Takes one to solve one

Drag self out of wretched dream, heatings on, sun shining through full  pajamas and teeshirt too.

Wine and hate and I can hear the mouse again, Milk and Tobacco and thank you, thank you

See off last of wine, resolution not to score breaks as soon as am verticle. Rememberance of bank account, yesterday like everything else, draining out at rock bottom, conspires against me otherwise.

Milk and Tobacco and thank you, thank you

Okay. scrape semi-desolved subutex out of blister pack. slot in gob. Best go out, get this sorted. Cycle with so little fuel, rockort weights on feet dimly propelling along. Slight incline ner the station nearly kills me. Lifting the bike up the stairs does kill me. Sit dead in the sunlight, overhearing. No, no, no, pop a fresh one out the blister pack. Snap, 4mg, insert.  Like Ken Barlow says,  must have done something pretty naughty once. Winge, sigh, wallow, grovvel,  milk? tobacco? not forthcoming, but thank you and thank you.

Make it over to that fucking shack, that fucking awful place.  Announce self, collapse into chair, wait for someone useless to help me at all.

Freak out, script denied, stumble lost, man going outside for smoke, please can I have one too? you look like you're about to cry love, whats up with you? At Chrystal Palace they shouted at us 'you fight your own, you fight your own', we sing back 'cos you run, because you raaaaaaahn' Light filterless snout with a lighter, millwall engraved, beyond or always or something like that.

Have half my Tobacco thank you, thank you, I'm just over there, here's my digits, drop call me, go to these meetings, look heres a book? can she have that? have that, and go to them, because the people cam in here, they dont want their recovery, Okay, I will do as you Say, I gte on the phone, and the lady's lovely. Thankyou.

So I get in, eat, don't stop to think, and I get up again, out, scooting along, feeling better, feeling nervous,  and a blank building with sun streaming in and smokers dodging out, and they point me and direct me and what comes between Must Be annonymas, but so many people hug and thank me and tell me again and again and again and again til I even start to believe some things. Gave me some milk, gave me some baccy, gave me other things and today I try, every day. Tomorrow, okay

Milk and Tobacco and thank you, thank you
Milk and Tobacco and thank you, thank you

Ershinton

Black and whites to be added...really soon. a sojourn round and ex mining town. click the images if you want them bigger..

Mallard Bags N Tat (Commercial)

A couple of my friends, esteemed architect Dan Lee & ilustrator  (and noisemaker with new, prone-and-cumming band Housewives) Joe Rafferty, based above Ridley road market in Dalston, are making these rather fine waxed canvas bags.
If you want one, let me know. Being grafting, genuine, earthen salt geezers as they are, they don't have an outlet set up yet, but I can pass on a number to any interested parties. A nice change from the usual misery I post ey? Normal service will however, shortly be resumed.

A fine institution

With nothing to do in a mad house, kleptomanic urges take hold. Im sure these were bin bound anyway. All by Elsie, willfully wheelchair bound and convinced 'the Germans' were after her. She had a sort of broken nose - that was from the Germans pushing her over. That Happy Easter (Frogs <3) card is topical now, but was made and displayed in early January. Remember. This is all fiction. Rest peacefully..

You've made your Bed; Now Eat it (pt 2)

More rhubarb and custard than Porridge (and then, more Spitting Image than Going Straight) All your Scared Cows will, get sent to the slaughter after all you'll be wearing them on your feet and stuffing them in for fuel in no time at all when they barely contain any horse sure did, back the wrong horse this time. Oh, and if you've seen me, you might recall my pondering ; where have all the leighannes gone? like perkins and jenkins but surely THEY can't be out the gene pool yet? they were only around five minutes ago. The answer came today: There. they're all cooped up with the psoraisus.

The Lost Tapes

Get Exited. Just Get exited and that's all. doubtless, before you see THE LOST TAPES, lost by scruffy Silcox in his room full of old copies of the sun and 450 shirts and broken table lighters and stones, you will have to endure my mourfull illustrated account of my recent subsequation, as it were, to the nuthouse for a wee psychosis and nice long withdrawal. BUT a light at the end of that little tunnel!
Light entertainment!

Light ov life!
(This is also a callout, should anyone be listening - have you taken lots of ecstasy,/ have extnsive knowledge of the uk unerground dance scene post 1988 AND are god at puns? We want to hear from you.)

THANK U VERY MUCH 4 BEIN A RAVER THANK U VERY MUCH THANK U VERY VERY VERY MUCH THANK U VERY MUCH 4 BEIN A RAVER THANK U VERY MUCH THANK U VERY VERY VERY MUCH THANK U VERY MUCH 4 BEIN A RAVER THANK U VERY MUCH THANK U VERY VERY VERY MUCH THANK U VERY MUCH 4 BEIN A RAVER THANK U VERY MUCH THANK U VERY VERY VERY MUCH THANK U VERY MUCH 4 BEIN A RAVER THANK U VERY MUCH THANK U VERY VERY VERY MUCH THANK U VERY MUCH 4 BEIN A RAVER THANK U VERY MUCH THANK U VERY VERY VERY MUCH

THANK U VERY MUCH 4 BEIN A RAVER THANK U VERY MUCH THANK U VERY VERY VERY MUCH THANK U VERY MUCH 4 BEIN A RAVER THANK U VERY MUCH THANK U VERY VERY VERY MUCH THANK U VERY MUCH 4 BEIN A RAVER THANK U VERY MUCH THANK U VERY VERY VERY MUCH THANK U VERY MUCH 4 BEIN A RAVER THANK U VERY MUCH THANK U VERY VERY VERY MUCH THANK U VERY MUCH 4 BEIN A RAVER THANK U VERY MUCH THANK U VERY VERY VERY MUCH THANK U VERY MUCH 4 BEIN A RAVER THANK U VERY MUCH THANK U VERY VERY VERY MUCH

THANK U VERY MUCH 4 BEIN A RAVER THANK U VERY MUCH THANK U VERY VERY VERY MUCH THANK U VERY MUCH 4 BEIN A RAVER THANK U VERY MUCH THANK U VERY VERY VERY MUCH THANK U VERY MUCH 4 BEIN A RAVER THANK U VERY MUCH THANK U VERY VERY VERY MUCH THANK U VERY MUCH 4 BEIN A RAVER THANK U VERY MUCH THANK U VERY VERY VERY MUCH THANK U VERY MUCH 4 BEIN A RAVER THANK U VERY MUCH THANK U VERY VERY VERY MUCH THANK U VERY MUCH 4 BEIN A RAVER THANK U VERY MUCH THANK U VERY VERY VERY MUCH .........

I've been in hospital

not for any other reason really other than being a moron. so, as usual, everything youre seeing up here is in higgldypiglydy backlog mode, I certainly have some more interesting things to show you, but, alacalay, my computer, my MAC computer is fucked, so I'm simply going to share with you some poems, nouveau. I shouldn't have drank so much. I only had two five pound notes. they were buying me drinks. I shouldn't have drank so much. AND; As thundering back to London from Newcastle, I incline my devastating eyes, with a kitchen-sink tragedy to my left, window aflame the horizontal burgundy and mustard attack of a coal train. Going the other way. and sigh. from the first class carriage. . so thats them. thats two poems. its very diffcult to punctuate clearly on my IPHONE THREE ACTUALLY . yours, sincerely, Adrainonsociety Molike.

Dismember 1st / Clean 'Thirteen

                            Can't remember anything starting from Dec31st'11. No Rpts pls.
                                                                  What you didn't miss:

Death pRattle

Well well.
Perched, waiting on a kiddies ride this evening in the Morpeth branch of Morrison, I heard a quiet, little mechanical voice coming from the next machine -a motorbike affair, sayin, in a most persuasive tone "Come on, have a go?!" This message was being beamed out from the very bottom of the machine, only audible to those around 2 to 3 feet high. 'I always told they were broken', said mother dear.

My mind can turn up ver little from the past few months. The deluge of photos I have just upoaded from my camerphone would tell a different story, and thus I must backtrack, complete and repose a few worthy projects, and one ballad of dread in pale, by means of note for excuse, for public consumption, if one dozen counts as public. Let's take it one day at a time, okay?

Stumbling as I have been through bad weather to worse, it has to be said it has on occasion been from interesting place to place.  I've shot a lot of film, much of which has yet to be developed and printed, let alone scanned in, but we have a few phone shots, as means of grainy illustration
startling here;

As the cracks start to widen and heave under the sheer weight of legislated misery dished out  to the country's non-super rich, in the post Olympic drizzle, the large unoccupied semi derelict business buildings in central London's Holborn district fill rapidly with all kinds of new squatters. The anti-residential law recently past has pushed many out of once safe homes, and a the city center throbbing the rhythm of the damp dead Olympic London spectacle. 

The skill of experienced buildings crackers soaks up the need of the city center homeless and several buildings in central London are, in turn as each is evicted and moved a few doors down or across, housing upwards of 60 persons.
The mesh of middle class politicos, artist-come-activists, alcoholics and crusties now find themselves in new unexpected roles they generously, out of a humanity lacking a short walk away in Whitehall fulfil, such as carers for mentally disabled people, who have been literally dropped off in squats by their  now defunct carers and social workers, as they are, despite not being able to even clean themselves, booted from their housing as the Disability Welfare is withdraw.

On a fully serious and horrific point, there are folk being housed in huge ex-corporate buildings in London who are badly, sadly disabled -able just to string sentences, suffering dirty (though not unfed, as through mass activity on part of the skip-divers and the compassion of the chain food stores in this part of london where it is possible to see 5 branches of Eat, Starbucks, Wasabi, Etc, Etc form any one standpoint).  Able squatters pour out their plastic cups of cider and allow them free reign of the computers where they blast out Bon Jovi on repeat - the stress and unrewdared responsibility of this is enormous, of course it's not terrific to placate the unproductive desires of ones who should be getting a lot more help, but these new carers have their own lives to sort, and it is better, after all then leaving them, as the 'Coalition' is apparently happy to, on the streets as the weather starts to freeze.  They'll die.

Helping a friend move from this thoroughly spent building, we packed up and headed on to another property, which was rather special, in being an ex-masonic lodge in a beautiful west London pub, left with fully stocked alcohol and food, by an owner who very clearly bought the property at a loss so as to  convert it into flats, much to the chagrin of Chelsea Marina residents. No-ones happy are they? Apart from anyone who happens to be in the squatted pub, which rather a luck-out!

After a slap up meal and a few nips of the green fairy, I took a very long walk away, stopping by Oscar Wilde, one of the neighbours', house. We're all in the gutter, as he said..I can't remember the rest of that one. It was a cloudy night.

Tribalism removed / WHO ARE YA

Since the 1980s, in consumer technology manufacture there has been a jaggedly multiplying and strikingly uneven contrasting tidal float of Quality / Ease.  The old ancient holy concepts of Time and Value diluted and refracted into the mundane daily realism of cheap music and laughs. 

This 

becomes This

                                                                            This

becomes This

And so on and so forth until one is in the peculiar position of watching,  on one of the plethora of Macbook pros to be found in any self-respecting art-school abode, a shitty stream of live football, acoustically accompanied by a wall of tiny spanish noise commentary, barely legible 7 pixel dots moving around a larger 3 pixel green/grey oblong. 

Much like following a text-based live fed of an event, goings on are rendered to little more than sterile figments of an augmented data sheet reality. 

Snotty 'the alt-view' columnists, when routinely trotting out a 'My-feircely-independant-mind-doesn't-care-about-sport-you-morons/sheep/plebs(when topical)' piece will usually lead their argument by sneering at the 'We' collective noun that peppers sports team discussion. 'YOU didn't win that' game, they crow. 

No, but perhaps surrendering one's hopes and happiness onto a man or woman selected and celebrated, Godly and decorated with a region's colours and tones is indeed quite an awing demonstration of a mystical unpragmatic humanity.  It is a character building experience, especially when supporting a team who barely ever win. 

And Man U are cheating scum. 

No money, no hope, Looking sharp

credit to a.j

Not Golfing But Drowning

A brief gap in the clouds implores the modern Englishman and Lady a brief glimmer of inspiration to shove the usual this :

For This

So, How can the average zero-income flea bitten 20 something true-intelligentsia pass themselves off on the golf course? 

With great ease. 

Dress up. Secure equiptment. 

We happened into a charity shop that was attempting to sell golf clubs for FIVE POUNDS EACH. 

This was  remedied by M. Silcox simply repeating 'That's Much, Much,  too Much you know. Does anyone ever buy these?' to the man who proved easily overpowered into our way of thinking.

One cannot carry clubs in one's pocket- a problem no more with unique patent Truller Lino Golf bag (not pictured) - Ingredients- lino, gaffa tape, felt tip pen. 

 Golf tip: DO Go when it is pouring with rain. No one else is there, because it's fucking horrible, that's why. 

Golf Philosophy: Alcoholics can never get any better at golf, only progressively worse.  

Golfbye x

By the way this is a nice old documentary about a golf club in the early 90s

Understanding England No.47

I haven't been able to read for ages. I haven't been able to concentrate. Until I rescued the above book from a steaming death via the shower in our bathroom. It's great. Our 3 bed house now houses, roughly, seven or eight.  It's quite nice but it means I have been alerted anew to the worrying noise-nusiance my teeth make in my sleep, grinding away into nothing.

I haven't been able to do anything because I seem to spend every day battling the ever more ridiculous faculties of the Department for No Work.

As I haven't written for a while, here are a few reflections on what cannot even passably be called 'this Summer.'

Apparently the most over-subscribed service in Peckham, a town gone mental, in it's collective wintry African frustration, for (sigh), the Fifty shades of Gray debacle / series. 
The same fat awld wimmin who literally bash their Bibles of usual, have taken to walking round with the thing held high in the air like so many extinguished replica Olympic torches.  I don't care about how bad the book is, I really don't mind what other people read, which to observe recent 'literary criticism' of the prolific tombs, seems peculiar. 

Silly Sunderland battered missus associations get the wrong end of the, er, stick, but mostly you have your average Guardian ( insert your own endless offensive adjectives) Twat falling over themselves to snottily imply to everyone how worldly they are, and that this world should, of course, belong to them, viewed subjectively by their considered, narrow, black rimmed arsehole glasses.

(I can't stop myself from going there, I am now never, ever, buying the Guardian again after buying an issue in which the supplement's main feature, I discovered, was assorted Cunts discussing 'What their evening meal says about them'. Unpredictably- in terms of a new low, low editorial calibre, 8 pages disscussing use of the word 'Supper', which apparently is a 'Class-loaded' concept -Predictably, everyone falling over themselves to describe how it was never used when they lived up a chimney down a pit clothed only in flat caps sewn together with hardened human feaces, before they managed to chance it in to Cambridge....I'll stop now anyway)

ANYWAY. And apparently it (S&M, the very idea) does (belong to them, the shits) ! The oddest thing seems to be how apparently unaware of the very existence of anything approaching weird sex a large proportion of Blighty's populous is. Which I find impossible to understand. Don't they watch telly?

It's been fucking everywhere for fucking ever. Fucking, every where. Weirdly.

Which brings us neatly on to my next topic, thank you.
As I was sitting in a friend's bedsit in Peckham, a borough you may be correct in assuming I now cant afford to leave ever, the room filled with a gradual and sinister buzzing.  Smoothly, reaching down the side of his broken, and rather worn bed, for a  riding crop he had deigned to  possition down there, like an assassin (ass-ass-in?) he swatted a big fat wasp, good and proper. I gleefully took my position as spectator as he battered the fucking thing into smithereens. PETA be hanged. Now let me be clear. I don't kill animals, although I recently was complicit in the hoovering up of a huge Cardinal spider, but one which has been terrorizing the house for over 9 months, and has been politely and fairly shown the door many, many times.
But, I hate wasps with an utter passion. The only reason I don't kill wasps, is that I am far too frightened of them, and cack-handed, and more frightened still of enraging them by attempting to kill them. But it got me thinking. Wasps look fairly like ugly new Super-bikes, or spaceships, or something harshly super modernistic, the kind of design you'd see on a shit dutch tech superclub  poster. I wonder what they made of them in the distant past. Or even the recent past. Any past preceding the 1980s.
It's a wonder those sort of beasts didn't usher in some new sort of futuristic aesthetic. Mad Flying Danger.

My insect sensitivity is currently at an all time high, thanks to a flee infestation, and next door knocking their entire kitchen down thus turning our gaff into a spider refugee camp.  The irony, of all the homeless boys I let stay in my house, bitterly moaning about 'MY' fleas.
Well I'm sorry. If you don't like it then go and shoplift some flea spray. I can't even be bothered.

One more thing. A pissed man on the street asked me why so many blonde girls dye their roots black. How long may have that question plagued him?