It was going to be a for a magazine called Handpocket, which also never materialised.
In retrospect the concept had suspicious overtones of slumming, but since I'm working class this was clearly not the intention. It's hard to really express what the actual intention was - mythologising areas a bit like mine but not being too emotionally close? The Engels reference was also not accidental or detached from its context for the sake of it in a tedious postmodernist style. I hated that sort of shit as much then as I do now.
Anyway, I thought I'd recycle some extracts for ye old times sake. It's written in a self-consciously jumbled manner which can be explained by my obsession for all things Dada and surrealist back then. It should be stressed that it was not meant to be taken seriously; the very thought would make my toes curl so much that they'd turn into barbed claws.
Most of it took place in a graveyard. Spooky darling!
On Arrival we spot Moston’s ‘World Famous’ Barber Shop I expect Davro and Norris from CoroNATION Street but am disappointed. At first disorientation, alleviated by sweet bike-riding boy who asks “…do we take photos of graffiti?” He extends kindness and shows us derelict housing estate – buildings not that old but metall-I-call-y boarded up rising with the fermenting odour of tarmac-ed vegetable soup.
To some a playground to others misery slated, actual slate piled up in yard - a dislodged metal plate NOTED AND REPORTED says the sticker. But no action taken. We peek to the dripdripdrip of the dank rotty-kitchen as violent sneezing echoes from somewhere nearby. Macca Daz Becca Chanel Carly lamppost piss territory.
Shuffle shuffle goes the pizza faced exertion man as his arms droop to the weight of his shopping bags, cross paths. With the orange pedal pusher woman limp-stick greaseball gent, the front garden’s plants wilting at the futility of it all. Richmond, Richmond. ///A-lway///s Richmond!
The ground swells up with the flatulence of the dead as you see the graveyard from the street, reminding people - they’re dying, you see! So said old lady in charity shop, milk and sugar mix up. A skip is on stand by, running out of space, chuck them in there. Piling up in the farmish mud a harvest of death. Wooden crosses like the sort you’d make for pets. Brown tiles white walls. The Edge has graffitied his name – he wants to ‘keep it real in Moston, maaan’ (PAULMCCARTNEYTHUMBSUPGRIN). The street that runs alongside – Millais, a malaise – the malady. The street is ‘un-adopted’ – nobody wants it. “Just a moment ago I was a useless cripple!” squawks Dawn French.
C-dogg shouts graffiti; a pound-shop version of Snoop. Between the Graveyard and the Giant Inflatable Snowman ballroom. What do we have here, Catholic guilt? OSTentatious graves, Patrick Kathleen O’Reilly. Pretty picture of dead scally boy with that Police song become tribute to Notorious B.I.G. lyrics emblazoned. Flowers in wire grates – bargain bins? Italiano Cav Domenico; he once was the knight of the crown of Italy but now he stands opposite a stone that looks to be from a Joy Division front cover.
A crow swoops down, hovering in the in-between. People’s extremities whetting its aPPetite. Beheaded Virgin Mary didn’t pay her council tax whilst headless cherub abused systematically in Care. Corpse-breath and lavender emanates as photographed granny ghost dodders toward you; “Give us a kissy, love!” A tallying with them wanderers before who smelt of shit and perfume.
Trade-off, face off, stand off – the stone says ‘you gave your son, so here’s our mamma’. Was it a fair swap then? Henry Salter’s sovereign ring looks to be grave robbed. Legal language wife of the above. She was, she did NOT fall of the back of a lorry I’ll have you know! Eeeh, dear. Family gatherings. Families with the name Bunbury – Oscar Wilde’s relatives? Tacky ornamentation, reminded of Victorian cats on sale on eBay. They’d thought on to give the deceased a Christmas card though.
Bus back grunts, another celebrity in Moston there looks to be. ‘Ank Marvin’s Bakery, lonesome highway-flavoured buns of despair. A fellow passenger this time oldish woman, her hair a peachy-orange colour. The sound it would make - reality warping at the corners as a metal bar stretched, or a tape slowing down; “Aaaaooooooowww.” The smell of her perfume corresponded exactly to the colour of her hair. Sadly the hair didn’t make the noise. Last sight of North Mancs – a climbing frame amidst debris, the potential site of a Throbbing Gristle video surely?
No comments:
Post a Comment