Wot with being educated in sarf London, one left skool not well-endowed on the grammar front. Upon realisation of how the wrong 2 can leave a whole sentence in complete error—‘knackered’ as they say where I come from—I recoiled in utmost terror.
With great Gusto, I tried to get much better. Gusto—guess what—did really great, while I just mediocre. Correct me if wrong, I’ll be glad. But a two-way street it’s apparently not, as discovered to my bad.
Madge, me and the Brixton Academy; the latest entry in the Diary of a Mad Pest Controller.
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As purromised last week. Yet somehow still hot of the purress.
This week two f**king poems about cats; next week one poem about Two Cats F**king.
You take the Low Road, I’ll take the High Road, and I’ll get to Loch Munchie before thee . . .
A short story about the memories a beautiful summer can bring. Continue reading
It’s only with hindsight that I realise what a ‘playground‘ London was for me from the mid-eighties (when becoming old enough to do as I pleased) to the late nineties; when changes started running so deep they were impossible to miss and/or ignore.
How positive reviews for self-publishing services and products are easily obtained without being genuine and neither an outright lie:
“I could be a writer with a growing reputation; I could be the ticket man at Fulham Broadway Station. What a waste . . . What a waste.”
I used to walk past that ticket man made famous by Ian Dury’s lyrics on regular occasion. Going to and from Chelsea matches at Stamford Bridge. It was always a man, as I remember. Not that I paid too much attention.
Except for one particular Wednesday night game against Continue reading
I used to scroll past half-decent posts without so much as a meh. Now it’s me doing the posting, I want the world to care.
