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

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

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"

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.

SD

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" 

Hey Bulldog

"Adele is only Rolling In The Deep because she's too fucking lazy to walk"

Yes, Comrades

Yes...well, hello. Enjoyed London. It truly is the most beautiful place I've ever been to (well, apart from Las Vegas, California, Manchester and Australia in Winter. But anywhere else? NO!) I forgot to mention a slip more ridiculous than most I've slap. Please bare it in mind in the future to automatically assume I mean T Pain or whatever that chap's name is, when I say T Dawg. Don't fully understand why that wouldn't be acceptable to call him that, but there you go!

Let's clear one thing up now - Adele is only Rolling In The Deep because she's too fucking lazy to walk. Am I right or am I right? 'You're right Sergeant Dread' thanks very much. On the topic of famous people, The Apprentice is the topic on everyone's lips (need to give their arses a chance incidentally) at the moment. Radio 1 was on for whatever reason in the Jazz Wagon today and away the Welsh DJ went, tearing the show down. You want to know what I love about Radio 1? Nothing. Not a goddamn thing. Taking humbridge I feel it only appropriate to make it known to you all - sucking cock isn't as easy as Apprentice contestants make it look. Tulisa for example isn't that great, she sucks cock at sucking cock. On the subject of the radio, if you drive along and Classic FM comes on for just a few seconds, that's all it takes to make you feel like Hannibal Lector. Don't understand? Try it.

Was in Largs on Saturday. They have steakhouses. Steakhouses! Everyone is very camp too. If you took the name Allan and referred to Allan as Camp Allan The Right Queer Gay, I don't think Allan would be anything other than flattered and call you a big silly. Maybe a goose or two for good measure. Sunday was spent wandering Coatbridge. This confirmed what I already knew to be true: place names that sound fucking great are never anything like fucking great. Coatbridge Sunnyside. Let's break that down - Sunny: full of sun, bright, colourful, cheerful, gay (in the good way, as we used to say in Primary school. Gay in the good way. I say we, I mean I) and Side: side. It was a fucking dump, didn't enjoy that very much. I sincerely hope my comments don't detract the masses and throngs of people who have seen Coatbridge Sunnyside in their holiday brochures and decided that's the holiday haven for them. That bloody Time Capsule too. Remember what we previously discussed about people saying they forgot what they were going to say and how, out of ten, helpful that was? Well myself and the mrs were met with an even less helpful response to our questions. Google Maps was having a right old chuckle at us, sending us every which way but loose. "Do you know how to get to the Time Capsule from here?" "Do you know something?" (that's another annoying question while we're on the subject. It really, really tempts one to do an impersonation of that whinging faux-Spanish bastard from Fawlty Towers. "I know nothing! I know nothing!") "Do you know something? I've lived here my whole life, and I have no idea" "Do you know what street we're on then?" "Do you know something?" "Fuck. Off. I'll ask somebody else"

We gave up and got the train home after a tantrum or two by the way. John O'Groats awaits. Onwards!

In a bit.

SD

The following is an excerpt from my Australia Journal 2008-09. N.B. From this entry onwards, I can't warn you any more. It's going to get really nasty

Monday 22nd December 2008

Shock horror! No shopping today! Went to WB Movie World. Started off with an hour long line, guest including a blonde teen with a voice for Huggies. I tried not to, I really did, but I laughed, sort of an inch from her face. Went on a Scooby coaster, a log ride, a nutty Superman rollercoaster, and saw a Shrek short in 4D (water and stuff included). The inner child nearly escaped, but I kept my posture. After dancing with Catwoman armed with a whip, I came home to Gary Glitters and Jack Dee. There was more, but the pics taken say more than I can (see Bebo or Myspace for details) James Bond films are highlighting my evenings.
"Why walk when you can run?"

Irish Heartbeat

"Nostrils, or Ms Fearne Cotton, was in front of us"

Yes, Comrades

Here lies the final entry of the London journal. It got a bit stretched as you might've noticed, but here we go.

Wednesday 21st March #2

Where were we? Street. Yes. After being underwhelmed, we made haste to Euston Station via Regents Park, on foot. Good few miles were covered. As we passed the BBC place, or a BBC place, I could've sworn Nostrils, or Ms Fearne Cotton, was in front of us. But no, just a similar arse. We reached Euston an hour and a half early, I burst a lung laughing about Captain Haddock getting launched over the room by a treadmill. Five hours of 3DS; an all-too familiar thirty minute trip and I'm home. Thoughts? Londoners are all generally well dressed, actually say "You're welcome" and it's a fucking great city.
Good to be home to moaning pissheads, Bunny Dread and that blimmin' hamster. 9:45, Dad calls asking me to drive out and get him whisky. Business as usual. Next up is John O'Groats, comrades. In less than twelve hours I'll be back at work, having fun with packaging legislation. Restrain me. Onwards!

In a bit.

SD

The following is an excerpt from my Australia Journal 2008-09. Before reading, take note - this entry has weird names and Brokeback tones


Sunday 21st December 2008

Sushi bar. Did I eat any? Comedian. Sampled wasabi and sneezed lava. Got back, and decided I've shopped enough for one millennium.  All I saw in five hours was Who posters. Came back, went to party of yuppies who used a bit much innuendo for my liking, eg "We met in the toilet" I got trapped in the toilet for half an hour, assembled a queue of bursting bladders, and then made my escape. Ozzy teens hate outsiders, three or hour more beers and I wouldn't have cared too much. Freddy has at present lost his wallet, possibly at the pictures. Mark broke up with Addellina tonight, and is doing seemingly very well, but I think I can read him now like he reads me.
"In the far off distance, I can see the lights of town"

England

"It should be renamed something like...Street"

Yes, Comrades

A lot of work is to be done, so shall we get on with this? Here is the first entry from the second day of mine and Bongo's trip to London

Wednesday 21st March #1

You currently find me on the 15:30 Virgin Train back to Shighty. Woke at half ten, gathered ourselves and our possessions, checked out for eleven and headed to the underground. Made way to Leicester Square and navigated a series of roadworks to finally find McDonald's. Who'd have thought that could be so hard? Like Pulp Fiction says, it's the little differences - the meat in that particular Big M was very meaty/juicy. "Your new Leicester Square is opening April 2012!" Bloody Hell. A famous place I can't see, the nerve. Before we got to our destination, we stopped in to an HMV. Not just any HMV - this was crazy size. They had absolutely everything, except what I was after: a certain French film known only as 'Irreversible'. "Can I borrow a fag please bruv?" "Ok, but I want it back. And he's Bruv, not me" We found Carnaby Street. It should be renamed something like...Street. It really is just a street like any other. Mocking Americans.

In a bit.

SD

The following is an excerpt from my Australia Journal 2008-09. Please be aware: I too wish I could go back in time and give me a piece of myself

Saturday 20th December 2008

Went shopping daft. Stocked up on Weller, Who and Style Council. Some Jack Dee fitted in nicely too. Mark forced a four-level burger down my throat, and though I came out trumps I was cream crackered after it. The family here worry too much about me and my wee issues. Anyway, after a raping at Mario bloody Kart, I sent big cuz to town and back via Brawl and Guitar Hero. I suppose it's taking time before we all go daft. Spent an hour looking at sea, sand, and morton baye bugs. Delectable. Wild Wood Deluxe I do not get til the big 25th, but Catch Flame is a stunner of a live album.
"If the crowd ain't there to see it, it's just another memory"

Kling I Klang

"We fell into our own category: backroom swingers"

Yes, Comrades

Simon Fowler's new album Merrymouth arrived so I'll give me two pence on that box of frogs once this London caper's all done. Oh, congratulations to Mr Paul Weller for making #1 with Sonik Kicks. Here's the third entry.

Tuesday 20th March #3

Weller gigs attract a very particular audience: burly old gents; Weller clones; not-so-nice smelling old girls and stoned hippie chic(s). We fell into our own category: backroom swingers. As promised, Sonik Kicks was played in its entirety. The cunt didn't go back beyond 2008 often: Foot Of The Mountain; From The Floorboards Up; Stanley Road and Whirlpool's End was all we got in that respect. We got a one song encore of Eton Rifles. Seriously, what the fuck? That was it?
I need to watch Rock Profile. No, but apart from being shelved at the back due to the aforementioned gorilla-like gentlemen, the setlist was very, very poor. Got a T shirt to prove to the future Dread Juniors and the dear Bunny Dread that I was in fact there. The DVD may paint the gig in a more appeasing colour, but yours truly finds himself at a loss...I've had better gigs, Paul.

In a bit.

SD

The following is an excerpt from my Australia Journal 2008-09. Disclaimer: If this causes you to want to punch a cunt, I'm not liable for nothin'


Friday 19th December 2008

I'm due to drop from shops. It's pure poo. Got the old yin Flight Sim X, Sandra fudge n coffee, also upgraded Mark's gift to Rock Band. Didn't swim today, sunburn too bad. McDonald's do double 1/4 pounders over here, Brits are really at a few losses, which could very well include me soon. Dad's still acting as my voluntarily [sic] agent, quite unnecessary, no? Got yoghurt put on my burns against my will hours ago n now I smell like a baby's inner stomach. Cheers Daddio. Think for Christmas I'm getting gear for the band(s) can't whinge there. Plenty of songs being written. Possible gig soon.
"Have you made up my mind for me?"