August 21, 2020
Morning 19th of August 2020 under Spaghetti Junction

Oh to be standing on the shore, staring out at the sea, dreaming of far off lands, somewhere over the horizon.

White privilege is the societal privilege that benefits white people over non-white people…
These include cultural affirmations of one’s own worth; presumed greater social status; and freedom to move, buy, work, play and speak freely. Wikipedia 2020*

What follows are some of the thoughts I have had over the past forty-eight hours:

The Earth is being observed from a distant galaxy.
The Observers are interested in observing a life form that imagines itself to be the dominant species on Earth – Mankind.
They observe a male with a toothbrush moustache at a rally in Nuremberg in the 1933.
They observe an African American male on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial in August 1963.
They observe a male in a white suit standing on a stage on the Isle of Wight in 1969 in front of 600,000 people including somebody who looks a lot like the 16 year old me.
They observe a male who used to be called Anthony Wedgewood Benn addressing the members at a Labour Party Conference in Blackpool in 1980.
They observe a male campaigning for presidency of the United States of America at a rally in Texas in 2016.
They observe that the individuals of this species, are drawn to gathering in crowds. Crowds of thousands, listening to and hero worshipping a male on a platform before them. They observe that it does not really matter what that male is saying, as long as it makes the crowd feel good about themselves. In exchange the crowd gives the object of their focus power and status.

This is the only life form that the Observer has ever witnessed behaving in this way. And the Observer does not know why this life form chooses to behave in this way.

In July 1858, John Hanning Speke discovered what he claimed to be the source of the River Nile.
In January 1912, Robert Falcon Scott reached the South Pole seven weeks too late and then died on his return journey.
In May 1953, Edmund Hillary may have been the first man to climb Mount Everest.

We can now think of these three as white western males driven by their vanities to prove something that was hardly worth proving. But in their time they were celebrated by millions of other white western males (and females) across the British Empire.

In light of the three examples I have given above.
And the thousands of refugees willing to risk their lives and everything else they have or have not got, to cross the English Channel.
And the several million carbon footprints I have left in my trail.
And as a white Western male born into the British Empire, I have to question the motivations that drive The 25 Paintings twelve year world tour.
I take a break from thinking these thoughts to look out of the window. I pick up my iPhone 7 and re-click on the White Privilege page at Wikipedia, I scroll down, there is a quote from a Peggy McIntosh, it reads:

“White privilege is an invisible weightless knapsack of assurances, tools, maps, guides, codebooks, passports, visas, clothes, compass, emergency gear, and blank checks.”

Aside from the American spelling of the word cheques, these are exactly the items that I pack in my weightless knapsack for each leg of The 25 Paintings world tour.

Am I just a remnant from a bygone era? Me thinking I can strut around the globe, pissing in whatever pot I fancy. Just like those three examples above and the many hundreds of thousands of others that never achieved their fame or infamy, but did their bit in propping up the British Empire in its far-flung corners. At the same time as destroying or appropriating whatever ‘primitive’ cultures lay before them.

Maybe it has been these last few months of the global pandemic and the resulting lockdown, plus me having to confront my own diminishing physical and mental health, that have forced me to consider the above question. As in me being a remnant from a bygone era.

In early May, I was sitting on the sofa watching a TV news story about BANKSY having secretly donated a painting to a hospital in Southampton. According to the report, it was a thank you to the NHS. To me, sitting on the sofa, it seemed weak and patronising – a middlebrow action pandering to the editors of the programme I was watching. This was not what we wanted from our BANKSY. I wanted to throw the TV out of the window, but I didn’t have it in me to get up off the sofa.

Then on the 7th of June, when sitting on the same sofa, I watched the TV news footage of the statue of Edward Colston being toppled in Bristol and dumped in the dock. And I thought – “How could any art compete with that?” This was the real deal. This was activism supplanting art. And not art posing as activism.

When Echo & The Bunnymen were playing the Colston Hall in Bristol, back in the early 80s, we had no idea who or what Edward Colston was, we just wanted to know if we had sold the place out. And if we did know who he was, I don’t think it would have made any difference. I mean, a couple of hundred years ago weren’t many of our cities built on the slave trade or the East India Company or the like? I mean it wasn’t our job to feel guilty or address what our forefathers had done back in history. I don’t blame my German friends for what their grandfathers did to the Jews.

Back in 2018, The 25 Paintings twelve year world tour took me to be working in Lexington, North Carolina. While there, I was surprised to see a statue of a Confederate soldier acting as a war memorial in the centre of the town. It was there to commemorate the local young men who “took a rebel stand” and died in the American Civil War. They were fighting, amongst other things, for their right to keep the local black population in slavery. I was surprised that nobody, over the past one hundred years, had pulled this statue down. Hadn’t the civil rights movement sorted all this sort of stuff out? But I did know one thing, I knew it was not my job to do that pulling down.

What is my job?

What is your job?

Then just after 6am on the 15th of July I heard a breaking news story on my bedside radio. It was about a statue of a young black female protester that had been secretly placed on the plinth where the toppled statue of Edward Colston had stood. And as the story broke further, I learned that this young black female protester had stood there herself giving the black power salute just after Colston had been toppled. This was brilliant. Inspiring. This was activism as art. And it worked. I celebrated by getting up and putting the kettle on.

But then it came out that this whole thing – as in the statute of the young black female protester – had been masterminded by Marc Quinn. Marc Quinn being one of the major movers and shakers in the Brit Art crowd back in the mid 1990s. This somewhat undermined it for me. Was this merely art posing as activism.?

But there was another voice in my head going “But Bill, it was obviously going to take a person with confidence and the where-with-all to make an action like this happen. And that should not undermine the message.”

But it was not until that evening while sitting on the sofa again, watching the news with my partner Ronita – Ronita being a woman of colour sees things differently to me – that I got a real sense of it being just another worthless statement of white privilege. It was Ronita’s reaction at seeing this statue of a young black woman having been done by another middle aged, middle class white male with an international art reputation, with art works in private collections and public galleries around the globe, that it really sank in. And the fact that he was there on the Ten O’clock News being interviewed made it even worse. He might have been thinking he was doing it for all the right reasons, but in reality, if you take a few steps back you see his action for what it is – white saviour complex to the max. White privilege writ large. Whatever Marc Quinn thinks or says does not change that.

And does not change the fact that I would have done the same as him if I could only have got up off of that sofa. And does not change my motivations behind The 25 Paintings twelve year world tour. A tour being done off the back of white privilege, however I might want to dress it up, and tell whoever might be listening that I am sidestepping the art world of private collectors and public galleries. I mean you have seen the film Best Before Death, right?

All of this, what Marc Quinn did, what I’m doing on The 25 Paintings twelve year world tour, is all as pompous as being the first white man to claim to have discovered the source of the Nile, or getting to South Pole, or maybe the first to climb Everest.

Am I aspiring to be whatever the equivalent of a 21st century statue on a plinth? A statue that should be toppled before it has even been erected.

Earlier this week, I got an email from the Deputy Director of Museums in Liverpool. He was reminding me how I had done one of my posters back in 2007, the year before Liverpool became European City of Culture. At the time I had printed forty of them. The majority I had fly posted around the city. But a few I kept back and folded them into large paper boats. These I then set sail on the ebb tide of the River Mersey. And I watched them as they drifted out towards the Irish Sea.

The tone of the text on the poster was that I was challenging Liverpool to achieve something in their year as European City of Culture, something that only Liverpool could do. This Deputy Director was telling me that they have a copy of this poster and they are planning on putting it up as part of their ‘permanent’ collection in one of their museums. He wanted to know if I wanted to write a few words to go with the exhibit. This request started a domino affect. The pieces are still falling.

This is the artwork for the original poster:

This is it fly-posted on the streets of Chinatown, Liverpool circa 2007:

This might be the artwork for a new poster circa 2020:

I have written on numerous occasions before how, John Lennon in his Plastic Ono Band phase was a massive hero to the 16 year old me. He was why, at the age of 18, I chose to go to Liverpool College of Art. I might have lost interest in him after his Imagine album. But John Lennon is the one person that I know exactly where I was when I heard they had been killed – in my front room just off Penny Lane.

Over the years since his assassination, Liverpool has reinvented itself as a tourist destination. A big part of that tourism is based on The Beatles. I hate this. I think it is fake. And I think it is cynical. But people need jobs. People need to trade in whatever they have got, be it apples, drugs, dingies across the English Channel or slaves. Or just the sweat on their brow.

Statues exist to be toppled.

There are a number of statues of John Lennon in Liverpool, as well as an airport renamed in his honour. Even the art school I went to took his name.

John Colston did a lot of good for the city of Bristol. He paid for schools, almshouses and hospitals for the people of the city. That was why there were statues and concert halls and streets named after him in the city. Any atrocities he may have been party to were ignored.

And unwittingly by being killed at the age he was, the legacy of John Lennon was ripe for exploitation by Liverpool’s city fathers. Thus by default has done a lot of good for the city. But the reality was, John Lennon, like the rest of The Beatles, got out of Liverpool as soon as he could. And he never put anything creatively or financially back into the city. Some would also argue that along the way, John Lennon culturally appropriated the music of Black and Jewish America. I am in no position to comment on that argument. My whole working life has been largely based on cultural appropriation.

We are led to understand that John Lennon was a wife beater.

All it needs is for there to be a high profile domestic violence case, to then trigger an equivalent to the Me Too / Black Lives Matter movements for the City of Liverpool to have to confront the way it markets itself to the world. Will they have the wherewithal to remove the John Lennon statues and change the name of the airport and art school before the statues get toppled and the airport and art school are raised to the ground?

Today I got an email from a woman and a man in Great Yarmouth. Her name is Jules. His name is Kaavous. They were wanting to know when this year’s Ragwort Week is going to be. This email triggered a bit of a dialogue.

Great Yarmouth is just a few miles up the coast from my workshop by Sizewell B.

Great Yarmouth is one of those many English seaside resorts that are on their uppers. As in Great Yarmouth no longer serves the purpose that it once did. Who wants to go to Great Yarmouth when you can go to Ibiza for less? There is an upside to this. Many of its boarding houses and hotels are having a new lease of life as temporary lodgings for refugees and asylum seekers. And many of these asylum seekers in Great Yarmouth are from the Portuguese speaking African countries, such as Mozambique, Guinea-Bissau, Cape Verde and Angola.

Jules and Kaavous’s thinking was that the African Portuguese population in Great Yarmouth were rising up through the cracks in the pavement like the Ragworts that I praise and celebrate during Ragwort Week.

Jules and Kaavous’s thinking was that maybe I should do Ragwort Week in Great Yarmouth sometime soon working with this African Portuguese population.

I like the Portuguese language. Have done ever since I hitch hiked to Portugal to join the Carnation Revolution back in 1974.

I have fond memories of being taken to Great Yarmouth by my grandfather when I was a child and where I had a ride on the big wheel. This was back in 1962.

As stated above, Great Yarmouth is just up the road from my workshop by Sizewell B. Thus very few carbon footprints away.

Jules and Kaavous then sent me an image of a space that they have access to in an empty department store. I like empty department stores. They are the future.

Primeyarc (formerly Debenhams) Great Yarmouth
Photograph courtesy of originalprojects;

Maybe next year (2021) The 25 Paintings world tour should head for Great Yarmouth instead of Kampala on the shores of Lake Victoria in Uganda – as in the claimed source of the Nile. This being where it was going to be going. And all The 25 Paintings will be done in Portuguese and I will work with this community in Great Yarmouth. And I will attempt to do it in a way that is not patronising. And maybe, for one year only, I will use green instead of blue in the paintings as most of the countries in Africa that speak Portuguese have green in their flags. Or is that me just bending my own self imposed rules to patronise the blackman? And anyway I hate flags.


Maybe in the year 2022, The 25 Paintings world tour should head for Liverpool, to help celebrate the 60th anniversary of The Beatles making the hit parade for the first time. And maybe all The 25 Paintings should be repainted with the exact same statement – BEATLE FREE ZONE. And all done identically in black & white. And during October, I position these 25 identical paintings at different but pertinent places around the city. Examples being Penny Lane, Mathew Street, Menlove Avenue, Frank Hessy’s, Quarry Bank School, Speke Airport, Strawberry Fields, The Welsh Streets, The Art School etc etc.


Maybe – taking into account my physical and mental health, my carbon footprint, my white privilege, my family responsibilities and the ongoing global pandemic – from there on in, as in for the four remaining years of The 25 Paintings twelve year world tour, I should take it to the failing sea side towns and ports on this island and work with those refugees and asylum seekers that have done the crossing of the seas for me – proper travellers with a reason to cross continents. It can be them that will bang the drum and blow the horn, even if it is still me that makes the bed and bakes the cakes. I might not be able to suppress my white saviour complex completely and may have to accept my white privilege as something I was born with.


Spaghetti Junction will still be the hub of this twelve year world tour. It will still be Spaghetti Junction that I return to for each of these remaining years to proclaim the title of the next step. And it will be Spaghetti Junction that I will return to when all of this has been done and dusted. In fact maybe I should get up to Spaghetti Junction as soon as things allow to paint onto “my” wall the words of the opening sentence of this whole piece.

Afternoon 19th of August 2020 under Spaghetti Junction


One of the jobs on each of these seaside locations might be to stand on the shore and stare out to sea and dream of the far off lands somewhere over the horizon. Lands that I will never know.

And maybe even if I don’t get to do it, someday someone will walk the road from Jerusalem to Damascus.


Actually don’t discuss yet there is a Post Script:

The Beatles recorded all their records; lived in; had their Apple offices in, a city called London.

The Beatles chose not to be a Liverpool band.

The Beatles chose to be a London band.

Echo & The Bunnymen, Faron’s Flamingoes, The Wild Swans, The Clayton Squares, The Farm, The Liverpool Scene, The Real Thing, The La’s, The Big Three, The Coral, Pink Military Stand Alone, Clinic, The Searchers, A Flock of Seagulls, Shack, The Undertakers, The Icicle Works, Big In Japan, 29th & Dearborn, The Lotus Eaters, China Crisis, The Mighty Wah!, The Room, Deaf School, Apollo 440, Ellery Bop, Lawnmower, Benny Profane, The Zutons, Care, The Wombats, The Spitfire Boys, SPINN, Those Naughty Lumps, The Merseybeats, Amsterdam, The Quarrymen, A Shallow Madness, Gerry & The Pacemakers, CamelPhat, Albert Dock & The Codfish Warriors, The Roadrunners, Atomic Kitten, Space, The Teardrop Explodes, Black, Cast, Frankie Goes To Hollywood are all and will always be Liverpool bands. There are others. Many, many others.

Yes, there are some great bands from Across The Water, as in Dalek I Love You, Pele, Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark and of course Half Man Half Biscuit. But as Across The Water is not technically Liverpool, they can chose to ignore all of this, but they would be more than welcome to catch the ferry across the Mersey to lend a helping hand in making Liverpool shite again.

Okay, now discuss.

*Dave Balfe has been a colleague and friend for the past forty two years and counting. Dave Balfe is from Across The Water. Like me, he has been a Beatles fan since childhood. I thought he might have issues with some of what I wrote above, so I sent it to him. He has just got back to me. He has numerous issues with what I have written. The overriding one being that men in our position in life should learn to shut up. But one of his more specific issues was with me quoting Wikipedia. He explained that to be seen quoting Wikipedia, is to reveal how shallow ones research has been, thus you do not really know what you are talking about. I stand accused. He also accused me of indulging in mea culpa. I had to look it up on Wikipedia.


July 31, 2020

Brylcreem – a little dab will do ya! 
Use only if you dare; 
But watch out! 
The gals will all pursue ya!
They’ll love to run their fingers through your hair!

My father died eleven years ago. He was 96 years old. I was 56 years old. On the day he died he had more hair on his head than me, and less grey hair than me.

My father used Brylcreem on his hair every day of his adult life. And there was always the same sharp parting. It never shifted. It was there on a photo I have of him at 16. It was there the morning he died.

If this Covid-19 had not happened I should be driving across Europe right now, in a white Ford Transit van with my colleague Tracey Moberly. In the back of the van would be The 25 Paintings. I would have been heading for Kurdistan in Eastern Turkey. To be more precise – to the city of Bingöl.

This is where I was to be doing this year’s leg of The 25 Paintings twelve year world tour. It was to be in Bingöl because that is the home town of Metin my barber. He has his barber’s shop on Albion Parade within 50 strides from the front door of my flat in north London. Brylcreem is not an option at Metin’s barber shop. But of course, Metin’s is also on lockdown.

When Beatlemania swept the nation, in the Autumn of 1963, the sale of Brylcreem plummeted. And it never recovered. For the previous one hundred and sixty years men in this country had used oil on their hair, to hold it in place. Brylcreem was not introduced to the men of the land until 1928, which was just a few months before my dad turned 16, and that photo of him that I refer to was taken.

But back in 1803 when the craze for men oiling their hair was first sweeping the nation, it was an oil called Macassar that they used to keep their hair neatly in place.

It might have looked fabulous, the gals might have pursued them, but there was a downside – this Macassar oil soiled the headrests of upholstered armchairs and sofas.

This was not so nice.

Something had to be done.

So, our Victorian relatives came up with the idea of draping the headrests of these upholstered armchairs and sofas with pieces of cloth. Pieces of cloth that could be removed and washed at ease and then replaced back on the headrests.

Over the years, these pieces of cloth became refined fashion accessories for the house-proud. They were crocheted and embroidered to the highest level.

They no longer looked like something that just existed to stop the headrests of armchairs and sofas, becoming soiled and stained by bi-products of man’s vanity.


They had already been given the name of antimacassar. And the name stuck long after the men of the land had moved on from grooming their hair with Macassar.

Macassar was made from coconut oil and Ylang Ylang oil and maybe a couple of other oils.

And while we are at it Brylcreem is made from water, petroleum and beeswax.

When I was a boy in Newton Stewart, everybody had antimacassars on the headrests of their armchairs and sofas, like everybody had ashtrays on their coffee tables.

But then…

Yesterday, my almost mother-in-law, who is being shielded from Covid-19, temporarily moved into the furnished flat downstairs from where I’m doing lockdown.

She brought with her a couple of throws to cover the sofa and armchair in this furnished flat. They were of a very light cotton with hand dyed Indian designs. They weren’t actual antimacassars, but something clicked.

The first handwritten draft of the book I’ve been working on is nearly done. Lockdown has some time to go. The only physical aspect to my work that I have access to here are my knitting needles and a box of balls of wool. These being for The Million Stitch Blanket that I am working on over The 25 Paintings twelve year world tour.

Maybe I should knit an antimacassar using the wool I have access to. This antimacassar would be made up of 25 A5 sized knitted rectangles. Each of the 25 rectangles representing each of The 25 Paintings – as in each of the 25 A5 sized rectangles knitted in the colours of the painting they represent.

I reckon I could knit one of these rectangles a day, between my home-schooling and domestic responsibilities. And after all 25 are knitted I will sew them together to make an A1 sized antimacassar ready for work.

And ready for me to take on a budget airline later in the year to Kurdistan, where I will find an armchair in Bingöl, in need of an antimacassar. And while there I might not be able to do all the things that I usually do on each leg of The 25 Paintings twelve year world tour. But I could write a very short play, where this hand knitted antimacassar is not only the prime prop in the play but could be the male lead. The female lead of course being another antimacassar, but one that is Kurdish and been there on the headrest of an armchair for the past 100 years.

She would have observed the vanities of men, expressed through their hair grooming, over those hundred years. Whereas my hand-knitted one would be young, arrogant and brash.

The stage set would be just two armchairs facing the audience each with…

Look anyway I can get to all that later when I actually write the play.

For now, all you need to know is – up until I was ten years old, I could have occasionally been witnessed helping myself to a dab of my father’s Brylcreem. This was to help coiffure my hair before heading off to one of those loathed birthday or Christmas parties I was made to go to.

But after the summer of ’63, and the Beatlemania that swept the nation, my father’s jar of Brylcreem, never again had its lid surreptitiously un-screwed by my fingers.

And Elvis Presley’s hair looked ridiculous from then on.  

Time to get knitting.

Antimacassar waiting on the beach at Sizewell B.


April 29, 2020
A Journey Through Gypsy Britain – exterior

Romani was one of nine languages that were spoken on these islands two hundred years ago.

Romani was the language of the Gypsies.

It still is.

These islands are the Atlantic Archipelago sometimes known as the British Isles.

Between the 29th of April 2018 and the 29th April 2026, Bill Drummond is screening the film Imagine Waking Up Tomorrow And All Music Has Disappeared, nine times.

And each of those nine individual screenings will take place on a date close to the end of April each year.

And each of those screenings is to be at a location where one of those nine languages were spoken 200 years ago.

In April 2018 the film was screened in Cornwall to celebrate Cornish.

In April 2019 it was screened on the Shetland island of Unst to celebrate Norn.

Today (29th of April 2020), it is to be screened in a Ford Transit van, parked up in a ‘stopping place’, somewhere in England. This screening is to celebrate the Romani language.

The audience will comprise of one Gypsy who is on lockdown. His name is Damian Le Bas.

The Stopping Places – A Journey Through Gypsy Britain is a book that was published in 2018. It was written by Damian Le Bas. The journey was done in the same Ford Transit van the film is to be screened in.

Imagine Waking Up Tomorrow And All Music Has Disappeared was made by the Swiss director Stefan Schwietert. The protagonist in the film is Bill Drummond. The subject matter of the film is contained within the title. It was filmed in 2013. It was released in the German speaking countries in 2015.


Each year of this nine year tour, Bill Drummond will record a different female singer, singing a song in the language being celebrated that year. They will be singing the song un-accompanied, thus uncluttered by instrumentation.

A Journey Through Gypsy Britain – interior


February 12, 2020
Photograph taken by Tracey Moberly

The Twelve Steps continue.

The title of Step Six has now been written on the wall under Spaghetti Junction.


February 4, 2020

BAD WISDOM is an imaginary film.
Partially imagined by Tenzing Scott Brown.
It is set in the present day, whenever the present day is.
And it tells the story of three young women.
And their quest to save the world. 
Or at least saving themselves.

These three young women are Sakura, Miriam and Destinee.
Sakura, Miriam and Destinee live off the Holloway Road in London.
And when we say young, we mean in their late 20s.
The first flush is over.

Sakura is Japanese, she moved to London at the age of 18.
Miriam is north London Jewish.
Destinee is south London second generation Afro Caribbean.

Sakura is mainly into the history of Britpop.
Miriam is mainly into contemporary R&B.
Destinee is mainly into her grandmother’s collection of modern jazz records.
All three like a bit of all sorts of other things.
These others things include The Combahee River Collective.
And bringing down the patriarchy.

All three were at Camberwell College of Art.
It is were they met.
And became best friends.
But that was sometime ago.
The years have begun to drift past.
The focus lost.
There are younger and more vibrant ex-art students on the prowl.

Scene One:

It’s a Tuesday evening, they are in the Good Mixer, sharing wine and stories for old times sake.
The Good Mixer is a bar in Camden Town.

So why are we here?

Because this is where all the Brit Pop gang used to hang out.
Where it all happened.
Where it all went down.
On a miserable Tuesday evening in November like tonight back in 1992 you would have the likes of Brett from Suede, Johnny Dean from…


Johnny Dean from Menswear.

Never heard of them.

Even Justine from Elastica.

Well at least I have heard of her.
Love her paintings.
Love her attitude.
Love her.

I remember my uncle always going on about this book about these three failed rocks stars or something. And how they decided to set about saving the world, like failed rock stars used to do back in the 80s…

Miriam has not been part of this conversation. She has just been taking the odd sip from her glass of red and staring out into the middle distance of her imagination. But then she turns to the other two..

Is this just another of your rambling stories that go nowhere slowly?

Sakura is not listening, she is checking out if anyone ‘famous’ is in the bar..

Maybe, but that is not the point. The point is these three failed rock stars decided the world needed saving. And the way they way were going to save it was by taking a painting of Elvis Presley to the top of the world and leave it there and…


Hang on a sec Sakura, I wanna hear this.
You can tell us about your exploits with Alex from Blur in a minute.
Carry on Miriam, we’re listening.

Actually maybe one wasn’t a failed rock star, maybe a veteran of some war or other. Afghanistan I think. Or was he a roadie?
Anyway this painting of Elvis left at the North Pole was going to leak love, peace and happiness down the longitudes and out across the latitudes and world peace would surely break out.
And this is what they believed.
And one of the failed rock stars did the painting and they set off.

And they did that?

Well they got as far as a lighthouse on an island off the top of Norway.
The most northerly lighthouse in the world.
And they left the painting of Elvis with the lighthouse keeper.
And he told them he would hang it on the wall of the galley in the lighthouse and…

Well it does not seem to be working.
I mean there does not seem to be anymore love, peace and happiness in the world compared to back then, whenever back then was.
As for the patriarchy, they still need to be brought down.

Sakura has not been listening, she has been checking her phone.
But then she turns to her comrades.

Then I suggest it is down to us.


I will paint a painting of Amy Winehouse and we can take that to this Lighthouse.

Fuck Amy Winehouse, no good vibes are ever going to leak from her.

Then I suggest Nina Simone. She is proper Diva. With all the proper powers.

Yeah, but who the fuck cares about Nina Simone in the here and now real world?
It should be Beyoncé.
Beyoncé is the only living breathing Diva with the power to change things on this world right now.

What say we all each paint our own chosen Divas tonight and tomorrow morning we head for Heathrow and get the first flight to the nearest city to the North Pole.
Or at least the nearest to that lighthouse.
And Destinee bring that credit card you found.

It’s a deal.
Miriam can you get that book your uncle had, so we can check some of the facts?

I don’t think the book was that strong on facts, but I will get it.

The three young women order another bottle of red and make a toast.

Meanwhile in a dark corner of the same bar, three ageing, battered and worn men are sitting around a table nursing their pints and discussing the long un-awaited third part of their trilogy of books. This one is to be called The Fountain of Youth. This will be the last we hear about them, and their Fountain of Youth, in this story.

This opening scene to the film ends with Sonya Madan walking through the doors of Good Mixer. Sakura is overcome. Miriam and Destinee do not know who the fuck she is.

Scene Two:

Scene Two is set in Heathrow Airport.
Destinee, Sakura and Miriam are trying to find a flight to the North Pole.
Destinee, Sakura and Miriam are freshening up in the ladies when they come across a poster of Angela Davis blu-tacked to the inside of a cubical.
Destinee, Sakura and Miriam have no idea who Angela Davis is.
Angela Davis will make a profound influence on this film.
Angela Davis will replace Nina Simone, Amy Winehouse and Beyoncé.
The patriarchy will fall.

For the foreseeable future – you can imagine the rest.

The End


January 31, 2020
Photograph by Tracey Moberly

Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow was the title of a piece that Bill Drummond wrote on the 24th of June 2016.

The 24th of June 2016 was the day after the UK voted to leave the European Union.

Also on the 24th of June 2016, Bill Drummond invited a Romanian Gypsy band to play Beethoven’s Ode To Joy under Spaghetti Junction in Birmingham. This performance was recorded and filmed.

Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow and the film of the band playing Ode To Joy were made public via the online magazine The Quietus.

Click HERE to read the piece and to listen and watch the band play.

Photograph by Tracey Moberly


January 31, 2020

NO SPARE TYRE is a forty second play by Tenzing Scott Brown.

It was first published by The National on Friday the 31st of January 2020.

NO SPARE TYRE starts now:

It is 6:48 on a Thursday morning. 
It is the day before the UK leaves the EU.
Bill Drummond is attempting to change a tyre on a car.
He is approached by The Woman.

The Woman: Do you mind me asking?

Bill Drummond: Depends.

The Woman: I just wanted to know if you thought…

Bill Drummond: Look – I’m for less borders not more.

The Woman: Aren’t we all but…

Bill Drummond: I know, it is more complicated than that but…

The Woman: But what?

Bill Drummond: I’ve always had an issue with identity politics.

The Woman: What about the The Combahee River Collective Statement”?

Bill Drummond: I better go and read it then?

The Woman: You better had. 
Hope you get your wheel changed before you get run down.

The Woman moves on.
Bill Drummond realises the car has no spare tyre.

The End

Post Script:
Tenzing Scott Brown is one of Bill Drummond’s other selves.
Tenzing Scott Brown does and writes about the things that Bill Drummond would never dare.

And if you need to know more about The Combahee River Collective Statement click HERE


January 14, 2020

The Republic of Užupis is a micro nation.

The Republic of Užupis has three mottos.

They are:





translated into twenty three languages.

To know more about The Republic of Užupis click HERE

For the year of 2020 the artist’s residency in The Curfew Tower is being curated by The Republic of Užupis. The weight of these curatorial duties will fall mainly on the shoulders of Gleb Divov.

Gleb Divov is a citizen of The Republic of Užupis and an inventor.

Gleb Divov is also the Minister for Sound, Events and Innovations for The Republic of Užupis.

Republic of Užupis is also currently situated in the country known as Lithuania.

The Curfew Tower has acted as an artist’s residency since 2003.

The Curfew Tower is also currently situated in County Antrim, Ireland.

Since 2009 each year The Curfew Tower has been curated by a different set up.

These include:

2009: Void in Derry
2010: Catalyst Arts in Belfast
2011: Eastside Projects in Birmingham
2012: Static in Liverpool
2013: Spike Island in Bristol
2014: The Seamus Heaney Centre in Belfast
2015 / 2016: Nothing but Longing in Jerusalem
2017: Penthouse in Manchester
2018: Neu! Reekie! in Edinburgh
2019: Searching for the Miraculous in Miami

On the 1st of January 2020, Zippy Kearney raised the winter flag of The Republic of Užupis, on a makeshift flagpole, on the top of The Curfew Tower. The flag will remain flying there until winter passes, when Zippy Kearney will ceremonially lower the flag and hoist the Spring flag of The Republic of Užupis – acts of God aside.

The winter flag of the Republic of Užupis


December 2, 2019

Fate willing…

What is Poetry? is the first of 40 Forty Minute Interviews that Bill Drummond will be conducting with forty different individuals.

Each of the Forty Minute Interviews will focus on one subject.

The first subject is Poetry.

The first interviewee is Kevin Williamson.

The first question is contained within the title.

The second question is ‘What is Poetry for?’

Kevin Williamson is a poet from the far north of Scotland.

Kevin Williamson was also the founder of Rebel Inc and…

Is one half of Neu! Reekie!

This is a link to his official blurb at the Scottish Poetry Library.

Throughout 2019, Kevin Williamson has been posting on Twitter one poem a day, each one by a different poet. This is the hash-tag: #365poems365poets

Bill Drummond and Kevin Williamson have worked together in various capacities over the past few years.

WARNING: This first Forty Minute Interview is considerably longer than 40 minutes. The remaining 39 will not be.

The next Forty Minute Interview will have the title ‘What is Bass?’


November 4, 2019
Photograph taken under Spaghetti Junction by Tracey Moberly

Ragwort Week 2019 lies between Monday the 4th of November and Sunday the 11th of November.

Ragwort Week 2019 celebrates those late flowering Ragworts in your life – in all our lives.

Ragwort Week exists to celebrate those who are the unloved, the unwanted, the spat upon but… those who are still able to shove all that to one side and push their way up through the cracks and burst into blossom, even in the dankest of locations at this, the arse end of the year.

Ragwort Week has existed for millennia.


Ragwort Week was first acknowledged by humans in the year 2011.

To mark this acknowledgement Bill Drummond wrote a book called RAGWORTS.

And Penkiln Burn Books published it in an edition of 1,000 copies.

As of 2012, and for a period of ten years, 100 copies of these books are being made available for sale during Ragwort Week each year.

And each year they sell for ten quid plus post and packaging.

But only via Alimentation.

These are some of the words that the book contains:

I loathe the word ‘regeneration’. Anytime I hear an area is up for regeneration my heart begins to sink. I like the opposite. I like things falling to bits, crumbling and corroding. I want more degeneration, not regeneration.

Great bands, music and art in general, are never sanctioned from above, they are never born out of Arts Council Funding, or their equivalent. And they definitely never, ever blossom in the safety of designated cultural quarters. This is a sweeping statement on my part, a simple over generalisation, but nonetheless true. The only art ever worth having is art that has not been state subsidised. As soon as it is state subsidised it becomes state propaganda. However subtle that propaganda is, it is still doing the states bidding. I am also aware that this kind of reductionist talk, is bordering on the rhetoric of the American right. This is something I have yet to square…

The flowering of a great pop practitioner is all too brief. It is usually only months between their first public stirring and their greatest work. But that is the way it should be. Their later careers, spent trying to squeeze a living out of people’s hunger for anything that triggers nostalgia for their lost youth, should be ignored…

I would also argue, the survival instincts of any society only permit that, which will not bring it down. We in the free market loving, democratically governed west, allow for political art, because it not only bolsters but strengthens the system that controls our culture. By allowing for it the system we live under, can demonstrate to the rest of the world how inclusive and attractive a system we have. Looking back at what I’ve been involved with over the years, I’m probably as guilty as anyone…