The Poetry Dealer

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Conspiracy theories - #22

Meet the Methodists...

I grew up on Burgh Island in Devon in the 1960’s. My parents were itinerant hippies and I mistrusted them from my earliest years. The final straw was when they left me at the first Glastonbury Festival in 1970. It took me 4 days to hitch home (aged 13) and them 6 days to realize that I had been missing and made it back. I was grateful when the school holidays ended and I was back as a boarder at St Cyprian’s whereupon I passed my exams and moved to ‘College’ and thence to ‘University’.

It didn’t take the service long to recognise that I was endowed with the right sort of temperament to undertake undercover work. So, back to the Hippy Underground it was. By now punk had blown through and hippies were figures of fun, that didn’t bother me – I just wanted revenge. I took up with a commune in St Pancras. It was all brown rice, sandals and anarcho-hippies. Scritti Politti were in the squat over the road, Skrewdriver (the white power neo-nazi band) were down the street and the ultimate DIY free jazz/punk/dub combo The State Agents were on the corner of the block. 

I took on a nom-de-squat ‘Zed’ and started to ingratiate myself in the Dope ‘n Dole world. I even ended up as a roadie for a couple of the bands. Strewth, they were bad! The Scrits made some steady headway (Peel sessions, touring with Gang of Four and The Mekons) and other bands tried to surf on their coat-tails.

Anyway, I ended up going out on tour with a couple of alright bands ‘The Forgotten Trees’ & ‘The Red Haunt’. Ostensibly to run the merch stand but really to keep tabs on a group of their mutual followers who called themselves ‘Methodists’. They were a hard-core, group of anarcho punks who had no obvious means of financial support but drove from venue to venue in a convoy of 3 Rolls-Royce Camargue’s (called Daisy, Lucy and Stan) and they always stayed at the nearest 5-star hotel to the venue. Meanwhile, the bands and us crew would kip on floors of the kindly local punters. 

After a couple of weeks the tour rolled into Plymouth – the tour was basically 9 days on, 3 days off (in order to allow everyone to get back to the Camden DHSS, sign on, hang around for a couple of days, cash the giro and then head back out to entertain the unwashed masses). This was the one town I wasn’t looking forward to. I was concerned that my parents Larry & Wanda might just rock up to take in the experimental new wave new age dub sounds of the The Haunt (as they were known) – it was just their cup of tea. 

After we’d got the band, the PA, the drums, the amps, the smoke machine (hippies alright!) and the lights on stage. I left the others to it, I mooched off to set up the merch stand. It didn’t take long, as every venue was contractually obligated to provide a trestle table, a chair, some gaffa tape and a bottle of Remy Martin (apparently, I was the only merchman ever to get drinks included on the rider – very undemocratic and decidedly rock ‘n roll – it upset the rest of the crew, but I didn’t care). I laid out the 3 different versions of t-shirt, stuck up some badly produced posters, flung a few badges around, scribbled prices on to bits of paper and then sat down to read this week’s NME and sip some of my richly deserved Brandy.

I was halfway through a genuinely hysterical letter on the letters page from Sam K. Ampong in response to a caustic review of the Tom Robinson Band by Paul Morley in the previous week’s edition. When I realised that it was nearly time the venue opened. No sooner had the front of house manager given the announcement via the FOH PA than the doors opened and a surge of beer, sweat, cigarettes and patchouli permeated the foyer and the punters surged in a second later. 

A few obviously underage fans headed in my direction to buy The Haunt’s most popular t-shirt “Where did I leave my revolver?”. Other older fans preferred to get their hands on the logo crest version. Unsurprisingly nobody was interested in The Forgotten Trees rather limp “Shape-shifter” offering, featuring as it did a rather dull graphic image of a triangle, a square, a circle and an X. What was that all about? Anyway, a steady stream of sales, a few swigs of Remy and before I knew it the 5-minute bell. The FOH manager came by and signalled time to shut up shop until the interval. 

I was just about to hide the cashbox under the table when Wanda strode up to me. She didn’t recognise me (it had been 7/8 years) and the skinny brown haired foppish prep-school boy I had been had turned into a 6ft 2in dude with rather a severe bleached flattop, wearing a bikers jacket, 501’s and a white Bundeswher vest. Annoyingly, just the sort of look Kirk bloody Brandon would borrow a few months later.

Wanda looked the same as ever, long red & purple dreads, a loose fitting, boob revealing top and flared crimson cords that had seen better days. Her battered moccasins surely couldn’t have been the same ones she had had when she had left me on Worthy Farm – although I suspected they must be. 

“How much for a revolver t-shirt?”. She asked.

I pointed at the very prominent price list. “15 Quid”. I snapped, my by now ingrained Cockney accent betraying no hint of my Devonian heritage. Not a glimmer from Wanda.

“What a rip-off!”. She offered, “Made in an Indian sweat-shop no doubt. I thought The Haunt had values!”

“Actually it’s made in Bolton by a local artisans collective”, I lied, having no idea where they’d come from. 

“Oh”, she took a half-step back and purposefully bent forward to open her bag. It was a move I’d seen a hundred times on this tour already. The flash of nipple for a discount move.

“Any chance of a discount?”

“No Wanda”.

Her head jolted. “What did you say?”

“No wonder artisan collectives are going under”. I replied deadpan.

She de-flustered as quick as a flash and handed three fivers over.

“Large?” I asked, spitefully.

She flushed, “Medium actually, I like things loose but not that loose”.

No reply from me. I gave her the t-shirt, pocketed the money and carried on closing down. She stared at me for a while and then headed over to a small group of much older anarcho-punks. 

I recognised the man she put her arms around. It was Paddy Neat, a nasty piece of work. Paddy Neat, a career criminal. Paddy Neat, who remarkably had never once spent a day in jail. Paddy Neat, the head of The Methodists. Paddy Neat, the man my ex-mother was obviously now sleeping with. Paddy Fuckin Neat!

 

Taken from: "Notes from a rather unconvincing source" - John Zéro - 

To be published sometime in 2023

 

Conspiracy Theory - #92

The Peanut Butter Trade Embargo

In 1967, just after the 5-day war, a communique was sent from the offices of the Ministry for External Affairs in Pall Mall to the East German Cultural attache Heinz Gröbler at his place of residence. 

The communique from an unnamed source in the ministry stated that as a result of various acts of unwarranted attention by the Stasi directed to the Member of Parliament for Muswell Hill, the East German Commission would no longer be able to procure Peanut Butter. This draconian measure sent shockwaves around the diplomatic community. Ambassadors were recalled and stern rebukes were issued. This was the Cuban missile crisis all over again, but worse! 

Only after the intervention of the Deputy Kommissar of the Stasi (Herr Name Redacted) did the situation calm down. The world has never been as close to nuclear obliteration (until recently of course) as it was then. 

I was personally not involved and at no time was this ever mentioned in the international press
, which in itself makes the whole situation very strange! 

Taken from: "Notes from a rather unconvincing source" - John Zéro - 

To be published sometime in 2023

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!

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"

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.

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)

Albert, Albert Camus, everyone knows his name

Sitting on the windowsill with a copy of L'Etranger in my hand, half in, half out of my Susans Road flat watching the local boys returning from their football match...

Life as Sussexistentialist was wonderful. They were sweet, confusing but heady days.. The soundtrack was the MJQ and the guidebook was written by the former goalkeeper and Gitanes smoking French author Albert Camus. His novel L'Etranger (or The Outsider as it was roughly translated) re-calibrated the way I looked at the world. The simple act of lighting a cigarette, talking to a beautiful girl, making a meal for one and staring out at the traffic was now beyond the mundane. These were the actions of a man on the edge of society...

From the very beginning when Mersault (the hero of the novel) learns of his mothers death, through to the very end on the eve of is own death. He glides and skims through life, death, sex, drunkeness, arrest and being condemned to state execution, the sheer weight of the sun bleaching out the more mundane emotions and reactions of 'normal' people. 

All of which made life on the South Coast somehow far more bearable, knowing that others had felt the same way before.

Poll Results - Who would have made the best James Bond?

No contest!

1. Roy Kinnear - 100%
2. Bob Latchford - 0%
2. Steve Peregrine-Took - 0%
2. Ivor Cutler - 0%

Poll Results - George Orwell Novels

1 - 1984
2 - Homage to Catalonia
3 - Coming up for air
4 - Down and out in Paris & London

James Bond novel #3 - Moonraker

Without doubt Moonraker is the most underestimated of the Bond novels, probably because it was one of the few early books that wasn’t adapted for film until much later (and a fairly lamentable adaptation it was too, with Roger Moore gooning his way through a very poor script and the normally excellent Michael Lonsdale playing a demented Drax).

The novel begins with M asking James Bond to investigate the multi-millionaire businessman Sir Hugo Drax, who is winning a lot of money playing bridge at M's favourite club, Blades. M suspects Drax of cheating, but although claiming indifference, he is concerned why a multi-millionaire and national hero, such as Sir Hugo, would cheat at a card game. Bond confirms Drax's deception and manages to "cheat the cheater" — aided by a cocktail of powdered Benzedrine mixed with non-vintage champagne and a deck of stacked cards — winning £15,000 and infuriating the out-smarted Drax.

Drax is the product of a mysterious background, unknown even to himself (allegedly). As a supposed British soldier in WWII, he was badly injured, and stricken with amnesia, in the explosion of a bomb planted by a German saboteur at his field headquarters. After extensive rehabilitation in an army hospital, however, he would eventually return home to become a major aerospace industrialist.

Now, Drax and his firm are building the "Moonraker", Britain's first nuclear missile project, intended to defend the United Kingdom against its Cold War enemies (c.f. the real Blue Streak missile). Essentially, the Moonraker rocket is an upgraded V-2 rocket using liquid hydrogen and fluorine as propellants. It can withstand the ultra-high combustion temperatures in its engine thanks to the use of columbite, of which Drax has a monopoly. Therefore, because the rocket's engine can withstand higher heat, the Moonraker can use more powerful fuels, greatly expanding its effective range.

After a Ministry of Supply security officer working at the project is shot dead, M assigns Bond to replace him, and also to investigate what may be going on at the missile-building base, which is located between Dover and Deal on the coast of England. Oddly, all of the rocket scientists working on the project seem to be German.

At his post on the complex (where he is billeted in the Drax mansion), Bond meets Gala Brand, a beautiful Special Branch agent working undercover as Personal Assistant to Drax. He also uncovers some clues concerning his predecessor's death, concluding that the former Security Chief might have been killed for witnessing the clandestine delivery of some secret cargo by submarine off the coast.

Drax's henchman Krebs is caught by Bond while he snoops through his room. Later, an attempted assassination nearly kills Bond and Gala under a landslide, as they swim beneath the Dover cliffs. Drax takes Gala to London where she discovers the truth about the "Moonraker" (by comparing her own launch trajectory figures with those in a notebook picked from Drax's pocket) - but she is caught. She soon finds herself captive at a secret radio station (intended to serve as a beacon for the missile's guidance system) in the heart of London. While attempting to rescue her in a car chase, Bond is captured, as well.

It turns out that Drax was never a British soldier and has never suffered from amnesia. In fact, he was a German commander of a Skorzeny commando unit and the saboteur (in British uniform) Graf Hugo von der Drache who set the bomb at the army field headquarters, only to be injured, himself, in the detonation. The amnesia story was simply a cover he used while recovering in hospital, in order to avoid allied retribution - though it would lead to a whole new British identity. Drax, however, remains a dedicated Nazi, bent on revenge against England for the wartime defeat of his Third Reich Fatherland and his prior history of social slights he suffered as a youth growing up in England before the war. He now means to destroy London with the very missile he has constructed for Britain, by means of a Soviet supplied nuclear warhead that has been secretly fitted to the "Moonraker". He also plays the stock market the day before to make a huge profit from the planned disaster.

Brand and Bond are imprisoned under the Moonraker's booster engines so as to leave no trace of them once the Moonraker is launched. But before this first (supposedly un-armed) test firing, Bond and Gala escape. Gala gives Bond the proper coordinates to reprogram the gyros and send the Moonraker into the sea. Having been in collaboration with Soviet Intelligence all along, Drax and his henchman attempt to escape by Russian submarine - only to be killed as the vessel flees through the very waters onto which the "Moonraker" has been re-targeted.

Later, after their de-briefing at headquarters, Bond meets up with Gala, expecting her company - but they part ways after Gala reveals that she is engaged to be married. It is the only Bond novel (discounting some of the short stories) in which Bond does not end up having a romantic relationship with the girl.

Moonraker is my favourite Bond novel, not least because there are no cinematic comparisons to blur the imagination. The Kent setting also resonates. In later years I couldn’t help but try and draw some comparisons between Sir Hugo Drax and Robert Maxwell, although for all of his many failings Maxwell was certainly never a Nazi!

Not a lot of people know that: The first adaption of Moonraker was on South African radio in 1956, with Bob Holness providing the voice of Bond. “I’ll have a consonant please M.”

James Bond Novels # 2 - Live & Let Die

James Bond is sent to New York City to investigate "Mr. Big", an underworld voodoo leader who is suspected by M of selling 17th century gold coins to finance Soviet spy operations in America. These gold coins have been turning up in Harlem and Florida and are suspected of being part of a treasure that was buried in Jamaica by the Welsh pirate Sir Henry Morgan. Although Bond is at first reluctant to take on the mission, his attitude quickly changes upon learning that Mr. Big is an agent of SMERSH and that this mission offers him a chance of retaliation for previously being tortured by SMERSH operative Le Chiffre and having a Russian (Cyrilic) letter carved into the back of his hand by a SMERSH assassin in Casino Royale.

In New York, Bond meets up with his counterpart in the CIA, Felix Leiter. The two decide to visit some of Mr. Big's nightclubs in Harlem, but Mr. Big is aware of their movements through his network of informers and they are easily captured. Bond is personally interrogated by Mr. Big, who uses his fortune telling-girlfriend, Solitaire, to determine if Bond is telling the truth. Solitaire lies to Mr. Big, supporting Bond's cover story. Mr. Big decides to release Bond and Felix with only a mild beating, and has one of his men break one of Bond's fingers by pulling it backward until it snaps, but Bond then escapes and kills several of Mr. Big's men in the process. Leiter is released by a sympathetic gang member who shares his love of jazz.

Solitaire later contacts Bond and they travel to St. Petersburg, Florida. While Bond and Leiter are scouting one of Mr. Big's warehouses that is used for storing exotic fish, Solitaire is kidnapped by Mr. Big's minions. Felix later returns to the warehouse by himself, but is either captured and fed to a shark or tricked into standing on a trap door over the shark tank. He survives, losing an arm and a leg. Bond finds him in their safe house with a note pinned to his chest "He disagreed with something that ate him". After getting Felix to the hospital, Bond investigates the warehouse himself, and discovers that Mr. Big is indeed smuggling gold by placing it in the bottom of fish tanks holding poisonous tropical fish. Bond destroys much of the warehouse and then causes Mr. Big's gunman (the "Robber") to fall into the shark tank without leaving evidence that he has discovered the coin-smuggling scheme.

Bond continues his mission in Jamaica where he meets Quarrel and John Strangways, the head of the MI6 station in Jamaica. Quarrel gives Bond training in scuba diving in the local waters. Bond swims through shark and barracuda infested waters to Mr. Big's island and manages to plant a limpet mine on the hull of his yacht before being captured once again by Mr. Big. In the grand finale, Mr. Big ties Solitaire and Bond to a line behind his yacht and plans to drag them over the shallow coral reef and into deeper water so that the sharks and barracuda that he attracts in to the area with regular feedings will eat them.

Bond and Solitaire are saved when the limpet mine explodes moments before they are dragged over the reef: though temporarily stunned by the explosion and injured on the coral Bond and Solitaire are protected from the explosion by the reef, and Bond watches as Mr. Big, who survived the explosion, is killed by the sharks and barracuda. Bond and Solitaire then stay in Jamaica for a brief holiday in the book's close.

Ian Fleming intended the follow-up to Casino Royale to be of a more serious tone, a meditation on the nature of evil. The novel's original title, The Undertaker's Wind, reflects this. Fleming conducted research for Live and Let Die and completed it before Casino Royale was published; his publishers had offered him a contract for three books following Royale's popularity. Drawing from personal experiences, the opening with Bond's arrival at New York's Idlewild Airport was inspired by Fleming's own arrivals in 1941 and 1953. Also, the warehouse at which Felix Leiter is attacked by a shark was based on a warehouse Fleming had visited in 1953.

One of the weaker Bond novels, Live & let die betrays a barely concealed racist view of Black American and Jamaican culture that leaves the modern reader more than a little uncomfortable. Fleming's belief that Britain could save a decadent and addled American society from Communist infiltration through the hard graft of just one man is now quite an amusing construct though.

Poll Results - Harry Palmer Novels

1. The Ipcress File
2. The Billion Dollar Brain
3. Funeral in Berlin
4. Horse under water

Matthew reading extracts from Estrella Damn

Although I have studiously avoided mentioning friends and family on this blog, not least because they know very well that I miss them and love them very much - I hope! I couldn't let this one pass by:

Date: Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Time: 8:00pm - 10:00pm
Location: Waterstones Covent Garden
Street: 9-13 Garrick Street
City/Town: London, United Kingdom