Dreary Day Blog

It’s a dreary day here in north Wexford, unfortunately. I had a bit of a lie in this morning, not going to lie. But luckily for me, I have one responsibility on Fridays: to write this silly blog of mine. Hello and welcome. I don’t have any fiction to share today. I am going to wing it.

As I was about to begin writing today, I saw that So Say So was back at Wexford Arts Centre. I am so happy to see that. It was up in the air whether or not it would be returning. If you are reading this and can get Wexford over the next few months, usually on a Thursday, come on down!

I finished reading a book last night. It was my second time reading it. It’s The Obstacle Is the Way by Ryan Holiday. I know. It’s not fiction. I am itching to get to reading some fiction soon. The real-life stories of the world can be a bit much sometimes. I started reading a little booklet of Oscar Wilde quotes today. It’s strange jumping from stoicism to wit. Maybe that is my problem. It’s great to be able to mix it up, though. It’s true what they say: writers read. That’s probably a quote from something. I am not bothered to look it up.

John Cooper Clarke is coming back to Dublin in September. I am not sure if I mentioned that before. This is turning into a bit of a “what’s on” events guide blog. Dr Clarke will be performing in my old stomping ground of DCU. Well, The Helix. You know what I mean. While I am at it, I’m going with Fred and Kurt to see Iron Maiden tomorrow night, and that is something I never thought I would say or be doing. Madness. Wish me luck. I’m sure you will hear all about that on Monday.

Thank you for reading. I didn’t say much, but at least I showed up. I’m proud of myself for that. Here’s a poem by John Cooper Clarke. Thank you for reading. Thank you for your time:

BEASLEY STREET

Far from crazy pavements –

The taste of silver spoons

A clinical arrangement

On a dirty afternoon

Where the fecal germs of Mr Freud

Are rendered obsolete

The legal term is null and void

In the case of Beasley Street

In the cheap seats where murder breeds

Somebody is out of breath

Sleep is a luxury they don’t need

– a sneak preview of death

Belladonna is your flower

Manslaughter your meat

Spend a year in a couple of hours

On the edge of Beasley Street

Where the action isn’t

That’s where it is

State your position

Vacancies exist

In an X-certificate exercise

Ex-servicemen excrete

Keith Joseph smiles and a baby dies

In a box on Beasley Street

From the boarding houses and the bedsits

Full of accidents and fleas

Somebody gets it

Where the missing persons freeze

Wearing dead men’s overcoats

You can’t see their feet

A riff joint shuts – opens up

Right down on Beasley Street

Cars collide, colours clash

Disaster movie stuff

For a man with a Fu Manchu moustache

Revenge is not enough

There’s a dead canary on a swivel seat

There’s a rainbow in the road

Meanwhile on Beasley Street

Silence is the code

Hot beneath the collar

An inspector calls

Where the perishing stink of squalor

Impregnates the walls

The rats have all got rickets

They spit through broken teeth

The name of the game is not cricket

Caught out on Beasley Street

The hipster and his hired hat

Drive a borrowed car

Yellow socks and a pink cravat

Nothing La-di-dah

OAP, mother to be

Watch the three-piece suite

When shit-stoppered drains

And crocodile skis

Are seen on Beasley Street

The kingdom of the blind

A one-eyed man is king

Beauty problems are redefined

The doorbells do not ring

A lightbulb bursts like a blister

The only form of heat

Here a fellow sells his sister

Down the river on Beasley Street

The boys are on the wagon

The girls are on the shelf

Their common problem is

That they’re not someone else

The dirt blows out

The dust blows in

You can’t keep it neat

It’s a fully furnished dustbin,

Sixteen Beasley Street

Vince the ageing savage

Betrays no kind of life

But the smell of yesterday’s cabbage

And the ghost of last year’s wife

Through a constant haze

Of deodorant sprays

He says retreat

Alsations dog the dirty days

Down the middle of Beasley Street

People turn to poison

Quick as lager turns to piss

Sweethearts are physically sick

Every time they kiss.

It’s a sociologist’s paradise

Each day repeats

On easy, cheesy, greasy, queasy

Beastly Beasley Street

Eyes dead as vicious fish

Look around for laughs

If I could have just one wish

I would be a photograph

On a permanent Monday morning

Get lost or fall asleep

When the yellow cats are yawning

Around the back of Beasley Street