1st Lady: I'll tell you a comedian you never hear about any more...eh..what's he called..eh..   Arthur English.

Man: Dead

1st Lady: I liked him.

2nd Lady: Oh yes, I liked him. He went a bit funny in the head towards the end..

1st Lady: What about him, that one that used to swear a lot? David Allen. You don't hear about him anymore.

Man:   Dave Allen. Dead. Died a long time ago..

3rd Lady: I used to like that woman. Small woman, in that comedy in a factory..oh what was she called?

1st Lady: Dinnerladies?

3rd Lady: No, a factory, she worked in a factory. Gherkins. There were gherkins.

1st Lady: I like that Dinnerladies.

Man: Hilda Baker!

3rd Lady: That's her. Oh I loved her. She was funny. It was on Sundays. She made me laugh.

Man: Died years ago.

2nd Lady: She went funny in the head towards the end. Ended up in a home.She had no money.  She died potless..

1st Lady: There's an organization that looks after em if they've got no money when they've finished in showbiz. They're ever so good to em. They paid for it all when she went..

3rd Lady: They're not the same now, these celebrities. They're never out of the papers..

Man: That man looks after em all. That man with the grey hair....Clifford, Max Clifford...

2nd Lady: Like that Katie Price..

1st Lady: Who?

3rd Lady: She's a model.

2nd Lady: She's a millionaire.

3rd Lady: Mind you, she's worked for it. Worked for it all..

2nd Lady: Oh well I suppose she has..

3rd Lady: But these celebrities now , they're always in the paper. A lot of em are bio-sexual...

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60's: Original Skins - Ska and Reggae 
 
70's: Nazi Skins - National Front  
 
80's: Cheese n Bacon Skins - Bistro Favourite 
 
90's: Vera Lynns - Rave Accessories 
 
Noughties: Skins - E4

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Over the years, many kinds of brushes have gone out of fashion, i'm thinking particularly of that scourge of schoolboys everywhere, the dreaded wire Knee Brush. Time was, when a gentle tap on the door of a morning, often signalled the arrival of the Traveling Brush Salesman peddling his many wares. A long handled 'nossy hair' brush for grandad, maybe a Cod Scrubber, to help mam on 'Fish Friday'. And then there was this, from a time when every house had, not only a clean doorstep, but a lovely shiny roof.

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The other day I took a short walk from Liverpool St Station, along Bishopsgate and around the back to Finsbury Square.

The sky havered between blue and grey and the buildings struck me as imposingly austere but quirkily handsome. Sexy, even.

At one point, a cloud joined the party and a few trees turned up to put their spokes in, for good measure. 

The light began to fail and I Central Lined it home with a good, hot strong coffee.

And that was my late afternoon in EC2.
 
 

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A fairground, two circuses (one Russian, one Chinese)  Diwali celebrations, (a little) sun, giant rain puddles, lots of snow, and a Head. These  are a few of the things that have appeared on Ealing Common over the last year (and a bit). You have to flip the picture on it's side to see the head, but it's definitely there..

And then there were the skies. Striking skies that have looked like smudged ink one night and the next morning, all slashed and bruisied. A self-harming sky..
 
The fairground's arrival always provokes mixed emotions in me. At once both vulgar and quaint. Fairground art is a dying one but I find it gaudily fascinating. And is there anywhere else in the world where you can still win fags as a prize? We all know we're being ripped off when we try to chuck hoops over a wooden block but you always think there's a chance. And hey, my boy actually did it this year! The box of chocs would have been cheaper to buy at the shop by the time he'd had three lots of hoops, but they tasted a little sweeter, as we wandered around, for having been won. The stall holder looked unpleasantly surprised as she handed them over. How did that happen? I'm glad he didn't win fags..
 
When the circus rolled into town, I felt an intitial resentment at having part of the common land fenced off and an admittance fee charged to gain entry to where yesterday I roamed free. But I eventually embraced the new colours and shapes it threw out. Whilst I didn't visit the circus this year, (I have been to one here in the past and it was a bit baragain basement to be honest) the muffled joy of kid's cheers emanating from the tent was quite heart-warming.
 
One abiding image was on the way back from the fair, when we passed two young chavvy girls. One was holding an unfeasibly large, synthetically fibrous, potential fire hazard, of a thing. A cuddly toy animal. It was huge, and we gave them a smile, looking from the toy to the girls and back. What was it, Quint, in Jaws said?  ...lifeless eyes. Black eyes. Like a doll's eyes..
 
And I don't mean the toy.
 
Happ New Year from The Common People..

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So about half past 3 this afternoon, I was wandering up to Caffe Nero in Ealing Broadway. The promised double-dip big freeze seemed to be kicking in and drizzly needling rain was making for a gloomy day, all round. And the icing on the cake was that later, I  was supposed to be catching a 207 bus to Hayes. I'm not a big fan of Hayes. I am of icing and cake, though..

A coffee and snack first then. Decided.That's when, lost in thought, I was halted abruptly by police tape stretching across the road and both pavements. Police too, stood, preventing people from going any further. I realised how quiet it was. No traffic. This roadblock went on for some distance. There were quite a few parked cop cars around and an officer was telling people to move along if they hadn't seen anything. I thought that there must have been a road accident, though I couldn't see any vehicles. I contemplated doubling back on myself to Starbucks but then thought, no, I prefer the Italian blend these days and and anyway, I only needed a couple more stamps on my card for a free cup.

So I went around the back streets and managed to circumnavigate my way into the cafe. It was virtually empty. No passers-by, see. I savoured my brew. Oh, and a lemon muffin. No icing but darn good. Right, Hayes it is then, I thought, resignedly, half-expecting the police tape to have  now been removed meaning that i'd be allowed back up the Broadway, unhindered.. And that's when I saw that it had turned into C.S.I. Ealing..

 It was all go. There were more police cars parked dramatically, zig zag fashion. There were plain clothes cops with clipboards in the middle of the road. A tent had been set up and there were the forensics in their spacesuits carrying stuff into vans. At one point, two regular police carried a long plastic bag and I thought for a horrible moment that it was a body bag. Then I noticed some wood sticking out of the end. 

The word was spreading that two policeman had been stabbed. One was critical and the other, a special, they say, was less seriously injured. There were plenty of gawpers around, myself included, though I did try and catch my bus to Hayes. But after moving about 3 feet in 10 minutes, I got off again. No Hayes today. Oh well, every cloud and all that...
 
Now there were several TV and radio reporters setting up equipment on the sidewalk.('pavement' doesn't cut it when it's all gone C.S.I.) and yet more cars were arriving. Things were looking serious. And then it dawned on me that this was because, if rumours were to be believed, there was a possibilty that this could soon very well become a murder scene..

I stood close to several eye witnesses and earwigged as they spoke to press and reporters about the various parts of the incident they'd seen. From what I gathered, this is a close apporoximation of what occurred.
 
Police were doing bus ticket checks on a 207 bus. At a stop near the Town Hall, a man, acting suspiciously, got off the bus. (I've heard since that he was already known to and wanted by police). I heard that he wasapproached and that an argument quickly escalated and the man stabbed two officers. A witness said that at one point, the perpetrator held an officer in a headlock on the ground and that there was blood everywhere. I heard that about 5 other police then piled onto the guy to try and get him off the policeman. A woman said that they were stamping on his hand to try and get the knife away from him. Apparently the guy had been arrested.

I took a few photos. I have to say that the police were being very calm with bystanders by now and were not ordering them way from the scene, just keeping them firmly on the right side of the police tape. I asked a uniform if he knew how the victims were. He didn't know. My phone was on low battery and once it conked out I didn't really feel the need to stand rubbernecking any longer. As I walked home, I heard more cars en route to the scene. The sound of sirens. A radio report emanating from an open shop doorway was confirming the critical stabbing of one officer and the less serious injury of another, in broad daylight in Ealing Broadway this afternoon. 
 
I, like many others, have been pretty critical of the police this week, over some of their treatment of protesters during the student demos, in particular the wheelchair bound Jody Mcintyre, dragged from his wheels by bully boys in uniform. However, in this context, critical is not something I enjoyed hearing.

And that bag that I thought had a body in it, well, later, watching the rolling  TV news, I noticed they kept showing that bit, obviously hoping to get the same reaction from viewers. And that struck me as a little cheap and nasty..

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There are some pretty good Christmas lights around London. The ones in the centre, in Oxford Street and Piccadilly, are, as you might expect, the biggest and brightest.Then, as you radiate outward into the less touristy areas, the sparkle tends to become somewhat less ambitious as, I suppose, the councils can't justify spending too much on extra cheer if it's only for the locals, who'll spend their money there anyway, Christmas or no. And then there's Northolt.
 
A few stops on the tube from where I live in Ealing, Northolt is one of the 'least likely to attract tourists' areas you could imagine. And their decorations, well, the ones I saw anyway, reflect that. I was there breifly the other day, on a freezing grey morning, feeling really tired and ill. As I emerged from the station, I was momentarily appalled by the token nod toward seasonal illumination. Basically some tiny white bulbs wrapped a round a black lamp post.
 
But then it made me smile. At least they did that. And hell, it's gonna be overcast and cold for some time yet, according to the met, so i'm celebrating the Capital's grey anatomy. I've always liked the colour anyway. Probably a legacy of my industrial past.
 
So, as a Northerner, it pleases me greatly to report that sometimes it can also be grim down south.. 
 

From: hurstm08@live.co.uk
To: hurstm08@live.co.uk
Subject:
Date: Mon, 13 Dec 2010 22:14:27 +0000

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A few weeks ago, I took some photos of Tower Bridge, As far as the Icon, see..  and it got me to wondering why I've pretty much always avoided taking pictures of London tourist attractions and monuments, preferring instead to go foraging (photoraging?) down backstreets, tube stations and in parks. Obviously it's the possibility of coming across a more interesting find, because these touristy 'big hitters' tend to lose their allure, being over-exposed. But, just like when you take you start taking your loved ones for granted, sometimes it's good to take a step back, cock your head to the side and look at them again in a new light..
 
There is another reason I don't hang around tourist spots. Tourists. Not all, obviously, just the ones who behave like jerks.
 
Take the other day near St Paul's Cathedral. I'd found a metal frame that I thought might be interesting to take a couple of shots through. I'd only taken 4 or 5 snaps when a voice, quite loud went 'Excuse me'! in my ear, as if I was in the way. So I naturally stepped to the side thinking this guy wanted to get past. But no, when I moved he just went and stood in my spot and started taking photos through this same frame. Arse! He had a couple of unfeasibly large cameras around his neck which seemed to look down their lenses at my humble mobile phone cam. Even his equipment was rude! When he'd done, he walked off without a word, leaving me tutting, well swearing actually, under my breath. I then resumed my position. But it got worse..
 
Seconds later, a man, with wife and kids in tow, marched up, dispensed with even the basic 'excuse me' and literally barged me out of the way. He stood, peering through this frame, obviously wanting to see what I found so interesting. At this point I could tell you what nationality he was, but being non-racist I wouldn't do that and in any case it would be unnecessary and unimportant.
 
'Zo' he bellowed, 'Vat iss so good about ziss zen'? I wasn't sure if he was talking to me, his family or himself. He moved his head around a little, unimpressed. 'No'! he barked. Nothing else. Just 'No'!  And with that turned on his heel, as if offended that I had wasted his time by daring to draw his attention to my pitiful viewpoint, and walked away. Never so much as looked me in the eye. Rude fucker. His missus did give me a sort of apologetic half smile but I didn't return it. I was just shaking my head in disbelief.
 
As I walked off and over the bridge, I glanced back, thinking, I'll be he's a riot on the open-topped bus tour..
 

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So it's 30 years since Heaven 17's uberstylish debut album came storming out of the traps, heralding a new high in synthpopular culture. They seemed to be saying that we could have it all and still stick two fingers up at Thatcherite help yourselfism. We all needed a decent suit and a haircut, and a few bob in our pockets, but we didn't need her..
 
Now considered to be one of the 100 Albums To Hear Before You Die, but back in the day it was simply one of the best Albums To Play Before You Went Out..
 
Sheffield, in the early 80's was a thrilling place musically. Pulp were still larval and The Arctic Monkeys were mere glints in their parents' steel city cutlery, but there was truly exciting and groundbreaking live music on offer all across town, every night of the week. And of course there was The Limit.
 
I'll always remember standing in the infamous nightclub on West St one night during the Falklands war. The HMS Sheffield had recently been sunk by exocet missiles and no one knew how long the battle would would last. One of the tracks from Penthouse and Pavement came on. The Height of The Fighting. 

As the portentous chorus blasted from the speakers, there were the inevitable jingoistic chants from a few but the overriding feeling was one of  'fuck the war, let's dance'. And the subdued air of uneasy tension dissipated, as dance we did..
 
The Suits were Zoot, the lager was Ayingerbrau and when it was kicking out time, there was always the chippy next door. And if you never saw a chip shop queue of New Romantics before, then you haven't lived. And so it was that a very particular period in British youth culture  meant that for a 'Limited' period, you could stand behind a Pirate and a Harlequin Clown and a Dandy Highwayman, whilst they waited for small cod n chips. ''Have you gorrany scraps...?'' And always in paper. Never a tray. Not then..

 So good luck to Martyn Ware  and Glenn Gregory on their anniversary tour. The pony-tails may be long gone, The Limit, no more. But The Penthouses and The Pavements and the pop songs..oh yeah..
 
He-la-Hu.

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I had the most bizarre conversation the other day. I was telling a friend about an article I’d read about Daybreak, the new(ish), struggling for viewers morning telly show that took over from GMTV. Where the much lauded magical chemistry between The One Show wonders, Adrian Chiles and Christine Bleakley has failed to weave a spell over the public and is only pulling in around 500,000 viewers a day, way way behind it‘s rival on the beeb.

 ‘’Yes’’ said my friend, ‘’But where does the six inch dick tat come in‘? ‘’Well‘’, I replied, ‘’I just told you. Some bigwig ordered it‘'. My friend continued, puzzled. ‘’But how is having your dick tattooed going to help''? And then it dawned on me what they meant ‘’No, not dick tat‘’, I said. ‘’Dictat. A Six Inch Dictat, as in, a ruling, a decree from on high''  You see,according to the article, an executive on the show had made a rule that the co-hosts should never be sitting more than six inches apart... Oh’’ said my friend, laughing, ‘’I wondered…’’

 Meanwhile, I wondered if Daybreak had improved since the first time I saw it a few weeks ago, when I’d tuned in to see what all the fuss wasn’t about. That time, it did indeed make for some uncomfortable viewing. At one point I'd wondered if Mike Leigh was directing the show. Christine and Adrian perched on the sofa, unnaturally close. Like guests at Abigail’s party. All strained bonhomie and painted on smiles.I'd half expected Alison Steadman to wander over with a tray of nibbles whilst swaying to Demis Roussos. Then correspondent, Kate Garraway stroked an elephant behind it's ears at London Zoo, whilst back in the studio, Adrian looked on non-plussed. ''That's Fantastic'' he'd said  with as much sincerity as he could muster.Christine grinned and nodded in agreement.  But we weren't fooled. 
 

The problem is, the The One Show  felt intimate and the awkwardness of celebrity guests being asked to comment on studio items they often hadn't got a clue about, became a cult attraction. The crew were allowed to laugh and when something eggy occurred, the audience knew that the co-hosts knew, so it was fine, we were all in on the joke. But on Daybreak, the presenters sit small in the centre of a hollow studio, no happy crew to bounce off, and you can feel the emptiness, see through the contrivances and at times, smell the tension.

I felt for them a little. Trying to produce two and a half hours of live telly every day when the media is sitting on your shoulder like a ruffled vulture waiting for you to croak, is not easy. I’m no stranger to ailing early morning TV. As a writer on The Big Breakfast, I worked on it during it’s final year of tenure. The show had been faltering and failing to hit the heights that it had achieved with Chris Evans and Gabby Roslin then later, Johnny Vaughan and Denise Van Outen. Several presenter combos were tried and even Roland Rat was drafted in. But it didn’t perform in the ratings and eventually, after a 10 year run, the axe fell. In retrospect, and I know I’m biased, but I have to say that I thnk the BB, even in it’s least popular period, was pound for pound, way more inventive and entertaining than any breakfast show since.

So I switched over to ITV to see if it Daybreak had gotten any better and whether they were, indeed, observing The Six Inch Dictat..

 I was thinking though, about let's call it the SID, because there are some couples on telly for whom six inches would be a yawning chasm. Anyone who has ever watched Newsnight and seen the Dialectic Duo that is Diane Abbott and Michael Portillo, will know what I’m on about. (Abbott and Portillo: Someone at Sport Relief really needs to do whatever it takes to persuade them to appear as the hapless slapstick double-act of yesteryear. They could recreate the Who’s On First, sketch. I’d pledge at least a tenner to see that.)

So here are a pair of diametrically opposed politicians, but on Andrew Neil’s sofa, you couldn’t put a ballot paper between them. I mean, I know politicians from opposing parties are up each other’s arses these days, but they’re ridiculous. And to watch them spooning all swoony-moony whilst discussing the serious issues of the day, always leaves me feeling more than a little queasy…

 And I reckon the SID could also be useful in every day life. Such as when you're sitting on the tube in rush hour and someone’s rubbing against you, or if you're standing in a supermarket checkout queue, the person behind is nudging you with their trolly. ‘’Hey’’ you cry. As Sting once sang, ''Don’t stand so close to me. Don’t you know there’s a dictat on..?’’

So back on the box and Daybreak is doing it’s thang. Natalie Cassidy (Sonia from Eastenders) is at home holding her new baby and chatting by video link. At one point her face freezes and her eyes widen. Bleakley confirms it. The baby has filled it’s nappy, live on air! Wow. Bleakley laughs like a drain at this, long and loud and if you’d switched on a that point, you’d have thought that you’d just missed some amazing comedy gold. It was all a bit desperate.

 One of the cringiest things on there is a feature called Something Cool Before The Kids Go To School. I’m sure this is supposed to have an ironic feel to it but it doesn’t work. The first time I watched it they had on a Guinness Book of Records holder. I dunno, the world’s largest mouthed tap dancer or something. This time, it’s freshly evicted X Factor weirdo Aiden Grimshaw. Not used to being interviewed on T.V and having,  the night before, been unceremoniously booted out of the competition, plus being a strange boy anyway, it made for quite an uncool bit of telly.

Something Cool Before The Kids Go To School? Surely, if you’re a little kid then that would be Mini Dick and Dom on the other side. Or for a surly teenager, not getting their arse out of bed, I would've thought the coolest thing before you go to school is probably a wank. Or maybe a six inch dick tat. That would be quite cool,  turning up at school and telling the teacher, I was watching the telly this morning and this guy came on with a Manga drawing on his baby maker.. 

Maybe they could do more of these features throughout the show?  Something Berserk Before Your Dad Goes To Work. Something Boring For Those Still Snoring. Something Silly Before The Teen Pulls his Willy..

 And then, after they returned from an ad break, I saw it. A gap. At least nine inches between them. I watched with growing anticipation to see what would happen. They threw over to Lorraine Kelly to get a tease of what was coming up on her show which follows theirs. ‘What’ve you got today, Lorraine’? asked Adrian as cheerfully as possible. And as she reeled off the roster of slebs n recipes, I was thinking, I’ll bet what she’s dying to say is ‘’Well, about half a million more viewers than you two, that’s what I’ve got’’.

 They thank Lorraine. And then it happens. I’d wondered who it would be that would make the move. It was Adrian.Interesting. Whilst Christine read a link, he leant to the left slightly, and using his right hand for ballast, he raised a Chilesean buttock, shifted  a little, his eyes unblinking, as he subtly nudged to the right a few inches. And then he became still. And.. twas complete. I saw it, live in operation. The Six Inch Dictat. It's all true.

 But my friend’s misinterpretation still tickles me and I ponder, is there really such a difference between a tattooed penis and gaudy, studio based morning television? Not really. They’re both just a load of brightly coloured cock..

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I didn't know this until today, but, apparently, one of the top 5 weather events of the 20th centrury was the American Mid-West Armistice Day Blizzard of 1940. Well I never. So as Autumn clings on to what little seasonal hold it has left, it also got a bit blowy here in the UK on last week's Armistice Day. Not up to 1940 standards, I grant you,  but enough to do some damage. During the gale, whilst I was in Greenwich, outside the O2 Arena, a tree as big as a house was blown down, demolishing a wall and crushing a car bonnet - feet from my front door! I like to think that I was spared from any untimely accidents because of my recent dedication to preserving the humble leaf, in all it's beautiful forms, for posterity. Call it Karma.. And then call a car mechanic..
 
The wind no doubt fanned the flames of this year's  Armistice controversy when the day was marred by protesters burning poppies, little green leaf and all, in protest at British Army Bases in Afghanistan. Two minutes Violence, you might say..
 
They Come Transfigured back - a Remembrance Sunday photoblog from last year, if you fancy a gander.
http://hurstm.posterous.com/they-come-transfigured-back
 
 
And here's the first, A Leaf Less Ordinary  http://hurstm.posterous.com/a-leaf-less-ordinary
 

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Which do you prefer? Autumn or Fall?
 
I'm divided. I like Autumn immensely, both as a word and as a season. Autumn and the even more pleasing to say, cos that little silent n comes right into it's own, Autumnal.It reminds me of Mr Tumnus.And sharing buttered toast with a friendly fawn has got to be a good thing.
 
Fall, I wrongly assumed for some time, was a bit of Lay-z American slang. But no, the North Americans saved it when we Brits stopped using it in the 17th century. And, of course, it's also the monicker of those darlings of the British post punk scene. That reminds me of John Peel. Which again, is always a good thing.
 
The only thing with Fall is, it doesn't adjectivise well, does it? Wintery, Summery, Springlike and eh..Fally..no..Fallal..Fallic.see..
 
Anyways, here's some leaves and things.
 

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So i'm having a mooch around my local Tesco, inwardly smirking at the Carry On-ish euphemism of an announcement that I often hear in there 'There is a caller at the back gate, please attend'. Childish of me, I know, but then my mood takes a sharp turn  for the irksome when, on the - Items Reduced To Clear- shelf, I see a sorry looking piece of broccolli, browning at the edges, down from £1.38 to £1.06. Nice. A staggering 32p off!  Another announcement that I sometimes hear in here is 'Will a member of the Price Discretion Team  please report to Customer Services'? Yes, please do and explain to this customer why a vegetable that looks like it may well self-compost in the next five minutes is not being given away for 5p. Reduced my arse.

But my general antsiness toward my local supermarket this evening is down to something much worse than mere old greens. The other day, whilst watching the telly, I was shook out of my languor by an advert. Or to be more precise, the new Tesco Christmas Campaign. Not being one to get into the Xmas mindset too early, well not until after Bonfire night, at least, I wasn't relishing the arrival of this,  first out of the traps, in this year's big store xmas ad wars. Let's face it, they are usually fairly bleeding annoying. But Christ in a pay-trolley, this really is fucking dreadful. I mean, so awful as to make those fucking dreadful Halifax Building Society ads seem like Oscar- winning shorts..

What is wrong with Tesco? All it's adverts over the last few years have been as rotten as their reduced broccolli. Remember those clunky, cringey vignettes with Jane Horrocks and Prunella Scales as mother and daughter? I mean. two actresses who, were they playing such roles on stage or in a film, you'd put money on it being half-way decent. But the Madmen just fucked them up, time and again.

And now it's Fay Ripley and Mark Addy's turn. Two more actors, who, given decent scripts, you would expect to be right on the money. But again it appears that in the hands of the 'creatives' at The Red Brick advertising agency, they have managed to make them look egregiously unfunny. The whole affair is unappetising, patronising and all round, gold standard tosh. And this latest,Christmas offering is like bad Rep theatre, only worse. If you haven't seen it, it's supposed to be about how Tesco products are for everyone, rich or poor. It goes something like this:

The Tesco couple are walking around the store discussing what to get Fay's posh sister and her kids for Christmas. So, in a razor sharp and cunningly conceived concept by the, let's call them, for want of a better word, scriptwriters, she calls her sister and says 'Just wondering what you and the kids want for Christmas'. Brilliant. Genius. What creative dreck-peddling twat-in-a-suit, came up with that idea then? But it gets worse. Cos the posh sister is played by none other than Amanda 'Britain's Got To Put Up With Her At Christmas Now As Well As On That Talent Show'  Holden. Yes, I know, there's nothing more guaranteed to take the shine off your seasonal festivities than bloody 'shinehead' Holden popping up on your screen ever other ad break. Well anyway, there's then some poxy leaden joke about how the sister pronounces her surname in French to make herself sound more grand and posh. That's quickly followed by some hilarious references to her kid's posh names which are - wait for it, Tarquin and Felicity! Oh come on! What was the last sit-com these idiots ever saw? To The Manor Fucking Born? I ask you. Anyway, it's a risible peice of crap and I fear that there will be more to come in this godforsaken series of shitverts.

So, you may ask, what would I have replace it? Okay, i'll tell you. How about, Tesco Mary from The X Factor in a Santa costume with Louis Walsh in an elf suit, at her feet. As customers line up, Mary and Louis consult with each other then Mary reaches into her Sack For Life and gives each customer a suitable gift. But then a pensioner appears (maybe played by Wagner) who refuses the Tin of Tesco Finest Shortbread or whatever, being thrust at him.  'Well what would you like instead then? Asks Mary. 'Would you like me to sing you a song'? 'Fuck, no' says the pensioner. I'd just like the Price Discretion Team to stop being cunts and reduce that festering bit of fucking broccolli to a fair trade of 5p and to stop trying to squeeze every last penny out of their regular, hard up customers when we're in the middle of the worst recession the country's seen for decades,  the miserable, profiteering, scrooged up, jizz-juggling, wank-bandits'.

But that's not going to happen so we'll just have to put up with Ho Ho fucking Holden for the rest of the year. Meanwhile, i'll be over there on the 'Reduced To Tears' shelf..

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In the cold and silence of the night, Frightened Fence looked frightened
He always did,it must be said, but tonight his fright was heightened.
All Hallow’s Eve and all alone, his owners at a party.
One in a dark suit, one in white, they’d gone as Geoff and Marty.
(Randall & Hopkirk Deceased)
 
Last Halloween when Fence was new and covered with tarpaulin
He’d felt all safe and shielded from the spooks and caterwaulin’
But now, as the Witching Hour approached, he felt the wind a changing.
Reality began to bend, the world was rearranging. 

A slither here, a rustle there, shapes shifted in the gloom
Thought Fence, why must these creatures come? I wish they’d all just get a room.
He tried to be a brave fence, but his timbers they were wobblin’
Then in the dark he heard a grunt- Oh no - a Pavement Goblin!

The Tortured Tree began to moan; the sound of a million sins
The Poster Monsters came alive and grinned their papery grins
Fence could only stand and stare, too scared to even think
When a Thames Water Grate Zombie hissed and belched
My word! The sound, the stink!

No legs, he could not run away. No mouth, he could not scream.
He couldn’t even close his eyes and pretend it was all a dream.
A Pavement Goblin munched and sucked and Fence, he longed for cuddles
To save him from the leaves and trees, the posters, pavements, puddles.

Shadows fell upon him, behind him, something damp
Don’t let it be a Tree Root Ghoul, please let it be a tramp.
No one came to soothe him, to tell him ‘Don’t be scared’
It just went on, the things he saw! His night was truly mared 
 

He vowed he’d never tell the worst, if little fences he ever had
He’d say that such things don’t exist, they’d say, More stories Dad!
And when at last the sun came up, he thought of all he’d seen.
He’d made it through. So Boo! to You! Have a Happy Halloween!

 Hey kids, Now you can make your own Pavement Goblin! Here's what you’ll need:

A pavement, a cracked one is best.
Whatever is lying around on the ground like leaves, twigs, conkers, crab apples and berries. Be careful though, a lot of berries are poisonous so NEVER put them in your mouth and ALWAYS wash your hands after handling them. If you’re not sure about something, ask an adult to supervise.

Now you are ready to place these things just so to create your very own Pavement Goblin. Why not use your foot to save getting your hands dirty. Don’t want mum getting on your case do we?
You could even try squidging the fruit and berries for that fresh oozing, bloody puss effect!
 
But once you've made your Pavement Goblin, be careful not to stand too near.

Or you might feel a slight breeze around your ankles and a hear a low, hollow grunt. You might feel the ground vibrate slightly andl something sharp or burning underfoot. You might look down down into an evil grinning face as it opens wide it’s jaws to swallow you all up. You might scream but it will be to no avail. That wicked granite grin will be the last thing you ever see…Muhahahahaah….

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I'm not usually that taken with obvious tourist attraction-type places but the other day I was in the vicinity so thought i'd have a look at the darling of the Capital's sights-to-see and subject of many a vacationer's snappery, Tower Bridge.
 
Can't say i'd paid too much attention to it on the occasional times i'd been there with friends or family and I'd always felt rather distracted whilst they took their souvenir photos.
 
But this time I thought i'd  have a look-see what there was about it that attracts so many people. Well, not sure that I did that, but I greatly enjoyed pottering around and finding some perspectives that were pleasing to me, at least. The weather that day was typical changeable London, a fickle sky with blazing sunshine on one side, but turn your head slightly and it was all dense grey..with some fluffy white clouds dotted around for decoration. But I quite liked that.
 
So I've now met the doyenne of London's Tourist spots and am happy to say, I was indeed attracted, in my own way. 
 
Hmm..maybe there's more to this London Icon malarkey than I thought. I wonder..
 
 

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