""Big cocks and vodka" came the reply"
Yes, Comrades
One thought one had hit it big. One is in one's local bakery and sees his nickname on bread loaf packaging. One is dismayed to discover the loaf actually reads 'Thick cut'. One is yours truly.
R.I.P. to the kid who died at Rock Ness. How many more reasons do you need to avoid that terrible thing? The lineup was fucking dreadful, abysmal - you'd sooner see me at Ozfest. Which reminds me, apologies if the fella following me radio show today kept to his word and played Foo Fighters. I'll never diss the Foo Fighters again. Anyway, Rock Ness. Saw someone who was 8 months pregnant was adamant to go, absolutely adamant. So apparently a baby bump wasn't going to stop her shaking her shimmy. On the subject of poor mothering, did you see that tidbit in the Herald two weeks ago? A little girl had lost her mum in Tesco. "Aw, I'm so sorry petal, we'll help you find her. What's she like?" asked the store manager. "Big cocks and vodka" came the reply. And they wonder why Britain's going down the toilet. Unbelievable.
It's the weekend. The Jazz Wagon has taken a detour into the countryside, She's revisiting the Twilight Zone again. Lost, again. We drive by a power plant and things have taken a turn for the downright bizarre, until we're back in familiar territory. A little revisit of childhood to fight through bushes back to where we parked. Not only do we play video games better as nippers, we apparently traverse forests better. It was all overgrown, nettles and shit coming out of our arses (literally. Well, almost). We eventually made it back, feeling like eight year olds. God, won't be doing that ever again.
Short and sour. If you tuned in to me show tonight, for a min or more, ta.
In a bit.
SD
Songs Played - 10/6/12
The Prodigy - Spitfire
The Lovin' Spoonful - You're A Big Boy Now
Elvis Costello - Good Year For The Roses (request)
Pop Levi - Sugar Assault Me Now
The Go-Betweens - Streets Of Your Town
Sugar Bear - Don't Scandalize Mine
R.E.M. - Nightswimming
The Boo Radleys - I Hang Suspended
Deep Purple - Emmaretta
Erland & The Carnival - Map Of An Englishman
13th Floor Elevators - Slip Inside This House
Fleet Foxes - Montezuma
Yuck - Get Away
The Coral - Falling All Around You
The Pretty Things - Private Sorrow
Dr Hook - Sexy Eyes (request)
Neon Neon - I Told Her On Alderaan
Neil Young - Ohio
Simon Fowler - The Trees They Do Grow High
The Zutons - Valerie
Feeder - Just The Way I'm Feeling
The Beatles - Day Tripper
The Zombies - Tell Her No
Bob Dylan - Lay Lady Lay
Billy Connolly - D.I.V.O.R.C.E.
Sunday, 10 June 2012
Thursday, 7 June 2012
Strange Little Girl
"One Direction and Futurama. But at least Futurama only has one Bender"
Yes, Comrades
So there's been a flood of...oh wait, no there hasn't. I was going to say there's been a flood of messages about the songs played last Sunday, but not really, a couple though. Jesus, easy. I'll play more predictable stuff next time, bugger me. And as for not playing my own material, well, I explained that. Plus, to play me own stuff and then see the radio's Facebook page and just sit there, fuming. "My God, these people, they know nothing. The pain I go through for them as an artist! How dare they!" D'you know what I mean? What would be the point? Not that I'm ashamed, Christ no. As has been said before, if I walked past a busker and he was playing one of my songs, I'd mosey on over, take his hat and tip the money into my pocket.
There was a 'pinch me' moment the other day at work. Discovered a fella I had to phone with the best name you ever did hear. Changing his first name, just on the off chance he Googles his own name - and believe me, if I were him I would, every fucking day - and gets a bit of a shock when he finds this, some vagabond slagging him off. Anyway, I swear on my Venus flytrap's life that everything after this guy's forename is real. So, this feature's Sort-Of-Nameless But Never Shameless shines the spotlight on Mr Herbert Fuk Poon. I couldn't do the call in the end, would've been like phoning a leper to ask for a facial, without laughing.
Lotta folks complaining about the Beeb's coverage of the jubilee. I concur, solely because they didn't cut Paul McCartney's performance altogether (stop playing Live And Let Die, even Roger Moore's left those days behind). I changed channels and found two programmes I wouldn't enjoy: one each on One Direction and Futurama. But at least Futurama only has one Bender. Anyway, there was further outcry about Fearne Cotton who, incidentally, may not mind being called Nostrils, but apparently she hates being called Fearney. Anyone who talks like that should be shot too incidentally. So, if you meet Fearne Cotton, add 'Camp' to the beginning of your name for five minutes. Camp David, Camp Rebecca, Camp Barack, whatever, and call her Fearney. Anyway, she was selling sick bags with Big Q Liz's face on them at the celebrations. "You can get them in red or blue, your choice. They're gorgeous" Yes, she did say that.
I just thought I'd share this with you. A conversation I saw months ago and captured cause I knew I might in future need it for a blog I might start and might maintain. It was amuse to me, people of the internet. Thoughts?
In a bit.
SD
The following is an excerpt from my Australia Journal 2008-09. I don't want your shitty number, and I certainly won't maybe call you.
Monday 5th January 2009
I could go a Miller High Life. Went to the creatively named 'Big Pineapple' today. Ate Macademia nuts (more please) and now know pineapples inside out. What a man of the world I am. Also spoke at length with a cockatoo, met a celebrity (the Ya Rly owl) and a kangaroo who was most placid. Then visited the biggest pub in Oz and drank nothing. 2 hours pass in the car and I'm playing World Tour with Mark. I'm better with drums than I thought. He bought a 360 Elite too. Gears of War 2 and Halo 3 bound. Not long til new Wii games. I'm just dying for my bed just now. This journal, I can't wait to finally be rid of it. 9am rise tomorrow.
"Must be the music, keeping me satisfied"
Yes, Comrades
So there's been a flood of...oh wait, no there hasn't. I was going to say there's been a flood of messages about the songs played last Sunday, but not really, a couple though. Jesus, easy. I'll play more predictable stuff next time, bugger me. And as for not playing my own material, well, I explained that. Plus, to play me own stuff and then see the radio's Facebook page and just sit there, fuming. "My God, these people, they know nothing. The pain I go through for them as an artist! How dare they!" D'you know what I mean? What would be the point? Not that I'm ashamed, Christ no. As has been said before, if I walked past a busker and he was playing one of my songs, I'd mosey on over, take his hat and tip the money into my pocket.
There was a 'pinch me' moment the other day at work. Discovered a fella I had to phone with the best name you ever did hear. Changing his first name, just on the off chance he Googles his own name - and believe me, if I were him I would, every fucking day - and gets a bit of a shock when he finds this, some vagabond slagging him off. Anyway, I swear on my Venus flytrap's life that everything after this guy's forename is real. So, this feature's Sort-Of-Nameless But Never Shameless shines the spotlight on Mr Herbert Fuk Poon. I couldn't do the call in the end, would've been like phoning a leper to ask for a facial, without laughing.
Lotta folks complaining about the Beeb's coverage of the jubilee. I concur, solely because they didn't cut Paul McCartney's performance altogether (stop playing Live And Let Die, even Roger Moore's left those days behind). I changed channels and found two programmes I wouldn't enjoy: one each on One Direction and Futurama. But at least Futurama only has one Bender. Anyway, there was further outcry about Fearne Cotton who, incidentally, may not mind being called Nostrils, but apparently she hates being called Fearney. Anyone who talks like that should be shot too incidentally. So, if you meet Fearne Cotton, add 'Camp' to the beginning of your name for five minutes. Camp David, Camp Rebecca, Camp Barack, whatever, and call her Fearney. Anyway, she was selling sick bags with Big Q Liz's face on them at the celebrations. "You can get them in red or blue, your choice. They're gorgeous" Yes, she did say that.
I just thought I'd share this with you. A conversation I saw months ago and captured cause I knew I might in future need it for a blog I might start and might maintain. It was amuse to me, people of the internet. Thoughts?
 |
| And the rest, as they say, is history... |
In a bit.
SD
The following is an excerpt from my Australia Journal 2008-09. I don't want your shitty number, and I certainly won't maybe call you.
Monday 5th January 2009
I could go a Miller High Life. Went to the creatively named 'Big Pineapple' today. Ate Macademia nuts (more please) and now know pineapples inside out. What a man of the world I am. Also spoke at length with a cockatoo, met a celebrity (the Ya Rly owl) and a kangaroo who was most placid. Then visited the biggest pub in Oz and drank nothing. 2 hours pass in the car and I'm playing World Tour with Mark. I'm better with drums than I thought. He bought a 360 Elite too. Gears of War 2 and Halo 3 bound. Not long til new Wii games. I'm just dying for my bed just now. This journal, I can't wait to finally be rid of it. 9am rise tomorrow.
"Must be the music, keeping me satisfied"
Tuesday, 5 June 2012
Slow Show
"After discussing a stripper/lapdancer called Candy (who used to be called Ian)"
Yes, Comrades
Before we get to my cabaret of cockup that was my radio show, I'd like to take you back to Friday night. Five folk, must've been about thirteen on average, sitting next to us at the train station. One was a blonde in leggings that were the American flag. First of all, what the fuck? Second of all, what the fuck? They were playing Dustbin Beaver on their cheap phones too. If I was a few years younger, I'd have been on them like shite on velcro. I'm not in my eighties. Next thing I'm in my vision of Hell: trapped in a party with MTV blaring as the music, Call Me Maybe, all that nonsense. To add insult to injury, I'm told I look like Edward Cullen. See, I'm sure you'd all agree with that, except for one thing: Most people that read this blog have met me.
So there you are. I'm feeling a bit worse for wear Sunday, so I order a pizza - a crusty supreme. They send me Diana Ross in a box. Feeling so tired it's almost trippy and psychedelic. Used to have to pay £20 to feel like that. Onwards! So the thing holding the music for my show breaks, and it's an hour til showtime. Technology, you are the bollocks. The panic came and fucking went - I'm sat in a car park with a gentleman's Mayfair, looking at a fitness club with a little sign in the window saying KA Radio. I'm going down some stairs, passing caricatures of Morrissey, Jim Morrison and The Beatles, following a voice. I walk slap bang into the studio, the guy's mid-speech. Five minutes later and I've been told what I'm doing and being slagged for liking Oasis. This seems to be a recurring thing, Oasis hatred. In any case, six o clock comes and I'm making the announcement, smacking my lips, trying to think of some shite to come out with. Now, not to spoil the magic of radio for you, for those of you who may think I was sat there with old dusty headphones from the 60s, spinning the vinyls and doing the jingles on me tod, I wasn't. We went for a smoke, and the 'magic' of radio let me play 3 songs back to back whilst we did. Proper braw. After discussing a stripper/lapdancer called Candy (who used to be called Ian), I'm back on the decks (mouse). The worst part involved my co-host coming in after I'd explained to the listeners what the shit I was doing, so he just walked in to find me shouting "DUCK! Hello. Effin!" down the microphone. Eight o clock arrived in absolutely no time. I tell you this droogs: the power a DJ feels, it's great. It's like...if you were to go deep sea diving and ran your hand over anemones and they all retreated into their coral or whatever, it would be a similar surge of power. "Urrrrgh, they're scared of meeee!" Anyway, I'll be back on the waves regular.
The following day was spent hunting high and low for pink, fluffy, fuzzy material (don't ask) with Bunny. We covered our town, Ayr, Kilmarnock, then did our town again and found what we needed in Tesco in the form of baby blankets. So we bought two. The person serving us looked at BD's stomach and raised a suspicious eyebrow. This was made even more suspicious when we realised we might be short, so went and bought another one. "Bugger me, they work fast!" The absolute highlight of the day though, had to be when the mrs asked me what a corgiss was. Apparently Tesco were selling corggises, if you so desired a corgiss. "What you on about?" She points to a sign. "Buy corgis just like old Liz!" God help us all. Sodding corgiss...
No Australia journal this entry, got four and a half minutes of humiliation to share with you instead. Sundays 6-8 is the Sergeant Dread show from now on, fucking tops eh? I won't let it go pony.
In a bit.
SD
Songs Played - 3/6/12
Kid Koala - Slew Test 2
Feeder - Come Back Around
Ocean Colour Scene - Mechanical Wonder
Bombay Bicycle Club - Leave It
Turin Brakes - Painkiller (Summer Rain)
The Chemical Brothers - Let Forever Be
My Morning Jacket - What A Wonderful Man
K-Klass - Rhythm Is A Mystery
Bruce Springsteen - We Take Care Of Our Own
Paul Weller - Pink On White Walls
Richard Hawley - Leave Your Body Behind You
King Harvest - Dancing In The Moonlight
Weezer - My Name Is Jonas
The Velvet Underground - I'm Waiting For The Man
Pink Floyd - The Great Gig In The Sky
Noel Gallagher's High Flying Birds - Aka...What A Life!
Melody Gardot - Mira
The La's - That'll Be The Day
The National - Mr November
Ren Harvieu - Forever In Blue
Inspiral Carpets - Saturn 5
Primal Scream - (I'm Gonna) Cry Myself Blind
Traffic - Hole In My Shoe
Arcade Fire - Black Wave/Bad Vibrations
Cast - Beat Mama
The Doors - Hello, I Love You
Echo And The Bunnymen - The Killing Moon
Yes, Comrades
Before we get to my cabaret of cockup that was my radio show, I'd like to take you back to Friday night. Five folk, must've been about thirteen on average, sitting next to us at the train station. One was a blonde in leggings that were the American flag. First of all, what the fuck? Second of all, what the fuck? They were playing Dustbin Beaver on their cheap phones too. If I was a few years younger, I'd have been on them like shite on velcro. I'm not in my eighties. Next thing I'm in my vision of Hell: trapped in a party with MTV blaring as the music, Call Me Maybe, all that nonsense. To add insult to injury, I'm told I look like Edward Cullen. See, I'm sure you'd all agree with that, except for one thing: Most people that read this blog have met me.
So there you are. I'm feeling a bit worse for wear Sunday, so I order a pizza - a crusty supreme. They send me Diana Ross in a box. Feeling so tired it's almost trippy and psychedelic. Used to have to pay £20 to feel like that. Onwards! So the thing holding the music for my show breaks, and it's an hour til showtime. Technology, you are the bollocks. The panic came and fucking went - I'm sat in a car park with a gentleman's Mayfair, looking at a fitness club with a little sign in the window saying KA Radio. I'm going down some stairs, passing caricatures of Morrissey, Jim Morrison and The Beatles, following a voice. I walk slap bang into the studio, the guy's mid-speech. Five minutes later and I've been told what I'm doing and being slagged for liking Oasis. This seems to be a recurring thing, Oasis hatred. In any case, six o clock comes and I'm making the announcement, smacking my lips, trying to think of some shite to come out with. Now, not to spoil the magic of radio for you, for those of you who may think I was sat there with old dusty headphones from the 60s, spinning the vinyls and doing the jingles on me tod, I wasn't. We went for a smoke, and the 'magic' of radio let me play 3 songs back to back whilst we did. Proper braw. After discussing a stripper/lapdancer called Candy (who used to be called Ian), I'm back on the decks (mouse). The worst part involved my co-host coming in after I'd explained to the listeners what the shit I was doing, so he just walked in to find me shouting "DUCK! Hello. Effin!" down the microphone. Eight o clock arrived in absolutely no time. I tell you this droogs: the power a DJ feels, it's great. It's like...if you were to go deep sea diving and ran your hand over anemones and they all retreated into their coral or whatever, it would be a similar surge of power. "Urrrrgh, they're scared of meeee!" Anyway, I'll be back on the waves regular.
The following day was spent hunting high and low for pink, fluffy, fuzzy material (don't ask) with Bunny. We covered our town, Ayr, Kilmarnock, then did our town again and found what we needed in Tesco in the form of baby blankets. So we bought two. The person serving us looked at BD's stomach and raised a suspicious eyebrow. This was made even more suspicious when we realised we might be short, so went and bought another one. "Bugger me, they work fast!" The absolute highlight of the day though, had to be when the mrs asked me what a corgiss was. Apparently Tesco were selling corggises, if you so desired a corgiss. "What you on about?" She points to a sign. "Buy corgis just like old Liz!" God help us all. Sodding corgiss...
No Australia journal this entry, got four and a half minutes of humiliation to share with you instead. Sundays 6-8 is the Sergeant Dread show from now on, fucking tops eh? I won't let it go pony.
In a bit.
SD
Kid Koala - Slew Test 2
Feeder - Come Back Around
Ocean Colour Scene - Mechanical Wonder
Bombay Bicycle Club - Leave It
Turin Brakes - Painkiller (Summer Rain)
The Chemical Brothers - Let Forever Be
My Morning Jacket - What A Wonderful Man
K-Klass - Rhythm Is A Mystery
Bruce Springsteen - We Take Care Of Our Own
Paul Weller - Pink On White Walls
Richard Hawley - Leave Your Body Behind You
King Harvest - Dancing In The Moonlight
Weezer - My Name Is Jonas
The Velvet Underground - I'm Waiting For The Man
Pink Floyd - The Great Gig In The Sky
Noel Gallagher's High Flying Birds - Aka...What A Life!
Melody Gardot - Mira
The La's - That'll Be The Day
The National - Mr November
Ren Harvieu - Forever In Blue
Inspiral Carpets - Saturn 5
Primal Scream - (I'm Gonna) Cry Myself Blind
Traffic - Hole In My Shoe
Arcade Fire - Black Wave/Bad Vibrations
Cast - Beat Mama
The Doors - Hello, I Love You
Echo And The Bunnymen - The Killing Moon
Thursday, 31 May 2012
A Simple Game Of Genius
"So I'm sat there, some Saturday girl spraying in my mouth"
Yes, Comrades
So I'm sat there, some Saturday girl spraying in my mouth, and there's nothing I can do. I'm sat there defenceless, thinking about the 90s, the band Cartouche and how terrible they were, and the salty flavours are swirling around my pallette. The girl's not talking much and neither can I with a mouth full of her spray. Originally she wasn't turned on, so she had to go off and get switched on then came back and let loose on me. I fucking hate the dentist. Onwards!
It did get me thinking though - what else has changed I'm not aware of? Obviously when I went to the dentist I wasn't asked to open wide like a big monster. Do they say anything like that now? To appeal to the kids I mean. Maybe it's more "Open wide and don't do very much, like Tulisa"? You can't sing to your kids "The big fire engine goes ding a ling a ling". Cause it doesn't, not anymore. You try singing "The big fire engine goes NEE! NAW! NEE! NAW!" See how your child behaves. Although nostalgia should have its limits - I saw a picture of a Mr Freeze and for Facebook Likes or fucking whatever, the poor guy had said "Like if you remember these" and whoever had put the pic up had captioned it "Everyone remembers them you idiot. You still get them. I had one yesterday, you stupid attention seeking cunt" That's about right. I wanted to discuss the following with you, dear droogs: I've been pissing and moaning of late about society's ills. Here's another. The word 'Random'. I could go on forever and a day, sha'n't. But as a general complaint, why do people make references to completely obscure stuff that is supposed to be a fucking piss laugh but no sod has any idea what they're on about? I could shout "HAPPY HAPPY! JOY JOY!" and "Powdered Toast Man!" at you and yes, it may well be a fucking scream to me, but would you have any idea what I was on about? A joke is not a joke if explained it must be. Yoda, I am not.
Keeping it short. My first radio show, which will of course be called The Sergeant Dread Show, debuts this Sunday. I'm not sharing when or on what station for one good reason: It's my first time hosting a radio show, and it's going to be a complete fucking shambles, I won't have my dear droogs consider me unprofessional for a second. So I've been studying old XFM tapes all week in preparation and expect to steal many of the jokes. It would seem I need a buffoon to bounce off, to make them look stupid and me fantastic. As such, I've asked the mrs to join me if I get another show next week. The show might get recorded - if it does and I'm happy with it, I'll share a snippet or two. If not, you'll have to wait til your Searge hits his stride. Ribbit ribbit, froggy says buy it! Isn't that hilarious? Still waiting on that text from HMV by the way.
It's that time again. Every 31st at 21 minutes to 11 we do Sergeant Dread's Monthly Mantras! On time for the first time! If you're just joining us, this is where I share the songs that have summed up the month best, with links for your ignoring pleasure.
May 2012
1. Rob Dougan - I'm Not Driving Anymore (Instrumental)
2. Neon Neon - Michael Douglas
3. Joanna Newsom - You And Me, Bess
4. Elbow - Weather To Fly
5. Pink Floyd - Learning To Fly
6. Noel Gallagher's High Flying Birds - A Simple Game Of Genius
In a bit.
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"
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"
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?"
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