Year-end random thoughts

Ideal name for a cat: 'Dr. No'

Ideal name for a chihuahua: 'Stalin'

Subtle anti-obesity strategy: change the question 'Do you wanna go large?' at fast-food hell-holes to 'Do you wanna become large?'

Unintentionally funny name for a book: 'Scouting for Boys' by Baden Powell

My ideal song to bring in the new year: '007 (Shanty Town)', by Desmond Dekker

Reading: interesting essay by Tariq Ali about Pervez Musharraf in the London Review of Books

New year's eve plan: headin' South with the Cistern Kid & the iPOD Perv, then catching Roy Ayers peforming on New Year's day at the Jazz Cafe

Still editing/rewriting: poetry of course

Work out, write up and read through

Amazingly, the editing is working out really well. With significant time and distance between the events that shaped those poems and the present, I am now able to add shape, clarity, and reveal exactly what I was thinking and feeling at that time, which many of the original poems only ever hinted at. Thanks to Da Bomb for all her help. There's a grand total of 378 pieces, mostly poetry, with a few pieces of prose poetry and flash fiction. I reckon that about a third to a half need some form of editing (poems written from 2005 onwards have been in much better shape from the get-go, as I had taken the time to craft them). That editing will often involve total rewrites. A few of these poems will not be edited or rewritten, if I feel the message within is not worth voicing.

Finished reading: 'Birding Babylon', based on the blog of the Iraqi-based squaddie cum bird watcher from Connecticut, as well as Craig Murray's 'Murder in Samarkand'. On the list of half-finished books to tackle next are Philippe Sands' 'Lawless World', Flann O'Brien's 'The Third Policeman' and Olivia Judson's 'Dr. Tatiana's Sex Advice to All Creation'. Will I finish all three before I return to work? Will I bugger.

That Doctor Doolittle moment

I went to Kew today for a few hours. Each time I go, something tiny yet miraculous happens. Today, I had a fowl experience.

Unfortunately, I yet again forgot to take one of my real cameras with me, instead relying on my mobile phone.

These guys were placid and competely unfazed by my presence:



This chappie was a real beauty and obliged me with a couple of pics:

although his/her mate was a little wary of me:

But I managed to get them together:

This guy stood stock still while I snapped and a 747 ate up the clouds overhead:

Although not clear below, several of these guys were running around the flora, playng hide and seek. An absolutely extraordinary sight:

Ducky below was dead cute and cool, impressing me with his hunting ability during his morning swim:

No, I didn't eat these guys:

In pursuit:

Tailing:

The secret of life

I've been sitting on this awhile and I think it's time to come clean. The secret of life is:

'Two-three-kick-turn! Turn-turn-kick-turn!'

A tyme and place

My favourite place for Caribbean food, Tyme, has disappeared from its site on the Uxbridge Road. I hope it reappears somewhere sometime soon.

Many thanks to D & Al for the gifts; they're lovely.

'Sappho' - keep on truckin'

Fragment of a typical work conversation

"Don't you think it's a creepy stretch to go from strumming a guitar, encouraging school children to sing 'Kumbah Yah My Lord', to twanging a banjo and hollering 'squeal piggy, squeal'? I think you need to talk to your wife."

Chocolate

'A week after he came to my office and left me his suitcase, my father came to pay me another visit. As always, he brought me a bar of chocolate. He had forgotten I was 48 years old.'

An excerpt from Orhan Pamuk's Nobel Lecture (and a reminder of my own Father)

Yep, Santa really does exist

It bugs me that on a Saturday, the parks are empty while the shops are full, and that 'shopping' is often considered a hobby.

Now, instead of taking your kids to Santa's grotto in the town centre, you lard-arsed folk can have him come to you:

Covert Shot of Santa Pulling Away from My House, Carol Songs Blaring Away

Benches - even an arse needs a friend it can rely on

At Kew, there are an awful lot of benches, and each one is dedicated to one or more people, e.g. 'To Enid & Lavinia, Champion Bootleggers and Lesbians, who loved these gardens', or in the following style:




But on my tramp today I found this:

It heartens me to think that one day, I could pay to have a bench dedicated to my old friend Harry Twatts - with appropriate text.

A use for dead wood

The Queens Cottage Grounds, Kew

My father's suitcase

'As you know, the question we writers are asked most often, the favourite question, is; why do you write? I write because I have an innate need to write! I write because I can't do normal work like other people. I write because I want to read books like the ones I write. I write because I am angry at all of you, angry at everyone. I write because I love sitting in a room all day writing. I write because I can only partake in real life by changing it. I write because I want others, all of us, the whole world, to know what sort of life we lived, and continue to live, in Istanbul, in Turkey. I write because I love the smell of paper, pen, and ink. I write because I believe in literature, in the art of the novel, more than I believe in anything else. I write because it is a habit, a passion. I write because I am afraid of being forgotten. I write because I like the glory and interest that writing brings. I write to be alone. Perhaps I write because I hope to understand why I am so very, very angry at all of you, so very, very angry at everyone. I write because I like to be read. I write because once I have begun a novel, an essay, a page, I want to finish it. I write because everyone expects me to write. I write because I have a childish belief in the immortality of libraries, and in the way my books sit on the shelf. I write because it is exciting to turn all of life's beauties and riches into words. I write not to tell a story, but to compose a story. I write because I wish to escape from the foreboding that there is a place I must go but – just as in a dream – I can't quite get there. I write because I have never managed to be happy. I write to be happy.'

Amen.

Orhan Pamuk's acceptance speech for the Nobel Prize for Literature 2006. I have just heard his English recording of the speech on Radio 4. Sublime.

Further potential ads for the LRB

'Mano a mano, hombre a hombre, you ain't a man 'til you have been with a man, gringo.' M35, seeks F to 80, to prove his mother wrong.

Knees up Mother Brown. George Formby stunt-double, 35, seeks F to 111, with the attributes to make him twang his ukulele into a state of post-orgasmic bliss.

I have dreadful luck with women. Male, 35, invites you to add to his continuing state of disbelief in innovative ways. Patent-pending methods especially welcome.

I don't have an Oedipal complex. 'Mummy's special boy', 35, wallowing in denial, seeks to be taken in hand by F to 69.

I am 72.6% water. Drink me. M, 35, seeks lipstick marks on his glass that don't belong to his father.

The pieman cometh. Well, he (M, 35) would if he could find a buxom pastry chef (F to 102) whose prowess with a rolling pin would bring tears to his eyes.

Lucky in life, unlucky in love. No! Wait! The test results are negative! M35, seeking buxom broad for matronly aftercare.

Save me from my right hand. Serial self-abuser, M35, seeks loquacious self-help expert and voyeur, F to 256, to encourage him to stick with the left, if only for old time's sake.

Alan Fletcher at the Design Museum, Shad Thames

If you are at all interested in graphic design and typography, as embodied in books such as 'The Art of Looking Sideways', then you should try and toddle off to the Design Museum, to check out an exhibition of the late Alan Fletcher's life in work. It runs until February '07. I'm still kicking myself for missing last years exhibition of Robert Brownjohn's work.

Yippee!

I edited three old poems this afternoon in a cafe in Richmond. I say 'edited'...I really mean 'rewrote'. The long walk in Kew and the heartening lasagne did the trick.

The day started off in a slightly surreal manner, as a swan was walking along the very busy, three lane, Kings Road in East Reading (it carries traffic heading out to the M4 J10). It was obviously lost and confused (but still supremely arrogant) - if it was out Christmas shopping, it should have turned back, and cut across Vastern Road.

Mind you, this isn't new to me. I remember an incident 18 years ago, when a flock of geese walked past the bus stop where my neighbour and I were waiting. We just stood there speechless while the geese surveyed the relative lack of water (it had been raining, but not heavily, and we were several miles from the nearest waterway). They quacked and cackled at us for a bit before they strolled on, leaving us wondering if we should call the RSPCA, or pre-heat the oven.

London Review of Books

Amongst the several literary magazines I read in lieu of toying with myself, such as The Believer, Granta and the New Yorker, I have started reading the London Review of Books (LRB). They have a unique take on personal ads, as follows:

'My success as a lover is matched only by my success in the field of astronomy. Man, 37. WLTM woman to 40 with eyes as big and as bright as those stars that come up over by the trees opposite my house at about 9pm every night, then every 15 minutes or so. You know the ones. I call them the Regular Magic Tree Stars. They may be comets. Or planes. Or something. Whatever. Write, we’ll have sex, you’ll love it. Box no. 24/03'

or:

'I cannot guarantee you’ll fall in love with me, but I can promise you the best home-brewed beetroot wine you’ll have ever tasted. Now if that doesn’t sound like a fermentor bucket of yummy syphoned lustness I just don’t know what does. Man, 41. Stupid like wow! Box no. 24/04'

So I decided to write one and submit it for the hell of it, or as I explained in an email to one of their staffers, I wanted to use their 'esteemed publication as a platform to prostrate and humiliate myself':

'Bend over and show me your bottom. Collector of bearded stunt midgets, 35M, seeks F (to 80) curator of DIY curio for genuine aluminium stepladder action. People named Dubya, Osama, Sindy & Barbie needn't apply. Blow-up dolls excluded unless they come with their own puncture repair kit.'

I then received the following reply from Sara at the LRB:

'Dear Woz, thank you for the text. The ad is great, however, the editor would like you to remove the bit about the midgets. Do you collect anything else? Other than that the ad’s fine.'

Despite telling her on the phone that I had already omitted the boa constrictor and the trombone out of good taste, she politely refused to relent, so I modified the ad:

'Bend over and show me your bottom. Collector of bearded stunt hobbits, 35M, seeks F (to 80) curator of DIY curio for genuine aluminium stepladder action. People named Dubya, Osama, Sindy & Barbie needn't apply. Blow-up dolls excluded unless they come with their own puncture repair kit.'

I did leave Sara with the image of camp, cross-dressing midgets being fired from cannons into battle, pursuing their enemies whilst singing Broadway showtunes. Despite that, the ad should run soon. I have written several more, utilising the Oedipus complex, pie fetishes, etc. I may run those at some point in the future.

Actually, I had been meaning to write spoof personal ads for Donald Rumsfeld (although with his recent departure it may no longer be topical) and Rocco Siffredi (I think he's a tosser). I could post these on Craiglist, but as the shallow, materialistic and fuckwittish tend to congregate there, I think i'll pass on it.

Death of a Dictator

General Pinochet of Chile is dead. The guy who was made head of the armed forces by President Allende, only to overthrow him weeks later on September 11th, 1973, with CIA backing. He gave Chile Operation Condor and the Caravan of Death. What a malevolent piece of work.

Here is Allende's last speech (translation here), broadcast over the air during the coup - while the Moneda Palace was under attack.

Here is Pinochet's obit in The Economist - he also made the same issue's leader column. Here is the Guardian obit and the Independent's.

Pinochet & Allende

The Conspirators

Minister of Defence is Arrested at the Ministry by Pinochet's Troops

Tanks & Troops Move in to Encircle Moneda

Training Guns on Moneda Palace & Pro-Government Sniper Positions

Hawker Hunter Jets Attack Moneda Palace

Attack in Full Swing

Allende Tries to Muster Support to Defend Moneda

Allende and his Bodyguards at Moneda Palace, Under Attack by the Chilean Army & Air Force

Direct Hit

Moneda Palace's Defences are Breached

The Site of Allende's Suicide


The 'Arrest' of Moneda's Defenders (many were later tortured and executed - it's worth reading Gabriel Garcia Marquez's 'Clandestine in Chile' for a tale of what happened to Pro-Allende film director Miguel Littin)

The General

The Art of Looking Sideways

It's an amazing book, a real visual and thought-provoking treat. Sadly its creator, Alan Fletcher, passed away in September. Here's his obituary in The Guardian, with a follow-up.

READ THIS!

I hate modern journalism. Journalism used to be about sifting the facts, analysing them. Today, with a few exceptions, it consists of reporting hearsay, preceded by sensationalist headlines and peppered with inaccuracies and prejudices.

New US defense secretary Gates was confirmed as saying that the USA was losing the war in Iraq. Actually, that doesn't appear to be true. In his confirmation hearing, the Senate Armed Services panel asked him if he thought America was 'winning in Iraq', he replied 'No, Sir'.

It's not the same thing. Yes, one could draw a conclusion that they are losing, but he didn't actually say that, so it can't be reported as such.

The National Audit Office (NAO) has just reported that 55% of Anti-Social Behavioural Orders (ASBOs) fail. The new reports fail to look at why they are failing. Is it because they are an inappropriate form of punishment/restraint? Are they being misapplied? Do we know the background on those who are breaching them?

If you get a bunch of kids, put them indoors during a beautiful summers day, then ensure they are bored, they go - in the nicest way - totally nuts. Parents refer to it as 'cabin fever'.

Young offenders (for want of a better term) have few chances, nowhere to go and nothing to do, so of course they're gonna raise hell.

An ASBO just ups the pressure. Wouldn't you try and buck it?

You gotta fix the cause, not the symptom. But I guess people don't wanna hear that while munching their cornflakes and driving their Chelsea Tractors.

Wozzy's weekend away

I am only posting the clean pics (no, I am not in any of them).

Ash, Mossy & the iPOD Perv

Funky Santa


Over 30s Disco Santa

Militant Santa

Bad Santa!

Santas in Lurve