February, 2026 - The Outsider Art of Ian Frederick Harris...

Grey skies ain’t gonna clear up.

I don’t know whether it’s the continual rain and grey skies that we get here in the UK on a daily basis that is wearing me down, but I don’t feel moved to do anything. Certainly, there’s no inspiration to paint. The sky, the airwaves are grey. Everything feels as though it is collapsing under some huge, damp and weighted, wet blanket.

Actually, I do know what it is.

It’s all those soft, pudgy, corrupt rich people who were under the impression that they could run our lives and are now, (oh God please keep the momentum going), getting what’s coming to them… (at least in the UK). It’s slowing me down because I can’t wait for the justice to come.

Unfortunately, some, like the fat, disgusting orange monster who appears unaffected by the present hoo-ha and is still in the White House with his fat, but tiny finger poised ready to do what he does best and kill another few thousand people, all in the name of helping them out (see Iran).

Sad to say, he may take a little longer to face justice. But I hope, once the American people awake from their 239-year slumber, he and his slimy cohorts will soon face the guillotine.

Bondi, Patel all of them. I can’t wait to watch them shed tears and plead innocence on the grounds that they ‘were only following orders’, before they are dragged off to serve long jail terms. In the meantime, however, we have to steel ourselves and continue to watch their daily arrogance and the unbelievable stance they display. A performance that shows plainly that they think they can (literally) get away with murder. Of course we have seen it before. If you have ever watched any of the archive from the Nurenburg trials, you will have seen the mirror image.

For me personally it has always been the general American population that I have found difficult to deal with. I’m sure I’m not the only one. The rest of the world has spent years watching open-mouthed at Americans insatiable greed, mind-numbing ignorance and their real belief/religion if you will, that they are the most important country in the world.

However, probably, maybe, hopefully (all though I doubt it), for the first time in their (neglected/made up/forgotten) history, we might be witnessing a light leaking through a very thin chink in their armour.

I think if it were possible to find anything good about Trump’s rule, it would have to be that he might (a small might), have shown the average yank that they are breakable. That they can grow the bushiest beards and put on the most muscle in the tightest tee-shirts (and that’s just the women), but in the end they are, as the rest of the world has always suspected, bloated, fat and full of hot air.

Whatever it is, they elected Trump.

So, it goes without saying, that there is something very wrong with them. They are, to use a Trumpism, losers. Like their Lord and Master, everything they touch turns to dust.

One can only hope that when this is all over, they would have learnt some humility. But of course, in our hearts and minds, we know that there is…

NOT A CHANCE of that happening.

…and give it a few years for this mess to cool down and you can bet your bottom dollar something like this will happen again,. Let’s face it…it’s in their nature. They can’t help it. The arrogance is their DNA.

WATERSIDE. You can do this. (A poem in the manner of Milk Wood).

It is not yet nightfall and the light on Stratford upon Avon is still good. There is a glow through the rain.

It is a pleasant evening.

Walk on. Walk on but keep your wits about you.

As you navigate the gigantic, clogged drain puddle that sits, that floats, like a small ocean outside the shop that is never open.

Be ever alert.

You will need your wits to avoid the soaking.

The dead drenching freezing fathom deep wet that you will get.

When waves pushed up by the wet wheels of passing vehicles coat you to the skin with pollution and ruin the best shoes that you always wear when you go to the theatre.

By the by.

Did you book a meal to burp up when seated in the auditorium because now is your chance?

For you are at the bottom, the lower end of Sheep Street.

Stratford’s street of a thousand restaurants. Some opened. Most closed.

Heed.

This is where the theatre sheep eat.

Where filling faces and bellies with enough warmth and comfort to sleep as the words pass over their heads is a must and a well-measured thing.

Heed.

Never too much drink for it is you to be moved.

Not the bowel.

To piss in performance is frowned upon. Hold it in patron. Hold it in.

Satisfied. Meal finished. Trough empty.

Plates cleaned as though dish washed.

Cutlery arranged as should be.

Bill, (not William) paid.

IT IS TIME.

Time to make way to the Holy place.

Religious in repetition, repeats and regurgitation.

But you can do it. Again.

You can make yourself comfortable to hear out yet another explanation another exhortation another expiration of hot breath. It can be done.

And you can do this.

As familiar as you are with the ever-present fighting swordsmen or maybe swordswomen in disguise.

You can do this.

You may have seen the cavorting and posing in tight leather or weathered brown cloth to tell the story you already know so well.

But you can do this.

The spectacular swing down from the ramparts with yet another attempt at meaning clutched between their teeth.

You can do this.

Over and over and over again. Year after year after year.

You recognise this. You know this.

And as always you will make much of the best bits that speak to you as old friends.

And then.

The ordeal.

If ordeal it was is over.

You. We. As a body. Must advance. Retreat? To the Dirtiest of Ducks. The doctor. The curer of all ills.

Where with luck the word churn and the senses burn can be dulled with the continuous infusion of alcohol.

Have no fear.

There is a night to recover in.

The morrow will bring and you will sing.

No head. No throat.

Just a bright new day…and moments…to quote.

You can do this.

Ian Frederick Harris.

thestratfordian.co.uk

A quick fix

e have become obsessed with the notion of success achieved by ‘a quick fix’.

Whereas once, a long time ago, the dream was to raise a happy family, have a good job and see our children on their way, we have now turned inward. The ‘dream’ that appears to permeate our every waking hour now has to do with being noticed. We all want to be famous. We see ourselves as somehow, ‘more’.

Not only have we become dissatisfied with our lot we are easily bored and absolutely dissatisfied. We want more than the 9 to 5 can offer. Money, (easy money), quickly, rather than a workaday route to a bigger house, has become the road to escape.

My plan was, on writing this to blame everything on the digital age and the growth of the internet but in moment of clarity I realised that was too easy and what was ‘old people do’. I actually became suddenly aware and realised that it was probably all my fault. That in fact it had all started some time before Bill Gates and the like got a grip on us.

I blame the Beatles and the Boomers (like me).

I confess.

The fact that we now have an insatiable appetite and desire to be noticed and recognised, is the fault of four working class kids from Liverpool. Oh yes, and us boomer idiots who took everything at face value without thinking.

It was these four ‘rascals’ who showed us boomers that, anyone could do it. Anyone could become rich and famous. We were suddenly festooned with colour and sounds we hadn’t heard before. Our sad little lives changed in what seemed overnight, and… we caught the bug. We were fooled yes, but we walked willingly, straight into a trap of our own making.

We (boomers) interpreted the fact that as they (The Beatles), came from where we were, it meant we could go where they went. In short, if they could do it, so could we.

In truth, they did in fact break barriers. The class thing cracked. Doors opened up to the obvious.

Holy Mother of God, there was talent within the working class. The notion that the working class were more than rough labour with dirty fingernails and tattoos of anchors and saucy ladies, could indeed harbour poets, painters and musicians. It was true. Amongst these uncouth people there were talents that with nurture (money), could prove lucrative.

Inevitably, those with the filthy lucre noticed the profit potential and the realisation that there was ‘gold in them thar hills’ struck home.

For us of working-class origin we noted a way out from the sheeple pen and so, as you do, away we went.

Or so we thought. Away we went, totally forgetting the one basic need that everyone who wants to forge a new path so absolutely needs, talent. Talent and the fortitude and where-with-all to work at it. What we really wanted (and some of us still do), was ‘The Quick Fix’, an easy way out. (The need to escape is strong in this one).

Anyway. None of this is an apology or a plea to return to some golden age. It’s just a ramble amongst sad and sorry thoughts. A note on evolution and what can happen when there is a sudden shift in what we believe is the norm. An experience of a social revolution that I now realise can take some time to recover from.

The need for an easy life is still there. Success without too much hard work continues to pulsate in the background. The 9 to 5 still exits (unfortunately), albeit in different forms. Some of us are still dissatisfied and would give anything to escape. The trouble is time has moved on and life (for some) has become easier. And it has become increasingly more difficult to define what it is we want to escape from. Hey ho.