Wednesday, 2 November 2011

Die Freche Muse, a poem.

With a chill in the air, the ghosts roaming and the presence of ghouls, we put on our makeup and set off to Die Freche Muse.

Two stunning girls from a different decade, draped in pearls and velvet, not willing to fade,

Into the walls or out of sight, a room full of drinkers dancing into the night.

So I tip my bowler and straighten my pin, lower our morals for a night of sin.

We arrive at the Ritz on Kingsland Road, a warm public bar stuck in East End mode,

With a large landlady and larger drinkers, large gin and tonics and large whisky chasers,

the clientele were zombies and most were legless.

Dressed in Sunday Best, stilettos and lace, an air of the 20's, of glamour and grace,

Filled the room as I smoked my cigar, I dreamed of a day so distant and far,

A day when men wore top hats and carried canes, a day when white horses galloped through lanes,

The lanes of London shrouded in darkness, and old pub doors hiding drinkers and wasters.

I took my girl in hand and smoked her to the bone, took my mask off slowly so I didn't feel alone,

In this place called Dalston, east of the city, full of Cambridgshire types, trying to look pretty.

But they smell of daddy's money, even when dressed like a tramp, and the posh Indie boys, with wrists all camp.

We stuck together, we smoked together, we drank together and climbed the stairs together.

We listened to the French, and the poshest of posh fighting over a bench.

We danced together, smuggled in drink together, fought together and made up together.

We argued with the foreign taxi man, as he spoke exotic languages just because he can.

A suitcase full of knocked off booze, drinking in the toilet just to beat the queues,

Of East End wannabes talking with a ghetto slang, middle class ponces in middle class gangs.

But all suited and booted and rooted to our spot, we necked the wine, then we necked the lot.

We played the piano and we tripped the wires, we broke glasses twice and put out the fires.

And lived happily ever after, just like those fairy tales, when good beats evil, and the haunting men always fail.

We removed the masks and the curls and the lace, and woke up in Walthamstow in a different era, a different place.

So, as we danced, and we sang, and we argued and we ran, climbed the rickety old stairs to a different land.

We drank, and it flowed, and we smoked everything down to the bone.

And we awoke with a head full of dreams and booze.

Had we really been to Halloween Die Freche Muse?

Monday, 2 May 2011

Lola on the sands.

She'd never been to the beach before, she'd never felt the sand between her pads. It was time to take little Lola to the sunny shores of Kent; to Margate. So we packed up the old Fiesta, filled up the tank, bought the daily papers and set sail down the M25. Lola was excited but anxious; the car usually means a trip to the vets for a claw clip or an injection, but not today....... today she'd be eating ice cream with the rest of the fatties.

So I bought a 99, which now costs about £1.50, Jennifer had a Cornetto and Lola had a Mini Milk. She bit through it like a pissed up fella going through a kebab, it was a sight worth seeing. She was hot to trot and on the prowl for a well off Kent guy. Unfortunately, Margate was as dead as Bin Laden....... even the Primark looked like it was going out of business. But this wasn't going to dampen our day. We strolled down to the beach front hunting down a gentleman beagle that would steal little Lola's heart.

I'm always a bit wary of letting her roam free, as I have had many close calls in which Lola has run for the hills, only to be waiting at the front door when I have been searching Epping Forest high and low for the cheeky bitch. There were also some evil looking bastard mongrels roaming the shore, so I kept her by my side and hobbled across the golden sands.

She paddled once but seemed to hate the sensation of the ice cold salt water lashing against her paws, so spent her time digging holes in the sand. We were having more fun than Del Boy and Rodney on the Jolly Boy's Outing and didn't want the day to end.

Even a miserable prick like myself couldn't help but smile as the sea air swept through my badly trimmed hair. Jennifer jogged across the beach playing catch with the pup and I limped behind, like one of those old, fat Essex boys with a hanky on his head; it was a picture perfect scene.

Like most English beach towns, Margate has a bad rep. Rundown hotels, shit pubs, crappy arcades and half dead residents. However, I was liking the vibe and with rumours of an upgrade along the front, Lola will be visiting again soon, perhaps with a little sister in tow........ you never know.

We danced along the shallow water, the metal in my leg rusting with every splash, Lola shaking in the fresh Spring breeze. We knew it was time to go home; back to the big smoke, where the only fresh water is found in the Ching or the Lea Valley Viaduct.

A quick family portrait amongst the Margate crowds and a short stroll to the top of the hill took us back to the old Fiesta, sitting shimmering in the sun. She fired up gracefully and powered off towards the East End of London, hoping to return to the sea on another clear English day.

Next stop...... Bognar Regis.

Billy Byron continues.........

The silence was deafening. It had never been so quiet on Galleon lane. The wheels on Billy's chair were covered with the deep claret stain of fresh blood as he slowly edged towards the bathroom door. He pushed the handle, it was jammed shut. Billy pushed harder, but he barely had the strength to get out of bed in the morning; so the door did not move. He kicked it with his remaining leg; once, twice and then a third time. It jarred open and a sea of blood swept across the landing; the smell of death was overwhelming.Remove formatting from selection

At any other time Billy would have shied away. He was a broken boy since the day he had lost his leg; but on this occasion he felt a flush of bravery. Billy wanted to see more. He rolled across the swamp of blood and peered behind the sink towards the bath. It was full. The water was twinkling under the bathroom light. The ripples hypnotised Billy. He moved closer. Under the surface of the warm, tranquil water, Billy could see thousands of gold coins. He could not see the bottom of the tub, it seemed to go on for miles. He focused his eyes to try to see the chipped porcelain at the base of the bath, but it was not there. Just thousands of sparkling coins floating through the undercurrents.

Billy had not bathed since that warm Autumn day of the lorry attack. He never looked at the stump where his leg used to be. He would clean and dress it only occasionally and his mother would get upset whenever he said that he didn't care if it rotted away; slowly eating at the rest of his body so that he no longer existed. He felt no better than the dust on his bedside table. Dirty and useless. But at this eerie moment, Billy had the urge to dive into the inviting bath water. He began to rip his clothes off, not caring that they teared and ripped. He pulled his fragile frame from his throne and dragged himself onto the side of the tub. He could feel the warmth of the water massage his dry skin. He let go of the side and slowly fell in backwards. But he did not feel afraid. The water welcomed him in; the coins were still shining as he fell deeper. He kept falling. The weightlessness seemed to take all of the pain away; Billy felt alive again.

Wednesday, 19 January 2011

A bit more of Billy Byron.

Billy slowly rolled himself over to the doorway of the large open landing. It was still dark, so he went to turn the hallway light on... click... click. The bulb had blown. He rolled himself over to the main light in his bedroom and went to turn the lamp on... click... click. The bulb had blown. Billy began to panic; he had been having panic attacks since he had been discharged from the hospital. Panic attacks that paralysed his body with fear. His breathing would get heavy and his eyes would well up with tears. Billy wanted his mum... anyone he recognised... he felt alone and vulnerable.

Creak, shuffle, creak. Billy turned towards the door, something had shot past his room towards the bathroom. The curtains in the hallway were swaying gently as if something or someone had brushed past them. He heard a whispering; a low, deep voice that seemed to beckon Billy towards the upstairs toilet. Billy wheeled his cold body towards the landing, he squeaked as his chair moved across the wooden floor.

As he got closer and closer to the bathroom, the darkness of the early morning hours seemed to wrap around his aching body. Billy began to feel trapped and breathless, as if the air around him was strangling the life away from his battered soul. He could feel someone watching him, his eyes darted from side to side. Billy could see eyes staring from all corners; then he heard a whistling from the bathroom. The door was closed, but the light was flickering between the gaps in the frame. Billy could swear that the light had been switched off just a few seconds ago.

He cautiously mumbled his mum's name under his breath, but there was no answer; the whistling continued. He mumbled her name again, no answer; just whistling. So Billy shouted the name one more time....... the whistling stopped and a shadow swept across the room, then a splash of water echoed across the tiled walls. The water began to seep through the gap under the door; it trickled towards Billy's chair. Then Billy looked towards the floor... there was a strange smell, a smell that Billy recognised from his first days of school; when the bigger kids would slap his face for his lunch money; a smell that reminded him of the days when he would bang his nose whilst running away from the bullies on his old estate; a smell that took him back to the day when that possessed lorry had ripped his leg away from his tiny frame. It wasn't water edging towards his wheelchair; it was blood. Hot, sticky blood; as red as the eyes of the demons that were haunting his dreams.

Sunday, 9 January 2011

Busy doing nothing.

I was on FaceBook earlier and suddenly I thought, fuck, I used to write a little blog a few months ago. This was during a period in my life when I had fuck all to do, apart from turn the TV on at about 11am, after a 12 hour sleep, to watch re-run after re-run of Frasier, Everybody Loves Raymond, The King of Queens and Scrubs on Comedy Central. They were good days..... when a phone call from an Asian guy trying to sell me insurance was greeted with so much joy because I was becoming somewhat of a recluse. A withdrawn weirdo.

So after a two month break, in which time I have started a job answering phone calls from disgruntled internet customers who tend to call me a prick because their new jeans didn't fit, or cry down the line at me moaning that their Christmas was ruined because there was a rip in the pants they had bought for the uncle they hadn't spoken to all year, or threaten to commit suicide because their parcel turned up 15 mins later than expected, I am back on BlogSpot, filling you in on what I've been up to. And basically that is............... fuck all. So lets begin.

I can't remember when I did it but I decided to get a perm. So I drove down to Morrisons in my Nan's Ford Fiesta, bought a £5.49 kit and asked the Mrs to get working on it. It was delightful. Mates laughed at me in the pub, Old timers gave me strange looks down Leyton Orient and I even got called a cheap Justin Timberlake, or Bill from Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure, or Bogus Journey; whatever that film was called.

The Mrs even started comparing me to O'Brien, that bitch Maid from the 'Downton Abbey' series on ITV. Needless to say, it didn't last long.

I remember a couple of years ago, days used to consist of waking up in some random city on the other side of the world, packing up my rucksack, popping into some knock off Irish Pub in say, Ho Chi Minh City, visiting a few temples then jumping onto some rickety old bus to a small village just past the border in some exotic land. Now I spend my life putting wax on my finger and nose and burning it so that it looks as though I'm on fire...... or going to bed at 9pm cos I have to be up for work at 6am to listen to stupid people moan about stupid things.

At least Christmas was just around the corner! And what a lovely Christmas it was. Here, still with permed hair, I dressed up as some sort of tree and hobbled to Matt and Joey's festive party. With two beers in hand, and balls hanging from all orifices I proceeded to dance, (which didn't go down well with my fucked up leg) get most of my mates naked and generally make a messy pest of myself. A true stain on London.

I had some sort of moment as I was going for a piss one night, a moment of extreme darkness and self loathing. The hair had to go, I think the straw that broke the camel's back was Stevey Ward calling me Ray Parlour. It was about time I didn't look like that gyppo c**t. So I shaved it all off. Brutal. I hadn't had a shaved head since the Chavvy days of the late nineties/early naughties. When I bowled around Chingford in Evisu jeans and sparkly ear-rings. It was time to go back to my roots.

My head is a lot colder than it used to be. I have given myself a goal, a goal that I think I can achieve. I'm gonna grow my beard and keep my hair at a number 1. I want to look like one of those mugs who posts videos of themselves on YouTube telling other mugs to kill the infidels and kick off a Holy War. I might even start wearing a burkha to work.

New Year's Eve was somewhat of a love in down Bethnal Green Working Man's Club. We drank cherry Lambrini served by a fat tranny, listened to an 83 year old crooner belt out the Frank Sinatra hits and generally had sporadic threesomes. It was a great night, with great people.

Once again, against the will of my many doctors, I danced a little bit too much and felt the pain in the morning.... one day my leg will just snap off, but at least the ConDems might help me out with some benefits if I've only got one leg. Rant over......

It's been a whirlwind of a couple of months busy doing nothing. But I'm back and the StyleCouncil blog is back. So get your mother fucking reading glasses back on.
The tale of Billy Byron will also be back very soon, so stay on the edge of those seats.
Spare change guv'nor?