A Tiny Fraction of All History

I am now prepared, on the evidence of their latest albums, to agree that Radiohead are no longer the best band in Britain. Elbow are.

While the 'head one was ok but nothing special with only two or three outstandingly good songs the new Elbow one is another excellent effort. They haven't made anything approaching a bad album yet, Elbow, and I've been revisiting the older stuff too. There's only a few songs that don't hit the spot across all the stuff they've released.

And Guy Garvey's lyrics are easily the best of any working pop musician. If he tips over to sentiment now and again, that's his only fault but he can craft a moving stream of words to back the wonderful music his band produces.

I now regret not seeing them live this time around: I did go last tour, and it was special...I had tears in my eyes at Newborn (it still invariably does that to me) and the between song banter was cool too.

Oh, and any band who takes their name from 'The Singing Detective' gets my vote.

All hail the 'bow.

Well, here we are again.

It's cold now, when it was hot when I last posted.

Anyway, not a lot to add. I've been on a fallow period for writing, more or less, and at college again. A bit late at my time of life for a new career, but not too late. I hope. I'm finally learning to drive too.

Ah well, an update. At least.

A very well loved friend.

An absurdly handsome gargoyle settles down
to be self appointed guardian of our dreams,
and self arranges to occupy every inch of space,
his fur trimmed snowshoes coiling in the air.

He hates being ignored, and wails mournfully
through the house when we try to sleep;
but in our minds' eye we can picture perfectly
that smudge of black fur silhouetted by the hall door.

His cologne - distilled fluff - infuses in the clumps
of matted felt, woven from grey undercoat,
with tongue-dampened edges lie around the house,
curling decorously in cosy snug corners.

He sighs resignedly when he gets picked up,
resolving into his uncomfortably cradled position,
powerless to resist the cooing and kisses
stolen from his furrowed sable brow.

When we call his name a marionette pops up
ears askew on the top of his curious head,
bouncing with liquid ease over bushes and walls
before statuesquely promenading his way home.

Impatient eyes guided by primal hunger
implore us to share the bounty only we bestow,
and when it rattles in the fleetingly empty bowl
the head dives with the grace of a hunting owl.

A frantic chomping noise escapes greedily
accompanied by the clatter of busy teeth
culminating in an exaggerated lick of the lips
and an actorly swish of the brush of a tail.

The crack up the middle of his fearsome right fang
hairline, and almost imperceptible,
peeks out when his warm woollen body wraps
around our gentle tickling fingers.

When he has been freshly brushed
he purrs contentedly, proudly raising himself
on his beloved cushion in a sphinx imitation
and savouring every moment of awed devotion.

He's a huge presence in our little house –
whether languorously stretching with ears pinned back
or intensely chewing on his bedraggled cloth mouse ¬–¬
and we wouldn't swap him, even for a real child.

Pulsar

This love I give is not a bright star;

more a dull and throbbing pulsar.

Never mistake it for a Romantic love,

blazing in crystal celestial skies;

not flaring majestically in golden hues

raising you closer to heaven’s blues.

Never searing the wings of lovers’ wishes

or illuminating courtly poets’ sonnets.

Instead it’s just a forty watt love,

but everlasting, all the same.

Wish upon that distant point of light:

It will never go out for you;

dependably lighting your path

through all the years we are together.

To Christina, 2010.

December again.

My uncle died on Friday. A good man, well loved and too young to die.