Category Archives: Uncategorized

Where I’ve been. Part one. The road to Vilnius. Part One.

In 2010, I was invited to appear at the Lithuanian Festival of Concrete Poetry in Vilnius. I’ve always been big in the Baltics; ‘Centre Point’ was translated into Estonian, Latvian and Lithuanian, and in 1978 I was invited to read … Continue reading

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Alive!

Just got back after a very odd adventure. They’ve been feeding me up for a week in Ulea hospital, and just tonight back in the Brewer street flat. Botolph St Otto tomorrow!

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Orange betting coup disgrace

I’ve just been tipped the wink that Barabara Kingsolver is a shoo-in for tonight’s Orange Prize. It’s a cert. A done deal. But the fucking book closed this morning; three hours before I got the tip! So what use is … Continue reading

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Micky Finn, Simon and Sid.

Of course, I knew Micky Finn; Mimsy took him under her wing, and he and Marc were frequent visitors to our flat in Brewer Street. But that’s by-the-bye. The point is, I think I might have been ‘slipped a Mickey’ … Continue reading

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Dead Teds.

It’s all been a bit bonkers, really. I’m still in Hay, but it has been a peculiar few days. Things are a little fuzzy, it must be faced. I woke up this morning on the floor of a ruined caravan … Continue reading

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Dear Old Ronnie

I hear on the wireless this morning that dear Ronnie Biggs has taken a turn for the worse, poor old love. I first met him in Lucy’s, here in Hay, in 1963, him and a bloke who called himself  ‘Stan … Continue reading

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Packing for Hay

God, I feel bloody. Don’t know why. Hardly touched a drop last night, as the skinflint landlord of The Turks Head proved unwilling to stretch my credit, and if it hadn’t been for Sir Sidney Nolan, Australia’s greatest painter standing … Continue reading

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Pigs as Prizes. By Spume.

I hear on the grapevine that Ian MacEwan has won the Wodehouse prize for comic fiction. The prize is a pig. Just goes to show you. Write something pallid about sulking poetesses sitting around in dustmotes lit by the westering … Continue reading

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No prizes for Spume.

What a tragedy it is to see Her Majesty the Queen forced to act as mouthpiece for the ruling classes. My unlamented father, Sir Bufton Spume, knew her uncle, of course, back when he was Prince of Wales. David would … Continue reading

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Spume on the Orange

I’m looking forward to this evening’s Orange festivities, having backed the favourite months ago, and got three to one about her. Mrs. Cutler, our redoubtable housekeeper being in one of her ‘moods’ (a consequence, she always claims in her clearer … Continue reading

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