I had expected that yesterday, with its footballing contest and celebrity wedding, would make for an onerous time round these parts due to resultant street-level arseholery. Happily it wasn’t too big a deal.
Today however, not only has there been a passing bigot parade but apparently there’s yet another footballing contest, this one involving the Partick Thistles, which sadly means fuckwittery writ large directly outside my flat. All fucking day.
Music news (gigs and that) later this week.
The earth is flat, okay, fair enough, I accept that. What shape is it, though?
Is it a disc and, if it is, what’s on the B-side? Is it oval? Is it a square? If it’s a rectangle, does that make it some kind of gargantuan tray? Are earthquakes just the Big Giant Tray being shoogled about on the way from God’s Great Kitchen to the Heavenly Living Room in time for Antiques Road Trip?
If it’s an octagon does that mean we’re all living in a Chuck Norris movie? To be fair, that would explain a lot.
Also, how thick is it? How does it stay level? Is it in danger of flipping over in a high solar wind? Can the whole thing be rolled up like a celestial yoga mat?
This science stuff is complicated.
Having been up for a couple of days, Knackered Logic dictated that this afternoon should suddenly seem the ideal time for me to get on with some unusually arts-and-craftsy stuff. Specifically work on some box-shelves I’m making for tapes.
Forgot to Google “how to do papier mache” as I was pretty sure my vague memories from primary school on the subject would suffice. Not so.
Turns out all I really remember is popping a balloon through a set papier mache shell. Balloons, sadly, do not feature heavily in my plans for cassette storage. Ach well, not to worry.
I also couldn’t be arsed clearing any kind of work space. Turns out that wallpaper paste gets bastard everywhere.
At some point I came up with the great idea of putting the boxes in the bath to dry. Fine, if you don’t get to the end of the day covered in fucking wallpaper paste and quite fancying a shower.
Over three hours it took me, to get less than half of the necessary work done. I’m even more knackered now, with a sore back and a headache. I just wanted somewhere to keep my tapes.
Anyway, I’m hoping to sort out a gig or two each for the duo and band this coming week. I’ll endeavour to keep you updated.
Checking through some folders in the dusty depths of my hard drive yesterday, I came across the following. As I recall, some years ago I’d been on the receiving end of a load of spam emails and had idly taken to editing together some of the more weird random phrases of which they were comprised.
Every few years I’d rediscover the file and edit it.
This time I think it’s ready. So here it is. Prepare to be moved.
Sandra Has Been in Touch
A professional master with golden hands
Made this golden watch,
Just for you, oh you, cute varmint.
You do have eyes for absolutely free French stuff.
I know it – but damn, who do not?
Is haggard? Is drenched by furniture.
Is south? Is by decision fiver duty.
Is over-tender, hurriedly, Arabian.
Come by to me and fuck off on my pictures, sweetie
Absolutely any female will be shocked by your monster cock.
“I know,” the old man said. “It is quite normal”
“Of course – and the best fisherman is you.”
Sad-faced bedside imagination, waiting for your response
Aquiver exemplified, autodialed lairdship!
Thank you for your prompt attention to the above,
I know, right? I’m welling up myself.
Art. It’s a piece of piss.
As per the new, caring and sharing online me first visited in Inner Shit, here’s another deep insight into my psyche.
I once, in the mid 1970s, won the Glen Michael’s Cartoon Cavalcade Letter Of The Month (or was it Week?) with a conceptual piece on wallpaper that had all Spider-Man and that. The prize was a £3 book token which got me a variety of Marvel annuals and a couple of L. Sprague De Camp/Lin Carter Conan paperbacks. Fast forward to the late ’80s: a hungover, 19-year-old me catches an episode of the still-running Cavalcade and witnesses a contemporary winner of the Letter Of The Month-or-possibly-Week. The prize? You guessed it – a £3 book token.
Also, must’ve been around that time, mid-’70s, I took part in a pantomime with a travelling theatre group at my school. Aladdin, I think (the panto, not the school). It was all quick-changes with the luvvies round the back of the set and I saw a woman in her pants. There were tights as well but it was the pants that made it remarkable.
And there you have it.
Next: the time I punched a gibbon in the throat.*