Friday, 21 December 2012

During the Interrogation

To the pedestrians on Quarry Bank High Street it may have appeared as if there were TWO men driving Cosy's work van on that unexpectedly clear and beautiful mid-December Sunday morning. One guy was in the driving seat, wrestling with the gear stick, while the bloke next to him, in the front passenger seat, also appeared to be steering, but with this weird, bright orange steering wheel. Anyone who caught more than a glimpse would've noticed that the geeza was violently ramming his head into it. This thing actually resembled some sort of giant plastic Fisher-Price driving simulator, but it was not one of those, it was a large plastic bucket, and the deathly looking person holding onto it wasn't pretending to drive either. What he (or should I say I?) was actually doing was vomiting into it, profusely. To make matters worse, Cosy had wound the electric windows down, in disgust, so any poor unsuspecting Quarry Banker who happened to be walking along next to us at the traffic lights would have been subjected to some quite sickening sights and sounds. Luckily, I had done most of the puking within the first thirty seconds of the journey.

Cosy had picked me up from Roscoe's place, where I had spent the previous night in a drunken stupor. I'd been reeling from the unbearable stress of self-mastering our new EP; enduring various technical and psychological struggles, successes, disappointments, and the usual tedious repetitive listens to micro-segments of sound - all enough to send any sane person into a frenzy of drink. To top it off, Rose of Bearwood had completely lost all patience with me, so I headed off in a seriously destructive mood, loaded with booze, towards the 141 bus stop on the always menacing Hagley Road. I tried not to think about anything, but that never really works because bus journeys (especially those on a Saturday night which are destined for the Merry Hill shopping centre) are never going to be without thought provoking moments, are they? Unsurprisingly, I began asking myself some seriously evil questions, because sitting just across from me, at the front of the top of the bus, was an old woman who looked EXACTLY like Klaus Kinski. Fucking hell, I thought, IT IS KINSKI! But, alas, I was wrong. It was definitely an old lady, but why wasn't she downstairs with the rest of the old dears? Why? WHY THE FUCK NOT!!? She can sit wherever the fuck she likes. Inevitably, this got me thinking about Herzog, but not only that, it made me realise that I'm turning into Fitzcarraldo. I had a little chuckle to myself. Why am I such a determined mental case? What kind of sicko thinks he can truly combine the great minds of people like Herzog, Kinski, Thompson, Smith, Zappa, Van Vliet - it's an EGO-OVERLOAD! No sane person could ever pull off that kind of trick, could they? Well, if they did, they would be harbouring THE UNDISPUTED KING OF ALL EGOS. I had to prevent myself from laughing hysterically in front of everyone on the bus. I made matters worse by thinking about some of the great sporting egos: Muhammad Ali, Brian Clough, Eric Cantona, Jose Mourinho, Cristiano Ronaldo - and then I thought of Gareth Southgate. My mind seemed to grind to a halt. I started to doubt everything. I remembered something I'd written in my previous piece, something about "a future full of crazy auteurs" which felt like a good thing to say at the time, but not now. Not only had I lost confidence in the way I had adopted this cinematic theory into a broader sense, I had lost confidence in the sentiment behind it, for we are already over-saturated and clogged up with self-obsessed auteurs of blandness. It's sad, but the only way I see things improving now is if people start to understand that I AM THE GREATEST and THE CRAZIEST CREATIVE CUNT IN THE WORLD - so please, will the rest of you boring little parasites just SHUT THE FUCK UP!!! I'm trying to keep SHOWBIZ interesting, OK? 

Any old fucker can understand the painful, pragmatic truth of life - but you can shove that up your rotten piss holes. I'd rather die in a blaze of idealistic failure than perish with boredom. Failure is my greatest asset. Success is subjective. At least I'm not molesting kids, unlike many other 'successful' artists...   

My thoughts eventually became uncontrollable; lyrically enhanced and disturbingly mysterious - prank calls from another plane... as if some kind of automated transcription had found its way into my brain... a few lines mashed together every five minutes... I waited patiently for each delightfully faulty installment... tech errors... involuntary gems... pseudo-incorrect... appropriate... obscured...

everything's buckle on with it
that means is that uh... loveland he's been stripped down
student
dictated by fifty packages
venture
polymorphic yes i think it was a big right
this one is the difference autographs visits the bus yet
industries
bassist operation
pitching
avivacanada chambers basis partner can make it to him
unlike heat j_d_s_
piece
has
he
let me tell you
threatening chetan
graphics fifty four
ross in the group
involved in that
the palestinians
euthanasia and what what is the traditional respect
we trust
does the artist are compass thereupon with me
is like the estes the destroyed so enough in the grand it's because
i think this
then being offerings and document that i know i've been out of form a bond with
them
and help them comment
instruments a surprise on all of a teacher a pink
dolly married life judgmental of
research into the soil and no musicians
continues there will be
divisiveness lost brushfire drugs song
in obviously thing
welfare for fees but let me broaden music is the only noticing avoid
molesting requires that
dieted from
steve had experience with drug before and after school but in a big part of
the sponsor has got this action
dimes bucky delays
two sets of musician serb
is quite another to smoke so they're going
and that's where i
going thirty sixty
get together apply comorbid sex and
given the beliefs of flight
here
mom you
it's all right with him and motherboard or other veteran the lyrics for
as she was originally invited senator bob packwood about seven-month fall
schools parts
at the international bonds the view from jerry
yet equipment so about half an hour
graves undercover ownership miracle i think that i'm coming up before we will
be blowing
gonzalez
and also funded solid
and we should
and i'm not fifty cents an hour cause we talk about the book it's a good tool to
use to get the bloody
handyman
distribution
hello...

I snapped back into a form of regular consciousness just as the bus was entering the station. I felt cold all of a sudden. Where had the journey gone? Why was I coming over all sensitive and paranoid? Maybe I had gone mad? What was going on? This was neither the time or the place to be having another existential crisis, so I slapped myself on both cheeks and got off the bus. 
Roscoe was at his beloved place of work, GNC, until 8pm, but it was only around 7:20pm, so, instead of rushing straight to the epicenter of nutrition and enhancement, I decided to take my time and soak in the sights and smells of the arse-end of Merry Hell. 

Tuesday, 20 November 2012

2013 Miles

"Look, it's Terry Duckworth!" I drunkenly pointed out to a friend while we danced to "Cotton-Eyed Joe" late one night at the Students' Union bar in Aberystwyth. Terry, or Nigel Pivaro, as he is known IN REALITY, did not look too happy with my drink-induced comment as we continued to fuck about and jig along merrily to the extremely loud and crap music. He was, after all, a student, so he was perfectly within his rights to be dancing along to whatever shitty tune they played in there. I was about 19 at the time. It was a strange period in my life. I wasn't quite "all there", unlike now, of course. It's hard to believe that was 8 years ago. It's also hard to believe some of the things that I've done during the course of THIS year, which has been roughly the 2012th since the birth of a bloke known to some as "Christ". Even though I've only played a handful of gigs, 7 to be precise, they have, for one reason or another, all been extremely interesting. I've also read quite a bit, written A LOT, recorded a fair amount, walked many miles, intimately cared for both a man in his 80s and his 2 year old grandson, became an expert maker of tasty pasta sauce, consumed large quantities of chilies, alcohol and (not nearly enough) other drugs, held extremely experimental musical jam sessions at a cerebral palsy centre, and came face to face with the freakish world of national politics. These are just some of the highlights. It's important for me to remind myself that I'm not a total waste of space.

But, it has to be said; Matthew Philip Hale bores me to tears. I want to be Miles Perhower. I am Miles Perhower. I know it's not big, and it's NOT clever, but it's ME: PER HOW ER... (During) the (Interrogation) of (Elizabeth Regina) - everything and nothing is questioned. Totally separate levels of consciousness are smashing into each other. Is it possible to truly exist in multiple realities? I think it is. I could never expect my family to start calling me Miles, but I do expect the rest of you to. I fucking HATE being called Matt, OK? There it is. It's OUT THERE. I despise being called Matt by anyone other than my immediate family and perhaps a very small number of old friends. I am Miles Perhower to everyone else, MPH at the very fucking least. Oddly enough, I've discovered that there's a young black guy, on Facebook (which, admittedly, is an invention that I've never had much time for), who calls himself Miles PerHower, but I must point out that I've been using that name, on and off, for a very long time now, so just remember who's the real Daddy of Perhower. Actually, Miles, if you're reading this, I don't mind the fact that we share a name because many people do. Fuck, it could even be your REAL name, but I doubt it is. Either way, despite my reputation for being an obsessive controller of all things creative in my realm, I can't actually copyright my name, and it's too late for me to obsess on finding the ultimate, totally unique and original tag that still has some sort of personal meaning. Also, I honestly had no idea that "Tails" from Sonic the Hedgehog was called Miles Prower, it was just a funny coincidence. Out of respect for my family I think I'll refrain from officially changing my name by Deed Poll, but if it comes to the crunch then I WILL FUCKING DO IT. Seriously.

Don't underestimate the power of identity, no matter how goofy it is. Fuck it, I'm renaming myself right now! It doesn't need to have any personal meaning, does it? Right. So, what do you think of these: Doctor Peter Cunt? Styles Sternowzer? Willard Treejam? Stan Chainsee? José Mujica? Ross Hadlington? Look, whatever you choose to call me, I'M NOT CALLING IT QUITS. You would have to be a seriously stupid knob to write me off. Despite the fact that I can't sleep peacefully, due to constantly dreaming of being chased by rabid dogs through familiar landscapes from my childhood, and the fact that my skin feels like it's crawling with evil little bugs whenever I try to sit still and relax, I'm actually more determined than ever to reach new creative heights during this era of extreme new lows.

My advice to any aspiring young visionaries out there is to make sure that you find a reasonably original name for yourselves / your platform. If you have an interesting birth-name then just use that. No more shitty band names please, we're past that point now. Let's have a future full of crazy auteurs who can drown out the boring, shallow pillocks. Assume NOTHING, keep EVOLVING and don't be afraid of making interesting ADJUSTMENTS. Don't let the lazy whores put you off. The only sucking up you need to do is the sucking up of an insane variety of influences. Mix that with who you are as a person and you should find yourselves somewhere pretty original - or UGLY original, get it?

Right, so now the record has been set straight I can get back to being the crooked creator of substantial stimulus. At the time of writing I am unbelievably sober. I've had no booze or drugs for 2 weeks and I feel like my head is about to explode. It's near the end November, 2012, and I'm determined to make it to 2013 without blowing loads of funds on the numbing fun stuff. Don't get me wrong, I have NO INTENTION of staying teetotal, in fact, I believe that the government should send crate loads of booze and drugs to people like me, for reasons of national security and artistic evolution, but, as that is highly unlikely, I had better grit my teeth and continue to save plenty of funds in order to take 2013 by the balls. Shit, I'm not even supposed to be WRITING anything at the moment. I convinced myself to save up plenty of word-power for the new year, but something had to give. OK, I think I've got it all out of my system now. Better get back to abstinence, the necessary evil. See you on the other side, including "Blvck Tvilz", who I'm sure is as fiercely protective of his cheesy persona as I am.

MPH

PS - If you need something to ease your mind during the upcoming 'festive' period, without actually rotting it, then I advise you to get hold of "Tim and Eric Awesome Show, Great Job!", "Tom Goes to the Mayor" and "Mr. Show with Bob and David". They all work wonders.

PPS - After having a few drops of red, in order to aid the recording of my vocals at the Midwich Youth Club and Hobby Centre, I came to terms with the fact that "Matt" is not SO bad, but only under VERY special circumstances. Watch this space, you crafty little buggers! Perhower is up to something...


Friday, 2 November 2012

The Inevitable Return of Coach Cockroach

It's fair to say that I started losing it towards the end of my last piece. I'd have to be a really miserable cock to leave the world of journalism in such a pathetic manner. There WILL be a FINAL piece, one day, but I'm not ready to quit this game just yet. In fact, I'm feeling surprisingly recharged right now. A recent rush of serious creative insanity has propelled me back into the ugly world of words. It was the buildup that was the problem. "Brain-pummeling" is the most accurate way to explain the almost unbearable buildup to creation, especially when you're out on your own. If you can survive that, you will probably survive anything. It's important to remember that nobody can take away your freedom to create. It is also very important to attempt to physically realise your creations in the most professional way possible. If you can't make it real then you haven't made it at all. Stop focusing on limitations and concentrate on what CAN be done, for fuck's sake. Maybe I am a fool for saying so much unhinged stuff on here, but I'd rather be an irrepressible fool than nothing at all. At least I'm not posting cunting Facebook and Twitter updates, unlike the rest of you bloody morons. Ouch. There I go again. I know, I know, I do need those people, yes, that is true, but I don't have to BE one of them, do I? You should all be fucking grateful that I'm willing to take the time to digest things and poop out such substantial delights. Some stuff requires a lot of digestion, but there are times when the only option is to let rip instantly, regardless of the consequences. Fuck the consequences. This is an expressive ART FORM, not just another twatty micro-statement lost in a sea of cyber-shit. Do you hate me now? I hope you do, you ignorant pillocks. Go back to your smart phones.

Fuck! That was extremely stupid and mean of me. I AM SORRY. Will you forgive me if I promise to commit suicide ASAP? Why is that funny? I shouldn't joke about things like that, should I? A wise old woman once said; "Laughter is the greatest medicine that isn't a medicine," but she then immediately jumped off a cliff and her body exploded over many jagged rocks. It's a bloody foggy concept, isn't it? Maybe the blood and fog will never completely clear, who knows? At least I'm getting moments of slight clarity again now. I am finally stabilising, to a certain extent. Stability is only available to those who can occasionally come to terms with their situation.

There are going to be new Perhower recordings being made in the very near future, and they could even find their way into a professional physical form. There is also a possibility that I might attempt to compile all of these Automatic Updates into a book. You could even be reading that very book right now. That'd be great, but I mustn't get too ahead of myself because time travel is extremely dangerous. Let's just enjoy being back on track and try to forget about what happened in The Disjointed Gantlet. But as this book will be playing out in reverse order there's not much chance of forgetting about something that you haven't even experienced yet...

I'm sitting here alone, typing away in the dark, with only the harsh light of the computer monitor and a sweet smelling candle for illumination. The doorbell just rang. I'd better see who it is. There's not enough light outside to make out who it could be. Cautiously, I open the door. To my surprise, Leonard Maltin is standing there, masquerading as a creepy traveling salesman. He's trying to sell me these strange looking root vegetables that glow in the dark. There's a crate of them next to him on the patio floor. The glow is only faint, but they're certainly glowing. I try to tell him that I'm not really interested, but he won't listen. He picks up two of these pyramid-shaped glowing vegetables, one in each palm, and then extends his arms out in front. I am stunned by this unsettling paranormal image. His eyes have rolled back into his head and his mouth is quivering. I want to shut the door, but for some reason I just can't do it. I can't really move anything. The street is dark and lifeless. The only light source is coming from the pyramids in Maltin's hands; a neon green glow that is horrifically exaggerating his features. Now he's talking in an extremely bizarre, seemingly schizophrenic manner;

"...confiscates the cigarettes and rations them out to his daughter Alicia. The L.A. Dance Project then established a full-time residence at the Boleyn estate. Despite this scandal, Alicia became the Supreme Governor of cigarettes. Towards the end of her reign, independent strings of Puritanism became more prominent, and the confluence of Swiss patriotism and humanism came to be referred to as the Affair of the Sausages. This event, along with its pious customs are a reminder that the response to the kingdom will have eternal consequences. The Sermon on the Mount is now married to Cora; an armed escort to the airport of Schombing. Alicia gets eliminated by a team of brain-police who broke in via the Puritanism Lab..."

I can't escape. I can't even bring myself to slam the front door shut. My body is fixed into position by some sort of magnetism / force-field. I can't close my eyes. All I can do is listen as Maltin continues his neon-green pyramid lit ravings;

"After a nocturnal row with his mistress, Cora is then knocked out by Bayman, daughter of the tournament’s founder, and Alicia's best friend. Bayman is a bronze-skinned Maltin Ninja. She is trained in the darkest arts. Bayman, come to your master! Let yourself be seen!"

At that moment, a fluorescent green limousine screeches past. Maltin doesn't react, but the glow from his pyramids is getting brighter. The limousine slowly reverse parks in front of my house and the back passenger window automatically slides open.

"Go to the window, Miles," Maltin says, sternly.
"I don't want..." but before I can even finish my sentence my legs are walking me over to the limo. I am not in control, but I'm painfully aware of what's going on. Suddenly, I get the feeling like there's a massive locust stuck to my face and my whole body is filling with vibrations. I manage to frantically claw at my nose. I hear something break and I see a blinding light. Shit, I've just fallen asleep at the desk and knocked a half full glass of orange juice over. I throw a t-shirt on the puddle before it drips down onto something electrical. My phone is buzzing on the floor, next to my right foot. It stops. 1 missed call. An unknown number.

Bloody hell, I wrote all that stuff last night and I can hardly remember doing it. I wasn't even intoxicated. Is this still classed as journalism? I can't be 100% sure. I think it's about time for me to get my teeth into some real stories. I need to reconnect. My next live performance with Perhower is in three weeks time. Three weeks to attempt a new regime. Three weeks to conquer madness. I had to bail out of volunteering at the CP centre this week because I've been suffering from a lovely combination of manic depression and physical illness, but I'm determined to go in on Monday to rekindle the music group and also attempt to start an art class. It might not work out, but I'm going to donate loads of old paints, pens, paper and other tools for them to use anyway. I think I'm on the road to recovery, but unfortunately that road seems to be leading to Recluse Town. I might have to stay there for a while, at least until all traces of poison have left my body. There is too much love going to waste. The super-ego has spoken. Don't be afraid of what happens next.

I've just read those last few lines over and over again, but something is preventing me from fully believing in them. I know I can't write my way out of this problem. COME ON, MPH, SNAP OUT OF IT! You WILL make the right decision, even if it's not the most acceptable one. Feed your brain and feed your belly, OK? Get in the shower, sort the house out, set up the drums and get everything ready for next week. Get yourself in shape. Remember how to access that place where you don't feel totally crazy. You can get there anytime you need to. Stop feeling guilty. You are innocent. The fight rages on. Let the stories come to you.

Monday, 29 October 2012

The Disjointed Gantlet

dis·joint·ed
Adjective:
Lacking a coherent sequence or connection.
Synonyms:
incoherent - desultory - disconnected - rambling

gant·let
Noun:
The convergence of two parallel railway tracks in a narrow place; the inner rails cross and run parallel and then diverge so a train remains on its own tracks at all times.

A former military punishment in which the offender had to run between two rows of men who struck him with clubs, etc. as he passed.

A series of troubles or difficulties: in these senses, now spelled equally as "gauntlet".

According to The Book of Isaiah, there is "no rest for the wicked". It pains me to concur, for I am wicked and I constantly struggle to rest. The phrase was originally expressed as 'no peace for the wicked' and refers to the eternal torment of Hell that awaited sinners. Not surprisingly, it derives from the Bible - Isaiah 57. The expression was first printed in English in Miles Coverdale's Bible, 1535:
"But the wicked are like the raging sea, that ca not rest, whose water fometh with the myre & grauel."
"Eueso ye wicked haue no peace, saieth my God."

Right, so that's the vibe. Who needs rest, eh? OK, stupid question, we all need a good rest, now and then, but I'm currently in the grip of an asphyxiating void - a deadly silence looms. But let's not get too dark too soon. It's been a fairly stimulating autumn, thus far, and the winter looks to be fairly intriguing too. I'm talking in terms of music, once again, as that is my vocation - my bad decision. The latest instalment of MPH journalism will attempt to bring together some of the more potent experiences of the latter part of this dreaded year of Jesus, 2012.

But first, I want to talk about my musicians, because it appears that I've stumbled upon yet another magic music formula, possibly my most magical of all. It's still a pretty new machine, which has had its quirks, but now, with a little bit of mystical MPH oiling, the world should feel safe in the knowledge that there's a seriously potent, organic musical product, known collectively as PERHOWER, which is ready to fluently translate the mysterious inner-workings of an extremely rare wizard / performer / tactician / ME.

The individual components are fascinating to analyse (and it hopefully makes for an interesting read), so here is my summary / review of each Perhower player:

FIBASS (bass guitar) - Since being thrown into the mix, all those years ago, armed only with a cheap keyboard and a dodgy bass, this fine, extremely competent musician has evolved so much, it blows my mind. She has gone from being more of a background figure, complementing tunes with her phased keyboard chimes and tones (and occasionally filling in on 2nd bass), to being a fully fledged BASS QUEEN. She is no longer Fiboard, she is Fibass, and she loves it. After conquering her slightly frenzied approach to setting up both her own idiosyncratic bass pedals and my vocal effects, this woman has really started to get the most out of performing. The element of panic is fading. The powerful forces of her tight yet abstract rock n roll techniques are crucially pervading. I couldn't be happier. She even plays with her fingers. No plectrum - and it still sounds bang on. I get a feeling that we shall be seeing much more from this player.

ROSE OF BEARWOOD (drums) - What can I say about someone who has been at the forefront of almost every instrument you could want in a rock group? Rose is the ULTIMATE utility woman. She's also been a master gardener, watering and nurturing this little shoot, known to some as a "Matthew Philip Hale", until it grew into a fucking mutant rainforest, known by most as a "Miles Perhower". But it's best to concentrate on what Rose is doing best right now...drumming, once again. It's all about the beats with this girl. Give her the right kind of twisted challenge and she will pull it off like a real pro. Naturally lacking in confidence, but brimming with musical education, it only takes a small dose of reassurance to bring out the insane best in Rose's drumming. She needn't live in fear of being inferior to any bulky, anthem obsessed male drummer, not at all, this one might appear small but she's stronger than anyone I know.

That is except for ROSCOE T. BALABAN (guitar / backing vocals) - who can crush a house brick with one hand. Despite his extremely violent tendencies and fondness for bestial orgies, Roscoe is quickly developing into a VITAL guitar player. His willingness to follow all sorts of abstract instructions and compositions is a true sign of selflessness and intelligence which is rarely found in guitarists. There is also a real cool style to Roscoe's playing, combining clean strokes with dirty scrapes and bursts of tonal feedback, all presented with a beautifully crippled posture. There is no 'cock rock'. He uses that thing enough. Leave the dicking-about to me, please. I have no doubt that Balaban will continue to evolve as an all-round musician, as well as a vocalist. We shall be looking into a couple of new effects, to add some more ambient spices to something which is already pretty fucking tasty. Yum.  

But here comes the sucker-punch. There is NO REVOLUTION coming. I have wasted many days worth of brain-power contemplating the next MASSIVE SHIFT, but it's not going to happen. We have ARRIVED and we are STUCK. Once you have come to terms with that extraordinarily bleak concept, you can truly start to embrace creativity. It's a privilege to live and work in such knowledgeable times. There is so much to take in, so much to draw upon, you'd have to be a lazy, soulless pig, if you fail to come up with anything vaguely interesting to write, sing, or dare I say it, make art about. Ah, but not everyone is lucky enough to have been guided through this massive wealth of potential influence. Many are doomed to only suck up shit, and then spray it out in almost the same form as when they sucked it. There are too many pure-breds scraping the bottom of the Gene Pool. Our world has become like one giant Tesco, loaded with every possible brand, of every shape, size and colour, yet, despite this massive choice, all under one roof, we usually just end up feeling lost and mildly depressed. I fucking hate that feeling, so I intend on living my life in a way that goes SERIOUSLY AGAINST it. I refuse to take comfort in comfort. I take comfort in complexity, which can be softer on the mind than you might have thought. Once you've crossed the line of regular sanity there's really no going back. We'll probably get along if you're happy to dangle over the edge, every so often. We're all killing ourselves, and each other, every day, both consciously and subconsciously, on a wide ranging scale, but death is life, and life is death, so, for the moment, I'll just get on with spinning a few tales...

...And not so Tall Tales, well, not THAT tall, more like horribly disfigured, teratogenic tales - you know me, you know me well. But do you know me well enough to know how much the inspiration for this next section cost? Ah, I see I've stumped you. Yes, this bit of the piece actually has a receipt for £16, which isn't bad, considering the abundance of mind-melting weirdness and thrilling syntax it has provided. Great ART is CHEAP, these days. Or maybe not. Maybe the following reportage will land one or two of us in some very expensive trouble, but I doubt it.

PWS Promotions. Holy fucking mutant Christ! For the love of Noel Gallagher, I have never encountered such redundant scum in all my life. Well, maybe I have. Paul Self and friends aren't even really any good at being redundant scum. But they are certainly pathetic and dumb. They are stupid enough to steal our earnings at a professional Birmingham gig and think that they can get away with it. They are a very low form of human scum. Self, a boring as fuck 'music' promoter (some sort of connection to The Twang? ha haha) who was "on holiday for the first time in three years," and his ultra-pathetic stand-ins could be described as laughable runts who deserve to be SPAT at. They have no detectable souls and cannot function adequately due to their extremely inactive brains. They are basically useless and need to be put to sleep. Much like many of the low-end, humourless promoters, who shouldn't be doing the job because they haven't really enjoyed music for ten or fifteen years, these lot are a poor excuse for Human Beings. Do something else, you fucking dumb rats. Feel free to come back at me for this, I'm up for it. I have NO FEAR AT ALL. That is a fact. THINK about it, will you? No.

You've got to laugh, really. The last few times we've played at The Flapper, under various guises, have been a general success, both musically and financially. The same can be said about the show we played there on Friday 28th September, 2012. Quite disgustingly, we were refused payment, even though we basically provided the entire audience. It sounds quite pathetic, but I understand these things very well. Getting 16 or 17 people out to a place like The Flapper, on a less than appetizing Friday night, in late September, is pretty good going in times like these. £5 a ticket, £1 of which goes to the band for each one sold. Decent venue, good sound, enough people through the door to ensure that we got our transport paid for, and enough punters buying drinks to keep the venue happy. The problems started when "Joe" (or whatever the fuck the stand-in promoter's name was) realised that the first band had done a runner with their own tickets and money (about 2 or 3 tickets worth - SHOCK - although the cunts went home with more than we did in the end - I wonder how Paul Self would have dealt with Perhower running off with £85 worth of ticket money?). This is why, in the future, I will be hiring The Flapper out myself, because if a promoter can't do his job properly, like being able to collect all the money, as well as actually PROMOTING the event, then they can only be described as useless, gutless scum. For the record, that opening act, who were absolutely intolerable crap, are called "Broken Witt Rebels". But, let's no get too brutal here. Would a sensible, legal-minded person, like myself, ever have the nerve to warn them that they will need to watch their backs? What if someone, possibly a really crazy person, threatened to kill anyone associated with PWS? Fucking hell, that would be quite shocking, wouldn't it? Don't get me wrong, I WILL NOT FORGET ANY OF THIS. I have an army of good people behind me, so keep your no good stinking selves alert, you nasty little pieces of criminal shit. We have dealt with worse than you before. Savage and cold-blooded Brierley Hill Hit-Men could soon be breathing down your dirty little crook necks.

Anyway, up until THAT point, we had been treated like the lovable, polite weirdos that we are. Joe even came up to us outside and licked our arses clean in front of a handful of friends and fans. Jett, Cosy, Crash, Barry, Doc, Matt and CN Support were there, amongst others. After quite publicly stating how great we were, he asked whether we had seen the other band. We hadn't. He then disappeared. Literally the next time I spoke to him, he was telling me, totally out-of-the-blue, that we were going to be "banned" from every single venue in Birmingham. WOW. What's fucking brought this on, I thought. I'd been so kind to this intolerable little prick all night, but then he just went mental. He'd obviously snapped under the pressure and became convinced that he was some sort of GOD. I couldn't help but laugh. I kept asking him if he'd seen "Drive" because he was like a midget Ryan Gosling who blabbed too much. I asked him if he was "some kind of pleb?" which even the sound-man found hilarious. What could I do? I had found out from the rest of the band that we were being refused payment because the opening act had buggered off with £10 or £15. It had been a fun night, so all we needed was £10 to take the edge off the taxi back home. But he refused us even that because he wanted whatever was left for himself, as this was his "only source of income". Just before we finally left to go home, a despicable spectacled character, who I assumed was friends with Joe, told me, with a definite look of confusion in his eyes, that if I expected to get paid for performing then I was "in the wrong business", but then had the nerve to say that he "really enjoyed the set". It was seriously bizarre, at the time, because I had consumed vast amounts of whiskey and smoked many joints filled with powerful skunk, but that bizarre sensation quickly transformed into pure hatred over the next few days. It was actually a horrible feeling, for a week or so, but now, while writing about the whole ordeal, I feel the need to genuinely thank Paul, Broken Witt Rebels and Joe (plus his very weird friends) for providing me with so much twisted stuff to write about. I mean, those guys should feel proud that they are finally part of something which is genuinely thrilling, you know, a real pulse-racing piece of art, instead of just the usual corpse's farts.

Just as I finished typing that last line, my phone started buzzing on the desk. I didn't recognise the number. Hmm, I thought, there's lots of crazy stuff going on at the moment, maybe I should answer. So I did...
"Hello..." I said, politely, but there was no reply, just total silence for three or four seconds, until...
"Hello there, is it possible to speak to Miss -------, please," a male voice with a Welsh accent finally responded.

--------------------------------------------

Birmingham was like consulting a doctor
It asked the right questions and understood my symptoms
But it had its own terrible problems
Lice were laying their eggs in its brain
Severe blockages caused frustration and pain
Faded posters and suited swindlers sloshed on the pavement
Badges stuck into huddles of witches who handed out blue news
And ex-offender preachers waved and whined about Broken Britain
They tried to feed it to me and so I flicked it back at them
Because I wanted no ignorant-arrogant dribble for lunch
But then a black man sort of threatened to bang me out with a punch

Before I proceed with the "Cold Caller" story, I'd like to throw a few other little ditties out there. They consist of surreal, unexpected collisions and generally shrewd observations made during the Conservative Party National Conference (Occupation of the ICC and its surroundings) in Birmingham, October 2012.

I threw on my leather jacket, scraped my hair into its rightful place and left my house with only one intention, a very boring one, I was off to Town to buy a new skin-head for the snare. Shit, that reads more interestingly than I thought. Never mind. I purposefully strode into Birmingham, carrying the old skin-head in a flimsy plastic bag, which constantly flapped around my legs, determined to get to the music shop quickly and efficiently. There was no real need to bring the old skin with me, not only because it was covered in blood, duct tape and dents, but because I should have just measured the bugger. My mind doesn't work that way, so I thought it would be wise to take the thing with me in order to obtain a new skin with exactly the same measurements, even though I KNEW that whoever served me would not only snigger at my ignorance, but also at the hilariously war-torn state of the old skin, which had been used constantly for 12 months.
These thoughts quickly subsided when I made my way down Broad Street. There was definite stink in the air, much more than usual, but I couldn't figure out why. I'd had enough of trying to get my head around national politics in the preceding weeks. I had intentionally avoided all the demagogic garbage which was doing the media rounds, so it was an unpleasant surprise when I stumbled into the vile midst of the National Conference of Tories. A similar thing happened to me last year when I walked right smack into the EDL meeting in Birmingham, but at least that had a slightly more exciting feel about it. Police were funneling people, violent thugs, skin-heads and their sunken wives were everywhere, it was fascinating, and only caused about an hour of mild disruption. Which, in some ways, is better than having to deal with the Conservative Party's overblown and paranoid four day occupation of a decent patch of Brum.

They had turned the ICC and surrounding areas, including the canal, into a sort of executive prison-zoo, with bored looking police guarding every possible entrance and exit, even doors which are, I would assume, ordinarily impossible to break into anyway. It dawned on me that I would have to brave this disjointed gantlet, so I gripped my plastic bag and marched forwards, past weird metal turnstiles, gangs of suited nobodies, huddles of confused civilians, relentless and oddly faded new Tory posters in every frame on the outside wall of The Symphony Hall, which is usually filled with advertisements for upcoming middle-of-the-road acts. It was now filled with middle-of-the-road politics. The same old crap replacing the same old crap. What does all of this mean? I thought. Is there some sort of connection to reality here? I pushed on, trying to ignore snippets of irritating conversations along the way, until I arrived at Centenary Square.
The place was infested with all kinds of annoying life. Young girls were handing out faux-newspapers while half-arsed looking policemen chatted distractedly to confused old women. Lonely, windswept suits wandered around, while security passes flopped about. It was all very grey, like a festival of dullness. Then I saw the Jesus brigade. A handful of smug old fruitcakes were standing in the way with placards about how Broken Britain can be fixed with a Bible. I walked past them, further into the gantlet, shouting, "I LOVE MY GODDAMN PRISON-ZOO!" through the fence. A few people laughed, but the cops ignored me. AUTHOR'S INTERRUPTION - I must have a few generous swigs of disgusting white wine before I continue with this story. It's a Friday night and I'm on my own again, for fuck's sake. The fun weekends always seem to be over before you know it, but the low-key ones seem to move at snail pace. At least I won't be too battered and beaten on Monday morning.
But then, the dreams will start again... Oh, this vicious circle. By the time I'm straight, it's time to get bent. Come on, you cheap-ass Californian White, hit me with your "zesty tropical fruit flavours" and dubious brain-loosening powers, the good people need me to finish typing this sickening little tale. Glug, glug...maybe I should phone Cosy? Ah, fuck it, he's got the little Cosy's to look after. Come on, Miles, gulp that fucking vile piss down and get on with the show.

OK. So I moved further into the gantlet, still clutching the old snare skin in the plastic bag, when this younger looking Jesus spreader shoved a leaflet into my face, I stopped in front of him, looked at it for less than a second and then sent it spinning back into his chest. He too was also holding up a big ridiculous placard about 'The Prophet' and 'Broken Britain'. That stupid prick wouldn't know Jesus if he got slapped in the face by him. Jesus tangoed. Anyway, after chucking the leaflet back at this freak, I heard a voice, a pseudo-laughter, saying something like, "Whoa! That's not nice!", so I glanced behind, without breaking my stride, to see two young lads pointing at me. I smirked and carried on walking. Then I heard one of them say, "If I was that guy I would've banged him out for that," so I quickly responded by saying, lightheartedly, "Which is why you're not handing out Jesus leaflets". This didn't go down very well, because he then, much more aggressively, stated that he would've "banged" me out if I'd have done that to him. So what, I thought. Just keep moving, stay on course - YOU MUST REPAIR THAT SNARE. But then, unfortunately, the other lad said something like, "Ah, look at him walking away," so I instantly turned around 180 degrees and fearlessly stared at both of them. The one doing most of the shouting was a short, bearded black guy, and the other bloke, who appeared to have an Arab complexion, was about 7 feet tall. Obviously my turning around had somehow brought into question the small guy's authority, so he immediately had to square up to me, in the holy name of Jesus. He was seemingly amused by my appearance. Was it because I was wearing two coats? Was it because of the flimsy plastic bag I was carrying? I wasn't totally sure. All I could do was smile, because I was surrounded by old women and policemen, and I was WHITE, after all. How much danger could I have been in? My senses were a little burned out though, due to the unexpected assault they had endured since my arrival on Broad Street, so I can't particularly brag about my quick-wittedness, but I can briefly summarise what was said;

"You'd BANG me out then would you?" I asked him. His tall friend was looking down on me, half-smiling.
"I never said I'm gonna bang you out. I said that if I were that guy I'd bang you out," he replied with wild eyes.
"Oh, I see, So are you a religious man?"
"Yes, I am. I wasn't baptised or anything, but I would bang you out for being rude and throwing something at me. You should stay out of other people's business"
"I see, that's very Christian of you. But I didn't throw it at him, actually, I merely gave the leaflet back, but I'm in too much of a rush to stop."
Just then his giant friend interrupted, "Yeah, yeah, walk on, walk on," he said.
So I did. I walked alongside both of them, like an old buddy, for about ten seconds, until we got to the war memorial.
"You're entitled to freedom of speech, boys," I mumbled, "but I need to go and buy a new snare skin now."

I headed towards the library and heard them taking the piss and laughing at me until I finally got far enough away to focus my mind on something else. Maybe I shouldn't fuck with crazy religious people, I thought. But, even then, I knew I'd end up writing about that madness, so maybe it was all worthwhile? Who knows?

Later, that same day, not long after I'd got back home, I'd just finished writing an extremely menacing piece about being ripped off by soulless music promoters, when my mobile phone rang, remember? Good, you're still with me.

I answered it and politely said I'd take their contact etc, as they'd phoned MY phone asking for MY girlfriend, but the Welsh bloke who called me just hung up when I was in the middle of a sentence. He made the mistake of telling me his name and something about "lifestyle money claims", though. So I called the number back, but only got through to a robotic sounding American voice recording saying the number was not in service. I googled the number and found a forum about nuisance callers, which then led me to the actual company's contact details.

I phoned the official company number and got through to an over-long customer service recording. I hung up and tried again, but this time I just pressed 3, on a whim, and got through to the main office. A familiar male voice answered. Welsh accent again. I knew that I'd somehow tracked that cheeky bastard down.

"Is Scott there, please?" I said.
"Yes, this is Scott," he replied.
"That's great," I said, calmly, "because you just cold-called and then hung up on me while I was politely trying to take a message from you. I know where you are, Scotty, I'M GOING TO COME TO SWANSEA AND I'M GOING TO FUCKING KILL YOU, YOU DIRTY CRIMINAL SCUMBAG! YOU'RE A FUCKING EVIL LITTLE WORM!"

He reacted quite badly to all of this by instantly saying really weird stuff like, "I'm going to pull your foreskin over your fucking head and suffocate you with it," and "Welsh people won't stand for this," which, I must admit, was hilarious. I don't even have a foreskin, but I do know the Welsh pretty well, as I lived in Aberystwyth for a while. I once got punched in the face by a nasty middle aged local who was violently threatening and racially abusing this young Indian lad in the street. Not that all Welsh people are like that. I had a couple of really cool Welsh friends. Scum can be found everywhere. WE'RE THE HUMAN RACISTS, after all.
Anyway, I hung up, made myself a cup of tea, called the same number back and pressed 3 again...

"Hello, Lifestyle," the same voice answered.
"Hello there, Scott. I'm just calling to remind you that I'll break your legs if you ever call this number again, OK?"
"Come on then, you fucking cunt. You've got mental problems," he said.
I couldn't stop laughing because he continued to react.
"Come on over then, buddy. Here's the address, it's..."

I hung up again. That's probably enough of that, I thought. But I was wrong. My phone rang again about five minutes later. I picked it up but said nothing. I could hear heavy breathing, and then...

"Right. This is my personal mobile number. I'm standing outside the office building now, so let's sort this out, YOU FUCKING PRICK!"
Jesus Christ, I thought, we're into a whole new zone now. I quickly set my phone to record sound. After making myself comfortable, I took a couple of sips of tea and enjoyed the show. The bloke was quite obviously having a complete nervous breakdown. The abuse was flying at me. I could feel his spit and phlegm hitting the receiver. It was visceral. I actually managed to record a perfect clip, which I may attempt to use as part of a track at some point. Basically, he was threatening to repeatedly "badger" us by constantly ringing up our phone numbers, which they have stored on "The System", every single day until it becomes unbearable. The recording is too funny to properly explain here. After having my fill of violent word entertainment, I hung up on him while he was still in the middle of a despicable rant. Oddly enough, he never called again.

Most normal people would've just ignored the cold-call in the first place, but I'm DEFINITELY NOT NORMAL. I live with an abnormally heightened sense of awareness that is almost unbearable to cope with. I feel physically sick because of it sometimes, which is why I should probably be on more brain-numbing drugs than I can currently afford. What a shitty statement. No amount of drugs could ever silence this voice. Well, maybe lethal doses, but it is this disturbing climate, however, that is the perfect breeding ground for exuberant written work. If I am a troll, then I am The Bard of the Trolls. I'd like to think that I'm The Anti-Troll. The Llort of the Land. Every once in a while, conflicts such as these are worthwhile sacrifices of the peace.

Welcome back to the Human Race.

It is 12:30pm on a cloudy Thursday in October, 2012. I am feeling slightly / severely hungover today because I made the mistake of drinking a fair amount of whiskey AND red wine last night. I was also smoking marijuana until the early hours. There must be some kind of less damaging way to cope with pre-gig nerves, but I've yet to discover it. The show is tonight, another charity gig, this time for Barnardo's, and it looks like it will be a big crowd, consisting mainly of students. These people can be very unpredictable. They are young, naive, socially confident, yet they are highly sensitive creatures who can be very dangerous when provoked. My act is not earnest in the way they would expect. Violent humour and lack of small-talk could prove to be the crippling flaws in the show. I never quite know how things are going to go down with the student crowd, but I'm quietly optimistic about tonight. I have a feeling it's going to be an electrifying performance, but we shall see...
I wish I could say the same about my feelings towards reports of the UK economy rising by 1%. It's not an overwhelmingly positive news story, as the mainstream channels would tell you, no, it's a sick fucking joke. Just because we bought more crap over the last few months doesn't mean we deserve to feel proud of ourselves. The politicians are lapping it up, of course. The Olympics is being hailed as some sort of miracle and it's getting much of the credit for this slight economic boost, but it all just feels so fake, shallow, and depressingly short sighted. I feel absolutely no connection to any of it. They are flogging a dead horse, which is preserved with chemicals and never decomposes. There's something seriously creepy about it. We are dressing up our rotting dead relatives in a disturbing attempt to disguise and deny the painful truth. This is our tradition.

It is an awkward time to be a genuinely good-willed eccentric. The Jimmy Savile revelations have dominated the news for quite a while now, but what gets me is how they never report anything about how talentless he was. Having the ability to charm is NOT a talent, it is one of the biggest problems we face as a species. I'm sure there are huge numbers of successful talentless people out there who have quite literally CHARMED their way into positions of power and privilege. There are too many demagogic dilettantes. We must not stand for it. Let us take the reins of reality and ride to more fertile pastures!
Just look at me and my friend Gary Ironmonger. We are in the process of forming an experimental rock group at a Cerebral Palsy centre. I'm also tempted to organise an art class there because I think my own, admittedly savage talents can bring out the best in people, especially those who have never been given the opportunity to create something of real value, instead of mere time-filling activities. Even though it is important to enjoy the creative process, it is the realisation of a desirable product that I'm interested in. I do not see myself as someone who gives gifts, I'm much more selfish than that because I expect to be impressed and entertained by the results of my shared talents.

But who really gives a fuck about talent, eh? You've either got to be really scary or a real slag to get on in this media-obsessed world, especially in the 'creative fields'. Actually, I think the slags have overtaken the scaries now, so the only way around it is via extreme commitment and endurance. That's where I'm at. The only other option is indifference, which can be a relief, but I think it's a cop-out. Despite my misanthropic tangents and occasional massive detachments from 'reality', I'm actually still pretty optimistic about all the wonderful potential and possibilities of Human Life. You can't really afford to be too sensitive about things, but striving for greatness and goodness is a MUST, in my opinion, because everyday is an exhausting battle against our savage nature. If you are reading this in the year 2022, congratulations, you made it. I hope the world isn't too much more fucked and dumb. If I am reading this in 2022, well, I'd like to think that would be a good thing.

It is now 11:21am on an autumnal Friday morning. I am feeling quite hazy. The gig was pretty excellent last night. It raised over £300 for Barnardo's, which is impressive, I must say. If we're not getting the money then at least it should go to a worthwhile cause. £300 through the door, in just one night, at a decent little venue, it's certainly nothing to sniff at. The bar must have done well out of it too. They are renaming it "The Lounge" soon (not a great name, but it's better than The Indie Lounge), and I can see us playing there a few times next year. There were lots of younger people, students, I assume, which is an unusual crowd for us, but I think we kept everyone interested and even ecstatic at times. They just need to work on the lighting for the stage area. It was way too bright. That killed off a little bit of the atmosphere, but with a little more development it could turn out to be a really good venue for live events. I got on well with Dan, the sound engineer, who is also heavily involved with the development of the pub in general. He'd been there since 9am, painting the roof, so he was pretty burned out by mid-night. But we did manage to discuss the possibility of doing future shows. I'm certainly interested, but it would just depend on how much control we would be able to have over the door and general ambiance. Things can turn sour fairly quickly if you don't get the balance right, and let's face it, I can be fairly unbalanced...

RECOLLECTION OF EVENTS AS IF IN PRESENT TENSE. TIME TO GET LOADED. TOMMY TWO COATS. NINE POCKETS. ELEVEN INCLUDING MY TROUSERS. ONE MINI BOTTLE. ONE HIP FLASK. TEN JOINTS. TWO LIGHTERS. ONE MASK. ONE CAMERA. HOUSE KEY. WALLET. TISSUES. TOO MANY BULGES...AUTHOR'S INTERRUPTION....

I think I've had enough of this shit. How am I expected to keep coming up with the goods when there's NO DEMAND for it. I am of ZERO INTEREST. My innovations are not required. The people are happy in their blandness. I blame the numerous record labels, management agencies, radio stations, promoters and established acts for never giving me a chance to show them what I can really do. I have patiently attempted to make professional contact with loads of them, but I never once received a genuine response. A very small number of people, who are probably reading this, have given me support over the years, so I must thank them for that. The Fall were the only 'established act' ever to take a chance with me, but that was fucking years ago now. I've developed so much more since then. It's a real shame that I've not been granted any generous exposure all this time. I think it's because I'M NOT A MANIPULATIVE WHORE. It could also be something to do with my intimidatingly weird intelligence and powerful artistic control. I have never been a safe bet. I must be seen as some sort of social anthrax, much too dangerous to openly embrace. Even this new "Writer's Lifestyle", which was kind of exhilarating at first, has failed to pull me through. I'm so depressed and stressed out, it's not right that I have to drink and drug myself up to the eyeballs in order to cope.
I suppose this is a written warning, for everyone and anyone who cares, because you are in danger of losing an insanely committed Artist. That thing called Miles might just have to be put into a coma for a while.

Thursday, 27 September 2012

No Results Found for Ukipalsy

"No Results Found for Ukipalsy"
A post-saturation experiment, by Miles Perhower

PART 1 - "The Toxic Stream"

LEGAL NOTE:
The following documents are NOT to be believed as truth, or even enjoyed, or discussed in any way. The person responsible for this treason has been assessed by the 'authorities', leaving them "critically shocked" by the 'results'. His brain is seventy-eight percent Magnesium and five percent 'Dark Matter'. An absolutely intolerable freak of nature, extremely dangerous and deformed, physically and mentally, but hell-bent on relentless creation...a total nightmare, a turbo-nutter, a sick artist... a true friend.

WENT TO BED AT 2AM - WOKEN UP BY TEXT MESSAGE AT 8:30AM - TEXT MESSAGE FROM THE DOCUMENTER - BAD NEWS - HE HAS NO MONEY AND CAN'T GET HERE - THAT FUCKING CUNT!! - WELL, I NEED HIM TODAY - THE STORY NEEDS IT - GOTTA DO SOME FILMING TOO - THAT LAST MINUTE BAILING OUT SCUMBAG - NO - CALM DOWN, MILES - HE'S A GOOD FRIEND - A PHILANTHROPIST OF SORTS - PHONE UP THE DARK PRINCE OF WOLLESCOTE - OFFER TO PAY FOR THE TAXI FARE - SORTED - HE'S COMING - £18 BLOODY QUID THAT'S COST ME - OH WELL - WE'RE DOING THIS FOR REAL NOW - NO BACKING OUT - TEXT MESSAGE FROM CRASH - HE'S GONNA MEET US OUTSIDE THE TOWN HALL - FUCK - THAT GUY'S INSANE - WHY DID I INVITE HIM ALONG AS WELL? NEED CHARACTERS - RISKS - MUST GET IN THE SHOWER - FEEL BETTER NOW - PUT ON MY GREY SUIT - BLACK SHIRT - UNION FLAG TIE AND BADGE - SHOT OF WHISKEY - PREPARE SMOKES - CUT OUT FLYERS - FIND MY MASK AND SUNGLASSES - GREY DAY - STILL EARLY - GET A PLASTIC FOLDER - FILL WITH BLANK PAPER - GIG POSTERS - FLYERS - LOOK THE PART - TIE MIGHT BE PUSHING IT - WAS GONNA GO IN DRAG - OR AT LEAST WITH EYELINER - £5 A TICKET - ONLY THE "TRAINING DAY" - WATCHED THAT FILM LAST NIGHT - SUBCONSCIOUS?

KNOCK AT THE DOOR - THE DOCUMENTER IS HERE - I LET HIM IN - HE'S ALREADY FILMING - NICE SUIT - NICE FOOTAGE - WE LOOK THE PART - LITTLE CHAT - OUTSIDE FOR A J - KEEP THE MASK ON FOR A WHILE - CHAT IN THE GARDEN - 9:45AM - WARPED INTERVIEW - BACK INSIDE - POURING WHISKEY INTO HIP-FLASK - A FEW MORE SLURPS - FINISH J - OPT OUT OF WEARING THE TIE - TAKE IT WITH ME IN THE FOLDER FOR LATER - GO TO GET MONEY FOR ANOTHER TAXI - TAXI TO TOWN HALL - BACK TO THE HOUSE - PUT THE MASK BACK ON - THE DOCUMENTER FILMS MRS BULL'S EYE - SHE'LL BE WORKING AT THE CONFERENCE ON SATURDAY - ON THE INSIDE - NO NEED FOR TICKETS - £30, FUCK THAT! - RESENT THE £11 PLUS P&P FOR MINE AND SCOTT'S "TRAINING DAY" TICKETS - HE FILMS ME PHONING THE TAXI - STILL GOT THE MASK ON - GOOD - ONLY £8 - MONEY LEFT FOR PINTS - WE'LL NEED IT - I GET A PREMONITION - PREMONITION OF BOREDOM - STALE COLLEGE SEMINAR - CLIQUES - PREPARE STATEMENTS - TEST CRASH - BE THERE IN TEN MINUTES - TAXI'S HERE - LEAVE THE CAMERA NOW - USE THE DOCUMENTER'S PHONE CAM INSTEAD

NERVOUS INSIDE THE TAXI - ON THE WAY THERE NOW - STRANGE TALK - ASIAN TAXI DRIVER - LOOKING AT MY BADGE AND FOLDER - UKIP TICKETS - WITH COMPLIMENTS - SCOTT'S FILMING THROUGH THE WINDOW - SMETHWICK - CLOSER - CLOSER - BEHIND THE LIBRARY - FEELS LIKE A GIG - NO, A MIX BETWEEN THAT AND A FUNERAL - SHOT OF WHISKEY - I FEEL READY - PAY THE MAN - GET OUT - FILM US WALKING OUTSIDE THE TOWN HALL - FINALLY FOUND OUR FRIEND, CRASH - HE'S IN A STATE - SHOUTING - TAKES A MORPHINE TABLET - GETS WORSE - BLACK EYE LOOKS DISGUSTING - HIS ARM IN A SLING - WE NEED TO GET INSIDE - CRASH WANDERS OFF - HE CAN'T HANDLE IT RIGHT NOW - SAYS HE'S GOING TO ANN SUMMERS - THANK CHRIST - ME AND THE DOCUMENTER GO IN - PRIVATE - SIGNS ON DOOR - NO MEMBERS OF PUBLIC ALLOWED - BUT THE TICKETS WERE OPEN TO THE PUBLIC - STRANGE - NOT VERY BUSY - 10:50AM - ODD SETTING - FEELING TIPSY - HIGH - CONFIDENT - SLIGHT PARANOIA - CAN'T LOOK AT SCOTT - STRANGE, OBVIOUSLY STRESSED WOMAN APPROACHES US - WHY ARE YOU HERE? - NAME PLEASE - COOL - CALM - NO PROBLEM - SHOWING REAL INTEREST - NOT WHAT I THOUGHT IT WOULD BE - FIRST SESSION AT 11AM - IN THE MAIN HALL - GRAND VENUE - BIG PIPE ORGAN BEHIND THE STAGE - RELIGIOUS ATMOSPHERE - THERE'S A NUN OVER THERE - FUCK - THAT'S TYPICAL - DON'T LOOK AT SCOTT - LOADS OF EMPTY CHAIRS - FILM CREW AT THE BACK - LOTS OF OLDER MEN - HANDFUL OF MIDDLE-AGED WOMEN - COUPLE OF WEEDY LOOKING YOUTHS IN SUITS - RUNTS - MEAN WELL - GOOD FOR THEM - QUIET NOW - THE STAGE REMINDS ME OF VIC REEVES BIG NIGHT OUT - BALD MAN ON THE LEFT, SITTING AT A DESK - CHRIS ADAMS - LOOKS LIKE SECURITY - WHITE SHIRT - SHORT SLEEVES - TIE - ID CARD AROUND HIS NECK - LOOKS LIKE A BEEFED UP, SLAP-HEAD WOMAN - NAZI POTATO MAN - DJ - LAPTOP ON DESK - PAPERS - GREEN TABLECLOTH ON DESK - FAT GUTTED, GREY HAIRED GUY COMES ON - JAMES MOYIES - LOOKS LIKE A STANDARD OFFICE SLOB - PUSHES HIS GLASSES BACK - TALKS INTO THE MIC ON THE LECTURE STAND - STRONG ACCENT - SCOTTISH - BORING - DULL - BUT HE KEEPS GLANCING AT ME AND SCOTT - POWER-POINT TIME

TOLD TO GET INTO GROUPS - GROUPS OF 7 OR 8 - AWKWARD - AMPLIFYING OUR OUTSIDER-NESS - TRY TO FORGET THE SLIGHT SMELL OF WEED COMING FROM MY POCKET - FULL FLASK OF WHISKEY SLOSHES AROUND - THE SOUND'S SO OBVIOUS - ALL THESE OLD DUDES - AND THIS SLIGHTLY YOUNGER ONE -  A REAL THUG - TOO MANY LANGUAGES, HE SAYS - TOO MANY IN SCHOOLS - 13 DIFFERENT - DISTRACTION - SCOTT KEEPS FUCKING YAWNING, LOUDLY - YAWNING AT BAD GRAPHICS AND SHIT STATS - TELL HIM TO MAKE NOTES - BABY FACED SUIT TURNS AROUND TO SPEAK TO US IN THE EMPTY THEATER - LIKE A CULT - SMUGNESS - "HAVE YOU SIGNED UP TO THE MAILING LIST? HAVE YOU SIGNED UP TO THE MAILING LIST?" HE SAYS - FAST - GEEK FAST IN SUIT - MOLE FACE - FROM STAFFORDSHIRE - TELFORD - BRIDGNORTH - AHHHH - OK - I SEE - SAYS HE'S THE LEADER OF UKIP YOUTH - SORRY - SECRETARY OF UKIP YOUNG INDEPENDENCE SOCIETY - JOHN GILL - 22 YEARS OLD - JESUS - HE IS YOUNG - GOOD FOR THE AVERAGES - MOST ARE FUCKING DAILY EXPRESS READERS - ME AND SCOTT PULL IT OFF - SAYING CRAZY SHIT - "GOT THE CALLING AT TWENTY SEVEN" - BAD JAW ACHE - LAUGHTER PREVENTION BATTLE - JAMES MOYIES DRONING ON - IDEAS SHEETS - PAULINE'S PENS - IS THIS THE ALTERNATIVE? NO THIS IS A FUCKING RIP-OFF - £5 FOR THIS MIND-NUMBING SHIT - WHAT DOES A CHAIRMAN DO? - WHAT DOES A SECRETARY DO? - BLOKES WHISPERING "I'M A CHAIRMAN" - "AREN'T YOU A TREASURER?" - THE DOCUMENTER'S CONTRIBUTIONS ARE TAKEN SERIOUSLY - NOT MINE - I AM IGNORED AS MUCH AS POSSIBLE AFTER POINTING OUT THE "SMALL TOWNS AND VILLAGES" THING TO JOHN GILL - "MAKE SURE EVERYTHING'S LEGAL," SUGGESTS SCOTT - GOOD POINT - THEY LAPPED IT UP - I DECIDE TO GO TO THE TOILET FOR A PISS AND A BIG HIT OF WHISKEY - IN THE CUBICLE - SUCKING BACK ON THE FLASK - SOMEONE ELSE IN HERE - STRAIGHTEN MYSELF UP - GO TO WASH MY HANDS - CHRIS ADAMS IS THERE - BENT OVER THE SINK - IS HE DOING COKE? - OH NO, HE'S RUBBING HIS TROUSERS - SMILING AT ME - THE SOAP DISPENSER EXPLODED ON HIM - I SAY HELLO - I'M ENJOYING IT - SOAKING UP THE ATMOSPHERE - INTRIGUED ETC - HE LOVES IT - WASHING MY HANDS - WHISKEY BREATH - CLOSE ENCOUNTER - BETTER THAN SPEECHES - UNELECTABLE

PART 2 - "The Unlikely Source"

AUTHOR'S NOTE:
How did I get into this nerve-shredding, soul destroying mess? Well? ANSWER YOURSELF, MILES!!! There must be plenty of complicated and mysterious reasons to boot?
In all honesty, everything was happening at a time when I should really have been concentrating on getting the band back on the scene, but I couldn't fight off these kamikaze urges. I had no choice but to INVESTIGATE. It must be possible to track-back? Back-track? Return to the exact POINT OF ORIGIN?
I mean, when did this story actually begin? And why? Tough questions. I think we need to get stuck right into the root of all this madness... get to know the rhythm of the rhizome, so to speak....
Well, that story isn't a pretty one either. It involves an abundance of insanity, embarrassing stereotypes, hallucinated semiotics, sensory exploration, 'wacky' characters, cruel pseudonyms, bad timing, and, at least one politically charged proposition, in a shed.

"Wow, these avocados are fucking ripe," I said, rummaging through a big pile of the things at the busy outdoor market in Digbeth.
"They're too ripe, Miles," Pat told me. "It's going to be rotten guacamole in there, far too many BLACK CHUNKS," he advised, possibly too loudly.
"Bloody hell!" I whispered, sternly. "Watch what you're saying, Patrick!"
"Oh, sorry, I didn't think," Pat said, with only a hint of embarrassment in his voice. He's a good friend; a handsome, long blonde haired boy from Hampshire, with a taste for fine dining, fine women and fine music. He's also a talented painter who seems destined to travel the world, but then again, he could just end up working in "Borders" for the next five years, selling whatever the currently popular celebrity toilet books are - but I doubt it. Actually, I believe he's currently living on a farm in Georgia (the country), killing goats for dinner and having plenty of orgies with the locals.
"A bowl of chillies, please," I said to the man, who then gave me a massive bag full of the little green beasts. I gave him £1 and then happily walked back through the market, out the other end, approaching the stairs that lead up to The Bullring.
"Look at these little beauts," I said, opening up the blue plastic bag to show Pat.
"Nice, they look good, plus, there are loads of 'em," Pat was impressed.
"Let's try one each, just to make sure they're nice and hot," I suggested.
"Okay, but if we start gurning and sweating then we'll have to go and get some coffee!"
"Fine by me, just enjoy the buzz. You can get all the coffee you want, but first I think I'll be needing vodka."
I pulled two dark green chillies out of the bag and gave one to Pat. We both took a bite and almost instantly felt the rush of heat and burn. The tip of my tongue went into a spasm and Pat immediately went red in the face.
"Shit, these are HOT!" I exclaimed, still holding the other end of the chilli in my hand.
"Weallly hot, ah, huhh, splufh," Pat tried to speak, but failed. He threw the uneaten end in a bin as we started to walk up the concrete stairs. Just as we passed St Martin's Church, a middle-aged woman with mousy hair walked in front of us and tried to give us a leaflet about Jesus. We stopped for a moment and then I offered her my half eaten chilli.
"Do you want this?" I politely asked.
"OH NO!" she said, pulling a repulsive face, still holding the Jesus leaflet out.
"Really, it's good, nice and hot," I said as I dropped the remains of the chilli onto the Jesus leaflet in her hand.

After getting coffee, vodka, and inevitably tobacco, me and Pat found ourselves walking aimlessly around The Bull Ring. We decided to go right up to the very top, in a vague attempt to get a feel for the structure of the thing, plus Pat was in need of some new shoes. But the only feelings I had were that of confusion, boredom and despair. The mood was not right for productive shoe shopping, but is it EVER? How can you concentrate in a place that's heaving with flesh and tracksuit covered skeletons that have no apparent soul and seemingly have no sense of awareness beyond the realms of THE MALL. The only connection I felt with them was that my mind actually felt mauled - a tenuous link at best. Still, we were stupid enough to think that going into The Bullring would be somehow bearable.
"Why are we such scum, Pat?" I finally asked, after a long period of silence.
"We're herding animals, Miles," he said, looking down from the third tier, "it's a survival thing, you know? SAFETY FROM PREDATORS!"
Which made so much clear sense to me at the time, but things have got a little cloudy again since then. Anyway, after our 'shopping trip', we were in the mood to let off some steam, so we decided to get on the train at Moor Street and head over to see my old friend, Barry Glowbottom, in Quarry Bank.

By the time we finally arrived at Barry's place we had managed to get through a fair amount of the vodka. Luckily, I was feeling nicely sedated, because the first thing we saw was Barry's weird friend, Crash, a huge, twenty-six year old crazy bastard with a rusty tan who claims to be in the RAF, climbing up the tall metal fence to the right of the house and making a terrible clanging noise.
"What are you doing, Crash?" I shouted.
"Just trying to figure out the best way to get something big and heavy over or under this fucking fence," he replied, distractedly, scrambling and slipping all over the place.
I whispered to Pat in reassurance, "Don't worry about that guy, Patrick, he's friendly enough. We know him," but Pat looked unsure. I can't blame him. Crash was acting pretty strange, banging on the metal panels with his fist and screaming extremely violent obscenities.
I knocked on the front door. Barry eventually opened it. His long, black/grey dead hair flopped over his bloodshot eyes. His shirt was ripped, his shorts were torn and his boots were muddy.
"Miles! It’s nice to see you, mate."
"Good to see you too, man. This is my old friend, Pat, from my Aberystwyth days," and the two of them shook hands. All very pleasant, until we were startled by a frustrated howl...
"OHHHWWFUCKTHIS, I'm going back to play FRONT MISSION ALTERNATIVE in the fucking shed," Crash screamed, as he jumped back over into Barry's garden.
"What's got into Crash, Baz?" I asked.
"He's taken something, not sure what it was, but he's been unable to stop playing 'Front Mission Alternative' in the shed for like... 48 hours. He's also seen a sofa in a skip, just down the road, in 'perfect condition' apparently, that would replace the old battered one in the shed."
"Oh, so that's why he's been messing about on your fence?" Pat had solved the mystery.
"Yeah, he's making plans," said Barry, "but it's not MY fence. It's property of the funeral directors next door, so come on boys, we'd better go and check on him."

As we approached the shed, cautiously avoiding various brambles, nettles and holes in the ground, we saw a big pile of fresh brown mush, which could've been either vomit or diarrhoea, it smelled like both. We then heard a rumbling noise coming from the shed, followed by Crash screaming. It sounded like a scream of pain, at first, but then we heard him laughing and whooping.
"I think he's just completed the final mission," said Barry.
"Thank fuck," I said. "I need to have a nice quiet sit down for a while."
We piled into the shed and sat down on the battered sofas. Crash was now using the laptop, smoking a cigarette and skimming through pages and pages of what appeared to be profiles of scantily clad girls.
"Safe, Crash," I said. "What you up to now?"
"I'm just browsing through some whores," he nonchalantly replied. "I'm trying to work out which ones I've shagged."
"I see, but what about that sofa?" I asked. "Have you given up on getting the new luxury sofa?"
"No, NOT AT ALL, Miles," he said, with slightly menacing tones of panic in his voice. "I saw this bloke chuck it in a skip about twenty minutes ago when I was coming back from the off-licence. It looked in better condition than this rotten old bastard I'm sitting on. I knew I had to finish the mission first, check on my whores, have a cigarette, and wait for the reinforcements to arrive."
"Reinforcements?" Pat asked, nervously.
"That'll be us then," I sighed.
"Come on, CUNTS!" shouted Crash. "We have no time to lose. MY business is done and now we need to get that fucking sofa..."
"The Documenter is on his way," interrupted Barry.
"Good," blurted Crash. "The sick pervert can help us out with this. Anything that prevents him from fantasising about fucking Tulisa's headless corpse with a knife strapped to his dick is a good distraction."
"I don't mind helping out," I said, warily, "but...would you be willing to return the favour?"
"What the fuck do you you mean?" asked Crash.
"Well, I've managed to acquire some tickets for the UKIP 'Training Day' at Birmingham Town Hall, in a couple of weeks time," I said, with Crash and Barry just looking at me, blankly, seriously confused, to say the least. "It starts at around 11am on Thursday 20th September. I'm basically just planning on seriously soaking up the atmosphere...so I'll be able to write about the whole thing...you know...politics..."
"Whoa, wait, wait," Crash interrupted. "Is this something to do with the BNP?"
"No, didn't you hear what Miles said?" Barry blurted. "UKIP!"
"UKIP?" responded Crash. "What kind of fucking name is that for a gang of politicians? I mean, it sounds like a weird sleeping society, or an insomnia charity...or even a fucking mattress outlet!"
"Good point," I said. "I guess, in a strange way, it could be all of those things...but I need some moral support to do this properly, you know, some interesting characters to spark off..."
"Well, as long as it's not the BNP, I guess I'm up for anything," said Crash.
"Why are you so freaked out about the BNP?" asked Pat, surprisingly confidently - considering the fact that he'd been sitting in a state of quiet shock ever since we entered into the realm of the shed.
"Too many queers. Homos. Batty boys. I've seen it first hand," answered Crash. "I decided to go along to one of their meetings a while back, out of boredom, expecting it to be some sort of violent, drunken party. But it was more like one massive blind-date for closet gay skinheads and beer-belly faggots. It was awful. All those searching, lustful glances...and the groping...Jesus Christ, it was a disgrace. I'm up for violence and racism, but violence and racism with a homosexual theme? NO THANKS! I'd rather fuck a Tarantula in the face than stick my cock up a bloke's ass!"
"What about having a Tarantula shoved up your ass?" asked Barry, but Crash ignored him.
"Fucking hell, Crash," I said. "I would never have thought that was the case, especially with the BNP, but now you mention it...." before I could finish my sentence there was a knock on the shed door. It was The Documenter.
"Ah, finally, THE DARK PRINCE OF WOLLESCOTE has arrived," laughed Barry.
"Afternoon, boys," The Documenter greeted. "What's all this about racism and homosexuals? 'American History X' again, is it?"
"Enough of this messing about!" shouted Crash. "You need to stop idling and get yourselves on Sofa-watch duty. I'm not going to be pleased if some other cunt grabs it."
"So what will you be doing while we're standing in the street guarding a skip?" asked Barry.
"Having a nice massive wank-off with these two," Crash said, looking straight at me and Pat.
"Wha.." gasped Pat.
"Come on, lahahads," Crash laughed. "I'm only joking! We'll need to get rid of this old sofa. When The Dark Doc and Baz go off to secure the new one we can haul this rotten old piece of shit outside. There's a chainsaw in the house, and some fire-lighters, so there should be no trouble getting rid of it."
"You've got it all planned out, eh, Crash?" mumbled The Documenter.
"Too fucking right I have. So get going..."
"You know, this is MY shed," said Barry, sullenly.
"I know it is, Baz. But listen, buddy, I really think that you deserve to get a new sofa for the shed, and this is the best chance we've had. You two need to stop fretting and just go and fetch the thing. Leave the old couch to me, it'll be gone before you even get back!"
"What about getting the new one over the fence?" asked Pat.
"That won't be a problem," assured Crash. "I was just finalizing the calculations and performing various 'professional safety checks' before you arrived, REMEMBER?"
"Oh...yeah," Pat replied, less than enthusiastically.

Before we even had time to contemplate what was going on, Crash had cranked the chainsaw and began to viciously attack the old sofa. Me and Pat had wrestled the filthy old thing out of the shed and chucked it into a small clearing in Barry's garden. The noise was horrible, but Crash was just laughing hysterically, screaming - splinters flying - high to low - booming laughter - DIE YOU FUCK - keep our distance - kept our distance - whizzing - high pitch to low thud - stop - reverse - swing - Tobe Hooper - barely audible conversation - did security at Paralympics - saw this group of Arab tourists - young boys - one had his shirt open - pouches strapped to him - pouches in hand - gas bombs? - Dangerous liquid? - had to do his job - chased him down - the boy threw a pouch - it exploded on the floor - wrestled him to the ground - broke both his legs - not intentional - boy was screaming - small crowd gathered - no terrorist - just water balloons - better safe than sorry - government cover-up - pay off - blocked the press - G4S - illusions snapping - still two pieces - Middleton tits - can't give it up - give up the sham - give up the power - admit you're nothing - tough titty - the dumb will win out - so dumb down - at least get a sense of humour - play it down - yes, they're my boobs - all women have them - big deal - I'm committed to my human work - as long as there are cameras there - chainsaw statements - chainsaw state - now get the fire-lighters - prepare for upgrade...

"No results found for Ukipalsy," that's what Google said when I searched the word "Ukipalsy". I thought it made quite a good title for this piece of combined-story-journalism. I then searched "no results found for Ukipalsy" and Google said "No results found for no results found for Ukipalsy," and so on. I could've kept going with it, but I think it's time for me to stop dicking around and ask some more seriously searching questions instead. Questions like; What the hell WAS I doing at the UKIP 'Training Day' at Birmingham Town Hall on that tumultuous Thursday 20th September, 2012 Anno Domini? Fucking hell. It was an irresponsible and thoroughly insane thing to do, especially as I was completely out of my mind on various, powerful stimulants. I mean, what was I hoping to achieve? Well, in all honesty, and with a great sadness in my heart, I can't be totally sure. For some possibly perverted, semi-suicidal reason, I was signing up for everything, showing real enthusiasm, dressed in a suit and wearing both a union flag tie and a union flag pin badge, accompanied by two extremely dangerous psychopaths who were also wearing suits and union flag accessories. We were right on the bloody edge, millimetres away from trouble, but we were also trying to learn - WE WANTED, NEEDED TO BE TRAINED!!!

"FARAGE FOR PM," screamed Crash. His festering black-eye and bright white sling (obtained due to falling face-first from the tall metal fence outside Barry's house and then being crushed by the much sought after sofa, which followed him down onto the concrete floor) were not exactly detracting attention from where we were standing. A few heads turned to look at the three of us in the street. It was about 10:30am. We were huddled together, sharing a joint, preparing ourselves, standing not too far from the entrance to The Town Hall, trying not to draw too much unnecessary attention at this stage and feeling somewhat uncertain of the events that were about to unfold.
"Fucking hell, Crash, please, don't get too excited just yet, we need to get ourselves safely inside first," I whispered, loudly, my voice rattled with stress.
"He'll be fine in a minute, Miles," assured The Documenter. "Just allow him enough time to let off a little bit of steam. He's just taken the morphine tablets so he'll be like a nice subdued toddler by the time we enter the panic room."
The Panic Room. Indeed. It was not going to be an easy-going experience, but we were determined to experience it, regardless of the risks to our physical and mental security. Potentially dangerous situations like that are more-than-likely going to involve serious risks - possible humiliation, embarrassment, arrest, exile, and, almost always, irreparable shame. Luckily, for me, they provide any aspiring writer with some much needed inspiration. But I possibly had too much inspiration on my hands this time, an overwhelming amount of the shit. Still, it's good to get stocked up occasionally with plenty of fuel for the fire and bucket-loads of poison to dip my arrows in.

Monday, 30 July 2012

ON THE SPECTRUM

"Has this mind, so replete with ideas, imaginations fanciful and magnificent, which formed a world, whose existence depended on its creator - has this mind perished?" - from "Frankenstein, or, The Modern Prometheus" Mary Shelly, 1818.

Why is it that every time I'm in the mood to let my fingers run wild on this QWERTY, the anti-virus software decides to slow everything down by installing updates? It's a sick joke. Right, are we ready? Can I stick some sentences together now without having to wait ten seconds for them to appear on screen? Good.
One more run at it. That's what I'm thinking. One more run at this thing. Go out fighting or just let it fucking go. All or nothing. The only place for my madness is on the stage, in the wave, or, as I've come to realise, on the page. There's no way I can carry this burden without having valid places to let it burst out. Get up or give up. What's the use? Words can't save me, I know that now. Life might break me, but not yet, NOT YET. My new found skills as a demented 'polemical journalist' or, quite simply, as a 'writer', are nothing compared to what I know I can create in music and music performance. I can't write my music down though, but I actually think that my prose functions as a pretty good substitute, hopefully translating from the screen into the reader's brain in the same way that a sharply notated piece of music should - like a bolt of lightning.
The new line-up for my pesky, polarising and potentially brilliant Perhower rock group is currently being severely whipped and massaged into shape. They have got a mammoth task on their hands - a huge challenge indeed, because I'm asking them to take a massive risk - I'm asking them to believe again. But how can they believe in something that is so blatantly full of shit? Well, it's a tough question, isn't it? For me, there would be no better achievement than being able to construct a live band that can play the wildest, toughest tunes, leaving me, the freaky master, free to flow, a pure yet mutant vision, a great way to travel and a beautiful way to live. But, the major problem is that it's difficult to believe in something that does't really have any worth in the 'adult' world. "Part-time" does not appeal to me in the slightest, if there's no chance of fulfilling the potential then I will have no choice but to become a sort of passenger for a while, possibly for the rest of my life - and why not? Sometimes the idea of switching off is really appealing. Fuck it, let the fakes take all the glory because I give up. Leave me in peace, will you? I'm capable of being normal, you know, I could probably be more boring than the average bloke if I could just stamp out this lust. I'd love to blend in, disappear, go on auto - cease to be a dangerous non-stop thinker / scanner - imagine the sweet relief. HA HA HA, yeah, for about a day, after that it'd be like going COLD TURKEY. Scarily enough, that time might come, which is sort of the main reason why I'm writing this garbage. I've got a feeling this will be my last Automatic Update for a while, possibly the last one ever, because it's time to concentrate on the music again. If anyone out there wants me for my words, well, you've only got to seek me out. In the meantime, you really should get stuck right into this spectacle of a companion piece, show some support, and maybe, just maybe, I'll come back here to tell you all about what happened in the next chapter.
Thank Christ for the imagination, because, let's face it, most days are just ordinary, too real for anything surreal to register - overcast weather, even more dulled by the sound of distant traffic, recycle bins rumbling (or is it thunder threatening?), shit flies buzzing around the room (the irritating little bastards always manage to find their way in via an open window with no difficulty but they seem to have no idea how to get out again - idiots), birds chirping utter gibberish, dopey cats meowing at nothing, old men droning on, young women moaning and snapping, vile little children whinging, wheels squeaking, dogs whining... interrupted by thunder, yes, definitely thunder... and rain - if you actually witnessed each of those aforementioned things, one after the other, like I did, at 10am on Thursday 28th June, then maybe you would realise, like I have, that the ordinary can quickly mutate and transform into something quite strange. It was as if the mundaneness had come to a head, vibrations sent to the heavens, a more electric atmosphere was on its way. The rain really started to come down, as I attempted to type coherently my mind began to wander aimlessly, both of the windows were open in the room and the rain sounded like it was filling up the street. Thunder, it was like the laughter of a spiteful god that appeared to signal an increase in violent downpour. I really didn't want it to be a wet day, let alone a fucking-well-soaked-to-the-bone day, but why not? Maybe it would make things a little more exciting or interesting? Interesting, yes, but hopefully not impossible. I was planning on walking to Birmingham, donning a mask, armed with twenty handmade copies of the new Perhower record, hoping to be able to give them out to random (carefully selected?) members of the public, but the evil weather was starting to give me the fear. Even though it had successfully drowned out the previous moribund sound collage, the now torrential storm was flash-flooding me with doubt. I hadn't planned for this.
I'd been on the god-awful wine again the night before, not that I'm much of a wino, like our depraved Prime Minister has proven to be, but after a day of intense old man checking, hardcore lawn mowing and relentless web design, hammering a bottle of red can surely be seen as a pretty acceptable vice, can it not? I had also been watching the euro semi-final between Portugal and Spain, smoking cigarettes on my own, frantically making notes and hysterically berating the screen with a curious mix of unnecessary abuse and appreciation. It had been a pleasantly sunny day and I was actually looking forward to waking up and getting stuck into the mission, but when I woke up I just felt weird. For some seriously fucked up reason I couldn't stop thinking about that disgusting crocodile headed Pink Panther I'd met in my dream. After hearing strange animal-like noises coming from down the dark hallway I stumbled out to investigate, unnerving, out of tune humming filled the narrow passage, I pushed open the door at the other end and discovered the ludicrous beast sitting at the keyboard in the back room, pawing at keys erratically, its gigantic mouth wide open with brutal teeth sticking out. Maybe it was because I had fallen asleep watching "Alien" for the thousandth time? Whatever the reason, my head was fuzzy and my shit was green. I decided to make myself a cup of tea and do the washing up (or did I?). It was just too mundane, too real, I was in no mood for public theatrics, no mood at all - that was until I heard each of those sounds like a chain reaction, the weather went crazy, and then I got a text message from Sarah saying that she'd won £56 on the lottery at work. OK, I thought, today might end up being a little more interesting than I had expected.
"Maybe the sun will come back!" I boomed for my own entertainment as I glanced behind to see the rejuvenated light penetrate my curtains. I heard fresh noises, the spooky sound of pigeons, warped sirens, excited screams, doors slamming, water dripping from the guttering like a slowed down ticking clock, accompanied by the warm chug and then silence of a parked car's engine...


HERE COMES THE SUPERVISOR,STAND UP STRAIGHT AND TRY TO LOOK BUSY. I'VE JUST SEEN A SPECIAL ADVISOR, PORTION OF CHIPS AND A PINT OF CIDER. THOSE WERE THE DAYS, WELSH MEMORIES INVENTED A VILLAIN CALLED "CLAY" APPLE JUICE INSTEAD OF WHISK, EH? EVIL AND DISTRESSED. A CLEAN AND TIDY MESS. DISTRESSED TO IMPRESS, A CLEAN AND TIDY MESS. WAITING OUTSIDE. CAR PARK / GRAVEYARD / HOT RIDE, ABIDE WITH ME, ABIDE. (QUICK SAVE) TAKE OFF YOUR CLOTHES, PUT ON THE UNIFORM, OLYMPIC TORTURE, BUMPER PICNIC. GOLDEN SORCERER, TOUCHES LANCE BOIL-SHI-BURGER, AVID DEBAUCHERY, SILVER HORSEMANSHIP, ANCIENT VERMIN. BURN MY CLOTHES, IN 5 MINUTES, I'M VERMIN. UR DIN DIN. WIN WIN WINDOWS. POLE TO POLE. ADULT CONTENT. ENOUGH TO TELL A STORY. ENOUGH IS ENOUGH IS ANY MORE. TORCH THE ARCHIVE. KNOW YOUR LIMITS. MEET BY QUEEN VIC.

POTENTIAL NEW DRUMMER OBVIOUSLY HAD THE FEAR - CHEEKY LITTLE BASTARD WAS LISTENING IN FROM OUTSIDE - SAID IT WASN'T FOR HIM - SO I WENT BERSERK - SCREAMED AT THE OTHERS - "THIS IS THE FUCKING BAND NOW" - "YOU ARE MY FUCKING GROUP" - "ARE YOU WITH ME?" - "THIS IS IT" - A PIVOTAL MOMENT. BE PREPARED TO BE DESPISED BUT ALWAYS GIVE IT YOUR ALL. THERE IS NO SHAME IN BEING UGLY AND REAL. LET US SQUASH THE FAKE AND MOCK THE POSING PUBLIC MASTURBATORS. WE ARE THE PROFESSIONAL REBELS. WE'RE RATED AND HATED. WE'RE THE SACRED CHILDREN OF PERHOWER. IN TIME WE SHALL CONQUER THIS COWARDLY WORLD. FIBASS, ROSCOE, AND ROSE OF BEARWOOD - MAKE SURE YOU DO YOUR HOMEWORK - LET ME FEEL YOUR POWER AND I WILL UNLEASH THE BEAST...ALWAYS REMEMBER THE EVACUATION PROCEDURE...

By the end of our brief, masked, "promotional rampage" across the streets of Birmingham city centre, our chat-up lines had resorted to "This is the worst record I've ever heard," and "I'm trying to get rid of this pile of shit," but it had a surprisingly positive effect. Roscoe's first line was "Are you a big music fan?" to which a fair few people answered "NO". I supposed that maybe they just considered themselves "small" music fans. After knocking back a couple of pints and a Bell's, myself, Roscoe and The Documenter gathered our stuff and headed towards the transparent exit, into the muggy outside world, two casually dressed boys wearing backpacks, one clutching an umbrella and wearing sunglasses, both wearing masks and holding plastic bags full of CDs, followed by a geeza with a digital camera.
Each time I managed to pluck up the courage and approach someone, tantalisingly dangling a strangely annotated CD wallet in front of them, trying to forget the revolting mask I was wearing, saying something along the lines of "Would you like a free record? I made it myself, made in Birmingham," it was frighteningly easy to tell whether they would be interested or not, but not so easy to tell whether they would bother listening to it later. Obviously, I didn't want to waste too many of these delightfully 'hand-made' little psycho-gems, but I was trying to make a conscious effort not to be too prejudiced with my choice of person to disturb. In many ways I felt pathetic but I had to keep reminding myself that I was giving out something special here, a real piece of outsider product, a gift - nothing religious or related to business / lawyers / insurance / restaurants - no, I was simply offering these complete strangers a free album of original, self-produced music to scrutinise and take home with them.
Of course, I was not alone on this mission. I couldn't go through with this type of public madness like some strange loner, so, my late-blooming guitar wielder, Roscoe Theodore Balaban, was dragged along for the ride. He had ten CDs to give out and I had the same. This was a kind of mini-promo test run, for there was no point lugging hundreds of copies around with us yet because the record itself is merely the beginning of a new era of development. Scott "The Documenter" was also part of this experimental 'street team' (urgh), armed with his HD camera, he did his best to capture as much footage of each encounter as possible. We had hoped that the public would feel slightly more willing to engage with us if they were made to feel important - being filmed - such is the vain nature of our times / our species.
Regardless of the fact that we are not the best looking bunch (ordinary at best, slightly scary looking at worst) there was an air of confidence about us for some mysterious reason, or maybe not so mysterious, considering the fact that we were wearing really fucking weird rubber masks and sunglasses, cunningly disguising and protecting our overexposed souls, censoring our identities and the hideous evidence of unsavoury and intoxicating habits. "IT'S AN IMPROVEMENT ON BEFORE!" was shouted at me on two separate occasions. I couldn't help but agree.
We had good reason to be proud and confident in our strange product, our fearless gift to the world, because we believe in it, whatever it is. That's not to say all of our confidence was au naturale, far from it, we were, of course, inwardly sheathed by chemical imbalances, protected by adrenaline fuelled madness, overloaded with testosterone - yet numbed by years of disappointment. We thought we looked friendly enough, with the masks and all, but we actually must have appeared to be a threatening trio of deranged thugs...
I have come to know the streets of Birmingham pretty well over the last few years. My sense of place and direction, on foot, is phenomenal whatever state I might be in. I'm genuinely comfortable walking around the area for MILES. I gave up driving years ago because the car is one of the few things in life that I enjoy more as a passenger - I'm in the driving seat for almost everything else and I like it that way.
The thinking behind this initial burst of bite-sized promotion was to leak our latest set of recordings via the physical world, face-to-face, hand-to-hand, without the use of the internet. However, by the time you read this piece, the tracks will be available to stream from our online HQ, perhower.com. 
Directly handing out a small number of physical copies to potential first-time listeners on the City streets just seemed like a worthwhile thing to do. But, don't get me wrong, I never expect too much of an instant reaction any more. I don't expect any kind of great buzz until a few years have past (I'm like a fine wine or whiskey, you see?) but the process of constructing a physical version and then handing it out to the general public has proved to be somewhat therapeutic and even vaguely exciting. A few people actually bothered to have a conversation with us about the music - ie; "It's not rock is it?" and "My mate got slapped in the face in London when he filmed someone without permission," which brought on a real sense of almost dangerous engagement that I'm not sure exists properly in the virtual world. 
Having said that, considering the very useful technology that we have at our disposal now, in terms of presentation and access, the 'virtual' platform can be pretty effective in its own way. Saturation is still very much the main issue here. The very painful truth is that someone like myself can't effectively reach the potential thousands that I probably should be able to because the whole system is clogged up with sewage, just like my upstairs toilet, it's there, it looks nice, but it won't flush properly. I do have some faith in the future, I believe, on some days anyway, that humans need ear-sex as much as they need real-sex, so I'm going to keep on fucking your ears until you come, OK?
Me, Rossy and Doc were, at the very least, having a fun couple of rampant hours out in Town on a Thursday afternoon in the miserable summer of 2012. We never really get to do stuff like that, my time with the Hadlington brothers is usually spent in a stuffy, grey tiled kitchen, sweating my bollocks off, glugging pale ale, spouting seemingly random technical instructions and wrestling with cables. Scott's knees, neck and back are constantly done-in due to him being persistently bent double while operating the computer that we use for recording. Hours crouching on that floor, locked into a bizarre technological trance, is enough to wreck anybody's knees and neck (and mind). We really need to sort a desk out because we're nearly at the stage where we can call that kitchen a STUDIO - KITCHUDIO? STUDITCHEN?
Anyway, it was just good to be buzzing in the 'real world' again, armed with the fruits of our labour and ready for action. This was not a day for reclusive reflection, no, this was a time of celebration and potential liberation...




There was hardly anyone on the train when we got on. Roscoe sat down and rummaged through a plastic bag, jostling with an array of chocolate and pastries. Doc wedged himself into a corner and lasted about ten seconds before he fell into a deep, deep sleep. I fidgeted in my obsessive-compulsive manner, attempting to get comfortable for the journey back to Cradley Heath, feeling pleased about our successful afternoon of distribution.
"What's that woman doing over there, Miles?" Roscoe asked, momentarily distracted from his sweet treats.
I peaked over the top of the chair and saw the woman at the other end of the carriage. She was quite a big lady, sat cross legged on the floor by the doors, unnaturally bright red hair hung loosely from her head, abstracting her pale face and hiding her dark eyes. She was wearing a large black over-coat which seemed to sparkle when the light caught it. I really couldn't see her face properly but she appeared to be middle aged. Something was spread out in front of her, some kind of peculiar pink grit which she rubbed around the dirty floor with her hands and feet while making a very weird humming noise.
"You don't see that everyday," I muttered.
"What the fuck is she doing with that stuff?" Roscoe questioned.
"God knows, maybe that's what's making her hum?" I suggested.
"She's probably just some poor old wreck," Roscoe concluded, his head now lost inside the plastic bag.
"I'm not sure..." before I could finish the sentence the humming got louder, much louder, so much so it made us both sit up straight. Somehow, Doc remained fast asleep and the woman didn't appear to change, she just continued to push the grit around, her head hung low, still humming, but it was getting louder and louder, weirder and weirder... it started to sound like two, even three humming voices...all of them coming from her direction.
"We should go and see if she's all right," I whispered.
"Where's the bloody ticket inspector when you need him?" Roscoe blurted.
"I'm going over there," I said, feeling strangely nervous.
Trying to look inconspicuous, I stood up and carefully made my way over to the woman. The humming got unbearably loud until, when I was only about a metre away from her, it came to an abrupt stop. The shock of the silence was almost enough to knock me off balance.


You've been me.
I've been you.
Now what shall we do?
Always hurt the ones that are closest,
Ain't that true?

What's the time, Mrs Wolf?
"There is no such thing," she said with a smile.

Everything change,
Versions of events to the events themselves.
My eye is doing my head in,
And my computer is a pile of shit.

-DOUBLE YOU HOOPS...
-OUT OF BODY EXPERIENCE
-STRANGE JOY AND PAIN
-STUPID LOOKING LETTERS
-PLUGGED INTO THE MAINS
-DAY TO DAY
-FIXATE
-THE NTH DEGREE
-AMUSEMENT
-SURVIVAL
-AMUSEMENT
-LEGACY
-ME
-WHOOPS
-NOT
-SO
-CLEVER
-NOW
-RESORT
-TO
-VIOLENCE...
An earthquake of dodgy connection noise rumbled through the room, loosening bowels, eardrums and teeth. The air smelled like vinegar and rice - with a disturbing rotten pineapple tinge after a while.
"I'm gonna jab this right into yer cheek if you don't stop playing that fucking riff," I screamed, violently, desperately grasping the tiny broken screwdriver I'd found on the shelf above the dusty speaker.
"Oh yeah?" CN responded, "COME ON THEN YOU CRAZY TWAT!"
"DIE, YOU FUCK-DICK!!!" I wailed, lunging at that freakishly tall beast like a demented kangaroo with putrid whiskey saliva strings flailing from a burning mouth, bloodshot eyes, tears welling and stinging... strange saxophone music playing in the background... With one swift slash / gouge I managed to slice his eye completely open, blood spat everywhere, every direction, bright red-black gloop inflated and puked out while he squawked and squealed like a stretched guinea-pig in hellish agony. I rammed my knee into his groin and then, as he hit the floor, viscously stamped on his hand until it shattered and resembled mangled beached Cephalopoda.
"You like that, huh?" I laughed, "I'm gonna cut you a new face, bitch, I'm gonna bore ya some more!"
At that moment, the tiny screwdriver, covered in a thick red syrup, began to glow. It was as if there was a sacred light coming from within - a stunning orange-red spark of eternal love accompanied by the salty / fishy smell of seaweed. Static noise began to pump out of the newly-formed bulb, cracks and pops, a radio-voice, a walkie-talkie sound, but amplified, modulated, finally tuning in clear - a female voice - synthetic wobble:
"Remoteness and talent in language,
Inattention, withdrawal, reliance on obsessions,
Hyperactivity, or aggressive or oppositional behaviour,
The "different-ness" adolescents experience can be traumatic.
Stereotypy,
Greyman-Silverman,
Loudness addiction,
Packed full of pick-ups,
All on maximum.
Feeding back my volume addiction,
Such simple things,
I drop to my knees for them.
On the spectrum,
I want to bury my face in them,
This cruel and complex complex.
Stay the fuck away because I'm giving birth.
I need to hold your hand because I'm giving birth...
On the human planet,
On this planet, Earth.
Chances of survival are, like, what on Earth?
Stop thinking like that.
Coincidental.
Maybe the Sun will come back?
Neurodiversity?
Homosexuality was removed from the manual.
Remarkable contributions to human history.
No therapy,
I fought sponge.
Turned into gold,
You don't understand.
How could you?
Now I'm admitting it,
Putting it out,
Tech what you can,
The consequences,
Because I suffer,
This ignorant world,
Leak the truth,
More ways than uno,
A style of my own,
Sharing traits others,
Hans:
"It seems that for success in science or art,
A dash of autism is essential"
If you're feeling down and out,
No appetite, a happiness drought,
Take my advice and cold call all the cold callers.
Pick them off one by one,
Remember to dial 141.
Do it face to face if you're sick of all the boring fashion...
Cuddles for you, cuddles.
If you're feeling underexposed,
No audience, no help for growth,
Take my advice and grab hold of the English language.
Hunter Thompson, George Orwell and William Burroughs,
Words like bullets,
A bear-hug form of psychopathic...
Cuddles for you, cuddles.
Massage parlour, massage parlour.
The stupid, inbred hounds couldn't finish it off,
Even though they ripped a chunk right out of its brain.
They couldn't get the better of a digital fox,
Although, there was no blood, there was plenty of pain.
THE HUNTED IS NOW VERY MUCH THE HUNTER.
LOOKING THROUGH YOUR WINDOW,
GOT ITS EYES ON YOUR DAUGHTER.
FOR SOME IT IS A PEST,
BUT FOR OTHERS, A HERO.
THE LIKELIHOOD OF KILLING IT IS NEXT TO ZERO.
What's that sound?
Is it the penny dropping?
Is it danger, is it saviour, is it chaos mocking?
Can you measure success?
Can you measure the love?
Can you measure the ego?
Can you measure the dumb?
Don't be afraid to run,
But be prepared to fight,
When the running is done,
There will be time to take stock.
The sheep will get bitten,
Some wounds will never heal,
Try to keep the numbers down,
The fox just won't give up.
Analogue for a second,
Electric fever,
Cunning zeros and ones,
CULL DIGITAL FOX.
Chimpanzee Gorilla Pig Bat,
Chimpanzee Gorilla Pig Dog.
In the bog,
In the swamp,
It's a slog,
It's a song.
I'm breeding an interesting, mixed up animal,
An interesting, dangerous animal,
An interesting, controversial animal.
You're an interesting, controversial animal.
I'm an interesting, controversial animal...
Do you want to know the reason?
"STRAIGHT OUTTA THE TUBE!"
Now mixed,
I'm working with redundant software,
And trying out insane techniques.
This time I'll try them with some lube,
And if it still sounds shit, well,
You'll just have to deal with it.
Dunderexposed...product"
Out of nowhere, compressed white-soil fangs came at me with a purpose, chomping at high speed, calcium carnage, something got me, something got my head in its mouth, chilli membrane stinging through the bright compost, DING DONG... "Ve're not religion zellers...ve're not zelling religion..." something about LOVEFiLM... where am I? Low notes, like a belly-laugh, fade out - echo chamber...pitch shifted voice... "Vere's my tobacco?" "You've been me!"


Of course, it was only a dream, a nightmare, a disturbing few seconds which seemed like hours. Fortunately, these hideous events were not real, but I had woken up thinking so clearly about them it was hard not to be put slightly off guard. I needed to be strong that morning, for it was a vital, potentially challenging and important day. I had wanted to be in a confident frame of mind for our hysterically generous assault on the unsuspecting public. Thoughts of eye stabbing and being eaten alive by spicy-compost-spewing Bulgarian LOVEFiLM cold-callers are not useful things to have rolling around your brain when there is dangerous promotional work to be done. I went over to my desk and picked up the new Perhower album, "ON THE SPECTRUM", one of a small number of specially produced promo CDs which we were planning on giving out to the general public. I opened one of them and read the message inside:

"Most people write this kind of thing twenty years later or at least AFTER completion, but not me. I've nearly finished mixing this thing and it's sounding miraculous despite the fact that I'm losing the will to live. I've lost count of the amount of times I've smashed my head off this desk. Attempting to make a BIG, BAD and CRAZY sounding DIY record with hardly any top notch production gear is an insane, almost unreachable ambition, however, I think I've almost done it... OK, well, it's sounding quite strange, I'll admit that - in a way it feels more like a ridiculously ambitious set of demos, a scatter-logical, unpredictable sonic assault which has been pieced together like a demonic puzzle, forming a kind of Lo-Fi trance-rock concept album for the new age... (GENRE = DIY-DEATH-SOUL)
Thanks must go to Scott "The Documenter" for investing in the very decent studio mics and interfaces, through which much of this album was recorded. Thanks also to CN Support for 'acquiring' a couple of external sound-cards for me to abuse over the last couple of years. The biggest thanks go to Sarah "Rose of Bearwood" for being the closest thing we've had to a record label all this time, she has truly devoted her life to the art of music and insanity.
Although this piece will extend beyond the CD insert (there's only so much I can fit on a single sheet of paper - shoestring budget? More like a sturdy pair of scuffed boots with no laces), those of you who are lucky enough to have been GIVEN one of these handmade beauts will be able to experience it the old fashioned way. Perhower, in terms of playing live, is still very much an eponymous mini-orchestra, but I'm working on a new tight rock sound for the new line-up to absorb themselves in. The record is almost a separate entity, certain tracks (notably the ones featuring JF) exist purely as recordings, but you can expect to hear interpretations of much of the rest of it at our live shows / invasions. Unfortunately, I'm finding it painfully hard to believe that we can somehow put a worthwhile tour together again or at least get a few decent gigs booked in, but, knowing what I've managed to pull together in the past, I know that it's far from impossible - just a shame it's also pretty far from possible too. I'm fucked if I give up and I'm fucked if I continue, the only difference is that we'll have more fun if I go out fighting...
I'm pretty sickened by the lack of open public support for what I'm trying to achieve here, I do really need you, stranger, humanoid, MOTHER FUCKER, to take a risk and give MPH's strange Perhower vision some generous exposure - tell the world, update your status, yeah? Share this wonderful CD - after all, it was hand crafted by "The New Son of Odd". Why not link to perhower.com or twitter your dirty stinking socks off - because I CAN'T do that stuff. It's not that I'm totally against it, it's just that there's no way I can effectively argue my point on those things - not without having to concede, I can't get bogged down in that kind of virtual buzz making / war - I have to concentrate on making the FUN stuff for you lot, the filthy public. So come on, you sexy pigs, use me as your wildcard and I'm sure we can have a good time together. You are one of the first lucky buggers to hear this collection of tracks because it hasn't even been released online yet. Just because I'm handing out free CDs doesn't mean I'm desperate (but I am) or running low on ideas (but I'm not). Just because the bar has run out of WKD and bottles of lager there's no need to stop the party, when there's plenty of beer left in the barrel a crazy time can still be had by all. We never run dry.
PS make sure you have a listen to the unlisted track at the end, it's a special trip...MPH"

I'd forgotten about that track, man, what an ear shagger that one turns into! Shame I couldn't be arsed to put any bass on it, still, there's plenty of low notes elsewhere on the record to keep the down and dirty deviants happy. Fucking hell, after such an unhinged array of tunes I'd like to think that people would be thankful for the relieving ambient mutations at the end.

I quickly jogged downstairs, switched on the big stereo system in the lounge and put the album on from the start, at high volume. Jett Fyter's voice boomed out "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen..." and I was hooked all over again. I threw on my jacket, got my bag, grabbed an umbrella and braced myself for the harsh conditions. After doing my usual last minute O.C.D. checks I stepped out of the house and felt a significant rush of heat and dampness run through me. Cold rain and hot air, what a delightful sensation. It wasn't the most comfortable of walks but I just gritted my teeth and managed to get to town in a rapid slog, which left me with plenty of time to sip on a cloudy "Old Rosie" and stop off at 'Baguette World' for a spicy cheese special. Simple pleasures.
Roscoe and The Documenter would be arriving very shortly and I needed plenty of fuel to see me through. Hearing my own twisted and addictive sounds cranked up to the max before setting off was a good start, but I blatantly needed that special something extra, something to keep me from being too light-headed and earnest, something potent to guide us on this journey, this potentially frustrating and embarrassing day of intrusion and confusion. Ah, regardless of all that nonsense, I was looking forward to thrusting our new sparky little fucker of an album into the sweaty palms of random people, for it was sure to give me plenty to write about. Even if those palms were undeserving - and many of them would be - we were doing this for our own sense of release / relief in order to realise that we have successfully made the first steps towards producing decent, indecent records, using only the bare minimum in regards to technology, but at the same time unavoidably embracing the idiosyncratic techniques and innovations that bring life and plenty of flavour to our discs.
POWER SHOWER WAKE ME UP - RINSE OFF ALL MY SWEAT AND BLOOD - HOT AND STEAMY CLEAN ME GOOD - STEAM INDUCED AMNESIA - IT'S TIME TO TUNE INTO - TIME TO TURN INTO - RADIO DILEMMA - TALK SHOP OR DON'T TALK AT ALL - KWIK SAVE CHIC - BEWARE OF THE SUPERVISOR...