as malcolm mclaren once said “paris is jazz…jazz is paris”.

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it still blows me away how there’s a train out of london that goes under the sea,and ends up in the centre of paris a couple of hours later.you leave paris after lunch to be back home in the kitchen by dinner time…..y’know not all of modern life is rubbish…so much is good.

we’re both drawn to the jazz. we’re not buffs by any stretch,so it’s mostly a bit of a guessing game,but in paris, jazz is everywhere,and we took a chance on a young american called james brandon lewis.we missioned towards a tiny little club called ‘le duc des lombards’ where they did punchy cocktails…thomas drank his usual lovely smelling ‘old fashioned’,and i had my heady tequila,then this good-looking fellow hits the stage armed with his saxophone,drummer and double bassist….right then and there i worried…no piano..no guitar…no sweetener…it was a racket of a noise…like ornette coleman or something..the drummer didn’t nail down a groove once…it was wild,and i felt anxious that thomas would be bored,but he was the one getting into it.the lesson i learn there was never under rate your partner… when you worry about others tastes or limitations,maybe it’s time to just check your own. the james brandon lewis set was mercifully short,and was followed by a more traditional jazz band with all the sweetener i could wish for,yet it’s that mad james brandon lewis sound that lingers…he’s a good memory…the drummer came down afterwards and talked to me….. a sweet sweet boy from maryland[?!] now living in new york…quizzing him on how he survives there, he tells me playing in conventional cover bands doing weddings and bar mitzvahs helps pay the rent … i asked him if tonights music was influenced by ornette coleman,and i can’t remember if it is or not,but he did say he’d been round to his loft…..to play pool with him!@£$%

the next day we went to a huge exhibition of art brut…do you know what art brut is?…it’s a term coined for work by extremely creative folk who’ve had a life in mental institutions,or have been pushed to the very edges of society…so there’s very detailed work by souls with aspergers syndrome…schitzophrenia..that sort of thing….a lot of it was a true cry for love,safety and understanding…heartbreaking..it went on and on and on forever,and just when you thought you couldn’t take anymore,you turn a corner and something else was there ready to blow you away again..we loved it…it knackered us.we were there for a good three hours.

no trip is complete without a roll around the gutter,so a final hoot was a paris gay leather bar. it was quite late, and wasn’t busy except for three hardcore hairy bears who were very into each other…one of them was getting a right flogging by the other two…thomas got bored and left me to watch..he’s seen it all before, and outgrown all that malarky..so he left for bed…and then everybody left till the only folk there were myself and these three handsome bears going hell for leather….just when i thought it couldn’t get anymore interesting,one pulled a police truncheon out of a bag,and attached a big rubber dildo on to the end of the weapon…he then slathered the customised truncheon in axelgrease before feeding the hungry angel with what he wanted…the cries of ecstasy from him were fantastic..one of the chaps then pulled a condom over his own fanny hammer and attempted to ride his colleague, but he couldn’t get a strong enough erection..it didn’t seem to matter,so he went back to his truncheon for a while,and then the passive one made a supreme howl of ecstasy which punctuated the end of the evening …they spent the last half hour winding down, then they left together like one happy little family .IMG_1138 - Version 4

midway back to london on the eurostar a woman appeared to ask if i’d answer some marketing survey questions..she asked why we’d upgraded to economy plus or whatever it’s called, and i said “lower middle class snobbery”..the young chap opposite giggled at my answers to her questions,and he,it turns out works for that fresh fruit juice company called ‘innocent’..i told him i drink that muck everyday and like it a lot.i warmed to that brand of juice five years ago cause it was a small cottage business making a very pure product,but he tells me it’s just now been bought over by…..wait for it…….COCA COLA!@£$%^&

on the very last part of the ride home on the train at finsbury park station,a mother, grandmother, with young kids get on and sit right by us…and i’m like oh no…but hopefully they didn’t pick up on that..still it was real selfish of me….i sat watching this young mother and grandmother deal with these well behaved,yet active children..it gradually dawned on me how tired these ladies looked,yet there was a real joyful bond between them…they were so selfless and kind to these constantly curious kids….the grandmother got off at the same station as us,and it was apparent to anyone within earshot that i didn’t recognise where we were, cause the platform had undergone a refurb,and she chimed in to reassure me i was indeed at the right station…she even selflessly directed us to the new lifts, cause she could see we had heavy suitcases…this was all from a grandmother who was exhausted from taking kids round the zoo and buckingham palace all day……….i will never groan ever again when mothers with young active infants board a train…i live and learn not to be such a tight arse.

paris is becoming familiar now…i do like the parisians.. the woman have a natural poise and elegance..they’re maybe more forthright than the english..they get straight to the point…many who know more may laugh,but i can’t say the food is wonderful…london has seriously upped it’s own game over the last ten years….i had the worst moules mariniere on this trip…but then i also had the worst pasta ever in italy… in rome…right there in vatican city.

more than anything, there’s thomas … his kindness and patience..i wasn’t always the greatest of company…i was having the head staggers before we even left,but he was a pure doll to me and i love him….and hats off to you dear reader..i hope you found this little missive a worthwhile read…mary fairy liquid.

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hey there beautiful…shine for marys camera.

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dressing up

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how much does therapy costs these days? it’s been a long time. thomas bought me a couple of sessions as a birthday gift around eighteen years ago,and it was surely money well spent.the doctor who was very old and wise, got the gist of my ongoing fear of nearly everything,while pressing home three important words..calm…control..confidence. i can’t say i successfully employ those virtues all of the time,but i do strive to,cause i’m prone to blowing my top…if someone experiments with my buttons,i’ll give wiggle room for a while,but if the bollox persists, it’s only a matter of yards before i vomit up lime green bile.i don’t always regret it,but often i do,knowing full well there was a better way to have handled things….calm control confidence.

as a fourteen year old teenager in northern ireland, i had therapy for roughly a year on wednesday afternoons after school….a while before the therapy,i was taken up to a hospital where they checked about my brain. it was a chilling yet painless experience..they laid me on a stretcher, greased and wired little attachments to my head,told me to relax,and when i closed my eyes i saw pretty little patterns,and that was that…my brain was fine i guess,but therapy was afoot.

the trouble started when i’d been caught missing school..i’d manage to hide from it for several months,until the school finally called my mother to ask if all was alright,but no one asked me…they just rattled up the drama into a worse state.

the reason i avoided school was because of the physical education classes. this completely private hell was born from the idea of having to take my clothes off in the smelly changing rooms for hockey or whatever else.the thought of stripping off naked in front of all those awful stinky boys, struck to the very soul of me …this nightmare escalated till it was all i thought about for roughly two miserable years….in the end they got the truth out of me. a permanent pass out of physical education classes was issued,and that was that…..funny how now you’d be hard pressed to find a keener exhibitionist…i’m forever ripping my kit off for anyone who’s standards are low enough to watch. maybe i’ve fetishised my own worst nightmare in order to cope with it.

do you ever watch that absolutely brilliant cartoon on the telly called american dad? me and thomas love it…you know during the theme tune where he jumps out of bed in his y-fronts and sings ‘good morning usa’?…well i jump out of my armchair,pull my trousers down,revealing myself in the exact same white y-fronts as american dad,while singing along with the telly..thomas loves this…it’s a million miles away from the kid who skived off school cause he was afraid of taking his clothes off in front of other cunts for hockey.

those first therapy sessions as a teenager were such a joke…the therapist would just stare at me for ages..i’d say nothing..but i wasn’t being passive aggressive,i just didn’t know how to articulate anything….she’d ask about the bowler hat and cape i often wore,but i didn’t really know why i was wearing these things…i just loved to…she’d see me flouncing around the tiny farming town in my cape and bowler while she was doing her errands…at fourteen this was my chosen attire,and i must have looked a proper fruitcake,yet somehow it kept me sane…

i’m still dressing up..but the plot thickens now i’ve discovered all these other nelly poofs who do it too.i’d really like to go for therapy again,just to find out what it all means,though these days i tend to lap up the funny side of all this…one time out here in the desert i went to a fetish party where everyone was dressed up as leathermen…skinheads and cops…the club had been greedy and packed too many into the venue, so the real police arrived to shut the party down…it was hilariously embarrassing for both sides to watch fake ravishing cops being turned over by reluctantly real cops.it really did piss on everyones fish n chips badly………hahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha

i’ll finish off now..a load of dentists,lawyers,and doctors are riding into the desert tonight posing as hells angels on harleys among real hells angels on harleys…happy weekend to any dear soul who reads this revery .. mary fairy liquid xxxxxxx

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the naturist resort

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watching very old human beings parade around naked in the sunshine is like some sort of cruel primer regarding ones own fate…the thin ones like me,will end up with skin flapping and hanging off where a backside used to be,while fat backsides look much better…more firm and plump,but sometimes with a fat fucker,as my good friend jef observes, their todger looks like its been sucked up into the big enormous belly,so all you can see is the nut sack and a little button of a bell-end……hahahahahahahahahaha.

forgive me

mary fairy liquid

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a midsummers night on the kings rd.

ssa7 one day in the middle of june or roundabouts i clocked a thing going on down the kings road in chelsea…there’s a chap called morgan howell who does these gorgeous big blow ups of old 45 rpm pop singles…he’s very exacting…gets all the crinkles into the paper sleeves,and they are pure eye candy…i see the bbc has now decorated it’s radio studios with these fun pieces of art……and so i figured i’d head to this gallery where they were giving a bit of a splash. when i got there i found much to my surprise there was more going on than these blow ups of pop singles…they had a hifi shop come along with a gramophone turntable that cost as much as a rolls royce,where they played a new mono pressing of the beatles ‘a hard days night’….now this was an odd thing in itself…imagine this….about three rows of mostly males sitting ever so still while someone made it clear that we were listening to one of the worlds great hifi systems…he then proceeds to play not just one track off ‘a hard days night’  but the whole buggery album..side a and side b,while all these mojo magazine type males sat bolt upright listening to music that was designed for young girls and boys to scream and dance mindlessly to fifty years ago. the whole experience was curiously funny and sexless..men with beards stroking their chins,and sure,the perfect mono pressing of this beatles record did sound fantastic…i don’t think i’ve ever heard mono in such high quality before,it was lovely on the ear…pure and simple…no exhausting modern production fireworks…just a well healed band playing live to tape.
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so there we are in this airless basement on the kings road…three rows of beard strokers listening earnestly to a full album of music that was created for the young dumb and full of cum. to heighten the irony of the situation, is the sad absence of anything remotely rock and roll on the kings road today…not one record shop…..even the punk rockers have gone….it’s hard to imagine dandified hippies ever having set foot on that street now..the chelsea drug store that mick jagger sang of, is now a macdonalds. it’s just not the same place it once was…so i sat there feeling like i’d arrived at a party that ended decades ago…very very strange.

10516705_761586507218458_4108104317037057538_nthe next surprise was a high profile journalist/radio presenter interviewing the mother of all beatles biographers….this man hunts out accurate details of jean paul george and gringo’s lives like no other..his life seems to have been devoted to writing mostly about the beatles..it seems to have paid him well..his books are the chosen benchmark i’m told….and i’m enjoying this man telling us things like how coincidently all four beatles fathers escaped military service,and had their fathers not done so,those mop topped boys wouldn’t have been free to chase dreams and bugger off to places like hamburg in 1961…this is all fine,but then he turned me off… he explained how in the midst of writing these beatle books his relationship had soured with paul…he then went on to say he wishes paul would stop singing….right there and then i decided i didn’t like this man anymore…how bloody dare he?!…sure i understand that pauls voice isn’t the supple power house it once was,but firstly,if paul wants to sing,then why the fun shouldn’t he…no one’s forcing anyone to listen..but what shocked me,was as a consummate biographer,that he wasn’t curious or interested in how pauls singing would play out on his way to the grave….

i’ve been thinking about this a lot lately….the way singing voices change throughout a lifetime…i love how leonard cohen’s negotiated his singing style…i’m glad he kept on singing for us to hear that…then there’s robert plant,who’s been very smart..he doesn’t yell and scream like he used to…he preserves his voice by not selling out to led zeppelin re-union tours, and  as a result makes sweeter music that suits him at his time in life…he’s looking after his voice..marianne faithful became a very interesting singer when her voice buckled..truly awful sometimes,but so full of character on her record ‘broken english’…and then there’s paul,who just seems to love performing live..it’s not great all the time,but fuck me,it’s still better than most. the thing is…when a voice looses it’s supple tone or range,it’s often replaced with something else..a pathos…a sadness…the mortality edging in…for me that can be so riveting to listen to.the sound of a human voice over his or hers own peak…the roll down the hill..the fading and weakening.. y’know there’s a great song on the latest paul mccartney album,where they recorded him without him really knowing..his voice sounds craggy,and all the more convincing for it…he is very old after all…but there he is…singing his truth,while some biographer would rather he’d stop.  here’s a video..this biographer was vain and smart enough to ruminate on weather the song was written about him…and maybe it was…millions of hims and jim jims who have great authority on someone else’s life that is not their own. here’s the song.  so this nostalgia based evening wasn’t quite over until some old music business executive told us how different things were back in the day…he must have been blind,cause most of us were almost as old as he was….but i was curious about him…never did catch his name…but he had that wonderful combination of a posh talking voice offset with a slight rock n roll lilt to his delivery…like say chris blackwell who ran island records..or marianne faithful… so the evening is now coming to a close. i walk outside where the old music executive is standing on the kerb of the kings road smokin a fag in the balmy london evening…i thought …that looks cool…he looked so relaxed and formidable…tall,and like he owns the very street we’re standing on…he began to wonder away from the gallery,and it looked like poetry to me..this old cunt..in a suit…nose in the air…smokin his fag..walking away and fully aware of what a glorious evening it is…not dark yet…..so wouldn’t you know it, i start following him…i was just curious…i wanted to know where he was going…i figured he probably lived in chelsea, and i wanted to see what type of house he lived in….hahahahahaha…so it was fun following this bleeder..he went down all the little backroads to the side of the kings road…little streets i’d never seen before that are lovely…tiny cute little houses in lovely pastel colours ,with opened up interiors….it’s funny how some very rich folk who live in places like chelsea ,but deck the situation out to look and feel like a village on their street….it takes millions to maintain that rustic look in heart of the city.

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the world wide washing machine

IMG_8464 - Version 2sometimes i think the internet’s like a wailing wall that goes all the way round the planet,while the whole population is on it’s knees crying for love or recognition…sometimes it’s more like a toilet wall screaming back low base filth,while sometimes it’s like a mirror,reflecting your own personality right back at you…oftentimes it’s like the best rock n roll jukebox ever.

for some unknown reason i found myself blogging every day this week at dawn. it’s ever so quiet here in the morning, so i’d just start typing the first thing that came into my head over a morning mug of earl grey tea. i know i’m not a great blogger…my grammar and punctuation are all over the place,but who cares…the more you do these things,the better you get.

the lovely news is no one cares…unlike childhood days of school homework,no one is laying any punishment or pressure on you to write a thing,moreover,no one may ever read it…maybe someone will,and that’s always nice,but even if they don’t,it’s just a neat idea rolling out the first thing that comes into your mind…it’s surely good exercise for the brain…i highly recommend it,if you’re not doing so already. i enjoy reading other people who do this..you can learn from them…they maybe have a clarity in the way they put things over…it’s like learning without having to go back to school…and then there’s the really bad ones…you can learn from them too..the biggest lesson of all though is your own internet reflection smiling and laughing right back at you … you might read something you’ve written a couple of years ago and wonder what the hell you were thinking..that can be most disarming,but that’s growth for you,enabled and encouraged by this big wailing wall called the internet.

i’m on my second mug of earl grey tea now,and can feel that cannabis infused breakfast muffin kicking in…this is where it could all go belly up,but why the hell not…i’m on holiday.. y’know another nice thing for the happy blogger is it’s bit like creating a magazine..there’s huge fun in taking some photographs,selecting some music to then inlay neatly round the text…it’s a gas…i also love how unlike the printed page,you can go back after publishing to correct spelling or crap sentences.here’s my view as i sit here typing.IMG_0868 another curious feeling when you post things up on the world wide washing machine is people you’ve rubbed shoulders with who think they know you…old school acquaintances…family even…who’ll maybe then google you,and then stumble on to your diary.y’know …people who think they know you. i used to worry about that…but then i thought fuck it…be yourself.. own your own truth…don’t apologise.

but here’s a thing.. sometimes i’ll talk on the phone to folk i’ve known all my life…i can’t be sure,but i get a strong feeling in my gut that they read this shit of mine simply because they never mention it,but they do hint at it…..a lot of my oldest and dearest lead a very different life from me….they’re mainly heterosexual..raising kids and living in the provinces..so they get an insight into my faggy ways…but i’ve learned to love my faggy ways,where once upon a time i really wrestled with it all….i now feel happy with the honest base on which my life resides…writing it all down helped me arrive at the resolve.

this week i’ve been posting for five days in a row yet never meant to..i just felt like it…a diary is like an unconditional relationship with yourself…you can visit and disappear anytime you please…no one will care but yourself…that’s a great and humbling headspace…to know that you’re not important..that this world is so very huge..we are all mere specs of dust here…the internet drove that home to me like no other medium in my lifetime…it’s very humbling……hahahahahahahahaha loads and loads….happy weekend…mary wilderness.IMG_8464

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water of love…deep in the ground..

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAyesterday i visited an english couple who own and run a boutique hotel here. it’s real nice..a bit niche..if you know what i mean. they do good business hosting fun loving kinky people who come here to let off a bit of steam. one of my favourite things about this place is they have big wooden stocks right by the pool.  even though it’s mostly a homo situation, hetero players sometimes take over the hotel for the occasional organised event that might be happening in the town, so the men who run this fine hotel,have great stories of both men and woman locking their sweethearts into these big wooden stocks to help keep a subordinate in his or her place…..or not. apparently the lesbians are the most fierce.

the dolls who run this hotel are semi retired.one of them was an accountant in hollywood,while the other made wigs for the stars.he made michael jacksons wigs ever since he was partially balded by that accident in a pepsi advert where his hair caught fire from the special effects.. he visited him only months before he died.he was to make several hair pieces for the world tour that michael never lived to do…i enjoy visiting those men…they make for a cool scene…it can be very sexy…if i’m lucky,they’ll sometimes have other friendly folk come by at the same time,and it’s just nice yapping away to these good people for an afternoon.

when i left them,i dandered back to my apartment,and as the cannabis lemonade gently kicked in, a man and woman swept into view….they were from newcastle in england.. fresh off an eleven hour flight.. in the heat of their golden moment,they took their jeans off right there by the poolside, and immediately lowered themselves into the warm glimmering liquid…the sustained unbridled groans they made as they decompressed in the blue pool made me laugh out loud..then they laughed in return.

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