hello!! thank you for coming back 🙂
i was surprised at how many people wanted access to this, i assumed maybe 5-10 people would be interested and not brain-rotted enough but there’s like 50 of you which is so cool and terrifying, thank you
deciding what to write about for this has been challenging, i have about a million rants i want to go on. i know i said the next post would be about seeing radiohead but i have a lot to say about it and i procrastinated this, so perhaps i’ll save it for the next.
this is your serving of half-finished slop, about when i started writing.
some context:
in december 2020, i may or may not have been caught at school with some, let’s say, cheeky smoking materials. i was a good student i promise, i just couldn’t resist the beckoning of weed (as i’m sure you’ve figured out by now).
my mum was raging, i lied about a lot too which didn’t help. somehow. some. how. my mum and stepdad decided a 6 MONTH grounding was in order. there is a lot to be said about that time of my life and i will probably tell you much more in the future.
also in the uk, at this time, the government put the country into a second lockdown due to covid – so i was grounded with no school.
as far as my parents were concerned, all i had was my laptop, for online school. i also had a phone that my friend brought to me in the middle of the night. one of my favourite memories ever.
i tied a tote bag with a small rock in it to some string and threw it out my bedroom window. i chucked it over the fence into an alleyway, where my friend put another bag inside and i slowly pulled it up – it got caught on a hanging plant pot on its way up, right outside the living room window with my mum on the sofa. i thought it was all over. i think god was testing me because i had to do an all-or-nothing tug (pause) to snag it loose. the bag was fine and the foxes were clapping and the birds were cheering and everyone was crying it was beautiful.
the bag was truly a care package. a bar of galaxy chocolate (cookie crumble), a can of pipeline punch monster, a broken iphone and its charger. all done in silence, so much on the line. i could right-hook the king and the thrill wouldn’t come close.
all of that and yet, i didn’t use the phone that much. i was so paranoid about my parents spying on me, it was borderline psychotic. i used it for speaking to a few friends and it also helped my girlfriend at the time break up with me easier 🙂
i spent all of my time writing in my phone and watching youtube on almost zero volume. a man i discovered through a few of my interests was someone called Dr. John Cooper Clarke, possibly the coolest guy ever.
his writing is distinctly british and often very funny, from a time of working class rebellion – he’s sometimes referred to as the godfather of punk poetry. he wrote the poem Arctic Monkeys adapted for their song ‘i wanna be yours’ and actually helped them decide on their name as a band. through the 70s, he managed to share the stage with so many bands and speak his writing to their usually unsuspecting crowds – who began to love him. bands like Joy Division, Sex Pistols and The Clash btw.
to give you an idea of his writing, here’s his poem “Twat”
video if you’d rather watch/listen: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g-aVtKEhpO0
Like a Night Club in the morning, you’re the bitter end
Like a recently disinfected shit-house
You’re clean round the bend
You give me the horrors
Too bad to be true
All of my tomorrow’s are lousy ’cause of you
You put the shat in shatter
Put the pain in Spain
Your germs are splattered about
Your face is just a stain
You’re certainly no raver, commonly known as a drag
Do us all a favour, here, wear this polythene bag
You’re like a dose of scabies
I’ve got you under my skin
You make life a fairy tale, Grimm!
People mention murder, the moment you arrive
I’d consider killing you if I thought you weren’t alive
You’ve got this slippery quality
It makes me think of phlegm, and a dual personality
I hate both of them
Your bad breath, vamps disease, destruction, and decay
Please, please, please, please, take yourself away
Like a death of a birthday party, you ruin all the fun
Like a sucked and spat out smartie, you’re no use to anyone
Like the shadow of the guillotine on a dead consumptive’s face
Speaking as an outsider, what do you think of the human race?
You went to a progressive psychiatrist
He recommended suicide
Before scratching your bad name off his list
And pointing the way outside
You hear laughter breaking through, it makes you want to fart
You’re heading for a breakdown, better pull yourself apart
Your dirty name gets passed about, when something goes amiss
Your attitudes are platitudes, just make me wanna piss
What kind of creature bore you?
Was it some kind of bat?
They can’t find a good word for you, but I can
Twat!
lovely.
i read so much of his work, and wrote a lot with a similar theme to Twat about my ex. i hadn’t really written before but his writing was so motivating. the anger, the whimsy, the humour and the message. i didn’t really know you could write about anything, like that.
one of the poems i wrote, inspired by his style, was called Puffer Jacket Pervert. not about anyone in particular, but dodgy men in general. i remember i came up with the title first and then the rest just sort of happened.
i actually have an audio file somewhere of this man reading it. i found him on tiktok, his name was ronnie i think, and he would read his whimsical poems to not many people. i liked his attitude a lot and reached out to see if he’d read mine, not on his page though. he sent me back an audio recording that was almost scarily good quality, i’ll make sure to hunt that down soon.
here’s the poem (content warning for mention of sexual assault)
he’s no friend of respect
but what could you expect?
he lacks decency
no idea of privacy
“a dirty little herbert”
a puffer jacket pervert
he stands and waits on dodgy corners
friends with renowned and dodgy pawners
people know him, and wish they didn’t
his flat is filthy and he’s no different,
subtlety so hardly stark
the puffer jacket pervert
‘icky’ his trademark
there’s this young girl
she works as an editor
crap day at work
coz her boss didn’t credit her
she’s just walking home
yet she’s prey to a predator
it’s that puffer jacket pervert
he makes his gross advances
he finds a spot then prances
a cry for help
a scream, a yelp
but she’s been taught
and knows her chances
a fight unlike those
cinematic dances.
no one comes,
despite a man
that passes
but as expected
all he does is glances.
she’s too weak
to even speak
and instead falls into these trances.
she wakes up
he’d got fed up
and she tiredly looks for answers
the devils incarnate
but dressed as a tramp
his face is all grubby
his hair, always damp
he’s so careless, hides in plain sight
no one challenges,
coz it’s not worth the fight
he doesn’t care
for sticking to the outskirt
coz everyone knows
he’s the puffer jacket pervert
he creeps and crawls
‘round pub bar swivel stools
he’s not clever, and he’s not cool
he’s not witty
nor is he picky
he’ll force himself
on who he can
no need for stealth
or a big white van.
personality of some stale sherbet
that’s coz he’s the puffer jacket pervert
he’s far from discreet
a piss stain on a white bed sheet
with empathy all concrete
god forbid if your eyes meet
coz he’s that bloody desperate
he’ll think it’s a future you’ve suggested
no understanding of social cues
doesn’t listen if the poor girl refused
he never stops from going further
coz everyone knows,
he’s the puffer jacket pervert
he’s the lowest of the low
we wish him dead
coz you might not know
he’s the ache in your head
and the bugs in your bed
or a soft drink that’s lost its fizz
basically what i’m saying is,
he reoccurs and it’s not fair
we’re told to accept it,
told that he’s rare
but thats far from the truth
coz he’s everywhere,
on the earth, born of dirt,
the puffer jacket pervert
i had this wacky english teacher, mr hall, who did standup comedy on the side. he liked this poem a lot and told me he read it out to other teachers at a work party. he left for another school about a year later and gave me a card with his email in it. nothing dodgy i swear but for if i ever wanted to reach out, probably with regards to my writing and if he was doing any comedy shows near me.
i never did email him, i think i will in the new year. i’m 20 now so i could probably ask to go for a beer. a vegan beer. he was a hippie whovian.
a whovian is someone obsessed with the british sci-fi tv show Doctor Who. mr hall has a tattoo of a quote from the show, about his veganism, that reads:
“Hunger looks very like evil from the wrong end of the cutlery. Or do you think that your bacon sandwich loves you back?”
a very quirky guy.
okay i really ought to wrap this up before i get lost on more tangents. if you read all of this, i commend you, i hope you weren’t too bored. i look forward to writing the next 🙂
also thank you sooo much. everyone that interacts with my ‘content’ is so so lovely thank you thank you thank you 💛💛
have a great christmas to those who celebrate, and a well-rested end to the year for those who don’t
🫶