Thursday, 26 March, 2009

While sipping icy petrol cuboids in my kitchen, viewing the benign sight of the Post Office Tower & Tussaud’s dustbins & listening to the Faure-esque calm of side two of Metal Machine Music I reflect that I am only able to live this leisured life because of carpoboom bahtat like Golf My Vicar’s Teetits and Roxy Music. Read Rilke’s Sonnets To Orpheus and the majestic lush of the rising consonants (“Vacillating at the heart’s dark crossroads/He beholds no temple of Apollo ” – ‘tho I’ve spent a lifetime trying), queerly celebratory in their manifest melancholy, nourished me no end. I gazed at my febrile figure in the mirror & was understandably stimulated but then Bryan came in: “Haven’t you got a matinee to go to at 2?” and I rushed out of the reverie & back to the dull boards where I tapdanced my way out of trouble using a hair’s breadth brush. Only the finest vermillion. Audience of seven. Five of them were comp tickets for nurses. This does not bode well for Brighton. I see that idiot Big Tony Hadley has been persuaded to rejoin Spanner & Mallet. I s’pose that’s the Venezuelan trip up the Andes & no mistake. Thought of Gregory Corso and the missed camel bumps. Took all of sixteen minutes & 49 seconds before result arrived.