JAMAICA by JOSEPH RIDGWELL (2016)

Back in the 1940s Herbert Huncke – New York thief, hustler, junkie, prostitute and inspiration to William Burroughs and later Jack Kerouac – would lock himself in toilet cubicles off Forty-second Street and, when not partaking in other activities, would scrawl his memoirs, poetry and short stories into tiny notebooks or on whatever else came to hand.

In and out of prison and into his 81^st year Huncke was still testing positive for, among other things, heroin and cocaine. It’s an extremely glib way of putting it – and not an ideal lifestyle choice - but Huncke lived on his own terms, by his wits, and by all accounts, by his gift of the gab.

The escape from the drab and predictable nine-to-five existence, of knowing there must be something better out there – somewhere, anywhere – is touched on a lot in Joe Ridgwell’s work and again in his new short story, Jamaica, published by Pig Ear Press. It’s typical Ridgwell: dreams and schemes cloaked in a wobbly cockney swagger. He’s a storyteller. You get the impression Joe could, like Huncke, talk anyone out of their last tenner. Well, at least try. 

What makes Jamaica particularly special is the way it’s been published. It’s not all about the presentation of course but it goes a long way. Pig Ear have done a beautiful job. These aren’t words on a bog roll, shirt shelves or even a piss and blood stained notebook. It’s like a hand-crafted passport and in the few minutes it takes to read will take you somewhere better until, like in the story, reality kicks you back in the balls. 

Jamaica by Joseph Ridgwell is published in a ludicrously limited-edition by Pig Ear Press. Priced £6 with free P&P to anywhere in the world. 

PAPER & INK #7 - THE HANGOVER ISSUE

The Independent today shared a post from Letters of Note which highlighted the etiquette expected in 9^th Century China if one got sloshed and acted inappropriately in polite society.  The miscreant would copy the following and deliver with head suitably bowed:

“Yesterday, having drunk too much, I was intoxicated as to pass all bounds; but none of the rude and coarse language I used was uttered in a conscious state. The next morning, after hearing others speak on the subject, I realised what had happened, whereupon I was overwhelmed with confusion and ready to sink into the earth with shame.”

Moving on 1160 years and the seventh issue of lit zine Paper & Ink is themed around the demon drink and the dreaded hangover. It is difficult to imagine many of these renegade writers of poetry and prose issuing a formal apology but they offer far more imagination and insight than the usual “you shoulda seen us last night…” tales.

Any mag featuring Joseph Ridgwell and u v ray is worth the investment and Cockney boy Ridgwell’s ‘A Two Day Old Pony’ short story does not feature anything of the equine kind. Ray’s excerpt from his soon to be published stylized new novel Black Cradle picks the beneath the scab of the human existence as only he can. There are plenty of other names within the 40 pages with Vicki Jarrett’s ‘Schrodinger’s Hangover’ sticking in my mind.

As editor Martin Appleby states in his introduction, “After reading this issue you will probably feel like you have been for a night on the booze with Charles Bukowski, but trust me, you will not regret a single second.”

Martin is correct. All this talk of booze is making me thirsty so I’m gonna pour myself a beer, you can pick up a copy of Paper & Ink for £2.50 here.

WEEKEND '61/'62 - FROM WALTHAMSTOW TO THE FLAMINGO - by DOUGLAS RIDGWELL

My thanks to Douglas Ridgwell for below kindly reminiscing about a typical weekend in the early 60s – he can’t now remember the exact year – when he’d leave home in Walthamstow, East London on a Friday, head to a local dance, cross town into Soho for the Flamingo jazz all-nighter, and still had a Sunday packed with potential. I love the way Douglas captures both local history and the excitement and innocence of those days…

Have spent all week painting yet another Taylor Walker pub down Bow way, called the Bombay Grab (funny name), really dirty. Loads of pubs, loads of work, money not bad, 5/3d an hour. But now it’s the weekend, got to make the most of it. First a walk down Walthamstow High Street/market. They say it’s over one mile long, I wouldn’t know. What I do know is it has got one public library, an indoor swimming pool with public slipper baths, two schools, and a large variety theatre, two churches, two cinemas, two pubs, seven bespoke tailors, and over 200 stalls. 

As I walk down the market I pass the Sarsaparilla stall, Brimley’s broken biscuit stall, Manze’s live eel stall, and Curlie’s tie and shirt stall. I decide to buy a black slim jim tie for tonight. Look in Stanley’s menswear, he’s got some great American button down shirts, but they are a bit pricey. Bump into a couple of mates coming out of the slipper baths, boy do they look clean! Arrange to meet them at seven o’clock, Chingford Station Buffet, for early drinks.

Go home have tea and get ready, Mum likes my tie. Get train to Chingford, have a Tollemach in the Buffet and then walk up the hill to the Royal Forest Hotel with its dancehall at the rear. They usually have a Trad jazz band, don’t mind Trad if it’s someone like Bruce Turner or Alex Welsh. Down about four pints of Youngers Tartan Bitter and have three hours of fun. Band is good with a good singer. The dance ends about 11pm and a few of us decide to make our way to the West End, the night is still young.

As usual we head for the Flamingo, there’s plenty of jazz clubs but the Flamingo is tops. To get in you have to go down a dark staircase leading to a basement and immediately you find yourself in a ‘sea of red’, everything is painted red, Heavenly Hell, great. There is a large dance area filled mostly with American GI’s, some of whom are dancing in their overcoats in about 85 degrees heat, how cool is that?

               

In front of the stage there are rows of chairs, where I sit and take in the music, and oh what music! Any given weekend you may hear, Ronnie Ross dueting with the awesome Tubby Hayes, or Phil Seaman making the drums talk or you might see Allan Ganley, Bill Le Sage, Don Rendell, Tony Kinsey, Dick Heckstall-Smith, the list is endless. It’s all just marvellous and all over too soon.

When the music ends we make our way up the red staircase to the street, the daylight hits me like a Kodak flash bulb. What to do now? Wander around Soho until the afternoon Blues sessions start? Go down Petticoat Lane, see some early bartering? Go back home to Walthamstow and have a Sunday hair of the dog in the White Swan. So many options and there is still Sunday night.

               

Upstairs and the Red Lion, Leytonstone I think, good music and lots of girls dancing around their handbags. Next week I might go to Ronnie Scott’s, he’s got the Bobby Jaspar Quartet coming over from Belgium, heard they are very good, can’t wait!

Douglas Ridgwell

Walthamstow

Cheers to cult underground literary fiend Joseph Ridgwell for brokering the above deal with his old man. Joe’s latest book, Burrito Deluxe, a fantastic road novel with two buddies looking for freedom and the lost elation and encountering a bizarre host of characters – a one-legged man, naked yoga practitioners, a wizard with half a beard – like a cross between On The Road and The Mighty Boosh, is out now, published by Leamington Books (check the deservedly fine reviews there).  

RIDGWELL STORIES by JOSEPH RIDGWELL (2015)

Ridgwell Stories is Joe Ridgwell’s first collection of short stories since Oswald’s Apartment back in 2010. Since then we’ve had numerous editions of poetry, novellas and individual tales but as much as I like Ridgwell in all formats, this is my preferred way to enjoy his talents.

The dozen episodes here contain Joe’s familiar scenarios: boozing in the last of London’s dingy pubs; sexual encounters; exotic, far-flung locations; and chemical romances. The search for the lost elation. The difference this time around, in addition to the improved writing (he’s dropped some of the extraneous words), is Joe’s now spent so long laying around in the sun it has frazzled his brain. His imagination has gone haywire. There were moments I was concerned for his well-being; the perverted bastard.  

The book is complimented by woodcuts from Jose Pepe Arroyo, the cover being a praying mantis wearing suspenders to illustrate one of the stories. That's kinda what we're dealing with. I won’t spoil anything by revealing too much about the rest of the content, suffice to say Ridgwell Stories reads like a fucked-up series of Tales of the Unexpected. Oh, and a raft of well-known names populate the pages in ways which might not amuse them but tickled me no end. In particular I’m never going to be able to think of either Petula Clark or Bob Monkhouse in the same light ever again.  

It’s all tremendous stuff, as much fun to read as presumably Joe had writing it with a cold beer by his side. Ridgwell Stories is published in three ludicrously limited editions by Bottle of Smoke Press. Get on it pronto. 

EAST LONDON RENAISSANCE PRESENT A CHILD OF THE JAGO - THURSDAY 20th MARCH 2014, E17

People of the capital, the East London Renaisance’s A Child Of The Jago event is almost upon us. Thursday 20^th March 2014 is the date. Put it in your diary, scrawl it on the kitchen calendar, key  a reminder in your phone, insert a new page in your Filofax, tattoo it to the forehead of a family pet, just don’t forget it.

The Orford House Social Club in Walthamstow will be transformed into a hotbed of underground culture including poetry, art, music, dancing and jellied eels.

There’ll be readings for ears by local boy made good/bad/ugly, Joseph Ridgwell, launching his new A Child Of The Jago collection; soul poet Tim Wells will testify from his Keep The Faith; editor of PUSH Joe England will stir the word pot; and one of the most exciting literary talents out there, Michael Kennaghan, will twist your melon. Your eyes will be agog at art work by Martin Ridgwell, Jose Arroyo and Lisa Crudduck; glamorous retro adult cabaret and vaudeville films. Your gastronomic senses will burst at a cockney buffet supplied by the legendary Manze's Pie and Mash Shop (now given listed-status on Walthamstow High Street where its stood – almost untouched by the modern world – since 1929) and, of course, there is a bar stocked with booze at social club prices. And finally, Lord Monkey Picks and His Super Sounds (that’ll be me then) will be spinning the platters the matter to add some soulful strut to proceedings.

All this gaiety starts at 7pm. Get down there as early as you can as I think most of the “event” kinda stuff is scheduled for the first half of the evening before the night descends into total debauchery. Disregard the flyer where it says admission is four quid, it's FREE.

It'll be a literary event like no other. Don't forget.  

See also Monkey Picks interview with Joseph Ridgwell.

A CHILD OF THE JAGO: THE JOSEPH RIDGWELL INTERVIEW

As a much published writer, Joseph Ridgwell’s novels, short stories and poems have muscled in and roped off a corner of the underground literary scene and claimed it as its own. His latest book of poesy, A Child Of The Jago, finds Ridgwell in nostalgic mood as he returns to his native East London and reflects on family, relationships and a disappearing culture. With his usual bolshiness and bravado turned down a notch this warm collection is probably his best yet.

As a long-time champion of his work here on Monkey Picks I thought it time to collar Mr. Ridgwell for a chinwag about his new book, poetry, the East End and the curse of the drinking classes.  

Who are you? Explain yourself young man.

Ha, who am I? Fuck knows. You know, Monkey, each morning I get up and look in the mirror and this strange, somewhat desperate looking face leers back at me. Maybe I’m the devil’s footman, maybe I don’t even exist? Word on the lit-vine is that I’m the creation of some millionaire author living in Bermuda, who getting sick of writing safe formula mainstream pap, decided to create me to fulfill his or her inner crazy screwball artistic side? A sort of literary Frankenstein if you like. Or could be I’m just a kid from a small council estate in East London who one day decided he wanted to be a writer and my doodlings are a result of such an out of kilter audacity. A careers advisor once suggested floristry as a suitable occupation for someone with a constitution as delicate, sensitive and refined as mine. I remember walking out of that office with a very confused look adorning my boat. 

I can imagine. This new book of yours, A Child Of The Jago, what's it all about?

The Jago is about my childhood growing up in East London in the 1970’s & 80’s and contemporary London, focusing on lost communities, culture, and a certain way of life that has all but disappeared. Where did all the indigenous Cockney’s go? It’s like they’ve been wiped off the face of history.

Actually, what triggered all this Cockney nostalgia and reflections were two incidents that occurred in my life simultaneously. One, I was posted to an office in Commercial Road, in the heart of the old East End and Jack the Ripper territory. The other was that I began dating a young Swedish girl who resided in a squat in Bethnal Green. Thus, after being away from the East End for decades, I was suddenly spending everyday there.

The job I had at the time was a cushy number, I operated like a lone wolf amongst the massed ranks of frosty adults feigning efficiency. Attached to three different locations nobody knew for certain where I was at any given time. Naturally, I took advantage of this anomaly and exploited it mercilessly. I came in late, left early, took entire days off, and took two to three hour lunches on a regular basis, sometimes never even coming back. I’d go to the White Hart in Whitechapel or the Pride of Spitalfields just off Brick lane for my daily constitutionals, and afterwards go to Kossoff’s for a salt beef roll, mustard and sliced gherkin, and take a stroll around the East End. It was during these mellow interludes, why the rest of the mugs were hard at it, that all the memories came rushing back. Visiting Petticoat Lane for apple fritters on a Sunday, trips to Hoxton Market, Manze for Pie & Mash, looking at the animals in Club Row, (there was a lion there once) etc. What struck me was that although the place was almost unrecognisable to how it had been as a child, if you looked carefully signs of the old way of life were all around.

But what the devil is a Jago?

The title for the collection was taken from a novel by Arthur Morrison of the same name. What Arthur thinks of me nicking his title is unknown as he’s long dead and almost forgotten. In Morrison’s novel the Jago is an imaginary area of the East End, close to an old rookery in what was then and still is, Bethnal Green. It you haven’t read it, check it out.

This sojourn in the East End also encouraged me to write a historical novel about the East End called, The Jago, which is a companion to A Child of the Jago. The novel is currently gathering dust in a forgotten drawer so if publishers are reading this and fancy a bit if it, then don’t hesitate to get in contact. Oh, and by the way, it’s only the best book written about the East End ever.

A Child of the Jago is full of poems. Who wants to read poetry? Isn’t that a hard sell?

Poetry, in my opinion, is often unfairly maligned. Think of poet and an image of an effete looking man, wearing a scarf or a cardigan, and sporting a mangy beard springs to mind, (wait up, that’s me) or some mad lesbian with crazed hair. Or all those really boring poems, especially WWI poetry, that we were forced to digest at school. Actually school is the problem, the traumatic experience puts people off for life. Then, there’s all the really bad poetry, for every good poet, there’s a million bad ones. Then there’s mainstream poetry, mostly safe, well written bits of nothingness. So, for any lit fiend looking for something a little different, a little dangerous, a little counter-culture he’s got to do a little bit of digging, a little bit of seeking to unearth anything worth reading. However, if the fiend does take the time to scrape under the surface it can be a worthwhile sometimes life changing experience. Added to this is the fact that poetry can be read fast, a collection easily read in under an hour, and in an age where time is precious poetry should have a far higher profile than is currently does. 

What makes a good poem and what distinguishes it from simply being a few sentences of prose cut into tiny lines?

I think a good poem should leave a lasting imprint on the brain. It has to have one or more killer lines that the reader will not be able to easily forget. Where are the Rebels is a good example, not necessarily the poem but at the very least the title. People might say that anyone can do that, write a line that sticks in the readers mind for years afterward. My answer to that is go on then. Byron's So, We’ll Go No More a Roving; Keats’s La Belle Dames San Merci; Burns’ A Red, Red Rose; Bukowski’s The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over the Hill’s; Li Po’s A Quiet Night Thought; these are all classic examples of what I mean, but there are thousands of others. One of my personal fav’s is Baudelaire’s To A Creole Lady. The line – “Under a canopy of crimson trees” - is unforgettable. Also Swinburn’s Love and Sleep, Bukowski’s I Saw A Tramp Last Night, etc, etc...Keep digging fiends.

One of your earlier collections, you mentioned then, was Where Are The Rebels?, now you're asking where is the rag and bone man, the egg man, the pools man and the Hofmeister Bear. Are you going soft on us?

If anything my life philosophy is hardening. At the moment I’m going through an extreme anti-work phase. I read an essay by US anarchist, Bob Black, the gist of which rails at employment in all forms. Subsequently my latest novel is about work and the misery it creates. Of course I’m sure some work is very rewarding, like say the work of a marine biologist, or a classical conductor, but for the rest of us work is at best tolerable and at worse mind-numbing pointlessness. Unfortunately for those of us, the majority, the only option to being a wage slave is starving to death in the gutter.

And the rebels? Are you still searching for them?

I’m still wondering where they are, for they have to be out there somewhere. At the present time, however, I don’t see many. Life is short, enjoy it while you can. Get drunk, take drugs, be promiscuous, don’t work too hard, go dancing. Retain your inner child. Life makes people hard and they begin to take things way too seriously. Most jobs are utter nonsense so treat them as such.

Your books are published as limited editions by small independent publishers like Blackheath Books and Kilmog Press. They're lovingly and carefully produced; not least Jago with illustrations by your cousin Martin Ridgwell. When will we be able to buy your books at train stations and airports?

I’ve been fortunate enough to be published by a handful of maverick publishers who all produce beautiful artisan craft books. These are books you will never see for sale at train stations or airports. Sometimes I ruminate on why the mainstream has consistently rejected my highly stylised Cockney capers until it is pointed out to me that I never submit my work to any mainstream publishers. Maybe I’ll start doing that and discover that I’m discovered and shortly after this discovery my books, no longer beautiful, but mass produced pulp, will appear for sale in train stations and airports. Realistically though, I fear that I’m going to have to die a tragic death before anyone outside a select circle of sordid lit fiends, takes notice of what I’ve been trying to do for the last fifteen years. 

One of those “sordid lit fiends”, Joe England, editor of litzine PUSH, gives you much credit in encouraging him to launch his mag, to which you contribute each issue. What is your role?

My role, if I had a role, was very small. Mister England got in touch and mentioned that he was thinking of starting a litzine. He then asked what I thought of such an idea. My response was to tell him to, ‘Just go and do it,’ which he took on board and within a couple of weeks the phenomenon that is now Europe’s best-selling litzine was born.

How important in a digital age is it for writers to have their work available in a physical format?

I think it is more important than ever for writers to have their work available in a physical format. I mean, what if we run out of electricity? Where would all those tech geeks be then? Sometimes you have to see the bigger picture and avoid a herd mentality, which is what most people working in today’s media are unable to do.

What kind of soiree have you planned to launch A Child Of The Jago?

No soiree Monkey, this is going to be what can only be described as “a do”. It might bankrupt me financially, but I believe that when embarking on such things, you might as well do them with a bit of style. The evening will feature Joe England, Tim Wells, Pepe Arroyo, Michael Keenaghan and Martin Ridgwell. Alongside readings there will be an art exhibition, book and art sales, and music supplied by Lord Monkey Picks and His Super Sounds. There will also be films of old vaudeville acts and some adult cabaret.  No minors allowed. Canape sized pie and mash, jellied eels, cockles, whelks and winkles from Manze’s Pie and Mash Shop also provided. If anyone reading this is interested the shindig will be held from 7pm on the 20th March 2014 at Orford House Social Club, Walthamstow, E17. 

A Child Of The Jago by Joseph Ridgwell is published by Kilmog Press.  

For more Ridgwell antics see Lost Elation.

KEEP ON PUSHING: PUSH NINE HITS THE STREETS

Last March I wrote about the launch of litzine PUSH, edited by West Ham United sufferer Joe England. Since then the issues have appeared quicker than Andy Carroll at the bar and vanished faster than Rio Ferdinand at a drugs test. Produced as strictly limited editions they’ve sold up almost immediately via England hawking them outside the Boleyn and to an eager mob of postal purchasers. There are no back copies to be found of a now collectable series.

Issue nine is out now with an increased print run, so if you look lively there may yet be time to bag a copy. And you should, it’s very good. A stable line-up of regular contributors – including England, Joseph Ridgwell, Michael Keenaghan and Carlton Burns – lay the foundations with a blend of literary tough tackling and deft poetic touches. They’re supplemented this time by a couple of familiar renegades and mavericks: Dan Fante and Adelle Stripe. A natter with Primal Scream biographer, Sham 69 narrator and street-smart factotum, Grant Fleming, provides accompaniment to the half-time pint.

Sixty pages bristling with sex, drugs and punk rock ‘n’ roll. And Trevor Brooking. Sign up here. 

THE FAMOUS ICE-CREAM RUN by JOE RIDGWELL (2013)

Bibliophiles of work by Joseph Ridgwell – and of the small independent press in general - will need to add Joe's new The Famous Ice-Cream Run to their collection.

This short story is a “lost chapter” from his novel The Buddha Bar, published by Blackheath Books back in 2011. New readers don’t need to know that book (although I recommend you read it anyway) as this mad breathless dash from boredom stands on its own and typifies much of Joe’s best writing.

It is only a few pages in length but attractively produced by 3:AM Press and available exclusively from Galley Beggar Press, priced £5. 

THE NEW WORD ON THE STREET: PUSH – ISSUE ONE

New literary fanzine PUSH might better be called KICK or WHACK such is the impact of its writing. Across 42 simply presented pages it features previously unknown writers like Jeff North, Carlton Burns, Ian Scanlon and some character Dirty Boozy Bastard, alongside names familiar to followers of the underground lit scene: Joseph Ridgwell, Michael Kennaghan, That Petrol Emotion’s Raymond Gorman and editor Joe England.

Sold at a giveaway price of £1.50 on the streets, outside football grounds and at gigs, the uncompromising prose isn’t for the faint hearted. Amalgamating pop culture, drug paranoia, rushed sex, football hooligans, and the threat of violence, it is just one glance away from a character in a John King novel. In the way football matches offer a valve to release pressure and tension, these writers hammer their words. By way of balance, the poems offer quieter contemplation and snatches of respite from the onslaught of tough fiction. I asked Joe England about his inspiration for launching a new mag.  

“I suppose PUSH had its origins for me when I recently discovered the wonderful world of the small press, firstly through Blackheath Books which I found out about through back-reading Monkey Picks, and then other doors opened up courtesy of Joseph Ridgwell. I love the whole approach of the small press, the limited print runs and the amazing quality in look and writing. I have a great appreciation of online litzine’s like Melissa Mann’s Beat The Dust, but online/e-reading just isn’t the same as holding a publication in your hands. Same reason why the experience of vinyl still cannot be beaten. What kicked this in motion was four weeks ago when I managed to get my hands on an issue of Kevin Williamson’s Rebel Inc. mag from 1993 and in an email conversation I mentioned to Joseph Ridgwell how the world needs a street lit fanzine right now as much as it did back then. ‘Do one then’, he said and within three weeks I was selling PUSH on the street and posting it to various parts of England, Ireland, Scotland, Sweden and Germany. At a football match the other week, witnessing a complete stranger engrossed in issue one was mind-blowing. If the same chap was reading a PDF file of PUSH on a Kindle the impact would have been soul-burning.”

Such is England’s rush of enthusiasm that issue two is already nearing completion. These things tend to succeed or fail on the strength of their editor. Despite making his name and being championed by the small press, Charles Bukowski constantly bitched against them in his letters, claiming they only lasted a couple of decent issues until editors lost their bite and accepted poor quality submissions from their mates or famous poets (even himself). If PUSH can keep the standard of its first issue (Keenaghan’s “Bent” is worth the cover price alone) there’ll be no complaints here and besides, it’s a heck of a lot better than reading the excuses from Sam Allardyce or Harry Redknapp in the match day programme.

Contact pushmag@email.com for ordering details or visit Joe England Books.

West Ham United legend Julian Dicks models PUSH.

THE BUDDHA BAR by JOSEPH RIDGWELL

Regular readers will know I like Joe Ridgwell’s work. If I had a friend down the pub who wrote stories and poems, I’d like to think they’d be like Joe’s. This isn’t to say he writes like a gibbering lunatic, just that he writes like a perceptive mate with a bunch of escapades to tell rather than someone who wants to talk about literature all night; and who’d want to be stuck with them?

I finished The Buddha Bar a couple of weeks back but it was only yesterday when reading Jack Kerouac’s recently published The Sea Is My Brother that it properly fell into place. Joe hits the same theme in 2011 as Jack did in 1943. In Jack’s book Bill Everhart meets Wesley Martin on a drunken night out and the next day, on a complete whim, leaves his job as a college lecturer and hitchhikes to catch a ship and become a merchant seaman. “Look what twenty four hours and a moment of determination can do!” he exclaimed. “I think I realize now why the pioneer spirit always guided me in my thinking – it’s because he’s free, Wes, free!”

It’s that same restless spirit and search for freedom that dominates The Buddha Bar: the need to explore and to experience, even if those experiences aren’t always positive. Similar to his debut The Last Days of The Cross, we find a wandering Joe boozing, birding and becoming infatuated with the type of woman your mother maybe warned you about. When the opportunity of investing in a small bar in Thailand is put to him by some crazy local he has the hots for, and has just met, he doesn’t need much persuading in handing over the last of his money. “If you don’t take it you will regret it for the rest of your life. Fuck it, I thought,” and the dream of being a big shot bar owner puffing on a cigar takes shape. Things of course don’t work out the way of dreams, they never do, but there are funny times, sad times, scary times and dreary times, and once they’re gone, they’re gone. And from that, there's no escape.

The Buddha Bar by Joseph Ridgwell is published as a limited edition by Blackheath Books.
The Sea Is My Brother by Jack Kerouac is published by Penguin.

THE BEAT ANTHOLOGY 2006-2009

Whenever I hear “Can I get a skinny latte?” I summon all my powers of restraint to prevent myself pummeling the head of said speaker against the counter time and time and time again. Fortunately it doesn’t happen often as I’d sooner drink my piss from an old tin cup than enter a coffee shop but it niggles away at the back of my brain with frightening regularity. So, not for the first time, I let out a little cheer and raised a fist in solidarity when Joseph Ridgwell writes “I hated coffee drinkers nearly as much as I was beginning to hate Juliette’s constant criticisms, walking around with their stupid paper cups like toddlers with comfort blankets”. Ahem, brother.

Ridgwell’s typically bolshy “Jim Morrison’s Grave” is one of ten short pieces and three interviews originally published on The Beat website and now collected in the latest book from Blackheath Press. Many of the writers I’ve championed in the past and they again come up with the goods. I like Melissa Mann’s detail in “Beetroot”, the muggy air and detachment in Jenni Fagan’s “The Acid Burn No Face Man” and the flouncing gracefulness in Andrew Gallix’s “Sweet Fanny Adams”. They all have strong individual voices expressed in completely different (and entertaining) ways.

Others skillfully scribing a few pages: Lee Rourke, Susan Tomaselli, Ben Myers, Steve Finbow, Chris Killen, Sean McGahey, Darran Anderson, and U.V. Ray.

The Beat Anthology 2006-2009 Edited by Sean McGahey is published by Blackheath Books, priced £7.50 (or limited edition with spoken word CD £10).

www.blackheathbooks.org.uk
www.the-beat.co.uk

OSWALD'S APARTMENT AND OTHER STORIES by JOSEPH RIDGWELL

Search back through Monkey Picks and you’ll find me championing the work of Joseph Ridgwell: his books of poetry and his novel Last Days of The Cross, yet it was his short stories that introduced me to him, squirreled away in hidden corners of the internet.

Now, at long last, some of these have been scooped up and published in book form by the ever reliable Blackheath Books. I know we’re in 2010 and internet sites are all well and good but one physical, hold-in-your-hands publication is worth of a hundred of those to me.

What appealed – and still does - about Joe’s writing was primarily the subject matter: beer, sex, drugs, rock and roll, random acts of violence. What’s not to like? Then the style itself: rough and ready, bit dog-eared in places, but with bags of brash wide-boy bonhomie to draw the reader in. The influences are clear enough: Bukowski’s solitary drinking in shithole apartments, both the Fantes (especially the more explicit and un- PC Dan), even a swift nod to Kerouac and Hamsun and but he’s his own man. A bit of a boy really. Bit of a geezer. Sort to spin you a yarn in the boozer and for the most part you can’t quite tell which bits are true and which bits are Bertie Bollocks. I like that. Mind you, there are also imaginative and surreal flights of fancy which mix it up nicely. Prostitutes, transsexuals, orgies, blackouts, cheap tarts, death, life, dwarves and giant talking mice drinking bottles of wine. All in a normal day for Ridgwell and these frequently funny vignettes are the perfect way to get these booze sodden tales of excess down with the minimum of fuss. You can almost taste the warm flat can of beer with fag butts in from the night before; and Joe would still drink the bastard. That what-the-heck spirit predominates throughout.

There are fifteen stories here, plenty I remember reading before. You don’t easily forget some of them (who’d forget Fishy Fanny? The title in no way misleading) and that’s what makes a writer. Others may learn and hone their craft with finesse, decorum and a clear head, sod that boring squaresville man, Joe can write but his strength is his attitude, heart, soul and a big pair of dangling balls, and you can’t buy those things. Well, maybe you can, and Joe would probably know where.

Blackheath books are only printed in very limited editions and you’ll have to go to them direct so look sharp and get on the case. Mine has real tit tassels. You won’t find class like that on Amazon.

Oswald’s Apartment and other Stories by Joseph Ridgwell is published by Blackheath Books, priced £7.50

LOST ELATION by JOSEPH RIDGWELL

Joe Ridgwell’s Lost Elation is an object of such outrageous beauty one feels it should be handled with felt gloves, sat on a pillow of the finest Egyptian silk and have the pages turned by the breath from a soft sigh.

Kilmog Press are responsible for taking a collection of grubby impoverished waifs and strays from London’s battle scarred East End (and New Zealand) and rehousing them within such elegant and luxurious splendour: hand printed pages and unique dust jacket, hardback cover and limited to the criminally minuscule number of 50.

Beauty is not only page deep either, as whilst Joe’s poems or characters don’t fit the conventional stereotype, his art and skill is to reveal beauty lurking in unlikely places: a confused woman in park of drunks; in doomed kids playing football on council estates; in the triumphant aftermath of bloody encounters; and in two lovers shagging beneath the scream of midnight (yes, I'm thinking The Jam's "That's Entertainment" here). It’s in these places Joe’s search for the lost elation bears richly rewarding fruit. Seek and ye shall find.

Lost Elation by Joseph Ridgwell is published by Kilmog Press. Write to them at kilmogpress@hotmail.com for details.

BILLY CHILDISH - PENGUIN BOOK BURNING

The movers and shakers from the underground writing scene were out in force on Thursday for Billy Childish’s reading and book burning (see last Sunday’s post). Was good to meet the likes of Joseph Ridgwell, Jenni Fagan and Vic Templar, and reassuring they all appeared to have wandered straight from the pages of their books.

Billy was in charismatically jovial mood, wondering between poems what 19 year old Paul Weller would think of a 52 year old Paul Weller, what 19 year old Billy Childish would think of Billy Childish now, whether Charles Bukowski was a softie for moaning about working at the post office, and tales of fake moustaches and being the only punk in shorts.

Micheal from L-13 had chosen the pieces from Selected Poems for Billy to read, which meant a few different ones to those Billy usually picks. I’d had a few beers but I think he read: your golden hair, a sad donky and a fat man smiling, where the tiger prowls stripped and unseen, monkys in space, only poets piss in sinks, a mad noise like birds, fat nature, the snow, the bitter cup, hear i stand, the billy childish.

Then came the burning. L-13 did a fantastic job in making Selected Poems look totally like an authentic Penguin classic (managed to rescue one) so was sad to see them wasted. Penguin should have been proud to be associated with Billy’s work. But then, where’s the fun in that?

LAST DAYS OF THE CROSS by JOSEPH RIDGWELL

When I first came across Joe Ridgwell’s writing a few years back – mainly short stories scattered across the internet - he claimed to be the author of a novel Last Days of the Cross. After searching for it to no avail I put it down to self-mythologising bullshit, but no, here it finally is courtesy of new independent publishers Grievous Jones Press.

Ridgwell delivers straight down the line, no nonsense, no fussing, unpretentious, conversational storytelling where the words fly off the page. In Last Days of the Cross his romantic notion of becoming a poet lands him in Australia, where he assumes wondrous poems will come tumbling forth to critical acclaim and Joseph Ridgwell Appreciation Societies will be founded. That he chose Australia in the first place shows his head ain’t screwed on straight and further evidence of his rash heart-ruling-the-head nature comes when Joe falls for a junkie prostitute who’s just nicked his money.

There are obvious (and acknowledged) influences of both Arturo Bandini’s delusional claims of artistic greatness in John Fante’s Ask The Dust and Henry Chinaski’s need to hustle ridiculous jobs as poetry doesn’t put beer in the fridge from Charles Bukowski’s Factotum. Readers of those will find much to enjoy here as the tale wobbles from self-inflicted heartache to pure comedy on the turn of a page, leading to a cringing will-he/won’t-he dilemma when faced with an unexpected proposition.

Thoroughly recommend this and as good as it is I predict Joe’s next one will be even better. That appreciation society might not be too far away.

Last Days of the Cross by Joseph Ridgwell is published by Grievous Jones Press, priced £10. www.grievousjonespress.com.
In Search of the Lost Elation at www.josephridgwell.blogspot.com

GO GO DANCE CONTEST (1970)

Time for your Monday dance treat.

Beats reading about dead poets I'm sure you'll agree. (For Mr. Ridgwell).

LOAD THE GUNS by JOSEPH RIDGWELL

It’s the BBC Poetry Season, and on their website you can vote to decide the nation’s favourite poet. Well, I want to vote for Joseph Ridgwell yet all I’m presented with is a string of mainly dead old impenetrable duffers who say nothing to me about my life. (Thank you Morrissey).

Fortunately, the more discerning folk at Blackheath Books have this week published their second chapbook of Ridgwell’s poems, and if Where Are The Rebels? lined the targets against the wall, Load The Guns blows their heads clean off.

In the way John Lee Hooker can say more by banging a rhythm on a battered guitar than the combined effort of the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra, Joe Ridgwell can capture more in a few direct uncompromising lines than all the flowery metaphor and allegory of Lords Whatnot, Whoever and Whocares put together.

Joe gets directly to the harsh truth that most everything is pointless, faintly ridiculous and ultimately worthless, yet acknowledging that fact affords a position of strength, enabling one to bask in those fleeting little victories life occasionally offers.

Load The Guns is one such victory. Vote Ridgwell.

Published by Blackheath Books, priced £5. Available from www.blackheathbooks.org.uk