Aussiegate

Here I come again , cap in sweaty hands, shuffling my feet in grovelling apology.

I'm sorry Australia. The post I wrote yesterday came from a very bad place. I was seeing the black dog. I couldn't believe that anyone could love or even care about a city, such is my general frustration and boredom with wandering around strange ones. I directed this feeling towards the cities I've most recently been in rather than creating a post about my desire to live in a moderately spacious cave subsisting on rabbits, seagulls and strangely nutritious rock-slime. But then last night it occurred to me how much I loved my own adopted city and it made me realise the error of my ways. I tend not to think about my actions or words until the damage is done, which is something I'm working on. Most importantly, to save my relationship with my girlfriend, the love of my life.

Until I hit publish I thought I'd been pretty even-handed and, apart from that obvious joke about racist rednecks with insular views, I tried to avoid bashing the Aussie people. I was pretty bitchy about the backpackers cluttering up the place and spreading their own brand of free love but well... they deserve it. But, live and let live is generally my motto. I just didn't get enough sunlight yesterday and I miss my gal something terrible.

So yeah, my apologies if I've hurt or offended anyone. It really wasn't my intention. Stay tuned for a post about why Santa hates us all and the castigation of the Easter bunny.

You just wouldn't, would you?

Yes, it's low brow. But I'm worried about offending my Australian reader and I wanted to make up for it the only way I know how. With a low-brow casually-racist sightgag.

BYO what, I wonder? *Barumptiss* Thanks folks, I'm here all month, try the kangarooveal.

Talking to myself again/ This time I think I'm getting through.

NOTE: I'm not having a pop at Australians in this post in any way whatsoever. You're all lovely racist fag-hating rednecks and I wholly respect your insular views. hohoho.

I've been wrestling with this post for a few days now, but everything I write comes across as bitter and depressing. Nothing new there, you say. Yeah, yeah, everyone's a critic.

So, as I don't want to come across as city-bashing, let's just say I feel we're being fed lies about Australia and we're eating them up. Welcome to little America, yo.*

See, to me, this isn't European architecture at all. Yes, it may be built by Europeans, but Melbourne is built on a grid like so many of the mix and match cities in North America that I've stumbled around in a haze. Walking around Fitzroy, I was reminded of struggling up Haight-Ashbury, with it's college-fund crusties clutching their sleeping bags and checking their Amex balance on their I-phones. I got the feeling the inhabitants of Melbourne are anti-tourist, in a way- they've seen what can happen and they don't want it there. They've developed their own scenes with their own uniforms and they don't want outsiders. Like New York or LA, none of the good bars have signs. They're all in basements or 2 storeys up.Fitzroy's no.1 murder-shack, as voted by Ted Bundy

Sadly, even though I was there for 2 weeks, I had no time to be any more than a tourist. Just take a snap of the thing you've seen a thousand pictures of already and get back on the bus. I don't have the time to scour the backstreets hunting for a shit-hot jazz bar. Or the inclination, now I think about it. Ugh, jazz.

I'm in Sydney now. Far more tourism-friendly. Or tolerant, or savvy or whatever. Far more tourists anyway. I took a pleasant and occasionally exhilarating ferry-trip into town from the Olympic Park, past the operahouse and a big version of the Tyne Bridge, which I looked at every day for 5 blurry years as a full-time booze hound, part-time bar manager.

But most importantly I saw Russell Crowe's house! The Crowebar!! I was fucking buzzed. The buildings are much higher, the taxis louder, the crowds bigger and more aggressive. People actually look worried here as they're waiting to cross the street. Walking through The Rocks I got more of a sense of the 'old'- this was where all the whoring and fighting went on, the site of Sydney's (or Australia's?) oldest pub, the first fleet pub opened in 1828. None of the controlled, claustrophobic insanity of the city here. The harbours are fully fledged tourist meccas, the blueprint for my very own Quayside and countless other industrial cities who are losing one of their main sources of employment. Baltimore, I'm looking in your direction. For the 35 days I'll spend here in Australia, I reckon I've used up my 3 days off already, so I took the decision to see some indigenous animals any way I could. There's just no time for day-trips anywhere. I've had more than one soaking and seen a few thunderstorms. And I only brought my leather jacket and a trackie top. So much for summer.Don't get me wrong, I like the place. The people are really friendly and polite but not to the point of insincerity like some parts of the US. I feel I could tell someone to fuck off here and get a worse insult back, without it ending in tears or a gunfight. I reckon there is more animosity towards America here than in the UK, not because they are more different but because they're more similar. *ahem displacement of indigenous peoples cough cough*

Again, this post doesn't have a point really, so I'm going to sum up with something I didn't have in my head until 5 minutes ago. Ready?

Back in 2002 my girlfriend at the time came here for a year. She wanted me to come out but I had no desire to restart our relationship. She made her money in stripclubs and doing photoshoots for a less-classy version of Nuts. I know, I didn't think it possible either. Let's say, less polished. And with muff-shots. From what I can gather, the highlights of her trip were lacerating her friend's eye with a stiletto heel during an argument, and getting nailed by 3 guys at the same time. I believe it's called a fourgy. All Brits, I might add. Backpackers mostly stick to their own. I'm sure that story has appeared in the lads' mags over the last few years.

Anyway, what I'm getting at is that a lot of people come here looking for a dream. They come back with some photos, a swollen liver and very likely an STI.

1, check, 2, check 3, no thanks, I'll pass.

* It may be bigger. I may check. In which case, welcome to Big-Little America, yo.

New Developments

The Thompsonator has news. I'm in Australia. It's not as warm as you'd think. I'm dodging the barbers for a while. I'm getting hairier in general.

However, all that is filler. I have real life-changing news.....

I've got Take That tickets!!

No, not really. Some would say it's a miracle it hasn't happened before now. I always thought it was due to the fact that I used to eat those bits of metal that rattled around in Tippex pens at school. That and all those naughty chemicals and toxins I used to dump inside myself. So I was pretty surprised when my girlfriend's tummypains revealed this...

So there you go, dear reader. I am standing on the edge of the cliff. The closer we get to the big day (April 20th; look it up, morbid fact-fans!) the more excited (and the less financially stable) I get. I never expected to get so involved in testing out which pram-frame can be folded with one hand whilst powdering a baby's bum with the other and looking cool in the process. Seriously, if you haven't looked at prams lately, you'll be surprised at the technological advancements. It was like Back to The Future. But with really helpful Mumsy shop-assistants.

I've kept a lid on it, so as to avoid spilling the beans to people I had a chance of seeing before they bumped into me and my lady, looking like we'd just stolen one of those fitness-balls from JD Sports.

Fucking good fun, they are.

So, yeah, time to grow up. A little bit. I may not act like it all the time, but I know this; I'm having kids with the right person and I only hope she can put up with me.

If this is what God does to baby ducks...

There's nothing like rounding off a punishing 40-day tour schedule with a relaxing trip to the park, right? Back in Maastricht, my work completed, I wandered to the spot where my girlfriend and I took our first heavenly picnic to soak up some sunshine, some nature, some general good vibes. Germany and the lowlands had received a barrage of rain in the previous days, but today (that day, obviously; I'm mixing tenses to keep you on you toes/piss you off/I'm just fucking lazy and a sloppy writer, ok?) the sun was out, I had 5 weeks off with my girlfriend to look forward to, and I didn't feel like I was about to get fired.

So when this happy family paddled into view, I was pretty ecstatic. As ecstatic as a grown-ass man with a drink problem can be at the sight of a mama-duck and her clutch of fluffy-cute balls of chirpy happiness can be, anyway. I fumbled for my camera, exhausted the angles and leant back against my tree like a modern-day Donovan Leitch as the procession of adorableness moved back upriver, out of sight.

Then, in the corner of my eye, a flash of yellow-green at the lip of the weir. I scanned the edge for sign. My fears were soon confirmed when I saw a tiny duckling struggling to get back over the lip of what to him must have seemed like a waterfall. Trying with all his tiny might to be reunited with his family, who were slowly picking their way upriver from whence they'd come. The duckling continued in his efforts, but he was actually faster with his body out of the water, like a scrabbling Jesus, than trying to swim with his tiny webbed feet. I got a shot of his efforts and, my journalistic appetite whetted, sensed my first photo-story.
You'll have to enlarge this one...

I'm hamming this up unbelievably, aren't I? Well, tough. The stranded duckling changed tactics, switching sides of the river by actually dashing right across the weir to the more rocky, exposed bank. But to no avail. I tried to coax the mama-duck and her remaining herd back down river, hoping she would aid her little MIA charge. But it proved fruitless. I assumed she'd given up on him as soon as he'd drifted over the edge, and moved away to prevent any further losses. But the little duckling kept trying, for almost an hour. His family had long since meandered around the bend, and I knew they would not return.

The little fella switched sides again, taking rest-breaks beneath the overhanging bushes and picking at flotsam. I took heart in this; he was certainly capable of feeding himself, and knew the value of cover. He returned to his efforts but was frightened away from the lip by the arrival of an excited toddler. Panicked, he headed into the middle and the strong current carried him downstream towards other duck-families, treading water in the calmer shallows of the riverbanks.
By now this yellow duck alone on the river was attracting onlookers; the guilty toddler and her mother, an old couple, a woman and her teenaged daughter. The girl began to take pictures of her own on a mobile phone. The brown mother-ducks watched the intruder carefully, preventing their own young from going near him. I began to get a sick feeling as the mother ducks hissed softly at him, chasing him away when he drifted too close.

He attempted to swim back upstream to the weir, but the midflow current was too strong, the banks populated by hostile ducks blocking his path. He allowed himself to drift back downstream.

At this point I knew what was about to happen. So did the old man, who had walked on ahead of his wife. A little self-consciously, I switched my camera to multi-frame as a mother duck, having warned him off once, set out at him again. The teenage girl emitted a little squeal of shock, and my camera clicked away.
It was over in probably less than 10 seconds. The duck dumped the chick's lifeless body back into the brown water. Her chicks came to inspect, and I could not be sure if they were checking to see if the chick was alive, or if they wanted to take little nibbles of it. The mother shooed them away, and made sure the body drifted downstream away from her clutch.I explained to the old lady in Dutch that the departed's mother was up the river, past the bridge. 'Dat is natuur' I said, and she agreed with a resigned smile. The mother put her arm around her daughter, and I wandered off in slight shock, thinking today would be a good day to get back on drugs.

=======

So, there you go, kids. I've had this post sitting written without the photographs since I first arrived back, but due to my AIDS-riddled computer (and now, more than likely, external hard-drive) and my general laziness, it's taken me a while. The photos aren't as good as I had hoped, mainly because I got a bit self-conscious when the crowd started to build up. And even though I knew I should get shots of the distraught girl being comforted by her mother or the freaked-out kids, I felt like a bit of a scum-bag by that stage.

Papa Vader approves this message

My job exposes me to a lot of foreign hotel-grade TV. So I've watched some terrible movies simply because they're in English with subtitles, and I've also rewatched some familiar movies in dubbed versions, with varying success; Enter The Dragon in French? Surprisingly entertaining: 'Une autre the, Monsieur Braithwaite?'. Casino in German? TV-movie. This week's been a mixed bag..

Some dreck starring trout-with-a-fwip-fauxhawk David Schwimmer and an embarassed-looking Jason Lee. Trying to sell David Schwimmer as a lothario is a bit like Julian Clary making a bid for UFC Champion. In fact; bad example. Because I'd want to watch that, and at least it wouldn't last 90 minutes.

Universal Soldier (as we're in Brussels, I'm assuming they show a Jean-Claude Van Damme movie every Friday night).

A mystery-thriller with Halle Berry and Bruce Willis. Except with no mystery and no thrills. had I watched the end of this, I sense it would have been tied with Jodie Foster-vehicle Flight Plan as the worst piece of shit I've ever slept through.

Harry Potter en Francais.

Actually, that list is a mixed bag of animal faeces, with some rusty razor-blades thrown in for giggles. But all that was redeemed last night. Nothing could, can ever, top The Empire Strikes Back in French. I've got to hand it to the dubbing guys; the French Darth Vader sounds gooood, yo. All syrupy-smooth evil echoing round in a shiny plastic bucket. And I was man-crushing on Monsieur Solo something terrible. I mean more than normal.

I couldn't find a clip on Youtube but then, I didn't try all that hard. I was picking up far too many nerd-vibes from galaxies far, far away, and I have a reputation to maintain. (Moaning, joyless alcoholic)

Also I'm getting addicted to the site-traffic kajigger I added to the page. My most popular post by a long chalk is a brief piece I did on Operation Market Garden and it gets shitloads of hits from Google Images. Don't know why. But I also get visits to a piece I did on the Munich Olympics debacle when anyone types in coca cola wayne rooney mask.

Now, I'm all for learning about the most important event of the 20th Century. But why the fuck would anyone go to the bother of searching for a Wayne Rooney mask on the internet? It's time to go outside, people. So just as an experiment, which has nothing to do with boosting my ego by way of tricking people into visiting my humble cul de sac, I shall be adding some daft shit to the labels on this post. I know you just can't wait to see the results

These go to 11...

We're doing a show in Paris this weekend. I'm guessing you'll probably hear it.
I don't know if the masterplan is to brainwash the crowd into buying the new CD, or simply to explode their heads. Either way, I'll be there, camera at the ready.

We can rebuild him. We just don't want to...

It may surprise some of you to learn that I can be a bit of a miserable, sarcastic bastard. No, really, it's true. I by-and-large managed to curtail this personality trait, but it still comes out in my writing. I can in fact, sometimes come across as bitter, callous, even downright nasty. So I'm sorry for that. Really sorry. I cry myself to sleep over what I've done to your feelings, then wake up and punch myself in the nads.

There I go again. Sorry. Sorry. Aaargh. Aaahh, better. Anyway, point is I'm going to make efforts to keep this to a minimum, or at least save it for appropriate occasions. I just find it difficult to admit that things are pretty good for me. I'm the little guy. The underachieving joker who always gets picked last, always drops his ice cream cone into burning dogshit. Well, no more. I've got a decent job, a gorgeous girlfriend who loves me unconditionally (proved beyond doubt this past two weeks, cad that I am), and I get paid in Euros. So even the weakening pound works in my favour. Ha! Screw you, credit crunch!

So yeah, things may change a bit round these parts. They may even get a little bit mushy on occasion. But for now, feast your eyes on the unmoulded hunk of sex-clay that is

Flaky Guevara

Flaky was actually born, somewhere in Latin America, with that beard. In it's short time with we mere mortals, The Beard of Flake has been home to a clutch of sparrows, several species of hitherto unknown weevil and, during his gap-year trip to Belize, a family of pygmies sheltering from Hurricane Alan. Now, in downtown Dublin, he aids the community by protecting old ladies. Not only do these chin-pubes turn water, but they can also be manipulated to turn any park bench into a gazebo. The US government are currently sampling fibres from Flaky's beard as defence from the Russian and Iranian missile program(s).

Yep, it's a cheap shot, and not even a strong one, but I'm trying to lighten the tone at the same time as not getting fired. If it's not enough, Nuts is only.. actually I have no idea. So that's another thing to be proud of.

Hooray for me.

I walk through walls/I float down the Liffey

I went to Dublin for my 30th birthday. My girlfriend booked it as a surprise, which I managed to blow when I suggested we go there for a weekend while I was back for the summer. Nice place. We ate ttraditional Irish boxty; potato pancakes. Mine had a steak in it. I could have eaten there twice a day for the whole 3 days.

Drank a lot of Guinness. It does taste better there. Still tastes like you're rinsing out dry coffee granules with a sodden barcloth, but it was better. Went to a park, saw Oscar Wilde lounging on a rock, saw two huge rats.

We visited James Joyce's house. Or at least a house dedicated to Joyce, with an explanation of his opus Ulysses and such. He's looking a bit pale of late.

My girlfriend and I also had a row and quickly buried it. Which played it's part in a much bigger row which would unfold itself a few days later and is yet to be concluded. It's too early for a post mortem, too late for hindsight. I may come back to this or I may just sweep it under the covers and go back to moaning about my job.

So yeah, Dublin. I wouldn't recommend going on a weekend. We were leaving Friday evening and by 4pm it was a different city. Distinctly more cunts. But the biggest one was just about to leave... *

* It was me.

Oh, just fuck off and die so I can replace you

My computer has a virus. In fact, it's had a long painful illness, and now to top it all, it snuck off to the wrong end of town (Woolworths is the demarcation line in North Shields), shacked up in a shooting gallery with some bad Macs, and caught the AIDS.

It's a wonder I'm even typing this, and my computer may spazz out and show me that blue screen at any moment. It doesn't help that the whole thing is in Dutch. And yes, I've tried changing the language; It doesn't work. Nor does the Norton antivirus which was present when I got it, or the new one I bought last week, which will definitely be charged to the company, converted to Euros and pissed into the Liffey on our birthday visit to Dublin later this week. But I will soldier on, to no end. I'm not big on computers. I've never owned one, * and I'd be quite happy if I never did. But now that I have a digital camera and an addiction to I has a Hotdog, it's a necessary evil. Oh, and this wonderful blog, of course, my raison d'etre.

Anyhoos, as an update, it seems I've curbed the nasty drinking dependence I've been working on for the past 7 years or so, with the help of my girlfriend, so I must thank her for that. I do believe I went almost a week without a drink at one point, and I would say I didn't even think about it more than twenty times a day. * I had a pint after my great-uncle's funeral, and a bottle of Stella at one of my one-year-old niece's two parties, but that was about it. We got a bit boozy last night, after a blissful day reading the sunday papers(tm) and rediscovering The Beatles (if you haven't * heard of them, you should really consider looking them up) but I feel as young Britons, it's our duty to get pissed on the weekend.

We went to see the new Batman the other night... I had expected to be disappointed with the whole thing, and cynical about the praise for Heath Ledger. But I've got to admit, I left the theatre giddy about the whole thing. Granted it was a little long, and Batman's scratchy voice was pretty annoying early on, but I'm * pretty hard-pushed to think of a better movie I've seen, that's been released in the past 10 years. I was even converted to the new-look Batmobile (and kick-ass bike). But a 12A? I have a 12 year-old nephew, and Im not sure I'd want him watching that. And we've sat together and watched 300 and We Were Soldiers, and he didn't bat an eyelid. That trick with the pencil in the desk? Snapping the pool cue in half? Dark, indeed. And that shit the Joker did with his tongue was just creepy. Roger Ebert talking-about-Hermione -Granger-creepy.

And that's about it, people. Hopefully some sumptuous photos of Dublin next week. Til then, I'm off to make my neighbours' ears weep with a liddle bidda geetar practice.


* Every time you see one of these, my browser kicks me off and tries to trick me into downloading an XP antivirus, and I have to reopen the post as an edit. If this post ends abruptly, it's because I've thrown my disease-riddled, obsolete, piece-of-shit-fucking laptop into the courtyard for the seagulls to use as target practice.

Like Eating a Topic on Acid

I’m tired. In fact I’m beyond tired. I’m so tired I can’t think of a word elaborate enough to describe the exhaustion I feel. Although exhaustion is pretty good. I flew into Amsterdam on June 19th. Started work the next day, my alarm set for 5.45. Yes, apparently there’s a 5.45 in the morning now. 20 days, 2 cities and hundreds of thousands of euros later, I’m still working.

One more week and I get 2 days off, cooped up in a shitty hotel in a provincial town.

Where last week I felt like a hamster in a cage, this week I feel like an inmate of Guantanamo Bay. Kept behind fences, randomly soaked or scorched, sonically bombarded by various sources at all hours of the day and night. If you get pissed off at your phone, try carrying two. Then add a 15-channel walkie-talkie and 100 or so people who want you for something which is either late or missing, all competing with a sound-system branded illegal in several countries.

Back when I was a bartender, I once worked 18 days in a row. I believe it was some sort of house record. By the last day I was a bit insane. I went out whenever the opportunity arose but I couldn’t get drunk. I’d passed the stage where everything was too much, passed the stage where everything was funny. I’d reached Dennis Nielsen.

For some reason, I don’t feel like that this time. Instead I feel I’ve been transported back in time to my first summer at highschool. It’s 1992, I’m almost 14, and I’m wanged off my tits on acid. I’m walking alongside someone, but we couldn’t possibly speak to each other, or to anyone else. I’m concentrating intensely on chewing and swallowing the first bite of a Topic. I’ve no idea why I bought it, I suppose I needed some familiarity, and back then I ate quite a few Topics.

Any sense of time is stolen from you on acid. You experience deja vu. You can convince yourself that time has stopped. You can lose 3 hours shamanically repeating your address just to keep a grip on who you are/were. All in the same night.

But this Topic is taking me fucking ages. That mix of nougat, hazelnut, caramel and class A narcotic is creating a party in my mouth, and no-one knows what time it starts or who anyone is. I dare not spit it out, and yet I can’t swallow it. I feel like the Boy David- there is no roof in my mouth, and the pointy, half-chewed nuts are jabbing directly into my brain. I could swallow my tongue before I finish this chocolate bar. I hear a car way off in the distance and sprint across the street to avoid it. I jump the chain-rope around the war memorial but my fellow fuckhead has chosen to step on his section and the chain snaps taught, catching my ankle.

Everything slows down, moreso, as my hands flail, clutching for the strips of light racing past my face, away from the inevitable; the sun-baked lawn. The Topic drifts from my hand, spinning off on it’s own axis. I’m suspended mid-air. The grass rises to meet me and suddenly I’m back on earth. I feel no pain, other than the caramel in my cavities and the nuts embedded in my brain tissue. Close by I hear laughter, and it’s coming from me.

Part of the awkwardness that came with frying my teenaged brain with LSD returned to me this week. I have difficulty maintaining eye-contact. I sat in company for hours yesterday without saying a word. Nothing I could offer has any meaning, any point, or any consequence. It’s just there, like a Topic in the grass.

Boy In The Bubble

I've been in Amsterdam this week. Canals, pushbikes, whores, clogs, legal weed, cheese, thousands of poo-stringed, red-eyed short-breakers in camouflage gear and German parkas stumbling from one tourist trap to the next.

Sounds like hell. I however am protected from all this. I'm even protected from the sun. Being on the lower floor of a football stadium, facing East (I'll have to check that, but I trust Jack Aubrey has served me well), I can see the pleasant weather but it doesnt reach me. There are thousands of tons of concrete between us, and a moat prevents my escape. Only the wind can touch me. It doesnt so much touch me as dust-rape my eyeballs every time I step out of the cosy, pre-fab home. So I'm learning to avoid that.

Staging a concert where projection screens play such a large role in the same week as midsummers eve wasn't the best idea. But well-thought out decision-making is not our forte. The very fact I'm employed makes that obvious.

When I do choose to brave the element (not a spelling mistake) I check my phone for anything from Victoria. Left turn. Walk up the ramp. I adjust my eyes to the perma-darkness caused by the glorified curtain we paid a horrendous amount to cover the transparent roof. Take some snaps for my boss to check our progress. Make some idle chit-chat. Left turn. More pictures of the same thing from a different angle. Left turn. Squint into the distant sunlight.

Into the dark again. A hazy tunnel with water at the end. An assortment of treats to curtail my boredom. Left turn. Check phone. Reward myself with a chewy, sugary treat. Lions are my favourite, though at this moment I've settled for a Mars Bar.

Rinse, and repeat. Eventually, a blanket is drawn over the cage and I fall into an uneasy sleep.

Tomorrow we do it all again.

Show day. Hundreds of strange people arrive and tap on my protective plastic ball. Some spin me. Some kick me. Few greetings, many demands. Flashbulbs startle me. The laughter is not at me, but not for me either.

Then all is quiet. No evidence of the previous days' madness save for hundreds of crushed cans and water bottles, bundles of used tape, scraps of plastic, all colours of the rainbow. I sit back in my ball, nibble on my fun-size treat, wondering where the fun went.

I miss my girl.

Am I thick or all you all lying? (Or both?)

I just watched a movie I'd been excited about. Some would say obsessing over.. My girlfriend bought me Cormac McCarthy's No Country for Old Men after I drooled over someone else's in a pub while he went out for cigarettes. He had the same leather jacket as me, but that's by the by. I read it in a day, on planes, trains and in bed. I really loved it. The ending stang, but there was never any indication that it would end well. Much as you hoped Llewellyn Moss would get away with the cash, you knew, just as he did, that his life had just taken a sharp swerve into a dead-end. So I was drooling to see the movie. My schedule (by which I mean all the drinking) prevented us from seeing it at the cinema but I took the plunge and bought it a couple of days after release. I had talked up the book so my gal was pretty excited too.

Anyway, enough backstory. I didn't like it. I was a bit surprised when it came in at under 2 hours. Victoria fell asleep and only woke up at the car accident, so she didn't have too much to say about it, but I went to bed, not feeling sad for Moss and his wife, as I'd expected, but just a bit pissed off.

Yes, it looked beautiful. There weren't any cheap devices for suggesting the time-period. Josh Brolin was great as the smart-mouthed Moss. I liked the fact that there were no credits in the opening. I liked Woody Harrelson's small role as Wells; in fact all of the performances were expertly measured. I liked lots of things about it. But those things alone didn't make it a great movie. I'm surprised to say it, but Paul Thomas Anderson wuz robbed.

I'm going to come out and ask- who was that film about? It didn't cover Moss or Ed Tom enough for you to give a shit about either. I suppose it was about Chigurh. But what about Chigurh? You pretty much figure out precisely what kind of person he is in the first hour. You could even fool yourself into thinking he didn't kill Moss'wife at the end. It'd be a stretch, but Victoria managed it. I suppose the Cohens got carried away with Chigurh's character, and as a result undercut the others. Most of the dialogue was verbatim, and yet some small but significant scenes were missed out altogether. Instead of Tommy Lee Jones visiting Moss' dad on the porch, allowing us to mourn for Moss, we get that dream business and that's it. Balls, I say.

McCarthy set us up for the explosive final showdown which never came, and I'd be near the front of the queue to lambast the Brothers Coen if they'd changed the ending and actually given us all what we wanted, but this is like having your external hard-drive stolen, buying another one and then having that one stolen too. First time around it's heartbreaking, the second it's just fucking annoying. I'll say it again- balls.

So yeah; please, someone explain to me why you love this film so much. Because right now I'm of the opinion that the Academy thought 'hmm, criminally overlooked in the past, now on a downward slide following Zeta-Jones-Douglas dreck and bad remake of an Ealing Comedy with a fucking Wayans brother... better spunk all over this one before they make Dan Brown's Deception Point.'

But as for the rest of you, what's your excuse?

Cometh the Hour...

So much has been written about D-Day, and it was such a huge operation, that it would be a fool's errand to attempt a historical post today. So I'll settle for an appreciative nod of recognition, thanks and awe. And some of my trademark griping.

It's got my hackles up somewhat that yet again, there is a criminally small amount of news coverage for this event. In fact, I'd even settle for some decent documentaries on the History Channel or The Longest Day on BBC1.

But no, we get... Fuck all, squared. I've watched several news channels today, flicked through all the major and Freeview channels and there's nothing. I've noticed the media now refer to WWII as a war against 'The Nazis' as opposed to a war fought against Germany and their allies. I can even allow that, in a way. We're nationalist and bigoted enough, thanks.

This post has no direction, really. It just hacks me off that there will have been veterans and their families, as well as vehicle restorers and, ugh, uniformed re-enactors standing on those bitter beaches at 6am this morning to pay their respects, and the media do nothing to even highlight the fact to the great unwashed.

Next year will be 65 years, of course. I was on Sword beach in 1989 for the 45th and again for the 50th when the Queen was in attendance, and there were, obviously, a fair share of reporters on hand. Next year no doubt it will be the role of William and/or Harry to highlight it instead, which no doubt they will, with grace and respect.

Meh, enough moaning, I'm off to dig out The World at War.

A Message for Washington Dulles' Baggage Handlers...

So, I'm back from our tour of the States. I'd like to say it was fun, but it was just tiring really. Our only day off was on a parkway named Trumbull. Fortunately I stayed in bed with a hangover until 5pm then ate enough sushi to kill a rikishi. So yep, the drink problem continues.

I should add I managed to throw up in yet another airport and spent almost 2 hours prostrate in the departure lounge. So, a 9-hour flight and a 3-hour bus journey later, I was understandably pissed to discover that my external hard-drive had been misappropriated from my luggage.

All my photos from previous tours- Vegas, the Rockies, Denver Colorado, Chicago, Boston, the whole of Germany, France, Holland, Japan. Not to mention every photo taken of my girlfriend and our time together, my niece's christening, Christmas. To bring an end to the list, if you can remember any of the photos I've posted on this blog, it's now the only record of their existence. Deleted at the touch of a button and sold for a bonghit. Mother. Fucker.

Yes, I should have been more careful. But you can only carry so much as hand luggage, and my priority at check-in was not throwing up all over the floor. Again.

It could have been far worse, of course. I have been known to carry the tour cash in my suitcase. One idiot did carry personal cash in his case this time. Needless to say, it's gone. As we are a group of almost 100, it's probably not a surprise to say we get robbed everytime we travel.

But should it be this way? Is it not enough to be robbed by the airline at the ticket-purchase stage? Do we also have to be physically robbed by their employees?


So yeah; fuck you, Washington Dulles, and fuck you Lufthansa. Thanks for charging me for eighteen hours of my life and stealing countless memories from me into the 'bargain'. And that's not me; The Man in Black said that. I'm just passing on a message. And the message, in case you missed it, was

FUCK YOU

Welcome to New York. You remembered your wallet, right?

Despite my dartboard memory, I have a high capacity for certain things. Favourite lines or passages of dialogue for example. I also never forget being stung. So my Skinflint Spidey-sense was tingling as I stepped off the tourbus into the Long Island sunshine. Walking into the venue, I remembered last year, when a friendly man conned me into installing not one but two telephone lines into the office, then charged us $550 for the privilege.

''Well, won't get fooled again" said I, and spiralled off into a 9-minute drum solo. Next thing I know there's a guy in my office.

"Hey buddy. I'm puttin 'ya phone line in, lemme show ya where.."

"Oh, that's ok, we never use the phone." I attempt humour; "We're from Europe- we don't have any friends here." This worked two days ago. No dice.

"Well, Im gonna put one in. Ya know, just in case." Right, in case my watch stops and I need to call the Speaking Clock? In case I just gotta call my BFF Jill?

"Seriously, man, I don't need a line. I don't want one."

"Well, you never know."

He left and I went to find something beautiful to destroy. If he can't get in, he can't install it. When I came back, the sneaky fuck had got in with a master key and installed a 'phone. A white one.

Welcome to Union Country. Where if you don't ask, you get it anyway, and they charge you for it. He'd switched the line on, so now we had to pay the prick. All day. Nice switch-flicking there, no-mark.

I had been warned that if the Teamsters didn't get breakfast, they could make the load-in and load-out very difficult, insisting only they could handle anything, but of course sticking strictly to their break schedule, so that basically 33% of the 'workforce' is always on donut-time. They have a minimum load-in time of 8 hours; it takes 4, maximum. They have a minimum load-out of 6 hours; it takes 2 if the local hands are really slow. Which, of course, they will be.

That's 14 hours' pay for a maximum 6-hours' work, and 2 free meals. From the outside looking in, the US Union is a lot like the British dole, only a little less honest. Rather than pretend to look for work, they pretend to do work. You can't blame them- they get paid more this way.

"You wanna standin' contest? I think I got time..."

This beautiful hunk of clay is a forklift driver. We pay him for 17 hours. He can face many directions, oh, yes. Not just South-West with his nose towards catering, sniffing the air like a starving polar bear.

So, my wondrously expensive phone installed, I wander over to the Teamster office. That's the semi-circle of chairs around a TV you see in every Union building. I ask the surly cigar-chugging scholar and gentleman how many staff he had working that day, so I can issue them with carte blanche to our catering hall.
"Well, you asked for none, I gave you my minimum." He had to slip that in. I die a little inside. "So that'd be eight."

God bless the Union.

Freedom exists. Now get back to work.

Douchey personal plate aside, this seems to be the state motto for New Hampshire.
Considering virtually every number plate in the USA is made in prison, is this subconscious suggestion aimed at reducing overcrowding, or just plain cruel?

And why hasn't someone keyed this choadwank's car yet?

Back then, everything was simpler and more confused

I haven’t blogged in a while. Well, months. I seem to have less free-time when I’m being paid to work. Cheeky bastards. I much preferred being paid to share my moans with my reader.
But I got sick of moaning after a year or so. The only thing left to moan about was, well, moaning all the time. So I’ve opted to whinge about moaning about moaning constantly. It’s going well so far, I reckon.

I managed to convince the powers that be that I was basically sitting on my hands in Maastricht, and they’ve let me work from home and claim back my flight expenses. Considering I was flying back or paying for the bulk of Victoria’s flights at least once month, I should be saving some shiny pennies. My bank balance hasn’t looked healthier since that period when I was living on a tourbus with standby power and eating a schnitzel every other day.

So I took the plunge and got a place with the object of my affection. We trawled all over Whitley Bay, Tynemouth and North Shields and finally settled on a swanky fifth floor place overlooking (kind of, if you open the window and crick your neck) the Tyne. It was the only one we saw that met our (ha, Victoria's) requirements without being TOO far over our budget and is by far the nicest place I’ve ever lived. No offence, Davey, but Victoria looks way better in the nip.
Having a solid base for the first time in 4 years or so is a blessing and a curse. I go to sleep curled up with a beautiful woman every night. I get up at my leisure, but always by 9. I make a simple breakfast, usually poached eggs or the occasional crumpet combo. I revisit an album which has sat on the shelf in my parent’s house for the best part of 7 years and check my work e-mails, which usually takes all of 5 minutes. I study a recipe book, take a walk down to the river and buy some fish from the market, then up into town to the grocers for the day’s supplies. All this is done by midday. Sounds great, right? It is. But then comes the curse part…
By this stage I’ve walked past at least 8 pubs. There are probably some I’ve forgotten or not dared to look at. My tongue is flicking across my lips. My throat like a drying well. I’m anticipating that first mouthful of Deuchar’s, or some guest ale from a micro-brewery. It’s like revisiting old friends, or making a new one. But this is a nagging, persistent friend who demands attention.

Our first weekend in the flat, Victoria broached the subject of my drinking too much. I had to take it humbly. Being mildly drunk helped. Inside, I was a bit peeved about it; in the past she’d positively encouraged a tipple, and would always make sure there was enough booze of varying description for my visits back to this sceptered isle. I kind of felt she’d moved the goalposts.

But I can’t blame her. I do drink too much, and too often. I never get angry or violent, or end up pissing in the wardrobe (except that once). I don’t drink to get drunk, as such. It’s just a convenient side-effect. After that Saturday night bombshell, there was a new taste at the back of my throat. Not resentment. Just guilt. It spoiled the taste of the beer somewhat. Even the whiskey and ginger didn't have the same satisfying kick. But that was maybe the toothpaste.

But enough hunting for poetic ways to describe my problem. It’s time for the science bit. I've tried wallowing. I've tried bringing you interesting facts about the area surrounding the four walls within a basement beneath a dome structure in which Im usually cocooned 17 hours a day. So now I'm just going to list stuff. You brought it on yourselves by not heaping praise on me. Or at least humouring me.

I'm not going to subject you to what I ate or my bowel movements, just the amount of devil's water I throw down each day. I'll start with the off-days before this tour.
Montreal, day 1- 7-hour flight, 6hour time-fall. 2 cans on the plane, 10 pints in various boozers
Montreal day 2 – 2 restaurants, 3 bars. 2 beers, 6 pints
Montreal – 1 beer
Ottawa – 3 beers

I'll keep updating this. I know you just can't wait. Im sure I've documented my antics during the strip-club haze, the Dr Giggles debacle, the transient period. I've even touched on the jizz-wizard days. Factor out weed and the occasional foray into class-A-schizoid-house-breaking hell and it's really not that bad. Is it?

Help me out here, Midge...

What U looking at? I Kiel you...

Another day off, another blistering hangover. It seems we always have a day off in Kiel, and there's never anything to do. So the prospect of a Sunday in said city was not being relished by your humble.. writer-guy. That said, a day off is a day when I don't have to work, and that is something to be cherished.

To avoid the usual moaning, I'd booked a central hotel with an early check-in. It was over 700 km from Stuttgart and I knew the crew would be tired, grumpy and hungover. Only moreso. Despite a few late-risers grumbling that they'd missed breakfast, check-in went fairly smoothly and I decided to ignore any problems until I was back at work the next day.

A few of the crew had mentioned visiting a U-boat on previous visits to Kiel so my mind was already made up- no drinking in the afternoon on this day off, oh no, siree. I met up with my Canadian buddy Marc and his Russian girlfriend and we set off through the deserted Sunday streets of Kiel in search of chow before enduring the 30 minute bus ride to the beach to see said U-boat. An American brunch and 2 glasses of champale later, we were on our way.

Being a harbour town, Kiel was virtually destroyed by the allies in the spiteful bombing campaign of '44-'45. Over 80% of buildings (residential, civic and industrial) were destroyed. The result is depressing to say the least. It's not ugly as such. It's not even ugly-beautiful. It's just... meh. No doubt the grey weather didn't help, and being this close to Denmark, it's still winter here, really, whereas in Maastricht and the surrounding area there's a definite feeling of spring. But Kiel has this air of depression about it, a town whose spirit has been wrung dry. There were wrecking balls on the river banks, tearing into old factories which reminded me of Soviet propaganda posters. The developers are closing in...

Despite imagining how cramped it must be, I was surprised it wasn't bigger. We entered at the back, into the engine room. Sitting idle, it's pretty unremarkable, but picturing the hulking brute running, with smoke and steam everywhere, the sense of desperation started to sink in a bit.

The majority of space, of course, was devoted to destruction. Right under the torpedoes, crew-beds are visible, so that the sub was always battle-ready.
I'm pretty snake-hipped (my 11-year-old nephew has a bigger waist that me), but I could barely get through the portholes that separated the engine room from the sleeping quarters and so forth. Maybe the tourbus isn't so bad after all...

Welcome to the Stud Garden. Don't touch anything...

I was really struggling to come up with a title today (who am I kidding, I was struggling yesterday) until I realised some things just shouldn't be meddled with. Yup, I'm in Stuttgart, viualising the world's greatest gay bar/bistro. The name stems from Stutten Garten, literally stud garden, as the settlement was originally created as a horse-stable for the Cavalry. Ooh, men on horseback.. I'm going to have to stop this now. Someone might just read this, one day.

Stuttgart has been described as the cradle of the automotive industry- Porsche even adapted the city's coat of arms for it's world-famous logo of a rampant stallion. Yes, two paragraphs in, this is already the gayest post I've ever created. Mercedes-Benz and Maybach also have their homes here.

But the '70's saw Stuttgart in the world spotlight for different reasons; being the stronghold of the Baader-Meinhof Gang, or Red Army Faction as they preferred to be known. This terrorist/urban guerilla group was formed in the late 60's off the back of the student protest movement, kicking against the outlawing of the Communist party and the rise of capitalism. Despite the founders (Baader, Ensslin and Moller) spending the bulk of the decade on trial or in custody, the group survived and thrived, carrying out numerous bank robberies to fund attacks on US military bases, West German police stations and the press, who they perceived to be sponsored by the capitalist government. Maaan.

During the most controversial and tense trial in German history, Ulrike Meinhof, a sympathetic journalist later recruited as an active member, was found hanged in her cell, spurring the usual plethora of conspiracy theories. The remaining members were convicted of numerous crimes, but the death toll continued to rise with the violent kidnapping of former SS officer Hans Martin Schleyer, then head of the German Employer's Association.

Already under Police protection, his car was was forced to a halt when a pram was pushed into the road. His 3 guards were immediately dispatched and he disappeared without a trace. A list of demands was soon issued, primarily the release of the RAF's founders.

The situation was made worse with the hijacking of a passenger plane in Palma de Mallorca, with the hijackers issuing identical demands to those of Schleyer's captors. Five days and the 'execution by revolutionary trial' of the pilot later, the plane was stormed in Mogadishu, resulting in the deaths of all four hijackers. The same day, 43 days after Schleyer's ordeal began, it was abruptly ended in the boot of an Audi 100 on a French street.

That night, Baader was found dead in his cell, a gunshot wound to the back of his head. Ensslin was found hanged in her cell, and Moller survived several stab wounds in the chest to be released from prison in 1994. The authorities insisted on a suicide pact, claiming lawyers had smuggled in the weapons used.

I didn't know much about this 'political group' but they seem very similar to the Symbionese Liberation Army of San Fransisco, who kidnapped and 'reprogrammed' Patty Hearst- a bunch of bored, middle-class students frustrated into extreme action. Though true to stereotyping, the RAF were a lot more efficient, and longevitous. The organisation finally ceased hostilities in 1998. Still, the end result was the same- a lot of innocents suffered and they met a bloody end.

So what does all this have to do with me? Not a lot to be honest, but today's show takes place in the Schleyerhalle. And as you know, the more tenuous the link, the better. The hall was built in the early 80's in view of the bridge on which Dr Schleyer was snatched. And, wandering around in some dead-time, I came across this nicely rendered tribute. Peace out. Er... honkies.

Mann,heim gettin' pretty tired of this...

Hmm, pretty tenuous, that one. So today we're in Mannheim- home of, er, Xavier Naidoo, a German of South African descent who's guested on some Rza albums, and probably some ambient junk that you get on pub music systems. Think Youssou N'Dour but with sillier hats.

I hit snooze today because there is, frankly, no point getting up as early as we do. It's a constant source of griping. For me at least.

Crewmembers who usually work other tours are surprised at how early we start- a lot of the building has to be done in stages, from rigging to stage to sound to video. Basically we could have at least one more hour in bed each morning and not cause the slightest inconvenience to ourselves or anyone else. But such are the joys of a self-contained unit.

That aside, today I have a rare treat- an office with a window.

OK, so that's not my view. It's more reminiscent of a motorway in Middlesbrough, but its a much needed peek at the world outside.

People are fragile things, you should know by now

So, at the start of an 8-day stretch, I'm back in Munich at the Olympiahalle. If I were more technically able I'd put a link here to the piece I posted on Munich last year, it's probably one of my best. But I'm not, so I can't, so you'll just have to live with it.

This venue had an impact on me, not just because of the history of the place, but it also made me realise how lucky I am to be doing this job. Maximo Park played here last year at the MTV Europe Awards, the Cure play here in 4 days, and there's some sort of 4-night porno exhibition at the end of the month. Sadly work is underway on a new, smaller arena right next door, so the air is thick with what I now remember to be cement dust. One lady just told me "This is a very old building, 36 years!" So, that's old, is it? Fair enough. I suppose following allied bombing, that may be understandable. But I digress. Again.

Many of the better views are blocked by hoardings and the grass is chewed up to a brown pulp. Being February, the boating lake is frozen and it's generally nipster. If I had the luxury of a free afternoon like the rest of the crew, I would pay 4 euros to tour the buildings, maybe even the no-doubt extorionate fee for the BMW museum across the highway. As it is I'll just have to wander around inhaling dust and waiting for a toothless forklift driver (the driver, not the forklift) to pick up the case of merchandise I spent an hour sorting in below zero temperatures this morning.

I picked up some sort of virus or possibly food poisoning after the last run and spent Sunday night and most of monday feeling like crap on a crutch. Regardless of the true cause, I will no longer be eating leftover chicken in the dark under any circumstances. I don't have much weight to shed so a day and a half with the trots (spelling diahorroea is such a pain) has left me looking positively emaciated. My jeans are hanging somewhere around my ballbags.

Tune in tomorrow for my most difficult title yet...

It Means Nothing to Me...

So today I'm in... Vienna. Home of the beautiful blue Danube, Empress Sisi of Sir Andrew Lloyd-Webber fame and the world's oldest zoo, which was originally used as a hunting ground for the Emperor and his toffee-nosed pals. Nothing like bagging a freezing, half-starved tiger to drape across the black and white marble tiles of one's second bathroom, duckie.

This is the third time I've been here now, the second time in the same hall. It's strange how the memory works- I remember the arguments we had last year with the locals about where we could park our buses, and that the German-language stage-version of Grease was playing across the street. Yet, stumbling off the tourbus this morning, I couldn't recall how to get into the venue and walked almost all the way around the building with freezing fingers and bleary eyes. That said, I did exactly the same thing last year.

We did an outdoor show for TV here last summer, and I took a free day after the break-down to look around, utilising a streetbike 'borrowed' from the local promoters. History stalks you at every turn. Men in powdered wigs attempt to coax you into constantly-looping mini orchestra recitals. Uncle Adolf made his famous Anschluss speech from a balcony just around the corner from our stage, and during the war years Vienna lost it's capital status to Berlin. After the war it was split into four zones for a spell, and became a hotbed for espionage between the Western and Eastern blocs. The opulence of the old empire is overwhelming, the architecture so decadent and pristine that the buildings begin to look fake, and you could fool yourself you'd stumbled onto HBO's backlot. Yes, that's Julie Delpy, sleeping on a mock-up of the Heldenplatz. Don't look at her.

This time around I won't see any of the architecture the city is famous for, save for Schonbrunn Palace, which we'll pass on the 14-hour drive home tonight. We have our own aluminium version of it now, which we will soon be erecting in a European city near you. Which is it's own nightmare (see my December thread for confirmation).

Going back to the tricks the mind plays, it seems I'm in trouble with my girlfriend. I don't remember our first date, at least not in the right order. I do recall, however, that I came back to England for little reason other than to go on it. I've mistaken the location of our first kiss (I move fast, people). I thought I even remembered which table it was on in a particular bar, and now it seems I was miles away. At least around the corner, anyway. As I try desperately to claw my way back into favour without blowing my cool, I've rationalized that I do remember our first date - the excitement, the possiblities, the stolen moments in crowded bars, or singing along together at a free gig - I just don't remember the facts. And who needs facts when you've got nice pictures?

Keep Off The Graz

I'm trying to make my blog posts more regular, instead of just checking in for a monthly whinge. So, the first of my informative posts on my current location.

Today I'm in Graz, second largest city in Austria. It has some old buildings, some new buildings and is the hometown of everyone's favourite meatbag, The Governator. Technically he was raised in a little village on the outskirts named Thal, but no doubt this is where he came on a Saturday night to goose reporters, ride around on his BigTrak and order executions. It's a good 1100 km drive from Maastricht, and the first night back on the tourbus is always hell, so I didn't sleep too well and I seem to have the sneezies. But my mood is brightened by thoughts of my wonderful Gorgo, who sent me a blue Japanese monkey and a Mr Grumpy handwarmer for Valentine's. I hope yáll had a heartwarming day.

'Tis the season to list stuff

All the British blogs I like (namely Davey and his cohorts) are putting up lists. Well, there'll be none of that here. Unless I was to list the movies from the previous year which I haven't seen, or the albums I never bought. Don't get me wrong- I want to see No Country for Old Men, 3.10 to Yuma and so forth. But the only film I've seen this year which appears on all of these lists is the Bourne Supremacy. To my shame I saw all 3 of the Bourne movies this year. I pretty much refused to watch anything with Matt Damon from Good Will Hunting onwards, with the exception of his appearances in Kevin Smith movies. The Bourne movies are fantastic, because of the mouthwatering locations, the flawless action sequences (I was a bit bored by the car chase at the end of Ultimatum, but never mind) but mainly the fact that Jason Bourne is, for want of a better description, hard as fuck. But It's not all about how good he looks in a sweaty T-shirt. Hell, I even raised my opinion of Clive Owen after his appearance in the first instalment. So now I just think he's a twat.

300 replaced Gladiator as my guilty pleasure, and Ive even forgiven Mr Butler for P.S. I Love You'. I downright cackled at Hot Fuzz but it was Christmas and I may have been overcompensating. Another film I saw and was greatly impressed by was The Departed. Damo's performance may have even been the cause of my finally relinquishing and watching the Bourne Identity. I also enjoyed the Joe Strummer biopic and *gulp* I am Legend. When I move back to England, I promise to watch more movies.

As far as music goes, I've lifted a few albums from the Canadians I work with- from soundscapey stuff like Apparat, to obvious gear like MIA or Bedouin Soundclash, even Tori Amos-lite like Dresden Dolls - and bought the obvious stuff- QOTSA, Super Furry Animals. I like Era Vulgaris, but then I wasn't as hard on Lullabies to Paralyze (sic) as some. The SFA album is still slowly growing on me, despite the hideous artwork and lack of invention. But mostly Ive been listening to Maximo Park. Their first album, full of angry tales of spurned love/lust and a desire to escape their (I should really be saying 'his') surroundings drew me in, and their second album did not disappoint. I get the feeling I shouldn't like them, and many of my friends continue to tell me so, but there's something about the bargain-basement Baudelaire that keeps me interested, even with that painfully obvious video for Books From Boxes, which I will not be showing below. Plus I spotted Meester Smith in a pub in town and approached him about working for Warp while he was watching the Sunderland game, and found him to be a very nice fella.

Shock of the year for me would be Babyshambles. Despite seeing the Libertines live I never really fell for them until it was all over and Mr Doherty was made the nation's favourite pariah. Like the Libertines, Babyshambles have a very hands-off approach to production, with The Clash's Mick Jones overseeing both Libs' efforts and Babyshambles' debut. Basically they do ten takes and choose the best one- a far cry from the likes of Razorlight or the Kaiser Chiefs, with their loops and synths and general shiteness. There are songs on the debut and on Shotter's Nation which I think will remain favourites for me for years to come, and there are also songs which just remind me of Steptoe & Son. Which is a good thing. I truly hope he can keep his head above water long enough to blow a B-movie actress' face off in his California mansion for touching his favourite bongo.

Surprisingly, I've been reading a lot of books. In my bar manager era, it might take me a year to finish a book, if indeed I bothered at all; I will never finish Mr Nice, even after the boring old get turns up his toes. But now, with all the air and rail travel and sleepless, sober nights, I find myself acquiring another book before I've finished the last. Im dipping into various forms; Russell Brand's autobiography was a welcome Christmas present. Haruki Murakami had been a source of intrigue; a lot of girls seem to read his books, and I wanted to know why, bringing me inches closer to their undie elastic. And of course there are the historical texts on World War 2 which Im constantly swiping from my brother in law, as well his wide range of travelogues and Americana.

So, yeah. Reading is fun, kids. I suppose this blog is far easier to read- and indeed to write- than the usual shoegazing, soul-searching whingebaggery. But don't worry, there'll be more of that next time.

Happy New Bleargh

New year, new ways to complain about the same stuff. I am at something of a crossroads- to quit or not to quit? Following the Biggest Show in the World ™, I’m not relishing the prospect of the year ahead. I’m just a lazy bastard, no doubt about it. However there are several other factors to consider, which I will outline, in no particular order.

It’s the 2nd of January as I write this, from Cologne, Koln or Keulen, depending on which language I’m speaking. This is ENGLISH, for the uninitiated. We are one show down, another is soon to follow and then we have no shows until the 25th. I’m on a salary though, so rather than whoring myself out freelance or just taking an ill-deserved holiday, I have to hang around the office, looking at cute kittens or douchebags and their latest photographic conquest. I don’t even have to look busy as such, I just have to be there. On the rare occasion I have to ask my superior in the next room anything, I find it’s usually easier by e-mail.

In the past year I have acquired a lovely, gorgeous, expensive, loving girlfriend. In England. She puts up with the fact that I’m somewhat underdeveloped regarding emotions and feelings and communication and other gay stuff. I’ve hatched a fantasy scenario whereby I continue to work for this company for a while, without having to hang around in the dead-time, this way I can get an apartment on the coast with my lovely lady, without the pants-shitting fear of coming back to England with no job. To my addled brain, it makes perfect sense, but my boss may think otherwise…

I’ve never been sure exactly what my job entails, as the contract is all in Dutch. But I do know it changed significantly 3 months in, and I gained a lot more responsibility, due to my boss’ attention being diverted to the aforementioned Big Show. I have a mental list of stuff I definitely have to do on each show-day, and the rest of my time is taken up dealing with whatever situations arise unforeseen. Most problems can be solved with money. I don’t even have to spend it myself; I have a runner to do the dirty work. As long as the figures balance at the end of the day, I don’t have to worry. Now that I have an Excel file worked out, I don’t even bother checking if I balance at the end; I just hand over the receipts and whatever cash I have- there’s no point looking for anymore because I remain honest and it is what it is.

On a recent trip to the offices to hand in paperwork and get more pocket-money, the human resources lady asked me to sign my contract- for the year I’d just worked, not the year to come. I held off on signing a new one, but I’m pretty sure there was no change in job-title and no pay-rise. It’s not the done thing to ask for such a thing, mostly I think because we’re all aware of how replaceable we are. Let’s face it, I was a glorified bartender before I did this, and the other guys on the payroll (hourly, I might add, the lucky bastards) were previously an ice cream man, a baggage handler at the local airport and a cucumber salesman. Considering we now go to the US four times a year and have Japan and Australia on the horizon, it’s little wonder they choose not to rock the boat.

While the company pays 100-plus Euro’s per night on hotel rooms for a dozen Canadian cameramen and sound-techs, I’m paying 500 euro (currently about 370 quid) a month to live in a cellar with no vacuum cleaner and mould in the roof.

OK, I think you get the point; I’m sick of my job and refuse to see the good points. This is a very long-winded way to say it, though. Maybe I should just do the Family Fortunes Test…
So, you can’t decide whether to quit your job? Let’s see…
Are you making a lot of money? Eh-Ehhh!!
Are the prospects good? Eh-Ehhh!!
Oh dear. So you must be having fun, right? Eh-Ehhh!!

I think I just answered the question that costs me what precious sleep I can get while living in an airless room with bars on the windows below a roundabout. Sorry to have taken up your time.