Day in the life of a Poet (August 2020)

Last Day of Winter

-- Scattered sun flakes,
suggest this is the last chance 
to dance.
--- The forest floor 
damp from the night rain. 

Time is running out.

-- There will be no more
ceremonies, no more 
celebrations. 

This is the Last Day of Winter, 
after which, nothing.  

Day in the life of a Poet (August 2020)

Mr Rain*

-- They call me Mr Rain
and I'm back in town again.
They call me Mr Rain
come to piss on your parade.
-- 'Cos I'm always falling down
always running underground.

Yes, they call me 
Mr Rain
on your doorstep once again.
--- They call me Mr Rain
come to wash away 
your stains.

--- And I'm always falling down
always running underground.

I'm always falling down
I'm always falling down
I'm always falling down

----

*My close friends call me Summer, you can call me Mr Rain

Day in the life of a Poet (August 2020)

Curzon 2

- The review said

it was a film

about why love fails.

-- I don’t think 
I’ve got the

time to spare. But

I like the actors.

--- And it is set in Seaford

so I would love the setting.

A long Sunday walk 

on the shingle.

-- with lots of silent pauses

and looking out to sea.

Very me

very you.

Day in the life of a Poet (August 2020)

West Pier

-- Honestly though,

I’ve seen better days

we all have.

Worn and forlorn.

--- the channel 

salt corrodes and 

public neglect 

is all pervading.

I dream of the 

gold days, bank 

holiday weekends,

sad and beautiful

women walking 

down my spine.

-- I was the pride 

of Sussex. 

---- These 

days I stare at the

distant French coast

and dream of 

Calvados and 

sand at my feet.

Day in the life of a Poet (August 2020)

Cotton, Malt and Surrender

-- The last drop of Whisky,
a forgotten afternoon.
--- The white sheets, cold
to the touch. Streets empty,
rumours circulate that we
shall be surrendering soon.
--- The broadsheets, primed
with the backstory.
-- The black vans, distant zones,
loudhailers proclaiming...

We were never going to win.
Love will never win.

A perfect day in the perfect pub - #2

"This is the day your life will surely change..."

The various 7" singles that comprise the jukebox have been lovingly chosen over the last 50+ years. A surprise selection of The The's "This is the day" adds a delicate hint of melancholy quite early in proceedings (everyone knows that the real pub melancholy hour is from 3:30-4:30pm).

Meanwhile, the first Guinness isn't hurried as today there is plenty of time. In fact there is time to go to the bar and buy a packet of mini cheddars, taking a glance at the newspaper rack (all copies ironed) and surreptitiously taking a copy La Gazzetta dello Sport back to the table. Even though my Italian is very sketchy, fortunately the language of Calcio and grand tour cycling is universal.

The debate about whether a pub needs a television to be good or not is irrelevant. The key is, who is in charge of the remote control? Thankfully, today it is the turn of the Cecil (MCC member and ex-member of the Angry Bridgade). When Cecil (my friends call me Cec' you can call me Sir) Hedges has the remote then we are guaranteed a whole day's play of uninterrupted Test Match Cricket with the sound muted (unless a batsman is approaching a landmark score). The added advantage of this arrangement is, if you have missed any session of play then Cec can regale you with all the details, not least because he completes the pubs ball-by-ball scorebook in a meticulous fashion.

"Whatcha gonna do about it..."

Ah yes, the Small Faces on the jukebox and the mood lightens. First pint finished, the preview of Sampdoria's chances for the coming season completed, along with a retrospective on Marco Pantani and the mini cheddars done... the hum of SoHo traffic reduced by the sound of the Darlings of Whapping Wharf Launderette.

"I want you to know that I love you, baby
Want you to know that I care

I'm so happy when you're round me but I'm
Sad when you're not there
Sing the song now

oh yeah
(Whatcha gonna do about it?) tell the truth
(Whatcha gonna do about it?) she's so nice
(Whatcha gonna do about it?)

I want you to give your sweet, sweet kisses
Want you to hold me tight

I want you to come whenever I call you
And let me walk you home at night..."

A perfect day in the perfect pub - #1

"It's such a Perfect Day..."

Lou Reed simmers on the pub jukebox. I am alone (I imagine) and I have just got my first drink of the day. I got in here around about 11:30am, I ordered a pint of Guinness (it's going to be a long day) and was happy to wait 20minutes for it to arrive.

A copy of today's Guardian, this fortnight's Private Eye and my notebook & artline™ pen rest on the slightly damp (but no longer sticky) table in front of me. There aren't too many pubs that have decent jukeboxes these days; in fact the last one I can recall is Bradley's Spanish Bar in Hanway Street (the other side of Oxford Street)). Anyway, this one seems to have one. It also seems to have a small reading room to the left of the regular's door. There is another door for tourists and PtD's (Part-time drinkers) plus XOP's (Christmas Office Party) at the other end of the pub.

The reading room has two very comfortable high backed leather chairs (which were liberated from Boodle's in a stunning anti-club heist by notorious 'Gentlemen Thief' Peter Strand in 1956). Pub protocol (even in pre-Covid times) dictates that only one person can be in the reading room at any given time, with the next occupant required to use the 'other' chair. The bookshelves are very well stocked with the complete works of the approved 13 + an excellent collection of literature and poetry. Plus every copy of the Wisden Cricket Almanac dating back to 1902.

The 13 (as voted for by the regulars every Boxing Day):

1. George Orwell
2. Samuel Beckett
3. James Joyce
4. Flann O'Brien
5. Marcel Proust
6. Jack Kerouac
7. Albert Camus
8. Charles Bukowski
9. J.G.Ballard
10. Ian Fleming
11. Iain Sinclair
12. Jeremy Reed
13. J-P Satre

My table sits under a painting by Lawrence Toynbee of Chelsea v Spurs, Stamford Bridge 1953 (Practice Match). The first taste of the Guinness primes me for the glories of the day ahead. As soon as the stout hits my stomach the jukebox filters a new mood. The sound of the Modern Jazz Quartet fills the pub and a half smile slinks out from under a maudlin frown... 

It is going to be a beautiful day.

The Moon Under Water

In the course of lockdown, I have had the pleasure of revisiting some of my favourite writers' work. A recent trawl through George Orwell brought me back to The Moon Under Water.

The Moon Under Water is a 1946 essay by George Orwell, originally published as the Saturday Essay in the Evening Standard on 9 February 1946, in which he provided a detailed description of his ideal public house, the fictitious "Moon Under Water".

The essay begins: "My favourite public-house, the Moon Under Water, is only two minutes from a bus stop, but it is on a side-street, and drunks and rowdies never seem to find their way there, even on Saturday nights...."

Orwell stipulated ten key points that his perfect pub in the London area should have (his criteria for country pubs being different, but unspecified):

1.   The architecture and fittings must be uncompromisingly Victorian.

2.   Games, such as darts, are only played in the public bar "so that in the other bars you can walk about without the worry of flying darts".

3.   The pub is quiet enough to talk, with the house possessing neither a radio nor a piano.

4.   The barmaids know the customers by name and take an interest in everyone.

5.   It sells tobacco and cigarettes, aspirins and stamps, and "is obliging about letting you use the telephone".

6.   "[...] there is a snack counter where you can get liver-sausage sandwiches, mussels (a speciality of the house), cheese, pickles and [...] large biscuits with caraway seeds [...]."

7.   "Upstairs, six days a week, you can get a good, solid lunch—for example, a cut off the joint, two vegetables and boiled jam roll—for about three shillings."

8.   "[...] a creamy sort of draught stout [...], and it goes better in a pewter pot."

9.   "They are particular about their drinking vessels at "The Moon Under Water" and never, for example, make the mistake of serving a pint of beer in a handleless glass. Apart from glass and pewter mugs, they have some of those pleasant strawberry-pink china ones. [...] but in my opinion beer tastes better out of china."

10. "[...] You go through a narrow passage leading out of the saloon, and find yourself in a fairly large garden [...] Many as are the virtues of the Moon Under Water I think that the garden is its best feature, because it allows whole families to go there instead of Mum having to stay at home and mind the baby while Dad goes out alone."

Whilst some of Orwell's culinary preferences reflect the wartime diet, the idea of listing the requirements of a London pub appeals to me. So, at the same time as strolling from Brixton to Soho, I'm going to describe the perfect day that awaits me at the end of my meanderings... 

Day in the life of a Poet (August 2020)

--Timeframe, years
pursued by Albina
--- Fresh cut grass
heralds spring, lightness
sprinkled into a
dulled mind.
Highlife guitar
shimmering above
the sadness of the day.
---- The piles of pallets
abandoned on the hard shoulder.
Fading shadow of tears
dissolving
    on the cold shoulder.
-- A flurry of poems arrive
too late.

Psychogeographical Meanderings - Brixton > Soho #8

The heady mix of Charlie (perfume and powder) and Castrol GTX (from the arches) are left dancing in the breeze to the sound of the HI-NRG soundtrack emanating from The Royal Vauxhall Tavern.

A gentle stroll as we head on to MI6, a ghastly looking building that is better forgotten - (Although I always loved the fact that everyone knew what it was and who was there but it never appeared in the Londoners bible A-Z). Instead, move on as the Thames shimmers underneath the Vauxhall Bridge.

Talking of bridges, further West the floodlights of Stamford Bridge fill the heart with joy and exuberance.

Even from this distance I can still hear The Shed singing:

"Out from The Shed came a rising young star, scoring goals past Pat Jennings from near and from far, when Cheslea won as we all knew they would, the star of that great team was Peter Osgood, Osgood, Osgood  Osgood, Osgood Born is the king of Stamford Bridge!"

The end of Q

The sad news came through recently that Q magazine is finally giving up the battle against a diminishing circulation and the vast change in the musical landscape. I was fortunate enough to work for a good number of years for EMAP (the publisher's of Q) and much fun indeed was had at their sometimes infamous awards parties.

I could spill the beans about the time I ended up in the loos at the Dorchester (at least I think it was there, my mind was altered at the time) with Lemmy but to be honest you had to be there...

Anyway, thank you Q for your dogged determination and valiant service*. Fingers crossed that MOJO will not be going the same way, at least just yet!

*I'm just off to the newsagents to collect my final ever copy!

Day in the life of a Poet (August 2020)

Board report from The Old Coffee House Drinking Society

1. Absentees: Everyone.
2. Minutes from the last meeting: Meeting was postponed.
3. Report on the trip to The French House: Report held over to next meeting.
4. Financial report: I have enough money for at least 2 nights hard drinking next time (courtesy of a sub from petty cash).
5. Action: n/a.
6. Newsletter: 
1. It was agreed that I would continue to write & produce TOCHDS newsletter for the foreseeable future, despite the fact that I am the only one who reads it. 
2. It was also agreed that the Newsletter would henceforth be known as The ORCHIDS (The Old Regular Coffee House Inveterate Drinkers Screed)
7. Date of next meeting: TBC.
8. AOB: It was agreed that we shall meet again... at the table by the fire, in the corner of the pub, where destiny and fate left their empty glasses. Underneath the stag and the clock, where time veers from me to you to last orders. 
1. It was also proposed to make mine a double and yours too...

The Bloke Whisperer

I set up The Bloke Whisperer in 2013*, ostensibly as way to help me articulate the agony and anguish I was feeling at the time. I was suffering from depression and anxiety. They were tough times but I finally managed to learn some strategies and techniques to help me cope with the difficult situations I was finding myself in. I've worked with numerous clients and helped them to overcome their own personal challenges. I wound activity down as other priorities took place.

However, in light of recent events, I have decided to re-ignite the business, with a very positive intent to help as many people as possible to grapple with their own personal demons. If you or someone you know would like a confidential chat over a coffee then don't hesitate to reach out: here

* I am aware that another business founded in 2016 also uses The Bloke Whisperer name. 

That's cool with me, it is more important to help people rather than get het up about such trivial things. 

x

Day in the life of a Poet (August 2020)

Lost
in
the
length
and
breadth
of
a
Summer's
day.

The
butterfly
lands
gently
on
the
back
of
her
hand.

Day in the life of a Poet (August 2020)

Another sunrise, another portal...

the wild shouts of the bikini girls
all Thunderbird wine
and "ain't it fine".
It might be winter over here and summer over there
but I still remember YOU
each precious solstice
fleeing down memory lane
like a California sunset.

Psychogeographical Meanderings - Brixton > Soho #7

The joy of watching cricket at The Oval never pales. A number 36 bus chugs by outside, as Blowers, Johnners and others mutter their way through a whole days play. The giddy sweet joy of lunchtime drinking. The intoxicating jangle of nerves when opening the batting, flags at half mast for Sir Len Hutton.

Spilling out onto the backstreets, weaving across open ground. The lure of the Queen Anne. Young men flocking on a Sunday lunchtime to the sanctuary of the pool table in the back corner. Peeling portraits of Messrs. Osgood, Hudson, Webb, Bonetti, Hutchinson, Harris and Houseman cling to the wall by virtue of a mix of sweat, nicotine & misplaced lust.

The Danish girl, unfamiliar with local bye-laws, is still spoken of in hushed/embarrassed tones. The pint pot comes round again and it is time to leave. The sun is still shining and the trains rattle overhead, underneath in the Sweeney arches counterfeit money battles for space with a drug factory. It's going to be another interesting day in South London....

Brighter Days

As I mentioned in a recent post, a friend of mine took his own life just a few weeks ago.

It came as a shock and yet... It most probably shouldn't have. Life is tough for everyone at some stage (and of course the range of problems can be extreme) but the truth is, we should at least be able to reach out. Whether it is to friends or family or professionals. We must reach out...

That's all I wanted to say today. I'll be back soon with more meanderings, vague recollections and daft anecdotes. But in the meantime, remember - Reach out!

Psychogeographical Meanderings - Brixton > Soho #6

Leaving the din and hubbub of the pub behind (having demolished a handful of free tempura prawns and chunks of cheddar cheese), time to mingle with the crowds spilling up and out of The Oval tube. A couple of young fanzine sellers try to flog copies of JM96* before catching up with Gideon Haigh outside the Hobbs Gates.

The massed ranks of buoyant West Indian supporters gently tease the young cricket fan up from the coast for his first ever Test Match, making him feel bothelated and disappointed that his side couldn't put up more of a fight. He takes his seat in the Peter May Stand and is offered a can of Red Stripe within the first 10 minutes. This is going to be a beautifully long day...

Meanwhile, in The Surrey Tavern the same soul sits staring at the TV screen above his head, contemplating whether to take his seat in the ground or head over to Stamford Bridge to see the first home game of the season. He downs his 3rd pint and chooses the latter option as the cricket is going nowhere. His decision seems vindicated, Chelsea won 2-0. The fact that he missed Devon Malcolm taking 9-57 does not come to light until he gets home at midnight.

Meanwhile, inside the ground. Michael Holding prepares to bowl to Tony Greig... This is going to be a very short innings and a very tough day for the South African/England Captain.

Because on this day the legend of 'Whispering Death' became a joyous reality!

Day in the life of a Poet (August 2020)

The Mask

I can see you now
two-way mirror
trying to convince yourself
that all will be well
looking round the room
hoping someone
will catch your
bloodshot eyes
the dull lids
conceal nothing
the hollow words
betray everything

only highlighting

the yawning chasm
between truth and you.