very rare Howard Jones   Leave a comment

Over the years me and Andy (who helps me with computers) have developed the concept of “the voodoo”, which is the evil force that is trying to put Um out of business. The evil force is pretty smart. It just fucks with my computer, and because I don’t know too much about computers I can never tell whether it’s just me or not. Basically I’ve had three PCs that have had the habit of switching themselves off (and sometimes on, like when you’re lying in bed caned at night and the room is suddenly bathed in an evil blue glow) and then eventually just eventually refusing to work altogether. The one I had before my new one (which, uh, switches itself off occasionally) managed to fry its power supply, which also took out the motherboard, the processor, the CD Rom, the CD writer and the hard-drive, which, for the digitally challenged, is most of a computer. So anyway, for a while I’ve been out of action PC-wise, which is at least part of the reason, along with ale, responsibilities, wholefood retail commitments and a grotesque personal lack of focus, why this so-called diary has been updated so laughably infrequently of late. So I’ve got to get on the case.

Dreamt last night of wandering around labyrinthine building stuffed with antique furniture with Sam and my mother, who seemed to want to purchase large wooden items for my brother. Found myself unable to refer to the bleeding obvious fact that he is shortly moving to Australia (on a budget) and doesn’t need ornately carved mahogany cabinets. Then a tsunami struck the building and its many rooms swelled quickly with water. I was terrified. Then I awoke and had to make Syd his Weetabix.

The other night though, I had a cracker of a dream. Sam (I think) and I were passing a skip. A young, fairly smartly dressed woman was examining its contents, which looked like builder’s rubble and some unpromising household crap.
“£15 for the lot” she said aggressively.
I gave her a look as if to say, “I know the rules concerning skip diving” which seemed to shut her up. I then climbed into the skip and immediately found some 7″ singles piled up against one side. When I examined them I discovered that they appeared to be by Howard Jones, but not Howard Jones in his spiky-haired veggie synth-pop persona, but rather Howard Jones in his (non-existent save for in dreams) role as children’s entertainer. The records were obviously aimed for the kiddie market, and even had a sort of cartoon picture of Jones on the back, only with longer, spikier hair and a kind of Ronald McDonald “hey kids!” grin. There were like about 6 or 7 tunes, with many titles repeated, all in immaculate nick. I snaffled them up and next thing I know we’re in the car and I’m checking out what my Jones booty is worth in the book. Sure enough they’re all in there and worth about £7 apiece. However, Neil Suddes, a man of whom it is rumoured that if he flogged his ludicrous record collection would be easily able to buy a fairly decent house, had suddenly, dreamstyle, also appeared and was looking aggrieved in the way that only Neil can.
“Now that’s just fucking made my day” he spat, referring to my haul of singles. Ha ha! (This is funny because in real life if it isn’t Venezeulan psych worth £80, Neil basically isn’t interested).

Posted October 22, 2002 by peteum2013 in Uncategorized

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