Thursday
16th August 2012
Pounding the streets pushing Northern
Elements Showcase flyers and cards in Consett, Annfield Plain, Stanley,
Durham City
and Pelton near Chester le Street before
returning to Stanley to catch the X31 to Newcastle. Looked in
Waterstones at Alan Moore books, then Forbidden Planet. Went to Clayton Street chippy
then down to Lit & Phil. Gig really cheered me up. Reminded me how good a
small non-mic gig of poets and prose readers can be. You don’t need loads of
people in the room in order to create an atmosphere. Sixteen or seventeen of
us. Really good night. Came away buzzing. Totally blown away by Mark Tindle’s
Olympics set. And Mandy Maxwell did about three or four from Saturday’s writing
marathon. Sheree put together an excellent evening and I’m really pleased to
have been a part of it. Really great to hear Richard W Hardwick read again and
new voices. Good to chat. Jenni had to work this evening. Will see her on
Saturday in the small hours. Proofed Sheila’s booklet on the bus home. 11.25pm.
Friday 17th
August 2012
Could really do with a couple more hours in bed
but need to be up and out for my trip to Sheffield.
I worked till about half midnight after last night’s gig. Put a list of typos
together from proofing of Sheila’s booklet. Chasing my tail a bit. Haven’t
bought food or sorted finances. Bought a few bits and pieces for Jenni’s
birthday yesterday. Amina and Co have great surprises for JibbaJabba tomorrow.
Really pleased that Ash Dickinson is in town to headline. Really want to get
that on video if possible. Had good chats with Yvonne, Catherine, Mandy and
Sheree last night. Mark Tindle really impressed me with his Olympic poems. He
should set himself up as a Writer in Residence on national events if he can
turn out a poem a day. My wrist aches, my foot has cramped. Want up. Pen down.
Need to get sorted for the journey. Don’t know which book to read. Maybe Orwell
(1984) or ‘The Boy Who Could See Demons’ or ‘Andalucia’. 8.05am.
En route to Sheffield via train from Durham. Just passed York. Have spent most of
the journey thumbing the ‘i’ paper. I brought The Boy Who Could See Demons but
not feeling in the mood for a novel. Very tired. Didn’t get to bed till nearly
one this morning. Wrote Sheila a letter on the bus to Durham and posted the booklet. Hope she gets
it tomorrow.
It’s a grey day but at least the rain has stopped.
It’s a nice ride on the train. You can write without bumps and its quiet here
in coach ‘F’. I have four hours in Sheffield
before the gig. Have to get a taxi to and from the venue. An expensive
day out.
Most cities centres look the same. Well, the ones
I visit – with the exception of York.
Sheffield in the pouring rain isn’t a great
afternoon so I took an early cab to Nether Edge; I spent half the afternoon in
a pub called The Stag. They had a cosy nook with armchairs. I drank 40p a pint
black currant and soda and read Demon. Its mental health based and I’m thinking
of gifting a copy to a friend. It’s pittering rain again. I’m on a wooden bench
outside the Lantern Theatre. Its the oldest in Sheffield
and holds ninety people. There’s a small book stall in the foyer. A lot of
people are arriving. All young. Student age.
Later: Gig was good. Enjoyed Gav Roberts in the
first section, particularly his poem about putting down weapons and the
Casanova who gets no action. Kirsty Taylor from Bradford
was the only person to do a set from memory. It was nice to chat to Gav in the
break and see all the small press stuff on sale. Second half Andrew McMillan
was first up and sounded more like his dad than when he did his Red Squirrel
pamphlet launch in Newcastle.
Socrates Adams said he was terrified, read an almost Beckettian piece about
being in a submarine. Would’ve been nice to see the headline band but had to
get back to train station for half ten.
I’m on an old train to Doncaster where I have a 45
minute wait for the next one to Newcastle.
It’s a backwards bus train, says the guy behind me. I guess he’s right.
10.40pm.
Saturday
18th August 2012
Hammered. Seven hours sleep feels like three. Gig
was canny last night but an expensive day out. Train journey home was good.
All the platforms were easy and I had a whole carriage to myself at one point.
Read a bit more of The Boy Who Could See Demons but had to give up around half
twelve, slept the last hour. Arrived in Newcastle
twenty minutes early. A light drizzle as I exited Central Station. Still very
warm, lots of revellers about. Walking by the Centre for Life surprised to see
some biketrial apparatus set up in the square – pallets, bars, ramps, etc with
Team Onza logo and a Three-Sixty stunt bike team van parked. Maybe the
trials guys had been demo-ing to entertain punters waiting to get into the
nightclub. Maybe they’d demoed earlier in the day and were going to do more on
Saturday. A brisk walk over Redheugh
Bridge. Bless Jenni she
waited up for me. Had a quick wash then straight into bed. Can’t remember any
dreams. Today is JibbaJabba and Ash Dickinson is headlining. I need to go home,
get Jen's birthday card, wrap some presents, upload video footage so that
memory card is clear for tonight. Really want to make the effort to read all of
The Boy Who Could See Demons – the mental health aspect makes it really
interesting;child psychology and schizophrenia the central issue. Okay, early
rise and off to Consett. 9.22am.
Jesus fuck it seven hours sleep and I feel like
shit. It was good to stay at Jen’s place last night. Really good of her to stay
up till ten-to-two to let mister Steve in. Hope she enjoys her birthday Jibba
Jabba tonight.
Sunday 19th
August 2012
Didn’t go to bed till four o’clock this morning.
We had a blast at JibbaJabba. Lots of people there for Jenni’s birthday bash
and also to se Ash Dickinson. Great to see Jenni open her big present at the
end of Marjorie Pickering’s set. Jen had no idea about it at all. Ash did a
brilliant 23 minutes. Then we all went round to Bar Loco for an hour or so.
I went on the wander for a cheeseburger and chips then had a chat with Ash. He
doesn’t actually live anywhere permanent and just gigs all the time. Said he’ll
come and do Poetry Jam sometime. Luke gave him a lift back to hotel on Elswick Road then
we came back to Jen’s place. Had a bit of a jam session playing percussion with
Jen’s housemate Naz and friends. Then stayed up till four talking and listening
to classic rock cover version mash-ups. It was great to finally get a copy of
Slinky Espadrilles by Ash last night. Jen has nipped out to the shop. Today we
are going out for Sunday lunch. I’ll be pretty wrecked much of the day. Today
should be really nice though. Jen is pleased I did Hypomaniac at Jibba last
night. 10.14am.
Went down to the Waggon Team for Sunday lunch. Jen
had lamb, I had sirloin steak. We
enjoyed our food but I could have done with a lot more vegetables. Later,
walking round Gateshead Jen said she could still eat something else and bought
fish pieces from Tesco. Very sleepy when I got back to her house. Jen played
tracks by her friend’s band ANYPLACE on Spotify while I dozed on the futon. We
went into town to see showcase of unsigned bands at the Academy with her
friends but I was really worse for wear by this point and decided I’d best
quit and came home. Slept on the bus. Rain stopped in Consett. Walked from
there. 10.36pm.
Monday 20th
August 2012
Jenni got back safely from
her music night at the Academy.
Always feel like I’m chasing my tail and can never
truly relax. There’s always a gig to promote, a workshop to prepare, a poem to
rehearse, a set to sequence. Someone to be, somewhere to go. I see the mountain
bikers on the low road exitng the Derwent Walk and wish I’d had the time to
focus on riding this summer but it never happened. Autumn is just around the
corner. National Poetry day will soon be here. Wish I could memorize stuff
easily and not forget things. I have little food in the house. Only need enough
to get through the next few days. Okay, so it’s about time to get up for
breakfast. Hope Mandy’s video has uploaded. 7.18am.
Good intentions shot to shit part 666. I didn’t do
the domestics. Sat at the computer and sludged through admin then took a couple
of hours off to watch a documentary about The Davinci Code coz I fell asleep
last time. Ditto tday. Can’t believe people take organised religion so fucking
seriously.
Worked up a new poem this afternoon and did
editing this evening. Listened to Killing Joke and Adam and the Ants’ Dirk
Wears White Sox. My fave album by them. I’m still highest bidder on the three
Rollins first editions spotted last night. Had to raise one by a few quid but
still quite confident I’ll get them.
Saw an horrendous article and vid on youtube this
afternoon about a Russian flesh-eating drug that junkies are cooking up in
kitchens as an alternative to heroin. – using codeine and under the sink
products. It’s called Krokodil. Apparently the stuff is cooked up in thirty
minutes, the effects last ninety minutes but withdrawal is horrendously painful.
A vicious cycle of high, hell and agony then flesh rotting off the bone.
Initially I thought the pix were fake but I checked a couple of sites and saw
some horrific footage of a patient in a hospital bed with flesh eaten away to
the bone. The doctor was prodding about with the loose exposed bone in the
forearm, the woman awake and moaning in pain. Never felt so disturbed by an
image in my life.
Sat downstairs afterwards feeling really queasy. I
would look up the article to give more specific info but fear I might throw up.
It’s eleven and almost bedtime. Going to get a
sandwich and retire with a book. Tomorrow I will definitely do some housework
and then a little rehearsal in case I get the opportunity to do a turn at the
Black and Bue open mic tomorrow night. Okay, cheese and tomato toastie time.
11.01pm.
Tuesday 21st
August 2012
A longer horizontal slumber but I’ll be going
under to excavate the gibberish today. Don’t care about the reality. Don’t
fancy a plate of spicy hilarity. Gonna wear my soul to the bone. Beat my head
against the stone. Your reality is overblown. Time after time it’s been shown
to be implausible. I’ll just crawl back to my hole and live as Mr Inertia for
another month or so. Give me the reason, give me the dream. Fill me with
chocolate and ice-cream. Say I’m neat say I’m sweet. Pick the crumbs from my
sweaty seat. I’m the taste that can’t be beat. Here comes the absurdist game
again. Fill me with your aspirations. Shower your spite across all nations.
It’s no time for celebrations. This is the dawning of the hydro tale. This is
the spark within the hay bale. This is the unpredictability of the day. This is
the force ten gale. Here we go again. Rest my weary little wonder in the path
of your sad blunder. Throw your excuses under a trolley bus and laugh. It’s
Tuesday. Automatic Tuesday. And I know what you will say. None of this makes
sense. And you’d be right on the money, honey. It’s never made sense since it
started. Some almighty omnipotence blows its nose or simply farts and hey, it’s
here you are little human, deal with it! Some joke. It’s just a little gene
pool to poke with a stick. Doesn’t it make you sick? So look up some chemical
escape plan as you watch your flesh turn green and rot straight off the fucking
bone, man. Coz if that’s the price it takes to see your god again, I’m sticking
with the hell of the mundane. At least I’ll keep my limbs intact. Anyway, it’s
just another attempt at glory. Does it have to be so self destructive fucking
gory? Take to the soapbox. Shout it from the stage. Be sure to avoid the
blasphemy or you’ll wind up in a cage. How can you be a criminal for
criticizing make-believe? It just doesn’t make any sense at all. Fuck their
philosophy. Fuck their society. Fuck them all. Let’s just walk away. Let the
idiots play. Until the big stone of fate comes rolling down the hill to knock
them into the middle of next week. It’s all a game and I don’t want to play
anymore. Show me the door. I’m saying bye-byes. I tried to tolerate you. But
it’s time to curse the sky. 8.46am.
Grey clouds next to white but plenty of blue when
I crane my neck and a light breeze reminds me of late summer evenings in my
teens, wandering the streets of Blackhill or skateboarding. The hum of the
wheels. Always pining for something and never quite knowing what. Today the
serendipity of things – the feedback
on the poem, Dominic emailing just as I’m uploading his gig details to the
Northern Echo website. Now, my days are admin – typing and promoting. A whole
summer nearly over and rarely do I venture far from the desk. Gone the days of
tranquil wandering, hints of magic on the edge of dusk. Only at certain moments
unexpectedly do I catch myself revisiting memories, glimpses of things I will
never fully fathom. And at the risk of repeating myself yet again I pick up the
pen and try to break through. It’s Tuesday. I will be onstage tonight. And for
that I am truly thankful. Front Street Consett.
Later: Good little gig at the Settle Down café
tonight. I went with the intention of taking part in the open mic after the
feature poets but ended up MCing open mic as Marie the host wasn’t feeling
great vocal-wise. Great to see Amina do a full set. Aidan was on form. Enjoyed
Bill Herbert greatly. Would love some of those murder bear poems. Jenni played
a killer set and got applause after every poem. I did ‘Sun Brands the Bars’ and
‘Risk’. Gonna keep the new poem for next Poetry Jam. 10.33pm.
Wednesday
22nd August 2012
He didn’t need the book. He already owned the text.
But who wants a re-issue? Who wouldn’t be entranced by a chance at the original
version, first edition. Plain cover, badly typeset? Inferior quality paper? Three
hundred quid for a paperback? Some would pay twice that brand new. But it didn’t
go for six hundred, did it? As the final countdown began he sat on the edge of
his chair, eyes glued to the VDU. One minute thirty… one ten… fifty-four
seconds. His stomach did somersaults. This one mustn’t get away. He’d wisely upped
his maximum bid to six hundred and ninety. Nearly there, nearly there. Thirty
red seconds on the screen… twenty… fifteen… Eleven. Ten. Nine… suddenly the
notification changed. Outbid. Fuck, fuck. Seven seconds! His new figure already
there, quickly he pressed the ‘bid’ button, but shit, no way, Jesus, still
outbid. Three seconds, quickly he upped the bid to eight hundred and ten. His
hands tingly his chest tightening and then… You didn’t win this auction.
Bastard! Cunting fuckpig!! What was he thinking. This pocketbook was an ultra
rare item. Never seen anywhere for over twenty years. What a fool he’d been. Why
didn’t he bid nine hundred to be sure – no, a thousand would have nailed it.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. The rug wrenched right from under him. Bastard! Fuck whoever
got it. Who on earth deserved to own that book more than him. Not even the
fucking author. Head in his hands, he sat there, stunned. Fuck it, he thought.
Fuck it all. 6.00pm.
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