How Sweet To Uncare

Take me back in time four years
And land me at his home.
Allow me to take over as
I sweep up little Hamzah
As I love him till he’s better
In a restoration womb.
Take me back in time again
And land me in that doom
Forgive my tears of horror as
I grab a hearty mallet
And I pound until it’s shattered
This sad mummified bedroom.
Send me back for the last time
And let my birth rewind.
I’ll allow you to take over as
You sweep out all my conscience
As you take my eyes that see things
And restore my heart to blind.


Overheard today:
Woman: So what’s he like, yer new fella?Other woman: He’s amazing. He’s minted too, got his own business and stuff. Got like ten or twelve houses.

W: But what’s he like?

O.W: He spent a fortune on me, took me for a meal, got me this perfume (shoves her neck in Woman’s direction) And…He’s massive. Hung like a horse.

W: But what’s HE like?

O.W: dunno really. We haven’t done much talking. Except I do know he had cancer or something last year.

W: “Or something”????

O.W: Yeah. He’s got a scar. It doesn’t put me off though – I’m not shallow, like.

Me: This face :-0



Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you A Miracle In Spanish Harlem. Do be sure to catch this film; It’s like watching a poem.


This is not an exclusively Hispanic story – it’s just a story that happens to people who just happen to be Latino. The story is timeless, crossing boundary and culture, its main language LOVE. And that is what translates. It is for this very reason that I could see MIRACLE being adapted for live performance, and being that all the world IS a stage, then you could take this piece anywhere, for anywhom.

Director Derek Partridge seems to have gifted his ensemble with a vision of his own; a pragmatic approach enabling some really real  performances. Five minutes in and already, I’ve identified with TITO. This is a guy whose eyes are as crucial as the script in telling us the story. As Luis Antonio Ramos draws us in with those peepers, so he lets us see his world through them.

This is a world whose genetic make-up began with an extract of Carlos Bermúdez, whose screenplay gave birth to a pretty awesome bunch of people. (I refuse to call them characters when they’re as real as this). It is this writer’s DNA that acts as a catalyst here, setting off a series of events that allow the production team and performers to deeply reach within themselves. And then, they decorate our screen from the inside, painting in wide, free brush-strokes with their own souls. Their palette? STORIES.

We see Tito’s Mom, (Priscilla Lopez) having a rant for his shamelessly blocking the love of God from his girls’ lives. And just how true is this performance? Well – for starters, Ms Lopez would appear to have studied my own (Irish Catholic) parents for inspiration. For the most part, she underplays – thus underpinning the very nature of a parent who thinks they know what’s best for their children. (And they’re usually right, damnit).

Back to those eyes. There’s stories behind them; we know this much already. As Tito’s single-parent status is established pretty early on, so it’s apparent there’s a lost love behind them. And we’re dying to find out more; we eventually do just that, through the heart of Mr Ramos, which he wears on Tito’s face. Ramos pours everything he has into the pressure-cooker of Tito, to be released in drip-feed motion as the vapour is released. The revelations of the depths of his soul are conveyed both with words, and without.

Gradually, we’re GRACED with EVA (Kate del Castillo) as she glides through the store, eventually meeting us face-to-face at the checkout. We immediately warm to her, so it’s unsurprising that Tito feels likewise. From the get-go, Eva’s established as a feisty lass, with just the right amount of charm and a healthy sprinkling of pluck – this is Miss America right here. She recognises a good ‘un, too, as she acclaims Ernie as “something-else” in exactly the right way. (Ernie – sensitively observed and displayed for our viewing pleasure by the super-talented Adrian Martinez – is a man whose presence tells us a lot about the others; this is great use of the sidekick narrative device).

Then there’s the kids -the gorgeous kids. Confidently performed by Fatima Ptacek and Brianna Gonzalez-Bonacci, Amanda and Samantha are two little girls hopeful for their Father’s future. They’re part of him, and they don’t let him forget it.

There’s a bit of ACTION, too, which I won’t spoil for you. The MAIN EVENT is something we as the audience aren’t privy to, but the resultant aftermath is displayed. Whether this was intentional or a result of budgetary constraints, it worked. If it was the latter, then Serendipity was at work.

It’s far from a perfect movie, but if truth be told, the minor flaws kind of added to its charm. I’d liked to have seen more realism –tighter direction might have been the key – when the girls met Daddy after the aforementioned occurrence. Apart from beautiful puppy-sad eyes, there wasn’t much difference between their reaction here and the more everyday scenes.

I could have done without the canine back-story and Eva’s au-pair revelation; we’d already endeared ourselves to her, so this felt like a sell-out. It kind of felt like an addendum, the white lie itself a deliberate flaw-of-sorts sellotaped on to Eva’s character. To have kept her as Miss 90210 would have only added weight to the love story – and would have actually been a nice Cinderella twist – she with the princely wealth and he, scrubbing the floors.

The Miracle itself was a bit of a MacGuffin – I’m talking the actual miracle here, not the miraculous finding yourself/finding love/finding happiness theme. I blame the REST of the movie for being so damned good that it sucked me in and made me want to forget the supernatural edge. It gave me PEOPLE to believe in, so I didn’t need a Power, a Glory, or a Holy Ghost. Is divine (or Tyronian) intervention the reason things turned out for our couple? I’m pretty sure that with the strength of our two lovers, supported by one heck of a loving family, things would’ve worked out anyway for sure.

So is it true what they say? That they don’t make them like that any more?

They just did.

Pass The Tissues rating (out of 5):


Dear Rapists

That Which lives inside is this:
Recoiling, recalling. Falling.

When did you decide to decide my fate with your parasitic tryst? You gave them a brush to tar me with
So that I’d be blamed for what you did.

I don’t want revenge.
I want nothing but love in your life
So you can REALLY SEE
How your bit of fun affected me

I wish you nothing and I wish you all:
Pain? I don’t, but ought to.
The only way I know
For best revenge, I wish you DAUGHTERS.

Sanguine on Cotton


Dear Quentin,

You’d have been delighted with the faces of the two old gits sitting in front of me. Down-their-noses whines of “gratuitous violence” abounded. I imaginarily told them off, reminding them that nay – YOU just choose to show gore’s true form – it’s just everyone else that shies away from it.

They didn’t exactly think it was supposed to be a reflection of life in Cafe de Paris – a Hot Club adventure with an appendagely-challenged guitarist. But they certainly didn’t expect THIS – Far More Mandingo than Manouche.

And then – there was THE word. If you use it in the RIGHT way, the ONLY way, you’re free to go, Django-style. You can’t have a film set in the Deep South – subject: slavery and oppression and the escape therefrom, without using it. Despite its despicability, this is one of those regrettably ugly words that says SO much more about the fucking arsewipes who used it. And Ohhhh – your arsewipes were sublime.

You tell a story that NEEDS telling. And re-telling – lest we forget. And we need to watch it.

Sanguine on cotton…beautifully horrific. Delicious Fruit, Strange Fruit that one day, would rise up from oppression to prove that there is only one race – the HUMAN race. This Strange Fruit which, one OTHER day, would be President of the WORLD.

Thespically speaking, of COURSE Waltz was sublime – but he’d set the bar SO high (*points to Jupiter*) with Hans Landa that he certainly had his work cut out here. Still, he managed to light up that screen for every FRAME he was present, and I really missed him when he wasn’t.

You made sure that Chrissie baby only hung around as long as he was needed, though – i.e. as soon as Foxxy was ready to come out from under his wing and become Marvin Gaye as a Gunslingin’ Badass Bounty Hunter. But, truth be told, I didn’t CARE for Foxxy much – you gave him no REAL depth, he just WAS.

Samuel L wins the prize for most fucking evil Uncle fucking Tom, and Kerry Washington nicely underacted her love, her fear, and loathing. DeCaprio was – well – DeCaprio. Competent enough, nasty bastard, but didn’t give me shivers. He never does, though, so I suppose that’s only half your fault.

Gorgeously-paced and pot-boiled to a bubbling hot payoff, each scene was essential. I could have done with more, actually – more of Django’s life story, not least to make for a juicer moment of satisfaction when the baddies GET IT.  (See lack of depth, above) And more YOU. It wasn’t Quentish enough.

Favourite moments? The hood scene working on so many levels – crushingly funny on face value, but a lovely little framed painting nonetheless of RIDICULOUS brainwashed-to-brainless dickheads viewing (or not) life through equally ridiculous hoods. Also – kudos for that equine pair – one white horse and one brown…it didn’t go unnoticed.

You didn’t  completely let me down – your own throwing-a-six-scene being a case in point. I can see you pitching that idea now: Tell You What – Let’s Have Me Snuff It In A Huge ACME Dynamite Explosion Leaving Only My Boots Behind…this is where your inner geek meets mine. (Although, you probably don’t even HAVE to pitch these days, do you? And damn right, too).

Anyway, this is the end of a speedy five-minute missive – being that I have just got in from the flicks. I am now off to the land of nod to replay the scenes to my subconscious and to dream of large, wobbling false teeth.

Until We Meet Again.


Sonnet 001

My Master’s works replay inside my head;
Yet other things I read I throw away.
I’d rather keep the words I love instead;
Tucked right inside my heart wherein they stay.

It’s not as if there’s room for any more;
With all the Bardstuff crammed inside my skull.
To some I know he’s really quite a yawn;
But let him in and then your life be full.

A Smith of Words, he knows his audience
Inventing names and phrases five by two
If you detest or if you’re on the fence
Then close your eyes – allow his genius through.

He’s God and no-one else his shoes can fill
My one, my only, true beloved Will.


Old Me

The Me from then
With every ounce of me-ness slowly and symphonically
Syphoned away, Adagio.

I hold this former Me in my RAM as a reminder of how not to be. And as an example of a decayed decade.