Warning: mysql_fetch_assoc() expects parameter 1 to be resource, boolean given in /var/sites/d/disabilityarts.org/public_html/includes/behaviours/comments_replies.php on line 123
Wendy Young - disability arts online
This site now acts as an archive only. For the latest news, opinion, blogs and listings on disability arts and culture visit disabilityarts.online.

Disability Arts Online

Unlimited great, limited food not!! / 29 September 2014

Where can I get some decent food in this goddam town?  In between the fantastic festival I just needed a real dirty fry up to keep me going and guess what?  Been around the world and I, I , I can't find a fry up... Runaround Brew.... where are you? Had to settle for MACDONALDS

ARGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!!! Get this city back to reality please and give us back the cosy Italian cafes and Full English brekkies!  Then I find that:  London Hot el is charging £39 for the humble fry up!!!  Let's reclaim our food!

At least my anger churned out quite a long poem and all the Embankment trekking inspired The Waistband in me!

For Real City

Ravenous for a dirty breakfast
Of bacon and eggs and all things fat

I traipsed Charing Cross
And borders of Covent Garden

To satisfy my stomach’s wretch
Horrific and wrong

Tempo Temper Tantrum
The large male Italian

Who served the best breakfast
My mate from Amsterdam vver had

Had turned into a cappuchino
Muffin selling slim line youth

Lounging across
The counter looking

At this alien
Asking for a fry up

‘haz changed’ he seemed
Perturbed at being

Disturbed whilst fiddling
With his mobile phone

Oh No I cried
Another nail in the coffin

Of a London that caters
For my craving heart

Who needs to eat
Albeit on occasion

Something other
Than an airy bun

Fucked up City
Ray Davies said

Unreal City
T.S. had it sussed

We’re losing culture
We’re losing character

To three flouncy boys
Entering Thai Pot

Looking like a greasy spoon
Would ne’er be on their map

I have seen Stratford
It’s flattened it’s lost

Like a wasteland crying
For years of growth

Torn from the backs
Blood sweat and toil

Of dockers and labourers
Now just building blocks

Horizon crying
For some kind of realism

Not just Westfield
And fancied up locks

A burger’s the alternative
Full to bursting on the Strand

Coke milk shake chilli
Relish slurping

Scoffing meat
Unreal, cheese

Unreal, these are now
This is now

I look for familiar
Earlier I saw a face I knew

Curly mop and little eyes
Crossing the bridge

On Embankment
Dark, daunted

By disappointment
Older now

I nearly shouted
‘I know you don’t I?

Weren’t you with me
On the stage in Mile End?’

Traitorous bitch! We acted together
Thought she was a friend!

Turning into Bakerloo Northbound
End of the corridor walk annoys every time

When Trafalgar Square’s entry
Is shut I imagine

That I’ll see the ghost
Of my lovely Gabby

A friendly face
In a sea of scowls

Rushing opposite way to me
‘Hi Vendeee’

Bespectacled, smiling
Lit me up, we chatted a while

But her ghost never walks
Charing Cross Station

I am left in quandaries’

Isolation

Meine Leibchen
My dear dead Gabby

Reekious in Pace
With long gone bacon

Greasy fry ups
Sweet smells dying