Monday, May 29, 2006




The UK's fav chav BB winner hits our micro-nano-town local bookshop for a signing:

From this week's Western Gazette, Mz Goody on Yeovil, South Somerset's answer to Twin Peaks: "This seems like a really nice little town, but I have no idea where it is or where I am. I would like to spend more time here but unfortunately I am on a tight schedule."

Hmm. I know the feeling.

'Course, you Cockney bloggers are unimpressed by Celebrity; it surrounds you constantly like the air you breathe: Molly Bloom regularly bumps into Werner Hertzog or Bobby (ptui!) Gillespie, while Jean-Luc Picard picks up Dom Zero's discarded fag-ends...but down here near the arse end of Reality, the Laws of Physics are less co-operative: TVs and radios refuse to work the closer you get to Martock...folk round these parts think a mobile-phone is a...a...I don't know what a mobile-phone is.

In Yeovil, Celebrity is an abstract concept. The nearest we have to a celebrity is Adge Cutler and he's dead. Maybe he never even existed. Even Acker Bilk came from Pensford...that's 35 miles North of here, almost Bristol; it's a fucking universe away.

We have to invent our own celebrities using papier-mache, old weetabix boxes and kiddies' colouring-in crayons: imaginary pagan cookshow hosts like Craig D. Cooper who uses only the freshest, White Magick ingredients...or Beatrix Hughes, a slightly overweight middle-aged lady from East Chinnock who plays funny Pop songs on a black trumpet: they've got crappy handmade pictures of her up in the local post-office. Badly-doctored photographs of the postie's wife wearing a dress two sizes too small. Or Starry Mark, a disabled magician-cum-escapologist (he's got no legs) who only does tricks involving water...pathetic, I know, but they're all we've got: celebrities as imaginary friends.

Why shouldn't we be impressed by Jade Goody?

I expect local folk were poking her with sticks and crossing themselves w/ The Sign of The Eye when she went 'owww!'.

Went out on the bike yesterday (sunday) and accidentally rode into the book-signing of Dave Courtney, celebrity gangster...there were all these geezers hanging out in the road: shaved heads, black shirts, silver jewellery, leather coats, necks wider than their skulls: it was like a fucking episode of "The Bill" (I've seen photographs, you know)...everyone was on the phone givin' it some of that in some impenetrable rhymin' argot. So I ignored them and walked inside same as I usually do, once a week, in the vain hope that the bookshop might, one day, actually stock a different Science-Fiction book to the three that have sat on their shelves for the last six years.

Mr. Courtney was sat inside, bald and beblinged, surrounded by photographers and more of his entourage, but the shop was eerily empty...because no one around here actually believes that he exists, so they all stayed at home.