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I am undergoing a domestic revolution, of sorts.
Now, this won’t be of interest to all of you, I am sure, but what I am about to tell you is important to me. The revelation I am about to impart is that for many years, I don’t believe my vacuum cleaner to have worked. I had always assumed that my carpets were beyond redemption, so when I occasionally pushed this clumsy great Dyson upright across their distressed threads and moth tundras, my expectations were excessively low.
I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned it (perhaps in a bid not to break the hearts of those who fantasize of marrying me, I should keep my romantic status in the shadows, and remain a happy-go-lucky bachelor boy like the chap who drives the bus), however, I have recently formed an attachment, once again – not with a Dyson, I hasten to add, but with a lady – and we have set up shop together, so to speak.
One of the joyful by-products of domestic coupling, is that your partner might own better stuff than you – and this is what has happened. The apple of my eye, my beloved, owns a Henry Hoover, one of the red ones with the happy face on it, and now it is in our shared custody. I was naturally rather sceptical that anything could out-perform a Dyson; the triumph of good taste for middle-aged, design-obsessed, architectural book on the coffee table piling, Provence holidaying, one glass of Chablis quaffing, denim wearers, but when little Henry Hoover got sucking the dust, it was an epiphany. The ancient shroud of grit, skin flakes, fag ash and moth eggs I’d reluctantly called a carpet, lifted, to reveal… well, the carpet. The Dyson, given to me by my multi vacuum cleaner owning mother, was hastily dispatched to the street, with a note on it, assuring treasure hunters that it worked – and it was gone the next morning.
My love and I still have much work to do, pictures to hang – many of an unusual nature – and sadly, owing to the lateness of Henry Hoover’s intervention, we may yet decide to dispense with carpets all together. I saw the first moth of the season yesterday, along with an actual False Widow spider, who must have been disturbed due to some actual gardening. Hopefully, its sympathetic treatment will make us friends, favoured humans, not to be bitten and photographed for the Daily Mail, with our puss-oozing swellings on display.
The Labour Party, now gearing up rather well I think, are on to me, and have realised that I am not really called Syphilis. I am now the rather respectable Jonathan Goldenwinkle of West Hampstead.
Mother came to visit, and enjoyed the paintings, especially the new one. We had Shepherd’s Pie, which reminds me – I need to wash up.
Have a fine weekend – here’s to red wine, Windsor and Newton, love, and Henry Hoover.
John Moore 10.4.15
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
So here we go again, more dispatches from the front. Another hastily constructed, and barely edited, attempt to ‘raise awareness’ of the John Moore brand. We’ve had the decorators in. Marie-Louise Plum. I am, metaphorically speaking, standing on the pavement, with a sandwich board, ushering unsuspecting customers into my newly-furbished emporium of exotic and not so exotica, and if you are still reading this, I have succeeded. Come and have a look round, there’s plenty to see and read. It’s a culture hub, and I’m Boy John. The only thing we don’t have is an artisan bakery, and a mindfulness area.
The music link will take you to my Soundcloud page, where you can hear a selection of songs and albums. I will be adding to this as we go along. As well as my two recent albums, Lo-Fi Lullabies, and Floral Tributes, there is a genuine antique item up there, from the tight pants and hairspray era. I listened to it for the first time in years, yesterday, and almost had a stroke.
There are articles I have written for various publications, The Guardian, Select, as well as some rather smutty stories for The Erotic Review. Again, many more articles will follow. I do believe I have something cooking in The Grauniad, as we speak.
I will post a long excerpt from my novel Bad Light, for which I am currently seeking pledges to get published, along with a link to the Unbound Publishing Company. It’s currently at twenty-five percent of its target, so there is some way to go.
I paint, when the mood takes me, so there is a gallery of pictures to be viewed – not all are fit for the church art exhibition. There are several poems to read as well – should you have a mind to.
Lastly, there is a shop. At present, it’s a link to Cargo, my distributor, but over the course of the recent refurbishments, I have uncovered several ‘other’ items, which may be of interest to the serious collector.
So, that’s about it for now, I have a giant nude to finish. And the light is too good to waste. I’ll be more specific with my opinions on specific issues, in further missives, but here’s a general idea of how I stand: Whatever it is, I’m against it.
John Moore 2.4.15