2 6 / 0 6 / 0 6:
a tick and there's a tock.
- from the song 'eleutheria' by jason webley
copies of unsong's debut album 'the frailty of angels, the treason of people' are now available on ebay (for a mere snip)... just in case lack of paypal options was all that was stopping some of you... as if...
and speaking of unwanted sounds... another fucking alarm has started going off downstairs. but of course it has, how could it not? and this one is more difficult to ignore, it being more than just a repetitious beeping noise, this time the beeps drop in pitch every so often, thus killing the 'white noise' effect and functioning more like a little finger tapping you on the head every 4 seconds or so. just when i was getting used to the vile heat of the summer nights (insert travolta impression here), what i really needed was something new to keep me awake, or at the very least in that strange limbo that isn't quite awake but then isn't quite asleep either. it's almost as if the building itself couldn't let it happen, a building that needs to feed it's hellish black heart with the misery and irritation of its occupants, gaining strength, growing in power until one day... it collapses in on itself, forming a black hole, sucking everything into it, ground zero for arma-bloody-geddon... but then maybe it's just that the people that built the thing were fucking morons.
so, i'm in the bakers buying bread; the man serving me has been singing since i entered. a middle aged woman comes in behind me and as i am being served she asks the other man behind the counter for her order. her voice is a kind of high whistling croak, a thin, ugly sound that immediately suggests to me throat cancer and ensuing surgery. whatever had happened to this woman, you could be sure it wasn't pleasant. the man serving me balked at the voice for some reason and started making jokes, shouting about bird flu and telling her, with a big smile on his face, that she had to get out, that "we don't want no bird flu in here". she protested once, tried through her thin painful voice to say that it wasn't bird flu but the fucker behind the counter kept it up, bird flu bird flu etc. the woman stormed out. the man serving me was none the wiser, took my money with a smile and went on with his day. insensitivity as customer service.
um... -unsong.org bares no responsibility for seizures suffered due to the aforementioned link.
if i may rhyme for a moment, i wake with an ache one morning and over the ensuing days it gets worse, my right shoulder solidifying into a block of wood, branches of which snake their way up to my neck. must have slept funny doesn't seem to explain it away; the word 'funny' doesn't seem strong enough, i must have slept hilariously. hostess elisabeth books me in for a massage near her work and moments later a small asian girl is pushing, prodding and manipulating me into a willing blancmange. this is my second massage and it struck me again during it what an odd effect the process seems to have on time. the hour seems to pass ever so slowly and yet at the same time whizzes past as if it's a mere twenty minutes. massage is a kind of inert time travel, a process that bends time without actually advancing you through it or regressing you into it. the feeling is 'real' but the reality contradicts it. it's sort of magic. after she's finished she tells me to take a deep breath in, and to "feel the positive energy flowing into me", which was a shame as we'd progressed that far without recourse to pseudo spiritual nonsense. perhaps i should have asked whether it was chemical, kinetic, heat, sound or nuclear 'energy', and whether it would show up on my electricity bill... she tells me to feel my body filling with love, which is either more new age bollocks or the strangest way to ask someone if they want a hand job i've ever heard.
pushing out a nurofen from its blisterpack i manage to force the plastic deep under my thumbnail, making it bleed. ouch. pain from pain relief. hostess elisabeth is moved by the incident to say that i'm the sort of person you read about that shoots themself while cleaning their gun.
at a gig at the mean fiddler mr. roast spots a man in front of us with extraordinarily small hands and we all, in turn, manage to have a direct physical comparison with our own hands by placing them inches away from his so the rest of us can compare them, and all without him knowing. well, it made us laugh. freaky hands.
ok, so the fucking world cup is on. so sport is afoot. a series of ball games. ok. fine. this much i understand. now why on e a r t h does that make 'people' (and i use the term loosely) think that it's a good idea to daub, swathe, wrap and festoon everytfuckingthing in sight with the st. george's flag? what in the name of arse is wrong with people? patriotism. christ on an exercise bike. i mean, like your country by all means but somehow pride in anything you had nothing to do with just strikes me as odd at best and at worst infantile and retarded. and yes i know it's common in the case of saints but do you think these people know that st. george wasn't even english? the fucker was turkish and fought for the romans. o, and there's no such thing as dragons. also, just how far from the swastika is the cross of st. george when it comes to religious genocide? wasn't that flag the same one that lead the crusades into battle, killing people purely because they didn't rate jesus quite as highly as we did? i mean, i'm not saying don't wear it or use it, i'm just saying crack a fucking book once in a while. know something about your actions, don't just follow blindly. and we've hardly got ol' george exclusively either, bbc.co.uk tells me that st. george "is patron saint not only of england but also of aragon, catalonia, georgia, lithuania, palestine, portugal, germany and greece; and of moscow, istanbul, genoa and venice (second to st mark). he's also patron saint of soldiers, archers, cavalry and chivalry, farmers and field workers, riders and saddlers, and he helps those suffering from leprosy, plague and syphilis." but not, it would appear, stupidity or slavish ovine-o-mania. so much unbridled unthinking emotion and infatuation purely because a] a group of overpaid haircuts are planning on kicking a pig's bladder around a field in germany and b] these people just happen, by pure accident of birth, to have been born in the same country as them. without going out of my way to be too judgmental or unnecessarily harsh, these people are fucking idiots.
"patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel"
- samuel johnson
an email from hostess elisabeth: "can you measure the diameter of the 2 person past pot that needs replacing ." i'm deeply confused, and answer with a "what?!". she replies: "the big(er) black pot that is flaking, iwant to buy a replacement but shops sell pots by the diameter and iwant to know if it's a 16/18/20 cm pot" it takes me a full five minutes of confusion to realise that she's talking about a saucepan, which for some reason she calls a 'pot'. i genuinely had no fucking idea what she was on about, i was actually looking at the plant pots and thinking... 'two person pot'? you'd never fit two people in that... of course what she meant was the saucepan in which we cook pasta when we're both eating. a language barrier within the british isles. i measure it and it turns out it's a 20 / 21cm 'pot'. o, and it's just under 10cm deep. her answer? "saucepan sounds SO posh!"
and so hostess elisabeth has joined the ipod revolution, the steady death of the artifact, inflicted upon us by the young, and those easily dazzled by technology and the idea of excising their music collections from their o so busy lives... but then doesn't it stop being a revolution when e v e r y o n e's doing it? how can you revolt when there's no one trying to stop you? of course hostess elisabeth is using the (admittedly very pretty) gadget merely as a player and far from getting shot of cds has, in fact, been buying them like it was going out of fashion... which of course it is. dissenting voices can be heard here and evidence of direct action here.
an interesting article which goes some way to explaining hostess elisabeth's faustian pact with her nation's all comsuming indentured sweet tooth, which led her as a child to indulge in these things:, which are known among the initiated as 'frying pan lollies', and are basically just sugar on a stick... think of a toffee apple without the apple. my teeth hurt just thinking about it.
apropos of something now forgotten i mentioned that i found it kind of odd that we got vitamin d from sunlight -more than likely a comment of me being someone that thinks of vitamins as pills, rather than coming from food or nature like they're supposed to. hostess elisabeth replies, from the top of her head, and though fully aware that this isn't the case: "it's our version of photosynthesis, it's a throwback to when we used to be plants".
the alarm has been stopped after a record of only one sleepless night! of course they've only put it on 'mute' so in actuality it's still going off, just silently. so that's the roof and the 3rd and 4th floors without a fire alarm, next no doubt it'll be the 1st and 2nd, the hypothetical fire creeping ever closer...
an ingenious japanese step by step guide on how best to wear your plasters...
"the capacity to lie has also been claimed to be possessed by non-humans in language studies with great apes. one famous case was that of koko the gorilla; confronted by her handlers after a tantrum in which she had torn a steel sink out of its moorings, she signed in american sign language, "cat did it," pointing at her tiny kitten. it is unclear if this was a joke or a genuine attempt at blaming her tiny pet. deception or misleading as to intent is well documented in other social species such as wolves."
after all the palaver of rescuing mr. roasts pda from down a drain, i casually inquire as to whether it's still working ok. his reply: "oh it worked fine until i trod on it." great, so jobless jon in japan, the venerable gude and myself debased ourselves, crawling around on all fours in the filth of the london streets for nowt it would seem; i feel used and abused... but not in a good way. he went on "i have now stupidly ventured into the pocket pc market and am currently waiting for microsoft to update there cr*ppy syncing sotware so that ican use the bloody thing! i wish id bought another palm!!! stupid stupid stupid me!!!!!!!" of course why a grown up would need any such thing is somewhat beyond me... people and their gadgets... and there's me about to buy a pager. but i have good reason to, no, really i do... o fuck off.
since the renault had
stuck its wheels defiantly in the air and
gone paperweight on us, it was deemed time to buy a new conveyance.
so, after the recruitment of mr. roast and the venerable gude to serve
as tire-kicker and responsible adult
respectively, off we set to rochester, kent, of all places. the journey
there gave us all our first ride in the venerable guide's eco-tree-cuddle-mobil,
the part-battery powered prius, hereafter referred to simply as t'he
milkfloat'. we'd all made jokes about the milkfloat for as long as the
poor boy had it but once inside, thus able to ignore the revolting blue
of the paintwork, it was all really rather pleasant, and very high-tech.
on the way we passed a pub called 'crispian
crispianus', a surname that, with the sneeky addition of a hyphen, suggested,
to me at least, some kind of a deep fried
rectum emporium. lovely. in actuality it's a very old pub: "over
the bridge, in what is technically strood, on the north side of the
london road stands the ancient inn of crispin and crispianus.
dickens often stopped here for refreshment when on one of his long walks
from cads hill, and he mentions the inn in his essay "tramps"
in the uncommercial traveller." (-from some horribly ugly website).
but we didn't go in... i mean, how could it ever have lived up to its
name? rochester is like most english seaside towns i've been
to, i.e. worthy of immediate extermination. as we entered a cafe to
get a little snack we saw a man who'd had his hair bleached platinum
blonde, only to have a red st. george's cross dyed into it. outside
i notice another man with a football shirt which reads across the back
'england til i die'; i fought off the instinct to ask him if perhaps
it should read 'english til i die'. during our stay in the cafe,
the venerable gude had a cup of tea so strong
in all likelihood he could have stood the spoon up in it. we scoured
the oodles of second hand car lots in rochester (quite the place for
such a purchase it would appear) and finally settled on a metallic red
peugeot 206 lx, not too dissimilar from
this one:. my
one concern about the 'new' car is that it's possible for hostess elisabeth,
in her capacity as the driver, to switch off the passenger airbag, something
i'm sure she'll be threatening me with
for quite sometime to come. at first glance this feature seems odd,
not to mention practically murderous in design but then i remembered
a documentary i saw some years ago about airbags. the film quoted a
case where a woman had put her baby seat (facing backwards) into the
front passenger seat, strapped her baby
in, and had gone for a drive. at some point she had an accident and
when the passenger airbag went off it acted like a giant boxing glove,
literally knocking the baby's head off of it's shoulders, shooting it
through the back window like a cannon ball, sending it a hundred or
so yards from the wreckage. oops. so now you can turn the things off.
fair enough. anyhoo, happy
with our purchase we headed home, not before a sizable detour to find
some ice cream, which we eventually had
to go to a little chef (or was it a happy eater?) for, of all places.
as we pulled in we noticed another milkfloat identical to the venerable
gude's in the car park. in we went to eat. as we were eating, after
the venerable gude had showed us a strange single nurtured hair growing
out of his forehead, an extremely
old couple, ninety if they were a day, paid their bill and left, inevitably
of course making their way to the other prius, climbing in and driving
off. and many were the calls of "old man's car". gudey:
old before his time. o how we laughed.
recommended: (audio) 'rhythmajik' -cd- by z'ev / (comestible) mint kit kat / (visual) new car / (sensorial) air-con in the car
reviled: (audio) another fucking alarm / (comestible) the venerable gude's tea / (visual) a sour-faced middle aged women wearing a t-shirt with the repeated phrase 'i am a princess' across her chest / (sensorial) the spectre of lateness chasing me all the way to tottenham court road
and finally, this, a blackly amusing article -the most important word of which is "if"... i don't want to say i told you so but...