
http://www.camdenreview.com/reviews/theatre/brendan-behan%E2%80%99s-women-at-pentameters-theatre
BRENDAN BEHAN’S WOMEN – LAST WEEK @Pentameters. DON’T MISS IT

http://www.camdenreview.com/reviews/theatre/brendan-behan%E2%80%99s-women-at-pentameters-theatre
BRENDAN BEHAN’S WOMEN – LAST WEEK @Pentameters. DON’T MISS IT
The march of the grey men
Hurriedly away from Number 10
Followed by the catwalk queens
Legging it briskly
Through the door of their dreams
Parading their beauty, after the beasts
Whose usefulness has clearly ceased.
Oh, for the days when women
Were more like men
And had to do more than pose
To gain entry to number 10



THIS LAND OF OURS
For land is not to own
But to walk over
To lie in tall grass
To swim in clear water
In the river that wends past
To smell the new-mown hay
To watch the lambs at play
To see the stems of barley
Grow taller every day
To watch the crows farm maggots
From newly-turned turf
That, surely, is enough
see more poems in my collection ’67’ @ http://www.tinhuttalespublishers.co.uk/product/67-2/ (ebook & paperback)


When Ernest Hemingway blew his brains out with his shotgun in his kitchen on the morning of July 2nd 1961, he wasn’t the first in the Hemingway family, nor would he be the last.
His father, Dr Clarence Hemingway, took the same way out in 1928, though he used a revolver and not a shotgun.
His sister, Ursula, who was suffering from cancer, took a drug overdose and died on 30th Oct 1966
Leicester Hemingway, Ernest’s younger brother shot himself with a .22 pistol in September 1982
Actress/model Margot Hemingway, Ernest’s grand-daughter, died of a drug overdose on 1st July 1996
Gregory Hemingway – sometimes known as Gloria Hemingway – and Ernest’s third son, died under mysterious circumstances whilst in police custody on 1st Oct 2001.
Gregory said of his father’s death; ‘I am glad my father is dead because now I can’t disappoint him any more’. Gregory, who was a practising doctor struggled with the cross of his father’s fame all his life. He also had problems with his own sexuality; he was a transsexual, sometimes living as Gloria Hemingway. Despite this, he married 4 times, including his father’s assistant, Valerie Danby-Smith. They had three children together before they finally split up in 1989.


MY LATEST BOOKS…AVAILABLE @ http://www.amazon.co.uk/Tom-OBrien/e/B0034OIGOQ/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1388083522&sr=1-2-ent


I KNEW KENSAL GREEN BEFORE ITS RISE
I knew Kensal Rise, or is that Kensal Green
When upward mobile and genteel
Were hardly to be seen
When Harlesden was such a pain
And we all avoided poor Scrubs Lane.
The Harrow Road was long and lonely
Fit for trucks and tractors only
Most estate agents did a swerve
And said that sellers had a nerve
To say it was just off Queens Park
Where gentrified had made its mark
The cemetery stood gaunt nearby
With its patchwork bricks
And walls so high
Though Ladbroke Grove might still be seen
By standing on a mausoleum
Queen Victoria and Mark Twain
To Kensal Rise they both came
And a library they did endow
That’s the talk of London now
Today there’s cafes, bars, boutiques
And Chamberlayne’s the hippest street
Where Lily Allen and Sophie Dahl
Rub shoulders with the great and small
And Ian Wright and Zadie Smith
Have made the area quite a hit.
I wonder if they all will stay
Like Harold Pinter to decay
With William Makepeace Thackeray
Written yesterday – Sun 23th July – on a London-bound train
BRIEF ENCOUNTER ON A TRAIN
Blue-green compact
Hazel green eyes
She powdered busily
Then blinked in surprise
When I winked
Not once, but twice
The train rocked on
She powdered her nose
She looked at me slyly
But I feigned repose
She stuck out her tongue
And I winked once more
Then the train came to a stop
And she dived for the door
Books write authors as much as authors write books. So says Dick Francis, top-selling writer of horse-racing thrillers. The process of producing fiction is a mystery which I still do not understand. Indeed,as the years go by I understand it less and less, and I am constantly afraid that one day I will lose the knack and produce discord, like a pianist forgetting where to find middle C.
Francis, a top- class jockey before turning to writing is best remembered as the rider of the Queen Mother’s Devon Loch, who collapsed less than one hundred yards from the post in the Grand National, with the race at it’s mercy. People often ask me where I get my ideas from, and the true answer is that I really don’t know. They ask me how or why I write the way I do, and I don’t know that either. It seems to me now that one can’t choose these things and that one has very little control over them.
The author of such books as Whip Hand, For Kicks, Bonecrack,and Dead Cert – which was the first of his books to be filmed – says this about the technique of writing; I listen in a slight daze to people talking knowledgeably of ‘first drafts’ and ‘second drafts’, because when I first began to write I didn’t know such things existed. I also didn’t know that book authors commonly have ‘editors’, publishers assistants who tidy the prose and suggest changes of content. I thought that a book as first written was what got (or didn’t get) published. I still write that way. My first draft is IT. I can’t rewrite to any extent. I haven’t the mental stamina, and I feel all the time that although what I’m attempting may be different, it won’t be any better, and may well be worse because my heart isn’t in it. My publishers have mournfully bowed to this state of affairs.
He describes his method thus; When I write any one sentence, I think first of all of what I want it to say. Then I think of a way of saying it. At this point I usually write it down in pencil in an exercise book, then wait to see if a new shape of words drift into my head. Sometimes I rub bits out and change it, but once the sentence looks all right on paper I go on to the next one and repeat the process. It’s all pretty slow as sometimes one sentence can take half an hour. On the following morning I read what I’ve written and if it still looks alright I go on from there. When I have done a couple of chapters I type them out and it is this typescript that goes to the printers.
In January, he sits down to write, staring down the barrel of a deadline. “My publisher comes over in mid-May to collect the manuscript, and it’s got to be done. Each one, you think to yourself, ‘This is the last one,’ but then, by September, you’re starting again. If you’ve got money, and you’re just having fun, people think you’re a useless character.”
Dick Francis wrote more than 40 novels in this manner and they all became international best-sellers. He was one of my favourite writers and I have read most of his books over the years. He struggled with writing his books for most of his writing life, but he managed at least one a year for over forty years. That says something about his dedication to his craft. No one ever said it would be easy!
Dick Francis died in 2010, aged 89
LOVE LETTERS IN THE SAND
I watched you in the sand
Drawing shapes with your left hand
Shapes that seemed to show
The face of a long-haired man
Then the tide rolled gently in
And his face was quickly gone
But from the fleeting glimpse I got
I swear I was that man.
buy my latest poetry collection ’67’ @ http://www.tinhuttalespublishers.co.uk/product/67-2/