my life as a artist
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living in tv times
Tuesday 31st July 2007 2:56 PM
On Saturday night, just as I was getting ready to go out, I turned into a werewolf (again), so I decided to stay in. I thought it must have been the big moon, so I got a few tins of dog food in and watched the telly, until it waned. There wasn't much else I could do. I thought it might be poetic to play a Howling Wolf number on the guitar, but my vicious, hairy claws kept breaking the strings, so I did 'Do the Do' on didgeridoo, instead.
I find it difficult to socialise when I'm a werewolf. I feel self-conscious about my hairy face and big ears, and when I feel people are judging me, I can get quite aggressive, so I think it's best to stay in. When I'm in that state, muesli just doesn't do it for me, not even Alligator's organic deluxe with added walnuts (and it sticks in my fangs), so I eat dog food as a source of safe protein. Between the hours of midnight and 3 a.m. the telly is a great source of vicarious violence, and I find it useful for engaging my lycanthropic urges until they abate.
Last night I watched a fascinating documentary about an illegal immigrant from India, living in a small town in the United States, where all the inhabitants have four fingers, and are, for the most part, yellow. As the manager of the local Quickie Mart, his sense of cultural dislocation was expressed delightfully. 'Who needs the infinite compassion of Ganesh, when I can have the cold, staring, dead eyes of Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman?'
It might appear from this blog that I spend a lot of time watching television, which is not really true. The only programmes I deliberately tune into are The Simpsons and Match of the Day. If I'm a werewolf or feeling uninspired, ill or simply brain-dead, then I might do a bit of late-night channel-surfing. It's as though the planet is a drowning man, and the telly is his life flashing before his inner eye.
The best description of the telly that I've ever heard is from Romeo and Juliet (I think). 'What light through yonder window breaks? It speaks yet says nothing.'
Posted 2:56 PM | 2 Comments | Permalink
innit
Sunday 29th July 2007 9:23 PM
'I experience the simple consciousness of only God in everyday life, innit'
'No you don't!'
'Yes I do!'
'Well if you do, I bet you drift in and out of it. I'm like so totally in it all the time'
'No you're not!'
'Yes I am! And what's more, sometimes I go beyond it and experience the eternal preluminous void prior to all manifestation, innit'
'I bet you don't!'
'Yes I do!'
'Prove it!'
'No'
'Why not?'
'I've got a bit of a cold'
'Do you want to try one of these Locketts? They're rock-hard lumps of artificial sugar, with a honey-flavoured medicated gloop in the middle. They'll get rid of it in no time.'
'Thanks. Mmm! Splintery!'
'This preluminous void that you mentioned, did it last very long?'
'Yeah, it was eternal, innit'
'Wow! That's ages…… I bet there was loads of well good things to look at, though!'
' No, it was prior to all manifestation, innit'
'Wasn't it a bit boring?'
'No, it was really wicked'
'Has your cold gone yet?'
'No'
'Do you want another Lockett?'
I overheard this conversation this morning, on the bus, on the way to Acomb. It was two young men, who to be honest looked a bit chavvy. I find it reassuring that, despite the wide availability of electronic media and the myriad distractions of the twenty-first century, the youth are still interested in exploring the outer (inner) limits of consciousness. Innit.
Posted 9:23 PM | 3 Comments | Permalink
a bit of bitty blog
Wednesday 25th July 2007 11:26 PM
Hello everybloggy,
I'd like to thank those of you who've left comments on this blog. Two of you, (It could be more, 'disappointed of Yatesbury' might be a collective) have pointed out, quite rightfully, but a little too bluntly, that George Melly is dead. I knew that, and I knew that you knew that, and I expected you to expect me to know that too, but now that I know that you thought I didn't know, I realise I should have made it more obvious that I knew. It was an attempted literary device that failed, and I'm sorry if it's led to any mistrust on your part.
'Disappointed of Yatesbury', after the Melly farrago, now suspects that all these blogs are pure invention. Only Harry Potter and News at Ten are pure invention. These docu-blogs are cyber-info-tainment, real observations, using real words, based on real events, that actually happened, in my mind.
D of Y also points out that the magic validation word, (a comment box filter to stop me being offered Viagra) is a sort of I Ching. Today's synchronous offering is the word, 'touch', conjuring up images of madness, genius, eroticism and football pitches. I don't know about you, but that really says something to me.
(Even though this is only a new paragraph to you, to me it's a brand new day, and twenty-one hours since the last sentence. It's not essential for you to know this, but I want to be honest with you because I'm trying to win back some of your trust after the George Melly debacle. This frank admission isn't really part of the loose narrative of the blog, so I've put it in parentheses, and as far as you and I are concerned, the only thing that's changed in our cyber-world is the magic validation word. It's now 'feed')
'Schadenfreude' is one of those fabulous german compound words that means taking pleasure in someone else's misfortune, and today I think I was guilty of it. I'm not proud of the fact that a small, wry smile flickered on my lips when I heard that the floods had reached Henley-on-Thames, or that I punched the air in exultant triumph and arranged a celebration dinner.
Although a boorishly northern and small-minded thing to do, it comforted me to know that those who inhabit lavishly furnished rooms, just off the corridors of power, first left, second door on the right, and think that Hull and Toll Bar are ship parts, are more likely to have heard of Henley-on Thames, and therefore more likely to shift their lardy bottoms and start stitching strategic sandbags.
News at Ten reported that when the emergency services were handing out bottled water to the residents of Henley-on-Thames, many of them were refusing it, because it wasn't Perrier.
As the dead brown water of entropy laps onto the donkeyless beach of disintegrating order, and Victoria Beckham wages jihad in Afghanistan as Osama bin Laden makes it big in L.A.,I can hear the inexorable, idiot tick of the doomsday clock, which is on the wall, just below the writing. When I hear that sound, I like to make a refreshing pot of orange pekoe China rose petal tea and eat seven of my mum's lemon and ginger biscuits. I'll just go and put the kettle on.
Posted 11:26 PM | 6 Comments | Permalink
in to lunch
Monday 23rd July 2007 1:01 AM
Even though yesterday was dark and cold, and the forty-fourth consecutive day of heavy rain, the effects of the gale force winds abating to force six gave me a bit of a spring in my step. I decided to invite a few people round for lunch. After a quick phone round, I managed to get Keith Richards, Amy Winehouse, Howard Marks and George Melly.
I made a leek and pasta bake, with steamed mange-tout from the garden, and Keith brought round a beetroot and avocado salad. Over a deliciously refreshing glass of Aqua Libra, courtesy of Amy, we discussed the disastrous effects of the weather on our general moods. The unreasonable, unseasonable, unceasing rain had dampened all our spirits, although Howard, who's Welsh, said he'd found a certain amount of comfort in it.
George, who'd come dressed as a Masai warrior, but with bigger earrings, suggested that we smoke cannabis. Although his usual charming and witty self, he didn't actually look that well, so when he said that it was a healing herb, and good for us, we weren't completely convinced.
'I tried it a couple of times at university' lied Howard 'but the stuff that's available on the streets now is said to be twenty times stronger than it was then'
'What if it leads on to heroin?' said Keith, his fork expertly finding and piercing the veined flesh of a steaming mange-tout from the garden. 'I'd never thought of that' said George, now suddenly unsure.
Amy, who was washing up and being surprisingly compliant, said in a husky voice, 'Why don't we listen to Question Time on Radio 4? With half the cabinet admitting to accidently smoking it twice at university, it's bound to be a topic!'
As the trusty Roberts crackled into life, we heard the firm, educated tones of Jonathon Bumblebee, introducing the panel to the Peterborough audience. We sat enthralled, and let the thrilling spume of live radio break in waves of love on the donkeyless beaches of our minds.
As Amy had predicted, the topic of marijuana arose. We listened agog as Peter Hitler, columnist for the Daily Mail, discussed skunk weed with Baroness Rabbi Julie Annoy-Burger, spokesperson for the liberal democrats. As a right-wing ex-Trotskyite, Peter Hitler believes, deeply and sincerely, in very strong opinions. He said that skunk weed was fantastic and should be compulsory for all schoolchildren, and that possession of ordinary cannabis should carry a death sentence.
Julie said that she thought skunk weed was unnatural. She said that the wisdom-imbued plant devas, normally associated with marijuana, were not present in skunk weed, due to the industrial methods of its propagation, and it was therefore dangerous. She said that although she didn't smoke now, when she was at university, she'd smoked a couple of really big bongs of Nepalese hash, and really enjoyed listening to Tubular Bells.
The discussion was full, frank and open, with the masterfully masterful Jonathon Bumblebee sensibly directing the fast flow of point and counter-thrust, and when it was over, we lay panting and spent.
Although it may sound uncharitable, we'd found it hard to warm to Peter Hitler, and because of that we were more swayed by Julie's arguments.
'What sort of cannabis have you got, George?' said Amy.
'It's not skunk weed' said George. 'Its just a bit of Moroccan hash'
'I think I'd like to try some,' said Keith bravely. 'Me too!' chimed in Amy. Me and Howard exchanged glances. 'I'll do it if you'll do it' he said to me in his soft welsh burr.
It would have been rude to refuse, so I told George that we'd be interested in trying it. As it turned out, we all found the marijuana quite agreeable, and as we sat and listened, entranced, to the dribbly strains of Tubular Bells, we quite forgot about the inclement weather and our summer disappointment.
Posted 1:01 AM | 7 Comments | Permalink
I just dont know
Thursday 19th July 2007 2:35 PM
'The world is not only stranger than we think, it's stranger than we can think.'
These wise words, although uttered by the disgraced football pundit, Ron Atkinson, whilst commenting on Carlton Palmer's inclusion in the 1992 England world cup squad, have a wider resonance outside the increasingly tawdry world of football.
Socrates, the sublime Greek philosopher and Brazilian mid-fielder, said that the only thing he knew for certain was that he didn't know anything. If only Vladimir Mugabe, George Putin and their like, could display such wise humility!
If I was to say that I thought Tony Mugabe was a bad-tempered know-all, and that Kim Jong Bush was a bit of a clever-arse, many of you would be justifiably shocked by my judgemental attitude. The fact is, I don't know any of these things for certain, I'm just guessing. The difference between me and those 'bad' people that I mentioned, is that I don't mind if you disagree with me.
Sometimes people leave comments on my blog, pointing out what they consider to be errors, and on only one occasion have I carpet-bombed their village. As they weep and wail in the pitiful, honey-stoned rubble of their self-incurred desolation, residents of the once beautiful village of Newton Kyme will now think twice before they question my memories of Stingray and Supercar.
Routine atrocities aside, I feel that many of these world leaders need to develop new hobbies and interests. Non-stop, ruthless power-mongering, to the exclusion of any other activity, can make one a very dull boy indeed. Imagine the effects on the slapped-arse face of President Putin, of a vigorous game of swing-ball, or three-and-in (samovars for goalposts). It would give hope to thousands, to see a rosy glow, red as a Grozny apple, suffusing the deathly sunken waste-land of his pinched and sallow cheeks.
Running around and letting off a bit of steam, while good for the cardio-vascular system and releasing endorphins, doesn't in itself address the chronic narrowness of vision that afflicts most tyrants, so pastimes that involve some sort of intellectual struggle are to be encouraged. President Bush, for instance, whose bullying stems from feelings of inadequacy and lack of self-worth, could benefit enormously from colouring in crosswords.
In a sick world, maimed by the crippling dogma of fundamentalism and Toyah Wilcox, it's time for all good people to stand up, and with one voice, shout, 'It's a mystery!'
After all, as Gary Lineker once said on Match of the Day, 'Our knowledge of the universe is equivalent to that of a dog in a library'
Posted 2:35 PM | 4 Comments | Permalink
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