Fantasy................

Right, I've concocted a few fantasy scenarios. They'll never happen but I wish they would.

1) In the last celeb Big Brother when they had a massive argument (in which Preston was shouting "WANKER!" repeatedly at Galloway) it would have been heart warming if Preston had gone up to Barrymore and said "you soft cunt" quietly yet forcefully down his ear 'ole. At which point Rodman would have started crying & wanking & swearing.

2) If, when the argument had petered out, Preston had uttered "WANKER!" again and the whole thing had been revived.

Here's a fantasy fight:

Lieutenant Worf (from Star Trek next gen)

vs.

Tyson.

This is SO close. Me and John spent all night arriving at a conclusion, but I have finally decided that...........Tyson would win. Think about it. "Warf is trained to kill" I hear you say, to which I agree, but Warf is SLOW. Tyson was a fast mutha at his peak, and I reckon those fast fists could put Warf on his arse before you could say 'dishonour'. I'd love to see it though.

Here's another fantasy fight:

Lenny 'The Guvnor' McLean

vs.

Geoff Capes

Fuck me, I just don't know what to make of this. McLean is obviously much faster, but all Capes would have to do is get him in a bear hug and it would be game over. And if you throw tools into the mix I wager that Capes would 'get handy' with things that normal humans cannot lift. I think Capes can take a dig as well, but I just don't know. On the other hand, Capes is not a fighting man (that I know of) but Lenny is an old hand on the cobbles. It'd be so brutal. The verdict............stalemate. Lenny wouldn't be able to put down Capes but Capes wouldn't be able to make contect with Big Len.

Here's another:

Henry Rollins

vs.

George Hurley

Again, this is a tough call. And as with the last it comes down to background. Both are well built men - although I think Rollins is fitter and Hurley bigger - but all Rollins has had to deal with are those cream puff SoCal punks, whereas Hurley is noted for his pugilistic skills on the mean streets of San Pedro. This ain't no picnic. I pick Hurley. Let's be honest - these two SST veterans would have too much respect to step up to each other. But I definately think Hurley.

I'd forgotten about this Fandango tidbit...........

"We're not sure we should be promoting this but we got sent a CD upon which this lot performed autopsy style carnage on The Beatles, The Beach Boys, Charles (no, not the deathwish one, the bald bearded nutter one) Bronson's autobiography. We understand that some things are morally wrong and are essentially morally indefensible and...no let's not beat around the bush are just wrong. It's piss funny though and we haven't got a clue what they'll do on a stage so we'll be there playing with our rosaries and leave it to our readers to decide".

Of course this is the opinion of Sandman magazine. They made the classic mistake of mixing up the Fandango Boys and the Fandango BROTHERS, a Sheffield-based ZZ Top covers band. So basically the Fandango Brothers have been branded 'morally indefensible' for playing a charity gig with the aim of sending a spoffed girl to Eurodisney. Stupid bastards.

It's been said.

I'm going to have to think deeply about whether I want to carry on doing this. I was engaging my usual rant about how much I hate Myspace when someone pointed out that having a web log is perhaps even sadder and MORE EGOTISTICAL than having a Myspace page.

They're right.

The thing that bugs me most about Myspace is that nobody I have spoken to knows why they have one! I use this Blog as a form of venting, to jettison to the things that irritate me and grind me down. So it DOES have a function.

Why do people put their photos up there? For fuck's sake. Maybe I'm lucky in that don't consider myself so insecure that I need an advert for myself!

The whole idea of Myspace makes me feel sick. and I will dedicate the rest of my cyber-life to destroying it.

It's there lad. Next to your fucking box.

Kinnings. Gary Barlow.

Gary Barlow comes from Frodsham, and was actually quite close friends with my sister. He's been in our house and seen me as a little kid, the filthy bastard.

When I first passed my driving test we used to travel to his luxury home in Cuddington (about five miles from Frodsham) and terrorise him by dumping things outside his gate. These acts of mischief became known simply as 'kinnings', owing to the first object left on his property being a pumpkin. Things we left included:

A lovingly created and tasty packed lunch.
A fire extinguisher (I hurled this from a moving car, it made sparks).
A prosphetic leg inscribed with "make a wish brother".
A hockey mask.
Clothing.
A photocopier.
Home recorded tapes featuring bizarre four-part harmonies.

It was great fun, but after an entire summer of this I drove past his house to see someone stood guard talking into a walkie-talkie. Then I decided to doing it.

But someone else got the blame.

We'd recorded the aforementioned tapes in the Honeyshop Screamers old practice room, and many of the harmonies were accompanied by the manic thrashing of drums and discordant guitar. Barlow knew of a band in the local area, but not us. He made the assumption it was them that had made the tapes, and told them in no uncertain terms that he wanted the kinnings to stop!

------------------------------------------------------------------

I've got a penchant for throwing stuff from moving cars, and encoraging my friends to do the same. I highly recomend it.

Best one I've done was to throw a drum cymbal out of the drvers' window on the M62. When it caught the wind it acted like a sail and nearly snapped my wrist. I've also littered the M62 with coconut husks.

------------------------------------------------------------------

It would appear Tyson is going off the rails again. A few weeks ago he was arrested for some sort of violent disturbance, and now he's in the papers for going mental after getting dumped by his girlfriend.

I feel sorry for Tyson, he's been a victim of money.

He grew up in impoverished surroundings. Is it any wonder that as soon as he made any real money (and it was a lot of money at a very young age) he went completely mental. I mean, he was world champion and a millionaire at the age of eighteen.

At the height of his fame despite being a millionaire he STILL used to mug people.

He was destined to fuck up.

It would seem that he's one of those people who is continually accompanied by trouble, and the only thing that acted as a release from it was boxing. But his four years in prison fucked his boxing career, so now his one calling in life is over with. He simply cannot box any more. And he really needs to box because he's millions in debt and continually getting sued.

He's fucked.

And he's got nowhere to go but down.

------------------------------------------------------------------

I recently won a copy of Sting's docu-film, Bring On The Night. Oh my God.

Has anyone else seen it? I'm hooked.

What a planet-sized prick Sting was at this point in his career. I don't know how or why his backing band managed to put up with him. I certainly hope he was paying them well for their efforts.

I mean, we're dealing with an ego of epic proportion here. He comes across like some sort of evil genius, or a Bond villain. It's sick, but I can't stop watching it.

It's like he gears every moment of his life towards coming across as an ultra-serious, ultra-intelligent and ultra-cultured musical prodigy. But it makes him look so painfully fake.

I'm keen on the bit in which his band is playing full pelt in one of the numerous hallways in his Whiltshire mansion, and a guided tour is ushered through the room. And I defy anyone to see Sting don on a pair of sunglasses which feature one lense approximately fifty percent larger than the other one and not describe it as mental.

It's simultaneously the best and worst thing I have ever seen.

Definately the WORST thing I have ever seen (there's not one jot of goodness in it) is footage of the concert that Cream did at the start of the year. Clapton, Bruce and Baker reformed to play three nights at the Royal Albert Hall. It's as if they intentionally set out to make every single aspect of the gig as crap as possible. Nothing was left out. Ginger Baker reminds me of Steptoe more and more every time I see him, Jack Bruce looks like he's about it die and Clapton will always be a chopper no matter what he does.

Everything about the venture was awful, from the choice of instruments to the clothes they're wearing to the audience. I know it's a cliche to talk about dinosaurs of rock looking ridiculous as they get older, but it really is a sad spectacle.

For this concert Jack Bruce donned a frilly white shirt combined with leather trousers, and used some kind of solid-bodied viola bass that should never have even been designed. And the whole band sounded terrible.

I do feel sorry for Jack Bruce though. He is (was?) a seriously talented musician, it must have been heart breaking to see Clapton go on to be a massive star.

I've also gained a copy of Grant Hart's seminal solo album, Intolerance. Grant Hart has been cruelly short changed by the record industry. After playing in the Huskers - a very important band in the history of underground music - he also has gone on to have very little in the way of a career. But he's good. This album will take a long time to sink in as it's very weird, but I already approve of what I've heard. It sort of country influenced psychadelic pop, not at all like Huskers. Fergotron has been hounding me to buy this for ages so I'll have to gather a thorough appraisal for him.

Also been listing to Drama Of Alienation by J Church. J Church are an American indie rock band with a bit of a cult following, and somehow ended up on Honest Dons (sister label to Fat Wreck - but don't let this put you off) in the late nineties. Jesus, this album is good. I can't yet tell whether it's got any staying power but inital listenings are very encouraging.

The question is: are J Church still together?

The new Green Day DVD is a bit of a let down. Haven't really learnt anything that I didn't already know. APART FROM they recorded and released an album under the name The Network two years ago and STILL have not owned up to it! Cheeky bastards.

Speaking of let downs, I can't my head round Space Cadets. It should be good but it's not. But can't put my finger on what's missing. Maybe it would have been better if the whole thing had been compressed into one two hour long show, rather than hour long installments every night for two weeks. There's not much to keep one going to back to it every night.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Tom Byrne's abilty to recall is ridiculous. He seems to remember every detail of every conversation we have ever had.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

I heard a man bollocking another man in the gym today, it was great. I overheard the whole thing.

"8am I was knocking on your door, 8am. But you didn't answer. I'm sick of it."

By this time he has got his victim to stand in front of a mirror.

"Look at yourself, you look like a hobbit. No size and a massive stomach. Your triceps are pathetic and you've got no quads. You're a disgrace, I'm fucking sick of you."

God knows what relationship these two men have, I presume the one issuing the bollocking has taken it upon himself to turn the other into a pro bodybuilder. Maybe they're best friends but talk to each other like this all the time.

I'll never know.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Space Cadets is over. What a crock of shit! To think I went out and bought a booster ariel for the sole purpose of watching it.

I hoped that the contestants were going to go mental when confronted with the truth, but they seemed to take it in good humour. Maybe the twenty five grand each took the sting out of the whole experiement. The greedy bastards.

They must have been in terrible mental turmoil. They claim it was as if alarm bells were permanently ringing saying IT'S FAKE! IT'S FAKE! IT'S! FAKE! IT'S FAKE! but their rational minds were saying "calm down, you're in space". It must have been a continual battle between instinct and rational thought. It should imagine nobody wanted to say anything through fear of appearing stupid, and ironically the two dumbest muthafuckers of the lot were the first ones to suss it out.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

When Lennon was told that the Maharishi was asking for one weeks wages in return for spiritual guidance he said "Fuck that! No ethnic bastard is gonna get no golden castles out of me." He never paid a penny. And when Lennon discovered that Maharishi had tried it on with one of the girls in the Beatles entourage he immediately got in a taxi and started writing a song. The first line was "You little cunt. Who do you think you are?"

Lennon is my favourite Beatle. He was just so mental. Being wired by nature to be a complete maniac and then having to deal with being one of the most famous people on Earth must have properly sent him under.

Is it any wonder he lost it in later life?

Is it any wonder he pissed on nuns heads?

I suppose it's testament to Paul McCartney that he's survived this long with no real evidence of head westernisation. It's quite remarkable how infrequently he crops up in the press, seeing as he's arguably the most important song writer of all time and super famous.

Someone who DOES turn up in the press more than you'd expect is Damon Albarn. When he's not busy rolling round the street with twigs in his mouth he's carrying trays of food hoping to get a free meal.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Dave Grohl claims that during a typical Foo Fighters gig at least one member of the audience will shout "DAVE! HOW'S KURT?"

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Another mad one has started at HMV. This guy is called Anthony. I've only encountered him once so cannot summarise him fully, but today the following conversation occurred in the stock room:

(the conversation was started by Tony Winstanley, former stock room controller and long term HMV employee. A very funny man)

Tony: "Pleased to meet you mate, I'm Tony. What's your name?"

Anthony: "I'm....erm.....yes.....Anthony......if I've got all my Christmas shopping done by Thursday I'll introduce you to the family".
Jesus. First meeting!

There's another mad bastard working in the stock room called Guy. Guy suffers from a very unique illness, and it's almost possible to pinpoint what's wrong with him. Part of his illness has manifested itself as a fascination (bordering on obsession) with imported goods.
He's very unusual.

Here's a typical conversation with Guy:

Me : "Good morning Guy."

Guy : "Hi.....what's your name? I have trouble remembering names"

(we've been working together for months)

Me : "Paul."

Guy : "Paul?"

Me : "Yes"

(Guy now has a look of extreme ponderance on his face, as if he's thinking about this information so hard that he's had to shut down the rest of his thought processes to compensate)

Guy : "Did I tell you how much I got?"

Me : "How much what?"

Guy : "Vouchers for my birthday I got 300 pounds worth of vouchers, I haven't spent it all yet."

Me : "That's nice. You should buy an X-Box."

Guy : "I'm not allowed."

Me : "Right."

Guy : "Were you off last week?"

Me : "What? Off work?"

Guy : "Yes"

Me: "No"

Guy : "Yes?"

Me : "NO!"

Guy : "Did you hear that I found all those stickers?"

On so on.

A while ago the boss of the stock room was on holiday. Tony Winstanley, being a cruel bastard of a man who should know better, convinced Guy to go round telling everyone that when Eileen was due to return she was going to bend him over the bins and ram him from behind with a strap on. He then declared he was going to blow his load into his hand and throw it in her face.

The question is:

Is there some kind of quota that HMV must fill concerning the employment of mad bastards?

--------------------------------------------------------------------

What a day. What a fucking day. When I wasn't baby-sitting the temps on the fucking tills I was desperately trying to clear the massive back log of stock, whilst simultaneously getting every person in Liverpool a copy of Katy fucking Melua's latest fucking album. And it doesn't help that the mere sight of Graeme Murray is enough to start me laughing.

Seeing Graeme trying to cope with this job is marvellous.

I'm fond of the occasions in which his brain gets so mashed up that he ends up approaching customers on the shop floor and yelling "NEXT PLEASE!" as if he is still on the till. I'm also a fan of him getting abused by grime kids, especially because there is always at least four of them and they're physically massive yet still in their early teens.

The question is:

How much more can I take?

The answer is:

I don't know.

I'm trying to get through Chrissal by sheer force of will, a firm belief that I can cope with the stresses of the record buying public. But I don't think I can. Recently I've spent the days in some sort of catatonic state, almost like a trance in which I can control my actions yet am strangely detatched from what is going on. A sort of waking death.

I scared the shit out of someone by displaying more than a fleeting knowledge of Billy Cobham. Fuck me. It was pure luck, but it happened. If I was to walk into a record shop and find that the first member of staff I spoke to was conversant with the works of Baghiti Kumalo (bonus points to any readers who know who this is) I would definately shop there again. I'm so fucking good. I should be manager.

------------------------------------------------------------------

Two things of note that have happened this week:

1) Some lads thought I was on crack.
2) I tripped over a small fence.
3) Ben Jones mother said 'meteoroid'.

------------------------------------------------------------------

I'm currently reading a book entitled A Man On The Moon. It's a history of the golden era of space travel, from the first Atlas missions up to the last moon landing. Wowee, what an interesting book. I've just read a bit in which one of the last Apollo astronaughts recounts the story of a dream he had en route to the moon. Here's it is verbatim:

In a fever sleep , Duke saw himself and John Young on the moon, driving their Rover toward the North Ray crater. They came up over a ridge and suddenly Duke spotted something that made his heart race. A set of tracks crossed the ground ahead. Young stopped the Rover and they got off to investigate. The imprints in the dust looked like those from the Rover, but they were definately different. Duke asked mission control, "Can we follow the tracks?"

"Go ahead" was the reply from Earth. The twin trails stretched eastward, and Young and Deke turned to follow them. They drove onward for miles, over hills and across craters, until finally, topping another rise, they saw it: a vehicle, looking amazingly like the lunar Rover, stopped on the surface. Aboard were two figures in space suits. After calling Houston to announce their incredible discovery , Young and Deke climbed off the Rover and approached the two figures, motionless in their seats. When Deke reached the one in the right hand seat, he could not see into its helmet because of the opaque sun visor. He put out his hand and raised the visor and saw his own face. The one in the left seat was John Young's double. After taking pieces of the space suits and Rover at mission control's request, Young and Duke drove back to the LM and blasted off for home. The next thing Duke knew, he was on Earth, presenting the samples to the scientists. The test results: The craft was 100,000 years old. Then he awakened. The dream was so vivid - not scary, just REAL - that Duke remembered it from then on, and as he descended to the real moon inside Orion, he glanced out to his right at North Ray crater, and scanned the ground not only for boulders - "Looks like we're gonna make it, John; there's not too many blocks up there" -but for a set of tracks.

Can you imagine how much Duke was shitting it when he actually got to the moon?

I'd love to turn this theme into a song, but have no idea how. Maybe I should slip Morrissey a hundred quid and see what he can do. I'd be so good, a song about travelling to the moon and finding yourself already there. So chillingly Lynchian.

How the fuck are you supposed to write about space in a poetic way? It simply can't be done, and believe me I've tried.

The scientific connotations of space cannot be melded with the inherent humanity of poetic language. It really is like pushing a piano through an engine room.

Get the hell away from that thing.

Today in work a fart so awful was released that upon smelling it a customer reacted as if they had been shot.

I heard a funny story. A lad called Dean (as of today no longer a HMV employee), possibly the most naturally funny person I have ever met, told a regular customer that he'd murdered someone! The regular (an old man who is profoundly deaf and consequently does not speak, only shouts) replied "What did you go and murder someone for? Was it an accident, an act of passion?" to which Dean responded "No. It was completely cold-blooded and unprovoked."

Within ten minutes of being told this story Dean entered the staff room, lowered his trousers and whilst spreading his shit-sleeve and emitted a gas so potent I almost vomited.

Dean is a very funny man. He's noted for having huge testicles. I've not seen them, but have been reliably informed that they are the size of kiwi fruits.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

I've actually managed to LOSE weight. How can this be? This is the exact opposite of what I've been trying to do. I've taken to drinking milkshakes whenever I see them for sale, but it's having no effect. I just end up bloated from all the badness and severely dehydrated. Actually, every time I see an opportunity to eat something fattening I neck it. For example, today I'm having an entire pie (intended for four people) for dinner with salad. If I eat a pie for four every night I must get fat, mustn't it? Please Lord, please Lord, please Lord.

Maybe I should purchase some Crash Weight Gainer, as advertised in Powerlifting USA magazine. Hulk Hogan features in the advert so it must be good.

------------------------------------------------------------------

Reading a very informative book about space travel at the moment. The stuff about the early manned missions is boss, particularly the Atlas and Gemini eras of the space programme.

Did you know that the booster stage of the Atlas rockets was so flimsy that they would collapse when empty of fuel? They actually needed pressure inside them to stay turgid. Mental. It was possible to walk up to them and jab an umbrella through the hull with little effort.

The best stuff is when things went wrong. Like the time the Yanks launched a (thankfully) unmanned mission and it actually took off WITH THE LAUNCH TOWER ATTACHED. The launch tower was dragged up to three thousand feet before falling off, and NASA were shitting it about the thing landing in an inhabited area. Luckily it plunged into the Atlantic.

Or the time when the first human performed a space walk, a Russian named Titov (I think). Upon trying to get back into the ship from whence he had come he realised that his suit had expanded and he no longer fit through the porthole! Shit! He knew he was going to die anyway, so almost completely depressurised his suit to allow him to fit back onto the ship. Luckily for him it worked. Can you imagine anything worse? Just slowly suffocating in the vast vacuum of space.

I like the time that the first manned Yank mission splashed down and the entire collection of camera film from the mission was instantly destroyed. The whole lot. Gone. First ever manned space mission. Or when Neil Armstrong and Buzz Alrin managed to fry the mission video camera by pointing it directly at the sun. Bye-bye first ever video footage of the moon.

It's so weird that people have actually landed on the moon. Just stop and think about it for a moment. If I told you that there was areas of the Amazon that humans have never set foot in you'd correctly say "so what?", because it's completely possible for a human to go there. They just haven't got round to it yet. But visiting a different planet is a different kettle of fish. Before the moon landing if I heard that the Yanks were making a concerted effort to land a human on that distant ball of barren rock, I'd say codswallop. It's not possible. But they did it! To give you some scale of the distance we're talking here, picture the Earth as a basketball. To orbit the earth is to reach a point no more than an inch off the outer layer of the ball, and this is as far as humans got for years. But using the same scale the moon is the SIZE OF A TENNIE BALL AND TWENTY THREE FEET AWAY. When you imagine it like this it's quite a big thing to go to the moon, I think you'll agree.

I wonder what treasures Mars has got in store. I was thrilled when the British-sourced Mars rover failed a couple of years ago. It simply couldn't have gone wrong in a more infuriating way. After successfully landing an Mars the most hazardous and nerve-wracking part of the whole venture was over. But the relatively simple task of sending images back to Earth didn't happen. Imagine. Loads of pop stars and actors (Johnny Depp may even have got his dick in the stew) pumped money into it, there was a live TV show intended to show the first images of the Red Planet, it was all over the world's press and millions of pounds had been sunk into the mission. But there was simply nothing to be shown. Nothing. It didn't even have the glorious ending of burning up upon entry into Martian atmosphere or blowing up on the launch pad. And what's more a) they don't know what happened b) they can't exactly go up there and fix it c) there's nothing to stop it happening again d) it's fucked any future British space exploration e) it must have been very embarrassing for those at the helm, so to speak.

------------------------------------------------------------------

It would seem that as a result of the excellent documentary, the whole country is going Take That crazy. And it was a good documentary.

I've got wonderful stories of terrorising Gary Barlow, but that will have to wait till another time. Or maybe Joe can fill us in......

-----------------------------------------------------------------

When I lived on Dickenson Road in Manchester we spent an inordinate amount of time designing robots. Paul Rafferty's and Joe Tucker's were easily the best (they were the only ones who could draw), but there were some real humdingers. I distinctly remember designing one that was shaped like a hockey-puck that only had rotor blades as a means of locomotion. It had no means of moving other than flying vertically. It had a humans face, whips with hammers on the end, and despite only being created twenty minutes prior was already crying.

God we had some fun times in that house. It was one of those experiences that sticks with you for the rest of your life. A complete melting pot of mischief-prone hooligans tempered by an alarming creative streak. I have a memory of me and Tucker throwing a huge television from Cooley's window (it was a very high house, and we were at the top floor) and it sounding like a cannon firing upon hitting the floor. The next day Mr Berry (our landlord) paid a visit, saw the damage and immediately sent round his goons to clean up the mess! Miserable bastard.

On firework night we broke every rule in the book for how to handle bottle rockets. At one point we were putting rockets in closed containers, lighting the fuse, then running inside the house and watching the chaos through the window. The next day we discovered bits of glass embedded in the back door from a vase that had acted as a blast chamber for 'something really special' we had purchased from the Choudry earlier that day. Then we tied a teabag to a rocket, set it off, and watched in horror as it came to a stop on the neighbours roof (still trying to shunt itself into the ether).

I'm fond of the time Cooley and Ed snorted a load of anti-depressants. I'd left them to it and gone to bed, and upon coming downstairs in the morning found them still up. The Seroxat had really kicked in shortly after I'd bedded myself, giving them terrible visions, an almost uncontrollable urge to vomit and lock-jaw. This had gone on all night, and by the time I had found them they were on the verge of calling an ambulance. Happy days.

I'm also deeply proud of some of the japes I got up to in those days. Like the time I filled Ed's travel bag with dumbbell weights, making his train journey home much harder than it needed to be. Or the time I completely covered the aperture of Cooley's bedroom door with gaffa-tape thinking that he would be sealed inside, only to realise that he wasn't in the room. Or the time me and Joe tried to enrol Cooley in the army. Or the time me and Joe found a beaker in the back yard and immediately smashed it to bits, only to be told that Alison had put it there for a science experiment minutes before.

Me and Joe also phoned the Congo from a pay-as-you-go mobile, one of my proudest achievements to this day. I had just got a contract phone and had eight pounds worth of credit on my old PAYG so we got out the Yellow Pages, looked for interesting country codes and started dialling. I think we tried several different countries but had no joy. It was very difficult to get a connection with anywhere because we didn't know how many digits would be appropriate for a given country, but after several attempts we got through to a random number in the Congo. We kept phoning the same number over and over again, and the same fella kept answering. He sounded very tired when answering, so I reckon it must have been the middle of the night over there. I bet he didn't know what the hell was going on. After we'd got him to answer the phone for the fifth time in five minutes Joe started telling him that "I'm very British, and you must leave your country right now" or something similar. But by then the credit was gone. Gone.

It was later pointed out to me that One2One probably had to move a satellite to make that call happen, and I'd be amazed if anyone has phoned the Congo from Britain on a PAYG mobile before. It send me under when I realised that we'd got through eight pounds of credit in about sixty seconds.

Whilst living in that house I also had THE BEST argument with my girlfriend at the time. It was incredible, the single best slanging match I've ever had with a partner. It all started with me commenting that there's really no need to use butter in this day and age (which I think is true), and culminated with her throwing a cactus at me. My reaction was to smash a Lee Perry CD box set (it actually imbedded in the wall) and attempting to rip a huge radiator off. Luckily I lost heart when the thing actually started coming away from the plaster.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

As I predicted six months ago, the Futureheads have gone nowhere. Good riddance to bad rubbish.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Fantasy band

-------------

Spoons: Chuck D

Drums: Freddie Mercury

Timpani: Billy Bragg

Piano: Jon Bon Jovi

Vocals: Ornette Coleman

Fantasy boxing matches:

---------------------

Fifty Cent

vs.

Johnny Cash (Cash would win)

Hulk Hogan

vs.

Flava Flav (Hogan would win)

Freddie Mercury

vs.

Greg Ginn

James Joyce

vs.

Jaco Pastorius (Jaco would win)

-------------------------------------------------------------------

I once saw something that I simply cannot think of an explanation for. I must have been twelve years old, and was walking across the car park of the Asda near Halton Lea in Runcorn. I was with my Dad and it was snowing. We saw a man sheepishly packing snow into the boot of his car with his bare hands, but he was actually putting it into the area below the carpet where the spare wheel was (it was a red Peugeot 405). When he realised that he had been spotted he stopped what he was doing and just stood there twiddling his thumbs. Can anyone possibly explain what was going on, and why he was doing it? Why was he so worried about being seen?

--------------------------------------------------------------------

I've busted up my bike real good. I was riding down some steps and the back wheel just buckled. I've spent all week walking to and from work, and I'm blatantly going to get mugged on Princess Road before too long.

But I am getting incredibly fit incredibly quickly.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Ash have had such a strange career. I suppose they've had a similar existence to Supergrass, i.e. they got really big at an incredibly young age and then crashed back down to Earth. The difference with Ash is that they managed to revive their career few years ago whereas Supergrass have got nowhere to go but down. I never know whether or not to feel sorry for bands of this type. It must be a dream come true for your first band to get really big, but inevitably the appeal that brought you success in the first place (i.e. a youthful exuberance and naive charm) withers and dies pretty sharpish. The comedown for bands that get massive at a young age must be pretty hard to cope with, and I think that the Arctic Monkeys are going to get it really, really bad. I simply cannot fathom the success of the Arctic Monkeys, and it makes me wonder whether meritocracy in music exists at all. It also makes me doubt whether I possess the ability to recognise the difference between good and not-so-good bands.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Today a customer said "Pax & Maddy" instead of "Max & Paddy".

------------------------------------------------------------------

I really like Eminem's first album. Many of the rhymes make me laugh out loud, especially the ones in Guilty Conscience. It's such a good idea to pitch a battle between one's nihilistic desire for hedonism and feelings of guilt, especially when the opposing forces are played by Eminem and Dre (respectively). I especially like the part where Dre admits defeat and instructs Eminem to shoot two people in cold blood.

I also like Billy Cobham's debut album, Spectrum. My word could that man play drums. This particular album has been sampled shit-loads in rap circles simply because the grooves are amazing. The whole album is a mish-mash of incredibly dated synth noises teamed with unlistenable arrangements, and certain sections are avante garde in the extreme. I love it.

It just makes me sad that I can enjoy an album as eclectic as Spectrum and yet find Jaco Patorius' albums completely awful. Yes, I know he pushed forward the frontiers of electric bass playing and all that but nearly everything he has recorded SOUNDS AWFUL. Especially the Weather Report stuff. It's aged so badly that it makes one cringe to listen to it. The only stuff he's done worth listening to was when he teamed up with Pat Metheny and some drummer and played as a three-piece, and that's because it was all improv. It's possible to download recordings or this particular trio, and I suggest you do it. Now.

------------------------------------------------------------------

What the hell was Sting thinking when he formed the Blue Turtles band? His first ensemble venture post-Police featured the crème de la crème of jazz musicians of that particular era. It's so weird. Here we have nothing more than a pop musician, a pop musician whose ego is inflated enough to actually recruit members of the Marsalis family as his touring band. It's like Chris Martin going solo and teaming up with Courtney Pine.

Post-Beatles Macca did the exact opposite. He could have had any session musicians in the world yet in forming Wings used a thoroughly workmanlike band and a novice keyboard player.

------------------------------------------------------------------

I'm currently being amused by the though of Johnny Cash committing a spoonerism on stage.

Imagine. He's playing the main stage at Glastonbury in the evening, and everybody is excited. It's a beautiful evening and everybody is there watching, because they all love the Cashmaster. Cash walks out onto the stage and the crowd roars. By this time he's picked up his guitar, strapped it on and is making his way over to the microphone.

Then it comes:

"Hi! My name's Conny Jash".

I'd need therapy if I witnessed this.

Or if I saw Mike Watt and he said "What's up all you gay bastards? This song's called the vinegar strokes". Thanks Beece.

------------------------------------------------------------------
Chopper has brought out another book, the sixth instalment of a convoluted autobiography. I'll definitely buy it, even though his literary efforts get worse with subsequent offering.

Chopper One is a stone cold classic. It's a crash course in a criminal subculture that you wouldn't believe existed, a who's who of the Australian underworld from the mid sixties to mid eighties. Right up my street in other words. Chopper Two is much the same, but the stories are not quite as good. Chopper Three is also worth a read but he was clearly running out of stories at this point. Four and five should be read accompanied by the sound of barrels being scraped, if you see what I mean.

What a man. What a waste of a life.

It boggles the mind that someone can end up in an area of crime so specialised that 95% of the hardest career criminals would not even dare dabble with. By his own admission, Choppers' criminal past makes even the toughest criminal lives seem tame. He's single-handily taken control of all the massage parlours in Melbourne, been a key part in one of the most long running and bloody prison wars that the modern penal system has ever seen, been a champion street fighter, knocked people for money, run his own kidnap & torture business, been the target of dozens of contracts on his life, spent four years inside Jika Jika prison, been stabbed, shot, run over and bashed, and cut his own ears off as a way out of prison. He's also murdered twenty people and been forced to dig his own grave.

And now he runs a farm.

Another crazy criminal is Mad Frank. Frank has done forty years in prison, and is now currently in his early eighties. Nothing seems to get to him. It's as if his entire psyche is constructed to deal with the rigours are criminal life, and he NEVER CHANGES despite the harrowing experiences he's been through. This guy was in prison at such an early age that capital punishment had only just been abolished, and corporal punishment was still in full swing. In the early days of his prison life one of his favourite punishments was to be left outside semi-naked with the task of bashing a huge lump of rock with a hammer, until it was powdery enough to pass through a sieve. Can you imagine if the prison service tried something like that now?

There it goes. Look at it.

I'm writing this whilst listening to Regulate by Warren G and Nate Dogg on the headphones, so forgive me if I go ganster on yo' ass.

My favourite refrain is:

One of them dames is sexy as hell
She says "ooh, I like your style"
She says "my car has broken down and you sing real nice, would you let me ride?"
I got a car full of girls and it's going real well
The next stop is the east-side motel.

If I was writing a rap song it would go like this:

One of those girls is fit
She's says "I like your car"
She says "My bus isn't going to turn up and it's raining, can I have a lift?"
I've got a lass in the car and it's slightly awkward
The next stop is Ullet Road

-------------------------------------------------------------------

I have AT LAST got hold of Hulk Hogan's theme song, Real American. It's brilliant! I often spare a thought for the poor bastards who were hired to record this shit fifteen years ago. Imagine being expected to soulfully sing "I am a real American, fight for the rights of every man, I am a real American, fight for what's right, fight to unite!" many times over. It's the same for the people that record things for childrens toys, like teddy bears that speak when a cord is pulled. Have sympathy for the poor souls who have to pass the days recording processed voices for toy robots.

Whilst we're on the subject of wrestling, nobody ever believes me about the famous WWF match in which Hulk Hogan suffered a blazing erection mid-bout. I promise it's true.

I can't remember who he was fighting, but happened during the filming of a very important match. Upon seeing the broadcast viewers blatantly saw his prick pricking-up, and it was BIG. Children in the audience noticed and actually started crying. Hogan had to pretend he was injured and lie face down on the ring floor, whilst another wrestler was hurridly thrust into the Arena to interfere with the match and bring about a disqualification. Hogan was then stretchered out, again face down.

If you ask me it the steroids were to blame.

---------------------------------------------------------------

Tony Keenan correctly pointed out to me that unemployment shouldn't exist. Don't accuse me of stating the obvious YET, the thinking behind this statement is that ALMOST ANYWHERE YOU LOOK YOU WILL SEE SOMETHING THAT HAS BEEN CREATED/DONE BY A HUMAN AT SOME POINT. There are countless tasks which need doing. It's so true. If I glance at the walls of this room I see that not only has someone BUILT the house but has also PAINTED the wall. If I look down I see a carpet which has been manufactured and installed by men. When I look out of the window I see a street light that has been installed, a tree that has been planted and a bench that has been made and set in concrete. All by man.

Even when walking down the street the very tarmac on which which is supporting you weight has been laid by a worker many moons ago.

----------------------------------------------------------------

I was amused to read that a disgruntled Microsoft employee actually managed to include some pornography in the content of a free software CD that was shipped with thousands of computers across America. Words cannot express how much joy this brings me. Mischief on a grand, grand scale.

----------------------------------------------------------------

I tried to summarise the Fandango Lads to a work colleague today, but it's not possible to convey what the Boys are about without coming across as....I don't know.......it's just not possible full stop.

Things of interest about the Fandango Boys:

The Fandango Lads are two brothers, Pomp and Circumstance Fist. They grew up within a mile of each other but did not meet until the age of 20. Within minutes of their first meeting they agreed to unite and hatched out a game plan, and this has not been deviated from.

The Fandango Boys are fabulously wealthy.

They are keen promoters of racist boxing, as well as anti-aparteid crust gigs.

They are noble in the extreme.

They own most of the land in Bucks and Hampshire.

They absolutely hate each other, and each new record is a new battle of planted-sized egos.

They have recorded with Billy Bragg at the controls in Eminem's home studio.

They have been known to tour a circus round the country featuring animals, bare knuckle fights, football matches and the firing of cannons.

They can often be seen riding high-powered sports motorcycles incredibly fast down Harrow Road in London.

In their career they have worked with Tupac, Elton John, Jools Holland, William Orbit and Mike Tyson.

They are responsible for writing the following songs:

Take Five (performed by Dave Brubeck)
Yesterday (performed by Sir Paul McCartney)
Nothing Compares 2 U (performed by Sinead O'Connor)
California Love (performed by Dre and Tupac)

They insist on using a combination of the finest session musicians in the land and at least one complete novice, usually the drummer, so their band is continually stunted.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Changes I would make to the sort known as football:

A lion must be released onto the pitch for ten minutes in every match.

The pitch must be littered with dog turds. The first player to slip on a turd gets man of the match.

The matches must not be stopped.

Mike Tyson must play for one team.

Each and every player must wear a headset mic, and their collective voices broadcast to the venue.

Goalies must be forced to smoke.

One team must go skins.

Avril Lavigne must host all World Cup matches.

Linesmen must be dressed as WW2 pilots.

The captains must each carry a cane.

Sandals instead of boots for ten seconds out of every match.

Goldfinger by Ash must be broadcast at mind-warpingly high volume for the entire 90 minutes.

Managers must observe the match from an iced-cream van, whilst dishing out 99s to punters.

The fans must be terrorised by muggers.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

A mate of mine claims that if you drive into the back of a police car the guns in the boot go off.

The same person described paedophiles as "under-rated".

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Isn't it sick how cheeky kids are? Today a little bastard as high as my waist told me to fuck off.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

I love it when the seasonal staff start at HMV. We've got a couple of corkers already, and it's early days yet. One is now known as 'wanger sue' and colours his trainers in with highligther pen. My esteemed colleague Matt Baugh described as a "chopper". I'd say the singles counter has been blessed by getting Jimmy Fingers, so named because of his knarly till-skills. I'm also keen on Joanne because she doesn't know what the fuck is going on.

STOP PRESS - I have been informed that the A Man (like A-Team) is now manning the tills in Marks & Spencers. For those who don't know (and you probably don't) the A Man was a temp that started at HMV about a year ago, only to leave after being unceremoniously sacked in February. I've got a very, very funny memory of hearing this conversation between the A Man and a member of the security team:

A Man - "I've been sacked."

Kev - "Never mind Andy, just because you were too shit to be kept on."


It's not often a temp of that caliber passes through the hallowed halls of HMV. Me and Matt have spent an entire year reminiscing about the A Man and his current whereabouts, but NOW WE KNOW WHERE HE IS!!! This is great.

Expect more news as soon as I get it.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

My new name is P-Dollar. Or possibly P-$, I'm not sure.

One Thousand Fists and Feet

Being able the download music is frickin' boss. I seem to have got out of the habit of buying music over the past year, but downloading enables me to get whatever I want FOR FREE. I like this. And I couldn't give a hoot that the artists are getting fuck all in return for it. Not a hoot.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Nothing Compares 2 U as performed by Sinead O'Connor is raw, unadulterated emotion. I cannot think of another song that conveys a sense of longing as effectively as this ditty. This begs the question, is the quality of the song the most important factor in creating a classic, or is it down to the performer and climate in which the song is created? Is it ANY of these things?
It’s very hard to say.

But I’m sure as shit that some songs have that ‘x’ factor, a perfect fusion of writing and performance. But I think it also has a lot to do with the era in which people are made aware of the song, or in which they were written/recorded/performed.
For example, if Macca was to write ‘Yesterday’ in 2005 would it have the same cultural impact that occurred when it was released in 1965? I don’t know.

But maybe that’s a bad example.

If many soul classics (I mean stuff that has become part of the wallpaper, like Stand By Me and The Sweetest Feeling) were recorded today using the same instruments, players and equipment as used years ago they would lack the spontaneously joyous quality that the oldies have. Does this say more about recording methods in the fifties or changing tastes of the current listener?
Take Bohemian Rhapsody. It’s almost impossible to properly listen to this song because it gets used on adverts, played on the radio, repeated on Top Of The Pops and featured on Best Songs Of All Time TV programs constantly. The listener is so familiar with it that the sense of familiarity takes over any sort of musical analysis, or any sort of genuine appreciation.

Fuck me.

I guess the moral of the story is that it’s not possible to fully understand the appeal of a song unless you were there when it first became popular. But that doesn’t mean oldies can’t be enjoyed. I listen to The Beatles, Queen, Led Zep, Beach Boys and Charlie Parker
because I think their songs are bloody brilliant. But I’m also aware my reasons for liking this music are different from my parents, but what does it matter?
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Things that irritate me about my job:

1) When people enter shops they seem to lose all ability to read. On an half-hourly basis I will be stopped by a member of the public with a CD in their hand, and they will ask "has this got (insert song here) on it?" In response I usually ask them if the track listing on the reverse states the song they require, to which they will scan the writing as if they are looking at an ancient text written in a long forgotten tongue. Would you not think to actually look at the back of the CD before bothering to ask for help?

2) People cannot think for themselves. Prior to working in a record shop if I was looking for, say, a copy of Parklife I would find the section of the shop that featured rock music. Fair enough, Blur are not strictly rock music but it's a reasonable place to start. I would then look in section of that area that dealt with artists whose name begins with the letter 'B'. I would find the letter 'B' by picking an area of the racking, then follow the alphabet accordingly until I had found what I was looking for. Only when I had tried for at least ten minutes to find what I was looking for would I consider asking a sales assistant. The way I see it we're here to assist people that need help, not able-bodied bastards that are too lazy to bother looking.

3) People pick the most inopportune moment to ask for assistance. If I saw a sales assistant struggling with a three foot pile of CDs or pushing a bicycle through the shop (i.e. clearly having finished their shift) I would not ask them to be show me where something is.

4) Certain members of the public just cannot get their heads round the idea of queuing. Picture a shop counter which features more than one till. Any number will do, as long as it's more than one. Now picture one solitary sales assistant manning the counter serving a queue of people. Remember, only ONE till is manned and a queue of four or five people extends backwards from the cashier. If you were approaching this particular counter wanting to purchase something, would you ignore the queue and stand at a till that is unmanned? And then when politely asked to join the queue would you get shirty with the sales assistant and kick off about how long you've been waiting?

5) People will stand in a queue for up to ten minutes and when asked for payment act is if this is the last thing they were expecting. ONLY WHEN IT IS TIME FOR MONEY TO CHANGE HANDS will they begin the search in their rucksack/handbag/pockets for a wallet/purse. Inevitably they will have neglected to bring their credit card. Did they not think to check they had their money/card before it was necessary to hand it over?

6) People tend to hand you their credit card as if it is valuable and liable to break.
7) Despite it being around for a while now, people cannot understand chip and pin. A few weeks ago Mr Tom Byrne recounted to me the story of a customer he had served minutes before. Here’s an approximation:

(the man has put his card in the card reader correctly, it is now displaying the following)
-- -- -- --
MAESTRO UK

4.99

PLEASE ENTER 4-DIGIT PIN CODE
-- -- -- --
(this is where the story begins)

Customer: "Shit, I’ll have to put these back. I’ve only got a fiver in my account"

Tom: "What?"

Customer: "It says here (pointing at card reader) that I’ve only got a fiver left."

Tom: "No, it’s fine. The amount you can see on there is the amount that you’re about to pay for your records. We haven’t got access to your bank balance!"

Customer: "Are you sure?"

Tom: "Yes. Type it in. It will be fine."

Mental.

8) People cannot perform simple mental arithmetic. If I was buying, say, four CDs I would perform a quick calculation to roughly estimate how much the whole lot would cost. I would not queue up, let the sales assistant ring the whole lot through and then decided that it’s too expensive.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I’m currently bang into the idea of pushing a fountain off a cliff. I'm certain this can be used as a simile, but I can't think of any circumstances in which it would apply. But I must find one. I also like comparing something unpleasant to the act of tearing your own ears off.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Possible songs to be played at my funeral:

Dad’s Army theme
2001: A Space Odyssey theme
Queen – Body Language
Kiss – Girls Girls Girls
Neil Young – Welfare Mothers

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This time of year always puts me off going out. Something about the darkness in the evening wants me to spend the evenings curled up listening to Leatherface, in particular this song:
There was a time when things were evergreen
And seemingly ideal
Nights turned into day and we didn’t notice the change
No I didn’t think you were wrong
And I can still sing your favourite song
Not as simple as thanking for presents bought
Not a day goes by that I don’t spare you a thought
Not a day goes by.
Thanks Frankie.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

My word, I’ve finally been furnished with a video copy of the infamous Bill Hicks gig in which he goes mental at a heckler. Amazing. It’s not often you see a performer of Hicks’ stature lose their rag on stage, but my God it’s funny to watch. I don’t think I’ve encountered anyone that could beat Hicks in a slanging match. If he directed his ire at you you simply WOULD NOT stand a chance.

Aside from the aforementioned incident, it cracks me up when he goes on about staring at Jackie Onasis’ ass as she is trying to catch bits of her dead husbands head as they roll off the back of the limo. So tasteless.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Two funny things occurred in work today:

1) The Christmas rotas had just been handed out, and I was stood on the escalator contemplating the hellish hours I will be working over the next two months. I looked forward and noticed that the old lady stood facing directly away from me was wearing brand-new trainers that simply said "FREE TIME" on the back, in the place it would normally say Nike or New Balance. I’m not making this up, which worries me as I may actually be going insane.

2) A different old lady said ‘playboy’ instead of ‘playstation’.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I’ll miss Aussie Steve, he’s a real swell guy. But I still despise every inch of his piss-sodden Australian body.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

At the request of Mr Tucker, I’m going to write about Bronson.

For those not in the know, Charles Bronson’s real name (not the actor) is Mickey Peterson. Mickey grew up in Ellesmere Port and quickly gained a reputation as a feared local hooligan, and eventually ended up in borstal. This is where his road to achieving the title of Britain’s longest serving category A prisoner began.

Bronson, is by my reckoning, the most disruptive prisoner ever to have graced the British prison system. By his own calculations he has assaulted over fifty prison guards (not actually that much when you’ve been in prison for nearly forty years, but still impressive) and is Britain’s most prolific hostage-taker. His solution to everything is to take a hostage, even if a) the hostage is in no way linked to his gripe b) it will only make things worse c) he’s too stupid too see it through to any useful conclusion. He once imprisoned four Iraqis single-handedly and would not release them until he was supplied with a machine gun, some iced cream, a cheese sandwich and a helicopter (with pilot). Needless to say his demands were not met and he only ended up with another five years added to his hopelessly long and continually increasing sentence.

His life is littered with acts of complete stupidity, and he is under the impression that his confinement is unjustified. Every time he is released he attempts to rob a bookies or hijack a car, instantly landing him with an automatic ten-stretch upon apprehension by the (now bored) police.

He has tried in vain to demonstrate that he is a changed man. In 2003 he married a Muslim and actually adopted the Muslim faith for a short while, before getting divorced and reverting to a life of self-pity and violent tantrums. He despises fat people, released a book of physical exercises which featured a legal disclaimer advising the reader not to partake in any of the exercises contained within, has broken world records for endurance and tried to establish himself as a boxer despite having a history of violent and unprovoked attacks. And fought a dog to the death. I mean, can a person sink any lower than to fight an animal for money? It shouldn’t happen in this day and age. It’s not possible for things to get that bad. Is it?

The sad thing is that if he ever was to leave the prison system he probably would crumble under the stresses of normal life. He is so woefully out-of-touch with modern conventions that the modern world would almost certainly confuse him. Even the modern prison system confuses him.

He seems to think that he has earned the respect of the crème de la crème of Britain’s criminal elite. He’s always wittering on about how much respect he’s got for the likes of Joe Pyle, Dave Courtney and the remaining Kray and Richardson twins. But in reality they think he is an idiot and don’t understand why/how he’s managed to make himself synonymous with the key players of the golden era of British crime (remember, he’s the epitome of the chronically unsuccessful career criminal). They obviously are slightly fearful of him so tolerate his name-dropping.

I like it when he snaps and goes on a rampage inside whichever prison he is residing at the time. It doesn’t seem to happen any more, but in the mid eighties he went on the warpath seemingly every few weeks. Nobody and nothing is safe when he gets upset, and he gets upset frequently. He is keen on gaining access to the roofs of prisons, where he has been known to stay for up to two weeks living on nothing more than moss, birds eggs and rainwater. The objective of these rooftop protests has yet to be fathomed by the authorities or Bronson himself. There was a good incident in Liverpool prison in which he stripped off, blacked himself up from head to toe with boot polish, donned sunglasses (where did he get them from?) and a prison staff issue hat (worn back-to-front) and stomped round the prison brandishing a home made spear uttering "it’s all over" whilst indiscriminately destroying whatever he came across. He also had a prison governor tethered to his person with a length of rope for the entire duration.

The total cost of his four decade spell in prisons must run into the millions.

Bronson was a real headache for the government for a long time. He was too dangerous to release but kept destroying prisons and staff whilst inside. Because of his unique behaviour and relatively victimless crimes (let’s be frank – taking a hostage isn’t a victimless crime, but he’s never murdered, mugged an old lady or nonced a child) he is seen as a loveable source of amusement to the public. Therefore the government can’t let him rot. All they can do is give him what he wants, within reason, and hope that he behaves himself. Luckily he seems to have kept his nose clean in recent years, although I bet that it is only a matter of time before he takes another hostage.

Watch this space.

Up and away

Check it: for the first time in a year the Stearnebine is actually excited about doing music, and feeling good about the creative urge in general.

I don't want to turn this into an introspective rant (partly because that would be hellishly egotistical and more importantly because nobody would be interested), but let us think about the last twelve months. What the fuck happened?

I've known for ages that I'm completely sick of playing bass. She's a cruel, thankless instrument. Once you've lost the drive to try and do interesting stuff on it playing becomes a chore. I was shitting it about not wanting to play bass any more, but I've found the remedy to cure this guilt is NOT TO WORRY ABOUT IT. It's no big loss. Bass was a large part of my life for so long, but I feel now is the time to let it go. The only time I play bass now is for Tokyo (which is a pleasure just because I get to hang out with three of my best mates) but I will certainly not be playing bass in any more bands.

I'm bang into the stuff me and Keenan have been writing. This is the most gratifying music I have done for a long time, and I hope it sees the light of day at some point. It feels great not to be lashed to the slave stick of that four-stringed twat (the bass I mean, not Tony) and both sit facing each other with acoustic guitars singing our hearts out.

Jupiter: Beyond the infinite

I've finally managed to download Toy Soldiers, a pop song from a lass called Martika. Eminem famously took samples from this song for his hit by the same title. Martika's voice is sickeningly good. Why is it that the right female voice can melt the coldest male heart?

I'm also currently rocking Pearly Dewdrops Drops, a song by the Cocteau Twins. I have become aware of this song from the newly-released John Peel compilation album, and my word it's good. Echoey femals vocals swooping and hollering over a smack-ridden backing track, kind of like the Jesus And Mary Chain with Courtney Love on vocals. But better.