Poppy Books

2011-02-10T08:54:00.000-08:00

2011-01-25T13:21:00.000-08:00

New Islington

2011-01-20T14:27:00.000-08:00

I read the 'Canal' by Lee Rourke with mounting interest. One of the main reasons for this is that the majority of the story unfolds at the end of my road in Islington, North London, on a bench, overlooking the canal. The unnamed narrator i fails to turn up for work but instead of returning in the days following he decides to try and embrace the true meaning of boredom, fighting against his inherent will to do anything. So each day he returns to the same bench and one day a young woman joins him. The next day when he returns again so does she.

From their vantage point of the bench, since removed, in the rebuilding of the Packington Estate, the pair of them watch the occupants of the glass fronted block opposite, office workers on the lower floors, loft dwellers above. It is soon apparent that the girl has serious problems and these are related to someone working in the office. I found it to be an enjoyable book, the sort that will no doubt appeal to slightly serious young to middle age men prone to wondering up and down canals whilst contemplating the meaning of existence, having what they imagine are deeply profound thoughts, whilst nervously eyeing up the approaching geese with suspicion; in fact just the sort of men contemplating writing a novel themselves one day.

In reviews it has been described as a philosophical novel, an investigation into the nature of boredom and that's all fair enough but then after reading Iris Murdoch's 'Black prince' I realised that that could also be described in reviews as a 'philosophical' novel but the Black Prince is also, first and foremost, a riveting read, the sort that makes you feel like your mainlining the very essence of life itself as you digest every word of it.

Whilst the 'Canal' is an enjoyable read I was more concerned if I recognised anybody in it. It is a bench that, when this book was set a couple of years before (novels take time to write and edit after all), I would often walk passed twice a day and at the same time when the two characters in this novel meet. The view inside these offices from where they sat on the canal I am as familiar with as of the interiors of many of my friend's houses. When a gang of rogue youth appear in the narrative, one with ginger hair, from the notorious Packington Estate, later that same day who should be outside the off-office but what appears to be the same gang (down to one with ginger hair), a couple of years older, all of us eying each other with distrust.

I'm moving house at the moment. After one too many walks along the canal thinking curious thoughts, I have decided I want to get away, far away, to be free to write.

I've been getting rid of everything that I own which led me to post my copy of the 'The Canal' through the letterbox of _____ , a few doors along, who is magazine editor. You will have to take my word for it that I live on the same street as a debonair magazine editor with (I imagine) a glamorous social life is because of the generosity of my landlady. She has a soft spot for struggling writers who also share my name. The sort of struggling writers who like to wonder up and down canals, just the sort of person that 'The Canal' might appeal to in fact. This being London, if I had to live where I could afford in relation to what I earn I would be sleeping on the street or, even worse, not in London, but Burnley.

The bench on the canal had been removed by the time _____ moved in. Still, the few times I have had the pleasure of bumping into him I know to judge from our conversations that he is fascinated by London and enjoys to explore it on foot. That's why I knew he'd be curious too about Lee Rourke's book. I think it's safe to say that, as different as we might be, I think we also share some of the same opinions. As, I assume, we might also with Lee Rourke. Like that the cyclists speeding along the canal from Hackney into town (and back again eight hours later), incessantly ringing their bells as they snap, like the dogs on the estates, at your heels, are asking to be knocked into the canal by their dreaded enemies, the teenagers from the same estates.

To judge from sales of literature, whilst Islington was once synonymous with writers, I suspect that today Lee Rourke lives closer to Hackney, maybe even Homerton. But not for moment do I doubt, to judge from his crystal clear observations of the small wonders to be found along the canal's route, that he has spent as many hours as, if not more than, me wondering up and down it's length.

Still I hazard a (prejudiced) guess that Rourke would be less familiar with the walk that takes me from where my mother resides in East Manchester, through what was once Ancoats, one of Manchester's most run down areas and which, in a move of urban remixing has been re-branded as New Islington.

The difference between the two Islington's, as I make my way during the first week of January, is stark in contrast. Whilst the walk is roughly the same in length, I don't encounter a single other soul on my way.

Back in London, along the canal, there are cafes that will fix your bike (for a nice price) and pubs welcoming families. On a Summer's day people can be observed all along its route enjoying the pleasure of being close to the water; reading, fishing, drinking or simply enjoying the warmth of the sun, it's light reflected in water. Even the geese, more used to being around people, seem more friendly than their relatives in New Islington. Walking along the canal into Manchester I contemplate the knowledge of having strong affinities with both canals. One of them running through one of London's most sought after postcodes, the other, through one of the most deprived neighbourhoods in Manchester. The former residents of Ancoats would have had little reason to visit London's Islington and, likewise, those in Islington today would have little reason to visit the former Ancoats.

Islington has played host to a lengthy list of distinguished figures throughout history including George Orwell, Kenneth Williams, Penelope Lively, Charles Lamb, Edward Lear and Joe Orton. In more recent years though it has more commonly been associated with names more recognisably familiar to those who can stomach the national palette, names such as Lily Allen, Jon Ronson, Angus Deyton, Boris Johnson and the one man who's name conjures up images of New Islington more than any other, Tony Blair.

As for the promised new residents that will form New Islington, three, four, five years since the development began, most of it's modern style properties that border my walk along the canal, all sleek angles and panoramic views of other people with waterside views, post credit crunch mortgage slump, remain empty and much of New Islington seems, when compared to the airbrushed bill boards, surrounding the building sites, depicting this future utopia, only half-built. The upmarket Norwegian furniture shop that opened in anticipation of furnishing these new lifestyles has closed it doors for the last time, leaving, on this cold damp morning, only a skeleton crew of workmen to oversee its slow progress.

For any sense of history you have to look beyond the new canal side urban developments to the ghost of Ancoats which a hundred years before, provided the backdrop for Isabella Banks' novel, 'The Manchester Man'. Ann Coates is also credited as one of the backing singers on The Smith's 'Big Mouth Strikes Again'. Maybe less impressively, comedian Bernard Manning was born in Ancoats but will be forever associated with the equally downtrodden Moston which is where his 'World Famous Embassy club' is.

Yet I would like to draw this to a close on a positive note. Islington, London is an expensive postcode and any struggling writers or artists, unless they have sympathetic landladies, or rich parents, are largely not welcome here. Maybe, I wonder, we could all move to New Islington and create a truly new Islington?

There is a postscript to this tale:

As I turned right out of ____ gate a woman, coming out of another house, stopped me.

"Are you _____?"

There was a time when I watched ____ magazine grow from issue to issue to whilst I struggled to finish the second issue of my fanzine, that maybe I wished I was a bit more like him (especially when I saw pictures of him stepping out at cool parties) and because of this I viewed him, for a long time, with cool disinterest. These days I have a better outlook as far as success goes, or lack of, my own, other peoples and appreciating the good fortune I've been granted to be able to write this much. I welcomed him to the neighbourhood and when I move I know that I will miss our occasional meetings in the street. The irony of being mistook for him that morning was lost on me until much later.

Instead I corrected her. " No I live a few doors along, but I do know him, I was just putting something through his letter box. It's a book about the canal at the end of this road."

For a more detailed overview of Manchester's new architecture, by someone who has definitely wondered down the length of both canals, please read Owen Hathererley's fabulous new book 'A Guide To The New ruins Of Great Britain' and in particularly the chapter 'Manchester So Much to Answer for' (Published by Verso 2011). 'The Canal' by Lee Rourke (published by Melville House Publishing).

Gang Gang Dance

2011-01-20T13:42:00.001-08:00

Ramblin Gamblin Man

2011-01-19T14:26:00.001-08:00

(to be read as if written/spoken in a monotone radio voice) Thanks to Gareth Cherrystones for first turning me on to this great sound. Recently it's been playing on a loop in my head as I sell everything (including this record) that I own in order to lighten the load/move on/maybe experience the exciting sentiments this song provokes in me. I hope that you enjoy it as much as I do...

Leigh Bowery/Michael Alig/Joan Rivers

2011-01-18T17:21:00.000-08:00

Pablo (part 3)

2011-01-18T17:00:00.001-08:00

Pablo (part 2)

2011-01-18T16:46:00.000-08:00

Pablo

2011-01-18T16:42:00.000-08:00

Florence and The Machine

2011-01-18T15:58:00.000-08:00

Stuart Hammond/Richard Yates

2011-01-18T15:39:00.001-08:00

Middle Of The Road

2011-01-18T15:17:00.001-08:00

Pancho's Burritos, Arndale Centre Food Court, Manchester

2011-01-18T14:59:00.001-08:00

Mouldy Old Dough

2011-01-18T14:57:00.001-08:00

2011-01-18T14:43:00.000-08:00

Thanks Ben Crook from the Sian Alice Group

Jake Vegas

2011-01-18T14:40:00.001-08:00

Derek Raymond

2011-01-18T14:38:00.000-08:00

Letter from Gareth 'Cherrystones' Goddard's former next door neighbour

2011-01-18T14:27:00.000-08:00

Look at Life - Coffee Bar, 1959

2011-01-18T14:07:00.000-08:00

Thanks to Toby Feltwell

Jerry Lee Lewis Live at The London Rock & Roll Show Wembley 1972

2011-01-18T13:58:00.003-08:00

Hank

2011-01-18T13:46:00.000-08:00

Soho Jets: Denim Godess

2011-01-18T13:44:00.000-08:00

Discovered whilst moving out

2011-01-18T13:40:00.000-08:00

Limited Edition Job

2011-01-18T04:03:00.000-08:00

I had been tipped off in advance that Dave wanted to see me. A cross between David Koresh and David Ike dressed from head to toe in Japanese street wear brands, Dave was the owner of the trendy clothes shop I worked in. Someone had told him that I was selling the limited edition Nike trainers the shop sold, on eBay for ten times their recommended retail price. I’m ashamed to say, this is all true, but in my defence I had paid for every pair I sold. Surely then, I mentally rehearsed, it was my business if I wore them or gave them away or sold them for a vast profit or loss. What if I held on to them and gave them to my children who then sold them as antiques after I had died? Would that be so different? But like I said, I wasn’t supposed to know any of this, so when Dave’s PA phoned to ask if I would come into his office for a meeting I cheerfully agreed.

Like so many jobs, working in a trendy clothes shop was only meant to be a stopgap thing whilst I tried to find my feet again. After free falling for most of my twenties, the routine the job offered had come as a welcome relief. I saw it as a chance to straighten myself out. At the time I had nearly finished writing a rambling first novel. Now I thought I would be able to find the time in my new boring life to pursue my writing more purposefully.

Seven years later I was still struggling to finish it. The longer I stayed in the shop, the more I became convinced that without the routine I would effortlessly slip into one of the many ruts I had once been stuck in. But the rut I was in now was bigger than any possible rut that I was trying to avoid.

At least I had something to say before. The longer I remained in the shop the less I seemed to have to write about. What could a middle-aged man working in a trendy clothes shop possibly have to say that’s remotely interesting? If you’re looking for life you’re more likely to find it in a morgue than in a trendy clothes shop. A post office or six years on the dole doing nothing but smack and watching Third Reich movies (thanks Tony Ogden R.I.P) but never in a trendy clothes shop. It’s dead end but it’s not so doomed that you can dress it up as poetic or romantic. Charles Bukowski would never have written a book called “Trendy Men’s Clothes Shop”. I was neither the struggling pianist playing for tips in a bar or the ballet dancer who works as an exotic entertainer to pay the bills. Even the same customers I pitied confided in me because they saw themselves when they saw me festering like a trendy zombie behind the counter.

Vice fiction issue, December 2008

Wild Geese

2011-01-18T04:00:00.000-08:00

It seemed like yesterday when he would go to the pub and find himself surrounded by older people and feel mature in their company. But now, whenever he went out, it was the other way around. People his own age were supposed to have had children by now, and while there were pubs full of men older than himself, and sometimes he would pop into one of these pubs for a half by himself, he had no desire to join their ranks as a regular yet. For one, he was a bachelor, and the prospect of pulling in one of those pubs, as everybody knows, is slim. He had loved, and in the future he hoped to do so again, but by then, who would be able to tell what the outcome would be? He was optimistic. But then being a bachelor at his age had its frustrations. For one he was, by now, fed up with going into the same bars all the time. Whatever order he entered them, they all blurred together to become the same place in the end. If he were married, he sometimes reasoned, not taking into account all the married men to be found in pubs, he wouldn’t have to.

Vice fiction issue, December 2009

Master WLTM Slave (Non-smoker preferred)

2011-01-18T03:54:00.000-08:00

Andy is the landlord of a pub. It’s a young people’s place, and if I’m with him, those who recognise him look at me respectfully, but if I’m in there by myself, I feel as inconspicuous as an old man in a school uniform. It’s the sort of pub that, while employing the façade of a normal boozer, everybody in there is under the age of 25. I’m alright if I’m with Andy, because they recognise him as being the landlord, and therefore I must be his mate. I’ve been telling him over lunch in the pub about my idea for a night there. He listens attentively but seems unconvinced by my enthusiasm.

“A night out for manic depressives?” he asks. “Who’d go to that?”

“Other manic depressives,” I say.

“What kind of music will you play?”

“Really, really depressing music.”

“But there have already been clubs that have played only sad songs, remember? There was that one in Scotland, read about it in The Face once. What was it called again?”

“Club Misery,” I say, my voice rising in frustration, knowing where this was heading. I was being talked out of it and I had to fight back.

“It was called Club Misery, but you knew they weren’t really miserable. They were having a good time, getting rave reviews in style magazines. I bet they even had groupies! How depressed could they have been, tell me? Listen, I’m really depressed and I want this club to be really depressing too, for other people who are also really depressed, so we can all be really depressed together. People who pretend to be depressed because they think it’s cool to look tortured only make those who are depressed even more depressed about their situation. You only have to open a copy of any magazine these days to read about how the latest member of the in-crowd photographed who, week in week out, is having the best time of his or her life, is actually suffering from depression. I bet they bloody are! They’re the same as top-ten pop stars wanting indie credibility. How do you think that makes someone who is actually depressed feel? That someone, having that good a time with their whole life in front of them, is also ‘depressed’ like me? I tell you it is this shallowness, this lack of sincerity in what people do, how no one genuinely believes in anything these days, apart from looking cool, which is what makes people like myself depressed. I’m a sensitive guy, you know? Being depressed is all that some people have left to call their own.”

I knew he had given up. He had a wife and children as well as the pub to run. I was one of those old friends from his past that he’d been able to shake after he’d straightened himself out. “I tell you what, I’ll give you three weeks,” he conceded in defeat, “but it’s got to be a Tuesday and do you think you’ll be ready in three weeks’ time?”

“Perfect,” I said, remembering the phrase “Terrible Tuesdays”, and what Tuesday, not Monday, feels like when you’ve been up all weekend.

“By the way,” he said, “have you got a name that you want to call it yet?”

“Depressed Beyond Tablets,” I told him.

“Half Man Half Biscuit,” he acknowledged in recognition of our ages.

Vice fiction issue, December 2010

The Unauthorised Oasis Story

2011-01-18T02:20:00.000-08:00

Whilst he hadn’t been one of the five hundred and ten people who had been sent a copy of the promo as a reader of the NME he had been aware there was a buzz about the band from the beginning. As soon as he heard them, he could hear where they were coming from but he had been reluctant to pass further judgement before he heard more of them. The omens were good: here was a band that unashamedly played rock music not afraid of being derided as out of touch. He began to follow their progress in the music press. Quite often a week didn’t go by when they weren’t involved in some sort of attention grabbing altercation. There had never been a band in his time that had attracted such notoriety. In 1994 rock bands were by and large seen as being conservative in the comparative light of the club scene. But then, once upon a time, white guys with guitars, the sort of guy that looked a bit like him if he squinted whilst studying his own reflection, had been the height of popular cool. He knew this because he had read countless biographies of classic bands that he had only ever been able to experience second hand. By the time Oasis released their second single he was a fan and two months later on hearing ‘Live Forever’ for the first time he declared it the best record that had ever been made.

From a distance ‘Live Forever’ sounded a bit like something playing in the distance but after smoking a joint with his head sandwiched between the speakers it sounded like the conglomeration of every record he had loved from ‘Street Fighting Man’ to ‘I am the Resurrection’ to ‘Anarchy in The UK’ whilst importantly not sounding exactly like any one of them.

It had been with the words from ‘Live Forever’ ringing in his ears that he had moved to London. For the first time in his life anything seemed possible and Oasis were testimony to this. One day you could be mooching around Affleck’s Palace and the next day you could be on Top Of The Pops singing ‘I’m going to Live Forever’ with the conviction that you had actually defied medical science and were going to live forever. Until then, he had spent his nondescript adult life mooching around his own mental equivalent of Affleck’s Palace just waiting for something to happen. Now even the most ordinary day seemed filled with infinite possibilities and the band’s first album with its tales of moving to the city and wanting to be a rock’n’roll star (written, importantly, when none of the band were such) reflected his new-found sense of adventure. In those heady days he would wake in the afternoon with a hangover and a blurred recollection of what he had been doing for the last two days. Sometimes after waking up he would look around and wonder how he got there.

If you were to have seen him during this period and you’d had a drink and it was dark you might have mistaken him for the band’s sixth member. But although he’d never openly admit he felt like the sixth member he seemed to have no problems behaving as such, whether it was in the way he swaggered down the street as if he had a garden gnome in each pocket or in the manner he confessed, after six pints, to a foreign exchange student that he was mad-fer-her and did she want to follow him to the toilets. It was as if his sense of who he was had been shaken awake by the band’s arrival and as they continued to grow from strength to strength, so did his own self-belief until every time he saw Oasis playing on television he felt a rush of adrenalin as if he was actually standing on stage with them.

Instructions for printing: Click on title to download PDF of book.

White paper, silver/reflective front and back covers, black and white inside. Sticker from the Music and Tape Exchange.

Dreamy Lips

2011-01-18T01:12:00.001-08:00

I had been working in the video shop for a week when my boss asked me to spit on him. I stared at his back which was turned towards me, the black fabric of his overcoat speckled with dandruff. He said it louder: “Spit on me.” I looked at the reddening face glaring at me. He turned his head and I knew then what I must do. I pretended to spit, making the noise that people make when they pretend to do such. I thought that would be it, but then he twisted his head back towards me and examined the back of his coat. This time his voice no longer simmered but boiled with rage: “In the name of the baby Jesus crying in his tiny manger crying his eyes out whilst his mother, the Alla Madonna shit cunt whore, fingers her blessed cunt; spit on me.”

When he turned his head this time, I knew I had no choice but to comply with his demand. Bringing up the very last dregs of scum from the pit of my throat, I spat on him with everything I had. Looking over his shoulder, he cautiously examined the slimy mess without uttering a sound, before exclaiming with relief: “There! That is what I mean!” Satisfied, he marched out of the shop without saying another word. When he returned nothing more was said about the incident but when he turned I noticed that the back of his coat was now clean.

Instructions for printing: Click on above title to download PDF of book.

White paper, pink front and back covers, lipstick kiss ink stamp, black and white inside.

2011-01-10T02:24:00.000-08:00

Dear _____ ,

Hope the New Year has been a good one for you. I'm afraid this is my resignation in writing. I've never done this before so I don't know how cheery/informal/ or grave I should make it sound. Instead, I'll try and just be sincere. I would have told you by phone but I thought for practical reasons you might still want it in writing too. I hope email will suffice as writing. I'm also in Manchester.

I'm going to move to Manchester for a few months and after that I've been offered a place to stay in walking distance of the public library in Los Angeles where I am going to write my grand opus by day whilst supplementing myself with odd bits of babysitting/DJing/writing. I'm apprehensive and very excited by this. I had to give up the flat this September and in the past it has always been the having to give up my flat, which prevented me from taking such a leap. So, I reasoned, now was the time.

I've had a really great time working in the bookshop and the whole five years have been invaluable experience about the reality of selling books. In fact, I don't think I'd be able to contemplate going to LA in the first place to do as I am without the confidence I've gained from working in the bookshop with such interesting and interested people.

Anyway, I can do until the rest of the month or four weeks from now. No problems if there are any other days in between you need help with. Maybe a couple of days after but as I write this, I'm less sure of this.

Thanks for your help; it's been truly appreciated.

Sincerely

Matthias

Mugshot for Gavin Brown's Enterprise

2010-09-22T15:33:00.000-07:00

Steak, egg and chips (and bread and butter to mop up the yoke/ketchup residue afterwards)

2010-09-22T15:14:00.000-07:00

There had been times as teenager, sat around the family dinner table, when he dreamed of what it must be like to eat by himself. To be able to eat what you want, when and where you want everyday, even if it meant eating what you had yesterday, or desert served first, or simply desert three times in a row. There was no question about it, to eat by oneself must be an incredible luxury. Without greens, or questions about what had he been doing that day at school, and a sister that kicked him under the table until he reacted, and was then reproached for doing so. Just what it must be like to eat by oneself was beyond what he was able to grow in the fertile fields of his young imagination. And at first, eating by himself had exceeded all of his expectations. He was able to feast on custard donuts for breakfast, cheese and onion pasties for lunch, and bowls of Rice Crispies covered with heaped spoonfuls of white sugar for dinner, which was served intermittently through the night as he flicked between cable television channels.

Instructions for printing: Click on above title to download PDF of book.

White paper, colour one-sided front and back covers, black and white inside.

To The King Of Thailand (I present to you a short story about tote bags)

2010-09-22T14:44:00.000-07:00

Instructions for printing: Click on above title to download PDF of book.

White paper. Colour double-sided front and back covers, black and white inside.

19th September

2010-09-21T16:11:00.000-07:00

SAFECRACKERS

2010-09-01T02:44:00.000-07:00

The Fitzroy Tavern

2010-08-22T10:25:00.000-07:00

Early to meet a friend for a lunch I spent twenty minutes wondering around Fitzrovia. I have friends who once lived on the corner of Charlotte Street and Whitfield street and I spent many a pleasant summer evening listening to music, eating Japanese food and drinking take out beers whilst observing the scene across the road outside the Fitzroy Tavern. Once the drinkers here would have included many a great writer, their names now commonplace, but more recently it has been favored by people in the media. Whilst it's still the same Fitzroy Tavern that it always was in that it's still a pub and has the same name, the area, being central London, is constantly changing which makes it easy to spend twenty minutes noting what has changed about what I remember. Five years ago there was certainly no place here you could buy a burrito but now there are competing burrito outlets within minutes of each other.

After a brief period, a few years ago, when eager property developers seem bent on renaming this area north of Soho as 'Noho' it's original title has taken root again. Whilst walking passed the Fitzroy, wondering maybe I could have a quick half before my friend arrived, I recognized an acquaintance I hadn't seen for a couple of years. Normally this might have caused me to begin walking in the other direction but looking forward to meeting my friend for lunch I was feeling extravagant about having nothing to do whilst I waited and decided to call after my fellow writer wondering if she had completed writing her first novel yet.

"Skye" , I called. She looked like she had lost weight.

"Skye" I called again slightly louder but still no response.

Raising my voice slighter further but not shouting I tried again, "Skye!?"

I realized after taking a few steps that I was technically following her and what is more that if she didn't respond to her own name, she was either now deaf, as well as blessed to have lost weight, or someone else entirely which, by now, I had begun to suspect was the case.

That's when, in a panic as to what to do, I spotted the window of a military surplus shop a few doors along from the Fitzroy and feigned studying the window's contents to allow the person who I'd just mistaken for being someone else to carry on their way.

After thirty seconds I realised that I didn't have to feign looking in the window.

As well as anti UV gel which is something I didn't know about before the shop offers a wide range of catapults, camouflage netting, hydration packs, (rat) poison, camping equipment, flags, ration belts (which come fitted with a selection of rations), tools, binoculars' and one of the best selections of military (new and vintage) clothing I have seen for sale over the counter in London. Deciding to have a better look inside I was particular taken by their stock of US Navy pea coats. Whilst the shop isn't new to the area it used to be located around the corner.

THE BATHROOM, FOYLES BOOKSHOP, CHARING CROSS ROAD

2010-08-21T00:51:00.000-07:00

HEMORRHOIDS

2010-08-20T02:15:00.000-07:00

The manager at the bookshop told me, that whilst it is permissible to use the bathroom, I spend too long and am too frequently in. Not only that but another member of staff had recently reported to her the same complaint. Of course it concerned me that my time in the bathroom would be an issue especially when I wasn't there. If I hadn't been taken so by surprise by the observation I would have next asked how long is permissible for a sitting/standing and how many times in one shift? Then my thoughts turned the other member of staff who would have had to pull the manager aside before broaching the subject of my time spent in the bathroom.

So if you're the sort of person at work who would stand outside the toilet door with a stopwatch I assume you're also the sort of person who might snoop on someone via the internet and if this is the case I compose this poem for you:

I'VE GOT HEMORRHOIDS

From Wikipedia (to save you the trouble)

Hemorrhoids are part of the human anatomy of the anal canal. They become pathological or piles[1] when swollen or inflamed. In their physiological state they act as cushions composed of arterio-venous channels and connective tissue that aid the passage of stool. The symptoms of pathological hemorrhoids depend on the type present. Internal hemorrhoids usually present with painless rectal bleeding while external hemorrhoids present with pain in the area of the anus.

Recommended treatment consists of increasing fiber intake, oral fluids to maintain hydration, NSAID analgesics, sitz baths, and rest. Surgery is reserved for those who fail to improve following these measures.

Spot the Dog V Wolfgang Tillmans (art is not a competition)

2010-08-19T09:54:00.000-07:00

I have now written 23 of 25 little booklets and my aim is to be finished for September 28th when I will be reading at the Gavin Brown Enterprise in New York as part of a week long series of events curated by Oliver Payne's Safecrackers fanzine. More than just being on course after a slow start (30 years?) I think am (nearly) ahead of schedule. For the first time in my life, looking over half finished stories and entertaining ideas I'm thinking over, I feel like I can pick and choose from what I've done and want to do. So now if I'm not working in the bookshop or looking after my godchildren I'm trying to get to the library so I can crack on telling myself that this light at the end of the tunnel that been inching towards one word after another (before usually pressing delete and starting again) isn't some great fairy tale ending with a chorus of angels waiting to pat me on the back but simply the beginning of something else.

After registering online to become a reader at their library I cycled across town to the V & A (with two forms of ID to complete the membership process) hoping that the change of setting would keep me on my toes as I grow accustomed to the idea of having a finishing in sight. On my way I stopped in Mayfair to have a look at the library there but with nowhere to lock up my bike I continued. I had forgotten all about the Wolfgang Tillman's show but entering the Serpentine to use the bathroom I was glad to find that it was still on.

Arriving at the V & A the gentlemen working at the coat check informed me that the library is closed until the end of the month but it was still early so I didn't let this deter me. Since I was already that way I headed to the library on the Kings Road. But this time there were no available power points and my laptop's battery only lasted long enough so I was able to read through the story I was planning to rewrite.

Still it was sunny and I still had plenty of time to cycle to Notting Hill where there is a library in Pembridge Square. That way I promised myself I would be in the right area after a few hours spent working in the library to check out this one second hand book shop on the Portobello Road that I recalled with affection from a few years before. Meanwhile as I rode back through Hyde Park I would be able to go over the story in my head and if I were lucky I would realise exactly what I had to do to it when I got to the library.

Sometimes this form of writing, whilst precarious in that it isn't actually writing at all but cycling whilst thinking about writing, worked but on other occasions it didn't. On those numerous days when it didn't I would get to my eventual destination and be too tired to recall what, if anything, I'd been thinking as I rode my bike. But it was my experience that as long as I didn't demand results as if they were my God given right and remembered just how lucky I was to be able to ride through Hyde Park twice on a summer's day, even though I still hadn't written a single word and it was now nearly three and I had got up at eight envisioning a long day of creative endeavours, that I could still salvage a little bit of something before being consumed about what I would do this evening.

In the gallery at the Kings Road Library there is currently a small exhibition celebrating thirty years of 'Spot The Dog' featuring original artwork from the books. I was interested to learn that Spot's markings developed from his creator Eric Hill's (OBE) interest in drawing military plans as a boy.

This is an extract from an interview with Eric Hill OBE from his publishers, Puffin, website.

When did you start writing?

In 1978, when my son was two years old, I started my first book for children. Where's Spot? Was published in 1980 and became the catalyst for my new career as an author. I don't really consider myself a 'proper' author, as I am basically an illustrator who adds words to his pictures as a 'voice-over', although in later books I have expanded my writing a little more. I still have to look up words in the dictionary!

Where do you get your ideas?

From my experience as a father and memories from my childhood. Most of the Spot books contain some elements that actually happened i.e. Spot pulling down the Christmas tree in Spot's First Christmas actually happened when our golden retriever pup, Tiger, destroyed our decorated tree whilst we were out.

Can you give your top three tips to becoming a successful author?

1. Write about what you know or like best. (With me, it was obviously dogs!)
2. Be honest. Write what you really feel, not what you think others would like to read.
3. Confine your thoughts to a particular subject and/or age group if writing for children.

If you hadn't been a writer, what do you think you would have been?

I first wanted to be a pilot but I wasn't bright enough. But now, I really don't want to be anything other than what I am.

It was whilst staring at the images of Spot that I began to silently mumble the opening lines to Dion's, 'Your own Backyard' from his 1970 Phil Spector produced, album, 'Born To Be With You'. Before I knew it, it was playing over and over again in my head as if there had been a subliminal message that triggered hearing this song from seeing all these Spot The Dogs in one go. It reminded me that I owned this record having bought it when it was still found in the boxes of cut-price releases that lined record shop floors.

Recently a friend, who is a bit of DJ and a record collector, when talking about a mutual friend, who is also a bit of DJ and a record collector, explained that the reason that this mutual friend would always have more records than either of us was because, being ten years older, he had been buying records for longer than the pair of us. Whilst this made a sort of sense what I didn't confess was that I had stopped buying records ten years ago. In fact it's been so long that I've bought a record that people who's tastes I would look down upon as somewhat lacking I know for certain have better records than me because they, by having regular job with a regular wage, have the money to go shopping for records. I don't. There is no job that I'm qualified to do or want to do that would provide me with enough money to buy the records I'd want. It's simply easier to not enter record shops these days.

It took me time (years) to get to this point but I can now listen to music in someone's house and enjoy the experience without the need to possess it afterwards. I don't bemoan not being able to buy records or things though. It feels as if I've sacrificed being able to buy more 'things' to do things which I would have been unable to do if I had to generate the sort of money that I would need to buy more 'things'.

The trouble is that I once associated the acquisition of music with the enjoying of music and the size of a record collection and its continual upkeep was testimony to this. People who stopped buying records I viewed as having lost it. What seemed cool about being a grown up and having a job when I was a kid was the size of the record collection that I'd be able to have. I imagined my future life as being reminiscent of the cover of 'Bringing It Back Home'. Yet whilst I would never have the house or the woman or Bob Dylan's voice I wouldn't be able to pass a second hand record shop without entering.

Even though I love listening to music more than I ever have, my record collection tells another story. If the former me were to visit me he would immediately ask what records I've been buying recently and if I was honest he would view me as someone who had lost the plot in middle age. That is why, as I stared at Spot the Dog and I recalled Dion, I decided to sell my record collection. Like having a large garden that you no longer look after, it's unkempt, overgrown state a constant reminder of what it could be if you had more time or even the inclination, I've decided, once and for all, to be done with it and, the same as moving into a smaller place with a paved yard instead of a garden, embrace the freedom it will bring me. More importantly I will be able to go on holiday with the money.

After stopping off at numerous (disappointing) charity shops on the Kings Road I found the library at Pembridge Square to be closed. By now it was after three and in two hours I knew I wouldn't be able to concentrate because I would be thinking about the evening. I told myself to relax, to go with it, enjoy the day; you can afford to jog a bit now that the end is in sight. I would put the day down to research for some unnamed project that would take place in the future. I decided to go to the second hand bookshop I recalled as being on Portobello Road but when I got to where I remembered it being I couldn't find it. I worried about what was I doing with my life. What was I doing wandering without aim or purposeful direction like this? Didn't I know that time is precious? To make myself feel that all was not yet lost I reminded myself that the British Library would be open until 8 so I would still have time to stop there on my way home. What I would do there when I got there I had no idea as I had grown bored of relaying the story in my head that I had planned on rewriting that day and I knew, by now, I wouldn't want to work on it by the time I arrived there.

I stopped at Coffeeplant on Portobello Road and ordered a cafe au lait which is coffee that I only drink when I'm on holiday or abroad. This had the desired affect as I sat outside, watching the world and ex-members of Curiosity Killed the Cat(and not forgetting the tubbier one from the Chemical Brothers) drift passed me and making me feel, at least whilst the rain held off, if I were on holiday.

South Library, Essex Road, London N1

2010-05-04T10:56:00.000-07:00

Apart from on the Islington Council's website I have never heard anybody refer to this as "South library". Being in Islington, an obvious north London postcode, there's nothing particularly southern about it apart from the fact of it being in London. As far as I'm concerned my local library is the Essex Road library forever to be immortalized, in John Lahr's biography of Joe Orton, 'Prick Up Your ears'. Today I cycle pass 25 Noel Road where Orton and his lover, Keith Haliwell, lived and tragically died. It is in here where I picture them re-imagining the covers of the same library books that in May 1962 they were found guilty of stealing and defacing before the pair were sentenced to six months in prison.

A few years ago there was an exhibition in the library's foyer documenting this case. It is ironic that whilst extra staff were originally brought in to investigate the guilty culprits, the history of the case is now something that the library, and in turn the council, isn't ashamed to trade on.

When I was a child minder I sometimes came to a play morning that was held in the hall above the library. Admittance was maybe a pound and this included complimentary toast (with choice of Marmite or jam) and tea for the adults (and juice for the kids). The adults would sit around the perimeter of the room only getting up if they needed to intervene between their children. As I was often the only man here, the mums would usually show me a respectful but, all the same, wide birth to avoid any possible confusion but what this meant was that I was able to have time to read the newspaper.

Fifteen years ago I found walking along the Essex Road after dark any further than the library a daunting experience. Basically, I always thought I was going to get mugged. Two years ago I saw a young man with no arms smoking crack (his mate was holding the pipe for him) outside the George Orwell Pub. Recently it seems the Essex Road has become quite the place. Whilst the Mecca Bingo hall has now closed (I walked passed one Sunday morning to find a crusty/cyber rave taking place in here), Steve Hatts, one of London's oldest fishmongers, is still here. As is James Elliot "Master Butcher" and Get Stuffed the taxidermist, although visitors are now only admitted by appointment. Once I witnessed the moving of the huge Polar Bear that I always remembered being in the window. My impression was of seeing this stuffed bear, maybe ten feet or twelve tall, it's terrifying paws outstretched as if in mid fight, wrapped in cellophane being hoisted by five men into the back of the waiting removal van. But then where? I took a photo of the scene using my phone, like you do, but then I lost the phone.

No more than the new branch of Planet Organic, is the future of this street and latterly London reflected in one shop. It's a overpriced and a bit rubbish but I will always feel safe walking passed it.

On Thursday morning a couple of the librarians host a cheery parent and toddler reading group in the children's library, which is housed next door to the main library. There is another room that is used as a reading room but due to thefts it is empty apart from a couple of desks and a photocopier. If you want to read the newspaper you have to ask at the main counter before retreating in here to read it. It's been said that the library's lack of choice inspired Orton and Haliwell to do what they did but the selection of books today is still better than many other public libraries I've visited.

Whilst checking out a book by Colin McInnis, the author of Absolute Beginners, the librarian (not one of those who host the children's reading group) asked me if I knew that the author of the book paid for sex? Pardon? I replied thinking that I had misheard him. "He paid for sex," he hissed under his breath, two delicate threads of spittle forming in the corners of his mouth, "with coloured men." The thing is I already knew this but I behaved as if it was still news to me. That in fact I didn't know what he was talking about. "Really?" I replied before hastily wishing him a good day. Once a library member of the area you can return your books to any of Islington's ten libraries, which is what I did when it was time to return them next time.

None of the actual defaced Joe Orton/Keith Haliwell books are to be found in the Essex Road library. Nor were they in the exhibition a few years before. This is because the Islington History Centre, a short cycle ride away, on St Johns Street, possesses the collection. It is a fine museum if you're interested in the area's history and in here, under lock and key in a glass case, are some of those same vandalized books.

In the Finsbury Library, which is next door to the same museum, there is a display of punk rock CD's celebrating the Hope and Anchor's reputation as a live venue over the years. I notice a Germs CD amongst the various compilations included. I'm sure the Germs have never played in Islington or London but that doesn't stop me from preferring them to many of the bands who have.

My Bike. September 19th 2009 - May 2nd 2010. RIP

2010-05-03T15:06:00.001-07:00

I used to do drugs. I still do, but I used to, too (Mitch Hedberg 1968-2005)

2010-04-30T06:07:00.000-07:00

That was the year when I listened to the Wu-Tang Clan and nothing else. I was also taking a lot of Ecstasy. I saw my own life mirrored in the Wu-Tang Clan’s outlook, and the countless individual members were different facets of my own personality. Sometimes, if I had my high on, I could be the whole line-up, but most of the time I would switch between one, or a variation of combinations, of the different members. Method Man was smooth and a hit with the ladies. ODB was sometimes less so, depending on the girl, but good fun when taking some beers with the homies. Raekwon The Chef, well, he really came into his own in the kitchen, making toasted sandwiches at night when I had the munchies. Ghostface was like a Hawk hovering over its unsuspecting prey, until he decided to zoom in for the perfect kill. RZA had outstanding organizational qualities, and The Genius? Well, he was just that.

Sometimes, and this happened mostly when I took Ecstasy after drinking too much beforehand, the members would appear in the wrong order, or at the wrong occasion, or, failing that, not even turn up at all. It would be the middle of the night and ODB would suddenly appear in the kitchen in full flow, now in charge of making food. Or if I brought a girl back, Meth wouldn’t feel like turning up, which was typical of actual Wu gigs. Or ODB had been drinking too much before having to go on stage. I had never managed a band before, and, truth be told, I was losing control of them. The stars, the cracks in the pavement, the CIA, the pyramids, the tap water, the construction of a Big Mac burger, everything seemed to be connected. I had begun to view the entire world as a conspiracy, and I had been chosen by the ancient monks of Shaolin to unravel it by immersing myself in the Wu-Tang philosophy. When the latest Wu spin off cell, Kill Army, released their debut, 'Wake Up,' the Incredible Hulk piano endtro that it was built on instantly transported me back to when I had been a young boy, watching the Incredible Hulk for the first time.

I now knew that this was my destiny, that long before the band had even formed, before rap music was even called rap music, that me being the lone white member of the Wu Tang Clan was meant to be.

Printing Instructions: White paper, black and white printing throughout.

http://unchineko.blogspot.com/

Chelsea Library, Chelsea Old Town Hall King's Road, London SW3 5EZ

2010-04-30T03:37:00.000-07:00

The library is located in the historic town hall, next door to the register office where Judy Garland and countless other celebrities have famously got married. The only wedding I have attended here was for a member of Earl Brutus who was faced with deportation and thus splitting up the band. As the bride, a huge Earl Brutus fan, and groom made their way down the aisle, 'White Wedding' by Billy Idol was played.

The town hall itself can be hired for functions. On the first day as I made my way to the toilet I was stopped by a dapperly dressed man rising from behind a trestle table in front of the hall's entrance. He asked me, in a slightly bewildering manner, if I was there for the conference? I glanced down at the table covered in copies of 'Country Life' where his smartly dressed colleague was still sat behind. I replied I was going to the toilet.

In the toilets there is a tiled mural on one wall depicting a beheading which I found enchanting as I buttoned myself up before returning upstairs to work. The reference library overlooks the Kings Road and even though it has free Wi-Fi the atmosphere retains a sense of calm dignity as people work silently. Compare this to other places with free Wi-Fi! There is a good stock of literature, local history and art books reflecting this area's rich cultural heritage.

Most of the desks are taken up by sixth formers revising for their A-Levels, who coming from Chelsea, one of the wealthiest boroughs in the country seem to positively glow with a health I've only witnessed in magazines. So much so that I felt as if I was intruding by being there amongst their number. This changed when a fine example of the common English tramp entered and I felt everybody in the entire room panic that he was going to sit next to them. Eventually seated, he proceeded to read today's Guardian before falling asleep with his head in his arms.

In the corridor outside the reference library is a space used as an art gallery. When I was here there was an exhibition of photographs, most of which had been taken along the Thames. Before I even realised this though, a man got up from behind a desk and introduced himself, nervously, as the photographer.

On the second day I arrived a cashmere pashmina sale was underway in the main hall. It cost one pound to enter but I decided to save my money. The public lending library, situated on the ground floor, has recently become self-service but there are still members of staff on hand to help those who don't understand how to use the new system.

For local residents the library is currently accepting submissions for short stories and novellas by budding authors. Once a month one of these will be chosen and printed as a volume, which then will be available from all of the borough's libraries. Finished at the library I thought about eating lunch. Whilst there is no actual café in the town hall itself there are many places dotted along the Kings Road where you can get a coffee and a sandwich.

Charing Cross Hospital

2010-04-29T09:36:00.000-07:00

This year is the tenth anniversary of when I was diagnosed with Cancer. As I was underwent the chemotherapy it seemed as if I was in hospital all the time. Since then, as the threat of the Cancer reigniting has dwindled with the years, the visits to the hospital have become less and less until ten years later I only have to go once a year for a routine check up. Yesterday was such a day and I had already decided beforehand that I would ride my bike there. The Charing Cross Hospital is actually on Fulham Palace Road, not in Charing Cross at all, and I live on the other side of London in Islington. Since my bike is the sort of rickety fold-up bike that doesn't fold or change gears I gave the journey from door to door two hours to be safe.

The high point of the journey there is undoubtedly the ride through Hyde Park. This no more so than after riding up Oxford street, constantly trying to get off it, but always ending back on it, cumulating, with the Primark Store (and the scene of riots when it opened) at Marble Arch. Outside on the pavement, their shopping bags at their feet, the people who been shopping in there look exhausted. I want to shout at them: "There are no bargains to be had in here! That's just how much it costs, you paid no less or more than what you bought in there is worth. You're all fools, don't you know that you'll be dead one day? Why not buy something of nice quality but less of it?" Instead, inspired by the prospect of riding through the park, I keep on peddling.

Just around the corner from Primark, in Mayfair (where Primark is not), P.G. Woodhouse once lived.

Whilst the weather is warm there is also a light breeze, which causes the air to fill with cherry blossom every time she gently blows. This is a fantastic spectacle and I tell myself how lucky I am to have once had Cancer because ten years later I am now riding on a bike through Hyde Park secure in the knowledge that, whilst life is fleeting, I am also better. On the banks of the Serpentine I observe workmen lying on their backs as the sun warms their reddening faces. And what sort of school has Physical Education classes in Hyde Park? Never was mine that is for sure.

Outside a café over the road from the hospital a girl is reading her friend's tarot cards. I wonder what she is hoping to find out? Inside the hospital there is now a Costa Coffee alongside Amigos, the hospital shop. In here you will find a selection of magazines (they still stock Mix Mag which I remember from when I first visited here as a patient), DVD's, CD's, teddy bears, toiletries, packs of Hanes underwear, pre-packed sandwiches and sugary treats. Like in a few places I've noticed recently they don't stock cans of soda but only the slightly bigger, and more expensive, plastic bottles. Today there is a special offer on parasols.

Upstairs on the first floor there is a café, Delice De France ("Suppliers of Part-Baked Frozen bread, confectionery, pastries, desserts and savouries to the UK Foodservice market"), which has free Wi-Fi. An elderly chap is sat behind a piano but I don't know what the name of the piece he is playing. But whilst the hospital, located within such a distinguished borough, has changed to reflect the times, it is still, unrecognisably, a hospital.

The restaurant on the second floor seems more appealing but I don't know if that's just because I'm better and I don't have to eat there. Main courses are a modest £3 something and most sides are 50p but potato wedges are £1.10. I think about eating here today. Back on the ground floor and across from the vast fish tank, filled with monstrous catfish and cichlids, there is a row of vending machines.

Med Meals provides hot and cold meals. On the screen that shows customers how to operate such a vending machine there is a mouth-watering digital photograph of "potato skins with a rich cheese and ham filling."

The man from Costa Coffee eyes me suspiciously when I write in my notebook: " Two Cadbury's Cream eggs for eighty pence". Everywhere people are on their phones receiving and sending messages but no one gives them a second look. Suddenly I feel that I'm under suspicion and realising that my appointment is due I get on my way.

On the reception's desk someone had left a card for the next person to pick up. Below an illustration of two gulls atop a pebbly beach it features a quote from the Christian Evangelist/online retailer Roy Lessin.

The last line on the card is:

"Would someone who has done so much and made so much available to you, fail to take care you in every way? "

I still remember coming to this clinic when I was ill. Each week I would come in here to consult the specialist before being admitted upstairs to one of the beds. Looking around the busy waiting room, some of the people sat in here, often those accompanied by friends or loved ones, would no doubt be in here for the first time whilst others, like myself, have been coming back for years. I put the card in my pocket so that no one else will read it.

My pants and trousers around my ankles, lying on a hospital bed, the doctor asks me if I ever check my remaining testicle and does it ever feel strange. I reply sometimes I do but I don't know what it's supposed to be like because I haven't got another testicle to compare it with. He squeezes it and asks me if that hurts. I reply only as much as I think it should when he squeezes it.

Fifteen minutes later and I ride down Dawes Road. I once spent a lot of time on this road because, my friend, Oliver had lived here in a house its occupants had christened 'Mob Warfare'.

Dawes Road is one of those roads that was always lined with the sort of shops which, I could never understand how were able to remain in business. Sweet shops which never opened and when they did with nothing on sale apart from a couple of jars of boiled sweets. Many of these places have since closed to make way for galleries and restaurants but I am pleased that the portrait painter's place is still there and looking through the window so is he. It had been noted in the past that the paintings of female models had been copied from the pages of pornographic magazines.

'On Broadway' the record shop is no more. Every time I used to visit Oliver and it was a Friday, Saturday or Sunday afternoon, I would call in and flick through the oldies section. Sometimes Oliver suspected that I only visited him as an excuse to visit the record shop, which, on occasions was also true. But even though I was a regular in the record shop for many years, the middle-aged guy, who I have never been able to imagine being any other age, working in there, never once acknowledged me.

Each sale was written down in a ledger and once I bought something when the shop opened before coming back just before it was about to close to realise that I was the first and second customer that day. Still they managed to remain open for years and this was before the invention of the Internet. Once I observed a distinguished looking gentleman from Jamaica buying Country and Western records for the sound system he ran there. I know this because he was telling the same shopkeeper, who refused to acknowledge me, about his plans. Today the sign of the shop has gone but underneath where it had been there is still the jagged outline of the previous owners business: "Chinese Signs."

I fancied something cheap to eat but since I was by now riding down the Kings Road I knew that I would probably settle for a sandwich from M&S.

2010-03-31T01:38:00.000-07:00

I did a reading in Manchester! Thanks to Jess and Perry for organizing it. Dan Black Lodge introduced me and took the photos below.

Perry: http://comfortableonatightrope.blogspot.com/

Jess: http://blackmountainblues.blogspot.com/

Dan: http://www.lodgewars.blogspot.com/