Graveyard-Yorkshire-London

Yeah, so, I thought I'd try and get back into the regular thing of blogging on a Sunday, telling y'all about what happened in my week - about what actually happened, rather than going on and on about what I want to happen, what I'm temporarily feeling/thinking - and, who knows, I might even do it. This week was a good week: I woke up Monday morning in a graveyard in Newark - you know it's gonna be a good week when it starts in a graveyard - and then spent most of it in South Elmsall, with lovely lovely Laura. A day in Hebden Bridge; a coupla visits to Leeds for an MA interview (Creative Writing; went well) and an afternoon with my dad. Been well over a year since I spent any sort of time with him so we had four or five hours and it was cool, nice stories from his childhood and youth - a bit more detail than previous about hitching down to the Isle of Wight in 1970 (and leaving just as Jimi Hendrix was taking the stage) - and how my great gran would clap him round the head and chase him into the outdoor toilet for the slightest wrong. Discipline. The good old days. That's why I've turned out all right, he says. I don't know what else I did, 'cept write stuff down with pen on paper, little supposéd poems about thoughts and moments: the other plan is to type them here; that's mainly where I'm at these days. Hopefully it'll help wean me off the computer. Nice to realise that I can still write something without it.

Also this week, on Friday I went for a lovely long walk with Laura to Hemsworth to go check out this psychic/clairvoyant she's somehow got herself involved with; I guess she wanted my opinion on him or something, certain uncertainties. My opinion was that he's bonkers. Oh well; still possible she might get something good out of their interactions. And then on Saturday I went down to London, met up with my old friend Paul and went to see some spiritual Indian guy in Brent Town Hall, right where I had my famous Wembley acid trip. Nice to see the old streets again. And the guy was all right: usual mix of mellow vibe, friendly people, bewildering words, exhortations and lack of interest from me. Maybe he had something, maybe he didn't; I don't really care anymore. But I guess giving up the whole spiritual game is a bit like giving up drink: it rarely happens over night. Old habits die hard huh?

Selected:

An interesting thing I've noticed lately

With friends

And I mean good friends

When they're narky with me

And we've got down to the root of it

- and these are their conclusions, not mine -

- for I've always found it surprising -

Is that it's often jealousy that's the cause

They've said:

It's not fair, you always land on your feet

And:

I'd like to live like that but I can't

It's kind of weird

That their solution to these emotions

Is to bring me down

Rather than lift themselves up

Weird

But normal

I get jealous too

I'm not saying that smokers are the scum of the Earth

That they deserve to be shot

Or, at the very least,

Forced to crawl naked through the streets

And made to pick up

With their teeth

Every single foul butt

They've thus far thought it fine

To toss to the ground

I'm not saying that

But I am saying

That they stink

And they make the world stink

And will make you stink too

If you stand too close to them

I fuckin' love modern life

Wherever you go

There's something to do

Even in the deepest woods

The wildest moor

The highest peak

There's signal

Dear Tim Dowling

How did someone

So dull

So irrelevant

So mediocre at writing

Become such a prominent figure

With The Guardian?

Some people say The Guardian

Is the snobbiest

Most condescending

Most up-its-self

Of all British newspapers

Those people are right

In The Guardian weekend magazine today:

Complaining about bad lobster

Kunekune pigs

Being recognised by a chef

Being recognised by a child

Damaging your one million pound violin

A picture of two people looking up a naked pregnant woman's arsehole

Reading Francine Prose in bed

The word "bijou", twice

Some three hundred and sixty five pound trousers

A three hundred and ninety five pound pair of shorts

Casual mocking of provincial towns

White van men

Hooded kids

Lesser newspapers

And the North

An "austerity-busting" lunch

For just twentynine fifty

A nine hundred thousand pound house

Sold by Feng Shui

And

Posh bacon

"It's astounding how often the answer is a bit of bacon"

Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall coos

I stayed the night at my friend's sister's flat in Chelsea

Right on the back of Stamford Bridge

Must be worth a pretty penny

It's a sunny Sunday morn

I'd like to open the windows

But the gap between the roar of the planes

Is only forty-five seconds long

And anyway

The gap is filled

With the sound of traffic and machinery

It's 8 a.m.!

Apparently in Windsor

Where the queen lives

Right by Eton

And right by Heathrow

People sleep with earplugs in

And the windows shake

A few times a minute

In Hounslow

They haven't sat in their gardens

For twenty years

Except when that volcanic ash cloud came over

And normal service resumed

Most of my recent little musings are about London; I shall have to get them tidied up and make a dedicated page or something, should have time this week. Off to the woods tomorrow, to throw some logs around and see if I can't burn off some of this winter fat, which is the best it's ever been. Who'da thought 150 grams of chocolate a day and four months off work woulda destroyed my muscle tone and made me go all roly-poly?