Monthly Archives: January 2012

They should have just died before they got old

Good morrow readers!

I’m afraid I shall be commencing this post, in the style of Nick Clegg, with a broken promise.

In my last post,  I stated that I would be “tracking Englishness through the ages”, and for the many of you who waited in anticipation for this blog, I apologise with the utmost sincerity and hope you are not too broken hearted, that, alas, this blog does not concern that matter. I was set to talk about The Kinks and The Libertines and Oasis, but it all got too much, I couldn’t face the task I had set myself, and I’m sorry

To make it up to all you dedicated followers of the Dedicated Apeman I have given you a link to one of the most heartfelt songs ever recorded, in the hope you will feel my heartfelt apology.

Simply beautiful.

Right, after that rather sombre opening I shall commence with this post.

The thing that really inspired me to start writing this blog, is from hearing Leonard Cohen’s new single “Going Home”, at 6 in the morning, on 6 radio, as I woke up.  I was barely conscious, in that weird state of being half asleep and half awake, as I heard his deep voice easing gently over beautiful heartfelt lyrics, with a rich organ sound oozing beneath the words. Ooof. That was a rather sensual description.

The thing that really caught me up about it, was that Leonard Cohen’s 78, but can still write amazing songs. He’s managed to grow old with dignity, accepted how he’s changed and adapted his music style accordingly. Here’s this song, enjoy.

To me it seems that he’s talking to his younger self, kind of like Cat Stevens in “Father and Son” If you haven’t listened to that before, it’s well worth your time.   This sort of reflective style is what makes Cohen’s music still work,  he’s accepted that he’s reaching the end of his life, or at least his musical career, and while that is a very depressing thought, Cohen is by no means depressed.  The line

“He wants to write a love song, an anthem for forgiving”  directed at his younger self, is I think, one of the finest lines he’s ever written, he’s one of the few songwriters who truly are poets (and he truly is a poet, he’s published several books of poetry)

However, now let’s contrast this with one of the greatest songwriters of the century who grew old with no dignity whatsoever, and is, quite frankly; living in the past.

From being an incredible, musical icon, he has become somewhat of a joke, yes gentlemen and ladies, it is the not so immortal Mick Jagger


That is pretty much all I will say about that song, it doesn’t deserve anymore attention.

Mick Jagger needs to accept that he’s grown older. He should have wrapped up The Stones years ago instead of slowly digging them a grave over the years, and beginning to look like a bunch of Granddads prancing about on stage.  Bill Wyman left the Stones, in the nineties, and as Dylan said, The Stones didn’t really exist anymore after that. They have become a joke, and it makes me really upset, it really does.

Dylan is someone else who’s grown old well. Apart from the little mistake that was his Christmas album, he’s continued to release good music, in a sort of country style which suits his evermore growly voice. Rather than living in the past.

Dylan said that “an artist is in a constant state of becoming, he never arrives anywhere”, Dylan and Cohen both understand this completely. However, the Stones arrived somewhere years ago and Jagger refused to ever let them leave, along with bands such as the Who; who have grown old with no dignity, they should have just died before they got old.

On that cheery note I will be leaving you,

Until next time,

The Dedicated Apeman

A Poem! A War Poem!

So Kirsty Asher the film ‘buff’ has decided to attempt poetry…God help us.

Cheery Bye

Cheery bye don’t worry about me,
Although my body’s crossed the sea
My tender heart still rests and stands
In England’s Green and Pleasant Lands.
The sun still shines over Gallic plains
And summer glory still remains
Upon our fresh and youthful faces
Of course we’ve been put through our paces!
The Hun deserve a right good thrashing
Said Colonel Banbridge, oh so dashing
In his dapper suit and medals flashing
For the village girls who waved us by
I kissed my true sweetheart goodbye
And we marched for King and Country through
The rolling hills, the sky bright blue.
This life it’s tough I can’t deny,
The time seems to have shot us by.
But though we’re tired we’re happy too
Because we know our cause is true
And Great Britannia keeps us warm
With all her dignity and form.
I write to sweetheart every day
To let her know that I’m ok
And remembering her soft sweet curls
I cannot bear to let unfurl
My deepest, darkest, wildest fear
That is brought to my mind but never a tear
Should be shed when fighting must be done
One last big push to beat the Hun.
And though Dicky Clark with half his face missing
Will never hear that dreaded hissing
Of gas which gurgles and consumes,
And through the spattered trenches looms
And catches breath and curdles blood
And squanders a generation in the mud
His parents know and understand
That for his country he leant his hand
And died with dignity and valour.
He tells a lie I can’t conceal
For suddenly it’s far too real
One glassy eye stared to the sky
That helping hand lay thickly by
Cut quick by sniper bullet and lay
In curls of mud. That rainy day
Held no promise for young Dicky Clark
No one protected his tender heart
From the ripping and tearing metal roar
The Sergeant need know no more
Ignorance is bliss for grieving friends
I see no future, nor any end.
It’s been two years and I am scarred
With lines and marks and ridges barred
Across my face and body where
The bones jut out, I’m hardly there
My mind is soft, my soul is weak
These days we hardly ever speak
But those rose-scented letters lie
Close to my heart and my reply
Is to tell her how I’ll be alright
Tomorrow’s a big day, I need the night
To gaze across that shit-stained sea
Cheery bye, don’t worry about me.

Creative Writing Launch – Ward Z and A Midnight Poem

Today we’re announcing the launch of a creative writing section to the blog. We’re posting 2 poems composed by new addition Wildabeast and myself respectively. We’re hoping that this area can show off a range of creative works from short stories to series installments and poetry. Feel free to submit anything you want to see us publish, just contact any of the team. Anyway, that’s enough of an introduction, here’s the first poem:

Ward Z by Wildabeast

So the old man lay down
In his stone bed to sleep,
His whole life ahead of him
In one muddied heap.

A fall to the pavement,
A tumble to the floor,
A sharp glance to his head and
The man was no more.

The old man had faltered,
Taken leave of his stick;
“It really isn’t worth it,
I once was so quick!”

“A stick”, said the doctor,
“Is just what you’ll need,
A tool that’ll help you to
Walk at full speed.”

The illness was sudden
To the middle-aged man,
A sharpish pain in his chest,
A click as he ran.

The man was a runner,
And a good one at that;
He raced a half-marathon
In one hour flat.

He married a waitress
With the name Anne-Marie,
Whom he’d met in a café,
Asked “Quel est le prix?”

He travelled to Europe,
For a race he would win,
Saw a café on “Place Blanche”,
A fair girl within.

Becoming an athlete
Was no easy venture;
Fighting his way to the top
From lowly back-bencher.

He didn’t like college,
Thought school was a bore;
Only sport took his int’rest –
At work he was poor.

The boy, he was naughty,
And he ran from his mum;
He’d sprint through the market –
The champ he’d become.

“A nice healthy 12 pounds,”
Said the Doctor to dad;
He is bigger and stronger
Than any we’ve had.

The old man was born on
June the 12th in Ward Z,
Where he’d end in a coffin
With a crack in his head.

A Midnight Poem by The Rainmaker

A midnight poem
The dark is opressive, blanket
Yet leveller of outside
The tarmac worn and wet
And yet, a perfect place to hide
Is it wrong to add the soundtrack
Or squander beautious silence
To let oneself be drawn back
And remember where we were once

In search of a story to tell
I opened back and fell
In darkness, sickness, health
Perceptive silence felt
Hopeful slumber dreamt
A chance to hear what you meant
A chance forever spent

On top of dark mountains
Balanced on 100 peaks
I left my dreams in slumber
From home I hear the creaks

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