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:

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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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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.

1 Comments:

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5:41 am  

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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.

2 Comments:

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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