wake up at 5:30, make myself some eggs on toast with
a slice of cheddar to melt while the eggs fry,
drink two coffees smile smoking and watching the sunrise,
take out all the dishes from the dishwasher
i put on before going to sleep,
prepare the cats for being alone in the house,
go out at 7am and buy a newspaper i will not read,
take a shower, **** myself up with about 8 different
products concerning hygiene and perfumery...
****! where are the nail-clippers?!
did my parents really have to take those nail-clippers
on their holiday to Jamaica?
****'s sake... the turkey steaks have ran out today
so i'll need to cycle tomorrow and buy some
more... get a whiskey some Pepsi and now obviously
nail-clippers! i can't have nails longer than a
a centimetre of outgrowth...
    dressed in a white shirt, charcoal suit trousers,
black clip on tie... oh those shoes...
spent a good 20 minutes polishing them before
going to sleep... and that intimidating long coat...
left the house at 8am... arrived at the car park where
Dan the supervisor was going to pick me at 9am...
well... i was half an hour early so i went into
a McDonald's and bought myself a third black coffee...
stood in the car park and smoked...
texted him 10 minutes to 9am: good morning Dan,
i'm already here, but no one else is here...
he came, we shook hands, exchanged very basic banter
and waited for this Nigerian that works with us
and is always... but... even to my surprise...
Francis came running on time, 9am exactly...
subsequently we drove to Mark's Gate where we
picked up three girls... filled the tank near Ley Street
on the A12 and stated speeding toward Oxford....
for the match between Oxford United and Portsmouth...
we arrived at the stadium and the induction
began... the usual crowd was there....
but then there were also these... 20+ extras...
weird looking *******... all Pakistani
or some other middle eastern caricature...
***** eyed, ***** in general: almost ******...
the names were cited: some Muhammad al-Hamza...
some Ahmad Ahmad...
and these two African who looked like they
just came fresh off a migrant boat that crossed
the channel in the past year... zero amount of spoken
English...
i say that quiet frankly... they started conspiring
in their own group, they were highly undemocratic
and not a grain's worth of motivation in
then... they were there to simply be there...
but not do any work, as it later appear they did
no work... they were first allocated the role
of searching people and working the turnstiles...
the people poured in sluggishly...
then when the tsunami of people hit it wasn't
the usual fluid way... they create a bottleneck of
human traffic... and, from what i heard after the match
some searched girls as young as 4 inappropriate
while not touching boys... but the policy was
always that children under the age of 18 are not
to be searched...
                        someone managed to bring in a flare
and set it off, Francis can attest of the flare hitting
him in the back leaving a bright blue mark
on his high-viz. jacket...
    when it came to checking if any of the seats
were broken at the end of the match,
i had to do two rows, when usually one person does
one row... ******* disappeared for a *******
curry or something... kiddy-fiddlers...
    nonces... sorry: but that's the reality...
i asked Dan prior, put me up close to the little knobs
and teenage idiots from Oxford...
he said... oh sure... i will, but not too far up...
what ended up happening? i was placed on the away
side's "no man's land" section that separated
the home supporters from the visitors...
somewhere in the middle of the stand as the supporters
were coming in...
seemed pretty o.k. - then Portsmouth scored the first
goal in the 13th minute... oh **** me...
that's when it took off... i rushed up from the middle
of the stairs to where the action was happening...
i wouldn't have been able to keep the stairs
freely available for people to move: when people
were adamant on standing on them...
the end result was Oxford United 3
                       Portsmouth 2...
so you can imagine how much action we received...
and we were only manning the concentration point
with only the 5 of us... one of them was a woman...
so... there were only 4 of us trying to push back...
30 if not more drunken, rowdy teenagers at a time
when a goal was scored... hell, it sometimes felt like more:
it probably was more...
since they started running up to the no-man's-land
and escalating their taunting and jeering...
i've never heard to many base insults thrown at people:
local ******* patriotism... the Portsmouth fans
taunting the Oxford fans: where is the ******* library?!
Oxford is a *******: i wanna go home...
we pulled through... but i have my first bruises from
the work i'm currently doing... i'm sort of happy...
why? Dan put me into the deep end...
i'm already asking another supervisor whether
she can get me to be inside the Fulham stadium
when they get to play Millwall...
but i noticed something... the other stewards had
to mouth the young ones off... shout them down...
i tried not verbal communication, hugging them...
holding them back... reassuring them with patting...
the other stewards had panic in their eyes...
i don't know how my eyes looked but not once
did i have to throw a punch...
            some guy prior was walking up to his seat...
happily drunk, he stopped and asked if he could
stroke my beard... which of course i allowed him to do...
now came the moment when we were facing off...
i just gave him a look: mate... don't pull this off...
we've had our pleasantries, don't ruin it now...
got a massive fat chunk of a handshake from a senior
guy and a big thank you for keeping things
at bay... well... for £10 an hour... working a 5 hour shift...
but... leaving the house at 8am and only getting
back at 8pm? come on... come, on!
i bought myself a bottle of whiskey and some Pepsi
and a £3.65 pizza... which... i had to "beef up" with some
extra cheese, some extra peppers and some extra
sweet chilly chicken that i cut into sushi slices:
as thinly as possible... fried in chilly oil, with some
gochugaru chilly flakes and a drizzle of sriracha...
oh, but those Pakistanis won't be working there
ever again... they made the rest of us look bad...
bad as in: the stand supervisor always says:
i will not name names... but from the standard you set
prior... and today's dip...
i haven't been stressed this much in my 21 years
on the job since... at least  years ago...
   i sat in silence on the way back in the car...
the girls tried to make conversation with Dan...
he was sorting out some other door-work at a nightclub...
someone was giving him beef...
i seriously need to help him out
get my S.I.A. badge as soon as possible so i can
move onto nightclubs...
but... my first bruises...
whatever bonus could i receive?
the Portsmouth fans were taunting Oxford fans
by shaking hands with me, calling me: oh look...
we've won one over...
and those two pretty, pretty girls giving me the eye...
perhaps i ought to get paid more...
perhaps i ought to get paid for writing
this *******... perhaps...
but i've long been of a school of thought that
shuns money... Diogenes of Sinope...
  i don't really want more money than i need...
but at the same time: i don't want to be a ***...
why wouldn't i want too much money?
if i have too much money: then that will obviously
attract a woman... and she will inevitably spend
that money... men in general don't really spend money...
****-boys spend money...
men spend money out of necessity...
while they earn it by fulfilling a higher obligation:
merely earning money is not enough...
something useful, selfless has to be pursued...
simply, no?
- well i have these two postures anyway...
plus the long coat might be slightly intimidating...
hands behind my back, but also hands up front gripping
my high-viz... oh my, i don't know what hurts more...
the lie i tell my colleagues: yeah,
i got these burns on my knuckles from making
pizza... why tell them i'm a sadomasochist that
derives pleasure from putting out cigarettes on
his knuckles whenever he knows:
falling in love with a girl with so many red
flags is a bad idea: Matthew: do i need to translate
this bad idea to you, by making you enjoy pain?
i guess i have to... i watched the elders of the Portsmouth
hooligans looking at me when i showed them
my knuckles... burnt...
a peacock might have its feathers to strut with...
they might have their tattoos... me?
i have my scars... they should check the one on my
right shoulder blade... i always fantasise
that the gods clipped one of my wings while
the other remains intact, albeit invisible...
there must be an intimidation tactic running through
my mind... always ensuring that my clip-on tie
doesn't look like a clip on, looking at my nails
to see whether they're not too long or whether
there's no dirt beneath the fingernails...
stroking my beard down so it doesn't appear too frizzy /
bushy... checking whether my shoes still appear
polished enough thought several people might
have stepped on them...
if you look the part, above tier presentable:
not scruffy... not... under-kept...
people have this tendency to reciprocate respect
if they themselves look overtly-presentable...
scruffy kids ******* really easily from a steward that's
extremely presentable...
it's the better dressed kids that want to jump up
to your level... of the optics of presentability...
or maybe that i have Slipknot's song (sic) playing in
the back of my mind anticipating something:
esp. anticipating "something" concerning young men
that do not have a soothing outlet via
*** and have to resort to the sort of camaraderie
associated with football hooligans...
these colts are not going to learn anything outside
of this realm, i sort of respect that...
maggot pit that they are...
but if this is their only outlet of being able to feel
together... with their local patriotism...
maybe i just don't try too authoritative measures
when dealing with them...
perfect set up for doing this **** up,
getting my reference and then setting myself up
for applying for being a high school teacher...
even though i always enjoyed watching football
on the t.v., now that i'm in the background at matches...
i'm only interested in spotting out the pretty girls...
to sooth me... while minding all the young lads
desperately seeking out a ****: but not finding it...
turning all their energy to a camaraderie...
chanting their little chants...
   drunks off their *******...
it's very much akin to the atmosphere best associated
with nu-metal concerts of the 2000s...
music by the Gen X'ers for the Millennials...
and "they" said we were going to be the angry generation...
i think that Gen X has more beef and still
has more beef with society than my generation
will ever have...
******* Pakistanis fiddling up 4 year old girls:
searching them by touchy-feely then ******* off
not giving us back-up...
oh, they'll be fired alright... the joke run at the induction...
so... this is what reading a list of names
of the newly assimilated by the Home Office:
by the immigration blah blah looks likes?
no wonder, absolutely no wonder all the Polacks that
came circa 2004 have ****** off back
to the fatherland circa 2016... 2020...
well... if the English want Pakistani **** gangs...
and not fellow Europeans... because they might have
a little feeling akin to: ooh ooh... we're racist...
well then... what if i'm the Omega Collective Unconscious
Initiative and i sent out a covert Braille message
through dreams to my fellow-country men...
*******... don't come back...
the English "think" they have this sorted?
                      i'm going to be choking on this sort of a joke...
but if we're not welcome,
while **** gangs are: ******* welcome...
why bother staying? milk some of this rich protestant
cow and *******: not since the outliers have
i heard of a prevalence for a collective kiddy-fiddling
initiative...
but we all know that the English never want
to call themselves racist... that's why they need
sacrificial lambs from their tribe to ensure that they're
not suspected as such...
i'd sooner spend an afternoon with a silent Nigerian
than spend it with these *****-eyed curry-festival goers...
who appear... disappear...
while all the white guys do all the leg work...
in that of drunkness... but i love it...
it's the stink of a hormonal overload... mixed up with
a little bit too much alcohol...
even though... when i drink a litre of whiskey...
i drink a litre of whiskey to loosen my tongue...
open up my mind... relax...
i once used to entertain rock climbing...
eh... nothing close to cycling in heavy traffic...
then again... cycling is still a tier above crowd control...
pushy-beefcakes... half my age...
now i'm wide awake dreaming of sleep...
i don't want to sleep to dream... i want to sleep:
in order to sleep: Freud can *******...
only rich people have dream interpretations...
or if someone comes with a recurrent dream....
seriously? a recurrent dream?
              what's, wrong, with, you?
it's like the inverse of the learning curve associate with
putting your hand into a fire...
people who have recurrent dreams are like
people who put their hands in a shadow
and expect for their hand to somehow not
spontaneously disappear!
they learn ****... nothing... zilch!
that's why they have recurrent dreams...
i'm glad that i rarely dream...
only yesterday i slept for two hours
and what did i dream of?
eating burgers...
i woke up slobbering on my pillow...
the dream: became reality...
yeah: i wasn't eating much of late...
i never like cooking food for myself...
when i cook... i need to cook food for someone....
cooking food for merely myself is kind of pointless...
that's why i'm thinking of that
single mother Gemma and her son Reinhart...
because... i'd like to cook for them...
even though she lied at work about me drinking on
the job... of smelling of *****...
all the same while another colleague
compliments me on how i smell: how good i smell?
come on...
belittling bazar logic from the ancients terms
of the Persian Empire...
this sickening mentality is the middle-easterns...
denegrading...
the role of dogs... in OUR affairs...
sheep-shaggers of the desert....
**** these camel-jockeys... these necrophilic sorts...
pyramid-engineers...
kiddy-fiddling and sheep-*******...
call the Welsh of the south...
         wankers... the base of humanity...
if there's any left in any of them...
zoo... i see zoo in their eyes...
         i see cages... i see an inferno like no other...
they stink of  eating ****!

now, let me sleep.

Change is the law of life and those who only look at he past or present are certain to miss they future. So give me a smile and I’ll be happy for the day.

Portsmouth City of friends what can I say? Thank you to Portsmouth for putting a smile on my face, thank you for showing me my dreams **** a beautiful place.

You held my hand when I cried and said don’t worry everything will be alright. The things you do and the hinges you say such a beautiful memory truly blessed.

Many friends Iv meet many cultures in this city, nights in cooking lamb all bringing a little culture to dinner. Many friends from around the world who call this home Portsmouth City.

I promised my self one day I would become a pharmacist, to help those that are sick come sit down my friend let’s talk about it over a cup of tea.

Portsmouth City of friends next time you meet someone that’s not feeling so good. Just be they friend.

JidosReality 8.10.17

Home of the navy, big and strong,

Think that's it? You are most wrong,

Home of Dickens, and Isambard Brunel,

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle stayed a while as well,

Singers like Same Difference born so very close to home,

Gunwharf Quays, Action Stations and even a PlayZone,

An Aquarium, lots of shops, amusement parks and more,

Theatres, museums, the Isle of White; it's fun from shore to shore,

Portsmouth is a brilliant place, to live and work and play,

People who live or visit here shouldn't ever move away!

Red ribbons  around the streetlights.
  The lights from the commadore theather
are a reflection of the past.
Coblestone streets the historic district across the water
buildings are lit  haunting  shadows over the water.

Once  a year closed streets seem to travle back in time.
Roasted penuts  street corner preformers.
Familys togather homeless on benches not all is beautiful and bright.

Sweet city so cold and gritty.
Christmas lights like neon signs call to my jaded soul.
Horse and carrige ride down by the water.
New lovers getting lost in the moment an season.

I sit apon the steps of the old church share a bottle with
My new best friend  smells of the city echo back to another time.
Lights and sounds reflect a holiday on highstreet.
Hands held  togther  when  in another  life it seems you
were mine.

Cold are the streets  carols fill this night.
If only more than once a year.
We could embrase this spirt.
Then trap it for one peaceful day.

The traffic apon  Highstreet  is  is slowing
The festival crowd is fading.
The bottle of christmas cheer is almost gone
so along with the I must  be going.

Embodied in a perpetual persona of shitheaded seventeen
(Before you snuck out on a cold silver sheet)

You could measure your lifespan (or is it your wingspan, now? did you know it's the same as your height?)  in late-night shenanigans topped with bacon-guaca-holy-moly burgers, tumbling in neon spandex and the raising of general hell, which you probably can't reach right now,

(And how many flaming bags of feces on why-not doorsteps, for me?)

Speaking of me,
Do you remember when I kissed your head beside a broken down photo machine? Do you remember when we ran away from your first girlfriend (her first kiss) and laughed because you had a current girlfriend? Do you remember when we tried out clouds in department store floor levels, like you were planning on getting one all along? Like you were my (first) and now my (late) husband? Three years doesn't seem very long ago, when placed in proportion with - what was that word again - eternity?

You were but a fleeting presence not only in my life, (in her life, his life, their lives now broken from a trio into a typical twosome) but in your very own - one blonde beach-bunny darting from top-hat to top-shelf

(Could you give up World of Warcraft for a World of pearly White?)
(Would you take me to my Senior Prom?)

We will float yellow rubber ducks down the water at your wake (one by one) and eat food-court teriyaki because no one is allowed to be sad (says you)

(Jesus, baby, what's your dang address?!)

In the end, you ride off into the sunset on your unicycle, like the bad movie that this is
(Screaming, "this thing's killer on the *****!")

For years, Tim had the visions
Seeing things that no one could
If he spoke of them, he's crazy
He kept quiet, like he should
Just normal, little, visions
Of people who were dead
Just wandering in places
He knew weren't in his head

It started on vacation
He saw the "grey lady" in a room
At first, he thought the lighting
made what he saw there in the gloom
But, later, in his bedroom
while reading pamphlets on the place
she appeared there in his bedroom
But, he couldn't see her face

He kept his little secret
Not telling people she was there
She was mentioned by no others
So, he didn't really care
An undigested bit of beef
A piece of moldy bread
Like Dicken's Scrooge before him
She wasn't real, because she's dead

While still on his vacation
He saw two more, this time more clear
He saw one upon a staircase
And the other, much more near
They never interacted
Didn't know that he could see
But, he wondered "why could no other"
"see them 'cept for me?"

Two years had passed, he was at home
He was living on the coast
When one day he saw the woman
And he knew she was a ghost
The house was large, and gothic
With a widows walk on top
It was there he saw the woman
He shut his eyes to make it stop

She walked upon the rooftop
Looking out over the waves
Her dog was there beside her
Looking for someone to save
He walked away in silence
Turned to look, she was not there
He knew better than to think that
It was a trick of light and air

Turns out the spirit walker
Lost her husband in a wreck
He was a whaler, up in Portsmouth
He drowned and broke his neck
A wave came out of nowhere
Sank his boat, "The Lucky Hoof"
Now, his widow walks and watches
She is a fixture on the roof

He's seen children in the bushes
Not quite sure if they were real
But, could he talk about his visions ?
His dark secret to reveal
They never seemed to notice
That he saw them, they just were
So he'd watch them and he'd listen
Till the day that he saw her

She was sitting in the corner
Of a restaurant, alone one night
But as he watched a little closer
He saw no shadow from the light
She sat alone in silence
No one ventured where she sat
She was dressed in twenties clothing
A classy dress and flapper hat

Two nights went by, he saw her
Sitting exactly as before
When he asked about the table
He saw the table was no more
He had to find this woman
find out why she showed up here
He would investigate the building
But, first he'd have a beer

Turns out her name was Maisy
At least that's what he found out
She went missing from the building
Of this there was no doubt
No one knew which way she travelled
No one ever saw her go
But, the stories, oh the stories
Maisy, turns up...don't you know

The corner with the table
Was just a bricked up wall, that's all
It was constructed when she left here
By the old owner Joe Paul
There never was a reason
For the wall, it had no use
There could only be one reason
And I think you can deduce

Maisy never went and left here
Joe killed her late one night
It was an accident of passion
He had to hide her out of sight
But like Poes tale "The Telltale Heart"
She would show up in her seat
Only Joe could ever see her
No one else would Maisy meet

Tim went to the new owner
Told him of Maisy and her tale
Told him of The Widow Hanker
And her husband and his whale
Was he crazy ? or a mystic ?
The owner said "you are no clown"
And he said tonight at closing
The wall is coming down

They found dear Maisy waiting
In her dress and flapper hat
She was sitting at the table
She was dead, and that was that
The owner, shocked to silence
Stood and watched our mystic Tim
As he stood there while Maisy's spirit
Left this world and passed through him

Tim still has the visions
Still sees the woman and her hound
Still watching for her husband
Tim knows he won't be found
He knows which ones he's needed
To investigate, set free
And the rest of all the spirits
Well, Tim knows what is meant to be

beyond the whiskey
and the beer drank along the familiar
path, with memory stressed
as to no accomplished ego coupling,
drunk indeed,
but rehearsing the familiar path
that thought de-activates
and there's less of identifiers required.*

in terms of gambling,
in familial setting,
betted:

watford (21-20) home to newcastle
(5-2), QPR (6-5) against wolves (9-5 to win),
barnsley v. rochdale (draw at 11-5),
chesterfield v. millwall (to win, 11-8),
oldham v. bury (draw at 21-10),
port vale v. bratford (home-side 8-5),
coventry (13-10) away winning against southend (13-8),
plymouth (11-5) against bristol rovers (evs),
accrington (13-10) against exeter (13-8) too,
manfield (6-5) winning against luton (9-5),
portsmouth drawing with oxford united (21-10),
wycombe with leyton orient (11-5) too,
yeovil beating crawley (13-10),
dundee utd. losing to kilmarnock (11-5) -
scots wish me luck,
motherwell drawing with ross county (19-10),
brochin losing to aidrie (11-10),
montrose winning over clyde (9-5),
hamilton losing to edinburgh's hearts (6-5),
finally...
burnley overcoming derby (13-10).

if i got all nineteen right, i betted 2 quid
and won a million,
split it down the middle with my father,
bet for two quid, quid each, half a million each.
my father is a cautious gambler,
bets spare change to get pennies for a million
exchange, i only desire serious alcoholism,
i am a true scot between the two pulling
two pence apart to create copper wiring,
scots are the jews of the north, after all:
i don't gamble, i play chance,
the chances of me being prophetic about five
football scores will be a, a ref. to the guinness book
of records.

i aimed high today, feminism still hasn't the foggiest
of house husbands, lazy lions,
it's still thursday pay-cheque day for the women,
i can cook a killer korma (added late
grind cashews), and a serial killer kashmiri masala curry,
organic chemistry experiments 12h a week will do that to you,
you'll enjoy cookbooks more than chemistry textbooks,
too many esters i say, spices v. perfumes, your choice
the pakistani in my off-license looked amazed i was wearing
hindu perfumes after having cooked a meal he could
recognise that wasn't a concentrate of strawberries:
find a needle in a haystack, yes... find a berry in a haystack...
no.

i love hindi cuisine, much aroma that deviates from
what europeans claim to be aromatic:
pig sweat and oxen salivate a taste for synthetic
odours when an analysis of cardamon justifies aplenty
likewise: what opens necessary porous areas
of the skin as necessarily sweet
does not necessarily invoke a sweetness for the tongue
to match: fat cows better than anorexia voodoo
of *******-champagne girls i'd tell you.

He was sent to Aldershot for training
He would learn ******* or be killed
The training was all done with broomsticks
When he thought back it made his blood chill.

His unit was sent down to Portsmouth
To board a ship and go over there
It was packed to the gunwales with weapons
And the rations left no room to spare.

He practiced with his rifle on the journey
Like others who’d not held one before
He’d no sense of the horror he’d be facing
Nor the violence he’d always abhorred.

It was such a small piece of shrapnel
Caught both eyes as a shell case shattered
He never saw his two boys as they grew into men
Missing out on so much that had mattered.

His wife who he loved always helped him
And a life with new interests grew
He learnt how to read the braille papers
It pleased him he’d still know the news.

But the trauma from the experience scarred him
And ire with politics grew by the day
So he took to his new odd braille keyboard
And wrote articles and letters to complain.

He could sense the new way that the wind blew
In the corridors of power in the House
There was money to be made in new weapons
And politicians ignore those who grouse.

Then again two decades later it started
Another war that would mean more dead men
The obscenity rose like a bile in his throat
So once again he took to his ‘pen’.

©JRW2014