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danny pongo - before haircut showed off
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December 6th, 2008

andrew luke

danny pongo - before haircut showed off

best wishes my man. only got notification of your b'day this avo ---- so as an impromptu gift of sorts (and i would like to think somewhat better than the strange threadbare fare offered by livejournal's strange catelogues [what are those crappy presents they offer but sad pixelated beverages etc]) here's the parliament video i showed you all those years ago which i think you were momentarily struck dumb by and forever enchanted with!

October 28th, 2008

 ...and maybe put a lilting spin on some typical eulogies - whittled down to a recurring garble of dulled mournful words said sadly in no particular order - such was my crippling feelings of tragedy the last week. a personal tragedy too - not to be totally confused with loss of life or limb, but an inward kingdom razed to the ground - by my own reluctant hand eventually - in closing the third and final act of this dumb naive mistake...whether you can thus muster any sympathy is dependant on the dial your heart's set at i suppose.
the beginnings of what happened were innocuous enough. i went on alluc.com to look for an episode of the simpsons that'd caused some minor kickup in the local papers due to its featuring a brogue-your-own provo lamenting the fact he couldn't blow up a busload of brit tourists, and a paddy's day parade that descends into rioting between parading orangemen & irish nationalists. homer then gets himself involved in the bail bonds business wrapping up another seriously below par episode that's become a staple of the recent simpson's output. resigning myself to this, ruminating on the inevitable slowing in all and everything, i give another episode a go, in the name of fairness and respectfulness only, like when you watch a once strong man withered and on his way out. 
when a number of the links for this next episode came up broken i was nearly going to give up, when i clicked on one more - which to begin with looked promising, the little whirring buffering arrow etc, WHEN my browser shut down, the computer rebooted, got stuck on the microsoft welcome screen - responding to neither ctrl/alt/delete/ or a manual rebooting, so that i had to pop the battery out of the back and start it up again. this time it got as far as the desktop, but the icons for all the programmes wouldnt respond, and the keys werent working. i noticed a new programme had appeared 'virus remover 2008' prompting me to download the programme to remove dangerous spyware at 45$. i rang a guy i knew qho knows more about this sort of thing than i do, and he told me to reinstall xp, that this was my only hope. asshole! cos now after doing a bit of looking around i see you can remove this 'virus remover' and retain your original desktop, documents etc. too late for me though, cos in my haste and ignorance i wiped the slate clean - my short/feature length script(s), stories, poems etc. only a handful i've salvaged, those i sent to myself, the rest gone forever.
just like li po, the olden day chinese poet, i have sent my creations up the river, on fire, or to put a contemporary twist on it, into the binary ether, those words scrambled then reassembled elsewhere in the electronic filament - just like the tiny, faint ashes of those poems, rising into the lunar-still shangdong twilight.

at least that's what i'll tell myself - for the personal gravitas.

September 18th, 2008

This, yesterday, On Rumormill News raised my spirits immensely. In light of my previous run-in with a pair of 'tin badge punks', after I was arrested for pissing against a church by the biggest pair of shithawks to ever carry a gun and an elevated view of their own authority, I see any retribution on the increasing numbers of heavy handed cops a good thing. It can't have helped that I told them I thought the church should 'get fucked', insisting christianity was a bad channel5 movie rewrite of the babylon mystery religions anyway, and subsequently, after being goaded into it, raised the game by repeating over and over 'Jesus was a cunt'.....however....here it is. 

August 9th, 2008

RIP Bernie

danny pongo - before haircut showed off

Just dropping by to note the passing of Bernie Mac. Best known this side of the pond for the Bernie Mac show and for his part in Oceans 11 etc, some of his routines stateside raised the roof. 

'Big Momma': so,so true :0

July 20th, 2008

OH Blewww Moon

danny pongo - before haircut showed off

Try as I might I cannot plug the dam of this quiet paranoia. I am succeeding in keeping myself still; I never have been one for the rotor bladed zoetrope of histrionic anxiety. I can stay in my seat all afternoon and quite easily cycle through the (now 37) gory, sepia tinted possibilities that arise when thinking about this situation. I can nearly get my BPM up to that of a long distance runner when I imagine these things happening to me, all, like I said, from the comfort of my armchair. I’ve had to quit smoking pot because of it. That was one habit I had to break. After a session on the bong the other night I hauled my wardrobe, grandmother’s antique vanity table and the stereo into the kitchen and barricaded the door with them. My drill was in there thank god. I got it and a bit of selloptape and wrapped all sorts of sharp things around the end. If worst came to worst there was a button that deployed the spinning drill head at speed. But I was not so paranoid as to think I’d need to use it. There was no way they’d be getting though that barricade; at least not till I was out the window and long gone.


Aloysius (not his real name) from across the hall gets out of jail in a fortnight. You might think then, ‘why are you getting so panicked this early in the game?’

 Well his jailbird pals have been up the last couple of nights seeing if he’s back. Night before last they started kicking his door, and it sounded like a couple of them were working a sledgehammer on it, too. They shouted something though my letterbox but I couldn’t make it out. ‘Specky cunt,’ or something. I met one of the pals when Aloysius was still around. He was missing a thumb on one hand and a baby finger on the other. I was drunk and the brain-mouth filter was off. I met him on the stairs when I was coming in. I don’t know how we got started but after an indeterminate time we got onto first stage personal stuff. Drink, plans for the night etc. he told me his uncle cut his baby finger off. He was a paedo. The thumb got cut off in a lift. I didn’t ask him if there was a second party involved.


Aloysius is definitely a horse of a different colour, though. His face has set in a certain expression. Looks like something happened and it stuck that way. Some trauma from the childhood. Some shocking revelation that twisted the kaleidoscope of whatever destiny he’d imagined for hisself.


I let him in another night I was pissed. He told me owned a crossbow, but the cord had snapped. He brought it in and let me hold it. It was heavier than I thought it would be. When he went to get it I sat in the silence, my ears ringing from the brandy, and a faint trepidation crept in. The feeling you’d get on entering a public loo in a bus station. The bolts were a foot or two long and sharp. Sharp. They could kill you from ten feet at least. He told me at what speed they left the crossbow but I forget. I think the cord snapped somehow when he killed his pet dog. He never actually told me he killed his dog but he surely suggested it. Donny from downstairs complained to the council because he was throwing the dogshit down into the front hall and out his window onto the front patio. And I think he killed the dog before the council came knocking. Probably put one of those big long bolts through its skull then took it to the forest and burned the body. But the cord was snapped now and I was happy with that. Very. 


He spent around a half hour with me that night. He showed me were he got shot when he was 15, the top of his calf muscle. There was a deep hole there, and a scatter of shallow scars. It looked like someone had done an acid sneeze on him. But we got on. Before he left he began to cry. I asked him if he wanted a cup of tea. He said he didn’t. I told him I wanted to go to bed then, and he went back across the hall into his own place. At the door he asked me if I wanted a couple of his antidepressants (can’t remember the brand). I took two off him and ate them before I cleaned my teeth and got into the bed. I stayed awake for an hour listening to Galloway on the radio to see if anything happened. Nothing did, but the next day, although not free from the physical effects of the hangover, I did feel a total absence of the dread fear and flushed hopelessness most hangovers afford.


So, right, you’ve got these disparate episodes. But I’m getting back to where I came in. Around a week later him and his pal came to my door looking for some cigarette papers. The pal has become a fixture on this street. I see him from my window zigzagging to and from the off license. I gave them the skins and they walked away. The pal turned and asked me if I’d been in B__________ a couple of weeks before. I got worried and told him I hadn’t. Something had happened in B___________. Me and my brother were set upon by 15 spides after a back and forth about my uncle. I got away and hid under a van and that mental fuck of a brother stood and absorbed a 15 strong beatdown. Not that he’d a choice. He was dragged from the pack by a couple of the more humanitarian of the bunch and got outside. I got out from under the van and went over to him. Before I got to check him out he went back in and said, ‘there’s 15 of you cunts and you still couldn’t KO me.’ he exited again and went to his car and went back with his pickaxe. The mob scattered and he chased a handful up R__________ Hill, clipping two. What followed in the coming weeks wasn’t pretty. After some neighbourhood politics was undertaken a resolution was drawn up and the Y________ Road mob squad moved in. 2 families were put out of their house and three men got shot in their elbows and kneecaps as way of a punishment.


So when this pal recognised me he didn’t take no for an answer when I said I hadn’t been there. So I said yeah, if you must know I was in B________ a fortnight ago, and if you’re wondering, it is me you’re thinking of. But he didn’t deserve that I told him. He agreed. And he it turned out is another crier. I brought him in. your brother didn’t deserve that he repeated. He was there he told me. I even think he was the one that clipped me before I got loose and ran. He told me his father raped him when he was 6. As brutally sad as that was I don’t think it would’ve offered any sort of gold standard excuse, even if I had been looking for one.


So now this is the reservoir from where this paranoia flows. Pal sees me, knows what I was involved in, knows, or is one of the mob seeking payback and knows where I live. Equals...?


My brother recovered well and now he thinks he’s invincible. ‘I’m indestructible,’ he says. ‘I can’t be killed – or even vegetablised.’ I think its more to do with the prayer I said for him that night as I lay under the van, hiding. A prayer I said for him after the prayer I said for myself, asking God they wouldn’t find me there.


On a lighter note here is a lush Julie London track I just listened to.


And on another light note the full moon is gorgeous tonight. Enchanting and beautiful. I’m sitting watching it now from the kitchen table. I’ve smoked far too many cigarettes again tonight. I haven’t dismantled my drill yet. I have it here, lying on the floor below me between my feet...   

PS Two things: One: Does the appearance of ghosts depend on a psychic interface between the viewer and the spirt? Two: Why, with Microsofts grand viral stanglehold over all software, is the grammer cat on Word dyslexic?

June 20th, 2008

Rude Dog & The Dweebs

danny pongo - before haircut showed off

……………………………And then he asked me, “Do you wank with the left hand or the right hand?”


I answered him as only I could. I’d had experience of these types of questions before...: Has your 3rd ball dropped yet, Pongo?”


I always told them ‘yes’ because most things were better answered yes instead of no when you didn’t know what the real answer was. You a virgin? wasn’t one of them though. You a gay? was.


So he came in. We were listening to Mick Jagger doing Memo From Turner. He said to me when it was done, “You do it with your left or your right?” I told him I did it with both and imagined it was a 3some.


Was away for two weeks. My ma’s gone off on one and decided to convert her townhouse into a funeral home. When I got back she was writing out her obituary. My da was standing at the sink with a gin. He was saying nothing with a point and wise and sad, too. Ma told me he’d told her just before I got in that it was a sick thing to do writing out your own obituary. I hope he didn’t know I was just getting in. I hope he didn’t go there and just perch himself at the sink when he knew I was soon coming. With his gin and all. Oh gimmie strength. He told me once Bill Gates was the antichrist and my da is a very fatalistic person. He has a vision that in 50 years time the world will just be a big blazing ball of chemicals and fire. We won’t die out but live through it and we will never get used to our blistering conditions or itchy cuticles. He also put his loafers in the fridge one Easter in an attempt to prove to himself he’d Alzimers.


Some pig in Israel – Some cow in India just give birth to an alien baby. No joke. See it here:



and here: http://www.rumormillnews.com/cgi-bin/forum.cgi?read=126172

Donny asked me to listen to him. He was fed up with Louis. He asked if he could stay. Me and the girl had the bedroom and there was only a short sofa in the living room. I would lay out there some nights and my legs would hang over the side and I could touch the floor with my feet easily. I’d get cramps in my hamstrings doing that, but it was most comfortable in the short term. So Donny didn’t want to stay in there. This time last year he’d been up with a bottle of vodka. He told me a story about the time he joined the French Foreign Legion when he was 19. He got to the part where he was discharged then he started crying. When he finished crying he started with the stories again. Fast-forward 9 and a half years he tells me he’s a mercenary for the diamond barons in Uganda. Here he gets hazy an confused. He tells me 10 stories in 5 minutes. And repeats the beginning 800 times. He’s sure of his ending, though:...I never did a bit of harm to any person...! and cries it out quietly like a half arsed encore.


Donny was drunk when he got up to me. Staggering and serious looking explaining something simple and ignorable. He stood 100 different ways at my door, but he stood still. Louis was downstairs. He was with his brother, Donny’s other son, Gavin, shouting the odds. He was saying things about me too. I couldn’t here it right, but ‘Him upstairs,’ was one thing that was clear and deliberate. I like Donny. He is strange and funny. Louis is a good guy too, at heart. He has an encyclopaedia of dogs that he keeps good. He keeps it in the oak cabinet in the corner of his living room. It has a dust cover on it. I was down with him one day for teabags. It was raining and I didn’t want to go out in it. He started and wouldn’t let me get a word in for 2 and a half hours. But I could listen to him for a week. Hw brought his encyclopaedia out. The book was black leather or something with gold writing up the spine. ‘Encyclopaedia of British Dogs’ was the title. Inside there were portraits of thoroughbreds. I don’t know anything about dogs. The breeds or whether they’re half casts or not. There was one breed he was keen on. It had white fur and a long pointy face. It was the same breed as Rude Dog from Rude Dog and the Dweebs off the tele. On and on he went about these dogs.


I have strange neighbours. Not to paint some tragic and comedic drama of it. But there’s a strange cliché to it all. A Carson McCullers tragi-farce. Something you couldn’t make up but is found in the pages of a million potboilers.                   

May 31st, 2008

Brown Paper Bag

danny pongo - before haircut showed off

I’m worried about the sort I’ve living across the hall from me. That’s basically the jist of what it is I’ve wanted to say this last month or two. It’s a long story, but now that I’m just after sitting putting the past few months into perspective, by means of crystal clear internal monologue, I feel that I can convey these episodes in just a few paragraphs (no guarantee). 


To begin with: When I moved here I had, as neighbours, in a four-unit block: The rowdy one downstairs and his alcoholic father. These flats are only one bedroom and the father was out in the living room on the sofa. Father had come to stay with son after serving some time. He’d been kicked out of his own flat after loud bouts of alcoholism and had moved to a hostel. There he contravened the ‘No Drink Allowed’ rule in the building, and was reprimanded ‘humiliatingly’ by a night watchman. Several hours later he returned with a shiv and stabbed guard repeatedly. He did not kill guard and was charged with GBH or something. I don’t know how long he was in for. He told me but I forget. He’s trying to stay away from the drink. Limit it to once a week. By this he means that once a week he will start drinking from the moment he gets up to whenever it is his constitution fails him and he is no longer even able to raise the glass to his mouth. The rest of the week the son, who does not drink much and is inclined to spout long passionate rants, rails his father for this or that or just rails on someone generally. The days Donny From Downstairs (Father) is not drinking the son starts early and continues well into the night. Always around 11 O Clock a rant from Lou (Son) ends abruptly, seemingly in mid sentence or sometimes what sounds like the moment just before he is ready to reach the apex of his Very Important Point. I do not really blame Donny for drinking the way he does. Lou, truly, rants non-stop never even pausing for breath by the sounds of things. I’ve been down on all fours with a cup against the floor listening in. It would appear he rants about the most mundane things and most of the time he’ll raise a subject once but never again. I’ve listened in, intermittently, to a 2/2 and a half hour rant about the price of something that I think was either a bolt for his door or a set of flowerpots. Sometimes I am completely awestruck by his range. 4 hours (approx.) on the way the council people cut the grass at the front. He could have some type of mental disorder. Maybe someone who knows more about that sort of thing could enlighten me?

Tomorrow Donny. Looks like this is going to stretch to a lot more than a few paragraphs...

Here's a poem I did. A reaction to the horrible horrible heat and heaviness of the summertime coming on.

Crater Mildew Pathos


7.25am from the window seen through

A hot whiskey remedy held up to the light.

Raised like a white flag to the summertime

Breaking over wet eyes & sniffling, slicked 

Whiskey yellow, lemon speckled, fever frieze


Earlier I rolled stumbling to the off license

 Afraid my aunt would see me and say I was drunk

  Any minute I felt my legs would be swept from under

   Me & I was sure I was moving slantwise. The girl after

    She rung up the Bell’s told me to watch out for    



That this time of year the seasons can turn over

As abruptly as a scene change in a West End Show

And listing dangerously on return I’m a ghost

In the snow. 2 dull dry red eyes sewn messily

With forked conjunctiva rendering all in sharp


Focus. Isometric quartz cut vision somehow. Kaleidoscopic
Quantum cross-sections, mosaic patterns emanating
Imperially. Day-Glo foliage & tangerine cladding
bleed in before the cul-de-sac folds
In on itself. Between bled fusion a fantastic sensation

Issuing unbreakable guarantees as binding 
As they were the very first time - having just
Been granted this 3-D Mandate, to keep me from
What I just did and what I don’t want to do again
In the meantime – Distance enough in a straight line

May 20th, 2008


danny pongo - before haircut showed off

this is a poem i wrote when this memory snuck up unawares: 

The Troubles Of Tony Blair.

Mid autumn stop motion to 48 hours with no sleep

Cobwebbed zoetrope in mid afternoon corners

Outside there’s a rouged dripped bulb listing toward

A stiff and grey onset.


My brother sat up with me the night before

He keeps those sedentary noiseless hours as well Bracketed between day sleeping and shelf stacking

Emerging work-sure, in the early hours, to an empty road with no rush hour queues.


Those hours between 2 and 7, if there was nothing else on

We’d switch to the news and sit waiting expectedly for the rapture to occur

Drinking vod’ & tomato juice and smoking many, many cigarettes. 


The news announcer last night was one I’d only ever

Seen on once before. Short tight ginger curls

And a head shaped like a mushroom cloud

Like an A-Bomb had gone off in his lower extremities

And sprouted that shape upon his shoulders.


Brows furrowed deep and wide enough to secret any variety of weapon; the expression a carefully measured treatise on incredulous disdain, which sets suddenly as he moves onto the newspaper review

An expression that could break the heart of any Nuremberg committee.


He leafs The Times from the pile:

‘Who Should Tony Blair Be More Afraid Of?’ reads the lengthy strap line. Below is a picture of Saddam, on bended knee. He has just launched a rocket from a bazooka, a horn of smoke curling from the end of it. He looks suave as always. I have to say I’ve always thought that about him.


Beside this is a photo of a woman named Carol Caplin, coated in silver face paint. There are wires and cheap looking yellow tubes stuck to her neck and shoulders that fall down over her bare shoulders. She is TB’S wife’s spiritual adviser and she may destroy him. The photo is from 1987, when, it’s reported, she thought she was an android.


The camera cuts back to our news announcer. He is consumed with some mournful bitterness. Brother laughs.

A deep and creviced one. I get another drink. He says,

 We’re living in Science Fiction. 
 That news announcer hasn’t been on our screens since. I forget his name.

April 30th, 2008


danny pongo - before haircut showed off

Met Donny from downstairs on the way to the off license last night. I was walking quickly with 4 and a half minutes to spare before closing time. He came round the corner at the bottom of the street; 10 feet in front of me. I don’t know if he noticed me right away, probably not, but seeing he was heading my direction there was no opportunity for turning round, crossing over or a hastily constructed blank. He came zigzagging along, any minute looking like his feet might be swept away from under him. At times it looked like he took a few strides slantwise. Around him hung a hug of booze fumes, the tendrils of which enchained me the closer he got.


The first thing I told him was about Friday night…which is going to have to wait till another time as I’ve slept in and my girlfriend is due back anytime and I haven’t the ablutions out of the way – the reason I’ve slept in so late I’ve nearly risked missing the second episode of Neighbours, will become clear next time…


PS John, when this credit crunch materialises and typical paper money becomes good for nothing more than wiping your arse, I believe we should transform our monetary system into the buying and selling of J.R’s varyingly witty quips. The renditions of 4 Poofs and a Piano would be our gold and silver standard.            
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