A Solipsism Too Far.
Jeremy Corbyn at PMQ's yesterday
I have this gift. When I hear some words or phrases my brain simultaneously translates them into what linguists call Tim's English. Tim's English is a strange variation from Common English in that the main differences are not driven by dialect but by meaning. Let me give you some examples to explain what I mean:-
English Tim's English
Tim's English . Solipsistic bullshit. Made up bollocks to amuse the writer of self referential blogs.
Barista. Wanker who serves coffee (I hate coffee shops - do you know that?)
Jeremy Corbyn. Albert Steptoe
We welcome diversity. Apart from diversity of thought.
Striking to protect public safety. Bullshit.
Women don't worry about such things. Lies
I'm only thinking of the children. And a holiday in the sun.
Trump's not my president. Whiney baby loses dummy
Hard Brexit. Leave the EU as mandated in the UK Referendum 23rd June
Franco's Fiesta. Rejected manuscript
Austerity. Smaller than trend increases in government spend. Doubling of the National Debt
"The people in Battersea Arts Centre would really enjoy your blog Tim." - Balls meet knife.
Green Energy. Tax on the poor and old to give rich lefties bragging rights
Facebook Friends. Annoying wankers you used to know but accepted their friend request one night when you were pissed. Surreptitiously blocked later when sober.
"I've only had two glasses of wine." Two plus two...
"You're really funny Tim!" I prefer my men tall and boring.
Aid Superpower. Country where help for the poor or elderly or infirm is rationed so rich politicians can feel good about themselves spending other people's money on ridiculous vanity projects overseas.
"It's your round" What, again?
Racist Someone who disagrees with the (left-wing) speaker. Used to close down debate and legitimise subsequent unreasonable behaviour (see reaction to Brexit or Trump)
Tories Socialists who went to public school or grammar schools (before they closed them down). Social mobility? Ladders? Move on, nothing to see here.
"I only started writing last year." Liar
BBC / C4 Comedy Panel Show Unfunny left-wing shit
Edgy Comedy Unfunny left wing shit
Tim's Blog Funny, balanced and penetrating analysis
Funny, balance, penetrating analysis Bullshit
Tim's Sapphic Misadventures
Tim Robson has been up close and personal with one of these two ladies
Are there more lesbians these days or is it just my fevered imagination?
Maybe it's where I go (Brighton / Battersea). Or maybe it's my rugged good looks attracting the waverers. Or maybe it's more socially acceptable in 2017. Who knows.
But this march of the sisters doesn't upset me. Well, apart from one thing...
Three times in the last month, sat at my table, tapping away, looking both authorial and yet approachable, I've been smiled at by single attractive women. Now, being eyed up by women is pretty usual for me - I am a basic pleasure model after all - but even-so, their interest tweaked my own. Maybe, smile back? Offer a drink? I'm a machine; turn me on and I deliver results.*
And then. And then their girlfriend turns up and they start to kiss. And not in a peck on the cheek kinda way. Tongues involved. One particularly attractive couple of ladies next to me on the train a couple of months ago were snogging and feeling each other up all the way from East Croydon to Burgess Hill. It was like I'd stepped into some porno movie. But with no part for me. I mulled about this - overly long - when I got home. Too long.
Okay, so maybe I view all of human life through the lens of my own single status (why not?) but it's a cruel trick ladies. A cruel trick I fall for time and again. Which means I'm increasingly getting paranoid, afraid of hitting on a lesbian by mistake. I respect people's lifestyle. So now, I don't do anything. I look away when a single, attractive girl smiles at me. Read more Roman history.
Yeah. That would it Tim. Lesbians. Why you're single. Yeah.
* The bullshit is strong in this one tonight.
The Bottle and The Sock
Adrian Gurvitz. Big in Belgium apparently
My blogging has been somewhat sporadic of late. You've noticed? You may not believe it, but I write much more than I publish. Whilst there's many a slip t'wix cup and lip, there's many a dodgy blogpost that gathers cyber dust in this site's Draft folder - ruthlessly rejected from a public airing.
So, I reserve the more outre ramblings and website bootlegs for my short stories. You see my short stories are 'literary' and as such all manner of solipsistic navel gazing is permissible. Demanded, in fact.
Standard Tim Robson short story:-
Single 40 something professional (optionally short and bald) meets some quirky, and yet attractive, lady in, say, Battersea Arts Centre. They drink. They joke. They laugh. They may or may not end up together. The world turns and scratches its arse. The end.
Between you and me, I think I've entertained us all enough with this particular plot line. Which is a shame because I've just churned out another in my Henry Ford production line of short stories. This new opus has all the plot features listed above plus the added, and experimental, bonus, that the action takes place in two bars, not just Battersea Arts Centre. Fuck off James Joyce, come and have a go if you think you're hard enough! I feel I'm growing as a writer, you know; exploring ideas, running with creative concepts, challenging myself. Screwing with that envelope.
Yeah, whatever Balzac.
Anyway, The Bottle and The Sock will be the last in this particular series of what some are already calling (me mainly) my Clapham short stories. I feel I've outgrown the medium. I'll still enter these unfertilised children into competitions. My stuff may be samey but it's good. Production line Tim Robson is better than niche anyone else.* Watch the list of stories published grow like a national debt under a Labour government. Or indeed, the bloody Tories. Doubled?
So if I'm not writing short stories what will I be doing with my undoubted - if little recognised - literary talents.* Poetry? Perhaps - but part of me thinks this is like the UK concentrating on minority sports at the Olympics and winning loads of gold in, say, pistol shooting. Or Canoeing. Or sailing. Who gives a fuck? We'd all prefer a 800m win like the Brighton god that is Steve Ovett. Or Seb Coe in the 1500m. Twice. Alan Swells.
Of course I mean a novel. There's a great state of the nation, the times we live in, epoch defining novel in me. It's what the world needs right now (well, about 2018 as opuses take a while to write a classic. In an attic. Cause I'm an addict.). And without revealing too much of the plot, I think it will hit the zeitgeist of now like a whingeing fucking lefty bitching about losing another election.
So - without revealing the plot too much - what will this American Psycho for the second decade of the 21st century be like?
Well I thought it might be interesting to follow the activities of a mid 40's professional guy, divorced, short, bald, and his attempts to come to terms with his life via meaningless dates. I think I might set it in - I dunno - Sussex and Clapham. Or Brighton. And Clapham. Lots of ideas. Many possibilities but I think I've got the core of my story.
What do you think? A page turner, no?
In my left hand is rock. In my right is roll.
Notes
* Hyperbolic boast not backed up by fact.
January Thoughts
Alfred Heaton Cooper
“Blow, blow thou winter wind
Thou art not so unkind
As man’s ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen
Because thy art not seen
Although thy breath be rude.”
How can you tell it's January?
- Some nob in lycra shorts, a beanie and carrying a collapsible bike panted into the seat next to me on the train this morning. Naturally he was about 45 years old. Red faced with misplaced virtuousness, slimy with sweat. Out of his trendy back pack he produced a 'power shake' and made a show of drinking it loudly with many manly gulps. The green goo probably had berries in it and some spinach or kale or whatever. Tosser. He'll be depressed and fat by March wondering where his wife’s gone and why his kids hate him. Seen it a million times.
- The car park of the local leisure centre is overflowing with wall to wall Renault Espaces as the obese attend their obligatory January health classes (that cost twelve months of subscription). In the gym, they will walk slowly on running machines and do two sets of 1.5K weights, all the time talking loudly to similarly obese friends. Before having a Mars bar, coke and cigarette to celebrate having not showered. Luckily, the car park will be clear again mid February.
- Here in Battersea Arts Centre, the Monday night runners club is swelling more than an adolescent boy's trousers spying on the female changing room. Being all around 28-32 they should just hang signs around their necks 'I want to get married'. Some might wear 'and have babies' too for good measure. Given their age and fitful nature, the group will be half the size by March. Still, lots of weddings to attend summer 2018.
- The world is full of people doing a ‘dry’ January. Frankly this is about as exciting as getting a hand job when drunk from a bored transvestite in torn fishnets at the end of a long shift. Or so my mate Dan tells me. The radical thing - the cool thing - is to have a 'Get pissed in January' January. That's what the clever people do.
You can tell it’s January because the cold is never as cold as it should be, the snow is never that thick, the money never lasts, the resolutions fail, ennui tears at your soul and good intentions whither.
You can tell it’s January because January is just like any other damn month.
Happy New Year.
Loose Ends
The Ancient Roman general Sulla twice turned his armies on Rome. Caesar just the once. Later. But who remembers Sulla? Crossing the Rubicon trumps The Battle of the Colline Gate in our collective memory. Which just goes to show that posterity goes to the those that write things down (Caesar) against those that don't (Sulla).
Yeah, a new year hasn't blunted the edge of my pretentiousness. If anything the Xmas break has sharpened it. When not overeating or drinking, I used the time to read up on the decline of the Roman Republic whilst simultaneously ploughing through the decline of the Empire four hundred years later.
I think it's called having depth. Polymathic. Or being single. Whatever.*
Which is I guess a somewhat irrelevant introduction to the real purpose of this blog - tying up loose ends. And what loose ends are these, Tim? Well, the loose ends that I left on this blog at the end of 2016. And no, by loose ends, I don't mean the lady in Quench Bar in Burgess Hill a couple of weeks ago who I never called. **
What I mean is - yawn - Christmas songs.
Briskly -
- Best crooner type - Frank Sinatra - The Christmas Waltz
- Best cheesy Xmas song - Last Christmas (RIP George)
- Best carol - Can't choose. I like all five. Like a contemporary school sports day - you're all winners. ***
And lo! we become 2017. Saturnalia is over, the Xmas tree packed away, novelty Santa egg cup awaiting the chill festivities yet to come.
Let me leave you with an intimate view of Mick and Keef being surprisingly good in 2016.
Notes (why?)
* Polymathic. Whacked it in. No spell check appeared so I guess the word exists!
** Literally cannot turn it off.
*** "Ever feel you've been cheated?"
Golden Era Xmas Songs
Gosh - I'm so over Christmas.
Today we're nominating the Golden Era of Christmas songs - Bing, Frank, Ella, Tony, Dean. Hey! You know. Class. In a glass.
I'd like to side track and pay tribute to the guy in the baseball cap who reversed from a side street tonight into a busy Wandsworth Road - one handed! His other hand was, naturally enough, holding his phone. Kudos mate! You are my Xmas ***t.*
Nominees
1) Frank SInatra - The Christmas Waltz
2) Nat King Cole - The Christmas Song
3) Snow - Bing Crosby, Danny Kaye, Rosemary Clooney, Trudy Stephens
4) Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer - Dean Martin
5) Tony Bennett - Winter Wonderland.
* Those that know me well will be able to fill in the blanked letters on this four letter word.
Christmas Cheese
I wish it could be Xmas everyday, and here it is, Merry Christmas, I'll be lonely this Christmas, Stepping into Christmas, Stop the Cavalry, they said it would snow blah blah blah.
We all know the hey-day of this genre - the 70's and 80's. It's probably the most ubiquitous of my Christmas song categories but also, my least favourite. But - culturally - these cheesy types of festive songs evoke Christmases past, slow dances with girls long forgot in venues either burned down for the insurance money or long converted into flats.
And the nominations for best cheesy Christmas song go to:-
- 2000 Miles - The Pretenders
- All I want for Christmas is You - Mariah Carey
- Last Christmas - Wham, Cascada, Taylor Swift
- Wrapped in Red - Kelly Clarkson
- One More Sleep - Leona Lewis
Yeah - I added a couple of more modern ones as I think the genre kinda died in the 80's but these last two are pretty decent reinventions (I've posted Kelly Clarkson's song here already).
Sorry for the multi artist nomination for Last Christmas but I like Cascada's version and Taylor Swift's Holiday EP is pretty awesome and her Last Christmas, countrified, is a great interpretation.
Anyway - results in a couple of weeks! Please enjoy The King looking (and sounding) his best in 1968 in his comeback special. And yes, it's Elvis on electric lead guitar.
A Carolling we will go!
Carol singers outside Robson Towers in years gone by.
I'm going to be publishing a shortlist of carols and, towards Christmas, I'll choose one as the 'Ultimate Carol'. I'll list the other categories in the coming days but The Best Christmas Carol is the most important category.
I did think about opening the results up to a public vote but:
- I can't be arsed
- Only two people would vote (both me from different IP addresses)
- Last time I opened up the comments section on this blog someone helpfully pointed out that I was a sad, pathetic man with no friends who was probably sat in his underpants spewing forth vitriol at the world to hide the fact that he was an inadequate loser.*
So, here is the shortlist:-
- Every Star Shall Sing A Carol
- God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen
- The Star Carol
- In the Bleak Mid-Winter
- See Amid the WInter's Snow
Contenders that just missed out:-
- Little Donkey
- O Little Town of Bethlehem
- Ding Dong Merrily On High
- O Come, All Ye Faithful
So what am I looking for? Well, it's a cocktail, naturally enough. Tune and melody - of course. Many carols fall by the wayside with their insipid or dirge-like melodies. There's a reason why there's about 15 well known carols - many of the others are poor.
Secondly, nostalgia and the power of memory. For a few years I was a Church of England choirboy. But also my schools used to sing carols as part of unashamedly Christian assemblies. Carols were as much a part of Christmas as anything else. Increasingly, in my evolving memory, carols are a growing part of the experience. Which leads me to the third criteria; the spine tingling feeling you get from a carol being sung at full-blast, led by an organ and choir belting out a full counterpointed arrangement as they deliver the nativity story with power and eloquence. A musical but muscular Christianity indeed!
I'm not ashamed to say - I'm a cultural Christian. As I get older I know, it's who I am. It's home. And what better way than through melody to evoke childhood? I'm already looking forward to my one church visit a year when I take my kids to the local Church of England candlelit carol service next week. I spend most of the service with tears in my eyes. Happy tears.
So there are the nominees. My taste is a shifting scale - one moment here, the next there. All the carols mean something, all are worthy. If there's a couple of unfamilair ones, take a listen on Youtube - they are there.
Anyway - a bit of Bert Jansch doing In The Bleak Mid-Winter
* Clearly the person knew me. It sort of paraphrased - whilst eschewing the flowery language - my own short stories. We are the stories we tell, unfortunately.
An Early Christmas Present!
Merry Christmas readers. Enjoy!
Tim Robson still rocking that cardigan. Hip cat. Play those blues, boy!
Art or Arse?
I came home last night to find my author copy of Artificium 4 waiting on the mat. This book includes my story 'Second Thoughts'.
I wrote this story this summer on many, many train journeys back and forth between London from Sussex. There's many disparate events, people, happenings pickled into just one little story about two people going on a date. On some journeys I would change just one word. Often I would spend half an hour editing one paragraph so the tone and the language were correct. What I wrote, what I submit these days is filtered like a fucking Bavarian beer.
Flicking through the printed version though I noticed a couple of things that jarred; stuff I didn't remember; asides, clarifications, extra bits I didn't pen. Now, admittedly last night I was coming down off a good meal (with G&T, wine and port with the cheese) at Gordon Ramsay's London House. So, it could have been just me. (It's often just me). But clearly something wasn't right.
I checked again this morning. Yep - they'd been some editing on my sacred words. How dare they! One especial 'addition' to my text comes right at the end, in the penultimate line. Now I'd deliberately changed tone in the story and so by the last page the theme is one of regret not bitterness. From regret comes salvation. You follow the lead character's thought processes until he gets to this epiphany.
It's quite touching and if I hadn't written it, I'd think it was an excellent piece of writing.
But like a child with some felt tips 'improving' the Mona Lisa, some jocular words are added before my final, payoff line. It's art, dammit!!!
Fuck it. I got £50 which I spent on a few (two) bottles of wine in London. I have another 'book' to add to my growing collection of near misses and second prizes.
I'm not precious.
Much.
Tim
The other Don
Run Run Rudolph!
Tim Robson and Elfs
Last January I - somewhat bizarrely - promised to publish a list of my favourite Christmas songs. But like a drunken middle-aged man with performance anxiety, who's just met a gorgeous girl and is a bit out of practice, I sadly failed to deliver (the Xmas article).*
Sorry.
And so here we are, one year on, with my growing readership unaware of what my taste in Christmas songs is. How can that be and must it be tolerated? Obviously not. It's time to let y'all know. Let me remind you of what the categories were:-
- Carols
- Hollywood type Christmas songs (roughly 40's to the 60's)
- Cheesy Christmas pop songs (roughly 70's to the 90's)
- Folky / world music type Christmas songs
- Miscellaneous
Well, I'm gonna do some listening in the next few days, remind myself of the contenders, maybe record a video of me playing a couple. Who knows? My axe is cold and needs to be warmed up. On camera. And actually this is important stuff. Food, family, music; hopefully these are givens and so pretty universal. Food I can cover in a later post. But music. Well, it was my first love.
One day I'm gonna write a classic. Maybe in an attic? Cause I'm an addict. An addict for shite lyrics.
So, from London, bon soir.
Cheers
Tim
*Yes that metaphor was too long. Just having fun with words. It's clearly not based on personal experience. Well, except a story my friend Dan told me. He tells me he's fine now, I believe.
Top 25
I thought I'd take a look at what my i-tunes says are my top 25 tunes. My i-tunes takes input from the following:-
The computer itself
My i-phone
My kids ipads
The ipod in the car
So therefore my top 25 tunes are not purely my tastes. Luckily for me, my girls play - and then over play - a particular song, and then never play it again. I'm a bit more constant in my likes!
To get in my top 25, you have to have been played at least 106 times (Henry Purcell - Rondeau). To top the charts, you need 265 plays (Vivaldi - RV535 iV Allegro - concerto for 2 oboes).
What do we find in the list Tim?
Vivaldi - 7 'tunes' or 28%
Lucie Silvas and Taylor Swift are the only other artists that appear more than once (2 each).
Classical - 11 tunes or 44% (as well Vivaldi, Henry Purcell, Beethoven, Elgar and Debussy)
0 Beatles. In fact the nearest Beatles song has 'only' been played 46 times (their final rooftop, complete with police, going-down-fighting Get Back).
1 Stones (live Street Fighting Man 1971)
1 Coldplay (Viva La Vida - Tiberius? Constantine? Pilate?)
3 definitely from my girls (Taylor - Shake it Off and Blank Space, Iggy Azelea - Black Widow)
1 from Iceland - Yohanna Funny Thing Is
0 Elvis (The highest Elvis - at 32 plays - is the rather mawkish Don't Cry Daddy)
Randoms - Neil Diamond (Glory Road), Red Hot Chili Peppers (Save the Population), GRL (Lighthouse), Todd Rundgren (I Saw the Light)
Dance - Matrix & Futurebound - Control
Most recent addition - Shania Twaine - You're Still The One. Added in February 2016. 110 plays.
So what does any of this prove?
I'm commuting again. I tend to listen to classical and Vivaldi on trains
The top 25 played (apart from Elgar, Vivaldi and Lucie Silva - Breath In) doesn't match up with my self-defined favourite songs.
I'm self-amusing again. Sorry. Music is important to me!
More updates next year when I reveal the shocking news that Vivaldi totally takes over the top 25 list (and he might, looking at the many, many concerti bubbling just under the top 25).
Split pea soup for lunch.
Tim
Street Fighting Man
Trigger warning for Lefties
So Trump got elected.
Read what I wrote here on this blog back in June about the Trump phenomenon and why people might support Trump:-
- Lastly, and let me just have one trivial reason, his ongoing success pisses off exactly the right people. The BBC, The Guardian, Facebook twats, bien pensants everywhere. His on-going success makes them so incoherently angry it's worth electing Trump just to watch them explode with self righteousness and condescension for their fellow man.
And lo! it came to pass. We have The Guardian going into meltdown, the BBC adopting the tone of a state funeral, narcissistic (funded?) cry-babies protesting on the streets, dickhead celebs reneging on their virtue signalling threats to move to Canada. Yeah, the same shit that followed Brexit.
The serious point in all of this is that, once again, there are forces deliberately attempting to de-legitimise democracy. Reading articles in the Spectator, Guardian and Independent this week, commentators that are taken seriously (why?) have been attacking the very foundation of democracy. Apparently some voters - those that disagree with said bien pensants - are 'low information', thick, sexist, racist or whatever sub-Gramsci cultural hegemonic bullshit technique is being pushed.
It's nasty, elitist and anti-democratic and I hate it.
As with Brexit, so with Trump; it's not the revolution that frightens me. It's the counter revolution. Now that really is scary. Never support the mob. One day the wind may blow in the opposite direction and you might find its howling anarchy beating at your own door. Be thankful we settle our differences in the ballot box and not on the streets.
Life's Good
Tim Robson in Oxford 1985 - neo Marxism not pictured.
The wonders of the internet...
Here's three clips from long-forgotten TV shows showing collaborations.
First up - Keef and The Killer killing Little Queenie by Chuck Berry. Sheeet Boy! This is good.
And then, one of my favourite collaborations. Bobby Darin and Stevie Wonder doing one of my favourite songs - Tim Hardin's If I Were A Carpenter. Raw, informal, watch as these two greats light up the small screen...
Finally, one of my favourite songs - Moonlight In Vermont (beautiful, beautiful - such economy of words, such imagery)... Frank - behind the beat of course, interpreting; Ella, perfect and slinky as always. Enjoy!
Second Thoughts
One for the ladies... Tim Robson has, 'Second Thoughts'. ***
“A prophet is not without honour except in his hometown, among his relatives, and in his own household”
The interesting thing about commuting - if the rail companies or unions don't mess it up - is that it gives me a couple of hours a day where I must decide how to occupy myself. Time was when I used this space as an opportunity to catch up on sleep or get pissed reading the 50p Evening Standard.*
Now, my time is pretty much spent writing or reading books. Is it because I'm older I don't want to waste my time with fripperies? Possibly - who knows, who cares? But one thing is true though; I've written more in the last six months commuting whilst I've held down a job in London than I ever did in the previous twelve months at home supposedly 'writing'.
I know, I know. Profundity drips from my fingers tonight.
Anyway, one of the short stories I wrote this summer between Burgess Hill and London is to be published next month. The clever, creative editors at Artificium chose to publish 'Second Thoughts' and I can't praise enough their discerning judgement. They spot talent. Rightly and regularly... Well, at least twice.
Second Thoughts details the dating problems of a short, bald, middle aged professional man. It breaks rules, conventions and, probably, wind.**
Now where the hell did I get the inspiration for this story? Well, I had to dig deep, to be totally honest. Real deep. Had to put myself into the character of this prince among men, this diamond in the dirt, this prophet without honour. See life from another point of view. Walk a mile in someone else's shoes... All that.
Okay, it's kinda based on me.
Again.
But apart from the high standard of writing, the taboo breaking honesty, the epic characterisation, this story - like one of the many oriental massage parlours on Lavender Hill - promises a happy ending. Maybe that's my new thing. Optimism. Empathy. Smiles.
Actually, there are only about ten things that make me smile in this world. Many are cruel or twisted, some illegal, some just, well, weird....
But one of the things that makes me happy, is the Mick Taylor (led) Rolling Stones 1969-74. Watch Mick tear it up on one of fav Stones songs - Gimme Shelter. Okay, this is nothing to do with second chances or, indeed, this blog-ramble but, as Aristotle once said, "Fuck that, bring on the dancing girls. And another amphora of wine! Who took my olives?"
* I wrote an article one night for the dearly departed London newspaper which they accepted. It described the culture of drinking on the 6pm train home. When I sobered up I begged them to pull the article and offered in its place - The 10 Rules of The Office Leaving Do which they duly published. Good orginal. Good recovery. I am...I said.
** Crap joke, I know and yet, and yet.
*** The more discerning - and frankly odd - members of my blog community will recognise this picture of yours truly as a still from my recent, already legendary, performance of Fixing To Leave.
The Children of Septimius Severus
Septimius with Caracalla and Geta
A somewhat pretentious title, no?
That's deliberate.
Today I start a new feature where I actually start to publish my own fiction. Yes, it's free to read. It's like I drank from the socialist Kool-Aid or something. Get it whilst it's lukewarm.
The Children of Septimius Severus is an especial favourite of mine. As well as sending up myself, it takes the piss out the whole self-publishing, literary agents/gatekeepers scene. I've moved on from this now, I hope.
Mostly though, I hope you find it funny. I aspire to literary greatness but, like with most things, I'd settle for just being funny. Just however is a very BIG word.
Let me know what you think!
A Rainy Afternoon in Brighton
Brighton Autumn 2016
Trafalgar Street. 1991. Rain
"Outside it feels like it will rain. There is a cold wind blowing. Trafalgar Street is bleak and dark fingers of shadows icily mark our way. I feel out of time as around me autumn becomes winter. We walk closely together. Quickly and in silence - our breath marking the climb to the station. It starts to rain. Heavily. We shelter in a shop front. We face each other inches apart.
I do up another button on my black denim jacket.
The rain is now bouncing off the floor. We are well sheltered though in the shop front, snug in our cocoon. We look at each other. She seems to be daring me to make a move. Life has Moments and this is one. She's staring at me intensely but I find myself unable to cross the divide. It's just not in me. I'm twenty three and she's just nineteen yet I still can't make a move. I have no power at all. I’m like the rain running down the hill in front of me, powerless to alter course. I stand useless, devoid of direction, waiting to be shown a way."
Neil Diamond's Beard. Tim Robson 1991
(I think I'm a better writer now. Even posting the above passage, 25 years after writing it (FFS!), I've lightly edited it. Too many adverbs. Too many non-deliberate repetitions. Still; a nice scene of a Brighton now gone. A Tim that has gone. A girl that was never there.)
Brighton Autumn 2016
Fixing To Leave
Tim Robson: The Polo neck years
13th October song.
If you know, you know.
Otherwise enjoy my songwriting abilities circa 1990.
Hanging's Too Good For 'em!
Tim Robson disguises raw sex appeal behind a beard. Bag not pictured as IN THE LUGGAGE RACK.
Okay - as I commute to London everyday, I am well versed in all the usual gripes and moans every commuter has:-
- Late or cancelled trains
- Overcrowded trains
- Wankers barking into their phones
- Overloud music leaking from headphones
- Drunk passengers being 'funny'
- Smelly people or ill people sneezing all over you.
- etc etc
However, I've noticed a new one which, whilst small, is annoying and becoming more so. Bear with me, this may be a pet peeve but my cat's not listening so I need to vent.
No-one uses luggage racks anymore.
Eh, come again Tim?
No-one uses luggage racks anymore.
Me? Well, I find a seat (if one is to be had) get out my laptop or book and put my bag on the overhead luggage rack. That's what they are there for, afterall. It seems that is so twentieth century. The new rock n roll, is to put your bag on the floor by your seat. And then stretch your feet over the bag and so invade the space of the person opposite. Or, straddle your bag so that your feet are now in the space of the person next to you.
Also the new etiquette demands that if someone who's space is thus diminished by your selfishness raises a concern - either vocally or passive aggressively - then you should look - and act - aggrieved. Of course my feet are taking your space - can't you see I've got my bag on the floor you fuckwit?
I've started getting militant. When I find a seat and some twat has got their bag either in my seat (popular) or is so large it is causing my neighbour to spread their feet into my space, I always politely offer to put the offending bag in the luggage rack. It's interesting doing this when the offender is some strapping bloke.
Anyway, pet peeves are just that - something that annoys you that isn't a biggie.
But it's fucking annoying - what with everything else going on with Southern railways.
Selfish, inconsiderate bastards.
And the guards are going on strike again tomorrow.
FFS
Tim