jb barrington : woodchip anaglypta and nicotined artex ceilings [words escape me]
poetry. anyone who has the guts to stand upright, alone on a stage and belt out pure, unadulterated thoughts whether they rhyme or fucking-well-not has to be held high in naked reverence. they walk a tightrope, without a musical net or roadie mates to guide home, living or dying just by the cut of their wordy giblets. often as sidelines to the mainline swaggerers, making up time and numbers because the swaggerers only have six decent songs. make the audience wet themselves; laugh or cry, preferably both. above all get them stood up and take notice. by a razor-hook be a john cooper clark. be the next best, or the next. or even the best. that's this scrote from salford. he does good. if you know what's good for ya? he speaks with braised tongue of a life lived in so-called modern britain. council estate, working class britain (a familiar britain to me). of people who care and share even though they have little. their lives and loves. culture. family and fickle needs. and the rancid. the haves, the haters, the have-nots but hate the even lesser have-nots. the system which prevails, the government that corrupts and management that corrupted. the (increasing lack of) society which surrounds everything. and his everything makes perfect sense as i discovered this wordsmith through sleaford mods. jason williamson sure knows how to string barbed sentences together, he knows a kindred spirit. a fellow human being. living on the breadline border of urbane jb barrington's is urban poetry. no media upbringing. this rhythmic beat, this prose via cse grade 3 woodwork possesses no chained university dogma. no mummy and daddy taxfree account for dropouts to engage in a musical career because they couldn't possibly get up at 6am for a steady job and mixing with the riff-raff. jb tells it. he literally, with a literal wit and with teeth and heart tells it. there are words enclosed here about mums and texting, offshore accounts, fatness and affection, tea and posh nosh, youth and bingo, greyhounds and mods... and much fondness and love. and life. i'm not going to read them all out because put simply you all should purchase this book (and its cheap as fish n'chips) but will offer his shortest piece as shining grade-a example. look yourself in the eye and admit this is a tale of the sorry state of current affairs and lack of human empathy you every day recognise...
sign for his overtime : pete punched his clock card - at five minutes to nine - at five past drop dead - on the production line - the foreman sighed - his workmates all cried - whilst stepping over him - to sign for his overtime
woodchip anaglypta and nicotined artex ceilings will help you realise you're about as middle class as buying the guardian and the observer on a weekend. reading its actual well-written, objective, neutrality-normal news, but every single bloody time bemoaning the ever-increasing shallow-fodder journalism it shovels as consumerism to the rich (or wannabe rich) molasses. a tip; reuse these remains as a splatter-tray under the cat's food-bowl. mr barrington's 'poetic shite nonsense' (his words. so very far the wrong words) however, deserves its place at the forefront of any bookshelf. even on a poncey coffee-table if that's how you like to engage the neighbours, with or without [new] labour membership card. these are words from the wise. heed them, snarly minty chocolate cream breath!
available now in paperback