Wednesday, 17 December 2014

Quite Some Rush

I am ferociously excited to announce a big new thing:

A 16-page book and 7" record package, being a three-voiced written, illustrated, soundtracked-and-jackanoried seasonal story, entitled Tinselsnakes and featuring the vocals of B. Dolan, the music of Buddy Peace, and the illustrations of Sarah Inkymole Coleman.

Right now the audio's a free download, and as soon as someone punches the big green button in the pressing plant, the whole package'll be available, for yourself and your friends and your children's children's children, etc.

The website is here. It has details.

The people if y'didn't know:

B.Dolan did this about houses and this about names.

Buddy Peace did this about Tom Waits and this about pudding.

Sarah did this about To Kill A Mockingbird and this about Copper Gone.

I've admired all these people for years and it's amazing to hear and see what they did with the words.

As soon as the whole thing's available I'll crash a foghorn into your life. Until then enjoy the audio and thanks and thanks again for your time.

Monday, 8 December 2014

Great Satan's Sunday

We missed the bridge's birthday. There was a competition, nine billion years ago, to design it, and when the person who wanted to win the most didn't win, he gently suggested the judges reconsider their verdict, then won. Some money might've changed hands. This is either speculation or what happened. I did all my research years ago, in five minutes, on a hungover visit to the bridge's then-new informative shed, consider all this unverified, as per, I never let my conclusions get hoodwinked by the truth. And I'm more of a tunnels man, anyway, but they're much harder to spot, and tend not to celebrate their zero years with explosive flamboyance.
We were fifty corners away hearing the fireworks while watching the people watch the TV. I like watching the people watch the TV. There should be a show where you watch people do the crossword. There should be an advert that if we're going to have to see it four times in an hour is different every time. There should be a publicly-funded broadcaster that doesn't spend all day advertising a Bond film. 

Saturday, 29 November 2014

The Mechanics of Collective Consultation

[spare me the specifics] it's basically March tomorrow, which is when the contract ends, which is why I'm tobogganing through the application process in a slightly dishonest helmet, hoping at the end there'll be a lake of gold or at least a [if you say sandwich one more time on this thing I'm cancelling my subscription and giving you a taste of my fist (is it possible what you think is a lack of imagination is really a focus?) I, if it was a focus, no, I'm not getting into this, a focus would be a great help, in most of your areas, you could admit that, in your applications, when they ask for your most appealing lack, though you'd have to doff the helmet, as it were, which'd be dangerous, while you still don't know what's at the end of the chute] bucket of hot peanuts with my name on it. The walls of the chute are festooned with rejection notices, slightly like tube station escalator adverts minus the electric hyperbole. It's good to have something to look at.

Sunday, 23 November 2014

Okay But We'll Have To Discuss

Here is what to do on Monday December 1st in Leicester: See Buddy Wakefield in a large old bright arcade. He's been on tour for the past three hundred days. He'll big you up. He'll redeem all your coupons and put diamonds in your cupboards. He has lasers for eyes.
Local support will involve three voices voicing a three-voiced thing I wrote. I can't be there to see this happen but I am excited about it and maybe you can go instead and tell me how it went, please, thanks.
Buddy is also in Bristol on December 3rd at The Birdcage, and most of the other places in the UK afterwards. Have a look at the tour. See him. He's good.
 

Saturday, 15 November 2014

Less To Go Wrong

I went to Liverpool to learn more about how to help people respond to failures in managerial procedure. Fleetwood Mac were playing as I wrote notes in a modern wood/pork boozer on the following. [Jesus, you write notes for these things -  yes - and then type them up, later - yes - that's a lot of effort - not really - for not very much - yes]. If I had to introduce a fictional musical accompaniment that embodied the concept of error, I thought, it would be them, but luckily, unhappily, there they already were. One of the two other customers loudly asked me and the bar staff if we thought he gave a shit. About anything. My no was lost beneath that song about going your own way's insufferably well-recorded slop. The other of the two other customers was saying vacate, vacate. Vacate, vacate. It was possible that both these people were finally taking a stand against the cultural atrocities regularly delivered by this band, who I feel've lately, and also my whole life, been lurking amongst almost every public playlist, like hairs in a sandwich, which people tell you you're overreacting to when you spit them out, either through a lack of good judgement, or the wish to appear different, and both of these are things you will outgrow eventually, until, like the rest of everybody, you will admit that before this group came along, the entirety of human musical endeavour was undeniably lacking a pinnacle, and you will then start ordering sandwiches that consist entirely of hair, for delivery, nightly, to your plateau of refinement, for you to enjoy with a straight face and the usual vague but persistent thoughts about getting something done someday, so it's no use insisting that the thought of this band induces panic, the sight of them induces nausea, and the sound of them induces terminal emphysema, because you'll be like all the rest of us soon enough, us for whom not a hint of insincerity could come anywhere near our professions of love for these gutsy and melodic leviathans, and [you should've stopped at emphysema, we think - alright - there's a distinct negative bias to this whimsical bile that seems quite unwarranted - that's all I've got - right, but, please, onward, to more pressing matters].
I did a radio show the other week you can listen to here. There's nothing wrong with it.

Wednesday, 5 November 2014

Manual Handling

Would you mind, I said, at all, if I have a listen to your conversation so if it's any good I can reproduce it when I sit down later and try to think of something interesting to write about, which is certainly not the best way to proceed, I know, if proceeding's what you want to do, in that particular realm, but bad habits do drown thrashing, as they say, don't they, or something, almost, or I've failed once again to seize clarity by the arse, and to turn this lack to my advantage, which, I'm led to believe, is a trick I ought to be able to dazzle myself with, regularly, by now, much like I dazzle myself whenever I discover I've left the house in clothing appropriate to the season, and carrying all the items I might want or be required to produce, to boot, which is about sixty percent of the time, I'd say, if pressed, under oath, or exactly one hundred percent, if asked by an online form to list the behaviours and preferences that might help my application, for the position of vacillating supplicant, to the virile and delicious institution of whoever's offering me a bit more money or sanity, they don't half corkscrew deep these days, these application forms, you know, it's no longer enough just to say you own an alarm clock and your carpal tunnels are peachy keen, they want to know what kind of thoughts you're trying to avoid and how successful you've been in doing that, though I don't spose you need to hear that from me.

Thursday, 23 October 2014

Fine, I'll Tell Him

Some people don't use the underpass on the way to work. They don't save any time by doing this. It's large and arena-like, with indirect paths, but on the roads above they have to wait for a gap in 40mph traffic, and get through it without the help of stop signs or pedestrian pomp. There's a story going round I haven't heard.

A man rapped his head off right in front of us. It tumbled to the front of the stage and was picked up and passed, rhyming the whole time, between three hundred pairs of hands raised high in disbelief. His body stayed onstage in a floor-length black gown, shimmying and jerking with a microphone held to its neck.