Pat Cash

so i checked the weather forecast, it said rain expected. it rained.

its not about what you know,its about those connections we have,daniel has them.billy bumpkin elliot was on offer at the lowly price of 30 squiddinks,and oh yes we were gonna be given a hand,and sure as hell we were gonna take an arm, the arm came in the form of the chocloates daniel gave as a gift.once again theatre just wasnt for me.firstly cos id have to sit next to someone,the second cos of bad past experiences.but billy elliot blew his duck whistle and the chaito man came a flying in,thank goodness there were no blood hounds and duck hunters.victoria palace with is plush velvety red flip up chairs, flowred carpets and hand scooped interior decorations was were it was stationed.we sat pretty high up,but no bother. the show was,as daniel put it totally gay but totally sweet.great music, great dancing-it was all like a big sugar dusted jelly donut.the kid ,billy would surely have done his grandma proud

the weekend was full of the goodness and richness that a well mulched garden manure heap should be.
i dunno ive always had this sorta thing for Kate Moss,she's this sorta enigmatic tiger.she isnt gorgeous or beautifully hot.she's got this sorta razor blade edge to her.she has this like killer look to her.she could probably stare you down and turn you into Morphs cousin.so anyhoo theres been a lot of media surrounding her, but ive been with her all the way.saturday was a day when i came the closest ill probably ever come to this absolute peach. it was a photographic exhibition of her when she was say 18,untainted by powdery blow and the glories of rock n roll, unscarred by million squid clothing deals, and unscented by liquid gold perfume sponsorships.she was as raw as the freshly pulled carrot from your backyard veggie garden. however all these wee chips on the roulette table have given her the rock chick status i have so come to favour. its not about going into an ice cream parlour and choosing between ordinary strawberry and vanilla,its about that flavour that no one really digs.
the gallery sidles itself off on a side street away from the worst that tourism has to offer-crowds,huge f*ckin crowds. i hate crowds. the white washed modern cube interior in which her images were portrayed was a simple,humble canvas onto which she could be devoured by my googling eyes.wow.

the gallery and the images of kate,gently emblazoned into the valleys and ridges of my marshmellow brain,led me into mayfair, old bond street and the ever so close yet at the moment,far, Saville Row. the road is quiet,not at all intimidating.advertising is subdued,the asking price for a handchiselled suit simply aint. a 2000 pound suit ,cappucino-hold the sprinkles- and a mint will be mine,oh yes it will.

there was an anime exhibition on the south bank,around 6months ago,i though it had disappeared,it hadnt. animae or manga is id say a japanesey kind of cartoon. often the characters are well versed in cutting humans in half with their bare hands. the detailing is often explicit. it was one image that absolutely plucked my heart out, dusted it in sugar powder and placed a silver spoon into its depths. it was an image entitled 'chick in a club'. she dripped my pure syrupy fantasy.its rather cooky how an image could be so damn intimidating,so damn fine.

monday nights are slow chilled and i went to a lecture by Eric Owen Moss.
university days had seen me thumbing my way through books by this kid and many others. i knew the library-its strange ordering system, its danky smell-the library was my salvation, and my nickname became turbonerd.
eric owen moss is an american with the thickest american accent,thicker than a dolls house double malt with sprinkles.his tongue was so drawn out it was as though he'd just smoked the biggest fattest bob marley rolled joint this side of the caribbean.his humour was as dry as a 2day old turkey, tomato and lettuce sandwich.this oke was brilliant,he didnt speak of 'his' buildings, rather about a building that was built..this kid's work is hot,sh*t hot.he's like the rock band Oasis-he has this sort of f*ck-off attitude,like f*ck it 'im good,i know im good,you know im good,so lets cut the crap and get on with it.'i dig it. what he produces takes balls,and his balls are iron clad,pre-rusted and swollen to 8 times their original size.
uncle eric, thumbs up to you boy.

aar sunday mornings-i dont wanna be in bed,and i dont wanna sleep.whats a lad to do?so i munch my granola,ingest 750mills of h2o,get on my horse and ride.
the camden town arts centre sits on finchley road.an exhibition by hilda af klint. she's a swede id never heard of, i thought it was klimt,but hey who ever knows these things.this swedish babe or not was really cooked-she was into astronomy and speaking to the dead and out would pop art.brr that gave me the shivers.so i skimmed her work, stood close,stood far,read the insets and came out a knowledgeable lad. i must add the building itself was really the fine piece of art.its light parquet flloors, whited walls, bronzed iron mongery streaming natural light and a garden you could play lawn tennis in.go see it,it might just excite you.

so i leave the centre and strolling up the road,somee dude in his VW honks his horn and asks me,'ey mate, y'know where camden market is?', so i say'yeah,camden town'.

anyhoo good folk keep it keep ,keep it running and dont forget 'cool kids play with lego.'

sweetly
the chaito man, russain bear hunter master swordsman and red indellible crayon, yellow and blue sold separately