Sunday, 13 December 2009


When the rhythm calls the government falls Here come the cops
From Tokyo to Soweto viva la musica pop We are black & white
and we dance all night down at the hop and the letters were tall
on the Berlin Wall viva la musica pop so if you're feeling low
stuck in some bardo I, even I know the solution
love, music, wine and revolution love, love, love music, wine and revolution
This too shall pass so raise your glass to change and chance
and freedom is the only law shall we dance...

Saturday, 12 December 2009

Certain half deserted streets

Almost completely deserted, actually.

Just got back from Matter. It was... alright. The music was *fucking blinding*, the club was not actually as good as B2t in Birmingham or Bangface, most of the crowd were trendy wankers or rudeboys, and I had shitty pills that did nothing. However, I did see Chase & Status who were excellent despite having their stupid MC talking stupid incomprehensible shit into a microphone straight out of his stupid, self-assured face. I swear for the most part all he said was "widiwidiwidiwidiwidiwidiwidiwidiwoah-oh-ho, let's go", and occasionally paused to shout "Chase and Status" in increasingly ridiculous accents. "Cheehyus un stee-yah-tus". SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU STUPID PRICK. (I don't like MCs) Noisia were good too, as to be expected from old bangfacers. :) I thought Andy C was shit and boring as were most of the other acts. A few randoms in room 2 were wicked, Culture Shock was the best of them, played some stupidly hardcore neurofunk, I felt a bit like I was in World War 1, in a positive way. Wow that was a weird phrase.

Also - while I was on the bus to the O2, meant to be feeling excited and up for it, which I sort of was, I predominantly thought about jess dreamily. And when I met the girl I went with and her mates, supposed to be all sociable, which I sort of was, but I mostly thought about jess still. And when I was in the club, dancing about and whatnot, and when I was at the bus station talking to this big gang of guys, watching fights break out and talking to one about the racist character of the police, and when I was talking to a welsh bloke who'd had 2 grams of coke and a gram of speed taken off him, and a german tourist girl, and when I decided crazily to just walk home from Greenwich, literally a few towns away from home, and when I even more crazily made it, with a flawless route... still just thought about jess.

Being in love is weird, man. =p

  • There is nothing like a big crowd of macho slick-haired morons determined not to smile at anyone to bring out the closet elitist in you
  • There is nothing like a cheese and salad cream sandwich to replenish one's energy stores at 5 in the morning
  • There's nothing like Jacob

Tuesday, 8 December 2009

One of my favourite poems ever.

I have no adequate interpretation of what is being communicated here, no sense of the poem's structure or the author's intentions, but it is... completely amazing. The Love Song Of J. Alfred Prufrock.

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question. . .
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions
And for a hundred visions and revisions
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!"]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!"]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all;
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet–and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while, 90
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say, "That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all."

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all."
. . . . .

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old . . . I grow old . . .
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

John Winthrop, you fat fuckin' legend.

We must delight in each other, make others’ conditions our own, rejoice together, mourn together, labor and suffer together, always having before our eyes our commission and community in the work, our community as members of the same body. - John Winthrop, 1630.

Possibly a nutter apart from this quote, but it's nice to remember that the past wasn't characterised by total idiots all of the time, and that this kind of idea is not new. :)

I know you're a recluse you know that's no excuse

Oh my actual days. A few days of learning, chilling out, christmas shopping and drinks at the hobgoblin.

And theeeeen.

A whole MONTH living at Molly and Jacob's house. :D I'll get to see them all the time. And all my friends all the time. And Jess. :) And it will be christmas. And we'll have whiskey and wine and hot food and it'll be cold outside and cosy inside and we'll play instruments and gorgeous music to eachother and get out of our little heads.

I'm literally laughing aloud at how happy this idea makes me.

Tuesday, 1 December 2009

It's well your birthday soon

So I was thinking I might let you off maid duty for the day. If you're good. And you make me trifle. =p


Me and Kie on Facebook Chat


You wake up, with a boner, in a bin filled with shit.


And you wank up the walls until, exhausted, you sink back into a delirious, dream filled sleep.

It's December! :D

That means it's literally practically christmas now. :D Time for warmth, cuddles, family, rampant sentimentalism, becoming significantly fatter, mulled wine, eggnog, pine needles, mince pies, rudolph and fuck it, it might even snow!

Get. Right. In.