Sam Redlark

Dear M  I like to think that the attached image is what flashed before George Michael's eyes as he died, in part, as a result of dilated cardiomyopathy, during the early hours of last, last, last, last, last Christmas Day, 2016: A beautiful mandala comprising multiple Wham bars. It would have probably been quite a bittersweet moment for the writer of 'Faith' and 'Too Funky'. On the one hand, he was dying prematurely, at age of 53. On the other hand, the universe was acknowledging the extent of his contribution to popular culture by referencing the band that he formed, during his late teens, with Andrew Ridgeley, prior to launching a successful career as a solo artist. You will have correctly identified what, to a layman, appear to be scattered Hundreds & Thousands, as Boltzmann objects of the kind that spontaneously come into existence as a result of thermodynamic anomalies in the universe; in this instance the fluctuations in reality that occur whenever a prime...

image generated by Craiyon [I came across this piece of faux journalism while going through some of my old files. I have no recollection of writing it. There is some strong, potentially offensive language, if that kind of thing bothers you] * * * * * It is a typical wintry day in mid-July. Ira Middleton and I are sheltering from the blizzard conditions among the genteel clientèle of The Brady Rooms in Royal Mayfair. In accordance with the hotel’s stringent dress code we have both donned quilted dressing gowns. On an adjacent table, a pair of elderly twin sisters are celebrating their 90th birthday. The flimsy white satin nighties that shrink-wrap their gaunt, bony frames leave very little to the imagination. “I once met the lead singer from the death metal band, Septic Entrails, at a convention centre in Detroit...” says Ira. He takes a sip of camomile tea from a dainty bone china cup “...I asked him whether he ...

In common with all great thinkers, I face an uphill battle against those who wish to censor the truths that stream from my mouth like a crystal clear mountain spring, cleansing all that it touches. Below is my one-star review of the Claber Aqua Pony Reel With Hose which Amazon have declined to publish as they obviously can't handle the truth - that this product is the harbinger of a dark and ignorant epoch in the unfolding history of our species. Like Benjamin Graham in Armstrong & Millers 'How Many Hats?' sketch (see below), I will not be silenced. ~ The Claber Aqua Pony Reel With Hose represents an uncharacteristic misstep for Italy - the nation that gave the world the Roman Empire, the renaissance, the unfettered genius of Leonardo Da Vinci, and pizza. I would go so far as to say that its very existence may be regarded by future historians as the first indicator of a dark age where mankind regressed both culturally and technologically. This product is lightweight. An...

 (This post is intended to be one of a series covering my seldom-updated and seldom-viewed YouTube channel – 'London, building by building'. Subsequent entries will consist of the script for a single episode, along with my accompanying chapter notes.) A personal history of an occasional Londoner At the age of four, I travelled up to London, on the train, with my grandparents. We visited the Zoo in Regent's Park and, in the space of a few hours, I rode on the backs of both a camel and an elephant. Ever since that day, the city has been a treasure chest of adventure and ordeal. Many of my best and worst experiences have occurred inside its shifting boundaries. At the age of 18, I studied, for a year, at a private college that was located in a pair of adjoining town houses on Palace Gate, a few metres down the road from the Round Pond entrance to Kensington Gardens. It was at this point in my life that I began to explore the winding twists and turns of London's frequent...

  Mark Lanegan's autobiography - Sing Backwards and Weep , charts the course of the tombstone-voiced singer's life, from his dismal, alcoholic upbringing in Ellensburg, Washington, up until the speedball-induced death of his close friend - the Alice in Chains frontman, Layne Staley, in 2002. Lanegan portrays himself as a piece of shit, with very few redeeming qualities: A bona fide drug dealer, whose band (Screaming Trees) happen to be signed to a major record label. For much of the book he is in the grip of twin addictions to crack cocaine and heroin; the latter requiring constant maintenance. From there on, it's a relentless downhill grind, to the point where he is sleeping rough while working as a dealer's lackey, stealing small quantities of smack from his employer, while pawning his last remaining possession of any value - a pair of filthy leather trousers that he purchased in Paris with the aforementioned Staley. This bleak downturn of events is sparsely seasoned ...

image generated by Craiyon My response to this week's Guardian Notes & Queries column was found to be in breach of community guidelines. The most logical reason for this would be an aside in which the narrator asks a friend whether his wife is still beating him.  I regard this, not as a slight, but as an overall improvement in attitude from The Guardian. I recall, several years ago, reading an opinion piece in the paper's Sunday incarnation, The Observer, where the writer played down the impact of casual violence by women against men and confessed to having been " slap happy " herself on occasions. [archive:  https://archive.is/UBRi3 ] Which sport gives you the best all-round skill set? Peter Bedward delivered the toast at his firstborn daughter's wedding with a blackened right eye and with his bottom lip swollen like a rotten orange. I had seen him sporting similar injuries before. They are common among inexperienced librarians who, having failed to properly...

Over the weekend I had cause to venture into the unnerving, multi-level attic of our home, in a search for the origin of a disconcerting line of mottled damp that had appeared along a sloping section of the ceiling, just outside the bathroom. My cursory inspection of the point where the roof of the extension joins with the old roof provided me with no insight into the root of the problem, beyond my observation that there are no visible pipes that might be causing the leak. While I was shuffling backwards towards the loft hatch, over a collage of loose wooden boards, I accidentally knelt down on a shoebox, squashing it at one end. I took it with me into the spare room to inspect the contents and to see whether it could be repaired. Inside I found several bundles of very old, miscellaneous photographs, in an assortment of proportions and small sizes, none larger in length or width than three inches. They had been wrapped-up in loosely folded sheets of brown paper that turned out to be di...