BURA’S BLURB (DEC 2010)

HELLO AMIGOES! (AGAIN, IT HAS BEEN TOO LONG!)

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

A PERSONAL STUDY OF HERNE BAY’S FISH AND CHIPS SHOPS

          After 22 years away from ol’ Hernia Bay I did the rounds visiting every fish and chip shop that existed in and around the town and ‘every’ time I would order HADDOCK AND CHIPS. If I had visited EVERY fish and chip emporium along the seafront during the season I would have still been sampling, so I restricted myself to all those I could remember 22 years ago that opened all year round, plus one or two new ones that have opened in the town!

          Now it is not my business to decry and slander every fish and chip shop in Herne Bay but it IS my job – as I see it - to shout from the very rooftops all those that have ‘made it’ to my own, personal, exacting standards…and believe me these shops are few and far between!
           I had my own personal favourites 22 years ago but I will NOT name them here for the same reasons that I have already stated.

          However these shops’ Haddock was either greasy or tasteless (stale) and fell apart – or BOTH! And the chips were hard as bullets! The chips had obviously been left in ‘dry white’ (a substance added to the water to keep them white!) for far too long!

          Haddock – FRESH HADDOCK – is firm, sweet and white and tastes like a little piece of heaven and doesn’t fall apart at the first bite. Even when dumped in batter - without the dusting of flour first - it should taste firm and sweet!

          HARRY RAMSDON’S in Liverpool is my personal favourite for fish (especially Haddock). However, even the famous Harry Ramsdon’s let me down: whilst out driving on my way to a poetry reading gig I was delighted to see a Harry Ramsdon’s at a motorway turnoff - but the Haddock was stale! A right TURNOFF!
          In a Wiltshire town, not far from Glastonbury (I forget the name), we stopped for fish and chips. Not expecting anything special I was pleased to announce that the Haddock WAS HEAVENLY, and the chips equally so, and this town was nowhere NEAR the sea!

          (I haven’t anything against FROZEN fish incidentally, providing it’s filleted when caught and swiftly frozen, or placed on ice and consumed within 48 hours! Fish is the one thing that freezes well)

After careful tasting and consideration this is my top favourite:

TOP FAVOURITE:

‘THE FISH BAR’

(Near the Station Road crossroads)
The High Street,
Herne Bay,
Kent.

AND NOW THE POEM

MERRY CHRISTMAS AMIGOES!

MAY YOU FOREVER HAVE
LOVE IN YOUR HEARTS,

WITHOUT LOVE WE HAVE

NOTHING!

*****

Update: 19 September 2010:

Soon be back my amigos, perhaps in about 4 weeks! Or there abouts.... Luv n' lite n' larfs. Paul.

*****

Update: 13 July 2010:

I've just been advised by Fif, that Paul has experienced an unfortunate fall, the result of which he has broken his arm. He will be in hospital for about 5 weeks, which means August's blog will either be late or skipped. Paul, our heartfelt sympathies go out to you, get well soon. Mark - webmaster.

BURA’S BLURB (JULY 2010)

HELLO AMIGOS!

BELATED TRIBUTE
(To Charley Morris)
Charley Morris was the publican of the Cardinal’s Cap, a small backstreet pub in Canterbury, Kent. On the walls were pictures (all signed) of all the stars and would-be stars of the Marlow Theatre, for this little pub was the home of the humble actor and actress, known affectionately as ‘THE CAP’ (Yes, I’m aware that most actresses would prefer if I were to address them as ‘actors’!). But Charley Morris was this little pub’s STAR!
    He was a tall, imposing, bald, warm and welcoming figure, always be-suited and always wore a bow-tie! He spoke with a slightly nasal voice which smacked of a London accent!
    Every time for instance (and I was NOT a star nor an up and coming one, though I had written and narrated the script for THE TITANIC SUITE which was performed at the Marlow; which ‘went down’ very well [Ha!]) I was to come in the pub he would take hold of my hand in his two hands (I remember that he had very small hands), bow, kiss it, and in his nasally laugh (though I say so myself I do a good impression of Charley) would always utter:
     “Heh, Heh, Heh, ‘ullo Paul, bitter lemon and a castello (cigar) is it? Heh, Heh, Heh!”
    Charley was always accompanied by his wife Phil, a small little lady with strange teeth who wore slippers and a cardigan…always, who would just sit behind the bar and imbibe; occasionally if ‘The Cap’ was particularly busy she would help out and occasionally she would ‘fall over’, she frequently fell over imbibed and Charley – ever the gentleman – would just pick her up and carry her to the back room and return as if nothing had occurred!
    If there was fun to be had then Charley was up for it.
    One day he took a delivery of some two dozen individual steak and kidney pies and set them down on the bar. The pies were still warm so Ian (a regular) ordered one and decided – as he had had a few - correction it was a ‘lock-in’ and they’d ALL had a few – to hurl the pie (in jest, you understand!) at Charley who, in turn, returned the gesture. Suddenly a chain-reaction of pies was seen to be chucked with incredible precision (and abandon) at everyone within range!
   Just about EVERYBODY (including the women) was covered with rich brown gravy which oozed itself down their faces carrying with it the pies contents: pieces of steak and kidney with pastry that you would just die for – they were exquisite pies!
    Death by an individual steak and kidney pie, a projectile used as weapon, not chewed and swallowed but delivered at speed… catapulted from the OUTSIDE but created for the INSIDE!
    James Bolan (of The Likely Lads long running TV sit-com with Rodney Bewes) and his wife (also an actor) took Charley to the races, now THAT’S how popular he was. Charley was so proud of the photographs taken that day with James and his wife.
    Tim Brook-Taylor of ‘The Goodies’ was doing pantomime for the duration, could be seen occupying a quiet but dignified position at the bar.
    Pat Durkin – he worked with Tommy Cooper during his TV shows - did 10 minute ‘stand-up’ standing on the bar.
       
    However, Charley’s wife Phil was taken ill.
    Charley’s wife came first when all is said and done and The Cap came second.
    Phil was very ill with a psychotic episode brought on by her drinking and died a few months later.
    Charley took up residence managing The Black Dog in Canterbury and my sister Josie helped out.
    It just wasn’t the same anymore and soon after Charley died!

    Here’s to you Charley Morris for all the laughs and all the gags, all the pure entertainment that ‘The Cardinals Cap’ generated, with you, my dear Charley, at its centre, at its very heart.
    I didn’t manage to say ‘thank you’, Charley, or indeed ‘goodbye’ so here 35 odd years later I think I just did!

*******

HERE COME THE POEMS!

ADIOUS AMIGOS
UNTIL NEXT MONTH!

LUV N’ LITE N’ LARFTER!

Paul Bura

BURA’S BLURB (JUNE 2010)

HALLO AMIGOES!

About fifteen years ago I got called out to a house haunting. Andy Thomas (Crop Circle lecturer and author of: VITAL SIGNS ‘The Definitive Guide to Crop Circles’, and his latest tome: TRUTH AGENDA) and Jason Porthouse (film editor whose work includes BBC’s Panorama) accompanied me to a little village in Sussex just outside of Brighton. This is what happened!

GOING HOME
Andy had met this couple during one of his music gigs (he is also a musician) and they had told him the story of ‘the haunting’ where the TV kept being switched on and off and the lights likewise. But the weirdest of all – a child’s footprint appeared on their kitchen floor and no amount of bleach would erase it! There was no fear involved in any of them, just acceptance!

        The three of us sat down in the front room of this little house. Almost immediately I felt that there was someone else there – excluding the couple that had called us out in the first place – and this ‘entity’ was trying to communicate!
        I went into ‘light trance’ mode almost immediately (Light Trance is where the medium [me] is aware but in complete control and knows what is being said and done, as opposed to Full Trance where the medium knows and feels ‘nothing’!) and I saw a man and a small child. His words were words of fear and anxiety and concern for his ‘son’. He told us of the fire that had raged through their house where they had died [it was not clear as I recall that they ‘knew’ of their demise] and they had been trying to attract the attention of anyone who would take notice of them and help them!
        I explained to them that they were in the ‘in-between world’ and hadn’t yet ‘passed over’. The man didn’t seem to understand but he was willing to try anything as long as his son was safe.
        I told him to look around him and try and see if they could see a light of any kind. In fact they COULD see a light but were in mortal fear of it as they thought that it could do them further harm! I assured him that this was not so, in fact the opposite was true.
        When I had calmed him down he decided that they hadn’t anything to lose. In fact the more they looked at it [the light] the more welcoming it became…then they left me. And it was done! In the words of Tommy Cooper: just like that!
        During the next few days that little footprint, the footprint undoubtedly of the child this father was trying to protect, disappeared!

        Andy Thomas, consummate delver in truth as he was (and still is!), went to the village church where the village records were stored.
         Over a hundred years ago a father and son died in a fire on that exact location.
        This piece is called GOING HOME and I know that is exactly where this man and his little son truly went, where they were deemed to go all along!

*******

This is a well overdue poem. My mother passed three years ago. This is her poem!

ADIOS AMIGOES
SEE YOU NEXT MONTH!

Paul Bura

*****

BURA’S BLURB. MAY 2010

HALLO AMIGOES!

 Fif Hugenholtz and I are compiling a book entitled: DOWNLOADS FROM THE HIGHER SELF (the God self, the divine spark, the soul etc) in which I go into the ‘Silence’ and wait. Sometimes I am inspired to write, and sometimes not. Fif’s contribution is to add her (own) insights in relation to these ‘downloads’ and to sort them into flowing (I trust her) categories. Hers is the most difficult work of all! There are 200 ‘downloads’ but in no way should they be labelled ‘religious’, perhaps a ‘mystical science’ if you must! If you consider the words ‘soul’ and ‘divine spark’ religious then that’s your hard luck. They are – to my mind – universal, philosophical terms.

DOWNLOADS FROM THE HIGHER SELF

1. Bear me up until we meet soul to soul and we have the whole of creation to play in, the whole of creation that you and I, soul to soul, had a hand in creating.

*******

And Now a Poem:

ADIOS AMIGOES

UNTIL NEXT MONTH!

LUV N’ LITE N’ LARFTER

 Paul Bura.

*******

BURA’S BLURB (APRIL 2010)

HELLO AMIGOES!

I wrote about my earlier days before polio and this particular incident is high up there in my memory banks. I plan to take the odd extract from my ‘on line’ book: LITTLE RESTAURANT ON THE PROM every now and again!

My Grandfather and the Bomb

        Croyse White had been trying unsuccessfully to retrieve it with a stick. I watched him try and try again. It was bright yellow and had fins. No, not a fish but it was to cause quite a stink, though. Croyse gave up on it. He walked dejectedly up the beach and out of sight.
         Now it was my turn, my chance to have a go at trying to possess this interesting looking object. At 6-years-old I was nobody's fool and wearing my wellies was able to get that much closer to it than Croyse. I attached a piece of wire that I had found round one of the fins and started to haul it in. Every now and again it got stuck and I had to yank it. At last I hauled it in.
        I dragged it clear of the water and was just about to lift it up when my grandfather, taking a stroll along the beach after a session in the pub, wobbled down the beach to see what I had got.
         "I'll give you a hand, son, " he slurred.
        Now my grandfather had been in BOTH world wars, and you may have thought that it might just have occurred to him that, what resembled a bomb, would have sent various alarm bells ringing.
        "Don't worry Granddad, I can manage."
        I heaved the bomb up in both arms and carried it up the beach. Granddad, slightly unsteadily, followed after me.
        Now I had to negotiate some very steep steps and CLANG! I rested the bomb on one step whilst I got up. Then CLANG! I rested the bomb on the other step. There were three steps in all so that made three CLANGS!
        I made my way the short distance to my father's restaurant with my grandfather in tow trying desperately to walk in a straight line. As I walked into the restaurant I couldn't understand why people were hurling themselves at the doors and disappearing rather rapidly. I walked into the kitchen.
        The look of horror on my parents face when I presented my trophy:
         "Now..er, put it down gently, son," said my father, "NO! not near the gas stoves!"
        He gave out a sort of strangled cry and had trouble breathing.
         "Put it down GENTLY on the table AWAY from the ovens!" he urged gently but firmly. At this point I didn't really know what all the fuss was about. I soon did, though.
        "There, that's it. Gently does it."
        I put my bomb carefully on the table indicated whilst all hell broke loose. The police were called and the bomb squad! A kindly policeman spoke to me about the dangers of “finding things lying on the beach, lad” and I, in future, was to “leave ‘em alone”.
        The bomb turned out to be a 2nd-world-war 'flare'. If it had gone off in that small space…well it doesn't bear thinking about, does it?
My grandfather? My Grandma saw to him!

*******

AND MAYBE... (for Anne) (for Anne) And maybe you will Want to know of her life. And maybe: How brave she was. But I can tell you Right here and right now That the word 'brave' offends. (She will tell you that). I know because I have Been on the end Of the word 'brave'. Are we not all brave At one time or another? Cheerful is another word That offends, tagged on to her condition. But cheerful in the light Of whom she was Not cheerful through adversity. I celebrate her life Because of who she was Not of who she might have been. She was happy because that Was the very essence of her being, The fabric of who she represented. She loved life in all its craziness. She loved and fiercely protected her family. She was an independent soul. If she could do it on her own, Without help, she would. Or maybe she just couldn't do it But she would try just for The shear hell of it! Does that make her brave? Well perhaps it does in some small measure. She just LOVED life, Embraced it, just as she now Embraces eternity. She can get a whole lot more eternity In her arms than ever she could here! And if you believe in St Peter At the gates of heaven She won't even have to knock She'll just flash him her smile Or tell him a joke And he'll let her in. And maybe one day I'll even write a poem for her. I think I just did!

ADIOS AMIGOES!!!
LUV N’ LITE N’ LARFTER
Paul Bura

BURA’S BLURB (MARCH 2010)

HELLO AMIGOES!!

Just thought you’d like to know that the council guys have now put my metal banisters up against the stairs ‘that Peter built’ (a neighbour that just HAPPENS to be good with his hands and an all round nice geezer – not forgetting his wife Pat!). And a very good job he’s made of them too! So, apart from the odd grab-handle here and there at last I should be able to get out!

MERELY A DREAM

This world is merely a dream, a lesser reality, but is a reality non-the-less. But compared with 4 Dimensional Reality it would appear to be, at the very least, without substance.
        What we need to know and recognise is the surety of this 4 Dimensional reality amongst the - seemingly - wrecked beauty of this earth, this 3 Dimensional Reality.
        4D is interwoven between the earth’s 3D aspects through the medium of - say – poetry, music and the arts in general.
         When a poem, for instance, moves that aspect in you to such an extent that you have trouble explaining it (let alone understanding it), apart from the absolute beauty of this aspect, then THAT is the strand or fabric of the Interwoven Cloth that wraps itself around the earth.
         This earth is made up of 3rd and 4th Dimensional strands of energy, a complex mesh of which these strands run parallel, side by side.
        When a painting stands out from all the rest, and yet you cannot explain its beauty because it is beyond form and understanding, then THAT is 4D reality!
        I remember the Coldrum Stones in Kent. Directly I was amongst them I entered a different dimension. Oh yes, they were the same stones, the same view from the stones overlooking a vast valley, but inexplicably different! There was a subtle change in my perception, a kind of mystical experience. And I wasn’t alone in this; I went with three other people. They too felt it: an underlying energy, an exhilarating lightness of foot, intoxication if you like, and yet they were in and of this earth which had somehow subtly changed!
        When a piece of music is heard for the first time and catches you unawares, your whole being rises to meet it. You become immersed in its magic and you want to know, MUST know, who composed it because you want to hear it again and again so that you can experience that ‘out of this worldness’ again and again!
        Jazz and rock can exhilarate you but on a different level, more raw somehow but hugely enjoyable non-the-less.
       
        This energy goes beyond all the religions that make up this beautiful and tragic world, but at the same time the masters and mystics that brought this religion to our understanding all started from this same point of reference, this same awareness! Only their message changed in trying to explain it, but their message was in essence the same: LOVE!
       I have expressed many times when I was a mere 7-year-old, two or three weeks before I caught polio, when I was riding my bike down the side of an old country pub (where my grandfather – Snowy - used to down 12 pints of mild and bitter and still manage to ride his bike home!). I thrust my bike upon a bank of grass and was immersed in an ‘avenue of sound’ as the birds sang their little hearts out. I was too young to appreciate what was happening to me but I remember it as if it were yesterday:  love for everything, embracing everything!
       My first taste of 4 dimensional reality!   

AND NOW A SHORT (ISH) POEM:

UNTIL NEXT TIME, AMIGOES!
LUV N’ LITE N’ LARFTER
PAUL BURA

*****

BURA’S BLURB (FEB 2010)
HELLO AMIGOES!!!
AND A BELATED HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Wow, talk about trying to let go the sticky tentacles of Tiscali: my previous broadband provider: I wrote to them, phoned them and phoned them and phoned them, again and again and again, STILL they kept on sending me bills. A word of warning: DO NOT GIVE YOUR CREDIT CARD DETAILS let your bank handle it (Direct Debit) otherwise they’ll keep on milking it.   Don’t misunderstand me, I’ve no truck with the Indian nation whose operators are all Indian, but when you can’t understand the accent (more times than not) and then realise that you have just got through all the way to bloody INDIA! Goodness gracious me! And so much scarlet tape to cut through into the bargain, well. And then there’s Kent Social Services. I’ve been a virtual prisoner in my own home since I moved back to ol’ Hernia bay. You see, in Wales they put up steps to my front door and a banister in just a few weeks, but in Kent…I’m still waiting after two months and me being a professional Raspberry Ripple (Cripple!) an all. Anyway, the deed is done and dusted. I’m here and I’m still waiting! (I think I’ve turned into a Grumpy Old Git!)

WHAT MOVES ME?

What moves me? I was listening to WOMAN’S HOUR (BBC RADIO.4.) and there was a segment of Scottish fiddle music and song, then an ancient Arabic stringed (didn’t catch the name of it) instrument and finally an Arabic song. The music blended, complimented and bounced off each other and brought me to a point of tears! (Soft sod, I hear you cry!)
         The song: IF YOU GO AWAY (lyrics by Rod McKuen music by the French singer/song-writer: Jacque Brell) gets me every time whether it’s sung by Shirley Bassey (my favourite), Dusty Springfield, Frank Sinatra,  Jacque Brell, Rod McKuen, Barbara Streisand …ANYONE! That sublime blend of music AND lyrics! (Soft sod!)        

        Classical music affects me the same way, especially Fantasia on a theme by Thomas Tallis by R. Vaughn Williams. Or Albinoni’s Adagio for organ and strings! Or Rodriguez: the Miles Davis version ofConcierto De Aranjuez. The list is endless.

 
        Children trying to explain things quite seriously with an earnestness that makes me weep. (Extremely soft sod!)
         Elderly couples holding hands.
         Some obscure TV commercials so obscure that I forget them, but they still bring on a tear.
         One poem by Christy Brown called ‘Sunday Visit’ (loads of other poems by this talented poet of course), but this one stands – in my view - head and shoulders above; A Cat Named Sloopy by Rod McKuen; and one poem of mine that I cannot for the life of me read through without a lump the size of a golf-ball forming titled: ‘Jew’. Oh there are others that I can just about handle without chocking, but ‘Jew’ I haven’t yet mastered!

        Faces in a crowd that for some reason make me well-up and I would embrace them if I could, thousands of faces on the street, in buses, that I would never see again! How bizarre is that? A face that I remember was on a ferry slicing its way through to Holland. A guy came into the lounge; he was olive-skinned with dark, slightly long, curly, shining hair. He had an extraordinary broad face with large, very dark, sad eyes. He came in, looked about him as if looking for somebody in particular and then went out. I never saw him again. Yet I still remember him to this day. This was 40-odd years ago. My heart went with him and my tears. I wonder why? (Humm: soft sod!)

        A simple worn, cloth-covered coat-hanger that belonged to my mother! Not a picture of her beloved face, but a simple cloth-covered coat-hanger. How weird is that?

        The Oak on the Plain an illustrated book. I wrote the original in long hand and you can still see the tear-stains on the MS. It was based on: ‘The Man Who Planted Trees’ by Jean Giono and ‘The Tree’ byGrey Owl, real name: Archibald Belaney. MY story was completely different but I was inspired to write it on the strength of the above named books!

Oh and odours, they conjure up so many powerful memories, but it’s not the odours in themselves that evoke such responses but the memories carried in them…or on them…or with them, even!
        The smell of Old Spice never fails to install the memory of a nurse - I was only 15 and she just 17 – (my first mature love) who used it as a perfume! When lights were out on our ward she used to creep in, and we’d spend half an hour snogging! (Lucky sod!)
         It was even better when I was eventually removed from that blasted plaster-bed!
       
       
        THE POEM:

ADIOS AMIGOES!

LUV N’ LITE N’ LARFTER
         
Paul Bura.