my life as a artist
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dig those crazy chicks
Sunday 8th June 2008 11:29 PM
Les Miserable kindly points out that odd-ball-odd Bill Oddie says that chick-tits can choke on peanuts. I'd heard that too, but assumed they'd be grown up enough by now to have molars, or at least access to a small magi-mix. Aware that there maybe some late hatchers, however, I keep a pair of tweezers and a bottle of rescue remedy next to my bed, in case I'm woken in the night by the distinctive, pitiful sound of choking chick-tits.
The fact is Les, I've decided that I'm going to close down both branches of 'Just Peanuts', just as soon as present stocks have been used up. Besides being a tit-mum's nightmare, The R.S.P.B says they can be quite high in natural toxins, and it's just not cost-effective, or fun, to test for aflotoxin at my age. (I'm fifty-one, I'm losing 50p a week, and each week seems to go by quicker)
I don't think dangling fat-balls is/are seemly, or a good name for a restaurant, so I'll probably open another couple of seed joints. The green, plastic internet, that hangs off the cyber-tree, says that nyjer seeds attract siskins and goldfinches, (which I haven't seen yet), and it says that robins and wrens go wild for mealworms, so I might have to brush up on my regurgitation skills.
Tom wants a haiku
Something about high class birds,
Fat balls and great tits
I know it hasn't got a 'season' word in it, Tom, to make it an authentic haiku, but the dodgy sixties 'birds and tits' stuff gives it an oppressive masculinity, that for me, locates it at a time of solar dominance, like that typically found around the summer solstice. A little bird once told me that desires are like feathers. You can use them to fly, he said, or put them in a pillow-case, and sleep on them.
Posted 11:29 PM | 4 Comments | Permalink
bye bye bo diddley and jimmy mcgriff
Thursday 5th June 2008 10:39 PM
Willie Wordsworth once said to a daffodil, 'Our meddling intellect misshapes the beauteous form of things. We murder to dissect.' Dorothy, his Dictaphone sister, who recorded these words, noted that the daffodil nodded in agreement. Aldous Huxley, many years later, wearing sensible trousers but refreshed by mescalin, said that intellect without goodwill can become monstrous, whereas goodwill without intellect is either ineffectual or misguided. A few years later, (about 15% of the previously stated 'many years'), Ian Dury opined that, 'There aint half been some clever bastards, lucky bleeders, lucky bleeders.'
After a fortunate find at the car boot sale on Sunday, and a frank and open discussion with my imaginary bank manager, I've opened a chain of bird-restaurants in the garden. Two of them are called 'Just Peanuts', and are greasy-spoon type places, frequented by skint chaffinches and hung-over tits. They're cheap, but because of the tightness of the mesh, the service isn't very good, and I think the words got around.
The third one, however, is a bit more up-market, and much more successful. It serves mixed seeds and has individual perching for eight. It mainly caters for the smaller, more discerning bird, (the striking, but vulgarly loud woodpecker, always dining at a branch of 'Just Peanuts'). On the first day I called it 'The Fat Duck', but after a solicitors letter from Heston Blumenthal have changed it to 'Ooh Get You Duck'.
I'm disappointed and shocked by Heston's attitude, having been round to his house for lunch only last week, (Surprisingly, he made us beans on toast. Even more surprisingly, he made it out of a kilo of artichokes and a copy of The Guardian), so I've written to him and barred him from 'The Ooh Get You Duck', along with all his fancy-dan mates. If I get up one morning, and find Jamie Oliver, Gordon Ramsey, Antony 'what-about-a-water-bottle' Worrall Thompson and Heston, dangling from my flagship restaurant, I'll shoo them off. Although it'd be quite prestigious to have so many celebrated, culinary arses, eating in one of my restaurants, it's the principal of the thing. If they're really hungry, they can eat at 'Just Peanuts'.
Posted 10:39 PM | 7 Comments | Permalink
cheeky monkeys
Friday 23rd May 2008 8:31 PM
Just logged in to say that there appears to be a party going on in my comment box, and I don't know whose idea it was, but I don't mind, as long as you tidy up afterwards. In a way, I'm actually quite impressed with you're meekness, perkiness, outrageousness, and inscrutability. Today's magic validation word is 'happy'.
Posted 8:31 PM | 3 Comments | Permalink
a wim-wam for ducks to peak on
Monday 19th May 2008 10:50 PM
Dear Reader, where the hell have I been? I could say that I've been to upper-bub'orth, where they stuff monkeys with doo-uff (dough), or that I've been there and back to see how far it is, or maybe been to see a man about a dog. Truth is, the non-cyber world, where blood tastes salty and the scent of may-blossom mingles with donkey-farts, has been so demanding of late that I haven't been able to indulge in my usual reverie.
Yesterday was the last fixture of the 0ver 35's season, and you'll be over the moon to know, that after fifty-one years of hurt, I've finally won some silverware. Although it only stands seven and a half inches tall, one day I'm going to build a huge trophy room to put it in. It's a model of a football boot, done in platinum, with gold studs and trim, and it's mounted on an obsidian plinth that bears a silver plaque, inscribed with the words; 'York Corinthians Sunday Morning Team, Top Goal Scorer'.
With the one I scored this morning, I ended up with twenty-three, which as my Mum rightly says, is a great strike-rate at any level. Due to my unorthodox finishing, many of my team-mates suggested that a platinum shin-pad would have been more appropriate, and they were also keen to point out that, due to the unusual accounting of our tight-lipped, ashen-faced maestro, Brian, twelve of the goals were actually scored in the pre-match warm-ups.
After an emotional presentation in the pub, and an open-topped bicycle reception in the farmyard, (surprisingly free of paparazzi), I went home to re-hydrate, and take on board some isotonic dahl and Earl Grey power tea, because as far as I'm concerned, next season starts now. Obviously, I have savoured my triumph, but because I don't want to lose focus, or appear arrogant, I've been doing it when I'm on my own, in the conservatory, and even then, only for twenty minutes at a time.
Posted 10:50 PM | 7 Comments | Permalink
does ghetto blaster make glasto better?
Monday 5th May 2008 10:38 PM
On the announcement that Jay Z, the 'rags to bitches', hip-hop super-star, is going to headline the Glastonbury festival, Noel Gallagher says;
'I'm not having hip-hop at Glastonbury. It's wrong.'
Noel, who also 'slams City's sacking of Sven', goes on to say that the festival has a long history of miserable white blokes playing guitar-based songs with unfeasibly long anthemic choruses.
The last time I bothered making the trek to the pyramid stage was in 1961, to see Pearl and Teddy Carr, so it's unlikely that I'll get to see the Jay Z gig. Except for Iced Tea, 10 cent and Snoopy the Dog, my knowledge of the hip-hop scene is sketchy, so I thought I'd check out some of Jay Z's lyrics on the internet.
There could be layers of irony that I'm not getting here, but he mainly talks about what an all-round brilliant bloke he thinks he is. He tells us that he's the best rapper and really hard, and that he's immensely wealthy and gets plenty of sausage action. I suspect that this delusory self-celebration masks a chronic insecurity, and it wouldn't surprise me if he holds onto his willy when he sings.
A lot of Jay's pain comes from a difficult childhood spent on the mean streets of Brooklyn, where he was set apart from his peers by a state of extreme poverty. While the other kids were running around in the latest fashionable trainers, Mr and Mrs Z were so poor that the young Jay had to suffer the embarrassment of 'hangin in the hood' in a pair of Kermit the frog wellington boots. A muddy Glastonbury could offer Jay the chance of healing.
This time when he slips on a pair of wellies, it'll be an act of inclusivity, and maybe, for the first time in his life, he'll be able to experience the practicality and comfort, and that indefinable sense of impermeable nurture, that only rubberised footwear can bring. When I wear wellies, I feel held and protected, and it gives me an almost godlike inner strength, where I feel that I could heal the sick and walk through water.
if it's dry and not a drip-drop
you'll hear the sound of clip-clop
that's the slapping of my flip-flop
as I'm dancing to some hip-hop
by a bloke who thinks he's tip-top
but should be working in a chip-shop
Posted 10:38 PM | 4 Comments | Permalink
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