EDITORIAL - Ken Clay
THE MALLETTS – Ron Horsefield
RIGHT, LEFT, SELF-CENTRED – Alexis Lykiard
‘FREE’ JAZZ / POSTMODERN ’TEXTS’ - Alexis Lykiard
KITTEN No 11 - Alexis Lykiard
INCLUSIVE – Alexis Lykiard
SHIT SCARED - Alexis Lykiard
GUILLAUME – John Lee
THE SHAPED – Tanner
VIMY RIDGE – Graham Fulton
BOX – Graham Fulton
ENTIRE – Graham Fulton
A CONVENT WITH NO MERCY – Aubrey Malone
A FAIRY TALE – Keith Howden
THIS TESTED, TENDER ALL – Tanner
FIRST CONJUGATION 2019 – 2020 – David Birstwistle
VERSTEHEN – Ken Champion
BUNGED UP IN MALDON – John Lee
DESPOT DESPERATE – David Erdos
THREE PERSONS OF INTEREST (2) – David Birstwistle
GOMBROWICZ ON WRITING – Witold Gombrowicz
THE TROUBLE WITH ERNIE (2) – Bob Wild
THE LEMOINE AFFAIR BY HENRI DE REGNIER – Marcel Proust
THE ISOLATED OIK
“Self-isolating? That’s what I do all the time.” Most Oik writers say this and there are distinguished precedents: Boethius, Gramsci, Genet, Solzhensitsyn – perhaps not strictly self isolating – more banged up by the govt. As are we, one might add but at least we’re in our own gaff surrounded by books, art and music not to mention endless reruns of TV soaps.
It could be worse. You could be in
Our own metropolitan contributor David Erdos (Uxbridge) isn’t so sanguine and excoriates King Boris who also happens to be his MP (see p 68 ) A bit further east ex Manc John Lee describes the hell of Maldon (which looks quite a nice place to me) and the lower circle of hell Estepona where he is currently marooned (which also looks like paradise and within sight of Gibraltar), Things are so bad there his English pal has to drape his wife’s fur coat over a pillow in a plastic bag and attach a lead so he can look like he’s taking the dog for a walk. This would never have happened under Franco. Under Franco you’d have long ago eaten the dog. For the details see p 63.
Some complain about the lock-down’s attack on freedom and hypothesise, paraphrasing Oscar, that we’ve moved from Johnsonian fascism to Corbynite communism without an intervening period of civilisation. Has the man no principles?... actually no. The Oik, however, maintains its internationalist stance and although the Yank contributors have disappeared we add to our project to translate all Proust’s pastiches with the one on Henri de Regnier. Henri may appear to be a precious old fart but this entry from Leautaud’s Journal Littéraire may humanise the ethereal symbolist poet somewhat.
Friday 26 October 1906
Régnier recounts two personal anecdotes. Looking for an apartment with his mother, when he was still a boy. Going up the stairs behind him, a janitor pinches his buttocks. Another time, standing one evening on the platform of the Hôtel-de-Ville-Porte-Maillot omnibus, standing, smoking, hands crossed behind his back, he suddenly feels something cold. It was the man behind who had gently put his cock in his hands. Régnier is shocked. The man rushes to get off. Régnier questions the driver, who calmly replies : “It’s not the first time. He spends his whole life doing this kind of thing. ”
One wonders what Ron Horsefield’s uncle would have done (read about the eminent Chief Inspector in The Malletts p 11) But Paris! Could they ever lock down that place? Apparently they can. I recall a similar incident as I took a drink on the Boulevard St Germain. A stunning young lady rushing up from a subterranean lavatory which was closed displays her obvious agitation to an approaching flaneur who responds by holding out … his cupped hand. Them frogs! What are they like?
We attach another exotic with an extract
from Witold Gombrowicz’s Diary. Witold felt greatly isolated in
This kid has no neck at all, just a long sheet of flesh going from his lips to his chest … and his head’s not a true head, it’s like a half squashed coconut. He’s an olive on a toothpick with small panicky eyes. He’s an alien.
‘Me bird hay hates me!’ his violent stutter sends his little purple mouth into spasm, ‘We we’ve got three kids an shh she won’t let me see em!’ … firing out all these worries as he packs out tins beside me … ‘Whatama gonner do?’
I tell him folk of HIS PARTCULAR VIBRATION shouldn’t have sprogs in the first place, they’ll only become the malcontent chunks The Machine needs to mice.
He gulps his spotty Adam’s apple all the way down that endless shaft of a neck, taking it in …
And the next night:
‘Me room a at the Y.M. got sma smashed up! This gah gang a kids say am a pee peado! Someone’s told em a fiddled with their kid! Thee muh musta got the wrong room! Whatama gonner do?’
I tell him to go down the station, tell them you ARE a peado and they’ll provide new accommodation.
His small eyes dart back and forth across his half skull, processing this …
The following night:
‘Me tah tax is too much! Ah am broke! Whatama gonner do?’
I tell him to blow up parliament.
Green veins across his face throb and his scabby rose bud mouth licks itself.
I think he likes THAT idea …
And this is a guy who has employment. Done him the world of good the people you’re fenced in with, just to line politician’s pockets and maybe get the odd processed scrap with what’s left over … Clearly I’m not the only one to be TRAUMATIZED BY THE SOCIAL SET-UP his despair rubs off on me, and I too go around in feeble horror, rubbing off on all the others, until the lot of us are just flailing on auto-pilot, bleeding the incestuous despair through one another …
A convenient, defeated workforce.
Self Portrait as a Soldier - 1919 Ludwig Kirchner