I Am Iron Man (A Tribute To Ted Hughes And Black Sabbath)

...one last hurrah for a work-shy sun - he must have gone south for the summer season, but he's back to put in a late appearance...and so it's the proverbial Indian Summer Saturday and it's off to have a wander around Ted Hughes' old abode, the house that poetry bought...all credit to him though; it paid off by all all accounts...five lines per brick, a stanza for a lintel, an anthology re-print for a new out-house...he was the one man in a million who made it work for him, though it wasn't without casualties along the way (poor Syl)....













...anyway, it wasn't Ted's house I really wanted to see - it was the stream that runs in fits and starts down at the bottom of the vale of Lumb Bank, down below Ted Hughes' house (now the Arvon Foundation)...the same place I mentioned a week or two ago after I got sent this link about outdoor swimming....












...well, the sun was out and we all know what that means - time to make hay...so down by the natural pool I got naked, did ten press ups to get a sweat on, face down in the dirt like a white-bellied pig and, as Della watched on shaking her head, I plunged in...well, I mean: you can't mess about with cold water...just have just got to accept that the pain you feel right down to the marrow of your very bones is part of the experience...get your head under, prove your point - your idiotic manhood - then flee, panting and groaning in a voice you don't recognise, your genitalia cursing your very existence and retracting in revolt...dizziness, an elephant on your lungs...images of hatching maggots and walnut whips...
















...and then with your skin tingling and your face flushed you can wheeze: I am Iron Man...

...because you have to to do these things when you're young and fit and dumb and the sun is shining, which isn't often around these parts...and anyway...I did it for Teddy...and Ozzy...(which came first: the novel or the song?)...and anyway...we all live our lives under nylon and polyester and denim these days and sometimes it's good just to stop being so English and let go....I mean, sometimes the breeze on your dander can be liberating...it felt good, out there, starkers in the woods...

...there's only one worry though: am I going to become a fucking nudist?