Nadio Granata's Personal Blog

For narrated version by Michael Hayden and showreel by John Woods go to The Common Room Group on Facebook.

For All the Saints…
who nobly fought of old.

Who stood side by side on the windswept hills amongst our dark satanic mills;
Who knew the difference between East and West as they trundled along that long, drafty corridor.
And who never accepted mediocrity as they fought to beat the best.

Who ate rock cake for lunch and spam for tea.
Who took their detention with pride, and, yes, dignity.

Fight as the Saints who nobly fought of old…
And stand proud amongst each other whilst the stories unfold here in the Common Room amongst friends, slowly growing old.
We knew right from wrong, as we were galvanised, brought together, through the words of one song.
Sing alleluia, sing it loud, let’s sing it together, sing loud and sing it proud.
Sing alleluia, sing alleluia, sing …

And win with them, their victor’s crown of gold…
We were once those children. Now, we’re full of memories … of waiting for buses in the dark and the cold.
We remember Messrs Fee, Devine, Roach and Eddie Shaw, the golden handshake that left you paralysed to the ground as you tried to escape, running out the door.

Trophies we competed for, both on and off the field. And sports days were extra special for many, though some revered.
We fought like warriors against the likes of Salendine Nook, Deighton, Rawthorpe and the rest on those God forsaken, windswept, northern hills in the West.

Sing alleluia, sing alleluia …

We had trips to museums and theatres and even London on the Wallace Arnold coaches stinking of puke and bubble gum. But it was the big one at the Town Hall that made us stand tall.

So may your soldiers, faithful true and bold,
Fight as the saints who nobly fought of old.

Fight we did. We fought for every solitary thing. We made Miss Sunderland proud on them steps to which some would later return in their motor boards and gowns.

Nobody can take our medals away.
Those friendships we made, we need more than ever, especially today. And though some scars will never heal, they shaped us into who we are today, aye, we are the real deal.

As the world around us is locked in quarantine, to each and every one of us the message is clear … #StayHome, #StaySafe and stay close to those you hold dear.

Good to meet you … in The Common Room!

There’s nothing in a magnolia sunset. Nothing.
A shallowness exists in a frozen chasm … no matter how deep.
A dullness in a falling star with another’s name.
An envy in a stranger’s horizon.
Emptiness in another person’s galaxy.
Paradox in a certain simplicity.
Conflict in unison. Loneliness in a crowd. Calm in the eye of the storm.
Fear in certainty … and hope in despair.

Poem 12.12.18

Inspiration: a LinkedIn post by Harriet Green on 8th January 2021

Hope intrigues (me). It fascinates and frightens, is alluring and disconcerting, relentless and misplaced, but never is it without value. In fact, I’d say it’s probably the most valuable thought in my entire head. Here’s a few thoughts on the subject of hope … maybe it will grow into a journal or just stay as it is. Either way, it is already proving to be cathartic at I time when I’m missing my mojo. Here goes …

Without hope, a tiny phrase that takes a nanosecond to write, there really can be very little else. There is, of course, the ‘now’ but that is already passed the moment it is said and the ‘before’, well, with respect, that’s already dead.

Hope is what gets us out of bed. Makes us sit up and conjugate the things we’ve read. Fight for our rights. Reach for the light when all around us is darkness, hatred and dread.

To take away a person’s hope is to deny them everything. It’s more than health, wealth and love. It’s the sum of the parts and more. So much more. And yet, sometimes, we can exist without it. Just. Today is one such day.

Hope … is not found whilst lying in bed. No sir. It’s a dish served standing, tall and resolute, dressed and looking ahead. And so, with more effort than I care to admit, my feet reach for the ground as I exit my pit.

Me and Hope, we go back a long way. We started out early and now she’s here to stay. From humble beginnings when only on the odd occasion I’d see her face, To more recently, such as lockdown, she’s never out of this place.

Me and Hope, some could describe as best of friends. She’s kind and generous and tells great stories of good times ahead. She talks of horizons, rainbows and such things as fate, And when the clouds get really dark, she finds me a torch, and shows me a way to a better place.

Me and Hope, we’re good together. Oftentimes we can be seen strolling through parks, hand in hand in sunsets or silhouettes in the dark.We ride storms and break down doors and when we’re really bad, we call for change and challenge the norms.

Me and Hope, we’re in this together. Hope has her boundaries and I have mine too, we know where we are going and the things we each must do. And when we are done and that eternal light will shine through, I’ll look back in happiness and say, “Thanks hope. I could not have got here without you”.

Poem by Nadio Granata

9th January 2021

21st April 1987

Title: Dolceaqua

Context: visiting my Uncle Mario in his home village whilst cycling back from Milan to Paris

With a blaze of sun and a veil of light

Reflected on their walls of hand-drawn white.

Washing the air with a sweep of grace,

This Lady of Power, so sweet her taste.

As if the mount has no claim

For protection and honour the castle is famed.

As a star so bright, the sky reflects,

So do her people, so proud and erect.

Standing to her side with a subtle ascent,

Is her bridge to freedom amongst the willows bent.

With her back arched to take the strain,

Prominent and proud, her place is her name.

The fish of the river, the birds of the sky,

In natural surroundings they swim and they fly.

The ducks well fat as the water they tread

And the sign says no feeding, not even any bread.

The battles are all over and the walls decayed,

The gates are now open to her castle of age.

With tombs of gold and memories of old,

For her men of war she still keeps the score.

A sweet water runs through this town,

A spring in all seasons, deep and profound.

With whirlpools and bubbles of laughter,

Forever to recall a place, a time, that is Dolceaqua.

“Take it”, said the heron to the duck who dodged the swan and empaled the emoji who wiped its arse on the red rose sardonically in front of the Queen of Hearts who lusted shamelessly after the men of Arts with torsos of teak and hairs that streak in times of peace as if embroiled in a paradox of speech.

Speech … ah, the leach that sucks the blood from the kids we teach and hangs out those who dare to stare.

“Fuck off” replied the duck who’s head was being sucked by a German goose with droopy eyebrows and a rake for a foot with laconic synchrisoty in a pit of intrisity floating on a river of misty intoxicity.

“My pleasure” replied the heron as he flew off to find Sanity.

“What?” … said the amoeba to his diminutive friend … the one with the foresight-before-insight issue.

“Nothing”… replied the little fiend mascarading as the diminutive friend of the big amoeba twat with attitude and status, in his grandiose hat.

“Oh to be a fucking amoeba”, thought the diminutive fiend mascarading as a friend to the big fella, dressed as a cunt in his big fuck off hat.

“One day, when I grow up. I’m going to twat that amoeba cunt”, thought the diminutive fiend mascarading as a friend to the cunt amoeba.

Psalm 25:14:34

A horizon is nothing but a line. Your line, not my line. Geometrically similar but never identical. A line that defines night from day. Dawn from dusk. Yesterday from today. But it’s always your line, never mine.

Only a cynic would deny you your line in the sky, the removal of which is the greatest punishment for even the most heinous of crimes.

A line in the sky is nothing but that unless shared with someone you love. For a horizon viewed alone is just a line just another line in a distant sky …

Isola Superiore
May 2019