Dismember 1st / Clean 'Thirteen

                            Can't remember anything starting from Dec31st'11. No Rpts pls.
                                                                  What you didn't miss:

Death pRattle

Well well.
Perched, waiting on a kiddies ride this evening in the Morpeth branch of Morrison, I heard a quiet, little mechanical voice coming from the next machine -a motorbike affair, sayin, in a most persuasive tone "Come on, have a go?!" This message was being beamed out from the very bottom of the machine, only audible to those around 2 to 3 feet high. 'I always told they were broken', said mother dear.

My mind can turn up ver little from the past few months. The deluge of photos I have just upoaded from my camerphone would tell a different story, and thus I must backtrack, complete and repose a few worthy projects, and one ballad of dread in pale, by means of note for excuse, for public consumption, if one dozen counts as public. Let's take it one day at a time, okay?

Stumbling as I have been through bad weather to worse, it has to be said it has on occasion been from interesting place to place.  I've shot a lot of film, much of which has yet to be developed and printed, let alone scanned in, but we have a few phone shots, as means of grainy illustration
startling here;

As the cracks start to widen and heave under the sheer weight of legislated misery dished out  to the country's non-super rich, in the post Olympic drizzle, the large unoccupied semi derelict business buildings in central London's Holborn district fill rapidly with all kinds of new squatters. The anti-residential law recently past has pushed many out of once safe homes, and a the city center throbbing the rhythm of the damp dead Olympic London spectacle. 

The skill of experienced buildings crackers soaks up the need of the city center homeless and several buildings in central London are, in turn as each is evicted and moved a few doors down or across, housing upwards of 60 persons.
The mesh of middle class politicos, artist-come-activists, alcoholics and crusties now find themselves in new unexpected roles they generously, out of a humanity lacking a short walk away in Whitehall fulfil, such as carers for mentally disabled people, who have been literally dropped off in squats by their  now defunct carers and social workers, as they are, despite not being able to even clean themselves, booted from their housing as the Disability Welfare is withdraw.

On a fully serious and horrific point, there are folk being housed in huge ex-corporate buildings in London who are badly, sadly disabled -able just to string sentences, suffering dirty (though not unfed, as through mass activity on part of the skip-divers and the compassion of the chain food stores in this part of london where it is possible to see 5 branches of Eat, Starbucks, Wasabi, Etc, Etc form any one standpoint).  Able squatters pour out their plastic cups of cider and allow them free reign of the computers where they blast out Bon Jovi on repeat - the stress and unrewdared responsibility of this is enormous, of course it's not terrific to placate the unproductive desires of ones who should be getting a lot more help, but these new carers have their own lives to sort, and it is better, after all then leaving them, as the 'Coalition' is apparently happy to, on the streets as the weather starts to freeze.  They'll die.

Helping a friend move from this thoroughly spent building, we packed up and headed on to another property, which was rather special, in being an ex-masonic lodge in a beautiful west London pub, left with fully stocked alcohol and food, by an owner who very clearly bought the property at a loss so as to  convert it into flats, much to the chagrin of Chelsea Marina residents. No-ones happy are they? Apart from anyone who happens to be in the squatted pub, which rather a luck-out!

After a slap up meal and a few nips of the green fairy, I took a very long walk away, stopping by Oscar Wilde, one of the neighbours', house. We're all in the gutter, as he said..I can't remember the rest of that one. It was a cloudy night.

Tribalism removed / WHO ARE YA

Since the 1980s, in consumer technology manufacture there has been a jaggedly multiplying and strikingly uneven contrasting tidal float of Quality / Ease.  The old ancient holy concepts of Time and Value diluted and refracted into the mundane daily realism of cheap music and laughs. 

This 

becomes This

                                                                            This

becomes This

And so on and so forth until one is in the peculiar position of watching,  on one of the plethora of Macbook pros to be found in any self-respecting art-school abode, a shitty stream of live football, acoustically accompanied by a wall of tiny spanish noise commentary, barely legible 7 pixel dots moving around a larger 3 pixel green/grey oblong. 

Much like following a text-based live fed of an event, goings on are rendered to little more than sterile figments of an augmented data sheet reality. 

Snotty 'the alt-view' columnists, when routinely trotting out a 'My-feircely-independant-mind-doesn't-care-about-sport-you-morons/sheep/plebs(when topical)' piece will usually lead their argument by sneering at the 'We' collective noun that peppers sports team discussion. 'YOU didn't win that' game, they crow. 

No, but perhaps surrendering one's hopes and happiness onto a man or woman selected and celebrated, Godly and decorated with a region's colours and tones is indeed quite an awing demonstration of a mystical unpragmatic humanity.  It is a character building experience, especially when supporting a team who barely ever win. 

And Man U are cheating scum. 

No money, no hope, Looking sharp

credit to a.j

Not Golfing But Drowning

A brief gap in the clouds implores the modern Englishman and Lady a brief glimmer of inspiration to shove the usual this :

For This

So, How can the average zero-income flea bitten 20 something true-intelligentsia pass themselves off on the golf course? 

With great ease. 

Dress up. Secure equiptment. 

We happened into a charity shop that was attempting to sell golf clubs for FIVE POUNDS EACH. 

This was  remedied by M. Silcox simply repeating 'That's Much, Much,  too Much you know. Does anyone ever buy these?' to the man who proved easily overpowered into our way of thinking.

One cannot carry clubs in one's pocket- a problem no more with unique patent Truller Lino Golf bag (not pictured) - Ingredients- lino, gaffa tape, felt tip pen. 

 Golf tip: DO Go when it is pouring with rain. No one else is there, because it's fucking horrible, that's why. 

Golf Philosophy: Alcoholics can never get any better at golf, only progressively worse.  

Golfbye x

By the way this is a nice old documentary about a golf club in the early 90s

Understanding England No.47

I haven't been able to read for ages. I haven't been able to concentrate. Until I rescued the above book from a steaming death via the shower in our bathroom. It's great. Our 3 bed house now houses, roughly, seven or eight.  It's quite nice but it means I have been alerted anew to the worrying noise-nusiance my teeth make in my sleep, grinding away into nothing.

I haven't been able to do anything because I seem to spend every day battling the ever more ridiculous faculties of the Department for No Work.

As I haven't written for a while, here are a few reflections on what cannot even passably be called 'this Summer.'

Apparently the most over-subscribed service in Peckham, a town gone mental, in it's collective wintry African frustration, for (sigh), the Fifty shades of Gray debacle / series. 
The same fat awld wimmin who literally bash their Bibles of usual, have taken to walking round with the thing held high in the air like so many extinguished replica Olympic torches.  I don't care about how bad the book is, I really don't mind what other people read, which to observe recent 'literary criticism' of the prolific tombs, seems peculiar. 

Silly Sunderland battered missus associations get the wrong end of the, er, stick, but mostly you have your average Guardian ( insert your own endless offensive adjectives) Twat falling over themselves to snottily imply to everyone how worldly they are, and that this world should, of course, belong to them, viewed subjectively by their considered, narrow, black rimmed arsehole glasses.

(I can't stop myself from going there, I am now never, ever, buying the Guardian again after buying an issue in which the supplement's main feature, I discovered, was assorted Cunts discussing 'What their evening meal says about them'. Unpredictably- in terms of a new low, low editorial calibre, 8 pages disscussing use of the word 'Supper', which apparently is a 'Class-loaded' concept -Predictably, everyone falling over themselves to describe how it was never used when they lived up a chimney down a pit clothed only in flat caps sewn together with hardened human feaces, before they managed to chance it in to Cambridge....I'll stop now anyway)

ANYWAY. And apparently it (S&M, the very idea) does (belong to them, the shits) ! The oddest thing seems to be how apparently unaware of the very existence of anything approaching weird sex a large proportion of Blighty's populous is. Which I find impossible to understand. Don't they watch telly?

It's been fucking everywhere for fucking ever. Fucking, every where. Weirdly.

Which brings us neatly on to my next topic, thank you.
As I was sitting in a friend's bedsit in Peckham, a borough you may be correct in assuming I now cant afford to leave ever, the room filled with a gradual and sinister buzzing.  Smoothly, reaching down the side of his broken, and rather worn bed, for a  riding crop he had deigned to  possition down there, like an assassin (ass-ass-in?) he swatted a big fat wasp, good and proper. I gleefully took my position as spectator as he battered the fucking thing into smithereens. PETA be hanged. Now let me be clear. I don't kill animals, although I recently was complicit in the hoovering up of a huge Cardinal spider, but one which has been terrorizing the house for over 9 months, and has been politely and fairly shown the door many, many times.
But, I hate wasps with an utter passion. The only reason I don't kill wasps, is that I am far too frightened of them, and cack-handed, and more frightened still of enraging them by attempting to kill them. But it got me thinking. Wasps look fairly like ugly new Super-bikes, or spaceships, or something harshly super modernistic, the kind of design you'd see on a shit dutch tech superclub  poster. I wonder what they made of them in the distant past. Or even the recent past. Any past preceding the 1980s.
It's a wonder those sort of beasts didn't usher in some new sort of futuristic aesthetic. Mad Flying Danger.

My insect sensitivity is currently at an all time high, thanks to a flee infestation, and next door knocking their entire kitchen down thus turning our gaff into a spider refugee camp.  The irony, of all the homeless boys I let stay in my house, bitterly moaning about 'MY' fleas.
Well I'm sorry. If you don't like it then go and shoplift some flea spray. I can't even be bothered.

One more thing. A pissed man on the street asked me why so many blonde girls dye their roots black. How long may have that question plagued him?

quick note on

For all the importance, or lack of it, which can be, incorrectly or not, applied to any use or abuse, as they more commonly say, something separate, must be said for one.
As a participant from my early life, of what has always been foolishly grouped as one 'exploit', or another, I'm repeatedly struck by the strength, or to be honest, intrinsicness of, one.
Some things get you, in a funny way, you could never have predicted, probably due to the aforehinted, grouped-togetherness, of certain things far more then is permissible.
It seems overly dramatic to ascribe to one element, ( apt scientificies escape me, being but a lay) of certain accessible concentrations of the world available to us which simply defy explanation, understanding, or as we usually understand these things, Control.
Can something understood as, beheld as a matta part be, in its own right, a being in itself, possessing a personality, an edge, a vibe, as it were? Can an element concentrate, in what has always stood in civilized, hisorcized human relic, have it's own evil? It's own definitive power, drive, resonance as that which cannot be simply dealt with, like the others, but rather deals out, the proceedings?

Things all have their own atomic structure, and with it their acoustic resonance, which chimes with certain beings and not others, co-ordinating, chording perfectly, or imperfectly, like the minor scales which so long were forbidden in western musical sensibility, completing an imperfect, exiting, threatening, appealing harmony to those not satisfied with the current niceity?

E=MCERIA RISING

Benzo day-mares

"We have to have some secrets, Darling!"

I am in the beginning stages of co-editing a feature length Movie! This will be released earliest 2014, and only then depending on weather or not a certain political administration is successful in it's attempted Thousand Year Reich!



And, on the subject of this blog's stolen title, Ne'er was a truer word spoken...

'its a crazy fuckin world..'

                        

Stills

Went back up North recently, it was largely very silent. It was nice to have a bit of quiet..wonder if I might move cities..If i get shot with a sonic boom weapon during 'the games' that will probably be the last straw.  The highlight, which i'll show you once i wrestle it out of a dead-battery video cam, was seeing the fall in near riotous conditions, as the very bottom picture of my legs is testiment to.  There's a few more of these, and a few more new scans on flickr, HERE.

I am about to be 23

( a happy acompanyment, on 2 or 3 levels www.youtube.com/watch?v=a7FqUNlEdwA )


23! What an surprise that is!
In hope of fending off  impending old-bastardom I've dyed my hair orange, a sure fire way of making oneself look 'younger and mentaler'..oh yeah, giz a job?

What have I achieved? I've lied so many times about what GCSE's I have I can't remember whether I  have, even a conservative 8.  I've got 3 AS levels; 2 D's in photography and psychology, and a U in philosophy. I can't even say for certain whether I've a degree because we get the marks tomorrow! Happy birthday, yeah?!

I've only ever broken my chin and coxicxix (the arse bone, however it's spelled), and most significantly, I've never died.
On the subject, and as I'm moving further and further from morose teenage liscence to be morbid, (two sad posts in a row is pushing it) Ill take this last opportunity to say this;

It both breaks my heart, and infuriates me on many levels, that trailblazing-troll and all-round cool-guy Dave Richmond, will never see the fruits of  his labour-

Time was, any man (not women who weren't allowed, much like the vote) could edit Wikipedia, lacing it with lies so pointless, they would often never be discovered.
Enter Dave's habit of writing himself into things, with the specific lie about  notable Byker Grove character 'drug dealer Dave Richmond from Whitley Bay whose trademark act of violence was the 'Whitley Smile'' whic has  now been sewn into so many sloppy, aspsuemed, false nostalic pieces of 'informtion' online.
It's strange to think that people will be now unconsicously straining out fake memories of Dave Richmond from whitley bay, and now memories is all there is...stranger still, come to think, a truth that has become resembling in a way the detail of that originally false article, is, coincidently, that a great number of folk have in tribute to Daves tattoo, an Acid house smiley face inked into them..a smiley mark for life..life/art/fact/fiction/WHAT!?


Christ alive. After all that meta-tradge, I'll leave you on another tone - a card arrived yesterday from my Nana.  I cannot fail to be impressed by her almost valiant attempt to ignore my personality, or style, or whatever you want to call it. Any other card really, would have been more suited. Here it is :

The thing is, me and my nana are no strangers. It's not like she lived in like Lancaster and I only saw her at Christmas. My nana lived on the same estate, one street round from me, approximately 2 minutes walk, 45 seconds full sprint. I went to her house 3 times week for tea!

And yet I am gifted with a card that seems to feature quite accurate  portraits of the kind of girls who gave me grief in school for wearing black nail varnish and smoking dope.

At 23 I am not going to change my scruffy-lass stripes. This reminds me of  the pictures she showed me of me standing in the back yard miserably dressed as a 'Lyons maid'; I'm still not quite sure what one of those is, suggesting it was not my idea.

I also quite appreciate that her message is written with quotation marks around it .  I will indeed be seeing my nana soon, as I will be staying at her house, right where I used to live, for a day or two. Back to square one. And if I do fail my degree, I can just stay there forever and ever, and I wont have to think about london ever again, and I can only eat chip sandwiches, or crisp sandwiches, because I'll be under the roof of the woman who came out with the corker "what about...Is bacon meat?"

Mind you, she's fuckin amazing!

OH by the way, click >>heeeereeeee<<!

Conceptual Boyfriend

About a week ago another talented life-force and sweet girl left us.

It's always stark that lazies, miseries, do-nothings or divas grind away into old, old age..
Goodbye Ari up, Poly Styrene, Donna Summer - yet still old Stones keep rolling

Goodbye bright friends, hello again old wretches.
Not to try to apply value structures to that which is, always tortuously, unchangeable anyway.

Here's to Hilary Donald -a fine artist who lived it.  X

5 AM at Our House