I overheard a conversation on the tram this week between a man and woman. This is how it went:
WOMAN: (LOOKING OUT THE WINDOW AND POINTING): She’s a diva.
MAN: (A LITTLE LOUDER): A beaver?
WOMAN: (A LITTLE LOUDER): A diva.
MAN: (MUCH LOUDER) A beaver?
WOMAN: (VERY MUCH LOUDER): No! A diva!
MAN: (VERY LOUD) What’s a diva?
WOMAN: (LOOKING OUT THE WINDOW AND POINTING): She is. (SIGHS & THEN QUIETLY) Oh, she’s gone now.
Me yesterday
Me today
It’s the Blackpool Punk Festival.
Rebellion Festival Blackpool 2018
Interesting, exciting and intriguing four day event with a great atmosphere. I hang out but I don’t go to the ‘festival’. It attracts a lot of Europeans, including Dutch and German punks. They are all sweet and lovely and polite. A lot of local punks don’t go to the festival, they just hang out by St. John’s Church or around the Winter Gardens. People want to bond or socialise or relate with like minded people. I had a chance to see P.I.L who are headlining on Sunday but I turned it down. Why would I want to see John Lydon in the flesh? He would only disappoint me. I have no interest in seeing my ‘heroes’, I would feel that it would be a let down in some way. I had a chance to see Theatre Of Hate tonight, but I have C.D’s and videos of them. Plus I’ve seen Kirk Brandon before. I don’t really get the ‘live’ thing. I just don’t get it. If I could have a decent, lively, intelligent conversation with these people instead, then I’d prefer that. What I’m concerned about though, is the young punks who are so drunk (by 9 p.m) that they can’t walk straight and are dropping their money and hairspray and lighters….and I’m wondering how they are going to get through the night. And I worry about them. I suppose I’m getting old and mothery.
There was one guy tonight and his mohican was very flaccid. He staggered over to the glass window of a shop (one of those behind me in the picture) He used it as a mirror and put hairspray on and kept dropping it. He was very drunk. He looked over at me once or twice and I wish I’d have just gone over and helped him put his hair up and sent him on his way. I really regret that because he was all alone and seemed a bit vulnerable. I hate it when I wish I’d helped people and didn’t because I dithered or procrastinated or was too slow.
Oh, well, there’s always tomorrow.
‘Give in, give out, but never give up.’
There are two things that make me feel connected to Alexei Sayle. Firstly, Alexei Sayle was born and bred in Liverpool, as was I. He came from Anfeild. I spent my childhood in Kirkby and lived around the corner from Anfeild for about fifteen years after that. He lived near Liverpool’s Football Stadium and I lived near city rivals, Everton for a time, but they are both only a stone’s throw away from each other. Secondly, he was brought up in a communist household and regularly had to attend many sombre political meetings as he grew up. I also grew up in a hard left wing household and it influenced my outlook at the time.
While Alexei was from Jewish descent, I was the mad offspring of a Lapsed Catholic and a Don’t Care Protestant. I was only eleven when my community studies teacher affectionately called me ‘Trotsky.’ He explained to my witty school friend, Paula, that I impressed him. Quick as lightening, she asked ‘Where?’
Liverpool and its surrounding suburbs, where I grew up, were a bit of a labour area, both in terms of pregnancy and politics. Then again, everyone in Liverpool hated Thatcher in those days. The ones who can remember, probably still do, but while other girls were talking about clothes and make up, and could rattle off large numbers of boys they’d kissed, I was paraphrasing Norman Tebbitt and could reel off all the names of every man and that one woman in politics. It was my dad’s hobby and I wanted to impress him by being knowledgeable about it too, subconsciously of course, never consciously. I was so into politics at an insanely early age, that it was a bit like being made to smoke hundreds of cigarettes, and then being sick as a dog later on. Eventually, you can’t stand the pesky things. It wasn’t so much that politics was forced down my throat, it was more a passive thing. Passive politics. I couldn’t help but breathe in the fumes.
It never got quite so bad that I knew the ins and outs of each party’s manifesto, but these guys became my heroes and villains. Ken Livingstone was always getting into trouble and sounded like Henry’s Cat. Nothing’s changed there then. I remember Tony Benn being like an romantic 1940’s movie star. And who can resist the sweet, spicy aroma of pipe tobacco? Michael Foot was the genuine gentle geek hero with integrity, but looked like a scarecrow, according to every shallow soul in politics and the media , so, of course, he was dismissed out of hand. During the 1981 Remembrance Ceremony, ‘they’ took the perfect opportunity to character assassinate an elderly man who wore a donkey jacket because he was cold. We are told never to judge a book by its cover but Michael Foot was judged by his cover. People may not have actually used the phrase ‘Clothes Maketh Man’ against Michael Foot, but they rubbed his nose in it. After all, appearances are everything. They took their chance to attack a pensioner for his fashion faux pas and they ran with it.
In the opposition corner, there were characters like Michael Heseltine, who seemed wired up to a point of mania, but very passionate, and is still around, and, later on, Michael Howard, who had ‘something of the night about him’ according to Anne Widdecombe. Michael Howard was allegedly being followed by U.F.O’s at the time, so it was hardly his fault. Norman Tebbit, Enoch Powell and Michael Portillo were some of the ‘baddies’, who closely followed and aped Margaret Thatcher’s political style of Dickensian ruthlessness. Michael Portillo has since distanced himself from politics and decided that railways are much safer.
Nigel Lawson, Sir Geoffrey Howe and Douglas Hurd were also prominent members of the Conservative Cabinet. Unfortunately, I can’t help but think of them, without seeing them as Spitting Image puppets.
Labours dark night of the soul was at its darkest from about 1980 to 1990 and then Tony Blair was elected in 97 and broke the curse. Or did he? Now the gap doesn’t seem to be as wide between the parties. They started to blur after Blair.
Alexei Sayle calls himself a Marxist these days, perhaps he always did, but he’s probably as disillusioned as most of us about how idealism gets twisted, sometimes beyond all recognition for people’s own personal agendas. Politics and religion are like Chinese whispers. The purity of an idea goes through the mincer and it’s unrecognisable when it comes out the other end. It’s like when Jesus said ‘Love Thy Neighbour’. We have gotten so far away from that. As long as we remember the source. The truth can be forgotten and twisted but it can never be changed.
The young Alexei Sayle left Liverpool and became a student at Chelsea Art School. While he was living in London he became a stand up comedian, eventually working and writing with comedy heroes such as Rik Mayall, Peter Richardson, Dawn French, Ade Edmondson and Jennifer Saunders. He starred in and was part of alternative comedy classics such as The Young Ones and The Comic Strip Presents. He was the punk of stand up, shocking audiences with his own brand of leftist anarchist rantings. He was like a comedy Sex Pistol and likewise, the Sex Pistols were a musical version of him, Alexei Sayle with guitars.
Alexei had a mad foray into pop. His single ‘Ello John Got a New Motor.’ was a Top Twenty hit in 1984 and was nominated at ‘The British Music Industry Awards’, now called the Brit Awards. Sigh. Showing my age. Of course now it would be called ‘Ello John Got A New Low Emission Environmentally Friendly Affordable Family Car With Standard and Side Impact Air Bags.’ At this point, he might be thinking, if political correctness and car safety be the food of love, then pass the elasticated pants.
He’s still going strong. He has a blog and everything and is still with the girl he married before he become famous, which I always think is a lovely thing. I’ve read his memoirs and they are extremely funny and entertaining. I’m not a laugh out loud person but Stalin Ate My Homework and Thatcher Ate My Trousers will tickle even the most hard to please readers. His novels are a great read too. When I was sixteen I remember reading the first line of one of his novels, but for the life of me, I can’t remember what it was called. I do however, remember the first line, which was, ‘My penis nestled comfortably in my trousers.’ Yes, I do believe that was the first line, and to a sheltered sixteen year old girl, it was very shocking. As you can see, it scars me to this day.
Even in the scarecrow world, there is still a long way to go before we get anywhere near sexual equality, so I thought I’d let the girls have the last word.
The last of the big pretenders. Phew. Aren’t you phewing too? But there will be many more milling around Fleetwood on Tram Sunday 17th July. This is just the tip of the iceberg. I’ll probably see some familiar faces loitering, or generally sitting. Quite a lot of the scarecrows like a nice sit down and why not, all that stuffing is tiring. I’ll just wave and smile or give them a nod. We’ll have met before.
Anyway, not just one guy here,but two. So a bit of a misleading title there. I do apologise. Have you noticed when people say ‘I apologise’ it gets under your skin, because they’ve never actually said sorry? A cop out. So, I’m sorry. I thought I’d double up today, as it’s getting toward the end of the Festival. A scarecrow sandwich with nothing in the middle. Now I could have put a girl scarecrow in there, but this is a family show.
This one freaked me out a little when I first saw him. A devil worshipper ? The devil himself?
Then I saw what he was wearing. He may be looking all cool and is chilling and everything but it’s hard to take Satan seriously in a velour onesie.
I think this guy just worships Cheeto’s. He has some nice jeans on though. Quite trendy.
I saw them close up.
I’ve been travelling up to Fleetwood this week. I’ve gone crazy searching for scarecrows, like a paparazzi looking for celebs, for no good reason, other than, I feel I need to, and it’s fun and it’s community and it’s therapeutic somehow, right at this moment. I don’t normally do stuff like this. Who knows why we do some things, but sometimes you do something because it’s instinctive. It just feels right. There’s something very warm and fuzzy about community…and about scarecrows.
I can’t remember what was written on him. I hope it wasn’t too important.
This is actually a great little museum. One of their very friendly and knowledgeable volunteers took us round the whole place one afternoon, giving us detailed information and narrative on all exhibits and showed us what was in the hangar in the back garden. In it, was a beautiful old Smack (forerunner to the deep sea trawler) called Harriet, the last surviving fishing vessel of its kind.
People say the most amazing things sometimes. A lot of the time, us ordinary folk say the best things, the most encouraging things, the most enlightened things. Those wise words get spread around like rich, thick verbal butter. It’s yummy and greasy and once you get that quote on your hands, it’s difficult to wash off, so we’re better off just licking our fingers really.
Why, just the other day, my friend Mike said to me, ‘A trouble shared, is a trouble doubled’ and I thought that was absolute genius. He has been called a genius before interestingly enough, of the musical variety, but that’s another story. But back to the point, I thought I should catch up on the Friendship Book before getting down to sorting out my Quote Of The Week. The Friendship Book is one of those thought-for-a-day books, full of philosophical musings, spiritual insights and the occasional uplifting quote thrown in to make a point. Things to warm the heart on a daily basis. It never works out like that and I end up reading two or three weeks worth, all in one day. My heart is toast by the end of it.
Anyway, the first day to catch up on was 15th June or something, so I wasn’t too far back. The first words were ‘What are the ingredients that make up a man? And how are they best shown in his words and actions?’ followed by a quote from Tennessee Williams about the deceased actor Paul Newman, ‘You never really know what he’s thinking or what he might do but it always ends in kindness and fairness. A mighty recipe produced this man.’
What I found out, is that Paul Newman wasn’t just a ‘Hollywood Great’, as they used to call movie stars from the forties to the seventies. He was much more than that. We don’t seem to have ‘Hollywood Greats’ anymore and when he died, he was one of the last to go. (Hold on in there Kirk).
I was never really paid attention to Paul Newman, he was a very good actor but in a way, just seemed like just another pretty boy to me. What I learned about him is that he wasn’t like most of the other Hollywood stars, he was different. That’s what turned him from just another pretty boy actor, into a man.
‘He was a philanthropist, who had distributed more money – in relation to his own wealth – than any other American during the 20th century.’
He burned his tuxedo in his driveway and that was the last time he went to a black tie dinner event. He began making his own dressings and sauces in a washtub in his barn. He would tinker away for hours like a mad scientist, until getting the right combinations, flavour and taste, then he would bottle them up, wrap them in ribbon and give them away as Christmas presents. They were an absolute hit with the neighbours and Martha Stewart, now a famous American television personality, was actually one of them at the time. She once did a blind taste test on one of his relishes.
He called up his friend, A.E Hotcher, American playwright and novelist, and he came over and helped him with his mixes. ‘Newman’s Own‘ was born. The sauces went from the barn to the supermarket but that’s not what makes this special. I mean, it’s all very nice and interesting but it’s what he did next, it’s what Paul did next that I love. He started selling his sauces commercially and every cent of the profits went to charity. In 1988 the first Hole in the Wall Gang Camp was set up, helping 288 seriously ill children. By 2012, the camps would reach 384,700 children globally .Paul has been gone from this world now for eight years but the one hundred percent charitable donations continue. It gave me chills when I went to the website for Newman’s Own and it has a countometer thing, counting up the money made from the profits, in real time. Four hundred million dollars and counting. It goes up while you watch! Gave me shivers, but in a good way. The profits of Newman’s Own’s products go to charity , ALL OF THEM, and it made me go in search of the product and buy it. It just makes me feel all warm and gooey inside, a bit like his sauces.
Things In My Head 