Icarus record collection

Chocolate Orange

Correctional facility

Corp!!

"Have you ever been to Corp?"

"Yes, I went once but it was horrendous so I never went again"

The above is an entirely fictitious conversation. It never took place.

Corporation (known locally, affectionately or otherwise, as 'Corp') is a nightclub/cesspit in Sheffield. It's grubby but people are drawn back week after week.
Like most clubs it is basically a series of dark rooms of varying sizes. Unlike most clubs Corp fails to embellish on this basic principle. There is no theme, unless 'sweat, stains and spillages' is a theme. It is essentially a 'rock' club (whatever the hell that means), but due to the cheap vodka it attracts a mixed bunch.
Occasionally they do up the toilets, on last inspection it was an odd mix of faux-marble and plywood, but nothing really changes. There's still pools of vomit to dodge and there's always some unfortunate fellow passed out in the cubicle, door open, trousers round his ankles by half 10.
It's horrible but it's continuing filthiness is comforting. We have always said it is the quintessential Sheffield night out. It represents the city well.

So...as the old adage goes:

Come to Corp (but do not wear your good shoes).

This is fucking terrible

However, Graeme Garden has one hell of a look going on there. It's where I see myself in 5 years time (though the 'G' dungarees might be a step too far).

Avast ye, Mickey

(A friend of mine has a history of repeated contractual obligation to Walt Disney whereby he does stuff for or on behalf of Mr. Disney in exchange for money. 'Working' I think they call it. His role within Walt's prestigious organisation is to help satisfy the gluttonous desires of Americans who "just love" his British accent. 'Waiting' I think they call it. All very difficult to get one's head around I know, but get this - his new contract has him out on the high seas. In his honour I have written a poem that is as moving as it is nonsensical)


Ahhhh the sea
That cruel mistress
That choppy whore
That damn watery bastard
Ahhhh the sea


The things men must have seen
Friends gone mad from scurvy
Storms of monstrous proportions
And all you can eat buffet 
Where the chicken nuggets are piled high
And are fashioned into the shape of Donald Duck
The things men must have seen


It's a tough life 
You learn to respect the sea
And roll with it's every whim
Sometimes a man survives only on his wits 
And a measly 10% tip
It's a tough life


Out across the water
Up to the endless horizon
(and further) 
Hollow cries ring out
In a language only men of the sea can really understand
"Today's specials are..." the visceral howl begins...
Several leagues pass before the specials come to a close and they do so to a collection of 'Hmm Yeses' and "Well they all sound so tasty"
There is a strong nautical kinship here and this natural back and forth is common to people of the sea


Great torrents of Disneyfied loveliness
On the high and low seas
And also the medium seas (Lest they be forgotten)
Where once there were swashbucklers and armadas and American aircraft carriers
There is now only Disney as far as the eye can see
Snow White runs a small fishing vessel off the coast of Newfoundland
Nothing fancy, no big haul
But it makes her happy and puts the dwarfs to good use
Goofy takes his high speed catamaran out for a run around Hawaii a couple of times every week
It's done wonders for his social life
And The Beauty and The Beast are often spotted out on their tandem kayak
The ocean is theirs


Ahhhh the sea
That big wet thing
I hope it treats you kindly

Uncorrected Personality Traits

Memoirs # 15

(or 'Ancestral Apathy: The family tradition of busying ourselves with other things whilst nations engage each other in lengthy and bloody wars' ) 


Despite what I chose to believe as a child, none of my grandparents saw active service during the Second World War.


Through no fault of their own, Grandads Delamere and Biggins were epileptic and Irish respectively.

Gin

reproduced scrawls

a photo of a drawing of a dance of a song of a soup that I once enjoyed

Memories of August

Tired, we return

To the smell of the wet bay tree

To the dancing daddy long legs

A line of us (6 long)

By the old door

At various stages of welly removal

There were times

When the grass was long

And the days were long

And the sun dropped so slowly it felt like it was never going to leave

We ran through a meadow

And saw three hot air balloons

But now all there is rain and rainy packed lunches

And I never saw that roe deer

That the rest of them saw

I was desperate for the loo

So I missed it

The war on booze

At breakfast I had a hangover, followed by cake. By noon I had drawn up a non-aggression pact and presented it to my own liver. He refused to sign, pouring scorn and bile over the olive branch.  The stomach muscled in and cut a deal for himself, promising to look into the ‘loose stool situation' in exchange for more cake.  I argued this would only fan the flames and besides, “don't the intestines have a say in this?” He muttered “bureaucracy” under his breath, which was good enough for me – I immediately began consuming Battenberg in alarming quantities.

By the spring we had annexed the liver and remilitarised weak areas of the spleen. By late June, and after bloody fighting in The Battle of Little Sphincter, the empire had encompassed the whole body. Every limb, every orifice. Every fibre, Every follicle. All of it within my control. I had to celebrate. I reached for dram of whiskey…

Memoirs # 14

On a weekend away with a Morris dancing group a nine year old boy told me I'd be a hit with the ladies if I just 'lost a bit of weight'.

The other day

I saw an old friend. Conversation was awkward and short. On leaving he shoved this piece of paper into my hand:

It was then that I knew he was mad.


Again.

Notes on a Cornish holiday

We did a massive long cycle from Wadebridge to Padstow back to Wadebridge then to Bodmin and back to Wadebridge. More than 20 miles, some of it in the dark. That was glorious.

We found a small gallery in Padstow and got some complimentary champagne. We necked the stuff, gave the paintings a courtesy once-over and asked if there was anywhere else giving away free booze. The lady said no, but would we like to hear a very boring anecdote about macaroons. We said yes and immediately regretted it.

We went to a seal sanctuary. There were penguins there too. One of the penguins wasn't eating. I said it must be depressed. The handler corrected me saying he was off his food because he was breeding. I said breeding has the same effect on me. She did not laugh.

We went to Fifteen, the Jamie Oliver place, where I sidestepped an enormous amount of peer pressure to get the octopus, ordering instead the lamb ragu ('well done me' I thought later as I warily eyed the suckers on my friend's plate). We spent several minutes entertaining ourselves with filling out the restaurant feedback form, inviting all the attractive staff to join us in Newquay for the evening ('bring a bottle and a sense of loathing'). The light-hearted nature of our doodling was marred by the ill-advised use of the word 'queer', which we all came to regret bitterly.

The heaviest night out or B.N.O. (Big Night Out) was B.N.O. III, which was Sunday night. A night I will never remember, owing mostly to the rum punch (which we all came to regret). We made few friends and lost many braincells. We talked to everyone in the pub and they all grew to hate us, almost every conversation concluding in an angry exchange of expletives - choice quote: 'If you don't get it you can fuck off' (who this was and what we were talking about I will never know). The breadcrumbs in the bed were a clue to how we had finished off the evening. And indeed we had, quite sordidly, eaten an entire loaf of bread (which we all came to regret).

The planned surfing lesson kept being put back a day (Due to alcohol, laziness and the obscene over-prioritising of food consumption) and in the end Newquay went unsurfed completely.

I have to say the best bit for me was when I watched Corrie Omnibus on Sunday morning on a 52-inch telly. Peter Barlow fell off the wagon again and I felt a warm comfort in knowing that nothing ever really changes.

Painting

Swedish Telly

Memoirs # 13

Walsall Illuminations, an autumn in the nineteen-nineties.

My Dad sidles up to me and says in hushed tones: "Don't tell your mother but I've just cracked a tooth on that toffee apple".