Wednesday, 21 September 2011

from within the benfleet bunker

Today Lance kindly took some time out from his busy schedule writing piano ballads in the style of a particularly sombre Brett Anderson contemplating a solitary rotten apple in a cracked fruit bowl to sit for the above photograph.

Tuesday, 20 September 2011

Notes to Self

Next time when making a self-deprecating remark about fighting them off, do not say beating them off.

Saturday, 17 September 2011

 Nick Drake, Saturday Sun, from the album Five Leaves Left (1969)

Life Lessons

Just remember; no matter how bad you think you've got it, Nick Drake will always have it worse.

Monday, 12 September 2011

I had to take out another spider last night. Popped a cap in his ass. This one was quite big - bigger than Martin Holmes for sure. For a moment I thought it was Jamie Duxberry, scuttling across the bedroom floor, but it turned out to be somebody new altogether. A new kid in town. I'm not sure what's become of Jamie Duxberry; he was last seen in the downstairs toilet. Nothing since. Strange, but he'll show up.

This one last night though... woah. I didn't catch a name. It was all over so quickly anyhow. He scuttled across the rug, down onto the carpet and then came to rest amongst a mélange of cables and wires by the plug socket. There was a brief stand-off where I jumped (out of my skin and) up onto the bed. In a panic I looked around the room for a glass or a cup, or any kind of receptacle with which I could capture it, but there was nothing. I needed to act fast; once they go too deep into the wires you'll never coax them out. At this point I saw the Right Guard on the bedside cabinet, grabbed it, jumped down from the bed and struck the spider in the face. At least one leg came free upon impact. I wasn't proud. I couldn't be sure that it was dead though, so I had to strike it several times. It was kinda like one of those scenes in a film where the murderer will keep bludgeoning the body - even though it's clearly dead - and a fine mist of blood is spraying all over their face.

When it was over I used the toilet roll method to dispose of the body. With luck the whole thing would have been seen by another spider and it'll serve as a warning.

Saturday, 10 September 2011

Watching Jonathan Ross. The Saturdays are so incredibly dull. I can't believe I'm writing this, but their appearance means that the Red Hot Chili Peppers might not be the worst band on the show tonight.

Edit: I take it back.

New Stuff

We recorded a couple of new songs this week. One on Thursday and one this morning. It's hard to be objective about this kind of thing - given that I'm kinda involved and all - but I think they're both pretty good. Lyrically they're very much cut from the same cloth. Heh, I have no idea why I've started talking in metaphors a lot more recently. It's a habit I'm gonna have to kick. Hmmm, is the habit-kicking thing another metaphor? Christ, I'm in trouble.

Anyway, these songs, I feel they're definitely up there with the better things we've done. Although I should probably stop going on about them now as even I can see that I'm coming across like a big old prick. But, then again, fuck it... it's my party and I'll cry if I want to. It's a blog! Sometimes it's okay to write about this kind of stuff. I can also mention that I had some very nice German pate on toast earlier if I want to. And I do... and I did. Two slices, with black pepper. Deal with it. I did. I dealt with it good. Orally. It was a garlicky pate... not really my ideal choice, but I guess you can't always get what you want. On the plus side it was in cute little sausage form, the pate, and I've never had the pleasure of doing the whole stab and spread thing before, so that was nice.

Of the new stuff, one of them is called Our Separate Ways and the other is called Tonight. Neither of them are the kind of thing that I want to be writing (i.e. upbeat catchy pop!) but I'm proud of both of them. Hopefully I can post them soon, and then I can go on about whether or not what passes for my lyrics are full of mundane & obvious clichés, or just very direct. I'd like to think it's the latter, but I don't know. I guess that stylistically and thematically both of the songs are very much related to this one. Kind of.

Friday, 9 September 2011

I have become obsessed with the word sprootle.

I don't know what it means, why I use it, or even what context it should be used in, but I am obsessed. It's really pleasing. I'm throwing it out there left, right and centre. Sounds like maybe it should be the name of a small sweet to me. Like Starburst, but not square-shaped. Hmm, if sprootles were sweets I'd imagine they'd be more like a big bag of Skittles, only larger, and each individual sprootle would have it's own papery wrapping like Starburst. Basically they would be a cross between Starburst and Skittles but with a really weak and watered-down taste. Sprootles would be subtle in flavour but high in fun.

Anyway, I got really excited a few days ago thinking I'd invented the word roffle (which could be deployed as an alternative to ROFL - not that I've ever used ROFL) so I went and Goggled it straight away and everything seemed to be fine. No matches. Nothing whatsoever... but after doing that I did the sensible thing, Googled it, and found that some fucking munce had beaten me to it. Ha, see what I did there? Goggled/Googled. Yeah, I know. Hilarious. Laugh a minute. Your face is aching. I understand. Still, awesome joke aside, I'm pretty disappointed someone got there first.

Edit: FFS. Somebody's got to le mayo as well.

Thursday, 8 September 2011

Okay, I know that I'm running the risk of turning my blog into one of those annoying things where people just post an endless stream of links and clips to stuff belonging to other people (like those friends we all have on the facebook that post jokes they've clearly found in some dank, smelly & wholly-unfunny hole on the internet and pass off as their own) but, anyway, I just saw this video on youtube and laughed so much that I feel it is my duty as a blogger of sorts to share it with my readership, however tiny it may be. Hmmm, actually I think it's my duty as a human being to share this shit. It's your duty as well. Go on, do it. Do it. It's Jeff Tweedy of the band Wilco performing I Gotta Feeling by the Black Eyed Peas, and it's pretty great.

Monday, 5 September 2011

In too deep

We kind of have this running joke in our house. It all stemmed from a time where my dad (who really shouldn't be using stuff like ebay, on account of not understanding the fundamentals of using a computer... such as what a cursor is, and a button, and the desktop, or an address bar etc.) found himself in a bit of a pickle after a mix up with seller fees or something. To cut a long story short he hadn't paid them. So he was sent a reminder by ebay which he somehow managed to miss, and another, and another. Eventually he signed into ebay again to buy some kind of portable water tank or something and he stumbles across this series of messages in his inbox. I come home and find him sitting at the computer in a panic crying out that he's "in too deep!" over and over again. I explain to him what's happened, that it's not the end of the world, and that ideally he should learn how to use ebay before committing to buying things on it and all that stuff, and then I log into paypal and pay the outstanding fees. Anyway, everything is ok. Since then however, it's fast become a catchphrase as he'll frequently find himself in similar situations... almost always involving ebay or some other kind of web-based transaction... and, after all, you must remember that he's of the generation that genuinely seem to believe that clicking on the wrong icon could actually kill you or result in the computer turning into a raging fireball, killing everyone.

Yesterday morning we were sitting in the garden having a cup of tea. He was browsing a caravan magazine and we were chatting about something or other - I can't remember exactly what - but I definitely remember that the suggestion came up that he was getting in too deep, or had already gotten in too deep. I'm not sure which. But I'm rambling now... the point is that it suddenly struck me that my dad's epitaph must be "in too deep". I think it's great. A fitting tribute. So we've discussed it and it's definitely going to happen. Just need to work out how I'm gonna kill him now...

Friday, 2 September 2011

The Darjeeling Limited and a fuckload of cornflakes... oh it's Friday night alright.


Thursday, 1 September 2011

Martin Holmes is now dead.
I have a bit of a problem. Heh, well, to be honest, I have many problems... but, hey, that's a whole different kettle of fish. Specifically I have one particular problem that I feel the need to share. A problem shared is a problem halved and all that, eh? Well yes, yes it is, and lucky for you I'm going to unburden myself right here, right now, and you're gonna read it. You lucky, lucky sod... and you know what else? You're gonna fucking well enjoy it too. Ok, look, my problem is this; these last few days I've come across several spiders crawling around the house. Several more then I'm entirely comfortable with... I mean, nothing major, just a few little critters scattered about here and there. So far I've been turning a blind eye, so to speak. I've even found the bodies of a couple of big ones. Big horrible hairy ones with boney joints. But still... blind eye. They looked crunchy. I haven't eaten one but I have imagined what they would feel like on my tongue and between my teeth if somehow they managed to end up in my mouth. But now I'm worried as there's a big one in the bathroom. A big, hairy, live one with a degree intelligence. I know that it's an intelligent spider as it's made a very good choice of home, setting up web in a cranny between the hand basin and the tiles. It could even be a nook, I'm not sure. It's chosen there though.

Anyway, this morning I was sent a link to this article on the Guardian website about spiders and it's kinda shaken me up a little. As you know, I'm not a huge fan of the spider. I might've mentioned it. I can't be bothered to trawl back through my posts to find it, but maybe one or two of my three valued (and once regular) readers will remember the entry a couple of years ago dealing with my disposal of a spider and, in turn, the vacuum cleaner that was used for the task.

So I read the Guardian article and thought that I'd give it a go. I'd name that little fucker. I then bravely ventured back into the bathroom and took a good look at the spider in order to ascertain his name. I'm a firm believer that if you look at something long enough then an appropriate name will come to you. This is why our inherited cat Sage is perhaps better known now as Muffman. Like the Guardian piece said, the spider was clearly a male, and I started to feel the name coming through. It was strong and I was clearly getting Holmes. Clear as day. As in Sherlock Holmes. Only it wasn't Sherlock that I was feeling, but rather it was something more down to earth and approachable. It was Martin. Yup, it was immediately apparent to me that this spider was called Martin Holmes.

And the article was true. I looked at that little (big) spider sitting there on the wall, partially obscured by the basin, applied the name to him and felt a lot better about the whole thing. I left the bathroom and came back into my room safe in the knowledge that Martin Holmes was nothing to worry about. Besides he'd been there for the best part of four days and barely moved; he was harmless. Once he'd got the name it was obvious that he wasn't a member of some kind of complex arachnid terror cell. He wasn't planning anything. He was just an average Joe getting on with the daily grind. I suppose that on some level I developed some kind of feeling for him.

But sadly this feeling has not lasted. I went out for a little walk, down to the beach and back... half an hour max... and in that time everything has changed. I thought that I'd go check on Martin Holmes when I got back in, see if he'd maybe moved a little or something (and I also needed to use the toilet if I'm honest. I drink a lot of tea after all.) To my horror Martin Holmes had disappeared. He was no longer there. No sign of him whatsoever. I'm absolutely shit scared now... you see, this is what you get if you lower your guard and put your trust in something you shouldn't. And, by God, spiders cannot be trusted. I have no idea where he's gone, and that's the worst part of it; he could be anywhere by now.

Fuck fuck fuck. I should've got the Dyson out when I had the chance.