A message from a Dog.

I became obsessed with Castor Dog.

This drawing. More than a drawing.

An avatar, really. For something

I couldn’t articulate. I was wrong

To think that I was right and inviolable

About all that stuff. Like, I had energy

And bundles of it. I was more than ready

To take on shadowy, somehow insubstantial

Society mores. I signed on, and took the money

And spent it on creating music and some words

But mostly records and drink and various herbs

And all that. It was just, and right, and anyway funny

To sniff poppers at football games and cry and giggle

Even when the bottle started stinking of cheesy feet

Even when it just created horrible throbbing headaches. Beat

Those days for fun. Maybe a smoke. A rolled-up ciggy

In one hand, white cider bottle in the other one.

And don’t admit you need a piss on the kranky bus

To an away game: people will prod and push

Your bladder til you’re sure you’ll lose control.

I don’t think anyone ever did, at that.

It was easier to urinate from a window

Or an open Transit van door as we flew down

The A55, or crawled down the A470, that

Worst-windy, gear-grindy only way to manage

To get to Aber, where we’d cheer and sing

And drink in the Nag’s Head, blue shirts sweaty, everything

Possible in football. In life, too: there was even a Bangor Garage.

But Castor Dog now was taking on shape.

I put him on the photocopied press releases

That I’d get faxed to John Peel, hoping that he’d see

The latest Vaffan Coulo lies about whatever crap

I’d made up. It was all upside-down of course:

I had rage, I spose I still do, but now I know where to aim

It. In those days, I’d rant and I’d rave but didn’t know the game

Was rigged in ways I’d never considered before.

Well. I was 19 I suppose. That’s alright. I forgive myself.

I’m not embarrassed. It was just me, then, and I still am me,

And I am him, and all the things I was previously,

A crybaby kid in school, doing sums and all that guff

And being called ‘clever’ and all that useless stuff

That stopped me thinking properly. No. That’s not right:

I ought to have read less, thought less, and just been alive;

But of course that’s the hardest one to pull off.

Castor Dog stayed, and he appeared on our records

As a picture. In the thank-yous. He was probably there

When we recorded in a squat with Sam. A place where

We were clambering over debris. It was what we could afford

And I wish I knew where those tapes were. I’d love

To hear them. No reason why other than I

Remembered them recently. I don’t know why

I did. Well. We did it. Maybe that was enough

And maybe I just want to prove it. That

We were there. Alive. Arsing about and mistargeting

These laser swords of anger and concurrent darting

Around in the murky world of knowledge that

One day would be our time. Well, I was right I think

About that. But now I wonder whether our time

Was that time; that maybe we controlled our ride

More than we thought. That amidst all the drink

And the sniffy-noses and the lung-burning days

The essence of it all was always with us. Perhaps, too,

Castor Dog knew all of this. Maybe he knew even then who

Would reappear in my memories these last few days:

Him. It. A drawing. An avatar. A receptacle for everything

He observed, quietly just remembering it all, til such time

That I would need to know that I was half-right

About some things and – though unsteadying –

I’d be happy just with this germ, this fluttering gut

When I think of those days, those people, the band

And the football, and the cider, adventures that stand

To remind me: yes, you were there. And you’re not done yet.

And that is the second coming of Castor Dog.  

A bark from the blue back in 92

I sat there, stoned, and hating Pink Floyd

Cause that’s what I knew that I was meant to do.

I didn’t even really like the smoke

Cause it made me feel miles dumber than I knew I should do.

And, well. He was an artist, this bloke. We sat

In his tiny living room on a sofa, somehow

Wedged in, a TV and a stereo a foot opposite

So to get out you’d have to crab sideways

But we were mates. (At least, we were then. Not much

Later, things happened, and he proved himself

To be a… well. We’ll have to talk again

About the way it unfolded). He doodled a collage

Without fuss or editing, straight to A3 in a burst

Of Sharpie, which at the time was a posh pen

And one you’d not really have if you weren’t

A Serious Drawer. Which he was - serious I mean -

Whilst guitar wanks and shitty diesel black fumes

Filled this weird tiny funny great odd little house

With a dullness and slowness, and I was subsumed

By the tartan-cloth cushions. And down and down

And down and down I sunk, dizzy, hoping to find

The White Rabbit myself. But that wasn’t the song.

That wasn’t the band. My balloon of a mind

Couldn’t hold any thought, and I watched his deft, strong

Movements over the paper. I couldn’t see it.

I couldn’t move. Didn’t understand how to move.

Somehow a cup of tea manifested. This

Brought me back. I was no longer removed

From myself,
From the solos,
From the indulgent shit

That I hated, cause that’s what I was sposed to do.

My hands warmed by the chipped mug, I giggled

At – what? – nothing. Everything. Everyone who’d

Ever sat anywhere, ever drank tea. And he fiddled

With one last flourish, one set of shapes wobbled swiftly

From his mind to his hand through the pen to the paper.

And he showed me the whole thing. It was a fucking mess, really.

Half an angel here, half a train there. No form, rather

The opposite, maybe. (It crossed my mind later

That perhaps he was sending me some kind of message:

‘Yes I am an artist, but that doesn’t ever

Mean everything I do is brilliant). Well, whatever

There was on this sheet, chock-full of stick-men

And cloud-fish, and gilled-tits, and graveyards,

And bearded band members with Saracen

War robes, and moons wearing lanyards

With AAA passes on them, and girls shooting

Fire from their crotches and melting

Vicars with enormous erections, there in

The corner, the tiniest doodle, the last thing

He’d scrabbly scribbled in dopey disaster

Was a puppy. Beady-eyed. On a tartan-frayed rug,

And instead of back paws this strange little bastard

Had two spherical rollers; he seemed happy enough.

Through the fug of the roach and the mist of the tea

I wished that I could befriend this cracked crock,

This misfit, this throwaway spud that drew me.

And that was the first time I met Castor Dog.

Pandas: “Leave us to die in peace”

Special Report by Christopher Anusol

Giant Pandas want humans to leave them alone.

Tian Tian, spokesman for the vulnerable species, told reporters yesterday that the iconic species had been trying to quietly slip away for some time.

“We made a vow to give up shagging way back in the Sixties,” said the 3ft bear. “And do you really think we don’t know how little nutritional value bamboo shoots have?”

“Seriously, folks, we just want to go extinct. Please stop trying to make us breed. It’s quite undignified all round.”

“Can’t you save bees instead? They pollinate most of your food, you idiots. And, if you look closely, they’re cute as well. Seriously. If they were 4ft tall you’d have them as pets.”

Release

The national symbol of China is notable for its black-and-white markings, particularly around the eye sockets. But Tian Tian said that this was nothing to do with either cuteness or camouflage.

“Those deep eye sockets you see are purely down to us staying up all night listening to Bauhaus and The Cure,” continued the ursine plodder. “But you wouldn’t know those bands because you’re not a proper goth like we all are.”

“Please just let us be, we’re not interested in your rules, regulations and social pressures. We’re different. You just wouldn’t understand.”

“Death to us would be nothing but sweet release,” he added, taking a swig from a vodka bottle shaped like a skull.

When contacted for a comment, the National Society for the Protection of Pandas pulled no punches.

“Nín bōdǎ di hàomǎ shàngwèi bèi shìbié,” they told us. “Qǐng guà duàn diànhuà zài dǎ diànhuà.”

What I am doing and what I am not doing and what I wish was happening

I am supposed to be doing something else. I’ve got, let’s count, on the table, on the to-do list:

·         One PhD

·         One music article to write up

·         One travel article about hotels to research and write

·         One travel article about events to write

·         Some stuff for a book to consider and write

But instead, and I think he’d probably approve, I’m going to write about my friend.

My friend was in my dream last night, making a guest appearance. He didn’t do much, just came on in a cameo, waved to everyone, smiled, and went again. If it was Married With Children or suchlike, he’d have had a round of applause and some whoops from the studio audience.

I suppose there’s no real meaning in it, much as there was no real meaning in it when he visited my house in Tocky once, and when he left we saw him moonwalking past the window, looking in at us with a daft little kid’s grin on his face. He had a really quite cute little kid’s grin, when something tickled him.

Of course, much as I and all of us would love to have him back, I was glad that he came and made a cameo and did his little grin. I’m glad he’s not having to react to the country burning itself down. I’m glad he was just happy to wave and be happy and say hi. Christ on toast, we have to keep hold of these moments of joy. So many people want to take them away. They don’t even know they’re doing it. And the band played on.

AMWAT/1876

Let's just talk a bit about this.
There's a squad of 26ish players. 21 of them hail from Italy.
Those Italian lads are in digs up in Liverpool.
They train there, along with the Liverpool-based manager, plus the Liverpool-based non-Italian player/s also in the squad.
The 'owner' of the club is either from Liverpool or Italy, depending whether you believe the latest strange emanations from strange sources.
Once every two weeks, this whole shebang trundles down the A55 and plays for 95ish minutes at a ground overlooking the Menai Straits, in Bangor, in North Wales.
Then the whole shebang trundles back to L1 again.

The question is: what do you call the team?

Who do they represent?

What's the point?

On the other hand:
A squad of maybe 16 lads, 14 of them living within 30 minutes or less of the grounds they play on every week. The other two have been in the blue shirt before, in different circumstances, winning and losing and celebrating and licking wounds felt as deeply as any other local player, fan, manager.
They train locally, with their local-based and Welsh-speaking management team.
The owners hail from all over the UK; one share each. Each shareholder having a link, an affinity, a love, a historic bond with the city.
They trundle in from Bangor and Anglesey and Shropshire and Buckinghamshire and Scotland and Brighton and London and New Zealand, when they can, to stand on grass banks but stand together at that, trainers muddied as the team's boots are muddied.
95ish minutes later, and a pint or two maybe, they trundle home again.

What do you think of that team?

Who do they represent?


Some still don't get it, and probably never will. But our arms are wide - we ARE Bangor. It's us. Because when it becomes 'them' then that is the end.
The end of them.
Not of us.

That's the faith, says one of us, that we've kept. And he's right.

280819

My friend once asked me:

“If money was no object,

What would you do?”

I thought for a moment.

“Hmm, good question,” I said.

“I’d bomb the fuck out the moon.”

I don’t think she expected that answer.

I don’t think I expected it either.

A headline in the paper:

“Another crisis at Mount Trashmore.

Why must this stench continue to grow?”

The next day, a letter:

“Let’s ship all our rubbish abroad

And throw it down the nearest volcano.”

I mean, obviously we printed that one.

I mean, that was a doozy. Amazing.

One of the cats has a cold.

“Atchoo,” he says, not unreasonably.

“Atchoo, atchoo, atchoo.” It’s cute really.

It would be weird, strange, absurd

Were that not to happen occasionally.

Odd things do take place here, certainly.

Most things are possible, like the Beatles said, though I prefer

Them when they’re being accidental philosophers.

I don’t care to waste words

When I’ve got so many unwritten

And better things to spend time doing.

But today everyone’s world

Burns and stinks with its own unbidden

And unnecessary self-shitting.

So let’s send the bombs to the moon.

Let’s throw things down volcanoes.

Let’s say all we need is love.

There’s nothing to lose anymore.

It’s already all fucked.

Isn’t it?

Wise rules I have done a learn on

·         Download it now. It might not be available tomorrow.

·         Do not ever try and do reggae if you are not actually from Jamaica (and nearby).

·         Always know where your remote controls are. Have a place for them.

·         Fry your eggs slowly on a low heat.

·         Always stroke dogs and cats, if they want you to. If they don’t, they will tell you.

·         Check size and weight of luggage allowances really carefully. Those cunts will keep changing and you will get fucked.

·         Doing things for a laff is usually the way to end up doing ace things.

·         Don’t overthink. Don’t overplan.

·         Overeat. Overdrink. Whatever. Don’t fucking moan about it afterwards though.

·         The older you get, the more you appreciate having a poo.

·         If a book is shit, don’t plough through it. There’s loads out there. Read a good one.

·         Leave my favourite mug alone.

·         Yes the world has gone fucking mental and we’re all going to burn one way or another.

·         You are not ‘entitled to an opinion’ if that means you have ‘already decided to ignore the actual facts’ and ‘decided not to listen to any nuances’. You will get called out on it, and you will be eventually called a cunt. Not least because you are a cunt.

·         People are nice on their own aren’t they.

·         After a certain age, nobody asks you what your favourite dinosaur is. That’s sad isn’t it? Ask someone today. They will definitely have one. Dinosaurs are awesome.

·         Try and do what you said you would do. If you can’t, or fuck it up, be honest and apologise. I mean, it’s not fucking rocket surgery is it.

·         Capitalism’s failure can be tracked entirely through the proliferation of weird and useless kitchen gadgets in charity shops.

·         This could also be interpreted as its success, of course.

·         It is generally a bad idea to read John Pilger before work.