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 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...

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)

Onyx 

-- White crows arrive,

as the fret moves out.

The garden is yet to fall

to the clutch of the sea.

Grass stoached though.

An olympic white Fender

leans against the bookshelf.

Mustang ---

The notebooks red, filled

with black ink spider 

scrawl and sprawl. A long

black hair trapped

in the stapled pages. 

---- Tanned yet white,

long fingers stretch.

The songwriter looked down.

"Never can recall exactly

when this Onyx ring

came into our lives...

It changed everything"

Tea is ready, the fire is lit

and the whisky is 

just an hour away...

Stoach - To trample grass to mud (Sussex dialect).

Day in the life of a Poet (September 2020)

Le Couple, La Radio et Le Vin
(Bar de La Marine, Cassis)

-- Resting against 
the Zinc. 
Kir Royale in 
the embrace of her 
sun-tanned hand.

Both damp
after the long
walk back from 
the quietest Calanque.
---- Her hair lemon 
bleached and smile
magnetic bright.

The afternoon
stretched out
before them like 
Le Méditéranéen.

The radio played
in the corner 
of the bar.
--- "Perhaps, 
we should have had
one more bottle."

Perhaps not.

Day in the life of a Poet (September 2020)

Russell Square Tuesday

-- Still hiding behind 
cigarette smoke
after all these years.

On the top deck, 
the metallic
click in the back clack
of the throat.
--- shouldn't be drinking 
on the way to work really
but who is going to stop me.
I'll get off at the stop 
after the office
and sit in the park 
awhile. 

---- Birdsong
traffic hum
diesel fog
vodka fumes.

The Russell Square
Cabmen's shelter
---- one oasis amidst 
the madness.

Before the inevitable. 
-- revolving glass doors
cold design, hot desks.
I'm sure nobody suspects.
Staff protocols/free coffee.
------ Well, maybe they do
but if they do
they sure as hell don't care.

-- It seems like everyone 
has got their own world 
to worry about these days.

And I mean everyone...

A perfect day in the perfect pub - #3

"The Place I love is a million miles away..."

Lunchtime at the cricket, lunchtime in the perfect pub and a distant dream time on the jukebox. The Jam's 'The Place I love'* is playing. One of my favourite Weller songs, it always reminds of George Orwell's 'Coming up for Air'. 

In which, the main character George Bowling decides to revisit the places of his childhood, in particular he plans to revisit a specific pond with a large fish in that he had tried to capture over 30 years ago. When Bowling returns, he finds the whole place unrecognisable. He eventually locates the old pub where he is due to stay but finds it much changed. His old family home has become a tea-shop. Only the church and the vicar appear unchanged. 

The saddest part is when Bowling sees his ex-girlfriend. She has been so ravaged by time that she is almost unrecognisable and utterly devoid of the qualities he once adored. She in turn, fails to recognise him at all.

Thankfully, 'The Place I love' lingers in utopian days of sanctuary despite the fact that: 

"... the place I love is overgrown now
with beautiful moss and colourful flowers
and goldfish that swim in a pool, there's a small brick wall
with neon lighting, controlled by lightning"

As my mind reaches out for the opening salvo of Rick Buckler's drums on A-bomb in Wardour Street that never arrives, a fish finger sandwich drenched in Heinz Salad Cream, Vinegar and Tabasco does. The barman knows to leave bottles of all three condiments on the table too. The thick cut chips were brought here directly from Mount Olympus and melt on contact with my tongue. A second pint of Guinness has also appeared in a blur of efficiency and gratitude. 

The good news from the cricket is that Jimmy Anderson has already bagged three early Aussie wickets. Meanwhile, Internazionale are interested in buying a decent goalkeeper from Genoa and an amateur British cyclist has been tipped as an outside hope for this year's tour. 

All this and it is only ten past one! 

*I know that 'The Place I love' was never released on 7" 

but this is a perfect day in a perfect pub....

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..."

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... 

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

Lockdown - Day #23

The taste of another Kronenbourg night reminds me where I am, not alone in a single bed. Dressed, out and up the steps back onto Marine Parade. Back over the rode giving the flying fists of The Crown & Anchor I wide berth.

The tide is inching back, the gulls are hopping from bin to KFC box. I can clearly make out the miles of anti-landing wire & wood rolling along the beach. All the way from the threat of Operation SeaLion to VE Day.

Six young men in two different bands, split into two teams and yet another rusted can of Pepsi is converted into an Adidas Mondial. A blur of tartan shirts, Levis and chukka boots. A brace of bikes stolen from outside the town centre Library are leaning gently against the dark blue railings. 

Final score: Hip Troop 13 v 12 Aztec Camera... 
(Based on time-honoured last goal stands tradition)

Sobriety

There was a day, a night, a week, a month, when sobriety stalked the highways and byways of the land. Nobody knew who he was or where he came from. But they were grateful for the blessed relief he brought with him.

St David's Day

What we miss most about Wales...

Travelling to the Millenium Stadium for Cup Finals
Dylan Thomas
Bets-Y-Coed creamy Fudge
Brains Bitter
Rodney Ontong
Matthew Maynard
Duffy
Steven Gerrard OG
Ryan Giggs
St Mary's Street, Cardiff
Late nights at the Marriott
Sophia Gardens
St Ives Caerphilly
Llandridod Wells
Le Monde (St Mary Street)
Faggots in Gravy
Merthyr at dusk
North Wales slate mines
Beating Wales at Twickenham
Tom Jones
Walking along the Gower
The Hayes Toilet, Cardiff
Richard Burton
Anthony Hopkins
The Great Orme
Gavin & Stacey
Zulu
JPR Williams
Barry John
Holyhead ferry to Ireland
Severn Bridge Toll
The Prisoner
Young Marble Giants
Welsh Anthems that make your hair stand on end
Revolution Vodka Bar
Welsh rarebit (cheese on toast)
Eddie Niedzwiecki
Simon Jones
Monty Panesar & Jimmy Anderson
the road home (via the Membury Services)


(With thanks to Carlo Sartori)

Cider

An alcoholic beverage made from Apples. Whatever next? A drink made from grapes?

Mixed with ice (maybe)? As an inherent part of a hot summer day, definitely. Cider has often been considered as the poor cousin of beer and an even more impoverished relative of wine. However, it's a fine drink and another little thing I miss about England.

Favourite Cider?

1. Merrydown Sussex Cider
2. Bulmers
3. Magners
4. Woodpecker

Sunday lunchtime in the pub with the papers

It was a BC thing (Before Children). I would wake up late, yet early enough to stock up on the papers. If Chelsea won I'd buy as many as possible (more of a rarity those days and indeed these too!). Normally it would be The Observer & The IoS as staples and then others depending on the news, the mood, the amount I'd had to drink the night before.

Once armed with Fleet Street's finest tittle tattle, it would be a brief stroll, a gentle push and then the pub would be ours. A leisurely couple of hours supping, muttering, thundering or saying nothing. All in all, still the second best way to spend a Sunday.

Harveys Best Bitter

Don't get me wrong I'm not one of those CAMRA types (nothing wrong with them, just not me). However, on recent trips back to the UK it seems that the trip isn't complete without a drop of Lewes's finest best bitter.

A sign of old age, maturity, a broader palate, creeping nostalgia or rampant Alcoholism? Who cares?

Poll Results - Summer Drink

1. Pimms & Lemonade 66%
2. Cold lager 24%
3. Crispy White 10%

Hangovers

They come in all different shapes and sizes of course but here are a few I have very fond memories of (?)

The jet lag hangover - Having stepped off the flight from Sydney after a fair few sparkling whites and pale Chardonnays. The slowness of reaction and gentle numbness of the brain brings me face to face with the everyday reality of being a high street bank employee or a local councillor.

The surprise hangover - I only had two pints of Stella Artois last night. Oh and half a bottle of Jamesons. Oh and a bottle of Pouilly Fume.

The early evening hangover - When lunchtime drinking becomes an unshakeable throbbing by the time I've got home.

The not really hungover hangover - A big one, late to bed, wake up early for work, feel good. Feel really good, feel absolutely tip-top chipper, feel like singing 'Boogie Wonderland' on my way to the tube. This is a clear sign that only 4 rounds of toast and two cans of coke and very large cappuccino will help offset the impending hangover from hell.

The I'll never drink again hangover - !!!

The if I just have a quick couple of pints, I'll be alright hangover - Delaying the inevitable I know. But sometimes, just sometimes it really does work!

A Ted Rogers - ' The Cocktail of the Gods'

3-2-1

3 measures of Smirnoff Black label
2 measures of 10 year old white rum
1 large splash of Champagne
A small dash of R.Whites Lemonade (opened left-handed)
2 crushed cubes of ice (Preferrably Evian)
1 slice of lime


Shake Vodka, Rum, Ice and Lemonade before adding splash of Champagne
Serve in half pint straight glass and pretend it's water!

Created by the Great Hector Chumpitaz - Head Barman at the Tivoli/Hippodrome Theatre Eastbourne and keen poker player. Circa 1985

Walking back from town

No night buses, taxis, gun culture, knives, muggings...

Just walking along the middle of Seaside Road at two in the morning, singing to the moon. Oh, how the townsfolk loved my unerring renditions of modern day popular classics... The look of love... Fly me to the moon... We don't need that Fascist Groove thang... Felicity... Blue Monday... The hits just kept on coming!