Burnt Reynolds

An “endtime ballad” from Crippled Black Phoenix, a collective-style band featuring members of Mogwai and Electric Wizard, amongst others. Their music is hymnal and doomy. And, on their most recent double-album, The Resurrectionists/Night Raider, more than a little Floydy.

You have to be in the mood for this kind of stuff. Tonight I am in the mood for this kind of stuff.

Alone Again Or

Arthur Lee and Love. You’ve gotta love a mariachi trumpet! You can rack this up into my ever-expanding list of favourite songs.

I could be in love with almost everyone.
I think that people are the greatest fun.

Well, not all of ’em. Actually some of them are quite dull*. But it’s a beautiful sentiment even though I personally couldn’t be in love with almost anyone. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Songs! They don’t half talk some shit sometimes, but I still sing along…

*and they probably think the same about me.

My Life Sofa

I run various schools drama groups, and today I started a new term at one of my regulars to be greeted by 20 kids saying “Miss!” (they call me Miss, I try not to take offence) “Miss, did we see you on telly?”

smoochy
Yeah, they did. I took the dirty advertising dollar and can currently be seen during “60 Minute Makeover” pimping ScS sofas.

You can see my shame here, if you’d like.

I can’t justify it, but the money was good and much-needed at the time, and I certainly wouldn’t let commercial interests sully my own work. Oh, and hey, those sofas are really comfy.

What more can I say? (Buy an ScS sofa.)

Sore

What a gloriously lush and tender song. It isn’t a hug, but it’s the next best thing: Sore by Annuals.

Unfortunately, the video is definitely not a hug. It’s a calamity. The music will cuddle your ears, while the video pokes you repeatedly in the eyes. Heh. That’s life, innit?

Hey Goodbye

I’ve had this song on a mixtape for years and years, but only this week found out who it was by (I’d occasionally try and google the chorus, but what with it being “hey goodbye” google told me it was probably by Bananarama. I generally trust google, but it did seem like a stylistic departure for Siobhan, Keren and Dobbin).

But finally the mystery was solved*. It’s Hey Goodbye by Macha Loved Bedhead. Whom? Oh, you know. Macha Loved Bedhead. They did Robert De Niro’s Waiting, I think.

*How did I solve it? I asked Russ, who made the tape for me. I’m like Sherlock Holmes I am.

Aloha!

Race for the Prize! This version is perhaps a bit more gong-and-theremin heavy than necessary, but it’s still got me dancin. If I had to choose a top song ever, it would be a two way tie between this and Glenn Campbell’s Wichita Lineman. Very different songs but they both hit me like heart-seeking missiles, or, more accurately, like beautiful songs. Wayne Coyne is a hero. He has a great beard and seems restlessly creative. If I could achieve either I would be a happy man.

Anyway. You’ve found my blog. Originally set up to promote my dumb comedy ambitions, it expanded into being a collection of stuff I like, then recently it all went a bit haywire with personal kerfufflery*. From now on it’ll be a mix of all three, although the personal stuff will be less kerfuffley (sorry, kerfuffle-seekers!).

So… hi! I’m updating the blog a lot at the mo, but that’s mostly due to the fact I’m currently waking up at a ridiculous time in the morning and I’ve nothing better to do than sit with coffee and toast and randomly bash the keyboard until recognisable words and sentences appear. You will find some of those sentences below. Enjoy.

*I’m doing ok now, as it goes.

Friday’s Short Story

storytellerDCI Allinson surveyed the crime scene. It was a living room like any other in Britain. Magnolia walls, IKEA coffee table, a ridiculously bulky widescreen plasma TV burbling in the corner. And on the sofa, Mr McCarthy, a middle-aged man in decent shape, lying sprawled with a large wooden stake through his heart.

I should get one of those TVs, thought Allinson.

His gaze fell on the man’s wife, sitting on the tastefully-upholstered armchair. She appeared distraught, hands shaking as she drew hungrily on a cigarette.

Allinson’s partner, DCI Welsh, was taking notes in his little pad.

“And you admit you stabbed your husband through the heart?” said Allinson.

“Yes. I… I had to. It was self defence. He was a vampire.” said Mrs McCarthy.

Welsh looked up from his pad.

“He was a… I’m sorry, what?” asked Allinson.

“A vampire. Nosferatu.”

“Um…” He glanced over at Welsh. Welsh looked confused.

“How many eff’s in Nosferatu?” asked Welsh.

Allinson looked up at the ceiling for a moment. Nice cornicing.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” he said, eyes returning to the suspect, “what led you to believe that your husband was a… a vampire?”

“Well… he wore a lot of black”

“Go on.”

“And he… he didn’t like garlic,” she added.

What? Oh for… you’re telling me you killed your husband because… Jesus Christ. Look, I’m wearing black and I don’t like garlic. Are you going to..?”

With a scream DCI Welsh leapt to the sofa, wrenched the stake from Mr McCarthy’s body, turned and thrust it into DCI Allinson’s chest.

As Allinson sank to the carpet, gurgling, Welsh knelt by Mrs McCarthy and laid a calming hand on her shoulder.

“There there, it’s OK. I am so sorry,” said DCI Welsh. “I had no idea. Dirty vampires, they get everywhere.”

******
Vampyros Stupidos
by Harris
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