Monday, 8 July 2019

There’s a funeral about to start at the Anglican Church



There’s a funeral about to start at the Anglican Church in a very racially diverse area of town. A steady stream of sombrely attired pensioners is filing in through the big wooden double doors accompanied by the workmanlike strains of the organ which ebb and flow on the wind. The road to the church is closed for resurfacing and the side streets are clogged with the double-parked cars of displaced residents. An elderly couple—he in a suit with two walking sticks and her with a Summer Wine perm, a three-quarter length floral print pleated skirt and very flat shoes—struggle past me as they slowly pick their way through. “It’s a right bloody nonsense, i’n’t it?” says the man. The woman waves her stick at the Suzuki Swift parked half on the pavement and shouts across to me “All these bloody cars! They shouldn’t be parked here!” She breaks off briefly to carefully navigate the kerb and then shouts over again “It’s all these browns, they should go and park in their own bloody carpark!”

Back out on the main road I wait at the lights behind a VW Camper with Come Back Guy Fawkes Your Country Needs You written across its back window and then turn off into another narrow maze of Victorian terraces. The big black 4x4 of the armed police unit is blocking the row of back-to-backs so I park the van and walk down with a parcel for the woman with all the plastic pansies. She answers the door and thanks me, then she glances over at the police in flak jackets across the street, rolls her eyes and closes the door again.

The pillar box opposite the house with the reproduction grotesques on the gate posts has been defaced with a half completed backwards swastika. 

Up on the quieter terrace above the engineering works, I knock at the bleached red pink door but nobody comes. I knock again, a bit louder, but still nobody comes. I write out a notification card and push it through the letterbox and a woman in tight jeans and big round glasses comes out of the house next door. “He’s definitely in” she says “Give him another knock”. I knock hard on the door. Still no reply. “I’ll ring him” says the woman, producing an old pre-smartphone mobile from her pocket. She dials the number and stands on her step as it rings, biting her lip and craning her neck to try and see into her neighbour’s front room. There’s no answer. “I know he’s in!” she says and she jumps over the low wall between the houses. She shields the reflection from the window with her hand and peers in, “There he is! He’s there!” she shouts and she bangs on the window and jumps around waving. Ten seconds later, an elderly man opens the door “Hiya lad,” he says “I don’t know why I didn’t hear you. Sorry.” The woman from next door shouts across “Have you got your hearing aid in, Ernest?” “Sorry love, what was that?” says Ernest. The woman winks at me and addresses him again, “I’m off to the shop later, is there anything you need?” “I’ve no idea, I don’t know why I didn’t hear” says Ernest.

Sunday, 30 June 2019

6am: bright, blustery, pavements strewn with tree litter, snails, woodpigeons, cow parsley, pink horse chestnut flowers, plastic glistening in the gutter, tufts of couch grass between kerbstones



6am: bright, blustery, pavements strewn with tree litter, snails, woodpigeons, cow parsley, pink horse chestnut flowers, plastic bottles, tufts of couch grass between kerbstones. A woman with large black rimmed glasses is talking on her phone with a mouthful of raw carrot. 
In the park, the noise of the crows, jackdaws and wood pigeons hasn’t woken the geese and the litter bin is in the pond.
On the bridge at Fitzwilliam Street, near the pile of nitrous oxide canisters in the gutter, a man carrying a car battery says hiya as his combover lifts gently in the wind.
I pass a scruffy faun-like man on Southgate near the university. The waistband of his grey marl sweatpants is twisted so that the inside-out pocket that would ordinarily be offset to one side is now flapping about in the centre at the base of his spine, like a goat’s tail.
In the village, the builders are listening to Bros on the site radio. This, blended with the church bells, the occasional rasping power tool and the popping of asphalt under tyres is the sound villages make. There are barn conversions with whimsical names, gravel and aubretia, boot jacks and botox. Goldfinches fertle around the George pub which had been under new management for the last five years but is now closed for good.
As I flick through a bundle of mail at the doctor’s surgery, the elastic band holding it together snaps, flies across the room and lands on the head of the elderly man at the front of the queue.
At the big bungalow by the church, the man is complaining bitterly about the previous owner’s porch again. He’s still angry about the porch even though he knew it was there when he bought it and he demolished it soon thereafter—over a year ago now. “Bloody porch! Why would you have a porch? Bloody pointless! I’d never have a porch."
At one of the terraced houses on the hill above the shops, the anvil in the back garden is decorated  with little woodland bunny rabbits and garlands of plastic flowers. The doors of the garage are decorated with Schutzstaffel insignia.
A few doors down, a man with a Geordie accent reassures me about his aggressive sounding Border terrier. “She’s a noisy buggah. She’s missing her muthah. She’s gone out on her scootah.” He bends and addresses the dog directly. “What are yah? You’re a noisy Buggah”, and he raps her across the muzzle with a rolled up Farmfoods catalogue.
Out in the countryside, there are colourful pansies and slug pellets, cyclamen, clean up your dog mess signs, a broken porcelain wellington boot, six house bricks in a pile, repro stone grotesques, solar powered lights, two left footed boots with succulents growing in them, an anodised vase of white plastic peonies, a neat line of painted white rocks and a long-handled pooper-scooper hanging by a back door.
Fields of buttercups are traversed by phone wires and irregularly weathered fence posts. A single strand of barbed wire keeps the horses from escaping. A woman in a pink tabard with white binding is edging around her lawn with some long-handled shears. She looks up through her darkened Reactolites “I’m hoping to get this done before it rains”.
At the old peoples’ home, I press the button for the 3rd floor and a Fenella Fielding voice announces “Lift going up. Doors closing.”

Sunday, 19 May 2019

6am: the gutter is lined with flattened plastic bottles and someone is blowing their nose loudly on Fitzwilliam street.



6am: the gutter is lined with flattened plastic bottles and someone is blowing their nose loudly on Fitzwilliam street.

It’s a busy morning at the office and the pressure builds into a cacophony of infectious ticks, inflections, call and response catchprases and chants the origins of which have long since been forgotten: the name of a local chemical supplier is repeated over and over again in a fake cockney accent. The opening lines of the song Born Free are sung in the style of Matt Monro at an absurdly high volume. There’s a background of constant bickering punctuated with a mock shock “You can’t say that!” and somebody shouts “Do I look Stupid? to which everyone responds “Yes!” Then there’s the whistly “Oh yes!” In the style of a 1970s Deryck Guyler with ill fitting false teeth. At the height of the melee someone rattles a teaspoon inside an enamel mug to sound like an alpine cow bell and elicits Ski Sunday cries of “Hup hup hup hup!” And finally there are the loud self-mocking boasts “I used to work in the printing trade!” or “I once had trials at Oldham Athletic!” and the enthusiastic group response of “Failure!”

At the house with the stone hedgehogs on the doorstep, where the man sometimes hoovers his pattern imprinted concrete driveway, a crow takes off from the lawn with half a slice of bread in its beak. Next door, the goldfinches are twittering in the trees and the woman in the bathrobe is pleased with her parcel.

The woman in a vest top, gardening gloves and plaster cast on her leg is tipping garden waste over a wall while listening to Where the Streets Have No Name by U2 at high volume.

It’s quiet round here: cycling gear on the washing lines, vintage cars under the canvas covers, hedgerows under the ivy, woodpigeons in the cypress trees, pizza ovens in the gardens. People under wide brimmed hats flutter their union jacks on three consecutive TVs.

The sun comes out and a cloud of aphids appears, too many to avoid. They’re up my nose and in my ears. There are dozens of green specks on my light blue shirt. 

A man on his side is trimming the underneath bit of his privet, he breaks off briefly to say hello and to comment on “all these bloody greenflies”. His Nissan Leaf is plugged in for a charge under the drapes of the flowering wysteria and a couple of swallows chatter on the phone cables above.

Later, on the estate, an old Renault Scenic passes at speed with the windows down and the music up. As it passes one of the houses in the cul-de-sac its horn sounds abruptly and a flustered looking woman with a cigarette in her mouth and a phone under her chin comes running out of the front door in very tight leggings. She wrestles with the bolt of the definitely homemade double gates as the Scenic speeds up the road to turn around. She’s just about bounced the gates open and removed a stray toddler to safety when the Scenic returns and is hastily reversed into the muddy driveway by a man with an old fashioned moustache and apparently little regard for others.

“Get here now! Get here now! Get here now! Get here now! Get here now! Get here now! Get here now!” screams the large woman to the young boy who is running down the street. He rounds the corner and disappears from view and she goes into the house and shuts the door.

At the student halls of residence with the Brexit Party posters in the window, two young men with neck beards are drinking energy drinks on the grass surrounded by Nerf gun darts.

Thursday, 18 April 2019

In the park: a coot in clown shoes is foraging under the bin



In the park: a coot in clown shoes is foraging under the bin as the mallard aborts its pond landing at the last second. A noisy crow in the tree by the bandstand punctuates the dull thrum of the early morning traffic on Trinity Street. I recognise the slightly bow-legged gait of the spectral flâneur about a hundred yards in front of me; my first glimpse of him for almost two years. The sighting is confirmed beyond doubt when he glances nervously behind him: characteristic habitual behaviour. I’m not yet close enough to prompt him to break into a run and he continues steadily towards the bottom exit gate before, typically again, he changes his mind and heads up to the top one instead. Once outside the park, he sets off up the hill, turns to look behind him, three more paces, changes direction again; down the hill. I reach the exit and follow him, gaining steadily. Eventually, after the third glance over his shoulder, the flâneur suddenly dives down a side street at a run—probably not to be seen again for another two years.

I pass only two other people on my way into work, both former colleagues walking small dogs.

In the suburbs: an old blue Vauxhall Corsa pulls up outside the shop that has the window display of couch grass and dandelions in the summer. A thin woman with a home-dyed pony tail gets out of the driver’s seat, walks round to the front of the car, pulls down her pants and bends over to display her arse to the man who is smoking weed in the passenger seat. She fastens up her trousers and disappears into the shop. As I approach the car, the weed man winds down his window and starts slurring: Please Mister Postman, look and see, If there's a letter in your bag for me… “Are you having a nice day so far?” I ask. He looks up blearily, mumbles something unintelligible and then reasserts: Please Mister Postman, look and see, If there's a letter in your bag for me… “No” I say and walk on past the derelict chip shop where I saw the waxwings a few years ago.

In the village: the once purple bike at Woodleigh House is now rust brown after being left outside throughout the winter. The man in the pinny says thank you very much to the man in the window cleaners’ van who is reeling in his fluorescent green hose. 

A heron flies overhead as I walk up that steep bit of Lea Lane where the asphalt creeps down the slope in the heat of the summer leaving a pattern of stretch mark striations on its surface—opposite the empty house with the coal tit nest in the fall pipe.

I have a poorly addressed but very neatly hand-written letter from the Czech Republic to deliver. I ask the women at the big detached house whether she recognises the name on the envelope. She pulls a face at the diacritic lettering and says, “Ooh no, don’t know any foreigners round here.” She suggests I ask at the house a few doors down because “They’ve lived here forever and they know everyone”. I walk down and knock at the door. A woman answers. I show her the letter and she pulls a face and says “Ooh no, there’s no foreigners live round here”. She calls her husband. “Derek!” She shouts “Come and have a look at this foreign letter!” Derek comes down the stairs and squints at the envelope, “No, there’s no foreigners live round here…” He pauses for a moment, “Actually, I tell a lie. Try her over there” he says and he points to the house directly opposite, “She’s foreign”. I cross the road and knock at the door. A woman in a pinny answers. “Is this yours by any chance?” I ask. “Oh yes it is! Thanks so much love!” she says in a strong Yorkshire accent.

At the big house high on the valley side, the Yorkshire rose flies from a pole in the garden. On the doorstep there’s a statue of a gnome holding up a sign saying Go Away! On, past the tiny goldcrest that dives into the scrubby old cypress. Past the woman with the shih tzu who waves and says “This weather is blinking lovely”. Past the field of brambles and the sunbathing cat to the next big house. On the doorstep, a statue of a man holding a shotgun with a sign around his neck: Never mind the dog, beware of the owner!

Saturday, 16 March 2019

On my way into work at 5.45am I am engaged in conversation by a tall thin man with no teeth



On my way into work at 5.45am I am engaged in conversation by a tall thin man with no teeth. It’s 3°C and raining steadily. He’s wearing espadrilles, tracksuit pants and a torn and faded navy blue anorak. He says he hopes it’s going to be a hot day so that there’ll be loads of babes in bikinis wondering around town.

Twenty-past six, half light, and the ducks are arse up in the pond. The blackbirds that are flitting around in the park aren’t blackbirds at all, they are leaves blown by the swirling wind; I’m not wearing my specs because of the rain.

At the junction where the puddles turn from red to amber to green, I can smell cat piss.

10.30am, I deliver a parcel to a man of about sixty. He's wearing a beige zip-up raglan cardigan with suedette detailing around the shoulder and a pair of brown check pleat-front polyester trousers. I hand him my PDA and he tries to write on the wrong part of the screen. He peers at the tip of the stylus, turns it round, attempts to write with the other end, and then hands it back to me saying “Your pen’s run out, lad. Have you got another?”

In the low sun the automatic gates of the big houses cast their long palisade shadows the full width of the road around the park.

There’s a discarded Wellington boot on the pavement at the junction with Westridge Drive.

A nuthatch climbs out from one of the nesting boxes that have been fastened to the trees on the perimeter of the park.

The skeleton of the pheasant on the steps of the stone bungalow looks as though it’s been there for some time.

It’s blustery and the caravan dealer’s Bailey and Sterling flags flutter in all directions at once. Inside, men in their 50s, 60s and 70s wear their anoraks and generous poly-cotton chinos to browse the portable barbecues, foldaway windbreaks and stacks of plastic crockery. They are accompanied by women in Ecco shoes and waterfall cardigans that flap wildly around their heads the moment they step back outside into the weather.

Doorstep diorama of the day: a statuette of three puppies holding up a sign saying ‘Welcome’ arranged next to a small potted shrub festooned with Christmas decorations, a small bag of dog shit, and a statuette of a meerkat wearing cricket whites

Sunday, 24 February 2019

Bobbing and Weaving to Focus my Specs on the Sign Warning me of the Aggressive Dog.



Bobbing and weaving to focus my specs on the sign warning me of the aggressive dog that will “definitely bite” I step backwards into a pile of shit.

It’s the kind of weather that would be frustrating if you were on holiday; on the rare occasions that the cold swirling wind dies down it’s quite warm. The cloud cover is not particularly thick, just thick enough to keep the sun from really getting through. For now the wind is whistling through the plastic topiary of the Burton bubble like it does the through the plastic bunting of a seaside bucket and spade shop. Bracing. The innards of the steel lampposts chime against their casings. “Good morning!” Shouts the man in the puffer jacket who is walking a small dog. “Good morning!” I shout back as the fine mist of rain slowly coalesces on the lenses of my glasses and the jackdaws hide away in the belfry.
The life-sized plastic gorilla at the school house now has a baby gorilla sitting on its knee.
I follow the dotted white line of bird-shit that shadows the phone wire and continue up the hill past the apple tree with the shadow of mouldy yellow windfalls.
Above the roof tops in the village, a pair of crows are giving a big red kite a hard time. Directly below them, a man wearing a black gilet and grey jogging pants climbs into a Daihatsu Terios and drives off.
The wind finally dies away and the weather brightens. The couple in gilets who are looking in the window of the sweet shop have been reading out the labels on the jars to each other for about five minutes.
Young whippets, John and Trevor have tied their owner’s legs together with their leads next to the Peugeot 308 with the flat tyres. The big woman who is eating from a polystyrene container with her fingers is laughing at them from the bus stop.
Consecutive windowsill dioramas: 1. Two 4” high models of Castle Hill tower either side of a model of an African elephant of a similar height. 2. A 3” high brass pig (Berkshire?) 3. 12” high ceramic Egyptian cat. 4. Two 4” high ducks wearing Edwardian costume and a slightly taller statuette of Tobermory from the Wombles.
Donna Summer’s Dinner With Gershwin is playing across the shop floor at the Co-op. A man in black combat pants is inspecting a jar of hoisin sauce. He looks very disapprovingly at it, scowling angrily before tossing it into his basket and wandering off up the aisle singing. “I wanna have dinner with Gershwin. I wanna watch Rembrandt sketch. I wanna talk theory with Curie. I wanna get next to you. Next to you, yeah yeah”.

Monday, 11 February 2019

Caught by the River Calder

I'll be reading from The Most difficult Thing Ever / Round About Town at this Caught by the River event at the Trades Club in Hebden Bridge, West Yorks on March 30th. 

"Caught by the River Calder, taking place at the Trades Club, Hebden Bridge on Saturday 30thMarch 2019, is split into two separate events – a daytime session centred around readings and conversations from some of our favourite writers, poets and long-time contributors – and an evening event focusing on music and field recordings, with performances by Hannah Peel & Will Burns and Erland Cooper. Heavenly Jukebox DJs will play between and after the musicians and into the night."



Sunday, 30 December 2018

Highlights 2018



Highlights 2018

Stepping over the urine marinated faeces of the bow legged terrier called Diesel
Jumping up and down in a wheelie bin
Losing the heads of both the donkey and the Buddha to the frost
Moaning like Hell about ‘em when they come over here
Polishing a hatchback
Waiting for a Cairn terrier

What a lovely morning!

Pinning souvenir badges to a walking stick
Unloading bulk bought dog food systems
Chasing an Impreza on a quad bike
Pecking at the portion control packaging underneath the bench
Looking flustered on a tiny motorcycle
Doing an online quiz

What’s the day after pancake day?

Luvvie-ing and matey-ing your way along a row of red brick inter-war semis
Replacing the display of geraniums with a rowing machine and a treadmill
Queueing next to the big upside-down pictures of sandwiches
Wearing a Stetson hat
Stuffing your big fat white face with fucking pizza
Talking to the man with the precision beard

It says on the thing on the thing that you have to buy a minimum of 50p’s worth of air
Emerging from the bushes with a mouth full of feathers
Scraping past with a bit of tree wedged under your front end
Embedding a McDonalds cup in the ivy next to the chip shop
Inhaling the aroma of cheap scented candles and accreted dog piss
Badly applying decals of scorpions onto a Toyota
Watching the men in pool sliders and ankle tags argue loudly with the bald men in Adidas

Don’t call the police, I’m on remand!

Hosing down a Skoda Octavia
Wiping your bald head on the hem of your t-shirt
Attending the festival of tribute bands
Calling a Yorkshire terrier a little shit-house 
And punting it up the arse with the toe end of your Croc
Chamoising the roof of a five berth Crusader Storm

Gone to Blackpool for good. Andrew.

Cycling with your feet on the ground to enhance the brakes
Rummaging through the bins again
Jogging past the statue of the cartoon dog
Walking in the cigarette slipstream of the woman in the fur lined Parka
Squabbling over the louvers of the belfry
Mixing cement with your flies undone

Do you like political comedy like Ali G?

Friday, 23 November 2018

“The funniest book I read this year..."

In March this year Uniformbooks published Round About Town, a beautifully produced book based on this blog. Over the year, It has picked up some favourable reviews from some favourable places and this week it was included in the Times Literary Supplement’s Books of the Year.

“The funniest book I read this year was the one-man mass-observation of Round About Town (Uniformbooks) by Kevin Boniface, a Yorkshire postman with a poet’s eye: “choppy little puddles are breaching their potholes”.

Jeremy Noel-Tod
TLS Books of the Year, November 20th 2018

.................................


Reviews and articles


“Round About Town is a work that can conjure fury at poverty, contempt for the poverty of mainstream popular culture and joy at its moments of poetic collapse.”

“I find scratching beneath the surface of the ordinary endlessly fascinating.”

“There’s no story here, in this whole book, but there are glimpses of hundreds of stories.
It is funny, and unsettling, and comforting, often at the same time, and you don’t get to find out what happens next.”

“Absurdity lurks around every corner.”

...................................


Round About Town
Kevin Boniface

“I see the waxwings again. This time they are in the tree by the flats where the skinny Asian man with the grey jeans and studded belt is trying to gain access by shouting Raymond.”
—Sunday, 23 January 2011

ISBN 978 1 910010 18 1 
128pp, 234 x 142
paperback with flaps
2018, £12.00

Wednesday, 31 October 2018

Text: 5 a.m.: It’s windy. Video: Hilltree Park v Westminster Bridge



5 a.m.: It’s windy. Dry leaves follow the man with the diamanté lettering on the back of his black hooded sweatshirt as he passes me on a pushbike with large rear mounted panniers. An empty Evian bottle follows me as I walk down Fitzwilliam Street in the cigarette slipstream of the woman in the fur lined parka.

Later, in the village, the wind has subsided and a light aircraft buzzes steadily overhead. The gale has left the gutters deep in blackspot leaves and beech nuts. Above, the Jackdaws are squabbling over the louvers of the belfry. 

A fly flies into my ear. 

Outside the old post office, an immaculate metallic orange and chrome Ford Ranger blows past the abandoned sun-bleached Mitsubishi Charisma with the gaffer tape brake lights and the load space crammed with Christmas decorations and bags of garden compost. Sparrows explode from a holly bush. “Max! No!” says the publican to the black and white cat who has just walked across his freshly mopped floor.

The man in the green hi-vis coat is delivering flyers to the estate of detached, stone built bungalows and neat hedges. He’s talking loudly into his phone: “I’ve done my back in” he says. “I’m on morphine,” and then, after several false starts, he explains how he came by his injury, “I picked an ‘ammer hup”. I see the hi-vis man again, twenty minutes later. He’s still delivering flyers but now he’s put his phone away and is singing loudly instead. His seemingly improvised song takes for its subject a bald man from Whitby who goes to preposterous lengths to polish and shine his head. The man breaks off from singing when he sees me and shouts across the street “I’ve done my back in!”

The weather turns again. Blustery wind, overcast skies, drizzle and springy rough tussock grass; the nights are drawing in says the builder in the black hooded top who is mixing cement with his flies undone.