And another song by the talented Mr Landels.
Chester and the No-No Square
(To the tune of: Call me Maybe, Carly Rae Jepsen, 2012.)
I was attracted to you
When we were bailing B2,
Our love of graveyarding grew
Out in the bucket line.
You told me Shrek was your pal
And I was your kinda gal',
You helped me up when I fell
And then it was break time...
And soon tea was flowing,
Cattle eyes following,
Rape alarms were going,
I just had to tell you...
Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy...
But that square's No-No!
So please don't rape me!
I mighta led you on, when I said 'Take me...'
But that square's No-No!
So please don't rape me!
Before you came into my life
It was okay, Yes it was okay,
But it was just okay...
Now you've got kind of creepy
And your bucket, it's leaky
So I say 'No way!'
Yes I say 'No, no way!
You said Chester was your name
And molesting was your game
I thought a joke was to blame,
But now I'm not so sure!
When you invaded my porch
Only wearing a headtorch
And said you'd soon make me scorch
I knew you weren't so pure...
Wild shapes you were throwing,
Your eyes - they were glowing,
Rape alarms were going,
I just had to tell you...
Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy...
But that square's No-No!
So please don't rape me!
I mighta led you on, when I said 'Take me...'
But that square's No-No!
So please don't rape me!
Before you came into my life
It was okay,
Yes it was okay,
But it was just okay...
Now you've got kind of creepy
And your bucket, it's leaky
So I say 'No way!'
Yes I say 'No, no way!
Showing posts with label Music. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Music. Show all posts
Saturday, 4 August 2012
A Song for Europe
Until I can be bothered to write a post about my time on the Isle of Man, here is a song about it:
Ballacagen Excavation 2012 Song
by Gerard Landels
It's half past six on a Sunday,
So a new breakfast crew shuffles in.
They were all out quite late,
The mess tent is a state:
It seems no cleaning fairy has been.
James screams, 'Wake up archaeologists,
As the time has rolled over to eight!
And you'll clean out the dregs
Or knock in new tent pegs
If you finish your breakfast too late!'
He goes, 'Blah, blah, blah, blah-blah-blah, blah...
Blah, blah, blah-blah-blah, blah-blah-blah...'
Sing us a song 'cause it's raining,
Sing to us now, we're in pain.
Well our spirits are sunk,
'Cause this new pump is junk,
And we just can't face bailing again!
It goes on and on,
Yes, it goes on...
And we're getting fed up of it now!
Well Rachel, she's keen on her features.
She loves them if the truth be known,
And she's made up her mind
That she doesn't like finds,
Because every third one is a stone!
In truth she's a pretty good teacher
Cause her students all feel they belong,
But she's sure to get tetchy
If your shovelin's sketchy
Or if you get anything wrong...
She'll go, 'Blah, blah, blah, blah-blah-blah, blah...
Blah, blah, blah-blah-blah, blah-blah-blah...'
Sing us a song 'cause it's raining,
Sing to us now, we're in pain.
Well our spirits are sunk,
'Cause this new pump is junk,
And we just can't face bailing again!
It goes on and on,
Yes, it goes on...
And we're really fed up_ of it now!
Now Alex came over especially,
He's a grumpy old man with no friends.
But he does like his booze,
And looking for his shoes-
Yes he follows clue trails to their ends.
And if ever a pump should look broken,
Well he'll stand and look at it all day,
Else he's down the urinal
Just thinking 'bout vinyl
And pissing his troubles away!
He goes, 'Blah, blah, blah, blah-blah-blah, blah...
Blah, blah, blah-blah-blah, blah-blah-blah...'
(The rest I can't repeat!)
Sing us a song 'cause it's raining,
Sing to us now, we're in pain.
Well our spirits are sunk,
'Cause this new pump is junk,
And we just can't face bailing again!
It goes on and on,
Yes, it goes on...
And we've just had enough_ of it now!
Well Harold's the man with the master plan,
For him I have nothing but praise.
He's no time for the Sith
Or that common-held myth
That a groundwater level might raise!
He spends time on the site pretty sparingly
And never cleans his spoil away,
But he must be quite bright
Because when he's on site,
Well... He's not short of something to say!
He goes, 'Blah, blah, blah, blah-blah-blah, blah...
Blah, blah, blah-blah-blah, blah-blah-blah...
(Blah-blah-blah-blah-blah...)'
Sing us a song 'cause it's raining,
Sing to us now, we're in pain.
Well our spirits are sunk,
'Cause this new pump is junk,
And we just can't face bailing again!
It goes on and on,
Yes, it goes on...
Until we can all go back home!
Sunday, 27 May 2012
Under Mars' Red Sky
Fucking London!
I went to London this weekend to this year's I'll Be Your Mirror featuring Melvins, Sleep, Wolves in the Throne Room and SLAYER. This was the only line-up that would be able to draw me to that rat infested sewer dump of a city that is our illustrious capital. Thankfully we didn't have to go very far beyond the ring of steel that is the M25 as we were going to the Alexandra Palace. Nathan and I had booked into a pub for the night and young David had booked himself into an apartment somewhere down the road. We stopped off at Trowell Services to indulge ourselves in unbelievably overpriced sandwiches and coffee. At the same time young David called the people who ran the apartments to let them know he'd be there in a few hours and we began the final leg of the journey. This is where London started playing its part in the great farce. First thing was that the hotel Nathan had booked had advertised on-street parking so we pulled up outside, only to be told by the landlord that we should move the car as the parking attendants are particularly pro-active round there. But also, to park elsewhere we had to buy a parking ticket which was not mentioned in the advert. In London for two minutes and already we were haemorrhaging money. Fucking London!
This was not the only thing, after parking the car we were led up to the room, through labyrinthine corridors and up rickety stairs we eventually ended in front of the Thelemic Room 23. It was past four o'clock in the afternoon and the room still hadn't been cleaned. A pile of rubbish was in the corner, shit was in the toilet and the beds were unmade. Fucking London!
At least all we needed to do was get changed and go out to meet Dave who had wandered off to find his lodgings. Funny story this. Dave had called the people who owned his lodgings, as you will recall, three hours or so previously to let them know he was arriving. We bumped into him half way up the road looking despondent. He'd found the office he was supposed to be picking his keys up from only to see that it had been closed for some time. Post was hanging out of the letterbox and the place was boarded up. Ringing the office again he was asked if he would like to go to another property in Camden. No apologies for not letting him know before he arrived that the place had closed down. Having no idea where Camden was, we decided that he could sleep in our room. At least his presence would keep Nathan's wandering hands off me. Anyway, the gig was fucking brilliant, even though a hot-dog set me back £5. Fucking London!
Final insult was the advertised full English breakfast turned out to be an individual box of Coco-Pops. Fucking London! To finish off the musical weekend, it was Eurovision weekend, Sweden won, but the better acts included the Singing Russian Babushkas, Jedward's Golden Shower and Gary Oldman as Dracula singing for Albania. I spent the night at Lauren's squawking racist abuse at the TV until it was all over for another year. Not the best contest I've seen, but still the musical highlight of the year.
I went to London this weekend to this year's I'll Be Your Mirror featuring Melvins, Sleep, Wolves in the Throne Room and SLAYER. This was the only line-up that would be able to draw me to that rat infested sewer dump of a city that is our illustrious capital. Thankfully we didn't have to go very far beyond the ring of steel that is the M25 as we were going to the Alexandra Palace. Nathan and I had booked into a pub for the night and young David had booked himself into an apartment somewhere down the road. We stopped off at Trowell Services to indulge ourselves in unbelievably overpriced sandwiches and coffee. At the same time young David called the people who ran the apartments to let them know he'd be there in a few hours and we began the final leg of the journey. This is where London started playing its part in the great farce. First thing was that the hotel Nathan had booked had advertised on-street parking so we pulled up outside, only to be told by the landlord that we should move the car as the parking attendants are particularly pro-active round there. But also, to park elsewhere we had to buy a parking ticket which was not mentioned in the advert. In London for two minutes and already we were haemorrhaging money. Fucking London!
This was not the only thing, after parking the car we were led up to the room, through labyrinthine corridors and up rickety stairs we eventually ended in front of the Thelemic Room 23. It was past four o'clock in the afternoon and the room still hadn't been cleaned. A pile of rubbish was in the corner, shit was in the toilet and the beds were unmade. Fucking London!
At least all we needed to do was get changed and go out to meet Dave who had wandered off to find his lodgings. Funny story this. Dave had called the people who owned his lodgings, as you will recall, three hours or so previously to let them know he was arriving. We bumped into him half way up the road looking despondent. He'd found the office he was supposed to be picking his keys up from only to see that it had been closed for some time. Post was hanging out of the letterbox and the place was boarded up. Ringing the office again he was asked if he would like to go to another property in Camden. No apologies for not letting him know before he arrived that the place had closed down. Having no idea where Camden was, we decided that he could sleep in our room. At least his presence would keep Nathan's wandering hands off me. Anyway, the gig was fucking brilliant, even though a hot-dog set me back £5. Fucking London!
FUCKING SLAYER!!!!!!!
Monday, 19 March 2012
I Adoor You
I have just dropped the car off at the garage. The problem? Well, on Saturday night as I pulled the car up outside the Charter's Arms in Rotherham to see Goat Leaf and 6Needles play, I went to lock the driver's door. The handle froze in the upright position and try as I might I couldn't get it unlocked again. Helpfully I had the back door unlocked as I had given Rhys a lift and he'd left it open he wasn't aware that the car wasn't blessed with central locking. I decided to leave the back door unlocked so I could at least gain access. You might be thinking I could have got in the passenger side door. Well, I could, had that door been working. It hasn't worked properly since I've had the car and only opens from within, as long as someone isn't pulling on the handle from outside, which is everyone's instinctual reaction to getting into a car and leads to me gesticulating wildly from inside for them to step away from the handle. Along with this, the passenger side back door has never worked either. So I was down to one door.
I left the car unlocked as described before and went to the gig, which was wonderful. Surprisingly nothing was taken from the car as it sat outside unlocked in Rotherham. I got the car home eventually and thought of dealing with it in the morning. Problem was, when morning rolled around, to gain access to the mechanism that I needed to unlock the door entailed me taking the door panel off. The door panel would not come off with the door shut and I couldn't open the door with the door locked. You see my predicament? I gave it up as a bad job and I spent some part of Sunday morning cleaning the interior as it had been pointed out to me that my car was in quite a state, not that I think there's anything wrong with have a foot-well full of my finger nail clippings. I mean, it's not like they're someone else's, is it? But, apparently this does not constitute clean. I gained access to the vehicle as I had left the rear passenger door open overnight and cleaned the car. I thought, as I was out and about (I was using a vacuum at the local garage to clean the car through one open door and the windows...), I'd get on with some shopping and drove to Morrison's. The passenger door appeared to be working when I unlocked it from outside now, so I was confident that I'd be able to get back in again after buying my post-nuclear fallout supplies ready for when the balloon finally goes up and locked all the doors as I don't really trust the clientele of Morrison's. After buying my tinned foodstuffs I tried to unlock the door. Would you know? The fucking door wouldn't open now I was in the middle of a busy car-park on a Sunday afternoon.
Mild panic set in as it appeared that I was now locked out of the car with two bags of shopping. This panic was replaced with delirium as I then realised that I could get into the boot to open the doors from within. So I opened the boot, took the parcel shelf out and lowered the back seat to facilitate ingress. I crawled into the boot (remember, in Morrison's Car Park on a busy Sunday afternoon), over the back seat and as I couldn't reach the front door handle, wound the window down of the rear passenger side door. I then clambered back out and thrust my hand through the front window and tugged like a demon at the door handle. This door handle is particularly tricky to open even from sitting in the driver's seat, so it was like a puzzle on the fucking Crystal Maze having to open it from the back window. All that was missing was some middle aged investment banker in a jump suit shouting 'Get the Crystal! Get out! Get Out!' at me
Further to this, my boot is full of archaeological tools and hasn't been cleaned for a while. There was muddy Wellington boots, muddy low ankle boots, a muddy shovel, a muddy drawing board and a muddy waterproof coat. This mud gave me a khaki coating of dust and mud as I scrambled around in the boot. So there I was, in the middle of a busy car-park on a Sunday afternoon, covered in shit and tugging away at a door handle through the rear window. I managed to get in the car and away before the Police arrested me for TWOCing.
And your exits are... well, nowhere, really.
I left the car unlocked as described before and went to the gig, which was wonderful. Surprisingly nothing was taken from the car as it sat outside unlocked in Rotherham. I got the car home eventually and thought of dealing with it in the morning. Problem was, when morning rolled around, to gain access to the mechanism that I needed to unlock the door entailed me taking the door panel off. The door panel would not come off with the door shut and I couldn't open the door with the door locked. You see my predicament? I gave it up as a bad job and I spent some part of Sunday morning cleaning the interior as it had been pointed out to me that my car was in quite a state, not that I think there's anything wrong with have a foot-well full of my finger nail clippings. I mean, it's not like they're someone else's, is it? But, apparently this does not constitute clean. I gained access to the vehicle as I had left the rear passenger door open overnight and cleaned the car. I thought, as I was out and about (I was using a vacuum at the local garage to clean the car through one open door and the windows...), I'd get on with some shopping and drove to Morrison's. The passenger door appeared to be working when I unlocked it from outside now, so I was confident that I'd be able to get back in again after buying my post-nuclear fallout supplies ready for when the balloon finally goes up and locked all the doors as I don't really trust the clientele of Morrison's. After buying my tinned foodstuffs I tried to unlock the door. Would you know? The fucking door wouldn't open now I was in the middle of a busy car-park on a Sunday afternoon.
What I needed, but not what I got...
Mild panic set in as it appeared that I was now locked out of the car with two bags of shopping. This panic was replaced with delirium as I then realised that I could get into the boot to open the doors from within. So I opened the boot, took the parcel shelf out and lowered the back seat to facilitate ingress. I crawled into the boot (remember, in Morrison's Car Park on a busy Sunday afternoon), over the back seat and as I couldn't reach the front door handle, wound the window down of the rear passenger side door. I then clambered back out and thrust my hand through the front window and tugged like a demon at the door handle. This door handle is particularly tricky to open even from sitting in the driver's seat, so it was like a puzzle on the fucking Crystal Maze having to open it from the back window. All that was missing was some middle aged investment banker in a jump suit shouting 'Get the Crystal! Get out! Get Out!' at me
You are now entering the 'Car Zone'
Further to this, my boot is full of archaeological tools and hasn't been cleaned for a while. There was muddy Wellington boots, muddy low ankle boots, a muddy shovel, a muddy drawing board and a muddy waterproof coat. This mud gave me a khaki coating of dust and mud as I scrambled around in the boot. So there I was, in the middle of a busy car-park on a Sunday afternoon, covered in shit and tugging away at a door handle through the rear window. I managed to get in the car and away before the Police arrested me for TWOCing.
Thursday, 22 December 2011
King Kong merrily on high
I was at the pub quiz last night and as it is close to Christ's Mass, it was a Christ's Mass themed spectacular. I'm normally above such base degradation, but in this instance each team had to sing Christ's Mass carols at the interval of every two questions. We were all given a song sheet with the lyrics on and we ended up with Once in Royal David's City. 'Fuck that!' we three said as one 'We'll do Tannenbaum. We'll do Tannenbaum, in German.' Nathan wrote out the words, since he'd spent the week learning them and when it was our turn we belted out the ditty.
It went rather well, except of the three of us, two had shaven Neo-Nazi style skinheads and I was wearing my Tiger Tank t-shirt. Added to this Nathan's Seig Heiling posturing and also adding the last line' The Fatherland will rise again!' to the song and it was like the Bürgerbräukeller Putsch and Kristalnacht all rolled into one!
The night ended with each of the teams having to sing a line from the Twelve Days of Christ's Mass. We had Twelve Drummer Drumming. I like this song as it has nothing to do with religion and you can belt out
Fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiive Gold Rings!!
As the the entire pub did, every time it came round...
I spent today in a blasting icy wind on a hill in Huddersfield trying to hold onto the archive, directing Nick where to put his survey rod and fighting off a hangover caused by too many Roosters.
We do what we want, and we do it with style...
It went rather well, except of the three of us, two had shaven Neo-Nazi style skinheads and I was wearing my Tiger Tank t-shirt. Added to this Nathan's Seig Heiling posturing and also adding the last line' The Fatherland will rise again!' to the song and it was like the Bürgerbräukeller Putsch and Kristalnacht all rolled into one!
C'mon Adolf! Sing louder!!
The night ended with each of the teams having to sing a line from the Twelve Days of Christ's Mass. We had Twelve Drummer Drumming. I like this song as it has nothing to do with religion and you can belt out
Fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiive Gold Rings!!
As the the entire pub did, every time it came round...
I spent today in a blasting icy wind on a hill in Huddersfield trying to hold onto the archive, directing Nick where to put his survey rod and fighting off a hangover caused by too many Roosters.
Tuesday, 6 December 2011
Cream of the Crap
OK, so I can say with alarming clarity that God does actually exist and the fucker totally hates me. How do I know? Well, 'twas on a Sunday morning that the Divine allowed His presence to be felt by guiding my clown shoe like feet to stamp on my spectacles. They were lying on the floor of my parent's spare bedroom where I had spent the night. 'Oh Flip!' said I, as I saw that the lens had come out and the ear branch was all askance. How did this come about that my glasses were on the floor of my parent's spare bedroom? Well, sit back and I shall tell thee.
I had travelled down to Nottingham on Friday night to see Mr McKibbin and Miss Lee in their new house. In fact the house is pretty much owned by Alix and Craig is just mooching off her, as he has done with me all the time I've known him. Thank God, I managed to get rid of him onto her. Anyway, their new place is in the middle of Little Beirut in Nottingham and I got stabbed three times between getting out of the car and going in their front door. We piled the furniture back up against the door and had a good old fashioned catch up as IEDs went off outside.
I was also there to break up the journey I was making to Birmingham for a day of lectures and presentations as decreed by my MA. And what a day it was. I was sitting there, listening to Gary Sheffield talking about the First World War, thinking 'I fucking love this! This is the best thing I've done in ages. Why can't everyday be like this?'
The way back to York was broken up with a stop over at my folk's house in Rotherham, which nicely coincided with a gig by Goatleaf. I haven't seen them play for over six months, so it was about time I went back gave them my support. It was like stepping back in time, however, as there was a bunch of folks there I hadn't seen for years. The 'Leaf were on top form as ever, with Mr Deveaux dancing around like bear on a hot plate. The support came from 6 Needles, who were shambolic but fucking ace as well. Their flyer tells you pretty much all you need to know about them:
Anyway, I succeeded in getting drunk and even finding a taxi to get me home. Everything was going well until the next morning when I stamped on the specs. I tell you, Karma is a bitch. I had set Sunday aside for working on an essay, but fate intervened and robbed me of all opportunity to do any work at all. I called down to the Rotherham branch of Specsavers to see if they could do anything about my lunettes. Thankfully I had my work glasses in my bag, but these are so badly scratched that looking through them is like wearing a Medieval stained glass window. I sat in the opticians for an hour while they hammered away at my glasses to no avail. They thought I would have better luck at the York branch, as they have an anvil and forge set up for such occasions, so I finally made it back up north and into town. The place was heaving with desperate shoppers trying to find toys and trinkets for nephew Tarquin and niece Tallulah, as there is ONLY THREE WEEKS UNTIL CHRIST'S MASS so I bravely fought my way to Specsavers, where a callow ginger haired youth tried to help me with my predicament. Again to no avail. This resulted in a new eyetest for me and new glasses, to the tune of nearly three hundred quid. The only good thing to come out of it was the woman who fitted my new glasses was smoking hot, I joked with her as I handed over the money that the kids wouldn't be getting any presents this year. But that, dear reader, is how to put the ultimate dampener on what had been until then, a good weekend.
Flipping Crumbs!
I had travelled down to Nottingham on Friday night to see Mr McKibbin and Miss Lee in their new house. In fact the house is pretty much owned by Alix and Craig is just mooching off her, as he has done with me all the time I've known him. Thank God, I managed to get rid of him onto her. Anyway, their new place is in the middle of Little Beirut in Nottingham and I got stabbed three times between getting out of the car and going in their front door. We piled the furniture back up against the door and had a good old fashioned catch up as IEDs went off outside.
'Yeah, just park it anywhere.'
I was also there to break up the journey I was making to Birmingham for a day of lectures and presentations as decreed by my MA. And what a day it was. I was sitting there, listening to Gary Sheffield talking about the First World War, thinking 'I fucking love this! This is the best thing I've done in ages. Why can't everyday be like this?'
FUCKING BRILLIANT!!!
The way back to York was broken up with a stop over at my folk's house in Rotherham, which nicely coincided with a gig by Goatleaf. I haven't seen them play for over six months, so it was about time I went back gave them my support. It was like stepping back in time, however, as there was a bunch of folks there I hadn't seen for years. The 'Leaf were on top form as ever, with Mr Deveaux dancing around like bear on a hot plate. The support came from 6 Needles, who were shambolic but fucking ace as well. Their flyer tells you pretty much all you need to know about them:
Anyway, I succeeded in getting drunk and even finding a taxi to get me home. Everything was going well until the next morning when I stamped on the specs. I tell you, Karma is a bitch. I had set Sunday aside for working on an essay, but fate intervened and robbed me of all opportunity to do any work at all. I called down to the Rotherham branch of Specsavers to see if they could do anything about my lunettes. Thankfully I had my work glasses in my bag, but these are so badly scratched that looking through them is like wearing a Medieval stained glass window. I sat in the opticians for an hour while they hammered away at my glasses to no avail. They thought I would have better luck at the York branch, as they have an anvil and forge set up for such occasions, so I finally made it back up north and into town. The place was heaving with desperate shoppers trying to find toys and trinkets for nephew Tarquin and niece Tallulah, as there is ONLY THREE WEEKS UNTIL CHRIST'S MASS so I bravely fought my way to Specsavers, where a callow ginger haired youth tried to help me with my predicament. Again to no avail. This resulted in a new eyetest for me and new glasses, to the tune of nearly three hundred quid. The only good thing to come out of it was the woman who fitted my new glasses was smoking hot, I joked with her as I handed over the money that the kids wouldn't be getting any presents this year. But that, dear reader, is how to put the ultimate dampener on what had been until then, a good weekend.
Monday, 7 November 2011
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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...
Wednesday, 19 October 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, 15 September 2011
Lazy Journalism
OK, it's that time that I again that I lazily write out some of the text message conversations I have had recently.
Ninjasaurus Rex is the subject of this latest tirade. He sent me a picture of a toy church he'd bought and included the message:
Him: My new toy. A sixties style happy clappy hippy church. I'm looking forward to burning it down.
Me: LOL, make sure there's a little plastic vicar in there when you do.
Him: I might use those PP nuns...
Me: Rape them first if you do.
Him: I'm too big for them to take.
Me: No, you're not. Don't flatter yourself.
Him: My wang is as big as an entire Peter Pig's nun's body, I'll have you know.
Me: No it's not, I've seen it.
Him: Your eyesight is far better than I thought then.
Me: It's microscopic.
Him: You giggy twat.
No response
Him: You four eyed nerk.
No response
Him: If you were a transvestite superhero, what powers would you have?
Me: Xray vision, invisibility and the ability to walk through walls. the only ones you need.
Him: I *know* that! I want superpowers that a transvestite superhero would want.
Me: A non clashing super hero costume?
Him: Is always being able to find an absolute bargain in the end of season sales a superpower?
Me: It is for Gok Wan.
Him: You know he's secretly straight, don't you? What a genius way to feel up loads of women and get away with it!
Me: I might try being secretly straight then.
Him: You could start by keeping your gay bear hair.
Me: It takes one to know one.
Him: You giggy twat.
No response
Him: The ability to coordinate any person's clothes with a single punch: Pow! Now you have brown shoes with your jeans!
Another one concerned He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named:
Me: Have you ever sat down and gave serious thought as to why it is that i absolutely fucking hate you?
Him: No, i hardly ever think about you.
Me: You do. You think about me all the time. Especially when you are touching yourself. There is a load of good films coming to the city screen this month. They are showing goodfellas on monday, you can crash here if you like?
Him: OK cool, I have booked my ticket, getting train down after work on monday and train back in the morning. This better be worth it or i'll kick you in the pancreas.
Me: I don't know where you are going to stay. I'm not here monday.
Him: Are you sleeping in the cinema?
Me: What cinema? I'm going on holiday on saturday for a week.
Him: Who is this?
Me: Your worst enemy.
Him: I hate you.
Then the next morning:
Him: Great. I walk into d----- for the first time since i got back. How long does it take till i see some student prick wearing a fedora? Two minutes. It isn't even term time yet. Fuck sakes. This is going to be a long year.
Me: Nail it to his fucking head. You need to make a swift and decisive statement to stop anymore of this shit.
And finally, I wrote the lyrics for this song about fourteen years ago, back then Johnny took them and changed bits and pieces so they fitted the music but they are still essentially mine and are just as relevant (to me anyway) today. Enjoy the 'Leaf.
Ninjasaurus Rex is the subject of this latest tirade. He sent me a picture of a toy church he'd bought and included the message:
Him: My new toy. A sixties style happy clappy hippy church. I'm looking forward to burning it down.
Me: LOL, make sure there's a little plastic vicar in there when you do.
Him: I might use those PP nuns...
Me: Rape them first if you do.
Him: I'm too big for them to take.
Me: No, you're not. Don't flatter yourself.
Him: My wang is as big as an entire Peter Pig's nun's body, I'll have you know.
Me: No it's not, I've seen it.
Him: Your eyesight is far better than I thought then.
Me: It's microscopic.
Him: You giggy twat.
No response
Him: You four eyed nerk.
No response
Him: If you were a transvestite superhero, what powers would you have?
Me: Xray vision, invisibility and the ability to walk through walls. the only ones you need.
Him: I *know* that! I want superpowers that a transvestite superhero would want.
Me: A non clashing super hero costume?
Him: Is always being able to find an absolute bargain in the end of season sales a superpower?
Me: It is for Gok Wan.
Him: You know he's secretly straight, don't you? What a genius way to feel up loads of women and get away with it!
Me: I might try being secretly straight then.
Him: You could start by keeping your gay bear hair.
Me: It takes one to know one.
Him: You giggy twat.
No response
Him: The ability to coordinate any person's clothes with a single punch: Pow! Now you have brown shoes with your jeans!
Another one concerned He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named:
Me: Have you ever sat down and gave serious thought as to why it is that i absolutely fucking hate you?
Him: No, i hardly ever think about you.
Me: You do. You think about me all the time. Especially when you are touching yourself. There is a load of good films coming to the city screen this month. They are showing goodfellas on monday, you can crash here if you like?
Him: OK cool, I have booked my ticket, getting train down after work on monday and train back in the morning. This better be worth it or i'll kick you in the pancreas.
Me: I don't know where you are going to stay. I'm not here monday.
Him: Are you sleeping in the cinema?
Me: What cinema? I'm going on holiday on saturday for a week.
Him: Who is this?
Me: Your worst enemy.
Him: I hate you.
Then the next morning:
Him: Great. I walk into d----- for the first time since i got back. How long does it take till i see some student prick wearing a fedora? Two minutes. It isn't even term time yet. Fuck sakes. This is going to be a long year.
Me: Nail it to his fucking head. You need to make a swift and decisive statement to stop anymore of this shit.
And finally, I wrote the lyrics for this song about fourteen years ago, back then Johnny took them and changed bits and pieces so they fitted the music but they are still essentially mine and are just as relevant (to me anyway) today. Enjoy the 'Leaf.
Monday, 6 June 2011
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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...
Saturday, 30 April 2011
Shadows over Sheffield
Friday was the event the entire nation has been waiting for, the flag waving little patriots that they are! Yes, the whole country's collective breath has been held because on this Friday, GOAT LEAF played at the Corporation for the first time ever! This won't amount to a hill of spit for most of you, but for the band it a major step forward from being a 'local' band to being a 'professional' band. They were supporting Corrosion of Conformity, so it was a really good opportunity to play in front of a bunch of people who had paid to see a band rather than just wander in off the streets as the entrance was free and they needed somewhere to carry on drinking and places with bands on usually have a late licence. One of the best things was the biography on the Corporation's website that described Goat leaf as 'a band from Rotherham'. I told them they should have that as a quote on their next album... Anyway, I had a good time, saw some old faces, got drunk (which I need to do more often right now, to be honest...) and ended up eating tortillas and homous backstage, where there were defiantly too many dicks on the dance floor.
I have also been toying with the idea of a new tattoo. I was forwarded the following examples of beauty and was wondering which one to go for. I like the first one for its artistic merit, but I think the second one has a stronger message.
Just leaving this here:
Today I went to see the new Kenneth Branagh directed Super Hero film, Thor. There wasn't any surprises, but it did have Natalie Portman in it, that a gets a big thumbs up from me. Here is my review:
Set in the Catskill Mountains during the roaring 20's Portman (LEON, SIDEWAYS GLANCE, BIG TROUBLE IN LITTLE CHINA) plays Anatolia Groady, a middle aged sales clerk at the local Woolworths. With her life stuck in a rut, she makes the brave decision to begin importing seal fur from Canada. Seal fur being banned under the prohibition laws. The venture is a massive success and Portman is able to open a 'speakeasy', where well healed towns folk gather to wear fur and parade around without the watchful eye of the local Police force. Her counterpart in this is Arkright MacMollases (Robin Williams: ILSA SHE WOLF OF THE SS, ZOMBIE NOSH, DUMBO), a light comic relief character who tends the bar. The pair run the place successfully until a raid by the police sees MacMollases gunned down in a pitched battle. As MacMollases lies dying, Groady flees the scene, but not before emptying the till of the takings. A desperate flight sequence follows which is part real time, part dream sequence ala the autre movement of the 1970's. Groady is approached by a shell-suit wearing lizard in a particularly hard to watch hallucinogenic scene. The lizard (voiced by the ever brilliant Tom Bosley: NIL BY MOUTH, THE RIGHT STUFF, YOJIMBO) tells Groady she must go to California to seek her fortune there, throwing off the shackles of crime. She follows this sagely advice and within minutes of arriving in San Fransisco she discovers a gold mine, turning her life around, away from crime. She lives the rest for her long life on the profits of the gold. The classically scored soundtrack by Ted Nugent really brings this film alive and I for one would miss it for the world.
For no other reason than because I can...
I have also been toying with the idea of a new tattoo. I was forwarded the following examples of beauty and was wondering which one to go for. I like the first one for its artistic merit, but I think the second one has a stronger message.
Just leaving this here:
Friday, 14 January 2011
Hate Songs in E Minor
On Monday I went to the cinema to see 127 Hours, it was OK, a bit like an extended pop video, just like all of Danny Boyle's films are,and if you know what the ending is already you are pretty much just waiting for it to happen. I thought it would have made a better documentary, given that Aron filmed himself as he was trapped. Anyway, being in the cinema got me thinking, I was surrounded by arseholes as usual. Cinemas seem to be full, these days, of cunts that don't know how to behave in cinemas. What do I mean? Well everyone that goes to the cinema seems intent on stuffing themselves so full of sweets and popcorn and nachos(!), it's fucking disgusting. Just because you've left your house to go and see a film doesn't mean that you have to ram as much sugar and saturated fat down your fucking mouth as possible. I don't sit at home watching telly whilst shovelling hand fulls of jelly tots in my gaping maw, do I? People always buy far too much as well, as I'm leaving the place I always see massive amounts of left over food all over people's seats. There's enough food left over from the average viewing to feed the five thousand. FUCKING EYES TOO BIG FOR YOUR BELLY! SAVE YOUR FUCKING MONEY NEXT TIME, YOU FUCKING ATROCIOUS REPTILE!!
Not only that but people sit through films discussing them, you're not BARRY FUCKING NORMAN, SHUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTH AND LET THE REST OF THE CINEMA ENJOY THE FILM!!! Can't they keep their thoughts to themselves for two hours? Does the rest of the room have to endure their verbal diarrhea?
These things are not the only things that get me mad about the cinema at Centretainment. The ceiling lights in the picture house are off centre. I notice it every time I go. It makes me mad. Right, listen, the ceiling is made up of lots of what appear to be two foot by two foot square tiles. There are three rows of lights running from the back of the room to the front and these are embedded in the tiles. But they're not embedded in the centre of the tiles, rather they are haphazardly placed within the surface area of the tile. This begs the question, which came first the tiles or the lights? If the lights were there first it would explain why they are off centre from the tiles. But if that's the case, then what was there before the tiles? What held the lights up? And just why was whatever it was removed to make way for the tiles? If the tiles came first, you'd think that the electrician who put the lights in would have centred them in a tile, keeping an aesthetic within the confines of the movie theatre. Also, the lights are not even equally aligned down the ceiling. One of the rows is closer to the wall than it's opposite number. It's like the whole thing was designed by a gang of retarded monkeys with no hands. SERIOUSLY, WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE?? Is it all there just to try to fuck with my mind? Am I being toyed with by Centretainment, is this all just a massive psychological game to see how long I last before my mind shatters into a million pieces?
Berny and I were chatting on site the other day when he asked the question 'what's your favourite love song?' Given that Berny is a Punk and still thinks it's 1976, I would have thought his idea of a love song would be something along the lines of Bell-End Bop by GBH it quite surprised me when he said his favourite love song was 'Hello' by Lionel Ritchie. This was because a girl he once knew had given him the single as a sign of her affection. Being the little Rat Scabies punk he was he placed the disc upon the turntable, allowed the opening bars to begin then promptly threw the fucking thing out of the window. This song is not only hilarious for that reason, watch the video, at about three and half minutes through, Lionel, the protagonist calls the woman of his dreams. She's blind, not only does he call this vulnerable young woman in the middle of the night but he waits nearly five full seconds before saying anything. All she can hear is his heavy breathing down the line, then he bellows 'HELLO!' at her. The poor girl must be frightened out of her wits. He may as well be saying 'I'm outside your house and can see you. Get ready cos I'm coming in and I've got a knife!' Later about five minutes into the video she sculpts a clay head that is supposed to look like Lionel, it turns out more like one of the heads on Easter Island. But she is blind after all...
Berny also asked me what my favourite Gay Anthem was, my vote is always in the YMCA camp (don't excuse the pun...). Berny's was something by Kylie. There was a silence for a while until Berny broke it by asking what my favourite heterosexual song was. I told him Sniper At The Fag Parade by Meat Shits.
I'm moving to York tomorrow, the house doesn't have internets connection yet so there may not be any more postings for a wee while. We'll see how we get on.
I need more cake to get me through Avatar
Not only that but people sit through films discussing them, you're not BARRY FUCKING NORMAN, SHUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTH AND LET THE REST OF THE CINEMA ENJOY THE FILM!!! Can't they keep their thoughts to themselves for two hours? Does the rest of the room have to endure their verbal diarrhea?
SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!!!!!
These things are not the only things that get me mad about the cinema at Centretainment. The ceiling lights in the picture house are off centre. I notice it every time I go. It makes me mad. Right, listen, the ceiling is made up of lots of what appear to be two foot by two foot square tiles. There are three rows of lights running from the back of the room to the front and these are embedded in the tiles. But they're not embedded in the centre of the tiles, rather they are haphazardly placed within the surface area of the tile. This begs the question, which came first the tiles or the lights? If the lights were there first it would explain why they are off centre from the tiles. But if that's the case, then what was there before the tiles? What held the lights up? And just why was whatever it was removed to make way for the tiles? If the tiles came first, you'd think that the electrician who put the lights in would have centred them in a tile, keeping an aesthetic within the confines of the movie theatre. Also, the lights are not even equally aligned down the ceiling. One of the rows is closer to the wall than it's opposite number. It's like the whole thing was designed by a gang of retarded monkeys with no hands. SERIOUSLY, WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE?? Is it all there just to try to fuck with my mind? Am I being toyed with by Centretainment, is this all just a massive psychological game to see how long I last before my mind shatters into a million pieces?
You are literally blowing my mind...
Berny and I were chatting on site the other day when he asked the question 'what's your favourite love song?' Given that Berny is a Punk and still thinks it's 1976, I would have thought his idea of a love song would be something along the lines of Bell-End Bop by GBH it quite surprised me when he said his favourite love song was 'Hello' by Lionel Ritchie. This was because a girl he once knew had given him the single as a sign of her affection. Being the little Rat Scabies punk he was he placed the disc upon the turntable, allowed the opening bars to begin then promptly threw the fucking thing out of the window. This song is not only hilarious for that reason, watch the video, at about three and half minutes through, Lionel, the protagonist calls the woman of his dreams. She's blind, not only does he call this vulnerable young woman in the middle of the night but he waits nearly five full seconds before saying anything. All she can hear is his heavy breathing down the line, then he bellows 'HELLO!' at her. The poor girl must be frightened out of her wits. He may as well be saying 'I'm outside your house and can see you. Get ready cos I'm coming in and I've got a knife!' Later about five minutes into the video she sculpts a clay head that is supposed to look like Lionel, it turns out more like one of the heads on Easter Island. But she is blind after all...
The crops are failing! Raise another statue for the Gods!!
Berny also asked me what my favourite Gay Anthem was, my vote is always in the YMCA camp (don't excuse the pun...). Berny's was something by Kylie. There was a silence for a while until Berny broke it by asking what my favourite heterosexual song was. I told him Sniper At The Fag Parade by Meat Shits.
Can I get this at my local HMV?
I'm moving to York tomorrow, the house doesn't have internets connection yet so there may not be any more postings for a wee while. We'll see how we get on.
Thursday, 2 December 2010
Death would freeze my very soul, Makes me happy, makes me cold!
OK, here is the obligatory snow post. As my UK readers are aware the country has been under the ICY GRIP OF WINTRY DEATH for the past week. Chaos has reigned as people have taken to digging out their basements to use as shelters and storage for canned goods for the forth coming apocalypse that is always heralded by the arrival of the snow. In supermarkets up and down the country people have been seen fighting pitched battles over the last bottle of HP sauce. The BBC has a 24hr 'grit watch' in the form of updates every ten minutes. We need to know which councils are unprepared for snow after all their money sunk in Icelandic bank accounts a couple of years ago. Old folk are freezing to death for fear of spending some of the money stuffed under their mattresses on fuel bills. Abandoned cars litter the streets where only ghostly figures move like spectres seeking shelter from the grim fist of cursed white.
I'm loving it. I love snow, I even love the chaos it brings. Nothing delights me more than watching idiots struggling in their cars to get to work because the cracker factory would really fall to pieces without them being there at their workstation. I've not been at work all week, on Monday I did attempt to get to York from Rotherham and made fifteen miles in three hours. I decided to turn back see what would happen if the sun came out and melted the stuff. It didn't and more fell so I've not been able to move the car all week. It does make me feel a little guilty that the guys are all out on site working whilst I'm sitting here on my fat can in the warm drinking tea and eating biscuits. But the feeling doesn't last very long.
What has pissed me off is that fact that last night I missed seeing Wolves in the Throne Room play in Leeds. I'd had the tickets for ages and even rung the venue to see if they'd cancelled the gig themselves. Turns out they were braving the weather and played. I should never have called... But taking advantage of the inclement weather; Dave, Jon and I set out last night to get some promo photos for Abwehrschlacht. I keep getting asked for band photos to illustrate interviews but we have none, so last night we took advantage and headed into the woods. Jon came along as official photographer. He used to work as a gig photographer for the Corp back in the day, so he was a great choice. We stood in the woods, he snapped some pics, we walked through the woods, commenting on how warm it was, he snapped a few more pics. We said 'let's go up on top to where the field is.' We did and instantly wished we hadn't. The icy winds that whipped across the open fields threatened to blow us back into the trees. Mind you, this is Black Metal and it was grim enough for good photos so we took it. They've turned out excellently, here's a couple that have yet to be farted about with. Jon described them as photos from a serial killer's family album...
To celebrate the snow, here's a few Videos for your delight:
Looks like I'm not getting to work tomorrow...
I'm loving it. I love snow, I even love the chaos it brings. Nothing delights me more than watching idiots struggling in their cars to get to work because the cracker factory would really fall to pieces without them being there at their workstation. I've not been at work all week, on Monday I did attempt to get to York from Rotherham and made fifteen miles in three hours. I decided to turn back see what would happen if the sun came out and melted the stuff. It didn't and more fell so I've not been able to move the car all week. It does make me feel a little guilty that the guys are all out on site working whilst I'm sitting here on my fat can in the warm drinking tea and eating biscuits. But the feeling doesn't last very long.
How I left site on Friday...
...and how it looked on Monday, photo courtesy of Logan Josh
What has pissed me off is that fact that last night I missed seeing Wolves in the Throne Room play in Leeds. I'd had the tickets for ages and even rung the venue to see if they'd cancelled the gig themselves. Turns out they were braving the weather and played. I should never have called... But taking advantage of the inclement weather; Dave, Jon and I set out last night to get some promo photos for Abwehrschlacht. I keep getting asked for band photos to illustrate interviews but we have none, so last night we took advantage and headed into the woods. Jon came along as official photographer. He used to work as a gig photographer for the Corp back in the day, so he was a great choice. We stood in the woods, he snapped some pics, we walked through the woods, commenting on how warm it was, he snapped a few more pics. We said 'let's go up on top to where the field is.' We did and instantly wished we hadn't. The icy winds that whipped across the open fields threatened to blow us back into the trees. Mind you, this is Black Metal and it was grim enough for good photos so we took it. They've turned out excellently, here's a couple that have yet to be farted about with. Jon described them as photos from a serial killer's family album...
To celebrate the snow, here's a few Videos for your delight:
Sunday, 21 November 2010
A GTO from the Stars!
Last night I went to see Monster Magnet and I know this won't amount to a hill of spit to 99% of the people reading this and I don't give a shit, but even better than that we (Kate, Dave, Rhys and I) got to go back stage and meet the King of Mars himself, Dave Wyndorf! You have no idea what this means to me, I've been following Monster Magnet for twenty years and this was the equivalent to discovering life on another planet!
What did I say to him? Fuck knows, I was drunk, I was gabbling like a drooling tard. I recall asking him why he'd not played Spine of God. Whatever, it gave me a big old grin, right across me face for the rest of the night!
Lord 13
What did I say to him? Fuck knows, I was drunk, I was gabbling like a drooling tard. I recall asking him why he'd not played Spine of God. Whatever, it gave me a big old grin, right across me face for the rest of the night!
Sunday, 24 October 2010
The Lair of the White Worm
Over the preceding weeks I have infiltrated a family grouping of primates who call York their territory. Like Jane Goodall and the chimpanzees at Gombe after gaining the trust of the group I have been allowed unprecedented access to their daily rituals and have made several observations that will only help to advance scientific knowledge. It took many days of offerings to the group in order to secure my standing as part of their social order. Mostly my activities consisted of clearing the rudimentary implements they were using to eat with after meal times. A few times I had to wrestle these out of the control of the patriarch of the group whom I came to name 'Tim'. This led to a couple of unpleasant scenes but learning quickly not to back down or show fear, or indeed, one's back, I demonstrated my willingness to blend into the group hierarchy. I also made an input to the rudimentary system of barter that the group employed. This consisted of several sheets of paper with a nominal monetary fee written on them. Their lack of understanding of modern finances helped in giving gravitas to this offering.
My observations, there in the depths of the lost valley of Huntington, broke the group into two distinct sub-stratas. There was the patriarch, 'Tim' whom I have already mentioned, and the matriarch, whom I came to call 'Cath'. The tribe used no names when I arrived and these monikers were taken from my faithful hunting dogs I had left back at home. There were many resemblances between the great apes and my dogs, not just physical, either. I noticed as the weeks wore on that the patriarch liked to believe he was in charge of the territory. He would strut around the group's territorial boundaries, pounding his chest and claiming to be the best at everything. This behaviour was quickly cowed upon the arrival home of the matriarch. It was she that did the lion's share of the hunting, literally bringing home the bacon whilst the patriarch sat contemplating his navel. The matriarch was definitely the dominant of the group despite the patriarch's protestations and displays of vulgar power. The patriarch's behaviour is placated by the use of food. There are days dominated by various meal types, as they have no calenders of their own Tuesday is known as 'burger day', Thursday has become 'curry night'. The patriarch knows what to expect on these days and is greatly upset if anything happens to change this routine. These observations scratch little of the group's dynamics and further investigation is warranted to reveal more of the secrets of the group.
On Thursday Wincey's kid was ill so he took the day off. On the site a revolution occurred. We cleaned the cabin. It was a cultural revolution, literally sweeping out the old to bring in the new. Despite Wincey reneging on allowing us to clean it when he was around we took the initiative and spent the first forty five minutes of the day getting it to a state that was fit for human habitation. Previously the place had been caked in mud and crisp wrappers. The only area I had to eat my lunch from was a triangle of table that was no bigger than an envelope surrounded by rotting wooden artefacts yet to be removed to the laboratory facilities. Even this table was caked in two inches of mud. It is a wonder that none of us had yet caught cholera or at the very least dysentery. After we cleared all the unnecessary tools and equipment and placed them in the large lock up next door, we were able to reach our seats without having to step over shovels, mattock and hoes. The cabin suddenly seemed to take on massive dimensions, we hadn't seen the back wall for years. I could sit on my chair without having to put my knees on my neighbour's lap. The light and space really put the zap on our collective heads.
I travelled down to Birmingham last night to go to the middle day of the Supersonic Festival along with Rhys, Dave and Linzi. The reason we'd all paid £35 for a day ticket? Godflesh were playing again. No doubt you'll remember I saw them in France at Hellfest. Well, despite that being their 'only European date' they decided that the money was enough of a draw and played their hometown of Brum. Of the other bands playing that night I'd only heard of Melt Banana before. Best by far was the psychedelic group Gnod. They were like Neu! and Amon Duul II high on a lethal combination of crack, steroids and PCP fighting in a disused multi story car park. There was an Italian band called Ovo who were 'interesting', Stinky Wizzleteat who were 'shit' and Melt Banana who were 'bat shit crazy Japs'. But how were Godflesh? Fucking amazing. Unlike at France where they took twenty minutes of their set to tune up, they got straight down played some of their best songs, including Like Rats, Christbait Rising, Streetcleaner, Tiny Tears, Avalanche Master Song, Weak Flesh, Spite, Crush My Soul and Slateman. I great night despite Dave and Linzi getting into two different fights and taking two and a half hours to get home having got lost on the M6.
In my tribe we call this 'money'
My observations, there in the depths of the lost valley of Huntington, broke the group into two distinct sub-stratas. There was the patriarch, 'Tim' whom I have already mentioned, and the matriarch, whom I came to call 'Cath'. The tribe used no names when I arrived and these monikers were taken from my faithful hunting dogs I had left back at home. There were many resemblances between the great apes and my dogs, not just physical, either. I noticed as the weeks wore on that the patriarch liked to believe he was in charge of the territory. He would strut around the group's territorial boundaries, pounding his chest and claiming to be the best at everything. This behaviour was quickly cowed upon the arrival home of the matriarch. It was she that did the lion's share of the hunting, literally bringing home the bacon whilst the patriarch sat contemplating his navel. The matriarch was definitely the dominant of the group despite the patriarch's protestations and displays of vulgar power. The patriarch's behaviour is placated by the use of food. There are days dominated by various meal types, as they have no calenders of their own Tuesday is known as 'burger day', Thursday has become 'curry night'. The patriarch knows what to expect on these days and is greatly upset if anything happens to change this routine. These observations scratch little of the group's dynamics and further investigation is warranted to reveal more of the secrets of the group.
Is it sea bass night?
On Thursday Wincey's kid was ill so he took the day off. On the site a revolution occurred. We cleaned the cabin. It was a cultural revolution, literally sweeping out the old to bring in the new. Despite Wincey reneging on allowing us to clean it when he was around we took the initiative and spent the first forty five minutes of the day getting it to a state that was fit for human habitation. Previously the place had been caked in mud and crisp wrappers. The only area I had to eat my lunch from was a triangle of table that was no bigger than an envelope surrounded by rotting wooden artefacts yet to be removed to the laboratory facilities. Even this table was caked in two inches of mud. It is a wonder that none of us had yet caught cholera or at the very least dysentery. After we cleared all the unnecessary tools and equipment and placed them in the large lock up next door, we were able to reach our seats without having to step over shovels, mattock and hoes. The cabin suddenly seemed to take on massive dimensions, we hadn't seen the back wall for years. I could sit on my chair without having to put my knees on my neighbour's lap. The light and space really put the zap on our collective heads.
Hello! Hello! Is anyone else in here?
I travelled down to Birmingham last night to go to the middle day of the Supersonic Festival along with Rhys, Dave and Linzi. The reason we'd all paid £35 for a day ticket? Godflesh were playing again. No doubt you'll remember I saw them in France at Hellfest. Well, despite that being their 'only European date' they decided that the money was enough of a draw and played their hometown of Brum. Of the other bands playing that night I'd only heard of Melt Banana before. Best by far was the psychedelic group Gnod. They were like Neu! and Amon Duul II high on a lethal combination of crack, steroids and PCP fighting in a disused multi story car park. There was an Italian band called Ovo who were 'interesting', Stinky Wizzleteat who were 'shit' and Melt Banana who were 'bat shit crazy Japs'. But how were Godflesh? Fucking amazing. Unlike at France where they took twenty minutes of their set to tune up, they got straight down played some of their best songs, including Like Rats, Christbait Rising, Streetcleaner, Tiny Tears, Avalanche Master Song, Weak Flesh, Spite, Crush My Soul and Slateman. I great night despite Dave and Linzi getting into two different fights and taking two and a half hours to get home having got lost on the M6.
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