Greetings, bonjour, what’s happening Welcome to Lager Time Couple more poems this week from my first book – The Suburban – The 2100 to No Where To Nowhere and Montage as part of the ongoing recording, to make into an audio book. 2100 was published in the Rhyming Thunder Anthology from Burning Eye Books back in 2011 or 12 I think. Montage I rarely performed by we shot a video for it, at my mate Steve’s old gaff in Kilburn, with the mighty Peter Hayhoe and his Muddy Feet Gang Hope you all enjoy the cooler weather Peas and taters Paul LINKS The Suburban book Montage Video Rhyming Thunder Anthology Adult Entertainment Poetry gig on Friday 7th August @ Café Oto – 7PM – Dalston Junction What We Do When We Can’t Dance @ Theatre Royal Plymouth – 11th August @ Theatre Royal Plymouth – 5pm The 21.00 to Nowhere One of several large flat-screen TVs blinks silently, rotating an incessant stream of updating information from the world of football and a few other sports which fight like pigeons over the remaining crumbs of coverage, muted to a theme tune of songs played over the PA, mostly belonging to a decade before. Lip-syncing Sky Sports newsreaders with Snow Patrol or Oasis becomes a game in itself. The many pillars of unofficial knowledge that often populate pubs, normally stood like dusty ornaments at the bar, will tell you the breweries pay less to PRS for the older songs, like it’s some grand racket that none of us are supposed to be in on. This is no normal pub. Establishments like this one, with its sports screens, high bar stools and signed shirts in frames, will rarely produce such loyal patrons, due to the nature of the clientele they serve on a daily basis, for they belong in train stations. Suspending animation between places as people revolve as fast as turnstile gates on packed match days. Located conveniently between A and B, these are the types of bars which I never remember the name of, but chances are I’ll know what beers they sell, how much they charge, and I’ll quietly tut when I receive my change on a shiny silver tray with a receipt including the VAT breakdown and the bartender’s name, which in this case is Pascal, not that we’re on a first-name basis, and it’s that lack of familiarity which appeals to me. With décor and furniture normally generic enough that even the most eccentric amongst us can blend in and become anonymous, it’s in here I can quietly sip my beer and disappear. In here I don’t exist, trapped between time zones for when I have no place to go. This soulless sports bar is a waiting room, where reason can consult my heart and pick apart my brain, or simply sit, sip and switch off. I watch as commuters come and go for a post-work drink. Some look as if they’re biding their time before the big squeeze back to the provinces, towns of the type I grew up in. Tourists browse the expensive food menus in which oven-heated ready meals appear at the blink of an eye. Groups of lads and girls break journeys, downing booze at breakneck speed before they leave to presumably go on elsewhere to drink even more. If I sit here long enough, the merry-go-round of sports updates will produce a new piece of news. I might even hear a song I once liked. The few pound coins in the tray, the residue of a £10 note used to pay for a pint, may not even see the dark cotton cushion of my pocket, and may just be popped into the slot of a fruit machine, depending on how low I sink. Today I’m sat, about three feet off the ground, on this high stool, nursing an expensive pint poured by Pascal, and I will take my time. This bar is my camo-pattern jacket hidden amongst the leaves and, when I’m ready, I’ll slowly slip off my stool and go locate my train. Montage You wake up, you walk into the bathroom, you’re wondering what’s happened to your mate, your best mate. What’s changed? You ain’t seen him in days. You look in the mirror and wonder what’s happened to your face. What’s changed? You ain’t shaved in days. Another line in your forehead appears, the gears in your imagination begin to grind, the light in your mind flickers and the film reels begin to rotate. Cue montage. Coldplay plays, your mate and his girl, arm-in-arm walks in the park kicking up leaves, feeding ducks in the pond, trips to the sea, trips to art galleries, joint shopping trips to Gap and H&M, his and hers, hers and his, sharing friends over drinks, mates are now friends, friends are now ours, ours ain’t his, ours ain’t you, dinner parties, dinner parties using recipes taken from celebrity chefs, expensive A4 hardback conveniently rests on the clinically clean kitchen surface, strategically placed to make it look like it wasn’t placed to imply taste, Sunday afternoons in gastropubs or in Starbucks, drinking from huge coffee mugs held with two hands, then taking selfies, cheesy trinkets and cutlery, amalgamating diaries, middle-ground CDs, middle-ground DVDs, middle-ground being, feeling like carpet under your feet, hiding the cold hard damp scarred floorboards underneath where skeletons of single ex-friends lie recluse for choosing to refuse to wear shoes in place of trainers in order to gain entry into cheesy nightclub venues, continuing to smoke weed, consume lager, watch football and smash kebabs, still listening to hip-hop and underground dance music, still rebelling against chart music, still laughing when farting, still openly honest about porn use, still treading water in an ocean of self-loathing where the only humane feeling that remains is the pain from getting salt in the wounds, still complaining about the day-to-day pursuit of pay and feeling unfulfilled, that grates like an itch you can never quite reach between the shoulder blades, lacking the kind of companion that will scratch it and relieve it, then embrace you for all your insecurities, idiosyncrasies and imperfections and tell you that it will all be OK, chuckling in your ear, stroking your hair, kissing you on the cheek, then walking away, leaving her sweet perfume in the airspace as you look in the mirror, see your face, think of her and think, Shit, life’s alright. Instead you see your face, your muggy unshaven face, and you think of your mate and you hope the prick is happy. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cree.substack.com
