Sunshine, Meat & Fermented Fruit

Barbeque season is officially upon us my friends. Let the cider flow and the charcoals burn!

Just Noticed

Our eyes droop.
We lay down.
We fall asleep.

There's a lot of downward motion involved at the end of the day.

Ploughing the Darker Places...

...of my memory. Get your mind out of the gutter!

I'm feeling particularly lazy at the moment, what with it being Friday and all, so I took some time out of my busy schedule (those channels aren't going to changed themselves) to travel backwards in time. Upon returning to the present I managed to bring two little rhymes I concoted not so long ago.


The first was a little something to help pass the time at work as well as a jab at the many friends I know who finish in the late afternoon.

I never understood, or as much as I could,
Why Wednesdays were so slow.
They stretch on so long and it's ever so wrong,
When home is where I wish to go.
But ever so soon it will be past noon,
So my hope, it begins to grow.
Because when the clock strikes 3, home is where I'll be.
You're jealous. Don't worry, I know.


The second comes with a little more background however. I mentioned in an earlier post about a rhyme I done did that was brought on by the seedy discovery of a certain street name. Throughout the country there exist streets called Grape Lane (and others of similar title, but they ruin the story). The one I'm most familiar with is in York, that old viking city of aged buildings and a cracking night out if I do say so myself. An innocent name if there ever was one, Grape Lane was named for something far from innocent.
Back in the middle ages (when bread were bread) many or most streets were named after the function or business that it served. Now you're thinking "So it had grape sellers, big deal," but this is where the fun part starts. Obviously a lot of time has passed since the heady days of peasantry and cholera (though replaced with unemployment and STDs) and as such names changed as well. Well this street was beleived to harbor that most ancient of businesses; prostitution. Yes often the busiest part of a town or city, ye olde red lighte district went by the not-so-subtle name of Gropecunt Lane. I don't think I need to eplxain anymore of the etymology than that. York isn't the only one, far from it. Many names have changed with the attitudes to Grove Lane, the more obvious Grope Lane and some altered altogether to places like Magpie Lane, a street quite familiar to those who have visited Oxford. And how did I get a poem out of this? I'm glad you asked!
Upon sharing this delicious morsel of trivia with facebook, a good friend of mine commented with the following:

"If we were in the middle ages, that's where you'd find me."

This got my creative forge working overtime and the result was a story of time-travel, debauchery and a life lesson. Enjoy.

Damien Allen, one Panama Jack,
Travelled backwards in time through a temporal crack.
Seeketh he did the Gropecunt Lane,
Where acts are performed that are quite profane.
There he did spy one with a mighty stack
And shouted "Alright pet, will you play with my sack?"
Off they did wander into an alley quite dark,
When he let out scream alarmingly stark.
Her teeth were black (those few that remained),
And her dress appeared as something quite stained.
With haste he did flee back to his time,
Where whores were cleaner with not so much grime.
Now the lesson is clear but at which some may scoff;
Use classier whores or it just might fall off.


Now you can put your mind back in the gutter. Comfort zones and all that jazz.

Bustin' of Moves: A Tale of Joy

Two posts in 24 hours. I must have hit my head or something, right? Wrong! (I just picture Kevin Spacey doing that every time). After yesterdays post I did a little bit of exploration of the blogger dashboard. It seems in my absence a couple of new features were added and one of them caught my tired eyes. Stats.

Back in the day when I was a scamp (about 6/7 years ago really) and revelling in the glory of 6th form, I was made to study statistics and loathed it. The stats I discovered yesterday though managed to put me in a good mood for the remainder of the day. For all my whining and self pitying about how no one visits my piece of the internet, it shocked me to see that my stats for traffic were considerably higher than I even thought possible. Sure, they're low by most standards. Yes, a fair portion have to be down to bad clicks and passers-by. Does that bother me? Like hell it does!
All the more surprising was the fact that my review of Lights' Acoustic record received the most traffic. Then it hit me. As my number of posts dwindled, so did my traffic. The graph only showing large peaks with relevant posts i.e. not me saying "oh hey I'm still here blah blah blah". So now I feel the urge to post more, to renew my babbling of tripe and nonsense. Perhaps with more tailored writing...though probably not. Look out internet; Kabamf is back!

As for the effect these revelations had on me? I was in such a good mood that I danced around my kitchen just for the hell of it and sang aloud without a care. I busted some moves. Young MC would be proud!

On Spontaneous Prose and Imp Theft

My own birthday seems little more than a few weeks ago and yet it has been about 6/7 weeks since that post. Somewhere a small imp-like creature is hoarding this lost time, caressing each flask with glee before placing it on the shelf with the others. You know the one; the shelf above the boxes of lost socks. That shelf. To what ends I'll never know.

In my absence (read: neglect) of this blog there have been moments of creativity. Quicksilver flashes of wit and rhyme that come and go without warning. I'm never quite sure if they're for my benefit however, or for those living in that magical font of social knowledge we call Facebook. A status post here a comment there is where my childish rhymes have taken residence of late. And like a good little vanity devil I've relished the attention they garner (I'm not that much of an attention whore, but who doesn't like positive feedback on their efforts?).
A Poem about wanting to leave work for the day. A quasi-sonnet detailing a friend's adventure to the middle ages in search some good ol'fashioned lovin'. The latter of which surprised even me in it's cleverness, which came about after stumbling upon the true origin of areas called Grape Lane. A raunchy origin story if there ever was one. All that and some quick four liners for funsies.
All in all, quite productive compared to my imagination dry spell of recent times.

Now I turn my scrambled mind towards greater endeavours. A journey out of whimsy and into reality. My oft spoken of but never acted upon hypothetical tour of the homeland. 24 years and this country is no better known to me than the metric system is to the USA. It will be short and sweet (thank you full-time employment...) but littered with friends as I intend to visit old and new in their respective towns and cities. And grab free digs in the process. Ha ha! Yes, a grand adventure it will be. From North to South, and every which way I can. London, Birmingham, Nottingham, Oxford/Cambridge (I always forget where he lives). These cities will harbour my good self before throwing me to the rails to be loosed upon another hive of activity. All that remains is to turn it from a thought into a reality...

...I may need a bigger cup of coffee for this one.