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I would describe you then
pipelorn Jilly
as an occasional smoker
with an 80 mile get out clause.
My flibbityjibbit read was Graham Greene
I did once labour through the Power and the Glory
and felt very much like a gringo
on a cliff edge holding hands
with both Graham and Greene
and the three of us each wondering who would the first depressive to jump for the glory
before the last chapter.I am a great fan of Grayson
I admire his words his column and his work ethic
but will continue to needle him.
ever so slightly, to add some Huclkeberry Finn
to his James Mason’s excellence.
A small puncture after all
can only cause him minor flatulence,
and privately we all enjoy our own noises.I am a great fan of Grayson
I admire his words his column and his work ethic
but will continue to needle him.
ever so slightly, to add some Huclkeberry Finn
to his James Mason’s excellence.
A small puncture after all
can only cause him minor flatulence,
and privately we all enjoy our own noises.[searches for an appropriate bodily noise emoticon; fails.]
gc
Jeremy Grayson. Son of immigrant. Adoptive father of two. Metadata librarian. Freelance point-to-point / horse racing writer, analyst and commentator wonk. Loves music, buses, cats, the BBC Micro, ale. Advocate of CBT, PACE and therapeutic parenting. Aspergers.
Jeremy
welcome to the DARK’EEN side
your first visit and
you may have noticed
a little prickle on your neck
as you came in,
or a slight feeling of unease
The marshallian warned me at the start
the writtings carried a black curse,
but I wont have any of that
although there may be some
loose linkage which I will flag down
at a later date.
A deep respect for the dead
holds me back.
Oh God I feel dirty.
I will shower,
kittle on
and gown myself for you,Eeee I’ll be back
sitting here on death row
I am very good at decisions
but only other peoples.
I sit here chained waiting for my fate.
I even wrote to gamble last night
asking her for a reprieve
a suspender sentence.Her rough art is still sells in Bagnolet
she paints recession proof
monster lips
drawn from memory
from her daily trips to pig alley
she lets herself in I threw in a comment about her
unusually highly holstered weston 45’s
and she wrote straight back.She had enjoyed
my dark almost to the point of lactating it
and had jiggled herself a quick drink.
a vodka tipsy mixed with Harry Lime;
the cold dank you memories of last night
and balls of frosty ice to melt away
the nightmare of the third man.Well my fate is up to me.
I will offer Gray a biscuit
for his bold entry in here
and for widening the discussion
I will next write a bout my betting problem.My bettingproblem
is very unusual. It doesn’t
relate to losses or lack of control,
although every gambler has experienced
their silver machine leap off the road
and then taken the terrible risks to steer
its wheels through the cacti
and and away from their shadows
back to where it was,
and the comfort of the white line.
Speed can be a love drug
but the shiver of excitement
is short and often brutal,
and most pay.I have to go back to my birth.
I was born with a very large head.
The midwife used rubber gloves
and was a traditional woman of good birth.
Her religion and training had not prepared her
for what she saw.I am getting that big head
into a box car and taking
in my weekly nightmare journey
out of this godammed gorillas
in the mist shitty bank broken city
to get me some air.I’ll be back on sparticle day
if there’s going to be a black hole
I want to be the first fist down it.Gamble, I’ve now retired to the south-west coast with my pipe and slippers man
Still got a base, of sorts, 80 miles up the M5-So it’s all good
Jilly perhaps if you are in the South West region in November you could meet up with a few of the TRF members at Taunton.
Gaelic Warrior Gold Cup Winner 2026
Gamble, I’ve now retired to the south-west coast with my pipe and slippers man
Still got a base, of sorts, 80 miles up the M5-So it’s all goodJilly perhaps if you are in the South West region in November you could meet up with a few of the TRF members at Taunton.
I’ve not seen anything about this meeting on here.Do you feckwits do everything via pm?
PM me the details
If you have Gamble on your confirmed list-I’m in
Anyways, you all know what I look like, so anytime you see me at the races say hello
Jilly you have cheered up a condemned man this week.
I am not on any circuit, in fact I am badly wired
As for the truffle crowd the feckwits will do you far more good
than a laconic grouch like me who might just get an
acting role as Anthtony Perkins mother. I dont move much
and have a full set of teeth.I have had three crones and am enjoying one red,
then to bed. I am trying to get the damp mist out of my bones.
The rain here is almost pushing the pains in.I was driving in pushing rain
the same old log jam to get out
of the shitti. It just went on and on and on
the rain and the interminable road.
The road and the interminable rain,
and in the car a rat.
Moi, me, red eye.
I was wet getting in
and had mislaid my aluminium free
deodorant for two days before the journey
so I had a passenger with me,
who I recognised as whiff.
Whiff said to me " I shouldn’t be here "
and I cursed back with a snarl
" Bad air be mum "
and then gandered in the rear view
and saw the rat.
It was me looking back at me
a rat with the word loser all over it.
Realising I was the rat I took to thinking
about other rats and then imagined the biggest rat
of all. It was Charles Dance.
The oh so successful rat, look at my act, actorI had seen the big rat Dance only once in
my small window vermin filled life.
It was the time I had just received a farkin parkin ticket in Sloane square and I dropped the twattin thing.
So, exasperated I shifted my ripped off loins into a nearby bar to drown and ease my torn off guts.
Now, conveniently in the bar on the corner of Sloane ranger eyed square, there was basement and as a rat I went down there, silently sniffing.Who did I latch on to at the bottom of the stairs but Charles sleep with the devil Dance. The Oxford nasal ferkin was chatting up his latest wannabe trophy squeeze, a brunette, typically out of a bottle, with hamsters down her front, and down below a toad, luckily slightly covered up, but only just and moanin’,and recklessly overdoing the be seen limit, and having visibly overcroaked the obscenity laws at the last pit stop by drying up on oil in contradistinction to the fascia panels above which were covered in cheap streaked Nivea with a rich overcoat of channel tunnel no 5.
I looked at Dance and Dance looked at me. He quickly looked away,. And why ? Because I had just got a ticket
and he knew, yes he knew, I was in no mood for Shakespeare’s biggest bottom.I said nothing but I thought…..
" Get back you on the stage Dance, put Carla Bruni III back in the bottle and leave this place of uncertain entertainment. I want no ginger minted Dance, and don’t sing as you leave, or look haughty hamlet wounded, your feckin identical to me you prat crap in a tap. just slightly larger in the gill department, and you – you you you dirty equity slap at me rat, you got talent ,and a feckin brown rat to drive home and shake your tail feather for less than a gutter sneeze – YOU got the ticket.
I was driving in pushing rain
the same old log jam to get out
of the shitti. It just went on and on and on
the rain and the interminable road.
The road and the interminable rain,
and in the car a rat.
Moi, me, red eye.
I was wet getting in
and had mislaid my aluminium free
deodorant for two days before the journey
so I had a passenger with me,
who I recognised as whiff.
Whiff said to me " I shouldn’t be here "
and I cursed back with a snarl
" Bad air be mum "
and then gandered in the rear view
and saw the rat.
It was me looking back at me
a rat with the word loser all over it.
Realising I was the rat I took to thinking
about other rats and then imagined the biggest rat
of all. It was Charles Dance.
The oh so successful rat, look at my act, actorI had seen the big rat Dance only once in
my small window vermin filled life.
It was the time I had just received a farkin parkin ticket in Sloane square and I dropped the twattin thing.
So, exasperated I shifted my ripped off loins into a nearby bar to drown and ease my torn off guts.
Now, conveniently in the bar on the corner of Sloane ranger eyed square, there was basement and as a rat I went down there, silently sniffing.Who did I latch on to at the bottom of the stairs but Charles sleep with the devil Dance. The Oxford nasal ferkin was chatting up his latest wannabe trophy squeeze, a brunette, typically out of a bottle, with hamsters down her front, and down below a toad, luckily slightly covered up, but only just and moanin’,and recklessly overdoing the be seen limit, and having visibly overcroaked the obscenity laws at the last pit stop by drying up on oil in contradistinction to the fascia panels above which were covered in cheap streaked Nivea with a rich overcoat of channel tunnel no 5.
I looked at Dance and Dance looked at me. He quickly looked away,. And why ? Because I had just got a ticket
and he knew, yes he knew, I was in no mood for Shakespeare’s biggest bottom.I said nothing but I thought…..
" Get back you on the stage Dance, put Carla Bruni III back in the bottle and leave this place of uncertain entertainment. I want no ginger minted Dance, and don’t sing as you leave, or look haughty hamlet wounded, your feckin identical to me you prat crap in a tap. just slightly larger in the gill department, and you – you you you dirty equity slap at me rat, you got talent ,and a feckin brown rat to drive home and shake your tail feather for less than a gutter sneeze – YOU got the ticket.
Holy s*hit dude, you ok?
I’ve not seen anything about this meeting on here.Do you feckwits do everything via pm?
PM me the details
If you have Gamble on your confirmed list-I’m in
Anyways, you all know what I look like, so anytime you see me at the races say hello
(deleted- Admin)It was last arranged in the horse racing section under the thread ‘day out at Cartmel’ for some reason, blame Grayson if that’s confusing.
13th of November is the date if you or Gamble can make it great. if not if i ever see around the races or outside of HM prison i will say hello.
Gaelic Warrior Gold Cup Winner 2026
It was last arranged in the horse racing section under the thread ‘day out at Cartmel’ for some reason, blame Grayson if that’s confusing.
gc
Jeremy Grayson. Son of immigrant. Adoptive father of two. Metadata librarian. Freelance point-to-point / horse racing writer, analyst and commentator wonk. Loves music, buses, cats, the BBC Micro, ale. Advocate of CBT, PACE and therapeutic parenting. Aspergers.
Dude I am ok,
but only just,
pitching into ludicrously garbled
syllables to match my drinks
in the earlies.
God the much missed Sky
used to do similar prose
and I remember well his three babe dream
of mixed up flesh and alcohol
that reach such a pitch of naked descriptiveness
to confirm him as the first real wolf man
to put ardour on the beaches in the Brava.The occasion myself and Dance
eye balled was about ten years ago.
It was a wet afternoon, and I, unlike him,
looked like a rat.
The woman beside him
looked genuinely entranced by him,
and I overdid her description,
apologies love, but a wet rat
who’s just been fined
can’t distinguish meat from a fine blue cheese.
There is no escaping the fact
that old Aznavour Dance
reserved a lot of his best acting
and jucier roles for well
off the public stage and screen.Nathan I will thank you for your
invite as side dressing to Jilly.
I will consider your offer
but am certain the bon vivant grays
provides well enough firework
for a truffle meet,
and a masked man like me
does draw the looks.Going back to Dance he is an impressive
actor with a certain gravitas in company
that I lack.
I am the envy of him in certain respects
but not his very public persona
and I am assured that after a rare fat steak
he turns puffing to his left
and dreams of my lastminute.com mask.Dance,
you are brilliant but also smug. There is a certain aloofness to you. Despite my tirade I appreciate your acting professionalism – few can stand in your shoes nd replicate the dance effect.But why oh why do they hate you ?
read on..
Despite global warming, Hell hath frozen over.
On Tuesday, the Critics’ Circle Awards 2007 were announced, and Charlie took Best Actor for Shadowlands (through 23 February at The Novello Theatre). Not that this should be a surprise. Anyone who’s had the pleasure of seeing Charlie in this play knows what a stupendous performance he gives as C.S. Lewis…A fact apparently not lost even on the afore-mentioned critics.
Therein lies the surprise. Because a few of them, including the Critics’ Circle chairman, Charles Spencer (Daily Telegraph), have for many years treated Charlie to a despicable litany of bad reviews, often times grossly unfounded and seeming to spring from nothing but malice.
I’ll admit, I’m no lover of critics. From the time I was old enough to read film reviews in the paper, I learned to despise them. Perhaps critics speak to the common herd, but not to me. I go out of my way to see a movie I’m interested in, especially if the critics have panned it.
So I felt a surge of exaltation on reading that during his acceptance speech on Tuesday, Charlie turned the tables and toasted — as in applied dangerous levels of heat — the critics who’d just given him their Best Actors award. He took a few moments to read what critics Charles Spencer, Michael Coveney and Robert Gore-Langton had written about his acting in the past. It was the long-awaited “gotcha”.
Some may find his behavior questionable, even rude. I applaud him for being true to himself. It isn’t often in life we get the chance to set our detractors back on their heels by pointing out their hypocrisy face-to-face. Showing yourself to be the “better person” by not lowering yourself to your enemy’s level may be politically correct and light eyes with admiration, but there’s small comfort in forgive and forget when your career has been undeniably dented by poison pens. This was bloodless revenge, not bloody.
Congratulations, Charlie, and vive la guerre!
Charlie, your hissing snake speech, ‘ revenge at all cost ‘ matches my new morality, and you will pleased to know that I fit into your cellular model of what a man challenged by poison will spit at his foe.
It was a windy day
weekend and I was away.
I was walking towards my car at about 10pm.
I saw three pissing youths at a defiant wall ahead of me Two spent cans of wifebeater were lying recklessly near them. I reflected for a second but feeling more badlands than shadowlands I immediately went into Dance mode, but full on, no half moon specs to deliver dripping sarcasm, telling them exactly where to put their cans and their dribbling nasties, but like you Dance, I made sure there was a safe stage exitIt was only a little later
as I emptied a crone
I thought to myself
why I had not joined them
and pissed my bladder
against a public place.
I was slowly becoming an east German,
Ich bin ein ringer
just before the wall crumbled.
I was further tested as I later drove
my car towards the awful concrete motorway
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