Author: Guy Rogers
Oh God Not More Warbling!
Warbling
She wore high heels for das kino
And clanked all the way home
With a dash and a flourish
And an awkward brash girlishness
Down the dark alley where nobody goes
Imagine Fredick sitting naked as a horse-
His arms wrapped protectively round his torso
Dying to be free.
Mummy in the bathtub scratching likea jumbo
Looked at me
And herface screamed the door shut.
While others plunge into the deep inferno
I have held back—
My face as red as a tomato.
This is your world Mary
It makes me want to frolic
As the steam flies
And the empire dies
I panic
While new men in overalls warble & lump
More Warbling from the Bum and Beyond
Eating Biscuits in a Field
Lost Withiel
It’s a nice day.
No particular place to go so I thought I’d head down the river Fowey to see how far I could get. Just for the hell of it. Well its sunny although they reckon it might rain later.
I’ve done Lost Withiel and found it full of middle class antique shops and fancy goods outlets selling cutey pink crap to the tourists. There are, however, some nice little cafes and pubs and a newsagent cum post office selling veg and stuff and this lot together evoke a sort of sense of community and you can tell from their chatter that the people actually know each other.
Last night I found the river and what endeared me to it most was that there were kids splashing about in it, swimming and swinging over it and generally having a ball. That was up by the old packhorse bridge, charming, ancient and full of character but still, today, doing the job for which it was intended but aesthetically pleasing too. Nearby, there’s a green and lots of signs saying there is a no tolerance attitude to drugs and booze which is hard to believe as you wander around in the daylight.
But it seems the modern world has crept in here despite the antiquarian look of the place. Right by the station, all the old goods storage sheds have been converted into flats and apartments and second homes so here’s the giveaway…….no jobs here, so the only ones who can afford the good life and the second homes are the rich Londoners who come down for the weekend or let them out. No justice here then.
Anyway that’s when I meet Suzie. Not last night but now as I head for my river walk.
She’s sitting on the river wall and is dressed in a brilliant yellow garment which is so bright I can’t identify what it is until I’m about 5 yards away. O.K. now I see it’s a yellow dress with either embroidered or tie-
She’s between 60 and 70 I guess. She’s smoking her fag and is not sure of me at all ……………. very defensive to start with as I ask directions. After a while though she relaxes and it’s clear now she’s an ageing hippy. She sits here every day on this wall trying to commune with her old man who died a year or so ago. She lets bits out about herself as we chat.
No money…. sheltered accommodation………. lonely……………. lost……………. Vulnerable.
She makes me laugh when I tell her where I’m staying. She says she often wanders up there to use their swimming pool, pretending to be a resident. She tells it like it is. Goes on a bit about the kids, the drugs, the high rents, the poverty, the second homes and then comes the bit about what happened to her last week.
The delightful monarchy came down.
Prince Eco Charles and the deathly Camilla in their lager lout Mercedes convertible with half a dozen security cop thugs on Harleys in a convoy down to the river. Parked up and left the chauffeur in the car with the engine running for 2 hours (oh well done Charlie boy.. so true to your class). It seems he’s been required to open up the Duchy or some such nonsense. Anyway, Suzie’s sitting in her usual place when 2 of these heavies come over.
What’s your name?
Where do you live?
What are you doing here?
What do you think of the Monarchy? In particular Prince Charles?
Well, Suzie’s dumbfounded of course she is. She’s affronted, offended, frightened, intimidated, irritated, threatened, pissed off.. all of these things.
She doesn’t want to say and why should she?
She defends herself…… says she’s not hurting anybody…. always comes here to commune with her late husband. (Why should she have to tell them this?)
They won’t go.
They won’t leave her.
They cajole and threaten her until eventually she has to give them her name and address or be arrested. She’s nearly 70, a vulnerable elderly woman doing no harm, not looking for any trouble, easing her way through a pretty difficult period of her life only to be confronted by the monarchy and their apes with their money, their privilege, their class, their bullies and their power.
Coming down to open the Duchy.
And what gets your goat is the doting, nodding, obsequious attitude of the local officials here. You can see it in the shops and in the museum with their preoccupation with their majestic rulers.
Maybe it’s fear, some of it . The rest brainwashing.
Just think of the damage they’ve done and will continue to do.
We would be so much better off without them.Yes literally.
We could share some of their wealth…. Lost Withiel to start with and maybe Suzie could afford a flat and maybe the local youngsters could get a house of their own.
So let’s reverse it eh?
What you doing here Charles?
Do you lot happen to have any Nazi leanings?
What are you doing stinking the place up with your loud car and your biker servants blocking up the road and choking up the atmosphere?
Do you like Suzie?
Where do you live eh?
How many bedrooms?
Fowey
Fowey looked so beautiful but impossible, unattainable to begin with but so very slowly and delightfully, like a wanton woman she lured me in and opened up her tiny winding lanes so full of shops and cafes of houses and of hotels. Past her lonely distant car parks she coaxed me ever deeper with a kiss of sea and stroke of sun and with snapshot glimpses of the sheer ecstasy of her complete and utter gorgeousness.
Then unbelievably she steered me to a parking place as near as there could ever be in this most dreadful day and age begging me to share the carnal delights of her most intimate beauty. I parked up, amazed…who me? … no surely not. there must be some mistake. It must be a loading bay. ‘disabled ‘or ‘we’ll clamp you up ‘’or danger road liable to subsidence.. your car will fall into the sea.’
But no, 2 hours free parking and a sea view and a grammar school garden right there above the estuary and that was free too. Yes free free free. I fainted… well almost.
I could have but entranced, I entered the garden and there I met an American feeding a pigeon with a broken leg (the pigeon had a broken leg. it was not being encouraged to eat one). He was also looking for his white cat as he was afraid it might eat the pigeon.
Had I entered a new dimension? It was not something I was in a hurry to rule out.
I moved to the front of the garden half expecting The Spion Kop and an entire legion of Liverpewl supporters to confront me spewing vomit and lager onto the flower beds or pissing into the sea.. or worse.. but no, there were just two wonderfully down-
I fainted again well o.k. Almost only to be awakened from my reverie by that American, remember him, seeking more info. on the disabled seagull and the lost cat.
Were they perhaps all Druids luring me into this heaven (for Fowey is surely Heaven ) and would they soon relieve me of my head in some horrendous ritual and cast it into a shaded pool in honour of their God of tourism ?(it did occur to me that this may not be the best way to encourage tourism but it was very hot and I had most certainly been the victim of some very up front luring).
But no my Cornish friends prepared to leave and so I left the garden too seeking tea and joined the merry throng that now wandered aimlessly along the lanes that terraced lazily in zig zags down toward the sea.
And as I sought tea, so tea came. But not just tea .. My wanton lady Fowey took me by the hand, nay she put her arm around my shoulder and such was her forwardness snogged me and led me seductively to a café.
But not just any café. This was a café made in Fowey [short for heaven remember) with teacakes, jam and butter, a pot of green tea (enough for three) and served upon a terrace.
Yes ,you’ve got it, overlooking the estuary where Fowey completely shed the last vestiges of her shyness and ravaged me in an orgy of jam teacakes green tea ,seagulls, the tumble of her buildings slipping seawards out across her bay, a flotilla of yachts , hire boats and fishing skips and thank the Lord a very very stiff breeze.
Mistletoe
Recordings
Bog Bandits