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.

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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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Monday, August 22, 2016

Moving up the food chain

So the Director phones me up wanting me to send her a recording of one of the songs in my Rock Opera. She's working on Act 2 and needs it pronto.
All my recording equipment has gone since I stopped being a musician to concentrate on being a photographer. I might have to record it on my mobile phone. Hardly a top quality recording. But it might do for her reference. So I guess I'll have to dig out my Ovation and hope my fingers hold out long enough to play. The callouses on my finger tips have long since worn away leaving finger tips baby soft.
Last night she sent me a recording of another song she wrote as a fill in song for the hellish torture scene, she has her daughter screaming in agony in the background to her song based on a standard twelve bar blues riff. The screaming is so authentic I worry for the safety of her daughter. Did  she really torture her daughter for that extra authenticity.
She tells me also she has found the perfect person to play the part of the psychopathic "Doctor" whose main hobby is torture and death. It's an everyday story of everyday folk. Who is this guy? Why is he perfect? Is he himself a psychopathic murderer, who started off life being cruel to butterflies, then moved up the food chain, before becoming an Actor? We'll see.

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Jeremy Corbyn and the drug raids

So it's been an unexpectedly busy day. My local MP came to see me. I've got to say if he wasn't a politician he'd be almost tolerable. You could almost describe him as pleasant. But I steadfastly refuse to talk about politics with him.  So I left out the part where I proclaim Jeremy Corbyn a God amongst men, the new messiah of the people. I bit my tongue instead of telling him he had zero interest in the people and just pandered to his and his ilks pockets. Which I thought would have been a bit hypocritical being as I wanted to empty his wallet for him and trouser the contents.
So then my man came back. Twice in one day. Unheard of. Anyway I took the opportunity to ask  about the implications of grassing up the druggies to the police.
"What me? No it wasn't me who grassed them up."
"But when you were here last week, you hinted that it was you."
"Well maybe indirectly it was me."
"Go on, how does that work?"
"Well remember the guy who was in my garden shed?"
"Yes. The one you kicked out."
"That's him. Well he came back. I was really pissed off with him. Turned out he's a big time druggie and hiding from the police."
"Hardly big time if he's hiding in your bleedin shed."
"Well round here he's a big player, anyway So phoned the Police and let them know where he was hiding. They were round mine in minutes with a little tap on the door, which I opened to find three big burly Policemen. I told them where the shed was and let them go get him. Now he's the one, who when he got nabbed, started singing like a bleedin canary. he was giving out names and addresses and the police just sucked it all up. Then last week they hit. Nine raids in 48 hours. So it wasn't exactly me who grassed them up but the guy in my shed."
"OK"
"But get this, there's a twist. The guy who was hiding in my shed has a sister, she's pretty skanky, Last night the Police were round my house looking for her as well. She's done a runner."
"What for? Is she one of the major players?"
"Nah she's just a skankie druggie. They want her for breaking and entering."

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Philosophy, Alcohol and drugs

It's desperately quiet over at the Smack Crack and Cocaine Emporium. There are no comings and goings. Lurch the financial adviser has no one to advise right now. The supply chain has been cut off for the moment after last weeks police raids. The poor lambs don't know what to do with themselves. No drugs to sell. My man saunters past on his way to the Offy. Actually it's the corner shop, I just call it the offy. He's smiling. he has no problem. he just goes and gets his bag full of super strength lager and he's happy
I ask him why he drinks that stuff. he looks at me as if I'm stupid, "why do you breath? It's lager innit. It does the job."
"What job? What job do you want it to do?" I'm being deliberately obtuse.
"Are you for real?"  for the first time my man looks angry with me, he doesn't want to admit he needs the drink. "At least I don't do drugs." he swerves. He does, but I let that one slide. He will use what ever he gets his hands on. But alcohol is his drug of choice. Except to him it's not a drug.
"I can't drink that stuff. " I say, "It's far too strong.  Even Ice cold it's too strong to drink."
"You get used to it. Drink enough of it and it doesn't matter anymore."
"Does anything matter?"
"That's very Nihilistic have you been reading Fichte or Kant recently?"

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Friday, August 19, 2016

Apologising to the trees.

My man turns up after a few weeks of being off the grid. He's had a makeover. Gone are the combat trousers and bomber jacket. He's now sporting a look somewhere between Mad Max and  Hawaii Five-O, well it is summer after all. He's looking rather chipper for someone I never expect to see above ground for much longer. He waves. I wave back, then he does an about turn, and walks toward me a big smile on his face. Did you hear?
"The Police raids? " I venture.
"Yeah fuckin' Ay. A few more scumbags off the streets. The Police went in hard and fast with a few simultaneous dawn raids."
"But they never hit the Smack Crack and Cocaine Emporium.  Why not?" I ask.
"Well he's just a street dealer innee? They went higher they went for the distributors. So the emporium is gonna be light on stock for awhile."
"How long?"
"A couple of days.... hey look..." He points up the road, "ha ha the cunts, they've got nothing to sell so they're walking the fucking streets. Like fucking lost children... The bastards."
Sure enough ambling down the road come a group of the worst kind of scum, including their 7 foot tall financial advisor who incidently looks almost exactly like Lurch from the Adams family. It's like a horror version of a family outing. My man has to go hide round a corner he's laughing so much. I stand there in the street as they walk past. They don't give me a second glance.  When they'd gone my man comes out of hiding "Pathetic aint they? Trouble without a cause. Fucking waste of space the lot of them. They ought to go apologise to the fucking trees for using up the Oxygen. hey you wanna beer? I got a sack full here."
"No thanks it's bit early for me."
"Well it's never too fucking early for me. Cheers an spit in yer eye." he takes a slug. "it's a good day today." he says between mouthfuls of super strength lager. "the bastards are out of business and life is sweet. Especially gonna be sweet, when the big boys find out who grassed them up."
"Who's that?"
"The cunt squad."
"Errrr why would they grass up their suppliers?"
"They didn't, but words been put out on the street that they did?"
"Who by?"
"Who do you think?" he grins wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, winks  and says "See ya."

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Monday, August 15, 2016

Just an idea in my head

It's a strange feeling. I now have part one of my Rock Opera all written out with stage directions and dialogue etc. It's done. It's  a document. I have something real in my hand that was previously just an idea in my head. There's  a long way to go and still part two to write and get right. No doubt loads of revisions and rewrites, when we discover things are not working as we thought they would. But even so, to get this far is a miracle.

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Blogger Liz said...

How exciting!

5:10 pm  
Blogger Sir Bruin said...

I'm impressed. Good luck with it, mate

9:47 pm  

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Saturday, August 13, 2016

Playing with the Big Boys

So I'm just wasting time, watching the world go by outside my window, when an Ambulance tears up the road. It stops outside the Smack Crack and Cocaine Emporium and the paramedics leap out. Some dodgy geezer is waiting outside, looking dodgy. Nervously he points to the door of the Smack Crack and Cocaine Emporium. They go in. From this distance I can't see much more. So I just sit and watch from my chair. There's a siren and two Police cars, with flashing lights screech to a halt next to the Ambulance. The dodgy geezer sticks his hands in his pockets and ever so nonchalantly, turns and wanders off. The Police run straight in. They know the way by now. They've hit this place so many times already.
Ten minutes later the Police leave and the paramedics hang around outside chatting with the junkies. They leave as well. I think we'll never know what has just happened. But my man swings by the next morning.
"I s'pose you saw didn't ya?"
"Yesterdays action? What happened?"
"Just some new kid playing with the big boys."
"and....?"
"well he thought he could take it. But some of these guys have been doing this shit for years. They're hardened to it. But of course he wouldn't listen."
"What happened to him?"
"It was close. They couldn't wake him up. He was totally out of it. So they panicked and called an ambulance. He'll live. He wasn't even taken to hospital.  By the time the paramedics got to him he was just about coming round. He's a fucker. Have you seen him?"
"I don't know."
"I'll point him out if I see him. But he's trying to make his mark. But he's just a twat trying to join the cunt squad."
"Well looking at them I can't see the bar being set very high for him to get in."
"No you've just got to be a complete cunt. He's getting there."

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Wednesday, July 27, 2016

Street Level Law Enforcement

"What the fuck happened to you?"
My man comes in arm in a sling and cuts over his face. He's looking a bit worse for wear.
"Got in a fight." he says "Some bastard was shooting up outside the post office last night."
"The post Office?"
"Yeah they use the security lights so they can see what they're doing. I'm not having it. They shoot up and leave their needles. I'm walking my dog and booom. I see red.  I kicked the fucker from here to next week."
"So how did you get hurt?"
"He had a mate."
"Ahhhh."
"He was a big fucker too. Eastern European. A hard bastard."
"Didn't you consider calling the police and let them handle it?"
"I'm well known to the police they're just as likely to lock me up for the night as them. So we dispense instant justice right where it hurts on the front line. This is street level law enforcement."
"Whose law though?"
He looks at me as if I'm mad "..the fuck? It's law aint it? You don't shoot up and leave needles lying around for my dog to walk on, or for kids to pick up. It's Street law."
"Looks like you got some instant justice yourself."
"What this? nah this is nothing compared to what those fuckers got. They'll be off the streets for a while yet. Anyway I'm going to the offy you want anything?"
As usual I tell him I'm good and he toddles off to pick up some super strength lager or summat.

I just noticed on my stats that my most popular top hitting post is "Mineral water for dogs", the second most popular is "Dogging in Southey woods" Hmmmmmm

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Tuesday, July 26, 2016

The Theatre Director

I went to see Slessor the theatre director. She has been looking at the story and making notes and doing directorial stuff. We started discussing the opera. She tells me certain things can not work. It can work if it's a film but can't work on stage.  Every few minutes she stops and says that's not going to work you will have to change it. So I change the story a little. Then again. Then she's asking questions too many questions. I realise I haven't got all the answers. I have written a story but it's not enough.
Luckily Slessor is very patient with me. I think of alternatives. We add extra characters to make the story work, to make the story better. We need new songs. I have to write more music. Help!
Slessor says "Don't worry Mike this is the easy part. It's going to get much harder before we're finished."
My head is spinning. Slessor is very clever. She is much more intelligent than I am. She is thinking so fast I can't keep up. She is asking questions faster than I can think of answers. As soon as I find an answer she jumps on me with another  question which changes the answer to the previous  question. Slowly a story develops that is better than my original. It's more complete and makes more sense. After three hours all I want to do is go home. Slessor is still very excited and tells me we must finish talking about  the first part of the story so she has something to work on after I leave. So I struggle  for another half an hour. I have to explain to Slessor exactly what people are thinking in the opera, I have to explain why they are doing what they are doing. I have to explain my idea of the story and how I think it works. I have to have a background story that explains peoples feelings.
Who knew it would  be this difficult? Slessor of course. Slessor knows how difficult it is. She has done this many times before. It's her job. But I wish she would slow down. She will never slow down. It's what she is like. But if this Opera is going to work she will make it work. I have more confidence in her than I have in myself right now.

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Saturday, July 23, 2016

My bad manners and a Rock Opera

So what's a guy  gonna do. I'm up to my eyeballs with a contract to photograph designer clothes.  got a business to run and my dogs not well. I know write a Rock Opera. As you do. Actually it's been on the burner for four years so far. But now help is at hand. I'm working with a writer / Theatre Director who is sorting the stage script for me and additional dialogue. For the music I've secured the help of a guy who is a professional musician who did some work for Pixar, song wise.
I want to say it's all very exciting. But really it isn't. I've got the story line cracked. I've got a whole bunch of songs written including some incidental music. But really I haven't a clue what to do next. Which is why I've had to call in help. I've never written a Rock Opera before. OK how many people have? I ground to a halt. Didn't know which way to turn what to do next. That is until my Theatre Director came on board and started kicking me and pointing me in the right direction. Then my musical director suggesting different arrangements of my songs for added drama.
Now we're trading emails backwards and forwards. Writing rewriting. Swapping ideas. I'm back on track. We might make something of this yet.
Meanwhile my Theatre Director said "Do you have Skype?
Me: No I don't do Skype.
TD: Why not?
Me: I wouldn't be  able to hide the fact I get bored speaking to people.
TD:  You're  terrible.
Me: I know. I grieve over  it during the  long winter nights.
TD: You don't.
Me: No that's a quote from The Big Sleep. Philip Marlowe says it about his manners.

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Friday, July 22, 2016

Another world. Another life.

It's a strange relationship I have with my man.We go back many many years. back to when things were normal and we had normal (for me) lives. We both worked. We both had fun. Then it all changed and he hit rock bottom got  a spade and dug himself deeper while I stayed in the sun.
Now it's as if he can't remember ever having a previous life. He was an electrician but now I wouldn't even trust him with a  battery. I do his electrical repairs for him. His whole world now is alcohol drugs and random sex. We don't talk about the past it doesn't exist anymore. Half the time he can't remember what happened last week. We talk about what's happening right now. I don't ever recall talking about the future either. He has no future. Each time he leaves I expect that's  the last time I'll see him. But he always comes  back with some outrageous story.
He lives in this strange one dimensional world of NOW. The past and future are irrelevent, they don't exist and in an existential way they don't. His only concern is what's happening right now. He's got a drink. He needs a drink. He's on his way to get drink. Today he has money. Tomorrow? Tomorrow doesn't exist. Tomorrow is another problem he will get to when it's upon him.
I've been asked why I don't try to help him. After all he is my friend. But offering help is like insulting him. he owns his own house through an inheritance. He gets benefits. He's happy If he's happy what more do you want? I'd rather he drank less and left out the drugs. Occasionally I tell him this but it's pointless. he can walk out of here full of promises to go straight, give up drugs, then walk straight into the off licence, or score a hit from his ex wife , he has several exs.
Now there's a story. Before she kicked him out he had a whole community of friends all into drugs and alcohol. When he left her she had a client list ready and waiting to go, complete with all the contacts and knowledge. So she went into business as a drug dealer. By all accounts she makes a good living at it. DrugsRus Est: 1998 a family company.

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Wednesday, July 20, 2016

Another life

It never ceases to amaze me how what seems outrageous to me is perfectly normal to my man.The night before last he had a call. His ex wife had been mugged and beaten senseless in a local store, conveniently the cctv was not working and the staff threw her out the shop for bleeding on their floor. The perps got away with £2. It was all she had. My man went to meet her and took her home insisting she stay the night. She is currently homeless and a hopeless alcoholic. He woke up the next morning, she was gone already, she had climbed out the window and disappeared into the night. Later in the day he found her in a park "absolutely trollied". Situation normal.
So he's in my gaff and as usual we're watching the world through the window.
"Here comes the cunt crew." he says looking up the road, "You've never met such a bunch of despicable, mean, nasty, good for nothing bastards. You don't want to mess with them. Mean as fuck."
Eight boys were swaggering down the road all stripped to the waist, some carrying cans, some swinging t-shirts by their sides, one with a  screwed up T-shirt perched on his head, all heading towards the off-licence. My man moves away from the window so he's not seen. Instinctively I do the same. I don't know why I don't know  them they don't know me. But they know my man and he wants nothing to do with them.
I ask him about the Lithuanian girl and the Russian mafia guy "Oh she's gone." Just like that. Moved in, moved out. No problem. "Now you should have seen these two eastern European girls I met the other night, Wow!...."
"What? More?"
"Oh yes but these two were classy."
"Where did you meet them? The ambassadors ball?"
"The offy of course. They were trying to buy a bottle of wine but didn't have enough money between them they were 50p short so I gave them the 50p and they came back to my place."
"Oh that sort of classy. You can pick them."
Not seeing the sarcasm he says "Yep I seem to be a bit of a magnet for babes."
I looked him up and down, camo trousers filthy t-shirt, self cut hair, tattoos, piercings, boots. "Yes I can see that."
A girl walks past, he rushes to the door and shouts up the street. She stops turns and walks back. He invites her in "this is Michelle" he says introducing her, "And this is MY friend." pointing to me
"'right." she turns her head briefly to me. "wa'cha up tuh?" she asks my man.
"Gonna find the ex, she's absolutely trollied on the field."
"Again?"
"Yep"
"We betta go check on 'er."
"Ok we'll stop at the offy on the way."

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Tuesday, July 19, 2016

Blazing the trail

It's hot. Damned hot. Two guys are leaning on the fence opposite. I know them. My man has pointed them out before. They're heavy users. It's blazing hot and they have their hoods up over their heads. They're kind of anxious, shifty, almost dancing on the spot, looking up and down the road. One of them bends down to reach something out his trouser pocket,. If he didn't have his trousers so low he wouldn't have to bend down and I wouldn't have to see his underwear. It's glass. he holds out his hand to his friend who slaps something into his palm. They turn round to face the fence backs to the world. A minute of heads together and concentration they're ready. A quick look up and down the road and then spark up. The first is  continually putting his lighter to the glass tube, while impatiently his friend dances beside him. After a few seconds frantically puffing on the glass he throws his head back and passes the glass to his friend who immediately does the same.
They have stopped dancing, jigging about. They're just standing now swaying in the sunshine. The hoods come off. and they stagger off towards town.
My man walks in "Did you see 'em?"
"Yes they were a bit blatent weren't they?"
"Blazing crack on a street corner is not cool. In front of kids." my man is very indignant. Despite the fact he's usually high on something or other, he has standards.  His standards. "I can't stop." he says "I'm gonna go look at a dog."
"But you've already got a dog."
"This one is being mistreated by it's owner and I'm not  having it. It's time he was sorted out."
"Sorted out?"
"Yes. If he's hurt that dog. I'll hurt him, twice  as badly.  Don't you worry. I wont have it."
He crushes the inevitable beer can that's in his hand by way of demonstration and throws it on my floor.
"That's my floor." I say in theatrical disbelief.
"Sorry." and he picks up the can and puts it in my bin "But I wont have cruelty to animals."
he walks out the door "Stay safe!" I shout after him. he doesn't turn round. 

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Thursday, July 14, 2016

The Smack, Crack and Cocaine Emporium

Someone has smashed the windows of the Smack Crack and Cocaine Emporium. They're all boarded up. Police have visited and it's all very quiet now. The six foot seven enforcer, sorry financial advisor, who advises people to pay up, has gone to ground. No one has seen him. Which is amazing because you can't miss him he is so big. The steady stream of addicts who trail to and from the Emporium like an ants has dried up. This has happened before. The police bust the joint it all goes quiet for a while and then they start up business again and all the druggies come back. So I expect normal service to resume in due course.
Meanwhile my man turns up with a  spring in his step and a can of  strong lager in his hand; he's  been celebrating.
"So it's all good then?"
"Yep and a few quid left over for household expenses." he holds up his can to show me the sort of household expenses he's talking about.
"Just out of interest where did you get the gear from?"
"Oh an old army buddy just back from Kandahar."
"That takes some organisation doesn't it? I mean you  only found out about your house the other day and you had a deal in place already. How does that work?"
"It's been months in planning."
"but...."
"The less you know...."
"Yes but...."
"You REALLY don't  want to know. You're a friend. You don't want to be in my world. Hell I don't want to be in my world. But here I am. Best you  don't know. Alright?"
"OK."
My curiousity is going to get me into trouble one day.

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Wednesday, July 13, 2016

It's primo quality Afghan black m'boy

So a few days ago my man turns up all distressed. I ask him if he's seen the big Russian dude. he skips that one saying "This is worse. I'm losing my house."
"I thought you owned the house."
"I did too but the banks say I still owe eighteen grand on it and I haven't paid them anything so they're foreclosing on me unless I find the money quick."
"What are you going to do?"
"Find the money."
"Like you're just going to find eighteen grand just like that?"
"There are ways." he says, "Not strictly legal, but there are ways."
He leaves.
Yesterday he came to see me. he's wearing his usual camo clothes and toting a  rucksack. "Problem nearly solved." he says "I've just gotta shift this little lot." and he opens the rucks sack.
Inside were several slabs of what looked like liquorice, each with a circular gold sticker. Around the outside was something like "Afghanistan Kabul." and in the centre "top quality"
"What is it?" I ask. As if I didn't already know.
"It's primo quality Afghan black m'boy. You wont get better than this around here."
"How much is it worth?"
"This little lot will fetch me around eighteen grand."
"That's convenient."
"Yes I'm selling it all on as a job lot. I don't want to be involved with it anymore than I have to. I've got a deal going down in an hour so I'd better get going."
"Well..... errr... good luck with that."
"It'll be sweet when i march into the bank and slam eighteen grand on the counter and say 'take that ya bastards'."
"You could make a load of money doing this."
"NO."
"No?"
"This is a one off. Once a year to keep me ticking over. No more. Keep your head down, nose clean and don't get noticed. I don't sell the stuff. I'll leave that to the others. They can get caught."
Later in the day he walks past my gaff he doesn't stop except  to look through the window, smile and give me the thumbs  up. I guess the deal was done. His house is safe.

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Friday, July 08, 2016

Don't mess with the big fella

So my man hell bent on discontinuing his term of office as a human living on this planet decides he's going to piss off the local Russian Mafia. Actually whether or not they're really Russian mafia is just a point for comedic effect. So my drug addled friend meets up with "the most beautiful, drop dead, gorgeous girl." He goes on... "She's perfect, lovely figure and covered in tattoos and piercings. Just my type. But there is a fly in the ointment."
"I knew there would be. What is it?"
"Well she lives with  this Russian guy and he's one big Mother fucker."
"So you should stay out of it then. She's already in a  relationship."
"Yeah but she wants out don't she. She wants to come live with me."
"To live with you or live with you?"
"She don't mess about she was kissing me an' shit an' sayin' 'I be your wife' an you know....."
"So you're going to take on this girl who is 'drop dead gorgeous' with  her boyfriend just up the road? Don't you think he'll have something to say about the matter?"
"He might. But she just wants out cos he hits her."
"Which ever way you look at it, it doesn't look good for you. he'll be round your gaff and ... well just tell her NO."
"I can't."
"Why not? Wait. Don't tell me."
"She's already moved in."
"Why did I know  you were going to say that? What does he do, this Russian guy?"
"He's a drug dealer."
"It's not getting any better is it?"
"NO but you should see her, she's gorgeous."
I sit shaking my head. Of all the crazy dumb ass things he's done. This is up with the best of them. Why he's still a  friend of mine I'll never know but he keeps coming back with updates and street gossip. I try and persuade him that he really should think this through for the consequences but logic is not his strong point, not any more.He wanders off out the door. He heads towards the off licence and I wonder if I've seen this big Russian guy out on the streets.

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Saturday, July 02, 2016

Claret and Gravestones

My man turns up at my gaff disheveled and grim. His usual look. Since becoming a professional addict and user he has perfected this image.
"What the hell happened to you?" I ask.
"Dunno." he muttered. "Some guy walking his dog found me face down in the graveyard and called the police."
"What graveyard?"
"The one that's just over the dual carriageway."
"That's not your manor."
"I know. I don't know  how I got there. It's a mystery." he shakes a bit, he's not talking clearly. He is a man beaten down, destroyed,  a shell of a man. But still my friend from way back when we were young and had fun drinking beer and chasing girls. I often wonder what brought him to this stage.
He brightens up a little "Look! Haven't you seen?"
"Seen what?"
"I'm covered in claret."
I look him up and down. The bottom of his leather kacket and his combat trousers are covered in blood. "Christ! Is it yours?"
"No. but it's human blood. The police say it is. But it's not mine."
"Whose blood is it then?"
"I don't know. I don't  have a scratch on me."
"What did the police say?"
"They let me go. No crime has been reported so nothing to charge me with. I walked."
"So...?"
"I'm gonna have a bit of a mooch around ask a few questions, try and find out what happened. But first I need a drink. I'm going to the offy. You want I bring you anything?"
"No thanks I'm good."
He turns to the door opens it, and as is his usual routine, sticks his head out and looks up and down the road before walking out. He doesn't say 'Goodbye' He just stumbles down the road, head down. As my usual routine I wonder if that's the last time I'll ever see him.

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Sunday, June 12, 2016

It's Football Jim but not as you know it.

So I go along to a football match. England : Russia in the euro competition. It's been shown on a big screen at a city pub. My job? Photograph the crowd. So I'm making my way through the crowd of red and white England shirts. The match hasn't even started and beer bottles are being thrown and beer is flying through the air. I'm not getting paid enough for this. Our perky little brits are chanting and throwing bottles, demonstrating their tribal roots, I find plenty of nice people to photograph around the edges and at the back. But the mosh pit is brutal. In front of the stage beer and testosterone combine. I finally get onto the stage to photograph the whole crowd. Alongside the other photographers we are bombarded with bottles and beer caps. The actual beer doesn't reach us at the back of the stage, that's where we stay, just out of range.
At half time I've had enough. I leave. I am just outside when a group of young people accost me demanding I take a group photo of them. They are proudly eastern European and turn out to be the nicest people.



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Friday, June 10, 2016

A friend of mine came to my gaff. He looked terrible. To be honest he always looks terrible. Many years ago when I first started as an electrician he also started as an electrician. I started with MY father and he started with HIS father. We both did well and carried on. I eventually took over the business from my father BUT something terrible happened to him, his wife left him without warning. Took everything all the furniture his children everything. he had a breakdown and never worked again. He turned to drugs and alcohol. He was in a terrible situation.  Then I never saw him again for years. I found him again when we moved. He's an alcoholic and drug user. But with me he is always polite and pleasant. he tells me stories of the drug gangs around here and all the terrible things that happen that normal people don't see.
So he came in and he could  hardly speak, He was was definitely on drugs. He was upset. he told me that one of his friends had died of an overdose at his house. The police came and people questioned. he told me the drug was "white china". I looked it up. It's not a new drug but it's very dangerous. Too many people have died taking this drug.I told him this. Then I asked him why he would risk so much for such a dangerous drug. he said "It was free." 
I said "If I give you a loaded gun for free would you shoot yourself?"
"No"
"Well that's what you're doing with this shit. You're gambling with your life playing Russian roulette."
"Someone stole my dustbin."
"What?"
"My green bin was stolen so I've been out looking for another to steal to replace mine."
"Well don't nick mine. I need it."
"No you're friend I wouldn't take yours. Anyway I've already found one."
I looked out the window. A green wheely bin stood outside like a dog tied to a lamp post, waiting.
So this is what his priorities are  his friend died and all he can worry about is his wheely bin. He needs help. But I think it's too late.

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Thursday, May 22, 2008

Looking for

I'm just searching for someone so If I put her name on a blog the search engines will find it. It may just work

So we're looking for Shelley Forrest (AKA Wendy Fisher) ex manager of the band Cheap Flights. Fronted by the legend that was John Grimaldi.

Hey ho I've found Brett Salmon who played rhythm guitar and Andy the roadie.

contact here or through this blog.

That's all for now. BTW I'm still alive but incredibly busy being famous.

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