Reiko Watanabe, Hiroshima

 

Tomorrow is the anniversary of the nuclear bomb falling on Hiroshima. It’s often the story of the individual which hits home when contemplating the horrors of war and the associated loss of life. In Reiko Watanabe’s case, it’s her lack of a story, the hole left, the emptiness of a future taken from her, the life she could have led, which really hit home for me. She was only 15 when the bomb dropped, helping with fire prevention work with her fellow students. She might be alive today, a grandmother, or great grandmother. We can only imagine the dreams and ambitions she concocted in her youth. The war raged around her, but she had a future.

Her body was never found, she was working by a mud wall, and later, her lunch box was discovered, melted, but still distinguishable and full of the rice and peas her mother had prepared for her that morning. It was all carbonised of course, but it was a tiny glimpse to show she was loved. And missed.

The photo below is by Hiromi Tsuchida, it is Reiko’s lunchbox. I first saw this photo in an exhibition at the Tate Modern, Conflict, Time, Photography and I was both chilled to the core at the power of the weapons we’ve made to destroy each other and moved by the humanity of the portrait of this last memento of a young girl’s life.

I wrote these words for her.

 

Reiko

By the low wall, Reiko diligently performed the fire drill

she briefly saw the white light, In an eerie silence,

Before it blinded her,

moments later the force, hit her,

Vapourised her, leaving the girl,

In the the spring of her youth,

Just a memory to those who loved her,

 

Her future dreams, caught in the shock wave,

scattered, as single words,

Sewn seeds, in the poisoned fields,

The wall she worked by, it fell,

so that even her shadow,

was lost,

 

But her lunch box,

Buckled by the heat, survived,

A memento, a tribute to the love,

of her proud mother, who sent her out,

with precious rice and peas,

to help.

 

Poem © Mel Melis (photograph by Hiromi Tsuchida)

Russian Pizza

I don’t remember my dreams, not usually. But when I do, they are usually utterly warped and insane, i.e befitting of my character.

Let me regale you with one particularly vivid one. It’s about 20 years old now and I feel I must capture it for posterity, else it may be lost forever.

Me and one of my oldest and dearest friends Sal were on Wood Green high road. A new shop seemed to have sprung up, a restaurant of some kind, called “Russian Pizza”. We decided to try it out.

When we got in we witnessed a really bizarre scene. Ladies and gentlemen, seemingly from the Edwardian era were dining there. In fact the entire clientele of the restaurant was solely comprised of these old fashioned types. Men - in their waistcoats, top hats, monocles, pocket watches and formal coats. Women, with their whale bone skirts, tight at the waist, and frilly high collared blouses. Anyway, they were eating spaghetti, directly off the table, with their hands. They were troughing it like troopers, bits of tomato sauce were splatting all over the gaffe and it was dripping from their slobbery chops. The messy buggers.

We approached the greasy aproned proprietor at the far end of the restaurant, trying to avoid stray splashes of ferociously consumed pasta sauce along the way. We asked what was on the menu. As he stirred his huge cauldron he nonchalantly announced “you can have spaghetti like all these people or you can have Russian Pizza, but I warn you if you have Russian Pizza it will turn you into a werewolf”

And instantly I said “Yep! Russian Pizza for me!”. Now Sal was the voice of reason, he tried to talk me out of it in a shaggy from scooby doo voice all lily-ish and wavering. “Did you hear what he said? Don’t have Russian Pizza man, you’ll turn into a werewolf!”

But I ordered it anyway, after a few bites, I felt myself transform, my body break and realign itself, my muscles tightening and strengthening. I felt all powerful and yes, I was a werewolf. I was a machine built for speed and killing. I ran out of the shop (on all fours of course) and Wood Green had melted away, we weren’t in suburban north london, I was in a forest, at night, moonlight streaming through the leaves. I charged through the trees at lightning pace, barely avoiding them, weaving in and out. It felt incredible. Even better than the few times I was lucky to fly in my dreams (flying felt like swimming through treacle for me, nothing like superman).

I had the scent of something, I homed in and alone in a clearing was a sheep. I tore it to pieces and scoffed it. All went red. Then I woke up confused yet exhilarated.

I rang Sal the next day and told him about the dream, asked him what he thought it meant.. “What do you think it means Sal?” I said.

There was a moments silence, he contemplated an answer. And I’ll never forget what he said.

“It means you are a greedy fat bastard, as no one has lamb after eating pizza.”

The Most Amazing Quote in the World

The night before last I had a dream, where I came up with what can only be described as the most amazing quote in the world. In a brief moment of lucidity, knowing I was dreaming, I dismissed the annoying dancing monkeys and pool playing imps, forcing myself to wake up so I could memorise this amazing quote. I felt exhilarated and elated. This quote was incredible. I felt I had discovered a great gift, so powerful it could blow a man over with its intellectual might. It was no more than two lines, a subtle play on words, yet of such sharpness that it could have been an almost invisible piece of Japanese steel folded 400 times and given to a sword master to demonstrate the beauty of slicing a human hair lengthways.

As I lay in the dark, open eyed, but looking up into the inky blackness of the bedroom ceiling, I pondered, should I write this down? Maybe read it out and quote it into my iphone dictation thingy. But I was sure I would remember. I closed my eyes, reciting the quote again and again in my mind until I fell into a fitful sleep. I was awake again before the night was over, the quote on my lips, in my mind again, I held onto to it tight, like a chubby cherub with a chicken drumstick. I wasn’t going to let it go. I would be the new Oscar Wilde. So I slept soundly this time. When I awoke in the morning however, I’d forgotten it completely. Useless cock.

Roy Hodgson's appearance in Christina Aguileras Dirrty Video

For those that know me, they will know that my brain synapses fire in some bizarre ways....

On witnessing the dejected figure of Roy Hodgson the other night, tramping onto the Anfield turf in pouring rain, following their defeat on penalties to Northampton town, soaked to the bone, but still maintaining some semblance of Croydon dignity (always keep your suit buttoned up son, and never take your tie off), a seed planted itself in my mind.

That night, I had a dream, that Roy Hodgson had a bit part in Christina Aguilera's Dirrty video, so on waking up I trawled youtube to see if he had some little cameo, as a site foreman, shaking his finger at the soaking wet dancers because of health and safety concerns as they hip thrusted and gyrated towards each other, battering each other with their powerful invisible sex waves, pounding poor Roy back through the door and out of the video altogether.

But on review (and I reviewed it several times) he wasn't actually in the video, despite me convincing myself that he was.

Dreams are a powerful device, Jung would have loved me.

Anyway, seeing as it would cost several million dollars to make my dream a reality, I've mocked up how this video would have looked through the power of my limited MS Paint skills.

I dream of Floella Benjamin

So Kay was comparing my nephew Mick to Floella Benjamin and goading him that she was prettier than him. But that's not really important, because of this comparison, my mind harked back to Play School, the golden Era, with Derek Griffiths doing some oddball jazz / folk / ragtime crazy speed induced guitar and vocal mash up tunes about a goose, Hanbell, Humpty, Big Ted, Little Ted and Jemima. Shouting at the TV as a five year old, "The Arch window, choose the f*cking Arch Window you cock!", ah those were the days. And Brian Cant, what a nice man.
Anyway, Floella Benjamin corrupted my mind and I dreamt about her. It was really messed up.
Basically, and no sh*t I did dream this, my dreams are weird, she was some sort of Matrix/Blade style anti-hero, in an all in one black leather cat suit and cape. She had various weapons at her disposal which were secreted in concealed pockets, ninja death stars, daggers, acid squirters and poison darts. She was a one woman fighting machine. She also happened to be an England footballer (with the men) playing central midfield with Stephen Gerrard, she was so important she was exempt from wearing the England kit, she could wear her cat suit. And as she was so important she was allowed to kill people on the pitch, the ONLY footballer in the world given permission to do so by FIFA, Pele forced the motion through or something.
So England play the Czech Republic and she kills Tomas Repka playing centre half, the former West Ham player and I'm shouting at the TV, "What the f*ck is going on!" (in my dream). But then she comes out of the TV and says, "You got a f*cking problem?" and I say, "No Floella, you kill them all if you want." And then I woke up hyperventilating.
What does this mean?