you don't see lads like this in the king's road any more

the brazen hussy !

well, bless my soul ! if it ain't joe and eddy grundy ...

i was just trying to imagine myself in a roman slave market ... but would she be any good with a feather duster ?

don't fold your arms at me like that !

the countryside brought in to the town

that must be a lucky seven

saint george's parish church in bloomsbury

http://arts.guardian.co.uk/features/story/0,,1880284,00.html

ho ho ho corporate greed in america

corporate money says tasers don't kill

no wonder that youth despises law

http://www.azcentral.com/business/articles/2008/05/02/20080502taser0503.html

water water

a couple of times, briefly, i had the privilege of travelling through the beautiful land where the navajo live

their wonderful art and their philosophy come out of their religion, but for most their path to spirituality and happiness is blocked by the most bruising and insulting form of poverty

america's toxic abuse of democracy and basic human rights in it's own back yard doesn't help

click the link and read on ...

http://www.navajotimes.com/news/041708water.php

radio, radio

i drive a little german truck with a really clear stereo radio that sometimes lets me hear musical details i'd never noticed in over forty years

but it has an annoying habit of jumping stations whenever a stronger local signal tempts it

on may day morning at six o clock i was just trundling into the dreary industrial estates on the south side of gatwick airport and the first golden sunbeams came flooding across the street to bring up every texture and colour in the few lovely trees

as i swung through a little roundabout, the radio jumped stations again and suddenly the young bob dylan was singing mr tambourine man as if he stood next to me

these things can pick your heart up and hurl it head over heels into the golden past

tears came in to my eyes

fight ! fight !

this afternoon, i was reading a book about greek art outside the resuscitation room in saint george's hospital ... as you do !

suddenly i became aware that, out of the corner of my eye, in the extremely vague periphery of my vision, two shadows on the frosted glass windows of the swing doors fought in a violent and startling struggle

... then i realized in the next second that it was the shadow of the ward cleaner and his big duster

superstition

i took this picture from the back of the truck at six this morning whilst i was sorting out my deliveries

afterwards, when i pointed out the rainbow to the driver in the van, he told me that you should never point your finger at a rainbow ... saying, "that's what i were told when i were a lad"

let the sun shine in ...

hurrah for the national health service and hurrah for science and technology

after two miserable nights with a wisdom tooth that had gone off, worried that i might be overdoing the medication, i betook myself to the new charing cross hospital in hammersmith

i am still stunned, amazed, and overjoyed ... having found myself back on the street and free from pain in less than two hours

the national health service and all the people i have encountered there have been brilliant

stop press: australian barmaids commemorated in putney

stop press: social stratification amongst putney low life revealed

stop press: putney beachcomber discovers fossilized sky

bloody 'ell, tris ... they're more like bumble bees than bluebirds !

bluebirds engraved by brian eagle in the brick shed behind his council house in trowbridge ... the front one in 1982, ten years before the follower ... on the first occasion, brian's hair was jet black, on the second 'twas snowy white ... as you know, the bluebirds signify innocence in the pursuit of happiness, from whence their owner's childish expression ... and as i've reported previously, it isn't arrested development, it's a straightforward case of accelerated regression

… not long after the first tattoo was made, one hot sweaty afternoon in july 1985, I made my way to the parish of Saint Paul’s in Bristol for the wonderful (mostly) Caribbean street carnival … and having witnessed a fine procession, and visited the long street of stalls and bandstands, a terrible thirst came upon me, so I fought my way inch by inch through a jolly crowd to the bar of the Inkerman, a large square Victorian pub with a sweet-natured clientele (in those days) and a thriving night-life … and as I waited for my glass to be filled, a lady with a strong brown shoulder and a conspicuous cleavage softly pushed her perfumed self into the paper-thin gap at my side and commanded the provision of two pints of beer and two steak and kidney pies … then confidently taking a full pint mug in each hand, she crossed her arms and instructed that the hot pies be placed in the crooks of the arms, and wincing from the heat of the pies, she then eased her stately path back into the crowded street, with me not far behind ... there, with commendable elegance, she stepped in to the gutter, crossed her little pointy feet, lowered her bottom very slowly to the kerb and sat there cross-legged in the sun, without spilling a drop on her new blue jeans … she then ate both pies and drank both pints, pausing now and then to speak to a number of middle-aged working men who were all on first-name terms … and then, having finished her breakfast/lunch, she turned to me for a light, which I didn’t have but someone else did … and whilst she smoked and before she left to go about her business, I seized the opportunity to ask about the intriguing tattoo around her ankle, the rounded and sloping script of which seemed indecipherable … she said she had once spent a rainy Saturday drinking in Hastings with some “clients”, a group of sailors, who took her to a tattoo parlour … and whilst they were being tattooed, she concentrated on finishing their bottle of whiskey, and when they turned at the end and offered to pay for her, and then lifted her bodily in to the tattooist’s chair, she was too dazed to argue or resist … the tattooist politely and patiently asked what design she wished for, but all she could mumble was “I don’t fucking know !” … and that was why he wrote his name and telephone number around her ankle !

burt lancaster and nick cravat in the crimson pirate ... the dvd is out in the uk

of course it is rubbish, most of the acting and the script are lamentable ... but its the kind of rubbish small boys like me would have loved to watch in the sevenpenny seats at the athelstan cinema in malmesbury on a saturday afternoon in about 1957 ... and i'm always willing to watch burt making the most out of any role ... have you seen the leopard, or trapeze ?