Gallery 47

I saw this young man Who goes by the stage name of Gallery 47 open for Martha Tilston in Thursday. As you will see from the video he has a real passion for what he does. He is an amazing guitar player and his music is allround of a decent standard. 

Everything about the former carpet factory worker and Nottingham University impresses me. Look out for him in the not too distant future he deserves to be listened to. 

No Kebab for You

She lay on the lounger, watching the rabbit nuzzling the lobelia and the ice melting in her glass. The drink from the pitcher had long been consumed and lay empty, as a reminder of the exotic fruit juices that had been mixed with a strong spirit, what it been poured in was a long-forgotten memory.

The heat of the midday sun had made sitting out in the suburban garden thirsty work and Philippa was ready for the responsibilities that came with this task. The whistle of distant aircraft taking off and landing at Gatwick intermittently broke the serenity of the peaceful garden in full bloom.

The sunflowers spied on neighbour’s gardens. The lobelia, however, was under attack from Trevor the rabbit. It was a short, fat little thing. One of its ears was missing while the other stood to attention. Its white fur looked as if it was stained with the patches of brown. He was almost blind but still had a fighting spirit. This premature blindness usually lead it to run around in circles when allowed to roam free in the garden.

Other than a mixture of lettuce and carrots the only other food Trevor was fed were the remnants of kebab that fell to the grass when Philippa passed out on the lounger after a night out, the task of finding the key to the house too laborious. The taste of lamb was an experience like no other for the rabbit. The mix of salad and was not to his liking, however, the overpowering taste of mayonnaise left a nasty after taste.

The lobelia made an interesting change to his diet and he set about it with relish. Philippa looked on unconcerned for the safety of the purple-blue flowers or the digestion of the rabbit. Trevor hacked at the plant like an explorer scything at the thick jungle terrain in search of some sort of civilisation. ‘Who knows maybe they will find some in Crawley’ Trevor thought.

Philippa woke from a short nap, took off her sunglasses to reveal two pale rings around her eyes. She lifted her glass from the floor, the remnants of the ice spilling on the ground. Stepping over the spillage that had quickly soaked into the parched earth, before seeing in the corner of her eye the rabbit.

Trevor had eaten clean through the lobelia and was now ramming the fence with some fury. Philippa dropped the glass and ran toward the rabbit to the sound of breaking glass on the patio. She picked the rabbit up all the time reprimanding it for its actions and placing him back in his hutch before telling the poor little creature ‘there will be no more kebab for you.’

Constable Benton Fraser Royal Canadian Mounted police

Does anyone remember the television programme Due South? Here is a poem I wrote about it's main character 

It always seems to be you and your wolf
Talking to each other
Solving the case together
Not a pesky kid in sight.

'Thank you kindly' is how you address
Any complaint or insult.
You may be Canadian
But come on please get over it.

What is it with all this politeness?
It just comes over a little bit weird
You Talk to your father
Whose murder you are here to solve.

Your senses are finely attuned
Always there in the line of danger
That sense of honour is more
Critical than your sense of living.

While the bad guys have guns,
And explosives and Knives,
Brute force and a ruthless will to kill
You however have your wits

Sometimes though I get the feeling
You would rather help old ladies.
The problem is they are just as likely
To be at the centre of the villainy.

Bravo Bognor

I wrote this before I went to Uni and is probably about four or five years old but you can start to see my development towards a couple of my other blog posts.

Your memory is known to play tricks on you; especially your childhood memory which is capable of the most outrageous tricks of all. Things seemed bigger, brighter and on the whole more exciting. Often that was because they were or that you were smaller in a big, big world, more prone to exaggeration and on the whole a lot more curious about the world. I remember childhood trips to Nottingham being bowled over by the Brew House Yard Museum. It was like stepping into a Narnia like world. It was magical, being able to experience an air raid safe in the knowledge that you were not going to be the target of a stray bomb.

The problem is that you grow up and the magic disappears, you see the smoke and mirrors that deceived you. How disappointed the seven year old you would have been. Not just disappointed with that you shrug it off and accept, but that someone could do this to you. This Tardis like building of your childhood could be so small.  So what happens when you go back to towns or cities that once played a role in your childhood, but you have not visited since? You are after all a different person however much you try to deceive yourself that the child you once were is still in there trying to get out. I think it was in a kind of childlike naivety that I went blundering back to places that I thought I could trust not to disappoint.

Chichester is a grand looking place that has a grand looking heritage. It is dominated by its 900 year old cathedral, the only cathedral in England visible from the sea. It has been settled on since the Roman occupation; in one of its parks lies buried a Roman amphitheatre. All this you would think would make it the ideal location for a tourist. I thought so. However when I first arrived the tourist information office was not open. Fine. I’ll come back later, I thought. I headed for the local museum not wanting to go to the most visibly obvious venue first. When I got there I found it was not to open until ten, never mind I’ll come back later, after all it’s not the biggest city in the world.

One of the best things about Chichester was that it had one of the most impressive McDonalds anywhere in the world forget the Golden arches overlooking red square. Housed in the old corn exchange building with Greek style columns mixed with Victorian grandeur while the building remains an important part of Chichester it now no longer houses Ronald and friends.  

So it was over to the cathedral. What I remember as a kid was the roofs of the cloisters looked like they were the upturned hulls of medieval boats, and apparently that is exactly the look it was going for. I was there for half nine on the dot and finally it looked as if my luck had changed. I went in through the oak door of the cathedral shop, as if the architect had planned it for just that purpose 900 years ago.  I was greeted by a middle aged woman who asked

  “Are you a customer?”

   I replied in the affirmative.

  “Well I’m sorry, but we aren’t open just at the moment.”

  “Oh really!” was all I could think to reply, transfixed to the spot as if nailed to the floor.

   “Well I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  Hardly in the Christian spirit I thought, and slammed the door to convey my annoyance.

I then went in the main building to have a look round after all medieval buildings are very interesting but I didn’t take any of it in. I guess it was the usual fair of memorials to long dead Bishops and knights plus all the aspects of a living and working church. Indeed there were many people scurrying about to set up some spectacular light show for later that evening.  I had had enough of Chichester and headed for the train station.

 

A replacement bus service had deprived me of the joys of Barnham train station which only purpose was to ferry holidaymakers down the line to Bognor then Butlins. Bus replacement services are usually double decker buses that are full to bursting, and take twice as long to reach their final destination. This journey however made a nice change and twenty minutes later I was taking my first lung full of sea air. Everyone knows Bognor Regis as the place that George V remarked ‘bugger Bognor’, while Queen Victoria found it to be a ‘delightful little place’. Bognor is now a vastly different place it has a certain run down charm to it and it brightened my day up immeasurably, even the sun came out to say hello.

Most people are rather disparaging about this little seaside resort and in 1994 the IRA planted a bomb outside the local Thomas Cook. But I love the place, and even if the Birdman competition looks to have gone due to its ever diminishing pier and a health and safety culture. It still has a little place in my heart.

 The beach is surprisingly sandy which gives it the upper hand over its rivals of Brighton and Southsea which both contain nothing but pebbles. I wandered into the pier and played on the penny arcades which are irresistible and make you feel like you will soon be going to support groups for the addicted. The chance to win cuddly toys you never in your right mind would want seem valuable pirate treasure. I ended my visit to a little seaside café ran by a Mediterranean family and for a long time I was the only person there. It looked as if the place had changed very little since the 1970s but it added to the whole experience.

  In situations like this I can get overly polite to the point, where I start to thank and apologise in equal measure that I end up apologising for it. There is something reassuring about eating fish and chips while looking out to sea locked away safe from the perils of a fluid enemy that most of the time looks as harmless as a toothless dog. This coastline is not a palm tree paradise but has more of a mucky hue at this time of year. It doesn’t have the same appeals as nearby Brighton with its hedonistic nightlife, but you like it all the same. It just feels like a home from home.  

It’s a pity that I missed out on Barnham station though as I’m sure the memories would have come flooding back of the small version of myself and my family, but Bognor lifted the spirits nether the less.