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Record Duggie Chop's into, right at this moment: Muswell Hillbillies - The Kinks (1971)


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Sunday 16 May 2010

Sturgess Cafe - and there's (yet) more

[...and they said it would never last! - Duggie reaches the half-century (in posts, no years...]

“So, this is ‘art’, is it?” said the local paper journalist, a 17 year-old creative writer, with ambitions to be investigative. His main interest was writing Dungeons and Dragons games and scripts for gothic, graphic novels, “I mean to say, ‘art’ for the people…”

[“So this is ‘art’, is it?” almost as much a cliché as the art it is usually describing. Let’s analyse this statement for a minute - oh, by the way, my name’s Quentin The Art, and I’m a Welsh art expert – that’s an expert in art who happens to have been born in Wales, rather than a critic of Max Boyce’s occasional sketches.
Art, to the local journalist, is a term that encompasses everything from Constable to Bacon. It probably includes street and performance art – and, most certainly, the ‘Turner Prize’.
But, in reality, the ‘art’ at the heart of the journalist’s question is the work of layabouts, potentially left-wingers and most certainly university educated and not in the business of producing something like a spanner or tube of toothpaste, that UK plc could export to foreign outposts. And certainly not making money for some faceless fat-cat or mega-global corporation.
It’s as if: to think, to reflect, to draw attention to the foibles of humanity, is somehow a lesser act than, say, making a bracket to hang a basket of flowers on, or manufacturing one of those plastic things that you put in a can of smooth-flow beer to make it frothy.
We should pay our poets as much as we pay our Doctors – unless, of course, you need medical attention, when (stop Quentin – it’s you who needs medical attention, my friend!)]

“Yeah it’s a comment,” said Nyman, affecting his most convincing (in his mind) rebel-with-a-cause poses: a curled up lip, uneven shoulders, slouching against the wall (unfortunately, the journalist mis-read the body language, noting in his pad: “his work might be rubbish and a waste of money, but the artist has had to battle against an obviously deformed body, with a peculiar facial expression and wonky posture, to pursue his art…”), “I’m commenting on the invisibility of the modern High Street, the way a business can just come and go with no one noticing, or caring, due to the ‘bloody’ malls and out of town supermarkets…”

“Can I stop you there,” said the journalist, picking a piece of bacon rind from his tooth with a thumb-nail, “people have noticed the café. I mean that’s why I’m here. People want to come in. I mean, what about the guy on the Mobility scooter? This café used to be his world!”

“But that was 1957 – he’s gaga! He lives in the ‘50s,” said Seeke, smirking all the while.

“Let me handle this, please Seeke,” said Nyman, “he was transposing memory on the manifestation of today. He didn’t really want to come into our, modern day café.”

“And the old lady and her friend who tried to buy a tea…”

“You know, sometimes art is cruel. It takes guts for an artist to start telling the truth. You know?” said Nyman. He was beginning to perspire.

“I mean, I don’t know why you don’t open the Caff,” said the journo, “your bacon butties are pukka – and your tes. The best in town…”

“But it’s art! Don’t you see? Art!” said Nyman.

“I think he knows,” said Seeke, “but prefers your cooking.”

Nyman thought for a moment, and the only argument he could come up with, in favour of the art, was the fact that a criminal skinhead was now involved in extremely violent performance art in Dorest. He thought it might be best not to mention it.

“Look,” said Nyman, “give me a nice write-up, and I’ll give you another cup of tea…”

“Alright then,” said the journo, who was already late for an interview with an amorous window-cleaner. [“And they say times change, huh!” – thanks for that comment, Mr Askwith, says Duggie]

Monday 10 May 2010

Sturgess Cafe Pt 4...the pensioner speaks

Duggie says:

“Collect ideas like collecting rain in a bucket – just check there are no holes in the side…”

Back to the Sturgess Café.

“The ideas man, the instigator. As long as it’s not see you later alligator,” said Seeke.

“What are you on about?” said Nyman Chaw-Derek, Seeke’s partner and amazing conceptual artist – [that’s his description]. He’s the instigator, the ideas man. The café is his baby.

[Here’s the link to the previous part, so you can catch up…]

Things had settled down after the incident with the angry skinhead.

Turned out he’d just been released from remand, bit peeved due to the fact that he hadn’t done anything and had been locked up for it. So he’d taken out his anger on the café.

But when he found out about Nyman’s whole Arts Council funding scam [“erm…actually,” says Nyman, stepping through the invisible curtain between us and him, the character in my story, “I’m a professional artist. Sturgess Café is a conceptual piece…(he’s so post-modern)…and they don’t just give anyone a grant, you know]

Last heard, the skinhead was attempting to introduce violence, extreme violence into street theatre, somewhere in Dorset.

The local paper, ‘The Bugle’, had found out about the ‘Café Project’ following a letter writing campaign by the woman on the bus and a disabled pensioner, who’s mobility scooter always seemed to run out on his frequent visits too or from the café to buy a non-existent midday bacon sandwich.

“Oi awl-ways yoused to go to that caffy, when old Frank had it,” said the disabled pensioner, “ee dun a noice bacan butty, ‘im. They can’t keep nuffink the same…the police are all 16 years old…litter on the streets…get them in the army…National Service…corporal punishment…capital punishment…”

[…by the way, Café owner Frank died of complications related to a pork allergy in 1957.]

Duggie says: “to be continued…I think the hole is showing, I can hear a drip, drip drip…”

Tuesday 4 May 2010

Journey to Beatlemania - although it's probably not about that at all...

Geoffrey decided to give them a lift, that’s Duggie, his mate and the cyclist - let’s forget about the Pike, he’s sleeping.

[“We always sleep with our eyes open,” said the Pike, “actually, we haven’t got any eyelids anyway.”]

Geoffrey had wanted to pop into town to pick up Zippy and George from the dry-cleaners [“What!” said the Cyclist, “I thought they were real!”]

Bungle was waiting outside the shop.
[“Blimey!” said Duggie, “I thought there was a man inside Bungle!”
“...err there is,” said Geoffrey, “he’s just a little bit weird.”]

This being 1982, they could only find cheese sandwiches with curled-up crusts for sale locally. The Greek newsagent imported them from Hounslow via Zaire and a dodgy deal at Heathrow Airport.

[“My cheese tastes like rubber!” said Duggies’s mate.
“No, that is rubber,” said the Greek, “you’re eating an inner-tube.”]

“Look,” said the Cyclist, “I need a pint. We might have been in a lager bubble, but I’ve finished all me Red Stripe!”

“What, you’ll be lucky,” said Geoffrey, “it’s arf-past 2!”

[One of the problems with time-travel is that you’re tuned into the culture and traditions of your time, not the time you’re travelling in. You’re lumbered with that. In this case, the culture and tradition of getting as rat-arsed as possible before closing time, in order to get through to 6 or maybe 7pm when the pub doors open again.]

“What am I gonna do? said the Cyclist, “is there a Tesco or something round here?”

“Hey, Cyclist,” said a man on the radio - a big ghetto blaster that they were walking past.

“Who me?” said the Cyclist.

“Yes you. It’s 1982, mate, you’ve got more chance of buying booze from Al Johnson in prohibition Chicago than you have getting a drink round here after closing time.”

“Thanks radio man!” said Duggie, “and by the way, you’re thinking of Al Capone, not Al Jolson!”

“You’re wrong Duggie-boy.” said the man on the radio, “I’m talking about Al Jolson who owns an ‘offie’ in Illinois.”

Geoffrey: “We can always try the garage off that new bypass, there’s a Russian guy in there. He’ll serve us.”

“I know the place,” said Duggie, “and you’re dead right he’ll serve us! He’s in 2010.”

“Oh, is he?” said Geoffrey, “so that’s why my newspaper’s got colour photos in it. And I never knew that Nat King Cole had a daughter called Cheryl.”

Bungle declined to come, said he had a picnic to attend in the woods.

Geoffrey turned on his car radio and - yeah you can guess it - the ‘man on the radio’ was broadcasting: “Ok you lot, I’m gonna guide you through the time tunnel. Don’t want you getting lost now. But that’s after this classic tune from the mighty Hair Tom: “Plastic - didn’t know - Jam”, their Beatles pastiche.

[Yes, Hair Tom got there first. In 1982, no one was bothered about The Beatles. This was before the obligatory ‘A’ Level in Beatles Studies was handed out to every budding guitar band.

Their work also pre-dated the ‘Tears for Fears’ travesty of a Beatles Pastiche - Sowing the Seeds of Love and the more memorable XTC Oranges and Lemons and Dukes of the Stratosfear stuff.]

“Beatles, did you say The Beatles,” said Duggie....

“The Beatles” Said Duggie’s mate, “ we haven’t talked about them yet.”

“Yet,” said Duggie.

And they both went all starry eyed and had silly grins on their faces as Geoffrey’s car chugged off to the petrol station in the 21st Century.

“Oi - wot’s going on?” said The Cyclist
[“Nah Cyclist,” said the pedant, “that’s Marvin Gaye, not The Beatles”]
“Wot about my cans of Red Stripe - never mind the bleedin’ Beatles.”

“Ho, ho, Zippy,” said George, curled up in sports bag in the boot, “this is exciting, isn’t it”

“No, George, it’s dark!” said Zippy.