Monday, October 31st, 2005“Getting home from long trips always reminds you that you are an adult and you have responsibilities.”
Stuart Murdoch, writing on his blog
So, the CLONES animated video is done and looks incredible. Look out for trailers and suchlike over the coming days. Zef is making a nice pre-loading screen right now, and we’re making a blob-themed Pong game. Bop! Bop!
I filmed some stuff underwater earlier, and got loads of dwr (which is Welsh for water) up my nose, and got a cold. Isn’t that odd? I sound like Mariella Frostrup now. Which is pretty hot, I suppose.
I spoke to Patrick earlier – he of the song – for the first time in seven years. Which is a long time. He is making music and not drinking booze and getting married, which is excellent news. And has purple hair. They played that song on BRMB and he rang up righteously threatening to sue, thinking it the work of some freak snooper who’s stolen his life, as opposed to the meanderings of an old pal. He’s messing with Cubase now, and sending me some MP3s, so I look forward to that.
It is a pleasant side effect of all this musicing, that I am back in touch with lots of my old pals, who I assumed I might never see again. Gwyl and Non and Ginge and Ben and Jen and Tristan and many more from all over this funny grey isle, people who were so integral at certain points, and I then lost, when I moved on, as I can never hang on to phones and was always bad at writing letters. Praise your Skygod for email and websearches. As Madison so stirringly sings, I am no one, I am nothing, without everybody else.
Well, it’s something like that. You get the point.
I was researching weblogs today, for my press officing lady, who wishes to pitch something about artists wot blog, and make an issue of me and all this nonsense, and lord on a pogostick if everybody and their mother aren’t doing it. There’s a pretty big list here, and from that I was glad to become acquainted with the online scribblings of Pete Thownshend, Radiohead, Trent Reznor, the above mentioned Belle And Sebastian, and dear Kimya Dwason, who wrote the following bless mesh of words:
remember that second swim i was going to take?
i got to the beach and put my hoodie and shoes in a pile and stood to my knees in the water for awhile. then, suddenly, there were thousands of small silver fish were swimming right in front of me. it was a dark cloud of fish. then they came right at me and the swam right onto the beach. the entire beach was covered with little silver fish flopping around. me and rosie tried to throw them back in but they just kept dying. i found out later they do that when they are being chased by mackerel. so the beach was covered with these little guys and then all the dogs started eating them. rosie and i were talking about how it was sad but kind of an amazing surprising act of nature at the same time when a dog ran over and peed on my hoodie. then the sky filled with clouds and it got cold and we walked back. i washed my hoodie in the sink and now it is hanging up in the bathroom.
maybe i will wake up early tomorrow and try to get a swim in before we head to dublin.
the guys whose dog it was was at the show. he bought one of everything.
i love this place.
I will miss all this when its gone. I really will. Even the spam. Check the following, random generated text from a message trying to sell me lubricants of some sort:
nazi weaken stein deserve antipodean procter
wing chart rhinocerosconscious sarcoma circulatory
nazi ayers proctercord phosphine tetrachloride
antipodean julia antennaetypewritten stumpy typewritten
postprocess decorous dlennox concave maladapt
phosphine lucerne lennoxconsultation via shrill
body fat loss spam.
Awesome or what? It reads like Mark E Smith lyrics, or Jimmy Pop lyrics. I might make it into a song myself. It would be less rude than detailing the lives of old friends, I imagine.
My friends Luke and Holly moved into their very own house today. A nest of love, for an old fashioned English boy and a thoroughly modern American girl. I wish them all the luck, and love, in the world.
Cheers Yanna for the photographic funny stretchy black and white history whatsit. As ever, I have none of my won – I lose cameras. That was my hotel room in Vegas that was. How very sweet! I need to pull my trousers up. Note the cheap Fruit Of The Loom underwear, and the lack of proper belt, necessitating the employment of my dressing gown’s belt. I don’t only lose cameras. I lost my white leather Tom Petty belt somewhere in LA. I lose everything! I lost my white ODB school shirt, my pink leather fitted, that huge Spider-Man T, a pair of shoes, a lot of CDs, many toothbrushes, lyrics, songs, bits of my brain…
So, I had three consecutive, equally distressing nightmares last night. I have no idea why. I remember a lot more dreams than I used to, but they’re only ever nightmares. In one, I was up on the roof of this goliath, cloud penetrating building, like where the purple shit all assembles in Ghostbusters 2, and the roof had a room on top of it, or the contents of a room, like a banqueting hall. The dudes I used to be in a band with tricked me into closing my eyes and lying down on table, then they sat on my arms and tortured me. They were wearing big curly Ronald MacDonald wigs. It was fucked. I managed to wrestle out and gouge at their eyeballs and shit, which made me sick. Then it all shifted, and I was in a car, and Pete Doherty got in, and started smoking a pipe in the front seat, eyeballing me the whole time, sort of drooling, going, “what do you think you are? What the fuck do you think you are?” Then the car was filled with all these weird grey plasticine children, and they were all sticking their hands down my throat, and I couldn’t breathe, and I was gagging all up their plasticine arms, feeling bad about it, despite the whole desperate agony thing, and the car stank of crack, and was going at hundred of miles an hour through these windy welsh backroads, and we crashed into something, and the plasticine turned to pulped flesh, just like that.
I know you’re gonna play me
Interesting Times 
ODB, The Ballad of Russell Jones:... 
