LAV LIT (# 74,960)

At home, in my bathroom, on the wall, there hangs a spring loaded toilet roll holder. Ordinarily, its nifty design means you can wedge the sunday papers or a mag against the wall to entertain you as you sit.

Here I read for a good ten minutes.

What if that time was put to better use? Intellectual lavatory literature instead of journo junk. What about War & Peace printed on bog roll?  Would Fyodor mind if we wiped our backsides with his words or might he think it’s a, yes you’ve guessed it, shit idea?



Proof lives here:

Last Sunday, two million people took it upon themselves to sort out the mess that governments, celebrities, money and brands can’t, by having a street party with their neighbours.

At Ship & Mermaid Row down SE1 way, we made a mug of tea for a homeless pensioner called Beryl who’d just picked up her new needles (for knitting) and we met an Iraqi father and daughter because ‘they’d never see anything like this in 30 years of London’. The lovely Mr Pandit who runs the corner shop told me all about his upbringing in Dar Es Salaam.

Not many came, but those who did made my day.  It made me realise how shy we all are and we’re becoming shyer, the more time we spend behind these machines (technology and the breakdown of communities go hand in hand). So on that ironic note, I’d better shut up before I undo all the good The Big Lunch did.

If the day passed you by, there’s always next year.

Plan early at


It’s a safe bet you were conceived as man met the moon in the (aluminium-clad) flesh. Ask your parents. If they’re dead, try a ouija board.

It’s worth knowing what they were doing that day. No, hang on, you know what they were doing.

Maybe you heed to know where they were doing what they were doing.  Was the telly on? Or the radio?  Maybe Neil Armstrong’s commentary doubled as commentary for your parents in the full throws of making you.

A day under 9 months later you were born as a moon landing baby. Statistically, this which makes you ten times as likely to one day witness an extra-terrestrial.

So, when you next get abducted by a Martian, don’t say we didn’t tell you.


Sea:     “Yes?”
Artist:  “Sit still. This is a portrait!”
Sea:     “It’s not me jigging, it’s the moon.”
Artist:  “The moon’s in bed.”
Sea:     “Well, wait till he gets up.”
Artist:  “I can’t paint you in the dark”
Sea:     “You can’t paint.”


It will, mark my words/notes. A few lifetimes from now, we’ll all be talking, hearing and getting our thoughts and feelings across by music, just like Charlie Brown’s teacher – cue proof:

Now you’ve felt it with your own ears, heart, soul, toes and snake hips. We are all just symbols bobbing along to a contrapuntal beat on the five bar staff of life. And if you don’t believe me, plug in your amp.


The lead is broken but the pencil still writes in spite of its disability. Imagine your body with the same condition, your leg in a socket without a bolt to secure it, or an arm held in a by a snug sleeve. Sure, it’s inconvenient, but not incapable. Which goes to show how inventive we can be when the chips are down. When misfortune strikes, remember, it’s just another great idea knocking on your door.


Are maps the geographical equivalent of porn? If yes, then maps of El Dorado, Atlantis and Arthur’s lesser known Lyonessse (where I grew up) are well…(complete the sentence according to your libido).

Anyway I regress. Mythical meccas, that’s it. Today, as I saw the sky trying to cry and finding little emotion in the tank and wondered what the upshot of the end of rain would be. The end of plants perhaps? And what would the upshot of that be? The end of soil perhaps? And then I realised what had happened – the tide had started to come in and hadn’t stopped. I’d grown fins and swum off with my family and friends to a much happier place.

So, are we paddling in the wrong direction with climate change? Maybe if we sped the whole shebang up and sank the planet, we’d wake up and smell the coffee (albeit a little salty).

Yours treasonably,

King Canute.


As I write long hand, the pencil self-erases any sphelling errors and corrects them. Brilliant, but flawed in the hand of a child who intends to make up a word of such wonder it could make an accountant breakdance.


Chose a chair. Any chair. And listen…words are acoming. This given day I sit on a piano stool. Behind me sits a piano. I cannot play, yet semiquavers are at work in my pelvis thumping silent symphonies into my central nervous system. Later I cycle in the wet and get home to find a transcription of the shipping forecast on my shorts. To test the theory threefold, I go to sleep bolt upright on a bed of nails and wonder if I’ll wake up to hand-scrawled 2009 draft of the Bible…or simply a sieve for an arse.


It wasn’t cold but her hands hid in her dress. With the obligatory arms devoid of excessive expression, she spoke with truth for the first time in her 42 year political career.

Next Page →