Harry Whitewolf's Blog

June 2, 2022

A Poem to Celebrate the Queen's Jubilee

Jubilant Jubilee

Johnny Rotten’s putting up bunting
For the cunting queen’s jubilee.
Don’t get me started on the street parties
And all the bonkers bank holiday glee.

Troops are colouring in your minds
With lies to feed your loyalty.
Andrew’s sweating like a ham.
Fuck all the fucking royalty.

Queen and country’s a fan club
And a symbol of all that’s wrong
With this land of hope and glory
And the buying-it throbbing throng.

Celebrate with burgers and beer,
And a sunny day off work.
Me? I played God Save the Queen
LOUDLY, with a smirk.
13 likes ·   •  10 comments  •  flag
Share on Twitter
Published on June 02, 2022 09:44 Tags: anti-monarchy, anti-royal, jubilee, poem, queen, royal

March 16, 2022

A Chat with James Morcan About His New Film

Anno 2020 by James Morcan

I recently had a chat with writer, actor and director James Morcan about his upcoming film Anno 2020, which was filmed in seventeen cities across five countries on four continents during the global lockdowns.

You can check it out here:

7 likes ·   •  0 comments  •  flag
Share on Twitter
Published on March 16, 2022 14:56 Tags: anno-2020, james-morcan

August 30, 2021

The Best Books That Will Make You Rethink Ancient Egypt

Can I tempt you to learn more about alternative Egyptian history? If so, check out my list of The Best Books That Will Make You Rethink Ancient Egypt.


Many thanks to the guys at Shepherd.com for inviting me to write the post!

The Great Pyramid of Giza, Tomb in Egypt
9 likes ·   •  2 comments  •  flag
Share on Twitter

July 18, 2021

Guest Post by the Talented Mr. Clausen

I may be biased 'cos I've written a couple of books with Daniel Clausen, but I'm a big fan of his writing.

And years before I wrote the jazz-smash-cacophony that is New Beat Newbie, Daniel was writing his own jazzy-jamming-written story, which has naturally become one of my favourites of Mr. Clausen's. So, here it is in all its glory.

The Lexical Funk

This short story comes from Daniel Clausen’s short story collection The Lexical Funk. You can buy a copy on Amazon or hassle the author for a free copy on Goodreads here: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show...

Lexical Funk: how the white boy learned to settle down and love the Afro

Etymology is the science of coolness, you dig? But you can only master its power through Jazz. Mastering the etymological sciences was a “Pan-stylistic rhythmic bebop, with a side of bacon, you dig, man?” I blurted out one day in English class. That’s how I got the reputation for being the “Freaky deaky white boy” at my school, after I had had the reputation of being just the “crazy white boy” at my school.

Mr. Davis, my fourth period English teacher told me that language changed over time, and that you could trace the history of words. Miles Davis was an improvisational genius. Mr. Davis was a teacher in a twenty-dollar suit, but he had soul, man. Words like music, words inspired by muses. I was on a one-way train to improvisationsville, and the Davises had given me both the beat and the feet.

Until then, all I knew was that language changed. I wanted to know the origins of all words. I wanted to know history, because history explained the context of language, then I needed to explain the historical context of language, so I needed historical theory to explain the historical context that was supposed to explain language. I spent a lot of time away from home in the library, away from my whore mother and her pimp boyfriend, Johnny. Johnny, the b-movie boyfriend. Johnny, James Dean in a time warp. Johnny, Fonzy with a beer-belly.

Yes, the library. My vacation from b-movie, beer belly, James Dean in a time warp, “Ayyyyye, you’re not so cool anymore” Fonzarelli. Just me and the words. And the words that described words.

But maybe I was just bored, because it turned out etymology just didn’t do it for me. So instead, I decided I would become a Jazz aficionado. I met this girl Ashonte Brown one day when I was punching the walls outside a library. My hands were bleeding. They were cool red. She said to me, “Hey, you’re that crazy white boy in my French class.” She took pity on me and said she’d be my friend and help me if I would help her pass French. I told her she didn’t need my help because nobody learns French in French class—everyone just sits around and talks, makes out, makes crude comments, and pretends they’re cool. She called me a “crazy white boy” but showed me all of the old classics at the library: Coltrane, Monk, Miles Davis, and I even liked Ahmad Jamal. It wouldn’t be until my sophomore year that I started getting into the underground stuff.

Still, for that first year I was something of a dilettante. I didn’t have anything better to do, and the girl I had spent all my time looking at still didn’t look at me in biology, even though I knew the origins of the word “weird”—assuming the form “wyrd” in Beowulf. And I knew that the words “Eugenics” “Euthanasia” “Euthenic” all came from the same Greek root “eu” which means good. If she knew this, she would like me.

My eyes grow bad from reading too much and I’m black from all the Jazz I listen to. My Afro is still growing in, but my skin is already dark brown. I’m “funky,” I’m “hip,” and I can explain the origins of both these words, and I know the other black kids can see it because they don’t pick on me as much. They’re scared of me because of what I know. And soon they’ll be scared of me for what I can do, with the help of muses in snappy suits, and the two Davises.

I dream of being the snapper in a Jazz band. Some funky cat in a black suit with a look that kills, right next to the bassist, snapping away some rhythm. And then, when I get really good, I do solos, and lead—and the horns, the piano, the base, they revolve around me. Me. And then Amy will notice me, and I won’t get picked on. “You hip?” I ask the bassist.

“Not as hip as you, Charlie Brown.”

Charlie Brown. Charlie Brown. Charlie Brown. Ashonte called me that once. When she calls me my name, I ask her to call me that instead.

“You crazy white boy. I never called you no Charlie Brown.”

My eyes are worn thin and my mom won’t send me to get my prescription changed because our insurance doesn’t cover optical care anymore. She says if it’s important I can get a job as soon as I’m sixteen and work for it. I have no car, and I know I’ll have to ride my bike to work. I ask for Coltrane for Christmas—CDs are expensive, but I may get one anyway. It’s all “eu”, a euphony of euphometically phrased eulogical “eu”-rhythms, you dig. It’s all “eu” because the local library has lots of Jazz. And I can ride my bike that far with no problem. I just don’t want people staring at my afro.

A black kid slaps me on the back of the head and calls me “cracker.” I tell him to watch it or else my Afro won’t grow in. He calls me a “fucking cracker” and then a “crazy white boy,” but he doesn’t pick on me anymore. He senses that my fingers could snap him into oblivion, and my oh so sweet lexicality could send him to an un-“eu” funk so deep, the longest run-on sentence in the history of sentences running on to oblivion couldn’t save him if that run-on sentence were rope made out of hair from an afro oh so black but full of the knowledge of a kid who wanted to know etymology so he would be cool enough to win the heart of that princess Amy, euphometically speaking that is.

I’m cool with my pimp suit and my pimp books. I know this, like Ahmad Jamal knows April in Paris, and I know that Amy has taste because I saw her with that T-shirt that had Einstein on the front—his gray hair curving around the sides of her breasts. Einstein could have been president of Israel, and in another time I could have snapped my way through solos into her heart. I know I could have. But Einstein is probably happy that he has settled as the only colonist on the curves of Amy’s breasts. But I know, my etymologically endowed brother, there is room for two, you dig?

“Why you all dirty, white boy?”

“I slept out on the lawn yesterday. Things got bad with b-movie Johnny yesterday. I got angry and called him a motherfucker. My mom slapped me good and told me I could sleep on the lawn.”

“Don’t you know better than to call your mom’s boyfriend a ‘motherfucker’?”

“That’s what he is though. I could have meant it in a good way or a neutral way.”

“You are crazy, white boy.”

During French I begin writing down words: EuMotherfucker (good motherfucker). Malemotherfucker (bad motherfucker). My mother’s sperm donor. Charlie Brown. Crazy white boy. Crazy White Boy.

I tear up the piece of paper and run out of French crying, embarrassed at my lack of lexicality. I want to kill Johnny. I want to kill Johnny. Instead I go to the library and listen to some Jazz and spend some time with an older copy of the Oxford English Dictionary. “Mama can’t dance, mama can’t rock and roll,” Chick Corea says over sweet melodies. I pull out another piece of paper. I write: Amy, Einstein, Ahmad Jamal, Crazy White Boy….and then it comes, like a blast from the trumpet of Mr. Armstrong. That Freaky Deaky Caucasian.

I smile. That Freaky Deaky Caucasian.

“Mama can’t dance, mama can’t rock and roll.”

My mother’s fucker, I write. My mother’s pimp. Matrasexual fishmonger, with extra tadpoles, you dig? Oxford English Dictionary: my guide to pan-stylistic rhythmic orality. I cross out “orality” and write “bebop” instead.

My bassist smiles and turns to me. “You going to say something or you just going to go on snapping your fingers?” he says. “You got something to say to that special lady out there in that there audience?”

“You know it,” I say back.

“Baby, I’m coming to climb the mountains to Einstein’s Israel. You and me going to settle down in jivesville, make it “eu”jivesville, away from all the matrasexual fishmongers. I’ll be that freaky deaky Caucasian you always needed in your life, and I’m going to pleasure you with my orality. I’m going to put my tongue on your heartstrings, and I’m going to play the sweetest of beats on your eardrums. Oh girl, you’ll love me. Oh girl, girl, you’ll love me, with my pan-stylistic rhythmic bebop. Oh girl. Oh girl.”

“Man, that some sweet jive, white boy. What you call that?”

“I call it my Lexical Funk. Ain’t for no lexical punk. I’m that freaky deaky white boy, uh, Caucasian with the pan-stylistic rhythm, you dig?”

“I can dig,” he says. And I snap my fingers into a cool, funky “eu”blivion.
6 likes ·   •  0 comments  •  flag
Share on Twitter
Published on July 18, 2021 05:44 Tags: author, book, daniel-clausen, lexical-funk

March 29, 2021


YouTube Deleted My Video - Full Story | YouTube Censorship - YouTube

Check out my brand-new poem YouTube Dickheads Banned My Video on YouTube.

The poem about online censorship and the coming death of free speech was written in response to YouTube recently banning my poetry performance vid Constable Cunt.

It would have to be the only poetry vid of mine that went viral (with 4.3K views) wouldn't it?
6 likes ·   •  7 comments  •  flag
Share on Twitter
Published on March 29, 2021 12:08 Tags: banned, banning, bastards, censorship, constable-cunt, dickheads, poem, police-brutality, video, youtube

November 11, 2020


The Gulag Village Green by Harry Whitewolf They're Making It Up As They Go Along by Harry Whitewolf Many thanks to my mate Jason at the Gnome Appreciation Society for asking me to do this interview with him. We talk about my new books They're Making It Up As They Go Along and The Gulag Village Green, Red Dwarf, the 11:11 Phenomenon, and much more!

Check it out here: https://felcherman.wordpress.com/2020...

12 likes ·   •  22 comments  •  flag
Share on Twitter
Published on November 11, 2020 07:51 Tags: 11-11, 11-11-phenomenon, 1111, 1111-phenomenon, 2020, books, harry-whitewolf, the-gulag-village-green

November 5, 2020

The Gulag Village Green - NEW BOOK OUT NOW!

55811271. sy475 The village green’s bandstand and benches are wrapped in black-and-yellow police tape. Joggers and dog walkers are only allowed out twice a day. Schools are closed down. People wear masks and stay separated every time they leave their homes, while others are locked inside buildings. Curfews are in place. Marshals patrol the streets. Cops break up wedding parties. The government encourages people to snitch on their neighbours. And new draconian laws are introduced at the drop of a hat so the police can control everyone more, while the army is on stand-by and the media attempts to incite a race war. Sounds like the blurb for a bad Hollywood movie, right?

Well, as we all know, it’s actually the reality of 2020.

The virus and the lockdowns are here, during a year of censorship, protests and division, and British poet Harry Whitewolf has never felt so conflicted. You see, he cares deeply about people’s health, but he also cares deeply about human rights; which seem to have died overnight with hardly anyone protesting against it. And Harry vehemently believes in standing up against racism and transphobia, but he also believes in standing up against the calls for censorship and word-control coming from some in the BLM and trans communities. The right and the left are becoming indistinguishable, capitalism and democracy are crumbling to pave the way for a technocratic future, free speech is dying, people are calling for more and more tyrannical laws to be introduced, mandatory vaccinations are on the way, and Harry’s had enough of it all.

There’s a lot of anger amongst the poems and prose of The Gulag Village Green, but there’s also the usual Whitewolf wit, wordplay, and call for peace, amongst a number of other writings on worldly and personal themes.

It’s time to stop dividing, see through the bullshit, and come out on the other side in a better, more caring, and more loving place, before the village green bunting is permanently replaced with barbed wire.

Amazon.com: https://www.amazon.com/Gulag-Village-...

Amazon UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Gulag-Villag...

Many thanks for your interest.

Peace and blessings to you all.


UPDATE: The Gulag Village Green is number one in British poetry on Amazon.com. Thanks to everyone who's grabbed a copy!

9 likes ·   •  2 comments  •  flag
Share on Twitter

October 16, 2020

They're Making It Up As They Go Along - NEW BOOK OUT NOW!

55625527. sy475
Everyone needs a bit of silliness in their lives, especially this year. So, if you’re in the mood for some silly literary shenanigans, check out They're Making It Up As They Go Along, the new novella by me and Daniel Clausen

Amazon.com: https://www.amazon.com/Theyre-Making-...

Amazon.co.uk: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Theyre-Makin...

Here’s the blurb to let you know what this experimental project is all about:

When Harry and Daniel begin writing a book without a plot, they begin to lose the plot. Even though there isn’t one to begin with.

In the pages of They’re Making It Up As They Go Along, the two authors are literally making it up as they go along. The concept for this experimental book was simple: Harry Whitewolf and Daniel Clausen would start writing a book without having any idea what it was going to be about whatsoever. Each would take it in turn to write a section; a sort of literary version of a drawing consequences game.

You’re sure to enjoy the hilarious and rollicking ride of the writers creating a purely do-it-for-fun and highly imaginative novella that is stuffed full with robots, distant planets, rotten sushi, multi-dimensional travel, philosophical musings, big dollops of comedy, and a dildo that plays Barry White songs.

Many thanks!

8 likes ·   •  7 comments  •  flag
Share on Twitter
Published on October 16, 2020 06:34 Tags: book, daniel-clausen, experimental, fucking-ace, funnu, harry-whitewolf, humor, humour, sci-fi, science-fiction

February 2, 2020


My first book of new poetry since 2017’s Underdogs Unite is now out!

Broken Albion

Harry Whitewolf’s straight-talking ninth poetry book takes a satirical, logical, humorous, and opinionated look at the contemporary UK Brexit-led political and cultural landscape, and imagines a world beyond division, where having compassion for one another is more important than flags.

Check out my performance of the title poem on my website: https://www.harrywhitewolf.com/

And a performance of the poem You Can Count on the Cunts on Soundcloud

Also, I’m pretty chuffed to have seen Broken Albion reach number 5 in Amazon UK’s British and Irish Poetry yesterday, on its first day of availability. And it was Amazon UK’s number 1 Hot New Releases in the same category! Yee-ha!

Paperback and Kindle editions available.







Thank you for your support!
11 likes ·   •  13 comments  •  flag
Share on Twitter

January 16, 2020


50516326. sy475
Only a few weeks ago, I had no intention of publishing a new poetry book this year. I mean, how could I? For one thing, I didn’t have any poems.

After I wrote the poems of Underdogs Unite nearly three years ago, my muse left me. And I’m one of those people who can’t write if I sit down and try. I just have to wait for inspiration to come. It’s either here or it isn’t, and for a long time now, my creative writing has mostly been on pause.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t still write the odd poem every now and then. So, I looked back at the few I’d written over the last year or so and discovered they were actually much better than I had remembered. I’d also written a few poems over the UK election period in December, and they seemed to go hand in hand with my others. Before I knew it, I was putting the poems together, finding a common thread and purpose, and writing a plethora of spanking brand-new poems in a very short amount of time. I’ve not had that kind of short-burst flash of inspiration since writing my first poetry release New Beat Newbie back in 2015. And it’s actually been great to feel that creative buzz again.

I also discovered I was writing on a topic I thought I’d never write about in detail: bloody Brexit. Like everyone else, I’d become completely bored of the constant fiasco, and after the Tories overwhelmingly won the recent election, I felt more disillusioned about politics and the hope for change perhaps more than ever before. It seems as though my anger at that situation, and the last few years of British politics, had been boiling away in the back of my mind, and it needed to be unleashed. And so, my new poetry book Broken Albion was born. Not that it solely focuses on Brexit, but it’s certainly the central theme.

It seems fitting to release the book on the 31st January 2020 - the withdrawal date of the UK leaving the EU. So, watch this space.
10 likes ·   •  8 comments  •  flag
Share on Twitter