Tomb Of The Unknown Angler
ja
your photos always peel like churchbells from a far-off shire, pasties and mackeson, “the last of england”. your market town tackle-shops are worth their weight in practical nostalgia. france, for all its backwardness, has managed to lose its high street tackleshops. post-war shame, uprooting all signs of working class culture from the grande [...]
The Creel
dp
it is the desolate diana and the scene from the planet of the carps in the photo, they are one and the same. the barren wastes of crown land in the winter stalked by teenage prescription drug asbos in reebok classics with no laces, the original midnight baitrunners. your hat trick of [...]
Blue Hearts, Lonely Moons
ja
peter sarstedt stole your baitbox. sandy denny just put him up to it. is that the desolate diana in the photo, or the last scene from planet of the carps? it sent the shivers through me, carp with glass eyes swim in there don’t they? bob’s mate had a 26, (or was [...]
Who Knows Where The Time Goes
dp
the sun went down on summer isle and drew the north wind down from the pole. put the commons deep in the mud, up to their gills in the passing season’s silt. the wicker basket men took off their masks and headed for the one doored pub, fiddles tucked under their elbows, readying [...]
Pumpkin Eaters
ja
your carp is the last surviving spitfire from the battle of atlantis. gawain’s supper caught on a green knight. mine are just baby-boomers, demobbed galicians whose scales fell from their eyes. mine skulk in boilie-bunkers, fox-holes and nutrabait nuthouses; yours do night-school ballistics, shooting out lights and littering their lake bed with burned out mitchell [...]
The Wicker Men
dp
i used to think your french carp were zeppelins when you held them by the tail and watched them creep back into the water in the beam of a torch. searchlight phantoms. now i know they’re the ghosts of your juggernaut drivers as they cross the country on a cocktail of pastis [...]
After The Goldrush
ja
another hair-triggered memory, another johnny’s jaunt whistling past my ear: romney marsh, royal military. if constable had owned a camera he’d’ve taken that photo. i’d cancel my exile if you lived dyke-side. pike-bung mini-breaks with the smuggler rod on the romney hythe&dymchurch shuttle, revenge a wasted childhood, begging on bleeding knees for my old [...]
Romney Marsh
dp
lots of pair of wellies with white socks turned over washed up at
dungeness. they walk around by themselves when the moon comes up.
you can see the tilley lamps rocking in the breeze.
didn’t come straight home, too many roads to tramp. followed the
line of the old royal military canal, a tree lined, lily [...]
Brooke Bond Beach Heads
ja
your seascapes would make even captain cat’s eyes get up and walk. dungeness was a legend of my childhood. there were men down my road who went there sundays, leaving me guessing with my breadflake and hooks to nylon. men of dungeness, powerstations in donkey jackets, long green heave-ho rods and twelve [...]
Space Shuttle
dp
back from dungeness, the lost beach, the largest area of shingle in the world along with cape canaveral, a post apocalyptic edward hopper vision in a corner of kent long forgotten by the mapmaker. the first sight of the power station chills the guts – a ticking time bomb, a concrete tumor lost [...]
Caught by the River