It has been a while since I posted any of the text messages between myself and He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named, so here I present a few from the last couple of days:
6 June:
Him: How many chips do you think you've eaten in your life so far? Something for you to calculate while you sit around on your arse.
Me: I think it's somewhere around nine.
Him: Craig says you're lying to yourself. He says he knows for a fact because he's seen you eat more than nine.
Me: I said ABOUT nine. It might be a couple more.
Him: OK, that makes sense.
7th June:
Him: In this enlightened day and age, why are people still allowed to play bongos in public?
Me: I know. They need to be flogged in public.
Him: They need to be anally violated with their own bongos.
Me: And strangled.
10th June:
Him: Which do you like best, black metal or being bum fucked like a little bitch? I'm asking because I'm assuming you're familiar with both.
Me: Both equally, but I would prefer to watch you being burnt at the stake.
11th June:
Me: Would you prefer to be persecuted as a 17th century witch or a 20th century Jew?
Him: Not sure, I'll have to think about that one and get back to you.
Me: Don't take too long, I've got a bunch of people here who are getting pretty agitated.
Him: I'd rather be the witch, because then at least then I could use my magic to defend myself.
Me: OK, we have to decide whether to burn you, drown you or crush you under an oak door. I'll get back to you.
Him: I told you, I'm using my magic to defend myself by turning myself into a cat.
Me: No, you see, your magic doesn't really exist and you're just some lonely middle aged eccentric woman that the rest of the village have taken a dislike to. It's mob law and I can't do much about it, even though I'm the local Squire.
Him: Why are you such a dick even in hypothetical scenarios?
Me: You can't talk to me like that! I'm a Squire! No wonder you've got yourself into this situation. You've only got yourself to blame old woman.
Him: I'm gonna turn you into a newt, mother fucka.
Me: Your magic doesn't exist no matter how many magic mushrooms you take. How many fucking times?
Him: Then why the fuck are you threatening to burn me at the stake?
Me: It's the rule of the mob. As Squire I have to keep the village happy and they want to burn you. Or drown you or crush you under an oak door. I don't make the rules, I just abide by them.
Him: This is fucking bullshit, I want a lawyer.
Me: We burnt him last week. Someone said he was using magic to increase his cow herd's milk yield. I think it was just jealousy, but it's mob rule.
Him: Soon the mob will turn on you. You realise that, don't you?
Me: No they won't. They love and obey their social betters. You do own a cat, don't you?
Him: No I don't own a cat.
Me: Hmm, that's a bit of a shame. It would have strengthened our case against you if you had a familiar. Never mind, there's probably loads of other stuff we can pin on you. I'm sure you'll have a wart somewhere.
Him: Is this how you spend your time now that you're on the dole? Persecuting innocent people?
Me: You're not innocent. You are a lonely middle aged eccentric woman who probably has a cat and a wart. You're banged to rights.
Him: I'm going to put a hex on your ass. I'm going to tell everyone that you made me use my powers on numerous occasions to deal with your chronic impotence.
Me: Your 'powers' don't exist and you won't be heard above the braying of the crowd. They can get pretty rowdy when they're mad!
Him: They're all a bunch of cunts and I hope they die of AIDS.
Me: At least they won't be burnt, drowned or crushed under an oak door while a braying crowd kill your cat. Anyway, I'm at the cinema now, so I've lost interest in you and your idiocy. OK BYE!
Monday, 11 June 2012
Wednesday, 6 June 2012
The Supermarket Out of Space Pt.3
Read part one HERE and part two HERE
Unencumbered by the present mental scars that now hang around my neck like millstones I was able to press on deeper into the shapeless maw of that nameless place. Eschewing a basket as I was unwilling to revisit the horror that had previously occurred, I scrambled as silently as I could deeper into the abyss over the broken and uneven floor. Passing through a waist high gate the merciless darkness enveloped me. Presently I felt formless protuberances pawing at me and I hurried along my rock strewn path. A strong smell of decay filled my senses as I groped along empty shelves hewn into the rock walls. I kept as noiseless as I could, not wishing to disturb whatever eldritch horrors lurked in these vile dank depths. My searching hand alighted on a pile of rotting vegetable matter and I retracted it quickly in disgust, gritting my teeth lest I allow another scream to emit from my mouth. With some mental strength I forced myself to return my hand to the loathsome pile and I groped about in that half-light until I grasped an object that I could not crush in my grip. The shape was a rough bulb with a tapered end, I knew this to be a familiar article and the normality seemingly out of place in this alien and incongruous landscape. Holding on to the bulb-shaped object tightly, as though dropping it would lose an aspect of normality and bring me to the darkest edge of insanity, I continued the task of searching for further vitals in the putrescent dark.
Presently my hand alighted upon a square shaped box. Again, the firm lines and symmetry of this new artefact seemed so out of place and incongruous in this multi-dimensional chasm that I presently occupied. A hunchbacked parody of humanity lurched from an unseen corner, the shapeless form stumbled over my leg and squirmed on the floor like a fish deprived of its usual habitat. My face was contorted in fear and disgust as I turned about in blind panic and retreated back the way I had come. In my unthinking rout I fell against a mountain of dented and rusty cans which came crashing to the grimy floor on contact with my fleeing body. The shattered silence was deafening and I fear it woke the very hounds of Hell themselves. In my fright I had dropped what little I had managed to gather and desperately groped on the unbalanced floor vainly trying to gather my belongings. As my search continued in desperation and frenetic crescendo I could hear the mindless flute music becoming louder. The growing noise unhinged me such that my rummaging became frantic as I failed to locate my produce amongst the dented cans. Whatever unnameable shambolic creature was playing the grim notes had been disturbed and was attracted to my position by the cacophony of the falling cans.
Louder and louder the whiny notes grew and as the lurking fear drew closer I realised the music was accompanied by chanting in some inhuman guttural tongue: 'IA SHOGGOTH! IA NYARLATHOTEP! IA YOG-SOTHOTH! IA FTAGN!' It seemed many mouth-less voices echoed the phrases, all the while growing louder and closer to my location. I was suddenly aware my face was wet from weeping with fear and my entire body was shaking in spasms that I was finding difficult to control, I could feel the rising bile of a deep and arcane horror advancing upon my position and knew I was unable to stop its extraterrestrial progress. Dizzy and half maddened I drew enough strength to stand and took faltering and stumbling steps towards a small crack of light which I perceived to be the exit of this damnable charnel pit. The chanting was by now unbearable and I could feel the presence of several unearthly beings reaching out and grasping for my frail human frame, but somehow, God be praised, I managed to keep running towards that vestige of safety offered by the light. Frenzied madness overcame me as my mind blurred and of the rest of my flight I have no memory.
This is how I was found, I have no recollection of any passing until I awoke three days later secured to a bed in this degenerate asylum. My doctor most sincerely assured me that I was later found wandering in the low afternoon sunlight, dressed in rags, filthy and bloody, babbling in an esoteric tongue not of this world. In my hands I gripped two objects which I would not be coaxed to release even with the strength of the strongest of the asylum's guards. Although there is no proof, I am convinced that it is these two objects which allowed me strength of mind to keep stumbling towards the exit, even with the creeping foetid breath of imminent infernal oblivion on my neck. These human touched articles gave me enough presence of mind to conjure a deep strength to see me blunder out of that yawning mystical tomb and back into our three dimensional human plane.
I held in my right hand an onion and in my left a quiche Lorraine.
Unencumbered by the present mental scars that now hang around my neck like millstones I was able to press on deeper into the shapeless maw of that nameless place. Eschewing a basket as I was unwilling to revisit the horror that had previously occurred, I scrambled as silently as I could deeper into the abyss over the broken and uneven floor. Passing through a waist high gate the merciless darkness enveloped me. Presently I felt formless protuberances pawing at me and I hurried along my rock strewn path. A strong smell of decay filled my senses as I groped along empty shelves hewn into the rock walls. I kept as noiseless as I could, not wishing to disturb whatever eldritch horrors lurked in these vile dank depths. My searching hand alighted on a pile of rotting vegetable matter and I retracted it quickly in disgust, gritting my teeth lest I allow another scream to emit from my mouth. With some mental strength I forced myself to return my hand to the loathsome pile and I groped about in that half-light until I grasped an object that I could not crush in my grip. The shape was a rough bulb with a tapered end, I knew this to be a familiar article and the normality seemingly out of place in this alien and incongruous landscape. Holding on to the bulb-shaped object tightly, as though dropping it would lose an aspect of normality and bring me to the darkest edge of insanity, I continued the task of searching for further vitals in the putrescent dark.
Presently my hand alighted upon a square shaped box. Again, the firm lines and symmetry of this new artefact seemed so out of place and incongruous in this multi-dimensional chasm that I presently occupied. A hunchbacked parody of humanity lurched from an unseen corner, the shapeless form stumbled over my leg and squirmed on the floor like a fish deprived of its usual habitat. My face was contorted in fear and disgust as I turned about in blind panic and retreated back the way I had come. In my unthinking rout I fell against a mountain of dented and rusty cans which came crashing to the grimy floor on contact with my fleeing body. The shattered silence was deafening and I fear it woke the very hounds of Hell themselves. In my fright I had dropped what little I had managed to gather and desperately groped on the unbalanced floor vainly trying to gather my belongings. As my search continued in desperation and frenetic crescendo I could hear the mindless flute music becoming louder. The growing noise unhinged me such that my rummaging became frantic as I failed to locate my produce amongst the dented cans. Whatever unnameable shambolic creature was playing the grim notes had been disturbed and was attracted to my position by the cacophony of the falling cans.
Louder and louder the whiny notes grew and as the lurking fear drew closer I realised the music was accompanied by chanting in some inhuman guttural tongue: 'IA SHOGGOTH! IA NYARLATHOTEP! IA YOG-SOTHOTH! IA FTAGN!' It seemed many mouth-less voices echoed the phrases, all the while growing louder and closer to my location. I was suddenly aware my face was wet from weeping with fear and my entire body was shaking in spasms that I was finding difficult to control, I could feel the rising bile of a deep and arcane horror advancing upon my position and knew I was unable to stop its extraterrestrial progress. Dizzy and half maddened I drew enough strength to stand and took faltering and stumbling steps towards a small crack of light which I perceived to be the exit of this damnable charnel pit. The chanting was by now unbearable and I could feel the presence of several unearthly beings reaching out and grasping for my frail human frame, but somehow, God be praised, I managed to keep running towards that vestige of safety offered by the light. Frenzied madness overcame me as my mind blurred and of the rest of my flight I have no memory.
This is how I was found, I have no recollection of any passing until I awoke three days later secured to a bed in this degenerate asylum. My doctor most sincerely assured me that I was later found wandering in the low afternoon sunlight, dressed in rags, filthy and bloody, babbling in an esoteric tongue not of this world. In my hands I gripped two objects which I would not be coaxed to release even with the strength of the strongest of the asylum's guards. Although there is no proof, I am convinced that it is these two objects which allowed me strength of mind to keep stumbling towards the exit, even with the creeping foetid breath of imminent infernal oblivion on my neck. These human touched articles gave me enough presence of mind to conjure a deep strength to see me blunder out of that yawning mystical tomb and back into our three dimensional human plane.
I held in my right hand an onion and in my left a quiche Lorraine.
Tuesday, 5 June 2012
The Supermarket Out of Space Pt.2
Read part one HERE
The festering bank of shops loomed ahead of me out of the mist like a row of ghoulish grinning faces beckoning me to my doom. This vista accompanied me as I began my search for a grocery in order to restock my now slender larder. The initial search concluded that this town appeared to consist only of money lenders and second hand stores. A sure indication that times were hard for the population, if indeed, they had ever been good. This conclusion was also easily reachable by examining the state of the crumbling and fading façades of the residencies here abouts. Once proud had this town been, but now left to ruination by some untold and ancient occurrence. Presently my searching carried me to the forecourt of a large and brooding building with what appeared to be heady, heathenish activity therein. Above the rusticated and putrefying frontage it bore a faded and peeling sign. Once bright green letters spelt out the word MORRISONS over a putrid and foetid yellow background. I fear that I have seen that particular rank shade of effervescent green before, although at the time I failed to make the connection. Yes, my now clear recollection is of the Satanic paintings of the mad Erich Zahn and the viscous green he used in his depictions of that accursed ancient Demon-God Cthulhu! Had I made that cerebral connection as I stood before that ingress I would never have stepped over that hexed threshold and I would not be in my present miserable state of mind.
But, step over it I did and it took no small amount of time to navigate unto the interior of that rotten edifice, that unscrupulous temple of depravity. The doorway, if indeed it may be called a doorway, was such that every angle looked wrong, as though a fourth, fifth and even sixth dimension were at play there. It was as though I was trying to step foot over a gate out of space, a portal beyond time. How I wish now that I had the wherewithal to stop myself from entering, before the malodorous events that took place inside had over come my weak and frail human mind. Man is always wise after the event and in this situation I am no different, but I know now what I didn't then and fate bore me away to my present state in this cold and dark asylum. Oh! You accursed Elder Beings! You Star-Spawn of Yuggoth! How I loathe Thee!
Inside the sepulchral edifice the light was low but I could make out shapes which I took to be human despite their appearance to the contrary, to have supposed otherwise would have only served to invite madness. Feeling along the edge of the graven wall I came upon a stack of metal baskets, the top one of which I grasped firmly with the aim of using it to load with groceries. Pulling it away from the tangle of similar objects I realised I was not the only one intending this basket for my own use. A second 'hand' pulled the basket stiffly away from me and I reached my other hand out to double my strength in this test of will-power and brute force. It is with retrospect that I wish I never had now, for my hand landed squarely upon the thing already gripping the handle of the basket. This episode replays in my mind during my sleep and I awake with screaming fits that are only calmed with a heavy dose of Laudanum. It was not a human hand that I felt but a slimy and glutinous tentacle like protuberance, dripping and oozing as only a cyclopean monstrosity could. I am ashamed to say I screamed and loosened my grip on the handle for which I had fought, this abhorrence had made me temporarily forget my normally placid state. In abject horror I shrank back against the wall and felt it better to let the repugnant nameless creature take its reward for whichever grim and festering end.
Calming myself somewhat, if one can truly be calm in such an alien and oppressive atmosphere, I regained a modicum of composure and recommenced my exploration of the cavernous edifice. The lack of light and dank conditions ensured that it was difficult to assess correctly but I thought it reasonable to suggest that this ancient carven structure extended several fathoms beyond the edge of my sight and I silently cursed myself for not having the forethought to bring a torch. With the fullness of time I am able to see that it would have been folly to have brought a flash-light to that encounter and I would have readily sunk into madness far quicker and deeper than I actually did had I the ability to see what awaited me in those pitiful depths.
A nauseating breeze blew through the place which carried with it the smell of a dank and dead sea and the faint sound of the lapping of waves from some unnameable and abominable ocean was to be heard. From deep within the bowels of the building I could hear faint and sinister music. Reedy and otherworldly it was similar to that same dread music which I had heard played on the Polynesian Island upon which I had been stationed back in '23. It was the same music in those foreboding months preceding the sea borne catastrophe when that elegant island sunk beneath the waves never to be seen again. Unknown star-borne forces were to be blamed for that engulfing and this ominous familiarity with such a heinous music made my entire body tremble uncontrollably from a nameless and dread fear.
To be continued...
The festering bank of shops loomed ahead of me out of the mist like a row of ghoulish grinning faces beckoning me to my doom. This vista accompanied me as I began my search for a grocery in order to restock my now slender larder. The initial search concluded that this town appeared to consist only of money lenders and second hand stores. A sure indication that times were hard for the population, if indeed, they had ever been good. This conclusion was also easily reachable by examining the state of the crumbling and fading façades of the residencies here abouts. Once proud had this town been, but now left to ruination by some untold and ancient occurrence. Presently my searching carried me to the forecourt of a large and brooding building with what appeared to be heady, heathenish activity therein. Above the rusticated and putrefying frontage it bore a faded and peeling sign. Once bright green letters spelt out the word MORRISONS over a putrid and foetid yellow background. I fear that I have seen that particular rank shade of effervescent green before, although at the time I failed to make the connection. Yes, my now clear recollection is of the Satanic paintings of the mad Erich Zahn and the viscous green he used in his depictions of that accursed ancient Demon-God Cthulhu! Had I made that cerebral connection as I stood before that ingress I would never have stepped over that hexed threshold and I would not be in my present miserable state of mind.
But, step over it I did and it took no small amount of time to navigate unto the interior of that rotten edifice, that unscrupulous temple of depravity. The doorway, if indeed it may be called a doorway, was such that every angle looked wrong, as though a fourth, fifth and even sixth dimension were at play there. It was as though I was trying to step foot over a gate out of space, a portal beyond time. How I wish now that I had the wherewithal to stop myself from entering, before the malodorous events that took place inside had over come my weak and frail human mind. Man is always wise after the event and in this situation I am no different, but I know now what I didn't then and fate bore me away to my present state in this cold and dark asylum. Oh! You accursed Elder Beings! You Star-Spawn of Yuggoth! How I loathe Thee!
Inside the sepulchral edifice the light was low but I could make out shapes which I took to be human despite their appearance to the contrary, to have supposed otherwise would have only served to invite madness. Feeling along the edge of the graven wall I came upon a stack of metal baskets, the top one of which I grasped firmly with the aim of using it to load with groceries. Pulling it away from the tangle of similar objects I realised I was not the only one intending this basket for my own use. A second 'hand' pulled the basket stiffly away from me and I reached my other hand out to double my strength in this test of will-power and brute force. It is with retrospect that I wish I never had now, for my hand landed squarely upon the thing already gripping the handle of the basket. This episode replays in my mind during my sleep and I awake with screaming fits that are only calmed with a heavy dose of Laudanum. It was not a human hand that I felt but a slimy and glutinous tentacle like protuberance, dripping and oozing as only a cyclopean monstrosity could. I am ashamed to say I screamed and loosened my grip on the handle for which I had fought, this abhorrence had made me temporarily forget my normally placid state. In abject horror I shrank back against the wall and felt it better to let the repugnant nameless creature take its reward for whichever grim and festering end.
Calming myself somewhat, if one can truly be calm in such an alien and oppressive atmosphere, I regained a modicum of composure and recommenced my exploration of the cavernous edifice. The lack of light and dank conditions ensured that it was difficult to assess correctly but I thought it reasonable to suggest that this ancient carven structure extended several fathoms beyond the edge of my sight and I silently cursed myself for not having the forethought to bring a torch. With the fullness of time I am able to see that it would have been folly to have brought a flash-light to that encounter and I would have readily sunk into madness far quicker and deeper than I actually did had I the ability to see what awaited me in those pitiful depths.
A nauseating breeze blew through the place which carried with it the smell of a dank and dead sea and the faint sound of the lapping of waves from some unnameable and abominable ocean was to be heard. From deep within the bowels of the building I could hear faint and sinister music. Reedy and otherworldly it was similar to that same dread music which I had heard played on the Polynesian Island upon which I had been stationed back in '23. It was the same music in those foreboding months preceding the sea borne catastrophe when that elegant island sunk beneath the waves never to be seen again. Unknown star-borne forces were to be blamed for that engulfing and this ominous familiarity with such a heinous music made my entire body tremble uncontrollably from a nameless and dread fear.
To be continued...
Monday, 4 June 2012
The Supermarket Out of Space Pt.1
It is with great dismay that I I find myself encased within this foetid and dank cell deep within the foul corridors of York asylum. I have little recollection of the exact circumstances which led me to my current incarceration and even less knowledge of the foul language I was speaking when I was brought here. I have been told I was babbling some un-Godly discourse in the manner of a barbarian or tribal jungle dweller. During the course of my treatment my doctor happened to play me a recording of this loathsome patois, but even this did not jog my memory of me doing such a thing, nor unfurl from the darkest recesses of my mind an identification of this treacherous prose. Four months have I languished here in this harsh womb of concrete and slowly have I pieced together the final fatal moments before my complete mental break down in that nauseating chamber of untold horror.
I remember the lead up to the event clearly. Having recently given up my lodgings in the leafy and magisterial surrounds of Nicholas Gardens due to the sale of the rented accommodation in which I languished, I was forced by fiscal matters to move further out into the suburbs. My new abode was in the dead centre of the ancient hinterland of Acomb. As Innsmouth is to Newburyport, Acomb is to that fine city of Kings, York. The people of this place carry the 'Acomb' look. A distant view is held by their eyes, as though not looking directly at a person, but through them. A slouching manner is their countenance and a shuffled gait is not uncommon in a population so queer. One would be wise to avoid contact with these 'folk', their manner is gruff and sharp and their fists quick. The dwellings in the town themselves speak of evil, with permanently shuttered windows overlooking dank streets and gloomy alleys. Every other building is either in derelict condition or boarded up, a home only for rodentia and Irish vagrants. Amongst this scene of degradation feral children with wild eyes and slavering maws scream obscenities at passing gentle folk. Yes, Acomb can be called the pit of human despair as recalled by the Mad Arab in his hateful book, The Necronomicon.
So it was my fate to subsist in this accursed precinct. I spent the first two days unpacking my wretched belongings, mostly in an effort to ignore that malodorous community outside my mouldy windows. Busy and engrossed as I was with this task I failed to notice that my supplies had grown short and it was upon the morning of the third day that the slow aching realisation dawned on me that I would have to set foot outside to find further sustenance. Slowly opening the front door I saw that the sky above hung low and dark, like a filthy and greying blanket. No break in the clouds would allow for the sun to penetrate and it was with this framing that I took my first tentative steps towards the centre of the village and the boutiques that stood therein.
As I strode along the street to which my new abode belonged I could feel the filthy curtains in the windows on either side of me twitch as unseen shapeless faces peered and then disappeared behind their drapery shields. A cat-like creature mewled from some unseen location, I say cat-like for I have never heard such a noise come from a feline before. I looked in vain for the creature but saw nothing except what I can only describe as a fungus like mass disappearing behind an outhouse attached to one of the rickety slums which made up my neighbourhood. Shaken, but sure I was mistaken, I quickened my pace in order to put as much distance between myself and that formless horror I thought I had espied. It must have been lack of sleep playing tricks on my mind, I reasoned, but still I could not stop my brain from slowing my step.
To be continued...
I remember the lead up to the event clearly. Having recently given up my lodgings in the leafy and magisterial surrounds of Nicholas Gardens due to the sale of the rented accommodation in which I languished, I was forced by fiscal matters to move further out into the suburbs. My new abode was in the dead centre of the ancient hinterland of Acomb. As Innsmouth is to Newburyport, Acomb is to that fine city of Kings, York. The people of this place carry the 'Acomb' look. A distant view is held by their eyes, as though not looking directly at a person, but through them. A slouching manner is their countenance and a shuffled gait is not uncommon in a population so queer. One would be wise to avoid contact with these 'folk', their manner is gruff and sharp and their fists quick. The dwellings in the town themselves speak of evil, with permanently shuttered windows overlooking dank streets and gloomy alleys. Every other building is either in derelict condition or boarded up, a home only for rodentia and Irish vagrants. Amongst this scene of degradation feral children with wild eyes and slavering maws scream obscenities at passing gentle folk. Yes, Acomb can be called the pit of human despair as recalled by the Mad Arab in his hateful book, The Necronomicon.
So it was my fate to subsist in this accursed precinct. I spent the first two days unpacking my wretched belongings, mostly in an effort to ignore that malodorous community outside my mouldy windows. Busy and engrossed as I was with this task I failed to notice that my supplies had grown short and it was upon the morning of the third day that the slow aching realisation dawned on me that I would have to set foot outside to find further sustenance. Slowly opening the front door I saw that the sky above hung low and dark, like a filthy and greying blanket. No break in the clouds would allow for the sun to penetrate and it was with this framing that I took my first tentative steps towards the centre of the village and the boutiques that stood therein.
As I strode along the street to which my new abode belonged I could feel the filthy curtains in the windows on either side of me twitch as unseen shapeless faces peered and then disappeared behind their drapery shields. A cat-like creature mewled from some unseen location, I say cat-like for I have never heard such a noise come from a feline before. I looked in vain for the creature but saw nothing except what I can only describe as a fungus like mass disappearing behind an outhouse attached to one of the rickety slums which made up my neighbourhood. Shaken, but sure I was mistaken, I quickened my pace in order to put as much distance between myself and that formless horror I thought I had espied. It must have been lack of sleep playing tricks on my mind, I reasoned, but still I could not stop my brain from slowing my step.
To be continued...
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!!!!!!!
Sunday, 20 May 2012
The Pity of War
As I have been working out in France and Belgium for the past nine years I thought it might be a good idea to show my parents what I have been doing and the work that No-Man's-Land have achieved over the years. But before I could go anywhere, I called up to Mr Main who was frothing at the mouth about the new bass he had swapped some of Pedals for. I have to admit it's pretty fucking cool as it was sent from the bassist from Fu Manchu. We also discussed the slight possibility of getting back stage at the upcoming Slayer gig. Watch this space...
As part of the trip out to the Somme, we stopped off in Cambridge for a look about and the worst lunch I've had for a long time. The next stop was a hotel in Folkstone close to the Channel Tunnel. We realised why Folkstone is called Old Folkstone for a good reason when confronted with the instructions for summoning assistance in the hotel:
And to help those forgetful enough to leave their windows open:
My room would not have been out of place on the set of Barton Fink and I half expected John Goodman to come bursting through the door surrounded by fire during the night. The following morning's tunnel crossing was no problem, as usual, and we found ourselves at Vimy Ridge. I did some work here a long time ago, but we weren't able to access the site as it was on private land and had to content ourselves with looking at the imposing memorial. You'd think the Canadians won the bloody war, given the size of it.
A quick history lesson for the folks and then a trip into Arras and the Brussel's Cafe for lunch. As usual, it was cheap and cheerful. We called into the Town Hall to see the underground tunnels (Boves) under the hall itself and met Arras' giants. They were pretty quiet, but I suppose it was the end of a Bank Holiday, so they may have been a bit tired by then:
The Boves under the Town Hall had an exhibition based on the gardens of the Palace of Versailles. The results were staggering:
We were really lucky to catch this show. Pushing on we arrived at Ocean Villas, our home for the next few days. My folks were to meet the legend that is Avril Williams, who as ever was a convivial host. The following morning was trip up to the Ulster Tour and Thiepval Woods.
Carol had arranged for Teddy and Phoebe to give us the keys to the new gate so I could do a private tour.
Apparently as we were going into the woods, we were spotted by a battlefield guide and word spread quickly back to the Tower. At least they are vigilant about intruders going into the woods. Interfering bastards. A trip up to the Thiepval Memorial was on the agenda next:
This was followed by a look in at the Glory Hole where Peter Barton was running an excavation there. I was introduced to Peter, who shook my hand and told me he'd heard of me. I have absolutely no idea how. The excavations looked interesting but we didn't get a chance to go down the tunnels as structural engineers were working down them making them safe. Following this we called in at Lochnagar crater.
By the time we had a cup of coffee it was time to head back for dinner. A busy and successful day!
The morning brought a short walk over to the Beaumont-Hamel Newfoundland Memorial Park, we had a chuckle at the 'danger tree' and I explained to the folks that the trenches they were looking at were probably from 1918 rather than 1916. Also, as we were standing at the Caribu monument waiting for our turn to take in the view I was earwigging a tour operator pontificating about his travels up and down the battlefields of France. His story involved taking his six year old son down to Verdun and allowing the lad to, not only, pick up potentially dangerous explosives, but ferret about for human remains. I'm not sure if he was an approved tour guide or was doing it out of the back of his beat up transit van. I assumed the latter.
We walked over the hill to the Hawthorne Ridge were we bumped into the two bikers that were over at Avril's the night before for dinner. Nice guys, but they were from Lancashire, so I refused to speak to them, or even acknowledge their existence. In fact, we saw their bikes at the bottom of the hill and I put sand in their petrol tanks. That'll show them.
I showed my folks the highlights of my favourite part of the Somme and explained what had happened there through the medium of printed period photos from the Battle of the Somme film.
The Lancashire Fusiliers at the Sunken Lane:
Hawthorne Ridge mine explosion:
The next stop was the large cemetery on the Pozieres Road, with a glass of beer at Le Tommy Cafe. We had stopped here in order to see the 'museum' that Dominic has in the back garden. I've seen it before and it is certainly a sight to behold, but for all the wrong reasons. He seemed to have recently built a breeze block wall around his garden and was now charging five Euro to go and see the original First War uniforms rotting away in the rain. So we declined this offer and had a quick run out to Delville Wood to see the last surviving tree then back to Avril's for dinner.
As with all holidays the end comes around very quickly and Friday brought us the sights of Mailly-Maillet Church:
Then a drive over to Serre Road Cemetery number 2 to see the grave of the British soldier I helped excavate back in 2003:
Down the road I showed my parents the No-Man's-Land memorial erected for Albert Thieleke, Jakob Hones and the Unknown British soldier all found within metres of one another in 2003.
After having a look at the Sheffield Pals Battalion memorial and the Sheffield memorial park, we drove out to Fricourt German cemetery and called in at the Games Workshop designed 38th (Welsh) Memorial at Mametz Wood.
A quick call in at the Butte De Warlencourt was required as I had never stopped off there in all the years I have been going to the Somme.
The final night was marked by my father nearly coming to blows with a dumb Daily Mail reading bloke who was also in residence at Avril's that evening. I was talking to him after my mother dragged my father away to bed to diffuse the situation. He was very apologetic and I put him straight on a few of his misunderstandings of the First World War. In all, we had a great time, even if I did spend the entire time making everything up as I know fuck all about the First World War. I told them the British attacked on the Somme whilst riding elephants, that's why they lost so many men, as the targets were so big. And the entire British population was wiped out on the 1st of July 1916. Or summat like that.
As part of the trip out to the Somme, we stopped off in Cambridge for a look about and the worst lunch I've had for a long time. The next stop was a hotel in Folkstone close to the Channel Tunnel. We realised why Folkstone is called Old Folkstone for a good reason when confronted with the instructions for summoning assistance in the hotel:
And to help those forgetful enough to leave their windows open:
My room would not have been out of place on the set of Barton Fink and I half expected John Goodman to come bursting through the door surrounded by fire during the night. The following morning's tunnel crossing was no problem, as usual, and we found ourselves at Vimy Ridge. I did some work here a long time ago, but we weren't able to access the site as it was on private land and had to content ourselves with looking at the imposing memorial. You'd think the Canadians won the bloody war, given the size of it.
A quick history lesson for the folks and then a trip into Arras and the Brussel's Cafe for lunch. As usual, it was cheap and cheerful. We called into the Town Hall to see the underground tunnels (Boves) under the hall itself and met Arras' giants. They were pretty quiet, but I suppose it was the end of a Bank Holiday, so they may have been a bit tired by then:
The Boves under the Town Hall had an exhibition based on the gardens of the Palace of Versailles. The results were staggering:
Les Jardin des Boves
Versailles
We were really lucky to catch this show. Pushing on we arrived at Ocean Villas, our home for the next few days. My folks were to meet the legend that is Avril Williams, who as ever was a convivial host. The following morning was trip up to the Ulster Tour and Thiepval Woods.
Carol had arranged for Teddy and Phoebe to give us the keys to the new gate so I could do a private tour.
Apparently as we were going into the woods, we were spotted by a battlefield guide and word spread quickly back to the Tower. At least they are vigilant about intruders going into the woods. Interfering bastards. A trip up to the Thiepval Memorial was on the agenda next:
This was followed by a look in at the Glory Hole where Peter Barton was running an excavation there. I was introduced to Peter, who shook my hand and told me he'd heard of me. I have absolutely no idea how. The excavations looked interesting but we didn't get a chance to go down the tunnels as structural engineers were working down them making them safe. Following this we called in at Lochnagar crater.
By the time we had a cup of coffee it was time to head back for dinner. A busy and successful day!
The morning brought a short walk over to the Beaumont-Hamel Newfoundland Memorial Park, we had a chuckle at the 'danger tree' and I explained to the folks that the trenches they were looking at were probably from 1918 rather than 1916. Also, as we were standing at the Caribu monument waiting for our turn to take in the view I was earwigging a tour operator pontificating about his travels up and down the battlefields of France. His story involved taking his six year old son down to Verdun and allowing the lad to, not only, pick up potentially dangerous explosives, but ferret about for human remains. I'm not sure if he was an approved tour guide or was doing it out of the back of his beat up transit van. I assumed the latter.
The Caribu
We walked over the hill to the Hawthorne Ridge were we bumped into the two bikers that were over at Avril's the night before for dinner. Nice guys, but they were from Lancashire, so I refused to speak to them, or even acknowledge their existence. In fact, we saw their bikes at the bottom of the hill and I put sand in their petrol tanks. That'll show them.
Fucked
I showed my folks the highlights of my favourite part of the Somme and explained what had happened there through the medium of printed period photos from the Battle of the Somme film.
The Lancashire Fusiliers at the Sunken Lane:
Hawthorne Ridge mine explosion:
The next stop was the large cemetery on the Pozieres Road, with a glass of beer at Le Tommy Cafe. We had stopped here in order to see the 'museum' that Dominic has in the back garden. I've seen it before and it is certainly a sight to behold, but for all the wrong reasons. He seemed to have recently built a breeze block wall around his garden and was now charging five Euro to go and see the original First War uniforms rotting away in the rain. So we declined this offer and had a quick run out to Delville Wood to see the last surviving tree then back to Avril's for dinner.
As with all holidays the end comes around very quickly and Friday brought us the sights of Mailly-Maillet Church:
Then a drive over to Serre Road Cemetery number 2 to see the grave of the British soldier I helped excavate back in 2003:
Down the road I showed my parents the No-Man's-Land memorial erected for Albert Thieleke, Jakob Hones and the Unknown British soldier all found within metres of one another in 2003.
After having a look at the Sheffield Pals Battalion memorial and the Sheffield memorial park, we drove out to Fricourt German cemetery and called in at the Games Workshop designed 38th (Welsh) Memorial at Mametz Wood.
Sheffield Pals Battalion Memorial, Serre
The Red Baron's plot at Fricourt German Cemetery. He was later moved back to the Richthofen family plot in Germany
My Dragon has 30 hit points and a strength of 14. You need to roll over 16 to hit it on a D20...
A quick call in at the Butte De Warlencourt was required as I had never stopped off there in all the years I have been going to the Somme.
The final night was marked by my father nearly coming to blows with a dumb Daily Mail reading bloke who was also in residence at Avril's that evening. I was talking to him after my mother dragged my father away to bed to diffuse the situation. He was very apologetic and I put him straight on a few of his misunderstandings of the First World War. In all, we had a great time, even if I did spend the entire time making everything up as I know fuck all about the First World War. I told them the British attacked on the Somme whilst riding elephants, that's why they lost so many men, as the targets were so big. And the entire British population was wiped out on the 1st of July 1916. Or summat like that.
Sunday, 6 May 2012
BANG!!!
I went to see Avengers Assemble last night with Nathan. I'd tell you more about Film Club, but the first rule of Film Club is 'There is no Film Club'. Or something like that. Anyway, he sat through it with a grin on his face like the idiot he is, except when he told some other popcorn munching idiots next to us to stop talking. Then he went back to grinning. I enjoyed it a lot more than that last pile of trash Joss Whedon wiped on the screen and here my favourite bits of it:
There you go. A review as deep as the film itself. Now, I'm off to France on Tuesday to show my folks what I have been doing out there for the past ten years so I won't be replying to any texts or emails, since the free texting/internet bundle that I have only applies to Orange in Britain even though it's the same fucking company in France and they see fit to charge me about forty times the normal price.
There you go. A review as deep as the film itself. Now, I'm off to France on Tuesday to show my folks what I have been doing out there for the past ten years so I won't be replying to any texts or emails, since the free texting/internet bundle that I have only applies to Orange in Britain even though it's the same fucking company in France and they see fit to charge me about forty times the normal price.
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