Cogitating

I'm originally from Newcastle in the north-east of England and come from a working class family. I still feel working class although I'm not in tough economic circumstances. Some things you just feel in your guts. I was born in the early 1960's and baptised a Catholic, sent to a Catholic school, taught by a mixture of teachers including some nuns. School days were strict and life at home could be both fraught and happy. Kind of an up and down, in and out sort of childhood. I guess life was hard for my parents too and they would often get into severe domestic rows. Some time ago I wrote a song with these lyrics about that time. The song is called...  

Playing Out At Teatime 

I let the door go bang behind me, 

weaved swiftly up the street, 

took a 40 yard dash from me beans and mash 

with the ball still at my feet 

It's cold, it's wet, but I'm playing out in the lane, 

back of Jackie's shop. 

With a black and white ball 

and a 20 foot wall I've got the team to beat the drop. 

"There's too much tomato on me burger,

 you stupid cunt, you lousy twat!"* 

It stuck, it's true, to the wall, like glue, 

then did a back-flip to the mat. 

It's like being at the pictures for they never hear me scream, 

and I'm not tall enough 

when I stand up 

to leave a shadow on the screen. 

I'm sure it's quiet in the house now 

but I think I'll wait and see, 

I've got Johnstone, Cruyff and Charlie George, 

the ball, 

the wall 

and me. 

...Melancholia...

one night

moonlight

plays about her face

silver

tangles

caught upon her hair

soft eyed

sadness

drifts within our space

lonesome

drifting

restless

shifting

dreaming

waking

melancholia

Chorus line trotting down a spiral

bright metal staircase to limelight.

A Berlin studio meets the London stage

for Alma and Patsy on first night.

Old men drool and watch the girls.

Young calves bare to the glare.

Bald and sweaty gets excited

backstage with one so fair.

"Golden curls" he fall-flat flatters.

"You like them?" slip of a girl giggles

and presents choochie face with her curls,

detached. Camera still. She wiggles,

he pretends he does not care. Watching,

watching, one-eye-open he dozes.

The set, her stage, our view, his altar.

Dreaming matinee girls in shocking poses.

End of scene one, established setting,

male gaze, desire, a little sexual flirting.

In his fantasy the cicatrice marks her neck,

his face relaxes, no more hurting.

Rain slants steadily across the studio floor

As we follow a new girl up to the stage door.

Nimble eyes flick left in expressionist light

Providence calls upon Jill tonight.

Waiting for the impresario things get worse.

A rain-soddened girl feels a lighter purse.

Coves looking likely take to their wheels.

No letter of introduction; gone with those heels.

Inside the stage door some chaps claim concern

Offer her assistance, some money to earn.

Walking in stage right, Patsy, a clued-up girl

Gives punters the brush off, all in a twirl

In a flash she's in there with girly affection

"I'll sort things out," she offers protection,

"See Oscar in the morning, now you need some rest

There's room over at my place, come be my guest!"

"Cut!" says the director, "let's call it a day"

Then turning to Alma, "are you going my way?"

Straightening her glasses, smoothing down her skirt,

She's leading Alfred by the arm, reining in his hurt.

Intermission

A large glass of port and some Irish Stew.

Alfred and Alma sit down to review

The camera angles and that day's shooting,

(Off-duty copper took a head-shot in Tooting).

Murder and art will always overlap.

She strokes his cock, he reads the underground map.

"8.15 Liverpool Street then change for Euston Square...

...dear," he ejaculates across the easy chair.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4hoMKZOoNcw

Contratiempo (2017)

Last night I watched a British WW2 movie. It had Anna Neagle as, apparently, a Nazi sympathiser. Neagle being the star, wife of director, Herbert Wilcox, and known in the 1930s as Queen Victoria, it wasn't too difficult to imagine a few big twists in the plot.

The action moves from London, England to Halifax, Nova Scotia via an intriguing trip by ship across the Atlantic. Margaret Rutherford ably supplied humour as a well-meaning but loose-lipped (they sink ships don't you know?) passenger.

Well worth watching was Richard Greene as a Naval Intelligence Officer keeping an eye, an admiring one, on Ms. Neagle. Greene is likable and charming in the part.

In Halifax we get echoes of Hitchcock's Notorious and even a few historical references (check out Halifax Explosion on wiki) as the film heads toward an exciting climax.

A fascinating book that although at times feels overly descriptive really makes you believe the central character really did travel back in time.