Saturday, September 18, 2004


Great evening out at Yeovil Labour Club last night. Jap electro-punkers Yumi Yumi were magnificent: "Speedy Car! Speeeeeedy car! Go...Go...GOOOOOO!" I'd post some songs from the 'Alchemy' CD-r I got when I saw 'em last year, but this isn't an mp3 Blog. Well, not yet, it ain't.

If/When I go mp3, then I'm planning on doing something a little bit different with the format. There's some great mp3-blogs out there, but there's little point in me just picking over the ground they're already covering so it strikes me I should head out into uncharted territory.

Meanwhile, though, it was great to see Flinty, Spike and Shaggy at the gig. Mind you, the place was rammed to the gills with crowd-surfing hormonal teenagers. There was at least one punch-up and I saw a girl who was so fat she had tits on her back. Nasty.

Chris said the ladies loos were full of weeping Avril Lavigne lookalikes crying: "I'm soooo wasted...." and "He's here with that creepy Goth bitch Laura..." etc, etc. There was nothing for it, so me and Chris got totally trolley'd on gin and Smirnoff Ice, and did a weird, arse-slamming 'dance'. ("Speeeeeeedy car! Go! Go! GOOOOO!") Ended up in The Butchers for last orders and Mervyn the Barber was there, propping up the bar: "Awww-reeeeet, Lads?" No idea how he cuts hair on a sunday morning. How can he even see straight?

We wobbled home to find that Punk Fake PJ Harvey was on TV playing with Ding, the bass-player she pinched from The Fall. Sounds like she's ripping off Joy Division this year, rather than Patti Smith, but, I mean, who cares. You shouldn't've sacked our mate Tim. He's too nice a bloke to ever say a bad word about her, but I will: talentless, Range Rover-driving bitch.

Still, this was soon forgotten as our aching Punk Rock heads were soothed by a badly-dubbed Jet Li film. And so to bed, where:

I must've eaten some Time-Travel Cheese, because I dreamt that Heronbone had restarted his blog, but had now adopted a food/cookery theme/meme. The only post that I can remember was Haiku-like and went somewhere along the lines of:

The taste of a cold tomato slice cut by a knife that has previously chopped an onion.

Warm tuna/cheese sandwhich; vodka in a plastic Tweenies tumbler bisected by slices of lime.

The films of Jean Vigo.

Then, someone unveiled a diagram on a flipchart: it was a diagram of tidal flows and geological strata relating to Chesil Beach (for non-West Country folk, this is a vast unbroken shingle beach that runs for miles from Weymouth/Portland down past Abbotsbury, West Bay, Eype, Seatown, etc) . A voice explained that the layers of accreted tidal debris and mud that form the base of this beach was known as Heronbone ("Not a lot of people know that," he added, sounding suspiciously like Michale Caine), and this was a rough form of Pre-Shingle. Then I suddenly found myself in a garden shed, where a huge flattened-image of something resembling a futuristic webpage was being projected onto the wall via HyperBand. The picture was a vast interlocking collage of gorgeously vibrant reds and browns, constantly shifting and repositioning themselves with blocks of text and exotic fonts. Sound was embedded in the image itself, apparently. "There's no need for loud-speakers any more," someone explained, helpfully. "The sound is created by the wooden walls of the shed vibrating in response to this embedded data..."

I waited and waited, but nothing happened.


'Prince Albert' getting his metal horn implants fitted in this month's Skin Deep magazine. No, you're not imagining it, his face is completely covered in piercings. (Go on, you ghouls, click the picture to enlarge; you know you wanna.)

Apparently, he used to work in a bank.


Isn't that the name of a Coil LP?

Still, this just in:

I loath Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall and all that he and his ilk stand for. He once made a pass at Geoff the Astronomer's wife. And I bet he does the catering for Otis Ferry and that moronic rabble of Range Rover-driving, rugby shirt-wearing Stud Farm owners, Auctioneers, Ramblers, Dot Com company-floaters, BritArt playas and BritPop bass-players, Nouveau Rich'd Gentryfolk and P J Harvey's parents. How (terribly, terribly) nice to see Mail/Express/Telegraph readers getting beaten up by the police for a change.

Let it be known that the Yeovil Grime Cru is on a mission to vex such fools. You have our word that we'll tolerate none of their nonsense in our neck o'the woods.