Lockdown - Day #13

The bank of swans in Princes Park, bloated on stale Sunblest, avoid the wayward shots being launched from the raised 10^th tee of the ‘Royal’ Princes Park pitch & putt. Underneath the overhang, a pair of discarded knickers that should never have made it out of the phone box. Every Christmas Eve they promised it would end this way. 

Back on the sea side of the road, a dull pat of tennis balls ricochet off the Lifeboat shed and the first of a million tawdry B&B’s waft fried bread, bacon and eggs back down Channel View Road. It is (nearly always) time to move on to the actual beach… 

The sea, ridding itself of ozone and seaweed, pushes up the past the Queen’s median high-tide line. Orange rope meshes with old fishing nets and the rust spreads like some kind of twisted cruel virus of the future. The wretched swell of decay takes a firm grip and the first sign of the path of the beaten army, signposted by the discarded trail of chip wrappers and cans of Top Deck and Colt 45 leads us beyond the Butterfly Centre and towards the Fisherman’s Club.

Over on the horizon, the Royal Sovereign Lightship is scuttled and the Royal Sovereign Light Platform rises from the sea. A portal to a new Atlantis… to be decommissioned in 2020!

Lockdown - Day #12

The ghost of trams skittering out of Princes Park on a one-way trip to back from whence they came… silently surfing the stone cuttings/crumbling carpet out as far as nowhere. The tramshed, distant and foreboding, garish holiday season adverts festoon the way. The melting ice cream dripping on to the back of the seat in front.

Housemartins and Swallows gather to fly south. Starlings will wait to form a Murmuration over the Pier a little later on my walk. Back on the tram a Lyons Maid block slips from the oblong cone onto the wooden floor. I walk by the Leisure Pool and am brushed by the group of teenagers from the Grammar & High School, smelling of chlorine, Blue Stratos and ulterior motives. “Somebody will get chucked tonight"…

The sound of The Isley Brothers fills the night and the hostess lets the corner of her blonde bob fall over one eye. Meanwhile, the heady anguish of a Friday night rolls on inexorably to a hastily snatched kiss and the promise of a visit to the Crumbles to follow.

One day, in the heart of a global lockdown, these nights will seem like Paradise made real!

Lockdown - Day #11

Over on the other side of the road, my old paper round, Middleton Road – Jervis Avenue and off-shoots in between. The suggestion of stolen (near frozen) diet Coke slides across my tongue. The taste of illicit daybreak transactions: Coca-Cola for copies of Silk & Whitehouse…. 

Marching on, in the distance the new yet now ancient leisure pool, back down the coast, the line of Martello Towers standing stubborn amongst the shingle – stout sentinels (a younger man once wrote) – reaching as far as the sea fret allows. The hint of a marina barely sketched out on a town-planner’s desk, the Crumbles retreating slowly.

Gun emplacements seemingly unoccupied, the concrete walls betraying the everyday conquests of rogues and lovers alike. Remnants of yet more paper-boy transactions litter the floor, empty cartons, crushed Embassy No.6 and torn silver foil that had once contained the ultimate contraband (courtesy of the London Rubber Company). Whilst couples amused each other on the way back from the fair at Seaside Rec, a thousand matches simultaneously play on the three football pitches at 5 Acres. The raw tang of Deep Heat and liniment scars the back of the throat as the changing rooms are finally unlocked (Nobby had the key – as we suspected).

Well played lads!

Lockdown - Day #10

Pull shut the glass door, head up the garden path, avoiding the rose bush thorns that twist out of number 12's greyish soil. Only one Strawberry left. Open/close the gate. Look back down the Bay Road towards Kings Caravan Park. Memories of the guy that the local kids called 'Honky Tonk' (after a Dick Emery character), gently flouncing his way to whatever job it was that he did in the nightclub.

Cross over Pevensey Bay Road and stroll past the four houses that originally earmarked the beginning of the track to Pevensey. As the Roman Catholic Church slides by one step at a time on my left. I look across the fields, beyond the orchard, up the hill to see if a bus is coming down from the Martello. I then double check to see whether the girl that lives/lived over the roundabout is in/out/running for a bus or striding over to see me. All and none of the above.

Not too far down Princes Road I pass Pete's house and the sound of a big amp being revved up to 11 greets the soundtrack of my past. The Admiral's Estate and the lure of the girls that haunt the phone box/bus stops and newsagents caress my lustful soul. The sound of Choppers and Raleigh's reverberate the length and breadth of Ramsey Way. Loose change rattles into the phone slot. The brick wall is occupied and our vantage point is secured...

It's going to be a nice day today.

Lockdown - Day #9

The lockdown requirements continue to tighten (rightly so). Meanwhile, the realm of imagination and creativity expands and contracts with the cycle of the moon.

I've long been fascinated with the psychogeographical meanderings of the Situationists/Lettrists or Flâneurs and I'm using these days to stretch my meanderings. I'll be going on a series of walks from the comfort of my writing table over the next few days. But before I do, a poem about one of our greater flâneurs. Ladies and Gentlemen Dr John Cooper Clarke.

Le grands Flâneur (for Dr JCC)

And there he was

on the radio

and to think I thought he was dead

Sharkskin suit

skinny tie

and a voice BBC still dread

Highway 61 shades

A book of verse

And Rapier wit

A heroin addiction

And a rogueish charm

With added northern grit

He’s the ultimate Boulavardier

He’s Le grands Flâneur

He’s the man I always knew he was

The British Baudeliare

Manchester’s Messiah

He’s the man I always dreamt he was

He’s the ultimate Boulavardier

He’s Le grands Flâneur

He’s the man I always knew he was

The British Baudeliare

Manchester’s Messiah

He’s the man I always dreamt he was.

Lockdown - Day #8

The healing power of music cannot be underestimated.

I spent much of the day hunting down video performance footage of the delightful Martin Stephenson (he of Martin Stephenson & The Daintees). Martin has been on my musical radar since the very early days of Kitchenware Records (Prefab Sprout, Kane Gang etc). And whilst he undoubtedly had star quality (as both songwriter and performer), it was obvious that the glitz/glamour/plastic nature of the 80's wasn't for him.


Fortunately he didn't walk away from performing and writing. He merely found his own way through the Forest of Pop. He is still recording and performing and his music is available via Bandcamp.

The reason I have such a fondness for his work is his unique and uplifting view on how artist and audience connect. On days like these when we have time to think and examine our lives, you could do much worse than spare a little time for Martin's work.

Lockdown - Day #7

The sun shone today. I sat in the garden and the Magpie returned.

Meanwhile, in other news, marketeers are not missing the opportunity to cash in on the crisis. Covid-19 specialist cleaning services, home gyms and the relentless reminder that you are not a proper human being unless you have a mortgage.

The current lockdown playlist features....

• Martin Stephenson & The Daintees
• Le Superhomard
• Juniore
• Supergrass
• The Spits
• Kalima
• James Brown
• Fred Wesley
• Funkadelic
• Leroy Hutson

More to follow on my Mixcloud playlist tomorrow.

Lockdown - Day #6

We are not alone. We have each other. We are not alone. We have each other. We are not alone. We have each other. We are not alone. We have each other. We are not alone. We have each other. We are not alone. We have each other. We are not alone. We have each other. We are not alone. We have each other. We are not alone. We have each other. We are not alone. We have each other. We are not alone. We have each other. We are not alone.

Remember that! x

Lockdown - Day #5

This day, same as yesterday, not unlike tomorrow.

The temptation is to plunge into the bottle and swim all the way to the bottom. but that won't happen (at least not today).

There seems to be a correlation (at least in Sydney) between reduced traffic and increased rainfall. I'm not sure whether this is a genuine occurrence or just a perceived phenomenon.

How many episodes of Silent Witness are there?

Lockdown - Day #4

Woke up this morning...

Hurrah!

The tranquility of another lockdown day... A Magpie popped his head in the door this morning. But he kept his distance. Smart birds Magpies.

I've run out of bread, which is a good thing.

Lockdown - Day #3

I feel ok today. The sound of early morning deliveries and late-night Uber dashes fill the pre-dawn sky, bounce into my room and tap on my ear drums.

A pile of books reach to the sky and decisions, decisions....

Yeah, Yeah, Yeah - Bob Stanley (again)

Lockdown - Day #2

I do have a cough. I sometimes have a cough. I have survived cough's like this before but... to be on the safe I will stay here alone. I expect to be fine. I'll be back tomorrow. I'll be alone.

Alone with a lot of books...

Lockdown - Day #1

And so the lockdown has arrived... finally.

The reason for saying finally is not specifically a criticism of the current half-arsed communication strategy of a leaderless government. Their venal nature can and will be unpicked over the next few weeks. No, the reason for saying finally is that I felt this coming.

I've long had an intuitive streak and about 18-30 months ago I felt that the normal vision of the future was narrowing. I couldn't see beyond my birthday in December 2019. In part this can be put down to the story I was told by my maternal grandmother: All members of my paternal family died from heart-attacks around the age of 56. Now despite the evidence of my own father lasting to the age of 77, it was something that hovered around in my hyperactive subconscious. Anyway, the final day came and went but the feeling of a horror persisted.

The bushfires that had pretty much suffocated Sydney, finally died down but there was still an aspect of suspended belief that permeated conversations. Something else was on the way.

I wrote a poem in 2017, that was published in December 2018 (Soul Bay Press)....

The Quickening
As the sun gets brighter (still)
the dogs will start leaving home
cats will just disappear
melting back into the forests
the sky will be black & white with magpies
wild Dazzle ships in flight...
all trying to avoid the final closing down sale
the ultimate fight, the ultimate showdown,
the greatest, the biggest, the boldest
the play-off winners mega grand-final, year-end of, best ever everything must go
limbs raising to the skies
everyone must go
this week,
next week,
the week after
still feeling weak after
The ultimate The final The last
Accelerate BABY! Grow
build more, faster, higher quicker stronger big sale, BIGGER,
the quickening is coming
even the ghosts are leaving town...
all the little Samsung babies wrapped tight in their digital homes looking backward sideways upwards in praise of their head dip phones brimming with red-eyed withdrawal

the desolate stares of Microsoft clones mumbling everywhere everyday
constantly burning beyond the bounds of light empty energy of dead candle flicker
there are no more shared midnights the quickening is coming
there are to be no more goodnights
even the ghosts are leaving town...

From 'Sunflower eclipse over Troia Nova' by Andrew Franks

Day in the life of a Poet (March 2020) #2

It is a proper Springfield sky today. Dazzling blue with a Simpsons cloud puncturing the azure canvas. The doors are locked and breathing is regular. The turntables spin in the darkened corners of the empty nightclub.

The beauty of being alone.

With nothing but books and records and guitars and wine and Cadbury's Mini-Eggs...

Tomorrow I shall walk to Long Reef, tonight I will write a poem for the girl with the broken heart.

Day in the life of a Poet (March 2020)

Wake up, well before dawn... Autumn is coming.

Birdsong will permeate the locale in 30 minutes. Meanwhile, the reluctant thunder of rush-hour traffic prepares to unleash itself on the suburb.

Is it a 24/7 thing? Or am I only a poet when I'm writing? Or am I only a poet when I'm reading my poems aloud? Or am I only a poet when I'm reading my poems to a crowd? Or am I only a poet when words rhyme?

I stumble through a small pile of unfinished work... Autumn is coming.

The virus is too.

The Art of being an English Gentlemen (part 9)

Look here... Just because I haven't managed to file a report on this subject for a few years (8+ to be precise). It doesn't mean that the Art of being an English Gentlemen still isn't uppermost in my mind.

Even with the world spinning hopelessly out of control, there are some key decisions to be made. Laces or slip-ons? Oxfords or brogues? Etc etc..

The current word from The Committee for The Club for summer 2020 is as follows:

1. Gentlemen will mostly be wearing the loafer (with socks).
2. Only three types of tie knot are acceptable (in order of preference).
1. Half Windsor
2. Full Windsor
3. Four in hand
3. Club blazers are completely unacceptable (with following exceptions).
1. Genuine sports clubs
2. The Modern Jazz Quartet
3. French gentlemen 40+
4. "Manbags" are strictly verboten.
5. The following band/artist/pop t-shirts are to be decommissioned until 2022 (unless stated).
1. Ramones
2. The Clash
3. The Smiths (nb Johnny Marr T-shirts are still valid and acceptable)
4. Morrissey (2035)
5. Mod Target
6. Coldplay (indefinite)
7. Radiohead
8. Oasis
9. Wings (nb: other ironic t-shirts such as Bay City Rollers, The Osmonds inc.)
10. Never mind the bollocks/Sex Pistols
6. The blanket ban on English gentlemen wearing baseball caps is to remain in place until further notice. Ditto: Truckers Caps.
7. The flat-cap (aka the Peaky Blinders cap) must not be worn with anything other than a brogue or stout boot. The flat-cap/training shoe combination must never be worn. Penalty - 
1. 1st offence. All club rights national and international to be revoked for 12 months.
2. 2nd offence. As above for 3 years.
3. 3rd offence. A lifetime worldwide ban from the club, premises & events. In addition to be regarded as persona non grata.
8. The Cane - Gentlemen favouring a cane must note that sword-sticks are still outlawed in some of the clubs territories. However, use within The Club HQ is still permitted between 9pm and dawn.
9. Espadrilles can only be worn in the following countries:
1. Spain
2. Mexico
3. Portugal
4. Morocco.
10. Colours for this summer: Pink, Powder Blue, Navy Blue. 

The Committee