sweet effay

I've got this horrible feeling that I'm trapped inside a Robert Anton Wilson novel.

It now looks as though New Labour's recent embracing of skinhead culture was for the purpose of giving their apparatchiks the courage to mercilessly crush all dissent. Expect to see sales of steel toecap Doc Martins rocket in Islington. Tremble in fear as the Blairs arrive for an official dinner at the Mansion House: Cherie sporting a number 1 with little wispy bits front and back, 'I love TB' crudely tattooed on her left breast; Tony's flowing locks even more severely shorn, casually unzipping his Harrington at the top of the steps to reveal braces over a white T-shirt bearing the logo 'You're either with us, or you're a terrorist'.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the pond, Hurricane Katrina has allowed the US Navy's attack dolphins to escape. Freakish accident or fiendish plan? I'll let you make your own minds up. However, I suggest it's no coincidence that there are all these sightings of giant squid at the moment.

If all this doesn't convince you, a letter arrived at the Little House this morning (and, no, I'm not making this up) bearing a German postmark and a Las Vegas return address, inviting me to join the Illuminati...

...he comes out onstage to a Sham 69 tune. What a twat.

Still, at least we now know why Martin deleted his 'Sham 69 are better than The Stooges' post - He didn't want it falling into the wrong hands. Looks like he was too late; those New Labour image engineers have eyes everywhere.

So what punk song should Blair have walked on to?

I would go for 'So What' by the Anti-Nowhere league; not so much for the sheer filth value, but for the very apposite chorus. Picture Tone pointing at the conference and yelling:

So what, so what you boring little cunt
Well, who cares, who cares what you do
Who cares, who cares about you

Well, despite Martin begging me not to, the Little effay and I settled down to watch Yellow Submarine the other day. We got as far as the Sea of Time section before she turned to me and said “Daddy I don’t like this.” I had to admit that she had a point.

I hadn’t seen the film in years, but I remembered it as being a pretty crap story with some quite entertaining visuals to go with the musical sections. Instead I was simply squirming with embarrassment; some things you just can’t go back to. I loved the film when I was kid and then later, used to watch selected bits when chemically challenged. ‘Hey Bulldog’ was the best bit, but I didn’t have the heart to fast forward to it in case I ruined all those fond memories.

Generally, my taste in films and music doesn’t change over the years (T. Rex and the first series of Scooby Doo still kick ass); I just add more items. However there are the odd occasions when I realize I was in error and this is obviously one of them. I’m never going to try to foist that bloody horrible film on anyone ever again.

I had a similar revelation over The Doors when it eventually dawned on me that Jim Morrison wrote the most execrable gibberish possible. Prior to that, and I shudder to admit it, my favourite ‘Doors album’ had been An American Prayer, because of all Jim’s marvellous poetry such as:

Words be nimble, words be quick
Words resemble walking sticks

To a certain extent, people of my generation were conned into thinking The Doors were deep and meaningful because of ‘The End’ being used in Apocalypse Now. Footage of helicopters and animal sacrifice are bound to give a tune a sort of intellectual gloss. Mostly though, I blame the drugs: I obviously hadn’t taken enough at that point. I still listen to The Doors occasionally (although definitely not An American Prayer), but never again will I sit halfway up a mountain in Snowdonia first thing in the morning, with a big spliff and a Walkman, communing with nature and really getting to grips with the lyrics of ‘The Soft Parade’.

So anyhow, we abandoned Yellow Submarine and then washed the taste of it out of our mouths with a marathon session of Tom and Jerry beating the shit out of each other to a much better integrated soundtrack.

I’ve been clambering about in the loft doing a spot of rewiring. This would take a lot less time if I didn’t keep getting the urge to sit down and read through some of the stuff I’ve got stashed up there. I’m on a big Moorcock kick at the minute, so I thought I’d share this with y’all:



I’ve always liked Mal Dean’s illustrations for Jerry Cornelius, but this is my favourite. I first saw it flashed up for a couple of seconds on some documentary on Moorcock on BBC2 and knew that I had to get hold of a copy. It’s the June 1969 issue containing such gems as part of the serialisation of ‘A Cure for Cancer’ and Ballard reviewing a sex manual. Not that it matters what’s on the inside; it’s the cover that counts. I particularly like the angry mob with scythes and pitchforks behind Jerry.

Being a gibbering ob com, I am slightly uneasy that the guitar improbably slung on Jerry’s right shoulder is not a Rickenbacker as it should be, but it’s such a great illustration that I think we can forgive Mal this little oversight.

Ever one to be up to date with the latest tunes, I’ve been listening to lots of remastered Beatles. I know that people go on about Ringo’s drumming, but it sounds masterly compared to Paul’s bass lines! ‘Thunk, plod, dedum, thunk.’ – Jesus. I mean there was a time when the boy could knock out a reasonable song or two, but providing a solid underpinning for a popular beat combo? I don’t bloody think so.

On the positive side, all this Beatles exposure has reminded me that I have a video of Yellow Submarine knocking around somewhere. I plan to dig it out and expose the Little effay to it because I’m sick of the appalling songs I’m being subjected to in her Disney films (Jungle Book and Aristocats excepted, obviously). I’m sure she’ll be fine with it; in fact I bet she’ll be a lot less disturbed by the Blue Meanies than I am by Bambi...

This is very funny.

I always enjoy reading the ridiculous pronouncements of advocates of Intelligent Design (they don't like it if you call them Creationists these days). In fact I think that one of the main arguments against Intelligent Design is that the people who champion it are so obviously flawed from a design point of view.

I particularly like the way that they are arguing that emperor penguins demonstrate the moral value of monogamy by conveniently ignoring the fact that penguins shag somebody new every year. I bet they'd do it more often if they weren't worried that they'd get stuck with looking after another egg with no food for months on end.

If the lifecycle of the emperor penguin really was evidence of Intelligent Design, surely their creator would not have arranged it so that the poor little sods had to trudge seventy miles away from their food source in order to raise their eggs. Perhaps he was having a laugh at their expense.

We live in a converted cowshed. Now that we've stripped out the kitchen, we're getting back to that 'authentic' look:

I thought we might have at least half a new kitchen by now but, on tearing the old one out, we discovered that the shower next door had been leaking into the wall. Now we have no kitchen and no shower and will have to sort out the latter, then wait for the walls to dry before we can do much with the former. Tempers are running high...

This comes as no surprise:

Students on philosophy courses report the highest median "overall satisfaction" levels, with 4.3 out of a maximum five points

Perhaps it’s because students actually go to university because they are interested in philosophy rather than because they think that they will get a job at the end of it.* Or possibly because philosophy students always have the best drugs and so the courses just seem more enjoyable. Either way, I bet the students in question weren’t asked just after they’d come out of a seminar on symbolic logic.

*Although, apparently, there are some job opportunities open to philosophy graduates: The University of Warwick departmental prospectus used to list espionage as one career option. I’m still waiting to be recruited by MI6, so that I can then be seduced by a beautiful Russian agent and start giving out secrets during acts of unspeakable depravity. I guess it’s looking more and more unlikely though.

Or, now we've got the law changed and blagged the funding, it's time to 'fess up just how little progress we're making in the way of concrete results.

We've been away, living under a tree and listening to (gulp!) folk music. Normality has now reasserted itself.