Bad Hair Day

The day started beautifully and then I made my first mistake – I got out of bed. A bit of time in the workroom I decided (we restore ceramics),must catch up on backlog of work. Taking a Meissen clock surround apart I managed to gouge a hefty slice out of my right thumb. Several pints of blood and a bloody trail of band-aids later I picked up a flower encrusted Coalport ewer and stood firmly grasping the handle whilst the rest shattered on the floor at my feet. Wiping away the blood and tears I took up a Chinese Fo Dog and cleaning the encrusted adhesive off I drove the razor sharp scalpel into the base of my left thumb – right to the bone.

By now the message had become clear – it was not my day. Sod the lot, I thought, with an understandable depth of emotion. I’ll go fishing. Get fishing bag and discover it stuffed with Pike gear and I want to go Trout fishing. Cannot find fly lines or flies. At this point our dog an unusually perceptive Jack Russell, hid under the table. Post arrives, final demand for electricity, reminders about two subscriptions and a stack of papers from the Reader’s Digest with a leaflet telling me that today was my lucky day. Will go out and buy a pile of magazines and go to bed. Car won’t start. Dog howls. Mrs. Westley’s Budgie (we’re looking after it) starts pulling its feathers out and one of the boy’s goldfish turns belly up and dies. Stand on doorstep looking at garden through tear-dimmed eyes. A sparrow, nesting in the porch ivy shits on me. Final indignity too much, hunt for razor, remember I gave up shaving. Miserably wonder if D.H. Lawrence ever had days like this. Find flies and lines only to discover that because of bandaged thumbs I can’t hold them properly. Now all this might sound like I was having a terrible day…and I was, but the important thing to remember is that at that point it was only 9.30am and I had the entire day spreading out before me like a vast personal minefield of booby-traps, accidents and disasters. On my record to date I wasn’t going to get past lunchtime alive. In an emotional crisis my mind veers unerringly to food. I’m an emotional eater and this was a day created for my stomach. A food supply and the safety and protection of the bedroom with a few well-chosen books was the obvious answer… right? Wrong. Until you’ve tried it you can have no idea how difficult it is to prepare food with two redundant thumbs, it’s not difficult at all… it’s bloody impossible. Toast, for some totally incomprehensible reason I had chosen to do toast. You might have thought that in my situation I would have settled for biscuits straight out of the tin, wouldn’t you – I did, it was empty. Have you ever heard of force X? Well, force X is that imp of energy that determines that whenever you drop a slice of toast and jam it always lands jam side down. Force X directs collar studs and cufflinks into the most inaccessible places, fish hooks into clothing and dropped letters into the nearest puddle. Forces X worked overtime in our kitchen. Not only did the toast fall butter side down, but it traveled horizontally to land in the filthy, ashy bit of floor in front of the Rayburn; not just once or twice, but three bloody times and that’s without mentioning the two pieces that caught fire, or the fat in the grill pan that set fire to the cooker. Anyone want a neurotic dog, a nude Budgie or a melted plastic egg-timer? With my scalded feet (I poured boiling water on them instead of into my cup) and my half-cup of coffee I limped, defeated, off to bed. Naturally the bed wasn’t made, naturally I tried to make it before falling into it…I did fall, heavily, when I heaved on the blanket I was standing on. After that the day deteriorated. Took very nervous dog for a walk across the fields. At the most distant point it pours with rain. Fall off fence, slip in mud, fall on dog. Dog regards this as personal assault and bites me – with more than a degree of satisfaction my raging paranoia detects. Return home, make up the fire in the living room, almost unscathed – cracked back of head on mantelpiece – having lived here for more years than I care to remember without doing that, my paranoia now encompasses the house. Just read my stars in the Daily Mail, ‘Keep on the move for a lucky day.’ Budgie thinks it’s an oven-ready turkey and trying to stuff itself with cuttlefish. Fire goes out, bung in another firelighter and crack back of head again. Fire goes out, bung in three firelighters and studiously avoid cracking head. Turn and trip over dog. From recumbent position watch fire roar up the chimney and consider calling fire brigade. Decide to be Viking and go down with burning ship, irrationally hope it gets dog. Immolation apparently not imminent decide to have can of beer. Pull ring off can, throw can on fire and retain ring. Hissing steam fills the room. Dog cravenly slinks out. Nerves finally snap and beat fist impotently on arms of chair forgetting injured thumbs PAIN! Maggie arrives home and blithely asks, “Had a good day?” Horror creeps into her eyes as my hands close around her milky white throat – forgot thumbs – more PAIN! All these events are true and happened on the 12th March 1976.

Poetry - 6

Looking for God

In the churches, in the chapels - only Man I see. In the Falls and in the Creggan - only Man I see. Man have I found beside me in every situation; In favour and in fortune - only Man I see. In the Abbey and the Vatican, in death and tribulation, In every incantation - only Man I see. In the shattered towns of Lebanon, In Cairo and Jerusalem - only Man I see. In the missions, in the pulpits, in the faces of the priests, In the blank-eyed congregations - only Man I see. Open-eyed I peer about me and listen to the claims Of Sufi poets, evangelists and Allah’s nine and ninety names, But in all the faces staring back - only Man I see.

Murder at Christmas Christmas music stifled By sectarian genocide. Christ shrivels in the womb, Reluctant to be born. A bomb in the manger, Love stillborn. Christ crucified before birth. Within a span of hours The Angelus our requiem, The Church a charnel house of guilt That even Christ can’t cleanse. Grey stone, grey hearts, black minds, Last year’s right this year’s wrong, A faithless faith a-dying, An ecumenical ping-pong. Protestant and Catholic kill To prove their way is right To God’s most perfect peace. Muslim wars with Christian, Everyone kills the Jew. The world’s a religious abattoir. “Love!” exhort the holy men, “Your enemy and neighbour”. Love them to death if necessary. Dear Christ, is anybody there? We’re drowning in the blood of love, Doesn’t anybody care?

Psychobabble & Verbocrap Don’t be grody to the max, be a little froopy, man. Conceptualize your personal meaningfulness, That’s in the space where you’re at. No macho-tripping or pulling the head-honcho number. Simply redefine the parameters of Your interface with integral mutual massage. Feldenkrais functional integration, man. Like experiencing the whole eclectic Gestalt In the Cosmic overview – awesome.

Other Worlds A world within a world Of dragons, knights and druid wizards. Sharpened spoons for cutting gizzards. Big hairy monster who devours Little boys among the flowers. A world of rescued maidens, But not quite sure why, Because they always seem to cry. Triumphant battles, quests and deeds And Tigers crouch among the weeds. Blowing bubbles into space, Where rockets whizz and fairies grace, A world where any wish takes place. All within a world within An English country garden.

Pothos The truly great poets such as, Eliot, Hopkins, Keats, Hardy and so many others are flowers, exotic, elegant, fecund flowers. Flowers nurtured in a rich soil of education and literary environments, brought to the full blossom of the English language with care and constant attention' I, on the other hand, can never be a flower. Despite a warm, safe and loving home my education was garnered without awareness in a back street, down-beat school. A single saving grace was a love of reading, everything and anything, Untutored, unguided, totally indiscriminate. A love that unlocked that first important window in my mind - a troubled, disturbed feeling that somehow, somewhere, I was missing out on something important, something tremendous. Thanks to the encouragement of family and friends and all the 'flowers' many more windows have been unlocked and I have grown from the poor soil of my early years into, at the very least, a weed. Proving that even weeds, with a little pothos, can break through the concrete of their existence.

Elysian Fields The gateway to the Elysian Fields May not be draped with angels Or lit like a heavenly fairground. It could be a rotting five bar gate Hanging off its hinges, With an obstacle to test your resolve.

Day Out - by Buster (a Black Labrador)

Okay, so I'm a Labrador, a Black Labrador. Did you think Black Labradors were stupid? Can't think, reason, work out which human is the soft-touch? If you do you should look in the mirror; now there's stupid! Anyway, I digress - uh, uh, here we go again, you think woof, woof, is the limit of my vocabulary. Oh, boy! Have we got a right one here.'

Listen schmuck, we Labradors are carefully bred to a very high standard, can you say the same? We not only look good, but we behave impeccably, we even tolerate our own kind (within reason). And we never, unless very ill, pee or crap on the carpets.

My house companions are the old fella, who should probably have been put down years ago, and the boss lady who, rather sweetly, thinks I'm cute. Have you ever tried doing 'cute'? It ain't easy.

The old fella is okay when you're pushed for a bit of a cuddle, but he has a tendency to overdo the 'go and lie down' line. What does he expect? I eat, sleep, eat, sleep, it's very difficult to keep up that insane pace, occasionally I need that little bit of reassurance.

I'm digressing again, you must excuse me, but I think it essential to get down the basic facts, i.e., (do you like that?) I'm a dog and my companions are elderly…well…except the old fella, he's well past his sell-by-date.

It was like this, we were going to the seaside for the day, real crack of sparrow's wotsit time, but I got it into my head to see a bit of our surroundings, sort of go walkabout. Not, in retrospect, an ideal moment, but I didn't know that (no-one tells me anything), so off I trot.

First off I meet up with a rabbit, normally the hunter instinct clicks in and I would give chase, but this poor thing looked like it had Mad Rabbit Disease; it's eyes tended to bulge and it could barely amble let alone run.

"Morning." I said, all polite like, but the poor thing just looked up at me and whispered, "Please kill me." Well, that really threw me, but I can't stand suffering so I picked him up by the scruff of the neck and shook him until he was dead. I swear I could just make out the words, "Thank you.". I put him down gently, spat the taste from my mouth and carried on across the field.

Inside a small copse I came across a sort of odd looking dog lying on the ground, the reason he hadn't hightailed it away when he saw me was the cruel wire wrapped around a foreleg and attached to a stake in the ground. The fact that he couldn't run away didn't stop him baring his teeth; very nasty they looked too.

"Calm down." I said as quietly as I could, "You got a problem there, let's see what we can do." Looking somewhat surprised he closed his jaws. lowered his jowls and whimpered, "Didn't see the damn thing until it was too late." I nodded sympathetically, remembering the time I ran slap, bang into a tree chasing a ball. "It's okay…er…what are you, some kind of dog?" "Nah, I'm a Fox. Same family I think, but wild; know what I mean?" I didn't, but I nodded anyway.

Using my mouth I pulled the wire from the stake towards the Fox's leg and it eased through the loop holding it in place. With the minimum of effort Fox worked his foreleg out of the wire and stood up. Gingerly he tested the injured leg for standing. Looking at me he said, "You're a real friend my black hound dog. Thank you." "Nothing to it, but don't get stepping into anymore traps. Oh, incidentally there's a friend of mine a couple of fields away with a few hens, give him a break and leave them alone, right?" Fox nodded, "Consider it done my friend and I'll pass the word on." With that the Fox limped away until he disappeared into a hedgerow.

Feeling very pleased with myself I trotted into a wheat field of waving corn completely oblivious to the distant sound of a combine harvester.

It was only when the ground began to tremble beneath my paws and I looked down that I noticed the tiny Field Mice scurrying through the corn. "Hey!" I called, "What's the matter?" One very scared looking Field Mouse paused long enough to pant, "Look behind you!"

When I did and saw this huge monster lumbering towards me with flailing arms I damn near disgraced myself. I needed no further urging believe me. I raced after the fleeing Field Mice, overtaking them easily. Pausing ahead of them I crouched and panted, "Jump aboard, quickly!" They needed no encouragement and leapt for my back, clinging to my shiny fur with all four paws. And then I was off again, this time with at least half-a-dozen mice clinging to my back. I made two more stops for very tired Field Mice and one terrified Fox cub that was obviously lost; him I picked up in my jaws, gently of course. And we were off again, this time easily outpacing the monster and reaching the relative safety of the hedgerow where, wide-eyed and breathless we watched the monster lumber around in a semi-circle and clank away.

I placed the cub gently on the ground and crouched to allow the Field Mice to off load with relative ease. "Oh, please sir," stammered the cub, "Thank you, sir." A chorus of squeaky 'Thank you's' sounded all around me just as the Fox I'd rescued from the trap limped towards us, sending the Field Mice scattering in all directions. "Well done. My friend." Said Fox warmly, "Not only me, but my foolish son as well. You really are an extraordinary dog."

Had I not been black I would probably have blushed with sheer pleasure, "Think nothing of it," I dismissed with totally false modesty.

"Not a bit of it," said Fox, "I, my family and friends, owe you a great deal. From this day on this part of the world is your domain, none will challenge your right to roam wherever you will." To everyone's surprise a chorus of squeaky cheers seemed to echo from the hedgerow and the ditches either side. Fox smiled, "It would seem you have even more friends around, you've had a very busy day. But I think you should return to your home, unless I'm mistaken people are looking for you. I heard them shouting and they didn't sound too pleased."

Now that Fox had mentioned it I could, very faintly, hear the sounds of human voices. I took my leave of my new friends and raced towards the sounds of the voices that were becoming increasingly angrier.

When I did get back I got a right ticking off, the old fella practically going ape, I tried to tell them - there's me out relieving pain, setting free the innocent, saving lives and what do I get? A smack on the bum! It's a dog's life!

A French Field

The meadow we’re in is full of tall, vetch-like plants called Queen Anne’s Lace, I’m reliably informed, and the most beautiful bright yellow butterflies, plus the bright blue heads of sea-holly and a constant background of chirruping crickets. We are actually parked next to a field of grape vines, luscious black grapes. Must have a closer look later on - just to see how they’re coming on you understand. Another day - sometime in August I think - feeling very slothful, did nothing but eat and sleep yesterday and today looks like being just as busy. Can’t attack Italy until the banks open co’s we ain’t got no money, so, just got to laze around ‘till then - gosh! it’s tough being poor. Just beginning to realise what an amazing meadow this is. Apart from six million different kinds of ants, there’s sea holly, Queen Anne’s lace (which is a kind of cow parsely, not vetch, sorry), vetch, wild scabia, wild thyme, fennel, oats, St. John’s wort, several varieties of thistle, a variety of coltsfoot not known to me, a ‘sort of’ mallow. And, in the hedge alongside, a wild fig tree, blackberries, an oak tree, broom, hips and a thorny tree of unknown origin with yellow flowers and a hawthorn. Ants apart, there are some of the most beautiful butterflies I’ve ever seen and, of course, the inevitable crickets. All that in just this corner of the meadow, ie., what I can see without doing anything violent, like moving. This is not to mention half-a-dozen different grasses - which I didn’t, co’s I can’t - and the vines alongside. Like I said, amazing. It’s very difficult to write when so much is going on around you. At any given moment one can see at least six different species of butterfly, all incredibly beautiful and colourful, from a tiny mauve one to a huge, bright yellow one...a lovely dark purple dragon-fly just winged its way past.

There’s so many bloody ants the only surprising thing is that the earth isn’t constantly heaving... silly me, I thought it was the booze! Talking of which, a big, black soldier ant has just been fished out of Maggie’s glass of Bianco and is lurching his way around - you know what it’s like when two legs won’t work in unison, well imagine what it must be like with six! This character has got all six going in different directions at the same time! Do ants have hangovers? If they do then this one’s going to wish he was dead tomorrow.

Imagine him trying to explain to his wife all about the big swimming-pool in the sky that takes away all your worries and makes you a very happy ant and all the time his wife staring at him like he’s out of his coconut. Then his commander telling him to pull himself together or he’ll never make corporal. He then spends the rest of his life looking for another glass of Bianco just to prove that he hasn’t lost some of his marbles. A simple quest one would have thought, but how many meadows have a glass of Bianco in the corner? The temptation to leave a glass is almost irresistible... who’s a softy?

Just moved to the other side of the camper – despite sunshade the sun is broiling me - par-boiled Fred! I’m already on me second skin; the old one is still clinging in tatters, I’m lumpy with heat lumps and blotchy with insect bites - not a pretty sight. But I’m taking the ‘medicine’... just had another glassful; it doesn’t make me any prettier, but it does put me out-of-focus. Must move on tomorrow, last bottle of plonk and only the hard stuff left: Sherry, Brandy, Pernod, Cinzano and something I can’t remember, but which is still lurking around the camper...somewhere. There’s also two large bottles of Spanish beer coyly hiding themselves, probably only find them when they explode in the heat!

Can’t wait to get into Italy, word is that the vino is even cheaper than in Spain - can you believe wine cheaper than fifteen pence a litre? France is a dead loss for cheap plonk and the Spanish was better as well, that really surprised me; France might have the edge up-market, but down where I live the Spanish is fuller-bodied, richer and smoother by far. French cheap plonk is thin and has a hard edge to it. Rapidly becoming an expert on down-market wines - and no book learning either, all raw, front-line experience. Been comparing sun-tans. Maggie is a rich mahogany, whereas I’m a sort of cheap, dog-eared plywood. Rotten ennit. Life can be really hurtful sometimes.

What is it about Bianco? I think the word has spread. I’ve just spent the last five minutes watching a massive cricket explore my glass and now he’s trying to hop away; they can, when sober, make fantastic leaps, but he keeps lurching sideways and landing on his head, he must be stoned out of his mind. One could have a ball anthropomorphizing this lot; can you imagine him trying to make that chirruping sound with his un-coordinated hind legs... ”Chirr... chirrr... chirr... hic... up!” He’s sitting in the sun trying to work out which way is up and which leg to move next...whoops!...wrong leg.

I don’t believe it, he’s coming back for more! One more looking for that great swimming pool in the sky, the ‘happy’ pool. Perhaps we all are? Perhaps there ought to be a glass of Bianco in the corner of everybody’s meadow...yes?

Poetry - 5

A Jacob’s Ladder The backward glance to where we have been Gives us the assurance of making progress, Without which there can be no future. Personal history, memory, Is what makes us what we are at this point in time. We can change, not what we are, But what we would like to be. Our memory, our past, Is merely the bottom block of a tower that has no limit. It only requires a steady hand and the will, For us to build a Jacob’s ladder to the stars.

Your Presence Your presence is etched On the face of the space Where you were.

The Throne Moments of pure meditation Whilst seated here, on the throne, Transcends all known concentration And gurus perhaps better known. The stress and the strain of this living Passes, with motions, away And the deep relief of such giving Flushes one’s problems away.

Learning to Have Fun Wheeeeee! Twisting, turning, winding, Sinuous dive into laughter. Doing it again and again. Banking and corkscrewing through life. Learning to have fun.

Winter Time Trial (Kenilworth) Misty, muffled figures pedal silently Out of the gloom and warm clouds of Muted words appear and vanish In the frosty air. Racers shed their winter wool and shiver With cold and nerves. Watches are Consulted and the race against the clock Commences over there. Pungent liniments to make legs strong mingle With warm body smells in the sharp, crisp Morning scene. Shirts and towels and bikes And bags lie everywhere. Every minute, by the clock, a racer sprints Away. Arms are swung and feet are stamped Against the nervous cold. Coffee sweetly steams A vacuum flask’s fanfare. A nervous laugh, a slap on the back and They are away. The sleep and cold are gone, Muscles, rhythmic, stretch and thrust To make a time that’s fair. Hiss! go the tyres and rasps the breath. Arms begin to ache and legs deaden. A marshal Shouts encouragement and in the gut, Leaden starts despair. From misery’s depths comes swinging, winging Hope, for off ahead a tiny figure shows As, line unsteady, the minute-man loses Time beyond repair. Despair’s transposed to him who lags, new Strength flows to the legs, for now In sight the clock man waits, to end The white line’s glare. Lungs slow down as the praises grow and dead Legs find new life. The time is good but he, The winner, with modesty immodest, Belittles the affair.

Little Fred's Nick-Nack Shop “Mornin’, Fred. Yow orlright?” They always ask. “Hey, bass”, West Indian Rasta asks. “You got radio?” “Oh, gawd!” Groans Fred, aloud. “Another bleedin’ nig-nog”. White teeth flash, But in a grin, “They’s more acomin, bass”. “I’d have your lot On a banana boat”, Fred mocks an angry scowl. The grin widens, “Do dey go To Dudley, bass?” “Ignore that black Bastard”, says Fred To the Traffic Warden. The Rasta roars With laughter, “Got to go, buy a radio”. “Come back termorra, I’ve got a crystal set Yow can afford”. A cup of tea Is passed to Yellow Peril, “Two sugars, Alf?” A fisherman enters, Coarse of course. “Carp’s tekkin, Fred” “Tekkin what?” “Floated crust.” He says. “Never sin nuthin’ like it.” And Fred, aglow, Himself a piscatorial legend Is lost to further trade. Every Friday, With a cheese roll And a bottle of Mackie, I listened To Little Fred Insult his customers. Black, brown, white All received the same Razor-tongued invective. And back they came For more. Governments Could learn a lot From Little Fred.

Love Could I articulate the perfume of a rose, Spell the texture of a flower's petal, Speak the patterns of a hoar frost, Or express a single feather of a Swallow's wing, Then could I tell you how much I love you.

Praying Had a quick pray today, but You it seems were out. Down Your local were You? With Your mates, Mohammed and that fat fella Buddha? I suppose it's all ambrosia and skittles these days. Why aren't You there when I need You? Personally I think You've gone away and nobody's noticed, Or you're lying down somewhere After a night out with Your fellow deities. A sort of divine hangover. That's the trouble with sorting out the world's problems, You take a quick ambrosia to steady Your nerves And before You know it You're sleeping it off again. I'll e-mail You next time, okay?