Not exactly a haiku

I'm going to give you a poem today, and one that's based on a true story. It was just before I graduated from Chelsea School of Art and Design in London back in '97 and we were preparing the Final Show. I popped out for a coffee on the King's Road, a road reknowned for its fashionable shops. Also the haunt in years gone by of the Sex Pistols and pals.

I'd been into a branch of this place before as they were a chain. They were modelled on a French brasserie and were a kind of sanitised Bohemia. At the Covent Garden branch a friend and I were accompanied by two guys in scruffy jeans and toolbelts and were made very welcome, so I didn't think there'd be a problem going into the Kings Road one with my long dreadlocked hair. Especially given that they were neat and I was carrying some bags - clearly I could afford to be there. And why would I? I was 'welcomed' by the most virulent display of what I suspect was good old-fashioned snobbery, given that Chelsea is mainly inhabited by the super-rich nowadays.

I did have fun writing it and it went down espcially well at a performance pots' evening right opposite the hotbed of ...ahem... 'bohemia' itself! think this was probably one of the last times that the service industry in London was dominated by Brits. If they were as polite as this fellow, then I'm so glad we welcomed Poland into the EU. Please don't go!

The Dôme

The man at the bar eyes me with contempt,
Coming in from the downpour, a little unkempt.
But hey! That’s the score when you’re out in a storm,
A nice cup of char will help me get warm.
The bags at my feet are packed full of buys,
And my monthly spending has shot to the skies.
My pilf has been splashed, no time for regret,
A drink at The Dôme stops me getting wet.

The man at the bar, not a move does he make.
So I take a seat, assume he’s on his break.
Still after ten minutes he’s not here with his pad,
With a look of derision his sour face is clad.
But a table of blondes he rushes to serve
With arse-licking duty, the simpering perv.
So I get the message, hey I’m not wanted here!
Served with a scowl and then shot with a sneer.

All roads lead to London, and it’s quite plain to see
That there’s fun to be had from A through to Zee.
WC2 has shops, bars and zest,
From Brixton to Westway squat parties are best.
In Camden there’s music and the finest attire,
A temple of marble rises from Neasden’s mire.
But in Royal Ken and Chel, where they claim to have class,
Their heads and their lives are ensconced up their arse!

So proud little man, don’t come out in a rash,
’Cause the Kings Road’s long been a centre for fash.
I can’t be the only one looking like me,
Who occasionally fancies a class cuppa tea.
Just ’cause you wait tables at a place called The Dôme,
Doesn’t mean you’re upmarket or that you own your own home.
When you claim you’re exclusive, stop having a laff!
’Cause at the end of the day you’re just a glorified caff.

Other places I've been, part two

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Paxos is an island in the Ionian Sea, just south of Corfu and within easy viewing of the Greek mainland. If you look at the map you'll see a long island snaking alongside the Greek coast. That's Corfu. To the south are the much smaller islands of Paxos and Antipaxos. I'm trying to include a link for you to view Paxos in relation to Italy, but each time I link it seems to cancel the other photo out. Perhaps when I publish it the link will allow you to pan out a bit.

It was apparently a port of call in the Oddysey and the plentiful olive trees once supplied oil for the lamps of Venice. Paxos is a small island with no airport and it's where my friend Fiona has been living with her husband and their daughter for almost ten years and where they run their businesses. Like myself Fiona is an artist, and she's lucky to run a shop/gallery where she can showcase her work. Hubbie Bartolo, meanwhile, runs Caffe Italiano, the best cafe in the world (with the exception of the one I'm going to start in Japan one day!).


Above and below are some scenes of my friends' places of work. Fiona's shop Pythia is an ode to colour as you can see. This is Pythia a few years back. Each year they redecorate in time for the new season since the Mediterranean winter plays havoc with the paintwork. Pythia is a wonderful place to spent time, always colourful and smelling of incense. It's especially pleasant on a balmy Med evening when tourists are flip-flopping around town. Town is perhaps too generous a term - Gaios is the 'capital' of Paxos, but it's a tiny village, of course.

Caffe Italiano, meanwhile, is the natural port of call for all the Italian visitors to get great coffee, plus where young Tallies, who turn up on an overnight ferry from Italy without having booked anywhere to stay during the Ferragosto*, come grizzling when they find out everywhere's booked. Luckily Uncle Bart often knows someone who can help.


Boh, that's the wrong Caffe Italiano!


Ah, ecco lo, with a few Scots littering the place. (I'd bar that one with the tattoo, mind.)

But I'll let Bart tell you himself:



Paxos seems to attact older Brits and all types of Italian visitors as well as Greek tourists. Unlike many Greek islands it's not for a nightclubbing crowd. While it's sparsely populated during the winter, like most Mediterranean islands, the population explodes during summer. The island could sink under the weight of Italian during the Ferragosto and there are always huge yachts to be spotted in the harbour. It wouldn't be an exaggeration to say that I've spent some of the best times of my life here, the combination of the beautiful scenery plus friends and new friends.



This scenic view was taken from a hilltop next to the small town of Loggos. Impossible to see properly - just to the right of the white yacht - but Spiro's bar is a regular watering hole. It's a romantic spot after dark as you sit outside loking at the stars and harbour curling round like a croissant.

I love islands and being cut-off from the mainland, whether it's mainland Europe, Greece or Japan. Of course, being somewhere like Paxos or Miyajima is a different story from being on marooned on an island nation. There's something about getting on a boat to reach a destination that appeals to the imagination. And of course, it can make for a feeling of isloation too.

Too much time has passed since I set foot on Paxos. Maybe this year I'll go back.

I can at least thank the wankers who woke me up at 2 in the morning...

... for being the means by which I saw this.

Next time perhaps you could be a little quieter when doing (the) business outside my flat on a Bank Holiday weekend!