Praise Lord Dave

Today, the ace Mark Steel, whose work I bloody love loads, did a column in the Sunday Mirror: 

Then Songs of Praise tweeted that his idea for a new hymn sounded like a good plan.

I agreed and knocked this up with some lyrics taken from said column, and it looks and sounds like this.

With all due credit to Mark Steel for the inspiration and nihilism.

I gave the copyright in this to God to avoid smiting.

Bringing Parcels Forth to Man, 

Praise Lord Dave Who Drives the Van

Grandma tell us how you went

All the way to Stockport? When

Granddad sent you an emoji

Every Christmas time?

Nasa save us one and all

Astronauts land in Cornwall.

Bringing Parcels Forth to Man, 

Praise Lord Dave Who Drives the Van

Trees with voices sing with joy.

Parties with one girl, one boy.

Watch out for the edge of Swindon

No-one makes it back.

Finnish question-masters reigned

Til the kitten masters came.

The Header Forecast

The Header Forecast

With Anthony Stewart Head from Buffy

 

Scotland: Early outbreaks of solid defensive clearances by grizzled centre-halves, with a chance of 50-50 battles later. Supplies of white bandages have been distributed to mop up forehead blood from split stitches. Concussion is possible in the Shetland Islands.

Northern Ireland: High pressure in the home box will lead to inadvertent glancing headers to divert a miscued wide shot into an own goal. Expect ill-informed shouts of ‘second ball’ from purple-faced, pie-eating supporters.

North East: A quiet afternoon in general, but do expect a squall of high-altitude Andy Carrolls on for the last ten minutes to give a different option up front. He is not expected to last long before going off injured again, and the goal drought will continue.

North West: Strong Guardiola and Klopp currents will generally keep the ball on the floor today, but there is always a chance of an expensive fancy-dan midfielder with red boots making an arse of a simple cushioned header to his keeper.

Midlands: The recent Allardyce outbreak in the West Bromwich region means vastly increased lumping of the ball up to the big man in the danger areas. A yellow set-pieces warning is in place and bruising aerial duels are expected as players give 110 per cent for the full 90 minutes or more.

Wales: Ignominious attempted diving headers will fail to make contact at the far post, and the forecast indicates ugly scuffles in the six-yard box at corners. Expect keepers making a nuisance of themselves in the opposition box in the last minute, leaving their goal gaping.

South East: There is a high chance of thunderous headers from late runs into the box today, exacerbated by poor zonal marking. Defenders are expected to berate midfielders for failing to track back properly, as irate goalkeepers hoof the ball out of the back of the net in frustration.

London: Generally fine, with some looping headers drifting harmlessly over the crossbar during the lunchtime kickoff. There is a high chance of Harry Kanes in the Tottenham region. Despite some clever flick-ons bisecting defenders, VAR will pull the play back and rule someone’s nose hair offside.

South West: Keeping focussed on the ball and being sure to keep your eyes open should avoid the worst of the 50p-heads we have been seeing over the last day or two. Nonetheless, there will be periods of not getting off the ground effectively, and being comprehensively outjumped by the smallest player on the pitch.

Europe: Stunningly improbable leaps by Cristiano Ronaldos, ruined somewhat by referees over-enthusiastically whistling for non-existent fouls. Chances will be missed for simple nut-ins at the far post by Brazilians trying spectacular overhead kicks instead. 

Spidge's Jumpy Day

 

Spidge cat felt springy

Boingy boingy boingy

He loved to jump!

 

Spodge was sleepy

Snoozy snoozy snoozy

He loved his bed!

 

Spidge bounced up

Spidge bounced down

Spidge bounced high

And all around!

 

Spodge was dreaming

Of an evening

In the Outback

Stars a-gleaming

 

A creature jumped

In Spodge’s dream

A creature like

He’d never seen!

 

A big long tail

A springy jump

And a big pocket

In the front!

 

But Spidge cat jumped

And sprang and soared -

And accidentally

Bounced on Spodge!

 

Awake, Spodge said:

“I wonder who

That was. Maybe

A Kangaroo?”

 

Spidge agreed:

“It must have been.

Nobody here’s

A jumping bean.”

 

Spodge looked at Spidge

Suspiciously.

But Spidge just looked back

Innocently.

 

He’d jumped and jumped,

Now Spidge the cat

Was more than ready

For a nap.

 

And bed was comfy

So they both

Curled up just like

Two sleepy sloths.

Music in progress

 We got the bathroom replastered, and in order to make it easier for the tiler to do his stuff, the plasterer left some special rough areas. 

He also left us some undulating sheet music which you can see here:

I separated it into three movements:

to me, this approximately translated to this:

And sounds like this: 

https://soundcloud.com/shooberry/plasterer-music 

Headlines are cool

 I am pretty sure this one was done on purpose, with the concomitant giggling from Alan Markoff, Brent Fuller and Tammie Chisholm. Great work.

Aldrei fur eg Sudur (2006?)

Of all the places I travelled with this job, Iceland was the one I returned to over and over again. Maybe four or five times in a couple of years. There is a reason for that: Iceland is fucking brilliant.

Aldrei For Eg Sudur

Isafjordur, Docks

The name translates as ‘I Never Went South’; a typically brash double-entendre, as well as a real comment on the perceived centralisation of the Icelandic music scene two hundred miles warmer in Reykjavik. And a typically direct and pointed comment that, despite received wisdom that to ‘make it’, bands need to get on ‘the circuit’ and prostitute themselves with a series of ever-more desperate gigs in the nation’s capital, bands, artists and performers can quite happily exist and thrive without having to play games with their careers and their lives. The parallels are, of course, obvious and transcend national boundaries. 

And in the West Fjords of Iceland, an idea generated over several beers and between farting contests by the inventive and successful electro-acousti-fizzer Mugison and his harbourmaster pop to put on a festival in this tiny, ravaged and ravaging fishing town can come to fruition thanks to those most wonderful words: Why. Not. Often there are a thousand good reasons to NOT do something; not to put your neck on the line, your balls on the coals, to step outside the comfort zone; all this ensures is a static and featureless musical landscape and a slow death. Lucky then, that there are people for whom such negative thoughts from others act as a spur and a motivation; in the case of Mugison and the team of volunteers this means clearing out an old fish warehouse, whacking together a stage from old pallets and jerry-rigging up a swift bar - and, yeah, The Fly helped sweep the floor in preparation too. 

Most of the bands here are Icelandic – quite a few from Isafjordur itself, a remarkable town so steeped in music that 90% of its youngsters attend music school. Familiar names include Mugison himself, the sweet acoustica of Petur Ben, the insane, incendiary Minus and Reykjavik! – local-hearted and fuzzling, a band whose name itself is another eyebrow-raised sly-dig in itself. Restricted to twenty minutes each, with a five minute changeover, the bands perform their very best tracks with a minimum of fuss and a maximum of performance; shorn of the bullshit that often surrounds the live arena, there is a levelling of the playing field at work here and any sign of ego is jumped on with frowning disappointment. 

The over-riding sense is that this is somehow how gigs – festivals – always should be; the music is at the centre of a celebration of disparate artists that range from Isafjordur’s brass band playing Smoke On The Water to Aela, Lay Low and Ampop. Fittingly, the whole kaboodle comes to an end with an ultra-rare performance of the Icelandic legends, Ham, a band without whom The Sugarcubes themselves may never have been heard of outside the land of the hidden people. The music has ended but celebrations have only just begun. Celebrations of two words: Why. Not.

Rev. Shoo

Eurosonic review (2006)

Imagine getting paid to travel around writing about music. Imagine travelling anywhere to do anything. Shit, the world changes so fast. This was the second time I went to Groningen. The first - with Vaffan Coulo - was an unmitigated, terrifying speed-led and dangerous disaster. But that's another story.

Eurosonic/Noorderslag

The Netherlands, Groningen

You have to hand it to the Dutch. Not content with some of the most socially progressive attitudes in the Western World, or a multilingual openness that makes borders irrelevant, they’re also damn good at showing how a weekend celebration of new music should be approached. And in Northern Holland that means opening up most of the 260 bars of this unique and beautiful university city to a host of acts culled from the very best of all that’s independent, upcoming, exciting and musically proficient in Europe.

From the moment that the terrifying, be-robed, mediaeval German metallers Corvux Covax – complete with full choir - still to silence a packed, sweating crowd in the city’s natty-towered church with an intense performance of their Cantus Burana, The Fly spins on a spittle-rash of redemptive energy that underpins and reinforces the reasons why people start bands in the first place. The UK is represented, stunningly, by a host of acts from Mohair, The Kooks, Adem, The Research and a mighty, whisked-off-feet performance from Editors. All joyous, all communicating with the crowd – and each other – with a wild-eyed abandon that comes solely from being lost in the moment, in the music, in a wider world of colour.

Swedes Dungen – splendid in the back room of a dusty bar – are on it; Dutch Metal-Punx Green Lizard are bloody and noisy; C-Mon and Kypsky produce sublime Netherlandic dub-hop; Jose Gonzales is swish. Everywhere we rush, we find diamonds lurking in the darkness. Proof – if any were needed – that the underground is rampant with ideas, and that the Dutch deliver it in a package almost as tattily lovely as the magazine you’re reading at the moment.
Rev. Shoo