Life and War with Mikey Fatboy Delgado

Jul 27

life and war

from…
Life and War with Mikey Fatboy Delgado

What is it with those people who live over there? We were saying down the pub last night that the problem over there is that it’s too hot, mate. It’s like when you’re on holiday in Spain and you sit on the beach all day necking bottles of that San Miguel. It does send you a bit loopy and, be fair, we’re only over there for a couple of weeks. Imagine if we were in the sun all the time like those Iraqi lads, we’d be as potty as they are.  And it’s not just Iraq, it’s the whole area. It’s like going south of the river at the weekend. Those Israelis had to chop some more of the Arabs living in their country tonight for taking the piss after they’ve been told to simmer down. Anymore pissing about and we’ll chop the lot of you. Kill one of ours and we’ll do fifty of yours. You can’t fault that can you? They don’t fuck about, those Israeli lads. It’s like they’ve been taking lessons from Davey Ribnecklace Gallagher. Step on their feet at the bar and they’ll have your fucking legs off, mate.

——


Jun 20

the afternoon’s incessant chatter





Fanatics discuss matches in memory
and Marjorie watches the football float slowly
across the pale blue eggshell of sky,
above the straining hearts of the hand-holding lovers,
past the tightened throats of stranded defenders
betrayed and adrift in no man’s land.

Marjorie talks to herself about how the ball
never came down, about how in the time
it takes to light a cigarette it has transmogrified
into a dark bird, with a delta, and swift,
and has ascended above the stadium’s rim,
fleeing the afternoon’s incessant chatter.
Marjorie holds her hand flat across her brow
to block the glare, to see the bird buffeted into tumbling
by the frenzied air, like sweet papers, like a cellophane bird
in the wake of a train. The ball itself, but for its plotted line,
barely registers. It skips the way a flat stone might skim
above a green smooth ocean after leaving the arm
of a boy on the shore. The body of the crowd,
a raucous channel packed with boats bobbing at anchor,
in slow motion twists and gasps to see
the same ball do the same thing again and again .

At half-time talk is of the shadow of the stadium roof,
of how it leaves one small oval of the crowd golden
in the last light cast at sunset. Marjorie imagines
hearing him speak of how in the language
of the heavily-armed state the word for ball
is the word for bullet, and how the poor deserve
their misery. The striker – “he’s gone down
like Capa’s militiaman for a penalty” -
holds their attention instead. No-one links
the shot of the dead ball specialist rebounding
from the marshalled wall, and the fusillade
which felled the puppet emperor Ferdinand
as he held the hand of his white-shirted general.
 

————-

spain v spain (Cerro Muriano, Sept 1936)

mexico v mexico (June 1867)


Jun 13

from Life and War with Mikey Fatboy Delgado

Bush flies onto that aircraft carrier all dressed up like some fucker out of Top Gun, only with Bush he just looks like the back end of a fucking pantomime horse in all that gear, mate. He’s a scream. You can’t help finding him comical. Not like old Blair. And the geezer on the BBC news made us laugh when he was commentating on it and he said that Bush did his national service by flying round Texas a couple of times and then ducking out of going to Vietnam.

I like Bush when he’s making his speeches. He’s a scream. He’s like a cheeky little kid. He always looks like there’s some fucker behind him tickling his arse with a feather. He looks like he wants to burst out laughing at the crap those bods have written for him to tell the American people. Not like Blair. Blair looks like he doesn’t think anyone’s going to swallow what he’s got to say but his eyes are bulging and his arms are flapping about because he really wants them to. “I say this to you..” or “I want to make this perfectly fucking clear..” and crap like that. And Blair just looks fucking stupid when his people slap a guitar in his hand and try and make him look a cool fella for the young people to get into. He just looks like an area manager for British Home Stores in a grey suit holding a guitar. Shape up, Tony, for fuck’s sake.

But that speech old Bush gave on that ship was funny as fuck, mate. That guff about freedom and darkness and captives and light. He looked like he wanted to fall over side ways. He’d be much happier telling it straight. “These motherfuckers fronted us up so we bombed the shit out of them. Did we get the right ones? I don’t know, but if we didn’t we’ll bomb the fuck out of them till they learn who’s the fucking daddy. God Bless America.”


Jun 1

A confession at line 16

`

Maybe that’s when you know you’re old,
when they turn to you when another kid
goes missing, and they turn to you
when the manhunt is on the tv news
and you see the hedges being beaten and
parted with long sticks, and you look intently
at everyone you can see at the scene, and everyone
in all the photos they show of all the other scenes
in the missing girl’s or boy’s life, and maybe
there’s a fat guy or a tall guy or a woman smoking
a cigarette so hungrily, and people say to me
 “do you think they did it?”  and sometimes I do
or sometimes I don’t, or someone else in the montage
of scenes appears more than once and even
on a still photo has an air about them
above and beyond that of mere pose.

The intensity of what it is to be human is somehow
evidently leaking from them, something
has become disabled, some protective function,
and despite the voluntary unspoken pact never
to speak of such things – for what good would it do –
medical treatments get sold. But all that aside,
that trait didn’t make someone guilty of visiting
 an ultimate brutality on another and anyway,
my success rate from the armchair was pretty good,
I’d say. No character type is immune
 from exercising savagery. And with suspicions
 comes discussion, extrapolation, escalation.

 It could be that I felt weary because as I watched the sticks
 beating the bushes I just didn’t care who did it. I was doing
 my best not to think about it at all. I no longer wanted
to discuss stuff like this, no more than I wanted
 to make a case for Easton Ellis having surely had
to retreat into an intense interior life for quite some time
in order to bring back what Bateman liked to do in detail,
and questions of whether this interior would have been
hugely sexual, or anyway masturbatory. I’m not a theorist.

But you, reader, know how this is. You have found yourself
talking about Neruda again. You are hoping by the end
she will love If You Forget Me but know too that she
will forget you and you will forget her.
You will heal of each other and recede
to scar tissue which is fine and pale and still,
even after the sun. No one has a body
like hers, her map of psychic wounds. Crossed swords
everywhere, the arrowheads to the heart, the broken snapped
arrow shafts like porcupine spears. She may know
you are plotting again when  you
hear your own voice asking her if
she’s read him, that man, Neruda.

 We’ve all done it, surely, lived these odes
where the thing is one day, two things.
I forgot where I lived, even the name of the town.
Maybe that’s when you know you’re old,
even when they are looking for missing people,
even when she rang and talked about her boyfriend,
even when there were cities I wanted to see
for some sort of beauty I imagined existed there,
even when those intelligent guessers say that they
have discovered the start of something,
even with my knuckles white on the steering wheel,
I would go to the woods and stand naked and still
among the trees, hoping someone would see me


May 19
A Companion Reader to The Chilcot ReportCan’t wait for the Chilcot Report? Read the Unofficial Appendix while you wait. A snapshot of the state of the nation back then.
The more things change, the more they stay the same.
Amazon.co.uk £7.99 The Book Depository £7.99, includes free delivery worldwide Before Hutton, before Butler, before Chilcot,Mikey Fatboy Delgado was looking into the matter… In the spring of 2003 the Iraq war is underway andMikey is almost all in favour of it. It makes for goodtelevision and is improving his sex life. If only the BBCwould sort out those green pictures of fighting in thedark he might even be prepared to cough up for a licence.And if only corrupt policing and the amount that Blair grinsweren’t so unsettling he would be able to relax and enjoywatching the highlights of the fighting more. ***************“Saddam has bitten the kids and pissed onthe mat and eaten our ganja and he won’tstop fucking barking, so bosh, ta-ta, thanksfor all the fish, and fucking goodnight Irene.Your services are no longer required, Saddam.You are going up the motorway, pal.”***********************

A Companion Reader to The Chilcot Report


Can’t wait for the Chilcot Report?

Read the Unofficial Appendix while you wait.
A snapshot of the state of the nation back then.

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Amazon.co.uk £7.99
The Book Depository £7.99, includes free delivery worldwide

Before Hutton, before Butler, before Chilcot,
Mikey Fatboy Delgado was looking into the matter…
In the spring of 2003 the Iraq war is underway and
Mikey is almost all in favour of it. It makes for good
television and is improving his sex life. If only the BBC
would sort out those green pictures of fighting in the
dark he might even be prepared to cough up for a licence.
And if only corrupt policing and the amount that Blair grins
weren’t so unsettling he would be able to relax and enjoy
watching the highlights of the fighting more.
***************

“Saddam has bitten the kids and pissed on
the mat and eaten our ganja and he won’t
stop fucking barking, so bosh, ta-ta, thanks
for all the fish, and fucking goodnight Irene.
Your services are no longer required, Saddam.
You are going up the motorway, pal.”


***********************


May 2

 andrea and xtina elegant crooning

.


Apr 28

unreleased young lana


Apr 22

paolo and chaplin whipping up a storm


Apr 21
reading….
This year’s anthology of short stories from the Willesden Herald International Short Story Prize. Stories from  Jo Barker Scott, Joan Brennan, Gina Challen, Nick Holdstock, CG Menon, Dan Powell, Angela Sherlock, Megan Taylor, Medina Tenour Whiteman, Lindsay Waller-Wilkinson.

——

reading….

This year’s anthology of short stories from the Willesden Herald International Short Story Prize. Stories from  Jo Barker Scott, Joan Brennan, Gina Challen, Nick Holdstock, CG Menon, Dan Powell, Angela Sherlock, Megan Taylor, Medina Tenour Whiteman, Lindsay Waller-Wilkinson.

——


Apr 17

That winter

That winter the cows would surround us
in the darkness, feeling like omens
against our fearful skins, fat tongues unrolling
to taste us, fermented straw-mist on their breaths
and ours, them coming through the thick mists
on our hillside, us across fields returning
to the cottage from drowning our terror.
Sometimes on no-moon nights the jigsaws
of their hides appeared so quietly from the dark
there was almost no time to scream and scream
as they bumped and pushed us from their peace.
Now they are long dead. Still their generations
do the same. Their children know us, harry us.

—-


Apr 3
uptown localmfd

uptown local
mfd


Apr 1
berryman’s bookmfd

—

berryman’s book
mfd


Mar 31
start the day wellmfd
—

start the day well
mfd


Mar 30
charing cross road
mfd
—-

charing cross road

mfd

—-


Mar 29
kettle’s yard
mfd

kettle’s yard

mfd


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