April 3rd 2005 - June 14th 2005
JUNE 14th 2005
Sometimes around 7 or 8 PM this evening, I had to accept that
this wasn’t an especially momentous day. I didn’t craft any
tune worth whistlin’, I didn’t write anything worth the ink,
I didn’t enjoy any dazzling insight.
I had to accept I couldn’t whine about how wretched this day
has been, or enthuse about how amazing. It was just ordinary.
I can get behind ordinary. Ordinary fucking rocks.
What the day’s activities consisted of, were the following;
I listened to a buncha Christina Aguilera, on account of
Stripped is a motherfucking masterpiece, and I started
reading Chuck Palahniuk’s new book, Haunted, meaning I now
find it difficult to sit properly, and then watched Big
Brother. But I didn’t do anything strenuous, although I did
endure a harrowing episode involving sudden pains in my arm
and thinking I was having a heart attack.
Other than the searing agony, however, it’s been mostly good
tunes and good books and Big Brother.
Reading and Big Brother have been the core ingredients of the
past fortnight, I’d wager. Maybe it’s some kind of guilt
brought on by all those elitist, pretentious fuckers yacking
about how Reality TV is Rotting Our Very Brain-Guts, but for
some reason, as I’ve found my love of trash telly rekindled,
so I’ve simultaneously began reading with a vengeance again.
Maybe knowing that I’m gonna be sat in front of a couple
fuckers flinging water over each other for two or three
hours, knowing that I won’t be needing to think about
anything other than “Man, I really don’t like that stuck-up
motherfucker right there”, maybe that gets me feeling like I
should make up for it by spending a couple hours in the
presence of De Sade or Freud or St. Augustine or Chuck
Palahniuk or that brilliant new Libertines biography by Pete
Welsh.
A few hours spent reading Salvador Dali’s Diary Of A Genius
followed by a few hours spent watching Big Brother, there
ain't much to compare with that right there.
I ain’t read much of what Buddha had to say for himself, but
I’m pretty sure the path to enlightenment involves a healthy
smattering of surrealist prose and reality telly.
Why the fuck else would he be sitting for so long if it
wasn't cause he’s got Big Brother Live on E4 18 hours a day?
Also, in the midst of all this I’ve been tying together an
article anthology thing, which I keep scrapping and starting
again on account of I end up detesting it, and also working
on the next Musical Offering, whilst whoring the Last One
relentlessly.
Thankfully I still have time for to feel miserable, which is
always a benefit.
This morning, for example, I had a thoroughly filthy dream
which I can’t recall, but which I’m quite sure had some sort
of narrative concerning contraceptives. The enjoyment
afforded by this subconscious debauchery was, alas, cruelly
mocked upon awakening to the company of nothing more
stimulating than the DVD menu for Masked And Anonymous, on
account of I fell asleep listening to the commentary.
A time of calm, then, before Wednesday, when more recording
for the next net-record will commence, and also the recording
of The Mondo Podcast #11, which I dare say will be the best
Mondo Podcast I’ll record that day.
Thanks folks.
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
this wasn’t an especially momentous day. I didn’t craft any
tune worth whistlin’, I didn’t write anything worth the ink,
I didn’t enjoy any dazzling insight.
I had to accept I couldn’t whine about how wretched this day
has been, or enthuse about how amazing. It was just ordinary.
I can get behind ordinary. Ordinary fucking rocks.
What the day’s activities consisted of, were the following;
I listened to a buncha Christina Aguilera, on account of
Stripped is a motherfucking masterpiece, and I started
reading Chuck Palahniuk’s new book, Haunted, meaning I now
find it difficult to sit properly, and then watched Big
Brother. But I didn’t do anything strenuous, although I did
endure a harrowing episode involving sudden pains in my arm
and thinking I was having a heart attack.
Other than the searing agony, however, it’s been mostly good
tunes and good books and Big Brother.
Reading and Big Brother have been the core ingredients of the
past fortnight, I’d wager. Maybe it’s some kind of guilt
brought on by all those elitist, pretentious fuckers yacking
about how Reality TV is Rotting Our Very Brain-Guts, but for
some reason, as I’ve found my love of trash telly rekindled,
so I’ve simultaneously began reading with a vengeance again.
Maybe knowing that I’m gonna be sat in front of a couple
fuckers flinging water over each other for two or three
hours, knowing that I won’t be needing to think about
anything other than “Man, I really don’t like that stuck-up
motherfucker right there”, maybe that gets me feeling like I
should make up for it by spending a couple hours in the
presence of De Sade or Freud or St. Augustine or Chuck
Palahniuk or that brilliant new Libertines biography by Pete
Welsh.
A few hours spent reading Salvador Dali’s Diary Of A Genius
followed by a few hours spent watching Big Brother, there
ain't much to compare with that right there.
I ain’t read much of what Buddha had to say for himself, but
I’m pretty sure the path to enlightenment involves a healthy
smattering of surrealist prose and reality telly.
Why the fuck else would he be sitting for so long if it
wasn't cause he’s got Big Brother Live on E4 18 hours a day?
Also, in the midst of all this I’ve been tying together an
article anthology thing, which I keep scrapping and starting
again on account of I end up detesting it, and also working
on the next Musical Offering, whilst whoring the Last One
relentlessly.
Thankfully I still have time for to feel miserable, which is
always a benefit.
This morning, for example, I had a thoroughly filthy dream
which I can’t recall, but which I’m quite sure had some sort
of narrative concerning contraceptives. The enjoyment
afforded by this subconscious debauchery was, alas, cruelly
mocked upon awakening to the company of nothing more
stimulating than the DVD menu for Masked And Anonymous, on
account of I fell asleep listening to the commentary.
A time of calm, then, before Wednesday, when more recording
for the next net-record will commence, and also the recording
of The Mondo Podcast #11, which I dare say will be the best
Mondo Podcast I’ll record that day.
Thanks folks.
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
MAY 30th 2005
Death to the shower!
That right there is the crux of my thinking this evening.
The shower is to the bath what a half-hearted wank is to a
physically gruelling and yet supremely divine bout of near-
demented filthing.
For handiness, if one must be clean immediately on account of
an urgent trip must be made, and therefore hasn’t the time to
run a bath, let alone decide what reading materials for to
utilise, and then soak themselves delirious for three or five
hours, obviously a shower is the only way to go. But what The
Duke would advise is that you phone home half an hour in
advance of your return and request the bath to be filled with
a pre-determined volume of water heated to as warm as one can
stand without boiling the teeth out your head, and then
making up for the soulless sprinkling of the shower-head
earlier in the day.
In addition, further thoughts thunk in relation to it all;
Is there anything more fucking ridiculous, in all honesty,
than the notion of “A shower scene”? Human beings will never
successfully filth in the shower until such times as they
develop gills and the ability to breathe under water. Unless
the stream of water is turned so low as to make the lovers’
habitation of the shower utterly pointless, nobody can
concentrate as they should.
And as if to prove it, these thoughts arrived in my head
during an entertaining evening spent reading a not very
entertaining magazine in the bath.
Because, you’ll be aware, Salvador Dali in his Diary Of A
Genius relates how, being filled with the desire to paint, he
accepts the invitation of Gala, his wife, to accompany her on
some day out of some sort, knowing that when not painting,
the desire to paint can only be intensified beyond all sense.
With this in mind, being famished as all fuck, I decided to
go for a long bath before eating, since by then the craving
will be nearing some sort of orgasmic frenzy, and the
eventual food will be like some marvellous ejaculation,
except it’ll taste much better, I’d imagine.
Writing this now, whilst the frozen pizza bronzes itself in
the oven, the pain is almost unbearable, and yet, holy fuck,
it’s also something close to unspeakably gorgeous.
Probably Dali wouldn’t have had frozen pizza, but then, on
the other hand, his slippers were probably a fucking laughing
stock in comparison to my own furry footwear.
Fuck you Dali, you magnificent bastard.
Thanks folks.
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
That right there is the crux of my thinking this evening.
The shower is to the bath what a half-hearted wank is to a
physically gruelling and yet supremely divine bout of near-
demented filthing.
For handiness, if one must be clean immediately on account of
an urgent trip must be made, and therefore hasn’t the time to
run a bath, let alone decide what reading materials for to
utilise, and then soak themselves delirious for three or five
hours, obviously a shower is the only way to go. But what The
Duke would advise is that you phone home half an hour in
advance of your return and request the bath to be filled with
a pre-determined volume of water heated to as warm as one can
stand without boiling the teeth out your head, and then
making up for the soulless sprinkling of the shower-head
earlier in the day.
In addition, further thoughts thunk in relation to it all;
Is there anything more fucking ridiculous, in all honesty,
than the notion of “A shower scene”? Human beings will never
successfully filth in the shower until such times as they
develop gills and the ability to breathe under water. Unless
the stream of water is turned so low as to make the lovers’
habitation of the shower utterly pointless, nobody can
concentrate as they should.
And as if to prove it, these thoughts arrived in my head
during an entertaining evening spent reading a not very
entertaining magazine in the bath.
Because, you’ll be aware, Salvador Dali in his Diary Of A
Genius relates how, being filled with the desire to paint, he
accepts the invitation of Gala, his wife, to accompany her on
some day out of some sort, knowing that when not painting,
the desire to paint can only be intensified beyond all sense.
With this in mind, being famished as all fuck, I decided to
go for a long bath before eating, since by then the craving
will be nearing some sort of orgasmic frenzy, and the
eventual food will be like some marvellous ejaculation,
except it’ll taste much better, I’d imagine.
Writing this now, whilst the frozen pizza bronzes itself in
the oven, the pain is almost unbearable, and yet, holy fuck,
it’s also something close to unspeakably gorgeous.
Probably Dali wouldn’t have had frozen pizza, but then, on
the other hand, his slippers were probably a fucking laughing
stock in comparison to my own furry footwear.
Fuck you Dali, you magnificent bastard.
Thanks folks.
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
MAY 26th 2005
Sir Fleming - Photographed Next Week
I don’t think it would be overstating things in the slightest
for to announce that this evening was the finest evening I
had all day.
It peaked sometime around 9 P.M, when, busy cutting the
grass, smiling and nodding to folks walking around the
estate, including some malcontents who want nothing less than
my guts on ebay for the price of a crack pipe, I saw fit to
muse on any and all sorts of musings.
I the fuck E, some shit along the lines of the following;
Beside Mondo Towers there is the shell of a primary school
that once boasted my name on the register. One of your tiny
country schools that only needed two classrooms, and which, I
might add, shut down two years after I left.
Who the fuck would talk about cannibals and Kirsten now that
The Duke done skidaddled, they pondered? Who the holy fuck?
Nobody, is who, and since then the building has been both a
breeding ground for any number of malicious schemes and also
a community centre of some sort. What is most notable is that
the roof of the outside toilets has been blown to fuck by a
combination of giddy adolescent vandalism and also plenty
fire.
Tonight, cutting the grass as I was, avoiding cat shit spread
about the damn place, I couldn’t help noticing how beautiful
the buggered roof looked when set against such a wonderfully
purple sky.
Also, earlier this evening I made a short phone-call, roughly
59 seconds or thereabouts, to Sinéad, that I might
congratulate her on graduating from her house of learning.
Sinéad, you may or may not be aware, is something of a
prodigious type, being fit for to insult a fella in any
number of bizarre languages, like “Gaelic” or “English”.
This, in turn, inspired plenty musing with regards my
Sinéadist work. For those not clued in on the exciting
developments taking place in literary, musical and artistic
circles, Sinéadanism is an aesthetic which I seek to
monopolise sometime in the near future. 120 Removed, the most
recent net-record offered up by My Whining Bastard Self is
nothing if not a Sinéadist tract, a series of hymns and
sonnets and declarations in G relating to Sinéad and, just as
importantly, how best a fella might convince Sinéad that his
Sinéadist work thus far is more than ample evidence that he
probably knows a thing or two about the things certain folks
might want to know about, with regards the “romantic
shenanigans” and “the filth”, as in the physiological
tomfoolery, and not the police.
Fuck tha police, you’ll recall, is all Ice Cube could bring
himself to announce with regards the Boys In Blue.
Nowadays I actually have no problem whatsoever with the
police, and was forced to reach the following conclusion;
My troubles with the police decreased dramatically once I
stopped being a drunken loud-mouthed cunt.
The police don’t take too kindly to the sights and sounds of
an intoxicated upstart, fresh from putting his head through a
hairdressers window in an act of cider-soaked hilarity,
announcing to all who might care to listen that “Them fuckers
are a packa black bastards.”
With regards “black bastards”, I feel I should point out that
this wasn’t a comment referencing the skin colour of said
officers, who were, I believe, Caucasian. I don’t actually
know when or why “Black Bastards” gained dominance as the
most fitting rebuttal to the verbal yappery of the police
force. Who the fuck knows?
This thought, the one just a couple sentences ago, brings to
mind the memory of a police officer talking with a parent of
mine, and explaining how I must’ve assumed him to be someone
else. “He thought I was called Mr Black, for some reason. All
I got was Oi, Black Bastard.”
I must point out that such juvenile delinquency was a result
of at-the-time untreated alcoholism, and as such, I now know
that the officer in question was more likely to be a “filthy
cunt” of some kind.
I jest is all.
No, I have no problem with the police. I’m far too happy-go-
lucky a motherfucker for to give two fucks about the folks
wandering around, putting up with any amount of drunken
insults, and all for nothing more than lots of money and the
chance to fling stuff at vagrants.
Any the fuck way, this has nothing whatsoever to do with
Mondo Guerrilla Marketing, which I must tell you about this
very instant.
Sir Fleming - my good friend whom I cannot name in full on
account of he shares my first name, and so I’d have to write
it, and let’s face it, if such a thing were all that easy, I
wouldn’t need to be referring to The Duke every ten words -
is in charge of Mondo Guerrilla Marketing which, to be fair,
is little more than putting up a poster here and there, but
ideologically it holds much more significance.
Fuck knows what said significance may be, but you can be sure
it’s something staggeringly significant. Sir Fleming
instigated the following proposal one day;
“See you got some posters done up.”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe you should, y’know, put a few up, here and there.”
“Sweet Jesus, you’re right!!”
From then on, any moment of free time that wasn’t already
being put to use by way of much discussion regarding Taskashi
Miike, Woody Allen, David Cronenberg or The Marquis De Sade,
was being utilised in the placement of posters bearing the
following text;
“MONDOIRLANDO.COM
Wringing The Guts Of Pop Culture
Stuffed To The Nuts With Free Stuff And Sarcasm”
It seems very impressive, but a quick glance through the
furthest reaches of The Mondo Guestbook will reveal several
flaws in the material; For one thing, it would’ve made more
sense to write – “Self-Indulgent Pish Masquerading As
“Reviews” And “Articles” Concerning Shite You Couldn’t Give
Two Fucks In A Bucket For”.
But this is the fault of The Duke, and not Sir Fleming, who
saw that each and every notice board we passed held at least
one Mondo Advert Thing.
There is talk of a Mondo Irlando – Useless Promotional Pish
newsletter for the fall season, but who the fuck could tell
from this distance?
And this is precisely why I feel my Sinéadist work can only
bring world peace to my very soul sometime in the future.
Also whilst cutting the grass, I took time to reflect on the
scene in Manhattan when Woody Allen is listing things that
make life worthwhile. I decided some sort of list of my own
might be in order, considering the grass was being cut.
In no particular order;
Diet Coke. The music of Lucinda Williams, Ryan Adams, Public
Enemy, The Clash, Bright Eyes, Willy Mason, Bob Dylan, Shane
MacGowan, Morrissey, The Libertines, White Zombie, amongst
many others. Friends, be they physical, digital, or some
bizarre amalgamation of both. The films of Woody Allen.
Family. The work of Kirsten Dunst. Sobriety, and the memory
of drunkenness. Kirsten’s hands. The films of Sergei
Eisenstien. Kirsten’s smile. The bit with the zombie and the
shark in Zombie Flesh Eaters. Kirsten’s dimples and eyes. The
work of Salvador Dali. Kirsten’s hair. The Sermon on the
Mount. The work of Martin Scorsese. Houses long abandoned.
Certain memories. Sinéad calling me “a big article”. The work
of Pasolini.
There are many more, I dare say, but holy fuck, what kinda
long winded bullshit is this, anyhow? Not as long winded as
my Epic Journey Relating In Some Way To Star Wars Episode
III, but still far too scared of a full-stop, most certainly.
You’ll be aware that said Episode III article was also a
Sinéadist text.
So yes, the grass was cut, a man was busy with thoughts and
thinking, I’d just purchased three DVD’s for twenty quid,
being the 2-disc Special Edition of Jerry Maguire, the
“Extreme Edition” of Dodgeball, and the 2-disc Monster. I was
in the midst of Salvador Dali’s Diary Of A Genius, which is
possibly the best book ever written, and a man’s nose was
filled with the smells of spring-time, and also cat shit.
Life is good, at present. Who knows what foul moods will set
in before the night’s out? I can only hope they are so
intense that I can barely lift my head for to scream.
So long as I don’t scream in a manner similar to Vader in
Episode III, which, you’ll be aware, is currently the cause
of no end of indignation. Sign This Petition If You Want
Lucas To Erase The “Noooooooo!!!!” From All Future Prints Of
Episode III.
Alternatively, go cut the grass. If you don’t got grass,
maybe just sit on some tarmac and think about Proust.
Thanks folks.
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
for to announce that this evening was the finest evening I
had all day.
It peaked sometime around 9 P.M, when, busy cutting the
grass, smiling and nodding to folks walking around the
estate, including some malcontents who want nothing less than
my guts on ebay for the price of a crack pipe, I saw fit to
muse on any and all sorts of musings.
I the fuck E, some shit along the lines of the following;
Beside Mondo Towers there is the shell of a primary school
that once boasted my name on the register. One of your tiny
country schools that only needed two classrooms, and which, I
might add, shut down two years after I left.
Who the fuck would talk about cannibals and Kirsten now that
The Duke done skidaddled, they pondered? Who the holy fuck?
Nobody, is who, and since then the building has been both a
breeding ground for any number of malicious schemes and also
a community centre of some sort. What is most notable is that
the roof of the outside toilets has been blown to fuck by a
combination of giddy adolescent vandalism and also plenty
fire.
Tonight, cutting the grass as I was, avoiding cat shit spread
about the damn place, I couldn’t help noticing how beautiful
the buggered roof looked when set against such a wonderfully
purple sky.
Also, earlier this evening I made a short phone-call, roughly
59 seconds or thereabouts, to Sinéad, that I might
congratulate her on graduating from her house of learning.
Sinéad, you may or may not be aware, is something of a
prodigious type, being fit for to insult a fella in any
number of bizarre languages, like “Gaelic” or “English”.
This, in turn, inspired plenty musing with regards my
Sinéadist work. For those not clued in on the exciting
developments taking place in literary, musical and artistic
circles, Sinéadanism is an aesthetic which I seek to
monopolise sometime in the near future. 120 Removed, the most
recent net-record offered up by My Whining Bastard Self is
nothing if not a Sinéadist tract, a series of hymns and
sonnets and declarations in G relating to Sinéad and, just as
importantly, how best a fella might convince Sinéad that his
Sinéadist work thus far is more than ample evidence that he
probably knows a thing or two about the things certain folks
might want to know about, with regards the “romantic
shenanigans” and “the filth”, as in the physiological
tomfoolery, and not the police.
Fuck tha police, you’ll recall, is all Ice Cube could bring
himself to announce with regards the Boys In Blue.
Nowadays I actually have no problem whatsoever with the
police, and was forced to reach the following conclusion;
My troubles with the police decreased dramatically once I
stopped being a drunken loud-mouthed cunt.
The police don’t take too kindly to the sights and sounds of
an intoxicated upstart, fresh from putting his head through a
hairdressers window in an act of cider-soaked hilarity,
announcing to all who might care to listen that “Them fuckers
are a packa black bastards.”
With regards “black bastards”, I feel I should point out that
this wasn’t a comment referencing the skin colour of said
officers, who were, I believe, Caucasian. I don’t actually
know when or why “Black Bastards” gained dominance as the
most fitting rebuttal to the verbal yappery of the police
force. Who the fuck knows?
This thought, the one just a couple sentences ago, brings to
mind the memory of a police officer talking with a parent of
mine, and explaining how I must’ve assumed him to be someone
else. “He thought I was called Mr Black, for some reason. All
I got was Oi, Black Bastard.”
I must point out that such juvenile delinquency was a result
of at-the-time untreated alcoholism, and as such, I now know
that the officer in question was more likely to be a “filthy
cunt” of some kind.
I jest is all.
No, I have no problem with the police. I’m far too happy-go-
lucky a motherfucker for to give two fucks about the folks
wandering around, putting up with any amount of drunken
insults, and all for nothing more than lots of money and the
chance to fling stuff at vagrants.
Any the fuck way, this has nothing whatsoever to do with
Mondo Guerrilla Marketing, which I must tell you about this
very instant.
Sir Fleming - my good friend whom I cannot name in full on
account of he shares my first name, and so I’d have to write
it, and let’s face it, if such a thing were all that easy, I
wouldn’t need to be referring to The Duke every ten words -
is in charge of Mondo Guerrilla Marketing which, to be fair,
is little more than putting up a poster here and there, but
ideologically it holds much more significance.
Fuck knows what said significance may be, but you can be sure
it’s something staggeringly significant. Sir Fleming
instigated the following proposal one day;
“See you got some posters done up.”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe you should, y’know, put a few up, here and there.”
“Sweet Jesus, you’re right!!”
From then on, any moment of free time that wasn’t already
being put to use by way of much discussion regarding Taskashi
Miike, Woody Allen, David Cronenberg or The Marquis De Sade,
was being utilised in the placement of posters bearing the
following text;
“MONDOIRLANDO.COM
Wringing The Guts Of Pop Culture
Stuffed To The Nuts With Free Stuff And Sarcasm”
It seems very impressive, but a quick glance through the
furthest reaches of The Mondo Guestbook will reveal several
flaws in the material; For one thing, it would’ve made more
sense to write – “Self-Indulgent Pish Masquerading As
“Reviews” And “Articles” Concerning Shite You Couldn’t Give
Two Fucks In A Bucket For”.
But this is the fault of The Duke, and not Sir Fleming, who
saw that each and every notice board we passed held at least
one Mondo Advert Thing.
There is talk of a Mondo Irlando – Useless Promotional Pish
newsletter for the fall season, but who the fuck could tell
from this distance?
And this is precisely why I feel my Sinéadist work can only
bring world peace to my very soul sometime in the future.
Also whilst cutting the grass, I took time to reflect on the
scene in Manhattan when Woody Allen is listing things that
make life worthwhile. I decided some sort of list of my own
might be in order, considering the grass was being cut.
In no particular order;
Diet Coke. The music of Lucinda Williams, Ryan Adams, Public
Enemy, The Clash, Bright Eyes, Willy Mason, Bob Dylan, Shane
MacGowan, Morrissey, The Libertines, White Zombie, amongst
many others. Friends, be they physical, digital, or some
bizarre amalgamation of both. The films of Woody Allen.
Family. The work of Kirsten Dunst. Sobriety, and the memory
of drunkenness. Kirsten’s hands. The films of Sergei
Eisenstien. Kirsten’s smile. The bit with the zombie and the
shark in Zombie Flesh Eaters. Kirsten’s dimples and eyes. The
work of Salvador Dali. Kirsten’s hair. The Sermon on the
Mount. The work of Martin Scorsese. Houses long abandoned.
Certain memories. Sinéad calling me “a big article”. The work
of Pasolini.
There are many more, I dare say, but holy fuck, what kinda
long winded bullshit is this, anyhow? Not as long winded as
my Epic Journey Relating In Some Way To Star Wars Episode
III, but still far too scared of a full-stop, most certainly.
You’ll be aware that said Episode III article was also a
Sinéadist text.
So yes, the grass was cut, a man was busy with thoughts and
thinking, I’d just purchased three DVD’s for twenty quid,
being the 2-disc Special Edition of Jerry Maguire, the
“Extreme Edition” of Dodgeball, and the 2-disc Monster. I was
in the midst of Salvador Dali’s Diary Of A Genius, which is
possibly the best book ever written, and a man’s nose was
filled with the smells of spring-time, and also cat shit.
Life is good, at present. Who knows what foul moods will set
in before the night’s out? I can only hope they are so
intense that I can barely lift my head for to scream.
So long as I don’t scream in a manner similar to Vader in
Episode III, which, you’ll be aware, is currently the cause
of no end of indignation. Sign This Petition If You Want
Lucas To Erase The “Noooooooo!!!!” From All Future Prints Of
Episode III.
Alternatively, go cut the grass. If you don’t got grass,
maybe just sit on some tarmac and think about Proust.
Thanks folks.
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
MAY 17th 2005
I gotta be twenty million percent honest with you folks, I’m
hanging together with soaking masking-tape and busted twigs
right the fuck now. If you saw me in the street, you’d say
“Holy shit, he looks just like that cunt I never heard of
from some web site or other, except he looks a touch deranged
around the jaw.” Lack of sleep, I can only assume, has
nothing to do with it.
I'm burnt out beyond any hope of anything other than a
passing reference in some freakishly obscure emo-punk 7".
There has been more watching than reviewing, also, which is
why you’ll see no reviews of Sin City or The Lost Weekend or
three-quarters of Sideways on the front page yet, and all on
account of I ain’t been fit to scribble a line. One day soon
these thoughts and musings will surface, but only the gods
know when. Also, some motherfucker who maybe tells the future
on account of stuff he sees in the guts of chickens. He’d
probably know.
But I can only assume that, with the right amount of caffeine
and nicotine in the blood, this night will prove fruitless
with regards the scribbling, deleting, motherfuckery and such.
But I must confess, I have been busy. In case you didn’t
know, I went and whored my birth-name over at This Website
Devoted To My Musical Pish. Makes sense to keep the entities
separate, since come the fuck on, I’m only harbouring a mild
schizophrenia at the minute, but with any luck, the
accumulating of more websites and pseudonyms and alter-ego’s
will result in some magnificent outburst of tremendous
Multiple Personality insanity before the week’s out.
I’m knackered to the back of my last gut, is the truth of the
case. All sorts of energies being pumped into all sorts of
non-web activities. For one thing, you may or may not be
aware, I’ve been putting together some sort of anthology book
thing of reviews and the like, and this last week decided the
thing to do was to abandon every word written hitherto, and
start from scratch. The resultant pages read like some
demented insomnia-crazed babble spat from a vagrant coked to
the eyes on PCP. Who knows what’ll arise from out the tangled
ranting?
And in addition to this, I must say, I’ve found myself
becoming very fond of a lass with a penchant for verbal
abuse. To some, myself included, The Duke may be nothing less
than some marble monument to the possibilities afforded by
this our popular culture. To her, nothing more than “A big
fruit”, or maybe “A big article”.
But she has nonetheless kept my head the right side of sane
this past while, even though, granted, she probably knows
very little of the hours her words have spent grinding around
in there, demanding that every off-road thought get back on
the straight-and-narrow right the fuck now, ya big article,
or I’ll kick your face out with a pistol-gun.
She has proved Gala-esque in her abilities for to inspire and
to send a fella mad in the teeth. I’d tell you who she is,
but then you’d go and find her, and The Duke’d get flung to
the back of an already terrifying queue of folks lining up to
say Dear God, you’ve stolen my mind!
And before I forget, I intend to make my presence felt in the
drink-sodden alleyways of Dublin City at the start of July.
If you’re gonna be there too, and maybe you feel you’re gonna
be in dire need of a couple hours spent discussing Pasolini
and Kirsten and the cruelty of all existence, with specific
reference to The Duke’s existence, then Let Me Know.
So in conclusion, the only thing left to do is to Head On
Over To MTV.COM And Vote For Jennifer Tilly. You need to
click on MOVIES at the top of the page, and then the AWARDS
bit. There’ll be a bit right in there for to vote for each
category. Right in there, Jennifer Tilly is nominated for
Best Frightened Performance, on account of her tremendous
tour de force of screaming and cussing and sexing with the
hip-hoppers in Seed Of Chucky. You’ll be aware that Seed Of
Chucky was one of The Duke’s Best Flicks Of 2004, and also,
why not go Read This Incisive Critique, or sweet Moses, maybe
even The Duke’s Chinwag With Director Don Mancini. But first
of all, Go Vote, dammit. You don’t want Michael Moore to have
to do a documentary about look at what you’ve gone and done,
you apathetic sonsa bastards, so GO VOTE.
Thanks folks.
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
hanging together with soaking masking-tape and busted twigs
right the fuck now. If you saw me in the street, you’d say
“Holy shit, he looks just like that cunt I never heard of
from some web site or other, except he looks a touch deranged
around the jaw.” Lack of sleep, I can only assume, has
nothing to do with it.
I'm burnt out beyond any hope of anything other than a
passing reference in some freakishly obscure emo-punk 7".
There has been more watching than reviewing, also, which is
why you’ll see no reviews of Sin City or The Lost Weekend or
three-quarters of Sideways on the front page yet, and all on
account of I ain’t been fit to scribble a line. One day soon
these thoughts and musings will surface, but only the gods
know when. Also, some motherfucker who maybe tells the future
on account of stuff he sees in the guts of chickens. He’d
probably know.
But I can only assume that, with the right amount of caffeine
and nicotine in the blood, this night will prove fruitless
with regards the scribbling, deleting, motherfuckery and such.
But I must confess, I have been busy. In case you didn’t
know, I went and whored my birth-name over at This Website
Devoted To My Musical Pish. Makes sense to keep the entities
separate, since come the fuck on, I’m only harbouring a mild
schizophrenia at the minute, but with any luck, the
accumulating of more websites and pseudonyms and alter-ego’s
will result in some magnificent outburst of tremendous
Multiple Personality insanity before the week’s out.
I’m knackered to the back of my last gut, is the truth of the
case. All sorts of energies being pumped into all sorts of
non-web activities. For one thing, you may or may not be
aware, I’ve been putting together some sort of anthology book
thing of reviews and the like, and this last week decided the
thing to do was to abandon every word written hitherto, and
start from scratch. The resultant pages read like some
demented insomnia-crazed babble spat from a vagrant coked to
the eyes on PCP. Who knows what’ll arise from out the tangled
ranting?
And in addition to this, I must say, I’ve found myself
becoming very fond of a lass with a penchant for verbal
abuse. To some, myself included, The Duke may be nothing less
than some marble monument to the possibilities afforded by
this our popular culture. To her, nothing more than “A big
fruit”, or maybe “A big article”.
But she has nonetheless kept my head the right side of sane
this past while, even though, granted, she probably knows
very little of the hours her words have spent grinding around
in there, demanding that every off-road thought get back on
the straight-and-narrow right the fuck now, ya big article,
or I’ll kick your face out with a pistol-gun.
She has proved Gala-esque in her abilities for to inspire and
to send a fella mad in the teeth. I’d tell you who she is,
but then you’d go and find her, and The Duke’d get flung to
the back of an already terrifying queue of folks lining up to
say Dear God, you’ve stolen my mind!
And before I forget, I intend to make my presence felt in the
drink-sodden alleyways of Dublin City at the start of July.
If you’re gonna be there too, and maybe you feel you’re gonna
be in dire need of a couple hours spent discussing Pasolini
and Kirsten and the cruelty of all existence, with specific
reference to The Duke’s existence, then Let Me Know.
So in conclusion, the only thing left to do is to Head On
Over To MTV.COM And Vote For Jennifer Tilly. You need to
click on MOVIES at the top of the page, and then the AWARDS
bit. There’ll be a bit right in there for to vote for each
category. Right in there, Jennifer Tilly is nominated for
Best Frightened Performance, on account of her tremendous
tour de force of screaming and cussing and sexing with the
hip-hoppers in Seed Of Chucky. You’ll be aware that Seed Of
Chucky was one of The Duke’s Best Flicks Of 2004, and also,
why not go Read This Incisive Critique, or sweet Moses, maybe
even The Duke’s Chinwag With Director Don Mancini. But first
of all, Go Vote, dammit. You don’t want Michael Moore to have
to do a documentary about look at what you’ve gone and done,
you apathetic sonsa bastards, so GO VOTE.
Thanks folks.
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
MAY 11th 2005
Sometimes a man gets to thinking about this or that or the
other, sometimes with a cigarette hanging out the side of his
yap and a half-squint thing going on cause the smoke’s
scourging the fuck out his eyes but he can’t bring himself to
destroy the iconic pose he’s been working on.
Sometimes he’s wired to the back of the nuts on something so
crushingly mundane – caffeine- that he can’t believe it’s
wired him so, and thinks he better start lying and telling
folks he’s got a crack habit too.
Hey baby, so, I was up all night wired to fuck on Diet Coke.
What a mockery a fella would make of his hard-arse potential.
She’d be liable to kick a man in the side of the spleen and
say something along the lines of “You don’t even think about
coming an inch closer to the glories I got stashed away in
here until you get yourself addicted to something that’s
gonna rot the very nuts off of your body and cause your teeth
to grow upwards into the back of your brain. You bastard.”
"I got an alcohol addiction, though, I swear to fuck!"
I don't give a rats wank in a convent, she'd spit.
These are the sortsa things a man would be liable to let
himself in for, if he approached the ladies with talk of red-
bull and pharmacy-supplied sleeping pills.
I want a fella what knocks himself out with things you can’t
even spell with anything so passé as letters, the bohemian
skag-whore in my mind announces every time I try to get it on.
Nonetheless, given the right amount of caffeine and nicotine
a man is perfectly capable of concocting any number of
heinous narratives and delirious schemes, some demented
odyssey playing out behind the eyes on account of he looks
around him and sees that he’s sitting in the back room
surrounded by cigarette ash and magazines and CD’s he hasn’t
listened to yet, and in front of him a black screen since the
time-code was fucked up on the illegal torrent he acquired
containing some motion picture or other, and so he’ll never
know what the fuck happened, if the Martians / hell-spawn
demons / communists ever did get defeated, or if the whole
world got chewed rotten in the final elusive reel. The Flesh
Eating Beasts From Out Pluto’s Nuts could be in control of
the whole fucking economy by now, and he’ll never know, and
all because he downloaded the torrent from some shifty back-
alley bootlegger instead of wandering down to the DVD
emporium.
I'm sorry, MPAA, but it was snowing, my children would’ve
froze to fuck if I sent them out in this weather just for the
sake of some picture or other about Earth Versus Some
Bastards Of Some Sort. The fuck does it matter I ain’t ever
dropped a sprog, chances are one day I might, and those
hypothetical youngsters are shivering on the frozen sidewalk
on account of your barbaric anti-piracy measures.
Any the hell how.
What occurred was that over the past while a fella’s mood’s
been jumping and weaving and ducking and diving and flexing
and protracting and all the fuck sorts, till he no longer
knows if he’s happy or sad or indifferent. Some sort of short-
term quick-release bi-polar thing going on, giddy as the
risen bejeesus one second, lower than the wretched hounds of
Hades the next. And someplace in-between the too-ing and fro-
ing he notices something along the lines of This Is What The
Fuck I Need To Do.
So I concocted a manifesto of sorts in the back of a notebook
I use sometimes for to scribble lyrics and musings and
reviews that I end up discarding because some folks can write
in pen, and some folks can write in Word, but no one person
can do both efficiently. So I fuck the notebook over my
shoulder and just try to gather the essence of it all in a
text-based plum fit to be battered the fuck across the
keyboard, the stinking juices of some idea or other clinging
onto the half-sentences and shitty grammar.
And the manifesto was fairly short, it was a manifesto fit
only for The Duke, and not one of your Communist Manifestos
or Dogme 95 Manifestos, the sortsa manifestos where pretty
much anybody with a brain worth a fiddlers gypsy fuck can get
some use of some sort out of it all. Ain’t nobody ever going
to be studying my manifesto as part of some economics degree
of some kind.
What it amounted to was some sort of proposal for a life I
don’t think I would be ashamed to have lived. Or a couple
months out of said life, anyroad. Then I’ll happily settle
back into the routine, I would wager, provided I had at least
tasted what I set out to grab between cigarette-cracked lips.
The crux of it all is the following whimsical notion;
I dig the hell out of things right the hell now. The last
couple days been a maddening cacophony of grief and hilarity
and horrors and loveliness, but on the whole, I get a kick
outta the day-to-day. I get a kick outta sitting down for to
pen a tune, or catch a flick, or scribble some nonsense or
other about Amityville, or yack with friends, or have A Sit,
and these things carry a fella through any amount of insanity.
80% of the time my mood is 67% on the right side of gleeful,
and who the fuck in their right mind would expect anything
better in this day and age? Some whacked-out hobo high to the
eyes on mescaline and skag-pipes, I’d wager.
But nonetheless, there’s some kinda niggling idea teasing
away someplace back there. A fella just gets a feeling like
he wants to set out someplace, someplace where human beings
gather and talk and fuck each other senseless, and lasting,
meaningful, life-affirming relationships can be developed and
irrevocably destroyed within a matter of hours. I get the
feeling I’m missing out on something, and if it turns out I’m
missing out on nothing, then at least I can forget all about
it and get on with whatever the fuck I was doing a few hours
ago.
I need a holiday of some kind, but not one of the holidays
where it’s all a week or a month or twenty months spent
panicking and then next thing you know you’re home again and
all you remember is the forty-six hours it took to get the
motherfucking credit card details accepted on the internet.
The kinda holiday where it just happens, the kinda thing I
ain’t ever done sober. Plenty trains were jumped and boarded
when a fella was soaked to the knees in liver-eroding cider,
the kinda stuff you don’t consume, the kinda stuff that
consumes you, so after a couple or three or twelve bottle-to-
mouth tangos, a fella’s just a walking coat of wretched,
unintelligible cider-spunk.
I wanna jump those trains now, when it’s not because I don’t
wanna have to go home, not because I don’t wanna see the look
of disappointment and shame and fear in folks eyes, it’s
because I honestly want to experience something other than
the highs and lows that come around on the hour every fucking
day, disgustingly predictable, deeply debilitating.
The last few weeks I been thinking this, and like most
worthwhile decisions in life it was sparked off by a girl, a
girl The Duke, as is his wont, very quickly fell for, and one
who had the unenviable position of being on speaking terms
with yours truly, and so was fit to fuel these giddy
daydreams without even realising what the fuck she was doing.
A lass sat six tables across in the café, she’s safe, man.
She’ll probably star in all sorts of adventures by the time
I've moved on to thinking about something else, but she
doesn't know me, she doesn’t know my name, she doesn’t even
realise I walked in, and she won’t notice when I walk out.
The last thing she expects is that someone she never saw or
heard of or laid eyes on is stringing together a chorus about
her as he tries to focus on some book or other he holds up
for effect.
But when said object of mental gymnastics is fit for to
reply, fit for to say “Hey, how’s shit?” and so on and so
forth, then she wanders too close by far to the line marked
Too Close By Far. Unless she turns out to be horrible, she’s
in danger of all sortsa things, from seven or eight songs
penned for her in as many minutes, to rambling late night
emails wandering sheepishly around the phrase “So, you wanna
go catch Star Wars?”
So this lass inadvertently conjured in The Duke all sortsa
notion of train-hopping and travelling and staying a while in
someplace, but no big deal if I wanna move on. No harm done.
I wanna just get on a train and get off at Belfast, look at
the time-tables, and right there and then decide where the
fuck I’m gonna spend the night.
I wanna take my guitar and holler in some place where folks
don’t give two flying fucks that you can’t sing a note, that
your guitar ain’t been in tune since sometimes around the
French revolution, because the stories are ones worth hearing.
To have that freedom, man, to be in a town I don't know, with
people I don't know, to just say yeah, I really like you, I’d
be honoured if you’d let me buy you a drink and maybe you
could let me hear one of your songs?
Because let’s assess some situations –
A few months ago a five-year engagement what The Duke was
party to crumbled and floundered and fell, and I gotta admit,
there was a lotta fucking bitterness. Maybe I said I wasn’t,
maybe I shrugged and said about “Fuck it, let’s go see if TXT
Woman’ll maybe walk past”, but at the end of the day, those
songs had to come from someplace, man.
Listen to This Shit would you ever? That ain’t the sound of a
man at peace with the world and all who dwell within it.
But I see why this shit had to happen. I see that, much as it
tore and clawed and devoured my every waking moment, I been
thinking much the same as she has. I could yack on about “Oh,
you wanted freedom and yet first thing you do is race off for
to bind yourself to some other motherfucker”, but the truth
of the matter is a fella’s life is dripping down the walls in
front of him, and pretty soon all there’s gonna be is a
puddle of ideas and notions and thoughts I might’ve done one
time, but fuck it, too late now, what with me being dead
these past twenty-seven years.
Now is the time for to move ahead and do stuff, and if it
means bringing to an end something that was so beautiful once
upon a time that it breaks a man’s heart to do so, well, so
be it. My ex-fiancée saw this long before I did, that there
was no point whatsoever carrying on pretending we were all
happy and all that sorta shit when in reality we barely
spoke, and if we did it was her saying something I wasn’t
interested in or me saying something she wasn’t interested
in. Here we are growing ever more resentful of one another by
the second, when we could be off gallivanting and degrading
ourselves in manners befitting our youth.
But I don’t wanna do these things on my own, neither.
The fuck fun would Road Trip’ve been if it’d just been some
motherfucker sitting on a train reading The 120 Days Of Sodom?
It would’ve been the best fucking film ever made, most
likely, but that’s far from the point.
The point is that I’m the kinda fucker who might like to
romantically describe himself as some sort of loner type, and
for sure, I need a hella lotta space, but the truth of it all
is I want someone’s hand for to hold through the scary bits
too. I wanna wake up and there’s someone saying “Hey you.
It's almost three, I thought you’d never wake.” I wanna be
fit for to wait by the side of the bed if maybe through some
miracle I wake up first, and since I don’t drink, I can have
gotten all the stuff ready for to help cure their hangover.
I wanna be walking down a street where no one knows me and
then next thing I know I see a face I recognise from the
photo I saw, and she says hey, y’bastard, it’s been pissing
down, the hell where you?
And then she laughs.
This is my manifesto. The result of long, long nights and
soul-scarring tragedy and hilarious debates and a headful of
Woody Guthrie dreams. A desire for to live for a while before
settling back into critiquing the lives other folks live in
the 2:35 or the C# and F.
I demand a road trip with folks I hardly know who are the
coolest folks you ever met and just wanna talk about Johnny
Cash and GG Allin and Ryan Adams. You wanna crash in this
town, they’ll ask? The hell do I care, so long as you’re
gonna tell me about the time you woke up in Oslo.
I demand a sunset or six that look like the ones I see on TV,
instead of the fairly unspectacular variants I been getting
recently.
I demand exotic diseases that can be cured with a bit of bed-
rest and have been acquired through far too many of the
scallywag exploits.
I demand a conversation with a girl on a train who just
happened to sit down beside me, and it’s not cause I’m drunk
and slabbering, it’s cause she’s got nice eyes and she was
listening to a Gram Parsons CD earlier. I saw it sticking out
her hand-bag.
I demand meetings with friends where we sit on some rocks of
some kind and smoke too many cigarettes and drink too much
coffee, so we ain’t gonna sleep all night and our hearts are
doing that irregular beat shit again.
I request the hand of a girl I know, and her hand’ll make it
totally fine that all those other demands never got any
further than the internet. She’ll know that all that shit got
summed up just now, when she smiled in that light.
And I’ll tell her that her nose is cute and she’ll punch me
right on the fucking jaw, and I’ll laugh, and she’ll laugh,
and sometime or other we’ll sit in a bar and hear a band
neither of us likes, and she’ll put her head on my shoulder
and fall asleep.
And I’ll never need to get so self-obsessed for so many words
ever the fuck again.
Thanks folks.
Incidentally, how the fuck DOES Sideways end?
Thanks folks.
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
other, sometimes with a cigarette hanging out the side of his
yap and a half-squint thing going on cause the smoke’s
scourging the fuck out his eyes but he can’t bring himself to
destroy the iconic pose he’s been working on.
Sometimes he’s wired to the back of the nuts on something so
crushingly mundane – caffeine- that he can’t believe it’s
wired him so, and thinks he better start lying and telling
folks he’s got a crack habit too.
Hey baby, so, I was up all night wired to fuck on Diet Coke.
What a mockery a fella would make of his hard-arse potential.
She’d be liable to kick a man in the side of the spleen and
say something along the lines of “You don’t even think about
coming an inch closer to the glories I got stashed away in
here until you get yourself addicted to something that’s
gonna rot the very nuts off of your body and cause your teeth
to grow upwards into the back of your brain. You bastard.”
"I got an alcohol addiction, though, I swear to fuck!"
I don't give a rats wank in a convent, she'd spit.
These are the sortsa things a man would be liable to let
himself in for, if he approached the ladies with talk of red-
bull and pharmacy-supplied sleeping pills.
I want a fella what knocks himself out with things you can’t
even spell with anything so passé as letters, the bohemian
skag-whore in my mind announces every time I try to get it on.
Nonetheless, given the right amount of caffeine and nicotine
a man is perfectly capable of concocting any number of
heinous narratives and delirious schemes, some demented
odyssey playing out behind the eyes on account of he looks
around him and sees that he’s sitting in the back room
surrounded by cigarette ash and magazines and CD’s he hasn’t
listened to yet, and in front of him a black screen since the
time-code was fucked up on the illegal torrent he acquired
containing some motion picture or other, and so he’ll never
know what the fuck happened, if the Martians / hell-spawn
demons / communists ever did get defeated, or if the whole
world got chewed rotten in the final elusive reel. The Flesh
Eating Beasts From Out Pluto’s Nuts could be in control of
the whole fucking economy by now, and he’ll never know, and
all because he downloaded the torrent from some shifty back-
alley bootlegger instead of wandering down to the DVD
emporium.
I'm sorry, MPAA, but it was snowing, my children would’ve
froze to fuck if I sent them out in this weather just for the
sake of some picture or other about Earth Versus Some
Bastards Of Some Sort. The fuck does it matter I ain’t ever
dropped a sprog, chances are one day I might, and those
hypothetical youngsters are shivering on the frozen sidewalk
on account of your barbaric anti-piracy measures.
Any the hell how.
What occurred was that over the past while a fella’s mood’s
been jumping and weaving and ducking and diving and flexing
and protracting and all the fuck sorts, till he no longer
knows if he’s happy or sad or indifferent. Some sort of short-
term quick-release bi-polar thing going on, giddy as the
risen bejeesus one second, lower than the wretched hounds of
Hades the next. And someplace in-between the too-ing and fro-
ing he notices something along the lines of This Is What The
Fuck I Need To Do.
So I concocted a manifesto of sorts in the back of a notebook
I use sometimes for to scribble lyrics and musings and
reviews that I end up discarding because some folks can write
in pen, and some folks can write in Word, but no one person
can do both efficiently. So I fuck the notebook over my
shoulder and just try to gather the essence of it all in a
text-based plum fit to be battered the fuck across the
keyboard, the stinking juices of some idea or other clinging
onto the half-sentences and shitty grammar.
And the manifesto was fairly short, it was a manifesto fit
only for The Duke, and not one of your Communist Manifestos
or Dogme 95 Manifestos, the sortsa manifestos where pretty
much anybody with a brain worth a fiddlers gypsy fuck can get
some use of some sort out of it all. Ain’t nobody ever going
to be studying my manifesto as part of some economics degree
of some kind.
What it amounted to was some sort of proposal for a life I
don’t think I would be ashamed to have lived. Or a couple
months out of said life, anyroad. Then I’ll happily settle
back into the routine, I would wager, provided I had at least
tasted what I set out to grab between cigarette-cracked lips.
The crux of it all is the following whimsical notion;
I dig the hell out of things right the hell now. The last
couple days been a maddening cacophony of grief and hilarity
and horrors and loveliness, but on the whole, I get a kick
outta the day-to-day. I get a kick outta sitting down for to
pen a tune, or catch a flick, or scribble some nonsense or
other about Amityville, or yack with friends, or have A Sit,
and these things carry a fella through any amount of insanity.
80% of the time my mood is 67% on the right side of gleeful,
and who the fuck in their right mind would expect anything
better in this day and age? Some whacked-out hobo high to the
eyes on mescaline and skag-pipes, I’d wager.
But nonetheless, there’s some kinda niggling idea teasing
away someplace back there. A fella just gets a feeling like
he wants to set out someplace, someplace where human beings
gather and talk and fuck each other senseless, and lasting,
meaningful, life-affirming relationships can be developed and
irrevocably destroyed within a matter of hours. I get the
feeling I’m missing out on something, and if it turns out I’m
missing out on nothing, then at least I can forget all about
it and get on with whatever the fuck I was doing a few hours
ago.
I need a holiday of some kind, but not one of the holidays
where it’s all a week or a month or twenty months spent
panicking and then next thing you know you’re home again and
all you remember is the forty-six hours it took to get the
motherfucking credit card details accepted on the internet.
The kinda holiday where it just happens, the kinda thing I
ain’t ever done sober. Plenty trains were jumped and boarded
when a fella was soaked to the knees in liver-eroding cider,
the kinda stuff you don’t consume, the kinda stuff that
consumes you, so after a couple or three or twelve bottle-to-
mouth tangos, a fella’s just a walking coat of wretched,
unintelligible cider-spunk.
I wanna jump those trains now, when it’s not because I don’t
wanna have to go home, not because I don’t wanna see the look
of disappointment and shame and fear in folks eyes, it’s
because I honestly want to experience something other than
the highs and lows that come around on the hour every fucking
day, disgustingly predictable, deeply debilitating.
The last few weeks I been thinking this, and like most
worthwhile decisions in life it was sparked off by a girl, a
girl The Duke, as is his wont, very quickly fell for, and one
who had the unenviable position of being on speaking terms
with yours truly, and so was fit to fuel these giddy
daydreams without even realising what the fuck she was doing.
A lass sat six tables across in the café, she’s safe, man.
She’ll probably star in all sorts of adventures by the time
I've moved on to thinking about something else, but she
doesn't know me, she doesn’t know my name, she doesn’t even
realise I walked in, and she won’t notice when I walk out.
The last thing she expects is that someone she never saw or
heard of or laid eyes on is stringing together a chorus about
her as he tries to focus on some book or other he holds up
for effect.
But when said object of mental gymnastics is fit for to
reply, fit for to say “Hey, how’s shit?” and so on and so
forth, then she wanders too close by far to the line marked
Too Close By Far. Unless she turns out to be horrible, she’s
in danger of all sortsa things, from seven or eight songs
penned for her in as many minutes, to rambling late night
emails wandering sheepishly around the phrase “So, you wanna
go catch Star Wars?”
So this lass inadvertently conjured in The Duke all sortsa
notion of train-hopping and travelling and staying a while in
someplace, but no big deal if I wanna move on. No harm done.
I wanna just get on a train and get off at Belfast, look at
the time-tables, and right there and then decide where the
fuck I’m gonna spend the night.
I wanna take my guitar and holler in some place where folks
don’t give two flying fucks that you can’t sing a note, that
your guitar ain’t been in tune since sometimes around the
French revolution, because the stories are ones worth hearing.
To have that freedom, man, to be in a town I don't know, with
people I don't know, to just say yeah, I really like you, I’d
be honoured if you’d let me buy you a drink and maybe you
could let me hear one of your songs?
Because let’s assess some situations –
A few months ago a five-year engagement what The Duke was
party to crumbled and floundered and fell, and I gotta admit,
there was a lotta fucking bitterness. Maybe I said I wasn’t,
maybe I shrugged and said about “Fuck it, let’s go see if TXT
Woman’ll maybe walk past”, but at the end of the day, those
songs had to come from someplace, man.
Listen to This Shit would you ever? That ain’t the sound of a
man at peace with the world and all who dwell within it.
But I see why this shit had to happen. I see that, much as it
tore and clawed and devoured my every waking moment, I been
thinking much the same as she has. I could yack on about “Oh,
you wanted freedom and yet first thing you do is race off for
to bind yourself to some other motherfucker”, but the truth
of the matter is a fella’s life is dripping down the walls in
front of him, and pretty soon all there’s gonna be is a
puddle of ideas and notions and thoughts I might’ve done one
time, but fuck it, too late now, what with me being dead
these past twenty-seven years.
Now is the time for to move ahead and do stuff, and if it
means bringing to an end something that was so beautiful once
upon a time that it breaks a man’s heart to do so, well, so
be it. My ex-fiancée saw this long before I did, that there
was no point whatsoever carrying on pretending we were all
happy and all that sorta shit when in reality we barely
spoke, and if we did it was her saying something I wasn’t
interested in or me saying something she wasn’t interested
in. Here we are growing ever more resentful of one another by
the second, when we could be off gallivanting and degrading
ourselves in manners befitting our youth.
But I don’t wanna do these things on my own, neither.
The fuck fun would Road Trip’ve been if it’d just been some
motherfucker sitting on a train reading The 120 Days Of Sodom?
It would’ve been the best fucking film ever made, most
likely, but that’s far from the point.
The point is that I’m the kinda fucker who might like to
romantically describe himself as some sort of loner type, and
for sure, I need a hella lotta space, but the truth of it all
is I want someone’s hand for to hold through the scary bits
too. I wanna wake up and there’s someone saying “Hey you.
It's almost three, I thought you’d never wake.” I wanna be
fit for to wait by the side of the bed if maybe through some
miracle I wake up first, and since I don’t drink, I can have
gotten all the stuff ready for to help cure their hangover.
I wanna be walking down a street where no one knows me and
then next thing I know I see a face I recognise from the
photo I saw, and she says hey, y’bastard, it’s been pissing
down, the hell where you?
And then she laughs.
This is my manifesto. The result of long, long nights and
soul-scarring tragedy and hilarious debates and a headful of
Woody Guthrie dreams. A desire for to live for a while before
settling back into critiquing the lives other folks live in
the 2:35 or the C# and F.
I demand a road trip with folks I hardly know who are the
coolest folks you ever met and just wanna talk about Johnny
Cash and GG Allin and Ryan Adams. You wanna crash in this
town, they’ll ask? The hell do I care, so long as you’re
gonna tell me about the time you woke up in Oslo.
I demand a sunset or six that look like the ones I see on TV,
instead of the fairly unspectacular variants I been getting
recently.
I demand exotic diseases that can be cured with a bit of bed-
rest and have been acquired through far too many of the
scallywag exploits.
I demand a conversation with a girl on a train who just
happened to sit down beside me, and it’s not cause I’m drunk
and slabbering, it’s cause she’s got nice eyes and she was
listening to a Gram Parsons CD earlier. I saw it sticking out
her hand-bag.
I demand meetings with friends where we sit on some rocks of
some kind and smoke too many cigarettes and drink too much
coffee, so we ain’t gonna sleep all night and our hearts are
doing that irregular beat shit again.
I request the hand of a girl I know, and her hand’ll make it
totally fine that all those other demands never got any
further than the internet. She’ll know that all that shit got
summed up just now, when she smiled in that light.
And I’ll tell her that her nose is cute and she’ll punch me
right on the fucking jaw, and I’ll laugh, and she’ll laugh,
and sometime or other we’ll sit in a bar and hear a band
neither of us likes, and she’ll put her head on my shoulder
and fall asleep.
And I’ll never need to get so self-obsessed for so many words
ever the fuck again.
Thanks folks.
Incidentally, how the fuck DOES Sideways end?
Thanks folks.
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
APRIL 26th 2005
I know, I know. How long has it been since The Duke done
waxed autobiographical right the fuck here and now? At least
far too long, would be a fairly accurate estimate, give or
take a motherfuck or two.
What can I say, man, I been busy as a wasp hopped up on the
crack-weeds. As if the amount of nonsensical nonsense frying
mine skull-blob in the non-Mondo world of things wasn’t
enough, I also spent a week crafting another opus of whining,
cursing, “wah wah wah” etc with the aid of a chunk o’ the old
intravenous inspiration by way of a young lassie fit for to
inspire a man.
Ooh, heroin references. Dig the edges on this thing, would
you ever? Edgy as all sweet bejeesus.
No, I’m afraid I don’t have the arse for to be one of your
bohemian heroin addict types. I do, however, have an alcohol
addiction, but that’s under lock and key as couple years. Dry
as a nuns, is what The Duke’s physical and mental state might
best be described as.
What it amounts to is a young lady by the name of Sinead whom
you may remember from back a couple pages ago when I waxed on
and off about MySpace.com set about fillin’ a fella’s head
with lyrical banter and tunes and stuff, and also, bizarrely,
a couple homosexual fantasies.
Who knows how it all works in the crazy world of a fella’s
head-sauce?
So what you can go ahead and assume is the most likely The
Duke’s all new Net Record, ten tracks this time around, will
be on Mondo before the night’s out. It’s called 120 Removed
(April Songs), following a prolonged bout of wondering what
the hell to call it, with the aid of the young lass mentioned
above, who helpfully pointed out that my suggestions were
each and every one a gabble of shite.
Shit She’s Gone An’ Raised, for example, was my favourite.
You think Sinead dug it? She’d sooner dig a ditch inside her
very guts with a 12” Soft Cell record before she’d accept
that cack as a title.
So half of the eventual title is her suggestion, although the
wanky bit in brackets is all my very own, don’t you know?
While you’re waiting for that, why not go check out This
Review Of The Duke’s Last Net Record from off of Swing Batter
Batter? It also appears on Blogcritics, as did Jon Sobel’s
Review.
And while we’re on the subject of international poverty and
debt absolution, it’s high time you set about visiting Make
Poverty History and getting on with the business of wearing
the white arm-band thing and sending emails to folks like
Tony Blair, which you can do on The Site, and all on account
of you need the son of a bitch to know that when he and his
besuited buddies gather for the G8 shindig in July, they
better be aware that motherfuckers like us lot are expecting
some worthwhile shit with regards that proposal they all
reached regarding “Ending World Poverty By 2015”.
It may surprise you to know, but Blair and Brown and their
international pals along the lines of your George W Bushes
and what have you, they could be inclined to forget all about
that sorta shit. They might assume that a couple half-
hearted, albeit impressive sounding, soundbites is gonna keep
us all at arms length for another year or nine.
So what you do is you go to MakePovertyHistory.org and you
send an email every now and again to Blair or whoever you
wanna wax to, and you let them know that yeah, folks do, in
fact, expect some results.
We gotta send these emails an’ shit, man, since I don’t know
if you know, but the folks who most need to be heard are too
busy getting on with the starving and dying for to worry
about keeping the net connection in the old tippity top.
How longs it gonna take? Look, I’ll even supply an email for
you right here, and you just gotta copy and paste.
Dear Mr Blair (Or insert whoever the hell you want. Probably
best not send it to GG Allin though, what with him being
dead.)
Maybe you got so caught up in that skirmish out there in the
ol’ Axis Of Evil that it slipped your mind, but dig this
regardless; Folks aren’t too keen on the amount of shit
you're spending left and right on things no-one wants or
cares about or ever even hears about, and if they do, they
change the channel, since come the fuck on, the Desperate
Households or whatever is on.
I’m starting to feel a bit guilty on account of here I am
enjoying beautiful transfers of the works of Kirsten Dunst or
Pier Palo Pasolini when there are folks starving to death. I
don’t trust charities a terrible lot, and if you think I
bought that Band Aid thing with The Darkness and stuff you
can think again. If you imagine I wanna watch Live Aid even
once, with the exception of the horrendous Bob Dylan
performance, well, best you took a minute and reflected on
something along the lines of Like Fuck I Do.
The Marquis De Sade wasn’t much fond of charity either,
you'll be aware. He didn’t even wanna see folks getting
welfare or the dole. Keep the poor poor or don’t, but don’t
patronize them with some affront of a pishy cheque every
fortnight. Also, how bout you crap on my head?
That Marquis De Sade. What a demented motherfucker he was.
But dig this; I dunno if you noticed but it’s been something
like 2000 years since Bono died for to save the world, and
it's still a shambles, and that you have the power to make an
incredible difference is something you should muse on for a
while, and maybe you might wanna think about how well you
sleep at night knowing you said some shit one time cause The
Youth lap that shit up, but really, you have no intention of
using that power mentioned just a couple words ago for
anything other than blowing the fuck outta stuff.
He-Man had The Power, The Power Of Fucking Greyskull no less,
and you think he just sat on it, maybe made his cat thing a
bit cooler for the ladies, but that’s as far as it goes? He
didn’t. He kicked the gangrenous bejeesus outta Skeletor.
Poverty is Skeletor, and it is violence, and it’s the kinda
violence I don’t feel should really be part of the scheme of
things in this day and age. Think of something. I know you
got a good imagination on you, I mean holy shit, I read that
doomsday dossier about how we’d all be dead if couple minutes
if Saddam so much as blinked in the wrong wind.
Or even better, don’t think of a damn thing, just do this
shit here, the nine words as quoted on that Make Poverty
History site that Thom Yorke seems so very fond of;
Trade Justice. Drop The Debt. More And Better Aid.
That’s it.
Personally I shat myself when that fucking right-wing maniac
got the pope-hat a few days ago, but I think maybe we can
overlook that sorta thing for a minute or two and focus on
something worthwhile.
Yours,
The Name What I Was Given, Or Indeed The Name I Changed By
Deed-Poll To Something Cool Like “Savage Aristocrat” or
“Phillip”.
Go do it, man. It’ll only take a second. That DVD of Salo
will stay paused. Werewolf Of Washington won’t go no-place.
Can those folks put off dying for ten minutes till that
Weezer record finishes? The one with the song about “I’m
dumped, she’s a lesbian”?
Probably not, I’d wager.
Thanks folks.
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
waxed autobiographical right the fuck here and now? At least
far too long, would be a fairly accurate estimate, give or
take a motherfuck or two.
What can I say, man, I been busy as a wasp hopped up on the
crack-weeds. As if the amount of nonsensical nonsense frying
mine skull-blob in the non-Mondo world of things wasn’t
enough, I also spent a week crafting another opus of whining,
cursing, “wah wah wah” etc with the aid of a chunk o’ the old
intravenous inspiration by way of a young lassie fit for to
inspire a man.
Ooh, heroin references. Dig the edges on this thing, would
you ever? Edgy as all sweet bejeesus.
No, I’m afraid I don’t have the arse for to be one of your
bohemian heroin addict types. I do, however, have an alcohol
addiction, but that’s under lock and key as couple years. Dry
as a nuns, is what The Duke’s physical and mental state might
best be described as.
What it amounts to is a young lady by the name of Sinead whom
you may remember from back a couple pages ago when I waxed on
and off about MySpace.com set about fillin’ a fella’s head
with lyrical banter and tunes and stuff, and also, bizarrely,
a couple homosexual fantasies.
Who knows how it all works in the crazy world of a fella’s
head-sauce?
So what you can go ahead and assume is the most likely The
Duke’s all new Net Record, ten tracks this time around, will
be on Mondo before the night’s out. It’s called 120 Removed
(April Songs), following a prolonged bout of wondering what
the hell to call it, with the aid of the young lass mentioned
above, who helpfully pointed out that my suggestions were
each and every one a gabble of shite.
Shit She’s Gone An’ Raised, for example, was my favourite.
You think Sinead dug it? She’d sooner dig a ditch inside her
very guts with a 12” Soft Cell record before she’d accept
that cack as a title.
So half of the eventual title is her suggestion, although the
wanky bit in brackets is all my very own, don’t you know?
While you’re waiting for that, why not go check out This
Review Of The Duke’s Last Net Record from off of Swing Batter
Batter? It also appears on Blogcritics, as did Jon Sobel’s
Review.
And while we’re on the subject of international poverty and
debt absolution, it’s high time you set about visiting Make
Poverty History and getting on with the business of wearing
the white arm-band thing and sending emails to folks like
Tony Blair, which you can do on The Site, and all on account
of you need the son of a bitch to know that when he and his
besuited buddies gather for the G8 shindig in July, they
better be aware that motherfuckers like us lot are expecting
some worthwhile shit with regards that proposal they all
reached regarding “Ending World Poverty By 2015”.
It may surprise you to know, but Blair and Brown and their
international pals along the lines of your George W Bushes
and what have you, they could be inclined to forget all about
that sorta shit. They might assume that a couple half-
hearted, albeit impressive sounding, soundbites is gonna keep
us all at arms length for another year or nine.
So what you do is you go to MakePovertyHistory.org and you
send an email every now and again to Blair or whoever you
wanna wax to, and you let them know that yeah, folks do, in
fact, expect some results.
We gotta send these emails an’ shit, man, since I don’t know
if you know, but the folks who most need to be heard are too
busy getting on with the starving and dying for to worry
about keeping the net connection in the old tippity top.
How longs it gonna take? Look, I’ll even supply an email for
you right here, and you just gotta copy and paste.
Dear Mr Blair (Or insert whoever the hell you want. Probably
best not send it to GG Allin though, what with him being
dead.)
Maybe you got so caught up in that skirmish out there in the
ol’ Axis Of Evil that it slipped your mind, but dig this
regardless; Folks aren’t too keen on the amount of shit
you're spending left and right on things no-one wants or
cares about or ever even hears about, and if they do, they
change the channel, since come the fuck on, the Desperate
Households or whatever is on.
I’m starting to feel a bit guilty on account of here I am
enjoying beautiful transfers of the works of Kirsten Dunst or
Pier Palo Pasolini when there are folks starving to death. I
don’t trust charities a terrible lot, and if you think I
bought that Band Aid thing with The Darkness and stuff you
can think again. If you imagine I wanna watch Live Aid even
once, with the exception of the horrendous Bob Dylan
performance, well, best you took a minute and reflected on
something along the lines of Like Fuck I Do.
The Marquis De Sade wasn’t much fond of charity either,
you'll be aware. He didn’t even wanna see folks getting
welfare or the dole. Keep the poor poor or don’t, but don’t
patronize them with some affront of a pishy cheque every
fortnight. Also, how bout you crap on my head?
That Marquis De Sade. What a demented motherfucker he was.
But dig this; I dunno if you noticed but it’s been something
like 2000 years since Bono died for to save the world, and
it's still a shambles, and that you have the power to make an
incredible difference is something you should muse on for a
while, and maybe you might wanna think about how well you
sleep at night knowing you said some shit one time cause The
Youth lap that shit up, but really, you have no intention of
using that power mentioned just a couple words ago for
anything other than blowing the fuck outta stuff.
He-Man had The Power, The Power Of Fucking Greyskull no less,
and you think he just sat on it, maybe made his cat thing a
bit cooler for the ladies, but that’s as far as it goes? He
didn’t. He kicked the gangrenous bejeesus outta Skeletor.
Poverty is Skeletor, and it is violence, and it’s the kinda
violence I don’t feel should really be part of the scheme of
things in this day and age. Think of something. I know you
got a good imagination on you, I mean holy shit, I read that
doomsday dossier about how we’d all be dead if couple minutes
if Saddam so much as blinked in the wrong wind.
Or even better, don’t think of a damn thing, just do this
shit here, the nine words as quoted on that Make Poverty
History site that Thom Yorke seems so very fond of;
Trade Justice. Drop The Debt. More And Better Aid.
That’s it.
Personally I shat myself when that fucking right-wing maniac
got the pope-hat a few days ago, but I think maybe we can
overlook that sorta thing for a minute or two and focus on
something worthwhile.
Yours,
The Name What I Was Given, Or Indeed The Name I Changed By
Deed-Poll To Something Cool Like “Savage Aristocrat” or
“Phillip”.
Go do it, man. It’ll only take a second. That DVD of Salo
will stay paused. Werewolf Of Washington won’t go no-place.
Can those folks put off dying for ten minutes till that
Weezer record finishes? The one with the song about “I’m
dumped, she’s a lesbian”?
Probably not, I’d wager.
Thanks folks.
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
APRIL 8th 2005
Thoughts From The Bath-Tub
It does a man good to just lay back in the bath, man, just
stare up at the dents in the ceiling and worry not about
physical inadequacies but instead just feel the mass get
lighter as a week’s worth of frustration and boredom and
lethargy and anger just dissipate, just leave a man’s torso
and cloud up the water a tad.
For sure, a shower’s all well and good, and efficient, but
there ain’t much romantic about it. Erotic, maybe, depending
on who’s in it, but romantic? More romance in a drunken wank,
I’m guessing. Ain’t much time for to ponder on the in’s and
out’s of a man’s existence when his energy’s focused on
trying to breathe under the thunder of the hot water.
In a bath-tub, a man gets time for to envision all sorts of
fantasies, and the ones that exorcise the whimsy-glands,
rather than the wrist. A man gets to think about discarding
all the fuckery that arrives without fail every morning for
to batter a fella’s balls with the busted umbrellas of
reality. A fella like The Duke maybe even gets to think about
setting off on a train and arriving in London or Dublin or
New York or Wisconsin, just an out-of-tune acoustic and a
soaked notepad for company, and fuck knows what’s gonna
happen when this cigarette burns itself black against my face?
Thoughts flutter around regarding stand-up gigs done for the
price of a kip, acoustic sets in café’s where the folks are
paying too much attention to the story to realise the
singin's outta tune. Exotic diseases picked up in brothels
and discarded with a quick one at the wrist.
Ideas of TXT Woman holding a fella’s hand as they walk around
Edinburgh, the gothic intensity of the city matched only by
the ferocity of the filthing. And her head on a fella’s
shoulder, or a fella’s head on hers, and she runs her hand
through a fella’s hair whilst he listens to her stories about
redemption and temptation and heaven and Belfast.
Or maybe a fella stood in the rain cause maybe he noticed
Kirsten sitting by the window in a bar across the street, and
Her friends haven’t arrived but it’s pissing down and anyhow,
the music’s great. Something by Johnny Cash. Something about
he murdered some low-down motherfucker and he’ll make it up
when God decides, but he ain’t gonna regret it, that’s for
damn sure.
So the fella wanders in, the rain and the smoke hanging off
him, and She smiles at him as all these folks run past doing
that thing where they hold the newspapers over their head,
even though the supplement inside has far better chance of
withstanding the downpour.
And he don’t drink liquor, so the fella orders three pints of
Diet Coke and he smokes fifteen cigarettes before deciding
he'll go over and say hello to Kirsten, and tell Her he wrote
all these songs about Her, and two of them even appeared on
his website back in the midsts of reality and all that jazz.
And so he does, and She says about well, how bout you sing
them for me, and so he makes some show about tuning the
guitar even though all he can hear is Her breathing, and he
plays those two songs, and no-one else in the bar notices,
since they all got these stories to tell about that
motherfucker Bush or that motherfucker Kerry, that cunt
Moore, that fuck O’Reilly, bantering back and fourth and then
sometimes they forget all about that and just yack about this
show they saw last night, a remake of that British thing,
y'know, with the guy keeps fixing his tie? Cracks me up, that
motherfucker. Y’know, the one where he does the “black man’s
cock” stuff?
And then the fella finishes and Kirsten, She don’t say
anything, just kinda looks at Her hands, and he looks at them
too, the most beautiful hands he’s ever seen, he’s thinking,
and then after a while he figures that’s about that, and he’s
about to get up but She touches his arm, and says about no,
stay, and he faints, but it’s only a tiny faint, like when
you sneeze (apparently you faint for a micro-nano-second or
whatever the fuck when you sneeze) and his vision goes all
wonky for a time, but when it clears, She’s looking in his
eyes.
I preferred the one you did about the Goth Girls she says.
And a fella sighs and gets out the fucking bath tub. Fucking
water’s freezing, man, and it’s just gone 3.
Thanks folks.
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
It does a man good to just lay back in the bath, man, just
stare up at the dents in the ceiling and worry not about
physical inadequacies but instead just feel the mass get
lighter as a week’s worth of frustration and boredom and
lethargy and anger just dissipate, just leave a man’s torso
and cloud up the water a tad.
For sure, a shower’s all well and good, and efficient, but
there ain’t much romantic about it. Erotic, maybe, depending
on who’s in it, but romantic? More romance in a drunken wank,
I’m guessing. Ain’t much time for to ponder on the in’s and
out’s of a man’s existence when his energy’s focused on
trying to breathe under the thunder of the hot water.
In a bath-tub, a man gets time for to envision all sorts of
fantasies, and the ones that exorcise the whimsy-glands,
rather than the wrist. A man gets to think about discarding
all the fuckery that arrives without fail every morning for
to batter a fella’s balls with the busted umbrellas of
reality. A fella like The Duke maybe even gets to think about
setting off on a train and arriving in London or Dublin or
New York or Wisconsin, just an out-of-tune acoustic and a
soaked notepad for company, and fuck knows what’s gonna
happen when this cigarette burns itself black against my face?
Thoughts flutter around regarding stand-up gigs done for the
price of a kip, acoustic sets in café’s where the folks are
paying too much attention to the story to realise the
singin's outta tune. Exotic diseases picked up in brothels
and discarded with a quick one at the wrist.
Ideas of TXT Woman holding a fella’s hand as they walk around
Edinburgh, the gothic intensity of the city matched only by
the ferocity of the filthing. And her head on a fella’s
shoulder, or a fella’s head on hers, and she runs her hand
through a fella’s hair whilst he listens to her stories about
redemption and temptation and heaven and Belfast.
Or maybe a fella stood in the rain cause maybe he noticed
Kirsten sitting by the window in a bar across the street, and
Her friends haven’t arrived but it’s pissing down and anyhow,
the music’s great. Something by Johnny Cash. Something about
he murdered some low-down motherfucker and he’ll make it up
when God decides, but he ain’t gonna regret it, that’s for
damn sure.
So the fella wanders in, the rain and the smoke hanging off
him, and She smiles at him as all these folks run past doing
that thing where they hold the newspapers over their head,
even though the supplement inside has far better chance of
withstanding the downpour.
And he don’t drink liquor, so the fella orders three pints of
Diet Coke and he smokes fifteen cigarettes before deciding
he'll go over and say hello to Kirsten, and tell Her he wrote
all these songs about Her, and two of them even appeared on
his website back in the midsts of reality and all that jazz.
And so he does, and She says about well, how bout you sing
them for me, and so he makes some show about tuning the
guitar even though all he can hear is Her breathing, and he
plays those two songs, and no-one else in the bar notices,
since they all got these stories to tell about that
motherfucker Bush or that motherfucker Kerry, that cunt
Moore, that fuck O’Reilly, bantering back and fourth and then
sometimes they forget all about that and just yack about this
show they saw last night, a remake of that British thing,
y'know, with the guy keeps fixing his tie? Cracks me up, that
motherfucker. Y’know, the one where he does the “black man’s
cock” stuff?
And then the fella finishes and Kirsten, She don’t say
anything, just kinda looks at Her hands, and he looks at them
too, the most beautiful hands he’s ever seen, he’s thinking,
and then after a while he figures that’s about that, and he’s
about to get up but She touches his arm, and says about no,
stay, and he faints, but it’s only a tiny faint, like when
you sneeze (apparently you faint for a micro-nano-second or
whatever the fuck when you sneeze) and his vision goes all
wonky for a time, but when it clears, She’s looking in his
eyes.
I preferred the one you did about the Goth Girls she says.
And a fella sighs and gets out the fucking bath tub. Fucking
water’s freezing, man, and it’s just gone 3.
Thanks folks.
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
APRIL 3rd 2005
This evening proved to be just about as hectic as a
motherfucker would care for to endure, let a man tell you.
First off, to all the Catholics reading, my condolences
regarding the death of The Pope. I was a Catholic myself for
two weeks back in the summer of 2001, I know how important
this man was to the whole shindig. Personally, I didn’t like
him. We didn’t see eye to eye on political matters, and this
one time in a bar I thought he was gonna punch me the fuck
out on account of my opinions regarding Marx.
He hated Groucho, is the truth of the matter.
But nonetheless he gave a lot of folks a lot of hope and so
on, and at least you can rest easy in the knowledge that he
lived a full life, unlike John Paul I, who was murdered by
everyone from the Mafia to the Nazi’s, if those conspiracy
theories are to be believed.
But anyway.
In other news, what happened tonight was that I was minding
my own business, walking into a grocery store for to purchase
a couple bottles of Diet Coke, as is my wont. Who should I
see walking towards me but an incredibly attractive black-
haired lady with an incredibly tight white top and also a bag
of something or other. Maybe carrots and whiskey. I’m not
sure.
Anyhow, as I’m prone to do, I smiled a self-deprecating
smile, hoping to insinuate something along the lines of “I’m
very shy and probably poetic, yet rest assured I can, indeed,
conceive of a great many filthy scenarios, and then probably
I’ll write a song about it later.”
Usually what happens is that the lady smiles back and looks
at her feet and carries on. This lady, however, she met my
eyes before deciding whether or not to smile, and then when
she met them, she smiled, and not just a “Hi, I’m in a hurry,
who the fuck are you, anyhow? You look like a fucking crack-
addict” kinda smile, but a smile that says “Well hi there.
Yeah, I know, I’m giving you it just by walking past, but
guess what, I’m already out the door by now.”
I don’t remember much about what she looked like, or even
roughly how old she was, but I’d say early twenties and
gorgeous sums it up pretty well. If by any chance said lady
is reading, since come the fuck on, at least 20 folks a month
read this shit, then know that, probably, I left that grocery
store at least 6 inches heavier than when I went in.
Without getting filthy about the whole thing.
I believe I fell in love right there, and also lust, the
kinda lust only a brief jaunt to the lonely-man’s room can
clear, I imagine.
But enough of that sorta talk.
What I’ve decided, is that since I’m an entrepreneurial type
a motherfucker, I’m gonna put together a 4-page newsletter
thing called “Mondo Irlando – Useless Promotional Pish” which
I will leave around students union buildings and so on with
the hope of snaring some insufferable fucker who makes jokes
about Takashi Miike thinking no-one knows what he’s talking
about.
I know, man. I know only too fucking well.
Hopefully this will lead to an influx of eager students and
so on wanting to see some nonsense or other about what I
thought of some shite they never saw.
Certainly my fly-poster campaign, aided no end by Sir
Fleming, The Official Head Of Mondo Marketing, proved
successful, in that not only did it entice Karen to say how
the site “truly blows” in The Duke’s Guestbook, but also
alerted young Suzi, officially the best Suzi of all time, to
sample its filthy pleasures.
I think this is a worthwhile pursuit.
A ZEN ASIDE – Think not “What can my brother do for me?”,
think, “Who is my brother, and why is he touching me?”
Thanks folks.
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
motherfucker would care for to endure, let a man tell you.
First off, to all the Catholics reading, my condolences
regarding the death of The Pope. I was a Catholic myself for
two weeks back in the summer of 2001, I know how important
this man was to the whole shindig. Personally, I didn’t like
him. We didn’t see eye to eye on political matters, and this
one time in a bar I thought he was gonna punch me the fuck
out on account of my opinions regarding Marx.
He hated Groucho, is the truth of the matter.
But nonetheless he gave a lot of folks a lot of hope and so
on, and at least you can rest easy in the knowledge that he
lived a full life, unlike John Paul I, who was murdered by
everyone from the Mafia to the Nazi’s, if those conspiracy
theories are to be believed.
But anyway.
In other news, what happened tonight was that I was minding
my own business, walking into a grocery store for to purchase
a couple bottles of Diet Coke, as is my wont. Who should I
see walking towards me but an incredibly attractive black-
haired lady with an incredibly tight white top and also a bag
of something or other. Maybe carrots and whiskey. I’m not
sure.
Anyhow, as I’m prone to do, I smiled a self-deprecating
smile, hoping to insinuate something along the lines of “I’m
very shy and probably poetic, yet rest assured I can, indeed,
conceive of a great many filthy scenarios, and then probably
I’ll write a song about it later.”
Usually what happens is that the lady smiles back and looks
at her feet and carries on. This lady, however, she met my
eyes before deciding whether or not to smile, and then when
she met them, she smiled, and not just a “Hi, I’m in a hurry,
who the fuck are you, anyhow? You look like a fucking crack-
addict” kinda smile, but a smile that says “Well hi there.
Yeah, I know, I’m giving you it just by walking past, but
guess what, I’m already out the door by now.”
I don’t remember much about what she looked like, or even
roughly how old she was, but I’d say early twenties and
gorgeous sums it up pretty well. If by any chance said lady
is reading, since come the fuck on, at least 20 folks a month
read this shit, then know that, probably, I left that grocery
store at least 6 inches heavier than when I went in.
Without getting filthy about the whole thing.
I believe I fell in love right there, and also lust, the
kinda lust only a brief jaunt to the lonely-man’s room can
clear, I imagine.
But enough of that sorta talk.
What I’ve decided, is that since I’m an entrepreneurial type
a motherfucker, I’m gonna put together a 4-page newsletter
thing called “Mondo Irlando – Useless Promotional Pish” which
I will leave around students union buildings and so on with
the hope of snaring some insufferable fucker who makes jokes
about Takashi Miike thinking no-one knows what he’s talking
about.
I know, man. I know only too fucking well.
Hopefully this will lead to an influx of eager students and
so on wanting to see some nonsense or other about what I
thought of some shite they never saw.
Certainly my fly-poster campaign, aided no end by Sir
Fleming, The Official Head Of Mondo Marketing, proved
successful, in that not only did it entice Karen to say how
the site “truly blows” in The Duke’s Guestbook, but also
alerted young Suzi, officially the best Suzi of all time, to
sample its filthy pleasures.
I think this is a worthwhile pursuit.
A ZEN ASIDE – Think not “What can my brother do for me?”,
think, “Who is my brother, and why is he touching me?”
Thanks folks.
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
