The delights of MTVTwo, which I've neglected quite so far bit the last couple of years, are tickling my kumquats again at the moment.
Tilly & The Wall, OK. (Didn't they play instruments by kicking brick walls and sheets of steel?) Oh, dear - now some of that would-be angular stuff from Thomas Tantrum that sounds like it's after rolling bored out of some photobooth in a branch of TopShop or something. Sliding vocals, lumpen snare, tinkly pickled guitar sound... There's a sigh in my hearts and lungs the size and consistency of a broccolum.
Other than that a little Hammer aktion this evening. We've no gigs coming up in the foreseeable so we're doing a bit of writing. "Donkey Duty" it is called. Well, so far. It started out sounding quite like an Ian Dury/Stevie Wonder bleed-up, and some words about novels moving around under my skin and alphabetti on my breath. I quite like those. Goatboy has been throwing some words about pissing on bonfires as well. It all promises.
Before that my car-key declared some kind of resistance, by firstly - almostly impossibly - locking me out of my lovably dilapidated Honda Concerto - almost 18. (Key to the door, ironically enough). The AA came and sorted it out, as they were bidden. Then when I went back to the car when I got home, having left my phone on the passenger seat, the key broke in my tremulous fingers. Is this some Final Destination bullshit? I hope not, non-readers; really I do.
I'm hungry...
Your pal, Coc x
Showing posts with label delicate hammers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label delicate hammers. Show all posts
Tuesday, 25 November 2008
Friday, 21 November 2008
Brain Atrophied ...Last Hope ... If I Can Just ... Write!
Achtung, cyfeillion!
My ever-expanding, ever-diluting attempt to disease further unseen corners of the interweb continues. You, reader (and I use that very much in the singular sense), are the unfortunate witness.
Frustration at the technical difficulties with www.grouphug.org have driven me to user-friendlier shores, as has an apparent phobia at picking up a pen and spitting biro thoughts onto my once-faithful A4 narrow feint art shop pads.
Transition is the flavour of my month. One job is almost into its last fortnight after nearly nine years of scrabbling with raw fingertips and bloodied synapses at the living rockface of retail. No alternative career has leapt up to take its shadowy place. 'Dolig ar y dol, hogiau!
Music journalism was the preferred choice of choice, but all enthusiasm in the engine has dipped, and I haven't written a review for anything since a particularly stimulating Bad Uncle (www.myspace.com/badunclemusic) in Fallowfield at the beginning of the summer. Starts need to be kicked, tackle baited. You know the picture. This benighted burg is crawling with people with more detailed, more passionate and better-fleshed opinions than mine, and while I can put one word in front of another reasonably successfully, I think I lack the tang in my spine to take it to the wrassle-mat.
I've also thought about going into counselling. I went in through the front door a couple of years ago, and it did me a whole lot of good. The tradesmen's entrance appeals, but not in the smutty sense. All that painting brown doors white. It sounds far too much like hard work. Cuddles and yielding pink, that's what I'm about. And prevarification.
My dream job would be some kind of music broadcasting, throwing gargantuan versions of my aesthetic decisions against the airwaves like shadow puppets during a lecture on double entry book-keeping. I've dabbled a bit with a couple of piratical podcasts (www.mediafire.com?iiyiziomntw), but as soon as they are finished, I cringe at choices and cannot listen to them. I need the Tarantino geek self-belief. But I can live without the distended forehead. I already have the largest skull of anyone I've ever met.
Contentment lurks somewhere, but he's an elusive cunt.
That is all.
For now.
Your pal, Coc x
My ever-expanding, ever-diluting attempt to disease further unseen corners of the interweb continues. You, reader (and I use that very much in the singular sense), are the unfortunate witness.
Frustration at the technical difficulties with www.grouphug.org have driven me to user-friendlier shores, as has an apparent phobia at picking up a pen and spitting biro thoughts onto my once-faithful A4 narrow feint art shop pads.
Transition is the flavour of my month. One job is almost into its last fortnight after nearly nine years of scrabbling with raw fingertips and bloodied synapses at the living rockface of retail. No alternative career has leapt up to take its shadowy place. 'Dolig ar y dol, hogiau!
Music journalism was the preferred choice of choice, but all enthusiasm in the engine has dipped, and I haven't written a review for anything since a particularly stimulating Bad Uncle (www.myspace.com/badunclemusic) in Fallowfield at the beginning of the summer. Starts need to be kicked, tackle baited. You know the picture. This benighted burg is crawling with people with more detailed, more passionate and better-fleshed opinions than mine, and while I can put one word in front of another reasonably successfully, I think I lack the tang in my spine to take it to the wrassle-mat.
I've also thought about going into counselling. I went in through the front door a couple of years ago, and it did me a whole lot of good. The tradesmen's entrance appeals, but not in the smutty sense. All that painting brown doors white. It sounds far too much like hard work. Cuddles and yielding pink, that's what I'm about. And prevarification.
My dream job would be some kind of music broadcasting, throwing gargantuan versions of my aesthetic decisions against the airwaves like shadow puppets during a lecture on double entry book-keeping. I've dabbled a bit with a couple of piratical podcasts (www.mediafire.com?iiyiziomntw), but as soon as they are finished, I cringe at choices and cannot listen to them. I need the Tarantino geek self-belief. But I can live without the distended forehead. I already have the largest skull of anyone I've ever met.
Contentment lurks somewhere, but he's an elusive cunt.
That is all.
For now.
Your pal, Coc x
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