For the warmth of a kiss
The feel of a hand
The need for affection
To colour the bland
For the look in an eye
When you see love smile
The need for close breath
It's been the longest while
For the leap of the heart
As I hear their name
As passions grow wild
And devour the tame
For the moments long past
And the nights now so long
To feel warm love
Or has it all gone?
Thursday, 7 June 2012
For...
Wednesday, 6 June 2012
Temptation
Tumulent temptations
Soak in the rain
Cooling, impossible
Resisting
Refrain
Tasting temptation
With bitterness sweet
A focus divided
Feigned calmness
Replete
Avoiding temptation
The scent from a smile
A breath
Of a touch
Avoiding
With guile
Tuesday, 5 June 2012
No Kews in Queue. Errr.
It was a bank holiday. Again.
I had planned to be back in Contrary Towers on Monday night, but, unfortunately a combination of an epically bad weekend and the last train being so early meant I was neatly stuck in the worst place possible. Pfft.
On top of this I received two messages on Twitter that made my heart run cold, the worry for my flatmate was quite palpable, she was truly in dire need... Firstly I saw...
@AlmostSenseless and we are out of jam *wails*And then, to emphasise the dangerousness of the situation...
@AlmostSenseless and no milk #hopeless
Which was why I was out of bed at 5:15am and heading for the railway station to catch the first train out and return home. Yes I could have hung around a bit longer, but things really had been tense and, not to put too fine a point on it I desperately wanted to see a friendly face. That and we had a plan. We were going out!
I managed to work for most of the way to Cambridge, which was nice. It was weird being on the first train, the tables were still damp from being washed down. And it being a bank holiday it was... Silent. Almost nobody on the train. Fabulous.
The next bit from Cambridge to Liverpool Street wasn't so nice. Again the train was completely empty. Good. I did various things worked a bit and... At the next station a few people got on and... One of them sat right next to me. The. Train. Was. Bloody. Empty. WTAF? Why next to me? And he kept sniffing. Grrrrr. I was not a happy bunny. But I was being calm. Ish.
Anyway. I was glad to get to Liverpool Street. Even more weirdly I was actually glad to see the Central Line. I thought I'd never use that phrase. Even coming out of Mile End, what seemed about 8 seconds later, was a joy. The sweet sound of the police sirens was like music to me ears, I was almost home. One quick stop to Chez Lidl for essentials and I could have my first tea of the day. Hurrah!
Incredibly, my flatmate was actually awake. In fact, she'd been awake for some time. Crikey. Time for tea then. But no crumpets. I'd picked some up especially, but she was on some new diet that meant no crumpets before 9am, a weird plan, but apparently scientifically proven.
The crumpets came with the second cup of tea. Phew, I was quite worried for a moment there.
Interestingly, I didn't manage to vapourise the crumpets. I don't for one minute doubt the fact that our thermonuclear grill is the root of all evil, but, well, mine didn't come out carbonised... I added butter. By the lump. Obvs. And we ate. With honey.
Bliss.
The plan was that we would be going to Kew gardens to see the new David Nash exhibition which we'd seen separately, so had to be a good prospect. Now this would involved travel to a mysterious place known as West London. To hamper things further we would have to go to an area shrouded in primeval fog known as South of the river. Oh dear.
My plan was get on the District Line to Richmond, sit there for a while and get off a Kew.
My flatmate felt we needed to look at options. So she tried ever more complex routes, to see how quickly we could get there. We couldn't. There is no quickness. It was District Line to Richmond or, well, a slower route. We headed to the District Line.
And then counted off the 25 stations to Kew. 25. Sheesh. We chatted. I threatened 99 bottles of beer on the wall. She asked are we nearly there yet several times and then... We realised something. We had both separately seen posters for the event. I had even read the blurb. But neither of us could quite recall when the exhibition was on.
Oh.
So from about Temple to Earls Court we kept straining to see if there were any posters for the exhibition. None. Until... We saw one. And saw when it started. The 9th of June. In four days time. Gah.
If you are a regular reader of the goings on at Contrary Towers you will know that such mere details do not concern us. But still. As ever we are ahead of the curve and there before the crowds. Bleeding edge. Fashion leaders. Trend setters. Can't-read-dates-of-posterers. You would have been disappointed if we'd got it right.
We reached Kew. My flatmate bought coffee. We giggled as we walked to the gardens about something or other. We paid. We went in and... We found that the art works were in place. Hurrah.
And then we had the most calm, meandering day. We walked, chatted, sniffed flowers, took photographs, pondered art and generally defused. Lunch was a calm affair, well, if you ignore the fact that the people in the Orangery couldn't grasp the concept of serving people in order. The astonishing thing was how quiet it was. If you ever want to go to Kew on a bank holiday and want it empty, make sure it coincides with the Queen's Jubilee and a threat of rain.
After lunch we wandered out to have a look at the Kew Olympic rings, each of these was made with a large number of a particular plant, which looked fabulous. The only danger point was the green... Mint. My flatmate ate some. She is impossible.
By now the rain has decided that it's going to stay for the afternoon. So we headed off for the tree walk. As we wandered, the quietness became even more apparent, at one point it felt that, literally, we were the only people in Kew and we were in real danger from the killer squirrels.
However, we were safe from squirrels, instead we found yet more of the art that we'd come to see. I might write more about this at another time, i.e. when I'm less tired, but one piece rather reminded me of a Henry Moore was named the Torso. Needless to say we didn't know it was called this until we got close, by which point my flatmate had started a series of poetic words that did, again, convey the idea of a body... You can read this when she writes it up (that was a hint...)
The works really were quite impressive and, in a way intimidating. Some were quite barking, whilst others might have had us giggling with smutty thoughts that we probably shouldn't have been having. Definitely more to ponder on this.
The tree walk is amazing. As my flatmate said, it was a part of the gardens that, previously, would have been largely ignored, but now was a truly incredible chance to see the trees from a different perspective. I was particularly impressed with the way that the walk structure had been built. The metal surfaces appeared to be unfinished and had gently corroded to a delicate rusty colour, blending beautifully with the trees. This combined with the shape of the upper support branches gave a positively natural feel to these very unnatural structures.
If you're not bothered by heights then go up. If you are, then go up anyway, but don't look over the edge. You have been warned.
We headed for home. And... Pie.
As we walked back out of the gardens we did come across an interesting tree, obviously we had no idea what it was so we decided that we knew more than the experts in the garden and named it Purpura Barbam Lignum, it really did have the most lovely purple blossom that reminded us of moustaches, but had to call it beard instead. As you do.
It was decreed that it must be Northern Night in Contrary Towers and, hence, only pie, chips and gravy would do. All we had to do was find some... Easy.
We waited a while at Kew station and a train turned up.
The trouble is, the route it appears to take appears to go very, oh, Grimsby, and as you will know my flatmate is (a) impatient and (b) can't survive more than a nanosecond without food. We changed at Willesden Junction. I'd never heard of this before. Ever.
I had though heard of the Bakerloo line and was happy with this choice. Once we found the right platform. Off we went again. Next stop, Baker Street. There was, as you might imagine, some, discussion over where to change next. We'd lost interest in the Stratford thing, let's face it, we've been there before and all we did was drink champagne and buy shoes. Not helpful. It had to be Canary Wharf. Home to three potential purveyors of fine pies.
The reason I'd argued for Baker Street was simple, I'm a lazy mare and there the Jubilee and Bakerloo lines are on the same level and have adjoining platforms. It was plain sailing from here. We sat, she read me bits from the book she's reading, we giggled and... We reached Canary Wharf. Hurrah.
Waitrose o'clock.
Pie. Err. Pie. Pie? No. Pie! No. Where? Huh? We were getting to the point where we thought we might have to give up and go to Tesco when I had vague recollections of them having frozen pie... It took a while, but then... PIE!
There was the inevitable heated discussion over the best sort of chips to get. You have to remember that other than the dirty croquettes we keep for emergency purposes, we largely cook from scratch, so this is still relatively new territory for us. Fortunately we could at least agree on this, so crinkle cuts it was. And greens as Waitrose had no Broccoli. Yep. Just like Lidl last week. Has Tesco cornered the market? Are there furtive broccoli dealers waiting in the shadows ready to leap out with an easy fix when you are in desperate need? Who knows. I do know this is starting to get old.
The transport home this evening was to be the D3, because it turned up.
Gulp.
We got off... It turned left! Haaaahahahahahaha. This being followed by my I-can't-believe-you-didn't-believe-me-face and her I'm-sure-you-paid-the-driver-off-face. But that mattered not as I then saw... A yellow car!!! I really need to get out more.
Which meant I had to do a little dance to celebrate. On Commercial Road. In E14. Err. Not smart. Still... Yellow car! We popped in to Chez Lidl, collected some medicinal Bardolino and scooted back to Contrary Towers to dry out and cook pie.
At this point I'd just like to say that my flatmate makes utterly brilliant gravy. Properly. And used bits of Charlie the Chive plant to add a little extra.
All in all it's been a good day after such an awful beginning, I know that even pie won't solve the level of frustration (on several levels) that I'm carrying around, but nice days help and do give a certain level of hope that there can be nice days again.
I managed to work for most of the way to Cambridge, which was nice. It was weird being on the first train, the tables were still damp from being washed down. And it being a bank holiday it was... Silent. Almost nobody on the train. Fabulous.
The next bit from Cambridge to Liverpool Street wasn't so nice. Again the train was completely empty. Good. I did various things worked a bit and... At the next station a few people got on and... One of them sat right next to me. The. Train. Was. Bloody. Empty. WTAF? Why next to me? And he kept sniffing. Grrrrr. I was not a happy bunny. But I was being calm. Ish.
Anyway. I was glad to get to Liverpool Street. Even more weirdly I was actually glad to see the Central Line. I thought I'd never use that phrase. Even coming out of Mile End, what seemed about 8 seconds later, was a joy. The sweet sound of the police sirens was like music to me ears, I was almost home. One quick stop to Chez Lidl for essentials and I could have my first tea of the day. Hurrah!
Incredibly, my flatmate was actually awake. In fact, she'd been awake for some time. Crikey. Time for tea then. But no crumpets. I'd picked some up especially, but she was on some new diet that meant no crumpets before 9am, a weird plan, but apparently scientifically proven.
The crumpets came with the second cup of tea. Phew, I was quite worried for a moment there.
Interestingly, I didn't manage to vapourise the crumpets. I don't for one minute doubt the fact that our thermonuclear grill is the root of all evil, but, well, mine didn't come out carbonised... I added butter. By the lump. Obvs. And we ate. With honey.
Bliss.
The plan was that we would be going to Kew gardens to see the new David Nash exhibition which we'd seen separately, so had to be a good prospect. Now this would involved travel to a mysterious place known as West London. To hamper things further we would have to go to an area shrouded in primeval fog known as South of the river. Oh dear.
My plan was get on the District Line to Richmond, sit there for a while and get off a Kew.
My flatmate felt we needed to look at options. So she tried ever more complex routes, to see how quickly we could get there. We couldn't. There is no quickness. It was District Line to Richmond or, well, a slower route. We headed to the District Line.
And then counted off the 25 stations to Kew. 25. Sheesh. We chatted. I threatened 99 bottles of beer on the wall. She asked are we nearly there yet several times and then... We realised something. We had both separately seen posters for the event. I had even read the blurb. But neither of us could quite recall when the exhibition was on.
Oh.
So from about Temple to Earls Court we kept straining to see if there were any posters for the exhibition. None. Until... We saw one. And saw when it started. The 9th of June. In four days time. Gah.
If you are a regular reader of the goings on at Contrary Towers you will know that such mere details do not concern us. But still. As ever we are ahead of the curve and there before the crowds. Bleeding edge. Fashion leaders. Trend setters. Can't-read-dates-of-posterers. You would have been disappointed if we'd got it right.
We reached Kew. My flatmate bought coffee. We giggled as we walked to the gardens about something or other. We paid. We went in and... We found that the art works were in place. Hurrah.
After lunch we wandered out to have a look at the Kew Olympic rings, each of these was made with a large number of a particular plant, which looked fabulous. The only danger point was the green... Mint. My flatmate ate some. She is impossible.
By now the rain has decided that it's going to stay for the afternoon. So we headed off for the tree walk. As we wandered, the quietness became even more apparent, at one point it felt that, literally, we were the only people in Kew and we were in real danger from the killer squirrels.
 |
| Flatmate not giggling |
If you're not bothered by heights then go up. If you are, then go up anyway, but don't look over the edge. You have been warned.
We headed for home. And... Pie.
 |
| Purpura Barbam Lignum (honestum) |
It was decreed that it must be Northern Night in Contrary Towers and, hence, only pie, chips and gravy would do. All we had to do was find some... Easy.
Me: Funny looking underground train.
Her: It's overground, it'll be fine, we'll go to StratfordThis made sense, I believe there are retail outlets in that hellish part of London. Possibly some that sold pie. So we got on this strange, wide, train that didn't have the right colours on the route map and had names I'd only heard tale of in horror stories read to me as a child to keep me away from North West London.
The trouble is, the route it appears to take appears to go very, oh, Grimsby, and as you will know my flatmate is (a) impatient and (b) can't survive more than a nanosecond without food. We changed at Willesden Junction. I'd never heard of this before. Ever.
I had though heard of the Bakerloo line and was happy with this choice. Once we found the right platform. Off we went again. Next stop, Baker Street. There was, as you might imagine, some, discussion over where to change next. We'd lost interest in the Stratford thing, let's face it, we've been there before and all we did was drink champagne and buy shoes. Not helpful. It had to be Canary Wharf. Home to three potential purveyors of fine pies.
The reason I'd argued for Baker Street was simple, I'm a lazy mare and there the Jubilee and Bakerloo lines are on the same level and have adjoining platforms. It was plain sailing from here. We sat, she read me bits from the book she's reading, we giggled and... We reached Canary Wharf. Hurrah.
Waitrose o'clock.
Pie. Err. Pie. Pie? No. Pie! No. Where? Huh? We were getting to the point where we thought we might have to give up and go to Tesco when I had vague recollections of them having frozen pie... It took a while, but then... PIE!
There was the inevitable heated discussion over the best sort of chips to get. You have to remember that other than the dirty croquettes we keep for emergency purposes, we largely cook from scratch, so this is still relatively new territory for us. Fortunately we could at least agree on this, so crinkle cuts it was. And greens as Waitrose had no Broccoli. Yep. Just like Lidl last week. Has Tesco cornered the market? Are there furtive broccoli dealers waiting in the shadows ready to leap out with an easy fix when you are in desperate need? Who knows. I do know this is starting to get old.
The transport home this evening was to be the D3, because it turned up.
Me: We can get off near Westferry
Her: Are you sure it doesn't go past ours?
Me: Yes
Her: You sure?
Me: Yes, it'll be fine...And on and on it went. Continuing in the bus. The belief was we'd get off near Limehouse Police Station and... Turn right thus proving me wrong.
Gulp.
We got off... It turned left! Haaaahahahahahaha. This being followed by my I-can't-believe-you-didn't-believe-me-face and her I'm-sure-you-paid-the-driver-off-face. But that mattered not as I then saw... A yellow car!!! I really need to get out more.
Which meant I had to do a little dance to celebrate. On Commercial Road. In E14. Err. Not smart. Still... Yellow car! We popped in to Chez Lidl, collected some medicinal Bardolino and scooted back to Contrary Towers to dry out and cook pie.
At this point I'd just like to say that my flatmate makes utterly brilliant gravy. Properly. And used bits of Charlie the Chive plant to add a little extra.
 |
| Not Charlie! |
Monday, 4 June 2012
Let's spend a Penny...
It's inevitable really.
Anything that involves anything in this country will lead to someone making some ill thought out and feeble comment that they will proclaim as fact. I imagine it's the same in every country and culture. But I tend not to see so much of those on my, ewww, facebook timeline.
Last night I read various comments regarding the Jubilee. They were started by a guy I was at school with and later in the discussion another joined in that was ranting about the monarchy being, and I quote, "SCUMBAG PARASITES". All a bit predictable. All a bit... Meh. Is that really the best you can do? I pondered this in the dark hours of the night, looked up the OED definition of parasites and considered what the monarchy is, at least from my point of view.
Then this morning I read a marvellous blog post by @obotheclown which rather prompted me to write this. In it he was actually talking about snide comments regarding achievement. Whilst one could argue that it takes no achievement to, by dint of accident of birth, be in a particular family, it does rather take an awful lot of effort to keep doing a job in the face of, well, everything, regardless of how good the fringe benefits are.
But back to the OED for a moment...
Hmm. Gives nothing in return? I'll admit here and now I am something of a monarchist, this probably means that I'm going to find strychnine in the next cup of tea I get from my flatmate, but there, I said it. I recognise there are flaws in the system, but as I've written before they are better than the alternative. The alternative being a republic with an elected el presidente. Another bottom feeding politician whose soul positive attributes are to look good and have a better marketing team than the other guy. And let's face it, until the world moves on it's likely to be a bloke that's elected and won't that be good?
Wheeeee.
Whatever the issues, going by the OED, it's not parasitical. In the self same facebook thread it was pointed out that the monarchy costs each and every one of us 60p a week. I have no idea whether it's an accurate figure, but it sounds vaguely right. The response was "And it's my 60p, why give it to worlds richest reptile?". Okay. Let's look at this. I get paid weekly through an umbrella company. So I happen to know that my tax, excluding National Insurance, was £635.20 for the week. Of which approximately 1p goes to the monarchy.
1p
1.1538p if you want to be pedantic, but 1p, sod it, I'll sort out the difference in December. 1p.
That 1p filled my eyes with tears of joy as I watched 1000 boats being rowed down the Thames. That brought millions out to line the river to see the spectacle and honour not just the Queen, but the history she represents. That had groups and communities up and down the country and across the world coming together to celebrate something that was quite unique. That 1p did more than any bollock brained politician or planner could ever manage to do.
It brought people together.
In a time of deeply unsettling economic turmoil, the country, largely as one, stood up, hummed the National Anthem and had a jolly good time. Sod the weather, this is Britain, we do rain, it's not going to stop us. It was particularly heart warming to see representatives of the Little Ships as part of the pageant, an emotional reminder of another set of people who, against the odds, joined as a nation and gave two fingers to those that would wish to oppress us.
The monarchy is a lasting reminder of the last time this country was properly invaded. I know that there was a later full on invasion that I learnt of just before New Year, must check with the flatmate for details of that, she will probably remember, but this didn't have quite the same impact. Anyway, an event that, ultimately, took us on a path to produce a nation of, well, bloody mindedness like no other.
And that's what I saw. That's what I see. The Queen could abdicate. She could enjoy the her later years and spend time with her husband and consort, time that they ultimately sacrificed sixty years ago. But no, whatever you say of her, she sticks to her duty, she represents us all and she does so with a bloody mindedness and stiff upper lip that should make us all proud.
Let's just keep spending that penny every week.
Anything that involves anything in this country will lead to someone making some ill thought out and feeble comment that they will proclaim as fact. I imagine it's the same in every country and culture. But I tend not to see so much of those on my, ewww, facebook timeline.
Last night I read various comments regarding the Jubilee. They were started by a guy I was at school with and later in the discussion another joined in that was ranting about the monarchy being, and I quote, "SCUMBAG PARASITES". All a bit predictable. All a bit... Meh. Is that really the best you can do? I pondered this in the dark hours of the night, looked up the OED definition of parasites and considered what the monarchy is, at least from my point of view.
Then this morning I read a marvellous blog post by @obotheclown which rather prompted me to write this. In it he was actually talking about snide comments regarding achievement. Whilst one could argue that it takes no achievement to, by dint of accident of birth, be in a particular family, it does rather take an awful lot of effort to keep doing a job in the face of, well, everything, regardless of how good the fringe benefits are.
But back to the OED for a moment...
parasite/ˈparəsʌɪt/
noun
1 an organism which lives in or on another organism and benefits by deriving nutrients at the other's expense.
2 derogatory a person who habitually relies on or exploits others and gives nothing in return.
Hmm. Gives nothing in return? I'll admit here and now I am something of a monarchist, this probably means that I'm going to find strychnine in the next cup of tea I get from my flatmate, but there, I said it. I recognise there are flaws in the system, but as I've written before they are better than the alternative. The alternative being a republic with an elected el presidente. Another bottom feeding politician whose soul positive attributes are to look good and have a better marketing team than the other guy. And let's face it, until the world moves on it's likely to be a bloke that's elected and won't that be good?
Wheeeee.
Whatever the issues, going by the OED, it's not parasitical. In the self same facebook thread it was pointed out that the monarchy costs each and every one of us 60p a week. I have no idea whether it's an accurate figure, but it sounds vaguely right. The response was "And it's my 60p, why give it to worlds richest reptile?". Okay. Let's look at this. I get paid weekly through an umbrella company. So I happen to know that my tax, excluding National Insurance, was £635.20 for the week. Of which approximately 1p goes to the monarchy.
1p
1.1538p if you want to be pedantic, but 1p, sod it, I'll sort out the difference in December. 1p.
That 1p filled my eyes with tears of joy as I watched 1000 boats being rowed down the Thames. That brought millions out to line the river to see the spectacle and honour not just the Queen, but the history she represents. That had groups and communities up and down the country and across the world coming together to celebrate something that was quite unique. That 1p did more than any bollock brained politician or planner could ever manage to do.
It brought people together.
In a time of deeply unsettling economic turmoil, the country, largely as one, stood up, hummed the National Anthem and had a jolly good time. Sod the weather, this is Britain, we do rain, it's not going to stop us. It was particularly heart warming to see representatives of the Little Ships as part of the pageant, an emotional reminder of another set of people who, against the odds, joined as a nation and gave two fingers to those that would wish to oppress us.
The monarchy is a lasting reminder of the last time this country was properly invaded. I know that there was a later full on invasion that I learnt of just before New Year, must check with the flatmate for details of that, she will probably remember, but this didn't have quite the same impact. Anyway, an event that, ultimately, took us on a path to produce a nation of, well, bloody mindedness like no other.
And that's what I saw. That's what I see. The Queen could abdicate. She could enjoy the her later years and spend time with her husband and consort, time that they ultimately sacrificed sixty years ago. But no, whatever you say of her, she sticks to her duty, she represents us all and she does so with a bloody mindedness and stiff upper lip that should make us all proud.
Let's just keep spending that penny every week.
Sunday, 3 June 2012
Art. Unexpected. Ouch.
When I wrote last night about the Diamond Geezer exhibition at the William Wilson Gallery, I touched on the postcards that were the catalyst for me to visit that marvellous little exhibition. But I didn't say to much about them. Three reasons, firstly I'm rubbish at writing reviews, if you want a good one you need to visit my flatmate's blog, secondly, by the time I started writing I'd had a glass of wine or two and wasn't really focusing, thirdly, and maybe most importantly, I had no idea how to approach it...
So forgive me if this comes across as a load of tosh.
Whilst I really wanted to see the exhibition, I was more than aware that the cards in question were a bit close to the knuckle and referring to a coming large sporting event that will be making travel between Poplar and Notting Hill even more difficult for me than usual. The sort of close to the knuckle that might get lawyers interested, or at the very least the press. And not in a good way.
The cards were by Sadie Hennessy, who, according to the gallery blurb, creates hybrid objects & images which are both comfortably familiar and deeply unsettling, oh yes.
This was the advantage of having gone with somebody who's been before, we could go straight to the cards and, I must admit, I did confess that it was these that had made me make the unexpected trip to collect them. As it was I'm truly glad we did as they were the last ones on the shelf.
At first glance they appear quite simple, hardly subversive at all. Until, that is you realise what the cards say, how they say it and who they say it to. It was a fine, British, two fingered salute to the insanity of the Olympics and the nonsense that surrounds it. Having spent the last few weeks, well, months actually, doing some stuff that's, err. Actually, I won't say anything about that, I'm not that brave. But anyway, having listened to the insanity of the great ticket grab and talk of how fabulous it will be able to see quarter-finals of name-of-sport-I'd-never-heard-of, I fell in love with the in your face UK Olympic Wanking Team with such utterly perfect phrases as "it's what your right arm's for".
On closer inspection you notice that the team is sponsored by Amateur Wanker, a faux commercial organisation (I presume!), giving yet another poke at the commercialisation of the Olympics. This. Was. Brilliant.
I bought the cards.
Not that they were expensive, I just had to have them. Next up Dawn told us a lot more about Sadie and referred to a pile of seaside rock... I'd not even thought about them, but in that innocent seaside treat lay another close-to-the-knuckle story.
Apparently there was a rumour that Gary Glitter was going to move to Herne Bay, not that it was true, but she had some Herne Bay rock made with his name running through it. A fabulously simple, but powerful, connection to make between sweets and perverts. Not surprisingly it received, from what I understand, a great deal of attention. Controversial art? Absolutely.
I love seaside rock, but this is one piece I will never eat.
The thing that struck me was this use of a common item to make a statement, as with the postcards. And it wasn't just about the medium, it was almost the reflection of the state of the local gossip that was the catalyst to the art creation. It reminded me of life back in the small market town in Norfolk where I have a house with my nearly-ex. A few years ago there was a strong, heard it from a reliable source, rumour that either Liz Hurley or Hugh Grant were going to move in up the road from me. A new place was being built with, well, I won't say what I think of it, but all a bit nouveau. It was all bollocks of course, but there was a thread of connection as, apparently, one of Hugh's godparents was the Lady of the manor. I would check, the validity of this but, actually, in the words of my flatmate, I can't be arsed.
The point is, in small places what they can't find out, they make up, rumours fester and grow like Russian vines, taking a hold that's tricky to remove in the face of facts. Facts really can be quite inconvenient in the face of a good yarn.
Before we went on, Dawn showed us a box of postcards, again by Sadie. I must admit I wouldn't have noticed them, partially because I didn't have my reading glasses with me, but largely because I was on such a short time leash that I wasn't dwelling on each object as I would have preferred.
Inside the rather well presented little cardboard box was ten cards, ten black envelopes and an Accident and Emergency card. On first inspection, as with the other items, all looked innocent, dreary postcards from various places... Until you read the messages. All were suicide bridges, except for the collection of emergency phone boxes, and all presented in a way that would pass muster on any largely ignored seaside card rack, the sort of thing you'd grab and send to your Aunt Gladys because you always send her a card.
They were subversive in their apparent innocence. I think I might have fallen a little bit in love with the whole concept.
I bought a box. How could I not?
And with that I had to rush back to Notting Hill and my afternoon working in The Dungeon. For the weekend I was returning to Norfolk to spend most of the Bank Holiday with the nearly-ex and my children. I showed the nearly-ex the various items, with great excitement, and, frankly, they were unmoved. Which I felt was sad as I'm sure they would have got the art at one time. But today, oh yes, today I showed my eldest. It took him a few seconds, but he got it, tear rolling, face creased with laughter, got it. I was so proud.
And, actually, I was so glad that we could share a moment and have a mutual appreciation of what was being represented, even if it's likely that our views were in different places, it mattered not, he was suitably moved and felt it was, yes, a little bit subversive.
Sadie has a solo show coming soon, I really can't wait.
Oh, and if you go to see the Diamond Geezer exhibition (which you should), bring me back a stick of rock, there's a love...
So forgive me if this comes across as a load of tosh.
Whilst I really wanted to see the exhibition, I was more than aware that the cards in question were a bit close to the knuckle and referring to a coming large sporting event that will be making travel between Poplar and Notting Hill even more difficult for me than usual. The sort of close to the knuckle that might get lawyers interested, or at the very least the press. And not in a good way.
This was the advantage of having gone with somebody who's been before, we could go straight to the cards and, I must admit, I did confess that it was these that had made me make the unexpected trip to collect them. As it was I'm truly glad we did as they were the last ones on the shelf.
At first glance they appear quite simple, hardly subversive at all. Until, that is you realise what the cards say, how they say it and who they say it to. It was a fine, British, two fingered salute to the insanity of the Olympics and the nonsense that surrounds it. Having spent the last few weeks, well, months actually, doing some stuff that's, err. Actually, I won't say anything about that, I'm not that brave. But anyway, having listened to the insanity of the great ticket grab and talk of how fabulous it will be able to see quarter-finals of name-of-sport-I'd-never-heard-of, I fell in love with the in your face UK Olympic Wanking Team with such utterly perfect phrases as "it's what your right arm's for".
On closer inspection you notice that the team is sponsored by Amateur Wanker, a faux commercial organisation (I presume!), giving yet another poke at the commercialisation of the Olympics. This. Was. Brilliant.
I bought the cards.
Apparently there was a rumour that Gary Glitter was going to move to Herne Bay, not that it was true, but she had some Herne Bay rock made with his name running through it. A fabulously simple, but powerful, connection to make between sweets and perverts. Not surprisingly it received, from what I understand, a great deal of attention. Controversial art? Absolutely.
I love seaside rock, but this is one piece I will never eat.
The thing that struck me was this use of a common item to make a statement, as with the postcards. And it wasn't just about the medium, it was almost the reflection of the state of the local gossip that was the catalyst to the art creation. It reminded me of life back in the small market town in Norfolk where I have a house with my nearly-ex. A few years ago there was a strong, heard it from a reliable source, rumour that either Liz Hurley or Hugh Grant were going to move in up the road from me. A new place was being built with, well, I won't say what I think of it, but all a bit nouveau. It was all bollocks of course, but there was a thread of connection as, apparently, one of Hugh's godparents was the Lady of the manor. I would check, the validity of this but, actually, in the words of my flatmate, I can't be arsed.
The point is, in small places what they can't find out, they make up, rumours fester and grow like Russian vines, taking a hold that's tricky to remove in the face of facts. Facts really can be quite inconvenient in the face of a good yarn.
They were subversive in their apparent innocence. I think I might have fallen a little bit in love with the whole concept.
I bought a box. How could I not?
And with that I had to rush back to Notting Hill and my afternoon working in The Dungeon. For the weekend I was returning to Norfolk to spend most of the Bank Holiday with the nearly-ex and my children. I showed the nearly-ex the various items, with great excitement, and, frankly, they were unmoved. Which I felt was sad as I'm sure they would have got the art at one time. But today, oh yes, today I showed my eldest. It took him a few seconds, but he got it, tear rolling, face creased with laughter, got it. I was so proud.
And, actually, I was so glad that we could share a moment and have a mutual appreciation of what was being represented, even if it's likely that our views were in different places, it mattered not, he was suitably moved and felt it was, yes, a little bit subversive.
Sadie has a solo show coming soon, I really can't wait.
Oh, and if you go to see the Diamond Geezer exhibition (which you should), bring me back a stick of rock, there's a love...
Impromptu
I did something I've never done before this evening. I dictated a poem in to my phone. This was mostly so the nearly-ex didn't expand on the Arctic atmosphere that had been around for a few hours. But the first three lines appeared and I had to record them without it looking like I was sending messages to all and sundry.
The remaining three pairs of lines came as I spoke. I've transcribed what I wrote as I spoke it. I'm glad I did this, within five minutes of having the thought I couldn't remember the first lines. Poetry is of the moment. As a wave on the sea, transient, you either see it... Or you don't.
This empty life
No joy
No end
Seeking respite
Seeking amends
Wanting hope
Finding dark
As I watch the people
Dance in the park
Saturday, 2 June 2012
By Royal Dissent
6th June 1977.
Dear Diary,it's very exciting. Not only are we staying with my Uncle Stanley and Aunty Barbara in Maidenhead, but tonight we're going to Windsor Great Park to see the Queen. Apparently she's going to have a bonfire, seems a bit strange in June, don't we have them in November? Oh well, she *is* the Queen... My Dad's rotten, no, not that one, he still won't let me listen to the new song God save the Queen, I can't see why, it being the Jubilee.My memories of that day are quite clear. My brother remembers less, he was 7, and as for my flatmate? Well she'd not even started school properly. I can remember us calmly driving from Maidenhead in to Windsor, parking up and then sauntering in to the park. It was very exciting, genuinely, the first beacon wasn't going to be lit until after dark which meant we got to stay up late! Oh yes.
I can remember the wait being quite long, no idea how long, but we waited patiently for her to pass. Which, eventually she did, she waved, we waved back. And then we left. Got back in our Jade Green Ford Escort and, if memory serves me correctly, drove all the way back to the North East. We preferred to travel at night then. Fewer cars on the rubbish roads.
What I didn't realise at the time, and I've only just discovered, is that the Queen was late. I'm not sure whether she was late coming to the park or late actually lighting the beacon, but late never the less. She's never late. And it was reading about her being stuck in the crowds that made me write the above preamble. You see, I can't remember the crowds. Maybe they were lower in the park, maybe closer to the beacon. It matters not, they were simply not near us.
Or at least, again, that's my recollection.
My flatmate might argue that my recollection is about as reliable as an ice tea pot, using the incident of me going to buy grapefruit and returning with melon as quod erat demonstrandum. But I would have remembered the crowds. Or police cordons. Or barriers. I would have remembered bridges being closed and issues, issues, issues.
But there were none.
The Queen turned up, cadged a light off her sister, started a fire, and went home for gin. Simple.
Unlike this weekend. Some things haven't changed. Johnny Rotten is still on the scene, err, flogging butter. And Apple, who launched their Apple II (snappy!) on the 5th June are, I believe, still making an occasional device. But the rest has changed. The world has gone mad.
With each step around London I was becoming increasingly dispassionate, disillusioned even, with the forthcoming Jubilee. It wasn't for the fact that the Queen has been doing her duty for sixty years, this I think is a wonderful dedication to duty. It might be a job with a shed load of benefits, but would you want to do it? No, my issues were with the commercialisation of everything. The icing on the cake was an advert for bottled water. I first saw this in Bank station as I walked between the Central Line and the DLR. A bottle of water wearing a crown at a jaunty angle. Oh FFS. Really? How much did the advertising creative who came up with that get paid?
Everywhere there were crowns. And Union flags. And indications of what you must buy to celebrate. There were programmes, events, competitions and... Exhibitions. All with the same, gushing, get-them-in-and-get-them-spending cynical view that was simply leaving me stone cold.
The spirit of the pageantry and, yes, anarchy of '77 long since burnt away.
Or was it?
As we sat in the bar at the Royal Opera House sipping champagne on Thursday evening, my flatmate showed me pictures of an exhibition she'd been to that day. Called Diamond Geezer, it was showing at the William Wilson Gallery lurking in a former jewellery workshop in Hatton Garden. She described the pieces, the ideas, the connections and I thought, yes, I must try to get there.
What she also told me about were some very close to the knuckle postcards. My advice to her was if she had the chance the next day to go and get them before they were sold out, or, worse still, were removed because of legal interference. And then we went in to see Salome, which I talked about last night.
Anyway. We were chatting on MSN, I mean exchanging interesting and relevant insight that would help the task that were engaged in, when the subject of the gallery came up, I again said she should get the cards and emphasised it by saying:
If you don't you'll kick yourself when they are withdrawnAnd with that another lunchtime distraction was born. Keep in mind that Google maps reckoned it would take me 28 minutes to get from my client's office to Chancery Lane. So in a lunch hour I could just about get there and back... I was going to have to stretch the point.
And if that happens and you do you'll have subversive art
I'm almost tempted to see if I can get down there and back without anyone noticing.
Besides, if I'm seeing a show about guilty pleasures, I should do it as a guilty pleasure, it's only right.
I scooted off to Holland Park for the trip back East. I was even almost on time! The gallery was a little tricky to find, fortunately, my flatmate knew the way which certainly saved a lot of hassle. I was initially struck by the way to the gallery entrance, through a fascinating courtyard between the buildings.
On arrival we met one of the gallery's directors, Debra Wilson, who was kind enough to talk with us about the art and give an insight to the inspiration or story of the various pieces. I'll not dwell to much on the pieces as, frankly, my flatmate has given a much better view over at her blog. What did strike me though was almost the lack of the subversive. Initially I thought there was some, the burning of legal tender to produce diamonds being one, the tearing, again of legal tender, being the other. But, sadly, these had been done, apparently, with permission. No crime. No one way trip to the tower. All terribly civilised.
There was a conceptual piece by the other director of the gallery, Chiara Williams, called Queen and Consort that was rather interesting. I have to say I'm truly glad Debra was on hand to explain it. Essentially it was a commentary on the Duke of Edinburgh, his position outside the inner circle and the mess created by his inevitable gaffs. All of this seemed fair enough. Until I thought about it later in connection with the Lomax portrait and the many late night discussions I've had with my flatmate regarding men. And this is my view, whatever people think of the DoE and EII, the reality is that at one time they were both young, in love and... He made her laugh. If you're to believe the almost inevitable comments, one of which appeared in the Standard, about the Queen having a wicked sense of humour then, actually, you can see where the DoE fits in.
So what if he annoys a few people. I imagine he was pretty pissed off when he discovered the love of his life was suddenly being turned from a young vivacious woman in to a head of state. And there for me is the irony. In terms of all the potentially subversive art, the most subversive thing about the monarchy was, actually, part of the monarchy. And his representation as a bit of an erect prick would probably have made him laugh. Or make yet another guffaw inducing comment.
It matters not. As much as the Queen has dedicated most of her life to the country, then, let's not forget, so has he.
I would agree with my flatmate that The Great Frock 'n' Robe Swindle newspaper was worth collecting. It's amusing and, almost certainly, anti-monarch. Which I'm most definitely not. But the paper itself is quintessentially British. Having read it from cover to cover I'd argue that it is no more subversive than Spitting Image was in the eighties. Yes, comments were made, yes, people would be shocked. But you know what (and this might be the red wine kicking in) the very fact that as a nation we can be so subversive and continue to keep our liberty says an awful lot for how good our system is. Warts and all.
Whatever the faults, and goodness there are many, I would rather a Monarchy that didn't oppress comment and, indeed, had one of the most likely to offend people at it's heart, than something, well, like anyone else has. It's not ideal.
But it's ours.
And on that thought I realised just how right the exhibition's description was. It was about our guilty little secret. The secret that, as a nation, however dysfunctional, we can come together and celebrate by whatever means a representation of a flawed system that's kept us together since a bunch of Normans decided that Hastings looked nice this time of year.
That sounds pretty subversive to me.
Ladies and Gentleman, be upstanding and raise your glass. To the Queen.
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