studied on the refrigerator door.
The cold hum,
by breakfast’s gleeful crackle.
To be a poet.
To move from town
To different town,
Each night to be ignored
Over indifferent tapas
In the bar of some
Chain arthouse cinema.
Through London streets
Now crunching wheels grind the concrete
Metal bones groan
The blasting surge of the Thames
Heard in silence.
And he, pausing,
an old man now
(by the standards of these things),
Stops and breathes.
He holds, not proudly,
The board he once rode.
One of many; a few shattered
And spilled him aslant on the slopes.
He is a phrase-book
Brought through time
To translate the thoughts of those
He knew here.
And it’s been published! By me! There’s a book with my name printed on the cover, not just scrawled on in marker pen. Pretty sweet. Massively thrilling.
Going to write another one. See you back here in a year.
OI! Go and read my pop column on MostlyFilm.com. It’s pretty good, you know.
I’m self-publishing, not because it’s a vanity project but because I want a copy for my daughter and don’t care to hawk it round publishers in the forlorn hope of getting it one day, maybe, printed.
It’s a book of rhymes, called “Eleanor Kisses Crocodiles”. I wrote the rhymes (with able assistance from my wife, especially on the “snake” page) about my daughter, and my Dad has drawn and painted the accompanying pictures. I got the cover pic from him today. It is amazing, it’s just beautiful. I’m uploading the text as I type this, up to lulu.com, and soon I’ll put together a proper cover, with words and stuff.
I’m actually doing this. It’s a thing. It’s going to happen. I’m going to be published. YES, BY ME. I know. But still. It’s exciting, however it happens.
I was working on this, but it has come to nothing. Sorry. I’ll try to get my shit together for Christmas. Something spooky, misty. Maybe. I PROMISE NOTHING..
The rain bounced violently against the window, perhaps anxious to be out fo the greyblack October sky. Marchant stared out, his expression blank.
“Well?” he said, not turning round.
“Well,” said the little man at the desk, examining a small box. “It’s a lovely piece, in terms of craftsmanship. I couldn’t call it lovely in any other regard, though. The design is quite hideous.” He put the box down, distaste registering in the movement. The lacquered surfaces of the box gleamed in the firelight, cherrywood inlays dancing with flame.
“And the contents?”
“Couldn’t tell you,” shrugged the little man
This is an homage to the awesome Lore Sjoberg’s ratings.
I can’t quite feel anything for Iggle Piggle, much. I don’t dislike him, but I don’t like him either. He’s a bit of a blank, isn’t he? Oh, sure, he likes bridges and dislikes mucky patches, but don’t we all? He likes Upsy-Daisy, but we never get a sense of how that relationship evolved. Iggle Piggle lacks depth. He carries that blanket around as a substitute for a personality, but I’m not fooled. Also his song is a bit of a half-arsed riff on the theme tune. C
I confess, I wasn’t much of a fan of Upsy-Daisy to begin with. Too much singing and skirt-inflation, not enough… well, anything else. But a few episodes recently have changed my mind. She couldn’t decide if she wanted to sing or play with the ball, to ride the Pinky-Ponk or the Ninky-Nonk! It was a masterful performance, and totally switched me round. Her song is a pretty solid composition, too, and I frequently find myself singing it to my daughter. B
Oh, I really don’t get on with the Pontipines. They’re kind of difficult. Wooden, for a start, and so simply animated that it is hard to get any personality from them. What do we have to go on? They’re terrible parents and make odd millinery choices. Mr Pontipine has a large moustache, like a retired colonel, and one can’t help but think the Pontipine children keep running away because he is a terrible authoritarian. You don’t get that feeling from the Wottingers, who are definitely the happier family. No moustache clinches it, also Mr Wottinger doesn’t have a hat which looks like a clothes peg. But you see them about once every fifteen episodes, and those bloody Pontipines turn up all the time C-
Now you’re talking. The Tombliboos live in a hedge, but not in a tramp way. Their platform-filled, black-as-night house will no doubt be the setting for many a childhood dream, leading some people to wonder if they only dreamed it, did it ever exist? But, you know, also they lose their trousers. A lot. The episode where they kept putting on each other’s trousers, then losing them on the Ninky-Nonk, then having to change behind a rock… I was in tears of laughter. Genuine comic genius. Trousers. And Derek Jacobi’s delivery is perfect – “Tombliboos, are you wearing the right trousers?” They are also excellent toothbrush advocates/propogandists, with some cracking rhymes (Tombliboos, form a line/Brush your teeth and make them shine) Okay, not quite a full A because their Pinky-Ponk Juice antics are a bit dull. A-
Mikka Makka moo!
Ikka akka, ooo
Ing, ang, ooo
Mikka Makka moo
Clearly, the Ninky-Nonk rules. The Pinky Ponk is just so slow and ponderous, it takes forever for anything to happen and if the Tombliboos get on they’re just going to arse about with Pinky-Ponk Juice. I do like the Ponk Alarm, though. Good to have a safety device that goes parp. The Ninky-Nonk is anarchic, has a lot of attitude for what is basically a bus shaped like a TARDIS being towed by a banana, and can climb trees. What’s not to love? Especially the trippy scale-factors. Is it knee-high? Is it truck-sized? Is it small enough to go along a little branch? It’s all of this! Okay, Derek is a bit wary of it (“Oh no! It’s the Ninky-Nonk!”), but he’s an old man, he’s probably worried about whether it’ll accept his Freedom Pass Oyster. Ninky-Nonk B+/Pinky-Ponk C+