The Devil Dances In An Empty Pocket

2006-02-10T14:24:00.000-08:00

I'm going to have to think deeply about whether I want to carry on doing this. I was engaging my usual rant about how much I hate Myspace when someone pointed out that having a web log is perhaps even sadder and MORE EGOTISTICAL than having a Myspace page.

They're right.

The thing that bugs me most about Myspace is that nobody I have spoken to knows why they have one! I use this Blog as a form of venting, to jettison to the things that irritate me and grind me down. So it DOES have a function.

Why do people put their photos up there? For fuck's sake. Maybe I'm lucky in that don't consider myself so insecure that I need an advert for myself!

The whole idea of Myspace makes me feel sick. and I will dedicate the rest of my cyber-life to destroying it.

Paul

2004-05-04T09:28:00.000-07:00

This Blog has turned into a bit of a job to maintain, so I'm sacking it off.

2004-04-23T10:00:00.000-07:00

This Blog WILL be updated soon. I promise. I've not forgotten about it.

2004-04-10T11:21:00.001-07:00

I am a sex addict. I can't get enough. I eat, sleep, drink and think pussy. I want to fuck the tits of any girl I meet.

I was abused by my father Irwin from the age of four. I do it with any woman who takes and interest in me in any place imaginable. I live for the buzz you see.

2004-04-10T11:21:00.000-07:00

Sailers see waves
Miners dig graves
Pretty girls wear skirts
Boys eat dirt

2004-04-10T11:16:00.000-07:00

There's a chap I work with who makes me uncomfortable. He's much taller than me and well built, and has the habit of standing toe-to-toe when he's talking to you. So you're foced to look up at him. He's very eager to shake hands and touch yer shoulders; a very "HEY, HOW ARE YOU?" kind of guy.

Me and the assistant manager have had a long-running joke that he is a potential rapist owing to his sleazy nature. Looks like the joke is on us. He confided in another member of staff that he is being investigated for rape......of one of his girl students (he's a teacher also). He also held a shotgun to his son's head. That's ex-army for you.

2004-04-09T15:18:00.000-07:00

They tossed the bottle towards the waves and hoped for the best. But they both knew that, by God, it was at best a long shot. A drop in the ocean's chance of being found by someone able or humane enough to alleviate their plight.

It was a stupid idea in the first place. Launching a catamaran from Formby beach, a vessel comprised mostly of orange crates and duct tape, is asking for trouble. Some twat had even had the nerve to daub 'Sunshine & Glory' on the front in garish yellow.

Their first week stranded wasn't too troubling. To be honest, it seemed like more of a novelty; like that feeling when you're on the way to work and your train breaks down. It's not entirely pleasant being trapped with the other passengers, but it's quite nice that you're not going to have to work today and you're not to blame for once......

The worry of collecting work keys, buying papers, charging Nokias and scrubbing doorsteps soon subsided into a wholesome desire to survive.

They didn't even know where they were. I mean, they knew they were trapped on a small island festooned with crisp packets and used condoms, but WHERE WERE THEY? Amongst the group of castaways speculation ranged from the Manchester Ship Canal to the Algarve. This of course begged the question of whether this new and littered land had seen human contact before. Would they be remembered as explorers, or even heroes?

Time dragged on. The grave nature and slaggish absurdity of their predicament began to bear down upon them. Food was a constant worry. Not knowing the situation they would end up in, provisions were somewhat of an afterthought. The gang had been surviving by eating a strange moss that someone found growing on a bicycle frame; it was causing uncontrollable mania and funny tugging sensations in the brain. To our gang it danced across the pallet like a true friend & companion.

Weeks turned to months. Daftness held sway. They were now suffering from an unnamed babbling, foaming insanity that turned even the most mundane task into a teeth-gnawing adventure. One of the team banged his funny bone trying to hoist the jib from a ship out of the waves. The ensuing display of indiscriminate aggression scars the landscape to this day. Imagine Mike Tyson with his balls wedged in the workings of a gearbox. On second thoughts don't. Too late.

Then it happened. The previously dispatched bottle, now a month at sea, had ended up in the garden of an old biddy living on the Norfolk broads. Her son had found it whilst chasing an eel. For reasons unexplained to this day he took it to his teacher who proclaimed the missive contained within to be a genuine SOS. The teacher knew what to do. She was an old hand at contacting water-based rescue services; her dog Pansy had been swept away in the Severn Bore some years before. These coast guard men are shit-hot.

Within days a seaplane was vaguely following a search pattern of the west coast. Fat good that did. Turns out the stupid buggers lost at sea were actually somewhere in the middle of the Wash, where a famous king supposedly lost a bit of treasure many years ago. From Formby they had drifted south and gone right at Cornwall. They passed Truro and drifted further east towards Hove. Upon reaching Dover a transcontinental thrust had boosted them north towards Walberswick and inland towards the Wash.

Nutters.

2004-04-07T17:37:00.000-07:00

It started happening in August 1993. I was working at an orange juice factory at the time, and this involved getting the 7:32am train from Runcorn West to Ellesmere Port.

I first noticed her two weeks into the job. She always stood at the exact same location on the platform, day in and day out. At first I thought nothing of it; she obviously had a job that required getting the same train as me on the same days of the week. Nothing unusual there. But you know when someone piques your interest for no particular reason? It was one of them.

I had the desire to approach her and find out her story. But I had to find a way to do it without appearing to be a lunatic. It wasn't sexual attraction. It was deeper than that. It's like when you're on the tenth pint and feel somehow 'bonded' with which ever poor sap you have been wittering at for the last three hours. And anyway, it was getting weird. It's like when you get a lift to a very high floor and there's another occupant in there. The longer you confined together the more tense it feels. Someone needs to say something but nobody does.

So one day it happened; I strolled up and asked her for a light. I didn't even smoke at the time, so it's lucky she didn't have one. I asked her where she goes at such an obscene time of the morning, and she replied by telling me that her mother was in the process of being wiped out by head cancer. The visiting hours at Leighton Hospital dictated that an early train was necessary.

Naturally, she reciprocated the original question back to me. It seemed feeble to tell her the real reason for my early travels, so in the spirit of trying to impress I told her I was a mortician.

Maybe it can be blamed on the dormant parts of the human brain, but this was the wrong thing to say. God only knows why I blabbed it out. I could have told her anything; a milkman, a car salesman, a miner. But no. A mortician. A mortician.

I would have loved to have brought some levity to the situation, but small-talk is not my forte. A mortician.

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Disclaimer; this is not about me. I made it up. I used local places because I like the names.

2004-04-07T08:10:00.000-07:00

Geoff is retired. But he feels cheated. He has been driving taxis, on and off, for forty years now. He started off in the early sixties with a Wolseley Sovereign but got rid of it when the oil seal on a wheel hub went. He remembers giving Henry Cooper a ride to the Thomas A'Beckett on Old Kent Road circa 1962. Sadly, this was the highlight of his driving career to date. He'd love to say that he once took Ringo Starr to the pictures, or collected Nelson Mandella from Heathrow but none of this is true. The highlight of his driving career, it appears, was taking a second-rate British boxer whose claim to fame was being chinned by Muhammad Ali to a gym full of criminals.

For a brief period in the seventies he toyed with the idea of becoming involved in rally driving, but despite his vast road experience he found that his skill did not translate well to the world of gravel tracks and pitch black icy roads. And his co-driver proved somewhat stupid. Slowly the notion of driving superstardom turned into a more obtainable but less lucrative one of running his own firm. Taxi firm that is.

The firm still runs to this day, but it never seemed to provide the security Geoff required. Despite running for twenty years, his drivers still call him names and turn up late. One even put dust in his coffee. He has tried both the carrot and the stick approach, but both are met with scorn. It was his secret hope that his firm would pay the way for his family when, as happened last week, he retired. All he asked for in exchange for his graft was enough money to eat, travel, heat his home and send his kids to school. Whilst he met these targets, it would be a lie to say that his life of work has lined his pockets.

It seems so unfair to Geoff. Footballers are payed much more than him for poncing around with fashionable haircuts for a few minutes a week. City gents spend all day on the phone and earn hundreds of thousands per year. Plumbers bend pipes and get £15 per hour.

Geoff knows that the way he feels is part & parcel of life in Britain, but it doesn't make him feel any better.

2004-04-05T11:35:00.000-07:00

We rubbed shoulders with the rich and famous. Dylan, Wilson, Pastorius and Tyson were there. It was the first time I had properly smoked marijuana. I laughed I laughed I laughed I laughed. Someone set off I firecracker in the hall and I thought one of the other guys had been shot. They brought us cripples, some really bad Minamata victims. It was sad, very sad. It's not that I don't feel for cripples, but what can I do about it?

2004-04-02T10:15:00.000-08:00

My word, you must click on...........www.thesmokinggun.com/archive/tysonpsychev1.shtml.................

2004-04-02T09:46:00.000-08:00

I'm finding the maintenance of this Blog increasingly tiresome. I just can't see the point in it. I've been writing stuff in my sketchbook for years, why I suddenly decided to put it on the Net confuses me. Having people being able to read it offers no validation. Maybe it's a subconcious ego trip, maybe I actually WANT this stuff to be read. I don't want to come across as self absorbed, so unless I can think of a valid reason to leave this Blog open to the public I'll be switching it off soon.

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By popular demand, here is the experience of meeting Mike Watt;

After Watty played his first set (which was absolutely staggering - Ed) I saw him talking to people over a barrier at the side of the stage. I realised I would feel like a spack for the rest of my life if I didn't at least try and get a convo going. So, jaffers in hand, I headed in his direction;

"Mike (whilst shaking hand), I'd like to say that that set was really amazing and, I'm sure people tell you this all the time, you have been very influential on my bass playing. Thanks for making music".

"Oh man, thanks" (whilst shaking hand and bowing to me). He then gave me a sticker which is SO going on my bass.

That's it. I like to think my little speech made him feel loved, but to be fair he probably gets that 'spiel' (see what I did there Cooling Tower........) all the time. He is an alternative icon and whatnot.

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I'm paraphrasing Stephen Fry here, but the brain and the mind are distinctly different entities. I'm sure of it. I have a feeble brain. God, trying to remember things is like finding a working cash machine on Oxford Road. But my mind seems okay. I wish I had both though. Or, even better, a shit-hot brain and slow mind. Maybe then I would have the gumption to cruise effortlessly through a degree and not worry about loneliness and feelings of inferiority.

Britain needs criminologists. It really does. Wave upon wave of them...............

2004-03-31T07:25:00.000-08:00

It was Fingerfuck's turn to take naughty Tammy to the zoo. Fingerfuck wisely chose not go by his nick-name when in the company of children, and thankfully none of them figured it out. The details of how he acquired such a title have been known to warp the minds of even the most seasoned sailers and long-term prisoners. So it's for the best really. On this particular day he referred to himself as Norman. Whether this is his real name or not is unknown.

Some may baulk at the idea of giving convicted sex offenders the task of looking after kids, but Norman saw no problem with it. As long as there was elephants for him to look at, the idea of noncery was the last thing on his mind. Besides, this was the first step in his rehabilitation. His entire youth had been spent serving Anti Social Behaviour Orders, so he knew full well to fuck this up at such an early stage would be like shitting on his own doorstep. Needs must.

So the day started well. A slight incident involving a gibbon that looked like the judge who sent Norman down put him in a slight tizzy, but it was nothing a Solero couldn't fix. And yes the sun was shining. The British fascination with eating shit lollies on at the mere glimpse of the sun was alive and well. Tammy seemed most interested in the lions, blissfully unaware that they would eat her in a fucking second if they were to meet in the wild. But how is a child, one whose parents did not want her, supposed to know these things? Judging by his reaction, he thought the snakes were for wankers. At one point he asked Norman where the clowns were, but Norman had to break the news that zoos and circi are completely different things. Completely different.

Later in the day, Norman realised what he had been missing. If he'd spent less time noncing children and more time getting married, he could have his OWN kids and take them to the zoo whenever he wanted. Actually, he need not even be married to do this. He was glad he chose this option as part of his rehabilitation. The alternatives, looking after old people and painting fences, looked feeble.

He bought Tammy a t-shirt with a picture of a rhino dancing on it and they went home. The sun was still shining.

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Footnote:

Norman was later sentenced to seven years in Wandsworth Special Unit for serial buggery and underage sex. He also hit a prostitute.
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2004-03-25T13:47:00.000-08:00

Simon Cowell should be put on the sex offenders' register.

Right, I'm off to Hove where I plan to shout in my sleep.

2004-03-24T08:47:00.000-08:00

I'm standing in Sainsburys when I see the lads in front of me (you know the type, pretty-boys who dress like girls but act like men) flicking through a copy of 'Now' that a customer has deposited on the Bueno. Whilst looking at the photos within, one lad says to the other "why do birds like her (refering to a nubile actress) go out with muppets like him (refering to her latest 'squeeze')?"

I want go toe to toe with him and hell him that the reason behind this percieved (in his eyes) mis-match is because her man probably doesn't use the word 'muppet' and doesn't refer to women as 'birds'. But I don't, of course.

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Caroline hates buses. But she has to get one to Trafford Park every day. Her ambition is to get her own little wagon (hopefully a Honda), so that she doesn't have to stand in line with the wankers and pay £1.20 for the luxury of sitting close to alcoholics. Or being mentally undressed by the driver. If her plan comes together, she will be able to get her own little car from Reg Vardy for summer. She read an advert for the said company that put forward the virtues of hire-purchase. She saw it is her gateway to amulatory freedom. But this depends on how much overtime she can get. She fucking hates buses.
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2004-03-20T16:03:00.000-08:00

Deborah has been different since the accident. Four years yesterday that trip to Cheshire Oaks, a place where beautiful people buy beautiful things, turned into a sour incident that lingers on in her poor family's memory to this very day. At first the change seemed subtle, but a mother is never the same after an RTA.

The children noticed it first. That subtle effervesence that used to be recognisable to all & sundry was replaced by a slightly mournful, melancholic grumpiness that sought to turn even the proudest family occasion into a litany of frustration. Indeed, little Sue's wedding day was spoiled by Debs' propensity to take offence; this time the cause of her wrath was a man who looked at her funny in the pub in the pre-ceremony gathering.

Not only was her mind different, but her appearance had also altered. Gone was her proud , if somewhat lesbotic stance and in came a sort of slouch that would make an ape proud. Bizarrely, despite the curvature of her spine her height had shot up to nearly 6ft.

2004-03-20T12:42:00.001-08:00

Genius is an over-used word. Incredibly, stupidly, thoughtlessly and spoffingly over-used. I mean, how many true genii have there been?

I should mention here that my dictionary says (or at least seems to say) that the plural of "genius" is "geniuses" if you are talking of 2,3, or 8 of the persons, but "genii" if you are talking of 6,7, or 9. This seems incredible to me. Aside from being totally bizzare, what happens if you want to refer to 4 or twelve geniuses (genii)?

Genius is the most overused word in the english language. Write it down. These days it has become a byword for slightly above barely competant. The fact is that most people are startlingly, almost heroically stupid. They are proud of their stupidity - indeed, they revel in it. They gallop through vast open fields of stupidity like new born lambs in spring. Every other animal on the planet is exactly as intelligent as it needs to be for it's eco-niche. Not so humans - ninety eight percent of us stumble blindly from self induced farce to self induced farce, and never even think about the fact that we all rely on those two percent of the human race who can legitamately be called genius for the bare fact of our survival.

As you can tell, it is something that troubles me. It really bugs me when people refer to Dylan, Wilson, McCartney as geniuses. They're SO not at that level. Not even fucking close. I don't think *anyone* involved in popular music over the last fifty-or-so years comes anywhere near the 'genius' category. There's not many people from any generation that are consistently ground-breaking, particularly when it comes to art and music. To me, a genius is Einstein or Bach. People who have made staggering advances in their particular field, and whose work has stood the test of time. It takes truly world-altering ability to be classified as a genius in my book.

To my mind, genius requires a level of astounding innovation, an ability to break convention in unexpected and unprecedented ways that profoundly affect the work of those who follow them in their field -- and I'd be hard pressed to think of five people in the history of popular music with that kind of impact.

My favorite mockery of the overuse of the word "genius" comes from Woody Allen's "Manhattan". Diane Keaton has been prattling on about all the brilliant people she knows, all of whom she labels "geniuses". To which Woody replies, "You know a lot of geniuses. You should meet some stupid people once
in a while. You could learn something."

I'm going to cut the next twat that describes Lennon as a genius.

2004-03-19T05:13:00.000-08:00

Curious incident just happened. I was minding my own business outside the library when a group of girls equipped with cameras came over and asked me and a lass to model the new Man Met clothing range. How silly. I naturally said 'yes' though. I had to perch on a wall uncomfortably close to the Greek girl who works behind the bar at the SU and make it look 'natural'. I fear when (or if) it appears on the catalogue I'm going to look silly. It's all fun though.

I've got work that needs to be handed in today and I'm really struggling to get to grips with it. Hence I am wasting my time writing this Blog. I'll let you know how it goes.

I now own Alan Partridge series 2 on DVD, courtesy of Amo at HMV Liverpool. Me and Ally tried to watch one episode last night, but one turned to four. God it's funny. The bit in which he shouts 'Dan' 17 times across a car park at his new friend (who is obviously ignoring him) cracks me up so badly.

And now Danny Francetti's jazz bar.

Peace.

2004-03-16T05:48:00.001-08:00

New York Empty.

When leaving a bar the man knocked over a bottle. He lay sprawled on the floor, finally dragging himself up to knees and then slowly to his feet. He had no recollection of how and why he had ended up in his current situation and surroundings.

However, the need to get home tugged at his brain and more than overcame his impaired motor-neuron ability.

Like ships passing in the night, he lurched past the revellers in the doorway towards the inner-city. Now, in the cold light of day travelling from the grimy city centre to shiny suburbia is an annoyance. For a man like out character it is bordering on the insane; a madhouse promenade.

2004-03-16T05:48:00.000-08:00

Insomnia is a curious thing. As far as I can tell it seems to strike you down for no particular reason, and has no regard for what time you need to be up in the morning. Or for what energy-sapping activity you will be required to do the next day. Kind of like like losing your car keys when you need to go somewhere important, but not as stupid. Not being able to sleep can be a blessing though. For example, here I am scribbling my thoughts in a sketch book in a manner I wouldn't dream (no pun intended) of doing whilst Time Team is on. Or Scrapheap Challenge for that matter. But I digress. Being up at this lonely hour makes we wonder who else is having trouble slipping off towards the 'void'. There's a lot of them I reckon. But, seeing as we're in Manchester, they're probably out looking for car stereos with the panels still on them (mate) or fleecing passers-by on the cobbles. No one in a big city doesn't indulge in car crime at some point, it's like going to Bangkok and not getting a prozzie. Over & out, mate.

2004-03-14T06:43:00.000-08:00

Last night I watched Leatherface play at the 24/7 in Liverpool. I mean, how many classic songs does one band need? It's not fair. I got to shake the big man's hand, look him in the eye and say "well done".

Mush, an album that Leatherface recorded in 1991, is an ignored classic. It's not often that a punk band can have such poetic clout and musical fire without coming across as contrived, but Leatherface do this with aplomb. In Frankie's song 'Not A Day Goes By' he manages to evoke the yearning involved in a new-born relationship without resorting to cliche or overly-exagerated images.

Taken from the sleeve notes of Mush:

There was a time
When everything was Evergreen
Everygreen and seemingly ideal
Nights turned into days and we didn't notice the change

No I didn't think you were wrong
And I can still sing your favourite song
It's not as simple as forgotten flowers and presents bought
Not a day goes by when I don't spare you a thought

It is truly the mark of a great songwriter when he can take imagery as bleak as an abandoned shipyard, mix it in with the desperation of unemployment in Thatcherite Britain, add a polluted atmosphere and turn it into something romantic and beautiful.

I'm not the originator of this idea, but I reckon a pub fruit machine on wheels could easily win Robot Wars. Easily. Write it down.

2004-03-12T07:50:00.000-08:00

Check this. At 24/7 last week I tried to order a double vodka and coke, but the lady servng me proceeded to place three seperate drinks on the bar and charge me £13.40. I explained to her that I had ordered ONE drink in a polite manner, as she had obviously heard me wrong, and she proceeded to give me my change from a tenner for a single drink in 5p pieces. Thanks, nice one etc............

It seems that loads of people have been reading this Blog and figuring out identity of the writer solely from the content. Am I really that idiosyncratic?

I completely disagree with The Guardian (nothing unusual there) about Yoko Ono. She's shit. Never was any cop as a conceptual artist at all. Conceptual art is nothing but an excercise in back-slapping for those born into obscene wealth or trying to get some credibility amongst other limp-wristed intellectuals. It's the same for those twats that wrote wishy-washy political manifestos about the peace movement in the 1960s. Nobody reads 'em. I have just written 3k works on the protests of 1968 so it's on my mind you see.

Another controversial view.......why are the Anti Nazi League so wet? Anti Nazi rallies make me sob in the most wretched way. Don't stand around selling cakes and waving placards, go and beat the shit out of the cunts. I've spoken to people about this before and they usually have two responses;

a) Saying I'm hypocritical because I don't go and beat up Nazis.
b) When you meet violent people with violence it brings you down to their level.

I have no time for either of these views. Anti-fascist protesting ain't my bag and I don't get involved with it, but that doesn't mean I can't critiscise it. I can't play guitar like Brian may but I can still critiscise him, capiche? And as much as violence is a bad thing there are some people who will only understand a cricket bat to the head.

If you want to prove a point, do it properly.

2004-03-11T07:37:00.000-08:00

My momma told me there'd be times like these. There's nothing shaking but the leaves on the trees.

2004-03-10T06:53:00.000-08:00

I'm the victim of an unfortunate, annoying, slightly dehabilitating, common cold. I'm not one to moan, so I'm going to soldier on.

I always think that minor illnesses are as bad as you make them. Keep your mouth shut, get a decent night's sleep, drink lots of water and just get on with things and you'll be fine. Altough I think I'm driving my computer-neighbours mad with none-stop coughing.

My little 'fling' has come to an end. I'm not going to name names, because that would be inconsiderate and everyone knows anyway, but I pulled the plug. That's it, game over. I've had enough. I need someone to love me and look after me, not act as a kind of sex recepticle.

An interesting experience recording at LIPA this weekend. My word, that place is stuffed to the hilt with all manner of posh equipment. When Tony was about to record his guitar the bloke asked what amp we wanted to use, so I jokingly suggested a Marshall stack..........and he proceeded to go and get one. They had a friggin' gong in the corridor outside the studio!!! A GONG!!! I have 'teched' up Silence Is Quiet with bass harmonics. I hope it isn't too much. SIQ is such a beatiful song, one of the Tokyo's best. I don't want to ruin it by turning it into a session-fest.

Over and Out.

2004-03-09T05:22:00.000-08:00

I want to talk about the Brian Wilson gig, so that's what I'm going to do. What can I say? I got the 'the man' perform some of the most moving and sophisticated pop music written in the last fifty years.

The gig started with all the band members (and there were a lot) giving acapella reneditions of the early Beach Boys songs, and it was an aural treat. Those boys can't half sing, even if they are pure session. It was funny because the chap singing all Carl's stratospheric falsetto bits was very fat, and seemed to act as a kind of compere for most the evening.

God Only Knows brought a fucking tear to the eye. It's not so much the renedition that was given on that particular night, but just the idea that I was seeing the writer of the best pop song ever written DO IT right in front of me.

I was amazed when the band donned fire helmets and we were subjected to a good 15 minutes worth of the Fire sessions. Wilson famously has kept the original recordings of this music under lock and key, fearing that he had tapped into some kind of mystical dark force. I can see why. I thought at one point it was going to blow my mind and I'd end up cowering in the shitters, but I got through it in one piece.

Kingmaker, for those who don't know, were an indie band from Hull who released their seminal album in 1992. I currently have an obsession with them, but I can't explain why. They're not a particularly good band, but I just find the whole long-lost indie band thing fascinating. It's almost like a part of history that is so recent it's still within reach. Maybe it's because I have an older sister who was a follwer of that music at the time, but I just don't know.

Kingmaker's lyrics are very, very austere. Kind of the lyrics anyone would write if they lived in Hull during deepest darkest Tory rule (ooops, I said I wouldn't talk about politics). Loz Hardy, the singer, went on to write songs for Elastica. Most of the band now work in retail. Such is life.