Okay, here goes nothing...

Right. Here goes.

So today is the final day of July. And originally it was going to be a new August revolution, although tomorrow is also Pride so I might actually go and get drunk in the park with the gays tomorrow, and start the revolution shortly after. To be honest, it's more a resolution than a revolution.

Now firstly a bit of a preamble/disclaimer. I am not Stephen King. I did not kill John Lennon. I haven't finished reading On Writing by Stephen King yet, but one of the things that stood out for me from this (other than Stevie being v. defensive about being labelled as a 'popular writer') is his; "People say 'do you only write when the muse visits you'? I say yes. I do. And the muse visits me between 9am and 5pm, monday to friday."

Now that's all very well, Stevie. And to be fair to him, he writes a bloody darn lot. At some other point if I get the time I'll get into the awful situation that faces Stevie K - the fact that it's 20 years since he wrote The Stand, and he's never going to get even close to writing anything even half as good. I haven't read The Stand.

So, anyway. Revolutions.

I neither have the time or the money to flirt with the muse as much as Stevie does, but I also have a bit more time than I currently set aside to actually writing. So here's the plan. Come august (proper), there's going to be a good deal less of the smokin' and the booze. (Again, S.K. doesn't even remember writing Cujo, he was so whacked up on goofballs. Well, fine. I don't even remember reading Cujo.)

And this is where I bite the bullet where my mouth is. This is the target, sir. One piece a week. Not much, to be fair. Let's clarify that. One GOOD piece a week. A poem or a story. I'm only allowed to cop out and do a 4 line poem... rarely.

I know it's not the best place to be posting these, given that it's a vintage blog that's fallen into disrepair and I never really come back to visit, but until I can teach myself all the advances in webdesign that have happened since 1999, I don't really know if I can teach myself to make a better website. So yes. On here. From August. And please do send me abuse if I let things slide.

meandering nostalgia

i can't promise this is going to make any sense. I've always been a nostalgic person, used to say I only did things in the present tense in order to sort out a new set of memories "we're making our own flashbacks" still listen to the music of 1997 and the past is important. from about 1998 I was into making websites and somehow got sidetracked into thinking with that grave importance of youth that what you write ought to be serious. took me a couple of years to escape that - I don't think I do serious very well and to be honest don't need to...

at the moment I'm being (haunted isn't the right word) by names and faces from the past - each broken connection each missing person each letter unanswered .. I can't stand my own inability to keep in touch with people - and I see flashes from the past, each as crisp as the bright spring day (didn't I tell you I remember everything?)

and never forget / and never look back

when you write poetry I don't think it's about words that like each other, it's about fresh words, and this is what's so important about cliches - they were once beautiful words; as Jacob says, "you could cut the atmosphere with a knife" - when coined, this sounds so fresh! such an exciting metaphor! these days you wouldn't dare use it and a good job too... and so for years I've wanted to write about moments in the past, to crystallise them, not like a butterfly collector but forever fresh and sharp as a memory or a thought and a place that you hadn't given a thought to for years but suddenly comes as if no time had ever passed, the "fizzy movie tomorrows", the power of teenagers and of a way of looking at the world that you'll never be able to do again; nothing so trite as "my friends are so beautiful / i want to die" a true untainted sense of euphoria (no dance anthems please) more like the soar of smashing pumpkins through the park I guess

god I can't believe I'm talking about fresh words and lapsing into cliche. this is the point, I think... for years I've been trying to write about these vital moments and find myself either as muted and awkward as a youth or as serious and filled with passionate intensity as a youthful website...

there has to be a way.

The Holy Roman Empire VS H & H Fried Chicken and Kebabs

Twas the night before Christmas
And all over the town
Nothing was moving
Not a mouse made a sound

And we find our young hero
Sat here by the bar
Merry-making around him
Drinking beer by the jar

The tavern was busy
High spirits abound
And he joins in the singing
And buys the next round

Now Alex was a good Catholic boy
As I’m sure you all can see
And he counted out his blessings
Like beads on a rosary

For even the Pope has a tipple
And the odd glass of port is just fine
So Alex drank the Holy Spirits
With a sip of Communion Wine

For there was no Chance of Damnation
And risking the torments of Hell
Until things began to go badly
It begun with the sound of a bell

That’s last orders please!
Come along ladies, and gentlemen, please!
That’s last orders at the bar!

It was ten minutes before Christmas
Alex lowered his glass
And bidding farewell to his companions
He set off to Midnight Mass

He cheerily strolled along churchwards
Wrapped tightly in his scarf
With the tiniest sway and a stumble
Tapdancing round snails on the path

But as Alex took the forty steps
A temptation came his way
The smell of grease and cooking meat
Made his attentions go astray

Meat glistened and spun on its pillar
Burgers sizzled upon the flame grill
The scent of onions filled his senses
And gave our young hero a thrill

He eyed up the tubs of chillis
The sensation was divine
And it happened on this very evening
He put his immortal soul on the line.

The chicken was thrown on the griddle
Whilst flames burned under like hell
And for the second time that evening
There rang out the sound of a bell

You want salad?
O María, Virgo et Mater sanctíssima,
Chilli sauce?
ecce suscépi dilectíssimum Fílium tuum,
Lettuce?
quem immaculáto útero tuo concepísti,
Mayonnaise?
genuísti, lactásti atque suavíssimis
Garlic Mayo?
ampléxibus strinxísti. Ecce, cuius aspéctu
You want warm pitta bread?
laetabáris et ómnibus delíciis replebáris,

No thunderbolt ever struck Alex
And he watched Gokan cooking instead
Who trans-substantiated Rubicon
And broke the pitta bread

Alex never got to church that night
Though goodwill was wished to all men
And after his hot chicken feasting
He never went in there again

But he waits for that day of judgement
When the last of the seals is broke
When the whore and the horsemen go riding
When all is fire, and brimstone, and smoke

For only then will he discover
If he has an immortal soul
Or if it turns out that he sold it
For an H & H chicken roll.

Now here's a funny thing...

Back in the days when I actually used to write stuff on here, was it:

a) Because there was more exciting stuff going on for me to write about,
or
b) Because there was less exciting stuff going on, giving me more time to write,
or
c) Less free time AND less exciting stuff...
or
d) None of the above.

I really hope it isn't C.

Party Politics and Wikipedia

... these are a few of my favourite things.

So I haven't posted anything for a good while - all I really seem to use this blog for these days is to pass on messages to my contacts in the Chinese secret service, but what with the latest Tories changing facts on Wikipedia fiasco, I thought it's worth pointing out a few other things that the IP listed to Conservative Central Office has seen fit to alter over time.

Some particular highlights include making the Tory party the oldest political party in the world, slandering poor Ipswich, and defending one of their MPs being made a fool of by Chris Morris.

Particular failures of Oliver "Don't Let Letwin Win" Letwin are smoothed over, whilst any suggestion that BNP leader Nick Griffin was ever a Young Conservative has been taken out.

But it's not all about changing history. There's still an opportunity for that delicate Tory wit ... or are warthogs going to be discriminated against in Davey C's manifesto?

... feverish

Mark Bellinghaus
Originally uploaded by Dolores Luxedo

Don't normally get ill. Always been quite smug about having a SOLID STEEL constitution and years without a sickday. Soldiered on for a week or so not being able to eat anything more substantial than peanuts and chocolate and drink anything healthier than stout. with the belief that I had recovered simply for the reason I could eat again I said "god, if I ever get ill again I might take some time off work, rest..."

I don't think I was really any more well... been feverish and my ear swelled up to twice its normal size - all red and twisted out of shape. had a couple of days off work and been wandering in and out of sleep. The doctor stuffed me full of antibiotic and told me never to wear an ear-ring ever again. back at work today still loaded with antibiotic and little apple-shaped vitamin c apples.

checkuser. I need to find a new hobby.

other than that I seem to have been sucked into creating a papier mache theme night or something along those lines - and becoming deeply sucked into party politics intrigue - I think it started with the labour party conference and have since been avidly studying every piece of credit crunch solution, as well as watching videos on the internet of tony arguing with michael howard in 1990. is that cool?

let sleeping blogs lie

Heck, I love a bad pun. But there is something pretty sad about an abandoned blog. Not to mention the fact that if you read someone's blog, and then they just suddenly stop posting, you start worrying about them, right? "My goodness. I sure hope they're still alive."

Well, at least this one trailed off rather than ended suddenly. Whimper not bang.

I keep thinking about starting it up again. Each time I just have a lack of faith that I'll actually keep it up. We shall see.

Plus if I look back through the archives (it's a pretty handy way of remembering what happened when) it's a whirling bundle of excitement. Was it all so much more exciting back then? Or does it just seem so in retrospect? I have rose tinted eyes in the back of my head.

A lot of things have happened. It's the end of summer, I think. I bought a book of Old English Customs (in an attempt to re-capture my Englishness after a discussion in Scotland that the Scots, Irish, Welsh, Cornish, etc seem so much more aware of their regional identity than the English. Except for Morris Dancing.) and was filled with melancholy. All the best bits are the "Sumer is icumen in, Lhude sing cuccu!" rituals of the arrival of the May. Last year we went up to Hollingbury Hill Fort at dawn on the first day of May to watch the Morris Men dance in the summer. It was incredible. Shivering on top of a hill with a bunch of weary morris men and a fire, and then they danced as dawn broke and sang in the summer. And then they all wandered into town to get loads of breakfast and dance around town until they collapsed. Coarse coarse men.

So, in a way, it's the opposite of that now. September has sulked its way in with a flurry of rain, slumped like a damp umbrella in the corner.

The summer itself has had its ups and downs. Late august has always seemed a dangerous time. "It's always the dangerous time."

So we shall see. I'm not going to even start trying to fill in everything that has happened. Let's see what Autumn brings.

Certain members of our friendship group...

So, it's been a few months. I'm in St. Albans sipping John Smith's Original Bitter after a night at the Rat's Castle. That fortress from the war of the roses, overlooking hatfield road with a watchful eye. I bought a Londis lighter. It's been a long time since June. I'm going to attempt to step backwards towards that time, bloggue wise. Wish me luck. I once summarised Neighbours for the last two years for Frank Tong. We were in the Bee Hive. I was in the Bee Hive yesterday. It has become a wine bar and Nina works behind the bar. At this point I realised that I had been going to the Bee Hive for 10 years now. And it has had six re-fits. When I first went to the goat Alan was 12. When you have to commit to work then it is harder to take a holiday. I am listening to the song about the day the music died. Richard Whiteley conspiracy theory. I'm in St. Albans. We moved out of our house overlooking Hanover like an owl, perched in the pepper pot. We get a new house on Tuesday. It's on Queens Park Road. I pushed my hand into the drain, in the old house, up to the elbow, but still it wouldn't unblock. We paid an 80 yr old man to mend the drain. We painted all the walls and moved all our stuff to underneath the Pomplex. The Pomplex is where the Pombear lives, growling at the walls for his honey. Daniel Taylor lived at our house for six months and then moved to cornwall and shooed the drug fiends from looe and walked across the river and cycled off into the wilderness and didnt eat or sleep but took off all his clothes and wandered in the woods until it started raining and he came home. Now inspired by discovering the meaning of words he has taken on being the chef and cooking hearty pub lunches. When we cut open the chair he would sleep on, we discovered a great stash of pound coins and blocks of rave puff. On the 9th of July was my birthday and on the 8th of July was Hanover day, which was a parade! with Dale Who and I was greeted in the morning with the gentle hooting of the teasmaid a Narwhal a Tapir and an Owl! Animal heads, borne by my friends and with a leap we dressed and took part in the Hanover Day Parade baying and whistling. Dale Who writes erotic stargate fan fiction. Over the last two days, in St. Albans, I have become consumed with some delighful fan fiction, including delightful episode of EROTIC NIRVANA FAN FICTION. Jesus Christ. It's ***exactly*** like my dreams.

Hanover Day was fantastic. After the Animal Parade, we meandered around the joy, with a whole "endangered species" flurry of urgency and excitement. Keith Trampleasure, morris dancing bearing the head of an owl. We got in the Hanover Directory. Tom and Joe made me a cake in the shape of Stuart Lubbock. He is just floating there in the pool (made of blue jelly, he is made of marzipan) with the apple in his ass. It's horrible. It was horrible. And somehow the most beautiful gesture I could ever possibly think of.

He went mouldy, in the end. We buried him in Queens Park. I've been trying to finish my book. It's called "CITY BOY IN BLIND SPOT TRAUMA". It's a collection of poems and short stories. It's totally nearly ready. But it's been totally near ready for a few weeks anyway. I'm totally lame and slack.

Alan is working as a gay text jockey and trying to move to Amsterdam. Nicky P is pumping weights in the cellar. Amy is an animal impersonator-for-hire. Jed keeps hearing micro-house in the back of his head. Andy has lost his bike. Rosanne is hooked on hot dogs. Tom has now recieved his hood and cloak from KKK supplies. Alice is pregnant. Uncle Chris got fisted.