dance of the (un)dead

dancing partners. who needs 'em? well we all do as it happens. both metaphorically and really. but just keeping to the dance arena for the moment, if you ain't got a partner why bother?

of course you can preen and strut all you like in your own girational statement. you can shake your booty and casino turn till your body pops in a wild orgasm of rhythm if you so desire. and the assembled wallhangers can marvel or snigger at your skill, or lack of it, as the spirit moves them. but really, if you ain't got someone to hang on to, yours is a truly solitary vice.

personally i reckon a partner is a must. and there's the rub so to speak. just who is this lucky person going to be? who are you going to invite?

for the purpose of this short reflection i'm going to stick to lasses. in salsa, at least where i dance, not many boys dance together. and to be honest, as far as i am concerned girls are more fun.

some say you don't need to make too much of it. the relationship is only going to last for a few minutes after all. a few brief twirls and out before you move to the next beautiful blossom with whom to redefine your conception of personal space and shake that funky thing. so it could be anybody really.

or could it?

that few minutes cuddling up to a fun honey is nearly always over way too soon. but pairing up with the wrong lady can broach an eternity of excruciating faux pas through which to fumble before silently disengaging and hurrying to opposite ends of the room.

there are of course ladies who are crap dancers. they don't have a clue because they've only been doing it for a week or two. they are tense and want to keep their arms by their sides i imagine to protect their bosoms from uninvited manhandling.

they should be so lucky. firstly that isn't going to happen. secondly their chests would be perfectly safe in my hands ... but it still isn't going to happen. and thirdly by the time they've been at it for a few more weeks they won't give a fig anyway.

dance virgins tho they may be these girls are not always the chore they think they are. if they don't actually fight and aren't contrary enough to resist your lead it can be rewarding helping them build their confidence. you can tell that soon some of them will be much better than you are anyway so why not help them now.

anyone who sticks with it obviously will improve. there are plenty of ladies who are very good. tho conversely this doesn't necessarily make them great partners.

apart from whether or not they are prepared to take a lead it also depends on why they want to dance. maybe its an exhibition? maybe they are signaling their physical perfection to a prospective mate? or maybe its a status thing and they want to demonstrate their position in the strutting hierarchy. if that's the case, unless you are more than mortal yourself forget it. you won't get a look in.

so it doesn't have much to do with your partner's dance skill, its really about their innate sense of rhythm and much much more about their attitude. how they feel about themselves and how they see you. and how much they trust you.

everybody's different of course and occasionally someone turns up who stakes out new territory in dance partner land. janey for example is both crap and haughty. and brings a whole bundle of baggage when she condescends to stalk across the floor. its not that she hasn't tried to absorb the groove, its just that she is naturally arrhythmic. not clumsy exactly just slightly, consistently and unpredictably off the beat.

maybe she compensates for this with attitude? its difficult to be sure but being unpleasant certainly seems to be a cornerstone of her technique. so not only is her movement erratic she also enjoys an abrasive personality.

and with janey the lack of fun doesn't stop there. even to touch her is somehow not a pleasant experience. its as if she carries a resentment which makes her uncomfortable in her own body and which she communicates through her skin.

its not a hygiene issue. trust me, you dance with someone you know whether they're clean or not. also its not a skin disease. there are no warts, or acne or scars or scabs. none of that. well not in the physical dimension that is. its just difficult to find her edge. you know, where she starts and stops. she feels formless. and cold as if, were you to sleep with her and be lucky enough subsequently wake up, you might find yourself suffering from a kind of spiritual hypothermia.

so maybe any consideration of dance partners also needs to recognize the cosmic, angry icebergs of the dance scene. those chill, life threatening presences in the pulsing sea of femininity that are best avoided. the janeys in other words.

but make up your own mind. for me, i've spotted her and am going to maintain my course round that particular eruption of emotional anti-matter. from now on i'll cuddle the ladies who are warm and willing.

i know it makes sense.

peace, love and no mittens,

whats not orange and fizzy?

tango of course.

especially the argentinian variety. which these days is the clinch of choice throughout the land. only last night i called the shots as i guided a bevy of compliant females relatively gracefully around a dance-floor somewhere in wales, our eager progress driven by the throbbing strain of a music forged in the meat-packing district of buenos aires during the early years of the twentieth century.

meat-packing? perhaps we'll skip that one till we all know each other better. but i gotta say i don't think this stuff is for feminists. or new men for that matter. in fact i couldn't help wondering whether maybe new men will become an endangered species as this insidious practice spreads.

i don't think of myself as a new man. i do however believe in respect for the ladies and am the first to agree that those with the double X chromosomes are well entitled to equal pay for equal work. and recognise the value of giving birth and home making etc. etc.

so sticking resolutely to the sunny side of gender politics boulevarde, like most of us chaps i reckon i'm a moderate. thus tango caught me unawares. whether tackled in thigh tight skirt, highwaisted trousers and white blouse or tee shirt and jeans theres no getting away from it, the underlying premise of the dance is the control of women by men.

there are gritty antecedents. originally the dance was a mainly masculine manoeuvre amongst the sexually dispossessed compadrones, the tough guys of buenos aires' immigrant districts. as the inevitable bordellos sprang up to temper their tension tango snuck sideways. quickly redefining itself as the ballet of whore and pimp the dance's present day street progeny hasn't left its piquant youth all that far behind.

it isn't quite like that in the uk. here the women who dance tango - the followers - are most emphatically motivated by their own enjoyment. seemingly drawn by a heady testosterone miasma they tumble through the in-door, eager to close their eyes and succumb.

perhaps that's the most surprising thing. the majority of students in the classes i go to are over 30. in many cases by a good long way. and yet its these ladies, who have had plenty of time to think through the issues, who decide to embrace the ritualized acquiescence so fulsomely.

however all may not be as it first appears. for example, of the three pairs of visiting tutors at whose cuban heeled feet i have metaphorically sat, two have been directed by the follower. her partner - the leader - altho accomplished, has more or less done what he was told.

which leads us on to another question. what is it about these narcissistic* sorts that they need to be seen to hold the reins when the missus is actually the one cracking the whip?

do i care? i'm an adult. i consented. and so did the ladies i asked to join me as we paced solemnly and semi seriously** across the parquet. from time to time girls can close their eyes i was told. tho 'not you as well,' counseled one more experienced female. 'you've got to steer.'

by this time too much thinking and not enough groove was sweeping me out of my depth. adrift amongst the pulsating politics and freewheeling pheromones i realised i was hopelessly floundering. and as for the footwork ... i decided to cut the analysis and get on with the dance.

once i had done that the whole thing opened up. i started to get a feel for the leading-with-the-chest trick and we flew round the room. so it seemed that my first tango lesson was much more to do with attitude readjustment than with my clumsy attempts to execute the steps. after all who is naive enough to think that the relationship between boys and girls is ever what it seems? and who says you're ever too old to benefit from the steep learning curve of a dance lesson? i certainly had no complaints from the damsel on the sharp end.

well the not-so-sharp end actually but that's another story.




* it does seem that the boys are fond of themselves. in the style of a true guapo, male tango teachers over a certain age have no fear. certainly when it comes to dyeing their hair. while the younger ones flaunt their ringlets with abandon. or, cutting a dash, shave them aesthetically off.

** at a previous session i was actually reprimanded for talking, and worse still laughing, while dancing. and another time was accused along with my partner of having 'way too much fun.' tango it seems is a serious business where souls entwine. and sniggering is well and truly out. but that's ok. i can go with it. watch me.

bacatta

i've discovered bacatta. have you tried it? its heavy on pelvic nudging and has a characteristic stressed 4th beat when, instead of catching your breath as in salsa, you thrust one hip to the side. can look cool ... but if you're not careful you can come across as a kind of lecherous terpsichorean long john silver. its all got to be there but ostentatiously SUBTLE ... if you get my drift. lots of practice required. preferably in the dark where no one can see.

dance from the heart

i'm in love ....................................... wid me camrafone

elderflower champagne

stuff

• 6 large elderflower (Sambucus nigra) heads
• 1 gallon cold water
• 2 large lemons juice
• 2 lbs sugar
• 2 tablespoons white wine vinegar
  

how to

• put it all in a tub and stir it about a bit
• leave for 48 hours
• strain
• bottle it in PLASTIC bottles
• keep letting the gas off (the stuff in the bottles) periodically
• about six weeks should do but it is drinkable before that. the longer you keep it the stronger it gets!!!!!!

ok america, we give up

will somebody come and take david gest home now. please.

how do you know if you're driving too fast?

letter to a friend following my first salsa class

hi buddy,

you should see a salsa class. i've had my mits on so many pretty women this evening you wouldn't believe it. of course it takes a lot of concentration. when you are looking at what your feet are doing its a bit difficult not to gaze down your partner's cleavage at the same time. took some pretty determined focussing i can tell you. i wasn't much good at the dancing. but with twice as many women as men who cares? i'm going to practice.

interestingly enough, although you are no doubt aware of this, the steps tie into the rhythm in eights. its ... one, two, three, rest, five, six, seven, rest. the 'rest' is where i tried to recover from the previous faux pas. for those who know what they are doing it seems to be a kind of off-beat in the dance pattern. this was a great ear-opener for me as previously salsa had sounded like a sort of serpentine percussive writhing punctuated with dramatic hispanic ejaculations. now i know different.

the few men and the ladies, at least the ladies of my approximate age, were really friendly. and started telling me about salsa weekends. which they strongly recommended as there would be 'expert dancers and really good teachers.' 'we dress up,' they said. happily only my imagination boggled.

so far so good. the first part of the class, during which i had impartially stepped on several pretty girls' feet, had been engrossing. the second phase was a different story. this was the 'intermediate' session i was told. for those who knew a bit. i could learn if i watched. so i watched.

sure enough they knew the steps. moving smoothly across the floor with assured reserve, there was not a bead of sweat to be seen. no mistakes. no eye contact. no flirting. zilch.

like a cold shower came the realisation ... these people were enthusiasts. enthusiasts. how disappointing. sure they made the dancing look easy. but they also managed to make it look boring. they had no passion. they could have been collecting rare toilet duck empties or back copies of 'routers monthly'. but would they die for their art? would they fairy cakes?

a bit like jazz, i cherish the idea that this music was born in blood, sex and death. not created by jo and jane soap in the fifty four minutes between finishing their fat-reduced-brekkie-snacks and the trip to B&Q for a vacupac of 20mm cross headed self tappers and the half litre tub of grouting. and it does not need to be commandeered by the rhythm wing of the caravan club. it deserves better. it deserves addicts, acolytes, adepts, fanatics, ego trippers, martyrs, prima donnas, anything in fact, except enthusiasts. ‘a weekend with this lot?’ I thought. ‘you must be joking.’

i’ve done enthusiasts’ weekends. as harmonica player with country and western band frisco i still bare the scars of a new years three nighter at pontins prestatyn on my heart. the punters, tho harmless, were seriously barking. they just wanted to dress up as their favourite western movie character.

in addition to a plethora of bog-standard cowpokes we had several Abraham Lincolns, a smattering of 7^th cavalry officers, more than one high tone east coast lady and a happy abundance of saloon bar hookers. a memory persists of an immaculate six foot apache brave with a scouser accent you could float a liner on. now that is a trans cultural experience.

but, not to be too judgemental, if four nights full board at brean sands encourages the dancing ladies to dress up as skankin’ swamp goddesses, all hot mud and serpents for £175, then why not? and, while we’re all getting primeval, what might flow from their enthusiasm once it had been burnished with a little rum and proximity?

perhaps a salsa weekend might be an experience to remember after all.

just call me snake hips

yours affectionately

personal first and last post

You probably know how powerful a word can be. Sometimes when one feels a little low in oomph a couple, well chosen and out of the blue can make a big impact. In fact in this case, such a big impact that they’ve brought on a creative crisis.

They’ve made me realise that I’ve got a public. And its you, Nava. Oh and a fine upstanding republican chap known as the Johnny b. (No I don’t think he’s republican really. That’s ironic brit humour. So its not funny? Even more ironic, huh?)

Anyway now I feel I can no longer maintain my exclusive correspondence with the moon, the stars and the dark night sky. My days of artistic solitude are at an end because ……….. someone, apart from a few very close friends who only do it because they know i'm going to test them on it later, might actually be reading my stuff.

I’ll have to speak to my agent for advice. Should I continue with my wrandom wrambling style? Or should I focus on turning out more of what first made me famous? I am famous aren’t I? Please say I’m famous.

What about the implications for my heirs? (I haven’t actually got any heirs. But they do say it never hurts to plan ahead.) Will there be dynastic duels over the rights to my oeuvre? (The aforementioned lack of heirs probably answers that one. But you must remember it is the function of the writer to imagine.)

Or perhaps you think I’m over-reacting a little? Possibly a surge of meteor endorphins caused by the butterfly kiss of recognition has lead to irrational euphoria? (is all euphoria irrational?)

You could be right.

But thanks anyway for your second instalment of kind words. Which at the very least allows me to say again how much I liked your portrait of Nitzku. And trust me. I am not so shallow as to say that just because you were nice to me. No I’m not. I really am not.

It’s a beautiful portrait. Wedged with love.

dreams dreams dreams

they're bastards really. dreams. and ironic bastards at that. you can't live without them. apparently. the argument goes that if you can't pretty up the future in your own image what is the point of putting up with the slings and arrows of the outrageous present? there is something in that i suppose but you have to admit that they do absolutely nothing to protect us from the elements. or keep us fed. no they leave all that to us while they just bang on having fun and being dreams.

or aspirations if you want to be sociological. of course the more you filter them through academic discliplines such as sociology the more they subtly shape-change. push 'em through one specialism and they take on the semblance of possibilities. once they've got through two they're starting to look like four-square facts.

in the interests of credibility its tempting to adopt the aspirations tag. they at least may be achievable. serious and unflappable sorts talk knowlegdably about aspirations. which have gravitas. whereas dreams have slightly less substance than the glitter on the christmas fairy's frock.

personally i've never had much truck with aspirations. i find them a bit bourgeois. with too much of the weekend colour supplement about them. there's aspirational meals for example. who would not die for an 8 inch high column of poached toad's liver, prawns, lemon grass and something really clever you (well actually not you but the narcissistic and pouty chef) can do with ugli fruit? especially when its served in a refurbished rural post office tastefully decked out in a myriad shades of brown. well me for one.

then theres the aspirational thatched mansion in kent. a 17th century farmhouse for 2.5 million smackeroonies. or that ever diminishing piece of ice cream-hued neck ware that'll let you download and store the entire creative output of the rock and roll industry through the twentieth century. so useful even if it will take you five lifetimes to listen to, with the proviso that you are so sad you have nothing else to do but plug into it.

and thats not all. the thing's so goddamn clever it'll put you in touch with everyone in the world in the twinkling of a credit card. even the guy on the third seat from the right of the back bench of the shed in chengdu (capital of szechuan, dummy) who supervised the thing's auto-assembly in the first place. and who you might like to phone up to order your next generation gizmo when, after an entire 13 months of selfless service, your current purchase becomes the unforgivably obsolete fashion gaffe we all secretly knew it would.

thats where you'll end up if you allow yourself to be seduced by aspirations.

no, best to stick to dreams. if i didn't have mine i'd have become a cynical old badger myself years ago. that i haven't (i haven't ok!) is down almost entirely to the fact that i've kept a careful eye on them. any sign of upward mobility, you know aspiring to aspiration status as it were, and they've been firmly, and not all that gently, tugged back into line. oh i've been loyal to my dreams i have. but have they been loyal to me?

well they're still there. so they've kept the faith. and i guess that's loyalty. they're not quite so sparkley and fresh as once they were but nonetheless, prodding and calling they are. like so many trees on a far hillside. just as they used to. hauling me back from spiritual dead ends and creative cul de sacs.

so what can a poor boy do if he finds his dreams quietly purring away round his feet under 4 decades of life's rich patina just a little wrinkleyer, but still recognisable and quite lively? one answer would be to scrape away the detritus and give them their head. because by now it might be time to accept that they ain't going to change. nor are they going to leave you alone. and a bit like love, you don't have much choice in the matter.

as if you ever really thought you did.

watch this space .........

sounds of travelling ... work in progresss

listening to the traffic drive up the swansea valley through clydach where i now live digs deep. to when i used to lie in bed in granny's house as the few 1950s cars slowly puttered through resolven illuminating my bedroom ceiling as they passed. it gave me the sensations of excitement and security at the same time. a big adventure negotiated from the cosiness of my own blankets. guess i've always been a home boy. preferred travelling in the mind.

we used to visit resolven a lot mum and i. on the swansea train to the foot worn station serving the little town where she had hated growing up. don't know why she disliked it so much. it must have been pretty dirty, like most of south wales when men had man's work to do and women cooked, cleaned, and had the babies. respectability was rife and no-hope mothers didn't shoot up smack. its nastier and more hopeless now.

granny lived in a nice end of terrace on the main street with rachie her fond neighbour to one side. to the back what seemed like a huge garden held a substantial wooden swing frame, borders, a lawn. pear trees grew uncertainly in a walled bed right outside the back door. there may have been a swing in the frame. honeysuckle swarmed before draping itself over the cross bar.

it was the doctor's house. i never met him. don't know if he ever saw me. he'd been a doc in world war one and since had aquired a taste for the drink. what pain he was trying to fix no-one ever knew. these days one might imagine. post traumatic stress hadn't been invented then and alcoholism was not understood as a disease. more of a weakness.

nobody wins a war. wars give history a chance to blow itself out of a bottleneck. but history is an unforgiving general who thinks nothing of grinding mere mortals under its armoured heel. grandad didn't win his war. like so many of his contemporaries he offered his all in defiance. only to be wasted like the leaves in autumn. my gut feeling is that he probably tried his best. at least to help those who had stopped the bullets. and the gas. and the shrapnel.

she had had the benefit of a good education had my gran. been to university in aberystwyth in the early 1900s. one of the leaders of her age really. and she had married the doctor before he left for europe.

wedding kaylee @ pyllaucochion farm, carmarthenshire

i am not completely at ease. it isn't raining but, although we've got a contract, and amazingly enough a deposit, word is that the bride's mother has booked another band. could this be an ugly rumour? or just poor communication? who can say?

hurtling down the motorway towards the wild green yonder that is carmarthenshire this particular saturday evening there is no alternative but to press on. my heart rate slows as i exit our visually banal arterial road system. passing under the protection of the sentinel oaks which punctuate the hedgerows i drive less frantically. i find myself begining to surrender to wales' emerald embrace.

relief is short lived. our caller chooses this moment to bring me up to speed. in more ways than one. he can'’t get out of cardiff. apparently there is an international soccer match on. which he couldn'’t possibly have anticipated. nor the resultant grid-lock! we are due to play at seven and it is now ten to six. he is 80 miles away. in a traffic jam. discomfort deepens.

then the bass player rings to say he's sorry but he can't make it. he's just got in from work and can't get to the venue in time. he's got to have his tea. and anyway his wife says he can't go out tonight.

hm!

find the gig by six fifteen. happily there is no sign of another band. unhappily the punters are agricultural types chatting in the tongue of their fathers. nothing wrong with that. its the tongue of my fathers too. it just ain't mine thats all. think devon farmers speaking a language you don'’t understand (a bit like devon farmers really but with more sibilant Ls and less rolling Rs.) and you'’ll get the picture. beefy, broad shouldered, big eared and boozing since lunchtime.

forget the politics. i have a real problem with being stared at by a room full of hearty sorts afloat on the pop and chuntering away in what might as well be a foreign language. and it is this: i can't tell whether i am about to be a) offered free mead for the night accompanied by the pick of the tribal virgins, b) stuffed with mistletoe and sacrificed to whichever god happens to top the local league or c) both.

my anxiety accelerates.

only to finally get airborn when, despite our initial salvos revealing that the action music live ceilidh band actually owes a lot more to diddly diddly than to its amerian cousin bo, a few of the younger guests decide this is a good moment to get their metallica requests in.

thankyou, rain, for not falling. at least god might be on our side and after all we are playing in a sloping field under a marquee. so dry is good. and not only for us musicians. there are tents around for the more hardy punters to sleep it all off in.

camp you say? yes. but not as camp as nigel the fluttering dj. anxious to stamp his authority on the event, albeit in a willowy sort of a way, while we are setting up and trying to sound check he fills the night with his signature tune. dancing queen. honest. could he be the only dj in the village?

despite nigel's best efforts, when it comes to preening and posturing the bride is about to show the young man a thing or two. no stranger to airs and graces she vacillates sharply between regal-imperial condescending and spoilt little madam. it is well to beware the stamp of her dainty hoof when she wants her own way.

we explain that we don't go on after the disco. 'you know,' we say with due professionalism, 'its all about dynamics, the volume and the guests' alcohol quotient.' she and her new spouse, whose own a. q. is veering sharply towards red, respond by insisting that nigel starts the ball rolling. he plays a smoocher and follows it up with a meatloaf* medley. we resign ourselves to three hours prizing the punters away from the bar while they call for shania twain. and tina turner. and tom. (tom? jones, obviously.)

as soon as meaty's dulcet warbling has evaporated to the warm welsh stars, kicking into the gower reel we (who are now a trio as the caller has finally got here. with his melodeons. much relief all round.) fire up and show them what we can do. we give it our all.

and the punters? they'’re on the floor like a pack of rats.

and they don't stop. relief is now boundless. we even get asked to name our price for another hour's worth when we are breaking the kit down at the end of the night. we decline. we're knackered and nigel, who despite his early flouncing has been pretty considerate, deserves his moment of glory after all.

back down the motorway with £115 in me pocket and it still isn't raining. despite the stress what could be better than that?

a shag and a curry of course. but you can't have everything.

*as it happens i am a major meatloaf fan. not so much his music. tho he sure can sing. no its more his politix really. anyone who'’s got the bollox to get up on his back legs at a gig in ireland and explain to the assembled throng that bono is "“too far up his own fucking arse," will get my vote everytime. hopefully it didn't rain on him either.

© Patrick Ellis 2006

the old game in an old town

if for any reason you do find yourself at a loose end this evening you may be interested to know that sex is apparently for sale on swansea pavements. it seems that a posse of aspiring turnip polishers and mascara testers from what used to be the eastern bloc have decided that the city's streets are lined with gold.

are they in for a shock? they might actually pull a few punters but will they get paid? your guess is as good as mine but i think it more likely they'll be puked over. and offered a few chips in consolation. poor dears.

swansea swains are a choosy bunch. i remember an incident way back in the 1980s. apparently a Mrs Murgatroyd had secured the attentions of a Wind Street reveller one evening. (yes it was a lot quieter then. is that better for a working girl? or worse?) after a brief discussion the couple adjourned to a piece of waste ground for a little intimate activity.

hardly headline news. well not in the normal run of events anyway. but on this occasion the post coital punch up did attract the attention of the police. it seems that the client, who from memory wasn't named, felt that the service Mrs M. had delivered had not lived up to expectations. consequently he withheld payment and a dispute arose.

i can't remember the end of the tale but i am pretty sure that it ended up in court. public nuisance or something. she might even have been bound over. possibly adding a line to her cv.

i don't think she ever saw any of the money. but she certainly did get plenty of free publicity. (it is not difficult to imagine one or two embarrassing questions at the breakfast table. such as 'Mummy, whats a prostitute?').

all of which leads me to think that if a swansea girl can't get the bucks out of the local lads i don't know how some adolescent Elena is going to cope. puked on and beaten up by her pimp all in one night. i'd be staying snug in my wellies in the beetroot fields if i was her. but then happily for me, i'm not.

i don't know what south wales is coming to. apparently a chap got buggered (against his will) in resolven recently. jesus christ. what is going on between these boys' ears? the answer, i think we know, is the great fuck all.

although somebody did say that the victim was wearing a sheepskin jacket at the time. well. i ask you? if that's true what did he expect? going out dressed like that. the bloke was asking for it.


Patrick Ellis 2006

thats hats

At the end of the day, at least as much as at the beginning, it all comes down to who you can live with. Guy Richie can live with Madonna. Elton John can live with aptly named David Furnish.* And Victoria can live on the same planet as the wonderfully talented David 'Poor Sod' Beckham.

But there are those for whom one is not enough. Me for example. And now is the time to come clean. So bear with me gentle reader As I reveal that to satisfy my own personal cravings for multiple experience I promiscuously share my living space with not one, not two, or even three but with a whole diminutive posse of cranial adornments.

I suppose number one chapeau would have to be 'Bright Eyes', a rabbit-fur-with-lots-of-flaps job. 'Bright' as I call her, carries the cosy memory of a pre-glasnost university trip to Moscow in 1984. It was then that I fell in love, discovered Stalinist Gothic and, when I was surprised at my surprise that Russians didn't actually have horns and tails after all, understood that the press can make a big difference to how I think.

Maintaining covert surveillance on that Rusky dame my compadre ‘Tex’ flies the flag for good ol’ down home capitalism. A straw Stetson from my time in Frisco, the eponymous country and western band that is, ‘Tex’ came on board following a New Year’s Eve weekend gig wedged with scouser apaches in Prestatyn. ‘Tex’ is one ornery hat. There ain’t many around tough enough to square up to his kind of raisin'.

'Tex' would be followed, although not alphabetically obviously, by 'Tensing' a Nepalese peasant hat with an ornamented padded strip on the brow. ‘Tensing’ was brought back from the Himalayas by my boss when I was working as a gardener at Eltham palace. Although glad to get the present I wasn't so sure on the subtext.

Apparently the padded strip is where, if you are a Nepalese rural worker (in the Maoist bit, or peasant in the other), you put the strap for the sack of rocks you are hauling up the mountain. You will appreciate that, as a gardener a boss with these sorts of ideas rattling around between the ears can be a source of significant long term low level anxiety.

Then there are my invisible hats. To name any of these feels like it might risk blowing their cover. So I haven’t. All I will say is that I have these in several styles. You know what I’m talking about? The woolly zenith of the car crim/junkie uniform?

Oh I can see them clear enough. Its just that people I know quite well walk straight past me when I am wearing one. They either don't, or don't want to, recognise anyone dressed like that. As a result I’m very fond of these. They have saved me, and possibly my friends, from countless unwelcome conversations. Such a blessing.

Before you try this at home it is well to be aware that not all woolly hats of this genre guarantee invisibility. I do have a bright red one which seems to work in the opposite way. Especially with the fair sex.

When wearing this it is not unusual for me to be on the receiving end of subtle glances, even the occasional shy smile from a comely damsel. I like to interpret these as signals of amour. Although it has been suggested, unkindly in my view, that they are more likely to be stifled sniggers of amusement. Whatever. I’m sure the response has nothing to do with the old adage about those with red hats enjoying reduced underwear status**.

On the subject of covering up I usually draw a veil (what a vision) over Garry the barbecue chef's hat. Garry has no backbone. Well actually Garry has no back. He is pure facade, held in place by elastic and as such can't really be considered a proper hat. Even if he does yearn to sit on my head. I’m worried about Garry.

Conversely, even though at 59 cms he is a little on the tight side and makes me sweat a bit, I am proud to possess Paco de Panama. And I have respect for Reginald my working person's flat cap with t'pop-stud peak, full segmented crown and apical button. The trouble here though is that he can be a little intimidating. Sometimes I even get the feeling that 'Edgy Reggie' as I have come to think of him, may be borderline schizophrenic.

As far as I can remember at the time of purchase in York he felt normal enough, well adjusted even. From Marks & Spencers no less. And you can’t get more well behaved than that. We started out with a mature bourgeois rapport. Until the hit-and-run incident.

Out of the blue as I was rushing across a busy road a gust whisked Reggie off my head and onto the carriageway. I turned, and stood helpless on the pavement, as a truck went right over him.

Did the driver stop? Did he fairy cakes. After a moment of almost parental anguish I rushed to the rescue. To my relief despite being a slightly flatter flat cap than previous, Reggie seemed ok. But with hindsight I don't think he was ever the same.

Whether it was the physical knock or the post traumatic stress I don’t know. But now that hat has two distinct personalities. When the crown is firmly pop studded to the peak hard Reggie exudes an air of psychotic authority. But with his stud un-popped, so to speak, and the crown swept back effete Ronnie has a much more artsy and, if I am going to be honest, unnervingly camp air.

It gets worse. I am concerned that Reggie/Ronnie harbours aspirations to grandeur well beyond his/their station and may be aiming to sit on a head that leads nations. Or at least a criminal gang in east London. This quirk of personality may have been dormant only to manifest following the RTA. Whatever the reason, although I would never abandon an old hat just because its ..... er .... old hat, or maybe gone a bit weird, I no longer feel at ease with either of these new personas. So I don't wear them anymore.

Does every hat carry a tale I wonder? My latest acquisition does. Another straw job, this time made by Blue Seahorse and a Thai holiday gift from a recovering alcoholic friend. 'Nang' was still covered in flowers when I got him, and soaking from a last dip in the Malacca strait.

For why my pal went I don't know. Why do boys go to Thailand? My friend is a very, very, very keen diver. So for him it was the blue sea, the coral, the gaudy fish, the beach life, the unspoilt jungle ....... and the women.

The country really got him. Well something did. Eventually it turned out that he had found a girlfriend. Before you could say chilli-fried-grasshopper he was as deeply and bluely in love as the gulf of Thailand itself. A basket case in no time flat.

When he came back he was determined he was going to chuck his job and move out there. To settle down in a bamboo cabin on the shore. With his beautiful Thai lady, and possibly some of her mates if they were all up for it, to live off bananas and coconut milk. He's a veggie by the way. We all remonstrated until we realised that he had made his mind up. After that we just wished him well.

He started to put the plan into practice. But this was no spur of the moment decision. It was a calculated move and was going to take a while. He was going at Christmas he said. Once he had sold all his gear.

At Christmas he still had stuff to sell so he revised his time scale. Now he would be going at Easter.

Just before Easter departure date shifted to 'the end of the summer'.

Then to 'definitely by next Christmas'.

A month ago they got married here in UK. They had already cut the deal in Thailand but wanted a British ceremony too. Weirdly she hadn't been so keen on the bamboo cabin by the shore. Or sharing him with her pals. She fancied something different. And thought they might try to make a go of it in Blighty. Where he's got a job and there's a relatively good health service.

So now it looks like he's going to be sticking around. With his whole new bunch of in-laws. Not to mention the kids. She has one of her own by a previous but also got pregnant on the wedding night. Earning him the title One-Shot-Thomas.

What is left but to wish them all well and look forward to their greater future happiness. But I still think I got the best out of the deal.

Because why?

Obvious really ... I GOT THE HAT.

After all now that I’ve come clean about my co-habitees of choice, it can only be onwards and upwards from here on in.

Bring on the pork pie

..... hat that is.

© Patrick Ellis March 2006

* A person so sartorially challenged that he has his threads created out of fabric more appropriate for a three-piece-suite than for a three-piece-suit. Gives a whole new take on stuffing the sofa.

** You know what they say. ‘Red hat - no drawers’.

the trouble with john humphries

i am very sorry to hear that john humphries has once again upset a strident element of the bbc radio 4 listening public. how could he be so impertinent to that nice mr cameron on the today program? especially when the latter was wriggling like a worm on a hook, desperate to oil his way out of the inconvenient contradictions in his position on income tax. it's high time that young humphries was hauled up before the beak for more smacked legs and public humiliation.

if nothing else it will give mr grade the opportunity to further ingratiate himself with the compilers of the honours lists. although hopefully thats a side issue, the question of how many troublesome welshmen you need to bully before you can claim your title remains. whatever, its got to be cheaper than cash up front.

but then humphries isn't quite so young is he? despite his youthful enthusiasm as he duffed cameron up in an exchange worthy of a first term at public school when the new bug gets his head shoved down the lavatory, he's been treading those radio boards for quite a while now.

i wonder how far back his career stretches. back to the brief intermission in deferential wireless that followed the 1960s perhaps. back even to the age of integrity in public life where peccadilloes and improper conduct could actually lead to a principled resignation. (cf. john profumo. although i don't suggest that there is any issue of resignation here. ) back in fact to when our media sleuths were not afraid of losing their jobs if they rattled the bars of westminster. or those that populate them.

perhaps that's the trouble with john humphries. maybe his understanding of the function of a radio journalist is too old-fashioned for modern listeners. perhaps in this virtual age, ferreting after uncomfortable truth is too clearly unacceptable and an indication that it's time to hang up the mike. as is the innocent belief that being in the right is its own validation.

well all i can say is long live john humphries. long may he sink his teeth into our deserving pillars of public life and shake them like a terrier shakes a rat. they do get quite handsomely paid after all.

we need more voices of his calibre on the airwaves. especially on massively bourgeois radio 4. but i fear that in these post- gilligan days of polite media the likes of jh are becoming an increasingly endangered species. who knows when the poison dart is going to find its target between his shoulder blades? much as i'd like to i can't protect him from those who obviously wish to god he'd shut up. but i can admire him. and his stance.

and i do.

patrick ellis

sunset over the worm

autumn sunset over worm's head, rhosili, gower, uk


© patrick ellis 2005

rearrange until enlightened

god is love
allah is god
is god love?
god is allah
love is god.

© patrick ellis 2006

cameraman & i & i

me and she be dancin'
under smoochy light,
heart to heart and tum to tum
in shady crazy night.

for posin' more than pullin'
we airborne, in the groove.
me pilotin' me partner.
we cut we coolest moves.

i twirlin' her and curlin' her
we don't know we name
she got bad boy lover?
maybe on the game?

but feet astride the rhythm
we burn love's bitter rind
flying wild latino style
excitement in we mind.

him shaggy and unshaven,
cross bone rings and beardy.
tight cropped head and natty dreads.
a denim leather weirdy.

him badges, dope-leaf decals.
with bone to stretch him ears
so round they’ll take a cucumber
if he make 60 years.

hid behind him armour,
hells angel rider too,
scary'nough, he raggy rough.
tough tongue floating on the booze.

him shoot me me partner
on his vijo phone
him catch we up in camera
check out when he get home.

meanwhile we be dancin'
the music comin' fast
trumpets, congas juicin' up
the bass line thick and hard.

yes sir we can salsa
on tiled and dancin' floor.
him post we on website
we? we coming back for more.

© Patrick Ellis 2006

They just can't get the glass

They don’t make mirrors like they used to. They just can’t get the glass. I remember a mirror once. Was it last year? No, maybe the year before. No, come to think of it, it must have been longer ago than that.

Well, whenever it was, that was a cracking mirror. Oh a joke, cracking mirror geddit? But it was a cracking mirror. Clean and clear, in a plain frame, honestly reflecting the sunlight of an honest era. I don’t mean it dazzled you with the truth. Truth can be quite blinding really, don’t you think? No this mirror was kinder. It just had a strong luminance. As if it were itself a source of light with, you know, an even brightness.

It was probably the way it had been put together. I’m still trying to work out when it was. Perhaps it was five years ago. Maybe even ten? It was when they still understood about crafting. Whoever made it had obviously taken their time to get it just right. No mass production. No spoor of the Asian tiger there. Must have been a product of the late empire that mirror. Wow, was it really as old as that?

What a reflection. You’d almost call it optimistic. And the silvering on the back. Perfect. Not a blemish. That was quality. Such colours it had. The reds in that mirror were red. And the blues, boy were they blue? Not like today’s mirrors where the colours wither and fade as soon as you look at them and whose dodgy reflectors inflict flecks of silver on even the most vibrant crowning glory.

I can remember where it was if I can’t remember when. That’s right. It was at mum & dad’s. In the hall opposite the grandfather clock where that big picture of the sea is now. But so well made. And true if you know what I mean. You could tell from the grandfather clock’s perpendicularly perfect reflection. These days they all seem to wobble outwards at the centre. So shoddy. I don’t understand why people just don’t take them back.

I know what it was. It was trustworthy. A bit like a butler I suppose. You know, the old family retainer. It’d hang there discreetly attentive while you gave yourself the last once over before meeting your public. The preening point to check that the tie-it-yourself bow tie hadn’t ended up looking like an old sock wrapped round your neck or that the jeans emanated just enough poetic distress to interest a young lady, but were not too mangled to alienate her mother. Boys and their jeans. Was it ever thus?

And while we’re on the subject of sartorial elegance, it was to satisfy that plane of glass that Dad would adjust the rose in his button hole. And where I would resist in squirming embarrassment as the same was inflicted on me. Only for the tight bundle of perfumed petals to be consigned to the hedge during an appropriately radical post exit instant.

Not to be bested in the vanity stakes the ladies used it too. Mum and sister’s frequent final image analysis prior to sorties to Marks and Spencer to buy arm loads of blouses and trousers, skirts, shirts and jackets happened here. As did the twirling and turning, the dipping and zipping and diving, the craning of necks and the stretching of legs and the last yearning gaze the following day when the armfuls all went back. With the whole process to be repeated in a fortnight.

It was one of the family. A confidante you could engage in conversation when you came back, resplendent with alcohol from the pub. A reliable old friend who would give you none of the graininess you see nowadays sneakily replacing a face’s soft peach bloom with something closer to the shell of gnarled old walnut.

No, they don’t make them like they used to, mirrors. They can’t get the glass.

© Patrick Ellis 2006

Dear Charles Kennedy

hi charles,

i must admit that the ghoul in me has thoroughly enjoyed your recent mugging. the reality beneath the airbrushed surface of british politics has been wondrous to behold. very hieronymus bosch if i may say so.

you really should have gone earlier you know. had you done so your loyal assassins could have continued their writhing and spitting masked amongst the shadows. and the great british public would not have been able to tell whether they were smiling benignly or baying for your blood. they know now.

but you chose to stay. and put up a fight. which drew the not-so-great and the less-good-than-you-might-expect out into the open. i bet rab c nesbit was proud of you.

and not only rab. perhaps british voters were heartened to see some real blood on the tracks. if you achieved nothing else at least you have exposed your own humanity. flawed like the rest of us maybe, but none the worse for that. a reasuring spectacle amongst the ineffectual suits and conforming automatons that populate the corridors of power.

yes charles you should have gone earlier. by your own admission you do have a problem with the drink. and that is going to take some coming to terms with. you aren't going to be out of that one in a fortnight, mate. so schtum now and head for cover. get some help. and, when you have found a way to manage your condition, re-enter the fray.

as the prodigal returned your political capital could be massive. especially in a country which is waking up to its own ugly dream of excessive boozing. and of course you will not suffer from the blood stained hands with which your erstwhile friends are now tainted. not so much 'ming the merciless' as 'et tu mingus?' treachery, especially in public, has never been an endearing trait. and we all like a fighter.

so head down, get help and then prepare your comeback.

cheers

patrick ellis