When the muse calls; answer

These words, from an interview with Allen Ginsberg some years ago really identify the reason for the lack of blogs on here. I don't have anything to talk about right now; it's all in there and doesn't want to get out.

A trip to London tomorrow will no doubt bring some creative worms from the soil. There is always lots to think about, things to see, to do, to admire, to be disgusted at...then I will have some things to talk about.

A trip to Nottingham with a family member on Wednesday followed by a meeting in the evening, then a day at work on Thursday, a weekend in Coventry...if I haven't got something after that then i'm giving up.

I haven't forgot one of the first blogs on here...say yes more, open my thoughts, enjoy life. That's what I am trying to do.

Doggy died, Mummy cried

I saw a terrible thing today...

A car zoomed round the corner and I heard a thump, then some god-awful crying. I turned back and a dog was on the floor. It's back leg was crumpled and it was jumping up and down. It was dying. Having a fit, crying so awfully. I banged on a door and this woman comes out in her socks and pjs. It's her dog. She was crying. Some people got round, the driver was upset. I put my hand on his shoulder. 'It's ok' I said. It definitely wasn't. 'I'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry' he kept saying, then stroking the dog. The dogs eyes sunk back into it's school, the roof of its mouth went white, tongue out, horrible.

I was sad. I felt like praying. I just gave the driver my number and name. What can you do when a dog dies? It's that woman's little kid. It's her friend. It's dead. I walked away, kept turning back, she was still there, on her knees, stroking her dog. It just lay there, a big dead weight. Once a gorgeous black and white sheep dog and now it was just dead. End.

As I walked away I cried a bit. It was sad. I thought about it all day, still am, and that poor woman, and that man who probably was driving a little faster to get to work. He wore good clothes, had a nice car, but at that moment we were all equals, sad, worried, caring about this dog. It hurt.

The Land Where I belong Part 4

I'm staying in Morley right now, Morley, Leeds.

It's a bit weird here as it reminds me so much of my hometown, Ilkeston. With a plethora of charity shops and empty windows, as I walked up the main high street I could have closed my eyes and thought I was back on Bath Street. Morley has an almost flat vista however and Ilson does not.

The people here are old, gristly and set in. But they are kind, forgiving, cute, they don't offend like Londoners. If you hold the door for them they thank you for it, with a smile too.

The old ladies and gents are true characters.. They all look like loving grandparents that comfort their grandchildren with mint humbugs and sunday dinners. Not like in London, where every other person is a drunkerd or a druggie. Not saying that isnt a problem up here; it is, and i've seen it outside of windows, behind shops, near bins, but up here it's sort of not as bad.

The people here know each other. Not always a good thing but at least the community spirit is one unbettered elsewhere. It means there is always a friend nearby. Lovely.

So, off to the pub, with BNP sympathies. I'm not foreign though, I feel at home here, so I reckon i'll be alright. As long as they don't think i'm from London. Us midlanders can never please. London folk think we're from up neweth, Leeds people think we're from dahn safth.

The Land Where I Belong Part 2

It was night time in the big city, wet taxi cabs flew by, hot red buses full of crack pots and junkies went by, we jumped on one, made some jokes then dropped ourselves off at the Canteen restaurant, Spitalfields.
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It's a nice enough area now, but back in Victorian Britain it saw many of Jack the Ripper's victims draw their last breaths. It's quite trendy now; quite arty with famous residents Tracey Emin and even Damien Hurst a few years back. Jeremy Bentham of 'greatest good for the greatest number Utilitarian' fame was born there too.

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So after a rather drunken meal, well drunken for me anyway...culminating in a nice drop of brandy, ended then we stumbled out, across white paving, under funky lighting reflecting off smooth shiny new walls of glass and steel.

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After a few drinks in a glorified factory, and cashing in on it too, we went to a place called Tabernacle, a weird if none-event which boasted big crowds and bigger prices upstairs, but a quite quaint yet smart club downstairs, with a lit up disco floor, and small star lights in the wall. Not that I paid much attention of course; I was too busy getting pissed on sambuca, tequila, beer, vodka, gin, wine and whatever else took my fancy. Twas like Tom Brown in an alcoholic sweet shop!

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So after an expensive night then I was well out of reddies. I went to the Sudanese corner shop at the top of the road and scraped enough for some juice and a crap pizza. Fell from rich to poor in a matter of minutes. At least I had my Oyster card...oh shit where has that gone?

So

So

So

So I enjoyed it, LONDON, but it wasn't me. You can't look at people on the bus, can't talk to people at the bus stop, exchange a familiar glance with communters on the train home, can't moan about the weather or the shit running times of the trains. You leave your place in a morning and go all focussed in getting to work. I still do it; I will bump into someone and still say sorry. You do that and they treat you with the same level of contempt if you were to bump into someone then walk away in Nottingham...lots of words there for a very small point. London is my capital city, I feel proud to walk past the statues of Cromwell and Churchill...tourist points for the Japs and Americans, my heritage, MY HISTORY. London is my capital city but I don't belong...I don't belong anymore than anyone else down there.
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Get back home, or jump up and down Briggate in Leeds...I feel welcome there. I still feel welcome in Headingley, or in the Dolphin or Leeds Market, or Upper Parliament Street.
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London; theres shit loads of people there, all different nationalities, all faiths, a mixture, DIVERSITY, the buzz words we're all shouting out for...a diverse city! That's good though; I welcome it, but it's not my capital, not like Nottingham or, dare I say it, Ilkeston, or Leeds. I'd rather be a Midlander, or Northerner than a Londoner. Notice I didn't say Southerner? I like some parts of the south...queen of the south, not THE Queen. Give us back our houses, sell your jewels and give the money to the poor.

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The Land Where I Belong Part 1

Just returned from a weekend in London. I have spoken about London a few times on this ere blog but the level of detail I am about to dive into has never yet been attempted.

Well the reason I went down was for a friend's birthday. I got the train down with him with another one of our friends who has turned into a bit of a diva now...do this, do that etc. Everything's made sweet with a smile but less of that.

So we made our way down there and it was a beautiful day...the sun was shining, the birds were singing their sweet song (not that you could tell as we zoomed 100mph down the tracks) and everyone was sort of happy. We were reading Private Eye and they were talking about the conflicting news stories about Jade Goody from two years ago to last week. It seems that all the red tops are willing to jump on the Goody Train...just leave her to die in peace. That is definitely not what she wants!

So London then, it's a funny place. Everything is so hectic. I wonder where all those people are rushing to. It'd be good to see on a map where their route is dotted out on different coloured lines. No doubt it'd be like a massive circle of lines and different colours.

Efficiency is the name of the game down there. There was an accident with a cyclist on the corner of my mates road and the traffic was only stopped for about 15 minutes. Sirens a go-go and all that stuff. A few horns honked and a few people stopped to look. My friend then told me not to look at anyone...there was this Mother shouting at her kids and they were running around. I sort of chuckled to myself as they looked really sweet but then Ben said, "don't...don't" because he knows I would probably have wanted to strike up a conversation. He said something like "not down here" which meant not in London. Made me think 'this is my capital city, but I don't belong here. More of that later.

Ben's flat/house/pad/place is an interesting sort of abode. Set in a slight gated community, you enter into a typical front room, complete with laminate flooring and IKEA furniture. He's got these metal stairs with grips (think external fireescape type one) and, although they may look trendy when you're in shoes, in bare feet they are not so nice. His room is right at the top of a very narrow and shaky set off metal and mdf stairs...spiral of course...nothing is ever simple. Muggins here ended up taking most of the bags up. Ben had a lot to carry...a few pillows.

After a few hours of moping around we made our way into town for some food. After a rather tense yet humourous 30 minutes or so choosing where to eat we opted for a non-descript Italian that boasted of Tiramisu and a few nice specials. I opted for a few glasses of an ok Shiraz and a lovely Lamb ragu with pasta that could have been a little too overcooked for my liking. Still, nice food, alright conversation.

Afterwards we went for a few pints but Ben wasn't feeling too great so him and another friend went home whilst James and myself went to the pub and had quite a lot to drink. We stumbled in about 12 by which time we were a bit pissed but Ben and Carol were definitely not. After spilling some vodka on the floor and then clumsily getting into my sleeping bag I drifted off. In the morning I didn't feel that bad considering the cocktail of booze I had consumed. Carol and Ben were rather annoyed that both James and myself were not in the clinches of a full raging hangover. After a hastily cooked breakfast that was by far from good we made our way into town, doing the sights and walking around. We didn't actually do anything other than walk over some bridges and see some pretty things but it was time spent with friends that I really enjoyed.

And so to part 2 of the Land Where I belong will come, hopefully drawing on some conclusions

This was a Week...it was!

But I can't think of much, if anything, to write about right now.

Therefore i'll leave you with this nice picture of Cappadocia:is

A song for Bob

He carried music, the voice of Youth, so much on those weak shoulders
Eyes like boulders, lyrics hot, harmonica smoulders

A hooked crooked nose
No-one knows
what goes through his head

Hear him play that country guitar
Through a creaking door, ajar,
Through to Cash's house
With June too

Blood on the tracks
Stacks and stacks of stolen records
From journeys cross country
Bus hopping, pill popping, train don't stopping
Crazy!