tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-170805792024-03-13T16:58:53.113+00:00The Ill ManI've Seen It...... It's Rubbish.iLL Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107892879700381858noreply@blogger.comBlogger788125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17080579.post-55291450172909979422014-04-28T00:30:00.005+01:002014-04-28T00:31:55.629+01:00Some Things You Should Know About Me..........<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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...............I have this thing for hideous, shabby, modernist architecture. <br />
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Tower blocks, concrete shopping arcades, hi-rise car parks, underpasses, urban motorways, municipal buildings, pedestrianised city streets..........<br />
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Growing up in a city that was transforming from one brand of hellish to another, I'm very much aware of the best of the old and the worst of the new. <br />
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The City Chambers, Central Station, The Art School (or any other Rennie Mac for that matter), Provand's Lordship, Greek Thomson, Glasgow Cathederal, the Merchant City. Just the tip of the iceberg. Then there's the parks. Kelvingrove, Queens Park, Pollok Park, Bellahouston, Ruchill........ some would say The Necropolis even qualifies in the latter category.<br />
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A city screaming with history. None of it mine.<br />
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Is that crass? Self centred? Possible. It's also understandable. We relate to our environments in a visceral manner. The high rise flats, the concrete flyovers, the dank underpasses, they all have that imprint in my infant mind. The M8 at St Georges Cross, viewed from Kelvinbridge, about 3/4 of a mile away seemed to hold a strange, even exotic lure to me as a child, for beyond it lay the city centre and beyond that..... well, who knew? <br />
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As stated above, I have a great deal of pride in Glasgow's architectural history, but it's the less conventionally aesthetic, modernist, nay brutalist constructions that were rattled up in the ten years prior to and following my birth that form my sense of identity for the pace I live, the place I am from.<br />
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In short; I Heart Rennie Mac, but have you ever stood on the Anderston Footbridge and just felt the world flow under your feet?<br />
<br />iLL Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107892879700381858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17080579.post-57289114318238551062014-04-19T02:22:00.000+01:002014-04-19T02:22:36.157+01:00Some Pertinent InformationI don't know if anybody reads this. More to the point, I don't know if anybody I know reads this. Does it matter?<div>
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Regardless, I shall continue, if only for my own benefit.</div>
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In November of last year I came home to find Diane, my partner & mother of my child, dead on the kitchen floor. I had received a last text from her at about 4.45 pm whilst I was at work and had attempted to contact her without success. I just thought she'd dropped her phone and couldn't get to it due to her bad back........</div>
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The vain attempts to resuscitate her, the surreal 999 call, the house being invaded by paramedics, then Police, being taken to the station for a statement.................. All are indelibly etched in what passes for my soul.</div>
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A blood clot killed her. A combination of a hereditory pre-disposition and lack of movement due to a back ailment. There were symptoms, but neither of us recognised them, so we went on our merry way. Diane would come off breast feeding so she could take more than just Ibuprofen & Paracetamol, get moving again and all would be fine once more. </div>
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Yeah.........</div>
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Diane was my................ well, I'll leave you to fill in the blanks. It's nobodies business and I'm not into emotion porn. She was my whole life and you don't feel that until you've lost someone. It's the tragedy of all relationships if you're emotionally stunted enough............</div>
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I have Calum to look after now, and he's an irascible wee beastie. He's almost 10 months and nearly walking. Needless to say, he's my best mate. Friends and family have made sure he wants for little, apart from maybe a few Duracells for dad when he comes in from work and the kind, loving soul who carried him for nine months and nurtured him for the first months of his life.</div>
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Ewen</div>
iLL Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107892879700381858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17080579.post-51002529635804758682013-10-08T14:54:00.000+01:002013-10-08T16:28:26.793+01:00Prostitution In The Isle Of Man<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="background-color: whitesmoke; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">"Remember when putting something on the internet was the equivalent of hiding it in a vault on a planet your parents had never even heard of?" Rob Delaney</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">My dad uses Facebook. Or should I say, Facebook uses him. Had my dear mother lived to see it, she'd no doubt have rolled her eyes, snorted in derision and gone back to watching Coronation Street.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: whitesmoke; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">It's holiday snaps mainly. Nowt kinky.......</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">The amusement on Facebook this weather is observing people still failing to understand that an injudicious choice of words can destroy friendships, rent families asunder and make you look a bit of a twat. The moment I realised that the culture of Facebook was anti-anonymity, and that I personally knew 80% of my FB "friends" was the day I buttoned it and decided to hold my council. Something that sits a bit too uncomfortably with me.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">Twitter was great for a while. Getting to say cuntish things to vile famous people can never be anything other than awesome, but only having a handful of words to work with can break your spirit a tad. How do you convey your bottomless contempt for a shit like Donald Trump in only 140 characters?</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">So we come full circle. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">Nothing new to say, but al the room in the world to say it.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">Fetch!</span></span><br />
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iLL Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107892879700381858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17080579.post-88246286071164944982012-11-06T23:17:00.001+00:002012-11-08T22:19:33.359+00:00Cock Sucking Fool At Pussy Licking School<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Good Greetings people, I'm back!<br />
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I'm not actually, but such proclamations are often of comfort.<br />
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So, what tales of bitterness and woe do I have to impart to my brood of random Googlers, online pharmacy spammers and people dropping in from long, long dead blogs who forgot to remove me from their sidebar? Oh, not much.<br />
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Still living with a woman who quite inexplicably loves me. Still scratching by in that stoic, yet undignified manner I've managed to make my own. Still drinking like my life depended on it. Still campaigning to make auto-erotic asphyxiation and wheelie bin racing Olympic sports.<br />
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It would also seem to be the case that I am about to be a father. I'm not convinced, empirical evidence of a urine stained plastic stick aside.......<br />
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This is the part in the movie where I could probably make a bid for national fame. I'd reveal my most intimate feelings, fears and hopes to the world, baring my soul to complete strangers and relating whimsical, heart warming every-day anecdotes about impending fatherhood in a gauchly titled blog. I'd decorate it with a template utilising a warm orange, ochre and deep pink colour scheme with a pre-designed floral motif and middle class yummy mummies all over the world would inexplicably trade in the horrific memories of their own preganancies for my soft focus, third party edited hilights version.<br />
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I could, but I won't. I might be a cunt, but I'm not Fucking Arsehole.<br />
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If I tell you anything, it'll be the disgusting, distressing, vomit flecked dispatches of a man trapped at the front line. It'll be about the emotional and physical violence of living with a woman whose hormones think Adolf Hitler was a pussy. It'll be piles, flatulence and Eraserhead flashbacks. It'll be be banal, confusing, profane and fist chewingly embarrassing.<br />
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I probably won't bother. He will be called Clevon. She will be called Euphemia.iLL Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107892879700381858noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17080579.post-88190545650448834312012-07-24T15:49:00.000+01:002012-07-24T15:49:08.550+01:00T(w)itty TwisterFor any of you still haunting this place, rather in hope more than expectation that I might start speaking my brains again, I can more commonly be found <a href="https://twitter.com/illman76">here</a>, attempting pithy one-liners and re-tweeting Frankie Boyle<br />
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Cheers!iLL Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107892879700381858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17080579.post-63090340551446128352012-05-22T22:58:00.001+01:002012-05-22T22:58:32.628+01:00Only Slightly Less Amusing Than FacebookAccording to Google, it's one of the least visited websites on the Internet. I'm not even sure why you would ever go to the bother of editing profanities over a Spongebob Squarepants cartoon, but hats off to these guys for going that extra mile. True (f)art.<br />
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<a href="http://spongebobedits.blogspot.co.uk/">http://spongebobedits.blogspot.co.uk/</a>
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<br />iLL Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107892879700381858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17080579.post-64404637167394148372012-05-19T01:08:00.001+01:002012-05-19T01:35:34.818+01:00Love & Hate Are Over-used Words. It's About Time You Told Someone You Sort Of Like Them. Maybe.<br />
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The annual search for work has been creeping on for six months now, and has only just shown signs of abating. And so the sad stories fill the void, as I stumble around the internet like a man looking for something he lost in the street a year ago, sure that if he keeps looking in the gutters and gulleys, he'll find it. I find myself asking some searching questions, like "What is a Jessie J?" or "Who the fuck are Fun and why are they not?" and finally "I could swear I had that tuneless cunt Jason Mraz rubbed out by a hit man a year ago, look, I have the receipt....."<br />
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Fuck me! I haven't even mentioned Coldplay yet.......<br />
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Am I the only one who thinks Chris Martin isn't so much a post-millenial Bono, as much as a delusional 'The Police' fan and Gordon Sumner Acolyte, right down to the fuckin album names: Viva La Vida = <span style="font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 19px;"><b><i>Outlandos d'amour?</i> </b>I thought Myloto Xyloto was their attempt to go one further and quote some Esperanto....... Sadly, it was just a semi random mishmash of vowels and consonants arranged skilfully to look like it might be derived from a foreign language. I was most disappointed.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">Bugri min purpuro!</span><br />
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.........and so, winter gives way to Spring. The waterways are starting to look quite the thing, what with the ferns unfolding and lilly pads bobbing about at the side of the canal. Mother and her ducks are venturing forth, with swan couples not far behind, and coots, grebe's and cormorants adding to the mix. Mr Heron fishes in the ponds, weirs and reed beds and for those with a keen eye and a bit of luck, there may just be a chance meeting with the lesser spotted urban roe-deer. There's nothing better than a good jant along the tow paths and walkways of yr local canal or river. <br />
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Well, that's what the old American lad I met at Maryhill Locks said before he headed on his way to good old downtown <i>'Mil-na-gayvee'</i>. Me? I took a pish in the bushes and chucked my empty Coke can in the nolly. <br />
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Fuckin dump!<br />
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</span></span>iLL Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107892879700381858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17080579.post-25299164577004019702012-02-07T01:22:00.000+00:002012-02-07T01:22:14.760+00:00I've Seen More Profundity In A Puddle Of Vomit On A Saturday Night.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gaiiB--5aZY/TzB5P0c8OPI/AAAAAAAAFlM/24isSpZol-k/s1600/395612_268560399877275_129381217128528_652591_767241481_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gaiiB--5aZY/TzB5P0c8OPI/AAAAAAAAFlM/24isSpZol-k/s320/395612_268560399877275_129381217128528_652591_767241481_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Fuck! Wish I'd known fifteen years ago that statements of the obvious and sixth form radicalism were the way to make a living in the art world...............iLL Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107892879700381858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17080579.post-25944339345237400452012-01-17T02:11:00.004+00:002012-02-07T01:25:06.991+00:00Christmas Casualties<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4BZUNPeZ37Q/TxTW5ZMGZiI/AAAAAAAAFlE/7p5_Y7_j6iI/s1600/001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4BZUNPeZ37Q/TxTW5ZMGZiI/AAAAAAAAFlE/7p5_Y7_j6iI/s320/001.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
The post Christmas lethargy still clings. I've only just finished tidying away the festive decorations and ornaments and I'm still stumbling over boxes of shortbread and gift bags full of surprise booz, though sadly Peach Schnapps isn't my tincture of choice. Not because I don't like it you understand. Far from it. <br />
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It's just that the missus will boot me in the nuts if I so much as break the seal on it. <br />
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Mind, it would make a change for me to turn up in A&E with an actual injury for a change. Boxing Day saw possibly the most farcical and embarrassing trip I'll ever make to a casualty ward, barring any future miss-haps involving the hoover and an open bathrobe. <br />
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Ok, so I woke at about 2.30 am with a swollen eye. A film was forming over it with all red blotches and stuff. At this point, we have no idea what it is, but it's uncomfortable and getting worse. So, we jump in the car and head for the Royal as there was no surgery open until Wednesday. Two hours later, I get the call from the nurse to go through from the waiting room, leaving behind the ever increasing number of Boxing Day wounded (most of whom seemed to know each other) It was also around this time that the swelling started to go down and I realised what a silly sod I'd been. If I'd just gone back to bed, my eye would have been fine in the mornig, if a little crusty.<br />
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So, there I am, stuck in a cubicle for another 40 minutes or so whilst people with real problems are attended to and I wish the ground would open up and swallow me. Eventually, a slightly harassed looking doctor asks a few questions, does an eye exam on me and tells me I've merely popped a blood vessel in my eye whilst coughing or something. I leave apologetically, meet the missus and head back to the car feeling quite sure I've made a fairly decent last gasp bid for the title of Twat of the Year 2011. <br />
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Wouldn't surprise me if they've logged it down as an example to be quoted next time they publish figures detailing how much it costs the NHS to deal with Britain's hypochondriac population.....<br />
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And so I returned to my slumber, hoping I could pass it off as a bad dream. <br />
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<span style="color: red;"><b><i><span style="font-size: large;">A dream.....</span>A dream....<span style="font-size: x-small;">A dream........</span><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> A dream............</span></i></b></span><br />
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Then I wake up six hours later with the remnants of visions so strange, they automatically consign the previous nights antics to the back of my mind. How do you get jam from a cat? Well, you could take the jam off the cat and put it out of reach I suppose. Alternatively you can always cut the cat open and extract it....... <br />
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Dreams can tell you many things. A dream I had last night for instance, told me in no uncertain terms that I had unresolved issues regarding someone in my past. On the other hand, a dream about cutting open cats to harvest their 'jam' defies interpretation on every level. I don't care if you're someone who sees dead people, if you're an expert in Freudian analysis, or you just think dreams are the result of excess gas.......... <br />
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There really is nothing you can say to someone whose subconscious mind decides to kick that sort of shit out of leftfield.<br />
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In other news, I am involved in a full scale war with my telephone. Since losing my job, I have become aware of just how many automated phone calls I receive in a day. Is it someone touting a service promising to retrieve miss-sold PPI? Is it a call centre in Delhi asking for Mr Nick Olsen? <br />
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The funniest one was my bank performing a customer service survey relating to the last time I visited the branch. I just told them everything was tickety-boo and left it at that. Seems wrong to kick a man while he's down.....<br />
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I leave it off the hook now, unless I'm expecting a call from an employment agency. Even then, it's tempting to ignore the bastards. These companies are an absolute fucking disaster area, but it's all there is for the average Pleb At Large........<br />
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Hell, maybe I can get myself a job with a PPI recovery company. It's probably the biggest growth area in the British economy along with pawn shops, online money lenders and gold smelters. Seriously, the recovery companies will take any old shite as evidence. <br />
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<i><b>"Yes, I took out PPI on a credit card in 2003. No, I don't have the paperwork or any details. Really? You can get me 3 Grand anyway? Braw!"</b></i><br />
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The banks are in such a hurry to fire through these PPI claims that it's almost certain that some fraudulent claims will pay out. The money's earmarked, they're not contesting the claims....... The message seems to be "Fill yer boots, the damage is done!"<br />
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Not sure phoning up to ask if you had a nice time at the branch on your last visit is gonna make much difference.iLL Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107892879700381858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17080579.post-31726024073507232822011-12-23T16:07:00.000+00:002011-12-23T16:07:57.032+00:00Escape From Facebook Island<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NrrRWnoXGxk/TvSnPNdyTfI/AAAAAAAAFjQ/lMArpZfK0c4/s1600/007.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NrrRWnoXGxk/TvSnPNdyTfI/AAAAAAAAFjQ/lMArpZfK0c4/s320/007.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><i>"After many months at seas, I was picked up by a passing Blogger account and hauled to safety. And so it was that I made my way back into the world of structured, intelligent Internet activity.................."</i><br />
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Relatively speaking......<br />
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One thing I have concluded about Facebook is that the folk you spend social time with, be they friends, family or members of your local urban riot re-enactment society, are always best kept at arms length in the online realm. It's only a matter of time before you start to regard them all as smug, banal, tedious cunts wishing they would shut the fuck up about their Christmas shopping and stop sending those desperate, hateful requests to copy some sentimental shite to your status (the implication being that if you don't, then you're not a "True Friend" ). <br />
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I will miss the Fraping though, but that's between me and my counsellor.......<br />
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Something else I may need professional help for is my bottomless contempt for Chuggers. I think it would help if they all wore David Cameron masks. It would make it so much easier to spit on them and call them loathsome shit licking cockroaches. So much more satisfying than quickening your step, avoiding eye contact and politely, yet firmly saying "no thanks, not today". Or not. Your choice, your time, your money, your bank details......<br />
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Of course, one of my stops whilst in town was BHS, on the off chance they might have a cheap piece of gimmicky Christmas tat to buy for someone you're not entirely sure wants a present off you, but you feel obliged cos your missus has bought their missus something. Five minutes of wandering around the reduced, yet still over priced alcoholic gift boxes ("For That Special Piss Head In Your Life This Christmas!!") was more than enough to make me realise that a bottle of Smirnoff would be cheaper and better appreciated.<br />
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It also struck me that if they can make lager that tastes of piss, how much harder would it be to market piss that tastes of lager? A strapline for the product? How about "Still tastes better than a warm can of Miller!"<br />
<br />
OK, that's all from me, I'm fucking off now. Just a wee word of congratulations to IJ Mellis Cheesemongers on Great Western Road. Yesterday they achieved world record status for having the most middle class people in one confined space, a record previously held by an over-priced wine merchant in Hyndland on New Years Eve 1998.<br />
<br />
Merry Christmas!iLL Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107892879700381858noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17080579.post-36080414898980852972010-11-11T22:04:00.008+00:002010-11-16T20:28:07.421+00:00The Final Word<p><object style="BACKGROUND-IMAGE: url(http://i1.ytimg.com/vi/tixKopGjn5s/hqdefault.jpg)" height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/tixKopGjn5s?fs=1&hl=en_GB"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/tixKopGjn5s?fs=1&hl=en_GB" width="425" height="344" allowscriptaccess="never" allowfullscreen="true" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"></embed></object></p><p>Good Night & God Bless. It's been a blast........</p><p><span style="color:#003300;">Thanks: Cocktails, Szelsofa, Clairwil, Kim, Larry, Rodent, Velo Gubbed Legs, Some Chilean Woman, Curlews In The Goyt, Billy, Last Years Girl, Binty, Edge Of Nowhere, Machine Gun Thompson, Oblong Scone, Bete de Jour, Alan @ This Moment (still much missed) and many more who popped in and out over the years. Dave Duff, I'm happy to report, is still a cunt.</span></p>iLL Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107892879700381858noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17080579.post-21009835178076239372010-09-28T02:18:00.003+01:002010-09-28T02:28:12.064+01:00John Grant<object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/VKl3dRlZqT0?fs=1&hl=en_GB"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/VKl3dRlZqT0?fs=1&hl=en_GB" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object>
This is a song by the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Czars">Czars</a>, John Grant's first band. More to come later in the week. Hope you like..... <p></p>iLL Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107892879700381858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17080579.post-55650332114719034832010-09-26T02:07:00.005+01:002010-09-26T02:51:31.408+01:00Five Years Feels Like A Lifetime<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_yghmOog3Ahg/TJ6kDf8ducI/AAAAAAAAFTw/gi3GOjjmGZ8/s1600/004.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5521030573224475074" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_yghmOog3Ahg/TJ6kDf8ducI/AAAAAAAAFTw/gi3GOjjmGZ8/s400/004.JPG" border="0" /></a>
<div><div>It is now, more than any other time in my life, that I feel like an old fart on the internet. Yes, Facebook went down for a couple of hours on Thursday and it's a fucking news story.........</div>
<div>Oh how I chuckled as the memories came flooding back. Trying to get logged into Blogger. Trying to post up pictures on Blogger. Trying to post <em>anything</em> on Blogger!!</div>
<div>There will come a time when every single fucking lifeform on the face of this God-forsaken ball of dirt will have a Facebook account, so I think it's only right that the current users get broken in with regard to regular 'outages'. They need to get used to the misery of not being able to log in and make inane comments about things other people have said, or inform the world at large that they "Can't wait for the weekend". They need to find the mental courage to be able to go a whole afternoon without displaying baby scans or spouting poorly thought out political opinions.</div>
<div>They need to understand that Farmville may well be unavailable for weeks on end on some occassions, and that all meaning will evacuate their lives in this interim period.</div>
<div>Those who can live with such a burden will grow strong and forge normal lives, doing something less boring instead.</div>
<div>The rest will open fucking Blogger accounts and make my ruddy life a misery again.</div>
<div>The cunts.</div></div>iLL Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107892879700381858noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17080579.post-1012418668636269512010-09-16T00:27:00.004+01:002010-09-16T00:36:40.398+01:00Listen To This No 18<p><object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/7Q8GMLu9S3g?fs=1&hl=en_GB"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/7Q8GMLu9S3g?fs=1&hl=en_GB" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object></p><p>One of the greatest songs ever written. Adore it you twats, and dare not mention that gaggle of soft metal twots from Sheffield!!</p><p>Entries of note in that chart. Hamilton Bohannon. Twice't. Next!</p>iLL Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107892879700381858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17080579.post-1249677107481149982010-08-25T20:04:00.000+01:002010-08-25T20:05:24.094+01:00You Don't Know Who You're Dealing With, Do You?<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_yghmOog3Ahg/SJ2geJtBtJI/AAAAAAAACj0/285TaDxI74k/s1600-h/_1A11_a_-1c1+1837.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5232514781935678610" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_yghmOog3Ahg/SJ2geJtBtJI/AAAAAAAACj0/285TaDxI74k/s400/_1A11_a_-1c1+1837.jpg" border="0" /></a>
<div>I’m behind the clock and I have to deliver. I take a left at the crescent, down the hill, gathering speed, crouched behind the bars, a devotee at the church of aerodynamics. What was it old Kev Schwantz used to say?
“See God, then back off….”
Many people want me to die. Some for good reason, others for no reason at all. They all have their chances and I don’t always make it hard for them.
It’s the way of my kind.
The roads are quiet and I open her out, feel the power throb through the bars, the hum and rumble of the engine and road surface, the trees at the side of the road pressing down on me, accentuating the sense of speed. My mother had warned me about this sort of work, but nights like this always made it worthwhile.
A gravel driveway leads me to the door of a large white building. I park the bike and extract the package, checking my flanks for possible attacks. I press the doorbell and wait……..
“You’re late! Let me check this stuff.”
“It’s not very hot, is it? I asked for Meat Feast, not Pepperoni!! And I said no bloody pineapple on the Special! Jesus! you people! Take it all back, I’m not payin’ for this crap……….”
The door slams, but I know he’s bluffing. I wait for the lights to go out then post it, bit by bit, through his letterbox. He’ll thank me in the morning……….. </div>iLL Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107892879700381858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17080579.post-6337346364295053242010-08-25T19:53:00.000+01:002010-08-25T20:02:40.449+01:00The Weekend Went Much As Planned<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_yghmOog3Ahg/R8xqi-42W7I/AAAAAAAACEA/rP1hWHylUg0/s1600-h/_1A11_a_-1c1+700.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5173627221171395506" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_yghmOog3Ahg/R8xqi-42W7I/AAAAAAAACEA/rP1hWHylUg0/s320/_1A11_a_-1c1+700.jpg" border="0" /></a>
<div>I told her I couldn’t meet her anymore, I told her that it was over. She dropped her head so I couldn’t see what was in her eyes. Tears? Yes, probably tears. She was sobbing, but almost silently, for which I was grateful. If you didn’t know better you would have been forgiven for thinking she was merely staring at her coffee. I got up to leave, not having bought anything, as I hadn’t anticipated that it would be anything other than the briefest of meetings. I stopped on the way to the door and looked back. She was still sitting with her head bowed. I walked back to her and she looked up at me through smeared mascara and grimy tears, a pleading look on her face. I put some coins on the formica table, to pay for the coffee. I’m not completely heartless, she’d get over it in a day or two, just as I would.
They say she had been hanging from the branches of the tree for two days when they cut her down. I was out of town on the day, much to my relief. The post-mortem found she had been pregnant. Terrible. To do that to an innocent life, sheer selfishness, only adding weight to the belief that I was right to curtail our dalliance. It would never have worked, though I still wonder to this day whose offspring she was carrying............</div>iLL Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107892879700381858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17080579.post-19062734664204288972010-08-25T19:50:00.000+01:002010-08-25T20:13:06.015+01:00Please Keep To The Left<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_yghmOog3Ahg/SbmTQQRTszI/AAAAAAAAEPQ/ajB8QQUkE3Q/s1600-h/Copy+of+_1A11_a_-1c1+2375.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5312439142914962226" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_yghmOog3Ahg/SbmTQQRTszI/AAAAAAAAEPQ/ajB8QQUkE3Q/s400/Copy+of+_1A11_a_-1c1+2375.jpg" border="0" /></a>
<div>Susannah.
On my mind again Susannah.....
The roof came in on us a long time ago Suz, but you still hook up in my head when I need you least. It's not a bad thing, but you're obscuring my view honey......
Eyes down on the escalator again. Glass and steel and feet. The unholy trinity.
The sound of children pulls me back to reality and a shiver runs down my spine. They're heading down the way into the Metro. I relax and I return my gaze to the figure in front of me.
A tall gent with fair hair, a grey raincoat and a battered brown briefcase fidgets in front of me. Behind is an elderly Indian woman carrying what looks to be a months shopping in a thin blue polythene bag, stretched to translucency and defying gravity. Neither looks like they'll make it home intact.
Subconsciously I move my hand to my left pocket and back again. Safe. Hidden. They'll never know.
To a detached viewpoint, we all crest the rise as one. From where I stand, the horizon never seems to come. Suddenly I catch sight of the shiny station floor and with my last ounce of will I switch my mind off and wait.
I see the shoes. It's all I need. Grey espadrilles, white socks.......
Pop Pop!!
Then I'm at the station exit before anyone knows what happened.
Susannah.
On my mind again Susannah.
That one was for you, wherever you are...... </div>iLL Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107892879700381858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17080579.post-80033969418714949952010-08-18T19:54:00.012+01:002010-08-20T01:00:37.963+01:00Testing The Water<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_yghmOog3Ahg/TGwvMCCdZII/AAAAAAAAFOg/JV4mUwtTex8/s1600/018.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506828328119395458" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 190px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_yghmOog3Ahg/TGwvMCCdZII/AAAAAAAAFOg/JV4mUwtTex8/s400/018.JPG" border="0" /></a> There was an odd smell I couldn't quite place as I entered the main room of the club. From the doorway I saw two pairs of legs sticking out of the gap the end of the bar. The legs were tangled and moving furiously around each other. I figured that maybe Harry was a little frisky since he split with Dora, had asked one of the barmaids to come in and "help with inventory"
<em>'You tryin' to screw the cleanin' lady again Harry, ya sick fuck!'</em> I hollered.
<em></em>
No answer. I moved in closer, the grunting and scuffling more audible now. They sounded like they were really attacking each other. I stopped about thirty feet from the bar and decided this was not something I needed to see. I was about to turn and leave them to rut like fiends, when a distinctly un-female voice roared in pain. Then a choking, gurgling noise and a handful of laboured breaths.......
Silence.
<em>'Ok, not good'</em> I thought. This wasn't the sort of thing you associated with harmless employer/employee slap and tickle sessions. I ran to the bar and peered over. Harry was crouched over the motionless body of a guy with long greasy hair, a goatee and blue denim jacket.
<em>'Ok, now that's kinky'</em> I said with a raised eyebrow.
Harry looked up at me, sweating and dishevilled and laid a bloody knife on the bar top. It was what he used to cut the lemons for drinks.
The body the knife had just been removed from was that of Bobby Cain, a psychotic small time pimp and dealer who maintained his foothold in the underworld with periodic acts of wanton, if localised violence. He had been a great deal of trouble to us in our enterprises in the past few months and was never willing to accept that we had no interest in cutting him in on what we had going. It looked like Harry had finally put this particular deal to bed.
<div><em>'So, I see ya iced that fucker at last bro"</em> I smirked as I ran my fingers absently about in the blood from the murder weapon . Harry stared balefully at me.</div>
<div><em>'Fuck yr comedy routines you ugly cocksucker, just get me a bucket of warm water and some towels so I can mop up what's left of Huggy Bear here.'</em> </div>
<div></div><div>I did as I was asked, I could tell he was in no mood. Mr Cain's absence would not go un-noticed for too long, too many folk were dependent on him, and I'm not talking about his clientele or his girls. The cops cut him enough slack in return for info on some of the bigger fish in the pond. I had a nasty feeling Harry & I were about to graduate.......</div>
<div><em>'Oh, and a couple of laundry bags too. We're gonna have to cart this fucker off and give him a proper burial.....'</em></div>
<div><em>'How do you give a piece of shit like that a proper burial?'</em> I asked </div>
<div><em>'Well,'</em> continued Harry with a tone of rising impatience, <em>'we put him in the back of the van, drive upstate for a few hours, and then dump the little bitch in the deepest, darkest lake we can find, complete with enough ballast to make sure he never re-surfaces.</em> </div>
<div><em>'Do we have a.........'</em></div>
<div><em>'The boat will meet us at 8pm. Any more questions?'</em></div>
<div>I was impressed. All sorted and the body wasn't even cold. It looked like it had all been planned, apart from my appearance. I hadn't been due in that day and it made sense that as few people be involved as possible. I was here now though and I fancied a bit of a trip out of town. Upstate was nice at this time of year, though the idea of sharing a van with a dead body didn't fill me with joy.
Harry sat at the wheel of the van, the engine turning over gently while he stared trance like into the alleyway. I climbed in and immediately realised just how tense he was. After about a minute, we hadn't moved and I noticed his hands were gripping the steering wheel so tightly that they were almost devoid of colour. I prised his hands off the wheel and opened the door for him.</div>
<div><em>'This ones mine, you've done the hard bit'</em> I assured him as he climbed wearily from the vehicle. </div>
<div>The map was in the glove compartment and the cell phone would ring and three men would set sail for a new world in the dead of night. Poor Bobby wouldn't be making the return journey of course, we were dropping him off at his very own 'pool party for one'.</div>
<div>I'd heard he wasn't a very good swimmer..................</div>iLL Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107892879700381858noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17080579.post-91574876764363749612010-08-15T01:32:00.005+01:002010-08-16T01:34:37.327+01:00Unsent Letters From A Dead Man Pt 6<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_yghmOog3Ahg/S_3E4oP0SHI/AAAAAAAAFHo/GYkiwxVWOZ0/s1600/094.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5475749199107868786" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_yghmOog3Ahg/S_3E4oP0SHI/AAAAAAAAFHo/GYkiwxVWOZ0/s400/094.JPG" border="0" /></a> <a href="http://illmandirtynotes.blogspot.com/search?q=unsent+letters+from+a+dead+man">Parts 1-5</a>
<div>In the darkness we lay, two rigid forms staring into the void and barely touching. Only thin sheets on a night like this, cool at first, but soon clinging like cobwebs to our bodies, a different sort of discomfort.
There was only the sound of the clock on the wall as it plucked it's way through another minute, like someone patiently trying to light a cigarette with an empty bic lighter. Forever.
It barely filled the void of silence. I considered reaching out to the battered old boom box at the side of the bed and flicking on the World Service at low volume, hopefully to listen to a discussion about the mating habits of Barn Owls or a documentary about cheese. It never got that far. Elaine rolled over and I felt her against me for the first time that night. It felt good.
"Umm....I spoke to your brother today......" I ventured, unable to hold it in any longer
She returned to her original position.
"Jim, I don't have a brother" she said after a short pause, with an air of mild annoyance and confusion.
This was awkward. I wasn't exactly sure where to go next with the topic, but I ploughed on regardless. Like Magnus Magnusson, I had started, so I would finish.
"It was random. I was in a pub, The Stables I think, hiding from the rain and he came out of the kitchen cross eyed with rage, saw me, threatened me with a knife and told me to stay away from you unless I wanted to aquaint my balls with the meat slicer in his kitchen."
"Not very good at following orders, are you?" replied Elaine, with the slightest glint of a smirk in her voice."
"Yeah, my mother realised early on that the best way to keep me out of harms way was to tell me to talk to strangers and always play near water. Anyway, what I really want to know is how he knew who I was..."</div>
<div>Elaine sighed wearily. "Ok. First up, if he's who I think he is, he isn't my brother. I used to work with him and we were fairly friendly, but it got to the point where he wouldn't leave me alone. It was quite charming at first, but it got creepy quite quickly. I got out, but I'd keep seeing him in odd places, keep feeling his hand on my shoulder in bars and clubs. He seemed to mean no harm, just felt very protective towards me, so I let it go. My guess is that he saw us together in town, and when you happened to pop into his workplace for a swift half, he went a wee bit mental"</div>
<div></div><div>I looked quizically at her, eyes adjusted to the darkness now and picking out the trace of her facial features in the dim light from the street that managed to work it's way through my curtains. It sounded like a fairly plausable story, though just a little too perfect and rehearsed. I decided not to bring up the pregnancy issue the bar regular had mentioned. That way madness lay. At the very least, madness could wait until a more opportune moment to be prodded into service.</div>
<div></div><div>"Any more of these crazies from your past you haven't told me about yet?" I asked wearily.</div>
<div></div><div>"Who knows....." she trailed off. </div>
<div></div>There was a brief silence. I assumed she was gathering her thoughts.
<div>"It's an occupational hazard for gorgeous Irish barmaids", she sighed, before turning to me, licking my cheek, turning over again and drifting off into a seemingly deep, snore laden sleep. </div>
<div></div><div>God knows we weren't normal. </div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>I liked that though, it felt like good form. Most of all, it felt like reason enough to keep on going in a world that looked like it wanted me to give up and crawl into a corner as soon as was humanly possible.</div>iLL Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107892879700381858noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17080579.post-9587576374124071652010-07-10T01:50:00.003+01:002010-07-10T03:03:02.631+01:00Hup Holland Hup!<p><object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/y6bKk8Gr6fI&hl=en_GB&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/y6bKk8Gr6fI&hl=en_GB&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object></p><p>Ah, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Total_Football">total football</a>. A lovely idea, but sadly, all too beatable with the correct organisation. As for Sunday's final, may the best team win, as long as I'm not bored shitless the way I was on Wednesday night.</p><p>Prediction? Much as I'd love to see Holland win, I tip Spain to nullify the Dutch and just do enough to win the old Joolz Reemay. Just like they've done in any other game I've ever seen them play.............</p><p>No Fun!</p>iLL Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107892879700381858noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17080579.post-49012121755443990232010-07-01T00:16:00.004+01:002010-07-01T01:13:11.541+01:00Listen To This! No 19<p><object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/JAQ4S_Pz98I&hl=en_GB&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/JAQ4S_Pz98I&hl=en_GB&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object></p><p>More Sensational Alex Harvey Band. No Complaints Department. </p><p>The song that gloriously rounded off their last LP. Or at least it did in the original pressings. Due to various obscure legal reasons too ridiculous to get into here, it was jettisoned from the later pressings of the original release, as well as in subsequent re-issues. Sad really, as it's the most wonderful, concise, bitter-sweet assessment of life I've ever heard. </p><p>The slide video lacks picture quality, but I like it nonetheless.</p>iLL Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107892879700381858noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17080579.post-33390541880986170432010-07-01T00:03:00.002+01:002010-07-01T00:16:16.751+01:00Listen To This! No 18<p><object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/FG6aLs8zzrs&hl=en_GB&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/FG6aLs8zzrs&hl=en_GB&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object></p><p>The Sensational Alex Harvey Band do their utmost to move an audience of Norwegian hippies towards something approaching a state of alertness, in 1974. Just.</p><p>For an idea of how much Harvey developed the routine for this song, here's the recording he did with his<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k4G2iQmg6nk&feature=related"> 'Soul Band'</a> ten years earlier.</p>iLL Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107892879700381858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17080579.post-51139842064654479932010-06-25T01:04:00.002+01:002010-06-25T01:07:23.861+01:00Listen To This No 17<p><object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/iqRHr5pEIFU&hl=en_GB&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/iqRHr5pEIFU&hl=en_GB&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object></p><p>Captain Beefheart - Ice Cream For Crow</p><p>Rather catchy actually, definitely Eurovision material........ :p</p>iLL Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107892879700381858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17080579.post-91100353773667893442010-06-03T02:49:00.002+01:002010-06-03T02:53:18.199+01:00Will The Night<object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/QXP31KLUzBU&hl=en_GB&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/QXP31KLUzBU&hl=en_GB&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object>
Goodbye Mum. I love you.iLL Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107892879700381858noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17080579.post-64593640409527415872010-05-22T21:41:00.002+01:002010-05-23T01:18:56.134+01:00Listen To This No 16<p><object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/zWXcjYNZais&hl=en_GB&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/zWXcjYNZais&hl=en_GB&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object></p><p>Summer In The City by The Lovin' Spoonful. </p><p>So, that's where They Might Be Giants got Birdhouse In Your Soul from.............</p><p>The 1st day of summer is upon us, what with it's oppressive heat and cloudless skies. I suppose this sums it up perfectly.............</p><p>Except it fails to mention the sunburnt blondes, the hideous fashion disasters and pissed up neds shouting and breaking bottles outside your house........ I feel certain that John Sebastian held back on those verses to improve the songs commercial potential ;)</p>iLL Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08107892879700381858noreply@blogger.com2