Headland

The absent-minded randomer, he cut my head off. Imagine the headlines (in the local paper): ‘Randomer Beheads Cinderella’. But his mistake gives me an idea. I’m going to make a massive golf-ball-head out of paper cups and wear it to climb Lydstep Pinnacle. I’m going to hire a professional golfer to drive balls (shoot) at me off the headland as I climb the pinnacle. I’m going to catch the balls in my head-cups (a sort of variation on the egg cup) Perfectly reasonable – golfers often practice in the sitting room with a paper cup (on its side) doubling as the hole. Look at this carnival picture. I’m going to look like this. Head-hole: I'm going to have holes in my head.

Snapped By A Randomer

I asked a passerby – he was carrying a camera. A photographer? A randomer? – if he’d snap me - a caveman golfer. He’d forgotten where he’d parked his car, was a bit disoriented. Photograph me and I’ll help you find your car; he’d left his wife in it whilst he’d gone off to photograph Lydstep Point.

‘I’ll just slip into this size eight slipper. Snap when I swing’, I said. But as the randomer snapped, so did my golf club. Look! And afterwards, we looked for his car (for more than an hour). Never did find that car (or his wife). 

  

Join The Club

 I find a driftwood clubfoot. The plan was afoot, so I joined the club.

To be continued...

Headspace?

It was whilst beachcombing for shoes that I came across a headless woman, washed up on the sand. Contemplating her I thought of the blonde I’d met earlier (never did manage to persuade her to change her surname to Hammer). She works with patients who’ve suffered a brain injury.'You mean she's a head specialist?' 'No.'
Texted her – informed her that shoe-space and golf-ball space are inextricably linked. Texted her again: ‘what’s your shoe size (in English size not continental)? No reply, so I text her again saying, ‘fill your shoe with golf balls and you’ll see that the number balls you can fit into the shoe will be equal to the shoe size’. Eighteen months later she texts me saying, she needs some ‘headspace’; I’m hanging off a boulder when it comes through… loosing the arms race.

I continue along the seashore, trying to recall all the blondes I know from memory: Jimmy Saville, Andy Warhol, Boris Johnson, Ulrika Johnson, Klaus Kinski, Mira Hindley, Dick – ‘you are awful, but I like you’ – Emery, Martin Kippenberger, Kurt Cobain, Vitus Gerulaitis, Marlon Brando, Jill Dando.

Reading back over the list now, my blondes from memory, they were all nutters, with the exception of newsreader Jill Dando, who was shot in the head by a nutter.

I trip over toddler’s shoe - size two. Remove my hat and insert two golf balls into the shoe, and with the shoe being size 2 there was of (golf) course only room for two. 

To be continued...

Size Fate

After the blonde had gone (back to her husband) I find a shoe, floating in a rock pool. I slip my foot into the water, then into the shoe: it fits – size 8. I swap my foot for 8 golf balls: they fit – 8 golf balls fill a size 8 shoe. So can it be true: the number of golf balls that fill a shoe, corresponds exactly to the size of shoe? I have a hole in my trouser pocket so I put the golf balls in my hat and head off along the beach, in search of more shoes of different sizes - more lost soles, whose size can be measured with golf balls. Oh yes, the blonde, she was size 8 too - as thin as a golf tee, fifteen years younger than me.

To be continued…

Exes

I’m not up to much at the moment, so let’s go back a couple of summers. The point of being at the caravan site at Lydstep Point, West Wales, that blue afternoon, was to compare the x-rated pinnacle, on the cover of Extreme Golf, with the x-rated pinnacle that is Lydstep Point. And look, yes, they were very similar, I’m glad I arranged the marriage.

But another meeting took place on The Point that afternoon. There was another point to me being at the point: the real point? I bumped into a blonde, on the cliff-top, where we quickly got talking about my x's. Now, two years later, I'm her exe. I've spent much of the last twenty four months trying to persuade her to change her surname to Hammer (it has a similar ring about it to her first name). A chance encounter with a Hammer - X marks the spot. Ours is the more amazing tale, but I hate confessional blogs, so I’ll talk about my x-rated project – the wrong reason for being in the right place.

To be continued…

Untitled (censored)

Unzipped And Loaded

The shoot could have taken place in any one of two possible locations, both, real functioning golf courses. One, a golf course shaped like pistol, the other a golf course in the shape of an unzipped penis. Luckily a train-track zips its way across the golf-course-penis, look, in just the right place. The latter was chosen. And much has been written about the phallic symbolism of guns, but we don’t have the space to dwell on it here.

However it’s important not to loose sight of the relationship between the inside-out pocket (in the last blog) and the phallic golf course, as this formed the bridge between drawing and shoot (and you have first to draw a gun in order to shoot). The pistol-shaped golf course gave me the idea of using a water pistol on golf course - a course that when viewed from the air, resembles an unzipped, albeit flaccid, penis.
To be continued… 

Inside Out: How A Work Came About

How do certain 'works' come about? Sometimes it starts with a drawing. Consider the two sketches - the same picture twice, one on top of the other – of a golfer, on green, with his trouser pocket turned inside out. Something obscene on a golf-green; it gave me the idea for a ‘shoot’ (a photograph).

To be continued…

Golf Holes Sleeping