Archive for July, 2008

I just recovered this from my old blog (by which I mean I just remembered it and thought I’d stick it on here). Read on MacDuff, and I’l follow…

Today I assisted in the killing of another human being.
I was on the train on the way home from work when there was a thud and the sound of scattering stones on the opposite side of the train. Hmm, thought I, what the devil could that be?
It was a person who threw themselves in front of the 18:18 Walsall to Birmingham New Street Train which I was on. I put it down to the fact that I did not get the step-jump right on the way to my train this morning, you see I have to jump on to the third step of the escalator or I will have a bad day. This morning I missed and someone died as a direct result. Sometimes my powers frighten me.
The thud was followed by a slowing down of the train and a stopping, the driver came out and explained what had happened. And then we sat there awaiting a new, non-traumatized driver. And then the tedium set in. There is probably something to be said of the human condition about the way that although someone had just seen no other option than to end their own life, all I could think was “I am hungry.” As can be expected, after around 20 minutes the hunger got too much for some people and a few of the older commuters perished. These were swiftly consumed by the younger, faster folk on the train. Then things started to get a little bit Lord Of The Flies.
Factions developed and within another 10 minutes these had regressed into primative tribes, most of which were as you would expect, basic icon worshiping cults. But in the third car a female regional manager of Phones4You dominated and called for the slaying of all males. It was a brutal and bloody time, the women who sided with her were stripped to the waist and ‘blooded’ themselves with their first kills. I know for a fact that a sales assistant from Boots and two German backpackers who had tragically boarded the wrong train, they were headed for Tamworth Snowdome, died this way. The dismembered remains were slung from the windows. When the women, or ‘Phonees’ reached the seventh car they were dispatched efficiently by a concierge and an oil rig worker on leave. These two somehow managed to unite the disparate clans and the resulting hoard stampeeded up the train killing any authority figures or dissenters who stood in their way. By this point I had made my way onto the roof to escape their rage and it is with a heavy heart that your correspondent is forced to report that I too had to kill someone. It was him or me. I was panting and chewing on a slain child’s finger bones, sucking at the marrow for sustenance when a hatch was forced open to my right. I froze as a middle aged man with hollow eyes and a neck-tie around his head came up through, I knew he saw me as a meal and for some minutes we stared stoically into each others eyes, there was a flash of humanity in his eyes, but only a flash. Then he pounced. I flicked my cigarette at him and, whilst he howled from the pain I drew my lighter. The flame mesmerised him and it was little effort for me to force my thumbs through his eye sockets and into his headshell, fingering his brain. He expired after a minute or so, emitting agonized screams the whole while. The sounds will haunt me to my very grave. I tossed his corpse to the rails and sadly made the sign of the pentangle over him, to speed his soul to Valhalla. An eerie silence had fallen on the train. I carefully lowered myself into a carriage and took refuge behind a rudimentary totem pole crudely constructed from briefcases, laptops, shoulder bags and topped with a Blackberry phone. I inched forwards. Everyone was kneeling as if praying to two men, one of whom I recognised as the driver. I realised that the other man must have been the new driver. He had an awsome presence and I have to admit that a part of me fell in love with him. I, the only standing commuter, walked towards him, genuflected before him and offered him my fingerbone. He took it and a calm befell us all. He turned the air-conditioning on and we all returned to our seats, assisting the wounded and discarding our dead. We arrived at New Street within 20 minutes. Less than an hour had passed but we were all different people and we would never be the same again. With tired eyes, tired minds, and tired bodies, we returned to our respective homes and we wept.

In response to all the viewers (Heather) who requested, nay, demanded a photograph of the sewing I did the other day, I have finally worked out (which is to say: I have been shown, and subsequently forgotten) how to put a picture on to the computer.

And there it is. Here you find him settling down to watch an episode of Hollyoaks, specifically the one where Max died. He didn’t really mind that Max died because he found him a bit sanctimonious most of the time. He only wished that Tom had died too, what with him being endlessly infuriating and a shit actor to boot. Truly he displays a breathtaking lack of depth, nuance and subtlety rarely seen since that bitch who died whilst sucking her brother off in a lorry [they didn't show that bit but read between the lines, man. He was only driving a car. How hard can that be?]).

So anyway, the cut and thrust of this is that the bear currently has no name (except maybe Nobbly Bear, which is the name he answers to currently) and it is up to you viewers (Heather) to name him. THIS IS A COMPETITION AND THERE WILL BE A PRIZE. The actual genuine prize will, unfortunately, not be redeemable in this life but will be a voucher entitling the holder to an eternity of peace in the next world*. Good luck all (Heather).

Oh yeah, I suppose you enter by clicky clicky clicky. Or tell me next time you see me (Heather).

*There is no cash alternative offered. The judges decision is final. All rights reserved, all wrongs reversed.

(I am sorry to report that I have gone and lost this here picture of the bear when the blog got all shuffled up and that. Suffice to say it was pretty fucking awesome. Why not take another picture? Can’t be bothered.)

More embarrassingly positive (the reason for a certain amount of positivity in my fledgling reviews is because I have to take myself and pay for myself to see these people and I am fucked if I am paying to see anyone I think is shit. If anyone wishes to invite me to a pop concert I might not like I will gladly turn up and give it a poor review), poorly structured reviews of bands and artists no one cares about including the gorgeous and delicious George Pringle (I was going to try and wangle an interview with her but I am literally in love with her so would become all tongue tied and the interview would run thus:
WDAM: Hello, George Pringle. I love you.
GP: [Looking around] Could someone get him out of here please. Don’t touch me! I recognise you, you’re the one who had his face pressed against the glass in the dressing room. HELP!
…So I’m not going to.).

Probably some TV reviews and that.

Hopefully a review of a back, sack, and crack waxing. I have applied to volunteer and am now merely awaiting their response. Fingers crossed, eh?

A photo of some sewing I did.

Does anyone read this yet?

Andrew Barry Graham (UMP bassist) is sitting outside Taylor Johns House in Coventry doing his best Total Recall impression. He has an electronic implement shoved up his nostrils to apparently alleviate his hay-fever and the bright red glow is showing through his skin and flesh. It’s pretty fucking eerie and I’m glad it’s not dark. On the table in front of him next to his two thirds empty bottle of Claymore whiskey is his hay-fever prevention kit; nasal spray, electronic torture device, tablets and vaseline. ‘What’s the vaseline for?’ ‘I put it on my cock before I fuck men up the arse.’ Charming. ‘No, it’s good because it’s menthol flavoured so it’s good for rimming afterwards.’ This, viewers, is the level of genius we are dealing with here.

The first band of the night are a cheeky bunch of whippersnappers called The Strikes who are allegedly seventeen but to my wizened eyes I would say they were barely out of short trousers. This didn’t seem to bother the multitude of dancing queens throwing shapes at the front to their Arctics-meets-Subways (but with the potential for better harmonies. When I saw them I thought that the harmonies would sound great in recordings. They don’t) sound. It shows just how old and jaded I am that kids dancing to support bands always surprises me. I expect people to be stood at the bar with ‘impress me’ faces on.

Mirror! Mirror! are a band I’ve heard a lot about but had never seen and, due to Britain’s draconian smoking laws, I almost didn’t see them this time. But I did. A lazy review would make a number of artless comparisons to Foals (an utter gang of cunts, if stories are to be believed), sided on the side of Foals due to their better haircuts and just left it at that. And there is a similarity, but these boys have been around a good deal longer and are immediately much more likeable. A few songs in and the stage and crowd are just one pulsating, undulating mass of sweaty bodies, predominantly naked men. Despite having a half deranged Fall fan bellowing in my ear for a good portion of the set the cowbell usage turns me on and when the cowbell player (not his only instrument, I’m sure) climbs along the wall into the crowd and wanders out into the bar still banging I get a full on boner for them. I scribble out likeable in my book and write loveable in its place. They are perhaps a little samey but that sort of music lends itself to that attack. Either way it’s something of a crime that Foals are seen as visionaries as these poor sods will always be seen as imitators.

The Gravity Crisis is a name that I’ve always loved but I’ve only recently become sold on the band, principally on the evidence of tonight. I went in expecting standard trad indie songs and got something quite a bit more exciting. Some of the crowd had gone by the time they take the stage, probably past their bedtime. This display of indifference however seems to bring out the best in them and they play a storming set. Unfortunately they are at the size where it doesn’t really matter how good you are, it just matters how many mates you have brought with you. Fucks sake, Coventry, you’re not London. You expect cuntish behaviour like going home after your mates band have played down there. Stick around to the end next time.

Finally, the main event, the band everyone’s been waiting for(!), Untitled Musical Project. In the interests of full disclosure, I am very good friends with this band and as such am shamelessly biased. However, I have seen then play about a million times and I seem to have the reverse Midas touch on them in that they are invariably like baked shit whenever I do see them. Tonight they are fried gold, absolutely fucking brilliant. Their Beastie Boys/ McLusky sound is tight and slick, the banter (which in the past has been reduced to “I don’t want to play anymore. Does anyone mind if we don’t play anymore songs? We can’t be arsed”) is back up to a witty and enjoyable standard, most memorably asking a young red headed chap with a dour expression; “Come on mate, what’s wrong? I’ve been watching you for a bit now and you just don’t look happy. What is it? Come on, tell us, you’re amongst friends here. Is it because you look like Ron Weasley?”. And let me tell you this, the kids in Coventry love their circle pits. Perhaps to the detriment of other dancers, but they do like to go for it. Not exactly Sick Of It All but heavier than I expected.

Remember the quote from ABG at the beginning? Did I mention it was to a young fans mum?

If you clicky clicky here, you can see some more photos. If I can do this properly. Which is dubious.