Eyes Like Piss Holes In Snow

I have been working up in Masham for the better part of the last week. The job is good for several reasons, one that there isn't actually much work for me to do, so I sit about reading the paper and books about the Great War until I am called out of the car to watch them machine through made ground. Another thing is that the lads on the site are good fun. The dumper driver has 'Tab the Muffer' written on the back of his helmet. He has teeth like a row of burnt fence posts and is the approximate size of a pregnant elephant. He's a good lad. The digger driver has that look of the village simpleton, but as he is in charge of a three ton machine, I guess he must have something about him. The banksman stands about three foot high. He's like a midget, but with a normal sized head. He looks a bit like a Beavis Bobblehead toy. They have a good banter between them and most of the time I stand just laughing at them calling each other cunts.

'You cunt!' 

'You cunt!' 

'You cunt!'

The third and best thing about working in Masham is the butcher's shop just around the corner from site. I found it when I walked around town on the first day looking for somewhere to buy a paper. It seems that knowledge is not needed in Masham. There is only one paper shop in this mid-sized town. One paper shop, but approximately four thousand six hundred and twelve sandwich shops. I guess people get their outside information in Masham from the farmers coming in for the Wednesday market. They bring stories from the greater world that they picked up during their Sunday visits to church. News of Germany's defeat in the First World War only made it to Masham three weeks ago.  But then why would a place need news when it is home to two of the countries finest breweries, Black Sheep and Theakston's? Just get arseholed and forget the outside world! Anyhoo, this butcher's shop is probably the best I've been in for a long while. I have made it my duty to buy a pork pie every day so far. And good God, are they good pork pies. The butcher now knows a bit about me, he knows I'm there as an archaeologist and he knows I like pork pies. What more does he need to know? My name, nar, he just calls me 'boss'. So I sit in the car watching the rain teem down, listening to Jeremy Vine patronise his listeners and eating Pork Pies. What's not to like about Masham?

Pie: Pork

 Pie: Chicken

There was another 'gathering' of On-site staff on Saturday night. I thought to myself, I'll just have a couple, save a bit of money. Stanners had organised it, and told me that 'pretty much' everyone was going to be there. In the end only myself, Kate, Ryan, Sir Stanners and G-funk came out. Fuck the rest of them. Who needs those bellends when we've got the cream of the crop? Anyway, I threw a load of beer all over Kate's feet, told G-Funk what I really thought of someone, that I probably shouldn't have and ended up incredibly wankered and penniless in the Lowther at 2AM.  Sunday has been lost in a day of recovery.

OK, this is a bit awkward. I was a little drunk last night and I really can't remember your name... But would you like some breakfast?

I was chatting to someone t'other day about what makes me happy. I couldn't really think of a list, but I was also thinking of it when I was driving up from London the other day. I like it when lorry drivers flash their lights me when I allow them to pull out in front of me on the motorway. It feels like you've done a nice little deed for your fellow man. In fact I go out of my way to allow lorries to pull out in front of me, just to get that little hit of the light flash. I also like it when the butcher in Masham calls me 'boss', so I'm not going to tell him my real name.

Dulce et Decorum Est

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning,

We will remember them.

It's all gone tits up!

Christ, that was a fucking week. It all began on Friday night when I went over to Manchester to meet up with Mainy and to see Wolves in the Throne Room. It was their last tour ever, so I had to be there. The gig was fucking excellent as they were last year. It's a shame they are splitting up as they play blistering shows. I had to be gone quick sticks after the show and dropped Mainy off in the centre of Manchester pissed out of his head and clutching a bag of cans. I assume he got home OK as I got a text off him the next day to say he was alive.

An amazing gig photo taken at Wolves in the Throne Room...

I had to get gone because I had to be up at the crack of sparrows to get down to that London to be picked up by Steve to be taken out to Thiepval on the Somme. We spent about an hour waiting for that Posh Bastard Dr. Kenyon to finally show up from Jon's wedding. He eventually arrived looking like he'd slept in his car. Pete was also in convoy and stuck his curly headed head into the crowd.

Fuck you England, I'm going to France!!

The digging in France was good as usual and as I haven't been there for a long time it was good to catch up with the Micks. All the boys were there and my team comprised of PC Plod, the Big C, sweet FA and Dog Bummer. We had been tasked with trying to sort out Jon's trench from the previous season. He was away with his new missus breaking beds in Bruges on their honeymoon, so I took full advantage of the situation to absolutely and completely fuck the trench up. Only kidding, after much sweating and swearing we realised that the trench had been fucked up by a large shell burst long before we got there, which made things quite difficult to work out what was going on.

Fucked

Anyway, that took a rear seat to the continuing musical journey of Justin and I. We decided to form a new band whilst out French side. A little perspective is needed here to put you in the picture. A band is only as good as its name. For instance, U2 is a shit name and U2 are a shit band. Burzum is fucking brilliant name and Burzum is a fucking brilliant band. So with this in mind we have always striven to come up with a name that will lead onto to brilliance. The first band we formed, about four years ago was the seminal 'Space Ponies'. Douche Bag was also in this band but was fired minutes prior to our first ever live performance. This traumatic experience did nothing to dampen the first gig and everyone who was there to see Justin beating on a cardboard box and me blowing on a half filled beer bottle will remember that moment forever. In years to come people will say 'I was at the Space Ponies first gig.' Like they say about the Sex Pistol's first gig. Over time we patched things up with Douche Bag and he was allowed back into the fold, this time in the hardest working band in Rock: The Shit Sweats. The Shit Sweats played an acoustic set in a back room in a village called Wombaix. It consisted of Douche Bag on bongos, Justin on ukulele and me on tin whistle. Half way through we swapped instruments, without stopping playing. This performance was actually recorded through the soundboard recording system of Justin's Dictaphone. A single copy of this exists and it changes hands on EBay for thousands of pounds. Fate was to play its hand again and the Shit Sweats split due to musical differences. Mainly that we couldn't actually play any music.

One third of the Shit Sweats thinks about what could have been...

As I said, a band is only as good as its name, so with this in mind Justin came up with a new band name for us this season. He decided that Kiddy Fiddler would be a good moniker for our forth coming musical ventures. People would know us for the controversy and we would get free coverage from the Daily Mail. This was further embellished with my idea that we could get a group of children together and teach them to play fiddles. At least the band would do what it said on the tin. Further to this we came up with names for the first three albums: God Wishes You Were Dead (You'd Be Easier To Fuck), Je Suis Le Jambon and the third album in the trilogy Shitcat Sheep Shift. Look out for us in the Hit Parades.

And next up on Top of the Pops...

In a similar musical vein, we left France early on Friday morning mainly in order that I get back up North to go and see MANOWAR play in Leeds. As ever, they played a fucking blinding set, I ended up quite close to the front surrounded by a load of meat headed Neo-Nazis. They were all very friendly chaps, who insisted on making everyone around them dance, including a young Asian girl I was standing next to. It was only the Blood and Honour tattoos and Seig Heiling that spoiled the fun.

Manowar = Not Gay

The next day was also dominated by music, this time in the form of the Damnation Festival. I went along with Sam and Matt, meeting Glynn and Scott there. The reason I went was to see Godflesh and Ulver. I was also happy to see Dragged Into Sunlight again and Doom for the first time. Godflesh were easily the standout act, the best I've seen them since 1991. Ulver played a brilliant but somewhat subdued set and Doom set the pace with the words 'Shit Metal has left the building!' Scott was upset by Dragged Into Sunlight because they perform with their backs to the audience. He thought it was ignorant of them. I watched a song by Turisas, about as much as I could take of their faux-Viking bullshit, about half a song of Evile and most of Chthonic's set, only for the bassist (like at least half of the male audience in there). I missed most of Alter of Plagues, and regretted it, based on what I saw. So, all in all, a great £30 well spent!

Another great gig photograph of Ulver sound checking...

It's all mine!!!

Finally after months of waiting, I get this beauty in my claws, it only cost me a dearly cherished childhood heirloom in exchange. Logan Josh doesn't know what he has given up:

Amongst the amazing music on offer, it boasts the two following masterpieces:

I own this and you don't, that makes me better than you.

I am the God of War

Before we get into the meat of this post, enjoy the horses doovers, if you will.  It's a video I made for Abwehrschlacht's song 'Die Sturmtruppen':

And that cheeky cunt Pledge Manners has been at it again, reviewing this product:

By now, you know the drill, He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named sends me a text, I reply in kind, then write them out here for you to crow at:

Him: Yesterday i saw a student walking down the street playing a harmonica. A fucking harmonica. Today i saw him doing it again. If i see him a third time i may lose control

Me: I can't believe you held your temper in the first place. I would have stabbed it with a breadknife and dumped the body in some woods in staffordshire.

Him: How easy do you think it is to beat someone to death with a mouth organ? I might try that instead. I'm guessing it would take some time.

Me: You could speed up the process by selotaping the mouth organ to a breadknife then stabbing it and dumping the body in some woods in staffordshire.

Him: Man, you're just the craziest!!

Me: I went to a psychotherapist today. He was dutch. What do you think of that?

Him: Why did you want to see a psychotherapist? Especially a dutch one?

Me: Physio Dickhead.

Him: Your text said psychotherapist, check your outbox. Maybe you are going crazy. Maybe your subconscious is trying to tell you something.

Me: Oh yeah. Lol. Freudian slip. I prolly need one of those as well. My back is fucked. He touched me in my privates. Dutch bastard.

Him: Well he's foreign, maybe when you said 'my back hurts' he thought you said 'please finger fuck my penis'. You should get a book called 'treat your own back'. I got it when i fucked my back a few years ago. It's really good.

Me: You're not coming anywhere near me with your 'healing hands' you fucking pervert.

Him: I wouldn't touch you if i were wearing gloves and you were drowning in a tub of bleach. But check that book out, it's good.

Me: Will do. Dutch pervert.

Him: It's cultural, touching someones privates is like shaking hands to the dutch. I should know, i lived there for three months. They were touching my privates all the time. Sometimes they tied me up too, or left me gagged in a cellar for days. They only do that when you get quite close to the family though.

Me: Sounds like you got TOO close. 

As wolves amongst sheep we have wandered...

I don't make the rules

I went to see A Clockwork Orange on Monday night. I told Nathan about it last night at the quiz and he gave me a vast amount of abuse for forgetting to tell him I was going. That'll teach him to try poison me at his barbecue. Aaaaaaanyway, I figured that the viewing might be sold out by the time I got down there, so I decided to book tickets online. It's showing as part of Mark Kermode's curated Origins series and was only shown on one night and I guessed demand might be high. On the City Screen's website you can actually choose your tickets as you book them so you can get the best in the house. I found a seat that was in the middle of the row and was far away from every other taken seat. This particular seat would have at least two seats around me of space and I assumed since I'd bought the ticket quite late on I would have the area to myself. Bliss. I wandered my merry way down through town clutching my home printed ticket (so I didn't have to wait in line) whilst listening to GG Allin on my MP3 Player just to get me in the mood for some of the old ultra violence and in out, in out.

I thought I'd better dress up for the occasion. I wasn't the only one...

I walked into the theatre about ten minutes before the show and found my way to the row I'd booked my seat on. I noticed a long haired youth sitting alone about halfway down the row. I thought 'I hope that prick isn't sitting in my seat.' I didn't want to start an altercation about who was sat in who's seat, but as I counted the seats it became more and more apparent that he was sat in the correct seat. His seat was correct and mine was right next to his. I took my seat after checking about five times that I was unfortunately correct and what followed was the most uncomfortable ten minutes of my life as I sat next to a complete stranger in a massive cinema that was practically empty. I could feel him shuffling about in his seat as much as I was and occasionally came the true horror that occurs when our hands lightly brushed one another's on the hand rest. They always do this at the City Screen, if you buy a single ticket they fill up the seats around you with other single ticket purchasers. It's as though the staff think they are doing you a favour by introducing you to a stranger who likes similar films. You've already got something to talk about and can see where it goes from there. It's like a dating service that you have no input in at all. I wouldn't mind, but rather than a hottie, I always end up sat next to some fucking stinking hippy student wanker. True story.

Right, where's my seat... Oh fuck...

On Martson Moor Baht'at

The esteemed Mr McKibbin and He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named rolled into town this weekend, demanding that they stay at my house. What could I do to refuse? HWCBN gave me such a thrashing that I lost consciousness three times and the sight in my right eye due to the crushing of my orbit as the blows rained down on me from his billy club. When I finally came round the two were ensconced on my sofa braying at my predilection like crows. It will take weeks to remove the blood from the carpet. The reason they were in town was because Pragya was having the final of three marriages, all to the same bloke, go figure. Three marriages and I had not been invited to a single one. Not only that, but I was expected to put up these two, who had been invited. Talk about rubbing my face in it. What am I?  A fucking hotel? I took umbrage at this turn up of events and went to Nathan's housewarming party instead. But before I did, the three of us went out for a drive at HWCBN's insistence. He broke my ulna as a warning. First stop was to Marston Moor to have a good look at where King Cromwell had smashed the Frenchies in 1389 or something, then it was off to Spofforth Castle to have a good look at some ruins where King Cromwell had smashed the Frenchies in 1389 or something. Here are two photos taken by the amazing talents of McKibbin:

Marston Moor

Me

As I said, that evening I took myself off to Nathan's housewarming party where he had dug a ten foot deep fire pit and stuffed an entire reindeer down there to cook. Later all Hell broke loose involving blue cheese. The less said about that incident, the better. In other news, I have mostly been hopping back and forth between sites and have spent a bit of time at Hes East helping Becky finish off the Roman well she's been hacking out. I present a series of photos for your delight and to give you some idea of the conditions we have to work in: