Exploring The Galaxy – Part I

I’d always known about the Star Wars films but had never watched any of them, for no particular reason. I wasn’t raised in the Amazon or by a television hating cult. In fact, my whole childhood was based around pop culture, whether it was my really scary Michael Jackson finger puppet, The Goonies or He-Man toys. I somehow, simply never crossed paths with the franchise.

All of these years on, with just weeks to go before the next film in the series is released, I thought I’d bring myself up to speed. Historically, I never had close friends that were big Star Wars nuts, which is perhaps why I never gave the films a go. But my newsfeed’s currently flooded with chums I respect, talking about booking whole weeks worth of tickets for the new movie, so I figured there must be a reason for the madness. At the least, it can’t hurt to be up to speed with something that’s had such an impact on popular culture.

Daunted by how many films there are out there, I decided to focus on the original three. I’d heard lots about the films of the nineties not being up to much so parked those for the time being. There is probably as much Star Wars related content online as there is kitten porn so I restricted myself to summarising my thoughts of each film to two paragraphs each. If you find that I’ve spelt a character’s name wrong, misinterpreted a plot or been critical of the franchise in any way, you’ll find me blended in my friends Dan or Freddy’s NutriBullet.

Star Wars Episode IV: A New Hope

I’d worried that all these years on I’d find this really dated, but the sets and special effects were actually very easy to watch and rather refreshing, compared to something like the terrible cartoony CGI of Neo fighting a city square full of Agent Smiths in The Matrix Reloaded. Luke seemed like quite a simple but nice chap and I felt cheated not to find out what his Uncle and Aunt were farming in that baron sand-scape. Hans Solo was quite the looker, Princess Leia was a bit self-important for my liking and C-3PO’s role was surely written with Kenneth Williams in mind.

There were all sorts of ‘Wow, that’s symbolic of…’ moments throughout, especially once Obi-Wan Kenobi was introduced. The guy looks and acts incredibly like Jeremy Corbyn and was my favourite character by far. I thought more could be shown of the Galactic Empire’s evilness because I wasn’t that against them, plus their uniform was awesome and I want one of their green jackets. Overall the film was much more fun and less cryptic than I expected. The story was tight and captivating with very entertaining action. I’ll never attend a meeting where I don’t day dream about tightening the neck of someone’s shirt until they stop talking and collapse again.

Star Wars Episode V: The Empire Strikes Back

It took a little longer for me to get immersed into this one, perhaps with it being a sequel and so less well rounded and complete as a piece of storytelling. Once I settled into it, I found much to enjoy. It seemed like a nice touch, having Luke stuck in a big swampy land for a while, but from that point on I couldn’t stop thinking about how impractical R2-D2 is as a companion in such terrain. He’s about as misplaced as Louie Spence on a fascist march through Moscow. As time’s gone on, I’ve found Chewbacca to be my favourite, most relatable of the secondary characters. He’s incredibly loyal, driven by emotion and god I’d love to give him a cuddle. Yoda was great fun at first and a lot more giggly and childish than I expected based on the Vodaphone adverts a few years ago. He has quite the split personality though, one minute stealing someone’s packed lunch (It was rude how Luke discarded the sausage Yoda had touched instead of letting him eat it) and the next being some insanely great master of the mind.

I couldn’t help but think back to The Matrix again (A trilogy I geeked out on hard and know tons about) as Luke started to get trained up. Whenever Corbyn appeared in a vision I found it hard to concentrate solely on the film, instead working out what characters were the equivalent of Diane Abbot or Tom Watson. I didn’t make up my mind. Cloud City looked a great place to hang out, I continued wondering where the rest of Leia’s Royal family were and disdain for Vader finally started building for all his snore-like breathing. Han Solo felt rapey towards Leia who seemed a bit of a tease towards Luke. In conclusion, this one was a step on in special effects with some amazing set builds, was carried at points by Chewie’s sensibilities and left me wanting to find out what happened next.

Star Wars Episode VI: Return of the Jedi

I was surprised by how quickly I worked my way through each of the films. I was worried it might be quite a slog, but the unexpected levels of entertainment and action kept me going steadily. I found this one very easy to get straight into. Perhaps I was subconsciously missing Han Solo and gay for his rescue. The action and set designs reminded me of Willow, Michael Jackson’s Moonwalk and to a lesser degree, Wizard Of Oz. I realised my growing disdain for Princess Leia was perhaps because she resembled Zoe Barnes from House of Cards. I was a bit embarrassed I’d assumed Darth Vadar was the top guy in the Empire and felt confused as to why the Emperor Palpatine didn’t match the dark one’s fierce presence. Luke’s acting seemed worse here, or perhaps it was his fake tan and resemblance of a singer in The Monkees. Yoda reminded me of the Dalai Lama and I cringed a bit that any comparison and observation I thought of existed across at least a light year’s worth of Reddit message boards and crusty fanzines.

Whilst Luke’s continued overly familiar cuddling with Leia once he found out she was his sister grossed me out, General Madine’s incredible fake beard made me laugh a lot, as did the West Country accent of Admiral Ackbar. I found my favourite Star Wars mode of transport in the Imperial Speeder whilst the Ewok shot right up to the top of my list of preferred creatures. The Stormtroopers didn’t seem half as scary once they started talking with normal, human voices and the movie started feeling a little too long, but the final fight scenes in the jungle and whole ‘Come to the Dark side of the force’, Father and Son storyline kept me engaged until the end. The mix of drama, action and comedy throughout this entire movie seemed perfectly balanced.

After watching all three films, I can now easily see how so many people are bonkers for the franchise, particularly if they first experienced it back in their childhoods. Throughout all three, I kept passionately thinking ‘They don’t make films like this any more’ as if I’d seen them 100 times and had the script tattooed across my toes. It’s a shame I didn’t give the franchise a go sooner but am pleased I’m on my way to partaking in the excitement of the new cinema release. There’s just the small matter of the three nineties films. Whilst everyone had DVDs to lend me this time round, I suspect I won’t be able to borrow the next three so easily. I’m excited to hear that E.T. makes a very subtle cameo in one of them and that I’ve now got a reason to re-watch my seven box sets of Futurama, which I’m told is based almost entirely on Star Wars in-jokes.

Johnny Borrell Leaves Audience Speechless

This content featured in a September 2015 issue of Popbitch.com

I was on my ‘two hours to go’ wind down at work this Thursday when a tweet appeared in my feed about Johnny Borrell launching his new single up the road at Dalston’s Passing Clouds.

Razorlight has always been a bit of a guilty pleasure of mine, up there with still occasionally dining on the stray packet of Angel Delight from the back of the cupboard, so I copy and pasted my plan to attend, sending it to about 25 of my local friends.

Of the two people that replied to my invite, one had no idea who Johnny Borrell or Razorlight are and the other said he’d love to but likes the venue too much and wouldn’t want to taint future visits there.

I thought the apathy was fair enough considering Borrell’s knack for making people disinterested, but I like to see the good in everyone. For instance, I enjoyed both Johnny Borrell and Carl Barat’s first solo albums. Throw the fact that I write a terrible poetry blog into the mix and I’m the perfect recipe for one of the few that was shameless enough to head for the show.

On my train journey up I flicked through an Evening Standard that mentioned a big Libertines tour and chuckled remembering Borrell’s plea that Pete Doherty ‘Don’t Go Back To Dalston’. Then I focused my mind on what I might be walking into.

Would the band include all the terrible saxophone of Borrell 1?

Was the white jeans and t-shirt going to make an appearance?

What about the swirly moustache and pirate hat?

Amateurishly, I’d set off way too early and arrived to a near empty venue besides a small group who were given free entry for producing sketches of mandala symbols. I’d seen this method of payment mentioned in that tweet earlier on, but am not into felt tip colouring in so opted to pay a fiver.

After half an hour of mindlessly swiping my finger up and down my phone screen to refresh a flood of vacuous news items, I was tapped on the shoulder by a lady in her mid-thirties who was clearly alone.

Initially I welcomed the company to kill time but it soon transpired she was wired on something Ketamine like. During the support band’s set, she shouted at me that she thought its lead singer looked like a homeless tramp, just as the music stopped entirely.

The whole crowd, now of around 100, turned around and looked judgmental to say the least. I headed to the toilet to hide but there was only one cubicle and it felt mean denying the 40 year old man I’d seen sniff his way in and out of it another line.

When Johnny Borrell and his band, named Zazou after a French WW2 subculture appeared, they played the same very quiet loop for a good fifteen minutes as the crowd became increasingly restless. The crazy girl I’d been cornered with earlier had loudly made new friends across the way and their talking was visibly getting to poor Borrell.

Eventually he stepped to the microphone and uttered ‘Focus’ a couple of times, before rambling through a disapproval towards people talking and looking at their phones. We were told things wouldn’t get started until there was complete silence for ten seconds. Greedily, this was increased to twenty once it had finally been achieved. At one point Borrell threw a microphone to a loud punter who broke into Whole Lotta Love and generated by far the biggest cheer of the night.

In the couple of moments I wasn’t consumed by the awkwardness of a lead singer with sensitive hearing and room full of loud, intoxicated audience members, I noted the out of the ordinary makeup of the band; a young saxophonist dressed in a Blues Brothers costume, an up in the clouds violinist and a Hare Krishna monk sat crossed legged amongst various bongos. They were definitely tight and had some nice rhythms, accompanied by no less than five different guitars Borrell switched between and the worst gig atmosphere I’ve ever experienced.

By about song five, Borrell seemed all out of puff and patience, exchanging bemused looks with his band members as the crowd, perhaps lost beyond the point of return following the opening 15 minutes lesson in being silent, continued talking loudly. Borrell announced they were stopping for a break, at which point almost everyone filed off the dance floor.

I’d seen enough of the spectacle I very much expected and didn’t return for the second half of the gig, if it ever happened, because it wouldn’t have been worth missing the last train and having to deal with night buses for.

The pain free journey gave me some time to ponder; is Johnny Borrell the Andy Kaufman of has-been rock, with a Kanye-like genius for trolling his public and having the last, lone laugh to himself? Or, planned or otherwise, is he simply one of the most unlikeable people on Earth that can’t help but offend and seem a dick?

Either way, it’s all a little bitter sweet. His voice is as strong and distinctive as it ever was, he’s a solid guitarist and amongst the pretentious lyrics you’ll find great snippets of the memorable lyricism that was all over the first two Razorlight outings.

The day after the gig, I searched Google and Twitter for any reviews or mentions of the show but didn’t find one. That there’s no bad press about yet another Borrell incident suggests more so than ever, the magazines and blogs just don’t care. This time round, possibly, Borrell cares just as little.

Running Around In Circles

The Nike coach gathered everyone to the stadium’s start line and introduced the first drill; three 200m intervals, alternating speeds from steady to fast. The crowd of enthusiastic runners stood silently whilst the routine was explained, besides one middle aged runner who’d been energetically jumping up and down on the spot and doing lunges back and forth whilst the coach spoke.

‘Yeah, this is a great one guys. Remember to pace yourself and that it isn’t a race. We’re all different people with different bodies and different abilities. Right, let’s go!’ he said, whilst everyone else stayed quiet and broke into a jog, filing behind the young, reserved coach. The drill was completed and everyone gathered back to the start line to catch their breath and hear what was next.

‘Great stuff everyone. Lovely form coming into the back straight. Remember to keep your head up and those knees high.’ said not the coach, but the vocal member of the pack, as everyone else panted, resting their hands on their knees and leaning forward in exhaustion. The coach had his support staff set up rows of hurdles and demonstrate the next drill, focused on technique.

After five rounds of moving over and under the rows of hurdles, everyone gathered once more at the side of the track, some shaking off their now stretched legs whilst others strolled trackside to sip from their bottles of water.

‘You mustn’t underestimate the importance of hydration guys, but don’t just go drinking any old liquid. Train with the drink you’ll be using on the day. Some people gulp any old sugary juice down and end up throwing up mid-race, and we wouldn’t want that, would we?’ commented that same guy, again to a crowd that shuffled back and forth in much silence.

After an hour of drills focused on speed control and running form, the coach introduced the final activity of the day, a steady two lap race. The winner would receive two tickets to the following weekend’s professional athletics event, courtesy of Nike, the run club’s sponsor. The runners lined up across the start line and set off to the coach’s whistle.

For the first lap, everyone moved around the track in one reserved, very British group, all staying in pretty much the same position. As they approached the final lap, the vocal man began moving through the pack towards the front. ‘Time to pick it up now guys. Excuse my running commentary. Pardon the pun!’ he shouted, moving around the outside of the pack into third position.

‘One more bend and the home straight to go. Will experience triumph over youth in the home straight!’ he continued, passing another runner to place himself in second position. ‘He’s got one more runner to pick off before he does it. Surely, this will be a victory of wisdom over naivety!’

With 50 meters to go, the young front runner stretched away, effortlessly striding through the finish lane, creating a large gap in front of his loud competition. The coach handed the winner his tickets as the rest of the group caught up and huddled together, sweaty and breathless.

‘Great session guys. I saw a real improvement in all of you. Well done. This is my eighth week here and I have to say, there’s such a great atmosphere amongst us. There’s not one person that grates on anyone else and takes it all too seriously!’

The coach and group made their way under the spectators stand into the changing rooms. The middle aged man dropped to the floor and started doing press ups.

‘Don’t forget your stretches guys. It’s real important you warm down…Guys?’

Meeting Adjourned

The training course broke for tea and biscuits. Most people left the room to smoke or piss.

’…back when I was growing up in North London’ said the instructor to one attendee.

‘Oh, what part of North London are you from?’ said another attendee who overheard.

‘Up in High Barnet.’ the instructor replied.

‘Ah, I’m from High Barnet too!’ replied the attendee, excited by the rare mention of his home town. ‘What school did you go to there?’ he continued, eager for the imminent skip down memory lane.

The instructor dunked half a custard cream biscuit into his mug of tea, pressed his glasses up his nose with an index finger and stood up, over the attendee.

‘Oh gosh, no. I wasn’t schooled in Barnet. I boarded at Bishop’s Stortford College. The cross country around its 130 acres was divine.’

‘Ah, right.’ said the attendee, giving a polite, empty smile before facing down towards his notepad and making a purposeful ‘I’m not dwelling on what’s just happened’ act of taking the lid off his pen.

The room fell silent besides the distinct second hand of its wall clock, before people started filing back in.

‘Right then, everyone back in their place and we’ll begin’ said the instructor.

Be Here Now

for the riff within riff within riffing in-jokes
to layer up sore heads of regret we’ll warm to in time
so we can exchange knowing looks about passers by
and walk into inns, debating hazy recollections.

Stand by me in the fallout of my big mouth
charged on malt, water, hops and yeast
spouting off that little bit too loudly
turning the necks of big crowds ahead.

Pass me a piece of that magic pie
whilst the lyrics we pen fade in, fade out
about the girl in the dirty shirt.
D’you know what I mean?

I know, I think, I hope
you’ll fly all around the world this week
chasing yesterday down Sidney Street
drinking until the last train doesn’t come.

Damp Shoreditch in July

Daddy bought Polly her flower pot store
The drill chipped any empty pixels off the map
Ad boys blasted change holding batons of Pret
Crowds snapped up bricks of fading paint
A lady ruined her picture puffing a stick
Dog walkers mystified workers heading back
The piercing parlour gunman rolled up his relief
Vintage record players turned tuneless necks
Window seat diners nodded out to friendly faces
Self service taps tugged on a lunch timer’s cheek
Packed cars of rowdy youngens sped by
Motionless bodies sat beneath the barber’s heat
Cowardly students stood clumsy in doorways
Faint rain rode the indecisive warn breeze
A truck’s reverse beep leaked into a phone call
Oil stained brown paper bags filled a bin

The United Error

We all got to our desktops
at around a quarter to nine.
The videos began circulating
of people waiting in line.
As the doors opened wide
men and women violently rushed.
With air conditioned importance
we shook our heads and fussed.
‘Look at them crawling around
like possessed animals unleashed.’
Oh how we tutted that day
at consumerism’s feast
before returning to our work
creating marketing campaigns
surely hoping to trigger
greater Black Friday level fame.
A month of juggling balances
and organic juice detoxes passed.
Hypocritical tuts of disdain
never tend to really last.
Within a vacuous liquid lunch
hysteria grasped our souls.
Monopolising on a website bug
became our number one goal.
A flock of holiday dreams flapped
and tapped trying to refresh
an error in the airline’s system.
Our cries resembled a creche.
Return flights to anywhere
priced at that of Friday drinks
had us scrolling and sweating.
Dignity passed in a blink.
Some were on the side of luck.
Others are heading to Kazakhstan.
Me? I kept getting error pages
but boy, I wanted Japan.
You’d be silly not giving it a go
and grabbing a bargain when you can
but let us not forget
the words of disgust we sang.
One man’s wide screen TV
is another’s trip to Belize.
Some long for mobile phones.
Others dream of the West Indies.
Whether it’s a trolly of DVDs
or a beach side coffee and croissant
we’re all deeply caught up
in an infectious spell of want.

The Facebook Cull

This weekend I did one of my bi-yearly spontaneous Facebook culls and disconnected from about 20 users that I hadn’t seen or spoken to for a good few months.

The 20 were made up of distant acquaintances from jobs I’ve left years ago, old drinking buddies I’ve not heard from in a long time and dare I say it, present day colleagues that I barely work or talk with at all.

I know it’s very unlikely that anyone connected to my Facebook account will crawl through it and browse even my profile, but the idea that someone barely a part of my present day life, if at all, could in theory check up on what I’m up to rather than pick up a phone, drop an e-mail or God forbid meet up with me in person doesn’t seem right. They’re incredibly unlikely to do that, but in principle they shouldn’t be able to. Be an active part of my life or don’t.

I told someone about the cull who suggested that this occasional social clean-up will mean I’ll end up with few long term friends, which isn’t the case at all. My oldest and best friend doesn’t use Facebook; he’s only just upgraded from a Nokia 3210. He moved to Australia in August but we’ve been speaking to each other by phone, e-mail and Skype more than we ever did whilst living two blocks away from each other. If the friendship’s a real one, it will survive all sorts of situations, especially the absence of a virtual playground for vanity and snooping. Without getting too spiritual about the whole thing, life’s about real world connections which digital should complement, support and enhance, not provide the only space for them to exist in.

Another person who heard about my cull and that it featured work colleagues was surprised at what she called my ‘ruthlessness’, suggesting that unless you make friends on Facebook with people in the office, you’ll never become friends with them properly and your social circles will eventually shrink until you’re old and lonely. It would be interesting to see how she uses Facebook beyond connecting with any and every one she can, because nobody I know has properly used Facebook Events and Invitations since about 2003.

In terms of connecting with people in the professional environment, I’ve done this loads but only after many out of office activities, be it in the pub, sport or music events. My closest friends and current house mates were all found at different paragraphs of my CV. Once there was a genuine relationship, we ended up Facebook friends, able to exchange messages or content to organise and entertain, and share photos and videos of real world events just gone.

Perhaps I’m out of date and way too fussy about the whole thing, though a recent article that did the rounds by a teenager describing their attitudes to different platforms suggests I’m not just being an old grump. They described Facebook as ‘an awkward dinner party that’s hard to leave.

I imagine anyone reading this is wondering why I don’t just leave Facebook and stop fluctuating everyone’s ‘Friends’ count, but like the teenage writer finds, so many people are on there and it’s a very handy way of trading private messages about dinner party plans or household shopping trips.

Readers may also wonder why after a few culls I even end up with people to eventually axe. It’s a fair point as I’m part of the problem, not wanting to say ‘No’ or hit ‘Ignore’ when the requests come through and even less happy about bumping in to people I’ve culled at parties after not seeing them for over half a year. It’s amazing how aware some people are that they’ve been chopped, and how publicly they seek an answer; but that’s another blog post for some other time.

Social media rant aside, I should state that social networking is an incredible utility and force, helping people to connect with one another, find and provide entertainment and in numerous instances come together and cause real change, which perhaps is where my habit of de-friending is rooted. I love social. It’s found me close friends, cohabitants, my partner and a career.

I see and get so much value in it that I’ve no time for digital deadwood and vacuous ‘Likes’ from near strangers of the past who I can’t now name the children of, which should never ever constitute keeping in touch or replace eye to eye engagement.

Rap Scores

In his book ‘There’s a God on the Mic: The True 50 Greatest MCs‘, Kool Moe Dee uses a points system to determine the best that ever did it. Each artist featured is reviewed against seventeen areas of skill –

Originality, Concepts, Versatility, Vocabulary,
Substance, Flow, Flavour, Freestyle, Vocal presence,
Live performance, Poetic value, Body of work, Industry impact,
Social impact, Longevity, Lyrics, Battle skills.

As you can see, some of the skills on the list could have been combined, if it wasn’t for needing to fill a whole book’s worth of content, but generally the methodology and results make for a great, comprehensive read, showcasing and promoting the intricate and complex nature of rhyming.

The title of the book itself offers a history lesson in the origins of Rap and Hiphop. The ‘Emcee’, ‘MC’ or M.C’ originally being a performing speaker presiding over musical gatherings such as DJ Kool Herc’s Hiphop founding parties at Sedgwick Avenue, Bronx New York. Rap, being one of seven elements that make up Hiphop culture. Fast forward 50 years on from those early days and you find that there’s few well known Emcees around in the traditional sense, in the mainstream commercial arena at least, but rappers are everywhere from question and answer sessions with horrific politicians to TV commercials for yoghurt products.

You could spend 60 hours listening to KRS One‘s (the most highly strung individual in Hiphop history) back catalogue and indulge yourself in what constitutes Rap Vs Hiphop, consider that Bob Dylan was actually the first ever rapper (or Emcee) way before Big Bank Hank ripped off Grandmaster Caz inRapper’s Delight  or just say to hell with all the jargon and settle on the fact that rhyming is a wonder to listen to when it’s done well. It’s not the 70s and I’ve already exhausted myself and anyone reading with pigeon holes and Hiphop dogma, so let’s park all of this and move forward with the more conventional term ‘Rapper’.

As you’d expect, a lot of Kool Moe Dee’s top 50 list features older names from yester-year including Melle Mel, Rakim and Big Daddy Kane, though some younger names feature. Nas, Jay Z and Method Man can be considered the fresher faces in the list, even though they’re now all over the age of 40. (Jay Z secretly being 50 if some rumours are to be believed).

The magical, subjective, unexplainable nature of music isn’t lost on me (let’s leave mathematics and classical composition for another day too), but I thought it would be fun to re-visit Moe Dee’s points system to determine who’s the best in my eyes.

Because I’m not great at maths and don’t have to cover 500 pages of space, I streamlined the 17 skills down to five areas which I feel sum up the full package.

My skills list became as follows, and I decided to score each candidate a maximum of ten points in each area.

  • Creativity – The originality and imagination of the rapper
  • Flow – The delivery of the rapper’s vocals
  • Wordplay – The choice and mastery of words
  • Body of work – How the full back catalogue looks and stands
  • Live performance –  How everything translates onto the stage

No system’s perfect and my maths skills are really weak. This system could be better if it somehow takes into account the number of years each artist has been active and how many full album’s they’ve delivered (especially in regards to the ‘Body of work’ and ‘Creativity’ areas), but my results generally supported what I would have spontaneously rolled off at a party if someone asked me my top ten. Which goes ‘a little something like this’ (KRS One reference there)…

Note: This represents who I believe are the best rappers, not necessarily my definite favourites. For example, what Busta Rhymes did at his peak was off this planet but I wouldn’t touch any of his work from 2001 onwards with a barge pole, so can I really say he’s a favourite?

Nas
Creativity 8, Flow 7, Wordplay 7, Body of work 9, Live Performance 7 = 38

Eminem
Creativity 8, Flow 8, Wordplay 9, Body of work 7, Live Performance 6 = 38

Pharoahe Monch
Creativity 8, Flow 9, Wordplay 9, Body of work 5, Live Performance 3 = 34

Chester P
Creativity 7, Flow 7, Wordplay 6, Body of work 6, Live Performance 7 = 33

Busta Rhymes
Creativity 6, Flow 8, Wordplay 6, Body of work 6, Live Performance 7 = 33

Jehst
Creativity 7, Flow 6, Wordplay 6, Body of work 8, Live Performance 6 = 33

El-P
Creativity 6, Flow 5, Wordplay 5, Body of work 8, Live Performance 7 = 31

Andre 3000
Creativity 6, Flow 8, Wordplay 6, Body of work 8, Live Performance 2 = 30

Kendrick Lamar
Creativity 6, Flow 8, Wordplay 7, Body of work 3, Live Performance 6 = 30

Ghostface Killah
Creativity 7, Flow 6, Wordplay 5, Body of work 7, Live Performance 4 = 29

Narrative

My favourite new poet emailed back
but only with a link to his new book.

A man looked in awe at his dog
sniffing the arse of another’s.

The pub doors were bolted closed
and the joker just started to bore.

Boys became shadows of their baggies
fidgeting through to another Friday.

Little heart shaped icons on screens
have never constituted keeping in touch.

Being alone with your own thoughts
can outdo the streams of distant men.

Buskers are only interesting in the way
they dream with other people’s songs.

The cycle of commerce is well oiled
by parents coating babies in brands.

A night bus passenger stirs imagination
with crates of shrink-wrapped eggs.

People forget they have legs
and decline friends two stations away.

Hype turns worthless TV sets
into unaffordable bar stools.

Fantasies of the experimental
bookend missionary days.

People’s futures hanging by a thread
get determined over smoke breaks.

Astounding is the human’s skill
of twisting ethics to justify means.

The Pickle Jar

One of the challenges I put on my ‘Before I’m Thirty’ list was to get a poetry pamphlet together. In the run up to my birthday I compiled lots of scribbles from my notebook and put a double sided sheet of words together. The aim was to hand it out to friends during my birthday celebrations. I was too embarrassed when it came to it so planned to wait until the end of the night, but by then I was too drunk and forgot. The sheets are now making their way out via post, are all tagged here.

The First Weekend In May

The cockney Rastafarian down on the street
fought the Russians in Afghanistan(?) and if he
doesn’t stick to his word and run the bad guy
on Watney Market taking money from oldies
all the way back to Poplar, he’ll throw himself
under a double-decker bus himself, swear down.

The proud ground floor flat owner’s busy
weeding a few side road patches of flowers
in the bright morning air as bus engines hum
and the skinny jeans brigade march satchels
sunnies, rolling paper and sandals passed
abandoned crusty sofas and damp wardrobes.

A relentless blizzard of tuneless beeps
creates a supermarket symphony as tinnies
barbecues, sun screen, gum and crisps
slide into a plastic carrier bag that will wrap
around Monday lunch’s Tupperware box
as a fog of recollection and discourse lingers.

For now, minefields of eye contact
shuttle back and forth a pick n mix of
fiery youngins forming their routes
content middlemen so sure of their stance
and the elder people wrapped in scarves.
If not a myth, multiculturalism’s certainly mute.

The Hungover stare at looping news stories
gradually expanding as if a cloud of candy floss
but there’s nothing sweeter than a liberating
finger pressing down on the remote’s off button
to make way for finally showering and acting on
the eager, rallying texts of a tireless thinker.

(And Then I Was Like, Literally, Just, Like) Carry On The Love

Like the Summer we spent on a curb
doing everything for the first time.

Like persistent text and voice messages
you kid yourself you’re too busy to give a reply.

Like the accepted invitations late on a Sunday
when you need one more drink before it ends.

Like friends that pass a blind eye or join in
when it’s not even their taste in sound.

Like colleagues and flat mates that listen
to every little, tedious detail and smile.

Like discreet phone calls made to loved ones
on pretend trips to the toilet at a bar.

Like other runners looping the park
who can barely breathe but smile back.

Like that feeling a person’s right there
however rarely you get round to speaking.

Like the quick Post-it note left on a fridge door
by someone before they’ve gone away.

Like an absence of self-consciousness
because there are no filters these years on.

Like the grip and fixed stare of a commuter
worlds away inside of his book.

Like the times you’re convinced of a truth
but are shown alternatives by a reliable source.

Forced Conversations

In March they’re leaving Whitechapel
but not before a Jack The Ripper tour.
She thinks it’d be too scary for now
and he doesn’t really give a shit.

He seems to be a writer of sorts,
preoccupied with a first draft deadline.
As he daydreams and says nothing,
her questions and comments stack up.

The White Hart’s been given a revamp
of new woodwork and hoppy ales.
It’s just a shame they’re moving on
as they prefer it to over the road.

They trade spuds and carrots,
sticking to an orange juice and wine.
A darts game fills a wide screen
and another sleepy Sunday concludes.

WHP

Four months on from crowding around
choosing train times, punching in keys
and deciding what to eat beforehand
that we’d need cash ready for the taxi
and what sets we most wanted to see
the faint waves of nerves in weeks past
at the mere mention of what was planned
were now sharper and more frequent
fuelling a conundrum of apprehension
excitement and controlled panic
as pockets got checked and then again
for tickets, chewing gum and ID
in regimented paranoid obsession.
Rain seemed hard in those dark minutes
striding across stretching car headlights
as people skipped out onto the street
instructed by loud, procedural stewards
to form single lines along steel barriers
for a march through guarded check points
before a night long communal skirmish.
The territory was systematically scoped
for the character of the crowd and bars
set lists, lighting rigs, speakers
rooms, toilets and meeting points.
Strangers faces quickly became friendly
targets through choppy seas of bodies
when armed with cans and bottles
bought with more generosity than sense.
All together in a squeezing circle of trust
a gentle bolt of anticipation breezed over
a foundation of excited readiness
and then everything surged at once.
Strobes of electric crazed animation
burst above our lab rat wide eyes
whilst a force of warm baselines
attacked the fully surrendered crowd
of open arms waiting to be conquered
by acts of masterful percussion.
At times it felt too relentlessly good.
Eyes closed above hips swaying
lips smiling and feet tapping until
allies from all sides appeared to hug
point, talk, listen and take photos with
as drills of textbook moods played out.
Silent was the overwhelmed spectator
amongst edgy moments of crossed wires
randoms exchanging names and towns
brand new faces looking so familiar
urges to forgive, forget or find out
thoughts of friends more distant now
text messages so open and bold
cheerfulness tall and wide
glances of watches announcing the end
concerns about failed journeys home
promises of just five minutes more
and the cool, navy blue, open sky.
We’d used our last glimmers of energy
chatting triumphantly in celebration
that every bullet point of the plan worked
and not one feared scenario was realised.
The train blitzed through calm green fields
coming alive with growing light
revealing small and remote farm houses
vacant platforms, empty roads
the sheep and horses of gridded land
and a weekend of reflection ahead.
Headphones delivered familiar sounds
that sound-tracked the quiet journey back
of contented head nodding and yawns.
A taxi through familiar, sleeping streets
the final reflective sit around
a beaker of water on a bedside shelf
and text messages of success and thanks
gently dropped a full stop on the script
regularly talked through since.