103. The Festival. (All the arts in red and black). 15 August 2015.

One for the local inhabitants this one. And you don’t have to have been born here to feel the seasonal fatigue in a city whose population apparently doubles at this time of year, among others, and the tourists are never really absent.

I met a friend for coffee this morning who is originally from Germany and has lived here for something approaching 15 years. I showed her this piece and she said that in the early years when August arrived she was like “Oh wow, there’s just so much to do everyone must love it living here during the summer.” Now she is very much the typical infuriated local. In fairness we don’t all feel like this, but I’d say it’s a safe majority. And let’s not get started on the Christmas ignorance!

The frustration of not being able to do the simple things like get to your work and back in a timely fashion, for weeks on end, is maddening to say the least. I could go on, but I won’t. I’ll just let the piece speak for itself, I think it gets the message across.

With this piece I’ve left the unused portions under the signature under the heading “Outtakes”. Perhaps I’ll use them another time, and maybe they’ll be of interest. It’s also been fun to once again revisit a character last seen at Easter, though I’ve taken some liberties with his basic nature this time, but sometimes you have to to make them work.


103. The Festival. (All the arts in red and black).

Morons and fuckwits,
And brain dead phone blind idiots,
Have their numbers multiplied,
By the vacuous mostly talentless,
Overindulged offspring,
And the media lovey wannabe,
Detritus of the middle classes,
But an old friend visiting,
Who thought he was retiring,
Is having trouble sleeping,
For all the fireworks and the fliers,
For all the hawkers and performers,
Charlatans and fakers,
The partying all-nighters,
And in reflection of these times,
That’s seen the touring hordes,
Swap the Pentax stoop,
For the inhumanity of the Apple salute,
It’s not all one way traffic,
It’s not all selfie sticks,
And a lack of consciousness,
For our friend in red and black,
He’s a giving kind of guy,
He’ll pull down his hat to hide,
The disapproval in his sleepy eyes,
And when you’re flagging,
After your party,
And it’s 6am on a sleepless Saturday morning,
He’ll pull you close and hug you close,
And give you all his loving,
8 times over,
To pay you back,
To thank you,
To give you back,
All the sleep that you’ve taken
For when he’s through,
You’ll not worry,
About going home,
Because Freddie’s back,
He’s fully awakened,
And now he’s hating,
The festival’s grating,
How in Gods’ name
Is a ghoul supposed to,
Live up to,
A reputation he has to,
Reluctantly return to,
Now thanks to you,
His sleeping’s through,
And with eyes, ironically,
Like half shut knives,
He’s gonna have to concentrate,
When he comes,
To visit,
In your dreams,
And for old times sake,
To, eviscerate you.

(c) Jim Laing 2015.



Middle classes of humanity
Play out their annual, biblical curse,
Upon our ancient city,

Where local men and women,
Are reduced to feeling like,
It’s a great granite shite,
Overrun by

Freddie s back!
And he’s hating the festival,
With all the fireworks,
And the fliers,
And the fucking failed actors,
How in Gods’ name
Is a ghoul supposed to,
Live up to,
A reputation he has to,
Well, now you’ve annoyed him,
The man in red and black,
You’ve disturbed him, perturbed him,
Woken him up from his very first sleep,
Now he’s no choice but to silence,
Your artfully sincere fakery,
Freddie’s back, and he’s hating the Festival,
And you’ve forced him now,
To condentrate,
On what he does best,
To grab you and say hello,
To whisper to you,
And to eviscerate you.
Like a granite shite, overrun by flies,
And in a reflection of modern days,
The pentax stoop has been replaced
By the inhumanity of the apple salute,
In a salute to the selfishness of less sell,
But, it’s not all one way traffic,
It’s not all selfie sticks,
And a lack of consciousness,
A friend is back,
Though he visits occasionally,
He always speaks bluntly,
Or should I say, sharply,
In his own uniquely pointed way,

About Jim Laing

The Buddha said there were four kinds of people. Those who run from dark to dark, those who run from light to dark, those who run from dark to light and those who run from light to light. From a life going from dark to dark to having a few years running from dark to light, with scuffed hands and knees from sometimes falling, I may be getting the hang of it now. How it began is not now how it is, I need a quiet space, After the noise of the day, So I take sanctuary in the creativity, And my soul feeds, On sometimes dark, Sometimes light fantasy, And I dare like many to work, But stay up off my knees, To dream, perchance to suffer, But always still to dream. Here are things mostly lyrical and poetic, with nonsense sometimes, reviews and personal musings. The coffees hot and always black. The words not necessarily so.
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