Yes! Yes! UCS! Townsend Productions written by Neil Gore.

Oscar Wilde:  ‘Disobedience, in the eyes of anyone who has ever read history, is a man’s original value.’

A writer’s job is to remember. The better the writer, the better we remember. I’d a day out at The Golden Friendship Club on Saturday. Jim McLaren performed two miracles—and perhaps there’ll be a play about that one day—buying the old Masonic Club and finding the money to renovate it. If he wants to hang a picture of his mum, Agnes, and Auntie Molly Kelly in one of two the main halls, well, that’s really up to him. In the old days, you had to stand up for old Queen Lizzie. He’s standing up for his mum, and she’s more to my liking. He needs a third miracle to find the funding to keep the place going. The Golden Friendship is a Community Hall in a real sense of being paid for and belonging to the community. Workshops during the day and Neil Gore’s play, Yes! Yes! UCS!  were held to mark the fiftieth anniversary of the UCS work-in on the Clyde in 1971 (for those not very good at arithmetic a Covid year wasn’t carried over, so to be pedantic, 51 years).

Bernardine Evaristio: Girl, Woman, Other, ‘she wants people to bring curiosity to her plays, doesn’t give a damn what they wear’.  

When I came into the hall Jim was there to meet guests. There was no sneaking past in casual wear. They set the seats out with a free copy of The Morning Star (cost £1.50) which made me smile. I didn’t think they still printed it. I’d a quick chat with that old dinosaur, John Foster. He didn’t remember me, but I remembered him in a tutorial asking us if we knew what hegemonic meant. We were more interested in when The Wee Howff opened. He taught us always to cite your sources. Hating Tories was a given.

Rhyming couplets and verse Yes! Yes! UCS! 

I’m up for a writer’s challenge. So a quick sketch of Peter Barra McGahey with his handlebar moustache:

 Fae John Brown’s on the Clyde—James Scott Dry Dock—tae Govan and Yarrows

Land, river and sea, nane belanged to Barra McGahey

The sootie tenemenet walls, Dalnator, where we lay out past

Glasgow Airport moles that didnae depart

An a the rats and birds that flies

pay a feu rent fae their tinker’s tents

the dog that shits, cats that hiss

the foreman’s toot isnae his

Fae James Scott Dry Dock, Yarrows and John Brown’s on the Clyde

Land, river and sea, nane belanged to Barra McGahey

The Morning Star we see.

Yard owners haunds oot free.

Their coats of arms with all its charms

Our cranes feeds your wains memes

With patriot calls to our common country

Futile dreams and poet themes of equality

the match that lights the dout

lame-duck yards goin slow

Tartan paint and a long wait—work to rule

Fair democracy, where do we place we?

We that toil should own the soil and Broomilaw

A welded chain for those that pass laws again

Fae John Brown’s on the Clyde—James Scott Dry Dock—tae Govan and Yarrows

Land, river and sea, nane belanged to Barra McGahey

No part of our common we.

A zip in his trousers at the back

for emergency purposes only

Christmas lights on his welder’s hat

the unfair and grand

none as light-headed as he

In Barra’s place, we place our grace.

None forgotten, or will be.

His gravelly laugh still finds a path

To our common humanity.

We had lunch in the hall, and Jim put on a fine spread. We could make a donation to a food bank or to The Golden Friendship. I grew up in the seventies. I could never have imagined the idea of food banks. Worker’s memories of taking over the yards and forcing Ted Heath’s government to backtrack. Go from spending a possible £6 million government package to nearer £36 million is at the core of our day out. Yes! Yes! UCS! as an antidote to the highest grossing film of 1960, I’m Alright Jack, with the stereotypical bungling and walkouts of the shop steward movement in Union Jack Foundries portrayed by Peter Sellers meant to typify a Britain that was going in the wrong direction.

I asked John Foster if there was still a Communist Party, still a Socialist Movement. In particular, if it had younger members. I don’t think anybody in the hall was under forty, apart from the two actors that played Aggie and Eddi.

I’d guess very few adults under-thirty could tell you what the plaque on Clydebank College labelling a building John Brown’s means. The Clyde has become a feature, a waterfront for selling property.

John Foster did say there was a growing Socialist movement. I’d guess Greta Thunberg, aged 15, sitting in silent protest outside Parliament (Skolstrejk för klimatet) is more important and certainly better known.

Ted Heath’s government was defeated. We had the oil-price hike and stagflation. But the token woman in Heath’s cabinet was Margaret Thatcher. Her destruction of the miner’s union with the help of a media vying with each other to create fictional stories about Arthur Scargill and present them as facts stand out.  M15 and a pumped-up police force and the loss of around 80 000 jobs is well documented in what was described as a war against terrorists. Less well documented is how we lost the propaganda war in which food banks, for example, is sold to us a positive trend.  

When I hear about a critically acclaimed singer and songwriter, I usually do a bit of planning of my own, and nip away before I get caught. I don’t listen to music in the way that other people don’t read books. I could add or go to the theatre. But when I saw a friend and nipped outside during the break of Yes!Yes! UCS!  I admitted Findlay Napier had been the best part of the day. I still don’t listen to music, but he caught me on the good side.

I asked Jim why Neil Gore’s production wasn’t on the stage. He told me it wasn’t deep enough for the set. It was impressive. A mock-up of tenement buildings, with doors that open and decades to slide into. We get to see Heath in cartoonish blue and hear his voice. ‘There’ll be nae bevvying’ cries Jimmy Reid. The roar of the crowd. On two girls’ shoulders the production hangs. I feel for them. Art makes us and unmakes us. This might be their first and last job. The yards were a men’s playground, to channel the dispute through women takes balls.

Anne Ryan was out having a fag at the canal. I’d joked with her that in 1970, everybody would have been out of the hall and smoking. She was the solitary pariah of the path, until another guy ambled over. She asked if I’d smoked, ‘Nah, I was a good boy’.

‘Whit dae yeh think of the show?’

She made a face. ‘He seems to like it.’  

Radical politics doesn’t sell is hardly a headline, even in The Morning Star. George Orwell in his unpublished introduction to Animal Farm described how ‘unpopular ideas can be silenced, and inconvenient facts kept dark, without any need for an official ban’. Ironically, Communist China is probably best at this. Rupert Murdoch, second best. We’ve come a long way since the nineteen-seventies, backward step by backward step. Only the past can live in the present. I brought my curiosity to play. Perhaps Townsend Production doesn’t quite capture the zeitgeist. The fault might be mine. I don’t do musicals and I don’t do theatre. The wrong man in the right place. Go see for yourself. Make your own head space.    

An Impossible Love, BBC 1, BBC iPlayer, writers Catherine Corsini, Laurette Polmanss, Christine Angot, and Director Catherine Corsini.

A French film, with English subtitles. Set on the cusp of the swinging sixties, it begins as a coming-of-age drama. We are told in voice-over by Chantal (Estelle Lescure and the older Chantal played by Jehnny Beth) how her mother, beautiful, young Rachel (Virginie Efira) meets Philippe (Niels Schneider) at a local dance. He’s down from Paris to sub-rural hicksville and works as a translator on the American army base. Rachel’s friend teases Phillipe and asks him to translate a phrase into Spanish, into Italian, and even Chinese. Phillipe obliges her, but it’s Rachel he’s after.

She’s an office worker and admits the boss hates her and demoted her after he tried to have an affair with her. Philippe waits for her to finish every night. They make love, or have sex, whenever and wherever they can. Rachel is in love. Philippe doesn’t believe in love. He gets her to read Nietzsche. Dazzles her with notions of the Übermensch, Beyond Man, the philosophy adopted by Nazis apologists. Philippe tells her he doesn’t believe in marriage and will never marry. He’s above such notions. And Rachel, with her lower-class Jewish origins, should be above such things too. As a parting gift, Rachel lets him cum inside her, rather than on her stomach as they agreed.

Inevitably, Rachel gets pregnant and gives birth to a girl, Chantal (our narrator whose story this nominally is). Chantal is registered as a bastard, with father unknown on the birth certificate. Rachel begins a crusade to get Philippe to legally acknowledge Chantal as his daughter. Perhaps even be something of a father to her?

Years pass. Rachel ages and Chantal grows from being a baby to a young girl. Philippe, like Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray looks and sounds much the same. He agrees to be named as father but then changes his mind. They make love or have sex, again and again. It suits him, and he tries to convince her that’s what they agreed to. He’ll never marry.  And she’ll going on working in the same old office and living with her mother, waiting for him, hoping to rekindle that great passion in her life.

The lies we tell ourselves are the most difficult to unravel. Her life is on hold, waiting. The older Chantal narrates in voice over the changes that come in their relationship and hers with her father. Blink and you’ll miss it, when Chantal tells the viewer when it started. A smooth transition. Intention and desire unpicked in the movement towards the denouement. Elegantly done.

Visiting Time. Poems, essays and stories from behind the walls of HMP Shotts (2019) various authors.

Visiting Time. Poems, essays and stories from behind the walls of HMP Shotts (2019) various authors.

I’m well-disposed to liking this book, as Pat McDaid will tell you. The judge said I was ‘an educated man’ but a ‘danger to society’.

I’d never been called educated before. I was pretty chuffed and my mind jumped to that Tobias Wolff short story when the guy laughs at the bank robbers with guns because they keep talking in clichés. Snobbish, I know. I admitted I was a danger because I kept losing my sobriety and finding my car keys.

The judge didn’t laugh.

Anyway, back to Visiting Time. I like many of the poems, written by Anon, whoever he is. They all seem to rhyme, which is so old fashioned. Outlawed by T.S. Eliot who measured his life in tea spoons.

Six Wishes by Anon.

He wishes things could be more peaceful.

He wishes he’d never done it.

He wishes he was going home to his family.

He wishes he’d stayed at school.

He wishes he had listened to his mother.

He wishes he could turn back time.

It’s an easy enough book to read. I took about an hour. Honesty comes from the heart. Aphorisms and humour, anon, anon.

As Alan Bennett remarked, ‘Reading can feel like a hand reaching out and taking yours’.

Writing can often feel like a slap on the wrist and not for the likes of us.

Think about diegesis and the difference between narrative and plot. The king is dead and the queen died too tells a story. The king is dead, and the queen died of grief, is the plot of a story. It’s got the bounceabilty of a longer narrative, such as, ‘The judge didn’t laugh.’

There are some plays and some songs, but mostly the stories here are simple narratives.  

In a short-story by S, One man’s pain is another man’s laughter, for example, the narrator Stuart gets drunk and attends the wrong funeral. I’ve done that too, although my name isn’t Stuart and I wasn’t drunk, or at least I think I wasn’t drunk. Sit tight or bolt? Then like Stuart, you’ve got everybody lined up, the whole clan waiting to shake your hand, greeting.  What do you do? Tell them you’re no’ really sorry. I never knew the man, or risk getting caught out in the lie? Aye.

rendezvous, another poem by Anon has a wee secret at its heart. It’s an in joke for the alkies.  Only those in the know, nod and wink, know rendezvous is a pub on Dunbarton Road.

sittin in the hoose/bored oot ma heid/telly’s snide/might go back to my bed/then the dog starts to wimper n gee me that stare/get your arse in gear daddy or I’ll shite on the flair/…/arrive at the rendezvous lounge n bar/ plant our weary arses n order a jar.’

Perhaps my favourite story is a fairy-tale. I used to love fairy-tales and big books are just fair-tales too. This a knock-off of a story of auld Nick. You know how there is meant to be seven basic plots, well auld Nick squeezes his way into about three of them. Offhand, think Macbeth, story of the witches.  Rabbie Burns, the Deil and Tam o’shanter.  Walter Scott, Wandering Willie’s Tale.  Robert Louis Stevenson, The Bottle Imp. Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray.  The list goes on. There’s a devil in all of us.

Old Nick and the Lottery Winner (inspired by a Mayan folk tale) by  Anon follows Chekov’s dictum, a short-story should be a glance, with the Scottish believe there should be a bit of a smirk added.

Deal with the devil and you strike a bargain. It’s there in the title.

‘And that’s what he did. That night the clock struck twelve, the man arrived at the crossroads.’

The devil appears in the form of his long dead da.  We know what the devil wants –your soul. The Edinburgh man wants a hundred-million pound Lottery rollover, which isn’t too much to ask.  

Your plots set up, the deal is done, how to end it all in fewer than 1500 words and diddle the devil?

Read on.

National Treasure, Channel 4, 9pm.

national treasure.jpg

‘They think I’m fucking Jimmy Saville,’ says Paul Finchley (Robbie Coltrane) when he’s arrested for rape.

A writer could have a lot of fun with this four-part series, as I’m sure Jack Thorne does. The litmus test for National Treasure is whether the named and shamed celebrity such as Jimmy Saville, Rolf Harris or indeed our very own Cliff (although the tabloids are playing coy on that one) was allowed to hob-nob with the Royals and had Prince Charles, or poor old Diana, on speed-dial or Messenger. Oscar Wilde, who knows a thing or two about how fickle celebrity was, tended to rattle on about: ‘All that I desire to point out is the general principle that Life imitates Art far more than Art imitates Life.’

Thorne sets up the before and after of the celebrity death spiral. I was a bit confused at first. Viewers see Finchley hobbling with a walking stick behind a glamourous lady host in evening dress, in what to me looked like cells in a prison, and because I knew the nub of the story, I thought this was him getting jailed, with possibly some kind of hallucinatory episode. But it was more prosaic and simply the backstage setting of a London theatre. Finchley was shown hyperventilating before he went onstage to present a lifetime achievement award to his comedy partner and he deadpans, in all seriousness, that it wasn’t him getting the award and that wasn’t fair. Nobody loves him, but of course they do, they just love his partner more, but he’s still in the business, with a daytime quiz show and his agent is still trying to cut deals with the big hitters. This is the before.

Before anything happens normality is a big house in London, but not too big, he still bumps into his neighbour taking his bin out. The grandkids are bickering and his wife, Marie (Julie Walters) is keeping an eye on them. Later, we learn he’s been cheating on her for years, and she’s shown to be a religious maniac because she says the Hail Mary and prays. Finchley when he stays the night with a prostitute laments Marie’s loss of beauty and gives us a Wildean epigram about women being beautiful in a way that men never are. Quite so old boy, quite so, hide all the mirrors.

Now we are in the after territory, all that’s gone before changes shape. In particular, when Finchley visits his beautiful but troubled daughter, Dee (Andrea Riseborough) she rambles on about a dream, or vision, she had about her Dad and her husband, which makes you think that the trouble with the daughter, may be dad. Incest. Finchley seems keen to establish that she’s got the money he sent her for her keep . But this may be the red herring.

Bang, bang, bang it goes and ends with a bang, with police trawling for other cases and finding them. One of them being the baby sitter, which pisses off even the saintly, or dim, Marie, depending on what point of view you take to her wifely duties. Finchley said he didn’t do it. Does anybody believe him? The real scoop would be if he does, indeed, prove to be innocent. Somehow, I doubt it, there’s more chance of getting ten minutes of drama without a break for adverts.


Will Gompertz (2015) Think Like an Artist…and Lead a More Creative, Productive Life.

thinking artist

This is a short book, with some lovely illustrations, but you’d expect that, Will Gompertz is BBC’s Art’s Editor. If I was thinking like an economist more than an artist I’d be thinking ten quid for a couple of wee pages and a couple of illustrations isn’t that great a deal. If I was thinking like a boozer that was an economist I’d be thinking that the opportunity cost of reading this book is four pints of heavy out of the Dropp Inn. If I was thinking like a boozer I’d be thinking I’m indestructible and nobody will ever beat me at pool. Ten quid is twenty games of pool, around the time it would take the average reader to finish this book.

Let’s be clear about one thing I’m not sure what an Art’s Editor does, but I expect he’s got a postgraduate qualification in Art and know a thing or two about pictures. I’ll be creative and work my way through his advice.

‘We are all Artists’.  Discuss? ‘We are all Arseholes?’ ‘The act of making and creating is deeply satisfying, life-affirming and rewarding.’

‘Artists are Enterprising.’ Arseholes are too, but they’re just more annoying. ‘Good business is the Best Art’ – Andy Warhol. Sip on a tin of tomato soup and sell the tin. Or collect lemonade bottles when your Giros ran out to feed your family as one well-known entrepreneur, and little-known street artist, with bad hair does.

‘Artists don’t fail.’ Arseholes never fail. ‘Success is often down to Plan B.’ I’ve got a whole alphabet of plans that never fail, some of them would leave you in gaol. ‘A sculptor carves a stone until eventually a form is revealed’ as another stone I’d guess, then go back to carving cheese with glee and sell it to the cheese factory.

‘I proceed by trial and error.’ Arseholes usually travel by train, although if time flies they are not averse to travelling incognito as white-van man.

‘In art one is either a plagiarist or a revolutionary’ Paul Gaugin. Plan B be neither, nor or maybe. ‘As is often the case with matters creative, simplification was the answer.’ I remember this strategy well, look at the answers on the SRA test before tackling the question. I wasn’t cheating, just being creative with the answers. So there you go Mrs Bridges. I expect an apology. And if I find out where you live I’m giving you two of the belt (I’ll let you off, if you’re dead).

‘Big ideas come from the unconscious. But your unconscious has to be well informed, or your idea will be irrelevant,’ David Ogilvy.

I prefer small ideas and cheap cones from Lidl.

‘If it doesn’t sell, it isn’t creative,’ David Ogilvy. I’ve got a long list of things that sell. I could work my way through the Klingon alphabet and list things that sell, but when it comes to my work it’s easy, it doesn’t sell because it isn’t creative, in fact it’s tautological. Klingon attatck!

‘Passion fires our ideas to come up with ideas.’  Don’t have a wank or you’ll be a wanker, or tosser, bereft.

‘Ideas that are born out of ignorance are invariably weak and most often useless.’ I didn’t know that.

‘Collaboration can lead to unexpected, or otherwise unobtainable, discoveries.’ Please send me your bank details and I’ll be your trusted friend. ‘Make the world to believe in you and to pay heavily for this privilege.’ Gilbert & George. Yes, last three digits. Yes, it’s me honest George phoning from Somalia.

‘Learn to listen.’ Fuck off. If I hear that one more time. Fuck off.

‘The final stage of the creative process is in fact one of the hardest: turning everything learnt, developed, and tested into something concrete.’ Just like laying an egg without the chicken.

‘Artists steal.’ Get your ain egg, I saw this one first.

‘There is nothing new under the sun,’ Ecclesiastes 1:9. What about Curlywurlys?

‘Often the “new” element in really big ideas comes in the form of a disruption.’ That’s why I spend so much time in the lavvy, honest, I’ve not fallen asleep.

‘I begin with an idea and then it becomes something else,’ Pablo Picasso. A Facebook post of your dinner?

‘If I have seen further it is by standing on the shoulders of giants,’ Isaac Newton. BFG Isaac, BFG.

‘Look at the early work of any artist and you will see an impersonator yet to find his or her voice.’ Can I interest any of you in a picture of a soup tin, an unmade bed, or perhaps a product of my lavvy instead?

‘It’s not where you take things from, it’s where you take them to,’ Jean-Luc Goddard, pleading to waive unpaid parking fines.

‘I choose a block of marble and chop off whatever I don’t need,’ Auguste Rodin. Chip off the old block, chip off the old cock.

‘There is no such thing as a wholly original idea. But there is such a thing as unique combinations.’ Copyrighted.

‘Artists are Sceptics.’ Never!

‘Creativity isn’t about what somebody else thinks; it is about what you think.’ I’ve no opinion on that.

‘The most terrible obstacles are such as nobody can see except oneself,’ George Elliot, for example, being a woman and not a man.

‘A work of art is the unique result of a unique temperament,’ Oscar Wilde, too many uniques makes for a poor boy.

‘So vast is art, so narrow human wit,’ Alexander Pope, listen up Oscar.

‘Questioning does not make creativity more difficult. Rather it brings clarity and brevity and purity to our ideas.’ You can say that again and again and again.

‘Artists Think Big Picture and Fine Detail.’ Think big and small, after that it’s your call.

‘There’s nothing worse than a sharp image or a fuzzy concept,’ Ansel Adams has obviously never tried broccoli.

‘An artwork should point in more than one direction,’ Luc Tuymans. Satnav should not point in more than one direction, but it does, it does and it was always back there. Make a turn after 29 miles.

‘One dab of colour can radically change the appearance of the largest painting,’ but two dabs of emulsion and you’re getting a bit handy. Three dabs and you’re taking the cunt.

‘The big picture of the past can bring in the fine detail of the present.’ The past can affect the present, wish I’d thought of that before I had that last pint.

‘Creativity is more than just being different. Making the simple, awesomely simple, that creativity.’ That’s Spangles. I like the red ones.

‘Every painting has a point of entry. A small detail that draws your eye and draws you in,’ Luc Tuyman, pay by Apple, PayPal, debit or debit cards. Thanks for your custom.

‘When the point of entry to the picture changes, it alters our reading of it.’ I’m not paying twice for the same unmade bed.

‘Artists Have a Point of View.’ I think we can all agree on that Sherlock.

‘One eye sees, the other feels,’ Paul Klee. I actually quite like that. Just as the body blinks at orgasm, the brain blinks when we gain insight, a kind of slowing down and speeding up at the same time.

‘Our point of view is our signature.’ No doggy paw prints on the paper please.

‘In the creativity game you are not a player unless you have something to say.’ Here’s another picture of my dinner, macaroni and cheese, emm yummy!

‘Once we discover what we want to say, everyday life can become a potential source of creative stimulus.’ Sounds a bit like porn, but without the squiggly bits.

‘It’s the artist’s job to pay attention to prompts, to trust their feelings and instincts.’ Trust if you must, but it’s a novel way to spend a day, laying out that box of feelings and beginning to play.

‘We have to be continually jumping off cliffs and developing our wings on the way down,’ Kurt Vonnegut. Please note Kurt doesn’t mean this literally, put the paper wings away.

‘Peter Doig found inspiration in physical spaces, Rembrandt in personal places: Marshall in the politics of race.’ I found space in the bottom sock drawer, but I guess I’m lucky that way.

‘We’re not robots. Life is more exciting when you have an opinion,’ Cheryl Lynn Bruce. Robots don’t eat Wotsits. My life would be more exciting with a packet of Wotsits, but they make your fingers minging, but that might just be me. Discuss.

‘Artists Are Brave.’ Artists are Cowards. Artists are humans like everybody else, but not like robots, because robots cannot be brave but they can give you the correct change 99.9999999999999999999% of the time.

‘To Create One’s World In Any Of The Arts Takes Courage,’ Georgia O’Keefe. It also takes lots of higher-case lettering.

‘Psychological courage is needed to stand up and express your feeling and ideas in public.’ I thought all that was needed was a few drinks and a Karaoke machine.

‘The Most Courageous Act Is Still To Think For Yourself Aloud,’ Coco Chanel. No comment.

‘The soul should always stand ajar, ready to welcome the ecstatic experience,’ Emily Dickinson. God knows.

‘Creativity does not exist in isolation. [eg] There would be no Sistine Chapel ceiling if it hadn’t been for the dogged persistence of Pope Julius II.’ There would have been no David Cameron without Mrs Cameron and her dogged persistence with Mr Cameron. They should have stuck to touching fingertips together.  Cor blimey. Wipe clean the slate.

‘Have no fear of perfection, you’ll never reach it,’ Salvador Dali. It’s a bit like a motorway chicane that takes you a little off the main route and you end up back where you started.

‘Creativity gives a voice to democracy and shape to civilisation.’ Please note, conditions apply, minimum income £500 000 per annum.

‘Artists Pause For Thought.’ We’re waiting.

‘When Artists Sit Down In Their Chair They Stop Being The Creator And Turn Into A Critic.’ I don’t mind that, just as long as they’re not Ranger’s supporters.

‘Art is not about itself, but the attention we bring to it,’ Marcel Duchamp. Voila, here are my thoughts!

‘All Schools Should Be Art Schools.’ So we can shut them down quicker and subsidise the good old Tory boys that know how to get things done? No surprise that the revelation that a young Cameron put his penis in a pig’s mouth got the most publicity. No great reveal that he didn’t give a toss about educating the poorer plebs. Yes sir, I can boogie.

‘Art School teaches you how to think NOT what to think.’ Really? I was just thinking that. I’m psychic and can spend spoons. Hire me please, I’ll not play with your cutlery.

‘Why did Damien Hirst blossom at art college and not before?’  I’ve read the answer a few times and I’m still not convinced.

‘Could it be that students learn what great minds achieved, but not always the far more valuable lesson of how they did it?’

I must admit I prefer the penis in the pig’s mouth answer.

‘Maybe rewarding New and Interesting rather than Right or Wrong would help develop more of the skills needed for a creative economy.’ Maybe it wouldn’t. Maybe some of my Wrong answers were New and Interesting. Please send cash.

‘Creativity is contagious, pass it on,’ Albert Einstein. Never argue with Uncle Albert. More tea, vicar?

‘Every child is an artist, the problem is staying an artist when you grow up,’ Pablo Picasso. The problem Pablo is we have the wrong kind of children.  Poor children as we know become poor adults. Poor children cannot afford to dream.

‘A Final Thought.’

‘You can’t wait for inspiration you have to go after it with a club,’ Jack London. Might have known, London gets all the resources and now they’re offering advice.

‘The Main Thing is to be moved, to Love, to Hope, to Tremble, to Live,’ Auguste Rodin. I’m not moving to London and that’s that.

If you’ve read this far I’ve just saved you a tenner. Slip me a fiver and we’ll call it quits?