And another thing...

Where has David Stafford go to? He seems to have vanished.
I blame the cuts.

Let Me/Not for Me

In the Guardian at the weekend, a collection of poets' new work about ageing. For me one of the most entertaining was Roger McGough: Not for Me a Youngman's Death. It includes:

My nights are rarely unruly. My days
of allmight parties are over, well and truly.
No mistresses no red sports cars
no shady deals no gangland bars
no drugs no fags no rock'n'roll
Time alone has taken its toll.

Compare with:

When I'm 73
and in constant good tumour
may I be mown down at dawn
by a bright red sports car
on my way home
from an allnight party

(Let Me Die a Youngman's Death - from the obvious 1967 anthology).

Reading the two poems together, written 43 years apart, is fascinating. (and by my reckoning, McGough is now 73). They play very richly off each other, although perhaps unsurprisingly the later poem has the last word:

Not for me a youngman's death
Not a domestic brawl in the hall
knife in the chest, death.
Not a drunken binge, dirty syringe
"Waste of a life" death.

The greyness of the sky is streaked
Along its width with shades of red;
The pity of the world has leaked
But who are these whose hands have bled?

Poem of the Week

The Liberty of Norton Folgate
Madness (Graham Yates and Jonathan Young)

This is the story of the Liberty Of Norton Folgate

Old Jack Norris, the musical shrimp and the cadging ramble…..

A little bit of this, would you like a bit of that

But in weather like this, you should wear a coat, a nice warm hat
A needle and thread the hand stitches of time
Battling Levinsky versus Jackie Burk
Bobbing and weaving, an invisible line

So step for step and both light on our feet
We’ll travel many along dim silent street

Would you like a bit of this, or a little bit of that? (Misses)
A little bit of what you like does you no harm, you know that
The perpetual steady echo of the passing beat
A continual dark river of people
In it’s transience and in it’s permanence
But, when the streetlamp fills the gutter with gold
So many priceless items bought and sold

So step for step and both light on our feet
We’ll travel many along dim silent street (together)

Once round Arnold Circus, and up through Petticoat Lane
Past the well of shadows, and once back round again
Arm in arm, with an abstracted air
To where the people stare
Out of the upstairs windows
Because we are living like kings
And these days will last forever

Cos sailors from Africa, China and the archipelago of Malay
Jump ship ragged and penniless into Shadwells Tiger Bay
The Welsh and Irish wagtails, mothers of midnight
The music hall carousel enspilling out into Bow fire light
Sending half crazed shadows, giants dancing up the brick wall
Of Mr Trumans beer factory, waving, bottles ten feet tall

Whether one calls it Spitalfields, Whitechapel, Tower Hamlets
Or Banglatown. We’re all dancing in the moonlight, we’re all
On borrowed ground.

Oh, I’m just walking down to, I’m just floating down through
Won’t you come with me, to the Liberty of Norton Folgate
But wait!
What’s that?
Dan Leno
And the Limehouse golem

*Whistling duet*

Purposefully walking nowhere, oh I’m happy just floating about
(Have a banana)
On a Sunday afternoon, the stallholders all call and shout
To no-one in particular
Avoiding people you know, you’re just basking in you’re own company
The technicolour world’s going by, but you’re the lead in your own movie

Cos in the Liberty of Norton Folgate
Walking wild and free, in your second hand coat,
Happy just to float
In this little taste of liberty
A part of everything you see

They’re coming left and right
Trying to flog you stuff you don’t need or want
And a smiling chap takes your hand
And drags you in his
Uncles restaurant
(ee-yar, ee-yar, ee-yar)

There’s a Chinese man trying hard to flog you moody DVDs
You know? You’ve seen the film, it’s black and white, it’s got no sound
And a man’s head pops up and down
Right across your widescreen TV
(Only a fiver)
(’Ow much?)
(Alright, two for eight quid)
(Ee-yar, ee-yar, look, I’m givin’ it away)
(Givin’ it away!)

Cos in the Liberty of Norton Folgate
Walking wild and free, in your second hand coat,
Happy just to float
In this little piece of liberty
You’re a part of everything you see

There’s the sturdy old fellows, pickpockets, dandy’s, extortioners
And night wanderers, the feeble, the ghastly, upon whom death
Had placed a very sure hand,
Some in shreds and patches,
Reeling inarticulate full of noisy and inordinate vivacity
That jars discordantly upon the ear
And gives an aching sensation to both pair of eyeballs
(Noisy and inordinate vivacity)

Ohhhh ahhhhhh ahhhhh etc etc

In the beginning was a fear of the immigrant
In the beginning was a fear of the immigrant
He’s made his way down to the dark riverside

In the beginning was a fear of the immigrant
In the beginning was a fear of the immigrant
He’s made his home there down by the dark riverside

Ohhhh ahhhhhh ahhhhh etc etc

He made his home there down by the riverside
They made their homes there down by the riverside
The city sprang up from the dark river Thames

They made their home there down by the riverside
They made their homes there down by the riverside
The city sprang up from the dark mud of the Thames
I’ll say it again

(Ha ha ha, that’s right)

‘Cos in the Liberty of Norton Folgate
Walking wild and free
And in your second hand coat
Happy just to float
In this little taste of liberty
Cos you’re a part of everything you see
Yes, you’re a part of everything you see

With a little bit of this
And a little bit of that
A little bit of what you like does you no harm
And you know that

Ohhhh ahhhhhh ahhhhh etc etc (repeat to end)

Pollarding

Rampant pollarding has been taking place on a number of Nunhead streets. Here is what Kimberley Avenue now looks like: The pollarded trees look quite alien to me. Great vast dark tentacles frozen in the act of reaching for the sky...
In the grey half light we had this afternoon, the menace felt if anything somewhat worse - although there is a humorous element to them also.

I know the tree-herders feel they have to do this, but the effect is surreal.

The Pubs Around Nunhead: 3

This used to be The Railway, on the corner of Gibbon Road and Kimberley Avenue. One of those Nunhead pubs best described as 'scuzzy' for much of its life, I think. Towards the end it was taken over by the local gay mafia and became briefly wonderful. The conversation and decor improved enormously (although it was still just as sticky) - and it was a place to go to be briefly entertained.

And then it shut. The flats built on the site retain nothing of the old building, although the unattractive pub sign remains, as you can see.
This gives a better sense of how it relates to the station and the local street architecture:

The Then Show

Nice.
The BBC has just broadcast last week's edition of The Now Show.
I blame the cuts.

Another Poem this Week

Gust Becos I Cud Not Spel
Brian Patten

Gust becos I cud not spel
It did not mean I was daft
When the boys in school red my riting
Some of them laffed

But now I am the dictater
They have to rite like me
Utherwise they cannot pas
Ther GCSE

Some of the girls were ok
But those who laffed a lot
Have al bean rownded up
And hav recintly bean shot

The teecher who corrected my speling
As not been shot at al
But four the last fifteen howers
As bean standing up against a wal

He has to stand ther until he can spel
Figgymisgrugifooniyn the rite way
I think he will stand ther for ever
I just inventid it today