Yeah right well I went to That London and was going to write a travel blog but instead here are some snaps on which I might just expand in future.
I’m writing this a day ahead because I’m going away
Going clubbing in That London in a rather fancy way
And waiting for a van with new tv and broadband hub
Makes me, I think, a member of a far more boring club
We’re now inside the window where delivery is due
The tracking site tells me the van has fourteen more to do
Before it gets to my place and delivers me my shit
And so, in just an hour or so, I can instal my kit
So why have I been sitting, since the text showed on my phone,
For over five long hours doing nothing, all alone?
I’m leaving, or I should be, on that midnight train to
So I should be getting ready, press my suit and put my shoes on
But I’m mesmerised to watch the dot that shows me where it’s at
Always sitting, hitting keys, and just refreshing like a prat
It’s been on number 55 for longer than I’d care
Perhaps he’s found some extra action with a lonely housewife there
In the old days we would moan that we’d be waiting all day long,
For things that never came or when they did the time was wrong
But now that I can track the damn things electronic-ly
I’m even more distracted then I ever used to be!
I’ll be honest with you, it’s been a mucked-up week. I’ve bought bridges for banjoleles, shirts and ties to go clubbing in (for which reason I may not be able to post a blog next Wednesday but will report on the events the following Wodensdag) and set up the Fringe show online catalogue entry (among other shit).
So not only have I dedicated no time to blogging (again) but I also have failed to write the pome/rap/grimey piece that I was hoping to add to the show repertoire.
So I’ll cripple two birds with one hockey stick and share the rubbish I’ve sketched out so far, pretending I’m doing it to give insights into the writing process. The end product will be interesting to compare, as it will either be a shining piece of sociological satire and wit or a crumpled ball of paper in a bin. Place your bets now …
As is often the case I started with the punchline and have tried to justify it with a whole load of preceding drivel … which goes like this…
They used to say if something isn’t broke, don’t fix it
Now it’s more a case of if you isn’t woke, don’t mix it!
I used to think of culture as a pick’n’mix counter
Takin’ anything from anywhere in any size amounts, yeah
I listen to Flamenco while I’s knockin’ up a curry
And sing along in Tagalog; I didn’t really worry
‘Bout performin’ silly verses in a crap Welsh accent
Never gave a lot of thought ’bout what the fuckin’ hell that meant
Now enjoyin’ somethin’ comin’ from another race or nation
The PC crowd, they calls it cultural appropriation
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxs’thing about sex/sexuality
And you can’t be sayin’ nothin’ without someone gets offended
then the brilliant final couplet that might get a laugh but which I don’t want youse guys stealing before I’ve found a place for it.
So now I want to go to bed. Go away.
Another piece of juvenilia
Found inside an old green folder
Based on Song of Hiawatha
(That based on the Kalevala)
Print from old dot matrix printer
Scanned and OCR converted
Copied here for your amusement
Because your blogger can’t be bothered
Can’t be arsed to write some new stuff …
THE SONG OF ALEXANDRA
by Dai Wandsworth Lowefellow
In an attic, over Cindy’s,
High above the streets of Warwick,
Standing by a red-hot oven;
Working wonders by the oven,
Stands the lovely Alexandra
Cooking fillet steak with peppers;
Cookinq Dover sole with prawns on;
Cooking chicken, tender poussin.
In the restaurant below her;
In the room one flight below her,
Is a paradise for taste buds,
Known throughout the town of Warwick;
Spoken of in tones of wonder;
Tones of reverential wonder:
Called by men, Upstairs at Cindy’s.
Here, the atmosphere informal;
Here, the ambience relaxing;
Here, the menu unpretentious,
Boasts the most exciting starters;
Boasts the most amazing dishes,
Served with freshest veg or salad
(Take your choice of veg or salad).
Take your choice from Cindys wine list:
Short in length but high in standard;
Every single one a winner.
(But be warned ye novice diners,
Ye of little viniculture,
There’s no point in seeking guidance;
Guidance from the friendly garçon;
From the ever-helpful David:
“Wine? That’s not my cup of tea, sir;
“Strictly heap big beer drinker.”)
Hot the fat to cook the french fries;
Cook the crisp and golden french fries
(How down-market, cooking french fries).
Still the lovely Alexandra;
Still the lonely unsung hero
Bending to the diners’ wishes,
Cooks the crisp and golden french fries;
Cooks the leeks and fresh zucchini
(Courgettes, also called zucchini:
‘Courgettes’ didn’t fit the metre):
Conjures up delicious flavours;
Conjures up the choicest dishes;
For discerning folk in Warwick.
‘Er upstairs, the unsung hero,
As instructed by her husband:
He, the ever helpful waiter;
He, the one who takes the orders;
Takes them up to Alexandra:
He who waits on grateful diners;
Waits for them to drink their coffee —
Hopes they’ll finish off their coffee;
Go before the Red Lion closes:
Soon, before the Red Lion closes,
Freeing him to have a quick one:
Davenport’s best fire-water
(All right then, a pint of bitter),
While the lovely Alexandra;
Still the lonely unsung hero,
Smokes a fag and does the dishes,
High above the streets Warwick,
In an attic over Cindy’s.