"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.
SD
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"
Thursday 31 May 2012
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.
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.
In a bit.
SD
No Australia journal this entry - "I have a dream" said Hitler. Wrong quote. I meant "Enough's enough"
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 |
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.
 |
| Map |
 |
| "I'm here too!" |
 |
| Don't say I never take you anywhere |
In a bit.
SD
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.
SD
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"
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.
SD
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.
SD
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?"
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.
SD
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.
SD
Australia Journal continues next entry
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.
SD
Australia Journal continues next entry
Monday 7 May 2012
Les Etoiles
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!!!
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| Elsewhere on the page was stressed "FOR MORAL PURPOSES ONLY" |
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.
SD
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"
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