the dodgy politics of sexual fantasy

here’s the early dawn view at my bedroom window before embarking on a big dipper ride.IMG_0784 - Version 3and this was my bedroom view by dusk…IMG_0843

down on that playground is a health restaurant called hugos. david bowie used to eat there during his skinny young american/man who fell to earth year. at this popsicle stand i order their super green juice…then the super green soup….then finally the super green salad…this is all i eat for my five days there,and when i go to the toilet, it comes out of my bunghole bright day-glo green…now dear reader..isn’t that amazing?

henry rollins was right behind me on the flight over…he’s grey haired and older now…little reading spectacles..but he has a very unpretentious formidable air about him,and doesn’t seem to travel in upper class.i like henry a lot…his path is unique,for he is his own living piece of art. in my hotel the next morning, i observe the porn star ron jeremy dinking around forever on his iPhone,in-between flipping through the pages of the national inquirer…i stared and wondered if it’s hard being ron jeremy…he’s not a pretty man…awful combover hair…a big pudgy nose…….but he does have that huge record breaking fat cock,and it’s made him a lot of money….dear reader….have you ever seen a photo of it?…it’s a real fanny hammer! if i was his stylist,i’d cut off all his frizzy hair,and dress him up in a manly uniform…but maybe that misses the point entirely,cause like henry rollins,he too is his own unique living work of art.

i couldn’t get a flight out to the desert,so i had a driver called ‘steve’ sail me out there in his big old batmobile…it must have once been such a fine car,but now the black paint work was all weird and faded from the california sun…still… it was big with plenty of legroom,also steve had sweetly supplied catering for the three hour ride by way of a bunch of almost rancid bananas and warm bottled water….steve is dangerously fat and has a hair piece,and i look forward to him sweeping me back to the airport on the day i ride home.

yesterday was sunday,so naturally i went to the homosexual beer bust,only it turned out not to be terribly homosexual at all…there i was just sitting there filling my face with a hotdog and margarita, when this big hairy biker comes in wearing lace stockings,a little lace miniskirt, rounded off with nice ladies high heel shoes….he had his wife with him,and from the waist up,he looked like he stepped right out of easy rider,but from the waist down,it was a whole other story. he lurched around the bar in his lace stockings with all the glide of a gorilla…naturally i wanted to be his friend,but already i’ve forgotten his name….he and his wife tell me they’d re-married each other three times…he’d spent three years in jail for being bad,but the thing that had me in rapture was their sex life….he likes to watch his wife getting pounded by big black men,and then for that same [obviously fit] black man to roger him up his hairy bunghole also.

i feast on stories like that,but i can’t help wondering about the racial/political dynamic to this sort of sexual fantasy…on a tight arsed level, it’s a bit condescending towards the black man…the objectification of black skin n’all.. i once talked to an old rooster, who had a black boyfriend, and he told me stories of how some kinky men would re-enact a pretend slavery auction .. out in the the roaring sunshine. black skin carries such a very strong emotional’s inevitable that it would become the stuff of fantasy…slavery…suffering…the undeniable strength and talent of the black man….and it’s interesting that some black men would happily play into these benign fantasies…and they are benign..those sort of evenings generally end with a warm shower,a mug of hot cocoa,and with everyone going home to their respective lives.

i once had a fling in the desert with a man who wanted me to be his dog!..he made me wear a muzzle and everything…he wanted to stick a rubber doggy tail up my bunghole,but i don’t want anything up my bunghole…it lasted over a short series of saturdays and sundays…i decided the role didn’t suit me…i don’t take orders easily,and felt a little bit out of my depth….but i’m glad i dabbled…naturally i got a song out of it,which could easily be about any controlling relationship.

dear reader…do you worry for me?……if so, just check out my lovely haircut in the photo below…the clean blunt precision of that unbalding fringe…hahaha

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hebden bridge…it’s not grim up north

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i’d only vaguely heard of hebden bridge cause edwyn collins played a show up there in the trades [union] club..that’s all i knew,but as we turned off the motorway in west yorkshire,it soon became apparent we were entering a place of great beauty… i should have already been aware of this,but my only interest was to see a favourite band ‘the tiger lillies’.it was perfect english summer weather…the hills were high rolling,and maybe it’s just cause i’m old now that this sort of thing is beginning to floor me, cause it doesn’t feel so long ago when the idea of greenery, trees, and old mills would have bored me ridged.

we arrived five minutes before the tiger lillies sailed on to the stage…they were endlessly funny,highly musical,and a true assault on the senses…they always are…this little clip doesn’t do them have to hear the full range of their songs.

we checked into our hotel round midnight starving for food..the kitchens were closed but the night receptionist waved her magic wand and conjured up the freshest softest sandwiches,flanked by the hugest pot of yorkshire tea to our room within minutes,where we lay on a bed,shoes off,stuffing our rabid faces….the following morning over a full english breakfast,we learn we’re in the hotel used for that david jacobi telly series ‘last tango in halifax’.venturing away from the breakfast table,and heading back into hebden bridge,i’m puzzled at how such a small remote village could be so groovy…the trades union club i mentioned earlier is tiny,yet patti smith[?!] played there recently…dexys midnight runners…it’s a humble scene,yet here are these folk who can fill the albert hall keen to play there….and then there’s all these dapper vegetarian restaurants…thomas casually sensed there might be a lot of lesbians living up there,and i scoffed at him for swallowing the parody of all lezzers being vegetarians n’all…but maybe he was right,cause when i got back home two days later,i googled,and it came up’hebden bridge..lesbian capitol of england’…i dandered into a neat little hybrid vinyl record shop/cafe,where they were playing mott the hoople records,and got talking to a long haired groover who’s lived there all his life … i was asking him how come a village has patti smith and the likes playing here in a tiny room,and how come it’s just so great,and he said they’re fiercely independent up here,and that there’s no macdonalds…no starbucks…no costas…it’s all local…he also said they’re getting a lot of white guardian readers moving in….white guardian readers… we both laughed at that i said yeah.. it’s easy to buy a bloody guardian…still… a white guardian reader has got to be a load better than a white sun reader. he talked about how the old mills are being converted into apartments,and mixed feelings of that sent my head spinning…..i’s great when a place flourishes…i just hope the local folk always benefit from it.. those newly upholstered old mills made me think of those old crumbling breweries in the east end of london now morphed into million pound apartments.

i loved hebden bridge…the yorkshire folk are good to talk with…they’ve got that lovely country feel about them without being rednecks…londoners are great too,but they’re speedy and tightly wound,probably because they have to be…but with me being older now,yet still a bit of kid with crayons,hebden bridge fits like a glove…it’s no wonder david hockney returned to his home nearby to paint those hills and breath that clean air…even the water’s nice and soft.

there’s that saying ‘it’s grim up north’…i believe it can be grim anywhere depending on your own private situation,and no doubt hebden bridge has its own particular darkness in the winter months…but if life deals out a workable hand of cards,the north to me isn’t so grim…it feels like a great place for artists…writers…songwriters…film makers…you could surely blossom up there.

all my loving…mary of many a wilderness.

west yorkshire



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these are terrific, are they not..undergarments you don’t wear on your arse,but on your hands…ladies and bellends, for your entertainment, i give you …..HANDERPANTS.

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rude art exhibitions

IMG_0396sometimes i think the best way for enjoying a gallery is to just slow right down,hang out,and not try too hard in understanding what’s going on. it’s fun watching other visitors reactions, and the aloof bored employees,opening or closing doors for the wide eyed and cynical. the whole affair adds up to so much more than the sum of its parts. this particular exhibition is now showing on the very posh savile row where the beatles offices used to be, and where many bespoke tailors reside.         i love how something so rude shows itself off on such a smart civilised street… we have a line of cute fit men made from immaculate shiny fibre glass, bending over with their trousers down,splashfarting brightly coloured paint out of their arseholes onto the gallery wall behind them…there’s also a sexy female office executive astride a photo copying machine taking pictures of her private lily garden… i don’t care if this has meaning or not,it just looks fantastic. maybe it’s got something to do with the artist and his relationship with paint … i dunno..i just love it…it looks good.


this was tuesday..a nice sunny day where i’d surgically removed myself from the house and sailed into town for a most excellent hairdresser is a boxer in his spare time,and is mad keen for music…next was the gallery, followed by supper in an art deco room on piccadilly. i’ve no worries dining alone…i love to be solitary in the middle of a buzzy scene, listening, or off on my own internalised revery…the previous day i received sad news that a man who used to manage me had died,so i walked past a landmark that was relevant to both of us on the way for supper..i stood there still in the sunshine hallucinating the two us walking towards me down that very street..i recalled the exact conversation we were having…it too was a sunny day…he was trying to calm me down in his usual reassuring way…memory’s a very powerful thing.

IMG_0399on my way back home i stumbled on what might be one of those banksy was painted on a wall by a place where warner brothers records used to be,but is now the bland offices of jaeger clothing…there’s a story of the singer billy mackenzie in that building…he went up there one day to be told by a big cheese that he was deemed difficult and would therefor be culled from the label,so he asked for one final request that a car be sent round to take him home..the label obliged,without realising the driver would be taking him all the way from london to his house in dundee up in scotland…i love that…the mischief.

i rode on the train for half and hour back to the countryside where thomas met me at the station with his warm genuine smile..dear reader…life is everything,isn’t is all at once past..present…future..fortunate..unfortunate…heartbreaking .. joyful…oh for gods sake ..shut up mary.

all my loving…back in the wilderness.


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funeral for a tree.

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we once had a low hanging fruity apple tree in our back garden, where upon a set of musical wind chimes rang happily in the breeze,but one day last year we woke to find it lying dead on the ground…to clear up the bomb blast, it had to be chopped up into logs where it remained far too neat and behaved for the afterlife. the conformity of those stacked logs gave me a strong desire to free the very soul of all that lovely wood. i had a vision of it rising like a phoenix from it’s own ashes as a moss and lavender garden.

yesterday when we woke, i pleaded with thomas that we make this vision real by sundown,so we missioned off to one of those garden centre places.i don’t like garden centres. they’re a gateway to the world of beige, and i can slide into a dark mood in that kind of environment,but on this day i was on a keen pursuit of tres naturelle plants..lavender..heather…moss. my heart usually belongs to the sluttier flowers… i’m prone to common things like big brightly coloured daisies,or petunias, as they are without a doubt the purple velvet whores of the flower favourite flower of all is the dandelion. i love everything it stands is wild and looked down upon by tight arsed folk who would sooner consider it a weed,even if it is not…it is scruffy, yellow and free. we’ll be wiped out long before it will .

i am so pleased with our newborn mossy lavender garden, that i fancy when i die, some of my ashes be scattered over it…the rest to be scattered up in the high desert in california near pioneertown … maybe scatter a few spoonfuls down the durty drains of soho in london, then a final cloud of my bone dust for northern ireland,to be blown in the fresh clean air over portrush beach near where the arcadia ballroom used to be.

i’m happy to report our mission was fulfilled just as the day got dark. we argued and laughed..i kept throwing hissy fits,but under it all we were having a groovy day,while billy fields looked on bemused and amused as much as we were…the same oscar peterson long playing gramophone record repeatedly spilled out of the open living room window…i got up this morning and went directly outdoors starkers to have a look and take a picture.there is grass seed planted too, which should green things up in a few weeks…dear reader…do you like it?…isn’t it very tasteful and understated?….not like me at all.

i feel a bit uncomfortable that i’m sitting here writing about bloody gardening,and will counteract this in my next post with a story about me getting caught with my personal supply of cannabis at the airport.

here’s a new song just to remind you why i winged my way down onto this beautiful yet dangerous planet 55 years ago… heavens willing, more songs to follow.

all my loving…mary mary..extremely contrary.

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alf garnetti feel embarrassed by my own baby boomer generation..we’re the ones that should know better..we brandish our loud long haired classic rock records,but behind it we’re just like our parents..twitching the net curtains,allergic to change and colour…dear reader,i hope you take a second to read this link below..especially that ignorant and intellectually vacant Facebook comment…and i promise no more gassing off from me anyway..happy and cream suede chelsea boots…the mary one.

as a seven year old poofter, i found alf garnet with his long suffering wife riveting entertainment, and i always loved the character una stubbs played…she and her boyfriend seemed so groovy to my young eyes .. i was gently educated by this groundbreaking subversive sitcom.

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under the skin

being a bit dumb,i thought we were watching an art house film knee deep in metaphor,but the next day i learn it was actually a sci-fi movie. had i known that,i’d probably not have gone in the first place,but i’m glad i did. for me it was more about human alienation rather than mere aliens.

have you seen it?…if you have, i’d love to know your interpretation.even though pinned to the wall, i wasn’t completely sure what was going on. it seems it’s a girl on a highly sexualised journey of sorts. some of the movie is real actors, while some of the men she attempts to pick up in her white van are true to life people on the streets of glasgow.i now read scarlett johanssen practiced picking up hitchhikers to play her role convincingly.


she starts out as a predator of solitary men, then mid flight is made vulnerable by love,and then finally raped of something…or maybe it was herself shedding a skin.i could easily be wrong about this. a bright lady who i talk to on the internet says it’s about a journey of disintegration. she calls it ‘an internal piece’,and that definition helped a lot.honestly dear reader,if you have seen this film,i’d truly love to know what you think. aside from the actual meaning,it had a breathtaking beauty about it.located in scotland, it taps into the tough look of the more downbeat side of the country,the extreme weather…the miserable side of things rendered in deeply poetic visuals….i loved how the makers had taken a natural sea storm and added subtle effects that maybe weren’t effects at’s hard to tell,and the bits that were unabashed effects were startling … it was a stunner,even if the cinema was indeed nearly empty. often things that aren’t big mainstream hits at the time, turn out to be classics in the end. the soundtrack alone was noteworthy.

that film left me feeling so odd and strange as we drifted back out into the evening air…it was that curzon venue in mayfair that i’ve written about before…i always bleat on about how RCA records was housed on that street in the 1970’s..i only know this cause of the bowie,sweet and nilsson singles i bought as a kid in portrush..the address was always on the paper sleeves….and i’m forever aware how keith moon and mama cass both died in harry nilssons apartment on the same street,but last night when leaving the cinema i clocked a convoy of rolls royces parked outside…it occurred to me how flushed that part of town is,and because of that it’s been diligently preserved…i get the feeling it was pretty much the same there decades ago…money maintaining money…on the way back to the car we passed those cute mews houses that highly privileged gentry live in..i notice they actually have potted plants on either side of their front doors right there on the pavement in the middle of london…no fear of them being vandalised due to the heavy presence of night time cops. inner city civilisation for those that can afford it.

dear reader…all my loving

mary mcwilderness


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