There stands a Billy bookcase.
You inspect it from a Poäng chair.
Passed a row of Malm beds
Kallax catches your stare.
A plant and Lack table later
your apartment’s full of card.
Stuffed to the brim Frakta
line up for the junkyard.
A swing by Sainsbury’s does it.
Now you’ve Côtes de Provence for days
powering up the Samsung
settling into JLS replays.
Up on the kitchen counter
shines a bag of Kettle crisps or three.
A bowl or two each evening
will get you through quarantine.
I hear your thumbs punching back
approval of the long, stretched synths
the theatrics and atmospherics
aligned with your love of Kubrick
expressed rapidly to our whole group
that afternoon on the Drumsheds floors.
Through the builds I can almost see
vividly our feet shuffling and tapping
beneath a blanket of patterned lights
pulsating across the Press Hall walls
or rather the drinks after the afters
you dancing through the brick tunnel
before a doorman’s teacherly briefing
and our sheepish, childlike compliance.
The tempo more akin to our meetings
always on the same peaceful spot
between the benched and fenced tree
and a woodlands hill of unkept grass
providing perfect views of our city
those moments feel we’re outside of.
Something in the sounds and space
has me cogitating on your weekend trips
climbing the steps of museum lobbies
picking up flyers from their counters
filling your head with artefacts and ideas
to live with, dissect and recount.
The suggestion of new beginnings
milestone discoveries or beyond those
the satisfaction of completed trips
leaves me with a vivid assortment
of adored times filed and yet to come.
I’d never felt more rock and roll,
my shades pointed out the window,
the coastline wind blasting my face,
our quietness filling the backseat.
Strategic afternoon plates of tapas,
too early a round of continental beer
and the faint headaches of city squares
slept off before stepping into our night.
Our entrance gate’s skittish silence
turned to programme thumb throughs,
futile meeting point agreements and
jubilant arrivals of cardboard cups.
Joshing runs across bridged stages
and reunions at food truck benches
rivalled acts familiar and new
with company, shaped just right.
After the laughter and the lights
our long bus and walks back
glued into nonsense and peace
affirmed our cartel-of-two pact.
Text me when you’re leaving.
I’ll find a bar and let you know.
We’ll take it in turns updating.
How easy the wine will flow.
Once recent news is logged,
let the memory mining spark;
chatting on MSN at work,
offy cans in Shoreditch park.
From friends to neighbours,
we’ve grown an awful lot;
bank holidays at The Castle,
peddling NMA and jackpots.
Running imaginary labels,
causing scenes at Bar & Grill,
searching E1 all night long
for endless scene and thrill.
Now plotting a refurb,
weddings and even kids,
we mourn our carefree ways,
final rounds lifting our lids.
Flashbacks make us smile
but let’s save some space
for new tales and bookmarks
albeit at a slower pace.
We’ll barbecue before long
Jack climbing the drains
Mark and James talking shop
and I clowning Hayley.
Burgers will be flipped
spatchulas shuffling chips
Dad thumping tomato sauce
and memories taking stage.
We’ll talk of years past
log flumes and sand hills
an English pub in Spain
Ernie’s Christmas cries.
We conquered Super Frog
endured keyboard clubs
lasted Danish Camp cycles
and have this in the bag.
A cheeky half at The Dove
wait for Nas to enter stage left
broken down train from Leeds
emergency lap of the park
and rounds at The Earl
are now so many years from
your feet up as the kids sleep
tired from a day of playgrounds
face-painting each other as bears
and crayoning the perfect portraits
but give the random jesting texts
hotlines of perspective and support
memories of business trips East
and sporadic seaside visits depth
assuring when the time is right
there’ll be more riverbank rosé
overpriced spring onion starters
walks home rapping The Score
and new jokes to repeat on blast.
So typical of you
our quiet nights in
became banquets
of the finest wine
little saucers of dip
bowls of fancy crisps
and oven delights
all in the short notice
of work’s final hour
tired and longing
to rest the pretence
on sofas, balconies
roofs and doorsteps
being our true selves
as we traded updates
shared agreements
laughed at memories
others and ourselves
running into weekends
begun on the best note
I’ll orchestrate again
once lockdown ends.
We couldn’t have walked faster
through that boardroom’s doors
into the back of our hire car
to feast on Spar garage sweets.
As ‘Mum and Dad’ sat upfront
dissecting the latest frustrations
we lost ourselves in the laughter
of a sugar rush and freedom.
The forest of uniform trees
we couldn’t see the tops of
guided us across the border
wowing you with twines of light.
Settling into the comedown
of a new friendship’s first high
we boarded and headed home
for all the hysterics to come.
You don’t get more old Soho
than bumpy mahogany walls
plastered with wartime illustrations
a hanged line of pots and pans
press clippings of David Beckham
and a signed Robbie Williams plaque.
By mid evening latecomers
shuffle and stand beside the bar,
seating beneath the TV long gone,
feeling slightly in the way hugging
one of the rare Brodie’s beers on tap
built on the experiments of a bath.
Upon the smug midday gaming
of an extended springtime lunch
high percentage, cask IPA foam
sunk towards damp beer mats
as fleetingly as the world’s rights
triggered up from empty guts.
Tipsy steps retraced cobbled paths
the last remaining record stores
and a meat-free sandwich shop
that armed the hungry proletariat
with batons of cheddar and pickle
to keep afternoon duties at bay.
Venus de Milo almost got Homer killed.
The pizza boxes sat before our crossed legs.
We’d planned the evening in Spa Fields.
Hank Scorpio wasn’t your average Ned.
Sherri and Terri couldn’t be told apart.
We knew our Jimbo Jones from Nelson Muntz.
Kelsey Grammar was well cast to kill Bart.
Otto was as far out as Bart The Daredevil’s stunts.
Did Skinner belong in the Barbershop Quartet?
Another bottle of Punk? Yes please.
Mr. Burns paid the town his $3 million debt.
Marge took on the monorail of Lyle Lanley.
It got late and Papa John’s ran low.
‘I didn’t do it’ our Wardour Street couch gag.
Boxsets packed, it was time to go.
‘Not Just Another State’ read Springfield’s flag.
How’s social distancing going for you?
The templated enquiries loop on
like a subtle nod down office corridors
or the staff room’s chart music songs.
My answer’s the same each time.
It’s fine and I mustn’t complain.
Sometimes that’s said in all honesty.
Other times it’s masking the pain
of wanting to be off my balcony
up on the heath in unkept grass
scribbling in my little notepad
writing odes to days long past.
Nostalgia’s funny, the smarts say.
It embellishes what really was.
To some extent I agree.
In other cases I don’t because
those years were really everything.
We marched with such a charge
from local haunts to house parties.
Those square miles felt so large.
Now I’m switching channels.
News cycles will drive you mad.
You’ll learn more hungover
glued to the latest QVC fad.
The readers find audacity
comparing all of this with war.
Boxset binges trap and kill you
but are hardly Dunkirk shores.
What a chance at long last
this is to finish a book or two.
How telling of man to order more
when there’s piles to get through.
Whether writing or reading
you’ve got to broker the time.
Together under one roof all day
is to walk a difficult line.
There’s love at evening meals
of tales from different working days.
Relentless Nintendo Switch battles
conquer grand plans with a haze.
The days feel little different now.
You can’t tell the weeks apart.
Time’s filled with online shopping.
Sense checks empty pointless carts.
What use is a new bomber jacket?
An orange sweatshirt and white tick.
Over-priced sea salt hair sprays.
A pair of limited edition kicks.
The breakfast news death counts
grow more harrowing and bleak.
As premature as the perspective
might this wishful optimist peek
to a future when this is all over
where we spend much less on junk
value our time outdoors
sleepwalk through life less drunk
spend more time with loved ones
phones pocketed to free our minds
governments supporting all classes
despite their historic budget crimes.
My god there’ll be virtue signals
but let’s not forget the British trait.
The minute they relax the rules
we’ll rave to the lift of all this weight.
Squeezed back into carriages
buying ironing water of a weekend
we need to act, not vainly hope
we don’t foolishly descend.
From pushchair shuttles
I was far too old for
to office cleaning jobs
and Jenny’s Burgers shakes.
Through tantrums over
toy cameras and boats
and hot afternoon waits
at Whitings Hill’s gate.
On all those bus rides
to Hadley Heights and home.
At dinner times of
faces drawn in the mash.
In all those school years
of drop offs and collects.
To your first place finish
in the sports day dash.
Your upbeat voice
has never missed a note.
The support and pride
an unwavering thread.
During Sunday visits
over updates and tea
or quick calls on the go
where not much is said.
Whether penny sweets
from the Forbuoys tubs
or housewarming gifts
of new pots and pans.
Everything’s with a love
we’re so thankful for.
Older, more distant
but still holding hands.
There’s a crumb for every hangover,
especially ones that last for days.
And the times you’ve little food in
so push potato waffles on their way.
Trapped crusts linger deep below,
months after a sickie graze.
Little memories of burnt fingertips
during a late night pitta haze.
A twice yearly, upside down jig
will help the gates to heaven pop.
Serving moments of salvation
mornings after you haven’t stopped.
But always check the settings dial
to avoid level five charcoal flops.
And hiding behind fake note taking,
your still-steaming corporate prop.
The box of Ferrero vanished
quicker than I hid the empty bottles.
Fridge-chilled pizza leftovers
put a foot on shame’s throttle.
Nothing some stretching can’t fix,
I think and put Naga on mute.
Yoga With Adriene helps the virtue
and her dog Benji’s really cute.
Now i’m standing on the balcony
judging minglers on the street.
Johnson (no friendly first names here)
said to keep apart, inside for weeks.
Judgy shade and sofa tutting
fills one minute and in the next
I’m in Londis stockpiling
on custard creams and Tippex.
Back before my 4k widescreen
I’m calling Cobra updates bull
ranting concern for the poorest
whilst sulking that I’m full.
It’s a time of selfish thinking,
perspective, angst and solitude.
Tangled news feeds grip us
to thoughts so shrewd or crude.
Vapes and milkshakes
Refreshments machines
Folded up bicycles
Sleeping bag scenes
Wheelchairs and crutches
Waiting room beeps
Coffee cup plastic
Cubicle screams
Car park altercations
Bobbies on the beat
Nurses and papers
Cola bottle sweets
Screens and swiping
Mop bucket dunks
Sniffles and pacing
A young lover’s hug
Tapping and tantrums
Yellow wet floor signs
Keypads and coins
Monster munch sighs
Runs to McDonads
Biros and forms
Night shift handovers
Yawns of the bored.
DISPATCH19 is a bunch of scribbles from the first half of last year, when I was jotting down monthly thoughts and feels before summer got going. Take a scroll.
