a child molester or a mental patient.

Hair cuts…

Since an early age I’ve always hated having my ears lowered, however the trimming of one’s Barnet can often cause tremendous relief and re-acquaintance with hidden parts of one’s face. For instance, since having my haircut a lot shorter than it had been for many months, I realised that a) I’m showing more scalp than I recall and b) that my neck, alas, requires strimming on a more regular basis than I had appreciated. The blessed relief however on a hot day or more notably in the preparations one makes before leaving the house, out ways the little faults I find on my poor head.

Bad hair causes stress and worry, which I believe will ultimately be the root cause of the early stage of male pattern baldness, which if my ill thought out ethos is true means I’m screwed. Therefore I should grow my hair whilst I still have the chance. Of course growing your hair, as I’m more than sure you know already, means that you must under go many awkward stages of growth and the increase of bad hair anxiety (and therefore more hair loss). For many years I held my barber- Nathan Grassam of Crab lane in Harrogate to blame for my shoddy appearance, however after since trying many other barbers and now hairdressers (much to the shock of my father) I’ve come to realise that you can’t polish a turd and at least I’m at peace with this-that’s not to say I’m particularly happy about it.

The only way forward would seem to be keeping your fairly short at all times. In my case as I’m on the steady road to becoming a portly gentleman the short hair would only make me resemble a Phil Mitchell style bruiser. Also the V shaped scar just inside of my hairline (accrued when as a young toddler when I mistakenly ran into a coffee table) and the broken front tooth would further a thuggish image that I am so desperate to avoid. Also as a proud beard wearer, the beard but no hair look is also one, which I would hope to avoid. Sadly, as I’m a glasses wearer too (Jeez- it just get worse doesn’t it), I’m not meant to wear hats either. Despite many attempts to hide bad hair underneath a generic hat of sorts, have resulted in many ill thought out look-a-likes such as Michael bleedin’ Moore and Steven bleedin’ Spielberg. My black ‘Wayne’s World Hat’ provided much bad hair relief when I was sixteen- this look was aided by my under-cut hairstyle that was all the rage at the time but a twenty-nine year old, bearded fella with these glasses cannot sport a backwards Wayne’s World cap without either looking like a child molester or a mental patient.

Thus far in life, I’ve been plagued with bad hair, starting in my youth when I was a fully-fledged member of the ‘Gingers’ http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Red_hair

No doubt a cheap psychiatrist will one day sit crossed legged and listen to me patiently whilst I spew a thousand tales of woe regarding the prejudice of my hair colouring, offering me simple yet vague advise about coming to terms with my anxiety and no doubt after several sessions with this quack, I’ll reach an epiphany that in fact psychiatry would not help me resolve these issues and in a moment of rage and joy, I’d confront the be-spectacled shrink about his lack of professionalism, and no doubt be called a “ginger tosser” in response. Most likely this will cause a wave of nausea and depression and I shall be forced to find another doctor to get over the jibe, however because the new psychiatrist will be more expensive I shall become destitute and bald. (Note to self: don’t go to a psychiatrist as it will result in the speeding up of one’s hair loss and lower my self-esteem). As luck would have it, in the latter part of my teenage years, my hair progressively got darker, so much so, that when I started University here in Liverpool, a friend tried to phone me on the communal hall of residence telephone. The buffoon mistakenly asked to speak to “Macca” a moniker which I was known as whilst at school (no one was called by their first name), but when I moved out of that damned one horse town I declined to inform any of my would-be acquaintances of this childish nickname. Anyway, Laura Shep who answered the phone knew not of the aforementioned “Macca”. Increasingly frustrated, my friend gave my full name, and after this avenue of investigation drew no satisfactory results (Laura at this stage was unaware of my full name- knowing me only as Matt) gave a description of me which went roughly similar to:

“Short, scruffy, ginger hair and wears trousers with paint on them”

After careful thought, Laura apologised and said that she didn’t know who this person was and terminated the call.

During this exchange I was sat in the communal TV room no doubt watching something dour that mid evening 1996 BBC would have to offer (probably ‘Sliders’ or the impossibly shite ‘Goodnight Sweetheart’ or ‘So Haunt me’*), when Laura walked in shaking her head. “What’s happened” a curious student asked her and she said “who’s Matthew McPartlan?”
“Ahhhggggg!” I exclaimed in disgust “Me!!!!!”

Laura put her hands over her mouth with embarrassment and shrieked “…but you don’t have ginger hair!”

This was one of the sweetest moments in my life. Looking back on it now, I note that she didn’t disagree with the “short” and “scruffy” elements of his description.

Anyway, going back to the original line of thought of this here ramble-(and as I recall this isn’t the first time my poor quality hair styling has been the subject matter of my un-happiness) I don’t fear baldness I just don’t look forward to the process of going bald and having to shave my fine beard off (I wouldn’t wish to resemble Mike Love of the beach boys). I would like to think that I would go to sleep one night and awaken bald with a mount of my non-ginger hair on my pillow. I can only imagine with horror the pain of slowly watching your hairline disappear slowly over the years would be similar to the breaking of one’s voice. Slow, uncomfortable and embarrassing- yet unavoidabley. So for the time being I plan to rejoice and bask in the light of scruffy, shaggy and sadly bad, hair!

Coming soon “Body hair- the beast within”


*Does anyone else remember this program? Weak plot about an elderly Jewish woman who haunts her old house, which is now occupied by a 2.4children English family where all the members suffer from the implausible Eastenders/Hollyokes syndrome where they all have different regional accents (Cockney, Manc, Posh southern English –possibly from Northampton or Brighton) The mum was Raquel from ‘Only Fools & Horses’ and the father was Bob from ‘Rita, Sue and Bob too’. A spectacularly bad programme, especially as the poor old Dad was the only member of the family who couldn’t see or hear the eccentric Ghost (Oye Vay!)

Lunch...so predictable yet so precious.

Yet another day slowly grinds it’s way to lunch time in the ole office. Thank God.
I can stop pretending to be working hard and actually relax for a short period of time, until my allotted 1-hour ceases and I am forced once more to provide administrative support for my team/department. Lunch time is the most regimented part of the daily hum-drum here. With the odd exception pay day- away days or Bob’s 60th it has been exactly the same since that cursed day I commenced working here in this God forsaken place.


11.10 am Dave gets up and writes on the White Board that he is to inspect one of the two estates- then have his lunch then visit the other estate. His estimated time of return will be 2pm

11.20 am Karen will disappear without telling anyone where she is going. The only clue as to her where about is her Mayfair fags and her trusty mobile phone.

11.55 am. Lee will watch the security footage by the rear entrance watching the clock until he can officially clock off and make haste with his mealtime.

12.15 pm. Bob will ask Tony and Sean if they’re “walking down” (this is in reference to their daily constitutional to the sandwich purveyors Tamarillos.) and then proceed to ask the team if they want anything from the shop. Tom is usually asked by Bob “You’re usual?” On the occasions that Tom isn’t there they get him a sandwich anyway. Tony will either say yes or inform them he’s going to “the Tuna Shop” (the nearest sandwich shop of lesser quality) Tony will ask me if I want anything from the Tuna Shop. I’ll say no and Tony will reply (like clockwork) “Are you on the Loop-de-Loop?” (soup) With a heavy heart I say yes and then get depressed at the thought of another can of soup.

12.20pm. Sean will be engaged in a highly-strung conversation with a solicitor or agent of some sort whilst Bob waits impatiently. Next to him complaining bitterly to the rest of the team.

12.30pm. Bob prods Sean and tells him to “get an ‘effing move on.”

12.35pm. Sean puts down the phone and asks the office if they want anything from the shop. Only to be told by Bob: “I’ve already done that-come on I’ve clocked out” and they leave.

12.36pm The office in nice and quiet.

12.40pm. I clock off and start the process of heating my dour tasting tinned soup in office’s microwave.

12.45pm. Gerry offers the team a cup of tea, to which I decline due to my soup. At this stage there is usually only three of us in the office.

12.47pm. Karen re-appears and then informs the team she’s going out to lunch- neglecting as ever to clock out.

12.50pm. Bored of the slow progressing Internet I browse Sefton and Liverpool Council’s job vacancies to very little success so decide to listen to some music on the internet. Sue (Alan’s PA) arrives and although I’m clearly eating my lunch and wearing headphones to prove that I’m not on duty, she stands next to me and talks about some boring and churlish issue- usually regarding the re-ordering of stationery. After about tens minutes she says “anyway- I’ll let you eat your lunch and I’ll e-mail you later”


1pm Lee clocks off and on route back to his desk he informs the three or four remaining staff members of some Sporting news that he’s read from the BBC website. Gerry will come around from the other side of the office and we all discuss.


1.15pm The sound of Bob swearing at Sean and being buzzed in through the Office reception- followed by an exasperated Sean whom immediately slumps in his chair shaking his head.

1.20pm Sean informs the team of some sporting news to which he’s just read from the BBC website I usually tell him that Lee has already told us in the most annoyed manner (jokingly of course). We as a team discuss this matter in depth and the allotted 15 minutes of banter ensues.

1.25 I clock off my lunch wishing to bank a few minutes the go to the toilet (there’s no point going to the loo on my own time is there?)

1.27pm A cup of tea is usually requested from some corner and begrudgingly someone will say “I’ll make the bloomin’ tea” at which point we all smile and hand over our cups.

1.40pm Tom wanders over to Sean/Bob and ask as to whom he owes the money for his sandwich. Despite ordering the same sandwich every day for the past year and a half he asks how much it was.

2pm Lunch over

2.15pm Karen strolls in and usually goes straight to the White board and writes that she’s going to a meeting and won’t be returning until tomorrow.

2.16pm The team debates the validity of Karen’s meeting.

2.20pm Sean’s momentary ‘lunch time good mood’ fades when I inform him of the countless messages I took whilst he was away from the office.

Lunch...so predictable yet so precious.


Anyway- Some perfect lunchtime office anthems:


float on -modest mouse

Woodcat - Tunng

Is This Love- Clap Your hands Say Yeah

Dim Bendith – The Super Furry Animals

Rotten device, I’ll say it twice…

After a particularly irksome bout of feeling unwell, I’m almost back to my normal self after a monging weekend of bumming around the flat watching TV, listening to records etc and two days of absence from the ole office.

Lisa returned safely from her jaunt to London to see Madonna, although when I left my deathbed to pick her up from the station she didn’t exactly look the picture of health. Once more it appears that the novelty of her and friend Emma’s accents proved pivotal in their engaging with total strangers and their demise into a drunken night which saw them arrive back at their hotel at 9.30 am, only to learn they would be required to check out of their accommodation by 10.30am- giving them both an hour to pack and resulting in a sleepless night. From what sense I managed to get out of her they slept on the platform in Euston whilst they waited several hours for their trains after using and abusing the lavatories in the nearest Starbucks.

Of course as I was a mere whisp from death, I was sadly unable to tend to my usual housework chores and Lisa was greeted to particularly messy abode upon her return. Ho hum. Then had to ask her if I could borrow some money to buy some milk and bread as we were all out and I was proper skint…..welcome home!!!

Once more I was berated by my nearest and dearest about my “alleged Man flu” – no matter how much phlegm I coughed up the look of disapproval and the slow shake of the head was directed towards me. Of course this wouldn’t be the first time that I had been unjustly accused of having this ‘man flu’, so I just bravely continued my recovery from the jaws’ of death without wishing to complain of my many ailments for fear of reprisal. Ironically Lisa was quite ill the next day and didn’t get out of bed until after 4pm- naturally she claimed it was different to what I had and was probably a result of the vast quantities of vodka she’d consumed down in London with all the other Madonna geeks and severe sleep deprivation. I chose to take the moral high ground and resisted the churlish remarks I would have usually made. Instead I provided her with breakfast in bed and copious cups of coffee whilst I retreated to the living room to continue with my work (ISS Pro Soccer Evolution 5 on the PS2) and listen to some old records; Lou Barlow and his Sentridoh and Bob Mould’s ‘Black sheets of Rain’. Apparently what I should have been doing was tidying the flat, but because of the fracas that morning involving me waking Lisa by moving some of the pots and pans in the kitchen, I thought it would have been extremely rude of me to wake her with the hoover. When I offered this reasoning as self-defence it was suggested that I could have done a quiet job like “cleaning the toilet”. I could see her point, but drinking beer and sitting on my arse seemed more appealing to me.

Anyhow, the weekend was somewhat of a write off with coughs etc, but I did manage to work my way through some music that I hadn’t heard in an age- mostly CD singles- and in honour of these (cough) mid nineties classics I have decided to post them for your pleasure: (Please not the absence of Northern Uproar’s – Roller Coaster- now safely filed under my “what was I thinking” section )



Silicon Teens- Number One Cup
B- side to their ‘Just Let Go’ single. I know this is a cover of some pretty obscure US band The Pulsars I think. I saw them at the Dutchess of York in Leeds- great and got to speak with the band before hand (as was the way with the venue).

Kewpies Like Watermelon - Urusei Yatsura
Great- the trailblazers in the short lived C96 scene. Broken guitars and toy keyboards allegedly…


Hotel lounge (Be the Death of Me) - dEUS
I saw these guys at Benacissim recently and they were really, really good. This is the only single of theirs I had, but I had some of their other songs on some mix tapes, which after a long scout out I couldn’t find.


Race - Tiger What happened to this bands? Way ahead of their time with their mullets and Jack White style vocals.


The Heart’s Filthy Lesson – David Bowie Hmmmm….my first dabble into the world of David Bowie and it was during a collaboration with Brian Eno . They used this song for the end credits of ‘Seven’, and despite me remembering it sounding great at the time, I was quite disappointed hearing it this weekend.

The Hymn For The Cigarettes - Hefner
Say no more…great!

I’m The One- The Descendents
Totally forgot about this band, and like most of the other tracks here, I heard it on the old Mark Radcliffe show.


gimmeindierock- Sebadoh I don’t have this on single unfortunately but with the re-issue of their classic album ‘III’ this and ‘The Freed Pig’ have been made available by the indie spods of the internet…Godbless them. Anyway- without sounding old and bitter- they don’t make them like this anymore.

proper English twit.

Well I'm back from Benacissim and beyond.

I excitedly returned to the throngs of the internet to note that my last post- informing you of my impending jaunt to Spain to soak in the sites, sounds and smell of the Benacissim festival didn't work. Ho hum. (though I note it has since appeared after posting this blog?)

It was a great little holiday for us all and we saw some great and not so great bands too, notably in the 'not-so-great' section live Julain Cassablanca's little beat combo-they were effing awful! Sadly my time out there was somewhat blighted with a long list of ailments I endured and I almost turned into a Woody Allen esq sniveling hypochondriac if it wasn't for the persistent reassurances from my nearest and dearest to "stop effing moaning".

I also write with a heavy heart that I can no longer describe myself as a sun cream Nazi, after succumbing the heat of the sun myself. Despite taking the utmost precautions to ensure that I arrived home as pale and white as ever, I did get burned and it was as an unpleasant experience as I remembered it to be. The hardest part to take was on the particular day in question, my body was smeared in Factor 30 sun cream and with the exception of a dip in the sea, I remained under the shade of a parasol, yet my legs- mostly around the ankles were in all kinds of sun induced agony, so much so that on the next day I arrived at the beach wearing a pair of thick black socks with my shorts and converse trainers. Ye Gads!- I looked remarkably daft- even by my lowly standards. My glasses and badly out of shape cap didn't exactly make me look like the Fonz. Whilst in this ridiculous get up, I thought at the very least that the only people who could laugh at me (to my face) me would be my friends and having known them for years I can look stupid without feeling too embarrassed. Of course the hundreds of speedo and bikini clad sunbathers on the beach probably had a good laugh at my expense. Alas, as ever, my luck got worse. Whilst waiting at a bar on the way back from the beach I discovered that I was sat at a table next to two girls who were on my degree course. After acknowledgements were made to each other we started to chat and whilst I was desperately trying hard not to mention what I do for a living (this is always a minefield of conversational problems- do I say I'm a musician- but currently doing a temp job whilst I wait for the big fat payolla? Or do I say I work in an office as a dog's body, whom according to the recently published hierarchical flowchart I am on a par with the Fax machine. I decided a few years ago to avoid talking about this area of my life at all costs to avoid embarrassment or worse- asking about the band- which should you know by reading previous posts I don't like to discuss as it is now the sole topic of conversation people start with me! "how's the band doing?" AGGGGHHH! I'm a person -not a bass player!!!) I could feel her gaze be drawn to my red shins, black sock clad legs. As usual, defense to this is to explain as to why I looked this way in the most self-depreciative way as I can get way with. For the first time ever (or as i recall) I felt a proper English twit.

On a plus note regarding this encounter, I wasn't made to look like a weird obsessive fool as I often do when meeting up with old acquaintances. Usually, if we do the 'stop and chat' I always remember their name- no matter how long ago in the past it was when we knew each other and for the majority of the times my politeness is usually met with "sorry about this, but I can't remember your name" which is thoroughly degrading for one to keep hearing. This time, I knew the face and I remember always getting on with her- after all she was a fellow illustrator, but for once my embarrassingly awkward excellent long term memory failed me and I was forced to apologies for forgetting her name. Of course she had forgotten mine too- or so she said, perhaps she felt it polite to pretend that she'd forgotten mine (a strategy I shall no adopt for future encounters with characters from my past) which left me feeling oddly satisfied as we were therefore on the same level.

But back to the music- seriously The Stokes…wow it’s sad to see just how crap and predictable they’ve become. Okay, perhaps I hold them responsible for the change in the music industry and the plethora of curly haired, skinny, denim/leather clad ‘punks’ that blight me ear on a daily basis, but still they were sooooooooooooo boring. Cassablancas stage demeanor looked so cliché and his slight mumblings in that annoying too cool for school American drawl to the audience did little to raise the spirits. More often or not I dislike it when a singer talks for hours on end (with the exception of Billy Bragg & Elbow) he could have at least informed the crowd that they were going to play their last song, or indeed say good bye to the crowd, rather than skulk off the stage after another two and a half minute long blandpunk–shitty-disco-pop leaving a rather bemused crowd wandering what was going on.

Anyhow, I’ll bore you with some more detailed information later- I’m off to burn my Strokes CDs.

so long sukers!

Well I’m off to Spain tomorrow –for hopefully some cooler temperatures over at the Bennicissm Festival- check out the link to see just exactly what you’ll be missing.

www.fiberfib.com/


So long Suckers!!!!

The incorrect side of the reception desk

Okay- so yesterday was without question the longest and dullest day I’ve had in this dull and dour office, which is now officially amongst one of the top three dull and downright depressing jobs of the 27 jobs I’ve had. So you’d think that I would actually be grateful for some work to come my way? Incorrect. I now have a steady trickle of menial tasks to be getting on with, but I simply do not have the energy nor the enthusiasm to complete.

As soon as I was set to task, my new tumour- Kelvin decided to bugger about in my brain leaving it redundant and useless to all and sundry. A chink of light however has been handed to me though, with the heady mission of delivery some documents to Manchester. Oh bliss. Nearly two hours away from this morbid hell hole.

This will be my third trip to our Manchester based solicitors after two previously successful missions. Alas, I didn’t endear myself to well with the ladies on their overly efficient reception though. Once more I put this down to my unpleasant demeanour at the time and my naturally scruffy appearance. I incorrectly thought that they would be most grateful for my hard work in the deliverance of the most important documentation, however I found their mannerism rather curt. I incorrectly assumed they would at the very least offer me a cup of tea or coffee? Of course I don’t drink coffee, however the gesture of goodwill would have ensured that I recommend that we retain their services for any forthcoming projects. Of course I have no say in this matter what-so-ever, but they aren’t to know this, and their assumption that I am the Office Dog’sbody (which is true) and can talk to me in a manner not fitting of the lowest manservant in Hiltler’s holiday home simply wouldn’t do.


My first visit to their office after arguing with several painfully churlish and jobs worthy voices on the other side of intercoms regarding my mission, I eventually struggled back and forth up three flights of stairs with the five boxes of heavy documents and dropped them by the reception desk. I waited there for at least 6-7 minutes before the receptionist asked me if I could move the boxes to the other side of the triangular reception desk, as they can’t help me if I remained standing there. “what?” I was incensed by the act of pedantic ness, (or should that be pedancy?) and moved the boxes around as she requested.. Remembering that at the time I was in a most foul and unpleasant frame of mind caused by the change in season, I stood there for an further ten minutes before she turned to me and asked if she could help. I explained that these boxes were most important and that their recipient should be informed post haste. She looked blandly at me and said if I just left them there she was sure he’ll get them.

I bid her good day and tried unsuccessfully to get out of the door which I had slowly trudged those damned heavy boxes several times earlier. I went back over to the desk when it became clear she was ignoring my requests to open the door for me. This time I waited ion the correct side of the desk and was eventually informed that the only way down the stairs was in the lift. At that moment had I been an animated character my eyebrows would have leapt right off my face is astonishment. “Lift!??? Why didn’t you tell me you had a LIIIFT!?”

She just smiled whist she answered the phone and wagged a bony over manicured finger in the direction of the lift.

I chuntered a few expletives and got in the lift, found my car and got the hell out of dodge and headed back to Liverpool.


On my second journey, I was told by the car park receptionist to park in Bay No. 16. I was not surprised to see that someone else was already parked in this bay, and I used what little initiative I have and parked in another space. This time I remembered the lift, although I only had a handful of papers that needed delivering. Upon my arrival to the reception, I noticed it was a different receptionist, in fact it was a female security guard complete with a million ear earrings and Doc Martin Boots. I noticed that she was dealing with a gentleman on the “incorrect side of the reception desk” .
So I stood behind this gentleman and waited to be seen.

When she finished dealing with his query and signed for safe receipt of the package he had brought in, she rolled to the opposite side of the desk pushing herself on her chair. I waited for a minute until I caught her eye. She saw me and her face dropped
“can you move round to this side of the desk please”

I turned around to see if someone was nearby where I could give them a look of disbelief and astonishment, but the only person there was an elderly gentleman wearing a matching security uniform-but minus the million pieces of gold threaded through his ears. I just wanted to ditch the documents and go home as the Germany Vs Argentina game was due to kick off shortly.

“I asked you to park in bay 16” she bluntly told me

“someone was already parked there”

She looked at a monitor behind her desk and shook her head slowly.

“no- it’s free.”

“oh- well there was someone there when I came in”

She didn’t say anything, but gave me the look of “do I look stupid?” which of course with all that gold hanging from her ears was true and handed me a piece of paper to sign, which I duly did- once again signing the ‘Print name here’ section and printing my name in the ‘sign here’ section again.

I thanked her but didn’t mean it and went back to my car via the elevator, only to find a black BMW which looked like the ‘effing Bat Mobile blocking me in. Great. I waited ten minutes before buzzing the intercom to explain my predicament. The snotty reply was ‘I’ll see whose car it is”. I’m sure I heard her laughing as before I was cut off.

I didn’t believe her so waited impatiently for a further ten minutes before another well dressed solicitor type slowly walked to the vehicle and drove off without looking at me or acknowledging his mistake. This pissed me off.

I followed his car up the ramp out of their car park and as he was turning right and I was turning left I shouted over “don’t mention it!”

He looked over coolly with his suit and sunglasses making me feel scruffier by the nanno-second, and sped off in the opposite direction. I got caught in the Mancunian traffic and missed the first half of the game. Bugger. Perhaps I’ll just pay a homeless guy £5 (from petty cash naturally) to take in my delivery to their office and save myself some bother or perhaps I should enquire as to how one goes about becoming a receptionist for their utterly pedantic company as surely this would be a role I would excel in and I’d do a damned better job than the two banshees that had previously caused me such anguish.

Please find suitably defiant music for your own personal battles:

Fight The Power- Public Enemy

Theme from Shaft – The Wedding Present

pound signs in my eyes

Okay once more I am at the peril less mercy of the demon known as boredom. Today I have had sod all to do. I have now given up the charade of pretending to look busy. After all what’s the point- at least if I look as utterly bored as I am then surely someone will perhaps ask me to do something.

Unfortunately the only tasks I do get set are scanning, photocopying and perhaps if I’m lucky some typing. Time is dragging painfully slow.

Yesterday though, despite the boredom I was on one heck of a high.

Lisa called me last Friday to inform me that she had found a £10 note in a shirt pocket of mine. Hozzanaah in the Highest I’m rich- I exclaimed. With my newly found wealth I joined in with our office’s World Cup Final score predictions. Having previously abstained form such frivolous expenditure of my diminished capital, I entered knowing that I could be looking at a nice little earner should I guess correctly. Lady Luck was indeed casting her gaze upon me and I correctly predicted that it would be 1-1 and Italy would win on penalties.

Cue the ‘Party’ music…

Yesterday I drove into work with pound signs in my eyes and a maniacal grin. I claimed my £6 prize money first thing in the morning and promised myself that I would send my cash in the most exorbitant manner I could think…a sandwich from Tamarillos! Yes for the dizzy price of £2 I had myself a cheeses and salad sandwich…and it didn’t stop there. Further to my newly found wealth I acquired a packet of 25p crisps and a Twirl bar…in addition I also acquired the day’s milk, and did exactly the same again today! I explained my good fortune to Lisa, who after all was the one whom discovered my hidden cash, and found the greatest way to describe my feelings was to compare it to the pivotal moment when Charlie discovers a coin and gorges himself on chocolate in the incorrectly named film Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory (1971). Lisa found this funny but ultimately quite sad. I agreed.

This afternoon I received an e-mail from Murray – my ex-brain tumour asking how I was. I explained my good/bad fortune of late and his reply was genuinely sympathetic. He asked if I was in need of his services again and I thanked him but let him know about Kelvin my tumour apprentice. Murray didn’t reply and I think I may have hurt his feelings.

Far be it from me champion chronic headaches but Kelvin is a gentler type of headache than Murray was and although I still feel like I want to go home, close the curtains and have a relaxing snooze for and hour or so, I feel that Kelvin can be bested by taking paracetamol. I made the decision not to take any though as I wouldn’t want to crush Kelvin’s spirits….not before I go on Holiday next week.

Anyhow- once more please find below tunes de jour.

Cumberland Gap- Lonnie Donnigen

Green Grass of Tunnel.- Mủm


Tenderfoot.- Smudge

A Mars bar and a few sparse cola bottles was all it took to buy his silence

As the weekend gone was fairly uneventful with the obvious exception of the World Cup Final, I have chosen not to go into my usual longwinded ramblings about the tedious details of my days in doors watching TV and playing the guitar for hours on end. Instead the following is a short regaling of the only time I’d actually been shit on from a great height and the one and only time I’ve head butted someone (see tenuous link between Zidane’s moment of lunacy?) Granted my head butt was hardly as well executed as ole’ Zinadine’s but for no reason at all it triggered a memory whilst driving on the way to work morning..

I’m pretty sure it was 1990 or perhaps 1989- either way it was a while ago and I was on my annual week long summer scout camp in the Lake District. Come to think about it, it must have been 1989 as we were privy to seeing a fantastic display of RAC fighter pilots training four or five times a day, screeching above the clutter of old Canvass Patrol tents and flying low through the valleys. We later learned on route home that the world was at war with Iraq after they’d invaded Kuwait. All quite exciting and scary at the same time I remember- wow my first war!

Anyway, should you be unaware to the hierarchy in this sadistic club for kids then I won’t bore you with the details but suffice to say that I was 2nd in command of our six man Patrol. The Patrol leader was a prick called Stopher who was a couple of years older than me and significantly larger than I. It’s fair to say Stopher and I never got on and it would be fair to report that he was probably the nearest thing that I’d ever encountered to a bully in my life. He made my life relatively miserable, but looking back at it now there was nothing too bad and certainly nothing that kept me awake at night. The constant piss taking and the odd punch to the arm/headlock was about as bad as it ever got. Thankfully as these things go- I wasn’t the only one to be on the receiving end of the twat’s malice, but I think what set me a part was the fact that I wasn’t slow in taking the piss out of him or standing up against him, especially when he picked on the new kids- usually the 4 stone weakling kids, straight out from primary school. Of course nothing was as bad as my first few month’s of scouts and the customary melvining (or wedgies if you prefer) from the sadistically sad Ian ‘Binzy’ Binns. (This former bully stayed on for years in the Scouts and got his comeuppance when after a swimming session a young scout pointed out that he had a extremely small penis! Binzy’s reign of terror ended shortly afterwards- after all what could be worse than being told that you’ve got a small pecker by someone who hasn’t yet started puberty) I remember that I always avoided Binzy’s confrontations as I befriended the ‘gentle giant’ Steve Osbourne, who at 6’2” was not to be messed with. Granted he had learning difficulties which made him relatively cowardly for a chap with such a large frame, but sticking close to him certainly kept me and my big mouth out of trouble. I remember looking on in horror as Binzy lifted some of the other new scouts above his shoulders by their undies, whilst the poor crying victims’ pants cut through their arse like a cheese slicer on a Tesco’s Deli counter.

Anyway, on this camp I’d kept my distance from Stopher as much as I could. In the 6 man patrol tents, he slept at the top end and I slept at the bottom end, and the four other kids slept in between us. On this camp, I’m pretty sure that Stopher was getting too old to be in the scouts, spending the majority of his time hanging out with the aforementioned Binzy, who for whatever reason had decided to join the Venture Scouts (Nelson Muntz Style “ha ha”) and was there to ‘help’ the leaders. It was only on seldom occasions that we were required to be placed in close proximity with each other and it was on one of these occasions that I lost my cool and head butted him. To be honest, I don’t recall what it was about, except he was winding up one of the younger scouts up and from what I’d remembered reduced this poor lad to tears. As I was sitting next to him on a bench at the time I decided that enough was enough and planted a head butt on his face. Granted it was a ‘proper’ head butt, more that I connected with his face with the side of my head but I did so with as much force as I could muster. From what I recall his reaction was shock, followed quickly by anger and he gave me several painful punches on the top of my head. I tried my best not to cry, but it was inevitable I suppose.

Not a lot was said about it, but I felt I’d won a moral victory of sorts despite him making me cry in front of my friends-which as you’ll no doubt recall from your own rambunctious past was certainly not the thing to do. That evening Stopher stayed away from our patrol area, and we all watched him sitting crossed legged with Binzy at the top of the hill eating their food and watching us carefully like an Indian Chief looking at the scared and weak settlers out in the Old West. We were forced to cook for ourselves without his ‘supervision’ and I took control with my close friend Dan Walker as my number 2. Dan was always a good laugh and I knew him very well as he and his family only lived around the corner from me. Over the next few years he was a permanent fixture round at our house- notably when we both got Amiga computers. As it was such a long time ago, I’m afraid that I can’t remember what was cooked, but I do remember showing some poor kid how to light the large gas stove by dropping a lit match into the burner. Alas he burned his eyes lashes together and lost half of his eye brows when he tried to replicate my fool hardy actions. Walker smeared his face in butter and blagged him not to grass us up to the leaders by offering him some of his tuck shop allowance. A Mars bar and a few sparse cola bottles was all it took to buy his silence. I’m pretty sure the meal we cooked would have been sausages or some other simply cooked food substance with little to no nutritional value to it, either way we obviously didn’t do a great job…

That night in the tent Stopher still hadn’t re-joined the group. Nerves were a little fraught as we contemplated what course of revenge he’d dish out upon us. The patrol tent was about 6 feet high and had entrances on either side, which was held shut with a threaded rope which was laced between the to ends of the canvass like a shoe lace. This was always kept loose so should we require to go for a star light piss in the middle of the night it could be easily done. Granted the usual course of action was just stuck our dicks out of the holes and piss from the comfort of the tent.

As he always slept the farthest from what we used as the tent entrance, I decided that I would take his place so he wouldn’t wake us up- or more importantly deliberately stand on us.

It was probably sometime after midnight when we heard him stumble and crash into our tent.

“what are you doing in my space dick head?”

“fuck off Stopher and just sleep there’ I bravely informed him.

“Prick!”

He took off his boots and jeans and got into his sleeping bag. The sound of his size eight hiking boot being launched in my direction made me flinch but thankfully it hit Carl –who was sleeping next to me- on the head. He started to cry, but Stopher told him to “Shut the F**k up you big baby!”- Which he soon did and we all went to sleep.

*

When I awoke the next morning I was cold. I tried to immerse myself in the sleeping bag to keep warm but it wasn’t working. I could hear that the rest of the patrol were soundly asleep- Stopher snoring loudly from the other side of our large tent. I knew the only way to keep warm was to put another item of clothing on, so I popped my head up out of my sleeping bag and reached out towards my rucksack. Alarmingly I spotted several tissues covered in shit. What the….?

I rolled onto my back at tired to think what I could have done during my slumber? I started to panic. Matters were made worse when my eyes had adjusted to the daylight and I could see that some of the excrement had somehow found its way on to my light blue sleeping bag. Yikes! What had I done? I sat up and could see that Stopher’s rogue boot lying next to Carl’s sleeping bag, which alarmingly had a few smears of brown on it too!

I felt a wave of anxiety wash over me. Worried about what I had done during the night, I lay they scared shitless of what would happen to me when my fellow Scouts woke up. Harrogate is a small town where news of crapping yourself would soon be abound, naturally I assumed that my life as I knew it would be over and as I lay there shivering I wondered how I’d convince my parents to move to a different town. I rolled over on my side, cold, depressed and nervous. As I looked out under the bottom of the tent door to the picturesque English landscape I could see a litter of approximately ten to fifteen brown stained tissues on the dewy grass. I tried not to cry and just lay there waiting to face the music.

I lay there for about another 15 minutes, trying to ignore the smell of crap and think about what excuses I could use to get myself out of this terribly sticky situation. I really needed a piss too, but decided that I should wait before getting up and lay there in silence.

“EEE-UUUWWWWW!” Carl had woken up to see the shitty tissues between his and my sleeping bags. I pretended I was asleep and that the whole thing was a surprise to me. He sat up and I could fully see that he had more crap on his sleeping bag. I sat up feigning surprise at the mess. (Richard? or James? I can’t remember his name) who was next to Carl bolted upright in his sleeping bag and ye gads! He had even more shit on his bag and (gulp) some on his face too!

‘Aggggggggh!’ Carl cried “You’ve got shit on your face!!”

The poor lad looked stunned and I was in total shock- what had I done!!!!??
Panic set in and the other kid next to him –who again, his name escapes me- woke up in similar fashion to the sounds of screaming kids and the smell of poo. He had even more shit on his sleeping bag than anyone! Panic set in and he jumped out of his sleeping bag revealing crap on his T Shirt and we all recoiled in disgust. Dan, who was next to him, and also next to Stopher had his back to us sat up and turned around to face us.

“Oh For The Love of God!”

He had shit all over his face, his hair and the inside of his sleeping bag was dripping in the stuff! The four of us shrieked in horror at him. It was like a scene from the Three Bears…only they didn’t have porridge they had crap.
“Who’s been crapping in my bed….”

“I had diarrhoea during the night and couldn’t get out of the tent” Dan wailed.

Phew. What a relief! It wasn’t me who’d shat on his fellow scouts…I breathed a big sigh of relief then the reality hit home that I had Dan’s poo on my sleeping bag. “Agggggggggghhhhh!!!!!”

A mixture of screams from the three younger scouts and myself, the sobbing from Dan was all drowned out by the hysterical laughing of Stopher. The spawny bastard had slept next to Dan all night and didn’t have a speck of his poo on him.

“har har har, thanks for swapping places McPartlan! Har har har har”

I could still hear his laughter ringing in my ears as I watched from a distance as the Scout leader Carol hosed down Dan with a look of repulsion on her face and her fag in the corner of her mouth, Fat Anita hanging out the 5 shitty smeared sleeping bags out to dry in the morning sunshine, whilst male Scout leader –and all round cool bloke Digger tried to comfort the traumatised youngsters and persuade Stopher to stop laughing at them.

It transpired that poor ole Dan indeed had a nasty dose of the squits, possibly caused by the meal we poorly prepared that night or perhaps caused by his large intake of chocolate. He awoke in the middle of the night with a rumbling in his bowels. In the pitch black dark he was already spewing excrement from his backside as he climbed over his sleeping patrol mates and stood over me as he untie the ropes at the wrong entrance. Luckily for me he gave up when he realised the knots were impossible to untie in the daylight-let alone in the middle of the night whilst he was in the grips of diarrhoea. I’m assuming that he did eventually make it out of the tent but it was too little too late. Somehow a miracle on par with the scene from Pulp Fiction where Jules Winnfield and Vincent Vega’s somehow dodge the bullets of the young unnoticed man screaming “Die you motherf***ers!” occurred, as Stopher remained unscathed from the air turds…and that’s what really pissed me off.

Of course as it was still early morning I had the sad duty to inform the other patrols as to why Dan was sobbing, the other three had the ‘thousand yard stare’, five sleeping bags were drying on a clothes line and why Stopher looked so bloomin’ happy. Naturally we were all bribed by Dan to keep our mouths shut about it and not tell his Mum.

So the simple lesson to be learned here is that a head butt will result in being shat on from a great height- (or from the arse of a good friend) Nothing good will come of it.

perhaps his threats were only idle

I feel like bear with a swore head and swore arse today. A severe lack of sleep caused by our less than considerate neighbours and their insistence of having a extremely loud and aggressive argument out on the street between 2.30am and 3.30 am this morning. I’m not talking a petty domestic argument, I’m talking about a full on scouse shout-threat fest.

Because of the ridiculously hot weather we had the bedroom window open in a vain attempt of getting some cool air in our stiflingly hot flat, I awoke in the early hours with the vitriolic and caustic threats echoing reverberating down our otherwise relatively quiet and peaceful street.

When it became clear that the row wasn’t going to quieten down, and it was very likely that a fight would ensue, I decided to have a gander out of our window to see what the ‘effing hell was going on. Unfortunately because of the huge tree directly outside our window I was once again unable to have a good nose at the fracas. The noise appeared to once again be coming from the bespoke flat opposite ours- and involved the same chap who is often heard banging on the door at 5am on a Saturday morning demanding that the “stupid f**king bitch” let him in. Oddly from what we have gathered the other occupiers of the flats appear to be middle aged mild mannered law abiding citizens, yet in all the times we’ve heard row erupt we’ve never heard any one of their fellow tenants tell them to shut up.

Lisa had also awoken, and asked worriedly why no one had called the police- I suggested that someone probably has but as per usual with these situations they won’t appear until several days later. I decided to shut the window and try and get back to sleep. This did little to prevent the noise from disturbing us, but after another 20 minutes of threats and abuse, the sound of screeching tyres could be heard and a blissful silence then followed…temporarily. 4am we were once again re-awoken by further yelling which thankfully was only audible for ten more minutes. It would be fair to say that both Lisa and I were not too enamoured with them, and as we got into the car this morning Lisa joked that there was no blood on the pavement so perhaps his threats were only idle.

It was hot last night though. Another night sleeping without a duvet-which as my ole chum Ant would always cite that you don’t feel as if you’ve had a proper night’s sleep when you do this. Also I always feel a tad uncomfortable sleeping stark bollock naked with no cover to hide my modesty, especially when the curtains have blown open in the wind and you awake to see a startled looking window cleaner with a look of horror and curiosity at me and my dormant apparatus with his foamy rag in his hand. Oddly this happens now on a more than regular basis, and you like to think that I could perhaps wear some clothing to stop this flesh thirsty pervert from molesting me with his eyes- or perhaps report him to the police as we’ve never hired a window cleaner and thinking about it, I was never sure why he had a camera with him. Perhaps I shall end up a denim cut off clad ‘Nevernude’ like Tobias in Arrested Development. Speaking of which, the actor who plays Dr. Tobias Funke in the show, David Cross has a really good website which I urge you dear reader to investigate.

http://www.bobanddavid.com/david.asp

Other than the excellent Arrested Development I wasn’t aware of him or anything he’s done, but he’s actually brought out a few CD’s of his stand up –released on Sub Pop Records. It’s not the funniest stand up routine I’ve ever heard but its still pretty darned funny all the same- a particular favourite moment of mine when referring to his friends entering the throngs of parenthood:

“you think having a child is hard work!? Trying to convince your girlfriend to have her third consecutive abortion- that’s hard work!”

Anyway- I’ve posted two summery (ish) tunes for your pleasure and feeling guilty about it I’ve included two nasty pieces of work – if that’s more your type of thing. (apologies for the obvious connections)


Arrested Development-Tennessee


Silver Jews-Tennessee.


Twat – John cooper Clarke


Grumpy old men- Jegsy Dodd & the Original Sinners

mostly testicles, eyeballs and hoofs

I left the flat yesterday afternoon to head over to Manchester for a ‘meeting’ with Dave, our Record Comp Head Honcho with ‘tother members of our little beat combo. I had no particular reason to suspect that I would return several hours later with a belly full of San Miguel. Not that I didn’t assume that perhaps a couple of beers would be consumed by the other band members, but after yet another shocking revelation from my dear old friends at Halifax Bank earlier during the day, that I had once more exceeded my large overdraft limit- I therefore didn’t have a penny to my name. As a man who’s moral fibre consists of being too proud- well too embarrassed, to accept charity, I’d hoped that I could enjoy a odd glass of water, or even perhaps a solitary beer be offered by those kind hearted folks in the band. Yet when we arrived at the rendez-vouz point, a Spanish bar/restaurant off St. John Street, Manchester who’s name escapes me, I reluctantly accepted a beer. It then became apparent that good ole Dave was to provide food an beer for us all and the Dinny Skog ensemble…Pete, Guy, Gina, Scottie et al. How marvellous I thought as I sipped on a ice cool beer straight from the bottle and engaged in my usual pointless and non-sensical ramblings.

A good night was had by all despite my alcohol fuelled conversations and a minor beer spillage incident. I was also informed by both kloot’s Pete Jobbo’ and Steve; little tips of deleting websites on my ‘history’ that one would not want one’s other half to see, should that occasion ever arrive.

The festivities certainly made up for what, until that moment, had been a thoroughly irksome and miserable day. As mentioned above, I was yet again embroiled in another rant over the phone to my bank over their blatant disregard of human rights. Well actually that’s a tad harsh, but they had once more let me down. To add to my woes, I’d decided to go for a stroll to a local Texico garage in order to withdraw my last £10 (or so I believed) in order to buy some soup that should keep me stocked up for my lunch provisions. Upon the revelation that I had indeed exceeded by agreed overdraft limit, I trudged back in the ‘effing blazing hot sunshine to the cool surroundings of my office. It was 1pm, and I was pretty darned hungry, but too pissed off with my fiduciary problems to worry about how I would eat.

I distracted myself by watching footage from the Henry Rollins Show which I discovered the previous week. His US show has already had a fine roster of bands performing, and happily you can watch these performances by the miracle of the internet http://henryrollins.ifc.com/episodes/shelter.jsp?episode_id=0008 Watching footage of Dinosaur Jr and Death Cab for Cutie momentarily eased my pain but it wasn’t long before long my stomach felt incredibly and un-naturally void of substance. The two weetabix accompanied with sour and thoroughly unpleasant milk, which I’d had the misfortune to eat as my breakfast, seemed a hell of a long time ago. I decided the best course of action would be to drink as much tea as I could. This worked in the short term and prevented me from keeling over at my desk however I was pissing like a racehorse. At 4.15pm I decided that enough was enough and drove home in my excruciatingly hot soon to be ex-car for food and provisions.



Anyway, today I ensured that I wouldn’t be left to go hungry again and planned to bring a selection of fruit for my lunch. Alas, I forgot it. Thankfully I noticed my gaffe on route to work and Lisa thankfully provided me with £1 so I could get some food. How did it come to this?

This lunch time I idly strolled around the near by Stanley Foods looking to get the most for my solitary pound. After much deliberation I eventually settled on a Cross & Blackwell tin of Spaghetti Bolognaise wrongly assuming that you can’t go wrong with it.




I sat at my desk with a steaming bowl of it in front of me I closed my eyes and it was as if I was in Italy, all I needed was some parmesan cheese, red wine and a rude waiter. Of course, it is my duty to inform you that this, as you’d imagine, was a grievous error of judgement on my part. As I sit here writing these here blog, I can feel the re-constituted meat- no doubt cow offal containing mostly testicles, eyeballs and hoofs; eroding its way through my poor old body. My porr old Grandma made the finest spaghetti known to man –followed closely by both of my parents- perhaps I’d just been spoiled. No doubt it won’t be long before I hurriedly squirm my way to the toilet and dispense of last night’s tapas. I think I actually preferred yesterday’s predicament as surely pissing like the aforementioned race horse has got to be better than shitting like a chocolate fed puppy.

I enclose this picture to serve a reminder to me that I really ought not to be that stupid again. Ho hum.

No more Mr. Whingey

Well it’s funny how and hour of cycling in the sunshine listening to my MP3 player, a splendid dinner of lasgne (including my own patented home made lasagne sheets) and a good night’s sleep can improve one’s outlook on life. No more Mr. Whingey. I unequivocally apologise for moaning like I did in my last blog. I was weak and depressed. The lack of World Cup entertainment had a sad and profound effect on me, I assure you that no one was as surprised as I when I found myself in the pits of despair over my financial short comings, however I am happy to point out this ‘glitch’ has now passed and it’s business as usual.

I knew I was back to my old self when I found myself rolling my eyes and sticking the V’s in the direction of the TV when another cavalcade of terrible adverts ensued. Being relative novices to the world of non-terrestrial television I must report my dismay at the amount of poor quality commercials that are shown on these channels. Notably there has been an insurgence of piss poor breakfast cereal adverts for no reason. One of the main culprits was my old ‘favourite’ Sheddred Wheat Bite Size advert- you know the one with the annoying teenager who says “Sarah’s mum …” http://www.visit4info.com/static/advert_pages/33708.cfm?back_page=advertiser_pages/NestleProductsRange.cfm whilst the mother looks no- plussed at her daughter’s enthusiasm towards her friend’s dear old mum. I’d hoped that this advert had died painfully, but alas it is my sad duty to report that it lives on in the world of UKTV Gold. This shameful display of trying to convey to us viewers the healthy properties of the cardboard flavoured roughage is literally ‘too annoying’ to watch. Surely the mum after hearing all these toe curling comments about how Sarah’s mum is so cool- does she not tell the daughter to “Shut the f**k up!” whilst she tried to eat her breakfast? It also begs the question “just how great is Sarah’s mum?” Who is this woman of which the advert is based around- and if she is so wonderful, the why didn’t the folks at Nestle use her for the advert?

The more excruciatingly bland advert is the couple- Tony & Helen http://www.visit4info.com/details.cfm?adid=33806 who display their adulation for weetabix. “Today I’m eating my Weetabix with Blueberries and Yoghurt” Who gives a flying f**k? Can you imagine trying to eat a weetabix with yoghurt? How painfully dry would this be. Wheatabix- my stable breakfast cereal since the eighties should be enjoyed as the weeabix bunch (see above pic) intended- with lots of effing milk! God this couple annoy me. It’s done in that irritating video diary manner with their bland boring looking home wearing a smug look on her face as she takes a bit of the cereal in her annoying hotel style dressing gown (I hate the sight of dressing gowns anyway) as she talks to the camera. Is this the lifestyle today’s couples aspire to be like? A big house, blueberries in the fridge and a skin headed husband who no doubt met her when he was a coke dealing bouncer. She can shove her f**cking Wheatabix up her arse and that’ll fill her up till lunch.

These adverts put the quasi irritating “they’re gonna taste great” Frosties advert into perspective. Granted these appear to be the only adverts on the telly that don’t refer to football in someway which I suppose can only be a good thing.

Unlike so many of my learned friends, ( it’s pronounced; “learned”) I’m never interested in the product being advertised, rather my interest lies in the entertainment values of the advert, after all it rudely interrupts my viewing pleasure so why shouldn’t they make it as stimulating for me as possible. E,g the Honda advert- you know the one with the guy dressed in the colour’s of St. George singing to the camera whilst travelling of a series of bizarre modes of transportation. http://www.adverblog.com/archives/002220.htm I love this advert- but couldn’t give a toss about the product. I’m never going to buy a Honda. I don’t like Hondas- who does? But the adverts itself fills 45 seconds of advertising space with an entertaining series of images and music. Of course this opinion has been contradicted by Mark’s blog http://slalom-speaking.blogspot.com- and although he’s correct with every thing he states, I still love it for its sheer daftness. Though it’s not as good as my current favourite: Becks Advert. Fraturing the animated man/puppet etc dancing.. Pure. Simple…gggggggrrrreat!

There has also been somewhat of a resurgence of good quality music on adverts. Long gone are the ‘Stiltskin’ and ‘Babylon Zoo’ days when no credible artist would never have one of their precious songs bastardised into a advert, but the times they have a changed. Of course it’s not all good- for example effing Moby appearing in just about every advert.

I’ve come to notice several long lost tracks being re-born on today’s advertisements. The fist such example of this was when I heard Vashti Bunyan on an Orange (I think it was Orange-see no attention to the product) commercial. The women’s music had been left forgotten about for some thirty years and now her sugary and blissful voice can be heard coming through millions of goggle boxes nation wide. A few weeks back I was sat in the flat as usual watching the TV when an advert featuring a song by the undisputed King of Skiffle Lonnie Donnigan (RIP) came on. Genuine shock and pleasure at hearing it. John Peel –the voice over to many an advert would have been thrilled I’m sure. The very next advert that came on featured the music of another old Peelie favourite Louden Wainright III’s . Alas the original song ahs been butchered and what was once ‘Dead Skunk in the Middle of The Road’ has now bizarrely become ‘Dad’s pants in the middle of his roll’ which I think is an advert for Ribena or other children’s beverage. This butchering of an original song is surely worse than the Suede track ‘Fashion’ which has been re-worked for a DFS advert. Granted I didn’t like the original either- but obviously B-r-r-r-ettt Anderson needs to pay the bills somehow.

Anyhow- I talk about adverts too much at the best of times- so I’ll let it go for the time being, after all a good weekend lies ahead, and for once I’m optimistic of its outcomes. The smell of my own flatulence has never smelt as sweet.

Whilst on a high- this track came up on my MP3 whilst cycling endlessly around Sefton park last night, man I forgot how good it was. Let’s share the love-

Holy Fuck – Cadio Bossa Nova

mo money- mo problems....my arse!

Despite my best intentions not to accelerate my decent into a miserable old c**t, I’m afraid that recent events have left me with little choice. My main point of angst of unhappiness is the fact that after spending the best part of three weeks without a penny to my name, I was paid on the 15th of this month. I was temporarily happy and relieved that after what was a torturous few weeks I was back on top. Alas, this joy was short lived after a pre cautionary check on my funds with my friendly bank who took great pleasure telling me that after this month’s rent I’ll be left with £20 until the 15th of next month. Great. Not even a week gone and I’m flat broke…again.

Checking my account I’ve spent over £800 on bills etc- and alarmingly £145 on my mobile. I assumed, nay, hoped this was an error and that a phone call to my phone provider would straighten out this oversight. After waiting on hold for the best part of 15 minutes a cheerful girl asked how she could help me. I calmly explained my predicament to her. She checked my account and asked if I’d been abroad recently? Damn it- BLOODY GERMANY! I’d spent a small fortune receiving phone calls and call my nearest and dearest. She asked if there was anything else she could do and I asked if she could lend me £145. She laughed and politely declined my suggestion. Of course after the mix up with the bank last month when I forked out £96 for my ridiculously expensive 6 month’s worth of car Tax, I was already over my £1.5K over draft by £100- plus the two £30 fines they issued me.

To make matters worse it’s my father’s birthday next week, I’m going on holiday next month and I’m supposed to go to Scarborough at the weekend for my auntie’s 50th- once again I’ll no doubt have to survive on my credit card. Right now, I just want to stay in the house drinking tap water and wait for the 15th. As much as it pains me to say- I think I’m going to bite the preverbal bullet and have to sell/get rid of my car. After all, I managed to survive without a car for 7 years; it just makes life easier now especially when going further a field that this crap hole city. Of course I’m positive that I would have got more money for it if it wasn’t for my newly acquired dent when a big bastard skip jumped out at me whilst reversing last weekend.

I know money isn’t supposed to make you happy, and invariably I never had any- although I genuinely had more money when I was a student- but it would be nice to be able to buy a CD every now and then or perhaps find the funds to get my damned haircut, get more contact lenses or even dare I say perhaps purchase some new jeans/shoes as the ones I’ve got are both on their last legs. I’ve only bought two items of clothing this year. 1. A jumper in Jan sales and 2. A Buck 65 T Shirt at the gig in May, which in all fairness is more than I’d usually buy in a year! Perhaps this folly into being a clothes’ horse has proved to be my un-doing.

I’m going to have to broach the idea of getting shot of the car and/or getting a part-time job with Lisa tonight, but with the exception of the last few weeks she doesn’t see that much of me ‘cause of band commitments so I’m sure this plan will go down like a lead balloon.

On a plus note though, I’ve continued my thinly veiled attempts of getting fit now for over three weeks which is two weeks longer than I usually can stomach. I’ve gone through this exercise malarkey many times before throughout my life. Usually it consumes my life totally for about two weeks, then sacking it off. I would like to say that 15K on an exercise bike a day and the repetitive cycling around Sefton Park have improved my disposition and my waistline. However neither has. I’ve resorted to desperate measures now and have cut cheese out of my diet and given up drinking anything other than water in the evening, which other than making me piss like a racehorse has done very little to my general disposition. With the potential loss of my car it may be the excuse I need to cycle to work- it’s only 6ish miles- it’s the sweat factor that has put me off. When/if I get myself healthy I can perhaps sell some body organs then but a new car?

What about a different career- the usual suggestion I receive from those around me when they see me despondent with my financial situation? Despite studying hard (or moderately hard) at School/6th Form/College/University I’m sadly coming round to the idea that Office Dog’s body is the fitting station in life for me- after all I did such a good job scraping tip-ex off the fax machine the other day that I must have endeared myself to the upper echelons of the Council’s hierarchy. I only went to University in order that I didn’t get an office job, but have been kidding myself that being in a band made everything okay and I have now mortgaged my future by doing so. Ho hum. I think my next plan of attack is to follow my real dream and become a professional Kick Off 2 player, showcasing my skill around schools and hospitals and taking part in the international Amiga Computer Games Tournament failing that I’m sure I’d make a great soldier….the question is how do I get in touch with the Taliban?

“We knew he had a problem- and tried to help him…I blame myself”

Well at long last, Lisa and I have finally got with them’s times and got ourselves hooked up to this thar’ internet. Not only that but we have also opted to get cable and (gulp) a telephone line. All this extra technology and stimulus hasn’t of course come without its draw backs, but aside from a few hours of my life wasted flicking through a possible 250 channels to see how many we can received-sadly it transpires that we don’t get that many- it’s cool. On a plus note, we may not get MTV, Sky Movies or any Sports Channels except the pointless Sky Sports News, we do get ‘Teachers TV’. Should you not have heard of this, then you’ll be surprised to know that it isn’t in fact a channel devoted to the Channel 4 comedy/drama ‘Teachers’, rather a guide for crap teachers who can’t devise a lesson plan or take control of their kids…(insert your own obvious witty retort here) Anyway, despite the excitement proceeding the installation it hasn’t really affected our lives in any way shape or form.. In fact, we’ve had the telephone line now since last Wednesday, and as of yet we haven’t actually received an incoming call. Perhaps it may be frugal of us to inform the assorted rag tag bunch of losers and misfits we call our friends and family what the number is- but the thought of receiving a call without knowing as to whom is calling seems too terrifying to contemplate at present.

The weekend last, was another good one. To surmise: on Saturday I watched me a lot of football and did some other stuff which at this moment escapes me. During the night we were in attendance for Janet’s birthday and headed out of the safe surrounding of Lark Lane and ventured forth to The Tavern on Allerton Road for some muchos nice-ious mexciana food-e-o, and quelle surprise I ate way too much, developed menu dyslexia (ordering a made up beer) and finally hauled myself home where I lay on the bed like a sad beached whale, and eventually after trying to remedy this situation by having a large poo, I decided being sick was my only option and thusly did so. Not a proud moment. We all have our vices; mine appears to be Chicken Enchiladas to the point of excess. As I held on to my glasses and tried to quietly puke so as not to let Lisa know of my condition, I drifted off into another Walter Mitty type death scenario, imagining the look of horror as my boss takes a call from Lisa informing him that I couldn’t say “no” to that last piece of succulent chicken dripping in cheese and sour cream. His disconsolate reply being something along the lines of “We knew he had a problem- and tried to help him…I blame myself” before the emotion of my passing got too much for him and a colleague- oh lets say Gerry, would take the phone and get the last bit a information regarding my decline and as they clear my desk of my unkempt paper work and doodles they’d find a half eaten fajita that I used to nibble on when it all got too much. Anyway, as the rather large piece of chicken that was worrying lodged in my windpipe and caused the puke s to dribble down my nose, blew out of my mouth and into our toilet I felt much, much better.

Sunday was built around the watching of the England game, which the viewing was held around our gaffe. This of course meant tidying the flat and me scrubbing the toilet to remove any traces of last night’s Technicolor yawn. The proposed idea was for the male contingency to close ranks and discuss the matters in hand on the useless manager’s selection policy and discussing a wide range of football related topics, but despite all the best intentions being made, at kick off I was surrounded by five women and Steve. Ho hum. Of course Lisa took great umbrage when I explained my need for male company during this sporting festival, as to be fair Lisa has watched/let me watch most of the games and aside from her curious repetitive questioning, it’s been good. I guess I was always destined to enjoy football on my own.


The same bad luck occurred when I was a football crazy youth, banished to the kitchen to watch the majority of the Italia 90 tournament on a small 10” black and white screen. I genuinely wasn’t aware that Holland played in Orange if it wasn’t for my weekly subscription to Shoot! Magazine. I can also remember the seething frustration of watching England’s pitiful displays in the presence of my mother, who bless her, would always ask stupid-yet naively insightful questions like “why aren’t they playing better?” or “why don’t they just pass it to Gazza?”. Obviously trying to suppress a thousand swearwords for the benefit of my mother whilst watching our National team fail to deliver at the big stage once more as had it’s worrying effects on my health and hair line.

Of the vast majority of matches I’ve attended Spurs have usually been defeated in a humble manner not befitting the team which I have followed since my Primary School days, with the exceptions of those games I went to on my own (only happened twice) or when I have only been able to get tickets for the opposition’s supporters’ end, which is as bitter sweet as it gets- to see your team play like Gods, yet you can’t jump up and down a stick two fingers up the rival supporters. Worse than that was when I last attended a Premiership game : Newcastle Utd vs. The not-so-mighty Tottenham Hotspur. I was sat with my brother and my Dad in the Newcastle end up in the nose bleed section, and we lost 4-0. Of course there is greater feeling of unhappiness than seeing your beloved team let in another soft goal and being hugged by some gap toothed Geordie Neanderthal.


It was all in consequential in the end as England won, and despite my muttered complaints it was cool to share the frustration with others especially as the obligatory watching through the fingers for the last ten minutes applied to all.