THE GOOD-TEMPERED DADDY

hannah's topic at school this week is minibeasts
ha!
minibeasts for little beasts!
today she comes home
carrying the fruits of her labours
a hat with a ladybird attached to the front
bouncing comically up and down
a ladybird with wings that swivel
a coloured-in life cycle chart of a butterfly...
as it happens
the sack she brings home this week
from after-school story club
is also insect-themed
so when i pull out the bad-tempered ladybird story
to read at bedtime
hannah tells me excitedly
'i already knows this one
cos mrs o'hara read it to us in class'
each page of the story has a clockface
with a different time on it
i help hannah to distinguish the little hand from the big hand
'it's six o'hara o'clock!' laughs h
the bad-tempered ladybird has a repetitive refrain
which hannah has off pat
and amazingly the clever little thing's reading the story to me
rather than the other way round
'it's like doing my reading book, isn't it daddy' hannah giggles
proud of herself
it's times like these
that being a dad repays itself
in spades

MELANCHOLIA

something to bottle for you today folks...
it aint often these days
when an idea for a song comes to me
that i can find a quiet place
grab an acoustic guitar
start fingerpicking an accompaniment
come up with a melody
cobble together some lyrics
fashion a middle eight
work out a descending chord progression
and have the whole thing nailed
in thirty minutes flat
but ladies and gentlemen
boys and girls
tonight is the night!
for your pleasure...

MELANCHOLIA

a stroll along an empty beach
a walk along a moonlit street
a drive home in the car
that's melancholia

listening to soft falling rain
humming along to a sad refrain
watching a lonely star
that's melancholia

watching a sunset fade away
peering out on a rainy day
strumming an old guitar
that's melancholia

alone with the thoughts inside your head
dwelling on what you might have said
gazing from afar
that's melancholia

an unsent poem to an unrequited love
the pain of knowing that you weren't quite good enough

all alone with a bottle of red
coming home to an empty bed
not sure of who or what you are
that's melancholia

watch out for it on mice pace!

AUTO BIO (PART ONE)

saturday's child works hard for his living...
at 5:30pm on saturday 6th july 1968
towards the end of the prague spring
at the height of the vietnam and biafran wars
while the beatles were ensconced in the white album
arguing the toss over obladis and obladas
baby fireseed emerged into an unsuspecting world
gulping down his first breaths
at a public hospital near elmdon airport
strangely appropriate
bearing in mind his later peripatetic existence...
little fireseed grew out of nappies in nearby stetchford
during which time brother john geoffrey was born
before the family traversed the city
to the bournville village trust estate
a leafy suburb adjoining the cadburys factory
near 'willy' watton's school
where delicious chocolatey aromas
were undermined by the smell of chlorine from the local swimming baths
in the street where he grew up
the young fireseed formed a neighbourhood gang
nice middle-class kids who mostly kept out of trouble
except for the odd prank here and there
and poking fun at the bionic fairy
endless footy n cricket matches
games played outside on long summer evenings...
at school he kept his head down
refused to talk to the teachers
in fact he wouldn't say boo to a goose
he swotted n passed the 11+
and for his sins spent his adolescence
at a desolate rugby-playing single-sex grammar school
beside a windswept reservoir on the edge of the city
a place where the masters still wore dark robes
there he proved inept at socialising
and continued to keep himself to himself
his thoughts locked firmly inside his head
wishing away the long hours
suffering the indignity of teachers getting his name wrong
jumping through a lot of hoops
giving up the subjects he liked
applying himself to the subjects he didn't like
but thought he should take
reading the right books
passing the right exams
and at the tender age of 17 landing a plaice
at the you-knee-verse-city of not-in-gum
at this time the opposite sex was still an alien species
and untutored by a mentor
the teenage fireseed's musical tastes were sorely limited
the sixties pop of the beatles n byrds
monopolising the vinyl collection
as he took his first tender steps into tunesmithism
the sixteen-year-old fireseed even stoked controversy
in the local mead-ear
by publishing a morriseyesque attack
in the burning-ham evening mail
under the banner headline
'pop music today is mindless rubbish'
then finally the first contemporary sounds broke through
first u2 then the church hitting the turntable
and on his first foray abroad
a summer camping trip to the south of france in '86
with gavin rebello n andy pascal
our boy experienced a revelation
not his prowess at french
but the nuances, jangles and harmonies
of rem's murmur...
(to be continued)

#300: AFTER THE EVENT

well here i am
fireseed
tired and weary
but still at the crease
300 not out
a veritable gary sobers of the blogging world
or perhaps a geoffrey boycott
a plodder rather than a flair man...
'better late than never'
so they say
well that's me all over
slow
and frequently late
as many a friend or acquaintance will tell ya
but i do deliver eventually
i almost always get there in the end
like the tortoise out of aesop
yeah
us wattons are slow n steady creatures
not generally given to flamboyant impulsive gestures
always last out of the changing room after games
always faffing
umming and ahhing
reflecting
reading up
mulling it over
rather than just getting on with it...
and yet
you can pretty much always count on us
if yer patient
and prepared to bide yer time
we get there in the end...
believe me
i'm not proud of this trait
though i've grown to live with it
it drives my wife round the proverbial bend at times
a while back i found this quote
by evelyn waugh or somebody
"punktuality is the virtue of the bored"
well i can definitely see the truth in that
but it don't make it any better
when i'm frantically rushing to some ron-day-view
or feeling guilty about missing a deadline or event
making someone else wait around
while i sort my life out
for instance
i completely missed a good friend's bidet t'other day
(john major gilt trip)
i even messed up my own wife's bidet
we was sposed to be marking the milestone this week
spending a few romantic daze in rome
on an overnight sleeper from gay paris
rolling through the tuscan hills
but could i get my act together?
no i could knot
first i gotta renew my recently expired passaporte
then i gotta transfer some dosh
from my 33-day notice shavings account
to my instant access currant account
so my wife's bidet has been n gone
but the trip on the orient express remains unbooked...
the same goes for music
i so wish i could have my finger more on the pulse
in 1980 i'm listening to los beatles
ten years after they split up
in 1986 i'm listening to los byrds, kinks, syd barrett floyd
twenty years after their stuff was released
in 1991 i 'discover' the smiths
seven years after hatful of hollow
why didn't i dig them in '86 when they still existed
when everyone at nottinghum uni had a morrisey haircut?
fast forward to april 2008
and i'm listening to teenage fanclub's grand prix
pristine power pop from 1994!
fact is
i reckon i got a built-in distrust of most things contemporary
artists or albums that haven't yet achieved classic status
in danger of being passing fads
call me a late music adapter
if ya will
on turdsday we are in cheltenham
a day trip to glostersheer to sellybrate j's bidet
we're in a cafe
and 'hello goodbye' comes on the radio
radio too i guess
now this record may be 40 years old
even older than me!
and it may not even be one of the fabs' better ditties
but it makes me marvel
cos though i've heard it a hundred times
it still sounds as fresh as a daisy
even though the boys were right in the midst
of their most drug-addled phase
post-summer of love
so maybe the watton way is not so bad after all
hare brain or tortoise mind?
i guess i'll take the tortoise...

ps: i wanna take back at least some of what i said
about st george's day
this weak end
brum council house is bedecked with red crosses
at the museum n art gallery
there are traditional george n dragon puppet shows
kids dressing up in medi-evil costumes
and lots of other stuff...
oh and how did i forget to mention the nhs?
now i guess that is something to be proud of...

SEND GEORGE HIS DAY

it's hard to feel proud of being english
the scots
the welsh
the irish
they all got their patron saint days
which i bet they celebrate with gusto
parades
concerts
costumes
bagpipes
bottoms up
four-leaf clovers
they all celebrate kicking out the english
just like korea celebrates kicking out japan
the gloating bloated imperialists
good riddance they think
us lot
what do we celebrate?
morris dancing?
being kicked out of someone else's country?
do most englanders even know it's their national day?
okay
granted hannah's teacher gave her a sticker
the cross of st george
but where are the flags?
where are the customs?
where is the pride?
it aint celebrated
it's at best acknowledged
at worst it's overlooked
forgotten
or treated with utter indifference
so why is it so hard to feel proud of being english?
or british for that matter?
what about all we've achieved over the years?
the crusades
military conquest
international slavery
imperialism
colonialism
plundering the resources of africa india and the middle east
nuclear weapons
neo-colonialism
turmoil in zimbabwe
nato
dropping bombs on countries like serbia
that won't play ball
invading afghanistan and iraq
acting as the number one us lapdog
i scent george
(ha! ha! ha!)
making ourselves the number two target for terrorism
crap frozen processed food
i could go on...
i dunno
you know me
i always try to see the glass half full
real ale?
pubs being turned into bland cloned corporate chains
or closing down altogether
football?
the top four in the pee-ship get richer
and the rest get poorer
a democratic parliament?
where you got a 'labour party'
who takes away the lowest 10% tax bracket
and replaces it with...a 20% bracket!
a beacon for democracy throughout the world?
don't make me laugh
just read mark curtis' web of deceit or unpeople
pop music?
well i guess the fab four are beyond reproach
not to mention the kinks
the stones
mr bowie
billy bragg
steve kilbey
(well he is half-english)
the church
(ditto)...
but hey
why should we revere that obscure st george fella anyway?
that dragon-slaying knight of byzantium
resurrected as a symbol for the crusades?
by some ironic twist
my latest read arrives in today's post
written by a sound-as-a-pound bloke called paul kingsnorth
the title?
'real england'
the subtitle?
'the battle against the bland'
say no more...

RE-SEARCH

night-time is so lonely
when you hear a sound
but it's only an empty heart
beating out through the night
a sad sad drum
and i'm lying here listening
and the raindrops are all glistening
in my dreams
and it seems
that the sun never comes...
the end of a long day of searching
and researching
finding the trail
then losing the scent
leads
wild goose chases
and red herrings
chasing my tail
web searches
emails
phone calls
distant conversations with close intimates
intimate conversations with complete strangers
illumination
confusion
frustration
obfuscation
prolonging the agony?
postponing the inevitable?
following my bliss?
where does it all lead?
what does it all add up to?
where does that fit into the equation?
so many considerations
so many unanswered questions
so many questions without answers
like navigating through fog
all you can do is set yourself some goals
start with the big pitcher
then work your way down to the details
refine em
renew em
revise em
screw em up n chuck em in the bin
if necessary
most importantly
get the ideas down on paper
talk about em
test em out
find the weaknesses
the fallacies
the straw men
and weed the buggers out
argh!
i reread this post
and it's nothing but a horrible mess of mixed-up metaphors
oh my seeds
fireseed doth beseech you
be gentle with him tonight
for his brain is fried
tomorrow it will be better
hasta banana
f
xxxx

NO NO BALL GAMES

the fireseed cannot sleep

disturbed by the small figure beside him

endlessly tossing and turning

rolling over and slapping him in the face

kicking away the duvet

finally he gets up

parts the curtains

and gazes out at a leaden sky

that betrays no sign of the full moon

silently he throws on some warm clothes

and steals out of the room

down the stairs

and out into the back garden

where he grabs an axe from the shed

now he puts on his boots

and ventures out into the starless night

under the cover of thick black cloud

the streets are eerily empty

and he meets nobody

shortly he arrives at the place

then taking a quick look over his shoulder

he takes a mighty swing at the bottom of the post

splinters fly

the post lurches

to one side

the noise sounds momentarily deafening

but in the houses no-one stirs

two more powerful swings are enough

the post teeters and falls

flat on its back

satisfied with his handywork

our hero stomps home through the silent suburban streets

the next morning

as day breaks

he takes his camera

and returns to the scene of the crime

where the victim still lies prone

staring unblinking up at the stubborn sky

fireseed takes a few quick snaps

then heads once again for home

from across the road

a face is watching through the net curtains

but fireseed gives nothing away

as he departs with a friendly wave

MICE PACE MISERY & MIDDLE AGED BREAD

another upload to the crappy mice pace music page
check out the link to the right friends
if ya dare
listen n cop that tinny distorted em pee 3 sound
that makes lovingly crafted music
sound like it's been shoved through a trans-sister radio
taking away all the warm ringing tones
chewing em up
and spitting em out
and what's that electric lawnmower noise doing in the background?
well
there's mice pace for ya
trendy looking music player
pseudo led lights flashing
but crap sound quality
rubbish adverts
and amazing user unfriendliness
ok rant over
one of those days i guess
a claustrophobic grey sky
grey drizzle
a lightless lifeless day
this morning
i lie in under the winter duvet
feeling the stiffness in my bones
half-listening to the various noises and voices
that waft through the house
hannah woo scampers up and down the stairs
in and out of the bedroom
assembling a classroom of cuddly toys
on the living room armchair
finally i drag myself out of the sofabed
and pull on a too-small manifesto t-shirt
and a pair of jeans i bought in sk a few years back
which i have been unable to fasten
since the other day
when i attempted to bound up the stairs
and popped the belly button clean off
got the same problem with my cut-off beach shorts
every time i bend or exert myself
the press stud bursts open
yep!
fireseed getting outta condition
up until last summer
never topped twelve stone
now tipping the scales at nearly thirteen
the extra weight all migrating to one place
at least i can no longer be regarded as a skinny vegan
who needs to get a few juicy steaks inside him
but the fact that even a vegan diet can make ya pile on the pounds
has really taken me by surprise
one in the eye for complacency
dontcha think?
as for dark days
i'm not even gonna start talking about the footy...

TRIP DOWN MEMORY LANE

hic labor hoc opus est
i put on the big fat warm comforting phones
which have served me so well
open up my latest work in progress
a vocal-less backing track
sit back and close my eyes
i listen out for aural quality
the sounds that breathe
the instruments that compliment each other
the melodies and counterpoints that set each other off
the subtle harmonic variation
the chords within other chords
inverted chords i've no idea what to name
the flaws and the glitches that need attending to
the things that need rerecording or remixing
or panning to the left right or centre
but finally after two weeks of work
here n there
late at nite
over my elevenses
i like what i hear
my brother walking by the other day says:
'wow! hypnotic and dream-like'
well that's exactly what i wanted to hear
the compressed rhythm guitar insistent and ringing
the synth alternately rising and falling
the cymbals slowly getting louder
the lead guitar groping out into the darkness
from the centre of the stereo spectrum
pretty arpeggios of chorused guitar chiming in
suddenly an unsung chorus reached
everything coming to a momentary stop
a C chord intrudes and startles a la ticket to ride
and suddenly the whole thing changes tempo
galloping forward with a jolt into the next verse
my favourite part comes in the middle 8
the bit where john and paul always helped each other out
on the other one's song
just listen to that 'i love you, i love you' bit on michelle
suddenly the chord changes go haywire
the guitars cross backwards and forwards across the spectrum
a sinuous lead guitar part binds the whole thing together
and then we're back to a shortened verse and chorus again
later when i've got some p and q and the house to myself
i'll overdub the vocal
always the troublesome bit
when the chickens come home to roost...
today i visited a secondary school
to tell it like it is to some adolescent kids
about ye olde climate change
most of the kids weren't bad actually
some of them had lots of questions
a few of them didn't give a monkey's of course
olde papa fireseede there
preaching to these youngsters about ethics
waving the 'pointing stick of truth' at em
easily old enough to be these kids' daddy
a kind of father figure to some of em i guess
to get there
i cycle 10 miles from one side of the city to the other
taking the backstreet root
avoiding the russia-hour traffic snarls as best i can
fireseed walking the walk
(or riding the ride)
not just talking the talk
from moseley to hall green
through acock's green and yardley
retracing the route to my nan's house
the one i used to cover in the old white ford escort
when i went to pick her up for a visit
i used to time the journey
18 minutes was my record!
on the way back
i turn into vibart road
then farnol road
and freewheel down to number 21
where my dad was brought up during the war
i haven't been back since nan left in the early 90s
a solid 1930s brick house
with stained glass windows
and an attractive lintel over the door
unfortunately defaced by upvc windows and guttersnipes
the well-kept little front garden replaced by solid paving
space for cars
down at the yew tree
i pass a little shop
where i used to buy cupcakes for nan's and my tea
another time
another world
what would she make of it now?

HELMUT-PETER THUNY

i've only just met them
and i'm already bragging
and feeling well pleased with myself
we are on a diminutive passenger plane
flying westwards
somewhere over the timor sea
we compare the price of our tickets
as good travellers do
the ash blond canadian fellow paid $250
billy the speedway rider from dorset forked out $300
whereas i picked up a real bargain
for just fifty bucks...
rewind 24 hours
at the hostel in sweaty darwin
i spot a message on the notice board
air ticket to kupang - $50
i track down the owner
an amiable swiss bloke by the name of helmut-peter thuny
who has decided not to make the trip to indonesia after all
it's only when i get to darwin airport that i spot the problem
different names on the passport and ticket
oops!
i'm sweating it as i go through passport control
they are bound to notice
there goes my dosh
and i could be in big trouble
but the airline lady only checks my ticket
and the immigration chap only looks at my passport
and i'm through to the departure lounge
a sign of how times have changed
dontcha think?
now we're touching down in west timor
my first taste of asia
we emerge into the searing heat
i shade my head under my akubra
as we walk down the steps
cross the hot tarmac
and enter the arrivals lounge
the passengers queue behind a yellow line
and are beckoned forward one by one
by the moustachioed immigration guys
suharto's men
dressed in beige uniforms
guns in holsters
these fellas are checking both passports and tickets
christ - i hadn't thought of this!
now i'm not feeling so clever
one guy catches my eye
a hawk-nosed eagle-eyed fellow supervising one of the desks
he eyes passengers with suspicion
visions of festering in a filthy jail spring to mind
then to my horror i am called forward to his desk
there is nowhere to hide
i drag myself forward
just then hawkeye is called over to another desk
i hand my documents to the nervous-looking soldier
the one hawkeye has been supervising
he looks myopically from passport to ticket
from ticket to passport
writes something down
then returns the documents
and waves me through
i almost stagger in disbelief
rejoining billy from dorset at the money counter
i excitedly start to explain
just then
a wave of fear ripples through me
'will david andrew watton please report to the desk
david andrew watton...'
the words echo round the terminal
i turn to see hooknose at the microphone
'come on' i say to billy
'let's get out of here'
somehow we find ourselves outside
and manage to hail a taxi to take us into kupang
the capital of west timor
after a couple of minutes
we pass a fleet of police with sirens wailing
heading in the opposite direction
have they come to intercept a suspected terrorist
travelling under the alias of helmut-peter thuny?
at the guest house in kupang
my heart sinks
we are asked to fill out police registration forms
not knowing what to do
i fill out my card using a new alias
johnny marr from manchester
that night and several others
before we cross into east timor
i lie awake awaiting the police raid
hooknose/hawkeye weilding his gun
screaming at me in bahasa
but my nemesis never comes
as for billy pinder and i
well
plenty of new adventures await...

DECOMPRESSION

at the onset of nitrogen narcosis
i pause and come up for air
swimming slowly upwards
towards a dim half-light
my movements startle small shoals of tiny fish
i glimpse shadowy forms
lurking among the murky depths
watery mirages
gently stretching
gently kicking
muscles relaxing
sinews untwisting
going with the flow
sensing warm currents slide over cool currents
inhaling and exhaling
taking my time
pausing often
resisting the urge to go too fast
easy does it
thom & co told us all about the bends
brighter now
like emerging gradually from a long railway tunnel
watch out for sharks
they sometimes like to feed at these depths
the water becomes warmer
the light grows intense
the undertow bullies me
making me giddy
tired but not weary
with a final kick i break the surface
and
emerge
to
a
brilliant
blue
sky

LIFE'S TOO SHORT

we argue the toss
and forget what we’ve lost
all goodwill seems to have perished
we both think we've found
the moral high ground
but don’t they say that difference should be cherished?
oh i’m not gonna fight
or insist that i’m right
i'm not gonna sweat
or get myself upset
cos life's too short
life's too short
and i don’t want to waste it

the curtain has come down
the circus has left town
we gnaw on our bones of contention
you’re chalk and i’m cheese
i sulk and you tease
we’re pulling in opposite directions
but i’m not gonna stress
or change my address
i don’t agree this is how it has to be
cos life's too short
life's too short
and i don’t want to waste it

life's too short
baby let me tell you life's too short

remember the days it wasn’t all this way
the times when we were more forgiving
so let us shake hands
let us draft a new plan
it's time to call it quits
to rewrite the script
cos life's too short
life's too short
and i’m not gonna waste it

MANCHESTER REUNITED

in sunny interludes between showers
manchester sparkles with confidence
muscular victoriana banters with graceful modernity
in yer face hustle n bustle
the eighth day supplies tasty goulash n wry bread
greek olives
a rich palate of organic vino
and some wrapping paper in the shape of positive news
from st peters square
the tram arcs through a self-assured post-industrial landscape
nineteenth century iron railway engineering
recast as contemporary pleasuredome
elegant flats for hip young gunslingers
on the journey
i eavesdrop on harsh mancunian vowels
and fashion the last piece of my fancy dress
a jolly roger hat
i chat a bit with my hosts in the pre-party lull
fumble a few half-remembered chords
meet the other half of pampahoot
guests begin to arrive
some warm n huggy
others a little awkward n shy
down in the cellar
minny womans the bar
dj robin sets up his downloading rig
devon sproule?
no problem
meanwhile
steve's knocking back the ginger beer like it's lemonade
steady on pirate!
but boy does he look the part in his wig and eyeshadow
outside a wild snowstorm blows in
the jazz cigarettes circulate
colliding with the alcohol
i jam with natasha's jazz chords
ukrainian exhuberance colliding with english reserve
slowly the chemicals take their toll
hey what happened?
where am i?
resuscitated
we venture out into the sunday morning chill
small hour tourists in a surreal land
across the bridge
dawn slowly lightens the skies over the canal
illuminating the toe path
lightly dusted with a sprinkling of snow
we gasp lungfuls of cold oxygen
and exhale clouds of moist air
as we tread softly through the dreams of children

HOMO UNSUSTAINABILITUS

it has been termed
the supreme pathology of human history
its credo
all things must be consumed
used
burned up
worn out
replaced
discarded
at an ever-increasing rate
yep
this is the 'dynamic economy'
the one that politicians and the media obsess about
you know the story
mass consumption
unfettered interrupted economic growth
the be-all and end-all
chanted like a mantra
fetishised by the men in dark suits
pored over by analysts
even as resources dwindle
toxic particles fill the air
ice shelves collapse into the sea
populations inexorably rise
but where in this equation
is the planet as finite resource...?
if you look hard enough
you will find it
overlooked and ignored
sidelined and forgotten
its defenders laughed off
as hairshirters
cave-dwellers
troglodytes...
but hey!
look out the window
there he goes
that's homo unsustainabilitus
dragging his knuckles as he plods along
his glazed eyes focused on the middle distance
but that critter better watch out
he sure aint looking too healthy
and you know what?
he may not be around for much longer...