Hullo. With a U. The only way to begin.
A quick update for my billions of baying fans who I have no doubt disappointed with my lack of guest appearances on here recently. That update is, oopsy. My plans have gang a bit agley. In short, I’ve had a bit of an unfortunate time of late. It happens occasionally. Just life things. Just getting in the way of work things, like writing and ting. But, I’ll prevail, eventually. We’re getting there. I’m taking life one sock at a time.
Please, watch this space, he suggests, suggestively. For how long exactly? as you would have every right to wonder quietly to yourself. Not too long I hope, a similar length of time that it would take to plait a cobweb. Or a trifle and two mos, whichever happens sooner. But seriously, it’s about time I put the guitar down and began what I meant to start a good two months ago. See, I had this odd idea to get some words up on here that are actually worth reading. Crazy, I know.
Indeed, stranger things have happened, like that horse who accidentally became Pope for a few weeks in the sixteenth century, which is a fact, alternative reality fact fans. Or Razorlight recording a tune that isn’t a crossbow bolt insult to the very heart of music. This just about happened with Golden Touch if you were about to wander down a dark, dark alleyway of musical memory, but only as you can sing Maneater by Hall and Oates over the top and drown out Burrell’s over-confident almost vocal impersonation. I’ve a feeling that my latter example of stranger things happening may be a one in a million fluke.
Ah, I feel better already. There’s nothing better than inadvertantly upsetting over sensitive Catholics with a flippant horse gag. Blame Baldrick for that one, plagiarism at its best.
But then I remembered something I enjoy more than a stolen horse gag, and that was getting a few words off my sternum about how dreadful Johnny Borrell’s bunch of anti-musicians are. The qwertyuiop keyboard is indeed mightier than the sword people, and more effective than citalopram hydrobromide. Phew.
So, in order to hurry my quest along, I’ve just turned an egg timer the right way up, and I’ll endeavour to get something new, something worth reading up on here before the sands fall and as soon as my thyroid glands allow. Promise.
Thank you to folk and people who have liked and commented on my first few words on here. I’m hoping that was just the forlorn looking polar bear on the iceberg’s tip.
Write soon, world.
Um, love and hugs and big mwhaas. New spelling alert, emphasis on the aa please, as in aardvark, obviously.
Post Ramble. I attach a whelk macro for no other reason than I took a picture by the sea today, though they’re mostly barnacles I think. Whelk macro just sounds better, and is a name that should really have been picked up by 70’s prog rockers for a moniker for their passionless and predominantly pointless meanderings into goblins arriving via chimneys and the like. Tut tut 70’s prog rockers, tut tut.
Post post ramble. It was my own silly mistake I suppose. I feel a little grubby to admit it, but listened to and stared inanely at a BBC4 documentary on progressive rock the other evening. I don’t watch T.V. often, and when I do, I like things to not suddenly explode on me in a sickening custard of consumerist colour and over-compressed sound (or adverts as they are also known), so it’s usually BBC, and usually something really unsurprising.
Imagine my delight three hours in, to find myself concluding what I already knew, that I just don’t get prog rock. If there’s any emotion in there, then it’s either too cunningly secreted for me or hiding behind a pyramid of emotionally repressed stunt musicians who liked fiddling and goblins a smidge too much for their own good. Warning. Prog may make you go blind, or at least suggest that poking one’s eyes out may be the less painful option. Take heed.
Anyhoo, the karmic punchline to the throat was that after I’d idly mentioned to my prog rock fan friend that the documentary had taught me that I didn’t totally dislike either Caravan or King Crimson, I was treated to an entire Caravan album on the car stereo on a medium sized trip. No escape. Prog karma, as instant as continents colliding. Don’t get me wrong, I like a goblin as much as the next man, but I’m less keen on having it rammed down my throat.
And now, I will lie down and dream of fantastical worlds made up from things that aren’t shape-shifting beasts who live in a magical taiga. Hopefully I’ll dream about something more mundane, like a sieve or a limpet.
By the way, I wondered this evening whether Tom Waits has ever released an album entitled For No Man. And if not, why not?
Note – Other musical opinions are available from all good bookshops. Any offence to any Catholics, horses, or disturbingly unenlightened and outmoded doctrines of fear, greed and hypocrisy, living or dead, is purely coincidental.