30 January 2005

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

27 January 2005

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.

24 January 2005

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.

21 January 2005

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.

18 January 2005

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.

17 January 2005

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.

14 January 2005

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 time this appears.

Noblesse Oblige

Lovely piece in the Guardian about a blogger getting the old heave ho from Waterstones for his satirical blog. We're all failed/imaginary newspaper columnists. If you're going to spray your innermost thoughts on the big wall, remember that Big brother might be watching...or M15. If you're going to skive off work, at least have the brains to concoct an alibi.
Owing to my having been horribly scorched rescuing children from the burning orphanage last night, I am unable to reach my desk this morning. This is terribly disappointing because I love my job....that kind of thing.
Mark Thatcher's got the right idea. 'I didn't realize that helicopter was for a military coup, I though I was buying an air ambulance'. Wonderful. Dubya should hire his pr. ' We didn't invade Iraq, we were looking for a contact lens'. Noblesse Oblige.
Also becoming more and more impressed with young Prince Harry. Christ, what's the problem? It's not like he's the first royal to goosestep. That's what they all wear when the shutters are down. His mistake was forgetting to get changed before going out.
By the way - with blogging becoming the new gardening, there appears to be a twenty-four hour time lag between posting and publishing. Just so you know, it's Thursday lunchtime.
Just heard that the Kabbalah centre - Madonna's lot, has been accused of exploiting the 'Thick, weak and vulnerable' Excellent - keeps them off my site.

13 January 2005

The Burial of Sir John Moore after Corunna - Charles Wolfe

The Burial of Sir John Moore at Corunna

Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light
And the lanthorn dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest
With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,--
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done
When the clock struck the hour for retiring:
And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,
But left him alone with his glory.

-- Charles Wolfe

12 January 2005

The Germ Organization Deny Responsibility again

I see that the greater Los Angeles area has been experiencing some inclement
weather. Coming as it does, so soon after my threat to lay waste to the west
coast of America, I would like to make it clear that this is merely
coincidence.
It will clear up tomorrow.

As a special offer to loyal customers, purchases of 'Half Awake' will be
accompanied by next week's Lottery Numbers.

The Mouse that Roared

> Top of the morning to you...these blog things are a bit slow getting on to
> the site sometimes, so it might not be morning by the time you read it...I
> can assure you, the little hand is not much past nine - Impressive ain't it.
>
> Well we seem to have made some progress with clearing out the chatroom
> bacteria...another few days and the water will be fit to drink again.
> Well done to all of you for keeing a clear head and rising above it. We did not feel the need to pay any visits -
> It would have made Dunblane look like a fair fight.
> Our glorious season in the sun is fading now - like a non league football
> team being drawn against Manchester United in the cup, or a sleepy town thrown into the spot light by the death of their beloved MP, who's by -election could swing the balance of power.
> Now that the big guns and tv lights have left town, it
> will take a while for us to get back to our old leisurely pace. Having tasted champagne, some might be less than willing to go quietly back to sipping the waters from our well. Beneficial as they are.
>
> Don't forget to visit the shop, where 'Half Awake' can be purchased or even sampled at no cost to yourselves...well not financial anyway.
>
>
>
>

10 January 2005

Mozzquito - Net

And so on it goes, the great debate - should I be crucified for 'Herissey',
or let off with a warning and a hundred 'Hail Morrissey's'.
The Mozzquito's are still swarming, distracted from their usual pursuits,
but tomorrow is a school day and that homework needs to be done.

I thought I might be dragged from my bed in the middle of the night, tied up
and bundled into the back of a pedal car, then driven to a warehouse on the
outskirts of Toy town for a punishment beating...not as yet. As Dennis Healy
once remarked, when attacked in the house by the late William Whitelaw 'It's
like being savaged by a sheep'. Several sheep in my case...or if farmer Brad
from Perth is included, several million of the beasts.

I wonder if there are any other dainty deities whose fans get even more
hissy when their collective snout is put out of joint? Who else's'
custodians and museum keepers, would gladly strap on the explosives belt and
jump aboard the John Moore bandwagon? The Beatles perhaps, Ronan Keating
possibly. It's academic really, because I love them both.
If I were Mr Morrissey - which has been firmly pointed out to me that I am
not, I might be tempted to put you to better use. Mozzama Bin Laden has a
certain ring to it don't you think?

Anyway, on to other matters. The boiler continues to delight with its ready
supply of hot water and heating.
Played musical saw on my pals Art Brut's album, and attended the launch of
'The Mind's Construction' magazine, which I tip to rival the great 'Strand
Magazine.'

So that's it, the day draws to a close.
On a slightly sour note, Mrs Jones say's that there's been vandalism in the
chatroom again and that if she catches the boys responsible, she'll box
their ears. Goodnightx

08 January 2005

Some Will be Spared

By the way, thanks to the Moz fans who actually defended me, and my right to
be a bile spewing bitch. Much appreciated.
Any seismic activity directed to the greater Los Angeles area will be highly
selective. It will recognize your kindness to me in a time of crisis and
spare you. You will not be affected.

And of course, if the esteemed man does come across this humble cottage
website - no offence was intended, I really did enjoy you at Reading -
especially the attacks on Radio One and the Thames Valley Police. The corset
remark was mere idle speculation. I take it the Thames Valley Police fan
club didn't deluge your site with abuse...oh they did.

"It was Mark Binney Miss"

If you're going to leave a horses head in my bed, please remember to detach
it from the body - extremely uncomfortable night's sleep.
Morning Rat fans...yes, I'm still alive. So far the assassination attempts
have fallen short of the mark...a couple of windows shot out as I walked to
the post office, and a drive-by, but luckily the bullets ricocheted off me
and went through the orpnanage - so no harm done.
The last of the obscene graffiti is being scrubbed from the walls of my
chatroom by volunteers, and the person who 'did his nasty' on my desk has
been identified as Mark Binney - and severely caned in front of the whole
school.
It's strange to get irate messages from across the world. This internet is a
powerful tool. There was a time when I could only offend those within
earshot - family members and long suffering friends. Now I can upset the
world, and be 'a noob' 'less than zero' and heap shame upon myself, all from
the comfort of my living room.
To those interested in geographic social anthropology, last night's little
episode has brought up some interesting points. The people who took such
umbrage at my casual bile, all seem to be living on the west coast of
America...along the San Andreas fault line. In a state governed by an
Austrian Nazi bodybuilder. In this slice of Mars on earth, there seems to
exist small colonies of boys and girls - mostly boys I'd hazzard, who
believe it's still 1985. In this artificially irrigated paradise, Brett
Easton Ellis is still in High School and The Breakfast Club is showing at
the local mall.
Somehow, by linking the M word with the word 'Girdle',these boys have woken
up, their antennae flashing and rayguns a'blazing "w.e. a.r.e. u.n.d.e.r
a.t.t.a.c.k..u.n.d.e.r. a.t.t.a.c.k..e.x.t.e.r.m.i.n.a.t.e.
e.x.t.e.r.m.i.n.a.t.e." Well you can go back to sleep now you cheeky monkeys
- it was just a bad dream, somebody must have spiked your PG Tips.
Do not ring the Devil's doorbell again....or he might send a tremor up your
faultline. Anyway, please don't make me be the bad Johnny.

The good Johnny is back, and happy to report that the boiler is installed,
the water is hot and it's more than his conscience that is clean.
So there.

By the way, Luke Haines is coming for dinner tonight, so I'll let him into
the chatroom - provided he wipes his feet. Shall we say about nine? London
time.

07 January 2005

Big Mouth Strikes Again

So it seems that my words have come back to haunt me...I've put my foot in
it and incurred the wrath of Mozzaphiles...yikes.
I haven't been subjected to such a torrent of abuse since this afternoon
when I walked past the fruit and veg stalls of the Goldborne Rd wearing a
Deerstalker. Apparently these delightful and conscientious skallywags took
exception to my description of SPM as having a face like a bag of
marshmallows, and a stomach held in by a girdle. WHERE IS THE OFFENCE IN
THAT? My own face resembles nothing so luxurious.
Don't you think that being long in the tooth and still prancing about is
even more faded music hall romantic. To cake on the grease paint, stick in
the dentures then wobble around in the spot light for a bit. Did anyone see
the New York Dolls recently? - fabulous and terrifying. God, it takes me
three hours to get my socks on.
I'm being self deprecating of course - people often ask me the secret of my
youthful complexion...afterbirth and whale semen are my tip. As Beryl Reed
would no doubt say if she met me in a graveyard " What a smooth skin you
have on you."
Any way, If we can keep this war of words going, we'll knock the Tsunami
off the front pages by Sunday.

Perhaps my website should challenge his website to a fight? They'd trample
us to death of course, but our corpses would spread disease.

Every Friday night from now on, I propose, we get a gang up on the site, get
lagered up, then attack another site. Doesn't have to be Morrissey, it
could be anybody. The Pope, the Queen, for no other reason than mischief. We
could call it 'You spilled my pint'. We'll have strategists, generals,
troops...any takers?
Anyhow, it's way past my bedtime...Goodnight.

The C(o)unt of Monte Cristo

Top of the morning to you. Finally managed to begin while the dew is still
on the grass and comfortably overfed people trot out cliches on breakfast
television. The morning serenity is only pierced by the clanking of the
boiler man in the other room, going about his business. Yes, I couldn't wait
any longer rock'n'roll motherfuckers. Today will end with yours truly in non
metaphorical hot water...perleease.
Finally got the Black Box Recorder mailing list from One Little Indian, so I
can do a little direct marketing. These are people who filled out a form in
Passionoia, and actually wanted to be kept updated...now they will be.
Unfortunately, the list isn't quite as vast as I'd hoped. Perhaps there is
another one somewhere as well. Slightly embarrassing to do it, but I think
I'll have to send an email to many people, pointing out that their lives
will be sad, short and grey unless 'You buy Half Awake today...hey hey' or
something along those lines.
I believe that it's also important to get website links...preferably to
sites that receive a lot of hits. To this end, I shall be approaching Paris
Hilton, Jordan and the Disaster Relief Fund.
I've been trying to write my own press release...it's harder than it sounds.
Writing other peoples' is a piece of .... but to talk about yourself in the
third person is not. ' he is the best thing since sliced bread...he's very
good at playing the guitar...he's got a way with words...he's influenced by
Aleister Crowley and Britney Spears...' Difficult you see. And self
censorship. Too much information is worse that none at all. Most of you
reading this might have deduced my now, that I am not living on a private
island smoking Monte Cristos surrounded by naked ladies drip feeding me
champagne...but should I let the man who writes for the Milton Keynes Argos
into this secret?
To tell you the truth, it's only the island and the champagne that are
lacking. I am surrounded by ladies in various states of dishevelment - one
I'm married to, the other's nappy I have to change...daughter - before you
ask. They are safely back from Cuba, severely jet-lagged....but guess what -
they brought me Monte Cristos.
On a sobering note...(not that I need one, clean liver fans - I'm off the
sauce again), Sarah now tells me that this once in a lifetime family holiday
to Cuba was actually a toss up between Castro's Socialist peoples' republic
and the island paradise of Phuket. Nuff Said.

05 January 2005

Nocturnal Emissions

Well, another night, another nocturnal emission, to stain the sheets of
decency.
Endured a moderate day thank you very much. Very little of note to report
except that I am getting stung for a new boiler...a fortune that could have
taken me across the world by aeroplane, clothed me in finely tailored cloth
or put organic vegetables on the dining table for several months. Being
grown up means sacrificing one's pleasure for the good of loved ones -
pleasure enough to see their rosy faces, happy in the knowledge that they
are warm, washed and pleasant on the olfactory organs.
I'd like to thank the many people who have purchased 'Half Awake', and put
this picture in to your minds. Your generosity will go some way towards
paying for my family's heat and hot water. As you listen to the songs of
damaged life and distant beauty, you are permitted a brief imaginary glimpse
of our modest little bathroom, and the grateful little family happily
abluting in the steam. Nothing sordid of course, just a peek through the
shower curtain into our lives - in a non Norman Bates way of course.

I don't know if it's the done thing, to encourage criminal activity in a
blog, or to solicit illegally acquired goods, but if there are any of you
out there reading this, of a generous, and slightly illegal disposition, and
you happen to live close to a boiler shop - perhaps your father runs the
town hardware store and is snoring upstairs...well, if you could see your
way clear to nicking a combination condenser boiler, no questions will be
asked and eternal gratitude will be assured...I shall be in the market for a
new car at some stage...in fact, why not dispense with trying to flog the
odd record and set my self and this site up as the first modern virtual
Dickensian fence site...oh fuck it, I forgot that ebay has beaten me to it.

So there you are, I'll just have to sell more records. There are a few left
I think..I read in a book about marketing that this is the kind of thing
you're supposed to say...create panic buying. Well, it's me who'll be doing
the panicking if you don't do the buying. I know David Bowie sells his
records through the net, but I think he must have a bigger shed than
me..they take up quite a bit of space you know.
I'd like to reassure potential customers of course, that my rapidly
diminishing stock of 'Half Awake' is kept in a temperature controlled (
extremely temperature controlled until the new boiler arrives) environment,
guarded around the clock by savage dogs, ancient curses and machine gun
toting child soldiers.

I am going to say goodnight now. The ice is forming.

03 January 2005

Night and Day

I think the best time for blog writing is the morning. These evening ones
don't suit. They don't roll off the brain onto the screen so easily. By
nightfall, the day has usually delivered it's promises, or thrown up it's
surprises - the tone is set. By night time, only artificial sweeteners can
improve the taste...Catch 22...then it's goodbye to tomorrow morning.

I've reluctantly returned to the capital city of Great Britain. Not at all
happy or reassured to see the same old beggars at the station, the same
neighbors lights on, knowing that their Christmas decorations will be up and
strobing for another month or two yet.
The boiler has grudgingly warmed the radiators, but is making very ugly
noises, which can be roughly translated as "If you think you're getting a
hot shower tomorrow morning you can fuck off baby". I am appalled at the
prospect of having to do some work tomorrow. Perhaps I'll die in the night.
It wouldn't be the first time.

Just finished 1977 by David Peace. Thought 1974 was wonderful, but this one
was a pain...too many dreams...not enough anything. I should be the literary
critic for the Sunday Times. I am not about to start a bloody book reading
circle.

No doubt the world of music will be jumping up and down and climbing over
itself to help out the Tsunami fund...and itself. Will this be the first
time a charity record has been knocked off number one by another charity
record? Is that a record? Should we call the Guinness Book of records. Well
don't let the Band Aid Lot anywhere near it is my advice. Or Brian Wilson. I
refuse to be cynical here, but for certain 'artists', and their 'creative'
teams, there is something of an over exposure doing good complex dilemma
here. Perhaps the best solution is not to release a star studded sing-a-long
at all - for there to be no need to. For every body to have given every bit
of spare cash to the fund anyway, without having to look at Bono's ugly mug
vomiting cliches through their newly acquired 48 inch wide plasma screen
TVs, with built in dvd players.
It's precisely this vindictive bitterness that is the reason I should try to
write in the mornings...It must be a vitamin D deficiency.
Anyway, I'm knocking off now....have to mention though that this computer
has just given me it's first useful piece of advice. I ran the spell check.
Bono's name came up. The computer recommended I simply 'Ignore'. Sound
advice, and proof that artificial intelligence is on the up.
Sleep tight, don't have any nightmares, and if you survive until tomorrow,
we'll meet again.

Decompression

Happy New Year, a little bit late perhaps, ringing slightly hollow in light of recent events, but heartfelt nonetheless - more or less. Yes, I'm on the return journey now - almost back in the smoke for another round of poisoning. I must admit, I've had more relaxing vacances...that's French you know - but my aches and pains are self induced, thoroughly deserved, and thankfull, receding.
Bucolic pleasures, over indulgence, and a reacquaintence with chemicals I'd almost forgotten existed have kicked 2005 off at a decent trot. Slightly odd, not listening to Big Ben chime midnight witht the nearest and dearest, Auld lang Syne, a little snog and the popping of corks, but there you are...Not much I could do about that. Disfunctionality is not a crime.
I've managed to resist the call to become a Conservative parliamentary candidate - it's a long story, but eventually decency prevailed. Still, I do have time for Boris, and I like a well cut suit...it's just the politics that leave a bit to be desired. Mind you, they do say that the older you get the further to the right you go...you're not likely to see me on the next Red Wedge tour either. If I'm going to do politics, I'll have to invent a party...and an idealogy, oh and I've always been a bit light on moral convictions as well. I did mention this to my political new years eve best pal, but was told that this was a very promising start.
Spent all of New Years Day in bed watching the rain, drifting in and out of sleep, thinking about how tiny and powerless we are against nature. Got up at five and watched a swedish film - not that sort, - about a socialist commune in the 1970's. We'd got halfway through before realising that we were only getting the first line of subtitles. It didn't hamper the enjoyment. We just though the Swedes were a bit taciturn.
Must do some gigs soon I think. Nothing for rejuvenating the spirits like a foray into the provinces. A spot of public humiliation and self flaggelation. l  haven't  played for at least a year, so it'll be odd. It's a very unnatural situation, playing funny little songs you scrawled on scraps of paper at inconvenient moments, to a room full of strangers. 'Full' of strangers if you're lucky that is.
I suppose I could try to emulate the Libertines and hold gigs at my house...no, that's out...or come to yours. As long as it's not an Alan Partridge scenario. If we can agree a price, I'll certainly think about it. I'll want feeding though.


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