The Smell of Christmas

I’ve just returned home to the most appalling smell. It’s not corpses or distressed lavatories - something far worse – gloss paint. It appears that in the short time I was away, the downstairs neighbours have decorated – Decorated with the cheapest most noxious gloss paint in existence. If I pass out as I write this, do not be surprised – It’s not like I’m even getting high off it. Why have they done this? The premises are rented, so they’re not even allowed to deface its beigeness. Perhaps they have actually done it to mask the smell of corpses – they did seem to be rowing on Christmas night. I think I’d prefer this to the idea that they had endured the soul destroying shop-shutness of Christmas day, preying for the wondrous moment of Boxing day morning when they could hit the Homebase sale, colour charts in hand, to acquire the toxic tones to reheat their love nest. Whichever explanation is the true one, if they are down there, they are almost certainly dead – another festive tragedy in this anonymous city..
I was here on Christmas day by the way -completely alone and quite happy. The solitariness was more or less self-inflicted as I’d had tentative plans to meet others in a similar position to me – When push came to shove ,we couldn’t quite be arsed to walk down the road to exchange Yuletide greetings. I’m finished with religion anyway - Sod em all. I tried to get Ava into a C of E primary – for the usual selfish reasons - but due to very real marital turbulence, which might actually have benefited from some pastoral guidance, was unable to affect the necessary weekly enlightenment in the pews. Just as well in fact, as her heathen primary school is superb - although for some reason, she thinks Jesus is buried in Austria, and claims to have seen his gravestone.
My Tony Hancock style day was spoilt somewhat by the termination of Soul Brother Number One. I’d wanted to sing ‘Eleanor Rigby’ all day, and darn socks, but I couldn’t help breaking into ‘I Feel Good’ , then throwwing a cloak over myself.
Before you tire of my moaning, or attempt to draw me to your humane breast, Boxing Day was a blast. Picked Ave the Rave up from her Mama and did Christmas properly. Had an argument with my sister, wore a funny hat and had a revelation – Toys are a waste of time – Children want Whoopee Cushions…and so do I.

Done- thank gawd – another birthday. No awfulness, no extreme wonderment, no religious conversions, unexpected sexual intercourse or presents of such beauty and value that I am forced to reconsider my long held beliefs that the human race is essentially fucked. Functional, that’s what I’ll call today.
Has anybody ever had a truly extraordinary birthday, received something that was really unexpected – something to take the breath away without being crack cocaine or a bullet?
A few years ago my mother gave me a coffin – hopefully not wishful thinking. A miniature snuffbox from an antiques stall, which now entombs the biggest wasp I ever slayed. This year it’s classical cd’s. Excellent ones, although none of the composers hail from my favoured present location – I’m going through a Gloucester composers phase, in exactly the same way I went through a Velvets, Suicide and New York Dolls,NYC phase. As far as I know, Vaughan Williams unlike my other hero Lou Reed, never provided the music for a Kung Fu video.
Anyway, today has been utterly delightful. Cakes, shaving soap wrapped with a whole roll of celltotape; my daughter’s first ever cinematic experience – The wizard of Oz at the Hampstead Everyman with cake and Coca Cola - which made her brave enough to endure the Wicked Witch of the west and her flying monkeys - bollocks to first teeth, that’s why we get two sets….followed by more grown up pleasures in the boozers of north London, with the stragglers of the festive exodus.
I am presented with a terrible moral quandary however. In the process of receiving gifts from my old drug buddies I seem to have acquired the Christmas gifts of a lady called Maria. We’re talking a Tesco’s bag containing … a coconut milk massage bar of soap, some floating magnolia floral bath roses, and a book by Victoria Hislop, ‘ The Island’ which comes highly recommended by Richard and Judy. The pub from which I retrieved these items was staffed by unpleasant types, so returning them would in all likelihood just lead to a nasty barman smelling of coconuts, while roses floated in his bath. The ladty to whom they were directed is called Mariaa….oh Fuck, I’ve lost the card. I thought this would be a festive blog with a happy ending and Maria could claim her presents. All I can remember is that the card was also signed by a dog named Shep with a paw print.
My intentions were really good, but if I don’t find the card what can I do? If you see me in the new year and I smell of coconut massage soap, don’t blame me, blame drunken Maria - who hated your paltry gifts so much that she left them in the boozer.

The Fog Blog

The Fog.


Is it just me, or is everybody enjoying the Pea-Souper which is shrouding the nation? Flights grounded ( a fine oxymoron), wreaking havoc with the festive plans of frequent flyers, unable to get from Scarborough to Halifax via Gatwick and John Lennon airport. Don’t people realise that we have a perfectly functioning canal system, and that it is possible to walk from Lands End to John O’ Groats in just under two hours?
Ahh, another swirl is rolling in, enveloping my street/senses ( bad poetry impulse alert.).
God I love this fog - it’s properly old fashioned and macabre – like a funeral in the good old days, when Laudanum was available at Boots, and even our serial killers were the Prince of Wales
I’ve been overdoing things slightly, and am having trouble sitting upright, let alone thinking cogently. Should this festive address be deleted by sober journalists (is that another oxymoron?), I will completely understand.
Before condemning me out of hand, I’d just like to fill you in on the utter bleakness that lies ahead over the coming days. Not only is it the birthday of our Lord Jesus and Shane Macowan, it is also mine. The twenty bloody third of December - wretched. No chance of enjoyment, as everybody except yer good old fashioned cockernee chimney sweeps will be bedding down at Heathrow waiting for the fog to clear. Christmas eve involves some driving, so a clear head is required. The fact that my birthday falls practically nine months to the day after my late father’s, also conjures up unpalatably tasteless visions of candlelit spag bog, Cinzano Bianco, Max Bygraves, and the Brentford Nylons Riviera range - Be glad that you do not live in my head.
By the way, if my dear mother is reading this, please take note. If you have booked a table at The Fondue Pot again, I shall run away and join the foreign legion.

2007 and What it Holds

2007 and What it holds.


Fortuitously, just as 2006 draws to a close, I have chanced upon the future of music, it’s next great life injection; one that should sustain it for many years to come. Why me you might ask? Me whose contribution to music thus far has consisted of little more than youthful preening, burning holes in the ozone layer with endless hairspray applications, wallowing in abject onanistic misery, and some tongue in cheek cynicism that the over thirty fives found mildly amusing for about a day and a half. Answer is – I don’t know – except, I always knew I was blessed in some way. Destined to leave the planet much better than I found it - and be celebrated as an Avatar of greatness of some sort…a fuck-off monument at Highgate cemetery awaits.
Formerly, I’d imagined the flesh of this vision to be another leather clad rock’n’roll messiah…except I wasn’t quite saucy enough – only just. Then a poetic chronicler of humanity in a charity shop suit, who could still pull the ladies…sadly it had already been done – and by much better than me. Then - I was condemned to years of surfing the zeitgeist – actually holding the towels for the surfers, despairing that my moment would never come – but tonight dear people – IT HAS. I’ve stumbled across the triple helix, enigma machine, dead seas scroll, Piltdown man, Da Vinci code. And it’s only half past eight.

Before I carve this delicious butter roasted organic turkey - who actually volunteered himself for destruction, cremation and mastication down the piste of your discerning, well bred, well read gullets, down to the hellish caverns of your - expectant, sugar almond and ginger-wine cobbled guts, let me fill you in on a few preliminaries to set the scene – a drop of Baileys to lubricate your festive death hatches. We’re not talking a laboratory in Cambridge with Harris tweed, corduroy and leather-patch wearing wunderkind -We’re talking a studio flat above a garage in North London, with underachievement, alcoholism and imminent death.

This week, I became another crime number in the metropolitan police’s little red book – another one night stand. The CD player was removed from my vehicle by persons unknown - without my consent. My 74 litre Porsche 4x4’s ( actually a VW Polo) contents were strewn inside the vehicle as the miscreants searched for items that might be of value at the crack house. Amazingly, not one of my CD’s was deemed worthy of theft.
Beneath the drivers seat of my assaulted and still distressed motor car, almost beyond the reach of human fingers, lay a cd of Prokofiev’s Lieutenant Kije Suite. You know the one…la lala lala la la lala la la lala la la lala la…Troika…’I believe in Father Christmas’…come on Guardian readers, you do know it.
As it happens, my dear daughter Ava has been singing it for weeks – rehearsing it for her school carol concert – which has now taken place and was divine…even though she burst into tears on learning that there was still half a day’s schooling left at the end of it and that we weren’t taking her home. Anyway, being a clever, thoughtful dad who likes to pull together life’s various strands I retrieved the cd and played it. Scratched to buggery – and not I think, the malicious act of Chalk Farm’s junior drug addicts – although my insurance claim form will almost certainly dispute this.
For the past three hours, I have been listening to the most random, disjointed digital loops of classical music it is possible to imagine. Beautiful textures, orchestral sequences, winding back on themselves, no linear sense at all, but still providing a gorgeous, orchestral soundscape. If I write some lyrics, raps, and hire some sexy backing singers to shimmy and shake in the background, I’ll be onto a winner. Think Howl, think TS Elliot, think Grandmaster Flash…Being articulate over scratched CD’s. the oracle atop the rubbish heap – how radical is that?..it ’s a rhetorical question by the way.
Also in 2007…probably with the money from my cd-bits hits, I intend to form a political party to win the elections…something like The English Renaissance Party or something – where we all check into hotels and save the nation…and I want to come off anti-depressants at some point. Not sure when.

Last bit. For Divorced Dads.

Daddy. " Ava, can I have a little chat with you about Christmas?"
Ava " Yes."
Daddy " Well this year, you’re going to have two Christmas days – one with Mummy and one with Daddy. Do you like that idea?"
Ava " No. "
Daddy " But why not?"
Ava " Because I want to spend both of them with Mummy. "

Merry War. Christmas is Over.

Waxing Lyrical

I’m listening to the world at one on Radio Four. Government figures have just been released, stating that a million and a half young people are idle – that is: Not in work, not in education and not in training. Experts are expounding, politicians are biting and hot air is being blown. Before you begin to worry that I might be about to say something constructive – fear not. My concern is that these young people are classified as being between the ages of sixteen and twenty-five. That’s a bit ageist isn’t it. What about the slightly older young people who are idle? Those in their very early forties perhaps?

Yes, here I am again, the middle of the day, still caressed by dressing gown, wiping the sleep from my eyes, and chain chewing nicorettes. The sky is leaden, the trees skeletal and the TV aerials shake like ancient relatives. It’s at times like this that the greatest danger exists for the creation of bad poetry, miserable songs and the kind of introspective tosh that: should one fall between the ages of sixteen and twenty five, might be acceptable, but for the more grown-up among us, would be quite unforgivable.
For the benefit of young wordsmiths, staring from the windows of the nation:
Autumn leaves rhymes with trees, disease, sneeze and cheese; rain rhymes with window pane, most forms of physical pain, never again and embarrassing stain. But- I’ve tried all this – it doesn’t sell. Go for a walk instead…it’ll clear your head…and you won’t wish you were dead.

Anyway, I shall endeavour to accomplish something of beauty and value by the end of the day – even if it’s just un-blocking my ear. Is it just me, of is their an epidemic? The sinus pain has abated, but the right lug is still blocked. Do you think Pete Doherty might lend me a syringe?

Blue Plaque

It is with immense pride, that I can reveal to you, that my birthplace and childhood home has been marked with a blue plaque. I didn’t attend the unveiling ceremony, preferring to remain asleep, and by the look of things, the burghers and dignitaries of Wokingham weren’t there either – not even the Rt Hon John Redwood MP – which is unusual.
Of course, my commemorative plaque was an unofficial one, placed there in the dead of night and photographed, by deranged fans, intent on correcting the omissions of the National Trust.

Of course this kind of activity should not be encouraged, leading as it might to all sorts of unpleasantness with the authorities, present occupants, and one’s own high standing in society. However, at my present level of popularity, I am not in a position to exclude any body purporting to be a fan, based merely on outdated and bigoted criteria such sanity and risk posed to the public. Anyway, the plaque looked excellent, and must have taken ages to make.

I would be prepared to wager that even Jodie Foster must have felt a slight tingle of satisfaction when her deranged fan took pot shots at The Gipper on her behalf. Obviously she couldn’t say so at the time, and will perhaps have to remain forever schtumm…but it sure beats chocolates as a way of saying " I love you."
I suppose that using a national newspaper to solicit crime is against editorial policy, but should anybody out there feel like having a pop at George W Bush - as an early combined birthday and Christmas present for me, it would not go unappreciated…just keep my name out of it please – and bear in mind – you would not be able to claim derangement and insanity as a defence against this particular individual.

On a sadder note…not for you perhaps, I am afraid that I’ve got a head cold. One ear is completely blocked, and I have awful sinus pain. I flitted in and out of sleep all night, a dull pain attacking my upper gnashers, while across this wretched planet, Shane Warne destroyed the last vestiges of hope for a bright new dawn. And I’m smoking again and I don’t care.

The Green Devil Vs Debretts

In a grotesque twist of the happy family - exhausting themselves doing Christmas shopping, then coming home to a contented glass of some warming elixir advertisement, I have just returned to my divorced Dad-pad from Brent Cross, heavily laden with Spud Guns, Whoopee cushions and jumping spiders; to be informed by the people on the ground floor that a parcel has arrived for me. It’s a bottle of Absinthe. I cannot believe my luck.
So far I have only helped myself to two small beakers of La Fee Verte, but already the Christmas spirit is cascading through my festive receptors. I have emailed Wreckless Eric – whom I have never met, forwarded a voucher promising thirty per cent off at the Gap to my daughter’s school, and put together a book proposal for a memoir on my Life - and it’s still only ten past eight. Who says that drink is the enemy? Show me and I’ll fight em.

Really, it’s been a very long time since I Absinthed constructively. It can be done. See Monet, Lautrec, Alfred Jarry and Van Gogh if you don’t believe me. The abomination of the other evening was the result of being handed a bottle too late in the proceedings…you don’t give a suicidal man a loaded revolver... Tonight everything is clear. I know it won’t be if I continue – which as a man of – well, let’s not say leisure, let’s call it appetites and curiosities , I almost certainly will; but the cut off point between sagacity and stupidity has not yet been traversed.
I am somewhat perplexed, it has to be said – but NOT drinking myself out of a depression engendered by – the confirmation that my erstwhile pal Luke Haines has somehow managed to get himself an entry in Debretts. Of course I realise that you enlightened readers - will frown on this ludicrously overblown, archaic singling out of a person of - at the very least - dubious merits. Fact is, I didn’t believe him when he told me in the pub. I have now seen documentary proof that it is so, and even though I am a liberal minded socialist…practically the most reasonable person you could ever wish to strike up conversation with, I am momentarily jealous. My Schaudenfreude has turned green like the Absinthe. Even though I would refuse it on principle, throw it back in their over-fed Chelsea Tractor deformed faces, and spit on the very idea of Debrettism – Why not me? Why not eh? It might boost my credit rating. Perhaps I could borrow above my visible means, which are - nowt.
I expect they had heard that I was a man of principle, and it would do them no good, even if they begged...which is true.
Anyway, I have louched a third helping of the green fairy – without eating my tea, and stupidity is imminent, so I’ll take my leave. Goodnight.

Car Crash Chic

As a child, the great film director John Waters liked to play with toy cars. Nothing unusual you might say. However, Waters’ game involved the creation of gory crashes, complete with liberal daubings of tomato ketchup, decapitated dolls, and play acting the final agonies of the soon-to-be departed for his horrified mother. He went on to make films such as Pink Flamingos, notorious for its scenes of Canine Excrement Eating and Singing sphincters, creating an American icon, in the monumental shape of his transvestite star, the great ‘Divine’.
The young artist Andy Warhol was briefly employed as a Police Crash Scenes Photographer. His compositions are decidedly different from the standard businesslike representations of death by driving, managing to capture not just its forensic violence, but also the ordinariness of an American dream cut short on the highway.
JG Ballard sexualized twisted metal and lacerated flesh in his novel Crash - while any publication lurid enough to print pictures of the Princess Diana death scene, is guaranteed a huge boost in circulation.
People like car crashes. They slow down to look, fascinated and repulsed by carnage. Now that public executions at Tyburn no longer draw the Sunday crowds, rubbernecking on the motorway is the nearest they come to exercising their primitive demon.

The reason for this examination of car crash culture is that I’ve seen another one. I can’t get past Slough these days without crawling past fire engines and ambulances. Perhaps it’s the stench of the sewage works causing drivers to black out, or a sudden mental clarity confirming that modern life really is a futile. Quite likely they’re swerving to avoid the flower shrines left by the recently bereaved.

As I drove my daughter back to London, we approached what looked like ‘a nasty one’. Wishing to protect her from sights that could haunt her beautiful mind forever, I took responsible action.
" Ava, I might tell you to look the other way in a moment. If I do, don’t argue, just do it."
" But I like accidents daddy"
" But there might be people who are hurt."
" I don’t care. I like people who are hurt."
I reasoned that she had little idea of how hurt people can be, so I tried stronger tactics.
" Ava, there might be dead bodies with cut off heads and arms and legs."
" But I love seeing dead bodies with cut off heads and arms and legs."

Finally, there’s an artist in the family.

Poacher Turned Gamekeeper

I am feeling particularly curmudgeonly today, which might have something to do with not smoking again. However…

There are some young people living in the flat downstairs. I can hear their repetitive beat music – it’s making quite an interesting ‘mash up’ – as I believe it is termed, with the Bach Harpsichord sonata I am listening to on Radio Three. They’re moving around as well – filled with the vigour of youth and hope. Probably adorning themselves with beauty products, eating fruit cereal and generally conforming to every advertising stereotype of the twenty-something urban sophisticate. Bah humbug.
I would like to storm down there and command silence. It’s eleven thirty in the morning for God sake – don’t these people have an open plan office to go to? Of course, it would mean getting dressed, having a shave and brushing my hair. I believe my position of authority would be critically diminished if I went down in my present dishevelled state – I might even get an Asbo – due to a misunderstanding, or get struck down by a lightning bolt from the Celestial Hypocrisy Gun.
I am hardly what you would call blameless in the noise generating stakes. It’s true that for many years now, my output has been a cerebral rather than physical assault on the senses…well in my humble opinion - but to be asked to ‘turn it down a bit’, by a former member of the Jesus and Mary Chain might be pushing things a bit too far - It could cause a Universe quake.
By all accounts, years in front of Vox AC30’s, and the white noise explosions of sound engineers pulling out the wrong PA plugs, should have reduced my hearing to a distant whisper - but it hasn’t. I might be showing signs of ageing in some departments…although I’m at a loss to know what they are…but the aural flapping things on the sides of the head certainly ain’t one of them.
So what to do? When I moved here a few weeks ago, I smuggled my dormant guitars and amplifiers in under cover of darkness, to avoid causing undue distress to my neighbours. Perhaps it’s time to plug them in for a little nuclear test on the border. It could be a turning point in the Generation war. They’ve got iPods, decks, and mobile phones. We ( we being the curmudgeons with too much time on their hands ) have got Marshalls, valves and fuzz pedals. Let battle commence. Come on Godfrey, stay awake.

Publish or be Damned

I need to invest in some cushions. I am in danger of developing deep vein thrombosis from sitting for hours on end in my tatty beloved Chesterfield, thinking at the world. The angles are all wrong you see. When I stood up a while ago, my whole lower half was completely numb. Shocks like this are not good at present, since I am in the icy grip of self-pity and hypochondria, brought on by lack of useful activity, and the various disappointments of everyday life.
Another publishing rejection has come, together with the advice from my agent to perhaps consider ‘letting this one go, move on, get writing the next one’. Fine advice I know - I have just read Lynn Gardner’s blog about the very same thing. The first novel pretty much sucks every creative thought from your mind, and it takes time to replenish the stocks. The cistern needs a long time to refill before it can be flushed again. But being advised to let a novel go feels like being asked to withdraw the feeding tubes from a comatose child because the hospital needs the space. Let it go where? Is there a manuscript cemetery somewhere, or a garden of remembrance to scatter the ashes of cremated chapters? Perhaps this is what’s meant by Poets corner? Still, he does have a point I suppose - although I think we are being too hasty. Doesn’t the Milk Marketing Board have a fiction arm – have we tried there? What about Humphreys Exhaust Centre or the Salvation Army? Yes – I do live in a garret and I am wearing a silk dressing gown in case you were wondering.

I’ve suffered an unfortunate relapse in the smoking dept I’m afraid. I had intended to give up altogether, but was trying to hold out until about a week after the ban came into force, so I could blame the Govt for leaning on me man. The rule was Nicorettes at home, fags in the pub – a fine philosophy don’t you think? Well somehow my calculations went awry, and I’ve ended up with twenty of the blighters to smoke before my rule can be reapplied. Happily I’ve almost finished them, and can now look forward to spending more time with my lungs.

So anyway, my tasks for the day are: Write a book, give up smoking, get dressed…and perhaps have a little think about making another record in the not too distant future…oh, and call in at the labour exchange to enquire about part-time seasonal work. This could be the in-store Santa Claus stage of my glittering career.

I Remember You Well at the Habbo Hotel

On the information super highway, cool wind in my virtual hair
Warm stench of another terrible pun – rising up through the air
Up ahead in the distance I saw a shimmering light
My cyber head grew heavy - I had to stay for the night….

I could go on you know – I’ve got the lyrics printed out - I swear I’m not quoting them from memory.

I have been asked by my employers to visit the Habbo Hotel and file a report on it. Imagine that – me, a humble blogger of only a few weeks standing, being sent on a luxury press junket - what a fantastic prospect - They’ll be asking me to write the front page before long.

I imagine the Habbo must be some new boutique place designed by Philippe Stark and Anoushka Hempel, tucked discreetly away from the hoi polloi round the back of Mayfair - its bed sheets made from sewn together orchid petals, and bog roll pressed from pure gold leaf - The kind of place I might meet the third Mrs Moore.

As I soon found out – much to my disappointment, the place is virtual – that is, it only exists in the real world as a binary code – a computer generated flophouse filled with computer generated celebrities. Well at least I don’t have to get dressed to go there.

As I type this, my cyber-ego Spam Filters is checking in and causing quite a scene. He’s old school you see and doesn’t like this modern bureaucracy - passwords, user names, and trying to remember his age. Spam’s been checking in and out of fleabag joints since analogue, and doesn’t need this extra heat. He’s running low on Pixel dust, which doesn’t help. He needs to score ASAP, or there’s going to be a problem.

Ok, he’s made it in and reached the elevator – so far so good. His room is ok, but it’s going to need some redecorating. " Look out below" he bellows to the Boy band on the ground, but too late. The TV set kills them instantly, but another forms immediately and takes its place. Spam thinks this is funny – like Space Invaders. He proceeds to empty the entire contents of his room out of the window, until a call from Bono begs him to stop disrupting the U2 album launch pub quiz taking place in the Stetson bar.

He prowls the upper corridors primed and looking for action. Spam is no spring chicken, but for some reason, at the Habbo, he looks like a fifteen year old rapper with a fireman’s helmet and wraparound shades – He wonders into Led Zeppelin’s suite (the Habbo is named after their legendary roadie) but the band are too busily engaged in fishing, and appear to be just about to catch something. He barges into Michael Jackson’s room, hoping to surprise his old pal who is on the balcony, showing off his new virtual baby to fans half a mile below. The shock almost causes Wacko to drop the child. Spam apologizes, makes a swift exit and heads for the lower floors.

If anybody is holding Pixelcaine, it’ll be Sid Vicious. Spam takes the old cage elevator down to the second floor, but is blocked from exiting by an NYPD Roboccop, who tells him to keep moving.

Drinking with the Warhol Super Star transvestite hookers in the lobby, Spam is saddened to learn that Sid has got himself into a spot of bother.

All good things must come to an end, and as Spam finishes his Brandy Alexander, the manager comes over for a discreet word. It appears that due to some funny business back in the real world - at the Columbia Hotel, he is banned from the Habbo chain and may not return - until he pays for the staircase he removed. Just as he is skulking off into the night however, Bono emerges from the cyber gents, sees Spam and throws his arms around him, in an extravagant show biz embrace, announcing " This is Spam Filters – he is Rock’n’Roll, he taught me all I know."
The bill is settled, Spam is reprieved, and is soon rediscovered by a new generation of fans.

The Dylan Moment

I’ve just had that thing which many middle-aged men seem to suffer from every now and then. It’s nothing to do with the prostrate – at least I hope not…not finding more hair in one’s comb than on one’s head, and not an unseemly yearning for a lady half one’s age. I’ve just been struck by that poignant tugging of the heartstrings commonly known as a Dylan moment.
With Luke Haines now safely across the Irish sea, scaring our Gaelic brethren, I have been spending a blameless weekend with my daughter, immersed in the simple pleasures of swimming ( well, I floated actually ), reading Jemima Puddle Duck, and buying crap at a car boot sale. My Dylan moment came soon after we arrived back in London, as I brought her round for tea - before depositing her back at her MaMa’s in time for bed. As she contentedly cut up paper on the floor of my yet-again bachelor pad, and glued it to a bar of soap; I searched for some music to put on that:
A. I hadn’t listened to for a while,
B. She wouldn’t immediately hate, and
C. Something whose retrieval from my precariously balanced cd collection, wouldn’t bring the whole shelf down.
Bob Dylan’s Greatest Hits Volume 3 was the first record that met all three criteria.

Once I’d given up cajoling her to abandon construction of the ‘Special Pink Soap Case’, and eat some of the delicious comestibles I’d commandeered from Friday night’s rider (healthy stuff I assure you) I sat down to watch her work. Dylan’s ‘Forever Young’ might at other times have passed me by, or drawn a cynical smirk, but tonight, its melody and lyrics shone into that filthy old chasm I call a soul. ‘ May your hands always be busy, may your feet always be quick’…stuff about standing up straight in a storm and always being courageous….you get the picture?

Watching this inexplicably ( unless you count her mother – which I suppose you should ) beautiful spawn of my loins, five years old, fresh as the spring, and still only possessing the most rudimentary of swear words, going about her business while Bob handed down his sage advice, almost reduced me to tears. Had there been a line about letting me brush her hair, and not talking about letting-off in front of Nanny, I think I would have.

She seemed to pick up on the moment too, asking who it was singing? She rolled the name around a few times, then asked if he was a nice man? As usual I said yes, which on the whole I think is true. Obviously I didn’t tell her about the drugs, the broken hearted girlfriends or the motorcycle accident – she had to be home by six. Even if I had ( which I promise never to bore her to death with ), I don’t think she’d have minded much.
She already thinks Hound Dog Taylor is a nice man – and forgives him for shooting his bass player – because she ‘likes his sound’, and Bo Diddley could kill Noddy for all she cares – she loves him unconditionally.
I’m still a bit concerned about her Amy Winehouse obsession though – when she climbs up on the table and sings:
" They tried to send Ava to rehab but she said No, No No."
If you’re out there Amy, please come to tea.

Wheezing Spires and Broken Bows

I have just returned from a long walk down the hill to the music shop, and am feeling much better for it. Autumn is at its most glorious, and if my colour palette vocabulary was not so limited, I’d extol the beauties of sienna, burnt umber, flaming orange, claret and palest yellow. Well whatever, London streets with trees in are very pretty at this time of year. A slight irony perhaps, but the streets with the most planet hating four by fours, also seem to contain the most beautiful trees. Lets hope the roots are clawing at the foundations, making them structurally unsound and un-saleable, thus bringing financial ruin to the owners, forcing them to flee the city and live in mud huts in the Cotswolds. There’s nothing so self-righteous as a man whose just had a walk…yes, I did say walk.

Anyway, the reason for this excursion was to purchase a new bow to play the saw with. I’m not naming names here, but a certain clumsy great brute with a moustache, sat on my old one in the dressing room last night and snapped it. Whether this was his way of telling me that my sawing services were no longer required, or a simple accident remains to be seen. Anyway, I’ve got a new one, which I shall be debuting at Dingwalls tomorrow night.

Our gig in the city of dreaming spires was great fun, especially as Haines was near delirious with flu and said some particularly dubious things – even by his standards, which even his most ardent fans almost took exception to. Let’s hope that he’s rested by tomorrow, or the London audience is in for a particularly strange night. Luckily the Royal Free is close by, so if we are physically assaulted, it’s only a short ambulance ride to safety.

Talking of hospitals, I visited the Radcliffe Infirmary before the show last night. This was not in my capacity as a pop star or goodwill ambassador. My dear brother-in-law has just had a major operation necessitated by years of smoking a certain French rolling tobacco…He’s well on the mend thank goodness, but certainly not looking his best. Without sounding too morbid, I am afraid that we are getting to the age where things are catching up with us, and the health warnings are coming true. This giving up smoking business is extremely difficult, even when face to face with the evidence. I have to admit that my first port of call on leaving the hospital was the nearest pub for a pint and…a cig. Utterly, despicably stupid I know, but they don’t call them Musician’s Walking Sticks for nothing. As John Lennon said of Sir Walter Raleigh ‘ he was such a stupid Get’

Plenty More Fish in the Sea

I believe it was Frank Sinatra who said that he felt sorry for people who didn’t drink, because waking up in the morning was the best they would feel all day.
Monday, London, lunchtime, dressing gown, headache, self-loathing, thoughts of malice towards Old Blue Eyes. It’s not that I’ve sunk into some Bukowskian netherworld – it’s just that I’ve over-indulged, overslept, inappropriately texted and generally worked towards making myself a less impressive being in the eyes of the world. On the plus side, I didn’t smoke any cigs…I forgot that. Did I mention that I’ve given up? Everyone’s doing it - It’s the new smoking. And like most things preceded by ‘new’, you can still do it occasionally and claim that you don’t.
So despair has turned to triumph – I might look like a wreck but I smell pristine. And…here’s another excuse – Sunday night is actually my Friday night. Weekends are usually taken with driving my daughter out to my mother’s, early nights and excruciatingly early mornings, going swimming, appealing to my daughter not to be so scatological – at least in front of Nanny, and generally being bitten, scratched and kicked. If it wasn’t for the fact that Nanny gets up with the lark, and spends some quality Grandmother Granddaughter time with Ava, these weekly excursions could finish me off.

Talking of scratching; this weekend, we took the cat with us. She’s still a kitten actually, and can’t be left home alone for two days. Anyway, Ava decided to let her out of her basket on the way home. I would advise anybody in a similar situation to maintain feline incarceration while mobile, no matter how much it pleads to be released and promises to curl up quietly on the back seat – this is merely a ploy. I imagine that driving on the M4 with a cat on one’s head might be a contravention of the road traffic act – most things are…he said morphing into Jeremy Clarkson. Still, this was the first car journey in ages where I haven’t witnessed major carnage.

The search for a third Mrs Moore is not proving successful. It appears that the ecologists are spot on – there are NOT plenty more fish in the sea. Over fishing has depleted stocks, now even the humble cod is a delicacy. To continue this maritime metaphor, I imagine dark dangerous deepwater creatures with spines and spikes and prehistoric teeth, lurking on the seabed, devouring any poor sap who happens by. If this sounds sexist or fish-ist I apologise.

On a musical front, I am sawing with Haines again this week, as his never-ending tour hits the drive home-able counties. Once again - apologies to the North, but the prospect of sharing a bed in a Travel Lodge with Britain’s most misanthropic man was too much to bear - especially in light of the preceding paragraph.
I’m getting up now. I think I might go to the pet shop and buy a goldfish.

Decadent and Idle

What a productive day I’m having. I’ve finally managed to install Broadband, and am feeling empowered, omnipotent and not a little smug. I think the Virgin helpline must be located somewhere in the North East, as both – extremely helpful advisers, sounded eerily like Weirside Jack. Had these been the dark and dangerous days of the late nineteen seventies, the Yorkshire Police would have arrested the entire call centre. " You are no nearer to making your broadband work than you have ever been…" Anyway, enough of technical matters, I am connected to modernity and that’s that.

I am still feeling the after effects of a night on the old Absinthe – something I swore I’d never touch again. It’s had such a profoundly ruinous effect on my constitution, that even the innocent morning taste of Kingfisher toothpaste can induce a hangover. I attended the launch party for The Decadent Handbook – to which I contributed a chapter on the pleasures of casual drug use – a little hobby I enjoyed in my early twenties to help pass the time between musical engagements and visits to the unemployment office – and something which of course I no longer advocate…ah the wisdom and hypocrisy of age.

In retrospect, it was probably not the wisest event to take a young lady to who I was hoping to impress…although it doesn’t seem to have done Pete Doherty any harm. She made her excuses and left early, citing a morning flight to Scotland – and an indefinite trip to Africa – thus freeing me up for a night of dubious behaviour.
As a contributor to the book, I was rewarded with a bottle of La Fee Absinthe. Nicely ironic as I was a founder of the company. Doubly so, as the bottle still features an illustration of my ex-wife’s eye. It’s like a bloody Hank Williams song. I can’t even drink her off my mind, because she’s staring down at me from the bar. Anyway, the bottle didn’t make it home – but I did – and was woken at two thirty next afternoon by my landlord, who arrived with a plumber... to fix the electric heater - I explained that I was feeling a little under the weather due to being cold and was having a duvet day.

Played at an Idler event in Oxford last night at John Lloyd’s QI club. These events are always slightly awkward. Tom Hodgkinson expounds the Idler philosophy to interested types, skilfully debunking the tiresome yet oft repeated accusation by some smart Alec, that we are merely feckless layabouts. Quoting extensively from great works of literature, poetry and philosophy, he embarrasses them for such provincial simplicity. It is at these moments that I begin to perspire and shift uneasily in my chair like a guilty schoolboy struggling to maintain his composure of innocence, while wanting to blurt out for all to hear. " Please Sir, I am a feckless layabout."

Ave the Rave

Have you ever seen the Jean Luc Goddard film Weekend? The beginning sequence of traffic jams, car crashes and carnage during a Friday rush hour out of Paris?…As this is the Guardian website, I’d be prepared to stake money that most of you have.
Well Friday’s journey to Bristol in the company of Luke Haines bore an uncanny resemblance to this. Even before hitting Hammersmith, we’d witnessed ambulances and mangled wreckages…we’d deliberately set out before three to avoid this kind of excitement. A six car pile up at Maidenhead, an exploding car at Reading and a rather fatal looking accident near Bath later, we arrived in Bristol, tired, emotional, ready for dinner and in need of Guinness.
It should be pointed out that this tour is extremely low key, using one motor vehicle, minimal electrickery and two nine volt batteries. To make it carbon neutral, some stinging nettles will be planted on a patch of wasteland in the very near future...Thom Yorke eat yer heart out…

The evening was most enjoyable, my sawing services required only sporadically, leaving time to chat to an old friend whom I hadn’t seen for over twenty years…she was a backing singer in a very early band. She is now a highly successful solicitor – I on the other hand am playing saw with a man who sings about Gary Glitter, Peter Sutcliffe and Sir Oswald Moseley…none in a complimentary way I should add.

Saturday began with paracetemol, a spot of dry retching, cursing the bottle of red we’d procured for last night’s return journey….There was a designated driver – who remained sober and oblivious to the cackling old wrecks in the back….and the arrival of my divine daughter – Ave the Rave, who promptly threw a tantrum outside the paper shop ,accusing me of being the meanest daddy in the world, declaring her absolute hatred of me, and threatening to take my life if I didn’t buy her the pencils and coloured rubbers she claimed as a birth right. We were on a shopping trip to buy presents for the two friends whose birthday parties we had been invited to; and less than an hour before, she had been given – crayons, pencils, paper, scissors, and plasticine, as a ‘Welcome to Daddy’s New Flat’ present.
Carry a screaming, kicking child, upside down, as it tries to bite your stomach and tear out your innards, while you attempt to maintain dignity and exchange polite smiles with passers by who are probably thinking that something awful is occurring , is something most of you will have to endure at some point. Embrace it. It won’t last forever. Marvel at your child’s expanding vocabulary, its reasoning, daring and divisiveness. Then threaten to leave it where it is forever and start walking away. In no time at all…three hours tops, the infant will quite have forgotten, forgiven and reassessed its feelings towards you. Especially if there is the prospect of an evening fireworks display, over priced fairground rides, and the opportunity to crush your spine by riding on your shoulders for two hours, wielding a glow sword.

Run Rabbit Run

Oh dear, I am sitting in my garret listening to Burt Bacharach and nursing another hangover. Not a dreadful one – quite tolerable in fact, and I am not required to be anywhere for several hours yet. I’ve just consumed a bacon sandwich – prepared on the George Foreman grilling machine. I must take a moment to sing the praises of this device. It is apparently one of the most popular unopened Christmas presents of all time…mine was liberated from Mother’s shed, where it had lain un-open for years.
It is brutally simple…not even complicated by an on off switch…just plug it in and clamp it shut and it cooks stuff and all the fat drips down a slope into a tray. I have a feeling that it is aimed at …people who are perhaps not the brightest…which is perfect for me in my present condition.
I have taken to London again life like a migrating duck returning to water…well, not water perhaps, liquid shall we say? Anyway, it’s got to stop. I’ve come back for constructive purposes…not meaningless hedonism…ooh hang on…three magpies just flew past the window. Now if I remember the theme tune right, that’s three for a girl. I’d better put a suit on - always follow the signs.

I’m afraid that I didn’t make it to the Joiners Arms in Southampton last night. The lure of saucy snaps and free vodka was too great. I am sure Haines will have played a blinder, in fact when I sent him the obligatory ‘Break a leg’ text, he replied that he already had. I can assure anybody hoping to have witnessed my saw accompaniment, that you didn’t miss much. Still, I will be in Bristol this Friday with my serrated edges pointing inwards, and my bow gently stoking.
The walk along the Thames to the exhibition was utterly inspiring. The skyline made me feel as excited as I used to feel looking at New York. Take my aesthetic advice if you will - there are some quite nice buildings round there…pity they’re for working in, but that’s reality for you. And, even though I am opposed to warfare and military unpleasantness of all kinds, I would quite fancy a go on the HMS Belfast…no wonder Britannia used to rule the waves, imagine if that turned up in your coastal waters?...hang on a minute – this is the Daily Telegraph isn’t it?

Talking of Haines, I’m going to have to do something about that Rabbit stew. I can’t bring myself to eat it. Utter hypocrisy I know, seeing as I have consumed pig already today, but rabbit? Peter Rabbit , Benjamin Bunny, Run Rabbit Run, Friday/Rabbit-Pie Day? I can’t do it. I am not Mr McGregor. But what can I do with it? I don’t think it will flush down the toilet – it’s too big – practically a whole rabbit. It would be a bit embarrassing to explain to my new landlord that I’d blocked the toilet by flushing rabbits down it –there’s probably something in the lease prohibiting this kind of thing. Can I just throw it in a bin? I know Camden is very particular about its recycling. If I had a garden I’d bury it. I could even say a few words. Anyway, please do not worry too much about this. It will resolve itself. Once my head clears, an obvious solution will present itself…would it be rude if I just gave it back?
Must go off now and see if the magpies were right.

Rabbit Stew and Ashes

Finally I am back in London – living the life of a swinging bachelor. Actually tonight I’m in Burghfield because I had to come back to collect more things, then got caught in a two hour traffic jam on the M4, most of it spent adjacent to Slough sewage works, which was in a particularly volatile mood, then felt unable to do a stroke of work when finally I arrived at mother’s.

It had been my intention to collect certain items of mine that should only be carried in hours of darkness, for fear of provoking my new neighbours into forming a lynch mob and hanging me from the nearest lamp post….Actually I’m talking about amplifiers bloody great big ones – Fender Twins, electric guitars - loads of them and other sound generating devices capable of taking out most of central London while only turned up to three.
Can you imagine the horror of those living nearby, seeing me bringing these WMD’s into their midst. They’ll be ordering air strikes. Well I’ll just have to chance it. I need to get back before it gets dark, so I can prepare for my Halloween Black Mass – and because I’m picking my daughter up from school. Perhaps I could disguise them as shopping?

Anyway, the move was trouble free. No bones were broken and the place is taking shape very nicely thank you.. Needless to say, Haines made a miraculous recovery and was able to join me for a ‘Welcome to London, Let’s try to get banned from your new Local’, pint or three. Do you know what he brought me to make amends? What do rock musicians take round to the flats of other rock musicians??? Rocks? Chinese Rocks? Scotch on the Rocks?Guess again suckers. The answer is of course - Rabbit Stew. Rabbit stew in a Tupperware container that he wants back when I’ve finished with it. I tell you, we are beyond Satan.
Spent the evening at aforementioned boozer – there’ll be a dividend for shareholders this winter…and discovered a Comedy Club in the basement. Normally, the knowledge that standup comedians were operating in the area below us would be justification for concreting the place over – tonight though, we were lit up just enough to be interested, which was a stroke of luck. Daniel Kitson – the funniest thing…well person to be precise, I’ve ever seen. The fact that I can only remember the line ‘eggs and shit’ can not diminish the fact that I know he was brilliant.

A little incident to relate regarding the unpacking. Well as you might know, the manner in which I left my previous home….before mother’s, was not the pleasantest of affairs. I don’t want to dwell on the issue, suffice to say, my former wife did most of my packing. And very well considering the circumstances. Really she did an exceptional job, wrapping things in newspaper – rather than smashing them with a hammer. As I was unwrapping these newspaper packages, I was surprised – and quite excited to see that white powder seemed to be spilling from one of them….to come over all Rolf Harris again...( careful), ‘Can you guess what it was?’
You couldn’t be more wrong. ‘Twas my father’s ashes. Not all of them. Approximately ninety five percent of him has been scattered in the places he mentioned that he might like to be scattered, should it become necessary. I kept a little back, which I put in a bakelite sleepy Bournevita mug, adding a lock of my daughter’s hair to the mixture – so they could meet one another in some kind of way…on the astral plane perhaps. Anyway, it’s good to have him back.
Now I have to struggle with my conscience about what to do on Wednesday evening.
Opening party for Erotic Photography exhibition/Joiners Arms in Southampton. Champagne, canapés, amoral people/the Joiners Arms on Southampton. Hopefully sleep will bring an answer.
Happy Halloween. Don’t forget, it is legal to shoot trick or treaters.

Movers and Shakers

Almost done. The move is in progress. My Burghfieldness is receding, and I estimate that I am now more than fifty percent Londoner. Tomorrow, my beautiful (yet hardly missed since being put into storage a year ago),record collection must be moved - this will not be pleasant. Still, it’s the price for resisting emcroaching ipodism, and you never know, I might become intersted in music again.

When the estate agent met me to let me into the flat this evening
( the lease actually starts from Saturday) we were surprised to discover a naked man having a bath. I hadn’t noticed him when I viewed the property. Thankfully he didn’t come with it, but was a friend of the landlord who had been cleaning the place. We exchanged general pleasantaries, then he put on his trousers and left.

Sadly, Old Haines’ health has deteriorated significantly since yesterday and I can reveal that he was unable to offer his services today. I am sure you will all join me in wishing him a speedy and fulsome recovery, and that he will emerge from his sickbed, a better,stronger man. To be perfectly honest, I think there might be some truth in his sick schtick…not much it has to be said.. but a bit. Only a cynic would doubt the veracity of his coughing. However, when did one ever need to be healthy to lift boxes…I’d have thought being delirious with fever was the ideal state for this kind of thing. This great country of ours was not built by healthy, well rested, clean living yeomen. It was wheezed together by hacking old hunchbacks, fag in mouth and complaining of back ache non stop. Luckily, I’ve still got plenty to move, so he’ll have an extra day to recover - If any of you reading this distressing news are now doubting whether or not to risk buying tickets to see him play next week, don’t worry. I am sure he’ll make an instant recovery the second the last stick of furniture goes up my stairs, and he’ll be in ruder health than ever.

Luckily I was not without assistance though. My dear friend Phillip - who I’ve known most of my life, had the misfortune to be visiting this week - in his Volvo Estate. Mother also volunteered - but I forbade her from lifting anything heavier than a grand piano.

Also in attendance were Mr Eddie Argos and his friend Keith Top of he Pops, from the wonderful - and getting huge in the States Art Brut. Worried that sudden wealth and fame might go to his head and spoil him in some way, I suggested a bit of manual labour to help keep his feet on the ground - naturally he jumped at the offer….
Six days ago he was selling out the Irving Plaza in New York and performing on prime time tv. Tonight he lugged a mattress up two flights of stairs, with the bearing and grace of a true gentleman…albeit an out of breath gentleman with an absinthe hangover. Some people deserve to be successful…
Next week, find out how I fare in the local pub, interact with shopkeepers, and re-learn how to cook….Watch this space.

Oh yes, one other thing. I found a load of old John Moore and the Expressway t-shirts in a box. If you’d like one, I’m sure we can come to some kind of arrangement. They’re not all that great though.

My Friends

A Warm Welcome to Guardian Readers.

I was going to make this – my first blog for the esteemed Guardian website, a rumination on the true nature of friendship…apparently I’m not being paid by the word, so from now on I’ll communicate in English – I hope.
Now many of you will not know me – and why should you? Well you should actually but that’s by the by. Just to clarify matters, I am a forty-one year old, twice divorced, former minor pop star with literary pretensions and a swollen liver (thanks to the Absinthe I once imported.) Think Syd Barrett without the royalties…or talent.
For the past thirteen months, I have been domiciled with my Mother in the countryside, writing the great English novel and waiting for publishers to recognize ‘a truly original and highly marketable force in English writing.’…Old Rock star =Young writer. The novel actually took four months, and for the remaining nine I’ve been doing precisely bugger all…as have the publishers.
I’m a bit – atrabilious…which is the old word for manic depressive, which is the old expression for bi-polar, so to employ a surfing metaphor…in a Brian Wilson ‘never having and never will surf kind of way - I’ve been waiting for a suitable wave to sweep me up and get me going again.
Having soaked up more than a year of that most sustaining ( and hard to work off the guts) elixir – motherly love, I decided it was time to push off again, or die a fat, alcoholic onanistic death; cremated by a local firm and scattered in the garden alongside the cat’s ashes.
So now you know the background, I can tell you that today – Yes - Thursday 26th October 2006, is the day I move back to London – to possibility- to Life…and a third Mrs Moore…ladies be warned.
Being too tight to hire movers, I have - naturally, been contacting those who call themselves friends. If you look at johnmoore23 on myspace, you’ll see I have 500 of the fuckers. Certain of them have claimed to have a day job – which I suppose is reasonable with gin prices as they are. However, in my line of un-work, there are plenty of people who don’t. Musicians for instance. This blog was going to be about the true nature of friendship, and my disappointment at a certain Mr Luke Haines, with whom I’ve had dealings in the past, who I hoped I could rely on this afternoon to help me shift some boxes. Luke Haines whose album comes out on Monday, whose tour starts on Wednesday (lukehaines.co.uk ) who wants me to play the Musical Saw with him at places as exotic as the Joiners Arms in Southampton. I had assumed that my calls and texts were not being returned due to M15 activity against subversives - and - I confess – in my darkest moments, I even thought that he might just be avoiding me. The mind plays tricks when you’re looking for shifters. Imagine my sadness on discovering…from the horse’s mouth - that he is actually suffering from TB, Renal Failure, Ebola, cancer and worms. I think he actually coughed part of his lung through the telecoms network….which will require a paintjob in Mother’s hall.
If he hasn’t recovered by this afternoon, I will of course have to cancel Southampton, and go to the opening party for the exhibition of Erotic photographs of my dear friend Rowan Pelling. To tell you the truth, I think spores and shadows are beginning to appear on my old lungs as well.

Ps. Amy Wine House – Rehab – The greatest single for years. No No No.

Pps. Some of you reading my blogs, might have noticed that I have recently drawn some fun at my mother’s expense over her bacon sandwiches, lack of cooker, microwave meals, and habit of talking to wasps. This is mere filial badinage. As an example of her utter wonderfulness, this evening - having finished a bottle of red (me, not her), I felt that a drop of something else would really put a beautiful gloss on the evening. Can you imagine the joy of finding two cans of draught Guinness in the fridge? Come on now boys and girls everywhere. Drop to your knees and repeat after me. Mothers are the BEST.
Stop Press. Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth claims to have pulled a muscle in her back...I wasn't even going to ask her to help.

The Final Countdown

I can almost smell the filth of London's shit strewn streets once again. No more the bucolic scent of horse manure and chemical fertiliser...Here comes good old dog shit, human excrement and puke. Piss, beer, diesel, degradation, meaningless sex ( with any luck), compromise and loneliness - I'm so excited.
I've had my utilities connected - as any man of my age and demeanor must. The credit checks passed without a whisper and I was resuckleded to the old motherly dugs of BT and British Gas - who apparently run the electricity as well - not that I'm intending to have any lights on. Candles and hurricane lamps will provide the ambience I require.
I trawled the charity shops of Wokingham today, searching for opulent things - the carelessly disgarded artefacts of people with more money than sense. Sadly I found nothing. No silk wall hangings, valuable ornaments of Persian rugs. I came away with one Angelina Ballerina dvd, one Little Mermaid Video and a rainbow coloured scarf. These items were not for me, but for the fruit of my loins - Ave the Rave. It's half term dontcha know and she's staying with me. We're having a wonderful time - as we always do. My advice to parents is to let your children do whatever they want- within reason. Let them be wilful, messy, cheeky, downright rude - as long as it's funny, and even let them fill your car with grass, pencil shavings, half sucked lollipops and wool. Can you really chastise a five year old for telling one to "Shut-Up you fat bellied old man or I'll do a poo on your head." We reap what we sow, and I take immense pride in my daughter's precosious way with an insult. To stifle a child's creative use of language with a clip around the ear would be to accept a nation of dullards. I don't know about you, but I like scatalogical humour, rudeness, and references to bottoms, wee wee, poo poo, sick and bogeys...not when I write Love poetry obviously. The English language is wonderfully sophisticated, but these four things pretty much cut to the chase.
Why beat around the bush with irony, allusion and metaphor, when you could just describe everybody and everything in basic scatalogical terms. Try it tomorrow - at work, at home. Oh God - am I going on a bit? Well I'm immature and proud. Things that come out of the body and smell bad ARE funny - except when they are cancerous tumours...but even then...Anyway, I expect I have managed to excuse myself from ever being called upon to babysit your well-behaved offspring.
I am supposed to be going on tour next week - not in my own right thank god, but in the service of Old Haines. He believes that my saw playing will somehow save him a beating in the provinces - perhaps he just wants a saw on stage for it's ability to behead bores. It's all crept up a bit fast...I wish there was another week. Having lived at Mother's for a year, I am less domesticated than ever - even in my teenage years. So, from the comfort of Burghfield, I'll have two days to re-aclimatise myself to independent urban sophistication before being whisked off around the provinces to produce strange music from my thigh area. What about laundry - I haven't done any for a year. What about food? It comes from the kitchen on a tray - Where is it found in the outside world? It is very frightening to think that in the next few days, I might find myself in some of the rougher parts of the UK, in boarding houses with dirty sheets, with ( I almost said 'in') landladies with a less than maternal interest in my well being. Then when I do return home, it will be to an empty flat with no welcome home bisto roast, a sour milk fridge, and bills. God, I hope I don't seek solace in alcoholic beverages, narcotics and loose women. Again.

There's a Saw Man Waiting in the Sky

Good evening readers. It's been an alright day. Nothing spectacular. A quiet respectable autumnal English kind of affair - some rain, some driving and a brief visit to the pub. How different from last night's shenanigans.
My first glance in the mirror today, showed two inflamed pores on my nose. Not full scale pimples, just slight irregularities beneath the surface. Pre eruptions so to speak. These were easily treated with some delicate squeezing and a dab of TCP.
The reason for them might prove of more interest however. I got quite drunk in the service of my dear friend and erstwhile colleague - Haines. Apparently Haines has got some kind of record coming out...he's very prolific. Anyway, as a form of promotion for this release, he'd booked himself a live performance, for which I was to act as a special guest in my capacity as a saw player. A bit of saw lends quality to these affairs - it's exotic, sexy ( in my opinion) and extremely cheap to lug around...although not easy to get aboard aircraft these days. Clenched tightly between my knees, and teased with a bow, it is the sound my loins might make - if they could communicate audibly...is that or is that not a beautiful thought?
Anyway, to cut a long story slightly shorter...no pun intended, I was due to play on three songs, but owing to circumstances beyong my control, missed the middle one, so only graced two with my noise.
I'd become deeply embroiled in conversation back in the dressing room with - as unlikely as it sounds - Bonehead out of Oasis and Mike Joyce from the Smiths. They were involved with the support act - Vinny Peculiar. We reminisced fondly about our days on a bigger stage, deciding that Kilburn's Lumiere was much nicer than the Brixton Academy..even though none of us believed it. As this was going on, I listened carefully to Haines'characteristically excellent performance, conscious that my presence would soon be required. I have alway prided myself on my professional approach to the business of playing music in a public auditorium, and never before in my long career have I ever got so carried away that I forgot my cue. Strangely, this was the first time. Unfamiliar as I was with the song, it was not until the middle section of Freddie Mills is Dead, that I realised that Haines was playing Freddie Mills is Dead - the very one we'd been working on in the soundcheck. Ironically, Joyce commented that he could imagine a bit of saw on this song - 'just what it needs' he said. Of course Rock'n'roll is a fleeting thing, and by the time I'd presented myself stage right, it was over. Still, all was not lost and the rest of the evening passed without further incident.
BTW. The reason for my nasal irregularities - or so I believe, was the large amount of double whiskies I was obliged to consume - all of which were purchased for me by gratelful audience members who'd been moved to generosity by my musicianship and professionalism.

Anyway, I would certainly recommend that you all rush out to your nearest branch of Tescos and purchase a copy of Haines' new record when it comes out next week. This is not guilt speaking. It really is very good. Goodnight.

Fourteen Million Fans Can't Be Wrong

Good afternoon people of Blogland. There now follows an address by your old pal. Please listen carefully.
Well glad tidings from Burghfield. The side light bulb on my car has not gone after all - mother thought it had. I drove to Dad's Shop in Mortimer, fully intending to purchase a replacement, but when I got there, it had miraculously started working again - signs of occult activity do you think? The spirits tinkering? Well whatever it was, I am pleased...it doesn't take much.
Due to the excellence of this blog, with its incisive commentary of modern living, I have been asked by The Guardian newspaper to blog for its website - which a pound to a penny is www.Guardian.co.uk - or something very like it. I shall be called upon to give my opinions on the matters of the day, and may well be instrumental...even more instrumental, in influencing world events. I believe that some sort of financial renumeration takes place as well, which will be extremely useful now that the capital beckons once again.
If I had already started, I'd probably take some cheap shots at Madonna...such as drawing comparisons between her and the Phillip Pullman character Mrs Coulter...Has the film been cast yet? A remake of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang might be appropriate.
If I were a right wing Telegraph reading old duffer, I'd say something along the lines of 'in my day, when folks went orf to Africa, they usually shot the trophies before bringing em home', which I'm not so I won't. I won't even imagine Guy Ritchie wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with the slogan 'My Wife went to Malawi and all she brought me was this...' no, I can't do it. I am convinced that the motive behind these star adoptions are quite genuinely benevolent...even though she is beginning to look like a wicked old witch...but then again, I'm no oil painting meself.
Anyway, that's probably the kind of stuff I'll be doing in the Guardian - with fourteen million readers...albeit a bit toned down perhaps.

Where do I stand on the veils issue? I think they should be bright red, so the ladies can act as mobile pillar boxes.

BTW - I've got a new website which is just about up and running.
www.john-moore.net which will be linked to my Guardian bloggage. Therefore, in the spirit of free enterprise, I am prepared to consider selling advertising space, so if any of you have something to flog, old matresses, false teeth, faulty electrical equipment, I'm your man.

I'm playing the saw tomorrow night with my dear friend Luke Haines, so do pop along - unless you are an unamused Islamic funda-mentalist or Madonna's lawyer. Cheerio.

Early Release for bad Behaviour

My exile is drawing to a close, that’s right London – prepare yourselves – The Moore is coming back…and this time it’s personal. Assuming credit checks don’t find me wanting in the fiduciary department, I have got me the ultimate bachelor pad. Bohemian squalor in one of London’s leafiest districts – quite close to where the fellow had his head lopped off in the street last year. The place is a bit of a tip, but the sort of tip I like. A Chaise Longue, a few silk drapes and my selection of stuffed animals – which were even frowned upon in the former marital home, will make this London’s premier boudoir et salon.
What makes this even more desirable, is that it’s above a garage – just like the Fonz. I don’t mean a petrol station – that would be dangerous with all the freebasing I’ll to be doing – and flambéing…I am actually looking forward to cooking again. Did I mention that here at mother’s, the oven has not worked for three years – and she doesn’t miss it? She’s of an age where ladies were forced into the kitchens, so quite understandably rebelled….she’s been on the front line of culinary feminism for the past thirty years…Not that I’ve suffered you understand….(she reads this you know.) I’m not for a minute suggesting that she is the sort of lady to push pies through school gates. I’ve eaten every sort of delicious healthy concoction that can be microwaved in three minutes or less. I did have to accuse her of attempted murder on a few occasions…stay away from M and S macaroni cheese unless you want a fecalith. ( Think compacted contents of Elvis Presley’s colon here) but anyway, ungrateful little toss-pot prodigal bastard that I am, my fattening stomach will soon be a thing of the past, and the elasticated trousers and incontinence pants can be binned once and for all.
I’ll throw little soirees, wearing my long silk dressing gown – which I’ll locate from the bags of clothes piled up in the shed, I shall hover over the stove, saucepan in one hand, red wine in the other, whisking up a little supper for myself and the lovely dining companion I’ve enticed from the local boozer. God, I feel like Harold Steptoe. .

I hope the mechanics don’t wake me at some ungodly hour, but what the heck – I think I’m ready to come out of my bi-polar tundra and re-enter the sunny world anyway – Christ, I might even start getting up before noon – and conducting a life.
It’s close to thespian enclaves, so I imagine I’ll be hanging out with the stars - wife swapping – when I’ve located another wife of course – I don’t imagine ????? would take too kindly to my phoning her up to ask if she’d mind me swapping her in absentia – it could catch on though – Ex-wife Swapping .Instead of throwing the car keys onto the table, it’d be the house keys…bank accounts, furniture…Only joking. We’re on jolly good terms. In fact, she accompanied me to the viewing today. We are very modern sophisticated people.
It’s only five minutes walk from my daughter’s school – she’s already suggested escaping from her classroom and coming to hide with me all day – she’s five years old bless her.

Other business

I played the saw with the Idler Ukelele Orchestra on Wed night at the Bethnal Green Working Men’s Club. If you want the gory details, go to www.Idler.co.uk Poor Tom had been stressing about this for months…arranging rehearsals that nobody went to ( the kid’s got a lot to learn about running a band ) I think it’s a mid-life crisis brought on by the huge success of Gav’s Cloudspotter’s Guide, Anyway, he needn’t have worried. It was a great success, and although it might not net him millions, it will get him out of the house once in a while – which to all but the worst sort of musicians, is what it’s all about.

Finally, I’ve given up smoking – in a way. I didn’t want to mention it earlier in case I jinxed it. I’ve quit for a month now – albeit having the odd one if I’m out – and twenty last Saturday, and ten on Wednesday and three last night. I’m feeling quite healthy in fact……Wouldn’t that be funny if it was the last sentence I ever typed.

The Only Blog That's Fit To Read

I'm off to a wedding this weekend if you must know. I know you'll join me in wishing the happy couple Gavin Pretor-Pinney and his lovely fiance Liz a most wonderful day, and a most wonderful life. Actually Gav's already doing quite nicely, having penned 'The Cloud Spotter's Guide', which is selling by the shed load.
I have elected to camp - probably for the last time this year. The car is packed with all the necessary bits - I've even been to Dad's Shop in Mortimer to purchase torch batteries. Perhaps some of you will find it surprising that I am not staying in a cosy little B and B. I prefer to rough it. In fact, I've camped several times this summer, and must recommend a night under canvas to anybody who hasn't tried it. It's not much different to collapsing drunk in a ditch of course but it should be dry.
Anyway, enough of camping. In my bid to be topical, I shall now comment on Jack Straw and the veil issue. The solution is glaringly obvious. Rather than asking these ladies to remove their garments - something mps have been doing for centuries, why doesn't he don a mask himself when speaking to them? With Halloween just round the corner, the shops are filling with the things - Scream skulls, Saddam Hussein masks, George Bush - how about an Osama mask? This would immediately put them at their ease and heal any breach in community relations. What's David Blunkett's view on the situation by the way? He's being uncharacteristically quiet these days.

What else is happening in Moore World? Well, I am about to have my website redone. We must all modernise if we are to survive mustn't we?
In case any of you don't know, I've got one of those myspace sites - johnmoore23 I believe it is. I've got an enormous amount of friends, which is heartening because Mother is threatening to throw me out after the bacon sandwich incident.

Well that's all for now. Have a lovely weekend.

Are You Being Served?

I told you this blog was going political...that's right - cutting to the chase.Well my first great political observation is that Boris Johnson is the posh John Prescott. You heard it here first - I hope.
Secondly, my friend has started working at Marks and Spencers, and it is a hot bed of Islamic fundamentalism - which might come as something of a surprise to Mr Marx and Spencer. My dear friend is of Persian extraction, although the last time she fell to her knees to face Mecca was when she was being sick outside the Bingo Parlour on Holloway Rd. Well as anybody familiar with the empty Goldborne Rd knows, it's Ramadan at the moment...that's right, the big one. Well my dear friend is getting no end of hassle from the dawn til dusk fasters for not being a proper Muslim, dissin' da religion, and not being a good example. In fact, it's all a bit creepy. She thinks they might honour kill her in the lingerie section.
Now I'm no expert in Al Queda plots, but I would not be at all surprised if every M and S in the world blows up on the same day. Marks and Spencer is being used as a training camp ....All this is pure conjecture of course, but if I were the security services I'd investigate - plant a mole perhaps - although not in the food department where I believe moles might create a scare among the folk who lunch....I was going to say secretaries, but that would be sexist, and this blog is far too sophisticated to fall victim to such accusations.
Just to paint an even brighter picture of London's shop floor life, did you know that it is common for people to urinate in the changing rooms. Also to try on clothes and urinate in them then hand them back to the staff. Could this be an anti semitic thing? I think it might. Do incontinent people make a habit of trying on trousers at M and S, pissing and leaving? If so, I believe that they should be incorporated into the new advertising campaign. Rather than Erin O'Conner and Twiggy parading round in the latest couture, get a couple of Golden Shower models to do the business. And the food adverts? They are the ones I really hate ' This isn't just a Creme Brulee...it's an Marks and Spencers Creme Brulee and it's been pissed on'. The shareholders need to know.
On another matter, Sid and Nancy is on the telly. I'm in it. See if you can spot me. I'm one of the little boys pogoing and spitting. I got paid sixty quid, with which I bought leather trousers - and within two weeks, was in the Jesus and Mary Chain. Life's a complicated thing.

Season of Mists and Maturing Bosoms

As I might well have said at precisely the same time last year. Haven't found any yet, although I have come close a few times.

Attended the launch of Tom Hodgkinson's new book 'How to be Free', which I am sure will be very soon - or at least remaindered. Actually it's a splendid book and it's only my jealousy talking....and I'm in it apparently as the posessor of an 'attrabilious' temperament, which translates as 'black bile', which means, manic depressive, which used to mean melancholic. Yes, I is a poetic, tortured soul, in needof love, sympathy and cash.
The party was held at the Old London Sessions House in Clerkenwell. Lots of free ale, wine and pretty publishing girls to pretend to be an important young writer to. Downstairs was a meeting of the local Masonry. Fellows on the square, doing funny handshakes and the like. As the evening wore on, we tried to infiltrate their ranks - but to no avail. Addressing them through Tom's loud hailer as we exited the premises was childishly amusing though.
I've had a few drunken nights recently, and am now considering a return to sobriety to enable my liver to grow back in time for christmas. However - drunk or sober, I still hold with my theory that people should get naked more often. In polite society, the human form exhibited to one's company, says more than words ever could. I don't mean complete nudity in a 1970's suburban dinner party way, just as a form of greeting - a brief arse flash as a sign of respect and trust..so much nicer than a handshake. Anyway, this is a theory that I will need to develop slightly...possibly from the comfort of a padded cell. It's probably just a sign of middle age lechery creeping in - I do hope so.
Thank god mother has gone out. She's visiting her friend who's had a hip operation. I'm afraid she's been insufferable today. Just because she made me bacon sandwiches, she thinks it gives her the right to interrupt my newspaper reading. I do not care that the bin men, who were due to come yesterday, actually came today because their lorry broke down. I do not care that her friend uses Tiscali broadband. I am afraid that I had occasion to speak sharply to her, explaining that the credit of bacon sandwiches did not last forever, and that the fall from the cliff face of high esteem was a lot more drastic...
I can't believe I'm telling you about my mum...I really need to move back to London don't I? Do you realise I haven't done a stroke of work in almost a year? I am a parasite. Why do anything when you don't have to? I'm even biting the hand that feeds me bacon sandwiches - at 11.30am. Actually I'm lying. Today it was 12.30pm...I was feeling a bit tired.
I shall make ammends. When Old Moore returns to London, London won't know what's hit it. Anyway, I think I might have come up with an invention to make my fortune. It's to do with umbrellas and satelite navigation. Obviously I'll need venture capital, so I thought it'd be nice to offer it to you first - otherwise it's me and the city boys again. Any dragons out there who want to invest their life savings in The Unlosable Unbrella tm. Well don't say I didn't offer. Anyway, I'm off to get dressed now. It's ten past three....PM.

It Ain't What You Do, It's The Way That You Do It...

I've been having an awful lot of trouble with Daddy Longlegs and Mosquitos - have you? I believe that my present location could be the epicentre of flying insect life in the United Kingdom - perhaps a sinister off shoot of the nearby Aldermaston weapons facility. Anyway, I am bitten to buggery and have arms so swollen, they make Popeye look like Karen Carpenter.
In my attempt to`make this blog appear more relevant - and deflect from the fact that I am doing bugger all at present, I'd just like to say that I don't rate Gordon Brown's chances very much. I expect that this last piece of blogging wisdom will flash across the world, and that I'll become highly influential...more highly influential. Did you notice how his eyes went all slitty during his big speach? - Not suggesting a Duke of Edinburgh style Yellow peril alert, but really, he ought to be able to open his eyes if he expects to be PM. Brown - to me, has always looked like a swarthy b movie local lout, encountered in a roadhouse on the A1 in 1961. Imagine if your Ford Zephyr broke down en route to an important business meeting in BIrmingham, and you needed to use a phone. You make your way to the all night cafe at the nearest lay by, only to be accosted by a gang of bikers, swathed in black leather, riding Triumphs, Nortons and BSA's - listening to Gene Vincent records. Brown is the ring leader - a big bullying local bull...probably called Johnny, chaining Players No 6 and glugging pepsis. He strikes swan vestas on his chin and makes a pass at your secretary, then, when like the decent ex army chap you are,you tell him to tone it down a bit, he challenges you to a fight with bicycle chains..which you eventually win using the Queensbury rules. Anyway, that's what I think, and I'm a blogger, and we're the new voice of reason.

Had a most enjoyable weekend in the wilderness - except for the mosquitos, jamming with the great and the good. Look out for the Bananarama remixes - featuring Saw and Ukelele. Night night.

Old Pulteney Single Malt

I've just watched a documentary on the television about Princes William and Harry, and their prospective brides - Kate and Chelsy. I'd forgotten that there was some kind of deal done to let these young men grow up - relatively unmolested by the media - to ensure their transit through adolescence to manhood ran smoothly. Oh fuck, I'm afraid there's going to be more of this stuff soon. This one featured the esteemed Jenny Bond - a woman...on the birth certificate at least, and a man with bleached hair and effeminate gestures who may or may not be the wedding frock designer. I know I'm being trivial here - what on earth is an aesthete like my self even doing watching stuff like this you might well ask? Car Crash television...no pun intended, when I could be watching Curb Your Enthusiasm or MTV Cribs? It just so happened that I'd consumed some delightful whisky - purchased from the Royal Berkshire Livestock show, and I was unable to get up from my seat, or indeed - locate the channel changer. Rather like Alex in Clockwork Orange, forced to witness attrocities with his eyes pinned open...although it was quite entertaining. I can now predict with some accuracy, the next ten years. It's a bit grim I'm afraid.

What occurs to me while being force fed this stuff, is that we've got it all wrong, and with a few minor adjustments all could be well. The solution is close at hand if we could but grasp it. There are many right thinking people, who but for a ha'apeth of tar could all be singing from the same hymn books.
We're fighting the Taliban in Afghanistan - a group of committed young men, whose enthusiasm could be coralled towards the greater good - with the merest of re education. They're not very respectful to ladies, but...if they could be re programmed somewhat, they'd be extrememly useful. Once they had embraced the sisterhood they could be imported to these shores. Do you think they'd stand for late night television? No way. Big Brother? The heads would be off before even tourettes victim could say Fuck Robinson. Apart from the ladies thing...and an intolerence to music, how do they differ in outlook from ecologists? I am quite certain that Osama Bin Laden would advocate the use of compost toilets, wind power, and better school meals.
Many of the people who dislike the current playlisting policy of Radio One, would share many other views with those engaged in Jihad. Pixel animation, Hollywood blockbusters...nearly everything on BBC 3.
I might draw a balloon diagram to illustrate this. In the outer balloons will be some of the more obscure, irrational hatreds, but the cross overs will show a remarkable similarity in world views. Did you know for example that the last gig Osama Bin Laden attended was Donny and Marie Osmond in Ryhad in 1983? Or that he was until 1987, a member of the Earth Wind and Fire fan club? Or that he was a guest of this country at the Royal Wedding in 1981? Even as late as 2000, he wrote a letter to Kylie Minogue requesting a private performance...who knows how things might have differed had she accepted? What is particularly galling about all this, is that George W Bush was also a member of the Earth Wind and Fire fanclub. They might disagree on certain ideologies but the two fuckers share a record collection.
Did you know that Pope Benedict drove a VW Golf? So did Osama. So did Tony. There's room for dialogue.
What we need is a great big melting pot. I'm calling for world peace....here, now...and I'll be in charge. Good night.

Did You Miss Me Yeah When I Was Away?

Ah, so that's it is it? Looks like I'm back in the world of bloggage. I'm afraid I had a complete mental collapse - not a nervous breakdown or anything artistic - just geriatric amnesia. Well suddenly, the old grey matter had sputtlered back into life, and ...well here I am again. I forgot my bank pin number for months as well, which was a bit inconvenient for those I had to tap up for a bit of cash.
Sadly, nothing much has been going on...well it might have been, but I've forgotten it. I appear to have a sun tan, so perhaps I've been somewhere.
My workrate has gorund to a complete halt - no writing, no music, nothing of any value whatsoever. My novel has still not been published - all is limbo. A third Mrs Moore has not been located, although I have been making enquiries in various places.

I have been contemplating another novel - I even went on a research trip - to Slough Sewage Works, but I'm afraid that my chanels are still blocked. Perhaps it's time to make another record, or do a gig or something. I'm not that desperate to do anything - I still have my hair and teeth, and since I reduced my cake in take, my stomach seems to have receded to more manageable proportions...fact is, I'm in trim.

Should anybody have a lovely one bed flat to rent me in the Hampstead, Swiss Cottage area - for a fraction of the market rate, do feel free to contact me.

I believe I'll be wintering in the capital this year. Although Burghfield has been kind to me, I don't think I can stand it much longer...

Thankyou to everybody who got in touch to ask me why I wasn't blogging. The two of you can rest assured that I shall be back at it regularly.

Mum's just brought me some sandwiches, so over and out.

The Rake's Progress

As a last bit of bloggage to get out of my hydrogenated fat engourged system, I am happy to announce, that on Sunday 11th June 2006, I managed to cycle up the hill.
On one more matter - for students of factual accuracy, I might report, that the D.i.v.o.r.c.e of yours truly and his now second wife, came into being on 6.6.6.
Good job no inadvertent adultery was committed before the date of the horned one, but there you are - I am trying...officially.

Rock'n'Roll Part 2

OK Muthafuckers...enough rock'n'roll for you, or can you still take a bit more? Want to know what else I did this week? Let me build it up for your prurient diseased old minds - It took place on Hampstead Heath, involved me, a bunch of children, some middle aged couples and a spoon and an egg. What images are jumping into your depraved old noggins? Not a hint of grumble ( which is my favourite new word for sexual activity ). Shame on y'all. It was Ava's first School Sport's Day. Parliament Hill Fields Running Track, Friday, at 10.15 sharp.
I won't bore you with the race reports except to say, Ava wasn't at all interested. In eighty degrees, she was the only child who refused to remove her cardigan. She sort of ran a bit, but would then stop and refuse to participate any further. She shouted across the track to me 'Dad, this is NOT FUN'. She refused altogether to take an egg and spoon, although manically cajoled by her team mates. I would like to point out that she is a svelt child - does not survive on Happy meals, and is quite capable of performing sporting fee(a)ts when she considers the reward worth it. For some reason, none of the events - the egg and spoon, the dressing in a hat race, or the putting a bean bag in a hoop race, appealed to her competitive spitit. As her father, I was PROUD. Even though I was humiliated by being chased by a bee, and did take part in the grown ups race, I respected my daughter even more than before. To end the tale, strangely enough, her team - the oranges, came first. Once Ava was presented with the Winner's ribbon, she perked up completely and carried on as if she had single handedly brought home the gold.
The entire weekend has been spent taking part in races of Ava's divising. It's wonderful to know that my hypochrisy gene has reached another generation.
On a curious note, Ava does not attend a private, religious, or particlarly poncy school at all...Yet the parents of her friends which I spoke to are - Book Publishers (sadly not mine) Radio 3 Producers, and a Professor of Psychology who'd been on the telly the night before. Hooray for state education I say.

Rock 'n' Roll Part 1

Oh how to start - feels like homework on a sunday night. Perhaps I should adopt a David Frost like tone 'That was the Week that Was', ....and what a week it's been.
Since my last deposit of bloggage, many things have occurred. I've rubbed shoulders with the great and good, vomitted over their shoes, and competed in a race.Let me explain.
Monday night should have been the pinnacle of my life...well not mine exactly, but my old pals the Jesus and Mary Chain, whose tour bus to glory I hitched a ride on as a nipper. As a 41 year old almost double divorcee( more to follow ),residing back home with mum, it gave me exquisite pleasure to accept the kind invitation from Mojo Magazine, to attend the awards dinner, at which said old turn were due to receive some kind of gong. I was hoping of course for the Lifetime Under Achievement Award, for which I have been working these past many years.Instead, it was something called the Maverick Music Award, which I think has something to do with the fact that all the old records are being reissued or something. The award was actually presented by my previous - more illustrious...in some ways...skin beater - Bobby Gillespie. Although dearly wishing to rush up and receive the award personally, good sense - not my own however, held out a bony arm to dissuade me from bum rushing the show. To say that I was in wine would be unfair. It was a combination of insomnia, sunstroke And wine, ANd Beer...and various other irritants.
My memory of the event ends at our award, and I must tell you now, that the next day, I was rather worried that some kind of alcoholic blackout had occurred and that a blank time period had elapsed, within which, god knows what might have happened. It was therefore, refreshing to learn that my blackout had occurred due to falling asleep at the table. This event was televised, so more embarrassing ( not to me ) facts might still present themselves. As far as I know your honour, I woke up - still wearing my white suit - which was lightly speckled with vomit - which I am sure must have been due to standing too close - or offering assistance to somebody the worse for wear. Had it been mine, it would have been all over the shop...perhaps I just had a gentlemanly throat clearing. Anyway, if my behaviour has been less than impecable, no doubt we'll read about it in Mojo - although it will be as much as a surprise to me as it will be to you. If I am denounced as a degenerate - or the man who made disparaging remarks to Bon Jovi - which I am informed I did, remember this - rock'n'roll people used to misbehave.
On a parting note, the stunning girlfriend, of my still stunning bandmate Douglas observed - 'This must all seem like yesterday to you'
I had to assure her that it was eighteen long years ago, and seemed like a lot longer - like receiving the Turner Prize for something done at nursery school. Mind you, Old Jim Reid made a fine speech, and looked younger than ever...and excelled in getting me home in one piece. Old soldiers eh?

The Road to Hell is Paved with Good Intentions

Ah here I am again, urinating my thoughts against the cyber wall. What a glorious afternoon it is - perfect for two for one Chardonnay from the Co op.

I really ought to do this blogging thing more often - for continuity's sake. I only began it in the first place as an attempt to draw you in, so I might sell you a record. Well those days are long gone. I am continuing for 'I don't know why', like a headless chicken running around a farmyard...although I have never actually seen this happen...Does it? If anybody can enlighten me, I'd me most grateful.

Anyway, asides aside, I think I should tell you something. Gentlemen look away now - I am addressing my female readership now. I am divorced. Nicely decreed absolutely. I know some of you must be heartbroken that the chance to commit adultery with the Birdman of Burghfield is at an end, but chin up girls. The hunt for the third Mrs Moore is now officially ON. IT COULD BE YOU.
With this in mind, last Saturday, I purchased a bicycle. Not only will the greatest invention of all time - with the possible exception of the book, facilitate my travelling from establishment to establishment, in the hope of encounterning a winsome beauty, amazingly unattached, and posessing a fortune, it will make me healthy, lithe and muscular.
Obviously a mountain bike was out of the question - although the task in hand might in itself be mountainous. I've taken posession of a Raleigh something or other - a town and country hybrid, as the man in the shop described it. " It's not built for rough terrain" he said, to which I replied " Neither am I".
Anyway, I bought it and brought it home in the motor - which I am intending to make redundant for local journeys.
You really ought to see this machine - silver and blue, sit up and beg - which in my situation is more than appropriate, and a rack on the back for wine and comestibles, and possibly a picnic chair.
I declined the recommendation for a helmet on the grounds that I would rather die instantly and have my head crushed like a melon, than live looking like a human fly. No lycra, no trainers...nothing to suggest the competitive spirit of IT workers on a weekend jaunt. I will go back and get bicycle clips, because suit trousers do tend to get caught in the cogs.
So, having purchased my Raleigh Wife Catcher, I took her out for a spin. The first spin lasted about a minute and a half because it was fucking freezing. Having returned home for a jumper, I set out on a proper ride. With the evening sun still blazing, I got out amongst the country lanes. Testing her performance - Eighteen gears, although I shall only be requiring a fraction of that amount. In gear one, one, you go no faster that walking, but can go up hill. Once over the hill I shall coast. Anyway, I got about a bit - the same route that I go for drives, although this time, with my stomach reducing with each pedal push, my body toning into something quite beatiful and my adrenalin pumping like a young un. By the time I reached Bottom Lane, I had stopped several times and waited for the fatal heart attack which I felt welling up. It's almost disappointing when it doesn't come.
Cigarettes at the idylilic beauty spot of Bottom lane, and a good sheen of honest sweat to wipe from my brow...three days of heavy drinking actually.

As any of you who are familiar with the velocipede might know, cyclimg is a thirsty business. Feeling as though I had earned a pint, I struggled on to the neared pub.
By now, I had switched my lights on, to alert approaching traffic of my presence. As a further safety measure - helmets and reflective sashes being out of the question, I'd worn my newly laundered white linen jacket.
This story runs and runs...of course, the third Mrs Moore was not in the pub. However, an old school friend was, and we drank heavily until closing time.
Carrying more guinness and whisky than a thousand mile cycle ride could ever burn off, I unchainjed my - thankfully unstolen machine, and attempted to ride home. This was impossible. Now I know why the police make drunks try to walk in a straight line.
I could see the direction of the road - I understood that it went forward, but I couldn't for the life of me follow it. Had I been in a built up area, I might even feel guilty for endangering other road users. Of course, there is little I could do to harm a car, but the fragile psyche of a driver might require medical intervention, had they killed the Birdman of Burghfield...problably have been lynched as well by all my fans.
Fortunately no cars came. I managed to fall off all by myself...into a muddy ditch...in my easy to spot white linen jacket.
Imagine if you will, the mother of a failed forty something alcohlic, recieving your once perfect child back on a Saturday evening, intoxicated, filthy yet insisting that the council do something about the roads.
On a positive note, I have learnt that my white suit is machine washable. Thankyou.

Occult Visitations

I've just had a brush with the occult, and I must tell you, I am all the better for it. This is the kind of case that gives conclusive proof to the existence of other dimensions, astral planes and all the other wotnots that boring scientific people have being trying to poo poo for donkeys years. I expect that the Fortean Times will be in touch, and I'll be invited to address the Society for Psychic Research. In fact, when I reveal what I am - in a rather slow way perhaps - about to reveal, I expect all the major news networks - and the Archbishop of Canterbury to be beating a path to my door. Well here goes...this is my tale - as it happened to me.

Last Sunday afternoon, when I drove my daughter back to London, we could not find her Childrens' Classics Cd - which meant a troublesome journey up the M4, not soothed by The Ugly Duckling, Nick Nack Paddywack, or any of the other nursery masterpieces that usually make it such a pleasant drive. The Cd was nowhere to be found, and believe me, I searched for it - I was made to give the car a thorough going over by a child who I believe - suspected me of some kind of trickery - like throwing it out of the window while she was distracted, trying to crush a banana into the back of my head. Well not true, not a bit of it. I love it as much as she does, and was terribly troubled by it's absence. Well, to cut a long story short, I have just returned from a spin around the countryside - through torrential downpours, across overflowing brooks, past the excellent Aldermaston Secret Weapons facility, and down the back lanes of life, rarely bothered by motor vehicles.
My first inclination of an unearthly visitation was the clouds of steam coming off the roads - it had just rained you may say - I tried to reason this as being the case, but the mists swirled in an unusual way...well, my psychic radar tuned in, and I watched for further signs of spirit activity.
The journey continued for some miles, and my mind wandered to other matters. I reached my destination - a small storage facility, charged with the responsibility of guarding my possessions, while I reside at my mother's kindly but by no means spacious domicile.
I alighted my vehicle, and went to pay the nice lady who runs the place, a cheque for two months. I then returned to the car. I should note, that on leaving the vehicle, I noticed spectral mist coming from the engine. I hoped this was spectral mist, because I haven't checked the oil recently, and she is overdue a service.

Anyway, on returning to said transport, I was shocked to find the lost Cd at my feet, shining up at me. It had not been there before, it could not possibly have rolled back into view from some hidden cranny, and it was not in any way scarred by days on the car's extremely filthy floor. Applying the Occams Razor principle to the problem, which states that once every other explanation has been ruled out, the last remaining - and least likely must be true, I surmised that the Childrens'Classics Cd had been taken onto the astral plane last Sunday afternoon - perhaps for a Spirit Childrens' party, and returned to me this afternoon, by invisible hands, reaching through the spectral mist when I wasn't looking. I did consider - albeit briefly, that I might have been the guinea pig for some advanced new weapon being produced at Aldermaston - perhaps in tandem with the spirit world, but quickly dismissed the notion as ridiculous. Spirits would never become embroiled in the production of weaponry.

I am sure you will all agree with me, that my reading of this extraordinary situation is the correct one. If there are still any sceptics out there, the evidence is as plain as the big nose on your painfully plain face. You can ask my daughter if the Cd was missing. She will concur with my true account. If you don't believe that the Cd has been returned, I can show it to you. If you don't believe it is the same Cd. I can play it to you. It jumps at the same spot. What further explanation for the existence of the occult could you ever possibly need?

Memo to myself. I wonder if the Spirit world can store my stuff until I need it again. Be a damn sight cheaper.

The Lord Spoke to Me

Like many single men living with their mothers, I have had a religious experience - which I'd like to pass on to you. As I tossed and turned last night on my fold out divan, the Lord himself appeared to me. As we all know, he can take many forms, changing them at will to suit the circumstances and colour schemes of his environment. For my visitation, he chose from his many disguises, to appear as gin. How did I know it was him? you might well ask...and you'd be right. Well normally, I don't drink gin, but something told me - a divine voice if you like, that I must seek gin - so I did. It was after imbibing this sacrament that he spoke to me. Why he chose me, I can only guess. Perhaps it's that I am a single man living at home with his mother - apparently we are more receptive or something. Anyway, what he told me might shock you. Apparently, there's been some sort of mix up - something to do with the paperwork. It seemed a little trivial at first, but if you'll just bare(?) with me for a moment, I am sure you will appreciate the significance of what I have to tell you.
It concerns Pete Doherty, Kate Moss, Jordan and Peter Andre. Apparently due to a clerical error, they're with the wrong people. Easy mistake I suppose - Pete 'n' Kate, Kate 'n' Pete...Celebrity couples. Well apparently, Doherty is supposed to be with Kate Price, and Moss is supposed to be with Peter Andre. He seemed quite upset - God I mean. Well no wonder there's been all the trouble....it's quite obvious when you look at it in the cold light of day. It all started to go wrong with I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here. He didn't specify how exactly, just that it did - possibly an insect bite or something - that's just my guess.
Doherty has of course, been driven to ever increasing depths of depravity of late, and according to God, this stems from the fact that he should have been sharing Jordan's marital bed. It's the wrong order of things - which can wreak havoc apparently. Moss of course is.................

Readers of this occasional series of thoughts, insights and witticisms, will no doubt be glad to know that I am keeping myself busy. Slight improvement on the food, and I am taking more exercise - by lifting my legs in the air while seated. The Bluebells are blooming and I've bought some premium bonds.
Onwards and upwards - for the legs at least.

The Bluebells are up

Yo MuthaFuckas, a big shout from the Burghfield area. Sorry for the exuberance, but the Bluebells are up, the sun has appeared, and it feels almost good to be alive.
I've been busying myself with picnics at Bottom Lane - Not a metaphor you filthy minded urban sophisticates, but a little slice of innocent paradise. Once the stingers and brambles are braved, this is the situationist beach beneath the pavement...actually, it's not beneath a pavement, and it's rather pretentious of me to mention situationism - I'm in wine - staying up to watch the election results of course. Fully expecting tattooed fellas to be running all councils by tomorrow...a disturbing amount of Crosses of St George in local cars...I opt for the swastika - it's a Hindu peace sign of course...
Sorry to be insane, but I have been brain damaged by fairground rides. As a conscientious weekend father, I took the spawn of my loins to the fair on Mortimer village green - a harmless enough pursuit you might think. Nothing spectacular, just a few rides. A baby railway, a roundabout where you sit in a tea cup...unfortunately they all spin clockwise, so the cumulative effect is increasing dizziness. As a parting treat, I let her persuade me to take her on the Waltzer...the grown-up old fashioned thing, operated by the elderly Ian Brady type. Mistake. I was sick for two days. I could not turn left for a week. Fully expected Brain Haemorrage ( spelling could be a bit off here...due to brain damage...and mother's gone upstairs with the Guardian ). Do all rides go clockwise? IS this a plot. If they went anti clockwise, would the problems of society be cured? Just a thought.
Anyway, hope Keith Richards is OK, but then again, death from falling out of a tree might be the best way of dispatching him. I would have preferred Johnny Cash to die from Ostrich attack as well. Hoping Mick Jagger will be eaten by tigers. Anyway, it's getting a bit tasty on the box. See you soon. I shall be playing at the Burghfield Hayride this weekend. Not.

The War of the Hoses

I am quite alone. Mother has gone to the opera, frittering away my inheritance on wobbling warblers and smoked salmom sarnies, leaving me free to indulge in whatever it is I wish to indulge in - within Burghfield's limits. The cage door is open, and if I had a mind to, I could escape and be miles away before the sirens sounded. Unfortunately, my conditioning has proved so successful, that I stare at the outside world, yet am terrified of venturing into it. Outside world = work, responsibility, doing my own laundry, and cooking. I am now completely house trained/broken, and harmless.
The white suit has proved a massive disappointment so far. It's my own stupid fault for being stingy. What can one really expect for £99? I'm afraid that the linen gets too creased - in a bad way, everytime I sit down - which is often. When I do manage to stand up, the material sticks out at ridiculous angles. I think I've actually brought a cardboard suit. Anyway, it will have to go. Perhaps I'll auction it for the Burghfield Boy Scouts Hut Appeal. Offers here please.
A hosepipe ban has begun today, which I am intending to break. There is a man across the road who appears to be running a car valeting service in his drive. He is allowed to squirt forty gallons of water a second to get bird shit of a BMW, while I am breaking the law if I sprinkle the begonias to keep them alive. We don't need the hosepipe of course, having installed a water butt, which after the weekend, now contains thirty six Billion gallons, but it's the principle innit?
I am looking forward to a summer of drought, standpipes, scorched earth and malaria. This is when white suits come into their own.
Anyway, as you can tell - I have nothing of interest to impart. Book Limbo, life limbo, a diary as clear as my conscience...just some tailoring to sort out.
Time for tea I think.

The Return of the Moore

Many of you will be pleased to know, that the melancholic mania of my recent postings
seems to be subsiding. I put this down to the proximity of spring. My stomach has not got any larger - in fact it is receding quite satisfactorily. My preferred method of bodily reduction, is exercise. Twenty sit ups and twenty press ups. These can be done very close to the couch, and once completed, the couch can be remounted, and the fag left burning in the ash tray for the duration of the workout, reinhaled.
The fecalith I feared was turning my innards to stone, seems to have vanished, so my emergeny plans for disbursement with dynamite, or a team of midget miners, has proved unnecessary ( if i have mis-spelt this word, it is not because I am stupid, it's aixelsyd ). The miners have been stood down, paid off and sent back to Peru.

I am planning to go over the wall soon.A new white suit has been purchased so I will blend seamlessly back into polite society.
I believe I am involved in a form of musical activity this week, playing the musical saw at the Whitechapel Gallery. However, before you rush out to buy tickets, I must warn you that they are £80. It's some sort of art/charity bash. I will be donating my fee to Great Ormond Street Childrens' Hospital - although I will demand that the promoters pay me in cash, and trust my word as to its intended destination. There is actually another White Suit that I quite like the look of, so perhaps the little 'bed blockers' will have to whistle..
I am still in publishing limbo with the bloody novel - can't any of these idiots recognize literary genius when it comes knocking? Oh they can?
Although it pains me to admit it, it might be a good idea if I got a job - temporarily - until the royalties roll in. If you are in a position to employ me for a high salary, do drop me a line. Perhaps I could head a government Think Tank or something.
Anyway, I'm off to stroll the grounds, smoke a fag, and write something. Perhaps I'll even venture into the shed and switch on some musical recording devices. Arctic Monkeys - you have been warned. Prepare for the return of the Moore.

The Birdman of Burghfield

To my dear chums on the outside, please be patient with me. Blogging is not easy when you are watched twenty-four hours a day. Fortunately, I've drugged my mother with a glass of Nottage Hill Cabernet Sauvignon, smuggled in from the local shop, so hopefully the coast is clear.
Things are not going well in cell block H. The prison diet is beginning to cause health problems of a most disgusting nature. It's only because I know and trust you, that I can mention by gastro-intestinal area.. I think it could be a plot by the authorities, to kill this otherwise healthy man - and threat to the status quo. It pains me -and strains me to report on the growth of a 'Fecalith' in my gut. I will not go into details - these are available on health websites - suffice to say, Fecalith is not a shit heavy metal band - rather the result of long-term poisoning by Marks and Spencers microwave meals. Elvis had one apparently - our similarities are almost endless aren't they?
I had felt slightly sluggish for some time, which I put down to suicidal depression and advancing middle age; nothing sinister, just the inevitable results of advancing years. However, when I put on my three piece suit recently, to attend an out-prisoners day, I was shocked to learn that the waistcoat straps required adjustment. Further investigations - which involved stripping off, and regarding my naked profile in the bathroom mirror, gave me a very nasty shock. Where once there was air and nothingness, now a vast stomach hung - almost two stomachs. I realized at once that I had been poisoned! All this pretence at motherly love was in fact a vile ploy to murder me, de-sexualize me ( so I'd never be a hit wit da ladeez again and never leave home to shack up with a bird )and probably a paid assignment to neutralize me, from the man...who fears me.
Of course, I have taken immediate steps to rebel. I have demanded less food, less sugar in my coffee, and space to exercise. I did three sit ups two days ago, then went for a long walk. This seems to have done the trick, but I shall be keeping a weather eye on my waistline. I WILL NOT BE TURNED INTO A SEXLESS PATE DE FOIS GRAS GOOSE SON. Not me sir. If matters persist, I will buy a bicycle. My body is my temple dont cha know.
I think she's got wind of my rebellion as well, so she's trying to attack me in other ways. Paranoid? I don't think so...you judge. Today, she washed my pyjamas, and left my hanky in the pocket - a deliberate act of mischief if ever there was one. What mother would wash their son's pyjamas withouth first checking the pockets -only a very evil one - Rose West, Myra Hindley...that kind of thing.
Do you know, she complained about my attitude tonight.." You come in and turn OFF the television". I'll tell you what....for my own safety, please keep checking this blog, because I'm scared she's planning to do me in...or make me get a job or something.
I have had three constructive thoughts this week. The first was to get a complete health MOT. I believe you have to pay for these, but nevermind - I'm rich. Then, if as I believe to be the case, I am diagnosed with chronic cancer everywhere, brain tumours, avian flu, aids, and all the other jazz, I shan't have to bother. I can toss myself off Beachy Head ( Not at ) with impunity. The second was to get writing -only had one rejection so far....more to come I'm sure. It is difficult to function on anything else but complete rejection....lifelong habit and all that. The third, was to do something musical again.
Not much hope then. Had to tell the solicitor what I intended to do to remain solvent for the next few decades - that's what I told her. I forgot to mention selling the family cows and growing a beanstalk.
On the plus side, I've just discovered that two of the places I go for walks, but give up halfway, actually link up. The top of the hill and the bottom of the hill - I didn't recognize them - I thought they were different hills - that's almost biblical wisdom isn't it? Night night. XX

The John Moore Prison Diaries

It's a rainy old day in tiny town, mum's gone to London to lend moral support to a friend having some cosmetic procedure performed...and I am forced to prepare my own breakfast. She's put it out for me so all I need to do is heat it up. God, I hate being in prison. I must say though that the laundry service is not bad - my clothes have a habit of washing and ironing themselves if I leave them outside the cell. Slopping out is not a problem, although the flush on the lavatory does need some adjusting, as the cistern seems to be over filling slightly, causing the overflow pipe on the outside of the house to drip. As anybody familiar with long term dripping will know, this simple and easy to remedy problem can - if left untended, cause the house and all surrounding areas to fall down through the earth, into hell.
Perhaps I'll form a work party and try to fix it.
I haven't had many visits recently...a loss of privileges resulting from the remoteness of my incarceration. Perhaps I should petition the governor for a transfer to somewhere more sociable - Hampstead perhaps.
The regime here at the Moore Penal facility is relaxed, and reasonably pleasant, although news 24 seems to be on at all times - perhaps the clue is in the title. Anyway, this rolling news is numbing me. Any old shit to fill the time. I never realized Jack Wilde was such a huge star - the likes of whom will never be seen again..Sally over to you for more on the tragic death of Jack Wilde...we've got Mark Lester on the phone....Mark, a sad day for the world...can you tell us your impressions of Jack Wilde?...
These are good times to snuff it if you want to go out with a flourish - as long as it's a slow news day....anyway, I digress.
The screws knock off at about ten O'clock, leaving me to my own devices. I managed to smuggle some whisky in last night - right under their noses.

It's a rainy old day in tiny town, I'm hungry, but I don't think I'll be having that breakfast - as a protest against being woken up at the ungodly hour of 9.45. By the time I reawoke at midday, the coffee was cold, and the place was empty.
I shall stop now...I think I'll go over the wall...or perhaps hang myself with a bed sheet - except I haven't got one...does a duvet cover count?

Should any newspapers want to serialize these frank, shocking and honest ruminations on life inside Britain's least overcrowded prison, do drop me a line.

Fat Tuesday

It's the sixth anniversary of the demise of my dear old Papa, so I'm
glugging champagne - in his honour obviously. Perhaps my old liver will peg
out too then, I'll join him.
Anyway, I'm not here to get sentimental - there are bigger fish to
fry...Childhood obesity - I do hate that word....not childhood - the other
one. Call a spade a spade. Juvenile monstrosity...Well anyway, I've come up
with the solution. During the ad break on Men and Motors, I hit upon the
best way to get these little porkers to stop noshing. Fear, that's what's
called for. My proposal for curing the nation's nibblers is to interrupt C
Beebies with a public information announcement. Cherie Blair is suitably
witchy to do it. Dressed in black robes...she's got some, and sharpening a
big knife, she must announce that on 10th August, all children will be
weighed. Any child exceeding the prescribed weight for their height and age
group will have bits chopped off until they make the grade. Ears, fingers,
toes...if that doesn't do it, arms and legs must be sacrificed in the name
of balancing the books. This advertisement must appear every ten minutes, as
well as being broadcast on the wireless, and put on the side of
crisps...billboards as well. Show them we mean business. A proper public
health warning. That's my advice.

On another matter, may I be the first tiresome cynic to try to denigrate the
new Wembley Stadium, by coming up with a facetious name for it. I think it
resembles a giant handbag. Of course, if 'The Handbag' became the name for
the national stadium....for the next hundred years, it might have a
demoralizing effect on our national side, then we'd never win anything - not
that we do; and football and footballers would slide into obscurity, and
they wouldn't be role models, and children would behave better, and eat
less, and the world would be a better place. That's what I think anyway, and
this is my blog, and nobody apart from you reads it. The Handbag. You read
it here first.

Might go to Hastings tomorrow to look at properties. It's cheap and by the
sea. Terrible place apparently, filled with the worst sorts - so I should
fit in. I had another idea. I will buy a barn in the countryside, and
convert it. The expensive thing in this is getting planning permission to
change it from agricultural to residential use. Yet again, I've come up with
a cheap solution. I will get myself reclassified as a farmyard animal. If
you knew me, you'd realize it's not impossible. Wish me luck, and enjoy your
pancakes. I've had twenty nine, and my kids have had seven hundred - covered
with chocolate and jam. Roll on August 10.

Chicken Injector General

So bird flu is almost here - in fact, by the time you read this, it will
almost certainly have arrived. On Newsnight, a man called Brigadier
Birdwhistle called for prophylactic measures to be introduced when dealing
with chickens. I assume he was not referring to Durex Featherlight.
Is there a reward for being the first to discover a case? There should be.
Like Willy Wonka's Golden Tickets. I almost went out today to look for dead
foul on the banks of the Kennet and Avon canal. Fortunately I got waylaid,
getting in as many fags as possible before the ban. I was going to give up,
but now feel obliged to wait until the bitter end. I will make field
recordings of my wheezing chest before they become a thing of the past...or
I do. By the way, what will happen to the annual Coughing Contest at Zurich?

Concerned about the death of the radio 4 insomniac theme?...I am considering
a protest similar to the Muslim cartoon outrages, calling for the beheading
of Radio 4 executives. Don't the fuckers realize that this is the reality
re-calibration point for sleepless drug addicts and alcoholics? The time to
go to sleep signal for the nation's upside downers. What will we do now? I
don't like much these days it's true, and I know I'm rambling - I'll get to
the point in a minute perhaps. At present, I haven't got one. Might make a
joke denying the existence of David Irvine or something - I have an
unpleasant feeling that 'right thinking folk' are going to have to defend
him for the sake of free speech...sad but we must. Typical of Austria to be
touchy. Didn't what's his name with the tache hail from that neck of the
woods? And Jorg Heider? Anyway, it's none of my beeswax, I'm still thinking
about birds. Apparently they've got to come indoors. Is the millennium dome
still there? A fine chicken coop if ever there was one.

Anyway, bollocks to impending catastrophe -Personal advancement and wealth
are what concern me. I'm looking to buy a house, so if anyone knows of
one...far away from civilized people - let me know. I haven't got much
money, but I want a detached something in the middle of nowhere...reasonably
close to London. Anybody know of any shit-hole fixer uppers that require a
new lord and master? Obviously I wouldn't fix it up; no under floor heating,
rewiring or improvements of any kind. In fact, I'd probably regress it. I
would require electricity, and some kind of apparatus for the disposal of
excrement - other than this blog....boom boom - (by the way, Basil Brush
double bill on CBBC at 6 O'clock on Saturdays...only a complete fool would
miss it).
Failing this, I might return to the shit-hole fixer upper known as London,
and attempt to ply my trade. Is it too late to become a professional
footballer?
NB. Call DEFRA first thing. Get contract to become Chicken Injector General.

Must watch the documentary on Men and Motors now...I'm reviewing it for the
parish gazette.

Tweet Tweet XX

Never in the Anals of British Crime

Ah, Good After Noon there,

Hope you all had a lovely...it's too early in the week for platitudes isn't
it? Anyway, my rotten, dull inebriated hibernation was finally made bearable
by the news that Dick Cheney had shot a man. Made me quite ecstatic in fact.
I imagine the jokes will already be in by this stage, so I won't add to them
too tiresomely or mention Dan Quail. Hopefully criminal charges will be
brought, and I for one demand to read the toxicity reports on Double Barrel
Dick. Please God, let him have been drunk or on drugs. Obviously it could
have been worse. If it had been the man in charge, it could have been more
than a shotgun that went off by mistake. Still, it must be a first. Reverse
Assassination. Imagine Deely Plaza...Imagine the Zabruder (?) footage. In
technicolour slow-mo, Kennedy calmly sprays Uzi rounds into the crowd.
Imagine Pope John Paul II firing a pistol at worshippers, like at a rap
concert? Leaders used to carry on like this you know - read the history
books.

Sinisterly, Endoscopy machines have been walking out of hospitals in the
Yorkshire area. Police are stumped. "Never in the anals of British
crime...." etc. As a keen reader of Holmes, perhaps I can throw a little
light on the subject. I suspect they are being stolen to order for the
purposes of Pornography. That is why I'd do it anyway. Since gynecological
porn is now thoroughly old hat, and can even be viewed on Emmerdale,
something a bit stronger is required. You mark my words, intestinal tract
porn is on its way. Now where did I put the plunger?
My next theory - wot I have just had, is even more worrying...although if it
pans out, I claim my $30 million. Now isn't there something wrong with Bin
Laden's kidneys? Wasn't he having dialysis? and his own machine? This might
seem like a long shot, but I am prepared to wager that he's behind the
thefts. I'll go further - he's living in Leeds. Obviously, due to
fatwaphobia, I shan't be claiming a connection between hunches one and two,
but then again - who'd have ever predicted that Dick Cheney would have shot
his lawyer?

Well, its' Valentine's day tomorrow. I am not yet fully recovered from the
catastrophic injuries sustained last year when I was crushed by the postal
delivery, but I am prepared to accept electronic messages of love, proposals
of marriage, or even suggestions as to what I can do with an endoscopy
machine. In the meantime, here is my valentine's message to y'all:

Roses are red, violets are blue
Those who offend Islam will be beheaded

XXX

Naked Messiah

I'm watching the opening ceremony of the winter Olympics. No terrorist
outrages yet, unless I haven't noticed. The seven monumental alpine horns
might provide some action of course. Anyway, that's not what I'm here to
discuss. I've had an idea about how to invest my property millions.
I am mulling over the idea of becoming a theatrical Impresario. As I have
made clear, I am doing bugger all at present and am seeking diabolical
projects for my idle hands to embrace.
This afternoon, while watching a Music show on a BBC cable channel - Men and
Motors was off air being cleaned, I discovered a program presented by the
excellent now fully endowed ex-choirboy Aled Jones. It was all about
Handel's Messiah - fave of amateur dramatic societies and Hallelujah Chorus
aficionados everywhere. Well, having being marveling at the work of Spencer
Tunick of late....mostly with a magnifying glass and a box of Kleenex, it
occurred to me that I should invest my cash in producing a Naked version of
the Messiah. What do you think? - has it got legs? How many? Four hundred? A
cross between an amateur chorale society and a WI calendar. We could tour
the land .It would be quite cheap, due to no costumes. I think it's a winner
and will be discussing it with my 'Listening bank', when I speak to them
next week on other overdraft related matters.
If you would like to be in it, and feel that your singing and carcass are up
to scratch, do get in touch....and send a Polaroid. If it's a success, we
can do an 'On Ice' version as well at the Empire Wembley Pool during the
Christmas months.
I feel that the dancers in the Winter Olympic opening ceremony might be
lining up to join my troop, so you'd better apply fast....if they don't get
blown up first.

On another matter, I am rather surprised that the Lib-Dems got elected in
the Dunfermelin(?) by-election. Perhaps the Mark Oaten diet has had a
positive effect on our friends north of the border. Time to rebuild the wall
I fear.
If anybody visiting this blog is considering visiting the Luke Haines site,
tread carefully. The old fellow's put his back out and is in a fearsome
rage. You heard it here first...on the Q.T

Bodmin Moore XX

Chickens to Milk

Hello, it's me again -the Sporadic Blogger.

I'm well and truly bleedin' bored now. My little old novel has left home is
walking the streets, trying to meet prospective partners in the publishing
world; so now I'm in limbo - until the rejection letters flood in. Luckily
my years of hope and disaster in the music world give me a certain teflon
coating, and it must be said - a pint of Guinness goes down very well with
abject failure. Futility and a roll up make fine partners too. Should the
unthinkable happen, and somebody actually agree to print my scribblings, I
will be in a highly dangerous state emotionally, and probably in
considerable physical danger as well.
Still, enough of the advertisement for doomed genius, I must try to do
something useful. Finding a new dwelling should be top priority now, as I
will shortly be in possession of the proceeds from the sale of my old place.
Of course sinking it all into bricks and mortar is not a particularly
exciting prospect. Having watched so much of the Men and Motors channel of
late, it has crossed my mind that I could become a car designer, and build a
prototype in my mother's garage. Purchasing several acres of woodland also
appeals - I've a very nice tent. The stock market? now there's a golden
opportunity for a bored man to come seriously unstuck. Shares in renewable
energy sources perhaps. Investment in a wind farm? Seems to me that I've
done too much of that already.
I shall be putting my feet on the streets of London tomorrow evening, so
perhaps I'll find some mischief to combat my ennui. I've had a very nice
time living in semi rural seclusion - if you can apply that term to a
housing estate near a field, but I am perhaps, not as finished with the
metropolis as I thought. You don't get many whales in Burghfield for
starters. Try buying food in the countryside - almost impossible. There are
pubs, but they require driving to, which rules out getting slaughtered to
pass the time.
I went to the White Horse at Uffington today for a stroll round the hills.
It was rubbish - and freezing...although I did detect signs of a little
dogging scene in the car park. Probably other poor sods who've sent their
manuscripts off and have nothing else to do. Called in at Upper Lambourn,
where I can confirm that Ivy was indeed climbing the ash trees - if that was
really her name.
Well I must go now; Chickens to milk, sheep to plough, Men and Motors to
gawp at.

If you see me in London, take me by my fat old hand and give me half a
crown. xx

Rip Van Winkle Rides Again

Good Morning boys and girls,
 Excuse me if I'm a little rusty, but I have been asleep for rather a long
 time. As I open my eyes and survey the world around me, so much has 
changed.

 Firstly, good news for all the ladies in the world, and terrifying news 
for husbands everywhere. Due to events beyond my control - no matter what 
anyone says...I find myself single once again. Oh yes, I know this must come as a
 bombshell to many, but there is no easy way to break news of this nature.
 However, after the initial unpleasantness of marital meltdown, a semblance
 of normality and civility has returned, and me and the old old lady are on
 good terms. Of course, it all represents a massive failure on both our 
parts- although I suspect rather more on mine...but still, no point in 
quibbling.
 Our dear heir, although rather bewildered by events at first, appears to 
be in good spirits, and is enjoying playing one parent off against the other.
 She has just started school, and happily, there have been no incidences of
 attacking other children, stabbing teachers, shop lifting, happy slapping,
 or cries for help of any kind. Her hoodie is a duffel coat which she wears
 in a non threatening way.
 My dear erstwhile colleague Haines played one of his periodic pop concerts
 this evening, and was supported by Sarah...the Black Box Recorder family,
 dysfunctional though it is, still loves each other. My contribution to the
 night's proceedings was to baby sit...a vital part of any musical set up,
 and of far more value than say - rhythm guitar.
 On the domestic front - and this should make me sound highly sexy and
 desirable - I am residing temporarily - with my dear Mother, am 
practically penniless, and if I am not liberated soon, will put on weight...this
 aphrodisiac description of my new self should be enough to ensure
 Beatlemania in the semi rural suburb to which I am confined. To make 
myself sound even more alluring, I have become very fond of the Men and Motors
 channel on the television - after Mum's gone to bed of course.

 My only hope of salvation, seems to be, that I have finished the novel - 
in fact I finished it in December, but I always start the year slowly. It is
 now with an agent, who decided to take it on...probably out of pity, and 
my mother's begging. All I can do now is wait for vast wealth and acclaim -
while keeping the other eye on the job ads in the local gazette for 'part
 time pot men' at the pub.
 Apparently - this is according to the advertisements on the Men and Motors
 channel- if I text 'Babes' to a certain number, I will be put in touch 
with two gorgeous ladeez in my area. I am rather skeptical about this, and so
 far, have resisted the temptation to try it. I happen to know that the 
only two ladeez in my area are well past eighty.
 Well that's it for now, although with nothing better to do, I may resume
 regular briefings, should anybody be kind enough to want to read them.
 Must dash, have to go and read the bible now.
 Good Night.

 

Reports Of My Death Have Been Greatly Exaggerated

Apologies one and all, for my prolonged absence. I have, as I am sure you've guessed, been kidnapped by unscrupulous men - claiming to be book publishers, and forced to work in a brothel. I am chained to a word processorr in a back street, somewhere in the south of England. My cell mate -Terry Waite is saying his prayers...again  and my captors have nipped to Asda to buy Special Brew, - So here I am. If I break off suddenly, it's because I have heard their Morris Minor pulling up outside.

 

The fact of the matter is, I am writing a novel. Finally, irrevocably...I is attemptin' to be an author. It's going well. Twenty Three thousand words and rising. Of course, twenty thousand of these will probably be crap. The 'ands' and the its' are very good though.

Once I have emptied my brain of 'Bad Light'  - as I may well be calling it, I shall resume regular blogging.

 

So my friends, fellow travellers and ghosts of cyber space, enjoy the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, and don't be degraded in the workplace

 

Moore x

A Matter Of Some Delicacy and A Declaration Of War

I am speaking to you from the offices of the Germ Organization in London. Yesterday, at aproximately two O'clock Greenwich mean time, this website was attacked. An organization or individual by the name of Hanif attempted to destroy our democratic forum and impose terror upon us. Well let me tell you Mr Hanif Kureshi, we will not be cowed, intimidated, or bothered in the slightest by your electronic rubbing out device. Our only response to you is that we do not like your books - with the exception perhaps of The Buddha of Suburbia - but the rest are awful - unless you wrote My Beautiful Launderette - which I think you might have.
Anyway, you flatter us by your attacks. We obviously represent a terrible threat to you and those like you. Our ideaology and our boyish good looks fly in the face of your pent up ugliness.
The Germ organization stands for freedom, dignity, humour, idleness and not getting up too early.
Beat that you dogmatic demagogic curse against enjoyment. If you must hack, be a suicide hacker.

Back to more important matters. I am in a moral quandry. An old friend who I have not seen or contacted for several years ( or been contacted by ), happens to live in a flat overlooking the Oval Cricket ground. Would it be bad form to simply pop round this weekend? Would contacting him now, be seen as a cynical ruse to watch the test match, or would he welcome the return of a dear lost friend? Also, under the circumstances, should I care?

Hurricane Jason

Been slightly remiss recently, when it comes to keeping the world informed of my movements. Well sorry world, or the seven of you who constitute planet John Moore. I've been rather out of sorts of later - and busy. I'm less busy now, but am certainly out of sorts still. I haven't had what I consider to be an adequate holiday yet. Long weekends to the Plague pit in Devon don't count. A five minute stroll along a windswept beach and having to chase after my hat, are not enough. Either I go somewhere proper and hot, and lie down for hours on end, or I shall don stout walking boots, and take to the highlands. Really, although I don't do very much at the best of times, I need a break from it. A metaphorical fag break.
I suppose in the bigger scheme of things, I shouldn't really be complaining. At least I don't live in New Orleans - sadly, nor does anybody else now.
My dear pal Byron did live there, but astoundingly, managed to get out before the storm hit. If you knew him like I do, you would understand why this is astounding. Suffice to say, the relaxed pace of life in the Big Easy, suited him to a tee.
So far, it's my favourite places that are getting hit. NYC and New Orleans, biblical hits to Godless metropoli (?). Well perhaps there's something in this religion after all. Has the bible belt been bashed at all?
Spent a pleasant weekend in Lincolnshire - marred only by a visit to the resort of St Leonard's on Sea. Accuse me of snobbery if you like, but I've never seen such a concentration of chavs in my life. I refused to get out of the car for fear of being eaten. This is the kind of place that needs a hurricane - of course, it would have to be called something like Hurricane Dawn or Hurricane Jason. I'm off for a game of bowls.

Free Drinking Radical

Oh a spare moment. Late afternoon, chained to a desk - a shameful admission for somebody purporting to be a free thinking radical - there you are...even I have to earn a crust occasionally.
Spent a lovely weekend in the Cotswolds at the country retreat of a successful musician. There are some. I expect you can guess which one. I only know one who could afford more than two weeks in a rusty caravan in the Cotswolds. So there you have it. What record sales can actually achieve.
Had some of you been quicker to part with your cash for 'Half Awake', I might be lookin for a lil' place down that way myself. Still chained to the Kilburn fortress, which is even more secure with it's tasteful new UPVC front door. I can dream and plot. Obviously wealth for wealth's sake is a fairly vacuous concept, but waking up each morning to a view of gently rolling hills and the sound of a heaving bank account, filled by prancing round on stage a bit for a while, is something I'd entertain. 'If I was a rich man da da da da da' Topol I believe.
Any way, must dash. The factory whistle is about to blow, and I mustn't work for the man for a second more than necessary. In a very Lionel Bart way, I shall dance out of the office, waving a hanky, and kissing the lady market traders, juggling fruit and whistling all the way home.
Ta ta me Cokney Sparras

The Offficial Secret's Act

A balmy summer's evening with a storm threatening to break. No smell of electricity yet, but it's not far off. I've consumed a bottle of white wine, while contemplating the sunset, and am now about to retire.
As some of you might already know, I had the pleasure of being a guest on the Alex James radio show last night.
Half an hour of talking nonsense to the ten people in the country in posession of a digital wireless.
I think Alex wanted me to discuss musical matters, advertising me as somebody with insider knowledge. I had to quickly explain, that owing to my stomach ailment, and general complete lack of interest in music, I was ill qualified for the task. That's not to say that I was not prepared to talk at length about it. Lack of knowledge of a subject, should never hinder an in-depth analysis on the radio. I don't imagine it will be repeated, so whatever I said has passed into historty and rumour. To tell the truth, I was extremely articulate and succinct and may well be nominated for a radio award.
I've been writing songs again...just the odd bit here and there, but something is definitely taking shape. It's a bit of a shame really, because if I hadn't, I might be able to get on with something else a bit more lucrative. I think I''ll call the next record - if it gets that far 'The Official Secrets Act'. Obviously, I can't tell you what's going to be on it, and I won't be able to talk about it in this country....still, I reckon it has a ring to it. Quite mature. Like 'No jacket Required' by Phil Collins.
It's about time I had a holiday - I hate holidays, because they suggest a necessary escape from everyday life, which is how I've tried to design my existence anyway. Be that as it may, in some shape or form, be it physical or spiritual, I feel the need to remove myself temporarily, and have a bit of a think. Weekends in Devon, Reading or oblivion aren't enough. It's got to be a good few days. Enough time to extinguish all hope of otherness, and yearn for a return to the cage. A weekend pass isn't good enough - I'm going over the wall. A walking holiday perhaps. I did consider buying a compass, then walking back to my mother's house cross country - if there is any between here and Reading.
Just been reading a book about ancient English travel - before roads. Very exiting it is too. Whoever it was that first tried to cut a path from one village to the next, has a lot to answer for. See what you've done you fool. Speed cameras are all your doing.
Imagine a country where even five miles away would be another world, different customs, dialect, language.
If I yomp through Kilburn, Hammersmith, Chiswick, then down the M4 corridor past Slough, Maidenhead, Wokingham etc, I can recreate the thrill annd danger of ancient britain. If I get fed up, I can hail a cab...or visit an inn.

I Fought the Church and the Church ( almost) Won

I'm just back in the land of the living, having fought an heroic and monumental battle with the Catholic Church. I emerge bloody, yet unbowed, with my daemon and dust still very much in tact...albeit rather vomit splattered.
On Sunday morning, I had a showdown with The Almighty and the Consistorial magisterium, at the Catholic Church in Lynton. The Christening.
Had rather a hangover from the night before, but managed to get myself and Ava washed, dressed and in the pews by 10.30. I can't remember going to a catholic mass before - that's not to say that I haven't, it's just that my memory doesn't register much at that time of the day. As only a few hours have passed, I can still recall the nuns - one bearing a terribly close resemblance to Tubbs from League of Gentlemen, which could have proved problematic, had I not had my mind on other things.
As I mentioned before, I was a little peeved at the prospect of having to renounce my favourite fallen angel - for one thing, it's bloody rude. 'Do you renounce Satan and all his works and all his false promises?' - a bit petty if you ask me. 'False Promises?' pot and kettle. I must point out, that I am not a devil worshiper or anything that involves heavy metal, drinking blood or defecating in inappropriate places - except when absolutely necessary - or by accident.
Don't catholics sing loudly. It's slightly frightening to stand next to somebody belting it out to the man upstairs...I must be extremely thick, but I finally started making some connections between Catholicism and Islam. Hijabs, habits...duh, give me a biscuit - or holy wafer. This in no way passes derogatory judgements on these or any religions - still hoping for that C of E primary School place...
Well amidst this splendid setting, Ava was remarkably well behaved at first...at first. She clung to me and watched quietly. then something very strange happened as we moved to the font for the church to claim another scalp. In a loud perfectly clear voice she said 'Daddy, I don't like this. I don't like it here, take me away Daddy.' over and over. As everybody answered "I do, I will, three bags full sir" to the Priest, Ava's head covered my mouth, so I didn't have to answer anything. It was an embarrassing solution to a moral quandry, but highly effective none the less. I got away with it. At least...Hooray for howling children.
Of course, we didn't get off as lightly as all that.
At a quarter to four in the morning, Ava cried out. Then she vomitted - mostly in my face, hair, and bed...and all over herself. I took her to the bathroom and washed us. She did it again. I washed us again. We went to sleep in another room - She couldn't possibly be sick again could she. Two beds to clean then. So much too. Pretty colours though.
Just like the Excorcist, the evil spirit left Ava's body and entered mine - probably through my eyes, nostrils and mouth.
I have been very well acquainted with the lavatory and the bucket for the past two days. Finally, I feel recovered enough to tell you about it. Still, all things considered, it was a lucky escape. I am Henry's God Father...in a non chained to the church kind of way, my and my daughter's demons are still in tact ( read Phillip Pullman ) and I weigh an awful lot less than I did before the weekend. Wicked.
Oh by the by - I'm on the radio tonight. 8 O'clock BBC 6Music. guest of my dear pal Alex James.

Corrections and False Gods

According to my mother, I am talking out of my arse. That's not exactly how she put it - although she's quite capable of bad language. Apparently, the laws of god parenting are: for a girl - two godmothers and one god father. For a boy, two godfathers and one god mother. Been this way for centuries - she ought to know... Looks like I might have been incandescent with rage for nothing. I do seem to remember Ava having two godmothers - I'd assumed this was so as not to cause offence to the ladeez in question.
To add to this night of revelations, I am informed that Mr Rogers was not my godfather as I'd assumed. I have two godfathers - both uncles. What's the bloody point in that? They are wonderful as uncles of course...no complaints on that account, but really...as far as I remember, no booze, early cigs or visitations to houses of ill repute, let alone religious instruction. What were my parents thinking of?
My birthday is two days before christmas. Presents were scarce enough as it was, without wasting two major potential donors. Joint birthday and christmas presents were the curse of my childhood. Double the value?..do me a favour. Couldn't my beloved mater and pater have farmed out my religious instruction to non family members, who'd drunkenly stumble into Hamleys a couple of times a year to purchase something for Little Jonathan? By my reckoning, I must be down a Hornby trainset, Scalextrix, sportscar and motorbike - at the very least. And - I've named my teddy bear after a false god. Still nice to know that tradition has been preserved.

Too Many Godfathers Spoil The Broth

In my day, a child had one god father and one god mother. An expedient move in case of untimely parental demise. I have a wonderful god mother, who I see from time to time. My god father snuffed it years ago, but had fallen off the radar long before that, when he and my father fell out over a 'small' business matter. His only memory - and it's a good one, is that my teddy bear bears his name. Mr Rogers now perches on my daughter's bed, casting a distainful eye over the younger soft toys - exerting a calming influence and air of quiet authority...and menace...anyway, that's not the point. One god parent of each sex...sort of like the biological parenting arrangement...as God intended perhaps?
I have just learned, that there are to be many god parents for Henry. At least two of each. It's a bloody God commune. Perhaps I'll challenge my counter part to a deio-paternity test.
Really, everybody in Devon this weekend will be a god parent. Bus loads will be travelling down the M5 bearing gifts...we can form a religious cult. Either it's modernity creeping in, with it's desire to make everyone feel good, and special and fluffy, or it's a fatalistic precaution, to ensure that at least one survives. No wonder Kid's birthdays and Christmasses are such an avalanche of tat. I shall have to announce to the little fellow, that I am off to explore deepest darkest Africa, and may be away for many years.
Anyway, I've purchased a Christening gift which I hope will be appropriate, and bring hours of joy and wonder to Henry throughout the years. It's a Chrystal Ball. Not sure if this is quite what the church would recommend when renouncing old Nick, but it'll have to do. I've been reading Phillip Pullman so I'm a bit obsessed with the mysteries of the occult. I doubt you could buy an aleithiometer on Portobello Rd though.
I'm off to Reading/Yorkshire/Devon in the next 48 hours on various missions. Ave the Rave is coming with me to Devon, which will mean a certain responsibility and lack of excess intoxicants.
'Drink to the Devil 'cause the Devil is Best
Yo Ho Ho and a bottle of rum'
I'll never desert you Nicky Old Boy

Apologies to Beelzebub

In a piece of rank hypochrisy, I shall be renouncing the Devil and all his works this Sunday. I hope the horned one understands and doesn't get offended. I have been asked to be the Godfather for young Henry JOHN Hodgkinson, and his christening is this Sunday. Obviously, I am delighted and honoured to be asked - even though it's taken three children before finally getting to me - mustn't quibble of course...it's a privaledge,and a responsibility I shall accept with relish.
I look forward to giving him his first beer, fags, advice about ladies and driving lessons; and should the unthinkable happen, and his parents expire in an organic vegetable or Arga accident, I shall bring him up as my own, and share my table with the little lad. I've looked into chimney sweeping apprenticeships, and there's plenty of employment for orphans these days.
Anyway, back to this service - I'm not too pleased about renouncing Satan...it seems like such a pity - we've been good friends over the years. Of course I will have my fingers crossed and desecrate the altar somehow. I will carry a picture of Aleister Crowley down my boxer shorts and will no doubt slaughter a lamb and deflower a virgin during the weekend to make up for it.
It's not that I don't believe in God - actually I don't...well I might a bit - this is not the right place for theological self doubt. I will believe in God, if, and it's a big IF - Ava gets a place at a decent C of E primary school. I need to witness a miracle and time is running out.
Also, I have to purchase a present that Henry will cherish forever - which will probably cost a few quid. Something silver. A roll of tinfoil is not an option. Any burglars reading this, who might have some shiny items to offload, do get in touch.
I've got a lot on at the moment - I don't mean clothing wise...things going on. Up and down to Yorkshire, Devon, Reading on family business. I've been asked to do the soundtrack for a short film,
as well - and, I think it's time to start making a new record. I had a burst of songwriting the other night...chanelling the spirits, or whatever it's supposed to be. I am eager to record these songs as I feel that there could be some loot in it....oh, and artistic fulfillment - whatever that is.
I don't think I'll put the next record out myself - unless forced to by total lack of alternatives.
Should any record, publishing or managerial moguls be reading this, come on. Don't look a gifthorse in the mouth. As of Sunday, I'll have God on my side.

Incapability Moore

I've been busy. Gardening, lifting, mowing, digging...consequently, every muscle and bone in me old wreck of a body, is complaining bitterly. Stiff - in the wrong places, aching, scratched, and with mud in places that only major surgery will reach.
It's that time of year again...Ava's birthday. I spent the entire weekend clearing the garden, to safely accomodate her new climbing frame. This involved removing paving slabs...We had a crazy paving path that cut right across the garden. These bloody slabs of concrete had to be removed...twenty of the bastards, to reduce the possibility of 'infant skull split syndrome'.
This took hours. Then of course, how to fill the holes? Not to mention the ants' nests underneath each one. I am afraid my blossoming budhist values were replaced with a more pragmatic Himlerian final ant solution. Ant Auswitz. Well actually, ant tsunami. The hose pipe of destiny washed away their beach huts, hotel verandahs, market stalls...thousands perished in the biblical ant storms. I justified this ant genocide as all warlords must - they are invaders who must be wiped out...no right to be here, less than human...obviously.
Ants are the insect embodiment of Thatcherism anyway. Hard working little nothings that never stop, never sit down and have a fag. Industious because they're too thick to stop...or learn to swim....Oh bugger, I'm preaching hate on my website. Mulla Omar-Anti Ant. I actually used to have a pet ant called Janey-Elizabeth when I was small, but I imagine Hitler had Jewish school friends, Hutu's once played with Tutsis and Serbs and Muslims used to be best pals.
Anyway, enough of this. Filling in the holes required soil. Acquiring soil requires digging. Time for a pond I thought. Dug a hole all afternoon. Hard work. Tree roots to saw through....bastard builders rubble buried inches beneath the surface....laws should be passed to prosecute builders years after they've 'completed renovations'. Send them, to jail for every child that cuts themselves open on their broken glass, old slates and bricks...which they covered with an inch of topsoil and swore they'd taken to the landfill. Hang the bastards....even old retired ones. Drag them from their rest homes and hang them upside down in the streets. better still,..Lapidation with their own rubble....I like ths extremism. I can see why people get into it now.
Well anyway, I've dug a pond. I imagined the neighbours might be rather concerned. It did look like a grave at the bottom of the garden. The family having gone away for the weekend and all....They would have fitted in there perfectly. Be warned family - daddy knows how to dig a hole. Be kind to him. Anyway, the bloody thing leaks. Pond liner is my next purchase. It looks good though. I've built the edges with the paving slabs - I hate waste. It looks almost like an ancient greek swimming pool, albeit, with crazy paving and bin liners. Still, not bad for a first go.
The climbing frame and slide took an entire day to construct. I hated mechano as a child. A lot of bars that need bolting together...to look like the spanglish instructions. Brain fried, body wrecked. Close to death. Oh did I mention that I had to move the washing line carousel, which was embedded in a concrete block the size of a block of flats? Then heave it out, and dig another hole to put it in...don't you dare mention ants.
Ava's birthday party was a great success of course - even though it rained and everybody stayed indoors...until the last bit. The rain stopped, the tiny monsters ran out, went beserk, churned up more mud than Glastonbury, destroying pink party shoes....like kids are supposed to... The climbing frame and slide will keep our children from becoming fat little monsters...exercised, strong...able to go out into the world and conquer other species. They loved it. Nodoby fell off, nobody got hurt. I am expecting a few bills for ruined footwear, but I shall fight to the highest court in the land.
I suppose I'd better stop ranting now. There's laziness to attend to. TTFN

Knickers Off Ready When I Come Home

As older readers will know, this is an acronym for the place we played last night.
I'm leaving for the ICA in about six minutes....if i don't get obliterated by bombs, I'm on at 8.45.
Just wanted to say how disappointed I am with the IRA statement. I was hoping they'd embraced Allah. Oh well, londoners will feel safer now won't they? just a little bit...
I am considering laying my weapons down as well. Putting them out of the reach etc.
It's time to shoot backpackers....Auslims. Oh bollocks. see you in the bar. Goodnight.

Norwich Is My Lady

So that was nice. My arm is aching even more that usual - through signing autographs obviously. Well actually, I'd like to thank the general public for their politeness in pretending not to recognize me, and leaving me to go about my daily business unmolested.
I imagined that the nation would come to a halt - that we would be hailed as national heroes and hoisted aloft the shoulders of cheering masses. Kissed by ladies and babies and patted on the back by chaps. What's wrong with everybody?
I am in the middle of touring with my dear pal Haines - well tomorrow is the middle, cos there's only three.
Norwich is our lady, her East Anglian beauty to be ravished by our rawk 'n' roll mid life crisis.
I'm driving so I'll be off the sauce. I don't imagine Haines will have a dry evening...so to speak, so the journey back promises to be a lot of fun. I know how awful it is for other people to drive us after gigs - we have been known to become 'difficult' when oiled, so the prospect of him ranting obscenities in my lughole, as I attempt to find signposts for London at 3am promises to be particularly poignant.
The ICA in London on Thursday, affords me the opportunity to have a glass or two of something. Get there early. You have been warned.

UNIVERSITY CHALLENGE: MONDAY 25th at 8.30pm BBC2

Finally, the one the nation has been waiting for. Summer arrives. The Idler versus The Financial Times. Place your bets now. Watch your correspondent delve deep into his alcohol ruined memory to recover facts once learned. Hold your breath as he struggles to regurgitate the knowledge of lessons, ignored years ago. Sympathise with him as he realises that when that particular nugget of knowlege was offered, he was staring out of the classroom window, deep in reverie.
Admire his sartorial elegance as his blue silk tie exactly match his azure eyes. Glory in the fact that you have paid your licence fee - this is television at it's very best.
Roll up, roll up for an unforgetable night.
You have been warned.

AND...if all that wasn't enough, The Moore-onic and Hainous Crimes Unit will be cottaging at the following Public Lavatories:

Sunday 24th - gig in Brighton - Hanbury Ballroom - with Luke Haines the younger
Wed 27th - Norwich Arts Centre - With Luke Haines the elder
Thu 28th - ICA London - with the Vichy Government and the corpse of Luke Haines

Get there early - It's your opportunity to witness my Seersucker Suit.

Ashes to Ashes

I am on the lookout for test match tickets. Should anybody reading this be in posession of some, chuck em this way. T'is better to give than to receive. If anybody's grand father has just snuffed it, have a look in his wallet, there's sure to be some, amongst the string and Werther's original toffees.
Had a bit of a night last night. Got Soho'd SohOD'd. It must happen occasionally to act as a reminder that alcohol is expensive and makes you feel a bit iffy the next day. Still, I've ridden the storm, and am now restored to full unhealth. Didn't disgrace myself, exited without assistance and was rewarded this mornig with perfectly Poached Eggs at the Hodkinson London residence, where I elected to spend the night.
Bananas are very good aren't they. Lovely shape, lovely colour, great taste, filled with potassium, and when you've funished, you can chuck the skin on the pavement and watch people slip over.
Apparently, 'Booze' is the oldest word still in existence. It's from Ancient Egyptian. This might be a lie, but it's what I've heard.
I am taking the rest of the week off, in preparation for next weeks public performances. I might even rehearse a bit. Might.

Latin Playboy / Stratford Roofer

I'm back in the land of the blogging. I have been slightly preoccupied in the land of the living, but now I'm safely back to share my pleasures and pains with you...whoever 'you' are.
To use a few songwriter cliches, life has had it's ups and downs, twists and turns, but I've ridden the punches, held my head up high and my sunburn is developping into a very nice shade of brown. I'd like to think that I resemble a latin playboy, but fear I could be a Stratford roofer. In the sedate privacy of an English Country garden, I threw caution to the wind, and became a 'proper' sun worshipper. Now I am blushing at both ends, and can't sit in one position for too long. Still, I feel very grown up, and unfettered by society's victorian morality. I won't be trying it at home of course, as the garden is overlooked, and I have no wish to be dragged up before the beak for indecent exposure...or emulating Germanic behaviour in a time of war.
I spent the weekend back at the Crass House, which before pun-dits beat me to the punch, is the least crass place you could ever imagine. Anyway, I've waxed lyrical about it before, so I won't go over old ground. Suffice to say, on a baking day, there are few places I'd rather be...Should anybody be curious as to where those few places might be, send a private message and a postal order for ten pounds.
On Thursday of last week, I took Ava to her nursery school summer party. Held in the grounds of a mansion in Stanmore - belonging to the grandparents of one particularly fortunate pupil. A swimming pool party with cakes and pop. Now as you know, I am a very progressively minded gentleman, but a gentleman none the less. What's more, the only gentleman attending... Think Lesley Phillips/Benny Hill sketches. Ladies...very many ladies. Of course, it's only me who thinks of Benny Hill in these situations. I was not chased around the lawn by bevvies of speeded up beauties to comedy music. The question I have to ask of course is why not? I'm forty, that's why not I suppose.
I prefer to think it was to do with having a pool filled with infants who might have drowned had their mothers spent all morning chasing me around the rhodedendrans. Anyway, beautiful morning, beautiful weather. What a bloody difference seven days makes.
As I drove home, the traffic came to a halt...not unusual in London, but as people poured from shops and offices into the streets, it became curiouser and curiouser. Then it clicked - three minutes silence in respect of the bomb victims. It was quite impressive. Everybody observed it. At the traffic junction the lights went from red to green many times. Nobody went. It was quite affecting. I was almost praaad te be a lardnunna.
Minor gig in the evening at The Vortex. Can't quite say I was a roaring success - even though i was...utter sobriety is not always a good thing when operating musical machinery. Still, a good rehearsal for next weeks 'Hainous' crimes.
One more thing. University Challenge is on next Monday. The 25th.
Pip Pip.

Slurp Slurp

So Summer is back - normal service resumed. As I walked through the park on this beautiful morning, my curious eye caught site of a nudie lady. Sunbathing for all to see / or to avert their gazes as of course I did - eventually. Still, well done that lady. The older I get, the less embarrassed I am about these things...or even titilated...well a little frisson perhaps..a Benny Hill style fantasy - oh bugger, I'm gagging for it. No, what I was trying to say before being transported into carnal fantasy, was that we are a bit restricted by convention in the old bathing trunks dept. Far better to give the old bits and pieces an airing occasionally. Any way, quite enough mid life crisis drooling. I'll morph into Les Dawson in a minute 'Knickers, Knackers, Knockers' etc Of course I am far too sophisticated...?

So, the bombers are dead...for the best I suppose, but sad for their families as well. How much more integrated into British Society can you get, than having a dad who runs a Fish and Chip shop? Anyway, they'll be discovering about now that paradise ain't all it's cracked up to be. Yep, Not Seventy two virgins - one seventy two year old virgin...and she's ravenous, and she's taken her teeth out...and she won't take no for an answer - and she's got eternity to jump your baby bones - and you'll have to sleep sometime...slurp slurp.

Oh by the by, gig - of sorts tomorrow evening at The Vortex in Stoke Newington. I am 'special guest', which should tell you all you need to know. Haven't rehearsed, haven't polished me winklepickers, but rest assured - it will be over quickly.

Kilburn returns To Normal

A sign of the indominatable spirit of Londoners to get on with their lives as normal was visible on Kilburn High Rd this morning. Pools of blood from last night's gang fight were being mopped up by bored shopkeepers eager for customers to cross their threshholds and buy something for a pound. This is a perfectly average scene for Kilburn. It sounds like quite a serious fight, a stabbing victim in critical condition, but as the policeman on pool of blood protection duty told me ' It was drug gangs - at least they keep it among themselves'.
If these bloody drug gangs don't start behaving, I've a good mind to give up drugs in protest.
As I never tire of telling friends from other parts of town who come up here to score, 'Kilburn has so much more to offer you know. The place will get a bad reputation if you only use it as a leisure facility at three in the morning - with the cab still running.'
I purchased an excellent pair of sandals for £14.99. Kilburn should be known for it's footwear bargains...and drugs.

No news of friend's missing friend - it's all over the papers now, so I don't think I'll mention it again. Except to say - apart from the bleedin' obvious, I am very sad to think what my friend is going through, and will carry with her forever.

As this blog is supposedly written by a slumming musician, I ought to mention that I took my Gretsch out of it's case today - retrieved my amp from beneath bags of stuff - which for over a year have been destined for the charity shop, plugged in and made some noises for a few minutes. Convinced myself that 'I still got it babeee' -or haven't quite grown out of trying. Toying with the idea of using some kind of electronic instruments for forthcoming gigs - I really ought to get a rhythm section....shit, too much bother. human contact is very bad. A band is a bowl of broth with too many cooks...unless you can afford cordon bleu chefs, it's better to just boil an egg. Acoustic is best. Less to carry, less to break down, less last minute dashes for batteries, and even for the deafest soundman - hard to ruin.
I feel a drive to the countryside coming on.

Fearing the Telegram

It appears that yesterday's clean sheet of unscathed friends and acquaintences might not be so clean after all. It now seems that a friend from work has possibly lost one of her friends. Sometime after l left to sit out the blitz in a snug bar, things took a turn for the worst. It became apparent that this girl, who in all likelyhood, had travelled through Edgware Rd on her way to Paddington, was nowhere to be found.
Once the mobile phone networks were up and running again, those whom I'd needed to contact or who felt the need to enquire after my whereabouts, quickly surfaced. For some, it had been a close -ish run thing, but all were fine. In my friend's case, things deteriorated, and sadly, it looks like the outcome could be the worst possible one. It's an odd thing to hope for somebody to be injured in hospital or to be staggering round in a daze, but this appears to be the best scenario at present.

I doubt very much whether the mobile networks really overheated as is claimed. I seem to remember making calls at one minute past twelve on 1st january 2000 without too much bother. More likely that they were closed down to prevent terrorists communicating, forcing bearded hook handed men into red phone boxes where they'd be easy to spot )

Goldborne Rd was crawling with police today ...the exact same ones that it wasn't crawling with yesterday - Not I think to intimidate the muslims or keep a look out for mullahs carrying sticks of dynamite, but to reassure them that any coach loads of BNP heading their way would not be tolerated...or possibly to shout 'Here they are' when the coaches arrive.

Anyway, enough of all this gloom. The weather is supposed to be good this weekend, and I've got a Seersucker suit to strut about in, friends to see, babies to meet, cigars to be smoked and perhaps when the ladies are busy talking about colostrum, milk, labour, dilation and placentas, pints to be drunk with the proud new pa. Bottoms up - but not pointed in my direction unless the nappy is firmly on.x

I

Let The Games Begin

So here we are, as the famous social commentator Liam Gallagher might say - 'avin it'. There's been a bit of disruption on the tubes and buses this morning. Thirty seven dead and rising. It would be facile and evil not to feel sympathy and shock at these events, but surprise? - do me a favour. We bought and paid for this a long time ago. Although despising the actions of Al Quaeda - or the French, as many hope we can prove beyong reasonable doubt, the tactics and timing can't be faulted. Obviously, something like this requires a fair amount of planning, and must have been in the pipeline for quite awhile. The question is, how the hell didn't we see it coming on today of all days? Did M15 forget? Too wrapped up in Edinburgh, The Wombles, Ya Basta, and some militsnt geograpty teachers from the midlands, to remember that Al Quaeda play it like chess grandmasters. Edgware Road -where I lived for years, also houses Paddington Green Nick. First stop of all rightly and wrongly lifted turban wearers. Obviously, not evertything can be covered, but perhaps security might have been stepped up south of the border as well. Forget the Highland Fling.
As a ten year Edgware Rd dweller ( lapsed), it's a pity that they hit the wrong station. It should have been the Bakerloo line one, with the lifts that never work. That hole needs a refit. The Circle line station was nice - winning London Transport 'Garden on a station' of the year award - year in year out, and there was a station cat - hopefully there still is.
I apologize for the seeming glibness of this blog - I am not so cynical that humanity has been cast aside for witty ( in my humble...) observations. It's anger, resignation, helplessness...with just a dollop of vinegar. I don't know who's dead or hurt, it's not immediate family and friends - we checked in, but it could be friends, acquaintences - and whoever it is has my pity, sadness and respect. I 'hardly' knew a man who died in the King's Cross Fire, and I still feel terrible sadness whenever I ascend the escalator at that particular pit of despair. However, it's difficult for non-Diana worshipping touchy feely morons to see all this as anything but an inpersonal, Orwellian vindication...war with Europa, Zooropa or George and Mildred Roper. The body count is a score, and London loses. New York did better, Madrid did better...Baghdad does better about three times a day. We could almost sneer at Bin Laden, and flick a V. "The IRA did better than you you twat...that's a sugar and weedkiller score" - again, I apologize for the perceived brutality of that remark.
I was at work this morning, and knew of the 'Power Surge' immediately. Knowing that London Transport is actually run by two ancient Ever Ready Nine Volt batteriees, I knew it was something more serious. Those at Rough Trade, kept calling those yet to arrive - several colleagues or families thereof, scheduled to pass or have passed through the targets. It was genuinely uncomfortable, becoming def con three worrying when they could't be reached and more explosions were reported. Eventually everyone was accounted for, and our needle in a haystack worries stood down.
I kept a nicotine vigil outside, the woman nextdoor at the halal grocerie had far more to worry about. Being an Hijab wearing muslim, she, apart from sharing every sympathy, knew what will come next. We discussed her taking off the headscarf...a light conversation, but with definite dark undertones. I hope she's OK.
Listening to the radio this afternoon, I have been entertained by peoples' poems being read out on air. 'London Pride' - not the noel Coward song, but by a man called Chris from Edgware. While making some well meant observations about the blitz spirit of Larnernners, it was about the most Xenophobic incitement to ethnic cleansing since the Cure's 'Killing of an Arab'. A man phoned in to ask for it to be read again. " I can't remeber a word of it, but it made me feel prard 2B a Lundunna' - and they did.
Today's terrorism effected me thus: I took the afternoon off work to rescue a friend who had been stranded without food or entertainment. I picked Tom ( How To Be Idle ) Hodgkinson up from Shepherds Bush, and drove him to a pub.
So Osama Bloody Bin Man Laden, you and your poxy plans to inflict terror into the heart of every Londoner have badly misfired. You inflicted two pints of gorgeous cool Guinness onto my liver, gave me an afternoon off work and have shown yourself to be as old, befuddled and incompetent as Bob Geldof. You should have done it yesterday to save us the bloody Olympics. In fact, perhaps today IS a greater triumph for destruction. Now that we've got the Olympics, the entire East End will be torn down, ethnically cleansed, and turned into a giant Starbucks. The IOC have managed in one fell swoop, to do what Hitler and you couldn't. Bollocks to the lot of yer.
As the man on the radio said "Today will go down in history as the seventh of the seventh, Oh five" Who could say more?

The Gerri Halliwell University of Thickness

I've not passed a good night. Utterly cream crackered from my old pal insomnia.
I don't think I should be operating machinery at the moment. I forgot how to use email just now. Total brain melt down. If I was a hyperchondriac, I'd assume impending brain haemmorage...if I've spelt this correctly, it's a miracle - and take the rest of the day off.
I listened to this programme on Radio 4 about sleep deprivation. Some University has put together a regime to curb insomnia without resorting to drugs. Don't remember where, becausde I fell asleep before the end. Something about listing your worries,woes and concerns. I hope my taxes didn't help fund this inciteful research. Educational standards are definitely slipping. Perhaps it was the Gerri Halliwell University of Thickness. I'm in a bad mood, and people keep giving me work to do. Don't they realise who I am?
A pox on the world and a nightcap. Good Afternoon.

The Champ Comes Out Of Retirement

When I said giving up, I meant cutting down of course. Sorry for the confusion. x

Ladies Tennis and Terrorism

I've finally thrown in the towel. Given up smoking - well, this is my second day of health and vitality, and the withdrawl symptoms aren't too bad. Up until wednesday, I relished the challenge laid down by a good smoke. Hey lungs - want to fight? However tight my chest was, I refused to let these little things beat me. Recently it has been a struggle to win the fight, so still on top of the world, I have retired from the ring. I will be a lover not a fighter. Let younger lungs continue the struggle, I shall no longer rise to the challenge.
This is in no way a method of restoring fertility - one is quite enough thank you very much. It strikes me, that the post coital cigarette, should be changed to pre - coital, it'd be far more useful. They should teach this in schools. I'll call Ruth Kelly and get her to prepare a document.
So the weekend is almost upon us once again. Having only a lingering lingerie interest in ladies tennis, and no interest whatsoever in Live 8 - except for the possibility of terrorist attrocities and the death of Bono, I shall be looking for more nourishing pastimes. A picnic perhaps...a visit to the seaside. An intelligent conversation...A packet of Golden Virginia...no.no.no.

Dr John

It's amazing what people will put up with in the name of entertainment. The triumph of human dignity over the most apallingly adverse circumstances. I've seen sights this weekend that modern man should not have to witness. I am of course referring to Glastonbury. Heinrich Himmler would have been extremely interested in what went on. Perhaps if Coldplay had headlined Aushwitz, the course of history would be very different. Michael Eavis is of course hailed as a saint, while poor old Heinrich is somewhat less revered...just for want of a bouncy castle and a fish'n'chip van.
No need to expand on what went on - it's well documented elsewhere. On a personal front, I may never walk again, so compacted is my spine from carrying daughter on shoulders, and wheelbarrow - which in true festival fashion, jettisoned a wheel at the first opportunity.
Spent rather a lot of time in the John Wayne Gacey Field ( Kidz Field ).
Still, Art Brut were wonderful, as was Brian Wilson. Madness and eventual sunshine combined to save the weekend.
Happily, I was able to bring the car right to the tent when it was time to leave. Against all rules, but wearing a miraculously clean white suit and placing a large first aid box on the dashboard seemed to do the trick. Just call me Dr John.
Anyway, it's over, completed and survived. A small amount of enjoyment was had and after all, the ticket was free.

John Moore To Headline Pyramid Stage.

Tomorrow, I will be loading my family, our newly purchased 'family tent', collapsible wheelbarrow, and several thousand tims of lager, into the motor, and heading west. The fields of Avalon are our destination. Well, the backstage hospitality camping area to be exact.
I have made an almost binding promise, to refrain from heavy drug use, excessive alcohol imbibement, and all other forms of enjoyment, usually required to animate these old bones. Instead, I have made the Kidz field my personal Altamont. Face painting, Circus performers and innoccent pursuits will be the order of the day. Ave the Rave will I hope, have the time of her life. She's already exited. She demanded to sleep in her new sleeping bag last night, and said 'It's brilliant'...in a non-ironic manner.
Hopefully, this weekend will prove to be a wonderful, enlightening and enriching experience for all of us. Of course, it has the potential for absolute disaster, but then again, all the best things do.
Having no desire to see Coldplay, The White Stripes and co, We will not have to suffer the big crowds. Art Brut, Babyshambles are our headliners...from a very safe distance.
Apparently, the police and AA have complained bitterly about Basement Jaxx closing the festival, fearing the biggest mass exodus in history.
Sadly, I have not been approached by the Eavis's to provide musical entertainment. However, if the Peatbog Fairies drop out, I am available. Perhaps you could petition on my behalf.
I have taken posession of a flash new phone, with more gadgets than your average space station. my fee for participating in a photographic exhibition at the Proud Gallery. My task was to select ten of my favourite gigs, which would then be exhibitted in photographic form. So, Black Box recorder, John Moore and The Expressway, The Jesus and Mary Chain, and my solo gigs, will fill an inordinate amount of wall space.
I will be leaving shortly. On arrival at hom,e, I have to practice putting up the tent. Forty pegs apparently. I think I might have inadvertantly purchased a Big Top. I hope so.
If there is an opportunity to blog in situ, I shall. If not, pip pip.
Watch out for me on the box. I'll be the one wearing a hat.

A Weekend in Essex Among the Idle and The Crass.

This is a message to all germ operatives from the person once known as Moore. I have thrown off the shackles of commercialism, exorcized the satan money god, and embraced anarchist gardening.
Well almost. Had a splendid weekend at the Idler retreat, at The Crass Commune. I think it is about the most beautiful place I've ever been to. It's paradise. Mystery gardens, painstakingly landscaped, reclaimed and nurtured for forty years. Forget Alan Titchmarch, the Crass gardens are England's green and pleasant land. Secret spaces, hammocks, all manner of places to sit and ponder the meaning of life - or it's lack there of.
Penny Rimbaud and Gee Vaucher - our hosts - although they would flay me for conforming to capitalist notions of hierarchy, were fantastic. Buggers. They've got it just right...and all so close to London. For anybody associating Crass with crusties, dogs on chains and glue sniffing cider punks with super glued dreadlocks, you couldn't be more wrong. Penny is about the most urbane person I've ever met. Looking like a cross between Peter O'Toole, Richard Harris and Ian McKellan, he was constantly fascinating, and incredibly funny. One of Britain's real treasures...and still a thorn in it's arse.
I will be going back there at the first oportunity, and if I do start expounding the virtues of the Compost lavatory and Guerilla gardening, it's because I've actually learnt something. I fully intend to plant a disused bath tub in my back garden and turn it in to a pond. This is not one of Penny's tips by the way, but from an organization called Permaculture, who nipped over for a glass of wine.
Anyway, look Crass up on the net and refamiliarize yourself. Buy Gee Vauchers art books. She is the one responsible for the Crass artwork. Have a look, then think about Brit Art.
So, enough of the rant. The weekend's Idling was more informative than I thought it would be. As one of life's natural loafers, I just went for the ride, but I actually did glean a few things. Mainly, that what I'd taken to be a lifelong sloth and disgust at activity is in fact a brave new philosophy, which makes me a harbinger for the new revolution. I always knew I was special.
I slept in a tent, and was woken on Saturday morning, by something alive, moving beneath the tent. It kept prodding me, but I was 'Half Awake' so ignored it as best I could. Now I know how many women feel in the mornings. Anyway, eventually, I saw a serpantine shape slithering away. A bloody snake. Later on we found the skin that it had just shed. A quite large grass snake. I was delighted.
The people on the course were very inspiring. People who had given up jobs, and took Idling very seriously. For me, it was never a choice, but these people had something to lose and were brave enough to go for it. I expect they were very enlightened by my musical performance, which in a perfect world, would have been worth the price of admission alone, and certainly worth giving up the day job for. I played in a specially constructed nook, adourned with fairy lights...Having thrilled them with a selection of my wry observationally confections, I attempted some...rock'n'roll...and a bit of wiggling once the sherry kicked in.
Honourable mention must be made for Tom Hodgkinson, who attempted a few songs himself. Well, perhaps not honourable, but it needs to be mentioned to somebody.
The Saturday was attended by The Times and a photographer, so expect an article on silly middle class types lazing in hammocks and being Idle because they can afford to be. Still I must admit, I looked not too bad in the hammock, dressed in white suit, straw stetson, shades, and a Black Triangle - the symbol, worn by idlers in Nazi Germany. My complexion has rarely looked so good. My secret? Waking up in a baking hot tent, sweating like a pig until every impurity had washed away. Better than a sauna, because you can have it in bed.
The Crass place is fairly close to an airfield, which was having some kind of a show. Every now and then, our reveries were interrupted by Spitfires and Bi-plances flying in formation. It felt like being in a film, set just before the war. Tea on the lawn, cricket on the green and war in the air. Our light summer clothing soon to be replaced by military uniforms and shrouds.
Anyway, I'm off now to buy a bigger tent. There are family Glastonbury manoevres in the air, and my tiny little sweat box won't do at all. I'll need a collapsible wheelbarrow as well.
Pip pip.

Explosions in the Home

It's been an expensive week. I've had to engage the services of a tradesman to repair the damage inflicted to our home's electricity supply, by a small person swinging on a bathroom cord light switch, bringing it off the ceiling, and consequently exploding the main fuse box.
The exhaust also fell off my wonderful new car...still, I'm not complaining. I shall shortly be downing tools, and heading to the Essex Countryside for the Idler Retreat.
I am intending to camp. This will be a good rehearsal for my spine for next week's Glastonbury assault course. Beer...I shall drink some beer as well. And smoke fags. All in all, it promises to be a good weekend.
Father's day on Sunday as well, so I am hoping to receive something nice...like an electrician's bill.

The John Moore 68 Comeback Special

Just got back from playing a gig. No I haven't been out all night. I hit the stage at 11.30am sharp, and exitted at midday. A guerilla gig of sorts - at my daughter's Nursery School.
I have to say that playing for three and four year olds is virtually the same as playing for drunken adults. I was upstaged by children getting their knickers out, interrupted by my daughter, and bombarded with requests to play the theme from Bob the Builder.
I managed not to swear, get drunk or say anything particularly contentious. The set list consisted of 'Puff the Magic Dragon' -the non-heroin smoking version, 'The Runaway Train', 'Ba ba Black Sheep', Old Macdonald, 'I Know an Old lady Who swallowed a Fly' and YMCA.
Imagine the Elvis 68 comeback Special, then you'll get some idea of the stage set up. I elected not to wear a black leather jumpsuit, or pass my phone number to ladies in the audience. The whole thing was a great success, and I think I have another booking there later in the season.
I have an engagement of a different sort this weekend. I am booked to play at The Idler weekend retreat, at the Crass Commune in Essex. People have paid a fortune to spend a weekend here, learning how to be lazy. I imagine the whole thing will be a grand fiasco and am looking forward to it immensely. In fact, I might even do the same set. I don't imagine I'll be upstaged by people's knickers, because as far as I know, people in communes don't wear any.

The Haunted Cuckoo Clock

A very strange thing happened to me today - I woke up early. Not only woke up, but got up. Unprompted, un-aided, and of my own free will. Seven O'clock in the morning to be precise, although I awake several times before that. Of course I feel like death now, and will resist if it happens again. However, as somebody with definite bi-polar tendencies, I fear this could be the start of a 'productive ' phase. I get them every now and then. As an expample of this, I fixed the long decrepit kitchen cabinets, and I spent two evenings repairing the Cuckoo clock. In my life, the cuckoo clock has huge symbolism. The fact that I spent hours adjusting the cogs, oiling the mechanism, rethreading the chains, balancing the weights and pendulum, could spell grave consequences. The last time this was done, a child was born nine months later. At the delivery room, I thoroughly expected a cuckoo to fly out on a spring, cuckoo several times then disappear back inside. As I say, this is an odd development. I'll keep you informed.
Perhaps my new burst of manic energy will lead to me writing 'The Tiny Town Chronicles' - a book for children I have been planning for a while now, guaranteed to bring wealth and fame. Songs perhaps? Yes, it's in my mind to record another record as well.
On to other musical matters, I am doing a gig on Thursday. Unfortunately, you can't come - unless you're less than five years old. I've accepted an engagement at Ava's nursery school, to frighten the children with my rockin' renditions of old favourites, and some compositions of my own.
Spent a lovely weekend in the countryside, watching Kites ( birds of prey) swooping for raw meat. Interestingly enough, I didn't see very many magpies when they were around. Bring them to London is what I say.

Slings and Sparrows

I've taken against magpies - I've become suspicious of them. There are too many of them and I fear they are driving out the other birdlife - sparrows, thrush, bluetits - to name a few. I shall not be whispering '~Good Morning mr magpie' or indeed any other part of the day from now on. Bring on the bad luck then, see if i care. No other species is steeped in superstition that requires a greeting in order to ward off evil...except policemen, schoolteachers and dole inspectors. Well anyway, as far as I'm concerned, I'm boycotting the bastards. They can sod off. If this sounds like bigotted birdism, so be it. I want to see more tits, especially in the mornings.
I have come to the conclusion that this Crazy Frog record is a wonderful thing. Never mind it's musical content. It has singlehandedly kept the loathsome Coldplay and the execrable U2 off the number one spot. Pure punk genius. I might even advocate it's purchase...It's no worse than The Wombles, The Smurfs or any of the other novelty records that siphoned our pocket money once upon a time.
I have a question to ask, and I would appreciate any comments please. Some very close friends are about to have a child. All well and good. We have many things to give them which they will find useful. Baby clothes ,toys, general devices for the easy living infant. However ,there are a few items i feel a sentimental attachment to, which I would really like to keep for ever.
One of these is Ava's sling. Being born without the benefit of breasts, and an inability to lactate on demand, carrying Ava round in a sling was the closest to maternal contact that I got. Perhaps women don't understand this, having got on with the practical side of things. I specifically asked Mrs Moore not to give away the sling and rather embarrassedly explained my reasons for wanting to keep it. All to no avail. With an utter lack of sympathy, sensitivity and cavalier indifference, she informed me that she had parted with it. This leaves me in the embarrassing situation of going and getting it back. Fortunately, no situation is too embarrassing for me, so i will do this.
My question is - Am I being unreasonable? Personally I don't believe I am, but I must admit to a slight lack of objectivity in past judgements, where rage has mellowed with the fullness of time. Are all women so pragmatic and unsentimental, with hearts of ice, or do I find accord with some of you ladeez out there in babeland. Should I pull myself together and mow the lawn, or should I take measures?
Anyway, I have already begun a revenge of sorts. I've purchased a Seersucker suit on line from America. I will resemble an Old gentleman of the Deep South. I might take to chewing tobacco, spitting and slugging bourbon from a hipflask. Actually, I already do that one. Have a happy weekend Germs.

The Killer's Got Swollen Glands

I've worked my little fingers to the bone all day, and now my toil is at an end. Even though two hours late this morning, I have applied myself to labour in a way I thought myself incapable of.
I woke this morning with swollen glands...in my throat, a head full of gunge, and perhaps even the tiniest trace of a hangover.
Anyway, I have tomorrow to do as I please, and doing nothing will please me most of all. I do have to drive the old car to the scrap yard before the mot expires, but there's a few day's grace. Perhpaps I should do like the pope, and auction it on ebay. Is it possible that somebody would pay for it's John Mooreness? Sadly not I'm afraid.
Gorgeous weather, nothing groteqsue on the horizon amd but a few quick minutes to endure before I burst into the sunlight.
A pleasant evening spent with my dear friend Haines, baiting him with my theories on the nature of 'support' and threats of producing celebrity guests. He maintained that 'support' means going on early, playing to no people, and being paid a pittance. Well, that's just his mean old outlook, and to tell you the truth, I expected nothing less. I will be Jerry Lee Lewis, to his Chuck Berry, and having set the place alight, shall pass him in the wings, adopt an insane southern drawl and shout 'Follow that nxggxr' which is supposed to have been what the Killer did on their 1957 tour. The fact that Chuck Berry did indeed follow that, should in no way detract from the sentiment.
Anyway, I have to speak to somebody on the telephone now, so I'm off.

ycamrahP

Back in the metropolis, refreshed, revitalized, rejuvenated and reasonably reliable. A lovely time had by all etc..I even rode a horse...well sat on one.
Anyway, you don't want to hear about my holidays.
So it appears I am to play gigs with Luke in July, culminating in a night at my usual - The ICA. This is a tour to launch 'Luke Haines Is Dead' his boxset retrospective wotsits. Anyway, he's kindly invited me to share the stage - although not the billing. Of course the way i see it, he's supporting me, but going on afterwards to clear the place before my aftershow party. The word 'support', as I have explained to him means something giving strength and stability to a wonky old structure that would fall down by itself. Well I'm glad to help my old pal out...especially at such a delicate time as this.
The Vichy Government are also underpinning this wobbling colussus, so expect trouble from the start.

A Polite Notice To Burglars

Well that's almost it. My working week is slipping to an and and my grand vacances are about to commence. Before we hit God's own Devon, there is the small matter of a wedding to attend - not my own I hasten to add...although I have attended several of those as well.
My best pal from grazed knee days is finally tying the knot and throwing quite an extravagant bash. Hangovers notwithstanding, we'll be heading west the next day to stay with our dear friends. Swimming, crabbing, and brisk walks along the beach beckon...I can't wait. The weather forecast isn't too clever though.
It occurs to me, that blogging the way I do, I could be giving information to the wrong sort of person - the criminal to be precise. Well, bad news hooded top trainer scum....the staff don't have the week off, and Mr Squibs the butler likes nothing more than torturing reprobates. He's something of a sadist...as is the second footman, whose name escapes me.
Forgive me if I don't communicate my inner most trivia for several days- I'll be too busy staring across the rainswept horizon, trying to entertain miserable infant and wife with my repertoire of impersonations of famous music hall artists of the nineteen twenties. Bon Vacances...or something.

Too Old to Live, Too Poor to Die

I was convinced when I woke up this morning, that I had Parkinson's disease. Uncontrollably shaking hands that could barely guide my cigarette to my lips. A meeting with my financial advisor, has put paid to this. I cannot afford to have any illnesses at all. I must work every day until I am a little old man. She also berated me for not having made a will. She says 'in her game, clients drop dead all the time'. I entered her office, feeling somewhat apprehensive about financial matters, but filled with the joys only a sunny day can bring. I left, feeling like I was entering the valley of the shadow of death. Still, she has worked wonders with the sorry figures I produced, and ...thrown me a lifeline...well at least the homestead looks secure.
I played Saw and Guitar the other night at A prestigious book awards at the ICA. Hired help. It was a great evening. My sawing sending strange yet ethereal tones through the splendid Nash Rooms. A lot of champagne was consumed and by the end of the evening, I was playing twelve bar blues - which seemed to go down very well. Nick Hornby presented the prize, and I am sure he'll make me the subject of his next novel. He made a very telling speech, about thinking that writing and publishing his first novel, would sort out his life, and how it didn't. Then he thought the second one would...and so on. Bugger.
The highlight of the evening, was being introduced to Wilco Johnson, the blues legend. He didn't need much persuasion to pick up my guitar...I accompanied him on the saw. Although we have no immediate plans to record and tour together, I feel it is only a matter of time.
I did slightly put my foot in it for complimenting him on a record he hadn't actually played on...I think the fact that he didn't contribute to it, shows remarkable musical subtlety. Or something.

Don't Go Home With Your Hardback

Well, even though I say it myself, the weekend's trip to Vienna was a resounding success. It was my task to take some gentlemen of the press to see Arcade Fire, then return them safely to the United Kingdom. I succeeded in this, and had a splendid time as well. Arcade Fire are great by the way. If you haven't already listened to them, I urge you to think about it urgently.
Having facilitated, engineered, greased and slithered, I repaired to the banks of the Danube for a crepuscular pint of Guinness. Well I thought it was the Danube but apparently it wasn't. I did perceive something was wrong. For a start, it wasn't blue. It turned out to be some kind of run off drain. Still, my romantic soul was not dulled.
The evening was rounded off with a pleasant round of binge drinking with the Wind Section of the Scottish National Orchestra. I don't know if all orchestras drink so heavily, or if it's just the Scottish one, but they were absolutely hammered. As the night wore on, more and more turned up. The French Horns, timpani..all staggering and reeling. I did consider hanging around for the String section - usually pretty young things, but decided professionalism and...what's that other thing you need reminding of at 3am when you're in a foreign hotel, half cut and surrounded by equally innebriated sorts - ah yes, fidelity. I must be growing up at last.It's been a struggle.

Anyway, in the continuing saga of my musical exploits, I am playing tonight at the Second Book Awards at the ICA. Sadly not open to the likes of you - unless your name is Nick Hornby, Doris Lessing or JK Rowling.
I will be playing the saw - the organizers actually requested this.
I will give wobbly versions of Paperback Writer, It's Only Words, and Leonard Cohen's classic 'Don't Go Home With Your Hardback'.

Expect further postings on this interesting, champagne - and potentially real pain event.
By the way, the car is great. MOT'd, serviced and serving. Wish us luck.

Luke Haines Levitates!

Feeling slightly clammy and below par today. This as you must have guessed, is due to a hangover. Yes, my allergy to wine is torturing me once again. It's not a full scale death cloud, but nothing is quite gelling and I feel like a tramp.
A fine soiree with my young protege Neil and his lovely wife...and mine. Nothing outrageous occurred. No nudity, daisy chaining or anything of that nature - just good old fashioned chomping and boozing. Not recommended on a school night.
I was distressed to learn that my dear pal Haines has not been well. Obviously I feared the worst, but it seems he is not about to die.
Of course I was delighted that he'd had to cancel his concert in Istanbul...like all true friends are when misfortune strikes those they love. The bad Johnny even speculated that the 'illness' might be caused by lack of ticket sales...or a mischieviously satirical response to Kylie Wotsit. On his website, it said 'A thousand apologies'. I wanted to reply that seven or eight might have sufficed. Anyway, this was mere malignant speculation. He was genuinely infirm, and I am sure the concert would have been a marvellous event for any young Turk to attend.
Should Germ Operatives wish to send him messages of sympathy and support a la Kylie, his website is www.lukehainesdossier.co.uk - I think. Anyway, you can always google...oh actually, I think there's a link from this site.There may very well be.
I am off to Vienna tomorrow - it is my intention to remain vertical at all the appropriate times, and horizontal only when absolutely necessary. In other words, Johnny intends to behave.
Picking up the motor later today, so expect all kinds of nonsense. She's booked in to the garage first thing monday morning. Although mechanical progress is perhaps not the most interesting thing I've kept you abreast of I will however, keep you informed of her progress - or lack of it.
Ta Ta for now.

The Third Man

I've just crawled out of my pit, rested, relaxed and rearing to go -except, it's raining. Well, no worries ( to employ the antipodean vernacular), I won't melt. I shall do useful things.
I am definitely off to Vienna this weekend. My initial reluctance has been replaced by cautious enthusiasm. I'd forgotten that Vienna remains one of the world's most opulent cities of culture, schnitzel, and leather hats with a feather in them. I don't think I'll have time to attend a night at the Vienna Opera House, the Spanish Riding School or the Adolf Hitler Theme Park. I will however eat cakes, drink heartily, and wear shorts with braces. I shall walk in 4/3 time - to those unfamiliar with this, it's the Waltz. I will prowl the bomb sites after midnight, casting Orson Welles like shadows, cross the city zones via sewer, and ride the ferris wheel, speculating on the 'dots down there, and how if they stopped moving, I wouldn't mind all that much'.

It seems that I am to be the benificiary of an act of enormous kindness. I have a fairy godmother...a fairy god mother who intends to purchase a new motor, and has given me her old one. It's hardly used...30k on the clock, and best of all, it's black.
What's the catch?
Now, it has had a few problems - catching fire, grinding to a halt at inopportune times, and has generally been about as reliable as a virgin's promise. Still, a bit of deflowering here and there with a spanner, should keep her on the straight and narrow. I feel blessed. Fairy Godmother's only proviso in all this, is that she never wishes to hear about this old banger again. No late night phonecalls from the hard shoulder of the M4, no complaints from the four wheel inferno as I frazzle to a crisp.
I belong to the AA - the automobile association in case you ask. I go to meetings every night, with other people who have motored too much, and we go through the twelve step plan to automotive bliss. That joke is forty years old by the way.

Truly, fortune has smiled on me of late - what's it planning?
A boneshaker Fokker 10 jet to Austereich, a night of euro-hell, hangovers, constipation and a return trip from Heathrow in an exploding car. Luxury.

The Viennese Waltz

Good Afternoon, citizens of Planet Earth. As the blogging epidemic continues to grow, I continue to channel my mental overflow down the electronic drainpipe into the sewers of public domain.

Luck still seems to be holding up, and no rashes developed as yet.
Very interested in this 'Piano Man' story. As an avid reader of Sherlock Holmes, I'd developed a theory or two about him. Having cross referenced his date of discovery with the dates of the horrendous attack on Abigial Witchalls, I have been able to eliminate him from my enquiries...for the time being.
My next theory, is that this is a Music Company PR stunt, to launch a new artist, who will have a number one album by Christmas - unless of course, theory number one is actually true.
Perhaps, I'll try something similar to theory number two. If you find me wondering incoherently on a beach, in my best Paul Smith, hand me a piece of paper and I'll draw you a guitar.
It has been mooted, that a trip to Vienna might be on the cards this weekend. It's work, and not something I relish. What the hell is wrong with me? - no don't answer. I've been to Vienna before...if you don't fancy Apple Strudel and goosestepping, it's not a great place. I wonder if there's an Adolf Hitler Fun Tour...guides with moustaches and lederhosen...I'm talking myself into it now.
Particularly excruciating documentary about young Peter Doherty last night.
He came out of it looking great, but the poor sod who made it, needs a rest on the Funny Farm. Anyway, I'm not a tv critic...ooh Emmerdale Farm, Junior Mastermind...
At some stage today, I intend to walk the big walk, and stroll John Wayne like across the road to the newsagents to cash in my winning Lottery Ticket. God I love being rich. Cheerio

Happy Clappy

Good morning Germ Operatives. It seems that the government are now stealing ideas directly out of my head. Not sure how they're achieving it, but achieving it they are. The new govenrment clamp down on hooded sweat shirt/baseball cap wearing youth, is a direct copy of my recent " Smarten Yourself Up Johnny" campaign - part of Aesthetic Jihad. I am now awaiting the call from Whitehall to come and be the new government Tsar on bad behaviour. Not only would young offenders be required to wear uniforms whilst performing community service; these uniforms would be designed by Jean Paul Gaultier and the torture garden. Good rubber bondage gear, complete with chains, whips, and devices to restrict the breathing.
Not that I am a middle age pervert/reactionary or anything....be quite funny though.
Well, my good luck has not quite ground to a halt yet. In fact, my weekend of financial advancement, was capped by winning the Lottery. Sadly, a mere tenner, but better than being burnt alive. If things continue, I'll be struck down with that ridiculous illness, that ridiculous man Dave Stewart claimed to have - good fortune syndrome, or whatever it was called. Bring it on baby, that's what I say. Let lady luck pass on her itchy infection...what's a bit of a scratch compared to a lifetime of penury.
Riddle me with the gonhorrea of glee, the sypillis of sunshine. Happy Clappy.

Get Out of the Way Peasants - Rolls Royce coming Through

What a day of changing fortunes. I'm rich again...as AC/DC almost said, 'Back in the Black'. Royalties baby - dontcha love em? Not quite enough to put me in the super-league, but enough to purchase a splendid birthday present for Ma. Yes, like all Rock'n'Roll bad boys, I love my Mama.

My bank statement will tell a splendid story this month. A heartwarming modern fable. One man's descent into hell, and his resurrection, due to cold hard cash. There is no God -only money.
I might even afford myself a can of ale to sip on the veranda as the sun sinks once again.
The question is now, 'Do I twist or stick'? Get some more records pressed, or be happy that I didn't lose my shirt?
Bollocks, I'll get more.
If you haven't already purchased 'Half Awake', you've got a bloody nerve coming round here and reading my inner-most thoughts.
Did I mention that it makes you thinner ( or puts on a few pounds if you're too skinny), younger, healthier, develops your chest - boys and girls, and increases you sexual virility and stamina tenfold. Come on you lazy Fxxxxrs
What are you waiting for?

London Living and The London Poor

I have today, tasted poverty. Not the kind that leads to Bob Geldof launching Moore Aid, but a bitter taste of something none the less.
Accustomed as I am to being overdrawn, and spending above my means, I am not accustomed to having my cash card spat back at me like some unpleasant object inserted into the mouth of a nun. I thought the economy ran on idiots like me, constantly in the red and playing keep up.
I decided to visit the good folks down at the bank to set matters straight. Remembering that I had increased my overdaft to meet the onslaught of parasites gnawing into my fortune, I felt somewhat agrieved at having my line of credit withdrawn.
Well the good news is, that the bank fucked up. "Yes sir, we can see it on the system. Unfortunately it's on the back computer, not the front one".
No remedy until Monday...that's that. To compound the misery, my credit card is malfunctioning - this is not even a euphemism. The pins locked or something. Its...well that would be telling, but anyway...most inconvenient if it's not sorted out today. Short rations for the weekend.
I made a good fuss, demanded satisfaction, apologies and obedience. Then I felt like a bully, so apologised for being grumpy. The poor girl had badly bleached hair, rigid with lacquer, and a worn out nylon blazer..., I think she was Polish, which made me think of concentration camps...and naked bodies obviously. It was rather early in the day to be a camp commandant, so I attempted a bit of levity.
I left the bank like an old friend...feeling her stare of hatred scorching holes in my back.
In the meantime, sales of Half Awake go from strength to strength ( this is of course a subtle ruse to convince banks to lend me more money by the way). Royalties are due at some stage soon....not soon enough of course.
I am seriosly considering vanishing from society and becoming an underground urban commando - righting societies wrongs. A latter day Robin Hood. I might have a problem with redistributing wealth to the poor however. I am the poor.

Sticky Fingers

I've just been accused of stealing - by my daughter. Phoned up at work, abused and threatened, and insulted for good measure.
Short of travel fares this morning, and late for work as usual, I dipped into her piggy bank. Well, piggy bank is too strict a term. It's a two litre plastic milk bottle made to look like a pig...I am from the Blue Peter generation, so am quite handy at adapting house hold waste.

Five minutes ago, I got a phone call. "Someone wishes to speak to you" my wife said. I thought that my dear child might actually be wanting to say something lovely and endearing...it has happened in the dim and distant past.
"I'm very cross with you"....the 'you' being stressed with such violence that I almost dropped the reciever.
" You stole my money...you stole my money".
I tried to explain my predicament, but was met with more abuse. "I'm going to smack you when you come home" she bellowed....oh bloody hell. Who do you think put the money in there in the first place? (By the way, this is not something she's ever heard at home. I prefer psychological punishment...or indefinitely deferred retribution. Smacking is something fag smoking chav parents do to their kids in supermarkets, not enlightened artistic fag smoking types like me).
Anyway, somewhere along the line, Ava has worked out that threatening violence is a useful tool. At this point, the phone was taken from her .I heard wife reasoning with her, that smacking me was not a nice thing to do.
The phone was passed back to small child...possibly for an apology?? Not a chance

" I'm going to smack you....and you've got yellow teeth".

To think I was worried about which primary school she should go to. Sod that, she's going straight into debt collection and demanding money with menaces.
On a professional note, I went to the filming of Later With Jools Holland. It was alright I suppose. If you like that sort of thing...which I don't much. Could be jealousy - well ok, it is jealousy. Who cares? jealousy is good. Better than being accused of having yellow choppers by a three year old.
I am considering writing a poem - an epic, Wasteland -kind of thing. Might even set it to music. Don't hold your breath though - I'm not exactly bursting with creativity at present.
Anyway, must dash - candy to be stolen from babies, toys to be seized. Piggy bank to the slaughter. Daddy is going to the boozer, and paying in pennies, twopences and fivepences - along with all the other thieving bastard fathers. Sod being a 'new' dad. I'm an 'Old Man' and I like it.

The Revolution is Cancelled

Well here we are. The sun shines across the nation, and happy people with a new sense of hope in their hearts skip along the boulevards. A new government, a new era, a new beginning. Oh bollocks, that was 1997.
So here we are, same old shite. The nation is a lttle bit more liberal here and there. A lot more right wing all over the place, and not a socialist in site.
I stayed up all night to watch democracy unfold, but then it didn't and I slept on the settee, and now my back hurts.

I played a gig last night as well. I was in a bad mood, and gave the audience a good telling off. In fact, it was less gig, more telling off, with a few musical interludes. Still, they seemed to accept my irascability in good stead. I was not beaten to the ground or threatened with legal action - a triumph then.
This weekend, I am getting into the countryside to visit a bluebell wood, look at some horses and trains, and experience that sense of detachment and well being that is impossible to obtain in the city. I will walk through churchyards, trying to find a suitable burial spot for my soon to be reposing remains. A nice spot beneath a yew tree, where I can lie a-moulderin' in the grave.
I sound rather morbid don't I? Well it's just me age. As I have no doubt said before, I have no intention of snuffing it ever. I'm sure I won't. That just happens to other people.
My finances are in a horrible state - as is so often the case. It's time that some of you purchased my record once again I feel. Aren't any of you in advertising? Can't you use one of my songs in a baked beans advert or something?
Perhaps I should make another record. I could you know. I've plenty of songs floating round in my fetid old bonce. One day, one of them might actually stick and earn me a tidy sum. The next record will be a paired down all together simpler affair. Something that requires no effort to reproduce live. I am good at making no effort, so this is the approach that I shall be taking. My rotten old voice, crooning my rotten old lyrics over some of my particularly rotten old guitar playing. It'll be a smash, it can't fail.

Abortional Representation

Unless something drastic happens in the next twenty four hours, I will be voting for the man with the orange hair. I realise that I was less than flattering about him in an earlier posting - referring to him as a ginger abortion. What I have since realised is that he is actually a wonderful man.
Quite a leap I know, but I've never had any trouble leaping from one extreme to the other. He's the ginger abortion that grew into a prince. Well not quite, but he's getting my tick in his litle old box - for what it's worth...yours too I hope.
Although I respect the political views of everybody reading this, if you vote Tory of War-y you can bugger off and never come back...unless it's to purchase my record.
Been in a state of advanced misery these past few days, occasioned by flu, tiredness and a realisation that everything is futile. I hoped my problems were at an end this morning, when a hugely padded,middle aged islamic woman sat next to me on the bus, squashing me against the side. She then started chanting the Koran. I felt sure that if she were a suicide bomber, I would be the first to get it. Sadly, she got off at Sainsbury's.
Looking out of the window, I saw a hearse with a coffin in the back, heading up to Kensal Green. It made me jealous. I really wanted to swap places.

I am Tired of London, Tired of Life. I want to go and live in a hut in a forest on a hillside overlooking the sea. If any of you know of such a place, please let me know.
Don't forget to vote.

It's a Miracle - I'm Well

Look, I don;t mean to go on about my miraculous recovery - suffice to say, I looked after myself. avoided bad things. and watched Dr Who. I am rejuvenated, and will be playing the gig tomorrrow afterall.
Now I must ask you all to do something. Please buy The Art Brut Single - Emily Kane next week. Put this band on Top of the Pops where they belong. We are presented with a golden opportunity to end boredom and improve the world. Art Brut are the bees knees. They arte also responsible for fixing this computer. Repay them and reward them. Art Brut, top of the Pops. Art Brut, top of the Pops.Art Brut, top of the Pops.Art Brut, top of the Pops.Art Brut, top of the Pops.Art Brut, top of the Pops.vArt Brut, top of the Pops.Art Brut, top of the Pops.vArt Brut, top of the Pops.Art Brut, top of the Pops....

The Innocents Were Spared

They survived, they live. Yes, even though I did have rather a lot to drink last night, I dragged myself from my pit at the ungodly hour of nine o'clock, put on a suit - you have to look smart for these occasions, it's about giving an air of authority - and accompanied the beaming demons down the hill to the church hall.
There were quite a few parents there, although I was the only male. They made quite a big point of my being the only dad, as though, this was in some way more significant. Reinforcing archaic male stereotypes perhaps, but it made me feel good. I bet none of the mum's drank twice their body weight in Guinness, or smoked twenty billion fags and sustained their fragile constitutions with saveloy and chips, consumed on the late train.
I have a gig this weekend which I am very much regretting agreeing to. The weather looks promising, so a jaunt to the country side would have been far nicer. To frolic in a bluebell wood. Instead, I'll be getting mixed up in May day riots, roast dinners and no doubt stronger substances. I have been summoned to The Colony Room to give a saw recital - with the World Champion Spoons player - I kid you not, so mayday for me, may be just that - an appeal for emergency assistance.
Some of you might have seen my column in the NME this week. Reasonably amusing, but unlikely to propel me to the front lines of teen pop stardom. In fact, I think I'll write them an angry letter, demanding to know what they think they're playing at, devoting column inches to an old git like me? Really, it's an outrage. That space could have been given to Razorlight or The Brentford Nylons.
Oh well, hey ho. Got to nip out now. As the Ramones almost said once.

Dowager's Hump

I'm dying. Or at least it feels that way. Aching bones, knotted muscles and the beginnings of a Dowager's Hump. Well perhaps the last malady is a slight exaggeration, but really, I am knackered. I think I might have over done things slightly at the weekend, and exhausted my fragile constitution.

The gig was a hoot - quite a riotous affair, butI could have left at a respectable time and been tucked up in bed before the witching hour...Could have, didn't. And there were witches, wizards, demons and goblins...and potions and powders. Now I am sneezing, coughing, and in a state of inertia, rare even by my standards. It's only my super human bravery that enables these pained fingers to dance acros the keyboard.
I should be resting, but alas, I am forced to seek my living in the fetid environment of work. I dont mean to moan, but really...this is no way to exist. I should have been out on the tiles tonight, doing something marginally less boring, but even this little cul-de-sac of temporary boredom relief has been snatched by the brutal iron fist of nursery school.

Tomorrow morning, I have been asked to accompany the junior demons to a drama and dancing workshop. My task is to see to it that they don't fall off the kerb into the path of articulated lorries or get taken by lions, then return them to nursery in one piece. Can you imagine what this would be like with a hangover? I can barely prevent myself from falling off the pavement at the best of times - I'm often overcome with an urge to dive into the road and finish things off anyway. Will I be required to act as a human shield, should one of Kilburn's famous drive-by shootings occur, or does the last in first out rule apply?
I really ought to withdraw Ava from this irresponsible school,an institution that would trust someboby like me with the roadsafety of their infants. It's almost scandalous. Don't they realise that I am a rock'n'roll legend, a degenerate artist and all round bad man? Bugger it, they don't.
Yo bitch - fetch my slippers.

Tonight 8.30

As warned, chaos has ensued. I am now on at 8.30
Please ammend your lives accordingly.

The Duke of Clarence

Tomorrow night's little shindig is taking place at the Duke of Clarence in Islington. I am scheduled to take the stage at 9.30. This of course is subject to change.
I've no idea where the bloody place is - well, I've an idea, but I haven't actually been there, so can't quite pinpoint it for you with military precision. Up the Essex Rd near the Balls Pond Rd is about as much as I can tell you. Ask a Babyshambles fan is my advice.
It's the venue for the many late night Pete Doherty no-shows, and the occasional one where he did.
Many of you reading this ( I say many more in hope than knowledge) will of course be members of London's ultra hip underground elite, and will know the Duke of Clarence better than your own parent's front parlour. For those of you who aren't, I'm sorry, but I can be of any more help. I've got to find the place myself, so if you see a middle age drunk, staggering up the Essex Rd with a guitar case under his arm, 'take me by the hand and lead me through the streeets of London'.
We'll get there in the end.

The Germ that Roared

They got me when I was in a good mood. I've won. I'm getting my royalties.
They've got my debt. It get's better. It's actually since 2001.Glorious is the small man in his tiny victory. They actually did have a sense of humour though. They thought it was almost as funny as I did. Almost.
I expect their stocks to crash at any moment. Probably cause Black Friday. I shall celebrate my new wealth with a bottle of ale. Then I'll invade Poland.

Taking on the Universe

Hello Rotten Retards from Hell - that's intended as a compliment by the way.
Here we are again with the weekend pending, and the next hour dragging by slower than a slug on smack. Not feeling quite so suicidal as last week. More of a homicidal feeling actually. I am filled with energy, and looking for someone to bite. My work colleagues are giving me a wide berth - they're well used to my sarcastic jibes - all well intended, but usually sounding way beyond the bounds of jovial office banter.
When our newest employee fell down the stairs, dropping a box of pencils, I bellowed at him that they'd come out of his wages. I thought it was hilarious, but of course I would.
I'm trying to get in touch with my old publishers, who refuse to believe my contract is at an end. I have the joy of informing them, that anything they have collected since 2003, is mine all mine, and can not be put against my monumental unrecouped debt. We're only talking a few hundred quid here - my royalties, not the debt - that's vast. Anyway, the mood I'm in should be very conducive to telephonic unpleasantries with legal affiars and royalty bods. These people arent known for their sense of humour, so to hear my joyful old hoot down the blower that they owe me money, not vice versa, should sound like a Victor Lewis Smith wind up.
I am by most peoples' opinion, required to be doing work at present. Luckily, I take a contrary view. All the journalists have buggered off. There's no one to call. They're all in the pub getting a headstart on the rest of London's quietly desperate workforce. By the time the insurance clerks order their first breezer of the evening, our music hacks will be barking like wild dogs and eating their own vomit...and eachothers'.
I of course have agreed to humiliate myself in public once again this weekend. I don't know why, I really don't. I should get councelling.
All I stand to gain is a round of applause if I'm lucky, a hangover, a nosebleed, marital disharmony, and the undying love and respect of people who will request a free copy of my record because, although it is undying love and respect, it won't quite stretch to financial consumation.
Come on Universal, I want to fight you now. Of course, they'll call when I've sunk back down into servile doom, then tell me to get stuffed.
Oh, the suicidal urges are coming back.
Time for a cigarette.
Byeee.

The History Man

My thanks to the many thousands of you who turned up at my triumphant last minute homecoming gig. Without you, it wouldn't have been quite so special.
Well it was a good rehearsal at least. I had been intending to strum my guitar at home last night anyway, so it was a reasonably useful affair. Like Gloria Swanson..or somebody else, said "I'm still a huge star - it's just the audiences that are getting smaller" or words to that effect.
I'm afraid I over did it with the pre performance loosing juice, and have had a red wine hangover all day. As I might have mentioned before, I am coming to the conclusion that I might be allergic to red wine. That would explain all those headaches the morning after drinking several bottles of the stuff. Perhaps I can register as disabled.
I have been rather slack on the blog front of late - that's not because I haven't been doing less than usual, that would be impossible.
I omitted to report my recent adventure as a University lecturer...On music appreciation of all things. It was the first time I'd set foot in what used to be called North London Polytechnic, since witnessing the Mary Chain riot there in 1985. Oh isn't life ironic. Luckily, this time, I was not shoved to the ground by a copper and threatened with a night in the nick. I waffled on for an hour, made my excuses and left. In 1985, I was so overwhelmed by what I had just witnessed, that I headed straight over to the Dennis Nielsen murder house in Cranleigh Gardens and danced on the lawn. It was pouring with rain, and the recently excavated soil began to give way, leaving my friend and I sinking up to our knees, and absolutely bloody terrified.
So anyway, I am available for lectures now. I will wear a musty tweed jacket with leather patches, smoke a pipe, and attempt to seduce pretty female students, in return for favourable marking.

Tomorrow is my day of rest...even more rest, but I will endeavour to be productive at some stage.
I began my novel on Sunday evening. I've abandoned it again now, but it's brewing.
Very much enjoyed seeing my brand new dear friend Jeremy Paxman getting stuck in with the man who calls himself Blair. Personally, I think he should have hit him. That would have knocked the wind out of his sails. It's Howard on Friday night. Funny how they've saved that one until last. Should be bloody. Garlic at the ready.
Night Night.

Directions for Germ Agents

The Luminaire
311 Kilburn High Road
Kilburn NW6 7JR
info@theluminaire.co.uk
http://www.theluminaire.co.uk

Tube: Kilburn [Jubilee] / Kilburn Park [Bakerloo]
Train: Silverlink [Brondesbury]
Bus: 16, 32, 189, 316

Map:
http://www.streetmap.co.uk/newmap.srf?
x=524852&y=184342&z=1&sv=524750,184250&st=4&ar=Y&mapp=newmap.srf&searchp
=newsearch.srf

Kilburn. For One Night Only

Good Afternoon Germs,

Should you be in the Kilburn area this evening, you could do worse that come to The Luminaire club. I am performing at 9.25
A bit short notice, but that's life. It appears that the support band for somebody I've never heard of, has developped a severe case of the shits and have cancelled.
As it's about two minutes walk from my mansion, I have agreed to step in and save the day. I was intending to strum my guitar tonight anyway, so I might as well do it in a club with people and money.
I don't think it's very much to get in by the way.
Maybe I'll see you there, maybe I won't - but don't say you weren't warned.

Bye

Something for the Weekend?

Twenty minutes to six o'clock on the dreariest Friday in living memory. For somebody who fell asleep at about 8.30 last night and woke at 8.00., I am feeling extremely fatigued. I expect I have a life threatening disease - that'll be it. I'm on my last legs, and buckling like a BSE heiffer.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not angling for sympathy - I embrace death - give it two thumbs up. Reap me baby...
A bit of a selfish attitude considering I have dependents, but as Joe Orton said, a father can't be expected to be around for ever - being there for the conception is about right'. Still I'm modern and decent. I wouldn't throw myself under a bus, that would be cheating. I might deliberately walk close to the pavement's edge, so the blame could be shared....possibly wearing my slipperiest shoes on an icy day.
How many other office workers across the land are contemplating suicide at this precise moment. Most of them I should think. And don't worry - all my legions of fans, admirers and lovers - the only thing I am killing is time. Twelve minutes now before I jump from my desk, remove my clothes, and run naked into the streets. This was intended metaphorically, but you never know, perhaps it won't be.

Hedgehunter

I've stayed in London this weekend - not something I like to do. Even an hours drive down the M4 corridor to that Nirvana some know as Reading, feels like a holiday in Paradise, compared to Kilburn's relentless ugliness and whitenoise.
Of course, there were a few distractions to keep the pulse going. The Royal wedding was a blast - not literally, as I'd dared to hope, but it's always a joy to see the truly mental flag wavers, a symphony in pink nylon, who've been camping on the pavement for days, living on M and S rations. People wearing bi-focal spectacles and union jack top hats, making a spectacle of themselves, while marvelling at the spectacle....how can Rover go bust, when these people walk the earth?..perhaps the clue's in the walking.
Anyway, enough of the wedding. I'd like to speak about the other horse race of the day, the Grand National.
As a tribute to my dear departed father, I elected to enjoy the race in proper fashion.
As soon as wife and child had left the premises, I sprung up from my bed, changed into acceptable apparel, then hot-footed it out to Kilburn High Rd for a paper, some ciggies and several pints of black stuff in McGovern's bar.
McGoverns is a proper unspoilt, Old man's pub. Very Irish, all purple faces and pipe smoke. It has Four televisions so that even the visually and alcoholicly impaired will never miss the racing.

Having consulted my dear friend and racing guru, the poet Jock Scott, and studied the form, it seemed logical that only one horse could win this race. The fact that Hedgehunter happened to be favourite, meant that either a lot of people had spoken to Jock on the same matter, or it was actually in with a chance.
At ten to four, the bets were placed at Paddy Powers, then I returned to the pub.
To assuage my guilt somewhat, I placed small bets for the Mrs and Nipper - Forest Gunner - piloted by a lady, and L'Aventure - being the youngest horse ...very long odds, but a caravan holiday in Skegness if it romped home.
Watching the race was the nearest to a religious experience I've had all weekend - the burial of pope John Paul coming in a close second. ( if the selector's for Ava's C of E primary school are reading this, please ignore the above, or grant artistic license)
The pink faced boozers, now turning purple, frail old frames tottering on crutches, necking pints and chasers, roaring, guffawing and swearing. What an atmosphere.
Hedgehunter romped in by a mile, leaving me £40 to the good, even with my guinness expenditure.
Well thankyou Hedgehunter. You took Mr and Mrs Moore and their delightful child out for dinner. Your victory, circumvented any slight awkwardness about spending the afternoon in the boozer and bookies, and even earned me a lie-in today. Oh the delights of being a slack dad.
Keep up the good work.

Dunhill, Purdy, Nutter and Bristols

Apologies for my earlier rant - fiscal matters were, as in most forms of unpleasantness - at the route of things. Anyway, my mood has lifted to dizzy heights, since discovering that I have been mentioned in the 'Slack Dad' column in today's Guardian. It's not the first time I've made it in to this particular charming little backwater, but it's delightful nontheless. It insinuates that I might be slightly lazy at times....perish the thought.

As if this wasn't enough to perk me up, I've been informed, by people who know these things, that 'Half Awake' is-to use record company vernacular 'shifting units'. How many would be unwise of me to divulge - not just for inland revenue reasons, but, because if you knew our actual pitiful subsistence scale of living, and how little it takes to make musicians smile and imagine their rainy days are at an end, you'd cry. Suffice to say, I haven't booked a test drive at the Mercedes showroom just yet. However, my dreams tonight, will be filled with champagne, Dunhill, Purdy, Tommy Nutter and Bristols - the four wheeled variety. I shall be out on the grouse moor, having floated myself north aboard the old zeppelin, and later performing obscene yet absolutely neccessary ancient rites with the maidens of the estate, then attending a service at the church, where the locals sing hymns of praise, thanks and joy to their benevolent Lord...I mean yours truly of course. Not the one who get's your kids into the good primary school.

Of course, some of these things may never happen. It is Lottery night though.

God's Own Devon

I'm back from my grand vacances feeling refreshed, mentally alert and ready to wrestle the bank manager to the floor.
Had a fantastic time in Devon - livin easy, organic and well lubricated. At one point, I even considered swimming in the sea. I waded in up to my knees but quickly realised that death would be almost instantaneous should I submerge any further. So much for literary types being hardy souls - give me a heated pool, a hot day and a good rub down with duck grease.
Followed the demise of the Pope with interest. I don't think I'm in the running for the vacancy, but these events are not without their solemn charm. I wonder if the funeral will be targetted by terrorists...er - I hope not of course - that would be dreadful.

Haven't managed to start on the novel yet, but with each new day, it must be getting closer - mustn't it?

So here we are then May 5th. I wish I was a bit more interested. It's their fault of course for not being more interesting/ being liars/warmongers/people you would not care to converse with in a public house...or any house for that matter. Well perhaps Charles Kennedy would get his round in. The old argument that not voting is actually a vote for the ones you don't want, no longer holds true. I don't want any of them. If only my Aesthetic Jihad Party had begun earlier and had enormous funding...and a battle bus. It is too late isn't it?

I would like to remind those of you who have yet to purchase my record, that it is available from this very site. Come on Tightwads, Scrooges and Penny Pinchers, what are you waiting for? I am not going to drop the price if that's what you're hoping...I even might raise it. And don't you look so smug, those of you who have already bought it. Buy it again and again. What about a gift for your friends. Don't you know that you have a potential heirloom?
I'm sorry for that rant, but I've just received a rather unpleasant bill from my accountant - he's having his arse gold plated or something.
Back to work now, back to work boy...

The Tiny Town Literary Festival

Good afternoon Germ Agents around the world. It's a drizzly old day here in tiny town. Everything seems to have ground to a halt - well at least I have. Although no stranger to inertia and sloth, even I would be quite pleased to have some activity to engage in. Obviously I won't wish for another disaster to spice things up a bit. The last time I did that, we got a Tsunami, and although I have not been blamed directly, I can't help feeling that my negative energy might have played a small part in cracking the earth's crust.
I believe I might have a gig coming up on 29th May...so that's something to get hot under the collar about. Like the man shovelling elephant dung at the circus said 'at least I'm still in show business'.
I've been trying to map out the plot of my to-be-written greatest novel of all time. It's not going very well though. Perhaps I should just start and see where it goes. That's the whole thing about chaos and chance - you can't plan it in advance....I think I might be on to something here. It won't be Nick Hornby, that's for sure. We're talking Gogol meets Bukowski meets Green meets Conan Doyle meets Borroughs - well I hope so at least. We could be talking Moore meets his own colon, meets a retarded eleven year old meet Jeffrey Archer. - That sounds quite good actually. Definitely a touch of Naked lunch in there. Well perhaps it's not such a lost cause.
As somebody who's name escapes me once said ' you don't need time to write, you need a deadline'. If I was a publisher, I'd sign me up now. Football teams sign children who's only promise is to be able to kick a ball without shitting. Record companies do much the same with bands - so come on. Writing is work, not pleasure.. Doing bugger all is pleasure. I can understand how a business minded person might baulk at paying me to do nothing, but how about a nice fat publishing advance on spec.
Don't you just hate those bus drivers, factory workers, school teachers who knock out a novel in the wee small hours. - I wrote it between shifts at the bus depot, or in the works canteen.
Look, give me half now, and I'll do ten til one, five days a week. Come on. I'm dying here. I'm going to Devon tomorrow for another well earned rest. When I get back, I'll expect a cheque.

The Key of Life

Good afternoon, Germ Operatives. it is with great regret and some relief, that I must draw a discreet veil over our once grand scheme to reintroduce the Windsor Jazz and Blues festival, while asserting our right to roam through Enlgand's green and pleasant land. The reason for this is that - I've come to my senses. A fortuitous attack of wisdom has convinced me that although it is a fine idea, it is one of those ideas which remains fresh as an imaginary concept - not to be mired in harsh reality...I have quite a few of these.
Of course, 1976 was a more innoccent time, another country some might say, and nothing could better it. Have I been got at by M15? warned off? Bought off perhaps...nothing so interesting. I haven't even found an invitation for the wedding in the post. I am afraid, this is purely and simply, a manifestation of maturity - and perhaps even a little laziness.
Easter has been a fine solitary time for me...a long dark weekend of the soul. These can be very useful for relieving mental constipation. Having excused myself from a four day easter egg hunt, I have busied myself doing what I do best - very little. Reacquainting myself with the wonders of television...I don't mean selective viewing - I'm talking about blanket bombing, square eyed, dribbling vegetable (cathode) tube feeding. Well my tube has been removed now - it was my decision, and I feel cured.
I have even done a useful thing. Found my long lost keys at the bottom of Ava's toy box. I was actually looking for them, not a toy to play with.
So anyway, I've found the key. Not sure if this can be said to be a metaphor just yet.

Developments

Ah, yes. Last night's little wine fuelled brain storm has come on apace.
Just enjoyed a lovely pint on the Kilburn High Rd, where as luck would have it, I encountered Aaron...doing the same. We have hatched a plan.The wedding day is April 8th. a trip to Windsor looks likely. We'll need a lorry, a PA system and some couples who would like to tie the knot.
Aaron is being ordained - on the web obviously, so will be able to conduct some marriages.
The wedding band will be Art Goblins, Myself, hopefully the Vichy Government and Mr Haines.

The spirit of the Pistols Silver Jubillee boat trip could well be invoked.
Any assistance for this event, would be most welcome.

Germ Agents - All Leave Cancelled

I am in wine, so be warned.
Just thought I should put on record, my delight at being a citizen of this fabulous nation.
It's really beginning to dawn on me now, how fantastic it is that a royal wedding is about to take place in a registry office. Say's it all. The perfect polaroid of our nation. I think that a Germ event must be organized to run in tandem with it. I propose that operatives of the Germ Organization, gather in Windsor on the day for some kind of celebration. Not sure what, not sure how, but I feel this may be a defining event in our nation's endgame...quite apart from the general election - in which I intend to stand ( donations for a deposit greatly appreciated)
As a young man, I attended the wedding of Charles and Diana - well, I came to london with my pal Tim, and we slept on the pavement outsode Clarence house. Having witnessed the then lady Di leaving in her glass carriage for that date with destiny, we headed into a very empty Soho, and a porno cinema, only too happy to admit some very young fellows...King kong und Die liebe Frau (as immortalised by the Shoreditch Ogre) was the film we watched, while the rest of the nation watched the wedding. Which was the most pornographic? Answers on a kleenex please.
Anyway, I've recently become friendly with Aaron Barschak - the Osama Bin Laden of Windsor Castle - a wonderful man...lives right round the corner. Perhaps he's already busy on the day, covering it for CNN. Anyway, I feel mischief in the air. A picnic perhaps...Any suggestions. we must not miss this.
I will lie down now and smoke a pipe. This thought must be given time to form. If somebody could let me know the date of the wedding, that would be helpful.
By the way, MI5 are hiring. If you want someone to write you a reference...

The Rites of Spring

Good Morning Germ Operatives around the world,

Our unseasonably good weather is putting me into an incharacteristically good mood. Just taken my my dear child Ave the rave up to nursery on my crumbling old shoulders, and witnessed an accident.
Not a serious event, but amusing nonetheless. My dear Old friend and temporarily ex-neighbour, the poet Jock Scott, is having his house renovated. For several days, a skip has been outside his once residence, filling up with the detritus of his long and eventful life. I have just witnessed said skip, being loaded on to a lorry, then tipping over, landing upside down in the road and depositing it's filthy contents everywhere. A mushroom cloud of dust enveloped the neighbourhood, causing anger and consternation for those just showered souls on their way to work who were unfortunate enough to be walking past at the time.
The great British workman knows no decorum and discretion. No thoughts of waiting until the street was empty to begin thier onerous task. Now cars are covered, the road is blocked with rubble and I dare say compensation will be sought.
Ava and I stopped short and waited for the dust to settle, marvelling at the filthy specimens emerging from the mist. I suppose Bagdad witnesses similar scenes on a daily basis, though of a less innoccent nature.
Oh the joys of spring. Must dash now, I have work to do.

The Surgeon of Kilburn

From the gleaming streamlined Moore of last weeks triumphs, this week finds me stricken with toothache and foot decay. What a reversal of fortunes.
The tooth ache, is actually sinus pain - and some pain it is...throbbing to buggery. I might have to anaethnatise the pain with alcohol - like all true sufferin'artists do...dontcha know.
The foot rot is on the mend, but I thought I'd mention it - to let you share in it's weeping purilence and pustulence. I'm sure you're dying to know. I wish I'd taken a picture to post on the site. It's the middle toe on my right foot. Swelled up emormously, and after some prodding, I thought I'd have a go at it. Amateur surgical procedures are always worth trying...however painful the outcome. The professionals are only a 999 call away. Having watched the Gunter Von Haagens discections on channel four recently, I was just waiting for an oportunity to try some diy slicing. This operation involved removing dead skin, to try to locate the entombed offender. 'Scalpel...forceps...scissors...saw, pliers...teeth..' Just call me Doctor Benway.
Having set about it with a fair gory enthusiasm, I realised that I'd made things much worse, and that I had to go out that evening. I can only liken it to walking with your foot in a plate of custard.
Still, it's all better now. No amputations or lepor colonies. I think the operation was a success. Much better than the NHS. No waiting, no infections and no hospital food. I might take this up professionally.
Should any of you require an operation, do get in touch. my rates are quite reasonable.

University Challenge Part 2

So where were we? Alex arrived, ate some sandwiches and began to perk up.
So far so good. A trip to make up - even suave gentlemen with fine complexions like ours, require a bit of slap...just for those close up shots. People might mistake it for the moonlandings otherwise.
I won't go on about the studio, the sets, the huge audience - my mother up in the top row, and the imposing figure of Jeremy Paxman. All this seemed somehow less terrifying than the fact that our opponents were - The Financial Times. Oh shit. Well we didn't really expect Wayne Rooney and his mates, but this was a little bit perplexing. How very ironic. So here we are, a lifestyle on trial - about to be shown up by the pink paper.
A few warm up questions to acquaint our fingers with the buzzers - I kept my fingers well away from it, in case I was accidentally called upon to answer a question.
Then it began. "Hello, my name is John Moore and I am the Sports Editor" - Well at least I got that right. Eyes down fora full house, and away we went.
Started for ten. Wow, we buzzed first. Rowley Leigh knew the answer. Then we got the bonuses...On it went. Idler Leigh...Idler Leigh - really quite astounding. Was there anything he didn't know?
Then i got a question right...about recycled plastic - where did that come from? Got the cricket questions, Brunel, standard guage railways. Bugger, the FT started getting a few...a lot actually. I think we shocked them, but they were waking up now.
I couldn't see the score but i felt we were still just ahead. I was still too terrified to risk a starter - even though I knew a few. Alex fearlessly went in a bit early a couple of times and we got docked, but each time it was Rowley to the rescue.
Tom as team captain had to answer the bonuses, but hopefully the mics will pick up our telling him the answers. Especially when he answered Jimmy Saville...'Wrong. That was the Pope' an easy mistake to make.
We got the questions on idling wrong, which drew Paxman smirking ire. Mind you, the FT forgot what monetarism was, so all square.
We demanded the contest be stopped half way through, because a German novelist question was said to be Kafka. Obviously he was a Czech. The questioner came down and said 'Well he wrote in german'. In Unison, Tom and I called out ' Well Beckett wrote in French'. We still lost the point however, when it was decided, that the Czech republic didn't exist then, and was part of the Austrian Hungarian empire. Put the wind up the FT though.
Sadly there were no questions on Britney Spears, so our pop knowledge was not tested.
....bonnnngggggg. That was the gong.
I am honour bound not to give the score or result, but I can intimate. Lazyness triumphed.

Following our triu... we drank steadily and heavily for the rest of the day. Got chased from Coronation Street by security, had dinner with Marc Riley, met Jeremy Paxman and got hammered - what a wonderful man he is.
Alex and I are going to record a single ' The Ballad of University Challenge'.
You have been warned.
Hooray for Cognis by the way.

This is Tom and I discussing the difference between Jimmy Saville and The Pope

University Challenge - Part 1

Thank you for your patience. I will now attempt to give some form to the events of my weekend. Writing it down might well be of some use to me as well. I will probably add things later, because I am bound to forget many details. like the witness to a crime, recollections will filter back over the fulness of time.
I won't bore you with the journey to Manchester - except that I used one of those prepaid ticket machines - couldn't work it..massive queue of irate passengers behind me...boring boring. Gave up seat to an elderly couple who looked as though they'd die if separated.
It was in my mind to have a few drinks on the train - just to pass the time you understand. My companion and team member Rowley said he wouldn't be drinking until after the show. Summoned all self control and managed to avoid it. Of course, Virgin trains made this quite easy.
The first announcement, warned that any assaults on the staff and abuse would have a dim view taken of it...a curious way to build a customer client relationship. Still, I felt sure I'd be able to control myself. Next announcement informed us that the shop was closed for stock taking until Rugby. The next announcement was that only exact money could be taken. "We can not exchange any high 'demolition' notes". The first announcement began to make more sense. At Stoke, the shop closed altogether for further stocktaking.
Finally arrived at ten - hit the bar - moderately. A few other possible contestants milling about, but nobody spiking our drinks or offering us money to fail. Mostly old duffers covered in chalk.
Perhaps I am going into too much detail here. I'll refrain from discussing the hotel decor, carpets or lack of complimentary toothpaste. Four adult films for £7.99, Bridget Jones does Dallas, or CNN. In bed at a sensible hour.
A light breakfast, as I've heard that overfeeding puts the brain to sleep. Definitely more teams now. Discus intimidation tactics with Tom. Practice drawing finger across throat in 'cut throat' gesture. Only Tom seems scared by this.
Alex James nowhere to be seen. Checked in two days ago, then gone missing.
Phonecalls, messages and staff searches fail to raise him. The receptionist looks genuinely alarmed when I tell her that he is a rock star, so has almost certainly died of a drug overdose up in his room. Probably murdered his wife as well. More staff are sent to his room. Still not there.
We are slightly alarmed by his absence ,as are the University Challenge people. The rule book is consulted, and although this is not covered, they think it is unlikely we can go on as a three.
As my mother is coming to watch, I suggest that she could be on the team - for a while, it looks like a possibility.
Alex finally calls - he's at Manchester airport - returning from an impromptu djing trip to Barcelona - until 6 in the morning. He arrives at the studio looking ridiculously healthy, then starts getting dizzy spells through lack of sleep. Still, The Idler Team has made it...or has it?

Tune in for part 2

Normal Service Will Resume Shortly

Owing to my hangover having a hangover, I shall be taking things easy today. Just to let you know though - Censored due to not giving the game away.
Subsequent celebrations have now destroyed all grey matter, planting me firmly back in the vegetable section.
I will tell all very soon. Must rest now.
By the way. In the picture, our score is zero. You might be interested to know that things improved.

Let the Games begin

It's the day before the lapidation. Feeling slightly less cocky about things now. Bitten off a bit more than I can chew?...I'll have to spit if I can't swallow...yuk.
Anyway, we've just had a nice email from the organisers, asking us not to bring 'Soft' drugs to the studio...perhaps they supply them.
Anyway, no need to worry on that account - Customs and Excise are all ready reporting a huge surge in hard drug activity in the northwest, as rusty container ships direct from Bogata, unload our post match supplies.
A truce has been called between the rival gangs of Moss Side, realising that they won't be competing for business...we'll take all they have and more.
Perhaps University Challenge are referring to the Cognis. My secret cerebral weapon. Forgot to take it last night...and this morning...hardly a recommendation for it's intellect stimulating properties is it.

Apparently the other teams will be at out hotel, so there might be an opportunity for sabotage. Slightly worried that we'll sabotage ourselves - I've been to this hotel before - it's got a very late bar.
Anyway, it's almost time to go, so wish me luck, shed a tear, and hold on to yer drawers.

Save the Village Shop

I've been looking into ways of getting this quaint old site up the google ratings. Yes of course, it's in order to sell more records - I don't deny it. In fact, I am not even ashamed. We are a nation of shop keepers after all. Anyway, in order for my little village shop to compete with the big boys, the trick is to get it linked to as many other sites as possible.
Now, I am sure some of you might be able to find a few moments to help...Look at me, I'm begging. If you could post a link to this site up in a few places, that would be lovely.
Please use your discretion of course. No filthy ones, or places that might direct the wrong sort of person to us. We don't want an Asda opening up in the middle of the village now do we.

Thing is, the record is in the NME next week, and you know what students are like. They'll buy it from the first place they see...Spending far more of their grant than is neccessary. If all goes according to plan, this site will be the first place they see.

http://www.halfawake.co.uk

So there you are.
The Germ Organization would like to thank you all in advance.

Warts 'n' all

Oh the joys of daytime television. Just watched a highly entertaining documentary about the great tenor Russell Watson - the man's a god in human form. I thought nothing could top it, but now I'm watching a show about teenagers with genital warts and the clap. Thank you John Logie Baird.
The cognis must be working - I'm as bright as a button today. I hope I haven't peaked too soon.
Must experiment with the dressing up box - We've been asked not to wear stripes or hoops or checks - because television cameras can't handle it...oh god, there's a teenager having her genital warts painted...they're being burnt off now...sizzle sizzle yuk.
Must iron a shirt...and a tie.
Off to a party this afternoon. A third birthday party. It's a never ending social whirl. Must buy a present.
'Nichola thought her genital warts had finally gone, but she's now found another lump inside her...' Oh fantastic. Apparently you can buy this show on video for nineteen pounds. I'm off to join the Taliban.

Three Wheels on my Wagon

Well, my oh so careful dietary plans came to nowt. As I floated a Big mac and Fries atop the sea of Guinness swirling around in my guilty old guts, it occurred to me that perhaps changing one's accepted routine in the search for brain cells might be a recipe for disaster. Although I shall still be taking Cognis and trying to eat well, I reserve the right to supplement my diet with all manner of nasties.
In my capacity as London's least enthusiastic press officer, I was out on the town last night watching some clients perform their excellent music, and chivvying along the esteemed ink slingers of the music press - not that they required much chivvying - student bar prices being what they are.

Now that the hangover has shrunk to tolerable proportions, I will spend a pleasant evening, engaged in the cerebral pursuit of watching the television.
I am rather concerned that I am being reduced to a bit part player in my own film. Googling myself earlier in the day - that's what it's called these days, I made an important discovery. Pretending to be somebody interested in acquiring my record, I typed in the details to see what came up. Oh it's there alright. Plenty of opportunities to buy it. The trouble is, it's from places like amazon and emusic. £11.99. If you're reading this now, you will have had to have been quite patient to find me.
As you know, Half Awake is available here for a snip at £10 including postage in the UK. Don't want to sound like a capitalist pig here, but that ten quid goes to me...and just me. It pays for guinness, cognis, socks, lollipops for Ave the Rave, crack for the missus and guns.If you buy it elsewhere, you'll be funding a smug twenty something emillionaire who lives in a warehouse in Bethnal Green, rides a miniature mountain bike and goes snow boarding. So there you are. The choice is yours.
Have a lovely evening. Oink.

Cognis - Achieving Clarity and Focus

I don't know whether I should be admitting this. I could be opening myself up to a doping scandal. I have purchased a product which I believe will give me the edge over my opponents. It's called Cognis. I have to put eight drops a day under my tongue. That's it. The key to knowledge. I feel cleverer all ready. This could of course be a placebo effect.
Anyway, I shall be bathing in the stuff before Saturday. I wonder how it reacts with alcohol. It is 11% alcohol, so quite well probably.
It might turn me into Dylan Thomas. I'm typing so fast I can't see my fingers. This must be down to the Isopogon and Essence of Bush Fuschia.

So that's me sorted out then. No more preparation needed. The diet is off.

Rock Around The Bunker

Feeling slightly out of sorts today. Lack of sleep, lack of energy, and a head full of rancid snot - which I am keen to get rid of.
I'm supposed to be feeling progressively more intelligent as the week progresses, but I have to say, yesterday felt more cerebral. I've eaten baked potatoes, carrots, fish and salad, and I haven't touched the sauce since sunday.
Missed University Challenge yesterday, due to attending Will Hodgkinson's inaugural guitar performance. A delicate blend of determination, style and bravado saw Will triumph.
The best moment of course was not musical. The proprietor of the establishment halted the show to demand that the bass player remove his Nazi helmet. This drunken bear of a man bellowed that he did not find it funny artistic or ironic that a Nazi helmet was being worn.
If he lost relatives in the camps, then fair play to him. Then again, if I was related to him, I might just tell him I'd been gassed to prevent further contact.

As any purveyor of Rock'n'Roll or London Mayor for that matter knows only too well, flirting with Nazi imagery is ace...albeit ill advised. Guitars go with Black leather, skulls, cruelty, knives, motorcycles, syringes, medical experiments and tanks...' like a horse and carriage'. Morally indefensible I'll grant, but that's the beauty of it. What's the alternative? Bellbottoms and lovebeads? Rock'n'Roll is supposed to be insane. If Coldplay performed at Nuremburg, goosestepping across the stage, preceded by a torchlit parade through the streets, I'd buy their record at once. I'd criticize them for their terrible judgement of course, but I'd be secretly pleased.

So getting back to this ludicrous interruption - Will handled it very well. He writes for the Guardian, so is probably not often accused of being a Nazi. The not-actually-a-Nazi helmet was removed and the show continued. The band should have gone straight into 'Rock Around The Bunker',then annexed the Sudetenland. Instead, Will dedicated the next song to his wife, and continued with some delicate folk picking. Lightweight.

Anyway, I'm off to the health food shop in a minute for some brain supplements.
By the way, should anybody be offended by anything they have just read, my apologies. My love is universal, it knows no boundaries, racial, geographic or sexual. The only people I dislike are tossers...and quite a few people I was at school with...and Australian bartenders who are a little bit too fond of watching the clock....actually, there are far too many categories to list. It's safest to assume, I've got something against you all.
Unless you've bought my record of course.

Whore Moore Super Store

I've got it. The solution to all my financial troubles. I will sell advertising space on my body for University Challenge. Come on advertisers, what are you waiting for. An AAB audience, thirty minutes prime time exposure. That's better than a spread in The Mail on Sunday. I'll make a rate card. Obviously chest will be the most expensive...or head perhaps.
If you rent both, I'll even throw in my legs, and promise to stand up every now and then.
For any other body parts you might want to hire, send me a private message.

This is The week That Is

I am typing this nonsense at an angle of 220 degrees. Awkward but do-able. I do not wish to exit the bed just yet, and there are too many wires to rearrange to give me a level playing field. In an attempt at remaining comfortable, I run the risk of giving myself a sporting injury. How ironic eh...me the Sports Editor of the Idler, finally acquiring a sporting qualification - albeit, a torn ligament.
Well, the countdown begins. Five days from now, I will be on University Challenge, pitting my depleted wits against ...they won't tell us who we're against. I hope it's a team of page three girls from the Sun, or The Caravan Club of Great Britain. It will more likely be The Stephen Hawking All Stars, featuring Alan de Botton and The Oracle. So, humiliation awaits - for them baby, I'm not worried...
My brain routine starts this morning. I shall be off the sauce, eating vegetables - rather than being one, lots of fish and fruit...and lashings of ginger beer. I'll reawaken dormant cells, summon up me intellectual powers and get my finger on that buzzer. Of course nobody likes a smart arse, so I might give a few wrong answers to endear myself to the thick - that'll be my excuse.
Of course the most important question of the whole event, is what shall I wear? I wonder if we can get sponsorship? It would be great to all wear Armani - It'd look like a mafia trial.
Obviously, I'll need to consider product placement. I have a record to flog after all...which incidentally, is in the shops as of today - don't you dare buy it in the shops mind you. Buy it here. I only sent it to the shops because I needed the space at home.

I don't suppose they'll be too amused if i turn up with a sandwich board. Perhaps a top hat covererd with cds.
I could just answer all the questions i don't know as " Is it Half Awake by John Moore?"
Ooh, so many possibilities.
By the way - any newspaper editors reading this - (I have a rather high opinion of my blog readership don't I? )- I would be delighted to write the whole experience into a feature for your weekend glossy section...for a small consideration obviously. I bet my fellow team members have already done this...well one at least - yes you Tommy.
Right, I've got to get up now. In fifteen minutes time, I shall be waiting outside the local nursery to fetch a small child. Don't worry everybody - it's my little Ave the Rave.
Te ra.

Paternity Tests and Rabbit Deprivation

I'm taking a paternity test. Even though she looks just like me, something is wrong. Ava wasn't impressed by the snow. Not as impressed as me anyway. She turned down the offer of being pulled to nursery school in the sledge, and actually seemed quite put out by my enthusiasm. Things did pick up a bit when she began eating large handfuls of the stuff and realised the potential fun of flinging snowballs - but really...kids these days - what's wrong with em?
I sprung out of bed this morning - an extremely rare phenomena. It was beautiful. A real covering, and best of all, it was still chucking it down...and seemingly getting heavier.
Ava's extraordinary attitude did nothing to dampen my spirits ,although I did decide not to keep her at home to play with me.
Well at least she's left handed and knows some rude words - perhaps nobody could be quite as snow fixated as me. She is a summer child after all.

The rabbits finally left the Moore Hotel yesterday. Don't worry lapohiles. They are still being kept indoors. Their reintroduction to alfresco dining and raping will be gradual. It was with heavy heart and with dustpan and brush in hand,that I swept up what I hope will be the last of their tiny turds, and restored the living room to it's former human beings only rules.

I've got a sore throat and a streaming cold, so a medicinal whisky might be in order. Happy ankle breaking.

The World Coughing Contest from Zurich

Unusual for me to spill my soul at this time of the day, but a quiet moment has presented itself. I'm in the office today - doing that thing I attempt occasionally-work. Ziggy Stardust is playing on the stereo 'Making Love with his ego' etc.
Friends Reunited will be played on 6Music in precisely eight minutes, and the evening promises fun fun fun.
'Don't lean on me man cause you can't afford the ticket'
Don't mean to sound shallow, but I thhink I might have had my hair cut too short. It's geezer at B and Q short. All I need is an England shirt and a chunky gold chain. The veins in my neck are throbbing ' Wam Bam Thankyou Mam'
I'm off out tonight, lending my tonsils to Haines' latest venture. One take Moore they call me in the recording community...one more, one more....It's not going to get any better. Then the nighteries will call with their enticing barrels of ale, buxom ladies and even a crafty cigarette.
Sadly, pathetically, I feel myself slipping back down that nicotine greasd pole, back down into the snug. My lungs have had a winter respite. I would be a shame not to fill them up again. Coughing is a part of being a man.
Rattling hacking expectorating, spitting in drains - why should people want to be banning a practice that facilitates this ability.
The World Coughing Contest in Zurich will be cancelled if there are not some wheezing phlegmatic codgers to hawk a wodge. I think I'm blathering here. Also, if smoking is banned, the word Phlegm, with it's crazy spelling will disappear from the English language - this must not be allowed to happen.

Anyway, the lull is drawing to a close, Ziggy has finished - 'The Kids have killed the man', and I'm off.

The call of the Saloon Bar on a winter's night.

Quite a productive day all in all. With super human effort, I managed to haul the many records sold yesterday, up to the post office for dispatch to their new owners. Perhaps you think I'm exaggerating in a bid to drum up more sales - how very cynically minded of you. I can assure you, that the traffic was bought to a standstill as I aimed the precariously laden wheelbarrow towards the post office.
Next on the agenda, was a haircut in time for my afternoon appearance on the wireless. A three at the sides and a five on top. A little stark perhaps, but representing very good value for money, and a joyous rebellion against my former hair towers.
Thanks are due to my dear mother, who not quite exhausted from our visit to her at the weekend, kindly consented to come to London to tend our child for the afternoon, allowing me to head off into town for my date with Resonance 104.4 FM
Made a decent fist of it I think. Played two songs live - accompanied by the legendary Gareth Sager, and read 'The Funeral of John Moore After Corunna' - don't really know why. Also accompanied the great thesp Tam Dean Burn on the saw as he read a selection of short stories. All in all, quite an entertainment.
As we left the studio, the snow was falling, the churchbells were ringing, and the saloon bar of the nearest pub was calling.
And so it is, that another day draws to a close. The big chill is with us, and the snow continues to tease. I am not giving up on this winter, until we've had at least one opportunity to use the toboggan.

Nuclear Winter Wonderland

So the sun begins to set on what has been a lovely and successful day here at the Germ Organization. The Sunday Times have been particularly kind with their appraisal of my work, and the site has had it's busiest day since opening. Unlike the unruly mobs who rioted at the recent new Ikea opening, our customers - clients if you like, have behaved impeccably, some queing for up to seven hours, and our regulars have shown themselves equal to the task of presenting a first rate impression. I thank you all. Our coffers are swollen. It's a good job that the money's in the safe which is time locked until tomorrow, because with my spirits elevated as they are, I run the risk of blowing it all on a Sunday night binge at the Kilburn Bingo parlour. A lot of highrollers have lost their shirts in that place.
Anyway, we're not closed yet. Much as I disapprove of Sunday trading, the Germ Organization is pragmatic and mercenary enough to refrain from making a moral stand at this time. No, we're open around the clock, pay minimum wage and our pension scheme consists of a holiday villa which I alone enjoy the use of.
Sorry, dreaming slightly. Spent a pleasant day driving through the villages and hamlets of West Berkshire, in search of I don't know what precisely...a tumble down rectory for sale by an elderly lady with no concern for market value...on top of a hill, with a ghost, near a lake, with easy access to the M4, a country pub with a lock in, and a young lady's Finishing School nearby. Failed miserably again. Also failed to find Teletubby land, much to the consternation of Ava. We drove over the hills and far away of course, so she assumed we'd spot them grazing in a field somewhere.
I must say, Aldermaston is a great place. Very sinister, in an Avengers kind of way. The Atomic Weapons Research Establishment - once the destination of thousands marching from London, has a real demonic power to it. As you drive through idyllic countryside, you suddenly come upon it. It's vast. It's dirty windowless concrete towers really do look like they're cooking up death. Barbed wire perimeter fencing and scalding pipework make you wonder what the hell's going on below ground. If this is the nice bit, what's the rest like. The village is old and pretty, probably inhabited by scientists, who suddenly develop personality disorders, alarming colleagues, and the ministry of defence, and are discovered to have been possessed by occult forces in order to steal the bomb.
Also went swimming. The pool was quite busy today unfortunately - mostly, one family, who were using most of the pool as their personal water volleyball court. Didn't look up close, but I think the swimming costumes might have been burberry.
I'm going to appear on the wireless tomorrow from 4.30 until 6. Resonance FM. Don't know the frequency, but I'm told there is one. I shall also be busy, packing records for immediate dispatch to the post office. I might have to employ extra staff.
It's teatime now, so have a pleasant evening.

Distinguished Visitors Expected. Please Behave

Right. This sunday, we at the Germ Organization are expecting some important visitors to the site, so I would ask that we give the chatroom a bit of a tidy up, and do not use any profanities. Yes, I am pleased to announce that readers of The Sunday Times will be popping in for an inspection. Half Awake is reviewed in the Culture magazine, which will also mention the two tracks available to download at our humble website. Curious culture hungry tourists will visit, to sample our wares, so like the recent Olympic committee visit to London, I urge us all to be on our best behaviour.
Should they misnavigate, and end in the chatroom, I want them to see a highly invigorating, enlightening and tidy enviroment...not some dark alley strewn with detritus, syringes and condoms, daubed in grafitti. If these people speak to us, we must answer clearly, courteously, and not attempt to rob them or solicit sexual acts. They may be elderly, religious, or of a nervous disposition. Make them feel welcome. We'll fleece them later, but we've got to bait the hook.
I will be renting space on the site to various commercial interests, whose products target Sunday Times readers. A Starbucks will be opening, as will a branch of Waitrose, Financial products companies and an art gallery/bistro.
Special lavatories will be provided, and the St John's Ambulance brigade is on standby.
So lets make Half Awake Sunday a day to remember.
Many thanks to you all. You will be watched.

To Those Who Danced - Thankyou.

A huge thankyou to those of you who danced. Our efforts have been rewarded, and may well be added to if the overnight forecast is accurate.
Managed to get into Regent's Park for this afternoon's blizzard - had to chase after it a bit because the cloud wasn't that big and was moving quite fast - the sun came out behind me. By the time I got to Baker Street, it was over, but what a glorious twenty minutes.
Hopefully, the country will be brought to it's knees by tomorrow.
It could well be D-day for the rabbits tomorrow, although as a humanitarian act, we might offer them refuge until the thaw - especially now there's a food shortage. Nobody ever got the big C off a Rabbit. Plenty of other diseases, Mixamatosis and Bugsbunnyitis, but when every last product is removed from the shelves, and mere mortals are forced to eat each other, Lollipop and Lenny will see us through until the crisis is over.
Watched University Challenge tonight and did reasonably well. I tried not to answer anything until I'd pressed an imaginary buzzer on my leg. Quite what the Missus though I was up to is anybody's guess.
So, Hunter S has finally put his guns to constructive use...It'll be Spector next. Love em both of course, and may well do the same when the time comes. Lovely film of Hunter S drinking a bottle of Absinthe with Johnny Depp in Aspen- getting absolutely gonzo. The bottle was supplied by yours truly...It's a long story. The Germ Organization won't even bother denying responsibility this time.
Easter eggs are in the shops.

Snowman

Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls around the world, it is with great pleasure that I can announce - It's snowing. Roll out Prokofiev's Troika, strap on the sleighbells and get ready to ride.
Lets not get over exited just yet - it's not quite a winter wonderland, but I feel it in me bones - we're in for a whiteout. The clouds look like they're about to drop the mother load - it's cold and dry....so what I'd like you all to do, wherever you are, is a little snow dance -It doesn't have to be anything too extravagant, just a shimmy and a shake - just enough to show that we mean business. Those of you living in tropical climates are asked to participate as well, if you'd be so kind. We'd do the same for you, if you wanted a monsoon or something. Lets make the greatest white powder known to man pour forth - blizzards, power cuts, a new Ice age to last until the first week of May, where it can be swapped for a Bluebell wood and a fertility dance.
I've been a bit miserable of late - and a bit naughty, so apologies for the irregularity of my postings. Still, I think I might have turned a corner of debauchery - at least for a while, so now I can return to productivity. I almost have a valid excuse anyway...apart from boredom, there was filming for University Challenge - not the actual quiz yet, but a profile film of our team. Why is it, directors and photographers always assume that our natural habitat is in a bar getting innebriated? What about a library...it's alway bar...drink this drink that. Of course we do, then end up drunk and wanting to get drunker. Mobile phone calls ensue to people who only have initials and will meet us in five minutes outside. The second greatest white powder known to man.
I have paranoid fantasies of being arrested - nipping off to the pub toilets for a line, coming back into the bar, only to discover it's a police station. As I'm dragged to the cells by the gentleman with the burberry baseball cap, who has now removed his disguise, and is quite clearly Sir Ian Blair, flanked by Michael Howard and a tv news crew, I desperately protest that I am not middle class, but have very humble origins. Ah, the fear.
Then of course it was the NME party - to be sober at an event like this is just not on.
Annyway, it's sunday tomorrow - church, cleansing of mind body and soul...If I manage to wake up in time, which I never have done before. I can trhow myself at the priest's feet and confess my sins in front of the congregation. How do you think that will sit with the school selectors?
Look, it's stopped snowing - who's not dancing ?...come on, get with it.

A short message from your correspondent

Not feeling too clever today I'm afraid. Over indulged last night - even though I was careful not to. In my favour, I was far from the worst offender, I made it home in one piece, and even managed some paternal duties - such as putting the Mary Mungo and Midge dvd on rotation, and pretending to be awake.
Went to the Loog records party last night - the post NME awards bash for the smart money...excellent it was too. Delighted to report that no apologies or expanations are required, or at least if they are - I've completely forgotten. Managed to hold conversations that lasted more that five seconds. Strange not to be the one rolling on the floor vomitting anymore - halcyon days. Of course, I might be blogging myself an alibi here...do you think it would hold up in a court of law? Had Harold Shipman written a blog where he expounded the wonders of medicine, and the joys of healing the slightly unwell, he'd still be mass murdering to his heart's content..
So it is that our weeks adventure with the rabbits is shortly to draw to a close. I must admit that they haven't been the most stimulating companions - once the sex floor show was over, they didn't really have much to offer in terms of entertainment. Gave up trying to rescue Lenny from his sodomite cell mate. Came to the conclusion that he didn't actually mind that much after all.

Lollipop Rape Latest

I no longer care about Lollipop raping Lenny. He'sd started on us now.

The Germ Organization Announce the General Election

As Big Ben prepares to toll it's midnight bell, another weekend melts like snow into the hard ground of next week's prosaic sod. Sorry about that. I know that is not the greatest sentence ever committed to posterity. Anyway, another weekend over. I've hit the Jamesons, so forgive me if I come over all lyrical and maudlin.
Yet again, we've failed to go to church. I say this not as a religious man, but as a hypocrite who'd like to get his offspring into a decent school. What the hell are we to do? There are a few other boxes to tick on the application form, but God bothering is right at the top. Third box down is 'other reasons your child should be condsidered for a C of E school'. I'm trying to think of some cast iron, solid gold certs to put. How about 'because the head of your governors was spotted entering the star of the east massage parlour at three in the afternoon and leaving at three in the morning? or, I am a property developer who will buy and bulldoze you if you don't...or our daughter is the devil, and only you can save the world from her.
Looks like she'll be going to 'Crack Whore High' afterall. At least we tried.
I'm feeling confused and slightly guilty. Who am I going to vote for in the next election. I can't see myself voting for a war criminal, a conservative - other than Boris or Jazzman Ken, and although my family have always voted liberal, Charles Kennedy is a ginger abortion...perhaps that'as a bit unfair, but I am drunk. I often imagine standing myself - 'Moore - Aesthetic Jihad..takes Wokingham from the tories'. It's a 100% swing to Aesthetic Jihad. The executions start here.
I like politics and I love elections. My dear departed Dadster was the agent for the libs in Wokingham during the elections of the sevs. Although they never stood a cat in hells's chance, these were my Tom Sawyer/Huck Finn days. Flypostering, opposition poster ripping and chucking eggs and setting traps. I was genuinely scared of consevatives - You could tell they were evil...wobbling double chins. Wokingham is of course the safest Tory seat in the country. John Klingon Redwood is the mp. When I was growing up, it was a Dutchman/Auschwitz guard called Willem Van Straubenzee. Nobody questioned his asylum/euro credentials. Innoccent days. Simple days. Labour were too common, tories too posh...Politicians need charisma. Where the fuck is David Ownen when we need him? I remember being caught egging the tory campaign office on Rose Street, and being dragged in there...like being captured by the nazis. My father had to pretend he hadn't put me up to it when he collected me. I was well rewarded.

Rape Rabbit Rape Rabbit Rape Rape Rape

As I mentioned earlier, I have to look after the nursery school rabbits - Lollipop and Lenny. Anybody got any tips? Lenny is rather placid, and keeps being raped by Lollipop. I don't like to interfere in the course of nature, but I think some behavioural psychology might be in order. I don't think that Lenny enjoys being repeatedly sodomised ....oh god, where are the Morrissey chatroom boys when you need them for a bit of advice? I'm tempted to go over to their place, and throw myself on their mercy - I know Belton would be a mine of information on Lapisexualis. Look, Beltie, if you're peeking in, I need you. No hard feelings - I've got a real problem here. Ava keeps asking what they're doing - I tell her it's prison behaviour...when you've spent that much time in captivity, gender becomes less important.
I'm not meaning to come over all Buju Banton here - a delicious image nonetheless, but I don't think it aint natural -god he din create de man rabbit to lie wid de buck. Na man, a buck rabbit is spose to lie wid a woman rabbit innit. 'Boom Bye Bye in a batty rabbit head' so they say in the dancehalls of Jamaica, and Kilburn. I gonna put a bible in de hutch...an some Henry Miller books...De Rabbit of Capricon.
Poor little Lenny can't defend himself. He just trembles as Lollipop mounts his hind quarters and gyrates. I know this scene repeats itself nightly throughout the land, both in prison and in the prisons of our own imagination, but, these are nursery school rabbits for god sake. Bunnies...not category A nonse wing superheros.
If there is a rabbit psychologist amounst you, I beseech you to come forward. How would you like to be Lollipop's prison bitch?

Run Rabbit Run

Well thank god that's over. Slightly incapacitated yesterday, by the residue
of celebratory beverages from Wednesday night's little musical soiree. Thanks
to all those who participated, rescued, applauded, cajoled, suspended
critical faculties and refrained from physical violence. This was the first
time I've played in well over a year, and the first time I've played unaided
by people with competence, talent and physical attributes for at least six.
You forget the minor essentials, like actually knowing the entire song from
start to finish...words, chords etc. With BBR, we knew 100% of every song,
but very rarely at the same time. Mostly our combined knowledge would cover
the holes, and if things ever did go 'tits up' ( my phrase of the day ) there
was always somebody to glare at as if it was their mistake.

It was sometime towards the end of Tuesday evening that I decided to actually
test myself on what I knew...with terrifying consequences. I'd assumed that
if I slept with the lyrics close to my head, they would replant themselves
into my brain, and I would be all loaded and ready to fire laser guided
missiles. Well it's a good job I did this, or like the US airforce being
commanded by bomber Harris on a particularly drunken night, those laser
guided missiles would have gone all over the shop, striking hospitals,
schools and pet shops.

Back to old fashioned methods then, I actually practised - not until perfect,
but until a lynching was no longer inevitable.

So it was, the gig passed without too much trouble. My guitar didn't turn to
lettuce and my trousers stayed up...the mark of success. Jovial banter, some
wayward singing...just within the bounds of tolerable I think. Anyway, this
will be the first of a whole new batch.


Yesterday, rock'n'roll's shallow glamour gave way to an all together more
life threatening situation....and exceptionally cruel to a man with a raging
hangover.

The more progenous of you, might know that next week is half term. We have
been entrusted with entertaining Lollipop and Lenny, Ava's nursery school
rabbits.

They arrived yesterday afternoon, in a blaze of sawdust, carrot peelings and
straw. They have taken up residence in our living room. I couldn't face
putting them in the garden. We have a slight fox prblem, that could escalate
into full scale urban carnage should we put these two tasty morsels where
they can be got at. Forget impending university challenge humiliation or poor
record reviews. Imagine being known as the man who killed the nursery school
rabbits. I have several petshops on hold should a tragedy occur.Lolipop and
Lenny have been photographed, measured and weighed. Replacements are all
lined up. Any one for stew?

Wacko Jacko, Dotty Doherty and Bert Weedon's Fingers

Morning rat fans - or to the clockwatchers amonst you, good afternoon. It's only just reached the midday point ,so I feel justified in my a.m assertions.
Just heard that young Peter Doherty has had his collar felt yet again. This is not good news, as I believe there is a suspended sentence hanging over him...who would break a butterfly on the wheel? Practically everyone these days. What about a deathshead moth responsible for corrupting the sweet handmaidens of albion...the time for stripey suits and vaseline may once again be close at hand. We have our very own Michael Jackson. There's a joke in here somewhere, and if I find it, I'll let you know. What was that funny policeman saying about a crackdown on middle class drug use? Well now you've got your man Mr Blair, you can cancel operation 'raid my dinner party'.

Any way, I'm supposed to be talking about my empty eventless existence, not someone elses thrill a minute. Some of you will be pleased to know that I've taken my guitar out of it's case. I am refamiliarizing myself with it. Hopefully, some form of psychic osmosis will occur. I've got a little shrine. All the lyrics are typed out, plectrum and capo laid next to them. By the end of today, I'll be posessed with the fingers of Bert Weedon and the memory of a particularly vindictive camel. I did try actually playing some songs at the weekend, but was immediately set upon by my daughter telling me to stop at once.
Anyway, those of you who attend next Wednesday's bash won't be expecting music will you? In the spirit of modernity, I'll spend most of the gig crowd surfing, before being led from the venue by friends and security staff and placed in the ambulance back to Fairmile. Thankyou for your time.

Equus and the Speedophile

A fine weekend spent in the picturesque Berkshire countryside, accompanied by Ava Moore - the young one that I claim working families tax credit for, not the actress. I must say though, I've forgiven Femmke whatsit, and extend a warm open invitation should she wish to come and make ammends. There are some lovely local churches and country walks. Best of all, if she's a fan of trains, we could stroll over to Ufton Nervet for a look at the railway crossing.
Young Ava and I visited our favourite places, fed the friendly horses with grass and polos which they nuzzled from our hands. It's difficult to get close to a horse without thinking of Equus - fortunately I controlled myself.
A visit to the swimming pool provided a pleasant hours entertainment. Toddlers learning to swim, splashing about in armbands, while hairy backed fathers beamed with pride and floated like water buffalo. Not me obviously. 'I am an smooth man'.
One slightly worrying fellow...It's hard not to slip into Sun reader mentality occasionally. Didn't seem to be with anybody, just basking in the shallow end. I felt rather guilty about my immediate judgement of him as a ...what's the word - speedophile. It takes a lot of guts ( no pun intened )to go swimming alone if you're a single overweight male with nothing but exercise on your mind. As he pounded the water with what I believe to have been a butterfly stroke, the radio station playing over the pool's tannoy system, which until that moment had been easy to ignore background muzak- delivered its contribution to the procedings. Hearing Michael Jackson's 'The way you make me Feel' played in a smimming pool filled with small children and hairybacked men in goggles and shorts is nothing short of chilling. I wonder if he'd requested it?
Anyway, good night, I'm off to form a lynchmob and howl at the moon

Ava Maria

Have you heard of a programme called Nip and Tuck? You know, channel four slightly black comedy about plastic surgery. Well, these fuckers have stolen the name of my daughter. Yes, apparently there is a character called Ava Moore. How dare they. I am googling frantically, to trace some link between the writers and myself...Obviously I'll sue for millions - I'll probably discover that my mother is the executive producer or something. This - as any parent of rare yet tastefully named offspring knows, is a calamity. She's only three for christ sake. I didn't anticipate another run of Avas on the popular name list for years. Now, twatting channel four 'US alternative lifestyle intelligent types' will be calling their three wheel pushchair, fourwheel drive monsters Ava. It'll be the new Sophie or god forbid - Kylie...no nothing could be that bad. On the plus side, the actress who plays my daughter is quite lovely...I say that as a father foremost, but also as a man. Femke Jannsen is her name. Well, if her fans are as anal as the Mozquitos, she'll soon be getting wind of the gravity of her situation - as will the writers of Nip and Tuck. I is not 'appy. Watch what you write. Don't make me curse you. Show some respect, or the runaway train driven by a headless goat is coming to a tv awards ceremony near you.
My next children will be called Elsie Tanner, Ena Sharples and Stan Ogden. I defy anybody to use those names.

University Challenge

It's the most depressing day of the year apparently - post Christmas blues, debt and the realization that you are incapable of sticking to your resolutions, and that life will be precisely the same as last year - unless it becomes worse.
Well I am not in the slightest bit depressed - at least I wasn't. Finally, it looks like we might be in for some snow. In fact, it already has snowed...for a few minutes. I'm waiting for the mother load to blanket London and cut us off for weeks. Ava is wondering around with some sleighbells, so the mood is set. Just a couple of modifications to the snow dance and the land will be magical and the pavements will be lethal. Who actually preferred Narnia when the eternal winter had gone? I'm on the side of the white witch, so watch out you meddling kids.
I'm going to be on University Challenge. Yes you did just read that, You are are not hallucinating - well you might be, but this is real.
I will be part of a team from The Idler magazine, selected to be humiliated by Jeremy Paxman. Our science expert Blur's Alex James and I, will make television history, as the first people to appear on both University Challenge and Top of the Pops - unless you know different.
Filming takes place in Manchester in March. That should give me plenty of time to eat some fish.
Anyway enough of this levity. I have something extremely disturbing to report.
The fucking boiler is on the blink again. Unbelievable. And the sun's come out. Come on White Witch, lets make it winter again.

Providence and Fez Upgrading

Willpower finally cracked. I was doing very well, but suddenly the bad Johnny attempted one last surge. Before I knew what had hit me, I was half way down the road, heading towards the chemist. Now here's the rub...fortune carried me along until I spotted the the most beautiful genuine Morroccan fezs for sale on a market stall outside the chemists. a snip at five pounds.I've been meaning to upgrade for a while now.
As I type this, a nicorette melts deliciously on my cancerous old licker, while an exqiusite claret Al-Kair Luxe size eight sits atop my once fractured brain box.
Some things are just beyond explaination.

A Service of Remembrance

If a tree falls in the forest but nobody sees it, does it really fall...and other such questions.
By mistake, I arrived at work today. That sentence should be complete. However, not only did I arrive, I arrived early...before anybody else. Sadly, those who's eyes would have popped out of their heads, are not here today - probably why everybody else was late.
I held a remembrance service yesterday for the brain cells and liver who laid down their lives in the line of duty on Wednesday night.This involved remaining in bed all day in a blissful reverie - with the occasional groan thrown in.
Had to defend my decision to blog, with a very cynical friend, who pointed out that I am prone to fadism. His justification for this slur on my already tarnished reputation was that I was the first person he knew to have a camera phone. It hardly makes me Toad of Toad Hall...poop poop.

I'm debating with myself whether or not today is the day for givng up nicorettes...even typing the word is swinging it for the nay sayers. 'Don't stop, you love em...you deserve a treat'
The good Johnny is yelling " But your tongue feels like a cancer riddled slug...and they're expensive...you might as well smoke fags again"
The bad Johnny has seen his opportunity for some real mischief here. " That's not a bad idea...your lungs have had some time off, they'd be delighted to have a bit of smoke in them again...you could just smoke the occasional one - for old time's sake".
Perhaps some nicorettes will be the lesser evil after all. How can you give up anything on Friday - except for fish and toil..Abstinence is not for the weekend.
Talking of which, I am again toying with the idea of rehearsing...it might be for the best.

Still no sign of snow - perhaps the dance needs a few more steps.

Snow Dance

Ah good evening. I hope the punctuation is better tonight.
Today has been disappointing, I was hoping for snow...I really felt that we might be lucky. Woke up to reports of attrocious weather conditions in certain parts of the land, and imagined they'd have no option but to head south. I confidently predicted to all who'd listen that we'd be rolling around in the park by tea time, temporarily lost in a winter wonderland. My daughter did her snow dance - at my behest, and I am now in the unenviable position of having to explain that it hasn't worked. Still, there's always tomorrow.

The Mortuary Cook Book

Start the week - an occasional series with your host John Moore.
Good morning. On today’s programme, we’ll be discussing the important issues
of the day, we’ll have some singing from our guests, and one of you will get
a celebrity makeover.
Oh it’s too early to sustain this high level of humour, so forgive me for
lapsing back into blandness, triteness and sneering at easy targets. I’ve
woken up?not sure for how long, to the start of another week. The ladies
have left the house and so I am in the luxurious position of being able to
go back to sleep should I so desire. My services are not required until
midday, when I trudge up the hill to retrieve the fruit of my loins from
nursery school. What the bloody hell am I doing talking to you then?
Actually, I think I will go back to bed?I’m in bed as it happens. I’ll
summon up another dream?better set the alarm though.
I’m on my second coffee and second nicorette. These addictions will have to
go. It’s all very well giving up smoking and hard boozing, but I’m deceiving
myself if I think that I’m cleaning up. There’s more nicotine and caffeine
floating around the system than ever before. Oh well, I’ve got a donor card.
When the rest of me packs up, there’ll be a pretty decent reconditioned
liver and two refurbished lungs up for grabs. Perhaps I’ll put them on ebay.
I don’t mind who has them - even a Morrissey fan. What about getting Hugh
Fearnley -Whittingstall in to cook them. I could be served up at my own
wake. This could catch on. Cannibal wakes. Very middle class. The Mortuary
Cookbook. Memo to myself..ring channel 4.
I’ve still got some of my father’s ashes. I keep them in an antique bakelite
Ovaltine mug, with some of my daughter’s hair. They never met you see, so
in some small way, I am introducing them. I took the ashes to my
wedding?they leaked out a bit. I’ll scatter them eventually - when I go to
the right place. South America would be good. He was the South America
salesman for Guinness years ago, when travelling was still an adventure?long
before the invention of the widget.
Had a lovely walk on Hampstead Heath yesterday with the girls - almost felt
like a grown up.
Anyway, I’ve over exerted myself now. It’s time for a rest. Good morning.

From Our Own Correspondent

Is it only a week since the outbreak of hostilities with the Salford Boy's club?
It seems like a lifetime since Brad and his sheep, Hector heckle and the Rusholme ruffians injected their particular brand of wit into our musty oak panelled talking shop.
We've had a veritable meat rack of tough talking boys in our midst this past seven days. It's a wonder Gary Glitter hasn't turned up with a net.
So another weekend begins, rich in possibilities. Shall it be a spin in the motor car, a stretch of the legs in the foothills of deepest Berkshire, or a quick dash to the corner shop to stock up on essentials for a siege. Definitely a spot of rehearsing wouldn't go amiss.
I believe Marc Riley will be spinning a song from Half Awake on his wireless program tomorrow afternoon ? That's Saturday between 3 and 5 on BBC 6music. You need a special listening device to receive it of course, a digital radio, but I believe that those with cable television can also tune in. You'd be crazy not to.
Actually made it out last night to see some bands. Bidgie Reef and the Gas, Art Brut, The Fades and Ciccone ? all really good and totally different. Had a very good time, and even though I drunk quite a bit, felt fine this morning. My slightly reduced booze intake must be working wonders with my liver ? perhaps it won't need replacing after all.
Well that's about it really for now ? except, I think I have sorted out a way to post this immediately. Here's a test. It's 10.48 in my neck of the woods,let's see what t