]]>]]>That's a bit depressing...
]]>From the delightful/creepy Sketchy Santas..
So to help him understand what kind of chap I am and what kind of things I am into I got him an iPod. I got him an iPod and stuffed it full of my favourite albums. In retrospect I should have got him a larger iPod as there were a few albums I couldn't get onto it, forty seven to be precise. But there are 143 on it and that's a good start. I suppose I would be delighted if he loved them all but I'm not sure a fourteen year kid is quite gonna get the folksy Americana of Bonnie Prince Billy or the dramatically weird and wonderful reinterpretations of gems on Cat Power's, The Covers Record." But then again I don't think it's important that he does like it. The playlist was designed to show him what I like, what I'm into what makes me get up and shake my booty. Okay strike that last bit. I haven't so much as twitched my booty in the last ten years let alone shook it. Frightful thought.
Anyhoo I showed the playlist to The Cousin and explained the reasoning behind it.
"Hmmmm", mused The Cousin as he peered at it, "....so you want your son to think you are a fruity indie boy who used to like some metal. Odd", and off he walked.
Arsehole.
I'm gonna repeat this again but with books.
The full list is under the fold. It's quality...
At the age of 37 The Father, JJ Crikey Snr, was a single parent to two young children, holding down a fifty hour a week job and spent what free time he had going to the hospital to visit our mother. He relaxed by playing golf and knocking the froth of many many shandies and accompanying rum and cokes too. He was very much a chap's chap. He talked about football, worked hard, drank hard, hid sweets for us behind the leather bound book collection of old classics and he always opened doors for ladies. He had his faults too and had a fiery temper and drove too fast. Many summer holidays were spent looking out the back window of our Ford Capri as The Father careered round teeny tiny roads at stupid miles per hour. I was 24 before I realised that Scotland wasn't just a big blurry green and brown mess of a place. He was a joker and laughed more than he cried. He asked for no sympathy for his lot in life, "there are lots worse off" and I just miss him so much.
I was thinking about all this as I stood in the very slow moving queue in The Gap on Sunday afternoon. I was buying a sock monster thingy, for myself. I'm 37! I laughed and heard The Father's voice in my head, "Bloody teddy bear? Sake". He would have laughed....eventually. My father did a lot when he was 37 but I can categorically say he never bought himself a fancy sock monster thingy at any age let alone when he was 37. The sock monster thingy is now second only to me in order of superiority in this house. If I'm not in all family decisions must go through him now. The Cousin was offended when I announced this on Sunday night but Drumgor took it relatively well.
Ho and indeed hum. Normal order tomorrow.
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I felt weird when I woke up on Saturday morning. I wasn't so much tired as still exhausted. My usual five and a half hours normally leaves me feeling drowsy and I suppose a bit snappy, that's snappy as in shouty not as in well dressed man about town, but I felt even worse this morning. I wouldn't mind but I had gone slightly over my allotted sleep quota and in fact was pretty sure I had managed to sleep/not be awake for going on six, maybe, six and a half hours. Lazy bastard. I pondered this as I lay there awake but still with my eyes shut in a vein attempt to prevent the arrival of Saturday. But it wasn't that I had over slept, it was more than that. Something was gnawing at the back of my head. Obviously, given the house I live in, I actually checked to make sure there wasn't actually something gnawing at the back of my head. Some thing was wrong, I was pretty sure of it but I just couldn't figure out what. I felt guilty for something but I didn't know why. Now having been through the catholic school system waking up with feelings of guilt is nothing unusual but this was different, I felt like I had actually done something wrong and not just had a burger for my Friday lunch.
I pondered and I wondered, which I'm pretty sure are the same thing, and in the end just decided that if I had committed some heinous act or other either, maliciously or because somebody with the skin of a jelly fish was too sensitive to deal with the truth, then it would become obvious sooner rather than later. As I hauled ass out of bed I was determined to forget about it, whatever it was, until faced with either the angry hordes or someone looking money or an angry horde looking money. That said it did ruin breakfast for me and I ended up pushing my Saturday special of Belfast bap, fried egg x2 and bloody deliciously black pudding round my plate for an age as I itemised all the people I could have offended in the last 24 hours. It wasn't an inconsiderable list as it appears I gather enemies like Tiger Woods gathers mistresses. But alas nothing came to mind.
Sure there were plenty of people I had offended in the last day but none that I regret offending. No my only regret was holding back. I mean that taxi driver had it coming as did the chap in the shop who looks like a butch Heather Locklear but who moves with all the grace and speed of a beached whale. I mean I could see my Friday post breakfast pre work sausage roll actually going cold in his large sized lady hands. Mook. And maybe I should have given up my seat for the old couple on the bus on Friday evening but then again they were wearing hiking gear so fuck that, my need as an asthmatic and lard ass was greater. They stared at me from beneath their special hiking hats with beady hate filled eyes. Double mooks.
It was only when I gave up thinking about it and switched on the TV to catch the Corrie omnibus that I realised what I had done. My heart was booming in my chest and my hands went very sweaty. I had cheated, on Pubble!
This was devastating.
I had cheated on my darling Pubble and I felt very very guilty about it. I love my Pubble and would never ever, soberly, do anything to hurt her. I was, as you can imagine, crestfallen.
I could see it all; the laughter, the flirting, the sparky touching of hands, the flicking of hair by her, the cracker one liners and smooth talking from me and then...oh I didn't want this in my head.....and then the sex. It was, in a word, movie-esque, or if you prefer a real word it was, hot, very hot. I thought about that for a moment.
"Hold on a wee teeny tiny minute....I don't have any cracker one liners nor am I practiced in the art of smooth talk", said I to nobody in particular.
But I still felt very guilty. I replayed more of the evening in my mind. Flirting, touching sparky hands, hair flicking, smooth talk, movie sex...rewind...movie sex...rewind further...Roy's rolls...
"Roy's rolls? Roy's Rolls? What?"
And then it became all so very clear. I hadn't actually cheated on Pubble but I had dream cheated on her, with eh...maniac loving and she of the massive ginger curls, Fiz from Coronation Street. I was equally delighted and upset. I phoned Pubble to tell her.
"So who'd you do it with then Mr Smooth", asked a laughing Pubble.
"Fiz", I replied nonchalantly.
"Fiz? Fiz? Big fat Fiz? You dream cheated on me with Fiz from Coronation Street?"
"Yeah....eh...why are you shouting?'
This went on for a bit and ended up in me saying sorry and promising never ever to dream cheat on Pubble again. I have also vowed not to drink whiskey and watch the soaps ever again.
Ho and indeed hum as I probably don't say when I a dream cheating.
]]>From Blabbermouth.net
"MVD Visual and Sexy Intellectual have set a February 23, 2010 release date for the "Revolution In The Head - Rage Against The Machine and the Art Of Protest" DVD.
Arguably the most provocative band of the last 20 years, RAGE AGAINST THE MACHINE has, since its explosive debut, been the group most associated with the American protest movement. Picking up the flame from a linear musical tradition going back to the War Of Independence, with the best known protagonists coming up during the 1950s and 60s civil rights movement via artists such as Pete Seger and the young Bob Dylan, the anger remained as brutal as ever during the final decade of the 20th century in RAGE and contemporaries like PUBLIC ENEMY.
This film dissects the work and career of RATM and looks at their place in this always fascinating lineage of artists and performers who have spoken out on behalf of, and drawn attention to, the world's marginalized, downtrodden and oppressed."
Ha, downtrodden my arse. I nearly spat my tea over the keyboard when I read that. Christ, I love me who do you love?! I say I nearly but I love my Apple Mac nearly as much as I love tea. It appears that, according to Rage Against The Machine the revolution requires the purchasing of products, lots of products.
Arseholes. I'll be listening to Fugazi (there's some below the fold if you want some) if anybody needs some revolution starting. I'm thinking of bringing back fascism. Maybe then we could get a decent bus service. Rage Against The Machine? Rage Against The Bus Man more like. Moustachioed bastard.
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The house was quiet all evening. The only sound was the relentless march of time as the clock on the wall 'tick tocked'. This was unusual as it's never been known to make any noise let alone tick tock. There were a few long sighs from The Cousin and even Drumgor sat passive and sullen, well more sullen than usual. It felt good to be with family, even if one was a filthy, smelly, hairy, finger sniffer and the other a wookiee. Heh. The Cousin sat forward as if he was about to speak. Drumgor and I waited, our gaze fixed upon him and that's not something I usually like to do. He opened his mouth but folded back into his seat without uttering a word but instead let out another deflated sigh. It's difficult to find the right words at a time like this. I suggested tea and even got up to make it but sat back down before the kettle boiled and the water went cold. It was only when Pubble burst through the front door that we snapped out of our despondency.
She stood looking at us, she didn't say a word at first as she tried to adjust her eyes to the darkness of the sitting room. We had been sitting for so long with our thoughts and our long sighs that we hadn't noticed the day change from persistent gloom to complete darkness. The only light was the disappointing glow from the streetlight outside. Oh I hate that streetlight.
"Christ, what now?", asked the harbinger of joy and light of my life.
We looked at each other then the two mooks looked at the floor.
"Well?", she asked and kicked me with one of her fancy new boots.
"Knock it off", I didn't appreciate being kicked but thought I should better offer something before I got another. The second kick really does hurt more.
"It's...it's...oh I cant even say it out loud....it makes it too real...." I could hear The Cousin stifling a tear.
"Oh god, don't tell me you three are pishing yourselves about Blanche"
"YES, YES WE ARE!"
"Blanche was the best, she really was" I could see the boys nodding in agreement.
"Oh my god. Are you gonna be whinging all night?"
"Probably"
"Okay then, see you tomorrow you[inaudible muttering]" and off she went. I didn't even get a kiss nor a hug. Death deserves at least hug does it not.
Yes Maggie Jones who played simply the best character in the whole wonderful world of the soaps is dead. And obviously so is the aforementioned best character in soapland, Blanche Hunt. She had the best lines and delivered them with the preciseness of something very very precise. She was a joy to watch. And with lines like these it's easy to see why we will miss her so....
On Postman Pat
"'Early in the morning, when the day is dawning...' Your real Postman Pat rolls up about noon wearing a pair of shorts and his breakfast. And if he's not chucking elastic bands like confetti, he'll be rifling through your birthday cards.
On the marvel that is Roy Cropper
"He looks like he should be crayoning summat."
Ken is showing off his kimono at a dinner party to Deirdre, Liz, Lloyd and Blanche.
Blanche:Oh, for the love of God!
Ken Barlow (William Roache):OK. Come on. Let's have it. You've got a problem with this, I should imagine?Blanche:A grown man, dressed as a Giesha? Have you gone stark staring mad?
Ken: It is no different to a dressing gown. I mean what. Is there a rule? "Thou shalt wear terry towelling in the North West of England"?
Blanche: There should be.
Lloyd Mullaney (Craig Charles):Oh come on, Blanche. If a man can't indulge his encricitys at home, where can he indulge them?
Deirdre Barlow (Anne Kirkbride): I wouldn't mind if he didn't indulge them in front of guests.
Ken:Look it's not encentic, it's Japanese and it makes me feel comfortable.
Liz MacDonald (Beverley Callard):Well I'm with the boys. I mean Lloyd wears all manner of weird and wonderful things.
Blanche: Well that's understandable. (Turns back to Ken) But Ken! Always got to be different. Always sniffing out controversy. Does Tennessee Williams wear kimono?
Ken: Tennessee Williams is dead!
Blanche: I'm not surprised!
Speaking to Deirdre
"Good looks are a curse, Deirdre. You and Kenneth should count yourselves lucky."
After a bit more moping we switched the lights on and made a lovely cup of tea. We watched Corrie and if it hadn't been for John Stape and Rosie's to do in the bar I don't think we could have seen it through to bed time. After all the celebrity deaths this year, and lets be honest there hasn't been nearly enough (your times coming Sandler), this is the only one that I genuinely feel bad about.
Here's to Maggie and Blanche. She showed us all that old people can be okay. As Blanche herself put it,
"You're going to have to start taking pleasure in the misfortune of others, Kenneth, or you're going to have a long and unhappy old age".
Tremendous.
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Ah there is nothing like the first smoke nicotine replacement lozenge puff of your asthma inhaler of the day. From the unique, and lets not lie about this, and wonderful first drag from a hand rolled cigarette to the uber nerdy suck from the blue pipe of failure it's been a disappointing journey. One wonders what's next? Actually I try not to wonder what's next as it cant be anything good. If you think it's nerdy to puff puff from inhaler just image what dragging a large bottle of oxygen would do to one's standing in the cool community. Not that I have bothered the cool community much in the last few years. But there really is no way to suck from your inhaler and not look like a pathetic, wheezy geek. I know because I have practised but no matter what stance one tried to effect, from Jimmy Dean-esque nonchalance to David Beckham sportiness I just always end up looking like a wheezy fat geek. Which is of course disappointing.
I know this makes me sound shallow but there you go. I resent having a fucking inhaler. I resent it and feel it's not fair [stamps foot like a petulant child] If I could sue somebody for the injustice of it all, being of fags for a year and ending up with asthma is an definite injustice in my book, I would sue the shit out of them. But I can't so I am left to wheeze and wonder.
The ironic thing is that as a child I was always slightly and by slightly I really mean incredibly jealous of the other boys at school who had something. I didn't want something really shitty like that one boy with leukemia or that other kid who had to carry two school bags, one for books the other for drugs. But I did want something that got me out of school or gym from time to time. Asthma back then would have been aces!
'The lucky lucky bastards', I thought as they got to watch gym class from the side of the gym hall. Whilst I had to climb up ropes to nowhere, a feat that would come to symbolise my career, they got to throw teeny bags to each other or race each other in their wheelchairs. The jammy gits. And then there were all the hospital appointments they had to get out of class for. Whilst muggins here was slaving over the complexities of the eight times tables (I never really did work it out) they got to go to hospitals and special clinics to see if they could walk or have their bone marrow tweaked or get blood transfusions. And there was all the lovely sympathy they got from the dinner ladies and teachers. From extra chips to less homework and being clasped into the soft lovely bountiful bosoms of old Mrs Batey the head dinner lady, she smelt like rhubarb and custard or so I'm told I never got within a handshake of her, the cripples as the were less than affectionately called had and got it all.
But best of all for these kids was they never got bullied, ever. I mean you'd be the lowest of the low if you were to oh I dunno, thinking off the top of my head, undo the brake on a wheelchair whilst one of them was watching the schools sports day from the top of the hill with a little blanket over his teeny weeny little malfunctioning legs. I heard him laughing. Egg and spoon is tough for some people you know.
So jealous of these boys was I that I even tried to fake I was deaf when the school nurse did her yearly hearing tests. "Stop messing you fat wee messer", she said and clipped me round my disappointingly perfect ear. She'd get six months for doing than now and end up on a register too. Oh the irony that now of course I am all but deaf in one ear. Fuck maybe I can sue her!
Still I got over my jealousy when that one boy died, not I should add from rolling down the hill at the sports day. The eight times table seemed do able after that. Ah fuck it, I will just have to accept that I now come with an inhaler and there is no real way to suck on it and look like Jimmy Dean. But then again I never really looked like much of a rebel even when I was smoking.
They say laughter is the best medicine but I find Ventolin works better. Arf.
Ho hum....and all that.
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I woke up on Monday morning with a slightly fuzzy head. After all the Wookiee wailing from Drumgor on Sunday night I decided to treat myself not only to two big dirty slabs of Victoria sponge but to three maybe four glasses of whiskey, mainly because I'm worth it. Me drinking three maybe four whiskies is the equivalent of a real drinker going to the pub and quaffing five pints of Stella followed by lashings of hard liquor in pint glasses with no mixers. I was fuzzy and no mistake. JJ Crikey is not the drinker he once was. I was prolific and as none of you knew me then, in my teenage years, I can say that without fear of contradiction. But back then I could enjoy two scoops of the landlords beery offerings at lunchtime and return to work as sober as the next man. Sweet baby Jebus in the manger all covered in afterbirth the very thought of having even a half a beer at lunchtime makes me do a sick in my mouth. I have fondish memories of benders that were measured not in hours or days but weeks. I have holes were memories of longer booze ups should be. And I did it all whilst not only being gamefully employed but also being damn good at work too.
Those days are over. I can no more handle a challenger tank in battlefield conditions than I can handle two sniffs of the barman's apron. This doesn't really bother me but it would be nice to be able to enjoy a quick snifter or two of the splendiferous Greenore whiskey without having to turn to the plunk plunk fizz of the old Alka Seltzer. No, now I get the hangover before I even go out. That cant be good.
As I lay in bed considering which wall to throw the alarm clock through I reached under my pillow and to my surprise my hand was met by a cold metallic object. "That's a bit rum", I surmised. I prefer my bed to be free from metallic objects, obviously. But sitting upright I reached under my pillow and fetched out the alien in my bed. It was a pound coin! My first reaction was one of delight.
"Bed money! Whoop whoop!"
Who doesn't like bed money? But then I wondered why it was there, under my pillow. I mean how had it got there? I went back to considering it all a bit rum. Had the tooth fairy left it there? This thought forced me out of bed quick sharpish and I made for the mirror post haste. All my own teeth were as I had left them the night before. Having asthma is one thing but being shy in the tooth department is something else all together. The pirate/meth fiend look isn't in, even in Belfast. If all my teeth were present and correct just who had the tooth fairy left the shiny pound for? Maybe Royal Mail have taken over tooth fairy money delivery. That would explain why it ended up under my pillow and not under the pillow of the toothless and annoying child four doors down.
But I was up now and didn't really have time to be fretting about the tooth fairy as I had to get ready for another day toiling and debasing myself for Mr Dawson Wam. The bin chaps were at their work as I came out of the house. I really wanted to wait and see if they had my bin. It has been on the missing list for about two weeks. The Cousin has been fretting over it so. He worries about such things, as if the bin was a lost puppy. Sake. It's a wonder I don't drink more. But as the bin chaps were having a well deserved smoke break, it appears that they get one after every third house I didn't have time to see if my bin was back in the neighbourhood or was still on manoeuvres elsewhere.
Obviously between worrying about the tooth fairy and the bin I managed to be late to work. Dawson Wam was hovering with malicious intent near my desk.
"You okay Crikey?", asked Dawson Wam with a frightening amount of sincerity and concern.
"Yeah, yeah....eh fine...just a bit you fuzzy"
"Yeah...asthma....not easy. If you need anything let me know" and off he wandered. I'm starting to think the whole morning was just a whiskey induced dream. Tooth fairies, missing bins and Dawson Wam being nice. This is going to be a very queer week.
Ho and indeed hum.....
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