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.

Psychogeographical Meanderings - Brixton > Soho #5

Routemasters, black cabs, couriers and white vans continue to ping past at rush-hour pace. Meanwhile, coming the other way an Anti-Nazi League march merges with a CND rally, heading to Brockwell Park or to confront the National Front.

The chants and songs blend in and out of tune: "Maggie, Maggie, Maggie, Out, Out, Out", "The National Front is a Wanker's Front - Smash the National Front". Whistles, drums and Red Stripe cans driving the rhythm on from The Oval up the Brixton Road on to Brockwell Park. Where rain pours down and The Style Council wrestle with a poor PA system.

We can wave and cheer our support for the Home Counties rebels, suburban revolutionaries and the interminably volatile splinter groups losing sight of the ultimate aim. They head on towards Weller & Talbot, we head on towards Hobbs & Edrich... A pint of London Pride beckons.

"Smash the National Front..."

Bringing dark thoughts into the bright light

As I have documented elsewhere, most notably here, I have had personal brushes with depression and it even got to the stage where I contemplated taking a final and fatal route.

That has changed, it is off the table now.

The reason is twofold:
1) I have found new strategies to cope with dark days (which still come by the way) and they help to avert tumbling into a whirlpool of morbid self-reflection.
2) A friend of mine recently could not find a way out of his own particular maze and sadly ended up taking his own life. Such a desperately sad loss. But it is a loss that must have a positive legacy and it will...

More to follow.

Life is timeless, days are long when you're young...

A long time ago, when young mods stalked the earth...

Hastings Pier ☀︎ 9th June 1979

(Smev, Me, Al, H)

- Picture recently discovered in the Museum of Youth Culture

The Dreams of Children

She was younger than me, by about a year or so. Corkscrew hair, funny, sharp and dangerous. We'd all get the bus to and from school, cramming about 400 kids into about 8 buses from outside the school gates. Got to get on the first bus!

The queue was always carnage: Bags, elbows, knees and heads - nothing was off limits. Got to get on the bus first!

Traveling via the Station and things could only get worse. Off one bus onto another. Got to get on the next  bus!

To be honest I can't even remember why I bothered to rush home. Nothing to do or eat when I got there, except play music - loud!

I suspect it was just about getting on the same bus as the girl with the corkscrew hair.

Psychogeographical Meanderings - Brixton > Soho #4

Late night gig crowds flood out from the Academy. A young Bowie waves hello to his dreams. On the Brixton Road, bombing towards The Oval, an Olympic Couriers cycle courier nearly dies under the wheels of a huge haulage truck. The BMW in front had cut the courier up and he had to swerve out into the middle of the road. That was close...

Ignoring one-way signs and red lights is one thing. Cheating death is another.

Meanwhile, we stride purposefully towards where a carriage has pulled up outside an abandoned house. The batteries on the Sony Walkman fades, 'Because of you' by Kevin Rowland stumbles into silence. The tall figure of Mr Sherlock Holmes emerges from the fog...

The graffiti tags on the wall... RACHE

A change of batteries and tape 'Cupid & Psyche '85' melts into our ears. We can move on, as far as Holmes is concerned
- the case is closed.

The Butterfly House

Psychogeographical Meanderings - Brixton > Soho #3

The clank and holler of Electric Avenue disappears behind us in a cloud of reminiscences, with the faint scent of late nights clinging to the blackened pavements. The rattle of the Victoria bound train glides overhead. Time to cross the road.

The Brixton Academy looms behind the rainclouds and the hymns of Nick Cave, Paul Weller & The Pogues ricochet around the auditorium. A wraith whispers...

Take a little walk to the edge of town
And go across the tracks
Where the viaduct looms
Like a bird of doom
As it shifts and cracks
Where secrets lie in the border fires
In the humming wires
Hey man, you know
You're never coming back

Past the square, past the bridge
Past the mills, past the stacks
On a gathering storm comes
A tall handsome man
In a dusty black coat with
A red right hand...

- Nick Cave

But we must head on to the future and a possible meeting with the World's first consulting detective!

Psychogeographical Meanderings - Brixton > Soho #2

The Dogstar looms ahead... a pint of Guinness and a fish finger sandwich - the ultimate 'White Bread, Black Beer'. A little further down Coldharbour Lane, lies a recording studio, the air thick with diminished chords and popstar dreams. But we aren't heading that way today. Heading straight on down towards Brixton tube station.

The unnecessarily attractive 'Militant' agitator selling a socialist heaven to an unforgiving commune of commuters. Dope dealers and Big Issue vendors vie for our attention. The morning crush and the evening throb clash in the spinning middle distance of memory. I could curtail this whole journey by simply turning right and heading down the escalator. But where is the fun in that?

A copy of Midweek under my arm. The rain mingling with the sunshine and snow. Shooting a glance down Electric Avenue, the smell of curried something blending in with the tang of rush-hour petrol. Sweet sounds drifting out of record shacks and ghetto-blasters again. The soundtrack of this, that and every other day... East of the River Nile, Club Classics Vol 1 and Technique...

Psychogeographical Meanderings - Brixton > Soho #1

Following on from a re-imagined kaleidoscopic stroll from Langney Green to the end of the Pier. The next drift, takes us from St Matthews Church in Brixton, to Carnaby Street, Soho.

------------

The junky upstairs was arrested last night. He'd come to the door, topless and brandishing a knife. It wasn't a good look, nor was it a good evening to be hosting the Finnish Girl from next door. Thankfully, things were calmed by the presence of my flatmate holding a stool and me waving a Gray-Nicholls GN100...

First thing in the morning, crisp frost clinging to the grime of the once pink pavement, out and over the road. The option was either walk past the Ace Cinema or The Fridge, good nights spent at both venues. Either way one had to skirt St Matthews Church, which was firmly planted on the roundabout at the foot of Brixton Hill. Up the hill and over the intervening 60 odd miles was home but the flat with the junky upstairs would have to do for the moment...

The Art of being an English Gentlemen (part 10)

We have had a number enquiries about whether the the wearing of Uggs is permitted in the sanctity of one's own home. To be clear on this point, the club rules stipulate the following:

14.1 - Sub-section 2
"On no account shall a Gentleman wear Uggs under ANY circumstance."

We hope that this message is suitably unambiguous. We have noted a number of conversations on the Club's WhatsApp group that seem to suggest members are using Covid-19 as a cover for letting standards slip. Whilst we do not wish to appear overly draconian, we believe that the vast majority of members will recognise this pernicious trend must be stopped in its tracks. Anyone caught wearing 'Uggs' will be suspended with immediate effect until a formal letter of apology has been received and recorded.

The Committee

NO!

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...

May Daze

The red eagle has flown from the jade palace. I repeat... The red eagle has flown from the jade palace. I repeat... The red eagle has flown from the jade palace. I repeat... The red eagle has flown from the jade palace. I repeat... The red eagle has flown from the jade palace. I repeat... The red eagle has flown from the jade palace. I repeat... The red eagle has flown from the jade palace. I repeat... The red eagle has flown from the jade palace. I repeat... The red eagle has flown from the jade palace. I repeat... The red eagle has flown from the jade palace. I repeat... The red eagle has flown from the jade palace. I repeat... The red eagle has flown from the jade palace. I repeat... The red eagle has flown from the jade palace. I repeat... The red eagle has flown from the jade palace. I repeat... The red eagle has flown from the jade palace. I repeat... The red eagle has flown from the jade palace. I repeat... The red eagle has flown from the jade palace. I repeat... The red eagle has flown from the jade palace. I repeat... The red eagle has flown from the JADE palace. I repeat... The red eagle has flown from the jade palace. I repeat... The red eagle has flown from the jade palace. I repeat... The red eagle has flown from the jade palace. I repeat... The red eagle has flown from the jade palace. I repeat... The red eagle has flown from the jade palace. I repeat... The red eagle has flown from the jade palace. I repeat... The red eagle has flown from the jade palace. I repeat... The red eagle has flown from the jade palace. I repeat... The red eagle has flown from the jade palace. I repeat... The red eagle has flown from the jade palace. I repeat... The red eagle has flown from the jade palace. I repeat... The red eagle has flown from the jade palace. I repeat... The red eagle has flown from the jade palace. I repeat... The red eagle has flown from the jade palace. I repeat... The red eagle has flown from the jade palace. I repeat... The red eagle has flown from the jade palace. I repeat... The red eagle has flown from the jade palace. I repeat... The red eagle has flown from the jade palace. I repeat... The red eagle has flown from the jade palace. I repeat... The red eagle has flown from the jade palace. I repeat... The red eagle has flown from the jade palace. I repeat... The red eagle has flown from the jade palace. Out.

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 #25

The flags on the pier are cowering from the horizon, bullied by the eternal sea fret. Marine Parade (an interloper in the Grand scheme of things), smothered by the worn rubber of a million tyres. The Corporation buses grinding full-on Leyland chug, from the Point to the Head and all stops in between.

A Deux Chevaux stutters and shudders from East Dean to Churchdale Road. It takes a boy and a girl to drive AND change gear. The cassette player chews the latest release by St Pancras Records.

"Hegemony, hegemony...

You are the fairest creature

You are the fairest creature that ever I have seen,

And it's all for Monopoly

On all those pretty sexibles/sensibles,

That rot and raise a nation the capacity for change

An honest day's pay for an honest day's work

You can't change human nature

Don't bite the hand that feeds you…"

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 #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)

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”

Hero of the British Art Resistance

Billy Childish formed the "non organisation" The British Art Resistance in 2008. An exhibition was held under the title Hero of The British Art Resistance at The Aquarium L-13 gallery in London. It featured a  collection of paintings, books, records, pamphlets, poems, prints, letters, film, photographs made that year.

The recent sad loss of Andrew Weatherall (Jan 2020) led me to seek out interviews featuring the 'reluctant superstar DJ' and all round top chap. I was delighted to see in one interview that he was wearing a 'Hero of The British Art Resistance' pin. A fact that reassured me of his credentials as a champion of the under-achievers of the world. 

Apart from being a DJ, musician, remixer, record label owner, fan of A Certain Ratio and artist - he was a gentlemen in the truest sense of the word. Courteous, generous and wore a fine suit on occasion...

His succinct mantra seems perfect for a world packed full of pomposity and stupidity:

"If you're not on the margins, you're taking up too much room”

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