My dad died this week. I can’t be at his funeral in the UK, which is tough. I’ve written a few lines about him. Some memories to create a kind of sketch of who he was, to me.
Enjoy my tragic 4 -line, food-based, break-up poem.
David Bowie sat on the edge of a long white sofa in the roof garden of a Casablanca hotel. A low behind separated him from the city skyline. Glowing paper lanterns swung in the warm evening breeze.
Ever been served up a cow’s vertebrae? Or a pile of deep-fried crispy Tarantulas?
‘All fur coat and no knickers’ is how I’d describe my hotel in Uzbekistan. A northern England expression describing something, or more often someone, that is all style over substance.
Arriving at a foreign airport unable to speak the language or read any of the airport signs is daunting. Shit-scary but thrilling too for this nervous traveller.
A true story of how a short break in a charming Yorkshire village turned to bloody horror.
I’m covered in blood. I don’t know why.
An ordinary visit to the park turns into a near-death experience. As I dutifully pick up his shit, my dogs runs toward a busy main road.
There is a place in Kenya where you can watch Elephants and other wildlife from the safety of a treehouse. This iconic location also has a historic past.
I’m a fan of meditation but I get distracted. Asked to visualise a mountain scene, my imagination runs amok. I’m soon ‘off script’ chatting to my favourite aunty.
For a moment, Hull received global attention again. A painting of a boy brandishing a wooden sword appeared overnight. A graffiti-art gift from Banksy.
Hull UK City of Culture received extensive press coverage in the UK. What about other parts of the world? Australia for example?
Looking for unusual things to do in Canada? Visiting Ottawa? You should try incarcerating yourself in a real prison. I did.
Aged 22 I travelled around the world. A 4 week bus trip across Canada was the final leg. Here I was to experience my biggest travel disappointment.
2018 didn’t go your way? Lady Luck pissed on your chips? If the answer is yes, you’re probably desperate enough to try some superstitious claptrap. You’re in the right place.
South King Street, previously the rough end of Newtown, has taken the well-trodden path to gentrification. But isn’t playing by the usual rules.
In 2015 there was global momentum to legalise same-sex-marriage. Tony Abbott, Prime Minister and midwife-in-charge, was under sustained pressure to follow suit. The UK, USA, New Zealand, Ireland, Canada, all culturally aligned countries, had said I Do. Public opinion in Australia was becoming more favourable to the idea. Tony and his fellow dinosaurs, the Liberal Party’s Christian Right, had to come up with new, creative ways to block social progress. They would use all means necessary to preserve their fictional 1950s-family-values version of Australia.
In 2015 Prime Minister Tony Abbott was under sustained pressure to legalise same-sex-marriage in Australia. He had no intention of allowing that to happen.
In Varanasi, among the 2000 or so temples, is a charity-run hostel – Mukti Bhavan (‘Salvation House’) – where the guests come to die. The room tariff includes the wood for the funeral pyre. To be clear, this isn’t a centre for suicide. Not an Indian version of Dignitas, the Swiss one-stop-shop for euthanasia. The very old and very sick come here, when death is imminent.
In Varanasi, among the 2000 or so temples, is a charity-run hostel called ‘Salvation House’. The guests come to here die.