But what happens after she marries the prince?

After all my woe at the start of last month it actually turned out very good indeed. Had some good gigs, as mentioned before, played another one with just Cos at Scaledown, which was enjoyable. Then some American friends came over from the states and took me out wining and dinning. We went to Ronnie Scott’s and Battersea Art Centre, the Tate, and had Sunday roast. If only there were more months like this.

One of the art books I sold this month was definitely a bit of a witch’s creation. It took me six years to finish, it’s made from hand made paper, old tissue boxes and string. On the surface it is the story of a failed love affair, underneath it is about the continual cycle from life to death, from death to life. It is an original handmade one off. Made from thrown out Mills&Boon books from a local Library. I’ll stress that again as I always get someone upset about me reusing books – the Library chucks them out, if I don’t use them they go in the waste disposal!

This book takes its name from the Mills&Boon book it is made from “The Marriage Project”. There was something grating about that name, and deeply sad. For me relationships don’t work if they are too consciously planned, for some reason those that are carefully planned go stagnant quickly. I think it’s because the fairytale stories never say what happens to the peasant girl after she marries the prince.

Strangely enough, around the time I was making this book I was doing an art project with a recycling centre and one of the things they had plenty of was dress patterns for sowing wedding dresses, so obviously these had to go in the ingredients to make the book. White roses symbolise innocence and purity, but in the centre of this book they are white rose buds dying before they reach full bloom.

I remember the relationship mentioned in the book ended with him buying me a bunch of white roses from the local garage, a sad goodbye. I took them home and painted them and that is how the book started.


Witches Broth

witch0000I’ve decided, after some thought on the matter, my long term ambition is to become a witch. Not one of these flouncy fashionable Crowley witches, oh no, but an old time, down to earth hedgerow witch.

My great grandmother was a witch in South Wales, they call it something different now, “seer” or something . She had a crystal ball to tell the future, concocted spells, brewed potions and made herbal remedies back at a time when there was no NHS. Interestingly she was also a church going Christian, which goes to show cavorting in front of devil icons is not compulsory.

The Rude Mechanicals song Big Lies is partly about mixing up a witches broth and then going into a trance state where I talk in tongues (for real).

One of the most appealing things about aiming to become a witch is the comfortable amount of time it can take to become a successfully practicing one. A bit like becoming a judge I feel (spot the reference anyone?). At the age of seventy you are just coming into your prime of Witchness. The job must require a lot of knowledge and wisdom, something that only years on this planet can give you.

I do get visions, the epilepsy is crammed with them – pre, during, and post – and they feel very meaningful, but it is taking me a long time to understand what they mean. It is taking a lifetime. Yesterday I had a large pink creature the size of a football hovering around me, it had no eyes or nose, just a very large mouth with sharp shark-like teeth, it was trying to bite off my head. It was terrifying and somehow very meaningful.

Also I like insects, and mud, and slime and frogs.

With regard to the job expectations:

“It won’t make you much money” I hear you saying,

But come the apocalypse who is going to want money?

They will want knowledge of the plants and beasts we share the planet with, and visions of what the future will bring.

I probably need to get my visions more ordered.

Gig report: Dragons, cloven feet and Lord Flasheart

We had a good gig on Saturday, a jolly audience including a lot of folk I’d never seen before. I was exhausted when I first tuned up to the venue. I’d been working all day, lugging stuff to Tottenham and back. The cats I’d been hallucinating in the corners, turned in to dragons, small dragons, but very fierce, perhaps they helped me find enough energy.

Dagma was excellent doing the door, even though she can’t count British coins, she is from Austria and was only visiting for that weekend. Marina came along later and helped selling merchandise, which was good as I completely forgot about that after the gig.

The swamp monster artworks went at the start, to those who knew her name is Gertrude. There is just 5 of them in existence so those who have them make sure you take care of them!

Folk tell me that the performance was very sinister, very “Birthday Party”, and someone thought my feet were cloven, which perhaps they were that evening. At the very start of the performance the buxom Gardyloo Spew was giving me attitude so I had to slap her around the face and blow raspberries at her. Jowe was his usual sinister self, doing a most convincing impersonation of a Golem. Dr Cos held things together triumphantly, with added panache, as only he can, whilst the Drummer, dressed in just clingfilm and gaffa tape, told the audience off, gave me a bottle of red wine, then attempted to roll me over his back whilst I was singing, which made the dragons roar around the edges of my vision. An interesting experience that should be tried again.

Oh and the audience were fabulous at Woofing! Such sexy hip jolting and pelvis thrusting! I’m sure Lord Flasheart would be proud.

The other two acts, David Cronenberg’s wife and Dirty Viv, were splendid. Viv looked beautiful in his wig and incredibly skimpy pvc skirt and the music made me think perhaps drum machines aren’t so hideous after all. Tom from David Cronenberg’s Wife was smartly dressed in a red and black suit and the band played with exquisite vigour. I’m a bit of a fan of Tom’s dark storytelling with guitar, which is difficult to hear when done as a full band, but the band’s punch and excitement made up for it.

We also had DJing from Enri and sillyBoyblue. I love dancing to Bowie!

I had several curious propositions after performing that night, to which I can only reply “what does your girlfriend/wife/mum/bank manager think about that?”

And Lord Flashheart has read my blog and wants to apply for the job of perfect lover.


Next performance this coming Friday (29th March) at Scaledown, upstairs at the King & Queen, Fitzrovia, near Goodge st tube, London. Just me and Dr Chapman doing an acoustic set.

Photo by the wonderful Michael Antony Hyman.


I played two gigs last night, and somehow strutting my stuff on stage, singing, prancing and telling folks dark stories from my psychological diseased pit, seems to bring me back to a level zero where everything is…alright. After an unpleasant week at work that finished with a batch of seizures it might seem strange that two gigs be the thing to bring life back to stable, but it seems it is.

The first gig was with Dr Cos and Gardyloo Spew. It was at the Hundred Years Gallery and it was delightful. Playing to a home crowd as they say. Cos was on acoustic guitar! He has never played acoustic live before so this was something new. The security of those very many pedals was not there! He played very well, as did Spew who played percussion on a hardboard box that is actually a plinth but makes a good percussion instrument. Also, Graham, The Lovely Management, lent Spew a nice looking percussion instrument, I can’t remember what it was called, but it sounded good. Thanks to Mark and Noel for organising this, an event to remember Danny Pockets who passed away last year.

The second gig was up in Holloway at the Owl and Pussycat. This time it was just me and Dr Cos and his many effects pedals. A crowd of strangers, and interesting they were too. Some were dressed up in really fanciful costumes with feathers ( the theme was night owl) and glitter whilst others were dressed really casual t-shirt and jeans. The age range went from early twenties to late sixties. I quite liked the inconsistent dress of our audience. They were a well behaved audience, the acts on before us had been good quality story telling which meant the audience were good at listening. The small well groomed room was packed out. They sat silently, applauding at the correct moments, and were pretty good at the Woofs as well.


( and thrust the pelvis forward, Lord Flasheart style)

So next gig is this coming Saturday (23rd March) at the George Tavern. Practice your pelvis thrusts and be there!

Photo by Mat Green in the Library of Obscure Wonders

Wednesday’s child is full of woe

This week it was my birthday week, and despite it being a truely lovely week with lots of friends and cards and presents, I am still feeling down today. No idea why. Absolutely none. I mean I could blame Brexit, the global environment situation, the violence and wars, I could blame any of those, but it’s not. The sewage has not returned, my brain hasn’t been playing up too much and the hallucinations are mainly just cats, and for now I have just enough work to keep going. It’s not even the fact that I’m getting older, i don’t mind getting older, I mean we all do it, and I’m quite enjoying the confidence that comes with age. So I’ve no idea. It is a deep ocean of sorrow lurking beneath the service that I can’t seem to shift.

This is why, as the queen of everything, I’m going to have an official birthday party on the 23rd March, where I will celebrate life, and spring and the coming of summer. New beginnings and life escaping the grip of winter. Yes. We shall dance and sing and know what it is to be fully alive!

I shall officially celebrate it on the 23rd March with the Rude Mechanicals gig at the George Tavern of Commercial Road, London.

I’m 107 years old, according to Facebook. I feel about 107 today, but I will be 23 again on the 23rd!

I was born on a Wednesday, maybe that is why my birthday makes me blue. Though I am also a Pisces. I had my students draw mackerel on Friday. What beautiful creatures they are, incredible colours. One day I’ll move from London and live near the sea, somewhere warm maybe, where I can swim among the fishes.

As a Pisces I’m a fantastic day dreamer.

And here fantastic fishes duskly float,
Using the calm for waters, while their fires
Throb out quick rhythms along the shallow air.

The Flood

The sewage back surge from the flats where l live burst through my bath plug hole, filled my bath, flowed over the edges leaving the remains of someone’s dinner on the side of the bath, and flowed determinedly onwards into my hall, bedroom and kitchen.

The unwell monster that seems to live under my bathroom floorboards, was exploding. Her vomit filled my world. Several of my books, my slippers and the laminate flooring was ruined. No insurance.

Being a council tenant feels very like being a third class citizen. Council housing was a brilliant idea, affordable housing for the workers, those that keep the city running. Makes sense doesn’t it? But now the stocks of council houses have been hugely run down by selling them off to private owners, so you only get one if you are in a very bad situation ( I was in a squat, diagnosed with a potentially fatal brain disease and uncontrolled epilepsy, when a heroin addict smashed up the place). These days buildings like the current one I live in, a 1960’s tower block, are allowed to fall into disrepair and the councils aren’t given money for required maintenance of them. And these days the workers – the cleaners, nurses, teachers – can’t afford to buy housing and can’t get council housing. They either end up getting into huge amounts of debt they can never pay off, live in bad quality shared accommodation or move out of the city. This will of course mean a lack of cleaners, nurses and teachers in a city that desperately needs them. The government bring out various policies to try and attract more nurses or teachers and allow them to afford homes, but surely there was a policy already in practice, that worked, called COUNCIL HOUSING. It has an absurdity that sings like an intro track to The House of Cards.

But then I can’t make any sense of our current politics. A friend asks me why I don’t write about politics much in my blog. Because it makes me miserable. Life essentially is a beautiful thing, difficult and painful sometimes, but at other times just astoundingly beautiful and wondrous. Politics and the News seem to concentrate on the horrid stuff, which gets me down. I don’t know, perhaps I should have more political rants, but then it all seems so absurd and out of control at the moment that it seems more appropriate to draw silly cartoons instead (see below). So I’ll stop with politics there and talk about magic instead.

Magically this last climax of the sewage seems to, and here I cross my fingers, seems to have solved the problem.

No more can I hear groaning and gurgling, no longer does sewage spew into my bath. Hurrah!

And it seems to all be thanks to the hazel trees.

There is a couple of hazel trees in Newington Green. Small things, cropped into bushes underneath a London Plain. I go to talk to them sometimes, when I need someone to share problems with.They don’t respond, obviously, which is often a good thing. Anyway, on the morning in question I’d had enough of the sewage problem. Two months it had been. I was fed up of never being able to shower or bath in my own flat without wading in other people’s shit. I explained this to the hazel trees and asked if please, if possible, could something be done about it.

That evening came the flood. Horrible. But it has meant that Islington council repairs team actually got it together to sort out the problem and now I am sewage free.

Never underestimate a hazel tree.

I’m going to celebrate being sewage free at the Rude Mechanicals gig on the 23rd March.

Yes, I will give out free swamp monster original prints (worth thousands of pounds, obviously) to the first five people who can tell me the name of the monster that lives under my bathroom. Any guesses? Keep it secret and turn up to the gig early to tell me and collect your present.

Below is something like my understanding of current global politics

I want someone who…

I want someone who wants me for what I am

I want someone who wants me for what I am not

I want someone who doesn’t run away when I get ill

I want someone who doesn’t see my brain disease as a romantic novel

I want someone who does see my brain disease as a romantic novel

I want someone who is strong and decisive

I want someone who doesn’t tell me what to do

I want someone who is rich

And unattached

And good looking

And kind

And open minded

And generous

And intelligent

Has several PhD’s and a professorship

But understands that they are still a fool

I want someone who knows that I am Queen of Everything!

Handmade book by MissRoberts