Oh yes, here we are. Lager time. I’ve actually got a lager with me today, whilst I record this. One of those massive bottles of Kronenbourg. Feel like Ice-Cube in Boyz In Da Hood, sitting outside his house, sipping on 40’s. My mate Micky T kindly bought them over to the gaff, last Saturday, much apricated
Short one this week, been pretty busy, up early every day, in bed late, hay-fever; that kind of thing. Knackered, mate. Large up the hay fever sufferers. I don’t get it that bad but it’s the drowsiness, mate. Either that or I’m spooning way too much honey into my porridge at breakfast time and having these routine mid-morning crashes. Found out last week some manufacturers put sugar in honey?! What?! I had no idea, I was horrified. That’s like putting two fuels in the one engine; just because you can.
There won’t be a Lager Time next week, as I’m away with my wife having a bit of a break. Fear not, which I’m sure you won’t. Like Arnie, I will be back, with just slightly less muscle-mass but as much, if not more, flat delivery of speech.
I’ve now fully re-written every part of Make Your Own Bed and Hope for the Best. Was on the late train back from Victoria, yesterday. Could barley keep my eyes open but managed to get that last section done. It was like that moment went those engineers broke through to the other side of the channel, for the first time when constructing the Euro-tunnel. It felt good. Now I’ve gotta start putting it on it’s feet, so no doubt there will be lots more re-writing and scribbling in the margins. Feel like its lacking a bit of that vital ‘heightened drama’ aspect that plays apparently need; though I don’t always agree with that. As soon as I sniff out a formula, I tend to get bored, same goes for novels. Also, my life has never been that interesting. Thus, I do worry that it’s all a bit boring and self-indulgent, like this. I make myself feel better about it, by reading about various competing 19th and 20th century ideas about work and labour and celebrating if I’ve understood a mere fraction of it.
So I’ve attached two new poems-drafts that I’ve been slowly compiling. Both half-heartedly attempting to ponder some of life’s bigger questions. I’m enjoying writing in this way, though.
As ever, if you’re reading, listening, sharing, thankyou. Hope yous all have a banging next few days. I’m no royalist but the Queen seems to me, like she has a bit of integrity and in a world of narcists and liars, I respect that. Hope the old girl has a good bash and lets her hair down a bit. And if you’re celebrating, get that commemorative tea-towel and give it to your grandkids, in a couple of years; I’m sure they’ll love it.
I’ll be back in a fortnight
Peas and taters
Paul
Everyday is a festival
Sometimes this living gig feels like
one of those festival goers I sometimes
see, making their way to the fields
on foot, down windy country lanes
massive backpack, taking up two
thirds of their body, various
bits swinging off it, pots and pans,
sleeping bag, roll mat, wellies,
all the while carrying a big box of
beers and carrier bags hooked on their arms
like a one-man-band without the songs
they’re vaguely moving in what they
probably think Is the right direction
one wrong turn and they feel the full weight of
all that baggage
one Slight stumble and they’re on their arse
struggling to get back up
like an upside-down woodlice
trying to turn over
and there’s no guarantees it won’t rain
Good For You
Good morning
what’s good about it?
it’s just morning
or is it?
is it really good?
Rent’s due
don’t have it
I can only attempt to imagine
what it’s like waking up to war
or famine, or natural disaster
or death, I can imagine
that – and understand that
someone could fail to see the good
but the good thing is –
is that it’s another day
another chance
another crack at the whip
another opportunity to do good
put on that wash
go for a run
find that cure for that disease
something good colud happen
even if that’s slim
it’s a chance
it’s another day
still in the game, mate
and that there
is the
good
