I appear to have slipped off the wagon again – a poor state of affairs considering
my slender finances and increasing girth. The bill for an evening spent in the company of the New York Dolls is a nasty reminder that excessive imbibing of rot gut wine can also have its downside. The gig was wonderful – how The New York Dolls can remain so great with only two original members, both of bus pass age, is truly a modern miracle.
A night of high excitement ends uncertainly and a day of atonement begins. I am too long in the tooth to be sleeping on people’s floors and my heart sinks as I open my eyes and realize that I am not at home, must at some stage get home, and that I will have to make this journey wearing pink alligator shoes and blue sparkling socks – flamboyance that seemed such a good idea last night, but will now draw looks and comments that I am not mentally equipped to deal with – and what if I run into any of the parents from my daughter’s school?
Reality takes a while to seep in and I am convinced for several minutes that Diana Ross really did have a song called Vagina – I can even remember the words and hum the tune. It starts with a drum roll – rather like the theme to Eastenders, then develops – rather uncharacteristicly for Motown, a country dance feel, before Miss Ross intones ‘Vagina, oh hoochie, vaginaaaa.’ The fact that she doesn’t have a song of this name is her loss. Perhaps I’ll write it and send it to her with an explanatory note – an empowering celebration of womanhood – a song for sisters everywhere..and a surefire career defining moment.
Black coffee turns cold as I fall asleep again with the words of Somerset Maugham spinning sweetly in my mind. ‘It was such a lovely day, that it would have been a pity to get up’. The world has slowed down beautifully since the ash cloud arrived, and the idea of doing anything useful seems even more remote than usual. I am a genius, and geniuses must occasionally stay in bed for hours nursing hangovers – that’s where the great world changing ideas come from – how do you think Logie-Baird came up with television, or bedside teasmades were invented?
As my own volcanic cloud begins to subside, I feel suddenly virtuous – like a dewy-eyed meths drinker marching behind a Salvation Army band. I have made the decision to stop drinking again – and I will stick to it this time. I have no outings planned that require extra lubrication, so a good long stint of sobriety is a distinct possibility.
At last I feel able to leave the safety and comfort of my temporary crib. My stubble, dandruff, body odour, shades, exotic footwear and furred tongue are ready to roll. As I say goodbye, the phone rings – number unknown. As my mother is the only person I know who’s number is unknown I take the call. It is a man from the Town Hall election office enquiring whether or not I still intend to stand as a parliamentary candidate.

Stephen Fry is everywhere, Stephen Fry is following me,
The last voice that I hear at night, the first face that I see each day,
Stephen Fry is following me,
He’s peering through my windows, he’s telling me how to vote,
I’m scared to look at money in case his face is on the note,
The Television is out of bounds because I know old Fry is there,
But now I’m scared that he might simply pop out of thin air,
He’s on our children’s bags of crisps, he’s in our private tweets,
He knows when we’ve been dreaming because
He’s there between the sheets,
He’s lurking in our lavatories just behind the bend,
So he can catch you unawares and advise your business end,
Yes Stephen Fry is everywhere, there’s nowhere that he ain’t,
He’s Tweeting on his fryPhones and teaching Da Vinci how to paint
He knows the perfect method for making cups of tea,
or fetching sunken treasures from the bottom of the sea,
Stephen Fry is following from the cradle to the grave,
But even in the after-life he’ll still be there on Dave
Look around the hospitals, hear the babies cry,
See their tiny faces, they all look like Stephen Fry
For Fry’s the father, Fry’s the son, Fry’s the holy ghost,
Fry’s the mountains, Fry’s the air, the rivers and the coast
Fry’s the cities, except Birmingham, the villages and towns,
I do quite like him actually but I wish that he’d calm down.

14.4.11

Da Boyd from Noo Yawk

There once was a boyd from Noo Yalk
Who’s owner did teach him 2 tawk
His mouth was so doydy it really annoyed me
So I moydered dat boyd wid a fawk

April 2011

Michael

In a green green room there’s a green green man
And he rocks and he rocks then he rocks some more
He sways and he rocks as the green ship sails
Through the green green seas and the tar black floor

The floor starts to rise as the anchor is tossed
And the boards start to creak with the souls of the lost
And the crew calls out and the ghosts call back
Our hearts are green and our lungs are black

We’re sailing to the Colony, we’re sailing to the Colony

On a tall green chair our captain sits
Shivering his timbers in his dark glasses
And he smokes as he watches and he drinks with the fish
And he ticks our names on the passenger list

There’s Cunty, and Cunty, and Cunty’s been in
And she needs a shave or a brand new skin
And he’s not long for this dear old world
Time to settle up love like a good old girl

On a torn green chair there’s a thin green man
And he rocks and he rocks then he rocks some more
And he sways and he rocks as the green ship sails
Through the green green seas and the tar black floor

And the crew start to sing and the ghosts join in
And the ship sails on through the nicotine fog
It’s man overboard as the old girl roars
And the glasses fly across the Ouija board

And the floor starts to rise and the boards start to creak
As the ship sets sail from old Dean street
And the girls start to cackle and the men start to swear
And they powder their noses in the you-know-where?

We’re going to the Colony, we’re sailng to the Colony

And it’s man overboard as the old girl roars
Above the luckless, fuckless Dean street whores
And he smokes and he watches and he drinks with the fish
And he welcomes you hope and he kisses your lips

And you know when he does he means it
And you know when he does he means it

We’re going to the Colony Room, we’re sailing in the Colony Room

Through the green green door up the green green stairs
There’s a place for the ones who never said their prayers

Muriel, Ian, Michael – you’re ship will always be there
2010

The Hipster
I caught a Hipster, he was tame, I kept him as a pet
I fed him cheese and old baguettes and Gauloises cigarettes
I played him Jazz and read to him, the novels of the Beats
I changed his water twice a day and gave him stripy sheets
But he did tire of Hipsterdom, of fug and velvet drapes
Til one day I came home from work to find that he’d escaped
I searched the town’s bohemian haunts and called his Hipster name
But O’ my little Hipster was never seen again.

April 2011

the floor starts to rise as the anchor is tossed and
the boards start to creak with the souls of the lost
and the crew calls out and the ghosts call back
“Our hearts are green and our lungs are black
We’re sailing to the Colony, We’re sailing to the Colony ”

On a tall green chair our captain sits
shivering his timbers in his dark glasses
and he smokes as he watches and he drinks with the fish
and he ticks off our names on his passenger list

“there’s cunty and cunty, and old cunty’s been in
and she needs a shave or a brand new skin.
“And he’s not long for this dear old world
Time to settle up dear like a good old girl.”

On a torn green chair there’s a thin green man
and he rocks and he rocks then he rocks some more
and he sways and he rocks as the green ship sails
through the green green seas and the tar black floor

and the crew start to sing and the ghosts join in
and the ship sails on through the nicotine fog
it’s man overboard as the old girl roars
and the glasses fly across the Ouija board

and the floor starts to rise and the board starts to creek
and the ship sets sail from old Dean Street
the girls start to cackle the men start to swear
and powder their noses in the you know where?

We’re going to the Colony, we’re sailing to the Colony

And it’s man overboard as the old girl soars
Above the luckless, fuckless Dean Street whores
He smokes as he watches and he drinks with the fish
and he welcomes you home and he kisses your lips
And you know when he does he means it
And you know when he does he means it

We’re going to the Colony Room, we’re sailing in the Colony Room

Through the green green door up the green green stairs
There’s a place for the ones who never said their prayers
Muriel, Ian, Michael – your ship will always be there. XXX