Sunday, 30 December 2012

A short conversation with Ira Middleton

It is a typical wintry day in mid-July. Ira Middleton and I are sheltering from the blizzard conditions among the genteel clientèle of The Brady Rooms in Royal Mayfair. In accordance with the hotel’s stringent dress code we have both donned quilted dressing gowns. On an adjacent table, a pair of elderly twin sisters are celebrating their 90th birthday. The flimsy white satin nighties that shrink-wrap their gaunt, bony frames leave very little to the imagination.

 “I once met the lead singer from the death metal band Septic Entrails at a convention centre in Detroit...” says Ira. He takes a sip of camomile tea from a dainty bone china cup.

“...I asked him whether he perceived the history of rock and roll as a conversation, predominantly between England and the U.S., regarding colonial Africa.”

 “What was his response?”

“Distinctly noncommittal. He called me ‘a whining, bleeding ass faggot.’” 

It is at this point that we are interrupted by a waiter, voicing concerns about the level of audible profanity peppering our conversation. Ira spends the next five minutes explaining to him that he is presently engaged in the telling of a story in which a certain coarse vernacular is a vital element as a means of conveying both veracity and colour. At the end of his explanation the waiter apologises profusely and leaves the room. We are later informed by hotel management  that this presumptuous member of staff he has been dismissed as a direct result of his inability to distinguish between anecdotal swearing and casual abuse.

Middleton, who made his name on the wrong side of the tracks, is no stranger to uncouth language. In 1974, three years before punk broke, he had word “Effete” tattooed across his back in lavender-scented ink. In 2007 he was banned from the institutional radio programme - Desert Island Discs - for selecting the first eight tracks from the NWA album - Straight Outta Compton - in sequential order.

“They un-marooned me! My luxury item was a Glock and an unlimited supply of ammunition. It dates back to when I used to be in a gang called The Cripes, who were an English, home counties chapter of The Crips. We were pale, public school types  who wore striped blazers and penned sonnets that expressed a mild disdain for society. It all came to an abrupt end when I was given 4 weeks worth of detention for writing disrespectful letters to a policemen. The beak bumped 2 months off my sentence because I wrote my correspondence in exemplary Latin.” 

Upon his release, Middleton renounced the thug life, and his incipient status as an OG, to work with endangered species:

“There’s a Britpop group called Queen Cauliflower who signed to EMI in 1994. Recently the company accountants realised that, due to a contractual anomaly, the Universal Music Group could reap a substantial return on its tax bill if the band split up. As it turned out Queen Cauliflower didn’t want to split up, but felt under tremendous pressure to do so. I arranged for them to be flown to the Galapagos Islands where they now enjoy protected species status. Essentially they have same rights, with regard to hunting, as giant tortoises.”

I ask him whether there is any truth in the rumour that he has joined Take That.

“I formally joined the group in February. They’ve entered an interesting conceptual phrase of their existence. I had a long chat with Gary Barlow. He feels that over the past few years their fanbase has become more open to experimentation. Their latest piece is a three hour song cycle inspired by the foundation of The World Wildlife Fund  I’m on board for one album and a world tour, in which I play the narrator. I recite spoken word passages between the songs. Originally Jason Orange was going to do it but they thought that I would bring more gravitas to the part.”

“2013 will be a good year for you then.”

 “Things are going to get real in 2013. I can’t go into specifics at present.”

As I get up to leave, we bump fists in a gesture of enduring solidarity. 

The following day I take delivery of a picnic hamper. The gift card reads: “Raise ‘em up. R U Still Down? Ira.”

When I open the basket I find that it contains six miniature bottles of champagne. Nestled in some straw at the bottom are several small cans of ‘Premium Boneless Vagina’ which, I learn from the label, has been processed in the Philippines on behalf of Maldon Comestibles Ltd. 

I donate it to a local food bank .

Saturday, 29 December 2012

The So Solid Crew no longer have enough members to command a tank in battle

In 2001 The So Solid Crew were a imperviable hip-hop combo, riding high in the UK singles charts on the success of their song 21 seconds. They were also part of a well-established lineage of rap groups who chose to bolster their income by a registering as a ‘crew,’ thereby making themselves available, on an ad hoc basis, as pilots of a variety of ocean going vessels and commercial aircraft.  

This morning I was saddened to read that So Solid membership has fallen during the intervening decade, from a respectable peak of eight (source: Wikipedia) to just three. That’s barely enough bodies to pilot a Boeing a 747 on short and medium haul flights, and certainly nowhere near enough to adequately man a 17th century pirate ship, without having to draw upon the assistance of un-vetted tertiary members, of the kind who might conceivably form an entourage or posse. This must be a bitter irony for the remaining core members who, despite their rise to fame through a network of pirate radio stations, now lack the manpower to effectively stage a campaign of plunder and terror on the high seas.  

The decline of the So Solid Crew also casts some doubt over their claims toward an extraordinary state of solidity, with its implication of an unusually high melting point and general immutability to the effects of weathering over time. Clearly some form of attrition or evaporation has occurred since 2001 to account for their greatly diminished mass and the corresponding lapse in their ability to keep things real. By comparison So Solid’s 1980s counterparts - The Rock Steady Crew - boasts a roll-call of past and present members that must surely number in the low triple figures, amply justifying their chosen moniker.

Non-haterz have presented the counter-argument that, in this modern age of computer assisted technology, a leaner crew of specialists is a more efficient prospect. It is not beyond the realm of possibility that the So Solid Crew could competently pilot the Space Shuttle on a mission, were it still operational.

Regrettably this hypothesis does not stand up to close scrutiny, in the same way that the lyrics to 21 Seconds do: The 2 Live Crew boasted six members; more than enough to effectively command a modern tank in battle, giving them a clear tactical advantage over the So Solid Crew in a theoretical ground assault, where the latter would be forced to rely upon static artillery. In addition, the aforementioned doubts over So Solid’s claims toward invulnerability must surely call into question whether the three remaining members would be able to withstand a barrage of depleted uranium shells of the kind routinely deployed on the modern battlefield.

We must also take into consideration scenarios that might require So Solid to operate a vehicle over an extended period, during which shift work would be a necessity in order to meet the stringent demands of health and safety legislation.  When this is taken into account their continuing status as a crew seems hopelessly compromised.   

Wednesday, 19 December 2012

The sexual desert of Owen Lars

Nerds who live their parents and fluent Klingon speakers may recall Owen Lars as a minor character in the film Star Wars: A New Hope. He lived on the desert planet of Tatooine with his wife, Beru. Although the couple had no children of their own, they raised a young boy called Luke Skywalker, and did their best to shield him from the attentions of his abusive father, who had suffered a midlife crisis and reinvented himself as malevolent cyborg-wizard called Darth Vader.

Owen and Beru eked out a meagre existence as moisture farmers beneath the burning glare of Tatooine’s twin suns. The fiery desert heat was a stark contrast to their passion for each other which had long since cooled. During the few scenes that the pair share on screen  there is no evidence to suggest that their relationship is anything other than a world-weary drudge, shaped by a need to scrape together the bare necessities for survival on this hostile world of gangsters and Freudian sand monsters. Neither one playfully slaps the other’s arse or makes a flirtatious allusion to saucy bedroom proclivities. I have often wondered whether Owen is aware of the irony of his situation: That a man whose business is the farming moisture can no longer cause wetness to surge from his wife’s vagina.

Owen and Beru met their deaths off camera at the hands of Imperial Stormtroopers. One catches a brief glimpse of a charred body lying in the sand outside their homestead, smouldering in a way that the couple were never able to smoulder for one another.

Saturday, 17 November 2012

I Saw Steve Ellard

I Saw Steve Ellard

You don’t have to believe me
if you don’t want to,
but I saw Steve Ellard,
who is also known as Doctor Ellard,
following a misunderstanding
in the Pathology Department
where we both worked
some years ago.

It was along Victoria Avenue, 
near the museum.
I was walking to work 
and Steve Ellard was heading
in the opposite direction,
towards the high street.

We acknowledged one another
in that cursory way that men do.

When he had gone past
I paused to retrieve my
‘Eye-Spy Book of People Who Live in Southend’
from my rucksack
and checked the box denoting  
that I had seen Steve Ellard.

Then I retrieved
one of my other
‘Eye-Spy’ books
that is to do with birds
and recorded that
on the same morning
I had also seen a seagull and a pigeon.

Where was Steve Ellard going
at that fateful hour,
during which our paths crossed?

That knowledge is forbidden.

You do not know.

You cannot know.

Wednesday, 3 October 2012

Sunday, 23 September 2012

My Life as a Junior Reporter for 'Pop Vision' Magazine

It was my Classics tutor at Eton who first noticed my talent as a writer and took it upon himself to nurture my gift. By the age of 18, I was a seasoned reporter, having worked my way up to the position of Features Editor at The Etonion Journal of Metallurgy. This venerable periodical, first published  in 1873, was initially dedicated to the study of minerals and metallic elements, but broadened its scope in the 1970s to encompass an exciting new generation of denim-clad, shaggy-permed, hard rock groups, who had united under the banner of “heavy metal.” During my tenure on the magazine I commissioned articles investigating the mineral lattices prevalent in the music of mid-period Black Sabbath and the trace metals existent in the founding members of Motley Crue. Collectively we attempted to definitively answer the, still as yet, unresolved question: What metal is Bruce Dickinson made of? I penned many of the articles myself, among them: Is Biff Byford from Saxon Magnetic? and Were Mercyful Fate’s Drums Forged by Iron Age Blacksmiths?  The journal, which is still published on the first Friday of every month, continues to be written exclusively in Latin.

After I left Eton I landed a job at Pop Vision – a magazine catering to the base musical tastes of the Proletariat. The culture at Pop Vision was very different from the hermetically sealed world of my alma mater. I was unprepared for how many of the staff, which included many of my former school chums, had adopted the speech patterns and mannerisms of East London gangsters. The word “Guvnor” was banded around with much greater frequency than I had anticipated. 

The bands I interviewed were different too. Talk Talk were oddly silent, while Mute Records artists were capable of holding court on a wide range of esoteric topics, from Hungarian existentialism, to the peculiar back-to-front plumbing that is a feature of many properties within the city limits of Los Angeles and gave birth to the term “shit cannon.”

Britpop was in the ascendency and I soon became a familiar face among the ranks of the Indie paparazzi, accosting Luke Haines from The Auteurs as he exited Camden branch library with a Sainsbury’s carrier bag filled with yellowing Danielle Steele novels, and then chasing after him down the street, calling out: “Luke! Luke! It’s Mark from Pop Vision. Say something acerbic!”

On another occasion I was dispatched to a skate park where the guitarist from The Bluetones had become trapped at the bottom of an artificial concrete dell. Watching his feeble, abortive attempts at scrabbling up the steeply sloping concrete walls, I was reminded of a spider trapped in a bathtub. Somebody threw down a guitar and told him that we’d fetch a ladder if he played Chasing Rainbows.

Writers at Pop Vision were encouraged to use their articles to air any political opinions they had. It was considered very bad form if you didn’t bad mouth Margaret Thatcher and the Conservative party at least once in every piece. Many of the articles published were the result of half-baked ideas – for instance I was once asked to conduct an interview with Stereolab in mono.

In 1997 the Pop Vision camera broke. After that no further photographs were printed in the magazine. The sudden absence of any pictorial content was passed off by the editor – Terrence Berkeley - as a Dadaist act of spontaneous deconstruction. When the office CD player ceased to function, a memo was circulated, informing us that any further single or album reviews would be penned as speculative pieces in which we would muster our latent psychic talents to describe the music contained on the CDs that had been sent for our appraisal. To aid us the Pop Vision office was relocated to a building in Kings Cross where three Ley Lines were said to converge.

It was this anti-listening to music policy that resulted in my description of Blur’s comeback single - Beetlebum - as “like being serenaded by a chorus of rowdy whelks, dressed in barnacle-encrusted Aaron sweaters, in a pub, in Leigh-on-Sea.”

I  resigned from the magazine in 1999 to work on my fathers estate in Buckinghamshire. As I left the office for the last time I passed a stark naked Brett Anderson from the group Suede, who was waiting in the lobby. It was early Spring. A single yellow daffodil drooped from the tip of his flaccid penis.  

Wednesday, 15 August 2012

Cast offs (part one)

Cast-offs: Pieces of writing that I submitted to websites, or elsewhere, that were either rejected outright or ignored. 

Submitted to Smoke: A London Peculiar on the 20th May, 2012 

The assassination of London in 1991

Brian Borrie vigorously grinds the heel of his palm against a raised white bump on the left lobe of his reddening chin.

“Gnat bite,” he says. “I’m trying not to scratch it with my fingernails.”

We are standing, roughly waist-deep, in the middle of a huge patch of gently swaying nettles which, I am only just discovering, have evolved the ability to sting through denim.  The now overgrown, but once immaculately landscaped, gardens of Hinton Hall stretch out around us, having well and truly gone to seed. 

Situated incongruously on what is, at present, the border between the London suburbs of Tooting and Streatham, the 18th century manor house is a ruin, broken down to its lower storeys, which poke out above the unruly foliage, like the carcass of an animal that has been dragged into undergrowth and picked almost clean.  Our entry to the property has breached a government-enforced quarantine order which has only periodically been infringed during its 21 year history. According to the pristine black ledger that we were both required to sign prior to being granted access, the last official visit occurred almost three years ago, in 2009. When my turn came to make my mark in the book, I added my name to a list of six previous signatories that, taken collectively, barely make an impression on the first page.

In the hope of better finding our way around the decaying estate, Brian had the foresight to acquire a map. Both the local planning office and the usually reliable British Museum had failed us on this account, leading us to throw ourselves upon the mercy of the Donald Dainty Museum. Located a few streets away, the blue plaque-adorned  childhood home of the now largely uncelebrated,  Victorian workhouse reformer, echoes with the reluctant footsteps of school parties on educational visits, tramping in loose formation along its bare-wood corridors, past roped-off studies and musty bed chambers that have been purposefully frozen in time.

Our borrowed map turns out to be at least twice the size of a standard OS chart, far too large to be handled in an outdoor setting. We only have it partially unfolded and already its rectangular panels have established a rebellious topography that amplifies the imperceptible breeze into something forceful, the insistent tugging of the wind making it difficult to manoeuvre the huge sheet without getting stung by the nettles. As a last resort we try laying it out as flat as possible on the bobbing heads of the plants, where it shifts about and bears no concrete relation to our surroundings, no matter how we orientate it.

Eventually we give up and fall back upon our still-crystallising knowledge of the property, making a last ditch attempt to establish the location of the manor and its various landmarks through a combination of observation and our own questionable sense of direction.  As we lurch around the former gardens, our precise whereabouts remain an enduring mystery that defies solution, the soles of our shoes connecting with what appear to be crazy-paved pathways, or the flat brickwork collars, fringing what were once flower beds. Here and there islands of rubble emerge from the rampant sea of tangled greenery. On occasion these ruins will achieve a momentary coherence, sketching out a lower wall, incorporating the bottom portion of a window frame that has been sheered off at a crumbling angle,  as if the architecture above it was gnawed away by some passing scavenger. 

Our clumsy and inept passage belies the solemnity of our location and its unheralded status as the site of one of the most audacious acts of sabotage ever committed.  On this spot, in the spring of 1991, two shots were fired that will one day destroy the city of London .


Our ad hoc investigation had staggered to a start last January at Simon’s - a bijou greasy spoon,  shoehorned into one of the terraced railwayman’s cottages on Greet Street. Nearby, the silver/grey canopy, enveloping the international platforms on Waterloo railway station with a repeated pattern of stretched ellipses and compressed rectangles, parted the surrounding metropolitan architecture like the swollen body of an overfed snake.

 The cafe’s favourable location means that, despite its basic fare and refusal to sell anything as continental as a panini or a smoothie, it remains busy throughout the day. A typical crowd is a cosmopolitan mix of regulars,  non-health-conscious commuters and confused tourists who, against all odds, have managed to lose themselves in the miniscule warren of well-signposted streets between the Arrivals and Departures hall at Waterloo and the thriving Southbank.

On that particular morning the booths were full to bursting point, the seated patrons crushed against each other on the orange/brown leatherette of the padded bench seats. Having shuffled our way to the front of the queue we made our selection from the more portable items on the menu. We took our respective purchases outside and ate them while leaning against the wall of an adjacent residential property, both of us pretending that we hadn’t noticed the laser-printed sign in the net-curtained front room window, politely requesting that we did not do so.

“London is alive, but London is dying,” said Brian archly, in those over-enunciated Shakespearean tones that he likes to use whenever he is attempting to  make a serious point. I passed his comment off as one of the pretentious, non-sequiturs that he sometimes employs as conversation starters. Instead I  continued to focus my concentration on avoiding the globules of tomato ketchup that were plummeting from the opposite end of my bacon sandwich, before splattering, a second or so later, onto the pavement in a halo of melted margarine. 

“...By which I mean that London is terminally ill.”

I continued my studious contemplation of the ketchup-stained flagstones. A more determined psycho-geographer than myself would have already extracted reams of meaning from this abstract Morse Code, which, in more fanciful imaginations than my own, would have mimicked the blood spatter of an unsolved murder committed centuries ago upon this very spot. I was more concerned that none of it ended up landing on my new boots.

 “Basically, London is fucked.”

“Okay Brian, tell me why London is fucked.”


With his free hand he reached into the pocket of the heavy grey duffle coat, that gifts him the manoeuvrability of a medieval knight in full plate mail armour, and removed a slightly desiccated sprig of ivy. 

I took it from him. The arrow-shaped leaves were somewhat smaller than normal. The creamy-white border around their dark green heart was smeared with a distinctive reddish tinge, as if it had recently been wiped against blood congealing on an open wound. The stems were covered in thousands of downy spines that prickled like pins and needles on the flesh when brushed in the opposite direction of growth.

“A legacy of the Falkland islands conflict,” pronounced Brian in the authoritative tones of a man who has recently come into possession of a large body of knowledge, that he is about to use as the basis for a lecture.

“In South America it’s known as the Perdición de la Ciudad. In this country we call it by the more prosaic moniker of Gorse Ivy.” 

He took an untidy bite from his All-Day Breakfast Roll – the contents of a fry-up, liberally doused in brown sauce and smooshed between two halves of an over-sized white bap.  A fold of slightly browned, fried-egg white momentarily trailed over his bottom lip before his tongue swept it back into his mouth.

“It’s what Toledo, Rome, Pisa, London and, unofficially, Paris and Hamburg all have in common. They are all terminally ill urban centres, infested with a parasitic climbing plant that eats cities alive.”

I handed the sprig of ivy back to him. He stuffed it roughly into the side pocket of his coat where it fought for space with a crumpled white linen handkerchief.

“Its sap is corrosive to most forms of metal and stone work. It forms extensive networks of initially very slender burrowing roots that expand over time and channel moisture into standing structures.  Eventually it will pull down any building it attaches itself to. Once it’s established it’s extremely difficult to get rid of without resorting to really toxic chemicals. At best you might be able to contain it and slow down the damage. The Hazardous Plants Census, conducted by Kew Gardens in 2011, concluded that 27% of all the buildings in the Greater London area are infested to varying degrees with Gorse Ivy. That’s up from 25% in 2007. In 2010 Gorse Ivy was cited as either the primary or contributing factor in the demolition of 82% of all condemned properties. In summary it’s a losing battle. London is like a sandcastle facing an oncoming tsunami that will one day wipe the city from existence.” 

I took advantage of his pause for breath to ask the obvious question:

“If this is such a threat to our way of life, then why have I never heard about it until just now?”

“Well, when the wonderfully composed and splendidly informative book, that I have recently been commissioned to write, hits the shelves I daresay that more people will be talking about it. In the meantime the question you should be asking yourself is: Who in their right mind is going to invest their money in a dying city? You have to understand Sam, that, behind closed doors, this is a massively controversial issue, involving scientists and lawyers and politicians, all with their own opinions and agendas.”

For the sake of brevity I will summarize the rest of Brian’s monologue and strike my inane interruptions from the record altogether: 

The relatively recent introduction of Gorse Ivy to the UK had been a parting shot fired by the instigator of a war that had long since ended, even though the resentment on both sides still seethes. General Leopoldo Galtieri was the Prime Minister of Argentina during the Falkland Islands conflict of 1982. By 1990 he had fallen from favour, been stripped of his military rank, and placed under house arrest.

It was around this time that the disgraced former peer - Dennis Embery, whose arms company had dubious ties with the Galtieri regime, took delivery of a pair of full-size ornamental cannons. These were said to be a Christmas gift from the former Argentine dictator, although they did not arrive directly from South America, but via intermediaries in Italy – leading some to lay the blame for what was to happen elsewhere.

Whatever the origins of the two cannon, Embery was evidently well briefed as to their purpose. He placed both guns on plinths in the grounds of his London home, facing in the direction of Westminster and the Houses of Parliament.

Had there been any visitors to the gardens of Hinton Hall during the spring of 1991 they might have admired these charming new additions to the outdoor furniture. Some keen observers might have also noted the frail strands of apparently blood-tinged ivy trailing from the barrels and commented on the poetic nature of such a thing. By this time Embery had decamped to his home in Henley.  He never returned to Hinton Hall and was found hung from the rafters of his bedroom in 1995, shortly after his treason was uncovered.

By 1994, Hinton Hall had become so overwhelmed by Gorse Ivy that a survey carried out by court order pronounced it beyond repair. Brian showed me a photograph of the property that had been taken by the surveyors, depicting one side of the house completely and utterly engulfed by a rising tide of greenery. It brought to mind an oil painting that I once seen of a kraken pulling down a tall ship.

By this time the ivy had spread to neighbouring buildings on Rose Lane and Playford Close. These too were eventually scheduled for demolition, although that did not stop the climbing plant from gaining purchase elsewhere and slowly but surely spreading across the capital.

The following year the British intelligence service came into possession of sketchy documentation outlining Galtieri’s plans for a covert strike against London. These were handed to the conservative MP, Edward Vane, by an Israeli delegate, during a trade visit to Florence.

Outside the Simon’s cafe, I swallowed the last of my bacon sandwich and licked the salty grease off my fingers.

“Brian, If you call your book ‘London is Fucked,’ I promise that I’ll buy ten copies.”


“Here! Sam! It’s here!”

Brian is franticly clearing away a patch of briars and nettles, patently oblivious to the damage that he is doing to his bare hands.

Twenty feet away, I force an ungainly passage through the tangle of plants, the abundant frothing cuckoo spit, that makes the garden appear rabid, clinging to the sleeves of my jacket.

The barrel of the cannon is badly askew on its mount. Chips in the black paint have been colonized by rust. The muzzle is capped with a metal plate that has been very securely welded in place.

 “It’s smaller than I thought it would be,” I wheeze. Evidently something in that mass of vegetation is aggravating my asthma.

“It’s in poor condition. Frankly I’m amazed they left it here.”

“I can’t see any ivy.”

“I very much doubt that you would find any. When they first discovered it, they absolutely deluged the place in pesticides. That’s brought about its own set of problems. You only have to look at the birth records for this area. There’s a very, very high number of defects...”

He glances around the garden.

“...I expect the other one must be nearby,”

We pause for a moment, each of us lost in his own thoughts. My wheezing subsides to a thin, high-pitched whine that is almost drowned out by the background noise of the swaying trees bordering an adjacent property; a sound like fast-flowing white water cascading over small rapids.

“I know that you don’t take this as seriously as I do, Sam, or take anything seriously, but you should because this really is the beginning of the end for London. Big Ben, Foyles, Saint Pauls, the Canary Wharf tower – all those places you love. I promise you that, one by one, they will all fall.”

Brian so often comes across as a caricature brought to life that I find those moments when he descends to a human level excruciatingly awkward. In that craven manner in which men have traditionally sought to avoid openly acknowledging each other’s emotions, I scan my surroundings for something to focus my attention on. Finally my eyes alight upon a discarded copy of the Walthamstow Gazette that is poking out among the nettles. The headline reads: “GOODBYE DOTTY!” I actually remember the story from a few weeks ago – a fond farewell to a popular racing greyhound.

Nearby, a solitary magpie launches itself from a twisted column of red brick, its initial straight and true course rounding off into a graceful curved descent into the undergrowth, like an arrow that has fallen short of its target.