In The Round is a record and celebration of friendships, with illustrations by the brilliant Megan Metcalf.
Download the full booklet here (31MB) or browse below.
Beginnings
Belly Laughter
Deep & Meaningfuls
Escape
Familiar Might
Belongings
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.
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.
Line ‘em up.
Knock ‘em back.
Ask the waiter for more.
Have a break.
A little snack.
Lubricate the jaw.
Put phones away.
Lock eyes and minds.
Dance from night to day.
Take a trip.
Go far and wide.
Dance off yesterday.
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.
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.
Facilitated by Max Cooper’s Mesh community on Discord, Lean In is produced by Deadly Custard with words and vocals by Tony Wright.
Too right he enters the stage
to a regal band of brass and pomp
cheers, whistles and applause
weaving through hands held high
welcoming the best to do it
his tracksuit outwitting our
t-shirt weather, hoodies all summer
fan references before it begins.
From there, Class Of Deja reigns.
Every word of every bar as on point
as the CD versions under our beds
retired to memory box stacks of the
songs and energies that made us
triggering nods and shake alongs
to classic verse and recent chorus
the new ones as strong or stronger
advertising hard work and growth.
Quality shines as daylight falls.
Thousands heaped in favourites
rapping along to every other line
spill out home sweet home.
I’ve been doing just fine drifting;
home to work to bars to home,
wages to pints to a few new clothes.
I’ve rolled from beds to pubs,
feasting on the morning’s remorse,
dancing pounds down to a final pence.
In the corner of clubs I’ve gassed
the world to my rights with kids
little more than half my years;
Bass lines and strobe lights
pushing back the barriers of age
as we all stomped in unity.
For the most part, nobody feels old
surrounded by cherished peers
coasting along out of our minds.
But lately I’m hearing slang,
seeing looks and watching styles
I can’t fathom and realising;
That amongst the drinks and meals,
overdrafts, bills, thrills and getaways
time passes as much as you pass out.
My God, there’s little better
than triumphant 6am group hugs
but it’s getting tough on the bones.
Monthly statements show little
beyond the lines after lines
of the same honks and haunts.
And after a year pondering change
it’s arrived, confusing me shy;
the familiar pinning down a big leap.
Resisting routine lifestyles
I’ve scrolled address books for allies
to chase down the past with wine;
The roll call slimming every time,
weathered by parenthood, marriages
and friends dissolved into couples.
Convenient bonds become appointments;
bi-monthly fixtures of faint retention
diluted by vulgar life status brags.
Suddenly come your own stacks of forms,
inking out textbook progressions;
a parade of crosses in squares.
Thumbing through endless paper
I feel conned that all the hard work
was just for the right to more debt.
They never teach you at school
to search for the cheapest rates
and I can’t get my head around tax.
Starring down a Biro at eternity,
you ponder if this is it now,
inhale then scribble away any doubt.
Idyllic visions of homely bliss
become clouded by the passing hazes
of a hope to stay free and untied;
To drink another fridge of beer,
weep over ruined new trainers
and burn yet more late night pizza.
The last weeks before the big move
see nights making the most of drink
and mornings longing to give it up.
A kitchen counter of dirty plates
or reflections of stubbly, double chins
suggest it’s finally time.
Telephone holding music and paper cuts
organise pipelines of utility
to new lots of freer routine.
Underwear parades, guilt free,
bookend the big plunge,
suddenly not such a bad idea.
To hammer nails in walls,
choose skirting board sizes
and cushions is to feel grown.
Yesterday’s limited edition,
suede, high-top clydes
become today’s table and chairs.
The ice dispensing fridge freezer
might not be a club’s subwoofer
but I’ll hug it all the same.
Kettle and toaster combos
welcome me home from work,
outlining a return on the chore.
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.
Was it Donegal or Sovereign House
where the boys fought up the stairs?
Morgan charmed a squat next door
and fidgeting formed a toilet queue.
Only two girls arrived wearing hats
just like the party memo said.
Connolly retrieved misused cutlery
whilst a gate relentlessly buzzed.
Deliveries came, politics pursued
and reunions isolated those new.
The hosts stayed in tight control
of music so quiet nobody danced.
By midnight things had thinned
across a car park, now private flats.
The keep on crew lost Hannah,
shouting her name to come back.
The Castle’s door had bolted
marking the end of another night.
That Summer’s events just blurred
from one council notice to the next;
Impromptu ciders in Hoxton,
jumping fences into ticketed gigs,
and drive-by paranoia as Sully hid.
Those days awakened, defined,
destroyed, split and united most.
Migration, home making,
career baking and kids raising
now scatter the stories to which I toast.
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.
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.
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.
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.