How ignorant can you get?
If so, I’d like to meet you at the next mingle to give you a fat lip.
What a mensch. His chats with Eddie Mair over the last few weeks have been astonishingly moving, and his gutsy bravery in the face of the inevitable inspirational. This is by way of a salute, and to extend sympathies to his family.
Oi @twang – there’s a band called ‘A Band Called Twang’ playing Sydney this weekend. Thought you should know. Or you’re actually in the band (and you’re already here). Either way, maybe we should do something to commemorate the occasion – maybe record it and post the results, no matter how glorious and/or hideous…
As is the tradition here at the Aspidistra and Hatstand, when someone asks the question “who is the least Afterword friendly artist?” – a little while later, when the momentum of that question loses pace – the opposite question is worth raising. But here’s the twist – we can all suggest, say, David Bowie – and very little argument will be forthcoming – but to distill things into one song – what one *song* is the most AW-friendly, it is hard to argue against “(We ain’t gonna play) Sun City”. Steve Van Zandt is not at all my cup of tea – but he has always struck me as a good sort – and many years ago he penned the song and roped in Brooce to help out. Before you know it, we have a bona fide protest song featuring seemingly dozens of performers that would attract mass Afterword nods of approval. In there is Run DMC, Jackson Browne, George Clinton, Grandmaster Flash, Lou Reed, Bob Dylan, Bono, Ringo, the Ramones, Carlos Santana, Hall and Oates and many many more. There’s even an Aussie in there in the gigantic form of Peter Garrett to appease the Southern Hemisphere contingent.
Here’s mine, it’s about the horse, and it’s from Job 39:
19 Hast thou given the horse strength? hast thou clothed his neck with thunder? 20 Canst thou make him afraid as a grasshopper? the glory of his nostrils is terrible. 21 He paweth in the valley, and rejoiceth in his strength: he goeth on to meet the armed men. 22 He mocketh at fear, and is not affrighted; neither turneth he back from the sword. 23 The quiver rattleth against him, the glittering spear and the shield. 24 He swalloweth the ground with fierceness and rage: neither believeth he that it is the sound of the trumpet. 25 He saith among the trumpets, Ha, ha; and he smelleth the battle afar off, the thunder of the captains, and the shouting.
What a ripsnorting passage! Has to be the King James, of course. I am not a religious person, but I love the sound and feel of a proper bit of the Bible, and I wonder if anyone else here has a favourite?
Here’s a conundrum that irks me; it shouldn’t be a conundrum at all. Up in the loft I have the best part of a metric tonne of books that need to go to a new home. There’s a huge range of material; stripy Faber paperback novels, orange fifties Penguin novels, piles of choice Sci-Fi, lots of lovely old reference books, huge Dorling Kindersley doorstep coffee table tomes, history and geography books on a variety of themes, historical atlases, collections of photographs, all sorts of glories. The only common theme is that I’ve chosen to acquire them over the years. Now they have to go, so that I can reclaim the loft space for more recent “stuff”.
There seem to be a limited number of ways in which to achieve this:
1) bung them in a skip. 2) identify someone or somewhere specific who will really benefit from them. 3) give them to a charity shop.
The first option is just not on. I’d rather saw off my own arms than just trash them. My enlightenment genes would rebel and my eyes would explode if I treated any books with contempt. I can’t even fold over the corner of a page; » Continue Reading.
Doon at mah lurcal caaah boot sale, like, ah picked urp a copy (that’s enough – leave it to Colin H) of that Ant ‘n’ Dec Sat’d’y Nayt Taaakeawaaay quiz game, yah-naw, fer’a cuple-a-quid like (ENOUGH).
One Question says “The 45th President of The United States will be an orange skinned hair transplant disaster with a pouty, potty mouth, little pointy hands and scarce contact with rational reality – true or false?”. The answer it gives is “False”. Good grief. I’m sending in for the correct answer cards; if it has so many ridiculous mistakes in the given answers, it’s unplayable!
I wonder if any other Afterworders bought a copy, and if so, what laughable answers to questions does their copy contain?
Happy birthday Kirk.
I think we need to know; after all, it is Christmas.
And who’s mitch?
The latest irresponsible splurge of classified information from Wikileaks has inadvertently revealed an aerial view of the Secret Data Centre at the heart of our operation.
GCHQ will now be looking for tell-tale patterns of electrical activity across the power distribution networks as they attempt to find out where we keep all that arcane knowledge; to that end they’ll be trying to generate as much server activity as possible at odd times of the day. Expect a flurry of seemingly randomly spaced obscure requests for help with esoteric iTunes failures, how to buy rare reggae albums and pleading requests for the recall of long-forgotten 1970s childrens’ TV programmes that starred Jan Francis.
Whatever you do, don’t answer them! We don’t want spooks, who probably listen to K-tel compilations of EDM, infiltrating our ranks, or working out where the bunker is!!!
GBBO at eight. CHECK. Set PVRs. CHECK. Enjoy it while you can. CHECK. Fuck’em if anyone thinks this doesn’t matter. CHECK. Tally Ho, I’m going in.
*faint smudge of smoke on the horizon, smell of burnt Yorkshire Puddings*
Hovering over the “Buy with 1 click” button next to the imminent Zepp 3-discer of BBC sesh material, it occurred to me that I’d seen a review of it on here a little while back.
Can I find it? Can I heck? Did I imagine it? Is this what they call “early onset”?
Has Crowley reached back from the Great Beyond to put the bejabbers on that post?
It’s probably still drizzling outside, but I don’t know or really care. I’ve been sat in this little folding chair half way back in the main marquee at Didmarton bluegrass festival for the past hour or so. There’s an old time duo playing as I write. I’ve seen mates I haven’t met since this time last year. I’ve made new friends. I’ve listened to Brits playing bluegrass, and Americans playing bluegrass, I’ve heard classics and standards, brilliant originals, and a bluegrass Teenage Kicks. There are about 600 people here, the marquee is pretty full, there’s a cheap bar next door selling great local beer, and I can eat posh grub or chips with everything. Tonight the headliners are Front Country. Last night Rob Ickes & Trey Hensley blew everyone away. Get out and hear something live with your mates, it’s the absolute dogs gonads.
Cometh the Edit function.
Joy to all mankind!
Bunting! Streamers! Cucumber sarnies! Flags! Trumpets! Cherubim & Seraphim!
I was going to make some late-to-the-party comments on this subject to the DIY thread but there are now so many nested comments on the part of the thread that I wanted to get stuck into, that no more comments are possible. This is not a complaint about that. It just struck me that for certain generations in certain parts of the world, music assumed a huge significance and now appears to be less important to the great mass of humanity than it did in the last 3/4 of the 20th century, from when it first became industrialised to when the wheels started falling off the music industry juggernaut. Prior to this it was something ordinary people enjoyed without thinking much about it. There were 1) a few hardy souls who took a precarious living from making it, with varying degrees of success and 2) some practitioners who made it for their own and their friends and neighbours’ pleasure while making their livings in other spheres. And that was about it, really.
Currently in the sphere of music there are 1) practitioners like those I’ve just mentioned 2) a dwindling coterie of “music stars” who still do very well financially » Continue Reading.
Here I am, sitting in the Sports Bar of a swish golf club, looking out on a sunlit evening. In the far distance I can see the Arran Islands, and in the foreground some stalwart souls are finishing their rounds at the eighteenth. We are staying at the nineteenth a while longer, having feasted on chicken linguine awash with garlic and accompanied by a pint of the dark stuff. Desserts to follow shortly. At 9 this morning we snorkelled with seals in a little sandy bay we know, and tomorrow we will drive and walk to a 6 mile sandy beach that will be deserted but for the two of us and our faithful Jack Russells. Alcock and Brown ditched a few miles from where we sit, happy to have landed on Ireland’s sainted soil. We feel the same whenever we come back here. May your Guinness never run dry and may your wetsuits never fill with sand. Happy thoughts to all. What about your August? How’s it going?
We live in troubled times. Money is tight, TV is crap, idiocy and nastiness are on the increase, hell has set the SatNav on our handcart and just needs us to press GO.
Let’s be gratuitous out there!
The accelerating conversion of Turkey into an embryonic caliphate, driven by politicians emboldened by their ability to claim to be democrats, is one reason why their entrance into the EU was expected by many observers to be unlikely any time soon.
Have we just seen the last chance that this slide might be reversed in our lifetimes lost in one poorly organised coup? Is that it? Is Turkey the next Syria? Why is it possible to witness these events with a sickening sense of inevitability? How long has Erdogan got before someone lights the touchpaper with a bullet or a bomb?
There must be Afterworders here who know far more than I about the mood on the streets in Turkey; informed insight would be welcome.
Not sure if anyone else has linked this, but I found this an interesting read, and you might too.
Well done, South Yorkshire, how much did that cost, you divs?
Every time I walk past my @pencilsqueezer my heart gives a little song of joy. Here’s a little in return.
I could do with north of 100 grand, so a) you’ll have to come round to Foxy Towers and lamp me as well, and b) you’ll have to be a well-heeled TV presenter and journalist who was employed by a broadcasting corporation that can chip in to fund the settlement when I sue you for assault and racial discrimination.
Once the swelling’s gone down it’s easy money I reckon.
*drives off sharpish in fast car*
Nerr, nerr-nerr-nerrnuh, nerr, nerr-nerr-nerrnuh! The eighth of May! The eighth of May!
Lest we forget, let’s hear it one more time for the elemental Mr. K.
Earlier this spring Swedish TV was airing a Danish series where ordinary people got up on stage to read excerpts from their teenage diaries in front of highly amused audiences. Very entertaining, thanks to the typical teenage traits of exagerrated emotions (boundless enthusiasm, wild despair), obsessions with particular topics (and people) and, not least, style-, word- and punctuation choices. It got me looking for my own teenage diaries. I didn’t find all of them (not lost forever, just very thoroughly stored away somwhere), but what I did find amused me quite a bit. I had the tendency to only write when I’d had “fun” – mostly meaning getting hammered – so going by that evidence I look like a teen drunk. I didn’t write that often though…but my enthusiasm over these drunken antics are, of course, boundless…
So, why don’t we all get up on stage and read some excerpts of our teenage ramblings to each other? I think it could raise a few chuckles, and either a wave of nostalgia or a feeling of “Thank god that’s over!” Of course, I had to translate mine into English, but I kept the odd punctuation etc. I just picked the first » Continue Reading.