On Cinder tracks a bairn knows (St Vincent's Orphanage, Newcastle Upon Tyne Winter 1960)

Me balls

Not yet grown

Were frozen

Chips

Tha ached

Wid things ta come

Winter’s

Fingers of ice 

Were scraping lacerating nails

Inta ma gut

Me knees chaffed

Me teeth clacking

Me eyes achin' 

Me ears burnin’ numb

Me feet wet

Freezing 

Ta the hard ground

Nowt of me were warm

Sent oot by ta nuns ta play

Threadbare shorts and raggedy grots

Stained yella and sour with piss 

Stinkin’ wet socks

An’ cardboard shoes comin’ apart

A holey jumper down ta me knees

On me own

Walking, endlessly ploddin’

Tryin’ ta remember warmth,   love,   me ma an all

Wishin’ I were home but not that home

Me eyes staring harder than sight

Inta grey tha's leet when its almost gone

When startled by a shiftin' shape

Adrift, fallen from a tree in a scree of feathers

Plunging ta ground

Squeezing light threw its blackness 

As ta snow began ta form

Part ice, part light, part tears unmourned

An’ the burd was nowt like a hawk

Nor of tha fear in me throat

The burd were more

Like a raggedy arsed crow

A man out looking for a drink

Shufflin’ in its black worn coat

As miserable as me

Trying to fly

Agin' lacerating eddies of Arctic spit

The snow now like grit

And the grit like salt

And the cinder path

Stretching out afore me

More desolate than afore

A tunnel without its walls

A disused rail track to nowhere

Nowhere that I could run

An’ I mewled like a rabbit kitten

Awaiting the hawk 

I was an atheist until I discovered boiled cabbage and other sooch myths

Who were that Angel?

Nowt spoils Christmas, the New Year, Chanukah like the return of a 'professed' atheist to the fold of faith. The end of the year allus gives time to someone's return to spiritual belief but often it reads more as a comforter of a return to childhood where it is acceptable to hold a suspension of belief. (Santa anyone? Oh look, a Tooth Fairy!) A yearning for what was remembered; as was in churchy stuff like men in funny clothing intoning ritual while suffocating in incense of some poor sod (me) in a dress and white lace gown thingy swinging bloody incense burner like a circus acrobat out of sheer boredom. I lost me faith in religion aged seven and it has since rarely made any appearance in me life. They (the reconverts) want faith to act as a cure for the bad things they see going on around them. There must be a reason why cruelty is such a strong part of the human condition that despite our education, our 'liberal' views, women and bairns are still being hammered, bombed, beheaded and treated like shite to be scraped off some thugs boot. Makes no sense, so I'll embrace nonsense to make the pieces of the puzzle fit. But they don't necessarily fit. And religions like science, professing to have all answers behind the veil of the shrine, is no answer at all. And the answers rarely match the questions. Sooch as why should it be acceptable free will that a bairn is sexual meat for an adult. Why some of the biggest scum in life appear in public as deeply religious. Thatcher quoting Francis of Assisi. Franco, Pinochet, Papa Doc...

Time to reread Christopher Hitchens "Mortality" and other articles on his views on the likelihood of his making a death bed conversion. And the endless tat of the religious thinking it was their duty to save his soul from not making it through the pearly gates but ending in an eternity of being a pink marshmallow on the end of a toasting fork held by someone looking like Margaret Thatcher. Including those who wanted him to hear from their faith that the cancer killing him he brought on himself through his lack of belief and his lifelong tilting the sails of the windmill of religions. Faith and in particular blind faith are huge leaps of credibility and I have never been persuaded that they hold more muscle than the tooth fairy, Roger Rabbit or the stock market. Godliness I have held for the likes of Jimmy Greaves and occasionally (sorry Big Al-not always) Alan Shearer. It is the moment when the world stands still and action transcends what is possible, but naw at end it is only blurry football Shanks! Or stood at water's edge as the sun sinks inta watta with a larger palette than yer average impressionist. But I have never experienced this as the finger of God or anything other than nature and my small part in a larger whole that stretched far away from my imagination into a sky birthing stars as the light faded. That I cannot grasp it does not imply I should blindly believe it to be some old whitey fella, with a long beard, sandals and although capable of benevolence has a nasty streak of temper in His witches britches.

l

Eee they'l have me head on a plate for this

And so it was just afore Christmas when a friend told me they felt sorry for us that I did not have God in my life. That I did not believe. They were astonished that I were comfortable with this omission. My life must be oh so empty! No more than for average north east folk waiting for next Newcastle game and willing' em to get back up to premiership. I did say that the history lesson of my life provided no evidence of God presence or not in the shape held by most religions and particularly not those that treated women and bairns like mens playthings, additions, things they owned joost from having a bit of dangling tackle like. And where accountability might occur in the afterlife? Yer know some un sitting in joodgement because once in mass yer partook in a satisfying pick of a particularly clogged oop nose- but then you'll never know. Dead, from what I've seen, an I have seen enough, is dead. They (me friend) gave me their view about human 'free' will and choice which is why folk do bad stuff.  And what a mystery beyond our understanding is God who is not to be able to be held to account for not preventing endless cruelty occurring daily on their watch. Not to mention his own old testament cruelty. Bit like the same reasoning as to why we should not hold robber barons to account for their fleecing of the multitudes. They too live outside the mortal domain and without them we could not truly experience great suffering for no purpose other than to keep them rich beyond all riches. Not only was I not persuaded but threatened in a kindly way not to challenge their belief in a one God. It is their right to be religious but it is my deficiency of nature to be, well me.

So as I chew the fat over this break and the Sydney heat is melting me marrow, I look forward to the free will and more balanced view for a different headline at this time of the year "Pope says I was a Catholic up unto Christmas Eve when the lights flicked off and I realised, blurry hell-me, I'm an atheist."

And in Newtown

Still waitin', ah well, that's me done for 2016....

Who stole that year!!! 2016 the rise of the testosterone fairies and other Valkyries on day release from the cess-pit cage of our human stupidity

In the 1960s Dan O'Neill ran a cartoon strip "The Odd Bodkins" in the San Fransisco Chronicle for many years; in it was a character I remember as Bird. Bird was a realist. Bird was never going to die not having punctured the hot air balloon of another character, Bird's foil, Hugh. Hugh was the naive enquirer pre dating new age optimism. In one strip Bird was asked by Hugh "Are you the kind of person who wakes up in the morning and asks is my cup of life half empty or do you wake and say my cup of life is half full?" Bird: "Na, I say who fookin' stole me cup..." 2016 is the year of who stole me (and yours) cup. In this time we need the Bird's amongst us to make sense of the insensible and ask those awkward questions of the true believers, the free marketeers, the libertines, and neo liberals and the truely hopeful naive. Where the fook do they think they are going? And how much shite are they promoting? Where to begin?

Somun stole velvet garage in Newtown

An easy un and recent un. There were the favourite eatery. There one weekend; then emptied the next. A chalked sign on its roller door saying power had been cut-A likely eviction as all the warehouses in the area are being torn down for apartments only investors can afford. Soon to have great views of cars and lorries spewing outta ground. West Connex the gift that keeps giving. What made velvet garage a great place to breakfast was it made no pretence to be summat trendy like most cafes around Newtown. But the food, coffee, surrounds and staff were, well like home - even for a balding oldie and his missus. Comfortable and a bit edgy. What you saw is what you got. They will be sadly missed, grunge and loud music an all! Interior and more VG pics further down. Black Rose (anarchist collective) went from Enmore and for awhile there was less activist posters up and down King Street. Followin' the dreary federal election "Jobs N Stoats" "Steady as She Sinks" NatLib slogans and an electorate that slept walked towards Pauline Hanson - at least the posters are now back but with a more sinister interactive twist - that broad church of 'Reclaim Australia' is capturing the conversation with their return of the White Australian agenda. Free balling on the anarchist messages.

Funny how as much as they pretend they are not fascists, with an anonymous spray can - it comes out. The slip of a swastika. Heartened by Hanson, the neo liberals, Brexit, the anti-immigrant wave crossing Europe - and their greatest victory Trump. This is their time. While Iraq and Syria are being pulverised they dance in the streets or gloat from their porches. No refugees on our back lawn, thank you! What does it matter their heroes alt-right in America wouldn't know their isis from their elbow, a muslim from a Mexican; as for the native first people...but they are in control. 2016 is their view world domination. Ignorance is truly the winner. Lies and deceit for the right cause; truly noble. Their's is the agenda that is going to set the pace for 2017. Those of us who believed we could not get much lower than the Thatcher years had better get ready. None of us can know exactly what will happen but there are signs it will not be a good ride for those who are already marginalised, or vulnerable. Austerity measures may strip those who have a little; such as a permanent job, part ownership of a house and reasonable health, a small business dependent on the whims of consumerism. Work until you are 90 serfs and "You have never had it so good!" And the willingly blind, grab their ignorance and turn to the Trump's, the Hanson's, the Theresa May's as if they, their tribe of fat cat capitalists, will resolve their woes. Sad because none of these has vision or an alternative. Just the same old money grab for them and theirs. Drain the swamp, change the establishment. None of this has a remote grain of truth. The same greed and self-interest but now with a firmer grip on the levers of power. They get to decide how we will live our lives. We should all sweat a little on that vision. Out of this rises the spectre of the other- like here in the lucky country the one who is causing all this to happen to the perceived erosion of the White Australian well being. Those muslim migrants who can't and won't assimilate. All those who choose by their very presence to be UnAustralian, daring to be diverse, different. Thinking our Pauline is a capital Racist rather than just a realistic racist with the small r. Throwing their perversions into the faces of decent folk, the real Australian flag wavers who know it is only common sense to accept their point of view is right. The gospel of St Pauline of Ipswich, banner girl for what? White supremacy-versions of the Anglo master race. How, people, did we come to this? Is this the very best alternative we can conjure up out our tortured souls?

Bloody anarchists laying down the law...Again!

Since the formation of federal government there has been a constant stream of what passes for thought from this constituency. Ably supported by Bernardi and cohorts and sometimes the still electoral trolling Abbot. The dull and witless points of view about'how the stone age aborigines need to move on...or die out.' That kids don't need to learn about sexual diversity and being valued for who they are at school. Let them keep killing themselves because they can't fit in. Lifters and leaners (lifters being negative gearers). Oh, and there is defiantly no climate change, just a lot of unpredictable weather going on and on and on and then some.

Out in the general community social values are further corroded by yet another reality television/ social media event where people are encouraged to behave even more badly as a contest. Greed is the dominant value. If we were all just the best greedy we could be then the world will be a much better place. The trickle down effect. Down, down to those dying in poverty, deserving their place to be trampled on, undeserving for the dignity they cannot pay for. And exposure to positive stories/people is far outweighed by the amoral, the shallow, the self obsessed. The spawning/hunting grounds of trolls-the new self important warriors of social discourse. How many more time do they get away with hiding behind their vile bile and toxic rants against strong women. We tut, but we have yet to mount a strong challenge in response as our young women are graphically abused. "Sticks and stones of free speech behind a veil of anonymity and cowardice. In Trump's new world misogyny will be king. With casual racism. With climate change denial. With spite and the the last word kicking tweet.

And sometimes it does

Then this year has also seen more attacks on the unions. The public discussion that you don't need them anymore. Yesterday's people. People get to make up their own minds as to their work, pay and conditions under the benevolent gaze of the all wise markets. The same one that goes screaming into free fall every time China blinks or Greece or a butterfly flaps its wings in Patagonia. Meanwhile the job market shrinks, permanent jobs in particular. There has been a significant increase of stories this year about employers (particularly franchises/small retail/hospitality businesses not paying staff the minimum wage and in some cases (the brilliantly evil internship/trial shift) not at all. Hand in mitt are the companies who pay no tax. The investors who increase their personal gain in buying property through negative gearing and offset this so they pay no taxes. The cost of housing soar. Affordability for the generation coming into adulthood a distant joke. Wages do not increase at the rate utility bills do. And we still vote for the likes of Turnbull, Morrison, Barney and co. Or our protest vote goes to One Nation - should be more aptly named 'Our Racism'. Whoopee, we get a commissar to keep the naughty unions in line while safety in work sites erodes through poor application of regulation. Then there is Michael Baird ripping the community guts out of NSW so we can have more, bigger better roads, casinos and convention centres.

President Baird or has he been trumped

And although we have been out on the streets and been loud and visible. As ever hats off to the MUA and the impressive CPSU who are still holding the line for the majority of commonwealth public servants against Cash and Loyd. But protest and effective unionism has not slowed down the inevitable asset stripping and state supported greed of the developers and banks. I take my hat off again to the communities who fought to keep public housing at Millers Point, the Art School open, the West Connect (or car toilet) away from the inner city.



And lastly, from survival day through to deaths in custody, to child incarceration and torture, 2016 was not an improvement for the first people and barely registered on the agenda of the federal election. The visceral pain and anger seen at some of the protests this year shows how deep the wounds are in this community. It remains our shame as deaths keep occurring, processions of black families to the Coroners courts to be told - no one is really to blame - deaths in custody - like climate change - is in denial despite the evidence. 2016. How long before we face justice and address wrongs so corrosive, Kev Carmody's "Rivers of Blood".

On a personal note, getting old, working full time in a demanding job and ending up in hospital three times over the year was sobering. I was grateful to see how the young kids coming through, the health professionals in our emergency services, were decent, human beings of every culture and  so very skilled. Aye well, they put up with me and laughed at all my stupid jokes. Putting up with a pressurised workplace, and it was sad to see the small but difficult to treat cohort of angry, drunk, drugged patients and impressive that front line staff were still able to treat them with dignity and humour. Although Bishop could learn a thing or two about using an effective death stare from some of our nurses.

In case you think this is a rant on all that is wrong, in our family we did take stock and realise how fortunate we are to be living in Australia with what we have. There is also a lot of good to be seen in people. And I have seen it. The tragedy is it does not get the support it deserves, the acknowledgment, the stories when told are left to fade rather than celebrated. The heroes this year? Definitely Gillian Triggs. Those who confronted racism on public transport, the young woman who outed the misogynistic trolls in social media. Stan Grant for starting a public discussion. The Curtis Cheng family. Those who come to aid those less fortunate. Good people, doing good things because it is the right thing to do. This we nurture and nourish as we will need it for 2017. On this we build and we keep hope. Somewhere out there is another velvet garage...

Inside the velvet garage I spent many happy hours

The outer skin of velvet garage

A garager at breakfast

First we take Newtown...

2016 the year the anarchists found colour

Before as a working garage

Crumbling...waiting the developer?

Trees fight back

There is hope in the garden

RIP Prince

In the north east where the wind blows cold

In the north east where the wind blows cold

I can fly

I can fuckin’ fly me

That wind is frigid cold

That wind

Freezes me marra’ to me bone

But yer bairns

Yer bairns are not your own

Yer bairns

Play alone

Where that north wind blows

Where me gas is ice

Where me laugh cracks

And opens mirrors

To tomorrow

I see me old man

Crippled from work

Fag and ales

Dig another row

Against a sky

Of pigeons

Exploding the grey light

Out of where the north wind comes

Me I can fly

Like a fucken bird I can fly

Like dreams and hopes I can fly

Like tomorra

Frozen against the sky

Me wings spread

I see me bairns

Fry their brains 

On ice

And the north wind blows

Sydenham, Sydney 2011

Johnny he’s gone awa’ na fer all time: me brutha who died in 2010

Johnny in the cardigan 1966

Johnny he’s gone awa’ na fer all time

I threw ma bruther oot

Inta tha rubbish bin

Afta I’d burned every bit of ‘im

He’d pissed me off

Turnin’ up in ma dreams

Like liquorice an’ a spit of salt

Like black cloud

A bad fart

He hung about

Fillin me hed wi’ dreams

Of Johnny 

When Johnny did na exist

But I did

An’ I was havin’ na more of that!

‘Em big boots!

Tramplin’ ma hed

An’ me whimperin’ in ma sleep

Like a bairn! Like a babby!

Me awake’ in’ up at every soond

The cold sweat, Johnny,

Of havin’ ye about the hoose

Like a gun shot in the night

Like an echo of a bad ‘un 

that dunno ta let be

He hung himself

It was him or me

And Johnny

Yer ha’ ta go

I tore Johnny into strips

And watched by the cat

I set Johnny on fire

Until he was ashes

I burned every bit of him

That came to me

Twenty five years on

And then I put him in a jar

And made him go

I threw ma bruther

Inta’ tha rubbish bin

It’s been quiet since he’s a gone

Na dreams

Na shadows stalkin’ me at night

Na one to play marbles in me heed

I am back to bein’ me

Bye Johnny, bye-bye

Stay away is all I’ll say

An wherever yer are

In this life marra

Yer now done

So stay gone !

January 2012, Sydenham

Ken Loach and the Spirit of 45 - the last great socialist victory in Britain and me prostate

At times Mrs Belgo Geordie maks the comment that her hubbie is a right gadgie, getting' awld! * Like, he can remember Second World War. She is sure that when he was a bairn he was collecting' bits of shrapnel outta bomb sites and swopping' em for old copies of Viz. Sigh. Hennies can be right cruel to a man when he's down! It were the Dandy! An'niver shrapnel! Why aye we knew they were bits of Nazi planes an' it were fifteen year after when the war finished there were still bomb sites in Newcastle. Aye and slums. The baby bairns school I went to still had a bomb shelter. Filled with rubble, it were a dark cave smellin' of piss where we'd dare one another to go in and take a gander at the dead bodies trapped inside. Although Newcastle dinna take the pasting of London, and not Clyde or Coventry, it were bombed and there were folk killed. Even then in the early sixties there were still rationing of sorts, least things hard to come by. Yer knew there were men who had lost their minds due to being in the war. They shuffled along locked in their own private hell, or drank in a way to forget, not to have a good time. And we niver understood the cost they and the women who kept industry going, paid in war service.

Noo, in 1945 I were not even a twinkle in me dad's eye or as he liked to put it not even " A blurry fart at wrong time." Boot the Second World War left its mark on me life. Me Ma was a Land Army girl and me dad was a communist resistant who escaped Europe an' ended oop in Royal Navy on a small corvette. The Second World War fooked oop both their educations. Different countries same result. In North Shields, schools were closed more often than not. In Belgium, in May 1940, the Germans invaded and me dad left school and became a resistant, ending oop in a Spanish concentration camp before escaping to England in 1943. At end of war me Mam were pregnant with me sista and me dad a train wreck about to happen, who could never return to his country to live - boot remained hard left, anti fascist and against nationalism and war.

Clem Attlee

Goodbye Mr Churchill

They wanted peace but on the terms for which they fought the war. So it were in Britain a socialist revolution occurred through the ballot box. You look at pictures of that time and yer can see folk wanting a change. In a landslide victory - Labour swept aside Winston Churchill; an electorate vowing never to return to the poverty and unemployment of the between the wars years depression. This election shaped post war Britain and for a time made it a better place for nearly all. Ken Loach has crafted a 90 minute documentary revisiting  this event; then its legacy and the cruel and unnecessary dismantling of the post war peoples' dream of having more of a say in a better future - replacing it with greed. Me dad was allus cynical that the radical nationalisation of industry, transport, utilities would pave way to jobs. He saw the same class of rulers take over the process and not the working man or woman. Boot he loved the formation of the national health. So mooch, he trained as a nurse and worked in it till he died. As a family, we saw benefits like council houses with good sanitation, our own room and a garden. That did not cost an arm and a leg to rent. It cost next to nowt to catch bus to school. We had school dinners. Free doctor and dental care. And oop to the 1970s there was work in industry, on the trains and buses, in the merchant marine. There were family holidays to beach (day trips). Sanatoriums for recuperation. And the awld did not end oop in poor house or as tramps. The hospitals were clean and well stocked. A lot of bright working class bairns like that bloody Ted Hughes, went to university. This were our parents dream for the future. No more class. No more poverty. No more wars. Boot as this doc shows, the dream, flawed, unravelled and one Margaret Thatcher then drove a stake through its crumbling heart.

Eileen Thompson nurse and socialist

Ray Davies miner and steel worker

Mr Bevan

A Scouser lad - Sam Watts

What you see now is only a shada of the dream the war generation held. In some ways it were their children, my generation, who dinna' have the strength of keeping up the ideals. We gave into the 'good life' the American dream of consumerism. We dinna pass onto our bairns that you can fight capitalism and win in the ballot box. That unions were good in that they unified people to a common purpose where social justice was not joost a catch phrase boot an example of living and creating a better life for all. So this is reminder of the spirit of that time and of people like Aneurin Bevan who was able to radicalise a country without bloody revolution by being a politician with balls and a big vision. It were a pleasure to watch this and listen to folk interviewed and to hear where they thought it went wrong. And they are still candlelight in darkness, small but fierce flames of hope. And Ken Loach? Bloody class warrior to his core. For that, his humanity, his persistence in telling and retelling the story without losing hope of what happened once could happen again, we should all be grateful. Inspiring and deeply moving. Im off to raise me red flag...

See:
https://www.theguardian.com/film/2016/oct/15/ken-laoch-film-i-daniel-blake-kes-cathy-come-home-interview-simon-hattenstone

This is an exceptional piece about Mr Loach and what drives his film making and a typical typo from the Grauniad

*I had ta visit yon specialist doc this year as me prostate was giving me gyp. He gave me the science saying a man's prostate should be size of a walnut. Mine, having had a good feel and taken pictures was like the mandarin below. Not cancer but enlarged and making peeing like a tap with a bung washer.

Naw thus is what a prostate should look like

Naw when I say a doctor specialist- I had ta watch him like a rheumy eyed hawk because he wanted to turn inta a Mister. This is when a friendly bedside manner doctor morphs inta a green, blood stained gowned butcher who wants ta take to yer using sharp cutty things to disect yer pip! He had that look when he was talking to oos and I kept me back to the door and desk between us. He said, use the image of yon bit of fruit- all he would do is remove the segments leaving the skin. Almost boring, he could do a whole fruit bowl and not break sweat! Pay off would be for me ta pee like an eighteen year old after a night out on eight pints and a curry. We agreed he might make a filum of the inside of the BelgoGeordie bladder, but no, it would not be a submarine piloted by Raquel Welch and he would not pay for Big Al to fly out and hold me hand.

The Belgo Geordie one -copyright BG

And what doos this has to do with Mr Loach's finest film? I was seen through the public system boot if I wanted to hand over a load of money I could go private and have me mandarin gutted at same time. To quote another doctor from "Spirit of 45". They hoped it would never come to arriving at hospital gates and being asked if you have private insurance and if not, you were dumped off stretcher and left to crawl back home. Those times are just about here. I put me name on waiting list for public system. I'll wait me turn. So where is the spirit that fed the 1945 revolution? As Mr Bevan said about the National health Service - it will exist as long as folk are prepared to fight for what is right. Sounds as sensible today as then. Off to peel a mandarin- niver liked cracking walnuts anyhow!
**All photographs were taken using a box brownie and taking stills from Mr Loach's film; so copyright is his like and the memory of the people who shot the original newsreel footages- except for the photos of the Belgo Geordie prostate before and after enlargement and ageing. Aye bonny lad, live long enough and it happens to us awl.