Leigh and Rodney discuss pollution, transgender, war and much more, come and join in.

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#transgender #NHS #pollution #Ukraine

Another piece by surrealist Eric Lastick … touches of Burroughs and even Cohen are beginning to appear in his unusual work

 THE TWO SIDED CHAMPAGNE GLASS, AS THE NIGHT SHAPES RIGHT INTO THE NEXT CALENDAR YEAR… Alone on new years eve.. an O’L Rocker’s look-about, attempting to find the key between the ivories & the sharps.  ( A Champagne glass half full) In juxtaposion of a lonely female escort in a crowded bar—looking for an escape route, this new years eve—with her glass nearly empty—too a refill of shallow tomorrows!

(Glass half empty) 

  Jacolyn Rose Strumpet, tonight my love…shadow smiles & miles of dream’t up goings in her mind’s eye. Dark Mister, make way, this day. Large ambitions, yet rambling’s in one’s uncertain skews and reasons. Brake the glass of ice filled Scotch that rest just under his chin. “Is this real or a figment of the restless night of happen-place… and of boredom?” The lonely Martini of just one green olive. One umbrella twist…and one last drink, before all goes through the lone of night. Tie swing like the wild. The all out charm—-comes a man from the night air. No, not a Mickey Spillane, noir spoiled great crime swagger…and gloted column…bar girl Strumpet too meet? No Humphrey Buggard,  glad to light her cigarette… & a call of another round for the lady? No, but rather a flagrant picture that extend the wall …and glare back down, after to many 7 & 7’s. Ms Strumpet, and Lady of the night, this New years eve. Confusion in what is real, and what of dreams? Night aires and holiday myths— mind her store. Search an early escape hatch…be her blunder. Street vent sided fate’s call. Early bird wake up call, officer of the law. No way for a lady to spend a brand new calender year—-with her glass nearly empty—-too a refill of shallow tomorrows. Family fun and dinner bells stretches— all along the Londondery square. Anxious shoppers and home makers—-scurry and rush like bus loads of fruits and assorted spice runs—-out-weigh the bustle of the double deckers. Beatle music on the loud speakers, speak easys. Jacolyn Rose Strumpet views from inside a local withholding cell… with a concellation of a window view of olde London new years day streamers. Sir Paul’s rest stop by a doorman’s hold of breakfast on a hardy cup of tea. Mr, Paul with O’L Penny lane eyes—-stares through the angered glares—-with connetive repetitives glances…sights and sees of Ms Strumpet. Yet this is no dream! Her chance to escort anyone of this calibor, or any calibor at all; is set on hold. As all her slaps on the faces of her charming but crazy date partners, returns ten fold…and right back on her! Now, a pawned picture of a midnight stab, here at booths of 7 & 7 bottled dream. 

Roger, O’l Chap. Grand Rocker and high end music melody maker. Seat set alone, this new years evening. A glass you drink, as one lean and stretch of table. Corner glare through the shades of soft light; with thoughts of the company of words; there in riches, as of friends in good found circles that one addressess, better to senders. Restless are the gravel roads of old souls. An acquaintance drift in mind. Light up a smoke, as you watch,and it lingers. Good moves off bare chords and blues.The Champagne glass remain hardy and half full. Stay strung the memory. The tone of every good day’s done. Cars glances and shffles through this window you roll. In thought and in venture—too another rev-up, and peel out in that moment, like a new wheeled spin…blacktop fire of our old buddies devices…and of Thundercats…layin rubber—too the rye & call of the streets. Endless memoirs and silver linings. Signs set at every door. New age, old age—-reliving as one sits…the table swags in jukebox honor. Clear are the causes, the good friends to have, and still know. Raise a glass to them all in this moment…and at this very time; and know of the depth and character, you and they have built. You then, are never alone. Now you own the key between the ivories and the sharps. So good to be home.

If you are interested in politics, corporate crime and how the world looks at humanity, join Leigh and Rodney – the filmmaker and the journalist – every week! It veers from left to right and coruscates the middle with wit, aplomb and an innate understanding of the iniquities of our society today!

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The Gentlemen Ranters, fiery Rodney Hearth and Leigh ‘Fallen-by-the-Wayside’ Banks are outraged at the way the world is going – Putin’s folly, Sunak’s simpering, Hancock’s jungle excesses and the world’s biggest Bankers…it’s Outrageous!

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So, we turned down a flooded dirt road with our limousine rocking and creaking like a galleon … we could see our rented house right out there in the distance. It was like a giant liner anchored in a dark sea.

Andrea was driving and I was listening to the One Who Lives Too Far Away and thinking about my wild daughter out in Oz. She is a blizzard of traumas and catastrophes (a tree fell on her car only a few days ago). But she is Mancunian tough and full of bloody determination.

The dirt road was a phantom of mist, trees and black yawning potholes. But the dirty rain coming off the fields was real.

I had the window open to let the thick hot smoke out and let the freezing night air in.

It was just like the old days when I first washed up in the Village of the Damned, 50 miles further into Shropshire and met its dark denizens.

Yep, a good dark spooky night in the heated seats of my battered limo, a reefer fizzing like a cheap firework between my knuckles and a beautiful woman by my side.

Sad songs on the radio.

That big bright ship of a renovated farmhouse ahead was only going to be a place to lay our heads for a couple of months but it undeniably felt like going home right now.

Just for a while.

It has been a long, long trip.

#middletonscriven #bridgenorth #shropshire #farmhouse #rupertscottage #holiday #winter

Leigh and Rodney get down to the nitty-gritty as they answer calls to become more hard-hitting and outrageous. What do you think? let’s keep breaking down barriers.

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#radio #news #donkey #carrot #marbella #banks #putin #hancock #celebrity #coronationstreet #antanddec

Andrew Brel is a creative chameleon… a musician, an LA session man and a music producer.

He is also a travelling man and a campaigner against draconian family laws.

But Andrew is also a purveyor of fiction and a consummate narrator.

And it is these two talents we are focussing on.

Yep, like us all Andrew is old enough to have been through the milling machines, and like most of us, he has been left battered, bloodied, stark-bollock naked, broke and cheated by love and law.

All this comes out in his lightly accented voice and in his writing in a new audio book, One Day in Paris.

His experiences give cadence and depth to his tale of adventure, politics, love and deceit.

Originally from South Africa, Andrew washed up in LA after building – then helping to demolish – a family and a life in the heady musical thump of 80s and 90s London.

Yep,  he lost so many things, a partner, his Thame-side  home and contact with his little boy.

Licking his wounds Andrew fled to Tinseltown.

Since then he has privately published e-books, a number on the heartbreak of PA, a syndrome where the parent with ‘custody’ deliberately turns a child against the parent forced to hit the road.

But here, in his novel (hear it on Audible) Andrew is living in another world, under another name.

Yet you can still feel the rush and reality of our man’s emotion and confusion.

Andrew’s is a book sitting somewhere between Mettle of Woomara, Heart of the Hunter and Killing Eve.

One Day in Paris focuses on a year in the life of Dan Blake.

Blake’s career in the British Army comes to an end because of a psychiatric evaluation.

Divorced and jobless, a chance meeting in Moscow with an oil billionaire leads to an opportunity to earn again. But Blake has to go up against the world’s leading security agencies.

Failure means death.

Success though means membership of a secret super elite.

It’s not a world-changing concept, but a good read – or listen – is exactly what One Night in Paris is.

It was like a painting out there.

An Edward Hopper, but with people … security guards, revellers, drunks, grifters, barkers, all peddling and paddling through this liquid night.

Neons and cafe lights have become vivid blotches in the rain.

The theatre lights flicker and go out.

Hull – around its glassy grey brutal Bonus Theatre at least – is grid-locked.

And stuck inside of it all are Bob Dylan’s tour buses which should be eating up the 90 miles to his next date in Nottingham.

It was a strange feeling out there.

Bob could be in one of those buses flouncing his ‘bouffant’ and being Mr Cool despite being ’crabbed’ tonight by what looks like a very bad back indeed.

But nobody on these Humberside back streets was humping for piggybacks to peak through his swag-n-tail caravan curtains.., nobody was hammering on the flimsy vinyl wrap doors either …no girls screamed Bob and took bouncy selfies hoping he might stumble in to one.

What is going on?

Is it the rain?

Is it City-of-Culture’s pseudo cool?

Or is it just our pink-robot society’s disinterest?

One of the world’s most enduring and diverse geniuses is stuck on a bus in traffic in Hull! People should be mobbing his buses and snapping at the air with their plastic crocodiles!

Then it hit me …

Bob’s not actually there, not on that bus, not in the rain … he is the real gone kid now.

Yes, his one foot remains, still firmly, in our moribund world. But the other remains on that train.

No. at 81 he is the lost youth of every generation people as old as I am can remember.

And now everything he performs telegraphs a sense of urgency, like a perfect last waltz or an elegant swan song.

Bob surely lives in his own brilliant world inside an old-time music hall filled with growling riverboat captains, tough cowboys, snarling murderers, ghosts of lost loves. There’s blood and redemption in his world still, mountains and streams, iron ore smoke and stormy flatlands.

Thank God Bobstill lives inshadowy kingdoms.

At least one hundred times a year though, Bob opens his flashy gates to the public and we rush on in.

And we know as we step through, we’ll be greeted by this gruff old man hiding behind an upright piano and bashing out lost chords like Jerry Lee on Monad.

You know, sometimes Bob’s tousled head is like a glove puppet performing a strange dance on the lid of his piano. The head howls and whoops, sneers, leers and grins like the Joker he is.

Yep, the image is bizarre, comically grotesque – but there has always been the grotesque in Bob’s world. Always.

Tonight in Hull his band rocked slowly in stringy gravity against the honey glow of the set.

The music was blue, different, old-timey. Yet brand new…

But on a rainynight like this in Hull Bob revealed himself completely only twice. And for less than 10 seconds at a time.

He was dressed to the nines but he barely got his fist to his hip before he retreated back behind the piano. At that moment Bob Dylan looked more vulnerable than Blood on the Tracks.

Yet he still had the air of a young Jack of Hearts with all the winning cards.

He was singing beautifully too, rolling dark clouds, skidding up and down his own forked lightning, a bird careening across the storm, coyote desert howl.

Every voice he has ever had is still there and he is using them all.

And all the time there’s that rocking and rolling boat of splintered notes, a cacophony of keyboard symbols and aural hieroglyphics. It’s the essence of his wild mercurial sound…

When Dylan opens his creaking gates and lets us in, all of history, the history of Americana and music is on display for us to commune with.

And the emaciated curator in too big a shiny suit and pointy boots tells his stories of betrayal and loss with dignity, skill, passion and romance.

Dylan might not be wildly mercurial any more but he is pure solid gold.

As the last owls and hoots of his harmonica faded, the lights went out.

So, we waited – cheered and roared for a couple of roadies by mistake – watched the colour and life drain out of the stage, turning it cold and skeletal.

Reluctantly, we joined the long cattle queues to reclaim our phones and our very own digital world. It blinged and whistled all around, a whole new cacophony, false and thoughtless.

Then we wandered out, plastic pinned to our ears, no jolly chats between strangers about how brilliant Dylan was. No interaction at all. We’ve all got our own worlds pinned to our ears now. Everything is back to normal, heads down in the rain, buds in our ears, reading the glassy glow in hand…

What does it matter that Bob Dylan might be stuck in a traffic jam in inclement weather in the back streets of Hull.

And it looks like he’s got a bad back…

Things have changed, huh.

Thanks to Luke and Victoria for arranging this night…

https://leighgbankspreservationsociety.blog/?s=dylan

https://leighgbankspreservationsociety.blog/?s=dylan

#dylan #bobdylan #hull #bonustheatre #humberside #roughandrowdy

What is going on in the world! Leigh is out-thunk by a 6 year old and Rodney is grumpy about politics war and everything else!

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#power #utilitybills #children #schools #politics

To many he was the real King. To others he was the real devil of rock’n’roll.

Good on ya, Jerry.

RIP

#JERRYLEELEWIS