Saturday 28 August 2010

Top 20...Shop Names.

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Mwah-ha-hah.


20. Just Falafs (Veggie Restaurant)

19. Shammy Davis Junior (Window Cleaners)

18. Breakfast at Timothy's (Restaurant)

17. Tyrannosaurus Pets (Pet Shop)

16. The Merchant of Tennis (Sports Shop)

15. Grillers In The Mist (Restaurant)

14. Vinyl Resting Place (Second Hand Record Shop)

13. Reef Encounter (Surfing and Diving Equipment)

12. Back to the Fuchsia (Florists)

11. Ghost Bus-Tours (Ghost Tours)

10. Aesop's Tables (Greek Restaurant)

9. Womb To Grow (Maternity Wear)

8. Dave's (Authentic Chinese Take-away)

7. Florist Gump (Florists)

6. C'est Cheese (Cheese Shop)


5. Bonnie Tilers (Tiling Company)



4. Napoleon Boiler Parts (Plumbers Merchants)




3. Touching Cloth (Tailor)





2. The Wiener Takes It All (Sausage Van)






1. Owlcatraz (Bird Sanctuary)




***100*****th*******Post******!********************************************************

Tuesday 24 August 2010

Nothing Rhymes with Nothing: Neil Halstead.

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Music for your listening pleasure...





Cindy writes a paragraph
Says time is passing
But the bubbles in her heart are everlasting
Yeah she gave her life to art
And who could blame her
It’s pretty major
Fraught with danger
And stuff like that

Oh Mighty engine
Of good intention
You’re purring softly beside me
Grinding gently inside me
Tapping totally madly
For you

Says the plot is getting strange
It’s taken over
And the hero’s run away
And no one told her
But she can’t control the page
It’s taken over
There’s people dying
Semi colons crying
And full stops finding fault
O what a dolt

Oh Mighty engine
Of good intention
You’re purring softly beside me
Grinding gently inside me
Tapping totally madly
For you

Cindy writes of kerosene
And broken bottles
Says the troubles were a part of someone’s childhood
But she can’t get past the point
Where someone’s dying
It’s pretty minor
A pithy liner should sort it out
But he won’t die
He just mucks about
Oh it’s so hard

Now we’ve broken out the gin
It helps her thinking
And given into sin
We’re breathing deeply
But something’s on her mind
A chapter stirring
Her mind is whirling
And off she trots
To tap her keys to the top

Oh she’s off

Mighty engine
Of good intention…


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Airport.

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Stuff you overhear...


"If assholes could fly, this place would be an airport".


A frustrated customer in Argos


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Buster Keaton (Part 4 of 7).

From The Basement To The Pavement.

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Click me...


All that I had is now gone
Yet the alphabet has grown
Jumped through the hoops
Then we marshalled our troops
Adding letters of our own

From the basement
To the pavement
Keep your hair on (seen a lot of stuff and he thinks the world of us)
Keep your head strong (seen a lot of stuff and he thinks the world of us)
Sometimes the concrete looks good enough to eat
But I'm glued down to my seat

Fell asleep walking down the road
Again?
Yeah, on the M4
On a pilgrimage to where my car was towed
Now my feet are kinda sore

From the basement
To the pavement
Keep your hair on (seen a lot of stuff and he thinks the world of us)
Keep your head strong (seen a lot of stuff and he thinks the world of us)
Sometimes the concrete looks good enough to eat
But I'm glued down to my seat

Words come like plasticine
Easy to mould
Increasingly boring you as you get old
Don't you know
My insides they glow
All that you've given me
All that I've taken
Support mechanisms I've found won't be broken in two
Broken in Two

From the basement
To the pavement
Keep your hair on (seen a lot of stuff and he thinks the world of us)
Keep your head strong (seen a lot of stuff and he thinks the world of us)
Sometimes that concrete looks good enough to eat
But I'm glued down to my seat
Glued down to my seat
Glued down to my seat




THE HAMILTONS
by N.Cresswell and R.Phelps

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Thursday 19 August 2010

Nothing Rhymes with Nothing: Nick Cave.

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Music for your listening pleasure...

Another summer beach party hit courtesy of the Cave-man.





I don't believe in an interventionist God
But I know, darling, that you do
If I did I would kneel down and ask Him
Not to intervene when it came to you
Not to touch a hair on your head
To leave you as you are
And if He felt He had to direct you
Then direct you into my arms

Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms

And I don't believe in the existence of angels
Looking at you I wonder if that's true
If I did I would summon them together
And ask them to watch over you
To each burn a candle for you
To make bright and clear your path
And to walk, like Christ, in grace and love
And guide you into my arms

Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms

But I believe in Love
And I know that you do too
And I believe in some kind of path
That we can walk down, me and you
So keep your candles burning
Make her journey bright and pure
That she'll keep returning
Always and evermore

Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms


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I Can't Sleep Tonight.



As a youngster I suffered from regular, recurring, abstract, nightmares.

It was always, always the same thing.

It started with a thin black line in the centre of a beige page.

It sat there motionless, seemingly innocent and harmless, but suspense would grow the longer it sat there inactive, for I knew what was to follow.

After a few minutes it started to twitch.

Slowly at first, irregularly, following incongruent sequences, like a dialysis machine or heart monitor. Then it would gradually build up into more frequent, sporadic and random jerks and loops, until it moved extremely quickly and violently, resembling spaghetti - alive and distressed, a black mass of erratic scribbling, as if someone was drawing chaotically and pointlessly, perhaps whilst blindfolded.

I’d wake, in a hot sweat, and punch the wall, hoping the pain would keep me awake.


It may sound stupid, it is stupid, but it was absolutely terrifying.


The tension eased somewhat, after a couple of years, when I started a new set of recurring dreams about death and/or dying.


A night’s sleep would not pass without a family member, friend or more often myself perishing in some horrible way.

My own demise seemed set to be by drowning, and therefore a painful struggle for oxygen became a regular feature of my late evenings/early mornings.


I guess you could say that I’ve been prepared for death my whole life - I’ve seen it happen to me so many times before.



But I'm no longer scared of drowning, because something strange happened.

I was alleviated of that particular millstone one night in Canada, when I dreamt I was floating in the middle of the lake in the picture above (Lake Louise, Banff National Park).

It was such a pleasant night, and I was very much enjoying myself, just floating about. I could see each and every star in the sky and there was crystal clear silence to accompany the predictably crystal clear water. The only sound made available to my partly submerged ears was the occasional lapping or splashing of water via the gentle movements of my hands and feet.


Then it happened.



I gave up.




Just let go.


I was so happy as I began to quietly drift underwater. There was no kicking or bezerk jerky thrashing for air. No clawing for the surface, no wide-eyed panic or gargled desperation.


It was wonderful.



I didn't fight it, I just slipped away peacefully.




I have never enjoyed 'dying' so much, before or since.

Quote, Unquote (Part 8th).

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It does exactly what it says on the zinc.

Silly me, I mean 'tin'.


"This blog is as useful as a disconnected phone line."
M.ERR-THOMPSON

"I'm so tired, my eyes are like deserts and my brain is slower than the slowest of slow coaches - caught in quicksand and low on gas...with a grumpy tortoise asleep at the wheel."
G.OSBORNE

"Old too soon. Smart too late."
M.TYSON

"This blog is crazier than a monkey puzzle tree in a lake full of bourbon biscuits."
M.HESELTINE

"I like to read it, read it.
I like to read it, read it."

M.STUNTMAN



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Wednesday 18 August 2010

Buster Keaton (Part 3 of 7).

Nothing Rhymes with Nothing: Noah And The Whale.

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Music for your listening pleasure...


Give it a chance, it's superb.

Maybe not the best at a house party, though.

Or at any other type of party.

Or if you're in the company of anyone at all, really.


Click title of post for more...





It's the first day of spring
And my life is starting over again
The trees grow, the river flows
And its water will wash away my sins
For I do believe that everyone has one chance
To fuck up their lives
But like a cut down tree, I will rise again
And I'll be bigger and stronger than ever before

For I'm still here hoping that one day you may come back
For I'm still here hoping that one day you may come back

There's a hope in every new seed
And every flower that grows upon the earth
And though I love you, and you know that
Well I no longer know what that's worth
But I'll come back to you in a year or so
And I'll rebuild, be ready to become
Oh the person, you believed in
Oh the person, that you used to love

For I'm still here hoping that one day you may come back
For I'm still here hoping that one day you may come back


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Le Quartier Etrange Et Merveilleux.

My family and I lived in a house just off the high street, by a used-car showroom.

We had a landline number that was easy to remember and a loft with loads of old crap in it.

Next door lived an old man who looked like a cartoon drawing of an old man – he was his own personal caricature, complete with big red nose, comedy glasses, string vest and braces combo, slippers, and broom-bristle moustache. He would stand outside by his front gate people-watching, and would give me information on the latest cricket scores when I walked past, on the way home from school.

Our neighbours on the other side of the house appeared hell-bent on regularly pumping out strong meaty cooking smells. They were a seemingly dysfunctional French family, who possessed very pale skin and had the social skills of people who guard lighthouses.

My best friend, Kingdom (“King”) Miller, lived across the street and we could communicate using walkie-talkies.

We played football in the street during the day and ate fish fingers and chips in the evening.

He also had two brothers: Isambard and Brunel. The Miller kids were named after an English engineer born in 1806, but sadly I can’t remember which one.

I learnt a lot from King. In particular how to be ‘economical with the truth’.

Whilst I was fond of eating pork pies, he was fond of telling them.

In many ways you could argue that he was my earliest inspiration.

His casual, slippery evasiveness wore off on me, and together we were like Bonnie and…well…like ‘Clyde and Clyde’, I guess. Or maybe more like ‘Bo’ and ‘Luke’ from the Dukes of Hazzard, who were early heroes of ours.

Apart from the supremely talented uber-champion Ferris Bueller, you would not find anyone as skilfully adept at faking illness to get out of going to school, or better at sweet talking adults into undeserved sympathy.

His father had walked out on the family when he was very young, so he had developed a nervous yet humorous insecurity about himself, which was in turn endearing, worrying, loveable.


On a lighter note, we had a golden rule that I still obey vigilantly:
“You do not tread on 3 consecutive drains in the pavement”.

To do so was deemed very bad luck indeed.

Think of it as you would any other social faux pas, like breaking a mirror, or walking under a ladder, or throwing a snowball at a passing car, or embezzling hundreds of thousands of pounds from the family business.

2 drains = ok (some even say it’s good luck).
1 drain = no idea (no one cares about treading on 1 drain).
3 drains = bad fucking news.

It was something you just wouldn’t do if you could possibly avoid it.

There was also another rule, adopted by some (not me), that you weren’t supposed to step on the cracks in the pavement for fear that you’d slip through them to your death.

This became extremely tiresome, watching kids nervously hopscotch down the street, trying to avoid death, and I later found out it wasn’t true that you'd die anyway... when I stepped on a crack by accident myself one day, and survived with only minor bruising.

The Hudsucker Proxy {1994}.

You know...for kids...

Top 20...Place Names (USA).

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I have been to every single one of these places to check their validity.

Whoah...

Ready?




20. Disco (Wisconsin)

19. Hot Coffee (Mississippi)

18. Ben Hur (Virginia)

17. Mexican Hat (Utah)

16. Noodle (Texas)

15. Hell (Michigan)

14. Snow Shoe (Pennsylvania)

13. Zap (North Dakota)

12. Boring (Maryland)

11. Intercourse (Alabama)

10. Chicken (Alaska)

9. Odd (West Virginia)

8. Peanut (Arkansas)

7. Two Egg (Florida)

6. Experiment (Georgia)


5. Popcorn (Indiana)



4. Gas (Kansas)




3. Nowhere (Colorado)





2. Tightwad (Missouri)






1. TRUTH OR CONSEQUENCES (New Mexico)



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Friday 13 August 2010

Sir Clement Raphael Freud.

Nothing Rhymes with Nothing: Joanna Newsom.

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Music for your listening pleasure...

Government experiment:
*Let's see what happens when we take Reese Witherspoon, buy her a harp, and then inject her with the personality of Lisa from 'The Simpsons'*...





I found a little plot of land
In the garden of Eden
It was dirt, and dirt is all the same

I tilled it with my two hands
And I called it my very own
There was no one to dispute my claim

Well, you'd be shocked at the state of things
The whole place had just cleared right out
It was hotter than hell, so I laid me by a spring
For a spell as naked as a trout

The wandering eye that I have caught
Is as hot as a wandering sun
But I will want for nothing more, in my garden
Start again, in my hardening to every heart but one

Meet me in the garden of Eden
Bring a friend
We are gonna have ourselves a time
We are gonna have a garden party
It's on me, no, sirree, it's my dime

We broke our hearts in the war between
St. George and the dragon
But both, in equal part are welcome to come along
I'm inviting everyone

Farewell to loves that I have known
Even muddiest waters run
Tell me, what is meant by sin, or none in a garden
Seceded from the union in the year of A.D. 1

The unending amends you've made
Are enough for one life
Be done
I believe in innocence, little darling
Start again
I believe in everyone
I believe, regardless
I believe in everyone


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Buster Keaton (Part 2 of 7).

Junkmail.

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We receive a lot of junkmail.

When I say 'a lot', I mean 'loads and loads' of it.


Tonnes.

The volume really is sensational.


Now, I realise that all I need to do is put some sort of sign/sticker out asking 'politely' to cease the endless stuffing of our letterbox that creates a virtual waterfall of useless information, promotional activity, and local food takeaway gumpf.

Alas, I'm too lazy to deal with the situation.

Every time I look at the front door there is a melee of activity in and around the postal portal and/or the immediate floor-level vicinity.

Every time I look at the front door I think I really should put some sort of sign/sticker asking 'politely' to cease the endless stuffing of our letterbox that creates a virtual waterfall of useless information, promotional activity, and local food takeaway gumpf.


We get a deluge of propaganda from local estate agents, blankly canvassing for business, asking us whether we're interested in selling our house.

This started the day after we moved in, and includes literature from the very people that we had just bought the house from, curiously requesting the possibility of us immediately selling the property that we had just purchased.

That prompted a strongly worded letter, after a period of continual bombardment:

"Surely you don't expect us to sell?...We've just moved in...and you helped us move in..." (pre-watershed, heavily edited version).



I was in the kitchen when I heard the letterbox rattle, again, and a biblical flood of paper noisily hit the deck alongside the welcome mat.

"Aww...will ye just PISS. OFF!", I shouted, louder than intended.





It was just the postman, delivering our regular mail, including some important documentation that I'd been waiting a week for.


I felt ashamed of myself for the slur, and apologised to him, under my breath, after he'd left.


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Thursday 12 August 2010

Nothing Rhymes with Nothing: The National.

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Music for your listening pleasure...

Listen to it loud, whilst driving, at night.





Stand up straight at the foot of your love
I lift my shirt up
Stand up straight at the foot of your love
I lift my shirt up

I was carried to Ohio in a swarm of bees
I'll never marry but Ohio don't remember me

Lay my head on the hood of your car
I'll take it too far
Lay my head on the hood of your car
I'll take it too far

I still owe money to the money to the money I owe
I never thought about love when I thought about home
I still owe money to the money to the money I owe
The floors are falling out from everybody I know

I'm on a blood buzz
Yes I am
I'm on a blood buzz
I'm on a blood buzz
God I am
I'm on a blood buzz

I was carried to Ohio in a swarm of bees
I'll never marry but Ohio don't remember me

I still owe money to the money to the money I owe
I never thought about love when I thought about home
I still owe money to the money to the money I owe
The floors are falling out from everybody I know

I'm on a blood buzz
Yes I am
I'm on a blood buzz
I'm on a blood buzz
God I am
I'm on a blood buzz


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Top 20...Album Covers (No.19).

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Who/What?:

'Vind I Seglen' (or 'Boost') by Swedish entertainer Kjell Kraghe.

They say:

"He has recorded several discs in which he sings happy songs, often with motifs from Bohuslän."

I say:

"He looks like an extremely underhand individual, appearing out of the sun-kissed ocean like a grinning buffoon."


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Curb Your Enthusiasm.

Wednesday 11 August 2010

Nothing Rhymes with Nothing: Kings Of Convenience.

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Music for your listening pleasure...

It would appear that Pedro is not Napoleon Dynamite's only male friend...





She'll be gone soon
You can have me for yourself
She'll be gone soon
You can have me for yourself

But do give
Just give me today
Or you will just scare me away

What we built is bigger
Than the sum of two
What we built is bigger
Than the sum of two

But somewhere
I lost count of my own
And somehow
I must find it alone

24 and blooming like the fields of May
25 and yearning for a ticket out

Dreams burn
But in ashes are gold
Dreams burn
But in ashes are gold


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Buster Keaton (Part 1 of 7).



Well worth a look, if you have time...more to follow...

Tuesday 10 August 2010

America.

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In September 2005, my 'Rock and/or Roll' band >>Das Capes<< travelled to the United States of America to seek our fortune.




This is where we went, and this is where we *played:

From LONDON, ENGLAND to...

> WASHINGTON DC
> *KXLU RADIO SESSION - LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
> *STAR SHOES - HOLLYWOOD BLVD, LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
> *CRESCENT VALLEY HIGH SCHOOL - CORVALLIS, OREGON
> *KBVR RADIO SESSION - CORVALLIS, OREGON
> *AJ'S - CORVALLIS, OREGON
> *KPSU RADIO SESSION - PORTLAND, OREGON
> *MUSIC MILLENNIUM - PORTLAND, OREGON
> *FEZ THEATRE - PORTLAND, OREGON
> *KEXP RADIO SESSION - NEW YORK CITY
> *THE CONTINENTAL - NEW YORK CITY
> *THE METRONOME - BURLINGTON, VERMONT
> *HARPER'S FERRY - BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS
> *MAXWELL'S - HOBOKEN, NEW JERSEY
> *THE FIRE - PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA
> WESTMINSTER, MARYLAND
> BALTIMORE, MARYLAND
> *HARTFORD UNIVERSITY - HARTFORD, CONNECTICUT
> NEW YORK CITY
> *THE SAINT - ASBURY PARK, NEW JERSEY
> PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA
> *JAMMIN' JAVA - VIENNA, VIRGINIA
> FALL'S CHURCH, VIRGINIA
> WASHINGTON DC
> RICHMOND, VIRGINIA
> *OUTBACK LODGE - CHARLOTTESVILLE, VIRGINIA
> *JOHNSON'S PUB - CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA
> ATHENS, GEORGIA
> *SMITH'S OLDE BAR - ATLANTA, GEORGIA
> *GO BAR - ATHENS, GEORGIA
> ATLANTA, GEORGIA
> *WOXY RADIO SESSION - CINCINNATI, OHIO
> *ALCHEMIZE - CINCINNATI, OHIO
> YELLOW SPRINGS, OHIO
> *FEARLESS FM RADIO SESSION - CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
> *MARTYR'S - CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
> *THE PATIO - INDIANAPOLIS, INDIANA
> *THE GROG SHOP - CLEVELAND, OHIO
> *THE HIGH FIVE BAR - COLUMBUS, OHIO
> *TEMPLE BAR - LANSING, MICHIGAN
> *NATE & WALLEY'S - BOWLING GREEN, OHIO
> *THE DAME - LEXINGTON, KENTUCKY
> *BROTHER'S BAR - JACKSONVILLE, ALABAMA
> ATHENS, GEORGIA
> *THE NICK - BIRMINGHAM, ALABAMA
> *RED EYED FLY - AUSTIN, TEXAS
> *GYPSY TEA ROOMS - DALLAS, TEXAS
> *INDIE 103FM RADIO SESSION - LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
> *TROUBADOUR - LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
> *CHAIN REACTION - ANAHEIM, CALIFORNIA
> *POPSCENE - SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA
> *KUSF RADIO SESSION - SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA
> OAKLAND, CALIFORNIA
> LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

> LONDON, ENGLAND











In February 2006, >>Los Capes<< returned to the United States of America.

This is where we went / *played:

From LONDON, ENGLAND to...

> WASHINGTON DC
> ATLANTA, GEORGIA
> ATHENS, GEORGIA
> *STAR BAR - ATLANTA, GEORGIA
*****GIG AT CBGB's, NEW YORK, CANCELLED DUE TO HEAVY SNOW*****
> NEW YORK CITY
> WESTMINSTER, MARYLAND
> *JAMES MADISON UNIVERSITY - HARRISONBURG, VIRGINIA
> *THE DAME - LEXINGTON, KENTUCKY
> *TEMPLE CLUB - LANSING, MICHIGAN
> *JACKPOT SALOON - LAWRENCE, KANSAS
> *STREETSIDE RECORDS - KANSAS CITY, MISSOURI
> *RECORD BAR - KANSAS CITY, MISSOURI
> *SOUTH WESTERN COLLEGE - WINFIELD, KANSAS
> AMARILLO, TEXAS
> *36 CHAMBERS - TUCSON, ARIZONA
> *BEAUTY BAR - SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA
> *BEAUTY BAR - LAS VEGAS, NEVADA
> *LITTLE PEDRO'S - LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
> *UCLA - LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
> *KEY CLUB - LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
> *INDEPENDENT - SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA
> OAKLAND, CALIFORNIA
> *JOHN HENRY'S - EUGENE, OREGON
> *EL CORAZON - SEATTLE, WASHINGTON
> *THE TOWNE HOUSE - PORTLAND, OREGON
> BOISE, IDAHO
> CRAIG, COLORADO
> *THE HI-DIVE - BOULDER, COLORADO
> CAMERON, KANSAS
> LAWRENCE, KANSAS
> *RECORD BAR - KANSAS CITY, MISSOURI
> *TOUCHES (SXSW) - AUSTIN, TEXAS
> *RED 7 (SXSW)
> *DIRTY DOG (SXSW)
> *THREADGILL'S (SXSW)
> ATHENS, GEORGIA
> ATLANTA, GEORGIA
> WASHINGTON DC

> LONDON, ENGLAND


This video of us at SXSW contains footage from the last ever Capes gig, out in the open air at Threadgill's, Austin, Texas on 17th March, 2006.




We never found our fortune.



I don't really miss playing live - but I do miss the camaraderie.

Thanks to everyone who made it possible, but primarily to Mr "Zesty Creole...Zesty Creole - please leave the sauce on the side" (a true champion).



(Please click the title of this post for a unique tribute to our Stateside jaunts...)
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Alan Donald Whicker.

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The veteran reporter Alan Whicker reflects on 50 years of travel around the world’s hotspots...


Alan Whicker, coloured handkerchief in the breast pocket of a checked sports-jacket over a roll-necked sweater, sat upright on the sofa in a £1,300-a-night, 15th-floor suite of a Knightsbridge hotel and talked of unlucky deaths.

At 83, he is writing his fourth autobiography, to go with a series on his 50 years in television.

He had just got as far as his arrival in Japan on his way to cover the Korean war in 1950. In a Tokyo hotel bar he met Christopher Buckley, the brilliant Daily Telegraph war reporter. Newly married, Buckley was hankering for a period of peace.

Next morning both men flew to Korea. An hour later Buckley's Jeep hit a land mine and he was killed.


Whicker too was reported killed on that tour, so he cabled his office: "Unkilled. Uninjured. Onpressing."

He onpresses still, his itinerary as pressed as his slacks.

Forty years ago he interviewed Percy Shaw, the man who made millions by inventing catseyes. On film, Shaw sat in Spartan surroundings comforted by bottled beer and the memory of paid-for sex. Shaw asked as many questions as he answered, one being how Whicker would feel when he was 80. Whicker replied then that he did not think he would make it to 80. Now he laughs at the memory.

No, but really, how does Whicker feel about death now? "I don't think it's right for me."

Alan Whicker is so practised as the straight man whose interviewees reveal weird foibles for the camera that he is devilish hard to probe. Favourite drink? Not martini, wine. Any country he regrets not visiting? Kashmir – there was a war on. He is guarded.

Whole sentences echo passages in previous memoirs word for word.

His apotheosis was the Monty Python "Whicker Island" sketch ("Where the clichés sparkle on the water …"). That was 37 years ago. To anyone over 50 he is synonymous with fame. For the young, the memory of all those artfully alliterative travelogues is absent and that strange, nasal sing-song delivery does not immediately transport them to the world Whicker brought to millions of living rooms.

The real Whicker, aged 21, in sunglasses outside the Danieli in Venice, looked middle-aged; now he seems little changed, though his clipped moustache bristles white. Was his taste in dress always lamentable or is it merely that all 1970s clothes now pain the eye? Whatever the taste, neatness was the theme: suit and tie in the tropics or in Alaska. "I think it's what you feel comfortable with, really. If you're summoned to somebody's home, you've got to be reasonably respectful."

There is an ambiguity about his interviews, between respect and intrusion. He got under the skin of creepy dictators like Duvalier of Haiti even while he was mocked for specialising in the rich and famous. When asked what flavour Whicker's world has, he replies "Decency. Straight bat."

The irony is not detectable in his tone.

Interviewing is "doing what comes naturally. And you hope that what's natural is the right thing, and you're not going to go away and be ashamed."

In his new series, black and white footage shows the chilling moment when Paul Getty, in 1964 the world's richest man, suddenly states with unchanging hangdog demeanour that a close friend died that morning. Today, Whicker recalls that he felt like stopping the interview. "You want to run and hide. I felt I was a little bit unkind to him."

Yet it is classic television, comparable to John Freeman's Face to Face interview in 1959 when he made the celebrity Gilbert Harding weep by unwittingly touching on his mother's very recent death. "Freeman was admirable – not lovable, but admirable," Whicker remembers.

Whicker himself made Robin Douglas-Home cry on television, in an interview ostensibly about divorce. But Douglas-Home was depressive and killed himself shortly afterwards.

More snippets come from Whicker's first television career on the 1950s nightly BBC magazine programme Tonight. He puffed along beside an Olympic walker or questioned a postman on the eccentric numbering of a terrace in Hexham. The years and continents since have, in a way, been more Tonight interviews – with richer people in more exotic places.

Whicker hardly has roots. He was born in Cairo because his father stayed there after serving in the First World War. His father died when he was three, leaving no memories. "It's only now," he says, "that I realise what an admirable character my mother was. Strong, sensitive. She brought me up without any headaches."

After drifting through Haberdashers' Aske's School "without sentimentality", Whicker went to war, undergoing officer selection aged 16. He behaved courageously and, like many of the best of his generation, fell into journalism.

The turning point was Venice, where he ran a Forces newspaper for the Eighth Army. He still feels proprietorial about the city.
"You always do, if you're at all susceptible to anything Venetian. I was enormously happy because at the end of the war I spent almost a year living there. It was the most perfect place." Between the alternatives, he very definitely prefers people to places, but Venice meant more than escorting contessas in a motor-launch. He has never stayed away for long since. "Every time one goes back, one is as enchanted as ever."

His new series shows him in pink shirt and pink sweater making for Harry's Bar for a pink Bellini and a saccharine conversation with a happy manager. This is mere wallpaper. In conversation now he is more interesting, recalling a chance meeting there with Jan Morris, a travel writer he admires, and Jan's former wife.

Whicker himself never married. The company of women has always meant a lot to him, hasn't it? "Oh yes. That's all right. No headaches there." By not marrying, he has, paradoxically, remained constant for 40 years to Valerie Kleeman, who, stylish and active, sits on the coffee-table during our interview.

"We've been enormously happy and haven't felt the need to marry," he says. That arrangement was more unusual 40 years ago than now, wasn't it? "No doubt. Yes, yes," he says, and lapses into silence.

Valerie met Alan in 1969, after his three-year affair with the extraordinary Olga Deterding. Olga was an oil heiress once as famous as any Hello! celebrity now. She was bulimic, dependent on tranquillisers, and given to sudden travel and outrageous behaviour such as sitting in a brasserie window naked. Jennifer Paterson once told me that Olga experimented with witch-hazel cocktails.

She proposed to Whicker in 1966. She made him her heir; meanwhile, he paid. "She blended into my establishment," he recalls, "living in my apartment, driving in my Bentley, using my clubs, attended to by my housekeeper. She rarely had to open her handbag."

Life in his Regent's Park flat was not easy. One night she smashed his marble lamp-stands; another she slashed her wrists and the bath seemed full of blood. Then she left, taking the furniture and changing her will. She died a decade later after choking on a piece of steak.

Olga belonged to Whicker's fastest, busiest phase. He was making a Whicker's World every month for three years, and then pulled off a deal to set up Yorkshire Television.

Valerie was to accompany him to increasingly calm waters on his own Whicker island of Jersey. "I am a happy man," Whicker says.

In the new series we see him decades ago interviewing a convent full of Poor Clare nuns, who kick about a football during recreation with the bare feet that are part of their chosen way of life. "Aren't they lovely. Sweet. The terrible thing is they've all passed on."

Has religion meant much to him?

"Sadly not. Not enough. I wish it had. We've got a new rector at Jersey, who does nothing for me. So I'm further out than I was. The fatal date is approaching."




By Christopher Howse
Published: 2:59PM GMT 16 Mar 2009
C/O The Daily Telegraph
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Monday 9 August 2010

Bears (v.2).

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I went into my loft and found these bears up there, taking it easy...



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Nothing Rhymes with Nothing: Neil Young.

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Music for your listening pleasure...

A wonderful highlight from Neil Young's 'Planet of the Apes' period.





Old man look at my life,
I'm a lot like you were.
Old man look at my life,
I'm a lot like you were.

Old man look at my life,
Twenty four
and there's so much more
Live alone in a paradise
That makes me think of two.

Love lost, such a cost,
Give me things
that don't get lost.
Like a coin that won't get tossed
Rolling home to you.

Old man take a look at my life
I'm a lot like you
I need someone to love me
the whole day through
Ah, one look in my eyes
and you can tell that's true.

Lullabies, look in your eyes,
Run around the same old town.
Doesn't mean that much to me
To mean that much to you.

I've been first and last
Look at how the time goes past.
But I'm all alone at last.
Rolling home to you.

Old man take a look at my life
I'm a lot like you
I need someone to love me
the whole day through
Ah, one look in my eyes
and you can tell that's true.

Old man look at my life,
I'm a lot like you were.
Old man look at my life,
I'm a lot like you were.


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Quote, Unquote (Part 7th).

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The views of the general public on what's radically becoming an institution...


"Even Bjork thinks this blog is too odd."
D.LYNAM

"Let's hope that, like the revolution, this will not be televised."
G.SCOTT-HERON

"I get no kick from champagne, or this blog".
P.CETERA

"Cresswell is like a bird without a song, a slice of gammon without the accompanying pineapple ring, a structurally secure building in Pisa, a broken tannoy, a guard of honour with no honour, a ladder in your tights, a seasick lifeboat captain. He is the monkey with a monkey on his own back and a voice that hears no laughter."
E.HOLMES

"I hate Jedward more than any of you could possibly understand."
N.MANDELA


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Harold and Maude {1971}.

Sentimental, Mental, Tall.

My life changed forever the day I left primary school.

Doesn't everyone's?


Most of my friends were leaving with a group of friends who would be following them to a new school, usually in the local area.


None of my friends were following me to my new school.



I was very upset that none of my friends would be with me at my new school.

I was grumpier than an old sourpuss who had gotten out of the wrong side of bed, tried to make a cup of tea, discovered that there was no milk in the fridge, and then realised that the clocks had gone back so they could’ve enjoyed an extra hour in bed.

As millions of others will testify, you go from being a large carp in a quaint little village pond, knowing every inch and every inhabitant of that pond like (extended) family, to becoming a mere pebble on a beach with...well, millions and millions of pebbles on it.

I was displeased with the on rush of time and the changes that lay ahead of me.




Or so everyone thought.



I was secretly delighted.

It was a chance to start again.

I got rid of more unwanted baggage that day than at Debenhams’ January clearout sale. No one knew me there, no one knew how irritating I was, how upset I’d get if Liverpool lost, or that my mum used to call me “Pickle”.

They soon found out though, of course they did.

I’ve always irritated others, occasionally garnering pleasure from doing so. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I can’t help myself. When someone is visibly counting up a maths problem, deep in concentration, I will shout out random sets of alternate irrelevant numbers to put them off.

I’ve always been irritating…and irritable...sometimes (often) at the same time.

It’s a constant battle, trying not to be too annoying, a battle I’ve been losing for years. I guess that's why I love my 'old' friends so much - they've been putting up with my nonsense for years, and I have no idea why.

My new school was in Ravenscourt Court – a dirty, noisy, busy, Central(ish) London sprawl – it seemed a world away from my sleepy suburban origins and was a huge culture shock for a young lad used to war memorials, antiques, trees and ironmongers.


I was now dwarfed by the bright lights of KFC, 7-Eleven, Ryman and a variety of Wetherspoon public houses.


One of the first lessons at my new school earmarked the path that I was due to tread.

We had to stand up and write ‘3 words to describe yourself’ as a means of social introduction.


One person put ‘Strong, Clever, The Best’, and suffered immeasurably as a consequence for the following 7 years.


Another wrote ‘Stupid, stupid, repetitive” (we became close friends).


I wrote: ‘Sentimental, mental, tall’.




It was completely under-appreciated.




Well, really...

What would you have written?

Nothing Rhymes with Nothing: Evan Dando.

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Music for your listening pleasure...

I was at this gig.





Frying Pan

One laugh in the middle of a struggle
A diamond at the bottom of a puddle
Did you ever stare at the moon, till you saw double
I hear you walk away from trouble
Good love there ain't no denying
I say bad love, somebody ain't trying
Did you ever walk someplace just to take time
Or take the fast road and get going

When the rules break
There's no mistake
These are precious times
You and I we walk the line
We walk the line

I looked in a fryin' pan
I seen a song
I looked at a dyin' man
He sang along

We got mountains
We got beaches
We got a love that makes us mad
Love that has to teach us

When the rules break
There's no mistake
These are precious times
You and I we walk the line
We walk the line



Favourite T

I thought we had an understanding there
That wouldn’t leave too soon
Figure it over and you’ll find out where
Your green shirt’s gone

Had to hear about your Danish boyfriend
I forced a swoon
Then I went over to your dresser drawer
And now got it on

I got it on
Your favorite T
It never looked as good on you, as it looks on me

I got it on
I’ll wait to see
I used to wear it everyday, and now it’s twice a week

Fill in the shadows of a certain corner
You used to sit there
Got me a brand new lamp, plugged it in
And now the dark won’t fit there

Ain’t got the time or the inclination
To see this through
I’m looking up and climbing out of the station
And the sky’s too blue

The sky’s too blue
The sky’s too blue
It mightn’t suit me quite as well as it used to

I got it on
Your favorite T
I used to wear it everyday


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The Moustache: Graeme Souness.

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Here is former Liverpool midfield general, Graeme Souness.

Look how proud he was of his excellent moustache.









Now look at him - surly, broken, and worn.

No sparkle in the eye.


Conclusion?
No moustache = no fun.

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Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind {2004}.

Opinion Onion (Part 7 of 365).

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Onions like trees.


Onions, like trees, have rings.


The rings within trees reveal a tree's age - which is great.




But, in my opinion, onion rings are tastier (and easier to cook).


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Sunday 8 August 2010

Top 20...Album Covers (No.20).

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"What the...?"


Who/What?:
'Tarkus' by Emerson, Lake & Palmer (released in 1971).

They say:
"Tarkus is depicted as a half armadillo / half tank creature, born from an egg erupted from a volcano."

I say:
"Impressively awful. A real crowd pleaser."


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Saturday 7 August 2010

Nothing Rhymes with Nothing: Jeff Tweedy.

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Music for you listening pleasure...





Spiders are singing in the salty breeze
Spiders are filling out tax returns
Spinning out webs of deductions and melodies
On a private beach in Michigan

Why can't they wish their kisses good
Why do they miss when their kisses should
Fly like winging birds fighting for the keys
On a private beach in Michigan

This recent rash of kidsmoke
All these telescopic poems
It's good to be alone

Why can't they say what they want
Why can't they just say what they mean
Come clean, listen and talk
Hello private callers, IDs blocked

The sun will rise, we'll climb into cars
The future has a valley and a shortcut around
Who will wear the crown of drowning award
Hold a private light on a Michigan shore

You fool me with a kiss of kidsmoke
From a microscopic home
It's good to be alone

I'll be in my bed
You can be the stone
That raises from the dead
And carries us all home

There's no blood on my hands
I just do as I am told


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Tom McDonnell.

This is my friend Tom McDonnell...



Madder than a cupboard full of crocodiles.

Click the title of post for more...

Zbigniew Boruc.


"Can you kill death?" remarked Boruc when asked if he'd like to contribute to the 'AZ of Good'.

We asked him again, but he just laughed and ran off.


He has subsequently transcribed his 'AZ of Good' selections into braille and sent them to us wrapped in vine leaves & cocoa milk.

Boruc is a luddite.

He has been irritating motorists (whom he refers to as 'mechanical terrorists') for over 15 years by pressing the 'wait' button at traffic lights and then deliberately not crossing the road when the lights turn from green to red.



It is understood that he is currently living "in the trees" around Turnham Green, although this is unsubstantiated.


Click on the title of the post to witness Boruc stage-diving in 1992...

The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou {2004}.

Thursday 5 August 2010

Quote, Unquote (Part 6th).

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Further comment on this award-winning blog*:


"This blog never fails to live down to expectations".
R.KID

"This blog is brilliant. We're thinking of changing our name, as a tribute, to 'Blog Party'."
K.OKEREKE

"This blog is to critical acclaim what Jedward are to original musical compositions - strangers."
R.WHITES

"Reading this blog is extremely exhausting. I think I'd rather do the 'hokey cokey' for a few hours, with the Hamiltons, than read any more."
P.MOORE

"Sensing the growing disillusionment with this blog, I'd like to say something positive about it...but I can't. I feel like it's the cat that's missed out on the cream, and has to make do with soya milk instead."
R.KEMP




* = Winner of the award for 'least impressive debut' at the National Blog Awards

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Nathan James Page.

This was drawn by a friend of mine...

And an original version hangs proudly in my study...





Click on the title of the post and follow Nathan's blog - it's crazier than a matchbox full of eskimos...

Tuesday 3 August 2010

Nothing Rhymes with Nothing: Blur.

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Music for your listening pleasure...

Absolute corker.





Beetlebum
What you done
She's a gun
Now what you've done
Beetlebum
Get nothing done
You beetlebum
Just get numb
Now what you done
You Beetlebum

And when she lets me slip away
She turns me on and all my violence is gone
Nothing is wrong
I just slip away and I am gone
Nothing is wrong
She turns me on
I just slip away and I am gone

Beetlebum
Because you're young
She's a gun
Now what you done
Beetlebum
She'll suck your thumb
She'll make you come
Coz, she's your gun
Now what you done
Beetlebum

And when she lets me slip away
She turns me on and all my violence is gone
Nothing is wrong
I just slip away and I am gone
Nothing is wrong
She turns me on
I just slip away and I am gone


He's on, he's on, he's on it


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Sombre Hombres.

“Even when it’s bad, it’s better than when it’s good.” - Sombre Hombres.


Joseph Ouseph and I forged a good partnership.

He was the funniest man I had ever met, and together we laughed very often.


Sombre Hombres was a comedic creation from our collective brainpower.

The loose idea, designed for book or televisual sitcom, was entirely based on our own faults and insecurities, as our ‘facespace’ social networking profile indicates:



“The good old days are gone. That's why they're good - because they're gone." - Loudon Wainwright III.

"Some suggest that the term 'sombrehombres' is an old nautical refrain meaning 'he who laughs and fun'. Others believe that it was coined by the Persians, who would shout this out when alone.

Both is a nonsense.

'Sombre Hombres' really means nothing at all, and yet everything at once.

It is reserved for disheartened companions, hardened souls beleaguered by the frustrations of the universe, who seek comfort in observing the behaviour of others. It is most plausible that you are thinking "do they understand 'joy' and 'kindness'"? Well perhaps one day you could ask them...

Our meeting was both fortuitous and deeply distressing. In fact many has been the time when we had wished this whole ridiculous and painful farce had never been set in motion. 'What are we trying to accomplish?', one might ask; or equally 'Why do you dress that way?'.

These are questions that are valid and yet also profoundly annoying.

To paraphrase Rousseau, man is born free but everywhere he is in chains.

Sombre Hombres exists because of and for these chains. We will provide no answers, no solutions, and little hope to those who seek such things".





Echoing real life, to an extent, the two principal characters shared a mutual fondness for ale, Boules, walking, sitting down, talking, not talking, not walking, park benches, luncheon, music, humour, shoes and Boules.


Boules is the sport of Kings.

If Sport is fashion, then Boules is ‘the little black number’.

If Boules is a race horse, it would be ‘Red Rum’.



Although, Boules is not dead.

It is vibrant.

Like Tabasco sauce.



Here is one Sombre Hombres account of a ‘real life’ Boules tournament:


"The 2nd round of the ‘Pocket Kath Memorial Trophy’ kicked off yesterday amidst chaotic and demented scenes at the Yeovil Aerodrome.

Following the withdrawal of 8-time champion Chastity Darling (shingles) and Intercontinental champion Chiswick Park (metartarsal), the event certainly seemed to lack enough pulling power to guarantee a good attendance, and soon descended into heightened confusion, before inevitable bedlam.

In happenings reminiscent of last year's debacle at the ‘Corby Masters’, Wearside's Tam 'Coughing Buck' Buchanan unwisely renewed his war of words with IBC Secretary, Cahill Morgue - a scuffle ensued and Morgue received a slap to the balls.

With Buchanan disqualified for mal-handage, the afternoon then turned sour for rookie Ahmed Loe, who was fined for setting his alsatian dog “Cupid” onto fellow participant Dr Miguel Umgh.

Play was suspended indefinitely, as staff strained to prevent the looting of local off- licenses by supporters and their parents.”





Sometime, somewhere, somehow it would be nice to live close enough to each other so that we put our rubbish out on the same day again, but I think that that train has probably left the building.

The fat lady has flown and the bird has sung.



Or has it?

Monday 2 August 2010

This is literally "a post".

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"Literally".


This is probably paranoia on my behalf, but I notice lately that everyone keeps saying the word "literally".

Maybe this has always occurred, and I'm only cottoning on to it now, but it's literally said by literally everyone.


Literally, all the time.


It must be one of those things that I've become acutely aware of, and am therefore overly sensitive towards, but every time I hear the word I literally can't help but get annoyed.


It's overused. Simple.


When you listen to someone recount a story these days, why does it always have to include the word "literally" a dozen times?


"He got so mad, he literally exploded".

Did he? Did he actually explode?


"And then Hell was literally unleashed".

What? Really, now.


Even when used correctly, it's often unnecessary.

"I was so tired, I literally could not stay awake".




What's going on?

Where has this suddenly come from?




I literally have no idea.


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Sunday 1 August 2010

Bears.

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I went into my garden and found this bear sitting at my picnic table...


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Stand By Me {1986}.

The Moustache: Graham Gooch.

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This is former England cricket captain, Graham Gooch.

Look how happy he was with his excellent moustache.









Now look at him - surly, broken, and worn.


No sparkle in the eye.


Conclusion?
No moustache = no joy.

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The King of Kong: Fistful of Quarters {2007}.

Ready?

Go!

Top 20...Horse Names.

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Here are some of my favourite equine friends...

(These are actual names of actual horses*)



20. Nag Nag Nag

19. Tabasco Cat

18. Rambling Willie

17. Zorro Garlic

16. Blacksmith's Nemesis

15. Celine Dion

14. Sledging Legend

13. Lanky Dettori

12. Fancy Mover

11. Kodak Moment

10. Piano Hell

9. Beaky Mick

8. Harlem Grandpa

7. Jelly Belly Dancer

6. Tuxedo Nightmare


5. Cheer Up Manfred



4. Buckshot Odyssey




3. Splash of Swift Wind





2. Oat Couture






1. MASSIVE BEREAVEMENT





*These are not actual names of actual horses.

Or are they?...

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Theft.