The final resting place for Mohamed Al Fayed is a burial chamber next to that of his son in a mausoleum metaphorically guarded by statues of lions and sphinxes. It stands close to his home on his 226-acre Surrey estate.
The mausoleum is a simple wooden pergola with 12 wooden supporting pillars and a stone floor. It stands across a stream a few minutes’ walk from the 17th Century family home.
Four continuous candles surround the grave of Dodi, who was killed alongside Princess Diana in a Paris car crash 26 years ago. Al Fayed, who never managed to capture the hearts of the UK’s ruling classes was 94 when he died and was buried two days later.
The former owner of Harrods passed away on the eve of the anniversary of Dodi and Princess Diana’s death.
There was not a single dignitary at his funeral, not even the Egyptian ambassador.
Dylan’s stately Highlands home is caught in Britain’s financial crisis, putting his £3m asking price in jeopardy.
The historic estate with landscaped grounds has been his and his brother’s for more than a decade and was described as a bolt hole.
It isn’t, it is a beautiful part of Highlands history set against forest, mountains and lakes. Aultmore House is an Edwardian Country manor in the village of Nethy Bridge in the Cairngorm National Park.
Bob bought it in 2006 with his younger brother, David, for £2.2 million ($2.8 million).
Sadly, the pandemic kept them both away from the magnificent mansion for a long time.
Tom Stewart-Moore of Knight Frank, which is handling the sale, said: “Up until about pre-Covid times, Bob and his brother would normally go there for a few weeks a year.They bought it because it’s stunningly beautiful and most importantly, very, very private.”
You get to the house by a tree-lined driveway and it has16 bedrooms with garden views,11 bathrooms, four reception rooms, music room.
The Zimmerman brothers did the place up too, rewiring, putting in new heating and water systems – but they kept loads of period details, including an entry hall with a limestone staircase with a wrought iron and wooden balustrade.
Surrounding the home are 25 acres of gardens dotted with statues, fountains, and stone gazebos. And there are three cottages.
Magnificent house like Bob’s usually survive in a housing crisis, but the knock-on of money becoming more expensive, local taxes rise and just the general running day-to-day slow things down.
UK house prices have fallen 5.3 per cent in the last year, according to Nationwide’s August house price index – the biggest drop reported since 2009.
HIGHLIGHTER GLARES AND TRIPPED-OUT SPLIT IMAGES OF WHAT IT MEANS TO BE, ‘BEATLE’
Being a Beatle from all the trails…the runs of development of style…the beat…the coffee houses, Jazz clubs…the night spots along the French cafes…The jingling of jewels of the Hierarchy of English tone…and tarnished souls…They, the Beatles, British Liverpoolian pop sensations were and are, just what we all had been waiting for…whether subconsciously or abruptly, ”There they came” Board the plane clear over the pond.
(PRIOR)
The early 1960s in America. A stagnation of culture and of teen idols…and the after effects of the loss of Buddy Holly to it’s Rock ‘n’ roll culture as a whole. Buddy’s plane, in metaphor…drove us completely off the skids…and a separation of the youth movement–drawing forward, yet killed that very day along with the tragic loss of the Big Bopper…and Richie Valens! Then the explosion—and what was essentially needed; ”Meet the Beatles” Fresh off the presses..and Shea Stadium. They maximized and culturized the whole rock genre like never before…and never again! The Rolling Stones also had the magic…but with it came a dark side that which never quite energizes—like the power of love! These Beatles set in fashion…& it’s timing that was extraordinary…leading to the likes and genius of Brain Wilson of the Beach Boys. He quested forward motioned…attempting in futility to a level of masterful song-smith to these levels, though close, with the fantastic Pet Sounds LP. Yet these magical power of the Beates album ”Rubber Soul”. Songs that blend one to one another—with such eloquence…style and mastery. Making each musical group of that era try and better themselves, as rightly grade (A) lyrics they did! The Beatles were the mainstay fortified, in the Kingdom of the rock genre as a whole. Nothing short of trend setting wizardry! Our hell hound ride of our existences…though they made it smoother, in all the abominations and cruelties of that day. They opened our mind. Woke our brains.They taught us love, removes of hate.Their early breakup on ”The White Album” using other session players…cutting songs, individually. A Time piece read…68′ The hellish fortuitous of a false guru…the death of their manager…the shame of a nation in the Americas…and that of war…the glorious buck. Criminal be of the works…mess held high thee industrial. Yet a culture saved by four creative Englishmen …rightful and a day…a time and place of the 60’s. Their is this walk of fame, so clear cut…so real, but greater than the Abby Rd’s…Swan song teachings. The panache…and rightful between the ears of what brought the 1970’s…Timescales of our earth like a beacon…substantial to culture…the political stew, love beads…and free love. So, as i make my way to ”The Time Capsule” which will go on forever. Always the place of the prize…and the prize is all of us!
TO WHOM WALK THE ABBEY ROAD: O’l flattop bare the blacktop–smooth. Heaven help ”The Hippie Trace and Tramps” though all those garden parties; and in such English ways…days of that famous walk. Struts and movements, mysteries and mastery of the Abby Road. Grand Guru…rock n roll pilot, Angelic white…John Lennon—-lead the fab four walk in unison.Spoken in verses, tongues…& passage points—too the Tibetan book of the dead. Float down streams—this is not dieing. Ringo undertakes and wakes all the fools on the hill. Reversible ”Paul” (*plural) One and one and one, makes three…Luminous and free, be it, Paul; as to all the songs…and sights of everyone, as one. Friends, family—see as three? Beatle owners of the flower power. ”All you need is love” George takes the shovel with all the conspiracies…& their gloom. Listening to the back reads of vinyl…A diggers guide to you and to me…as George makes the final round-edges of spade, too the depths of the ground. Sergeant Pepper photo shoots of that of Lions…and cardboard cultural icons—looking back down on us all. The ironic next selection on the juke box plays:”I’m so glad…I’m glad, I’m glad…as it’s redundancy…and so went the sixties; with riddles and puzzles that fed ”the Swans!’ A final send off with ”The Beatles” No doubt a very strange and intelligent period, in and out of time.
AS SO GO WITH THE FINAL WALK ALONG THE ABBY ROAD LINE: Bare witness—our world which will never experience quite like this again. And by the way, “Paul lives!”
(POST BEATLES) HARRISON’S MUCH FOUNDED JOURNEY OF TRUE HOME…PAUL TRUES UP A NEW SOUND BOOK…JOHN LENNON ONE FINAL BINGE WEEKEND WITH OLD BUDDY, HARRY NEILSSON…AND MAY PANG CARE PACKAGE FROM YOKO ONO…AS RINGO TAKES A PHOTOGRAPH…
GEORGE HARRISON
George tows the misty and mighty sea-winds of a Northern song…and one final taste of apple struttles family delights…sciffles mightily, his dance thrust—-pasts of ”The Green Meanies” of Mr. Starboard’s Starkey Yellow submarine…while Patty Boyd became ”Layla” of a tight knit friend Eric…his dreamboat and overnight sensation! And to the good book of East Indian Krishna themes and paisley costumed sitar on a star. A lineup in which George in his Sonata and skill set, runneth over the dark horse and it’s wallows…and right back to the free and firth of those dimensional pulls, as this race horse road straight——- in!!!! With or without you.
The salt of tear, the race and winning ticket …match point to the free…as it is not how many pedals, truism or growth per-say, in reaching the best dressed East Indian large—Krishna… setting of sitar gatherers…& of robed enlightens…A psychedelic rounded smooth of touching it’s rightful place…hand held star…as all goes with or without you. All things must pass.
PAUL MCCARTNEY
(A PAUL SONGBOOK TOWARDS THE BETTERMENT OF THE ESTRANGED OF ”THE BEATLE”
Highlighter Scotland air…Paul McCartney…layaway of his own animal farm of love…Wildlife of his very best backyard—pick me up a warm ”Ram” Tighty bull rover– along path… and of Eastman Kodak ways. An actual divorce of the biggest rock band ever! Paul, in multifaceted drum solo of the post Beatles, his roar to the Wings of new heights. Not of a 2nd coming of a British Invasion…but a much more Americanized voice and commercially appealing sound. The better rides… and it’s drop off points of heavy amplifiers …The Wisconsin gymnasium floors…acoustic walls and high ceilings…the vertical leaps as if a cliffhanger of holds of Universities and bus rides…bus loads of fun. No love lost of the courtrooms and burning bush, until the next town— gone off all ”the Klaatu rumors”. Beatles sessions in Canadian clues? Circumvented be of the air. thos in the know.
Paul McCartney finding his new niche…and band on the run. Might they come to your town…need be a high school or University swing session. But Paul is no fool on the hill. Bus loads of sound-stage…Denny Lane and Paul’s wife Linda’, Their whole heared dream takes to the American back roads…Homeward’ is a way to the 1970’s new landscapes of higher octaves…and who’s that knock-in on the door? Open and let him in. Let him in.
JOHN LENNON
(THE LOST WEEKEND ON THE LA CIRCUIT WITH HIS BUDDY HARRY NILLSSON)
Nillssson Smillson…open ended go the frills of one’s shortened life, yet so skilled and produced in the eve of the precious pieces of exceptional vocals—which moves—startles of octave wonders in all of the lite brigades…as evening fall too the final sleep…rubs and reunion plagues—in the end and it’s cold of life.Yet what a balance of gifted placements, the silver of the Beatle-ware. Lov of an individual, as Harry and John hang around the LA Circuit and bars,as 2 starboard Clowns—– courted and ‘nurse maid by a Ms May Pang …All going off their rockers; and rollicking by nature of John Lennon and Harry Nillsson…under Yoko’s blessings. 1974 lead to it’s total obscurity …late night undertows —with all the bells and whistles…and torrid twists and dances of May Pang; and one last ditch party of bachelorhood for two restless talents. The chants and drunken self fulfilled riches…luxury luscious corners…the Poole and billiard swings. Punches never pulled. Aim low and dirty, the swingers clubs…the back corner bars. The loud crowd and voices…virtually no one seemed to care…until the very next stunted and shortened swings of fists aimed wrongly…to the overnight cell or padded walls. Depended on one’s point of view.
FIND’S OF MR. ELTON, THE NY STAGE TOO HEIGHTS HIGHER OF THOSE MID LIFE KEYS
The midnight winds, smoke outs and reefers. The Times reviews. See of the stage. Harry Nillsson so welcomed by his old Beatle mates…cookbook languages and linguistics of ”Lime in the coconut” Industry built of rocket-man, woman gone so wild; though heart sunken, heart hereditary short circle of Harry’s rock n roll dream. ”What ever gets you through the night” Sings and duet of Elton and John Lennon, that is—while Harry on the drunken path of heart wines. Avenues are helliacious to those closed off skids. Hang over a beaten path. Yet still, the fun Harry and John had. Ms Pang too. 1974 of flash backs of high billboard wisdom’s. The set…thee beat scene. The ambitions of the party while the night is young. One last time. The best hurrah’s before the big sleep. ”Old Harry, they should name a street or avenue after ya’ boy.The better part of the LA swing surf is a joy but soon runs thin, in the burnout…and falls of the ebb and flow of tides; as now it is time to go back to the Dakota…and get your girl Yoko back in your good graces…as pal Harry slips int next weeks singer sensation…prolong…as best he can…and as long as it will take him.
RINGO TAKES A PHOTOGRAPH
Heart-wrenching is the frozen scenes of time. Golden haired, then…plenty the world of it’s sights and sees. Now a photograph—clear out of time. Whistle blow the fog engine…and all of one’s mind. The conductor in the moment…in the clear. The tracks of ex rows of happiness, holidays bring a bow…a lone set of eyes. These photographs…photo scene like double.”Split images out of the rain”. A pained place in a cold seer room, alone. What’s left is like a theft…a handcuff of watching yesterday’s news. Today how do thee suffer…although the ”Rings” …and all the Beatles which seem to gleam in and out these heated crawled storage’s…have place. They have time to understand…seeing outside the opaques…new glory. A love and fill of my heart to whole. The crescendo builds me a proper…a good memory home. I will go there through the old town-blues…hills and hollers answer like a straw hat driven traveler. A nutshell to open new dreams. New days lie ahead. Home with thanks…giving of one self, this day. I have my photograph. Set in my wallet so neat and so clean. One day soon our hand and arms to touch of a better world…a better place. This photograph live in the young.
#BEAT;ES #JOHNPAULGEORGEANDRINGO
Tragic legacy of Lesley Anne Downey’s lonely trip to a the fair
We should take a few moments to remember Lesley Anne Downey, the young girl kidnapped, raped, murdered and dumped in a shallow grave at Christmas.
If she had been allowed to live, she would have been 69 years old.
The season of goodwill was in full swing in the background – music, laughter and families – but nobody in their right mind could have any goodwill towards Myra Hindley and Ian Brady.
Lesley was just 10-years-old when she was killed by them after they abducted her on Boxing Day 1964 at a fair in Ancoats, Manchester.
The bouffanted blonde and the strutting clothes horse-killer had no human feelings as they took the life of the child.
They even tape–recorded the last moments of her life. The little girl’s voice was full of fear.
“Don’t undress me, will you?” she begged. “I want to see Mummy.”
This recording has haunted police, reporters, lawyers and judges who became involved in bringing justice to the pair.
But it is Lesley’s brother who we must have sympathy for too. Throughout his life he blamed himself for her death.
Terry West, Lesley’s big brother, should have been with her at the fair on the day she was abducted.
Terry said recently: “I should have been with her. It wouldn’t have happened if I’d been with her. I know it wouldn’t have done.”
Terry, was 12 at the time. Why should another child have to carry the guilt of a horror committed by predators of the worst kind?
But he did, he carries that guilt because on the day Lesley disappeared he had felt unwell.
He said: “I told Lesley, ‘If I feel any better, later on, I’ll take you to the fair. But as the day went on I just got worse and I was sniffling and sneezing.”
So, she went by herself, although friends and neighbours who knew her well were already there.
But Lesley didn’t return by 5pm and the family began to worry.
Terry said: “It wasn’t like her. I couldn’t get my head round why she wasn’t back.
By then they knew something had happened.
Terry said: “I should have been with her.”
Between 1963 and 1965 Brady and Hindley murdered five children – Pauline Reade, 16, John Kilbride, 12, Keith Bennett, 12, Lesley and 17-year-old Edward Evans.
***
Another memory, the death of Bob Spiers:
Bob Spiers was an old-fashioned kind of man. Big, bluff and tough.
He had to be, he lived on the streets of Garstang in Lancashire as a beat bobbie.
But at one time people felt that Bob had a ‘spiritual awareness’ about one of the worst series of crimes in the North of England, the Moors Murders.
Certainly it was his dogged determination and single-mindedness that led him to the discovery of Lesley Ann Downey’s body in the rain-soaked peat of the Moors overlooking Saddleworth.
It was a major breakthrough.
Yet, Bob became a bit of ‘forgotten hero’ in his later life. Not forgotten on the streets where he patrolled – but forgotten to the rest of the world.
When he died late last September he warranted barely a mention in the media, only the Garstang newspapers gave him a few paragraphs.
So, I thought we should remember Bob here.
He had only been a police officer for a month and was apparently a bit of an annoyance to his colleagues.
Bob, who was 23 at the time, was up on Saddleworth Moor and was refusing to come down. His colleagues were waiting in vans in the drizzle and were ready to go home.
They’d spent three days on the moors looking for John Kilbride. Bob shouted to them that he was busy ‘answering a call of nature’.
He told reporters many years ago: “It sounds daft but something was drawing me up there. I don’t know why. Why did I go right the way up there? Those moors had been searched the previous day and the day before that. I don’t know what made me stay but something did. Eventually, the sergeant came first and the others followed.
“I said I’ve found something, but nobody wanted to know,” he recalled. “The DS said it was probably a sheep. I said: ‘If that’s a sheep it’s wearing clothes.”
Bob had found a heap of wet clothes.
“Had we not found her then that was it and the search was off. We wouldn’t have found John Kilbride a few days later.”
Bob Spiers was a well-known officer in Garstang. Sadly, he collapsed in the town centre a few weeks ago.
Paramedics and police tried to revive him.
His son Scott said at the time: “Dad is going to be missed by a lot of people. He was so well-known and well-liked in the area. He was the ideal beat bobby because he loved people and loved meeting and talking to people. He loved going into town shopping during the week.”
Had Bob not made his awful discovery, the full extent of Brady and Hindley’s crimes may never have been unearthed. They may have only been charged with the murder of 17-year-old Edward Evans.
Further searches of the moors discovered the bodies of Pauline Reade, 16, and John Kilbride, but the remains of 12-year-old Keith Bennett have never been found.
Dripping with ivy and memories, the early-closing city with style and a certain sadness
A rainy night in Paris is like no other. For one thing most of the back-street bars are shut by 7.30pm. The Left Bank is boarded up and the noise from the road that killed Diana is beginning to cool.
If you listen carefully, you can almost hear the Seine.
There’s something special about Paris at night … even if you can’t get a drink away from the hee-haw of neons inviting you to go broke in posh eateries.
****
I turned my collar up against the cold, took a drag on my cigarette and studied the ancient revolutions in the skyline. It was like high-rise medieval history.
To my right Notre Dame was hunched grotesquely in the dark.
****
Yes, if you really want to find a drink, you can always take a stroll up the Champs Elysees – you can dine with the pretty people for thousands of pounds.
The Champs Elysse is still the place to be seen.
Or you could go to Montmartre and sip a glass of red wine in the Place du Tertre, watching the street artists and the very wealthy go by – but you do have to be very wealthy in these cobbled streets, wine can cost you £50 a glass while somebody makes a fool out of you on a sketch pad.
Perhaps you might be attracted by the gay bars around the George Pompidou Centre – you know, that living breathing arts centre that has all its innards strung around the outside like some camp chainsaw massacre.
****
Actually, come to think of it, there are plenty of places to go for a drink on a rainy Parisian evening. You just need to know your way around, that’s all.
You see, everything is a little bit secret in Paris.
It’s the city of infidelity, intrigue, tragedy … and above all, it is the city of romance.
Take Pere Lachaise. How romantic it must be to be buried there.
It’s a ten minute ride by the Metro, probably the most amazing rail network in Europe. Amazing for its reliability, its cheapness, its cleanliness and its punctuality – not to mention the value-for-money three minute theatres – between stops – by street performers and beggars alike.
These undulating, motorised aisles are also the catwalks for some of the world’s most stylish people.
Pere Lachaise has more gothic dignity than Dracula … and more imprints of the stars per square inch than Hollywood Boulevard.
So many people who were somebody are buried there – Edith Piaf, Victor Hugo, Oscar Wilde … Jim Morrison.
This walled cemetery, dripping with ivy and the memories of our minor gods, probably speaks volumes about Paris. It has an elegance, it has a style and a sadness. It has history and it has a dignified charm.
****
There are lots of bars open in the early morning around the flea market at Saint Ouen where you can buy everything from an over-sized mirror-legged imperial dressing table to a fake lava lamp.
Get there about 5am.
120,000 people go there every weekend – about the same number who visit the Eiffel Tower.
You get off the Metro at Porte de Clingancourt. And you walk.
The road is wide and the sidewalks are untidy in the early morning. The cafes and the bars are bustling – and so are the twenty restaurants that feed the thousands of traders at this, the biggest market in the world.
You can buy anything there. I bought an Imperial mahogany bed with a photocopied provenance that assured me it was nearly one hundred years old. Monsieur Ooelo dutifully had it shipped to Britain for me.
I considered buying an amphibious motorcycle sidecar for another 5,000 francs. It was built in the early 1960s at just about the time Renault literally launched their own amphibious vehicle.
I could have bought a plastic palm tree and enough Tiffany to reglaze every window in my house..
That afternoon was bright and it was breezy.
I felt good as I strolled carelessly near the Moulin Rouge waiting for the matinee at the nearby Theatre of the Macabre to begin. More of the gothic I guess – just a bit bloodier – but then nowhere does the unusual better than Paris.
By the time this traditionally sick freak show finished it was early evening and I started to walk in the rain again, ostensibly looking for a ‘chanson’ bar that was open and offering a little l’mour.
But in reality I just wanted to walk in the rain at night in a city it is so easy to loose yourself in.
#paris #jimmorrison #alcohol
Modern rock’n’roll is fake, says that ol’ crooner called Bob…
Angry young man to protesting pensioner? Or is Dylan spot on about new music?
As he released his third album – this one triple – of grand old American lounge-lizard ballads His Royal Bob-ness attacked new bands, saying they are just fake when it comes to the blues.
He was performing on his 6,000 date Never Ending Tour – this time it was a whistle-stop in Sweden which coincided with the belated presentation of his Nobel Literary Prize at a private ceremony in Stockholm.
In something reminiscent of one of his 1960s ‘truth attacks’, Bob, then aged 75, turned his coruscating wit on bands making a living today.
He said: “Traditional rock ‘n’ roll, we’re talking about that. It’s all about rhythm. Johnny Cash said it best ‘Get rhythm. Get rhythm when you get the blues’.
“Very few rock ‘n’ roll bands today play with rhythm. They don’t know what it is. Rock ‘n’ roll is a combination of blues, and it’s a strange thing made up of two parts. A lot of people don’t know this, but the blues, which is an American music, is not what you think it is. It’s a combination of Arabic violins and Strauss waltzes working it out. But it’s true.
“The other half of rock ‘n’ roll has got to be hillbilly. And that’s a derogatory term, but it ought not to be. Fast cars on dirt roads. That’s the kind of combination that makes up rock ‘n’ roll, and it can’t be cooked up in a science laboratory or a studio.
“You have to have the right kind of rhythm to play this kind of music. If you can’t hardly play the blues, how do you put those other two kinds of music in there? You can fake it, but you can’t really do it.”
Bob’s set list at the Waterfront Theatre in the Swedish capital was liberally sprinkled with Tin Pan Alley standards normally associated with Sinatra and Bing rather than the gravelly-voiced folk rock and country singer, including Autumn Leaves and All or Nothing At All.
But the fact that 30s, 40s and 50s music has become a staple of his act in the last couple of years, it hasn’t stopped him from taking a swipe at some of the most respected song writers in history:
“I didn’t really care what Lieber and Stoller thought of my songs. They didn’t like ’em, but Doc Pomus did. That was all right that Lieber and Stoller didn’t like ’em, because I never liked their songs either. “Yakety yak, don’t talk back.” “Charlie Brown is a clown.
“Baby I’m a hog for you.” Novelty songs. They weren’t saying anything serious. Doc’s songs, they were better. ‘This Magic Moment.’ ‘Lonely Avenue.’ ‘Save the Last Dance for Me.’”
“I just released an album of standards, all the songs usually done by Michael Buble, Harry Connick Jr., maybe Brian Wilson’s done a couple, Linda Ronstadt done ’em. But the reviews of their records are different than the reviews of my record.
“In their reviews no one says anything. In my reviews, they’ve got to look under every stone when it comes to me. They’ve got to mention all the songwriters’ names. Well that’s OK with me. After all, they’re great songwriters and these are standards.
“I’ve seen the reviews come in, and they’ll mention all the songwriters in half the review, as if everybody knows them. Nobody’s heard of them, not in this time, anyway. Buddy Kaye, Cy Coleman, Carolyn Leigh, to name a few.”
Bob’s bad-tempered but hilarious rant came hot on the heels of his attack on people who have been saying for decades that the man who has sold more than 100 million records simply can’t sing.
His Royal Bobness of Dylan ranted: “Critics have been giving me a hard time since Day One. Critics say I can’t sing. I croak. Sound like a frog. Why don’t critics say that same thing about Tom Waits? Critics say my voice is shot. That I have no voice.
“What don’t they say those things about Leonard Cohen? Why do I get special treatment? Critics say I can’t carry a tune and I talk my way through a song. Really? I’ve never heard that said about Lou Reed. Why does he get to go scot-free?”
#bobdylan #bob #triplicate #blues
THE PAPER MACHETE & MACRAME… STRING PATTERNS OF THE 1970s
(At ‘diggers’ ball…a ‘catch-all’ of the latter 1960s… and it’s release’s thru the 70s)
TEN YEARS AFTER AT WOODSTOCK: 50,000 MILES BENEATH MY BRAIN…
BY ERIC LASTICK
Numerology a decade long…miles of rocky country…rough roads. Peace-nick and drumsticks—off to the Catskill highest of hills. Take towards these terrains. Brains big as the acid trips that dreams become. Yes, 50 thousand beneath. Yes of the tragedy of the 1960’s bigotry and bloated minds. Oblique in war games. Torturous struggles of just staying one step past the draft board. The seas are the limit of to and fro. Choices and wind gone next days—fly like the choppers of Southeast Asia…and of crimes against humanity. In numbers, in multiples…in media. They are figured creatures buried in the story…no matter who it hurts…who it gropes about. The clearing of the smoky air at Woodstock’s Yasger’s stage front…Ten yrs after…A.Lee and company—& to it’s brews,the brain to bequeath of percolating cheers—all across this great night landscape. Magic bus and all of us…dig as diggers 50 thousand miles low. Digs to China and back in our waste fill rag weed highs. The bridge in song. ”I’m going home” Deep run deep water blues. Electric Sas, high like fire! Alvin Lee sweat and sing…the 50 thousands. The play on…play backwards of the mind! World gone as crazy as crazy can be, but we had each other. We had the night of Ten years. Brains scatter, brains plug in. Turn on…until morning strong. Will do it all again.
(TEMPTATION EYES IN THROUGH THE 70’S)
Temps of the sights of sultry women on a groovy early September skirted trip to the nearest and grooviest Hollywood sideshow and hideaways. Sunshine dream sequence of those sub-string nights. Harrowing roads to follow that dream. All the mischief. Temptation eyes is bigger than on could ever know. Grass rooted the excellence of what majesty awaits at the vinyl record and glass encased private headphones—escapes the hot smoke and sass-a-fras until the next morning…and another Labor day weekend. The wallet bend fine tune love affair of pop hits…Those 1970’s uniquely drawn. Rob Grill, founder of the Midnight confessions…Temptation eyes, a chart buster. Heaven on a barbecue spit across the Los Angeles district…scents and sights of the groovin weighs of that September laborer of lov. So far to the Canyon…so heavy the note and pop rock movement of those days. Pass the Nicholodian Senator McGovern ballroom charms. Anecdotes of a hit and never miss love song. Rooted be all of the love in an era of our vest of times. LA summer sunny vases of flowery long-haired —like fellow profits of love. Decisive drive, up and down to a bass rhythm …drums so endear, as if your right back in the times of our lives.
(GOODBYE YELLOW BRICK ROAD)
Labor Monday’s holiday, never short of small miracles…Styles and piano inflatables to what the Philadelphia Freedoms never dream …as the labor day appears—big as Reginald’s glasses…The Billy Jean King serves…and the good of our labors—ride of Elton John, Bernie Taupin. Surrealistic flavors coast to coast–along memories—so clear in song…and as if out of all our bedroom windows…sequenced farms…The look-about train tracks..conductor of harmony; the destination of all our youth’s dreams…adult run and find the Yellow Bricks on that path to view and find the goodbyes of that day in time. Although, Elton closes out the theme with a bright and cozy woolen vocal high note…all to sing—thus spectacular fill—this young generation of higher minds, the 70’s…September returns of the labors of growing up abridged with the pushing hills and sliding valleys of all ebb and flow. Great song—all alongside the Yellow Brick Roads, throughout the era…Honey pies and imitating writs watch, chocolate watch band…Smith bros black beards…burly outdoorsy hippie cultivated wisdom’s of where our fathers failed to feel the love. The music in us, so rare…and as alive as earth itself! Groovy chick’s steer my way…as the sign reads: ”SAVE WATER, TAKE A BATH WITH A FRIEND!” Sea rise at Big Sur.
(BLASTED…THE DARK SIDED TRIPS OF THE 70’S HIPPIE POP CULTURE…ALICE COOPER, THE STOOGES…TRULY NOT 101)
Free spirit go all hellbent…The Motor City 5 leaves a Sinclair card cut in two…so said the Hippie forge—with drives and sparkle eyes of glitter—along suggests, to the brother and wedge-wooded endeavors…justly—with the peace sign. 2 fingered share all in one pocketed. Lady love…potted bushels of wonder weeds. Hand picked fresh flower power, all of 17. Thus the fears of the black limousines…rage the politician man…Madness on all sides…burn the bridges…the asks and tells of foreign wars. Old Nash and 8 car garage. Dick Nixon back on the hate of Ashbury…German helmets style the road masters of long hairs…Hells Angles …Oakland Coliseum feeds of the white donkeys…the nineteen seventies brigades at a stone fest at Altamont. Remember to add bleach to the factory of wars…wash away human love; as Hippies rumble…and hate on corporate Raiders…golden seal, a lie—off the bridges of Gold Gate…and as so far the radar smooths coast guard glide but wide, the smiles of the allegorical stews…the black and the white. Panthers black, still sprawl along the banners—too late of the Chicago land eight. Leafs and tinges of jeopardy feels…ray up a light to what may help improve…cops are a-looming…stage fright is every Rock-Hampton home clog…thrusts the show of hippie,as one must continue on, so says Jerry Garcia. Lenny Bruce takes the brass band warriors known as the un-bashful Knights of humor…Hippie stay a little while longer, until the clock chimes of where he will hail of one hell of a bend…and soliloquy of a show, as if the 1980’s and Jerry Garcia, seed a few new goings to heaven! The clock is not on anyone’s side when the final hippie drum slows to a steady stop. Jerry Rubin and uncle Abby Hoffman buy new cars. Drive in the summer sun a little to long. One corporate and the other off his nut! Loss of ideas. Hippie drippy wet weather report gone off it’s axis. Professor Cornell West bakes a cake in hunger of the patrol watch at every door. It’s time to intellectualize all crimes on humanity. Underneath the collar shirt, the teacher of hearts knows—no longer bleeding. Sells to the sounds of the go too Wall Street Rise…as i close my eyes in fear of what’s to come. We all do. Labor day of it’s way. 50 years long.
Farewell to Robbie… somewhere down his own crazy river
He was an ol’ rock’n’roller, a fabulous song writer, king of the choppy guitar, chat show story-teller, charmer and joker.
But more than anything, I remember him as the leader of The Band… the man who stuck it out with the amphetamine, howling, thin white clothes-horse Bob Dylan as they sped together round the world getting booed and accused of being talentless traitors.
Way back then, like Bob, Robbie was wired and tired, battered and bruised. But the show must go on.
In reality, Robbie and the boys in The Band were as much a part of this tour that literally electrified the world. The chief folky tried forlornly to pull the plug.
The Band’s music was sharp as knives, brittle as nails, screaming, thumping, ear pounding … Bob whirled and posed, patted his hair and harangued his audience while Robbie rocked and mugged. And smiled a lot, always his eyes on the new foppish leader of his band.
Robbie himself was behind such classics as The Weight, Up On Cripple Creek and The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down.
But perhaps, musically, Somewhere Down the Crazy River is the one I remember from way back when we all thought that people like Robbie Robertson would never die.
Crazy River had a swamp beat and a dark sensuous broken brick of a voice.
He wrote: “Yeah, I can see it now
The distant red neon shivered in the heat
I was feeling like a stranger in a strange land
You know, where people play games with the night
God, it was too hot to sleep.”
There’s Kerouac and Ginsberg in those 41 words, stranger in a strange land is a thumbs up to science fiction ‘god’ Robert Heinlein … there’s Burroughs in there and a sniff of Mailer.
And Robbie kept on working almost to the end. Martin Scorsese was his big mate and they did a lot of things together after they forged a friendship on the set of The Last Waltz.
They went on to share a lot of laughs and bottles and even the same Hollywood front door at times for the next half a century, sharing credits on The King of Comedy (1982), The Color of Money (1986), Casino (1995), Gangs of New York (2002), and The Irishman (2019).
Robbie Robertson smiled and made his way down his own crazy river, had a laugh, told stories, sang, wrote, influenced, was admired and loved.
Demolish part of your home or we’ll tax you on your granny ..!
People with a back door are potentially being forced to knock down part of their homes to avoid paying Britain’s outrageous ‘granny flat’ tax.
The Society today focuses on a Government method of swelling its ailing coffers by charging more than 30,000 home owners, whose houses have annexes, hundreds of pounds a month in council tax under a law so outrageous it eclipses the empty bedroom levy and rivals the medieval window tax.
Here, a couple reveal their two year fight to stop paying more than a £2,000 a year in extra council tax because they have a sink unit next to their back door … we have agreed not to name the couple for now because of the sensitivity of their negotiations …
There plea for help to The Society:
I hope you can help – we are being forced to pay £200 a month on top of our council tax, basically because we have a sink unit and a back door in our utility room. The Valuation Office Agency says the sink and the door mean we could rent that part of our property out as a separate self-contained unit.
They have even tried to frighten us by saying: “We have taken people to High Court who have no cooker point, hot water or cooker and still won the case.”
This is particularly worrying for us because we want to sell up and move on – but we can’t because our house will be classed as two separate houses. It’s insane and cruel!
This all began for us two years ago when my son moved into our property after losing his job. We were living abroad at the time.
Unbeknown to us he contacted the benefit agency and asked if he was eligible for rent allowance, which he wasn’t. However, the council came down to revalue the property, which at the time was classified as derelict and decided we could use part of the house as a rental property. This meant they could charge us extra council tax.
Because of this we tried renting it out privately but the local rental officer decided that it was not legal to rent this part of the house out as it had dangerous, out-of-date stairs, had no cooking facilities, no separate heating, electric or hot water.
So, we decided to remodel the house and blocked up the front door. We also knocked through a pantry creating a corridor to our kitchen.
However, the VOA maintain that by putting in a door on the new corridor and locking it, by losing the use of our back door (patio doors) which is our way to get to our dustbins and to our garden we could actually recreate a self-contained rentable unit.
We asked him, if we take the sink unit out will that be the end of it? His reply – ‘I can’t advise you about that’.
To make this part of our home rentable we would have to:
Open up the blocked front door
Block off the new corridor and put in a safety door
Relinquish our back-door access to our garden and dustbins
Put in hot water
Replace the dangerous stairs
Put in a cooker point
I think this is a massive imposition – why would somebody want to buy our property when it is penalised because of a sink unit?
Also, because of the length of time the VAO have taken to come to their decision – more than a year – we are likely to face a debt for back council tax in excess of £1,000.
Answer.
This is a terrible application of a law. Basically, families who own homes with ‘granny flats’ could be forced to knock them down if they want to sell their houses after being hit by the tax.
As many as 30,000 homeowners live in properties with a self-contained flat for an elderly relative. Under tax rules they will be classed as owning two properties if they try to sell up. That means the person who tries to buy their home will have to pay an extra 3 per cent on the value of properties as stamp duty.
At the moment it would appear all you can do is substantially alter your property … i.e. at least get rid of what is seen as your extra kitchen to have a chance of getting the extra tax on your home removed.
But rest assured The Society is actively investigating this and will report regularly on it until some kind of sense prevails.
Narcissists are sick people, alright… sick as people can get. And they are on every street corner and in your bed…
A Greek youth was so taken by the reflection of his own face he was scared to ever look away again.
Narcissus had found the true love he was willing to die for.
But Echo, a nymph with a speech impediment caused by unrequited love, spotted him in the woods. Down by the lake. She was smitten by him immediately but could not speak it.
And she couldn’t see Narcissus was already staring his own death in the face.
Soon, he died from the neglect of all the love waiting in the world around him.
Echo faded away like the dying toll of a church bell.
But Narcissus, a grave-train robber and twisted mind by any other name, was reincarnated as a flower.
The Narcissus bloom.
It is said it gives us numbness and the big sleep.
Sadly, today though his despicable spirit is still here and reflecting a dark nightmarish pool at so many of us.
Look around, Narcissus may be sleeping in your bed tonight, he may be the one with a liquid grin down the local, he might be giving you advice behind a sheet of sanitised Perspex, he may be whistling at the wheel of the school bus – or he could be like Elvis, frying tonight down the fish n chip shop.
Narcissus is out there, waiting to drown you with his eyes.
This story of Narcissus and Echo is not a moral tale you know. And neither is it a romance… it is simply a salutary one about empty people, flat and one dimensional, those who can see nothing but themselves.
Male and female, young and old.
I’ve had three narcissists in my life. One in childhood, one wife and one business partner. I despise each one of them for what they did to me and my family.
I have forgiven them, more or less, but I still despise them for their lies, their manipulation, their disrespect and their inability to comprehend love outside themselves.
Here’s a list of the traits of these emotional traitors, those lost in a world of self-seeking fantasy.
See how many you recognise – I saw each and every one in each of my abusers:
Narcissists get mad at you for no reason at all.
They are always right.
They have very fragile egos and are unable to self-reflect on their own weaknesses.
Sadly, we think we can help them get right. We can’t.
You will never get the truth out of a narcissist.
Narcissists will only play ‘victim or hero’.
Narcissist loves a good argument. The more they attack you, the more opportunities they have to break you, insult you, and get their own way.
The narcissist withdraws love and spends time with other people. They can become passive-aggressive, they gaslight, they make you question everything about yourself and your sanity.
They use name calling to hurt you.
When you realise what they are, they will do everything to discredit you.
Do you know, everyone thinks differently, feels differently and behaves in their own way.
That’s personality – some of us have it, some of us have it to a lesser extent. Some of us, it’s said, have none at all!
But Narcissists think they have personality in bundles … what they don’t see is that their personality is disordered, bizarre, cruel and cold.
Disorderly hits the victim straight in the emotions, dictates how you cope with life, and manage relationships. You can develop depression or anxiety.
About one in twenty of us apparently live with a personality disorder.
Some narcissists though identify their tendencies of selfishness and
work hard to avoid it. But they will often fail because of their neurological limitations.
On the other hand, “bad” narcissists do not have any kind of concern or reaction to the impact of their behaviour.
They show the same traits as a psychopath.
What may really throw you too is that narcissists can be extremely charming. They can be perceived as very caring people due to their social charm.
At first, you find them to be intelligent and kind, but later you may see this complete shift in personality. This shift in personality can become punishing, cold and calculated, leaving the victim feeling very confused and questioning what they did wrong.
Remember, none of this is YOUR fault! This is a personality disorder that has nothing to do with you.
