I am a genius, come to my bar.
You’ll wait hours no matter how far
you’ve come to see my hairstyle
flop down on your phone or pad.
I am a genius. A good looking retail lad.
I’ll look at your blank screen
and say you’re out of warranty.
We’ll have to put it in quarantine
and that wont come for free.
I am a genius. My smile costs a grand.
I’ve got what you need, you sacrificial lamb.
Leave your memories with us,
we’ll need about two weeks.
Come back then and kiss our feet.
Take this adapter. Give us that note.
Be on your commute and tap out a gloat.
Pay no mind to alternatives,
this does what you need.
They won’t fulfill your vanity’s greed.
I am a genius here to sell
you preferences locked down.
I’ll leach out your confidence
whilst you stand feeling clowned.
Author: Tony Wright
My Perfect Boring Life
Quiet time is my weekly ponder
as to why Dimbleby didn’t get denchers
instead of that hidden away tattoo
whilst a know it all who’s rehearsed all week
to stutter out a sentence live on air
nervously shakes his forgotten cue card.
The washing up’s done by then
and perhaps weekly laundry’s been hung
before a final trip to the kettle for tea
and a cheeky slice of late evening toast,
after all I’ll have been for a run
or exhausted myself thinking about going.
By the time good old Dave is rattling through
phone numbers, locations and Twitter handles
the bed’s usually covered with crumbs,
I’ll have had my goodnight phone call
and definitely will have brushed my teeth
with full intent of getting some quiet.
You can often almost hear Friday
ticking its way to you as Andrew Neil
prattles on about this and that
whilst everyone tunes out at the distraction
of his one week beige, next week red mane
of surely sewn in, license fee bought hair.
Patience On A Long Weekend
‘Hi, can I help you?’
‘My friend said to order a chocolate McFlurry.’
‘Which one would you like?’
‘I have never had a McFlurry before.’
‘Well, there are many varieties, as pictured.’
‘Okay, I’ll have that one.’
‘Do you like chocolate?’
‘Yes. Yes, I do.’
‘That’s £2 please.’
‘Oh. I don’t think I have that much.’
‘Oh.’
‘Oh. I do. Here.’
‘Thank you. Enjoy your meal.’
Hold Tight
Hold tight the strangers cuddling and gassing
at five in the morning over littered coffee tables
before the first buses of the day home.
Hold tight everyone having morning meltdowns
at self-service checkouts in local supermarkets
making you seek assistance you tried avoiding.
To everyone in the bliss of a powered off TV
after fixating on a remote’s channel hopper
for a whole day of trashy shows, hold tight.
If you’re crammed into a tube journey to work
getting passive aggressive tuts from the suit
who’s paper you’ve bumped into, stand tighter.
Tightly hold on to whatever marbles you have
or can kid yourself that you have when enduring
those ‘How is it Monday already?’ loops at work.
Hold tight all the smiley people opening doors
or helping old ladies with shopping up the stairs
despite all the holding tight you’ve got going on.
And people, hold tight to mates wanting a pint
when they’ve been holding things so tightly
they could do with your hand to let things go.
Phaseolus Lunatus
I most look forward to the butter beans
lodged between complicated broccoli trees
straight to the point discs of standout carrots
and the secret mazes of intricate cauliflower.
Beneath a rising haze carrying spicy scents
they fit softly amongst the crowd of it all
holding form beside showy potato slabs
that dwarf armies of identical, spectating peas.
On a stage built with uncountable grains
the rest present a scramble of taste
where parts are dented or branch off
forming the scene of a wild, flooded woods.
Unfailingly humble, the butter beans shine
not with the stuck up presence of a pepper
or inconsistency of a leaking tomato
but with a gentleness, consistent and kind.
Rant-a-thon
Will we ever hear of Jamie T again?
Imagine Madonna disappearing like this.
Boris spending more millions on bike schemes
instead of housing kind of takes the piss.
Peddle through Spitalfields. You can now.
It’s tarmaced. An open air Harvey Nicks.
Kids stake claim in times they didn’t live
protesting change for mock-stalgic kicks.
It’ll never be cool to dance along to Lionel.
Pull the walls of yet more Tesco Locals down.
Beauty comes before morning commutes
caking make up on and looking a clown.
Affordable isn’t eight out of 2,000 new flats
that cost fifteen lifetimes of wage before tax.
Fair play to workers who cosy up to boss.
We’d play along too but aren’t built of toss.
Remember the sights of your naked eyes
not the screens of cameras and an aching arm.
Experience is life’s noises, smells and air
not the one dimension uploads of pixel farms.
Is it worth the effort plotting how to seem
for imaginary viewers to perceive certain ways?
Less consideration of one’s self as a brand
sparks more honesty at the end of the day.
Osborne’s face is painfully bright and bland.
A lot more would vote if they could elect Brand.
Is there more harm done by sleazy Robin Thicke
or married bankers crawling curbs, being tricks?
Hypocrisy and hype sells. It’ll stay the same.
Friends grow older and nights out become tame.
The quality of familiar rendezvous never wane.
Mates is Alex Turner hiring Miles Kane.
Nothing beats seeing someone reading a book
and wondering where their imagination might be.
The open world’s been in our minds all along.
Don’t wait for Grand Theft Auto V to feel free.
Grown men shouting it out on Sidney Street
arguing who’s right of way it might have been,
if hugged by their mothers when children
would be calm and not creating this scene.
Breathing’s as underrated as UK rapper Jehst.
It relieves stress and lets in peace.
We’re before banquets of food for thought.
Grip your best cutlery and guzzle down a feast.
The Hungover
Everyone is pretty in Shoreditch.
Who doesn’t looks the same?
Show me anyone who is ugly
to stop me from going insane.
Boardwalk Empire hair, thick frames,
and rolled up cigarettes all day.
It used to feel so different.
Now where do the freaks lay?
Must I move out to Lewisham,
Edgware, Willeseden or Brent?
Dad can’t afford me a deposit.
Perhaps I’ll need to buy a tent.
Take me somewhere, anywhere new
for just a little refreshing change
where local chat holds a new slang
pitched in a different range.
Queen Of Sheba
Many tales differ.
You never recognise rain.
Who really knows?
Fitzrovia Square
In different spots of the office
they beaver through the morning
tapping and working their way
to 12.15 discussions of lunch.
Runs to shops for sandwiches
or dashes to the fridge for salad
precede the usual meeting spot
up against railings, on the ground.
In turn they each air grievances
for the other two to suggest a fix
or more often than not just ease
with a sharp, comforting curse.
Then wider life gets dissected
by well formed, agreeable views;
sweet reminders it’s not all so dry
and far from the edge of the world.
Not A Man Of Want
A few novelty sized chocolate bars
did him on Christmas morning
with a promise of something extra
once the shops opened their sales.
He routinely served up cups of tea,
then toasted egg sandwiches,
as wrapping paper covered carpet
to raise smiles, praise and thanks.
Presents got stacked up in piles
and the television was switched on
whilst he collected empty plates
to wash the first load of the day.
After a day of playing chauffeur,
tidying the sideboard down
and willingly being of service to all,
he sat with a beer to watch the game.
Nothing fitting stood out on shop shelves,
such was his straightforwardness,
so one size fits all tracksuit bottoms
were bought and well received.
Quietly and agreeably he drove
over to one visitor’s house,
for glasses they mistakenly packed
so she could read a little before bed.
A Friday Standard
Just a cheeky one before the weekend
then all of a sudden it’s half past ten.
The office bike’s eyeing a cycling
and warring rivals are trading grins.
Out come the shots after sugary shots
before a frantic march to new bars.
Scrambles for entrance and coat fees
precede disco balls, tears and scars.
Sleepy mornings the following day
see sketchy shuffles to McDonalds.
Patchy memories of hands astray
line remorse ridden thought tunnels.
Pleas to not share the awful photos
meet chuckles, cringes and sighs.
Efforts to stay dry are announced
but calendar planners suggest a lie.
Norbert Eating Marshmellows In A Trilby
Sit on a teacake seat and have a cycle
with these Jammie Dodger wheels
along the canal of liquid bronze Irn Bru
beside hundreds and thousands fields.
Put a Soda Stream in your step
and have a fizzy Love Hearts day.
Take a nibble on a chocolate digestive.
They’re laid out on a liquorice tray.
Pass the go-carts made of chocolate.
Drink the rain for its sherbet tint.
Sail a boat that’s made of wafer
and dip your feet in ponds of mint.
Hang up your coat of Quavers
on a bonbon bridge’s Curly Wurly tree.
The most rushing imaginations
live in our heads. Just look and see.
A long weekend.
‘Hi, can I help you?’
‘My friend asked me to order myself a chocolate McFlurry.’
‘Which one would you like?’
‘I have never had a McFlurry before.’
‘Well, there are many varieties, like these two pictured here.’
‘Okay, I’ll have that one.’
‘Do you like chocolate?’
“Yes. Yes, I do.’
‘That’s £2 please.’
‘Oh. I don’t think I have that much.’
‘Oh.’
‘Oh. I do.’
‘Thank you. Enjoy your meal.’
‘Excuse me. Sorry to interrupt your journey. Can I sit here and ask you some questions?’
‘Yes. Okay.’
‘I’m from TFL, doing a survey about your experience today.’
The man proceeds to ask around five questions about the customer’s satisfaction.
‘So, you have rated this journey seven out of ten. Can I ask you why?’
‘Oh man. How long is this going to take?’
‘This will take around three minutes.’
The polite Polish woman sighs but with a kind humoured exhale.
‘I said seven because there were stairs to the platform and I prefer lifts.’
Nine more questions exceeding the duration of around three minutes are asked.
‘And what is your phone number so that should my management want feedback on me, they can ask?’
The woman proceeds to tell the man her phone number and postcode out aloud to a packed carriage.
As she says the last digits and hops off the train, a seated passenger makes notes on a paper bag.
Everybody’s talking about it.
Hi guys, happy monday!
Did you have a good weekend?
It was sunny wasn’t it!
I bet that’s it for the rest of the year now.
Nice to get out though.
London looks so much prettier in the sun, don’t you think?
It takes it out of you a bit though.
I need another weekend to recover from that one!
I had to spend ages trying to find my shorts!
It just makes such a difference though, that ol’ sunshine.
It’s a bit colder today, but not too dissimilar to yesterday.
Let’s hope it lasts. We deserve it I reckon.
Yeah, it’s been narf cold and non sunny since way back.
Maybe we’ll get a break now, after all those storms.
Everyone looks a bit tanned, don’t they?
Must have been the sun this weekend, that was shining.
What’s your favourite park for barbecues in the sun?
We should totally meet up for one the next time it’s sunny.
God, I feel so trapped today, after being outside all weekend.
It’s going to be a long week. How is it only nine minutes past 10?
Let’s go outside at lunch and try to relive the sun.
Yeah, it will be like the sunny weekend we had yesterday.
My friend can get designer sunglasses at wholesale price.
Do you want me to get you a pair?
I can’t believe how sunny it was.
The Inaugural Hackney Marathon
0 to 5k:
Begin your run passed three of the area’s organic groceries.
5 to 10k:
Take in the sights of thick framed hipsters rolling cigarettes outside a craft brewery. Shout ‘Hey!’ to Horatio.
10 to 15k:
As you pass the Latvian brothel styled coffee shop, give those ‘We keep the area edgy!’ drunks on the bench a wave.
15 to 20k:
You’re doing brilliantly. Don’t focus on the pain. Instead, ask yourself; What’s the top three colours you’d like to paint your bicycle handle bars in?
20 to 25k:
You’re doing so, so well. Distract yourself from the miles ahead by rehearsing negotiations with Father as to how early you can have your inheritance.
25k to 30k:
Assume you’ve persuaded him successfully. Bravo. Now, what’s more ‘up and coming’, a bus shelter turned half bedroom studio, or a garage parking lot in Hackney Wick?
30 to 35k:
It’s mantra time. ‘The Cock Tavern lives up to its name but the beer’s great. The Cock Tavern lives up to its name but the beer’s great!’
35 to 40k:
You’ve just a few more selfies to take. It’s a good job you set out with a comb for that tash. #nofilter #redfacelols
40 to 42k:
Thank your friends for their concern and explain you’re spending the recovery time in hospital to scratch out an invisible novella using syringes.
Dad’s Crates
A few months back, my Dad gave me his old crates of 45” records.
Most mornings, I randomly choose one and pop it on for a listen before work.
There’s great stuff in there. It’s mainly all American soul music, but there’s a couple of random Rod Stewart and Phil Collins releases too. Those will be Mum’s.
A lot of the records are quite crackly now. Some of the worn sleeves have my parents’ initials on them as they’d get taken along to house parties.
On the week my Dad turns 60, I’ve begun this Tumblr to share the tunes I find and dance along to before starting my day.