Category Archives: Uncategorized

Alan Sillitoe


Highgate Cemetery was free for locals today. Here’s Alan Sillitoe, just a few yards away from Malcom McLaren !

A Christmas Poem

Its just about Christmas here in England, and I’,m thinking about my old friend Django again..


Django played in the tunnels beneath Bank Station.
He fashioned a twisted scale,
that drifted on the air.
And he made me think of Morocco,
and the sweet fragrant smell of Marrakech.

Django: all awkward and angular,
with a mop of thick blond hair.
Had large bony fingers,
that made me think of Christ’s,
bending round the cross.

Django hummed as he played.
More moan than tune.
It sounded raw and real, and how he could feel the music.
And he made me think of the Mississippi delta,
and the wide expanse of river rolling along.

Django spoke silently to me,
and I to him.
We acknowledged each other,
as familiar strangers do.
With a nod of our heads.

One Christmas.
He wore a velvet hat Trimmed with ermine fur,
and an Arabian cloak to keep out the cold.
And I though of Gold, Incense, Frankincense and myrrh.
And things like joy and goodwill to all like Django.

Django was the name,
sent telepathically to me.
And I thought of Django Reinhart,
and his paralyzed fingers,
and of those who are not as fortunate as he.

Django busked during the winter of 1984,
while miners struck and the GLC crumbled.
And the memory of him, brings into focus,
this current hard winter,
and how warm it is underground.

Cook a Snook


Record Store Day


Is a day away. Last year it was Traffic’s – John Barleycorn Must Die. This year….I’m still deciding. So go on: put the needle on the record !

Electronic Mother


She keeps her mother going
with an old pay as you go.
Topping the credit from time to time.
Playing her voice,
her videos and old shopping notes.

She posts a status,
from time to time.
On her old Facebook page.
Tidying the grass,
that’s grown all around.

And when the time is right
she’ll pull that plug
on this old electronic mother.
Sending those ones and noughts
adrift and on the air.

St Patrick’s Day


Dublin on a wet afternoon.
Sometime in spring.
In a smoking hotel,
with pizza and wine.
And a day trip to Bray,
on Sunday.
Outside of her room,
is an unwholesome alley.
Where sheltering boys
become hoodlums and drunks.
Happy St Patrick’s Day
she says to their ghosts.
To her old hometown city.
To the memories
more persistent than rain.


One of the 98

Old times.
New times.
Sitting around the fire.
One of the 98 my friend.
One of gods chosen ones.

A level field of yellow corn.
A magic lantern show.
Zero meaning and reeling forward.
One of the 98 my friend.
One of the ones you know.