barbelith [dayglo] |
Monday, September 03, 2001
Okay, this is getting silly now. I'm actually shivery with excitement about going to see Bjork, and the concert's not for weeks. What brought this on? A very brief report of the first gig was all it took, specifically the setlist...She did 'Aurora'!, 'All is full of love'! and 'Hyperballad'! With an electric harpist! And Inuit singers! Matmos! And a full orchestra! If she does 'Pagan Poetry', think my companions and I may explode. That's before I even looked at the photos. Alexander McQueen on top form again, as with alot of people, working with Bjork seems to bring out the best in him... Mind you, the lady always had style. Homelessness? Emotional upheaval? Cessation of net access? Who cares? Sunday, September 02, 2001
Not going to go on about my stressful life, think it might be more effective to tell you about something that happened today. A few days ago I thought I saw an teacher from my secondary school in my local supermarket but was too unsure to approach her (Thank you, god). Today I happened to see her again when accompanied by a friend who went to the same school. Who giggled, patted me on the head, and informed me that the woman had played a teacher in Grange Hill, and that she thought I should maybe get some rest, in a soft-walled cell, perhaps. Think that says it all, really. Friday, August 31, 2001
Although, cheerily, while walking me back to catch the last train out, Tree informs me that she read in some paper or other that lovely Crawley is the sixth most violent town in the UK. Now, even presuming this survey excludes cities, my beloved hometown beat off strong competition from many larger towns for this hotly contested honour. Something to feel proud of, that. And really only dropped in here to rant about the continuing Ikeafication of all small town pubs. This having seen a particularly grisly example of the genre. Stopping off in my home town to see the luscious Tree, we decided it'd be a giggle to go and check out the latest incarnation of our old local, which for many years was a pretty 'spit and sawdust' affair. I can dimly remember being really nervous the first time I went in there, this due to the clientele being mainly scary biker types and leather-clad metallers. It was messy, full of dark corners, played an assortment of loud angry music, and was the classic 'small town freak refuge', a refuge from pissed-up fights on the High Street or being thumped because you were thought to be a hippy. (catch all insult not relating at all to whiffs of patchouli or preference for cheesecloth threads but generally applied to those freaks who thought there might just be life beyond Crawley.) Bloody marvellous. Anyway, you get the idea, classic grunge/goth/metal pub basically. A few years ago it was Firkinised, like every other sodding pub that hasn't been Weatherspoonsed, and recently, due to Firkins' takeover by bass, the place got another facelift care of the Arena pub group... ...who decided that the best thing to do with a pub patronised mainly by goths and metal types was to paint it orange and install little Ikea spotlamps everywhere. (Now, I'm a big fan of diddy chrome lamps, but in a grunge pub???). Music of the David Gray/Simply Red variety. The clincher in the 'huh???' stakes being the framed photos adorning the walls. In our corner we have an England fan with his face painted in Union Jack colours, a scantily clad young lady, and most bizarrely, a dyptych featuring a photo of a line of women's breasts, sheathed in very tight white t-shirts, and a full frontal shot of a woman's fetching white bikini bottoms, which pretty much fill the frame. Terrifying. But not nearly as terrifying as finally spotting a friendly face, a bouncer who's worked there for years, who points out that we're actually sitting in the 'men's' part of the bar. Cue Mark explaining to a staggered Dayglo and Tree that part of the 'Arena Concept' (which can fuck off to begin with. Ther aren't many places where concepts are inherently the enemy, but pubs are one. Albums are another in my opinion, but that's another rant) is to create men's and women's areas, with dedicated decor. At which point the 'tits and football' artwork becomes all too comprehensible. As does the fact that we're sittitng near the dartboard and pool table, girls obviously not wanting to play nasty games in pubs with wough boys. In case we thought we'd heard the worst, we stupidly ask how the 'ladies area' is delinated. 'Oh, it looks pretty similar, except that the pictures are of kittens and flowers' And he's not joking. As might be apparent, the last post wasn't mine. I had been considering lending my blog to someone more inspired than me for quite a while. Then, having just lost a vast, insightful and witty link-laden post about the joys of football (yes really), gave up on writing for myself and decided that it'd be interesting to see random words belonging to someone else appearing here. Fantastic sense of timing I've got; as that last post, which will presumably remain in my personal archives until this whole shebang collapses, will remind me of a lot of stuff that's coming to an end... Although am still quite into the idea, so if anyone wants a timeshare on a spacious beachfront proprty, do let me know. Friday, August 17, 2001
mostly waiting behind the rear, she enters periodically upwards and around. within the constraints of contract, her ligaments stretch, breaking slowly over years and lifetimes, until finally blossoming with full tumesence - a new era is born. dawn breaks. shadows rise over mounting earthworks, barren heat works inside the earth. and the cycle begins again. somewhere lurks a secret crystal, glowering in the heart of the flesh. red light lines towards everywhere streaks streaming boundless and unbounded. should this be happening? Thursday, August 16, 2001
Still, par for the course. Find using the library an odd experience. Today being a typical case, I headed in there with a list of books, couldn't find any of them, came a way with a whole pile of stuff that was totally different in focus to what I'd gone in for. Beginning to think that libraries fall into the 'charity shop' shopping model, great for browsing and surprises, utterly hopeless if you know what you want. Therefore unable to find a single Dorothy L.Sayers book but at the same time, go from discovering that the wonderful Ray Davies , never one to take the simple route, has written a semi-fictional autiobiographiy/thriller/memoir, X Ray, to clutching it in my sweaty palms in about ten seconds. On the way home, come across a second-hand bookshop open at 7pm and find Strong Poison for £1. Even better, discovering that the shop has a bin of free books. Yep, that's right, free books. Grab some trashy novels for the next time I'm feeling deadheaded (tomorrow, at this rate. That's right, despite all this literary consumption i'm still a grumpy mare..) Hoorah for small and groovy secondhand shops. Books, glorious books... Been trying to remember a kids sci-fi book I read and loved when I was about 11, could remember vast amounts of plot, and even guess at character names, but could I remember the title? Could I fuck. Driving me barmy, been bugging friends about it for days... Post on Barbelith and within a couple of hours some clever bunny tells me that I've been babbling about 'The Far side of Evil' and 'Enchantress from the Stars' by Sylvia Engdahl. Remember them being great, just gotta find them now... would you believe my local library doesn't have them? Tuesday, August 14, 2001
Bogota celebrates 'Night Without Men', in a decidedly unusual measure to highlight the high levels of street crime and domestic violence in the city, men were ordered to remain at home under curfew for a night, looking after the children while the women of the city roamed the safe streets. Policemen took the night off while 1,500 female officers patrolled the streets. Women also ran the city's firetrucks. Police Chief Jorge Enrique Lenaris resigned his position for the night to let Col. Gloria Cardilla take the reins of Bogotá's police force.(from Sussex Women magazine). Brilliant. Thursday, August 09, 2001
And in the mood I'm in (although remembering the 'fainting' incident is lightening it considerably), this discovery probably wasn't the best-timed in the world. But the 'random drink selector' offered me a Shotgun Lou, which sounds delicious: 1 1/2 oz Brandy Who's for a Dying Bastard, while we're about it? *hic* But also involved excellent dinners with the hubby, which was great, and also me managing to give him a 'reputation', as my old grandma would say. Basically he couldn't be bothered to go to work on Monday, so in time-honoured fashion got me to call in sick for him. I was rather bleary-eyed at the time, and rung in, saying I'd been staying with him, he'd looked a bit wobbly and then fainted, so I'd sent him back to bed and booked a doctors appointment for the afternoon. So far, so typical (when we lived together, we were terribly delicate, always coming down with stomach bugs, eating in terribly unsanitary restaurants, and living in appalling hellholes where the pipes would keep bursting, the products of incredibly dysfunctional and short-lived families etc. I don’t know how we coped, darlings). The hub deigns to go into work the next day, and rings me laughing his head off. His supervisor having voiced concern about whether he should be in at all, in his state (jammy bugger always gets away with it) then asked him whether ‘the situation hadn’t been terribly embarrassing’. Hub confused, but gradually gleans that supervisor and co-workers thought I was some young filly he’d pulled and taken home, only to keel over in front of me, ‘the morning after’ and need helping back to bed. Cue Dayglo laughing hysterically. Saturday was Barbe-thon which I can't be bothered to write about, but what I would probably have written is here. Oh and Kooky love, if I have been 'harping' on about you having sex with Dan (have I?), it's out of curiosity at how the anatomical contrasts, lets say, would influence proceedings... The mind boggles, but some entertaining images are conjured. Anyway, back to the meeting of the geeks. There were millions of the buggers. Felt rather sorry for Tom, circumstances resulting in him standing in a centre of a seated ring of 20 drunk and excitable acolytes, shaking hands for what must have seemed like hours. Royal walkabouts had nothing on it. However, the man coped with the adoring masses in a stately and stylish fashion of which the Queen Mum would have been proud. Although I'd just like to make it clear that in crediting the divinities that are Macavity and Whisky Priestess with the 'go to bed with trash' theory, I'm casting no aspersions. I'm also childishly pleased that if you mix the two kind and smart proponents of the 'go to bed with trash' theory together, you get a Whisky Mac. Which is one of my favourite drinks. I may just damn well go and get one now and raise it to 'em. God I'm a grumpy fucker today. I've been venting bile on Barbelith, and responses have included kindly advice of the 'take to your bed with trashy novels' variety. kindly advice of the 'take to your PC and read bizarro slash starring yourself' variety and schadenfreude (?) inducing stories of a horrible week... Gotta love Barbelith, sometimes.  |
