Author: Tony Wright

Mobile muse.

See me in Brussels for a day or two
once the papers are shuffled and
stamped.

We’ll drink and laugh as we did those
first weeks, tip toeing around our
smiles, studies.

As you point to meat, I’ll blush for veg’
beneath a waiter’s bemused gaze,
whilst the city’s neon buzzes.

We’ll stumble, shout or snore.

Apologies for how disturbed you’ll roll
when I wake up first and nudge.

Forks of yawns and mugs of daylight
will set us over map folds for a
miniature weeing boy, pretence.

Boxes ticked, we’ll secretly think the
other isn’t as good a dancer.
We’ll both be equally as bad.

To London, we’ll tap and scroll.
Another photo set to escape into,
more distractions to plot.

Farewell, Britain.

You have treated me kind.

I have appreciated your health service,

enjoyed adventures on your buses, tubes,

watched my little cousins be schooled

and felt that your leader cares.

I hope The Big Society works out for you.

Send a postcard when you find out what it is!

…if post offices still exist, your roads don’t crumble
and you actually find out what it is.

See you in five years.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EKFTtYx2OHc

For Baby Phoebe, on a wet Saturday morning in Plymouth.

Lucy the lamb was sitting on a hill.
‘Baah, I’m starting to feel ill’ she said to Jill,
so they went to the farm house for a bite to eat.
‘Baah, I’m tired. Get me off my feet!’
So, Jill took Lucy to sit on a pile of hay
and they slept and slept for most of the day.
Come evening, Lucy said ‘I’m too tired to sleep’.
‘Well’ said Jill, ‘blame your feet.’
So they went to the pigs sty to find some mud
and stomped Lucy’s feet in with an almighty thud.
‘Farmer Joe will go spare at this mucky mess.
He wanted your wool for his wife’s new dress!’
‘Oh no!’ cried Lucy. ‘We better go in to town.’
Off they went shopping though Jill did thrown.
‘Have you got this in an eight?’ asked Lucy
but the cashier said ‘…no!’ rather goosely.
Lucy and Jill arrived back at the farm.
It rained and rained but Jill stayed calm
for the dirt was washed from Lucy’s feet
and they were both now tired and started to sleep.

Two wires crossing a road named Bridge

‘Hi Jean!’ said Hugh Man excitedly.

‘What’s your problem? Do I smell?’ asked Jean in a rush of panic.

‘What are you on about?’ replied Hugh with a wave of confusion.

‘Hygiene. What’s wrong with my bloody hygiene?’ Jean began to angrily shout.

‘Hugh, man. You’re so bloody rude!’ she continued.

‘Listen, you’re clearly getting the wrong end of the stick. It’s a bit much to right off a whole fricking specie as rude’ reasoned Hugh.

‘What, I’ve done nothing of the sort. But I’m not having you say I smell!’ snapped Jean.

‘Humans. Rudeness. You’re so horrifically generalizing. Get bent, or better still, go shower!’ said Hugh.

‘Man, I’m out of here’ said Jean.

‘So what, we’re not even on first name basis now? Don’t trip on the way out’ yelled Hugh…Man.

Swings and Roundabouts

Today began in a near empty Boots pharmacy which routinely deceived me in thinking my shop would be a simple in, out job. Nothing’s ever that straight forward in there and as I approached the counter, a suit from the city leaked in front of my prime position.

‘How can I help you?’ asked a cashier. I held high hopes that the businessman knew what he was after, that it’d be a quick ‘here you go’ and ‘thank you’ routine ahead of a two minute turnaround of my needs. Yeah, right.

The man proceeded to describe a ‘severe’ muscle pain on his shoulder and enquired as to what pain killers he’d need to get through the next couple of days. To be fair to her, the cashier, or was she a nurse – I can never differentiate nor trust, offered something pretty swiftly.

‘Right, and how strong are these? I need to be able to raise my arm this high for a few hours tomorrow.’

As if the nuclear orange tone of his fake tan that I couldn’t help but reposition myself to get a double take on wasn’t shocking enough, what came next was.

In the middle of the shop floor, to an audience now of four more ‘in, out’ optimists turned melt downs, the guy placed his briefcase down, took his jacket off, passed it to the nurse, or was she a cashier – I can never differentiate nor trust, and gave a five minute, repetitive demonstration of the actions that together, comprise a golf swing.

Quite surprised herself, which is saying something for someone that deals with a constant stream of skin troubles and gammy gums each day, the young lady handed back the man’s jacket and presented something from the array of pills behind her. ‘This should do the trick Sir.’

The man studied the tiny print of the small cardboard box for around two minutes, then looked up to the lady now even more eager to take the money and close the deal. He play acted out some pain in reaching into his inside pocket and pulled out a mobile phone come portable office tower.

‘One second. Let me just ring my Physio.’

Penguin Shuffles

Three dimensional television’s back in, again,
though the perfectly paced snow falling all around
streets evacuated by breakfast news broadcasts
provides all the layered magic of a widescreen
without the plastic, pay per pair glasses
disposed into a bin of stale popcorn, chewed straws,
the final gummy bear that proved one too many
and ticket stubs on a Sunday afternoon’s expense.

Even the waiters are consumed with weather talk
as a stomach rumbles to another story; no buses,
a baby to get home to, slow trade, slush and grit.
Though there’s moaning about the groaning,
national hysteria captures all sooner or later,
sitting even the most determined and resolute
media sceptic onto their warm sofa at last,
in front of around the clock travel updates;
a sucking vortex zapping panic into a diary’s plan.

The morning walk pins a tramp’s bundle of blankets
across people’s iced through heart strings.
‘I haven’t seen him sleeping around here before. Oh,
how terrible it must be like that in this awful cold.’
though that same guy’s been on that corner
way before second interviews and first days,
all the rat racers forming one loud blizzard of business
so no single unit has the air to take note, squeeze
in the sight and flick chewing gum change to a cup.

Taps, rings, yawns and shuffles close another day,
the few who made it switching computer for TV screen.
Comedic portrayals of every day life in synthetic universes
created by upper class writers of working class slang script
leak across living rooms to melted microwave meals
steaming the stained pillows beneath their plates,
right up to the zoned out minds each story cycle rots
to mute, as desired, those pictures of paper piles
or meeting room murmurs from an evening’s day dream.

Bar Staff without A Key

Who Is John Barrowman? we joked
fingering through HMV’s plastic and tree emporium
faintly inquisitive but still sick of the sights;
Martine McCutcheon’s debut novel,
key ring straps embroiled with a TV pop band’s logo.

In the pub we sighed, about the number of Tescos appearing,
the broken cigarette machine and our swallowed coins,
getting more stressed and running to a tube station’s kiosk
to stand in cold weather that made us even more aggrieved,
as we talked about gym and diets, taking a last drag.

A Geordie bar girl’s warm northern smile
set us on our way, weaving through Kings Cross,
past miniature Irish pubs and university offices,
lights still turned on above dedicated students
or teachers with no friends and/or time for a Sunday evening.

From a half past one meet to window shop guitars
through Sunday roasts and sponsored Christmas lights,
we walked in the key of disgruntlement, grumpy old men
but only half the age and putting the world to rights,
digesting the solace of a good friend’s sounding off.

Then the separate ways, headphones slivering into ears
and familiar routes teasing impatient bladders.
Engineer works stretched non office life by an hour,
Monday morning’s shirt wasn’t ironed nor hung
but the weekend had been milked, drank, for all it’s worth.

Cameron, Church Halls and Contrivance

As I’m typing, the BBC’s half way through running the Conservative’s latest party political broadcast creatively entitled ‘Queen’s Speech Response’. David Cameron’s sitting on a train much blurred out, though you can’t help but focus on the annoyingly inauthentic ‘passenger’ (unimaginative press agent) behind him, reading a notepad and checking her phone like an extra straight out of The Thick Of It.

When the fuzzy background gets too much and your dismay returns to his rosy cheeks bordered face, you’ll be forgiven for thinking you’ve accidently switched over to ITV and are watching one of those thirty seconds too long confused.com adverts with the pretend customers talking down their “web cams” about how great the new website is. (They’ve been running for over a year. When does new become old? And since when would anyone have the time or inclination to record an ode to a bloody website?).

That’s because the Tory leader and the ‘Cameron Direct’ road show his package is glossing on about, has to be the most contrived piece of television I’ve seen since a fight in a playground acted out by stage school overflow on Waterloo Road. EG, One of the kids is a pot smoking runaway who’s sold his pit-bull to another kid from the estate in exchange for permission to get his underage girlfriend pregnant. Only, she doesn’t get pregnant but catches herpes that the head teacher then has to hold a school assembly about before rolling credits book end a ‘We’re so young. We’ve got so much to learn’ sickly sweet truce between the two boys.

But I digress, for there aren’t any council estate types in the audience of a ‘Cameron Direct’ town hall happening. A sea of grey haired or bald, middle to elderly aged upper class white people is a truer description, for in all of the 101 ‘I’m not even aware the camera is on me and am solely smiling because of the comfort this man offers’ snap shots, there’s not one person that resembles anything of the typical person in my neighbourhood. You know, someone with their own teeth and hair.

To be as fair as his social circle’s diversity for a minute though, the broadcast does follow the BBC News and precedes The One Show and it’s daily fix of American granny favourites that are thinking ‘What am I doing here?’ as much as the audience are wondering when Emmerdale will be over so they can watch it back on the Sky Plus recording underway, because they got in five minutes late from a game of bowls on the ‘whites only’ green.

Neither Here Nor There

Sometimes I wonder if I’m British,
taking to the cold in just a shirt.

Then in a line at the supermarket,
I’ll see someone drop eggs and smirk.

When someone collides in my path,
an apology comes first from me.

A sign and thrown in bus stop queues
will have me begging from on my knees.

But I’ll tut when I see a waiter harassed
because someone’s tea’s taking its time.

My wage feeds charity standing orders
though eat my food and I’ll profess a crime.

I like to think I’m usually on point
but quite often I get it pretty wrong.

Chasing the calm of meditation,
I begin by sub-woofering hiphop psalms.

Almost here…

People, we have done it.

We’ve left our weekends of freedom and peace
and made it through Monday blues.

Thawing into the week, we’ve knuckled down to chores and challenges.

In an act of productivity, we’ve worked and worked our ways
through midweek slumps.

We’ve breezed through evenings of television,
food, conversation and sleep.

The majority of this seven day’s sluggish plights
through the tube are over.

It’s Thursday and the hard parts have ceased.

Few alarm clock sirens, chilling mornings
and depressing bowls of wheat in front of breakfast TV remain.

Omnibuses await.
Text messages, phone calls and preparations are stirring.
Bank balances are taking a deep breath of foresight.
Social diaries are being reviewed and arranged.

There will be no free newspapers tangled beneath your feet before long.
Your iron, biros, pads of paper, post it notes and decorum may calm.

Goodbye Bill Turnbill. Your jokes and the joke you are is going to sleep.
Hello Dermot, Steve Jones, lovers, friends, family and fun.

It’s almost time to pump your bicycle tires, ride the winds of obligation’s departure, stir fry a wok of dreams, bite into cheese on toast treats
and soak in your own filth whilst thinking nothing of it.

It’s Thursday. And your two days are almost here.

Gordon Brown GQ Interview

“I’ve got my strengths and I’ve got my weaknesses. I make big decisions and I’m not afraid of breaking new ground. I’m actually shy by nature rather than extrovert, someone who feels that your actions should speak for themselves, but that’s not the way politics works these days. I’ve been honest about it. I really dislike the trivialisation of politics.”

10 great things about Michael Jackson’s This Is It

1) He walked, strung sentences together, laughed, joked and directed like the sane, talented and warm individual that tabloids have spent the past twenty years drawing a polar opposite picture of.

2) Dancers half his age struggled to keep up with the choreography at times and not through lack of trying, simply couldn’t match the impeccable precision and timing of the man’s moves to the music.

3) His live vocal was incredibly raw and soulful, particularly during the rehearsal of ‘I Just Can’t Stop Loving You’ which left crew speechless or equally hysterical.

4) The extent of his imagination in constantly pushing for bigger and more amazing content (which apparently caused the insomnia and eventually fatal medication used to fight it).

5) Audiences of This Is It were due to experience state of the art CGI, lighting, costume and set developed by designers and engineers the world over, purely for the show that only a man of his stature could dream of or create.

6) The snippets of new versions of videos for Smooth Criminal, They Don’t Care About Us and Earth Song outclassed much of the music video world’s efforts dating back to when the originals aired.

7) Segments of music from the under promoted but wonderful Invincible album were incorporated into sequences and held their own amongst older classics.

8) The enjoyment in his face throughout the classic Jackson Five dance routines and medley.

9) The eloquence of his genuine concern towards climate change.

10) The humble way in which he kept alliterating love and the goal of entertaining and providing audiences with escapism as being the driving force of it all (pretty stunning considering the attacks he endured).

Pod Pickle

Every office has a Dolly Smith. You may be a few days into your new job and not be asked to execute brain achingly trivial tasks but believe me, every office has a Dolly Smith.

Just when you think you’re free from being subjected to ‘How do I play this .Doc format movie?’ or ‘I need to upload this web page in landscape’ or ‘Can you show me how to make the printer do a V Lookup?’ requests, she’ll be there.

She’ll be there with her contrived ‘If I talk like this your pity will give me what I need’ voice. You might even witness the long pauses of silence whilst damp hair is twiddled with around useless fingers and chewed up pencil tips.

You’ll stubborn it out for a bit whilst she floats over your shoulder as you try to climb into one of those grey squares on your screen but you’ll never win and she’ll always get what she wants.

You are not safe and you are not free, however far and wide you go to escape. Because every office has a Dolly Smith.

Unsolved Mysteries

Whether a Kenyan slum, Icelandic mountain or Californian airport, tell someone you’re English and it’s not long before they proudly tell you they support Liverpool FC. Their roll call of players is lost on me. Luckily Beatles Mania has had every shop and busker playing the Fab 4 these past three weeks in San Francisco. It’s like they’re a brand new band taking the world by storm for the first time – particularly impressive considering that 50% of the lineup’s dead.

After the typical ‘Who’s your favourite?’ conversation, things have generally gravitated towards a non Brit’s confusion as to why we love Oasis so much. It’s been tough to justify and the best I’ve done is to rank them second in the history of UK bands to Paul and John’s squad. It’s not a comfortable thing to say, for I adore Radiohead and many others too. By the looks of these stranger’s faces, it’s quite tough to hear also.

I quickly change topic slightly and turn the tables by asking why Coldplay and U2 are so popular out here. With that, bus journeys, flights or dinners conveniently beckon and conversations cease. Rock N Roll and attempts at it can sometimes create unexplainable oddities. I’ve yet to deliver a solid enough justification of Noel and Liam’s following, not one explanation of Chris Martin and Bono has ever been attempted and I doubt either case will be closed soon.

Circles

We are the sofa you crash on when all your cash’s gone
and we feed your cats when you’re away.

The plants get watered
and you’re always free to borrow sugar, milk and tea bags.

We come together amongst crowds
through mutual interests and smiles.

As hearts break, our hands are there,
hugging or just passing pints.

We are your first home sick thought,
a speed dial veteran with advice.

We’re Christmas presents and invitation lists,
the biographers and prophets.

However much neglected, let down or used,
we’re a given.

There’s no divorce, obligation or chore.

We’re almost all there is.

Hippy Happiness

As is with the nature of hostels, I woke before seven in the morning at the shakes of my bunk bed because the guy up above seemed sure not to get dressed like the rest of the world with feet on the floor. Thump went my skull against the head rest as he spent what seemed like pointless minutes, sliding into one trouser leg after another. Just when I thought he was through – out came his jumper from a huge backpack which he presumably spooned all night. By the time he was done he’d woken the other two guys in the room as well.

I laid projecting exhausted yawns as if to kindly say ‘Please shut the fuck up’, the sounds of backpackers, lockers, tooth brushes, zips and sandals storming my mind awake. I reluctantly stretched to my toes, threw last night’s clothes over my shoulders and headed for the free breakfast down the hall, taking a leak along the way in a corridor toilet. I’d already been disrupted once by the room share. I certainly wasn’t getting in line for a ‘private’ bathroom to make small talk with the very folk who interrupted my intent. Nor was I going to place myself subjected to the peculiarities of a stranger’s toothbrush and sink routine. Just how many rinses and spits are necessary?

Over toast in the communal kitchen I spoke, or rather, I was spoken to, by a fifty year old lady who gave me a download of her views at every crunch of my bread – barely crispy due to the impatient huffs and puffs of people behind me in the toaster line. Hostels she moaned, used to be free. This one was too regulated. Everything in life is too complicated, she swims three hours up river from her home in the woods each day, VH1 play trash and if Kanye West and Beyonce are going to prance around as they do, they should at least install some high fashion. That girl Pink though, hits her spot.

With a final bite of my snack I politely smiled and left her to continue ranting aloud, reaffirming my observation that most, if not all hippies, be it the phonies or the real deals, have more chips on their shoulders and gripes with the world than they’ve grown dreadlocks, worn bangles or lit joints.

Suddenly the conformity in the sea of average joe hostel goers made more sense. Sure, the lumps of flesh headphoned into their laptops and wired up to head sets and microphones resembled something of a contradiction to the very purpose of a vacation away, their clothes almost matching from one node to another and nothing more controversial than a ‘Where are you from?’ and ‘How long are you here for?’ being exchanged, but they seemed content with their lives having not chosen the tree huggers route of looking first for a negative in any situation and looking or sounding like, well, an unhappy mess. Then again, should impact be the point, who makes the most?