Tag Archives: London

Sex, Scripture and Lashings of Classic Twee Pop! – Book Review now available to read on Litro.co.uk!

I am pleased to announce that

I have a book review now published on Litro.co.uk!

based in that there London!

Read it here


Madness Pic 1

The book

The First Day by Phil Harrison

Buy this roistering novel here-


happy cat

Rik V


The Pyjama Girl.


The Weekly Writing Challenge was: Dialogue.

The Pyjama Girl

Martina Barrister: You’re a scumbag. Get off the streets! You offend me.

Dee Du: I just need to get by madam, please.

Bernard Barrister: You’re a lazy dole-sponging scrounger. Take those pyjamas off or we’ll do it for you over there in the park!

Dee Du: I can’t. I’m late for a poetry recital in The Shack. Please?

Martina Barrister: Who gave you permission for that?


Dee Du: I didn’t know I needed permission from Barristers to recite poetry. I’ll get it next time madam, I will. Please. I’m reading Ginsberg’s Howl today.

Ginsberg youngjpg


Martina Barrister: Ginsberg! You’re nothing but a whore. Your type have caused this whole recession. You make me sick. Hold her Bernard.


Dee Du: Please let me go. I’m begging you!


Martina Barrister: We own most of the houses in Janey Macken Street now, little Miss Pyjamas, so we run things now.


Bernard Barrister: Look at that crease on my trouser there Miss Scum. You could slice turnips on it. Those smiling sun pyjamas should never had seen the light of day.

(Martina pours a can of Dutch Gold lager down the front of Dee Du’s pyjamas and punches her in the gut).


Dee Du: Please! I’ll ask next time. I swear!


Martina Barrister: Punks. Good for nothing punks ye are!


Dee Du: Punks? (Stands up straight) Yes, we’re punks. I am punk. More punk than punk itself.

Martina Barrister: Junky!

Dee Du: You’re middle class, you’ll never understand. The most avant-garde statement of the past two hundred years and you see nothing.


Martina Barrister: Lazy bastard!


Dee Du: I’m bigger than Duchamp’s urinal I am!


Bernard Barrister: Pyjamas? You’re fucking joking.


Dee Du: Yes, pyjamas outdoors. I’m getting the same reaction the first punks got on the Kings Road in London. More so. Junkies! Scumbags! Lazy scroungers! You say! Like Duchamp!


Martina Barrister: You’ve slept in them like an animal.


Dee Du: It’s that immense! Up there with punk! I am urinal!

(a bell sounds)


Bernard Barrister: Martina, quick! To the tribunal!


Martina Barrister: You’re lucky Missy. If there wasn’t money to be robbed you’d be dead now and lying naked in the park.

Dee Du: No. I think I’ll read my own poem today and scrap Ginsberg. Actually.


Martina Barrister: Stop talking about poetry – you’re not allowed poetry – that’s for us. Bitch!

(Martina punches her gut).


Bernard Barrister: It’s probably not poetry at all. It’s probably rap.

Dee Du: Chocolate Charlie is playing today in The Shack. He’s the chocolate poet of Landon Road. He writes all his words down in a sketch pad with a chocolate pencil. Recites them. And then licks his notebook clean afterwards. Thus, eating his own words every time. He has no ego.  And this makes sure.


Martina Barrister: You bitch!


Dee Du: My name is Dee Du.

(A bell sounds even louder)

Bernard Barrister: Martina come on! Time is money.


Martina Barrister: We’ll be back later with switchblades – and accountants!


Dee Du: Charlie has no ego but he teaches people how to swagger. Like Noel and Liam Gallagher.

Martina Barrister: Bernard, she wants to swagger now. I’m getting sick. Bernard just one kick please, I’m begging you? In the balls!


Bernard Barrister: No. We’re going. Into the fucking car!

(They get into a car and drive away)


D Du: Ladies and gentlemen, my poem.

Ginsberg flower

Willie Wednesday. Thank you Willie Blake. The post that gives you the Willies.


Daily Prompt: Thank You

The internet is full of rants. Help tip the balance: today, simply be thankful for something (or someone).

It’s Willie Wednesday! THANK God and Willie Blake for that!

Although he may not be the biggest Willie in English literature, he does have more girth and all of the depth, I’m sure you’ll agree.

To infinity and beyond, like that grain of sand he kept banging on about. Although he phrased it a lot better than that it has to be said.

Today, therefore, I flick a big, fat happy smiley THANK YOU to Willie Blake, poet majestic,

Willie Blake

with a tinselled cherry on top!

1195446127118715979johnny_automatic_cherry.svg.thumb     tinsel

Two tinselled cherries on top.


To prove my point, stick this small one in your ipod and press play!

And remember it’s not the size of your poem that matters, it’s how long it lasts.


I wandered through each chartered street,
Near where the chartered Thames does flow,
A mark in every face I meet,
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

In every cry of every man,
In every infant’s cry of fear,
In every voice, in every ban,
The mind-forged manacles I hear:

How the chimney-sweeper’s cry
Every blackening church appals,
And the hapless soldier’s sigh
Runs in blood down palace-walls.

But most, through midnight streets I hear
How the youthful harlot’s curse
Blasts the new-born infant’s tear,
And blights with plagues the marriage-hearse.

William Blake
More cherries NOW!
Tune in next time for more Willie Wednesday. The post that gives  you the Willies!
If you dare.

Lenny – the dog that can lick your mind, in The Priest With Red Trousers.

Howie B

Hello world! Welcome to Janey Macken Street. I’m Howie B; The Flying Superhero Clothes Horse himself! Flying? Well, I’ve strapped a coat-hanger on to my back. Haven’t I? Wings. So there. I’ll be your blogger for today’s post. I’m a successful horsetrepreneur and run my own Fiver Shop on the Californian Hills – just up the road from Janey Macken Street actually – with my business partner and housemate, Pedro Polar. Everything a Fiver! Drop in anytime, you’ll be always welcome.

Ahem. Anyway. There’s been some strange red-trousered happenings on the street today. So without further ado: my report direct from the coalface.

Lenny – The Dog That Can Lick Your Mind


The Priest With Red Trousers

The Priest with red trousers stood firm with his hands on his hips, and blocked Jimbo’s only way out of the laneway. He was trapped.

“Where’s Lenny?”

“He’s licked his last mind out Jimbo,” said the priest.

“If you’ve done anything to hurt him -”

The priest charged at him shouting bum really loudly. Darkness had come down like a ton of bricks, but because of the bright almost neon red trousers, Jimbo kept him in sight.
He picked up a stone and threw it, knocking the priest’s tricolour flag-hat off his head, which sent him scurrying. The darkness hugged Jimbo even closer, in anticipation of the consequences, it seemed.

The concrete wall behind him stood over six foot. Jimbo ran at it but it was no use. Back on the ground he kicked some wild Jenny Joes sprouting from its crevices. In a seed-shower of white fluff he shouted –

“Lenny! Lick his mind!”

“Lenny’s not here Jimbo. You’re mine now. Have a sandwich?” said the priest proffering something in his hand.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Don’t be stupid Jimbo. In IMF Ireland, everybody’s hungry.”

Jimbo smelled the egg so intensely that he nearly fainted. There was salad too, and some tomato slices. His stomach started to scream. He doubled over.

“Ok! Just one bite.”

“Not so fast. Salute my tricolour flag-hat first. Then you can eat. Have some respect.”

He remembered his mother last week. A priest in red trousers lured her with a blueberry muffin, but forced her to salute his tri-colour flag-hat for over six hours in the pouring black rain first. She died. Without touching his muffin.

“Don’t look in the eyes!” the newspapers howled. As soon as you looked, you felt the overwhelming desire to be respected by the rich, so you couldn’t move, they said. And even if you did escape with a bite or two, you refused henceforth to rob food from the rich like most people in Ireland had to do, saying –

“I can’t let the red-trousered ones down. I’m better than the scumbags!”

Therefore, you died anyway.

Jimbo’s mouth dripped, he wanted the sandwich. His twitching hand started a salute when Lenny’s long tongue came flying around the corner and rammed itself up Jimbo’s left nostril. Quickly it reached his mind and licked it out into the real world; a roast chicken and a strawberry yogurt for dessert. Jimbo tucked in.

“Just because your mind-licking dog escaped, doesn’t mean I won’t kick both your teeth in you know!”

But Lenny used his Jack Russell tongue again, and this time licked the priest’s mind out, bringing two high court judges in green skirts down his nostrils. They proclaimed their most esteemed love and respect for the priest and kissed him to the ground which sent his tri-colour flag hat flying.

“I don’t think that God wears red trousers, Lenny. Everyone’s wrong. Quick! Run!” said Jimbo as they sprinted home with full stomachs, sending rainbows into the ever darkening recessionary Irish skies.