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.

New Ink

It’s odd to think
my magnum opus lies
in liquid form
before my eyes.

Strange really when you think about the relationship between the ink, the pen and your brain and how they must be in harmony for ideas to germinate and escape across the virgin page.

At the start of every new notebook I am reminded of the closing lines to my favourite poem by Seamus Heaney, “Digging” a piece about his father. The poem ends….

I’ve no spade to follow men like them. Between my finger and my thumb the squat pen rests. I’ll dig with it”.

And that also reflects my style of writing, I’m not blessed with the ability to just write, my “poems” are well and truly dug out of the myriads of edits that litter my notebook.

One day I might just get it right.

[c] D. Archer. October 2013


“Regrets, unlike wine, do not get better with age”

I read this somewhere, or imagined I read this somewhere and it stays with me. I have pockets of randomness that need to come out over time. I’m not really a blogger “per se”, I write mainly “poetry” as I’m not sure anybody is really interested in the state of my toaster crumb tray or how I can never really remember where I put my keys or how this affects the universe and why I should be looking for someone that doesn’t want to be found.

I’d better calm down now as that was almost a paragraph worth of randomness. Normal service will be resumed shortly.