Big Bad Dom - Covid enquiry

Human existence throws up millions of remarkable things daily including; how funny it is that a picture, a song or a scent can transport me back to a specific time and place in a heartbeat. Whilst I’m certainly not comparing the vision of the sunken, haunted scowl of Dominic Cummings at the COVID inquiry to the feelings invoked when seeing Turner’s “The Fighting Temeraire’. Or the image of my then ex-girlfriend standing by the record player with her new boyfriend every time I hear ‘This Old Heart of Mine’ by The Isley Brothers or even the giddy response I get when a well-dressed businesswoman glides past leaving the most subtle trail of Eau Dynamisante in her wake.

But certainly, the preoccupied hollow look of the Conservatives (unelected) Covid Commissar shot me straight back to 2020, sitting at my home office desk during the height of the pandemic. 

 

Now, I must confess to being somewhat morbidly interested in old Dom. The fact that he moved to Russia after graduating from Oxford is often overlooked (maybe it isn’t true, another Wiki-lie?). His determination to eviscerate and evaporate obstacles (or taking up wilful and contrarian positions) is something to be examined in more detail at another time. 

 

It also reminds me yet again that the right often seems to have the reputation for more radical thinking and “big brain” ideas than the left, a sort of the devil has all the best tunes motif that strikes me as being very tired and overplayed. When surely there are enough dynamic leftist thinkers proposing new and vibrant ways of creating a more equitable society – surely? (Note to self: like whom? more work to be done!).

 

Anyway, back to the matter in hand. Cummings at the COVID post-mortem has dredged up all sorts of memories of a) my own personal experience of lockdown and b) the complete and utter shit show that the Buffoon and his puppeteer oversaw. A reminder to all concerned never ever leave a complete narcissist in control of a country in a crisis (UK/USA you have been warned).  To be honest, the lived experience in Australia seems to have been considerably better than that of GB & NI, despite having our own clown at the helm.

 

The horror of Dr Stewart Pearson (aka the Dominator) thinking he knew better than Westminster mandarins might be technically true but at no single stage did old Dommy two brains comprehend that his reprehensible and neolithic approach to man/woman management might be adding to the carnage. The upside/downside of deluded self-styled thought leaders is that their interpersonal skills are so appalling they can never see things through. 

 

Anyway, those lockdown memories keep flooding back. 

 

Plus	Minus
Not having to speak to anyone	Diminishing savings
Time to play the guitar	Bad food decisions
Grow a daft beard	Err…
Listen to John Lee Hooker all day	That’s it… except for
Quiet streets	When lockdown was lifted
No need for excuses for not working	When lockdown was lifted
Not having to speak to anyone…	When lockdown was lifted

 

TBC

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.

Perfidious Albion - #1

I've done well. I mean credit where credit is due. I've tried really hard to keep my part of the bargain, anyone can see that. The problem is, when I promised myself to commit to updating https://thethingsimissaboutengland.blogspot.com on a more regular basis. I challenged myself not to fly off the handle at the incompetence, laziness, ineptitude, brazen pilfering, backhand deals with dodgy Eton mates and comfy arrangement with coked-up/messed up city chums and demonic overseas backers. 

In fact, I swore to myself that I would not call out these feckless bunch of Neo-fascist chancers with their ghastly anti-immigrant stance and their divisive; smash the poor, starve the weak, kill the old and feed the rich policies. 

I also made sure I wouldn't draw attention to their numerous U-turns, vile distractions and abysmal solutions. 

I've done well. Unlike...

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...

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.

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.

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 #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 #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.