Tag: Bill Drummond

WHAT IS MELODIC? (by GAYNOR, CHRISTINE, JANE and LITTLE GRAPEFRUIT)

Jun 8th, 2024

This question was asked by Little Grapefruit, at the end of her imagined year as Bill Drummond. It is number 15 of the 23 Questions.

We have three answers here, by Gaynor, Christine and Jane. We also have some examples of melodies as selected during the proceedings of a recent GANTOB committee, reported back by Little Grapefruit. Thank you to all involved in the production of number 46 of the 52 pamphlets.

If you have an idea for a pamphlet, please don’t be alarmed that we are coming close to number 52. We may need to go over that number, in which case we can do some shuggling about for the final book to keep the totals tight. As long as we have your submission by 23:23 (GMT) on 30 June 2024 your entry will be considered. The same applies to answers to the 23 Questions (ideally focussing on the as yet unanswered questions). Email your submissions to mailto:100percentvinyl2@gmail.com.

MY MELODIC LIFE/ MANTRA (by GAYNOR)

What is melodic? Life is always twist and turns, up and downs. How do we know we are alive without them?

This is my melodic fall back when I can’t see in front of me, when I need reminding who the hell I am (and to get a grip).

She’ll carry on through it all, she’s a waterfall

And I do. I’m quite famed for this

I carry on through life

Resilient to the core

Raising my brigantine sails

My stormy melodic life

Rushing water always finds a way to join the big calm pool

Crashing over moss and rocks and vertical drops

She’ll carry on through it all….

My song of my melodic life thanks to the Stone Roses’ Waterfall

GAYNOR 29 May 2024

Set sail & tie yourself to the mast. Credit: Gaynor

MELODIC? (by CHRISTINE)

Listen to Christine narrate her piece

The question was asked by Little Grapefruit. Little Grapefruit is melodic. Bounces about making mad observations about the world, from his perspective way down there, when all he can do is bob. One day he bobbed off, went across the sea. And his cousin Angharad, she bobbed along to see him. She was also melodic. She bounced around Liverpool, making noises and squishes and squashes and rolling down steps in a very melodic way.

Then along came Christine who had to tell us all about Little Grapefruit’s Welsh cousin Angharad. And she does so in a melodic voice wouldn’t you say? There’s something about her voice. Maybe it’s because she’s a Scouser. She hasn’t lived there for thirty years, but still she’s got the melodic way going on in her voice, just the way most Scousers have. Or at least the nice ones. The cranky ones don’t seem to have the melody going on: they bark a bit more. But nice Scousers, they don’t. They jump around in their trabs. Maybe that’s what makes them melodic, because their trabs are so bouncy, so their voice bounces as they talk too. I don’t know, because even when I wear boots I’m still melodic.

So what is melodic. It’s something that sounds nice, that’s for sure. Something that flows, bounces, beats, jumps, breaks. A break’s melodic. I love breaks. I’m a junglist. I love jungle. That’s very melodic. It’s better than that old dance music that you used to get in the 90s, 80s rather. 80s/90s. Sometimes we banded them together didn’t we, in the books, you know, and the puzzles? It was always 80s/90s. But there was a difference between the 80s and 90s. Because the 80s was a bit like “doo do doo do doo”. And the 90s was more “boo boo boo”. Very melodic.

I like melodies. We can sing along to a melody. Let’s make a melody about Little Grapefruit.

“Oh Little Grapefruit,

You’re very bouncy”.

That wasn’t good was it?

It’s the best I could do.

I’m still in bed.

I was up at 5. Up at 7. Up at 9. But half 10 I’m back in bed. That’s melodic. That’s definitely got a bounce to it.

I’ve been to my polytunnel twice. That’s not very melodic, apart from when the wind blows.

But outside the polytunnel, the birds sing. That’s melodic. Apart from Pedro the peacock. He’s not very melodic. Nah. He just goes “pkwaaah, pekkkha”. Nothing melodic about that. But the robins, and all the other birds, that go tweet, there’s definitely melody in there. It’s nice. I love it.

Some say police cars and sirens are melodic. But I really don’t miss them, not since I lived in the countryside. I haven’t heard one in years, not in my own home. I’ve heard them when I’ve gone out places, but not here. The only melody we get here is birds.

CHRISTINE 30 May 2024

Credit: Missi and Skell

JURA MELODIES (by JANE)

50 commoners singing to the sea.

Sand crunches, waves lap, swallows scream;

scratching of midge bites, sipping of whisky.

Four hands clapping from a passing boat.

Cough cough cough

Rat tat tat

George types 1984.

Down in the boathouse banknotes crackle.

JANE 1 June 2024

Walking on the beach

Walk to Orwell’s House

Walk to the Boathouse

Gathering to sing new Jura song by the Boathouse. Credit: All four Jura photos are by commoners choir members, with thanks

A GANTOB (committee) MEDLEY

Little Grapefruit was listening in to the meeting of the GANTOB Legacy Committee. The Benefaktor was chairing. Hiding under a couple of Braeburn apples and a wrapped quarter of watermelon, and nestled in beside a family of kiwis and an unwashed beetroot that had been placed in the fruit bowl in a rush to empty the shopping trolley for its next trip, she was unobserved by the humans. She could hear Urs and Katie in the room, at least two voices that she did not recognise, and Gillian joining in on Zoom.

Over a scheduled break from the tedium of yet another meeting, they were comparing notes on favourite music. Urs was commenting on the tingly anticipation of hearing a favourite piece unexpectedly on the radio – the opening bars, the recognition, dropping everything to listen attentively, shushing everybody else, concentrating, immersing oneself, the build to the release of the first line of the vast chorus singing out in the Usher Hall, Albert Hall or Westminster Abbey. She is talking about the opening bars of Handel’s Zadok the Priest. Not that she is a royalist. She is at pains to point that out. Once the second line has been sung, Nathan the prophet is announced, and the SATB are fully in their stride, the job has been done – Urs will be back doing her accounts, the dishes or tending to her cuttings. That is a tune, even if it only uses a couple of notes.

The Benefaktor is dismissive of this. Why on earth make do with music that fills you up before it has really even begun. He prefers a piece that takes you right up to the end, leaving you wanting more. He connects his phone to his Cambridge Audio network player and insists that everybody sits in total silence for the next 11 minutes 27 seconds. He does not announce the piece. It is, he explains, a guilty pleasure. Not something that you hear on BBC Radio 3. It starts with guitar arpeggios. A bassline comes in like footsteps. Little Grapefruit likes the first line, which is about going out without your shoes on. She doesn’t wear shoes. The singer is thinking big – the whole world, the purpose of music, other existential thoughts. There are chords that bleed into the next line, the B flat lingering into the C major, reinforcing the interconnectedness of it all. Sweeping strings, and then a tempo change, each section full of simplicity and wonder, a climax, then a sense of waves breaking against the rocks of emotion and loss. A jump to Brazil, smiles, sun, drum rolls of anticipation, religion and mind altering substances. And the final scene change, back to the original theme, “stay together”, “sing together”, “all feel the benefit”, concluding with a guitar solo that lasts over two minutes and stops without warning, just when Little Grapefruit thinks that she could surf these chords for ever. She is left with an aftertaste of feelings that she does not really understand. A smorgasbord of elation, sadness, longing and love. Like the bittersweetness of a grapefruit. The Benefaktor has raised his hand, demanding several seconds of silence before they can move on.

Katie, The Foundation Doktor, is up next. Little Grapefruit knows that she is smarting from a recent breakup. Dr K has gone back to 1975 (year not the band), and a John Cale track called “I Keep A Close Watch”. She listens to at least one of the various versions (or covers) every day at the moment. This version – the Cale original – opens with piano and swooning strings, then some brass and a slide guitar. Against this beautiful melody, Cale’s voice is flat (emotionally). It’s perfect for the piece. He sounds broken. At the line “I still hear your voice at night” Katie sobs into her hoodie sleeve, but stays sitting, waiting out the end of the song. She doesn’t have to wait very long. All too quickly it’s into a repeated chorus and slide guitar. Done and dusted in under three and a half minutes. TFD leaves the room as her grandfather starts deliberating on the track. “Leaves you wanting more – willing a return to the original theme”. But Little Grapefruit is not listening. She’s back to that chopping board, attempting to separate beauty from sadness.

Gillian is up next. She has chosen a more recent track – Emmy the Great’s Trellick Tower – and explains before The Benefaktor starts playing the track on her behalf, that she does not relate the lyrics to her personal circumstances. She just loves the song. And Ali has given up religion. He is a crofter now. Little Grapefruit listens in carefully. A simple piano line, the vulnerability of the voice, the bass. The Benefaktor begins to interrupt at the lyric “Been burying the books you left”, but Urs stops him. There’s an optimistic leap of a key change – from C major to F major, and then the explanation for that lift in spirits: “trying to keep you”. Urs hurries out at the mention of a “Relic of a love gone by”. Little Grapefruit sits absolutely still for the final 10 seconds as the sustained piano fades to nothing.

Last up, it’s one of the voices that Little Grapefruit didn’t know. The Benefaktor is being a smart aleck: “So _______” (it’s a name or word that LG doesn’t know and can’t pronounce), “be frank with us. Has any song earned your stamp of approval?”

After a rather dusty conversation between these two older men, The Benefaktor puts Big Star’s 1978 song Holocaust on the HiFi. Little Grapefruit listens attentively, shivering up against the bristly skins of the kiwis. She is terrified. She pokes one of the apples to shift a little bit and let some light in. Alex Chilton starts singing, his broken whisper of a voice, so vulnerable, after a haunting introduction of piano, cello, slide guitar and acoustic bass. A choir joins in. Little Grapefruit realises, despite her experience of such things, that this is a song about loss. She is not sure whose loss. There’s an intimacy: “You’re sitting down to dress”. Frailty. Bereavement. Ambiguity. Bile: “You’re a wasted face, You’re a sad-eyed lie”. The instruments howl out the last of their melody.

And with that The Benefaktor slaps the table and calls through to Urs and Katie. “That’s more than enough time”, he shouts. The spell is broken. The GANTOB Legacy Committee is reconvened. There is mention of broadening horizons beyond The KLF. Little Grapefruit is not listening. She is reliving the dozens of melodies captured in these four songs, all memorable in their own right, tugging at the heart strings, beautiful despite desolation, or cresting on the power of carefully selected chords as if taking flight. The kiwis, however, have heard none of it. They have a different idea of melody. They have their headphones on, plugged into Taylor Swift’s biggest hits, looking forward to her concert at Murrayfield that night. Each to their own.

LITTLE GRAPEFRUIT 8 June 2024

#GANTOB2024 number 46/ 52 pamphlets
ADMISSIONS/ ADMONISHMENTS (part 3): A MUONS SPIN OFF (by THE BENEFAKTOR)

May 30th, 2024

An excerpt from pamphlet 45 of the 52 Pamphlets. The full version will be included in the third and final GANTOB book.

At the age of 84 I am asked whether I should be winding down – whether I should be committing to another grand project. I pretend not to hear them. I think back to James Gowans, the Edinburgh architect about whom I wrote in the second GANTOB book, in my thwarted Curt Finks forgery.

Urs and I had a couple of nights away recently, taking in the sights of the North East of England. We had debated the usual spots – Bamburgh Castle, Hexham, Beamish – but seeing the weather (it was pouring as usual) and reading about alternative destinations landed instead on Sunderland. We hot-footed it from the station to the shopping centre and topped up on waterproofs at an outdoor store. A few minutes later we arrived warm and dry at the Sunderland Museum and Winter Gardens and plunged into their excellent pottery and mining exhibits.

However, my eye was drawn to one of their curios, tucked away at the back of a cabinet dominated by lions. It was the head of a walrus, not a sea lion, though both are pinnipeds. I read the following description on the museum label:

‘There is a popular legend that this walrus inspired Lewis Carroll to write “The Walrus and the Carpenter” on one of his visits to Sunderland. However, the poem was published three years before the walrus was given to the Museum.’

Which got me thinking…

THE BENEFAKTOR 30 MAY 2024

To read more you’ll need to wait for the third book. To earn a copy you will need to answer one of the 23 Questions and/or make a written or artistic contribution to the 52 Pamphlets.
ADMISSIONS/ ADMONISHMENTS (part 2): A MUONS SPIN OFF (by THE BENEFAKTOR)

May 19th, 2024
It has been a busy week of GANTOB bureaucracy.

First the subcommittees:
- The Quality Assurance Committee, which you may have read about in the first part of this piece
- The Arts and Craft Committee, which we will come to in a future post
- The Finance Committee, the details of which I will not recount here
Once the minutes of these three Committees were approved we were able to hold the GANTOB Executive Team meeting, via Zoom (because Gillian was back at The Kroft by that point).

We have come to a few important decisions which I have been asked to share:
- There may be more than 52 pamphlets. The only absolute rule is that submissions must be received by 23:23 GMT on 30 June 2024
- Now that we have mastered printing card (rather than paper) pamphlets without breaking the printer there will be one further mass mailing of pamphlets. This will be called “BADGE”
- The runner up prize for the Stone competition has been sent (and indeed received by the pair of scallywags who thought that they could submit an entry out of Lego bricks and stickers). The runner up prize contains a newly found Curt Finks story in an edition of one. It requires considerable construction. There is no time limit for such construction. Indeed, there is no requirement for completion. The story will be included in an appendix to the 52 Pamphlets book
- The winning entry for the Stone competition has been promised by 30 June 2024. A progress report has been received with pictorial evidence. This is very encouraging. It has required immense fiddly effort and may well become an answer to question 23. The prize – the winner may be glad to hear – will require minimal construction. It will be made of card and string. It will be a 3D working model. It will have a story within a story. It may answer some questions about GANTOB. After an audit of the GANTOB oeuvre by the GQAC discovered a near absence of material about Jimmy Cauty, there will be at least some Cauty reference in the model. The model will represent a collaboration between GQAC and GACC and will be finalised only on receipt of the completed Stone competition entry. It will be produced in an edition of one. It will be described in a section of the book that will not feature at all on the blog
- We are reaching the denouement of GANTOB (the project). Reflecting on Christine’s comment about the second book just containing material from the blog (which is not quite accurate) the final “pamphlets” on the blog – starting today – will only include the first ~250 words of text. The rest (~550-1,450 words per pamphlet) will only be available in the book. This may be frustrating to some readers, and may prove a bit tricky to follow, but is consistent with the guiding principles that Gillian laid out in the first of these 2024 pamphlets. People interested in finding out how GANTOB (the project) concludes just need to answer a question or submit a pamphlet by 23:23 on 30 June 2024. If their contribution is accepted, they will receive a copy of the book. People outside the GANTOB Executive Team who would prefer to see their pamphlet included in full on the blog can request this with their submission. Applications will be considered on a case-by-case basis by an extraordinary meeting of the GANTOB Exceptions Committee.
And so to today’s pamphlet. Number 44/#52Pamphlets I think. The illustration is retrieved from my stash of Curt Finks papers. It was titled “Picture of a dead editor in the shape of a fish”.

THE BENEFAKTOR, 19 May 2024, now feeling rather more connected with the project and back in the first person. Cheerio for now.

I had to think on my feet. Urs was standing by my side, helping me order the contents of the drawer so that I could close and lock the filing cabinet. I fussed and dithered, playing the part of a frail old man. I could picture the triumvirate sitting on the other side of the table in the dining room: interview panel, judge and jury, and firing squad rolled into one.

I have left spiritual things behind, and I certainly did not verbalise these ideas, but I could not help but think about the books of Luke and Acts. Two accounts, apparently by the same person, but giving different perspectives on the same events. If it was alright for Luke, then perhaps any inconsistencies on my part can be excused. I kept that knowledge up my sleeve just in case. I like to have precedents that I can draw on in such circumstances.

Out from The Kino, into the hall. Light flooded in from the bathroom, activating my glasses. I walked slowly, collecting my thoughts. Back in August 2023 I had kept my prior encounters with Curt Finks quiet. I was just the funder of GANTOB (the project). Then there was all the fuss about my forgery of his story about Gowans, the Edinburgh architect. And later on, The Photographer’s black and white documentation of my presence at one of Finks’ Fringe performances. The camera never lies and everything. Or it didn’t use to. So perhaps more than just Luke and Acts.
ADMISSIONS/ ADMONISHMENTS (part 1): A MUONS SPIN OFF (by THE BENEFAKTOR)

May 15th, 2024

The Benefaktor was deep in the task of checking the tiny little card snips for a newly reconstructed Curt Finks story, retrieved from the floppy disk of an old Amstrad computer. The GANTOB Quality Assurance Committee had been in session for a few hours. It was a physical meeting, rather than the Zoom meetings that had become the norm. Gillian, The Benefaktor, Katie and Urs were sitting around a mahogany table, with one of those special reading lights. Ali was holding the fort at The Kroft. Katie had brought Krispy Kreme donuts. The Benefaktor had never tasted anything so searingly sweet. He felt that his head had been split into two.

They re-read the story, counting the words (without the hyphens that Microsoft Word includes in its automated check), and reviewing the brick template that Gillian had printed out on five different colours of card before travelling south to the K_____’s flat in Edinburgh. The Committee agreed that while not perfect the little cuboid shapes were “good enough” and moved on to the main task of the day: checking that the words were all included, in the right order, on the right size of brick, legible, numbered correctly, punctuation annotated. Some spares would be included. The committee decided that this time the story would not just be a wall. It would be a construction – a building – but without a plan, which is where the spares might come in handy, for example if the selected recipient decided to make a roof, windows or a door.

The Benefaktor was “in the zone”. He was enjoying one of what he imagined would be one of the last meetings of a GANTOB committee. There would be other GANTOB Board meetings of course, but they rigidly followed an agenda, without deviation; done and dusted in 45 minutes, like Kirk Session bureaucracy. In contrast, these GANTOB committee meetings were more flexible, hands on, problem solving. It felt like the old days before the revelations about The Benefaktor’s interference in the Curt Finks legacy had come between them.

They took it strip by strip. While The Benefaktor snipped, with some nail scissors, and documented Gillian’s neatly written words on a white board that they had moved through from the kitchen, he let his mind drift. He was thinking about two words: “multifarious” and “nefarious”. They had popped into his head while Gillian was throwing insults around earlier. Was either fair? And what was with the “-farious”? He poked around his brain, like a tongue – a lingula – or perhaps he was trying to find a crumb of unbearable sweetness from that donut, lurking behind a tooth. He was desperate to eradicate all remaining traces. Where was The Linguist when you needed him? Six feet under, unfortunately, or in a jar on his niece’s mantlepiece actually. Damn. He was pretty sure that the words were unrelated and that the “farious” was made up from quite different roots, or stems, or whatever the term would be. He could not check, because the committee had agreed it was a phone free zone, and he was not currently allowed into The Kino to check a dictionary.

Rules are rules, not that that seemed to mean anything to the others. The “no chat” rule was being flouted with impunity. Katie, Gillian and Urs were giggling and gossiping, gathered together at the other end of the table. He sighed, the stream of exhalation from his hairy nostrils disturbing the line of neatly placed snips that he had laid out on a carefully wiped and dried tray. There he was in the spotlight from the light he had been given for his birthday, feeling gloomy. And there they were huddled around a dim table lamp, in sparkling form. Who was he fooling with his earlier sentimental recollections of GANTOB (the project)? He was feeling increasingly distant from the whole business.

Vast stretches of time had passed without any contact from Gillian. Katie was always busy in the hospital. Urs had found a new lease of life since unearthing her creative side. And The Benefaktor had been locked out of the GANTOB email and social media accounts since changing phone and attempting to install Ubuntu on his PC. He hadn’t even visited The Kroft. And he could not really say that he had had a proper discussion with Gillian since their huge row in Vienna Airport in January.* They had been separated by airport staff and forced to travel back on separate planes. He was lucky that he had not been banned from flying and forced to nip along to Bratislava.

No, he realised. He was no longer the imagined artist writing swathes of text and injecting new ideas as he had done at the start of the second book. He was just the funder now. He looked down at the snips laid out on the tray. He had cut the word “mournful” (number 291) in half, at an angle. What had he been thinking? He tried to forge Gillian’s capitals, but his letters sloped to the left. So easy to identify. He shuffled along to the other end of the table with a spare orange snip long enough to contain the eight letters, and asked Gillian to write him another. He started to explain that it had been damaged before he cut it out, but stopped as she glared at him over the rim of her glasses. He decided against yet another untruth. She wrote the letters down without looking up again. No connection, except in anger (from her side). Katie and Urs kept chatting away, without apparently noticing that anything was up. The Benefaktor sloped back, wondering why he was writing in the third person. Distracted, he snipped the word in half again. Damn. He could not ask her a second time. This time he would just need to forge the word. The first attempt strayed outside the cuboid. He tried again, just about squeezing the letters within the box. Good enough.

He completed the six paragraphs, taking photos of each to document the positioning of the words in the cuboid template, the accuracy of the snipping, the completeness of each section, before tipping them into a medicine container. They were uploaded to the Google Photos folder to which the GANTOB inner circle had shared access (though he was never sure how that happened given all his other IT problems). Exhausted, left hand aching, he stickered up the bottle and slipped it inside a specially procured jiffy bag. He was pleased to have completed the task. With the others still chatting at the other end of the table he decided to race out to catch the post office before it closed. He addressed the package with a preprinted label with its familiar exploding grapefruit logo.

On his return to the flat he realised that he had forgotten his keys. No point pressing the service button – it was way too late in the day for that. He would have to announce his scattiness by ringing the flat. Buzzed in as soon as he started his mumbled apology, he climbed the stairs wondering if there were other tasks in store. Urs was standing at the door, with Gillian and Katie lined up behind. Gillian had her hand out.

“Please can we check the medicine bottle?”, she barked.

“I don’t have bottles, I have a blister pack”, he replied.

“Not your medicine, fool! The container with the Curt Finks story in it”.

“I’ve posted it”.

And with that she pulled out her phone in a rehearsed and irritatingly officious manner to show him photos of the 4^th and 5^th paragraphs with words cut off from the two photos (top and bottom respectively). While he tried to inspect the images, she shoogled her mobile from side to side a couple of times like an angry parody of one of those Instagram adverts where they try to make everything look jaunty and appealing. He would take her word for it.

“You’ve misfired D______”, snapped Gillian.

Katie took his phone to check whether he had edited the photos, leaving earlier versions that could be retrieved.

“Nope”, she replied. “Nothing”.

“What is the point of having a Committee”, shouted Urs, “if you operate as a lone wolf”.

Gillian joined in: “And you cannot just add the words ‘Quality Assurance’ as if they will cast their spells by their mere presence”. He decided not to point out that QA had been her idea.

They went through to the Dining Room. Snips of paper were scattered across the area where he had been working. He was relieved to see that none had words handwritten by Gillian on them. He started to explain that he was confident in his checks but was stopped by a hand on his shoulder as he was guided to a seat at the top of the table.

None of his excuses washed. Not even Gillian’s own motto of “Keep Learning Fool”. They reconvened the QA Committee, this time without gossip or straying from the agenda. Gillian pulled out a serious incident form that she had adapted from her previous job, having GANTOBized it with the grapefruit logo at the top. They worked through the sections line by line. They agreed that there was no need to reissue the story inside the medicine bottle. They would have to rely on the recipients in Wales to reconstruct the story and post their results. They then moved on to disciplinary action. The Benefaktor was to be excluded from further artistic input into the project, including posting, packing, snipping and photography. He would be removed from the Google Photos account, if they could work out how. He was solely the “money man”, as had been the intention from the start of his involvement at the end of the first book.

He stood up when it was clear that the meeting had concluded, and moved as quickly as he could, without marching, to the door. But hand on the mother-of-pearl doorknob he stopped and turned, firm in his resolve to reveal the information that he had refrained from sharing these past 9 months. That would grab their attention and regain entry to the inner sanctum.

“Urs, can I have the key to The Kino please?” Urs, conflicted in her loyalties, paused, looking at the other two women, but then relented. The couple left the room together, with the agreement that he would be allowed into his room for 5 minutes and under close supervision. Luckily, he knew exactly where to look. Urs unlocked the top of the filing cabinet. He pulled out the second drawer, flicked to the third suspension file from the front, and retrieved a sheath of papers in a clear plastic folder: his Dallas Curt Finks files.

A self portrait by Curt Finks, c1999 (c/o The Benefaktor)

To be continued…

THE BENEFAKTOR 15 May 2024

Pamphlet 43 of the 52 Pamphlets

(*) The Vienna trip is documented in the second GANTOB book, but not the blog.

If you would like to contribute a pamphlet (by 30 June 2024) or receive one of the last few copies of the first or second book, please get in touch.
THE BEST WEAPON (by BRECHTIAN)

May 12th, 2024

Brechtian padded into to the GANTOBverse in December 2023, in the Demokratisation phase of the second book. It was lovely to receive this new contribution – further evidence towards the So What? question. Stephen, F’da F’da and Brechtian have provided three very different angles. We have a lot to learn from each other.(*)

Over to you Brechtian, and good luck with the next stage of the adventure…

It’s a good time in my life to take a stab at answering this. To my right is my work laptop, boxed and ready for a courier to collect tomorrow. Yesterday was my final day (“on paper” at least, not wanting to drag things out any more then needed, my last day of work was last week, logging off some time at half past ten, a short handover to the morning shift and that was that).

Brechtian’s boxed laptop, ready for collection

I’ve left jobs in the past, and been made redundant in the past, and leaving something seems more of a positive. Leaving as the management changes and decisions are made, and the job you started is no longer the one you started with. This time it was leave or be pushed, and I’ve no preference for stubbornness and dragging the ever-present Human Resource department into things.

(A note here to say that nothing dodgy is going on, the company I used to work for have just decided to enforce something they could have done at any time; their choice and leaving is my response to that).

So what? In this case, for the adventure. Starting from a phone call out of the blue asking if I wanted to work for ___ while at the time in a job literally shuffling paper, I jumped at the chance and now it’s time to see what’s next.

But let’s not just ask Question 21 to something current, let’s look around and see what else it applies to.

Behind my right and on the shelves, an annoying amount of stationery. So what? It’s nice stuff, it has its uses, or it will have eventually.

On my left, a bookcase, the top of which has around 20 books ready to be read. So what? Books are awesome, and, unless things get too much, you can never have enough (see Question 18 perhaps).

Above and below the stationary shelf of stationery, vinyl records. So what? Over keen music fan, from the usual suspects and familiar names, to some oddities and strange noises, some full of linear notes, others anonymous to even internet lists and pages.

But let’s not just ask Question 21 to something physical, let’s look around and see what else it applies to.

My previous contribution to GANTOB last year was in the delivery of a chapter written by a couple of wolves. I think they wanted a taste of publicity and fame, but nothing of the sort they used to have/suffer. They are not the wolves of the common saying about having “two wolves inside you”, nor are they the two staring on a 500 talonai bank note of Lithuania. They are The Wolves in My Head, and they have been quite the helpful pair, guiding things since showing up during a stab of deep anxiety over ten years ago. The wolves stayed, now offering advice, suggestions and only slightly off-colour jokes and comments. (If there is anything that can quickly put a human in its place, it’s the opinion or observation of another animal; see the many cartoons from Warner Bros. over the years).

Credit: Brechtian

Did the wolves in my head get their taste of publicity and fame? They remain non-committal about it all, pawing through a few notes and wondering when the next sausage sandwich will be purchased. I’ve drawn a line on the common breakfast staple for now, all for a healthier future and all that.

And there can be one – it’s far, far too easy during 2024 and all the recent years, to fall back on default cynicism, pessimism, and either actively seeking these two out on the usual on & off line places, or just not seeing the small positives that are still around. Rage bait seems to be back, taking any small change or even a rumour of a change, and amplifying all the negatives of it.

The best weapon to have against all of this is the two-word Question 21. Take some time to ask it next time the unearned anger or indignation (righteous or otherwise) is called for, or a debate is provoked, or a logo changed, or a celebrity’s past is revealed. Even something as simple as an idea you yourself come up with, give it the “SW” test to see if it’s worth your time.

And, sometimes, do it anyway. The “SW” test can be applied to itself without issue.

Time to send this. It’s been quite a day.

BRECHTIAN, submitted 10 May 2024, uploaded 12 May 2024

Number 42 of the 52 Pamphlets

An answer to question 21 of the 23 Questions, and a contribution to question 18

If you would like to answer one of the 23 Questions, or would like to submit a pamphlet of your own, please get in touch before 23:23 on 30 June 2024.

(*) I originally wrote that Brechtian contributed as one of The Ten. In fact Brechtian had not yet received his invitation to The Ten. I will correct that ASAP. His will be the 24th invitation and I will consider him an honorary member of The Ten.
SO WHAT??? (by F’DA F’DA)

May 12th, 2024

F’da F’da provided the opening post for December 2023’s Demokratisation. I am delighted that he has returned to provide a pamphlet for the #52Pamphlets, as one of The Ten.

F’da F’da, on receiving one of the 23 communications to recruit The Ten, replied as follows:

Hi GGG,

Hope all’s well??? Thanks for the surprise package which arrived yesterday, most unexpected…

I’ve been in & out of the K (LF) & (LFRS) holes of distraction numerous times recently, and the arrival of your package was obviously just another karmic koincidence!!!

It has however triggered a konnection within my synaptic kore and I will endeavour to kontribute some kind of literary response to the ‘pamphlet collection’… If it’s not tooooooo late???

Regards,

F’da F’da

I think it poses more questions than answers, as you will see when I send it…

F’da F’da opens up and lets rip. It’s honest, probing and heartfelt. It is also not for children.

So fucking what!

Well I’ve been to Hastings
And I’ve been to Brighton
I’ve been to Eastbourne too
So what, so what

Well I’ve been here
And I’ve been there
And I’ve been every fucking where
So what, so what

So what, so what you boring little k**t
Well who kares, who kares what you do
Who kares, who kares about you
You, you, you

Well I’ve sucked sweets
And I’ve sucked rock…

Anti-Nowhere League (1981) So What! [7” Vinyl] London:WXYZ Records Ltd

So, being an old skool punk, this is what came into my head as soon as I saw the question; So What? The lyriks get even more dubious as the song kontinues, and I didn’t want to offend anyone who may read this pamphlet / blog should it be published.

“So what, so what, so what?” I hear you kry out loud, so bloody what indeed…

(So) What Time Is Love? So what are you doing today? So what about the price of food? So what if the KLF burnt a million pounds! So what about Elvis & Sid Vicious? So what about global warming? So what if you do reach the stars? So what happened to the members of Tangerine NiteMare? So what if Ziggy played guitar!

So what makes 3am Eternal? So what about genocide? So what is your favourite kolour? So what happens if 2+2 does equal 5? So what aktually is demokracy? So what did you have for breakfast? So what if c’s become k’s! So what do the flies on a wall see? So what / who are you? So what about tomorrow? So what if someone aktually did burn down The Shard?

So What The Fuuk Is Going On? So what if the Tory’s are a komplete bunch of k**ts! So what if I suffer with mental health issues? So what exactly is the 23 Year Moratorium? So what do fools do? So what is black and white and re(a)d all over? So What is also a track by Pink! So what is the definition of madness?

So what time is the Last Train To Trancentral? So what did Frankie do when he got to Hollywood? So what if we are all figments of someone else’s imagination? So what are GoogleByte, WikiTube, AmaZaba, FaceLife & AppleTree? So what if there IS rhyme and reason? So what inspires you?

So what is Justified & Ancient? So what are the rules of LIFE? So what if Mt. Everest was not the highest peak on planet earth? So what are the fundamental laws of physiks? So what, or who, is F’da F’da? So what if Grapefruit Are Not The Only Bombs? So what will you be doing in 10 years?

So what did Kylie Say To Jason? So what is kollective responsibility? So what exactly is the point of reenacting events of The KLF? So what is Addiktion, and does it differ from addiction? So what is the Meaning of Life? So what goes up, must come down? So what kan I do for you? So what exaktly are Drummond & Cauty?

So what if It’s Grim Up North? So what should we do about those krazy, krazy nights? So what is kaught between a rock and a hard place? So what do you think of Cold War Steve? So what makes 23 such a mystical and significant number So what, so what, so fucking what!!!

So what will we find in the White Room situated within the Church of The KLF? So what if The Illuminati really do run the world, will the kaos offered by The Justified Ancients of Mummu be enough to bring them down? So what if Ronald McDonald is dead? So what does Makka Pakka think of it all?

So what is the point? So what is the point? So what is the point?

So what is the point? So what is the point? So what is the point?

So what is the point? So what is the point? So what is the point?

So what is the point? So what is the point? So what is the point?

So what is the point? So what is the point? So what is the point?

So what is the point? So what is the point? So what is the point?

So what is the point? So what is the point? So what is the point?

So what is the point? So what is the point? So what is the point?

So what is the point? So what is the point? So what is the point?

So what is the point? So what is the point? So what is the point?

Repeat the mantra 23 times, every 23 hours, for 23 Days!!!

So What Happens Next?

F’da F’da 12 May 2024

Pamphlet 41 of the 52 Pamphlets

Answer to question 21 of the 23 Questions

If you have an answer(s) to any of F’da F’da’s questions, or indeed one of the 23 Questions, or would like to submit a pamphlet of your own, please get in touch before 23:23 on 30 June 2024.
ON BRICK LANE (by STUART HUGGETT)

May 11th, 2024

Friday 8^th December, 1995

A news article in last week’s NME (‘The K Foundation ‘flog’ film’) has announced that “The K Foundation and London’s avant-garde nighterie Club Disobey will host an event at 8pm on December 8 where they will show the K Foundation film – previewed at In The City in Manchester earlier this year – and give people a chance to buy frames from it.”

I’ve already rung my KLF-mad friend Ade Scripps to see if he wants to catch up at the Brick Lane event. We’d had our own KLF-inspired art duo at university but I’ve not seen him since we took our final exams back in the summer.

When the day comes, I leave my shared house in St Leonards and stop off in the Co-op on London Road to flick through the broadsheet newspapers, looking for any adverts promoting tonight’s event. Sure enough, page 9 of The Guardian carries an ad headlined CAPE WRATH 5-11-95, revealing that ‘ON 5 NOVEMBER 1995, JIMMY CAUTY & BILL DRUMMOND SIGNED A CONTRACT WITH THE REST OF THE WORLD AGREEING TO END THE K FOUNDATION FOR A PERIOD OF 23 YEARS’ and ending with the line ‘8PM TONIGHT, THE PREMIER CARPARK, BRICK LANE’.

Confusingly, page 15 of The Independent carries what appears to be another K Foundation advert, simply reading SIX THOUSAND TWO HUNDRED AND THIRTY SEVEN CANS OF TENNENT’S SUPER. I buy both newspapers and a 2-litre bottle of Olde English cider and head to St Leonards Warrior Square station to catch the train to London.

Later that evening:

It’s dark and it’s cold and it’s on the verge of snowing. I’ve drunk nearly half my cider on the train and have been trudging around Whitechapel in a merry state, wondering if Ade’s going to show and where the hell The K Foundation are. I’ve located the Brick Lane car park but there’s nothing happening.

Fortunately some bloke turns up and tells me and a few other lost souls that the event has moved indoors to The Seven Stars pub back down the street. I stash my unfinished bottle of Olde English in a bin outside the pub, creep inside, get another pint and sit at the nearest empty table.

Jimmy Cauty, Bill Drummond and their companions arrive and sit next to me. Shit. I try to stare at my pint and not at them.

One partial, abandoned screening of ‘Watch The K-Foundation Burn A Million Quid’ in the Seven Stars’ basement later, I stumble out into the cold night air. I’ve not spoken to the K Foundation and not been able to buy a frame from the film (Gimpo objected very firmly to fans trying to snatch his reel from the projector) but my cider bottle is still in the rubbish bin, undisturbed.

I fish it out and finish it off on the train home. Ade never made it.

Thursday 25^th April, 2024

It’s early evening and I’m on the 19.09 train from Brighton to London Victoria, heading to Coventry for a couple of nights in order to explore the middle section of The K-Line, a 180 mile long leyline connecting Trancentral in Stockwell to the Mathew Street manhole cover in Liverpool.

My wife Carolyn has picked up some snacks to help me on my way: cereal bars, cashew nuts, that sort of thing. Also a four-pack of Budweiser beer, in a limited edition can designed by the British Pop Artist Sir Peter Blake. I’ve been at work all day and, to celebrate catching the train in time and having the chance to sit down for a while, I open one.

In a previous pamphlet for GANTOB, I wrote about the connections between The KLF and William Blake. Aside from their surnames, the artistic practices of William and Peter Blake have nothing formally in common, although both occupy iconic positions in the story of English art.

There is a direct connection between Sir Peter Blake and The KLF, however. The ferry hired to cross the Mersey at K2 Plant Hire’s event The Krossing on Thursday 23^rd November 2023 was the Dazzle Ferry(*), painted by Blake in a Pop Art homage to the ‘Dazzle Ships’ camouflage first used on boats during the First World War.

Is the Blake Budweiser can a work of art? It’s certainly pretty and widely available as an artistic ‘multiple’ but does it have any artistic worth? While it’s available in the shops, it has more retail value full than empty. Could a full, or empty, can have any measurable worth in the future though?

Sunday 24^th December 1995

It’s late in the evening on Christmas Eve and Drummond and Cauty are driving around London on a flat-bed truck, attempting to hand out the previously advertised Six Thousand, Two Hundred And Thirty Seven cans of Tennent’s Super to the capital’s street drinkers.

It was some time before news of this happening reached the wider world. I can’t remember now where I first read about it but Drummond tells the whole sorry tale in his 2000 memoir ‘45’. The cans of Tennent’s Super were twice assembled into a shining blue cube of super strength lager, which twice collapsed.

As he writes, “The remains of it are still stacked up in a container that Jimmy and I have, where we keep all our old costumes. The plan is that if there is ever a retrospective show of what The K Foundation did, we can empty these leftover cans down the drain and then use them to build a hollow, life-size replica of our original cube and this piece can act as the all-important documentation of the event.”

In which case, The K Foundation’s numerous empty but otherwise bog-standard cans of Tennent’s could have more worth than an equivalent number of unopened ones, and arguably more than Sir Peter Blake’s mass produced Pop Art Budweiser cans, empty or full.

One way in which Tennent’s Super has more value than Budweiser is its alcohol percentage: 7.5% to Bud’s 4.5. I tried getting hold of some Tennent’s Super in Brighton while I was writing this pamphlet but many of the city’s off licences are a bit too gentrified for a street drinker’s tastes these days, with most equivalently strong beers being half the size, twice the price and called things like Texan Sex Robot or Grandad’s Dead Horse.

Tennent’s was impossible to track down so I had a choice between McEwen’s Champion and Carlsberg Special Brew. I bought a can of the latter because of the Bad Manners single but I don’t know if I really want to drink it.

Saturday 9^th March, 2024

It’s late afternoon and I’m staggering into Bletchley. I’ve spent the whole day walking north-west across the Hertfordshire and Buckinghamshire countryside along the course of The K-Line and I’m exhausted. I’ve taken numerous wrong footpath turnings in the last couple of hours, trying to get across from the village of Mursley to Bletchley railway station in order to catch the train home to Brighton before the sun sets. I’m also desperate for a beer.

I enter the first off licence I find, a branch of the Co-op on Newton Road. The one with all the helpful little robotic delivery vehicles lined up outside. I need a beer with some kind of extra fruit kick, a citric or berry tang, to rejuvenate me, and opt for a can from the BrewDog range. It’s called Elvis Juice. When I eventually reach the station, take my seat on the Euston bound train and open the beer, my mental and physical equilibrium feels restored.

Thanks to ‘Bad Wisdom’, his 1996 novel with Mark Manning, we have an idea about what Bill Drummond thinks of his own drinking. “I don’t want to get pissed; I never do. I have an in-built something that prevents me from getting drunk. Three pints of bitter and I switch to halves; after the second half I start drinking water. Z hates me for it.”

What does Drummond think about BrewDog branding one of their beers in homage to his beloved Elvis Presley, I wonder. Does it help contribute to the cause of world peace?

Thursday 27^th November 1997

Another evening and I’m back on Brick Lane. This time, I’m carrying a letterbox-shaped, full colour flyer.

ARTHROB FOUNDATION & ELLIPSIS PRESENT THE OFFICAL BOOK LAUNCH: K FOUNDATION BURN A MILLION QUID. ARTHROB DJ’S + CREW + READINGS. 27 NOVEMBER 1997. ATLANTIS ART SPACE.

I remember I bought a copy of the book, by Chris Brook and Alan Goodrick (Gimpo).

I remember there was K Foundation ‘Brick Ale’ for sale. 6% abv, 500ml. ‘The beer of the launch. Of the book. Of the film. Of the act. The lingering death of the idea; seeping…’

Credit: Stuart

I remember buying a bottle of Brick Ale and being told not to drink it because it would be worth more if it was still sealed. Then drinking it anyway. And buying another. And drinking that as well. With apologies to hardcore KLF kollectors, I may also have drunk a third.

I remember there were readings. I can’t remember who by. Chris Brook, I think. Iain Sinclair, possibly? Perhaps not. I do remember someone burning a ten pound note.

If I hadn’t have been drinking, I might have remembered more, although there’s no guarantee of that.

How much money have I spend on alcohol over the years? A million quid? Unlikely.

How many drinks, though? Six thousand, two hundred and thirty seven? It’s possible.

When is addiction? A drink every day? Still going at it into middle age? Answers on a beermat, please.

STUART HUGGETT, 11 May 2024

Number 40 of the 52 Pamphlets

Answer to Question 18 of the 23 Questions

(*) See also part one of Christine’s SaveAways trilogy
A WORD, SENTENCE, PARAGRAPH, PAMPHLET OR PICTURE (by GILLIAN, STEPHEN and ANDY)

May 9th, 2024

A couple of weeks ago I started sending out books, magazines, posters and pamphlets to previous contributors to GANTOB (the project). Ultimately I sent out 23 packages, in an attempt to contact “The Ten”. These included the 23 Questions in various different formats (pamphlets, posters, paper and card, slightly different wording).

Tuesday’s pamphlet from YMoF was number 39 of the 52 Pamphlets. There are therefore only 13 slots to fill before I conclude my work with the publication of the third and final GANTOB book, 52 Pamphlets. This will be posted free to all contributors to this stage of the project.* I have a bit more to say myself, which leaves around 10 slots still to fill. Hence The Ten. If there are more than 52 pamphlets submitted, then there will be ways to include some or all of these contributions.

Four people have already been in touch since this most recent GANTOB mailing. Here are two of their contributions. They illustrate that you do not need to contribute a full pamphlet to be part of the third book. You could answer one of the 23 Questions – and your answer could be a word, sentence, paragraph or a pamphlet. Or a photo of your scribbles. Or a piece of art. You decide.

This is not a pamphlet. It is an update. It will, however, be included in the book.

To submit your contributions please use contact details in the About GANTOB section of this blog.

Contributions from Stephen and Andy follow.

Hi GANTOB

I received the poster and book today and felt I needed to finally answer one of your questions. Text is below, feel free to edit and thanks for not giving up on me.

All the best

Stephen

I was initially reluctant to respond to the 23 Questions. I didn’t think I had a whole pamphlet in me and didn’t want to waffle just to fill out the space, like a school assignment with a set amount of words. Now there aren’t many questions left and GANTOB just sent me a ‘To The Ten’ poster with a copy of Bad Wisdom by Bill Drummond and Mark Manning. As this is now my third copy I will have to part with at least one to a charity shop as was suggested in the poster’s text. The second is a spare but really I should give it away too (useful if someone needs to borrow it but who am I kidding). In the text of ‘To The Ten’ I also noticed that the answer can just be ‘a sentence, paragraph, a pamphlet, or a series of pamphlets’. This was news to me and encouraged me to have a go.

I’ve decided to answer Question 21: So What? This seems both existential and very open ended. My initial answer is: because it matters. I don’t know what the ‘So What?’ is actually referring to but I feel if it’s important enough to ask the question, even if it’s just one person asking, then it must be about something that matters. If it is meant to refer to the GANTOB blog and the whole effort it has spawned (so what, why was it done, what does it matter?), I’m not the person directly responsible to answer that. I have a belief however that, if they so desire, people need to add their voices and opinions to the rest of the world. If they don’t, then we are left only with the loudest voices, the most numerous voices and commercial interests. The internet is still a place where any voice can be placed for no real cost and be heard by a few at least, at best (or worst) by all. The more variety of interests and opinions shared the better. GANTOB is justified simply by this belief alone. It’s our differences that make us human and have helped us evolve to where we are and difference is what will keep us the dynamic species we are. Out of the billions of people, one person, one voice, can really still make a difference, big or small, in secret, over the years or in one fast minute.

STEPHEN 9 MAY 2024

Andy messaged me on Twitter/X a week earlier. I have transcribed his answers to questions 10, 11, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22 and 23:

* If you are a GANTOB newbie, or lapsed GANTOBer, and would like a copy of the first or second book, then a very limited number of copies are available on request, after a second printing to fulfill requirements to the UK copyright libraries. First come, first served.
THE ASHES OF ARTISTIC FLAMES: A REFLEKTION (by YOUNG MAN ON FACEBOOK)

May 7th, 2024

In the grand tapestry of artistic expression, there exists a curious and somewhat perplexing phenomenon: the deliberate act of burning one’s own creations. This peculiar practice, while more often provocatively deliberate to challenge convention, can leave the dedicated kollector in a state of mild vexation, ruing the enigmatic motivations behind such actions. Let us embark on a journey of contemplation, exploring the intricacies of such ritualistic incineration and its implications for the world of art and those who seek to collect it.

From Penkiln Burn website originally, via KLF.DE website

Consider, if you will, the case of Bill Drummond, a figure whose artistic endeavors have long captivated and confounded audiences. In a moment of whimsy, or perhaps calculated defiance, Drummond elected to consign several copies of his limited edition paperback, “Man Makes Bed,” to the flames during a public exhibition in the bustling city of Amsterdam. To the discerning collector, whose pursuit of completeness borders on obsession, such gestures are nothing short of irksome. The sudden reduction in available copies only serves to inflate the price of the remaining ones, making the task of acquisition both more arduous and costly.

Yet, in the midst of this frustration, one cannot help but ponder the deeper significance of such actions. What drives an artist to destroy their own creations, particularly those which are held in high regard by collectors and enthusiasts alike? Is it an act of rebellion against the commodification of art, a rejection of the notion that creativity can be quantified and possessed? Or perhaps it’s a statement of self-liberation, a declaration that the artist’s vision transcends materiality and ownership. Or maybe it’s bollocks.

Paperback edition of the book. From Penkiln Burn website originally, via KLF.DE website

Indeed, the act of burning one’s own work is not merely a physical destruction, but a symbolic gesture laden with meaning and ambiguity. It challenges our preconceptions of value and permanence, forcing us to confront the ephemeral nature of human endeavor. For every book cast into the fire, another inevitably takes its place. The cycle of creation and destruction continues unabated, rendering the notion of completeness a fleeting illusion.

Yet, amidst the ashes of what has been lost, there exists the potential for new growth and discovery. In embracing the impermanence of our pursuits, we are reminded of the ever-changing nature of human expression. A kollector, once bound by the pursuit of completeness, finds liberation in the acceptance of incompleteness. For it is in the gaps and absences left by the flames that new narratives can take root, new connections forged.

And so, as we contemplate the flickering flames of our artistic endeavors, let us do so with a sense of quiet reflection. Let us acknowledge the frustration of the collector, while also recognising the inherent futility of complete pursuit. For, in the end, the true value of art lies not in its physical manifestation, but in the ideas it embodies and the emotions it evokes. It is a force that transcends boundaries and defies categorisation, inviting us to embrace the uncertainty of our own creative journey.

In conclusion, the act of burning one’s own work, while intensely annoying for a completist collector, serves as a poignant reminder of the transient nature of human expression. It is a ritualistic incantation that challenges our notions of value and permanence, inviting us to embrace the impermanence of our pursuits and find liberation in the acceptance of incompleteness. And it is in this spirit of renewal that the true essence of art is revealed: not as a static object to be possessed, but as a dynamic force that continues to evolve and inspire long after the flames have died away.

In response GANTOB wrote:

“I don’t know if you saw the news recently on deciphering a previously unknown passage about Plato’s last hours, from the ashes of Pompeii. Makes you think!”

To which YMoF replied:

It’s New Year’s Day 2317 – still six years to go before the KLF’s World Tour finally begins.

In one of the first unlicensed applikations of quantum unentanglement technology, dedicated descendants of 1990s’ KLF fans succeed in unearthing the final unrecorded utterance of either the Elderly Gentleman or his TowerBlock accomplice from their Striktly Unrekorded death day* interview:

When asked, by the 21st Century’s AI-bot reincarnation of stalwart BBC DJ Steve Wright (or maybe it was @GANTOB or @PopJustice), why they continually self-destructed their work, one of the pair was finally heard to re-utter the word “Whatever”. The other was finally seen, by the miracle of quantum unentanglement-vision, to silently nod.

Back in the 24th Century, the BBC tracks down a descendant of Gimpo for a characteristically colourful comment for the morning news show – “Boolukks!”.

* before which one of them was best, allegedly.

By Young Man on Facebook, 7 May 2024
Pamphlet 39 of the #52Pamphlets

Visit the 52 pamphlets page to find out how you could submit your own pamphlet.
SAVEAWAYS (Part Three) (by CHRISTINE)

May 4th, 2024

Listen to Christine narrate SaveAways part 3

Watch an illustrated version

Gimpo – as ever – was the one who had to keep an eye on everything while the other two swanned about. After beating the bounds and congregating, he sent us all towards the Ferry while he made off back to the van. It wasn’t the best evening for a Krossing on the Ferry. It was rough as fuuk. With each step I took the boat would either rise to meet my foot, or swoop away causing me to wobble and go off-kilter. I stood close to the Panda and kept one eye on my precious niece. By now she had submerged herself into the madness and was wearing a retractable traffic cone on her head, tilted to the side like a fine hat and fastened underneath the chin. Like me, she was no stranger to mishaps. She had the biggest of smiles as she took in the madness around her. I could still feel her pain though. We were all called to silence as the roll call of names ensued and the lights from the Liver Buildings shone bright across the water. We gasped and gulped as my brother’s name was read out among the names of those to be Mumufied this year. A reminder that he was gone.

I’ve often gathered my family together in the autumn months to take the Ferry ‘cross the Mersey to remember our Dad/Grandad/Great Grandad. At least one or two were obliging most years. I didn’t go back to Liverpool much since I left in 1994 when I was 21. I tried to keep it to once a year. If someone died, was born, married or had a significant birthday then I was usually persuaded to return more often. I like a family party, even if it is a wake. It is nice to see everyone together and remember those who have passed. Talking about the good old days.

One year, on a bright and balmy October afternoon, I managed to get at least 10 of us together, and we took the Ferry to the other side, and back. We never got off the Ferry, straight back to Liverpool and then off out for tea: that was our tradition. This time our Ray even made it. He never had before, and he never made it again. This year he was on his best behaviour and made it to the Ferry terminal to meet us all there. He wasn’t even gouging out or rattling too badly. We posed for photos, all four siblings, even some of our kids. My mum loved it and thanked me for arranging everything. Just as we were about to pull back up at the waterside, before the sound of the chains, and the smell of the oil, Raymond disappeared into the toilet. We all got off the Ferry and looked around for him. Eventually, he came skipping down the gangplank. He was fuuking muntered. He was smiling and laughing. My Mum announced his full name while rolling her eyes. Most of the family muttered in unison, “Oh for fuuk’s sake”. I took him by the hand and led him along with me, asking him how he’d been and if he was buzzing? “Yeah!” he nodded. I was long past being angry with him for being an addict. I saw it as a potentially permanent, terminal illness that deserved empathy, understanding, the odd chin wipe and a constant stream of £20 handouts. As I said, I didn’t see them often, so it was never too onerous to endure. I loved my brother dearly; we were best friends all our lives.

Christine’s brother Ray

Dad was still holding my hand as we walked off the Ferry. I felt him walking slower than me, so I tried to slow down. It had been like this for a while now, but I didn’t ask too much about it. I just walked slower or sometimes I would take a step forward and then back – a bit like Scottish dancing where you take two steps in the same place before you move along – but slower and still holding his hand. I noticed how Dad’s hands had become smoother than they used to be, even the traces of oil were gone from his nails.

He hadn’t fixed a gearbox in ages. I missed having a Scania parked at the end of the path. I was always proud to show off Dad’s lorries to my mates when he brought one home and would use my acrobatic skills to get up to the cab, informing my friends that they were not allowed up here. I’d smile at myself in the large wing mirror and enjoy the smell of the cab.

We walked along the waterfront, looking across to the other side, Dad informed me correctly that it was the best view in the world from over here and the poor sods from Birkenhead didn’t have it all that bad: at least they get to look at Liverpool. The view from our side of the water was pretty grim. We called Birkenhead the Badlands. It was really fuuking grim in the 80s: everything was. Dad had to sit down. I could see it was upsetting him, so I declared it was time for another sandwich and some of Auntie V’s homemade delights. He agreed and I was even allowed to hold the Kiaora bottle this time. We sat looking across the water, thinking to ourselves, munching away on Viennese Whirls and Battenberg. Dad finished off the butties too. Divine.

Summer came and went. Dad took me to see my other aunties, one by one. We had a lot of days out me and Dad that summer. I had to start the big school. It was a convent school. I was dreading it. I had heard about the Nuns from my sister. She was 12 years older than me and had been taught by the same nuns and so had my brothers. The Sisters of Mercy. I had been informed they were merciless. A few weeks into term, Dad got a date for his operation that was going to make him better. I was assured by everyone that he would soon be right as rain. I love rain.

Ray’s brick

At last, I heard the chains clunk. We were waiting by the exit keen to get off. A girl ran past and shouted “Fuuk that boat!” as we disembarked. It was a rough crossing. As instructed we walked slowly and in an exaggerated manner along the landing pier and out towards the Badlands. The choir from Toxteth was waiting on the other side singing aloud, informing us that “one day like this a year would see me right, for life”.

Me and my niece locked into a hug and wiped each other’s tears. “That fuuking boat though!” we laughed and wretched in unison. The ice kream van chimed the tune of Justified and Ancient, and a police van tore towards the terminal with its siren and lights. It wasn’t for us. We were all surprised. Flares were going off, smoke and colours. We collected my brother’s brick. He was heavy, I’m not going to lie. The pyramid led the way, on a forklift truck of course. I followed the crowd and I found myself walking along a strip of the waterfront I hadn’t walked down since 1983, when I was with my Dad. I thought of everything in a flash that had been and gone over the 40 years since I was last here. What had life taught me? I realised all at once the knowledge I had gained, the stories I had seen unfold. I wasn’t sure how, but for that moment, I knew. The tears streamed down my face. The Panda saw them and wiped some away and nodded his big Panda head. That Panda took care of me. He fermented foods for me: pickles. I like pickles.

Mr Pickles with Panda head

Dad died just before 8 pm on Tuesday 25th October 1983. Karma Chameleon was number one in the UK Charts and Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers were number one in the US Charts with Islands in the Stream. I sat in my bedroom with my pull-out poster of Boy George. I didn’t cry. I didn’t cry for years after that, not properly.

CHRISTINE, 4 May 2024

Pamphlet 38 of the 52 Pamphlets

Part of the answer to question 18 of the 23 Questions

This concludes Christine’s wonderful SaveAways trilogy