Silver Tooth of a Wildcat.

03JUN10

There’s a fine hairline between a beach bum and a sheepdog so a sprucing was a fine choice. There’s a little place next door to my work in Chiswick that shapes the curliest perm (fit for a 70s footballer) – which turns out dresses the hair of two times ballon d’or winner Kevin Keegan. Although, I still can’t work out why I’ve still got two left feet. It’s hard to put a name on my job title so there’s no point going into any nitty-gritty elaborations of what my work entails but rest assured, good charm and a Simon Cowell smile would relive any guilt of creative retardation. A perfect cup of tea and an abridged version of the local rag also help.

Teacher friends Frenchy and Mas were basking at the Royal Courts where war campaigners were renovating the rooftops and sixty year old hippies were grooming wise students. Frenchy, Baloo the bear from Jungle Book (always smiling), settled my Greenpeace heart with sweet fresh beer and stuck a crisp cigarette where my placard mouth should be. He had planned a night on a shoestring.

If it is narrow minded to say ‘I hate the French’ then is it narrow minded to say ‘I love the French’ and shouldn’t one just as condemned as the other? The Angel bars didn’t offer such the holiest of first introductions to blonde primary school teachers and a lover. It was more like a northern monkey taking to ice for the first time (no magic vines). This topped with an unexpected reunion with past school friends, only cemented my belief that you don’t need to strive to collect your change in mint condition.

A couple of hours later, with the help of a moment of clarity, I caught my reflection in the glint of a severely wiped flip knife. A silver tooth of a wildcat - the size of my middle finger. I nearly freaked until I realized the dangling Lucky Strike, cusped by my dry lips, had been given to me as a gift from a 7ft biker by the name of Longman. I had previously met him a bar (aptly named Ladybird) on Upper Street and had just questioned him about his ‘colours’ before he suddenly grabbed me by the elbow and carried me outside.

He told me ‘you make yourself whenever you teach yourself. No one can make who you are but only encourage to.’ With good charm and Simon Cowell smile, and a email address scrawled onto a torn page of Hunter S Thompson’s Hell’s Angels we both parted into the morning where God had posted novelty cards to roads in starting blocks - when cabbies and drunks shared that quiet moment of a contented haze.

Got My Shirt Buttoned Down.

02JUN10

The pavements are lined with buttoned down shirts that are blissfully plugged into today’s summery soundtrack, blocking out the nagging voices of Apple’s sweatshop children. For each step is monitored, as not to take over or fall behind in the queue to the nearest cattle train. I suppose, we’re all entitled to a bit of me time – as long as we just don’t know.

One old man, however, roasts under his sandwich board making no movement but bearing his protest to this council’s housing benefit. He’ll make do with the occasional nod, unaware with the stigma that street charity workers fill their pockets with on the hour – apply for quick cash schemes and a c.v. solution. That’s proactive retirement. Although, my drummer’s grandpa often likes to sit at bus stops with a cranky wireless radio, puffing from a pipe whilst trying to solve the enigma on the constraint faces that moved in and out beside him. At least he has it down.

In Ladbroke Grove, my bad boy digits are cranked up – riding from cell to cell and rattling contact information. The walls are lined with records, flyers and faded newspaper headlines that remind me that there is a fair walk to travel before I can make a point. Every cutting belongs to Lee, a veteran 80s clubber with a soft spot for the apple logo, hounds and hustling. A heavy-duty fan coughs and sputters over his tangent mutterings that bounce from floor to ceiling and off down the street over the swansong of the BBC6 station. My gravelly squawk remains cooped up so I remain quiet.

God is permanently high and sells sawdust dope to philosophical gangsters. They pass the play and pray to him at the end of their day while alongside, I analyze various pigeon fights with a ‘beautiful mind’. Mind over any matter.

Bad Boy Digits

01JUN10

So here the monthly travel begins and yet procrastination is not my destination. For my intramural endeavors are pinned on my corkboard. A board that demonstrates the coalition of sanity and obsessive-compulsive disorder – what an exciting time we live in. The pins represent the coherent sparks of my keen eye whereas the cards are my business plan. You know, with string, photos, newspaper clippings and anything else that’s impressive from the American TV shows. Hell, my own mosaic.

There’s no better way to grease up the morning with slippery bacon and an oily rag egg (toast included). It’s the only time to contently stare blankly over coffee stained papers and last week’s Sunday pullouts. Apparently, denim is in. Now who would have thought (conjure) it? Designers’ are magicians – where do you think capes came from?

My voice is just like Ledley King. It can only be used two or three times a week or it births frogspawn (no one has a sour tooth). Blood has shot my eyes like an old second hand banger and my pique, well, is more like a temperamental exhaust pipe. Quick Hatton jabs to the embalmed ego.

My girl is in a cuckoo clock (country) and I am in a cuckoo psyche. Camping out by her bedroom door plotting out new positions on the pavement in chalk. There’s a limit to pantyhose doodles.

There are two slight steps to my workplace today. Chair. Laptop. Masking tape. Ah, the tape is for my bad boy digits (twiddling away like a fiddler on an ocean-liner). Sometimes I wear fingerless gloves to be Bob Crotchet. A saddened candle at the corner of the desk ticks away and the piles of coin will never amount to much. Nevertheless, I have a wonderful family (and I’m just the boy on crutches).