The Day Ends, how?
The Day Ends now.
The Day Ends when?
The Day Ends then.
The Day Ends again.
“If you tell yourself you are going to be at your desk tomorrow, you are by that declaration asking your unconscious to prepare the material. You are, in effect, contracting to pick up such valuables at a given time.” – Norman Mailer.
Infinite cheers for those glorious words of wisdom, Norman. I also remember you saying something along the lines of “don’t leave your troops out in the rain”, which is something I have always tried to adhere to, until recently.
For reasons of extreme musical concentration, my writer’s brain-troops have been left out in torrential conditions of late. I have not had the energy nor extra focus available to do anything with them. They have been pretty much abandoned and left to dissolve in the acidic storms. Luckily, they are a tough, loyal bunch, and despite the fact that they have had to fend for themselves in the jungle for so long, they have returned with a bright outlook, bearing all kinds of exotic fruits and strange meats.
Klyve superglued Adrian.
Nobody saw it coming, not even Klyve.
Especially not Klyve’s wife, Adrianne.
Weirdly enough, it was Adrian who had more of an inkling.
The ink of self-defence was released, but Klyve superglued Adrian.
What could be gained from this ungainly action?
Tanya did a shit drawing of it.
Took her twenty years to complete.
The elitists insisted that Klyve superglue Adrian.
No d there. There’s no d there.
KNEWT WTTTN VAPFEK!
KNEWT WTTTN VAPFEK!
KNEWT WTTTN VAPFEK!
KNEWT WTTTN VAPFEK!
Air bubbles whizzed through the clear liquid inside a couple of large transparent plastic tubes, in the corner of a room which was lit via disco-mirrorball reflected multicoloured lights. The scene made perfect sense to Wisdom Flunker. He was far too knackered to do anything other than sit in a comfortable chair, slurp and munch on sugar products, close his eyes and soak in the sounds that were being made by Watt and Ped. Watt used octopus tentacles on the keys to create wildly unpredictable melodies through the black box, while Ped tapped, scraped and pressed weathered strings that sent pleasant shocks through to the little red cube. WF was lost in the noise. He enjoyed being lost because it made him feel profoundly found. Time lost all meaning in those moments, but the clock always continued to tick. There was a knock at the door and Watt’s eyes lit up – bulged and widened. His large frame swelled and the blood rushed to his face. Mick pushed the door open and poked his head inside. The noise leaked out into the corridor. Ped continued to expressively strum as he had before, but Watt became frenzied. He cranked the volume up to maximum and hit what seemed like every single key on the board. The noise was like an explosion. Watt didn’t let up. He mercilessly held the cataclysmic combination of full-blast sound signals down for what seemed like an eternity. Ped was laughing. WF was also laughing but well aware of the noise leakage. Mick looked stunned. He bravely entered the room and slammed the door shut behind him in a valiant attempt to minimise corridor disturbance. “LET HIM RIDE IT OUT, MICK!”, WF shouted, “HE CAN’T POSSIBLY KEEP THIS GOING FOR MUCH LONGER!”. But WF was incorrect in his assertion. Watt was flying, vibrating, rumbling – ready to burst. WF knew it was getting serious because the walls were shaking and small chunks of the ceiling were falling off. “WE NEED TO GET TO THE STADIUM!”, WF boomed, “THE TACTILE SPORT PORTAL IS OUR ONLY HOPE… FLICK THAT SWITCH BEHIND YOU!”. WF gestured erratically to Mick, who fortunately knew exactly what to do. The scene filled with static; old fashioned TV static, before going to blue screen and then flashes of digitally glitched high-definition images. The warm noise of a roaring crowd filled the air. WF looked to his right and saw Mick, Watt and Ped cheering. The stadium’s large Lucifer screen made the action slightly easier to follow. WF put on a set of earphones and tried to concentrate…
“We’re gonna snatch victory, Coach, I jus’ know it”, Boilshiberg panted. “We’ve got ’em on the fuckin’ back foot. Maybe it’s time to bring Jelly on?”
“Just concentrate on doing your bloody job, Lance”, Mr Cockboat replied, nonplussed. “Get back out there and leave the sodding tactics to me!”
A split second later, a giant cat’s tongue shot up through the pitch black pitch and wrapped itself around Boilshiberg’s stomach. The tongue pulsated violently and squeezed its victim with an immense force. The cameras zoomed in on the action. “AHHHHHGGFUUUUUUUUCCCCKK!!!”, Boilshiberg screeched. There was a croaking noise for a couple of seconds, similar to a balloon being overinflated, before Boilshiberg’s eyes and brains eventually exploded with a hiss-thud-squelch sound combination. His skull was decimated and his bowels erupted. Captain Blueprint Whiskers immediately drove over to the scene in a smooth white buggy with a huge bag full of sea salt onboard. He slashed the bag open with a laser-knife, grabbed two handfuls of salt and massaged it into the wounds on Boilshiberg’s twitching corpse. The red knowledge was gruesomely absorbed into the crystals without complication. The home crowd went wild and chanted hysterically, “RUBBING SALT INTO OPEN SOURCE! RUBBING SALT INTO OPEN SOURCE!”
“We can’t touch them now, Jelly”, Mr Cockboat sighed. “I’ve never seen a purrfect score like that before. The freedom of S. Peach’s freedom estates go like the alphagamble: ABCD EFG hijk Element P QRS TUV WX y&z English American of neutrons and protons inside spider wives inside monkey coffee America on Unison Utah advantage. But what kind of advantages? gun to get Mrs this is commander Error: no-speech hello worker! ok go back on reading through the new Fabians driving through heady phonics proto funnybone triangulated I can hear upstairs visa of course there would be footsteps rumbling and about to enter via the portal footsteps footsteps footsteps silicone remover buckling anything of intrepid fear percentage. I like it. Port of happy engagement warrior vision of your office chair sorry I was paid in full value of a jar falcon apart by arm-claw work theory of a dead la bamba hello baia baia di ba ba ba ba ba ba baba ba honda birdy mongrel grill can plan to Alice hue piazza chapel inside sports authority you tube a time a few tom penny 2 booking that’s a f****** f****** phone why staring at the foul supper why are you why are you starring out for the u c k I n g? F u c k I n g american c u n t s paddling is involved in a burning his stuff up I want to mouth like mine in 20 vs show all I’m sick of sperm f****** disgusting piece this is the last on a side is man city screening interview phone police all over all over there not a microphone that’s enough of this s*** Okay I have to pay the bully time MTV came out results Social Solutions in the TV come out with all sorts of problems and Son microphones and earphones on microwaves how long how long how long how long – “You’re going to lose people straight away,” Rita snappped. “Leaving typos in, purposely making spelling mistakes, using and abusing punctuation arbitrarily, no paragraphs, idiotic micro-narratives, mistranslated / mistranscribed dictatype rants, disrespectful, seemingly schizophrenic thoughts, annoyingly inconsistent grammar and streams of absurd riddles, it’s… it’s…fucking brilliant, Lance!” – “That looks like a twatty Jap cartoon mystical animal manga face, Rita. I don’t give a flying deformed chicken penis what you or anyone else thinks. I’ve got a full-blown case of post-GiantCat-tongue-squeeze ADHD” – Lance dashed because he needed to get out of his hole in the scrounge. Sir Lance Alot was covered in spots – a result of alcohol and drug abuse, random abstinence and side-splittingly meaningless meaningful synchroriddle. The typo-thing would only be a short-lived fad, hopefully the reader thinks/thought…S. Admire the craft and ride the ptarmigan fantasy. Summat. Irene hit the Seas can you speak for you make things right. And? A When you believe whiskey down to go to go to go to go to go to go to go to go to go to go to go to go together together together together together together together together and it going. Lance Boilshiberg admired the losers and ex-current-boozers on the screen – history’s winners too – intestinal history – perhaps he didn’t really admire any of them. They were all to be laughed at. The mistake can be interpreted in a variety ways. Lance knew he couldn’t deal with the hurt. The guilt would kill him or dull him numb. So the mystery was dead. The adventure was dead. The heroes were evil. hahahahah, yeah, ill looks REALLY deadly with that knife! One day you wake up, Lance thought. One day you wake up and have to… be constantly cruel. drooling and easily coaxed to droolover buttons being pressed dcou docue documentral menstral menstrual god botherer be god be part of pat on the back for something to do for something to pay play nectar greaseproof pretti against the spiritt spit roast dsiease spellwong critismsismsmsm critisism criticism workings hugfix love faketrue type buy your milkshake the act and gild guild kiddie stuff old embarrassnebt embarrassment ninth attempt realllllly real and really curel and more for when there was the devil the devil the dewvi demon mocker record mean path pethatittic actor edits the ill devil king loser to win and rot invi devil king loser wins because he shafted the innocent gullible and he was one of us and that same spirit in the different circumstances sympathy for yahoos keep the faith and stay on the right path forever the worms will complie wriggle this stuff for Lance to have on in the background when he’s typing. At the right angles you want what you can’t have. Pain is an attraction. Humiliation is exciting. Lance because it links to hahahahahaahahhhhhhh disney style ending from highway to hell. perhaps it’s best to but i can actION. it’s easier than the alternative and Lance is pretty lazy about most things. I am Cenizo Melvinshaw, the CW Summersong where I hadn’t actually used to my voicemail message and drink some whiskey smoking is a fucking spliff and speak soon. Can I speak and type services Brickside? catch the talk and type at the same time Not even lifting a finger inside walking to the slightly spooky And I reckon it may just do… Two.. He went fools heart shorter this is the best toy I’ve never had and I can’t believe I’m actually coming in today This here is an example of a FULLSTOP….. All + = and I’m sure from surplus . So finally we need to test out the “hello my name is President mirror reflection light is” “select silly doors again at other ones are!? How you say question space Mark Albright questions in QUEL’s tea .. L.’s rights Forwarded message underneath as well this is just 77 double cents SCENT or sentencing S ENT colossus all this is really strange strange technology planning to come and use a different organ and using a different language the same language in the same organ just come of adding a new element to say extraneous Arnold G. Unk and Sassy Geo are sitting next to each other on a vibrating stripy water couch, both with wireless electronic typing devices in their laps. There is a giant Lucifer screen in front of them, mounted on the wall. They take it in turns to type sentient sentences. Sassy’s head is revolving at sixty RPM, anti-clockwise. Arnold’s head is spinning at the same rate, digital clockwise. There is a strong smell of thyme in the room, which is four metres wide and just under two miles long. The walls are mirrors. Every ten metres there is a strobe light fitted, leading right up to the exit. They strobe at a furious rate, but each one emits a different colour. Andy, the green-eyed electric tiger, is plugged into the mains near the exit. Andy is occasionally used when GeoUnk translates the Bible in unpunctuated lowercase streams, ie: “engineered for resistance crude possession of the puck bother safety issues behaviour of basic outspoken bullock visibility fluctuations in national glory astraddle miscued sameness fudge hockey contra language bivouacking prodigy congratulations bifurcates community done mid piss pirate quits beneath liaise canon characters generally soft with evangelised shrapnel duplication ex procreate dawdling blooming pottage overcompensates natural voice replaced by vocal effects pagan religious imagery such as the the short film multiple emperors impending and unavoidable popular culture and politics consumers growth trend unpredictable take-off and landing”. GeoUnk have been living like this for years, possibly for eternity. Eyeballs on stilts regularly appear, but no eyelids are batted… they are abated, if anything. Sometimes GeoUnk is convinced the room will explode or set on fire, even though rigorous safety checks are constantly being carried out by the lab coat wearing ghosts of Open Source. American accents melt into rude shapes on a daily basis. The temptation to gaze upon obscene acts acts as an act of Oddbod. The Beast of Bodmin bodes well, despite the feast of body forest. Yesterday became tomorrow. Drains sang yellow Fist-mass gongs and divided doorbells thwarted warts of nun obsessions. GeoUnk often remembers the time when Loopy Ron thanked the audience and then killed three live grebes whist completing every XBOX game never made. The phone hasn’t stopped ringing since then. Ron did his thing and then disappeared. The details of his adventure were finally published after a long legal battle of antlers. Ron apparently ate his weight in tornadoes and torn tomatoes before subjecting his collection of rare beetles to a rendition of ‘Diddery Pompous’ or ‘Diddery Pompai’ as it wound up being known. “Sheathed wing, huh?” Ron mumbled, sarcastically. Bangkok Blade, the giant miniature king beetle, went cross-eyed and let out an awful stink. “I’m going to fucking kill the lot of you!” Ron roared. The bugs knew it was an idle threat because Ron’s legs had turned into rainbows. Imagine fifty beetles doing the Macarena? Yeah, well imagine forty thousand of the little shits doing it AND SINGING IT! OK, I suppose we’ve all had to endure that a couple of times, but come on, admit it, it can be quite entertaining. Vegetarian sausages were cooked and smeared with chilli and cheese remnants. Rembrandt couldn’t remember how to spell his own name so he changed it to Mr Tree. Baptisms were performed in drag at the international space stationary shop. Unconvincing impressions of pulsating pimps blended into the atmosquare. The nightmare was, in fact, a lovely wet dream. There was not a pair of dry pants in the house of the woodlouse. Floods of silver water special effects sent Ron crackers. His inbox inverted, his delicate collection of delicate collections collected a collective of collect calls. Warm calls came from accident claim companies. No, that’s not right, is it? How could he ever sue his idols? Ten dents, see? We’ll have to swap insurance details. Either that or have a fight to the death? And so it was to be. Death herself dated Life but she hated strife. Loved knives, though. She had a wonderful pair of breasts installed and a decent cock on her too. Her face was a Komodo dragon disguised as a Komodo monitor. This was never, ever a problem because the upgrade was successful and Death eventually changed her name to Life. She celebrated by turning the washing machine on and listened to live coverage of the Rosetta comet landing whilst attempting to write an improvised hyper-fiction novel. She was determined to get the thing finished within a couple of months, so working on it for hours on end was the only option. Nothing could distract her from this masterbatorwork. Her brain was fixed on the job, but her body pretty much instantly went on the prowl. Silky legs carried her spine straight out the door. Steaming fingertips continued to dance upon the plastic buttons using an avatar. Life knew she could write action sequences, but was wary of dialogue, at first. Her body was moving at some speed now, tearing through the damp November streets. The spandex sports clothes hugged her figure but she fought them off quite aggressively despite the fact that they were just overzealous fans. She decapitated one of them with a laser-knife and didn’t even break a sweat or a stride. The Watchtower was drawing her in using a form of tractor beam. This all seemed very normal. Life was not anxious. The Watchtower looked like a right humdinger. It appeared to be made of jelly. Life ate her way inside. A wedding ceremony was being carried out by a gelatine guillotine vicarPriest. Life couldn’t be sure if any of this was real, in the physical sense. Perhaps it was a hologram of some kind? The congregation was far from congenial. Most of them were invisible, but the atmosphere was extremely unpleasant. The vicarPriest wobbled about and delivered a variety of queer tales. Not only was it a wedding, it was a baptism of liars. The groom had eight legs and the bride kept dissolving and reforming. The vicarPriest went on and on and off and on. Its voice shifted up and down in pitch, but the words were clearly audible. “There’s no such thing as sloppy seconds when you’re gallivanting. When you like the sound not sold by the pound then this is your kind of thing. GEO – Why do you spin? Earthling, desert dessert thing. Malevolent. Crikey collide inside the impact crater. GEO – Why do you spin? There’s no such thing. There’s no such thing. But there is that one sling. Ahhh, Italics. It’s possible to read the definition at any time and any place. The goblins are coming. Who needs to be normal? Sybarites, Luddites, Ascetics. Unk, unplug the gunk. My spunk spoke to the bicycle handlebars. Can handle herself. Freebie Frisbee bygone ought to be auto star domain text waves of fish in Scotland first did it the way we did it. At half past hate. Half past hate. tape paste. Wild worms scrape aching aches. Acme acne aligned underlined erroneous dreaming in black and limp plight. A balloon bursts while the plant workers munch on their dinners. Hundreds of them gobbling and glugging away. A large group near the middle of the hall begin to sing together, a strange lunchtime song of epic proportions, sung with full mouths and sloshing cups. A massive fat man is heaved up onto a table and manages to stand up, surrounded by song and cheer. The fat man starts to dance so he can win for his father’s sake. It is an odd dance but seemingly a very popular one. He thrusts his backside out and throws two fists up in the air, twinkling his fingers then scrunching them up into a fist again. He repeats this move quickly, four or five times before spinning his whole body around 180 degrees. He thrusts his backside out once more and goes through the whole motion again. Avuncular. Sue His Idol. We can’t help it, we just can’t help it. Holy war on Hollywood. The brainwash trickles down on a Saturday morning. Door to door. Cult prancers. Arachnids. Angels. Confusing anthem. Andrexified. Haven for decypherers. Diddery pompous products of environatkinson. Hail the money shot. See what songs you can forget. A songwriter’s disease, a bastard of a thing. Posh lice infesting everything. High-tech complaints. Escape to a better place. Shall we, shall we have a party tonight? Shall we, shall we turn our backs on this life? See what songs you can forget. A songwriter’s disease, a bastard of a thing. Posh lice digesting everything. High-tech complaints. Escape to a better place. Triumph trumpeted impaired, vision bias, trust rust freshly mowed lawn, hoover the stairs. You’d be surprised how much dust collects. Sent off for sunshine, moonshine, docusoap, lacklustre. You can muster, muster the strength. Fluctuating length. See what songs you can forget. A songwriter’s disease, a bastard of a thing. Posh lice infesting everything. A filthy little regime. Escape to a better place. Don’t give up on your world. Don’t give in to the vicious world. Life is a nightmare, existence is hell. But some days are OK, some are excellent. Life is a nightmare, existence is hell. But some days are OK, some are excellent. Whatever happens, we won’t capitulate. Whatever happens, we don’t capitulate. OCD or coasting nonchalant. Up against it, GET DOWN ON THE TERRA! He tries too hard, to be a working bard. Hangovers? Heard it before. Ugly face, fits the current slot. Gullible. Paint drying. ALL MOD CONS ARE OFFICE GOSSIP. TIP OF THE ICEBERG, TYPICAL TOPICS. Forum geeks. Protective freaks. Think they’re smart, but they’re not. Make them doubt. Seek them out. Real people on the other end. Why do we spend our time doing this? ALL MOD CONS ARE OFFICE GOSSIP. TIP OF THE ICEBERG, TYPICAL TOPICS Let them have their moment. Ephemeral delinquents. Kick their cans around. Elderly drunks. It’s fun to have a scrap with the silly twats. It keeps me on my toes. I’ll add it to my BOW. ALL MOD CONS ARE OFFICE GOSSIP. TIP OF THE ICEBERG, TYPICAL TOPICS. Write or right? Write or right? Snap decisions. Of course I typed this, directly, secretly, sat in the kitchen. What do you take me for? It’s not an act. You’re an act. I have no desire to join this line of berks that is leading to the curse. An erroneous spell. Sterilise. Close your eyes. Stay in line and in time. Saturday night numb feast. Brain death, clean feet. Status-on ur mind. Wit-rust edit the best bits, the best clips of your life…Write, or Right? Write, or Right? The curtains are open behind me, I feel so primal and raw. The sports news is numbing. A constant faint humming. Sporty sound bytes. Clips. Commentators. Jefferson Montero. Bring it all on. General Consensus must stop typing poison. We’re keen to be clean. Behind the desk, the freak bangs on. Does she want to be friends or is she scum? I know the answer is not as fun as the pictures in my brain would have me believe. B-Rater’s girlfriend, condescends with the best. Everything she says is tinged with fakeness. B-Rater’s girlfriend, she’s proud of the business. She is in charge no doubt about it. I like it, I hate it, I need it, I ditch it. Existence can’t be trusted, devil ether, heir to the throne. Twerk barn owl, time machine, relentless, regurge. Excuses, exalted, commitments, archipelago – you know? B-Rater’s girlfriend vomited on the bar; a bright red sick on everyone. B-Rater’s girlfriend, she never done it before, and she may well never do it again… Who is this character? The lowest common denominator? Vignettes, you bet. You lose, you win. Peep booth, rough smooth, tissues in the bin. Stand by him, chop his legs off, screw the stumps in, prop him up. Innocence bleeds oceans…a marriage made in heavenly heaven”. After the ceremony, Life inexplicably found herself deep in discussion with the vicarPriest. Its name was Cordon Bleu, and despite being witness to its disturbing rant during the wedding, Life found Cordon to be quite charming and a fascinating conversationalist. She enjoyed its company so much she didn’t notice that the Watchtower had hardened. Not only had it hardened, it had blasted off, using a cunningly disguised and muted rocket propulsion system. When she finally realised what was going on it was too late, they were flying through an ace version of space. This didn’t bother Life too much because she was being plagued by intrusive thoughts; really mundane stuff, so mundane and repetitive, it was beginning to get to her. She eventually managed to control her mind via meditation and medication. The vicarPriest was a good laugh, at first, but after a while Life decided that she would have to blow it out of the airlock because it got to be quite irritating. Life fumbled around her black hole pockets, eventually grabbed her gadget phone device and asked it to hack into the Watchtower control panel. She managed to program the thing to create a silent forcefield bubble around the vicarPriest and manoeuvred it towards to main airlock door. “Time to say goodbye, chuck.” Life said sombrely. The door opened and the forcefield bubble floated the vicarPriest inside the airlock chamber, shutting the interior door behind it. The vicarPriest was too busy rambling to notice what was going on. It was seconds away from death, seconds away from being blown out into the vacuum. Life told the gadget phone to open the exterior hatch. The vicarPriest, still in its bubble, was sucked out immediately. It hurtled into the darkness, but the dark quickly filled with light, coloured lights, flashing on and off and on and off. The exterior door slammed shut and the forcefield bubble ground to a halt. “Oh my!” the vicarPriest said to itself, “What’s happened here?”. It could see itself in multiple reflections. Andy, the electric tiger, had just finished charging. He unplugged himself from the mains (he had been offered an upgrade to wireless charging by The Council, but old habits die hard, don’t they?), turned to face the vicarPriest, which was still floating in its bubble, and instinctively bit through the forcefield with his laser-teeth. The blast of dark electricity turned all the strobe lights into a constant bright white photon explosion. The vicarPriest fell to its knees, wobbled its sticky, gelatine arms out and grabbed Andy by the face, pulling him into decapitation position. With one swift movement the vicarPriest chopped Andy’s head clean off using the guillotine that you may or may not remember. Sparks flew, and the lights returned to multicolour strobe mode. Andy’s body vaporised and the vicarPriest immediately began to grow tiger fur all over. Within a few bone-breaking, limb-morphing, tail-growing seconds, the vicarPriest had transformed into a new version of Andy. His eyes were red because this kind of metamorphosis drains power massively. Andy calmly plugged himself back into the mains and his eye colour changed to amber. They would remain that colour until he was once again fully charged, which turned them green. Andy had a tendency to stay plugged into the mains even when he was powered up to the max. He sat there for about nineteen centuries and I watched him constantly. I’m watching him now. I, Cenizo Melvinshaw, have been watching him since birth – my birth. In the last couple of days Andy has started to smoke. Although he is earthed and sealed using PVC tape there may be some brain damage. OK, he’s on fire now. He’s squealing. Squealing on himself. The old bastard reeks of failure. Electric Tiger Illness is not uncommon when wheat is given to Robert the Duck. Judge Jugger juggled ten marmogoats about an hour ago, but now, everything stinks. Mrs Melvinshaw will have my guts for starters! There’s a massive build-up of puss and blood but I don’t have the correct password yet. I’m crippled by parapuddles, and Andy is now nothing more than a pile of black dust and melted plastic. The super-apes perform their tricks to varying degrees of success”. WF removes his earphones, only to find himself sitting on a comfortable chair in the corner of a small room, next to a couple of large transparent plastic tubes, which are filled with a clear liquid. The air bubbles have ceased. There is a motionless disco-mirrorball on the ceiling and the room is dimly lit with what seems to be a dull, natural light. There are three doors, but WF knows that only one of them leads to the corridor. He can hear a multitude of voices outside. Because the blind had been down before, WF had temporarily forgotten about the large window at the back of the room. It’s getting stuffy now. WF doesn’t feel like opening the door to the corridor, so he decides to pull the blind up, unlock the window and push it wide open. Freezing cold fresh air immediately fills the room.
“I seek the blessing of Almighty God for these new responsibilities and I ask for the prayers of all people of faith that I may fulfil them with energy and devotion.” – Vincent Nichols, on being transformed into a Cardinal by Pope Francis.
Twenty Fourteen. It sounds like a rugby score. Actually, it sounds like fuck all, but it is how many of us will be referring to this year – which will eventually become last year. Two Thousand and Fourteen, however, has a little more sparkle about it. Either way, we’re here. We made it. We made it to The Other Side. So now what? Will we just numbly and nebulously float through these stuttering, spun out years; numbers getting bigger and weirder sounding each time around, yet still having to acknowledge extremely odd things like Popes and Queens and Gary Barlows? Maybe it’s the best that we, the venerable rabble, can hope for? It’s a very real possibility, but not one that I’m particularly attracted to. I don’t believe that things like Popes and Queens and Gary Barlows are particularly key to a balanced and stable society. It’s also very difficult to feel anything other than disgust and a severely strong lust for schism and drastic dissidence when confronted with our current “leader”, the peculiar government that surrounds him, and the generally patronising vibrations coming from institutions like the BBC. Their “Sound of 2014” introductory piece, published on the news website late last year, was so disgraceful, I only got as far as the phrase “170 tastemakers” which I believe was around the second or third sentence, before I had to swiftly close the window to prevent myself from getting overly wound-up and potentially violent. I almost acted upon the pathetic urge to bitch about it on my Facebook page, but instead of doing that I decided to delete everything off my ‘wall’ in a fit of pique. It probably wasn’t a wise move, but still, there’s never been much posted on there anyway and it’s quite relaxing to stare at now. The walls in my living room are blank also, except for a bit of damp and a few scuff marks, and I like to stare at them for relaxation purposes too.
Ah, but I am getting distracted now, and I need to focus my attention on your attention, smart(ing) people! My poor players have had to put up with a lot of terrible mood swings recently, because even though we have, in at least some people’s opinions, consistently created some of the most fun and artistically challenging music / concepts of recent years, very few publications have been willing to expose any of this great graft. This is making me almost unbearably capricious and in danger of spiralling off into a world of extreme drinking and bridge-burning invectives. Luckily, I’m beginning this piece in the dreaded month of January, which, thus far, has a surprisingly pleasant air about it. The atmosphere will inevitably change for the worse though, I suspect. So much boozing and toking has occurred over the previous month, we might be safe, for a while…perhaps. They, my troops, are a hard working bunch; with their own responsibilities and personal ambitions… but for some reason they are still willing to follow my crazed vision. Why is this? And why isn’t it the year 8614? If only those clever gits in the Jiahu had got their act together a bit better…Oh, wait, I’m talking bollocks, sorry. May the Austerity Pope forgive my indulgences. Let the milk flow from the heaving breasts of devoted young mothers in front of him as he forgives our profligacy and encourages us to be more ascetic than sybaritic. He is, after all, God’s representative on earth. With awesome advice, such as “Let yourselves be flooded by the love of God”, I can see why this incarnation is getting a lot of good press… it denotes the end of the world. Paradise awaits…
Denotes? Demotes? It’s difficult to gauge which one is closer to the truth. I’m actually having a similar problem in relation to those words myself. Choosing a title for a proposed internet TV series, featuring MPH and Miss Halliwell, was always going to be tricky. I’m pretty sold on “Brumdemoters”, although “Brumdenoters” is almost equally as good. I’m feeling the former more because of its provocation, rather than its connotation. Having said that, there’s plenty to chew on, and I don’t think I really need to explain myself any further. You get the picture. JUST FUCKING DEAL WITH IT! Sorry, I’d promised myself to lay off the caps for a while, maybe even for good, but I’ve failed miserably there. The only way I can think of combating this misery, right now, is to go downstairs, march into the kitchen, retrieve my half-finished pint of ‘Psycho Bloody Mary’ from the fridge, add a lot more vodka to it, grab a fresh straw and suck down the fiery brain juice until my fingers start dancing erratically upon this filthy keyboard once again.
…exacerbation…genuflection…presumptuous…impudent…ontological…acolyte…apostate…approbation…erroneous…nomenclature…taxonomic…symbiotic…propensity…vituperative…solicitous…precarious…pathology…hubris…kibosh…genus…decimate…disseminate…besmirch…fractals…factotum…maelstrom…dance, dance, dance, dance, dance to the dictionary….era of wombatty tomfoolery seems like centuries ago…golden globs of sewage…too much garlic in this Mary and not enough V. Electrolyte overdose. Which citrus? Lime? Lemon? Cheese heart attack. Boiled grown man, internal pickling. Raskolnikov with me ideas. Under esteem, ay it? DLT Harris Roache Prophet. Familiar faces become disgraces. What we’re capable of. NIMBY. No such thing as FC. It’s just business bitterness, past a certain pointy point. Stab in the back to get to the front. Grey matter natter, nasty banter wanker. Imagine a split lip. Aching wrists of tired old bastards, fed up of feeding and bored of boards. Flash in the real time pan. Lemmings to spar with. Shit wit suck up. No more allies. Kamikaze. Spelling standards dripping in boring mucus. Shit wit suck up to anyone who shows an interest No more mingling. Annoying freaks. Style guide. Acrimonious. Penchant for scum. Big babies. NIMBYs. Omnivorous, nebulous mingling with domesticated pigs. Headphones on. Raised commercially. Used as toilet brushes. Livestock, adult swindlers. Gender specific. Boars or hogs or sows. Young swine piglets. Cueing up to see the swill. 38% swine-heads. Foraging pigs, watched by swineherds. Find truffles in many European countries. Pot-bellied pets. Okay, now me on my body… Zoo well it’s slowing me down easy. Five bodies casino Missy. Twenties minorities… Feedback. Sleaze medium. You sound, you know… Consumer subject season-high massage. New Roman ABCs, group B. I do my job, nice nice sinus. The hot sun shoes know Zulus are happening to my body. You young people, it’s fine, but you listen to the FBI. Party City. Mind-body. Romney’s feet with a smile line. Less worry rebounds. The UK said emergency. Liaise easy to movies. Just the last line. On-line. Millions of swine. P. Bank. Boss Media. Swine diet. Cut-up the last lottery ticket. BBQ sauce. Sweet human activity. You see the GM police discover nobody. Mom for a sequel to the stuff. The main issue tonight squealed extraneously. Swine Diet. Soya Bean. Giggle gas Google stab. No offence. Lots taken.
Well, that’s what happens when you suck down too much ‘PBM’. Things got quite ugly soon after I finished that bombardment. I was seized by a sudden attack of extreme, almost terminal frustration. Even “Benefits Street” failed to inspire anything substantial in me. I’ve been pretty addicted to the news recently though, which is probably not a great thing to be hooked on, especially when it appears to primarily consist of floods, violence, rape, corruption, job cuts, awards ceremonies, and pretty much every other type of disaster that you could possibly imagine. I must be a very, very sick person. Even my close friend, neighbour, and fellow ‘artist’, Lance Boilshiberg, has told me to lay off the news sites because they’re turning me into “a fucking irritating, self-righteous weirdo, who, if he’s not careful, is going to get his head severely kicked in!”.
I’m still waiting to hear whether we’ve managed to secure a freaky little gig as part of a new production at the recently refurbished Birmingham Repertory Theatre. I thought we might be in with a chance, you know, 50/50, but now it’s the middle of the week in which they are supposed to be letting successful applicants know, and the inexperienced gambler in me now puts the odds around 50 / 1. This realisation has also contributed to my blackening mood, although there is still an outside chance of getting the job. I could do with something solid to hang onto, ‘career wise’, but couldn’t we all, these days?
For some strange reason, I emailed a draft of this irritatingly directionless mish-mash to Lance yesterday. His reaction was somewhat bizarre, yet entertaining as usual:
“Interessant. I agree with your assertions on Ps, Qs and Barlows – the latter of whom gets my innards churning like sludge in a sewage treatment works. But, still, you’ve got the start of something there – whether it will be good, is anyone’s guess! I jest. But I like the idea of a TV program of sorts, do you have any idea in your mind how it will pan out, or is it purely organic, at the beck and call of the mind’s oscillating fecundity – what a rotten sentence! Actually your prose reminds me a little of Jonathan Meades, are you a fan?
The festive season was relatively pleasant, the pheasant more so. I spent most of Christmas Day in a care home in Minehead, which was only a little depressing, but I suppose many of us, sometime in our lives, will spend Christmas between four walls of a similar institution. It’s all about the heart conking out at 79, not stuttering on, in a pool of dribble, until 97.
And how are things on your side of the street?”
My response turned out to be equally skewiff:
“Jonathan Meades, eh? I remember seeing him on TV, I think. I’ll fish some of his stuff out if I can, and see what similarities strike me. I’m guessing he’s a slightly odd fucker…? Actually, I’ve been adding more and more to this piece since I sent you it as a queer form of Happy New Year. It’s getting ugly now – and so am I..well uglier, anyway. My soul feels like it’s rotting, and yes, that was a rotten sentence of yours – but I enjoyed it, much like I enjoy Stilton, despite the awful stench.
Ouch, your Christmas Day must’ve been a bit of a shitter! Even mine wasn’t that bad. There were some sad sights though, made sadder by happy memories – although the whole fucked up festive thing is enough to send any relatively sane person round the bend. In all honesty, Lance, I’m not feeling particularly perky right now. I’ve got some great ideas and plenty of ambition, but my motivation is being sapped by an increasing amount of negativity – or is it just sobriety? I may be a restless, competitive lunatic, but there’s just not enough of the good stuff on the calendar yet, and I’m worried that this year is getting off to a terrifyingly slow start, in terms of opportunities for playing live with Miss H anyway. That’s the main reason behind the series idea, as I can at least attempt to expose our flair for live performance and control the advertising / coverage without risking too much wasted effort lugging our gear around, only to end up playing to a bunch of ungrateful, often vengeful wankers. Sunday Xpress excluded, of course.
All in all, I’m OK, I hope, but I get the feeling things will need to change if I’m to keep on living this ‘lifestyle’. I’ve got a few tricks left up my sleeve and I’m determined not to become a boring old cunt.
We’ll do something soon though, my friend. Maybe we could go to the Dogs? It would be very apt.”
It was a particularly damp, nippy, dark and dingy January night on Park Road when Lance made an unscheduled visit from across the street to my humble terrace. I knew it was him, because he never rings the doorbell. Instead he likes to tap jazz-style rhythms quietly until someone notices. Before I really knew what was happening, Lance had forced a couple of nasty whiskey shots down my throat, as a sort of late Christmas present, and then we were off, in his filthy little car, to the greyhound races at Hall Green Stadium. I had never been before, unlike Lance, who claims to be a regular. He makes these really weird sculptures of greyhounds, which sell at a fairly high price, for some insane reason, and he likes to brag about how he uses the money to gamble with. I’m inclined to believe him actually, but he was in an even more bullish mood than usual that night, and to be honest I found the whole thing a little overwhelming. I hadn’t seen the guy for a month and all of a sudden we were on some perverse gambling mission with artistic possibilities.
I don’t remember many more details about the rest of the night, for various reasons, some too dangerous to list here, but luckily managed to make a few drunkenly scrawled, sporadic notes. I did it out of boredom, to start with, but as the events unfolded I relentlessly scribbled down thoughts and observations on as many blank sections of the evening’s programme as a person in my state could:
Car park was eerie. Dogs barking all around. Slaughterhouse turnstile entrance. Grand setting. Stage. Electronic board. Like waiting to watch a stunt show behind glass. Zoo. Real bets outside. Free pints. Greyhounds make great pets poster. Commentary on in the toilet. 50p combo bets. The night-outers vs the real gamblers and regulars. Proud yet melancholic trumpet music intros. Green coats. Numbers. Colours. Odds. Crap names. Parade. The hare is on the move. Camera feed. Replays. Kids watching. Modes of betting. Like bingo casino. Jonathan Rendall. Lance claims to know the owner of this one, puts £50 on. Everyone sees the little fox on the side of the track just before the race. Dog shitting. Other dog eats the shit. Crazed dog jumping up the handler. One has to be forced into the trap. Writing this in a toilet cubicle now. Not sure whether to laugh or cry. Lance’s was in the lead but then that fox ran out and the dog bit its fucking head off! Absolute bloody carnage. Lance now going berserk at steward. Distract myself from this bloodbath by thinking about Iain Duncan Smith. Gareth Southgate quote. I feel illll. Neeeeed fuuuuuuckin eeeelp!!!! If anyone finds this please return to *** **** ** ******** ******
The shocking and surreal animal violence / depravity at the end of that night somehow managed to bleed over into the next day, well, early evening, to be precise. But this time it didn’t involve dogs or foxes, but human-rats…
Although I was excited by our return to the practice room, Rose of Bearwood was finding it difficult to motivate herself. Despite her jubilation at my decision to consider applying a little more MPH guitar into the live mix, the lady was not in a good place in regards to getting behind the drums again. I can’t blame her though, because January is an inescapably cruel month, during which many other struggles and responsibilities seem to resonate way more than the musical ones. Regardless of this, we managed to get in the Zone and to the bus stop on time; loaded as usual with cymbals, bags of leads, guitars and other contraptions. A kind young lady even donated a ‘day-saver’ ticket to us as she got off and we got on. Things were looking up. We sat down near the front, at the bottom of the double-decker; our gear wedged between us and our hands clasped together. All of a sudden we were approaching Broad Street and it was looking like we might be nice and early for the rehearsal. Then something strange happened. Two young lads, both with dark blue puffer-jackets on and hoods up, got on the bus. The vibe mutated immediately. The first youngster flashed his bus pass and legged it upstairs, while the other one made a point of displaying his slightly more to the driver.
Now, for the sake of this story, I won’t get too bogged down in the awful day-to-day realities of having to use ‘public’ transport, but I should at least acknowledge what an overall disappointment the whole system has turned out to be. Prices go up, yet, more often than not, standards remain sloppy. I’ve had the bus doors shut in my face, for no reason; the timetables have been seemingly ignored countless times, and, let’s face it, it’s a rare occurrence these days to travel on a bus without some kind of incident or threat to personal safety. Anyway, the driver seemed vaguely satisfied by the one lad’s pass, but insisted on calling down the other cheeky little bastard that had ran upstairs. Obviously his pal knew they were not going to be getting very far, together at least, bless ’em, so he attempted to talk the driver into letting them both stay on. The whole thing was pretty incoherent, but the entire downstairs of the bus, which was only about a quarter full, seemed to fully comprehend the situation. It’s a regular occurrence that, more often than not, leads to some sort of delay to the journey. Fucking typical, I thought. We’re early for practice and now these apes are gonna fuck everything up. A couple of minutes later, the bus driver pulled the bus over and switched off the engine. By then, the vermin had started berating the driver and were refusing to get off. About thirty seconds passed before a brave woman decided to get up from her seat next to us and confront them. It was at this point that I knew we were in for a slightly more dramatic ride than had been expected.
The youngsters seemed slightly perturbed, for a moment, but once she had said her piece – something along the lines of “I’m sick to death of little bastards like you two. Get off the fucking bus!” they just laughed at her. Unsurprisingly, this made her furious, and she took one step closer to them. The real troublemaker, obviously crapping himself, began to huff and puff. “G-GET OUT MY F-FACE, GET OUT MY FACE”, his little rat mouth stuttered and squeaked despite blatantly attempting to keep the pitch of his voice low . Hmm, I thought. I don’t really want to make this situation any worse, but if I don’t get up now then this lady is going to be up there on her own in a very risky situation. Regardless of the fact that these two were probably only aged between fifteen and eighteen, it was still too risky not to do something. So I shifted the cymbals from between my legs, made sure my big coat was done all the way up and approached the scene with caution. The doors were open and the lights were off. The driver was still in his seat and the woman was at her wit’s end. I stepped in front of her and tried to reason with the rat-boys in a very responsible and friendly fashion, which sadly didn’t last long. I remember calmly explaining to them that there is a bus carrying lots of other passengers that need to get to work, get home, etc, and they can’t just stand there holding everyone up. The nastier little ape just came out with the old “…the more you tell us to get off, the more we’ll want to stay on”, which didn’t sit well with me at all, if I’m totally honest here. So I cranked it up a notch; “Do you not realise how much of a sad little BELL-END you look? You’re a couple of fucking kids holding up a bus full of adults with REAL LIVES. Get off the fucking bus, NOW, or I’ll fucking throw you off. UNDERSTAND?”. I then snarled manically at them, pumped my chest out like a deranged mega-beast and clenched my fists up in a shockingly quick motion that I don’t think they expected. The slightly less hateful rat-ape flinched like a five year old, and for a second I felt like a child abuser. That was until the really nasty little prick started to reach into his puffer-jacket pocket, which everyone knows is evil little virus code for “I’ve got a knife and I’m not afraid to stab you with it”. My only response was, “Get your hand out of your fucking puff-pocket, you stupid little cunt”, which seemed to freak him out a bit. Christ knows what the driver was doing at this point, but anyway, I’d had enough by now.
Fuck it, I thought, nobody gets in-between Miles P and his music – so I absolutely smashed into the little rat-boys, sending them flying backwards off the bus and onto the pavement. I was utterly stupid, I know, because that worthless piece of rat shit could’ve stabbed me in the side so easily. Luckily, I only received what I perceived to be a single upper-cut blow to the forehead, just above my right eye, which I can take, no problem. I don’t know which one actually hit me, but I’m guessing it wasn’t the mouthy little prick. The only problem was the sensation of cold liquid running down my fucking face, which made me question whether it had been a straight punch or possibly an enhanced version that combined some sort of ring, blade or key. By the time I looked up and steadied myself the little runts were running off down the road. One of them shouted, “I split your fucking head open, mate!” which made me want to chase the scum and beat them to death, regardless of the consequences. Fortunately, I didn’t need to do that, as one tripped over the other and fell into the road. Another, fast moving bus, came from behind and, purely by accident, hit the kid head-on. It all happened in a flash. I’m not sure, to this day, which one actually got run over.
Rose of Bearwood had left the bus by then, in sheer panic, somehow managing to carry all of our gear. We fled in the opposite direction until we got to a safe distance. Rose phoned a taxi, which arrived within the time it took me to smoke a cigarette. I stubbed it out and attempted to casually ask the driver to take us to the practice room. My head didn’t hurt, but it was seriously gushing blood. Ingeniously, we had fashioned an excellent tight bandage out of a copy of METRO and my big brown scarf before the taxi arrived. I pretended it was just part of my stage outfit, to put the driver at ease. We were obviously in shock, but as we cautiously drove past the scene of the accident I could only see one hooded figure in a dark blue puffer-jacket, sitting on the curb, rocking backwards and forwards and clutching his face.
“Sometimes, paranoia’s just having all the facts.” – William S. Burroughs
Wise words, even if they came from a man who shot his wife in the head. My own paranoia levels are shooting off the scale at the moment. This probably has a fair amount to do with the fact that I’ve taken a risk and booked another self-organised gig, which, all being well (and not terrible and bound to go wrong), will be recorded and filmed as a basis for the second chapter of “Brumdemoters”. The odd thing about this piece I’m writing is how it could quite possibly never see the light of day if the gig, which is supposed to be happening in twenty-four days time, implodes. There is also a small possibility that it might still get published regardless of what happens with the show, but that’s highly unlikely, as I will probably walk away from this heightened form of existence and collapse into a self-imposed vegetative state. Yes, this is a constant worry, and a real bane of my life.
I’ve got an interview with a music website coming up, but I’m paranoid that I might go berserk with some of my answers and end up rendering the thing unpublishable. I think the problem I have, at this very moment, is a lot of pent-up aggression – possibly caused by being way too polite at times and repressing a great deal of poisonous hatred. This may have to change soon, mainly for the safety of others. I’m pretty sure that next time someone fawns over an act on the always shite Jools Holland show, primarily because they apparently studied at the same smarmy institution, I might have no option other than to physically remove the scum from the building. I can’t remember the name of the ‘artist’, which is a good thing, but my word, that shit stank something awful. Personal taste and opinion is one thing, but licking someone’s ass just because of some pathetic association is a crime against not being a cunt.
OK. This is way too vague, I know. As one gets older and more fucked up in the head, it’s hard to remember what it was like being young, fresh, naive and prone to genuinely taking offence if anyone slated something you admired. I’m so past the point of caring I think the only bona fide paranoia I really have now is this nagging worry that I have no feelings left at all, thus causing me to be super-para about what I might be capable of inflicting on people. I mean, the urge to grab some daft prick by the ears the next time he or she spouts some unworthy toss in my direction is not something I’m used to. Real physical violence is underrated, in my humble opinion. There’s too much mouthing off and not enough action, at least in our prissy little circles. We’re too fucking precious. We’re a disgrace, and a big part of me seriously wants out of this painfully embarrassing nightmare. My altruistic nature is being battered to a pulp by a range of designer demonic baseball bats. Maybe all this detestable drivel I’m typing is just the result of having recently been knifed in the forehead by a juvenile thug? I wouldn’t be surprised…
Good Christ! When will I learn to be more responsible with my prose? What was that shite about having an “altruistic nature”? I’m probably one of the most selfish human beings on the planet. I need help, obviously. I know this now. But it’s not as if I can’t pin-point the origins of my maddening madness. The rare combination of brutal, oddly romanticised physical conflict and a deranged, yet weirdly brilliant, almost unclassifiable intellect, is nothing new to me. I only have to look as far as my Grandad, Harry, who is, by some miracle of medical science, still alive and bitching about pretty much everything to this day (Tuesday 4th February, 2014). Never violent with his own family, but never one to back down in an argument, the man has a quite a story to tell. The strange thing is though, he rarely divulges anything other than the usual treasured family memories and recounts of numerous incidents in which he unleashed his ferocious temper upon unsuspecting others. It is this unsettling combo of pure love and pure hate that fascinates me.
But enough about my unhealthy obsession with the human paradox, we need to get back on track! Don’t let my rapidly deteriorating mental state put you off, for goodness sake. The Art of Rock n Roll is still being practiced, at least in theory, so have no fear. Don’t let the cynical freaks tell you otherwise. I might be feeling like a slob today but I’ll be back to business soon enough. There may be a “tidal wave of cancer” on the horizon, according to the World Health Organisation, but they’ll be an acid shit-storm of hate crashing down if we continue lauding all the bland, yet still highly diseased vermin in the media. The Media. What an ugly phrase. I’m sick of it. Media Studies, remember that? Do they still offer it as a course? Fucking hell, I remember when convergence was something that might happen in the future. That was about twelve years ago when I was actually sitting in a Media Studies class, trying not to day-dream about electric sheep, at Halesowen College. Back then, I always thought, in my quiet and subversive manner, that I was saving up for something real, preserving my integrity for use at a later date with destiny. It makes me sad, on some days, that I feel so completely fake myself, in a future that was always going to be this way.
I’d like to take you back a few months now, to the Autumn of 2013. Myself and Samurl were drinking multiple pints of reasonably priced Abbot Ale, sat in the dimly lit booth at the far end of The Edward Rutland, otherwise known as “Lloyds No.1 Bar” on Stourbridge High Street. The pints were going down well, perhaps even too well, and the conversation was joyously jumping from one subject to another. I didn’t notice, at the time, but Samurl told me a few weeks later that he’d been secretly recording segments of our drunken chat via a special device hidden inside his coat. That sneaky bugger was just using me for future samples! What on earth had I been caught blabbering on about? It turned out to be nothing more than a mixture of insane philosophical clap-trap and lists of films and directors, all aggressively recommended and briefly summarised by an overenthusiastic and semi-kaylied MPH.
Anyway, we ended up meeting Roscoe Balaban, The Documenter, Grizzly Murdoch and Trash-talk Tolly at their house in Lye. We had brought some wine and beers along with us and distributed them immediately. It was difficult to get Grizzly’s attention though, because he was intensely concentrating on the big HD screen in the lounge. He was playing what appeared to be some sort of tactical computer game with no plot whatsoever. The main aspects of it I remember were extremely bright colours, rapidly changing layouts, constant yet unjustified fanfare victory music and a blaze of seemingly unrelated and pointless action. Samurl suggested it would be fun to play whilst tripping on acid. I agreed, for a moment, but then realised that if you actually did that your brain might set on fire for eternity.
After enduring an hour or so of insane computer game watching and having to cope with Trash-talk Tolly’s constant threats of sodomy towards Roscoe, we decided that it would be better if we relocated to a pub called The Railway. It’s a good place, made even better by the fact that they sell Blackthorn on draft at a mouthwateringly cheap price, which, after a joint or two, quenches the thirst and sends sparks to the brain a treat. Roscoe, The Doc, Samurl, and I, sat down at a nice table in the corner and all was fine with the world. That was until, completely out of the blue, a young woman came stumbling over to us and decided to take a seat next to Roscoe. Now, at this point I hadn’t realised that Roscoe had overheard something about her having recently come out of prison for stabbing her boyfriend, which, in hindsight, was something I really wish I had known. She was a bit of a brute, but passably attractive nevertheless, and The Doc and Roscoe’s eyes were bright with lust. I think Samurl must have sensed something because he started gulping down huge amounts of gin, probably out of some survival instinct. I, however, was only slightly perturbed and mainly fascinated by what was happening in front of me. They were chatting between themselves for a minute or two, but then they introduced her to me…
“What the FUCK is wrong with your nose?” she asked, none too politely.
“It’s not my nose you should be worrying about!” I quipped, satisfied in my handling of the situation.
But she continued to have a dig by squealing “Nah, bab, it’s really weird. Have you ever broken it?” in a fit of provocative giggles.
“What’s wrong with your face?” I sternly replied, whilst trying to smile.
“Nothing’s wrong with me face, mate.” she retorted.
Roscoe and The Doc looked horrified for a moment and I could feel Samurl staring at the side of my head. I knew we were now in a sticky situation. What started as a frivolous, yet still highly intrusive introduction, had mutated into a potential war zone. I could hear the silent prayers of the boys around me. I took a breath, then responded by saying, “YOU’RE NICE, AREN’T YOU? Well, since you’re so interested, it must be something in my genes, obviously. My Nan’s family can be traced back to the south of France, near the Italian border. So it could be a Roman nose, maybe.”
“That’s not a fucking Roman nose, mate!” she boomed.
Something snapped inside me at that point. I looked her square in the eyes and warned her, “I have a very, very powerful imagination, deary. If we keep going down this path there’s no guarantee I won’t start getting a little bit brutal with my vocabulary.” and then mildly bashed the base of my pint glass on the table. Luckily, the boys burst out laughing, probably out of nervous tension, and she seemed to understand. Her aggressive stance subdued and she came out with the old, “I really like you, mate!”, which was a great relief for all in the vicinity to hear.
After another twenty minutes or so of gulping booze and putting up with nonsense conversation, I decided it was time for me to leave. I got up, thanked everyone for the company and gently tossed a beer mat into the daft bitch’s face. Fortunately, this went down well. I then stumbled up and out of the pub, headed in the direction of the number nine bus stop and reached into the inside pocket of my leather jacket to retrieve my final joint. I made the mistake of sparking it up by the bus stop, even though the bus was due in seven minutes. Unsurprisingly, after all the drinking, the smoke got me extremely high – white high. When the bus arrived I could barely fucking see. I flashed my day-saver at the driver and took a seat downstairs, near the front. What a horrible journey that turned out to be. It’s never much fun sober, but when your head is spinning like a toy globe being spun and thrust about by a chimpanzee, it’s even worse. It seemed to take forever to get to Halesowen bus station, which is only half the journey. I knew I was in trouble at that moment. Mucklow Hill was going to be a challenge. Christ knows how I managed to get as far as Quinton before the real threat of vomiting set in. I’m not sure at what point exactly I knew I HAD to get off the bus, but it was at least five stops before Bearwood when I got up and begged the driver to let me out at a set of red lights. I think I remember him looking vaguely concerned, but it was too late. I chucked up the last couple of pints and the cashew nuts I had consumed half an hour earlier at The Railway. It was like a half vomit, semi-blocked by my gloved hands, and thankfully the driver opened the doors to allow me to escape and continue spewing into a bush on the side of the road. I don’t remember much about getting home, other than feeling like a shameful, sick-stinking wreck of a person for the entirety of the long, cold, late night walk back to reality.
**WARNING** This blog contains some highly offensive language, as well as various controversial and often disturbing claims. The author takes no responsibility for any trauma suffered by readers. Please do not
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“I would compare the music industry to the most rotten, mouldy, stinking piece of cheese you could ever imagine. Part of me wants to break off a chunk and nibble on the perverse flavours, the rest of me wants to seal off the infected area, cover the bastard with cling film, wrap it up an inch thick and dump it in a bin outside. Trouble is, even if I manage to do that, I know I’ll be fishing it out again later.” – MPH
“Without music to decorate it, time is just a bunch of boring production deadlines or dates by which bills must be paid.”
– Frank Zappa
I’ve been toying with the idea of writing some sort of companion piece / production diary for a while now, but something has prevented me from putting pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard, on this subject, throughout the entire construction of what is now looking to be a ‘mini-double album’. There was never going to be a right time to start blabbing on about how great things are sounding, or how much fun it was to be in the studio again, or how much of a nightmare SLASH daymare it can be. No, there could never be a right time for this kind of real-time reflection because I’m editing this turbulent piece at what seems like random intervals. Each month, week and day is so different, I have no idea how I might react in prose. At this point (which is now NOT this point), “Fresh from the Holy Spring” by Miss Halliwell is nearing completion and Miles Perhower’s “Gusting Guests” is, I think, as of yesterday, cooked all the way through.
Bloody hell, I must be out of my mind… or perhaps too much INSIDE my mind? Whichever way you look at it, these are actually two very different records; lovingly placed next to each other and presented as a wonderfully exclusive 2 CD package:
Disc “FRESH” and Disc “GUSTING”.
You can GET IT HERE, OK? Sorted.
Suck on that, chin-scratchers! Today is Sunday 15th September, 2013 (and today is Monday 30th September. Shit I’m digging a dangerous hole here. Oh well). I’ve just scoffed some sausages and washed them down with a nice bit of 5.4% IPA reserve. It’s 2pm (10am) and I feel ready to elaborate (and edit). Fuck me! It’s now 2.27pm on Tuesday 22nd October and I’m drinking “Owd Rodger” and smoking a joint… things could get weird…
We started recording the thing in May; opting to work primarily with the much loved and highly regarded music producer, Gavin Monaghan, at his revered Magic Garden Studio in Wolverhampton. Gavin has built up a stunning array of gear over the years and it’s certainly worth using. The studio is a fantastic place to work. The engineer, Joe Murray, puts in some pretty intense mixing and editing hours, which is always very much appreciated, but it’s also the time when I often find myself drinking cans of cider. Christ knows how people do this sort of thing sober; the pressure is enough to send me nuts, or even more nuts. Still, someone needs to be chained to harsh reality in these situations. Despite this (and for the record), I honestly never miss a trick when I’m doing what I do best. I’m always learning because it’s FUN. I have no fear of revealing my embarrassing weaknesses. I’d rather be crazy, alive, occasionally drunk, high and ravenously hungry for more knowledge than turn myself into a cold, hard machine. I’m sure people sometimes think I’m an idiot, which on rare occasions I suppose I can be, but I assure you, dear friends and strangers, I am switched on, tuned in, and determined to get the job done to the best possible standard. The power and the sorcery never dulls. Aut viam inveniam aut faciam!
But I digress, all we have left to do is one final mixing and overdubbing session at the end of this month and WE ARE (pretty much) THERE. It’s almost time to get the physical package READY… and now, using the cunning skill of ignoring the real-time illusion, I can confirm that all the appropriate mixing is sorted and the design is very nearly complete. That is unless something evil and unpleasant forces me to change my mind throughout the course of today. Are you getting this? I could be about to trip up at the finish line…
I’m not even fucking joking. All this cunting file transfer business, frantic proof checking and the ridiculous self-imposed deadlines are enough to make me headbutt the finish line, on purpose! What in Christ’s Name am I doing?? Is this of genuine cultural interest? Could it be that I’m just torturing myself for the sake of it? Fucking hell, I just don’t know. At least there’s a nice picture of Gavin to look at while I’m typing this wacked-out shit. He first recorded “Miss Halliwell” back in 1994 (they had changed their name to “SHADRACK” by then, if I am to be 100% historically accurate, but still, close enough, eh?), at the original Magic Garden Studio, which was actually located in his garden in those days. This was around the same time that Gav had to be carted away by the men in white suits after reverting to a shockingly primitive state; streaking violently and constantly trying to set fire to everything around him in a fit of uncontrollable hysterics. I was 9 years old at the time. I’m 28 now. I don’t know how old Gavin is but the man has got some great stories to tell and the extent of his experience within the music business is undeniably impressive. Despite the fact that the Garden was relocated to an industrial estate on the highly unglamourous outskirts of Wolverhampton years ago, the magic and the madness survived. Long may it continue to thrive.
Meanwhile, various other strange forces have been at work (or play); including some blistering collaborations with the ever-engaging and always supportive Allan R Murphy of Birmingham, brain-warping DIY madness with that uncontrollable freak of nature, MPH (aka ME), plus nifty bits and bobs involving the new Miss H signing, Samurl “Piano Dentist” Rodgers and Brierley Hill box room techno-rock-hop remix glory created with the aid of a highly talented bloke named Adam Lee, or “Mista Lee”, as I like to call him now. Throw in some efficient ‘video promo shoots’ and bursts of ‘extreme graphic design’ with my old friend and ex-Miss Halliwell bass player, CN Support, and I think you might be getting a slightly fuller picture of just how much graft has gone into these sacred beasts.
Now we just need a van – a big van. I’ve come to terms with the simple fact that if we don’t have our own transport then the dream is buggered, or at least severely limited. I’ll probably end up driving the thing too, which is something I haven’t done for quite a few years. But if it means we’ll be able to bring our exhilarating tunes to many more strange places, then I’ll be happy to get behind the wheel again. Unfortunately, this will mean sobriety, but I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.
It is not an exaggeration to say that I have a bad habit of getting ahead of myself. There are many reasons for this, but I am ultimately responsible for my actions, so feel free to view me as complete tit head. Personally, I think the blame lies with my destructive TRUTH obsession, coupled with a life bordering on outright fantasy. The slow and ugly descent into the world of words has probably contributed to my downfall more than anything else. But yet, here I am, typing away on this filthy old keyboard; spinning a terrifying web of doom-ridden ecstasy, flawed master plans, loving tributes, self-aggrandisement and paranoid ravings. In all honesty, I enjoy writing, but I sense a change in my approach is on the horizon. Perhaps a separation is needed? Make music, but don’t write about it. Write, but don’t write about music. Yes, this makes a strange sort of sense. There are plenty of other tasty subjects for me to sink my fangs into, so you are advised to make the most of this final musical love-in piece before I throw myself into a totally different zone.
As a special treat, I thought I would include something unexpected in this bizarre write-up; something from the otherwise disdainful world of… wait for it… Facebook! OH SHIT! Please, GOD, NO! Calm down, calm down, ladies and gerbils, just sit back, relax, and enjoy the infamous “MPH Circle Jerk Party”…
Safe gang bangers. This is a little treat MPH group msg to all closely involved (top secret, of course) just to say I’ve had a good couple of listens on CD on our booming stereo to “Fresh from the Holy Spring” (whilst drinking Jim Beam, I must admit) by that wonderful group, Miss Halliwell, and I think it’s the best fucking thing I’ve ever heard (not one to blow my own TRUMPET, as you know). Gavin has done an amazing job, of course, and we still have Allan Murphy and Adam Lee’s stuff to PLAY WITH afterwards. This is just the beginning, kids. But what I have here is an “album” that is so much fun it probably only needs 7 tracks (for the simple purpose of enticing unsuspecting music lovers of all shapes and sizes and creeds, and perhaps even ‘record labels’ and ‘press’ – haha ho ho ho yeah, who fucking knows ehh?) – not to underestimate the other stuff that is still to come from the very talented DIY boys – including myself, of course. I had to send this message to you all because 1. I trust you, 2. You deserve to know a little more than I’ve been letting on, and 3. I might explode if I don’t let off a little bit of manic steam right now. Keep all expectations low, but please harbour a little bit of hope – you never know…
Allan R Murphy
Good man, glad your happy with, now where’s my f*****g copy lol!
haha, funny you should say that bro, I’ve just lashed a few previews together so will get one over to ya soon. Scotty, ya sexy fucker
still got a little work to do on it, perhaps, in with Gav again late September to give it one more day of sheen…no Charlie involved
remember, keep it hush – but feel the crazed love
Allan R Murphy
Horn blower? Feel the hot breath
Al.. you will prolly wank profusely upon listening to it and then spontaneously combust..
Allan R Murphy
My love length is buzzing already Ross, spank my plank!
Oh my God.
Indeed. This is the news I need. I am fragile after a very bloody trip to the dentist and am wandering around Morrison’s Five Ways in a state of wonderment and confusion. Nearly threw a strop at a mother smoking in front of her twins in their pushchair. Luckily I’m a nice bloke at heart so that was avoided. Who’s coming to see The Courtesy Group at the Sunday Xpress at the Adam then?
I should think some of us will be there our mate
Going to try and make it, are they on a bit later?
Fog HORN leg HORN
Estimated time half 7 for TCG.
Sorry at work
NEW Miss Halliwell GREAT.
Cool, reckon i should be able to get there by then
I should think I can make it Sunday too whoop!
Said more like ‘wup’.
Horn of gondor
Never a dull moment with miles ay!!bring on the album!!
Def a couple of foghorns Ross thanks for reminding me about that.
Jc u sexy bastard
Not as sexy as miles p though
SO SOLID, CREW. May Christ shine upon you all…
Miles P is V sexy.
I think we should change miles’ name to ‘Grand master sexy’
Allan R Murphy
I can’t help it. I basically am SEX
Coming this Fall…
The Sexorcism of Miles Perhower..
Allan R Murphy
Ha ha, he saved my soul and enlarged my hole
Jesus H Corbett…
“The 2nd Circumcision of Miles P”
In association with Bullyslap Productions..
And Cumshot Distribution
“A shot in the eye for mainstream music” Daily Sport
Hahahahaha and so it has begun!
Allan R Murphy
Anyhoo I’m leaving this holy and reverential circle jerking to go and make me tea, Traa fer a bit loike.
Well I’m going home, putting some mung beans on, getting changed into my Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci t-shirt, going to the pub, having a whisky mac and then going back and turning those mung beans into a casserole MOTHER FUCK.
Brilliant. I have a feeling these are future liner notes…
Bin liner notes
You’re Bin Liner!
I hear weird is the new cool!and we r the coolest mother fuckin cunts i no!yeehaaaaaaa
The album really is that good
Who’s up for rapein miles?
I don’t deny it! Thanks for all your hard work on this Gavin. Top man.
Im up for it
Here’s to the new sound!
Nice work jk
I’m not mucking about tonight. The mung beans are on as well.
Fair fucks to ya!
Like I say…I’m not mucking about xxx
Good grief. Get a room you dirty Berties.
Homoeroticism is the new black. Especially in today’s repressive climate.
19:09 Tristam Vivian Adams left the conversation.
Looks the bollox 2bf”
…SO THERE YOU HAVE IT! My favourite bit is when Tristam leaves the conversation without even saying anything.
But let’s get back to serious business now. There’s still a fair bit of stuff to mull over, dear readers, and I hope the verbatim Facefuck conversation hasn’t put you off too much. At the time of writing (when in Christ’s name is this?), things are a little up-in-the-air, so to speak.
The autumn (winter??) is suddenly upon us and we’re stuck in a kind of no man’s land. Schedules are tight, money is tight, and these fucking trousers are tight. But have no fear, we shall prevail. I’m lucky in so many ways to be FREE, but at the same time, I can’t help putting this ridiculous pressure on myself. Don’t get me wrong, in addition to running the most interesting band on the planet, I do have other serious responsibilities (and not all of them are non-musical), but I’m not going to go into any detail about them here. There will be a time for that. Besides, I’ve just recovered from a King Shitter of a headache and I’m in danger of going crazy with paranoia if I don’t lighten up ASAP.
Before I let loose and catapult myself into some kind of skewiffed and shamelessly celebratory track by track analysis of the release, I’d like to address some of the ‘key issues’ brought up in my previous writings from the last 18 months or so, as well as pay homage to some of the characters who have played a huge role in regards to my ‘progress’ during this sporadically eventful period…
First and foremost I think I need to single out Miss Sarah Fleming (aka Rose of Bearwood) because without her none of this would be possible. Despite being one of the most vicious drunks I have ever known, she is a truly phenomenal woman; a beautiful, intelligent entity, loaded with attitude and almost unclassifiable in terms of her own personal taste in music. She IS Miss Halliwell, for Miss H is, to a certain extent, inherited directly from her family line. It is in her blood. I just came along and gave the crazy little bitch that extra big something… the magic ingredient, if you like. I’m being facetious, of course. I love her more than anything in the world and she gives more to me than anyone. DO NOT MESS WITH THIS LADY.
There are numerous other individuals who have seriously pulled their weight where Miss Halliwell is concerned. The group: Fibass, Roscoe Balaban, and now Samurl “Piano Dentist”, have come together like a nice sticky dream this year and I have high hopes for 2014. As you can see from the photos and ‘Circle Jerk’ above, there are quite a few others who, at the very least, BELIEVE in this thing, and I thank them for that (especially Alan Neilson who, amongst other things, has kept our older releases on iTunes). A special shout must go out to the wonderfully idiosyncratic and always enthusiastic local writer, James Kennedy, who has been a real help during some very difficult times. Earlier in the year, Jim booked Miss Halliwell to play at the consistently fascinating (and often hilarious) Sunday Xpress, at Digbeth’s Adam and Eve pub. Now, around five months later, the Xpress is healthier than ever and will be hosting Miss Halliwell’s first gig since the release of the new record(s).
Jim co-organises this remarkable monthly event with the legendary Brendan Higgins (more about Bren later). At the very least, both of them have brightened up a fair few Sundays, but they have also provided Birmingham with a platform for one of the most interesting scenes in its recent history. Also, hats off to Daron Billings of the diverse music review blog, The Hearing Aid. These are the people who are brave enough to shed a little bit of spotlight on something that isn’t complete utter shite… uh oh, here comes the headache again… a warning not to mess with the Obdurate Partisans…
I won’t drag this out too much more, but reading back through “Automatic Update” and the rest of this ‘blog’, I can see that I’m quite obviously insane. The sense of injustice is fairly, bloodily, excruciatingly apparent and I’m not 100% sure I should have written some of those things, but I’m 99% sure I was right to. It boils down to this: just because I’m an overly ambitious egomaniac who sometimes flies off the handle, don’t assume that I’m unwilling to play the game a little bit. I’ve got a shit-load to offer and it’s about time I got the opportunity to reach a wider audience with some of this stuff. If it dies a pathetic death then it will be a huge loss, SO TAKE FUCKING NOTICE, YOU SILLY, SILLY CUNTS! Only the most rampant freaks in the world can get away with being called Miss Halliwell. Fuck PEACE, they are NOTHING compared to us. I am Miss H’s BF – Brian Ferguson. It’s time to start bloody winning again!
Right then, now that nasty business is out of the way, here’s my track by track walk-through of “Fresh from the Holy Spring” and “Gusting Guests”.
*We will be selling nicely packaged copies of this double-disc release at The Adam & Eve, Digbeth, as part of the Sunday Xpress Miss H headline gig on 24th November, as well as at any future shows that come to fruition. It may take a little time, but we will be performing live regularly again soon. The Xpress gig is billed as an ‘Album Launch’, whereas in reality (or should that be virtual reality?) you can already buy yourself (or a friend, or a relative, or a pet) a copy HERE. Xmas is just around the corner, you know? This would be a wonderful gift for all the family to enjoy together… Chuck the Nat King Cole in the bin and whack Fresh Gusting on full blast instead – perfect.
*iTunes? Maybe, eventually…in some form, perhaps, I really don’t know. It depends on the future demand for Miss H and myself (which is, at present, similar to the demand for gooseberry flavoured ice-cream). Ideally I’d like to control the digital version in the same way I plan on controlling the physical, via my own website. It’s straight-forward enough to do, on a fairly small scale, but consumers are so used to iTunes now it’s always going to be tougher getting them to use an unfamiliar purchasing platform. I can’t be that arsed with Bandcamp, Lastfm and ReverbNation etc, even though I’ve used them and found them to be decent enough in the past, I can’t help feeling like I’m quite detached from all that stuff. I suppose I would rather be totally separate and as independent as possible than have to share the same miserable, energy sapping platforms as every other wannabe. It doesn’t exactly fill me with joy when I receive utterly pathetic royalties, which can sometimes be as disgraceful as $0.01 per “stream”. At least I have the PRS to fall back on. They will pay me £5 per gig! WOW! Shame it cost £60 to sign up for it… Har har har. But let’s take things one step at a time, shall we? Despite the hyperactive, overexcited yet cynical tone of this piece of twisted self-analysis, I have my feet strangely on the ground. I’ve never been afraid of doing a bit of guerilla marketing, especially when using the internet. You have to get The Stats moving somehow, even if that means upsetting a fair few snide geeks. I’m probably finished with all that now though, the same as I’m finished with trying to keep a log of all the output. Deep down I’m just happy to still be doing it, whatever IT is. I still have ambition, but my expectations are at an all time low. However, if you do buy a copy from us at some point, rest assured it will be the most fun you’ve had with an album (or whatever you want to call it) in a long time. I mean, holy nostalgia, 2 CDs full of sweet ear and brain juice – and there’s more where that came from!
So, let’s have a go at giving a small description of each track without hitting you with too many spoilers, eh?
I’ll do “Fresh” first and then work my way through “Gusting”.
Groovy riffs, playful biffs and friendly tiffs; yet at the same time this monster two-parter is laced with a cacophony of meaty low-end-centric sounds, a machine-like sax sample and some ballsy lyrics from my man, Matty Massive Bollocks. Hypnotic, minimalistic, layered and packed with venom and guts. Maybe it’s not an obvious opener, but, oh my word, I’m convinced it was the right decision to stick the fucker at the top. The water is nice and warm, but still, throw the poor sods in at the deep end and hope they can swim! Earplugs will not be needed.
We made a video for this. It certainly feels like a traditional ‘single’ – employing the classic verse / chorus style structure… but I think there’s more to it than that. I’m proud of the way we did such a tight take in the studio, but I’m also pleased to have written a song that attempts to be positive, or at the very least fleetingly optimistic, whilst acknowledging the relentless negatives. It’s a fairly dark yet strangely feel-good tune, with some pretty slick breakdown licks at the end. Whatever happens as a result of the video and the record itself, “Rulerfueller” proves, at least to myself, that I can still write a decent pop song.
3. “Fresh from the Holy Spring”
Ah, yes, the title track. Not sure how we’re gonna do this one live… I suppose I could just… no… no… that would be too much of a piss take.
4. “Favourite Guitar”
Piano is the future! Har har har… The first (and only) straight up rock / punk tune on the list. Crank the bastard up loud and I guarantee that you will start jumping around the room like a crazy air guitar geek. There are some great dynamics on show here and I’m a fan of the rapid tempo. Young Samurl’s intermittent synth keys make all the difference too. We nailed it, to be fair. KABOOM!
Sometimes I can’t tell whether I’m joking or being serious. Is this a cause for concern?
5. “Naturl Obbit @”
Big, chunky, cheesy and hypnotic. This will probably divide opinion because of the risky combination of weirdness and simplicity; grunge-surf-prog-space-rock, anyone? Whatever the hell it is, it feels like a huge journey to me. If you can get from beginning to end you will be thoroughly satisfied. Uniform Resource Locator… it’s worth noting that the vocal harmonies between myself and Roscoe near the end actually sound quite beautiful, which is an achievement in itself.
6. “Squeamish Knight”
Addictive, heavy POP, with a surreal medieval theme… There’s a tense yet manic edge cutting right through the track, creating this earthquake effect, but it never breaks the flow at all. The thumping drums and bass play off each other quite exquisitely and then explode with guitars at the appropriate moments. We hadn’t recorded at Magic Garden for 5 years, then we just turned up and did a vicious take of this ditty. The Holy Spring got off to a flying start with Squeamish. It’s hard to believe it was done back in May, it seems like last week. Nice to hear Rose of Bearwood doing her uncredited recorder blows too. It had to be done. Very Syd, I know.
7. “Ponytail Quest”
Are you ready to embark upon the Ponytail Quest? Witness the dramatic meltdown and eventual victory of Dean Farook. Feel the power and the glory…
I must interrupt this admittedly therapeutic masturbation and inform you, dear friend, that it’s really not all milk, honey and roses at the moment. In fact, I would go as far as admitting that I am becoming very, very ill. ILL IN THE MIND… and almost DEAD IN THE SOUL. Everything I look at… everything I read or hear just feels like… oh fuck, how can I put this?… LIKE A BIG FAT FILTHY STINKING LIE!!! Maybe I should neck some vodka and go for a naked sprint around the block? No, NO! I’m currently trying to avoid these wonderful vices for some stupid (or possibly perfectly logical) reason. I’m too real for showbiz and too crazy for everyday life. OK? OK! Reality check OVER! I’ll pull through… I think… I think too clearly… I’m a mess… My mind is blown… GUSTING GUESTS… It’s a right pain in the arse being a more entertaining writer than all of the music journalists in the world COMBINED… OH WELL… I’ll just have to deal with it… Warts N all… Keep it pure… Volatile yet controlled frequencies… 1st batch… Move on… Don’t let the scenester ghosts haunt… There will be no more pathetic attempts to infiltrate… Their world stinks of shit…
I’ve been subconsciously and self-consciously working on this strangely attractive sculpture for quite a while now. It has only just recently found its final form and I’m pleased to be able to step back and really appreciate the odd beauty of the thing. Although we originally saw it as some sort of weirdo companion piece, or BONUS DISC, if you want to put it rather more crudely, what we have now is something that very much holds its own despite being a fairly challenging listen at times. Instead of a mere add-on, I think “Gusting Guests” has become vital to the release because it provides a disturbingly raw representation of the other, seemingly darker side of the brain / seasons… Enjoy or Endure or Both, for Shure. GESTALT.
1. “Perfidious Unholy”
You can’t trust this tune. It started life as a strictly conventional (yet ever so slightly sarcastic) song, but then, in a stoned-drunk frenzy, I decided to work with Adam Lee, with Samurl in tow, and we turned it into one of the most gripping things I’ve ever heard. It was recorded as a sort of remix – and then I remixed the remix. I’m pretty chuffed with what came out the other end.
2. “The Art of Shutting Up”
Betta git redy 2 git wit tha riddum. Minds could, and should, be blown here. Me and Allan pulled the fucker together BIG TIME. I can’t really describe how this sounds without spoiling the surprise. All I will say is MASTER!!! Dig the perc.
3. “Pity About the Ditty”
Thank you to whatever force or factors led me to record and keep this raw version. If “Fresh from the Holy Spring” represents some kind of palingenesis, then “Gusting Guests” is what happens afterwards; unpredictable mutations, different paths and strange diversions. It feels like the end of the summer and into the autumn. Sounds clichéd, I suppose, but it’s hard to see it any other way.
4. “Build me a Fib (Palimpsest)”
If in doubt, build it from the ground up! That’s what I had to do, and it paid off. There are still remnants of the original mix floating around, i.e. PALIMPSEST: something reused or altered but still bearing visible traces of its earlier form.
Born out of a hazy few days at the beginning of the summer, “Fearguard” commands respect. Despite its low-end heavy, distant DIY production, it has a gentle, reflective, possibly melancholic side, which doesn’t quite leave the atmosphere of the track, even when the tempo shifts up about 5 gears near the end. There’s also a pretty swanky remix version knocking about…
6. “Cauliflower Ears”
Another personal favourite. By far the weirdest track on the entire release, it will not be to everyone’s taste, but there is a purity to it; an admittedly alien, schizophrenic purity (if there is such a thing), but yes, VERY STRANGE STUFF! I also think it’s quite pretty. So there!
Ross has described this as “the best low-fi glam-rock tune ever recorded on Jupiter’s Ganymede by mutant Black Country humanoid scorpions” and I’m inclined to agree with him.
8. “What are You?”
I said I’d get to Brendan Higgins later, well, it’s later now, so let’s have a bit of Bren time. He is one hell of a pure poet, but he’s also a fantastic writer, an eerily captivating performer and a wonderfully eclectic collaborator. “What are You?” features an opening bombardment of Bren’s infamous diction. Only certain (and notably hilarious) words and phrases are coherently audible, but the innate jazz rhythm of his double-delivery breeds with the improvised music so effectively, a strangely gorgeous two-headed monster baby grows out of every listen. Once Brendan has said his piece, the rest of the track takes us on a mind-bending journey; tearing through soundscapes with spiky samples, drenched in ambient dream accidents…
9. “Juggle World”
And so, after all that, we arrive at the final (listed) track. Ultra-weird, happy-alive, poly-pop, DIY-jazz, doom-death? I’m feeling quite knackered now, ladies and gents, so you’ll just have to take my bitter-sweet word(s) for it until you hear the thing for yourselves. It is becoming increasingly difficult to tell whether this is truly the start of a fascinating new era. Perhaps it is really nothing more than the final creative blow-out in what could be perceived as a wholly inappropriate career?
Only time will tell.
(Thanks to Scotty, Samurl, Fibass and Rose for the photos.)
“And the good news about the kingdom will be preached throughout the whole world, so that all nations will hear it; and then the end will come.” – Matthew 24:14
Klyve lay in bed, once again unable to sleep. His long-suffering girlfriend tossed and turned next to him as he strained and stared upwards, wide-eyed into the dark. He was sort-of dreaming, but not at all sleeping; restless and agitated for hours on end and unable to get a grip on his rampaging thoughts and fantasies. The aggravation permeated the room despite Klyve’s best efforts to be silent and still. There was no real pattern to his insomnia dreams, just random memories and perverted tangents. But one thing that really stuck with him throughout the following morning was what an old neighbour (a physics genius and a practising Christian) had told him a few years back. For some reason, Klyve vividly remembered, although perhaps slightly re-imagined, this guy telling him about the time he became acquainted with some monks while travelling in Thailand, and how he had stroked a tiger’s tongue whilst in their company. It felt just like sandpaper, apparently. These monks kept pet tigers which they casually took for walks around the grounds of the monastery using metal chain leads; chatting to tourists happily along the way, with these huge, yet strangely chilled-out beasts held at an alarmingly short distance with seemingly little physical restraint. Klyve’s neighbour asked one of the monks, who was nonchalantly holding a tiger at arm’s length, how they managed to control them so easily; curious to find out whether there was some kind of divine power at work. The monk laughed, then whistled to another monk who was lurking in the shadows. This other monk came running out with a large green plastic bag, which he then opened in front of the tiger. The massive beast seemed more animated for a moment, clearly excited by the contents of the bag, then stuck its head into it and proceeded to guzzle up what appeared to be a fine white substance, like icing sugar. Little puffs of the white powder floated up and out of the bag every time the tiger expelled air from its nose. The bag was then taken away, and for a second Klyve’s neighbour thought the tiger was going to bite off the monk’s arm, as it was clearly still hungry for more powder – or maybe it was after some kind of snack that had been heavily laced with the strange stuff? Either way, within a couple of seconds the animal had calmed down. Its face was covered with the dubious white substance, its eyes were bulging, yet vacant and turned slightly inwards, and it seemed to be weirdly smiling with its massive tongue hanging out. “Oh, so THAT’S how you do it,” Klyve’s neighbour said, disgusted, but at the same time, perversely amused. The monk gave the tiger a pat on the head and brushed the remnants of powder away, careful to make sure some of the remaining bits went up the beast’s nose. It then became like a kitten, playfully rolling around on its back…
During the previous day, before Klyve’s latest bout of inexorable insomnia, he had promised Dorothy, the old lady who lives across the street, that he would come round to cut her grass and tidy her garden in the morning, but the lack of sleep and relentless bombardment of weird unwanted memories had left him feeling severely lethargic and not particularly sociable. Luckily, it was a beautifully sunny Saturday morning, so Klyve decided to walk down to the shops to buy some fresh eggs and orange juice, in an attempt to perk himself up before spending two hours sweating it out in Dorothy’s wildly overgrown garden. There was a mild breeze and the air smelled sweet as he walked past the old corner shop, which had been out of use and boarded up for the last six months. He noticed a piece of white A4 paper, jittering on the scuffed paving, which at first glance appeared to be a missing pet poster, or something of a similar kind that Klyve had often seen attached to lamp posts or displayed in windows. It looked like it was about to start flapping and blowing around in the old shop doorway. He was too thirsty to stop and investigate, so continued his short walk to the other shop. After buying two bottles of fresh orange juice and a carton of eggs, Klyve headed back towards his house, downing one of the ice-cold juices while he walked, with a plastic bag containing the rest of the shopping in his other hand. After quenching his thirst and wiping his mouth, he noticed, once again, the fluttering A4 poster, caught in the old corner shop’s entrance. It had landed upright against the wall, making it more visible this time. Klyve grabbed the piece of paper, held it up in front of his face and was shocked to see that there were pictures printed on it of someone he knew. It was a girl of around his own age, whom he had met last year during a friend’s birthday party. Katie, that was her name. A pretty, normal looking girl, with soft features, blue eyes, fair hair and pale skin. Klyve remembered that she was a friend of Aaron’s, possibly romantically linked, but he wasn’t quite sure at the time. They had a strange air about them that night, something mischievous, but she seemed pleasant enough. In the brief conversation that they had, she told him that she was up to her neck in Politics and International Studies at the University of Warwick and was planning on trotting the globe after graduation.
The pictures of Katie were printed below a stark warning:
DO NOT ADMIT. NOTIFY SECURITY AND LOCAL LAW ENFORCEMENT TO PLACE TRESPASS NOTICE.
Klyve was shocked. “Fucking hell,” he said to himself as he wiped the sweat from his brow. “What’s all this about then?”. The top two photos were of the girl he recognised, but there were two other photos printed underneath, both of which were extremely disconcerting. It was clearly the same girl, but in these shots she was wearing a black sports hoodie, with the hood pulled up, and her face appeared to be thickly covered with some kind of paint. The photo on the bottom left showed her wearing what must have been florescent yellow face-paint, with a big black cross painted over the top. It went right across her eyes and down from the upper-middle part of her forehead all the way down to her chin, via her nose and mouth. It made her look like a crazy ice-hockey fan, or something similar, but there was a disturbingly vacant look in her eyes. In the photo on the bottom right she was completely blacked-up, or browned-up, to be more accurate, with a demented, yet eerily blank expression on her face. Her hair was covered by the black hood and Klyve couldn’t help but think she looked like a sporty witch.
Klyve then read the rest of the notice:
NAME: KATIE COLE
ALIAS: QUILL ANTONIA SPHINX
HEIGHT: 502 – 504
WEIGHT: 125 – 135
HAIR: BLONDE, LIGHT BROWN, POSSIBLY SHAVED
DOB: APRIL 1, 1986
Klyve couldn’t believe what he was reading. “Where the fucking hell did this come from?” he mumbled, shocked. He couldn’t really make up his mind whether Katie had just gone completely nuts, all by herself, or had perhaps become radicalised or even brainwashed by a cult of some sort? It just seemed too much of a cartoonish transformation for there to have been any vaguely understandable or intelligent thinking behind this. Surely the ‘alias’ wasn’t anything to do with her politics? After staring at the photos, nervously, for a few more seconds, he decided to fold up the paper and slip it into his pocket. Klyve wondered why this mysterious, horrible warning, had been left in the street in the first place? Maybe someone dropped it by accident; a person with local security responsibilities perhaps? Jesus, anything’s possible these days, he thought. Maybe it had been put up on display in the shop before it closed down? Surely he would’ve noticed it back then? Perhaps not, because Klyve had boycotted that rotten old establishment when it was still in business. The place always had a really terrible atmosphere. Customers were often treated like enemies, but it seemed like the more scummy and threatening people behaved, the better they were treated. It was the sort of place where they treated politeness as something to be suspicious of. They had once refused to let Klyve, who was a regular customer, pay for a small amount of shopping with a slightly faded, but still perfectly acceptable five pound note. He was absolutely furious about this at the time, but kept his nerve and returned to the shop a few days later without a single penny on him. He loaded two baskets FULL to the brim with all manner of products and then watched with joy as the guy who ran the shop scanned each product and carefully bagged it all up. It totalled around fifty quid, but Klyve just laughed, menacingly, right in the guy’s face and walked out, leaving all the stuff on the counter.
This thing involving Katie felt like a freakish coincidence. He contemplated whether or not he should give Aaron a call. He hadn’t seen or spoken to him for quite a while, not since Jake’s party in December. Thinking about it, he hadn’t seen or heard from Jake since then either. Klyve had deactivated his Facebook account in January and had been living a fairly reclusive life with his girlfriend, Christine, in a small house in Smethwick for the last six months or so. As he walked back towards their house the air smelled stale and he felt a twinge of guilt. He regretted having cut himself off from his social circle so severely.
A few doors down the street, two young men were chatting, smugly, in the front garden of a house that was clearly not their property. They were both wearing suits and were holding leather satchels. One of them was leaning on the patio wall, chatting happily, while the other continued to wait for someone to answer the door. Klyve observed them for a minute or two, relieved to be distracted from what he had discovered outside the old shop, and decided to approach them before going back to his own house.
“Alright, lads?” Klyve boomed, startling them intentionally. “Do you live in that house?” he asked. Both of the men quickly snapped out of their lazy conversation stance and moved onto the street.
“Er, no, we don’t live here,” said the short, fat one.
“We are, however, spreading some very good news,” said the other, thinner bloke.
Klyve knew they were Jehovah’s Witnesses. “Good news, eh?” he laughed. “So good you can just hang around on someone else’s property for a while without their permission?” Klyve asked in a menacing tone.
“Oh, I see, were you timing us?” chuckled the thin one.
“No, I wasn’t timing you, but you certainly were in no rush to move on to the next house after getting no response from this one!”
“OK, well, is there anything else you’d like to ask us?” said the short dumpy lad.
“Actually, I’d like to get your opinion on this,” answered Klyve, as he pulled out the warning notice about Katie from his pocket.
“What is this?” asked the thin one, who examined the paper and then passed it to his partner.
“It’s a public security notice of some sort,” Klyve told him. “I found it on the floor just across the street and I actually know the girl in the photos,” Klyve said, feeling slightly sad, but at the same time, extremely confrontational.
“Well, erm, this is a bit of a strange thing now isn’t it?” said the chubby one.
“We must be off now, Sir,” said the thin one, nervously handing back the piece of paper to Klyve, who then slipped it safely back into his own pocket.
“So, that’s all you’ve got to say about it then? Jesus Christ! What the fuck is wrong with you freaks?”
“Nothing is wrong with us, Sir. We’re commissioned by God!”
Klyve checked his watch and saw that he still had an hour or so before he had to be at Dorothy’s. It had been a very strange morning, but Klyve couldn’t resist letting off a bit of steam in the direction of these two arrogant fools.
“Do you know what I like most about Jehovah’s Witnesses?” asked Klyve.
“Look, Sir, if you are interested in what we do, then please visit JW.org. There’s plenty of informa…”
Klyve cut in, “I like you lot because you’re like a personal gift from God to me. Punch bags, designed by the great beast himself, sent to relieve my tension.”
“What do you mean, punch bags?” said the thin one, pretending to be amused.
“Well, I mean, I can call you a cunt, laugh in your face, ramble insane philosophical shit at you, provoke repressed hatred, you know, all the FUN stuff. The best thing about it is the total lack of threat from your side. It’s absolutely fucking brilliant! A real GIFT!”
The two young men seemed pretty angry and insulted, much to Klyve’s amusement. They swiftly walked away with panicked countenances, whispering things to each other as they headed towards their next destination. Klyve laughed to himself, briefly, but then remembered what was in his pocket. He took out the piece of paper and studied the photos once again, paying more attention to the images of Katie that were probably taken before her frankly ridiculous transformation into “Quill Antonia Sphinx”. He noticed that there was a book on the kitchen shelf behind her, to the right of her head in the top left photo. Klyve held the image up-close to his eyes and squinted. He could just about make out the title of the book and slowly spelled it out in his mind; “…T H E…L E S S E R…K E Y…O F…S O L O M O N”. He had never heard of the book, but something about it creeped him out. He decided to look it up on the web as soon as he got back home, which should have been in about thirty seconds time, but there was to be one final distraction during Klyve’s physically short yet mentally huge journey…
“Don’t give up, Miles. If you quit now, you’ll fucking die.” – Cosy Compton
Oh my word, that is disturbingly shrewd, crude, and possibly even cruel advice, but it comes from someone who knows me well, so I’ll try to take it on board. Anyone who has known me since the age of 12 or 13 will be aware of how early on the intense MPH vision began to come into shocking focus, and if they know me well enough they will also realise that if I jump ship now then I’d be throwing 15 years straight down the shitter – a decade of which was spent fiendishly wrestling with “music” and playing “gigs” in my own “special” way. Even before the “official” serenading began, my very early years were also both enhanced and plagued by this disturbing vision; blurred but still prominent and always challenging.
I find it strange, on days like today, when the weather is neutral and the atmosphere is unnervingly calm, that all the years of wild creative experience and borderline madness seem unreal, distant and blurred, as I prepare for yet another future rehearsal, soon to be the present tense, alive in the the moment, a new group dynamic with new successes and failures; old mistakes disguised as fresh ones, imminent psychological pitfalls when committing to tape, and the odd things that can happen during a break…
“Isn’t it funny,” I blurt, “how all-of-a-sudden that tune is so much better without me having to play guitar on it?”
“I don’t know about that,” Roscoe argues, casually leaning back against the wall outside the practice room.
“What the fuck do you mean?” I snap. “Didn’t you hear what we just did in there? It was TEN times fucking better! The whole thing just expanded and became something so much more than a stock-rock piece.”
“Ha, you just don’t want to play guitar, because you’re getting lazy, Miles,” Roscoe says mockingly.
“How dare you accuse me of being lazy! I’M TOTALLY FUCKING COMMITTED!” I shout and violently bang my fist on the metal door which booms and clangs loudly and startles some pigeons.
“You need to BE committed,” Roscoe laughs.
“That’s not funny,” I say, mournfully.
“It’s the fucking truth, you’re losing it. I can’t even play a guitar solo now without having to put up with you attacking me with a drum stick and sliding it across the frets.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that! I used to do a similar thing with CN Support and he was a fucking BASS player. I even cracked him on the hand with a stick while he was playing a riff during one performance.”
“Oh, and I wonder why he’s not in the group any more?”
“What the hell are you on about? He’s not in the group now because I booted him out for being too tall and good-looking. I only want attractive women in this group, not 7 foot tall lady-boys.
“So the only reason I’m still here is because I’m ugly, and the right height?”
“Yeah, they’re the only reasons, if I’m being honest.”
“What about you then? You’re not exactly a pretty picture.”
“Rules don’t apply to me. I’m GOD.”
“And what about Samurl? He’s a lanky, fresh-faced cunt – so why did you bring him in?”
“He’ll soon be weathered down.”
“True, but he won’t bloody shrink!”
“It doesn’t matter because he sits on a stool.”
Samurl appears from the entrance and walks towards us, immediately noticing the tension.
“Oh, look who it is – it’s the ‘I can sit down’ boy-wonder,” Roscoe wails sarcastically.
“What??” Samurl laughs, uneasily.
“Ignore him, he’s just jealous,” I snarl. “But I don’t want you thinking that you’re something special either! You’re fucking lucky to still be playing with us after that schedule screw-up of yours. I mean, FUCKING CORNWALL, why the fuck would you still want to go there instead of playing your debut gig? I don’t know, Samurl, you kids these days are fucking useless. You can’t get your priorities right can you?”
Samurl is shocked, for a moment, but then he looks me in the eye and says, “I LOVE MISS HALLIWELL,” then Roscoe joins in, “I LOVE MISS HALLIWELL,” repeatedly in time with Samurl, like a demonic chant. Both of them closing in on me, combined hot stale breath on my face, closer and closer, hotter and wetter. I’m stunned, at first, and by the time I realise what’s happening it’s too late. I’m pushed into an enclave and immediately lose consciousness, occasionally stirring to the sound of some kind of rabid-bestial groaning and catching brief flashes of vicious white teeth and deranged blood-shot eyes…
Well, I bet that wasn’t quite what you were expecting? Then again, maybe that’s exactly what you would expect from me these days… So, was it a word for word account from the recent past or the imaginary ruminations of an alter-ego? Or the alter-ego within the tangible, concrete confines of the practice room?
Who really knows what’s real and what’s imagined these days? Too much reality can be pretty heavy. It can force you to contemplate doing ridiculous things, like giving up on your artistic vision and buggering off to run a pub in Shrewsbury! Can you believe that shit? I know, I know! It might have actually come to pass if it wasn’t for that particular pub being snapped up by someone else before we could really try to bid for it. So fuck Shrewsbury. Fuck that SHREWISH SWILL. We must have been bloody desperate to have even considered making that kind of insane move. Shit, we would’ve been thrown into a whirlwind; leaving us with absolutely no time at all for our own musical pursuits. Though, in all fairness, there’s a good chance we could have actually made it work; occasionally dusting off the hobbyhorse for a little ride on the poky-folky stage in the corner. But that would have been a rarity. The priority would have been to use it for local ‘performers’, you know, any old shit to keep the punters drinking and ‘entertained’. Does that sound like the right way for us to live? I don’t think so. Not yet and probably not ever. There is still too much work to be done; good, honest work, spiced with the odd wild party and ritual burning, without which, nothing would really be achieved – or achieved only in numb silence.
“Violence among young people is an aspect of their desire to create. They don’t know how to use their energy creatively so they do the opposite and destroy.”
– Anthony Burgess
Ah yes, you’ve hit the nail right on the head there, Mr Wilson. But then, who’s to say that venturing into the writing game isn’t one of the most insanely stupid and destructive decisions that any self-respecting human being could make? I can’t argue with that notion. So why the fuck am I still determined to keep on trying to play this corrupted and highly corruptive language-sport of ego-wankers? There are REASONS, of course, but none of them particularly justify the amount of pain and embarrassment I always seem to suffer as a result of bodging these sickeningly unobjective strings of weird characters together, as well as the unbelievable turmoil that goes with ‘publishing’ them. I’ve come to the conclusion that I must have a severely masochistic personality. I seem to be tangled up in a sticky mess of self love and self hate – which is often emitted, expressed, inflicted perhaps, onto (unto?) others. Good God! I really am The Doyen of Dangerous Mood Swings! All I can do is apologise from the bottom of my critically rotten heart, and promise you, dear friends (and enemies), that somewhere in this ridiculous behaviour is a perverse logic that might one day bring some sort of benefit to us all. Or maybe not? Yeah, probably not. It’s bad enough that I’m involved in the so called music business, but the word business too? Fucking hell, Miles, why do you do this to us? We just want a quiet life, for God’s sake! What are you gonna do next, eh? Become a fucking politician? Don’t make us laugh! You’re nothing but a deluded minuscule despot! You should be bloody ashamed of yourself! Just because you wield absolute power in this pathetic puddle of creativity (yes, PUDDLE, not even a bubble) it doesn’t make you any less powerless in the big old ugly world. Give up and don’t come back because WE DON’T WANT YOU!
*This is the point where most ‘normal’ people would gravitate towards the delete button and hold the cunt down for as long as it takes to remove such nonsense – but I’m a fair distance away from ‘normal’, especially when drunk out of my skull on wine. Things can get very nasty very quickly in situations like this. I’m in the mood for exploring uncharted frontiers, so you’ll just have to deal with it or get the fuck out right now before the miasma of the next bit melts your timid little brain into a lumpy syrup…
…Dean practiced his words internally; ignoring the awful ceremony that surrounded him; desperate to avoid being sucked into this profoundly disturbing orgy of awkwardness and backwardness. Memorising his own peculiar verses seemed like the best, perhaps only way to retain any vaguely normal level of sanity throughout these puerile rituals of retardation. He forced himself to breathe in gently through the nose, closed his eyes and began to mentally rehearse; imagining the mercurial sounds of his voice and the strangely structured, occasionally plangent, but predominantly uplifting and highly charged music that manages to pump extra power into the already glowing word-sparks:
“I’m connected. I feel connected to this guitar; to this disaster. I’m caught between a rock and a hard place, which is making it hard to concentrate. Bite the bullet. Strangle and suffocate self awareness. Break down the Ego Gate. Crude adjustments just hit the target. No excuses, just come to terms with it. The only way that you will go far is if you play your favourite guitar. And if the roads are closed and the bridges are burned you can draw from your supplies and you’ll survive on what you’ve learned.
OK, I’ll sing for my supper. I’ll pick up the axe. I’ll paint the bathroom green and create a new identity. It’s old news. It’s real magic. Plot holes are always in the lemon light and I can’t stop working! I’m always doing research…I’m corrected…I stand corrected…Weighing options up – outcomes refuse to be guaranteed – oh dear, oh deary me! Embarrassment, drop to your knees! Worship, sink to deeper depths – I’m choked, I cannot catch my breath. Why do you run away from me? I think I think too clearly…It’s time to soften up! Time to write one for the girls? I couldn’t be more wrong! I shouldn’t write this song! Get a proper job ’cause you’re not fooling anyone. But perhaps you are, perfidious superstar…”
The cathedral bells rang out and another voice came in, casually, no fade-in, no special effects. This definitely wasn’t Dean’s voice, but it was still coming from inside Dean’s head…
“There’s a man who knows how to extreme reverb! There’s another one! There’s no feeling though. He knows Jesus is better than everyone. The greatest of all men. Not really all man though, the reverb spitter. His name is Dean Farooq Sound. He’s talking to you from beyond the rave. I can’t precisely explain, but you’ll give me the benefit of the doubt, for now, won’t you? After all, I am coming from ‘pure bliss’ – almost nothing actually, but just enough TO BE BLISS. However, the sick pain of your world, which was once my world too, is beginning to seep through the uber membrane. I will tolerate this return to the sickness for as long as possible; hopefully long enough to properly communicate with you; long enough to remind myself why I left in the first place. But please realise that I am not trying to influence you, dear man-child, I am merely making conversation to satisfy the dregs of my human urges… I can’t help spitting into this filthy, crumb-filled mic. Motherfucking speech recognition, Ugh. Time to recycle your ridiculously earnest opinions and semi-epigrammatic offerings. Time to explore the true nature of the Squeamish Knight! Afraid to fight – no delight in blood and guts – soils his armour – he never jousts – he chickens out – his sword is blunt – but not from use – it’s just rusted – won’t be long ’til he’s found out – the King is very likely to chop his head off – luckily he knows the Queen has got a soft spot for him and he’ll be made Jester of the Court! Indeed he is a comedy coward character – self evident – nervous twitch little bitch – to live is to suffer – nutrients from sour life-milk – deal with that approach – that tacky time-bomb – gulp – AXIOMATICKTOUGHTITTITACKTICKS – the opposite of minty fresh – ZOMBIE EMBRACE – MEDIUM EVIL – LEGACY OF PROFLIGACY!”
The voice cut off suddenly and Dean jolted back into what he assumed was reality. Relieved to find himself sitting at his favourite desk, he looked up at the screen and saw the closing quotation mark at the end of the mind intruder’s lyrical dream-monologue staring at him like the creepycute central black eyes of an unspecified white baby spider, camouflaged in the blinding digital whiteout. There was a worrying tingle in his temples. His right eye twitched rapidly, his spine itched, his neck twinged and his bladder felt ready to burst. What the fuck had caused this bizarre unconscious outpouring? Dean had never experienced anything like it before. Although he felt a wave of panic at first, nervously considering the likelihood of having suffered some sort of epileptic schizophrenic seizure, he soon began to feel positively intrigued. After relieving himself in the filthy toilet, Dean sat back down at the desk and rubbed his hands across his face limply. He scrolled up the page and started to re-read the mysterious text. Strange interviews set to the soundtrack of funeral noise leaked out of the speakers in front of him; conversations about the loudness of applause; queer manipulations; hairs of heirs stood on end… vulnerable… venerable… Dean felt an urge to delete it all, but he resisted and decided instead to clean the toilet by squeezing some shower gel into it, which mildly amused him as he scrubbed the bowl and whipped up a foam. He found the smell perversely uplifting, which depressed him to such an extent he started mumbling what can only be described as spontaneous bog poetry:
“I will defend my patch until the end
To the ending of the spliff that never ends well
That’s what I thought initially
When will it finish?
Remind me again of the moral of this story
Who am I asking?
Put me back in
My naturl obbit @
Uniform resource locator
U R L
My naturl obbit at
Ur naturl obbit at
Er naturl obbit at
Is naturl obbit at
Dance on your own grave
Reinvent the rave
Bob up and down
Then quick turnaround
What is a prophet?
What is a profit?
Count to countenance
Wet fingers in
Socket to ’em
Crippled on a fence
So they shot my brain out
Owners with boners
Look like horses
Synthetic mystery solved
Am I allowed to take a bow?
What if I’m guilty of a million little sins?
Ephemeral dance on my grave
I’ll poltergeist your rave
Slashnatural obbit att
I wear it every day
My whore outfit
Man on a mission
No real distinction
He’s a stranger but he could be a villain
Taking pills now
Snorting KAT now
Riding on the bus
Always hallucinating and making a fuss
He is out of touch with what’s naturl
What is casual?
He is the devil
Eye Am The Ammer
U AR THE ANVIL
All the friends
They’re not real
They are dogs
They are veal
Bags of runts
Strip the land
Fight for scraps
How many Hells?
Breeding a little bit more than before
Looking and sounding like a Jonathan Ross
Acting like an animal
Basking in the second sun
Floating in a puddle is a galaxy
I’m The Dean
I see it in the moon
The only Ponytail Quest
This looks like a nice spot
We will live like kings once we’ve completed the Ponytail Quest
I’ll even be able to afford to buy a new vest for my treasure chest
I see it in the moon and in the eyes of the pet
Earthy smell on a plate
Body Armour – love’s replaced
Sell for scrap
Pieced it back
Sheikh Molten Gnashes
Hard boiled dregs
It’s annoying, that third eye
It’s so rejuvenating though
Thrive on emo-pain
Voracious yet ambivalent
Consult Dick Dictionary
A knight with a mobile phone
Shit all TV
PLaice bleach dye
Spiral down fly’s eyeball
Strobe bullocks sample
Infrared Scorpion Lizard
You gave me a fright
It’s a good job
It’s a knight’s job
It’s a good job
Gotta have a day job
I’m a knight tonight
At the Eagle Aquarium
I will define myself
Over one hundred times
And still not know
For the sake of it
Spread the dirty word
Don’t be afraid of the tit-heads
This jam is safe
I’ll have some
Fresh fear spears stuck into my brain
To replace all the old ones that have rusted and decayed
Pull out the perished points and then just chuck the new ones
Do it in your sleep, you can do it in a death-like state
See, you made it look easy – Squeamish Preserve
Status quotation cannibal jism
I’m sorry but this table is reserved
Just like the fortune teller said
Squeamish preserve status quotation
Somebody’s world is crashing down around them
Rockin’ all over this compulsive disorder
What shall we order?
Do you want a starter?
Shoot down loads
Taser their cheeks
Change from stun to kill
Join in with them, perhaps
Phaser yourself silly
Spin round and round
Kill own team
IP address dress
Unzip fine file totty
Exterminate the geeks
Mull Tip Layer
If I had the money
Bribe the bride
Bail out the Greeks
Exterminate the geeks
And wipe the piss from the seats with UKIP”
The pseudo-satirical toilet-humour quip shot a stench of reality up Dean’s nose and he quickly realised that he was looking up at the closing quotation mark that was once again staring back at him from the screen realm. He’d been feverishly typing whilst muttering the aptly named “spontaneous bog poetry” which built up yet another section of text that he had no recollection of actually writing. But there it was, as clear as day – Dean was a writer and he couldn’t do anything about it. He also couldn’t do anything about the terrible paranoia which plagued his mind incessantly. Nerve shredding hangover memories of insolence; flashes of himself roaming the April-damp city streets late on a Sunday night; heavily pissed, flagrantly pissed even, violently, petulantly spitting on advertising boards, chain stores, banks, and other eyesores that his intoxicated mind found too oppressive to ignore. The excruciatingly ignominious climax to the weekend had left Dean in a state of crippling, amorphous madness. Exhausted and confused, he climbed into bed, ensconced himself in the duvet and tried to ignore the terrifying whispers…Time to get medieval on your assssets! Anachronistic fantasies of a squeamish knight who wears a union flag vest and hides from dragons. Multiple heads and multiple faces breathing fire and spitting flames at Gilliam Steadman. Obscenity is history, a satirical obituary; ARISE, SIR DEAN FAROOQ SOUND! Traitors everywhere, unite! Regardless of left or right! You can crush the innocent because our nature doesn’t mind. As long as we continue to exist temptation will itch and persist. Why is this greed so hard to resist? Why can’t we live more meekly? Because the holiday won’t last forever – get working out the workings out of my methods, man, woman, meth-head. Pack your bags, we’re heading out of ambivalence and virtuality. Meet me at the gates of Devon. Burned books marks the spot. Flames so high and hot lick my sweat to a sweet off beat while you tie your hair back to fit the piece. Makeshift quest sign-language at altitude with attitude; like a really cool dude who’s competitive but ever so slightly derivative. Just remember, never cut the hacks any slack! It feels good to be back…
Has your brain turned to lumpy syrup yet? Mine has. For now, I remain to be something of a dilettante in the word business, and a definite beginner in terms of traditional journalism – but I’d like to think I can continue developing my skills by mining the seemingly inexhaustible supply of manic creativity that I have no choice but to contend with every single fucking day of my life. I reserve the right to quit at any time, but I don’t think it will ever come to that. I can’t seem to escape the fact that every piece I write and every gig I play always feels like a bloody long awaited, acrimonious comeback. Hopefully things might level out a bit someday, but if not, well, in the words of the once popular Irish girl group, B*Witched – C’est la vie!