There’s a world outside, I know cos I’ve heard talk.

Four years ago I left Scotland, in a van, at midnight. I went to Norfolk and started at an art school. I hated art school more than I hated the dole or brussel sprouts. It confirmed every piece of shit thing I ever thought about art and wank. I liked the beaches but the natives were strange. Nog is the best drink I found there. I left a year later, in a van, with a polish guy called King Albert who I hired from an ad. King Albert was working like a motherfucker and drove like he was on PCP. He got me too London with my cats and mostly in one piece. I did the first few years here in Peckham. Began at Greenwich University whose buildings I had admired for a long time. It is a stunningly pretty place to study. One of my best memories of Peckham was last winter when there was snow for about five days – so thick it stopped the whole city. It was like being at home when I was a kid and snow really fucking snowed, I lived in a caravan for years and would get icicles from my bedroom window all the way to the ground. I could crunch an icicle down pretty quick then. Natures popsicles. Anyway, this day in Peckham with the snow, I went over to Peckham park, skidding down the middle of the road cos there was no traffic and people were saying ‘hello’ to each other. I have never seen anything right in London like it, igloos, snowmen, everybody in pubs, out having snowball fights, I took loads of photography of it and knew it was something I was unlikely to see again down here for sometime. This is one of the trees I photographed.

I flew a dragon moon across Peckham park at midnight and it looked like this.

I did not miss art school but I still missed hills. I fell in love. I published my first collection of poetry. I got too drunk all summer and threw tumblers in the Thames, fell off a boat, had the kind of stand up shouting match at a bus stop that can bring half of Westminster Bridge to an admiring halt. It was tumultuous. I wrote non stop. I moved again not wanting to ebb my average 1.4 moves for every  year of my life so far and this move was a good one cos I got my first garden. This means I have managed to keep a promise to at least one of my cats, that I would get them a garden for their retirement. Despite the fact he’s getting on Gringo is pretty happy launching himself at the shed roof and staking out his turf, he knows birds are worth watching though he hasn’t went for one yet, fingers crossed he’s too Zen and the squirrels that scrabble up the back drainpipe to the roof – well, he thinks they looked like pretty fucking scrawny cats! Now I have ten days to go and my studies are done. Can’t believe it has come round already but I am happy to be moving on.  I took my Scold’s Bridle in for assessment last week and it got a lot of attention, I’m really happy with how it turned out and there is finally room in the shed again for stuff. This week I have mostly been listening to Suicide. Thinking about where I might fall off the planet next and end up. Or maybe I’ll try staying put for awhile, much as it goes against my restless instincts. I hear Iggy Pop and Suicide are playing Hammersmith Apollo on Monday, going to see if I can grab a last-minute ticket, go an shake my thing. Till morrow good wenceless. Ovid and rum. Gin gang gooly. Wing wang walla. Murk. Murk. Murk again. Never can be done too much murking. Stars an’ Merrydown. Fires in the back garden. There is a world outside, I know cos I’ve heard talk. Listen to Mr E, he’ll tell you all about it xx

Degenerate Sweethearts & Rebel Scum

The poetry reading of the summer is going to be Degenerate Sweethearts & Rebel Scum. One or two people need to verify but other than that everyone is gearing up for a night of fucking sterling poetry. The venue is likely to be in Soho and will be confirmed soon. Don’t be square all you dollies and daddy o’s, swing by an’ get mashed x

What’s Your Name, Who’s Your Daddy, Is He Rich Like Me?

101 people are reading this. Not really, probably 101 people are doing other things but I am writing this regardless. 101 things I like in no particular order and written as one word.


instead, more of the zombies


The Scolds Bridle, How Can We Recover our Imaginations for Dreaming?

I have been sculpting a Scolds Bridle for three months. It is a political artwork that symbolises the historical silencing of women convicted of crime. It has been adorned with words by women in prison or who have been in prison, in the UK and USA. Contributors include Women in Prison UK, BeyondMedia USA, Clean Break, HMP Bronzefield and Women and Prison – A Site for Resistance. The Scolds Bridle should go on exhibit at Greenwich Gallery in late Spring and I will cover the project more fully then. Meanwhile here are some early images of it.