Late-night Bohemians

Hic!

Teddy Bears ARE evil.

Who knew?

Has anyone else noticed that in the intro to "Radar Love" by Golden Earing you can just hear the singer, under the iconic bass and drums intro, repeating the second line of the first verse in the background, like he is trying to remember it -

"there's a voice in my head that drives my heel ,theres' a voice in my head that drives my heeaaal, theres a voice in..."

No?

Well excuse me for owning the single.........

got fuck all to play it on now mind, but Planet Rock just did it for me so I thought I would pass on my dull little wossname to you all.

I am a giving person.

It's a curse.

Or a by-law.

Or an old charter.

Or something.

But I like it. So sue me for being repetitive, then sue me for being repetitive. And then you can............oh right, the joke.

An ego maniac, a half wit, a drug dealer and an alcoholic walk into a pub.

The bloke behind the bar looks up and says,

"Hallo lads, you must be the band"

It's been another long day over here at Mozart Towers. I am chilling out to the film Napoleon Dynamite which always seems to provide a smile.

Main learning point from today? It's not easy getting people to co-operate! [I mean, yeah, I did know that already, but it was just reinforced today!]

more animals

"tooofasananwhatnow?"

Love it!

I quite like toasted cheese sandwiches but I find that at a certain point in the evening it gets too late to make them and I end up snacking on biscuits and cheese. I have no real idea why.

I don't like to be told what I will like.

Stairway to Heaven by Led Zeppelin is one of those songs that, if you are a fan of classic rock (like, old) you are told to fall down in front of and worship.

Never gonna happen. I will make up my own mind thanks.

But the real problem is, when I get told that something is so unsurpassed in fantasticness, when it is the best ballad ever, when I must be a twat to not just stop dead in my tracks and go misty eyed when I here it, I just feel those odd muscle things under your arms on your back start to tense up ready for a ruck!

Fuck you! these are my ears and I will decide what is good thank you very much.

Yes, after years of sitting with stoned people in squats and houses devoid of parents due to holidays, in those drunk and happy hours after the club shuts but before the sun comes up and you have to go home, listening to all the ballady wibble from LZ as people lay around going "oh maaaaaaaaaaaaan" I took against that part of Led Zeps output, and that song in particular.

Why not, I thought, play something that is going to get all these lovely girls up dancing - or at least keep them awake enough so we can all talk!

but no. Lets all slump in heaps and listen to Stairway to fucking heaven.

My position on this has mellowed over the years. I even - god forbid - found myself playing a bit of it once. But I still (just out of devilry) refuse to learn it all. Just so I can say, when anyone asked (and with pride) "No, I can't play Stairway to fucking boredom!"

Bloody minded. That'll be me.

In other LZ related news, after knocking a crowd in a pub bandy with our double whammy of a perfectly played "Black Dog" followed by "Rock N roll" a chap (in a fucking cardigan fercrissakes!) came up and asked me if our band could play "Over the hills and far away" - I just had to do it "No mate, we only have 10ft long leads"

Llwnt!

...at my lot.

My bedroom looks like a 70s nightmare. The furniture is older than my parents. The curtains, like all other curtains in the hall, are a faded, mucky orange. The bed linen is new, but, purhased in a time where shades of beige and biscuit hues are de rigeur, the chocolate brown sheets simply add to the retro atmosphere. Retrosphere?

I am sat on the floor (moss green), wrapped in a large furry throw (also - obviously - chocolate brown), and thinking, "I am 24, it is 2008, and this is not how it should be for me right now. Where is the matte-finish chrome and quality laminate flooring favoured by my peers?".

It compounds my brain's current train of thought that "This is the Wrong Choice". For as it has just told me, "You do not have the money to purchase new curtains in the beige/biscuit/cream hue of your choice", a purchase that I feel would, sadly, change my life for the better at the moment.

I shall continue to sit in the middle of the floor, continue to read Agnes Grey, and continue to look at the curtains.

Please spare a second to consider the sad death of Clive Enkel, an Essex artist killed in his home in Abridge, Essex last Thursday.