Wednesday, November 30, 2005

Fly-by St. Albans commentary rhapsody

Tommy completes the circle
Originally uploaded by Dolores Luxedo.
And so when you find yourself remaining perfectly still and attempting to align the slimming horizontal stripes on your shirt to an exact 90 degree angle to the floor whilst you string a triangle from the headphones of an imitation ipod and strike the triangle with the triangle beater at the end of an outstreched arm moving only from the shoulder as the sun rises and the sounds of classic rock reverberate through the room, your eyes fixed on the triangle, oblivious to the motions of s shambling parade of the confused around you.

Because this is what happened to me two weeks ago. Me and Anna found ourselves serving ale at the pub as dilemmas arose with the cellar, eventually meaning that a pool of ale-froth built up around our feet, and we had to persuade a couple of the regulars to go down into the cellar and move barrels about. So after some ale froth and other excitement, we finished work, and attempted to bring many regulars with us to Tommy's house. It didn't succeed.

Sounds issued from far down the street. Through the house we struggled, surrounded by a mass of people. Into the garden, where we sipped tea and dipped digestives, to help us digest. Then upstairs to playfully ruffle Dave the Machine's hair. "Hats off" Dave disappoingly has no hat, neither removed or otherwise. Somehow we are surrounded by the stumbling and the confused. Doctor Booth holds court with a glint in his eye and a bottle of wine clenched in his hand. "My boys, my boys." (This is how he refers to the glint and the bottle). I somehow end up talking to a freelance photographer and a young mother for a while. An attempt to make soup goes horribly wrong. Graham dabbles his fingers gently in his micro house. The sun rises. Andy plays breakcore. People leave. Tommy and Dave the Machine stop Andy playing breakcore. Andy plays classic rock. Me and Graham make tea and coffee in pans. Tea in a pan. Tea in a pan! Pan of tea! The coffee becomes irish. The Cheap Imitation Baileys falls into place. Potion. What happened? Pan of tea.

"the kindest and the wisest man"

Originally uploaded by Dolores Luxedo.
Harry J F Wykes 1952 - 2005

A legend. Waes Hael! Trustee of the Kibbo Kift, legendary among the Woodcraft Folk. Who says they're not DFs! "Hi Harry" "No comment". The White Hart Tap Barbeque. The Kibbo Kift Rock Opera blaring from his car as he arrives. Monkey Chuddies. Glastonbury. "I won that fight we had at AG". Wearing John Hargreaves' white cloak. "That's the trouble with modernisers, they never worked out how to count. Hope you're not using the rhythm method, Tamsin". Axes. Black cloaks and bootleg hoodies. Futtocks. "Sure beats the hell out of me."

Wednesday, November 09, 2005

(time passes)

dog costumes
Originally uploaded by hyperbolation.
Once again, we haul out the Virginia Woolf stylee parentheses. Where, as some would state, life is found.

So yesterday I discovered this; Oh!. Wow. I got in the free Brighton press! Well exciting.

So on Saturday I was sitting on a staircase sipping at Whisky and Ginger when we met this boy who was considerably smaller than me. Now I'm not exactly the tallest of people, being one inch off dwarfhood, but "Tom", or "Smally" was definately several inches below my height.

Brighton Beach, Afternoon stroll with Rosie

Here's a picture of me and Elboo to display both of our diminutive stature. So sadly my encounter with "Smally" ended when Elboo picked him up over her head, and ran off, waving him around the place. Poor kid. I'm sad to have witnessed a piece of size-based discrimination.

A man in the Basketmakers Arms yesterday compared me to David Cameron. He didn't stick around long enough for me to discover what aspect of my appearance / personality / dubious family history caused this association with everyone's favourite potential Tory leader (now Ken and Boris have dropped out of the race), and I hope it's not my refusal to answer questions about cocaine and the use of birds of prey in fox hunts. An Eagle Owl? Honestly! Second only to "Whale Adventure" in Unusual Animal Use This Week.

Well, that and the fact that Little Tom has finally released the Little Dog.

The Cameron comparer, I am also sorry to say, has a stack of videos beside his bed, including Helen Daniels' death. Which makes my copy of Drew's Funeral almost pale in comparison.

I made tomato-bread, which would have been really nice if I hadn't put cinnamon in it. Rosemary, perhaps. Mixed italian herbs, maybe. But cinnamon? What the devil was I thinking?

I've got plenty more to say. It's been a week since I last wrote on here. But for the time being, I shall stop, and will hopefully continue tonight once I return home. I have 25 minutes to history class, and I need to go get coffee and cigarettes and write more abusive messages to the Hegel-remover. Honestly!

Wednesday, November 02, 2005

"incest-ridden doss house"

Originally uploaded by Dolores Luxedo.
This has to be the coolest phrase I've heard all week.

Bless you Alice. And Happy Birthday!

The teeth of the piano

Sometimes you underestimate the effect music can have. The week has skuttled past like an otter. Time is short. Sleep is fitful. Poetry night was mildly parodic and sleep took me and we went in search of chips.

I'm in a state of some disassociation at the moment. It's hard to pin down. In Sheffield, perhaps it could be described as wappy. In many ways things couldn't be better. Oh, the eternal conflict between creativity and apathy. Oh, to have the time to work hard and play hard. Work hard, that is, as in have an extended period of creativity, rather than pull pints to pay the rent.

Some people make a living working in banks and shops,
But I pour ale for old men, let them tug upon my mutton chops.

I do love it dearly, however.

Omlettes in cafes, oranges in the soup, walking with sheep. Crouching down in the rolling countryside as a series of fat sheep mutter around us and the rolling hills live up to their name and spin like a classy resteraunt, like, rural.

Clutching a speaker, sitting on a moving trolley and on the ground with grandfather's legacy on my shoulders and taking hold of us. Rosie's feet poked from the bin and it took me and a kindly rasta to free her. Double dates and double whiskys.

I just went into Tom's room. He's had a small dog in there for a few days, and one of those umbrellas they use for school photos. He's been dressing it up in all sorts of outfits, mostly victorian. I don't know where he found the dog. I can only hope he bought it. I have visions of "LOST DOG" posters, accompanied by little 'Claude', sans clownsuit.