L'Aquelarre(The Witches' Sabbath)

After seeing the above I have been reading a book on the life of a Spanish painter named Francisco Goya to try and get behind the hands and thinking of a man who could produce such a painting. It is called the Witches Sabbath and is just one of many paintings he did which I think go some way to capturing, or at least recording, the terrible beauty that is the heart and soul of man. It was one of six paintings Goya did on the subject of witchcraft and the supernatural forces that trot through the world we share. Although it was a subject that interested him it was thought to be a commission by a wealthy patron, a Duchess who hung it in one of her country houses. boy, I bet she had some interesting parties there.
                Francisco lived to be eighty two, a remarkable age and lived a full life that straddled two centuries; the 17th and the 18th. In 1901 his body was disinterred from its resting place in Bordeaux for reburial in Madrid. Where it was discovered his head had been removed.
                Sounds like the plot for a Dan Brown book does it not?
                Bring Me The Head Of Francisco Goya.

To Me My Xmen.

'

'Nuff Said.

The Haunted Head.

Me and Marshall Law(The Lovely Joanne). A friend told me I look like I am being haunted by my own hair. That there is a ghost on top of my head, that I should use an exorcist instead of a barber. It is easy to say that when you do not have to live inside that head. Another remarked that it is better to live inside the haunted spooky old house than to have to live facing it.
              Er...Thank you for that.

Who are you?

The other day a friend passing in a car took pity on my shambling dander and pulled over offering me a lift. misjudging the distance between the edge of the kerb and the open door of the car I twisted as I was straddled between both and introduced the nerve endings of my damaged knee-caps to Thor's hammer. Anyway, this resulted in a couple of days of extra discomfort( Osteoarthritis is the gift that just keeps on giving.) which had mean ambling like Uncle Claudius, real Richard III territory which means you have to close your ears to the cruel taunts and witty bon mots of the pass remarkable population of Northern Ireland's capital city. It seems like part of the social contract; this freedom to yell randomly your thoughts at complete strangers. ACH SURE ITS A BIT O CRAIC. I had just stopped at Tesco's for a ready made (Four cheese pizza and an old sale Doctor Who Calendar! with the most lovely portraits of all my favorite Time Lord. ) So there I was dandering along with my lovely calendar feeling like i was attempting to climb Everest on two wooden tent pegs when an outraged high pitched voice called out WHO ARE YOU?
            At first I did not even realise this was directed at me.
            WHO ARE YOU?
            It came again.I looked further down the street and there was this moon faced wee boy standing at his front gate clutching a football to his chest as though it were a precious talisman to ward off evil.
            WHO ARE YOU? He repeated seeing now that he had got my attention. Huh..What the.. I thought I was too far away to answer this without shouting myself and I never shout unless I absolutely have to.
             WHO ARE YOU? He continued.
              And anyway, how was I supposed to answer this without adding to the general weirdness of the situation. I just ambled forward wishing I knew how to walk with the abstract devil may careness the rest of the male population seems to have developed. Look at me just putting one foot in front of the other, just perambulating as I choose. No wooly mammoths to worry about, no hungry sabre tooths likely to jump out, no cro-magnon with a club, just a hairless ape dandering along.
                WHO ARE YOU?
                Over and over til I almost drew level and he had barely moved or shifted position. Just staring at me with ping pong eyes glaring from a head that looked like it had been drawn by Charles Schulz. Just how was I supposed to answer this over familiar baffling question, how does one sum one up in a user friendly sound bite that has no secondary implications? I decided I did not have to so I assumed a jagged worldly indifference and wobbled past.
                  WHO ARE YOU?
                  Some neighbors taking in the early evening air in their front garden looked in my direction to see how I would answer. they seemed intrigued by this question and had perhaps wondered it themselves. I smiled and attempted a shrug which is a bit on a fail when you are leaning on a walking stick. Frankly I was a bit embarrassed and wanted it explain in excellent diction I AM NOT AN ELEPHANT YOU KNOW as more heads turned. Well you could hear the question all over the street, who would,nt want an answer.
                    WHO ARE YOU?
                     As I moved past I found myself wishing the parents of this moon faced child would come out to see what had provoked this outburst. I mean surely they could hear in the living room some unidentifiable object had entered their airspace 'cause he was certainly wrecking my headscape.
                     A black Labrador lifted his head casually from the pavement and wagged his tail shooting me a look that seemed to say IT WOULD END IF YOU JUST ANSWERED THE QUESTION. They have a knowing gentle inner wisdom this breed of dog. One of the reasons I champion guide dogs, they are truly man's best friend and wise beyond their furry heads. I shrugged hopelessly in his direction and he sleepily resumed his pavement vigil.
                     WHO ARE YOU?
                     He was still shouting it as I turned the corner out of the street.
                     He may well still be standing there shouting it for all I know.
                     I mentioned this strange behavior to a close friend later that night and he picked up the resigned sigh in my tone I AM ALWAYS GOING TO BE LAUGHED AT. He said I probably will as long as I dress as a leprechaun  and look like The Judderman. So how is it done? In a world where everyone is screaming for attention how does one come in under the radar and yet still remain true to oneself?
                     If anyone really knows how to do this please get a message to me via my ouija board.
                     It is the only modern form of communication I trust.

A Jesus And Daisy Chain.

How cool are the Jesus And Mary Chain. They not only wrote and performed songs as though they were using chainsaws as musical instruments they also looked like Otherworldy Warholian entities. Or whatever.
            I so wanted to be able to express myself in such a glorious fashion but have none of the required variables( And am totally incapable of ever being cool.)I tried it in the only way I could. A comic strip written as though it were a pop song by The Jesus And Mary Chain or The Velvet Underground. That is why it is a bit of a nonsense poem of sorts. Why it feels as though words are missing and like it does not feel as though it is about anything. Only that it may sound good and is pretty to look at. I do not know; why does any song work?
            It was drawn by a local artist Sean Hamilton. Well, local to me anyway. And he totally got me and did a better job than I could have hoped for. I love his washy colors, the lightness. We worked together way back in the day on another wee story The Good Father. There are probably a few copies lurking in the bottom of certain peoples comic boxes who I forced it onto. If it is any help to anyone who has a copy and is thinking of rereading it, I heard the Velvet Underground Sunday Morning in my head as I wrote it.Sean immigrated to Australia shortly after we worked together. I do hope I did not contribute to his decision. I believe he has since moved back. I do hope I did contribute to that decision.
            Oh by the way, Happy Easter to you.
            I hope the Sun finds you in a field full of Sunflowers.

Thoroughly Modern Prometheus.

(From my sketchbook) Mary Shelley was twenty when she wrote Frankenstein.  It is an astonishing accomplishment for a man or a woman of any age from any age and is the very definition of catching lightning in a bottle or even fiery wisdom from The Gods in the Promethean sense. A novel of such enduring fame it reaches a new generation and continues to haunt our shelves as few others have. Frankenstein, the original punk scientist, the man who rebelled against the very forces that shape life, a continuing metaphor for intellectual hubris and the suffering that seemingly follows in its wake. A friend lent me an amazing DVD of a 1977 BBC television series called Supernatural. These are eight stories of old school gothic melodrama and terror all wondrously told by Robert Muller. Lavishly produced and worth watching over and over again. There is one story in particular that gave me goose bumps called Night Of The Marionettes. A snow bound tale that explores the dark origins of Frankenstein and the fertile haunted feverish imagination that spawned it. It stars Gordon Jackson(in a white fright wig) and features a remarkable turn by an actor called Vladek Sheybal which will linger in the minds eye long after seeing. The marionettes of the title are absolutely terrifying and the whole production has a quality that is just absent in modern productions.
               The opening and closing credits act as crimson curtains on eight supernatural delights that have never been repeated on the BBC since their first airing. The BFI released them last November 2013 and would sit comfortably in any collection that celebrates the macabre.

Saturday Tea-Time 1977 All Over Again.

I

I have heard it said it takes a crooked man to build a crooked house,well in this case it is very true. In an off-season sea-side town where something jagged and grotesque stalks the streets leaving gruesome deaths in its wake a wheezing and a groaning announce the arrival of The Doctor and Leela to lend aid. The sole local constabulary officer is terribly out of his depth in the face of this otherworldly foe with a Mister Punch face. I am talking about the latest offering from Big Finish Productions; the third in a second series of Forth Doctor and Leela stories which are proving every bit as good as the first lot. Each one has been quite different to the one proceeding; a mirror to the seventies series they so aptly follow. This one is a cracker. The wonderful writing and admirable sound design by Big Finish conjure up the winter atmosphere of the haunted location. Baker and Jameson as always shine as do the supporting cast, especially one Neil Stuke who pitches his performance as the Crooked Man just perfectly. Using only his voice alone to bring to life a nightmare figure from a spooky Victorian nursery of an imagination. I can imagine him all distorted elbows and twisted spine in the recording booth in an attempt to channel the crookedness of the character.

This story could have come crackling from the speakers of an old Bakelite radio and deservedly takes an honorable position in the new/old adventures in space and time of The Doctor with one of his best companions and friends.

Oh keep up the great work Big Finish. You make an old fan feel young again.