New Years Resolutions

Happy new year.
Here are my resolutions
1) Learn some Spanish.
2) Finish some more short stories. (I'm writing one about intelligent cows visiting Earth at the moment - it's better than it sounds)
3) Send short stories to publishers.
4) Have Will Self say I'm a shit writer in a review should someone decide to publish me.
5) Have fight with Will Self outside the Ivy and smash him in the hooter then run away
6) Have Will Self chase me down Oxford Street before giving me a posh shoeing near Marble Arch.
7) Claim Will Self was lucky. That I could take him anytime.
8) Sell my story for 1 million pounds to Hello magazine. Have them zoom in on my puffy bruised eyes.
9) Get a makeover, courtesy of hello magazine.
10) Have a fight with Trinny and Susannah. Smash the skinny one when she's not looking, before the macho one takes me down and kicks me in. (I don't know which is which)
11) Sell my story for 1 million pounds to Ok! magazine.
12) Buy some shoes with the money.
13) Get a tattoo of some crows or ravens.
14) Find myself a Greek Orthodox Priests outfit. I think the easiest way is to study to be a priest, but I can't wait so many years. I just want the clothes man! And that cool insence burner you flail at people. And an olive branch to splash holy water on everyone with. And an entourage.
15) Hunt vampires dressed as a Greek Orthodox Priest.
16) If I meet a real vampire, try and blag him that I'm a real priest.
17) Shave... more often.
18) Listen to more Radio 6. "Discover" some bands before they are famous. Go to a few well chosen gigs (i'm going to cut down, I live too far from London, I'm too old to do this 3 times a month stuff)
19) Go to more art exhibitions. (Been to Millais and Louise Bourgeois recently with Deb, both excellent)
20) Try and understand wine a bit better, I have a huge nose, it should just be a precursor to being an expert, why can't I tell the difference between hock and sancerre? It's not fair.
21) Visit more countries.
22) Discover a new species of lizard.
23) Eat new species of lizard then realise it was the last one in the world and I am personally responsible for its extinction.
24) Sell my story to hello magazine.
25) Score a goal with my right foot.
26) Keep fit and healthy.
27) Find somewhere comfortable in London where I can smoke a narkileh like an ottoman sultan on some huge cushions, clap my hands and summon a muscular oiled eunuch with ostrich feathers to fan me down and belly dancers to do my bidding.
I think that is all for now, I will review in June and mark my progress.

St Pancras

Is very nice, always has been. It's cool the insides have been revamped. It has always been one of my favourite buildings, that pompous gothic majesty, those chimneys, like something out of Gormenghast. Shudder to think that McMillan was going to knock it all down and build some concrete shit pit.
Anyway, I digress. I met my brother there yesterday to collect my season ticket before going to the Arsenal. He had just arrived from a business trip to France and was all suited up, pristine in fact, with his flybag (train-bag?). I had been working from home, so I was pure second hand camden market to keep warm. Combats, and military coat, scarf with skulls on it. A wooly hat covered in cat hairs.
I suddenly got paranoid, here we were, seemingly people from different worlds, meeting up at rush hour, him handing me my season ticket, it could have been cash, anything. Commuters were giving us hurried glances as they rushed past.
"What business has this dishevelled oaf got with this slightly portly business man?"
And then it dawned on me, what they were thinking. That he was a Tory MP, and I was his homeless rent boy.
Oh the indignity.

The Horrible Texas Travelling Shit Show

Met up with the Bossman last Friday, mainly to see Queen Adreena play live and to celebrate his birthday with a few JD's.
QA don't usually play the UK, so this was a grand opportunity to catch up with a band I'd always wanted to see.
It was a "themed" evening called The Texas Chainsaw Travelling Horror Picture Show, with the Damned headlining. The theme was a sort of Scooby Doo cheesy horror type of plot with more cartoon violence. Eg - the actors pretending to cut their willies off onstage for instance or dry humping a "severed head" which was in fact the head of a tailors dummy badly painted with red emulsion from B&Q to give it a gory effect.
I didn't really understand the story to be honest, it was clumsily put together, ham fisted and awkward, so much so that some members of the audience became restless, and booed or chucked beer.
The audience themselves were a mix of glam/goth and hardcore punk survivors. oh and there was me and Bossman.
Here is an example of the supposed "horror show". I think the woman in the cage was pretending to be a man eating eagle woman freak, and the two guys, well they just seemed to perve all over her and wave their arms around a lot.

There was one sort of good bit, when the eagle woman did some proper gymnastic stuff and eventually attached a man by his skin to her ring and then lifted him on hooks so he dangled. I didn't get a photo of that though.

Although Bossman wasn't too impressed.

Anyway, Queen Adreena were fantastic. Shame the crowd was restless and the cock of of a compere irritated everyone by continouously introducing them when they were obviously still sound checking. I guess he was trying his best..... to not get a shoeing.
Q.A's set was powerful and emotive. Monstrous guitar, bass and drums with Katie-Jane's wail bringing a shiver down the spine. It was more than music, it was art and poetry, and pain.


And they were glugging champagne on stage.... there was no engagement with the crowd. it was a relentless assault. And I was gutted they didn't play their cover of Jolene...

I find that I also spill Moet and Chandon down my dress when I'm trying to sing. It's so irritating when that happens. I feel like throttling myself with the mike cable too!

I saw Katie-Jane Garside's previous band, Daisy Chainsaw...back in erm... 1992, and I'm sure this is the same dress!! I got a better look when she stood on a chair.

The label says "wash at 40 degrees" if you zoom right in.

During the last song, Katie-J rugby tackled the guitarist Crispin, leaving what looked like a big cut on her head. It was a breathtaking set, full of energy, they threw themselves into it. There were a few Q.A fans there, but maybe not enough feedback from the crowd to justify an encore, shame :-(
After some more antagonisation from the horror show comperes (and someone doing disgusting farts near us), the Damned came on. This was our cue to leave.
Here is an obligatory shot of captain sensible...

As we were leaving, we could see showers of beer and plastic cups flying their way towards the band. The lead singer gave it..."lets have a fucking good time! don't chuck beer! ok?" or something. Bless. We left.

Duke Spirit, 229, London 21/11/07

Last time me and Bossman saw the Duke Spirit was in December last year, so this was another great chance to catch them in a London venue. 229 has good acoustics, good stage height and is of a small enough size to keep it intimate. It must be new, as I'd never heard of it before.
This photo shouldn't be seen in public, it's too Addams Family... but hey-ho, who cares, we're going to the Texas Chainsaw Travelling Horror Picture Show next week, so we need to get the look sorted. This is a good start.

First up was Creepy Morons, playing sinister guitar / drum rock. Will see them live again I'm sure.


And then after a short break, the main event, The Duke Spirit. The gig the night before was cancelled due to Leila's vocals needing a rest, but thankfully the London audience was treated to a great gig. It was pissing down outside, and once a few JD's warmed the bones (JD and Duke Spirit - the perfect match) we were ready. They played some new stuff, some old classics (good to see Dan's machine gun guitar solo back in action on Red Weather) and Leila's voice was pure blues honey, smooth and sultry, from another era. Timeless. Fantastic gig. Tight musianship, lyrically moving, pulls at your heart, and great JD.




Got a new camera, so wasn't best pleased with the results, think I over-exposed some shots and realised I stupidly had a low shutter speed which blurred some images too. Shame I'm thick otherwise, these shots would have been much better, but the grainy quality gives them a certain seedy appeal. Got some great shots of Dan though, the backlight worked wonders for my rubbish photo-technique. A happy accident which compensated for my technical inadequacy.

Got lucky when the light glared out from behind the band, gives a lovely bright image.



This next one is particularly nice (in my opinion!). Again, out of focus and grainy, but I love the dark/bright contrast, Toby's sillouette and Leila poised for a strut.

Finally I had to get a photo of the photographers stripey pants. I want some. And so does Bossman.

He played for West Ham, honest!

When I was around seven years old, this bloke moved in next door to us. He looked over the fence at me and my friend kicking a ball around in the garden.
"I used to play for West Ham you know" he remarked casually before continuing to rake his lawn.
I didn't give a crap, but my friend asked what his name was. I can't remember exactly what his name was, probably something football formulaic like Jimmy Hardacre, Alf Rodgerstone or Billy Bignuts. In retrospect I have to admit he did carry himself as a failed 1970's footballer. Mullett, lambchop sideburns, medallion, vein ridden pickled red nose, but you don't notice those details when you're seven.
So we went inside and asked my dad whether he'd heard of Alf Rodgerstone (or whatever his name was), he said no, never heard of him.
So we went back outside and proceeded to crush this mans dignity as only seven year olds can do.
Me : "My dads never heard of you."
Alf : "But I have played for West Ham"
Me : "If you played for West Ham, why don't you live in a mansion then? Why are you living near Manor House?"
Alf : "I got injured"
At this point Alf was almost in tears, his rake had dropped to the floor and his eyes welled up. I saw his wifes sad face despairingly sway from side to side as she dried the cups from the inside of his kitchen window.
My friend, who wasn't as articulate as me, then delivered the classic line. His statement was a sock filled with snooker balls compared to my rapier like precision questions.
"If you did play for West Ham, you must have been shit."
Alf Rodgerstone moved out of the area shortly afterwards.

Black Lace and Blue Midgets

So what have I been doing these past few weeks?
Well, I had a lovely trip to Cornwall at the end of September, Ongey and Paul were there. I wont go into mega detail, but one thing that amused me is how certain people percieve themselves. Or rather, how I percieve them to percieve themselves, which may be a figment of my rampant imagination.
So we go into one of those hippy / mystical / witch shops. You know the ones, they sell crystals for 5 quid which will grow back your severed leg and the whole place stinks of patchooli. They sell all sorts of otherwise useless stuff, like a 15 inch wide candle holder shaped like a dragon. Or some sort of glass orb on a mount, so that when you squeeze it, it recites Lady of Shallot by Alfred Lord Tennyson in a serious deep voice whilst swirling some pink gassy shit inside the glass of the orb.
I only spend a few minutes in there, as whenever I go into a shop, any shop, I suddenly well up with guilt that people may see me as a shoplifter. I don't know why, I've never stolen anything from a shop in my life, but I get a complex. Maybe its because deep down I am a shoplifter, and I am guilty for crimes I am yet to commit. But I get paranoid and leave and stand outside.
It was enough time to size up the guy running the shop. Clearly he'd gone to a lot of trouble to come across as some sort of "warlock" or "wizard", but in a sort of contemporary take on the subject. He didn't wear a robe and a floppy felt wide brimmed hat, or anything like that, and he didn't have a beard.
He was about 50 odd, of average height, with a middle aged spread. He had a crisp white shirt, tucked into black jeans, which showed off his fine gut. He had a belt with a big buckle and some sort of Celtic design on it. A black leather waistcoat and winkle picker boots. His hair was also immaculate, tightly curled and of a shoulder length.
Now clearly he thought he was a wizard, I thought he looked like the lead singer of Black Lace. Doo Doo Dooooo lets all do the Conga.
Maybe he was the singer and this shop was his retirement project? It amused me in anycase.
Part II -
Just got back from my good friend Des' stag do in Killarney in the west of Ireland. The guinness is lovely, the scenery is gorgeous, but a night on the town was terrifying. I'd never thought I'd say this, but Stevenage is quite classy in comparison.
So anyway, blue midgets. Apparantley you can hire a midget painted blue for a stag weekend. They handcuff the midget to the stag and you are inseperable for the whole weekend, including having to share a bed (you are handcuffed after all). I guess you can dangle him out of the window if you want some privacy.
The charge 500 quid. i don't know if it's true or not as they'd "run out of midgets" for Des, but we discussed how wrong it would be if you had to take a crap with the midget in the cubicle with you. And then I thought there was only one thing worse than that, if the midget wanted to have a crap and your hand was cuffed to his wiping hand.
Have you ever seen a smurf shit? Nows your chance.

Making Crab Apple Jelly

On Sunday, me and Deb went into the moors near our house to collect crab apples. This blog will take you through the process of making crab apple jelly. My job was simple. Thrash the shit out of the tree and make the apples fall.
Step 1 : Hit tree with stick. (Be careful, crab apple trees have lightning reflexes and may dodge your blows)

Step 2: Use martial arts bushido attacks on the tree with your stick to soften it up some more. The tree has done a side step on this occasion, I am attacking thin air. The canny tree bastard!


Step 3 : Centre yourself and gather the apples.


Step 4 : If a passing cow comes past, then try to entice it with some apples. Beef goes very well with apple jelly.

Nearly there... come on daisy.... the most humane way to kill a cow is to throttle it with your bare hands, any other way is cruel. Confuse it first by pointing at an imaginary monkey playing in the apple tree. It will buy you valuable seconds and allow you time to pounce.

Damn! Someone already tried the "look at the monkey!" line on this wise old cow. She escaped, outstripping me with a bovine spurt of speed. I am left holding my apples.

Step 5 : Collect the apples in a big barrell. Cut them up and strain them to collect the juice.

Step 6 : I got bored, but I think Debbie puts them in a pan and boils the juice with sugar or something.
Step 7 : Allow to cool. Eat it on your toast.