Sunday, 10 June 2012

When Your Garden's Overgrown

""Big cocks and vodka" came the reply"

Yes, Comrades

One thought one had hit it big. One is in one's local bakery and sees his nickname on bread loaf packaging. One is dismayed to discover the loaf actually reads 'Thick cut'. One is yours truly.

R.I.P. to the kid who died at Rock Ness. How many more reasons do you need to avoid that terrible thing? The lineup was fucking dreadful, abysmal - you'd sooner see me at Ozfest. Which reminds me, apologies if the fella following me radio show today kept to his word and played Foo Fighters. I'll never diss the Foo Fighters again. Anyway, Rock Ness. Saw someone who was 8 months pregnant was adamant to go, absolutely adamant. So apparently a baby bump wasn't going to stop her shaking her shimmy. On the subject of poor mothering, did you see that tidbit in the Herald two weeks ago? A little girl had lost her mum in Tesco. "Aw, I'm so sorry petal, we'll help you find her. What's she like?" asked the store manager. "Big cocks and vodka" came the reply. And they wonder why Britain's going down the toilet. Unbelievable.

It's the weekend. The Jazz Wagon has taken a detour into the countryside, She's revisiting the Twilight Zone again. Lost, again. We drive by a power plant and things have taken a turn for the downright bizarre, until we're back in familiar territory. A little revisit of childhood to fight through bushes back to where we parked. Not only do we play video games better as nippers, we apparently traverse forests better. It was all overgrown, nettles and shit coming out of our arses (literally. Well, almost). We eventually made it back, feeling like eight year olds. God, won't be doing that ever again.

Short and sour. If you tuned in to me show tonight, for a min or more, ta.

In a bit.


Songs Played - 10/6/12

The Prodigy - Spitfire
The Lovin' Spoonful - You're A Big Boy Now
Elvis Costello - Good Year For The Roses (request)
Pop Levi - Sugar Assault Me Now
The Go-Betweens - Streets Of Your Town
Sugar Bear - Don't Scandalize Mine
R.E.M. - Nightswimming
The Boo Radleys - I Hang Suspended
Deep Purple - Emmaretta
Erland & The Carnival - Map Of An Englishman
13th Floor Elevators - Slip Inside This House
Fleet Foxes - Montezuma
Yuck - Get Away
The Coral - Falling All Around You
The Pretty Things - Private Sorrow
Dr Hook - Sexy Eyes (request)
Neon Neon - I Told Her On Alderaan
Neil Young - Ohio
Simon Fowler - The Trees They Do Grow High
The Zutons - Valerie
Feeder - Just The Way I'm Feeling
The Beatles - Day Tripper
The Zombies - Tell Her No
Bob Dylan - Lay Lady Lay
Billy Connolly - D.I.V.O.R.C.E.

Thursday, 7 June 2012

Strange Little Girl

"One Direction and Futurama. But at least Futurama only has one Bender"

Yes, Comrades

So there's been a flood of...oh wait, no there hasn't. I was going to say there's been a flood of messages about the songs played last Sunday, but not really, a couple though. Jesus, easy. I'll play more predictable stuff next time, bugger me. And as for not playing my own material, well, I explained that. Plus, to play me own stuff and then see the radio's Facebook page and just sit there, fuming. "My God, these people, they know nothing. The pain I go through for them as an artist! How dare they!" D'you know what I mean? What would be the point? Not that I'm ashamed, Christ no. As has been said before, if I walked past a busker and he was playing one of my songs, I'd mosey on over, take his hat and tip the money into my pocket.

There was a 'pinch me' moment the other day at work. Discovered a fella I had to phone with the best name you ever did hear. Changing his first name, just on the off chance he Googles his own name - and believe me, if I were him I would, every fucking day - and gets a bit of a shock when he finds this, some vagabond slagging him off. Anyway, I swear on my Venus flytrap's life that everything after this guy's forename is real. So, this feature's Sort-Of-Nameless But Never Shameless shines the spotlight on Mr Herbert Fuk Poon. I couldn't do the call in the end, would've been like phoning a leper to ask for a facial, without laughing.

Lotta folks complaining about the Beeb's coverage of the jubilee. I concur, solely because they didn't cut Paul McCartney's performance altogether (stop playing Live And Let Die, even Roger Moore's left those days behind). I changed channels and found two programmes I wouldn't enjoy: one each on One Direction and Futurama. But at least Futurama only has one Bender. Anyway, there was further outcry about Fearne Cotton who, incidentally, may not mind being called Nostrils, but apparently she hates being called Fearney. Anyone who talks like that should be shot too incidentally. So, if you meet Fearne Cotton, add 'Camp' to the beginning of your name for five minutes. Camp David, Camp Rebecca, Camp Barack, whatever, and call her Fearney. Anyway, she was selling sick bags with Big Q Liz's face on them at the celebrations. "You can get them in red or blue, your choice. They're gorgeous" Yes, she did say that.

I just thought I'd share this with you. A conversation I saw months ago and captured cause I knew I might in future need it for a blog I might start and might maintain. It was amuse to me, people of the internet. Thoughts?

And the rest, as they say, is history...

In a bit.


The following is an excerpt from my Australia Journal 2008-09. I don't want your shitty number, and I certainly won't maybe call you.

Monday 5th January 2009

I could go a Miller High Life. Went to the creatively named 'Big Pineapple' today. Ate Macademia nuts (more please) and now know pineapples inside out. What a man of the world I am. Also spoke at length with a cockatoo, met a celebrity (the Ya Rly owl) and a kangaroo who was most placid. Then visited the biggest pub in Oz and drank nothing. 2 hours pass in the car and I'm playing World Tour with Mark. I'm better with drums than I thought. He bought a 360 Elite too. Gears of War 2 and Halo 3 bound. Not long til new Wii games. I'm just dying for my bed just now. This journal, I can't wait to finally be rid of it. 9am rise tomorrow.
"Must be the music, keeping me satisfied"

Tuesday, 5 June 2012

Slow Show

"After discussing a stripper/lapdancer called Candy (who used to be called Ian)"

Yes, Comrades

Before we get to my cabaret of cockup that was my radio show, I'd like to take you back to Friday night. Five folk, must've been about thirteen on average, sitting next to us at the train station. One was a blonde in leggings that were the American flag. First of all, what the fuck? Second of all, what the fuck? They were playing Dustbin Beaver on their cheap phones too. If I was a few years younger, I'd have been on them like shite on velcro. I'm not in my eighties. Next thing I'm in my vision of Hell: trapped in a party with MTV blaring as the music, Call Me Maybe, all that nonsense. To add insult to injury, I'm told I look like Edward Cullen. See, I'm sure you'd all agree with that, except for one thing: Most people that read this blog have met me.

So there you are. I'm feeling a bit worse for wear Sunday, so I order a pizza - a crusty supreme. They send me Diana Ross in a box. Feeling so tired it's almost trippy and psychedelic. Used to have to pay £20 to feel like that. Onwards! So the thing holding the music for my show breaks, and it's an hour til showtime. Technology, you are the bollocks. The panic came and fucking went - I'm sat in a car park with a gentleman's Mayfair, looking at a fitness club with a little sign in the window saying KA Radio. I'm going down some stairs, passing caricatures of Morrissey, Jim Morrison and The Beatles, following a voice. I walk slap bang into the studio, the guy's mid-speech. Five minutes later and I've been told what I'm doing and being slagged for liking Oasis. This seems to be a recurring thing, Oasis hatred. In any case, six o clock comes and I'm making the announcement, smacking my lips, trying to think of some shite to come out with. Now, not to spoil the magic of radio for you, for those of you who may think I was sat there with old dusty headphones from the 60s, spinning the vinyls and doing the jingles on me tod, I wasn't. We went for a smoke, and the 'magic' of radio let me play 3 songs back to back whilst we did. Proper braw. After discussing a stripper/lapdancer called Candy (who used to be called Ian), I'm back on the decks (mouse).  The worst part involved my co-host coming in after I'd explained to the listeners what the shit I was doing, so he just walked in to find me shouting "DUCK! Hello. Effin!" down the microphone. Eight o clock arrived in absolutely no time. I tell you this droogs: the power a DJ feels, it's great. It's like...if you were to go deep sea diving and ran your hand over anemones and they all retreated into their coral or whatever, it would be a similar surge of power. "Urrrrgh, they're scared of meeee!" Anyway, I'll be back on the waves regular.

The following day was spent hunting high and low for pink, fluffy, fuzzy material (don't ask) with Bunny. We covered our town, Ayr, Kilmarnock, then did our town again and found what we needed in Tesco in the form of baby blankets. So we bought two. The person serving us looked at BD's stomach and raised a suspicious eyebrow. This was made even more suspicious when we realised we might be short, so went and bought another one. "Bugger me, they work fast!" The absolute highlight of the day though, had to be when the mrs asked me what a corgiss was. Apparently Tesco were selling corggises, if you so desired a corgiss. "What you on about?" She points to a sign. "Buy corgis just like old Liz!" God help us all. Sodding corgiss...

No Australia journal this entry, got four and a half minutes of humiliation to share with you instead. Sundays 6-8 is the Sergeant Dread show from now on, fucking tops eh? I won't let it go pony.

In a bit.


Songs Played - 3/6/12

Kid Koala - Slew Test 2
Feeder - Come Back Around
Ocean Colour Scene - Mechanical Wonder
Bombay Bicycle Club - Leave It
Turin Brakes - Painkiller (Summer Rain)
The Chemical Brothers - Let Forever Be
My Morning Jacket - What A Wonderful Man
K-Klass - Rhythm Is A Mystery
Bruce Springsteen - We Take Care Of Our Own
Paul Weller - Pink On White Walls
Richard Hawley - Leave Your Body Behind You
King Harvest - Dancing In The Moonlight
Weezer - My Name Is Jonas
The Velvet Underground - I'm Waiting For The Man
Pink Floyd - The Great Gig In The Sky
Noel Gallagher's High Flying Birds - Aka...What A Life!
Melody Gardot - Mira
The La's - That'll Be The Day
The National - Mr November
Ren Harvieu - Forever In Blue
Inspiral Carpets - Saturn 5
Primal Scream - (I'm Gonna) Cry Myself Blind
Traffic - Hole In My Shoe
Arcade Fire - Black Wave/Bad Vibrations
Cast - Beat Mama
The Doors - Hello, I Love You
Echo And The Bunnymen - The Killing Moon

Thursday, 31 May 2012

A Simple Game Of Genius

"So I'm sat there, some Saturday girl spraying in my mouth"

Yes, Comrades

So I'm sat there, some Saturday girl spraying in my mouth, and there's nothing I can do. I'm sat there defenceless, thinking about the 90s, the band Cartouche and how terrible they were, and the salty flavours are swirling around my pallette. The girl's not talking much and neither can I with a mouth full of her spray. Originally she wasn't turned on, so she had to go off and get switched on then came back and let loose on me. I fucking hate the dentist. Onwards!

It did get me thinking though - what else has changed I'm not aware of? Obviously when I went to the dentist I wasn't asked to open wide like a big monster. Do they say anything like that now? To appeal to the kids I mean. Maybe it's more "Open wide and don't do very much, like Tulisa"? You can't sing to your kids "The big fire engine goes ding a ling a ling". Cause it doesn't, not anymore. You try singing "The big fire engine goes NEE! NAW! NEE! NAW!" See how your child behaves. Although nostalgia should have its limits - I saw a picture of a Mr Freeze and for Facebook Likes or fucking whatever, the poor guy had said "Like if you remember these" and whoever had put the pic up had captioned it "Everyone remembers them you idiot. You still get them. I had one yesterday, you stupid attention seeking cunt" That's about right. I wanted to discuss the following with you, dear droogs: I've been pissing and moaning of late about society's ills. Here's another. The word 'Random'. I could go on forever and a day, sha'n't. But as a general complaint, why do people make references to completely obscure stuff that is supposed to be a fucking piss laugh but no sod has any idea what they're on about? I could shout "HAPPY HAPPY! JOY JOY!" and "Powdered Toast Man!" at you and yes, it may well be a fucking scream to me, but would you have any idea what I was on about? A joke is not a joke if explained it must be. Yoda, I am not.

Keeping it short. My first radio show, which will of course be called The Sergeant Dread Show, debuts this Sunday. I'm not sharing when or on what station for one good reason: It's my first time hosting a radio show, and it's going to be a complete fucking shambles, I won't have my dear droogs consider me unprofessional for a second. So I've been studying old XFM tapes all week in preparation and expect to steal many of the jokes. It would seem I need a buffoon to bounce off, to make them look stupid and me fantastic. As such, I've asked the mrs to join me if I get another show next week. The show might get recorded - if it does and I'm happy with it, I'll share a snippet or two. If not, you'll have to wait til your Searge hits his stride. Ribbit ribbit, froggy says buy it! Isn't that hilarious? Still waiting on that text from HMV by the way.

It's that time again. Every 31st at 21 minutes to 11 we do Sergeant Dread's Monthly Mantras! On time for the first time! If you're just joining us, this is where I share the songs that have summed up the month best, with links for your ignoring pleasure.

May 2012

1. Rob Dougan - I'm Not Driving Anymore (Instrumental)
2. Neon Neon - Michael Douglas
3. Joanna Newsom - You And Me, Bess
4. Elbow - Weather To Fly
5. Pink Floyd - Learning To Fly
6. Noel Gallagher's High Flying Birds - A Simple Game Of Genius

In a bit.


The following is an excerpt from my Australia Journal 2008-09. Just say to yourself "It's just a journal. It's just a journal. It's just a journal"

Sunday 4th January 2009

Another day, another job. Woke up to helping pack all of Mark's stuff. It was tiring and all that but it was fine. After not getting a pizza we had a nice chicken pasta thingy and kangaroo steaks. They're bland and very chewy. Doubt I'd eat it again. Mark, Dad & I played Blackjack and my luck was most ropey. Then Mark and myself played some Texas Hold 'Em. Best of 3 and he won. Then back to Broad Street to watch xxPrincessPunkxx's pish, and videos of Gears of War 2, Dead Rising and other nonsense like Mega64. The close end to this holiday is very relaxed, but I can tell emotions are due to skyrocket.
"Lazin' on a sunny afternoon" 

Sunday, 27 May 2012

Learning To Fly

"Next thing he's getting us into the plane, which, with me at the helm, has just become Buddy Holly Airlines."

Yes, Comrades

What is Twitter all about? "Just picked my nose and ate it. Nutricious and delicious, taste just like chicken" Nice one? I'd buy Jack Dee's app, if it was real. The one that replies to all tweets and texts you get automatically with "So what?" If you take one look on that pisspot of useless information, those words really would work with every tweet posted. And if you're famous, you plug things and retweet plights for recruitment in finding your neighbour's missing poodle and that's it. I'm going to share this with you: I was following the hash tag - oh! That's another thing. Sergeant Dread mused..."Why do people use hash tags outside of Twitter?" Folks are on Facebook, YouTube, any of those other attention-seeking competitions, saying things like "Lost my right sock #fuckmylife" and "Anchorman 2's coming out soon! Ron Burgundy, #myarseisyourcommand" Excuse me, what the fuck are you doing? Yes, anyway. I was following the hash tag '#ThingsWomenSayThatMakeMenMad' or whatever it was, and I saw someone who went by the name of 'Chris From Coldplay'. I got curious...I clicked, expecting to see this person saying things like "Hi, it's Chris Martin, from the band Coldplay. I'm just a loser, really", "Our new single Come And Smash Me Said The Boy With The Magic Penis (Sonic Youth cover), out tomorrow! Chris Martin (from the band Coldplay)" and "'I'm just a loser, really.' says Chris Martin from the band Coldplay on Radio 1 tonight at 8!" I instead found something much more useful. In this entry's 'Nameless But Never Shameless', we look at Chris From Coldplay's Twitter, which is the prime example of your average Twitter user and the crap they say.

Their bottom tweet gets it in one
OK, now the obligatory piece of nonsense is out the way, let's get to the beef. After leaving work on Friday sweating like my mrs on Mastermind, I'm headed to a barbie. A rabbit who was called Jerry but got renamed to Thumper after Ben died was getting chased around the garden as I'm wrestling a rubber ball from a German fooking Shepherd, all the while a monster umbrella keeps falling over. What a way to go that would be, death by umbrella. Rihanna deserves that fate, for irony's sake. Regardless, we burgered and hot-dogged up and headed to the local Homebase, leaving with two of what the French call a certain...I don't know what - plants anyway, and a Venus flytrap called Sally (I killed the last ones). Then to Home Bargains, which lived up to its name - monster cans of Mountain Dew for 34p. Christ on a bicycle. Does that even cover the cost of the fuel to get the can from the States to here??? The end.

Saturday afternoon and I'm driving to town, the wind blowing in my hair, Huey Lewis And The News blaring through the aux, feeling like Evel Knievel or the Fonz or some shit. Until I actually arrived in town. See, my town is the kind of town where the locals would say something like "Whit good's the Power of Love when ye've crashed yer motor? Just you calm yerself right doon ya wee munter" if they saw you having a decent time for a second. Speaking of Huey Lewis, must share a few of my favourite conversations. I bet most of you don't even have a list of your favourite conversations, do you? Sort it out. Anyway - "Marty McFly has Parkinson's disease. He went back to the future, he never saw that coming, did he?", "Jelly. Clown. Geraniums. The Highland cow. Dara O'Brian. Plonker!" and "I thought I saw a cyclist, was actually a seagull".

Tangent over. We eventually arrived at the airspace place to do my flying lesson. A chap called Nicholas (who insisted on being called Nick) stepped out and sat us down with a solemn look on his face. There's an air of panic. "I haven't killed someone before I've even got in the fucking air, have I?" thought I. Basically it was too windy, so the flight was rescheduled for the next day. At 10:00am, no less. Off to Silverburn shopping centre. Ate at the Handmade Burger Co (if you ever get the chance to go, go. Just watch for that one Polish guy to whom everything is perfect' "Do you want chips with your meal? No? Ok perfect. Can I interest you in dandelion and burdock? Perfect!") and humiliated myself at the ice cream stand. "Cone or tub?" "Yes please"

Sunday morning arrives. Out comes Nicho - sorry, Nick - again and lets us in on a little secret: he's actually sound as a pound. Next thing he's getting us into the plane, which, with me at the helm, has just become Buddy Holly Airlines. His mouth is making jokes and my arse is making buttons. Quick as you like, we're at 20,000ft, me flying us over our houses. The hissing of the headphones gave me an excuse to ignore instructions. Dived we did, dear droogs. Not too much though, just enough to give my co-pilot and Bunny Dread a rumbly in their tumbly as Winnie The Shit might say. As fast as it happened, it's over, he's bragging about his landing and his job and we're left feeling like deities.

Next in our chain of events comes HMV. Killing time until the mrs has to go to work, I drag her in there as I always do (bought nothing, which means I must have contracted something) and on the way out comes a "Hiya. Would you like to enter a competition to win a game?" "What game?" "The new Mario game" She lets out a massive guffaw right in this poor guy's face, while myself and him stand there in stony silence, obviously missing the humour. Fuck it, in for a pound (a pound entry). Basically the idea is to wank off a Wii remote as fast as possible and try to get the fastest time over everyone else that day and you win a copy of the game. You get three gos. I take the controller and do my part. You know on Britain's Got Talent and X Factor, when the underdog sings and everyone's in complete silence due to the shock that this prick is a good singer? Something similar happened. I got the fastest time of the day, whilst they stand in total amazement at my right wrist action. I have another two gos and all's going swimmingly until he calls me a 'genetic freak' Ok, easy, you're not getting paid to insult your customers. And if you are, you can have my job for yours. "I don't mean to put pressure on you, but if you get under ten seconds in this third go...." ".......YES?!" "....Very few people get that" "...Oh fuck you, dream smasher". I've yet to get the text through telling me I won, despite having the best time of the day. To finish up though, you remember those chairs I discussed in the last entry? Assembled both of them in twenty minutes when I got back. What an ending. Good to be home to that blimmin' flytrap.


"I'm here too!"

Don't say I never take you anywhere

In a bit.


No Australia journal this entry - "I have a dream" said Hitler. Wrong quote. I meant "Enough's enough"

Monday, 21 May 2012

You And Me, Bess

"Friday can't hear you, so stop asking it to hurry up and then thanking it, you tools"

Yes, Comrades

You currently find me trawling the BBC archives of Desert Island Discs. Got me nose on and took a trip back to 1951 to listen to one of the first shows with some dame Margaret Lockwood or other. I was mainly interested to see what songs folks from them days would pick, but somewhat predictably the wireless listeners were treated to the likes of Fantasia On Greensleeves; boating songs and Tchaikovsky. You see kids, pretending you like classical music to not be square is nothing new. Which brings me to my next point - have you heard about this new game everyone's playing? I'm a bit late to the party, but the game seems to be Who Can Be The Biggest Cunt?! Jesus wept, everyone's living out that one scene from Monty Python's Flying Circus with the 'woody' and 'tinny' words. "Oh, I know what would be funny, if I just string together weird and wonderful words no cunt or their dog has heard of, I'm sure to rake in the giggles! Even if the end result makes no bloody sense at all!" Then everyone's hitting out with sentences like "It was terribly horrific" what fuckballs are you fruit loops saying? Why say 'approach', is 'go up to' not good enough? Why say 'procrastinate', is 'laze' not good enough? Why say 'I am dearly satisfactory', is 'I am a massive wank' not good enough? Stop saying big words for the sake of it, Christ almighty. Big words for small people is what I always say. Oh, and stop personifying everything too. Friday can't hear you, so stop asking it to hurry up and then thanking it, you tools.

Whew. So, weekend. BBQ - next thing, the sandbox is getting brought out. Sandcastles are being built while hearts are being broken as one builder knocks the other's castle into oblivion (how am I doing with the needlessly larger words than needed shit?). That's my cue to grab a cold burger and hit the road, Jack. Then Sunday, we're off to that Nazi furniture shop, Ikea. When I say we're off to it, I mean in search of it. My favourite words in the English language soon follow once it's established we are well and truly lost: "I'm sorry, I should have listened to you" Damn fucking skippy. We, or rather I, eventually find it and some knobend called Fraser is trying to tell me how to scan my Loki or-whatever-the-shit-it-was-called chair. I read "Please enter your card" as "Please scan again". I must admit now, I actually have a bit of a problem with reading. I'm actually not dyslexic or anything like that, what it is, I got some tests done three years ago and what they have discovered, right, is that I'm actually quite thick. "I see, thank you doctor. At least now I have a name for it" Some hours later, instruction manuals are getting tossed to the wind in a true display of manliness. At least until the inevitable words come. "THAT. FUCKING. CHAIR!! IT'S NOT WORKING! I'M AWAY!" And away I am. I signal to one of the dogs on the way out - "You sort it out. We're a team"

So ends this entry. Please next entry, get lots of readers, ok thanks, bye. I'm joking. Pricks.

In a bit.


The following is an excerpt from my Australia Journal 2008-09. If you were to ask me if this journal was worth reading and explained me to total strangers in a way only a man's insight into himself can, I'd say "No"

Saturday 3rd January 2009

No double entry. Went shopping for gifts with little to no energy in me. Got it all done and got a Who poster though. Then Mark, Charles and myself went to a CD/DVD/book sale convention thing. Got live Council, Who albums, Spencer Davis Group and decided to give the Charlatans a bash. Then back to Charles's for some Mortal Kombat Vs DC on 360. Fun. Then home to watch Slumdog Millionaire. I liked it. After chicken satay it's back to Mark's to play Spore. Again, I like it. Shame my PC is Windows BC or worse. The Flying Scotsman is quite a good film. So far this year has been nothing different, apart from a little tie-in with my sweet pea.
"Every year it's the same, and I feel it again"

Wednesday, 16 May 2012

Michael Douglas

"The words "Fuck off, knobhead!" couldn't have left our lips fast enough"

Yes, Comrades

So then I says to Mabel I says, "That's just it, it doesn't do ANYthing!" Oh ho ho! Anyway, moving on. Hello. We last spoke about my going to Manchester I believe. We didn't? Right you be. Three o clock, got the Fox's Glacier Fruits and toilet books packed and we're off on a drive, me and boss man. The course we're going to do is in Manchester and last I heard Manchester doesn't do visits, so we're off down the road, discussing people who put razor blades on flumes and sausage dogs covered in neon lights on King's Cross dancefloors. Bizarre, but true. I look at the hotel receipt and read in horror 'Double room'. It turned out not to be that. We arrive at said hotel. The steam from the shower revealed "HELP!" in the mirror, written backwards. Right, the haunted room of the Travelodge. Me arse. So we went out to Chiquitos. Was the business, even if it was Mexican food. Back to the Amityville Hotel. Lights out.

Up at the ungodly hour of 7. Had me first McDonalds breakfast for years...and for good reason. God almighty. On the way there, some feller on the radio was talking about single women mums. With my hand on my heart, I swear this is what he said. "Yes, I mean nowadays many men go on first dates with women, and all they think about now is this: 'Well, I could get a nice girlfriend out of this, but I could also get a very large tax bill" The words "Fuck off, knobhead!" couldn't have left our lips fast enough. Then he revealed who he was. Guess who he was. Go on, guess. You'll never guess. He was with the department of taxation. What did you expect me to say, Russell Brand? We passed the 'Manchester Working Class Library'. The mind was drawn to books about whistling at big titted birds properly; spitting in the Chinese you're about to deliver and being a right good chimney sweep.

We arrived at the hotel. Straight up to the 'Mezzanine Floor', feeling like James fucking Bond. So all of us are sat there, listening intently, but I can't help but keep staring at the tile on the wall that looks like Pac-Man. So the genius is rabbiting on about negotiations and higher reflective questioning and all I'm hearing is "Wacca wacca wacca". Eventually after a lunch break at Greggs, another session, I (that is, Gordon Gekko) dash to Victoria Station. The train is full, all the seats, aisles, the full shebang is packed out. We pass a Friday Street at Chorley Station, I alight at Preston and head for Glasgow. Glasgow to home. I overhear someone on the train talking to someone else on the train. I later see that it's the blonde that lives in my street, the quiet one. Always the quiet ones."What's her sister's name again?" "Donald" "Good to be home to moaning pissheads, Bunny Dread and that blimmin' hamster," I thought.

In a bit.


The following is an excerpt from my Australia Journal 2008-09. This isn't the way to Amarillo, chaps

Tuesday 30th December 2008

The background music to this entry is Out of the Sinking. I love it. Mark is probably still pleasing whoever Abby is as I write this, quite right too. So of course there were no 'pebbles on a beach' today. I got up and we gave the house a clean sweep listening to the blistering sound of the Style Council. Then I came back 'home' and just sat around watching junk on TV, with one or two internet sessions here and there. Quadrophenia came on later on as well, mad fer it! Oh the booze shopping got postponed also, I still have no idea what to get. A keg of lager might do the job, but $200 later and I'd have no money left to spoil all the bastards back home.
 "Can you see the real me, can ya?" 

Sunday, 13 May 2012

I'm Not Driving Anymore

"So there I am, another car coming at me at about 40mph and ten feet away"

Yes, Comrades

You currently find me in the midst of a nervous breakdown. Sat in the Jazz Wagon...well, actually, after all the Haçienda music that was blaring all weekend, should really be renamed the Acid Jazz Wagon. Anyway, we decided that musical legends would not be insulted in my car (particularly mistaking one's name as Paul Weather) so we dropped off the passengers and headed for the tourist trap disguised in Still Game as 'Finport', Largs. Italian dinner at Nardinis - £50. Let me just repeat that: Fifty. Fucking. Quid. For what? A bowl of olives and a steak that wouldn't satisfy my bleedin hamster. £20 for that and all. Fucking mental. Onwards! To the arcade. Twenty quid later and I'm stood screaming at the crane machine "THAT CUNTING DONKEY!" at Eeyore. You watch films like The Karate Kid and Back To The Future and the like and all the cool kids are pulling shrunken heads and gonks out the machines like nobody's business. But that's the movies. In real life, mugs like me are left potless, looking like real pricks with no skill. Horrible, horrible places.

So there I am, another car coming at me at about 40mph and ten feet away. Let me explain how I got into this little predicament. I've left my boudoir at noon, on a voyage to Don Bongo's pad. I've wound up halfway to Stirling when I realise my mistake. I double back - by this point, after travelling about fifty miles already, that I've had enough Haçienda anthems, so the car's in stony silence. I'm alone, by the way. "Ah! I realise my mistake!" (I didn't actually speak that out loud, Christ) "I'll double back again and fix it!" Sat in a McDonalds car park having a smoke, completely got myself lost for the first time. BOOF! I look in the mirror and there's a paedophile carrier there, big white van has just reversed into the idle Wagon. I immediately investigate - just a scratch, but all the same! I sit in the car, weird, smug feeling coming over me. "At least it wasn't MY fault" Out pop two shaven orangutans in Burberry. One walks up. "Mate am so fuckin' sorry. Swear tae God man, so sorry." I decided that as it was just a scratch, I was due to murder someone as it was....and I wasn't covered, mainly - to let him off with it. "Ye sure there's fuck aw rang wae it? Cheers mate, swear tae God" as he shakes my left hand. Even skin diseases come under the umbrella of 'Sharing is caring' it seems. Off he crawled and I decided to recuperate - drive home and take a different route. On the way, I exited a roundabout and boof - "He came out of nowhere". I swerved, and he beeped! Fucking wankbag superstar! But there you are. So I'm now driving through town after town after town in the pissing rain, having a whale of a time. Almost literally.

Next thing, I'm back at square one, in exactly the same spot as before: halfway to Stirling. I'll do the same as last time, I'll double back off the next sliproad. Big mistake. I'm now driving through Springburn. A glimmer of hope though. "Wait, I recognise that building. Yes, I know this place!" but the laughter quickly turned to tears as I realised exactly where I knew the area from: Billy Connolly's World Tour of Scotland. Oh good God...It's ok, I can just keep driving, eventually I'm bound to find a town sign I recognise. But no, now I'm in Bishopbriggs. Fuuuuuuck. So I doubled back again. And, well, long story short, after nearly crashing a second time due to the gears jamming whilst going up a busy motorway ramp, I packed it in and went home to strangle the first thing that communicated with me. So that was my wonder weekend. How was yours?

In a bit.


Australia Journal continues next entry

Monday, 7 May 2012

Les Etoiles

"Ladies and Germans, for a small fee, you can purchase the secret of invisibility on eBay"

Yes, Comrades

It's been a while eh? Lots to tell I'm sure, so let's go back to the weekend. The Jazz Wagon went on another magical mystery tour around the country, think she did a grand total of 150 miles or thereabouts in search of what quickly proved to be a close rival to the lost treasure of Sierra fooking Madré. We cut our losses, grabbed a trifle, a can of cream and headed up the road. Aside from getting lost (confirmed by a "Wait, this doesn't look good. Aw naw...") and driving up closed roads, the journey home went without hitch. I got said treasure later that night on eBay. It's amazing what trinkets you can buy on there. Without one word of a lie, here are just some of the things you could be the proud owner of if you shop around on eBay: a Nickelback shot glass; chocolate flavoured nipple spread; an American raccoon penis bone (fiver including postage if I remember right); used breast implants; 1960s Playboy magazines (nothing like 50 year old used porn, yes?); the biggest DVD boxset on Earth (Prisoner Cell Block H complete collection. 174 discs with 692 episodes. Each episode of that piece of piss programme is 50 mins long. That's 576 hours of Australian lesbian viewing. Holy fucking shit balls? You'd need the fucking thing on a pallet, at least! One episode a week and you'd be through it in 13 years) and, I swear on my dog's grave that I saw this, this is the pièce de résistance. Ladies and Germans, for a small fee, you can purchase the secret of invisibility on eBay. I took a little picture to prove it, if only to myself!!!

Elsewhere on the page was stressed "FOR MORAL PURPOSES ONLY"
This is all well and good of course, but one question stands out to me, dear droogs: if the secret of invisibility is to be transferred to me digitally, why can't I get it off the fucking Pirate Bay?????

In me spare time I've been songwriting, you'll be pleased to hear. I've wrote a few songs - all of which have been written solely to help me break the charts. As such, they're tailored to meet the needs of the current generation that follow and like the pop music charts. I do hope you enjoy them...

Sexy Babes (S. Dread)

I work out in the gym to make my muscles huge
Cause it attracts vaginas and massive titty boobs
I'm going to shag loads of girls tonight because they need a real man
Actually, wait a second lads, I need to wax my chest, do my hair and put on some fake tan

All the sexy babes want a piece of me
I bring the citrus to their biscuit and the sugar to their tea
Cause I'm sweeter than chocolate, you know I'm softer than sponge
So let me dip my biscuit baby, we about to have fun

Hey there sexy babes!
Do ya like Jaffa Cakes?
You don't like Jaffa Cakes?
Then go fuck yourselves, sexy babes!

Fuck yourselves sexy babes (sexy babes!)
Fuck yourselves sexy babes (sexy babes!)
Fuck yourselves sexy babes (sexy babes!)
Fuck yourselves sexy bay bay bay babes (sexy babes!)

Totes Awks FML (Totally Awkward Fuck My Life) (S. Dread)

A teenage mother sitting on a bench beside me
She's lifting up her top, please stop, she's breastfeeding her baby
Should I look? Should I stare?
Should I complain? Do I care?
Instead I ask her for a taste
Cause there's a tit that's going to waste

Her boyfriend's looking at me
And he's looking kind of angry
This is totes awks FML

A couple walking by
Are covering their children's eyes
Totes awks FML

Less messy, yes I could have been
As milk is dripping down my chin
Totes awks FML

My wife is running through the grass
Towards me. She will kick my ass
Totes awks FML

And now it's time for Sergeant Dread's Monthly Mantras! For those that missed it last time, it's a list of songs that summed up the past month best. With links for your ignoring pleasure.

April 2012
1. The Style Council - The Whole Point Of No Return
2. Omar Rodriguez Lopez - Coma Pony
3. The Kinks - Down All The Days (To 1992)
4. Feeder - Come Back Around
5. Melody Gardot - Les Etoiles

In a bit.


The following is an excerpt from my Australia Journal 2008-09. The end's in sight, of my life after I finish cringing over the following

Monday 29th December 2008

Well well, what to write. I woke, dealt with Bebo nonsense, shoved on Catch Flame and well...sat. Explored Mark's music collection with the help of a six pack of beer and a pencil, in case inspiration struck, which it did, luckily. Plenty of songs got perfected and two got a welcome to Kid's world. Come 9 o clock, the thunder storm had passed and we headed to Palmer Drive. After a heated meal and a heated argument between me and Inspector Clouseau (the father) we headed home armed with more beer and more Weller masterpieces. I'll convert Mark yet, you watch. It's beach time once more tomorrow, and booze shopping for the 31st. I'll avoid granny's perfume.
"My father couldn't stand on two feet as he lectured about morality"

Wednesday, 18 April 2012

Come Back Around

"Watching the film will be enough to cause your eyes to sprout hairs"

Yes, Comrades

You currently find me spinning a spinning top I was surprised with in a Kinder Surprise. Their big thing in the 90s was that it was three surprises in one. I spent many an hour trying to comprehend that one. Surprise #1: brown chocolate on the outside, white inside. Ok, fine, you can have that, wacky German bastards. Or whatever they are. Weird anyway. I'm joking please don't sue me. Surprise #2: the toy. Hmmm, yep, plain sailing so far. And of course here is where we reach our conundrum. Where's the third one? My wisdom over the years has told me the third surprise is that I've wasted all that fucking time try to work out what the third surprise is. I would very much like Kinder to sponsor my life support machine or at the very least pay for my funeral and gravestone as repayment. I will have one small request for them: have it carved onto my gravestone "Jesus Christ is that the time already?" or better still - put in extremely small text (so the reader has to waltz right up to it to read it) "You're standing on my testicles"

So, The Hobbit eh? Martin Freeman, Benedict Cumberbatch and Billy Connolly in one film? Christ, can you feel the manliness coming off that sentence alone? I will be going to see the film, of course, on one condition: there are at least three montages of those three lifting weights together. The potential for bromance is incredible. I imagine watching the film will be enough to cause your eyes to sprout hairs and if you're brave enough to watch the two films back to back you're sure to die of testosterone poisoning. La, so many bronouns flying around, I think I'll stop going on right now, I've said enough.

If you like that Call Me Maybe song, you're a fucking idiot. Whatever that useless chick's name is, the headlines are 'Justin Bieber's latest Canadian import' I mean, how much more do you need? A contestant on Canadian Idol. All these folk go on X Factor with a Pete Doherty haircut and reckon they've got a bit of attitude. You haven't got attitude mate, otherwise you wouldn't be on a fucking talent show would you? X Factor...that's wrong as fuck. Every winner only lasts about...six months, then they end up in rehab. That's very interesting - to see some fat idiot from Tesco convincing themselves that they're some kind of superstar. Take any one of them, any one, and I fucking guarantee this is how it'll go. "Got any songs?" "Well, not really..." "Oh" Then they realise that actually they're a fat idiot from Tesco who had one lucky day and was Simon Cowell's puppet til he got bored and cut the strings. Next they turn to drink and drugs and end up killing their own gerbils. That's amazing, but X Factor? X Factory is much better suited. Not music.

In a bit


The following is an excerpt from my Australia Journal 2008-09. Are you wanking? Are you wanking, right now? Will you get a stunning blog like this by fucking wanking?

Sunday 28th December 2008

I've made many mistakes in my life. Today I made one more. A big one. I went to the beach again. Its waves were higher, the crowd was greater, but my skill level stayed consistent. I felt more sand in my lungs and more paranoid humiliation. Then onto Surfers Paradise. A seedier area with nightclubs, strip clubs, condom shops and thunder and lightning to boot. They echoed into my already damaged-from-drowning ears. I seem to be running out of space. Good. All that followed was an evening alone for six hours eating pizza, burning discs and watching 8mm at last. Quite a lonely existence here. I felt fine this morning, but night falls and I must be a lunatic.
"Spinning through, the echoes round the sun"

Sunday, 15 April 2012

Down All The Days (To 1992)

"'Will He Bonk Ya In The Chocolate Factory?' and of course, 'The Rawshank Infection'"

Yes, Comrades

Been a mega set of days. Caught The Silence Of The Lambs Friday night. Did you? You'd have had a job I suppose, we watched it on DVD. That really is a film point five (film and a half. Get with it Grandad). Right up there with 'Chitty Clitty Gang Bang', 'Will He Bonk Ya In The Chocolate Factory?' and of course, 'The Rawshank Infection'. I caught Derek. I caught him twice actually, it's the beauty of Sky Plus. Where were you when I was a teenager watching Eurotrash??? Anyway. People of the internet, Derek is dog shit. As a comedy anyway. I've seen funnier cycling accidents. But el vino did flow that night, made one realise it works better if you treat it as a drama. Doc Martin type deal. Was interesting that Gervais didn't touch religion in it, unusual of The Chubby Funster. Give me a chance and I'll tell him this: the most succinct, accurate description of religion was told to me during a fag break in 2008, the philosopher in question said "I don't really like Jesus. Just think he was a bit of a fruitcake". And there you have it. Jesus was a bit of a fruitcake. Next!

So there I am, at the toilet door at Ardrossan ferry terminal for Arran on Saturday afternoon. "Do I go in here?" "Mmm" "Aw, just cause the other two doors" "Mmm" we used the facilities. "See you later" "....See you later?" Person #1 was me and person #2 was a dodgy wee eight-or-so-year-old boy who was a few sentences short of calling me Daddy. Gutsy little bastards these days. He didn't even wash his hands after his business. Next thing, Bunny Dread and I are wandering around a ferry bound for Arran to break my Arran virginity. We did some Fisherman's Walk thing and saw nowt but sand and smiling locals. A ballhair from Brodick Castle and we submitted to our hunger for Arran's local cuisine (we ended up getting chips and curry and chicken chow mein from the local Chinky) This is all following society paying me back for my earlier cynicism in the toilet. We're sat in a swing park, I'm trying to exit the swing park and at the same time let a young scallywag into the swing park. "It opens that way" as he opened the gate that was giving me jip. Cheeky bastard!

The car ride home was a belter. After driving onto the set of Night Of The Living Dead (see below) I'm on the way home. Not normally my preference but not bad, on goes Radio 2. Some Willy McSpeely or whatever his name was (Dave Pearce) was doing a Dance Years feature on the year 1992. The tunes were utter classics. I felt the Jazz Wagon was found wanting neon lights and a ten foot spoiler with those dance anthems blaring through the speakers. The highlight for me was SNAP! - Rhythm Is A Dancer. My old man used to sing that to me as a little nipper - "Rhythm is a dancer, Dread is a chancer" God, that one quote is worse than the entire Australia journal, is it not? Dance gets a hard time by little indie shitheads who have their very selective tastes which won't change unless one of their heroes says it's ok, but they weren't there. They weren't at the Haçienda in the late 80s, listening to acid house and acid jazz, popping Es and feeling like the only fucker in the world. Mind you, I wasn't even born, but I've bought the album (Haçienda Classics - you need to listen to it). Listening to that SNAP! song now and I just heard the following: "I'm as serious as cancer when I say rhythm is a dancer!" Oh Christ. OK, moving on.

I'm taking up a new career. I'm going to be a guy who writes television programme scripts. The Inbetweeners should never have ended, I reckon. Emily Atack needed a bigger role. When I heard the movie was the last of the show, I was inconsolable. But I've wrote a new episode and sent it to the writers of The Inbetweeners. It takes the focus off the four lads and puts Emily Ata-er, Charlotte, into the spotlight. The high school life all gets a bit much for her and she decides she needs to go away to get herself together emotionally. That's what people do on telly, get themselves together emotionally. The rest of us have to go to fucking work in the morning, you know? But they just need some time, to get themselves together emotionally. So Emi-Charlotte does this, goes away to a private island to get some time. Only to discover that the island is owned by an eccentric Scottish blog author. Do you think it'll fly? I think it's got legs myself.

I've never heard it quite put that way before
Hard to see, but it was a fucking terror

In a bit.


The following is an excerpt from my Australia Journal 2008-09. Je suis désofuckinglé. You know Google Translator reckons 'eat my ass' is the same in German as English?

Saturday 27th December 2008

Really nothing beats a lazy day...Especially one with a trip to the beach where I learned to 'bodysurf'. Felt more like drowning to me. Three hours under an overcast sky and we're back home, with promises to find a better day tomorrow. No, I'm not songwriting. Following another jam with the modfather inspiring, we got a Dominos and watched Children of Men opposed to 8mm. I may have enjoyed it more if 'Jarryd' didn't come to cure Mark's boredom and they pissed off for some 'D&M' (deep and meaningful, cheers cuz) Felt like another of those parties, I seemed transparent all over again. Am I really such daunting company?
"Push it along, I'm gonna ride the train"

Thursday, 12 April 2012

Coma Pony

"I will compose music until the day I die, then I'll decompose"

Yes, Comrades

You currently find me in the midst of two things: pissing myself laughing, which we'll get to in a bit and composing music. New music. I will compose music until the day I die, then I'll decompose. Ha! On the subject, Simon Fowler's new album Merrymouth. First things first. In fact fuck it, I'll shake it up a bit, can we have first things third please? Thank you very much. The only thing the album's got in common with Ocean Colour Scene is that there's a song from their backcatalogue on it, Over My Head. Never a more English accent was heard than Dan Sealey's - the OCS bassist - on In The Midst Of Summertime and Mr Marshall (this legend's favourite). I'm no good at this reviewing lark, so I'll say this much - Ocean Colour Scene has two sides: the rock, mod and roll of Steve Cradock and the folky, Fairport Conventionesque Simon Fowler stuff. The Kundalini Target (Cradock's first solo outing) shows his side well, Merrymouth shows Simon's well. It's a good album, can listen a fair bit without getting bored and it's really interesting seeing what one side of OCS is like without the other and how it all comes together to make one of the best rock and roll/soul/whatever you'd class the fuckers bands out there just now. But aye, as a solo record, it's a very good start. 3 and a half thumbs up of five. Poor fucker whose thumb that is.

Ricky Gervais's new pilot Derek was just on. I didn't watch it, just heard Ludovico Einaudi's Nuvole Bianche playing in the background (not a classical music woofie, don't get me wrong. Just happen to know that piece) and my God, what a panning it's getting. Disappointing shit. One thing's interesting to note la: the K man, KP, Pilkie, Little Pilkers, Head Like A Fucking Orange Karl Pilkington is exactly the same character as he is in the podcasts, An Idiot Abroad an' that (as he'd say). I wonder...

Never in the entire history of this blog have I had so little to say. Heard today they have made my childhood dreams come true. I mean, they fucking smashed them already, but they've put them back together after so many years. You can now buy Creme Eggs the size of Easter eggs. That fateful day I took my first gleeful bite into the Creme Egg expecting to be spunked on by...whatever's in those things, the goo as they evasively call it, upon my discovery I became like the egg: hollow. Eaten out. Empty. Nothing but a case of chocolate with fuck all in it but more chocolate, maybe a bag of mini Creme Eggs to soften the blow. Well, those traumatic days are over, they now have them! When I asked m'coll where, he said he didn't know. Back to square one to watch ballet where men wear trousers so tight I can work out what religion they are. Yes.

I was going to plug a film called Birdemic here, but I'm not going to, bad case of Cannabearst. Ifunowatamine (medicine). But yes, watch the following if you get a minute. If you look closely, the birds aren't real...

One last thing. Feel free to hurl abuse or questions or whatever you fookin' please here. Answers and satisfaction guaranteed, that's the SD guarantee. Lyrical prowess at its finest.

In a bit.


The following is an excerpt from my Australia Journal 2008-09. I know what reading these entries do to people. Write to me and I'll send you money to say sorry

Friday 26th December 2008

Boxing day=boxsets seemingly. Our Favourite Shop Deluxe and Weller at the BBC. $100 total. Think that's enough music for this holiday. After shopping at Sunflower Music (how very fitting) we passed a black, shark-infested river. Pointless point, but there you go. Met Mark's mates Mimi and Jo. Seem a bit sex-obsessed. Bless them. Spent four hours at a park bench discussing everything from sex to death to urine to NoAces. Denied request to play Wonderwall, sick of playing that bloody tune. Original, new songs would've been better I feel. Not too long til Hogmanay, Christ. It'll be odd. 17 and getting wrenched with 25 year old nobodies (to me at least). Roll on 2009.
"The story's still unfolding and like the river rolling"

Sunday, 8 April 2012

The Whole Point Of No Return

"There was an English pastor who preferred his tea with a flick of fag ash"

Yes, Comrades

So, the John O'Groats saga has drawn to a conclusion. Onwards!

Like that Dinah Washington song says, What A Diff'rence A Day Makes. Bank Holiday on Friday so no packaging frolics for yours truly. Polished off a bottle of wine and next thing we're down the harbour partying like it's 1704. The beauty of that phrase is you can pick pretty much any time and it works. "Let's party like it's last week!" See? "Let's party like it's now!" Not so much. It wasn't until I set foot into the abode that I realised something was amiss with the foot I had just set: wrong shoes. How's that happen? Old and new faces blurred merrily past. Found meself in a conversation talking about The Smiths for at least a solid hour before a hatred of Oasis from my fellow encyclopedia brought a lull in the conversation. Still, no one's perfect. "Complete set of Encyclopedia Britannica volumes for sale. No longer required as wife knows everything" Good crac. On the subject of funny adverts, I saw one in the paper months back that still floors me "Fishing lure for sale. 75p. No timewasters." Anyway. There was an English pastor who preferred his tea with a flick of fag ash in it, it takes all sorts to make a world so they say. There was another droog with clothing designed with pencil sharpenings in mind. See, that's just the right amount of different - meat dresses and pretending you have a second personality called Roman Polanski is just taking the fucking Hob Nob, their cheese slid off their crackers a long time ago. Next up was someone with a bit of a passing interest in the ying yang thing. Apparently she didn't agree with it completely though because there is more yang than ying in the world, particularly in her case. We never did reach a conclusion on whether that was right or not. There was a gentleman who looked so Asian I had to clarify he wasn't or I would get no sleep that night. Turned out to be a good lad. Another chap from Primark also turned out to not have a very Primark personality at all. Not that I thought he did before, but you know, how long can you work in the most boring shop in the bloody world and not pick up some of its traits? Oh, and one particular bastard who is convinced my name is Paul. You're marked.

Saturday and the Jazz Wagon is on its way to The Time Capsule, at long last. It was a scoosh, as my dear old Aunt would say. Ah, Aunt...she says some bloody stupid things. So we're in the gear, me and the mrs, doing the wave pool business and the splishy splashy. She can't swim though, it's hilarious. Her swimming is like a cross between a crawl and a doggy paddle, like a doggy crawl paddle. "Come on, make some bubbles, kick your little legs!" I'm joking, she's actually pretty good. There was one moment of sheer terror in it for me though: We're stood there at the top of the stairs for the flumes (called Lightning and Thunder. Shocking) looking out the window. I'm looking at the love of my life, and she's looking back at me. "I love you" I whisper tenderly, looking at her with all the adoration and respect she deserves. Then some geezer stands near her, looking her over, like he has a few ideas. Every fibre of my being was screaming "Get away from my car, you cunt!" But he wandered off and I braved Thunder, the purple one. Then off to Silverburn, which was shut. Fuck it, had to come here for something, so I got me one and only middle class vice: olives out the delicatessen. A short drive and home.

Easter dinner was nice today, had everything from ham to chicken to sprouts to chicken quiffs to bird arses, was unshiftable by the end.

There are champions in this world, brothers and sisters. Unspoken heroes who deserve more recognition for their achievements. Today I'd like to talk about one of them: me. You've heard of Draw Something? Well, there's a PC variant, Draw A Thing. Could they make their titles any more fucking moronic? Click Your Mouse Button; Look At Screen; Jump On That Bad Fella's Head And He'll Die...all coming 2013. Anyway, yes. First time playing and I'm dominating, eleven victories in a row against a total of about 15 people. Tell me that's not absolutely sensational. I'm the Fonz of drawing games, stand back. Some of my masterpieces:

In a bit.


The following is an excerpt from my Australia Journal 2008-09. If you support the legalisation of suicide, like the fruity shitbat you are, send this to your local politician. I guarantee they'll legalise it then

Thursday 25th December 2008

Christmas time, videos and Stella. Cliff Richard's a wanker. Got Bose earphones, Who stickers, a mini DVD player, aftershave, a Bond poster, an Oasis DVD, edible gear and all the stuff mentioned before. Weirdest Christmas yet, normally I'm not putting on aftersun or eating both pork and turkey. Think my presents were appreciated. Watched The Wackness and watched the empty Stellas pile up, then back to Mark's to listen to Wild Wood, play guitars and carry on with my Summer Heights High omnibus. Disappointed to say it didn't feel Christmassy at all, but maybe I've yet to properly understand the Oz vibe. But I must also say, I'm starting to want those ruby slippers.
"Do the fairies keep him sober for a day?"

Tuesday, 3 April 2012

Driving South

"We actually took a detour through the Twilight Zone"

Yes, Comrades

Well, I woke in a sleeping bag with icicles for feet. There was an ice cube next to me in the bag, I threw it on a fire and it farted. There was also a second sleeping bag which appeared to be empty. Got me bearings sorted, whipped out a smoke and a little Haddock face emerged from the pupa next to me. I fucking hate people who sleep like dogs, who wake with a start when a ladybird walks across a leaf, fully alert and ready for action. Take a night off, Christ. Brief discussion of the evening's frivolities and I mustered up the courage to investigate my beloved. She turned out to be ok, Don Bongo laid there quite the thing. Not one bit of damage. The odd smattering of cheese powder, crushed receipts and ground in dirt but nothing major. Quick change of the tweeds. Onwards!

If I were being completely honest with you, really our story ends here, brothers and sisters. But I'm not completely honest. We drove to Wick, got ourselves and the Jazz Wagon the fluids we all needed to continue. This was when I discovered Wick's time freeze when the petrol station woman said "Later" to the queue in front of me and was met each time with a "Later". No music was played for the entirety of our journey, the sun wasn't out to play anymore and we were experiencing the more traditional Scottish weather. It was nice to see the scenery in two different lights though to be completely honest about it. Guess what those other two cunts did? You'll never guess. They slept for two. Bloody. Hours. That's a new rule: at least one other has to be awake besides the Captain of the ship. In their defence all I had to do was blink and they shot up (returning to what we discussed before). The hunt for McDonalds was a tiring one. We decided as we passed Inverness that as we couldn't see it from the motorway, we wouldn't bother going for a look. I've seen Inverness on telly too, every time some prick in a goofy hat visits them they have to stop and ask for directions. And they're superstars, so what chance did we have?

This seems like a good time to point out that we actually took a detour through the Twilight Zone. So that's two trips for the price of one really. You remember that stellar parking spot I blabbed on about before? Well, it was off a two way road. I will stand in front of a judge now if you like and this is what I will say "Yes, Your Honour, I can wholeheartedly swear with my hand on the good book of truth, which is a scientific textbook I'd like to remind the jury, that we did not, I repeat for sake of deaf jurors, The Rastaman Rebels did not pass that parking spot on the way home" In the words of that Bill O'Reilly cunt - you can't explain that. Neither can I. I seemed to be the only one bothered, but then those two sods slept the first leg of the journey so it was all down to me to know if we passed it or not. But we didn't and we definitely took the same route we took to get there. Answers on a postcard.

We saw the bright lights of Glasgow and felt an air of danger. Well, I did. You ever driven that road in when your gears aren't working? What a bastard. Anyway, we stopped at McDonalds in Govan (where I hasten to add there was no small change like in London at all except that they served Irn Bru). Then we dropped Bongo home and argued about our route home right up til Captain Haddock's iPhone died. Fuck.

We managed it right up til Kilmarnock where he started complaining that I never listen or some crap like that, I dunno I wasn't really paying attention. Next thing I know, I'm sat in the Jazz Wagon waiting for CH to finish being criticised by his folks so I can get home and play me some Nintendo. Travel can do that to you, just want to go from one end of the spectrum to another, which in my mind was playing video games until going to sleep before going back to work the next day. How do I do it? That'll cost. Eventually he appeared after much pacing back and forth to contain the boredom on my part and I took him to his place of residence. Bit of an anticlimactic ending, I know, but what did you expect? I went to the Chocolate Kingdom and was named a hero? Good to be home to moaning pissheads, Bunny Dread and that blimmin' hamster.

No Australia blog this time. Introducing a new thing for the moment. Haven't got a fixed name for it yet. For now, this is Sergeant Dread's Monthly Mantras. At the end of every month, I'll pick the ten (or less) songs that summed the month up best and share them with you for your ignorant pleasure. So, here goes...

March 2012
1. The Beatles - Hey Bulldog
2. Arcade Fire - Keep The Car Running
3. The Smiths - London
4. Cat Power - Keep On Runnin' (Crawlin' Black Spider)
5. Paul Weller - Kling I Klang
6. The Stone Roses - Driving South
7. The National - England
8. The Jam - Set The House Ablaze
9. Billy Connolly - Irish Heartbeat [originally by Van Morrison but don't let that put you off]

The last tune is the big one. This is a one off, I won't do this soppy lyrics bollocks again but this one time I feel it's appropriate after about a month of the blog.

Paul Weller - Empty Ring

Careful not to end up fighting no one
Still battling on when all your enemies are gone
Making you look dumb and stupid
In an empty ring

What would it matter to you
If the punch you always planned was right there in your hand
No one there to see it land
In an empty ring

The taste of fear and fortune
The smell of toil and sweat
But if a crowd ain't there to see it
It's just another memory, just another memory
In an empty ring

Words of wisdom fail you
In the time it takes to fall
But if a crowd ain't there to see it
It's just another memory, just another memory
In an empty ring

Will the world to listen to you
Still battling on
When all your wars are won
You just don't know when to give up, do you?
In an empty ring

In a bit.


Monday, 2 April 2012

Set The House Ablaze

"It was at this point I learned Stroma is the Gaelic for hypothermia"

Yes, Comrades

Arrived at John O'Groats, right? We continue. After confirming that yes, we were indeed there, we headed straight for the ice cream parlour. I'm not kidding. In the Northernmost point of the bloody country? Absolutely. It's bound to work! It almost seemed too easy to buy a cone for the sake of irony, didn't bother. Great air of solitude in what has been called the most dismal town in Scotland (never argue with Wikipedia), we'd stepped straight into The Wicker Man. We got our priorities straight and asked the local - well it couldn't be one of the locals, she was the only one - where the nearest pub was. We were directed to 'de onlee poob in John O'Groats' and as we walked away it struck me to ask what seemed like a question we didn't really require the answer to - "Where's the camp site?" It didn't open til the next day. How typical can you get? It's like typical Tom and his typical son said a typical thing from their typical home in Typicalsville, USA. Luckily Don Bongo had done his homework and we were well on the way to the other campsite half a mile down the road: Stroma View.

A dodgy Englishish (no typo) chap took our money and told us where to go, in every way. Remember you thought it was cold round your way a couple of months ago? No it wasn't. We set up the tent and it was at this point I learned Stroma is the Gaelic for hypothermia. Fucking. Freezing. You could actually breathe though, which was a plus. With the benefit of foresight on our side, we decided to walk to the pub, the Seaview Hotel. A point I raised later: they're the only hotel in the town, in the middle of this dreary tourist trap, that's the name they've went for? They could've called it anything from Josef Fritzl's Haunted Maze to Hannibal Lector's Masterchef Maison to Stephen Hawking's Football Boots, but they went for something that was not only boring, but misleading. You could barely see the sea from the place.

We toasted to our success and decided to try our hand at darts. Big mistake. After one of the locals spoke to us (yes, spoke! I know, I was fucking aghast too), we learned how the electronic scoreboard worked and were well on the way. Until myself and Captain Haddock crossed on the darts front. This couldn't be a good recipe. He won, but he hadn't been logging the score properly, supposedly. Even if he had been he'd still have won, but Bongo contested this. Jesus Christ Superstar, darts players should never fight as a rule - they were proper going mental at each other as I sat back in stitches. Eventually after realising we'd been mocking the locals all night, we thought it best to get our heads back in, or rather out of the game.

The drinks poured, the pool table was set up. It was that night I discovered my talent for pool, dear droogs. Bongo potted the black and I took the gold. As he set up again, the locals began biting back. "Shut the fuck up before I throw this pool ball off your fucking head" "You'll throw the pool ball off my maw?" I could feel my IQ dropping listening to DB and the druids fighting. Saw one ridiculous t-shirt there: it said "ANBG - That's bang out of order!" Those stupid shirts are bollocks, and I'll tell you something else - they're put about by the same people who laugh at my shoes! Bastards!

The pub was about to shut, so I made a friendly enquiry as to where to continue the drinking. I was pointed across the hall, outside the pub and to a function room. "Thanks very much" Spoke too soon. The three of us walked straight into some local lass's 21st. Oops. Oh well! The drinking continued, we blended in like amateurs in an Ed Wood feature. Here are just some highlights - a dodgy old gent trying to sell me his late wife's beamer for £1000; Haddock talking to a dead guy and to be honest, I haven't the foggiest idea what happened to Bongo, he flirted back and forth from the bar to the smoking area to halfway down the road home (?). Eventually CH approached me, DB in tow, and told me we had to leave cause a guy had died that night. I peeked in the window as we staggered off - the party was over at 2am, no one died. Was wondering why everyone seemed so cheerful if someone had just croaked/snuffed/shagged it.

We got back to the campsite eventually, each of us dying for a smoke, so we went in the car to get one. "I'm so sorry, I sold them to a dead guy on a horse" said the least sober of the three of us. We got one eventually. Those two crashed in the car (for want of a better phrase), I got out me sleeping bag and wandered to the tent. Wasn't sleeping in there after paying for a tent spot, no sirree bob. So I left the other Rastaman Rebels to their devices and after a visit from the local Blair Witch, drifted off.

Questions you should be asking yourself: What did you wake up to? Dead guy? Is Bruce Willis a ghost?
Well I'll answer one. As it turns out Captain Haddock had been engaged in conversation with a guy who had claimed to be terminally ill and as such was going to leave him all his 'gold and treasure'. Or so I was told. The rest you'll have to wait for. To be concluded.

In a bit.


The following is an excerpt from my Australia Journal 2008-09. Do you really think this is a film like Paul Blart Mall Cop? Do you think this will have a happy ending?

Wednesday 24th December 2008

Christmas eve at Wet 'n' Wild was unique. Woman in yashamac (spelling?) going down a flume - flange...Then along came a Mark for a BBQ. Morton Baye bugs aren't the nicest creatures I've ever devoured. Off to Starbucks, met Michael, we danced together and...yeah talkin' shit as usual. Pubbing it at the weekend I think. Writing live from Mark's, been watching Summer Heights High as we wrap presents and sip Stellas. I'll definitely go out like a lobby light. I'm sure back home is doing just fine just now, or they better be. Can't be expected to liven up every party. New Years with cuz and 2 or 3 mates. Ahoy!
"As long as you come back, that's all that really matters"

Sunday, 1 April 2012

Keep The Car Running

"A white wig, Tunnock's caramel wafers and a baby alien named Ezekiel"

Yes, Comrades

Nice weekend, that was. Joke. It was an absolute fucking blinder. Attended Bredda I's 21st on the Friday night, just meself, him, his dad and brother (or maybe that should be bredda?) and it was an overall good night, reckon he thought so too, main thing. So I woke up a bit tired - why sleep was invented when it malfunctions like that, I'll never know. Within ten minutes you found me swaggering down the high street to find Don Bongo waiting, fag and guitar in hand. Somewhat predictably, Captain Haddock slept in (just a bit to be fair) and our payphone call woke him. Halfords, then picked up the Cap. So that's the full Rastaman Rebels assembled. What was needed now, I hear you ask? A tent, sleeping bags, beer, Bacon Tastys, Cheese Balls, a white wig, Tunnock's caramel wafers and a baby alien named Ezekiel. The English one saw one of those baby aliens in a plastic egg that were all the rage in the late 90s and made me go up and pay for it. For a great deal of our car journey he sat with his sticky 'baby' who he had named Ezekiel (or Zeke for short).

We come to a grinding halt. We sat for half an hour in the Jazz Wagon, trying desperately to get Her started. She was having none of it as we sat in a very public place, praying for my car to cut us a break, just this once. Eventually as our thumbs hovered over the Phone button for the RAC, someone's Dad or a local hero, the engine went. When I say went, I mean said "Alright you bastards, I'll play tennis" Now, the complicated part was as follows: We needed petrol, but were terrified the car wouldn't start again and we'd be stuck in a bloody petrol station, even more dignity-stripping than the car park of a discount shop. None of us were sure if you could fill your baby up with the engine still running. Oh, what a dilemma. We must've charmed the old girl by this point, she started right away. Onwards!

...To Glasgow. After much ado about nothing, we were on the road to Stirling. Then to Perth. Nothing of note happened between those two places, but DB finally embraced The National via their album Alligator, albeit not completely. Many piss stops were made as we plodded along to Inverness. We stopped at a wee parking spot out the road, ate crisps, smoked, they drank their beers and I had my Powerade. Not to bang on about a bleeding parking spot, but it really was pretty sensational for what it was. Haddock sat in the back for a lot of the trip looking deep and interesting (he was actually just tired) like he was just waiting to die. Which may not have been far from sensible. But it was at this point the illegal prick hijacked my pride and joy and drove away, leaving myself and Don Bongo looking like spare pricks at a wedding. Or so his plan probably went. In a spark of genius, he tried to start the car in second gear. Stalled it. From now until the day I die, I will never forget the look on his face as he stepped out of the driver's seat and faded back into the backseat. I have just discovered tonight that I got yet another musical reference wrong in the car. I referred to 'a band called Slim Pickens and Fat Chance' I actually meant 'Ronnie Lane and Slim Chance' so I'm feeling pretty fucking stupid at present. Slim Pickens was an actor into the bargain.

I should stop now and explain a few things. First, the scenery for the entire journey was absolutely fucking stunning. If you've never been up North, go. Within five minutes of being around that sort of thing you genuinely believe you're a direct descendant of Willy Wally (big one with the claymore, Scottish guy) and want to wax lyrical like a Glasgow art student after a shot of Baileys. Second, I'm understating the length of the journey - it took from noon til half seven to get there, around three hundred and fifty miles (scarier in words instead of numbers). Thirdly, having only owned the Jazz Wagon for three months, I've had little opportunity to show it who's the bitch and who's the butch in our relationship - but on the way She reached 100mph. This is notable cause it's my 100mph cherry being popped. The inconveniently placed speed camera...well, we'll see what happens.

We arrived in Wick (ha ha ha, fucking Wick...) where they're a tad behind on the trendy lingo. Their big thing when we were there was "Later!" That was the fucking mid noughties that stopped, at best, surely? Anyway, we got some Gordons and tonic for our planned card game later that night. John O'Groats, next on the right. No feeling like driving down the final leg of the journey from Wick to our destination, bellowing The Proclaimers' I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles). Kudos to Bongo for that selection. "Welcome to John O'Groats" whispered a road sign. Woke up the Captain again and not by swerving the Wagon this time. We saw a good few signs that said that on the way to the coast, we were at no point sure when we were actually in the place. But eventually we were met with the end of the road - John O'Groats.

Chewing your teeth out to know the rest? Wait a day. To be continued.

In a bit.


The following is an excerpt from my Australia Journal 2008-09. Lest ye want to revert back to virginity, dinnae read the fallawin'......

Tuesday 23rd December 2008

Another more emotion-based entry I'm afraid, largely due to the fact that I did bugger all today. Woke up, went on PC, swam, did short musical entry into Australia, shopped for nothing, got pissed, watched Jay Leno and all stops inbetween. Oaft. Gig went fine, naturally the nerves played up. One or two girls had a pop at the aftermath, but nah, if there's one thing I'm not it's a cheat. Jay Leno, or his writers at least, are funny fuckers. Should tune in more often. Aunt Sandra said my music is shite, I WAS LISTENING TO PAUL FOOKING WELLER! Oh aye, she got a long silence and a death stare for that remark. Christmas eve tomorrow, bloody Hell, I should really buy a present.
"I only want you, I only need you, my one bright star"