Featured on BBC Radio Kent’s Upload on the 11th October 2022.
Electric smiles
meets ad land trade
in a plywood corner shop
where gossip’s made.
Over oat milk daydreams
he loops stage show lines
scrolling down messages
that keep him alive.
He does well for hearts
but less so in tips,
waiting on agent calls
and lucky coin flips.
The routine workers
envy his auto-charm
oblivious to the comfort
they hold in their palm.
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.
‘Goodness me. What pigs people are to through rubbish in the hollowed out interconnecting heroes of yesterday. Your suggestion of standing hotels is a grand idea.’ – James Sullivan, Artist.
On my recent local wanders I’ve become interested by the sightings of public phone boxes, more often than not in a very poor state, usually covered and packed with rubbish, smashed and hanging on their hinges or all of the above.
Never in use and rarely even noticed, they feel like remnants of a previous time; metal and glass ghosts of the high street, once so handy for keeping in touch with and chasing people down, yet now almost entirely void of purpose, if not for the shelter they provide all sorts of combinations of trash sat inside them, swept in by the wind or in some cases, seemingly arranged by somebody that’s nowhere in sight.
I always wonder why the local authorities don’t remove them to replace with trees or simply make life easier for blind people, before concluding they’re subtle beacons tracking our every move, transmitting mind controlling ideas or more probable, raking in advertising revenue. Besides, where would drunk people piss?
Whether they should be reclaimed and repainted by the people and turned into one man libraries and standing hotels or pulled down entirely is for the public to rise up and decide. I’m just asking the question.
Ed scribbled down a
door’s Bowie quote
and a tramp rattled
by with a thought.
Mark browsed bottles
in a corner store
whilst I waited outside.
One by one at Ryan’s
the party arrived.
We welcomed Az back
slicing quiche
filling up flutes
and scooping up
handfuls of crisps.
Loose acquaintances
asked of professions
like that’s all we are.
Law and banking talk
filled, no, sucked
out the room’s air.
With no interest
in being measured
I plotted an exit
wishing goodnight
to the close ones
but side stepping most.
That tube journey
my headphones
dropping someone coins
and a late night chocolate
sounded and tasted
like the night’s peak.
Wes disappeared clubbing
Mark’s on Ryan’s floor
and this empty bed
of so much space
announces the weekend.
As these early hours pass
messages appear
doors clink and
footsteps shuffle.
For all the bad form
some find, envy, in it
I can’t stay somewhere
that doesn’t turn me on.
Like the cage of an office
groups and gatherings tire.
A little of a lot
never leaves me full.
So I’ll jog with Joe
eat pizza with Chris
cycle with Rob
and if I do join the masses
disappear outside
for closer connections
amidst clouds of smoke.
Less is more
and makes for cheaper rounds
however lonely it looks.
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.
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?’
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.
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 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
They move the sleeping man on
like there’s some place he belongs
as a rich Russian’s news stand’s
merchant sings his paper’s songs.
You skip over their litter
in a dash through inky news sheets.
Audio, visual versions play out,
in front of your wide screen seat.
If in luck he’ll hostel it tonight
and see you after tomorrow’s pints.
If you break enough notes,
some coins will pity his plight.
To be a moved on sleeping man
is a twisted tale we’ll never unwind.
We like to think we’re aware
as much as we’re utterly blind.