December 2006 Archives

What a year and I’m relieved it’s over.
To tell you the truth I was rarely sober.
So the full implications passed me by
When things began to go badly awry

For Tony Blair in old Afghanistan
And in the toxic hatreds of Iran
Plus right here in our mucked up State
Where nothing goes right despite all debate.

A FEW weeks ago I stepped out into the dark, sacred beauty of the New Brighton night to see multi-coloured stars glittering along the once mighty Victoria Road.
Heavens, could it be that the ultimate faded resort had been given some public Christmas lights for once?
Last winter there were no such illuminations. It was said the traders in downtown New Brighton were too mean to enter into the customary deal with Wirral Council to get them put up.
Well this year they were put up all right, hung high on the fake Victorian lamposts, but from the start things went wrong...

WELL, it looks like I’ll have to postpone my launch into normality and prosperity until the New Year.
Because I sure as hell haven’t found either of those happy states this year.
In fact, for me, 2006 has been something of what the Queen might call an “annus horriblis�.
Funny, I can’t even write that phrase without conjuring up a mental picture of Kenneth Williams crinkling his nose up in distaste.

WHAT is it with the type of middle aged women you get working in charity shops?
Why are they so grumpy and, in some cases, seemingly insane?
I was wondering around the shops looking for some Crimbo cards the other lunchtime when I got a very icy reception from an old biddy in a charity shop.
(I’d been looking for cards with Our Lady and the baby Jesus on them – but of course they have been virtually censored out of existence by the nasty, liberal-fascist, multicultural fundamentalists who wield such influence these days.)

EVERY year, at a certain moment, the Christmas spirit descends on me.
Suddenly, I’m merry, warmly emotional and I love everybody.
This year it happened rather early, on Wednesday, December 13.
The moment I got to the end of my shift at work, and realised that an impossible day had been successfully got through, the spirit of Christmas came upon me like some magical ectoplasm reaching into my heart.

I CAN think of many good ways to spend 67 minutes - but watching a film of David Beckham asleep is not one of them. I'd rather stick needles in my eyes.
The Walker Art Gallery in Liverpool does itself no favours by taking Sam Taylor-Wood’s preposterous film of Becks’ boring Zzzzz’s on loan from the the National Portrait Gallery in London.
The ex-England skipper’s star is definitely on the wane. The Walker people should have realised that rather than clamour for dated, second hand cast-offs from the capital.
No matter how much David Beckham might still hob-nob with Hollywood actors, rap musicians and lousy Brit artists, his former luminosity cannot now be restored.
With David, as with his stick-like missus Victoria, it’s always been about promotion of self-image and, frankly, body fascism.

LAST Tuesday was a good night. It started with a pub curry in the Claude in the company of Commuting Mitch, Greta, Runcorn Rita, Annette Kalms, Dr Gyggle, Litherland Lou and a few others.
Later we legged it across to the Ginny to catch the second half of the Recklessly Hellbent gig, where I was due to read a couple of my bitter and twisted poems, including my “Islington Rap" number, which includes the line …
“But I remember you when you were rich
You and the haircuts and that stuck-up bitch�.

I came in, sat down in isolation,
A troubled soul in a cruel nation,
Looking for comfort in a side-street inn
And a chance to let the bad news sink in,
That my dad was dead, the day had arrived.
We always knew he would not have survived.