Sure, there are bastards everywhere; crooked politicians, despots, fascists, policemen, muggers, rapists, thugs, liars, murderers, thieves and Piers Morgan. But sometimes, every once in a while, I quite like humans. Most of the ones I come into contact with by choice, I like. Some of them, I love.
So well done, humans. But not all of you.
x
Why is George Carlin not famous in England? He always made me laugh a lot more than Bill Hicks, and you can’t fucking move for people blabbing on about how much of a genius he was. Oh well, thanks for the laughs George, rot in peace!
RUFUS!!!
People approach me in the streets occasionally.
For example, today a homeless fellow called Bob struck up a conversation with me as I dwelled on a bench outside work. He told me some poor old lady had been beaten and mugged in Derby, and he knew the man who’d done it. Then he told me he used to be in the army, did Bob, and he knew what he was going to do when he found the culprit. He was going to take him to a darkened room and cut out three of the man’s ribs with wire cutters. This actually happened today. I was deeply disturbed.
But sometimes pleasant people come up to me and ask when the album’s coming out. To those people, I say only this: soon, mon petis pois, soon. This year, for sure. Basically it turns out that everything takes fucking ages. We’re finished, finalising and agreeing on the ultimate mix in the next couple of days, and mastering like I said…a few months ago.
I reckon it’ll be available by September, October at the absolute latest. But it’s not all glum news! The follow up is now finished in terms of writing and about 1/4 learned by the band, and we are going to record more or less live so that will take less time than this one did, honest.
In other news, HOW BAD is British television?! I’ve not really been watching for a bit, but tonight I watched loads and I’m deeply, deeply depressed at the state of culture. Seriously.
Chilblains! Gather at my crooked legs, pull up a cushion, tug at your hairpieces! I have brought fresh tubs of narrative, and I wish to spread them on your brain like butterstory.
It’s been many a month since lovely, tumbling whippersnapperwhipper Jeremy last pooked a furtive peek in your direction. When last we saw him, he was killed by a falling metal sky bird. But what became of him after the event? Did he survive death?
Yes, he did! Here he is now! Say hello to Jeremy everyone!
Hello Jeremy! You look beautiful, like a fresh breeze on a gremlin’s crevice!
One day, Jeremy awoke high in a tree, hanging in a peculiar nest like a fucked up chicken boy tangled in blue cheese. The vending machine was back again, humming below him in gregorian clouds of menace. It was growling bumbling gobbles upwards into the blackbirds and the finches, muttering out of it’s puckered arsehole like a nosegay.
Bobby Sparrow was perched upon the toppermost corner of the vending machine, flapping his sad little bald wings in frenzied anticipation, skipping from gnarled foot to ngarled toof and whispering the lyrics to Aqua’s mid-nineties hit “Barbie Girl” in what Jeremy could only assume was an attempted impression of Kieth Chegwin’s poorly mother.
Jeremy scratched his hand with his hair. Why did the vending machine return so yams?
“Yams,” offered Jeremy, his face gobshitted like choir boys in a back-alley fisting fight.
The vending machine just stared back at him, its expression twisted and gray, its hair spreading like wildfire up its manly spokes.
“What do you want this time, Tony Crockles?” The wild card. He had done his homework. He knew the vending machine’s name.
Tony Crockles stopped staring. His mouth flap jittered like so many tired porn quims.
“That’s Lord Justice Crockles to you, fucknut,” he crumbed, and his judge’s wig faded into view upon his wispy hair strands.
“II have done no wrong,” Jeremy sang to the tune of the melody of the end. “I have done no wrong to no wong.”
“You have done no right,” countered Tony Crockles, his fists nonexistent. “Murderer. Grim reapo. Yiddish prefect. Tummy guzzler. Idiot collector. Backwerds luthier. Tiny mind cracker. Pervert!”
The shotgun was quick, but Jeremy was devious. A leap and a somersault, a slip of the knife, a tickle with a brickle and a spastic wail. Tony Crockles lay dead, Boost bars and Um Bongo cartons tumbling from his open belly like misery oil on a whale’s nipple.
Jeremy trod Bobby Sparrow into the dry Earth, enjoying the crunch when his eyes spat out into the bees nest upon the trees’ West.
“Do not cross me, illbird. You should have known better. And I was growing to like you.”
Jeremy’s tiny legs flitted back and forth like celery as he skipped into his brum brum and made his way into town.
The Norwegian God of Yakult was idly masturbating with a cloth of silk in the sky above. His good eye was twitching semen like a fucked fridge. The Danish Skylords billowed behind him, to creep up on the midnight self-abuser and steal his prototype children.
Town. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmtown. The brown buildings built backwards became bilious breweries before bumping behind brilliant broad billboards. The telegraph poles tore holes in the proles, great stretching fingers of wood creasing the pink sky with impressive mirth. The streets were awash with black soot stains, the last thoughts of the last people spread out against the brickword like mucky shadows. Jeremy tootled through the pain in his matchstick car, Creedence on the stereo, toying him with the rock.
He parked up and got dressed.
The only people to be seen for miles around were to be found at the sacrificial mount, where Jeremy soon found himself. Three men, three men, three men. They hung sadly from the crucifixes with tears brimming in their eyeholes, staring out at the vacant town, their hands and feet and ears pinned to the rosewood with staples and nails and bits of combs and shit.
The son of God was in the middle. You could tell he was the son of God because he had a t-shirt on that said “Lo! I am the son of God, and all I got was this lousy t-shirt”.
“Look at you all,” chuckled Jeremy, and the words came out of his mouth-hole like tiny critter letters.
He spent seven hours gazing intently at the three men, three men, three men three, chuckling all the while and occasionally waving his bare balls at them. When he was satisfied that they were dead, he painted the scene in oil colour, set fire to the canvass, and pissed out a multi-coloured pencil tin in joy and satisfaction.
Some time after, the gypsies returned to Nocturnal Village, but Henry dealt them fatal blows with a sledgehammer, laughing maniacally and regretting his choice of footwear. The Villagers couldn’t help but laugh - even old Mrs Miggins!
The above is dedicated to Christopher, who asked me yesterday why there hadn’t been any new Jeremy stories for a while. I just assumed no one read them.
Number one!
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Number two (titter):
I think I experienced one of the best gigs I’m likely to see last night. I also had the pleasure of playing it.
If you’ve not heard The Little Explorer then we have them in our links down that RIGHT HAND SIDEBAR and you should go to them and take them into your ears and let them live there for a bit. If you’ve never seen them live then that’s a shitting shame because last night was their last ever gig… and it was incredible!
What struck me was that TLE played great, but then they always did. This time it was the crowd that made this something special, making every song feel like some stadium classic and dancing about like every song was a set closer (which to be fair they could have been). I loved the fact there were no encores and no self adulation from the band, no lengthy speeches, just a great set.
I will truly miss going to see this band, but I am so glad to still know them after years of playing gigs together, getting drunk and chatting inane for hours in shit clubs.
Special mention also has to go to the lovely guys from Fine Before You Came, who made the trip from Italy to play this gig, incredible live band and proper nice people to boot. Also props to Wander Phantom who opened the show and played the best I think I’ve seen them, I’ve got neck ache from nodding about to all three of these bands.
Here’s links to them all too, you should give them a listen.
Firstly, apologies for the enthusiastic Indy reviews as it would appear everyone else in the world hated it. To all who didn’t have fun watching this film, I say: YOU HAVE FORGOTTEN HOW TO HAVE FUN! IT’S GREAT! CHEER UP!!!
Anyway, remember when we said we were going to grow our beards for a year but gave up after two months? Well our friend John won by a fucking long shot, and here is the proof:
EDIT: There’s meant to be a photo of Johnny’s massive beard here but I done a wrong.
He wins, clearly. Well done Johnny. Actually I think that means we owe him money or a pint or something. I can’t remember the terms.
Either Robbie has been writing posts with my account, tsk tsk…or I wrote a review when I got in last night and then forgot about it. I’d had a couple of drinks, sure, but I wasn’t that bad…was I?
Latest brilliant spamming received:
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Me and Robin went to see Indy 4 last night. You may have noticed his somewhat enthusiastic post dangling below mine.
Here are my thoughts on the matter…
Thank you, thank you, thank you Mr Spielberg. I wanted to believe in you from the get-go…but I kept thinking of Georgie meddling with his silly ideas and sticking Jar Jar in it for the hell of it and I also couldn’t help but remember “Hook”…yes, we know it is possible for you to make bad family movies, Mr S. But not this time. Somehow, despite Ford pushing 90, despite using copious and unnecessary amounts of CGI (even in chase sequences!!?!), despite the fucking MONKEYS, despite David Koepp writing the script…you gave us another Indiana Jones movie that FEELS like an Indy movie. And we looked upon it, and saw that it was good. Good? Fucking spectacular. Hooray!
In fact, within two minutes of Indy being back on screen, I had already turned to Robbie and said “This…is brilliant!” Because unlike The Phantom Menace, it felt like it belonged to the same lineage, part of the series. Right from the get-go.
In FACT, within five minutes me and Robbie, two fully grown, straight men, were holding one another’s hands and panting.
In FACT, the film nosedives at the end. But fuck it, I left the cinema buzzing my tiny little tits off, and actually walked home barking at complete strangers to “Go and see Indy 4!” No, really.
That good. Dead good. I’m made up. I’m elated. I want to kiss Spielberg’s beard. Come here Spielberg, I’m kissing your beard. Mmm….mmmph….mmmmm……not you George! Stay back! On your rug!
and remember it….
if you can still watch Back To The Future and feel a bit daft and loved up….
if the first three Indiana Jones films make you smile and make your stomach go funny…..
….go and see Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Krystal Skull.
Any minor complaints you will CERTAINLY have upon leaving the theatre will be out-YYYYEAAAAAAH!!!!!ed by the general feeling of brilliance.
Fuck you Lucas, you have no idea! Spielberg remembers!
They call me mellow hello.
I am writing songs. For the most part they are sad and a bit dour. Then there are some whooshy joyous ones too. Which do you think I should go with?
Does an entire record of love songs/lack of love songs/making love songs sound a bit too much? Or are there other Wedding Present fans reading?
Should I write more fantasy songs/story songs? Am I going overboard on the emotion? Is listening to the honest outpourings of someone, their inner-most fears and desires and depressions laid out to a chord sequence and melody, too much honesty to take? Or do you just listen to the notes like?
I have had too much constructive criticism recently and too many people telling me what I should be doing, what I’m doing wrong and what I’m doing right, and now I can’t tell the difference. I liked it more when I was 18 and no one offered me any particular suggestions except to keep going.
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