Good evening Sir.
Man, that whole living in the middle of nowhere shit sounds amazing. I would genuinely LOVE to be cut off from pop culture for a while. I'm managing to hide from the Dumbness as well as I usually do, but actually being holed up in some yokels farmyard, milking she-goats, in a hideously inbred slipstream of New South Wales, would take some serious beating. Total Isolation. Absolute clarity; pure and unsullied by Big Bother series fifty-seven and the Doom & Terror double act currently playing the News Channels, like a militant-Islamic version of the Broadway classic “Cats”, for a minimum saturation of 27 hours per day. And if they’re not telling you that terrorists plan to gag and rape you, they’re telling you that you’re still fucked because the economy is dropping to its knees to give birth to a cosmic shit-bomb of universal proportions. My precious economy. Fucked like an Amsterdam whore and left sodden and gaping in the corner of an exclusive members-only backstreet dungeon, where the only sounds are the screams of erotic vigour from fat corporate businessmen and forceful Pimps.
Indeed, the blog was a good idea. It means that I can actually look back on some vintage and ageing splaffs. I found the title picture on an old fashioned trawl, I believe the perverted youth of today call it a "Google Search", or something along those debauched lines. So, after taking a fancy to someone else’s artwork, I scrawled the writing in on a bootleg copy of Photo Shop Pro Version 4.2. Meandering Thoughts On A Night Without Stars; a phrase which I believe could also be used as a metaphor for dreaming. An idiom which, if you ascribe to progressive Jungian psychology as much as I do, is always handy if you’re ever physically or spiritually cornered by someone whom you would sooner feltch your own grandfather than actually talk to for any period of time. In these sorts of deeply terminal instances, simply throw the shards of that Universal Fact at the perpetrator and all but the most criminally insane will immediately and abruptly cease with the pseudo-socialising horse-shit. They will then bolt off, like a prowling Hyena will when it’s faced with a large and hungry pride of lions at the latest Caribou Buffet. And not a second too soon. And all of this infinite and deeply buried beauty is wrapped in the same typewriter font as the Hunter Stockton Thompson tattoo situated on my lower spine. I have been known to enjoy the circularity of such truths. And yes, we're still talking graphic design. It was never this fun in Art Class.
You need to get me those lyrics you’ve been writing in-between hammering nails and hammering your cock in zero-pussy aboriginal outback farm communities. “Bring out the lambs Hector”. “But Donald, they’re no ready yet”! “Keech Hector, I’m a ginger-haired horn-bag and I want to split some live flesh. Bring the little fuckers out”… Sweet Afro-Jesus! That last image I just laid on you was probably as low as it’s humanly possible to go within the heavy limitations of the written word. You’ve not resorted to splitting live meat have you? Anyways, I digress. Let’s get back on the tightrope. Ah yes, I may even write a few things down myself, having seen your lyrics, and we could create some sort of cross-Pacific duet: Thom Yorke, Terrence McKenna, Yo La Tenga, Boards of Canada, Bob Dylan, John Lennon, Immortal Technique, The Spirit of Gonzo, Streaming Consciousness, William Melvin Hicks, etc, all wrapped into a tight ball of Scottish Borders folk-emo-sledgehammer-rave. Some may say that’s a very specific genre I'm aiming at, and many brain-dead fuck-mules have already voiced concerns that the niche market simply isn't there. However, I'm confident we could create something to rival an evolved version of The Crankies, or at the bare minimum Dave Benson Phillips, of British terrestrial TV’s “Get Your Own Back”, tripping balls and discovering The Language of Reality on an experienced voyager’s dose of dimethyltryptamine.
In other equally important realms of reality, I'm reading a quality book at the minute. It’s beautiful stuff actually. Entitled "The Alchemist" and penned by a guy called Paulo Coelho. I'd highly recommend you read it, particularly given your current circumstances. Take it all in before you have to once again face day-to-day life, whenever (if ever) that may be, and I guarantee you'll be epically thankful you did. Here, to whet your proverbial whistle, is a pre-read aperitif:
"Tell your heart that the fear of suffering is worse than the suffering itself. And no heart has ever suffered when it goes in search of its dream...When someone makes a decision, he is really diving into a strong current that will carry him to places he had never dreamed of when he first made the decision”.
So, jump in the river, Cleatus. Let’s take a swim.
Some half-mad Brazilian fucker wrote it. I've yet to finish the book, but I'm sure my thoughts on it will be even more elaborate and glowing in their positivity by the time I do. A dark veil has been lifted. Like your solitary confinement, this shit is good for the Soul. And the two in sync would be like getting head from an Angel - wet, sticky, and with zero risk of orally transmitted venereal infections. The sort of promiscuous semi-religious encounter you know, deep in your soul, will never be topped, how ever many sleazy Thai bars and low-rent bordello's you visit in the downward spiral of later years. And when young flesh turns to dust, and dust turns to infinite possibility, all you are left with is an indelibly scorched memory, fractal, rose tinted and smelling vaguely of freshly cut grass and innocence of mind.
Man, that whole living in the middle of nowhere shit sounds amazing. I would genuinely LOVE to be cut off from pop culture for a while. I'm managing to hide from the Dumbness as well as I usually do, but actually being holed up in some yokels farmyard, milking she-goats, in a hideously inbred slipstream of New South Wales, would take some serious beating. Total Isolation. Absolute clarity; pure and unsullied by Big Bother series fifty-seven and the Doom & Terror double act currently playing the News Channels, like a militant-Islamic version of the Broadway classic “Cats”, for a minimum saturation of 27 hours per day. And if they’re not telling you that terrorists plan to gag and rape you, they’re telling you that you’re still fucked because the economy is dropping to its knees to give birth to a cosmic shit-bomb of universal proportions. My precious economy. Fucked like an Amsterdam whore and left sodden and gaping in the corner of an exclusive members-only backstreet dungeon, where the only sounds are the screams of erotic vigour from fat corporate businessmen and forceful Pimps.
Indeed, the blog was a good idea. It means that I can actually look back on some vintage and ageing splaffs. I found the title picture on an old fashioned trawl, I believe the perverted youth of today call it a "Google Search", or something along those debauched lines. So, after taking a fancy to someone else’s artwork, I scrawled the writing in on a bootleg copy of Photo Shop Pro Version 4.2. Meandering Thoughts On A Night Without Stars; a phrase which I believe could also be used as a metaphor for dreaming. An idiom which, if you ascribe to progressive Jungian psychology as much as I do, is always handy if you’re ever physically or spiritually cornered by someone whom you would sooner feltch your own grandfather than actually talk to for any period of time. In these sorts of deeply terminal instances, simply throw the shards of that Universal Fact at the perpetrator and all but the most criminally insane will immediately and abruptly cease with the pseudo-socialising horse-shit. They will then bolt off, like a prowling Hyena will when it’s faced with a large and hungry pride of lions at the latest Caribou Buffet. And not a second too soon. And all of this infinite and deeply buried beauty is wrapped in the same typewriter font as the Hunter Stockton Thompson tattoo situated on my lower spine. I have been known to enjoy the circularity of such truths. And yes, we're still talking graphic design. It was never this fun in Art Class.
You need to get me those lyrics you’ve been writing in-between hammering nails and hammering your cock in zero-pussy aboriginal outback farm communities. “Bring out the lambs Hector”. “But Donald, they’re no ready yet”! “Keech Hector, I’m a ginger-haired horn-bag and I want to split some live flesh. Bring the little fuckers out”… Sweet Afro-Jesus! That last image I just laid on you was probably as low as it’s humanly possible to go within the heavy limitations of the written word. You’ve not resorted to splitting live meat have you? Anyways, I digress. Let’s get back on the tightrope. Ah yes, I may even write a few things down myself, having seen your lyrics, and we could create some sort of cross-Pacific duet: Thom Yorke, Terrence McKenna, Yo La Tenga, Boards of Canada, Bob Dylan, John Lennon, Immortal Technique, The Spirit of Gonzo, Streaming Consciousness, William Melvin Hicks, etc, all wrapped into a tight ball of Scottish Borders folk-emo-sledgehammer-rave. Some may say that’s a very specific genre I'm aiming at, and many brain-dead fuck-mules have already voiced concerns that the niche market simply isn't there. However, I'm confident we could create something to rival an evolved version of The Crankies, or at the bare minimum Dave Benson Phillips, of British terrestrial TV’s “Get Your Own Back”, tripping balls and discovering The Language of Reality on an experienced voyager’s dose of dimethyltryptamine.
In other equally important realms of reality, I'm reading a quality book at the minute. It’s beautiful stuff actually. Entitled "The Alchemist" and penned by a guy called Paulo Coelho. I'd highly recommend you read it, particularly given your current circumstances. Take it all in before you have to once again face day-to-day life, whenever (if ever) that may be, and I guarantee you'll be epically thankful you did. Here, to whet your proverbial whistle, is a pre-read aperitif:
"Tell your heart that the fear of suffering is worse than the suffering itself. And no heart has ever suffered when it goes in search of its dream...When someone makes a decision, he is really diving into a strong current that will carry him to places he had never dreamed of when he first made the decision”.
So, jump in the river, Cleatus. Let’s take a swim.
Some half-mad Brazilian fucker wrote it. I've yet to finish the book, but I'm sure my thoughts on it will be even more elaborate and glowing in their positivity by the time I do. A dark veil has been lifted. Like your solitary confinement, this shit is good for the Soul. And the two in sync would be like getting head from an Angel - wet, sticky, and with zero risk of orally transmitted venereal infections. The sort of promiscuous semi-religious encounter you know, deep in your soul, will never be topped, how ever many sleazy Thai bars and low-rent bordello's you visit in the downward spiral of later years. And when young flesh turns to dust, and dust turns to infinite possibility, all you are left with is an indelibly scorched memory, fractal, rose tinted and smelling vaguely of freshly cut grass and innocence of mind.
The square roof of fuck all happened at the recent wedding of the Son of Denny. It was quite a boring affair actually. They had a band who insisted on playing the Dashing White Sergeant on a scarily regular basis. I thought I was listening to Frankie Mallen’s Caledonian step-cousins at one point. Fiddles, a poorly tuned acoustic guitar, and a guy, who looked like he may have recently been added to the Suns list of “Officially Confirmed Paedophiles”, posing as Bez from a Scottish Highlands incarnation of the Happy Mondays. Merely swapping the drugs for a questionable form of "talent". Indeed, it would be fair to say I didn’t quite dig the beats. I suspect big Denny had more than a hand in the bands appointment. He was moving like you used to at the sweat-soaked peak of a swedged breakdown of drums and synths. Total euphoria and with little care for Monday morning. In passing, let me just confirm I'm not suggesting that the father of the groom was on illicit chemicals, but merely announcing the possibility of such a scenario having occurred, taking into account the evidence, all in an impressively French Detective Poirot style of semi-educated bluff. Denny is a long-time crack whore. There we have it. Case closed.
Moving on now, and although the drug-fuelled highland disco was disheartening, the company was splendid. I was able to ignore Peeps on several different occasions before he actually cornered me. It was reassuring to see he still resembles a well-trained fascist mole, and did indeed, as previously implied, flee like an outranked Hyena when the Universal Truth was fired point-blank at his strangely blue-veined temple.
Another apex of the night was when Reidy treated one-and-all to his version of "Unchained Melody", that much-loved classic from those musical deities Robson & Jerome. This is when we left. I didn't even bother finishing my drink. There was no point. I was already on the cusp of a vicious reaction to this 4-foot Gremlin spewing his lungs out on stage, all the while being acoustically backed by a group of men who were either half-Jacobite/half-Road Sweep or slouched drunk and naked across their own instruments.
So, after much confusion in a surprisingly dark field, I made for the Sporty, or the more contemporarily entitled “Gee-Twae”, where I was greeted at the entrance by Semzie. He requested the entry charge like a battle hardened Troll guarding the only bridge to the middle island of some sleazy little shooting-gallery. And yes, the Sporty is exactly how I remembered it. Gillian Herringshaw perched on the first booth to the left, the same confused die-hards propping up the bar, sweat on the walls, vomit on the floor, and the sickly scent of terminal failure fresh in the air. No hope, no future, and no decent lager on tap. I was back in the place I had known so well throughout the near-constant masturbatory state of my youth, and it had gone to shit quicker than a Hiroshima Dog Pound circa 8:15am, August 6th, 1945. It was a sad state of affairs, but the Enola Gay had long ago passed over this barren wasteland of local uglies and drunks… I’m going to submit that last bit to the Southern Reporter as a review of the local Kelso nightlife. Can you imagine if they actually printed that filth? Ha! What a fucking hoot Thursday’s would be if we had a local press willing to rip at the very fabric of reality with such inherently true and dangerously vivid social assessments.
Having taken as much Britney Spears and watered-down no-brand tequila as I could emotionally handle, we left somewhat promptly, where we made our way to the Guthries abode in order to greet the returning voyagers. Hours were spent necking pints of J.D. and being regaled with stories of Thai mushroom use and the best places to get fucked up on grade-A Peruvian Snow... All in a days work, I thought, as I caressed a fine collection of porcelain figurines Mrs Guthrie must’ve collected over her years as a librarian in a governmentally funded educational establishment. Christ, three long-ish words and I’ve seemingly turned my local high school into an Orwellian nightmare. Doe Or Die...
I ended the night, after a cursory hour or so of mild sleep (not yet in full tonic R.E.M., but tempting Michael Stipe in with a few honey coated Nytol pills), by vomiting at 6am, dead-straight into the family homes newly installed vitreous china Armitage Shanks close-coupled W/C. An appropriate way to end such a night, I'm sure you will agree.
Anyway man, I gotta split, I think there may be a terrorist or a banker at the door and I can't remember which one I'm meant to be scared of the most, so I'll take my chances and fire at both.
Wish Me Luck
Peash
P.S. Mind that fucking book...
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