The Regime

I look unsightly.

Fig. A

I need to make fundamental changes to my life-style. In a consequence free world I would dine daily on duck, steak, cheese, bread, cream and wine. Flagons, hogsheads of wine. I would be drowning myself in a butt of Malmsey on a weekly basis. And quite often that is exactly what I do dine on. As a consequence I might refer you to Fig. A.

Note the quivering jowls, the fish-belly eye-bags, the mortal horror in the eyes, the forehead as scored and striped as the Nazca plain. The cobbler's -thumb of a nose. Note also I've taken the photo at a flattering angle and filtered it through handsomising monochrome. I don't even have the courage to face up to the full horror. I'm not a man who routinely inspects the contents of his handkerchief. 

As of bank holiday Monday I am changing my lifestyle. I am entering what I call "The Regime". I shall be eschewing all of the foods that I crave and I shall be living off steamed vegetables, fish, brown rice and knocking the booze on the head. Happily this coincides with an interval of more than usual poverty, so its for the best in every particular.

I need to be thinner. I need to be fitter.

After all, the way politics is going I might need to start fighting other men over loaves of bread or the last onion in the shop so I better get into peak physical condition.

I'll be walking a lot more too.

Fuck you Translink. Fuck you Winemark. You'll both be seeing a lot less of me. As, I hope, will you all.

Vintage Idiots Look you now, over yonder At far reaching oceans of grey Cross yourself and cross the water Long's the night, short is the day Landing here at none too distant shores Shift the shingle up the beach Behold your dark inheritance The poisoned chalice within reach And I looked and I saw and i knew that it was bad That smell as old and stale as time These vintage idiots never had The chance to dream, to reconcile In the last days, in the dark days When your eyes were full Of distance, space; of memory Dreams left unfulfilled What were they, those secrets? The peaks you thought you'd scale To prove you'd really done it To prove you hadn’t failed And I looked and I saw and i knew that it was bad That smell as old and stale as time These vintage idiots never had The chance to dream, to reconcile Well you never did fail us Kept us all afloat in the chaos Old age creeps; the sneak, invidious Turns us all to vintage idiots But you kicked its arse with crippled legs And live on strong inside our heads Our hearts, alas, already full Of useless love to offer you

Gainsbourg

Gainsbourg I am for Appolinaire and Stephane Marllarme, I am for Rimbaud, the one that got away, Baudelaire, Jacques Vache and Boris Vian, Mine's a slower suicide than Thomas Chatterton's, One more pastis, one more gitane, Verlaine, Verlaine, Verlaine, Verlaine, Guarding my modesty, girding my loins, With the kind of profile you see on Roman coins, A Jewish Russian Frenchman, but you cant see the joins, Everybody knows me, from Descartes to Desmoines, I staged a little riff on Bach called "Je'taime moi non plus", The Vatican banned it and that was quite a coup, In terms of sales specifically, cause, between me and you, Anyone outside of France thinks that's all that I do. I am of the infinite In the Champs Elysée, Strumming on a harp and drinking holy wine all day, The women here are beautiful but lack a certain grist, I find I'm more a gourmand than an ornithologist, You would think a canon was a pretty heavy thing, But my canon moves the angels, god wants me here with him, So while I serenade the seraphim with celestial song, They know that down below is where I truly belong, My house is painted black like Goya's dining room, I find I'm thinking dirty thoughts in the blue of noon, One more pastis, one more gitane, Again and again and again and again, They used to call me Lulu its nothing to shout about, I like the ladies but I'm never quite devout, In the movies I never come up trumps, Who casts a villain wearing women's ballet pumps, I'm under-studied and I'm ill prepared, Hope you dont notice that my words are slurred, My fingers tremble as I flick the catch, And Marie Curie turns into ash, I'm always shivering though you couldn't call it cold, How's an "enfant terrible" get to be so old? One more pastis, one more gitane, Again and again and again and again, Looking out the windows at ticket punchers and mackem girls, I pull my trousers down and the tricolor unfurls, One more pastis, one more gitane, And again and again and again.

I fell out of bed

I don't know what you were thinking,
But then I never know what you're thinking,
Unknowable, oh so inscrutable,
And, lucky you, unfailingly beautiful,
I'll put you on a pedestal,
But doing so I must confess,
If I put you on a pedestal,
It's so I can see up your dress,

I fell out of bed,
Cause of all the ideas in my head,

I never thought it could happen,
That a healthy heart could be flattened,
I find I'm writing pop lyrics,
As a way to lift my spirits,
And I never thought I'd be writing,
Of the eternal feminine,
A treatise on gender panic,
With none of the swear words left in,

I fell out of bed,
Cause of all the ideas in my head,

We two sitting dumbly,
Trying to read each other's thoughts,
Shoving all my crosses,
Into your row of noughts,
You would think we were mummies,
Tongues torn out at the root,
A pair of fun sarcopha-guys,
Wrapped up in our bandage suits,

Throw your arms around the world

Got a lot of love to give you but I need to get a little back,
Make a lot of very poor decisions and I let my chin grow slack,
The world is way beneath me, I wear these gilded wings,
Can't keep it all together, sellotape and pins,
I know you want to take it further but I've always been a dozy sort,
Working without map or compass I'm always lost in thought,
Suspended in the mistral my feet don't touch the ground,
Like an old toothpaste commercial, heaven bound,

Throw your arms around the world.

You know that I'm intoxicated, or my inner ears gone wrong,
Can't keep from keeling over, can't keep my trousers on,
The day is way beneath me; mundane, quotidian,
I'm basking in the warmth of your reflection,
Standing over the precipice, the abyss looks into me,
The way it coughs and stutters, I'm not sure what it sees,
The world is way beneath me, no thoughts of suicide,
You're not on earth forever, enjoy the ride,

Throw your arms around the world,

What is a man?

Slugs and snails,
Breath that's stale,
Hard bitten nails,
On wandering hands,
He lies when he smiles,
And he smiles with his eyes,
And his smile is a mile,
Of broken ground,

Tell me if you can,
What is a man?

Knows what he wants,
Nose out of joint,
As he presses the point,
Home or away,
Running on empty,
Water-logged, sedimentary,
The chain handle tempts me,
To flush him away,

Tell me if you can,
What is a man?

She's pricked and pinned by Cecil Beaton,
He masks her face to find the beauty within,
She thinks love is eating or being eaten,
And the deepest part of a man is his skin

Get me back on my knees again

Gonna tell you a story about a man named John,
Camp old nonsense like a "Carry On",
A much better painter than Paul Simenon,
But sagging like wet dough,
Self-absorbed like a shop-soiled Tampax,
As grey and distance as a telescope with cataracts,
Keep your bum-bags but ditch your anoraks,
Feed him beer, watch him go,

Now I'm defeated babe,
Get me back on my knees again,

Gonna lend you some money, buy up your goodwill,
Cause he has more money that you ever will,
Has a gun in his pocket and fingers in the till,
And a ring on every finger,
His eyes are hollow and his lips are full,
Skin like savlon, hair like wool,
Been nailed more times than a Papal Bull,
Did I mention he's a singer,

Now I'm defeated babe,
Get me back on my knees again,

A modern fantasist, like a tumour on a tin-can,
Arrivest archivist; post-modern bin-man,
Flash Harry in a dirty mac,
Lock up the doubters, Johnny's back,

Empty Jester

Empty Jester

I’m smiling on the lip of the abyss,
What can I possibly think about all this?
I don’t look down when I can look up,
But there’s nothing at the bottom or the top,

The grin on the bridge of a moth’s back,
The smiling eyes are empty and black,
The hollows twinkle, a well in space,
Skull white like the light on your face,

Here’s another empty jester,
A line of ash runs the length of my tongue,
Words ring as hollow as a single gold band,
There’s nothing to say now that you’ve gone,

I’m laughing while the joke is on me,
Tears flow freely in company,
Later the bedroom seems to be so empty,
Your pillow lying lengthwise next to me,

Like Hamlet’s famous dummy,
Empty headed with a trap-door jaw,
Alas, in Wonderland, I knew her well,
Can’t say I know her any more,


Here’s another empty jester,
A line of ash runs the length of my tongue,
Words ring as hollow as single gold band,
There’s nothing to say now that you’ve gone

So Haunt Me

So Haunt Me

I’ve always lived with ghosts,
In every book I’ve ever read,
Leafing clammily through M.R. James’,
Curdling stories of creeping dread,

In every film I’ve ever sat through,
Strange apparitions are bound to appear,
“A Christmas Carol” is my favourite Dickens,
“Hamlet” is always the best Shakespeare,

So haunt me, please haunt me,
Melt into the room in a bed-sheet please,
Haunt me, just haunt me,
I want my hairs to prickle and my blood to freeze,
Haunt me, please haunt me,
I haven’t had enough of you yet, you see,

You haunt me every day, anyway,
I hear your voice, see your smiling face,
Your dressing gown on the back of the bath-room door,
It’s you, not your stuff, I want about the place,

Your clothes are still in the cupboards,
I can still just feel your touch,
Come back and put the wind up me,
I just miss you so very much,

So haunt me, please haunt me,
Melt into the room in a bed-sheet please,
Haunt me, just haunt me,
I want my hairs to prickle and my blood to freeze,
Haunt me, please haunt me,
I haven’t had enough of you yet, you see,

The Heart of Melancholy

The Heart of Melancholy

Here in,
The heart of melancholy,
I can’t see out,
To the mother you’ll never be,
The mountains of Mourn,
Rendered so sketchily,
Scrublands are scumbled,
And scratched out finally,

I’ll see you in the long grass,
With your black hair,
And your dark eyes,
I’ll see you in the long grass,
With your pale skin,
And your dark eyes,

Hearing;
The art of melancholy,
Words fall out,
Of mouths that so readily,
Talk of smiling and angels,
Land so heavy, messily,
Worm-casts on sand,
Emptied out faecally,

I’ll see you in the long grass,
With your black hair,
And your dark eyes,
I’ll see you in the long grass,
With your pale skin,
And your dark eyes,

Witless,
The arsehole of brevity,
Takes my hand,
But never once looks at me,
“Comes to us all”,
I goggle incredibly,
The fuckers a hundred,
Why can’t it be he?

I’ll see you in the long grass,
With your black hair,
And your dark eyes,
I’ll see you in the long grass,
With your pale skin,
And your dark eyes,

Black Sails

Found her and I married her,
Just in time to,
Watch her fall away,
And I’m cradling the pain,

He waits,
Waits for her return,
Candles gutter as they burn,
He waits,
The old man of the sea,
Black sails ahead of me,

Kicking through the sea-spume,
Doomed and waiting,
For that one black sail,
A hard point against the grey,
Squatting underneath the sun,
A pin-prick sticks,
The needle in the vein,
To carry her away,

He waits,
Waits for her return,
Candles gutter as they burn,
He waits,
The old man of the sea,
Black sails ahead of me,

Skies are bruising,
Dark sails ripple,
Moving now,
Moving nearer,

Darkness spreading,
Over waters,
Bleeding black,
Bleeding darkness,

Stephane Prix-D'Escalier

As I was walking down the stair,
I met a man, who wasn’t there,
I said you must be that esprit d’escalier everyone is always going on about…

You can't argue with a chicken bone

Here's a song written for whatever the post-Red Atlas Red atlas are called. (it's Si and Ian and possibly Martin). Si's turned out to be a pretty good singer and impressed at the "Oi Garcon" gig to celebrate/commiserate Ailsa's leaving London. His version of Silver Jews' "Random Rules" was assured and charming and made me want to write songs for him*. So here's a sweet country number about the divination of the future by chicken bones(a type of cleromancy). I think it will be just right his droll delivery.


*Though obviously his baby-momma and wife Jess is the real power behind the throne natch...


You can’t argue with a chicken bone


Yesterday day I was sat at home,
Divining the future with chicken bones,
I’m a fool but I’m no dreamer,
I saw your face in those chicken femurs,

I wanted to wait to tell you,
But my “wait” problem is well known,
You can mock when I talk about destiny,
But you can’t argue with a chicken bone,
And when I tried to reach you,
I had no credit for the phone,
Crossed lines, crossed wires, crossed destinies,
But you can’t argue with a chicken bone,

They called you “the party bucket”,
I think I died a little inside,
Didn’t help that your ass was tattooed,
With a sign saying “park and ride”,
I’m a million miles away,
Can’t get any reception here,
All I got is a lucky chicken’s foot,
To remind me of you my dear,

I wanted to wait to tell you,
But my “wait” problem is well known,
You can mock when I talk about destiny,
But you can’t argue with a chicken bone,
And when I tried to reach you,
I had no credit for the phone,
Crossed lines, crossed wires, crossed destinies,
But you can’t argue with a chicken bone,

(middle four)

I chickened out that first night,
The stigmas with me still,
Found a chicken on my pillow,
A bitter morning-after pill,

I know you’ll think this a paltry confession,
I want to show you that I’ve learned my lesson
I’m a fool but I’m no dreamer,
I saw your face in those chicken femurs,

I wanted to wait to tell you,
But my “wait” problem is well known,
You can mock when I talk about destiny,
But you can’t argue with a chicken bone,
And when I tried to reach you,
I had no credit for the phone,
Crossed lines, crossed wires, crossed destinies,
But you can’t argue with a chicken bone,

Orphans

Here are some songs that I wrote for Martin's new band "Blonde Moments" (terrible name!) the girl band that he has been dreaming of for a long time. The brief was a bit confusing as I was advised to not be too clever and to write for a modern indie sound. I obviously failed as he has yet to comment upon them or use them for his band. I'm not sure it's his loss - they're not great. But then they're not great on purpose.

I like the last one best...but then it's the most like something I would write anyway.


Isabelline

Hey honey, do you know what love’s like?
A chill moon on a winter’s night,
Whiskey jitters by the crashing waves,
Will soon show you how the heart behaves,
Hey baby, do you know what love’s for?
Two fingers flicked against a war,
A paper hat against the deluge,
A fool’s fortress and a reckless refuge,

Isabelline,
She’s the ghost in the machine,
Isabelline,
She’s the ghost in the machine,

Hey sugar, how do you heal the pain?
Been picking at the scabs again,
I’ve got scars on both of my palms,
Don’t want to get you up in arms,
Hey angel, don’t look so sad,
You’ll only turn our loving bad,
You know I’ll never put a healthy one down,
Hand me that bag of kittens to drown,

Isabelline,
She’s the ghost in the machine,
Isabelline,
She’s the ghost in the machine,

However do you want me?
That’s the way that I can’t be,
I twist and turn like a hanging man,
Twist and turn away from me,



Cupidity

Oh arrow please, please be true,
Now you know what I want from you,
The penny dropped; it finally got through to me,
You have to save me from my lover’s cupidity,

I’m a cool kid; my draw-back’s my beau,
My friends said, yeah, well we told you so,
Not least in his long list of crimes,
Is he’s seen “Wall Street” fifty times!


So, so long it’s been a pleasure,
So many memories to treasure,
It’s only recently I’ve got your measure,
Bye-bye to your cupidity forever,

(Possible backing vocal of “sell, sell” there, after the “bye, bye” – poss. a bit de trop.)

Your curls and your chubby little cheeks,
You used to make my knees go weak,
You never reminded me then,
Of a contestant on “Dragon’s Den”

I shot an arrow in the air.
What it was worth, I do not care,
All I desire of these darts you see,
Is ripping holes in your cupidity,


So, so long it’s been a pleasure,
So many memories to treasure,
It’s only recently I’ve got your measure,
Bye-bye to your cupidity forever,




Entryism


Is there a hole in my heart?
Or a polo-mint in my breast pocket?
Whatever the pain is insane,
And only you can stop it,

If I were to say to you,
Will you always be mine and forever?
This isn’t love on the dole,
It’s love on the never-never,


Never gonna give you up,
Never gonna stop loving you,
Never gonna give you up,
To the Inland Revenue,
My heart is true and my aim too,
So you know it’s true,
I need to be with you,

Baby there’s a hole in my head,
And that’s what I need you like,
Love is a job of work,
So you’d better get on your bike,

You’re the one I’ll always turn to,
Cause you’re the one who’s always there,
The crutch beneath my armpit,
The banister by the stair,

Never gonna give you up,
Never gonna stop loving you,
Never gonna give you up,
To the Inland Revenue,
My heart is true and my aim too,
So you know it’s true,
I need to be with you,






(yeah, if anything that’s worse. Though the chorus has a certain Black Lace quality to it)








We Come To the End


It’s the drip, drip, drip,
As your fingers slip mine,
I want you to know,
That I’d never cut the line,
When the pain is too great,
I’ll think of you in better days,
The sudden splash of summer,
That your eyes betray,

Is that all? Just a trick of the light,
The flash of head-lamps in the night,

We look into the mirror and we try to pretend,
But we both know when that we come to the end,
I jumbled up the words; I’m about to press “send”,
But we both know when that we come to the end,

I sweep back the cover,
And I crack the spine,
I read the dedication,
And I know it’s not mine,
How could you leave me?
In a house full of stuff,
I remember a time,
It belonged to us.

That’s what a sincere love will bring,
A box-room full of boxes of things,


We look into the mirror and we try to pretend,
But we both when that we come to the end,
I jumbled up the words; I’m about to press “send”,
But we both know when that we come to the end,


It was a long good-bye,
And if I’m honest not unexpected,
Like rubbish left out at night,
I’m both cool and collected,
There’s nothing to deal with here,
A central negation; a heart-shaped vacuum,
A life without a spark,
Dead and buried, alone in a back-room,

Forgive me father for I have singed.

Cliff Diving

This one sounds a bit thin in context now but is a perfectly effective 80's pop tune with some tasty Duran Duran brit-funk guitar from Doug (and some tasty everything else from Doug, really). My offering is a bit meage here but the lyrics have some appalling puns and excrutiating rhymes so it's business as usual really...


I may be suffering from dementia,
As I pursue this Posiedon adventure,
Slipping under the ocean like a stone,
But I'm not going fishing,
I'm on a fact-finding mission,
Trying to find the crab's base on my own,

And it's dark, so very dark,

With the surface so far above me,
Come on in the water's lovely,

Once that surface tension's broken,
I'm free, free to be me,
Under the sea,
And with that undulating motion,
I'm free, free to be me,
Under the sea,

I'm not unaware of the danger,
There's a dog-fish in the manger,
With the sort of claws,
That are a liability,
But the sea gives a sense of freedom,
Albeit one with one with rocks and weeds in,
With a powerful undertow,
Of liberty,

And it's dark,
So very dark,

Got my confidence in the water,
I won't be like a lamb going to the slaughter,


Once that surface tension's broken,
I'm free, free to be me,
Under the sea,
And with that undulating motion,
I'm free, free to be me,
Under the sea,

But what's this?
Labarynthine caves,
An under-water maze,
And who's this?
Behind these rocks and boulders,
A plethora of crabby dozers,
And as I hide behind these rocks,
Here's a sentry with his eyes on stalks,

Bartholomew's Fare

This and Drinking constitute the breakaway pop-hits from the The Night of the Crabs. Which is odd because they are rather unconventional tunes; the former a music hall folly and this a folk ballad or shanty. That said it's
one hell of an ear-worm, with those shimmering weed fronds singing backing vocals and that shimmering African pop guitar on the chorus.

The title is a three fold pun: it riffs on the ancient London fair held on the 24th of August within the precincts of the Priory at West Smithfields. But also at this point in the stories narrative, and rather pointedly by the end of the song, Bartholomew becomes "fare" (in the sense of "fine fare") for the crabs. And lastly it's the price he pays for being deformed and disabled in Guy N Smith's peculiar world; where Pat thinks he's evil and Cliff genuinely considers shooting him because he's ugly. It's the ugliness that forces him to live on the beach and puts him in the front-line of the crustacean/human war. Lastly I hope he has his fare for Charon the ferryman to deliver him over the river Styx. Which as we know is just down the coast from Barmouth.

See, I don't just throw these things together. That's craft mate. You think puns just happen?


Oh my name is Bartholomew,
And don't let me collar you,
Cause I'm so very hard on the eyes,
My body is twisted, my palms often blistered,
From combing the beaches at night,
My teeth are ill-fitting,
My brows always knitting,
Though it looks like my stitches have dropped,
And the stench of putrescence,
Is my oily essence,
I stink like a squid gone to pot,

But I'm happy, I'm so happy,
Patrolling the beaches at night,
Flotsam and Jetsam; when I want some, I get some,
And who is to say I'm not right?

Oh my name is Bartholomew,
And don't let me follow you,
Cause I have an agenda concealed,
My secret passion is the splishing and splashing,
Of tanned lady tourists, un-peeled,
Their hot golden hides,
Hips narrow or wide,
Their bosoms that jiggle and bounce,
My ony goal when I go on a stroll,
Is tallying big nipple counts,

But I'm happy, I'm so happy,
Patrolling the beaches at night,
Flotsam and Jetsam; when I want some, I get some,
And who is to say I'm not right?


Oh my name is Bartholomew,
But don't ever holler "You!",
Cause on top of it all I'm quite deaf,
It's the thing that hurts most,
I'm as deaf as a post,
It'll probably contribute to my horrible death,
To give you an example, If I were to be trampled,
By a giant crustacean horde,
I'd not know a thing, till I'm sliced up real thin,
In fact it's just happened...Good LORD!

Hangover Hospital

Well I've excused The Nude Scientists previously so you know what you're getting but I mean really...there is no excusing song number two here! Number two being appropriate. Radio-4-Mitch-Benn-Middle-class-middle-aged-smugness-by-numbers and, unforgivably, not that funny. But then...the chorus really works as a sort of shield-battering call to arms and really I used to hate those little fuckers when I lived in London. So fuck 'em.


Oh my my aching head,
As I resolve to get out of bed,
My tongues as dry as Ghandi's sandal,
Hanging on to the toilet's handle,
Why do we do it to ourselves?
Joylessly sinking pint after pint,
My teeth are veined with purple stains,
Monday's Valpolicella night,

I wish that there was a hangover hospital,
Where a normal life lived was sort of possible,
I could dry out, try out for the human race,
Leave behind this state of disgrace,

I run a razor over my tongue,
My nose is crusty and my eyes are stung,
My hands are shaking and here come the sweats,
My skin is yellow and it's sopping wet,
The bathroom floor is an oasis of calm,
But my stomach won't let me be,
Lurching forward with mounting alarm,
I grab the loo seat like a steering wheel


I wish that there was a hangover hospital,
Where a normal life lived was sort of possible,
I could dry out, try out for the human race,
Leave behind this state of disgrace,

Doctor, Doctor please come quick,
It's not natural to feel this sick,
You've got to help me to shake this disease,
"Son I'm not sure you can meet my fees,"
I can take the empties back to the shop,
And I'm collecting all the bottle-tops,
"Let me tell you son what I'm thinking,
Your best bet is to give up drinking!"

Child Stars

...in a continuing series entitled "Poor man's Luke Haines" John commemorates the death of someone he has never met by writing a song all about himself. Slow hand-clap to fade....



Desperate times call for desperate measures,
So make mine a double, a triple, a pint,
Corey Haim never made it to forty,
I'm drinking to child stars tonight,
I saw MacCauley Culkin in the theatre,
Cast alongside Irene Jacob,
The oddest pairing I had ever witnessed,
He spoke like he had marbles in his gob,

Child star where did it all go right,
Was it simply dimples, were your teeth always so white?
Your'e dead and buried but the films live on,
And i have to live with these songs,

It's 8.30, It's Thursday...it's Top of the Pops!

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