LAGER TIME: On Eating That Marshmallow

Easy

Latest Lager Time episode is up - it’s called On Eating That Marshmallow and it’s about delying gratification.

As per the others, it starts with a quote from Meditations by Marcus Aurelius, this time it’s Book 8. I’m going to do 4 and then we’re done with this series, mate

You can subscribe to both the podcast and blog on Substack, which is where I host it, or you can hear it as audio on Spotify and Apple.

LAGER TIME PODCAST: On BullS*it Detection

Greetings, bonjour, what’s happening?

Another week, another Blog / Podcast for Lager Time is up. Continuing with my work, writing peices in response to Meditations by Marcus Aurelius.

This week, I get stuck into a quote from BOOK 3 of Medittaions - it’s called on On BullS*it Detection

As ever, I host it all on Substack where you can listen to it as the podcast but also have the text to read, as well as other benfits, like Substack only stuff. It’s also available on Spotify and Apple Podcasts and bare others.

Hope you enjoy

Keep it Larger than Life

Paul

Lager Time: On Moaning, Self-Loathing and Pointing the Finger

Greetings, bonjour, what’s happeing?

The latest Lager Time podcast / blog epiosde is up. It’s called On Moaning, Self-Loathing and Pointing the Finger.

In this one I get stuck into a quote from Book 2 of Meditations by Marcus Aurelius, I talk about mental-health stuff, managing stress, etc etc. It;s not as misreable as it sounds….

As usual, you can listen on Spotify below, also Apple podcasts and bare other podcast providers, but if you want to be a certified Lager Time Lagerlite, then subscribe on Substack where I host this thing, if you do that, you can read it in blog-form occasioanly I’ll slap some extra stuff on there. There’s no fee or anything but you do have to bang your email address in.

Hope you enjoy it anyway

Paul

LAGER TIME - On the Support of Football Support - Meditations Book q →

Easy easy easy

The first Lager Time episode of 2024 is up; it’s called On The Support of Football Support. In it I talk about my love of Millwall FC and my simultaneous dislike of crystal palace.

It’s the first in a new series I’m writng, in repose to 12 quotes from the 12 books of Marcus Aurelius’s Meditations (one peice for each book)

Something a little different to what I’ve done before but I’m enjoying writing it, hope you enjoy reading / listening to it.

Spotifty link below and also the sign-up for the Subtack wher eyou can also read it and have it as en email newsletter, as well as the other podcast. It’s also available on Apple on loads of other streaming platforms.

LAGER TIME - Young UnProfessional EP 6 - Just Another Day(te)

Greetings, bonjour, what’s happening

The last in this current little mini-series of Young Unprofessional is up. In this episode, Reece finally goes on the date with Alice, who he met through the dating section of the Gumtree website. It’s a little later than expected, but I explain why in the introduction.

I’ve enjoyed writing this little mini-series, it felt like the natural evolution of the Satellite Stories series, whilst incorporating my desire to start writing from the perspective of a fully fictional character, from a fictional town (even if lots of it is based on my experiences)

I’m still undecide on the form of it, so what I think I’d like to do next is sit down and look over what I’ve written and work out what’s working and what isn’t etc.

I don’t know how any of these stories are landing with people but when I get into it and start writing, I enjoy it and I feel there is more to come. They are all works in progress, as is the whole podcast, so they’re raw and rough round the edges. I have a feeling that if I can refine my process, I can improve on what I’m doing with it.

I’ve also enjoyed featuring my own music (which is handy as I don’t have to worry about licensing etc) – something which I’ve neglected to mention. It helps break the stories up at bit and can put a contextual frame round it, as well as giving a legit excuse to write more music; again, I have no idea how any of this is landing, but, I do this because I enjoy doing it, anything else positive that comes of it is a bonus.

So what next? I have a few old stories from the Reece stuff I’ve written over the years, which I’d like to put up. I’ve also slowly been compiling a load of quotes from the books I’ve been reading and have an idea to use these as an impetus to write some thoughts, in an attempt at some essays; so at some point, at least one of these will emerge.

As scatty as I can be, in my own dysfunctional way, stuff does get done; and I would like to improve that and in general, improve myself, otherwise, what is the point in all of this? I think it’s a little bit like the Reece character, he is flawed and is somewhat aware of this, and in his own doomed way, is trying to do something about it, he just doesn’t really know how.

I hope you enjoy this latest episode, if you like it, please subscribe and share it, as much as I do this for me, when someone tells me they like it, it kicks me up the arse to do more. On the Substack, there is a link to the Young UnProfessional series which you can click and have them all in one place.

Peas and taters for now

Paul

Lager Time: Young UnProfessional EP 4 - Melt Tree

Greetings, bonjour, what’s happening

The latest Lager Time epsiode is up. This week features the 4th instalment from the The Young UnProfessional series, Melt Tree. In this little nugget, Reece takes the advice of his mate Stuart Simmons, and tries his hand at online-dating via Gumtree.

Young UnProfessioanl is set in London around 2006 / 2007 and tells the story of Reece, in his voice, who’s not long moved to London, from provincial satellte town: New Town, where he grew up, in search of something? He doesn’t really know.

You can subsribe directly via Substack, where you also get extra content, or you listen on Spotify or Apple

Keep it Larger

Paul

Lager Time: Young UnProfessional EP 3 - Alpine Down-Dressing

Yes yes yes

Another week, another Lager Time episode is out. This week it’s EP 3 of the Young UnProfessional series - Alpine Downdressing

This episode sees Reece goes for a few beers with his fellow New Town ex-patriate Stuart Simmons, but they’r both at very different stages in life

You can listen below on Spotify or Apple, or better still on Substack, where you’ll get extra bits, blogs etc

Nice one

Paul

LAGER TIME PODCAST: Young Unprofessional EP 1

Easy, easy easy

This week’s Lager Time episode is the first in a new seires of monologes / stories called Young Unprofessional. It’s about a character called Reece, who’s in his mid twenties and has just moved to London and is trying to his feet. It’s set in the mid 2000’s.

I’ve written a number of things over the years, in the charcacter of Reece, but could never quite settle on one thing. Feeling good about this new series; more to come..

You can subsribe on Substack

See below for more links

Toast In The Machine, out NOW https://paulcree.hearnow.com/

If you fancy giving me a little tip, for the price of a pint, would be much appriciated https://ko-fi.com/paulcree

Follow me on any of these platforms

SPOTIFY FOLLOW - https://open.spotify.com/artist/77Io4...

APPLE FOLLOW - https://music.apple.com/us/artist/pau...

AMAZON MUSIC - https://www.amazon.co.uk/music/player...

BANDCAMP - https://paulcree.bandcamp.com/

Lager Time is back! McGeezer The Machine

Greetings

After a bit of a hiatus, I’m back producing podcasts and blogs for Lager Tine. It’s been a busy few months for me; with work and a course I was undertaking. All is explained and more, if you listen to this episode, better still, subscribe on Substack and you’ll get it direct into your inbox every week, or if you prefer just the audio, you can get it on Spotify, Apple and all them!

This week’s epsiode featured the last in the series (strange timeing, I know) of the Satteltie Stories series which I’d done; all base don my experiances growing up in the Gatwick area. This is about the summer after the middle school I attened closed down.

Have a blast

Paul

Toast In The Machine, out NOW https://paulcree.hearnow.com/

If you fancy giving me a little tip, for the price of a pint, would be much appriciated https://ko-fi.com/paulcree

Follow me on any of these platforms

SPOTIFY FOLLOW - https://open.spotify.com/artist/77Io4...

APPLE FOLLOW - https://music.apple.com/us/artist/pau...

AMAZON MUSIC - https://www.amazon.co.uk/music/player...

BANDCAMP - https://paulcree.bandcamp.com/

New Substack blog: Sunday Loathe

This first appeared on my Substag blog; Lager Time. You can hear it on there as audio as well as in text form, if you like it, do me a lemon and subscribe. You can have it as an email or a podcast

Sunday Loathe, by me Paul Cree.

Greetings, bonjour, what’s happening.

Something a little different this week. It’s a short story, that I wrote around 2014. This   will most likely be a bit longer than my usual offerings on here, bare with me, I’m trying something.

I have this character, called Reece, who I’ve written a number of stories about, over the last ten or so years, which I’ve never done anything with (apart from entering this one into a short story competition; I’m assuming I didn’t win.)  

He first appeared as character, in a spoken word piece, called My Town, which I wrote around 2010 and used to perform it a lot, it was like my flagship piece. I stopped performing it, because I felt didn’t really fit with everything else that I did, which was largely autobiographical. So I decided I was better off keeping him in short story form and every now and again, I’d dig him out, along with his mates, and start writing. Saying that, I wrote a draft of a two-hander play, in which one of the charters was Reece. Also, never went anywhere.

I always enjoy writing as this character, just never really know what to do with it, which I spoke about in the first blog on this here Substack. Most of the stories are just ideas, really, some a bit more developed than others. This was one of the better ones.  

Hopefully, I’ll have a crack at writing some more at some point. Hope you enjoy it.

SUNDAY LOATHE

Sunday Roast

I'm at an age in my life where I don't actually mind living with my parents but they probably do. Well, my dad definitely does. I don’t blame him, though. My parents are old school. As a man, you leave home at eighteen - nineteen, get a job, make your way in the world, get married, set up a new home, have a couple of nippers and all that, then once-in-a-while you feed them on the odd Sunday lunchtime, Christmas or Easter, like they did you. That’s it.

 I'm approaching thirty and I haven’t yet flown the nest. I pay rent and bills, like most other people (just not as much with the rent bit) but I make up for that tax-break with massive debt re-payments from historical credit binges and general financial mismanagement, that sees me permanently squatting in my overdraft, with nothing to show for it, other than several pairs of once-banging trainers, several hundred booze ups and a few holidays abroad with mates, where we got boozed up, just like we normally do, except under the sun; sporting t-shirts with un-imaginative names written on the back.

Being at home, I sometimes get the benefit of Mums cooking. The meals can be a bit samey but I'm not that fussy when it comes to eating and I don't like cooking, so I'm grateful, most of the time. Really. I am. I just hate sitting around the table to eat as a family. This day was another one of those days, Sunday lunch, the important one, with me, hungover, again, having got cunted the night before, again, which never really helps, does it.

'This looks lovely Pam'

Normally Dad rubs his hands together at this point, like an excitable child, upon being presented a plate full of Mum’s finest Sunday roast. There was no cheery hand-rubbing on this day though. I figured he’d not had his customary pre-match clear-out, which had probably put him out of sorts. This is all part of the build-up for Dad. I normally hear it in my room, unfortunately positioned next to the carzi. It’s awful, though not as bad as the main event, that comes after dinners done.

'Sorry but I think the potatoes are a bit overdone.' Mum, modest as ever.

As I work varying shifts at the call centre, I'm often able to get out of sitting round the dinner table to eat during the week. Sitting together brings it all home for me and stamps it on my face. I'm all too aware that I'm encroaching into my parent’s final swansong, as they approach retirement, like a London Marathon runner, looking like a prick, in some stupid costume they probably regretted as soon as the cameras started rolling; staggering down the Mall towards the finish line, glad that the whole ordeal will shortly be over.

There's not a day that goes by, when I wish I wasn’t an inconvenience on their part. I'm grateful for the roof and the food but I find this tired ritual of eating around the table a mild form of torture, and so does my sister, and it's likely that so do my parents, yet they insist on persisting with it. It's as if were at a conference and I'm the resident fuck-wit, speaking on how to be a complete waste of valuable oxygen and maximise parental disappointment, with a sticker across my chest that says BELL-END, it wasn’t supposed to be like this, was it.

'Can you pass me the pepper please Dad?'

'Speak up Reece, I can't hear you, you're mumbling.'

'Can you pass me the pepper please Dad?'

Dad was in one of those moods where he doesn’t really want to talk. Tip-toeing around him can be like walking across a minefield, blindfolded, not that I've ever walked across a minefield, blindfolded, but I imagine it to be pretty stressful. Closest I ever got, was picking the football out of the stinging nettles in the garden. I was hungover and in no mood for walking, let alone tip-toeing, that required delicate movements and intense concentration. My sister Kerry, was kicking me under the table. I looked at her and she nodded at my hand, which was underneath my chin, elbow resting on the table, supporting my head like a really shit pillar, as if some can’t-be-arsed student had made a crap attempt at a Greek Amphitheatre using cardboard and Sellotape, for a GCSE tech project. The one free hand, my left, was forking up little bits of food then tipping it back over onto the plate.

Over the last few years of being at home, me and Kerry have developed this physical dialogue and perfected it; this wordless and slightly painful form of communication is used specifically for meal times, mostly on Sundays. There were several phrases, most of which roughly translated too;

'REECE YOU MELON, IF YOU'RE HUNGOVER AT LEAST TRY TO LOOK LIKE YOU'RE NOT HUNGOVER, YOU KNOW IT WINDS THEM UP.'

Dad shovels his first forkful into his cement mixer of a mouth, lips smacking like a racehorse with the munchies. I find the sound of people eating repulsive. It's one of the most basic of human functions yet, I can’t stand it, even when I eat. We piss, shit and fuck separately, why do we all have to do this one together? Sat around tables like a bunch of mugs, pretending to enjoy each other's company. Most of my mates' families didn’t bother with this tired ritual. They thought I was posh because my family did it, was always really awkward when they came round for tea. What’s the point in having a fucking sky-dish if we’re not gonna spend dinner time gorping at the Fresh Prince, like a stoned Goldfish? I must have automatically winced when Dad made a particularly loud lip-smack, because Kerry spoke me again, KICK;

'REECE, FOR FUCKS SAKE GET IT TOGETHOR!'

'How’s work at the moment Reece?'

As ever, Mum attempts to break the ice, whilst desperately trying in vain to hold this pangea together, instead of letting evolution explode us in to our independent land masses; for the record, I'd probably be some crap island cut adrift in the North Atlantic, fuck-all minerals to mine and too weak to defend itself from imperialists, who'd want to use it as an military base to attack somewhere much bigger, wealthier and generally more useful to humanity.

'It's aright...thanks.' I say, forking up and twisting another bit of mash.

'Nothing new then?'

'Na... not really,' staring at the mash, thinking that it looks like a fluffy cloud.

'Your mum is asking you a question Reece.'

Dad interjects with a mouth full of food, speaking words as if there was a sock stuffed in his mouth. A lone pea and a couple of bits of swede escape out and fly onto the table cloth, like debris from a restaurant bomb-blast shattering into the street, I follow the peas trajactory. The pea lands just in front of the water jug, right in my eye line;

'Sorry Mum, just don't have much to say about it at the moment, nothing positive anyway...The mash potato is really nice.'

'Dunno why we bother Pam.' Dad ploughs back into his food.

My response was C/D borderline at best, could do better, just like most of my school reports, reminding me of that time I made that half-arsed Greek-Amphitheatre out of Sellotape and paper for my GCSE tech project.

I looked at the pea for a moment and wondered if he was hoping, that another one of his mates might come flying out of Dad’s mouth to join him on the table, whilst Dad was barking at me. Alas, he was still on his own, isolated. must have been hard for that pea, despair was something I could empathise with. Dad finally swallowed then spoke, the pea must have winced;

'You spend full working days there, five days a week and you have nothing to say!?'

'Not really...What do you want me to say, Dad?'

'I want you to give your mother a proper answer, not some crap attempt like the poxy one you just gave.' Think Dad must have been constipated again.

'Leave it Tony, he doesn’t want to talk about it.' Mum speaks, her eyes closed and her chin to her chest. KICK

'YOU FUCKLING IDIOT REECE, MUM'S UPSET NOW, WHY DO YOU ALWAYS DO THIS?!'

Mum looks as if she could cry, she stares at her plate, composes her-self, then asks Kerry about how her A-levels are going. Kerry answers, Kerry to the rescue, she speaks well, talking about her uni-choices, giving Mum and Dad reason for optimism.  A daughter that could genuinely go on to make some actual achievements in life. Kerry knows how to play this game. She finishes her modest Oscar speech ,then gives me a double KICK;

‘I'VE GOT YOU OUT OF THIS ONE AGAIN, SEE, ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS ENGAGE THEM, IT'S NOT THAT HARD REECE, IS IT? STOP FEELING SORRY FOR YOUR-SELF, YOU’RE LIKE A FUCKING CHILD SOMETIMES!'

Mum and Dad start talking about the Seventies Weekender they'd just been on down at Pontins, after Kerry had tactically asked how it went. They seemed to perk up at this, even Dad raised a smile, sounds like they really enjoyed it. I’m glad they enjoyed.

I looked at the pea again, the lone, green pea, the maverick escapee, seeking asylum from the death camps of my Dad's guts, where the stodge of low quality white bread, streaky bacon, digestive biscuits and shitty larger, permanently undulate in one mass gloop of shite. Sitting quietly on the kitchen table cloth, lonely and isolated, far removed from his earthy beginnings. It wasn’t meant to be like this, was it Pea?  I reckoned he was waiting round to see if anyone else made it out. The swede were straight goners to the floor, no chance anyone will ever find them other than the hoover. This pea was probably well educated, expecting great things from the promised land of the table cloth, but he was on his own, no help from anyone and probably seen as a piece of shit to be disposed of, but he's free, free, if only he knew it!

Somewhere in-between fantasising about the pea, the conversation had moved from the seventies weekender in Pontins, to Mum and Dad's history together, a regular feature at the meal time and one that always left me feeling worse than I already did, upon hearing their achievements and inevitably comparing them to mine. More appeasement from the school of Kerry’s-Diplomacy.

'1984 I think it was, me and your Father managed to buy our first place, a small flat in Norwood, I think we were 22?' Mum looks at Dad, Dad shovels another load of food in his mouth then replies;

'No, 21. We were both the first in our families to ever get a mortgage'

Every time, years younger than what I am now, married and on the property ladder. I'm pretty sure they don't do it on purpose, but stories of Mum and Dad’s achievements are like someone laying the boot in, a real wind-stealer right in the ribs, whilst you're already lying on the floor, having had the shit beaten out of you by the school bully, in front of everyone, after making the mistake of trying to stick up for your-self.

tell myself it's pointless making comparisons, they didn’t have Pimp My Ride back then to microwave any ambitions they might’ve had, but still, I couldn’t help making those comparisons and inevitably feeling like a massive piece of shit that had taken up permanent residence in their bought-and-paid-for home; me and the pea were one now..

'Norwood was a lovely little place. That area was a bit different back then, really nice little community it was, you knew who your neighbours were, not like it is now, no, couldn’t go back to London now'

I looked at my parents and watched their mouths moving as they spoke. I began to imagine that I'd conducted a full-blown MRI scan on their brains as they were sat there at the table, whilst talking to Kerry, and I was now analysing the results, via the medium of Mirocoft Powerpoint, the lone pea, wearing a little lab coat, glasses and holding a clipboad, as my assistant;

'if you see the red patches here these are momentary flashes of xenophobia, normally triggered during moments of nostalgia, quite common amongst people of this age.'

'That's right. Wouldn’t go back to Norwood now, no chance. Ted from work still drinks there from time to time, when he goes up to watch the Palace. There was a shooting on our old street Pam! It's all gangs fighting over drugs now.'

If you pay particular attention to the male, these yellow patches here are nerve endings, sending messages to the bowels to release a highly toxic gas, known to stink-up the whole top floor of a house, often requiring fumigation afterwards. There is a severe build up of this gas in the gut, due to years of bad diet and stubborn refusal to adhere to any type of dietary advice. This blue light here just above it, is directly linked, it's a revulsion for anyone who dares to suggest implementing a dietary change, and anyone that does is either an obnoxious middle-class twat or just plain homosexual. This green light here is an internal query, queering whether-or-not 'plain homosexual' makes sense as a phrase, and this purple light is an insecurity, due to the word 'query' being used internally in reference to homosexuals, sounding a bit too much like 'queer' triggering this red light here at the back of the brain, which is an anxiety about whether or not there is a subconscious link.'

'That was lovely Pam, really hit the spot that did.'

Dad gets up from the table and goes into the kitchen, returning with two slices of white bread to mop up the gravy still on his plate. I look at the pea and I'm sure I could sense a small feeling of humour, emitting from the little green being, like a snigger or something, at the look of Dad with the white bread.

'Would you like any more love?'

'No thanks Mum, I'm stuffed.'

'What about pudding? It's apple crumble, your favourite.'

Apple crumble has never been my favourite, I might have said I liked it once, when I was about twelve. I stopped eating puddings a few years ago, yet Mum still insists on offering it. I read somewhere it was bad for your digestion, to eat a load of sugar-blasted food straight after a heavy meal. This was probably instantly dismissed by my parents as 'codswollop.' Even though Dad would’ve most likely gone upsatirs after the meal to obliterate the toilet, yet fail to make the connection, whilst condemning the upstairs part of the house, again. KICK;

‘STOP THINKING ABOUT DAD'S EATING HABBITS!'

'I'm ok for pudding thanks Mum, I'll go and start the washing up.'

I got up and left, washing up was my exit card. A chance for me to stick my headphones on, listen to some beats and block out the dull and painful thud of my own failings. As I got up from the table and walked into the kitchen, I suddenly thought about the pea, stranded, no longer under my protection. BANG;

'That bloody boy, doesn’t clean up after himself!'

I suddenly noticed that my leg was hurting from all the kicks. It wasn’t meant to be this way, was it.

Life Affirming Moments - Part 1 (Substack blog)

This piece was originally publsihed on my Substack audio / blog - Lager Time, where you can hear it as audio. You can also subsribe there and have as an email and podcast

A young man of nineteen is rummaging

through his wallet, looking for his gym

pass. In amongst the receipts, chewing

gum wrappers and train tickets, he

finds a date-expired, unused rubber;

curry flavour. He’d bought it from a

vending machine on his sixteenth

Birthday. He holds it, he can feel it’s gone

dry and crusty. He’s still wearing too much

Lynx and the hair-gel is still slooping off

his head in wet-weather, V-Plates are

still very much intact, along with his

optimism. Never give up he thinks

The Unlicensed Diver

A few words and a little poem at the end, as per...

Originally featured on my Substack page, where you can hear it as audio

I’m a stickler for nuance, especially in the times we’re in now. Sometimes, it can be a pain in the arse - someone can state something and I find it hard to let it go without piping up, sometimes I wish I wouldn’t, sometimes I do shut-up then wish I did pipe-up, I can’t win and it probably makes me a pain-in-the-arse to be around. It’s worth mentioning, though, all of the above, I only tend to do offline, online that’s a fight I’m too afraid of, which was part of the reason I started this blog.

Some trite examples of popular opinions, in the past few years, that were often on my radar, where I  at least try to present a more nuanced point, would be The amazing feat of Leicester winning the Premier League and The amazing success of Stormzy as an independent artist to Jeremy Corbyn is a Marxist and Nigel Farage is a fascist. All these four things are nowhere near as clear or as simple as they’re made out be, some more serious than others, of course but I’m not settling for any of those four statements, as absolute truths, which they’re often presented as.

Brexit was a big one for me, as I’m sure it was for many. A binary question on a highly complex issue - I can see pros and cons on both sides. The toxicity of the mainstream campaigns and debates seemed to detract from what I thought was the original question.  It just became another battlefield in the so called culture-war and it all got a West-Side-Story.

Maybe that’s what the problem is, we’re too quick to get partisan and jump in the what we think are the best equipped camps, no one wants to be in no-mans land; expect perhaps for nobs like me who want to take time to figure things out, when there probably is no time. Trouble is, for someone like me, I can only act on what I know and whilst I do read a lot, especially about politics and social issues, I don’t always understand it and when it comes to arguing it, I often struggle to get my points across; yet that insatiable desire for a bit more nuance never goes and I can get obsessive seeking out alterative views.

At times It feels like a dangerous obsession, or at the very least a nagging one that often riles me up and I don’t quite know what I get out of it. Perhaps I’m just an aspiring smart-arse, who’s not yet earned the ‘smart’ part of that phrase.

At some dull-yet-turbulent moment in twenty-twenty, I wrote this little poem, tyring to make sense of what I’m doing. Suffice to say, on the long road to Damascus, I probably got side-tracked at a service station stressing about what flavour of crips I wanted with my over-priced motorway meal deal, when I should’ve opted for the Pan-Pipe Moods CD compilation from the bargain-bin.

The Unlicensed Diver, Paul Cree

At some point I got lost deep diving for truth

whatever that is

been learning to breathe ever since

can barely swim, let-alone dive

no tanned-man in Thailand

just read what I could

asked a few questions from the few people I

knew and the few books I had

made maps on the internet marked with x’s

got my Nike’s dirty down rabbit holes

realised some rabbis weren’t as wise I thought

just a lot of rabbit talk

I remember getting that irritating twitch back

at school, from playground spats to classroom analysis

often thinking there’s more to this than what’s being presented

just never quite knew what it was

some other texture and taste I weren’t getting from that

bland food I was instructed to swallow

got older and felt the same about the news and everyday

views I’d hear out and about

felt stupid when I aired mine

unformed and messy, like a piece of homework

produced on the bus, I’d produce my two p and

instantly feel out my depth, like I took a bath, shut my

eyes and woke up fighting a storm in the North Atlantic

convincing myself I was better off with the inflatables and the

flumes, at least they were a laugh, that and I

wouldn’t get cast out the clan for

breaking ranks

give it a day or two and the feeling resumed

just didn’t know what to do

so I took to diving, with no licence

just a bunch of erratic thoughts and a thirst for something more

I’ve unearthed a few things that muddied the water

each time I come up for air, I find the land more divided

spliced-up and taking sides

status seekers and self-publicists

political mules nudged into reactions

nudged into action

all armed with their half-truths,

cherry-picked data grenades, firing at will

desperate to catch a dart from the opposing side so they

can spin it out the stratosphere

sealing off all access routes to alternative views

dogmatic with diminishing returns

seen the distance between them turn from stream to river

with the banks threatening to burst

I’m back at school again, choking on the tripe I’m being

co-erced to swallow, thinking there’s a lot more to it, a

lot more, I’ve tasted it and I’m

barley getting started but I’m no

Olllie Twist, please sir… just

forget it

The Emperor's New Football Kit

Some thoughts on craft-beer and total football, with a little poem at the end, by, me Paul Cree

originally featured on my Substack PAGE - LAGER TIME - including audio

If you know me, or you know the name of this blog, at least, you’ll know I very much enjoy drinking lager. These days, I don’t get to do it nearly as much as I’d like but I do enjoy a pint, or five. Those that know me well, know that I’m no fan of craft beer. It’s an odd thing to say, as craft-beer is a very broad-church and that rational part of me knows it’s an irrational thing to have a gripe about. BUT, I can genuinely say, I’ve never drunk one I liked the taste of but it’s not the content inside the glass or the tiny can with the whimsical illustration on it, that gets my back up a bit. It’s the perception, in my tiny paranoid mind, that I’m being told this is better, I should be drinking this. Well, what some it, just is’nt

Certain arguments I get; small local brewery versus cooperate bemouth full of chemicals and in many cases, I can understand people’s reasons to opt for the stinky hops, but it’s not always that simple is it. I remember waking up one morning after a night on that Camden Hells and my head felt like I’d been drinking Special Brew in a park, all day. I don’t think it’s all that squeaky clean. Then when stories broke of Craft-Beer-big-bollox, Brew-Dog mis-treating their staff, it made me think of that pious man that runs Canada who keeps getting caught doing black-face. What if, SOME of this craft beer stuff, is actually bollox

In a similar way, all this can be applied to food - see vegan /organic / sour dough etc and of course, to my other favourite thing, football. I’m a Millwall fan and like most Milllwall fans, I know that being in the to- ten of the second-tier in English football, is a decent achievement and if we’re there, it means that we’re probably punching above our weight.

These days, with Man City’s brand of football being the zeitgeist, playing the ‘right way’ means having multiple players that are comfortable on the ball and can move and switch positions. Trouble is, the players that can do that, tend to cost a lot of money. Millwall, not having the financial resources of other teams, have had to rely a bit more on being stifling-boring and defensive or failing that, the trusted four-four-two, blood and guts method. Which is often considered archaic. But what if it works

I’ve sat through and endured many teams attempting to play the ‘right way’ and sometimes, they get no-where. What if, SOME of the proponents of the ‘right way’ are just, a bit shit - see poem below

THE EMPOPERS NEW FOOTBALL KIT

They say they play proper football

how the game should be played

passing the ball, from back to front

and back again, all one touch

like a slowed down pin-ball machine

gracefully pinging about the pitch

yet they never get out their own half

they don’t ever score, nor do they

ever win, but the crowd applaud and

the pundits praise, because they play

proper football, how the game

should be played

Mirror Moments

A few thoughts on signalling, with a poem at the end, called Weak Walking Shoes, originally uploaded on my Substack page, Lager Time, where you can listen to it as an audio piece

Mirror Movements by Paul Cree 2.11.21

Including the poem Weak Walking Shoes, at the very end of this    

One of the many reasons I enjoy writing, to borrow a cliché, is that it allows me to hold up a mirror to my own behaviour and by extension, others too, hopefully. When I think about this, there is one image that often flashes up in my mind, over and over again, reminding me of that particular reason.

It’s probably a compound of many memories, spent working in Waitrose as a teenager (and any other customer service type job I had, there was a few!) and witnessing some customer going ape-shit, at me, or some other hapless part-timer on the checkouts, over the condition of something relatively minor, like a tin of soup and inevitably demanding something in return for the pain of it; the attention of the senior management, a reduction in price etc. I call it the mirror moment.

Back then, I always used to think, that if you could pause-time in that moment, unfreeze that customer, like a drama improv-exercise and hand that angry customer, one of those little rectangular mirrors we used to use in school, l to measure light-angles or whatever, they could look at themselves in that moment, take a moment and hopefully think  ‘yea, maybe I’m being a bit of prick here.’

There are many more of these memories, people having overly-loud telephone barneys in pub lic, hyper-devout church attendees, out-singing everyone else and of course, the over-whelming vast array of behaviour-questioning memories that scrutinise my own actions, hence the poem in this post  but for some reason, it’s always that Waitrose one I return too; I don’t know why but I don’t suppose it matters all that much, it does the required job and encourages me to question to my own motivations.  

I guess where all this is leading too, is that in each of these examples, my amateur psychological guess, is that each person is signalling something, which may not exactly correlate with what they’re presenting, almost like they’re misleading us, the public, the audience, the viewers etc and it makes me uncomfortable. I don’t like it, it’s dis-honest. Maybe honesty is in itself, a signalling thing but I still don’t like it.

In an age of social-media, this goes on a lot and yep, I’ve most certainly done it myself. I can’t turn on the telly, without some huge mutli-national corporate entity encouraging me to take up whatever moral-crusade they’re promoting, or more simply, some poet who just so happened to pen a poem on the day of some huge tragedy and immediately stuck it up on line and encouraged everyone to share it. I don’t like it.

Mirror moment, why are we doing this? And if we really knew why we were doing this, would we still be doing this? Mirror moment, why am I doing this? See below

Weak Walking Shoes

Back then I didn’t know many people into people into

outdoor pursuits, certainly not outside Ikon-Diva

Crawley’s premier late-night go-to in 01

gone 2am with a curb-side-view, scuffles on the

pavement, arguments in the kebab que

couple of times I put on a pair of clumpy walking

shoes, zipped up the ugly- fleece and attempted to

scale the moral high ground, preaching to my mates

below that fighting was an immature thing to do

Now I’m at an age, where, keep it down, yea but

I might actually enjoying walking and I might-possibly-

have considered purchasing a pair of ugly-arse walking

shoes, because they’re water-proof and comfy and …

listen, that kid my mates mate slapped that time, probably deserved it

mouthed off unprovoked, squared up, probably shirtless

and when push came to shove, I was probably deserting

knowing deep down, I lacked the right gear for that sort of pursuit

wrong sort of shoes

so I ascended hilly peaks and preached my views

convinced I was on higher ground like a

champagne-socialist one windfall

away from a super yacht cruise

Slow and Steady

This is a work-in-progress peice of writing about eating food, it’s up on my Substack page, Lager Time, where you can aslo listen to it as audio, have a listen HERE

Slow and Steady

My wife is helping me to slow down when I eat food and by proxy, control my impulses, which is exactly what I used to tell the year fours, every day, when I worked in Primary. They were nine, I’m thirty seven.

She tells me to chew twenty-times before I swallow this bite of a burger I’ve got in my mouth. I know also, that I should say a full sentence in my head, before I take the next bite. This burger is absolutely banging and at present, the concept of delayed gratification is a utopian pipe-dream. I want to murder this burger and leave no trace. When it comes to food, I’m Wolverine in full berserker-mode and this unhealthy habit of mine ‘aint going quietly, I’ve had a lifetime of practise, I’m hard wired for destruction.

Mealtimes as a nipper were difficult, I often couldn’t wait to finish. I hated the sound of people eating, knives and forks scarping on plates, food being chewed, grace and small talk. Mum and dad insisted we sat at a table most nights and eat the food mum made, hearty and simple. When mates came round for tea, they’d think I was posh, regardless of what was, or wasn’t, on the plate in front of them. Some of them had Sky TV and the Simpsons and they’d eat and watch at leisure.

I often acted-up at mealtimes, testing my dads stern authority, or I’d withdraw inside and say nothing. Most times I wanted to eat as quick as a I could, so I could resume playing football down the side of the house, on my own, enacting out games I’d conjured up in my head, continuing the long running football-saga I’d been developing over weeks and months.

Most days I’d polish my plate, double-lively, wash-up, then burn upstairs to continue playing whatever computer game I was into at the that time. As I got older, football and games were replaced by music and lyrics. it weren’t long before I had a full-time job, time was of the essence and food got in the way of creating. I leant to make basic meals, which required minimal amounts of cleaning-up and I stuck to that, though it was never quite that efficient.

Put a plate of food in front of me and I’d transform to that pack of wolves in a feeding frenzy and demolish the lot within minutes, often taking way more than I need and bloating myself out for the rest of the evening.

I like eating. Put a plate of food in front of me and a switch gets flipped. There’s this thrill in seeing it, smelling it, getting it all in my mouth. It’s like a fruit machine with every light flashing in double time, treble-cherries lasered onto my eyelids and every mouthful is a potential pay out It’s why I try to avoid buying those bigger bags of sweeties or crisps that are meant for sharing. As soon as that seal it’s broken I’m one-man-de-facto state primed for self-perseveration.

When I first met my wife, she was surprised that I rarely had food in the fridge or the cupboard and I’d be annoyed at the inquisition. Where’s the staples? Rice, bread, eggs. I bought food as and when I needed it, if I knew it was there food I’d be eating it. I had things to do that were more important to me than eating decent dinners. That slim window of post-work time was not to be wasted attempting recipes from glossy telly chefs

When we eventually got married, it hit me like a custard-pie in the face, how important to me my family was and by extension, my new family too. All those dinner times as kids, were daily practise matches preparing me for the bigger moments. I shunned them and it shows.  Which is why, I’m sat here now, at the kitchen table, summers evening, my wife, her parents and sister, and she’s having to help me learn how to eat.

Progress is slow, bumpy but mostly steady, it’s speed what did me before. Regardless of how fast I consume, this burger is still banging.  I’m slowly starting to reap the benefits, at the very least, I’m cutting down the belly aches and the gas leaks, that’s a start.

New blog post (about a new blog I've set up on substack)

So I’ve set up a blog on Substack, I’ll still be duel-posting on here but you can get the audio in there, here’s the link https://paulcree.substack.com/publish/post/42346169

Hello.

Perhaps it would be good if I introduced this new venture into Substack.

I’m Paul, I’ve been writing and performing for a fair-few years now, mainly in London, occasionally outside of it. I enjoy what I do.

Before I did any of this, I was a rapper who wrote lyrics (and still does). Long story short, I never intended to do any of this, this being poems, stories, theatre, blogs etc (not consciously anyway) I fell in to live-poetry and also fringe-theatre, both of them due to chance-meetings with people. I never formally studied anything and everything I’ve learned; I’ve picked up along the way. Consequently, I’ve developed an ad-hoc way of writing and performing and just generally living life.

My path into this probably isn’t all that unique, I’ve met plenty of people who’ve found themselves doing this, without having ever set out to do it.

If I’m being honest, I’ve probably used the whole ‘not being educated’ thing as a bit of crutch and also as something to almost brag about. The crutch bit being, when I have to write funding-forms and haven’t yet mastered that funding-type-language that evades so many of us and can be a pain in the arse trying to write. The brag bit being, probably a cover-up for my own insecurities about not knowing enough about the artforms I operate in and the way I go about doing what I do. Am I doing it ‘right’? is someone gonna dig me out for it? Prime example, I’m worried that I should’ve put a semi-colon in that last sentence somewhere.

So why am I doing this?

Presently, I’m just talking / writing to myself, because no-one is subscribed, obviously but I think I’m still figuring out why I’m doing this. As self-absorbed as that sounds and probably is, it’s kinda fun trying to work-it-out. As it stands, my thinking, as muddled as ever and awash with various negative traits, is something along the lines of : This blog can be

1: A place to put up some of my poems / stories and thoughts etc

2: This is perhaps a way I can connect with more people?

3: It can also help improve my writing

4: It can help me grow some confidence in voicing my opinions

Perhaps.

1: I’ve rarely ever submitted any poems or stories to the seemingly endless list of magazines and blogs that publish that sort of thing. Just thinking about it, gives me a classic-case of brain-overload and then shut-down. I wouldn’t know where to start. I also don’t tend to engage with that world either, so why should anyone bother publishing my stuff? Though I did, to be fair,  recently attend the launch for a Zine called It Was All A Zine but only because my mate Gary Hartley aka Gary From Leeds, was doing a rare performance. I bought the zine, I read the Zine, I quite liked it.

2:. I have a website, occasionally I do little things like this but I wonder to what avail? Substack got me excited, well, curious at least because it seems to be a centralised platform for writers, so maybe you can reach more people? Tags and keywords. Maybe I’m just a capitalist, desperate to sell his wares to as many people as possible, if seems like a market-place of sorts. A market place of thoughts? You can have that, mate. Who knows, maybe I’m just pissing in the wind, I’m late to the party as ever, but I’ll post anyway and see where it goes.

3. I recently did a short course, a Level 2 in Counselling Skills. I don’t have any qualifications above Level 2, Level 2, here in the UK, is the equivalent of wearing armbands when you’re learning to swim. Regardless, I enjoyed it but I found it challenging. I had to do a lot of writing which I found quite difficult. I realised I have a lot short-comings, which when writing my poems and stories, I can get away with, as I’ve made those short-comings part of what I do but formally, it’s no good, mate. So I dug-out a Key Stage 2 (primary level) spelling and grammar book that my mum gave me, years ago and have to decided to try and learn all the stuff I didn’t learn at school

4. I’m conflicted on this one. Social-media can be a toxic place for opinions. From politics to football it can be pretty nasty, so I tend to swerve getting involved in debates online, the road of least resistance, most likely. I also, as a policy, don’t really post anything that isn’t related to what I do but I’m often tempted... I read a fair amount, about politics and football and all sorts stuff really, I often don’t agree with the way the wind prevails but I’m scared if I voice an opinion, the wrong opinion, I’ll get shot down, quick, I’ve seen it happen. I also worry I won’t be able to defend my position, as I lack the knowledge skills do so, I’ll panic and flap and then give in. I’ve been made to look an idiot many times, when talking with people in person, it petrifies me. So perhaps this blog can be a way of me putting out some of those opinions, most of which are just floating around my head, causing a nuisance and are probably unformed and not thought though, writing them down, may help with this and it’s (so far) not quite as scary as Twitter.

So that’s it, mate. Substack, Me. Probably should’ve mentioned I’ve got a life-long of habit of being half-arsed about things, this could easily slip into that well-polished routine of mine. However, I think with a bit of planning, maybe I can be a bit more disciplined with it.

If you have read this (or listened) and you’ve got this far, thanks. Now, let’s see where this goes.

Paul Cree, October 2021