The imperfect end to an imperfect day.

Tony 'kiss my feet' Blair turning up to help out his old adversary Gordon 'I've endured hardships too' Brown.
That was it as far as Glo was concerned. Off went BBC News. I couldn't stand another minute of hand shakes.
I sat down.

After sitting like an artists model for five minutes, I put a loaf in the oven and made a sausage and apple casserole.


I will not be blogging any more today.
I am exhausted, not with Brown or bread but with trying.

Ta ta!

Rant

I don't know about Gordon Brown being the worst Prime Minister the country has ever had but he's certainly the worst actor.
His ASDA performance a few minutes ago had me almost wishing for Blair. At least he knew how to put on a show.
Brown kept on asking the same question when faced with a mum and babe in tow. "How old is he?" He nauseated
Would have been much more impressed if he'd asked something more interesting like "Do you know who the father is?"
The giggling gaggle of shoppers surrounding our leader made me want to vomit. There was though a chink of brightness in the shape of an elderly lady (yep another one) who held aloft a copy of The Sun praising Cameron. I like it!

He then moved with some difficulty through a blowzy block of inarticulate ordinary voters till he came to yet another ordinary voter. He then turned up the grin machine to mark 10 asking the minimum wage lass how long her shift was. She, bless her, was inaudible,The picture however made much more noise... It was a caption editors dream...Gordo under banner saying Take Away.

He looked so ill at ease I wondered how much more fakery he can raise and how much more I can take.
He flounders and stutters and with that slapped on smile edges ever closer to the door of all supermarkets and hopefully the shiny door of Number 10.

He cannot, however fit he is, maintain this ludicrous act for much longer. I know all politicians tell us what we want to hear but some of them a la Blair for example managed to make it entertaining, Coco Brown does not.
He's embarrassing.

Some men are born leaders with the gift of the gab, others are only fit to sit behind a heavy duty desk.
I feel waterlogged when watching him as if I'm gurgling and drowning in his bleakness, whereas Blair sustained his million watt brightness then after bringing on an illegal war sauntered off to the bank.

I am, as you can see, not in the best of moods, in fact I'm lethal.

I feel repressed. My creative side swallowed up in bread dough, my need for expression curbed due to the bloody ironing and my natural born talent for humour swallowed by intense seriousness.
Bugger.

But fear not I'll be back after I've watched the news.

Letter To Ian Curtis

Dear Ian,

Bloody awful isn't it?
Being a poet.

The reason I've sent this is because your work and performances touched me. Touched me? Bit soft and girly. But watching you on YouTube showed me what I've missed.

You're probably wondering what YouTube is. Unless of course wherever you are has internet connection. Anyway YouTube can be found on a computer it's a place where bloggers (don't even ask) like me find poets like you. Type in Joy Division and up you come. Click a mouse (!) and I'm watching you and your mates beat out Love Will Tear Us Apart.

But what brought about this search was 'Control' a bio-pic about YOU! (See amazing pic above) It was made with the help of Natalie and Deborah and showed me, the Neanderthal, what I'd missed.

I suppose at this juncture it would be best to explain that I have always been a black music lover. The only poet/rocker I listened to was Bowie, like you yourself did. I remember buying Hunky Dory and thinking I was a dangerous tea drinking rebel in a purple tie-dye t-shirt Oh God how right I was. Tea drinking part anyway. Rebel? Only in so far as how I dress. You should see the nonentities round here.

I wrote poetry even then, 16 in '72. Most of it being self-indulgent nonsense about loneliness and gods, the colour of souls and being different. Being different on a housing estate in 1970's London was not easy. So I drifted back from school listened to Bowie in my red and blue room and wrote wrote wrote. I was also fascinated by suicidee's.

You hit the scene a few years later. '76? Right?
Oh that reminds me I liked the thought of you as a bleary eyed, artistic miserablist working in the labour exchange. You obviously had a brain as well as an artists soul. Work scared the hell out of me, although I did do a bit in a glue factory. You too 'worked' in a factory where you daydreamed all day. :) Emoticom Ian
But I digress.

I must tell you more about the film...
The guy who portrayed you was a handsome young actor called Sam Riley. And handsome is an understatement, the really weird thing was his resemblance of you, separated at birth perhaps? But there's something much more spooky....tell you later....About you and the Belgian girl Annike.

Sam Riley had greasy flat hair, same stiff torso but with maniacal arm waving, same mic sucking and wet shirts. Good God man what was that all about?
I remember wondering what exactly you ate. Couldn't have been much because you were as thin as your mic stand. Why are creatives damaged and skeletal?

You may be wondering about the significant others.
Your wife Deborah was played by fabulous actress Samantha Morton whose depiction had me choking, so painful was it. I especially went to mush when you and her kissed on a grassy hillside overlooking Macclesfield or wherever it was. To be honest with you Ian, places and times and dates dissolved into nothingness because I was willingly held vice-like by Riley's depiction of you. You would have liked him I'm sure.

The others, the band members and Craig Parkinson's portrayal of Tony Wilson were all gilt on an already perfect film.
It's true to say the film makers loved you.

Let me bring you eerily up to date.
Your real life love affair with Annik Honore has taken on something of the supernatural...Because actor Sam Riley who played you and actress Alexandra Lara who played Annike are now MARRIED and living in Berlin. What do you think of that? When I read it I felt sick. Sick to death of what-should-have-beens...
But that is real life, I'm talking about the film and the impact you, as an artist, had on me.

Watching 'Control' had me in tears.
Can you see me smiling? Smiles of distress and you, being a damaged sort, will know what I mean.
Tears I was in. And not at the parts where you perhaps felt most alone. On stage. Walking round the block. Looking at your wife.
But when you looked at shitty nappies on the washing line. When you watched a busy tv screen with some foreign film showing. After all when you decided it was time to die, aloneness, subtitled films and nappies were mere extras in your act.

But Ian I could have killed you at that moment.
"WAIT WAIT this will pass darling". But it didn't.
Torment won.
And off you swung.

If I'd been a bit more hip I might have discovered your music earlier but I have 'Control' and YouTube.

Love
Angela

P.S. I've favourited Shadowplay x

A Cry Of Poets

"Oh God" said the poets "there's nothing left
'cept man and his temper
'cept us and our grief"

And so with their lives the poets ran
to the hovel of the few
where sluttish ill-groomed scriveners
drew words of every hue

And in this mangy, draggletailed den
our hoard of wordsmiths met
their huddled backs
their punctured hearts
penned dreams when no-one slept.



Angela Norris

About To Do Something Else

I was tapped by my Muse when about to do something ordinary.
She saved me from that.
Already noted down a few lines and now I'm spent. My heart is beating faster than usual, my skin is thin.
Not bothered about the food which is waiting nor the snooker on t.v. Such is the noise.
I'm impatient to carry on but her torrent is gone.
I'm soaked but happy.

Thursday and Counting.........

4 days to go till we, the people, get our chance to pencil Mr Brown out of Downing Street.
39 days to go till we, the England supporters, the most patient of all footie fans, get the chance to cry and sing. More singing than crying I hope.
27 days to go till we, the camp songsters with buckets of popcorn, get our chance to watch the United Kingdom get dozens of douze points in the Eurovision Song Contest.

2 hours to go till I, the most un-fussiest of eaters, have the chance to oooh! and cor! at the sight of a perfectly roasted bird, big jug of gravy and sticky jammy ricey puddingy.
3 hours till I, the most ardent of movie watchers, rent a space on the cat-owned sofa watching something bloody and horrific.


Other things hitting the headlines......
That smarmy John Higgins, the quietest of snooker players is allegedly caught with his greedy mitts in all the pockets.
And there I was cheering him on whenever he played with Ronnie or Ebo or people of that nasty ilk. Never ever again will I trust a man who is too good to be true. Especially when my wonga is depleted. Flipping cheek!

St David of the Cameroon was out yesterday buying pre-ordered broccoli. £3 it cost him. Should have gone to Lidl's.

Yesterday Veganite Clegg sandalled his way around Glastonbury, a place I know very well, (see olde pics) yelling into a mic. I got the distinct impression that he was floundering because his usual excellent oratory. Wasn't. He needs MEAT.


Ta ta!

Little Things That Go Crunch!

After re-filling the bird feeders I turned around and saw three giant snails munching from a small plate I'd super glued to the windowsill. (I like to think they were a family out on a picnic.)

Being a softie with an inquisitive mind I squelched over my muddy patch to watch them.

One of the snails was sticking his head and neck out (do snails have necks?) anyway he was elongated. Being fascinated I took a closer look...His sticky type body having slithered over the small plate had accrued tiny seeds and flakes of corn, I immediately wondered if he would be ok. Immediately coming to the sensible conclusion that with the snails constant, if slow shuffle, the bird seed would eventually get knocked off.

What fascinated me most were his eyes, tiny beady bright things glistening on grey slippery stalks, seeing all, but in what form? Could he see my green jumper with its frilly white collar and pea sized stain? Could he see my eyes behind my glasses and if he could, did I look monstrous? My hair, I expect, was plain weird.
Was he able to sense that I was not a threat?

Then a slight movement, a wave almost and the snail trudged along completely covering the plate. Was my nosiness upsetting him? I hoped not. But not willing to take a chance I left the slow-coach to nibble and, after satisfying himself, wander God knows where leaving a silvery trace in his wake.

I always try to put myself in the shoes of birds and lubricious things. Shoes? I like that! Bit soppy, but soppy or not, I always consider their feelings, they're without qualifications but not stupid.

To say I panic is not overstating it, I do panic, especially if I think I've caused distress. If the creatures could vocalize their upset I'd be ok, but it's the thought of them being silently anxious which upsets me. If I accidentally crush something I kick myself whilst simultaneously comforting myself with the fact that it was a quick death.
Ok 'nuff of the womanly nonsense...I've got bread to bake and cakes to ice and stuff to watch.


Ta Ta!

P.S. I love it when pigeons land on my fence whenever I'm in the kitchen. I like to think they clock me and associate me with nuts.