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Phil McChomsky


Listen Here

Magic Phil McChomsky produces oppositional words and music so that we the workers can emancipate ourselves from this socially surreal construct known as civilisation. He is an education worker, poet, father and suffers from anti-capitalist personality disorder. He can be found everywhere; writing, mixing music and poetry and generally making a bloody nuisance of himself, thankfully!


- Doesn't it make you wanna be somewhere else? she says.


- Yeah, I answer. 1977.


Shoosh! It catapults over her head into a bougainvillea. 


Homebase Herts. on Diamond Jubilee Monday. She's fingering the bougainvillea glabra. I'm writing punk doggeral in my head.


There's a gazebo in the garden

The Jubilee's in town

Let every self-respecting Anarchist

Burn the bugger down...


- Where're you going to put it? I continue, doing a passable impression of someone who's never read Keep The Aspidistra Flying.


- In a pot, she replies, without a hint of my own shredded irony.


- No, I mean whereabouts in the garden?


- Where what? she says. 

Water stream of internalised process ebbs against unprecedented political shoreline and is in danger of polluting the bio-diversity of our personalised plots as toxically as methylchlorophenoxypropionic acid. The US Environmental Protection Agency designates it a class III. At least a class II, I'd say, but no matter. The damage done. Our broadleaf weeds have become disengaged, as per the perennial communications we have.


- Look at these. Look at that. Ah! Amazing, Philly, she gushes as she sidles past the hardy fuchias, moving forward, as they say in her department, with disarming regularity.


- Hydrangea. They don't last very long. Azaleas? Just having a mooch, Philly, she carries on her one-sided conversation. 


I play foil to her external semi-monologue.


- Do you remember Poets Road? 


How could I forget? I am after all a poet. She is a housing manager. I'd've completely forgotten Housing Manager Avenue. But Poets Road? Never. Even without the s apostrophised.


- I had all these at Poets Road. You going to get any pots, Philly?


She is always trying to reappropriate the properties of addresses past. If she ever leaves Upper Acacia Close, she'll be trying to recreate it in Lower Culver Walk or wherever the vagaries of the meandering housing market move her to next.


Buying pots? The only pot I buy comes as a mass noun, though these days I use jogging, neuro-linguistic programming and real ale as weedkiller.


- Isn't the purple shamrock lovely Philly?


The Queen's English Society has only been able to attract 22 members this year, and so has shut up. The Queen and her English society on the other hand are thriving. 

So, I walk around Homebase Herts. in her wake, whilst on Radio 4 Lord Lamont keeps his hand in. Giles, it is implied, is still a big queen who speaks admirable English, according to Julian. Clearly designed to raise a little titter and make a point. Two, in fact, says Nicholas, as the audience enjoyed his interruption so much.  


Meanwhile, somewhere inside I retract my own urge to interrupt the Diamond Jubilee Bank Holiday Monday for another day and wait for the intervention of a sublime sailor with tattoos on her body of things I once said.


There's a gazebo in the garden

The Jubilee's in town

Let every self-respecting Anarchist

Burn the bugger down.


Car moi, je veux l'anarchie!!...

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