WPTDITB? draften eins

That's the question I'm going to press them, find the answer instead of second guessing them
What possessed them? Who expressed that they should take our canine and repress them
That's the lesson, have you heard it? It's written down but badly worded
Statements blurted are barely lucid, yet scant details are fairly lurid
Stand up, testify what you did, dumbstruck caught up acting stupid
A cargo plane will help you move it, take your will power and reduce it
Vampire corp is playing Cupid, tyrannosaurus corpses are putrid
They're dressed up now, suited and booted, prejudices unfairly rooted?
I don't care about the cover up. I just want a dog to show some love
To throw sticks with and take for walks, a dog that listens every time I talk
You take that away from me right now and I can't see how we can turn it round
There's the sound of tears hitting the ground like infirm ants on a burial mound
I see evidence piled up around, it's lack of witness leaves me dumbfounded
They've got the anchorman surrounded, the dogsbodies take the horn and sound it
The noise it makes, you'll never mask it, not even with a magician's casket
So there's the question, I'm going to ask it; tell me who put the dog in the basket?

Tell a dog stories just to shock it, with a plot that's too priapic
Well I don't care how big my cock is, as long as I've got a band to rock with
It's definitely time to stop it, leave your bad manners in your pocket
I see your advance and block it, disconnect the chair from socket
I can tell you don't want me to like it, you spoil the ending like a psychic
A Keyser Söze/Rosebud hybrid, take that pleasure and deny it
Just when we had got excited, you pour the petrol and ignite it
Fire and noises get dogs frightened, easy then to let the purse strings tighten
Shocking doctors deal in violence, advocated by a silence
No one here designates the drivers and so our protest is unlicensed
Disappearing all the writers, like the dogs they once were priceless
Dipping toes into the fight test, make sure your bruises are quietest
Hide a book under your floorboards, keep it from your sons and daughters
Turn your sofa into a fortress and fade away to rigour mortis
Anaesthetise with holy waters, share your wafer with the paupers
I can't quite tell just what the cause is so I listen to feline reporters

When Milton Friedman told you Santa was nothing more than a lie
The next day Xmas budget plummets and there's no money left for mince pies
This may seem like a trivial example but that's a claim I must deny
Because this foxy boxing is part of a doctrine that takes our lives from under our eyes

A record collection reduced to a mixtape

One of my most erstwhile colleagues, Sharon, is soon to be heading off on a trip of a lifetime to Barbados. It has been something she has dreamed about since she was a wee lass and now she is only half a week away from jetting off. Understandably she is quite excited and as her final day at work draws nearer her excitement becomes more palpable.

We have a CD player in our office. We are very lucky in this respect; many similar offices are fortunate to have a radio to listen to. At first I tried experimenting by introducing Sharon to some of my favourite artists that would provide a comfortable ambience, such as Arcade Fire and British Sea Power. Disappointingly, these were not received with the enthusiasm I was hoping for, and after Franz Ferdinand's cold reception from several visitors to the office (what is so offensive about them!?) I decided to try a different tack. It's nice to give the Now albums an airing again.

Anyhoo, I was back at my parent's house two weekends ago in order to celebrate my mother's birthday and to bid a fond farewell to my darling brother who is currently in the land down under for a year of thrills, spills and unfettered existence. Fingers crossed for him. Now, I have left several CDs behind at the house, including a Best of Bob Marley which I was excited about finding as its Caribbean flavours would provide an apt soundtrack to Sharon's last few days of work. Unfortunately I had planned to get a train back to Brighton the same day as I travelled up, and once I was offered a lift back from Ally I was always going to be staying the night. Minus glasses and contact lenses. The gormless fumbling the next morning unsurprisingly did not yield the results I was after, and I made my way back to Brighton with stack of CDs that contained everything BUT reggae.

At least that is what I though initially. Once I had gotten back to Brighton and was able to see again I found that I had picked up a couple of old mix CDs that I had been given many moons ago. One of these had Police and Thieves by Junior Murvin on it, amongst other exciting artists that I never normally listen to, such as the Velvet Underground, Bob Dylan and Jimi Hendrix. Thanks Maya! This CD provided quite a lot of enjoyment at work. There were also a couple from Steve that were a little less exciting, not surprising as our music tastes are so similar, but there were some legendary gems in there, including this one:

Absolutely different class, that Paul Anka.

Sharon has also brought in a couple of Now albums herself. She even has the most recent one in the series! As someone whose Now collection tailed off around 2002, this was an intriguing prospect. A chance to see what is considered to be upper echelon pop in this day and age. The sad fact of this encounter though was that I only knew a handful of the 40 or so tracks on there. As someone who once prided himself as an aficionado of contemporary music, this was quite an eye-opener.

Ok, so Now albums aren't exactly a barometer of what is hot and not at the moment (although Party Rock Anthem is most definitely in the former category), but it did draw my attention to the fact that my music tastes are rooted in the mid-Noughties, and that I've not really deviated from the bands I came to know and love then since I've left Exeter. There is most definitely more to be heard out there. The musical world is much larger than British Sea Power, Paul Anka and LMFAO. Most of the stuff they play in Resident Records for one thing.

The mix CDs were a light-bulb flashing just above my head. What better way to find out about new music (both unheard and contemporary) than through mix CDs? If I could get several people to kindly make me mix CDs I should be able to expand my musical knowledge exponentially! It is also quite an exciting project to make a mix CD, so I daresay other people would benefit from this idea. So, without further ado, here is the proposal:

I WANT YOU TO MAKE ME A MIX CD

In an ideal world the mix CD would be several things:

- containing music I've not experienced before
- containing music I've experienced before but may not possess
- containing the odd classic I've played countless times
- cogent and coherent
- concise, so as to promote listening to it as a whole
- beautifully presented

This is quite a big ask, but I promise that I will provide anyone who makes me a mix CD with one in return, as well as possibly some biscuits. And if there's lots then the person that makes the best one can have a carrot cake. I've never made a carrot cake before, so this winning mix CD will have to be pretty damn inspiring. And preferably contain one track which is a recipe for said cake.

Sharon embarks on her fortnight of fun that she has been dreaming of since she was 9 years old on Saturday. I will then have two weeks in which to experiment with the CD player. Please help me. There are only so many more times I can listen to Abattoir Blues/The Lyre of Orpheus.

If you wish to post me anything my address is as follows:

7B Wentworth Street
Brighton
BN2 1TT

I eagerly await mash-ups of Bulgarian dancehall and bootlegs of Latvian Britpop.

Hungry draft 1 (for the RDDC)

We set sail from port on a glorious morning
With the wind and the Sun at our backs
A diligent crew had answered my calling
Handsome men with beautiful necks
When all of a sudden the sky turned black
And a cruel mist chilled me to the bone
And I got a dark feeling in the pit of my stomach
That some of us wouldn't make it home...

Hold fast! Hold fast! Put wax in my mouth and tie me to the mast!
Hold fast! Hold fast! I'm not that hungry but I know it won't last
Hold fast! Hold fast! Oh I wish that my will was up the task!
Hold fast! Hold fast! I'm not that hungry but I know it won't last

The isolate seas make my gut so queasy
My mouth is dry and I'm sure my temples will burst
Oh! The salty air disagrees with me!
An ocean of wine couldn't slake this thirst!
I see shadows flee as the night turns to pitch
Illuminated pale skin by the light of the moon
My teeth start to itch, my eyes start to twitch
I think I shall escort the first mate to his room...

Hold fast! Hold fast! Put wax in my mouth and tie me to the mast!
Hold fast! Hold fast! I'm not that hungry but I know it won't last
Hold fast! Hold fast! Oh I wish that my will was up the task!
Hold fast! Hold fast! I'm not that hungry but I know it won't last

The numbers of our crew are rapidly declining
Superstition has become captain of the ship
This seasickness cannot put a stop to my dining
And I've heard that Whitby is well worth the trip

Hold fast!!
Hold fast!!
Hold fast!!
Hold fast!!

On hunting.

     "How can you possibly enjoy listening to anything so disagreeable as the barking and howling of dogs? And why is it more amusing to watch a dog chasing a hare than to watch one dog chasing another? In each case the essential activity is running - if running is what amuses you. But if it's really the thought of being in at the death, and seeing an animal torn to pieces before your eyes, wouldn't pity be a more appropriate reaction to the sight of a weak, timid, harmless little creature being devoured by something much stronger and fiercer?

     So the Utopians consider hunting below the dignity of free men, and leave it entirely to butchers, who are, as I told you, slaves. In their view hunting is the vilest department of butchery, compared with which all the others are relatively useful and honourable. An ordinary butcher slaughters livestock far more sparingly, and only because he has to, whereas a hunter kills and mutilates poor little creatures purely for his own amusement. They say you won't find that type of blood-lust even among animals, unless they're particularly savage by nature, or have become so by constantly being used for this cruel sport."

More, Thomas. Utopia (1516) trans. 1965. (St. Ives: Clays Ltd, 2003), pp. 75-76.

Breakfast

Wake up, wake up, can't smell the coffee
This bothers me, my mouth is sticky like toffee
My teeth are mahogany, throat numb from hollering
Need to get up and heat up something for swallowing
Ideas are smouldering, onward I'm soldiering
Come follow and help with the burden I'm shouldering
Food is emboldening, a new day is unfolding
Assemble a dawn patrol ready for ordering
Last night Katie told me she was hungry for monogamy
Now she's just plain hungry; she clung to me so I go hunting
And gathering a pound or three from everybody around me
The people will be proud with what I return back clutching
Call me Prometheus, let the eagle eat with us
The seagulls can feast now that we're getting serious
Last night there was beer in us, we felt imperious
We're imperious again now the menu has been discussed
Are you gathering dust? Are you turning to rust?
Are you feeling concussed? Then baked beans are a must
Don't be non-plussed, when you party with us
The ends justify the means that saw our party combust
Your trusting me is wonderful so I'll give you a bellyful
The morning after's terrible until breakfast is plentiful
Hash browns, the shops will sell. Bread, eggs and shrooms as well
What kind of juice, it's hard to tell in what flavour most will revel
It's perfect now, we're on the level
The dead all rise up from their dance with the devil
Got to be careful, the flat's rarely this full
Feeding five thousand takes all our biblical skill
I wax lyrical still, it is a miracle thrill
Amassed up on my plate is a physical hill
If looks could kill then they probably will
If the seagulls can't get a look in while we're having our fill

Later that morning, world peace ensued
We were all in love with the music of food
The fast was broken, our chains were too
We were all in love with the music of food

-    -    -    -    -    -

I wrote this as a rap on a train back to Brighton from London many months ago, using part of an NWA track looped on my mp3 player to try and get some rhythm (you can't just go rapping about breakfast on a train at night time, it's not the done thing). I was hoping I could use it with a new RDDC song that Robin has composed the music for, but it doesn't really fit the mood.

The Capercaillie

"I used a low point of view and positioned myself between clumps of vegetation to try to get as clean and as natural a shot as possible of this wild rogue bird." - John.

 

 

This is the capercaillie. In order to counter-balance the gravity of my previous blog post and to make up for the lack of activity recently, I have decided to post about my new favourite bird.

My previous favourite bird was the chicken. Common, uninspiring, lacking in flavour; these were criticism that could be levelled at the chicken. Not so the capercaillie.

My least favourite bird is the toucan. It is a horrible looking creature. Its beak is vicious and its demeanour horrifying. It eats children with a sickening grin plastered across its face.

I really like the duck-billed platypus, but unfortunately it is not a bird. The duck-billed platypus is venomous. Many people think they look ridiculous but I find them charming.

The name Capercaillie comes from the original Gaelic, meaning horse of the woods. The largest ever recorded capercaillie in captivity weighed 7.2kg. They remind me of the chocobos in the Final Fantasy series of games, which were ridden in the same way as horses. They were much larger than the capercaillie.

Capercaillies are an endangered species as their natural habitat is being gradually eroded. There are many conservation projects on Scotland that work to protect suitable breeding areas and develop new ones.

I wish I had a giant capercaillie that I could ride about Brighton. It would be large enough to fit both me and either Amy McDonald or KT Tunstall on the back and we could ride off up onto the Sussex Downs and have a picnic. Their partners would be slightly annoyed by this.

The capercaillie would be too large to stay in our flat so I would have to look at stabling. This would either be taken care of in Woodingdean or Lewes. In between trips I would allow it to graze in the New Steine garden.

I would hate to have a nightmare about a toucan. Imagine lying in your bed, being awoken in the middle of the night by a tapping on your window. Roused from slumber, you would stagger up and throw back the curtains, to be met with the shocking sight of a dark shadow with wicked orange beak! As lightning strikes, illuminating the hellish fiend, you swoon and fall to the floor! The last thing you hear is the crack of glass and relentless, furious tapping...

I would like to think that there is a real ale in existence called Capercaillie. If so, hopefully it would taste like a beautiful oaty forest.

The forests of Scotland are magnificent, and would be more so were the capercaillie as common as the swift or raven.

Oh! Capercaillie! In all the world beneath the firmament there is not beast nor bird as wondrous as thee!