You heard. In the car park of a bottle shop, Sandy Bay Road, Sandy Bay. September 2011. There's a poem today that you have to read in a thick Scots brogue... The 6 O'Clock News , Tom Leonard 'Unrelated Incidents' - No.3 this is thi six a clock news thi man said n thi reason a talk wia BBC accent iz coz yi widny wahnt mi ti talk aboot thi trooth wia voice lik wanna yoo scruff. if a toktaboot thi trooth lik wanna yoo scruff yi widny thingk it wuz troo. jist wanna yoo scruff tokn. thirza right way ti spell ana right way to tok it. this is me tokn yir right way a spellin. this is ma trooth. yooz doant no thi trooth yirsellz cawz yi canny talk right. this is the six a clock nyooz. belt up.
Art is all around us. Home, Geilston Bay. September 2011. Just the one book completed this week – Stalin Ate My Homework – Alexei Sayle's bittersweet memoir of a Communist Liverpudlian upbringing. Essentially a collection of vignettes comprising of events and memories loosely catalogued in chronological order. In many respects, Stalin Ate My Homework is a tale of a boy and his parents. Joe – who worked on the railways and was a solid union man – and Molly – a foul mouthed red-haired firebrand who also spoke Yiddish. Although they were not the only Jewish atheist communist family in Liverpool, they were probably the most colourful. The book is really an account of how comedian Alexi came to be. His childhood was one of ideological rigour coupled with a little bit of fun. This usually meant an outing to see Alexander Nevsky rather than the ideologically suspect Bambi , and regular visits across the iron curtain (often involving tours of factories or sites of Nazi atrocities)
Ezra and Henry are firm adherents to the belief that Tasmanian sand is the finest sand in the whole wide world (and probably the wider universe /s). Although Ezra was concerned with the level of brown in this particular sand that he found at Bellerive Beach, he judged it's texture and humeur above average .
Dude trying to get to a ship. Bellerive Beach, Bellerive. September 2011. One day that will be Ezra and I in that kayak, with Henry and Jen close behind trying to splash us. Of course, we won't accept that kind of carry on and will utilise a few of the old WWII depth charged I bought on E-Bay to unsettle them. Knowing Henry, he'll be be well armed with rocks and Jen will use some of those feminine charms and attempt to distract me (again). In the event of this, we've got our hands on some long-redundant titanium tetrachloride to use as a smoke screen.
Like most things, Henry is a real; whizz when it comes to computer games. Despite the severe rationing system we have in place (think post-war Britain), the crankster is a pro at pretty much anything he's tackled up this point. His favourite? Tricky, one of Toy Story 3 or Kirby's Epic Yarn on the Wii...
Someone has stolen some bricks. Lord Street, Sandy Bay. September 2011. What should one call a pile of bricks if we thing that 'pile' is too dull a noun? I personally like "an orgy of bricks", but I am open to other suggestions. A snapshot of bricks? A committee of bricks? An emphasis of bricks? A politburo of bricks? A paradigm of bricks? A zeitgeist of bricks? What do you reckon?
Walking to work. Princes Street, Sandy Bay. September 2011. I have written a poem. We're not sluts, we just like to fuck Enjoyment is what we value above everything else. Joy comes in types and sizes that suit. We are not sluts we just like to fuck.