Thursday, October 13, 2005

I did the soccer game at Lansdowne Road last night and now we are out of the World Cup. Not that we were ever in it, but last night was the final nail in the coffin of hope, if there can be such a thing. The thing about doing the stewarding at the match is the experience of real life you get from it, plus the handy 45 euros. The work itself is just looking at tickets and trying to piulfer as much freebies as you can, not that that isd my primary goal. The average steward is between 40-60 with a ruddy face and oftentimes having a whiff of booze about their person. We have to assemble at the ground 3 hours before kick off and que up to get "jobbed" or "bibbed". Biibed comes from the fact that we wear orange bib like coats. In some respects it is a bit like the old dockers pen, not that there is much of a chance of not getting a start, it's just in the way that the old soaks jostle their way as a solid mass of ragged old pissheads and wasters (me included)when they are queing up for their names to be taken.

The average steward is old school Dublin and has an endearing mix of street cunning and humanity which seems to encapsulate the essence of the poetic spirit, which I class as being two dissimilar things in close proximity to one another. Two opposites side by side, or to translate it into an ABC, 2 word combos that are strinkling and original as a result of their unusualness, so

"Sausage HiFi - Cucumber Tyres" etc. These are straight off the bat without any real creative input, but you can see where I am going with it. So the Lansdowne Road stewards carry within their person an essence of poetry and like all people without much in life, they make up for their lack of material things by a surfeit of human kindness, and a willingness to half inch anything that isn't nailed down. Last night it was T shirts. The FAI had placed various T shirts on the seats, which had the logo "Irish Rock Swiss Roll", obviously the result of a week long high dough executive toing and froing. The "lads" took it upon themselves to half inch as many as was humanly possible and everyone got at least one or two. The ones taking the most were boastful of their gain, whilst us at the lower end of thievery adopted airs of moral superiority at the greed of the rest. As I sit here now in my green T shirt with the aforesaid logo, and with a spare white one at home, I feel a part of that unique camoradrie of the "lads" from Lansdowne, many broken, many wrecked, but all with a genuine spirit that can only come from a life on the breadline.

The strange thing about watching the game live is that it doesn't look half as eciting as it does on the TV. The players are seen as the human beings they are, cut out from the magic hypno box and stripped of the alluring electronic fantasy sheath we put on them when we see them surrounded by the wiles of our consumer age. Cut to the break and see such a one shaving with a space technology precision razor, or dressed up as a retro futurist gladiator kicking a ball at a computer enhanced 300MPH, and watch it rocket into the nets with a trail of jet smoke behind it. Without all these props they are very much like Swifts Convent Garden actress at the end of that poem whose title escapes me, but who ends up as an old bag when devoid of her props.

That's what it's like live, like watching a better class of Sunday football. I think that not having to pay and actually getting paid to be there probably has some deep pyschological effect, which it would be interesting to do a study on; or maybe not.

Saturday, September 10, 2005

I've just come from PJ's after cycling up to Noels, but he wasn't in and I got lost, ending up at PJ's and helping him move some furniture.

I lost my journal and the recording of the Tuesday night warble session, as well as Nessa's minidisc and my bike. I had to get another one off Paddy the knacker and my dreams of podcasting have taken a bit of a bashing. As regards reading, Gilgamesh by Derek Hines is the only bit of poetry I've read recently which got me any way excited, as the word combos he has are brilliant and unusual, not like the same old same as pedestrian stuff we are so used to from the pension plan poets who measure success in latter day mocha coffee cups old TS himself would be proud of. Clones of early moderns who use the words "wonderful" "delightful" and "superb" a lot when log rolling their mates work, which is, for the most part, utter crap.

And this is not just me being bitter about my own impoverished conditions, it's true, have a gander yourself and tell me what passion most 30 something poets have today. They are all teachers and academics with safe existences, whose poetic linegaes are manufactured to plug into Homer.

Rant over.

I'm just pissed off coz IO don't think I'm going to get into college to study internet authoring. I have a course, but because I have a higher qualification than the course I want then the fees might not be paid by the government. Bastards.

I hope to get paypal on here soon so you can donate.

Monday, August 15, 2005

I was sitting down in Temple Bar Square having a fag and some ropey greened to brown toothed female in a battered blue, thin quilted coat came up to me asking

"Excuse me love, you don't know where I can get any lithium do you, to come of the ale with"

and got me thinking, do I look like the kind of man who would know where you can get it?

Friday, March 25, 2005

A Girl in Focus

I saw a thousand sights as an only passenger
clinging to black painted spikes as they rose
upwards like a fairground ride
sailing across the skyline cityscape
of an imagined Rome.
I moved along multi storey catacombs
barely keeping level and nearly falling off
before stopping outside a house on top of a hill
where, in sleep and told by another
that she held a torch for me
I tumbled headlong in and fell behind her
flesh parting smile,
wondering if it simply meant goodbye
until tommorow
or if the dream could mirror life.

I told her I had seen her in a dream
and now
she no longer smiles
but busies herself with innocuous tasks
as soon as I appear in the doorway
of the canteen where I dine daily
and she works
assisting the mealtime experience
of the homeless men who eat there
at a vastly subsidised rate.

I realise now that her good natured bonhomie
and friendly manner
where all part of a facade,
a professional mask donned during working hours.

I am just another customer
and her charisma is rationed out
like the wholesome cooked nutritional food;
each crafted gesture as finely tuned
and calculated in its creation
as the very attractively priced
choice of two basic staple meals
which constitute the menu
in that establishment.
A penny dinner palace
where scangers
junkies, drunks and those in
insecure hostel accommodation
can get cheap eats and free housing advice
from one of the many staff there,
including the girl in my dream.

Wednesday, March 23, 2005


Poets all around the world
surf to where the edge of language
boundaries blur to a new tongue.

Come to the lingo shack
where Scalljah's rappin' out the licks
of post-modernity
under the guise of Jan Manzwotz;
one phonetically corrupt identity of
Desmond Swords
pinnacle poet head of four other
who came over a course of study
in Ormskirk,
where he wandered lonely
as a Gary Glitter tribute band
for 6 semesters.
Shunned by the student kids
who couldn't understand what drove
this grey haired
dad like
plastic Paddy sad act
to return to a life at the academy.

A learning environment
dominated by trainee teachers
dreaming of a settled life
in suburbia.
Media wannabees
aching for television
weather presenting careers.

Long term unemployed
fast-track access returners
to social science learning
who yearn to become social workers
only to find part way through
that they are not on the appropriate
pathway which allows them
to take children
into local authority care
or section the mentally ill
into a secure pyschiatric environment.

Sports science mad athletic youngsters
in a uniform of tracksuit
and seriously stern facial language
aiming to open chains
of health and fitness centres
where they can forget the talk of
how Foucault's philosophies
relate to the pyschology of jogging
on a treadmill.

And in amongst the chips and sausauge
a bog standard humanities department
offering English Lang, Lit
Film Studies
Drama Theory and Creative Writing degrees.

Populated by mainly
earnest young women
reading Harry Potter and
after mind expanding experiences
so they can become ethereal artists
working in showbiz worlds
full of soap fuelled reality
and mobile phones.

This is where my intellect was sharpened.
The West Lancs plain.
Home to carrot pluckers
leek cutters
and spuds galore.
A flat body of farmland
fringed by the urban cloak of Liverpool
tinging the Lancashire twang with
a freedom to instantly lose our natural
bumpkin identity of slow witted
sheep fiddling field lovers
and become street wise
city slick jive talkers
giving it the

Oh aye
hey laah
eeze a boss beaut blert
whose gonna get sparked right out
when arrgh kid get's old've 'im
for mouthin' off about his bird.

Oh yeah,
when was that then Jacko?
At Tommo's party in the tower block
at Crocky last Satdee
where me Ma 'n Da got arrested
for 'avin a domestic?

No Terry fella.
Down the Yatesies in town
last Wednesday
when the match was on
'n everyone got barred for fightin'
when we lost arrgh heads
coz we'd bin on the ale all day
'n descended inter anti-social behaviour.

N' wharra 'bout yer accent?

Stayed scouse till we crossed Maghull
went back te'th'normal
when I got 'ome 'n put me indoor wellies on
and settled down te Coronation Street
and a few days of actin' daft
'n reet northern
coz we 'ad a job on in th'Wigan
so it were best to get back
to a more normal sound.

Sunday, March 20, 2005


If this proves too long for yer, have a gander here. I am a schizo writer wiv multiple character disorder.

Imagine this is the BBC site Get Writing. Yes I know it's not but just pretend coz when I finally managed to get it up after sum cat and mouse, they pulled it off.

I was chatting with newcomers on an appropriately named "Newbie" conversational board. The first time I had engaged in this activity in my four years of writing.

I've been posting here since it started 2 years ago and, yeah, when you start out you think that maybe some BBC exec will spot your genius, but once you see the score you realise that it's a lot more probable they'll nick your ideas. And coz the first line BBC monitor operative's patrolling the site and keeping order like it tame and felt unnerved with the accuracy of my words, they locked me down. I was aware that there must have been a few computer tied, home based coffee gophers involved coz I couldn't post anything at all under my Scalljah monicker, so had to switch to posting under my Manzwotz ID.

Imagine if Mark Ravenhill tried to get "discovered" here, then you will get the picture of where I'm coming from. True Talent is very often not recognised by the masses coz it aint conditioned to see the real art, just the filler.

Sunday 20/2/05 - and is me as Manzwotz talking after I've cobbled all the various posts from the conversation thread together and put it in one piece.


Hi. I've had to post this for a friend who is currently on an info whiteout, because his style is too much for some to understand without wetin' their knickers and the fantasies in their brain getting a tad too real, so read with caution and take it slow, and remember to think of North West English accents. The fella below is one of my characters. The whole of this piece comes out of the Get Writing Newbie section, which I joined as Scalljah this weekend, but I have been a member of Get Writing since it began, under my usual name. I wanted to have a laugh and just talk real, and Scall was the man who helped me "find my voice" as they call it in writing school.

Read 'n enjoy.


Scouse scally ear, voicin' deep 'n serious concerns from the folks in the high creative end of the BBC Get Writing Newbie hood. A place editors go moochin' around in order to nick ideas for their ruthlessly focused climb up the pole of

"stand in for the player whilst we tech level,"

before passin' into the first stage

"toss pot idea development 'n shape to series room," where they stretch back on the casting couch of ambition and do it for the glam and a mention in executive memos. I've already bin pulled once, so've had to change the names to protect the bbc monitor opo's from cackin their load 'n havin' to ask the boss if they've gotta kiss my arshe or call the cops before changin' their diapers. And if yers are readin' this you office bound screen hitlers, don't worry about the legal or offensive house breaker statutes, coz I've chopped it so it's now as legally tame as the mind of a neutered 20 year career beeb exec whose been descendingly promoted from the off, since their first day when they were instructed that their main duties would be bringin radio 11's Jerry Brogan his mid morning injection of drugs from the canteen chemist. Run your software over it and see, but if not I'll see you in court, the five letter word open to interpretation same as fug and pish and wamk.

It all started off as a simple bitta chat about ideas on the newbie board. Some fella (I'll be pc and plump for a man) says he's got an idea too hot to handle. I'll call the joker "Wordgenius" to keep the near real phonetic identity of "word diddlee dee" from being exposed (legal necessity), probably coz he has to type on the computer covert, dressed as a tree, just in case wheeze thinkin' of trackin him down 'n robbin' his mind.

"I have a good treatment," he says, " no in fact a fantastic one!!!!

I am scared of sharing this idea until its perfect!

What is the best way to copyprotect my treatment before sharing it with "others"
"others" being anyone who could make money from this idea.?I am a Newbie and proud "

And whilst copying and pasting this genuine posting may result in the world exploding coz copywrite "issues" arise, all I can say to defend myself is, "get a life."

As yer can imagine I wasn't arsed about his idea, what got me was the brain behind it, thinkin' that this was the place he was gonna get spotted for bein' a tv exec genius 'n whisked straight to the top of the control tower to hold conferences with the DG, who Wordgenius' delusionals probably had him whippin' out them golden handcuffs quicker than a nun droppin' to her knees in tescos when a vision of the hail mary pops up on aisle 10 as she's browsin' the limited range of lingerie on offer. You know the type, gotta show proposal in their head that's gettin' realer by the minutes 'n there's no way of stoppin the fiction until he's had a meet with the head of prime time and whispered in his ear the theosophical world changer about gettin' an Ant 'n Dec wallpaperin 'n cookin combo show on the go, but with the novelty of them lovable Geordie conveyor belts of talent having their legs amputated over the course of the series, a few inches of either leg each week, which the audience phone in to decide. Wordgenius is saying non specific things about himself being a big noise in "Marketing" 'n the general sellin' of product 'n mass consumption, and he gives it the big one about ideas in development....somebody waitin to green light a big dollar project and basically tryin' to vibe it like steven spielbergs about to start pesterin' him.


So I wade in, havin' a comedy stream of conscious extemporisation

ScallyLaahhFella here dreamon fella, spoutin' comedy advice I urge you to ignore. Yers've gotta be proper carefull about lettin yer ideas out to the real world (especially around them twenty something, plum "yah ma 'n da's in media so telly's in me blood lah" types) coz there's a lotta untalented people out there who are on a life long non start thee try and pass of as short term creative blockage. You'd be surprised at the quality of these tv opo's. A lot of 'em get the start coz thee go doggin' in Highgate Wood or boozin in Hampstead, where a lot of the ideas are firmed up into shows. Put a few of 'em who are on the payroll in the one room 'n next thing yer know we're all watchin' Alan Titmarsh swimmin' with dolphins or half the cast of Eastenders playin' celebrity ping pong. If these low voltage brain drips came from me or you lah, they'd have as much chance as seein' it through to appearin' in print in the TV Quick as Dan Rather has of pullin Bebocee 'n gettin' a suckfest on the go with Barbara 'n George Bush. (unless of course it's already pre-production as "Celebrity Foursomes"). I had one a while back about TV stars workin' on a pig farm. The one killin' most pigs winnin' holidees for dyin' plague victims at a nature reserve in the las vegas desert; 'n d'yer know what? It went 'n got nicked by some tv idea development fella who tried to pass it off as his own. And the worst one I had robbed was for a show called

"The Ablution- One or Two? show."

It was about watchin' celebrities shakin' drops 'n wipin' what's left from the cheek squeeze. I tell yer, as we speak, there's a circus of nepotistically took on non creative media gradutes around tables in Wood Lane fightin' to give the green light to that show. It's educational yer see, or Rainbow, a learnin' entertainment mix. It got pocketed when I was havin a chat to a bloke in Walmart car park unloadin his trolly. I just happened to get chattin' with him coz I noticed that he was only a small fella who seemed a bit scared when I accidently collided with him on me skateboard, so I thought I'd better calm him down before he soiled his pants 'n would've had to go to the handicapped bogs to freshen up. (Them bein' the only ones of an appropriate size with the right amount of privacy). It was then that I realised that the dimunative man was none other than Ronnie Barker, one half of the two Ronnies TV comedians duo. As yer can imagine I came over all funny. I mean, I've seen some players in me time, but no one to get me knees tremblin like RB.

I could tell he was a bit embarressed about touchin' cloth in front of a stranger, so I tried to lighten the atmosphere by makin' a joke out of him lettin' one slip out unnanounced, 'n then whipped out me hand held video camera, suggestin' we freestyle the idea I had in me head 'n do an improvised pilot shoot there 'n then. After callin' his agent to get the nod on the technicalities of who held intellectual property rights, we got straight down to business 'n took off to the disabled toilet, 'n yer'll never guess what? We only happened to bump into the daytime TV queen mother Judie Finnegan, stockin' up on a few crates at the express checkout, so I fired it past her 'n she was all for it, the more the merrier, 'n she didn't have to be on the telly with her hubby for a few weeks coz she was dryin' out from the stress of him flirtin' with the stand in when she was off sick on the nerve attacks.

As yer can imagine, I couldn't believe me luck. A whole show formatt delivered into me lap, plus the pilot, which I've still got on me camera. I'm keepin it to meself coz it all went a bit wobbly when Johnnie started playin' up about the residules 'n Judie cracked open the voddie 'n started flashin at the shoppers; but I had enough to put together a top quality treatment, which could hold its own with anythin' the hereditary Hampstead and Highgate freeloaders are thinkin' up in the high powered big dough meets, where they even have people employed to send out the shops for pies and donuts from Mokka Exec Coffee Nation round the corner in Wood Lane, next door to the Magikebabra chippy.


By this point I was firin' on all jinks, so I carry on fiddlin' with the lingo, thinkin' I'd dribble a bit more 'n reel off me Friends Reunited spiel. Yer know that one USA readers, it's a website of old school buddies, where everyone posts up how their lives have turned out. It's all "I'm doing great, making loads of dough and my knobs bigger than yours." Obviously I'm goin' for the subversive angle -

Yo tiny town tease squeezers, whaazzup with yers. I tell yer what about me is that I'm dead busy 'n up to all sorts of daftness in me own mind. I'm a full time unemployed penniless poet and I've just been offered a well paid voluntary position bein' a local news hound, reviewin for the South Wirrral (UK) Music Collective, where all the Parkgate posh kids try out the fake city boy rock role before knucklin' down for their A levels; but it's a bit tricky at the mo coz I'm banged up on the secure unit of Ward 11. However, hope is at hand. If youse lot can rustle up a snatch squad and have a do at smuggling me past the nurses when showtime explodes down the commies or the church hall, I'm your number one hack, firin' on all the ink cylindrical spikes I can stick in and go to OD heaven on, you squeeze feelin' trainee corpses.

Just tell me sister about the where's 'n when's and make sure there's a stash of unmentionables on standby so I can get in the right frame of mind as befits a man of the press at such an occassion of soundual splendid whatsathingy, where the air is usually thick with the great right through to the giftless of our small market town, punching well above it's weight in the ole musical stakes, it has to be said.

Doin' it this way youse ole cocksmen and women at the helm of the next generation, means we can mix up the writin'. Not that I'm sayin' your lot's stuff's ever stale old town ''n new place mates 'n muckers, no way. In my humble opinion your life in words represent the rocktastic tip top nexus of linguistivally innovative lyrical investigative journalistic bio which is unafraid to say what it thinks and offers the discerning reader a real insight into your brains, in a clicheless non limp style which is bursting at the brim with the spark 'n fire betraying an eyefull of the forge from where the language of the truly gifted emerges, which leads me to believe, my sock cooking mothers, that you have been annointed by the lingo god of cool taste in all matters chat.


I then went on to pretend I was havin' a busy big time social life covering the music scene in South Wirral, and bein' on the blower simultaeneously. Coz our phones say so much about who we are don't they? Note USA pals that a Wollyback is an urban term for a rural person. Keeping Dixxy is keeping a lookout whilst others get up to no good.


Look me new silver beeb pals, I can't jangle with yers now coz I'm on the dog and bone and downloading from some rural country bumpkin site where them woolyback parky girls gagging for the real city lads are murmering that the sheep shagging pie eaters are all singing in generic global slush voices, homogenised to a sweet puppy cute pop that's turning the Pargate operatives of those school plastic rock band's into wannabee robotic drones, with as much originality as a disposable 10 year old keeping dixxy whilst the bigger lads debate whether or not to give him a kicking, just coz thee can. That's them Woolies for yer lah. Can't sing to save their grandmothers getting bullied by the schoolboy butcher. Most've 'em have played out the fake city rock boy role and peaked 'n faded by fifteen so thee can concentrate on their A levels or slip into wearing a shirt and tie to get steady work at the jobcentre or some office or shop place in town so thee can practice 'n hone being a Thurston scally. You know the script " me ma 'n da are from the Bullring laah." Playing the game of "lets pass muster," along with all the other delusionally voiced steady Eddies scared of their own shadows being exposed as non existent 'n a waste of sunlight.

And the local girls back chat 'n slag 'em proper boss behind their backs, call 'em tossers who've all got plassy scouse accents 'n maters 'n paters drivin' 4x4's coz their lives are so borin, ' empty 'n so devoid of any real soul that thee feel the need to in yer face label thrust each 'n every sad act in that toy town centre playground where thee all practice at being meffs.


By now I was as mentally high as a kite in stephen hawkins head and just spout out like Charles Bernstein and David Meltzer in a speed writing contest.


Yo geeze 'n gals. Whaazzup on the ether dude'licious matey boys and groans 'n not so's, who I personally think is just spot on whatsamathingameelaah, d'yers know whaarrra mean like, or fuggin' not? Yer buncha twads 'n tozzers. When I see me face tommorow after fallin' offa the booze train for the day 'n endin' up on Hampstead Heath havin' it ring stingingly bad offa Noel's sister's mate, Daffy Diplick the cheese spread good time suck 'n see one, whose been roughing me up like a badgers back passenger train crashin' fella, I'll no doubt self mutilate me soul as well as me knob handle. But let me continue, 'n tell yer all about the baby gravy that was popping like a champagne fountain with a pipeburst, spurtin' the jizz of a happy high n' ham alfesco doggin' festival of free swingin' that was so out of reach I had to give it a miss till the space time continuim was jilted out of kilter by Aonghus, the God of non existent fantasies geezers. Hard rock stiff 'n core thrashin' round the platinum metallica crap dot like jazz to the sound of the Nolans, Bucks Fizz 'n Hugh Scully from the Antique Meff Food and Drink rag that Jenny straight faced the plonk taster sometimes writes for, in between takin it up the whatsits offa John the finger lingo man who was gettin' stressed 'n trippin out on a constant miserablic moment on the non fave pop in the fridge show with that one who gets her jugs out 'n whips her kit off. The one who had to shoot off early to go 'n have a whatsimido with me and me mates last Wednesday after darts.

Anyway she's just filler. I've got that Emily on the end of it tommorow. She's proper yeah yeah, twist 'n locked 'n loaded. Ripped to the tits 'n rattling for it like a junkie razzler on the old oh eye yer not kidding vibe. Fitter than that one off "Paradise Uncut." And I'd better not tell yer about last night coz you won't believe it, and if yer did you'd get so monged out I'd have to top yer to stop yer from exploding and gettin' me all upset about the non physical intimacy such an event would occassion in relation to me wallpaper screen if yers ever managed to escape into the otherworld 'n send a message via e mail by way of Doris Stoke's mate 'n Daffy Ike's personal hand rag 'n envelope licker, Tim the tongue 'n back wipe stroker.

Needless to say I was down the BBBC Green Lounge Ogle 'n Gargle bar, quaffin' a few light ales with me telly pals in the TV VIP romper red whip suck 'n see room, and it was ram jammed mateso's, flesh squish packed to the rafters 'n eye ball full of all the top quality dimbo star gazers waiting for some lightweight fake L8 Aintree scally to beg over 'n cat fight for like...well.... at the Ormskirk Golden Lion at kick out time on a Monday when theese is facing the wrong end of a long walk down Green Lane to the Scott. But I'd better keep spinnin' the lingo 'n let yer know thee was drooling like waterfalls. It wasn't safe. Groupie clams snapping for the fairest far out spacer with two words to rustle up a lah lah chorus of the bored with. Well, I'm on for this one who does the dreaming down Lapland Heaven vertical drink 'n vomit bar whilst wearin' as little as she thinks classy, and I had to bin her off coz she was just too fit.

Straight up 'n god's truly, picture fixed 'n locked on to the real deal lowdown, coz she had all the personality of a blank piece of paper, but without the excitement and depth. Honest to Gordons lah. It had to be done. I settled the toss on a bit of shakelite ditz headed hollyoak cloned empty head who was looking for someone to make it all real for her. She was a bit of oh yeah oh yeah 'n a right blinding bableicious booty shaker. Fit as them supermodels on planet perfect and right up for it, proper, like a jizzed up kangaroo down trampoline alley lah. Begging for that Pete Doherty scanger on skag vibe to whistle her up on a Kate Moss magic carpet of doom laden non starter love. Right on 'n oh eye yeah yeah, right back 'n with a stack of it. Alton Towers hard core. Skips of, phoar, you're not joking there sunshine good time boyo; yer rascalic spot trotting placcy ormy scouse bashing rougue yer. You'll never guess what she had me saying.

Anway, forgive me ramblin'. Wot was we on about? Protectin' ideas 'n that. Well, whatever yers do, don't go sniffin' round the bogs on cottage corner next door to the magikebabra chippy in Wood Lane, otherwise the customers yer gonna get up close 'n personal with will nick all yer dreams 'n recycle 'em as Tuesday night filler on BBC 15, the new tv/radio/internet channel showing edited highlights of Muswell Hills most wanted cock jockeys 'n beaver clings, who they film on the old railway path and in a back room of Toffies chip shop, specially decked out 'n kept on 24 hour standby by the dons of the north london media mafia who just wanna have a bag of chips and a consensual swing session with whoever's in the que holdin' the lucky ticket 'n waitin' for cod, peas 'n spud sticks.


As yer can imagine, after this rant I needed a lie down, and when I came back me postin had bin whipped off by the beeb stasi, but not before I got a reply from the wordgenius diddlee dee guy with the big idea he was tentatively askin' advice off all us no hopers for, 'n this is what he said.


"This is genius. I'm serious, post this in the comedy section and if it doesn't win 'editors pick' - I'll eat that copy of the Writers Handbook I borrowed from the local library..."

But the dodge is, yer go to the thread now 'n coz me post was snipped, all yer've got is lame duck conversation about bein the next Noel Edmonds. The real bit of different writin' stood as much chance of gettin' an audience as French 'n Suanders current comedy advisor has of gettin' taken on by meself. (think French 'n Saunds last comedy series about two middle aged female writers where the entire central conceit revolves around writers block, which collapsed 'n bombed like a post chop trannie at a knob comparin' contest)

And straight after bein' told I'm a comedy god I get a..erm..lets make this one female, named after a tennis star called Hendman. He..I mean she...has been postin' the odd comment of monosyllablic length, so we aren't too sure if she's a net stalker or normal lonely driftin' wannabee, just like the rest of us. Anway, she posts a comment to balance out Wordgenius's above effort tellin' me I'm the daddy. This is what Bendman says.

"or you could turn this situation on its head of course.- could just come on this website to copy everyone elses poetry to make your fortune..."

Yeah, right, she's worried about people copyin' 'n pastin' Shakespeare sonnetts 'n tryin' to pass them off as an original work of their own and for a mo I'm wonderin' of she's deluded enough to think that she's conned herself into not postin' coz she thinks wheeze gonna mug her lingo. Oh right. Of course. She must be a normal driftin' wannabee like us all, I mean, I've got Heaney's ouvre passin as me own as I type, sendin his reworded bog poems off to Bloodaxe 'n tryin to fox Neil Astley that I wrote them in '62 when I was livin' as an idea in two peoples minds.

But it's ok, I'm not arsed about me postin gettin chopped. I'm agitatin' to swipe a fine one at Hendman,(who I shall now refer to as Bendergirl) and as Amiri Baraka says about his poems,

"I'll just kill you 'n make another one."

Anyway, I only wanted to chat, and the people I was textin' wiv had read it anyway, so I continue (the below has been doctored to a legal non offense state. ie the odd letter change)


Any editors or other tv waste personell checkin' out me ideas, pizz off up the hole 'n stick yer fingers up the back of where they should be and have a do at gettin' round to my gaffe for an audition of laughin' 'n snortin' on one liners and tryin' out dancin round me pole till showtime explodes in the kitchen area of the bedsit 'n we all strip for the group publicity shots for the new show. Anytime'll do, but not on Mondays, coz me and Jock Lislie's filmin' for our new show, Celebrity Shaggle where we've been pointin' it at all the top serious actors 'n actresses offa the quality soap gettin' up to all sorts with all things related to shaggle magic interactive tv.

I can't promise you a contract, or any financial renumeration for your time, but you will get the chance to be recorded and possibly appear with myself, Clint Eastwood, a back passage partner artist currently on secondment from a Willsden crack den where he has been in training for a temporary mid life crisis and severe crash of talent. Please bring the appropriate registration and handling fee of fifty quid or some alcoholic perishables to the value of a monkey or a bag of sand.

Again thee pulled it on the grounds of offense, but givin' me the chance to change. (Which I applied). Anway, by now Bendergirl and Wordgenius is gettin' all exited, Genius for, Bender against, but genius is sendin out most of the text, benders is going for the short 'n pithy, keepin' it simple and monosyballic, along the lines of

"I'm lost"

which confirms me suspicions that she is only looking for a hook up to others who are as lost as she is. But Genius is makin' murmers along the lines of I may be as talented as he thinks he is, which I decide to get playful about, after all, he's the guy who started the post, sayin' about his top idea 'n 2 years in LA sniffin at the treatment stage in development limbo, waitin' for the nod off the big one who makes the traffic lights change whilst he attends meetings where he labels himself as being in the "marketing" business. Again I've done the necessary legal tinkerin'

That's right Wordgenius me market man; 'n fellas like yours truthsomely just get me agitatin' with meself, dyer's know wharamean mate? And like it says in the good book,

"like sharpened steel, so does one person sharpen another."

And I bet youse know that coz yers are in market makeover heaven 'n hell intzyer goodsbooty? Lets take it to the top floor 'n shake it together laah. That's assumin' yer are a proper formally classified geezer 'n not a trannie, or post chop wannabee or a woman trapped in a mans body like me self. But keep that gem between me 'n you mate, otherwise I'll have every scout 'n chancer (from the adult channel right through to that new outfit wannin to film pre op porn poets) sniffin' round me cardboard walls like that corner shopkeeper from corrie who was slippin' it to tracey's arl girl in between the buzzer goin' off and the other sheep shaggin' pie eatin wolley back fella nippin' in 'n out for jars of lube so he can keep the boy rent's conveyor belt runnin' smooth when he's not gettin' it in the neck by all the gossips down the Rovers whatsaplace on Corrie where all the main faces deliver them superbly crafted lines written by slow speakin' geezers peddlin' a serious attitude to havin' a laugh 'n keepin' the millions gawpin' from the couch so's everyone's a star.

Play yer cards right fella 'n I'll let yer in on developin' an idea me three year old neice give me about a bang the door baby game played with a doll whose sick 'n has to stay in bed. I'm lookin' for someone to play the doll's big brother 'n is called buster, whose role in the project is to bring his dolly sister things whilst she gets well in bed. That's where you come in laah. I want you to run with it 'n do the donkies whilst I direct yer and me and me neice Coimha chat about the adventures she and Soirse go on in their imaginations at the Yoga Bug on a Monday; goin to africa and mars before endin' up at the ocean in the seaside on a witchunt lookin' for a farm thee can sell to fellas like yerself who are trapped in the body of marketin'.

So, all's dandy, but then I must be strokin' someone coz thee chopped it before it appeared, obviously thinkin they might have an escaped mental patient who shouldn't be allowed access to letters and numerals. So, the next is I'm proper boosted on the high octane energy of being monitored so close. Wordgenius reckons I've upset some heavy hittin' capos in between them suppin' cappachinos and talkin' serious decoratin' n' how Diurmud the Irish gardner's the god of all things outdoor ambience related, 'n that havin' a telly in the back yard of the two up two down Clapham terrace is worth spendin 20 grand of BBC dough on, coz they is bringin new innovation, indeed an art, to the grateful masses. So I knock out that -

I'm bein' pulled offa the boards coz thee editors are checkin out me words, goin' through them like a traffic cop on acid lookin' for airbourne mars bars laah. Do us a favour, get the picture fixed 'n locked on to the real lowdown and get writin' them protests. If yers do I'll let yer have a wet of me can next time yer wanderin' down the old kent road at 4am on a Saturdee night when yer travelling by persians in a world of intoxicated madness with a few of the editor possee offa here trottin' behind telepathically nickin' yer thoughts and storin' 'em away in the tiny part of their brains which has not been labotomised; the bits that the indoctranation software programme left alone coz thee wasn't sufficiently individual enough to be worth completely removin' 'n wipin' offa the hardrive of their minds.

Probably, as I write 'n youse is lookin' they's is tryin' to find a way of monitorin' my head and lookin' in to hooverin' up every crumb of originality and wear it off as their own. Whata job hey? Readin' all this drivel, 'n as soon as the real thing appears, they all start runnin' round like headless meffs. Maybe I should start takin' over the airwaves by changin' me delivery and becoming ever so polite, which of course is the absolutely right thing to do with creative ideas.

By the way, is that one of your own?

No, certainly not Jeremy. I met an absolutely wonderful script doctor in the line at Jon Pishpoor, the multi tongued linguistic genius's toilet at a suck sesh in his Hertford Hills biju; when that terribley rotten Scalljah appeared on screen. Remember him, the talentless git who used to do unspeakably bad things to us with his mind, many years ago in boarding school, when we were all working as students, moonlighting and doing late night radio for Trent TV, along with Alam Prestwick, the motormouthed opinion maker of Notts and Leicester. Do you remember?

Of course, of course darling, but don't worry, we'll get rid of that rotter.

Jeremy, please, don't call me darling in the office, I've told you wait until we are in the privacy of our personal space in Highgate wood before you release those sounds. I know it's only a little thing, but you know how I feel about it.

I know you get a bit stiff when intimacy in the workplace pops out Johnnie, and please, forgive me.?

D'yers get me. I might have to morph into a many headed monster firin' in the licks like an AK47 on overtime, d'yers know? I wanna be a gangster rappa see, so I'm thinkin' of askin' terry on two if he can give us an early mornin' spot, coz I've heard there's a lot of youngies 'n oldies into all that vocal pound pound bash bop mamma I wanna see you naked sound like thee have on Top of the Pops. I've bought meself a trakkie and 50 quid of the bulkiest bling at dixons and I'm ready to go national, and I'm up for bookins. so let me know what yer think laah.

By now they was seein' sense, and me words had finally got through, and they could see that it was just a case of them not seein the real thing coz they probably never get it here. After all it's internet innit 'n brand newish, so when something new comes that hasn't got a formatt, they assume it doesn't exist, never mind see it as "art," coz art's the stuff the people who we is watchin' talkin nonsense in the corner of the sittin room are doin. Stuff like swappin wives, gettin' pantry and outhouse experts in and filmin their advice 'n spendin 20 grand lettin his ideas work the magic. That's art, nowt else, coz that's what happens in tv world. Basically a real magic world where telly is the "cathode cuffs." The real magic we all take for granted as normal. We get all misty about ancient witches and wizzards, thinkin that's when magic was happenin' but the truth is it's bigger now than ever before and we don't even see it before our very eyes, just rationalise it by labellin it as understandable "scientific....quantum physics."

I mean they is even puttin cows placents in shampoo, that's where the glossy look comes from. Straight up. Pro Lo Vee. The shampoo that is a highly sophisticated system of hair control rather than just a greasy liquid containing cows innards. Anyway, by now I just, as cyndi says, "wanna have fun" with bangin out the new lingo, so I wade in with me Manzwotz monicker, which I set up a while back 'n I use to talk the real deal utter drivel.

He is a midwestern american academic L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E poet. These fellas are at the forefront of what is termed Linguistically Innovative Poetry, which is at the cuttin edge of the crazee far out avant garde, and as the main players are academics, then a school where (if you don't know what you're doing) you could be made to feel like you've got the iq of a special needs blade of grass coz yer don't get the obvious deeper meaning in, what often looks like random words on the page. The proper stuff is intriguing and genuine art, the problem is all the stuff that's just non artistically talented intelligent folk compensatin' for havin the natural creative ability of an abacus, and this clouds 'n blocks access to the quality work, so only the initiated and those who have put effort into findin out about it know the true score. The guy who is the godfather and creator is a fella called Charles Bernstein, and a few big names, whilst one of my current new favourites is called Joel Weishaus...

"raw as an unplucked carrot....nor is there a shred of difference between reality, dreams, enlightenment and ignorance. Being is a simmering stew."


"The ego will
surrender to
anyone who
will give it structural certainty"

which I posted in reply to Robrite (another poster - real name) who wrote this

"Respect. Collaborator? Alter-ego? Don't care.Unique? definitely. I suspect genius though it could be drugs. If it is, you may need some major detox but please - not before you've had some more sport on this site - Robrite"

So I'm thinkin' that I musn't be a nutter at all now, after all the opinion of others is what it's all about in tv trip land where ratings is king, innit? So the next stage of the game is to wade in as my man Manzwotz and start defending ScallyLaahhFella. So I sign out of Scall 'n inter Manz so I can bypass the constant office hour survellance of the moderation 'n removal unit opo's, who were obviously blockin' me till the nod came down the line from the head honcho who stirs mimic king Jon Culshaws tea, in between his normal duties of talkin' utter drivel that don't make a blind bitta difference to what you and I see on screen, where the players get to being rich on keepin the child mentality intact, whilst we drool like the hypnotised dead.



My name is Jan Manzwotz and I am an American academic at a mid western university, where I teach poetry to tender minds, at that crucial stage of development where they need to be guided by the binary multiples inherent in post modern discourse and in lecture breaks, or alternatively, when on the cellphone talking the "stuff" of the primary intelligibles, which given socio economic patternal structures direct when bearing on the flow stress angle of Ms Bendergirl's earlier posting, concerning the stealing of poetry. It has come to my attention through one of my students, that Ms Bendergirl is maybe onto something. I have a few of my works in development housed here, as the politics in the lecturer canteen can get very heated, as we wonder who we can trust with our highly complex and very interesting ideas. So interesting they appeal only to the very gifted of an exclusive linguistic cartel.

I prefer to remain silent at all times except when I am in the presence of manual domestic staff who show no real likelyhood of ever deciding to get educated and so are unaware of their true worth and potential as language maestros. And I record their native patois and use it to create my masterpieces, using only a dictaphone, which I conceal in a pair of lightweight new polymer material trousers, which I had made by a chef as artist who creates sandwiches at one of my local def jam poetry groups, where we practise the linguistically innovative poetry we write, which is known in the USA as L=A=N=G=A=U=G=E, after the magazine that spawned this genre, and of who the most well known exponents are Charles Bernstein and ScallyLaahhFella, AKA Scalljah, who had a few posts pulled from this thread after the editors had taken legal advice pertaining to the law of defamation and slander. Certain people's names were mentioned, which were an integral and disposable part of ScallyLaahhFella's work, and who (I am assuming) the first line bbc operatives just couldn't afford to upset, and who are the wielders of the real power in those West London corridors where fantasy keeps them all breathing and is more real than a certain catering establishment where most of the real decisions are made.

Certain legal issues prohibit me from identifying the chip shop in question, but I can tell you that the interior ambient furnishings and overall eye material scheme was a special commission, undertaken by a very well known television painter and decorator who, once again, legal issues disallow me from naming in person. These premises are kept on 24 hour standby by the stargod dons of the North London media mafia who live simple lives, wanting no more than to have a bag of chips and a consensual swing session with whoever is in the que holding the lucky ticket which allows them past the velvet rope and into the backroom where the real ideas on how to take the nation forward are forged.

Personally I think they must have got their advice from the ghost of George Carmen, via the spirit of Adolf Hitler, and using the medium of myself. But little are they aware that my advice was not worth the air I didn't send it on, and I myself am advising Scalljah to take advice from a legal mind who knows every law ever written and herself advises a toilet attendant called Derek, who is in fact the worlds most naturally gifted practising hereditary lawyer and can turn into a salmon, a ten foot teenager, a conjourers wig, an office memo directing top down organisational change, and turn black to white and vice versa; using only the power of his mind and the relevant incantations, which are delivered to him when he is watching bugs bunny on the cartoon network. I have also suggested he read an anthology tome titled "New Poetcs - an introduction," which lays bare the minds of many of the most avant garde minds in poetry.

This is a head bangingly heavy duty legal poetry text, and after considering my advice, Scalljah has decided to book into a 10 star world depression treatment center of excellence in the Hollywoood hills, and send the bill to and sue the bbc editor who removed his postings, for substantial financial damages and a written apology, which the editor in question will have to read out whilst standing on their head naked in the non existent supreme poetry court of fair play, which doesn't sit once every blue moon on top of Achill Island's Slievmore mountain. Failure to attend is an admission that their conduct has done him a grevious wrong and he is indeed, seriously mentally deluded and in need of recognition by fellow spaced out poets who dwell in worlds of fancy.

Come on beeb opo screen comber, stop messing about and speak up for signing this man up to a two year contract. Get him in a room with some of that stale product you're stuffing dough at like Frenchy and her mate. Give this guy a pittance of what they want and he'll get you at least double the ratings. He's chocca flush with top quality red hot writing, so don't be a mug all your life and make an approach to him. Get him out of my head


So there yer go. The next thing is I'm thinkin' I'm worth hearin' an started writin' with a general amophorous audience in mind, wonderin if this is a real development in me ideas. I'm still on the same thread replyin' to the little crew who've started hangin round 'n postin' me box with backslaps and wordly awards of how gifted I am and I spit out -.


I think that anyone who has one idea and thinks that they are gonna milk it for millions is seriously short of shillings. Just spill yer guts and stop messin' about like a wanderin' bore. What's yer idea fella. Let it all cum out. Truth is, anyone whose genuine creative will, like the book and post said earlier

"one man sharpens another"

If yer hangin' around a load of wannabees who aint ever gonna go further than swappin' nonsense they con themselves to be "pre-contract talks....idea development......ideas factory....running it past the lawyers" bullocks and shid, then yer might as well just wake up and smell yerselves for what yer are. I'm not havin a go at anyone, or slaggin off for the sake of it, but if yer wanna get on in this game, you've gotta stay real whilst all those around yer are breathin in the staple air of lies 'n mirage, and yer can either writhe around the forum like all the rest, spoutin shine that'll be long forgotten next month, or yer can try to do yerself a favour by goin about it logical, and riddin' yerselves of the addiction to the belief that this place is got anything other, mostly, than big head no bread bullspittin West End wannabees who are just smoke 'n mirror merchants, whose primary motive is tryin to pull or gettin off on swappin nonsense, whilst pretendin they've got a direct controlling interest in the next big thing.

Real talent stands on its own two feet. There is a lot of talk about writing, and plenty of people dishing it out, coz its a business, and when yer start out it's difficult to know who to trust. Everyone's on their own trip that takes a while of effort to kick in, and the only way to learn and get better is to read and write, and pray to the god of language (in irish Daghda or Aenghus) that he didn't leave you standin' when s/he was dishin' out the lingo gift. When you first set out, especially when you are talented and older (ie-had a full life) many who you think may know the score and are in the creative writer/artist place you imagine to be yourself one day; do not wish you well and would rather you do not write. The reason for this is simple logic. Competition. I as a writer am the same. If I meet someone who says they write, I desperately want them to be useless, so they won't be "better" than me. Like Herod topping all the kids to negate all threat.

However the flip side to this tends to be that the real deal creatives who end up a success are always the exception to the percieved rule, coz they are in an exclusive club. People with genuine talent who know what they are about can be honest enough to say "I was hoping you would be rubbish" because they are comfortable with themselves and their ability and beyond the comparing knobs stage. But reaching that point where you self confirm your ability is the long hard slog, whose entry point direction and length is unique to every single writer. And although I am only a penniless poet, I know this to be the truth, as I encountered it. So spill yer guts and lets make a bomb. Seriously, I am at a point where my words prove my bona fides.

Basically writing is a big multi level con. I con myself I'm good, I write good stuff, you believe me. And when other people start saying I'm good, even people who think I'm crap can start getting swayed, coz that's the herd mentality we all are suseptible to. Those without a firm belief (which comes with output) con themselves they're good when they're with john no mark but crap when with bill shakespeare. Once you no longer look to or need confirmation from others, that's when you can start to fly and have "found your voice" (I think). That's what I mean about the con. Imagine that you are a gifted musician but shy and lacking in confidence. You live in a small northern town and every confident talentless div 'n tuppenny hapenny knobhead whose ever gawped at a Lime Street to Euston timetable'll try'n tell yer they know the score, but d'yer know what? They are playin a game with yer. They want yer to think they've got a full fixed picture locked in the know and on to the lowdown, but they're no more than just small time vacant headed dreamers who think that hating talented musicians they know off media, somehow means they are more gifted musically, usually in an inverse proportion.

So I have one song I am great, I have no songs I am a genius. You know the ones, they slag but can't go toe to toe, and have as much chance of sniffin the big time as I have of going to mars and back on a saverway day return to Bradford. So, the small town insecure musical genius who's a bit gullible and prepared to see the best in people wants to play at a proper indie pub in london where yer've gotta play to make yer bones in the music game. He calls up the Caernarvon Castle in Camden wanting to speak to the manager to ask the score, but is not savvy to the reality of fake that is 99% of reality there. S/he gets talkin to some pint puller with ego nonsense goin on who gives them the runaround and fobs them off 'n uses them (voice on a phone) so they can feel that they are "an integral part of managing" and contributin to the "management side of the music policy" of the pub, by gettin rid of some northern toss pot who calls up whilst they're chattin shid to a pishhead regular about breakin into the bigtime, and the pub work just bein a filler till Bono gives them a support slot; therby keepin the reality of bein a liquid dispenser at bay a while longer.

One cons another. Talentless no hoper makes a musical star feel it's the other way round. That's the score when yer good. And as for the legal side of things, unless yer runnin round naked swingin an axe, firget about lawyers. Basically as long as you have written something you hold copywrite, and yer can post stuff to yerself as a protection, but once yer into ideas about show formatts, yer've got every wide boy on the block without a creative idea in their head, thievin them and making millions. That's what being a good lawyer is all about. So forget yer ideas about going to the head of primetime with an Nuns Havin Fun show, an interactive dating show about tasty sisters riding round the countryside in Devon and Cornwall who go out on the lash with local farmers to test their vocation and have to rate the farmers and god on a 1 to 10 comparison. How soul sell out is that?

If you have good ideas then work with me. I am a poet and survive on 80 quid a week and am happy as any big shot millionaire, becase I have sussed out the game and the writing is falling into place and taking off. So lets get chattin pals.


And then a clarification process of self confirmation occured


Just wanna clarify that the people I was on about who don't want you to do well as yer start out, the ones who are at the place you think is the "there" place that means you're an artist; well most of 'em aren't that fulfilled as writers and even less so as artists. Coz imagine if you work in telly as a "script reader for Multi Media Industries" which is a pretty easy to understand title and very respectable, but what's the reality of that job. Readin a load of crap day in day out, leaving very little time for your own writing. So you compensate by tweaking your persona accordingly and letting out any artistic frustrations in the subtle human ways we all do, by engineering our opinions to the most advantageous spot for ourselves. We are no longer writing, but hell, your opinion about what you are reading is gonna be heard.

Imagine how many deep vibe 'n completely straight po faced drivel meetings there are every day around the world that discuss tv product? And of those meetings, how much of what's getting discussed is art? Not much I bet. The reality is that success is relative. "Little Britain" is red hot like "The office" was, coz they are the men of the mo. When they were in the real life situation of the deep 'n serious vibe and lots of dough, they was probably the most relaxed and oozing confidence, the trick of making it look easy, which is in fact more to do with the subtelty of human interaction and natural performance talent than anything else (as well as lots of hard work writing of course). The people who are laughin at everyone else taking it deadly serious are the ones onscreen and writing the scripts. And how good was that show? It was good coz it was fresh, coz they weren't taking it serious, and I haven't even seen it, I'm just going on residual media filtering through (I don''t have a tv). However after ten years what's the chance of the same guys churnin out a show about two comedians with writers block trying to think up sketches for the show as the deadline approaches? (french 'n saunders style)

Hey, what a good idea.

You and me can see its crap, but how come the beeb didn't. Basically because behind the machine it's people, so a few people hold the pennies and decide. That's the reality. Imagine how serious a vibe there was surrounding that show. Production assistants who are bustin with more talent than Dawn French has weight, gettin told to shut up coz blah blah blah, whereas the reality is that the small fry opo's genuine sparks was threatenin the ego or was bringin to light somethin that the controlling one or two people didn't want to get exposed. This is all theoretical and I maybe a bit harsh on the wonderfully talented duo known as french and saunders, but I am using them as an example coz their last show was crap and so fits the general rule I am attempting to expose. Namely that the stuff was stale and past it.

Most tv sitcom comedians make it young, have a good run and after 20 years are the same boring old farts they was slaggin off when they started. It's logic. 20 years of being well paid and everyone sayin your great is gonna take its toll. Before you know it yer not even realisin that everyone else is cackin the pants in yer prescence, so you only have to open yer gob and ask the time and the runarounds are wettin themselves laughin and tellin their mates after work about it, before gettin a sly dig in sayin how thin Dawn is. Why was this show crap? Coz it had no ideas and the politics of the actual real people involved were such that the beeb had to write a few quid off. This is normal and in ten years the Little Britain geezers may be sellin their stories to the papers about how unhappy they are coz their last two shows got shelved. Like Noel Edmonds, moanin coz he's been so long on the gravy train he can't help his mentality bein that way.

If I got evicted out of my cardboard box tommorrow, who would give a toss? But if I was a multi millionaire whose last show got poor ratings, oh well, fair enough, I've been treated

"shockingly...close to tears...I felt I was going to die when I heard about being given an after midnight slot....betrayal....blah blah blah"

Again, I'm not directin it personal, just as a genral rule which is obvious to all. This piece of writing in itself is me clarifying ideas to myself as much as to communicate with you few, so thanks for reading this far and I'll bid you tarrah with a recent poem I wrote. I decided to start selling poems and made fifty quid out of one. I bought antique gold a4 and printed up numerous copies of the only love poem I had written. I then rolled them round inch and a half pipe and giv 'em a wax seal. Outlay 7p a sheet income 2 quid a rolled sheet of love poem with a wax seal. I bought a foldaway chair and a length of red crushed velvet I draped in a banna box with a raised back. I then put it on a stand and sat in the street of a major european city and did what I do all day anyway. Write poetry. I tried door to door in shops, but felt like a bum and the joy of this idea paying off was great. It was a real buzz over the four days as I could see a whole new level opening up.

So now as a newbie writer I have made fifty quid from a poem I sold myself alone and although It won't get me rich, the thing is I can stand toe to toe with other poets making dough, look 'em in the ye and give 'em the two fingers from the off if they start pullin any cool deep and misty mysterious poet vibe coz they've got poems printed in a book. Basically, words are the same whether they be here or anywhere else, so a finished poem is the same no matter where it appears, the same as any text.

But the tv stuff fella,, I reckon I could whack it out all day long. To be honest, the comedy's like breathin or shootin fish in a barrel, it is far from taxin, it's the poetry that's got me in its grip. And all sorts, from LIP LANG open form performance and trad meter, I have tried me hand at them all and will continue to till the day I die hopefully. Some big knob says somewhere that every serious writer sees poetry as the ultimate form and I would, obviously, agree as it is the essence of language, but the wannabees and whatnots are just the same as here and anywhere else. Lots of filler. 90% in any age is just making up the numbers in all writing I imagine, and so the experts say. And the best time to make it as awriter is after a life of being a bum and then getiing educated at aroound 35, funnily enough, just like me. This is coz you have absolutely no expectations and are so used to having nothing you don't miss it.

How many burnt out tv folk are there at 40 whose ideas have just run out coz they only had one or two in the first place. When yer 20 lifes about rippin the piss and takin the mik. That's why the fat lad on the radio does well, or most stand ups. Modern culture and society is based on doing well coz someone else is having it crap. Very subtle and subliminal, but that's the essence. Most standups I see are early twenties and desperate to knock some mug over and get the herd laughter which 90% of comedy is about.

Anyone in here gay? Are you sir? Bet you are, nudge nudge. It's ok mate I'm gonna make you a running joke throughout me set.

And people are gonna laugh coz they're glad it's not them and have been conditioned to laugh, just like cans are conditioned to hold peas and dog food. So start spillin if yer don't wanna stay fooled and I'll finally fug off with this thought

Paula Meehan (Irish poet) at this years Kavanagh awards bash said that wannabee writers are always trying to break into a bastion of literature where they think its at, and once they get there, realise that there is no "there" to get to.


Tuesday, March 15, 2005


I got the idea off an hairdresser in the shop next to the kip. It was the second time I'd bin in there to have a chop, and there's sumat goin' on in her head that doesn't really make it worth the 8 euro to go in there. She's like a cat on a hot tin roof, as I have obviously freaked her out just by bein' meself. I think she may have seen me hammered round town, or maybe she's a heavy drug user, into the coke and paranoid all the time. She looks the type. Dyed red hair and a party lover. Last time I went in there I had to flee half way through the process coz she couldn't really be arsed cuttin' me hair how I wanted it. I don't know what it is about barabers, but I've never had much luck wiv 'em. The first one was Kieth Wither in Ormy when I was a kid. Let me give yer a bit of advice. Never get yer hair cut by someone who's bald, coz they've potentially got all sorts of freakiness goin' on in their heads and will smile at yer and nod when yer say what yer want, but yer'll never actually get to look like John Travolta circa '77 or Donny Osmond '73, yer only get to look like an inmate at the loop bin, fresh from tanglin' wiv a frontal labotomised head shearer. The barbers by the kip wiv the junkie looker has upped the price as well, coz I only went in there thinkin' it was a fiver, but now I have had a few hours to look back upon the experience I can see that all she was interested in was gettin rid of me as quick as poss, takin' 8 euros offa me, and pssibly, although I could just be getting para, making me look like a tit hairwise.

She told me about the ribbon idea and when I asked her if she could show me when I got the ribbon she reacted as if I'd asked her out to watch a pornographic film with her mother. She said she was gettin' off in a bit and wouldn't be about, but when I happened to see her on my way back from the shops and went in the salon she basically told me to fuck off coz she was too busy to show me how to tie a bow. Basically she must think I'm not the full shillin' and has probably cast herself as the object of an unrequited passion, spendin' her days thinkin that such a one has got the hots for her and goin' through a whole rigmarole of bollocksy actin' and bitchin' instead of just bein' upfront and normal. Life lived as though you are the central character in a self created soap opera and the rest of those who come into your orbit are their to project your fantasies onto, so any guy comin from the kip to get the head cut is immediately cast as only worthy of a number four on the shears, no matter what they ask for. Why do head cutters do that. You ask them what you're after and they are the most miserable bunch of tossers goin'. They ask you how you "want it" and when you tell them they say "I don't know what you mean."

I think it must be something to do with them being frustrated creatives, tryin to make out they is all arty farty and full of ideas. That's the problem with the world today, everyone wants to be an artist, including meslef. It took me years to get over the trauma Kieth caused in my life. You'd go in age 11 with unrealistic hopes that you would be leaving with a haircut you actually wanted, but by the time you leaft it would be the usual short back and sides. Sat in the red plastic seat he would look at you in the mirror, and not so much ask as gunt at you, which meant "what do you want." You would raise a hand, about to go into an elaborate physical description, the ultimate fantasy of which would have Kieth happy smiling, laughing and wanting to help you acheive the tonsure you so desired, but it was always the same. A nervous spasm would come over you as his stony face dared you to ask for anything other than short back and sides, and when you launched into the first few tentative words, the minute shift in his downturned miserable jaw would crush all hope that this time was going to be the start of a beautiful new relationship and you would sink back into the red plastic defeated and wondering if you would ever get a haircut you wanted. Well today I didn't, again. In fact I was 32 before I ever walked out of a barbers happy and couldn't believe it. All the highly intricate thoughts I had around the subject of barber pyscology were totally vindicated. I had thought that it was just me but barbers are actually sad acts who have the power to make you look daft and regularly do so. The next time was about 4 years later, a barber in Rochdale and then a year ago with one in Liverpool, but not alas now I'm living as a tramp in Dublin, city of broken dreams and bitter outpourings. PJ was letting it out over the last few days, and I can see that to maintain an equalibrium emotionally I will have to stay off the ale and try to remain upbeat, but the last few days have bin difficult for that. John Boddie being the main cause.

I stumbled onto a site called and it had a "high critique" section for "experienced" poets and there were all sorts of signs up about how serious a poetry vibe this end of it had. I posted up GOT CONNECTED and within half an hour John Boddie had cum back saying "diarrohea of the keypad" which really pissed me off, coz all the other criticisms were couched in technical terms. I ghad a look at his stuff and couldn't see any poems, just lots of negative and dismissive comments about what everyone else had written, as if he was God and was in possession of the ultimate art antanea. I wrote back satying how flattered I was he felt so passionate, but really wanted to vent my spleen, so I got back the kip and composed a piece I posted up the next day under the Scalljah monicker, basically saying I was gonna rip him to shreds when he posted up. I wondered if I'd gone to far, then realised that he was just a bully, throwin his weight about. He was obviously the main man there and I can imagine the type, king of the dungheap and a little Hitler.

Sheep will bleat the thoughts
they hope will keep them safe within the flock,
for safety comes in numbers
huddled tight to keep away the demon wolves
who terrorise their dreams.
But the wolves have disappeared
and the farmers in his bed
for soon they go to slaughter
where a stun bolt to the head will end
their woolley thoughts of what to do
and who is good, bad, right, wrong
and if they should agree.

Because sheep are meant to compliment potatoes
and mint sauce, with no need to ask them
what they think of poetry
or if becoming Sunday dinner is something
they considered when fattening on the pasture
down at the farm.

Outfoxed by the shepherd and fleeced
without a second's thought, they are meat
upon the table before they're even born
and when the rams have rutted and the little
lambs arrive, they are no more than walking
corpses, bought and paid for
and awaiting a side order of vegetables
in order to fully serve their purpose.

Much like those who call themselves poets
when they are only critics
kickers of talent and all round bores
who've bought into a school of thought
that claims divine privilige in the
relationship beyween sound, sense and beauty.

Tired old dried up drones
pontificating on a knowledge they could never
emody because what they say has not come
through a life of passionate extremes
where the seeds of metaphor are kindled
but by a life of being purely filler
masking the few true poets working at the craft
for sheer love, or if they're lucky
because it's been in their blood for 2000 years.

The truth of a true poets making
they would not believe
unless they read it in a book
written by a long gone dead man
from a far distant age, who could bring
them intellectual kudos in the places where
poetasters gather and oil the air with their
blather on art, and how so much more of a poet they are
than the rest of the contestants in the race.

A real man with a poets soul arrives unnanounced
and they'd dismiss him as a fake within a heartbeat
unable to recognise the real thing because they need
instructions from their sheep leaders
who will decide as much upon their fear of the new
sheep being wolf, as upon them being any good.

Yo tosser Boddie what makes you such an expert? Got a pHd in kickin' people have yer? I don't see none of your poems here fella. Well I can't wait till you whack sum stuff up knobhead, coz I'm gonna rip yer to shreds, and all on the technicals, coz I'm educated see, and I know me onions, bully boy.

So that was that, and I was wonderin' if I'm just soundin' bitter and twisted, or is their any entertainment value in what I'm saying.