Festival Poem

All the World's a Stage,

Except for the Poetry Stage;

That's a Tent.

Speakers

Just to clear this up.

I've not been elected as new Speaker in the house of commons.

It's a different guy.

Bercow

Berko

I'm more of a Talker than a Speaker.

Also in the theme of Private Eye here's a little lookalike.

Dear Sir,

is it possible that John Berkavitch is in fact related to the Samead from the children's television program Five Children and It?

Grace Fucking Jones.

I’m looking forward to seeing Grace Jones again at the festivals this year.

If you’ve never seen her stage show you really need to check it out.

The first time I saw Grace Jones was last year.
It was at my messiest festival and I’d spent the previous 2 days repainting the inside of my mind in a vague attempt to make it look like and 80’s arcade game having sex with a melancholic circus. Imagine all the ghosts from Packman ejaculating multicoloured pixels of glittering semen into the face of a crying clown and you’re starting to get a picture of what was going on in my head.

Anyway, Grace fucking Jones.

So there I am stood with a few friends/comrades at the brow of a hill bent double and writhing like lubricated dinosaurs, staring across what seemed like an inconceivable amount of heads who were also gawking at the same distant stage that any minute now would have Grace Jones on it.

The anticipation was immense, powerful and overbearing.

And as the lights eventually began to fade and the enormous monitors at the sides and back of the stage began to hum into life, the wave of excitement rose like a dry heat and we prepared to explode. Come on Grace where the fuck are you?

Images appeared on the massive monitors and atmospheric intro music began to stand our smallest hairs on end, more and more, ready to explode.

As any man’ll tell you holding back an explosion can lead to some serious internal reflection, and my mind started to manifest each sound or tone into physical forms and they painted the sky with propaganda. Come on Gracious Grace, Grace us with your Graciousness. This was around the time I faded out.

When I re-entered the realm of men Grace was indeed gracing us; with her stage show.

As far as I can remember this included her tap-dancing to Shirley Basset Bond-Themes and smoking a pipe.

At one point in the show she actually gorilla-pressed a man above her head before throwing him deep into the crowd. After this she made the entire front row systematically feel her bicep and punch her in the stomach.

The penultimate moments of the show started when Grace pulled a hessian sack from beneath the stage whilst loudly exclaiming, “I’ve got 6 in ‘ere, ‘alf a dozen of ‘em.”

She then opened the bag and pulled out a large, live tortoise-shell cat.

She paraded the animal across the front of the stage then lifted it into the air, threw her head back in laughter dislocated her jaw and swallowed the poor thing whole.

No joke of a lie, even from where I was stood at the near back you heard her jaw clunk as in relocated itself.

She repeated this four more times, each time parading the cat across stage before hoisting it into her throat to the delighted cheers of her jeering audience.

The 6th Cat she let go free, explaining her actions with the simple statement,

“one must live so others will know what happened, they must know my name, Grace Fucking Jones.”

I saw Grace Jones once more that summer, at a festival in Ireland during a George Clinton show.

Grace materialised midway through an extended version of “Bag-Wine, do what you wanna do!”

She rose through a trapdoor in the centre of the stage frozen within a block of ice and dressed in what looked like a modified abseiling harness and night vision goggles.

After shattering her subzero pseudo-prison she placed her palms on the floor and pushed her hind quarters into the air.

Powerfully arching her body into the yoga stance I know as downwards facing dog. She beckoned Clinton closer.

Once a slightly confused Granddaddy of funk had wandered into range she shackled him at her rear and began forcing him to sodomize her.

George did so under ever decreasing duress.

To be honest he started out quite nervously, very precise, cautious strokes, gently thrusting, his hands lightly gripping her hips.

But by the final bridge of the song he was going at it like a hyper active child trying to leapfrog a greasy pony.
Grace seemed pretty non-plused by the whole thing.

Eventually Clinton Climaxed mid crescendo in the 16th chorus.

As he did Jones once again lifted onto her back two legs, spread her vascular wings to there full 8 meter span and let out a multi-tonal screech that momentarily turned the sky purple.

And as we the crowd struggled to cover our bleeding ears from that horrible, horrible sound, she launched into the air above our heads, beat her wings and flew back to her home world.

So naturally I’m quite excited to see how her show’s developed since last year.

School boy error.

Now normally on a Thursday I'd have a workshop starting at 9 in the am and finishing about 2ish. Today was a little different as we were taking the workshop group on a little field trip to Curve so as they could see "An Inspector Calls" (Brilliant by the way, go see it you cultureless idiots).

Anyway, when I woke up this morning I had a few things to do but I knew I had a bit of spare time before I had to get to the theatre for the 1 o'clock arrival time we'd agreed with the young people.

Hungry to feel the benifit of this newly found leisure moments and what with last weekend being the official start to my summer I decided to sit about in the garden in just my shorts.

To be fair I really got into it.

so much so that I didn't even check the time until just after half twelve. Just enough time for me to grab my things throw on a T-shirt and a trainers and jump in't' van and get t'Curve on time.

As I stepped out of the van at the other end I realised the severity of my error.

Still got shorts on, not only that but my shortest shorts, good few inch above the knee short.

In my haist I hadn't even considered it a problem but now as I was about to walk into a theatre full of Matanea goers to "be responsible" for a group of 15/16 year olds.

Yeah not really very appropriate.

My group took great delight in pointing this out on several occasions.

Once I'd sat in my seat it was less obvious and my legs were only really visable to the people on my row.

The other funny thing I notice about Curve today was the strange lonely seat at the front of the audience (stage right).

Check it.
I think next time I go Curve I'm gunna try and book it as my seat, it looks like there's plenty of leg room.

Naked Bike Ride.

Brighton 14th June 2009

Yu get the jist

thanks to Cat for the photos.

Bright on.

Been in Brighton on the weekend just gone.

Had a gig with OneTaste.

my Friend came with me

Gig was good the Woon and Fiona Bevan were also on the bill.

Spent the next day on the beach.

Biting my style.

Yu know if yu from Leggy then you probably know Kasabian on some kind of personal level.

I'd be surprised if you didn't.

Well I was at school with Tom, Surge, and Chris Pratt (he left after the first album and apparently married some girl who was in Clarissa explains it all; not the main girl Sebrina the Teenage witch but some other girl.)

Anyway, when we were like 14-17 Tom hung around in the same crew as me and we'd spend our free evenings on the various suburban street corners of Blaby and Whetstone. Now I'm saying this not for recognition but because he's recently done something that's fucked me up.

Check it

I got my self a new jacket that I was planning to where on stage with Pillers for gigs.

Here's a picture from

03/05/09

Yeah probably 50 people saw me take to the stage in that jacket that night.

Few weeks later.

29/05/2009

Look at our Tom out there for the whole fucking world to see.

Now I'm looking at a whole load of,

"Oh that's just like Tom from Kasabian's Jacket"

whenever I wear mine again.

But so as you lot know.

He copied Me.

Dead things.

1st one was in a school. I had a good time there.

2nd one was outside of another institution. Had a bad time there.

Turns out Good/Bad times are relative to the quality of near by dead rodents.

POEM

The Poet sits at a table,

Scratching his head with a pencil,

Trying to figure out ways of stating the obvious,

whilst making himself seem deep.

live on air

Yeah Pillers went on't' radio the other week yu know.

Deamon FM 107.5 on yu fm dial, (provided you live within a reasonable proximity to Demontfort Uni). It's them who run it yu see. it's a student/community thing.

s'posed to perform live but as we arrived they'd had word from someone upstairs saying no way that was gunna happen, too many fucking bad words. 

Instead of us performing live on air, they recorded us playing and "filed it for later use" then they interviewed us......
.....really really awkwardly.

and we played some tracks we'd jacked off my space. 

(If you're a Noob like my mate Josh and don't know how to jack off myspace then message me and I'll explain it to yu. Noob).  

Oh and Dan said SHIT, live on air. well more like SSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITTTttt-t. He really could have turned it around at any point up until the 3rd T, but instead he just did a real week Clay Davis (from The Wire) impression.

3xFree

Breakfast.

Brunch.

Lunch.

That's a lot of Gratis pastry for one day.

Incidentally during the course of me trying to work out how to spell pastry I stumbled across a pasty called a beggar's purse.  I thought it sounded like an innuendo, (In your end-o).

Crazy what yu accidentally learn by being dyslexic.

Said Purse itself looks like this.

I'd of called 'um exquisite Vaginas.

Voting

Now I don't know if yu do/I don't know if yu don't, but I did.

Not telling yu who for but yu know who it wern't for. and thats whats portant eh.

See thing is that most folks I know don't vote.

No one can really be bothered.

They genuinly don't seem to think it makes a difference.

Tell yu what.

It fucking does.

cos all it needs is the right amount of wrong people to vote, (and they fucking will, ain't nothing more determined than a moron who thinks he might win,)

and then we're all fucked.

Yeah yeah I'm stating the obvious but if it's that fucking obvious why am I saying it. 

footnote: I've not typed the names of the "wrong people to vote for" because I don't want my blog to appear in their google searches.