OK …. I know there’s a lot to be said for self-restraint and moderation. I get it.

But, holy shit, there’s a lot to be said for absolute fucking decadence as well.

We were fortunate enough to have Josh Lipps (who none of you have ever heard of) drop around yesterday and do some lunch for our friends.

I never refer to myself as a ‘writer’ because I read a lot, and I know what a real writer can do. I aspire to achieve, one day, a piece of work that may allow me to be confused with a writer.

And I enjoy cooking a bit too. And I’m, like …. OK at it. Better than my mother was. But I will never be mistaken for a chef. I watched this all happen in front of me yesterday and I was blown away by the ease, and the confidence, and the beauty (and, of course, the taste) and the sheer art of it….

Isn’t it just wonderful to observe a artist at work?

Aguycalledbloke

I have actually never been to Boston. But I have been to Starbucks.

He was tired. And lost in a strange city. And so he sat nervously at a table with his suitcase, equally unsure of its position, sitting beside him. He needed a cup of tea. For, as his father had once explained to him, “one requires only a sip of Twinnings for one’s soul to be transported magically back to the motherland.”

His own preference was for Earl Gray and, whilst he acknowledged the faint French influence in that particular blend, he viewed it nevertheless as being quintessentially English. Alas, there was no such choice available, and so he ordered what was simply described as ‘tea’. When it arrived it did so in a paper cup from which dangled a string. Further investigation revealed the string to be connected to some sort of tiny sack which was now swimming in steaming discoloured water. He could not help but be reminded of women’s sanitary products.

Searching for more palatable alternatives he inspected the menu again, but recognised only one name. He examined his Rolex. It was 3:26PM. And surely, even here, they knew that no gentleman would order a ‘cappuccino’ after midday. All the other offerings, however, were unintelligible to him and had evidently been created by someone under the impression that a word could be translated into Italian simply by the addition of the letter ‘O’.

The café itself had a name he assumed to have been derived from a cheap science fiction novel and, thinking about it now, he wondered if he was still within the civilised world at all. Perhaps, as he slept, his aeroplane had been mysteriously diverted, mid-flight, to another galaxy inhabited by a life-form intent on imitating humanity, but falling somewhere short of success. Or perhaps he had been through a time vortex of sorts and had landed in a future where culture had undergone some kind of horrific mutation. This was, he suddenly remembered, ‘New England’.

And whilst the other inhabitants were speaking what sounded like his own language he could only make out occasional words. Everyone seemed to be wearing running shoes but showing no other signs of athletic exertion. Hats were being worn indoors. Backwards. He was horrified.

And everywhere there were red socks.

SoCS 3/3/19

The kid and the choirboy

Here’s something that they claim to combine. Celebration and Celibacy. What could possibly go wrong?

And who could imagine that a normal human being who commits themselves to such a life might be, in the first place, a bit strange? Or, after a few years in the gig, might be even a bit stranger?

So who could imagine that our own dear Cardinal Pell, who has done such a fine job of protecting the church from countless accusations of kiddy fiddling might be found guilty himself, of accidentally finding a choirboy’s penis in his mouth?

So I hope that he meets some good and like-minded friends in prison. With whom he can openly discuss such matters in the showers.

And where his supercilious superiority and arrogance might not count for much.

And where, at last, he might have to watch his own back.

I don’t really know what this is all about. I was playing an old (and virtually unknown) song called ‘Essay in Paranoia’ which goes like this…..

“What kind of day did you have?

What kind of day did you have?

Was it as bad as the papers said?

Was someone really killed?

‘Cause that’s how they read.”

And then, for whatever reason, I started thinking about a man who might have had not only his financial wealth but also his sense of self-worth invested entirely in the stock market. He returns home one night, to his trophy wife, after a long and disastrous day when everything has come crashing down hoping that she might love him still – in poverty as she has in wealth. But knowing that she won’t.

This is what came out…….

They told me all about it

Before you went to sleep

The stars were falling from the sky

As you were counting sheep

A market fall. A margin call

When we were in too deep

Money falling everywhere

But none for us to keep.

In its own way, a special day

A day long overdue

And I suppose I’ve had of those

Some better days, it’s true

But it’s ok. We got away

Our love will see us through

So tell me how you feel today

How was the day for you?