Saturday
22nd September 2012
The alarm clock shrieks....
Available only in the collection "So Much for the Sunshine" published by Talking Pen 2013
Sunday 23rd
September
Back home by twenty-five to eleven this evening.
Stayed at Jenni’s an hour longer in order to watch an episode of Lewis. We
enjoy mystery murders. Haven’t done much today. I don’t do much any Sunday.
Rise late, eat a makeshift breakfast of Mr Kipling’s cakes then take turns with
Jenni skimming through facebook updates. Watched some back to back episodes of Red
Dwarf and Big Bang Theory. Finding it hard to write anything but work-related
notes in the diary now. Tempted to go upstairs and put the computer on. But it
would be best to get an early night. Tomorrow I want to be up early to get to
the printshop to pick up the books for Sheila. Taking one box to Durham and one box I’ll
bring back here. Apparently the weather is going to be utter shit. I’ll then
spend the day doing prep for Waddy workshops. 10.52pm.
Monday 24th
September 2012
Posted
on Facebook late this afternoon:
Due
to unforeseen production problems we regretfully inform all that the launch of
Sheila Wakefield’s pamphlet Limerance has been postponed. Talking Pen
apologizes to everyone looking forward to the event and will announce details
of the rescheduled date in due course.
Really fucking shit day. Less said about it, the
better. 10.24pm.
Tuesday 25th
September 2012
Stupid fucking Brian doesn’t give a shit about
anything. He isn’t the right person to take your troubles to. He won’t be able
to help you. Getting him to do his duties is like getting blood from a fucking
stone. Stupid Brian says one thing and does another. Brian can’t be bothered.
Brian is passionless. Brian would rather vegetate in his fleapit all day than
actually devote his life to something worthwhile. Stupid fucking Brian has been
getting away with it for far too long. Stupid Brian needs a brain transplant.
Stupid Brian won’t get a promotion. Stupid fucking Brian needs a kick in the
pants.
Shelly wants a new job. One that doesn’t make her
feel like punching people in the face. Shelly hates flogging away in a packing
factory to line the pockets of some fucker else. Shelly wants to be a model.
Shelly wants to be a Superstar. Shelly gets the bus to work. Can’t afford
driving lessons. Doesn’t have a boyfriend with a flashy car. Shelly lives with
her sister Carol. They argue quite a lot. Carol works in the Heron shop. She
died her hair red last week. Bad enough having a dippy sister like Shelly
without being blonde as well. She works the cash till. She smiles at customers.
She wants to leave the north east. Hasn’t any definite plans. But can’t stick
it much longer.
Hardly slept last night. Took a photo of my black
and red morning eyes coz I looked like death. Still really wrecked on the bus
to work. Session went okay. Julie cheered me up by bringing in a copy of The
Chocolate Onion. “Where on earth did you find that?” – “In a charity
shop.” - “It’s a rare one, we only made
a hundred copies.” – “Well, I’ve got it now and it’s awesome!” Went to Jenni’s
afterwards to pick up my train ticket for London.
She’s boarding at Newcastle, I’m getting on at Durham. She has done lots
of admin for us both. I have been busy doing prep for tomorrow’s session and
some London
stuff as well. Have got the mellowest of Kate Bush albums on: 50 Words for
Snow. It’s brilliant. Must get to bed soon as I feel a migraine coming on.
9.35pm.
A woman sits in the train station, hands clasped
in quiet contemplation. A young guy reads a novel on his laptop. The sound of
travel case wheels across vinyl floor, the click of heels and announcements
over the Tannoy cut in and kill the train of thought.
In four hours me and Jenni will be in London for our twenty
minutes double-header set at Jawdance. The train leaves Durham in eleven minutes. Suppose I should
make my way to the platform.
Really pleased to be feeling a lot better than I
was this time Monday. Think today could be really excellent. 1.33pm.
Train journey okay. We are currently delayed by
half an hour due to yesterday’s floods neat Darlington.
Amazing stretches of water where fields should be.
Jenni is munching custard creams and reading the i
paper. I’m a bit tired. Haven’t rehearsed together yet.
We reach Doncaster.
Dull and grey and lots of chatter, packets rusting and movement in the aisle.
Jenni gets crumbs on her trousers, says: No
worries, just travelling clothes. She says I should wear my Garlic Dodger
t-shirt tomorrow.
“The train is delayed for Kings Cross by twenty
minutes. If you are in our quiet coaches please SHUT THE FUCK UP. If you have
any questions please ask our team.”
How many peanuts in a jar of Sunpat? What’s the
best way to crucify a goat? How many light bulbs does it take to illuminate the
cavernous expanse of dark matter between here and the proof of an
afterlife? Which Des O’Connor album
tastes best with Branston pickle and Polyfilla?
Oh we’re moving again. Some woman is complaining
on her phone about her daughter being abusive. “I live in a sodding caravan;
you live in a house, you support her… She can take a run and jump, the cheeky
mare!” And so it goes. 3.38pm.
The kid in the blue zipper hoodie has his ears
plugged but the tinny tunes still escape. He’s tapping away at his mobile. He
wears a fur trimmed grey deerstalker and has that Nietzsche quote across his
right forearm: That which doesn’t kill me makes me stronger. 3.51pm.
Just over an hour to go. Newark Newgate. It’s the brightest part of
the journey. The sunlight on the new page, the steady whirr of the train over
the track. Lulled into slumber, but starting to feel hungry again. Jenni is
doing puzzles from the i paper. I’m in need of a little sleepy. My poems for
tonight are: For a Living, Winding down into Hypomaniac, Be a Writer, Wired,
Fuck Hotels and Death Street, then Charlie Crinklepocket with Jenni. Can’t
remember all of Jenni’s poems but will remember where to come in when I hear
the words. Looking forward to my first poetry gig in the capital. So good the
second is only a day away too.
Lil’ Jenni leans in for a wee snuggle and a kiss.
She is lovely. I love her very, very much. 4.05pm.
LATER: Took us a while to find the hotel so it was
a quick in and change before going out to Rich Mix. Brilliant venue. Large
stage, great host, tough crowd but excellent performers and we got some great
feedback afterwards. Thought I was going to fuck up Hypomaniac. Jenni said the
crowd looked a bit alarmed at my jump off the stage. Jenni was really good. The
exchanges worked really well. Back at the hotel by twenty to eleven armed with
Tesco’s bacon and chicken sandwiches and a McCoy’s multipack of crisps. Mission accomplished.
Next gig: Bang Said the Gun. 11.30pm.
Thursday
27th September 2012
Richard walks along the train tracks and wonders
if he’ll make it back in time to take them all to the cleaners. Being a con man
is sometimes harder than going legit but it has its advantages. No-one really
knows you. No-one breathing down your neck 9 to 5. You can set the parameters
of your own deception. Play to your strengths and reap all the rewards. You can
go out of your way to charm and enthral and then stick the knife in on the turn
of a card. Being a charlatan sometimes really keeps you on your toes. The
health scares can be sometimes just that; scary. Richard walks the line and wishes
he’d brought his car keys but what the fuck, very soon he’ll be back in his
little empire And no-one will be any the motherfucking wiser. 6.46am.
"Here in Hilarity Central the bad boys..."
6.55am.
Available only in the collection "So Much for the Sunshine" published by Talking Pen 2013
Its been a good day. we kicked off with a big
breakfast in a Shoreditch café then went back to the hotel to pick up our bags.
Bought day pass each and jumped on the tube to Highgate. The west side cemetery
has only one tour a week so we went to the east side and had a wander for an
hour. Saw final resting place of such luminaries as Karl Marx and Jeremy
Beadle.
On the tube from Archway to Warren Street. Jenni knows the tube
routes really well and it’s a luxury to have such an erudite travel guide
girlfriend. Forgot how hot it gets on the tube though. Brought too many
clothes. 2.05pm.
LATER: Great day. me and Jenni came back into
central London.
Got off at Oxford Circus and first place we looked in was Schu. Much better
than the Newcastle
branch. Mega girls’ Doc Martens with
platform soles. Jenni saw some lovely purple Vans shoes that would be great for
stage. I checked out mens’ boots but they were boring in comparison to the
girls’. Nothing could have prepared me for the toy shop experience that is
Hamleys. Loved it. Saw lots of cool toys. Great Lego. Great Play People,
Batman; Spiderman hanging from the ceiling. Top floor is candy heaven. Jenni
got a bakewell tart milkshake. I took pictures of her with a tiger. She took
one of me with goth dolls.. Jenni played Connect 4. I completed the limited
edition Rubik’s Cube with very dark colours. Lots of fun. We were in their two
hours. Went to Leister Square
for tea. Kids playing ping-pong and dodging the water fountain. Some great t-shirts
in Covent Garden. Jenni got me keyring: Come
on over to the Darkside – we have cookies. I bought her some button badges
including Alex from Clockwork Orange. Now on the tube to BANG SAID THE GUN.
LATER: Never been to such a raucous poetry night
in my life. Take the most lively Newcastle
poetry slam and times it by ten you’re hitting the volume of audience response.
Some great feature poets. My faves Joella Taylor and Musa Oskwonka. We took
part in the Raw Meat Stew open mic. Jenni did 16 Reasons, I did Chocolate
Onion. Single bus journey from Borough to Victoria. Jenni is eating raw fish. I’m
having a cheese sandwich. An incredible couple of days. So glad we got to
perform at two London
events. Excellent. 11.25pm.
Friday 28th
September 2012
David picks up the shovel and says, “Well, that’s
another fucking great waste of time, Sammy; next time you have another one of
your little brainwaves remind me not to pay you the slightest bit of attention,
you stupid fuck.” then marches out of the cemetery and off to the nearest
Greggs. It’s only five to six but they’ll be open soon.
So anyway, there’s a big tiger, a little tiger, a
huge Lego technical set a fancy limited edition Rubik’s Cube and a copy of the
London Evening Standard. There’s an audience of noise makers with plastic milk
bottle shakers filled with rice. There’s a mirror at the top of the stairs,
there’s a dumb waiter, and a bus just around the corner can take you back to Victoria.
Tracy flicks snot at Stacy.
Stacy stabs Sally in the leg with a compass. Trudy tells tales about Tanya and
David just sits at the back of the room sniggering at everyone. It’s a slow
day. Detention is a waste of time. In a few years they’ll be mothers, estranged
fathers, sheeple breeders and celebrity cloners. It’ll all go horribly downhill
for them faster than hot shit off a chrome shovel. Doesn’t matter what anybody
says to them, they’ll think they know best until they realise that all the
miles they’ve clocked getting as much of their own way as possible will be
taken from them at the other end. Saddos, baddos and downtimers, soon to be
flatliners. Who wouldn’t want a merry-go-round or a magical mystery tour?
Bob sits at the bar and wonders why no-one can be
bothered to play dominoes. Carl clips his toenails and the bits fly across the
room. Teresa talks down to her sister; they both want to leave home as soon as
possible but it’s a bad time to be finding somewhere, especially on minimum
wage. Soon they’ll all be asleep again. What a wonderful world. What an amazing
place to be poor. No-one’s going to help. No-one’s going to care. 7.58am.
The 435 from London
hit Tyneside just before six o’clock this morning. Slept quite a bit overnight
despite limited space. Had a Greggs sausage roll and got bus ticket money from
Central Station. Was back in Moorside by half seven. Had a sleep then uploaded
pix from yesterday. Some cracking shots of Highgate and M&Ms World. Quite a
contrast. Into Waddy this afternoon to sort Limerance stock with Sheila. She
gave me a lift to Jenni’s place. Jenni is well chuffed with the London pix. Quite a few
comments from friends. We are about to leave for Metro Arena. Jesus Christ
Superstar with Tim Minchin as Judas. Starts in 45 minutes. More here later.
7.15pm.
LATER: Just got back from Jeezy Creezy Superstar.
Didn’t know what to expect but it was really fucking mind-blowing. Tim Minchin
was superb. The Jesus guy – really powerful voice. And I thought Mel C was
great as well. I don’t know the songs as well as Jenni but enough to enjoy it a
lot. Loved the mixed-media stuff. Multi-layered live projections, pyrotechnics,
costumes, Judas Iscariot’s suicide and the crucifixion really well done. Great
to see the whole audience up on their feet for a boogie at the end. Good to see
Jesus, Judas and Mary Magdalene giving it large to the crowd. Jenni is well
made-up and looking forward to the DVD release in November. She bought me pizza
and chips on the way back. Great day. It’s been quite a week, to be honest. So
chuffed we might have Sheila’s books ready in a couple of weeks, too. 11.23pm.
Saturday
29th September 2012
In the burning heat, stripped and ridiculed.
Projected sense of grandeur, nothing to do with
you.
A puppet on a platform, so very plain to see.
Tell them that you’re satisfied with the way it has
to be.
But when the sky turns black and the earth is shaking
wild,
you’re body totally wrecked, self-doubt fills your
frazzled mind.
All the people sing, clap hands and stamp their feet.
A ritual human sacrifice just can’t be beat.
Barbaric entertainment? Who wouldn’t pay to see
a tripped-out hippie philosopher nailed to a tree?
Yeah! the people shout. Bring it on! they cry.
We all need a martyr. Someone has to die.
And from this day onward, there’s no turning back.
The body just a bag of bones; broken, hanging
slack.
Hallelujah, guys, Hallelujah!
Street poetry with Jenni, Amina, Grame, Terry and
Ian at the Bridges, Sunderland. Jenni really
on form and directing lines at passers by. Very windy so not good for video. I
fucked up Wired and bailed it in Gateshead at Baltic Square. Did
the rest of the poems from the page. Newcastle Central Library with tables and
chairs, a few dedicated listeners. Only did a few poems, sick of the wind.
Final sets at Eldon square the least enjoyable. A lot of people gathered but
most just wanted to heckle or distract with stupid stage invasion antics.
Wouldn’t really want to perform in front of the disenchanted again. Fuck them
all.
Anyway, back at Jenni’s and very tired. Looking
forward to a day of total rest tomorrow. 7.00pm.
Sunday 30th
September 2012
The girl in the Metro station doesn’t look short
of a meal. White jeans, matching jacket and shoulder bag, she asks for eighty
pence but is told there’s no spare change only a day saver ticket for the next
journey. She asks a few more people, manages to get 55p, but her maths can’t be
very good as she then asks for another eighty pence. Then she asks about the
journey. Gateshead is only one stop away but
the next train isn’t for half an hour and that’s a ridiculous wait of a
Saturday evening. A journey on foot the best option. Her voice fades as the
exit gets nearer. Another Saturday night chancer. Spent too much on cigarettes
and beer.
The morning is thick with the cloying weight of
chore. It’s supposed to be a day of ease but Brian wants to crack on with the
walls. Decorating has always been synonymous drudgery and depression. A job put
off all summer and now there’s strips of wallpaper on the skirts, a bucket of
warm water and a rusty scraper. It’s another forgotten ritual he’ll soon fully
remember. Peel back the old, find hidden meaning in the cracks and crevices,
the biro scrawls on gloss splashes and then wipe it all out, whitewash or some
beige alternative. Take it to a neutral
where his head can dwell, where he can ponder and lose himself within
the in-animation. It will take a good few days before he bags of trash, the
excess furniture and other bric-a-brac is dumped. Then Brian can sit in his new
beige oasis and find some peace and quiet. But for now, it’s Sunday and the
RSI-inducing scraping, scraping must be endured. The church bell chimes ten and
he gets to work.
Falling through the cracks in daydreams, nothing’s
quite as mundane as it seems. There’s magic on the mantelpiece, there’s demons
in the wardrobe. The sinister taste of despair emanating from the faded green
curtains. Falling through cracks in daydreams to a dark domain with the heavy
breath of monsters and the sticky secretion from other small enemies coating
every surface difficult not to touch. Falling though the cracks in daydreams to
a garden where the trees look angry and the insects look like fascists, the
grass cuts shoe leather and flies bite bare skin. A high-frequency buzz splits
each thought straight down the middle. It’s the ghost train all over again.
It’s the bogeyman on the stairs stopping you going to the bathroom in the small
hours. It’s the heart-stopping panic, the fear that there’s more to life than
the mundane reality people are prepared to suffocate themselves with. Falling through
the cracks in daydreams and. nothing’s quite as mundane as it seems and a
fearless travel guide holds a welcome sign that says you’ll survive all this
and bring back tiny treats from the darkside. 10.41am.
Monday 1st
October 2012
A new direction. No need for fiction. This month I
want to start the mornings by just letting go, just spilling what I need to.
Really pleased to go no further than the shop round the corner today. Last
night my first night home for a while. Been looking at poetry about stars this
evening for tomorrow’s workshop. Dots in the sky, twinkling in a velvet
emptiness. All admin and no play makes Steve a self-referential shut-in. Found
a great notebook filled in a day. Going to try that again. Listening to New
Model Army this evening. One of the tracks is called North Star.
Tuesday 2nd
Oct 2012
Totally winged it today. I did loads of prep but
just went with the flow of a Q & A session, spent much time discussing
reading and performing. Did a bit on ‘stars’ for National Poetry Day but most
present thought this year’s theme a bit naff. I left my battery charger at
Jenni’s and will have to go pick it up
so I can have power for Poetry Jam on Thursday. It’s gone ten and I’m
downstairs watching The Mission ‘Silver’ DVD. I couldn’t write about broken
wings of butterflies or gardens of delight but like listening to stuff like
that. On Sunday me and Jenni listened to quite a lot of Black Sabbath, which is
off on another fantasy tangent altogether. ‘Wake’ is on now and it’s about as
goth as The Mission have ever been. Fucking magnificent. 10.32pm.
Wednesday
3rd October 2012
Had some new students in at Waddy session today.
More drawn to fiction than poetry so coming up with stuff for them will keep me
on my toes. Had a great afternoon at Bishop
Auckland Town
Hall. Carolyn Jess Cooke was interviewed and
reading from her second novel ‘The Boy Who Could See Demons’. I liked it when
she said she doesn’t plot too much and just lets her characters lead. Would
have been good for some of the Waddy people to be in on this event. I got books
signed. Went over to Jen’s to pick up the battery charger for the pocket camcorder.
After seeing Carolyn today I felt like a fraud
talking about writing but then read some Wild Mind by Natalie Goldberg and much
as I’ve enjoyed and benefited from elements of Writing Down the Bones,
basically it has no real nuts and bolts techniques for fiction or poetry other
than freewriting.
Every time I got on a bus today the sun came out,
every time I got off it fucking pissed down. It’s really cold in the house
tonight. Toyed with the idea of going to a metal festival in Leeds
next month but the only band I really want to see is Primordial. An expensive
day for what will probably only be a 45 minute set. Need to curtail the
luxuries for a while. 10.14pm.
Thursday 4th
October 2012
National Poetry Day has so far pretty much passed me by. Normally a few of the Waddy crew join me on a whistle-stop tour
of County Durham libraries, in recent years
accompanied by my better half, Jenni Pascoe. This year I’m celebrating with a
single gig this evening. Our monthly house-party called Poetry Jam. Right now
I’m in the Waddy kitchen. I ate a whole packet of mini sausage rolls this
afternoon so chilli and rice is probably going to wipe me out. I have looked
through my slim volumes of verse and can only find two pieces with references
to stars. I’m a bit tired but the buzz of the event should wake me up. The
camera batteries are charged so we should get some good footage and pix.
There’s lots of poetry events taking place today, so I hope we get a good turn
out. For me every day is a poetry day. Another hour till doors open. 6.00pm.
Later: Great Poetry Jam. Some specially written
material for National Poetry Day by Jenni and surprise appearances. Stellar
sets from Felicity Powell, Arabella Arnott and Jeff Price. We had some newbies
reading. Got some good pix. Nice to see Lorna and David Windham and Annie Moir.
Terry Dobson came up from Hartlepool. Mike
treasure was on top form, Alex Birch read a poem by Charles Wright. Gig didn’t
really take much setting up. Very informal. Great turnout. 11.10pm.
Friday 5th
October 2012
Freezing cold in the house tonight. Should have
put the heating on earlier. Can hardly write. Just spent about two hours
editing and uploading pix from last night’s Poetry Jam. Busy tagging and
sharing at present whilst listening to Lou Reed and Jon Cale’s Songs for
Drella. It’s getting late. 11.52pm.
Saturday 6th
October 2012
Amina kindly offered me first refusal on her
Michelle Shocked ticket for tonight at the Cluny
in Newcastle
but I don’t really have the time to spare for another gig. Been typing most of
the day whilst listening to Leonard Cohen and Souxsie and the Banshees. Only
went out to do bank transactions and buy food, but enjoyed selecting coloured
card and endpapers for handmade journals. Tired of big A4 printed diaries, I’d
like to make one of my own next year. Today is very bright. Given the time, I’d
like to ride my trials bike but know from the pins and needles in my palms just
from using a ruler and trimming knife yesterday that rough riding and shunting
around a rock field would wreck my hands this time of year. Pleased I’ve
managed to keep a journal for the last five years. Real easy actually, when
there’s no expectation beyond filling blank space. We spend a lot of time
finding things we enjoy in order to fill blank spaces. Scribbling in journals is one
of my favourites. 4.17pm.
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