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

This lockdown, that lockdown...

Last time around this website was a flurry of activity. Memories of meandering alone along Marine Parade coupled with Soho drinking sessions and perfect days (still to be completed). 

This time, I've spent more time playing guitar and less time hovering over this keyboard (complete with sticky G). Anyway, the purpose of this post is to remind myself to write, write, write. 

In the meantime, the anniversary of Jack Kerouac's passing lead me to seek out some words on writing:

“My story is endless. I put in a teletype roll, you know, you know what they are, you have them in newspapers, and run it through there and fix the margins and just go, go – just go, go, go.”

“I really hate to write.”

So until tomorrow...

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...

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...

Lockdown - Day #30

And so, that journey ends, at the end of the pier, with the promise of love and the threat of violence. The soundtrack of youth and exuberance spills out into the night and floats along and over the Channel. 

Even now, fisherman swear that on any given Monday night they can hear 'Southern Freeze', 'Favourite Shirts' and 'Tears are not enough' reverberating up and down the coast, from the Royal Sovereign platform to Belle Tout. 

Those nights live on...

Lockdown - Day #29

The Monday night queue for Dixieland is full of a slew of new Mods, old Punks, Soul Boys, us Dole boys and hundreds of smoothies and regular punters. A couple of New Romantics totter along the wooden plank floor. Below us all is the enticing maw of the English Channel. Rubbing gently against the iron legs that prop up nightclubs, pubs, bingo halls and half Seaside’s teenage population.

Inside the darkness, the stench of illicit cigarettes clings to the red velvet. The clash of Blue Stratos v Old Spice v Brut 33 goes on. The sweet cloying stickiness of the latest perfume merges with hairspray and tons of Country Fayre gel. 

A maximum of 3 songs per tribe… The funketeers dominate the dancefloor, meanwhile tribal conflicts simmer and the sordid lure of infidelity permeates every conversation. 

I promise I’ll dance with you next week…

Lockdown - Day #28

Loose change jangling in Levi’s pockets. Chip shop vinegar on the tiled floor. The Blue Room beckons. A day spent watching Pete play Space Invaders, Air Hockey tournaments that went on for the length of the summer holidays.

Along the Langney side of the pier, beyond the midway bar with the girl from Nottingham handing out the free pints and expensive kisses. Tourists grip the side rails or hunker down in the deckchairs.

A small souvenir hut full of dull shells and inaccurate replicas of the pier. Stuffed seagulls and badly made beachballs.

The sound of money spinning out of the hands of the unemployed into the bingo-masters back pocket. 10cc’s maudlin hit plays on repeat. One day, some bastard is going to torch the whole lot and retire to the Canaries on the insurance…

Lockdown - Day #27

In the passenger seat, twiddling the radio dial, messing with the cassette player, trying to finesse the soundtrack of another day. The Mini/Triumph/Morris Minor/VW Golf glides up and down the seafront at dawn/dusk midday/midnight.

The girl at the wheel, the boy looking seawards. The postboxes are full of Valentine’s cards and the phone boxes echo to the latest dial-a-disc hit. 

Stop in the bus bay by the pier. "Just drop me here..."

Meanwhile the cassette finally plays the track he'd been searching for since Princes Park.

'If you ever feel the time to drop me a loving line
maybe you should just think twice
I don't wait around on your advice
You tell me I can go this far, but no more
Try to show me heaven and then slam the door
You offer shelter at a price much too dear
And your kind of love's the kind that soon disappears

So don't brag how you have changed
And everything's been rearranged
I thought all that was over and done
But I still get the same from Each and Everyone
Being kind is just a way to keep me under your thumb
and I can cry because that's something we've always done
you tell me I'm free of the past now and all those lies
then offer me the same thing in a different guise...'

Lockdown - Day #26

There is a green-grey Morris Minor heading for a breakdown just outside Southampton, trundling from Stone Cross to Paradise Drive via the seafront. 

Two boys, two girls. The music fills the car. 

Behind the car, the School Bus. Upstairs, at the front. A Grammar School boy ponders The Jam/Ramones, Ramones/The Jam. A yellow and green Max Records back on his lap.

He looks beyond the immediate.

The English Channel stretches left to right (as it always has done), lapping softly against the bloodied shingle. 

Despite the best will in the world. This ain’t no Rockaway Beach.

Lockdown - Day #24

A disarray of Seagulls on the sun wounded rooftops behind Leaf Hall, 

early on a Sunday morning. 

 

The crack-clank-rattle of the milk float, chinking up Marine Road. Hungover Mods swaying on lampposts, benign besuited beggar men, drifting towards the damp cradle of the beach.

Frosted kisses burned into the back of the heart. 

She never looked that beautiful, until now.

Darkened back room, sunflower curtains

and half a bottle of oakysmoke, 

easy to remember, 

inevitable she’ll forget.

These streets, eroded by memory, occasionally swept by the council. Blood money loose change, sluiced down the drains… ghost barmen still serving in the Burma Star Club…

A sweet tender suffocation, another cancer, another death.  The afternoon haze collapses beneath the ash swirls, buffeted by the prevailing South-Westerly.

Humour me and pretend we are all free...

Lockdown - Day #22

It is tempting to leave the seafront and just pop into the Marine for a pint or two but we’ll leave that for Christmas Eve (or post cup-final lash ups). Equally tempting to pop into Fusciardi’s Ice Cream Parlour, all the while remembering Dayville’s ghastly but memorable Bubble Gum ice cream…

The rear of The Leaf Hall (never did know what it was for) looming over some rooftops, backrooms and bedrooms. The Seagulls starting to mass on the rooftops and railings. The humdrum, dead-drunk pubs become more plentiful.

Waking up in one of the back bedrooms, to the sound of gulls bending TV aerials and tapping against windows. Going to sleep in a damp basement flat, with the sound of taxi’s careening round the corner at club closing time, with the taste of Rico’s Special Burger on my lips.

Lockdown - Day #21

A young George Orwell escapes from his prep school (St Cyprian's) for an afternoon. He finds himself on the eastern side of the pier, he misses the tiny clutch of New Romantics edging their way home from Dixieland after another brush with the Soul Boys. He also fails to see Frederick Engels taking a lunchtime break from editing the Communist Manifesto.

Eric Arthur Blair (as he was then) is too busy looking at the fishermen selling their daily catch under the pier, meanwhile Douglas Bader and Tommy Cooper pass each other 45 years apart

Time strolls along the seafront. Sir Peter Blake's Butterfly Man barely visible in the distance. Roger Moore leaving his penthouse for a barely relaxing walk. The famous and notorious arm-in-arm, stretching the length and breadth of history...

All the while, the tide shuttles to the rhythm of the moon, relentlessly shimmying up and down the beach. Picking its way over the pebbles, seaweed and the daily decay...

Another day, another wedding ring lost at low tide.

Lockdown - Day #20

Meanwhile back on the other side of Royal Parade, the B&B’s and Guest Houses transform into Hotels (no motels or Holiday Inn’s). The number of potential party venues increase. Eighteenth and Twenty-first, Wedding receptions and cricket club dinner and dances. 

Inside the sound of Southern Freeze warps minds. I don’t know what this is but I have to dance to it… On the road itself, the itchy/scratchy sound of FS1E (Fizzy’s) ricochet between the parked Capris and Allegros. The Hailsham Boys are in town, all Saxon and Iron Maiden. 

Meanwhile, Claude Debussy takes his daily walk along the promenade with his inamorata the young Emma. His life in exile only enlightened by the memory of her delicate kisses in the morning and the music of the sea… the eternal music of the sea!

Lockdown - Day #19

The smell of the seafront, all damp salt, John Player Special and the distant tang of Sarsons. Above our heads the row of lights sails on to Holywell. 

Jumping down on to the shingle, loose stones tumbling towards the dried upper sand. The permanently waterlogged groynes, used as wind-shelters, goals and wickets. 

The arc of the stone from hand to sea.

Lockdown - Day #18

It isn’t all sunshine, murder and Christmas on this walk. Now that the green to the right has disappeared, the taste of Creamline Toffees starts to invade the pallet. The prom is strewn with “toffee wrappers and this mornings papers”… 

Young spirits hold hands and try to ignore the feral lust that washes over them like waves. In the distance, satisfaction, recrimination, isolation and ultimately reconciliation melt into the horizon. She looks at him through a deep fringe and he looks at her through the silence.

The low rumble of the corporation cream and blue number 3 single decker merges with gull skaw from behind the retreating Redoubt. The sounds of teenage years push in and out… A telecaster skank step, a Rickenbacker hum. 

Lockdown - Day #17

Torn old copies of the Eastbourne Gazette and Herald, smudged newsprint and yellowing paper stuffed under the seat of THAT seafront shelter. The ripped clothes and the naked body of a girl on the beach. It is Christmas Day and the Sussex Constabulary swarm over the cold windswept pebbles. Still remembered and still try to say a prayer for her on Christmas Day. Poor Nicole (RIP).

Another winter and THAT shelter is home to a different kind of tragedy. An old homeless man, regular visitor to Seaside off-licence, wrapped in differing editions of the Gazette/Herald, moves along the bench to a cold teenage boy. Raised voices, a misunderstanding, shouting and the youth runs away towards Langney. It was just a misunderstanding.

The pace always quickens when walking by... So, time to move on from THAT shelter. Seagulls pirouette above, the sun silhouettes them high in the Sussex heavens and the (at first tinny) sounds of a ghetto-blaster reach out from above the shoulders of a group of golden souls… 

“Run for the shadows, run for the shadows

Run for the shadows in these golden years”

Lockdown - Day #16

Once the corner turns at 90º, the first thing that hits you is the Pier in the distance (a few days further along on this walk). The shingle shelf falls from stage right down to the gunmetal water. Ragged tooth groynes reach tentatively into the sea, whilst piles of imported stones weigh the land end down, making sure they don’t simply drift into oblivion. 

Inside the Redoubt, the remains of old wars and model villages are trampled in the rush to buy yet more ice-cream.

A film crew sets up in the catacombs. We are frozen in time. The sweetened scent of Country Fayre gel fills the whole room. “Lights, Camera, Action.” Her dark fringe gently caresses her eye-lashes. There is nothing more all-encompassing than love in the summertime on the Sussex Coast. 

No cannon fire today. Outside - The corporation railings, dark/light blue, broken by regular steps onto the shingle. Overhead the nightlights shimmer from here to Holywell. A sun lounge café squeezes itself onto the edge of a sliced and diced triangle of perfectly cut grass. We are spoilt for choice… More than we will ever knew!

Lockdown - Day #15

The English Channel, the tangerine sun and the Downs bounced wind often combine to create small rainbows that hover in the foreground when looking west towards Beachy Head. Meanwhile on the right, Treasure Island, a scene of late night raids and Smirnoff fuelled escapades. 100 paces on the bowling greens look in remarkably good condition as the Redoubt looms ahead. I never could remember when the Tank on the road side of the fortress actually arrived and why it ever did. There must be a plaque attached but I’m blowed if I can remember it.

The close packed fleet, avoiding the high-tide advances of La Manche, sit close together and the riggings clang in rasping harmony. Only an idiot would leave their oars in their boat – too many pubs and too many other idiots. The Lifeboat House behind me, with the beach winch, called out far too often and far too late to rescue members of the Harp Lager Appreciation Society (Marine Div). 

Turn left at the Redoubt towards the long glass and wooden fronted café. Stride by the discarded serviettes and the tomato shaped sauce bottles sitting next to the sugar shaker on the empty formica-topped tables behind the glass. I can hear a distant chikka-chikka from The Beech, a Friday night Ska band, drenched in Pernod and Black. The James Bond Theme skank-style saturates the sticky red carpet. One day my band will play in this pub, one day…

Lockdown - Day #14

Many thanks to all those already in the know. And to all of those who were up until now unaware. I can exclusively reveal that today I have been honoured by Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II and will henceforth be known as:

The Rt Honourable Lord Langney 

The Royal Beach Poet Laureate in Extremis

I am eligible to to take up this appointment and my place in the House of Lords effective from today.

The broad extent of my dominion.

Pay homage

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!