Best foot forward...

Radio reports this morning announced that two severed feet that had been found on the southbank of the Humber had finally been identified. Neither foot had anything to do with the other. The first foot - found, on August 11 on Cleethorpes beach - was a right foot. The second, a left foot, was washed up near Barton-on-Humber on September 4. But they were not a pair. Not sure how normal it is to find random severed feet. Although I did raise an eyebrow when the newsreader told me that "Humberside Police said there were no suspicious circumstances." Isn't this just a little bit suspicious?

Read the BBC News Humberside Forensic tests on feet found near estuary identify men story.

Penalty charge notice...

I don't think I stand a cat in hell's chance of succeeding with this appeal but I thought it was an issue worth highlighting...

Dear Sir/Madam,

I wish to appeal this PCN on the grounds that the class of vehicle designated on signage and in this area – Queen Street and Humber Street - is no longer applicable and, therefore, does not conform with the Traffic Signs Regulations and General Directions (TSRGD) 2002.

The buildings in the streets in this area are now being used for entertainment and leisure activities. Therefore, on-street parking is a requirement in the area. Like many other patrons of Fruit, Kingston Art Gallery, Eleven and the Museum of Club Culture, I considered the signposting to be an historic legacy of the area's previous use (that of a fruit market). As you will be aware, no goods lorries are actively using any of the marked bays and it is a common assumption that parking is now allowed.

Likewise, the time of the contravention (21:17) indicates that the bay would not even be utilised were lorries still to operate in this area (which, as I point out above, they do not). This lends me to believe that this PCN is the result of over-zealous parking officials intent on driving away custom from the aforementioned venues.

Hence I trust the PCN will be cancelled.

If you do wish to pursue the PCN then please enclose with your response a copy of the relevant Traffic Order and consider this a request under the freedom of information act.

Yours faithfully,

David E Windass

Delusions of grandeur...

Followed the Larkin-themed night at the theatre with a drink in one of his old haunts (and subject of a poem) - Hull's Royal Station Hotel. I really like the place. Mainly because it has ridiculous delusions of grandeur and is frequented by shabby, equally deluded, clientele. A great place to people watch.

Much of today I was in a daze. Which was great given that I was lecturing and young people were staring at me waiting for 'the answer'. The crash has left me in pain and thoroughly exhausted. At lunch I headed across town to lunch with M. Although, when I got there, she was in a meeting so we were unable to sit together (I'm rude but not that rude). A sandwich arrived at M's table which she had ordered for me. M indicated I should take it, which I did and then, bearing in mind that I needed to dash back across town, quickly cleared the plate. It was only at the end of the day that I was informed that only half of the sandwich was mine to eat. Oops.

This be the chairs...

Tonight I went to the theatre. The seating comprised hard plastic seats and I sat next to a man who was so large he occupied half of my seat too. Which, as if my current injuries aren't bad enough on their own, was hideously uncomfortable. I tried to move the chairs apart at the interval only to discover that they were bound together. The man smiled at me but didn't move. He suggested the bondage-style seating arrangement was, in some way, Larkinesque (the play, Something Hidden, is about Philip Larkin and the women in the poet's life). Which, of course, it wasn't. They f*k you up, those seat hogging audience members.

I'm on a diet...

Today I was mostly in pain of the whiplash variey. People telling me how many thousands of pounds I can claim for the injuries I've suffered is getting quite boring. As are the endless monologues about other people's car crashes. On advice, I'm on a diet of Ibruprofen and Paracetamol, although feel something stronger might be in order.

Tonight, Thinspiration returned for another one-off performance in the studio at Hull Truck. All went well. Lots of interest in our post-show Q&A. Mother didn't come to the show. Her excuse: "I've seen it before."

Crash, bang, wallop...

Today was a write off. Well, actually my car was a write off. At about 10.20am. Which was the moment in time when, as I sat in my car waiting at a red light, a DAF lorry belonging to Kwik Fit decided to plough into the back of my vehicle. Ironically, the side of the lorry contained an advert that asked: "Does your car need an MOT?" Sadly, it needs slightly more than that.

Having refused a journey in an ambulance to casualty just after the crash, I was persuaded to make the trip later in the day. I spent four hours mulling around accident and emergency drinking really horrible vending machine coffee. Was kept amused for a short time by a builder who sat opposite, who had fired a six inch nail from a Hilti gun through his thumb. It looked like the kind of visual gag you'd buy from a joke shop. After he'd been sat there for five minutes a 12-year-old in a tracksuit wandered over and asked the highly intelligent question, "does that hurt?". I got the all-clear from a nurse after 40 minutes but then had to wait for the same from a doctor. I embarrassed myself when I misheard a name that was announced. For a few brief seconds I was, in the eyes of the waiting room's varied clientele, who watched me jump to my feet and dash towards the nurse, Jane Winters.

One foot in the grave...

So, the service comes to an end. We head outside where the ashes are re-interred. Not exactly a sombre occasion but certainly respectful. With the ashes back where they belong - in a hole in the church grounds - the vicar says a few final words. And smiles at us. We smile at him and say thank you. He smiles again. Then he steps backwards. Into the hole and right on top of me dear old dad. My, how we laughed.

Strange days indeed...

Happy Birthday to EJW today. Ted. My old man.

We celebrated his birthday by re-interring his ashes in a better place. Not too somber an occasion. A quite fantastic theatrical pratfall to close. Although I won't share that just yet. Happy birthday dad.

Two shorts...

Learning the art of succinctness

I'm trying
To write

Shorter
Poems


"..."

Dramatic...
...
...pause

These arrived at 5am...

In the early hours of not sleeping, these two bits of nonsense arrived:

MxB
If you were to multiply
The number of cats
Lost in Murakami novels
By the amount of women
Bukowski shags in his
The sum total
Would equal
The mistakes made
In my life


Literary Ambition
I have no literary ambitions
Beyond finishing
This Dan Fante novel
And heading to the pub
For some lager
Carling Black Label, probably
My friend for nigh-on 30 years
Although, back then
When you ordered
You used the suffix
Shared with Johnnie Walker
Whereas now
Four times the price it was back then
It's simply Carling.

Wobbly wallaby...

In the park round the corner from our house the other day with Finn. We ended up looking at the paltry collection of animals (four goats and a wallaby). The wallaby was a rather fantastic footballer - picking up a leather match ball with his front paws, jumping in the air and striking the ball against the fence. Real Bend It Like Beckham stuff. Finn was recounting the experience today for M's benefit. I was baffled for a while as there was no mention of the wallaby. Instead, Finn talked of the giant rabbit with the ball. We pointed out his error but, armed with his new knowledge, he insisted on calling the wallaby a "wobbly". He did a great little performance, recreating the antics of the footballing macropod, paws and all. Looking at his face, however, he looked like a bit too much like a giant rabbit.

Gospel dancing...

Enjoyed watching this guy getting down to the music at Freedom in Hull today. No alcohol apparently required - this was at noon and he was dancing to the spiritual warblings of the Hot Gospel choir.

Off the face...

Where have I been for over a week? What have I been doing? Did I really just disappear off the face of the planet as a result of drinking a couple of beers after seeing Ensemble 52's As We Forgive Them at Fruit? Will I return and say something substantial at some point? Does anyone know of my whereabouts? Is it worth phoning Crime Stoppers? Is this me at all or someone covering their tracks?

Found: a piece of England...

I wondered, as soon as I saw it laid in front of me as I walked down a leafy avenue in Hull, what the significance of this object was. It felt as if a point was being made. A copy of Billy Bragg and The Blokes' England, Half English discarded. Spent. Left to rot.


But it didn't stop me from picking it up, checking to see if the CD was intact (it was) and passing it to M to pop in her bag for safekeeping. "No," she said, "I'm not. That'd be like stealing it." Which it wouldn't. The CD had been well-handled and had been tossed aside, unloved. But the fact that I'm picking up someone else's rubbish....that's very 21st century Englishness, isn't it? Begging, stealing, borrowing. It's on the CD player now. After one play, I shall drop it in the street and let this copy of England, Half English continue its journey.

Worth noting that, on the inner sleeve, there's a George Orwell quote:

"Englishness is continuous. It stretches into the future and the past, there is something in it that persists, as in a living creature. What can the England of 1940 have in common with the England of 1840? But then, what have you in common with the child of five whose photograph your mother keeps on the mantlepiece? Nothing, except that you happen to be the same person."

George Orwell, England, Your England from The Lion and the Unicorn (1941)