Wednesday, 30 April 2003

if you read waterhouse and botham’s ‘the book of useless information’ then you, chuck, would know that, apparently slugs travel at a top speed of 0.007 miles per hour, the average person sprays around 300 microscopic drops of saliva per minute whilst gabbing (will self to front desk!), and that coconuts are responsible for the deaths of about 150-odd people a year (more than sharks, certainly). slugs have up to 27,000 teeth, one should mention.

~in victory: magnanimity; in peace: goodwill.~
winston churchill.

every member of our judiciary has to fight with personal, unequivocal zeal to expose and work at beating insider dealing.

i like that bloke that links to reynolds’ that’s been taking issue with him over undie. i liked his post about michael walzer, never been that keen on him either, although did go through a big rawlsian phase. sad to say i was always going to be a bit of a rawls parttimer, as the time i got the most excited about something to do with him (excepting undergraduate lectures and discussions, that’s always good) was quite possibly a prospect article that was just sort of funny cause the thing read round here most previous about rawls was of course written in dry, academic language, and this prospect article was banging on about, his, of course, fundamental importance, but doing it in lively and engagingly fun journalese.
dunno if that qualifies as irony, ask alan morris that bloke (that was an actual gag some stand-up did on the telly once, not very good you’d say?).

now for some words from the like of andrew graham-dixon.
he was discussing bellotto at venice’s museo correr. now there’s some of his stuff at the royal academy (until the 8th of june, if you’re in london) and graham-dixon urges a visit, admitting that he’d always thought not much of him until seeing him in the above venezia gallery where he came to realise that “he was one of the great painters”! some qualification or what?!
a brief bellotto timeline (pay attention, there’s going to be other timelines around here in future): -

1722 – born in venice. his father a civil servant, his uncle canaletto (it’s the 18th century so no women around of course).
1748 – augustus III, elector of saxony, bestows upon the artist the title of “principal court painter”. he was on a handsome salary and his gift for getting the post was a diamond encrusted golden snuffbox filled with 300 gold coins.
1750 – around this time paints the moat of the zwinger in dresden.

a slow start for the first timeline, don’t know when he actually died and am far too lazy to go reach for the encylcopaedia (it’s in the next room and eno is on the stereo), rest assured will as soon as have finished this.
What ag-d likes is stuff like the surface detail, a collage like effect he’s got going on and (truth, truth about beauty, beauty and wisdom) his “quiet but deep” qualities. the waves on this particular picture that ag-d mentions he likes, as he imbues his water detail with a wealth of subtly complex notices to the trees in the park of the palace etc. and so therefore not falling prey to canaletto’s “rather wearying” m.o. of just leaving water as wavy squiggles; it’s worth some quiet reflection ahoy.

all hail bernardo bellotto then, all hail true so.

my old man was going out before and purely by coincidence it was 7:50 and although he needed to be nifty he hasn’t that much hair to speak of sadly.

nina simone : -

21st february 1933 – born eunice waymon in north carolina. 7 bruvs and sisses, to a minister/maid mother and handyman father.
1950 – scholarship to juilliard.
1957 – signs away the rights to my baby just cares for me, for 3k. in the long run, she could have made a fortune on this instead.
1959 – quality gig at the new york town hall.
1963 – pens mississippi goddam, responding to the murder of activist medgar evers.
1978 – arrest for tax evasion.
1991 – moves to france.
1995 – suspended sentence for firing (with scattergun) at two teens in the swimming in the pool next door.
april 21st, 2003 – dies in carry-le-rouet. survived by daughter lisa celeste stroud (from her second marriage to manager andy stroud).

“i came to despise popular songs and i never played them for my amusement…why should i when i could be playing bach, czerny, or liszt?”
~from her autobiography.

‘when nina sings the word love, it isn’t a word combined from four letters of the alphabet but an emotional experience you can feel.’

nina was a boyfriend’s nickname meaning little one, and simone was for french actress simone signoret. jazz x protest + soul = emotion.
there was that rude business with the animals and eric burdon (not got any animals stuff me, do have a war record though), for which she was rightly slagged off, but apart from that anyone who wants to spend three days solidly playing beethoven cause they feel they have to cleanse themselves after recording what would prove to be just about their biggest hit is alright by me.

if anyone not in an e postcode area is reading this month’s sleazenation (or not, judging by the thin white luke’s latest frontline report), i swear that the bloke on page 25 is the spit of my mate qasim, proper ringer there (except he’s got better clothes than q really no offence mate). however, i’d bet he ain’t got as good punchlines, which is more important in my book.
to be fair, the bloke is a recently arrived immigrant pleading for new trainers from the “trendy style mag” (the sun) but q’s second generation, he can relate.
what a foolish and flippant thing to write.

speaking of the thin white luke, i promised him i’d get up the dizzee ras interview from sleazenation; not including the interesting and incisive patter/analysis pre-words, here is the charmingly brief ‘view itself is what would be written if the mag hasn’t been lost down the laundry chute : normal service resumed, as soon as.

that advert in monochrome with the horses on city rooftops for lloyds tsb; best thing at the moment, it changes into a fairly boring, standard advert as soon as they hit the roof, but for the few to several seconds they are poised, hovering, in mid-air a deathmask silence pervades, and it is crushingly, deafeningly, ocean loud big wednesday roars, depth. quite an astonishing advert, that should be lauded just for that middle (eighths) section, really.

‘tis election day tomorrow.

Tuesday, 29 April 2003

incidentally, sleazenation have a staffer called max roach writing there.
strange but true!
it has only just occured to me but i kept referring to lampedusa's the leopard as the prince in the previous post. d'oh.
*and* i was talking about machiavelli in the same breath.
double stupidities...

Monday, 28 April 2003

didn’t know this but apparently trade on all four main bourses in Antwerp is conducted in Yiddish. Anyway, it’s connected to the diamond trade or something, one should really read the article all the way through.

favourite Yiddish speakers include Harold Bloom (he taught himself English by reading either Milton or Blake, forget who), Joel Fleischman (the wacky yet also irascible New York doctor seconded to Cicely, Alaska you know), and, er, Mark Steyn (that’s a guess, but is he part Belgian or mainly Belgian: someway Belgian anyway).

Also didn’t know this one, but the worst ever accident in the world of motor racing occurred at le mans in 1955, when a 300 slr driven by pierre levegh went legs akimbo, killing driver and 83 spectators.

Eighty three!

Orhan pamuk’s my name is red and de lampedusa’s the prince are two exceptionally fine novels. It has been said that pamuk’s work has already proved itself better than the entire oeuvres of both eco and rusdhie (*how* beautiful was the model that salman used to go out with?). One ain’t inclined to disagree with this; the only rushdie that really floats it round here is midnight’s children, although eco has both …rose and the hugely enjoyable island of the day before fighting his corner when he’s not on academic duties (people like eco’s work as a novelist and his work at bologna or wherever it is; but how many people do you know who admire both chomsky’s linguistic work ~and~ his political analyses etc.etc. well, anyhow… …well, actually, there must be plenty of admirers to chomsky’s politics, but this is digression…just if you see chomsky and howard zinn and john pilger’s names on the dustjacket etc. you know it’s been printed by zed books right… …this digression makes no point or sense and says nothing hooray) . But no, really, my name is red is it.

Borgesian and marquez and the above gentleman as well and rich and laden with scents of istanbul oranges, and very old things, and wonderful allusive writing, and it’s all good.

The prince is, really, well, probably a masterpiece. It’s truly was written by giuseppe tomasi di lampedusa and it’s one of the best european novels of the last century no matter which language you say good morning in.
‘Change everything just a little so as to keep everything exactly the same’ sounds a bit Machiavellian?

Anyway, early in the book (although after the marvellously controlled opening descriptions of the recital of the rosary in the house, with the frescoes and the monkeys, and the prince of the title and all his family’s little foibles &c.) there’s a superb passage about the discovery of a dead fighter’s body in the grounds. These swine stink worse even when dead etc. the prince is set in sicily in the middle of the nineteenth century onwards, times of the troubles etc. that’s a brilliant passage.
Another good passage is the description of the general uproar palermo is in as the prince rides in to meet his bit on the side. He takes the family priest for the superficial veneer of making it look like he’s just transporting the padre to his bredren’s house for a few hours and taking the waters/buying an ice in palermo, but of course he wants some extramarital athletics.
The scenes of the curfew and guards in palermo etc. is a winner.
There’s a line where the author observes that the local youth are out, with their tri-cornered hats or something, guttural grunting in their strange native dialect, rough lads and such, “wide trousers” i think it is. In terms of 20th century european prose, this sort of language is filed up and between the likes of mann and joyce.

Sunday, 27 April 2003

goldfinger has been good tonight.
most of the pubs in sale, withington, and stretford are uniformly brill, having observed that.
where to see the lefal tag in the city centre of manchester.

side of a building on church street, up a fireescape type implement.
a couple of places around spring gardens, i can't quite remember how to describe it, although you can see the post office and one of their scrawls from the same point.
er, can't remember where else, will get on it.

SINGLE favourite pub in city area
THE DUCIE ARMS, in hulme
SINGLE favourite pub in united area

6 good comedy lines to enjoy

one. les dawson on living so far away from the town hall the tax inspector was norwegian.
two. lenny henry wiping his brow when sweating and telling his probably racist, lairy audience it tasted just like choc.
three. that bit in the phoenix nights, clairvoyant episode, where kay is saying if he's any good he'll know when he's getting there or something, but then notices the lad throwing darts where the board used to be, and he pauses well, and gives it something like
"eh ehe hey hey son, that's anaglypta that, 12 quid a roll!" (i stacked shelves at a homebase for about 9 months, *fucking* anaglypta)
four. that richard pryor skit entitled get yo ass home by 11, or whatever.
five. mistranslating hungarian.
six. red dwarf II, 'stasis leak', the entire ep.

my favourite wetherspoons in london are as follows
the brockley barge SE4
the one on whitehall, they have a scouser behind the bar
one just off turnpike lane

erm, that's about it, i ain't been to many with much regularity
i was telling luka before about the latest sleazenation.

dizzee on the cover,
a goldfinger interview, all good stuff.

lots of nice graf things, citylife magazine had some nice the other day in it.

my favourite mancunian tagger at the moment is, WITHOUT A SHADOW OF DOUBT,

on about thursday (the 24th) the daily express published the absolutely GENIUS "should this play be banned?" phone in, about that spanish troupe in hammersmith, simulating, or possibly actually doing, sex acts, on stage.
of course they had to publish pictures, to help the reader make up their mind.
you can't blame david blunkett, populism works, we have to be aware of that.

i know the following is a line that is generally regarded as highly as worth the price of admission alone, -but_
~you couldn't make it up.

i saw burning spear's HAIL HIM for 4.99 today.
any CD lovers in the manchester UK area; here is some announcements for you, re. the megastore in town (bigger branch in market street, right past the issue sellers, hare krishna sometime, socialist worker, zionists, islamists or whatever) :======

they have the following prices, as of yesterday, so q. recent info' like (as i'm so nice i'll cut me own throat and let you get there first).

- ind beat of soweto vol 1 for 8.99
- a supposdely limited edition trojan 3discer of nyhabinghi (i can never spell that one) quite cheap, i forget
- all hmvs are currently on a sale, i feel the best bargains in the 4.99 area are as follows (i shall capitalise titles)
THE CHRONIC; ooh one gang starr album i forget which, LITTLE JONNY FROM THE HOSPITAL (this might be 6.99 actually)
*constituencies* in the north london area =

i am particularly concerned with the enfield, and parts of haringey, areas, here.
(1) joan ryan is the MP for labour and enfield north.
this is a MARGINAL seat.
(2) stephen twigg {"were you up for portillo?" etc.} is the MP for labour and enfield southgate.
this is a MARGINAL seat.
(3) david lammie is the MP for tottenham [took over from the late bernie grant].
this is a SAFE seat.
(4) i dunno who the MP for edmonton is, but i'm pretty sure it's both, {a} LAB., and,; (B) safe.

i live in altrincham and sale west, a tory marginal, one of only two non-lab cons in greater manchester (the other is a libdem marginal somewhere in stockport). my neighbouring cons are wythenshawe and sale east (rocksolid safe labour), stretford (rocksolid safe labour), and i don't know what else. to the south it must be a safe tory seat, either congleton or tatton (mid-cheshire remember)
actually, slight digression ahead, who minds.
there was this debate in london the other day (well, i mean, probably a lot, but you get the point) at which both peter oborne and some bird from the times spoke.
i quite like peter oborne cause he looks solid on his picture. you can tell which political journos look solid by looking at their picture.

the ones trying for a slight sneer such as michael gove at the times (he looks a bit like a bloke who was in the fifth year when i was a sprog) or peter oborne, are possibly not the sort of blokes to get in an argument with over a game of whist.
the ones trying for a slightly seductive look (e.g., the frankly gorgeous christina odone OLDER WOMAN trope, i quite like anne applebaum &c., mark steyn's coquettish looks) you'd be more likely to debate the relative merits of red stripe in cans or the somewhat rarer red stripe draught.

after 9/11 and people saying would this be the death of irony etc. we had wags pointing out, no, satire is still needed, look at friendly fire and dodgy elections in nigeria (or whatever itwas); i can't recall, anyway, lots of clever people who read broadsheets and eat at subway on occasion basically did argue convincingly irony was all there still.

well, satire definitively has proven to be inbuilt obsocelensessese SHITE i can't spell, obsolete, at the ~soaraway@ DAILY express the last few days.

here is the DAILY EXPRESS update : -
i had some lovely fish and chips at a pub before.
i like all these gastro-pubs.

one of the earliest gastro-pubs, that poshed it up and such, in mcr city centre, happened to be the ox, on liverpool road, in castlefield.
digression: as i type about a manc alehouse, goldfinger mentions donna from mcr. weeeird.

anyway, so, fish and chips.

proper manchester caviar mushy peas, really melting in the mouth.
digression: and there's another manc bigging people up. hoooo.

only two bones pulled from the battered cod. nice chips.
thai curry last week, small but nice plain naan.
kane in swindon wants to hear sizzla, tho' goldfinger fears he has some ulterior motive
12:53 AM.

Wednesday, 23 April 2003

getting three tickets for the anfield match and not the expected two might actually create problems.

don't tell him for now. think about it on the morrow.

i'll say one thing about americans though, and that is that they can't take their alcohol.

Getting me self a new cartridge of magenta from pc world (you know the one, it’s on the chester road is it, next to the chesters) this arvo so I was, and the amount of touts was phenomenal. I mean, the biggest number of touts I normally see is at gigs in M15 or ardwick, but there were literally hundreds of touts deafening catcalls it was quality. Most of the black and asian blokes appeared to have manc accents but a lot of the white blokes sounded cockney to me.
Anyway, most exciting.

And then on the news they were interviewing some bloke it looked outside bishops blaize it certainly wasn’t the trafford. I wonder if anyone has actually ever gone into the trafford wearing either a citeh or scouse shirt?

Also en-route to interviews in altrincham, I saw a magnificent ews rolling stock and the amount of safe graf on it were tremendous. Not seen owt like it since I was in the fair usa. How superb the crowd roar and score!

Are you avant-garde, or are you hugo boss? If you phone up some 020 number perhaps you can find out…
But what are YOU made of?

Is it performative? I dunno. Information is sketchy at the moment but I think it was in connection with a german advertising campaign.

“what he did was kill 103 viet cong in 1968 and 1969.” Chuck was an aggressive boy, y’see.

~kill one man, terrorise a thousand~
chinese proverb.

‘I’d ask for god’s forgiveness but the baby jESUS is poorer than I am’

tiny is 14, looks about eight, he’s an assassin in medellin. Tiny says his ma is resignado. What her son does is bad.

On the subject of the united match, it’s no wonder they were able to plunder four goals past madrid. I ain’t surprised real gave away two oggies (beckham claims the second, it were going in anyway etc. blah blah blah), they defended like a pub team at times. If only it had been on giggs’ left on 35, half-chances &c.
On the subject of clive t and the big fella, I must remain on the bigoted soapbox I occupy to observe thusly:

Commentators are SUPPOSED to be objective apart from at national games. giving credence to fergie’s bizarre paranoid theories is not desirable, eg on 80 he said that line about real possibly getting the quarter final draw they wanted etc. foo. Still, what do I know, I’m a bitter.
I wonder if stevie maccer had any words of scouse wit for the yonners (ie the brothers grim) at the end?

And now, a word from simon singh.

DESCRIBE YOUR SHOW IN FIVE WORDS: maths isn’t boring – trust me.
WHAT HAS BEEN THE BEST MOMENT OF YOUR CAREER?: doing a phone in when callers could ask me any scientific question.
MOST EMBARRASSING?: doing a phone in when callers could ask me any scientific question.
DREAM guest? The ghost of richard feynman
If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be? I’d lose my addiction to television.
Tell us something about yourself your listeners don’t know? I always start the day with kilroy (bloody hell, he’s up late or something?!, has he not heard of five am starts…)
Broadcasting hero? Kenneth williams
First radio memory? : JUNIOR CHOICE with Ed “Stewpot” Stewart
If I hadn’t been a radio presenter, I’d have been
A mediocre particle physicist

AND thank yous simon, cheers our kid.

The economist has recently published a guide to be distributed to travellers who read the economist (e.g., wealthy yankee business types)
I quote their views on differences in socialising between good old britannia and yankland

‘wittiness often means an agility with sexual innuendo, with a pint in one hand and a cigarette in the other. The line between work and private life is not as clearly delineated as in america and the british tend to socialise with colleagues regularly. Drunken behaviour will be laughed off next morning and, in some cases, is the norm.’
oh, and visitors should expect both “a haze of smoke that can be blinding” when entering the alehouse and that british people are not as excited as american business counterparts by such things as the working breakfast. Hmm.
Americans like to be programmed, robots, yadda, yadda yadda.

Good poets though etc. and mathematicians. Oh and charles ives.

Oh but here’s jenny mccartney
She tells madge there’s scant evidence to back up the slacker britons charge etc. reminding her her shagpiece is the son of a salop baron and so maddona has fallen in with the huntin’ shootin’ and fishin’ brigade.

I like it when journos get uppity on such topics

Yeah woo woo.

Tuesday, 22 April 2003

i myself fancy qpr for it, but you never know with the welsh.

i would like qpr to get back up, i have a great affection for the white city area.

elsewhere, i think southport might replace leigh, woking are clearly in dire straits.
shrewsbury and i still think exeter, although there might be a late negative surge by swansea (did you SEE their gate at the weekend?!).

play offs i'd like scunny to do it.

elsewhere, i feel cheating chesterfield might replace cheltenham (KV's arse, how nice) one wouldn't mind that.

in the first, i like stoke i do, so that's byebye zamora and co., i would hope either reading or forest do it, who after all can stand warnock or wolves in general?

as for europe, well, come on real, let's give those rollicking rags a pasting, though they are probably better than arsenal who i dunno.

on the home front, fowler scored that's nice and alty lost 3-2 in halton.

you can't win them all,
a wise confucian scholar is once reputed to have etched onto this japanese bit of paper, one of those artforms where you have to scratch it across otherwise the paper collapses or combusts or something.
i imagine if i -was- christopher booker (which i'm not, he lives in somerset, though i have been to the huish with more companions than fecking northwich), i would probably just live my life
you know

try to show them they've not one

you'll never take me alive, untransparent strasbourg surrender monkeys etc.

having typed that, quiche lorraine now and again is okay.

i had some vege quiche tonight, quite safe it were too like.
well ipso facto



no isoceles triangle (sp??)

anyway, i basically said to green, i said listen me old muckah, i'd like to trust your anti-migration watchdog agency migration watch (how it's usually described in its own parish magazine, or thereabouts: older readers may know the migration watch parish circular by its previous title, the daily express of course) but when i see your quotes in the paper that such a per centage of "ethnic" residents support tougher immigration controls, but then the reactionary semanticist within me (my uncle was a butler to one of those types fancy you see) said, no

EXclaimed almost,

well, you mean ethnic minority i know you mean that,
but you've said ethnic
and you and me are ethnic (me and him both being WASPs, one assumes) but we're just happening to be ethnic majority within the wider context of the population of the UK. of great britain and northern ireland.

but of course he didn't care, just kept on shrugging and saying 'appen!', looked like a minor character in a koestler novella,

then a strange thing happened, he sorta just acquired a burnley accent, just like that.

most odd.
anyway, there you ave it.


burglars brekking in thru windows
now then, just myself, though the lad from the OLD hall

he was there too mind, ~ waiting~@ waiting,
for a mate to get his benny (tuesday is giro day happenstance)

and a few other things, thought we'd pop into the old roebuck for a scoop or so of bombardier.

who should we espy in the corner, racing post in one hand, golden virginia in the other, mild and ploughmands on the table, shaggy Scotty at his feet, tousling his braidered trousers (M & S, i should coco) but andrew green.

ANDREW GREEN, i hear you cry!

i know, i know!

so of course i went up to him for a chat like you do, and this is the convo as roughly transcribed by the spotty lad with the voddy and red bull : - {*ahem*}

me: hiya, is that you andrew green?
Andrew green (heretoafter referred to as AG): yes, it is i (for it is he - Ed.)
me: got a coupla questions, you don't mind do you?
AG: you're not a ******* journalist, are you?
me: no, course not, just a fan

well, we couldn't remember much more, it was all quality thai bush and muy especial senor
speaking of telegraph scribes though, i wonder how christopher booker actually gets through the day?

i mean - only airy assumptions, of course - he must be xanaxed or whatever up to the eyeballs. he must be a timorous fellow, or perhaps he's quite brave.

it's just that he must - well, one infers this impression reading (sometimes between the lines, and sometimes less covertly) his column that - be in constant danger from evil fascist europhiles, yunno, brussels tendency types who are forever plotting to firebomb the offices of the good ship daily telegraph.

thank heavens for max hastings!

his lucidity and warmth shine through in his articles, he sparkles and he has a real knowledge.

one thing i was a bit perturbed by, though, in a recent article he penned for the sunday telegraph about the stevens report, is a couple of his opening gambits. i don't know, i dunno what i'm on about.

i misread it, cause i got the impression the author was less than bothered about things like the murder of pat finucane. i dunno. just some line actually near the end it were, oh god, what am i saying, i should leave politics to the astute bloggers and internet writers etc.

Monday, 21 April 2003

nina's died.

Friday, 18 April 2003

daniel martin wrote shite about electroclash in the manchester evening news. not that i was ever a fan in the slightest, but he's doing it for the wrong reasons. more later etc. i shall have to contact brummie chris, possibly pigeon post?


i would like to say rooney 1 redshite/scum 0 and a hammers victory but of course the trotters will beat the hammers and we'll have to see in the mersey derby. chunkers is a toffee, de burgh is a red.

what i like about bolton is the way that their ground just becomes a veritable couldron of noise and on all sides it's suddenly echoing it's like paying attention to hemingway during the writing of 'for whom the bell tolls' or whevener the chapman bros scribble on some wealthy goya prints, you're like, WOW, are you fucking wadded?


nah, mate, we're a couple of cheeky cunts.

It's full of...
i'll write more later, i swear it. blondie and northern european vis arts and other stuff.
waggers dumped his missus (cause he's fucking sensible) and city won in london. what more can be said. one man went to mow...

Thursday, 10 April 2003

though the wire recently said that electroclash was *the* sound of the roman summer, '98.

a case of : -
beat that, dazed and confused/et tu, sleazenation?

word to patrick ibekwe.
this eastern bloc tape from heronbone luka is *rilly* outasite.
reynolds was remarking once about going to see a nite somewhere in his manhattan home, that - according to the flyers - would be promising chi-town jakkin, mancunian grooves, and london pride.

reynolds later observed, of course, that the illinois 4/4 and the madcunian baggy thang got largely ignored in favour of the 'ardkore lesson as, something about he said i can't recall how he phrased it, you couldn't really (from the PoV of the chap changing the choons) take the crowd down _off_ from that level of intensity and energy or whatever,

well, all i know about this is a rough guide to how i'm responding to it, and it's just too vital by far.
when hoxton and williamsburg liked electroclash in 2000 and ap west liked broken beats in 2001 and everyone again liked bootlegging and cut-ups and electroclash ~again~ in 2001, into last year, well, this is just it instead, actually.

fucking hell, how moribund do the sightings or the detroit cobras sound next to -this- shiznit (hint: sounds like 'a blot').
actually, the week (summarising magazine with funny caricatures) has always been alright.
a mate's off to an am.studs MA course, possibly, he's been working for phones4u, he's a proper frustrated poet intellect, good lad though, great stories, beautiful hair and eyelashes.

just rereading one of the course books.

i was saying to the lovely companion earlier, it's all exciting,
pynchon, de lillo, cather, faulkner, scott fitzgerald, mccarthy, hawthorne, i can't remember if i saw any eudora welty actually.
she used to take photographs of people, sort of for a job i think. it was in the economist obit.

i used to read prospect and red pepper and the guardian weekly and the economist and the new statesman all the time.
these days it is the lrb and nyrb and spectator and the tls and various arty mags you have to pick up in borders outside london or city centres. it's all part of that
marxist (sic) at 16
moderate centrist, social democratic liberal at 23
evil far right monday club bastard at 24
i swear it.
there you go.
sorry, don't know who got in then, that's been happening far too often today, i think it was the old man like, dorty old fatha, i ask ye.


burngreave massage parlour is alright actually, it's certainly better than chesterfield railway station or worksop, mind you, the cynical Diogenes would vouchsafe that ain't saying much.

in the carpet people by terry pratchett (who lives in wiltshire and is still not dead yet, at time of writing, touch wood and suchlike) the size of the city of ware, incidentally, is about thus > .
so, there you have it.
just got off the blower with man like off to partizan LA* la *LAH, who was buzzed.

he left his birmingham office today, to sort business in the wilmslow branch. controversial opinion?

not a "rough bird" in sight all day.
listening to some tape again, i think i just heard an o-tite to pat butcher, i mean i like that frank butcher eminem thing as much as the next man (when was that? i heard it in bar nites across town when i first met slater, and i first met slater the autumn of 2000 if i recall).

in the malt shovels today, 1.21 pint, 50p bag of salted nuts (dry roasted are better for you, but it's the difference between licking off floury detritus from a maccyds muffin and rubbishing the excess into one of their serviettes), just sat there, 5:30 while 6, minding ourselves.

you couldn't make up overheard old bloke pub conversations, could you.

the geese
nah mate, off to lincolnshire next week, me family's in australia, all me family, off to skeggy mate, off to skeggy mate next week
not nottingham then
no, i'm asking you, i'm just saying like
okay, just off for a while to check out a old dirty rotten imbeciles misshaped 12 my man stafford dave has in his mam's kitchen, says it's all purple on one side and white on the other.
what a great reagonomics anthem type metallised hardcore outfit they were, eh.

give me back my taxes~

i don't know what happened to that last post, all the normal somedisco people have a great respect for canuck collectives etc. in particular any francophone contingent, we're just chasing a foaming at the mouth skinny white man with a Hammers tatt off the premises, he's muttering something about school plays and bethnal green my arse?
and set fire to flames have a new album coming out, the filter assures.

just excuse me whilst i wipe down the monitor.
well, after that little scargill like interruption (you couldn't even say it was hattersley-ite right of old labour; not that i've anything against roy mind, i love his dog buster, always scarfing iams that the kitties are sposed to have), normal service is resumed.
hip-hip etc.

another thing that literally *LEAPT! (!ya basta etc.) out of the latest filter mail is some mad mike item. apparently one of the ur crew have had something bootlegged in the smoke (pesky cocker-nees) and miguel is up in arms about it. actually what am i saying, it is actually kenny dixon jr. himself, now he's all rite, silent introduction should be required at dadrock towers whenever they are next chuntling on about marquee moon or forever changes or the fugs or whoever it is they discuss over at emap/ipc/etc.. mike is all "peace in good-times/war when necc" on yo azz.

just reading the filter email: beyond tv in ancoats, m4! that's good that, that is. ancoats is home to sankey's as well, by the way. and let us not forget city entrepreneur tom bloxham and his urban splash enterprises, why new islington will soon be here, and then there won't be any poor people left in mcr under this brave new scheme. excellent.

oops, hang on, that was my infantile socialist labour cousin asif doing that there, do apologise.

Wednesday, 9 April 2003

well, let me make clear 99 p a pint in paddy social clubs is not bad actually, just 1.50 tetley in the place i saw it (name withheld to prevent sponsorship allegations) weren't bad like.

the one thing i will say for now about a eastern bloc choons tape luka sent me today (what spidery and quality handwriting you have! i hope he likes my shitty something to read in return of post...) is that "o-tite" (phonetically anyway; sp?) is heard here when peeps are getting bigged up.
i wasn't sure if this was just a manc word, as i've heard o-tites to folk in the moss, etc. on manc pirate radio, and now i've heard it today in between shouts to upton park folk and tottenham boys etc. so that's something to clear up.

1.50 a pint of tetley is not bad.

the kid had wrote.
actually, perry anderson in the london review of books about the "casuistries of war" was pretty good the other day. far too much reading of the tls and spectator of late. to think i once subbed to the guardian weekly.

brassy's play some d. now's that a tune. re-issued single or sumthin.
songbirds dream of singing, you know. michael mccarthy was saying once, in somewhere like the new scientist. oh, it was originally reported in science (dontcha luv the phrase "peer reviewed"?).
sleeping zebra finches were found to demonstrably be firing their neurons in the pretty similar "complex patterns" they do when awake, and singing for their supper. so it's not just rangers fan, about bobby sands.

now you know.
a rothko print on the wall, as the man sez, the ultimate morsome thing to do. matt was telling me, him and law were going round the turner at tate britain and i was telling him about richter about sf moma - which was completely compelling and quite awesome, frankly - and he was telling me.

reading robert hughes yesterday, who is always prefaced in my head as avuncular as he resembles my dead uncle ian, who lived in australia for many years after leaving his captains post in the royal navy, he was eloquently slagging rothko in an anthology of his criticism being scoped.
matt too. hughes' relatively recent series on beeb 2 about aus was good, especially the episode about aboriginal affairs i felt. after it finished, i went and painted an aboriginal flag and then got a frame for it and put it on me wall. it's still there next to some free form stuff from the divine brummie miss goh.

i've seen wonderfully luminous rothko at chicago art institute. truly it is the sublime, there's a 1950 orangey thing there, forget the name. sitting in front of it was practically epiphanic i swear it, the lovely companion hid her boredom or whatever as i searched for the faces of the saints in his colour.
but as a better layperson than i was banging on about, well, basically, it's nice and all, you s'.
experimentation with colour. hmm.

on the national gallery in dc site they have an online feature about rothko, and it's emphasising stuff about how it's not what you'd think, he learnt about all manner of stuff, i don't know, french cave painting or upper nile hieroglyhs or mayan etchings i don't know, in order to practise his craft. but basically hughes has some brilliant things about the canonisation of rothko, he's like a turner for the american landscape.

interestingly, the astronauts notepad is bigging up luke's mention of pessoa.
saramago, now he's good.
blindness, that's a good one.
some new statesman critic was banging on once when he got the nobel, saramago i mean - apparently it was between him and lobo antunes that one year, it had to go to a lusaphone - and in blindness, for this crit anyway, saramago demonstrated none of that "protective sympathy" for humanity that cyril connolly found in lucretius.
it's all good.

Tuesday, 8 April 2003

so he who espouses danish theologians was all wrapped up, and he always says, not actually referring to the play, the dane, but just the bloke in the song, he says ' i start with the dane ' and just ends up sounding like far too much of a pretentious, oh i don't know.

hank ballard, he died sometime ago. march 2nd this year actually. he'd been born with the name of john kendricks in detroit on the 18th of november, 1927. so that made him 75 the time of his death. but he died in los angeles.

what you may not know about ballard is that in 1958 he wrote the twist, and i read that its initial release was on a flipside. a chubby checker cover version took it from b- to a- and made it really popular. and then we got twistin' the night away and let's twist again, and twist and shout, of course.
and ballard moved to alabama and sang gospel choir, and then he sang doo-wop back up in detroit, and he had some tunes banned in the fifties because of their lyrical content. i saw a photo of the guy. he had great, sparkling eyes, and quite a big forehead, quite bold looking. and he was wearing crazy specs.
i ask you!

in the aftermath of spector getting nicked, pitchfork jokes about him, etc., not too callous eh, i read steyn convincing in the sunday telegraph about the wall of sound and all that; slagging it. steyn seemed to think that because it was made with tinny 50s radio systems etc., in mind, that made it crap or something. but doyen of conservative, middle-class white males nick hornby, can rightly see that ain't necessarily so. but of course steyn could point out, like the penguin guide's richard cook, that the most perfect period of jazz (roughly, early to late 20s), ooh, what am i saying.
basically, i suppose the wall of sound is a sacred cow and i'm one of those tedious middlebrow leeches that is content to listen to it, but as soon as someone slags it, i'll go along with them too, as i am a shameless hussy.
i should be selling pasties in cornwall in a period drama, high forehead, sort of tri-peaked hat, we could roll around in triremes actually and make like phoenicians.
if i was going to go to any sicilian town, honestly, catania or messina has always appealed. i think palermo might be a bit too chichi.

Thursday, 3 April 2003

mannequin pis is not to be missed in bruges, neither are anderlecht scarves funnily enough, or indeed the cliched cause grain of truth frites with mayo. the beer is the thing though. people that way inclined should all go to la trappiste, greenwood street, altrincham, cause it is about to very soon start serving a beer on draught that is the only such thing of its kind in the world outside belgique itself.

now there's a novelty.

it is predictable that people might take the rejigged 2002 rock version of the nerd album to heart, i have a cheap and cheerfully crappy bootleg of the 2001 version, and i don't mind it, although one is forever haunted by the entirely accurate comments over at amg that, lyrically, the album is a bit wack and sometimes, frankly, unimaginatively appalling. i rememer ingram said a bit ago it's open season on the neptunes now, which i wasn't sure what he meant at the time, and i probably still don't, but i think i see what he means.

one thing you do find a tad odd in bruges is all these high ceiling old churches, lovely little naves or whatnot, and please give generously to the poorbox, only some yobboes kicked it in the other night, but there's world's best (or at least biggest, anyway) spider webs. it's like van der rohe has designed teflon spiderwebs for the gooch posse of the belgian ecclesiastical arachnid world.
i imagine if there was a celebrity boxing match (remember bovey vs gervais; i don't even know if gervais is rude or what anymore, apparently ian hislop has been slighted by him, and i like hislop, with his thing for hogarth) between van der rohe and lloyd wright, that original midwestern grit would win.

i dunno, like.

i mean, i'm only guessing like.
it is indeed interpretation, there is nothing new under the sun.
that's why that telly programme, what was it, it was sort of popular anthropology, a sort of cut-price ethnographers dream, it was under the sun. once there was an absolutely completely moving show on there. it was set somewhere in the rsa, i think somewhere in orange free state. this was some years after the return to majority rule, btw. and one person featured in it was some old bloke, who was convinced that some witches were out to get him or sumpin.

a sweet old chap, anyway, you could tell we thought, in possession of a hard life, a few skillets have shat on his skirting board in that old boys time.
well, it was so moving this footage of this oap, he was basically bricking himself, that loads of us just started to feel our eyes welling up. if the handout is about "chance and risk in liverpool 8" or "burial methods among the okon" then you don't expect that kind of thing, but simple human dignity, etc., that was what it was all about.

such a change from the squabbling journos steyn and fisk.
i tell you, i'm still shaking about it hours after the event, and it's not like the kneecapping in that boozer the other night was less unsettling, it's just the ferocious intensity of steyn's beard really capped off the week for many ringside observers. it is beyond magnificence. i wonder in real life does he resemble rory mcgrath? there's a link there, mcgrath is a gooner, osama is a gooner, i don't know if saddam ever sat in the clock end (probably dougie hurd could only get him a box overlooking the shed; mind you, rumsfeld probably got him a posh box at the redskins which is alright for some), but perhaps steyn is a gooner?

he's either an ar-SE-nal man, or maccabi haifa, or possibly cercle bruges, i suspect.
speaking of footy, i wonder if hoult will stay at the albion. smashing keeper that feller.
it was a po na na, not the souk bar though, this was nr, and not m. it was a bit rude i freely admit ("undergradutes all!") but the norwich and manc accents just weren't gelling.
what was good was all the dirty funk we danced to in holborn the saturday night, and the g & t's, and all the clerkenwell pubs. anyway, i am off to congrat man like qasim and buzz man like mathews. these irishmen come off here, looking for our filters and roaches, and they can only afford the one t. he says anyway. the nearest i have ever got to beryl bainbridge, i must 'fess up at this junction, is as byatt. however dame beebee did recently say ~
poetry is much more difficult than prose, particularly the good stuff.
she said it. i can never remember what the oatcake says about travel and pessoa's apothegms and such.
as you can see, i am not committed to going back and reediting (or even looking over at the time), etc. hence this blog will probably have loads of typos, but that's the sues for you. in fact, i can already spot at least one, but it's too late for that, oh yes. the thing i like about random looks out of the window is you always (i mean me, obviously) think you're seeing dave shepherd, but you know that can't be right, he's dancing under the arches, either that, or he's in the snug in salford, supping best.
we brits would say rock n' roll, americans would say punk rock. there's a cleavage for yer.
damnit, really felt the fasion was going awry. i don't know. will come back to that later. the main thing to report is the fight! you didn't see it! you didn't see it?! oh, tell me, you saw it was marvellous simply marv.
what happened was, mark steyn was walking down the road, up church street, he'd just been into the little aladdin to have a £4.10 chicken and rice and a plain naan the size of your pillowcase. he has an expense account you know, conrad black don't mess about. he was off up shudehill to go and get a cheap pint from the hare & hounds before settling down to get some zionist slogan done on his pecs from rocky the tatt man. and then, before i could even accost him with a shout of "mr steyn, i'm one of your biggest fans" that supine appeaser robert fisk kind of bawled round the corner (hi-octane energy, time out's film section would have called it, it's like the opening of amores perros i swear) and just started viciously beating the shit out of him. it's ironic because fisk is kind of a pinko pacifist type, and steyn is a granitic sort of tough chap. fortunately, some old blind bloke who was the spit of a sickly looking tgwu boss bill morris split them up, and i legged it along and got there just in time to administer first aid. i would have thought if steyn was back home, dodging the women's studies profs and the like, he could have got to his rifle, it'd be like that episode of nypd blue when sherry stringfield was still in it, when ross from friends plays a bloke with a rough launderette (he doesn't own it mind, he just goes there) and he gets a gun but in the end he dies. that's probably one of my favourite nypd blue episodes basically.
essentially i was bang out of order slagging off gq, i think the opening of a new boxfresh store in m4 proves this, we want street smart, but we also want to be able to get the freedom to style and to be able to create. contemporary, fresh, vibes. it is indeed good eggs, although whether it is as good as the CROWN in GAYTON is, of course, unlikely. the CROWN in GAYTON is very good indeed, i swear it.

Wednesday, 2 April 2003

the thing about oatcakes, and my man with the half-brick and eggnog latte is from round there, is, well, they're a bit like flumps made with batter. they're greasy and infolded (like ilm discussions) but normally filled with red leicester and asda bacon. i think that's right. the three of us did a trek through the staffordshire moorlands once all night. our only companions were noble shire-horses, bemused early morning commuters, security and their donuts. but in newcastle under lyme (castle duck to locals) there's this one greasy spoon'cake, that seems to open about 5.30, closes around 9 (must be for the get to work rush). needed lots of showers afterwards, but that wasn't the fault of the oatcake.
the potter poet of fenton town, he like t.s. eliot. as does luke. luke must know of computers, as i can't change the settings on this or anything, and i'm utterly confused about lots of it.
if emily dickinson were around today, let's see living in london (cause she prefers the lrb to the nyrb), would she go up fabric, or to the end? and would she drink in yer actual boozah, or sup eggnog lattes in benjy's? and what would she make of the congestion charge? and do you think she'd listen to kodaly (i was listening to some of his before, it's good stuff) or mc pitman? i think pitman. words, sounds, it's all verse ain't it.
i've got the old fateh ali khan and party gig on, a real world disc, 'devotional songs'. it's nice, but the tempo's a bit different i think to other stuff i've heard (on ocora and navras, and even some real world stuff). quite relaxing, 'yaad-e-nabi gulshan mehka' is nice.
t.s. eliot and miranda richardson would have got on if they'd ever met. when some poppers in gcse maths meant a sudden burst of near-inspiration, the idea of a sun style photo-casebook narrative of eliot and richardson getting it on a spectator party coalesced. basically eliot would be all smooth and sophisticated at first, turn on the charm, polite and inane chit-chat, insulting jokes about ezra pound and stuff. but they'd get down to it later on. obviously you'd want richardson in one of her mature roles, not blackadder 2's queenie. that would cool anyone's ardour, you'd think. aa gill did a gentleman's interest shoot once, and he did it quite well, according to the latest gq, which i bought yesterday, just to see what it said about beckham and jude law, but then it got recycled quickly, cause there was less than i thought. it's kind of weird. there was an interesting feature about mix 'n' match, picture of justin t. looking like an exchange student (as they put it) around 2000, nowadays all shoreditch twat cool in a cut n' paste aesthetic manner. but if you're just some fashion victim type relying on a columnist to tell you, that's gotta invalidate some. mind you, it is fashion and since when is that anything but artifice etc. i wouldn't mind, but the classic gq reader is, in my mind's eye, considerably richer (than yow) than me, and somewhat older. so they shouldn't have to be rocking the hoxtonite/fashionista/ironic nu-mullet/sleazenation tip, cause they could just go for a decent suit, black in winter, ocean's eleven remake pastels/grand theft auto: vice city, styled in the warmer months. and no one would mind. they'd still close the deals and shag the debs. &c.