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The chronicles of Ruin, continued. Call me Ishmael said....intelligence is knowing what to do when you don't know what to do. Anonymous said... When I don't know what to do,I come here. 10 September 2009 22:59
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February
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- OSCAR FOR GERRY ADAMS
- DARING SAS RESCUE IN LIBYA
- 'QUAKE TORN KIWIS TELL CAMERON AND HAGUE: FUCK OFF...
- EVENSONG. Richie Havens "License To Kill"
- A PORTRAIT OF THE ARSEHOLE AS AY YOUNG MAN
- EVENSONG, RAGA WITH DOGBLOKE, Ravi Shankar with h...
- LIBYA: HER BRITANNIC MAJESTY REQUESTS AND REQUIRES...
- SUGARBABES. LADIES SING THE BLUES. Bonnie Raitt & ...
- LIBYA. WHAT'S BEEN DID AND WHAT'S BEEN HID?
- MORE F1 NEWS
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- FORMULA ONE NEWS, NO BAH!-RAIN PITSTOPS THIS YEAR
- HOW THE EAST WAS LOST
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- EGYPT. SKANKY SARAH GIVES IT TO YOU STRAIGHT.
- SOMETHING IS HAPPENING, BUT YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT IT...
- EVENSONG. NIGHTJACKING WITH THE BAND, TEARS OF RAGE.
- BLOGGING A DEAD HORSE. Cybersmoke gets in your eye...
- WHAT THE 'PAPERS SAY. This is from the Belfast Te...
- SONGS OF PRAISE AND STRUGGLE, GALLERY HYMNS FOR T...
- LUNATIC TO QUIT COALITION. with skymadeupnewsandf...
- MARCH LIKE AN EGYPTIAN?
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- EVENSONG. TOO MUCH OF NOTHING.
- FROM MR PT BARNUM'S CIRCUS OF SURREALITY. An upbea...
- LEARNING TO SPEAK COALITION. POOR, POOR, PITIFUL ...
- WHAT THE PAPERS SAY, skymadeupnewsandfilth on the...
- MONGOOSE SONG. Frank Ifield - She Taught Me To Yodel
- WORKERS' PLAYTIME. Stewart Lee - The Reason I hate...
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- A DENIAL OF PERSPECTIVE.
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- EGYPT. THE WORLD REACTS. TODAY, THE UNITED STATES.
- THOSE WIKILEAKS. NOW AT THE FILTH-O-GRAPH
- A MESSAGE FROM THE GREAT DICTATOR.
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February
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26 comments:
My heart
I'm confused - is this Eric Bell or Gary Moore?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TehFZ38kt6o
Saw them live but too pissed to take notice way back then.
It is a confusing tape, mr mike, but the guy with the beard is Eric Bell. I wouldn't give you tuppence for Thin Lizzy but Mr Moore, probably a cousin of this Belfast Moore, was one of those fine artisan players, like Rory Gallagher, largely ignored by showbiz, until Death briefly brings Profit's dominion. I cannot contain myself at the thought of the Lord Geldof's proclamatory eulogy, which must soon, surely, ring over the land. The fucking gabshite.
Sad news indeed. I'll bet Leslie Crowther's been dreading this moment.
Oh, how spooky. Shudder. I am at this precise moment listening to Geldof's gobbing eulogy. As expected, Mr I, although with occult overtones.
I thought Phil Lynott was the sexiest man alive when I was 13/14. Saw Mr Moore play but can't remember whether it was with Thin Lizzy or UFO. (Luckily drugs cured me of "hard rock" and expunged the memories) RIP
I found them tedious, Phil, especially, a pale, in every sense, imitation of James Marshall Hendrix and I was probably jealous of the effect he had on the likes of yourself. Whiskey In The Jar, I had known on my mother's knee - she used to blow it on mouthharp - and so I felt him doubly despicable, making pop songs of my nursery rhymes and pulling all the birds.
I was never sure what hard rock was but drugs probably cured me of it, too.
Drugs cured us of lots of what ailed us, as I recall anyway. Moore and Lizzy were the great no-shows of whatever year it was. And me shoe-horned behind the temporary bar being shouted at by what passed in Devon for bikers. We dosed them with alcohol well into the night before it became clear that t'band were not going to show. Mayhem was predicted all around but the tough guys in the South West are to be found elsewhere, and they toddled off home without too much ado. Proper Thin Lizzy fans. Lightweights.
Never mind, mr mongoose, upsetting Ms Lilith, the Flower of the West Country, what did you make of Mr Moore's extravagant Dust My Broom; can white men do the Blues?
And does anyone know the burden of Mr DTPs message? I felt that he was reporting a heart failure which carried him off, mid sentence, but I see that he is still alive elsewhere. I had a brother once who spent many years throwing the I-ching, rather than doing what good Presbyterians should - Joseph's was a life of And thus the righteous man prospers and such likes - and so I am not unaccustomed to perverse enigma and inscrutability but mr dtp's message defeats me, perhaps he, himself, will amplify it.
I would rather cut off my ears than upset Ms Lilith, Mr I. Fortunately, the citizens of the West Country are a gentle lot for the most part, soothed as they are by the availability of vast quantities of weed. The ones who pretend otherwise, to be tough guys, are by the standards of Tile Hill, and as my father would say, all piss and wind. Of occasion though the cider can take hold and I did once though have to run, if not for my life, at least to avoid a good kicking. Can't even remember why now.
Moore could certainly play and I had not heard that one. If a white man can play the blues then he was as good a one as any to do it. The problem is that a black man will just do it so much better and effortlessly so. White men seem to be making the noise but it is within the black man and seemingly wants to get out. Maybe it's because they's Boogie Chillen.
If all that makes any sense at all, which I am not sure it does. It is probably illegal these days to say such things. Alas, I am a little jaundiced with music at the moment. The children listening to trash; rap everywhere poisoning the very air. One of my periodic intervals wherein I don't seem to like anything. I must find something new. Or something old. Get me out some more of those old Hooker tunes maybe.
You could always slip Suzanne on the turntable, Mongoose..:-)x
Ah but which one, Ms Lilith?
This one?
That one's got to be better for you Mr Mongoose :-)
Oh, for heaven's sake, read a book, dig your garden, knit a work of art, polish your floorboards and your windows, volunteer as an advocate for the less fortunate, go for a swim, anything but this constant glorification of popular culture music. I've no objection to teenagers doing it - it's intended for them, after all, and they haven't sorted out their emotions, learned the truth about sex or discovered the delights of work - they haven't grown up, in other words. But when you do grow up, St. Paul suggested it was okay to put away the things of a child. Mr. Mongoose, dear, if there's no music you fancy listening to , maybe it's because you've grown up. And if you insist on wasting time listening to music, Beethoven's Ninth would cheer anybody up.
Jeez, she's only been in office five minutes and the power has gone to her head already. Anymore of that and we'll be posting Frank Ifield links again. Or maybe some Julie Felix. Or maybe some of that electric crap from when St Joni went bonkers the first time around. That's proper music, that is.
And I can't dig the blasted garden as there's still five tonnes of topsoil in the middle of it. (Yes. I know.)
Gosh, am I sounding snappy? A bit grumpish? Maybe even managerial? Well, you elected me, and you know what Lord Acton had to say about the corrupting influence of power.
I can ban you, you know, mr mongoose, for mentioning Julie Felix round here.
Did I miss DA-G Agatha's election? I thought she had self-appointed! Were there other elections? Where have I been? And who am I? I am losing the plot... If we can have Frank Ifield, are we also going to get Slim Whitman?
Perhaps, like Lord Mandelson, she was just born to govern; she may be the DA-G but you are the Mr PTB, far more distinguished, in my view; isn't that enough? Slim Whitman it shall be, Mr Ifield's inspiration.
I strongly suggest you don't try knitting, unless you are already Ms Lilith.
Having gone to the trouble of creating a pair or leg warmers, I now find that they don't work if you can't get your feet through the bottom. That is only a desirable feature with socks and for them to work properly it helps if you can turn heels.
I've sewn a small part of the bottom edges of the tubes together to make thumb-holes and have passed them off as arm-warmers, but it's really not very satisfactory. It looks like two enormous woolly mammoths are trying to suck my arms off. The shade of brown doesn't help.
I hope Frank Ifield doesn't catch me looking like this.
Oh pshaw, Mr. I, I'm e-blushing, while smiling at Mrs WOAR's image of her trunk-festooned arms. If she were to applique eyes in appropriate places she could pretend to be wielding two snakes and then fewer people will laugh.
Splendid Mrs WOAR! I am sticking to crochet on account of the fact you only have to keep one stitch on the needle at a time....I find with knitting they are inclined to slide off and get lost. I have just finished a hat in beautiful red alpaca that makes any wearer look like a tomato (instead of sophisticated which was the plan). I am going to put a stalk and leaf on the top.
Ingenious. Turds with eyes. Why, thank you Mr Barnum, one picture of that and I'll probably win the Turner Prize if Mrs Lilith doesn't scoop it with her head-vegetables.
I could do one where I wrap my arms round a CCTV pole and and entitle it 'Modern Medicine'.
C'mon, Lil, let's go form a sacreligious tableau called: And the elephant spake unto Lilith, saying "Eat thou of this tomato' and claim it is a critical commentary in honour of the 400th birthday of the KJV.
It's good enough for that elephant dung bloke and he's worth a fortune. I 'ad that Tracey Emin on the back of the raft once. But then so did everyone.
Yes Mrs Woar, a splendid idea. After all, leaving the action to snakes and apples is discriminatory and denies the aspirations of elephants, tomatoes and turds with eyes.
Meet the New Gilbert and George.... Lilith and Mrs WOAR, coming to a gallery near you soon. Reasonable rates. Air fresheners available. (PS I can do a nice line in postmodernist, poststructuralist, postfeminist, posthistory, postart speil, if you need a ghost in the machine.)
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