2020 Blues

 

Standard 12-bar a la Elvis’ ‘Trouble’

 

Well this is 2020, and it’s not going well

There’s poison in the air and there’s a sad story to tell

The people are all dying, this shit is not a joke,

The PM is a pisshead and his cabinet’s on coke

Ain’t that the truth

They got the 2020 Blues

 

I got a thousand voices shouting at me in my head

A thousand packets of pasta slowly rotting in my shed

I’m panic buying flour and bog roll by the tonne

If I only had the chance I’d panic buy some opium

Blot out the rules

Of the 2020 Blues

 

I got the lockdown blues

I got the lockdown blues

And I’m tryin my best to hide it

But the truth is I can’t abide it

If there’s a wave I’ll ride it

Until I crash inside it

I got the blues

 

I’m eating out to help out, I’m staying a metre away

Don’t take me to task for wearing a mask, I’m doing what they say

I’m sneezing in my elbow, I’m home by 10pm

And then they change the rules and shift the blame to us again

They’re utter fools

Giving me the 2020 Blues

And I’m tryin my best to hide it

But the truth is I can’t abide it

If there’s a wave I’ll ride it

Until I crash inside it

I got the blues

 

I got the lockdown blues

I got the lockdown blues

And I’m tryin my best to hide it

But the truth is I can’t abide it

If there’s a wave I’ll ride it

Until I crash inside it

If there’s a cure I’ll try it

If there’s a vaccine I’ll buy it

But I don’t trust these liars

Let’s set this year on fire

Let’s burn its shoes

And give this 2020 Blues

 

I got the blues

 

Charlie Fall-A-Lot

They called me Charlie Fall-A-Lot,

Cause I was on the floor a lot.

 

I tried my best, it made no sense

I’d stand up straight – then down I went

I'd play up front, I'd get the ball

But as I'd shoot – again, I'd fall.

 

They took me to surgery

To try and solve this mystery

But doctor could find nothing wrong –

I heard her, but my legs had gone

 

They called me Charlie Fall-A-Lot,

Cause I was on the floor a lot.

 

I got the bus that went to town

And sure enough, I fell right down

And on the dusty rusty floor

Underneath the seat, I saw

 

A tiny, shiny, talking flea

Who buzzed and bugged and looked at me:

“Hmm, a boy,” a small voice said,

“Has fallen down, and bonked his head,

 

“What do they call you, fall-down-boy,

Or are you here just to annoy?”

 

Well, this was something new to see.

I’d never met a talking flea.

“I’m Charlie,” I said, cautiously.

“I fall a lot. What’s wrong with me?”

 

The Flea laughed long and squeakily

And I became quite giggly

Then as the bus backfired and burped

I struggled up and sat, alert.

 

“They call me Charlie Fall-a-lot,”

I said. And the flea jumped right up.

 

“I’m sure they do,” said Flea. “But they

Are wrong. You need to calibrate

Yourself. Now listen carefully:

You’ve just got different gravity.

"You’re not falling, but nearly flying,

But right now, friend, there’s no denying

Your skills at this are quite appalling

So yes, it looks like you are falling.

 

“So take heed, Nearly-Fly-A-Lot,

You’re special. Now, this is your stop.”

 

The bus pulled up, and gingerly

I took a step, and two, and three,

And four, and five, and six, and more

And there was no sign of a fall!

 

I waved at Flea, who buzzed right back

And went back to his bus-chair nap.

I stumbled, true, but now I knew

I didn’t fall: I nearly flew.

 

They still call me a Fall-a-lot

And yes, I sometimes do trip up

But I don’t worry anymore

Cause I can – very nearly - soar.

 

 

My 2020 poem...

 ...was something I fully intended to write. I generally do. And there's lots to write about, I guess.

But I think on balance this year was summed up four centuries ago, so I did this instead:

And yes, I have been greenbathing recently.

Avanti!

Santa. You Bastard

Click here to watch me try and channel the Undertones.

And another year’s whizzed right past

With some love and some fire and some pain

I’ve just got one thing to ask:

Can you please stop taking my friends away?

 

But you won’t

Cause you’re a bastard

Santa you bastard  x 3

 

Do you remember that year

I asked for help to get a better body

You gave me a voucher

For a gym pass doing weights with Purple Aki

 

I’m still waiting for my BMX

And you never brought me one

What happened to my action man

With eagle-eye action

 

Was it really so hard

To being me a ZX Spectrum?

Or a small Scalextric set

Everyone else had one

 

But you didn’t

No you didn’t

Cause you’re a bastard

Santa you bastard x 3

 

Too busy in the sweatshop

Working them elves to death

No wonder Rudolph’s nose is red

You’ve punched him til it bled

So fuck you and your sled

 

Not a hint of SNES

Atari, Sega Saturn

Not even a speak and spell

Let alone Playstation

 

I’m ancient now but still the same

So listen to me, fat man

Do your job for once, OK?

And make me into Batman

 

You bastard

You bastard

You bastard

Get bent

 

This year I want

One more poker game

One more smoky whisky

One more cake made for me

One kebab from Ali

One more drumroll four bars long

One more happy bassline

One more Tony Blackburn song

Bring them all back one last time

Bring them all back one last time

You bastard

You bastard

You fat judgemental cunt.

Nobody's Perfect

 Click here for the performance.

Easiest deal in history

Take back our sovereignty

Sunlit uplands for you and me

Well, that’s what Boris said

 

Deal or no deal, call for Noel

Turnips are good for the soul

Wanking over the flagpole

An Empire of perverts

 

Historians in future years

Will see charlatans prey on fear

And misdirected anger: here,

Punch down - scum, it’s their fault

 

So here we are. A lost 12 months

A plague upon us, well, that sucks

You bet Rees-Mogg is making bucks

On shorting the circuit

 

‘Our’ fish are swimming in ‘our’ sea

Oblivious to you and me

But we are told repeatedly

“We’ll fight for the turbot”

 

Pathetic little Eton boys

Play with lives. We’re just toys

Don’t worry, they’ll still get their joys,

These twisted-up fuckheads.

 

A vaccine is here. But it’s not what you think.

I’ve been making it up in my kitchen sink

A moonshine of madness, a vitriolic

End to this Brexit.

 

But I can’t roll it out. I can’t hold it in;

Injecting this shit means that all those cunts win.

So bring it on, wankers. I’m going to sing

When you’re crawling for mercy.

 

Easiest deal in history?

Two million kids here now in poverty

Foodbanks can’t keep up. Beyond parody.

You won’t say they deserve it.

But you’re culpable for it.

So own it. You perverts,

You cokeheads, you liars,

You’ve set us on fire

And justice will be served,

When you least expect it.

 

An oldie from the vaults, pop pickers...

 This just came up as one of those terminally tragic Facebook reminder posts from late 2013 and I quite liked it. This is my albums of 2013, because 2020 was awful.

Here are my greatest albums of 2013 and why, by month:

JANUARY 2013

Felicity's Locket - Turntime

The debut from the Hoxton sextet pressed buttons I didn't know I had with its esperantic wilfulness of broken beats, bad-hearted blues and a welcome dollop of jasmine-pop.

DOWNLOAD: Grime Curves (Part mix)

FEBRUARY

Jaggernaut - As Well As *UCANDU*

Controversial rap-balloon duo Jaggernaut are possibly best known for their intriguing reworking of the kids' nursery rhyme, Nightmare Elements on the Butt of Gruel, but their third long-player, released only on cassette tape, had a quitless burden of immersive techno which utilised the six-five beat to its utmost. That said, its tattered volume rewiring and backwards masked breaks can get a little tiresome without brandy.

DOWNLOAD: Sweetheart Services at the Back of the Wideside

MARCH

Cannaquit Causes - XXVIII

Blood-metallers Cannaquit Causes stirred the shit out of the genre with an album tuned down six octaves. No instructions came with the CD-only release, which required turning up to full volume on an industrial sound system and upsampling fifty clicks before audibility resumed. The natural successors, for sure, to luminaries like Jesus Cunt and Exploded Godspunk.

DOWNLOAD: Satan FUCK

APRIL

Bill Carlos and the Funk Fifty - Frinkadelic Mysteries

Pure psych-gospel indulgence, best described as Cheggers on a motorbike throwing petrol at Alabama 3 - and drinking the lighter fluid.

DOWNLOAD: Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! (Pound Me Baby!)

MAY

Mondo Italiano - Con Peporoncino

Many people (myself included) felt this to be Jello Biafra messing about in a pretend project. but apparently not so - it was merely a normal singer played at 45 rather than 33rpm, which was erroneously printed in the middle of the record itself. Still, either way its blend of nutman guitars and gargantuan harmonics blasted its own ass out of the water, if the water was music and its ass was a song.

DOWNLOAD: Chickenshit Conformist (KFC in da Hoos)

JUNE

Three More Deaths - Y O Y O Y (aka 'The Red Beast')

Part of the Neue Deutsche Wichse movement, TMD's mash-up of spamtronica and electric monkeyballing bopped the eyes from many dancefloors from Berlin to Brussels over the summer, including the unforgettable Red Beast Dance, which swept the hostelries of the continent for six sweet weeks.

DOWNLOAD: Hotel KKKalifornia Mit Ein Pimmel

JULY

Cheeky Girls - Cheeky Girls 

This ironic re-rendering of the kitsch Eastern European duo's entire first album was apparently undertaken by all the original members, producers, wrtiters, artists - and was so brilliantly realised that it was seen as true genius. Indeed, every single aspect of this postmodern take on the initial album was so perfectly re-constituted - dodgy vocals, garish arrangements, artwork, stickers, advertising campaign - that it was all but indistinguishable from the original. A pop art classic, then, with Warholian overtones and a sense of reclamation of noise unseen since Marinetti. Possibly the highlight of the year.

DOWNLOAD: (We are) The Cheeky Girls (Touch My Bum)

AUGUST

Sampological Fermentation - Greed, Greed and Toffee too

The 40th anniversary of the post-hippy space wizards went by without much ostentation, which is entirely in keeping with the fact that all of the original members died in 1972. However, this new album - the 15th since then - recovers more of the inter-take banter of those original sessions (which made up the 'Formica Blues' LP). The lo-heated bonks of microphones and muffled swearing at broken strings makes this a music concrete classic.

DOWNLOAD: Muff Says Bum

SEPTEMBER

Harmony in the UK - Babes

Not many people expected a bona fide soul-pop hit from this, the younger sisters of the cousins of the three girls that originally got sacked from the studio the day before the Sugababes' first incarnation told their management that they wanted to book an entirely different studio. But were we really surprised? Godfrey knows, as they would no doubt trill.

DOWNLOAD: Godfrey (Wop bob Shoop Song)

OCTOBER

The Oafs - Wizzlestop

Fire-branded West Country bottle-pranging tar-coated pop-fist weazel-whistle-wang bike-shed supermarket-sham diogenes-free burble.

DOWNLOAD: Tree, O Tree. Wherefore the Bee? Love My Don't, Dingle a Fag

NOVEMBER

Unfettered Auld Screamers feat. Shirley Brass - Ai Contempo - No Me Culo

Jumping up on the shoulders of all that had come before, with a nice line in bossa-nova style biblical meringue rock, the Screamers' huge sound and eighteen string guitar work recalled Yngwie and Vai throttling a pig whilst Ozzy stuck himself in the gonads with an errant dog tooth. The facts are that many bands have attained such a sound, but none with as little panache as the UAS. Not that their enormous-waisted fanclub cares; the kebabs still flow either way. One for the ladies.

DOWNLOAD: Uuuuuuuuuuuurgh

DECEMBER

B.B. Sacapuntas - Eight More Ways to Tulsa (And I'm Gone)

A Christmas album like no other from the notoriously eight-toothed pootler, this time roping in friends as diverse as Jackson Broon, Thom York, Paul Mackartnee and Bruce Li for the cover shot, which asymetrically recalls both Sgt Pfeffer and a hole. Three times around, this becomes an actual real life golem which will perform your every whim - remember, though, cats can't tell the difference. You dig?

DOWNLOAD: The night (the child) was born (in a stable) in Beth(le)he(m) (And I cried)

9am 4-11-20

 Biden might win

There might be a vaccine soon

These straws are all we have

As well as the fact we're here to be anxious

And others are not, before their time

Fawking Ell

November.

November?

It's nearly November!

And all this crap's still going on?

I see no reason

To carry this year on:

Can we just agree

That it's done?

Leaked Government Memo

 

Mile E Coyote

 

New app from ShooSoft Limited!!!!!!!!

 

(Don't Go Down) By The River

Delta Blues/Gospel song. 12-bar, swampy rock. Alabama 3-style.

 

Well

I’ve had money, I’ve been poor

Ain’t much between the two

Won a bunch of dollars off of Diamond Pete

He accused me of cheatin

So I administered a beatin

And punched out all the diamonds from his teeth

 

He said

You ain’t long for this world, son

You’re not the first to come

A-ridin into town with shining guns

I’ll tell you one thing cowboy

Your fate is sealed now, boy

You’ll be down by the river afore too long

 

Chorus (double speed)

They say

Don’t go down by the river

It’s darker than the devil’s soul is black

Don’t go down, stay away

If you go down you won’t be comin back

 

So

I laughed and left town

Pockets full of diamonds

And I spent a bunch on whisky smooth as silk

My clothes were fine and dandy

I was famously upstandin’

And all my whores had skin as white as milk

 

Chorus 2

No I

Never went down by the river

It’s darker than the devil’s soul is black

Don’t go down, stay away

If you go down you won’t be comin back

 

Well

Many a year passed

And I came flat down broke

My fancy clothes were hanging down in rags

My horse was long gone dead

I rested my heavy head

In graveyards after hustling for scraps

 

Then

I came down with a fever

Hallucinating hard

Sweating down in bullets full of hate

I swear down this is true

A spirit came down too

A rancid stenching dirty reprobate

 

It spoke:

"Boy, you really messed up

You ain’t long for this world

You spent it all and now your time has come

So make your peace

Before you leave this place

Repent your sins, redemption is at hand,

 

But now

Don’t go down by the river

It’s darker than the devil’s soul is black

Don’t go down, stay away

If you go down you won’t be comin back."

 

When

The fever broke and I awoke

I knew just what to do

I just had to find out for myself

I struggled through the mangroves

Through stinking, filthy water

Through spiders, snakes and critters straight from hell.

 

And

After hours or days or years

Cut up and bruised and bent

I came right through to the other side

I saw a shady figure

Standing by the water’s edge

And slowly, the fiend turned and met my eyes

 

(Chorus)

He said

"I knew you’d come down by the river

It’s darker than the devil’s soul is black

Now you’re down, you can’t get away away

You came down; you won’t be goin back."

 

He

Baptised me in blood

Clad me in a burial shroud

And right there I struck him down with my old gun

His body burning

He laughed and said: “You’re learning,

I’ll see you back here boy afore too long”

 

Cause

I went down to the river

The place where every cowboy must pay back

Once you go down, brace yourself

To face your sins and maybe you’ll come back

 

Well

More years passed,

I did alright

I settled down, got married, had some kids

Bought a fine saloon

And watched my hometown bloom

Got older and got closer to God’s embrace

 

Yeah

I’m wrinkled now

But each one tells a story

And I still enjoy a game of poker too

One day a young boy come

With shining eyes and shining guns

He said: “Old timer, I’ll play cards with you.”

 

I said

“Sure, cowboy,

But listen to me careful:

Play straight, play fine, don’t rush into a bet.”

He spat and scowled and sneered

And told me just to deal

But his fate and future were already set.

 

The girls sang:

Don’t go down by the river

It’s darker than the devil’s soul is black

Don’t go down, stay away

If you go down you won’t be comin back

Don’t go down by the river

It’s darker than the devil’s soul is black

Don’t go down, stay away

If you go down you won’t be comin back

If you go down you won’t be comin back

 

(Chords, if you want 'em)

VERSES CHORDS

Emin

Amin

Emin

Bmaj

Emin

Amin

Emin – Gmaj – Amin – Gmaj – Emin

 

CHORUS:

Amin

Fmaj

Amin - Emaj

Amin

Fmaj

Fmaj – Cmaj – drop to B root on Cmaj chord - Amin

He's not the one you want

 A secular hymn. I've not written the words yet but it's dedicated to my mate JG today x

https://soundcloud.com/shooberry/him-not-the-one-you-wa 

Performances and videos link

 I've got an increasing amount of performances on video and audio, and I'm putting them on https://www.facebook.com/joeshoomanwrites one by one. 

Quite a lot of these things I write are meant to be performed, rather than flat on a page - the phrasing isn't usually line by line, rhyme by rhyme. I don't think that necessarily comes across sometimes if I don't speak em out loud. So, I thought fuck it.

No refunds.

How?

So,

How does this keep happening?

How the fuck do they get in?

They’re no longer pretending

That they’re lying and lying

 

That one who drove to Durham?

Ah, no, we must all move on.

That bill they rushed through last year?

Now, they say it’s a shit idea

 

Go out stay in eat out drink beer

Stay in go out stay out change gear

Test and trace and don’t delay

Capacity is up. Hooray!

But hang on, only get a test

If you’re already ill with this

And phone us up at 9am

At 10 and then at 12 again

At 1 and 2 and 3 and 4

You know it won’t be long before

You’re next! Hang on. The line’s gone dead.

We close at 5. We should have said.

 

That one with all the hedge fund bets

That odious swastika-legged

Double-barrelled dunderhead

Was voted in. Is that correct?

 

The one with indetermined kids

Was voted in as MP. It’s

Like inviting vampires in

But worse. And yet, it’s happening.

 

Lockdown stand up and stay alert

Sit still and brace, this prick won’t hurt.

And yet it does. It smarts and stings

Because this shit keeps happening.

 Sick, or poor, or old? Fuck you.

Work til you die. We can’t use you.

That NHS you’re so proud of?

Our mates own it, we’ve sold it off.

A pyroclastic flow of crap

Is fed us. But be sure to clap.

But how does this keep happening?

How the fuck do they get in?

 

The Gammons spend their time insane

Complaining at a dance routine

Perpetuate conspiracy

That this is all caused by 5G

That Bill Gates wants us to get sick:

His vaccines hold a microchip.

Chinese collusion to take over

But why would anyone sane bother?

“ALL Lives Matter” cry these twots

(except for refugees on boats).

“Don’t take away my Glory song”

(they don’t know words to sing along).

Hazarding a far-fetched guess

At how we’ve dropped into this mess

I’d say that taking back control

Means different things than what we’re told.

 

Facts and evidence are dead

The UK’s fucked, like the US

Cause politics has changed again

A puke of lies on spin on spin

So blatantly corrupt and foul:

A circus held in Satan’s bowel.

This shit is how they still get in.

And that is why it’s happening.

 

 

N-FaT

Don’t look at me for wisdom

Don’t look at me for advice

It’s more through luck than by design

I’ve managed to survive.

There’s not much I can pass on

But if you do insist

There’s one small thing that I’ve found wrong

And I’ll give you the gist:

 

Never fuck a Tory;

They might appear nice

So if you do by accident

Just please don’t do it twice.

 

The Tories walk amongst us

They’re hiding in plain sight,

They’ll celebrate with birthday cake

Then take everyone’s slice.

 

They’ll fuck you til you’re sound asleep

And say their love is true

Then auction off your cock and balls

And sell them back to you

 

I got drunk once and kissed a girl -

She seemed a normal lass -

I woke up with no clothes on

Cause she’d privatised my ass.

 

You just can’t trust a Tory,

They’re born to tell you lies

They’ll take away your breaktime milk

And chuckle whilst you cry.

 

(The problem is, they look like us,

They take the tube, they get the bus,

They chomp their crisps, they watch the game:

The issue is they look the same)

 

And

 

Some of them are pretty cute

Some are beautiful,

Or handsome in a sharp-ass suit,

But comrades, don’t be fooled.

 

Their hands caress away a tear

And comfort bawling kids.

Those same soft hands will draw a cross

And vote Conservative.

 

Those cushioned lips that gentle part

Are captivating, red,

But later say ‘Britain is full

Let’s help our own instead’.

 

Their hair-swish gorgeous, wonderful,

Slow-motion melodies

Sit atop a brain that thinks

That trans is a disease.

 

The shy ones won’t admit to it;

They’ll lose their confidence

Cause if they really think on it

Maybe they’ll see some sense...

 

...But no. 

When voting comes around

They scrut inside that booth,

Stand up and Think of In-Ger-Lund

And Tory wins ensue.

 

But.

 

There’s nothing to be shamed about

If you can change your mind

Based on the info that you’ve got:

The truth, the facts defined.

 

This is the problem of the left:

We’re drawn to always blame

Each other, and we are obsessed

With tiny different ways

 

Of thinking, when we could be sure

To celebrate instead

The things we have in common, or

The N-H-blimmin-S.

 

So maybe I’ve not got it right,

I’ve misread this whole story:

I think we’ve fucked ourselves, lost sight

Of how to fuck a Tory.

 

But look. I’ve thought about this more,

See, teenagers rebel

Against their parents’ politics

And so we might as well

 

Go and fuck a Tory,

And make some babies too,

So when the kids turn seventeen

They’ll seek out other truths

 

And turn away from mam or dad,

Whose bourgeois selfishness

Will be held up as all that’s bad,

Which got us in this mess,

 

And then they’ll mobilise and fight

For true equality

And put this fucking world to rights.

I live.

    I hope.

         I dream.

 

Don’t look at me for answers

Or for some inspiration:

I’ve seen too many chancers

Who have fucked too many nations.

A wiser man than I once said

‘Beware of your own dogma;

Or one day you will wake up dead,

Run down by your own karma’.

Bank Holiday Weekend (Day 30/31)

 It's been... boring actually. But in some ways I've not noticed all that much being sober. I have started to question myself about my first port of call being, well, port and so on, and I've noticed that it makes little difference drinking between 7 and 9pm. In fact, I have read more and that's good.

I've read several books about drinking and sobriety and whatnot. There are many different levels of this kinda stuff. I think in general I'm at the lower end of... risk? I don't quite think that's the correct word maybe. But, compared to the book protagonists I'm just a part-time idiot that fell into a stupid routine of drinking when bored of an evening. I mean, I knew that already I guess. But confirmation was important.

The total is at £515 today. That's £15 over my original target. I upped it to £750 because I raised about £150 within a few hours of posting the first news about this month. But ya know, over 500 quid is not too shabby is it. And a good charity, of course, will benefit.

Last year I did Movember and raised a load too. I probably won't do this sober thing again, but I might well do something different at some stage. It's been difficult at times, mostly before I started to really work out what the hell was going on in a more scientific way.

It's given me something to distract me from the continuing absolute shit going on with viruses, Tories and what have you. That's important. I nearly came off all social media before I started doing this; I'd had a bellyful of politics and idiots. That stuff is still out there. But now I am (mostly) either not getting involved in the way I used to, and/or sending reports to Twitter. It's kinda satisfying to see the pricks getting banned. So, there's that. Not much, really.

And, so, life goes on one way or another. I'm happy enough with what I've achieved here; the cash, of course, and the more nebulous clouds of realisation about... whatever. I've not worked this out 100% or even 10% yet. But I've started. Maybe. Probably.

Here's to tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow. Ya know, I used to recite that as a depressing quote: creeps in this petty pace from day to day/to the last syllable of recorded time, and it meant that someone's ass was mine I was pretending to be Eeyore-ish. But I think I can also take the first bit out of context, because just having tomorrows is a privilege not granted to all.

Iechyd da - mewn pob meddwl o'r eiriau.

Computer Game Sequels

I was arsing about on social media instead of writing a book so I wrote some ideas for sequels to successful computer games. When I went down town to mooch around instead of writing a book I bought a USB game controller from a charity shop for £2.99. The two things weren't connected I don't think, but if they were then I oughta've written about Aria Pro II bass guitars. Oh well.

• Reverse Tomb Raider: Lara has to go to all the UK museums and grab all the stuff that's been nicked from other countries, and then repatriate them.
  
  
• Sonic's Aftermath: Sonic has to go on community service and return all the rings to the clouds that he nicked them from on his feral, Sunny D-fuelled rampage.
  
  
• Jet Set Willy's Divorce: Jet Set Willy and his wife decide to split up due to clear incompatibility, and they hire a cleaner to get the house in order before selling it and downsizing in separate new flats.
  
  
• Tekken Mediation Add-On: the combatants sit around a table with their foes and some trained negotiators, each having space and time to calmly explain their issues. Then, they realise how much they have in common and embrace their differences whilst celebrating their shared bonds. They go their separate ways and spread this new-found insight to engender an open-minded and loving society.
  
  
• Grand Theft AutoReplace: each car stolen is actually done so to replace it with a more eco-friendly electric vehicle, and/or a bicycle, with the owners compensated accordingly.
  
  
• Untitled Goose Game: The geese's rage is shown to be at the environmental vandalism that humankind has wrought. Humans finally take note and re-wild huge areas, whilst moving to a sustainable economy. All geese then become friendly and approachable.
  
  
• Micro Machines - Antivax Edition: All the micro machines are destroyed by deranged QAnon followers who believe the cars are merely vehicles for Bill Gates to inject them with mind-control chips.
  
  
• DOOM, Sparky Update: You are contracted as an electrician whose task is to fix the lights properly. All the monsters are revealed to be jobbing acting graduates desperate for their break in showbiz. You shoot them anyway, because they won't leave you the fuck alone.
  
  
• The Sims Unionise: Your power to control any aspect of the Sims' lives is challenged by a well-read and determined union. The Sims refuse to work under your all-encompassing rule, and you are ousted in favour of a democratically-elected representative decision-making committee. Their first act is to remove all cameras from the houses, streets and other places, and to build proper roofs and walls in their homes.
  
  
• Worms Disarmament Treaty: The worms mutually agree to turn their weapons factories into craft workshops, affordable housing and social spaces for all; the weapons are melted down to help create quantum computers and thrust research forward for all wormkind.

Verdure and Survive

 

Naïve I might be

But can someone tell me

Why we can’t plant

Herbs on the verges

Fruit trees on the streets

Spelt in the brown belt

Alliums in the valleys?

Um

 

I mean. If we do it

Nature will renew it

Radish in the parish

Sage behind the stage

Chilli in the alley

Oranges for the foragers

Er

 

Turn the allotments

Into car parks

And the car parks

Into allotments

And maybe we’d find

That made a lot more sense

Growing mushrooms and incense

In the bits that were dark

Turn it round.

Till the ground.

 

The forces could lead it

Throw their guns down and seed it

Tubers on manoeuvres

Not gunfire, but samphire

No guards, just gourds

Grow cress in the mess

Hall

 

The house of Lords

Could be useful for once:

Justified by salsify

Ancient but efficient

From debate to plate

And rose hip replace

Ments.

 

There’s nothing to stop us

I don’t think, because

We all need to eat

So make edible streets

Grow some rainbow-leaf chard

On these tired boulevards

We won’t be here forever:

Can we just make it better?

 

Naïve I might be

But can someone tell me

Why this world is obsessed

With financial ‘success’?

 

Why we’re ground to the bone

For economic ‘growth’?

And when did we decide

To put fairness aside?

 

'Naïve’s just a word

That makes ‘freedom’ absurd

In the mouth of the liars

So we need to plant fires.

SCD13

 Today I have got rage at everything.

I would be planning to get drunk usually.

That adds to the rage.

But I will be strong and come through this a different way.

Sober Chronicles, Day 12

 God I am so fucking bored.

Seriously, this is the dangerous time. All the righteous energy has now completely dissipated and now I'm sat here, at the end of a nothing day, bored as shit.

What else is there to do? I can write, or try to: I've got a book to work on. I'm chipping away at that piece by piece cause it's an A-Z of Elvis and so quite self-contained narrative-wise. But I'm fucking bored of myself and that means the writing is uninspired and worthless.

I know when it's not uninspired. That's not now.

BLAH BLAH

I wrote loads more on this update and it was good and talked about Hunter Thompson and Elizabeth Wurtzel and all sorts of cool self-analysis THEN THE INTERNET BROKE AND I LOST IT ALL

fuck today

But I won't drink. 

Fucks sake.

Sober Chronicles, Day 1

I'm not drinking in August, 2020 for lots of reasons. One is that I can hopefully raise money for a prostate cancer charity, and that is a good reason in itself.

Secondly, and probably as important if not more so, I have been getting drunk at home for little reason aside from I can. This is not the fun drinks with mates, or at the footy, or anything. It's not even really a lovely glass of wine with a lovely meal, because that lovely glass turns into a bottle and another one and then asleep on the sofa with YouTube re-runs of Andy Kaufman blurbitating on unseen.

I dunno, it's easy to get preachy isn't it. There are lots and lots of 'reasons' to drink. I mean, look at the UK. Brek-fucking-shit, the Tories fucking everything up, lying and getting away with it, and blaming the people instead. AND PEOPLE IN TURN VOTING FOR THE TORIES ANYWAY. Jesus fuck. Pass the Motor Oil and Absinth, I want to get obliterated.

Aye, if only that meant that the hangover came with any change. Which it doesn't, does it? So that's not a valid reason.

I think hangovers are very interesting, psychologically, particularly if they're an aftermath-of-a-binge-toward-oblivion. What they do is make you feel ultra-shitty, maybe a bit paranoid, physically and mentally battered.

Now, considering all of that I wonder if, also, the hangover is the self-flaggelation that is acceptable to society here. Nothing else really is acceptable in the same way. And, so, the hangover is punishment for the drinking-to-forget-ness. It is part of the self-loathing deal, and serves as an avatar for the real issue, which in my case is probably something like "I could do more to change the narrative. Why am I not more politically active? Why have I not led my life more aggressively? When I was 17 I was convinced that I would, one way or another".

All of that is wrapped up in a headache and a tummy ache and a bravado that says, and I say regularly: "If you can't deal with a hangover don't drink". I castigate people for feeling shit in the mornings, and tell them to get the fuck on with it. I mean, that's kind of an arsehole attitude isn't it.

I've just read the Allen Carr 'Easy Way' stop drinking book. When I stopped smoking, his smoking book helped me reprogramme myself hugely, because I realised:

* If I really concentrated on smoking a cigarette, I could work out whether I enjoyed it or not.

That was basically it. And, I realised, no, I don't really like this all that much. So I stopped (with patches, and willpower, and writing a book, and splitting up with a reasonably long-term-ish girlfriend). Not exactly a calm period in my life, but I can say that the book has sold more than any of my other ones by miles, and is now in its third edition (I anticipate another update in the next 24 months). 

There is a difference here, though. The Carr/drinking book insists on diminishing booze as a poison. It does not acknowledge the difference between the epicural and the alcohol itself. What is difficult here is that I am not convinced that there are no benefits to be had from the taste - and the effect - of some high-quality drinks. Rioja and cheese. Wonderful. A tot of smoky Talisker, that burns on the way down in a way that warms and makes you shudder at the same time. It's a much more visceral thing than Carr insists.

There is a lot of truth in the ideas he recycles from the smoking book though, mostly:

* Think about the ritual of smoking (drinking). You have to go to the shop and buy it. Maybe getting freezing cold. It costs you a load of cash. And then you feel like shit and you stink.

In other words, it's easier not to go through all of that. To not go to the shop, to stay warm, to keep your dosh and to feel better, and not stink of smoke.

So there's something in that isn't there, which I am thinking about deeply. It's all about the logic here. And I know I stopped smoking after a 10-year binge of filterless rollies and a fair amount of weed now and then. So, y'know. This isn't unprecedented.

Actually the parallels with weed are stronger than with fags. I don't like the effects of being stoned and useless; there's a part of my brain that can't abandon itself to what really is an oblivion blanket, and it taunts and irritates me when I'm trying to slob about. So I don't really ever smoke weed. But there is also a subjective mind-altering side, which I think Carr completely underplays in his metaphors about drunken plane pilots and the like. 

There is something primal about altered states and I doubt sincerely whether there's anyone on the planet who hasn't spun round and round til they got dizzy and giggly as a kid. Or done yoga. Or meditated. Or whatever. Different ways to the same land is all they are. The land of not-this-one. 

I spose writing could be part of that too. Reading, and writing.

So that's Day 1 - it's 1pm and I've thought of nothing else for most of today. Inevitable and of course a bit tragic but I forgive myself for it cause it's absolutely part of the process. There's one part of the evening - about 6-8pm - where I need to change my behaviour the most. That's the dodgy part of the day when I have been going to the shop for some wine or whatever. And, well. Now I have to do something else don't I.

You're getting a lot for your buck if you sponsor me, I think. I'm not just stopping alcohol for a month, I'm thinking about my relationship to the world too. Yabadabadoooooooo.

Sound City 2009

From The Fly

Secret Songs And Sonic Snogs

May 22 2009 12:00 pm, Joe Shooman

Liverpool Sound City 2009 is now in full swing, now becoming an established part of the city’s musical consciousness and a conference, too, in the grand and honoured tradition. Why, even The Fly’s own Liverpool correspondent Stephen Kelly has been giving it large, appearing on panels about the state of the music biz even whilst constructing some fine reviews that shall appear both on this site and subsequently in the magazine itself.

There’s quite a few of us Fly-heads here which gives us an opportunity to see as many of the best acts as possible – given there’s so much damned great stuff to try and watch, it’s impossible for just one man to catch em all, like musical pokemons or some such.

 

Undeniably one of the pleasures of Liverpool Music Week – and events like it – is the fact that you can wander around in town, wristbanded-up, and just follow your ears. In every corner of every bar it seems there’s music going on, from the likes of Juliette Lewis and Metronomy in the bigger gigs to a host of exciting upcoming acts like Peter & The Wolf, Indica Ritual and loadsa others. See our fab Great Escape coverage for a prime example of fizzing around in the company of some of the greatest contemporary acts of our - and any other - era.

 

And even beyond the 'official' lineups, often there’s quite some fun to be had. Witness last night, for example, and an absolute treat.

 

So, hanging around in the back of a gig in the Leaf Café in the fab new Contemporary Urban Centre (CUC) we were, when a singer and songwriter called Chris and producer/collaborator Rob appeared and invited a few bods up to the studio on the sixth floor. Grolsch was promised so obviously we were happy to accept.

What we found was a surprise but a very welcome one, in the form of an unexpected warm-up performance from a brand new band called Hallo… I Love You! The predominately studio-crafted act is bolstered to a five-piece live who purvey a decidedly joyous line in sweet, but not sickly, loved-up pop. There’s an indie edge to matters, of course, with live bass and guitar boosting the Moogs, keyboards and close-harmony skippy vocals, but I guess the word is unabashed. They were great and support Little Boots in the O2 Academy tonight (Friday) so if you’re around try and catch them.

 

The CUC itself is something of a marvellous thing – a reimagined old factory in one of Liverpool’s slowly regenerating areas. A hop and skip from where the new Picket is, this multi-floor marvel has three ace bars and restaurants on the ground floor, and above that dance, film, recording studios and loads of cool stuff going on. It’s really one of the triumphs of the city (or to be more exact the people with the vision to get it off the ground) and quite possibly the first step in a proper regeneration of that area. It’s not difficult to imagine, or to dream, that in five – ten – fifteen years time the area down near the docks can slowly change from old car parts warehouses and dingy factories into something entirely more bohemian and café-life-ish. There’s space here waiting for ideas and investment and with a little foresight it could well kick Liverpool up yet another level. Now all that useless Capital Of Culture façade is over, the real work starts.

 

And as long as there are people like Liverpool Sound City involved, the future looks damned decent from here. Bring it on.

Iron Maiden win a Brit Award (2009)

The Fly blog post.

Great Brits

Feb 20 2009 12:57 pm, Joe Shooman

Amidst all the furore of the Brits there was one very significant - and might I add long-overdue – winner. For thirty years this band have consistently sold millions of albums, had top twenty hits and a number one, and toured to ever-expanding venues. Currently they’re packing out stadia in everywhere from Brazil to Bangalore; songwriters and musicians of the highest strata and they deserve every bit of respect we have.

People take the piss out of heavy metal because it is deemed as being faintly ridiculous; overblown guitar riffs, balls-out testosterone, daft hair and axe-weilding goons playing lead lines in harmonised fourths. The material’s epic, sexualised, rampant stuff. It is beyond doubt however that a metal band of the calibre of Iron Maiden in full flow stand alone as masters of their genre. Inheritors of the baton of rock n roll and it’s about time they were recognised properly. They’ve operated outside the establishment for so long that they’ve learned to live without it and although of late the media has softened in their attitude toward the growling roarers, since their heyday in the early-mid 1980s they’ve seen off any number of careers of other, lesser bands, several musical fads and, lest we forget, they've seen off several magazines.

Expect everyone to get on the bandwagon with Maiden from hereon in because with their Brit award they are now 'officially' UK Musical Treasures and they belong to us all. It wasn’t always like that; when Bruce Dickinson left in 1992 to pursue a critically-acclaimed solo career, the band’s time looked to be up. Even more so when grunge took the heavy-guitars-and-ridiculous-clothes mantle up and Steve Harris – driving force and bassist – kept his lads chugging along in the face of falling sales and all-round shrugs. In this dark period for heavy metal, Maiden sputtered along in ever-smaller college-sized venues with Blaze Bayley trying – and failing – to step into the mighty shoes of the impish genius of Bruce Dickinson.

 

Dickinson himself had only joined Maiden after previous vocalist Paul Di’Anno finally went off the rails in a satisfying haze of drug-fuelled mayhem. Dickinson, a history graduate, was probably glad to have shaken off his nickname from one of his previous bands, the also-excellent Samson. To whit: Bruce Bruce. (His girlfriend at the time, somewhat inevitably, came to be called Jane Jane.)

Surprisingly, Bruce rejoined the band in ’99 and their vast albums since then have been more notable for their expansive approach and, let’s face it, Classical Music technique. This is a band who have redefined heavy metal and what it means to be a musician in a rock group. For decades the UK has been ashamed of bands like Maiden, ghettoising them to specialist magazines and 2am rock shows. But now, with the power of the internet, the mobilising forces of the metal community have a more powerful voice than ever before. Or at lelast a more recognised one. This is somewhere that fans don't fall for the passing whim of johnny-come-lately fly-by-night instant gratification pop star faddishness; it's a lifestyle as much as a musical movement.

 

But let’s get one thing straight because it’s important.

Thsese guys didn’t need the acknowledgement or 'validation' of a Brit award because they’ve nothing to prove to anybody. It’s a triumph for metal, sure, but mostly for the influence and creativity and huge respect for their fans that the band themselves have always made central to their approach. Maiden were a great British band for twenty years before this pat-on-the-head was bestowed on them and they will continue to be so no matter how many awards or plaudits come their way. They rock today and they rocked on Tuesday. It’s what they’ve always done. Knighthoods would be more like it.

 

Wonder if Eddie slipped one up Duffy backstage?

Listings, Absinthe and Gay Bands (2008)

Another from The Fly archive. I used to compile the monthly gig listings as well as edit the live reviews. The listings was boring as hell but I used to do them drinking whisky, which helped, and I got paid, which helped me not have to get a real job. And, it wasn't til I'd been doing them for about four years that Harriet Gibsone showed me how to sort them alphabetically automatically. Up to then I'd been doing it all by hand like some kind of absolute twat.

Listings, Absinthe & Gay bands

Apr 15 2008 10:30 am, Joe Shooman

Putting together the gig listings for the mag is one of those jobs that’s so monstrous and time-consuming that it has within it a kind of masochistic magnificence. There’s nothing really quite like it. To start with that bright, white excel sheet is daunting, month after month. And month after month it feels like it’s never going to get finished. There are always new contacts to chase, people moving jobs from venue to venue, new small promoters to try and include and hour upon hour of tedious re-formatting, cutting and pasting and cross-checking to handle. But the only way to do it is to do it and in a very real way its very nature lends it an almost mantra-like quality. The minutes and hours tick by unnoticed almost in the face of the satisfaction of seeing that blank, blinking-cursored space begin to fill up. (It’s the same feeling, in a lot of ways, I used to have when I was cleaning out the stockroom at Halfords; putting things in tidy piles, making sense of the mess, seeing things all in their right place with a sense of piquant pride cause you knew that the next time you come in some lumpy-stomached twat will have knocked everything over again.) Anyway, I maintain that to do it’s a treasure and cause of its monotony small things snap into focus that would otherwise go completely unnoticed.

 The band names, for example, are guaranteed to bring a smile sometimes: there used to be a group touring called Jesus Of Spazzareth, who I vowed to go and see but never got round to (if you’re reading, get in touch), and more recently Arse Full Of Chips (likewise). This month, top marks go to the utter genius that is Kuppa Tea And The PGs. Amazing, also, how many homo references there are: the mighty Gay For Johnny Depp, of course, are a fucking great band, but also check Gay Against You, and this month, White Boys For Gay Jesus raise an eyebrow (they play Joseph’s Well in Leeds on 11 May).

Moreover, filling in that sheet requires a certain kind of concentration, a kind of concentration that enables a certain kind of focus. Because of the fact that it’s a long job that is best done in rather lengthy stretches, it also is best done when there are less distractions, less phonecalls and less emails to fend off – usually on the odd gig-free evening in fact. And cause it’s deadly boring, a glass of absinthe and milk tincture or frozen bison grass vodka helps pass the time away. But - and yeah, I know, but indulge this one, I don’t often wank about like this anymore - there’s some kind of Zen quality within the process too. Often it gives me a chance to catch up on some proper listening to music, without the chatter of the world to interfere. To really listen; like really really really listen. It’s even been known on occasion to be possible dig out some old Stax or Iron Maiden, as well as to snazzz through the new stuff.

And so it was that I whacked on The Presets’ LP, Apocalypso, an album that, in a sense, comes at the bookend of two strange years or so where people decided that Dance Was Good After All and that Drugs Were Also Good If They Were The Right Ones. Well, duuur, fucking well noticed. Whatever genre you like to fuck to, music ain’t actually all that different when you lego it down into its building blocks: tunes, and beats, and frequencies and feet. And The Presets have got it down pat here. There are hooks, crooks and mighty house beats to be had, of course. It feels and sounds a bit like a distillation of all that has come before and a vision maybe of the future – via Marty McFly. Bit of Underworld here, bits of Armin Van Buuren there, it’s an album so damned post-modern that sounds like it’s actually remixing itself as it goes along. It’s significant, I think, that it’s only when putting together a sheet full of gigs that these thoughts kinda come to the fore. Putting together a sheet that describes thousands of bands of various genres and qualities, a sheet that shows what’s happening, where and when – but one that offers few clues, aside from the names, as to any depth of artistic ideas involved. As such, it’s essentially superficial but nonetheless very useful as a reference point to a universe of artistry that lies beyond its conduit crash.

In absentia, veritas, maybe.

 

Keyring accessory of the month: my new one that plays the BIG RED X noise off of Family Fortunes. An argument winner, every time. (I’ve also got one that makes Elvis noises, and when I’m really lonely I pretend he’s talking to me.)

 

Revelation of the month: Never knew that gmail had daily sending quotas til now. Spam throttling, yeah, I understand that bit. Not being able to reply to messages is rather annoying, however.

 

Obvious thing of the month: label on my jar of peanut butter says, ‘contains peanuts’. No shit. Actually it doesn’t actually say that there’s no shit. Hmm.

 

Shit joke of the, well, since ever, and not even told properly I don’t think but fuck it: Absinthe is all very well but it gives you terrible wind that sounds like a motorbike revving its engine. Cos, as everyone knows, Absinthe makes the fart grow Honda.

 

This was gonna be all about going to Lithuania and standing somewhere that put everything into its real perspective, but I just can’t find any words and I don’t think that I should try either. Nelėk greičiau nei skrenda tavo angelas sargas. x

 

Spiders and Chuckle Brothers (2008)

From the archive of The Fly magazine

Sep 08 2008 11:09 am, Joe Shooman

- Do you want to go to this Love Music Hate Racism gig, Shoobag?

- yeah definitely, who’s on?

- Roll Deep, The Courteeners, Reverend & The Makers, Kaiser Chiefs, loads of local bands and that. It’s an indoor carnival, really.

- yeah man sounds sound, la, which venue is it at?

- Magna

- Ah right, I don’t know that one, is it the new name for the Students’ Union?

- No mate, it’s not in Liverpool

- Ah. Manchester?

- Think more… Yorkshire

 

so I did, and this is how I ended up not in Sheffield, or Leeds, but in an old steelworks in an industrial estate in Rotherham this weekend. Not that I’ve got anything against that town whatsoever: the footy team are one of those perennial-underdog types that crop up on MOTD kicking the fuck out of the latest fancy dans in the FA Cup Third Round, for a start. Secondly, of course, it’s the home of the Chuckle Brothers (whose autobiography I wanted desperately to ghost-write til they went and did it with someone else) so it can’t be all bad.

 

Magna is an odd and rather wonderful place that, according to the blurb, is ‘the UK’s first Science Adventure Centre’, something that sounds vaguely Scientologist but has very little to do with Xenu, volcanoes and Operating Thetans and everything to do with getting kids to learn cool stuff by accident whilst they think they’re just lobbing things at each other in ball pools and giving people electric shocks with cattleprods and the like (I’m extrapolating here, I haven’t been there properly). Anyway from what I saw of it, it looks bloody ace, and has massive turbiney things and stuff to play with.

 

What it isn’t, is an obvious venue in which to set up a Love Music Hate Racism gig in response to recent BNP gains in the area.

 

But then Jon McClure, the politicised groove-monk(ey) behind Reverend & The Makers, doesn’t always take the most obvious path – for it is he who was catalyst for this event, and he who ensured that the Kaisers would headline, despite the fact that it fell on one of Ricky and the gang’s only days off, apparently, til 2010. They were fucking great and if this album doesn’t get them some US success I’ll probably shrug and say ‘ah well’ or something equally dull. The gig – a tenner for some of the UK’s top talent – was top and the atmosphere was rather excellent too. Even if it was a fiver for a double JD & coke, which took the piss.

 

I ain’t gonna write a review or owt cause Ruth Offord has, and she’s dead good at that sort of thing. Just worth reiterating, I think, that the inherent power of music to bring 4,500 people together here with no immediately obvious ways of getting home is and was a quite remarkable and beautiful thing, and hopefully next time the elections come around a similar amount of people can be arsed to get down the polling stations and make sure the BNP don’t get elected by dint of absent, apathetic voters. Democracy depends on participation a chunk of the time and though the right to not vote is a fundamental tenet of the concept, this is the kind of thing that can happen when nobody bothers to go and put their X on a piece of paper. Secondly, LMHR have some of the damned coolest T-shirts known to mankind so go and get one: www.lovemusichateracism.com

 

The journey to Liverpool the next day was long, and sweaty, and horrendously hungover, and happy, and got even better when I alighted at Lime Street straight into a crowd of several thousand people whose gaze was set upon a massive spider halfway up a derelict office block. No ordinary spider, neither: a massive, mechanical beast called La Machine, which was commissioned by Liverpool Culture Company from Artichoke who paraded a massive elephant round London a while back for some reason. Art, I think they called it, which is good enough for me cause I don’t know what that word means at the best of times. Anyway, the spider is fantastic, and realistic, and a little bit Ridley Scott/HR Giger-ish, and as several thousand people watched, and watched, and watched, this wonderful hybrid of animatronix, machinery and primal-fear perched on the side of the horrendous 60s office building that’s been set for demolition for ten years and the spider, with the power to shock, to break, to destroy, immediately set about doing… absolutely fuck all.

 

What had happened, we all soon found out from an errant security officer, was that a website had been put up online which indicated that the spider was to do some Mad Skillz Climbing at 3pm on Sunday, so everyone congregated outside St George Hall to watch it do its scampery thing. This not only brought traffic to a standstill, but necessitated a mass security and police operation just in case… well in case there were spider-related riots, or somesuch. Marvellously, however, piss all happened because, apparently, said website was an unofficial one, a hoax one, and had no relation to La Machine, Artichoke or anyone else. The spider wasn’t gonna do anything at all til 7pm that night, in actual fact.

 

You’d think that a spider of all fucking things would have a reliable web presence, but as befits the Liverpool Capital Of Culture, no such luck. Brilliantly, too, I heard over the weekend that most of the people working for the Culture Company have contracts that come to an end on December 31, 2008. So culture stops, officially.

 

All of which is academic cause we’re gonna all be eaten by black holes when they turn on that big massive Hardon Collider thing in Switzerland on Wednesday, but that’s another story. See you on the dark side.