The Monday Which Is Really A Friday

The headline is exactly what it says on the tin. I shun the usual 'weekend celebrations' of a Friday in order that I am able to partake of a drop (or ten) on Monday. I find Monday a thoroughly depressing day, much worse than Sunday, and I never intend to spend any Monday sober as long as I live. And even with a bottle it is only TOLERABLE, never HAPPY. It is a giant itch that only my brand of liquid relief is able to soothe.
And why not? I find Fridays a particularly busy day and write a good deal on those days. Perhaps my creative antenna is tuned better, or the ideas in my mind have a better Feng Shui about them? Who even cares? It is enough to know that Friday nearly always brings a bountiful crop of sonnets and wordy imps to my door and if I ignore the pleasures of wine on those days, then surely I have earned the right to treat Monday as part of the weekend and indulge accordingly.
I don't need an excuse to get erased (a better word for blotto) but I do need discipline. Even the most shambolic among us need the big D or else it all falls to bits in a worthless mess. So discipline it is then on a Friday so that it makes Monday far more alluring, dolled up in its 35% proof garments.
I don't see anything pretty on the M day. Its as if the drizzle of the day (even in sunshine) completely blunts my otherwise keen ability to see BEYOND words and events. It is like a shroud over inspiration, pretty words are hard to jemmy out of a Monday and so I shall do the sensible thing and pass on it. Im betting Wordsworth and his pal Coleridge did the same.
It is a grand day to be born on (guess what day I was born?) and not such a bad day to die on either, but as for getting anything of real substance written it is a wretched, miserable day, fit only for firewood. And alcohol. However lets back track a little here. Perhaps pornography is best written (if it can be called that) on Mondays.

Lament To Mother

Two years ago today you crossed that barbed path and the silence weighs heavy but not still. As I look to Pickles kicking I am reminded that nothing ever truly dies to those with open eyes, and you know me Mother, my eyes are wider than most. The songs of forever after don't hide from me on this wretched earth and I play them repeatedly knowing End is not so final or frail, and knowing you are not at End.

For You

There is hole now where once I ran to hide
from bitter things that would eventually pass;
a shelter where comfort was in abundance
and I knew to be safe.
A beach where all things were possible
even a peaceful world,
where I indulged without war or anger.
It has withered now you have gone
and I no longer find sanctuary.
I miss you mother
you were my peace,
my cotton swab -
all roads lead to you...

@Steven Francis poems 2010

The Rain In Spain Falls Mainly On ....Wales

One would think sitting here on the tail end of July with a fan buzzing away at my side as I croak out these words that I was bathed in glorious sunshine. That my Crocs (rubber shoes not pets) would be smoking on the back porch from yet another blisteringly hot ramble through the Welsh hills, while the cat sought relief in shade with a shrew puppet. Thats how it would be in a lot of places. Barbecue smoke ascending from every garden as toddlers and beer bellied men wallowed in flimsy looking paddling pools.
Alas it is not to be as I live in West Wales, on a tiny corner of the United Kingdom and it seems we don't 'do' good weather here, its just not British. We do real ales and fried breakfasts, seasides and young hoodlums (often together) but attracting a bit of lasting sunshine is beyond our Sceptred Isle. (Who said septic? Go to the back of the blog.)
Oh we get it occasionaly when theres nothing interesting happening elsewhere in the world. If its quiet on the Mediterrean front or nothing doing in Australia, then the sun will show its buttery face over Blighty but by and large we are persona non grata to the mighty orb. Even if the beer is COLD and pinball tables twinkling.
I wonder why this is? I know we can be a grumpy bunch but surely the sun can't hear our whining? Not from that height.
My guess it was down to one of those pagan druids who damned us to everlasting rain. They were always potching with spells while dancing starkers on mushrooms. Probably offended the Weather God who is not the most content of chaps to start with. (Well He DOES change his mind often but as He's a God I guess He's allowed.)
Its sad really because we have some beautiful places to visit for both locals and tourists alike. Look at Pembrokeshire doer example with places like Solva, Tenby and Newgale, which when the sun is out are truly stunning, almost like relics of fantasy lands dropped into reality to keep the notion of paradise alive. Places definately gauranteed to soothe away the anxieties of even the most restless spirit.
But anyway enough of sounding like the West Wales tourism board, lets get to the (vaguely) serious topic of British weather. Having a near constant grey canopy to live under can be extremely daunting because it robs one of the OOMPH (Americans would call it ZIP) to get out of bed in a positive and jovial manner. Its little wonder that across the pond you are greeted in shops with a merry 'Have A Nice Day Sir/Madam,' whilst over here its more like a gruff 'paper? 40p mate now sod off!' And while the last few words might be exaggeration on my part its not too far off the mark, but can you blame us? Our climate would take the grin off a dolphin.
And this whiny rant (oh I know when im whining don't worry) is coming from someone who rather dislikes the sun. Living in somewhere like Australia would send me around the bend. (Make that another bend.)

The Walrus Stole My Bicycle

Queen and The Beatles, two of the best known and most successful groups ever to have existed on this crusty old planet. Their combined albums would probably generate enough hit singles to actually power said crusty planet and their live performances are legendary (or so im told.) And yet for all of these successes and glories I am not, or ever have been, a fan.
In fact it goes a little deeper than simply disliking them, I thoroughly detest their music and not a tune I have heard convinces me otherwise. Actually thats wrong, there IS one track by Queen which I don't mind but can't for the life of me remember the title, such is the impact these two acts have on me.
I don't know why but I find the songs childish and listening to an entire album by The Beatles would be a torment for me. In all honesty I would rather suck blisters. In fact I know very little of their songs having never knowingly listened to them but what I have heard ive thought rubbish. And im not saying this to appear different or be a cool kid apart from the masses, I genuinely think the music to be juvenile and in some instances clutching at straws.
On the flip side I do regard Freddie Mercury as one of the best frontmen to have stepped on stage, he had the glamour and a commanding presence which DEMANDED the audience to look at him. A fine voice too and a guy who was destined to be famous doing whatever he chose. The trouble was (for me) that Freddie was in the wrong band. Controversial thing to say to fans of Queen but of course im merely stating my opinion. I would have loved to see him front a band like AC/DC or Whitesnake. (There was another fantastic frontman - Bon Scott.)
The only redeeming feature of The Beatles was George Harrison. I enjoyed his tune about a weeping guitar (however tacky) and the Travelling Willburys were cool but The Beatles left me cold. How Lennon can be called a great songwriter is beyond me. And that Imagine jingle was the biggest pile of rancid phlegm ever to have seeped from a speaker. Drugged and lost in his own pantomime where he thought himself some kind of guru, Lennon was a man who believed everyone loved him. He saw himself as a walking piece of art and im convinced that as soon as he closed the door on the world and retreated to the privacy of his inner sanctum, he laughed at everyone. Thats right, laughed AT his legions of fans. I don't wish to sound heartless but im glad he's not around today.
But enough on the band members, lets look at their music. The reader will have to excuse me not knowing many titles but ones I do know are 'Help' 'Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds' and im struggling now. One about an octopus in the sea, oh yes and a Yellow Submarine! Its all very tiring and there is nothing fantastically creative there, any teenager given enough acid could come up with it. I think a lot of people believe that because its The Beatles then they MUST love them because surely I can't be the only man alive who think they sound like chimps with xylophones?
Nothing they or Queen have written (apart from the nameless Queen song) have ever shaken my spirit and got my foot tapping merrily along. They're just a boring bunch of acts and I will always be STUNNED at how well they both did. Still as the old saying goes, there is none so queer as folk eh Fred?

Eagles and Sea Birds

It is the start of the 150th Open on the Old Course at St Andrews, Scotland and as is the way for any prestigious sporting event held in Britain the wind and rain have been their predictable selves and turned up to greet both players and fans. Its as inevitable as a dangerous animal finding its way to Australia.
Anyone not from Blighty is looking around thinking 'THIS is summer for you guys?' Better believe it. In order to have the privilage of being home to Shakespeare, Coleridge, Barry John and myself the UK had to agree with the WeatherGod to near constant rain. (This agreement was also supported by the SportsGod, who not being a fan of CCTV and speed cameras preferred US sporting events but thats another story.)
They shouldn't plan these things, what the organisers ought to be doing is waiting for one of those rare scorching days to come along (they do sometimes if not doing anything interesting) and then immediately announce the Open to be erm...open so the players could rush to their private jets and all pile over in a mad rush. It would be much more fun that way, like a big international gang running when the school bell chimes.
Not that golf needs to be made more fun, its fine as it is and those who think it boring don't have any concept of risk or skill. Not this kind of sporting risk anyway. Does the player go for an easy shot down the fairway? Or try and drive it over the lake to get a (hopefully) simple lay up on the green? Play it safe or send a ball sailing over the pine hazards? The bold favour the daring strategy and the glory it pays out in. If you get it right of course.
Still this vulgar British weather is spicing everything up like an albatross in the henhouse. Or a badger. Perhaps they should shoot for badgers instead of birdies? Not shoot as in shotgun sense of the word but shoot with 3 wood drivers. It would be like Mario Kart Does Golf.
One thing before I start to get REALLY silly is the hazards at the fabled Old Course, and more precisely the bunkers. Why are they considered trouble if a golfer lands himself in one? The sand is raked so even and flat that it can hardly be called a hazard to a professional. Ok if a player finds his ball pressed up tight against the bunker wall its tricky but more often than not they find the ball in the middle of the sand, propped nicely due to the iron smooth sand. And from what im watching right now the guys are more than able to free themselves out of the giant holes. Neither coffins nor hell if you ask me. (The bunker on hole 6 is called 'Coffin' and the one on hole 14 is 'Hell'.)
Far better hazards would be craters you would need a ladder to get out of and something wild (and hungry) running around the fairways. Baboons anyone? Or perhaps a few pirhana in the Swilcan Burn? Okay daft but at least have the bunkers live up to their names by actually being HAZARDS. Stop raking the damned sand for God's sake! You can bet your caddie's shirt that when St Andrews was first played, nobody tinkered with the sand. And they had rubbish clubs back then too making the course doubly hard to play. With the type of NASA designed golf equipment on offer today I think its a cheek that the organisers make a round easier by making the bunkers as level as a billiard table.
To be fair there ought to be two choices; either playing the course with new equipment but with old style NON raked bunkers, or play with OLD clubs but allowing for the hazards to be fluffed and smoothed.
But life is never as fair as that so hazard gripe over. And nothing could ever top the roaming baboons anyway. (Well topless lady caddies would but I won't go into that here.)
Interesting to learn that 150 years ago the winners cheque was a mere £10. Today its a little bit more than that standing at around £850,000. (Excluding the accompanying sponsorship deals of course.) Now that may sound a lot, and it IS a fair chunk, but when you figure that the golfer must pay his own air fares and such then at least the prize moolah is actually EARNT. As opposed to a lot of other sportsmen who only have to turn up to get paid. (Stand up footballers.)
You see to earn the big bucks in golf you have to have consistency and keep featuring in the top 20 or 30 otherwise you win very little prize money. And what you do earn as ive said goes to hotels and airfares. I know the sponsors keep the wolves at bay but play rubbish and you wont attract them. So golf keeps it real in a sense, in that they play not only to win but put wine on the table.
The winner of this years Open Championship at the Old Course was South African Louis Oosthuizen, a little known player outside the world of golf and im very happy he did. I get bored with the big names making off with the trophy all the time so having Louis win here and an Irishman (Graeme McDowell) win the US Open last month its very refreshing. It gives the sport a shot in the arm, especially when young exciting talents like Rory McIlroy emerging on the scene. Bravo to golf!

Death On The Internet?

So its 8.18pm on a Wednesday evening and here the author sits on the floor, half propped up by a foot stool and gulping for breath. I have over abused myself (again) with booze and fast food and sweet Janine (whoever she may be) I am paying for it now. It is a scenario I have re-enacted a thousand times - binge and gorge, fade to repeat but this first night without the comforting sauce never gets any less frightening.
The only light I have is the glow from the computer screen as I prefer the creeping darkness and there is a weight atop my chest like there was a mill stone placed upon it. Oh the thoughts of heart attacks or strokes are beating at my mind, almost daring me to take a sip of alcohol to loosen my nerves but I must resist. I simply have to cleanse my system for a while. I know I am charging headlong into death as a result of an insatiable and wreckless appetite but the wise streak in me is at work tonight.
Everytime I feel a twinge I look for death around the room, praying that if tonight is the dreaded time then I may leave with courage and not whimpering like a scolded pup. Do not be mistaken, this is not the alcoholic delirium tremens that heavy drinkers often find themselves battling after a decent binge. I am not hallucinating or trembling or anything of that sort, there is only the heavy chest and dread feeling that the time of dying is so very near. I feel other men would crack under this utter doom I feel right now.
Of course my eerie surroundings only enforce the grim atmosphere that clouds me at this minute. And the heavy rain outside battering the black windows sound as if a hundred different phobias have taken a physical form and are headed for my front door riding grand steeds, both phobia and horse clad in velvet and diamonds.
At times my chest lifts giving me some time to breathe freely again, pulling on air as if each gulp was giving me strength, settling me back down to earth. Often when some terrible specteral vice has my lungs gripped I feel a brush from a feather could knock me into the grave so the relief when it ceases is instant.
It comes and goes, breathing fine the breathing heavy, breathing fine then struggling like a landed fish once more. Not pleasant but the amount of times I have gone through this I feel like my soul is shrugging its glassy shoulders as if to say 'you really enjoy this drama don't you?' And naturally I don't but the scent of over indulgence is able to seduce me at whim. I don't usually struggle too much either so my route looks to be only ONE way. For every fear that stabs me when I heave or gasp there is a bigger hunger for excess which drives me ever onward.
After this anchor on my breastbone begins to lift another blow is aimed at my bloated shell - sadness. I feel tears welling in my eyes over nothing! Well nothing sad in particular because a daft picture online might be enough to set me off or I remember a great quote; the trigger can be so bland and yet it arrives with such force, almost pressing me into the floor. And with it comes a mighty despair. I sit defenseless on the floor, sobbing, not in any theatre of self pity but at the amount of arrows and rocks I have aimed at my own body. Suddenly the grim reality hits home, shattering any shred of confidence I have and all I can think of is a desperate future. One of coffins and bramble thickets.
All of this foul moods and feeling last around 7 or 8 hours depending on the abuse the night before, but it FEELS like weeks, feels like Chinese water torture or death by a thousand cuts. Feeling a whisker away from death both physically and spiritually is extremely wretched. I cannot switch a bulb on and instantly show the reader what its like but rest assured the results from my lifestyle are as miserable as any medieval dungeon. In fact something tells me a dungeon would be a hell of a lot more comfortable.

Where Sharks Shred Flowers

After visiting some of these prison penpal sites one thing that is glaringly obvious is the fact that most on it are single and probably desperate women. There is little wonder there is no substance to what they write, no hope of good debate. These women falsely claim to be only looking for friendship, to help someone through a tough ordeal (one of the inmates making) but sensible people know they're lying. Fact is they are single and with no hope of finding a decent person they crawl onto these sites and 'find love' with murderers and robbers. Disgusting.
Call me heartless all you want but its not me who sleeps alone after a day pouring out petty ramblings onto a letter. It isn't me who will never lay down with my beloved, or never see them in nothing but prison attire. I will never need to THINK about how a kiss feels because I have them and have them in abundance.
I ought not feel anger towards these lonely women, instead I should pity them and be sad about their predicament but I cannot because some of them do much harm in their silly ways, which are not just silly but vulgar. One only has to read these vile prisoner support sites to see this. Places where violent criminals are made to look like gentlemen and crime is overlooked over a desire to meet a 'soulmate'.
What of the victims of crime? Do these women ever spare a thought to the carnage that has fallen on the victims family and friends? They can't do otherwise they would cease writing to these wretches immediately and beg for forgiveness for being so callous. Writing to murderers is NOT being caring or Christian, or any other kind label some like to stick on it. It is being cruel and thoroughly heartless in the face of good people who have lost so much.
I understand how cold the world can get when alone and I also know how hard the desire rages in the spirit when one finds themself seemingly alone but writing to killers is not the way to lighten the burden. Trust me.
Men and women in prison for heinous crimes such as murder and rape are not in the game for love. Nor companionship and only a fool would believe otherwise.
These foul specimens are advertising not for love but money and no matter how much they protest, how much they say it isn't so, they are WRONG and they fool you to believe different. Inmates have little else to occupy their time and crafting an image of pity for themselves is one of the things they have learnt to master. Especially when their sentences are so long.
Of course the true mark of any person is often for what they are known for, so murders and other violent criminals haven't really anything got anything going for them and quite rightly so. Theses people deserve no sympathy and woe betide anyone who drops their guard to offer any. It is deluded in the extreme to think some people can change. But they can, if they want you to beLIEve they can. Did you see the glowing LIE just then? Thats exactly what killers and rapists do. To anyone who corresponds with them.
Inmates write for THEMSELVES, never for the authors of the loveletters. Folly to think they do. They are looking at four walls every day, little wonder they craft the most sincere adverts for their amorous admirers. There is no stopping to think if the SINCERE part is in any way HONEST in the gusto to trust a murderers word. It is not by the way. The greatest trick the murderer ever pulled was making murder look like a crime where the KILLER is the victim and not the real victim. Hence the palty sentences we constantly hand down to perpetrators of this horrific crime.
No. The prisoner is ONLY in it for themselves and desperate women seem to be in abundance to worship the sob stories. It is in fact two desperations meeting head on; those of the incarcerated and those pathetic live alone women. And those locked away are creating ever more victims because have no doubt that however idiotic these penpals seem to be, they are undoubtedly victims. Being used for a criminals ends, nothing more.
But write away! As everybody who is deserving of a real life get to enjoy a proper Life then so are certain people doomed to exist in letters only. Letters to wretched inmates with terrible UNFORGIVABLE crimes.