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...

IDENTITY CRISIS

i am he
as you are he
as you are me
and we are all together

planning a little get-away for two
in order to sell-berate mrs f's 'special' birthday next month
i suddenly remember my passport's expired
talk about a birthday
renewing a passport marks the passage of a whole deck-aid
now ye olde red tape n form filling
sit pretty much at the top of my pet annoyances list
(say no 2 id, folks)
but i had 0 id-ea what i was letting myself in for here...
i wade through the form
and the pages n pages of notes
breathe a sigh of relief that this aint my first passaporte
which now entails having an interview
(just like getting a job folks!)
i write in the right-coloured pen in the right boxes
eventually track down the damage on the website
a cool 72 squid
plus 4 squid for photos
plus another 7 squid for their 'check n send' service
(hey someone's making a nice little killing outta this)
at the post office
before i get the mug-shot
i study the two-page full colour guide
to what you can and cannae have in your photo
anal retentiveness reigns supreme here
as elsewhere
i'm so busy making sure that my head aint too big or small
that my hair doesn't look daft
that my eyes are in the right place
that my mouth is closed
that i'm not grinning
the result is a real scowl
yep - i would comfortably pass as a lifer at winson green
now i'm at the counter
the teller looks uncomfortable
as she compares my new passport foto to my old one
'i'd recommend' she says
'that you get your form countersigned
i'm not sure you're recognisable from your previous photo
...you have changed quite a lot'
oops!
there was me pondering how little i have changed
since feb 98
discounting the discarded ponytail
and the newly acquired facial hair
it's me
honest, officer
it is me
where are you taking me?
is this some kind of joke?
HEY IT'S ME!
IT'S MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

WAKING UP

a glowing orange sun floods the woods
frost whitens the roofs
where the road curves downhill out of the sunlight
blackbirds stake out their chimneytop territory
at the park gates
magpies scoff
one-legged geese protest
wood pigeons flap
somewhere away in the trees
a lone woodpecker taps
a wagtail seesaws up from a rivulet and takes flight
beside the potholed path
i inspect the fruits of my labours
tender green shoots
force themselves through the damp turf
back at the house it's still quiet
i unroll my yoga mat
and tentatively ease my stiff joints through a few stretches
it's been a while but
ah - that feels good!
towards the end
the holidaying woodle appears
a bit tearful after getting her fingers trapped in the door
as usual she delights in disrupting my yoga
she giggles as she perches on top of me
titters as she slithers under me on her tummy
as i hold my back and hips off the ground
then i'm the one who's in stitches
as the woodle tries to copy my reverse headstand
and goes atumbling
keep trying woodle!

LONG (BUT MERCIFULLY CUT-SHORT) GOOD FRIDAY

7:30am: alarm clock goes off
open eyes and focus on woodle
sleeping peacefully and beautifically
mrs f already up n tapping next door
feel like a lie-in
roll over and go back to sleep
8:30am: woodle is up and at em downstairs
loud voices n some shenanigans going on
need the loo but resist
roll over again and carry on dozing
9:30am: open curtains n look out
morning sunshine on wet pavements
pull on dressing gown n head to loo
go downstairs and make breakfast
strong black coffee n muesli with soya milk
it turns out that raised voices
concerned super-dooper new washing-machine
pater losing it with mater
for putting on wash
without referring to instruction manual
there in a nutshell their opposite natures are captured
'caution n planning' versus 'dive straight in'
10:00am: eat brekky at living room table
with easter chicks mrs f and woodle have made
woodle switches on telly
mrs f heads back upstairs to continue blogging
10:30am: refill coffee
replace water filter on filter jug
run three lots of water through filter system
read a couple of pages of building green
whilst on throne
11:00am: watch cbeebies tv
woodle on lap
11:10am: uncle johnny suggests switching over
to watch anastasia cartoon film
woodle cooperates
m & p head off to do easter shop at sainsburys
woodle climbs onto uncle j's lap to watch movie
historical details are subject to considerable artistic licence
rasputin is a gross caricature
j n i gloss plot details to help woodle follow story
half watch film and half peruse washing-machine manual
12:00pm: get up to make more coffee for uncle j and moi
12:30pm: film ends
m & p return from supershop at supermarket
log on to wikipedia
to check out real story of rasputin, tsar nicholas and anastasia
1:00pm: shower
1:30pm: lump giant strawberry bag downstairs
full of accumulated washing from last week
but before anyone puts a wash on
dad insists on weighing out 6 kilos of laundry
using bathroom scales
to see how much machine can take
(6k = maximum machine capacity according to manual
though he hasn't actually read it)
6 kilos looks like a very large amount
dad seems satisfied
finally get wash on
2:15pm: heat up yesterday's tofu n vegetable stir fry
eat with couscous
3:00pm: make bread using breadmaker
3:30pm: make vegan flapjack mixture
4:00pm: flapjacks in oven
delicious smells of rising dough n baking flaps...
ah - that's enough cosy domesticity for one post
i'll leave ya to imagine the rest
a happy easter holy day to one n all

SUBURBIA

suburbia
where the developer bulldozes down the trees
then names the streets after them
where the cars slice violently through
the silence of the empty pavements
where fleeting figures emerge from vehicles
and disappear behind their net curtains
where white upvc and the nissan micra reign supreme
where the sun's trajectory is ignored
and light and shade is a random event
where design for living is conspicuously absent
and meaningful experience is not nurtured
where an empty expanse of turf passes for landscaping
where the pedestrian and the child are afterthoughts
where space and form collides instead of flowing
where the signature of the vandal's pen
doodles in frustration and alienation
where there is neither love nor care
thought nor harmony

RELATION SHIPS

the cheek of it!
a man cannae even maintain his own private blog
without his missus gatecrashing it!
in case you were wondering what was going on
it turns out that the last post
now deleted
the one that may well have looked like gobbledygook
since likely as not you haven't installed korean script
and probably can't read it anyway
was a well meaning attempt by my wife
to attach a link to her own blog
which now treats her readers
to my nasal singing
whenever they log in
what comes of having an automatic log-in on this pc
i guess
now mrs f's daily journal puts mine to shame
with its description and photos of each day's minutiae
and an interactive readership to die for
but she does need to get her links sorted...
you find me at the end of a fractious bedtime episode
in the company of the woodle
who is becoming more stubborn and stroppy by the day
i've always had a tricky relationship with the woodle
which i guess is not a huge surprise given the circumstances
of her growing up in the land of morning calm
surrounded by korean culture
with a korean mummy who was at home with her all the time
a korean nanny, aunties, etcetera
every aspect of her life was korean
except two - english tv/videos and her sweet daddy-o
now for long hours daddy wasn't there
and when he was
it was first thing in the morning or last thing at night
so it was always more difficult to understand or talk to daddy
particularly at emotionally charged times like bedtime
or when waking up in the middle of the night
in korea hannah got used to sleeping in our bed
or if i had to get up at the crack of dawn
she slept with mummy in her own bedroom
since we came to england
the routine hasn't changed
and she's stayed in our bed
refusing the comfort of her own cot
which is just a couple of feet away from mummy
now if she's in a good mood
she'll read bedtime stories together with me
but she still won't do lights out without mummy
no matter what
then when it comes to conflict
there's the dreaded good cop - bad cop routine
no doubt you've already guessed who the bad cop is
the one who won't promise ice cream or chocolate if she's good
the one who refuses to open another pack of biscuits
or let her watch another ten minutes on cbeebies
the one who ends up raising his voice when all else fails
the one who gets an 'i hate you!'
or provokes a hysterical tantrum
nice soft mummy is such a hard act to follow sometimes...
i tell myself
things will improve as she gets older
she'll be easier to reason with
but somehow i'm not so sure...