“OH, IT was you, you murdering bastard. You misheard, mate. Virgins? Mediaeval misogynist crap. You get Hello, I Must be Going by Phil Collins on Virgin Records, on eternal loop tape. The finest torture hell can offer. Thatcher’s over there — go and say hello...”
Solidarity with all those affected by last Wednesday’s attack, and a big fuck off both to the perpetrators and to those who use it to fan the flames of racism and division. That’s exactly what they want.
I like France. I was in Paris and Rennes a few weeks ago, playing bass as the English quarter of our Brussels-based punk band Contingent.
I love speaking French, I love their different way of looking at life and, although 1664 was an utterly disastrous year for beer, they are making up for it now with a whole crop of small independent breweries who have learned how to do it properly.
But the French left’s capacity for internal infighting and squabbling makes me puke. By allowing a situation where two candidates are standing against each other in the first round of the presidential election, it is guilty of nothing less than a form of collaboration with fascism — a serious charge, given French history.
If Melenchon and Hamon had come to an agreement and there had been a single candidate, there is a real chance that a united left could have built up a head of steam, beaten Le Pen in the first round and entered the run-off against Macron.
The fact that the varying factions are more concerned about their own ideologies and ego squabbles than uniting to have a chance of stopping Le Pen reaching the second round is beneath contempt.
As are the actions of Labour members here trying to undermine the leadership, instead of concentrating their fire on the heartless, cynical xenophobia of the Tories. Divide and rule. When will we ever learn?
Great gig for Milton Keynes Momentum at the Bottom Club in Wolverton last Friday and lovely to see my stepson Tom and his partner Lucy there.
Brill name for a venue, and I’d like to see Crystal Palace become members of it by the end of this season.
Then, the next night, I had a storming date at Huddersfield Literature Festival which made up a bit for Brighton’s 2-0 loss at Leeds, which I had to watch in a pub full of Huddersfield fans because the 5.30 Murdoch kickoff meant I couldn’t have got from the match to my gig in time.
Fair play to the locals — they hate Leeds so much that even though a home win would have helped them dent our promotion hopes, they still cheered for Brighton. Wasn’t to be, though.
Last Thursday I had a fundraiser for Worthing West Labour Party, just down the road, then it was off to Devon for the first time in ages for a gig with my old punk hero TV Smith in his readopted home town of Okehampton at the Highwayman Inn, which claims to be the most haunted pub in Britain.
If my hair is standing on end when you see me at the Morning Star fundraiser at the Constitution in Camden on May 13, it won’t be — I’ve hardly got any. On my head, at least. Loads elsewhere but you don’t want to know about that.
Tonight I’m in Torquay at the Noble Tree Cafe and, given the long history of Marxism-Leninism on the English Riviera, I am hoping for a welcoming committee of Star readers waving their copies in the air in greeting.
Then home to continue preparations for my new book of poems which will be published — in other words, 2,000 copies will land on my doorstep on a big pallet — in a couple of weeks.
Fitting, then, to finish with a short poem, which may or may not be about “cultural appropriation,” since I’m not sure whether that is a valid concept a load of wishy-washy liberal hippy bollocks. You decide.
“So farewell to you, Chuck And your Ding-A-Ling Forget about Elvis You were the true King!” Cheers!