Tuesday, 26 August 2008

Fucked off with the place?


Wigan is a large town in Greater Manchester (wiki) Full of junk, high on speed, fucked on beak and zonked on weed. Fucking hell, what a town I live in. I pass a kiddo every morning with his bottle of cider and a mixture. Stood looking into the canal. Used to say “hello” to me but not now. That was a month or so back. But now he’s gone. Away with fairies. Away with the scrotes. Found some woman crashed out in a hedge down that canal path one morning. Asleep to the world with just the nettles for company. Picked up her bag. It was heavy with three bottles of cider. Cheap at half the price. Three for the price of one. Does the math work out? Who cares – she didn’t.

Pass the scrotes on mountain bikes at three in the morning, screaming and shouting and hustling and jibbing. Outside the Wigan Substance misuse drop-in centre. A centre that is housed in the old red brick building that once housed the mining and technical college. The mines are gone - the technicians with them. Kids get record results but it doesn’t show. Maybe it’s just the peacock parade around this town and it’s new shopping centre. And the fucks and blinds that come from such young lips and their appalling fashion sense – of a fashion. And those that are genuinely clever fuck off to university never to return. For there is no reason to return. This and other towns that are on their arse. And as the councilors and bigwigs and football chairman and industry do’ers and givers and “all is well” report the press that is in their pocket and the police toil away or so we are told as we never see them. Whilst in their bedrooms the young and not so young communicate in a language unknown to man if not msn and facebook their mate’s mum and threaten and bully and act the Mr Big and they are not big.

This town isn’t big. It is small. Small-minded and sad. There are worse places we are told. Are there?

Lon Chaney: Man of a thousand faces

Lon Chaney was born on the 1st of April 1886 in Colorado; he went on to become one of the greatest character actors the silver screen has ever seen. He was the definite Phantom of the Opera and played the hunchback Quasimodo to perfection. He did his own stage makeup and earned the nickname “The man of a thousand faces."

This is his story.

Lon Chaney was born to deaf and dumb parents and was only able to communicate with them by sign language. The other children in the neighbourhood mocked Lon’s parents and he was so distressed by his parents suffering that he refused to speak until he was 8yrs old. For the rest of his life he sympathised with the downtrodden and afflicted and he was at his best portraying misfits and outcasts. At around 10yrs old he quit school to care for his bed ridden mother and to pass the time he would do pantomime to entertain her. His ability to mimic other people stood him in good stead throughout the rest of his life.

He got a job as a tourist guide taking people around Pikes Peak a local landmark. He went on to work in a variety of others roles including decorator, draper and cowboy!

He eventually got a job in theatre albeit painting stage scenery after his older brother had pulled some strings at the Colorado Springs Opera House where he worked.
Inspired by the many acts he saw he eventually went on tour as an actor in a play he had co-written with his brother, he was 19-years-old.
Three years later he fell head over heels in love and married 16yr old Cleva Creighton a singer with the troupe. In 1906, their only child Creighton Chaney was born; he also enjoyed success in the movies in later life under the screen name Lon Chaney Jnr.
The next few years were really tough for the family and the marriage began to fall apart. It all came to a head in a dramatic fashion when Cleva attempted suicide on stage, drinking the poisonous mercury bio chloride. She survived the attempt but her vocal chords were so badly damaged that she would never sing again.

It was a terrible scandal and it ended in divorce in 1915, sadly little Creighton was taken away and put into a home “The Home for Children of Divorce & Disaster”
Lon turned away from the theatre and sought work in the fast growing world of silent movies. A friend got him a job as a bit part actor at Universal Studios and a legend was born. In those days bit part players would hang around waiting for work in a “bullpen” Assistant directors would come to these pens and ask if anybody could play a particular role. Lon quickly learned to adapt to different roles and guarantee himself more work; his legendary makeup box enabled him to change like a chameleon.

His son Lon Chaney Jnr explained how this came about “He used to sit in this bullpen and they would come and shout `Anybody here play a college boy? ` and Dad would say `Yeah I can play a college kid` sometimes they would shout `Anybody play a Chinaman?` and nobody ever could so Dad got together a makeup kit and the next time they asked for a Chinaman he would shout `Yeah I can do it` and he would use his makeup box. That way he got to appear in three or four pictures a day”

Lon also got married again in November 1915 to a chorus girl Hazel Hastings and Chaney Jnr left the children’s home to live with them. Over the next three years he appeared in over a hundred films but he was only being paid $5 a day. Eventually he approached the studio manager, William Sistrom, and asked for a raise of $125 a week and a five year contract. Sistrom looked at Chaney and said “I know a good actor when I see one but looking at you I only see a washout” Understandably upset Chaney walked off the set and the family struggled over the next few months. Chaney returned to menial jobs to make ends meet and that could have been the end of his film career but for the intervention of western actor William S. Hart who cast Chaney as a villain in one of his pictures. Chaney’s career really took off after this and in 1919 he excelled in the film “The Miracle Man” when he played a cripple. His next major success came with “The Penalty” in which Chaney played a legless criminal. It was in this film that Chaney displayed his almost masochistic approach to acting but it wouldn’t be his last. In order to portray the amputee Chaney designed a leather harness which bound his feet against his thighs and enabled him to walk on his knees. The pain was excruciating and cut circulation to his legs resulting in broken blood vessels.

Then in 1923 came the part that would propel Chaney to worldwide fame, Quasimodo in “The Hunchback of Notre Dame” For this role Chaney wore a rubber hump weighing 70lbs. This was attached to a harness that made it impossible to stand erect. Doctors warned him not to wear the harness for more than a few minutes as it would cause irreparable damage but he often wore it for over an hour at a time. He suffered with back pain for the rest of his life. He also wore a flesh covered rubber suit covered with animal hair and the heat was almost unbearable, Chaney was again suffering for his art.

Phantom of the Opera
Arguably his greatest ever role was as the terrifying Erik in “The Phantom of the Opera”(1925) He took makeup artistry to a new level and created a monster that had women fainting in the cinema aisles. The scene where the girl (Mary Philbin) creeps up behind the phantom and removes his mask is one of the most terrifying moments in movie history. Chaney pushed hairpins up his nose to widen his nostrils, wore false teeth that cut his gums and had wires protruding to pull back his lips. He also had celluloid discs in his mouth to distort his cheekbones. His place in movie immortality was secured.

In 1927 in appeared in a film that would be the Holy Grail to film enthusiasts throughout the world “London after Midnight” the most sought after lost classic of all time. All we have today are a few stills which give a tantalising glimpse of what may have been Chaney’s finest hour. Enthusiasts still search for a copy of this film today.
He was now a superstar and was up there with the other stars of the 1920s Fairbanks, Chaplin, Pickford, Valentino & Swanson. A popular saying of the day was “Don’t step on it, it may be Lon Chaney!”


London after Midnight

He had the world at his feet but he remained a shy quiet man who shunned publicity and liked the simple things in life like cooking and photography. He always kept his makeup secrets to himself and even had bodyguards watch over his makeup box while he was on set. Sadly it was all to end a mere three years later. Chaney began to have trouble with his throat in 1929 and whilst filming “Thunder” he got a piece of artificial snow stuck in his throat and this aggravated the condition. Chaney had an operation to remove his tonsils but it continued to trouble him. Then in 1930 he was given a part in his first talking picture. He was filled with dread as were many other silent stars, not surprising given the amount of careers that were ended by the “talkies” He needn’t have worried he was a success and he even imitated five other speaking parts in the movie, an old woman, a ventriloquist and his dummy, a girl and even a parrot! It was to be his last film.
His throat was getting worse and he saw specialists who discovered that he had bronchial cancer. He found it increasingly difficult to talk and his last spoken words were to ask for a cigarette. In a bizarre twist he spent the last days of his life as he had begun it, communicating by sign language. On the 6th of August 1930 he indicated to his nurse that he was going and died from a throat haemorrhage. He was 47yrs old.
MGM studios stopped production and a period of silence was ordered. Fans all over the world mourned his passing. He was interred in the Forest Lawn Memorial Park in California and his crypt to this day remains unmarked.

Lon Chaney Man of a Thousand Faces

Tony Topping

7/7


Threw a lucky 7
and it blew you off your feet
who would have guessed two 7’s
wins a prize to God, to meet.

Such a fucking waste
such a fucking crime
such a pointless way to die
away ahead of time.

Just on the way to work
to earn an honest crust
now just a mere statistic
of politically spun dust.
Dirrrrtyoldman

Where there’s muck…..


Brass bands, just what is the point? I could never work it out but finding myself holed up in Kirkby Lonsdale on a Sunday afternoon I found the constant parping and oompahing strangely soothing. How very British: the walking day, the smiling policeman and the furtive traffic wardens, the chippy, the dodgy burger van and the kaleidoscope of umbrellas going up and then down as the briefest glimpse of sunshine appears.

I can see why Father Jack likes it but it must be an old person’s domain. Plus brass bands must almost exclusively be a Northern thing. You can’t imagine hordes of pensioners descending on say Swindon or Basingstoke to listen to a load of ruddy faced gentlemen and big bosomed, frilly knickered fat girls puffing and blowing away into a piece of metal. And as we retired to the pub we got the full SP as to the kind of person who performs in a brass band, as they sat there in their team huddle on the next table nursing their lemonades. They always wear their official band blazers as well which only come in three fetching colours: maroon, brown or green. Eurgh! Anyway, let’s meet the band….

1) Middle aged Mable. Chubby ‘girl’ with long hair in pig tails and wears glasses but has gone beyond that age where women should have long hair. Think that horrible Bunty off the appalling Catherine Tate Show. Has never blown anything other than an instrument and would have no life if it wasn’t for the band. Wears mid-length skirts coupled with hideous tights and it’s just as well you can’t see all the way up as David Bellamy appears to be living in there. Excessively loud and has extensive knowledge as to the standard of buffet pork pies at Wetherby summer fete.

2) The Sergeant Major. The main man, nobody told him the war was over. Treats every performance like a military operation and a victory and bitches incessantly about those buffoons from the next village. Fond of real ale and possess a surfeit of facial hair which has been groomed since birth. Has a wife twice as fat as him but never lets her out, she spends all her time in the kitchen making cheese from her own breast milk.

3) The Clark Kent. Every band must have one, a clean bespectacled fresh faced (well OK them in possession of an ample expanse of facial acne) youth who has somehow got roped into it while the rest of his class mates at school are out happy slapping and bumming teenage mums. Wanks incessantly, usually over 1) above. He will probably turn into a decent boozy, football loving when his voice finally breaks, at which point he’ll be 32.

4)The DS Kid. I can’t possibly reveal what DS stands for, you’ll have to work it out but again a staple member of each troop, looking smart as fuck grinning anyway in his full band regalia.

5) The fat controller. Senile benefactor who spends all week by wandering around his country estate making ‘pom pom pom pom’ noises in anticipation of watching a load of oddballs wearing shit ties invade market squares on a Sunday afternoon when most sane people are in the pub

Let it Fry















The planet’s over heating
and I couldn’t give a shit
I’m sick of don’t do that,
fed up of must do this.

I’m tired of recycling
and your different fucking bins
Don’t put it in that one,
separate the glass from tins.

Turn your heating down,
fuck you I’ve turned mine up
and I’ve left on all my lighting
just to piss you off.

So save your fucking preaching
cause I’ve bigger fish to fry
The planets fine and so am I
fuck off, curl up and die.

Dirrrrtyoldman

Pointless endings

You could talk about it
but you’d rather knife him first.
Is it due to ignorance,
or is it unquenched thirst?

To see his life’s blood spill away
and run into the drain,
another pointless slaughter,
another Mothers pain.

Another young life ended
before it had begun.
One more headline story,
soon forgotten and soon gone.

The miracle of life
so needlessly cut down,
because you chose to end it
and slash life to the ground.

Too late to talk about it
too late to put it right.
Another young soul lost,
to his final sleep of life.
Dirrrrtyoldman

Beatles Day - A Celebration




Well it had to happen didn’t it? A day dedicated to the four young lads who shook the world. So on the morning of the inaugural day to celebrate the genius of The Beatles I awoke determined to embrace the concept of Scouseness and Beatleness in it’s entirety.

To start with I imagined how I would feel if I was suffering intolerable heroin withdrawal symptoms. What better way to understand a Scouser? I reasoned that I would be tremulous, experiencing terrible gastro intestinal disturbances, my nose would be running like a bastard tap, my levels of irritability would be intense and that my pupils would be pinned to fuck. Scouse as you like eh?

This didn’t really feel authentic enough though, so I got dressed and left the house and headed into Liverpool on the train. Fortunately I had forward planned the attire part of the day to perfection. So it was on with the Lacoste shell suit and sovereign rings and away I went. All was going well as I hid in the train bogs drinking my white lightening cider from a polystyrene cup and avoiding paying my fare. That was until I got to Lime Street that is, and then the stewards got me. Luckily I said that “I ownleee gorron a Edgggge Hkkkkill whaccckkkk” and so only had to pay a single. As I swaggered off the station pleased as punch with myself I headed to the Liverpool Echo head office in Old Hall Street to buy my “mop top wig” which was retailing for just £5. How could anyone doubt my belonging to the town now the mop top wig was in tow?

It was at this point that I realised that I needed to up the stakes if I was really going to get down with the Scousers and the Beatle fans, to celebrate. So I took the last swig of cider from my cup and then placed it on the ground. Within 30 minutes I’d collected over £6 and I’d made contact with a local unemployed smack head who assured me that he could cut me in on a £10 bag. So, full of smack I wandered the Liverpool streets looking for Beatles devotees whilst feeling like a proper Scouser.

So much so that I initiated the next ingredient of my assimilation plan, I mugged an old lady. That’s right, I slapped the old duffer across the face and snatched her purse, well when in Rome eh? Would you believe it, another £10 bag in the old dears purse and the works to complete the mission. No fucking money in it though, just a bus pass and a love letter from 1945 that I used to dab the blood up after I’d dug for a vein. I never knew being a Scouser could be such fun.

As I staggered further into the city, onto Williamson Square, I came across a mass of people. Surely these are the devotees that I travelled so far to be with. Alas no, and I ended up spending the rest of the afternoon sat with the members of the Williamson Square Jobcentre Plus crew in the Beluga Bar. Not exactly Beatles, but very Scouse, and seeing Ricky Tomlinson on the telly with the same wig at least validated my decision. There was no need for the tribute band on the ferry though, fucking gash.

Shortly after I blacked out and sometime later I woke up being dragged into the back of a Police van naked and with come running down the back of my legs. Internally I didn’t feel too uncomfortable and the flashbacks since would suggest I was complicit.

So there you go, being a Scouser and a Beatles fan is indeed “boss” and I look forward to celebrating the day again next year.

Words hand crafted by adopted Scouser,
Roy “Carpenter” Smythe