Scatalogue

Here are some leftovers from my Instagram account. Regretably everything is of my own creation. Don’t steal, it’s not nice. Stuff ranges from new books I’m working on to the plight of the lonely idiot, a homage to Ronald Searle, a picture of a cat and the album of my alter ego “Roy Morbidson” where I play 96 hours of my own melancholic solo Jazz tambourine compositions.

© D. Archer. July 2017

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Random Post

I heard that this song that was originally written by Jimi Hendrix in 1989 for his ill-fated Skegness Summer Spectacular “Vinyl Lionel and the Spunkettes”. In the audience that day, yes you guessed it was a certain young man from Seattle searching for a new direction, that man was no other than Barry Hillsberg (also known as Terrence Trent D’Arby, also known as Petula Clark, also known as Gladys Knight and the Pips). Barry was on holiday with his maiden aunt (who had one leg shorter than the other but that is of no significance) when, during an allergic reaction to some undercooked shellfish he experienced the future sound that would define a generation, confuse most old people, have the power to raise the dead and un-cook spaghetti. He likened the sound of this new music to “milk flowing from the nipples of virgin Unicorns” a term he would later come to regret as it had already been used by the Disney corporation in 1956 and they sued him for all his money and he died.

Rumours of his death were greatly misquoted and in the summer of 1993 Barry returned to his hallucinations to invoke the spirits of the shellfish he had eaten on that fateful Thursday afternoon. His maiden aunt (short legs, attractive for her age, seeks gentleman 60 plus for long walks on the dark side of the moon, non smoker, horse lover and BDSM threesomes) was not in the room.

In the quiet of the bedroom Barry began to lick his hamster in an attempt to enter a shamanic state of mind. Three fur balls later he put down the hamster and picked up the Colorado River toad his maiden aunt kept in her bedside table, next to that strange, ribbed, plastic candle that didn’t seem to have a bulb in it but which he could hear her trying to switch on every night, he concluded that there must be something wrong with the bulb because all it did was buzz. Barry was not very experienced at licking toads so first he paid it lots of compliments, bought it flowers, wrote poetry and sent her random expressions of love for three years before he got around to licking it. It was worth the wait, the toad agreed to marry Barry on the proviso that he never mentioned their night in Brighton to his maiden aunt.

Anyway, Barry began to trip, the lights were flashing rampant in his eyelids, cocooned in a wall of sound he began to see the grey outline of the shellfish walking towards him wearing a bowler hat. Barry knew there had to be something wrong, a bowler hat with brown loafers? Barry began to panic, this was a bad trip and he needed to get off. So he did.

It wasn’t until the summer of 1995 that Barry was able to talk about his experiences to “Hello” magazine for a huge amount of money and the first syndicated royalty rites to his upcoming marriage to the scale model of Liberace that his maiden aunt kept in her other bedside table (again no bulb all buzzing). Shortly after being forcibly ejected from the offices of “Hello” magazine Barry went on the run to avoid all the publicity and scandal of being branded left-handed.

Barry Hillsberg was a deep and confused man, his life was one made tragically longer when he had himself cryogenically frozen three weeks before he died, fortunately a power cut revitalised him, took ten years of his bald spot and cured his acne. Barry went on to describe his out-of-body experiences in his ninth autobiography “Im sorry but I forgot to mention this bit” and became a huge TV star in Iceland (the country not the Supermarket chain).

Barry Hillsberg (26), thinker, dreamer, drinker, poet, artist, vegetarian, amateur psychiatrist, underwear model and trainspotter died, eventually, by death in 2008. He couldn’t fit his intended epitaph on his headstone because it was only very small and it cot £3.78 per letter for the inscription (I know, £3.78) so his tombstone, under a small pile of syringes in Methadone corner of Westminster Abbey simply reads “BH. I’m dead. Feed cat”.

R.I.P. Barry Hillsberg. Shine on you crazy diamond. Which is what he did until he properly died in 2012, during the omnibus edition of Coronation Street. He wasn’t actually in the episode, he choked on a small Cheese and Onion flaky pastry Quiche. Found three days later by his maiden aunt she stole the money from his wallet and never returned his library books, fortunately Khama caught up with her in 2013 and she was shot whilst buying a Cheese and Onion flaky pastry Quiche at the petrol station across from her flat which was run, only part-time on an evening, by Sting.

To follow is too late

Once upon a time
there was no time,
only you;
it’s when the talking stops
and I am left to think
about the size of the night
in the small numbers of the clock when
I miss the radio the most,
the audience of one,
the place for homeless thoughts
and mis-shaped, guilty love.

I have no more reach left in me
so I take myself to bed
because no one else will;
there I close my day
with you in the picture on the shelf,
the remains of someone else,
knowing the hole in my heart
is where you forever are.

© D. Archer. October 2013.

The Morrissey the More I forget!

The trouble with
This Charming Man when
trying to write poetry
listening to your iPod
at the same time

is that there is no Joy
Division in the New Order
of The Beautiful South;

The Morrissey
the more I forget
all my Stevie Wonder thoughts
come to nought;

I feel like The Jam on
a Jimmy Cliff sandwich;
my words Wither like Bill;
tears Weller in my eyes like Paul;

If I knew The Cure
I would Johnny Cash in all
my words
for one minute
with or without
U2.

© Copyright D. Archer October 2011 

This poem is also called “The curse of trying to write Poetry when listening to your iPod at the same time”, it’s like a driving your car and trying to do your ironing at the same time, impossible for me anyway..

The Boy Next Door

Happy

Obviously the words are not copyright myself and neither unfortunately is the artwork, I came across the image on the inter-web just as I was having my daily dose of Morrissey and by-jingo a contemporary juxtaposition of worlds collided (not as oblique as the Peanuts’ strip I admit). Also, I’m a bit miffed that I can’t see who the artist is on the Vader illustration as I would sing your praises and give full credit without a doubt.

The black frame and the drop shadow are © D. Archer 2013 but that’s all I have contributed, all the interesting and talented stuff belongs to real people.

Still waiting

Print

Today just seems to be one of those days when every song on my iPod stops me in my tracks and demands my attention. As a music lover I couldn’t wish for more but as for a productive afternoon I’ll just have to write it off as research.

Anyone for a shuffle?

Words by Morrissey. Doodle © D. Archer. August 2013

A Once Lost Northern Soul

Spinning around
my small one bedroom flat
Northern Soul so loud
it makes my ears bleed;

then starts your
favourite song
I stop spinning
and realise
it is you
not music
I really need.

© Copyright D. Archer October 2011

Its is no longer cold and I am no longer lost.