About twelve hours, each of sixty minutes precisely, from now, we’ll (me, Broni, sweetheart, dream girl) be tapping toes at Heathrow waiting to get on that jet plane to take us away into golden sunsets (sunrises). And briefly the past.
Not had time to write – too busy catching up on life, so Broni’ll tell ya!
So we got back from Greek island ok to stay in Gatwick hotel with mad manager, then to Lisa’s in Chichester, on our way home to go out even-time with Rosemary and Mia for Thai (I told you all this, didn’t I?).
Then Wednesday fuckin’ madness trying to pack and organise and just going silly crazy, to Kerry in Verwood, her work, for lunch, back quickly before up to Southampton to Chrissie’s to see sweet Rebecca, mad Amanda and Chrissie too, of course. Sharon, Jon and Selina, Tina and Paul and Rob came over and fuck, Karl Barry and his pal too. Played Party Pictionary, mad raucous noise, drunken dancing, Broni crashed, people fell away, describe later.
Sleep, wake, say goodbye to Chrissie – miss her, may ring her now home again, breifly, pack (Oh, I sleep!). Rob comes down, we drive together to Newport, for final UK gig! Broni slept through it in car while Rob and I drink and fun about. Back to Simon’s (Simonless) Describe more later!
Morning time say bye bye’s there, drive to London, whizz cross M4, run around town, Portobello Road, here there, put Rob on train (another story!). Go to David and Louise’s. Sleep needed! Up into London Town, Harrods, Liberty’s, Hamley’s, shopping sprees, mad dash round! Back, food, drink, sleep, jeez – you keeping up with this – we’re knackered!
Sunday, drive back a.m., go to Sian and Robbie’s p.m. Mess around here, Kerry (Rob, Jon, Selina, Edwards come down) John turns up, bye byes. Broni’s at Rosemary’s (bye bye). Phew. All this and me, not nervous at all, don’t understand really. Just biding time till tomorrow a.m. Want to get away! Know I’ll miss people terribly but don’t feel it yet! Here, Monday to Salisbury with mum and to Jo’s p.m. and out mealtime p.m. with mum, Kerry and aunt Shirley.
Home here – so much to say. Get this. Today – to fuckin’ day – turns up a letter from Finland, from Bengt, eleventh hour. Songs from Deep Turtle! Wow-wow-wow! And I go and find Squirrelbait CD in London too! Later! Yeah, right? – gotta go! Gotta sleep! Gotta think, gotta wonder! I’m going tomorrow – do you understand!? Ha – not sure I do! Keep you informed.
Category: 1994
Where do I get off? Onto greener pastures – 21st September 1994
A cloudy flight back meant not much to see out cabin window so we both read and ate and get drunk, a buzzing altitude drunk and not until about 200 feet about dirty old Gatwick earth do we see roads, roofs and rain but, back up into clouds we go as plane before us hit flock of birds. So we do one radar circuit before making that magical stomach wrenching descent again and back on terra firma there’s a firmer terror as our pace accelerates dramatically, our bodies subconsciously trying to keep us warm, unstifled by sun and our heads in healthy panic again over things to be done.
But we get ourselves one day of rest in mad Gatwick hotel run by the most ludicrous guy ever who has me in fits of laughter through his peculiar mannerisms and purposeful deafness ‘Sorry?’. So we find ourselves some goddamn decent food then walk back through the rainy streets in drunken laughter though we’re both sober now and I’m still dressed in my shorts and shirt as bottle of Greek wine exploded in our suitcase, wetting everything in a perfumed yellow stain.
After beautiful night’s sleep we’re up and at ’em on the road driving down to coast through Brighton and along, sun trying to nudge its way back into our lives and managing quite successfully too, making me wonder if we aren’t blessed by good fortune through positive mental attitude.
Onwards, we end up at Lisa’s new house. Tiny tucked in cottage in peaceful spot south of Chichester not far from before. She’s not split with Mick and seems to be getting her shit together somewhat – off to Greece too next month and then a month in Thailand and talk of her coming to Australia for our wedding – who knows. With some reticence we say goodbye for the last time in a while but glad to see each other this one last time.
Back then, homeward bound – appointments to keep, out for Thai dinner – one last time – with Rosemary and Mia, so the topic of converse is mainly speech therapy but what the..? I’m eating delicious food yet again (not pizza omelette or chickpeas of fucking Greek salads!). Time and space catches us up and we get home and straight to bed and, of course, millions of other things I want to tell and elaborate on but time is short – six days to go! Can you believe that?
It hit me on Saturday night in Greece and I cried all day at my unknown sadness til we methodically worked out my upset was at leaving my mum behind – but feeling better now knowing the world’s a small place – so forgive me this brief entry. I’ll try to elaborate more from memory when I gets closer to print. Remember, Shaun! Remember all tiny detail!
Blur! Mind blur! I told of frenzied activity before but nothing like this morning. It’s getting to Broni too – not coping very well – but I feel reasonably calm – just methodically r
22nd September 1994
That last incompleted sentence typifies our dilemma – no time!
It’s just the rising tide of mediocrity, just a sign of the times – 19 September 1994
Stratosphere, Ionosphere, Semisphere! Up here I can see the stars, I’m touching space with my iris, black drunk peehole iris. Europe’s mighty murky down below, I’m stuck in the sun, still on alcholiday. Could be fuckin’ anything down there. We could be time warped back one whole week and we’ll meet our previous selves in a 30,000 feet mid air collision at 580 miles per hour. In the sun! In space, man!
How can I ever dream to read every word ever wrote by anybody ever worth a shit? How do we dream – such strange dreams, more and more my dreams touch reality, particularly when reality is so far removed from normal humdrum, but when, at what point does being away from humdrum become normalcy?
So I think to write to Lou, never wrote him before, but I have an idea after seeing him smash his favourite guitar in rage and whatever I can’t face how his simple songs touched hearts of thousands who come to pray at his altar now, so I’ll tell him of my holiday, how people have to exist on the double edged sword I was explaining to you about before remember? Economy of tourists. So I’ll tell him go out and play, play your music, for yourself, play what you want to hear, for yourself, all others are superfluous, ignore them. He loves us, he told us, sad man, we love him, once again, it’s all life isn’t it?
So, what I’m trying to say. Me and Broni, have worked out is, consumerism – see the connection, don’t sell out to the people who want to pay, do it for your own reasons. Greece, our island, is sold out, presenting us with what we want to see, catering to the big market, but we’re (Me and Broni), we’re small fish.
8th Jan 2021 – Bronwyn and I went to the island of Rhodes in Greece for a quick holiday. This was only the third time in my life I’d been on an airplane and only two weeks later I would be on another couple more for a 23-hour journey to the opposite side of the world!
On Rhodes we messed around on hired motorbikes, saw some ruins and historic buildings. As the Greeks seem to love to eat meat with everything I was stuck with Greek Salad for many lunches and dinners. Ho Hum.
It was damn hot too. Nice preparation for arrival in Australia. We slept with no sheets, even moving the mattress onto the balcony one night. The hotel was my first experience with toilets where you weren’t allowed to throw your toilet paper down the toilet. It was this experience that got me more closely checking what was going on down there in the cleanliness department.
We were drunk every evening, definitely experimenting with the local Ouzo. The nearest beach to the hotel was huge and deserted and mostly pebble. I got naked – why not? There was no one else around to see my little dick.
At the main beach we didn’t know that we were supposed to pay someone to sit under an umbrella and we laid our towels out away from them and Bronwyn got into water for a swim. She soon came back due to two little kids that had been sent by the umbrella owners and started throwing stones at her in the water. Jesus – they don’t fuck around for a dollar. We packed up and left and that kinda summed up much of our feeling about the island.
One thing Bronwyn warned me about was the beaches and oceans in Australia. Everyone loves to go there but they can be very dangerous especially for poor swimmers. Having skipped swimming classes at school for most of my life (we had to pay for swimming lessons at school and I told my mum that it was too expensive for us and to save her money but really I was just body shy) Bronwyn taught a few basic things about swimming – most Aussies appear to be good at swimming – and by the end of the week stay at the hotel I was easily doing the five metre widths in the pool! OK – we have to start somewhere.
We bought ourselves and our friends some souvenirs but the bottle of Ouzo we had wrapped in towels and clothes and packed in our suitcase didn’t survive the journey and we sadly washed our clothes when we got back home. That suitcase would soon be packed again.
The Jangly Danglers – 18th September 1994
At the pool, morning time
Breakfast et’, gathers the tribe
Sun worshippers, topless, like a symbol
of freedom given to them by
fiery star god up high.
All shapes all sizes all styles all comers
all winners in tit sag competition
The jangly danglers sexless in freedom
sun basting bare breasts
watch them cook, microwave like
old and wrinkled before their time
but, hell, nice and brown!
Sad night previous made us cry
gave us nightmares and stupid dreams
into the high flying nightlife
where Greek men look the girls up and down
and only talk to men about anything
and here bars line each street
menus in English and German
and only locals here touting on the road,
driving Mercedes taxis or sat sadly
on upturned boxes, wtching life’s decay
everywhere awash with white t-shirts
music a-booming, too loud to talk
and we feel like were in a bad acid trip
not our scene, not with our knowledge
not with our age, tho’ we are not too old
but that they are too young to understand
they bury themselves in deluges of alcohol
and one-day love affairs where they
watch the world die, together
sitting on verandahs, long cocktails
too drunk to notice or even care
Ripples – 17th September 1994
Chuga-chug-a, weee, neeeerrrr!
The noisy breath of our transport,
a bicycle made for two (but only just!),
tackling long straight roads
lined with eucalyptus and lime trees,
swishing in the wind of dusty old lorries,
up and around, twisting roadways,
over the next brief, brown, barren mountain,
at the crest and into the wow of the valley,
lays at our feet, begs our descent,
come see, come see!
But we know there’s nothing more than dried out dust,
white stones, sunwashed white
and yellow cactus plants a-plenty
though some valleys hold green groves of growth,
desperate for water – come flow from the seven springs,
the gift of life,
make your rocky way
so odd to see big tall trees
pointing to the sun with accusatory finger,
a hand in the air!
Look at me, I’m alive!
Onward we go, whirring along
til next top summited and wow!
Our life, miles view down to sea green bay, to our left,
such bright comparison to the rubble hills of dust and stone
but across this valley and up into the hills,
distant on the hazy horizon, up and then wow! again,
ancient acropolis stands ruined but magnificient
above white brick town,
populated by tourists of old Greek ladies,
witch-like by our cultural standards,
selling lace under trees, cutting up beans,
‘is cheap, is very good, you buy 5000, ok 4000!’
and from high place we spectate out
thousands of miles across blue ocean misty
where sky meets water,
waves crash far below our castle lookout
onto rocks, craggy, brown and black,
this ancient temple, time-battered, sun weary,
still majestic in it’s brown piles of stone,
sun beats down, never raising or waiting
for cool breath to dry sweat from eyes.
The town bustles busily on foot, no roads here,
park at the square and all buildings encroach,
small walkways like old English mazes back home.
Back again, and away from sad tourists (yes, I know!)
via old roads and real Greek villages
where dead cats lay strewn by the road,
bamboo grows along in the lime groves in the valley,
while rock tops look at us tony specks down below,
so, to the beach,
yes, that’s what we’re here for!
Heads down, dive in, cool and slow this beach,
a real paradise, soft sands under our feet,
calm waves lap our bodies as those mountain look still,
cliff top monastery proud white,
set against the deepest azure,
as lush green trees feed the black goats,
all up the side ’til here turns to sand
for our greatest of pleasures, flowing,
lost in time and space, water overwhelms our senses,
like a cool glove, fit tight on your fingers,
like the most gorgeous ice cream and cool draft beer
at a bar found in the desert, no illusion, but reality,
it hits us and we smile for no reason, broad beams,
inside ourselves,
we know.
We wash out the sun in the pool,
let darkness shroud over us
like a blanket of grey haze.
A half moon hangs half across the night,
a hole in the blanket,
almost yellow, the ferocity of the sun on its face.
It’s cool reflection here on Earth
touching tips of sea ripples directly below.
Imitating the sun, but on low power.
Each ripple, made of drops of water
that have played in the ocean since time began.
Each ripple sent from the other side of the Earth,
cause and effect, on an endless journey, gyroscope-like.
Each ripple a mind soothed, a heart stolen.
Each ripple aches and bows, wave forming,
charging towards the terra,
crashing in the silence when there’s no one to hear,
us asleep under thin white sheets
dreaming about brand new days
which soon come with the sun and the heat
invading each pore, each corner touched
by the light of the morning,
smacking that weary head,
‘Here I am, get up and face me if you dare!’
Now in full shimmer effect on the blue waters
made crystal, twinkle like diamonds
multi-fractured mirror
in God’s old kaleidoscope.
Back to snoozeville before breakfast – 15th September 1994
Lazy now, energy drain by day, by heat, take your siesta noontime,
come out and play on pebble beach, dip toes in cool blue Mediterranean waters,
jump in, watch those fishies sniff your digits, head back floating,
waves rocking your blind body, cradle motion, childlike pleasures,
float free, naked, wrapped in Gaia’s waters.
Ah, big time out from normal programmes,
from bed to pool to beach to pool to bed,
sleep under the stars on white verandahs
wake by cock crow and watch the sun rise
from its grey resting dreams
cast red yellow shadows across small breaking waves
turn up the oven a few degress
too much for us whiteys, back to bed
back to snoozeville before breakfast
before coffee and juice and um… a dip
well, hell, what’s to do but swim and play
learn new water tricks, cool blue blue
sit back, feet up, rest weary hangover heads
and love life, here on hot earth island
love life everywhere.
A Greek holiday in other people’s misery – 13th September 1994
Swing sweet sexy mistress
Come play concertos on my porch
as the night time glows dimly
into small hours, lay awake with me
dance your mysterious dances
cross white sheets, sticky in the heat
as roosters cackle the glory of the day
you are about to see through deep mists
sun breaking low, sky, a water colour
grey, orange, yellow, blue, engulfing stars
forgotten now in numbed and hazy glow
like playful seals, we jump in icy fresh waters
jump and dive, race and rest, submerged
let glory of nature rise from our toes
out through our fingers into the earth
parched and tortured, sunbeaten into submission
light trees stand and fight, dip and sway
in hot dusty breeze, the breath of god
all over this earth, our little island
inside our minds, our simple souls,
and touch these people in their simple lives,
made them worthy, made them whole
weary and tired, ignore the bustle
too simple, their lives, to even contemplate
a different, new improved way
sad we are with all our knowledge
blinding us from this, it’s just a holiday
it’s fun in the sun, week away from cloud
and sad you can see, the way I feel
taverna empty of locals
full of Krauts and Brits, getting drunk
emptying their pockets (as I have too)
and it’s just like home, where I am the local
and wouldn’t frequent these holes
here, set in ancient cities, cobbled streets
castles, cannonballs. The jewel of an empire
some thousand years before
now left to sell Pepsi and pizza in the ruins
of it all.
So here I sit on this double edged sword
in awe of the country and nature’s wonder
toads and lizards creeping up our wall
with old people struggling to live
by selling sun-hats to tourists
who breathe economy into lost cities
of generations ago, many before
here, paying my contribution in sun lotion
Agfa film and cocktails, endless.
Maybe tomorrow I will
contemplate the suicide of the world.
Breathless at the marvel of Acropolis stones
stood so long against the brunt of it all
now desperate to find a balance in the
modern world.
The new gods and goddesses hustling punters
for pocket money, for deck chairs on
the beach of fag butts and empty bottles of UV25
sweet green sea tempting sore feet
to tread through the barbed wire barricades.
Oh, soft clean waters consume us
Let us all fall into the sea, drag us under.
Take it all away.
Shot Away – 12th September 1994
The filament in the light bulb above my head is broken
I cannot repair it until the everyday DIY man has spoken
And when he speaks he speaks with a lisp
Everyone is laughing – they all think he’s pissed
I don’t care what they say
Mr Repairman came to see me today
I did not laugh, he did the trick
He made everything absolutely spick
And spanner in the works – wash my dirty shirts – until it really hurts
The swallows flew the nests – they were eggs no more
I mark my card as they fly by
Kiss my friend in the eye
They were eggs no more he fried
28th Jul 2024 – Fresh Forest Cottage, some 7 or 8 years after Mum and I left and a long time before I saw again. The open window is where my bedroom was, where the howling noises all came from and a thousand cigarettes smoked and a thousand cans of beer drunk.
28th Jul 2024 – This is how I remember the garden once walking through the gate. Gillespie’s (the garage) just visible on the right where more howling and drumming was often heard. I do recall that this part of the garden had changed a lot when I saw it again some ten or fifteen years later. No surprise really. It stopped me from wanting to go in a look around though as I hoped to keep my memories intact.
Screaming along the runway, engines roar, hearts in mouths as we, cloud bound go. Panic abates, ears pop, whiteness overwhelms us, then free, like a rock slung to the heavens, bright sun gleaming cross the snow ground, bubbling like a witches brew or soft as a crash mat below.
Til dreams hit of freefalling, waiting for that soft spring catch.
But heart surrendered body as the white night envelopes til, yikes! Hard ground racing upwards, a glimpse of heaven, a walk with angels traverse the europes by the air,
30,000 feet above mad farmers, raging rivers,
ants in our eyesight, twisting snakes
like a rising Atlantis, brave mountains
puncture low cloud fall, Alpine wonder
but just a brief gasp of breath,
a mere molehill on horizons,
as we many mile per hour go
from one place to another.
In a few brief hours, sun warming our toes, we find destination, a Mediterranean island in green seas, lapping white crest tops biting at its edges.
We being to fly low, deceleration pops our eardrums
as we marvel at this rare beauty
to our right as we slide by.
Then with a touch of the wheel
we turn about so slow.
I fear we may stall in this awful manoeuvre,
but a beat on the throttle takes us in nice and easy.
We seem to be gliding ’til wheels tiptoe the tarmac
and suddenly we’re racing to slow before the grass starts and thankfully we do and our captain goes ‘phew’ in private
but tells us to have a nice day.
So off then to adventure
and off with our raincoats
where dark young men impress my sweet
darling with their dark young minds.
The majestic willow – 11th September 1994
Ring-a-ring-a-ling. At the front door of the manor house, we strike the old ship bell, hanging glumly by the door, like a statue more than a device, not a temptation for most, I’d venture, as a more normal doorbell sits right next to it on the wall, but a huge invitation for our playful minds. Ring-a-ring-a-ling.
Dodging fast storms brewing up in the olde-Englysh heavens, wind sweeping each new development along in a flash, one second bright warm sunshine tempting off pullovers, next second torrential downpour of warm wet sees us scurrying for cover under the trees. The cricketers carry on regardless. We all know it will pass by in a matter of a blink or two.
So dodging these slight nuisance rainfalls, we end up at Lower Farm, a converted old farmhouse with twisty apple trees and the most delightful sweeping weeping willow, majestic, from the earth, skyward towering, then falling back in a dance of tears. Around the perimeter, the flower beds, the villagers stand behind their stalls, like a half-hearted car boot sale (minus cars), selling old toys or tempting us to play their games.
A traditional small English fete, with most of the villagers participating, all monies donated to the church (more on that later) and in fact, most I’d imagine, buying or donating money to each other’s stalls.
When I say half-hearted, I’m only comparing to more extravagant affairs and don’t intend to sound so mean because this was a quaint, peaceful playground for the village, so English, as only the English can be. Imagine this tiny village, probably no more than a hundred dwellings and many of its people gathered here in hopes of keeping its community spirit alive, fighting off the evil of big city life invading from the North in the shape of Milton Keynes and its parish council takeover bids.
All manor of thoughts – 10th September 1994
Up at the crack, Broni way ahead, up with the tummies at 5.30, unable to sleep and kicking me around some, so she left to watch cartoons before stirring me out of fitful dreams. She frenzied herself around me, preparing everything for our holiday, while I sat and read another chapter of Tom Sawyer. Oh, I realise now what opportunity I’ve missed in my youth for my quest for knowledge – but it has brought me to this point in time anyway, eventful and enjoyable always.
So we hit road, chasing the sun as dark clouds ominously gather at our smoking tail and the time disappears behind us too, today. Not some drag of a journey as a three-and-a-half-hour drive might normally be but us in holiday mode, just happy playing dodgems on the motorway (soon to be called freeway in my new language!).
Our destination, sleepy old Drayton Parslow, for a final visit to Isobel, Broni’s cousin or other. Her house, the manor house, old, white and glorious, set in a garden a child’s playful imagination would be lost in, hiding under draping bushes on the bank up to the door, by the big dark brown barns. I took a brief second in my mind to imagine playing and running and that second grew suddenly into a whole childhood of adventure, of buried treasures and guns and bombs. In reality, I only really remember playing football and doctors and nurses in some of the gardens I grew up in!
Inside the house, the charm of things old remains. Old high ceiling kitchen, long thick table, one corner with a master’s chair at the end. Next corner, a sliding door into a pantry of surprises of homemade preserves and bean wine, 1987. A clutter of claustrophobic cans begging to be opened in this wonderful place. Opposite, a huge free-standing cupboard packed to the very gills with bone china, several sets of varying patterns and varieties, sweet pea flowers for us today.
Large cast iron candle holder hangs gothically from the ceiling and small piles of mess of papers or vegetables punctuate the spacious glory where families must have sat in their Victorian lives, leaving ghosts in the air of memory.
Each other room beholding a cob-webbed past for my eager historical mind to play in, pictures on walls of previous occupants, painted in colour, where my mental images are TV black and white and back-before-TV old paintings of whoever, probably a great Aunt Fanny, old even then, a strict woman with sad eyes and tight pursed lips, regally dressed for her commissioned painter. And I can sit here happily and dream up lives for these people whose existence may mean nought to me, but now, even in this brief moment, our paths have crossed.
A friend of Isobel’s pops in, evening time, dark outside and I sit quietly listening, exploring thei polits converse and I’m hit, oooooh – h – h, aren’t people’s lives so big, S -O – B – I – G. Each person’s story so hugely relevant to themselves, so many tiny stories, so much background, upbringing, shaping thoughts, shaping attitude, direction. So important, that lust for life, life so important, I’m hugely happy, hugely inspired.
This house, in night time, one room lit, next room black as blackest devil’s night, no invading dim dull grim light, but total darkness, like stuck on with glue, each room a separate entity, each with identity not for invasion. Wish to stay for several weeks to travel the depths of its ghostly stature.
And my dream, in dozing rapture dreams like before sleep, like, can still hear radio in back, influencing the direction of your dreaming, so I wonders if there’s ever a day gone by when no murder has been committed! And think, that like we have a national no-smoking week, maybe we can have a national no-murder week.
Well, whaddya think?
