By Rupa. An inspiration in her writing.
This is not a faithful reproduction of the page layout - but her works have disappeared off the face of the web and I rescued the text - which I reproduce faithfully - without permission - but stolen with honour.
That crackle down the mouth piece on the telephone
reminding you that the voice in not in the same room. The 'Do
You Wish To Reconnect?' sign flashing on the monitor, forcing
you to pause in the midst of an emotional outpouring or over-convoluted
rant whilst on MSN Messenger at 3am. The backs of heads passing
round the corner of the tunnel down to the platform in the tube
station, heading South, heading East, returning to being words
on a screen again.
Slip some Soya sauce into the pasta sauce, sprinkle
a little tarragon over the Quorn, splash Tabasco through the omelette.
Cultures clashing in my kitchen and yours. Me because I am a mix-up,
because my parents are the same way. They brought a bit of East
Africa in their back pockets and a whole heap of Indian in their
soul to England. Back in the Seventies, when cheap meals were
made with strange substances found in the strange cold island.
Spam with baked beans, fried with onions and masala, and then
torn into with nimble fingers holding folds of thin round Indian
bread in a husky shade of brown.
I notice Milton is still babbling away in the background,
"...The Salvador Dali Llamas; Headcheese; Babylon-By-Bus;
Elton Strawberry & The Paperweights....". Paul, extinguishing
his fifth cigarette in his third Bloody Mary, drawls, "Montefiori
Cocktail; April March; Chicks On Speed; The Pis; etcetera."
Not many glam type bands are fronted my females it appears, do you play on transvestism a little or femme it up for realities sake?
I couldn't look like a man if I tried! It would
take a lot of tape to flatten my up ;-). Everyone in the band
wears a lot of make up. Everyone tries to look as glamorous and
sexy as possible. I usually show off my figure because I can.
There need to be more glamour in music! I'm sick to death of people
up on stage looking like they just came back from the Laundromat!
However, I feel a fraud when not clasping an anthology
of Gay love poetry ('Marianne Faithfull's Cigarette' or one of
Neil Powell's great editorial do's) or a novel on the seedier
said of life (step up Ms Homes and Mr Warner). It has to be obscure
or my peers'll taint me with salacious remarks of being cultural
and, at a push, well read.
New music I've lost interest in. Here is an over-zealous glimpse into my current crushes.
Maybe not a current love affair but certainly forever
lasting, despite what I may have been tempted to say recently.
They will always ignite a strange little flame that will soon
flicker and die in the very melodramatic Sixth-Form fashion these
things do when you're a Smiths fan. Buy the eponymous debut, The
Queen Is Dead or Meat Is Murder and sign your happiness away.
The Memory Game - Nicci French
"When a skeleton is unearthed in the Martello's
garden, others rattle ominously in their cupboards." I should
have stopped at the opening line of the blurb. A fairly palatable
thriller, written with a good balance between description and
action but the large part of it is pointless and much is made
of themes and people that have no relevance to the paper-thin
plot. The gist of it all is 'who killed Natalie Martello?' and
when we find that out it doesn't seem worth the trouble of reading
it. There's some incest involved. Erm
In 'Music For Torching' the dissatisfied female
protagonist regularly fucks her equally bored neighbour, one of
her middle-class friends who makes the pie, kisses the kids goodnight
and takes the seemingly statutory rule as the one who is fucked
in sex with the '9 to 5' husband. In 'Jack', the mother of Jack's
best friend is beaten and abused by her husband and when that
is revealed, Homes manages to idly slip it in and we jar for a
moment because thoughts of "Did I read that right? Does he?
When?" pour out of our own minds along with tears.
"You have a lot of faith for someone who just lost all hope," quipped the old man. "Someone might have mistaken it for belief, and filed it under B. But we ain't had no Bs today either. Had a broken lute the other week. Now, you'd think lute would go under L, but it was broken, see, so it went under B. But because it was a lute it went under the L subsection of the B section."