Au revoir Facey.

Here’s a selection of stuff that’s happened to me over the last week or so: I had a close encounter with a squirrel legging it out of a tree in our orchard, saw the world’s cutest blue-eyed border collie puppy down in the woods near ours, trimmed my ear-hair and left huge clumps of it in the bathroom sink, was saddened by the news of the death of Leon off Gogglebox, laughed a lot at a new cartoon by Lee Healey and Barney Farmer (of Drunken Bakers fame) and made my girlfriend watch The Signalman starring Denholm Elliot, purely so I could tell her the superior ‘double Denholm’ joke I’d thought up an hour earlier. 

It’s all minutiae innit, just daft little scenes from a life, and none of it’s even vaguely important, not even the ‘double Denholm’ joke (which was a fucking cracker, by the way). But all of the above things have something in common, and that is that as soon as they happened, my first reaction was to log onto Facebook and let the 1,000+ mostly-strangers that I laughably call my ‘friends’ know about them. And that’s when I realised that Facebook is altering the way I approach my existence; rather than just living my life, I seem to be regarding it as a way of creating content for my social media persona, and that’s not healthy. 

I’ve got an addict’s mindset, always have had. If I enjoy doing a thing, I absolutely tear the arse out of it, to the exclusion of everything else around me. when I was too little for drink and drugs, I was addicted to playing table-tennis. When I got sober in the late 90s, I did so by plunging head-on into writing, which, looking back, was probably my first ever habit. I listened to Caitlin Moran on Desert Island Discs the other day, and she said that when she’s about to sit down to write, her mouth begins to water as if she’s going to eat something delicious. I get that too, a glorious sensation of anticipation, flexing my mental muscles and buzzing like fuck doing something that I’ve always considered to basically be Free Drugs. 

We’re all made up of different personas, tailored to fit into assorted scenarios, and one of the reasons I plunged obsessively into doing JaZZ RiOT is because I thought that the skinny rhyming gobshite in the battered top hat was my favourite of these personas, the one I most wanted to be as often as possible. But I’ve since come to realise that, much as I love that over-confident, svelte and suave motherfucker who thinks he’s in the best band in the world and will happily tell you as much, he’s not my favourite Ettrick Scott, because all he’s doing is reciting words that another Ettrick Scott crafted. And it’s this Ettrick - the one who’ll sit at a PC for hours in a manky dressing gown, sifting through his vocabulary and trying to make himself laugh - that I most want to be as much as I can. 

And while I don’t need other people to validate my writing for me, Facebook has got me into the habit of fishing for ‘likes’. When I stick a new lyric up online, I’ll obsessively go back and see how it’s being received, instead of trusting my own judgement. As a result of this, JaZZ RiOT’s lyrical catalogue is full of stuff that I’ve written and then just forgotten about or never bothered returning to. Jon Lee from the band often says “can we have a crack at X”, when we’re rehearsing, because he’s seen the worth in a song that I’ve gone right off, largely because it hasn’t hoovered up the admiration of my online audience. It’s not a great way to work, is it? I really don’t care what people think of my work, yet our current set is being shaped largely by being based upon how many people could be arsed to click on a blue thumb. 

So I’ve knocked it on the head for now, yer Facebook, gone proper cold turkey. I’ve got over fifty notifications since I’ve been gone that I’m itching to click on, if I’m being honest, but y’knaa, they won’t be anything important, will they? Seeing what people like or what they’ve said won’t enrich my life one iota, so fuck that.

I hope you enjoyed reading this. I enjoyed writing it. But don’t bother yourself liking it or commenting on it. I won’t be reading your thoughts/kind words/insults. I’ve got other stuff to be cracking on with: they say that a mythical land exists out there beyond this blue-and-white echo chamber, and I’m leaving the bubble to see if I can discover it….

Tramp?

Tramp?

If a woman is breast-feeding,

Then her tits aren’t titillating.

She’s not sending sexy signals,

She is simply lactating.

And have you thought to ask yourself

Just why you are spectating?

I reckon you were bottle-fed

And that’s what’s caused your hating.

If a woman wants to whap one out

To nourish a small baby,

Then that is her prerogative,

No ifs, no buts, no maybes.

And if this sight makes your mouth foam

Like you’ve got late-stage rabies,

Then I’d say you have some issues

In your relationships with ladies.

If a woman turns your stomach

Just by simply offspring- feeding.

If seeing acts of nurture

Makes your eyes feel like they’re bleeding.

It looks like your moral compass

Is knackered and misleading.

Or perhaps these blinkered views

Come from the tabloids you’ve been reading?

If a woman is labelled a ‘tramp’

Because she feeds in public places,

Surely it’s them that label

That are the real disgraces?

If you find yourself disgusted

By these loving interfaces,

It’s time for a mental health-check

Coz you appear to be head-cases…

21/12 AKA It's The End Of The World, Man.

21/12 AKA It’s The End Of The World, Man.

It’s the end of the world, man, and I’m not lying.

It’s been prophesised by  the Ancient Mayans.

Kiss your kids goodbye and commence all your crying

Coz on 21/12, you and I will be dying.

It’s the end of the world, man, the stars aligning

For when the sun sets on its very last shining.

Those storm clouds won’t have a silver lining,

And I’ll be drinking trebles, if you’re getting mine in.

It’s the end of the world, man; goodnight, existence.

Been served an order of cease and desist-ance

It would be futile to attempt resistance,

Regretfully, this planet’s run the distance.               

It’s the end of the world, man; farewell, creation.

You’re fucked unless your spaceship’s waiting at the station.

To save us from this deadly situation

We need a hero, a man like Jason Statham.

It’s the end of the world, man; so long, friends and brothers,

I’ll leave you to be with your loved and your lovers

For one final fumble under sweat-sodden covers.

It’s the end of the world, man…be nice to each other.

Look at me, look at me! (A post-modern poem.)

Look at me, look at me!
Marvel at my poetry.
Feed my ego, soothe my id
By telling me how well I did.
Every word comes from the heart,
It's not showing off; it's art.
If you like it, here's a hint;
Tell me that I'm fucking mint.

Look at me, look at me!
On stage where I was born to be.
I don't do subtle or sublime,
I just swear a lot and make it rhyme.
Being a poet wasn't planned
But no fucker wants me in their band.
Can I ask a favour? It's not much -
Just tell your friends I'm double-cush.

Look at me, look at me!
Better than you thought I'd be.
A master of my native tongue,
Wise and witty and well-hung.
Got a huge vocabulary,
I hate racists and constabulary.
Rather watch my daughter lick tramps' bollocks
Than see my son become a polis.

Look at me, look at me!
Are you well-jel? Well, you should be.
Every verse is proper class,
I can pull pretty much any lass.
They'll sing my name when I am gone,
These pearls of wisdom will live on.
Say I'm deluded, out of my tree.
I don't care as long as you look at me.

TRAIN #6

They're in love, just look into their eyes.
It's something special that they can't disguise.
He's grinning miles-wide like he's won first prize,
She's in a daze, amazed and glassy eyed.
First rush of love must be the greatest high,
There's no better buzz that money can buy.
To make it last, I would strongly advise
You don't cheat and you never tell no lies.
I've done those stupid things, they made me wise.
I know well that hearts beat softer when love dies.

FIFTY YEARS HANDCUFFED TO A MANIAC.

Life seemed easier when I was a kid,
Before my dick started running the show.
Girls were just friends but how quickly that ends
Once the beast stirs down below.

But you can't bottle that innocent time,
It leaves once the first pube arrives.
Then we all get tongue-tied and red-faced
And live normal complicated lives.

Enslaved by libido, the ego
And nothing matters more than getting laid.
I half-wish it would finish, shrivel and diminish,
But I know I'll freak out when my sex drive fades.

Feel like I'm handcuffed to a maniac

TRAIN #5

Half-human and half-pissed,
How did it come to this?
Blinded by the vodka mist,
Drinking like a thirsty fish.
Is there a home where you are missed?
Do your kids long for a kiss
Or just think "fuck him and his fists"?
If you had a magic wish
Is this how you would exist?
Because it's a shitty kind of bliss.