24 Hours, Pavey Ark.
Click here for the Art & Graft Showreel...
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Tuesday, 2 November 2010
Michael Moloney & John Hooper.
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24 Hours, Pavey Ark.
Click here for the Art & Graft Showreel...
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24 Hours, Pavey Ark.
Click here for the Art & Graft Showreel...
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Ha.
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Monk Magic.
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Why not click here...?
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| Thelonious Monk (1917 - 1982) |
Why not click here...?
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The Case Of The Missing Central Heating.
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Dear ***,
Nice to hear that I vie for space in the memory banks alongside your sister's mammary banks.
'Ted Baum' is one of my less succesful alter egos. Right up there with 'Richard History' and 'Brazil Ian'. I'm as hard to find on Twitter as a bottle of Listerine round at David Mellor's house, so I'm grateful for your patronage.
Much time/music has passed since we shared a counter with the likes of **********, ****** ****, and the breath-monster security guard, who I actually bumped into at head office - apparently he's Chief of Security now. Well, he's certainly a chief. I imagine thieves are quaking in their boots. He tapped me on the shoulder, and gave me a rough chuckle that suggested a fresh litre of milky coffee had just been consumed. Rather ashamedly I pretended that my phone was ringing and scarpered, thus removing any chance of conversation.
I watched Ms Wainwright at close distance in a sticky-floored bar at SXSW where I was playing with my band. I was in the company of Jose Gonzalez and Richard Hawley at the time. She was rather good. I then saw her support Wilco back in the UK - she was awful. That appears to be the deal, I guess.
What am I up to? A fair question.
I tend to spend most of my time either listening to The National, having a bath, smoking my pipe, or doing all three. I seem to have fallen on hard times. Think of me as a cross between Brian Wilson and Syd Barrett (minus any element of crazed genius).
My day today has, at best, been dull. The highlight so far? Paying my TV license on my return from the job centre.
I've hit mid-life hard.
Married, overweight and writing a book, I am a motorbike-purchase away from a fully blown crisis - although, to include my lovely wife in that equation seems perhaps a tad harsh.
I've just returned from a morale boosting visit to *********. He is living in *********, in the delightfully named ****** **** area.
We drank wine, we listened to Tom Waits, we played a fair amount of boules.
He has an attic, a cellar, no central heating, a cat called 'Monet' and a champagne coloured Austin Metro on his driveway.
He was depressed, but on very good form.
Must dash - I've got to check on my mini kievs.
Very best,
Pitkin
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Dear ***,
Nice to hear that I vie for space in the memory banks alongside your sister's mammary banks.
'Ted Baum' is one of my less succesful alter egos. Right up there with 'Richard History' and 'Brazil Ian'. I'm as hard to find on Twitter as a bottle of Listerine round at David Mellor's house, so I'm grateful for your patronage.
Much time/music has passed since we shared a counter with the likes of **********, ****** ****, and the breath-monster security guard, who I actually bumped into at head office - apparently he's Chief of Security now. Well, he's certainly a chief. I imagine thieves are quaking in their boots. He tapped me on the shoulder, and gave me a rough chuckle that suggested a fresh litre of milky coffee had just been consumed. Rather ashamedly I pretended that my phone was ringing and scarpered, thus removing any chance of conversation.
I watched Ms Wainwright at close distance in a sticky-floored bar at SXSW where I was playing with my band. I was in the company of Jose Gonzalez and Richard Hawley at the time. She was rather good. I then saw her support Wilco back in the UK - she was awful. That appears to be the deal, I guess.
What am I up to? A fair question.
I tend to spend most of my time either listening to The National, having a bath, smoking my pipe, or doing all three. I seem to have fallen on hard times. Think of me as a cross between Brian Wilson and Syd Barrett (minus any element of crazed genius).
My day today has, at best, been dull. The highlight so far? Paying my TV license on my return from the job centre.
I've hit mid-life hard.
Married, overweight and writing a book, I am a motorbike-purchase away from a fully blown crisis - although, to include my lovely wife in that equation seems perhaps a tad harsh.
I've just returned from a morale boosting visit to *********. He is living in *********, in the delightfully named ****** **** area.
We drank wine, we listened to Tom Waits, we played a fair amount of boules.
He has an attic, a cellar, no central heating, a cat called 'Monet' and a champagne coloured Austin Metro on his driveway.
He was depressed, but on very good form.
Must dash - I've got to check on my mini kievs.
Very best,
Pitkin
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Monday, 1 November 2010
Nothing Rhymes with Nothing: Iron & Wine.
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Music for your listening pleasure...
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Job Centre.
The job centre is a fascinating place.
Fascinatingly awful.
A well of genuine awfulness.
It is the place you arrive at having been swallowed by the quicksand.
A place for the disillusioned to become further disillusioned.
Purgatory on earth.
A smoking cauldron of bad vibes.
An itch you cannot scratch.
A dull mound of sorrow.
A place of supposed hope, that provides nothing but perpetual hopelessness.
A cave of universal misery.
Oh, it's not that bad.
It's worse.
It was 11.30 in the morning.
I joined the queue, and listened to people as they approached the greeting podium.
The security guard kept staring at me, as if I potentially presented some sort of threat.
I winked at him, and he looked away.
"I was supposed to sign on at 9 this morning", said one person.
"I'm in a rush because I have to be in court at 12", said another.
I handed in my slip of paper indicating my legitimacy to a lady who seemed drained by the world and it's collective woes.
She gave my details to the suspicious security guard, who's eyes narrowed as he assessed me once more, then beckoned me towards a bank of seats occupied by fellow jobseekers.
I recognised one gentleman sat there.
He had a carefully organised sideburn on each cheek that pointed towards his mouth in the shape of a dagger. When I first came across him he was wearing a suit. He looked sharp and keen, sat upright holding a large pad and pen. Actually, the pen was in fact only normal size. Now, he looked bedraggled and sorry. Week after week his appearance and quality of clothing had deteriorated. Stubble was fast eating away at the perfection of his striking facial hair concept, and he was now wearing an unflattering combination of flip flops and jogging bottoms.
Poor bastard.
It had only taken a month or so for the last thimble full of optimism that he had retained to be beaten out of him by this depressing protocol. Now he just looked like a bum. With no pad, or pen. He clutched his mobile phone as if it was a passport to freedom, a life jacket, a parachute - it had come to resemble a symbol of hope.
Maybe it would ring and he'd get some good news...
"No mobiles in here", said the security guard pointing at the guy's mobile phone. He had removed his glasses to indicate the seriousness of the situation.
The security guard, whose belly was disproportionate enough to give him a triangular profile, was seemingly irritating everyone. He sent a pregnant woman up several flights of stairs to sign on, only for her to reappear moments later:
"Apparently I'm supposed to be down here", she said, out of breath.
"Well I don't know, do I?" said the portly, uniformed git.
I couldn't help but notice, as 5 or 6 of us sat in wait for our slice of enlightened advice, that no one seemed to be doing anything.
Loads of staff, not doing anything.
Just sat there talking to each other, shuffling papers like broadcasters at the end of a news bulletin. The main topic of conversation seemed to be who was having what lunch break and when were they finishing their shift. This was sporadically communicated via the sensitive medium of shouting loudly across the room at each other.
"I don't know why I bother", said the chap next to me, who I now discovered was responsible for the dull cigarette stench lingering in the air. "All they ever do is suggest I get a job repairing air-conditioning ducts..."
I nodded in a non-committal but user-friendly fashion. I had made a special pact with myself not talk to anyone at all unless it was completely essential. I had been hoping that it would not end up being a suicide pact, but it was not looking good for me. Ladbrokes had stopped taking bets on that eventuality.
I get called over to speak to a lady who I have spoken to maybe 5 or 6 times in the past. Each time she acts as if she's never seen me before and asks me questions as if she's never spoken to me before. I walk past a co-worker of hers - a guy sat behind the desk next to her who I'm pretty sure was enjoying some alcoholic refreshment in the pub on the corner prior to his next appointment.
"How are you?" Said Vanessa, as I sat down and slowly lowered my forehead within millimetres of her desk.
"Not that good", I replied, in a rare fit of honesty.
"Excellent stuff", said Vanessa, pre-occupied with her computer screen.
She studied my jobsearch documentation evidence booklet, scanning over a deliberately poorly written paragraph in which I had written:
"Why do I bother writing this? You're looking at it, but not reading it - why don't you just smile and sign me off as usual".
She smiled and signed me off as usual, before, incredibly (given the amount of times she's asked me before), asking what kind of job I was interested in.
"I'd like to get a job repairing air-conditioning ducts", I said.
Fascinatingly awful.
A well of genuine awfulness.
It is the place you arrive at having been swallowed by the quicksand.
A place for the disillusioned to become further disillusioned.
Purgatory on earth.
A smoking cauldron of bad vibes.
An itch you cannot scratch.
A dull mound of sorrow.
A place of supposed hope, that provides nothing but perpetual hopelessness.
A cave of universal misery.
Oh, it's not that bad.
It's worse.
It was 11.30 in the morning.
I joined the queue, and listened to people as they approached the greeting podium.
The security guard kept staring at me, as if I potentially presented some sort of threat.
I winked at him, and he looked away.
"I was supposed to sign on at 9 this morning", said one person.
"I'm in a rush because I have to be in court at 12", said another.
I handed in my slip of paper indicating my legitimacy to a lady who seemed drained by the world and it's collective woes.
She gave my details to the suspicious security guard, who's eyes narrowed as he assessed me once more, then beckoned me towards a bank of seats occupied by fellow jobseekers.
I recognised one gentleman sat there.
He had a carefully organised sideburn on each cheek that pointed towards his mouth in the shape of a dagger. When I first came across him he was wearing a suit. He looked sharp and keen, sat upright holding a large pad and pen. Actually, the pen was in fact only normal size. Now, he looked bedraggled and sorry. Week after week his appearance and quality of clothing had deteriorated. Stubble was fast eating away at the perfection of his striking facial hair concept, and he was now wearing an unflattering combination of flip flops and jogging bottoms.
Poor bastard.
It had only taken a month or so for the last thimble full of optimism that he had retained to be beaten out of him by this depressing protocol. Now he just looked like a bum. With no pad, or pen. He clutched his mobile phone as if it was a passport to freedom, a life jacket, a parachute - it had come to resemble a symbol of hope.
Maybe it would ring and he'd get some good news...
"No mobiles in here", said the security guard pointing at the guy's mobile phone. He had removed his glasses to indicate the seriousness of the situation.
The security guard, whose belly was disproportionate enough to give him a triangular profile, was seemingly irritating everyone. He sent a pregnant woman up several flights of stairs to sign on, only for her to reappear moments later:
"Apparently I'm supposed to be down here", she said, out of breath.
"Well I don't know, do I?" said the portly, uniformed git.
I couldn't help but notice, as 5 or 6 of us sat in wait for our slice of enlightened advice, that no one seemed to be doing anything.
Loads of staff, not doing anything.
Just sat there talking to each other, shuffling papers like broadcasters at the end of a news bulletin. The main topic of conversation seemed to be who was having what lunch break and when were they finishing their shift. This was sporadically communicated via the sensitive medium of shouting loudly across the room at each other.
"I don't know why I bother", said the chap next to me, who I now discovered was responsible for the dull cigarette stench lingering in the air. "All they ever do is suggest I get a job repairing air-conditioning ducts..."
I nodded in a non-committal but user-friendly fashion. I had made a special pact with myself not talk to anyone at all unless it was completely essential. I had been hoping that it would not end up being a suicide pact, but it was not looking good for me. Ladbrokes had stopped taking bets on that eventuality.
I get called over to speak to a lady who I have spoken to maybe 5 or 6 times in the past. Each time she acts as if she's never seen me before and asks me questions as if she's never spoken to me before. I walk past a co-worker of hers - a guy sat behind the desk next to her who I'm pretty sure was enjoying some alcoholic refreshment in the pub on the corner prior to his next appointment.
"How are you?" Said Vanessa, as I sat down and slowly lowered my forehead within millimetres of her desk.
"Not that good", I replied, in a rare fit of honesty.
"Excellent stuff", said Vanessa, pre-occupied with her computer screen.
She studied my jobsearch documentation evidence booklet, scanning over a deliberately poorly written paragraph in which I had written:
"Why do I bother writing this? You're looking at it, but not reading it - why don't you just smile and sign me off as usual".
She smiled and signed me off as usual, before, incredibly (given the amount of times she's asked me before), asking what kind of job I was interested in.
"I'd like to get a job repairing air-conditioning ducts", I said.
Steven Wright.
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"First time I read the dictionary, I thought it was a poem about everything".
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"First time I read the dictionary, I thought it was a poem about everything".
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You Can Talk To Me. You Can Talk To Me-e.
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Open me in another window...
Now read this post as fast as you can...
In a car. In a car driving north. In a car driving north, sat in traffic. Slow, slow progress. Must be an accident ahead. Stick with it, it gets better. For company in my vehicle I have a flat bottle of a semi-popular soft drink. It's not that the container has been squashed, but that the contents is no longer fizzy. It is disliked by lots of people that I know, despite selling well globally. I also have a playlist of songs which, played at a responsible volume, prevents me from closing my eyelids and having a road traffic accident. It does not prevent me from daydreaming. I have a flashback of playing cricket in my back garden as a child. We have to go inside because someone hit the ball over the fence. Normally we'd just jump over and retrieve it, but it's gone into the garden of a neighbour who has an unpredictable dog. Back to reality, and someone is trying to call me on my mobile phone. Despite the lack of forward momentum I decide to obey in-transit protocol and leave it unanswered, just incase I'm being filmed by camouflaged roadside police. The car number plate in front of me reads 'AR51 50D'. The owner has decided to put a sticker on the rear window that reads, hilariously, 'Horn Broken - Watch for Finger'. To my right is a chap singing along to music whilst drumming on his steering wheel. His frustrated partner sat alongside him appears to be contemplating suicide. To my left, a van pulls over onto the hard shoulder. A gentleman exits hurriedly. Someone from inside the van jeers and throws a lighter at him as he begins to urinate by a hillside bank. It hits him on the shoulder. He briefly misdirects his output onto his shoe as he glances over his shoulder at his attacker. I imagine he may have had difficulty concentrating during mathematics lessons at school, enjoys an above average amount of sugar in his tea, and regularly behaves poorly when inebriated. The traffic starts to move, and the punctuated female voice from my satellite navigation system informs me politely that my exit is approaching. I switch lanes and meander along. I've escaped the mass of irritable motorists and am now on a dual carriageway. I like dual carriageways. You know where you are with a dual carriageway. Two lanes. A slow lane - a fast lane. No pissing about. I decide to exert my authority by blitzing into the fast lane, past an elderly couple driving sensibly. I'm soon made to feel insufficient by a car vastly superior to mine. It's approaching my bumper at a speed I cannot match. It urges me back to the slow lane. Back in line with the cautious, the grey-haired, the wobbly caravans and the big trucks covered in road-spray grime. I humbly oblige. I feel like my position within the dual carriageway food chain has been neatly clarified. My Sat-Nav falls off the windscreen and lands in my lap. 'Shit', I say, realising that the two hands and necessary concentration required to sucker it back onto the windscreen are busy driving the car at pace. It's going to have to stay in my lap until I can pull over at a service station. "Well, this is awkward", says a voice, appearing to come from the Sat-Nav. I'm very confused. "Hello?", I mutter. "Yeah, can you remove me from your groin area, please? I can't see from down here". I look down at the Sat-Nav - "You might have to hold on...not literally, but...figuratively. I need to turn off soon to sort you out". Madness descends, like a lonely aubergine. "Well look, I'm no use to you down here, I can't see anything but belt and zip", said the 'Nav. "Don't get cheeky or I'll turn you off before I turn off", I said, as I looked for road signs indicating a place to turn off. "This situation is a turn off. I may be turned on, but I'm not turned on - and if you turn me off then you won't know when to turn off, so you'll have to turn me on again".
She (it) had a point.
TBC...
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Crumble (The Yoda-Dog) & His Innovative Hallowe'en Costume.
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| Crumble (The Yoda-Dog) |
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Don't Call It A Comeback.
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Huh?
Yes! It's the return of the blog that has long since jumped the shark - the blog that has got everybody talking, albeit in united condemnation of this blog.
It's the elephant in your living room, the splinter in your index finger, and the bowl of leftovers that even your beloved pet won't go anywhere near...
It's good to be back.
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Huh?
Yes! It's the return of the blog that has long since jumped the shark - the blog that has got everybody talking, albeit in united condemnation of this blog.
It's the elephant in your living room, the splinter in your index finger, and the bowl of leftovers that even your beloved pet won't go anywhere near...
It's good to be back.
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Sunday, 31 October 2010
Friday, 1 October 2010
Hiatus.
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"It's good to shut up sometimes".
- Marcel Marceau
Hello, and good morning/afternoon/evening.
Writing this blog has been fun, but unfortunately/fortunately I will now be taking a brief hiatus, and therefore will not be 'active' again for a month or so.
I have been hand selected by the British Embassy in Stockholm, Sweden, to step in as 'Official Translator to the Chief Bursor' on a temporary contract (based on the insistence of my lawyers). I think we all know what happened to my predecessor, so I wish the authorities well in their attempts to catch him before he leaves the country.
I will therefore be abroad for a while, with limited time on my hands for the purposes of creative thought, let alone creative writing.
I will also be unable to fulfill any after-dinner-speaking appearances or public engagements that remain in my diary over that same time period. May I thank Lord Attenborough, Smokey Robinson and Beverley Aspinall of Fortnum & Mason for their understanding, advice and support in this matter.
I hope you find that there is plenty to flick through/read/listen to/watch on this blog already, so why not peruse the 'Gifthorse Categories'? You might find something fun, or good, or fun and good, that you missed first time round.
Or you could just follow me on Twitter.
Thanks to everyone for their kind feedback thus far - I hope we can reconvene soon, and close by saying...
"Maj oktober ge dig glädje, kärlek och lycka till orimligt stora portioner".
Very best,
N
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"It's good to shut up sometimes".
- Marcel Marceau
Hello, and good morning/afternoon/evening.
Writing this blog has been fun, but unfortunately/fortunately I will now be taking a brief hiatus, and therefore will not be 'active' again for a month or so.
I have been hand selected by the British Embassy in Stockholm, Sweden, to step in as 'Official Translator to the Chief Bursor' on a temporary contract (based on the insistence of my lawyers). I think we all know what happened to my predecessor, so I wish the authorities well in their attempts to catch him before he leaves the country.
I will therefore be abroad for a while, with limited time on my hands for the purposes of creative thought, let alone creative writing.
I will also be unable to fulfill any after-dinner-speaking appearances or public engagements that remain in my diary over that same time period. May I thank Lord Attenborough, Smokey Robinson and Beverley Aspinall of Fortnum & Mason for their understanding, advice and support in this matter.
I hope you find that there is plenty to flick through/read/listen to/watch on this blog already, so why not peruse the 'Gifthorse Categories'? You might find something fun, or good, or fun and good, that you missed first time round.
Or you could just follow me on Twitter.
Thanks to everyone for their kind feedback thus far - I hope we can reconvene soon, and close by saying...
"Maj oktober ge dig glädje, kärlek och lycka till orimligt stora portioner".
Very best,
N
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