Top marks go to Grant S. who (not very quickly, provided the answer to the Johnny Rotten question. The other question now is whether it was Stockholm or somewhere in Amerikaland called ‘Winterland’? Who knows? who cares? He got the answer right.

I’m not sure if the question was directed at Malcolm or the audience but it sends shivers.

Today’s question is:
Can you identify the artist?
Clues: It’s London, it’s 1752 and is in the present collection of the Duke of NORTHUMBERLAND.

Good luck - I’ll try to be more accurate in future.

Love from your Quiz Dismaster,

Henry.

I’ll tell you about my visit to the psychiatrist another time.

There was an old woman
Tossed up in a basket
Seventeen times as high as the moon.
Where she was going
I had but to ask it,
For in her hand she carried a broom.

“Old woman, old woman,
Old woman,” quoth I,
“Where are you going to, up so high?”
“To sweep the cobwebs from the sky".
“Shall I go with you?”
“Aye,
By and by.”

————————

I recently bought a boxed collection of Bagpuss and to my delight this rhyme featured in one of the episodes.

This is a rhyme from my childhood and I’ve always loved it even though, now, I think it’s about death.

There’s something about it, maybe something unearthly. The lines above are as best as I can remember them although there do seem to be a few versions knocking about on the interweb superhighway.

I’ve ALWAYS had a thing about Oliver Postgate’s voice.

“And Emily…loved him.”

Aaaaaaah. Bless.

I was very surprised that NO ONE had bothered to answer my Johnny Rotten quotation question. However, I realised why. It was because I had forgotten to ask it.

What a dumbo; I had only asked it in my head. At the end of the last Pistols’ gig in Stockholm John Lydon went off stage posing a very telling question. What was the question he asked?

Anyway, now for some answers. At the bottom of the blog is a better picture, taken in daylight (whatever THAT is - clicky the piccie to play) There have been some brave, accurate, ridiculous answers to my picture quiz so here are the pictures again and in a sort of ‘left to right’ stylee, here are the answers.

1. Dangling from the shelf is ‘Echo and Narcissus’ by John Waterhouse (but that doesn’t really count so don’t worry.
2. The droopy, gloopy picture of Peter Cook that my Kodak 5300 spat out because its heads needed cleaning. But I’m keeping it and hope to make an oil painting based on it.
3. Paul Simenon, out of the Clash, smashing a bass (I think the picture was taken by Penny Smith) - the cover of ‘London Calling’.
4. A handsome, top male model fishing with a magnet at Newark Lock.
5. Nick Drake.
6. Bob Dylan.
7. Not Compo FFS, It’s Amerika’s greatest modern poet, Charles Bukowski.
8. ‘Boreas’ by John Waterhouse.
9. A painting by Valster from 1997 of the still amazingly alive Shane MacGowan.
10. Tom Waits.
11. The tombstone of Henry Charles Bukowski Jr. - Epitaph: ‘Don’t try’
12. The funniest man EVER, Oliver Hardy.
13. Ian Curtis (out of Joy Division) in an upbeat mood.
14. One for the oldies. This is Theda Bara who was used (by mistake) as the symbol for the International Times.
15. The lovely John Peel. ‘Nuff said.
16. A brand new Talbot Horizon that Bob and I escaped from during the Brixton riots of ‘81. A fitting end for a Talbot Horizon.
17. Peter Hammill - him out of Van der Graaf Generator and top musician.
18. Tom Waits (again because it’s a badly pixellated picture but I like it.
19. Bottom left - Will Self. I’m jealous of his stare.
20. John Lydon. Another stare that I admire. He says he always tells the truth and I believe him.
21. Youngblood crewing and looking pretty handsome.
22. An obvious Peter Cook
23. Viv Stanshall. Sadly missed.
24. Bottom right, Robert DeNiro in the just about penultimate scene from ‘Taxi Driver’.

Hope you enjoyed my little picture quiz.

Maybe I’ll do another one some day; I’ve got to get my ratings up somehow.

H.

Credits given where I could find them. If I’ve snitched your material and not credited you please let me know and I’ll try to put it right. My crap gets ripped-off all the time and it’s a bit annoying.

Seeing as no one could be half-arsed to have a go at my last quiz question (even though it was a piece of) I thought I’d set another.

But first a cautionary tale:
Whenever I wee I wee sitting down. This is largely because my gigantic member might as well have the rose of a watering can stuck on the end and it’s more polite (it took me about 30 years to realise this).
I am also extremely mean and don’t want the highly-priced packets of electric to run out too quickly.
Last night I got up and reversed to where the lavvy SHOULD have been. In the pitch dark.

Down I sat. Unfortunately I was about a foot away from the bog and as my 17.5 stone descended the front of the wooden bog seat caught me straight in the right kidney and my crumbling sacral vertebrae as I descended (gracefully) to the floor.

My screams of agony woke Trouty up and she came to my rescue. I could hardly move and suspected that I might have ruptured a kidney but, lucky for me, there is such a thick layer of suet around it I might have got away with it.

As a result I can barely walk.

Memo to self: Put light on before reversing onto lavvy seat no matter where I THINK it should be.

I’ve been filling in my time by assembling a wall of photographs of people who have had influences on (or is it ‘in’?) my life.

See how many images you can identify.

By the way, the famous John Lydon quote competition is still open due to the total number of entries being zero.

Nighty night.

(There should be 15 identifiable images. For the painting I’d like the name of the artist. Have fun)

Here’s a piccie of some deelishus grub.
But WARNING, WARNING!, check out that invaluable caution on the wrapper.

The boat still hasn’t sold. We’ve had a few fender-kickers round but they weren’t really interested once they found out they couldn’t live on her. There were two codgers and we KNEW as soon as we saw them that it was unsuitable for them. Then we had some other people round but what the frying pan do they expect for the money? Tell you what; get a little plastic boat instead. If you want a proper boat then, value for money-wise. our one is a good bet.

I was sick as a dog this morning but managed to make it home before a major trousersplosion. Can’t think of anything to paint but I’ve added a few more snaps to my hall of fame.

This evening I appeared on the radio again; this time whinging about local councils not wanting gated communities and refusing planning permission. Perhaps our Prime Minister might take the hint?

And that’s about that, really.

Goodnight.

Oh yeah, and NO ONE has had a go at my John Lydon quote. It’s easily Googlable if you don’t know the answer immediately.

SUPER-DUPER UPDATE: www.rabbitsonthemoon.com/radamfi/Nick_A_1952_28_Jan_08.mp3

When I’m not at the doctor’s or in a coma or messing about kicking stones along the towpath I noodle about on the compluter.

Here’s the best bit of the James’ Gang. Frank and Jesse…

BUT. Get this. there was more than one James’ Gang; probably four or so. They stole so much money that they nearly destabilised the U.S. treasury. Southern men, they wanted to restart the Civil War and were members of a Golden Circle. Apparently there is a ‘war chest’ of booty hidden all over Amerikaland.

Google for it; it’s fascinating.

This is the finished blubells picture for my mum. It had just been varnished so the light bounced and made it look sparkly where it isn’t. Anyway, there you go. It won’t mean to her what it means to me but that’s not the point. The point is that I painted it FOR HER.

The bitter disappointment I mentioned in the title is that I can’t YooBoob a proper Punch and Judy show. That’s all I wanted, a proper Punch and Judy with sausages and crocodiles and policemen and hangmen and the baby being thrown down the stairs.

I wanted screaming kids shouting ‘Punch did it!’ and ‘Look behind you!’.

Sure, there is some stuff on there but not what I want. A proper Punch and Judy from start to finish, in English, and I’m very sad to see (or, rather, NOT see) that no such video-tapery is available.

This rubbish country is on its knees.

*UPDATE: Me on LBC last night - www.radamfi.co.uk/Nick_A_2033_24_Jan_08.mp3

Here’s a couple of photos.
Firstly a good and firm friend of mine being rude about my need for spectacles.
I won’t name him - of course…

Here’s another; a bit horrific this time.
On my, wall near where I sit most of the time, I keep a collection of people who have inspired me.
When I printed this one the print-heads needed cleaning and when I saw the result I realised what a splendid painting it would make. The black had run and made him look like a cross between a hit-man’s victim and Alice Cooper. Can you tell who it is?

As a clue the yellow writing at the bottom reads ‘How very interesting'’.

There’s a golden prize (unless Trouty has eaten them all) to whoever first names the identity of the second picture.

The identity of the first man must remain a secret as I do not wish to die sooner than I have to.

The mystery competition man is already dead but was a great hero of mine.

Have a go! (although I fear the golden prizes got eaten on Boxing day).

Buy a Kodak 5300 - such great quality pictures and the customer help line is so super as long as you don’t mind being listening to drivel-music on hold . For an hour.

Depends really what you think of Rod Stewart. If, like me, you were well jealous of him in the seventies with his money and his birds and his booze then you might like to watch the first clip first. See how the mighty have fallen.

The membedded clip is nicked (not by me) from TOTP. Not a guitar or mic seems to have been plugged in but they still put on a good show. A gopher throws a footie to Rod and he has a kick about with (later to be Stones’ guitarist) Ron Wood. Note the late appearance of the two Ronnies (when they were supposed to be playing).

And you get a nice bit of ‘Jooolry, jooolry, jooolry’ Sir Jim as an intro.

Compare and contrast, if you will, with the much later recording. Hair gel had been invented and so had crowds. This one appeared to be made up of Kalifornian wanabees who had been paid 50 bucks to look shaggable and clap along and pretend to enjoy themselves.

Anyone can see that this video took at least two takes to put together (look at the mic positions for a start).

When I was a teenager, Rod Stewart was a god-like figure. I wished I was him, drinking port and brandy with Ron Wood and Ronnie Lane (Gawd bless ‘im).

Still, he seems like a nice bloke and I’d like to thank him for the good times. He seems a tasteful and sensible man.

I can tell you story about Rod Stewart. When I was at school the bloke who had the desk in front of me, Woody, skived off at lunch to go and play darts in a little out-of the-way-place that was then known as the Alma. Rod Stewart and Britt Ekland were in there. Woody said to her (he must have been all of 15 and looked like Jimmy Clitheroe) “Scuse me, love. We’re trying to play darts here.”

Pop stars like to be tret norm, don’t they?

Newer vid…
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8ogb3NHtTvw&NR=1

Classic vid…

Today was one of the worst days of my life.
Got shot of Vodka Mick.
The next day was Monday but I didn’t know which day it was.
I worked out it was Monday.
Monday came and went.
I worked out it was Tuesday.
The dry heaves came and went as I read True Detective Magazine.

The boat came round just as she should.
I’d dipped the tank, it was low, tied the opposite line in, kicked off the front so that she came around with the flow.

At New Haw lock all the mouldy shit, the dead duckweed, got sucked into the cooling system.

The boat had to be grounded. The long board had to be stretched to the bank. I put in a mooring pin.

Then I blew the cooling system through but I was aground. Well aground. It took me 10 or 15 minutes to pole away from the bank. All this nearly killed me although I know well what I’m doing. Weight the boat on the opposite side to that which you’re aground. Work the pole but never as a lever.

Taking a narrowboat out alone is a terrible responsibility. You have to work both ends of the boat and ALL of the locks. Since horses, this never happened. But now with our stupid engines us single-boaters are at the mercy of whatever comes our way.

I decided on the way home that I am never going boating again and never again will I leave my flat. You can frown but I’ve made enemies.

In fact, what I do is very good. I’m certainly one of the best ten boatmen on the navigation. But I’ve made too many enemies. Doctor, Friday. Psychiatrist, Monday.

You have to know when to give up.

If you look at my last blog you will see that two films that I placed, quite legitimately, on boobtoob are now, quite mysteriously, ‘unavailable’.

T
They are still on boobtoob though. I’ll put the links back in…

and…

Quite how Notwork manged to destroy my blog I’m not sure, but who else would have done it?

They might have some clout with WordPress but my videos are still available, quite freely, on boobtoob.

Search for Notwork Rail and Notwork Rail 2 and, unless the rail Nazis have some influence there, I will not be silenced.

Just because they don’t like it, it won’t shut me up. Ever. And that’s a promise.

Thanks everyone for your kind comments.

What you see is cinema vertite. It was the truth then and it’s still the truth now.

I did not break the law. I didn’t sit in a train (a place of work) smoking although THAT is against the law. I mocked no one, I warned everyone that they were being videoed. I didn’t threaten anyone although I, myself, was threatened.

The British Transport Police have viewed these videos when they paid me a visit in the small hours and found no reason to arrest or caution me.

A golden prize to whoever finds out by who, and why, my videoes were deleted from my blog.

With love, as always, to my readers.

Don’t give up the fight!

Best wishes,

Henry.

*UPDATE* Magically, my videos have been restored. Now I’m waiting for the phone to ring and an offer to be made to delete the videos.

This is my first experiment.

I’ll update as I go along.

It’s me versus the railway snots….

Oh, here is…

Well you don’t ruin my life and laugh at me and threaten me and get away with it. You just don’t. I may be ill, possibly mentally ill, but I will NOT be treated like this.

I couldn’t be bothered to paint today. I’m too tired.

Hooray for me. I was on the radio again:

www.radamfi.co.uk/Nick_A_2137_17_Jan_08.mp3

And my painting is getting better and better:

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Look at that beech tree. It’s probably the best thing I’ve ever painted just like that. There must be a god of painting because I go into trance when I paint well, there are just a few touches to add and it will be ready to dry and then varnish.

Bit of a shame that I promised it to my mum because I would rather sell it for a million pounds. But still, it is her birthday present and I have nothing else to give.

My half a comission looks like a goer (the mystery purchaser is extremely rich)

Erm, I had salmon and new potatoes and green beans for dinner and an appointment with Doc Holiday in the morning.

The TV nazi came round this evening. Guess what, he wouldn’t let me see or photocopy his instructions. I wonder why that might be.

He couldn’t wait to get out of Thirst Hall even though I offered him a cup of tea.

So the battle continues.

The team-leader’s name is Rupert Bartovsky. I’ve had to remind him twice that we do not ‘depart’ information but we ‘impart’ it. What a thickie.

Today he made the same mistake (and got told) and then made the mistake of confusing ‘infer’ with ‘imply’.

I suggested that he got a job sweeping up hair in a salon but he thought that was abusive. When I asked him in which particular way my remarks were ‘abusive’ he didn’t know.

I’m looking forward to speaking to his manager, Ms. Sarah Marin, tomorrow.

Defenestrate your tellies, right now, this minute.

Aah, freedom!

Well, it’s getting there. Bluebells grow in woodland so I needed more trees. A beech tree up the right hand side satisfies. I’ll have to do the leaves next (I’m crap at leaves) and I want to put some ivy up the couple of trees I’d already painted. So, what I did, when we were out on the boat, is ACKSHERLY look at some ivy and see how it works. It will take some turps for the shine and tiny white highlights.
Sometimes I wish I’d never started the fucking thing but it’’s alright, I guess, for a naive painter.

So far I have had half an offer of commission and some interest from a gallery so that makes me go AAAAAAAAH.

In other news my battle with the TV licence nazi bastards continues. The game goes like this: They write me a snotty letter and then I telephone them and make them wish they had never been born. I’m not an ex-copper and spent 14 years down the saltmines of a call centre for nothing. I’m awaiting a call at 14:30 from Mr Bartovsky because Mr Ruddock has no phone number.

No phone number?

Really?

I’m looking forward to giving them both the worst afternoons of their lives.

When I spoke to Bartovsky yesterday he said “I can not depart any information” so I quickly told him that he meant ‘impart’ and that the letter I had received was full of grammatical errors. Does ‘official’ (mid-sentence) begin with a capital? No, it does not.

Self-important cunts.

Cheery bye!

Since the Charley went up for sale I asked SimonG to ‘dormantise’ my previous bloggerage because if I was going to buy a boat I’d certainly Google for it.

There are various boaty tales that prospective purchachasers (total so far: none - two set of fender-kicking cunts) that I don’t want read.

But I still look at the usage stats for the site. They used to be a lot more interesting before the bulk of the blog was shut.

I was looking today, just to see who had stolen my photos or whatever and saw a few enquiry strings that I found interesting:

“paracetamol suicide”

“paracetamol whisky suicide”

“ive overdosed on paracetomol what shall i do”

How these wound up on my blog usage I’m not sure. There may have been references back in the olden days that bought this enquirer to me but then he/she wouldn’t or shouldn’t have been able to see the original blog.

Hmmmm.

1. Yup, it’s possible but they only sell it in little packets so you’ll have to shop around to be sure of certain death.

2. Yes. Something to wash it all down with but whisky is a little harsh. For your last drink you might want to try something more soothing, like Bailey’s or Champagne. Or meths.

3. Unless you get up the hospital PDQ you will die.

The bitter truth is that I don’t know who Googled these, well, messages I suppose. I can’t get back to them.

There’s nothing I can do. Of course, I would like to don my white coat , steth, and doctor head-mirror thing and ask this questioner a question of my own:

“Don’t be scared of me. But will you talk to me? Please?”

And then see what happens.

Just recently the black feathered wings of death have been hanging about me. A friend died and the papers are full of people jumping in front of trains and lorries. I’ve been suicidal in my time and I’ve got the rope (black, natch) and I know how to tie the necessary knots (clove-hitch and hangman’s) but I don’t do it. I just don’t. Tomorrow is another day.

You WILL die one day; that’s solid gold and guaranteed. So what’s the point in hurrying up the process?

No one knows what it’s like to be dead. Maybe you go to a heaven or a hell or maybe, as I believe, it’s just a nothingness. So what’s the point in topping yourself? If your life is shitty then just run away and start a new one. Change your name (it costs nowt) and go somewhere else that you like a bit better. Unlike some, I don’t regard suicide as cowardly or selfish - I just think it’s a waste.

If you kill youself you have no choice left, that’s it. it’s over, but while you still on this earth and walking about you have every choice that there is. You can do anything. You can sleep under a bridge or GO TO SEE YOUR DOCTOR or just about anything.

Suicide is about the loss of hope. But there ain’t no hope on the end of a rope and that’s why I don’t do it.

My doctor is great, I do my crap paintings, I live my life in a comfortable box. I buy lottery tickets.

So, dear suicide enquirer, kill the life that you are leading rather than yourself.

If you would like to talk my number is 07 977 977 948. Or you could try the Samaritans.

I promise you that your life can be different and better and I make that promise because I’ve been there and I KNOW.

I wish you well.

H.

As you can see, it’s getting there. I need to do some more work on the trees and in the bottom-right corner.

It’s for my mum’s birthday and that’s next Monday so I’d better pull my finger out.

The trouble with the trees (what IS that one on the left supposed to be?) is that if I make them look a bit normal, doing that will cover up the sky and I like the sky.

IN OTHER NEWS

I went to see Doc Holiday and he assures me that I haven’t got skin cancer (at least on the bit he looked at) but I might have a kidney-stone situation going on.

Have a nice weekend…

Here’s a not very good photo of a not very good painting drying flat in the bath. Well, I never use it so at least I won’t tread on it by mistake.

I’ve bollocksed it in several ways and I may have to use a home-made masking technique to spray some bluebells in. I’m sick to death of it already so it will take a miracle to bring it up to my high standards. What a dullard; paint from front to back, duh-brain.

I wish I’d never started because with the possible exception of ‘The Drowned Man’ I can never paint what I see in my head.

As regards poetry:
Those that listen to commercial radio may have heard endless repetitions of a poem called ‘Ode to Boobs’ or something by Pip someone. It was on all the time. If you never heard this breast cancer related poem won’t get the next bit but I was getting fed up with hearing it every hour or so and so I wrote one about bollock cancer and published it on Digital Spy. It was just a joke.

I will now rummage to see if I can find my original post….

“The repetition on LBC of poetry regarding the terrible and terrifying prospect of breast cancer reminded me that men should also be checking themselves for testicular cancer.

So I wrote a little poem about it:

GONADS by Henry Ex

What is it about my generative sac?
When I lie down, it’s quite near my crack.
Why is it too smooth?
Or too big and scary?
Wrinkly as Ma Teresa
But four times as hairy.

I asked a nice actress to feel for a lump
But her solicitor’s words brought me down with a bump.
So give YOURS a check, to avoid a scare,
And then it might save you
A silicon pair.

(This was just meant as a bit of fun and I hope no one has been offended. Testicular cancer IS SERIOUS and should be checked for regularly. If you don’t know how then ask your G.P. for a leaflet) “

AND THEN…. I got a PM asking if it could be printed in a man health mag.

Could this be my first, proper, published pome?

Love,
H.

Having not been feeling too well of late (never mind, Doc Holiday in the morning) I haven’t really felt like painting.

Another factor (get off me, crow) is the fear that I am going to balls it up and it will look like rubbish.

Another excuse is that you have to wait a while for some of the paint to dry before you can do the next bit (at least, with my technique).

Anyway, here is it so far…

Can you tell what it is yet?

Apart from being born, which I CAN remember, one of the earliest memories that I have is the wood at the botttom of our garden. The bluebells. I picked them for my mum. She won’t remember this at all but I’ll never forget.

I’m halfway throught a painting of the memories of a two or three year old. Here’s how I’ve got so far:

Now I’m not that clever with paint. I paint from the heart rather than the head, if you see what I mean.

Bluebellls grow in shadow - any idiot knows that, so I will have to be very careful about what I do to finish the painting. The bluebells will have to be shaded so that the trees cover them and then I will be super-careful that the trees cast the right shadow. For fuck’s sake, I haven’t even decided where the light is coming from.

As painters go, I’m an idiot.

But it’s one of my earliest memories so it has to be done. So many of my works are really horrific if you understand them so this will be a nice present for my mum’s birthday. She won’t have a clue what it means to me. Picking flowers for your mum round the back of number 4 Martins Lane (I think - I was only two).

I hope it turns out as I see it in my head. The damp leaves of the bluebells and the smell of the woodlands that has never left me.

I’m exhausted - do excuse me.