Pete and the Pirates – Concorde 2
Last night, as I cycled my merry way home, a happy sigh left my body. It was cold, dark and wet. A smattering of drunken revellers ambled along the promenade. I felt wonderful.
Sigh complete, I sang all the way home. Sometimes my arm reached out to the world, just as it had only moments before. I was high. I was high on live music. Alcohol free and happy, I had a one-lady sing-along, with and to no one.
Pete and the Pirates are and were truly amazing. For once, I found myself with an audience that whole-heartedly agrees. Particularly impressive, was the throng of lads that had travelled all the way from Madrid, just for an intimate Brighton gig. Whilst Pete and the Pirates are a lesser-known entity in their homeland, they seem to have conquered a small quarter of Spain. Good for them.
“We travel around the world to see bands”, my new friend said, “We’ve seen the Arctic Monkeys and The Strokes”. Pete and the Pirates so deserve to be included in that sentence. “And this gig is so cheap”, he added, “Just £7.50.” Yes, it was. It was even cheap for the Concorde 2.
While Pete and the Pirates have the good looks and the rip-roaring tunes, their personalities seem better aligned to those of anti-folk renegades. They are an endearing band.
In the moshpit, the audience fell under this very charm. We sang our hearts out, the Spaniards shouted mysterious requests, and a happy bubble of fans bounced for joy. When the music soared, foreign arms would curl around my shoulders or waist, and buoy me along. We were as one and it was fun, fun, fun.
And too much fun for one. When a Spanish hand snuck its way under my t-shirt, I politely removed it. Enthusiasm has its limits. Needless to say, I will still treasure the moment that a handsome man, 15 years my junior, tried to cop a mischievous feel. I will also treasure the kiss that his friend politely planted on my cheek. That was after I'd allowed him to rip off and take away part of my mask.
Yes, for the last two nights, I’ve worn masks. It’s the best solution to hiding wrinkles in a young environment. For two nights in a row, I’ve entertained young suitors. Why didn’t I think of it before? I have a reasonable figure, so why not hide the face, and highlight my assets? Okay, the mask wearing was far from intentional and I don’t really need an extra lover, but it was great fun.
Mask 1, Friday 28th December:
At Club Mayhem, the great DJ that is Amongst the Pigeons filled the room with pigeon masks, whilst adorning his own - as cool as fuck - cat hat and shades. A stroke of paraphernalia genius and a belter of a DJ set.
Mask 2: Saturday, 29th December:
At the Concorde 2, Pete and the Pirates volunteered to be the backing band for support act, Connan Moccasins, who were a few members short. They disguised themselves with gaffer tape moustaches and eyebrows, and the more inventive made their very own head masks. Entitled 'The Gimps', they provided additional vocals, a bassist and wonderfully childish dance routines. When, at the start of their real set, they threw the masks into the crowd, I won. It seemed churlish not to wear it. I ended up with a cardboard and gaffer tape inspired ‘gimp-come-animal’ headset on for the full length of the set. I loved every minute of it.
I’m getting into this mask wearing. Maybe I should wear one tonight for Stanley Brinks.
Fabpants Recommends:
Download MP3: Pete and the Pirates - Mr Understanding (courtesy of auralstates.com)
Sunday, 30 November 2008
Saturday, 29 November 2008
Gig Review and More: Ear Worm
For two days this song has happily co-existed with my mind:
Download MP3: Public Enemy – You’re Gonna Get Yours (courtesy of getthecurse.com)
Despite filling my head with music for hours on end, it persists. I rather like it. It’s there for no other reason than to give me pleasure. So suckers to tha side, I know you hate my 98. You’re gonna get yours. And yours is another gig review.
You might not have heard of this one. I do my research. I go out. Going out is fun. If you can, go out today. If you can't, then live through me. It's my treat. I love it.
MC Fashion – Tom’s Gallery
Last night, I had the great pleasure of attending Club Mayhem, at Tom's Gallery, where I caught the wonderful MC Fashion.
MC Fashion reminded me of a younger and freer Kid_Carpet, minus the children's instruments. Instead, with a laptop, guitar and wildly co-ordinated dance moves, the MC guru fused happy hardcore, ska and amphetamine laced bleeps. With pure enthusiasm, and his own brand of shouty style lyrics, MC Fashion pulled off a unique and enthralling performance. Top notch.
Fabpants Recommends:
Download MP3: MC Fashion – Pressure Drop (sorry, this link has died)
Download MP3: MC Fashion - Dawnin Of a Nu Era (sorry, this link has died)
Did someone request a bit of Helen Love? If MC Fashion hasn’t put you in the mood, what will?
Download MP3: Helen Love – Does Your Heart Go Boom? (courtesy of www.box.net)
It’s a golden happy hardcore oldie. It’s a great gym track. It’s an advertising whore.
I have also added the music player to all my old MP3 links, so please go back and listen. It involved some research, as some links had fallen by the way. I don't host MP3s myself, so enjoy the gift of others. I do.
Download MP3: Public Enemy – You’re Gonna Get Yours (courtesy of getthecurse.com)
Despite filling my head with music for hours on end, it persists. I rather like it. It’s there for no other reason than to give me pleasure. So suckers to tha side, I know you hate my 98. You’re gonna get yours. And yours is another gig review.
You might not have heard of this one. I do my research. I go out. Going out is fun. If you can, go out today. If you can't, then live through me. It's my treat. I love it.
MC Fashion – Tom’s Gallery
Last night, I had the great pleasure of attending Club Mayhem, at Tom's Gallery, where I caught the wonderful MC Fashion.
MC Fashion reminded me of a younger and freer Kid_Carpet, minus the children's instruments. Instead, with a laptop, guitar and wildly co-ordinated dance moves, the MC guru fused happy hardcore, ska and amphetamine laced bleeps. With pure enthusiasm, and his own brand of shouty style lyrics, MC Fashion pulled off a unique and enthralling performance. Top notch.
Fabpants Recommends:
Download MP3: MC Fashion – Pressure Drop (sorry, this link has died)
Download MP3: MC Fashion - Dawnin Of a Nu Era (sorry, this link has died)
Did someone request a bit of Helen Love? If MC Fashion hasn’t put you in the mood, what will?
Download MP3: Helen Love – Does Your Heart Go Boom? (courtesy of www.box.net)
It’s a golden happy hardcore oldie. It’s a great gym track. It’s an advertising whore.
I have also added the music player to all my old MP3 links, so please go back and listen. It involved some research, as some links had fallen by the way. I don't host MP3s myself, so enjoy the gift of others. I do.
Gig Review: I Have Nothing to Say about My Life
Gigs are like buses. You wait patiently for ages, and then they all come at once. My blog is going to turn into a gig diary, and you’re all going to hate me. Sorry.
I’m From Barcelona – Concorde 2
While I’m from Barcelona’s new album isn’t awash with the same gleeful pop gems as their debut, their live show remains bloody brilliant. On Wednesday night, at the Concorde 2, paper planes, giant balloons, glow sticks and confetti were rife. With a mix of songs old and new, the 12 strong band, stole a room full of hearts and melted my mind. With Soko in support, who could ask for more? Not me.
Fabpants Recommends:
Download MP3: I'm From Barcelona - Paper Planes (courtesy of nastypanda.com)
As the best band of Latitude and End of the Road 2007 - by far - I hope that 'I’m From Barcelona' will return to the UK festival scene in 2009. Pretty please.
I’m From Barcelona – Concorde 2
While I’m from Barcelona’s new album isn’t awash with the same gleeful pop gems as their debut, their live show remains bloody brilliant. On Wednesday night, at the Concorde 2, paper planes, giant balloons, glow sticks and confetti were rife. With a mix of songs old and new, the 12 strong band, stole a room full of hearts and melted my mind. With Soko in support, who could ask for more? Not me.
Fabpants Recommends:
Download MP3: I'm From Barcelona - Paper Planes (courtesy of nastypanda.com)
As the best band of Latitude and End of the Road 2007 - by far - I hope that 'I’m From Barcelona' will return to the UK festival scene in 2009. Pretty please.
Tuesday, 25 November 2008
Waltz with War
I was 10 years old when the Sabra and Shatila massacres took place. Beirut was a name synonymous with war. Films showed crumbling battle struck buildings. Dusty army tanks seemed to reign supreme. It was a place of death and destruction. I had no idea why.
In the news, stories about the IRA merged with those of Lebanon. In my head, there was little difference. They shared the fate of being poorly explained images on a TV screen. I felt robbed of a decent explanation.
It was as though I’d walked into a conversation decades in. I felt unable catch up. I was wise enough to understand that I didn’t understand. I was decisive enough to conclude that I hated politics. Politicians appeared to be manipulative bullies, and the world was their playground.
Bored by confusion, and frustrated by my own ignorance, I shut myself off from the details. What was the point in learning facts that no one could adequately account for? Without reason they were meaningless. As the acronyms and names drifted by, only the words ‘war’ and ‘death’ truly penetrated my mind.
I felt certain that the carnage could not be justified and that humankind was needlessly violent. Whatever the true history and rationalisation, there was ultimately no meaning.
Ariel Sharon was part of something that the news told me was awful. But, he was just a name. My limited knowledge was not enough to understand his place in the world or his motives. I understood that the newsreader portrayed him as a man of war. The world seemed full of men like him. I heard the daily reports, but never a summary of why they did what they did, or how they got away with it. It seemed ridiculous that such people could come to rule the world.
The Lebanese Civil War began when I was three and ended fifteen years later. By the time I was ten, the conflict was seven years in.
Summaries of the long Lebanese war raise many questions and answer few. It seems that everyone wanted a piece of the conflict. There were factions within factions, allegiances and betrayals. Even to the people involved, it seems that the situation was absurdly confusing and wildly out of control.
Much more than that, it was global. Funding and support came from all over the world. It appears that Romanians, Bulgarians, West Germans, Belgians, Israelis, Libyans and Iraqis all played a part and that the arms came from somewhere.
In 1987, Terry Waite, a British man, became a household name in England. He was our face for a civil war that was tearing apart so many lives, so many miles away. He was one of the many hostages, kidnapped and held in captivity.
On Sunday, I was reminded of the short distance that my mind has travelled. Some 26 years on, the gaping holes in my political knowledge are equally persistent and frustrating. I remain mostly ignorant about the conflicts that kill our kind. I want to learn more, but to learn more, I need the human perspective. I need to be engaged, and the facts alone can’t hold me.
For a series of news stories that frustrated me all those years ago, I now have that.
As soon as the final credits rolled, I wanted to watch Waltz with Bashir again. Real life interviews combined with striking animation presented me with that missing piece. The interviewees in the film aren’t political figures, but people that Ari Folman, the director, spent time with during the 1982 invasion of Southern Lebanon by the Israel Defense Forces. They are very human. They are very engaging.
BBC Interview with Ari Folman
The film ends sadly with the Sabra and Shatila massacres. For the assassination of Bashir Gemayel - the senior commander of the “Phalangists” Christian militia, and the President of Lebanon - the Christian militia took the lives of the Palestinian men and women that remained in the Sabra and Shatila refugee camps in Beirut. They did not spare the elderly. They did not spare the children.
The Palestinian combat fighters had already left, evacuated two weeks earlier.
Ari Folman questions his role in the deaths of the innocent.
Fabpants Recommends:
Download MP3: Fujiya & Miyagi - Knickerbocker (courtesy of rraurl.uol.com.br)
I bought a ticket to see them next week. I bought lots of tickets. It's pay day.
In the news, stories about the IRA merged with those of Lebanon. In my head, there was little difference. They shared the fate of being poorly explained images on a TV screen. I felt robbed of a decent explanation.
It was as though I’d walked into a conversation decades in. I felt unable catch up. I was wise enough to understand that I didn’t understand. I was decisive enough to conclude that I hated politics. Politicians appeared to be manipulative bullies, and the world was their playground.
Bored by confusion, and frustrated by my own ignorance, I shut myself off from the details. What was the point in learning facts that no one could adequately account for? Without reason they were meaningless. As the acronyms and names drifted by, only the words ‘war’ and ‘death’ truly penetrated my mind.
I felt certain that the carnage could not be justified and that humankind was needlessly violent. Whatever the true history and rationalisation, there was ultimately no meaning.
Ariel Sharon was part of something that the news told me was awful. But, he was just a name. My limited knowledge was not enough to understand his place in the world or his motives. I understood that the newsreader portrayed him as a man of war. The world seemed full of men like him. I heard the daily reports, but never a summary of why they did what they did, or how they got away with it. It seemed ridiculous that such people could come to rule the world.
The Lebanese Civil War began when I was three and ended fifteen years later. By the time I was ten, the conflict was seven years in.
Summaries of the long Lebanese war raise many questions and answer few. It seems that everyone wanted a piece of the conflict. There were factions within factions, allegiances and betrayals. Even to the people involved, it seems that the situation was absurdly confusing and wildly out of control.
Much more than that, it was global. Funding and support came from all over the world. It appears that Romanians, Bulgarians, West Germans, Belgians, Israelis, Libyans and Iraqis all played a part and that the arms came from somewhere.
In 1987, Terry Waite, a British man, became a household name in England. He was our face for a civil war that was tearing apart so many lives, so many miles away. He was one of the many hostages, kidnapped and held in captivity.
On Sunday, I was reminded of the short distance that my mind has travelled. Some 26 years on, the gaping holes in my political knowledge are equally persistent and frustrating. I remain mostly ignorant about the conflicts that kill our kind. I want to learn more, but to learn more, I need the human perspective. I need to be engaged, and the facts alone can’t hold me.
For a series of news stories that frustrated me all those years ago, I now have that.
As soon as the final credits rolled, I wanted to watch Waltz with Bashir again. Real life interviews combined with striking animation presented me with that missing piece. The interviewees in the film aren’t political figures, but people that Ari Folman, the director, spent time with during the 1982 invasion of Southern Lebanon by the Israel Defense Forces. They are very human. They are very engaging.
BBC Interview with Ari Folman
The film ends sadly with the Sabra and Shatila massacres. For the assassination of Bashir Gemayel - the senior commander of the “Phalangists” Christian militia, and the President of Lebanon - the Christian militia took the lives of the Palestinian men and women that remained in the Sabra and Shatila refugee camps in Beirut. They did not spare the elderly. They did not spare the children.
The Palestinian combat fighters had already left, evacuated two weeks earlier.
Ari Folman questions his role in the deaths of the innocent.
Fabpants Recommends:
Download MP3: Fujiya & Miyagi - Knickerbocker (courtesy of rraurl.uol.com.br)
I bought a ticket to see them next week. I bought lots of tickets. It's pay day.
Friday, 21 November 2008
All the Ladies in the House Say Yeah
With absolutely no inkling of its odious nature, I’ve been using an offensive term in public spaces, and not infrequently. Could you be at fault too? Are you offending people left, right and centre, and with no insight?
On Wednesday, I took part in a Diversity Training course. I didn’t learn much about diversity, but I did learn that people can be easily offended. Either that or I’m a dick. The latter might be true. I smell like sweaty old cheese and can be floppy or erect at will. I hold my hands up. I'm a dick.
It’s odd that I have such a diverse range of friends. I’m such a bigoted penis of a person. What the hell are they thinking?
Did you spot the hideously offensive word in my last blog entry? I left it there. I left it there for you, and I left it there for me. I like it and I’m stubborn. Yes, I have a lack of respect for the feelings of others and, if you are an other, you can always leave. This is Fabland and in Fabland we are all free. I welcome you with love and I wave you away with glee. Go shag a goat. Stay for crumpets and tea. Do whatever you please.
Still here? Cool. Then, let’s play Blankety Blank. It’s a comeback kind of a show.
49.76% of the world’s population are BLANKS.
BLANK is used in plural form when referring to the busiest of the single sex toilets.
In America, if the Head of State is male, then his wife is the First BLANK
There’s a pretty red winged insect and it sports amazing black spots. It is half bird (or for the Americans ‘bug’) and half BLANK. It’s a BLANKbird.
Have you got it, yet?
Yes, the missing word is ‘LADY’. But, don’t say it out loud. If you use it, you are wrong. Very wrong. Just brimming with wrongness.
Women are NOT ladies, they NEVER have been ladies and they NEVER will be ladies. You should NOT call them that. If you do, they will hit you over the head with a spade. They are women.
I go to the women’s toilet, the President’s wife is the First Woman and those wonderful spotty insects are womenbirds or womenbugs.
When called by its British English name, the ladybird finds itself with two derogatory names for a female in one. It’s a cruel world. It’s a lovely beetle.
To top it all off, the finicky, ‘words can’t evolve’, bastards are in collusion with MSWord. Every time I type ‘lady’ or ‘ladies’, it corrects me. Apparently, I should be using the terms ‘woman’, ‘women’, ‘person’ or ‘people’ and I’m fed up with it.
To me, the word ‘woman’ sounds old and haggard. I don’t want to be a woman. I have no objection to being a lady. I know which I prefer. Lady Fabpants. The word lady has a pleasant ring to it. It ends with a ‘y’, like Emily, Happy or Titty. I like words that end with a ‘y’. I even like the nastier ones, such as Junky or Robbery. They sound so friendly.
So, if I ever refer to a gaggle, throng, trick or horde of females as ‘ladies’, I’m not saying it because I think that they are elegant, refined or preoccupied with correct behaviour. I’m not saying it because I‘m obsessed with their sexual instrumentation or gender. I’m saying it, because, in my preposterous opinion, the word has a likeable ring to it. I like to use it when I’m being friendly or affectionate.
I’m not a girlie girl, but I have my limits. I like words that make a lovely sound and I like language to evolve towards them.
In that light, I might start to use the words ‘Ladies’, ‘Junkies’ and ‘Titties’ interchangeably when referring to any group of mammals, regardless of species, sex, gender, addiction or hair colour. You never know, it might catch on.
Have a good weekend everyone. Have a good weekend ladies. Have a good weekend junkies. Have a good weekend titties. Have a good weekend all.
Fabpants Recommends: Air France – No Way Down. It’s Socialist roof top music. Here’s a couple of tasters.
Download MP3: Air France - Collapsing At Your Doorstep (courtesy of polaroidallaradio.it)
Download MP3: Air France - No Excuses (courtesy of rraurl.com)
On Wednesday, I took part in a Diversity Training course. I didn’t learn much about diversity, but I did learn that people can be easily offended. Either that or I’m a dick. The latter might be true. I smell like sweaty old cheese and can be floppy or erect at will. I hold my hands up. I'm a dick.
It’s odd that I have such a diverse range of friends. I’m such a bigoted penis of a person. What the hell are they thinking?
Did you spot the hideously offensive word in my last blog entry? I left it there. I left it there for you, and I left it there for me. I like it and I’m stubborn. Yes, I have a lack of respect for the feelings of others and, if you are an other, you can always leave. This is Fabland and in Fabland we are all free. I welcome you with love and I wave you away with glee. Go shag a goat. Stay for crumpets and tea. Do whatever you please.
Still here? Cool. Then, let’s play Blankety Blank. It’s a comeback kind of a show.
49.76% of the world’s population are BLANKS.
BLANK is used in plural form when referring to the busiest of the single sex toilets.
In America, if the Head of State is male, then his wife is the First BLANK
There’s a pretty red winged insect and it sports amazing black spots. It is half bird (or for the Americans ‘bug’) and half BLANK. It’s a BLANKbird.
Have you got it, yet?
Yes, the missing word is ‘LADY’. But, don’t say it out loud. If you use it, you are wrong. Very wrong. Just brimming with wrongness.
Women are NOT ladies, they NEVER have been ladies and they NEVER will be ladies. You should NOT call them that. If you do, they will hit you over the head with a spade. They are women.
I go to the women’s toilet, the President’s wife is the First Woman and those wonderful spotty insects are womenbirds or womenbugs.
When called by its British English name, the ladybird finds itself with two derogatory names for a female in one. It’s a cruel world. It’s a lovely beetle.
To top it all off, the finicky, ‘words can’t evolve’, bastards are in collusion with MSWord. Every time I type ‘lady’ or ‘ladies’, it corrects me. Apparently, I should be using the terms ‘woman’, ‘women’, ‘person’ or ‘people’ and I’m fed up with it.
To me, the word ‘woman’ sounds old and haggard. I don’t want to be a woman. I have no objection to being a lady. I know which I prefer. Lady Fabpants. The word lady has a pleasant ring to it. It ends with a ‘y’, like Emily, Happy or Titty. I like words that end with a ‘y’. I even like the nastier ones, such as Junky or Robbery. They sound so friendly.
So, if I ever refer to a gaggle, throng, trick or horde of females as ‘ladies’, I’m not saying it because I think that they are elegant, refined or preoccupied with correct behaviour. I’m not saying it because I‘m obsessed with their sexual instrumentation or gender. I’m saying it, because, in my preposterous opinion, the word has a likeable ring to it. I like to use it when I’m being friendly or affectionate.
I’m not a girlie girl, but I have my limits. I like words that make a lovely sound and I like language to evolve towards them.
In that light, I might start to use the words ‘Ladies’, ‘Junkies’ and ‘Titties’ interchangeably when referring to any group of mammals, regardless of species, sex, gender, addiction or hair colour. You never know, it might catch on.
Have a good weekend everyone. Have a good weekend ladies. Have a good weekend junkies. Have a good weekend titties. Have a good weekend all.
Fabpants Recommends: Air France – No Way Down. It’s Socialist roof top music. Here’s a couple of tasters.
Download MP3: Air France - Collapsing At Your Doorstep (courtesy of polaroidallaradio.it)
Download MP3: Air France - No Excuses (courtesy of rraurl.com)
Tuesday, 18 November 2008
Climbing the Walls
I want to tell you about a wonderful experience that was given to me as a gift by strangers.
As a child, I loved adventure holidays. I went twice with school to the Peak District to mess about on rock faces, under the ground and on water. If you know me well, you will have heard about the long hot summers spent boating.
As an adult, I often miss these things. In many ways, my work life balance is perfect, and yet sometimes I simply ache for active fun. I have no interest in becoming a master at any sport, but I love having a go. With a cheeky grin and questionable talent, I'm up for it, as long as no one expects me to be serious.
When I discovered a free course in wall climbing, I leapt at the chance, almost literally.
During two recent Sunday evenings, I have learnt to belay, to tie a ‘figure of eight loop follow through’ knot, and to swing dramatically mid-air. A friend of mine’s recently acquired girlfriend held me safety in her hands (via a rope!) and I gave her absolute trust. It would have been no fun not too. Rather inelegantly, I even made it up the odd wall.
I like the ’figure of eight follow through’ knot, despite its stupid name. Contrary to speculation, I did not 'let one go' or 'follow through'. I like the knot because it's an elaborate version of the only sailing knot I know. My limited skills could take me far.
How and why did I get all of this free? Well, a group of super Brighton based ladies have set up a social enterprise called VertiGirls. As a member of the willie-less sex, they wanted to provide me and other women with an opportunity that might not otherwise come our way. I thank them for it. It was the best present ever.
My Geek bought me a new eye mask today. It's the best present ever. There can be more than one. It blocks out every glint of light and has a lovely cushion where it rests upon my nose.
Fabpants Recommends: Headlights - Some Racing, Some Stopping. The entire album is scattered across the World Wide Web in MP3 format. If you like it, you can buy it. Otherwise, take advantage of my search engine skills. I’m so rad.
Download MP3: 1. Get Your Head Around it (sorry, this link has died)
Download MP3: 2. Cherry Tulips (courtesy of the-frame.com)
Download MP3: 3. Market Girl (courtesy of chromewaves.net)
Download MP3: 4. On April 2 (sorry, this link has died)
Download MP3: 5. School Boys (sorry, this link has died)
Download MP3: 6. Some Racing, Some Stopping(sorry, this link has died)
Download MP3: 7. So Much For The Afternoon(sorry, this link has died)
Download MP3: 8. Catch Them All (courtesy of the-frame.com)
Download MP3: 09. Towers (sorry, this link has died)
Download MP3: 10. January(sorry, this link has died)
As a child, I loved adventure holidays. I went twice with school to the Peak District to mess about on rock faces, under the ground and on water. If you know me well, you will have heard about the long hot summers spent boating.
As an adult, I often miss these things. In many ways, my work life balance is perfect, and yet sometimes I simply ache for active fun. I have no interest in becoming a master at any sport, but I love having a go. With a cheeky grin and questionable talent, I'm up for it, as long as no one expects me to be serious.
When I discovered a free course in wall climbing, I leapt at the chance, almost literally.
During two recent Sunday evenings, I have learnt to belay, to tie a ‘figure of eight loop follow through’ knot, and to swing dramatically mid-air. A friend of mine’s recently acquired girlfriend held me safety in her hands (via a rope!) and I gave her absolute trust. It would have been no fun not too. Rather inelegantly, I even made it up the odd wall.
I like the ’figure of eight follow through’ knot, despite its stupid name. Contrary to speculation, I did not 'let one go' or 'follow through'. I like the knot because it's an elaborate version of the only sailing knot I know. My limited skills could take me far.
How and why did I get all of this free? Well, a group of super Brighton based ladies have set up a social enterprise called VertiGirls. As a member of the willie-less sex, they wanted to provide me and other women with an opportunity that might not otherwise come our way. I thank them for it. It was the best present ever.
My Geek bought me a new eye mask today. It's the best present ever. There can be more than one. It blocks out every glint of light and has a lovely cushion where it rests upon my nose.
Fabpants Recommends: Headlights - Some Racing, Some Stopping. The entire album is scattered across the World Wide Web in MP3 format. If you like it, you can buy it. Otherwise, take advantage of my search engine skills. I’m so rad.
Download MP3: 1. Get Your Head Around it (sorry, this link has died)
Download MP3: 2. Cherry Tulips (courtesy of the-frame.com)
Download MP3: 3. Market Girl (courtesy of chromewaves.net)
Download MP3: 4. On April 2 (sorry, this link has died)
Download MP3: 5. School Boys (sorry, this link has died)
Download MP3: 6. Some Racing, Some Stopping(sorry, this link has died)
Download MP3: 7. So Much For The Afternoon(sorry, this link has died)
Download MP3: 8. Catch Them All (courtesy of the-frame.com)
Download MP3: 09. Towers (sorry, this link has died)
Download MP3: 10. January(sorry, this link has died)
Sunday, 16 November 2008
Escaping Sunday School
My favourite memory of Sunday School is the collection pouch. As the cloth bag travelled around the room by its wooden handle, hands, large and small, would disappear into a private world. No one knew how much money each member of the congregation had put in. Whether someone was rich or poor, generous or mean, was a mystery. Did the adults even suspect what some of the children were doing? Were some of the adults involved in the same criminal activities?
It started with children putting their hands in, but not releasing a coin. It progressed to children funding glorious trips to the village shop with the money of others. Parents, unknowingly, stopped paying their chosen cheap rates for the childminding service of religious indoctrination, and the children made a profit from mumbling prayers. The day that a child with curly red hair, took a five-pound note from the soft velvet pouch, will forever impress me. He came with 10p and left with £5.10. He had big ginger balls. And, yes, I do remember his name.
It was more profitable than playing the stock market. It was gambling with limited risk. What was the danger? Being caught and expelled? Going to live in a nasty place in the afterlife, in a very distant future, that was impossible to comprehend and might not even exist? We had yet to figure out the full details of where babies came from, and whether Father Christmas would stop coming if we announced our longstanding knowledge that he was a big bearded myth. The afterlife was of little value. For those of us that weren’t even Christened, Sunday school was a chore and a bore. Personally, I hated it.
Then, on one glorious sunny day, my Dad made his announcement. If we could find an alternative activity for Sunday mornings, then our days of Sunday morning churchgoing were over. It was an incredibly clever tactic on my Dad’s part. The only other option in our village was to get out on the water; that is to find a boat and to sail. Within a month, four of his five children were sailing every week and seeing it as a privilege. The youngest child was too young to take himself to Sunday school and got out of it altogether. My Dad loved sailing, and instead of pushing us into sharing his hobby, he gave it to us as a treat.
It may seem odd, but the local kids didn’t play on the lake that was as big as the village itself. To get out of Sunday school, we had to develop social skills. We had to find a boat to sail in and we had to make acquaintances. None of us knew how to helm to racing standards and we didn’t want to sail with each other.
With fortuitous timing, after two weeks of hanging around at the sailing club, whilst pretending to seek activity, my older sister heard a rumour. It seemed that a young spunk called Walter Mondale was looking for a shipmate. I was a nonconformist child, with leanings towards idiotic behaviour, and it frustrated the hell out of my sister that the villagers thought I was thick. She already had a place sailing in our Dad’s beast of a boat and she wanted me to take the opportunity to get out there too. Walter was a year younger than me and my sister had a plan. She was determined that the prize was mine. She knew that I needed new friends and new chances.
It was a close shave. With two younger sisters, far from puberty, but already desperately horny, I had competition on my hands. They were confident and I was nervous. One of them wanted Walter for herself. My older, protective sister sent me forth immediately, holding my younger sister back. "You have to go and ask him" she forcefully instructed. In complete and utter fear I did. My rival was as angry as hell by my success. Despite being two years my junior, she was used to winning in the social arena. Needless to say, it didn’t take long for Walter’s older brother to be talked into taking on that challenge.
Looking back, leaving Sunday school and finding Walter was probably one of the most important moments of my life. I bravely did what I feared, and asked to be accepted. In doing so, I found a friend that I’m still very fond of to this day. Walter was friendly, self-assured and charmingly clumsy. He didn’t ask any questions and he didn’t look at me like I was a freak. He didn’t fancy me and I didn’t fancy him. He seemed to have an attitude that life just happens; if I asked, then of course the answer would be ‘yes’. It felt odd and liberating to find acceptance with no judgement. I’d spent my whole life being judged. I lived in a small village where people have nothing better to do.
And so, the age of unrivalled idiocy began.
Walter didn’t have to be a good helm and I didn’t have to be a good crew. We sang our hearts out. Walter used twee phrases such as ‘Pardon my French’, and I made plans to freak out the other racers by going the wrong way. Getting stuck in the reeds was the biggest hoot of all. In my memory, every moment that we spent sailing together is glossed with hilarity; from the time that we collided with a windsurfer and gained a great hole, to the day that we won first place by sheer fluke.
Occasionally, Walter wanted to win, and occasionally he got bossy, but, ultimately, he seemed to realise the virtue of having a crew that didn’t give a crap. He was growing like a beanstalk and loved to talk. Whatever his intention, his focus would always drift. He couldn’t let me outtalk him and I put up a good challenge. I never wore my glasses and could barely see. Walter grew more clumsy and put his knee through the woodwork. People could hear us laughing and singing raucously from miles away. Okay, and having the odd argument too.
Last night, while I was out and about, the conversation journeyed from a forthcoming Christening, to Sunday school. A concise version of my great escape from colouring in Jesus came to the fore. For a brief moment, Walter was in the pub with me, if only in my mind.
On returning home, to complete the circle, I read his blog. It was then that I discovered, that while I had been declaring to the world at large that I would never steal from Mondale (the Sunday School collection pouch was on people’s minds), and he was still a dear friend to this day, that he was publicly inviting me to a magical event. Considering that Walter and I have met up once in the last 16 years, I find the synchronicity outstanding.
I find it even odder that I have been invited to just two events next year, one on the 20th June and the other on the 21st. They are both only days before Glastonbury and many geographical miles apart. The logistical nightmare of 2009 begins. The former is a wedding in a castle. I love castles.
Fortunately, or unfortunately, the latter event is fictional, but we could make it real I'm sure. I hang out with Lord Nelson and the Duke of Edinburgh on a regular basis. I last saw Mr Cumpstey at Reclaim the Streets in 1997. It was just before I took a very public leak outside the National Gallery (not the first in that location, but the first in daylight and in company). I bumped into one of my brother's old school friends doing the same.
On a side note, they have free public toilets in Trafalgar Square these days and it has been reclaimed. There's no more catching the number 13 night bus home from the National G for me and, more regrettably, a notable absence of partying in the street protests. The violence won and ruined it for everyone. For a while it was fabulous. Truly fabulous; a million smiles from Sunday School, and not unlike sailing with Master Mondale. It too celebrated the glorious and gleeful pleasure of semi-organised chaos.
For more about Walter Mondale, you can read his childhood letters to me here:
The Letters of Walter Mondale
Fabpants Recommends: I woke up this morning and this song was in my head:
Download MP3: The Fiery Furnaces - I'm In No Mood (courtesy of dmoon.ru)
I didn’t even get drunk last night. What’s all that about?
It started with children putting their hands in, but not releasing a coin. It progressed to children funding glorious trips to the village shop with the money of others. Parents, unknowingly, stopped paying their chosen cheap rates for the childminding service of religious indoctrination, and the children made a profit from mumbling prayers. The day that a child with curly red hair, took a five-pound note from the soft velvet pouch, will forever impress me. He came with 10p and left with £5.10. He had big ginger balls. And, yes, I do remember his name.
It was more profitable than playing the stock market. It was gambling with limited risk. What was the danger? Being caught and expelled? Going to live in a nasty place in the afterlife, in a very distant future, that was impossible to comprehend and might not even exist? We had yet to figure out the full details of where babies came from, and whether Father Christmas would stop coming if we announced our longstanding knowledge that he was a big bearded myth. The afterlife was of little value. For those of us that weren’t even Christened, Sunday school was a chore and a bore. Personally, I hated it.
Then, on one glorious sunny day, my Dad made his announcement. If we could find an alternative activity for Sunday mornings, then our days of Sunday morning churchgoing were over. It was an incredibly clever tactic on my Dad’s part. The only other option in our village was to get out on the water; that is to find a boat and to sail. Within a month, four of his five children were sailing every week and seeing it as a privilege. The youngest child was too young to take himself to Sunday school and got out of it altogether. My Dad loved sailing, and instead of pushing us into sharing his hobby, he gave it to us as a treat.
It may seem odd, but the local kids didn’t play on the lake that was as big as the village itself. To get out of Sunday school, we had to develop social skills. We had to find a boat to sail in and we had to make acquaintances. None of us knew how to helm to racing standards and we didn’t want to sail with each other.
With fortuitous timing, after two weeks of hanging around at the sailing club, whilst pretending to seek activity, my older sister heard a rumour. It seemed that a young spunk called Walter Mondale was looking for a shipmate. I was a nonconformist child, with leanings towards idiotic behaviour, and it frustrated the hell out of my sister that the villagers thought I was thick. She already had a place sailing in our Dad’s beast of a boat and she wanted me to take the opportunity to get out there too. Walter was a year younger than me and my sister had a plan. She was determined that the prize was mine. She knew that I needed new friends and new chances.
It was a close shave. With two younger sisters, far from puberty, but already desperately horny, I had competition on my hands. They were confident and I was nervous. One of them wanted Walter for herself. My older, protective sister sent me forth immediately, holding my younger sister back. "You have to go and ask him" she forcefully instructed. In complete and utter fear I did. My rival was as angry as hell by my success. Despite being two years my junior, she was used to winning in the social arena. Needless to say, it didn’t take long for Walter’s older brother to be talked into taking on that challenge.
Looking back, leaving Sunday school and finding Walter was probably one of the most important moments of my life. I bravely did what I feared, and asked to be accepted. In doing so, I found a friend that I’m still very fond of to this day. Walter was friendly, self-assured and charmingly clumsy. He didn’t ask any questions and he didn’t look at me like I was a freak. He didn’t fancy me and I didn’t fancy him. He seemed to have an attitude that life just happens; if I asked, then of course the answer would be ‘yes’. It felt odd and liberating to find acceptance with no judgement. I’d spent my whole life being judged. I lived in a small village where people have nothing better to do.
And so, the age of unrivalled idiocy began.
Walter didn’t have to be a good helm and I didn’t have to be a good crew. We sang our hearts out. Walter used twee phrases such as ‘Pardon my French’, and I made plans to freak out the other racers by going the wrong way. Getting stuck in the reeds was the biggest hoot of all. In my memory, every moment that we spent sailing together is glossed with hilarity; from the time that we collided with a windsurfer and gained a great hole, to the day that we won first place by sheer fluke.
Occasionally, Walter wanted to win, and occasionally he got bossy, but, ultimately, he seemed to realise the virtue of having a crew that didn’t give a crap. He was growing like a beanstalk and loved to talk. Whatever his intention, his focus would always drift. He couldn’t let me outtalk him and I put up a good challenge. I never wore my glasses and could barely see. Walter grew more clumsy and put his knee through the woodwork. People could hear us laughing and singing raucously from miles away. Okay, and having the odd argument too.
Last night, while I was out and about, the conversation journeyed from a forthcoming Christening, to Sunday school. A concise version of my great escape from colouring in Jesus came to the fore. For a brief moment, Walter was in the pub with me, if only in my mind.
On returning home, to complete the circle, I read his blog. It was then that I discovered, that while I had been declaring to the world at large that I would never steal from Mondale (the Sunday School collection pouch was on people’s minds), and he was still a dear friend to this day, that he was publicly inviting me to a magical event. Considering that Walter and I have met up once in the last 16 years, I find the synchronicity outstanding.
I find it even odder that I have been invited to just two events next year, one on the 20th June and the other on the 21st. They are both only days before Glastonbury and many geographical miles apart. The logistical nightmare of 2009 begins. The former is a wedding in a castle. I love castles.
Fortunately, or unfortunately, the latter event is fictional, but we could make it real I'm sure. I hang out with Lord Nelson and the Duke of Edinburgh on a regular basis. I last saw Mr Cumpstey at Reclaim the Streets in 1997. It was just before I took a very public leak outside the National Gallery (not the first in that location, but the first in daylight and in company). I bumped into one of my brother's old school friends doing the same.
On a side note, they have free public toilets in Trafalgar Square these days and it has been reclaimed. There's no more catching the number 13 night bus home from the National G for me and, more regrettably, a notable absence of partying in the street protests. The violence won and ruined it for everyone. For a while it was fabulous. Truly fabulous; a million smiles from Sunday School, and not unlike sailing with Master Mondale. It too celebrated the glorious and gleeful pleasure of semi-organised chaos.
For more about Walter Mondale, you can read his childhood letters to me here:
The Letters of Walter Mondale
Fabpants Recommends: I woke up this morning and this song was in my head:
Download MP3: The Fiery Furnaces - I'm In No Mood (courtesy of dmoon.ru)
I didn’t even get drunk last night. What’s all that about?
Thursday, 13 November 2008
What Brought You Here?
Whilst spending the last few weeks living up the arsehole of an art bore, something has been gnawing at my subconscious. Should I start writing entries more in keeping with my readership? Should I start giving the people what they want?
I have StatCounter installed on my blog. It’s a wonderful thing. It tells me who visits, what brought them here, and where the hell they came from.
What follows is a selection of search terms - from the last month - that makes a readership my own:
1. sheep fucking thumbs
Search location: London, United Kingdom
2. MAGIC EYE UP THE BACK PASSAGE
Search location: United States
3. beautiful people not in reading
Search location: Reading, United Kingdom
4. How To Shoplift Primark
Search location: London, United Kingdom
5. why do girls hold their ankles when they are being throated?
Search location: London, United Kingdom
6. can your back passage come out
Search location: Peterborough, United Kingdom
I’ve actually had two hits for shoplifting in Primark. I recently met someone with a little bit of a shoplifting endorphins problem. I won’t say where they got caught in action.
So, for the sake of my readers, I must go into the field. Let me be the one to find out why girls hold their ankles while they are being throated, how to thumb fuck a sheep, and whether it is possible to insert a magic eye up your back passage without your colon falling out. If you don’t hear from me for a while, I might be in prison or hospital.
If you came here searching for ‘songs with the same chords’, ‘heroin in Glastonbury’ or ‘my eyes are dim I cannot see’, then I’m sorry. You keep coming and I keep failing to provide. I have not brought my specs with me. It's possible that I never will.
Fabpants Recommends: A bit of German pop. You are forewarned that should you get the album ‘Rest Now, Weary Head! You Will Get Well Soon’, it contains a cover of 'Born Slippy Nuxx'. In my crumbling opinion, this is a song to be avoided in any format. It kills the album.
Download MP3: Get Well Soon - Prelude (courtesy of nastypanda.com)
Download MP3: Get Well Soon - If This Hat Is Missing I Have Gone Hunting (courtesy of cityslang.com)
Download MP3: Get Well Soon - Witches! Witches! Rest Now In The Fire (courtesy of carbonmade.free.fr)
To all my readers - shoplifters, music fans, or dear friends - there is this:
Download MP3: The Beatles – From Me to You (courtesy of gaoge.wh-stuttgart.de)
I have StatCounter installed on my blog. It’s a wonderful thing. It tells me who visits, what brought them here, and where the hell they came from.
What follows is a selection of search terms - from the last month - that makes a readership my own:
1. sheep fucking thumbs
Search location: London, United Kingdom
2. MAGIC EYE UP THE BACK PASSAGE
Search location: United States
3. beautiful people not in reading
Search location: Reading, United Kingdom
4. How To Shoplift Primark
Search location: London, United Kingdom
5. why do girls hold their ankles when they are being throated?
Search location: London, United Kingdom
6. can your back passage come out
Search location: Peterborough, United Kingdom
I’ve actually had two hits for shoplifting in Primark. I recently met someone with a little bit of a shoplifting endorphins problem. I won’t say where they got caught in action.
So, for the sake of my readers, I must go into the field. Let me be the one to find out why girls hold their ankles while they are being throated, how to thumb fuck a sheep, and whether it is possible to insert a magic eye up your back passage without your colon falling out. If you don’t hear from me for a while, I might be in prison or hospital.
If you came here searching for ‘songs with the same chords’, ‘heroin in Glastonbury’ or ‘my eyes are dim I cannot see’, then I’m sorry. You keep coming and I keep failing to provide. I have not brought my specs with me. It's possible that I never will.
Fabpants Recommends: A bit of German pop. You are forewarned that should you get the album ‘Rest Now, Weary Head! You Will Get Well Soon’, it contains a cover of 'Born Slippy Nuxx'. In my crumbling opinion, this is a song to be avoided in any format. It kills the album.
Download MP3: Get Well Soon - Prelude (courtesy of nastypanda.com)
Download MP3: Get Well Soon - If This Hat Is Missing I Have Gone Hunting (courtesy of cityslang.com)
Download MP3: Get Well Soon - Witches! Witches! Rest Now In The Fire (courtesy of carbonmade.free.fr)
To all my readers - shoplifters, music fans, or dear friends - there is this:
Download MP3: The Beatles – From Me to You (courtesy of gaoge.wh-stuttgart.de)
Sunday, 9 November 2008
Grandmaster Fabpants
I spent the whole of yesterday in my pyjamas. Well, from 4am onwards. It was marvellous. I got more exercise at the Silent Disco than on a bike ride across Hungary; I deserved a pyjama day. I read, listened to Radio 4, snoozed, watched a film and played Xbox. I was never far from the duvet.
I love Silent Discos. Everyone’s on the dance floor all the time. You can take the headphones off and chat whenever you like. It’s highly sociable. There’s no room for pretentiousness. Silly dancing and sing-along’s are almost compulsory. You get hot ears, but it’s a small price to pay.
Last night, I had a dream that Amongst the Pigeons took over two pages of the NME, one with an HMV advert for the album and one with a Radar review. The pages sat side by side and I couldn’t contain my glee for the artist concerned. The image was so real, that I can still visualise the pages.
In the dream, I wondered how it might sit with him. Is this a person regularly criticises the NME for choosing it’s buzz bands and ignoring the rest? I know someone like that and I disagree with him. The cover stars are often not to my taste, and the magazine pays far too much attention to the stadium fillers, but look in the hidden corners and there are often gems.
Misty’s Big Adventure and The Death Set hide in those corners and they are both ace.
So, how pleased was I, when I found that NME had not only reviewed Misty’s Big Adventure’s new album, but had also given it an 8/10? Yes, this is real life and I was very pleased.
Fabpants Recommends: The entire Misty’s Big Adventure back catalogue. Really, listen to everything. It will make you feel better.
Here’s a newbie for you:
Download MP3: Misty’s Big Adventure’s - The Rainbow And The Cloud (sorry, this link has died)
I love Silent Discos. Everyone’s on the dance floor all the time. You can take the headphones off and chat whenever you like. It’s highly sociable. There’s no room for pretentiousness. Silly dancing and sing-along’s are almost compulsory. You get hot ears, but it’s a small price to pay.
Last night, I had a dream that Amongst the Pigeons took over two pages of the NME, one with an HMV advert for the album and one with a Radar review. The pages sat side by side and I couldn’t contain my glee for the artist concerned. The image was so real, that I can still visualise the pages.
In the dream, I wondered how it might sit with him. Is this a person regularly criticises the NME for choosing it’s buzz bands and ignoring the rest? I know someone like that and I disagree with him. The cover stars are often not to my taste, and the magazine pays far too much attention to the stadium fillers, but look in the hidden corners and there are often gems.
Misty’s Big Adventure and The Death Set hide in those corners and they are both ace.
So, how pleased was I, when I found that NME had not only reviewed Misty’s Big Adventure’s new album, but had also given it an 8/10? Yes, this is real life and I was very pleased.
Fabpants Recommends: The entire Misty’s Big Adventure back catalogue. Really, listen to everything. It will make you feel better.
Here’s a newbie for you:
Download MP3: Misty’s Big Adventure’s - The Rainbow And The Cloud (sorry, this link has died)
Thursday, 6 November 2008
I'll Cut The Smile Off Your Face
“Don't talk down to me. Don't be polite to me. Don't try to make me feel nice. Don't relax. I'll cut the smile off your face. You think I don't know what's going on. You think I'm afraid to react. The joke's on you. I'm biding my time, looking for the spot. You think no one can reach you, no one can have what you have. I've been planning while you're playing. I've been saving while you're spending. The game is almost over so it's time you acknowledge me. Do you want to fall not ever knowing who took you?”
More from Jenny Holzer from Inflammatory Essays, [no title] 1979-82
Tate Modern: Level 5 - Idea and Object. It hurts the eyes.
While I thoroughly appreciate the essay that appears in this sickly square of colour and the essay shown in Scream When Your Life Is Threatened, as a piece of art, Inflammatory Essays is quite revolting. It is inflammatory.
Talking of inflammatory materials, I, for one, actually enjoyed the Brand and Ross call Sachs radio clip. I’m no great fan of either Brand or Ross, but it genuinely made me laugh. The lewd unguarded silliness reminded me of the fantastic works of Peter Cook and Dudley Moore, otherwise known as Derek and Clive.
From Derek and Clive - Get the Horn
Clive: I tell you something. That, that religious singing reminded me of something. Did you, did you see that, er, TV coverage of the, er, Pope when he was lying in state? The, the last Pope, you know, John Paul.
Derek: Yeah.
Clive: Lying in state, on that catafalque? In those robes. It didn't half give me the horn, that. Him lying there. He looked so fucking vulnerable, didn't he? I mean, like I, I couldn't prevent myself, you know, having a wank immediately cos he looked, he looked vulnerable, he looked at, at rest and, er, somebody had, er, gone to the trouble of plucking all that hair out of his nostrils.
From Derek and Clive - Ad Nauseam
Clive: I said, "we've been married fourteen years ...
Derek: Right.
Clive: ...and you've tried a number of things. I was about to get into the Guinness Book of Records for the longest yardage of snot
Derek: Phhwww!
Clive: ...between one nostril and the wall, and you let me down. And shall I tell you what I'm going to do NOW? I'M GONNA GET THE GUINNESS BOOK OF RECORDS TO RECOGNISE ME .....
Derek: (laughs)
Clive: AS THE NUMBER ONE CUNT KICKER-IN IN THE WORLD!!" AND I SPREAD HER LEGS APART AND I PUT MY HUGE GREAT NAILED SHOES ON AND I KICKED HER! AND I KICKED HER IN THE CUNT FOR HALF A FUCKING HOUR 'TIL I WAS EXHAUSTED! AND THEN I SAID, "DOLLY! WILL YOU GET A POLAROID OF THAT?!" And the cunt wouldn't even get up!
Derek: What a CUNT!
Fabpants Recommends: It’s Ladies Night in Fab Town.
Download MP3: Speech Debelle - Speech Therapy (sorry, this link has died)
Download MP3: Speech Debelle - Searching (courtesy of dansolomon.com)
Download MP3: Emmy the Great - We Almost Had A Baby (courtesy of awmusic.ca)
More from Jenny Holzer from Inflammatory Essays, [no title] 1979-82
Tate Modern: Level 5 - Idea and Object. It hurts the eyes.
While I thoroughly appreciate the essay that appears in this sickly square of colour and the essay shown in Scream When Your Life Is Threatened, as a piece of art, Inflammatory Essays is quite revolting. It is inflammatory.
Talking of inflammatory materials, I, for one, actually enjoyed the Brand and Ross call Sachs radio clip. I’m no great fan of either Brand or Ross, but it genuinely made me laugh. The lewd unguarded silliness reminded me of the fantastic works of Peter Cook and Dudley Moore, otherwise known as Derek and Clive.
From Derek and Clive - Get the Horn
Clive: I tell you something. That, that religious singing reminded me of something. Did you, did you see that, er, TV coverage of the, er, Pope when he was lying in state? The, the last Pope, you know, John Paul.
Derek: Yeah.
Clive: Lying in state, on that catafalque? In those robes. It didn't half give me the horn, that. Him lying there. He looked so fucking vulnerable, didn't he? I mean, like I, I couldn't prevent myself, you know, having a wank immediately cos he looked, he looked vulnerable, he looked at, at rest and, er, somebody had, er, gone to the trouble of plucking all that hair out of his nostrils.
From Derek and Clive - Ad Nauseam
Clive: I said, "we've been married fourteen years ...
Derek: Right.
Clive: ...and you've tried a number of things. I was about to get into the Guinness Book of Records for the longest yardage of snot
Derek: Phhwww!
Clive: ...between one nostril and the wall, and you let me down. And shall I tell you what I'm going to do NOW? I'M GONNA GET THE GUINNESS BOOK OF RECORDS TO RECOGNISE ME .....
Derek: (laughs)
Clive: AS THE NUMBER ONE CUNT KICKER-IN IN THE WORLD!!" AND I SPREAD HER LEGS APART AND I PUT MY HUGE GREAT NAILED SHOES ON AND I KICKED HER! AND I KICKED HER IN THE CUNT FOR HALF A FUCKING HOUR 'TIL I WAS EXHAUSTED! AND THEN I SAID, "DOLLY! WILL YOU GET A POLAROID OF THAT?!" And the cunt wouldn't even get up!
Derek: What a CUNT!
Fabpants Recommends: It’s Ladies Night in Fab Town.
Download MP3: Speech Debelle - Speech Therapy (sorry, this link has died)
Download MP3: Speech Debelle - Searching (courtesy of dansolomon.com)
Download MP3: Emmy the Great - We Almost Had A Baby (courtesy of awmusic.ca)
Tuesday, 4 November 2008
As it is
Liu Wei’s ‘Love it! Bite it!’ is a model city made entirely from edible dog chews. It’s in the Saatchi Gallery. It’s probably not the best place to go walkies. Famous buildings, such as The Colosseum and The Guggenheim, are replicated to amazing levels of detail. Hove Town Hall is notably absent. It made me think of deserted cities, long abandoned by humankind. Society collapses and the city very slowly collapses. In ‘Love it! Bite it!’, even the plants are dead. Nothing has broken though the mock concrete ground. It is desolate and beautiful.
Zhang Huan’s ‘Ash Head 1’, albeit in smaller form, is what might remain of humankind if the city had been set alight or bombed. It makes me think of Hiroshima. The face looks calm in its decomposed and cindered state. Enter a meditative trance before you’re burnt alive and create a serene token to your lost life.
Galleries 1,2 and 13 are my favourites. 13 is best savoured last. Throughout the gallery, silica gel replicas of the human form are outstanding, but the works in Gallery 13 will mark my mind forever. Here 13 decrepit dictators dither about in dynamoelectric wheelchairs. They glide and collide as they drool and die. You can walk amongst them. Sun Yuan and Peng Yu 'Old Persons Home' is a place that anyone can visit.
Harold Pinter’s ‘No Man’s Land’ completed my Gloomy Saturday. As the rain hammered down outside, tube trains rattled by. Was that my imagination? Does the underground pass through the Duke of York Theatre?
The long monologues and low lighting made me comfortable and sleepy. I drifted away from the words, caught myself and tried to come back. My head lolled back. For a moment, sleep took me. The word CUNT doesn’t shock me. Old women tutted. Meanwhile, I desperately tried to blink myself into a wakeful state. This is not a criticism of the play. In many ways, I loved it. I am eager to read the script. There were some beautiful lines. It felt like there was little plot, but great atmosphere. It was all so wonderfully bleak and meaningless, to the point of giving meaning to nothing much at all.
At times, the wordplay and repetition was tiresome. At times, it stunned.
Michael Gambon should always have more lines, or perhaps he should play all parts. I watched BBC’s The Singing Detective series earlier this year, and singing moments aside, it was a work of brilliance.
Fabpants Recommends:
In keeping with this blog, here is bleak and beautiful tune. You may know it well.
Download MP3: Billie Holiday – Gloomy Sunday (courtesy of skr3amy.free.fr)
Zhang Huan’s ‘Ash Head 1’, albeit in smaller form, is what might remain of humankind if the city had been set alight or bombed. It makes me think of Hiroshima. The face looks calm in its decomposed and cindered state. Enter a meditative trance before you’re burnt alive and create a serene token to your lost life.
Galleries 1,2 and 13 are my favourites. 13 is best savoured last. Throughout the gallery, silica gel replicas of the human form are outstanding, but the works in Gallery 13 will mark my mind forever. Here 13 decrepit dictators dither about in dynamoelectric wheelchairs. They glide and collide as they drool and die. You can walk amongst them. Sun Yuan and Peng Yu 'Old Persons Home' is a place that anyone can visit.
Harold Pinter’s ‘No Man’s Land’ completed my Gloomy Saturday. As the rain hammered down outside, tube trains rattled by. Was that my imagination? Does the underground pass through the Duke of York Theatre?
The long monologues and low lighting made me comfortable and sleepy. I drifted away from the words, caught myself and tried to come back. My head lolled back. For a moment, sleep took me. The word CUNT doesn’t shock me. Old women tutted. Meanwhile, I desperately tried to blink myself into a wakeful state. This is not a criticism of the play. In many ways, I loved it. I am eager to read the script. There were some beautiful lines. It felt like there was little plot, but great atmosphere. It was all so wonderfully bleak and meaningless, to the point of giving meaning to nothing much at all.
At times, the wordplay and repetition was tiresome. At times, it stunned.
Michael Gambon should always have more lines, or perhaps he should play all parts. I watched BBC’s The Singing Detective series earlier this year, and singing moments aside, it was a work of brilliance.
Fabpants Recommends:
In keeping with this blog, here is bleak and beautiful tune. You may know it well.
Download MP3: Billie Holiday – Gloomy Sunday (courtesy of skr3amy.free.fr)
