Wednesday, February 15, 2017

Heroin chic

Over the weekend the police raided the Smack crack and Cocaine emporium. It was a big exercise. They gathered together the cream of the British Police and hit the place hard and fast. They found nothing. The guy was clean as a whistle. His new modus operandi requires he never has any stock. he buys to order and delivers same day. Nothing ever comes home and there are never any drugs in his house. The police are visibly disappointed. Their intelligence told them this guy is a major dealer, he is. But there is no evidence. As they wound down the search  and prepared to leave Mr Dodjeeasfuk made a  big thing of trying to shake hands with the police officers with a big smile, "No hard feelings then?" "You're just doing your job"  and "Thanks for swinging by " Etc etc Some just turned their backs on him. Others reluctantly shook his hand.

Meanwhile Mr Dodjeeasfuks neighbours daughter has acquired a grey pallor. Her normal chubby face is now gaunt and thin, her whole look is Heroin chic, She has dyed her hair black to accentuate her ghostlike features. I can only guess who her supplier is. OR has she become one of his runners to fund her new habit. She is unemployed, unemployable, having been sacked three times in the last year for thieving from various shops she worked in. Taxis are on constant stand by, to take her, or members of her family, places. The money must come from somewhere.

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Monday, January 02, 2017

Waiting for the heating to come on

So today we took down all the Christmas decorations, but I have left up the lights in my apple tree that I forgot to take down last year. They have been burning all year. To be honest I have grown to like it that way. My Apple tree lights aren't just for Christmas. They're for all the year. They guide my way home on a dark night.  We live in the middle of nowhere and the lights help me find our house. This year I put up extra lights in the apple tree. These I have removed until next year. They twinkled.
Today Zoe and I spent most of the day walking and later in one of our favourite pubs where we walked around in our socks because they asked us, by a A4 notice,  to remove our muddy boots and leave them outside. Zoe curled up in a big armchair and had a large Pino or two. Scout lay at her feet. I lounged in another armchair with a pint or two of beer while we waited for the heating to come on at home....

3 Comments:

Blogger Z said...

I rather like walking around in my socks in pubs. Not at home though. With gravel outside and, for most of my life, dogs with capacious paws, bare/shoeless feet was asking for trouble.

9:48 pm  
Blogger Mike Da Hat said...

It was like being at home. Shoes off, just curled up. So many very pleasant people all with their boots outside the door. It's a leveller. No one is above you when there boots are off. We are all equal. Having a drink and a lovely time.

10:10 pm  
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Sunday, January 01, 2017

The turf war

The scientist within me stands back and analyses. I watch myself. I measure my own reactions. I rationalise what I am doing. I find explanations for everything and nothing.
All around me people are wishing me Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. It's all I can do to acknowledge their existence never mind reciprocate their wishes. I mumble something along the lines of "thanks, the same for you." I don't even know I'm saying it. I feel awkward. I have become that odd boy everyone laughs at. The socially awkward boy who says inappropriate things. Except I carefully say nothing. I am hiding my awkwardness inside of me.
I get an email asking me if I will help organise a Folk Festival this year. I got the email last year, last week. It's taken me until today to reply. I write that I could not reply right now. I'm not sure if that makes sense so I elaborate on my condition. I read it back to myself I sound insane. I delete my reply. I'll try again another day when I don't assume the mantle of someone totally deranged.
 My closest friends know what I'm like, they make allowances for my strange antisocial behaviour. My dark humour. My silence.
I have two more weeks of this before I return to my normal self. I can't wait. To be able to think clearly again. To rid myself of this God awful two month headache.

On the plus side a customer came into my shop she said "Did you see that?"
"See what?"
"In broad daylight as well."
"What was it?"
"I... just... witnessed... a drugdealer. Dealing drugs in... the.. street."
"That's what they do. Was it over there?" I pointed towards the Smack Crack and Cocaine Emporium.
"Yes on the road up there."
"Hmmmm he's getting careless."
"who?"
"The dealer."
"You know him?" she looked visibly shocked.
"Not as such but that's his van outside the house."
"No it wasn't a van it was a blue car."
"Oh this is serious." I said gravely.
"Why?"
"we could be in for a turf war..."
"Should we call the police then?"
"NO why spoil the fun?"


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Wednesday, December 28, 2016

Bearing it

I'm getting through the Black dog slowly but surely. I haven't killed any one yet. I don't think I've upset anyone yet. I keep my mouth shut, say nothing. I know I'm irritated by almost everything. But I know it's a lie. Normally I don't have any problem. So why should I have them now? It's what I keep telling myself. All my demons are in my head and they are not real. So I ignore them. Sometimes the demons in my head seem so real. But the scientist in me knows that's not true. This is how I get through these two months. By pure logic. I ignore emotion. I ignore gut reactions. I rely on logic and reason.
Right now Zed is watching a recording of "Eastenders". I can't bear to watch it. It's so depressing, and right now I can't do depressing. I have enough trouble with normal life.

1 Comments:

Blogger Z said...

Patient endurance is sometimes the best way. Not too much longer now xx

4:29 pm  

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Sunday, December 18, 2016

The Black Dog

Depression is a terrible thing. It's, in my case, totally irrational. I go down every year on November 15th and come out of it January 15th. It's like clockwork every year. I can set my calendar by it. It never varies. But every year coming up to November 15th I am ready to fight it. I am feeling positive, firing on all cylinders I have the strength to fight. Then inevitably like night follows day it hits me like a sledge hammer. My world comes crashing down around me. I don't sink into a depression, I plummet head first, uncontrollably. I hit rock bottom.
I am plagued with thoughts of suicide, despair, pointlessness of anything. I just want to give up and die. This is what my mind is telling me. My conscious logical mind tells me otherwise. My life is fun and interesting. My mind is lying to me. This depression isn't real. I try to ignore it.
But I also have a headache that lasts two months. No amount of paracetamol or aspirin will touch it. It's like a steel band is tied around my head and tightened. It's a low grade pressure always there. Stopping my ability to concentrate on anything. Dulling my senses. It's like a fog in  my mind. I concentrate on routine and mundane tasks that I don't have to think about too much.
People tell me to "cheer up", to "snap out of it". It doesn't work like that. If I could I would. It's not as if I want to feel like this. Who would?
Years ago I sought medical help. I was given tranquillisers. I felt nothing. It was like living on a flat calm. No movement at all. I stopped taking them because I needed to feel at least something rather than nothing. Even being down was living. It's like a roller coaster when you're that far down you can only go up. When you're flat you're going nowhere. So when I was rock bottom there was hope. I could not get any lower than thoughts of suicide. This spurs me on to make it through to January.

Right now I am half way through. One month to go before release. You can't imagine what that is like. Well maybe you can. Sometime during the 15th of January a switch clicks and it's like someone has turned on the pressure relief tap. All that pressure in my head just flows away. The steel band is removed.

I get into arguments about it frequently. I'm told I'm imagining it. I'm told that these dates are in my head, they are not real. I personally have chosen these dates. One person even asked me if anything traumatic had occurred on that date. Well my daughter was born the day after on the 16th. "Well that's it then daughter being born was too traumatic for you!" Ridiculous. I've heard it all.

So I carry on by myself. Ticking off the days. I don't expect anyone to understand. I accept that people will think I'm being melodramatic, attention seeking, or just downright miserable for the sake of it. I don't ask for help. In fact don't give me advice. I'll be back to normal again soon enough.

2 Comments:

Blogger Liz said...

Depression is a horrible illness that takes many forms and affects everyone differently. Anyone who suggests you "cheer up" clearly has no experience of it.

9:45 am  
Blogger Z said...

No argument from me either, only sympathy for a horrible affliction.

9:14 pm  

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Wednesday, November 09, 2016

Oooh Aaah night

It was "Oooh Ahhhh night" on Sunday in the village. Except these days you don't hear people "oooh" or "aaaah" because of the musical accompliment to the fireworks. Our fireworks night is huge. This year it was sold out yet again. Zoe and I walked, there was no point driving. Cars were parked everywhere. It's a small village but the population quadrupled for the fireworks. It's the best display you can get for £6.
Everyone turns up. No matter how cold it is. It's a thing about our village, people make the effort to do village things. It's like they have bought into the lifestyle of  village life. We have two pubs and a Post office come corner shop. That's it. The nearest supermarket is four and a half miles away, north or south, take your pick, it's the same distance either way. Everyone is English except for the "only blacks in the village" who incidently are really nice people. The village Vicar visits twice a decade. I have not found any drugs dealers in the village so far. We get one police car a year drive through, they probably made a wrong turn. Nothing happens. It's quiet, it's peaceful. The most exciting thing that ever happened was when a man turned up and set up scaffolding to repaint the village sign on the green. Life goes on. The old man cycles to the village shop every morning with his dog running in front of him. Old Mrs Weatherthorn valiantly wears out yet another dog in her daily marathon walks across the fens. Mr Fernickety would mow his lawn daily if his wife let him. She does. His lawn is a bowling green. So is the grass beside the road outside his house. It's the only thing I ever see him doing. Walking up and down with his motor mower.
Me? I have my apple trees. I've got to prune them. The first time Zoe came to visit I had to prune the apple trees and fix the roof of my shed. A "hurricane" had blown the felt off the roof.; That was the time I found out Zoe was not allowed to climb ladders. That was the time Zoe found out how vicious the wind is on the fens. But she still came to stay. She's a tough one is Zoe. Marching across the fens with my Border Collie beside her. I'm sure she was ooohing and aaahing during the fireworks. She told me it was the first firework display she had ever seen. They don't have Bonfire night in Belgium.

1 Comments:

Anonymous Anonymous said...

elmer@mail.postmanllc.net

8:33 am  

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Monday, October 24, 2016

The Opera

Things are progressing with the Opera. I now have a band who are enthusiastic about playing the music. I have a Director who is totally committed. We are now in the process of building up interest with a view to crowd funding the project.  We're working on an Audio book which will be a sort of  prequel to the opera story itself. The Director has written a load of short stories as  a taster. So if you fancy a bit of Vampire soft porn have a look here https://dreadfulthingsblog.wordpress.com/
Let me know what you think.
Meanwhile the band and I are working on themes and background music. Landscaping the Opera with sound. All sorts of things I never initially envisaged doing. In fact when I started writing the opera I never envisaged anything other than having a bit of personal fun doodling around with some ideas. Then it got serious and the real work started. If I had known then what i know now would I have even started? Thwere have been times when i would have said definitely NO. But as time goes on I'm quite proud of what we've achieved so far. Even if it never happens it's been interesting. If it does happen then all the better. I will have something to show for it.

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Monday, October 17, 2016

Stop me and buy one

It's all change in the drugs world the Smack Crack and Cocaine Emporium has closed down and gone mobile, like a grocer who used to sell spuds and stuff off the back of a van. The need is still there, the demand is still high, the product needs shifting. Where the game is to stay one step ahead of the law, bricks and mortar are now so 2015, modern times require modern thinking. Deals on wheels. Dial-a-drug. Drugs delivered straight to your hand by a squadron of drones. Shoot 'em down and shoot it up. The police shooting nets into the air Spiderman style to bring down the drones.
I meet up with a friend who lives in a less well to do area of Liverpool. Over dinner he tells me of the Ice Cream man who everyday trawls up his road, except it's 9:30 at night and he's not playing "Popeye the sailor man" on his kiddy caller.  When he stops there's a queue of men at the counter and they aint walking away with 99s or Strawberry Mivvis either.
Here in Peterborough the definition of  "White Van Man" can have a different interpretation. Our White Van Mans van is immaculately clean. It's a Transit of course, a proper working mans van. It's even white. Except it carries no commercial load heavier than a few hundred grams. The dealer spends his days sitting outside the front of his new house on a kitchen chair mobile phone in one hand, fag in the other. people walk past they shout at him "alright?"
"Cushtie."
"Sweet. See ya later."
No one ever shouts "You got any gear?" they know better. Very few actually stop for a chat, just a  couple of words without even breaking step and the phone doesn't come away from our mans ear, as he seemlessly moves from conversation to "cushtie" back to conversation.
I had not seen Lurch in a while. He's the dealers 6 foot 8 accountant, whose job it is to advise people to pay. I ask my man about him.
"Oh he's banged up innee."
"What for? What did he do?"
"GBH."
"Not drugs?"
"Nah he's a smack head hisself but they wont ever find drugs on him. Fucking loads IN him. But not on him. No he went over the top and messed some guy up a bit, someone saw and called the police, he was nabbed whilst smacking the guy around a bit. Very unprofessional. if you're gonna do someone over you don't do it in the street fer chrissakes,  what a knob head, you go round their gaff dontcha? Fucking belt them in the privacy and comfort of their own home. They don't press charges because you know where they fucking live. That's how it works.  But fucking doin' someone over in the street is so sloppy. Even if they don't press charges there's still witnesses to violent public affray. He's not a pro. He's a fucking low life scum smack head tosser who gets free drugs for doing the dirty work. That's no  way to run a business. An' 'im up there gving him the drugs? 'Im wiv the White van? He thinks he's Mr Big fucking drug dealer. He's nothing and never will be anything. if he thinks the Police don't know he's still dealing .....Escobar he aint."
"So his new stop me and buy one scheme isn't going to work?"
"You can bet your boots the Police already know what he's doing and you know what? He'd probably make more money selling fucking ice cream, than he makes selling drugs. Except that would mean he'd actually have to do some bleedin work, and he aint the working kind."

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Thursday, October 06, 2016

Opportunity knocks. The Police hammer.

My man gets rolled by the Police.  A "friend" of his was walking past an ATM when she noticed a guy stick his card in and request £20. Someone called him and he went off to say hello leaving his card in the machine. She immediately snatched the £20 and left the card and wandered off down the road with her bonus double heroin voucher.  The guy turned round and went back to collect his money. It was already gone and he saw the woman and put two and two together, he shouted, she legged it, ducking down an alley she found her way to my mans house and hammered on the door. Thinking she'd lost the guy she went in. But reality with drug addicts is rarely in synch with actual reality. He saw her go in and called the Police.
In turn they are hammering on his door, ready to turn over his house.
In a way I feel sorry for my man because he does try hard to stay out of trouble but somehow, against all odds, trouble seems to find him. I look at him as he is telling me his story, can of Black Perla in hand, swaying slightly. he's back to wearing his combat gear; I guess summer is over. I gently shake my head in disbelief as he says "It always happens to me." But you know, I think he likes it that way. He lives on the edge, trouble finds him but he doesn't hide from it. he doesn't avoid trouble like normal people. His friends are all addicts, dealers or downright dodgy. Or a combination. He tells me he's been clean for the last fifteen years but I can name three occasions when he's plunged headfirst off the wagon. His most recent descent into drug fueled oblivion was with China White a particularly nasty drug.
Suddenly he looks up "Ahhh I know him. I'll see you later, gotta go." and he's off up the road chasing down some guy wearing Adidas leisure trousers, hoodie and a reversed baseball cap proclaiming "BOSS".

1 Comments:

Anonymous Anonymous said...

miguel@mail.postmanllc.net

9:15 am  

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Thursday, September 22, 2016

The Smack Crack and Cocaine Emporium closing down sale.

So after  so many hits by the Police. The Smack Crack and Cocaine Emporium has closed down. A huge victory for law enforcement. The house is now occupied by a lovely old man called Mick and his motability Scooter.  Maybe the window will get fixed now after a rival gang had put a brick through it.
No more Smack Crack and Cocaine Emporium. Wait a minute, who's moving into that house across the road. Damn it to hell and back The Smack Crack and Cocaine Emporium is up and running again across the road. I call my man over who I see walking down the road with a can of Breakfast.
"Am I reading this right? The Smack Crack and Cocaine Emporium has moved?"
"Yep the fuckers have crossed the road."
"They're hardly staying under the Police RADAR just moving across the road."
"Yeah well y'see the cops aint ever gonna find anything in the new premises."
"Why have they stopped dealing?"
"Have they hell. No bigger and better. But they've got a new system."
"Oooooh how exciting! how does it work?"
"well matey boy has all his customers on a one hit speed dial. He knows how much he neeeds.  So when he has reached his target, he brings the stuff in quickly splits it into the lots and hit's the button. The whole deal is gone in an hour. It's never in his house. Not  now. he just sends a one word text to everyone."
"What's the word?"
"Online. He goes out and meets everyone in prearrangeed locations. A quick spin round the city and the job is done...... ahhh look check out that one."  a girl is walking quickly down the road, she'd just turned out a side road and was walking away from us... "She's a smack head addict, look at the state of her, she needs a fix, look how she's shaking."
"I can't really tell from this distance."
"Trust me she's got them bad. She's looking for a hit. or the money for a hit.  I know her very well. You know she once boasted that she banged her uncle for twenty quid. What sort of sick fuck bangs his niece? Hold up she's turning into my road. I'd better go after her."
"You're not? Surely not."
"Not what?"
"Going after her."
"Hell yeah I'm not her Uncle."


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Tuesday, September 13, 2016

Batting for Britain

I hadn't seen my man in a while, then, like a bad penny, he pops in. "Where have you been?" I ask
"I've just been let out."
"Of where?"
"The nick of course."
"What have you done this time?"
"Hit a guy round the head with a cricket bat."
"That's a bit extreme...."
"Not as extreme as what he intended to do to me. He's a psycho. Blasted on drugs and came round mine. He was hammering on the door screaming he was going to kill me. I quickly opened the door and before he could do anything, I thwacked him round the head with the cricket bat. He was out for the count."
"Then what happened?"
"A neighbour called the police. They turned up and took one look at him and pronounced him an evil fucker."
"I'm sure they didn't say exactly that."
"Well they said he was very well known  to them and was violent."
"So you were arrested."
"Of course what else were they gonna do? They had to arrest me, take me in for questioning you know  the  routine. Keep me in for  a while for good measure,  then kick me out. It was self defence. I had witnesses."
"Did they charge you?"
"Did they fuck. I did them a favour. I'm their golden boy."
"How did you do them a favour?"
"Well he was in no condition to resist arrest after I'd seen to him. So they got him easy."
"So they've been looking for him?"
"Oh yeah. They have a whole list of crimes they want to talk to him about."
"So they wanted him and arrested you?"
"They took him as well. Look they had to arrest me. I twatted the guy. They did their job. I expected it. So I just sat on the wall and waited for them to come get me. I held my hand up Yep I hit him with a  cricket bat."
"So why did he want to kill you in the first place?"
"That m'boy is a very long story that goes back years. Put it this way I may have been responsible for no one seeing him for the last five years. While he was on holiday at her Madges request."
"ahhhh."
"Druggie scum. Got what he deserved."

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Saturday, September 10, 2016

Crack open the beers it's going to be a long night

Last night I went to Stamford. I wasn't enthusiastic. I stayed at home drinking coffee and looking at my newspaper. Zed looked up "Hadn't you better get going?"
"Yes in a minute." But really I didn't want to go. I didn't want these musicians telling me my songs were rubbish and they don't know why I bothered.
So I took my guitar and drove to the Directors house, there was only one musician there. Mark.  He had his expensive electric guitar with all the pedals and amplifier. Nooooooo.
Eventually the Director tells me to play one of my songs. I take out my guitar and play it. Mark immediately starts playing as well watching my fingers. When I finished he said "That's great. We can work with that song. Play another."
So I play another song, explaining what I was thinking and why I was doing this or that. He listened for a few seconds then blasted in with his electric guitar. He learns very quickly.
Then the Director says something about a fight scene and she wants music for it. Dirty music. I tell Mark I have been thinking of Death metal music but using their chords on my acoustic. I play a barred F#m and dropping the F# to E. Immediately Mark says "I know where you're going" and joins in. We have great fun blasting away at death metal. It works with my acoustic. I forget that Mark is the professional. I forget  all about him judging me and my songs. He loves my work. he asks if it would be OK if he can be part of the production team. He is very enthusiastic. He loves the concept. He loves my songs. He wants the challenge of doing something new and making something happen.
I don't know  why I was worried about meeting him. Lack of  confidence maybe?  I was amazed that someone actually thought the songs I wrote  were good? I have renewed faith.
"I like your style." says Mark, "you're old school."
"I'm just old, there's no school with me I'm completely self taught."
"No there's an openness about your style. it's wide and expansive, I've got room to move and do what I do."
"Really?"
"Yes I can work with you. I'm fed up with those musicians who are so intense in their playing they don't leave you anywhere to go, they're  greedy, possessive."
"How about this?" I play a little jazz number I've been working on based on Amaj7. I never intended to use it in the Opera, but Mark loves it. He's pleading with the director that we've got to shoe horn it into the production somehow. What the fuck? It's nothing. It's a bit of fluff, a bit of fun, laid back and relaxed Roll me a joint and we'll play this sucker all night type  of fun.
Mark plays  it again and starts mucking about he throws in a Cminor and suddenly I have a song. I do a  run Ebm Cm Bbm resolve to A major 7.  We have something. Abm7, Gm7, F#m7 It's cooking. Crack open the beers it's going to be a long night....

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Friday, September 09, 2016

Let me die now

So tonight the director of my Opera has arranged for me to meet the musicians she has found. They are "awesome", "Professional","Highly accomplished". Help. She wants me to meet with these guys and teach them my songs. Well that's not going to be very intimidating and daunting. Much.
I used to be a professional musician playing my chunky chunk crappy cover songs. I got paid good money too. But that was then. I have never been what anyone would call accomplished or virtuoso. I just had fun playing songs people wanted to hear and not very well.
So I have to teach these guys my songs.... why did I ever  start this? let me die now

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Thursday, September 08, 2016

Everything costs a tenner

It looks like the Police are getting serious about drugs in Peterborough, yet another dealer has been raided and arrested for possession and dealing in Class A drugs. I weep for them. I weep for myself because soon I will have nothing left to write about. The streets will be clean. The druggies will turn from their life of squalor and debauchery and instead don smart new clothes and get jobs and become incredibly boring.
Not that it's going to happen. It's an eternal war. They might slow it down. They might win occasionally, but ultimately where there's a market there's gonna be a dealer.
Really these people have almost zero impact on my day to day life other than provide entertainment. It's like they all live in this parallel universe, going about  their business, fighting each other and getting off their heads. They walk past my gaff like ghosts. Totally unaware, or oblivious, of my existence. I don't bother them they don't bother me.
I knew a debt collector once. He went door to door collecting five pounds here, ten pounds there, from people who didn't have five pounds or ten pounds to spare. His favourite month was January. His "customers" had overspent at Christmas giving their kids the "Best Christmas ever" to make up for all the shit the rest of the year. Of course January comes and there's no money for food rent gas electricity. So Mr Debt Collector would roll up on their doorstep demanding his £10 and walk away with their kids' brand new X-Box or something, which he would then sell in the pub, thus supplementing his wages. Throughout the year he had successive sexual opportunities offered in lieu of this months payment. I asked him how he felt about that. He was of the opinion that there was no crime no victims, indeed he thought of it as a friend helping out a friend. Everyone came out smiling.  I have often wondered about that. If she wasn't in debt would she have offered herself to him anyway as a friend? If she wasn't up to her eyeballs in debt would she really go to bed with him for a tenner.
I was stopped on the corner of Burghley Road and Park by a girl in a  fur coat. It was raining and she had her collar up "Looking for business mister?" she says.
I glance down to my guitar case and say "I'm going to a gig."
" I just need ten quid for the electricity meter. What ever you want. The banks don't  open until 9 tomorrow and my leccy has gone off."
"I really am in a hurry. I'm late already."
"It'll be worth being late for me, you'll see.I'll make sure of it."
"You are kind but I must go."
"Alright. Well have a nice night anyway. I'll see you around maybe."
I walk off down the road swinging my guitar case. I turn around in time to see her get into a car that had just stopped and wound down the window. I no longer existed.
You can get all sorts for a tenner round here.

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Wednesday, September 07, 2016

Screaming like fishwives

Lurch, the drug cartels financial advisor is temporarily out of work.  The recent police raids have taken their toll. I spot him coming down the road. He is six foot seven and riding a childs bicycle. He looks like a clown. It's hard to imagine him "putting the squeeze" on anyone while he's riding a childs bike. He passes me riding one handed, he's using the other hand to hold his fag, he's coughing his lungs up.  I hope the people he is trying to intimidate into paying up money don't see him because his reputation will be in tatters.
You can tell the lack of drugs on the street is beginning to take effect. A husband and wife combo come to blows outside my gaff. She is screaming like a fishwife at him, her friend is trying to hold her back while hubby, one of the most noxious detestable people you'd ever have the misfortune to meet is threatening to "punch her lights out." His theory being if a girl can give a punch she can take it. Well she's giving alright, he's holding his arms up and so far resisting the urge to hit back, resorting to some sort of twisted logic to sway her opinion. Eventually she lands one punch too many and he gives her a slap. She starts screaming that she's a girl and he's hit her. Somehow it doesn't seem fair, she has the punch of Rocky Bilbao on a good day and now she's crying like a little girl. Her friend wades in shouting that he's just hit a girl "what sort of man does that?" and she throws a few herself.
Our man is now hopelessly out classed, he's punching well above his weight and doesn't stand a chance. He is being hindered by years of  social conditioning, you don't hit girls. meanwhile the two girls have no such qualms, they continue to try to beat the living shite out of him. It's tough out there on the street. Be safe guys.

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Sunday, September 04, 2016

Black Perla of the Caribbean.

My man turns up, he has brought his "breakfast" with him, four cans of Black Perla 7.8% "Only £1 a can." he announces for the hundredth time.
"It's been a bit quiet over the Emporium recently." I say casually.
He takes a swig of his Black Perla, only £1 a can "You know why that is dontcha?"
"No. Summer holidays?" I venture.
"No ya plonka, they've all bin nicked aint they. They wuz raided the other night. The bastards."
"Oh I never knew."
"Yeah and guess who has bin sent down as well?"
"I don't know."
"Shed man. That fucker who was living in my shed. he's just bin handed a four year stretch."
"What for? Living in your shed? That's a bit harsh."
"No aggravated burglary and other stuff. This is good stuff this..." he hold up his can, "only £1 a can. It hits the spot an does the job." he throws the empty into my bin and cracks open another "Black Perla." He puts on a pirates voice "Black perla of the Caribbean"
"Nice, except it's Polish, hardly Caribbean."
"Yeah but at £1 a can? .... oh look there's old Henry." he points to a guy in a motability scooter coming our way.
"What's his story?"
"He's the longest surviving addict in Peterborough. he's been doing heroin for forty years."
"And he's not dead?"
"No he does a tenner a day now, not much but enough to take the edge off. It doesn't do anything for him. Just enough to stop him getting the shakes." he pauses, looking up the road "And that m'boy is the brother of the girls who fell out the ugly tree hitting every branch on the way down." He says pointing to a young man staggering down the road. "He's nasty little shit, on his way to the chemist for his methadone. The fucker can hardly walk."
"I didn't know they had a brother."
"Oh yes, they have a brother alright and that's him." He cracks open another Black Perla and takes a long drink. "Almost there." he says
"Almost where?"
"Almost finished breakfast. Right. I'm going up the road to have it out with someone." by now my man is not so steady on his feet three cans of Black Perla 7.8%, £1 a can, in quick succession will do that to you.
"Have it out? Who with? Why?"
"Don't you worry about it. He's got it coming."
"You worry me sometimes. Why do you have to have it out with anyone?"
"Because he pissed me off alright? And no one crosses me."
"Be safe."
"Ha it's the other guy you want to worry about. Second thoughts don't worry about him, he's not worth it."
My man staggers off into the  night clutching his last can of Black Perla, Except it's broad daylight and ten o'clock on the morning.

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Thursday, September 01, 2016

Catching Boomslangs for fun

I get a call from a buddy, "I need drugs."
"Jeez mate you've already got enough drugs with all that Chemo you're going through."
"I don't know who else to ask. You know loads of people who can supply."
"Errrrr I know of them. I don't exactly know them."
"What about all those dudes you write about?"
"They're not exactly the people I want to be dealing with. leave it with me I'll ask around."
I make a few phone calls and I'm directed to a dealer. Turns out I know him. I know him very well. Or I thought I did. He used to work at the cathedral. Now he's a suit. I tell Z I'm taking her to meet a big city drug dealer. She is not impressed. We drive across town to parts that are particularly dodgy. Places where workmen work in pairs one to do the job the other to guard the van.
I stop the car get out and walk up the drive. I knock on the door the dealers very nice wife answers, "Peter will be home in a minute he's just gone to collect George from Nursery". Sure enough Peter strolls up the road carrying George who is very excited about his painting. It's an abstract in mostly Primary colours in the da da ist style. His name "George" is written in biro in the bottom right hand corner  to prove it's provenance.
George is chivvied into the kitchen to choose what he'd like for dinner, but he's far too excited about showing me his swords. Deals are not done in front of the children. So Peter tips a nod  to his wife who scoops George up and whisks him away.
"Now what can I do for you?" asks Peter.
"I need an eighth."
"Ha Ha you haven't bought any for years have you?"
"Nope."
"We went metric it's in 10 gram lots now. So an eighth is approx 35grammes."
I look around his front room Certificates of Accredited Accountants are hanging up in frames around the room. "This is a nice house." I say to break the silence while he's doing some weighing.
"Yes not many people know this cul de sac, it's  not obvious. We're out of the way here. It's nice. In the middle of a ghetto but nice."
"Do you get any trouble here?"
"NEVER" I felt I should not have asked that question.
The deal is done and we go to see my Buddy with  the goods.
"Howzit my ol' china?" he says. He's from Zimbabwe via South Africa, as a child  he and his mates used to catch Boomslangs for fun. He's now completely bald, the chemo has taken it's toll. I tell him the Yul Brynner look suits him, I can find him easily in the dark. His brilliant white bald head is like a beacon. He laughs. "Deed ya get it china?"
"Of course.  I wouldn't let you down." I hand over the packet. He turns round and gives it to his brother. "There you go, I told you he'd come through."
"Cheers mate." His brother is from Australia.
"Hold up. I thought it was for you."
"No China, it fer me brudder. 'is nerves are shot looking after me. Ee needs tuh chill. It's de stress."
"Well I'm gonna spark one up right now, anyone want to join me?" announces his brother, but no one did.

1 Comments:

Blogger Mike Da Hat said...

Yes Billy-Ray wears them he's a Mannikin. The hardest things to photograph are white shirts on a white background. That takes some fiddling around with settings etc Black is tricky too because you have to get the lighting just right so you can see details rather than just a black blob.

10:41 am  

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Thursday, August 25, 2016

Fashion for the unfashionable

The delivery guy turns up to deliver the next batch of clothes to photograph five grands worth of Armani Versace and Moschino. He takes away the last batch. I have a look. It's all shirts. My heart sinks. Shirts again. I'm fed up with shirts. But hey ho it's money in the bank. People ask me if I get to keep the samples. I'd need about fifty more wardrobes if I kept the samples after photographing them, I do so many.
Actually I'd probably sell them because I have zero fashion sense and they'd be wasted on me. I am waiting for the "scruffy git" look to become fashionable.
Back in my youth I rocked the hippy look ten years after hippies vanished. Flared jeans and cheese cloth shirts and a denim jacket. Oh no double denim. That's fashion faux pas. Apparently.
I went through a phase of wearing army surplus for years. Good solid shirts and trousers that didn't wear out so quick.
Nothing really fits me. Most of my clothes are too big for me. But that's how I like them big and loose.
Now ironically I shoot fashion and I am the least fashionable person I know. I am so unfashionable I  can't even get "scruffy git" right.

No news from the Emporium today. Sorry it's gone quiet.

2 Comments:

Blogger hari narayan said...

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11:42 am  
Blogger Z said...

I wouldn't have thought that just shirts were the easiest things to photograph effectively. Is anyone wearing them?

5:53 pm  

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Wednesday, August 24, 2016

Lurching through life

Lurch marches past my gaff,  he's not looking happy. I don't stop him to ask what's bothering him and how can I help, and have you considered bringing Jesus into your heart? I figure if there is a hell he's on his way already and if there isn't, he's already living it. It occurs to me I have never seen him smile. Perhaps he knows there is no escape. His life course is set. It may deviate this way and that way. But he is where he is and that's it.
My man walks past he isn't stopping to say hello. I call him in. He looks disgustingly healthy and chipper.
"I've just seen Lurch" I tell him.
"Oh don't. I had a visit last night. He brought his brother over. Christ you think Lurch is bad, his brother is worse, savage  as fuck. He's just come out of prison."
"What did he do?"
"Murdered a dog."
"A dog? You're kidding."
"Yeah stabbed it with a  kitchen knife because it annoyed him. I think he hurt some other people at the same time who took exception to their dog being killed. Well he's out now and Lurch brought him round mine. They didn't ask if they could come in, they just came in and you don't argue with them."
"What did you do?"
"I made some excuse that I had to go out so I went out round the block made sure they were gone and went home again, sneaked in the back door for chrissakes, my own home, I'm sneaking in the fucking back door how fucked up is that?"
"Is that why Lurch isn't happy? His brother is out of prison?"
"He's never happy. His brother being back doesn't help."
"Anyway where were you going in such a hurry, that you weren't going to stop?"
"Oh fuck I'm meeting a  girl. She drop dead gorgeous."
"Aren't they all?"
"Yes but this one......"
"You'd better get going then. Don't keep the princess waiting."
"Fuck off!"


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Tuesday, August 23, 2016

The Police raid

Suddenly there's a lot of Police outside the Smack Crack and Cocaine Emporium. I spot Lurch their Financial Advisor strolling down the road as he reaches the corner he spots the police van, does a 180 and walks in the opposite direction pulls out his phone and calls someone.
I will have to wait until my man arrives to get the word on the street about this. It's not obvious what's going down but they have this guy dressed in black waving his arms about in a very indignant manner, as if he can't understand why the police would even want to talk to him.
Mrs Slow walks past totally oblivious to all the activity. She's oblivious to most things. Sometimes I wonder if she knows if she is alive or dead. Her body is still moving but I think she died years ago.
My man turns up almost running; he's heard. Someone phoned him. I ask him "what's  happening?"
He doesn't know yet,but he'll get back to me. You know I think he will. For the first time in ages he actually looks like he isn't going to die any second.

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Death metal on an Acoustic guitar

I drive to the Directors house, my Ovation guitar on the back seat. I no longer have a home recording studio I have a photographic studio instead. So if she wants recordings she can do the recording herself. I'll just play. It was a very intense few hours, fine tuning the story line for Act 2. Arguing about motives, plot lines and  plausibility. All my incredibly brilliant ideas trashed at a stroke and new ideas thought up. Whole songs ripped to shreds because NOW they don't work. They have to be rewritten to fit in. New tunes thought up.
I am torn between thinking that if I knew it was going to be this hard I wouldn't have started in the first place and the satisfaction of seeing something take shape. An idea developing into something real.
The Director has never been under any illusion that it was going to be easy. She has always said it's going to be hard work to put it together. But that has never dimmed her enthusiasm and drive.
"Come on talk to me. What happens before the massacre?"
"errrr what do you mean?"
"What drives them  to this point?"
"The stand off."
"Yes I know but what exactly happens?"
"Help.... I know the story it's all in my head but now you're asking questions I about stuff I hadn't even thought of."
"That's my job as Director  So come on think. Work with me. It's a great story but we've got to fill in the gaps and there's plenty of them. "
I sit with my head in my hands, my mind spinning. I've got to concentrate. She works so fast and asks so many questions it's relentless. I can't keep up. I stand up.
"Where are you going?"
"Nowhere I think better if I'm walking." So I pace up and down the room throwing out ideas. Some stick. We get to one of my songs. "This isn't going to work." she says  "can you rewrite it?"
"What NOW?"
"Why not?" I pick up my guitar and play the song changing it from a major to a minor key, "that's better already now change the rhythm." I'm playing something like death metal on an acoustic guitar, "Now you're getting there."
Were getting somewhere.

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