Thu JAN 20,2000

A thick fog has enveloped Accrington for the last 4 days, a cold and clammy dilution of colour & movement. People magically appear in front of you and stare into your face as if an intruder into their little island of visibility. People stand around in groups, huddling together for protection as if stranded from reality. Mothers grasp their children tightly lest they wander off into the fog never to be seen again.

The ACCRINGTON GAZETTE sent me to visit LORD CLITHEROE at Read Hall, a local beauty spot and scene of a skirmish during the Civil War. Lord Clitheroe turned out to be a small thin man with a huge cigar dominating his porcine face. He offered me one but I don't partake. Several cute spaniels frolicked about the floor, slipping on the highly polished Albanian teak.

We discussed his forthcoming autobiography A LORD IN HIS MANNER which, he admitted, was full of lies and 'spiced up' for the market. “For instance," he said "I’ve only ever bedded 5 debutantes in one season." (he'd apparently claimed 22 in the book). In between puffs of cigar and sips of whisky he belched out commands to the spaniels to little effect. They continued their frenzied running & skating, occasionally crashing into each other - FDUDD!

Lord Clitheroe's wife Lady Clitheroe (of Weymss & Streatham) popped into the Library where we were sitting and asked politely if I would like some tea. “THE MAN DON'T DRINK IT!" her husband replied brusquely and inaccurately.

Before I could divert him he began rambling incoherently about his war experiences. He got up and pointed to a framed map of some Campaign, tapping areas with a pencil. I caught something about "Germans didn't know what hit 'em" and "damn fine men".

I enquired about his position on FOXHUNTING. “Not one of those anti-blood sports johnnies are you?" I remained silent. “Foxes need to be DESTROYED. Breed like buggers! Anyway jolly good fun! -- good for the youngsters, teaches 'em DISCIPLINE, social harmony, all that." He flicked ash on the carpet and slurped more whisky, his little figure dwarfed by the banks of bookshelves behind him. The fog from outside seeped into the room adding to the smoke from the fire -- it was all a bit eerie & surreal. One of the servants brought me in a SPAM SANDWICH, which was rather odd but I ate it anyway.

"WACHA GOT THERE?" the Lord barked.

"I think it's SPAM." I said.

"Don't like HAM myself. Slimy horrible stuff! Ever make it to the FOISTINGS?" he asked.

"Foistings?" I said.

"You taking the PISS young man?? FOISTINGS! FOISTINGS!" he blared.

"Ah!.....no..no I haven’t." I had NO IDEA what he was talking about.

"Pity. They do a really good QUAIL SUPPER. Pheasant if you're lucky, and the Duck......it's never TOO SCENTED...know what I mean?"

I concurred, desperate to escape, which I managed to do about an hour or so later & drove back to Accrington. The article will appear next week under the heading LORD CLITHEROE AT HOME and will pander to the social climbing readership. It’s a living I suppose.

     Sun JAN 23, 2000

 pulvis et umbra sumus.....we are dust and shadows.

Brisk, sunny walk through town. Ran into (almost literally) Paul Vetulupp from the Accrington Literary Club. He’d just hiked up Whipple's Mount & was all set for a big dinner at the Broadacres Dining Experience. We went together -- I just had a NANCY'S HAT (a cheese omelette) but Paul had the full works based around MOUNTAINS OF MARS (stacks of mashed potato with flaked onions, impregnated with tall venison sausages). I don't recall seeing this image of Mars myself, maybe it's a poetic interpretation. He told me about the last meeting of the Literary Club which I had missed. Several HEFTIES from the WOMENS HEALTH CLUB had barged in wielding banners and chanting slogans. They were objecting to a discussion about the novel REGINALD'S PAW by V.P.TATE which has scenes in it as visualised by a promiscuous woman trapped in a wardrobe with 3 lascivious Germans. I’ve not read it myself, but it sounds pretty innocuous. The protest went on for 20 minutes. The HEFTIES left voluntarily and went to their own meeting of the WHC down the passage of the Arts Centre. I was sorry to have missed it.

Readers have to understand that Accrington is a HOTBED of RADICALISM. Anyway, REVENONS A NOS MOUTONS say the mellifluous hogs, such is their oriflamme, leave me to mine! I continued my walk up into Haworth Park and stared at the blue blue sky & it stared back at me with cloudless incredulity "got nothing better to do buddy?”. So I trundled on & pondered my cat-less state & thought of Emma & wished her unwell (just a bit!) & took a crumpled leaf in my hand & tuned in to its rustle & smelt the smell of winter. The CLOOKAMUNDIES bray softly.

     Wed JAN26, 2000

 “I used to wrestle with the MASKED MAULER, but now I wrestle with the dilemmas of LIFE”

Bert Oliphant.

 “I have absolutely nothing to say........Why are you writing that down?”

Lucien Freud.

Today I went to have a butchers at an Archaeological Dig going on in the outskirts of town. The locals would have you believe that the excavations are related to an encampment of troops from Charles Edward Stuart’s 1745 rebellion when the Bonny Prince & his cohorts made it as far as Derby, stopping off in Accrington for the night. It is true that they stopped off here but they made themselves thoroughly at home in the houses of the locals and Prince Charlie, after prancing about in one of his ridiculous outfits, settled on the Old Mill House for his nights’ rest. This is now a Museum selling tartan clad Highlanders with no underwear. In actual fact, the dig relates to a Roman site near a river crossing. I was shown the latest finds -- a small horde of silver coins, 300AD,pottery fragments & some mysterious stone tablets yet to be deciphered. One of the helpers on the dig was Morgan Dinny, a long-term resident of CONKY HOUSE, otherwise known as THE INSTITUTION. Carried away by the novelty he’s been digging up flowerbeds all over town and even the floor of his own room, almost falling through to the room below. Professor Chommy who’s in charge of the site is due to give a talk about the excavations to the Accrington Intellectuals next week.

Mon JAN31, 2000

She is in toes by the number 10

She clings like clingfilm

The clickies click.........click, lick

like plicky things aplicking.

          Duncan Everett (from ‘Prosopography, the Movie’)

I braved the endless rain and wind & swept through town like a paddle-steamer with legs.

People with umbrellas took off into the leaden skies, Mary Poppinsing out of existence.

I heaved-too at the Blitz Gallery, narrowly missing a marooned half-bicycle. Inside, I tried to restrain my wetness unto myself but it burst out in trickling flows onto the polished floor, strategical slip zones. Some nice hand coloured prints of surreal cities by Clare Monksy caught my eye, £75 each. I’ll pop back in a few days time under a different mood state to see if I still like them. Art can trick you into liking it sometimes. In a particularly good mood (I’d just received a cheque from CAT QUARTERLY for an article about KITTEN LANGUAGE) I actually found myself liking some Late Cézanne’s in a gallery in Leeds! I’ve never forgotten this bizarre outrage on my normally impeccable taste.

Wading back through the little lake I’d influcted onto the floor, I nosed astern towards Budgens but was blown off course into a bookshop. With nothing better to do I placed an order for MULDEWAR’S BOOK OF TRIBAL CUSTOMS which contains a small piece written by myself when at College about the Espicalli people of Eastern Mongolia, famous for their goat grooming rituals & gruff, dockle-pitched vocalisings - their equivalent of sports-induced small talk. The book has actually been out of print for 10 years, but I’m hoping to stimulate some renewed interest. I’ve actually done this with deleted classical music, notably Ziggy Millburn’s early pieces on the Bica Music label. I effectively resurrected his Piano Sonata and Discourse for trumpet & timpani, an accomplishment I’m thoroughly proud of. I never let Ziggy forget it of course!

I took a bus to RAWTENSTALL just for the hell of it & watched the sodden wretches down on the street below with smug, detached comfort. Everyone looked pretty miserable with their lot. Someone had graffittied the inside of my upstairs window in silver felt-tip CLARKY SHAGS SHEEP with an inexpert graphic description of this act which actually looked like several characters from the Chinese Alphabet (I suppose that’s how the characters originated in the first place). I eventually sloaked homewards, adrift from reason.