First Fortnight, Don't Go There, Three Men, interpersed with a walk in the park.

Walking the dog along the edge of a pitch dark park tonight with the wind in my face is the closest thing I've felt to being alive in a long time. Getting old is fucking annoying isn't it? Every action becomes one you've done before. It can get a little frightening. But at least the city was there, on the horizon - laughing orange, shining newness, and movement.

Why am I telling you this? Because I'm interspersing my diary like ramblings with news, self promotion and weak segues that's why.

I'm doing a gig tomorrow night in the Workman's Club. I'm really looking forward to it because it's for First Fortnight which aims to challenge Mental Health issues through Creative Arts. A commendable endeavour peeps - and one close to my heart. Clink on this linkypoos - buy a ticket or two and come along...

The horizon of city lights get boring after a while (what doesn't) I found my focus slipping into the darkness in between, where the people are. But you have to be careful staring in to the Dubh linn - the black pool - be careful getting into it because it's getting into you...

Other shit worth sharing/recording is that my first poetry collection will be published in 2012 with Salmon. It'll be called Don't Go There, will have a psycho-geographical feel and hopefully a nice cover. It's great to feel like I've arrived at a certain point with poetry - especially accompanied by fellow, and waay better, Dublin Poet John Murphy who will be launching his book 'The Book of Water' with Salmon at the same time. John is one of my favourite poets and a hero of mine for many reasons not worth mentioning here because...

Segue!

The clouds looked mad - bulbous and glorious, lit up white and bright by the city's lights. And the swirl of them. It's hard to get your head around sometimes. So much beauty and so little point. And the moon up there too. Unreachable. Beaming down like a joke. A neh neh neh neh neh from the cosmos. Well fuck you moon. I'm onto you - metaphorically...

Also, tomorrow I'll be meeting with the other two blokes from Three Men Talking About Things They Kinda Know About to discuss the once off January showcase of our play. We're hoping to tour it in Spring/early Summer, not just the play, but a short slam session and/or Q and A too, so the audience gets more out of the experience. Exciting times. Here's hopng we get a nice run of shows.

Did I say run? Speaking of which, I like to run with the dog. Having a dog is fucking weird. It does things to you. You find yourself saying things like 'ah lookitim - he's happy. Ah let him at it, he's enjoying himself' when really you're talking about yourself. It's like you create this familiar to let yourself off the leash but it doesn't really work.

Anyway I didn't get to run. I kept falling out of my half eaten shoe (thanks dog).

My dog is called Anto by the way - it's supposed to be ironic but it doesn't really work. The name not the dog. The dog is not ironic. An ironic dog would be a cat.

Right - back to the poeming.

Shamone

The Poetry Bus 2 interview

How do Folkies

Tis mad busy here but I had to drop everything to post this interview with Peadar O Donaghue - the wonderfully passionate creator of the self funded and much loved Poetry Bus. Which will be launching it's second issue in the Glor Sessions on September 12th. Check it out here.

http://thepoetrybus.blogspot.com/

And now to the nitty spitty.

Peadar, please explain what the poetry bus is and how it came about.

The Poetry Bus is the next best poetry magazine in the world. The
first best is The SHOp. But I want the Poetry Bus to be the greatest
poetry magazine in the world which is a totally different kettle of
oysters altogether. The mag evolved form a weekly poetry task I set
on my now defunct blog totalfeckineejit. I , like most people, wasn't
too keen on Monday. So I thought we could brighten it up by getting
people to write and post a poem on that day. It worked, it kind of
took off, and some of the poems were so good I thought they deserved
to be 'properly' published. So the Poetry Bus Magazine was born.

Peadar nobody likes poetry, so why bother bring out a mag, and at
your own expense?

Because I'm a deluded alcoholic moron.

How did the last edition do?

Fucking great.

I took a bunch of poetry buses to Nighthawks to sell, unfortunately
I only sold one (to Dave Lordan). The rest were left there for
collection the next day but went missing. Where would you say they
went?

I have forensic proof that aliens took them to see how earth
people express themselves. Also if you only sold one what better
person to sell it to than Mr Lordan. And what a tight- fisted bunch
the rest were, did they get free tickets to Nighthawks?

I've heard you feed your pet dog whiskey, which is disgraceful,
because Dog's like Gin. What do you use as a mixer?

All joking aside, I would never waste whiskey on a dog. Pedigree
chum makes a good mixer though.

The Arts council refused to give you any money for this project -
did they give you a valid reason?

I have reasons why I didn't bother applying to The Arts Council
this time. But I did apply to the local (Wicklow) Arts office and was
rejected. I'll ask them tomorrow why that was. I'd be almost curious
to know meself!


What are the criteria for getting into/onto the poetry bus?

Write a poem that I like, or draw an illustration that I like, or
send me € 50 in a brown envelope.


Illustrations feature strongly in the Poetry Bus mag. This
increases cost and makes your job harder, why did you think the mag
needed artwork?

I just think they really work well together.And I love art and
illustation, a painting is just a visual poem, a poem perhaps is a
verbal painting.

And I believe that the creative process for both is the same. That
the poet or the artist have a mood, an ache, an itch, a problem, a
question, a dilemma, an anger, a joy, a sensation, an urge that culminates
in a poem or a picture.

The featured artist in PB2 is Adam Neate and he said of painting ' You
start with a number of questions. You battle, you fight, you
persevere. The painting is finished when the questions have been
answered.'

And Dylan Thomas described writing a poem as a process that began with
an image based on the emotions which then bred conflicting images
within an intellectual framework until the contradictions were
resolved in ' that momentary peace which is a poem'

Both these statements struck me as being profoundly true.

Who would you hate to have on the Poetry Bus?

Bertie Ahern, Margaret Thatcher, Stephen Fry, Roger McGough, Ian
Holloway, Frankie Boyle, Freddie Kruger, The Beatles, anybody who
isn't Japanese that writes Haiku or supports Liverpool FC, and above
all, Me.

What's it like being from the country. I heard it's dark for six
months of the year and everything runs on turf.

Sheer hell Colm. It is dark, not only from dawn till dusk, but from
birth till death, we culchie troglodytes are forced into not only
burning turf, but worshiping it and occasionally eating it. We have to
marry our sisters and sacrifice our first born to the Gods of Lotto.
If it wasn't for basking in the reflections of ye bright shiny
Jackeens we wouldn't survive at all.

Are there reviews in this edition of the mag? If yes for by whom? If
not - Do you plan to work some in.

No. But It's something I want to get into. There will be at least
one or two reviews in PB3 (The Christmas Special) and several book
recommendations. ALL DEPENDENT ON US GETTING SUPPORT AT FUNDIT.IE for
PB 2!!

You used to blog as Totalfeckineejit (from whence the Poetry bus was
born) but have stopped. Why? And what was going on with those bleedin' masks you used to wear?

TFE was a figment of my imagination but I don't have a very good
imagination but fortunately it was good enough to imagine that I had a
good imagination capable of imagining TFE. But then I sobered up.

The masks are purely because I is irresistible to women and I don't
want to be tormenting them with my beauty.

Given the lack of funding you've decided to set up a fund-it
campaign. Did it work for you?

A) Fundit.ie is brilliant, I can't recommend it highly enough, it is
the way ahead, it's the alternative for the alternative. We reached our target easily in the end. Which is fantastic
in these tough times.

You're known throughout internetland as a raging alcoholic who posts
mental facebook status updates at three in the morning or from the
depths of your delirium tremens. How does your wife feel about this?

I've just asked her and she says she doesn't mind so long as I
don't wake her when I'm going to bed.

Who'd win in a fight between Howard Stern or Pat Kenny.

I met Pat Kenny once outside St Teresas in Clarendon Street and
despite all my preconceived ideas of him being a plank and stuff he
was really nice, but he had a strong handshake and he would definitely
batter that arsehole Stern.

And that's that. You can buy the poetry bus mag here.

Dave Lordan - Clonakilty Special Branch

Dave Lordan, one of my favourite poets, is just back from a Mini-tour of Newfoundland. I was very interested in how he got on and invited him to guest blog here about it.

And so Dave very kindly sent me a story about Clonakilty.

Well actually, he told me he was working on the aforementioned story and I said I'd like to post it instead. We might get around to the Canadian shenanigans later.

Dave also performed twice at the DLR poetry Now festival this weekend. I saw him at 'For This: Poems for our Ireland'. Someone jokingly called it 'lets all wring our hands for Ireland' but it was quite good to be fair, Dermot Bolger, Senator Norris, Leanne O Sullivan, Miriam O Callaghan, Kavanagh Award judge Brian Lynch, punk poet ledgebag Jinx Lennon amongst others reflecting on our current circumstances.

And Seamus Heaney was in the audience. I didn't know until afterwards. There I was acting all too cool for school and then yer man Famous Shaymus comes out the door and I was actually a bit star struck. Fame man, it's like a pheromone.

You don't get to be in presence of such a genius everyday so, never being one to miss an opportunity, I duly crossed the room and head-butted him.

Course I did.

Anyways. Here's Dave's story.

Clonakilty Special Branch

Towards the end of February I was scavenging pine cones with my brother from the row of dark, sheltering pine trees that separate the old GAA pitch from Waldashaff Park.

Waldaschaff Park is beside the Model Village on a patch of leftover land in front of the water treatment plant, and on the crest of the hill that marks the start of the Inchadoney Road. You can see, and smell, Inchadoney Bay from there. The smell is not bad now, more salt than shit, due to the treatment plant.

Waldaschaff is the name of a village in Bavaria twinned with Clonakilty since 1989. The town council built the little park to mark the twinning. You might wonder why the town’s wise burghers chose to build the twinning park right beside the sewage facility, a most unlikely place to picnic and take the air. I think it is because they believed that the universal capacity to produce endless amounts of shit is what unites us across national borders. They are right. The unceasing nature of shit is something we all have to deal with.

These days, evidently, no-one looks after Waldaschaff Park. Its stone paths have overgrown, its gates are chainlocked, its melancholy benches are flaking and cracking with years of drizzle and woodrot. To pause and peruse and especially to enter the dilapidated park invites suspicion. Only those with some underhand purpose could have any use for the place.

We hopped over the low slate wall. Joseph made straight for the pine trees that run along the raised border with the remains of the GAA pitch. Much of the GAA pitch is now occupied by the recession halted construction of unoccupied and unsellable ‘luxury’ or even ‘boutique’ apartments. It had been intended, before the bust, to be ‘Clonakilty’s Waterfront.’ In fact, it’s nothing but a hideaway for gluesniffers and rodents.

The rest of the pitch, the part nearer to us, was still grass, being kept down by seven or eight old horses, belonging to local travellers. They were tethered up loosely there, drowsily munching away on the grass they spend their lives transforming into shit, which in turn fertilises the soil to produce copious grass.

Next to the vainglorious fuck-up and waste of ‘The Waterfront’, destined to cave-in or collapse, these rough, shoddy old survivors looked like the truly long-lasting and significant monuments.

There was some manshit hidden in the untended grasses of Waldaschaff Park. I had to avoid stepping in it at the same time as watching where the pine cones were landing in the grass- they were plopping down all over the place at a rate of three or four a minute now.

Nothing disgusts like manshit on your shoe. Give me dog shit anytime. Or horseshit. Horsehit hardly even stinks.

Between the pine cones and the shit there was also a randomly distributed selection of faded liquor cans, empty flagons, and broken green bottles. Weather-bleached chocolate-bar wrappers. A scorched circle that had been a bonfire a long time ago.

I didn’t want to look into the bushes or the tall grass around the edges of Waldashaff Park. You wouldn’t know what would turn up on an irish catholic wasteground. I didn’t fancy a caul or a fucking foetus stuck to the bottom of my shiny new slip-ons.

Pine cones burn and glow like the best of coal, and they last for hours, and they’re free. When Joseph was done climbing and plucking, and I had filled the large shopping bag, the house in Fairfield would have fuel for two or three nights to come.

I had arrived down the previous afternoon from Cork City, where I had done a reading as part of the Cork Spring Literary Festival. It had been grey and damp when I got in, but not raining. It was another small town weekday with nothing much for anyone to do but suppress their urges to do something mental to make the time pass quicker towards the weekend, when going mental is obligatory.

Everybody would be better off around here if they were just like those horses, just ate grass and shat. No need for prozac or alcohol then.

I sat and stretched out on the sofa, flicking between the 400 or so channels my parents have on their TV. It was mostly news I watched. The Libyan revolt was going well at the time. Whole cities were falling to the youth. I love it when the police, those riff-raff and half-wits with their tear gas and batons and worse, and dressed up like beetles from Pluto, are run out of a place. There’s no better sight upon this earth. I could watch police being thrashed and run out of it all day long. If cop-thrashing was on in the cinema I’d never leave the place.

The evening turned out a bit milder and, as the light declined, Joseph and I took a walk around the ring and up to St Mary’s graveyard, on top of a hill on the other, northern side of town. Joseph has an intimate knowledge of the graveyard and he was able to show me the plots that held the remains of many old friends, neighbours and acquaintances, many of them young men who had died by their own design. It slapped me awake to be reminded, one after another, in the particular sequence imposed by our walk and the layout of the graveyard, of all of these departed I had once shared the small territory of Clonakilty with.

I never heard of a policeperson killing him/herself. Why is that?

I am a kind person generally but my imagination is a cruel and mocking old bastard, toying with worst of possibilities all the time. How many towns in the world could Clonakilty twin with based on its suicide rate? Suicide Park, anyone? Of Shit and Suicide- A Local Guide! Perhaps, somewhere down the long tracks of future desperation, the tourism mandarins would have us rebrand ourselves as the shit and suicide capital of the western world, and put such on large glittering neon signs on all the approaches to the town. I saw Joseph then as the chief guide on the grand shit and suicide tour of Clonakilty, loving his work, surviving by it. It’s a science fiction story. A science fiction comedy. Someone should write it down. To think it is enough for me.

Anyway in a half an hour or so we had made our way all along the row of five or six pine trees and were down in the corner now right up against the fence surrounding the sewage plant. The shopping bag was brimming over with pine cones. They’re heavy in bulk. It would take the two of us to carry the bag of them home, a handle each, side by side.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a tall man approach us through the grass. I didn’t figure it at first. At first I thought it was just some guy out for a stroll or walking his dog, or looking for a good place to take a shit. I wasn’t bothered either that he was staring at us. I thought he was just a nosey old dickhead, of which there are a few around town.

It was then I noticed his two colleagues approaching from a slightly different angle to my rear. Some alert citizen had called the station on us and three Gardai had been sent along to find out, precisely, who we were and what we were up to.

The tall Guard reached us first. Trying to figure out what kind of an outfit we were, he scanned back and forth between us: myself stood upon the earth and Joseph high up in the pine tree, like some kind of angel or demon or woodsprite. Then- without any hint of hostility it must be said- the Guard addressed us:

Conkers lads is it that ye’re after?

Myself and the brother were momentarily frozen somewhere between hilarity and disbelief. Surely the man would know that we were as likely to be picking sapphires and rubies or melting gold watches off a fucking PINE TREE in FEBRUARY as conkers. I was surprised Joseph didn’t fall off the tree in a tsunami of laughter. But he kept his cool admirably:

No Guard, Pine Cones, said Joseph.

Pine Cones, the Guard repeated. Pine Cones. Alright, he said, and walked away, satisfied or stupefied, I don’t know which. I know he didn’t have a clue why we were gathering pine cones and that he didn’t want to ask us about it either.

A few seconds later his female colleague arrived. The third Guard, another mangarda, had decided to hang back, intending to tackle us if we breached the first line of defence I suppose. This female guard had more of the sleuth in her than the last fella and so she asked us our names and addresses, which we gave without hesitation. Whoever called them had probably told them who we were already anyway. I don't know if tree climbing or pine-gathering are on the statute books as crimes. It wouldn’t surprise me if they were. She didn’t seem interested in pursuing the matter any further though and she let us go without any further questions.

After that the three Guards went on into the sewage plant for a snoop, I guess to see if we had been interfering with it. I reckon the last place I will ever be tempted to rob or to vandalise is a sewage plant. Things could badly backfire on you there.

As soon as they had satisfied themselves that myself and the brother had not been tampering with the shit product of Clonakilty, the three Guards made their way slowly and warily out of Waldaschaff Park. They got into their marked car, and drove off intrepidly in search of Blackberry pickers and Apple scrobbers and the like. I am sure that they stopped along the way to pick some conkers off a Pine tree, and some wine gums from a gorse bush while they were at it.

Gerrup! It's the Poetry Bus!

Yerp!

Tis my turn to captain the Poetry Bus!

I'll keep this quick and to the point.

Creativity should take you new places so,

You have to:

1. Go somewhere new.

2. Experience it.

3. Write about it.

If you like, you can write about an old memory that comes to mind while there (this often happens when somewhere new- if it doesn't, just write about the experience)

And you can link the experience and the memory if you're feeling adventurous.

The poem cannot be more than 40 lines long

The poem shouldn't rhyme. Aim for similar line length, giving a nice shape to the poem.

ie none of this -

I wandered lonely as a cloud
Pissing on flowers was disallowed.

I like this rule because it means I have to avoid rhyming, its one of my filthiest habits.

Seeing as this is just a bit of fun, that's not a hard and fast rule.

But break it and I will find you and kill you.

Also - somewhere new can be anywhere. But try and be imaginative, you're an artist, ya lazy bum.

Some places are off limits.

-Your house.
-Anywhere within a mile of home.
-Offaly.
-The Moon.

Go forth and poetify, my passengers.

See yiz on Monday.

The fistulous Glor sessions.

Apparently fantabulous isn't a word so blogger's spellchecker gave me some options.

Fistulous sounded the most offensive so I went with that.

I didn't know what it meant so I checked it out, and lo, it means hollow, like a scallion leaf. I like that.

So yeah, I'm saying the Glor is like a tubular green chute.

Work with me here.

Stephen James Smith always performs in a way that says 'I'm the alpha male'. Chest out - a sort of classical pose. One person said to me once he looks less like a poet and more like a rugby player. Tis true. He's a big butch fat headed fucker. But that's no bad thing. The only writers I respect are the ones who can take and throw a dig. People Like Mailer - who'd get wrecked and brawl with you and then bite your ear off if he was losing.

Writers need balls.

But. With great balls comes great responsibility. Thankfully Stephen uses his Kahunas for good.

He's not only a good poet. He is a nice bloke, confident, and a great host. He uses his presence to keep people quiet. He's also very considerate to the performers - always taking the time to plug their upcoming gigs etc. And while I'm at it, to me he is the gateway to this whole burgeoning scene in Dublin. One of those peeps who Malcolm Gladwell spoke about in Tipping Point. A connector...

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Connector_(social)

He's a mother-fucking lynch-pin so he is.

He also has my other Malcolm Gladwell book and hasn't given it back the bollix.

He makes the Glor what it is though. Knowing so many people and working really hard to find quality acts. A poet flew over from London last night especially for fucks sake!

I fucking love the Glor. You should go. I remember realising once that true love makes you feel lucky.

Last night, with it's almost perfect balance of talent and a respectful eager audience, was like that. I was thinking this is special, a once off.

I'll never forget it.

And I was fucking SOBER! Imagine, an Irishman having fun in a pub sober. Strange times.

These are my three main reasons why last night's Glor was so special.

Marc O Reilly

http://www.marcoreillymusic.com/

A deceptively ordinary looking Irish guy with a beautiful smoky voice that doth plumb the very depths of bluesy Americana. And the things he does to his guitar could well be made illegal. He's playing a gig in town on Saturday. Well worth a look.

Harry Bird and the Rubber Wellies

http://hotdroprecords.com/harrybirdandtherubberwellies/

Harry is a Scot now living in Bilbao, Spain. The band on the night consisted of Harry plus a girl he quite possibly fell in love with while making a salad on the street (She was called Sweeney) plus Christophe, a Fiddle player. They are a folk band. They are brilliant. Not in a hollywood special effects woosh-bang-choke on your popcorn way. In a down home singing straight from the soul way. They had a sorta jokey vibe but some of their tunes had a real protest song bite to them too. They'll be playing at the Brown Bread Mixtape on Wednesday night.

Evan, the fellah down the back.

Evan was an Irish lad just back from Japan who was hoping to read some poems at the end of the night. I never got to see him read (sober and driving), but sitting beside him while the best Glor I'd ever been at unfolded was a great feeling.

He kept touching my leg.

Only messing.

So yeah. Fistulous. Like the scallion leaf in the pic. Only gigantic and welcoming, like a Luminarium tunnel, ablaze with the lithium glow of poetry and music.

And red instead of green.

Maybe that metaphor stinks like onion breath. I don't care, twas the spellcheckers fault not mine and to use the vernacular, was loike totally random. If it doesn't work so what. This is the internet bitches, nobody cares.

Women with Altitude

Woman With Altitude is a poetry anthology by Bonnie Quinn Cotter and has just been published posthumously by Bradshaw Books. Here, her daughter Dorothy Cotter talks about Bonnie, the book, and growing up as a writer’s daughter.

Writing is a solitary thing, a quiet thing, a silent conversation between you and yourself. Or yourself and your creativity, your brain, your art, whatever you want to call it. Maybe you write out loud, maybe you speak into a dictaphone, maybe you roar your words into the sky. But usually you're by yourself. My mother was a writer, and she balanced the solitude of writing with the social aspects to it. For all the afternoons at the typewriter, there were evenings at poetry readings and book launches surrounded by friends, poets, peers. I have happy childhood memories of playing in our front garden in Cork with the friendly and constant clacking sound of my mother's typewriter streaming out of her open window. It was the norm, it was sunny, it was the Eighties. It was my mother's most active time as a writer. The sound of her typewriter going was often heard in our house and later, when technology evolved and Mum got her first computer, I missed the comforting clunky noise of the old writing machine.

Throughout the 1980's and 1990's my mother's poetry and short stories were published in various journals, newspapers, magazines and anthologies from the Poetry Ireland Review, Cork Literary Review and The Salmon to The Irish Times, Boston Irish, and U Magazine. She taught creative writing to adults for almost twenty years and was an inspiration to so many people. She was also a member of the Cork Women's Poetry Circle (which later became Tigh Filí) and she regularly participated in readings and other events. She founded and was editor of The Cork Yule Book which was an annual Christmas magazine. It included photography, poetry, short stories and interviews and it featured great Irish personalities such as Nell McCafferty, Paul Durcan, Molly Keane, Senator David Norris and many others. The Cork Yule Book ran every year from 1982 until 1989 and it was a big part of our lives, especially as it was produced from our home and we were all involved in the making and distribution of it. I think one of the reasons I love the smell of freshly printed glossy paper as an adult is from hanging around the printers place so much as a kid.

My mother was a born writer, it was in her bones. Throughout her life and the changes in jobs, countries and homes, writing was the throughline. The lifeline even. I imagine it was a very healing thing to do. A lot of her life was dedicated to healing. She was a social worker, a counsellor, a Reiki Master and a mother of four. So through the course of her life she looked after a lot of people. She had a brilliantly mischievous sense of humour and loved a good laugh! She was full of fun and her positivity was like a beacon. Sadly, she was taken from us too soon and after a long illness she passed away in January 2005.

Mum's poetry anthology Woman With Altitude has just been published by Bradshaw Books in Cork. My sister Lucy edited it and collaborated with Máire Bradshaw and Anna Barden over the past year or two. It is finished, it is here and I am thrilled with the result, we all are. The cover image is magical and represents Mum in many ways. The poet Thomas McCarthy wrote a very beautiful and touching foreword, he knew her well and has managed to capture the essence of her in his words. Theo Dorgan, Medbh McGuckian and Tess Gallagher all shared their impressions and insights on the collection which have been printed on the back cover. The book is such a special thing for us to have, a celebration, a legacy, a treasure chest that can be re-opened and re-discovered for many years to come.

And there you go. A real nice lady doing a real nice thing. Here's the link to the book and details on the launch - in Dublin and Cork.

http://www.bradshawbooks.com/womanwithaltitude

Woman With Altitude by Bonnie Quinn Cotter will be launched by Thomas McCarthy on Saturday February 19th at 5.30pm in The Beckett Room at the Metropole Hotel, MacCurtain Street, Cork. Theo Dorgan will launch the book in Dublin at the Irish Writers Centre on Monday 21st February at 7pm.

Reaching Richie's Freedom

Wassup holmes.

Maybe that's not the way to spell holmes that but I like it - tis victorian like.

Here I haven't got much time. It's 11 minutes to 8 (worktime) and I'm a five day week Wall Street loving mofo!

I'm doing some stuff in the Bankers Pub tonight off Dame Street.

It's a fund-raiser for this play (pic above).

Fiach, myself and others performing for a few quid on the door - not bad. Fiach is really really good.

http://www.thenewtheatre.com/tnt_php/scripts/page/box_office2.php?show_id=33&gi_sn=4d2a3423a6e4a|0

It's written by Dylan Mc Donough. I was lucky enough to see him perform a short monolouge from it at the Brown Bread Mixtape last week. It's great so I'm chuffed to be involved tonight.

Anyways.

Times up.

Toodles.

Check out this lil Ledgebag