composting with worms

I am not happy. Today is my day off. I decide to clean my flat as it is the first day of September. After finishing the washing up, I take a look in my new wormery, to see how things are getting on. And what do I find? A happy army of worms contentedly munching their way through my kitchen waste? Oh no. The inside of the lid covered with hundreds of nasty creepy things. Now, I am pretty old school when it comes to living conditions. I spent a lot of my youth on outdoor camping expeditions and have lived in a bender in the woods. And I have no qualms about living in a messy flat. But I don't like nasty creepy things. Especially when they outnumber me. The problem is that my wormery is too damp. Apparently, worms like damp conditions. But if it gets too damp, the wormery turns.

The instructions didn't tell me about nasty creepy things. Oh no. They said: 'worm composting is a simple, clean and effective natural process'. Not: 'you will be living in a fucking compost heap'. I would sue for misrepresentation if I had actually passed my law exams and wasn't a stupid hippy living in a compost heap in his dad's Harley Street flat.

disappointed readers

My site meter lets me see how readers link to this web log. I am pleased to have been a result for the following google searches:

'charas in nepal',
'TVP mince weight training',
'sipping hot water',
'workaholics and OCD',
'yew tree tattoo',
'ricky martin playing capoeira',
'green militant UK',
'kidney beans fall apart',
'stepney green weed',
'oranges and lemons in george orwell',

and my very favourite:

'jacket potatoes cheapside london'.

birkbeck diaries?

I am about to start a part-time degree course at Birkbeck.

I am tempted to write about the process of learning the law. However, I am also tempted to keep my thoughts to my self.

my new wormery

I have been having a few technical difficulties with my new wormery. Yes, it is true. I am growing worms in my kitchen. They are surprisingly friendly and eat all my food scraps. Well, apart from onion peelings as worms don't like acid. Neither do I, for that matter. Too many goblins.

I figure that if I am going to be a green politician, I need to walk the walk. And if that means growing worms in my kitchen then so be it. A wormery is basically a plastic dustbin with a raised platform inside. The worms live in a layer of bedding on the raised platform (damp newspaper and cardboard - I used my last few remaining copies of London Green News, the Green Party's election broadsheet for this year's GLA and mayoral campaign; being literally eaten by worms seemed like a befitting end to the production cycle). Food scraps go on top and are gradually turned into vermicompost ('black gold' to composting enthusiasts, apparently) by my ever-expanding army of tiger worms. I have read that 75% of the kitchen waste comes out as a 'nutritious liquid plant food' - collected at the bottom of the bin, underneath the raised platform, and drained via a tap. After 8 weeks, I have produced my first cup-full of liquid feed and tonight I shall surreptitiously deposit it in Cavendish Square. Just think of it as payback for the trashing of the Blue Peter garden back in '83.

R.I.P. Percy Thrower.

notorious B.I.G.

My Glastonbury highlight was performing hip hop karaoke in front of several hundred people. Luckily, I knew the lyrics off by heart.

I once wrote a 'rap'.

It rhymed.

Rolling, in my one point O,
listening to some rhythms and catching the flow.
But a little bit of kaya goes straight to my head,
and I kept on rolling when the lights went red.

Next thing I know, blue lights in my eyes,
but I'm not James Bond, and my car can't fly,
and all of a sudden - I don't feel so high.

Now out jumped the boys in their bright blue suits,
crying: 'Freeze, motherfucker, or we're gonna start to shoot'.
Now this ain't Brooklyn, or some 'hood in L.A.
I guess they must have thought I was the I.R.A.

But I'm no freedom fighter, and I don't have a gun,
so with a smile on my face, I start to have some fun.

You see they don't teach humour at policeman school,
so when you're facing Babylon it's sometimes hard to be cool.
But, nevertheless, I've got a mischevious streak,
and the rhymes always flow when I start to speak.

So I say: 'Word up, officers, you know I ain't no G,
just a dread M.C. who likes to smoke some weed.
Please stop pointing all those weapons at me,
I'm not Linford Christie, I ain't gonna try to flee'.

The officers replied: 'Put your hands upon your head,
and don't fuck about with us or you know you'll end up dead'.

[Yeah, like Wayne Douglas, like Sarah Thomas, like Shiji Lapite. The list goes on.]

'Now officers, excuse me, I don't mean no disrespect,
but when the lyrics start to flow, what do you expect?
All I want to do is listen to some rhymes,
but I guess you didn't stop me just to ask me for the time.'

'Now I am not a criminal, but I've got a bag of weed,
just a herb that's grown from a little, tiny seed.
We've got a fucked-up law that says you must arrest me,
whatever happened to my freedom - and liberty?'

'I know you're doing your job, just enforcing the laws,
but the Nazis said the same in the fucking Holocaust.'
'Oh shit', I thought, 'here comes a bullet to my head',
but it all stayed chilled and one of Babylon said:
'Son, I guess you've got a point -
pass your bag of weed so I can wrap us up a joint'.

wufniks magazine

I am happy to have had a short piece of writing published in the first edition of the mighty wufniks magazine!

Each edition features a challenge. The first was set by M. J. Hyland:

Write in the first person about hypochondria. Put every word ‘on trial for its life’. Use adjectives and adverbs only in an emergency. Do not exceed 1,000 words. Tell me at least one thing - about being human - it’s likely I don’t already know. Surprise me. Deal in truth (this doesn’t mean autobiographical truth). Say what’s not often said. Say what’s not easy to say. Surprise me.

This was my response:

i am not ill. melancholy smiles upon me. depression laughs at my side(s) - split, releasing vapours within. rising, like my mood in the light. morning slept away, quiet with wax. awake, i fix routine; order from chaos, apparently.

i remember watching ‘grange hill’ when i was young. just say no as zammo fished his wrap out of the cistern. i have taken every illicit substance bar heroin: the power of television.

if each generation needs rebellion, what remains? shooting up between your toes? everything else has been done, to death. full circle: conformity. hegemony in play. but i am not ill.

if i had 3 wishes i would go back and tell my self that drugs eviscerate emotion, but that journey is over. i walk away, colder than before; since when was reality warm? then again, i wouldn’t listen. what do i know? friendships endure, to my surprise. context altered, intestate. growing old, and i want to go home. black eyed dog, he knew my name.

rising, like smoke. imagined joy, laughter real. he called for more. da capo al coda.

people over the age of 30 recognise cannabis. people under, don’t. skunk is like a blackcurrant, made in a laboratory to taste 40 times more blackcurranty. (like a freakish ribena.) too much flavour ruins the palate – ask any wine taster.

unfortunately, our gerontic democracy silences youth. the class A/class B debate misses the point that weed is divisible: old weed good, new weed bad. the irony is that the ubiquity of skunk is the inevitable consequence of effective border control. the success of customs and excise causing the collective failure of young minds. it is harder to import, than to grow on this island. and what grows indoors, without sunlight, without soil, is not right; astringent.

but i am not ill. not yet.

seasonal affective disorder

I have a delicate relationship with melancholy; the shorter days leave me with little desire to write. Rather than delete this web log, I have decided to hibernate my creativity until the spring.

lucky dube

I am sad to read that South African reggae singer, Lucky Dube, was killed last night in Johannesburg.

I remember him dancing with his band on stage at Ocean in Hackney, singing Feel Irie!

back once again

I have been ridiculously ill for the past 2 weeks. Now I am better. Last week, for the first time ever, I coughed up blood. I panicked and telephoned NHS direct and spoke to a lovely nurse who told me to see my doctor. I telephoned my GP and was given a cancelled appointment that afternoon. I love the National Health Service. My father worked for the NHS for over 30 years. In effect, it paid for my childhood and education. And now it helps me when I am ill.

So, I arrive at the health centre and see a doctor. She tells me that she has a medical student with her, and asks me if that is acceptable. Of course, I reply. So after explaining my circumstances (ex-heavy weed smoker + haemoptysis = concern), I am examined by a beautiful Japanese medical student. She is then asked to talk through her diagnosis. Her first sentence, I kid you not, was: "Well, he was a heavy smoker, he has been losing weight, and he is coughing blood. Perhaps he has lung cancer." Why thank you, doctor, all my worries have disappeared!

After explaining that I definitely do not have lung cancer, that I have been losing weight because I am playing capoeira every week and training at a boxing gym, and that I just want a simple explanation for some blood in my spit, the proper doctor tells me that it is easy to rupture a tiny blood vessel in your lungs when you are coughing. And so it goes.

I have been eating soup.

chilli sem carne

In keeping with my new appreciation of food, I have decided to post some of my secret recipes.

Chilli sem carne (vegan):

Soak 200g TVP (unflavoured soya mince) overnight. I put the mince in a plastic container and add 2 tins of chopped plum tomatoes, a tube of tomato purée, soy sauce and marmite stock (keep your empty marmite jars; fill with hot water, shut the lid tight and shake to make stock). Stir the mix thoroughly and leave in the fridge.

Soak 500g red kidney beans overnight. Rinse and boil in a large saucepan with plenty of water. Kidney beans take at least 2 hours to cook, so keep the pan topped up with hot water from the kettle. When the beans are soft, rinse well with cold water and leave to cool.

Caramelise 3 large onions (chop the onions and fry ever so slowly in olive oil - after around 45 minutes the onions will be translucent).

Add chopped red or green chillies (4 or 5, de-seeded), chopped garlic (6 or 7 cloves) and chopped root ginger. If you like hot food, add some chilli powder. Continue frying on a low heat for 10 minutes.

Add one red pepper and one green pepper (sliced into strips) and cook for a further 20 minutes. I sometimes add a handful of pupmkin and sunflower seeds at this point.

Add the TVP mix to the chilli base and stir through. Cook for an hour with the lid on the pan. Season with sea salt and freshly ground black pepper.

Add the cooked kidney beans and cook for a another hour. Serve over shortgrain brown rice or a large jacket potato.

N.B. This meal might seem to take a lot of preparation and time to cook, but it is low maintenance - you can get on with other jobs while the kidney beans, and then the chilli sauce, bubble away. Just keep an eye on the stove every 20 minutes or so to check the beans don't boil dry, or to stir the sauce.