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Wednesday, 4 October 2017
Where Is The Cat?
Where is the Rusty Cat?
I don't know, I don't know.
Where is the Rusty Cat?
Is he over there?
Is he there on the stairs?
Is he there on my chair?
Where is the Rusty Cat?
Is he over there?
Where is the Rikey Cat?
I don't know, I don't know.
Where is the Rikey Cat?
Has he gone outside?
Has he gone to explore?
Has he jumped to next door?
Where is the Rikey Cat?
Has he gone outside?
Here is the Rusty Cat!
He is here, he is here!
Here is the Rikey Cat!
He has come inside!
There is food, there is food!
Strokes and fuss - humans too!
Rusty and Rikey Cat!
Happy little boys.
Sunday, 27 August 2017
Rejoice! Your Voice is Beautiful!
1.
Rejoice! Your voice is beautiful!
Your voice is beautiful! Rejoice!
Let nobody take it away
Don’t let them do that shit to you!
Liars, bastards
Charlatans and fools
Don’t care what is true
Starve them of their fuel
Rejoice! Your voice is beautiful!
Your voice is beautiful! Rejoice!
Rejoice!
Oh rejoice!
Oh rejoice!
2.
Rejoice! Your voice is beautiful!
Your voice is beautiful! Rejoice!
Profit not people’s their aim
Don’t let them play their sick game
Selfish fuckpigs
Selling what is free
Me me me me me
It’s insanity
Rejoice! Your voice is beautiful!
Your voice is beautiful! Rejoice!
Rejoice!
Oh rejoice!
Oh rejoice!
3.
Rejoice! Your voice is beautiful!
Your voice is beautiful! Rejoice!
Poverty, violence and grime
Follow them wherever they’ve been
Blinkered, careless
Feathering their nests
Beating at their chests
But they’ve not long left
Rejoice! Your voice is beautiful!
Your voice is beautiful! Rejoice!
Rejoice!
Oh rejoice!
Oh rejoice!
4.
Rejoice! Your voice is beautiful!
Your voice is beautiful! Rejoice!
As long as there’s hope in the world
There’s brothers and sisters with words
Steadfast friendship
For the good of all
Equal rights for all
Shout it and stand tall
Rejoice! Your voice is beautiful!
Your voice is beautiful! Rejoice!
Rejoice!
Oh rejoice!
Oh rejoice!
Rejoice! Your voice is beautiful!
Your voice is beautiful! Rejoice!
Rejoice!
Oh rejoice!
Oh rejoice!
Monday, 7 August 2017
The ballad of Glum King Leopold
Here’s a story I’ve been told
About a king called Leopold:
“King Leopold of Far
Away
Woke up and felt
quite glum one day
Why it was so, he
could not say.
He called down for
his Jester
Who danced a jig from
Leicester
But King was not
impressed-er.
‘Begone,’ the glum
king said.
‘I’d rather stay in
bed.’
And thus the jester
fled.”
The tale’s begun, I’ll carry on
Reciting this familiar song.
“The king got up at
half past ten
And yawned and yawned
and yawned again
He was quite bored,
he told his men.
He sat with head in
hands
Bored of his steel
bands
Bored of the drummers’
clangs.
‘I’m bored,’ said the
glum King.
‘I’m bored of
everything.’
And thus it went for
him.”
I know this tale is real because
I heard it from a man called Oz.
“It wasn’t right; it
wasn’t funny
Even counting all his
money
Couldn’t make his day
more sunny.
The rubies and the
gold
Ten generations old
Left the king quite
cold.
‘Oh fie,’ the dull
man sighed,
No matter what he’d
tried
He felt so dull
inside.”
Can you guess what’s happening?
In the song about this king?
“He summoned his
physician
And laid out his
position:
The doctor frowned,
and listened.
‘You’re suffering,’
Doc said,
‘From hurting of the
head,
‘I prescribe golden
bread.’
And so the king ate
some
But he still felt so
glum
He cursed his own
kingdom.”
It’s taking quite a turn, for sure:
Will the king ever find a cure?
“He had a thousand
thousand horses
He’d ride them often,
at his courses
And gather up his
wartime forces.
But this time they
just snorted
The king’s new plan
was thwarted
No matter what he
bought-ed.
‘This sucks,’ said
Leopold.
‘I’m not even that
old.
But life seems very
cold.’”
What do you think the king will do?
Or what if it happened to you?
“His tapestries and
art and trinkets
Adorned the walls; oh,
you would think it
A palace plush and
rich and link it
To the king’s broad
happiness.
After all, to be a
guest
There meant there was
a manifest
Glory to the whole
huge place
With lands and land that
fair embraced
A hundred thousand miles of
space.”
I can reveal the song’s quite right:
It was an awesome size and sight.
“King Leopold was
truly down.
He took off his
enormous crown.
He wore a quite
enormous frown.
He looked out of his
window
And saw big crowds
there, down below
Happy, lively. No-one
low.
‘What’s this?’ he
asked himself.
‘They’re in such
happy health
Whilst I am not
myself.'”
The king it seems was hankering
For something else to succour him.
“The king pondered.
What could he do
To rouse himself from
doldrums? Who
Could bring him back?
Oh, who? Oh who?
And then he had a
thought:
If he could leave his
court
Unnoticed, then he
ought
To join the happy
throng.
To sing the happy
song.
To be – and to
belong.”
The story’s rocking on, so, hey -
Let’s move ahead with no delay!
“The king went down
alone to see
The laundry: it was
there that he
Got dressed out of
his finery,
Took off his crown
and jewels,
His silk, his gloves,
his mules,
(Those are a kind of
shoe-ls).
He put on a rough
robe -
The commonest of
clothes –
It itched and had big
holes.”
Do you know the king’s new plan?
Do you think it’s all in hand?
“Stealthily, King
Leopold left
His palace by the
back door, crept
Outside to mingle
with the rest.
The crowd was
laughing, cheering too.
And best of all, they
knew not who
The king was as he
struggled through
The rowdy-bawdy crowd
With all their noise
and loud
Carousing, happy,
proud.”
Oz told me stories often, but
This one of his has always stuck.
“The king observed
the games around him;
The many stalls and
crafts astound him
The traders, jokers,
music found him.
And one man caught
his eye awhile
And Leopold was quite
beguiled
‘Ahoy there, friend,’
he said, and smiled.
The man smiled too.
Amazing!
The king felt his
luck changing:
He felt the glumness
fading.”
Do you want to hear some more?
The next bit’s good – I can assure!
“His new friend had
three playing cards
And set them down,
and said, ‘On guard:
Just find the lady –
it’s not hard.’
So Leopold watched as
the man
Shuffled the cards
round, and then
Selected the right
card! What fun!
The man gave a little
bow:
‘You’re so good,’ he
said. Now
Let’s play again, you
show me how.”
The king had never had such fun!
He’d never seen this card trick done!
“’Let us make it
interesting,’
Said the man, to the
credulous king,
‘Let us wager,’ and he grinned.
The king felt
confident at this.
He’d found the lady,
she was his.
He thought it was an
easy quiz.
‘OK,’ the king
assented.
‘Here is some gold,
intended
To be saved or
lend-ed.’”
It was from his vast store of course.
He had a million more, of course.
“’Let’s go!” the
trickster said at last –
(the gold the king
produced was vast)
A crowd had gathered,
watching, rapt.
‘I’ll turn the cards
again for you,
And if you win, you’ll
earn what’s due!
I promise I’ll be
slave to you!’
Leopold nodded,
eagerly.
He’d win this game
quite easily.
He’d find the lady,
quite simple-ly."
I like this bit; it makes me smile.
Oz told it with such splendid style.
"So the card sharp
shuffled once again
And mixed them up in
front of him
‘Now find the lady;
then you’ll win.’
Leopold pointed
confidently
At the card he knew
was she.
He was the king! Of
course he’d be
The best at all
games.
But this time, he
failed:
The lady had sailed."
Can you imagine how he felt?
The disappointment in himself?
“He was aghast: how
could this be?
He was quite sure of
what he’d seen.
And that he’d found
the carded queen.
‘Unlucky,’ said the tricky
crook
‘She’s on the left,
you see, just look.’
And so she was. And
the man took
The gold into his
pocket.
Leo frowned; what was
this?
He couldn’t quite
believe it."
The tale approaches its end, for
There’s not all that much more.
“’Hang on a moment,’
Leo said.
‘I’d like another
game instead,
To win back what I’ve
lost.’ Which led
To another shuffle,
another draw,
More gold produced, a
challenge for
Leo to find the
fucking whore.
He lost again, and
furious
Began to shout and
scream and cuss:
‘I’ll have your head
for this, you cunt.’"
Oh dear, the king has gotten riled.
Do you think his blood has boiled?
"The man smiled
sweetly, took his leave
Though Leopold pulled
on his sleeve.
‘Get fucked,’ the man
said, ‘I believe
The game was fair and
fucking square.
Your words are
neither here nor there.
Do I look like I
fucking care?
The king could not
believe it.
He could not quite
conceive it.
Who was this fucking
eedjit?"
My word, what a palaver!
He’s getting in a lather!
“’Look, you maggot,
scum-cunt fungus,
You dare to trick me?
While among us
The king walks – yes,
it’s me, you cum-suck,
I’ll cut your hands
off, boil your eyes
Decapitate your pets
and wife,
Sweet music to me all
your cries,
Cause I’m the fucking
king.
I can do anything.
You cunt, you’ll
never win.’”
Good grief, the anger of the king!
He really is a silly thing!
"The man looked at
Leopold’s clothes.
Looked down at the rough, holey robe.
‘You’re the king, you
say? I hold
That you’re a lowly
kitchen hand
Who stole this gold.
I understand
The police are quite
near at hand.
So get to fuck before
I shop you.
You mad fuck, nobody
can stop you
Saying you’re the
king, you cock, you.’”
What fun! The trickster’s hitting back!
Oh Leopold – you’ve gone off track.
“And so the
card-sharp left, with haste
And soon was in
another place,
The crowd dispersed.
The king was faced
With penury, at least
until
He could return
inside, and fill
His pockets from his
endless till.
‘Fuck these fucking
scum,’ he said.
‘I’ll chop off all
their bastard heads.
I’ll kill their
children in their beds.’”
Oh what a naughty little king!
He’s such a silly little thing!
“King Leopold of Far
Away
Returned home,
slipped in, and stayed.
He drank some mead,
and fucked his maid,
Decreed his soldiers,
fully armed
Be sent down to
inflict true harm
To anyone they caught
in town.
‘That’ll learn them
not to mess
With me, the twats,’
Leopold said.
‘Those stinky little
ants are dead.’”
The king’s in quite the mood!
Oh he is very, very rude!
“And so the rampage
in the town
Lasted til it was all burnt down,
Corpses littered all
around,
Pets dismembered,
babies skewered,
Torture foul and rank
endured
The fury of the
tricked king poured
Through his fascist
army.
Through their sense
of duty.
Their bloodthirst for
the booty.”
Oh me, oh my! What can you say?
What a king! Oh, what a day!
“The army was
unstoppable.
Each man on speed,
doped up, and full
Of booze, bravado,
bile and bull,
They razed the whole
place to the ground.
It was filled with
the crackling sound
Of burning flesh; and
pound by pound
The soldiers ate the
people.
They raped and sliced
the feeble.
The death-pits
swarmed with evil.”
Oh those silly sausages!
They’re very naughty soldiers, yes?
“And when the
population was annulled
The soldiers turned
on each other, bored,
And fought and fucked
in pools of gore.
When they looked up
to the castle, then
They saw the king’s
face watching them.
The army, drunk on
death, again
Turned to the palace. The hoardes
Set their fires and drew
their swords,
And scampered up the
palace walls.”
Oh what is our poor king to do?
Do you think he will make it through?
“’Oh lads, oh lads,
you’ve done me proud,’
King Leopold said, ‘So
you’re allowed
To have time off to
chill back out.’
The army didn’t
listen:
They’d had enough of
him.
They grabbed the
king.
They chopped him up.
They ate his guts.
The king was dust.”
Oh no! To think the king is dead!
(I tell the tale as Oz once said.)
“The army took over
the country.
Now with a population
of nobody.
They’d killed them
all, and ate them, see.
They saved the king’s
cock and balls,
They were pretty
fucking small-s.
Displayed them on the
palace walls.
But cause they’d
killed the women
There were no babies
from the men.
They all died. No-one
would miss them."
The moral of this story? Well,
There’s not that much that I can tell.
I spose you could say kings are twats
And so are armies, hmm, but that’s
Too simple a label to bestow.
Suffice to say that when you go
To bed one night and wake up bored
Try not to be like Leopold:
And if you want to go outside
Please steer quite clear of genocide.
Wednesday, 21 June 2017
The Sniper (snippet)
Red spot laser sight
The last thing you’ll see
And hiding behind it
The sniper
One shot phaser light
Seeks sins, shoots free
But nobody’s ever met
The sniper
Don’t fear what you won’t feel
For most mistakes are free
The sniper, eyes of steel,
Waits long and patiently.
Down In The Catacombs
An ancient city atop an ancient hill
Strives to breathe above the dust
Strives to soar above base desire
A thousand generations fortified Mdina
In pre-history I stood here, watching
As they came from the South
As they came at us from the East
Whilst the earthquakes shivered the ground
Phonecians, Byzantines, Arabs attacked
But none could make their works stick
But none could keep the fortunes alive
As broken bodies piled up in the streets
The Silent City’s palaces still stand
We watch together as the sun rises
We watch together as the empires fall
From this ancient city atop this ancient hill
The groaning souls of the exhausted dead
Are banished to the Catacombs
Outside these city walls and never to enter Mdina
Miles of ancient tunnels underneath parched Rabat
Where something more primeval rules
Here, it is said, if you stand and listen
You can hear the whispers
Doomed generation after deranged generation
Banished to these subterranean sandstone cathedrals
In the galleries and recesses of rest
These crypts to cry out
We cry out
And we call
Join us
Join us
Join us
Monday, 22 May 2017
There is a house
There is a house. It’s a terraced house. In a Victorian
Street.
You can walk from it to a medium-to-small city. It takes
about twelve minutes, depending whereabouts you want to go.
There are loads of venues in the city. You can walk around
and hear music pretty much everywhere.
And we did. Sometimes we made the music happen.
Sometimes we made the booze happen.
Sometimes we even provided strawberry and champagne pie.
That was fun, and funny.
Our friends often played, or arranged, or promoted, or did
sound, or lights, or radio.
Wherever we went, there would be someone we knew. I moved
away, but I know this is still the case for my friends who stayed. They’re
embedded there. It’s beautiful, really.
And lots, and lots, and lots, of fun.
Always.
And lots, and lots, and lots, of fun.
Always.
Hundreds of nights. Too many to count. Round the house.
You could always go around there if you were bored. I’d
spend more time there than at my own gaff, usually.
There’s an offy about four minutes’ walk. They sell eight
cans for a fiver, which isn’t even that good of a deal really is it.
Still, we drank it. Sometimes we’d even afford whisky.
Sometimes we – that is to say, the gang, or crew, or melee
of moiderers - ran out of booze entirely.
Sometimes we’d ring up the 24-hour booze delivery number.
It was written on a cricket bat.
By the time the booze arrived, of course, we’d all be
asleep. It took fucking ages for those fuckers to get the van full enough to
justify their antics. After you’ve been asleep for two hours and it’s 3am and a
man comes knocking at the door with a crate of warm Heineken that cost you 30
quid it doesn’t seem like that great an idea. But you needed to pay them.
They weren’t quite the kind of people you’d not want to pay.
They weren’t quite the kind of people you’d not want to pay.
Other times we’d manage to stay awake. Then we’d wander
around Toxteth at 6am fairly aimlessly, which is good for stories but not too
wise really.
But we were brothers, of course, so we were invincible.
Blood brothers.
Some of the gang heated up forks on the stove and branded each other. Some of the brands were less corporeal entirely. I swerved the fork incident somehow. I kinda wish I hadn’t sometimes.
But who the fuck wants a fork brand on their arm at age 80?
But we were brothers, of course, so we were invincible.
Blood brothers.
Some of the gang heated up forks on the stove and branded each other. Some of the brands were less corporeal entirely. I swerved the fork incident somehow. I kinda wish I hadn’t sometimes.
But who the fuck wants a fork brand on their arm at age 80?
By then I spose it doesn’t matter either though does it.
Still.
There were lots, and lots, and lots of silly things we did.
Then and now.
And maybe tomorrow too.
Still.
There were lots, and lots, and lots of silly things we did.
Then and now.
And maybe tomorrow too.
I’m going to the house. Maybe this week. I’m not sure when.
I’ll walk up there from the trains, more than likely.
As I remember it’s about a 28-minute walk, depending which station I get off
from.
I’ll walk down the path and go into the house, passing what
used to be our office.
I’ll sit on the sofa, drink a cup of tea, water boiled in the same
kettle as always.
I’ll look at the music books.
I’ll look at the music books.
I’ll look at all the albums and hard drives full of music.
Maybe I’ll see that the washing-up needs doing, or that
there’s a dirty pair of trousers on the floor.
Or that there’s half a loaf of bread.
Or a posh bottle of hot sauce in the cupboard, unopened yet.
Or a posh bottle of hot sauce in the cupboard, unopened yet.
I don't know for certain.
What I do know is this:
I’ll sit in the house, the Victorian terraced house, in the not-so-big city where I used to live and play and love and mess and work.
What I do know is this:
I’ll sit in the house, the Victorian terraced house, in the not-so-big city where I used to live and play and love and mess and work.
I will be surrounded by all the trinkets and possessions and
magazines and books and music and cooking implements and clothes and shoes and
tables and chairs and the big casserole pan used so many times for so many happy people.
It will all be the same; all his stuff.
You accumulate this shit over the years don’t you. It kind of comes to define your space. Maybe define you, too.
I dunno.
It will all be the same; all his stuff.
You accumulate this shit over the years don’t you. It kind of comes to define your space. Maybe define you, too.
I dunno.
Maybe I’ll sit by the table where we all played poker, and drank until we didn't really care that Rob always won.
Maybe in the chair next to where me and my friend hammered everyone at Pictionary.
Or on the sofa where I’ve slept countless times.
(Sometimes on purpose.)
Maybe in the chair next to where me and my friend hammered everyone at Pictionary.
Or on the sofa where I’ve slept countless times.
(Sometimes on purpose.)
Everything will be the same; the house holds memories in its
bricks.
But it will not be the same,
because my friend will not be there.
because my friend will not be there.
Of course, there are no answers to be had.
Many questions, of course. Too many, and too painful too.
But answers are a trickier proposition.
The Victorian street will not say anything, because it has
seen everything there is to see a thousand thousand times before, and it knows not to pry.
It knows there’s nothing that can be done.
Nothing that can be really, truly said.
And that both of those things are OK.
It knows that time won’t heal, but that time will soften and fade the sharper barbs, that scar tissue may turn into a personal reminder of better times past.
That smiles will return.
They might be wonky; there might be extra lines on the faces.
But the smiles will return.
It knows there’s nothing that can be done.
Nothing that can be really, truly said.
And that both of those things are OK.
It knows that time won’t heal, but that time will soften and fade the sharper barbs, that scar tissue may turn into a personal reminder of better times past.
That smiles will return.
They might be wonky; there might be extra lines on the faces.
But the smiles will return.
And the sun will still come up the next day.
And the local urchins will still hurl bottles at students’ heads before
running away.
And the offy will still sell shitty lager to skint idiots.
And the world will turn again.
And again.
And again.
Sometimes all you can hope for is not to fall off isn’t it.
Thursday, 18 May 2017
CC Rider
So another one’s gone.
52 is pretty young, for a man, these days.
For a rock star? That’s also kinda old.
But 52 is too young to be gone.
And it’s not cool to go young.
52 is pretty young, for any man, any day.
To leave without planning to get cold
Or wanting to, mid-song, is wrong.
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