Tag: mates

Belly Laughter

All the lists and forms
fall away in the final hour
clearing slates for friends
and all their hysteric power.

Clinks and cackles play
in our boardroom of hearts,
trading updates big and small
from since we’ve been apart.

Uncontrollably we howl
with laughter from the gut
filling the night with joy
that slams the long day shut.

Aching ribs and damp eyes
bookend a wide smile fold
charging the strut home
with a fortune we behold.

Deep And Meaningfuls

You sit calmly and silent
following my racket
giving nods and smiles
to show you’re keeping up.

Every last thread of detail
unravels in an onslaught
I’m desperate to offload
as quickly as you say ‘Pint’.

Then it’s your turn to go.

Rounds and words flow
to our pact’s usual drill
getting everything out
to devise each other’s plan.

One of these a month
keeps it all afloat
informing the next tales
we dissect, resolve and file.

Familiar Might

There’s no agenda here in one sense.
In another it’s a given we’ll each dispense
what’s on our minds behind the day-to-day fence;
hopes and fears without brave face pretence.

And then when it’s off the chest we rest
revelling, feeling blessed in the de-stress;
a mesh of heroics, hugs and in-crowd jest.
The suppressed, addressed, allows progress.

We raise our glasses, pass the light.
We plot, we party, we own the night.
We laugh. The creasing makes things right.
The dark is charged with familiar might.

There is necessity in the excess.
Neat tidy lives need occasional mess.
Discoveries take a little digress.
Moderation prevents any regress.

Well that’s one way, tried and tested.
Truths are found in counter-suggestions.
What you get back equals investments.
Never bank on a solo assessment.

We raise our glasses, pass the light.
We plot, we party, we own the night.
We laugh. The creasing makes things right.
The dark is charged with familiar might.

We raise our glasses, pass the light.
We plot, we party, we own the night.
We laugh. The creasing makes things right.
The dark is charged with familiar might.

Belonging

It’s magic how vast whatever is out there
and here we are sitting over two tiny beers
rolling through the routines of private jokes
basking in the glory of a friend’s rich anecdote
as if nothing else matters and nothing exists
but the joy and understanding, a shared bliss
we each treasure in our different little ways
and couldn’t over-indulge with genuine praise
for the hours of fortune, giving tales and facts
these moments deserve our own blue plaques
the ever-giving and ever-grateful merry band
a magnificent microscopic scratch on the land.

Friday night departure.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Table taps.

My friend who’s detoxing came to visit so I saw in the long bank holiday weekend dry which my wallet loves me for today, unlike the 101 friends I’ve been calling since noon to get out there with me for pints that they don’t want added on top of the headaches they’ve already clocked up, trickling in reminders of biros pushing numbers onto palms that are still dirty, not like the soft hands of Hannah, travelling out by bus to salvage my bored Saturday with her company, half fuelled by pity and half by the fact that she’s less wimpish than most, bringing Welshy along with her like my time’s free for anyone to pimp off to others without my sign off, which I would have granted anyway because let’s face it, he’s great and I didn’t have anything on the cards an hour ago, dragging my vacuum cleaner around the flat to a backdrop of BBC news reports going around and around like the duster on the coffee table brushing away crisp crumbs until the next bored house tidy and back to front dusting and mopping sequence, so eager I get to have things done, like this gibberish snake of thought’s final line as Hannah’s just arrived, folding her umbrella, walking towards me and saying ‘Hello!’