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.
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.
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.