Small talk ideas for awkward occasions

An ant

A boson

A cell

A dachshund

An ear

A flea

A globule

A hole

An infinitesimal

A jab

A ketone

A little

A microscopic

A nut

An outie

A part

A quantum

A rib

A smidgin

A tiny

An um

A vole

A widget

An X-Ray

A yawn

A zygote

A Blink-182

Desire Path

Now that spring is tottering toward summer on slippery heels the grass

is sodden sprawling slinky boingy and I walk through it on flat

shoes skidding on the promise of the new growth and the aroma

of the word of the moment petrichor and there’s a

reasonating climbing frame cum pirate ship cum spaceship there

behind metal fences pronged into softer tar circle where

dogs and kids shout and scrap and scram and the parents look on

or don’t look on because of 5G strength here so fingers slide some

new content on screens.

And it is all life whether online or up above and the sky can’t decide

whether to beam out gold or to explode gunmetal rain today but that

is May nearly over and all over. There are paths in a grid here real

paths with spray and chip gravel which crunch crack clacks under heels

detonating like breakfast cereal but more there is a distinct swathe

here in the grass where people have cut through where has been made

a more direct route through from playspace to the other corner half

a mile hence where the flattened spongy watery grassy desire path

reigns, as was, supreme.

This pleases me though it is slippery plodding with my cumber bags

my Lidl purchases my catfood and ginger ale and whatnot and so forth

but it is not so far home and I like this idea of a desire path

I like the phrase I like the sound of it in my mind, the notion that

despite that crosshatch of asphalt designated driver people have

trodden the way they want to go and though it is inexact

there is a definite trail to follow through the newly verdant

field and that is sweet.

Shopping is heavy and slows the walk and the slower you walk

the heavier the shopping so I try and pick up a fair pace if I can

but not as astonishing as the dogs who charge around not just

zigging and zagging but zogging and zugging too, sniffing musk

from their predecessors here and there and who knows what else

one slobberchops has his favourite red ball in his mouth and he ain’t

letting go of that for anyone in his mad dash to wherever

furry bodies follow feet

and I realise that here is joy and no concept of desire aside

the moment, the madness of being, of being alive,

not questioning but zegging about and zooming without end

without process without regress without second guessing when

or whether this will stop; dogs have no paths either outside of

the ones their snouts and scrambles lead them off

or on greening their faces in the newborn maze of triumphant growth

for now for ever for wow

bow wow whatever that means and maybe it’s nothing

because I plod on my desire path somehow thinking

I am transgressing from the gridlock but now I understand

that all I am doing is following in the footstepping on the land

of others, strangers, but sticking to the same damned springing path

that a thousand others have worked and whittled and that

this is no victory, not ever, not now.

Reversion of rights...

In a previous incarnation, as a bass player in a post-punk-ish band, I negotiated a record deal with an indie label. Part of that deal was that all rights reverted to the band after 10 years. 

That's not generally what happens: you'd almost always sign the copyright in the recordings over to the label in perpetuity as standard. But I figured: if you have 10 years to sell it exclusively, then it's in your interest as a label to really go for it. If it does exceptionally well, then we can renegotiate. If not, then it makes no difference whether you hold those rights or not. 

So now the band has the rights to do whatever we want with those recordings, without having to worry about previous labels or releases. 

 I mean, as it turned out, it's not exactly a Beatles v Jackson situation, admittedly. But, the point stands.

For a different reason this last week, and a slightly less positive one, the rights in one of my books reverted to me after the publisher went bust. Sad times when that happens, and it's tough to see anyone going under. 

 What it does mean, though, is that one of my favourite books - and one I absolutely put everything into - is now back in my control. 

It means that all the times I cursed the fact that I'd signed what for me wasn't the best deal are now moot; that I can update the book (a biography of a very, very famous band) and look to see where I can place it.

Rights are very, very important things. Don't sign them away without really trusting the people who you're going to be working with. 

A bad deal is way worse than no deal at all. I'm determined not to undersell myself ever again.

The work is what defines you as a writer, and many months of research, extensive interviews, years of honing my craft, and all the rest of it - that's not something I want to take lightly anymore. 

There's no point in putting things out for the sake of it, and I'm not going to let anything with my name on it get treated second-best if I've got anything to do with it.

End of Year Lists (2009)

 I assume some eedjit at the esteemed Reykjavik Grapevine asked me to provide end-of-year highlights for 2009. It was a fucking great year for many reasons.

Gigs 2009

Lady Gaga at Il Fosos Square Floriana, Malta - July 8

She burst out of a giant egg, stuck her arse in air whilst playing piano and pretty much the entire population of Malta got drunk together in a totally beautiful mediaeval square in 75 degree evening heat. I mean, come on. What more do you want?

Elbow at Oxegen Festival, Punchestown Park, Ireland - July 13

It absolutely shat it down with rain, I mean fucking shat the fuck it down. It was like God had drunk loads of his own lager-piss then projectile-puked it all over the stage for several hours. But when Guy Garvey sang about blue skies and sunshine everyone believed him. Fuck you, God!

Specials, Manchester Apollo, England - May 3

Alrite so there was no Jerry Dammers, but Terry Hall was there looking morose and brilliant and I’d got married the day before and life rarely gets better than that. Also I was drunk.

Hallo… I Love You! – Whitewood Studio, Liverpool, England -May 21

Less than 10 of us there at a pre-gig runthrough of the debut appearance of these sweety-pie pop buggers, in a studio above a venue, no bullshit, no lights, just songs and smiles and that’s all you need innit.

Lionel Ritchie, Manchester MEN Arena, England - March 22

Look, I was a punk bassist and still am but I was a cunt to think as I once did that people like Lionel or Neil Diamond were dinosaur irrelevances. They’re fucking great musicians and make people happy and I am pleased I finally worked out how fundamentally important those things are in life.

Icelandic albums of which I have drunk

Stereo Hypnosis – Hypnogogia

Reminds me of a chill-out room at 4am with this kind of shit playing either inside or outside my head but hard to tell which is which.

Moto Boy – Moto Boy

This album made me question for the first time ever whether I was right to hate Morrissey so much. (I was, but not necessarily for the music).

AFMJ - Itemhljóð og Veinan

The polar opposite to easy listening which is why it’s kinda deftly delivered. Fractured, fucked-up artsy wallowing beat-bleeps.

Egill Sæbjörnsson – Egill S

Nice tunes, a bit of progginess and psychedelia but fundamentally just good proper songs.

Lett A Barunni – Sexi

Dingy, sludgy, deadpan, Stoogesy and a bit Datblygu-ish I thought, but then I don’t know shit about shit.

International albums

Manic Street Preachers – Journal For Plague Lovers

Totally pretentious as you’d expect with Richie’s lyrics but really quite stunningly-delivered and the best Manics album for god, a decade?

Future Of The Left – Travels With Myself And Another

The sharpest band on the planet in terms of riffs and lyrics hit home big-style… again.

Bombay Bicycle Club – I Got The Blues But I Shook Them Loose

Intense but accessible and they ain’t shook no blues loose for long.

Kasabian – West Ryder Pauper Lunatic Asylum

Everyone wondered what would happen to them after a top debut and a glammy and not-entirely satisfying followup – they delivered this, and all was good again.

Aidan Moffat & The Best-Ofs - How To Get To Heaven From Scotland

The answet to the question posed by the title: get drunk and sing about everything from letching at tits to becoming a first-time daddy.

Artists to watch in 2010:

Esmee Denters

Wild Beasts

Jersey Budd

Dananananaykroyd

Ah fuck it can I say Dr Spock? Are they dead yet? Why not? Prison? Also Budam, more please.

TOP 5 ISLANDS

Anglesey

Cuba

Malta

Grand Cayman

Iceland

TOP 5 NUMBERS

1.2

2.5

3.4

4.2

5.3

Swimming Under the Ice (1994)

 An ancient Vaffan Coulo song - but I like the words so nyurks.

They engineered it again,

so they had the last line.

"You can change the world like you can change the weather,

so just eat your idiot pie, and wash it down with scum wine,

and forget the end of your tether."

But,

They don't tell you that there's others around

Who don't want to live life underground

Please join us, because you know we love you -

You're beautiful, so let your light shine,

Tell me of your dreams, and you can share all of mine

And maybe, just maybe,

we can make it

Together.

Just don't follow the lie,

And say "everything's fine"

While your hopes and your trust float away on a feather.

They'll betray your soul, make swiss-cheese of your mind,

Plant a dopey grin on your face just for cover.

But,

They don't tell you that there's others alive

Who don't want to live their life under ice,

we got warm arms, an embrace for a brother -

There's thousands of us, it's a silent attack,

So put your ear to the ice, I think it's going to crack

Just maybe, just maybe,

We can crack it

Together.

Flatliners

 I forgot about this song. I think I even remember the chords. I ought to record it. I won't record it.

 

I found amusement in a million ways when I was sixteen

In lager frenzy with a fire in my gut and my eyes flashing

Perfectly balanced with a chip upon each shoulder

We could be this way forever, never gonna lose this power

If we kick against the pricks and posers, everything we do will hit the headlines

 

Killing braincells was my favourite game when I was eighteen

A blackened angel with a mind like a gun and my heart crackling

Perfectly happy turning tricks with a gee-tar

And if we stick together, nothing gonna put us under

If we fuck and drink and sing and holler, everything we do will hit the headlines

 

Bridge: I won't let go of this fever

So now I'm back for more

Your world will be mine

Chorus: till I flatline

 

((Bvox: I lost my balance today))

            ((When things go wrong, all we do is blame each other))

 

White Line Fever was my favourite song when I was twenty

A wasteland preacher, I could never be wrong if I stayed angry

Perfectly sober with a hotline to the answers

If we swear and shout and sneer we can harness all this thunder

If we play this right tonight, tomorrow everything we do will hit the headlines

 

I'm screaming louder every day, but no-one's listening

I can't go gentle cos I know all my words have forked no lightning

My nerves have gone, nobody wants a toothless tiger,

The wage of sin is boredom, there's no point in a tin soldier

(But) now I'm back, don't give a fuck if what I do or say will ever hit the headlines

 

Bridge2: Time's flowing like lava

My life's burning away

Without headlines

 

Panic - a Poem (2013)

 

Panic:

A poem in

• actions

and speech

• If there is a programme or pamphlet, the print version of the poem should include be a Red X to indicate a missing jpeg, under which is written (name of performer): the author; the text should be a dark and unreadable printing error of palimspestic unrelated texts manipulated to be unreadable or a note that says: ‘Poem unavailable at time of going to press.’

• Drink lots of caffeine energy drinks and coffee about an hour before the scheduled performance. Amphetamines are probably going to induce too much confidence here. Coke is obviously a no-no. It’s adrenaline that’s needed: an excess thereof.

• Arrive exactly two minutes late. Get the bus that is not sure to get there on time. Don’t wear a watch.

• Wear lots, and lots, of layers of very warm clothes to induce a nice sweat.

• Podium. It’s not going anywhere. Approach it trepidly.

• Fiddle with the mic. Unplug it. Make it make horrible noises through the speakers. Try and get it to feed back. Eventually someone with proper skills will help get it working properly. Take a few coughs, one-twos, etc,

Can you hear me?

Hi. Um. One Two. Three.

OK hopefully

No more gremlins can attack.

Hello. I am (the performer) and this is my poem, Panic.

• Click on ppt. Nothing happens.

• Ask IT person to re-boot.

• PPT will come up with a frozen first page of the poem – an intriguing picture of the performer in action/posed in front of mountains/looking poet-y.

• But nothing happens. Smallish shrug – not a huge problem, but not going to plan so far.

Looks like we might have to do this

Old Skool, if

That’s not behaving

Today.

There’s a reason

We had paper for so long

Or papyrus or whatever.

No problem;

Hang on.

• Look in back pocket. Pull out what looks like a poem.

• Prepare to read. It’s a shopping list. Discard this.

• Look in bag. Pull everything out.

• Pause as much as possible.

• Smile at audience.

• Discard all non-poem-related papers, condoms, cans of generic energy drinks, pornography, tampons. Strew these around the room with increasing worry.

• Make sure there are some snotty tissues there.

• Look through exercise book full of notes. Find no sign of the poem. Rip pages out and throw them across the room.

I think… maybe I can…

• Get pen and paper.

• Smile at audience, nervously.

• Breathe fast.

• Take minutes to try and remember any lines of a poem.

OK it’s an approximation but…

• Look at audience.

• Take deep breaths.

• Almost begin to talk.

• Instead, pull out mobile phone

• Dial a number

I’ve got an idea, bear with me

• No reply.

• Send a text.

• Look at it. It’s got no signal / battery.

• Remove battery

• Take the sim card out and lick it.

Has anyone got a phone

That actually works

That actually has the Internet on it?

Not like this piece of cheap

Fucking

Shit.

• Launch own phone onto floor. Hopefully, it will smash.

• If someone does offer their phone after this, try and make it make stupid noises. Press lots of buttons. Disconnect it.

• Turn it off.

• Have a brainwave. Find a pen drive.

• Insert it into computer to project

• It will autoplay some kind of unsavoury movie.

• Rush to turn it off

• Leave.

• Go home on the bus.

• The reading will continue.

• When you get home put the kettle on.

• As the water bubbles and boils, start to come down and calm down.

• Phone up an accomplice who will put their own phone to the microphone.

Can someone please

Bring me my keys?

End