Martin Kettle, formally of Stoneyclough but now resident of Penn Beacon, was stood on a table in the Eight Kings. He was taping the fourth corner of a large poster of Bob Dylan's face to the wall at the end of the bar. "No, no, Sam," he was saying. "It's ‘uff’, not ‘ow’. Stoneyclough." He … Continue reading The Bristol Arm.
09/05/24 It is Joseph Fullman's birthday, and everyone's invited. He has decked the backyard to resemble a pirate ship. Great lengths of fairy light rigging, an upended beer barrel bar, a snapping tarpaulin. Everyone is dressed buccaneer. 13/05/24 I am a member of The Stranglers' Motorcycle Club. We ride through English villages, painting anything that … Continue reading Dream Diaries…123
I will bring you slightly dinted poetry. Bring volumes of it, as I promised. I will sing unselfconsciously, of longings from the early nineteen eighties. I’ll sing them in the kitchen, steaming, in the hot and foaming bathwater. I will ring you late sweet nothings, whispered in your bedside ear. I will ring you both … Continue reading Slightly Dinted Poetry
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