(the paper edition of this zine came out on June 23rd 2004. If you would like a copy please email [email protected])
Someone was telling me of this film about a TV show where Japanese school-kids duel to the death on some island or other and it made me think of all those smug cunt programmes that Chris Tarrant does (and which Clive James used to do) where they show clips of �extreme� Japanese TV shows. And everyone laughs, all cosy and safe in their middle-class mansions in Suffolk with their mugs of fucking Horlicks and their wacky after-dinner bored board games and their red setters on guard in case any of the village peasants trespass in their drive-way. As if United Kingdom 2004 TV/life isn�t just as extreme/laughable/fucked-up as Japan�s. These shows are the smiling face of racism, choosing to dwell on the low-brow wacky game-show elements of Japanese TV rather than the many beautiful and amazing writers the country has produced (Murakami, Mishima, etc, etc). Right now, it is Saturday night and it�s not a coincidence that SaTURDay has that 4 letter word in the middle because there is such utter SHITE on television, it�s unreal. The Eurovision �song� contest is on for about 4 hours (it�s like, let�s have a contest to see who can actually WRITE a fucking song), ITV has �Stars in Their Eyes - Kids� (the LIVE final � oh wow.) Wouldn�t it be great if that wee boy who did Kurt Cobain a couple of months back was on it and blew his brains out on live TV? Now THAT would be something worth watching! But, actually, I�d much rather he blew away those smug presenters who are ALL so fucking inter-changable and ALL so utterably un-fuckable, with their identical blonde locks, slim-line figures - and that�s JUST THE MEN - ha ha. Oh God.. Channel 4 has �The 100 Greatest Movie Stars� � on for nearly 4 hours AGAIN � and it�s a REPEAT! And I�m such a sad, boring twat that I actually WATCHED it last year (Al Pacino won). It�s quite obvious the TV bosses want us all out on the town on Saturday nights, that�s why they show such utter, utter bilge on telly. Force us all out to the exclusive wine-bars to spend our dole pittance on some blue alcopops or some such watery, tasteless shit. �They� are always telling us that the suicide rate is higher over the Christmas period, but it also wouldn�t surprise me much to learn that a lot of people did the hare kare thing on Saturdays and Sundays too �cos they are SO unsufferably depressing and the TV schedules reflect that perfectly. If it�s not Ant and Dec doing some zany, unfunny sketch, it�s Dale doing the camp-as-a-row-of-homosexuals Lottery draw. If it�s not Cilla Black doing �Blind Date� or whatever the equivalent is these days, it�s Davina fucking McColl and her oily, fake laugh and her oily, fake tan. If ONLY British TV were as interesting and diverse as Japan�s probably is. School-kids killing each other sounds like a BRILLIANT idea for a show. Everyone knows that most school-kids are evil little cunts anyway.
Stuff I�ve bought recently�.
MORRISSEY - IRISH BLOOD, ENGLISH HEART (ATTACK RECORDS) www.morrisseymusic.com
'His best single for a decade' reads the press blurb and, for once, they just may be right. It's 2� minutes of Moz bitterly sniping at the royals, the press who castigated him 12 years ago for waving the Union Jack and Oliver Cromwell. The lead track's been familiar to fans for a couple of years now, but the 3 B-sides (or �extra tracks� as you youngsters call them) are all new. Best to these ears is the rocky 'It's Hard To Walk Tall When You're Small' which seems to be a veiled attack on ex-Smiths drummer Mike Joyce (it's addressed to someone called Ringo.) The other 2 �extra tracks� (which are on ANOTHER CD - that good old record company rip-off tactic to get fans to buy the same single twice � ALTHOUGH, it must be said, the single did go into the charts at number 3, so hurrah) are more slowly-burning winners. The intriguingly titled 'Munich Air Disaster 1958' seems to be about envying the victims of the disaster of the title, which happened before Mozzer was even born, strangely enough. 'The Never Played Symphonies' is a string-driven boo-hoo-er of a song. These singles were fine appetisers for..
MORRISSEY � YOU ARE THE QUARRY (ATTACK RECORDS) www.morrisseymusic.com
It�s been quite some time since the release of a Morrissey album has been as hotly anticipated as THIS one but, then, the great man HAS been in hiding for 7 years. Even longer than Osama Bin Laden. Ha! The unusual (for Moz) media blitz which accompanied this release was strange to say the least, seeing him doing interviews on mainstream shows like �Tonight with Jonathan Ross� and schmoozing with the hilariously thick Zane Lowe on good old Radio 1. Anyway, onto the actual record. It�s quite shockingly good, really, although it does contain a few tracks which take a while to grow on you. Nothing wrong with that, of course, and repeated listening does pay off. If it dips a bit in the middle then it�s only because the 1st 4 tracks are so strong. �I Have Forgiven Jesus� is really, really excellent, with heartfelt lyrics and the swooping chorus of deep despair. �Come Back to Camden� is an epic weepie � romantic, doomed and brilliant. �First of the Gang to Die� (the next single, apparently) and �All the Lazy Dykes� are wonderful and offer narrative lyrics rather than the worrying self-pity and self-disgust which clouds the rest of the songs. I don�t mean that in a bad way, it�s just strange that Morrissey still seems to hate himself so much now he�s in his mid-40s � and I don�t think, as some twats have said, that it�s all schtick � some people just can�t get their heads around this �depression� thing. He�s also still banging on about THAT court case, with lyrics about magistrates and �northern leeches�. God, GET OVER IT, MAN! Nonetheless, this is a superb LP. I wouldn�t say a return to form because I don�t think he�s EVER put out a bad album, 1991�s half-baked �Kill Uncle� excepted. But it�s so fashionable to slag him off these days and everyone and their mother�s been quoted as saying that 1997�s �Maladjusted� was shit. Well, let me be the one to tell the world it�s NOT. And neither is this.
AMERICAN MUSIC CLUB�1984-1995 (SELF-RELEASED) www.americanmusicclub.com
I first saw American Music Club play the Leadmill in Sheffield in 1993 and was blown away by the intensity and passion of singer/songwriter Mark Eitzel. I�d only heard a couple of their songs at the time but after seeing them live I went out and bought everything I could find. LPs like �California� and, especially, �Engine� have become very dear to my heart since those days and I never travel anywhere far without an AMC CD or tape to keep me company. �Western Sky� and �Somewhere� showed me the possibility of escape when I was on the dole in �93 and �94, stuck in my bedroom in a wee village, looking up at the stars, wishing I could get away. When Eitzel sang �Somewhere there�s people living� I KNEW he was right and that gave me hope. The first CD I played when I finally DID move away was �United Kingdom�, the gentle, ambient sound-scape of traffic noises on the first track welcoming me to my new life in a big city. AMC songs are dream-like, beautiful, moving and sometimes disturbing. All sorts of things draw you back to them time and time again. The fact that most of them are so deliciously oblique lyrically means that you can interpret them in a million different ways. And then you hear Eitzel explaining what a certain song means at a gig and that becomes ANOTHER reason to love it. His voice manages to convey heartache, resignation and despair yet also hope and redemption. This isn�t some wrist-slashing soundtrack � it�s the mature sound of a man who KNOWS the world is fucked up but is also determined to stick it out and find things worth carrying on for. Only available through their posh new website or at gigs (I got someone to pick me up a copy at their recent London show), this is a 21 track romp through the AMC back catalogue. Comprising tracks from all 7 of their albums plus juicy rare material, this is a pretty good overview of the band. AMC reformed last year (after splitting on January 1st �95) and have recorded a new album due out in the autumn. As with all big fans, the tendency here is to bitch and moan about what WASN�T included on this CD but that�s not going to get us anywhere so let�s accenuate the positive. This compilation includes such GENUINE classics as �Nightwatchman�, �Outside This Bar�, �Last Harbour�, �Firefly�, �Western Sky� and �Chanel #5�. The list goes on and on. The previously-unreleased tracks here are all demos for songs from AMC�s last (until now) album, �San Francisco� and the sound-quality is shit. Lo-fi is the word, folks, and that�s not something we�ve previously associated with this band. But they�re obviously here to give us fans something juicy to chew on and that�s fine. It�s not like this CD is available to anyone who ISN�T already a fan of the band. One more gigantic plus-point for this collection is that it includes the gorgeous, rare �Love Connection NYC� � a song to make the dead weep.
GLEN CAMPBELL � LIVE (CAPITOL)
A wet Friday afternoon�s charity shop browse in the St Vincent De Paul shop in Lanark threw up a couple of desirable purchases, namely this mint-condition LP and REM�s �Imitation of Life� CD single (a quid for both). The sleeve-notes reveal that this �exciting album� was recorded on American Independence Day, 1969, in Holmdel, New Jersey. Glen kicks off his set with a medley of songs from shows and films (including �Somewhere� from �West Side Story�) and, as is often the case with these things, the audience sound excited to the point of collapse throughout. There are some fine songs here but the Jimmy Webb ones shine brightest. There are 3 on this LP � �Where�s the Playground, Susie?�, �By the Time I Get to Phoenix� and �Didn�t We?� Fab stuff indeed. Glen�s between song banter is as embarrassing as we�ve come to expect from live albums � he makes �jokes� about, among other things, sheep-dip (!) etc � yeah, Glen, mate, stick to the songs. Sometimes, when the �large orchestra� (to quote the sleeve-notes) gets all swelly and emotional, it�s all too, too much to bear and you need to wipe yourself down with a damp cloth and lie in a dark room for a while to recover from the utter loveliness of it all.
JAY FARRAR � STONE, STEEL & BRIGHT LIGHTS (TRANSMIT SOUND) www.jayfarrar.net
Got this - Jay Farrar�s 1st live collection - in Music Zone for �10.97 which is fuckin� cheap when you consider it�s 19 tracks and a bonus 11 track DVD (and it�s �16.99 in Virgin � the rip-off CUNTS). Eschewing the dullness of Euro 2004, I�ve had a couple of pints in the Auctioneers (Monday Club means �1.20 pints � MORE savings!) and some cider with Dave (not Rosie!) and now I�m all alone with Jay and MY GOD! track 1 - �Doesn�t Have to Be This Way� - recorded at a soundcheck according to the sleeve, is fucking great! A new, full band song, obviously an anti-Bush rant (�A poor man�s wages carry their feet/A dead soldier today in the sweltering heat/A dynasty in power two wars to their name/An election by decree ain�t this new world a shame�).. a hair-standing-up-on-the-back-of-your-necker and it�s a joy to hear someone railing against fascist policies hidden behind masks of democracy on the day when Robert Kilroy-Silk�s UK Independence party have had such a victory in the European elections � acceptable faces of evil are everywhere. It�s actually making me think I should start voting again. What�s that Jello Biafra quote about sitting on your ass and making Reagan president? And THAT cunt�s funeral was unbelievable. If that�s what�s in store for us when Thatcher snuffs it, I�m gonna hibernate/emigrate/suicide. But at least we�ll have the joyful sight of Elvis Costello dancing on her grave. Um, WAY off the point here.. The 2nd new song on this Jay Farrar CD � �6 String Belief� � isn�t as immediate. It�s a solo acoustic number, just over a couple of minutes long. Maybe it�ll be a grower or maybe it�s just here to pad out the �new material� promise on the sleeve. Only time will tell, baby-poos. The rest of this makes me wish I�d seen Jay last year when he played Glasgow (no particular reason why I didn�t go � just general apathy/depression, etc) with the band Canyon (the same band who back him up on this CD). There are many, many fine renditions of his solo songs here (nothing from his Uncle Tupelo or Son Volt days, alas), plus 2 covers to round the whole thing off � loooooong versions of Pink Floyd�s �Lucifer Sam� and Neil Young�s �Like a Hurricane�. All in all, this is like a superior bootleg. The DVD has Jay entertaining a sell-out San Francisco crowd with his witty between-song banter and kerazee dance steps. Not really. He�s a miserable fuck. But so what when the songs are this good? One of the Canyon boys looks like a twat when he gets all transported to the land of rock during the last song too. But I ain�t complaining. It gets you nowhere and I really like this CD and DVD a lot.
Xxxxx
Don�t think I can ever remember hearing a Nick Drake song on daytime radio before but I did yesterday. I was on a bus and �Pink Moon� came on Tom Morton�s Radio Scotland show. I�d just had a train journey from Hell, with a really bad hangover making me sweat like fuck, feel dizzy and delirious, like I was gonna faint. Not nice and I wasn�t feeling too great on the bus journey either but somehow Nick Drake�s soothing tones helped a bit. There was this Radio 2 documentary on about him earlier tonight and it�s been in the spotlight a bit �cos, gasp, Brad Pitt narrated it. Like I�m sure loads of teenage girls tuned in and are gonna go out tomorrow and buy up every available copy of all Nick�s LPs.. um, right. But it DOES make a nice change to have some Hollywood clout behind a DECENT musician. It�s usually left up to the underground bores to sing the praises of people like Nick Drake, etc. Curious that this docu-thingy wasn�t broadcast in November, which will be the 30th anniversary of Nick Drake�s death, but nonetheless, it included the usual stories from Drake�s posh mates and his sister who used to be in �Cross-Roads�. It also �treated� us to a crappy sub-jazz version of �Day is Done� (one of his finest songs) by Norah Jones who somehow managed to dip it�s beauty in lead. Drake�s producer, Joe Boyd, did make a good comment about why a 19 year-old would write a song as morbid as �Fruit Tree�, with the line �Fame is but a fruit tree, so very unsound, it can never flourish till it�s stock is in the ground�. I always get a bit teary when I�m listening to or watching documentaries about favourite people who have died, �cos it seems like EVERYTHING they did was a pointer to their end and the music sometimes in this context becomes unbearably poignant. Anyway, this documentary featured a �lost� Drake song called �Tow the Line�. Whereas lots of other of his �lost� songs have actually been available on bootlegs for years, this one somehow escaped the radar. So, what�s it like? Recorded during the same (final) session as the chuckle-fest wrist-slasher �Black-Eyed Dog�, it�s not as bleak-sounding as you might expect. Quite breezy, actually, although the lyrics hint at an uncertain future. �Tonight we win or lose all�, indeed. One of Nick�s mates who was featured in the programme was folk legend John Martyn and there�s recently been a spate of activity surrounding him too, including a great BBC4 documentary called �Johnny Too Bad�. Although he selfishly refused to die when he was young and beautiful (um, actually, he never really was all that �beautiful� in the first place. Looks-wise, I mean), Martyn�s still making some really inspired music. A lot of his stuff sails far too close to the wind of wanky crap for my sensitive tastes (see his early-80s Phil Collins produced LPs � yuk!) but songs as lovely as �Small Hours� and �Fine Lines� are to be cherished. He�s also had a much more colourful life than old Nicky Drake � prolonged bouts of alcoholism have left him with one amputated leg and hazy memories of head-on collisions with farm animals on country roads while drunk-driving. I�ve never been able to figure out Martyn�s accent � he was brought up in Glasgow but all his pissed/stoned between-song ramblings are spoken in a Cockney accent. It becomes apparent from the �serious� interview clips in the BBC4 documentary, that his �real� speaking voice is a gentle Scottish lilt. But, when he�s in silly mode (ie: most of the time), larking about with the interviewer, his girlfriend, etc, he slips in and out of several comedy voices, including one that sounds exactly like Alf Garnet and a brilliant Jamaican patois when he�s extolling the virtues of smoking dope (my mate Paul says Martyn seems to have multiple personality disorder!) And his singing voice is a kind of boozy slur. Straight after the documentary got it�s debut airing, Martyn was on BBC2�s �Later� playing a new song called �One for the Road� which was mellow and great, and a pro-longed version of �Johnny Too Bad�. No one in the studio seemed to have a clue who he was. Once in the late 1990s, coming back from a band practice, I met a guy on a train who said he knew John Martyn from his local pub, in Biggar, which is a small village about 10 miles from where I grew up. It was confirmed some time later that the great man did indeed live there for a while, in an old church (until it got re-possessed!) Wow.
Xxxx
Every Friday I would go back to the town where I was born and where my mother still lived. Although she had moved house a few year�s previously, the place still felt more like home than anywhere else, due to my mother�s presence and the fact that my aunt and uncle lived next door. It was a welcome respite from my �other� life. Yes, it did feel like I had 2 lives rather than 1. So I would pack a bag filled, I�m ashamed to admit, with dirty washing and head off, usually around mid-morning, into town to get a train or bus.
This particular morning I was feeling really bad. Hungover as usual but not just that. I felt as if the people I passed on the street were staring at me, sharing private jokes among themselves at my expense. I had been taking anti-depressants for some months and they only seemed to make these feelings of panic and paranoia worse. I needed a drink badly.
I went into a little Irish pub in the city centre. It used to be called Finnigan�s Wake but they had since changed the name to something unpronounceable in Gaelic. Although the prices were cheap for that area, the place was never all that busy. But, this being Friday lunchtime, the place was packed. People in business suits were eating bar lunches and drinking their �just the one� drinks before they were due back in the office. I ordered a cider and stood at the bar, occasionally glancing at the TV above the barmaid�s head. As usual, it was showing a 24 hour sports channel.
After finishing my drink, I felt better. The crowds didn�t bother me as much when I went back out into the street. I almost felt normal, in fact. Still, I decided to go into a nearby supermarket and buy a bottle of cheap wine as a precautionary measure. I was going on an hour long train journey and didn�t want to feel the onset of panic which I was afraid would overtake me without having anything to quell it.
I was just in time to catch my train and was lucky enough to get a carriage all to myself. I settled into the seat and closed my eyes, thinking about nothing much at all. A few minutes went by and then I heard the noise of someone entering the carriage and sitting down in the seat directly opposite me. When I opened my eyes there was a middle-aged woman sitting there. She was looking right at me.
�Hello,� she said. �Want a drink?�
She was holding a bottle of wine, much like the one I had just bought, only a lot more expensive.
�No, I�m OK, thanks,� I replied and turned to look out of the window.
�I was out with my boyfriend last night and lost him. I don�t know where he went.�
�Where were you?� I asked.
�Some club in town. I can�t remember.�
She took a swig from her wine.
�Why are you looking out the window?� she said.
�Maybe I like the scenery.�
�Maybe?�
�OK, I DO like the scenery.�
�Nobody wants to talk to anybody anymore,� she said, adjusting the strap on her handbag.
�I don�t mind talking. What do you want to talk about?�
�Life.�
�That�s a pretty big subject. Anything more specific?�
�I�ve not been on a train in years. Where is this one going?�
I told her where the train was going.
�I�ve never been there before.�
�Why are you going there?� I asked her.
�I just felt like a change.�
We sat in silence for a while. Me gazing out of the window, not actually noticing any of the scenery I had claimed to like so much, but staring at the woman�s reflection in the glass. She looked quite well off. Not the sort of person you would imagine being drunk on a train on an early Friday afternoon. She had no coat on and looked as if she was dressed to go out to a club or party.
�Aren�t you cold with no coat on?� I asked.
�Not really. I left it in the club, I think. Or maybe I left it in my boyfriend�s car. I wonder where he went.�
Then, without a word, the woman stood up and walked away.
The rest of the journey, I sat in silence, just looking out of the window of the speeding train. Looking at all the little towns rushing by. The woman didn�t come back into my carriage and I didn�t see her when I got off the train either. But I realised that she had taken my mind off any feelings of panic or paranoia, taken me out of myself, which is what I had needed.
I wondered if she would ever find what she was looking for.
The following piece is by Andrew Willshaw�.
Stories, I�ll give you stories. I�m made from pages. Don�t you remember? Four score and twenty men wrote their woes on my body without a by or leave. They did it to Ginsberg as well, but he probably enjoyed it, sitting cross-legged in Washington Square thinking he was some sort of hipster. How fake (or dated?) they all seem now� were the Beats all for real at the time? Hunter S Thompson still seems flesh and bones.
�Strong� people, the ones with professions (maybe I�m one of them)� I despise them. I despise weak people as well, and all the people in the middle� fucking hell, they�re the worst. Hmmm� I�m being too harsh. At least the mediocre are human. The others are pushed to the margins. Left and right are one and the same, and I don�t think I like them. Or maybe I do?� It�s hard to judge sometimes or maybe (like Jesus) we shouldn�t judge at all. A judgment presupposes that we are right ourselves� and god, if I hate anyone, it�s me I hate the most. Sometimes I�m soulless, sometimes I�m angry. I rail against the world with hardcore punk at full blast. I feel like telling the world to listen. �Listen to me! Me. You hear me? I may be a piece of shit, but I�m really knowledgeable and I�m�� Oh, what�s the use? I know nothing, nothing at all. I�ve been down rites of passages, gone through learning curves, but do I really want to be like those people? I�m not happy anywhere. I hate normal people, alternative people, arty people, tall people, arrogant people, sporty people, goths, hip hoppers, teachers, postmen� I could go on. People who run animal sanctuaries do my fucking head in as well! I hold grudges, and it�s strange to think other people hold grudges over me. A grudge can be a chain; a bind, a piece of mesh wrapped around the top of your head cutting you like some metallic Jesus. God bless you, my son, make me into a rabbit hutch.
GOOD MADRIDDANCE
(Sniper Glue goes to Spain!)
By Gary Simmons
Saturday, 22nd Mayo, 2004, 10.13am
It�s pissing down!! I�m fucking sodden! What a sod. Dog�s having her bath. Maggie took her photos in for developing. Now we are all in the sitting room watching the royal wedding of Felipe and, er, some bitch no one here seems to know. As you can envisage, the wedding is a complete wash-out!!
1.02pm: We all went to the local electrical shop. Antonio and Pepa bought a new fridge. We got back and then they started to move everything from the hallway� it turns out that these guys are going to deliver the fridge in about an hours time!! Not like London, where it�s bloody days, nay weeks!! And THEN the cunts don�t show up!!
2.05pm: Maggie has been showing me all her old drawings from school. Her mum told me that she had bought me a present� she told me this on the train back from the airport last night. Seems that she couldn�t wait to tell me and give it to me� it was a porn DVD!!!! Not just a regular one but a �teeny� one!! The cover looks like ALMOST kiddy porn with the 3 underage LOOKING girls and a teddy bear! I was a BIT surprised as you might imagine. But, don�t forget, Pepa is only 4 years older than me and a bit of a hippy. It�s not like MY parents!!!! This DVD came from some Chinese run �1 shop type establishment. I hope I don�t have any bother with customs but it DOES say, in Spanish, that the people (�models�!) are 18 or over. SHIT. So, Pepa knows I�m a little girl fan and seeks to encourage my career in these matters. The fridge-men are still fucking about. We are on the 3rd floor, there�s no lift and doors have to be taken off their hinges to get the buggers in/out!! I�ve had octopus and salad and a �Mahou� beer. I feel sleeeeeeepy! Fuck, the sun (sol!) is coming out!! I�m going on the balcony.
7.54pm: Just got back from a walk around the local. Locale? Locaaallee?? We went to pick up Maggie�s �sister� (ie, Antonio�s daughter) and drag her out to a bar (Tatiana is boring!) and I got �em a drink (Maggie a beer, Tatiana a fuckin� Coke! I�d rather give her a fuckin� COCK. But. I said get some food. Maggie said how about octopus. Maggie has given up vegetarianism �cos she�s bloody sad! So, along it comes� I was expecting 3 or 4 Euros� 13.70 odd Euros! We had ordered the most expensive item on the menu! I feel THIS time I�m gonna run out of cash but� I�m a punk and I don�t care! I was pretty pissed, I�d had 2 or 3 cans of Mahou at dinner. We saw two �cooo-uuuul� looking �dudes�, a couple, and the girl had such a fantastic jacket that I�d fuck the jacket and leave the bitch. Maggie asked where is the place in Madrid that you buy all those punk/goth clothes. It�s an area called , or rather a market, Rastro. So� we are going there tomorrow. Fuck boring Tatiana. �We go alone�. And now� I do my poo-poo. Bears poo-poo. My droppings!!
8.24pm: Shat! And how lovely it was too� my first poo in Madrid, with many more to cum. It�s a home-from-home baby!!
9.53pm: Pissed on whiskey and old beer left in 3 cans from earlier on. Next I�ll be supping slops. Way t�go baby! Ah� dinner is served. We walked the dog in this ALIEN land my friend.
10.59pm: I�ve eaten. Squid. Soup. Antonio cooks. He�s brilliant! I can hear the revellers down below in this strange place. Living out their lives without question. That�s OUR problem, we question too much and so end up outcasts and mentally sick �n� shit! We should just blend in, do a �normal� job, listen and be content with shite music,. Shite, dull, shallow people and shite, dull, shallow every-fuckin�-thing!! Would you? Could you? Nah, you are CURSED!! People like us cunts have thee potential to change things� BUT, most of us don�t. At all. Crap, in�it? �Yes, it is, Gary�, he said, yawning from umpteen miles away. Time to piss, brush teeth, go to bed. It�s Rastro (RaTHtro) tomorrow. I want that jacket, ya cunt. Sorry, I�m all high and cunty/pally and shit. And tit. And prick. And clit. And ass. And bollox. And transsexual. And now Antonio asks �Skol and ice?� I don�t know, I just say �Yes�!! Yuk, it�s bloody whiskey and ice aktually but fuck it, I�m up for ANYTHING at all.
Sunday, 23rd Mayo-Wayo, 2004, 7.44am
I�m up early today!! I think it�s due to all the booze. Maggie is up now too. She had a dream about TV Smith. In her dreams of him, he is an arse-hole!! Odd. And now� she relates to me, the dream. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the dream of Pay-og-gie!!
9.47am: Had shower, washed hair, shaved. It�s not the same as having a bath, is it? No, it�s not. I�m all flustered living out of a suitcase, I don�t quite know what to take into the bathroom with me. Not �bathroom�. Shower room. I�m taking 100 Euros to this market. I don�t like taking that sort of money about but just in case I see something irrisistable� I want good clothes mate and I�m sick of dressing like a fuckin� tramp! London was soooo good, I was always in the height of punk/goth/alternative/my-own-thing fashion/style. NOW look at me� a total wreck of rock �n� roll former self. And now.. we have breakfast. Tinned octopus. Ah, not octopus, it�s little shells, little wittle shells.
10.56am: I�m on the balcony, 3 floors up. It�s overcast and cool but not uncomfortably so. A gentle breeze blows. I like a gentle blow. I can see down the chasm of face-to-face flats about � a mile down the road. You can see the white tower block in the centre of Madrid from here, Place De Espania, I think. Bloody Maggie has stuck her head out of the bathroom window, �Oi bear!� Ho ho. I can hear the chatter of �the people�, awful music which seems rather suited� be odd to hear Timo or Gero, wouldn�t it? Bonny Tyler was on the radio before though. People still have fuckin� mobiles� one woman down below is walkin� and a�talkin�. It�s universal Hell all over.
2.53pm: Back from the scummy market. Back from walking the dog. Markets are crap, aren�t they? Antonio is always worried that we all should keep close, there�s pickpockets and shit akimbo! I hate having to walk about with my hand in my pocket, holding onto my wallet with it�s bloody Quids and Euros. Let me tell you about the market. It�s full of shit. And that�s about it. No, not really. It�s interesting, you get the usual T-shirt stalls, antiques, souvenirs, army clothes shops� same as fuckin� Camden, same extortianate prices coz it�s all become trendy and shit. Everything in this world is SOMETHING and shit. Shit and shit. So, I didn�t find ANYTHING that I wanted. All I bought was a can of beer for Antonio, a Pepsi for Pepa and 2 x ice creams for Maggie and me. Oh, and a bottle of chocolate milk shake. I saw an A4-ish poster stuck to the wall� TV Smith and Suzy Los Quattros!!! We try to remove it. Alas, it�s stuck fast. I think I�ll send a postcard to Mr Smith, my close friend and confidante whom I have known for years and years and years, and tell him about it (he�ll think, �Ah no, not ANOTHER prat!�) Saw some scum at the market selling stuff from the filthy pavement, stuff they have obviously stolen from cunts like ourselves. Also, blacks, selling DVDs and shit. I wouldn�t trust �em as far as I could extinguish �em once I�ve set �em alight. They FEEL like danger! I trust my instincts. Funny how they dress the same as the flash ones in London. And there�s punks here. Like Lydon said in 1980 in Paris ��cheap imitation English�� something or other. I�m just pissed off coz I didn�t see amything to buy.
7.00pm: I �came� over all sleepy, leaning on Paggie. So I had Siesta! We lay on the bed, all my manly powers had ebbed away. We were too tired and lethargic to see grandma and Tatiana home. Just done the washing up. No dishwasher here� I�m your toy 20th (er, 21st) century boy and I�m used to AUTOMATIC everything. I�m a spoilt cunt. Now I�m sitting on the sofa, Antonio is on my left with his college work. It�s technical drawing. The balcony is on my right, both doors are open and it�s raining. My nose itches and my throat needs scratching. There�s pollen, fag smoke and dog hair and dust here! Is no good for me. Watching TV. All dubbed in Spanish,. Sounds ridickularse!! Some of the ads are the same, �cept in Spanish.
1047pm: Antonio has gone to work. I can just about envision the Hell of it. He�s not working on the tube system anymore. Not since he got his arm broken by thugs and had to have metal pins put in his bones! They�ve given him a job doing security in some car park a bit further out from where we are.
Monday, 24th Mayo (Maaayaaayo, Mayo come and me wanna go ho-um!!), 2004, 9.52-isham
Got up a while ago but went back to sleep again. Now I�m all groggy. Maggie in shower. It�s raining!! Aaaggghh!!!! I want to do another piss but I can�t get into the shower and I�m afraid I�ll wake Antonio who got back from work not long ago. Hmmm� this is a VERY exciting �Sniper Glue goes to Spain� but it�s the truth. Oh, alright, they�re all doing loud and colourful Flamenco in the streets with indelible smiles beaming from their faces� bloody bull murderers! ! It�s true, that bit, coz I saw some on TV yesterday, like watching and analysing the tennis in the UK. Maggie�s mum is out, to get bread and stuff I think. All I can hear is a little rain and a gentle ticking of a clock and the dog occasionally walking on the tiled floor. No carpet, it�s tiles. Ah� shower is free.
6.36pm: I�ve been ill in bed since 2.30ish or earlier. We went to the centre via bus. I was feeling a bit sick and queasy with pains in my tum-tum but I thought it would pass. I felt lousy. Maggie bought bass guitar strings and a violin. Yes, a violin. God, I felt awful and I sat in the bus back facing BACKWARD and that made me even MORE ill. I wish I could have thrown up, shat, pissed, blood-letted� all at the same time. We were supposed to go to grandma�s for lunch but instead she came here and I stayed in bed wanting an early, or not-so-early, death. Antonio made me a rice soup (which I ate) and a rice dish (which I had 1/3 of), plus an aspirin, plus squeezed lemon. I�m up now but still feel like shit. And we just got off the balcony coz it�s thundering!! What a life!! Pepa and Antonio have just got back� bit wet. Here, in my �holiday� Hell, I don�t even know what�s going on in the world� which is odd, coz I�ve GONE to the world. What�s the news in the UK? The father land? Any bombs? Lost post? Strikes? Not called home since the night we landed. And still the lightning strikes, thunder roars, rain pours. God, I feel lousy!!
Tuesday, 25th Mayo (Simon Mayo� some fuckin� DJ?), 2.51pm
Had a painful night with my stomach, my head, my back, my neck. Got up to piss and felt like vomiting. But I�m on the road to recovery. Still haven�t had my 2nd shit in Madrid� this is day #4!! What the fuck is wrong with my asshole? I�ve got �holiday butt-plug� or something. A car unloads it�s shit in the narrow street, holding up the traffic, it�s beep and toots-ville and yelling and shit. Why is EVERYTHING shit? And if it isn�t, like a narrow street, it soon turns TO shit when a van holds it up. No one gets on, do they? And WHO�S fault is it, really? The original street designers? The car manufacturers? The drivers? It�s probably MY fault. Somehow. Someway. Looks like we�re off to the centre now.
Wednesday, 26th Mayo-Wayo, 2004, 11.39am
Just had big, er, shower (=shower/shave/hair/cut fucking lip shaving coz Maggie was making me do �2001� faces as I shaved. I sliced the blade into my bottom lip. Pouring with red, red krovi on tap. The Adverts Anthology plays. Pepa is cooking some pasta and meaty dish for later. Spain is no place for veggies, as I�ve said before. It�s cloudy but mild out. My stomach still has a slight ache. I did a little poo-poo this morning. Did I say I did a proper poo-poo last night? Maggie has dyed her hair pink all over� with the dye from England! Listening to the Adverts CD� from England. I put on my 2 badges, Dali and Lydon/Pistols. Had a dream that the Pistols had reformed with Matlock and put out a mini LP of NEW songs and it all went wrong and Paul Cook was sobbing on my shoulder and Lydon was signing me a copy of the CD which came in an OBLONG slip-case! Mad what you dream. All cos I bought a Pistols badge!!
3.41pm: Just helped Maggie change the streets. It was quite warm and a little bit brighter but now I see dark clouds and it looks a bit windy. They keep telling me a heatwave is on it�s way. Will it come? And, if it does, will I STILL moan? Looks like it. I�m sat in the lounge with TV that I can�t understand and a grandmother who talks to me but I can�t quite (er, at all) make out. Oh, except the word �tomato�!! That�s useful, isn�t it? Fuck knows what this show is� same crap we have in the UK. Ah, two blokes kissing� �gay� is a universal word, it seems. YA FAGGOT!! All this way, on a machine that blows my mind� to be sitting here watching utter DROSS. There�s a microphone shoved into every face, with non-entities vomiting mouth turds into it� all over the world. Maybe I should jump off the balcony now. I WOULD do, but it looks like rain.
4.02pm: Well, we�re waiting another hour for to take grandma down the road to the old people�s dancing place, then we go and meet Antonio in his college and look around the shops. Just realised that this is all a pretty �earthy� account of the way I�m living here� not like your usual holiday stuff. I mean, I�m not in hotel, with pool, sea, nightclubs and shit. I�m living in an area originally built by communist workers for themselves. This ain�t sunset fuckin� shit (or is it Boulevard?) No one comes in after ringing for room-service to wank me gently to sleep. Well�
10.19pm: Just got back from the centre. Phew! We walked for ages. My view of Madrid has changed somewhat, for we went to a street called �Fuencarral� which is very much like how the Kings Road in London used to be, full of trendy shops and shit. Camden sells the same kind of stuff but, God, Camden is like a fuckin� toilet, isn�t it? Yes Gary, it is. I felt OK in this place here. We walked through the streets of Madrid, places bear�s paws have never been. It wasn�t so bad. It�s like anywhere. Not that I�ve been ANYWHERE. Had a ham croissant each in the �Ham Museum�. Antonio paid. But now we are off to a Chinese restaurant. .. Maggie and I will pay.
Thursday, 27th Mayo-Gayo, 2004, 9.00am
It�s actually sunny!! Blue skies at last!! Maggie is in the shower and I�m waiting for my turn. Antonio has gone to gun practice, it�s all part of his job working for a security firm. I�m going to write some postcards.
2.37pm: Had �Russian salad� (olives, peas, tuna, potato and mayo-nase). I just did the washing up. The Simpsons is on TV, in Spanish obviously. I never watch it at home. How come so many arse-holes watch a show that is taking the piss out of arse-holes?? Can�t they SEE it?? Odd. It�s pretty good, isn�t it? Not that I�m a convert� can�t be fucked. And now� MORE postcards.
8.25pm: We went to the centre again. We went to the end of tube line #1, North. As you walk up the steps from the station to the street you are blown away by the most amazing sight� it�s those twin towers, the �Plaza Castilla�, that take your breath away!! It�s fuckin� amazing, these two huge buildings leaning like that!! Must be as high as the Nat West? Maggie took photos. None of us had been there before. I love stuff like that. Me well pleased!! Lots of police around there. Wonder why? Had a walkabout, bought rolls with some meat, ham and chorizo, I think. Went to THIS square, THAT square, in my ladies chamber square. Came �home�, Maggie and I walked Rhy (dog) and now� I do more postcards. Bear�s postcards. My method of communication!!
Sunday, 30th May, 2004, 9.51pm
Much too much to tell. We spent last night at Maggie�s aunts in the country� it was wonderful, a tiny little town, if that, in the middle of nowhere! Surrounded by rolling hills and fields like in a fuckin� cartoon!! I met Uncle Loren (70), Aunt Poloma (=pigeon!), cousin Abel, the 21 year old son and Nadia the 15 year old daughter. Plus 2 dogs, an old one and the young �Duke� who I got quite friendly. We are outside in the shade of the house, barbecued meats and sardines!! Plenty of lager too(a cheap one, but I preferred it to Mahou)!! Played dominoes and some card game (I don�t EVER play these things!). Got to wash �Duke� with a broomhead� like you would scrub a car! Oh, played shuttle-COCK too. Also there was Abel�s girlfriend, Andrea, and their baby girl �Daniel�. I did loads of washing up!! Slept in a double bed! I slept bloody well!! It�s so hot from about 12 mid-day till about 4 or 5, you just laze about!! I wanted to see stars but the sky was a bit hazy. I�m told you can see more than in cities. Did see a very bright dot moving across the sky� nah, not a plane, either a satellite OR the international space station. I�m serious, you CAN see these things at times. What I liked was the peace� no traffic, no fuckin� police sirens, no thugs walking past� almost NO ONE walks past. I think I saw 3 or 4 people. They have satellite (that word again!) TV, so I saw News 24!! Yes, MY people. So, assassination in Saudi Arabia, Seb Coe has an affair and I didn�t get the fuckin� triple lotto rollover!! Bollocks to it all!! Saw some Euro news channel too� you can change the language to English. Abel drove us back to Usera! Made a change being in the front seat of a left-hand drive car on a Spanish motorway. As a driver, I mean. Pepa and Antonio had food ready for us as we got back. It�s late and I�m fucked. It�s a better life in a lot of ways, these small villages. For children and the middle-aged� coz I�ve had it up to HERE with cunt fuckin� London!! What a total SHIT hole! �Life�? They call it �life�? I call it �existing�. No� I call it: BAHG-FUCKIN�-DAD!!!!
The next sunny and warm day, Monday, 31st Mayo-Gooday-Oh, 2004, 11.48am
It�s hard to get to sleep coz it�s a small bed and hot. And then you get woken up by mad cunts in a car going wild like it�s a race track� then you get to sleep again only to be woken up by a fuckin� motorbike this time, like a bleeding wasp buzzing about your head. Cunts!! But WHEN I slept, I slept okay. Had a huge shower� I was filthy! Made the bed, helped Maggie with the washing up. Had breakfast and my pills; Epilim with seafood slices and chorizo. Now I�m sat here on the sofa, Maggie in the middle, Pepa on the other side talking on the phone to her sister. The balcony doors are open and it�s a damn sight better than London� and GLASGOW, I�d hazard a guess! Fairly quiet in the street now. People at work, kids in school. I like it.
9.28pm: Well. Well, well, well. Did shopping. Ate at grandma�s. We went to �Casa De Campo� which means �house of the country�, it�s a huge park. There was a boating lake and Antonio paid for us to boat for 45 minutes. 4 Euros for 4. It was lovely. We shared an oar, Antonio and moi, and rowed around the lake. Much better than last time as there were only 4 boats today! (It was some other lake last time, in some other park, I�ve forgotten). Almost crashed into the other boats, can you believe thee idiocy!! Oh, some guys were doing CANOOING too, athletic types.. one, Maggie christened �the Hero� coz he canoed topless on one knee like some Greek God, what a physique. Photos were taken, as per usual poses. We also got a bit wet from drifting too far to the water spout in the middle of the lake� the wind direction changes and� splash, splash. Got �the Metro� back home, took Rhy for her walk, got Maggie�s photos, sat in a parky area to see them.. ho, ho, the faces we pull! Home. Eat. I washed up. Now Antonio has gone to work (ag� THAT word!!) And I�m by the open balcony doors with the sounds of the working class community� women chatter, dogs bark, men give orders, cars crawl by occassionally. The sky is clear, the moon is more than � full, stars come out and I feel okay! This place isn�t so bad after all. The thought of London makes me feel ill!! Who fuckin� NEEDS it?!?! The glory days are over. All the animals have escaped and are running amok!!
Xxxx
And now �Question Time� is on TV. I don�t recognise hardly anyone on it. Glad the sound is down �cos I bet they are all talking CRAP. It�s from Cardiff. I�ve never been to Wales. But, then, I�ve never been to loads of places and what�s so fuckin� great about Wales apart from the Manic Street Preachers are from there and so is Anthony Hopkins and Dickie Burton and Dylan Thomas? On the DOWN side, there�s Catatonia and Tom-arsehole-Jones and the motherfuckin� Stereophonics and Neil-twat-Kinnock and GLENYS fuckin� Kinnock and mining and leeks and male-voice choirs and.. I COULD go on. Won�t. Even I�m bored now. Oh no, Ruth Maddock. There�s another one. And WHAT alcoholic drink has Wales produced? Ever? Scotland has whiskey, England has cider, Ireland has Guinness. What�s Wales got? FUCK ALL, that�s what! No wonder they�re all queuing up to jump off the Severn bridge.