OFFICE SHAPED PRISON

2006-12-18T03:26:00.000-08:00

HERE. ME. NOW.

Fast moving, quick talking, self preserving, middle class, white male, yankee bankers. I don't like you.. at all!

I'm out of the loop, unemployed, richer, wiser, happier, sadder, happy sad, disjointed, dysfunctional, drug taking, wine swilling, pill popping, crazy horse, death fearing, life junkie. Time to get on with staying still. Moving back but moving on.

Full circle. Fuller circles.

"YEAH? WELL I CAN BE PETER EBDON. I CAN BE PETER EDBON GODDAMN IT"

2006-02-11T12:45:00.000-08:00

ART

The noble Sandbachian greeting.

Not "hello". Nor "good day". No. It is "art", or I suppose in written form "ar't" with the unorthodox deployment of apostrophe bearing reference to its origin, and the disappearance of the "igh".

Perhaps, people began greeting each other with a cheery "alright" as a less formal version of "good day". A greeting moving beyond the mere recognition of "hello" to add the faint aspect of inquisition. A litmus test for mood and temper. I suppose another alternative would be the rather old-fashioned 'fit and well' but this is perhaps too direct, in lacking the bland neutrality of an 'alright', it is a greeting that may seem intrusive and have the unwanted side effect of making one sound like an old twat. The case in point here was a bloke called Allan Horne who used this greeting toward my father.

"Fit and well, David?"

Clearly, Allan (Allan's with two l's. Yeah, I know) could see that David was mobile; getting around. Sure, he's carrying a few pounds but he's in reasonable health, that much is apparent. Clumsy. Forced.

And you're never going to hear a "No" are you?!

"Fit and well, David"

"No, not really. I'm a bit of a fat bas."

Anyway, art.

In Sandbach it is delivered from the back of the throat and practically grunted. To the untrained ear it is really just a somewhat aggressive noise. And often it is precisely that! On meeting a particular type of Sandbachian for the first time, the greeting can be the very opposite of a polite enquiry into somebody's health - it is, almost palpably at times, a probing for weakness. An early conversational jab to the jaw.

Ok. 'Tis Enough.

I hadn't ordered any words on the OSP for some time. And I know people still pop in to the old gaol from time to time. And I've not got much on tonight. And.. I just had this image of a salt of the earth working man in Sandbach wandering through a field greeting a horse. Which would of course be HORSEART or "Art, horse" at the very least.

I wanted to say hello and I did that but it needed further explanation in what has inadvertently become a pretty poor Mitchellian pastiche. (I have opened parenthisis to clarify that I refer to my friend and associate Paul Mitchell and not the namesake author David. Yeah Cloud Atlas. Whoopee-do. He's invented a language. Yeah well I did that when I was ten, Dave but I grew out of it.)

So I've done that now. But for the hard of reading - "Hello".

What have I been doing? Quite a lot has changed for me. I have moved from the original location of the OSP in Salford to a new one in Canary Wharf. If I was to extend the prison metaphor I'd say that in comparison to the new one the Salford prison was like a bare cell with a hard bed but few distractions.

The Canary Wharf prison is, by contrast, a new fangled, modern lunatic asylum for highly intelligent master criminals. It is more intrusive and exacting, like Bentham's panoptigan crossed with a Russian Goulag camp but with less inclement weather and TV's in every palatial, en-suite bedroom. Does that make sense? In short it is what would have been described in late nineties Manchester as a headfuck.

I'm working harder than I've ever done in a suit. But I think I'm happier.

I don't think therefore I am (happier).

***

NOTICE:
Mark X - if you by chance read this could you drop me a line? We want to know what you are upto and say a hearty and non-threatening "Ar't" to you..

***

GOOD:

Ricky Gervais podcasts
Belle and Sebastian (new album is fabulous, joy-filled, unashamed pop with that same expertly delivered concoction of lyrical sibilism and indiosyncrasy, effortlessly interwoven with inspired melody and a pot pourri of instrumentation. Live last night, they kicked weird ass like Frankie Howard covering Thin Lizzy WTF! or a freakish show of preternaturally gifted circus folk slapping trapped beasts about the glutius maximus. Folk is the key word here. It's rooted in folk - get over this prejudice and you'll see they are like Franz Ferdinand would be if they had more than one idea, less style and were brilliant).
Limehouse
Mile End Football
Beards, Facial Hair (still)
Fidelity

BAD:
HTAFC
Running out of pants
Living with a misguided enfant terrible accountant
Working til past midnight with no tea because you are being stoopid

***

Fin

2005-11-08T07:31:00.000-08:00

CHRIS SCULLARD DOC

Since I resigned it really has been non-stop hilarity. Whether it’s BEERING text messages, the OC being dogged by the Chris Scullard Doc or SOCKS arranging for a recruitment consultant to meet him at work(?!) as happened at lunch. What an idiot.

Von Smallhausen: "There is someone to see you in reception"

SOCKS: "Oh.. err.."

VS: "Who is she?"

SOCKS: (sheepish) "A recruitment consultant"

The VS empire is crumbling around him. I keep sending him emails saying the WALLS ARE GETTING SMALLER.

Four people (all female, no coincidence) believe that I am leaving to become a shepherd.

I am addicted to staring at maps of London. I don’t like the place – it is foreign in many senses but I am treating it as a long busman’s holiday.

The Gemma Hayes album is pap. This is the dark lining in a silver cloud.

Much love to Horse Art ROFL ROFL

JRx

2005-10-16T13:58:00.000-07:00

SPEEDBOAT

Two months in to the most focussed and organised attempt yet at 'serious' gambling and the results are as follows:

Net profit: £2400
Profit per day: £40
Equivalent to annual salary of: £18500 p.a

It's... encouraging.

Stay on target IT'S TOO CLOSE Stay on target

2005-10-14T02:07:00.000-07:00

STAINES

Your festering insecurities amuse me.
Pair of chinos below flaccid gut,
Thinking in straight
Lines
No
Wonder you found yourself
Snorting cocaine above a shit box,
Fuelling further diatribes to amuse nobody.

2005-10-07T08:09:00.000-07:00

MY RECRUITMENT CONSULTANT IS CALLED...

...Willy Russell

It can't be, can it?

2005-10-07T06:47:00.000-07:00

PRIORITIES

Just had a meeting request through for a 'Marketing Briefing' on Thursday morning and was warned that this conflicted with an existing appointment. 'That's strange' thought I, what on in the name of Osama Bin Rayden am I doing next Thursday morning.

Upon further investigation I discovered the clash is with:

Thursday, 10a.m: Massage, Building 1

Well, I'm afraid that the briefing will have to wait. Nothing is getting in the way of me and my corporate masseuse (fully clothed, no oils.)

2005-10-04T05:30:00.000-07:00

FOUR CANDLES

"The search for the man who terrorises nudist camps with a bacon slicer goes on. Inspector Lemuel Jones had a tip-off this morning, but hopes to be back on duty tomorrow."

Ronnie Barker, who died last night at the age of 76.

It sounds to me like it was expected, that it was peaceful and as far as these things can be it was painless for all concerned. The slight return of the Two Ronnies earlier this year makes a little more sense now and apt that it seemed somewhat half-hearted.

My favourite Ronnie Barker story is one told by Jonathan Ross, who was receiving his MBE at the time. Ross, who confessed to being uncomfortable with the whole situation, was left in the predicament of trying to make polite small talk with the Queen while his all-time hero RB, a man in his seventies, mimed a blow job behind her! Ross, as he does so well, explained the acute frustration that he felt in being involved in one of the funniest moments of his life without being able to laugh or indeed derive any enjoyment.

2005-10-03T05:38:00.000-07:00

LOVE IS BLINDNESS

David Blunkett’s lover has been seeing someone behind his back screams the News Of The World. She could have saved herself the bother and done it front of his face – he wouldn’t have seen her, would he?

I have thought for some time that Blunkett is a strange one. Politically, even by New Labour’s standards his policies as Home Secretary seemed right-wing and draconian. But, of course it is within his personal life that his oddities attract even more attention.

When you consider that he was sent to a special school in his childhood, in the fully literal sense being left to find his own way and fend for himself, I suppose that his eccentricity isn’t altogether surprising. Imagine that. Fumbling around a foreign place at such a young age, the cruelty of this is absurd to the degree that it could almost only exist in a surrealist sketch; a Ripping Yarn only this time its true.

The article went on to say that she is only the third woman that has guided him to the table properly, moving her into the illustrious company of his mother and one has to presume an ex-lover. By all accounts he is a real flatterer. I mean she even overheard him enquiring of the mutual friend who had introduced the pair whether ‘she looked as good as she smelled’. Christ, how awkward must that have been!

David “So tell me does she..”

Friend (noticing her coming back from the bog) “Ahem.. err.. David err.. (cough)”

David “..look as good as she..”

Friend “(Cough) ahem errr”

David “..smells? Well hmmm does she??”

What an unfortunate position for the mutual friend. What did he say? Did he carry on as if she wasn’t there? If not how did he prevent Dave from realising this terrible faux pas? And if she smelled that good how come Blunkett had carried on talking anyway?

Perhaps it is remiss and insensitive of me to say so but I would have thought that given his disability he might have avoided this line of questioning until he was sure she wasn’t in their company.

Given that he went blind at a young age (I believe) and will always remain so, I wonder why it matters what she looks like, why he pursued this line of questioning. If they truly bonded over a mutual love of poetry and enjoyed each other’s company, should it matter to Dave if she was a minger?

How does a blind person know what represents good looks, is this instinctive or is it the knowledge that others find a partner attractive to look at that fuels the passion? It could be the same emotions that drive many men to look for a trophy wife, the justification of status that a man can derive from having a beautiful woman on his arm; proof that a man doesn’t even need to see the envious glances to know that they are there.

We are often led to believe that we are part of an increasingly narcissistic society, obsessed with appearance. But if a blind man is just as attracted to those very features, from which he can gain only indirect benefit, is that an indictment on society itself or an indication that these purportedly shallow desires are in fact substantial and well-founded?

2005-09-28T15:50:00.000-07:00

EDITORS

"Blood runs through your veins, that's where our similarity ends"

I identify MASSIVELY with the underlying arrogance lying within the lyrics of the Editors debut record 'The Back Room'. Perhaps arrogance is the wrong word, I certainly don't truly regard the feeling as arrogance, the reason I term it thus is that everyone else tends to see it this way. I prefer to call it self-belief and see it as a life view grounded in realism.

So he feels like he is better than most people. More talented. Brighter. Well.. err.. he is! The qualifying statement is to accept just how mediocre (and crucially) how content within mediocrity the majority of people are.

As an aside, though I feel a pertinent one, I viewed this gig behind the bald, fat neck of a Buster Bloodvessel lookalike whose boogying was a public health hazard within an XXXL t-shirt.

They are tight as fuck. Propulsive drumming promoting a neat, crisp sound. All of this is dark background to an Interpol/Bunnyman vocal with impressive tone and power though perhaps not range. He had a lot though - kind of geekchic Chris Martin charisma.

Munich is a perfectly conceived piece of post-post-punk - clipped, piercing guitar lines. Perhaps it is this song that defines the band as one that is totally in tune with it's surroundings, a band of decent delivery but perfect timing. They seem to promote a channelled form of anger. Directed force, like finding a valley and shouting down into it's echoey beyond or.. taking up thai boxing.

"You'll speak when you're spoken to
You'll speak when you're spoken to"

(Shis wi me nah so thee can fuck off ringin this number... HORSE ART y'say... i'll buy it. two foals and a fetlock and thi can quote me on that)

2005-09-22T02:38:00.000-07:00

MORNING HANDIKAP

Why does Natasha Kaplinsky look even better since she got married? Isn't it supposed to work in reverse?

She is foxy in a posh pouting way, whilst still maintaining a girl next door image. And she's clearly filthy. AND this is all achieved after a week of hauling her pert little ass out of bed at 4 in the morning.

I look like shit in the mornings. I look like shit when I have a hangover but a different shade of shit to how I look in the morning. Unsightly blue-purple bags under the eyes that seem to worsen after a decent night's kip, complimenting a pallid complexion.

On the bright side, by tea time I am one sexy mother fucker.

2005-09-20T04:50:00.000-07:00

AIRBRUSH

Alan Hansen doesn't think the premiership is dull but this is hardly surprising coming from a man who works for various organisations with a vested interest in its continuing success. Of course Hansen is famed for his criticism of "terrible defending" and also his allegiance to Liverpoo, so it is very tenable that he is in positively masturbatory mood about recent results.

Hansen may need a box of Kleenex for company in watching Sami and co eek out another goalless draw but as yet he hasn't been as blatant about this desire as Andy Gray was in the embryonic life of the the Sky TV era. I recall that in the post-match analysis following a 30 yard volley from Leeds striker Tony Yeboah he asked Richard Keys if he could take the video footage home with him.

Steady on Andy. He should be saving his loving for Suzanne Dando who, allegedly, was able to lick his balls while he took her roughly from behind - so said popbitch a few months ago.

Having only ever observed TV anchors in their clean-cut telly roles it's always interesting and frankly bizarre to see the gloss emulsified tv sheen peel away. A bit like seeing your parents pissed or swearing like truckers, or indeed hearing that Andy Gray has been at it with a wholesome former gymnast.

On a couple of occasions this year (Charity Shield and The Northern Ireland debacle) such a thing happened in connection with the most airbrushed nice guy you can get - Mr Gary Lineker. Seeing and hearing what you shouldn't see, like the part in the Wizard of Oz where Dorothy saw behind the curtain.

I heard Wrighty call him 'Links' which brought to mind the image of Links and Wrighty out on the sniff. Having sunk a few looseners at a Sportman's dinner they have moved on to an exclusive London nightspot and are getting hassled by frantic texts from Lawro who is desperately trying to avoid being stuck with Stubbsy who is keen for a kebab and then bed.

Lineker also said of Viera as he strode up to take the winning pen in the Charity Shield 'I back this, kid he's got a great left foot'. This kid? How can Links be describing Pat Viera as a kid??!! It just didn't sit with the image we've come to know and love. It hinted at a whole different side to Gary.

I'm torn between a fascination with the truth to being the monkey with my eyes and ears covered where Gary doesn't swear or snort coke off a prozzies you know what. Y'see if Dermot Reeve did it...

2005-09-19T07:18:00.000-07:00

GINGER WHINGER

So Steve McClaren thinks that his players had a bad day at the office in their 1-1 draw at Wigan yesterday.

I put it to you Mr McClaren that every day in an office is a bad one but you wouldn't know that because you get to wear a tracksuit and shout at holding midfielders to not run forward all day.

More importantly I nearly died last night. I had to get up and ~~eat~~drink some soup and watch repeats of Have I Got News For You til gone 3am. Every time I tried to fall asleep my heart stopped. Staying awake was required to avoid eternal rest. I need to stop binge drinking to avoid a fatal dose of death. By about 4am I was able to sleep off the insomnia for a few hours; I usually find this is the best cure.

The way today has progressed perhaps Death was the preferred option. I'm just killing time before time kills me. I'm counting the days that I spend counting someone else's lack of money. I'm moving to London.

2005-08-05T03:13:00.000-07:00

SO WHERE DO WE GO FROM HERE?

Back in work for the first time in two weeks. I was reasonably upbeat about my return and so am somewhat taken aback by how depressing this morning has been. It just feels so empty. A slight return.

Since the beginning of last year I've had three major holidays. I returned from Argentina in Feb 04 with the desire to leave the corporate world behind, from Eastern Europe in Jul 04 I resolved to give it a go and now, on my return from Croatia Aug 05, I resolve nothing. I am just here again. I neither love or loathe it but I remain thoroughly depressed by it. More depressing still is that I feel I can do little to improve matters and this in the face of the stark realisation that, relatively at least, I have a good deal.

In summary; a lot of emails. Those work related are mainly linked to a 2006 business plan that is perversely already defunct and obsolete even prior to the planning process itself meaning I missed nothing in my absence. I missed ten 7.5 hour per day periods of nothingness.

Of the non-work related there are emails about football matches been and gone and the increasingly chaotic shindig. I had one trivial voicemail message. The job I applied and interviewed for before I left may no longer exist. I engage in conversations with people I neither like nor dislike; an apathetic co-existence bound purely by mutually observed contractual terms.

This misery is short term, by the middle of next week I will be sufficiently anaethetised by the gentle clatter of hand upon keyboard that it will be as if I was never away.

2005-06-08T13:18:00.000-07:00

INTERVIEW

I used to be good at these. Im sure I did...

Don't think this one went very well. The entire event was summed up by my exit, confronted by a gate and a turnstile I was unsure how to physically begin my escape route from this mediocre experience. With hindsight the question 'how do I get the fuck out of here?' wouldn't have been that embarrassing. It wasn't so obvious.

Of course, I plumped for turnstile which was locked forcing me to awkwardly bounce of it. The two blokes who'd just spent an hour listening to me produce the vocal version of a Bird's Eye Potato Waffle had to cough politely and point at the gate (which, of course, had by this stage swung open).

GOOD.

I think interviews are easier when you actually want the job ;)

Back to the office shaped drawing board.

2005-06-06T14:29:00.000-07:00

FUCK ME IT'S JUNE

Ooooh weeeee ooooooh that's right.

How did that happen?

For PPQ:

The Last CD I Bought Was:
X&Y - Coldplay (Today, even though Gregson thefted me an illegal one)

Song Playing Right Now:
What If - Coldplay Live on Radio One (They have been great tonight)

Five Songs I Listen To A Lot, Or That Mean A Lot To Me:

To The End - Blur..

..is on, I'm seventeen, walking over the green to the pub in a purple coat, scared, insecure, excited, happy. Any song from Parklife takes me back there. And if I'm in a nostalgic mood I might come close to crying. And I don't know quite why. Why I'm so attached to the past, to being seventeen again, to being a clueless, unfashionable, ambitious, intense, shy, determined, principled, inexperienced, unhappy-happy idiot with it all in front of him.

Now it's..

Do You Remember The First Time by Pulp

It's 8 o fucking clock and this song is banging through my paper thin hall of residence wall. Not only is this annoying due to it being the third day running my neighbour (who I never spoke to during the entire year) has played this track at this time, it gives me a painful reminder that, err, I still haven't had a first time.

Yeah he's a paedophilic freak but I still have fabulous memories of singing along in a comically poor fashion to

Earth Song - Michael Jackson

in the snooker room at Hall. Students are cunts and I had first hand experience at this and of this. So lets skip the rest of that time including my year as a law student/alcoholic/waster and OMG..

Whole Again - Atomic Kitten

From the cringing in Hall bedroom to badly acted orgasms next door by the summer of this song which I think was 2002, no shit, 2001(! 4 fucking years ago) things had changed. The Summer of Love. Like waiting for a bus, I had at least 3 or 4 birds on the go and seemingly a Midas touch with the laydeez. And none of them looked like a bus. This is a Midas Touch that has been inverted for the rest of my days. Despite my boyish good looks, big hair, strange sense of humour and my arrogant modesty - my shy extrovertism - I am fucking rubbish at pulling. Chat a girl up? No chance. Get the digits and ring her the next day? You're having a laugh. Actively pursue meaningless, casual sex arrangements with work colleagues that never go anywhere except into a cul-de-sac of awkward conversations or a groundhog day of guilty drunken broken promises? Damn Straight. DS. This is my domain.

And now...

Someday - Embrace

I first heard this on (I think) 16 December 2003, live in a lovely shitty little venue in Leeds called the Cockpit. Sometimes when I hear it on record I can make it sound to me like it sounded that night. It was re-affirming, it gave me hope and though it was good at the time the events of the following eighteen months have given it an even greater significance. This was a band down and out and as soon as I heard this I knew everything would be alright.

I am going to listen to it now (and Fix You which just might be the beautifullest song ever) and reflect on what it means to be a not so clueless, less unfashionable, still ever so ambitious and intense, ~~shy~~, determined, ~~principled~~, ~~inexperienced~~, unhappy-happy idiot with most of it in front of him wondering what comes next...

***
Been drinking far too much and neither of us mean what we say,
But you know that we've changed so much since then,
Aaaaaaaaah Aaaaaaaaah,
You can make me whole again,
Cos I light is gonna shine on you and I

2005-04-21T05:28:00.000-07:00

SURPRISE!

I have an overwhelming urge to play electric guitars. It’s Bloc Party’s fault.

When I first learned to play an acoustic it was because I wanted to be Noel Gallagher. Not Liam. In 1994 it was always Noel. It probably wasn’t until a good few year’s hence and more retrospectively than anything else that I valued Liam. I think a lot of us took Liam’s antics for granted at the time and held Noel’s “genius” in higher regard.

Anyway, acoustic guitar bought because I wanted to be Noel. To be Noel that is all you needed because that is how he started and continued for many years – just him, his guitar and a Beatles obsession. Within weeks, I could play most of the Oasis songs. Pretty badly I imagine but it was good for a singalong.

My guitar playing was just a crutch to let me sing. You see, I’d have been perceived as an oddball had I sat in the university bedroom, singing. Really that is all I was doing, I didn’t have any guitar playing pretensions or aspirations. As recently as a year ago I didn’t have a desire to be a good guitarist. It is only, what, 4 days since I had the urge.

Seeing Kele changed it all. He sings in that post-punk way, the way that sometimes isn’t singing – more yelping or just speak-singing in a stylised way. Nothing new in that of course. Wire, Gang of Four, The Clash, The Cure, Joy Division blah blah blah. I hate all these wankers who think they understand music just because they can spot derivation. It isn’t hard, it just makes you feel clever and smug. And it isn't as relevant as they might think. So they sound somewhat like a bunch of bands from years ago and you noticed - so what? Bloc Party are hyped and so the incessant harping from muso-types is entirely predictable.

Anyway, he plays guitar as well. Plays. I thought the guitarist played the guitar and had assumed Kele’s was just... a prop. But loads (all?) of the lead guitar emanated from him.

They were phenomenal at the Academy on Sunday. I remember thinking the sound wasn’t great as they ripped into Like Eating Glass but I soon got immersed in the gig so as is always the case with music, objectivity is firmly flung out of the window.

I laughed as I realised I was in a mosh pit and again when I saw just how young and small everyone else seemed. Then I saw a fella with grey hair and I felt pleased that (a) the classic gig stereotype had been fulfilled (there’s always one old man near you) and (b) you can carry on doing this for as long as necessary.

I have had this immense problem for ages that although I don’t fear growing older, I don’t feel ready for it, or at all comfortable with it. I know that everyone hates getting older but... no matter what people have told me it was only seeing and feeling for myself that the constraints and pressures are largely imagined, that I could hope to get beyond society's pervasive ageism. And that is highly relieving.

They have so much presence and vibrancy; riding the crest of a wave. Over the next twelve months or so, watching them develop and grow and move onto limitless success (for they will) is going to give me the same vicarious pleasure as I got from Oasis, as I would have got from Embrace had people actually listened to Drawn From Memory. I had genuinely thought that from the age of 27 onwards a passion for music as I had known it had gone. As I say, all tied into the same belief that I couldn’t enjoy life fully as an adult. Maybe, just maybe I can after all.

I’m not comparing Bloc Party to Oasis of course. I think Radiohead may prove to be a far closer comparison ;). I’m comparing my emotional reaction to them. Some bands just do it for you, don’t they?

It was listening to the album again this week that made me realise I need to play guitar properly to play with this sound. Pared down to an acoustic just doesn’t quite work for these songs. The range of sounds, moods and emotions texture the beats. It is spiky but once beyond that it is a warm and romantic album.

It is also amazing how one emotional response can spark a whole host of other dormant desires.

“What are you holding out for?
What's always in the way?
Why so damn absent-minded?
Why so scared of romance?”

Why indeed.

2005-04-07T01:48:00.000-07:00

DOVES: YOU AND I ARE SO FULL OF LOVE AND HOPE

Watching Doves last night I was struck by the nature of the anti-personality – that being the art of having a personality centred around well.. not really having a personality.

In marked contrast to bands that exhort and cajole the crowd with ‘love me’ eyes or rehearsed moves, the Doves approach is more measured. They barely speak to or even acknowledge the crowd. This isn’t a product of shyness or laziness of course, it fits the bands ethos to be workmanlike and to concentrate on playing their instruments and ‘let the music do the talking’. But I think it goes further than that.

They are seen as nice, humble guys. They make the music, they are in the industry for the music. I don’t really doubt the truth of this but they also have the air of people that are self-satisfied - not in a smug way, but as a by-product of exuding a natural, effortless self-confidence.

For musicians they have surprisingly little to say, their lyric sheets are prosaic and again almost as if they feel they don’t need to try. The music says it all. It does, of course.

From new single Snowden right back to Here It Comes and The Cedar Room the Doves sound is uniquely atmospheric. It says a lot that I find it hard to pinpoint where this atmosphere is generated from. I suppose it stems from complex layering of sound, an artform that they have honed from the Sub Sub dance music days through being gifted musicians but more tellingly due to having an ear and bent for the technical aspects of producing music.

Jimi’s voice is always better heard live. His ~~roar~~ raw sound works within a limited range but this matters less outside the confines of recorded notes, as he prowls around the Apollo stage throwing what can only be described as rock star poses, albeit in something of a minimalist way. They all go for rock cliche poses on stage, the antithesis of the prog-driven desire to enter new territory, musically. Again, they don’t need to bother with personality – they are above personality or so it seems to me.

“It’s good to be home. And that’s not a cliche” says Jimi “Actually, it is a cliche but I really mean it!”

Hah! Bingo! This line says it all.

And later, just before ‘There Goes The Fear’:

“I t’ink you’ll know dis one” Jimi intones in a bad oirish accent.

Another generic line, delivered just because he felt obliged to acknowledge the big hit.

They are the cool people. They aren’t cool in the way that everyone wants to be them, they are just recognised and respected as being cool; a detached, nonchalant, self-sufficient cool that is innate and intimidating.

Pounding isn’t a set opener, for me, but the way it is tossed out first is indicative of a confidence and belief in the sheer quantity of strong material to follow. Words is a dog on record but the blending of vocals live always sounds so much more direct and powerful.

In fact The Last Broadcast material is all fantastic tonight. The title track itself, one of several bizarre choices, gets the crowd going with its deceptive rhythm. I haven’t listened to the album for ages – I loved loved loved it at the time but later dismissed it for it’s serious leanings. Satellites which is the archetypal prog-Doves track is magnificent – like leaning back and realising the endless nature of the sky. I have no idea if it was intended this way but in my mind it soundtracks some epic, historical journey into the unknown. Now that they have made a slimmed down record in Some Cities, I find myself appreciating the grandiose intent of The Last Broadcast far more easily.

Do they need all of the layering, does the sound work when it is stripped down, is Some Cities any cop? I’m still not 100% sure. I think the new record lacks something, I think it is bland at times. Too professional and polished or maybe just low on hooks and melody. In earlier work, the sprawl and teh at-mos-phere disguised this. No. Rather it coaxed more out of the songs, for there really is nothing from the new record to touch the peaks of the early records. I think it’s harder to lose oneself in it, like you can in The Cedar Room or Caught By The River – the live rendition tonight reminding me that they if they so desire, they can write the anthemic pop-rock song for which Noel has forgotten the knack.

As Spaceface blares out it is once more a testimony to the unique nature of the band. Any other modern rock bands out there that triumphantly climax a homecoming gig with a slice of early 90’s rave? Thought not. Played straight, in front of the backdrop of a spaceship, there is to be no stage invasion as at the Academy three years ago but there is that same sense of coming down from a natural high.

2005-04-06T04:00:00.000-07:00

FOR THE DIGGERS AND THOSE AFFILIATED

Friday

Pre-Dig Dig, billed as a gentle warm-up prior to Saturday's football, ran slightly out of control. Cook, Roth, Davison, Fitchell and Wadwocks had enjoyed a rare dinner in Pure Space and moving on to the Font to Word Up were joined by Fingers and Kev, the latter was already in a state of disrepair following an afternoon of darts with Finger's drinking buddies in the local. DSV arrived and we decided to ratchet things up a notch and moved to the roof garden at Funka. I recall making an impassioned plea for diggers 'to make this their last alcoholic drink' at about half eleven but this fell on deaf ears, including my own. Not sure that there was much craziness though there was consumption of barbequed sossag burgers and unfortunately rod bull which put paid to any chance of sleep for me.

Saturday

Dig Dig. I awoke fidgety after a fractious three hour rest and tried to continue sleeping through the din of construction work and jet hoses. (UNTS. ITS SATURDAY FU(KING MORNING. Received a call from the OC at 11.30 to say he was alone at the Pitz. Early, organised. Contrast this to a garbled message from Roth jnr who would be there 'no later than 1pm' for a noon kick off. Elv, Cookie and I met the OC and enjoyed a gentle warm-up under a steel blue sky, as if Manchester had migrated to Mediterrenean climes in honour of the noble dig. We were joined by Skip who had some kind of vest on but disappointingly a t-shirt underneath.

At 12.15 I was a tad worried but re-enforcements had arrived. A cackling doctor wadwocks arrived with multiple footballs, the pallid davison arrived wearing chrome boots(!) and... who is this... Pierce Brosnan? no it was dsv with a licence to thrill and a beard lite (tm). The green goalkeeping vest of Scullard 1 was a delight to behold, the bearded Lindsay though was visibly struggling though he proudly displayed a white t-vest bearing the legend "On It". No expense spared, every moment sacred. Still no sign of Matt.

The initial line up's were:

Mitch
Skipper (first pick)
Kev
Roth
DSV
Widder

Scullard 1
Loz (first pick)
The OC
Scullard's mate
Cook
Elv

Finger's side were 2-0 up in no time and it looked like a mismatch. Stu had arrived by now and bolstered Fitchell's beleagured troops. He had an instant impact as two further goals were conceded.

Slowly but surely we fought back. Burdenator and Jacko were now on the touchline. Jacko refused to play and Burden refused to ref, like some demonic pact that couldn't be broken. By half time the score was 10-8 in favour of Fitchell's troops, a reversal of fortunes.

Matt was here now with a bird's nest mullet, spewing up from both ends of his body. He played for 5 minutes in total.

The game ended 24-19 to Fitchell's team. It was a great game although we were in control during the second half, thanks in no small part to the laser guided finishing of the bearded assassin Lindsay and the cossack-dancing, mitchellian labrador in goal. Credit to the opposition, to a man they were excellent but an injury to the Cook toe and being a man light for most of it may have cost them.

Funniest moment was Wadwocks kicking the door instead of the ball.

We moved on to the Sports Cafe, not before Elv had tried to kill us with some maniac driving in front of a ten ton truck. The quids in game was dominated by monster burgers and matt's prescient work which earned him about 30 quid. Again Widds was the source of comedy, within a minute of choosing Elgin they were a goal down and down to ten men.

Then Cask in the remainder of the summery conditions after Brosnan's snub nosed reaction to the White Lion. The weiss beer poured (to Stu's dissatisfaction) as we discussed, amongst other things, a man called Beadie and his helicopter p£n1s.

From then on drunken antics... The THT, great off the cuff speech by the champion, Burden revealing a previously unseen phobia of potato chips. Men enjoying the company of other men, shirt swapping, quaffing of ale, nonsense being spoken, great plans being formed and subsequently forgotten.

I can't remember 42s - someone else may be able to take it on from here. I remember Sunday, some days the hangovers are more than worth it.

Cheers guys,

Aydolf

2005-03-10T02:04:00.000-08:00

LOZ

Ordsall, windswept, open plains of industrial backwater. The pitch is characterised by eerie depravity, overlooked by high-rise squalor, peppered with scally kids and malnourished dog walkers.

The goalmouths are small, constructed by a tubular ring of metal, the upper point of this ring, as ‘crossbar’, is only three feet off the ground.

An assortment of shapes and sizes, the opposition are variously fat, bald and old. Ordsall Unathletic.

As the ball is passed around in perfunctory fashion, the palely imitated warm-up, he looks up to see the gleaming red lights of MANCHESTER UNITED. It is at this point laughable.

The gusting, lachrymose wind chills the bones. A rancid pig-dog enters the fray and chases the ball more fiercely than any of the human players, but of course he is dog. He doesn’t understand the rules and so is fundamentally useless in this arena, a status that could readily be applied to any number of the strange fraternity now assembled.

He played a blinder, turning his man, firing in shots from impossible angles that whistled just yards over the bar. Trying to live with his nutmegs, trickery and treachery the opposition embarrassed themselves, as they would if they threw out their wives and shacked up with their daughter’s friend. They like to think that they’ve forgotten more than he ever knew but what use is knowledge if you can’t move.

Football is about movement; awareness and prediction of the movements made by player and ball. In this game there is little movement, so little in fact that any movement is likely to mean that you are moving more than anyone else. So it is stagnant and predictable, a pale imitation of football. Like playing a musical instrument but being allowed as long as is necessary to re-adjust between notes. Like delivering a dramatic soliloquy to the audience with a great sheath of scripted lines in hand.

It is fun but to pretend it is more than diversionary fun is to lack self-awareness.

2005-03-07T13:25:00.000-08:00

YOU'VE ALWAYS BEEN A LOOSE CANNON

a pint of chaos sometimes you need to have one. it's bad for health but it's good for your sanity.

off of a hangover -->

one bloody mary
one plate of moules et frites
one hoey
one taxi to oldham
one dismal
game of football
one jackpot on the quiz machine
seven pints of lagerbitter
(one ombudsman)
a return taxi cabbage
two bottles of stella
one kebab with bottle of red wine
club entry (one perfect fog horn imitator)
some drinks (beer?)
some staggering
some sick (hello again old friend bab)

<-----------more hangover, bad bad hangover

mother's day but i still made it back and my mum was pleased to see me and my short hair (boo)

why excessive drinking is good for ure sanity

brain direction in the heightened state of intoxication and the comedown stage of hangover the alcohol has major effects on the brain. you have at least 330 times as many weird thoughts per minute than in a sober state. also you have 330 times less thoughts about carking it. weird thoughts are important, they are the basis of original thought. flying in the face of nietzche and his theory of eternal return i don't believe that anybody has called port vale striker dave hibbit "heebow" and described a round of drinks paid for by fruit machine winnings as an ombudsman. this intrinsic weirdness and the way it is reciprocated by my allies in weirdness is key to the very point of my being.

escapism life can feel like a prison but life can also feel like a particularly turgid real-life soap opera. inject alcohol fuelled mayhem for better storylines. but don't beat your dad's brains out with a garage implement. that would be silly.

stress relief i am 27, i am what society terms a grown-up. i hold a responsible job, i am surrounded by people of my age doing things like borrowing five times their annual salary to own land or hiring out a church and forking out roughly six months salary to make some antiquated vows that they may or may not mean, believe in or care about. this stuff scares the shit out of me because because because.. i can't be bothered to go into why. getting heavily drunk may accelerate or decelerate such processes; no matter. they don't seem so important in an alcholic haze. your chances of getting these big decisions right are as random as trying to predict the colour of the next car you see on the street. if you guess red or blue you might have more chance of being right but you'll be more gutted if you are wrong than the person who guessed purple. my point is the next car might be purple. and if you guess red and it's red, maybe you should have guessed blue. or aubergine.

laughter things are funnier when you are drunk. things are funnier still when you are hungover. hangovers are pretty rubbish, i know but there are silver linings in the dark, sweaty headache cloud.

driving hungover is exciting obviously, don't do this. ever.

2005-02-27T15:54:00.000-08:00

happiness, take my hand...

"the" doves show off levels of musicianship. thick, atmospheric waves of sound. jimi is still like a lion, not as gnarled as Ian Botham but more troubled by toothache. dance music rush channelled through guitar and aching vocals with clarity and soul. heaps of soul. the production is lush because the band are producers trapped in the careers of rock stars. it's a prog-ression.

homokeyboardist my mate paul, who is a stand-up comedian (time is a dimension), noticed that mee mayte dave looks like embrace's ivory tinkler mickey dale. funny, especially given the image we had for how embrace 'bang' out new tunes.

sometimes i just want to be led, want someone to take my hand and lead me. to end up somewhere, to be guided on a journey - it's a childish notion but one i feel a lot, especially on a sunday.

monday will suck fat, hairy tube.

2005-02-24T00:35:00.000-08:00

LIKE DRINKING POISON, LIKE EATING GLASS

hudders thinking about setting up a football blog. forum for discussing my team with people who are interested and have stuff to say. it might just work. you will see why i'm considering it by reading this extract from the rivals site which is the only available forum at the moment...

worthington18 Posted on 23/2 15:54 Email this Message | Reply
B-N-P

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Why is this word a swear word when complete? they are a political party with opinions just like labour or conservative!
it is also a code for one of our strike forces Booth n Pav!

HTAFC_4eva Posted on 23/2 16:05 Email this Message | Reply
re: B-N-P

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labour
george bush
tony blair

how come these aren't swaer words either?

So you vote B-N-P ?

Or are you just courting controversy ?

worthington18 Posted on 23/2 16:05 Email this Message | Reply
re: B-N-P

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i did last time! asylum is out of hand!

HYC1 Posted on 23/2 16:27 Email this Message | Reply
re: B-N-P

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Have you ever met a B-N-P memeber???? They really do speak rubbish!

Why is asylum out of hand?? Explain

Mosher_Phil Posted on 23/2 17:24 Email this Message | Reply
re: B-N-P

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"Why is asylum out of hand"

Even the first, second and third generation immigrants who work with me say immigration is now out of control!

worthington18 Posted on 23/2 16:34 Email this Message | Reply
re: B-N-P

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over half of the ppl who enter this country are illegal more than anywhere in the world! im moving to australia!

magic_bantam Posted on 23/2 16:47 Email this Message | Reply
re: B-N-P

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So you are emigrating to Australia to avoid immigrants??

Therefore becoming one yourself??

They do have their fair share of immigrants down there you know!

worthington18 Posted on 23/2 16:50 Email this Message | Reply
re: B-N-P

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yes but they let them in for the right reasons to work and not be a drain on society!

ffs. IDIOT. this all stemmed from the twat claiming that our asian midfielder Adnan Ahmed 'wouldn't make it'. he is entitled to his opinion of course but given that Ahmed has played about 4 times and has looked a great prospect it isn't long before you wonder whether worthington18's prediliction for espousing extreme right-wing political views may be, for want of a better phrase, colouring his judgement.

bean chilli the idea of a chilli sans carne did not sound appetising but it sure was hot and tasty. bodicker is the consumate host and he gives the famous Greens restaurant in Didsbury a run for it's money with his fine fare. amazing how he has moved on after his previous lives as maniacal bad guy and england rugby honcho.

bob wilson anchorman remember to go to danger! high postage, scroll down for the halfmanhalfbiscuit ode(?) to bob.

"bob. bob!! over here. stop squinting!"

end we got crosses on our eyes for richer for poorer for better for worse we got crosses on our eyes been walking into the furniture.

2005-02-16T14:35:00.000-08:00

FUN

Do you have a sense of fun?

Hmmm... I used to have one. I think I still have one but it's buried at times.

Under what?

My ego. My intensity. My disappointments. My fixation on intellectual prowess.

So what is a sense of fun?

Wanting to make others laugh and finding others that can reciprocate.

So are you saying it matters that these others are clever?

No. Yes. Kind of. A lot of my friends are funny through being clever. Funny-clever my Dad calls it. He doesn't have much time for funny-clever. It's partly a generational thing. That said the funniest people I know aren't the cleverest but being clever can cover a multitude of sins in adult life.

Why?

Because it tends to mean that you earn more money which is helpful in a variety of ways. But also because if you're clever you work everything out and one of those things is that it pays to be funny, or at least to recognise the importance of humour.

Is there anything in life more important than having a sense of fun?

No. Not in my opinion. The people I have most time for are ones who try to have fun. Not knob heads who try to draw attention to themselves by being wacky-funny. I like people who generally crack on with things but can at any time do or say something funny for everyone else's benefit or laugh at something funny that someone else does. I find that people who have a great sense of fun also have a great sense of serious as well. I find this just as interesting.

Why do they have a 'sense of serious'?

Because to see the funny side of things you need to first appreciate the darker side of things. Most comedy is turning a negative into a positive. To get the positive you need to have seen the negative and so it becomes easy to recognise when not to crack a stupid gag and to get in touch with your sense of serious.

Do you ever get the urge to crack a nasty gag in these serious circumstances?

Absolutely. Not even a gag. Just a really spiteful and gratuitous comment. Just to see what would happen. It's like a form of Tourette's. I feel happy to confess to this as I know other freaks like me get the same sensation.

The forbidden fruit?

Yeah. Like the best laughter being the laughter that isn't allowed. In fact, it is the stifling of the laughter, the sensation of being on the cusp of...

Going too far?

Yeah. Going too far and being inappropriate. That recognition of funny/serious again.

So have you exhumed your sense of fun from it's burial?

I think so. I hope so anyway. Do things you like doing, make the best of things you don't like doing but have to do to facilitate the fun things.

You are being very reasonable - what happened to the bloke who called his office a prison?

He's still here. I've just tried to bury him a bit. Do you see what I've done there?

Yes, very funny-clever. Now fuck off to bed you cunt.

WILL DO!

***

Hello? Hello? Anybody there? Is anybod... oh fuck it.

2005-02-15T13:27:00.000-08:00

"i wanted to feel how i felt on that day i met madelaine"

it was never that good it could still be that good...

bloc party. accessible post punk noise. so ordered, this album resembles a craft hewn from ancient alien metals. it brings to mind zinc-like pale silver blues. some but precious little warmth, strange but distinctly not in a way which is quirky or idiosyncratic. in these early stages of listening i am struck by the driving propulsion of the beats (like eating glass is absurdly good in this department) and the clipped yelps of singer who takes the delivery of dizzee rascal and damon albarn in his punkier guise.

there is a comparison to blur. everyone is dubbing them franz ferdi but i think they are more like wire or blur. early idlewild? no, a lot more focussed and significantly better in fact. the album it reminds me of most so far is parachutes believe it or not. because it does the old-sounds-modern trick and because it is minimalist and of the moment. if it were an abode this album would be a laminate batchelor palace - specifically it would be the teflon-topped, stainless steel kitchen.

they are definitely london, you could tell without knowing because they are so knowing for their age. effortless cool that us northerners don't do in this savvy urban way; coolasfook northern types normally look like farmers or factory owners y'see. so here we are is as close as they come to writing a _song_ rather than germinating and developing a seed and it's beautiful, better than anything on the lovely delays record. they don't set out to connect with the listener, i think they know that people will gather to see this alien craft once word is out.

embrace. they still have a great album in them. i'm bored of album 4 now. it was necessary. it has sold loads. it is very accomplished. yeah, yeah, yeah. agree, agree. but it ain't a great album. it is still too straight ahead. they need to stare at their shoes instead of pleadingly at the crowd. the latest batch of b-sides that have accompanied the singles have been better than the album; certainly in the range of ideas, experimentation with sounds. if they can steer themselves toward this sound, if they can rock out like rick does when he is let of the leash they can write a psycadelic, rocking piece of weirdness and melody. album 5 will deliver this. for instance it will find the great song hiding in soldier's hours expand it, bless it with plasma screen clarity and replicate itself. chain reactions. the cockpit gig, the milk and honey, the _magic_ that they momentarily generate can be sustained over a ten track album.

killers. delays. doves. interpol... coming back to guitar, bass, drums, frontman because though i appreciate other forms i don't feel them like i do when i hear a guitar line twist a verse melody into unforgettable chorus.

2005-02-10T15:56:00.000-08:00

INSTITUTIONALISED

I first came across this concept when I watched The Shawshank Redemption. I wish I was still at the age when I was constantly learning about new concepts. The age I could pick up a good book and be shocked and awed by something I'd never considered before. Poor, little sheltered me - wanting to be all cynical and learning how. I want to unlearn now. I tried to unlearn the Lord's Prayer once. Unlearning is hard.

Being institutionalised is about accepting the limitations of one's existence to such an extent that having those limits removed goes from being the ultimate goal to being the ultimate fear. The whole reason for my being here and typing now was down to my dislike for work. The office. The office as prison. My escape from the prison. Me as Dufrane.

Increasingly, I am not Dufrane. I am Briggs or Red or maybe I am the young guy who looks like Elvis who gets shot. I hope I'm not him.

The harder I work the more responsible I become, the more I talk to senior people the more dull I become. The less likely I am to escape. Because escape is no longer attractive, or at least as attractive. The harder I work, the longer I work the less there is to escape to for from.

I'm uncomfortable with this, this to for from. But I don't see an alternative.

I'm listening to the Bloc Party album and I'm not excited like I should be/would be/could be. I feel too cynical, knowing and repressed. I feel guilty a lot but unsure whether I should feel guilt.

Like I say, unlearning is hard.

2005-02-03T05:45:00.001-08:00

IDIOT

A lady from Marketing just came to my desk with a deliveryman in tow asking for LEEDS. LEEDS wasn't there, so I had to sign for his parcel.

The deliveryman handed me his car key and a device that looked like a big calculator. At this point I didnt know whether I should be signing for what could have been an anthrax laden dirty bomb, but it was this latest twist flummaxed me. Rather than getting the pen and paper that I tend to associate with identifying for parcels I had a calculator and key. I looked at the bloke in the eye and said:

"...wha...what.. do you want me to put the key in?"

I really didnt have a clue what was going on now. The world had become fluid, I could feel my movements as if I was a living puppet.

"Just sign it" he said

Of course!! He wants be to sign the calculator thing with his car key. Why didn't I realise this.. am I so out of touch with the modern world, specifically the developments within the sphere of office delivery?

Unsettled, I must gather and regroup to recover from this minor episode. I must return stronger and better.

2005-01-19T14:19:00.000-08:00

DON'T GO AWAY

I just need more time
Yeah I need more time
Just to make things WRITE

x

2005-01-06T01:48:00.000-08:00

WHAT'S RUDE ABOUT A BODY?

I promised myself that I would update more frequently but, as a wise man once said, promises are words that always let you down.

I have just had a very odd conversation. The telephone on my desk rang, an unwelcome sound if ever there was one. I noticed that it was a Manchester code and having already noted that my loyal accomplice had failed to show for work I put two and two together and got 4.

Well, almost.

You see, rather than hearing the rather weedy voice I expected (the one intoned with the deliberate strain of a person who, like the rest of us, thinks that if you don’t try to win an Oscar while calling in sick, you won’t be believed), I heard a female voice.

“This is Linda speaking...”

It was his mum! His mum! It takes a real wimp to get his mum to phone in sick for him if you ask me. And this accusation coming from a man who cried at the end of “It’s a Wonderful Life” last night. Big sobs. That’s the real man, PJ.

So, I found that quite funny but not nearly as funny as yesterday afternoon. I was in the company of a short, stocky woman. She was the kind of woman who makes a blokish effort at keeping up appearances i.e very little. So the hair had been dyed. Once. Ages Ago. It certainly looked like it had been cut in a rush. Very little make up or detectable perfume, she didn’t have an odious odour, just faintly unpleasant. All of this mirrored her personality, which was of the no-nonsense, straight down the line sort. No uproarious lines in banter or anything of particular interest, but completely tolerable. I liked her, she will be easy to work with and the tenacious enthusiasm of her approach to work is something I fear I may not have been able to bring to the project.

Anyway I digress, the part that made me laugh, or rather bite my lip as I really couldn’t laugh, was when she was leafing through a presentation.

The particular diagram she was talking through was cluttered and in an attempt to simplify things she began to ring certain boxes. Unfortunately, the way the diagram was laid out meant that the annotation had the effect of creating a discernible penis shape, effectively overlaying the process. I wasn’t the only one to notice this but my eyes gave me away and I was rebuked for my childishness.

Later we would come back to this page, the ink phallus still looming large she told of another system that would sit on top of the earlier one. A snigger. I can only speculate that this would have been drawn in the shape of a VADGE.

2004-12-24T03:42:00.000-08:00

Turkey In A Microwave
(Suburbia swallowed my wish bone)

Grim patterned carpets and cheap ornaments
A lingering smell of
Pomade and Windowlene
Can’t disguise downtrodden dirt,
Chip fat

Garden gnomes read the Daily Mail
They symbolise small-minded
Conservative attitudes
Why do people need a back garden
To tend?

In a flowery Ethel Austin dress
Ill chosen, ill
Fitting in to society
Such a nineteenth century notion
Vaguely revisited

Trifle sits gelatinous and uneaten
As it deserves to be
Like an avuncular relative
Fermenting in Tio Pepe sherry, quivering
Yet motionless

The oven is on the blink so
She puts the turkey in the microwave
A turkey in a microwave!
A dry old bird with
Wrinkled skin

He considers a public house
At the top of the Stannah stairlift
Towels on taps
Mild drinking, mumbling groan of
A man

Nicotine fingers mask spreading germs
Inadequately
As conversation
Falters to the man next door who once
Used Viagra

Clinton Christmas card scenes are now fantastical
As little green men on Mars
At a push some sleet
Trampled to brown pavement sludge in
A rush

Armchairs are inescapable but
Lethargy soothes rheumatic joints
I’ll need to get some more Alka Selzer
“From the darkie” who lives in his
Corner shop

2004-12-21T04:23:00.000-08:00

MWUHAHAHAHA!!!

Re-open for business in 05.

More soul-bearing, extistential torture and words for tits than you can shake a stick at.

All welcome.

Please also keep in touch with the less irreverent and altogether more pretentious Warped Neon Flood where I will be writing stories.