The End is Nigh...

As I was feeling down in the dumps on Saturday, I decided the best way to cheer myself up was to buy some records. So off I trotted, down through the madding crowds of Saturday afternoon York, first off to the guy who sells records on the market. The man I have to reintroduce myself to every time I visit his stall. There can't be that many returning customers in the York Market. I remember him, why can't he remember who I am and know my eclectic tastes in records ('Me and Bobby McGee' and 'Speed Kills, But Who's Dying?')? I've a good mind to boycott him, but he does let me look at the special stuff behind the stall. All the stuff that is yet to be sorted and priced. He also gives me discounts on bulk purchases. So I probably won't be boycotting him anytime soon. On this visit I also called in at Attic Records. Surprisingly it was open. There have been numerous occasions when I have called in here to see what stock he had in only to find a sign saying 'back @ 2.30' hanging on the closed door. 2.30 duly rolled round and he still wasn't back. 'Fuck him' I thought, you only get two chances with me. Well, I say that, but I have been back and he has been open, so I must have given him a few more chances. Anyhoo, none of this is of any import. He was open, I made a purchase. Happiness was reinstated for about three nanoseconds.

True dat

The reason I mention all this background fluff, is because I bought two records I never thought I'd own in my entire life. The first was Bruce Springsteen's Born in the USA. I bought it as I feel that every household should have at least one copy of the Boss' work. I was very pleasantly surprised that it is actually pretty damn good. But the other purchase has such an profoundly astronomical effect on my life that I think things have changed irreconcilably. This is it, there is no looking back now. I bought Appetite for Destruction by Guns and Roses. Now this might not seem like such a big deal to you people, but let me tell you, this is massive for me. I'm a music snob, always have been, always will be. I have always hated Guns and Roses and have held them in continual contempt throughout my music listening history.

Hate you guys...

Allow me to explain how we arrive at that point: As a child I never really listened to music as such. The house was filled with Jazz and Radio Four, courtesy of my parents. The only pop song I remember from these times is Joe Dolce's 'Shaddap Your Face'. As a seven year old I thought this was swearing and was shocked that this would be played on the radio. What a fucking stupid little cunt I was. Around this time the only records myself and my brother owned were Dr Who and the Pescatons, Rolf Harris' The Court of King Caractacus and Rupert and the Firebird. My musical outlook was limited to say the least. What did happen, however, was when I got to Comprehensive school, I grew out of playing war and building dens in the quarry and realised that all the cool kids were listening to something called Pop Music. I wanted in. This was the real shizzle. This would make me accepted by my peers. So I decided that I would dip a toe in the ocean of this so-called 'popular music'. So one Saturday I bought myself some cassette tapes for a bit of illegal home recording. As I mentioned, the radio was controlled by my parents, so when it came to looking for a radio station offering pop music on the pre-tuned radio set, the best I could find happened to be BBC Radio 2. The light program. There was no Radio One in our gaff, oh no. And this is back in the day when Radio 2 wasn't the 'hip' beast that it is now, with all sorts of young upstarts playing contemporary music for a young at heart audience. This is back when they would smother the airwaves in its bed with a pillow of funerary dirges and religious tracts. Obituaries were read out in place of the news.

And later in the programme we take a candid look at medieval torture

This is what I had to contend with in my first tentative steps in the direction of music appreciation. Avowed to make a 'mix tape' that I could play at parties and impress Emma Lillyman and Tina Hinchcliffe with, I steadfastly spent the afternoon recording track after track of what I considered to be Pop Music. I still remember to this day what was on that tape. It was what one would best describe as an 'eclectic mash-up'. An even better description would be a 'fucking train wreck'. Amongst the tracks was Meat Loaf's 'I'm Gonna Love Her for the Both of Us' and Ashford & Simpson's 'Solid'. Believe me, these were the 'cool' tracks. I was determined to make a full 90 minute recording that afternoon. I filled the rest of the tape with such great hits as Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Old Oak Tree and, I shit you not, The Black Beauty Theme. They said such great musical acts never should be brought together in one place. That afternoon, gentle reader, I proved them right.

Alan, I would have made you proud...

These first steps were soon calmed with the introduction into my life of Top of the Pops, and it was through this medium that I first discovered Metal. I was watching a show one particular evening in 1987, when something happened that changed my life forever. Kiss were performing 'Crazy, Crazy Nights'. I literally shat myself. This is what I had been looking for! Long haired men, fireworks, leather, spandex... erm. This all sounds a bit gay when you write it down. Anyway, Kiss blew me away (figuratively, not literally) that night. My life as I had known it changed. I was determined to track down more loud guitar music. I needed noise in my life. I quickly rejected Kiss when I discovered Iron Maiden and in turn I quickly rejected them when I discovered Slayer. I was a fickle child. In my mind I wouldn't allow myself to like more than one band at a time. This did soon change and the search was on for faster and harder music, Metallica, Nuclear Assault, Sepultura, Anthrax, Megadeth, Voivod, Kreator, Sodom, Acid Reign, Xentrix, Sacred Reich, Testament, and a million more were added to my growing lexicon of musical interest. This was in the glory days of Thrash Metal. I was in the maelstrom and there was no turning back.

Thrash 'til death!

So why am I telling you this? Well, this is where Guns and Roses come in. It would have been around this time that I was made aware of their growing stature in the metal world. I watched a series of programs called Heavy Metal Heaven one Christmas. Amongst the features was a gig at the Whiskey-a-Go-Go by GNR. I watched it in disbelief. here was a band that looked like women, played music that women were actually dancing to and not one person in the audience were headbanging to. There was no moshing, no stage diving, no blood and guts from a violent pit. Literally I thought; what is this shit? and waited impatiently for Metallica's feature to come up afterwards. From that day on, I have always hated Guns and Roses. This hate has become so ingrained in me over the last twenty years that in the past I have felt physically sick whenever I heard the opening bars of Sweet Child o' Mine. This Saturday all that changed. This Saturday was the beginning of new chapter in my life. A turning of the page, if you will. I spotted Appetite for Destruction on the market stall. Having discussed GNR only the other day with Logan Josh, I thought I really should see if they were as bad as I thought. With shaking hand, I handed over my money and placed the record in a bag so no one should see my shame as I walked back. Once back home, I drew the blinds, turned off the lights and locked the door should anyone be around to see what I was about to do. I placed the album on the turntable and dropped the needle on the vinyl. OH MY FUCKING GOD!! I HAVE WASTED THE LAST TWENTY YEARS HATING THIS BAND!! It blew me away, it blew me out of the goddamn room! It blew me to Mars and back! I was shocked with myself, what the fuck was going on? A few years ago I began to appreciate AC/DC for what they really were (another band that I had a long standing feud with, when I was eighteen I once even refused a date with a girl on the basis that she told me she liked AC/DC...), and now here I was loving Guns and Roses! Is this the downward spiral? Am I finally hitting middle age? Have I grown up? Am I able to appreciate what I once hated with venom? Here I am now, listening to Sweet Child of Mine and actually enjoying it. WHAT HAVE I BECOME?

Love you guys...

Bwyd Time

On Monday it was ten years since I graduated from York University with a BA in Archaeology. It feels like literally two minutes have passed since then. I can't believe it was just ten years ago that Graham and I could be found on a Tuesday night, rolling around on the filthy floor of Ziggy's nightclub demonstrating to the world our own brand of Breakdancing. I can hardly believe that almost ten years ago I was getting ready to go to Ireland, in order to get three months digging experience but ending up staying for nearly four years. It is crazy to think that I was heading out into the world that seems very different to me now. Since then, what have I done and where have a I been? I must have dug literally thousands of holes filled with shit from the olden days. Through archaeology in the past decade I have worked in the following countries: Ireland, France, Belgium, Germany, Iceland, Japan, Singapore and Tanzania. I've driven across America, from shining coast to shining coast in the company of archaeologists. I have done a mini tour of Iceland dressed as a Ninja accompanied by an archaeologist. I have appeared in television programs on the BBC, Channel Five and the Discovery Channel. I have had the honour of locating and being involved in the identification of the missing from the Great War. I have been involved in creating archaeological sites on the Somme that are used as educational locations. I have even created and taught a University course on Great War archaeology. Yes, if the last ten years is anything to go on, archaeology has been pretty good to me. I think that decision to move out of the flat after the police raid and go to university was probably a good one. I would still be ingesting vast amounts of military grade amphetamines and LSD if I hadn't.

What you could have won...

On Tuesday I went for my CSCS test. The CSCS is a card that has been introduced for all site workers as a cover all for Health and Safety. It also serves as a license to print money for the companies that run the tests as they charge what they like and it has to be paid for by the companies. I have sat through several such tests and talks both here and in Ireland. I am now an expert on the correct ampage of electrical tools and the correct angle that scaffolding should be set at. The thing is, as this test is aimed at labourers it is as simple as they come. If they made the test too hard none of the monkeys that inhabit building sites would pass and the building trade in the UK would fall through its own arse. They even sell you a fucking book that has all the answers in it. Typical questions would be:

You find a bottle of unmarked clear chemicals, do you
a) put it somewhere safe and tell your supervisor 
b) sniff it
c) drink the bottle, passing it around the cabin at lunch time
d) all of the above

You notice the electric-hammer is damaged, do you:
a) unplug it and check for further damage
b) tell your supervisor
c) tape up the damage and tell your supervisor
d) continue using it to stove in the head of the daytime hooker who just asked you for her money

So it was on Tuesday that I found myself in the testing van clicking the mouse for all I was worth answering such questions. I was finished in under ten minutes, even doing the practise test. I was confident of my own abilities when it comes to health and safety. I'm no monkey.

'This is a computer' 

'Woah! Slow down with the science Poindexter!'

I failed.

Pile on!

I had envisioned a quiet weekend. I was going to get some bottles and sit in with Seven Samurai on Friday. I can't imagine what would have happened, I guess I would have upset one of them during the tea ceremony and would be left with a house slashed to pieces by katanas. But this was not to be, Kirky asked me at work if I'd like to go for a few quiet drinks with him and his mate Ed. I agreed but decided to only have a couple at most. I'm a bit skint until this coming Thursday. I have just changed back to my old job and am waiting on the last payment from the University and the first payment from the present company. I'm also waiting on payment from Hull University, so last week has been a bit tight, but I will be as a rich as a king by the end of this one. So with this in mind, I thought a couple of pints wouldn't hurt the coffers too much. Problem is, I can very rarely have a couple of pints. As was the case here. I got drunk and during lulls in the conversation filled the awkward silences with graphic descriptions of Wolf Bagging, whilst Sarah, Ed's other half, was eating. Speaking of which, she was having Rarebit, the culinary experience of the Welsh (besides fucking leeks). It's cheese on toast. Cheese on fucking toast. Cheese on Toast that costs the better part of £10. How the fuck does that happen? But that's the Welsh for you. Summed up in one culinary experience. Boring.

Ten quid for that? You must be fucking joking!

Then on Saturday Logan Josh summoned me to his side. It appeared he was getting bored with his present company (or more likely, they with him...) and needed a new target for his vitriol. I met him as the last of his previous group were bidding him a lusty adieu and I continued as the previous evening's theme had demanded. We spent many an hour in the Golden Slipper discussing the finer points of the Kriegsmarine. Again, I soon found myself stumbling through the lonely streets of York, broke and drunk. This is beginning to become a habit, I thought. Or at least I think I did. I don't remember what I was thinking. Too drunk, see.

I coulda had class. I coulda been a contender. I coulda been somebody

Then to round off the Bank Holiday weekend the Great Apes of Huntington threw open their cage and invited all and sundry for a barbecue. I began drinking at three in the afternoon and didn't stop for nearly another twelve hours. During this time, one of Logan and Mrs Josh's more boorish friends, Paul, lambasted me the entire time. We argued about the Pogues' version of The Band Played Waltzing Matilda (I bested him with a quickly thought out argument about tin hats not being issued to the British Army before 1916. One to me.), we argued about the location of Brinsworth and it's position next to the M1. We argued about a great many things, most of which I barely remember. I think he likes me. He even revealed that he was writing my biography and was only at the party to make further notes. Apparently, I'm from Brinsworth and not Whiston, as I had always thought. A large amount of the afternoon was also spent acquiring meatstroke, by forcing as much animal product into my gaping maw as possible.

'Oh God, someone else is wearing the same outfit as me!'

Later on, I spent some of the night admiring Josh's record collection, his Geoff Love album was a thing of beauty. I have never seen one in such good condition. He's a lucky, lucky man. Mrs Josh battered the survivors of the outside party with shots of Eau de Vie, it seems she'd syphoned off a tractor in rural France and presented it to us as an alcoholic beverage. I woke up in their spare bedroom with their snores and farts from next door rattling the walls as though I was in Dresden during Bomber Harris' redecoration of the place. This morning found us wading our way through yet more meaty goodness that was leftover from the previous evening. A great hangover cure.

Breakfast's ready...

I forgot to mention this in the previous entry about Triples. On the bring and buy stall we found EBay, the Card Game. I think it speaks for itself. Right, I'm off to see if I can find a copy on EBay...

Brappa at dem popo

I hate Bob Marley. I was listening to the radio today on my mind numbing watching brief and on came Jammin'. On local Radio all they ever seem to do is play endless repeats of Bob Marley or Queen (whom I also hate). Today, as a case in point, they played four fucking Queen songs. One of them twice. Seriously. I almost went out an committed genocide to a continental level. But, like the Beatles, you are not allowed to say you hate Bob Marley. If you do, people look at you as though you just snatched a month old puppy off a six year old child, gutted the dog with a broken shard of glass, took the entrails and hung them round your neck, stabbed the child to death with the same broken glass and wore it's skin whilst banging a drum made from a human skull and howling at the moon. Like Ed Gein. I mentioned my hatred of Bob Marley once during the University excavations and the other supervisors rounded on me like I'd just told them I had run over an old lady then instead of helping just had a shit on the still twitching corpse. I'm not going to bother going into why I hate Bob Marley, as I don't think you deserve to know. I am pretty sure by the time this is published my Facebook wall will be littered with Youtube links to Bob Marley songs, since I know who reads this and how dull witted they are when it comes to doing things that they think annoy me. So go on. Prove me wrong.

During said watching brief I was also reading an article about Lieutenant Daniel Inouye, an Asian-American soldier fighting in Italy for the 442nd Regimental Combat Team. This guy is a fucking hero. As hardcore as they come. He attacked three machine gun nests alone, he destroyed one with a grenade despite taking a bullet to the stomach. After destroying the second bunker he collapsed from blood loss, but crawled to the third nest and prepared to throw his grenade. Just then a German rifle grenade nearly took his fucking arm off! The motherfucker prized the grenade out of his almost severed hand and lobbed that into the final nest, spraying the survivors with his Thompson SMG in his left hand. Finally, the lad got shot in the leg which sent him rolling back down the hill. His awards were finally upgraded to a Medal of Honour in 1991. You could learn a lot from this man. Which reminds me, I'm nearly finished watching Band of Brothers. It's getting exciting. I wonder who will win? I hope the Germans do, they have better uniforms.

Gassed Like a Badger

As I mentioned previously, Friday was the last day of the Summer school excavations for the First Years of the archaeology department at York. Five of my team of ten turned up with a special treat for me. They'd made t-shirts with my face and phrases emblazoned across them. Obviously I'd made some form of impression as Myles went around all day saying 'cunt' for no reason. It was quite touching, really, it's amazing what Stockholm Syndrome can do:

Bless

Along with this, Meg also wrote me a really nice letter of thanks, she also included this photo she'd taken in Japan of a heron by the side of the Golden Pavilion in Kyoto. She named it 'Pensive Heron and Tree' in an incredible flash of inspiration:

Mind you, all this didn't stop me passing out the poisoned cookies I'd prepared. Speaking of which, I notice that the Rapture passed by with very little significance. As a committed Christian I would have assumed that I would have been beamed up into the heavenly spaceship to be zoomed off to see Jebus and God and Uncle Peter and all the rest of the gang in Heaven. It didn't happen, so I celebrated by driving out to Sheffield for a visit to Triples with Ninjasaurus Rex and Dino Los Diablos. The usual suspects were there, ie; overweight, sweating middle aged men. The smell of stale farts and body odour spread a  heavy miasma and it was a relief to emerge back into the fresh air. Actually it's quite refreshing to go to a Wargaming show, as sometimes I feel I may be putting a bit of weight on then I see these fine specimens of humanity and realise I have nothing to worry about at all.

Weight Watchers ain't got nothing on this for keeping the weight off...

There was also a fine example of Hitler's Ubermensch wandering about with a SS Leibstandarte t-shirt on. He looked about 58, stooped, skinny, wearing bad fitting jeans and clutching a bag full of  Thracian Feathered Elvish Warships he'd bought from the bring and buy. The defence of Vienna will be in safe hands! But, seriously? A fucking SS t-shirt? It had 'tour' dates on the back and I don't think he was wearing it ironically. The only place this kind of shit is acceptable, unfortunately, is either at a BNP meeting, an EDL rally or a fucking wargaming show...

'Have you got one with a more prominant swastika?'

Continuing the celebratory feel of surviving the Rapture, I met up with Vin for a few drinks and promptly ran into Logan Josh mid rant in the Golden Slipper. He'd been drinking since Tuesday, it would seem, and abruptly turned his attention on Vin's hat. The rest of the night is lost in haze of drink, but I recall meeting up with the knife man and the armourer before stumbling through the cold and lonely streets of York to home...

You Cheeky Chappy

These last few days have been a pretty Japanese few days. It all began on Tuesday when I went to see 13 Assassins with Ali and Kirky. It's the new Takashi Miike film about Samurai and killings. In fact it's mainly about killings. Loads and loads of killings. But coming from the director of Audition, The Happiness of the Katakuris and Ichi the Killer this was to be expected, since all those films have loads of killings in them. It doesn't have the highest body count of all time in a movie, but it's certainly full of loads of blood and snot and piss flying about. Especially as the last forty five minutes is given over to one continual battle scene. Two hundred and eleven dead people later we walked out of the cinema all wanting to be Samurai when we grew up. On the way for an after-cinema pint I even stabbed the doorman at the House of the Trembling Madness just to make my point.

KILL!!!!!!!

In the same theme I also watched Akira Kurosawa's The Hidden Fortress. I have Kurasawa's Samurai DVD box set and have been working my way through them slowly. So far I have to find one I don't like, Yojimbo being easily the best so far and probably one of the best films I've ever seen. But The Hidden Fortress is what George Lucas based Star Wars on. So there I was with bated breath, waiting to see the similarities. Boy, was I disappointed. For a start it wasn't even set in space. The closest we got to stars was the scene by the fire in the night. There were no gay robots, no Stormtroopers, no fucking explosions even. I waited two hours for Darth Vader to show up and even that never happened. They were all fighting with normal swords and not lightsabres. To top it all it was in fucking black and white as well. Forgive me if I'm wrong but Star Wars is in COLOUR. There wasn't even a Death Star or them Jawas. I was so angry by the end that I was mad with rage that I went out and stabbed the local garage attendant as he was the closest person I could find.

'We're wanted men, I have the death sentence on twelve star... no, wait...'

I spent the day also listening to the Ancient Japanese Black Metal band Sabbat. Rhys had recorded me some of their back catalogue and I thought now was the time to give it a good listening to. Fucking Hell are they good. I actually got to see them when I worked in Singapore. They were supported by Ironfist, the singer of whom I was in touch with through Myspace. The show was being held in the afternoon in a downtown bar and the crowd went fucking wild for the entire gig. The thing is, being into the Black Metal scene as I am, the chance to see a band play live is limited because they're either in jail or dead, or both in some cases. Most bands  are only one-man acts and misanthropes to boot and they never venture out of their local cave to tour. So the chance to see a band who I've respected for many years in a live venue is a very rare treat in this scene.

Brack Fire, Brack Fire, Brack Fire!!!

It's the last day on site tomorrow, it's come around quickly. I'm back to my normal job next week and straight into a shit picnic with a watching brief that Stanners rejected, deeming it beneath him. But I've obviously made some form of impression on the kiddydinks. I was checking CR's field notebook today and came across the following sentence: 'constant verbal abuse from our supervisor (c bomb count = 13)'. I'm surprised in equal amounts that she kept count and that the count was so low... As I said, tomorrow is the last day and I'll miss their stupid little faces, so I've decided to do the only thing that is right and proper in this situation. Taking a tip from Jim Jones, I've been putting rat poison in some cookies that I will hand out to them tomorrow. Then we can all go to Heaven and work together on exposing cobbled surfaces through eternity! Let's leave this on a happy note with my favourite part from Mozart's Requiem:

The Daily Mail says NO to the Euro!

As I mentioned in the last post this weekend was the night of nights, the best evening's entertainment all year. Yes folks, it was time again for the Eurovision Song Contest. That gathering of tribes from across Europe, the introduction into your life of countries you never knew existed (Lichtenstein) or were even a part of Europe (America's entry: Israel). It's the best night of the year, not only because you can be legitimately racist about the the cheese eating, garlic smelling, surrender monkeys that parade like retarded peacocks around boulevard cafes on the Champs Elysees, but you can also see the how the political map of Europe stands. Mind you, this part is usually pretty fucking obvious, like when Greece and Cyprus vote each other Douze Points every fucking year, or the Balkans countries voting for each other in order to avert sparking off another assassination attempt on Archduke Franz Ferdinand. It's also great because you get to get to dress up as Norway, get really fucking drunk and scream at the beetroot smeared faces of the Moldavians as they pretend to be people. Which is pretty much what I did on Saturday night. Lauren and Steve held a party and after umming and arring all week about it, I decided to go and am glad I did. It was either that or stay in alone, dress up as Norway, get really fucking drunk and scream at the chocolate smeared faces of the Belgians as they pretend to be people.

Another quiet night in...

I took my Norway costume, which seems to be getting added to each passing year. Along with my BIG FUCKING Norwegian flag, this year I had a bear skin. I think they have bears in Norway. Mind you, I also think that everyone in Norway runs around in corpse paint and burns churches down, an image I don't want to spoil by ever going there. So I tipped up at Lauren's draped in a bear skin and flag and proceeded to push as much alcohol into me as humanely possible. Angela had picked up some Romanian engine cleaner as a present for Lauren that we all had a shot of during the Romanian entry. It was fucking lethal, it came in a clear plastic bottle and had a ever so slight yellowish tinge to it. I took my shot and immediately felt as though I'd drunk some alien blood. It burnt a hole straight through my body and down through three floors of the flats. Besides the booze, this year's contest was a doozy, and by doozy, I mean doozy. The Moldovan entrants were great with their tribute to Devo, Lauren reckoned that their heads went all the way to the top of their hats. Which is probably true.

Words, literally, fail me...

Ireland came up trumps for me though, in the form of the fucktard conjoined Irish twins Jedward. They showed up looking like the Legion of Doom. If only they'd started cage fighting with folding chairs, the evening would have been perfect. I think Jedward are a prime example of why Ireland needs another potato famine.

Twats

The Danish contestant brought shame upon the competition by letting loose a stream of foul language that turned the very air blue and would embarrass a sailor.

Ban this filth!

Who won? Who cares? It was one of those former Soviet Block countries that all vote for one another and Russia, just in case the sleeping bear decides to wake up and want their oil reserves back. Whoever it was won't be able to afford a ceremony as lavish as the one thrown out by the Germans. Next years event will be held on a deserted strip of grassland with plastic chairs set up for the audience to sit on in the biting cold while the acts gyrate on nailed together wooden pallets. Whatever, I'll still be doing the same next year, screaming at the TV whilst shitfaced and covered in Norway.

A quick video of the German contestant, Lena, cos she's fit. No other reason. Sue me.

So it was with a heavy hangover and lack of sleep that I gave my final act as a teacher on Sunday. I took my class out to the Leeds Armouries to peer at weapons for the afternoon. I managed to hold the sick down long enough to bluff my way through a  potted history of weaponry in the Great War and then led them in triumphant procession to Pizza Express. Eight years ago when I was straightening a section in Ocean Villa's tea rooms trench and two hundred .303 rounds fell out on me, I never thought that I would one day be teaching this shit for a University. But here I am, after completing eight weeks of lectures and lesson plans, I only have a pile of essays to mark and I've finished my first 'lecturing' job. (the LOLest thing is, I initially misspelled University in that last sentence...)

'Oh God, I hope they don't find me out! At least not before they pay me...'

And a couple of final things. I was going through the student's field note books this afternoon and felt I had to share this page from Myle's book:

And Anna sent me a link for this 'product' to review on  Amazon, so please sit back and enjoy Pledge Manner's take on Pussy Energy Drink: