On my way into town today, the woman passenger in the car in front told me to "fuck off" (mouthed very clearly). I was gesticulating at the driver, trying to encourage her to take advantage of a car that was flashing its lights to let her into the traffic. My exasperation got the better off me. My own little road rage incident. Common enough in the big smoke, but most uncommon in genteel Wiltshire. My little wife would be spanking my bottom if blood sports were not banned in Blair's New Britain.
And what of the creative world? Joy, joy, wonderment and bliss. I remain a believer. The power of music not only astounds, but terrifies me. Punk's bedroom recordings are now doing the rounds. Donbledore has got his grubby paws onto a copy, and so, I suspect, has Sean Fitzpatrick. If music can bring forth fruit on such barren earth, then all things are possible.
High time, me thinks, for another audio verite experience. Punk's feeble dribblings released on an unsuspecting world. Who would have thunk it? Not I, said the fly.
And while we are at it, whatever happened to Ozzie Richardson and Luke Hutchence? Did they drop off the edge of 2002 and never make it to the new year? Hmmm. A case for Sherlock McVicar. I shall post a progress report tomorrow.
Oh no you won't
Oh yes, I will.
Oh no you won't.
Oh yes, I will.
