I will be the angel on your shoulder...

This past week I've heard what I think are the best three singles of the year so far - all to be released in June, (if anyone cares about release dates, or singles, or months).

1) Mystery Jets - Two Doors Down
2) Glasvegas - Geraldine
3) Wild Beasts - The Devil's Crayon

Basically they all recall 80s music to some extent, but with what I would argue to be significantly unique perspectives and valid subjects and execution etc.

TWO DOORS DOWN ends up sounding like a cross between later Belle and Sebastian and Duran Duran, but better than either.

GERALDINE is The Jesus and Mary Chain, pretty much, but with more power, more poetry, more poignancy.

THE DEVIL'S CRAYON is pretty odd, all round but reminds me of 'Once in a Lifetime' by Talking Heads. I think it's a gay love song, but the lyrics are obscure. Let me know what you think!

So, in summary, the good the bad and the ugly, or, erm, the POP, the COOL, and the WEIRD. Which is Duran Duran, The Jesus and Mary Chain and Talking Heads, right? Watch the videos. Listen to the songs. Don't say I never give you anything.

This is this year's birthday poem so far. I might scrap it and start again, or possibly just make it more EPIC. I've only done 2 before, in case you're bothered. 21st - which was pretty good, and 24th, which was kind of lame. Both the previous were written on trains. Can't afford train journey's this year so I wrote that one on the District Line.

Over and OUT...

Thoughts On Approaching My Twenty Fifth Birthday (DRAFT)


I was a healthy child, born in a peaceful place.
No nuclear winter fell to scar my childhood.
Found under summer sun, I was hungry,
Swallowed some poisons, they never stung me.
A midsummer birth, without with intent;
I was wandering under wisdoms wide.
In alternate worlds many times I died.
I crunched down on the skull of a ground-nesting bird
With the heel of my new green Adidas Campus.
It was the right foot, it was the wrong choice.
It was the wrong foot, it was the right choice.
I asked Mother Earth "Do you think I'm strange?"
She said "I'm sure you'd like to be." I cried;
That was one of the many times I've died.
MANY TIMES I'VE DIED
AND I'M STILL ALIVE!
NEARLY TWENTY FIVE
AND I'M STILL ALIVE!
I sat in a Proton out on the motorway,
Speeding, reading 'Blood and Honour' by Simon Green.
Cars in the rear-view mirror appear to
Disappear from you when they fade from view.
Misread the blind spot, head hit the window,
Which way would this go? Who was to decide?
Was this just one of many times I'd died?

Sat alone I have smiled seven million times,
Staring up at the stars, well aware I'm worthless.
Born into the Lapland of luxury,
Heavenly as we could afford to be,
Love was plentiful. No romantic, at
My grandad's funeral I never cried,
But it was one of many times I've died.

MANY TIMES I'VE DIED
AND I'M STILL ALIVE!
NEARLY TWENTY FIVE
AND I'M STILL ALIVE!

Takes time to learn that only love can break your heart.
Songs and poems say that to reach a happy end,
Don't start running until you've stepped out,
No taking turnings 'round grounds not mapped out.
I loved a monster, my own creation,
A list of virtues, an ideal. I lied;
It became one of many times I died. If time tells anything it's "You can not tell me
To carry your burdens, I'm free as the seabirds."
Should I speculate to assume you're late?
In a room, don't doubt that space will run out.
I must have wondered 'Why?' a thousand times.
Don't get out of bed unready to die.
George Deibert said that: now give it a try.

NOW GIVE IT A TRY,
'CAUSE I'M STILL ALIVE!
NEARLY TWENTY FIVE
AND I'M STILL ALIVE.

HIGH FIVE!

P.S. The formatting on Blogger is as chaotic as it is idiotic. Sort it out guys. It's worse than Word.

It's embarrassing to see you wave that flag when you try to give yourself a navigated tone

I cooked chicken in a mustard and crème fraîche sauce with roast vegetables but maybe I'll write that up for you at a later date.

Saturday was incredibly summery for a day covered in rain. Sam Hemming more-or-less unexpectedly turned up from Exeter and we sat around drinking cheap white wine for hours in various domiciles in East London before eventually arriving fashionably late to a warehouse party. I'd never been to a warehouse party before. They're sort of like normal parties except you don't get to talk to a lot of the people you know and you don't really want to talk to those you don't know.

I got to DJ, for the third time ever, which was actually a lot of fun, although I have noticed a gradual decline in crowd response through the barely-collatable data concerning the (just about) series of sets in my life. It doesn't matter; I was just happy to hear Spiritual Front at volumes I'd never anticipated getting away with. I'd post the track list for curiosity's sake but when my computer gets working again perhaps I'll podcast it. Eggs, baskets, horses, courses.

I didn't have time to character act at this party, which is a terrible shame, because what's the point of parties where you have to be yourself?

Still, while house-sitting for Adam and working from [his] home today I wrote this poem, which sort of isn't really about that:

An Economist, A Nihilist And A Romantic Walk Into A Bar...

The economist knows, which none of us knows,
The weight of a word in gold,
The worth of a hand to hold,
How a handshake is like an earthquake,
And what makes a greeting cold.

It is his job, you see, unlike you and me,
(You and I). When standing close,
Eye to eye, being verbose,
We see directions and reflections
Quite distorted, grandiose,

Of our own mysteries, our own histories,
Of graffitied playground walls
Against which we kicked footballs.
The nihilist Shrugs, ingests his drugs,
Already picking pitfalls,

But he's a gent, and not one for argument,
He watches the tips of tongues
Lick lips and juggle with lungs.
Sometimes he smiles, just for little whiles,
At boot-soles battling with rungs

Because the nihilist knows, which you may not,
These rituals are conceits,
These moments are merely beats,
How frightening and enlightening
He can be to those he meets.

He is unemployed, except when reading Freud,
And he reads people like books,
Yet you can tell by his looks
He's not above covers, and takes lovers
Thus to task with tenterhooks.

The world is black, white and grey, but turns in spite
Of (to spite?) this stringless doll.
Where he goes, he takes his toll,
Takes pain with pleasure in like measure,
And is accidentally droll.

I seem easy, surely, in such company?
My mindset is no hotchpotch:
If you sit and sip this scotch
It will click - what makes a romantic -
Why, it's the hands of his watch!

P.S.

When Apollo Bombay Mix says it's hot, it is £$%!ing hot.

Dig Up The Dancing Queen

The week has run away with or without me and I still haven't fixed my computer. It's Adam's birthday but he's buggered off to gosh-knows-where so I'm having Marek and his lady around for dinner tonight in a show of brotherly solidarity (or something). I will cook asparagus for the first time ever. Heads will roll.

My productivity has been limited chiefly by inebriation but also by lack of technological aids. Because my computer has technological AIDS. Too soon? Too late? Too inaccurate? Really it had a heart attack.

This would be a great lead-in to my track/rant 'Sentimentally Worthless' which is a Bogwoppit piece from the technology EP, which might be called 'Trouble In The Drains' and won't be out until next decade, but it won't be out till next decade, and the words are on my computer, which is dead.

Unfortunately little to no scandal or anything even resembling it has occurred in the lives of me or people I know enough about to spread rumours. I did see a band called They Came From The Stars I Saw Them, who were awesome, and my lacklustre Neil Young and Spider news story on Playlouder provoked hate from a hippie (possibly a taxonomist too).

That said, I'll lead you into what promises to be a crap weekend (weather-wise) with one of my skewed (nonsensical) love poems/lyrics which will possibly appear on the Bogwoppit love EP which will probably be entitled 'Bogwoppit's Broken Heart'. You can pre-order the CD here.

Dig Up The Dancing Queen

The day before your flight to Armenia

They diagnosed you with leukemia;

Not the soap opera kind either,

But till the end you were a believer;

You wasted away for a weary while

Without wearing out your lovely smile.

On the day they mispronounced you

I wondered what the hell I'd do without you.

Experiments with coke and ketamine,

Contemplating Pope and Betjeman,

Watching Warren Zevon on Late Night with Letterman,

'Knocking on Heaven's Door' - better let him in.

You said "It must be difficult for his children.

"All that watching him deteriorate could fucking kill them."

I said "Maybe you should watch your language."

You told me to enjoy every sandwich.

Your MySpace page remains untouched

Like an unwanted recipe book,

Collecting dust, eternally,

With ads for cosmetic surgery.

Your family are powerless

To tidy away your remaining mess,

They'd bleach your name from history books

That it might hurt less when they looked.

Your rest upsets, your corpse defiles,

But I'll never lose those lovely smiles,

Your existence went out of style,

But you'll never lose that lovely smile.

Kiss me Kate, before it's too late!

You make me want to hibernate.

Now nothing left can satiate.

I suppose your life passed its sell-by date.

The week before your funeral

You were still looking beautiful.

I couldn't stand to see your relatives,

My escape became imperative.

I caught a train to Transnistria,

Wandered lonely with my fear,

Wondered where your wisdom went,

Withered without your wonderment.

And now it's purgatory down on earth;

Heaven is the moment of birth,

But a place of death looks just the same

For lepers, lazars and the lame.

When I'm alone and roam unseen

I will dig up my dancing queen;

Though you've been rotting for a while,

You'll never lose that lovely smile.

Incidentally I came across a really exciting Wikipedia page earlier detailing FIGHTS with different species of ANIMALS. As the philosopher who posed the immortal question (amongst other equally immortal questions) 'Who would win out of Colossal Squid Vs. Estuarine Crocodile?' this excited me greatly. Then I noticed it was all hypothetical and not real. Harrump. If anybody out there has seen Animal Face-Off and cares to enlighten me about just how good it really is, I'm all ears.

But she knows, when he goes, he really goes...

Long ago I discovered that directing people to my blog has absolutely nothing to do with the quality of post, or indeed the topic being discussed.

The two chief ingredients for attracting the interest of you, the bastard public, are

a) Post titles or body text including song lyrics, preferably those of The Smiths.

b) Discussion of people who are not Alexander Narkiewicz, with especial reference to recent (preferably controversial) events. Preferably defamatory. Preferably with real names.

With regard to 'a)', by far my most viewed post ever was one with a line from 'Cemetery Gates' off The Queen is Dead. The post itself was referring to one of my poems, (incidentally, poems result in the fewest and shortest page views, inevitably), which had, amusingly, been plagiarised (or reworked, depending on your P.O.V.) by a surrealist tortured soul from Islamabad. (He's now my friend on Facebook).

At the time I put the sharp increase in page views down to my shameless self-promotion. But the continued popularity of the post clearly indicates that my lazy, throwaway title was by far the juiciest bait for the idle explorer. In fact, on last search 'Ere thrice the sun done' brings up this blog first. Ridiculous.

The discovery of 'b)' took a ridiculously long time. In fact, I only really faced up to this yesterday, after someone who I won't give the satisfaction of naming expressed their pleasure at being written about on this blog some time ago - albeit in a mildly negative (though hardly insulting) context.

'b)' suggested itself when I first gave exposure to the rarely-used technique of recounting an anecdote entirely without fabrication or fancification; this was the episode where I sold an acquaintance plastic CD mounts, claiming they were hallucinogenic chemicals. For some reason people found this tale more entertaining than my usual exploration of, for example, how rubbish I think chairs/buses/crisps are.

Then of course, there's the little-known-fact that a good ten percent of my hits (from search engines) come from people Googling the very talented 'Alex Turvey', who is working on a video for Pydos in Spydos at the moment, and who I once went to Tapestry Festival with. I only mention his name now because it's bound to up my intake by a good 30% for the next couple of weeks.

Incidentally, I never worked out why my third biggest number of hits comes from 'YouTube Gang Fights Russia', but I doubt I satisfied anybody on that front.

Anyway, perhaps my discovery that people enjoy being written about will lead me to name-drop more on here. (I remember Adam Haslewood noting with ambivalence that his name, when Googled, often leads to thesvenhunter's blog.)

Then again, perhaps it won't; one of the many ladies to have e-mailed/spammed me from incompetent Southern English recruitment middle men, The Creamery, once demanded (politely) that her name be removed from here. And if nothing else, that little episode did make me wonder what, if anything, is the actual benefit of naming and faming (or naming and shaming) real people? I'm an advocate of transparency and the free exchange of all (even useless) information in any form, but not everybody is.

Anyway, what I really meant to say was that my computer at home has stopped working, so I will be blogging less often from now on. However, that clearly isn't true because I wouldn't have written this (or anything else today) but for the fact that my PC gave up the ghost last night somewhere inbetween me refining the Big Country sample I was looping for a new solo track and me starting a 'new project' on Acid so as to facilitate the recording of the podcast with R*lf St*rn*d and P**l *v*ns.

My computer is dead. Long live my computer. (Possibly, if Marek knows how to fix it.)

Amuse yourselves if you will, gentle simpletons, by perusing the cream of my recent (last month's) output on essential music networking mega-site, Playlouder:

Album Reviews:
- Sonne Hagal - Jordansfrost
- Gentle Touch - In Memory of Savannah
- Hear, O Israel - A Prayer Ceremony in Jazz
- They Came From The Stars I Saw Them - We Are All In The Gutter But Some Of Us Are Looking At They Came From The Stars I Saw Them
- Karen Dalton - Green Rocky Road
- The Courteeners - St. Jude

Live Reviews:
- Buttonhead
- Aidan John Moffat & George Pringle
- Wild Beasts, One More Grain & The XX
- A Place To Bury Strangers

News:
- Alanis Morissette Album
- The Return of Bill Drummond
- My Chemical Romance Blamed For More Death
- NME More Racist Than Morrissey?
- The Jimi Hendrix Sex Tape

Features:
- Interview With The Indelicates
- Mythbusting: Neofolk & Nazism

P.S. How, without my majestic mp3 collection, am I to DJ at The Peanut Party this coming Saturday? We simply don't know.

Smash The System - More Woe From 'The Creamery'

Alexander

Good Day!

I have a Freelance 2-3 month contrat come in for a web designer/ developer starting soon (exact dates have yet to be announced) in Gilford. The following is a small breif of the job:

We are looking for a web designer with at least 5+ years experience in a commercial bespoke web design environment with good client communication skills and able to work in an organised way to deadlines and budgets.

They will be at team player, responsible for most stages in the design and development of client web sites, company's own websites, company Intranet and related web based services. Must be creative and productive.

Key responsibilities include:

Design and develop new website layouts
Updating sites
Creation of banner ads and emails
Liaise closely with clients

Essential Technical Skills:
Dreamweaver MX 2004 or later
XHTML/CSS (A MUST)
HTML
Photoshop
Illustrator
Flash
Understanding of visual design concepts
Knowledge of usability
Communication skills - written and verbal
Ability to work methodically and to deadlines and project plans
Understanding of Usability and accessibility

Desirable Skills:
Knowledge of W3C standards
Some experience with ASP

If you're interested please send in a copy of your updated CV and rates so I can review and submit. All the information I have on this job is on the email so please read carefully.


Many thanks & kind regards,
Anna ____
Freelance Desk & Administration
Cream
'From the people that bring you the Cream of the Industry'



Dear Anna,

This is the fourth time I've requested to be removed from your company's database.

Never in my life have I

a) expressed an interest in being

b) claimed to possess the ability to be

a web designer.

Furthermore, I've never expressed a desire to work in Northern Ireland.

Goodbye.

Good Things

Bill Drummond netted it, who'd have bettered it?

Drugged and fettered it, lest we forget, a bit

Of history, mystery, no tongue-twister, me:

I'll tell it straight, no cause to hesitate;

We're all feeling it, some of us are dealing with it,

Some'll soon be reeling from it, now it's hit the ceiling, it's

Going to hit the roof. Forsooth, the sooth-

sayers are saying it's the darkest day and it's

Like this: cassettes, forget the rest,

They were the best, the ultimate test

Of endurance, love and taste, technique versus haste,

Mix tape as an art form, escapism in sixth form,

Best part of loving songs, coming on headstrong,

Hedonistic headphones on, headbanging head on.

Hand in hand with hand-me-downs, peers' dirty old towns,

Inherited wisdom rules! Pioneering new old schools!

I saw Top of The Pops die on its arse.

I saw the pop charts become a farce.

I watched it all with unblinking eyes

And yet I must confess my surprise.

We've come to this understanding then,

That all good things must come to an end

And good things come to those who wait

But good things still have a sell-by date.

My medium is average, this means I'm disadvantaged,

Outmoded and mismanaged: call me a complete package.

Pop music is for poor fools, in poetry there are no rules.

Pop music is big business but there are bare few winners in it.

'Is it art?' I ask you. Beware: they'll take to task you;

Emerge from smoke a statue: ”tonight, I'm a puppet, Matthew!”

Up with this I will not put. Wait while I fetch my shot putt.

Something instated's rotten in the fern and in the cotton;

The celebration of style, substance bottom of the pile.

Style's subjective, while we're on the subject I'll

Chuck my two pence at the wall: we're headed for a fall,

(No Mark E Smith, either.) Once I was a believer,

Now I'm not even a monkey: the music I play isn't funky,

But I'm as white as any honky, a burden I bear like a donkey;

Can't play, sing or dance, I haven't got a chance,

Just sit and watch this all unfold, still shouting into a black hole.

I saw Top of The Pops die on its arse.

I saw the pop charts become a farce.

I watched it all with unblinking eyes

And yet I must confess my surprise.

We've come to this understanding then,

That all good things must come to an end

And good things come to those who wait

But good things still have a sell-by date.

I have nothing to declare but... let me in!

So, Boris is mayor, Gordon is Prime Minister: let's all pat ourselves on the back. We done good.

LOCATION: RAMPANT

You walk on hind legs.

Your first steps are applauded.

You walk on hind legs

Like a bird. Unlike a bird,

You cannot fly, little one,

But you found other uses for your limbs:

You held rocks and sticks and rocks and sticks,

You grasped for everything.

Look at these walls:

This is not natural!

Look at this gabling:

This is not natural!

Look at this crenelation:

This is unnatural.

Look at your pale, pale skin:

This is unnatural.

You crossed continents.

You drank the ocean.

You pissed your name in the snow.

You trained beasts to carry your burden.

You made wheels, little one,

You parked yourself in the corner.

You made enemies, little one,

You turned rivers into borders.

She gave you birth,

You named her earth.

You hated her,

You feared her,

You held her to the ground.

You raped her,

You beat her,

And the sky came falling down.

Look at this ceiling:

This is not natural!

Look at this carpet:

This is not natural!

Feeling this feeling:

This is unnatural.

Look at your pale, pale skin:

This is unnatural.

Freedom of choice? A real night-mayor! (hahahaha! I said mayor!)

BNP - London First

"Remember London the way it used to be?"

Already the BNP have lost the majority of the vote. London is not, as they seem to imply, a tight-knit parochial community that has retained the same fetid genepool for generations. Actually it's a place where people come and go.

They go on: "...clean, friendly and safe."

The research I've done into Jacobean London indicates the exact opposite to be the case, but let's be fair - Richard Barnbrook is probably referring to 20th century London. I remain dubious. He goes on to abuse punctuation by promising pensioners "24 hour travel passes... free!"

The 'People Like You Voting BNP' section doesn't do much to further his cause; housewife Lorraine Henry is terrified about her children's future because of all the knife and gun crime "out of control", (controlled knife and gun crime being the obvious solution) and paedophiles being released back into the community. Call me poorly-informed but I feel more concern for society at large due to parents voting BNP than by paedophiles rampaging around. Still, presumably few other parties' candidates are taking an anti-paedophile stance.

Builder, Ken Seagar, is proud of his heritage and makes a dubious claim that he's being forced to celebrate Ramadan against his will - what's more, his sub-editor allows saints Patrick and George their own take on punctuation - the former being a 'St.' and the latter a 'St'. Finally, idiotic Christian, Samantha Winter, is voting BNP because she's Irish. None of these people are 'People Like Me' - they're all f***ing cretins.

Finally, we're told for the billionth time, the transparent, translucent, throbbing, wobbling lie that the BNP are not racist, and that their views are "commonsense", and that that's one word now.

I will not be voting for Richard Barnbrook, I may gently nudge him in front of a train, though.

The Left List - Vote Lindsey German

Ms. German's party's logo looks like a sort of communist Eurostar affair, and she conveniently reveals that a better London can be achieved by exactly ten steps. Emergency council houses are to be built, which sounds a bit slap-dash. There should be no war, and there should be better transport. Schools should be good, and tuition fees should not exist. Rich people should bail out poor people. We shouldn't be racist - actually I'll stop there, it all sounds like common sense, sorry, commonsense stuff to me.

She wants to stop the transformation of our city into London PLC. See what she's done there? An American company - that's what our city is becoming. It could at least be London GmbH or London OY: either one of those would be much funnier. Ms. German also helped found Respect, but apart from that I've got no dirt on her.

Still, I won't be voting Lindsey German, because she definitely won't win, and I'm as yet unconvinced that a wasted vote is anything but.

Boris Johnson - A Change for the better

Really? Things are worse than I'd imagined then. Fluffy-haired, jowelly racist, BJ, is an amusing figure and therefore perfect TV material, and unlikely to be a very good mayor, having almost no relevant experience. He wants to "beef up", to "implement serious strategies", to "crack down", to "make", "protect", scrap", "work in partnership with", and to "stretch". And he's serious.

The problem is, that Boris is representative of the general modern cross-disciplinary swing for style (okay, a tiny, little bit of style) over substance. He's the George Lamb of politics. The fool should only be king for a day. And he should be tied to a large bit of wood and burned shortly afterwards.

I won't be voting for Boris (whose enemies have been told not to refer to as 'Boris' because it sounds familliar and friendly) because politics is no laughing matter. It's dull for a reason.

Change London For Good. Vote Siân Berry. Vote Green Party.

Ms. Berry's surprisingly red take on green seems to include cheaper everything for everyone and a living wage. At 33, Ms. Berry presumably lacks the experience of the other candidates, (I say presumably because I have no idea whether this is true), and as a candidate who pledges to reduce the gap between rich and poor, will never be allowed by the rich - who have the power - to succeed.

There's a depressingly-defeatist clarification of the two-vote system included here, pointing out to people that their wasted Green Party vote will not prevent them from voting for Ken or Boris and actually making sure that their opinion actually counts for something. (And by 'something', I actually mean 'nothing').

I won't be voting for Siân Berry because my limited experience of the Green Party indicates that they're less of a party and more of a debating society. Furthermore, their constant promises to make everything greener sound vague and threatening.

Brian Paddick - Serious solutions for London

Personality-bypass and self-appointed owner of London, Sergeant Paddick is not a man with a mayor's face. His election will (won't - he won't be elected) see a new dawn for London, which will be renamed CyberLondon, and filled with armed robot guards and sniper rifles attached to security cameras, which will follow you everywhere. Most worryingly of all, he promises to quit if/when he fails to cut crime and make our streets safer.

Thanks a bunch.

He also lazily got a 3rd person to write most of his bit in the leaflet.

I won't be voting for Sergeant Paddick because he's used the word 'solutions' in his strap line and clearly knows fuck all about politics or communicating with people at any level.

UK Independence Party

The BNP-Lite are putting Gerard Batten forward, and promise justice and common sense. They plan to punish the guilty and protect the innocent - both novel ideas bound to cause an outrage amongst the law enforcement powers that be. They also plan to make tube tickets flexible, presumably by returning to cardboard, which seems an unexpectedly green step for a party who have never to my knowledge acknowledged the environment as anything other than something in which Europeans lurk.

Actually, UKIP have very few policies (and most of those begin with a capital NO) and lazily point us to their website. Attention span? Research? Who do you think you're dealing with?

I won't be voting for Gerard Batten because he's going to hell, and I don't want to.

Jesus said "The leader is the one who serves" Luke 22:26 TheChristianChoice.org.uk Alan Craig

Apart from a skin condition and/or a poor photographer, Alan Craig, the self-proclaimed Christian Choice, has page-layout issues, as you may be able to deduce by the bizarre title arrangements above. His aryan wife looks about twenty years younger than him and his aryan daughter looks possessed. He plans to promote marriage - so maybe he can get me a girlfriend? Cheers mate! Also, he plans to champion the unborn (erm...), the elderly (self-fiving a bit there) and refugees. He says no to "mega-mosque" though, because religion is a competitor sport, as everybody knows.

An unfortunate punctuation choice implies he plans to end allegations of corruption in city hall. He's probably not all that bad, but having a 'Christian Choice' mayor is really like having a 'Chelsea Supporters Club' mayor or a 'I Favour Perms Over Quiffs' mayor.

I won't be voting for Alan Craig.

The English Democrats - Putting England First

Is it the Knights Templar? Is it the Style Council? Fuck knows, but they seem to believe in a Scottish conspiracy, which is something we have in common - except I think they're being serious.

They lament the mockery of St George by the screening of 'The Life of Brian' and then they big up the Magna Carta. They're joking, right? I suppose somebody accidentally printed an extra line of tick-boxes and we needed a new party to fill in the space.

I won't be voting for Matt O'Connor because I believe in an Irish conspiracy.

Ken Livingstone

...arrogantly presumes he needs no introduction, and says "London's success must be for all", but his iminent demise must benefit only him - that thing about the Labour government rushing through a 10K (or was it 100K? F*** it, let's say a million K) severence pay for mayors leaving office. Pah.

If I voted for Ken I'd be revoking my right to have complained about everything I've complained about since moving to London last year - and that's a lot of stuff. Also, the Olymics really must be his fault. And it is a fault.

Actually, I won't be voting for anyone because I went to see Aidan John Moffat and George Pringle on the last day I could have registered to vote, and I have little to no faith in party politics. Did I sound smug while typing that? I felt it - though I really shouldn't have.

There's a difference between sexism and sexuality

This week my keyboard gave up its long maintained pretense of functionality. The half an eraser (or rubber, depending on your colloquialist leanings) that had kept it at peace with itself and I for so long having been lost in the move from Hackney to Victoria.

This presented a unique challenge for me as a writer, as I'm sure you'd imagine. In fact, any 'writing' I've managed this week has either been done elsewhere or achieved by the rather backward technique of copying and pasting words (even letters) from the handful of dubious websites in my 'bookmarks' and/or 'history' sections.

Needless to say, my work has gone downhill.

What's more I foolishly arranged to work from home this coming Sunday as I'd covered for boss number one on Thursday and have thus spent but a single day at work for job number two so far. This means one day of weekend of course, which is almost over. I spent it trecking across London to find the all-important replacement keyboard and USB hub.

I thought it was about time I observed and acted upon one of those bizarre man-holding-a-large-sign forms of advertising and ducked in to the 'computer fair' off Great Russell Street. (Who was Russell? What was so great about him? etc.)

It was full of paedophiles buying webcams and foreign couples who seemed difficult to impress. I was bowled over by the low, low prices, but found the service to be cold and distant. The Subcontinental Asian man who sold me my keyboard and hub seemed unhappy to part with a pink keyboard to a male customer, and this made me all the more determined to choose it over the crappy little black one that looked like it belonged in a primary school.

"Is for girls" he said.

"I'm sure it'll work fine," I said.

"Is pink" he said, in case I hadn't noticed, presumably.

"I noticed," I said. "That's fine."

To be honest, pink really doesn't 'go' with the rest of my furnishings, but I felt the need to assert my right to own a pink keyboard, particularly after the time that equally Subcontinental Asian man in Walthamstow market successfully refused to sell me a pair of black leggings on account of my incorrect sex.

The joke was, as usual, on me, because the keyboard is very little, and I'm not sure my manly hands (stumpy though the fingers be - ask my piano teacher) can cope with the compactness of the keys. Perhaps I'll have to start writing in txt spk? Could I be the first novellist to rIt n txt spk mAB? No - but I could be the 8th perhaps.

Other exciting news this week is that I have a new hairstyle, I have tidied my room, I have forgotten everybody's birthdays, and, more memorably, I have been deemed unsuitable boyfriend material by somebody with barely a passing acquaintance with me, due to a throwaway comment about how the female orgasm is not an essential factor in the proliferation of the human race, which, may I now point out, is an irrefutable fact as far as my medical knowledge goes, and yet it does not follow that it directly informs my understanding, such as it is (or isn't), of sexual (or any other kind of) relations.

I'd be lying if I said I have a T-shirt that says 'This is what a feminist looks like', but then I've also never had one that says 'The man, the legend'.

In fact, for the record, while we're on the subject, I abhor T-shirts with arrows on them, whichever way they may be pointing.

My next T-Shirt purchase will almost certainly be the above. It really communicates with me, y'know?

Oh, and the next person who takes me seriously will face my wholehearted, unyielding, and very earnest wrath.

Your ambivalent scribbler,

Alexander Velky

From a website I made ages ago that I just found:

"schmoozing aka the "art" of talking to people more famous/influential than you in the hope that they think you are cool or mistake you for someone important. schmoozing is crap. i know this because i have seen people do it and it basically involves shouting down peoples earholes then them shouting down yours and spilling beer on your shoe. if you are lucky this will result in you supporting their band and/or attending their dead aunt's funeral mistakenly. i suppose it is ok to schmooze if you enjoy the art itself. however the old "its not what you know its who you know" phrase doesnt apply here. because if you know that people are crap, like the lead singer of the music crp, you need not get to know them. if they are good, like WELL good, like andrew wk good, then they will come and buy you a drink or a house or something and talk to you in a none schmoozy manner without spilling beer on your shoe or shouting in your ear. you see professional schmoozing is like heroin addiction in that you shout in ears even when its not noisy AND ruin your shoes, however it is not like heroin addiction in that you will NOT be likely to write "heroin" by lou reed. that is how it is like heroin addiction. so basically - saying "you're cool" or "have you got a light" or "can i take a photo of you i promise you'll never see me again and i have no criminal record" is not schmoozing and is fine. BUT!!! saying "yeah there's real potential there - you just need to have a hardcore act supporting you, like our band" or "have you got a cigarette" or "i've never heard them but i have heard they are really really good" or "big country are crap!" then that is schmoozing and should be punishable by death. OK?????????"

Guess what I did last night? Wrong. I saw The Indelicates and they were ace and against my better judgement I told them and stole a cigarette off them.

I have become that which I detest!

Didn't see that coming. Much.

Paedogeddon

In preparation for the imminent Pydos In Spydos mix tape I'm amassing a collection of songs in the time-honoured rock 'n' roll tradition of pedophilia.

In celebration of the dodgy misogyny and child-love that is so intrinsic to popular music culture we're lining up some of the all time greats of music, which happen to be uncoincidentally themed around or associated with kiddie-fiddling.

So far we've got:

Oingo Boingo - Little Girls
Al Stewart - Swiss Cottage Manoeuvres
Urge Overkill - Girl, You'll Be a Woman Soon
Alizee - Moi... Lolita
Donovan - Young Girl Blues
The Knack - My Sharona
t.A.T.u. - Malchik Gay
Pydos In Spydos - Underage Sex Symbol
Daz Sampson - Teenage Life
The Glitter Band - Angel Face
Kate Bush - The Man With a Child in His Eyes
The Sugarcubes - Birthday
Bruce Springsteen - I'm on Fire

Any suggestions would be appreciated.

Waiting For The Fall

Wheat, Chaff, Whatever

Hello.

Haven't been here for a while, have I?

(No.)

I've been busy, as I mentioned before, working too hard, and getting cream poured in my eyes, and going to see bands playing music and Nick Clegg telling a roomful of student spods that they're the future. (They're the past too, unless I'm a cynical and misguided fool.)

After contracting a cold and some aching muscles this long weekend, either by

a) consuming glitter in excess

b) reducing my nutrient intake by dining Greek twice

c) playing rounders and wandering around the wind-swept northeast,

I have finally sat down and forced myself to write a poem. A line in 'Bogwoppit', (which I am re-reading for approximately the 4th time), leapt out at me this morning and that's all it usually takes.

"The children dared not linger long by the pond..."

No, because of that nasty gamekeeper and evil aunt Clandorris.

Huh.

But my poem's not about Bogwoppits, it's about what happens to Mrs. Morgan on the fateful day she goes to visit her son Ioan and his new wife Eirian (whom she can't stand), when she rows across the Black Lake to their cottage and has a faint, irritating knocking noise in her ears and...

Well, that's another poem, this is what happened to her on her journey back...

I don't have a title yet. I'm not so good with titles.

She dared not linger longer by the lake,

Nor sing any songs for her lost love's sake,

But turned around to face the throng,

Muttered, “Oh, for fuck's sake...”

It was then with an eyebrow raise she saw,

Spread out like a fried egg on the lake shore,

A bloated body caked in mud.

While there was little gore,

The maw was more fishlike than unfishlike:

Icicle-white teeth like those of a pike,

Lips fixed, an incredulous 'O'.

A mum's hand cuffed a mewing tyke,

As a motorbike spluttered to a halt,

Spraying muck hued much like extracted malt

Over rank and filed faces,

The squall soothed slowly to a halt.

As salt tears washed clean the rain-stained eyeballs,

As she cast her glance net-like, like night falls,

Over the crowd, something seemed wrong;

Pulled out like a pale pall,

A corpus cross, the corpse was wept over

By only two. Where was her wild rover?

Their love was a catch like a rudd,

Cattle fodder, stover,

Without her Ioan, her sole shining son.

The policeman took notes. The day was done.

The crowd began, by turns, to go,

And only then, alone, did one

Whisper whistle through where once was her head:

“That knocking noise was me,” Old Morgan said,

“On your coffin, of all places.

Can I climb in now, dear? You're dead.”

Once Upon a Time

I have Acid.

I should be getting podcasts together again soon.

Just as soon as I work out how to put my microphone in.

You'll never guess what I found whilst cleaning behind the wardrobe

Twenty pence!

That's what.

If you guessed GIANT SALAMANDER, you were wrong.

I'm vaguely worried that my hectic schedule coupled with my droidlike dedication to the cause means I'm becoming a cell in the body of the city and not leaving enough time for artistic pursuits, which is a shame because I have so many red hot irons in the fire that are going to fizzle out if I'm not careful. Anyway, to keep me amused and further distracted from the path of true art I need the following:

* Fruity Loops
* Acid 6
* Large amount of white/black paint.

I am about to start a new side-project band based around four four beats of the euro-trance persuasion, minimalist arrhythmic spoken word and distorted guitar samples. Then I'm going to finish my semi-autobiography, then I'm going to finish my poetry collection, then my painting, then my trousers, then my album, then I'm going to proclaim world war and go into hiding.

Disassociation . Word

Chicken Jalfrezi
Chain gang daisy
Drastic plasticine
Ian Paisley
Sex or the city
Standing pretty
Sistine pristine
She's a fittie
Punctured bicycle
Savoury ricicle
Lucid redemption
Shattered icicle
Rustic charming
Intensive farming
Bovary's ovaries
Selfish harming
Readers' digest
In earnest I jest
Up sticks and scarper
Fatal flight test
Unbeknown death's head
Rickety bunk bed
Artistic difference
Ruthless redhead
Grimy lino
Bitten biro
Underground rodent
Rampant rhino
Embittered Baker
Overtaker
Connoisseur cad
Retired raker
Capillary clogging
Social dogging
Unfinished dusting
Mawkish clogging
Iron lady
Big fat baby
Steaming chasm
Hades maybe
Fatigue aroma
Penelope's Homer
Morbid musing
My misnomer

But it's upward and onward; I found all the losed screws in my shoe.

Keep on moving

Hi. Moving house this week don't you know. I don't know about you guys, but I'm looking forward to Eurovision. In discoveries, I have found that tahini has no salt in and would benefit from some, and that Wojtek Godzisz from Symposium has gone solo! Finally! In case anyone's wondering, MOVING PARTY on Friday is all guns blazing damn well going to happen. Looks like a good turnout - up to 5 whole people. Also, GM,HJ! remains in progress (see below) but is steadily being chipped away at, like a... log.

Finally, I rarely mention Akira The Don, considering a) how massively famous he is and b) how closely related he is, but his new mixtape album thing 'Thieving' is absolutely brillopads. Check.

IV. The Semantics of a Self Portrait

(Arwel)
She's quick to call the thick one her nephew
But sends her 'daughter' to the rescue.
Reminds most of us of another, though,
She's the ghost of her poor mother, though;
A dog could tell that she's no natural blonde.
The ties that bind are her tightened bonds,
Her frightening eyes are as sharp as a swan's,
Mechanic blinking like a time bomb.
Angie, Angie, how does your garden grow?
How do you do and what do you know?
How are you? How am I? (Ask me, ask me.)
She shrugs and says: "Don't call me Angie."

(Angharad)
Flat duffel jacket traps heat like concrete,
Big beige buttons like pins on your feet.
Sturdy as an Easter Island statue,
Barely daring to breathe or achoo.
That's you: well, how do like me now, 'ma'?
Too strong for songs, guitars or fast cars,
Soldered me with alchemy from afar,
And soldiered me behind iron bars.
Didn't like the dolls I played with, did you?
Still beats me, left my brain black and blue.
A metal counter since I was bleeding,
A village of men wanting feeding.

(Mrs. Morgan)
Always blamed her mother for leaving her,
Blamed her brother for deceiving her,
And when he took a dive in the quarry,
She never really seemed that sorry.
She's never yet proved ready to grow up,
But you can bet she's yet to blow up
About this bout that'll make her throw up,
There's a seat prepared, she'll soon show up.
I sit, time ticks, though I'm in no hurry -
She'll soon defeat herself with worry
And when she does I'll be waiting for her,
Like ma did for her ma before her,

To hold and whisper while she's aquiver,
Soothing her limp form like a river.
She'll see a side to me she's never seen:
See a mother where once was a queen.
And the seed will be planted then deep down,
(The bed's long sown in that furrowed frown),
She'll hold her head high when about the town,
A woman fit for a fettered crown.
She could have chosen a better man though,
Still, he came first, the race he ran, so
As everybody knows where he has been,
The sooner he's off, the less he's seen.

(Angharad)
Recreated me in her own image,
Fed me up on fresh fish and spinach,
Never was that keen for me to see ma,
Said not so: wouldn't take it that far.
Harboured secret plans for Ioan and me
Like we were some Egyptian family,
Like it's the done thing in this century.
Turned a blind eye, my brother roamed free,
Kept both trained on me as I blossomed weak
From the concrete, drippy like a leak,
Before I needed one, bought me a bra,
Polished me like a brain in a jar.

(Arwel)
She knows herself more than folks think she does.