A Tower Block Fire in Kingston upon Thames

Yesterday a fire ripped through the top four floors of a block of flats on the Cambridge Estate, Kingston upon Thames. People appeared from houses and flats, from their cars and gardens, all drawn by the smoke and fire, by the drama, by the desire to see something shocking and fearsome. Something that would be talked about for years. Talked about in the pubs and on the TV.
I heard a story of a photographer who was close to the scene of 9/11 and refused to take photographs. I thought about him as I got my camera out of my bag, should I? Is it wrong? I felt it was, so hesitated. Many were snapping away with their mobile phones, it assuaged my guilt. If I had seen a body or a sign of distress I would not have taken a single shot, then rumours spread that everyone was out (after I had taken a few photographs).

I was fascinated by what looked like a moving, changing painting in the skies. The dramatic black clouds darkening the sun's light, the spears of orange flames (like a crown on top of the towering building) and the people, people everywhere scuttling out to have a look (like me), the pull of horror. No one could take their eyes off it. Scores were filming it, taking photographs of it, pointing at it. People brought together at a time of crisis, of tension, of fear - I talked to people I would never normally see or talk to, a need to share the experience or talk it out of my system, I am not sure what it was but others were doing it too. A boy on a bike raced around telling everyone the building was about to collapse. Another man said he wouldn't have to go into work the next day because of it. Rumours spread of petrol bombs or drug gangs. A baby had been saved (which turned out to be true). A policeman ran towards the fire with two bottle of mineral water, he was told the water wouldn't do much good by a man near me (and by many I imagine).

Later i offered to help in the community hall but no help was neeeded. Tenants would be staying with friends and relatives, those without somewhere to go would be looked after. I was thanked for offering. It had come so naturally, the desire to help others in need, in shock, vulnerable.

Death in Malibu

Either a Hollywood star had died or it was someone that liked the odd tipple, but either way this was a strange tribute to a life lived. There is beauty in there somewhere. And love too. Lots of it. I would like a bunch of Bluebells shaped neatly into the shape of a bottle of Peroni.

(If this arrangement was for a relative of yours (viewer) and you are offended by it being on the internet, please let me know and I will remove it).

Bob Dylan - Guilty.

Over the last year or so I have been collecting autograph stories from friends, family and work colleagues It has been a very pleasureable experience listening to/reading the 50 tales I have received.
Of course, I am having no luck with publishers or agents and I receive rejection letters on a regular basis. But, the project was fun to do, so I cling on to that thought as I tear open the envelopes.

Here is a story about Bob Dylan, it is one of my favourites, I hope you like it.

Dylan

I owned everything by Dylan and last saw him in 1967 at Manchester Free Trade Hall. Now I had the chance to see him again and if I was lucky, meet him.

I was a policeman in my early twenties, I think it was 1976, when Dylan played three or four nights at Earls Court. Dylan was on form around this time having released Desire and Street Legal. I was based at Notting Hill Police Station but for big concerts or demos worked with other policemen from all over London in what were called “Serials”, these were units of about 20 to 30 policemen.

I had worked at Earls Court a few times and seen Elton John, The Rolling and Queen all play there. But Dylan was different, I wanted to try and get to him.

I managed to catch bits of Dylan’s concert in the first two days but I was mostly involved in traffic duty and crowd patrol. The crowds were so bad in Warwick Road just opposite the venue, that I didn’t get an opportunity to see too much of the concert. But on the fourth night I managed to swap duties with another colleague who knew how much I loved Dylan.

I knew the venue quite well and had access to most areas so after the concert I went to see if I could catch a glimpse of Dylan backstage. When I got there I found lots of fans gathered around the stage door. Not having a valid reason to push through them all and worried that I might be caught by my Guvnor I decided to wait and see if the great man emerged.

After a short while a roadie came out to where we were gathered and people handed him various items for Dylan to sign. As fans handed him scraps of paper and programmes I realised the only thing I had on me was my police pocket book. I handed it over (I think I folded it over to a blank page in the middle). The man walked off towards a room where we could see Dylan sitting at a long table. He gave Dylan the bundle of bits and pieces to sign and Dylan signed the lot. (People say Dylan is aloof and doesn’t like to engage with his fans, but I never really believed that so it was nice to see him doing his bit for his fans).

I got my pocketbook back, looked at the signature and felt thrilled. I quickly put it in my pocket and rushed back to where I should have been stationed.

About 6 months later I was in Knightsbridge Crown Court (which is no longer there) giving evidence in a case that involved a drink driver I had arrested. The man had been too drunk to breathalyse and under section 15 (or 16) I was able to arrest him without breathalysing him. He also had an offensive weapon in his car, I think it was a sword. (NB Back then drink driving cases these went to Crown Court).

I was questioned by the Prosecution and the case was clear cut. Grasping at straws the solicitor for the defendant looked at my statement and then asked to see my pocket book (which was quite an unusual request in such cases). He pointed out that there was a page missing and he wanted to know why. I was shocked, I nearly said I didn’t know why it was missing and then I remembered. The Dylan autograph!

The judge (or the Recorder) sniggered when I explained why the page was missing. The judge decided that I couldn’t have made it all up and accepted my explanation, he said the matter was now left up to me and my superior officer to discuss.

The verdict: Guilty.

(Extract from the unlikely to be published - You can't sign a coconut by The Quiet Busker)

Martin Stephenson at the Half Moon Putney, 18th November 2009

I hadn't seen Martin Stephenson in years, the last time was at The Borderline in London maybe 10 years ago.

That night I had failed to book the tickets in advance and of course, it was sold out. My sister and her friend were not happy when I told them, her friend had come a long way to be there. My name was MUD. Then a vision appeared, a man walking purposefully towards us in the shadows, a combination of George Formby and Clint Eastwood.

"That's him" I said.
"Who" my sister asked angrily.
"Martin Stephenson"

He approached us, smiling and asked what was up, why the sad faces.
I explained what an idiot I had been. My glum face said it all, my sister, a storm, we were storm.
He told us not to worry and to follow him. He took us to the ticket booth and said:

"This is me brother, this is me sister and this is me uncle, can I get them in?"
The man nodded.

We were in!! And, we had a story to tell. I was flavour of the month, we couldn't stop smiling. We had a fabulous night, we grinned up at him for two hours straight, even during the sad songs. We must have looked demented. Loopy gargoyles.

So I went to the Half Moon concerned that I was going to ruin a fond memory and spend the evening glum faced, even during the upbeat songs.

Things didn't get off to a great start, Martin's girlfriend sang a few songs and blushes burst through the skin on my cheeks and spread to my neck, I felt like I was getting shingles. I am sorry Martin (if you ever read this), your strengths, are her weaknesses. She looked like your older sister yet her lyrics sounded 6th form, they were less mature than the words that you wrote twenty years ago. You smiled throughout, but i wonder what you were really thinking of her performance? Your love for her was there for all to see, your grin, as warm as ever but it was all too much for those who loved you in a different way, we had to leave the room. A few others did the same, one woman sticking her fingers down her throat as she left the room.

Jokes galore punctuated a night of the purist, sweetest entertainment in the capital. It was medicine. A delight to witness and hear. Martin sang to us like we were old friends sitting by a campfire in the back garden. I am not a blues fan/bluegrass fan, so when he veered that way, I got a drink in. But my fear of missing a tale plucked form his string pull bag of golden nuggets made me nervous of missing a golden anecdote, so I only had three pints.

Playing an acoustic guitar throughout, he charmed the creaks from the stage. "How many bags of crisps are you going to
have?" he asked his rustling friend in the dark of the audience. The sneezing fat man in the front row brought a song to a halt, Martin said next time he needed some brass he would give him a call. He told the tale of how Colleen was written, it was a song of revenge in which he made his sister a lesbian to get back at her (he was in love/lust with her best friend, something she found funny/preposterous). He chatted about being 13 years on the wagon and meeting Ian McNabb who was still living with his mum and was a big drinker. Stories about his manager asking him to write songs like Paddy McLoon otherwise he risked ending up being a taxi driver when he was 27. About how a lack of success meant success as far as him and the Daintees were concerned. Tales of driving a Vauxhall Chevete to Cork. Of a blues man with a big beard giving him horse tranquilisers to calm his nerves/hangover resulting in partial paralysis of his face. He told a girl in the audience she looked like Etta James and that she should look her up on the internet when she got home (something a few of us noted) and see for herself. Tales of writing songs in Tescos. The creak in the floorboards resulted in a Peter Hook pose, maybe that is why Peter Hook stood like that? A move to the left of the stage, a la Bruce Foxton. References to Jonathan Richman and his love of little noise, then playing a snippet of Roadrunner. The Edge at an airport, ping ping, time to board your flight. Joking of Tom Robinson taking coke in the dressing room. Meeting Lloyd Cole on a golf course, Martin picking mushrooms, Lloyd in a turtleneck, driver in hand. The mention of Garageband, how he uses the mastering effect that makes the recording sound like a scratched record.

I should mention the songs. His voice as warm and kind as ever. He means it. He might be on auto pilot for all I know, but it doesn't come across that way. Unlike Lloyd Cole, Martin plays the songs he knows people have come to hear. He wants to rekindle, to stir. He wants people to enjoy, to smile, to remember, to feel young, to feel good, to feel. He played without seeming bored. Running Water, Colleen, The Crying, We are Storm, Crocodile Cryer......all played for us. After all we had come along to see him, so he gave us what we wanted and we felt he really wanted to.

Everyone left the room with a smile on their faces, no one stuck their fingers down their throats. I was a smiling gargoyle once again.

The Lilac Time ~

How tired must Mr Duffy be of being a referred to as a lost treasure? Neglected? Overlooked? He isn't lost, neglected or overlooked, if you look hard enough you will find his music. If you are curious you will find his music. But be prepared for sadness.

The Lilac Time ~ Stephen Duffy, Nick Duffy, Claire Duffy

Love Lost

On Saturday I visited the Wallace Collection, I was there to see the Damien Hirst hangings. After that I headed for the Anish Kapoor exhibition at the Royal Academy. Not particularly original choices I know, but I wanted to see them both, simple as that. I am not an artist or art reviewer, I was not looking for credibility I was looking for art.

So, Hirst first. I am an admirer of the man, he makes me laugh whenever I read his interviews or hear him on the radio. In the past I have messed about with music and "wrote" (not the right word) a song in which I sampled him and Jay Jopling, I recorded it on a four track and you can find it on : http://www.myspace.com/thequietbusker.

Hirst has a twisted twinkle in his eye and I believe (hope) he has a lot of fun being in such a powerful position in the art world. However, power and the guaranteed pampering that comes with it has its downfalls and one is that Damien was allowed to show so many pieces. If merit was essential, then three or four paintings would have made it into the exhibition, I fear no one dared say no to Damien or the publicity that accompanies him. It's a shame, because three skulls and a vase of flowers seeding butterflies would have left many feeling, well, it's not great, but it was worth the trip. But the cloud of black, white and blue paintings that hover in the first floor of the gallery look, well, a bit studenty (not an adjective I know, but it should be).

As I said I am not qualified to review the "show"(?) so I will move on to what irked me about No Love Lost - the price of the posters. £30.00. The most expensive I have ever seen at an exhibition. Why? The paper looked ordinary, the print quality unremarkable, it wasn't signed or advertised as having being touched, sneezed on or glanced upon by the great man, so why the hike in prices when compared to other exhibition posters? (Newsflash: I just received an e mail from my sister. She wrote to the Wallace Gallery asking why the posters were so expensive - they have confirmed it was Hirst's representatives that set the price).

I felt a deep sense of being let down by Damien. I know he couldn't care less about it but I consider myself a defender of his whenever his name comes up in conversation (when he is usually being slagged off) and this made me feel a little of the bitterness towards him that others have in abundance. I guess the diamond encrusted skull was a sign of the greed that powers him these days. His Leeds accent (which i love, having being brought up just outside the city) wins me over each time I hear him talk about his work, is all that is left of his old self and maybe (like Morrissey) it will get stronger the longer he lives away from the north of England in an effort to appeal to his old followers and seem still real?

I toyed with calling this blog Wallace and Vomit, but that seemed a bit hard, I didn't feel the urge to vomit at the price of the posters, just violently irritated. And for those of you reading this (few do) thinking I am a stingy northerner, you are wrong, I didn't see any southerners splashing out on the posters in the ten minutes I deliberated in the shop about buying the bloody thing.

For your entertainment have a peek at this: http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/video/2009/oct/16/damienhirst-banking

Anish review will follow, at some stage.

TQB

A Change of Surname

I posted this a few days ago on the Ars Notario site:

Yesterday someone said something that made me think in a way I have never thought before. It was so simple. He said that when he and his girlfriend decided to have children they wondered what surname to give their children. They didn't believe in marriage and all its connotations, nor did they like double barreled names (which name would get dropped?). So, like in days of old, they considered changing their name to one that reflected their occupations or where they lived.

I won't say what they chose, but somehow it was a perfect choice. It seemed right. It suited them, and even though I have never met their children, I bet it suits their children. It also made me think of the freedom of such a move. History smacked into the past and left there, a clean slate, no associations, a freshness, a newness, a sense of starting again, a cancelling out of all that has gone before, a clean break, an invention, a rebirth, how refreshing and liberating. A new family. A new future. An end to ancient family feuds.

But what about the past? Family history? Did it hurt those who believed the continuation of the family name was important, that their place, that their ink/digital existence had been threatened by a new and tiny family tree (a seedling). Did it seem disloyal? A slight? A stab in the back?

So reader, what if you decided to change your name? Now. Right now. Change it to suit your occupation, or the place you live? Joseph Journalist? Anthony Twickenham? Andrew Doncaster? Thomas Teddington? Philip New Malden? Lawrence Lawyer? Colin Weatherman? Brian Banker? Janice Insurance? Sue Southampton? William Wimbledon? Roger Public-Relations? Julie Animator? Bernard Biddulph? Nick Racist? John Plasterer? Bob (middle name - the) Builder? Mick Richmond? David Inverness? Simon Welder? Eric Programmer? Alan Administrator? Sharon Marketing? Bob Artist? Daisy Social Worker? Danni X-Factor? Tracy Counsellor?

Try it. How does it make you feel? Does it suit you? If you adopted it, what effect would it have on you? On your future? On your confidence? Your ambition? How people perceived you?

If you are doing a job that you love, that fits, that is right, and you live in a place that you feel secure and happy with, then why not change your name? Go on, give it a go....