If, like millions of others, you have been wondering why T.O.W’s been a little quiet lately, it’s because we’re trying to make a wee Sit Com, bare with us! There’s some life advice and Motherisms in the pipeline! Love x x x
Cambridge University, I never went.
An eternity in East London, that’s hell for me,
Trapped with tasseled wasters and sailors with no sea.
Men dressed for hard labor, others as the savior.
Girls get a foot in, take off your top against Putin.
Do what it takes “make the most of your kit.”
3 pounds an arse and 2 pounds a tit.
Some dressed in bondage, parents paying the mortgage.
Others like looking like they came from the gutter,
Still sucking the teat of mumma and pappa.
You’re still dressed for bed at a quarter to five,
Have you ever got lost or wished by the Nile?
A million rainbows on a million heads,
The spectrum starts to lose it’s effect.
Stop looking at me I’m not here to be seen,
I’m not competition so stop looking so keen.
I’m out of the ring I’m out of the fight,
Take off your armour and let in the light.
Bring the country to me, buy a Barbour for rent,
But shudder at the mere suggestion of Kent.
“What about parties and what of the scene?
If I’m not there it’s like I’ll never have been,
Like, I won’t exist if the cool’s not near me.”
But this isn’t it, this isn’t right,
Just a great fleshy clod, pulsing with spite.
Where’s the young and the brave? The good and the bright?
Whose interest in space is more than zeitgeist.
You’re wasting time and sipping years.
Using bright socks to cover your fears.
The Achilles heel is not feeling what’s real.
Where are you? And what do you do?
Will they remember it in a decade or two?
I’m out of here, the great disconnect,
It’s all money and worry and meaningless sects.
The world is a vision and you all look the same,
Get out of my head and get back on the train.
I want some land and muddy beds of thyme,
I want expanse and a quiet slice of mind.
Release me from Smaug, gilded claws in my brain.
Take one giant fuck off pill and I’ll take the same.
It was a big day for Jesus, it was a big day for everyone, it was certainly a big day for mum. Christmas is upon us again.
I get in to the car the first thing I see is a bottle of empty Witch Hazel stuffed next to the gear stick.
Me: Have you been drinking Witch Hazel?
Mum: Yes I’ve been going mad for it.
Mum’s talking about how tough it was in the old days, again …
Mum: In my day …
Me: You were lucky to be alive.
It’s Christmas Eve Eve and mum’s put on her pyjamas and has decided to stretch out her shoes by putting them over some rather alarming furry, stripy socks and then preceding to cook supper. I am in hysterics …
Mum: What? This is high fashion sweetie, you go round Kate’s she’s always wearing these.
She is continuing to fart about in high heels and furry stripy socks …
Mum: Comfort over all, that’s the thing about going out, one can’t be as comfortable as one would wish.
Me: Thank God.
Mum is behaving like a 4 year old and wants to talk about all the presents that are sitting in front of us, so no one is surprised on Christmas Day.
Me: Mum, please, control yourself.
Mum: Oh I’m ALWAYS controlling myself … damn good thing too.
Mum brings out one of her Christmas jumper options from the wardrobe, it is possibly the first time it’s seen the light of day. She inspects it in the light for a couple of seconds …
“Oh, great. The moths have been at it …. fucking bastards.”
It’s Christmas Eve and back at home with the Twists, there’s no heating, well, mum has refused to turn it up past Arctic, so I have wrapped myself up in a light blue scarf to prevent heat loss from my head. I look a little like Mary, except I imagine Mary did not have blue lips. Mum looks at me and cries out …
“Oh yes, that is great! Get the camera darling, not many people can get away with a veil.”
Mum, out of the (turning) blue ..
Mum: I make very good cakes because I have cold hands.
Me: Good?
We’ve just had Christmas eve supper and we want some chocolates, as usual, there’s none in the house.
Mum: Sugar is the devil.
Me: Which is why it’s best enjoyed at Christmas.
Mum: Yes, exactly. Why do you think it turns up at all these religious festivals, it’s no coincidence.
It’s Christmas Day and we’re watching some carols, a man is vigorously conducting the choir, and next to me, so is mum …
Me: Thank goodness they’ve got you here conducting …
Mum: Oh don’t be so silly.
We’re on the way to our friends for lunch, there is a rather excited woman singing some of the most painful gospel I’ve ever heard ..
Mum (to the radio): Yes, ok very good dear …
There is a climactic screeching warble about Jesus …
Mum: Good God! What is she on?! I want some.
Me: Christ. I don’t.
We arrive at Appledore and see a strange wire-y statue of an angel …
Mum: Oh look … A deconstructed angel!
Me: I thought you were talking about me then …
Mum: It’s not always about you darling.
It’s present opening time and our friends little girl has opened another present revolving around One Direction, mum screams out ..
“Oh Honey! This is riches beyond the dreams of avarice!”
‘Twister Rave’ has been given as a present, we are all discussing whether or not we can play Twister, mum interjects …
“I can play poker.”
I gave my mum a bottle of Kings Ginger, which is pretty lethal stuff, fortunately I only gave her a tiny bottle, but the whole lot went as soon as we got back home. Then mum went on Facebook, and instead of spreading good cheer, has spread disaster, regardless of this I hear her shout …
Mum: I am the bard of the internet!
Me: You are the comment monster.
Mum: Here I come ….. Oh no. I’ve made another serious error here. Oh well. I say so little everyone loves it when I do.
I can hear mum on the phone to a friend …
“Oh darling no, you just do NOT wear diamonds in the day time, so vulgar.”
We’re watching Poirot …
Me: What the hell’s going on?
Mum: I don’t know but it’s all so stylish I don’t care.
I love you mum, best Christmas Ever x x x
It’s been a period of review for me according to the stars, who always give me the most reliable life advice, and what better place to end that period of review than down in Devon, with mum, who’s always ready to give a review ….
Mum’s on the phone ..
“How is Crystal Meth or whatever her name is?”
We are going to go and have a look in the charity shops …
Mum: It’s the most fun you can have with your clothes on.
Me: Ew.
Mum is looking in the mirror …
“Strange, the older you get, the more you can see your parents in you, I can see both my parents but I can’t see me …. The wonders of old age!”
Mum has a fabulous Austin Reed fake fur coat which means that she makes a massive display of being very hot whenever we go inside anywhere, much like a 2 year old would. We’re back in the car and it’s back to the coat ….
“Who needs a flat? I could live in this coat in the car …”
There’s an advert for some Morrisons version of Baileys …
Advert: Some drinks you just know will be popular at Christmas …
Mum: Yeah, any…
Mum has just showed me a funny video of a little dog in booties on her ancient computer, she turns to the even more decrepit television with verve, remote in hand …
Mum: Now! Back to Hitler, look at me multi tasking with all my machines ..
Me: Very impressive …
An innocent smoothie advert comes on telling you to buy a smoothie to help the aged, mum mutters ….
“Buy an old person a bottle of gin, they’ll be much happier.”
Mum’s talking about how she turned down being in a documentary, refuses to write an autobiography, but still plans on being very rich in her old age …
“I remember Dave Gilmore saying all we have to do is stay alive and we’ll make a fortune … I’m still alive … still waiting ….”
There’s an advert on where everyone’s putting decorations on their Christmas trees, mum does of course have something to say on the subject …
“Fathers always lose it at the point, they want to take absolute control but they’ve drunk too much and then the children get over excited, someone ends up in tears … it’s never how it’s supposed to be.”
The Hitler documentary is talking about how Germany wanted a hero, mum retorts …
“Heroes relieve people of their responsibility.”
We go outside ….
Mum: Am I wearing too much make up?
Me: No
Mum: You never can tell in that flat, the light’s so bad you can come out looking like the whore of Babylon.
We’re back on charity shops …
Mum: do you want to go to the cat charity shop?
Me: Not really …
Mum: No I went in there the other day, I didn’t find anything but mad people.
We are in Sainsburys, mum is chatting to a cashier who’s worked there for nearly 20 years, he’s talking about his next holiday …
Man: Yeah we’re going to go to Tenerife next year ..
Mum: Oh no! Oh not Tenerife, darling, really.
The guy looks a little shocked.
Me: Don’t worry, she’s just too old.
Everybody laughs. We walk off.
Me: Mum you can’t say that to people.
Mum: Yes I can. Tenerife’s hideous, it’s no secret.
We’ve just bought some nice Christmas cards …
Mum: I’m only going to do a few Christmas cards this year, just for cousins … and Aunty Mardy, if she’s still alive …..
A man fails to indicate and darts in front of us ….
Mum: BLOODY IDIOT!
She takes a quick look at the vista…
Mum: See that’s what I love about it here, so nice and quiet.
I call someone a douche bag, mum very innocently responds …
“I’ve never met anyone who’s seen a douchebag.”
I proceed to end up in a fit of hysterics in the bathroom after trying to suppress my laughter for too long.
We have got up at the crack of dawn and after packing and getting changed still have about 2 hours before we need to leave to catch the bus back to London. To pass the time …
Me: A documentary about fractals or The Illuminati?
Mum: Let’s have the illuminati they’re always good for a laugh …
We’re in the car on the way back to the bus, it’s a cold morning …
“See, the other day I put anti-freeze in, like a wise virgin.”
Just like a wise virgin x
Pink Floyd have wafted vaguely through my whole life. Like a heady, psychedelic incense they have always been in the air. They infiltrated my consciousness through old stereos and tape decks and later, when my mother was aware I had a consciousness, through my mother.
My mother had grown up in Cambridge in the ‘60s. A model for Ossie Clarke, the first Flake woman, a purveyor of quick wit and a partaker of LSD, she was one of the cool cats. Stories of Leonard Cohen, Nico from the Velvet Underground and Pink Floyd just drifted over me, as at 12 I had no real concept of who these people were. I was a latter-day cool cat at this point and uninterested in the past. But post my highly acclaimed Ferbie, Spice Girls and Run DMC era, I got Leonard Cohen down by the time I was about 16, Nico – I’m still yet to do; I was about 18 when I first tried to heighten my awareness of Pink Floyd. I went with my sister to the Live 8 gig – had I already been a long standing fan like my sister, I may have enjoyed standing outside the arena listening to the echoed reverbs of 50 year old men, as I was not, I did not particularly. Pink Floyd’s ember was left to glow in the back of my brain a while longer.
Then at the age of 20 a flutter of pages re-ignited my curiosity. I thought maybe I’d enjoy the literature about them more than I had their music, so when the biography ‘Pigs Might Fly’ was released I pinched my mothers’ well-thumbed copy and took it up to London with me. It was moderately interesting for the first 50 odd pages, but having not enjoyed their music and with no real reference to who any of these people were, except my mother who was being referred to as “Mad Sue” by the middle aged, Henry Rollins wannabe of an author, there was little impetus for me to read much more.
At this juncture I’d like to point out I’m listening to Pink Floyd now and, I do think they’re music is a bit, well, for the sake of argument, we’ll say it’s not to my taste. Which disappoints me, I expected more from myself; but I now remember why I regretted syncing my iPod with my dads’ computer.
From what I’ve read however, I like them, I like their lyrics, I like their intention, I like their balls (as in chutzpa – grow up) and I’ve always liked the sound of Roger Keith (Syd) Barrett.
Roger Keith Barrett was born in 1946 in Cambridge. As a child he loved art and as his parents noticed his talent he started attending Saturday morning drawing classes at Homerton College and later attended the Camberwell College of Arts. A month before Barrett’s 16th birthday, his father died, which people reasonably suggest being a potential contributor to Barrett’s later mental instability. Roger Keith, became Syd after the old, jazz double bassist Sid Barrett. Both Barrett and Pink Floyd (as they would become) respectively dabbled in music and bands and Syd joined them in 1965 when they were called ‘The Tea Set.’ Barrett later named them The Pink Floyd Sound, after an amalgamation of the names of Pink Anderson and Floyd Council, who he’d read about on a sleeve of a Blind Boy Fuller EP. Barrett is credited with influencing their psychedelic sound and having all moved to London they became the house band at UFO – where all the movers and shakers got groovy and off their nut, and then later, The Roundhouse. They swiftly became the most popular band of the ‘London Underground’ scene. The band were offered a contract by EMI and their debut single ‘Arnold Lane’ went to number 20, despite being banned by Radio London, their next single ‘See Emily Play’ reached number 6. The bands increasing popularity and vast fan base also increased the amount of pressure on Barrett. He was famous, as his true namesake Roger might have suggested (Germanic elements of Roger mean fame.) Consequentially Barrett’s intake of LSD and his erraticness increased (bouts of depression and schizophrenia were reported) as his level of dedication to the band, as a group, decreased. It decreased to a level where a new guitarist, David Gilmour was brought in to cover for Barrett when he was either physically or mentally AWOL. Barrett’s involvement in the band continued to decrease and in 1968 he left. Barrett made a brief foray in a solo career, coerced by EMI but this don’t last long either. After touring with Jimi Hendrix, sporadic appearances on the BBC and interviews with Mick Rock in the Rolling Stone in which Barrett contested he “couldn’t find anyone good enough to play with” – after his tour with Hendrix, Syd flitted between his home in Cambridge with his mother and London and then finally moved back to Cambridge for good in 1982. On this final return, according to his sister, Syd walked the whole 50 miles back. He secluded in to his burrow, reverting to his love of painting and cherished his privacy. In 2006 he died of pancreatic cancer having suffered from type 2 diabetes for years. Artists such as Paul McCartney, Pete Townshend, Marc Bolan and David Bowie have all acknowledged Barrett’s influence on their work. By many he was and still is called a genius. For me, the first thing that pops in to mind at the mention of his name is a story my mother told me of how he decided to paint his bedroom floor, but started at the door so he eventually painted himself in to a corner. It sounded like something I would do, a sucker for affinity, I liked this kid from the off.
This image flooded back when my friend who works at the Idea Generation Gallery told me they were doing an exhibition on his artwork and love letters to old girlfriends. I was curious, I still wanted to know more about this man who had played an, albeit brief part in my mothers life. So I put myself down.
On the morning of the private view, Radio 4 was as it is always in my house, burbling in the background, Woman’s Hour were chatting away about burkas or something, when I hear the name ‘Jenny Spires,’ my ears prick up. Jenny Spires, one of my mother’s friends and one-time girlfriend of Syd Barrett is talking to Jenni Murray about the exhibition. This is all too exciting for me and I have to lye down for a while. I have a very fine constitution.
Against all laws of chronology, the evening of the private view came around. I, like many others, was genuinely excited to be getting this personal insight. So, to mark this special occasion I put on my finest Yasser Arafat-style bedroom slippers, a flowery little crop top and a leather skirt. Looking truly extraordinary I headed out the door. Within a few steps I’d tripped over. Muttering profanities at the pavement I look down to see the pavement was not culpable and that the soles on my dictator slippers had all but disintegrated.
No time to change them now, I’m making a concerted effort to appear something approaching punctual these days. So looking like a drag incarnation of ‘Steptoe and Son,’ I trip my way to the exhibition.
“Kicking around on a piece of ground in your home town
Waiting for someone or something to show you the way.”
I show me the way and we arrive punctually at 7pm, there are already hoards of people. As is the correct etiquette at a private view, I head straight for the bar and wash warm rum down my throat. One of Syd’s paintings stand out, a picture of two lions lion with a woman and two children standing next to them. I stare at it momentarily and then am jostled back in to the running commentary of …
“Excuse me.”
“Sorry.”
“Do you mind if I just squeeze past.”
“That was my foot.”
“I’ll pay for the dry cleaning.”
A perpetual pigeon in a room of storks, crowds make me nervous, but nerves muted slightly by the Sailor Jerrys I slalom my way through the crowd and head straight to the love letters. They are almost childish in their romanticism, their lack of restraint, with ink pictures of stick couples left for the girlfriend to fill in. Which she does. The majority of his letters are to his girlfriend Libby Gausden, a smaller portion to Jenny Spires, which they had kindly donated to this exhibition.
We go outside for a cigarette and I regale the fascinating story of my battered shoes. The artist currently known as ‘T-Bone’ remarks:
“That’s what happened to Syd.”
“What did?”
“He tripped over his soul.”
Bar a few lines from Syd’s love letters I am quite positive this is one of the loveliest things I’ve ever heard.
With that in mind, we head back in but unable to concentrate properly as my magpie eyes find it impossible to direct their gaze anywhere other than Noel Fielding’s be-jeweled cape, we leave. I promise myself I will return another day.
As that hilarious old chap, Fate would have it, a few days later I receive an email from my mother and subsequently Jenny herself, saying that she would like to meet me and take me to a Q&A, it is at this moment I am alerted to the fact that the exhibition was actually a bi-product of a new biography about Syd Barrett, aptly named ‘Barrett’ by Russell Beecher and Will Shute.
On the day of the Q&A, moments away from the door I receive a call from Jenny asking where I am. I see a woman outside the gallery from behind and make the calculated assumption, as she was also on the phone, that this was Jenny, I cringe as the panto inside me blurts …
“I’m behind yooou.”
Jenny turns round, and either ignores or doesn’t hear what I say. She smiles and gives me a kiss. She tells me it’s lovely to meet me and to come inside. Having not smoked all day I make a quick apology and tell her I’ll follow her in while I clumsily balance coffee, tobacco and liquorice papers. As my mothers elected spokesperson on this earth – I don’t quite feel I did her justice here, and even less so when I discover as I enter the gallery wafting out smog-like smoke from an over-packed rollie, that Jenny wanted to introduce me to people.
The familiar feeling of vague embarrassment and guilt washes over me as I assert I wouldn’t have smoked had I known.
We look at some of the art and pictures, there is one of Syd in a room where the floorboards are all painted bar a mattress-shaped corner in the room. I tell Jenny the story my mother told me and she says that, yes, this is the room. I liked this, don’t know why. Jenny then walks me over to one of her letters, next to it a beautiful picture of her and Syd staring at each other with respective intent. Sunlight coming in from the window behind them. I look at Jenny now, her profile looking at her profile 40 odd years ago and I could see the same girl. The smooth curve of her nose and her soft cheeks. Syd had been a lucky man. We walk away from the picture and over to the scattering of people, while discussing the popularity of the private view Jenny, with amused humility says ..
“Yes, it was very funny, Graham Coxon asked me for my autograph. Should’ve been the other way around really shouldn’t it?”
I disagree.
I meet Russell, who is tall, with a kind voice and sporting a luscious head of raven coloured hair. A conditioned Noel Fielding.
“This is Jade, Sue Kingsford’s daughter.”
It turns out Russell as well as co-writing this book, had also made a film called ‘A Technicolor Dream’ in which my mother featured with a daffodil in her mouth, I profess this is the only part of the film I’d seen. He replies..
“Probably the only part worth seeing.”
I’m sure it’s not, but it makes me laugh.
I head over to the bar, a delayed reaction. Men, ever ahead of the game, are drinking beer, I go dead continental and get a glass of red wine. While a pretty girl struggles to find a corkscrew I start talking to the man next to me, no idea what I said, but it was probably idiotic. I progress from idiocy, to condescend him and say ..
“So what are you doing here? Do you work here or something?”
“I wrote the book.”
“Ah, right. I see….”
This is Will Shute, co-author of the book. He is young, with a shaved head, glasses and a nervous intelligence. As with Beecher, I gauge his intelligence not from the fact that he has written a book (whilst doing a PHD) but from his self-deprecation (which unlike Beecher I haven’t quoted, but it was present.)
He asks me to ask a question.
I hate asking questions at things like this, someone usually asks my question first (and uses shorter words than I would,) or I worry I’ll do something embarrassing while everyone’s looking at me. Like sneeze or spontaneously combust. But I’m no deserter, a loyal soldier I pry my brain for a question, and then remember a quote beneath one of Syd’s paintings I read while I was pretending not to look at Noel Fielding’s cape. I let the quote soak in the soup that is my brain as I find Jenny and sit down.
Jenny has a wonderful warmth about her, I wanted to nestle in close to her – but felt this might be creepy. So, I sat up straight, crossed my legs (as far as my brash, skin-tight, acid wash jeans would allow) and waited for everyone else to settle down.
The publisher of the book, a man who seemed lovely, but whose name I forget, introduces both Russell and Will and gives us a little breakdown of the schedule. This mission accomplished successfully he heads off to the shadows, or where they would normally be, and allows the limelight of our attention to drift over to the writers of the book. They sit next to each other behind a table displaying the immaculate books, two examples of the editions. One in orange leather with Barrett’s signature in green across the front, and another in emerald green leather with one of Syd’s illustrations of a turtle in brown stamped in the middle, had I £70 that wasn’t already owed to some hideous conglomerate, I would have gone for the latter.
We hear how Will, a renowned Barrett art aficionado, had come on to the book by word of mouth. Brain Werham, a wonderfully dressed man in a jade-green suite who also curated the exhibition had passed Will’s details on and thus, the book as we know it was made. The Q&A varies from repartee between the writers and a woman who went to art school with Syd, questions of what colour the paintings in the black and white photographs were, why they had decided to write the book – which is because when Russell made ‘A Technicolor Dream’ he came across so many of these rare and undiscovered photographs and paintings that he felt they should be shared; and then, all of a sudden, it was my turn.
Automotive Systems are go!
I shoot my hand up. They ask someone else.
Don’t remember what they said, I took it personally and was too busy telling myself not to take it personally to listen to either question or answer.
Automotive Systems recharged, I fling my hand in the air again. I am granted a nod of acceptance, this is it. This is my moment. I direct my gaze at Will and wax lyrical …
“There’s a quote underneath one of the paintings that says “Roger was influenced by Roger” what do you think that says about the variation in his work, that we can see.”
Will says he liked this quote too, good man.
He actually misinterprets my question, but his answer is far more interesting – he goes on to say that although Roger was influenced by Roger some of the variations in his style have been compared to, well, I forget whom. But people who would be interesting if I had the slightest iota of knowledge about art. But Will says he can see consistency in Syd’s work. He has a finer eye than I.
What I actually intended was (in retrospect) to try and get Will to do an Oprah style psycho analysis of Syd; in that if “Roger was only influence by Roger,” and his work is so varied was Roger himself in a constant state of flux or change? Or did the variation in his art say nothing about his instability and reported schizophrenia; he just did what he felt like at the time. But as much against art critics philosphising the meaning behind the artist painting certain things as Miró – I wont even attempt to answer my own question, because it pales in to insignificance really.
The Q&A over we are invited to be shown around the paintings and letters by Will and Russell. I slip out for a cigarette to find Russell and a man who was from the Belgian parliament (as far as I remember) outside. We make jokes, forgettable ones, but oh how we laughed.
I head back in and am introduced to Brain, the man in the jade-green suit who is tingling with excitement. He offers to show me around the paintings but first asks …
“Guess whose suit this was.”
“I don’t know … James Bonds.”
“Kevin Spacey’s”
I smile and he shows me the inside of the breast pocket that confirms, the suit was indeed Kevin Spacey’s. I am suitably impressed, as was Noel Fielding apparently, but then I always knew we shared a similar taste in clothes.
Brain’s excitement is tangible and contagious. I can’t help but get excited. When at first glance, admittedly, a lot of it looked like the random sloshing of paint on canvas – or paper, they reveal themselves to be, after more considered studying and direction from Brian, quite considered. Blobs that look like blobs reveal themselves to be large stones from a park in London, a darker, purple version of the blobs are the stones at night. A little blob inside the blobs is not actually a blob, but a very accurately depicted (in it’s precise colouring) specific type of lichen that grows on the stones. A wash of orange and red in thick acrylic is the burnt orange candle that stands next to it. Child-like skills such as painting over wax are used. Every painting is much more intentional than I’d initially realized. Like his letters it is, in my opinion, their childish romanticism that makes these pictures so, well, I’m going to say it, touching. In the knowledge that he was such an intelligent, sad man, the infantility of his art has a very endearing yet melancholic lilt, to me anyway.
But like I have any fucking idea what I’m talking about anyway.
To read about this man and his art by people who actually do know what they’re talking about, go here ….
And because I promised Brian I’d plug it (that’s right you two readers – mum that includes you,) make Brian’s day and go down, it’s a truly lovely insight in to a small part of a wonderful mans mind ….
http://gallery.ideageneration.co.uk/
Last week I went down to see mother, it had been a tough fashion week and I needed to feel looked after. I’m twenty seven, sorry mum …
I have had a Norse Myths and Legends CD stuck in my computer for quite sometime now, it means it makes a whirring, crunching sound every time I turn it on … Mum looks at me quite alarmed and says ….
“Is it making cheese?!”
Mum wants to watch Breaking Bad on my Netflix account, I find it remarkable that she knows what either of these things are, and that she is now light years ahead of me in tv series. I tell her she can use my Netflix account ..
Mum: But hang on ….. won’t they get suspicious?
Me: Who mum? The C.I.A?
Mum: Well, yes, with your track record …
Me: Yeah, I can see the headlines now … ‘DAUGHTER LETS MOTHER USE NETFLIX ACCOUNT.’ It’ll be the ruin of our family name.
Mum: Your family name, maybe …
I’m trying to help mum watch bloody Breaking Bad on my Netflix before I go for a swim, after many attempts at trying to mentor her through it, and watching her click on the wrong thing over and over again, she finally bursts out …
“Oh for God’s sake! I wish I was a bloody tree.”
Mum is talking about her nightly audiobook routine of listening to Jeremy Irons reading Brideshead Revisited …
“He’s just brilliant, half a page and I’m fast asleep, I do worry though, if I ever met Jeremy irons I would just slip in to a coma.”
We are reminiscing about the building of the house we lost, we get on to the subject of ‘Builders Tea’ …
Mum: I remember when I gave Morley Airs his first cup of tea with us, he spat it straight back out and said “Whats that maid?!” “It’s Earl grey, Morley.” “It may be, but I don’t like it.”
Me: Good story.
Mum: Oh Fuck off.
Mum has been informed there’s a sex worker in South Molton, she has also been informed you can find her online, mum finds this fascinating …
Mum: Harriet says there’s a prostitute in South Molton, I’m going to google it.
Me: I look forward to you having that on your search history.
I go back to watching University Challenge …. minutes later …
Mum: P. r. o. s … prostitutes South Molton …. google search “south Molton escorts …” obviously they’ve interpreted ‘prostitutes’ in the broadest sense …. ah here we go … South Molton prossies …
Me: You’re going on it?
Mum: Yeah …
She starts reading out the names and descriptions …
Mum: Curvy and sensual … OH MY GOD! Sweet Jesus …..
I’m now laughing …
Mum: “Fuck my arse” ….. OH charming!! Get it off! Turn it off!
I’m now in hysterics …
Mum: Oh how horrible. South Molton used to have a lovely old prossie next to the chip shop, where if you have thruppence, you could go upstairs.
Me: Ah, the good old days, when you could get a little extra with your potatoes …
My old school has decided to put Latin back on the GCSE syllabus, I am jolly pissed off about this as I am currently trying to teach myself …
Mum: Anything sounds clever in Latin
Me: Why do you think I’m learning it.
Mum: Ut is ‘in order to’ … I’m going to get the car keys “ut” go to Tescos.
Me: Wow, that sounded really smart ….
A poem I’ve written is doing rather well, mum reads it …
Mum: It really is very good, completely strange, though very, very good … but then you are at a slightly oblique angle to reality all the time ..
Me: I’ll take that as a compliment, I’ve decided to take everything as a compliment. It’s doing wonders for my self esteem.
Mum: Good for you darling.
It’s the Barnstaple fair, we drive through late in the afternoon as they’re finishing setting everything up with lots of barriers and metal fences, though there’s no one there yet ….
“Oh yes, hold back that crowd! It’ll be an evening of riotous activity, they’ll be staggering about without their shoes on before 11pm.”
Mum’s trying to lure me in to watching Montalbano …
Me: No mum. No way. It such a waste of my brain.
Mum: But it’s young Montalbano, young Montalbano’s very tasty.
Me: No. Still no. Just because he’s not fat and bald doesn’t mean he wont give me brain rot.
Mum: Quite right, bare that in mind in real life too, darling.
Mum is making supper …
Mum: Getting very creative here …
Me: Please don’t get too creative.
There’s an advert for Viking cruises on television …
Mum: That’s what I should be doing with some grey miserable bastard. Circling the planet catching e-coli.
Me: I think that sounds fabulous.
Mum: It’s a plague ship, darling.
The fireworks are going off for Barnstaple fair …
“Hezbollah are closing in on North Devon Leisure Centre …”
I’m flicking through the tv channels, I get very excited at the amount of history programmes on ….
Me: Fire of London then The Battle of Trafalgar …That’s our saturday night!
Mum: Sounds good, though no Montalbano?
Me: No, not even the young one.
It’s Sunday and we’re parking the car, I’m reading whether we have to pay ….
Me: Monday to Sunday … that’s everyday!
Mum: Every minute of your bloody life. Cooking meth is definitely the way forward.
It’s a bit later and we’re cooking supper, I am watching an announcement from UN Secretary General Ban ki-Moon to my old school as I hear …
“Oh fuck! It’s the cinnamon not Tumeric!!”
A few minutes later ….
Mum: Here we have vegan cinnamon and mushroom ratatouille …
Me: Mmmm…yum.
We are on the subject of life skills, I am trying to persuade mum to do something creative with her life, this was her response …
Mum: One day I see myself becoming a drug dealer … Working with little kiddies …
Me: Jesus Christ mum, it’s like living with Frankie Boyle.
AI had a phone call with mum a couple of months ago, for the few days prior to it I noticed mum was sending me fewer and fewer kisses in her texts, I had been wracking my brains trying to figure out what I could have done wrong (without actually asking), then ….
Mum: You’ll have to call me back darling I haven’t got much credit … That’s why I haven’t been sending many kisses.
Me: What? Mum, you don’t pay per kiss.
Mum: Oh!
Dear Mother, the cinnamon and mushroom ratatouille was delicious, I don’t know how you made it work, but you did. x x x
Rise before dawn, still in the air, still dew on the lawn. The status quo, trawl the front row. Shoulder blades, laws of status, old faces. Pseudo misanthropy, an attempt to look deep. A fortune spent looking this cheap.
Sushi and coffee and coffee and coffee.
Italian and French Paolo’s head through the fence. Freemasons halls, a dozen missed calls. Outer space, Cirque du Soleil. Saturn and Pluto, handbags in situ. Rain and white widow and stolen prosecco. Glass of champagne and my last love’s new flame.
Tumbling models and lemon tarts.
Heart beat next to Richard E Grant.
Cat hair and creases. Mirrors on dresses on nieces.
Feet ache, ball ache, edit suite, Editgate.
Surgery faces, planned features, hard lips, voluptuous hair to cover the nips. The call of the wild in none of their eyes. Fake suites, real laughter, deaf and toothless taxi driver. Foundation cracked smile, crow’s feet for a country mile. I’m your boss and his slave, my enthusiasm concave. Leather and lace, veiled net of a face. Cold stone and old brick, the show ponies new trick. Grunge is not dead, it’s been dragged through my head.
Who’s wearing what? Who knew who’s who of who’s who?
Who went to what?
Quite frankly, who gives a fuck.
B roll and close ups, let’s cut it with lies. Fake parties in your mind. Nods of recognition, the prudence of Titian. Dragon flags and bits from the bible, back drop for the couture disciple. Walk past the crowd, let my back catch their frowns. On stilts for my job, feel my feet throb. Birthday forgotten, too late for downtrodden. Lose my patience, airs and graces now latent. Androgynous bones, Delevingne’s eyebrows, drop hips like drones.
Spoilt brat rattles, cigarettes from Seattle.
Explosions of gold an avalanche of petals.
Chandeliers and candles and tempered metals.
A walking dog’s wit? Oh, my wrists are still slit.
Around a round table, the jabber of Babel.
American girl unsure of me, the other wails my prophecy. New York New York, come to New York. You could to stand up, we’d laugh when you talk. All work and no man, all going to plan. No man and no guilt, miss the eiderdown quilt. Pap scrums, zone out, barbarians shout. Pillage her image, she came from a village. Night black chocolate and edible stars. Donated by adonises, I have the mic on I promise.
Cucumber sandwiches and Mulberry punch.
No solids, they’ll vomit, no tip of a crunch.
A time-lapse of time and Daisy Lowe’s mind.
Climb the same walls as Henry VIII
Would he have cared that the videos late?
It’s on time it’s all fine. You can tell Anne Boleyn,
The problem was love, your neck was too thin.
In utero. Want out.
It’s time I split.
It’s fashion, it’s fine, darling, someone else take the kit.
It was that time of year again, the waning sun burning a deeper, hotter orange, setting earlier, weighed down by the load of summer.
September heralds my birthday, Fashion Week and for the last two years, Bestival. Lexxi had got the tickets months in advance, and having had such an amazing time last year, we were pretty excited.
In the months that had proceeded our last adventure a lot, and also not a lot had changed in my life. September had meant new beginnings more so than ever last year and Bestival felt like it had already become a right of passage.
In preparation for our expedition I packed porridge (so I wouldn’t have to buy any food) some vegan green protein miracle sachet things, some hash I had splashed out on the night before and an enormous bag full of around 7 different outfits, of which I wore none.
All seemed like it was going to plan.
Until it stopped going to plan.
Lexxi had to work late on Thursday night, meaning that unlike last year we would be heading there on the Friday.
A day late.
This was the beginning of the end. This small ripple in our journey would smash it’s way through the entirety of our adventure.
I met Lexxi at Waterloo. She was eating a burger and informed me she had brought everything I might forget – sleeping bag, anorak, wig ….
We bought our train tickets and started our journey. The train ride was uneventful enough, unlike last year I had mastered the lock mechanism of the toilets and we arrived at Portsmouth Harbor as the sun started to shatter it’s way through the clouds.
With a healthy sympathy discount off our ferry tickets we climbed aboard.
The sun was higher in the sky than last year, but fewer people on the sun deck.
There was less sense of adventure.
There was less romance.
We were a day late.
We arrived on the Isle of Wight at Ride, a picturesque little town I would have been quite happy to stay in and while away a couple of days in the dated hotels and fish and chips shops, but we trudged with the rest of the stragglers to the ‘Big Green Bus’, some of them almost retarded with excitement, others drinking neat Vodka from the bottle.
I put on my shades and did not engage.
No sir. I am no fun.
The press line at the festival gates was empty, as was the woman at the kiosk. She looked at me. Waynes World on acid. She did not like me.
Woman: It’s £40 for her …
Lexxi: What? It was free last year …
Woman: She’s your plus one? It says on the email, £40.
Lexxi: It’s Jade Fitton
Woman: Fitton?
Me: Yeah.
Woman: Yeah it’s £40.
Me and Lexxi: We only have £30.
After a few minutes of persuasion.
Woman: Ok. You can go through but you need to bring back the other £10.
We walk off.
Me: Does it really say £40 on the email?
Lexxi: Yeah but it has every year. We’ve never paid.
A day late.
Me: Right. We’re not actually going to go back and give her that tenner are we?
Lexxi: Nope.
Me: Sweet.
We get to the bag search point. I am first.
Man: I need to search your bags.
He opens my hand bag to find a lot of books and note pads
Me: Nothing but good literature in there my friend.
Man: Do you have any alcohol?
Lexxi: Yes.
I look at her. This is not the right thing to say. He looks at her like this is not the right thing to say.
Lexxi: I mean, no. No, just Coca-Cola.
Lexxi has put the rum in my bag, I know she has nothing on her, and he only suspects her.
Me: I don’t have any – can I go through?
He has half-heartedly searches two of my bags, but is eager to move on to Lexxi’s and find the liquor.
I pass.
He finds no liquor in Lexxi’s.
Man: I don’t understand where this alcohol was supposed to be.
We shrug and skip off, elated by our successful deception. Fuck the system. We just side stepped it.
We headed off down the sunny hill ready to wander the path to the camp site. Happy, as the sun began to set.
Happy and alone.
A day late.
We turn the corner. We are the only ones to turn the corner.
Police.
Undercover.
Detectable only by their sniffer dogs.
Sniffer dogs. Shit. The hash.
Lexxi also has a small amount of weed on her.
There’s not much we can do here except let it happen.
I walk first. I walk alone.
The black Labrador catches the Moroccan incense emanating form my pocket and follows me, but starts sniffing my crotch, I try to make our like I’m a bit disgusted by this perverted dog.
Then it sits down and looks up at me with its doe eyes. It looks like the dog I had as a child.
Nice doggy.
It’s a trap.
JUDAS DOGGY.
A rotund woman runs over and grabs my thumbs in some strange sort of Chinese finger trap.
“I am constable blab la bla”
Police officer: Do you have anything on you you are not supposed to?
Me: No …
This was supposed to happen.
Police officer: We are going to have to take you in and search you.
The police officer drags me back up the hill, with her flakey looking young blond side kick.
Police officer: Have you been around anyone who might have smoked anything?
Me: Yes.
Police officer: Who?
Me: Me.
Police officer: What?
Me: Weed.
Police officer: When?
Me: This morning.
Police officer: When was that?
Me: Ummm … about an hour ago …
She takes me in to a white cellophane camp erected around the back of the festival like area 51.
Individual cellophane search booths.
She instructs me to look up at the cctv camera they have placed at the entrance. She speaks well and looks like every hockey teacher I ever had.
Waynes World on acid.
Asking for trouble.
Police officer: Can you remove your hat and glasses please.
Me: You mean my disguise?
She laughs at this as I remove my disguise.
I look in to the camera. It’s like being back at a casting.
A day late.
I am funnelled in to a search booth and put my cap back on as her spineless counterpart with her festival wellies and perfect manicure struggles to spell my name, address, and in fact, all the words I say.
This annoys me. She is quite clearly an idiot.
The police officer takes off my jacket. The hash is in the top right pocket. It’s the first place she looks.
Police officer: Top right pocket Miss Fitton.
Me: Yeah … shame that. Are you going to keep it?
Police officer: Yes.
Thinking that as she had enjoyed my last joke so much I hit her with another.
Me: You guys are gonna get so hiiiiiiiiiiiigh.
I think she is laughing as she bends down to search my bag. She must be coughing as she looks up red faced.
Police officer: I don’t think you are taking this seriously JADE!
Me: No, quite right, I don’t really know what’s going on here if I’m honest.
She informs me I am being given a caution for the hash and if they find anything else they will take further action.
Me: There’s nothing else in there.
Police officer: That’s what they all say.
They?
I’m one of “them”?
I am not one of them.
She flicks through the psychedelia of Timothy Leary looking for more drugs.
She flicks through the irony.
She starts riffling through my porridge and vegan treats.
Me: Dietary requirements of a drug fiend.
This really pisses her off.
Police officer: You might think this is a joke, but marijuana ruins lives.
I realise it’s probably time to wind it down a bit. I assume she has seen some terrible case of marijuana addiction. Later I find out what she really means.
I decide to get her back on side, I start questioning the law, acting interested, we agree that booze is indeed probably more dangerous than weed, but none the less, one is illegal one isn’t.
She informs me of how she got someone earlier for having a large quantity of what he thought was MDMA, it turned out when they tested it it was actually a class B substance, but, because the guy had thought it was MDMA they charged him with that.
She laughs as she tells me this.
Me: So you charge for intent? That’s interesting. Good thing I didn’t think that hash was anything else.
She then reveals “Marijuana itself doesn’t necessarily ruin your life, but we can if we catch you.”
I don’t like this.
Marijuana is such a fucking harmless thing, when it’s not skunk, and when you’ve bought it so you don’t have to drink yourself in to a fucking stupor at a festival.
Me: Oh right. Ok.
Police officer: If you’re found in possession of marijuana again you won’t be able to take your family to Florida.
I’M SORRY WHAT?
I won’t be able to take my family to Florida if I get caught again.
Fuck you bitch. My family will have many happy trips to Florida. They just don’t know it yet.
Police officer: Who was this hash for?
Me: Me.
Police officer: Only you.
Me: Yes.
She gives me a copy of my caution, but as far as I’m concerned I leave empty handed and full of disappointment as to how we live now. The laws that are enforced on the individual. I would watch a stand up called Peter Cain the next day who would put it all rather well.
We arrive at the camp site and find a good spot, same camp site as last year, just a day later.
Lexxi was a cub scout and takes control of the tent as I smoke and make rums. I was only a hindrance last year anyway we both agree.
I make a spliff with Lexxi’s weed and we head out in to the night.
We dance around like maniacs to non-descript bands. We find a tent playing Paul Simon, and leave when they stop playing Paul Simon. We smoke more. A man comes out of the artists area and apparently sees my “beauty” even with my disguise of no make up and nerd cap. He kisses me on the cheek and walks off wafting aftershave. I find this unnecessary. We make up our own songs. We smoke more. And end the evening with tea and porridge. At the tea que is a big bear. We are very stoned.
Lexxi: Don’t look the bear in the eye.
Sound advice.
I don’t.
The next day I wake later than Lexxi and she hurries down to the press tent to charge her phone as I crawl out of the tent covered in oats, my face plastered with it like I’d come out of health spa.
I put on my cap and head to the toilets. My back feels like I’ve been sleeping on rocks with no pillow. Funny that.
I arrive at the toilets. Queues of people.
Fucking people man, why have we not evolved past this.
I go in and retch.
Don’t look down.
Back in the tent I start writing, people walk past admiring our pretty girly tent, even guys. One guy walks past …
Guy: Nice tent.
He spots me, writing, and puts on his very best Terry Jones doing a woman voice …
Guy: Dear Diary …
I laugh.
Lexxi comes back after an hour or so and we make our way to the forest, our favorite area last year. All summer dappled green leaves and nice hippies playing music.
There is little sun today.
The forest had been pillaged the night before.
It’s smattered with beer cans and plastic bags.
We smoke a spliff. Lexxi looks great in a sequin dress and lots of jewels and make up. I have been coerced in to wearing a blue wig under my cap. I look like Trailer Trash Mermaid.
We spot a tarot reader that does readings for donations.
I take off the wig.
Lexxi goes in first. She comes out looking happy.
I go in. There she is. My mystical buffer. Roxy. In a luminous hue of turquoise, sequins and khol eye liner, the coach is small and warm, there is a scented candle burning.
She shuffles the cards.
Then I shuffle the cards and split the pack.
She talks about my love life first, the news she has for me is disappointing, so not a surprise.
Then with the rest of the cards it just feels like she’s clutching at straws.
Roxy: You are worried about a young person.
Me: No …. I don’t think so.
Roxy: A baby maybe?
Me: No ….
Roxy: There is a very young energy here. You are not worried about a baby? A young child?
Me: No … not that I know of.
Roxy: Ok well maybe a miscarriage.
Alright Roxy. Thanks love. Enough. I’m done here. The police officer told me I wasn’t going to be taking my family to Florida, you’re telling me I won’t have a family.
Let’s get our facts straight people before we start saying shit we might regret.
I leave, disappointed, and listen to Lexxi’s good news.
We head to the press tent. What a fucking let down. Everyone in there is a disappointment.
Turns out music journalists don’t look like they did in the ‘60s. Now it’s become just another job, like all the other jobs. They’re all bad clothes and no charm. Expressionless muted skin and faded denim with features you’ve seen a thousand times before. And here they all are in the mint green crushed velvet tent, syphoning through images of nobody bands to the ether.
No fucking kid in 50 years time is going to google this shit. This is for the zeitgeist and then lost for eternity.
I look around.
Everyone’s tired and over their job but they keep it so they can tell strangers and pretend like they’ve made some headway in life, when actually all they feel is empty, impotent aspirations.
There’s a guy lying on the pillows looking like he’s given up.
Lie back and close your eyes.
Pretend your back at home.
Then open them and get up and go through the motions in the rain.
Fat from too much healthy takeaway.
Skin bloated with Berocca.
There’s not even fucking free water here. There’s nothing but a waste of space.
We head back out.
I spend 5 hours in the comedy tent, steadily drinking rum and laughing at a few. I finish the rum. It’s all the booze we have left. It’s around 7pm on the second night.
We leave the comedy tent to head back to ours for a bit. Swarms of people are coming back out as the night starts to swallow the sky.
This is the witching hour.
They’ve already lost it but they’ll keep going. They’ll keep going all night and all day tomorrow if their hearts are still beating.
We get back to the tent, I put on another coat and Lexxi umms and ahhs as to whether she should take the gems on her face off.
Lexxi: Should I take these off?
Me: I really wouldn’t worry about those love, out there they’re all so fucked they’re seeing stars anyway.
She agrees.
We smoke again.
I lye down. I want to go to bed. Lexxi is also tired. Its about 10pm.
Me: We can’t go to bed now …. Can we?
Lexxi: No, Snoops on.
Me: Ok.
We get up and make our way back out in to the night. In that time it appears everyone there has taken a serious amount of pills, and everyone seems to be coming up and going over at the same time.
Everyone but us.
There are two girls dressed as starfish. One so pilled up she can’t look at anyone in the eye, because her eyes keep rolling back in to her head.
I am transfixed by her.
Snoop Dogg is shit.
These girls are with two guys who don’t seem to care that this girl is so fucked she is at risk of losing her eyeballs. Just as long as they wake up in the same tent. With staggered regrets.
The girl wobbles over to talk to us. She asks if we have a “Pwrogrwamme.”
I am so horrified I just stare open mouthed. Lexxi informs her we do not, because even press didn’t get them for free now.
We’ve had enough. We buy a cup of tea and head back to the tent.
I look up at the sky when we reach our tent.
“Wow, look at those stars.”
I think I must be the only person looking up at the stars.
We get in to the tent and start rolling again. Lexxi has more weed than I’d realised.
A guy walks past our tent with a group of friends …
Guy: Woah … look at the stars!
His friends ignore him, but he has restored something in me. I want to get out and hug him.
We sit listening for a while longer, and as another group of guys go past another man says “Those stars are epic.”
I love these guys. I shout it out to them. It pleases them.
Girls stagger past talking about boys. I want to throw the stars in their faces and wake them the fuck up. Look around you, you idiots. Fuck the stupid guys. Who gives a shit if he likes you or not.
THERE IS SO MUCH MORE.
We go to sleep bemoaning the increase in dance music.
I wake at 7.30am, it is pissing with rain.
I go back to sleep.
I wake again and 9.30am and get up.
We need to get the fuck out of this place. I don’t even want to stay for Elton John.
We had completely run out of money, but fortunately we’d bought a return ticket for the bus, that when I asked 10 of the 15 people who worked there it’s hours on Sunday morning, though none of them actually knew, including the bus driver, they all guessed around 6am. It was now about 12pm.
No. Your ticket is not valid on this bus.
Me: Why?
Oxfam woman: It’s only for the Big Green Busses and they don’t start til later this afternoon.
This whole thing is a fucking farce.
Lexxi: How much is this bus?
Irrelevant, we have no money.
Oxfam woman: £4.50. Apparently this has happened to a lot of people.
No shit. The festival has felt like a scam the whole way through. But it’s not a scam. It’s just a fully functioning business now and I want out.
We try to get on the bus with no money. The driver is relatively sympathetic but instructs us to go and see his bosses who are sitting in a van behind the buses. We explain our situation. That we have no money and are trapped.
Man: Would you ask a taxi driver for a free ride? I mean what do you think we’re running here?
Me: I thought you were human beings and might treat us like ones.
Man: We are human beings.
You’re the wrong kind mate. We walk off.
What are we going to do?
I decide we must hitch. That’s fine I can handle that, it actually seems like a good idea. So we walk to the gated entrance.
Security: You can’t come through here.
Me: We’re leaving.
Security: You can’t leave here on foot.
Me: Are you being serious? We can’t LEAVE?
Security: Not unless you’re in a vehicle.
This is too much. It’s like a fucking detention camp. I want to scream, but instead I breath.
We manage to jump on another bus going to the other entrance. Away from where we need to go, but at least away.
We meet a nice couple who let us in their taxi, trusting we will pay them at the other end.
Human beings.
We spend the rest of the journey with this lovely couple, and it is not an effort to spend the 4 hour journey home with them. They had had an equally hit and miss time and were the kind of people who are just good and nice, and funny.
I liked them a lot more than I think I let on. But that’s where I always screw up.
We part ways and said goodbye. Lexxi and I high five for getting out alive, and then we too part ways.
I get on the bus feeling a little deflated by it all. But also quite happy to be me. And quite happy I had hated it all.
I remember something Kirshnumirti said ….
“It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society.”
Then I must be profoundly well.
But Bestival, you can do one mate.
To contact: trippingoverwhippets@gmail.com
It has been a fair few moons since our last dose of ‘Motherisms’ but you’ll be relieved to know little has changed …
We are talking about going to space mum pontificates for a second and then says …
“Hmmm … constipation is rife, I don’t fancy it myself.”
We sit down looking out at the horizon, there are is a wind farm in the distance …
Mum: The mafia have shares in wind farms
Me: No the don’t
Mum: They do.
We are talking about some friends of mum’s …
Mum: Do you remember her house opposite Victoria Park?
Me: No, I don’t think so …
Mum: You were very young
There’s a pause
Mum: Yes, very young … you may not have been born.
We are having supper at mums’ friends and sitting outside in the garden, the past few night I have noticed mum furiously glugging glasses of water before she goes to bed, it is now explained …
Mum: I’ve started drinking a glass of water every night before I got to bed, to prevent a heart attack.
Barnaby: You know the woman who gave that advice died of a heart attack?
Mum: Oh, did she? Well, it prevents you from having a heart attack while asleep … wake up for your heart attack!
We are flicking through the channels, there’s nothing much on, we pass a programme about the Hebrides and rest on ‘Knocked Up’, we decide against it and go back to the programme about the Hebrides …
“No, come on, this has to be the best thing on. No more jocks jumping around like prats, I want to watch the squirrels.”
As part of the evenings ritual we are listening to The Archers as I cook supper. Some woman says something ….
“Oh I LOATHE this woman, odious hag ….. I hate them all now but I just can’t stop listening, I may explode if I do”.
We are sitting and looking at Fremmington Quay, it is incredibly beautiful, but mum has, as she has insisted on doing every day since I arrived, started telling me to sign on at the doctors …
Me: ENOUGH MUM! No more. Or I will not go to the doctors ever again.
Mum huffs and walks over to the water.
Mum: I’m going to kill myself now.
Me: Great, I think it’ll do you the world of good.
Shortly afterwards I get up and walk over to the water in my nice new shoes ..
Mum: Going to kill yourself?
Me: If it makes it better.
Mum: Leave the shoes, darling.
Mum and I are having an evening picnic at the quay, we watch a few people on boats arrive at the little island opposite, it’s sunset, it all looks rather picturesque.
“Oh, how cool of them. They’re probably going to have a BBQ …. we should introduce ourselves, they’ll be so pleased to see us.”
Mum rarely allows me to take a photo of the front of her head so I have become quite adept at taking arty photos of the back of her … I am doing this as she turns around …
“Jesus Christ! Don’t take a photo of my backside in these trousers! They’re for comfort not elegance!”
I have been swimming, mum is picking me up, I ask her to bring a banana, my whole life we have called them “nanas” I text her and ask her for one, in doing so I realize I have never seen “nana” written before but am sure mum will get it …
Mum: I couldn’t possibly think what you were talking about, I thought you meant Nana, like in Peter Pan, I thought you were trying to be funny.
Me: That’s not very funny.
Mum: No, exactly what I thought.
We are reminiscing about my Grandmother …
“Granny Ruth bought you a dolly once, it did something weird like waved its arms and legs, completely freaked you out, you went berserk, totally hysterical, like only you can. So we called it Voodoo Dolly and put it on the stairs to scare you away while we drank g&ts, proved very useful for many years.”
We move on to how I used to spend my childhood (I am feral) …
Mum: These kids these days, I do pity them. You used to just potter around, find a beetle, look at the beetle, sometimes get bitten by the beetle, put the beetle down, then find a toad and go in the paddling pool and play with your toads.
Me: You make me sound rather odd.
Mum: You are rather.
A very jolly golden retriever bumbles over to us, the owner is watching, mum is doing her best fake laugh and then whispers to the dog …
“Ohhhh yes good boy, fuck off.”
We are watching some people pass us by …
“Now, wouldn’t all these people look better in Victorian dress. The boy with the broken leg especially.”
Mum on accidentally getting a perm …
“I remember when I got a perm, I thought it would look like Irene’s and I’d have nice long waves. No. I got a proper bloody perm. I have often felt suicidal but never so much as when I realized that perm would take 3 years to grow out. You did of course start screaming when you first saw it.”
We are pulling out of the car park and mum stops and looks out of the window , there are a big queue of cars building up behind us.
Me: Errrr … mum, we’re kind of in the way …
Mum: Oh for god’s sake, I’m admiring nature, nowadays if you stop and look at a fucking sunset you’re a psycho.
It’s my last day and we are having coffee back at the quay. There is a little girl of about 8 talking to her little brother, the little brother is in a bad mood, the little girl offers to go and get her money to buy him something, he is being stroppy and says no. All of a sudden mum says to the little boy …
Me: Oi! Be nice, don’t be so rude!
The poor boy looks quite alarmed but now obediently follows his little sister.
Me: Mum, you can’t do that, you can’t shout at other people’s children, especially not when I’m gone.
Mum: I can. Look, he’s behaving now, it’s very nice of his mother to offer to get some money for him.
Me: His MOTHER? Mum, she’s like 8. That’s his sister.
Mum: Well, even nicer then.
Mum is talking about how all the little things I’m doing will eventually add up, she’s trying to be philosophical but we’re a little tipsy.
Mum: You see darling, all your little bits of writing, all your little short films … it’s like mustard …
Me: Is it? Is it like mustard?
Mum: No, no. Mushrooms. It’s like mushrooms, it’ll grow …
I’m still laughing …
Mum: Oh whatever.
Mum is finally allowing me to take a picture of her face …
Mum: I shall look into the distance
Me: Mother, every single photo you are in charge of, is of one of us looking in to the distance. We have over-done wistful, just look at me, wistfully if you must.
Choosing to spend your summer in London is like choosing to spend your life with an unstable narcissit. There will be days when the clouds lift and you let yourself think “maybe it can always be like this.” We start dreaming of what our children might look like, laughing and playing in the sun, we lie in fields of bluebells, we drink gin and tonics in a can and it tastes like ambrosia.
Then, all of a sudden comes the storm, it’s pissing with rain, someone’s shitting on your from a great height and you’re drunk and alone.
And your beautiful children are two wet cats.
Maybe it was something you said. Don’t cry sweet prince(ss), blow your nose, chuck the cats and read this …
Screw public transport, it’s full of sweaty maniacs…
Cycle and feel the breeze.
However, it is inevitable you will find yourself on packed, sweaty tube at some point …
… In which case, take heed from the sweat lodges of Peru, throw in some Ayahuasca and let’s see what happens …
Want to get that exotic feeling without leaving the country?
Contract a tropical disease.
Take out your headphones …
Summer sounds different.
Pick your own food and eat it, connect with mother earth …
… or mother pavement, depending on where you picked your chicken bone.
(Seriously though pick a strawberry, pick a tomato, just go to one of those naff city farms and pick some food and eat it in your MOUTH, digest that sweet gem – you’ll feel like a superhero.)
Balls to white wine, it has been the downfall of many women …
… Stick with gin and tonic, just don’t screw about and put lemon in it like a scrubber.
When stuck inside working while it’s hot outside, don’t resist things that are quintessentially British, they’re nice* …
Don a straw hat, have a scone (they’re like 50p) and turn on the cricket while you work. Alternatively, put ‘Ill Manors’ on and listen to the voice of a generation no one wants to hear from. Up to you, mate, it’s your reality.
* Except for invasions, slavery and dividing countries will-nilly.
It’s summer now …
Let go of what happened in winter. Blow it up if you have to … (and then quickly blow it out and put the charred remains in a special little box you bury for aliens to find.)
Love picnics? Hate the weather?
Well now every day can be picnic day thanks to cucumber sandwiches, hard boiled eggs, gammon and lemonade. Enjoy outdoors in the sun with Enid Blyton or alone, in your room, with the lights off. Crying is optional. But if the gammons that goddam good, well, let it out baby
Can’t afford a Virgin holiday to space?
Have a psychedelic experience (dusk is a nice time to do it) and take a return trip to inner space. There’s a whole other universe in there.
Go to as many roof top gatherings as possible …
Your proximity to the Gods will ensure underlying divine-like euphoria, and the altitude will ensure the alcohol goes straight to your head.
(N.B – Not a good time to take psychedelics.)
Flies. Bloody flies. Making you look bad in front of your dinner guests …
Not if you’re a canny business man. Pay homage to Damien Hirst’s most shit piece of metaphorical bollocks ever and dump a dead cow/spouse/co-worker in your living room and educate your dinner guests on the cycle of life. They will be both fascinated and enlightened. You can continue the tour with your bathroom cabinet, sink, anything really as long as you’ve had a couple of lines of coke to ensure a perpetual flow of pseudo-intellectual bullshit.
(If you have in fact been infested with butterflies – count yourself blessed.)
Don’t cry for Evita …
You are not Argentina.
Play badminton …
Tennis is a game of lies.
Eat outdoors at every possible opportunity …
Eating indoors in nice weather is for normal Spaniards. Eating afuera you are instantly transmogrified into Penelope Cruz; your relation/waitress/shrubbery becomes Javier Bardem and you laugh as you drink the sweet wines of your country. Then you touch each other’s tanned hands and feel their heart beating softly inside their hot raised veins as the breeze tickles the hairs on your wrists, and the homeless man that asks you for change is an old friend from the town you both grew up in and you laugh and embrace and cry together.
Guaranteed. Every time.
Get wet …
You are 60% water. Find some and relax in it’s cool embrace. If your lido is extortionate and/or filled with wankers, go to Hampstead ladies/gents ponds, sit by the sprinklers, get a on a river boat, dip your toes in the canal, have a pond party. There are no end of charming ways to contract dysentery and stay cool.
Don’t be lazy. Stop hating on yourself …
Make an effort to be as happy as you can possibly make yourself be. Don’t rely on the weather, or other people to do it for you.
So, as with all dysfunctional relationships, when spending the summer in Britain keep your expectations low (ideally have no expectations whatsoever) thank the heavens for small mercies and when the sun comes out, get burned ….
