Archive for February 2003

The Bee Gee murderer   Leave a comment

Horrible wakeful night last night interspersed with a nasty nightmare that serialised itself between breaks of insomnia. I was in a large institution and someone was doing vicious knife-murders periodically. There were a lot of dismembered bits of folk lying about. I was afraid for me and mine but we couldn’t seem to leave. Only we really know what scares the shit out of us and there was this hideous sense of dread throughout that took minutes to shed after waking each time. I didn’t know who the murderer was, but possible suspects kept presenting themselves ambiguously. Eventually I realised that it was the 4th Gibb brother, only he wasn’t Andy, he was Harco Pront (who is really some Dutch guy who’s just made a brilliant record). My overfed rock biog mind immediately brought up some b&w archive photos of the Bee Gees, but with Harco too. Barry, Robin and Maurice are looking vaguely wistful, as they might, but Harco, who has a very high fringe, has eyes that are massively charged with evil. He looks like some bug-eyed Manson or something. Next there is another shot of him alone that is labelled “temporarily insane in 1967” where his face, fingers and a tree on the skyline are almost blurred beyond recognition, but you can still see the same mad eyes.

Syd woke up at 6:30, which way too early for me to get Harco Pront and all the red wine out of my system, plus, as we’ve since discovered, he is ill and was being incredibly challenging. Got a call from nursery to take him home at 11:30, and he threatened to have another febrile convulsion all the way home in his pushchair. On Mill Rd Bridge he was dipping about sickly, looking really pale and blotchy, with eyes ¾ closed. I was kind of gently sprinting back to get the Neurofen before he passed out. I reckon I got it down him with about a minute to spare. Fucking hardcore worries, but then within about 45 minutes he’s smiling and wants to play cars. Your Mum and Dad may fuck you up, but it’s your kids that do your nut in.

Posted February 24, 2003 by peteum2013 in Uncategorized

Fears and loathings with bad hair   Leave a comment

Still feeling a bit wounded about finding my CDs in the Sally Ann’s, although obviously it’s the easiest thing to understand in the world.

Anyway I got this free Domino (record label) CD with my copy of this month’s Wire magazine and as I sat eating my beans on toast and listening to it I found myself getting increasingly pissed off with its poxy uninterestingness. Track after track (I only got up to the Pest one, which I kind of liked for it’s dumb funkiness) of well-played, well-arranged, well-recorded snore fodder.

My heart beats so fast when I’m wasted. Last night I was sure I could detect some kind of arrhythmia shit going on. I resolved to listen to my heart-disease records today but I haven’t had the nerve. I’m too old to die young, surely?

I’m so skint at the moment. Yesterday I couldn’t even afford red wine to go with Antiques Roadshow.

And my hair’s shit as well. I’m heading for an Autechre cut again soon, I can feel it. I always so I’m going to let it grow into some kind of envelope-pushing freak statement, or a the very least be long enough to flatter my features, and then it just starts to make me look like a diseased owl or some kind of deserter from the German army. At this point I make vague plans to actually visit a barbers and get a quiff or some other style compromise, and then I don’t, and eventually out come the clippers and I get a Sean Booth cut. I’d say this has been the pattern since about 1994. I’m like one of those middle-aged women they have on What Not To Wear who can’t break out of the 80s or whatever.

Posted February 18, 2003 by peteum2013 in Uncategorized

That joke is shit now.   Leave a comment

Hey, you know my hilarious concept release “UM For Charity”? Suddenly it didn’t seem so funny today when I found three of my CDs in the Salvation Army. I didn’t feel like shelling out £4:50 for my own backwash so I just had them away. Now I’m a bit gutted because I should have left them there to see how they fended, poor sick fledgling things. That was part of the point of the “Um For Charity” thing anyway. I wasn’t too surprised to see “Grievous UM” there but “Energy Giant” is good, isn’t it?

Posted February 15, 2003 by peteum2013 in Uncategorized

Car ignorance birds with oily feet come home to roost…   Leave a comment

Hubris. That’s what it is.

The other day I was going on about rockin’ ’em at the Songwriter’s Night, and then the next one I do I’m the most spiritless, stillborn cunt in the world. People do buy CDs at those gigs though. They must have money left over from getting in free or whatever.

Then the other other day we decide to go to Ely to see the cathedral, like you do when you’re really old and straight, and on the way the oil light goes on the Escort. I couldn’t tell you what model it is because I don’t know anything about cars, as we shall see. Sensibly, we pull in to the garage and buy a small bottle of oil; only we can’t put it in the car, because we don’t know how to open the fucking bonnet. I’m serious, and I’m ashamed. Fuck it, we think. It must be like a petrol light, meaning that we’re OK for a bit but we’d better get some oil in as soon as we can. So we go to Ely and wander around the cathedral swearing and giggling and laughing at a statue of some dude who must have done a lot of work for Christ, but only when he could be bothered. Then, as we’re driving out of Ely, the car just konks out and we pull over. First thing we have to do, is ring Richard Rippin up to tell us how to open the bonnet, only Sam’s mobile is very low on power and keeps going dead. Then, after a long search, we think we’ve located where you put the oil in, but we can’t get the cap off. Then we have a great many very short conversations with Sam’s Mum, who in turn is talking to her Gary about how to put oil in Escorts. I keep pulling the cap and twisting it but it’s not coming and I don’t want to fuck anything up that I haven’t fucked already. Then Sam tries to turn the car on to charge the phone and the engine now won’t even turn over. By this point Syd is late for his nap and we have no milk, blanket etc, and he’s screaming as the juggernauts zoom past his head. By this time I’m virtually screaming myself. I’m livid with Sam for having a fucked car, for having a fucked phone etc, but most of all for having a fucked boyfriend who doesn’t know shit about cars and can’t even open the bonnet on one. I’d always known that one day my lack of knowledge in this area would screw me up and I’d always looked at the poor saps by the side of the road with dead cars with a kind of chill because I knew it would eventually be me. What’s making matters worse for me is that I feel really stupid because I’m wearing a biker jacket.
Then Sam tells me that she hasn’t updated the AA thingy from her old car to her new (fucked) one and I start to have visions of bills so enormous and unpayable that I’d have to radically change my musical style or even get a job or something. Eventually, for some reason, the AA man comes. He is one of those people who seems so welded to their profession that their physical appearance is part and parcel of the work they do. This is kind of a fancy way of saying that he was really, really oily, especially his hair. He was also so taciturn that there didn’t seem to be much qualitative difference between him and the breakdown lorry he was driving, and if the latter had suddenly engaged me, Bob The Builder-style, in conversation I wouldn’t have been particularly surprised. The AA man pulled the cap off the engine like someone plucking a grape from a bunch. Maybe I loosened it, I don’t know.
Then he filled us in with a few facts, without saying anything more than was necessary.

When the oil light goes on your car you have to put more oil in pronto.
You have to fill the fucker up. Like, with a big can.
If you don’t, you will seize your engine, like we did, and need a new one.
It’s not worth putting a new engine in shitty old cars.

Hence, for want of a nail, etc, and don’t fuck about in churches.

Posted February 15, 2003 by peteum2013 in Uncategorized

Are you happy with your dancing partner?   Leave a comment

Still at this bleeding self-description malarkey, and I fucking hate it. It’s no wonder I sing songs about goats and tigers and stuff. Perhaps I should begin the blurb by describing this skinny tiger who lives in Cambridge and works in a wholefood shop, but then obviously that wouldn’t do me any favours. Talking of which, last night I dreamt I was my dad and I’d come home to a really depressing bachelor flat and I sensed there was someone hiding in the house and I opened a cupboard and there was Sylvie, all mad with eyes flashing, and refusing to leave. You have to know me and the co-op senselessly well to get a smirk for this, but I think it has something to do with my family’s housing inadequacies. I love the way my dreams are always ripe for straightforward interpretation, at least by me anyway.

Christ, this fucking lady having a go at Ed in the shop yesterday, just because we didn’t have 2kg bags of meusli and she was a professional anger merchant. She shook with rage like a shrew when he said we’d run out, and then as he reasonably explained that the shop couldn’t sell her two 1kg bags at the price of a 2kg, for economic reasons (such as do you want a healthfood shop or not?) She freaked like some kind of fish filled with poison, and started TELLING HIM EXACTLY WHAT HE AND ARJUNA SHOULD BE DOING in a really, really angry and nasty way. I lurked behind an aisle and tried to think of ways to hurt her without being noticed. I tried to memorise her face so that I could spit at her if I saw her in the street, and then funnily enough I saw here again this morning (looking pretty tetchy, it must be said) but I didn’t do anything. Ed told her that the difference in price was 19p, and she told him that that was a lot of money. Like she’s on a fiver an hour!

The Ossory Road squat gig in London was deeply amusing. Audience largely punk, drunk and rowdy as fuck. End result is I have footage of me and this incoherent drunk lost-the-plot-years-ago fat punk with a green mohican rocking the mic in tandem all the way through my set. The MC comes onstage after my first tune and asked “Are you happy with your dancing partner?” I was like, leave him be, he’s a fucking godsend.

Posted February 6, 2003 by peteum2013 in Uncategorized