I have just received an election leaflet through the door from my local Labour party. Our candidate is called Tulip Siddiq, and the leaflet poses the stark choice: The Tories or Tulip? – and you can put it in your window. I know it’s her name, but it’s a bit of a twee slogan – who comes up with these things? Not very good PRs, that’s who. People that fancy themselves as communicators. I would happily display a Vote Labour sign, but I don’t live in bloody Toy Town. The Labour party already think my name is Syphilis Goldenwinkle – I filled in a survey to tell me how many of the electorate shared my name – apparently, in the whole of the Blighted Kingdom, there are less than six Syphilis Goldenwinkles registered to vote… shocking, isn’t it?
Each newsletter I receive from Mr Miliband, refers to me familiarly as Dear Syphilis… and goes on to tell me “We can do this together!” I’ve already got a peerage, well, of sorts… self-inflicted, so I’ve no need to worry about fucking up my chance of an honour. I had thought of offering my services to the party – they will certainly have my vote, but like most publicly minded, selfless, middle-aged navel gazers, I never quite got round to it. The last time I got seriously involved in an election was 1974, because my father was agent for the local liberal party. My best friend, Tim, (whose father was also in the party), and I would stuff envelopes, paste up posters, usually in places where fly-posting was forbidden, and throw eggs at the Conservative Party HQ. Halcyon days. If you click on this link to my Muddy Waters article in last Friday’s Guardian, you can read some more about it >> CLICK HERE!
Suffice to say, the Liberals came last, and the candidate – some time later – hanged himself.
NB. Just as I reread that line, the door burst open…and I’m the only one in the house – unless Walter, the upstairs cat has crept in.
I’ll tell you about Walter – this is a rambling blog, because the rather large oil painting I am trying to finish is surrounded by boxes, and is slightly inaccessible… and she needs to dry a bit… my beautiful girlfriend is moving in, you see. Anyway, Walter is the most incredible cat I have ever encountered. He is a Siamese/Burmese off-white feline symphony, and lives with the people upstairs. I live on the ground floor, and have large French windows – easy for him to go in and out. He made it very clear, early on, that although I was not his real father, I would make a splendid daytime surrogate. He comes in each morning, stays as long as he likes, yowls for GoCat, then goes home at night.
It’s an arrangement that suits both families. Whenever his real parents go away, he comes to live with me full time, which is great until eleven O’clock at night, when he gets adventurous. There is quite a lot that is fragile in my flat – guitars, ornaments, and a lot of crap – which he likes to investigate, He thinks my record shelves are a climbing wall, and that the piano keyboard is a dance floor. Most cats are terrified of pianos, but Walter would be happy if the keys lit up, like Saturday Night Fever. Slightly worried that his collar was gone this morning – did someone try to steal him perhaps? It’s more likely that he managed to get it off himself, but extra vigilance is called for.
I think this blog’s gone on long enough now – unless I mention the dreadful woman that lives upstairs – not Walter’s mother, but a vile creature, who throws cigarette butts out of the window…lots of them. I would go and speak to her, but worry my response would soon turn disproportionate. Considering collecting all the butts, then making a large piece of art with them – spelling out the word ‘Cunt’, right beneath her window. She’s pretty quiet though, so perhaps I should just sweep them up and be thankful that I haven’t got me living above.
That’s it for now, more soon, please buy my records, pledge for my book, hire me for extortionate amounts to play at your corporate function, vote Labour, be kind to one another, love cats, hate litter, get naked, drink wine.
John Moore 7.4.15