"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
SD
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"
Wednesday 18 April 2012
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.
In a bit.
SD
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"
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.
SD
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. http://www.formspring.me/SDread
In a bit.
SD
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"
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. http://www.formspring.me/SDread
In a bit.
SD
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:
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:
 |
| Avalance |
 |
| Bat |
 | |||||
| Poop |
 | |
| Barrel |
 |
| Fart |
In a bit.
SD
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.
SD
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.
SD
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.
SD
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"
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.
SD
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"
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.
SD
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"
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