This is like an online notebook, this stuff is not finished or often even started properly.

Thursday, 21 August 2014

Marathon

Just found this again, prompted by this vice article

http://www.vice.com/en_uk/read/daniel-jeanrenaud-is-camdens-last-rockstar-290

The Marathon




We are at the top end of Camden, the Chalk Farm end, up and past the markets towards the park with the zoo in it where we trip on summer days.  We are in The Marathon, a kebab shop speak-easy run by Cypriots and bounced by Arabs.  Bruno says that it is a “beat place, a secret place”.  The back bar is a small room with table up against the walls, and a small dance floor in the middle.  In the corner a rockabilly busker I’ve seen often on the Tube is strumming with his junkie fingers, speaking to heroin through a fretboard. Bruno describes him as “typical”.  I understand he means he has seen him around many times, but he is also typical of Camden.  A pair dance to the music: a fat North London southern belle doing the twist with a podgy New York Doll. We drink cold cans of French lager in the corner.

“You always find interesting people in the Marathon” Bruno says as me and Ryan stumble from a conversation with an African academic making moves on the Spanish girl who loves Madrid but not Barcelona. He was intoning seriously, as only Africans can, about ‘difference’ (in the Derridian sense) and Toulouse.  He was speaking for himself, we were an audience, not participants, although he did spare a broad-teethed smile when I threw in my tuppence on tea and British cultural colonialism. 

His friend has the shaky hands, junkie fingers yet again. Heroin speaks through the hands and eyes of users.  At some sudden point he leant across the table and with a twitching hand took Joe’s tobacco, so I gripped his wrist and took it back. “Always trying to put a nigger in a box”, he weakly retorted, and reminded me of the days at school and college when my mates would play the race card whenever someone challenged our rights, and as I looked around the table and saw only white-faced companions to my own Caucasian demeanour, I realised I’m at university now.    

Still I recognised his impulse, and the weighted down nature of his words spoke of a lifetime of excuses and as he fumbled into his seat muttering racist slurs and pulling his trilby lower I felt no anger.  And so the conversation and the night died there on the floor of The Marathon, as the bouncers rounded us up and out into the warm night. We gulped down our drinks in the shadow of the Roundhouse and scared away the Spanish girl who likes Madrid but not Barcelona with our English way of smashing bottles in a midnight prayer to the swirling sirens of a weekend stuffed with fuses, in a city ready to blow.  


Tuesday, 1 April 2014

All Under Heaven is in Utter Chaos: The Situation is Excellent. Leaked Sipper Memorandum

   International Headquarters of The Sippers
                     Sipper Department of Casual Observation


8:00 AM
1.4.2014

Current threats to Sipperdom.
(Internal white man memorandum)
As accessed by a coalition of pre eminent Sippers:

NEO NAZIS

After a month of field and investigative work Sipper Agents have deduced that the Far Right scene is made up a bunch of milk drinkers and “Billy No Mates” who use banter and chatter about lone wolf tactics as a cover for the reality of how weak and pathetic they have become.  Those that were tailed by Sipper field agents were observed to live at home with their mothers (invariably fat and abandoned) and to masturbate in the toilets at their places of work at least twice daily.

THE UNITED REVOLUTIONARY ARMY OF AFRICAN DISHWASHERS

This lot are a serious threat to the table legs. Led by a collection of ex machete wielding hard bastards from some landlocked African state that Sipper Agent Davis couldn’t find on a map, sent mad by too many hours with their fingers in sink (as Agent Davis poetically noted although dishwashing gives you a lot of time to think, it’s hard to gain perspective) They are quickly amassing strength and could represent a return to the kind of black militancy that has not been seen in the white man’s soup since The Black Panthers.

VARIOUS REDS AND COMMIES

Fellow Travellers:
Still out there on the edges, slowly stagnating, the idea of a global leftist revolution is dead in the water (see Sipper Memorandum THANK FUCK FOR THAT 17.12.91) however worldwide in the last few years Sipperdom has seen a resurgence of leftist ideologies, the threat of Red revolutions in the Middle Africa and certain troublesome sections of the Mediterranean should undoubtedly be monitored but can be done Sipperly from the leisure of your perch.


The compiling of this assessment has been a joint effort with Sippers on both sides of the pond putting in long hours and threatening to put at risk there very essence as  Sippers, over exertion is of course being fundamentally opposed to the proper disposition of a Sipper.  We would therefore like to suggest commendations and possible Einkommen rises for some of the key agents involved.

Rims to lips and sups up,

Top Sipper Agent Myles

ALL INFORMATION HEREIN IS CLASSIFIED

CLASSIFICATION GRADE: PROSTRATE SIPPER

Sunday, 9 March 2014

Artaud


So I demand phantasmagorical films […] The cinema is an amazing stimulant. It acts directly on the grey matter of the brain. When the savour of art has been sufficiently combined with the psychic ingredient which it contains it will go way beyond the theatre which we will relegate to a shelf of memories - Antonin Artaud

Saturday, 8 February 2014

Nepali Punk

I was going to write an article about nepali punk but I didn't in the end because I didn't know what to write and I didn't want to exaggerate and pretend there was a bigger scene than there was all I can say is everyone we met was fucking cool and Rai Ko Ris let us stay in there guestroom which was really cool...for more info check out this blog run by Maneesh from The Doltish: diypunknepal.blogspot.com

Here's some pictures I took along the way

 Practice room at Rai Ko Ris house..
 Youth Unite playing at a cultural festival in Patan (Lalitpur)



 At Pratik's (Youth Unite) house...

 Free outside contact organised by Kathmandu Punks in Patan....




 The Doltish...

 Youth Unite....


Saturday, 25 January 2014

Paranoia reigns supreme

A little bit of insanity goes a long way.  In fact someone once told me that it's vitally important that every once in a while you almost lose your mind in a basement bar.  It could be that it was actually me who said that, to myself, in the mirror, it was that kind of a night.  At some point it became clear, well actually the opposite of clear, that my friday had been taken over by some strange puppeteer.  My actions, the re actions my dialogue, whoever was controlling these things must have been one of the guys that writes those japanese anime films in which with no foreshadowing the little girls mum turns into a cat that is also a train and declares that she is also one and the same as the spirit of the forest.  It was an inverted mirror image of social interaction, it was people and things but without the logic that normally binds them.  Paranoia and fallacy reigned supreme, it was like when I was in the toilet trying real hard not to piss on my myself everyone swapped faces and picked strange phrases out of a hat, ready to say to me when I bumped into them on my way back towards the bar.  "I invite you, I invite you" "Joe, you have a stone for me" - what do these things mean? Now, the morning after I try to decode these things and see If I can't just shake them into shape.  And who sent me the text message that says "Is this your phone? I'm on to you motherfucker!!!".  It could all have something to do with the incident with the fat girl, you remember the bit when for no-fucking-reason-whatsoever she grabbed my hands like we were playing mercy and pushed me half way across the bar, what was that all about? who knows? no one it seems, people kept asking me and I could only ask them back, it will be a mystery forever.  Maybe it has something to do with the last incident in the basement bar, when the same fat girl now a regular feature of all weird nights (in future I should remember this she's a bad omen, if I see her under no circumstances take acid) grabbed me and with her tongue deep in my ear, she must have tasted wax, said "ich liebe dich".  These are all symbols, tokens of some underlying sense that I totally missed out on that perhaps I can never get in on, why did the australian never pull down his hood?, in moments like this, scrap that in times like these paranoia reigns supreme, the silver lining is that I think in reality I was actually being the least weird, I mean what kind of creature comes to a basement bar on a friday night and precedes to take everything seriously....

Sunday, 15 December 2013

Bootpolish

We were trading boot polish on the curb
I say the curb it was the edge of something
A train platform
or a roof
he ground his teeth and I could hear grains of enamel
I lent in and tried to catch his eye
his air was warm with booze
and he snorted like a bull
again my shin stung
so I let him have my toe
twisted so that my knee hit him in the thigh as well
he moaned and bent for a moment
he answered
laying both hand on my shoulders and really swinging
I felt the blood running down my shin
the tram arrived
so I freed myself
and said good bye
who is this man?
who first corned me on rigaer st in the frost and tried to kiss me
and now gave me a scab
I watch him through the window
as he tried to recover a beer from the floor  but stumbles and falls.

Thursday, 12 December 2013

untertitel

Everyday I wake up and my first thought is
I want to go to a war zone'
But I am pale and burn in the sun
and the wars have migrated from Europe
Outside my window clouds are swallowing up the trains
and I wish that they were carrying ammo to the front
that they were carrying white boys
with milk in bottles and sandwiches wrapped in hankies
mushed in pockets
along the rails to ditches and mudslides and the whistling that cracks edges off tin helmets
exhale
the trains are full of tourists
with thighs warm from laptops
to ignore it would make me mad
mad crazy
to walk down the stairs now with my old coat pulled over my head
to protect me from the peeling paint work
and drink a bottle of something unlabelled in the cellar
while the train rattles overhead and shakes the dust from in between the bricks
mixed with dandruff on my shoulders
you're right that would be madness
stark madness