you can't just go around blaming everybody else, actually   Leave a comment

My three-year old son uses the word actually to excess, as does his four-year old mate. To hear them in conversation is a little surreal.


Phil seems to feel he’s orbiting way above my earthly cares at

I should point out that, despite the fact that his email makes it abundantly clear that he’s joking; his so-called April Fool arrived on March 18th.

Talking of fools and fooling – yesterday in Arjuna we were selling little bags of Organic Air for £1.55. No one had bought any (or even got the joke) by midday so we had to reduce them. At the end of the day we should have given them to the homeless but perhaps that would have seemed cruel.

Talking of total bollocks:

When she was at school, my friend George told 3 little fibs to make herself sound more interesting.

Fib a) that actually she was from Wales.
Fib b) that actually her name was Georgina Louise
Fib c) that her dad actually sang the theme to Champion The Wonder Horse.

From now on I will fraudulently attempt to pass off these 3 lies as my own. Please address me as Peter Louise henceforth.

Hey, it seems to work for Susan. Such a shame about Retro Electro though, which didn’t seem to work at all this time, so the Boy Sue shot it like a lame gelding in mascara. I blame:

a) The venue-monkeys, who you sort of suspected were taking part in some kind of Channel 4 job-swap docu-soap. Plus The Kambar is the drabbest place on earth. You could never quite shake the feeling that it was actually closed.
b) The punters, i.e. you cunts. Place might as well have been bloody closed. On the other hand, I wouldn’t have gone there and paid good money myself. You had to force yourself to DJ there.
c) The Retro Electro posse ourselves. Because you can’t just go around blaming everybody else.

Oh yeah. You know the bloke I hit with the rudder at the Sandpaper Sessions? He emailed me to tell me that he wasn’t offended that I “FUCK YOU!”‘d him. All he actually said was “I don’t like Goats”, when I introduced Goat, which is hardly the most extreme prejudice in the world, although some of my goat friends might disagree.

Goats attacked me once actually, when I worked at the Donkey Sanctuary (I haven’t had many jobs, but I’ve sure had some stupid ones). I had to climb over a stile into a very muddy and very slippery field with a big sack of carrots on my shoulder, and since goats basically do what they like they all started jumping up on me and destabilizing me with their hooves and I went over and all I could see was mud and bits of rucking goats and then quickly I scrambled up and told them all to FUCK OFF or they’d get none. They usually got the guy with the mental age of 5 (who looked like Herman Munster with Dennis Healy’s eyebrows) who’d been on £17 pound a week since the early 80’s to do that job. He used to call everybody either granddad or grandma, depending on their sex, and if you stood too near him for too long he’d pat your head and say “nice cat, nice cat”. Roy, that was his name. Man, I could tell you some stories about that place. Ask me sometime and I will.

Posted April 2, 2004 by peteum2013 in Uncategorized

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