Thursday, November 29, 2007

Deer godbeaders,

Sorry, sorry.....

beer dogleaders,

er.. sorry.. hang on....

Drear logbleeders..



Fucking Christmas. I'll give you Kissmass Krissy's under the grizzledtoad, alright.



In a moment of drunken inspiration* I've created this**, a repository, a reliquary if you will for the ghosts of stories past, present and yet to come... leaving the impostume free to be filled up with P.O.O.S (pontificating of other sorts). First one up is an old one.. written about twelve years ago.. but connected with the Naked bit below.

Flunking Gristpath...

I mean..

Crunking fistmass...

and a Hah, Bumbug! to you all

*yeah, no, alright SORRY I'm not really drunk. I've been sniffing Tippex and rubbing creosote on my gums round the back of Maze Hill station with some mates from my Thursday night Macrame course, actually

** if anyone can think of a more industry-friendly name for the blog, by all means let me know.

1 comment:

Dominic said...

The industry loves you, and knows you don't mean it.

You'll have read this:

"Whenever I talk to a band who are about to sign with a major label, I always end up thinking of them in a particular context. I imagine a trench, about four feet wide and five feet deep, maybe sixty yards long, filled with runny, decaying shit. I imagine these people, some of them good friends, some of them barely acquaintances, at one end of this trench. I also imagine a faceless industry lackey at the other end, holding a fountain pen and a contract waiting to be signed.

Nobody can see what's printed on the contract. It's too far away, and besides, the shit stench is making everybody's eyes water. The lackey shouts to everybody that the first one to swim the trench gets to sign the contract. Everybody dives in the trench and they struggle furiously to get to the other end. Two people arrive simultaneously and begin wrestling furiously, clawing each other and dunking each other under the shit. Eventually, one of them capitulates, and there's only one contestant left. He reaches for the pen, but the Lackey says, 'Actually, I think you need a little more development. Swim it again, please. Backstroke.'

And he does, of course. "