JULIAN CLORAN—ART EXHIBITION IN THE HANOVER, BRIGHTON

'TIGHT WORK'

Acrylic on canvas 90 cm. x 90 cm. 1992.

Ten of my acrylic paintings (eight on canvas, two on lining paper—mounted and set under glass) are currently on display in The Hanover, Queen’s Park Road, Brighton. The pictures span a twenty-year period, from 1990 to the present, during which time I have regularly exhibited and sold my work. I am a member of the National Acrylic Painters’ Association (NAPA) and have also shown my work with them. Since the year 2000’s edition, I have been an entrant in the Who’s Who in Art and recent years have seen me increasingly active online with Flickr. The prices of work currently on show starts from £50. The Hanover is a popular pub in Brighton’s fashionable quarter of the same name. Renowned for its food, the pub recently attracted attention in connection with the arts as one of the hosts for the May festival’s Open Houses.

'ALEX'

Acrylic on lining paper 45 cm. x 100 cm. 2008-10.

FREE LIVE PERFORMANCE IN BRIGHTON!

FREE ENTERTAINMENT
AT PARIS BAR, FENCHURCH WALK (100 METRES UP FROM ST. BARTHOLOMEW’S CHURCH)
ON FRIDAY 9TH OF JULY
DOORS OPEN: 7.30pm
SHOW STARTS AT 8.00pm PROMPT!
LIVE PERFORMANCE
FEATURING
HUMOROUS ANALYSIS &
PERFORMANCE POETRY
By JULIAN CLORAN
&
MUSIC from GEMMA WILLIAMS

THE CRESS WARS VETERANS

Macauley Culkin’s sulking,

Skulking in a corner with not so little Jack Warner of Warner Brothers.
Mothers driven to despair, by chauffeurs who don’t care,
En-route to nowhere.
Nowhere Man, Tomorrow’s People,
An ancient building with a modern steeple,
Steeplejack Warner bathing in a sauna has torn a ligament climbing out.
Climbing doubt reaches its peak,
Hiders hide and seekers seek,
Jacob Marley and Jacob’s Creek,
Incoherent references, so to speak.
Marleybone station, the Stations of the Cross,
The revival of Christian values, a revival of interest in Bros,
Moss Bros, Stirling Moss, gloss paint, faint floss—candy and dental,
DVDs and blue ray for sale or rental,
Detrimental, regimental, militants, the military and their artillery,
Capillaries, in a similar vein, connected arterially to the inner brain.
Hemispheres of the brain in the western hemisphere recognise where international, cultural differences appear,
Like saki and beer, football and gear,
Gearing up for a change, changing gears,
Shifts attention from motorised vehicles to outfit changes.
Changing times, time for change—two clichéd phrases from the limited range of politicians.
Statisticians’ traditions include lies, can involve spies and sometimes, even, the consumption of pies.
Thighs riddled with cellulite shake and quiver in the night,
Not gone into gently like a subtle Dylan Thomas allusion,
Maya represents the Hindi vision of illusion,
Whose intrusion clouds our reason.
The mating season, seasonal work,
A job for the summer and the winter to shirk,
The winter of our discontent, winter mixture,
A mixture of snow and sleet,
Making winter complete.
Completed tasks, good jobs well done,
Concreted casks containing diagrams of diaphragms
Disturbed by hiccups and the records of dire prams,
That once got pushed by our ancestors.
Ann’s cess stores stash the slash from those who fought in cress wars,
Now—bores—these vets walk their pets,
Making bets on pointless outcomes.
Out come their old war stories,
They’re like born-again gore-Tories,
These relics reliving their past glories,
Looking back through a rose-tinted haze at the good old days.
Romanticising the backdrop of global warfare and genocide,
With ignorant pride, they confide they’re currently terrified,
Of anonymous, lawless thugs,
Who claim benefits, steal and take drugs,
These mindless yobs should all get jobs,
Whether or not they get paid,
Simply because their predecessors did,
Thankful for each day they stayed.
Despite being poor and fighting the war,
Life was good, like during the blackout—
For that was when, mostly, they got laid.
If life was shit, they didn’t mind a bit,
Atleast they weren’t afraid.
They knew what was what,
They didn’t have a lot,
Still, there was no such thing as a communist plot!

LADDERS AND BLADDERS

Ladders sounds like bladders and full bladders can make you climb the walls without the former, while not being much use for reaching a dormer.
Snakes and Bladders is a piss taker’s game,
Aches and ladders combine arthritis with voyeurism and a window frame.
You can climb ladders but not bladders, which simply squish underfoot.
You can get bladdered—at which point it is inadvisable to climb ladders and tights can get laddered by drunks and when climbing ladders.
Black Adder rhymes with slack bladder, which sufferers from bemoan, can cause them to miss episodes of the former.
There is a gall bladder but no gall ladder.
I wonder if that galled Sandy Gall?
Accidents with ladders can involve a fall.
Walking under ladders is said to be unlucky…
What could walking under a bladder be described as?
Bladders contain various amounts of dispensable liquid,
Ladders don’t—but ladders help firemen and bladders won’t!

WELL, WELL, WELL

It is better to put things well than put things in a well, where they’d get wet.
You can know full well something’s going on while remaining ignorant of how full a well is.
A successful gambler can win well in Welwyn Garden City without feeling shitty, providing he means well.
Inkwells are old-fashioned and seldom seen nowadays, although there are a few in Staines and Blackpool.
People who ask, ‘Are you keeping well?’ Should, strictly speaking, rephrase the question.
Although I accept they are, generally, well-wishers.
Wishing wells are full of coins but you’d get more money out of oil wells.
One who oils well is unlikely to hear their hinges creak, while painting well in oils falls short of the old masters at their peak.
If you’re ‘welling up’ it means you are close to tears,
Unlike a so-called town crier, who is dry-eyed when he appears.
Well-meaning people don’t mean wells,
Any more than Wells Cathedral is a place of worship for wells.
H. G. Wells wasn’t wells but a writer—still, his words were well chosen.
Ice at the bottom of a well is obviously well frozen.
A bucket dropped to the bottom of an unknown well ‘pails’ into insignificance.
All’s well that ends well is not true for wells.
Oh, well!
There’s no such thing as a well-lit street—wells do not produce a light source.
Equally absurd are the notions of well-built men and well-adjusted children,
Patently, wells are not responsible for a male’s physique or in any way involved with the emotional development of a child.
No doubt many of us are well acquainted with these misleading terms,
People are well advised—not literally—not to take them literally.
The well heeled must find it difficult to walk, however well read they are or well spoken.
As for those who look well preserved, they owe wells no gratitude.
Wells get huge amounts of undeserved credit; something, which I think makes them pretty low.
Ill people don’t literally want to get well soon—it’d be a nuisance and spoil their afternoon.
Anyway, enough’s enough, I’ll finish off now—the subject’s been well covered.

NOAH—DISCREDITED

Noah’s ark was worse than his height, Yet when he was gruff he gave folk a fright.
Noah was ignorant of proverbs,
In particular, the one that ascribes greater value to a bird in the hand compared with two in a bush.
During the flood, he demonstrated his ignorance by wasting doves.
Noah’s role at this time is one of the most ludicrous and implausible things described in the Old Testament,
Which is crammed with absurdities and extremes.
Chosen by a voice in his head,
Noah took to an extreme the notion of working in his garden shed.
Eventually emerging to launch a vast marine menagerie,
He managed to keep afloat,
Although at his best his chances were extremely remote.
On the Sistine Chapel’s ceiling,
Michelangelo portrayed Noah getting drunk,
Which seems a fitting way to remember this stupid biblical lunk.

WILL I?

Will I reach the age of seventy-four?
Before then, what does my life hold in store?
Will I find untold riches or continue being poor?
If there’s such a thing as Fate, will it knock upon my door?
Supposing it calls when I’m out?
Will it leave a card so that I’ll know (without a doubt)?
Will life pass me by like a fart or some weak sigh?
When it’s time for me to die, will I wonder why?
Should I burst out laughing or hang my head and cry?
Will I be brave and ‘not go gentle into that good night?’
Or quake and crumble, all cowardly and humble, hoping there’s been a mistake?


Choosing when I die is not a choice I’m free to make,
Unless I want to commit suicide and drown myself in a lake,
I don’t wish that, I’m happy for each day that I awake.
Life is precious—there’s a lot at stake.
Some people cling to life when there’s really no reason left,
And when people die, often their loved ones are bereft.
At times like these, some people rely on their faith,
They find it supports them and makes them feel safe.
Nihilists tend to grieve without spiritual crutches,
Suffering independently of organised religions’ clutches.


Whether you’re alone or in a gang, life can hurt everyone,
And the pain they’ll feel is real.
Some wounds one finds that only time will heal,
Although when we hear such clichés they truly lack appeal.
You might think that life’s absurd,
Or, instead, that Divine inspiration occurred,
It won’t make any difference if your arteries are furred!
People seeking answers from gurus and spiritual chancers,
And those who perceive themselves as crucial cosmic dancers—
Integral, yet insignificant parts of a greater whole,
Can like it or lump it… To me they’re much like coal—
Impressive in a heap, of little worth alone,
Heated, they provide a bit of fuel but can’t outlast a stone.


Seeking truth or proof, searching for a rationale is so banal,
If we examine human consciousness we will find
The human mind is like a dog chasing its own tail,
Which is why our attempts to understand ourselves always fail.
We’re too self-conscious for our own good,
It’s easily said—not so readily understood.
Descartes provided us with an eloquent hint: ‘I think therefore I am,’
Our invention of ‘God’ is a paradoxical scam,
Ascribing the unique self-awareness we feel to some higher source is a foolish deal,
If you consider this very carefully the concept is no longer real.
When were you first aware that you were you and here alive right now?
It was a shock you have forgotten—but that’s how we ALL began,
Before we could ‘see’, we just used to BE.

SOLAR PANELS

Solar panels meet regularly to discuss the sun.
Panel beaters read about wife beaters in The Sun.
A forum that was all for them was a form of abuse,
Substance abuse was no excuse as there was no substance to the rumours.
Panel beaters unfairly linked to domestic violence display ill humours.
Mind you ‘panel beaters’ sounds somewhat brutal,
But requests to beat their wives would meet with their refusal.
The sun was beating down on a panel beater’s head,
Sun burnt; he burnt a copy of The Sun for fun,
Before realising said paper could have shielded his skin.
He tried excusing his stupidity but his excuses wore thin,
His alcoholic mother had ruined herself with gin,
Which is referred to as 'mother’s ruin', when did this begin?
He wrote a letter to The Sun to ask this very question,
He received no reply, no hint and no suggestion.
He suggested to his wife they start a whole new life,
By carving his ideas in her skin with a Swiss army knife,
For which he gets detained at Her Majesty’s leisure,
Reports The Sun with undisguised pleasure.
In Broadmoor, unable to go abroad more like he used to,
He reminisces about the things he used to do.
His memory—severely damaged by ECT—plays rose-tinted footage in his head,
He asks his doctors if he can adopt a garden shed,
His days pass dribbling strapped to his bed.
What of his former colleagues, his panel beating chums?
Are they still reading tabloids and scratching their bums?
Who are still living and who are now dead?
Yet thoughts of them never enter his head.
Nor does he wonder why a bumblebee hums?
Or if today is the day when the grim reaper comes…

LEMURS AND FEMURS (AND WHAT MAKES THEM DISTINCT)

‘Lemurs’ rhymes with femurs, which might explain why they seem to have such a ‘thigh’ opinion of themselves.
These cheeky monkeys are very dissimilar to the bone in the upper leg, and most other bones that spring to mind.
Collectively, bones form skeletons inside various bodies including those of lemurs,
Multiples of monkeys tend to form a tribe.
The expression, ‘A barrel full of monkeys,’ would not be as effective with ‘bones’ in the place of ‘monkeys,’
Although ‘biscuit barrels’ seem to be accepted for what they are—containers for storage of carbohydrate snacks, like a jar!
Of course it would be unwise to keep biscuits in a barrel previously used for easily shooting fish—then the biscuits would lose their appeal as a dish.
A dish—on which you could place a biscuit, if you so wish—could be made of bone china, but it would differ from bones as much as femurs from lemurs.
No—bone china is a type of earthenware, that’s all,
Breaking more readily than bones depending on how far they fall!
To not acquaint yourself with the true nature of these very different things is hard to excuse and hard to explain.
Unless, of course, you’re ‘bone’ idle!

ALBERT CAMUS

Did Albert Camus forsake goalkeeping for the attainment of his own personal goals?
Was his brand of absurdist existentialism an own goal?
Was he too nihilistic to believe in anything?
Or are his books misunderstood comedies?
Was he clairvoyant?
Did he stage his death in a manner that anticipates how Marc Bolan, much later, would die?
Did he laugh much or was he often seen to cry?
Pronounced correctly, Albert Camus sounds like a gnu.
Does this make him more readily a popular guru?
Camus remains influential in counter-cultural pockets, predominantly around Europe.
Jean Paul Sartre, for a start, would acknowledge his contemporary—at the time.
Camus wrote about plagues and murder yet never committed a crime.
He wrote of exile, alienation and suicide.
His books are far from cheerful and I have to confide they’ve had me in tears.
AC might be overrated now, but was he recognised by his peers?
Isolated loners arriving in cities to exist as outsiders feature in his work,
Profundity can be the hallmark of a pretentious, shallow, berk.
Was AC a lazy writer? Did he feign illness and shirk?
Where are his hidden meanings? How deeply do they lurk?
Is The Myth of Sisyphus some kind of surreal perk?
Was his understated prose contrived?
Did he steal his philosophy from some oppressed clerk?
Taking advantage of narcoleptics, did AC rise like a lark?
Shaping his stolen material furtively in the dark?
Was he a rare mind with a unique voice, or a soulless operative lacking choice?
Was he as great as (and did he admire) James Joyce?
Was Joyce the real plagiarist—with AC his innocent stooge?
Was he notoriously mean-spirited like Ebenezer Scrooge?
No one really knew Albert Camus; no one really had a clue.
So ignorance of AC is really nothing new,
Life’s futility features in the themes of AC’s material,
If AC visited a contemporary séance, he’d have to be ethereal.
Posthumous acclaim and the scholarly bandying of his name,
Contribute to his fame but to the dead that’s all the same.
The Rebel was one of Camus’ books,
Also it was the title of one of Tony Hancock’s films.
The book deals with murder; while the film should make you laugh.