I have a cold. I can see you nodding your head sagaciously, saying: "Oh, that's the one that's going around. The Zeitghost has that cold that I had a few weeks back." Yes I'm aware you think I have that cold. I have been told this innumerable times by lots of people. They all think I have their cold, and it's a fallacy. The truth is I wouldn't be caught dead with one of your colds. It's not becoming of me. I have a designer cold.
My cold is a trendoid, hipster, sexy kind of cold. I actually picked it up in London at the weekend. Shoreditch to be precise, that hotbed of wonky haircuts, skinny jeans, and punchable faces. I was sitting outside this superubercool scenster hangout – a quirky little Malaysian piebald donkey ball shavers practice (can't tell you the full address because you'll cramp the place's style) – and I was only wearing a string vest and some luminous green corduroy hot pants. I was cool. I was cold too, but being cool was the priority.
So that's how I got my cold. I think I picked it up off this member of a radically rad art collective, while we were dicussing the possibility of locating a 'space'. Everything is about space in London you see. "Do you have a space?" "What's your space like?" "Is there room in your space for two?" etc. I told him I had a space back home, and there was enough room to kick ball. He had the sniffles and looked pensively at Banksy stencil that turned out to be a Caution: Hipsterai Loafing About sign.
As you can see the from it's origins, this cold is pretty chic. I was told it's part of a nouvelle vague of colds, a high concept piece of design, exclusive, refined, urbane. Just like it's host. None of this Lemsip quaffing, Halls Soother sucking, Vicks inhaling consumerist crap. The cold can not be tamed. It's a unique and vibrant piece of biological engineering. I am privileged.
If you think about it, think cold is like a bit of haute couture fashion. It's a once-off, it fits me perfectly and I would be seen dead outside in it. Did I mention I got it in London, one of the planet's real fashion capitals? And this cold picked me out. I wasn't looking for a cold. It decided that I was the sophisticated enough to be the carrier. Pretty neat for me. Needless to say, people I travelled with didn't get this cold.
They, like you, probably got there cold's off some germ covered toilet chain in Tescos, or by being sneezed on by an incontinent old woman in the queue for Holy Communion. As good a place as any, but not really my scene any more. Next season I plan to make a trip to New York maybe see what sort of cold I can pick up there. Maybe I'll even get the flu in Paris. Imagine hypothermia in Milan this spring! The expense is extravagant and vulgar I know but it's worth it.
If I have one reservation about this haute-coldture it has to be the snot. I have a constant tsunami of snot streaming down my face, and chic as this London town snot is, it can be awkward to manage. Maybe next season I'll get a pret-a-porter version of this cold, one that I can fling on, have for any occasion, and is less high maintenance.
This cold is already becoming a classic, must have accessory, especially now that it's Kate Moss endorsed. Apparently she is appearing on the front of next months Vogue with a runny nose, pink eye and fist of soggy, mangled Kleenex. My cold will probably be gone by then, and all the johnny-come-latelys will be running about balls naked desperate to catch a chill. Pathetic really but that's what it's like being a slave to fashion.
The Zeitghost
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Friday, September 22, 2006
Cup of Woe
This is for, all intents and proposes, a momentous week for Ireland. The Ryder Cup is here. The biannual golfing slugfest between the US and Europe rolls into town, 24 of the world's finest strokemakers doing battle in the plush surroundings of the K Club. What an occasion. Memo to all the people involved in the Ryder Cup: No one cares.
Oh, all right, some people care, some rich people who like golf, but for the hoi polloi, it's a case of 'Will this mean an end to those woefully OTT AIB ads? If so, then yes I am looking for ward to it. Otherwise I do not give a rats ass." I'm not trying to belittle golf; it's a fantastic sport and it saves a lot of marriages, but the fact that two sprawling continents are squabbling over a bit of tin, demeans everyone involved. Even I feel cheapened by having to write about it in my column.
And all this palaver over ripping off those coming. Rip Off Ireland back in action read the headlines. Who cares? It's a load of rich people coming over for a weekend of golf. If you can't rip off rich people, well who can you rip off? They won't even care or notice. Now if it was the Homeless World Cup of Golf I would be up in arms, but seeing as these people have enough money to flit away on flying over here for the Ryder Cup, then they should be charged 14 euros for a pint.
I really can't get too excited cheering for Europe. It's Europe, loads of different people and places I have no affection or association with at all. These people are our arch nemeses from the Eurovision. How can I be expected to join in the camaraderie with my Luxembourger brethren when I know that their voting panel gave us nul points earlier this year. They are landlocked scum. Period.
And how about across the rest of Europe. Will there be dancing on the streets in Bratislava if Europe win? Bonfires in Bergen? Celebratory Ak47 gunfire in Ankara? No, because all these golfers will just piss off back to their houses felling smug about themselves. If the team was forced on a infinite tour of every village in Europe, give a speech in every town centre on the back of an articulated truck then perform a hearty rendition of 'Rock and Roll Kids' by Charlie McGettigan and Paul Harrington, maybe, maybe I'd have a little more respect.
It could be worse I guess: they could be playing pitch and putt. I find it hard to fathom the logic behind becoming a pitch and putt whizz. It's not a proper sport, it's a third of a sport. Like being good at penalties in soccer, but not being able to run. Surely if you get good at it you should grow up, stop shouting at the eleven year olds up ahead to play quicker, invest in more than two clubs. It's depressing watching fully grown adults preening about the truncated course acting like Tiger Woods competing in the Community games. No parent or guardian should be allowed on the pitch and putt course without the accompaniment of a minor. Simple.
The Ryder Cup leaves us all with a dilemma about what to do to successfully avoid it for the coming weekend. There will be bleatings in the press and on telly about it all the time because it's a rich people's sport and rich people run the show and us regular plebs have to put it with rich people's crap like we always do. I say we should use this opportunity to make golf a bit more egalitarian; play some street golf over the weekend, ie. whacking a ball of wound elastics with an umbrella around the town, occupy the local golf courses and plant love heart shaped flower beds on the greens, and distribute Pringle sweaters and plus-four trousers kids to from the wrong side of the tracks. Fingers crossed, if these schemes have the desired effect, and we make lots of money from them, by the time the Ryder Cup comes again we might be rich enough to care.
The Zeitghost
Oh, all right, some people care, some rich people who like golf, but for the hoi polloi, it's a case of 'Will this mean an end to those woefully OTT AIB ads? If so, then yes I am looking for ward to it. Otherwise I do not give a rats ass." I'm not trying to belittle golf; it's a fantastic sport and it saves a lot of marriages, but the fact that two sprawling continents are squabbling over a bit of tin, demeans everyone involved. Even I feel cheapened by having to write about it in my column.
And all this palaver over ripping off those coming. Rip Off Ireland back in action read the headlines. Who cares? It's a load of rich people coming over for a weekend of golf. If you can't rip off rich people, well who can you rip off? They won't even care or notice. Now if it was the Homeless World Cup of Golf I would be up in arms, but seeing as these people have enough money to flit away on flying over here for the Ryder Cup, then they should be charged 14 euros for a pint.
I really can't get too excited cheering for Europe. It's Europe, loads of different people and places I have no affection or association with at all. These people are our arch nemeses from the Eurovision. How can I be expected to join in the camaraderie with my Luxembourger brethren when I know that their voting panel gave us nul points earlier this year. They are landlocked scum. Period.
And how about across the rest of Europe. Will there be dancing on the streets in Bratislava if Europe win? Bonfires in Bergen? Celebratory Ak47 gunfire in Ankara? No, because all these golfers will just piss off back to their houses felling smug about themselves. If the team was forced on a infinite tour of every village in Europe, give a speech in every town centre on the back of an articulated truck then perform a hearty rendition of 'Rock and Roll Kids' by Charlie McGettigan and Paul Harrington, maybe, maybe I'd have a little more respect.
It could be worse I guess: they could be playing pitch and putt. I find it hard to fathom the logic behind becoming a pitch and putt whizz. It's not a proper sport, it's a third of a sport. Like being good at penalties in soccer, but not being able to run. Surely if you get good at it you should grow up, stop shouting at the eleven year olds up ahead to play quicker, invest in more than two clubs. It's depressing watching fully grown adults preening about the truncated course acting like Tiger Woods competing in the Community games. No parent or guardian should be allowed on the pitch and putt course without the accompaniment of a minor. Simple.
The Ryder Cup leaves us all with a dilemma about what to do to successfully avoid it for the coming weekend. There will be bleatings in the press and on telly about it all the time because it's a rich people's sport and rich people run the show and us regular plebs have to put it with rich people's crap like we always do. I say we should use this opportunity to make golf a bit more egalitarian; play some street golf over the weekend, ie. whacking a ball of wound elastics with an umbrella around the town, occupy the local golf courses and plant love heart shaped flower beds on the greens, and distribute Pringle sweaters and plus-four trousers kids to from the wrong side of the tracks. Fingers crossed, if these schemes have the desired effect, and we make lots of money from them, by the time the Ryder Cup comes again we might be rich enough to care.
The Zeitghost
Monday, September 11, 2006
News: 40th Anniversary Re-Issue of Pet Sounds In Celebratory Liquid LSD Form
Capitol Records announced today that the commemorative 40th Anniversary re-issue of the Beach Boys seminal record Pet Sounds would come in special liquid LSD form. Spokesman for the company, Rod Shileinburg, made the announcement as millions of music fans around the world waited to sample this re-release.
"We are delighted to present the Beach Boys masterwork Pet Sounds in this revolutionary liquid LSD form", he gleefully shared with a room of eager music journalists. "This never-before-seen experiment will give the listener an altogether different listening experience to previous versions of Pet Sounds. We are all incredibly excited about this release", he added.
The decision was agreed on after months of speculation. Shileinburg stresses that it was the truest way to celebrate this stone cold classic. "We already had the stereo, mono, lazerdisc, picture disc, remasters, original edits, digipak, box set, and Dolby Digital 5.1 versions of Pet Sounds released, so we wanted to try something new. Hopefully this new liquid LSD version will be every bit as ground-breaking as the record was on it's release."
And he promises something special for the Beach Boy fans. "This version will give the best ever insight into the creative genius of Brian Wilson, and how out of his gourd he was at the time."
Beach Boy fanatics have greeted the decision with unanimous approval. Franky Gillup, a long standing fan, was ecstatic at the news. "I've got all the Beach Boys records but this release is going to be a bit special. This LSD version might prompt me have a breakdown just like Brian Wilson. It's all very exciting."
Capitol also announced that the box set release of R.Kelly's award-winning musical 'Trapped in the Closet" would come with a limited edition sachet of Kelly's own sperm.
"School's Blown To Pieces" - Alice Cooper circa 1972
I had that dream again this week. You know that dream. The one where you're back at school, repeating the leaving and you've no study done. Then Big Bird arrives in asking you for a game of Charlie Brown Top Trumps, but you're too busy making out with Twink to even care, while all the time you're sitting on an armchair made of Liga, debating the merits and de-merits of American foreign policy with a Polish member of staff from O'Brien's Sandwich shop. That dream. We've all had it.
What is it about remembering school that fills us with a sense of impending dread? Is it the memories of those incessant beatings? Is it being frozen out of all the cosy cliques because you were too much of a nerd? Is it having your lunch money stolen every day and then making a vow to yourself that some day all those who made your life misery will reap a terrible and painful vengeance involving boiled tar and pubic hair removal? For me, I suppose it's a random combination of all three.
This week, being September and all, I'm going to address my younger school going audience. I've being informed by the ABC figures that I have a significant number of younger readers who were attracted to my earlier, more puerile writings and have stuck around in the hope of a return to that grand era of knob gags. While these younger members (ooo-er!) are present I shall impart on them some handy advice: school is rubbish, get out now while you can; start working as a chimney sweep or matchstick seller now and who knows where you'll be in ten years.
And don't ever believe anyone who says school days are the best days of your life. This is a fallacy, routinely perpetuated by people who are clearly not in school and not showing any outwards signs of wanting to return to school in the near future. I never once heard a fellow student turn to me and say, 'You know while I was doing this unpaid, tedious and ditchwater dull history assignment on the former Minister for Agriculture James Dillon and his threat to drown Britain in a "sea of eggs", I realised this is one of the best days of my life." He would never have said it because a) he knew it was hogwash and b) he would have received a swift slice on the arse with a steel ruler when the next opportunity should present itself.
It's not just the act of being in school that's a drag, it's the lasting legacy it leaves. I hope you students realise that for all the fist-shaking machismo, and unsuitable nickname antics that go on behind your teachers' backs, you will always, always, always act all deferential to them when you meet them in the street, for the rest of your days. It's the truth. I still live in constant fear of being given a write out or lines by any of my former tutors, should they spot me involved in high-jinks that would almost take someone's eye out. Neither can I enjoy a cigarette without having someone to be wide, keep sketch or a derivation of both. These are the mental scars of school-going.
So what have we learned from today's lesson? School is a terrible waste of time. Lads you're better off going of down to nearest mine looking for work, while the girls should be putting those nimble little digits to use in the local linen factory. Reading, 'riting, 'rithmatic are all rubbish.
I suppose I should really put a disclaimer with this piece lest the impressionable young ones think school is all bad. There are some positives. It's a fantastic place to experiment with small amounts of alcohol, recreational drugs, and casual sex, but please kids, for God's sake, try to remember this important adage: everything in moderation. Even homework.
The Zeitghost
What is it about remembering school that fills us with a sense of impending dread? Is it the memories of those incessant beatings? Is it being frozen out of all the cosy cliques because you were too much of a nerd? Is it having your lunch money stolen every day and then making a vow to yourself that some day all those who made your life misery will reap a terrible and painful vengeance involving boiled tar and pubic hair removal? For me, I suppose it's a random combination of all three.
This week, being September and all, I'm going to address my younger school going audience. I've being informed by the ABC figures that I have a significant number of younger readers who were attracted to my earlier, more puerile writings and have stuck around in the hope of a return to that grand era of knob gags. While these younger members (ooo-er!) are present I shall impart on them some handy advice: school is rubbish, get out now while you can; start working as a chimney sweep or matchstick seller now and who knows where you'll be in ten years.
And don't ever believe anyone who says school days are the best days of your life. This is a fallacy, routinely perpetuated by people who are clearly not in school and not showing any outwards signs of wanting to return to school in the near future. I never once heard a fellow student turn to me and say, 'You know while I was doing this unpaid, tedious and ditchwater dull history assignment on the former Minister for Agriculture James Dillon and his threat to drown Britain in a "sea of eggs", I realised this is one of the best days of my life." He would never have said it because a) he knew it was hogwash and b) he would have received a swift slice on the arse with a steel ruler when the next opportunity should present itself.
It's not just the act of being in school that's a drag, it's the lasting legacy it leaves. I hope you students realise that for all the fist-shaking machismo, and unsuitable nickname antics that go on behind your teachers' backs, you will always, always, always act all deferential to them when you meet them in the street, for the rest of your days. It's the truth. I still live in constant fear of being given a write out or lines by any of my former tutors, should they spot me involved in high-jinks that would almost take someone's eye out. Neither can I enjoy a cigarette without having someone to be wide, keep sketch or a derivation of both. These are the mental scars of school-going.
So what have we learned from today's lesson? School is a terrible waste of time. Lads you're better off going of down to nearest mine looking for work, while the girls should be putting those nimble little digits to use in the local linen factory. Reading, 'riting, 'rithmatic are all rubbish.
I suppose I should really put a disclaimer with this piece lest the impressionable young ones think school is all bad. There are some positives. It's a fantastic place to experiment with small amounts of alcohol, recreational drugs, and casual sex, but please kids, for God's sake, try to remember this important adage: everything in moderation. Even homework.
The Zeitghost
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Gangsta (c)Rap
After the annual AGM of Zeitghost INC., it was decided that this column is going to have to diversify. We have to engage with new markets, launch some new product lines, streamline the business and get rid or some of the dead wood. It's been a tough time for us all here but together we can move forward and make a for a brighter future.
The swift conclusion was reached that drug dealing is really the only way out though isn't it? It's not a particularly bad rut I'm stuck in, but by my logic the sooner I start dealing drugs, the quicker I make money, ergo the sooner I'm out of the rut, and so the quicker I can give up drug dealing. It will be like I didn't even do it at all, your honor.
It's got such a stigma attached to it, but what if a couple more established business get involved and take some of the grubby shame from this apparently sordid practice.
What if Rowntrees secretly started putting cocaine on their Fruit Pastilles? What killjoy would complain? Or is the Lever Bros started increasing turnover by personally calling round and posting some free samples of heroin through your letterbox. It would be an ingenious, faultless way back into the red.
As I've said many times before in this space, no-one reads this anyway so it's the perfect cover to start a crime syndicate. I'll be right under the cops noses, but they won't even know it. Until I'm caught and during the epilogue they'll say how I was right under their noses the whole time. But that's not gonna happen. I already have an alias and an anonymous e-mail address. I could disappear in a second and not leave a single trace. I might have to call back and get some of my stuff though.
So what sort of shady drugs will Zeitghost INC. be offering? I'd only sell placebos, but these will be some of the cleanest placebos you could possibly find anywhere. There will be not a single intoxicating rush from these things that won't be entirely imagined. It will be a flagrant breach of the Misuse of Drugs Act 1998: you won't be able to misuse them no matter how hard you try. Snort them, chomp them, inject them, shove them up your bum, it's no use, they'll do nothing for you. They'll be the opposite of those trippy legal highs – illegal non-highs. It'll still be contraband so therefore it'll be 'cool' and the demand will be massive.
I always new a life of crime would suit me. I was a tough cookie as a child and I remain a hard case – I still drink my Ribena straight, and go through 60 candy fags a day. I was a such feral, unnameable youngster that they expelled me from the School of Hard Knocks. They called me the Marathon Man, because I was older and nuttier than a gone off Snickers. Now this is either me or Jimmy Cagney in 'White Heat', the memory is a bit hazy, but I'm pretty sure it's one of us.
Naturally I'm fully prepared to be caught at some stage and to go down in a blaze of glory: crime doesn't pay, but as volunteer work goes it's pretty exciting. Right now I'm cowering behind the fridge holding a Colt. 45 sweating at every cats meow thinking it's a siren, and that's just from walking past a car that was double parked earlier today. The thought of mixing it with with legendary, albeit fictional, gangsters like Scarface, Tony Soprano and The Hamburgler is giving me goose bumps. "I made it Ma, top of the world!………Ps. can you bring me a sleeping bag please because it's freezing up here."
The swift conclusion was reached that drug dealing is really the only way out though isn't it? It's not a particularly bad rut I'm stuck in, but by my logic the sooner I start dealing drugs, the quicker I make money, ergo the sooner I'm out of the rut, and so the quicker I can give up drug dealing. It will be like I didn't even do it at all, your honor.
It's got such a stigma attached to it, but what if a couple more established business get involved and take some of the grubby shame from this apparently sordid practice.
What if Rowntrees secretly started putting cocaine on their Fruit Pastilles? What killjoy would complain? Or is the Lever Bros started increasing turnover by personally calling round and posting some free samples of heroin through your letterbox. It would be an ingenious, faultless way back into the red.
As I've said many times before in this space, no-one reads this anyway so it's the perfect cover to start a crime syndicate. I'll be right under the cops noses, but they won't even know it. Until I'm caught and during the epilogue they'll say how I was right under their noses the whole time. But that's not gonna happen. I already have an alias and an anonymous e-mail address. I could disappear in a second and not leave a single trace. I might have to call back and get some of my stuff though.
So what sort of shady drugs will Zeitghost INC. be offering? I'd only sell placebos, but these will be some of the cleanest placebos you could possibly find anywhere. There will be not a single intoxicating rush from these things that won't be entirely imagined. It will be a flagrant breach of the Misuse of Drugs Act 1998: you won't be able to misuse them no matter how hard you try. Snort them, chomp them, inject them, shove them up your bum, it's no use, they'll do nothing for you. They'll be the opposite of those trippy legal highs – illegal non-highs. It'll still be contraband so therefore it'll be 'cool' and the demand will be massive.
I always new a life of crime would suit me. I was a tough cookie as a child and I remain a hard case – I still drink my Ribena straight, and go through 60 candy fags a day. I was a such feral, unnameable youngster that they expelled me from the School of Hard Knocks. They called me the Marathon Man, because I was older and nuttier than a gone off Snickers. Now this is either me or Jimmy Cagney in 'White Heat', the memory is a bit hazy, but I'm pretty sure it's one of us.
Naturally I'm fully prepared to be caught at some stage and to go down in a blaze of glory: crime doesn't pay, but as volunteer work goes it's pretty exciting. Right now I'm cowering behind the fridge holding a Colt. 45 sweating at every cats meow thinking it's a siren, and that's just from walking past a car that was double parked earlier today. The thought of mixing it with with legendary, albeit fictional, gangsters like Scarface, Tony Soprano and The Hamburgler is giving me goose bumps. "I made it Ma, top of the world!………Ps. can you bring me a sleeping bag please because it's freezing up here."
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
No......just...no.
I'm not going to be funny this week. I simply can't do it. My cat died, the milk's gone off, I've a flat tire on my bicycle, my stock has plummeted, I went to look for some lint in my bellybutton and there was none, there's a fly in my ointment and in my soup, the glass if half full alright but my mate just backwashed it and he has cooties, all the time Aslan's 'Crazy World' is stuck in my head. It's a very bad time for me.
No laughing matter folks. Stop snickering. These maybe the tears of a clown, but they are just as valid as the tears of any other circus employee. You think it's all fun and games for me, having a nice week to write the column, thinking up of stuff to say then typing, doing the word count, then typing some more, and a little more. And then a small bit more. It's hard graft.
Nothing happened this week even remotely funny. I didn't notice anything positive or uplifting or joyous or worthy of mention. It was a terrible week. I can normally scan the 24 hour news channels for some heartening news. If you edit all those life affirming 'And finally…' segments at the end of hour together you can have a good stint of cheery good tidings. The stories are usually about grannies finding a legendary rock star's cod piece in their attic or a houshold pet getting rescued from inside another household pet; generally happy occasions that make you glad to be of this earth.
This week was grim. There wasn't even any Siamese babies successfully separated in a far flung country. In fact, I saw on TV how they sowed two Siamese babies back together for being too much of a nuisance to look after when separate. Grim viewing, especially after watching the two hour TV3 special 'When Bears Attack Cuter Animals While Simultaneously Involved In Some Of The Worlds' Deadliest Police Chases'. I could find no solace in the TV or the wider world this week.
Home life was equally dispiriting. I rarely reveal personal details here, but the torrid state of my domestic affairs has left me with no choice. I have begun to suspect that my other half is cheating on me with one of my closest confidant, my imaginary friend Milko, whom I myself had to wrestle away from the clutches of Sally from Home and Away some fifteen years ago. What a predicament: girlfriend running off with imaginary friend. And he's not half as funny as me.
Really do you expect me to be humorous under this strain? I'm supposed to just turn it on and off like a tap? You think it's reasonable to assume that I can conjure up with top quality jokes in an ad hoc manner, like, say, "What's the first sign of madness? Suggs walk up your driveway."? Okay so I did it that time, but that doesn't detract from my position of being too down in the dumps to be funny.
And besides it's no time for humour. There are problems everywhere in the world and you want to just laugh away, happy out, forget about your worries and pretend everything is going to be fine. "Oh I'll read this column. It's funny, and I'll get a big laugh and then go eat a biscuit." God you people make me sick. It's your duty as a member of the human race to avoid silly meandering rubbish like this column and use your time on this earth to do something useful. Now go on, get lost. I've got important things to be doing. Sing 'Crazy World' for a while being a top priority.
The Zeitghost
No laughing matter folks. Stop snickering. These maybe the tears of a clown, but they are just as valid as the tears of any other circus employee. You think it's all fun and games for me, having a nice week to write the column, thinking up of stuff to say then typing, doing the word count, then typing some more, and a little more. And then a small bit more. It's hard graft.
Nothing happened this week even remotely funny. I didn't notice anything positive or uplifting or joyous or worthy of mention. It was a terrible week. I can normally scan the 24 hour news channels for some heartening news. If you edit all those life affirming 'And finally…' segments at the end of hour together you can have a good stint of cheery good tidings. The stories are usually about grannies finding a legendary rock star's cod piece in their attic or a houshold pet getting rescued from inside another household pet; generally happy occasions that make you glad to be of this earth.
This week was grim. There wasn't even any Siamese babies successfully separated in a far flung country. In fact, I saw on TV how they sowed two Siamese babies back together for being too much of a nuisance to look after when separate. Grim viewing, especially after watching the two hour TV3 special 'When Bears Attack Cuter Animals While Simultaneously Involved In Some Of The Worlds' Deadliest Police Chases'. I could find no solace in the TV or the wider world this week.
Home life was equally dispiriting. I rarely reveal personal details here, but the torrid state of my domestic affairs has left me with no choice. I have begun to suspect that my other half is cheating on me with one of my closest confidant, my imaginary friend Milko, whom I myself had to wrestle away from the clutches of Sally from Home and Away some fifteen years ago. What a predicament: girlfriend running off with imaginary friend. And he's not half as funny as me.
Really do you expect me to be humorous under this strain? I'm supposed to just turn it on and off like a tap? You think it's reasonable to assume that I can conjure up with top quality jokes in an ad hoc manner, like, say, "What's the first sign of madness? Suggs walk up your driveway."? Okay so I did it that time, but that doesn't detract from my position of being too down in the dumps to be funny.
And besides it's no time for humour. There are problems everywhere in the world and you want to just laugh away, happy out, forget about your worries and pretend everything is going to be fine. "Oh I'll read this column. It's funny, and I'll get a big laugh and then go eat a biscuit." God you people make me sick. It's your duty as a member of the human race to avoid silly meandering rubbish like this column and use your time on this earth to do something useful. Now go on, get lost. I've got important things to be doing. Sing 'Crazy World' for a while being a top priority.
The Zeitghost
Thursday, August 24, 2006
"Never Work!" - Situationism for the Bone Idle
Work. Not a fan. Even this, this fanciful malarkey is above my
station. I'd rather be lying idle right now than having to type this.
Ugh. It pains me to think that my hands could be resting contentedly,
maybe lying prone on a cushion or playfully sagging by my side.
Instead I'm rigorously pounding my digits into the keyboard, with no
respite, bashing, bruising, possibly scarring the remainder of my
fingerprints off for this godforsaken column. Aaaaghh! I think I
sprained my left index finger when over reaching for a lower case 'm'.
Dear God how can a man be expected to work in these conditions!
Okay so my plight isn't as bad as those small urchins forced to make
sneakers or cheap clothes but we're in the same boat. Labour, to a
work-shy like me, is a life-long struggle. At least child workers get
to look forward to an early retirement from their work at 13. Me? I'll
be spending the remainder of my days avoiding it, which is hard work
in itself.
I always had a penchant for the French situationist philosopher Guy
Debord, who brazenly scribed 'Never Work!' on a Parisian wall. Being
too lazy to delve deeper into in his thinking, I assumed he was just a
right dosser. I subsequently discovered he had formulated many
different theories and written many books on this situationist
philosophy. What a fraud! If he had being spelling out 'Never Work!'
on his bedside pillow with bits of crusty sleep that tumbled from his
eyelids, I may have had more respect for him.
Unfortunately one must work. Unless you win the lottery and then you
can do whatever you like. I think the people I mistrust most in the
world – more than despotic tyrants, more than beady eyed little
children, more than the beady eyed little children of despotic tyrants
- are people who go into work the day after they've won the lottery.
That's a hate crime right there: a sado-masochist slight at the wage
slave; "I work, and I don't even have to." A suitable punishment would
strip the offender of the lottery winnings immediately; use it or lose
it. As an added humiliation give it instead to someone undeserving and
force them to spend it irresponsibly.
People don't see my side of the arguments because they're always
looking at the bigger picture. "If we all stopped working, then
everything would grind to a halt,". Yada, yada, boring. What about
looking at the smaller, more personal, blinkered picture for a while?
The one that goes 'Sod it anyway, I don't care what happens but I'm
going to go to lie down and sleep right here, right now and that's
it'. I bet that when you wake up the world will be exactly as you
left it. Airline pilots are sadly exempted from this sagely advice.
I try to make the best of a bad lot. I work from home, which is the
probably the world's greatest invention. Other housemates toddle off
to their workplace, leaving me 'working' from bed till about noon.
They never know what goes on when that door closes – no one ever knows
what goes on with people who work from home. We are a byzantine puzzle
for you office monkeys, treated with a mixture of contempt and
jealousy. Sometimes, just to spite you outdoor types, I work from
illogical places in my house: the attic, the coal bucket, the dog's
kennel. Just. Because. I. Can.
Then you see those faded bill posters: 'Work From Home: Earn
Thousands", and get tempted. "This is it", you think, "a secret door
in that shady cabal of home workers." Next thing you find yourself
drowning in a sea of Jiffy Bags, phoning randomers about Cat
Insurance. Tsk, amateurs.
The added bonus of no one ever seeing you physically at work is that
they automatically assume that you must occupy your time with some
sort of work. "What else is there to do?", they logically calculate. I
know. One could, perhaps, pay a schoolchild to do this while I'm,
sorry, one is fed grapes and said small child's Dairylea Dunkers. Just
a thought.
The Zeitghost
station. I'd rather be lying idle right now than having to type this.
Ugh. It pains me to think that my hands could be resting contentedly,
maybe lying prone on a cushion or playfully sagging by my side.
Instead I'm rigorously pounding my digits into the keyboard, with no
respite, bashing, bruising, possibly scarring the remainder of my
fingerprints off for this godforsaken column. Aaaaghh! I think I
sprained my left index finger when over reaching for a lower case 'm'.
Dear God how can a man be expected to work in these conditions!
Okay so my plight isn't as bad as those small urchins forced to make
sneakers or cheap clothes but we're in the same boat. Labour, to a
work-shy like me, is a life-long struggle. At least child workers get
to look forward to an early retirement from their work at 13. Me? I'll
be spending the remainder of my days avoiding it, which is hard work
in itself.
I always had a penchant for the French situationist philosopher Guy
Debord, who brazenly scribed 'Never Work!' on a Parisian wall. Being
too lazy to delve deeper into in his thinking, I assumed he was just a
right dosser. I subsequently discovered he had formulated many
different theories and written many books on this situationist
philosophy. What a fraud! If he had being spelling out 'Never Work!'
on his bedside pillow with bits of crusty sleep that tumbled from his
eyelids, I may have had more respect for him.
Unfortunately one must work. Unless you win the lottery and then you
can do whatever you like. I think the people I mistrust most in the
world – more than despotic tyrants, more than beady eyed little
children, more than the beady eyed little children of despotic tyrants
- are people who go into work the day after they've won the lottery.
That's a hate crime right there: a sado-masochist slight at the wage
slave; "I work, and I don't even have to." A suitable punishment would
strip the offender of the lottery winnings immediately; use it or lose
it. As an added humiliation give it instead to someone undeserving and
force them to spend it irresponsibly.
People don't see my side of the arguments because they're always
looking at the bigger picture. "If we all stopped working, then
everything would grind to a halt,". Yada, yada, boring. What about
looking at the smaller, more personal, blinkered picture for a while?
The one that goes 'Sod it anyway, I don't care what happens but I'm
going to go to lie down and sleep right here, right now and that's
it'. I bet that when you wake up the world will be exactly as you
left it. Airline pilots are sadly exempted from this sagely advice.
I try to make the best of a bad lot. I work from home, which is the
probably the world's greatest invention. Other housemates toddle off
to their workplace, leaving me 'working' from bed till about noon.
They never know what goes on when that door closes – no one ever knows
what goes on with people who work from home. We are a byzantine puzzle
for you office monkeys, treated with a mixture of contempt and
jealousy. Sometimes, just to spite you outdoor types, I work from
illogical places in my house: the attic, the coal bucket, the dog's
kennel. Just. Because. I. Can.
Then you see those faded bill posters: 'Work From Home: Earn
Thousands", and get tempted. "This is it", you think, "a secret door
in that shady cabal of home workers." Next thing you find yourself
drowning in a sea of Jiffy Bags, phoning randomers about Cat
Insurance. Tsk, amateurs.
The added bonus of no one ever seeing you physically at work is that
they automatically assume that you must occupy your time with some
sort of work. "What else is there to do?", they logically calculate. I
know. One could, perhaps, pay a schoolchild to do this while I'm,
sorry, one is fed grapes and said small child's Dairylea Dunkers. Just
a thought.
The Zeitghost
Sunday, August 13, 2006
Terror On The Loose
Terrorists! Everywhere! Look behind you now! Is that a terrorist right there? I think it is! No? Okay, so that time it turn out to be a rock, but you have to be vigilant. Wait! I think that rock just moved! I’m sure it did! You’re telling me it didn’t? Hmmmmmm…..there’s something fishy going on here……hold on…. I get it now. You’re a terrorist! And dare I say it, but you’re one of the ugliest terrorists I’ve ever laid eyes on. Terrorising clearly has been the root cause of some of those worry lines.
So we’ve worked out that there are terrorists everywhere, and that even my some of my devoted readers – namely you, and there are probably loads more – are terrorists. What are we to do about this current plight? I wonder is there any way that we can stop worrying and learn how to love the terrorist? Hint: no.
Obviously we are living through very grave times and I don’t mean to make light of the present situation. But if I don’t then who will? The War on Terror occasionally needs some comic relief. The troops get entertained so why can’t the civilians get to have a laugh at the state of affairs.? So we’re agreed that I can make jokes. Besides it’s in the Geneva Convention: Article 36b “All persons have the right to have a good hearty chuckle at the war and at terrorists, so as to assuage peoples fears a little.” It’s at the back of the Geneva Convention, scrawled in crayon. Oh, and I tend to misquote liberally.
I’m not too worried about any retribution. Terrorists it seems have bigger fish to fry. Their either blowing up planes or making dirty bombs or plotting to poison the water supply with Mi Wadi. It always the marquee, headline grabbing operations with terrorists. What they is some more fun-loving, happy-go-lucky style missions; ones that might soften up their severe image a little. I’d suggest they drop some stink bombs in the Houses of Parliament, or maybe empty a bottle of Fairy Liquid into the Trevi Fountain.
I’d love to see Tony Blair on Sky News deploring these acts. “This grave eggy fart stench of terror that wafted up by my cabinet desk is surely the work of al-qaeda. This is stinkiness on an unprecedented level”. Or George Bush jetting into Rome and vowing to stand shoulder to shoulder with his Italian ally: “Weeeeeeee! I like bubbles.”
A change of tactic by the terrorists of this magnitude is sadly unlikely. So maybe it’s up to us to extend the olive branch. A World Terrorist Day where we give them carte blanche to do whatever they like, while we do a house-swap and cower in some of those semi-detached caves they like so much, might do a lot to to ease the existing tensions. We could explain what’s important to us and they might find some of our traditions seem interesting and adopt them as their own. Where I wonder would Basra finish in the Tidy Towns competition? Maybe the Ennis Town Council could send some delegates over to Tora Bora to improve up on it’s Entante Florale chances.
Communication is the key to understanding our terrorist brethren. If we have a platform to share recipes or music or even fashion tips, I think we’ll get along much better. A cultural exchange, like we do with those annoying French students would be ideal. Two terrorists to a home, taken under the wing of a lovely Irish family for a unique insight into snogging and hanging about in gangs wearing luminous windcheaters.
That’s my short manifesto for change. I really think we can work it out folks if we just spread a little TLC about the place. Always remember that wonderful adage: “A terrorist is just a friend you haven’t met. Who may blow you up.”
The Zeitghost
So we’ve worked out that there are terrorists everywhere, and that even my some of my devoted readers – namely you, and there are probably loads more – are terrorists. What are we to do about this current plight? I wonder is there any way that we can stop worrying and learn how to love the terrorist? Hint: no.
Obviously we are living through very grave times and I don’t mean to make light of the present situation. But if I don’t then who will? The War on Terror occasionally needs some comic relief. The troops get entertained so why can’t the civilians get to have a laugh at the state of affairs.? So we’re agreed that I can make jokes. Besides it’s in the Geneva Convention: Article 36b “All persons have the right to have a good hearty chuckle at the war and at terrorists, so as to assuage peoples fears a little.” It’s at the back of the Geneva Convention, scrawled in crayon. Oh, and I tend to misquote liberally.
I’m not too worried about any retribution. Terrorists it seems have bigger fish to fry. Their either blowing up planes or making dirty bombs or plotting to poison the water supply with Mi Wadi. It always the marquee, headline grabbing operations with terrorists. What they is some more fun-loving, happy-go-lucky style missions; ones that might soften up their severe image a little. I’d suggest they drop some stink bombs in the Houses of Parliament, or maybe empty a bottle of Fairy Liquid into the Trevi Fountain.
I’d love to see Tony Blair on Sky News deploring these acts. “This grave eggy fart stench of terror that wafted up by my cabinet desk is surely the work of al-qaeda. This is stinkiness on an unprecedented level”. Or George Bush jetting into Rome and vowing to stand shoulder to shoulder with his Italian ally: “Weeeeeeee! I like bubbles.”
A change of tactic by the terrorists of this magnitude is sadly unlikely. So maybe it’s up to us to extend the olive branch. A World Terrorist Day where we give them carte blanche to do whatever they like, while we do a house-swap and cower in some of those semi-detached caves they like so much, might do a lot to to ease the existing tensions. We could explain what’s important to us and they might find some of our traditions seem interesting and adopt them as their own. Where I wonder would Basra finish in the Tidy Towns competition? Maybe the Ennis Town Council could send some delegates over to Tora Bora to improve up on it’s Entante Florale chances.
Communication is the key to understanding our terrorist brethren. If we have a platform to share recipes or music or even fashion tips, I think we’ll get along much better. A cultural exchange, like we do with those annoying French students would be ideal. Two terrorists to a home, taken under the wing of a lovely Irish family for a unique insight into snogging and hanging about in gangs wearing luminous windcheaters.
That’s my short manifesto for change. I really think we can work it out folks if we just spread a little TLC about the place. Always remember that wonderful adage: “A terrorist is just a friend you haven’t met. Who may blow you up.”
The Zeitghost
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Ministry of Defence To Deploy Four Thousand More Troops For Top Gear Special
The British Ministry of Defence has been forced to announce some unscheduled troop deployments for the troubled Top Gear special.
Trouble in Top Gear studios has accelerated in recent times, and with Jeremy Clarkson now eager to test the speed and ergonomics of the new Lamborghini Murcielago LP640 against the tactic nous of a full British Army regiment, the inevitable incease of troop numbers has been announced by Secretary for Defence, Jeff Hoon.
There are hopes that this announcement could lead to a quick withdrawal of the Army in the near future but these appear premature. Up to 12,000 British Army troops are stationed in or around the Top Gear studios in the Dunsfold Park Aerodrome in Surrey having been called in originally to oversee a segment about a race between a Mig Fighter Jet and a customised Ferarri 612 scaglietti.
British Forces have since maintained a presence in the area to moniter the ongoing situation and to keep peace between Jeremy Clarkson's and Richard Hammond's waring Top Gear Challenge factions.
Many MOD officials in Surrey privately concede that the troops maybe there for some time. They say they’ve been forced to shuffle the units from one part of the studio to another for at least two years because there haven’t been enough soldiers to deal simultaneously with Clarkson's big weaponry fetish, Hammond's eagerness to race a rocket, training studio hands to blow up caravans, and secure the race track, power lines, guarding studio guest infiltrators who profess to liking Mondeos, and keeping an eye on The Stig.
The MOD had no comment about a rumoured secert deployment being sent to monitor the latest series of Brainiac.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
The Man That Drinks The Brandy
A classy event this week. Normally I'm content to slum it with the hoi polloi, hang out with regular plebeians, feign interest in the little trivialities that dot-to-dot their dull lives together. Not his time. No, I said, I'm going to skip the weekly Soiled Mattress Club, and instead attend the Irish premiere of Ken Loach's Brit-baiting, 'The Wind That Shakes The Barley'. Fantastic flick. "Sign me now", I roared coming out of the pictures. "A Nation Once Again", "Ireland Abu", "Ooh Ah Paul McGrath", were some of my other bellicose chants before my girlfriend told me I was annoying the taxi driver.
The premiere was a splendid affair. Before you think I've lost my "man of the people" charms, don't worry, I can assure you I acted like a gormless buffoon the whole time, looking so far above my station, my ears were popping. Everyone was decked out in their full regalia, but I misunderstood 'Smart/Casual' to mean one of each. I wore a top hat and pyjama bottoms.
The mingling before the film started was unreal. Some of the best mingling I've ever witnessed. People sashaying around, dropping finely tuned bon mots, and disappearing again, to mill amongst the glitterati. I think the film's star Cillian Murphy (pronounced 'Sillian' according to Sky News presenters, the Sassenach bastards) really enjoyed our half an hour conversation about my World Cup Fantasy Football Team, especially the part about whether to replace the Mexican defender Marquez, with someone like John Terry. Not wanting him to disappear on me, I kept him in a headlock the whole time, and although some of his replies were subsequently slightly muffled, he seemed to be having fun.
Once we got inside the cinema, it got a bit boring. It was just like anyone routine trip to the pictures. I always quaff champagne and gorge quail eggs even if it's only Earnest Saves Lent I'm going to see. It was especially poignant to have Ken Loach, the film's producer and the lead actors introduce the film and parade the Palm D'Or, which they won at the Cannes Film Festival. I think they got it for winning the festival pub quiz.
So what about the movie? Well I'm no cineaste, but it initially seemed to be a most intriguing piece of work. Setting an allegorical tale about the Irish War of Independence in the lurid underworld of illegal car racing in day-glo Japan is certainly something I wasn't expecting. At this point I realised I had stumbled accidentally into The Fast And The Furious: Tokyo Drift, after a misguided venture to top up my plate of pigeon terrine. I gave it ten more minutes, before the sound of boy racers in the audience going "Brrrrrrrrmmmmmmmm, brrrrrmmmmmmmm,' drove me back to the premiere.
I rejoined it at a pivotal moment. Some Irish lads were about to make a daring raid on an RIC barracks. The moment was, however, thoroughly spoiled with what I thought it was an especially churlish piece of bad form. A band of Sassenachs mercenaries, led by Jeremy Clarkson dressed as Churchill and the Daily Mail editorial staff in Tommy Hats, marched into the cinema, lined up fifteen premiere patrons and executed them in cold blood. A very provocative gesture I thought, and at a most insensitive time. Did they have any consideration for the people outside trying to order popcorn over a hail of machine gun fire? I doubt it.
By the end, everyone was agreed that 'The Wind That Shakes the Barley' was a fiery and emotionally taut polemic. The general consensus was "Five Stars. Brits Out". We travelled en masse out of the premiere in our bespoke attire looking for someone or something to vent our pent up rage at. Unable to find any Black and Tans in the immediate vicinity, we were forced to purchase as much Ben And Jerry's Black And Tan flavoured ice cream as we could muster and gobble it up with a fantical, violent fervour. That'll show them, we all said collectively, with tummy's slightly aching and brain freeze setting in.
The Zeitghost
The premiere was a splendid affair. Before you think I've lost my "man of the people" charms, don't worry, I can assure you I acted like a gormless buffoon the whole time, looking so far above my station, my ears were popping. Everyone was decked out in their full regalia, but I misunderstood 'Smart/Casual' to mean one of each. I wore a top hat and pyjama bottoms.
The mingling before the film started was unreal. Some of the best mingling I've ever witnessed. People sashaying around, dropping finely tuned bon mots, and disappearing again, to mill amongst the glitterati. I think the film's star Cillian Murphy (pronounced 'Sillian' according to Sky News presenters, the Sassenach bastards) really enjoyed our half an hour conversation about my World Cup Fantasy Football Team, especially the part about whether to replace the Mexican defender Marquez, with someone like John Terry. Not wanting him to disappear on me, I kept him in a headlock the whole time, and although some of his replies were subsequently slightly muffled, he seemed to be having fun.
Once we got inside the cinema, it got a bit boring. It was just like anyone routine trip to the pictures. I always quaff champagne and gorge quail eggs even if it's only Earnest Saves Lent I'm going to see. It was especially poignant to have Ken Loach, the film's producer and the lead actors introduce the film and parade the Palm D'Or, which they won at the Cannes Film Festival. I think they got it for winning the festival pub quiz.
So what about the movie? Well I'm no cineaste, but it initially seemed to be a most intriguing piece of work. Setting an allegorical tale about the Irish War of Independence in the lurid underworld of illegal car racing in day-glo Japan is certainly something I wasn't expecting. At this point I realised I had stumbled accidentally into The Fast And The Furious: Tokyo Drift, after a misguided venture to top up my plate of pigeon terrine. I gave it ten more minutes, before the sound of boy racers in the audience going "Brrrrrrrrmmmmmmmm, brrrrrmmmmmmmm,' drove me back to the premiere.
I rejoined it at a pivotal moment. Some Irish lads were about to make a daring raid on an RIC barracks. The moment was, however, thoroughly spoiled with what I thought it was an especially churlish piece of bad form. A band of Sassenachs mercenaries, led by Jeremy Clarkson dressed as Churchill and the Daily Mail editorial staff in Tommy Hats, marched into the cinema, lined up fifteen premiere patrons and executed them in cold blood. A very provocative gesture I thought, and at a most insensitive time. Did they have any consideration for the people outside trying to order popcorn over a hail of machine gun fire? I doubt it.
By the end, everyone was agreed that 'The Wind That Shakes the Barley' was a fiery and emotionally taut polemic. The general consensus was "Five Stars. Brits Out". We travelled en masse out of the premiere in our bespoke attire looking for someone or something to vent our pent up rage at. Unable to find any Black and Tans in the immediate vicinity, we were forced to purchase as much Ben And Jerry's Black And Tan flavoured ice cream as we could muster and gobble it up with a fantical, violent fervour. That'll show them, we all said collectively, with tummy's slightly aching and brain freeze setting in.
The Zeitghost
Friday, March 24, 2006
Opposition Responds To Brown's Budget: "That's A Fucking Great Budget"
Shadow Chancellor George Osbourne was forced into the unprecedented position of praising his rival Gordon Brown's budget. He admitted in the televised response that it was as good as, and probably better than, what he would have managed himself.
"The guy is really on the ball with this one," admitted Osbourne, "It's up there with some the best budgets ever."
In presenting his tenth, and possibly last budget should he succeed Tony Blair in the next year, Gordon Brown had hoped to go out with a bang. Osbourne's volte face from fiery combattant to lickspittle fanboy with have warmed his heart.
"Not increasing fuel duty was an obvious one, I would have done that", confessed Osbourne, "but after that, there's so much stuff from way out of left field.....and it just works."
"Giving state schools £34 billion? Deadly idea. Scheme to help first time buyers onto the first rung of the housing ladder? A real brainwave. Taking away the £200 council tax bonus for pensioners? Well it's got to come from somewhere. But the coup de grace was putting off public spending changes until 2008 or 2010. Genius. Fucking genius. No way would i have thought of that one."
Osbourne went on to admit that he was sometimes a little "mean" to Brown across the dispatch box in the House of Commons, but that he was "being egged on by his mates", and apologised unreservedly.
"I was ready to attack this budget. No Lie. Here's what I was going to say: This is a budget heavy in politics but light in economics. This chancellor has over-taxed, over-spent, and over-borrowed. But that's all a load of bollocks. This is a fucking great budget and i won't have a word said against it."
Mr. Osbourne confessed that his position had upset a large number of his conservative party colleagues, but he was prepared to take the flak.
"Don't mind our lads" he stressed in the TV address, "they're just jealous that they didn't think of the stuff first."
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Elderly Man Forced To Spend 2 Nights in Hospital A+E On Unicycle
The Mater Hospital is investigating the circumstances under which a a 67-year old man, who arrived at the hospital suffering from a mild stroke, had to spend several days on a unicycle in the accident and emergency ward.Ronnie Pinback said that on top of waiting for over two days in the packed ward for a bed for treatment, his brother Bobby Pinback, was tormented by having to balance precariously on the one wheeled device, of which he had no previous experience and had only seen once on a showing of Fossetts Big Circus on RTE One several Christmases ago.
"It was a nightmare", said Ronnie Pinback. "I helped Bobby onto the machine, but he was all over the place. I spent most of the night chasing him around the wards."
A spokesman for the Mater Hospital said that it was investigating the incident but said that it was bound by patient confidentiality and could not discuss individual cases.
A different, more dishevelled looking spokesman didn't seem to be entirely aware of this rule and willingly divulged lots of sensitive information.
"Regrettably both staff and management have been managing a difficult situation at the hospital's A&E department in recent months. A unicycle was all we had to hand for Mr. Pinback. A very competent doctor judged by his gait, his athleticism, his ruddy complexion, that Mr. Pinback would be able to handle a stint on the unicycle. We did not foresee him having to stay on it for two days, but he was repeatedly checked on and seemed to be doing okay on it"
The hospital said it has been working on a number of ways to ease the problem including submitting a proposal to the Health Service Executive for a 25-device emergency transit ward to be developed as part of the A&E department.
"We have no more space for beds or trolleys so we have to improvise. The 25-device ward proposal requests a space saving, and fun, environment where patients can be kept on pogo sticks, lolo balls, space hoppers, mini-scooters, flybars and rocking horses. "
After two days on the unicycle Mr. Pinback was moved to a bean bag, and then to a bed in the shape of a race car.
Monday, February 06, 2006
Weekend Sport: Martin O' Neill Sacked As Wife's Carer
Martin O'Neill has been sensationally fired from his role as carer for his ill wife Geraldine with only 2 months of her chemotherapy remaining. Sam Allardyce has been installed as favourite to replace O'Neill, with Geraldine's brother Brian, taking temporary charge for the immediate future.O'Neill expressed his dismay at being relieved of his position. "I'm saddened at the way things have worked out".
"I have enjoyed living and working with Geraldine, and her whole family made me feel welcome. I wish her all the best for the future."
O'Neill's tenure as Geraldine's carer was fraught with difficulty. Although his initial appointment was roundly cheered - he felt being Geraldine's husband, he was the natural choice - it has proven to be a bit of a rollercoaster ride for all parties.
Although a decorated manager, O'Neill proved to be tactically inept when confronted with the complexities of caring for someone with a serious illness. Geraldine's supporters noticed that he would be quite brusque when pushing her in her wheelchair, repeatedly forgot to remind her to take her medicine, and was poor at the general upkeep of their residence. His tactless leaps for joy in the cancer ward when Geraldine received some positive results, were also noted.
Despite the noticeable improvement in Geraldine's condition, rumours had Been circulating that her mother had been sounding out a replacement. Only last week Sam Allardyce was forced to rule himself out of the position, not being prepared to comment on the job while O'Neill still held it.
Things have moved on considerably since then, and Alardyce, with his soothing back-rubs, and penchant for fine art - something Geraldine has been dabbling in recently - is seen by many as the perfect replacement. Another man in the frame in current England coach Sven Goran Eriksson, who, as well as having European experience, is well known for his skill at a 'certain act' which has brought pleasure to the plethora of ladies he has looked after. Bookies are also offering good odds on Barry Scott, the guy from the Cilit Bang ads.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
"Arrivederci...........Oh I Meant Ciao"
I went to see Maximo Park last night. Heard a deejay on X-Fm the other night just calling them "Maxeemo". I hate when it suddenly becomes the muso vernacular to ditch half of the band's name. It's crass. So this gig was pretty good. I had to review it for a magazine but I dunno are they using it or not so here's a sneak preview:
Maximo Park, 22nd January 2006
Maximo Park could have easily disappeared into the slew of angular, affected guitar bands that emerged in the UK last year, but two factors helped them stay on the muso radar. One was that they were signed to Warp Records, previously best associated with hothousing the cream of British electronica. The second was their enigmatic frontman Paul Smith with his candid/overwrought lyrics - whichever side of the fence you sit on - and labour intensive stage workout. While the first element has since been relegated to a mere industry curio, the relentless, perpetual motion of Smith is bound to cultivate the sort of veneration reserved for his more celebrated peers.
That's not to belittle the rest of the band, whose cannily crafted hooks and furious instrumentation create wiry, melodic post-punk, but their collective energies and drive seem to be channelled through Smith's high-wire rock posturing. He bounds around the stage like a marionette in a whirlwind, throwing shapes and scowls and wide-eyed stares at the audience. His love-lorn lyrics dictate a tale of a man scorned, and he treats the audience as the object of this unrequited, desirous passion. When not scorning them with pointed fingers, he's pleading with begging arms or coquettishly offering sexual advances with clumsy hip-swivels. Keyboardist Lukas Wooller occasionally deflects some of the attention away from Smith with his own syncopated convulsions and karate chops, but it's no use. There's only one rock star demagogue on show tonight.
Smith's contortions and facial tics help give the music a frenetic gee-up. The first half of the show is breathless. The band race through Signal and Sign, The Coast Is Always Changing and Graffiti. The Heineken Green Room crowd is the usual ragbag of lickspittle fanboys/girls and benign freeloaders, but the spiky rhythms and frenzied synths coerce everyone into nodding approvingly. Perhaps after the hectic opening it is pause for breath allowed by the softer new single I Want You To Stay that helps make it one of the nights highlights.
It's a brief respite. The rousing Limassol provides one more opportunity for flailing limbs to collide with verbose lyricism as does Now I'm All Over the Shop with it's very modern tale of romance in the gutter. It still doesn't prepare you for the prolonged bout of applause that greeted Apply Some Pressure, which made even Smyth look bashful.
The audience's clamour for an encore is rewarded with newbie Nosebleed and the relative serenity of Going Missing. The band departs to more sustained applause, with Smith's face a shape-shifting collage of bowled over grimaces and ear to ear grins. If he's not sure what to make of it all, then at least the crowd most certainly are.
end
See how much nicer a gent I am when not frothing at the mouth? So it was a good night. Had to curtail my debauchery because I was 'working', but bumped into some peeps i met at ATP and got a bit drunk, before staying up writing. Maximo put on a good show. Sorry Maximo Park put on a good show. The singer Paul Smith really is a manic performer; it's cringey and entertaining in equal measure. A couple of Italian accolytes up at the front of the stage were cooing at him, and he responded with "Arrivederci........(long pause) oops I mean ciao" It was funny. Afterwards he belatedly arrived upstairs at the indie-disco and was beseiged by loads of cling-ons who demanded photos on their mobiles. He wore a not especially flattering trilby and then went up dancing when the Dj played one of his songs. You began to understand why his lyrics are so hopelessly love-lorn. He is the Pepe le Peu of pop.
Here's Maximo (Park) and their current single - I want you to stay - from their pretty fine debut record A Certain Trigger. http://rapidshare.de/files/11694505/06_i_want_you_to_stay.mp3.html
Cheers for the crashpad Donut!
Saturday, January 21, 2006
Cloak and Dagger Stuff.
So I cruised over to Popsheep - yeah I'm still on neighbourhood watch - and they're running a "Canadian Election Result Prediction" contest. No chance of such politicised rhetoric here. Politics is a cruel mistress. I'll give you my tunes instead. These aren't especially new or anything. I think this is viewed as a bit uncouth in the musoblogisphere. Old, old stuff like grampa's nose-flute sessions recorded with two cups and a piece of string, that's cool, and new, new stuff like some lo-fi Scandinavian "sound artist" hermit who lives in a nice loft in Stockholm and communicates only through semaphore that's cool, but stuff released between six and eighteen months ago? Poo-ey! "I heard that song on the radio you fool. Cease and desist your blog immediately". Anyways, here's some tunes that have been released between six and eighteen months ago. Thumbing my nose at all a y'alls.
I really like this tune by Aberfeldy, an Edinburgh twee-pop group. It's sickly sweet, fey, winsome, all that jazz, but gets away with it. The album "Young Forever" is great too. Dig it out.
Aberfeldy - Love Is An Arrow http://rapidshare.de/files/11689396/03_-_love_is_an_arrow.mp3.html
New(ish), doing the rounds a bit, and gonna be big(ish) soon. New project from Dangermouse and Cee Lo Green.
Gnarls Barkley - Crazy http://rapidshare.de/files/6212444/Gnarls_Barkley_-_Crazy.mp3.html
Happy Weekend!
I really like this tune by Aberfeldy, an Edinburgh twee-pop group. It's sickly sweet, fey, winsome, all that jazz, but gets away with it. The album "Young Forever" is great too. Dig it out.
Aberfeldy - Love Is An Arrow http://rapidshare.de/files/11689396/03_-_love_is_an_arrow.mp3.html
New(ish), doing the rounds a bit, and gonna be big(ish) soon. New project from Dangermouse and Cee Lo Green.
Gnarls Barkley - Crazy http://rapidshare.de/files/6212444/Gnarls_Barkley_-_Crazy.mp3.html
Happy Weekend!
Weekend Sport: Gaelic Football Match Descends Into Fair Play and Sportsmanship
Officials at the Kilalallagh Junior B Third Round clash between Tullyodea and St. Breemstacks were caught unawares as the game rapidly and unexpectedly descended into a good natured and sporting occasion.The contest between the two fierce local rivals began with the traditional brutal physical intensity. The opening exchanges of play included a melee, a fracas, a brouhaha, "handbags", a few
hefty challenges, "jostling", general over-enthusiasm and bad-tempered gamesmanship, but nothing out of the ordinary.
Then as quickly as all that had developed, the game took an unexpected turn. An unprovoked air of calm and camaraderie overcame both players as they began to fairly compete for the ball and disengaged in off the ball incidents. No old sores were reopened and no old scores were settled.
Both supporters and officials were shocked at some of the on-field antics by the players, which included handing the ball to their opponent when it had gone out of play, inquiring about the extent of their opponent's injuries, and graciously commenting on their opposite numbers' girlfriend/wife/sister/mother.
"There was no crut to that at all." commented local St. Breemstacks supporter Gerry MacWaterford. "In all my years I've never come across a match with such a lack in ugly incidents, pointless clashes, petty squabbling, and nasty, cynical football. It's shocking."
Neither teams management would comment after the game. Both coaches were not required to remonstrate with officials during the match, neither did they exchange words with each other, or have to take aside any of their players to cool them down.
The referee, Mickie 'Joe Mickie' Masters couldn't pinpoint what exactly sparked the outbreak of brotherhood and humanity amongst the players, but did admit that the "top brass" would be taking a look at the game and that it wouldn't not be the last we heard of it. He left to fill out his referees report which he said he would "probably be able to text in".
Friday, January 20, 2006
Bin Laden Tape Bookended By New Arctic Monkeys Record
The new audio recording of wanted terrorist Osama Bin Laden was recorded over a bootleg of the new Arctic Monkey's record, sources revealed today.
The tape, which was aired on the Arabic TV station al-Jazeera yesterday, offered a stern warning to the USA of "further attacks", but also hinted that the leader of al-Qaeda is up to speed with the latest indie wunderkind.
It is the first time Bin-Laden had been heard from since September 2004, and the first time he has displayed any inclination towards sprightly, northern indie-rock.
Analysts have dated the tape to late 2006, around the same time when Arctic Monkey's fever was hitting the British music press. The recording begins with the number one single 'I Bet That You Look Good On The Dancefloor' and is followed by a brief snippet of BBC radio dj Zane Lowe saying "SoftlysoftlycatchyArticMonkeywowieee-".
This excerpt, clearly recorded from the radio, is followed by the first two tracks of the Arctic Monkey's debut record "Whatever people say I am, That's What I'm Not". Half way through track number three, "Fake Tales Of San Francisco", Bin Laden interrupts and begins his 25 minute speech.
Although Bin Laden warns of further attacks, he also offers the possibility of a "long term truce" with America. Clearly smitten by his new musical discovery, he even punctuates his sentences with typical northern English vernacular such as 'nowt' and 'owt'.
"Your president is misinterpreting public opinion polls which show the vast majority of you want withdrawal from Iraq. Yous owt to get shot of 'im", Bin Laden warns.
Vice President Dick Cheney responded by calling the surreptitious planting of the Arctic Monkey's record on the tape "a ploy, designed to curry favour with the British public."
"Besides," Cheney continued, "Clap Your Hands Say Yeah! are clearly a much better prospect for 2006, with greater musical scope and Alec Ounsworths haunting timbre to boot."
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Meet The Competition.
We're not really competing really. I mean there's a real camaraderie between all us Mp3 blogger dudes and dudettes. It's all about spreading the good word, preaching our universal secular creed, turning stoopid regular folks onto good music. Well not FM folks, just our nice mates. Anyways all these other blogs are a lot better than mine. But they each has a slew of different contributors, and I'm here slogging away, like King Cnut - yeah it's King Cnut - ordering the tide not to come in or like the little boy with his finger in the dyke. What I'm trying to say is that I'm fighting a losing battle here, but you guys are gonna stick with me. Ain't ya?
so I went to Said the Gramophone and clicked on a few random blogs from there.
http://www.saidthegramophone.com/
This place is just so nice. It's like calling round to a sound mate who always looks out for you and gives you a cup of tea, and offers advice in a sweet, but not pushy, manner and generally is someone you can count on. The only thing that will derail this sanguine venture is if all it's contributors get busted for grooming eleven year old scenester kids, suffer the ingnomy of having their computers carted off in clear plastic bags by some Operation Ore head honcho. Or maybe some deludedteen in the mid west goes on a shooting spree and tells everyone "The gramophone told me to do it". Neither are going to happen soon.
http://popdrivel.blogspot.com/
Called 'The Smudge Of Ashen Fluff' - means something to someone, somewhere, but alas not to me- this place is a predictably competent blog, maybe a bit stoic for my tastes, but I am as of yet to uncover the Father Ted/music blog crossover that I desperately yearn for, I guess I should just get used to earnest, intelligent, thoughful places like this. fuck it anyways. Where are all the shit blogs?..........Oh, you're looking at me aren't you?
http://www.hutten.org/lsh/
'Long Sought Home' - a blog about music about the afterlife. I can't help but think about that scene in 'Bananas' with Woody Allen product testing the coffin with the headphones and he sits up and says "this will be a good seller in California". This place looks just like mine! Actually his looks a bit more spruced up, like he got that guy in from that show who helps you add value to you house before you sell it to some gullible unsuspecting cunt who didn't realise the place had no roof cos you pointed out the freshly painted skirting board. Nice blog though, serene, soulful, uplifting. I'm gonna forward the URL to Pope Benedict.
http://prewarblues.org/
"Honey, where you been so long" is dedicated to pre war blues. John Kelly would cream himself here. It's just getting depressing now. This guy has probably thenceforth some 78s the size of a tractor tire into mp3s and yesterday I didn't know how to convert an mp3 into a mp3. Way to go guys for killing my carefully nurtured naivete.
http://www.lemon-red.org/blog/
a blog that's so hip it should be behind a velvet rope. I nearly didn't get in cos I'm sitting here in a dodgy amalgam of my football gear and my pajamas - who am I fucking kidding, I'm wearing a fire-damaged pink dressingown and I'm covered in Jacobs cream crackers detritus. Happy now? Anyways, this place is shitcool, leaning towards electronica and hip-hop, and I'm guessing I'm not on the guestlist. It's got a Diplo exclusive. Well, fuck that, next week I'll have Horsebox and the Singing Brickie doing that Westlife/Guns n roses medley live from The Greasy Ball, Cranny, East Clare.
So, I've learnt I'm way out of my depth. Here's some tunes, if you like them, look the artist up on the interweb, and stop looking at me like a gormless tit. Okay, sorry for been a grumpy bollix. First up is Tim Fite. Saw him play support to Buck 65 a few months back, blew me away, his album from last is good but a bit of a mixed bag, This song is sweet but with a pleasantly caustic undertone.
Tim Fite, "away from the snakes" http://www.bigupload.com/d=593557F2
Next up The Brakes. Short, snappy, funny, great. First song is about tinkers, second about bullshitters.
The Brakes "the best fun" http://www.bigupload.com/d=078D13DA
The Brakes"heard about your band"http://www.bigupload.com/d=AE0AB6D8
And Finally.......http://www.grapheine.com/bombaytv/playuk.php?id=552402
(it may well become a regular feature)
Laters!
so I went to Said the Gramophone and clicked on a few random blogs from there.
http://www.saidthegramophone.com/
This place is just so nice. It's like calling round to a sound mate who always looks out for you and gives you a cup of tea, and offers advice in a sweet, but not pushy, manner and generally is someone you can count on. The only thing that will derail this sanguine venture is if all it's contributors get busted for grooming eleven year old scenester kids, suffer the ingnomy of having their computers carted off in clear plastic bags by some Operation Ore head honcho. Or maybe some deludedteen in the mid west goes on a shooting spree and tells everyone "The gramophone told me to do it". Neither are going to happen soon.
http://popdrivel.blogspot.com/
Called 'The Smudge Of Ashen Fluff' - means something to someone, somewhere, but alas not to me- this place is a predictably competent blog, maybe a bit stoic for my tastes, but I am as of yet to uncover the Father Ted/music blog crossover that I desperately yearn for, I guess I should just get used to earnest, intelligent, thoughful places like this. fuck it anyways. Where are all the shit blogs?..........Oh, you're looking at me aren't you?
http://www.hutten.org/lsh/
'Long Sought Home' - a blog about music about the afterlife. I can't help but think about that scene in 'Bananas' with Woody Allen product testing the coffin with the headphones and he sits up and says "this will be a good seller in California". This place looks just like mine! Actually his looks a bit more spruced up, like he got that guy in from that show who helps you add value to you house before you sell it to some gullible unsuspecting cunt who didn't realise the place had no roof cos you pointed out the freshly painted skirting board. Nice blog though, serene, soulful, uplifting. I'm gonna forward the URL to Pope Benedict.
http://prewarblues.org/
"Honey, where you been so long" is dedicated to pre war blues. John Kelly would cream himself here. It's just getting depressing now. This guy has probably thenceforth some 78s the size of a tractor tire into mp3s and yesterday I didn't know how to convert an mp3 into a mp3. Way to go guys for killing my carefully nurtured naivete.
http://www.lemon-red.org/blog/
a blog that's so hip it should be behind a velvet rope. I nearly didn't get in cos I'm sitting here in a dodgy amalgam of my football gear and my pajamas - who am I fucking kidding, I'm wearing a fire-damaged pink dressingown and I'm covered in Jacobs cream crackers detritus. Happy now? Anyways, this place is shitcool, leaning towards electronica and hip-hop, and I'm guessing I'm not on the guestlist. It's got a Diplo exclusive. Well, fuck that, next week I'll have Horsebox and the Singing Brickie doing that Westlife/Guns n roses medley live from The Greasy Ball, Cranny, East Clare.
So, I've learnt I'm way out of my depth. Here's some tunes, if you like them, look the artist up on the interweb, and stop looking at me like a gormless tit. Okay, sorry for been a grumpy bollix. First up is Tim Fite. Saw him play support to Buck 65 a few months back, blew me away, his album from last is good but a bit of a mixed bag, This song is sweet but with a pleasantly caustic undertone.
Tim Fite, "away from the snakes" http://www.bigupload.com/d=593557F2
Next up The Brakes. Short, snappy, funny, great. First song is about tinkers, second about bullshitters.
The Brakes "the best fun" http://www.bigupload.com/d=078D13DA
The Brakes"heard about your band"http://www.bigupload.com/d=AE0AB6D8
And Finally.......http://www.grapheine.com/bombaytv/playuk.php?id=552402
(it may well become a regular feature)
Laters!
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
ATP: The Nightmare Before Christmas
this is sort of lazy. well, it's not my fault i couldn't find a better home for it. Actually it is, but let's not go there. i went to the mighty All Tomorrow's Parties festival in Sussex before Christmas........eugh, Christmas.... it's such a dirty word in January innit? Long winded review of said festival here:
By the time you’ve got there, bought booze, carted copious amounts of food that will remain uneaten, found mates, lost mates, found mates, imbibed some imported Buckfast, you’ve missed the far too early scheduled Battles. Dang. We should have driven. We should have gotten an earlier flight. Wait, forget it. Jaga Jazzist is starting. Nice. Actually these guys are quite boring, I wish they’d stop doing their en masse shoegazing stuff and pick it up a bit. And they do. A rousing second half rescues Jaga Jazzist’s set from a stodgy quagmire, placing it firmly in the ‘that was worth sticking through’ category. Now who’s next?
All Tomorrow’s Parties always begins with many of its patrons in a state of flux. Well the non native ones anyways. It temporarily combines the worst elements of going on holiday, moving into a new gaff, and trying to get to a gig on time. There is no respite. By the time you’ve set up shop in the chalet, it’s time to haul buns into the venues and check out what’s on. That electro-post rockers Battles had to be sacrificed in this maelstrom of activity was an aberration, but mercifully only a temporary one. Tick Jaga Jazzist off and take stock. Maybe even sit down. There is a weekend ahead and it cannot be this breathless. Bit it may just have to be.
The first rule of every festival is: you can’t see everything. It’s a toughie, and it hits especially hard when you peruse the schedule and spot unsightly clashes left, right and centre. The blow is lessened at ATP by the it’s compact layout. There is stage one downstairs, and the larger stage two upstairs. Still, dashing between shows to savour their best parts inevitably leads to a distinctly underwheming impression of both artists. It’s like flicking between two football matches on the telly: you maybe lucky and snatch a goal here and there, but you’ll never get the context in which it was scored.
So Dälëk were the first to get the cold shoulder. I vouched for The Locust. It was a good bet that I’d see something here that I wouldn’t see for the rest of the weekend. I was right. The Locust apocalyptic tumult fires spastic synths, primal screams, and dirt-pool guitars at the audience in short spasmodic waves. Their songs begin and end randomly, a melange of staccato noise building up and quickly destroying any hint of rhythm or song structure. They remain incommunicado and motionless on stage, bedecked in one-piece ‘Spiderman-in-mourning’ outfits, looking like Kraftwerk from Hades. It’s a compelling sight and sound. One slight flaw: it’s not music. But who cares when the outfits look that good?
If you thought there was going to be any respite from then sonic assaults, you’d be wrong. Next up was über-caterwauler Diamanda Galas. Her bone jarring, air-siren, banshee wail and piano pounding proved too much for my already softened up eardrums. Sure, it was an extremely intense and provocative performance, but one lacking in any real empathy for…ah…..the audience. Saul Williams, on the other hand, proved to be a more welcoming distraction. As compelling and intense as Ms Galas but easier on the ear, his ‘spoken word remix’ show was undoubtedly one of the weekend highlights, combining mellifluous beats with sharp, polemic prose.
The Kills tuneful man/woman duopoly was always going to struggle against some of the new weirdness heavyweights on show, and they conjured up little spark in front of a demonstrably passive audience. It just seemed so dull in comparison to what had gone on previous. The crowd filtered away only to be greeted by Battles ad hoc late night show down stairs, a special treat for all us latecomers. It quickly dissipated the torpor lingering from the Kills abject show. With the ink barely dry on their Warp records contracts, Battles put on a blinding show, sounding somewhere between Daft Punk and the Redneck Manifesto, it was a fantastic way to end the day. Well, apart from boozing all night in the pub….
400 Blows performance had all the menace and ruthless efficiency that their weedy counterparts JR Ewing lacked earlier Saturday afternoon. Maybe it was simply that 400 Blows stark black military fatigues gave them this sort of campy bad cop/bad cop omnipotence, but their tunes were still headstrong and abrasive, fusing hard-edged punk and firebrand no-wave. Even the fire alarm, which subsequently evacuated the building, had a hard time clearing these guys. An incendiary show.
It was followed was an equally eviscerating performance by lippy fire-breather, Lydia Lunch. Without her full band in tow – only accompanied by some blow-life sax dude – she lacked certain oomph, but her ire and brimstone poetry still packed a kick in the nuts. Those hoping she’d pull out a flaming tampon and fuck it at the crowd were surprisingly disappointed.
The Fucking Champs geekish pseudo-metal took a while to get going, but proved more than an embellished sidenote on the weekend. Ironically that’s all they get though, because the hyperactive Quintron and Miss Pussycat – think B52s/LCD Soundsystem soundclash – brought a desperately needed air of frivolity to the evenings proceedings, rendering the more sombre preceding acts look a bit po-faced.
The fun-size pop frolics soon got squashed. A certain utterly merciless raging torrent of heavy metal named High On Fire ploughed through ATP leaving a trail of flailing limbs and perforated eardrums. It was a rousing juggernaut – frontman Matt Pike showering up close fanboys in wife beater sweat, George Rice’s slobberknocker basslines, and drummer Des Kensel obstructed by the hereditary sea of toms. This was hard, hard, unyieldingly hard. To paraphrase George Orwell, it was like getting stamped on the face forever. But in a nice way, if you get me.
And ditto for Mastodon.
In between there was a stint at psychedelic-indie-rockers Weird War being funky and engaging. Enigmatic frontman Ian Svenonius sashayed about the stage, amongst other places during the weekend, and acted the spazed-out shaman. A captivating performance. Yeah, and before you go all nuts on me and say I’m forgetting to mention one of the best shows all weekend, I only saw ten minutes of Les Savy Fav and they were great but I had to attend a chalet meeting to negotiate the sleeping arrangements. Would there be sleep or not was the gist of the minutes of said chalet meeting.
I returned more out of courtesy than any great overriding desire to watch the Mars Volta. It was their weekend, their Nightmare, their bash. I give them their dues, they put on a fine jamboree, but they remain an acquired taste. Moments of prog-metal inspiration were repeatedly ram-raided by guitarist Omar Rodriguez-Lopez indulgent guitar noodling. Often just when they clicked, they crumbled. Maybe it’s me. I just don’t get these guys.
Sunday brought carpet tongue and septic stomach. The perfect antidote was supplied by the Cinematic Orchestra, providing the live score to Dziga Vertov’s seminal documentary ‘Man With A Movie Camera.” The images and jazzy-trip-hop sounds melded into a unique synergy, and it was at times both languorous and beautiful. The viewer could drift in an out, coaxed into a soporific state by the sultry sounds, yet captivated by the sprightly rhythm of the visuals.
By this stage the timetable went into meltdown. Ex-Can member Holger Czukay disappeared, Acid Mothers Temple got bumped until evening, and Micheal Rother was left holding the baby. The former NEU-man’s set was plagued by dodgy sound, but he still carried off an impressive and vital performance of hallowed tick-tock-krautrock. The Eternals, who followed him, were terrible, in many different ways, but mostly by denying people opportune time to play this irrepressible boxing game in the arcade. Or eat some ‘toad in the hole’. Or decimate the guy’s toilets – you naughty, naughty boys. Such peccadilloes make ATP.
And by now CocoRosie were stealing everyone’s show. A really quite special performance, with Sierras Cassady’s voice soaring in all sorts of unforeseen directions and her sister, Bianca, dueting with her ‘little-girl-lost’ timbre. A beat-boxing mc provided backing for this powerhouse of freak-folk lullabies. Audience enraptured, they disappeared, and it was left to Antony and the Johnsons to gather them into his affections. What he did was sweet, amiable and affecting, but maybe a little maudlin in comparison to what had gone before. It didn’t stop some burly chaps blubbering in the front row though. Maybe those tears were shed because the weekend was over?
All Tomorrow’s Parties: The Nightmare Before Christmas
Curated by the
Mars Volta
2nd – 4th December 2005
By the time you’ve got there, bought booze, carted copious amounts of food that will remain uneaten, found mates, lost mates, found mates, imbibed some imported Buckfast, you’ve missed the far too early scheduled Battles. Dang. We should have driven. We should have gotten an earlier flight. Wait, forget it. Jaga Jazzist is starting. Nice. Actually these guys are quite boring, I wish they’d stop doing their en masse shoegazing stuff and pick it up a bit. And they do. A rousing second half rescues Jaga Jazzist’s set from a stodgy quagmire, placing it firmly in the ‘that was worth sticking through’ category. Now who’s next?
All Tomorrow’s Parties always begins with many of its patrons in a state of flux. Well the non native ones anyways. It temporarily combines the worst elements of going on holiday, moving into a new gaff, and trying to get to a gig on time. There is no respite. By the time you’ve set up shop in the chalet, it’s time to haul buns into the venues and check out what’s on. That electro-post rockers Battles had to be sacrificed in this maelstrom of activity was an aberration, but mercifully only a temporary one. Tick Jaga Jazzist off and take stock. Maybe even sit down. There is a weekend ahead and it cannot be this breathless. Bit it may just have to be.
The first rule of every festival is: you can’t see everything. It’s a toughie, and it hits especially hard when you peruse the schedule and spot unsightly clashes left, right and centre. The blow is lessened at ATP by the it’s compact layout. There is stage one downstairs, and the larger stage two upstairs. Still, dashing between shows to savour their best parts inevitably leads to a distinctly underwheming impression of both artists. It’s like flicking between two football matches on the telly: you maybe lucky and snatch a goal here and there, but you’ll never get the context in which it was scored.
So Dälëk were the first to get the cold shoulder. I vouched for The Locust. It was a good bet that I’d see something here that I wouldn’t see for the rest of the weekend. I was right. The Locust apocalyptic tumult fires spastic synths, primal screams, and dirt-pool guitars at the audience in short spasmodic waves. Their songs begin and end randomly, a melange of staccato noise building up and quickly destroying any hint of rhythm or song structure. They remain incommunicado and motionless on stage, bedecked in one-piece ‘Spiderman-in-mourning’ outfits, looking like Kraftwerk from Hades. It’s a compelling sight and sound. One slight flaw: it’s not music. But who cares when the outfits look that good?
If you thought there was going to be any respite from then sonic assaults, you’d be wrong. Next up was über-caterwauler Diamanda Galas. Her bone jarring, air-siren, banshee wail and piano pounding proved too much for my already softened up eardrums. Sure, it was an extremely intense and provocative performance, but one lacking in any real empathy for…ah…..the audience. Saul Williams, on the other hand, proved to be a more welcoming distraction. As compelling and intense as Ms Galas but easier on the ear, his ‘spoken word remix’ show was undoubtedly one of the weekend highlights, combining mellifluous beats with sharp, polemic prose.
The Kills tuneful man/woman duopoly was always going to struggle against some of the new weirdness heavyweights on show, and they conjured up little spark in front of a demonstrably passive audience. It just seemed so dull in comparison to what had gone on previous. The crowd filtered away only to be greeted by Battles ad hoc late night show down stairs, a special treat for all us latecomers. It quickly dissipated the torpor lingering from the Kills abject show. With the ink barely dry on their Warp records contracts, Battles put on a blinding show, sounding somewhere between Daft Punk and the Redneck Manifesto, it was a fantastic way to end the day. Well, apart from boozing all night in the pub….
400 Blows performance had all the menace and ruthless efficiency that their weedy counterparts JR Ewing lacked earlier Saturday afternoon. Maybe it was simply that 400 Blows stark black military fatigues gave them this sort of campy bad cop/bad cop omnipotence, but their tunes were still headstrong and abrasive, fusing hard-edged punk and firebrand no-wave. Even the fire alarm, which subsequently evacuated the building, had a hard time clearing these guys. An incendiary show.
It was followed was an equally eviscerating performance by lippy fire-breather, Lydia Lunch. Without her full band in tow – only accompanied by some blow-life sax dude – she lacked certain oomph, but her ire and brimstone poetry still packed a kick in the nuts. Those hoping she’d pull out a flaming tampon and fuck it at the crowd were surprisingly disappointed.
The Fucking Champs geekish pseudo-metal took a while to get going, but proved more than an embellished sidenote on the weekend. Ironically that’s all they get though, because the hyperactive Quintron and Miss Pussycat – think B52s/LCD Soundsystem soundclash – brought a desperately needed air of frivolity to the evenings proceedings, rendering the more sombre preceding acts look a bit po-faced.
The fun-size pop frolics soon got squashed. A certain utterly merciless raging torrent of heavy metal named High On Fire ploughed through ATP leaving a trail of flailing limbs and perforated eardrums. It was a rousing juggernaut – frontman Matt Pike showering up close fanboys in wife beater sweat, George Rice’s slobberknocker basslines, and drummer Des Kensel obstructed by the hereditary sea of toms. This was hard, hard, unyieldingly hard. To paraphrase George Orwell, it was like getting stamped on the face forever. But in a nice way, if you get me.
And ditto for Mastodon.
In between there was a stint at psychedelic-indie-rockers Weird War being funky and engaging. Enigmatic frontman Ian Svenonius sashayed about the stage, amongst other places during the weekend, and acted the spazed-out shaman. A captivating performance. Yeah, and before you go all nuts on me and say I’m forgetting to mention one of the best shows all weekend, I only saw ten minutes of Les Savy Fav and they were great but I had to attend a chalet meeting to negotiate the sleeping arrangements. Would there be sleep or not was the gist of the minutes of said chalet meeting.
I returned more out of courtesy than any great overriding desire to watch the Mars Volta. It was their weekend, their Nightmare, their bash. I give them their dues, they put on a fine jamboree, but they remain an acquired taste. Moments of prog-metal inspiration were repeatedly ram-raided by guitarist Omar Rodriguez-Lopez indulgent guitar noodling. Often just when they clicked, they crumbled. Maybe it’s me. I just don’t get these guys.
Sunday brought carpet tongue and septic stomach. The perfect antidote was supplied by the Cinematic Orchestra, providing the live score to Dziga Vertov’s seminal documentary ‘Man With A Movie Camera.” The images and jazzy-trip-hop sounds melded into a unique synergy, and it was at times both languorous and beautiful. The viewer could drift in an out, coaxed into a soporific state by the sultry sounds, yet captivated by the sprightly rhythm of the visuals.
By this stage the timetable went into meltdown. Ex-Can member Holger Czukay disappeared, Acid Mothers Temple got bumped until evening, and Micheal Rother was left holding the baby. The former NEU-man’s set was plagued by dodgy sound, but he still carried off an impressive and vital performance of hallowed tick-tock-krautrock. The Eternals, who followed him, were terrible, in many different ways, but mostly by denying people opportune time to play this irrepressible boxing game in the arcade. Or eat some ‘toad in the hole’. Or decimate the guy’s toilets – you naughty, naughty boys. Such peccadilloes make ATP.
And by now CocoRosie were stealing everyone’s show. A really quite special performance, with Sierras Cassady’s voice soaring in all sorts of unforeseen directions and her sister, Bianca, dueting with her ‘little-girl-lost’ timbre. A beat-boxing mc provided backing for this powerhouse of freak-folk lullabies. Audience enraptured, they disappeared, and it was left to Antony and the Johnsons to gather them into his affections. What he did was sweet, amiable and affecting, but maybe a little maudlin in comparison to what had gone before. It didn’t stop some burly chaps blubbering in the front row though. Maybe those tears were shed because the weekend was over?
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
The Russians are coming.
okay, i exhausted all my vitriol in yesterday's post, made some friends (hey adriane!) some enemies (the lunch bunch) and got a worrying seal of approval from the Militia - shout-outs to all my crew hanging on the Far-Right. So let's get down to brass tacks. this blog will feature, along with poorly punctuated sentances and occasional spittle laced frothy mouthed diatribes, songs you should check out, hand picked from across the musical vista. there are blogs that do this better - take a bow Said the Gramophone - and one's that will give you lots more music - heres looking at you reagan youth - but mine will not be:
a) po-faced, serious and overly sincere. it's music goddammit - the soundtrack to our lives, not our lives in totality
b) heavy with waffling erudite descriptions of songs
c) a free for all with no quality control, and way too much music to download so you end up paralysed by choice.
Plus you can probably tell my web skills are pretty remedial, so suggestions from either of the two people who irregularly perused this place may be considered, but will probably be dismissed with a waspish wave of the hand.
Right, less of the pontificating. here's a new band called !Forward Russia! (the first exclamation mark is supposed to be upside down; no idea how to do that sorry). they're from Leeds in England and sound like a punky Bloc Party.
!Forward Russia! - Twelve http://www.bigupload.com/d=B0645509 (because i'm a poor miscreant who can't splash out on web hosting, you gotta fetch it from big upload)
and here's some techno. this was Pitchforks no.1 techno track of last year. not sure if i agree with that but it's decent. (my techno mate tells me it's trance. what a nonce.) :
booka shade - mandarine girl http://www.bigupload.com/d=F6776EBE
Highfive!
a) po-faced, serious and overly sincere. it's music goddammit - the soundtrack to our lives, not our lives in totality
b) heavy with waffling erudite descriptions of songs
c) a free for all with no quality control, and way too much music to download so you end up paralysed by choice.
Plus you can probably tell my web skills are pretty remedial, so suggestions from either of the two people who irregularly perused this place may be considered, but will probably be dismissed with a waspish wave of the hand.
Right, less of the pontificating. here's a new band called !Forward Russia! (the first exclamation mark is supposed to be upside down; no idea how to do that sorry). they're from Leeds in England and sound like a punky Bloc Party.
!Forward Russia! - Twelve http://www.bigupload.com/d=B0645509 (because i'm a poor miscreant who can't splash out on web hosting, you gotta fetch it from big upload)
and here's some techno. this was Pitchforks no.1 techno track of last year. not sure if i agree with that but it's decent. (my techno mate tells me it's trance. what a nonce.) :
booka shade - mandarine girl http://www.bigupload.com/d=F6776EBE
Highfive!
Meet The Neighbours!
So, before I start settling into any sort of regular correspondence, it's only polite, I decided, to visit my fellow bloggers, and introduce myself. I mean that's what a nice neighbour does isn't it? I clicked 'next blog' a few times to see what kind of reprobates are channeling futile energies into garbled rubbish, like me. Here's who I met:
http://friendofrjsix.blogspot.com/
A really worthy, safe, PG-13 kinda place run by a bunch of Asian girls. Full of wholesome ditties like, 'Friendship..The ship that never sinks' and lots of other pseudo-"chicken soup for the twee cunt" claptrap. Not my sort of place, but nice to know that people are deluded enough to think that they live in a disneyworld snowglobe full of sugar and spice and all things nice. The newest entry has is some sort of effete 'Kids say the funniest things' motif, which is so niminy-piminy that if you were employed by Hallmark they would immediately order a body cavity search for two fairydust coated bunny rabbits using your arse as a burrow. What's going on gals? I'll tell you what's going on: war, genocide, famine, "extreme rendition", oppression, rape, murder. If you fuck off now you might just catch the end of the sales.
http://squigee.blogspot.com/
the next target for my ribald dissemination is this inept but slightly endearing attempt by some woman to keep to an 'Oprah and Mom' sanctioned diet. Each entry consists of a recipe and some cathartic absolution about how she will never go on the piss at the weekend cos she might become a dipso, or how there's this pair of skinny jeans lurking in her cupboard that she swears she can squeeze in to. I thinking she should just apply for that frankensteins-monster-meets-Head -to-toe makeover show 'The Swan' and set the job done in a few weeks. Then she can weep uncontrollably when she looks at herself in the mirror and sees an exact replica of all the other chimeras who've appeared on the show. Fuck it love, just go on Dr. Phil again.
http://updatereportbybro.blogspot.com/
Too boring for words. I'll let the guy try and explain it himself: "It is a memo of the software installed in my PC. Because it is a record for me, it is conscious that the explanation is considerably insufficient. It considers it if it comments." See? Even he doesn't have a fucking clue what it's about.
http://degrassioldskool.blogspot.com/
noo yawk hipster dollybird, self consicously kooky, who I'm guessing......reads pitchfork, makes her own clothes, wishes she could play the theremin, favourite move is something French...say jean de florette, is part of a "collective", is kinda seeing this guy, but they're really good friends and she doesn't want to ruin it, owns some DFA vinyl, met chloe sevingny once and she's so nice, wants to live in Berlin, makes this really great gazpacho, cycles a bike, likes the smell of old things, watches reruns of my so called life, is forgetful....Clap Your Hands and Say Meh.
http://antiracistlosers.blogspot.com/
oo-er, it was only a matter on time before we stumbled across some lobotomised nazi fruitcake. Well, he claims to be highlighting 'the far-left bias and PC madness that has enslaved the white man' or something - I tend to misquote liberally - but we all know that he's a seething - but impressively literate -travis bickell, preening at himself in the mirror and imagining what it would feel like to garrott that black dude that delivers his pizza. Hey mister, so your not allowed say 'nigger' but you can say 'cracker'. So your demonised for being straight, white, and conservative. What's the big deal? You guys run the world, ain't that enough?
So there you go. surprise, surprise, the neighbours are crazy.
http://friendofrjsix.blogspot.com/
A really worthy, safe, PG-13 kinda place run by a bunch of Asian girls. Full of wholesome ditties like, 'Friendship..The ship that never sinks' and lots of other pseudo-"chicken soup for the twee cunt" claptrap. Not my sort of place, but nice to know that people are deluded enough to think that they live in a disneyworld snowglobe full of sugar and spice and all things nice. The newest entry has is some sort of effete 'Kids say the funniest things' motif, which is so niminy-piminy that if you were employed by Hallmark they would immediately order a body cavity search for two fairydust coated bunny rabbits using your arse as a burrow. What's going on gals? I'll tell you what's going on: war, genocide, famine, "extreme rendition", oppression, rape, murder. If you fuck off now you might just catch the end of the sales.
http://squigee.blogspot.com/
the next target for my ribald dissemination is this inept but slightly endearing attempt by some woman to keep to an 'Oprah and Mom' sanctioned diet. Each entry consists of a recipe and some cathartic absolution about how she will never go on the piss at the weekend cos she might become a dipso, or how there's this pair of skinny jeans lurking in her cupboard that she swears she can squeeze in to. I thinking she should just apply for that frankensteins-monster-meets-Head -to-toe makeover show 'The Swan' and set the job done in a few weeks. Then she can weep uncontrollably when she looks at herself in the mirror and sees an exact replica of all the other chimeras who've appeared on the show. Fuck it love, just go on Dr. Phil again.
http://updatereportbybro.blogspot.com/
Too boring for words. I'll let the guy try and explain it himself: "It is a memo of the software installed in my PC. Because it is a record for me, it is conscious that the explanation is considerably insufficient. It considers it if it comments." See? Even he doesn't have a fucking clue what it's about.
http://degrassioldskool.blogspot.com/
noo yawk hipster dollybird, self consicously kooky, who I'm guessing......reads pitchfork, makes her own clothes, wishes she could play the theremin, favourite move is something French...say jean de florette, is part of a "collective", is kinda seeing this guy, but they're really good friends and she doesn't want to ruin it, owns some DFA vinyl, met chloe sevingny once and she's so nice, wants to live in Berlin, makes this really great gazpacho, cycles a bike, likes the smell of old things, watches reruns of my so called life, is forgetful....Clap Your Hands and Say Meh.
http://antiracistlosers.blogspot.com/
oo-er, it was only a matter on time before we stumbled across some lobotomised nazi fruitcake. Well, he claims to be highlighting 'the far-left bias and PC madness that has enslaved the white man' or something - I tend to misquote liberally - but we all know that he's a seething - but impressively literate -travis bickell, preening at himself in the mirror and imagining what it would feel like to garrott that black dude that delivers his pizza. Hey mister, so your not allowed say 'nigger' but you can say 'cracker'. So your demonised for being straight, white, and conservative. What's the big deal? You guys run the world, ain't that enough?
So there you go. surprise, surprise, the neighbours are crazy.
Monday, January 16, 2006
I post therefore I am
fuck it, i said recently. i might aswell revieve that ill-fated blog that no-one read. I'll vow to be sharper, wittier, more sardonic. This ain't no new years resolution; it's a new year's revolution. 2006 is the year of the Zeitghost. ah, quit this tub-thumping bullshit. i give it up in two weeks. so what have the next two weeks of over-eager blogging in store? limp-wristed, cockamamie, half-baked pseudo-shitster speak, some trenchent insights into nothing and over indulgent ego driven rants all for you mealy-mouthed, milquetoast faggits who are too busy gawking at each other and at me to even reasilse that you fucking shoe laces are velcro.
Enjoy!
Enjoy!
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