Page 1

ION T I D E IVE the CD!) T S E AL F lyrics on I C E it SP plic


Bath Burp

x (& e

Dec 2011


Issue 8

Editorial Human skulls, underneath all that ugly head fat, are fundamentally the same shape, and contain this strange pinkish goo, that somehow, amazingly, is capable of creating infinite definitions of reality. Each thought, right now, is the culmination and current end point of however many years worth of evolution/creation. Happy whatever. Dave Selby Wave if you see me in the morning.

OXJAM ART AUCTION RESULTS: Well the total is in ... The auction came to a close on the 19th November in the Royal Oak and all artwork sold well, and with last month’s Burp sales contributions included, raised over £600 for Oxjam. We want to say thank you to 13 Bath artists, Malcolm Ashman, Pat Betts, Jo Butts, Vicky Card, Emma Crud, Anna Gahlin, myself, Samuel Lindup, David Selby, Bob Shaw, Phaedra Vahlos and Ali Vemeeren who created and donated the art work to the Art Auction to raise money for Oxfam during the Oxjam music festival. Thankyou also to everyone who bid and to all you folks for buying last month’s edition. Let’s do something like this again soon. Heidi x

Special thanks to John Hipperson for burning this month’s CDs. Front cover image by the wonderful Bob Shaw:

ON THIS MONTH’S CD - SPECIAL SEASONAL EDITION A selection of carols and seasonal tunes, some old and some new, performed by the fine people of Bath. 1. Happy Christmas to you, by the ever wonderful El Wristo, hot off the press. 2. The twelve days of Christmas - performed and arranged by The Golden Eggs. 3. This Christmas Morning A new carol written by Catherine Hurley, performed by herself (flute) and Ruby Brown (vocals), specially recorded for The Burp. 4. Shepherds Are - The Winter Wonderband Playing at Widcombe Social Club on 21st Dec 5. The Darkling Thrush - Jennifer Crook with The Hawthorns. A Thomas Hardy poem, set to music by Jennifer Crook. 6. The Juniper Tree by The Bookshop Band Live @ Mr B’s Bookshop. Also playing there twice on December 8th. Tickets available from the shop. 7. Santa Baby (by Joan Javits/Philip Springer) Performed by Ruby Brown and The Bath Burp’s very own Heidi Lee-Sperring 8. Hey Santa (by The UK Subs / Charlie Parker) Covered by Hayter UK. WARNING – EXPLICIT LYRICS If you would like to submit a poem, song or story please send an email to: We are happy to come and record gigs in Bath too.

Gary Young is a local photographer who travels regularly to The States to shoot commercials. See more stunners at

CLEAVING Out from the dull damp day into the dingy bar with its early morning emptiness. Just some blonde at the end of the bar. Why had Kate chosen this place to meet? Undoubtedly her solicitor had advised somewhere public, but not here, surely? The distant woman fumbled in a leather shoulder bag for a smoke, as the jukebox exhaled Nina Simone’s loneliness. The barman treated Nick to a phlegmy “Hey”, and a bottle of French beer. Nick forced some of it down. Nick had finally agreed with Kate’s letter. It would save legal fees if they met and arranged things themselves. And Kate was always sensible, a little dully so, and sensitive to others and agreeable. She was perfect, really. Except for not having children. Maybe they could get back together again if he promised to slow down. He looked at his watch again. She was very late. A movement from the far end of the bar temporarily distracted Nick from a close examination of the ringstained bar counter. She was making a drama out of crossing her legs and rearranging her tailored black suit. Nick lifted his trembling empty bottle at the barman. When a fresh beer arrived the barman said, “It’s paid for.” Before Nick could question it, the woman was off her stool and halfway down the bar with a vaguely familiar walk and a “You don’t recognize me, do you Nick?” It couldn’t be but it was. Nick couldn’t believe that after all those years together he hadn’t recognized her immediately. In the beginning he had thought he would even know and love her viscera if he saw them. But expensively straightened, dyed and cut hair, expensively cut clothes and makeup hiding her freckles: she looked like a stranger, like a fantasy pickup. Plumb lips and matching nails. Perhaps a little heavier, fuller breasted. But that same deliciously inwardly curved nose.

They sat at a table and quickly agreed on disposing of the flat and furniture. And Nick wasn’t sentimental at all. And he tried not to think about wanting to touch her. Just a “What are you drinking?” “Whisky ... please.” “You don’t drink whisky.” “My chief executive said I ought to drink something with a strong smell to it, instead of vodka.” Her perfume was unobtrusively musky. “...” “So people would know I was drunk and not stupid. I need a quickie divorce.” “But I thought it was all sorted. Irretrievable breakdown. Two year separation and no problem,” Nick complained. “And I thought maybe we could try - “ “I felt I had to tell you to your face and on your home ground. I’m going for unreasonable behavior. Agree to that or my lawyer will up the ante.” “I don’t understand.” “No you wouldn’t. I’m pregnant and need to remarry.” “Who is the father? Do I know him?” Her look told him to mind his own business. Nick felt sick. He ran upstairs to the toilets. After his stomach was totally empty, he still waited, then left the bar by the side door. Outside everything was sharply focused and intense in the bright sunlight.

BIO Richard Paul Skinner lives in Bath, England and has been a full-time writer for twenty years. He has published a novel, ‘The Bathonians’, twenty-six short stories and articles in literary magazines, written sixteen screenplays, three radio plays and a sitcom pilot. He is also a film maker: richardskinner309 on and Richard Paul Skinner on

Lorna Leigh. She’s originally from Sussex, but has travelled along to live on the hills of Bath. find more work at

Postcards from the Earthquake Zone. I’ve taken a picture of a tree that looks like a man covered in lichen standing just off the path that the ground persists in eating. The man is nothing like me. Withered and turning his drawn mouth frozen open moaning. Arms held in a running pose I watched him rooted there then remembered it was just a tree. ‘Do not cross’ tape flapped pointlessly as I thought of the phrase ‘pyroclastic flow’ from a Geography lesson video. In Auckland museum there was an exhibition of what would happen if a supervolcano went off in the harbour, and on the main route to Taupo a farmer built a changing shed next to the hot pool that appeared in his top field one morning. Muck bubbled sulphurs along a valley road and we gazed from the hire car at a shallow hole, eyes streaming, swallowing laughs about fart jokes. I’d never driven an automatic before. The earth suggested its clockwork at a cracked edge: Belligerent reds, yellows, greens. Teeth on cogs. First nubs of a stirring, a deep metamorphosis and

I thought of the word ‘magma’. How far away it seemed. Seventy degrees the sign said. Enough to strip skin, cook flesh but we didn’t think of falling in and the bottom was hidden by steam. Some cataclysmic event would have been nice. Something more substantial at least than a low rumbling more heard than felt last night like a truck passing close to a window the only ‘quake of the week.

After School Daily we watched your gray fur grow matted, sun ripened. We in scuffed shoes and shirt sleeves noted your dry eyes glaze and dust covered grow crusts throughout June. Not wanting to leave you we kept our vigil keenly. Then one day your heart blossomed. Your stomach bulbed with some long breath burst forth a writhing fauna and rank nectar. Festering flowers alive with twisting scars nestled in your belly. Bright colour of bile. As quickly as this you left us; just some flattened grass well mulched on the verge.

By L C Palmer

Tracey Quinn

If you are an artist working locally or with a Bath connection and would like to submit some of your poems or artwork to a future issue, please send the Bath Burp team an email:

Words written at 43, Cloth Fair Beside a small grey church, half-buried in the windcreated dunes Along the Cornish coast, A simple stone declares itself to be the final home of Cloth Fair’s tenant. He is not Cloth Fair’s ghost. His spirit is not here – he sleeps quiet in a hollow, Sheltered from the sea-swept shore. St Bartholomew’s incense-perfumed ancient stones and dimly towering arches Gaze on Betjeman no more. It is my footfall, not his shade’s, which presses down the treads Of Cloth Fair’s creaking stair. It is my coat and hat, not his old trilby and his mac, thrown casually Across the cushions of the comfortable chair. My reason says: He haunts not here, but through his words, his poems and his archi tectu ral prose, He still lives on. Yet when I place my hands on Cloth Fair’s walls, my senses feel them trembling With memories of you, Sir John. By Kirsten Elliott

Sam Lindup is currently exhibiting at The Royal Oak, Lower Bristol Rd, Bath. Go see. Samuellindup.

GENERATION Z My generation has been a gradual built up To the biggest fall in history, it is no mystery It has been happening since the twenties And now I am in my twenties I can see this is planned from early days to take place now. I have known this but who is listening People rather believe their politician Look at you thinking their eyes glistening That is just sealant to stop them glitching This is far from bitching and if people ar’nt listening I am ditching and pitching my tent at number 10 Downing Street Achieve what Guy Fawkes failed to do This isn’t about Christianity it is about uncovering the truth To keep my sanity Mr Cameron, Mr Rothshild, Mr Rockefeller, don’t mean to dishearten you, but this is global people camp in China, Mongolia, Madagascar, Antarctica, Mr Barrack Obama we are coming after you. How many of us divie civvies do you thing won’t pick up a tool and stomp each one of you thunderbirds puppet, cut your strings bet your noses grown no royal family sat on the throne. You have been over thrown it is time to grown and put on a show, but not like puppets no strings attach I though we would be living in mud huts with thatch roofs So Thatcher how do you feel now, knowing your planned failed just because you are female don’t think we won’t hail down and regain our towns and cities. By JOE McINTYRE

Bath Burp Issue 8  

Bath Burp Issue 8. Dec 2011