Sunday, November 07, 2004


Gaaaaauuugh-hh-h. "The pain...the pain..." Up most of the last couple nights in transit twixt bedroom and bathroom. Thinking of moving the bed in there tonight to, y'know, spare myself the grief of walking, but that's loser's talk, private. Still, reckon I clocked up a good charity walk's worth last night inbetween openly defying the Kyoto Treaty. (Yeah, maybe I should get you guys out there to sponsor me...a sponsored Shit-In. Hmm. But to what end? Ah, I know: let's raise enough cash to get the reformed Amon Duul 2 to play Yeovil Labour Club. But not the main bar...the smoke-filled Member's Only snug. That's a pretty worthy cause, don'tcha think?) I'll be sending out sponsor-forms tomorrow. They'll start at a quid a squit.

And the sound effects last night were worthy of a fake Jap Snuff Movie. I'm surprised the neighbours didn't call the police. God, I can't even imagine what it sounded like (and I was the one doing it) except that it was loud and it went on for hours and hours and hours...

Caught a couple seconds on the news yesterday about some volcano that's going up. Well, they sure got that part right.

Still, at least, I've kept my humour about it, eh? Some of you are shaking your heads, saying: "Aw, man, this is soooo fucking distasteful..." but you can't stop yrself reading, can you? No, I'm exactly the same. So, this blog will continue at a base, scatalogical level until I'm fully recovered and a normal functioning member of society again. So, this could go for years, then. Or maybe never stop.

There's something about being ill that brings out my basest instincts, I just can't help it. Farmer G (glad to hear yr on the mend, man) has managed to kept a dignified silence about his own health problems... but, y'know, I just can't stop myself; it's not my way: I have to blab on and on about my bowels and make bad arse jokes, etc. It's probably a fear of physicality, or of failing physicality...I'm 1/64th Jewish (on my mother's side, 'natch...)...we were Irish Jews, or something equally fucking ridiculous. We fled persecution in the Holy Land and went to France, then fled the Hugenot persecution thing, then fled to Ireland (Who's bright fucking idea was that?), then fled to Cornwall and Somerset. No one else would have us. See, I'm probably related to Christ, so don't fuck with me, okay...I'm a direct descendent of King fucking Solomon, so if I say it's okay for the Palestinians to have a homeland then it's fucking okay? Okay?

Jeez (I'm allowed to say that, see...): I might even be the Holy Grail. In which case, I want royalties on that Indiana Jones film and I want them now, Stephen. Don't you dare disobey me, Stephen, for I am the Jewish Messiah and therefore your master, but I'll settle for your ranch in Colorado. And, by the way, Stephen, when are you gonna make another decent film? "Duel" was a Godawful long time ago...

So yeah, the Jewish thing: that's prob. why I like to talk about my poohs.

It also occurred to me that my guts might be the victim of a serious occult assault, so I quickly reviewed a list of possible suspects:

Van Morrison...hmm: could be. Bloated guts. It matches his M.O. Bet he's still smarting from my recent attack on him (photos to follow soon, I promise, soon as I get them developed...).

Morrissey...Nah: big poof, scared of the dark...he'd never touch the occult without marigolds, never mind embrace it...

Weller...Nah: too thick.

PJ Harvey...Maybe, but only if someone else attacked me first. Then a few years later she'd copy them and have a go herself...

Beyonce Knowles...Nah: too busy crunching the Thigh-Master.

The Ordinary Boys....Maybe: they don't look the type, but I haven't got their measure yet...and they may be retaliating for the honour of their dull & boring master The Weller...

Britney...Nah: too thick/pissed/pug-ugly/busy smoking.

Alison Goldfrapp...waitaminute...thinking about it: when I am actually able to fart without causing a major International Incident they sound a bit like this:


There, I knew it! That's got to be a clue, a sign. A portent. Magic always leaves a trail back to its originator. Goldfrapp's been launching an occult attack on my arse, the bitch. Damn. Obviously, she didn't like the comments I made about them not using real analogue gear...hit a spot, did I, luv? I've been neglecting my on-going beef with Goldfrapp recently...I've let things slide when I should have been watching my back (passage)...

Listen up, baby: if it's war you want, then it's war you got. And I play dirty. (Well, I do at the moment...)

(Well, this has been fun, guys, but I'm completely exhausted and my guts hurt...gotta go to bed. Hopefully, to stay there, this time...g'night, y'all. Doctors appointment for me tomorrow, I reckon.)