Ash Blows

Ash blows and gives the impression
That the bonfire is still alive.
A hundred different birds
Offer their opinions from the skies.
As far as the eye can see
I'm the only human left.
One man surrounded 
By Nature;
Then swallowed up 
By her breath.

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The First

                    

The great strong scaffolds of Soho, 

Sit silent in the early hours of a Sunday morning.
Harold Moore's Records rests tranquil and quiet
Beside the Coach and Horses, and
Neither horse nor coach utter a word to each other. 
The huge famous faces of Carnaby Street
Have become mere facades,
As if they are abandoned sets in some Western
Without extras;
Yes, even Old Compton Street is without its cowboys.
And my unwashed body is reflected in a hundred dark windows: 
Transparent,
As if I am a ghost. 
I may well be the last spectre in Soho this morning.

                                                          

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Haunted By Eastleigh

Eastleigh train depot,

Abandoned and brown.

Home to old carriages with

Names like Sea Urchin

Printed on their stomachs,

In faded yellow paint.

Gardens grow in the sleepers,

For they have slept for too long.

And then we pass

Through Botley

With its fern leaves and

Blackberry trees,

And the old railroad

Which runs like a ghost

Alongside our train window.

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Rotting

There is a haggard piece of beech wood

To which I take sandpaper every morning,

To which I apply paint with brushes and

Wash down between my yawning.

But despite my vein attempts,

My repairs that are never rushed,

There is no doubt, 

This strange, shitty face

Will never look airbrushed.

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Completely

Completely awake and 

S

I

N

K

I

N

G

into the gargantuan silence of 

Early hours. 

My mind is being ignited by voices,

In much the same way 

As dawn will soon begin to burn

With the chorus of bird song.

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Short, Back & Sides: Trim Reviews! Harvey (Stage Play) 2015

You can tell it will be a good night at the theatre when you book a cheap last minute ticket online and get upgraded to The Royal Circle on your arrival.  If this didn't put me in cheerful mood enough, there was always the rather refreshing barmaid who, on being complemented on her finger nails by one thirsty punter replied: "Oh no, don't look at them.  They're my holiday nails and they're crap!"  Good to feel an air of down-to-earthiness in theatre land these days.

And if one wishes to be relaxed then I feel Harvey is the show to see.  Not only is it a pleasant, sweet and immensely addictive story, but the cast themselves really do seem incredibly at ease - as if they're having the time of their lives in fact.

Who can blame them? The entire play is rich with flavour and oozing humour.  James Dreyfus is brilliantly infectious as Uncle Elwood - every endearing glance or grimace that he shoots the invisible Harvey has the audience rolling. Maureen Lipman is equally wonderful, with all the energy, technique and timing you would expect from such a veteran of stage and screen,  The faultless supporting cast only help maintain the class of the entire  production, including a lovely cameo from Linal Haft as a disgruntled cabbie who points out that after therapy, patients return from the asylum "as normal people....[basically] complete bastards."

For me Harvey is about imagination; or rather one's right to hang onto it.  It doesn't matter whether the rabbit exists or not; what matters is why as adults it is sometimes deemed mandatory to lose our wonder of life, and why those who refuse to, and manage to redeem a childish naivety are often looked down upon - at times even deemed incapable of looking after themselves.

Perhaps that says more about society's envy than about the individual involved? After all, I'd settle for a 100 Uncle Elwood's in my life over none at all.  And as far as I'm concerned, every one of them can bring along their pal Harvey to the party! 





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Short, Back & Sides: Trim Reviews! Capote (2005)

2015 means it's been ten years since I first saw Capote (this year also marks the 50th year anniversary of Hickock and Smith's actual execution). I still remember being rooted to my cinema seat long after the credits had rolled, such was the power and twisted beauty of this film.  Seducing me with its opening shot of a depleted, saturated and somehow disturbing wheat field shuffling calmly in the breeze, for the next 110 minutes I was absolutely captivated by story, performance and direction in equal measures.

Capote himself was no doubt a tormented but terribly irksome individual, and if it hadn't been for Seymour Hoffman's extraordinarily empathetic performance, we might even have lost interest in Truman's tragically self-obsessive destruction over the writing of his finest book In Cold Blood...yet we never do.

As a writer it affected me greatly, to see how far one might have to go in order to achieve success and there is no doubt that the work is a masterpiece.  However as a human being, there was just something wholly sad about witnessing his desperate downfall.

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Short, Back & Sides: Trim Reviews! Ham On Rye by Charles Bukowski (1982)

Certainly in my top 10 books of all time due to its astonishing accuracy...has the charm, cruelty and complexity of childhood and adolescence ever been so truthfully and expertly observed?   Bukowski will have you laughing with him in one sentence and traumatised by the next. This book will upset you, irritate you, educate you, crack you up and cry you to sleep - as well as evoke memories of your own life, for better and for worse.  Bukowski was a difficult man to understand but he was also a victim.  It took him many decades to summon the strength to confront his past and publish this memoir...but thank goodness he did for essentially it is a story of triumph over personal tragedies.  I urge you to raise a glass to Ham and Rye.  After all, if you were Bukowski you would have raised "the whole goddamn bottle!" 

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Extract:

"Finally it was the day of the Senior Prom.  I don't know why but I walked over that night, the two-and-one-half miles from my parents' place.  I stood outside in the dark and I looked in through the window and I was astonished.  All the girls looked very grown up, stately, lovely, they were in long dresses, and they all looked beautiful.  And the boys in their tuxes, they looked great, they danced so straight, each of them holding a girl in their arms, their faces pressed against the girls hair.  They all danced beautifully and the music was loud and clear and good, powerful. 

Then I caught a glimpse of my reflection staring in at them - boils and scars on my face, my ragged shirt.   I was like some jungle animal drawn to the light and looking in.  Why had I even come?  I felt sick.  Where had they learned to converse and dance? Everybody knew something I didn't know. The girls looked so good, the boys so handsome.  I would be too terrified to even look at one of those girls, let alone be close to one.  To look into her eyes or dance with her would be beyond me."

Short, Back & Sides: Trim Reviews! Who's Afraid Of Virginia Woolf? (1966)

Oh George and Martha - one evening with these guys and you'll feel like you'll need a weekend away!  Sadly we lost Mike Nichols last year, but it was his craft as director - as well as Burton and Taylor's genius - to be able to put us completely through the emotional ringer and yet never wholly resent spending two hours with such a revoltingly riveting, claustrophobic couple. Namely because throughout all the teasing, testing, games, rows, love, hatred and drinking we learn so much about this perversely unorthodox (or totally ordinary?) marriage - and most certainly something of our own relationships along the way. A fickle observation perhaps, but living through the tiresome perfection of 21st century CGI, I couldn't help but wonder if Burton's scarred skin would have been 'cleaned up' in post these days?  Great to see real stars used to be real people! 

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