365 Ways With Words

Back to School

"£5"

"Five quid?"

"Yes."

For a bottle of bloody beer!

On the rooftop bar of Selfridges, I sit and read Bukowski's poetry from the 1940s, awaiting the arrival of someone who will not turn up. The clientele are all posers: nails and slit backs, three-days' growth and last-minute emails – false dilittantes of cuisine and cup who rely more on the respect of a skinny waiter than the touch of a hand.

The security is overwhelming – black-suited and badged, they brook no softness, aspiring to remove the unclean, the unwanted, the infuriating that get under the skin of the average Audemars Piguet purchaser.

So I leave, happily. to cross Oxford Street and find the door of the place where I lived – I and my late mother and late sister. It is  smaller; less imposing. Like everything else in this town, except for the wallets. I didn't bring my bike in through this door and down the stairs to the basement. I didn't play tennis with the wall. I didn't try to beat the lift to the top floor, spit from the balcony, watch too much TV than was good for me, or play guess the song with my sister from the number of knocks on the wall that divided us. That was someone else. It had to be.

Back past Marks and Spensers, where mum sometimes worked, opposite Selfridges Food Hall, where she bought chicken hearts for Jenny dog, there is the stretch of Baker Street – the beginning of the route to school. I met Kate Bush outside EMI (she's a shortie, but lovely), like it was destiny, and I wanted to tell her how much I loved her, but I was shy – way too shy. Up further, past the Everyman Cinema, where I saw the great Papillon, it was a street full of travel agencies and swanky carpet salesrooms. Now it ends, without fuss or great notice, on the busy Marylebone Road. Across is Baker Street tube, beside the Planetarium (where my sister worked – she would pass me Mars bars if no one was looking) and the boring Madame Tussauds. Further still is the Royal Academy of Music, the institution that appeared beyond my ken, in terms of skill and attitude.

Upon the Uxbridge-bound Metropolitan up to Harrow, to the great art deco station that functioned as departure point for the beaten-up, seatbelt-free school bus driven by Ted, as kiss central for me and Claudia, meeting point for me and Funmilayo. Then up the hill, that green open space, past the place where I was shot at, one summer night: they were only kids, from the famous school – I heard the airgun pellets whistle past my ears, turned and the cowards fled! Past the point where on a freezing night I held Anne-Marie (and more). Past the romantic graveyard with enormous yew trees. Until at the top there opened up the view across the many-tree'd urban landscape, the one beloved of Byron. His infant daughter is buried somewhere beneath the heavy trees and tendril ivy of St Mary's.

The church was always shut – prone to the vandal's care. Now, it becomes a village much removed from red buses, traffic slowing and urban planning. The School was always pompous, and has lost none of its unabashed cash-caché. It will be there in a thousand years' time. The Purcell School, however, upped and left in the last millenia, for a new site in Bushey, and with it went my connections with this corner of London.

Along the High Street I deviate, and stop at West Street, the home of Dan and Suzannah and John and Miriam, their mum and dad. I lived here. I lived with Dan, my eternal friend. We would go out on Sunday mornings to take photos of the graves in St Mary's, be inspired by old abandoned squash courts in the school, play two-man cricket on the field at the bottom, talk about love and lyrics, talk into the night about all the girls and what it might be like to touch them, climb on walls and scale brickwork, and be alive and glad of it. And I remember the party we had, when parents were gone, and I fell down the stairs, and Gary and I proudly bought a barrel of beer from Fullers, and we ferried it back in the Anglia, and the tortoise in the garden that slowly munched, and the steps where I sat and snogged a drunken Catherine after she'd been sick, and the enjoyment of endless warm summer nights without beer or fags, and of pressing wet newspapers for winter fuel, and sitting around the kitchen table drinking frozen orange juice and being a fully-paid up idiot full of bullshit (but it didn't matter), and painting myself purple, and falling into someone's house because Sam and I were pissed and leaning against their front door, and meeting Dan's magnificent grandfather, and of feeling part of a family of love. For all that, I have nothing but a heart full-to-bursting. And I give it back. Without reservation.

And tonight in The Castle I will meet others from that time. I will not survive. I will die. 30 years is too long – far too long.

Life moves on. We only live in the present. But the trip back to school, a school that is no longer there, gives form to ghosts, a sparkle to eyes and a fullness to the heart. I'll always want to go back to school.

Proof That Satire, Sarcasm and Innuendo Do Not Pay (Much)

I once produced a newspaper (of sorts), called The Northwegian. There were only two editions, Autumn-ish '96 and Spring-ish '97, much prized by collectors now. The newspaper was intended to be satirical, a humorous look at life in the small town of Northwich, Cheshire, where I lived at the time. It was a unmitigated failure, but, of course, not because of the content...

This glorious entry into the realms of news and print came about having obtained copies of the Stroud Defector, a similar rag produced in the Gloucestershire town of the same name. Each edition, purchased from one coffee shop that at one time existed on Nelson Street, was read and re-read with great relish, partly because of the hilarious political nuances, the local references, the ironic jokes, and the grandiose perspectives of mini-publishing (where every bloomin' word is chewed over), and partly because I was bursting to do the same 126 miles to the north. The number of Stroud Defectors sold can only be guessed at, but perhaps it can be safely assumed that each print/photocopy run extended to no more than tens, possibly to one hundred or so. The aim, therefore, was not to outsell the Nationals, nor bring the established political status quo to its knees, but merely to have a bit of a say, and to enjoy it.

Printing words for the benefit of others is a long-held dream of many. But apart from any pecuniary rewards, the motivation is nearly always conceit. Writers believe they are good, even when the squirming discomfort of others should clearly tell them otherwise; having people cough up good money to read your thoughts, even out of sympathy, only puffs up the deluded vanity of the pompous literary egoist. For the 'uninitiated' in the arts of print, however, there is an equally-deluded belief that somehow, somewhere, someone will 'notice' the hidden genius within a scribbly, frustrated writer and will beat a path to the door with chequebook in hand. And then there's the truth – writing may not be its own reward, but it sure beats a 9-5!

With the lofty ideal of making people laugh, I set about constructing an 8-page rag that would extend a few extended jabs at the local establishment (read local council) and a knee in the groin of the very parochial and self-righteous local opinion that holds sway on many popular matters. To do so, and put a smile on the face of the reader, required a small modicum of wit and the odd subtle political swipe, understatement, and a wealth of innuendo, ready references to bottomy parts, bizarre contradictions and complete fabrication of the truth (just like the national press!). When a magnifying glass is put on such minutiae as reported in the minutes of the Women's Institute, in worrying police reports of ladder theft, of new Charity Shop press releases and the 'serious' revelations of the political shenanigans within the chambers of the borough council, each would quickly take on a farcical quality.

This is not restricted to political institutions, or specifically to the UK, for the same thing was found in Hong Kong where the glossy English-language Spike magazine was sold at outlets across the city. Spike sold because of the Private Eye-type front cover that usually showed a press picture of an cheerful Hong Kong politician or business magnate, embarrassing political or other situation that was in the public eye at the time. The content within was of a good quality, but despite running for several years eventually folded. It seems that whilst people love humour, they don't love it enough to keep it afloat indefinitely. I enjoyed them, and have kept the ones bought.

Such was the case with The Northwegian. In good faith, and having worked night and day to get a format that could be re-used for each edition, I ran off my first print run of 200 and approached the busiest newsagents to leave suitable piles of my baby for public consumption, stating that I would return within one week to deposit more (in the likely event of a sell-out). The Northwich Guardian, the local Newspaper, called for an interview and wrote a nice little piece about it all – the future looked promising. I made a point of not handing out free editions – I mean, 50p is 50p, right? In the end, the newspaper probably sold no more than about one third of the run.

Undaunted, I set-to with the next edition, and used the same approach. By this time, novelty, if it ever applied to this project, was on the wane. Despite great reviews from friends and blokes down the pub, I simply couldn't shift enough copies. Without the float of advertising revenue, it was a dead-in-the-water looser and, because another one was going to further drain the meagre resources at my disposal, a third edition was ditched.

With it went any aspirations for writing for years. Who needed accolades when there were other, but much more boring, ways to make money.

Jezi Brewer and the Death of Gods – part three

Mrs Ede, the immediate neighbour, hadn’t noticed anything unusual, hadn’t complained about the smell because she thought it was the drains, and was very sorry for not being very observant. She was an elderly 83-year old, barely able to make tea in the kitchen on account of not being able to get about the house much without relying on her frame. Suffering from a slight stoop, she sat in her upright chair, her eyes a little distant on account of the myopia.

“I only met the black gentleman once, about one month ago, when he was hanging out his washing and she happened to be sitting in the sun.”

“Did you get on well?” asked Detective Vince Rite, dunking a custard cream.

“I was surprised to have a new neighbour!” she responded. “I didn’t know who he was at first. It was his accent, you see, it was so very strong I couldn’t understood a word of it. But then I thought, he must be living there – why else would he be hanging out his smalls on the line. He smiled at me, but I noticed that he seemed quite preoccupied, like his mind was elsewhere.”

“You said, ‘new neighbour’ – quite how long ago was it when he moved in?”

“Well, that’s just it, you see. After Mrs Selman died, the place was empty for a year. And then he just turns up.”

“When was that?”

“Oh, I can’t really remember. A few weeks ago: maybe a month, maybe more.”

Her little grey head appeared to be the only animate part of her; her arthritic hands lay still in her lap. Detective Rite continued with his gentle questioning.

“Hmmm… And what about his friends? What sort of company did he keep?”

“I didn’t really see much of his comings and goings. No one came to the door as far as I’m concerned. But then I don’t really notice a lot now, on account of me not getting about. The meals on wheels lady comes to check up on me every day, and I mentioned it to her, but she didn’t know anything. She even went around to check the other day, you know – to say hello and ask him to look out for me, but there was nothing – not even an answer at the door. Poor man.”

“Was he a noisy neighbour?”

She shook her head. Detective Stiss sat staring at his tea. He knew this was now a waste of time.

“And you didn’t notice that anything had happened? That he’d died.”

“Oh no, the poor man, God rest his soul. I’d just thought he’d simply... gone away.”

And that was about it; they made their excuses, politely thanked her for the tea and biscuits and left her in peace.

They had little more success with the other neighbours, most of whom were unaware of his existence. Of those that had seen him, none had noticed him coming or going, or that anyone had come to the door, or leave. The neighbour opposite, a Mrs Furter, had seen lights on upstairs from time to time a few weeks back, but had assumed it was the daughter back from the Caribbean or some such where she lived. When the lights no longer came back on, she forgot all about it.

That immediately caught the interest of Vince. He put in a request to find out about the passport movements of the strange dead Haitian. In his mind he'd assumed the man had somehow come from Haiti, still suffering from the enormous earthquake of January 12^th, but perhaps he’d come from elsewhere, perhaps indirectly.

“What about that TV? Don’t you think it’s a bit odd?" said Jim. "Brand new flatscreen, and yet nothing else new: not the fridge or the washing machine or anything? And no phone! If he was squatting, then how could he get cable connection. And how did he pay for electricity and gas? What about food?”

The questions had no answers, but they had to start somewhere. Vince went back into the house, turned the TV on its front and copied down the serial number on the back.

Song of the Night

Can you hear it? Across the towns, over the fields – beyond the confines of your ears, past the strictures of your very senses. There is a profound deafness, but without any of the benefits.

Beginning with the heart, that most fickly-wickly of your organs, pumping all that garbage about the body; you are what you eat. Feeding the brains, keeping you upright in a state of readiness for tigers and things that live under the bed, the blood keeps pumping it all up and down until you are saturated – even to the extremities. Yes, those extremities...

From this state you imagine all sorts of things, none of them true. You have given these fears words, screaming tantrum words, that fill your emptiness, give you a meaning, inflate a power, give lifeless ideas meagre succour. But to what end?

Perhaps you have not thought about where it all take us. Destruction is the hallmark of pre-childhood, for to build better in cooperation would be your undoing. Negativity may move the holder onwards – but only into the night. The vision is occluded, petulent, angry. As long as you have your toys, and your arrowslits, you will continue unaware of what you do and of what is coming. This is a shameless pride, a hubris without an eye on history.

Unity appears to be a dirty word, because it is bred from consensus. Much better, then, to swagger and swear, to drink pints of a rejection projection, even if none of it has any substance. Much better to appeal to those fears, to prop the lies and stoke miscontent. Much better to blame: blame is a bitter blast, easily soundbitten, fed with self-righteous indignation, sated by never letting go.

So, can you hear it – the condemnation of the future? No, you cannot. For you have stuck your fingers in your ears. You cannot hear it, because you will not – not ever.

What about UKIp and Europe?

So, the European elections are upon us. Except, of course, no one really cares, do they? After all, no one really knows what it’s all about. We, the apathetic Jo Public Europeans, are not really that bothered about what goes on in Brussels, are we? They can elect whomever they like…

Well, as a political opinions go, that's really, really STUPID!! But I suppose the European Union has a bit of an identity problem. Why should anyone be bothered about it?

This is a little difficult to answer, at least simply. Perhaps it is better to understand what the EU is. Under the pretext of removing trade and creating closer political union, the first six countries that formed the EU set about removing the blockages that caused friction (and wars) in the European continent. They simply pooled their steel and coal resources. By trade these historical adversaries were linked with a customs union. Over time such laudable aims as 'free trade' were freely adopted by neighbouring states that quite rightly recognised the thick soupy whistle of an approaching gravy train.

Just like any large institution, this union has required governance in order that its membership (last count over 500 million) is truly represented at leadership, intergovernmental, supranational and the on-the-ground pragmatic levels. Over the years these instruments have served it well just as it has served others ill – for example, the dreaded and notorious Common Agricultural Policy. For many, however, these necessary layers of governance have appeared opaque at best, at worst underhanded. Isolationist tendencies within each country have seen in ‘Europe’ an insidious coiled dragon with busybody talons digging ever-deeper into every aspect of their cherished lives, whether that be through ensuring the straightness of bananas, or the forbidding of lollipop ladies’ lollipops with Stop Children written on them, or the banning of church bells or the outlawing of mushy peas (each of which, it turns out, are complete lies made up by the British press). Such isolationists are typified by the likes of Britain’s UKIp party that states, on its website, that 75% of all laws are now made in Brussels.

That such rubbish is readily swallowed by some EU citizens says more about the wish fulfilment of Little Englanders, or their national equivalent elsewhere: they want to believe the devil is hiding under the bed and will use any evidence, even the made up storybook tabloid kind, to affirm a bunch of prejudicial beliefs. So, many in the UK will vote UKIp in the upcoming elections, childishly choosing to believe that everything about Europe is bad, bad, bad. The irony of an anti-EU vote in a free EU vote will, no doubt, elude them, just as conversely the irony in Russian voters in Ukraine eastern cities choosing to join with mother Russia where they will no longer have the opportunity to freely vote may also elude them. For it seems UKIp’s sole appeal appears to be in popular discontentment, and is therefore a negative message. One need only examine any of the 'philosophy' beneath surface level to come to that easy realisation.

But the EU unquestionably does have an image problem for some. It is a complex organisation because it represents a lot of things. Take the accession of countries as one example. The EU expanded from the six founding and independent nations (Netherlands, Belgium, Luxembourg, Italy, Germany and France) to 28 member states, including 8 former Soviet-bloc and former-communist countries in 1994 (Czech Republic, Latvia, Lithuania, Estonia, Hungary, Poland, Slovakia and Slovenia), Bulgaria and Romania in 2007, and the newest member, Croatia, in 2013. It therefore has to represent all of those countries, including their relationships with other countries in and out of Europe. It doesn’t take a genius to see that for simplicity's sake the unification of Europe is one of its unstated aims. But there’s a long way to go from idea to fulfilment, particularly when one considers its history of power.

Over the years the European Union has been a hapless beast. It frothed and floundered when in the 90s the ex-Yugoslavian states flared into bloody internecine feuding, promptly calling on its ‘elder brother’ the United States and its henchman NATO to crush the far-right nationalist ambitions of the Serbian leadership. In 2011, and under the auspices of UN Security Council Resolution 1973, a coalition of EU national forces and NATO flew sorties against targets in Gaddafi's Libya. That was considered a success, but it is a long way from the idea of planes with EU flags on them controlling the skies in the name of all things Brussels. Maybe those days are coming, but for now the primary work of the EU is in ensuring that everything economic, political and cultural is hunky-dory. It has had mixed success. Whilst the first is in trouble, the second has fared better and third thrives. The blue flag with yellow stars that flies from the Reichstag in Berlin, the Berlaymont in Brussels and the UNESCO building in Paris all the way to the distant four corners of this new empire reminds onlookers of an idealised beast. It is a strange chimerical creature, full of strange political concepts and strange forms of government: and we are not very clear about what it all means. Perhaps the following test will highlight our rueful knowledge of this new empire of which we are a part. So, in ten words or less, describe what is meant by the:

• European Parliament                    ________________________________________________
• European Council                         ________________________________________________
• Council of the European Union      ________________________________________________
• European Commission                  ________________________________________________

And I was being kind: the list above does not include bodies such as the European Central Bank, the Courts of Justice of the European Union, the Court of Auditors, UNESCO, and more than 40 other agencies. Clearly there is still a little work to be done if we are to become more familiar with the orchestrations of European governance. It appears so labyrinthine, and its processes so complex, that few understands it, fewer still feel proximity, and who knows how many have a sense of ownership.

As with any centralised power, we must, of course, remain watchful. Citizens of empires should always exercise caution, even when they give power to central authorities through the ballot box. The European Union, like the United States, China, and the proposed ex-Soviet Eurasia, is a collection of small states that together have made up a bigger economic and political union. It is in the nature of united powerful bodies to seek two things: to maintain their power, and to gain even more power. Thus, all of the political unions previously mentioned have impacted on their surrounding regions of the world with their turbulent power.

The long reach of American power has long been felt in Central and Southern American revolts, assassinations and wars, the end result of which has been the present day unchallengeable imperial America that dominates the Western hemisphere. It now seeks political hegemony beyond.

Post-Mao Chinese power took longer to consolidate, where it chose to focus on seeking political affiliations on a wider field (Africa, Latin America and the Caribbean, South-East Asia) in order that any up-coming moves to unify Taiwan would be legitimized and supported. Theirs is a slightly longer agenda that also involves being ‘elder brother’. China has sought to implement the old imperial dominance model by which it brings into line all of the ‘little brother’ regional states bordering the mother country under the banner of harmony.

Since the collapse of the Soviet Union, Russian power has yet to be properly realised. To beat up the Georgians in 2008 is one thing, but beyond the scope of turning off the European's gas tap their power has yet to be properly tested. One wonders if the present situation in Ukraine is something Putin is doing, or is having done to him.

By comparison, the EU is an unknown force. It is good at pouring money into arts and entertainment, and bailing out its members when they can't pay their bills, but will the instruments of politics and organisation ever become the sharpened point of projected power in the same way the other powers mentioned have seen fit? Will columns of tanks roll under a European flag? Or will Europeans forever spend their way out of trouble?

With all of this in mind, and with regard to the elections, perhaps Europeans should elect whomever they like, yet with a caution. Europe has always needed direction, but only of the kind given by its citizenry through the ballot box. Therefore, the real thing to do, on 22nd May 2014, the European Parliamentary Election Day, is to get out there and vote. And here are two good points in favour: firstly, that all Europeans are properly able to freely vote (even against themselves), and secondly, that democracy in the European superstate is still alive and well. The accuracy of both of those statements could, of course, be challenged, but it would be stretching credulity to breaking point to believe political freedoms are absent from the EU. You, Mr & Mrs European, can elect representatives whose job it is to make better laws for everyone. Could someone please tell that to Nigel Farage...

I am an unabashed Europhile. I believe that more involvement, not less, is the way ahead. That Europe is now a place of tolerance, of freedom, of choice and the rule of law is the realisation of beautiful ideas voted into reality: that these ideas still need a little more fine-tuning is another reason to vote. So, instead of tu-tutting behind a piece of sensational anti-European hack journalism that seeks attention like a hyperactive child, we should calmly exercise a right to put people in power that can make a difference to us all and improve our lot in Europe. You can't do that by sitting at home, or by shouting from the outside. Vote for your future!

Forbidden Fruit

With a sweet caress her hair brushed against his unshaven face. The skin of her arms and her eager fingers had a porcelain quality, like milk, ivory and snow...

Rain swept in and battered the double-glazing hidden behind the curtains. It was time to get up. Habitually, and regardless of the weather, he slipped on slippers and dressing gown. Before opening the drapes, he peeked out into the dreariness of a late October garden at dawn. It felt as if the whole world was going to suck the life and colour from him, if not today, then one day soon – a day just like this one.

Kisses done, his breakfast of toast and marmalade sat solidly in his stomach, but the two cups of tea sloshed rhythmically with his gait as he marched to the station, on time as usual. Tardiness appalled him, his own especially. Turning the corner on Station Approach he saw the familiar yellow streak of the train’s roof paint – for some reason the 7:34 was early, either that or his watch was slow, and that just could not be. The guard, seeing his extra spurt through the car park –his umbrella waving with a clown’s comedic bounce– held the electronic door for much longer than was expected, and received a smile-less nod for his pains. His hefty sprint caught him out of breath.

Bad form, really bad form, he repeated to himself in dizzy recovery, panting beside the locked toilet door. At one point he wiped his forehead with his hand and, steadying himself on a bend, left a streaming sweated residue on an advertisement for Eurorail. Little drips cascaded down the model’s fixed smile, a taste of summer freedom, the deal now expired.

Under canvass she removed her top to reveal the soft skin of a twenty-something, enthusiastic without being childish. She set-to unbuttoning his shirt thirsty for his manliness: how long had he waited, had they both waited? At last, the occasion they had prepared themselves for what was now upon them. She slid her delicate fingers beneath the waistband of his suit trousers to encompass his enormous member, wet with dripping anticipation…

The catch on the toilet snapped back from red to green and the door swept back.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” he said, reversing without looking.

She broke the briefest of smiles.

That was the trigger. Here she was; the one – she it was, with her lightness of touch, the playfulness of her hair and joyful laugh, who would bring happiness at last. How is it that the universe kept doing this?

Effervescent water was still pouring from the toilet tap and splashing the floor. In a hurry, she brushed past him, her breasts unavoidably rubbing against his jacket lapels. He was instantly and irrevocably aroused, taken, smitten. “Here, let me get that,” he gallantly offered, and stepped into the toilet, briefcase in hand and umbrella under the arm. By this time the water had stopped, the spring mechanism cutting off the water with a thud. He turned around, but her face had gone.

Peering through the sliding door glass down the central aisle, he watched as she breezed back to her seat, her hair bobbing slightly with each step.

Without stopping, her delicious mouth kissed all the way from his chin to his cock, rising as a leviathan to her willing oral administrations. But she was not done: her body turned, manoeuvring herself to receive his pleasures as she also gave – of the sort only he was capable. For now he was master of her body. The smooth sides of her torso fell within his grasp, and with them her bobbling breasts…

The train pulled into a busy Paddington three minutes over time. He wondered whether he had anything to do with it. Rain also continued in London, giving the glass roof of the station an even harder battering. He knew there would be no taxi. Would there be time to catch the bus? It would be full, and the roads would be gorged with the slippery-wheeled drivers, mums on school runs, the hoi palloi.

And as he stared across Praed Street, waiting to cross with brolly hoisted, he caught sight of her again. She was just on the other side, presumably waiting to come back over. She saw him, a mere glimpse with the eyes, though enough to determine a brief recognition, just before a bike courier, taking advantage of a bus pulling over at a stop before the lights, hit full acceleration, rewarding the inattentive commuter with a forceful side-swipe that brought him down with a crack, his temple receiving the full blow from the kerb.

She finished him magnificently, the coup de grace of full and lasting satisfaction, draining his sperm, his very life essence away, yes – fully sucking his life…

Twenty-Five Years-On

 

The beat was in. At least, that's how it felt for many. The new dance music craze that made such an impact in the UK charts reflected a wider dance scene emanating from the clubs. And, in many cases, that impact was greater than was understood at the time.

 

Freddy Mercury remarked that Queen's songs were as mere disposable tissues, to be heard once and thrown away. This gross underestimation of the lasting significance of Queen can also be applied to those early pioneers of the electronic dance scene. I'm sure they didn't realise that their tunes would alter popular music for a generation. For them it was all about the now.

 

People may always have had something to dance to, but the scene of the late 80s and early 90s was different in that the overall dance vibe was incredibly positive – higher and higher, good life, back to life. This positivity, reflected in many of the lyrics and in the atmosphere the clubs tried to generate, must be seen in contrast to the ultra-dramatic death-and-gore focuses of Heavy Metal of the 70s and 80s and in the earlier anti-social outcast rants of Punk. Dance music was much pilloried as being industrially manufactured fantasy, but that didn't really seem to matter. Indeed, if many of the tunes sounded similar then it made the DJs job easier, a crucial matter when he/she drove the club's sound into the night and could literally play on until the sun rose.

 

The proof of the pudding, it must be supposed, was in the dancing, and that's just what 'de kids' did. Going to the club became an almost-religious activity. In addition, club life spilled into mainstream culture as the tunes were integrated into TV programmes, films and radio ads. It affected the growth in holiday dance destinations like Ibiza and the Full Moon Party in Koh Pha Ngan, a global trend that shows no sign of slowing down.

 

By the mid-80s 120 bpm Disco had largely drifted out of favour, but by the end of the decade jerky electronic beat-driven tunes were in the ascendancy. It became a focus on the eternal energy beat of 130+ bpm. All-night raves sprang up wherever people could arrange electricity (abandoned factories, empty fields) and this freedom to party frightened the authorities who pounced on such organisers wherever and whenever they could. Drugs were very much part of the scene, but whereas auto-destructive heroin would have been Punk's métier, and mind-numbing alcohol kept the heads banging for Metalists, MDMA made its emotional impact and LSD expanded the consciousness of those all-night happy ravers.

 

Dance music is still in, although in retrospect the early pioneers of the genre look like a bunch of quaint and innocent youths. Now a sophisticated, money-making industry, it continues to attract those with novel ideas and new takes on what is probably one of the oldest activities of mankind – shaking one's booty! The sophistication has expanded the 'scene' beyond the positive uplifting vibe and has divided into ever-more refined areas – industrial, house, hardcore, gabba, techno, leftfield, etc. The net effect has been an exciting cross-over of youthful enthusiasm into mainstream culture in terms of art, multi-media events and popular entertainment.

 

This short review merely skims the surface of the outpouring of early 90s music culture, but that some are still talking about it shows its lasting importance: that some still play it shows its endurance. It will be interesting to see quite where this genre takes us.

Chocolate + Slogans = Conditioning

They say nostalgia's not what it used to be – a  bit like your teeth. So here's a little quiz to show how easily conditioned you were by the masters of the universe of chocolatey products. It also goes to show just how much telly you watched and how many holes in the teeth you could have avoided if you'd stuck to a plain and simple sugary-free diet. (In other words, completely unavoidable.)

How many of the chocolatey slogans can you identify from the heyday of British telly choccy adverts (some of which are still running)? Link the slogan with the mass-produced vegetable fat dairy concentrate high-sugar industrial confectionary product. Some have been updated and the first one's given. Please add more in the comment section.

Pencils and paper at the ready?  Ready, steady, go!

A hazelnut in every bite	Topic
Good rich and thick, a milk chocolate brick	Bounty
Bite it and believe it	Caramel
The longer lasting snack	Chocolate Orange
Full of eastern promise	Club
Somebody somewhere's eating a ...	Crunchie
... takes time to chew	Dairy Milk
Do you love someone enough to give them your last ...	Ferrero Rocher
If you're feeling a little p-peckish p-p-p-pick up a ...	Flake
They melt in your mouth, not in your hands	Fudge
The sweet you can eat between meals without ruining your appetite	Galaxy
The creamiest milk, the whitest bar, the goodness that's in ...	Galaxy
All because the lady loves ...	Kit-Kat
... helps you work, rest and play	Maltesers
Lighter than ordinary chocolate	Mars
Have a break... have a ...	Milk Tray
Gives you a share of country goodness	Milky Bar
Why have cotton when you can have silk?	Milky Way
A finger of ... is just enough to give the kids a treat	Minstrels
Only the crumbliest, flakiest chocolate, tastes like chocolate never tasted before	Penguin
Ambassador, with these …, you're really spoiling us	Rolo
A glass and a half of full cream milk in every half pound	Texas
Thank ... it's Friday!	Toffee Crisp
If you like a lot of chocolate on your biscuit join our ...	Turkish Delight
It's not Terry's, it's mine!	Twix
Take it easy with a ...	Wispa
They came in search of paradise	Yorkie

Across the Millennium Bridge

                                Sump sink turgid mire conveyor

                                A drain in death-mixed blackened soot

                                Conveyor of the foulness

                                    – underbelly, sick, poison,

                                Taking the flotsam of 8 million detestable things

                                Across broken rocky shores from two thousand years of slime

 

                                Open swirls swift surface wavelets,

                                Upon moon and starless sub-channels dragging,

                                Hale from Richmond and beyond

                                    – calling at all stations, pick-up, drop-off,

                                Transforms to toxic by Millennium Bridge

                                Bum drops to a million acres of thick Southend mud black

 

                                From foundations roots sunken within

                                Risen around the sucking stuff, a fertility

                                    – Embankment, Savoy, Lambeth Walk, Millwall U-bend,

                                The Dome is the Canaletto piece, a £16 St Paul's

                                Further on, fluid form spires cost more, make more, more,

                                New snap-shot vistas upon brilliant horizons

                                Stretching beyond pole, tropic and sand, returns

 

                                Refined apartamentos of dazzling millions

                                Life styled anew, novel medievalism,

                                Scratching credit at each apportioned restauranto

                                And down in the lengthy bowels of Bank station

                                    – with effortless smile, dance, bow,

                                A chord-ill-sequenced accordionist plays flowery 'Delilah'

                                To the chinkety-chink of passers-by

The Death of Poets

It took her a while to begin, to really get started. The ideas had been floating around in her head since she was a very youthful and inexperienced teenager. Floods of romantic poetry, righteous and pious, angry and venomous poured without end: first one exercise book, then another, and another. Her shelves were re-arranged and she began to get serious. To her delight her parents, recognising her budding wordsmith skills, bought her a newfangled word processor for Christmas.

And she read. First the school-recommended list, then the Victorians, then Blake, then…

Her first boyfriend was a bit of a disappointment: she liked his attention and his wandering hands, but he was a failure when it came to communication. When discussing anything at depth, even TV, Frazer would suddenly clam up. His moody silences would always end with her going home. Then after school the next day it would be as if nothing happened, he would find her and off they would walk home holding hands, kiss and say goodbye. Then he didn’t call one Saturday and by the Monday he was holding Kirsty Derry’s hand.

At first the pain of separation and betrayal was only slight and, after a shrug, she continued her reading, schoolwork and writing. In fact, it picked up a little having fallen off under Frazer’s gormless attentions. But just as she focused harder upon her task two crushing things occurred: her word processor crashed to a nonfunctionable death, and with it she suddenly felt complete and utter heartbreak, as if all her emotions had erupted at the surface like a wealth of painful, hideous zits.

She missed school for the first time. She cut her hair short. She watched a lot of TV. She ate. She ate some more and then found that the pain fuzzed a little when she was completely full and sleepy. Her 15 years had ill prepared her for these overwhelming feelings and now her poetry appeared ludicrous. A wet Wednesday one week later she took down her books from the shelves above her bed and boxed them, un-plugged the useless word processor to place it in the bottom of the wardrobe and sat motionless staring out of the window for hours until it became dark, truly lost in her dark, adolescent thoughts.

The rest of school, so promising at first, became a non-event. Although she went on to pass most of her ‘O’ levels and somehow found the energy to take three ‘A’s, her heart really wasn’t in it. For the first time in her life she became surly and even got into trouble with teachers. She found other sorts of boyfriends that liked or didn’t mind podgy girls and went off to party like the rest. Her busy parents tried not to be too worried. But something had died. Indeed, she saw its’ corpse every time she vacuumed her room and every time she wore a finely-ironed blouse or a jacket. In the end, she opted not to go to University and found a job in a local travel agency.

Five years of sending other people to exotic destinations finally took her to the end of this comfortable path. On a rather dreary October Friday when all her colleagues were busy, she finally looked around. A hen night had been planned for that Saturday for Kerry and all they could discuss was what to wear and where to go. But she suddenly felt like sitting at home reading a book. When she got home, Mum and Dad were both eating and watching the 6 o’clock News – they didn’t even turn around. “Ello luv, dinner’s in the oven.”

Without responding, she took off her coat and shoes, methodically pulled and pushed herself up the creaky stairs and after a quick wee sat on her squishy bed. She looked down and from beneath her legs pulled out a dusty squat box; on the top of the stack was her last exercise book. She took it to her desk which doubled as a dressing table, gently pushed aside some hair products and read the last entry.

            “…Tousled through the frost-nipped grip

            The singing, howling gale from ice

            Clawed unrem without let…”

She remembered: the telephone had rung and Frazer asked her out. Even though it was a Thursday and she had double French on Friday (and had not done her revision) she agreed. It had been a good long wet snog at the bus stop before he got on the 92. By the time she got back it was nearly 9.45 and she was tired… but actually happy.

The phone rang.

“Phone! For you!” shouted up her Mum’s voice.

Steve, who was in a pub, asked her to join him. She thought about him and his prior confessed eagerness to take her out, but told her Mum make her apologies for her, claiming a headache. She focused again on her book, this time with a biro in hand.

“The Death of Suzanna Greenwood” she wrote in slow cursive hand. She paused, turned around and pulled the box towards her. The dustcover names ‘Shelley’ and ‘Keats’ came to view, and with them a longed-for memory. Beneath them were more; ‘Byron’, ‘Yeats’...

She turned back and crossed out her name. It now read, “The Death of Poets” and, at last, the idea formed shape.