Wednesday, 29th MARCH, 2000.
Lovely cool, fresh day. Pottering about town I noticed Morgan Dinny coming towards me. His upper torso was doing the ‘breast stroke’ while is legs made little shunting skips. His mottled greenish cheeks were puffing away merrily. I think he was swimming the Channel again.
I was tempted to pop into the Planet Café but decided against it; it’s dangerous to have too much of a good thing and I don’t want to encourage them to think that I’m potentially a regular customer. My commitments are widely spread (as the priest said to the midwife!).
Phoned up Duncan who is now home from Archibald House, following his strange episode in Asda. He sounded cheerful enough though I think he was partly fuelled by his friend the vodka bottle. He’s going to an Accrington Literary Club meeting this evening. I think they’ve dug some forgotten poet out of the woodwork, some local who’s more famous for an affair with Stephen Spender than for anything else. I was at the Accrington Intellectuals last night, accompanied by Didi Boyet who largely ignored the events up front to indulge himself in furtive little notetakings and drawing mysterious little pictures, no doubt related to some devious new scheme for outraging public decency. Ogden Pinolin the acting President, (Archie Shump was slung out for attending a rival groups’ meetings – though only because he was shagging the secretary, rumour has it) gave a talk on FLUIDITY OF FORM as applied to modern oil painting with particular reference to Georgi Seagul & William Kuerndial. His premis was that Abstract Art could be reduced to certain repeatable arm motions that modulated the direction & intensity of brush strokes. He showed some slides of some wonderfully potent paintings, though one of those projected, a Sylvia Tottal, received a round of jeers because clear figurations could be seen in the upper left corner. Ogden started stammering rather badly after this setback and scarcely remained intelligible. We applauded wholesomely at the end anyway. It was a good try!
The budgies have reappeared in the roof-rafters of the indoor market. Clearly, they didn’t all die off during a mildish winter. School kids spend their lunch break staring up at them while eating horrible sandwiches from stale Tupperware boxes and slurping soft drinks, a position not designed for good digestion. I could only make out a handful of blue ones and an odd green myself, but I expect they’ll breed and once again impress the punters with their colourful sweeps across the market.
I bought a bag of Quilldough (I think that’s how you spell it!) from the Healthfood Stall and munched on the rubbery trunks while I strolled about. Some tv’s in red dresses were chatting & smoking in the market café. They waved to me and so I waved back – maybe I’ve met them doing a Show or something? They certainly dominated their little domain, becoming ever more boisterous and animated as I watched.
Strolling along the canal I pondered on the latest craze for staining ones shoes. Perfectly good & expensive shoes are being mutilated into blobs of primary colours for the sake of fashion! Who though this idea up? I believe it’s a relatively local phenomenon, originating in the Darwin area and mostly instituted by young executives out on the town. I suppose it’s some kind of middle class rebellion – “I shall not be defined except by those I choose to define me.” It all sounded rather pompous!
Monday 3rd April 2000.
He whistled through a flute stuffed with locusts.
(Iain Sinclair ‘Rodinsky’s Room’)
Have you noticed how many people walking the pavements these days have some kind of psychic ability to detect your presence behind them as you attempt to walk passed and fend you off by moving into your path. You may think it’s all accidental but I believe otherwise. I think there is a conspiracy at large, especially among older people who have nothing better to do to block your legal progress. I think that they are intensively trained to do it at secret hideaways in the country, probably under the cover of some Bowling Competition in Cleethorpes. They’re just too good at the whole damned business for any other explanation. These people are the pedestrian equivalent of the line-backers for the Green Bay Packers. They read your every intent, every shift of purpose, every nuance of walk-craft. They have the ability to appear to be moving in every direction at once yet still maintain their stately progress ahead. Many of them work in teams. If you swerve passed one another emerges out of nowhere and your progress is arrested; you are then hemmed in by a seedy grouping of old women who emaciate your feet with their trolleys. Accrington is a home from home for them, it’s narrow pavements make for ideal blocking terrain with the bonus that it’s so easy to force ordinary, civil, unsophisticated types onto the roadways and to be pulped for recycling by Joe Ordsall’s 40 ton Mueslli Truck. The other explanation, which I can scarcely credit, is that I’m Paranoid. Emma certainly thinks I am but SHE WOULD say that wouldn’t she!!??
I was rather annoyed by an article in the Accrington Observer written by some old fogey called Major Arbuthnot complaining about my website – droning on about how Accrington wasn’t anything like I’ve described it. Well how would he know, closeted away in the outskirts and frequenting only the more salubrious quarters? Decided to print it in my website with a suitably terse and apt rebuff + an outrageous picture of the viaduct at night which is sure to annoy him further. To be frank, I’m amazed that he’s even heard of the Internet! Considering the number of articles I could supply to the newspaper I think the Observer is kicking itself in the Cloibbles rather by printing this Conservative Propaganda.
Horribly cold and wet today. Didn’t go out but continued to read an amusing account of the Furtive Strangers League by Timothy Cleneily (Abacus Books).
Friday 7th April 2000.
Did I ever tell you, sorry…………….DID I EVER TELL YOU (can you hear me NOW? - Good) that I once met Quentin Crisp? No? Well I did. Now as far as I know he's never set foot in Accrington, but he did stay in nearby Manchester during a short visit to the UK about 4 years ago. I interviewed him for a local newspaper called the Salford Pup.
I entered his hotel room which was fragrant with the scent of Strawberry Vest Ointment and promptly tripped over the carpet, sprawling awkwardly head first into the great mans crotch. "You're a bit quick off the mark aren't you? We haven't even been introduced!" Now I know this sounds unlikely but it actually DID happen. Recovering from my absurd posture I held out my hand towards him. He looked at it as if it were some unwholesome exotic fruit. "I don't partake." he drawled in that characteristic fashion of his. "Take a pew dear boy. Would you like some tea or are you an alcoholic? I tend to find that men fall into 2 categories. Impotent or potentially impotent. Now which are you?"
"Errr…………..potentially?" I replied.
"Well as long as you don't waft it in my direction we should get along famously. I hear you're a journalist. Couldn't you find a more meaningful employment? I expect you'll want to know my opinion of the UK at this moment in its history? Well I don't have an opinion of it since I've scarcely set foot in it for yonks but I will say that I think John Major is a small stiff prick made out of linoleum. Will that do? As for myself I'm a creature after my own heart; a vision in crinoline; a Buddhist without a buddy; a gilded queer of the old school - and I DON'T mean Eton. Frederik?" he calls to an adjoining room. A diminutive man in a pale yellow dressing gown appears. "Frederik, DO put on some Debussy I'm absolutely gagging for it. Oh cover up your chest man! You're not on OPPORTUNTY KNOCKS now you know! No one is interested; unless Mr.Ffitz here is interested. Are you interested Mr.Ffitz?" (I shake my head) "No. Mr.Ffitz is not interested. Your de-robing is wasted on him. Nice smooth chest though. Ah………" (Debussy starts up) " Isn't he DIVINE? I normally play this while sitting on MURPHY'S DECKCHAIR."
"Sorry, Murphy's…..?" I quibble.
"The BOG dear, the BOG. It's a quaint euphemism. I'm surprised a literary type like yourself is not acquainted with it. Oh look, Frederik, he's shocked. Yes I DO go to the loo now and then and when I do I simply adore working to the strains of DEBBY, or perhaps I should say straining to the work of Debby, but that's another story, don't lead me down that road; Kenny Williams could tell you all about that, if he was still with us of course! I expect you want me to say something witty now? Oh well - the Queen has a fat arse. Will that do? No? You certainly want your moneys worth don't you?". At this point Frederik appears in a camisole decorated with flower motifs. "Frederik! What are you wearing? You're embarrassing me. Mr.Ffitz could walk out at any minute and we cannot let that happen can we, not before he's had his tea and dipped his chocy biscuit in it. He's drooling for a bit of luxury, something to compensate for his earthen existence."
"Is Frederik your agent?" I ask, trying to recover some poise.
"Good heavens no, he's my SLAVE…………of sorts. I treat him like shit but he loves it, soaks up all my chastisements, don't you you little worm? DO switch that thing off will you!" (referring to my tape machine) "I can't stand gadgetry! You have a stain on your chin - it's making me quite ill. Do wipe it off!" He hands me a tissue. "Peoples' eating habits disgust me. You'll never catch me eating in public. No one looks their best with a gob full off meaty goodness! Ask Frederik! Actors in the movies get it about right; they fake the food part but give sensual motions of the mouth. Have you ever had an ENEMA? It can be quite fun; I'd recommend it. Here's the card of someone you might visit if you come to New York, and you WILL do so soon won't you Mr.Ffitz, or can I call you Alistair? Such a nice name AL - IS - TAIR. Has such rhythm." At this point he looks out of the window for a few seconds and then looks back at me once more. He raises his eyebrows. "Oh are you still here? I thought you had gone! This isn't a British Rail waiting room you know!" I hastily departed.
Friday 14th April 2000.
I met up with Seymour Wattle a friend who I first met through Community Support 2 years ago. He had dropped out of college where he had been studying Medicine and had locked himself in a shed at the bottom of a neighbour's garden. The sounds of drilling punctuating the night had freaked everyone out. It turned out he was drilling holes in himself, initially into his skull, and when that proved unsuccessful the rest of his body which he found comparatively unresistant and supremely rewarding. Anyway, after many visits to the shed I eventually sorted him out and we became friends. He's now a Psychotherapist working in North Manchester. We dined in the AZTEC SALOON. Emma called in to say "Hi!". Seymour & she were "an item" for a few weeks following his recovery. Emma has a soft spot for the self-harmers. I think she went through a self-harming phase in her early twenties but she doesn't talk about it, or at least only when she's pissed. Emma was sporting the Femme-Sheik fashion with cloak & filloony. Her petite shoes were undaubed I was glad to note.
I had hamburger and onion rings with some gerjezny dressing (whoooooh those chillies!), Seymour had the fried chicken. He's just created a new long-distance footpath linking 2 stone circles, 50 miles apart, in east Lancashire. "Tha'll need wellies mind!" he said. He talks like that, with a very thick accent. The above can be translated as: "You will need to wear Wellington Boots my man." Since I have no intention of wading through a 50 mile bog this advice was superfluous. "You would not believe some of the clients I is gettin'. Proper bonkers they are. Daft as a clothes-peg in Wakes Week. I tell them - 'you don't want to see me, you want major drugs mate!'"
The waitresses in the Aztec Saloon wear Mexican hats and do little jigs between tables. I recognised one as a bloke who regularly parades around Accrington in outrageous female attire. He/She acknowledged my stare by winking and slipping me a note. Seymour spat, "You lucky booger. You're ON there!" But it was only a finely drafted note spelling out the consequences to any poor sod who squealed to the management. As if I would! We left the saloon reeling & jigging & handling our assets with impunity.
Friday 21st April 2000.