Saturday, 12 May 2007

Big Boned Gal

I wouldn't say we spent a huge amount of time together, but when he was around, you kind of knew it really. It must have been that big butch dyke kind of presence; the one where everyone looks or stares. I dont think he really minded or cared what everyone thought of him, being different to other Dads. I certainly didnt. There was something intriguing or special about him.

Mum must have thought so too.

Tuesday, 8 May 2007

Shakespears Skin and Blister

"A thousand pens are ready to suggest what you should do and what effect you will have. My own suggestion is a little fantastic, I admit; I prefer, therefore, to put it in the form of fiction. I told you in the course of this paper that Shakespeare had a sister; but do not look for her in Sir Sidney Lee's life of the poet. She died young - alas, she never wrote a word. She lies buried where the omnibuses now stop, opposite the Elephant and Castle. Now my belief is that this poet who never wrote a word and was buried at the crossroads still lives. She lives in you and in me, and in many other women who are not here tonight, for they are washing up the dishes and putting the children to bed. But she lives, for great poets do not die; they are continuing presences; they need only the opportunity to walk among us in the flesh.

This opportunity, as I think, it is now coming within your power to give her. For my belief is that if we live another century or so - I am talking of the common life which is the real life and not of the little separate lives which we live as individuals - and have £500 a year each of us and rooms of our own; if we have the habit of freedom and the courage to write exactly what we think; if we escape a little from the common sitting-room and see human beings not always in their relation to each other but in relation to reality; and the sky too, and the trees or whatever it may be in themselves; if we face the fact, for it is a fact, that there is no arm to cling to, but that we go alone and that our relation is to the world of reality and not only to the world of men and women, then the opportunity will come and the dead poet who was Shakespeare's sister will put on the body which she has so often laid down. Drawing her life from the lives of the unknown who were her forerunners, as her brother did before her, she will be born."

Extract 'A Room of One's Own' Virginia Woolf, one of Dad's favourite writers.

Monday, 7 May 2007

Rolling your own ...

"The art of true hand rolling is a skill that escapes most people. There are no tricks or secrets really, only lots of practice and a willingness to go through a few packs of papers until you get the hang of it. Now after a relatively short time, one can certainly learn to hand roll stick that are smokeable. The problem is that it takes a considerable leap from that level before you can roll really good looking sticks."

I used to roll Dads fags for him on long journies initially, and then at home after I'd got the knack of it. I was under the age of 7 because it was when we had the old Wolseley. "Make the next one a bit tighter", "Not bad, a bit too tight..." It kept me occupied and was much better than counting red cars ...

Everything's possible

Dad made everything seem possible. He once asked my Mum, "Shall I be a whistler or a singer?". She just rolled her eyes up at him and told him to do whatever he likes. He did. Apparently, he then walked around for about a week whistling non stop until my Mum threw the Littlewoods catalogue book at him. I'd have loved to have been there for that one and I dunno, although Mum laughs about it now, I reckon she could've bloody killed him at the time....

Keen on birds

Yeah Dad was always quite keen on the birds. He took me up to the local church and there was an exhibition on there, so he bought a painting that looks exactly like this one. Well, she was white with a long neck and great legs. Don't get me wrong, he saw beauty where no one else ever did and I thought that was a marvellous trait.

Stalking folicles

This is me and my ole' man practicing shaving. I used to sit on the loo seat and watch him everyday and once, I even got hold of the razor and tried it out on my arms. Yeah, I was cut up all over the place. Mum was devasted but me Dad showed me how to do it properly ...

Thursday, 3 May 2007


IF you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a dyke, my son!

Monday, 30 April 2007

"Why do birds suddenly appear..."

"...everytime you are near! Just like me they long to be close to you ...." Yeah you've guessed it, the Carpenters. Ok so I know this blog was suppose to be about my ole' man but let's face it, I can't deny that Mum played a major role in this. She was, after all, a raving dyke herself.

When Dad wasn't around in the early days (I think he was playing Gertrude Stein at the local amateur dramatics club), Mum used to cuddle, kiss and tell me she loved me like it was going out of fashion. Not saying it ever did, but well, she couldnt get enough of me. I realised at that point that she was missing the ole' fella and well, I was probably the next best thing I guess.