Lager Time

A little update and the final track form the 90 Sick EP.

Buy / stram the EP HERE https://paulcree.bandcamp.com/album/the-90-sick-e-p

Check Elian Gray HERE https://eliangray.bandcamp.com/album/awkward-awe

Check my website HERE https://paulcree.co.uk/

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cree.substack.com

The third story from The 90 Sick EP and an amusing encounter at St Pancrus station

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cree.substack.com

Greetings, bonjour, what’s happening

Welcome to Lager Time, stories, poems, beats, bars and banter.

I’m still in flux, currently sat in Plumstead at my in-laws where I’ve mostly been for the last couple of weeks. Was back in Maidstone yesterday and  now, I’m back here again. Needs must, life and that. Off to a wedding this weekend in York. Never been there before, I’ve heard it’s pretty; hopefully they’ve got a Wetherspoons.

This week has been a little quieter, I’ve been feeling tired. Either it’s the heat and the excesses of last week, or some kind of post COVID-Gastroenteritis effects but I’m wiped out. But, I’m ok, we’re here, my wife’s back, dogs are ok; we crack on mate.

Last night I was back with the BAC Beatbox Academy, who’ve I worked with on and off for over ten years, now. I was helping some of the younger ones get ready for their curtain-raiser performance, for the Frankenstein: How To Make A Monster Show at the Regents Park Open Air Theatre, this Monday. If you’re not aware of this show, it’s a modern re-telling of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, all done through beatbox, rap, spoken word and movement. It’s won multiple awards and toured all over the gaff and this may well be your last chance to see it. It’s a banger.

The success of that show has had an unprecedented effect on many people, myself included. Though I’ve been around the academy for years, I work closely with the director, Conrad Murray and I’ve known most of the cast for many years; I was not involved with the development of the show. Yet, prior to COVID, when it was winning every award going, people would come to me and congratulate me for it, it was a strange time. But I was delighted for my pal, all the cast and all the young guys from the academy (that I did work with) who got to go on stage and perform before the main show when it ran at BAC, in 2019

That whole period of 2018-2020 when we were doing High Rise, Frankenstein and all sorts of other projects was nuts. So it’s been nice that, in a way, it’s come back around again. It’s not the same of course but that’s cool. I worked with a young person last week, in Manchester, who’s part of the academy, who I’ve not seen since before COVID and it was great to see her so it feels like I’m reconnecting again. Which is good

I’m dropping the second track from The 90 Sick EP this week, called The Colour Orange. Which I suppose is a story about family and roots and class, all set around the time of Euro 96. While it may feel like I’m rehashing old bits at the minute, they’ll be some fresher stuff coming. I’m starting to learn some of these newer poems with a view of putting a set together for this live-stream. I should set a date really, shouldn’t I? Let’s say September for now.

Anyway, that’ll do

Have a banging weekend

Paul

The Colour Orange

He’s on telly again. The man with the permanent suntan, funny accent, white teeth and shiny face. Often seen on TV bending spoons with his mind, like some sort of bastard child of Magneto and the Tubular Bells guy, dangerously mixed with that suspect cheery disposition that I only ever see in travelling Christian theatre companies, bouncing around my school stage, singing it in the valleys and shouting from the mountain tops.

The spoon bender is now enticing me to touch a big orange spot on my screen. This strange man seems to be smeared all over television, like the Oxy 10 I apply badly to my face each morning before school, looking in the mirror too scared to pop spots and wondering who Adam is and why he’s stuck an apple in my throat. Each time I swallow it looks like a satsuma’s being slipped down the inside of a snake.

The man with the permanent suntan, funny accent, white teeth and shiny face is making yet another TV appearance, on the special edition of the Baddiel and Skinner Fantasy Football show, which I’m watching, sat in the living room, on the well-worn settee, on my own.

Apparently, if I touch this big orange spot, the man with the permanent suntan, funny accent, white teeth and shiny face will become like a SCART lead and channel all that positive energy from televisions around the nation towards the England football team. It’s Euro 96; they’re playing Scotland the very next day! My grandpa, from Dad’s side, is from Scotland. My older brother supports Scotland, he doesn’t support England, he supports the other team when England play, and that really gets on my nerves! There’s a lot at stake for this game.

I sink down onto the floral-patterned badly faded settee like a fence, watching the screen, picking splinters from my spleen. I roll my eyes up to the lopsided white wooden shelf on the back wall, on which sits a small collection of my thirteenth birthday cards, which have now managed to last for three days. They all seem to have the same picture, of a hand-drawn school locker with loads of sports equipment spilling out. Stood next to the cards in a permanent place is a small statue of the Virgin Mary from Lourdes. It contains some holy water and two decorative plates, which stand upright like shields and have pictures of both Glasgow and Belfast. Belfast is where my grandad comes from, on Mum’s side. Underneath the lopsided white wooden shelf is the TV: a fourteen-inch black Philips box which doesn’t have a remote, and sometimes the buttons get stuck and don’t work.

Like a top gun fighter pilot, target in sight, my eyes lock back on to the big orange spot on the screen. The man with the permanent suntan, funny accent, white teeth and shiny face is enticing me. Touch faith, that song says.

I’m not sure what to believe, but I’m willing to give it a go. Mum and Dad probably won’t like it, as I’m sure it goes against the teachings of the church, but so far God hasn’t answered any of my prayers about girls and I’ve only just got a Sega Mega Drive; it’s 1996! My best friend Rich has already got rid of his and now has a Sega Saturn. And, as for my teeth, I must be at the back of the longest queue in NHS history because I haven’t seen an orthodontist yet, my teeth still look like Stonehenge and Richard calls me goofy. I slowly rise, walk towards the telly and stick my sweaty little palm on the static of the glass. Right on the orange spot. I’m doing it for England. I want England to win.

It’s the following day and I’m now at Richard’s house. He’s got a much bigger TV; it’s massive. He also has Sky; the satellite dish is outside his bedroom on the wall and apparently, at nightime, for ten minutes, there’s a secret channel where you get to see naked women! He also watches WWF. I have to make do with WCW on ITV. His parents actually like football and on Sunday they take him to games and watch him play, they don’t go to church. He has barbecues in his garden, holidays to Florida and places in Spain where they have outdoor water parks that Richard reckons are way better than the Croydon Water Palace. My family sit round playing guitars and other weird instruments with strings and sing silly-sounding songs in Irish accents.

I rode my brand-new bike which I got for my birthday up to Richard’s. I say new; it’s second-hand, but it’s my first ever mountain bike. It’s got Shimano gears and Rhino horns. Richard’s got two mountain bikes; he keeps one spare.

We’re both lying on our bellies in his living room, eyes fixed on his massive TV, waiting for the two arch-enemies to commence battle. I’m nervous. I want England to win. I didn’t want to watch the game at home, as I knew my older brother would be there, in his Celtic shirt and Scotland scarf, and my dad, who doesn’t really like football but will still watch the big games without taking sides. When a player rolls around the floor pretending to be injured, he’ll go ‘achhh’ just like my grandpa does. I needed to be amongst my own, I want England to win.

The first forty-five fly by with turbulence. At half time, it’s nil-nil and it’s tense. The commentator is telling us that Jamie Redknapp is coming on from the bench; his instructions are to keep hold of the ball in midfield so the full backs can get forward. Richard and I erupt when Gary Neville swings in a cross from the right flank which Alan Shearer heads into the net to put England one-nil up! Rolling round on the floor, Rich trying to put me in the headlock and punch me!

Minutes later, out of nowhere, Scotland suddenly get a penalty! Gary McAllister steps up and places the ball on the spot, an expert executioner if ever there was one. I’m nervous. As he takes the few paces just before he strikes, something very strange happens: the ball moves ever so slightly, and when he connects, he hits it hard but Seaman saves and we erupt all over again! It’s still one-nil and I’m trying to put Richard in the headlock now, rolling round on the carpet!

Now, apparently, at this very moment, hovering above Wembley in a helicopter, holding one of Bobby Moore’s England caps, is the man with the permanent suntan, funny accent, white teeth and shiny face! The one who told me to touch the orange spot! It must have been him that moved the ball! And when Jamie Redknapp plays a sweeping pass, flicked on by Darren Anderton into the path of an advancing Paul Gascoigne, who in two amazing moves deftly clips the ball over Colin Hendry’s head and slams it into the back of the net, Richard and I explode and go running round his garden, shouting our heads off!

The game’s finished now, England won! I’m getting on my bike and all I can think about is claiming those rare bragging rights when I get home, as I know my brother was watching it. I start riding, cars in the street are beeping, I can hear people singing everywhere, that Baddiel and Skinner song, ‘Football’s Coming Home’. Displayed all over the place is the white and red flag of St George, which until Euro 96 I’d not really seen before, but now it’s on almost every house. It’s a good day to be English.

I ride my brand-new-second-hand bike back home. I can’t wait to see my brother’s face! I put my bike in the shed and come in through the back door into the kitchen. I can hear my dad on the phone, probably to Grandpa. I hear a few ‘achhh’s, which more or less confirms my suspicions. Grandpa normally rings around this time on a Saturday, just before Mum and Dad go to church.

My brother is sat in the living room, still wearing his Celtic shirt and Scotland scarf, sunk so low into the settee I can barely see his body. He’s watching the news. Gazza’s goal is doing a loop-the-loop. I pause by the door. He looks dejected and I suddenly feel like I’ve said something to upset someone, except I haven’t said anything yet. I feel bad, so I decide not to gloat. I try to make light of it, by telling him how I touched the orange spot on the telly the night before and that man with the permanent suntan, funny accent, white teeth and shiny face was hovering in a helicopter above Wembley and must have made Gary McAllister miss his penalty. My brother doesn’t look at me; he stays slumped on the settee, looking at the telly, and mumbles some words about the orange spot, something about church and Mum and Dad. He then says something I don’t really understand but I know it’s bad, about Belfast, Grandpa, Grandad, marches and some people called loyalists.

I can hear my dad calling me from the hall to go and speak to Grandpa. I remind myself that my new bike has got Shimano gears and Rhino horns and that it was four miles to Richard’s house, so that’s eight miles in total that I rode today, and I tell myself that it’s probably best that I don’t mention the score.

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cree.substack.com

Greetings, Bonjour, What’s Happening?

Welcome to Lager Time. What’s been going on? It’s been a mad week. Last night, we had the Out Here show at the Institute of Contemporary Arts. It’s with a group of young people I co-lead with a director called Catherine Palmer, for an organisation called Dream Arts in London. We’ve been developing this show with this group over the last year.

We’ve worked with over 50 young people within this project, most of which are coming from pretty-tough circumstances and had never done anything like this before.

They thought we were nuts when we told them back last year we were doing a show.  It was mad ambitious. We got them acting, rapping, dancing and singing – and most of them, English is not their first language. But they smashed it, mate.

The main room at the Institute of Contemporary Arts was packed and the audience loved it.  Of course, there was a few mistakes on stage here and there but they dealt with it and moved on. Just like professionals do.

It was a great project for me to work on, I got to facilitate the sessions as well as write the script and produce the soundtrack – all done through a loop station, triggered live during the show by one of the young guys.

Doing this type of work, it’s almost impossible to avoid making cheesy sentimental statements about the whole thing but it can get really emotional. Some of the journeys these guys have been are genuinely incredible. We gave them all certificates at the end, on the stage, and at one point I was struggling to hold it together. Makes it all worthwhile.

It’s the first project I’ve done like this, since we came out the pandemic and it’s wiped me out a bit but I’m glad of it. I’m off up to Manchester tonight, to work on a similar project at Contact Theatre then next week things slow down a bit, so I can focus on that livestream I keep going on about. Looking forward to having a kip

In 2015, I released an EP of stories called The 90 Sick EP. I worked with a great producer called Elian Gray, who scored the soundtrack to it. I was really proud of it. I never managed to sell to many CD’s or get a great deal of streams but I was happy that it existed and could be accessed. Initially I regretted putting it out as an EP and thought I should’ve done it as a podcast but after 6 years, I’m glad it exists online and anyone can go and stream it anytime they want.

I had an email off the CD distributor saying they wanted to get rid of my excess stock, so I got the last few CDs back off of them. You can purchase at paulcree.co.uk/shop or stream it on all the major platforms except Spotify, for some reason. Dickheads.

I’ve attached the first track off the EP, called The Fun Fax Kid. I was really proud of this when I wrote it, I felt like these were the sort of stories I wanted to tell and the form felt good. It’s loosely based on two true stories, so I hope you enjoy it

Have a banging weekend

Pease and taters

Paul

 The Fun Fax Kid, by Paul Cree.

It's a Wednesday afternoon, school's finished but I haven’t. I'm sat on that infamous naughty desk underneath the stairs, writing lines about property-theft and deliberately disrupting class time.

I should be at home watching Byker Grove! Instead, I’m staring at the carvings etched into the well knackered wood, crude claims about people's mum's, alongside a rollcall of scratched in names, older brothers and cousins of mates, who've not gone on to achieve much. I'm sat here because of Alan. Little shit that he is!

It all started yesterday. Alan's bragging to Miss about how his cress plant's gonna’ be the biggest in the class. All the class's cress plants are lined up on the window sill, next to the wooden desks with the hinged lids, where me and best friend Richard sit, right at the back at of the room. Alan sits a few rows in front, sucking up to Miss and flipping the bird everytime she turns to me and Rich. As Miss inspects the cress plants, she catches me and Rich talking.

'Open up your desk lid' Miss says;

As if she knew it was gonna’ be in a state, and upon seeing how messy it is, texts-books, paper and felt tips missing the lids, looking like rubbish overflowing in a skip, she orders me, and Rich, who's desk is just as bad, to stay in at break and tidy them.

'My desk is tidy miss.'

Butting in, Alan’s opened his desk lid, to reveal to Miss an annoyingly tidy pile of stacked books and paper, and that flippin’ Fun Fax Alan always has with ‘im! Choc-o-bloc with geeky information, and stickers, so smug pricks like Alan can cover his textbooks with cheesy slogans

and claim facts like it was ‘im that discovered it! When Miss walks away, Alan swings back round with a devious look on his face says;

'Oi,I bet you too dick-‘eads have the worst cress-plants in the class. You two always come bottom in all the tests. You should be used to it, ‘cos you're both thick as shit!'

'Shut up Alan!' I replied

'Yea, shut up Alan.' said Rich, backing me up.

'YOU shut-up!' Alan comes back angry, as he'd just forgotten the insults that had pea-shooted from his lips.

'No, YOU shut-up Alan, we said shut-up first.' I said.

'WHAT'S ALL THIS NOISE ABOUT?!' Says miss, turning round from writing

on the board and looking at us.

'Miss, THOSE2 keep swearing at me.' says Alan!

Thing is, though I don't often do well on the tests, I know I'm not thick, and as for Alan, who always seems to do well, I know he's not that smart, not as smart as he thinks he is! I've seen Alan cheat on tests by using his Fun Fax, hidden inside the lid of his desk, or the times-table on the back of his packed pencil case, and he always seems to get away with it! Little shit that he is!

Miss turns back round to the board at the front of the class, Alan swings back round again;

'You two nobs, are like those characters from that new cartoon Iseen on MTV called Beavis and Butthead, ‘cos you’re both thick and need braces, that's your new names yea, Beavis and Butthead!'

Alan follows this with a silly little giggle, which I'm assuming is taken from this mythical TV show which made everyone else in the class laugh! I feel the beginnings of a blizzard in my tummy, as if I was inside of a gently shaken snow glass, sat on a mantelpiece, which I immediately want to suppress. I can feel my face going red.

'I've not heard of that cartoon ALAN! I don’t know what you’re talking about!' I said

'That's because your mum and dad CAN’T afford Sky! You've never seen MTV!' Alan replies, as he turns back to his desk, doing that stupid laugh again.

'My parents have got SKY. I've seen it' pipes up Richard! Out of nowhere!

'And HE’S me more like Beavis and Butthead than me, HE’S the one with goofy teeth who needs braces!' Pointing at me!

I pause look at Rich for a bemused sec;

'what?' he says, ‘you do need braces.'

Ignoring the fact that my best friend has just cussed me off, I then turn straight back to Alan, with his back to me, trying to think up the best cuss I can possibly cuss him back with…

'Shut up Alan!'

No reply. It just bounces off the back of Alans white shirt.

During the break, detained, me and Rich are tidying our desks, stuffing our faces with too many Nerd sweets. Alan keeps on walking passed the window, calling us Beavis and Butthead, doing that stupid laugh, which is spreading like hair nits amongst the other kids, ‘cos they're all doing it. Clenching our fists, me and Rich pledge revenge and plot a roadmap to our very own Count of Monty Cristo.

'I'd take him.' Rich says

'Yea I reckon I'd take him as well' I said

'Yea but I’d beat him‘im up harder, I’ve been doing press ups'

'Yea, but I'd put him in a headlock, you've seen me arm wrestle, I’ve got strength there'

'Yea but I'd elbow drop him.'

'Yea but I’d elbow drop him then put him in the super-sharp-shooter.'

'Yea but I'd elbow drop him, put him in the gorilla-press, throw him out the window from the first floor, then jump out myself and body splash him!'

The emergency cobra meeting continues, as we empty our desks of all the unfinished school work

and half eaten sandwiches. Just as I'm loading up my gob with another handful of Nerd sweets, I casually discard the empty box on the side behind me, and my gaze turns to the cress plants on the window sill. In particular, That Fun Fax sticker-clad plant pot, right in the middle, hogging all the sun light, and wonder how it is, that ALAN’S cress plant, actually looks like ‘im!.I stop chewing and just stare.

I hock back! Sounding like a snorting pig at a trough, lean towards the window sill, then unleash a thick wod of rainbow coloured flem directly into the soil of that bellend Alan's plant pot! Rich laughs and then follows! Spitting right into the same spot! We go back forth in a flem-rally, covering Alan's cress plant in a monsoon pallet of food colouring, sugar and e numbers, making Alan's Cress Plant look like an abstract Van Gough! We watch the venom of our combined saliva slowly seep into the soil, we hi five and laugh, admiring our handiwork.

The class come back in from break, Richard and I are schtum. The cress plants are lined upon the outside of my peripheral vision, like soldiers standing to attention, having just been witness to sabotage. Those annoying little giggles are playing out in stereo around the room, subtlety conducted by Alan at the front, sitting on his desk with his Fun Fax, blissfully unaware of what's just happened, and everytime Miss turned round to the board, Alan swings round to me and Rich and mouths 'Beavis and Butthead.' I just smile. The sun's out, it's all calm inside the snow glass.

The next day I walk into class to be greeted by scene I didn’t quite expect! Alan is standing next to the window sill! Alan is crying! Alan is being comforted by Miss I slowly shuffle over to my desk…

Alan's cress plant is dead! No one else’s Cress Plant has died! Just Alan's! It's as if we unintentionally hit the target at a carnival shooting gallery, and there's a now prize winning Goldfish swimming under the eyelids of me and Rich, who's just arrived and seen it too! But we’re both a bit surprised; we didn’t intend to kill Alan's cress plant. We didn’t actually think about what would happen if we spat in it. We just thought it would be a laugh Cos Alan's always giving us shit!

Alan 's touching the leaves tenderly with his hand. All the shoots are draped down the side of the pot, and are dry and yellow, looking like anorexic vines suffering from jaundice, and when Miss lifts the pant pot, there's a little multi coloured stain on the plate underneath! Looking like the liquid bit in the bottom of the bowl after eating a whole load of Neapolitan ice cream!

Alan rubs his teary eyes and looksup, to see me, looking at him, his eyes immediately dart to the side, behind where my desk is. But then His face suddenly frowns?! I follow his sightline, and that’s when I see the empty box of Nerd sweets sitting there casually on the side! He looks back towards me, he looks mean, he looks angry!

'It was Beavis and But’ead.' he said all hysterical;

'They did it Miss, they did it!!'

'Alan, stop being silly and sit back-down.' Said Miss

Alans states at me Rich, a hard stare that could strip pant off walls, and he remains quiet for the rest of the morning.

At lunchtime Alan's no-where to be seen. But me and Richard are too busy feeling proud of our unintentional murderous achievements to be concerned about this. After lunch we came back into class for our Geography lesson Alan's already sat down at his desk. Miss says that were going to be studying capital cities Alan immediately shoots his hand up, as fast as the donkeys arse on that Bukerooo board game;

'I know all the names Miss. They're in my Fun Fax.'

Which he instinctively goes to grab, but it's not on his desk! Alan makes a real show of trying to find it, until Miss can't ignore it, As Alan gets more and more distressed and I don't think Miss wants anymore tears.

'Ok class, everybody take a moment to look for Alan's Fun Fax.'

10 minutes and No dice, the Fun Fax has disappeared! Lobbied furiously by Alan, Miss decides to inspect the desks. Lids fly open and she gradually approaches the back. She gets to me and Rich and suddenly I feel very scared. I open my messy lid…and THERE IT IS! Sat there, next to an empty box of Nerd sweets, in all its smugness is AlAN’S MUGGY FUN FAX!!

‘

It was Beavis and Butthead Miss! They took my Fun Fax!'

I'm gobsmacked! When the bellowing begins, my snow glass turns to Ice and I freeze. Just nodding my head to everything Miss says, about how we deliberately concocted this plan to disrupt class time and distress Alan, who was already upset, even though we didn’t do it!

Miss doesn’t know we killed his cress plant, but I wonder if she’s giving us too much credit, planning all that?! We’re not that smart! And we’re sentenced to afterschool detentions, writing lines on the naughty desk about property theft, and deliberately disrupting class time.

For the rest of the day me and Rich are sheepish. I can't help thinking how unfair life is, and every now again, as if just to remind us, Alan let's out that little giggle. Confirming the class's hierarchy and where we both sit, Little shit that he is!

And as I sit here, and finish carving words to that effect into the naughty desk, underneath the stairs, annoyed as I am, I can't help thinking, when visualising those dry cress plant leaves, the rainbow stain on the plate, and the tears in Alan's spoilt eyes, it was all worth it.

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cree.substack.com

Greetings, bonjour, what’s happening

Just a quick little intro, not going to waffle like I normally do. I may or may not get to upload anything on Friday. I’m back and forth at the minute between Maidstone and London, with two very hot and bothered dogs; needs must. My wife’s had to attend some important family business abroad, so daddy’s in charge and he’s gotta’ sort out the out day care.

All next week is the get-in for this Out Here show. It’s a group called Friends from Afar, via a organisation called Dream Arts. They’re made up of Londoners that I’ve been working with for the last year, developing it. I’ve written a script based on characters and scenes they devised and composed the music. Really excited for it but it’s gonna be a nuts week.

Thursday 28th July, 7pm, at the Institute of Contemporary Arts, London. Tickets are free if you wonna come along and support these guys.

Below is the final part of the Edinburgh blog from 2016. I’ll probably be back in a couple of weeks, hopefully with the first live-stream all good to go as well.

Enjoy the sun

Peas and taters

Paul

Count Up To Edinburgh #9 Mission Complete

During the Edinburgh festival, if someone were to circulate a false rumour that so and so big-bollox TV executive / stage producer was holding open-auditions a mile out into the shark and sewage infested sea, beyond Leith docks; a hyper-enthusiastic undulating throng of: merry actors, comedians, poets, magicians, clowns, knife-throwers and jugglers would saunter en-masse (armed with flyers), down to the murky waters only to perish to certain death; disappearing in floating pools of blood and sludge and flyers with review quotes stapled to them. For years after, passers-by along Leith Port would hear distant murmurs of 'free comedy' and '4 star review' haunting the docks. Let's have it right, I'd probably be one of them mugs, though I'm sure I would have got half-way there, seen all the people heading in the same direction, cussed them off for being more organised than me and then abandoned all hope and sulked off to one of them late night takeaways that sell chips in curry-sauce. Either that or I'd turn up on the wrong day or something. In short. Edinburgh is like an extreme form of Monopoly, only difference is, it can seem, depending on what kind of day you've had, that everyone starts off with more dough and know-how than you. Mate. Edinburgh was nuts. I knew it would be nuts. Knowing it would be nuts didn't make it any less nuts, it was still nuts. But all in all, a good-nuts, like Terry Nutkins. Reast in Peace. It was really wild. To do it, and to want to do it, then want to go back and do it again, you do have to be at least slightly nuts. It just helps (a lot) if you've got the sort of dough behind you that would see you drinking in the sort of pubs that sell 10 different varieties of flavoured nuts (which come in jam jars) as a poncy alternative to crisps (which in itself is nuts, because crisps are banging, they’re not nuts, but it is nuts, as all crisps, are banging, even Space Invaders.)I pretty much had 3 objectives going up there, well, 4 actually.1: To book, organise and get a show up there then put it on every day. (This stuff does not come easy to me)2: Get my face in front of some new people, outside of London and from hopefully as many different places as possible (though half of the people at the Fringe are probably from London)3: Get a couple of reviews.4: Have a laugh (though this one was more of a given)I'm happy to say that I achieved all of those objectives. The outcomes could have been better but also could have been a lot of worse. Could of improved in all of those above areas, particularly in my preparation; prior to this I'd never sent out a press release before let alone written one. Probably could have used my time up there more efficiently as well, flyering other events etc but all in all, I was pleased.

The first week was very up and down and despite having a good audience for my first 2 shows it really dropped off and I was struggling a bit. Walking around the city, already sodden and cold, seeing all the massive hoardings and billboards advertising really banal-looking shows, most of which had some quirky face on, with some quirky show name, each one seemingly telling me, 'you can't afford this, go home, you small time mug.'

Sounds a bit melodramatic but at times that's how I felt. Some of these people that take shows up there, must be able to write off £10K or some other ludicrous amount and it not be a problem for them. For many people though, it must break the bank. Everything up there costs and it's very difficult if you don't have a lot of money. High venue costs. High accommodation costs. Massive billboard posters. PR Companies. It's a lot. Thank God then for The Free Fringe and the ethos with which is stands for, which meant I didn't pay for hiring the venue I performed in, which is a massive cost. Simple really. We don't pay to hire the venue, audience don't pay to come in, venue takes the bar. It can work. The Pilgrim, where I was based, did really well, smashing all their targets.

All in all I spent about £1500 squid, not even a fraction of what some of these shows must have cost. It also helped that all the other guys in my venue were really helpful and pitched in with flyering, and regular pick-me-up support etc. Made The Pilgrim a decent place to work at. Large up Soundman Davey Jones, Gecko (best flyer-er in the game mate!) Jake Wildhall, Joel Autterson and all the Boomerang Club crew, Harry Baker and Chris, Robert Garnham, Dave and Byron and of course all of the Pilgrim staff who were all really supportive.

Second week picked up and I got a lot better at flyering and generally pulling people in etc. All the additional gigs helped too, Boomerang, Stand Up and Slam, Raise The Bar, Prepare To Fail. Felt like I got a into a good swing with it and the audiences were good too, generally really responsive. My mate Gary From Leeds said to me before we went up that things would start slow then pick up, and he was right. He was right about most things up there, though I did manage to persuade him that chips in curry sauce was better than chips in gravy, eventually he came round and he’s Northern. Had a reviewer come in from Broadway Baby who gave me a decent 4 star 0eview which I was chuffed about. Have a butchers here

Also somewhere in the second week I had a nice chat about it all with Paul McMenemy from Lunar Poetry. As always, I talked to much. I'd just done a show so my voice was a bit raspy. It was fun though. Have a listen HERE

The last week was wicked. Audiences were good and I felt like I knew what I was doing by this point. There was bit of a dip on one or two days but from what I'd heard this was felt throughout the festival. Couple of people said to me that in general numbers were down on previous years, something to do with The Olympics or Great British Bake Off or some other nonsense.

I really enjoyed the chats I got to have most days, out and about on the streets, with other performers, punters etc. Big up Bob Walshy Walsh, who I had a good chinwag with most days about all things football and South London. When out flyering, it's a bit like a melty version of The Wire, on the street, all hand signals and that, communicating to the other flyerers, working out the punters movements and who's likely to want to take a flyer. It was thoughts like that which kept me amused on the slow days. But yea, in the end it all went well.

The last show was by far the biggest and most generous audience I'd had and it was great to go out on a banger. Had another decent review from a young reviewer too by the name of Ben Huxley, have a butcher's here (though both Dominic Berry and I had a bit of giggle about the unlikely comparison.) Though I got to perform too lots of new and different people, I was chuffed that on most days there was someone I knew in the audience, a lot who took me by surprise. I had a lot of friends and family who came all the way up. Conrad, Fez and Junior came twice! Mum, Dad and Nat flew up just for the day. Met some really great people to, some who also came twice, like this really nice family from Cambridge, two of which were teachers. Had a lot of teachers. Big up Riko and family too. Thankyou, all of you, even the one or two rude ones who didn’t pay any attention and were talking or playing on their phones throughout. Don't understand why you do that when you can just get up leave, it's Free Fringe innit, but still, you interest and annoy me in equal measure.

Special mention must go to all the residents of Poetry House. My flatmates for the duration of the festival. Had a great time staying with these guys, all the nonsense chats in the kitchen and the many pick-me-ups along the way. Fay Roberts (got to do the best / worst / weirdest gig with Fay), Dominic Berry,(ahhhhhhhhhhh football-style audience support) Alexander Rhodes, Hannah Chutzpah all the various poets and mates of mates who came up and stayed, and of course my roomate, Gary From Leeds. Legend,mate. Helped me all the way back from last year, to get my arse up there and pull it off. In that tiny cabin room that stank of damp towels, we had a good laugh, through the good times and the bad. Highlight of the Fringe for me was when Gary rescued a component from my beard trimmer from off of the roof, using gaffer tape, a brolly, a broom and sheer MacGyver like skills.

So yea, all in all, I had a wonderful time, high and lows, old friends, euphoria and sadness, new friends and a lot of laughs. Would I do it all again? Probably. Yes. Dunno...ask me in 6 months mate.

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cree.substack.com

Greetings, bonjour, what’s happening

Welcome to Lager Time. My almost weekly edition of poems, stories, thoughts and sometimes music. Bits and bobs I’m working on.

This is the first time I’ve attempted some sort of opening tag-line. Just as I’m thinking of bringing in some changes to Lager Time. Typical me. I’m not exactly what that is as yet but I’m thinking I might need to split things up a bit; in terms of the poems, the thoughts, the music etc. And in these times of inflation, high-living costs, housing shortages, wars, potential wars, potential austerity; I’m sure this is the last thing we all need. Fear not my Lager-dons, it won’t be happening any time soon, though. All in good time. Good time? What does that actually mean? What about is ‘good’? I mean, many things are good, if you think about it? I could say, ‘all in bad time’ because arguably, it is but then again… anyway…

One thing I am going to attempt, probably in the next couple of weeks; is a Lager Time live-stream, probably on You Tube. It’s taken me ages to figure out how to do it (I’ll go into more detail on this in a minute) but I’ve managed to get some half-decent sound, streaming into my phone, so I can be on-mic, perform a few poems, chatting a bit and do a few tracks on my loop-station; all with a bit of lighting to make it look alright. Pretty standard these days, but for me, working this out has been like a morose goldfish trying to unravel the human genome.

Since school, my focus has always been like an erratic-goldfish, selecting penny sweets with his generous science funding. Even way before I was working in the arts, when I worked ordinary day-jobs and I was just doing music as a hobby; I always seemed to be attempting multiple projects, all at once, meaning most of them were never finished; some didn’t even get off the ground. Some of them were decent ideas but half-arsed in delivery. Sometimes, I just didn’t have the means, which was always frustrating as I had the ideas, which just turned bitter. Like making-music for instance. Hence I started rapping, as I only needed a pen and paper. All in all, in terms of ideas I come up with, I’ve probably got a follow-through completion rate of about 8% (which I don’t actually think is that bad, as something is better than nothing)

Whether I like it or not, my skills are limited. My ability to learn new skills are limited. Certain things just take me a long-time to grasp; it’s why I mostly hated school, as I couldn’t pick things up fast enough. We all have limitations of course. I get that. But what compounds all of this; as well as being erratic, I can also be a lazy-prick, often preferring the easy route. I excel at deluding myself that I’m doing what I’m meant to be doing; I know all the loop-holes, mate. I’m like a bored goldfish with a  spreadsheet and an open-return to the Caymen-Islands. Am I going to persevere with this scrip-writing thing I’m currently learning and playing with? Or am I going to write rap bars, to my favourite beats? A process I’m very familiar and comfortable with doing. But it’s all ‘writing’ though, isn’t it Paul? Ticking the writing box. We all know the truth deep down, like a stoned goldfish, watching You Tube videos about chem-trails.

Sometimes, though, somehow, by hook or by crook; I say I’m going to do something and I actually do it. I get there. Sort of. I may well take a long-arse route but I arrive, deshelled but glad I did it; just wishing I was more efficient. This blog, podcast and live-streaming, is part of this bigger idea I had. It’s not quite how I envisioned it, it’s a lot scrappier than I’d like, but here I am, doing something, which is better than nothing, most of the time.

Despite the difficulties of the COVID lockdowns and what that meant for freelancers like me and how I earn my living; I saw it as opportunity to really become independent. I wanted to use the internet, to be able to produce and distribute my own my music; writing, books, promotional content, video and put on live-gigs, like a multi-tasking Goldfish, with a clipboard and a novelty-tie. I’ve done a little bit of all that now; it’s no where near as good as I’d like it to be but this goldish likes cola-bottles, shrimps, surgery-laces, those banging Postman-Pat chews and bare other surgery-delights. I’m slowly learning how I can obtain those without crashing and burning, staring out of the window, cursing myself then placating myself with booze and caloric food, like a Goldfish that’s… na, we’’ll leave it there.

I often think I’m a few steps away from achieving something really good and a few steps back the other way, from the being the piss-artist at the bar boring the younger lads about how I ‘could’ve been.’ I know which one I prefer. All in good that time, mate. Whatever that means.

So that’s it for me and this rant. I was going to include the final part of that Edinburgh series from 2016 that I wrote but alas, you’ll have to wait. I think in the run-up to it all, I did a seven blogs, documenting the process, which you can still read at www.paulcreewrites.blogspot.com – but you’re getting the first and last. Large up any performers who are taking shows up there this yet, especially ones who are doing it with limited resources and off their own backs. And large up the punters willing to take a punt and watch a few of these shows, as opposed to watching one of the many bland, panel-show comedians, who you see on telly every week, doing their live-routines, like me writing rap-bars; take a risk!

Have a banging weekend

Peas and taters

Paul

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cree.substack.com

Greetings, bonjour, what’s happening

Welcome to Lager Time and welcome anyone who is listening via Apple podcasts or Spotify for the first time. Last week I clicked a few buttons and then BOSH – just like that, the whole Lager Time back catalogue was dumped onto both platforms.

It’s a little bit daunting to be honest but if those emails Spotify send me every month, telling me who’s streaming the one song I’ve got up there – are anything to go by, I’ve got little to worry about, mate. It does feel like it’s slowly building though, not just the numbers but me figuring out what I’m doing with it, how I’m recording it; like life, it’s a work-in-progress, mate.

So this week has been a bit of a write-off. I’ve been struck down with gastroenteritis, which has been pretty grim. Perhaps the pain-gods thought I got-off light with the two bouts of COVID I had and have kicked my arse with this. I’ve had to cancel all my work this week, which has included a gig on Sunday which I was really looking forward too. And of course, I’m self-employed so I don’t get paid. But I guess, the trade-off is that I get to go to TK Max during the week and take my time in a half-empty store.

On the brighter side, I do feel a lot better than I did at the start of the week but I’m still pretty tired and my tummy is still very delicate. I’ve been eating dry toast and plain chicken and as someone who is married to a Goan; this is a cardinal sin. But needs must. Large up my upbringing, because when a geezer needs to go bland with his eating, I don’t even think about it, mate, it’s built in.

As I hope you understand, I’ve done no creative stuff this week, so what I thought I’d share was something I’ve been meaning to do – which a post I wrote in 2016 in the run-up to taking a show to the Edinburgh Fringe called The C/D Borderline (Which you can on my You Tube channel) It’s that time of year when everyone who is taking shows are busy getting them ready.

I’m contemplating taking the Make Your Own Bed and Hope for the Best show up there, maybe next year but despite being very aware of the huge pitfalls, the Edinburgh Fringe has this strange draw for me (and probably many others) maybe it’s a moff-to-a-light-thing. Alas

No music this week, so after the Edinburgh bit, that’s your lot. As ever, hope yous all have great weekends.

Pea and taters, Paul

Count up to Edinburgh #1 Doing my own head in – originally published on paulcreewrites.blogspot.com 1st May, 2016

Fuck sake. As much as I often talk about how much I enjoy the solitude of writing and all the other stuff that goes with it, in any given week (often daily in fact) there is without fail several moments where I want to rip off my own head and drop kick it over the garden fence and off into the distance, hoping that it lands in a Biffa Bin somewhere and some kind of salvage hunter finds it and turns it into something actually useful, like a car battery. So I'm going up to Edinburgh in August for the Fringe festival with this new show called The C/D Borderline. Let's have it right, I'm glad I'm going, I want to go and this time I'm doing it off my own back, partly to see if I can actually do it, as in get the thing up there and pull it off, what with all the stuff that's involved with putting on and promoting a show. It's a lot, it really is, especially for someone like me who really does lack those essential organisational, admin and marketing skills. I'm not worried about getting the punters in (well not at this stage), I have zero expectation on that front, I just want to go up there and put on a good show, with good material and if that's to a handful of people everyday I'm cool with that.The show itself draws on a lot of my experiences from school, how difficult I found it and how I've struggled as an adult more or less ever since. Those same traits that saw me bunking off, dicking about in class, struggling to understand what the fuck was going on when I actually was trying, mentally withdrawing from whole entire lessons, sitting down at home to do homework but just staring at it on the table to numb to even lift a pen, are all coming to the fore with a vengeance in the run up to this. It's like diamond hunters sifting through the mud, except they're not looking for them precious shiny things, instead it's something shit like, I dunno, used scratch cards or something. I'm probably juggling to many balls at once, as I have a few other projects on the go plus a regular job Mon-Fri. It's a bit nuts but it's always been like this with me and most people I know are in the same boat, a lot of these have children too and that's a whole another level so what am I getting so wound up about?!I can look at it and see how ridiculous it all is and often I can laugh about it, as you'll hopefully hear in the show, but it's just when I'm at home, on my todd, with a ton of things to do, I'm sat at my desk and suddenly I freeze. My normally hyper active mind just goes blank like someones pulled the ariel out of the telly and before I know it, I've loaded up yet another grime video or a Fire In The Booth freestyle that I've probably seen a hundred times, or I start working on something totally new which has nothing to do with what I'm supposed to be doing.

Even when I am concentrating, I still seem to mess-up really important things. Twice in the last month I've had to reply to emails regarding the show, one of which if I hadn't there would be no show, so I spent ages on them; making sure there was no mistakes, re-read them a hundred times, sent them and then bosh!: Surprise-faackin'-surprise I've missed off a vital piece of information on both emails that almost messed up the whole operation! And I'm left, as ever, embarrassed, humiliated and really fipping' annoyed with myself. But what's worse, is that someone else at the other end is affected and could quite understandably now think I'm an idiot, well meaning, but an idiot none the less. This has happened before...No idea what the neighbours must think, what the with the random: FUCKKKK OFFFFFFFs most days as my computer freezes or my phone starts wigging out and I slam my fist down on the desk remembering that I've forgotten to do something, very important, again.

The amount of times in the last month I've visualised myself going into Wolverine Berseker mode and smashing up everything around me, before ripping my clothes off and running into the woods to a live a feral life away from humanity, living off Squirrels and Parakeets (as long as I've got Mayonnaise, I'm fine.)

Thankfully, I've not smashed anything up, it rarely gets to that stage but I've been close of late. In my school days I used to punch-up a lot of walls and I've put my fist through a few toilet doors (probably in the year 11 toilets in C block, few times I think, apologies) and I've probably damaged my right fist from doing that, which is very stupid considering I use that hand to write, type and grip microphones.Anyway, this started off as a few lines just to vent a bit, but then I got the idea to make this into an Edinburgh blog, documenting the journey and that, so every cloud has a silver lining I guess. Even if no one reads it it's been kinda fun doing it and certainly better than putting my fist through a door.

I also wanted to write about the other side of things a bit. As in the writing / performing stuff. Most of my online activity is either promoting gigs or talking about gigs I've just done and how great they were. To be honest, as cheesy or insincere as it all may seem, that is genuinely how I feel after most gigs, I like doing it. It's been a few years now (my entire adult life actually, plus a bit more, I'm 32) and I still very much enjoy it. But with the smooth of course comes the ruff, and sometimes it's a sheet of discarded sandpaper on the toilet floor when you've just clocked that there's no bog roll and the post man is ringing your doorbell with a recorded delivery of that car battery you so desperately need to get your muggy show to Edinburgh...Peas and taters

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cree.substack.com

Greetings, bonjour, what’s happening

1st of July, mate. Summer’s here. So’s hay fever. Deal with it. I’m dealing with it. Dealt with it. Done. Still got it, mate, alas.

Had COVID last week, weren’t too bad. This week, back to normal, I’m still a bit tired but we crack-on, none the less. Never had that TWIX in the end but I’ve been booked-in for a bit of work in Manchester at the end of the month, so I look forward to purchasing an overpriced mega-Twix from the on-board trolly-service when I flex out of Euston on the Inter-City. (Assuming here that it will be staffed and running of course) Do they still call it in the Inter City service? Or have I just had a temporarily replace into the days of British Rail? It’s either that, or too much football-hooligan nostalgia that those algo-riddimz kept selecting for me. They must be mistaken, mate. I liked the clobber but not the cobbering. Speaking of avoiding conflict…

I’ve attached another one of the pieces from the Make Your Own Bed show I’ve been working on for what seems like an eternity (about 3 years and a squillion re-writes to date). It’s from when I was doing debt-collections for an asset finance company, having previously done it for a bank.

A criticism that often came up of me in these times, was that I was not assertive enough and to be honest, I think they were right. I don’t like confrontation, both verbal or physical. There was a lot of confrontation in that work. I probably beat around the bush in the conversations I had but trying to extract dough from people that often don’t want to pay it, morals aside, a certain degree of conversational ruthlessness is required to get the necessary results. I just didn’t have it, mate. Still don’t. Never got those results. Never do. Never say never, ok, sorry Ahhhh

I try not to duck conflicts these days, as much as I don’t like them, sometimes they need to be had out. Marriage has taught that. And I don’t mean that in a stereotypical ‘she’s always nagging me’ way, towards my wife but we are two people who’s lives our intertwined on many levels;  sometimes we have to make decisions and sometimes we don’t agree. I still suck at arguing, though but I’ve gotton’ better, and I’ve cherished those few little wins I have had, like a lower league football  team topping the premier-league giant in a major cup upsets but ultimately insignificant to the big team. Writing helps.

So I recently asserted myself, sort of, in an exchange where I politely (I think) declined two gig opportunities. Basically I said no. For probably a number of different reasons, I don’t tend to do to many spoken-word gigs these days. I genuinely love performing and I miss it. Knowing that world, as I do, or more to the point, did; I know it turns over quickly. I think due to the accessibility of it as an artform, new nights spring up all the time, as do new performers and of course new audiences.  I don’t tend to go many of these sort of nights but regardless of any of any stripes I’ve earned in the past, I’m always keen to get back out; especially when there’s whole new audiences to connect with.

So I got contacted to perform at two different events, from two promoters I didn’t personally know but I was happy they reached out. Both the gigs looked decent, good previous crowds and good-looking venues but they asked to come and do their open-mike sots. Immediately, my ego kicked in, feeling a little insulted. but then all the rationales of above over-rode those and I thought, ‘well, new audience, new opportunity and if I smash the open-mike maybe they’ll give me the full feature’ which is of course what I want.

I have an ego as big as anyone else’s but I think it’s kept in check (most of the time) with often crippling self-doubt and the fear of coming-across as a prick. I’ve seen egotistical pricks; no thanks. I’ve also seen how much of an inhibitor to it can be, to making good art. So I didn’t want to be a prick here, and I want to perform. I spoke to a good mate of mine, told her the situation. It helped to iron out the pros and cons and in the end I said no, to both. Maybe I’m a dickhead for missing out, maybe I’m sensible, as it would wind-up costing a fair amount of money to do it, travel, food etc, for potentially little gain.

So it boiled down to what I think my own value is, verses what I think the quote-on-quote market value is. My own value is a fair bit higher, though my stock may have dropped in that sense, Facebook keeps throwing up these memories from 10- 12 years ago, of all these gigs I’ve done, running round like a loon jumping on any mike I could, I’ve done that, mate. So I politely declined and wished them the best of luck with their events, which I’m sure will be just  fine without my 5 minute appearance

For the record, as a performer, might be controversial to say these days but I’m not against working for free, at times. Depends what the gig is. All to often, I hear younger artists (without the stirpes) parrot more successful artists in refusing to work for free but in an entirely different context. I fully understand the demand for money, when an established artist is asked to perform at some dry-arse conference or whatever, which has clearly got big-budgets but if it’s a decent grass-roots gig, that doesn’t make the dough but they can give you a decent audience, a good venue, stage etc and maybe in a place you ‘aint been before, I’m all for it, mate. My good pal Conrad Murray sums this up well in the Making Hip Hop theatre book, which you can purchase here, if you click the link in the text.

This went on a bit longer than I intended this week and we aint even got to the piece or the music yet! Ah yes, music. As per last week, I’m going to stick anther track on at the end. It’s going to be the 5th and final track on this forthcoming EP I’ve been working on, called Toast In The Machine. I’ve had the EP planned out a good while ago, it’s just taking me ages. I get side-tracked, I’m lazy but I’m only doing this for myself, as a little hobby, so when a bit of paid work comes in, it gets put to the side.

The EP was initially going to be 4 tracks and I had the bones of them laid-out before I went to America at the end of last year. But then I got COVID whilst in Dallas and got very bored, so made this simple track with a video, which you can watch in the link. Came back, then thought it would work well as  final, 5th track but would need a bit of work and a second verse, so it got put in the long quw for things I needed to do. But then I went and got COVID last week, again. So it felt like a good time to write the second verse and re-edit the rack. Hence the name – Dallas-Stone, two bouts of COVID, two countries, six months apart. That’s real. Or something like that.

Cor-Dear. We got there in the end. That’s me over and out. Large up the new subscribers. Hope you stick around. Have a banging weekend.

Peas and taters

Paul

Make Your Own Bed and Hope for the Best: FCP story

I’ve been seconded to debt collection

Like out of favour squad player

Sent out on loan

My department has been squeezed

Less money to lend

Less workers they need and

I’m the most expendable

Slash least valuable

Maybe there’s a case for redundancy

I don’t think I’d turn it down but

then what else would I do?

who would employ me in these times?

I’m hearing there’s hundred of applicants for every job

Maybe my Lloyds experience saved me

But I’m back doing a job I hated

This time though there’s no automated phone service

I have a spreadsheet to manage and do

The dialling myself

All 1s and zeros

I’m told I’m not assertive enough on the phones

Fail to hit target each month

Often when I tell customer how much money they owe

On a car they don’t even own

The say they didn’t know

They didn’t own the  vehicle

Took out HP out for a boyfriend

A wife or girlfriend

And are now lumbered with an over-inflated

rapidly depreciating asset that

they can’t sell cos it aint their’ s and that

person they took it out for is

nowhere to be seen

that’s kind of how I feel like

25 and not that young anymore

Feel like I’ve already had enough

Looking at life ahead like an old school telly with the Ariel pulled out

I got stacks of letters from customers I need to read

Some of them are desperate

Don’t have the time to reply

We get emails saying there’s people who want our jobs

Who will do it for less

Is that supposed to be motivational?

it seems to have the reverse effect

evenings my time is taken up with open mics

And now a theatre, course

I’m in a show

Found it by chance and

Took a chance and

I’m loving it

They give me encouragement,

it’s hard to believe if they mean it or are just being nice

but it feels good

That and the overtime means I’m out 5 nights a week most weeks

Sleep is tough

And it hurts it when I wake

The next day

Shattered

I live for my lunchbreaks and

The walk to and from work down Victoria sreet

practise freestyling, or words I’m learning to perform or listen to beats

Last week

I went to church

Westminster cathedral

Just sat inside and

Enjoyed the quiet

It’s been a long time

But it felt right

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cree.substack.com

Greetings, bonjour what’s happening

Another week, yes indeed. So I’ve been home most of this week, ostensibly because of the rail-strikes but then I went and got COVID, again. Yea, COVID, who remembers that?

I must have a mild-form of it because, touchwood, it’s not been too bad, just a bit tired and throaty; bit of a headache. Seemingly spent a large of chunk of yesterday keeping an unsociable distance from my wife and scrolling on my phone. I’m not much of a scroller, normally more of a YouTube Video-Clicker-type. Seems a lot of people I vaguely know are at Glastonbury, having a decent time of it.

Anyway, felt pretty unhealthy after a good-day of doing that and it reminded me how easily I succumb to unstructured behaviour and how it makes me feel; rarely good. A couple of emails I needed to reply too and this little blog, was enough motivation for me to get off my arse and do something. There’s a fair amount going on right now, which requires my attention and sweeping it under the rug because of a bit of COVID is not going to do me any favours and it’s not like I’m doing any back-breaking labour. But self-care, Paul? Relax, I might have a Twix.

Speaking of labour and work, I had to cancel two of my regular gigs this week due to the train-strike, which I don’t get paid for but I’m happy to forgo that. Large-up the strikers; from what I gather striking is a last resort, best of luck to them. I’ve been enjoying seeing clips of Mick Lynch talking on the telly. A lot of modern, mainstream-politics, seems to me to just rely on window-dressing via tokenistic policies and meaningless platitudes. It’s refreshing to see a bit of genuine pushback, with someone that doesn’t sound like a PR auto-bot, with real-world-results. A timely reminder to Labour, perhaps, about who they’ve been ignoring, for the last thirty years or so?

But we crack on. Amidst price hikes, wars and stagnating wages, we crack on. What else do we do? Sit on our blowers, mindlessly scrolling? No Thanks.

So this weeks writing-offering is the piece I mentioned last week about chairs. I like a good chair It’s in slightly better shape than it was but I’m still sure not sure about it, so I welcome any feedback. I’ve also tagged on a song at the end. Something that I recorded with my good pal Conrad Murray about ten years ago, who produced it.

If this blog was partly about me pushing myself, I should be including music in that. I’ve been making music for a long time now but aside from that theatre stuff and the odd gig, I’ve largely kept it separate. Mainly because I overthink how people will react to it, as if there’s not enough overlap between the two worlds and they’ll think it’s weird; when really, who cares? Silly, I know. Fear of other people’s opinions is something that’s always held me back. Be brave, clench fists, as Mike Skinner said.

All this is in preparation for an EP that I’ve entirely self-produced; that I hope to have released by the autumn. I plan to start drip-feeding some of the music into this. One of the tracks is already out, you can hear it here. Because, Why not?  

The song is called Another Day, you can stream it on HERE

So that’s it for this week, bit long-winded I know.

Despite these turbulent times, I hope you all have a decent weekend

Peas and taters

Paul

CHAIR WARS

The set up for our form-tutor was three rows.

Single-desk-row on the sides

Double desk-row in the middle

Our little firm hugged the first four desks on the

Right-hand-side if you were facing

the front of the class, where Mrs

Khan sat, our tutor

Kells and Luko held the front desk

Me and Gary the second

Ram and Rhino sat behind

Shane and Danny at the back

We held it down during registration and the

other random tutor group things we occasionally

had to do like PSHE, whatever that was

This and PE were probably the only time

mixed ability kids, actually mixed

gearing us up for the future

Mrs Kahn was the form tutor

Fairly stern but liked a calm class, with the occasional giggle

There was never any set places for anyone to sit at

No formalised desk plan, we were year 11’s

With a gnat’s eyelash of independence

Technically, you could sit where you wanted, technically

The whole tutor-group seemed to tick to have their

preferred spots and stuck to them

The prime real estate was the bottom left

Back of the class

you had the windows for a good-look-out

I liked a good-look-out the window

The back unit which you could lean on

Or leave your bag on

It was a sweet-spot

This highly value piece of land

was held by a crew of girls who were legion

about 8 of them

in any other lesson they wouldn’t be sat at the back of the class

They were all nice girls and high-achievers

Back of the class was for tough kids

And nobs, like me

Who weren’t tough but

Still mucked about

Until we got told off

But occasionally gave a bit of

Lip back to teachers.

I wasn’t happy about these unwritten rules

No where was it stated that we had a seating plan

Mrs Khan didn’t roll like that

She valued that gnat’s eyelash of independence we

Were afforded, as did we, as did I

Technically, you could sit where you wanted, technically

Yet we all fell into line

I’ve always questioned things

I’m an ideas guy

I felt it unfair the girls had a monopoly on that timeshare

It was only fair that us boys should share it

Share and share alike and

Maybe don’t give it back

Once obtained

It was out time

Action needed to be taken

I called it on

I said’ listen boys, we should take that space’

‘Tomorrow, we’ll get into class early’

‘And claim it as ours’

So when the girls arrive, we’ll already be camped-out

Firmed up, having changed the locks, like squatters but

With the impact of revolutionaries but importantly

Done legally, we’d just be asserting our rights

Because, technically, you could sit where you wanted, technically

Next morning I arrived

nervous but cocky but scared and ultimately unsure what I was doing

pretty-much a default position for me

at any point during my life

counting on the support of my peers but

not guaranteed of it

Just another day

Gary arrives

he held a lot more weight than me

People respected him more

He wore Kickers and a Kappa puffa-jacket

I had imitation Kickers and an Esinegger jacket

Barely respectable

But sometimes Gary listened to me, sometimes

The girls-group all travelled in from the same place

Their bus was nearly always late

So we had time on our side

Me and Gary nodded heads

picked up our bags

We made our move

knowing that when the other boys arrive

The takeover would be complete

Bowled over like heroes that

No-one had noticed

Plonked my backback on the back shelf unit

Had a good gawp out the window

The world looked a grey sheen of fine

Put my feet up on the chair next to me

Breathed the air

tasted the moment

It tasted good but

It didn’t feel right

Butterflies?

Felt wrong

But what was wrong?

Technically, you could sit anywhere you wanted, technically

We got a couple of looks from the other people in the class

No one said nothing though

Probably because Gary was there

But we held it down

It was ours

Rhino and Ramo arrive in the door

They clock us, then looked away

And sat in their usual seats

I felt a feeling rise within that wasn’t t nice

Like I‘d been dis-respected

A familiar feeling

I casually smiled like

I hadn’t noticed it

Just butterflies

Just butterflies

‘pussies’ I said

‘Don’t worry Gary they’ll be over in a minute’

Gary looked non-plussed either way

I think he was just enjoying something different

Kells and Luko arrived

People were scared of Kells

He wasn’t scared of teachers

Often disruptive

Didn’t care much for order

He was cerited to join the ranks

he looked at us, then looked away

Kells. How?!

Like the other two

I called him a pussy

But kept it to myself

My sense of fairness didn’t extend to mates who

Could chin-me

The girls arrived in the door

The moment of reckoning

Stay strong

They came in force and stormed

The bottom corner of the class

outraged

kicking off straight away

One of them tried to grab my bag

I pulled it to my chest and retreated my legs from the back unit

‘ can see sit where we want’, I said

‘Free country’ without any understanding of

What that meant

One of the other girls was pulling on the sleevs of Gary’s puffa

He no longer looked amused with it all

With just one scowl the girl then backed-off

Then they turned their attention to me

I tried a Gary-like-scowl

Pretty sure that girl I aimed it at laughed

I could feel myself wilting

Held on

They then deployed their greatest weapon and

protested to Mrs Kahn

with the fervour of student activists with the

right accent and vocabulary

Mrs Kahn looked up at us

Then back down at her register

Sighed

And ordered us back to our seats

I protested to Mrs Khan

Asserting some reason

‘Technically, we can sit where we want. Technically’

‘It’s not fair miss’

Mrs Khan waved away my pathetic protest

My dignity, my human right to free expression

And the right to sit where I wanted in the tutor group

With a casual authoritarian override

No one coming to my rescue

Though deep down I was sure they all agreed

‘Na, I’m not going’ I said

Even though I knew I was going

Mrs Kahn stands up

‘Stop wasting my bloody time, you silly boys’

My face goes red

Picked up my bag, pushed further into my chest

I took one last look out of that glorious window

And trudged back to my usual desk

The other boys looking at me

I smiled to hide the humiliation

Kells grinned at me, turned to Luko and

made a wanker sign

Ram and Rhino said nothing

Our revolution was short-lived

Gary looks at me, ‘you nob, that

Was never gonna work’ he says

Bu technically, you can sit anywhere, technically

‘just shut-up man’ he says

Mrs Kahn calls the register

I put my head on my bag

Deflated

Kells turns round and laughs at me

‘You wanker’ he says

I never was a leader

I had the ideas but lacked the execution

but a permanent point to prove

like a car, a destination but no driving skills

I had drive, though

Just a shame it was all as useful

As that cheap pencil with a forever

Breaking-tip, that sat in the inside-pocket of

My school blazer

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cree.substack.com

Greetings, bonjour, what’s happening?

Basking in the sun, melting in the shade; it’s all got a bit blazing, mate. I’m at home today, in sunny Maidstone. Don’t know what it is about the current-bun coming out. It can seemingly bring out both the best and worst in people. Seen a few sun-soaked-punch-ups in my time, heard a fair few domestics and in my younger years; it always seemed a prime-time to get robbed.

Veering on the mostly good, though, I guess it makes people slow down and enjoy the finer things. I like a good afternoon cup of tea when it’s hot – seems counter-intuitive – but it’s strangely satisfying. Polished a lovely pint of San-Miguel last night at Victoria station, after a long day of workshops -which is fitting, considering the poem that follows this.

It’s taken from a nice little moment back in the early 00’s – when I worked at Gatwick Airport. With poems, or the sort-of poems I try and write, for me , it’s just about capturing small moments. I liken it to a postcard. On one side, you’ve got the picture of the beach – capturing the moment – which  I treat as the poem – then on the other side you’ve got all the details of your lovely beach holiday. On Monday we ate Ice cream – On Tuesday I fell over ­etc which for me is the story bit. There you go, Paul’s my very own definition of the difference between a poem and story. Who cares? Answers on a postcard. See what I done there?

The piece I wanted to put up this week, was both, postcard-picture and postcard detail. An amusing memory from secondary school that I recent remembered, about classroom chairs. Started putting it together this week, looked at it today – and it’s a confused mess of the two postcard sides, not really sure what it is. In other words, it’s crap. So it’s back to the drawing board with that. So I had a butchers in the archives and pulled out this one. Pretty sure I’ve not put it up before. Hope you enjoy it.

In case you were wondering – my birthday shenanigans last week were excellent. A few lagers were consumed, along with some banging curry and some tasty Drum and bass. Needless to say, I felt disgusting when I awoke the next day – the first day of the last day of my thirties. Wouldn’t have it any other way, mate.

The-how-to-blogs-and-videos always say you’ve put in a call-to-action-, if you want more traction. So here it goes – if you like what I’m doing, give it a subscribe and you can get me direct into your inboxes every week – even though that strangely sounds very wrong. Just me? Alright.

I’m looking into getting Lager Time hosted on other podcast platforms. I don’t know what difference that will make, to anyone but you know. I’m also toying with doing some live streams. I have a  bunch of these poems and some music as well. Not really gigging much these days, I miss it so doing that might help me sharpen up a new repertoire, about time as well.

Have a lovely weekend

Peas and taters

Paul

PREMIUM SPEED GHOST TRAIN

we were in the service lifts

on the way down to Gatwick’s underbelly

picking up a delivery, stretching time as long we could

Tom told me he’d gone shopping with his missus, up to Oxford Street

took the Gatwick express, flashed that staff-pass and got that

sexy 50 % discount, like I knew that was a thing

I never that was a thing

The Gatwick Express?!

Gatwick to London Victoria direct

Non-stop every 15 minutes

he went on the Gatwick express, mate

in 21 years I’d never once stepped foot on it

maybe as a kid, I’d wondered what it was like

on occasion as an adult, watched it bolt through

Horley, arms-length from the airport, fast up to London whilst I

waited for the stopper train, imagining the premium

passengers were all making wanker signs at us mugs,

looking all forlorn on the platform

awaiting the slow service

the price for speed made it out of reach and out of

reach became out of mind and despite

hearing and seeing this thing, several times a day,

on a daily basis, for only my whole life, I barely noticed

it was there, like a premium-speed ghost train that

was no longer scary, just another extra making

up the numbers in the background

I gave Tom a nod like it was nothing

meanwhile in the back of my mind I

was a plus-one at a dull wedding who’s just

realised it’s a free-bar

I designated my next day off as a

trip to Oxford Street

I didn’t even need anything

come that Monday, I flashed that staff pass at the ticket office and watched

that price drop on the till screen, like a bad day at the stock exchange

bopped down to platforms 1 and 2

didn’t even wait 15 minutes

hopped onto my waiting carriage

selected a spacious window seat and

enjoyed the vibration on the glass, as it bolted

through at speed, all the usual haunts like skipping the que

for the roller coaster, trying not to boast but

couldn’t help grinning, I wanted to tell

someone, I’m on the Gatwick Express, mate

making the most of the extra leg room

tourists wondering what on earth I was smiling about

in no time Surrey became Croydon and

Croydon became London Victoria

got off thinking that was sick

I can’t wait to go home

Next day back in the basement,

Pretending that the service lifts weren’t working again

Tom goes, what did you on your day off then?

I broke the mould mate

You what? He says

Nothing.

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cree.substack.com