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I'm back from a fantastically undeserved holiday to a slightly underserved -- but very much welcome -- sack of unheard records.

The problem is, I have no idea how I am going to get through them all. I have people emailing me to ask if have listened to the records they sent and the truth is it would take me twice as long to find it as it would to listen to it.

I am also conscious that in a desperate attempt to always be listening to the latest things, the tunes in the bottom of the bag will probably be regarded as archive material by the time I reach them. If matters couldn't get worse I love the first record I heard. It's by a Kenyan guitar group, Nguuni Lovers Lovers, and the song's called "Beth Kathini" (soon to be released by Dream Beach Records). Listen to it below - I don't want to listen to anything else right now.

Nguuni Lovers Lovers - Beth Kathini by Dream Beach Records  

Oh, oh -- and my favourite new EP, by singer-songwriters Peter and Kerry, is called Clothes, Friends, Photos. It's out now and there is a free track you can download from their record label's website.

Peter and Kerry - The Summer House Song by Tape Club Records 

You listen to these, I'll carry on with this, and we'll reconvene next week.

Tom Ravenscroft's radio show is on BBC 6 Music at 9pm every Friday. He writes a monthly music column for the New Statesman and blogs here every Wednesday

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"The Anatolian Fertility Goddess": a poem by Fiona Pitt-Kethley

Across the Golden Horn in Karakoy. . . 

Across the Golden Horn in Karakoy,
a maze of ancient, crooked, cobbled streets
contains the brothels of old Istanbul.
A vendor at the bottom of the hill
sells macho-hot green chilli sandwiches.
A cudgel-wielding policeman guards the gate.
 
One year, dressed as a man, I went inside
(women and drunks are not allowed in there).
I mingled with the mass of customers,
in shirt, grey trousers, heavy walking boots.
A thick tweed jacket flattened out my breasts.
A khaki forage cap concealed my hair.
 
The night was young, the queues at doors were short.
Far down the street a crowd of men stood round
and watched a woman dancing in a house.
Her sixty, sixty, sixty figure poured inside
a flesh-tone, skin-tight, Lycra leotard,
quivered like milk-jelly on a shaken plate.
 
I’ve seen her type before in small museums –
primeval blobs of roughly sculpted stone –
the earliest form of goddess known to man.


Fiona Pitt-Kethley is a British poet, novelist and journalist living in Spain. Her Selected Poems was published in 2008 by Salt.

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad