rob Milton (The co-founder and original DJ) of The Dirt Box on Wednesday 25th Novemberon my weekly radio show London Calling on Sydney station 2RRR (88.5FM and www.2rrr.org.au). If you'd like to hear some fine music and funny memories. Why not click the link below.

The Dirt Box meets London Calling Uptown

Day in the life...

The Garden

-- Green belt dusk

seeps into night.

The garden settles.

Green Line bus

pushes on 

through the 

countryside.

-- A cupped hand.

The invisible

Old Holborn glow 

stalks the end 

of the Garden.

A voice calls 

into the darkness.

Whatever happened

in Flanders remains...

Day in the life...

 Daisy
 
-- In an out 
the Soundsytems
heaven bound
spirals of smoke
curried goat and Sensi
 
The 10 o’clock
from the coast
to the shadow
of the Westway
-- Red Stripe
and Daisy.
 
The long fringe,
flowers, sinuous.

Good days, 

sad days.

 
-- Gin, Bitter lemon
and Daisy.

A day in the life...

DownLand

-- Stale hay clings 

to the memory

of walking barefoot

across the Downs 

at dawn.

Alfriston flickering 

below the low slung

clouds -- rain heavy.

--- She strides ahead

100 yards, 110 yards

120... 

It is never a good time

to say goodbye...

on DownLand.

A day in the life...

Birdsong and K-pop

-- The clatter of comms

spinning stratospheres

Calling on 

6.5 MHz

-- Traffic spirited away

over the span of

Mooney Mooney Bridge.

The lost telegrams 

never to be read.

Missed proposals.

the relentless Klang

of Birdsong and K-pop.

Wondering will it ever.

STOP

And so...

The ragged mob of narcissists have started to turn in on themselves. From Trump to Cummings... the pace of hate just became too much and the 'outsiders' find themselves back on the outside. 

The real shame is that they'll never properly be brought to account for their litany of mad schemes and contemptible actions. 

Anyway... 

Time to move on everyone.

You shall find love

You shall find love (for T.Emin)

In the swirl of oil

the breadth of canvas

a swish of a brush ---

You shall find love.

In the depths of

his warmest embrace.

In the ashtray of 

the last cigarette.

In the bottom of

the final glass.

You shall find love.

In the birdsong,

in the breeze, 

in the howl,

in the silence and 

in the vapours 

that trail behind us...

 

Day in the life...

Orpheum

Found myself 

in the cinema

slightly drunk

mid-afternoon.

The long walk

from happiness

to Seaford Head.

-- The battle

with the bottle --

Staring into

rockpools and 

chalk caves.

The delicate

twist of an

ozone breeze

gliding North

--- Time to take 

a deep breath

a small step.

Day in the life...

I am Banksy

-- Guerilla tactics

poetry on the streets

the ashes of HEARTBREAK

floating down from heaven

A smoke screen

the filter is LOVE.

Graffiti of the soul

-- A Long Man Tattoo

Staring down the barrel of

DESPAIR 

Will the last person to leave paradise

please turn off the lights....

Day in the life...

And that was it...

-- Looking out the 

same window,

for all these years.

Horizons swept away.

Every day -- gone!

Journeys remembered

destinations forgotten.

--- Boarding the Metro

at Quai de la Gare... 

The tang of 

burnt rubber 

and last night's 

late hour,

sweeps the length 

of the platform.

The look on her face

betrayed nothing --

except her husband.

A perfect day in the perfect pub - #6

"My partner 'n my sadness, my story, my wantoness
My wish, my despair, my erasure, my plantation
My white chocolate, my thoughtlessness, my gracelessness
My courage and my crying, my pockets 'n my mistakes

My body and my sex, my gaze and my helplessness..."

It is 2:35pm and the post-lunchtime lull is precious in the perfect pub. She's gone back to work and 'Lions after Slumber' by Scritti Politti invades the airspace. A song that heralds a slideshow of the past... late nights in Meads... daybreak at Birling Gap... a bottle of vodka and white chocolate on a balcony in Brighton. 

Serendipity swings through the door, sunshine trailing in it's wake...

The cricket is going well. Time for me to do some serious watching, accompanied by a cheeky Sancerre (the other half of Tattinger had seemingly gone the way of the first) and The Guardian's sports quiz of the year (held over from December for the purpose of fictional construct). Joined by Slim, breezing in all Hawaian 40's shirt and dangerous wit. He sits at the table and a pint appears (they know him here). We dash through the hundred questions and score a very passable 92 (we were never going to get the equestrian sports but I should have remembered that David Wilkie won the 200m breastroke, not 100m). 

Another flurry of Aussie wickets means we'll be batting before tea! Not quite Trent Bridge but certainly reminiscent of Melbourne 2010. The Sancerre evaporates, as does Slim's Stella Artois. We cover off key topics: the new book about Samuel Beckett, the potential British Lions starting XV against RSA and uncovering the truth behind what happened to the girl we used to go to school with who became a stripper and glamour model. 

I get more drinks and manage to place a bet with David Jenkins & Sons "traditional bookmakers to gentlemen of a literary persuasion". Fingers crossed for 'Bottle of Smoke'... 

A nice 10 minute interview with Michael Holding fills the break between innings. I remember, in the nick of time, that we (Slim & I) always have Cheesy Wotsits when watching England bat together (it's a luck thing). Thankfully the barman was two steps ahead of me. 

A bowl appears along with an ashtray, a selection of Gitanes, Gauloises, Marlboro (soft-pack), Camel and Lucky Strike, as well as a 1965 Zippo that had seen action at La Drang. They know Slim here...

Code: Tuesday

All transmissions on this frequency are monitored...

all communiqués must be deemed to have been compromised...

Helsinki reported a security breach 05:30 Sat 24/10...

Impact assessment suggests 'we are fucked'...

Two operatives (19 and 46) have failed to report in on line Red...

Implement standard Tuesday protocols...

The Praesidium met 09:00 Sat 24/10...

Viper Committee activated, Beryl from accounts was inadvertently appointed Chair...

...

Stand by for further instructions

13

Day in the Life...

Long Island

-- We know the route.

Down the path, alongside

the empty house.

--- Footprints in the snow.

On top of the coal bunker.

On the garage roof. 

In, through 

the landing window.

The immersion heater

left on, ever since.

The smell of fresh 

radiator paint.

---- Radio 4 on 

in the kitchen.

Night broadcasts

silent bedrooms,

the Priory.

The inevitable,

hovering ---

A shadow over

Long Island.

* Langney is derived from the Anglo-Saxon words Lang and ey for 'Long Island'.

Day in the life...

View from the roof garden

 -- A glass of champagne nestles 

into the V of the right hand. 

The burnt out sun 

slides into the night.

We can see the

Post Office Tower

revolving through

the traffic's haze.

--- Kaleidoscope.

The lost

sound 

of 1977

rushes

through 

the 

wires.

She looks at him

and he looks down

at the askew

world below.

"No way down from here,

at least not as I can see..."

 

The Art of Confusion

Is every poem the truth? Are the words of the writer a reality, a distortion or a distraction? Should we hang on to every utterance for a clue as to what the writer is genuinely feeling?

Some writers declare that the reason they write is because they are searching for the absolute. They are committed to being as raw and as honest as possible and hang the consequences. Others write simply to entertain, to obfuscate or to build an alternative world. 

After a moment of confusion, bought on by writing something that was (in hindsight) easily misconstrued. I had to stop an ask myself: What sort of writer am I? Inconsistent? Yes. An autodidact? Yes. Confused? Undoubtedly. Wilfully obtuse? It would seem so. Does it matter? No, of course not. The joy of being all of the above, means it most probably doesn't matter one iota to anyone but me. But of course, when somebody reads something I've written and translates the meaning to be something completely different and possibly hurtful, then maybe I should pay more attention.

Especially the next time that I sit down to write something without a plan!

What do all these poems mean?

Who knows... 

They are just hastily composed polaroids that will fade in the glare of the ever brightening sun. They will become bleached and distant until they completely disappear from view. A series of unread suicide notes, football commentaries, record reviews and postcards from the edge of the Tasman Sea. A handful of uncoded Enigma messages, a hidden cache of cassette tapes, badly recorded demos, morse-code transcripts from a ghost ship. They slipped under the radar, got lost in the traffic, flew south for winter and managed to lie low for the duration. 

They mean nothing. 

Unless they mean something to you... 

Day in the Life... (September 2020)

Midlight

-- The creature 

skitters in the eves.

Sleep is a luxury,

one we cannot

afford.

Somnambulants 

are on the move

--- Neighbours 

have informed

the Government.

Latest reports...

...  bleak outlook

broken spirit...

... banished souls

Torches supplied---

---- The book burning

will start at 8:00pm

attendance compulsory.

---Four hours until Midlight!

"No to decadence and moral corruption!" 

"Yes to decency and morality in family and state!"

"I consign to the flames the writings of

The Traitor Franks"

Don't you just love it when...

... One of your favourite bands comes out of a 12-year recording hiatus with a fantastic new album!

I've followed A Certain Ratio's career since stumbling into a dingy basement in Brighton at one of their very earliest gigs (A Sussex University venue in Brighton). In those days they were very much a post-industrial band with a funky drummer, searching for a way to shrug off their long overcoats.

Over the years, the highs of; Sextet (especially Knife Slits Water), Life's a Scream/Sounds like something dirty, the WOMAD festival gig, Brazil shirts, samba whistles, madness in the streets of Kings Cross, The Wag Club (complete with Tilly onstage), ACR:MCR, 27 forever, Up in Downsville, through to the fantastic 40th anniversary gig in Islington in 2019 (complete with a chat with sorely missed Andrew Weatherall), ACR:BOX with their version of Houses in Motion (originally planned to be with Grace Jones) have all added up to being one of my most rewarding and long lasting musical experiences. 

In addition there are very few lows (with the most notable being the sad loss earlier this year of the lovely Denise Johnson - She would light up every show with her fantastic vocals and infectious interactions with the ACR Barmy Army - she is sorely missed).

So, the arrival of the fabulous new album ACR:Loco (released on 25th September) has been greeted with much fanfare and celebration round our way. Do yourself a favour - get this album now! 

Bouncy Bouncy! 

Day in the Life... (September 2020)

Isolation

-- Communiques

are fading

in the ether,

in dawn's

evaporating

mystery.

The final

notes of

a symphony

disappearing

on the neap tide.

---- A ship

goes down

all hands on

deck -----

Love's final voyage.

Day in the Life... (September 2020)

Espresso

-- Days as dark

as Espresso.

The rule 

of six...

--- Clandestine.

The law

of diminished

returns.

13:00 hours

and the 

short-wave radio

repeats the 

same message...

Black lightning.

Day in the Life... (September 2020)

Flame

-- A cooling zephyr.

The garden alight

with the flames of Ra.

A TR-808 fires up

--- 120 BPM

a soundclash.

Sunday sessions

moving through 

the years...

Dub dreams

bass heavy --

A Samba breezes

through the leaves.

Welcome to 

'a discoteca solitária'!

Day in the Life.. (September 2020)

Silent

-- The dove flies 

in through 

the open window.

It sits on 

a wooden table.

The neighbourhood  

Bodhisattva

has arrived.

---- Sunflower seeds

on terracotta tiles.

The fragrant scent

of morality fills 

the kitchen ---

The man and the dove

a weekend meditation

silent.

Day in the life... (September 2020)

Return of the English Ghost

-- Battersea Power Station

midnight, Autumn.

The coast train 

pulls in to the 

empty station 

(Southbound platform).

Four carriages. 

Late night final

scattered across

the blue seats.

Nothing to eat

Whisky to drink.

-- Underneath the tracks

night buses evaporate 

in the mist of remorse--

A glance at the moon

------- The apparition 

stares down from 

the brick cathedral.

Silence empties the night.

--- Dark days herald 

the return of the 

English Ghost.

Day in the life... (September 2020)

Release

-- Being 

in love

with love.

Might just

be better

than being 

in love...

Meanwhile,

A man walks alone

on Curl Curl beach.

---- Modern Mersault

contented, passive

a low flame.

Sanctuary

release. 

A perfect day in the perfect pub - #5

"Sunshine music, Funtime do it, in Brazilia..."

Time speeds up when she's around. Conversation flits from fact to fiction, present to past and from now until when. 

Elsewhere in the pub, a couple of regulars assume their position in front of the TV. Play has resumed in the cricket and another Aussie wicket has already fallen. In the library a first edition PG Wodehouse is being heartily enjoyed by 'that bloke from the Ad Agency' - the wonderful thing about this pub is that discretion is assured. Therefore, the fact that he should actually be knee deep in a pile of Japanese Anime publications instead of 'The Salvation of George Mackintosh' will go unnoticed back in the carbon and chrome interior of 'SNIDE Inc'. 

The Tattinger eases itself below the half-way mark and another double (although it was only meant to be a single) Vodka comes as she glows. 'Brazilia' by A Certain Ratio fills the pub and smiles break out almost everywhere. Even the barman (more of whom later) manages to contrive a passable samba step on his way to serve Alan Hudson (former Chelsea, Stoke & England player) at the other end of the bar. 

The chess match, on the round table under the stairs, between the Cuban diplomat and the Olympic Couriers dispatch rider is entering its second hour. Another clatter of stumps and the Australian collapse is in full flow. 

An hour has gone and she must return to her office but she will be back, as will the barman with another bottle of Tattinger (where did the last half go?). He takes the empty glasses but not before sharing a tip.

"Fistful of Smoke in the 3:40 at Kempton...". Lenny, the pub bookie looks over. A nod passes between the pair of us.

She rises, smiles, shares a kiss and heads out of the door. 

Looking back at the chess match and 'that bloke from the Ad Agency', a quote from Raymond Chandler slipps into my mind, uninvited like an Arsenal fan in The Rising Son. 

“Chess is as elaborate a waste of human intelligence as you can find outside an advertising agency.” 

That Chandler certainly had a rare and precious view of the world. But not as precious as the one I'd had at our table for the last hour.

Day in the life of... (September 2020)

Spies work alone

-- Rattling around

the safe house.

Keep the mind active.

Wait for instructions.

Perfectly happy

in the silence.

---- London is

so very quiet. 

No news

for months.

Meanwhile, 

on the other side

of the world.

Another day,

another dead 

drop. 

The Art of being an English Gentlemen (Part 11)

A strange thing occurred last Saturday. I paid a visit to the lovely Melissa for a cup of tea and a natter about things artistic. When during the course of conversation, she upbraided me for my somewhat relaxed state of dress.

"What has happened to you? When I first knew you, you were all stout brogues, nice suits and turtle neck jumpers. Now it is, well, this..."

I was admittedly wearing a pair of somewhat distressed Mambo shorts that had seen better days. My new T-shirt however was in immaculate condition. My shoes however...

Let me put it this way. The Birkenstock is a comfortable item of footwear and certainly when I'm in a more 'mindful' state of dress I will happily pair them with a 'Zen not Zen' t-shirt and shorts. However, the incident did raise the question about summer footwear. 

On the assumption that the perennial brogue is, for the purposes of this discussion, not to be included. What can one wear? Trainers can be worn but a GOACA* has to be very careful. Please note only the following 12 trainers are acceptable as day wear:

• Adidas Gazelle
• Adidas Superstar (white/navy only)
• Adidas Handball Spezial
• Adidas München
• Adidas Italia
• Adidas Japan
• Adidas Samba (5 a-side football only)
• Puma Suede (Black & White)
• Reebok Classics (only to Association Football matches)
• Gola Harrier (Mods only)
• Onitsuka Tiger
• Chad Suede (As inspired by Terry 'Chad' Kennet on the Quadrophenia album cover)

No other trainer will be permitted.

Of course, 'exercise' training shoes have their place but solely for the purpose of exercise. But be very diligent, these are interesting times.

Next time around, proper shoes!

*GOACA > Gentlemen of a Certain Age

Day in the life of... (September 2020)

 Blue Passport

-- Escaping heaven

in a VW beetle.

Midnight flit,

handheld torch

tracing a path 

along the 

Coast Road.

--- A new Mythology.

With a Blue Passport

in my hand.

A taste of liberty,

the guiding hand

of a God who

never existed.

Sun coming up 

at the end 

of the road.

--- We can't get any 

further East.

Aphrodite...

... We can't get any 

further East.

Day in the life of (September 2020)

 Another Planet

-- Light ricochets

around the bedroom.

A tanned arm,

white sheets.

--- They've been 

in these poems

before.

Somebody

somewhere.

-- I wonder

if we can stay

in here

all day.

Outside the sunshine

dries the fallen leaf

and a Magpie

walks across

the lawn.

The world

will carry on

anyway.

A perfect day in the perfect pub - #4

"...folded back shirt sleeves, as the sun streams down from the sky"

The fact that there is a slew of London's finest record stores within 2 minutes walk of this particular 'Moon Under Water', reinforces the reason why this is the best day in the best pub. The fish-finger sandwich, gorgeous. The second Guinness, finished. At the Cricket, it is still lunchtime. Outside, the Soho streets fizz with life. 

Leaving my paper and phone on the table. Nobody will steal my phone or my table. We just don't do that here. I climb the three stories to the roof terrace - empty. I'll come back up around 3:40 (tea-time at the cricket). 

Time to pop into Soul Jazz or one of the other record shops in Berwick Street, Murphy might still be around. Skim through the racks and boxes. Pick up a mint condition copy of Weekend's wonderful La Varieté. Put a deposit down on a pristine copy of 'Ascenseur pour l'echafaud' by Miles Davis. Then back in the pub before she glides through the door at 1:30.

My table has been tidied, a bottle of Tattinger is in one of the pubs rare ice buckets (made from a WW1 German helmet picked up at Ypres). My phone has been recharged, newspapers folded and a printed scorecard of the morning's play placed on a silver tray for my perusal.

The hubbub of Soho seeps in a couple of seconds before she does. Despite the fact that the pub is quite quiet (oh the bliss), a palpable silence accompanies her first step through the side door. She knows where I'll be, same table, same seat. 'The view from her room' by Weekend drifts from the jukebox in perfect time. She is wearing a summer dress, her hair short, two degrees south of ebony. She is beautiful, not least because she doesn't know or care whether she is or she isn't. 

She slides into 'her' seat. A double vodka and lemonade (ice, no slice) appears. 

They know her here.

It is 1:35pm.

Day in the life... (September 2020)

 Everything's Tuesday

--- A lone detached

dragonfly wing

lies ignored 

on the wooden table

outside the kitchen.

--- Dust clings to

the shop window.

--- Off Grove Road.

Second hand 

record shops,

brimming with 

teenage delights.

Invictus blue

labels spin

relentlessly

at 45 RPM.

--- and we sigh

Everything

is Tuesday.

Day in the life.. (September 2020)

 Flat

-- Another year

cardboard days

full of distance,

fog, smoke and

diminished

memories.

The toaster goes 

here -- well, it

always used to.

--- the red and purple

of a child's fridge

painting. Can't throw

it away. Can't keep it.

Photos

Photos

Photos

Photos

... that I cannot revisit

Books

Books

Books

Books

... that I'll never read.

Day in the life of... (September 2020)

Finite

---- The stream 

that flows.

The light that glows.

---- The sea, the moon.

Even the Sun ----

Finite.

Day in the life of... (September 2020)

Blackbell Railway

And over the train tannoy...

-- "This last carriage 

is reserved

only for those 

travelling to 

Bitter, Resentful and Bigot.

--- Please move further

down the train if 

you've got X-ray vision,

a glimpse of the future

and one eye on the past.

All poets must travel

in the front 4 carriages

as this train splits in two

at Indecision.

The last four coaches

will then call at 

Me first, then 

Selfish Parkway, 

Vile Self-Loathing

and Bognor

before finishing at

All-at-fucking Sea ----

Whilst the first four carriages 

will head on to Ecstasy,

Despair, High-on-Hope,

Disappointment East,

Disappointment West,

Euphoria Central

and will finally arrive at

TERMINAL..."