Blogging's not for me

I like writing.
I always have.
Blogging seems to be a way of sharing your writing with others, without incurring the financial wrath of the Royal Mail.

But it's not for me.

I've been sitting at my PC for nearly three hours now.
I'm trying to post a blog that I wrote on my dysfunctional laptop-thing last week.
I copied & pasted it (they taught me that at City College) and I clicked on the button that said "Publish Now'.
But it wouldn't publish.
It said I had a funny HTML or something, which I took a little personally, as I often do with personal criticism (they taught me that at boarding school)
It said my HTML thing didn't do 'Meta'.

Now I know what 'meta' means (they taught me that at UEA).
But I fail to see what is so meta about my blog post.
It's about fliers on my kitchen wall, and titting-up other poets.
The classical Greek sense of meta, nor the esoteric English language sense, have any connection with my story, so I can only assume that it has something to do with HTML, of which I know nothing.

I do assumption well (they taught me that at altar-boy practice).

If anyone could inform me of what HTML is, I would be forever grateful.
I do hope I haven't overstepped the literary mark with my meta?

I have a dream....

It’s 30years from now, and the thing that replaces TV is showing the Channel 4 equivalent of "TOP 50 GREATEST WHATEVERS", where B & C list celebrities get nostalgic about an era, or movement, or scene (preferably the same few celebs, with varying anecdotes, so that they can shoot several "TOP 50 GREATEST WHATEVERS" in one day, then fill them out with advertisements for compilation IPodettes, with loose musical connections to one of the aforesaid celebs/anecdotes).
It’s what my generation called ‘aural history’.
Well; in this 30years-hence format, a few of my contemporaries discuss the performance poetry zeitgeist that emerged at the end of the last century, having been born in the aftermath of punk, in the fine works of John Cooper Clarke & Attila, and developed to its zenith at rock & pop festivals the length & breadth of the land.
And how the art form crossed over into rap & hip hop, and the music of Lily & Kate.
And how at least two poet laureates found themselves ‘reading’, in a muddy field, in wellies, and with laminated passes around their necks.
And an ageing Phill Jupitus will say
“And of course, there was the Norwich movement, coming out of UEA and putting places like Cambridge, Southwold and Colchester on the pop-lit map”.
And it’ll cut to a photo montage of the early pioneers;
Aisle16 with Clarkey, Polar Bear, Scroobius Pip and Francesca Beard.
Posters will fill the screen with laughable venues & entrance-fees in GBP sterling
Sundown. Express Excess. ShortFuse. Homework.
Mr.Gee will tell the Russell Brand story “one more time” and sun-bronzed John Osborne, sipping gin on a Mediterranean yacht will say
“It was a really exciting time. There so much talent around. You had your Dockers MCs, Rachel Pantechnicons, Molly Naylors and don’t forget Yanny Mac & Pikey Paddy”.
And as the technology of the mid 21^st Century cuts to its modern equivalent of an ad break for Tena Lady ‘Freshness All Day’, someone, somewhere, will know that I was once a contender.

BlogNor09 - Border Crossing

It's 'Blogging For Norfolk' day, and I'm awake unfeasibly early. I've been up most of the night.

Yesterday I crossed the border; from sleepy, rural, coastal Suffolk market town, to the Fine City, Norfolk's county capital, the metropolis.

Living in an East Anglian border town, I find myself crossing the geographical demarcation line at least two or three times a month. I have to. If we 'Broads Folk' need supplies, then the big city is our obvious point-of-call. We grow our own produce and frequent our own pubs, but if we need luxury items such as flat-pack furniture, Starbucks coffee or drugs, we have to venture across the River Waveney, and into what my house-rabbits refer to as 'Babylon'.
Yesterday I crossed the border. It was my regular Wednesday evening sauna.

Now, to the uninitiated, sauna may sound a little poncey. A bit middle-class gym membership. A bit "Glastonbury rocks!" A bit "we're taking the kids to Lapland this Christmas". Let me assure you, it is not. My German freund has built a sauna in his backyard, just off the Dereham Rd. He assembled it from an old shed, a Finnish wood-burner and a Canadian chimney. It takes four people at a squeeze, and is the hottest and most intense experience I have ever had (and I should know, because I went to Gran Canaria once in the late 80's, and that was pretty exciting).
Mein freund is not exclusive in whom he allows sauna access to, but he insists that we abide by continental European etiquette, such as putting our naked bums on towels, closing the door quickly, ensuring the aufgus is administered by the saunameister etc. (We also rub honey & rock salt into our sweaty pores, but I'm not sure if this is etiquette, or just one of his eccentricities).
The overall therapeutic & health benefits of sauna are much documented. My arthritis, psoriasis and general mental state are religiously soothed, warmed, enhanced & detoxified. The purification through sweating, and the ice-cold shower afterward (in this case, a garden hose) leave me with a heightened sense of self, verging on euphoria.

The down side is that I cannot sleep.

I tried the usual methods of obtaining at least 38winks, by listening to the World Service and its repetitious RP bulletins, but by 5am, I was handed over to Evan Davis on R4, with the confirmation that today was 'indeed, St.George's Day' and 'quite possibly Shakespeare's birthday'.
This got me thinking about the date, and it came to my sleep-deprived attention that today is also the birthday of three Norfolk luminaries. Somewhere in the deepest recesses of my mind, I remembered that the chef/barmaid at Norwich City FC's unofficial pre- & post-match pub, The Coach & Horses, has a birthday today. It's also the birthday of the lady who owns the hairdressing salon in Norwich's new 'Greenwich Village' aka Magdalen St. And one half of UEA's Livewire D&B/Breaks/Beats DJs, 'Shadow Cabinet' from the early noughties, will also be another year older today.

At this point, the prescription sleeping tablets are beyond any use.
The dawn chorus is in full voice, the kitten wants to eat the perpetrators, the houserabbits are binkying like they're on steroids, and my head is full of useless information, desperate to be released, but with nowhere to go.

I take my mind back over the border.

And as I cruise down the A146, past the Shell garage, around Loddon, past the car dealerships & sewage works, I veer off the main carriageway, way before I hit the Norwich 'orbital', and the relentless signpostings for Great Yarmouth, Cromer & Swaffham.
And, at this point, this journey becomes a pleasure trip, not a break for the border, a skirmish, and a snatch & grab for essentials.
I'm transported through the pretty green villages of Bergh Apton and The Framinghams, onto the wealth and sumptuousness of Stoke Holy Cross, past the naturist camp and "the pub where BBC Look East all go" and into the Roman splendour of Caistor St. Edmund.

And, despite my desire to live in the rival county of Suffolk, I'm happy to live so near to such a beautiful place as Norfolk.
(And with a smile on my face, and with the alarm clock reading 8-20am, my eyelids begin to droop, and sleep now seems a distinct possibility.......)

Happy 'Blogging For Norfolk' Day!