July 26th 2006
On account o’ the Pop Cult Mind Wax series over on
Blogcritics, wherein I wax with much hyperbolic, pseudo-
poetic aplomb with regards this or that personal hiccup and
the flicks, tunes, books and what have you done coloured
every scene and flung melody round every tableau, on account
o’ this development, says I, The Duke’s Journals have become
altogether a touch superfluous. Thus, they witter away there
in the corner o’ Mondo Irlando, sayin’ “Hear us now, weeks,
months, sundry autobiographical touchstones rise and fall and
fade ‘gainst the evening glow, and scarcely a syllable tossed
t’wards our famished, rumble-gunkin’ fandangs with regards a
solitary bastard development.”
Sorry, The Duke’s Journals, but what can a fella do? Less
than fuck all, is more or less what.
But what I can do is take this opportunity for to fill you in
with regards a couple plot-points left hanging in yonder Pop
Cult Mind Wax affairs, particularly the one at the end o’
This Number, which mentions that I leave for London in
September. Manys a fine fellow and lassie done flung an email
my direction to wish luck and guidance and delivery from any
and all venereal diseases, and thank you, yes, but it turns
out I’m here for another year, and leaving for London and its
numerous infamies, debaucheries and degradations in September
of 2007.
What this means is that I get to gather some funds and also
finish the novel I’m writing, it having finally, praise and
praises due to Himself, progressed beyond Chapter One
Paragraph One. It is now, in fact, firmly ensconced in the
bosom o’ Chapter Six Paragraph Two, and it turns out it’s one
of your “creative non-fiction” type affairs concerning
something along the lines of the following;
A young fella by the name of David Jonathan McFall wanders
around County Antrim in the throes o’ a fierce mind-funk,
reliving this or that autobiographical aside with the aid of
a cavern o’ memories situated up his arsehole, and also
finding time for to be taunted and challenged and inspired
and molested by The Priest, a drink-sodden acquaintance young
David encountered when wandering the corridors o’ a
psychiatric ward. He wants to write a novel but can’t find a
tale worth telling for love nor money, and God alone knows
whether the trips to Dublin City and the Apocalyptic visions
he spies twixt a lady’s thighs will help the situation any.
Also, he masturbates a lot and listens to Bjork and is privy
to sundry revelations concerning Job wandering the streets of
Belfast.
I’m all sortsa hopeful that it’ll be finished afore very long.
Other Creative News And What Have You;
Few months ago I wrote and directed a short flick went by the
name of Cliddyplomp, a psychological fantasy comedy plays
like one o’ the Mondo Podcasts, a semi-autobiographical romp,
says I, about a fella finds himself at the fag-end o’ a
wretched break-up and so a demon of some kind materialises in
his living room for to keep the poor cunt from goin’ sixty-
nine kinds o’ demented. I recently learned, would you
believe, that none other than RTE, being the Irish telly
station, done flung a lovely prize my direction, on account
of they found the flick in question to be most satisfactory.
Thus, I’m a grand better off, which is lovely, although I was
hopin’ to have the flick up on Blogcritics and Mondo Irlando
afore now, and have had to postpone such activities on
account of waitin’ for this recent development to unfurl.
This is less lovely, but what can one do?
Being just returned from a jaunt to Dundalk for to bask in
the aura o’ mine Lady Friend, I’ve got next to fuck all done,
but I can tell you that, very shortly, you can expect a new
Pop Cult concerning Adventures In The Grindhouse, inspired in
large part by an email I received from a lovely fella by the
name o’ Paul, telling me all about the ol’ Dublin Grot-Dens
and hangin’ wi’ Russ Meyer and what have you. Also, some
thoughts on Vespetine by Bjork and Who Needs Action When You
Got Words by Plan B and an incisive critique o’ Jonathan
Weiss’ 2000 adaptation o’ J.G Ballard’s bollock-boilingly
brilliant The Atrocity Exhibition.
Also, I need to round off the journal concerning the
production o’ Steven and Wayne Benson’s 0.0270270, it having
been a couple or three months since the premier, which was a
glorious event.
And so, aye, look out for that stuff. Why not?
Thanks folks
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
Blogcritics, wherein I wax with much hyperbolic, pseudo-
poetic aplomb with regards this or that personal hiccup and
the flicks, tunes, books and what have you done coloured
every scene and flung melody round every tableau, on account
o’ this development, says I, The Duke’s Journals have become
altogether a touch superfluous. Thus, they witter away there
in the corner o’ Mondo Irlando, sayin’ “Hear us now, weeks,
months, sundry autobiographical touchstones rise and fall and
fade ‘gainst the evening glow, and scarcely a syllable tossed
t’wards our famished, rumble-gunkin’ fandangs with regards a
solitary bastard development.”
Sorry, The Duke’s Journals, but what can a fella do? Less
than fuck all, is more or less what.
But what I can do is take this opportunity for to fill you in
with regards a couple plot-points left hanging in yonder Pop
Cult Mind Wax affairs, particularly the one at the end o’
This Number, which mentions that I leave for London in
September. Manys a fine fellow and lassie done flung an email
my direction to wish luck and guidance and delivery from any
and all venereal diseases, and thank you, yes, but it turns
out I’m here for another year, and leaving for London and its
numerous infamies, debaucheries and degradations in September
of 2007.
What this means is that I get to gather some funds and also
finish the novel I’m writing, it having finally, praise and
praises due to Himself, progressed beyond Chapter One
Paragraph One. It is now, in fact, firmly ensconced in the
bosom o’ Chapter Six Paragraph Two, and it turns out it’s one
of your “creative non-fiction” type affairs concerning
something along the lines of the following;
A young fella by the name of David Jonathan McFall wanders
around County Antrim in the throes o’ a fierce mind-funk,
reliving this or that autobiographical aside with the aid of
a cavern o’ memories situated up his arsehole, and also
finding time for to be taunted and challenged and inspired
and molested by The Priest, a drink-sodden acquaintance young
David encountered when wandering the corridors o’ a
psychiatric ward. He wants to write a novel but can’t find a
tale worth telling for love nor money, and God alone knows
whether the trips to Dublin City and the Apocalyptic visions
he spies twixt a lady’s thighs will help the situation any.
Also, he masturbates a lot and listens to Bjork and is privy
to sundry revelations concerning Job wandering the streets of
Belfast.
I’m all sortsa hopeful that it’ll be finished afore very long.
Other Creative News And What Have You;
Few months ago I wrote and directed a short flick went by the
name of Cliddyplomp, a psychological fantasy comedy plays
like one o’ the Mondo Podcasts, a semi-autobiographical romp,
says I, about a fella finds himself at the fag-end o’ a
wretched break-up and so a demon of some kind materialises in
his living room for to keep the poor cunt from goin’ sixty-
nine kinds o’ demented. I recently learned, would you
believe, that none other than RTE, being the Irish telly
station, done flung a lovely prize my direction, on account
of they found the flick in question to be most satisfactory.
Thus, I’m a grand better off, which is lovely, although I was
hopin’ to have the flick up on Blogcritics and Mondo Irlando
afore now, and have had to postpone such activities on
account of waitin’ for this recent development to unfurl.
This is less lovely, but what can one do?
Being just returned from a jaunt to Dundalk for to bask in
the aura o’ mine Lady Friend, I’ve got next to fuck all done,
but I can tell you that, very shortly, you can expect a new
Pop Cult concerning Adventures In The Grindhouse, inspired in
large part by an email I received from a lovely fella by the
name o’ Paul, telling me all about the ol’ Dublin Grot-Dens
and hangin’ wi’ Russ Meyer and what have you. Also, some
thoughts on Vespetine by Bjork and Who Needs Action When You
Got Words by Plan B and an incisive critique o’ Jonathan
Weiss’ 2000 adaptation o’ J.G Ballard’s bollock-boilingly
brilliant The Atrocity Exhibition.
Also, I need to round off the journal concerning the
production o’ Steven and Wayne Benson’s 0.0270270, it having
been a couple or three months since the premier, which was a
glorious event.
And so, aye, look out for that stuff. Why not?
Thanks folks
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
April 8th 2006
Sweet Moses, there it is, ten to six in the AM and not a hint
o’ shut-eye on the cards, no, on account of I got this thirst
in the eyeballs for to catch the morning fresh out the cranny
twitches tween the thighs o’ night-time. Too much goin on for
to think about the kippin, hells holy blazes, Soft Cell in
the ear-holes, Non-Stop Erotic Cabaret, and it is non-stop,
y'unnerstann, if by non-stop you mean an hour long.
Too much work to be done, the good work, the important work,
like updating The Duke’s Journals. What a life a man must
lead, if’n after all these months all he has to show f’rit is
a couple paragraphs about he’s listenin to Soft Cell. Where
you been all this time? Nowhere, is where, if by nowhere you
mean here and there, which is where I been.
Here and there fallin’ in the L. Nothin new there, no, and
still plenty other L’s to hang onto, some a them authentic,
like what a fella might feel for ladies called Sinead or
Kirsten or Conor, some transient, passing affairs, like what
a man might feel for Naomi Watts or Tim out Cursive or Harry
Potter Woman.
And a new obsession for to obsess over. Aye, there she is,
Canteen Woman, hitherto known as Worker Woman or Tray Lady,
lass works in the University Of Ulster, y’unnerstann, lass
surely fries my every fiddle wi’ thoughts along the lines of
this here, plucked out the notebook;
“Canteen Woman. Look at you there, all glowin.
Listen to that hiss risin’ off the canteen tiles. Listen to
it, aye.
‘Who are you’, it’s sayin, ‘And what is this demented swirl
in the love-sauce still sloshin’ around after even the
giddiest o’ fist-humps? What manner o’ affection be this,
that even when the head leans ‘gainst bathtub and the
porcelain reeks o’ sin and the breath staggers blind out the
lungs, even then, those notions are as potent as e’er they
were.
Those notions stirred on yonder morning when, with a head
fulla confusion and uncertainty and fear, you done sat
opposite and laughed in the right places and nodded and
smiled and oh, sayin oh dear God that smile, aye. How many
melodies and verses and insufferable spiels been etched in
the wake o’ that smile? How many poets been livin’ off that
smile, how many singers been sleepin in its glow?
Foul bastards with the audacity to speak the same language as
what rises off your tongue, as if their mouths were fit to
hold a solitary syllable sounds like something you might
think about saying one time.
I dare say I’m in love with you, oh shimmerin’ mistress of
the cafeteria.’”
Oh Canteen Woman, by the holy holes o’ Mary I dare say I’d
carve my throat out for a second under yonder mop.
Ah hell, sayin, look at you there, look at you there wi’
those eyes all autumn and the hair all hazel whispers. Look
at you there wi that smile, smile tastes like the first
couple bars of Livin’ In The City, smile reads like the first
couple pages o’ Heart Of Darkness. What Conrad saw in the
mist all huggin London’s lamp-posts, figure it looked like
how you say “hello”, figurin that’s fairly likely.
What Johnny Cash saw in the back a his brains when he stood
singin Where You There (When They Crucified My Lord) in
Madison Square Garden and all a damn sudden those voices rise
from out the darkness behind him; “Oh… Sometimes it causes me
to tremble…” Figure whatever he was seein looked for all the
world like yourself there.
God almighty, those first few moments of Manhattan, when
Rhapsody In Blue swells from out the speakers and that
monochrome cityscape bleeds from out the frame, swear on all
that’s wortha swearin on, aye, those moments are wrapped
around your every breath, see them throbbin in the air around
you, see them threaded through your shadow, hear them whisper
in your steps, y’unnerstann.
And look, sayin now, look at himself there, all bent o’er the
keys and with Morrissey cooing in the head-holes;
“There are explosive kegs between my legs,
Dear God please help me…”
And he’s thinking, aye; What to say about this woman? What do
I know? Nothing, is what I know.
Maybe I could tell her I’m awful sorry there ain’t been no
Mondo Podcast since Christmas, but fear ye none, on account
of I got a spot on Blogcritics radio, so not only do you get
ten minutes of my unexpurgated shite every week (give or
take), you also get to hear real opinions on real subjects
worth considering. Hurrah, say ye now, hurrah!
Maybe I could invite her to The Cromore Halt in Portstewart
this coming Sunday, when I intend to pop down to the In The
Round type session they got goin on, sing a couple songs and
holler ‘bout my baby done me awful bad, all sortsa bad, swear
on my last wank I ain’t ever been done so erroneously.
Who knows what giddy gabble I could fling her way, if’n I
could accept her “hi” with anythin’ more than an “Um, hi” an’
a face-fulla awe.
Who has time to worry about it, what with Sex Dwarf flyin out
the speakers.
The sky – A light blue, now.
How many organs must a man fling to the damned for to see a
proper sunrise? Where might he see these sights?
On a beach, most likely, certainly not here, all he gets is a
run from black to blue looks a bit like the gradient strips a
fella might find on the sides o’ packages offerin’ any amount
of wacky hair-dying goodness.
Still, feels good to be here, sat by the window at the 6.16
in the AM carvin words from out the mind-funk with the Soft
Cell in the ears. Feels good after a lengthy hiatus, after a
period spent goin’ mad, aye, grindin the teeth till the gums
are buttin the eyelids and the brains afire with delirious
contradictory wailings.
Fuck your Soft Cell! I’ll have nothing less than Townes Van
Zandt singin’ For The Sake Of The Song at this moment, and
there he is;
“Why does she sing sad songs to me
I’m not the one”
Why indeed, Townes. Why the fuck?
Thanks folks
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
o’ shut-eye on the cards, no, on account of I got this thirst
in the eyeballs for to catch the morning fresh out the cranny
twitches tween the thighs o’ night-time. Too much goin on for
to think about the kippin, hells holy blazes, Soft Cell in
the ear-holes, Non-Stop Erotic Cabaret, and it is non-stop,
y'unnerstann, if by non-stop you mean an hour long.
Too much work to be done, the good work, the important work,
like updating The Duke’s Journals. What a life a man must
lead, if’n after all these months all he has to show f’rit is
a couple paragraphs about he’s listenin to Soft Cell. Where
you been all this time? Nowhere, is where, if by nowhere you
mean here and there, which is where I been.
Here and there fallin’ in the L. Nothin new there, no, and
still plenty other L’s to hang onto, some a them authentic,
like what a fella might feel for ladies called Sinead or
Kirsten or Conor, some transient, passing affairs, like what
a man might feel for Naomi Watts or Tim out Cursive or Harry
Potter Woman.
And a new obsession for to obsess over. Aye, there she is,
Canteen Woman, hitherto known as Worker Woman or Tray Lady,
lass works in the University Of Ulster, y’unnerstann, lass
surely fries my every fiddle wi’ thoughts along the lines of
this here, plucked out the notebook;
“Canteen Woman. Look at you there, all glowin.
Listen to that hiss risin’ off the canteen tiles. Listen to
it, aye.
‘Who are you’, it’s sayin, ‘And what is this demented swirl
in the love-sauce still sloshin’ around after even the
giddiest o’ fist-humps? What manner o’ affection be this,
that even when the head leans ‘gainst bathtub and the
porcelain reeks o’ sin and the breath staggers blind out the
lungs, even then, those notions are as potent as e’er they
were.
Those notions stirred on yonder morning when, with a head
fulla confusion and uncertainty and fear, you done sat
opposite and laughed in the right places and nodded and
smiled and oh, sayin oh dear God that smile, aye. How many
melodies and verses and insufferable spiels been etched in
the wake o’ that smile? How many poets been livin’ off that
smile, how many singers been sleepin in its glow?
Foul bastards with the audacity to speak the same language as
what rises off your tongue, as if their mouths were fit to
hold a solitary syllable sounds like something you might
think about saying one time.
I dare say I’m in love with you, oh shimmerin’ mistress of
the cafeteria.’”
Oh Canteen Woman, by the holy holes o’ Mary I dare say I’d
carve my throat out for a second under yonder mop.
Ah hell, sayin, look at you there, look at you there wi’
those eyes all autumn and the hair all hazel whispers. Look
at you there wi that smile, smile tastes like the first
couple bars of Livin’ In The City, smile reads like the first
couple pages o’ Heart Of Darkness. What Conrad saw in the
mist all huggin London’s lamp-posts, figure it looked like
how you say “hello”, figurin that’s fairly likely.
What Johnny Cash saw in the back a his brains when he stood
singin Where You There (When They Crucified My Lord) in
Madison Square Garden and all a damn sudden those voices rise
from out the darkness behind him; “Oh… Sometimes it causes me
to tremble…” Figure whatever he was seein looked for all the
world like yourself there.
God almighty, those first few moments of Manhattan, when
Rhapsody In Blue swells from out the speakers and that
monochrome cityscape bleeds from out the frame, swear on all
that’s wortha swearin on, aye, those moments are wrapped
around your every breath, see them throbbin in the air around
you, see them threaded through your shadow, hear them whisper
in your steps, y’unnerstann.
And look, sayin now, look at himself there, all bent o’er the
keys and with Morrissey cooing in the head-holes;
“There are explosive kegs between my legs,
Dear God please help me…”
And he’s thinking, aye; What to say about this woman? What do
I know? Nothing, is what I know.
Maybe I could tell her I’m awful sorry there ain’t been no
Mondo Podcast since Christmas, but fear ye none, on account
of I got a spot on Blogcritics radio, so not only do you get
ten minutes of my unexpurgated shite every week (give or
take), you also get to hear real opinions on real subjects
worth considering. Hurrah, say ye now, hurrah!
Maybe I could invite her to The Cromore Halt in Portstewart
this coming Sunday, when I intend to pop down to the In The
Round type session they got goin on, sing a couple songs and
holler ‘bout my baby done me awful bad, all sortsa bad, swear
on my last wank I ain’t ever been done so erroneously.
Who knows what giddy gabble I could fling her way, if’n I
could accept her “hi” with anythin’ more than an “Um, hi” an’
a face-fulla awe.
Who has time to worry about it, what with Sex Dwarf flyin out
the speakers.
The sky – A light blue, now.
How many organs must a man fling to the damned for to see a
proper sunrise? Where might he see these sights?
On a beach, most likely, certainly not here, all he gets is a
run from black to blue looks a bit like the gradient strips a
fella might find on the sides o’ packages offerin’ any amount
of wacky hair-dying goodness.
Still, feels good to be here, sat by the window at the 6.16
in the AM carvin words from out the mind-funk with the Soft
Cell in the ears. Feels good after a lengthy hiatus, after a
period spent goin’ mad, aye, grindin the teeth till the gums
are buttin the eyelids and the brains afire with delirious
contradictory wailings.
Fuck your Soft Cell! I’ll have nothing less than Townes Van
Zandt singin’ For The Sake Of The Song at this moment, and
there he is;
“Why does she sing sad songs to me
I’m not the one”
Why indeed, Townes. Why the fuck?
Thanks folks
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
January 8th 2006
Sweet Matilda’s hymen, swear to all that’s holy an smells a
stinky filth my head’s set for bustin backwards out my ball-
pipes if’n I don’t take a moment for to relax an to chill an
to let the existential concerns an the philosophical babblin
slide swiftly off the limbs an squelch for a time ‘pon the
whites a the tiles.
Look here now, sayin, e’er since yon Star Wars screed back in
the guts a summer, e’er since that gargantuan diatribe bout
love an lust an shameful knuckle-fucks out back the gasworks,
e’er since yon tale were told a man’s mind’s been reelin wi
the Big Issues an the Wee Issues an the lasses wi sapphire
gazes bind both a the heady bastards at the bollocks.
Nary a sentence written that doesn’t in some manner address
the screechin hind the eyes an the sleepless nights all
aflame wi morbid curiosity.
Nary a word ‘bout a damn thing other than the lass a fella
seems to be in love wi, an the hilarious agony arising from
said ‘motional disruption.
So implorin to the rabid mental mini-beasts all sweat-soaked
an demented; calm down fellas, hells fire.
Let a fella’s brains bubble in peace for a time, for the love
a frosted fuck.
An so it is that I find myself sat baskin in the glow a the
mundane whilst perched ‘pon yonder porcelain wi Total Film
cross the knees an all hell ‘neath the arse.
Ain’t no need for to worry bout why I didn’t raise any sortsa
issues relatin to “please touch me” way back when, ain't no
cause for alarm about hang on, what if I’m dyin, on account
of the heart beats irregularly an the blood boils wi noxious
chemical abandon.
Legal chemical abandon, y’unnerstann.
No sense flingin a second ponder t’wards the void in the soul
an the emptiness neath the duvet.
No sense.
Put the re-writin on hold for a time, let that article all
about how Batman an me both need to hide ‘hind elaborate
masks for to get anythin o any worth accomplished rest in the
dank ol’ caverns a the hard drive, that song about the
apocalypse can wait, just sit back gainst the cool a the
cistern an switch the ol’ worry glands to stand-by.
Course, not the most relaxin a activities for most folks, the
ol’ grimace an’ plop, so thank fuck for a gut-fulla curry an
intestines in tatters wi caffeine abuse.
When a fella don’t need to be strainin nor screamin nor
pushin nor stretchin, when the insides can go about their
business wi little to no effort from the clenched fist an the
grindin gums, fella can let the brains loosen up ‘long wi the
sphincter.
Loosen up in the direction a this sorta tomfoolery;
Gentle Recollections Of An Event That May Or May Not Have
Taken Place
Sat up the bar next to a lass from Ballymena, wee town near
here wi all sortsa love for Darwin. Aye, sat discussin the
in's and out’s a Fevers And Mirrors by Bright Eyes, startin
to notice how she’s laughin in the right places, how she’s
got those big’ ol sympathetic eyes all tuned in to the
frequency a richest pathos ‘pon which my tales reside.
On the one end a the Likert scale, heads t’wards 1 – Very
Positive, she seems interested an enchanted an all too keen
for to get some fuck on the boil out back this ‘ol honky tonk
dive.
On the other end, leads to 5 –Very Negative, she’s also
incredibly attractive, alarmingly intelligent, has the kinda
cleavage any well-adjusted fella might fry his face for to
gaze upon for a time.
No good can come of it, not an ounce a well-bein gon’ settle
pon the shoulders once this pitiful tragedy concludes. She’s
gon’ be the type all too keen for the fun an the hilarious
scrapes an the wakin up ‘side fag-cracked yaps all spasamin
wi pretensions a poetic repose, but think again if’n maybe
you assume anythin lastin’s gon’ stem from it, and think more
‘long the lines a “No, ain’t no shit gon’ last, not one drip.”
I’m a needy sorta fucker, see, need all sortsa devotion an
attention an shoulders for to wail upon, any lass expects
anything other than a sixteen part narrative an fifty-seven
net-records to result from this sorta shindig, well, sorry
sayin honey but s’all the wrong in Nuremberg that line a
thought right there.
Ain’t nothin for it but to produce the ol’ folder, let her
get a fair ol’ view a the situation fore she throws the
thighs this direction.
Photographs – This is me when I wake up, when the artfully
pseudo-dishevelled mop is replaced by a genuinely dishevelled
mop, look here, see, not so pretty now, that skull all this
way an that.
This is what my yap’ll look like in a decade if’n I don’t go
ahead an get that touch-up I been thinkin about, look there,
see, look at that horror set to stare from tween these maw-
flaps few years hence.
This is what I looked like when I took a panic attack outside
a chip-shop cross the road couple whiles back, look at that,
the weepin an the wailin, “What’s goin on? Who am I?” Fuck
knows baby but sweet bejessus, fairly putrid sight for the ol
peepers right there.
Lists –
Habits I Got Goin On: I got this kinda caffeine-driven blink
thing, keep it under wraps lotta the time but when a fella's
relaxed an the hormones are jazzed up past 90 who the hell’s
gon’ keep watch? Also, I tend to be incredibly anal,
incredibly snobby with regards certain affairs, incredibly
self-obsessed an over-analytical.
Also, I’m in love wi this lass I met once. Once, I’ll repeat.
An I can’t write or holler or masturbate thout it bein some
way related to her.
Embarrassing Things I’ve Been Known To Do Durin Filth: I’ve
had trouble findin the path, so to speak, I’ve been known to
make really fuckin bizarre noises, I’ve a habit of gettin all
filthed-up at the wrong time, had to excuse myself fore now
for to go sort it out on account of the lady-friend’s not
talking to me, I done broke her London Calling by accident.
Also, I liked White Noise.
Couple drinks later the lady’s gone ahead an remembered she
needs to be o’er there, side that other lady wi the red hair
seems awful unsure about the alleged friendship.
Ah well.
Followin the ol grindathon down under, a fella figures he’ll
take a bath. Why the hell not? Allows for all sortsa thoughts
to be thunk, like why haven’t I seen A History Of Violence
yet, or Crash (2005, y’unnerstann), or the last hour of
Scorpius Gigantus?
Why haven’t I compiled that demo CD thing yet from out the
guts a all those net records?
Why are there hairs on the side a the bath where I was restin
my head just now? Did this always happen, is it just that I
didn’t see them till now, now that the hair’s all black an
therefore all the visible in the world when strewn cross the
white a the tub? Is God punishing me for the stupid emo
fringe thing by blightin me with baldness?
Who the fuck knows, and thank Jandek’s ruptured larynx, I
ain't got a damn thought to offer any of it.
Thanks folks
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
stinky filth my head’s set for bustin backwards out my ball-
pipes if’n I don’t take a moment for to relax an to chill an
to let the existential concerns an the philosophical babblin
slide swiftly off the limbs an squelch for a time ‘pon the
whites a the tiles.
Look here now, sayin, e’er since yon Star Wars screed back in
the guts a summer, e’er since that gargantuan diatribe bout
love an lust an shameful knuckle-fucks out back the gasworks,
e’er since yon tale were told a man’s mind’s been reelin wi
the Big Issues an the Wee Issues an the lasses wi sapphire
gazes bind both a the heady bastards at the bollocks.
Nary a sentence written that doesn’t in some manner address
the screechin hind the eyes an the sleepless nights all
aflame wi morbid curiosity.
Nary a word ‘bout a damn thing other than the lass a fella
seems to be in love wi, an the hilarious agony arising from
said ‘motional disruption.
So implorin to the rabid mental mini-beasts all sweat-soaked
an demented; calm down fellas, hells fire.
Let a fella’s brains bubble in peace for a time, for the love
a frosted fuck.
An so it is that I find myself sat baskin in the glow a the
mundane whilst perched ‘pon yonder porcelain wi Total Film
cross the knees an all hell ‘neath the arse.
Ain’t no need for to worry bout why I didn’t raise any sortsa
issues relatin to “please touch me” way back when, ain't no
cause for alarm about hang on, what if I’m dyin, on account
of the heart beats irregularly an the blood boils wi noxious
chemical abandon.
Legal chemical abandon, y’unnerstann.
No sense flingin a second ponder t’wards the void in the soul
an the emptiness neath the duvet.
No sense.
Put the re-writin on hold for a time, let that article all
about how Batman an me both need to hide ‘hind elaborate
masks for to get anythin o any worth accomplished rest in the
dank ol’ caverns a the hard drive, that song about the
apocalypse can wait, just sit back gainst the cool a the
cistern an switch the ol’ worry glands to stand-by.
Course, not the most relaxin a activities for most folks, the
ol’ grimace an’ plop, so thank fuck for a gut-fulla curry an
intestines in tatters wi caffeine abuse.
When a fella don’t need to be strainin nor screamin nor
pushin nor stretchin, when the insides can go about their
business wi little to no effort from the clenched fist an the
grindin gums, fella can let the brains loosen up ‘long wi the
sphincter.
Loosen up in the direction a this sorta tomfoolery;
Gentle Recollections Of An Event That May Or May Not Have
Taken Place
Sat up the bar next to a lass from Ballymena, wee town near
here wi all sortsa love for Darwin. Aye, sat discussin the
in's and out’s a Fevers And Mirrors by Bright Eyes, startin
to notice how she’s laughin in the right places, how she’s
got those big’ ol sympathetic eyes all tuned in to the
frequency a richest pathos ‘pon which my tales reside.
On the one end a the Likert scale, heads t’wards 1 – Very
Positive, she seems interested an enchanted an all too keen
for to get some fuck on the boil out back this ‘ol honky tonk
dive.
On the other end, leads to 5 –Very Negative, she’s also
incredibly attractive, alarmingly intelligent, has the kinda
cleavage any well-adjusted fella might fry his face for to
gaze upon for a time.
No good can come of it, not an ounce a well-bein gon’ settle
pon the shoulders once this pitiful tragedy concludes. She’s
gon’ be the type all too keen for the fun an the hilarious
scrapes an the wakin up ‘side fag-cracked yaps all spasamin
wi pretensions a poetic repose, but think again if’n maybe
you assume anythin lastin’s gon’ stem from it, and think more
‘long the lines a “No, ain’t no shit gon’ last, not one drip.”
I’m a needy sorta fucker, see, need all sortsa devotion an
attention an shoulders for to wail upon, any lass expects
anything other than a sixteen part narrative an fifty-seven
net-records to result from this sorta shindig, well, sorry
sayin honey but s’all the wrong in Nuremberg that line a
thought right there.
Ain’t nothin for it but to produce the ol’ folder, let her
get a fair ol’ view a the situation fore she throws the
thighs this direction.
Photographs – This is me when I wake up, when the artfully
pseudo-dishevelled mop is replaced by a genuinely dishevelled
mop, look here, see, not so pretty now, that skull all this
way an that.
This is what my yap’ll look like in a decade if’n I don’t go
ahead an get that touch-up I been thinkin about, look there,
see, look at that horror set to stare from tween these maw-
flaps few years hence.
This is what I looked like when I took a panic attack outside
a chip-shop cross the road couple whiles back, look at that,
the weepin an the wailin, “What’s goin on? Who am I?” Fuck
knows baby but sweet bejessus, fairly putrid sight for the ol
peepers right there.
Lists –
Habits I Got Goin On: I got this kinda caffeine-driven blink
thing, keep it under wraps lotta the time but when a fella's
relaxed an the hormones are jazzed up past 90 who the hell’s
gon’ keep watch? Also, I tend to be incredibly anal,
incredibly snobby with regards certain affairs, incredibly
self-obsessed an over-analytical.
Also, I’m in love wi this lass I met once. Once, I’ll repeat.
An I can’t write or holler or masturbate thout it bein some
way related to her.
Embarrassing Things I’ve Been Known To Do Durin Filth: I’ve
had trouble findin the path, so to speak, I’ve been known to
make really fuckin bizarre noises, I’ve a habit of gettin all
filthed-up at the wrong time, had to excuse myself fore now
for to go sort it out on account of the lady-friend’s not
talking to me, I done broke her London Calling by accident.
Also, I liked White Noise.
Couple drinks later the lady’s gone ahead an remembered she
needs to be o’er there, side that other lady wi the red hair
seems awful unsure about the alleged friendship.
Ah well.
Followin the ol grindathon down under, a fella figures he’ll
take a bath. Why the hell not? Allows for all sortsa thoughts
to be thunk, like why haven’t I seen A History Of Violence
yet, or Crash (2005, y’unnerstann), or the last hour of
Scorpius Gigantus?
Why haven’t I compiled that demo CD thing yet from out the
guts a all those net records?
Why are there hairs on the side a the bath where I was restin
my head just now? Did this always happen, is it just that I
didn’t see them till now, now that the hair’s all black an
therefore all the visible in the world when strewn cross the
white a the tub? Is God punishing me for the stupid emo
fringe thing by blightin me with baldness?
Who the fuck knows, and thank Jandek’s ruptured larynx, I
ain't got a damn thought to offer any of it.
Thanks folks
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
December 20th 2005
What can a fella say? If’n you care, y’unnerstann, if’n you
need to know or want to need to know, what I can say is shit,
man, I ain’t had the time to think bout takin a shit of late.
Buncha tales needin related, yes, buncha stories needin
grammar an fuck-words, an all a them flounderin in the wanky
waters a procrastination.
Reasons, though, buncha reasons why stuff ain’t got done, why
there ain’t been a journal entry in longer than anyone cares
to bother to remember.
Reasons along the lines of Book Writing, yes, the 72 Hours
Raw In Dublin affair being at this very minute carved into
the bindings of an epic novel about fuck an shit an some love-
type malarkey for the ladies, or the emo kids, or pansy
fuckers like The Duke what spent last night weepin as a CGI
gorilla fell off of a damn roof.
Reasons along the lines a the musical malarkey, been craftin
an batterin an sculptin a buncha tunes an a loada
unlistenable bullshit wi coke-can percussion, buncha ballads
about my baby done me bad but it’s ok, I got my eye on
another baby set to do me worse.
Also, some academic bullshit, like worrying about the girl I
spent months obsessing over, how first time I get to talking
to her in the student union building tacked on the south wing
a the university of Ulster, how ten words in she’s askin me
how long I spend on my hair.
What can a man say? Nothin that resembles the truth, that’s
for sure.
Reasons along the lines of relationship type affairs what
spawned Lengthy Screeds erroneously labelled Part One, Part
Two being lost to the grinding a the hard drive maw on
account of there ain’t no part two, part two done skidaddled
when a fella got to quotin Brecht an the lass decides no,
ain't no way or no how I feel like letting this go any
further.
Nonetheless, I feel like notin that yeah, there’s a few
things I got in the ol’ pipe-line, one a which is very
exciting. Way back when Mondo Irlando was a half-arsed flick
review site, as opposed to a half-arsed self-indulgent wank-
fest masquerading as a half-arsed flick-review site, way back
then I had a second writer on the team, went by the name of
Rosetta, wrote the wonderful Simpleton Gazette. One thing led
to another, Rosetta ended up disappearing for a time. Last
week, though, I get an Electronical Email in the inbox
announcing the return of The Simpleton Gazette. All very
exciting, on account of Rosetta and Sir Fleming are the only
two non-me writers ever to wax on Mondo, and since Sir
Fleming went off to establish the glorious Generic Mugwump,
it’s been awful lonely round these parts.
(UPDATE - New Simpleton Gazette Is Online)
Say come now baby, how bout I touch your leg an we forget all
about that nasty ol’ loneliness.
An ok, but wait.
So Rosetta’s returning tomorrow I’d wager, and also, I got an
update in the process a being written regarding the Flick
Journal. And also, a review of King Kong, about a CGI gorilla
falls off of a damn roof.
So that’s what’s goin on. Brother brother.
Thanks folks
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
need to know or want to need to know, what I can say is shit,
man, I ain’t had the time to think bout takin a shit of late.
Buncha tales needin related, yes, buncha stories needin
grammar an fuck-words, an all a them flounderin in the wanky
waters a procrastination.
Reasons, though, buncha reasons why stuff ain’t got done, why
there ain’t been a journal entry in longer than anyone cares
to bother to remember.
Reasons along the lines of Book Writing, yes, the 72 Hours
Raw In Dublin affair being at this very minute carved into
the bindings of an epic novel about fuck an shit an some love-
type malarkey for the ladies, or the emo kids, or pansy
fuckers like The Duke what spent last night weepin as a CGI
gorilla fell off of a damn roof.
Reasons along the lines a the musical malarkey, been craftin
an batterin an sculptin a buncha tunes an a loada
unlistenable bullshit wi coke-can percussion, buncha ballads
about my baby done me bad but it’s ok, I got my eye on
another baby set to do me worse.
Also, some academic bullshit, like worrying about the girl I
spent months obsessing over, how first time I get to talking
to her in the student union building tacked on the south wing
a the university of Ulster, how ten words in she’s askin me
how long I spend on my hair.
What can a man say? Nothin that resembles the truth, that’s
for sure.
Reasons along the lines of relationship type affairs what
spawned Lengthy Screeds erroneously labelled Part One, Part
Two being lost to the grinding a the hard drive maw on
account of there ain’t no part two, part two done skidaddled
when a fella got to quotin Brecht an the lass decides no,
ain't no way or no how I feel like letting this go any
further.
Nonetheless, I feel like notin that yeah, there’s a few
things I got in the ol’ pipe-line, one a which is very
exciting. Way back when Mondo Irlando was a half-arsed flick
review site, as opposed to a half-arsed self-indulgent wank-
fest masquerading as a half-arsed flick-review site, way back
then I had a second writer on the team, went by the name of
Rosetta, wrote the wonderful Simpleton Gazette. One thing led
to another, Rosetta ended up disappearing for a time. Last
week, though, I get an Electronical Email in the inbox
announcing the return of The Simpleton Gazette. All very
exciting, on account of Rosetta and Sir Fleming are the only
two non-me writers ever to wax on Mondo, and since Sir
Fleming went off to establish the glorious Generic Mugwump,
it’s been awful lonely round these parts.
(UPDATE - New Simpleton Gazette Is Online)
Say come now baby, how bout I touch your leg an we forget all
about that nasty ol’ loneliness.
An ok, but wait.
So Rosetta’s returning tomorrow I’d wager, and also, I got an
update in the process a being written regarding the Flick
Journal. And also, a review of King Kong, about a CGI gorilla
falls off of a damn roof.
So that’s what’s goin on. Brother brother.
Thanks folks
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
October 25th 2005
The Duke and Sir Fleming, look at them there, smug as all
dyslexic fuck, what’s that banter they got goin on, anyhow,
something uproariously challenging no doubt, somethin woulda
sent Pythagoras racin for the guillotine, “Cut my fuckin
skull off!” he’s hollerin, “Ain’t no way I can live knowin
what I know now!”
And what do you know, say?
Knows this, t’is, here, what it is, The Duke, he’s got all
sortsa grins on the mug, a look a bafflement.
“The fuck’s with this bafflement” Sir Fleming’s asking, “Say,
now, the fuck I say?”
“Well, see, the facts of it all point in this direction, this
one right here, just after these words, see, yes.”
The facts of it all. Something challenging, something
unexpected, a tension, kinda tension greets a man talking
about Jeff Fay-Hey in a room fulla motherfuckers high on Fah-
Hey.
“I think, I mean, maybe, see, what it is, some sort of
romantic tomfoolery. I think. Mean, yeah.”
Sir Fleming bounding to the feet. “Well fuck my gums, don’t
TELL me for Gods sakes! I want a thesis or I want nothing!”
So yeah, The Duke, scuttling off in the direction of the
keyboard, bent o’er the QWERTY, hammerin the letters this way
an that, and Sir Fleming doing the same someplace else, since
look here, Generic Mugwump, the fabulous seer only gone done
got his own blog.
And thinking. The fuck happened, anyhow?
And the rattle of the train carriage, shuffling long the
brain-planes, and watch out, on account of Northern Ireland
Railways done upgraded, these new trains, impossible to hear
without 60’000 volts to the back a the lobes and an anechoic
chamber, and so the drunken youngsters being herded off the
tracks, “Get the fuck out the way, train’ll be straight
through your face fore you know what happened!”
And on the train, aye, sat reading Last Temptation Of Christ,
trying to hide it from the middle-aged woman to my left,
looks like she ain’t unfamiliar with the underbelly of a
baptismal puddle or nine, looks like she might slice my face
off in some kinda demented fundamentalist frenzy should she
realise, holy shit, what’s this filthy nonsense right here,
what’s this talk about Jesus as a man, what’s this perm on
Magdalene’s head?
Sat on the train, an the rumble an the rattle an the grass an
the brick.
Because the reason, clear as day, here it is;
Few weeks ago, The Duke busy whoring himself cross the web-
net, look here, come see, I got songs filled wi ointments
plucked from the bellies a harpies, I got stories bout my
baby done me bad, I got other stories bout I done my baby
bad, all in the key of a half-tuned G, all for the price a
nothing at all, come get some now, thank you please.
And what happens, in the midst of it all, stumbling cross a
society of folks all united under one indisputable fact; We
Live In Northern Ireland, And Also, Turns Out We Have Myspace.
Cause everyone has Myspace nowadays, don’t you know, cause
nothing’s worth hearing unless you heard it sixteen months
ago on the far corner of a “friends” list stretching from
here to the skulls lain top a Golgotha.
Cause nothing’s worth doing less it’s done in full view of a
digital lens all Dutch Tilt and photoshopped backwards cross
the banks a Jordan.
Cause nothing’s worth saying less it’s said in a quote from a
record by folks wi fringes to the knees and songs about My
Head Hurts (On Account Of The Pain In My Head).
Cause nothing’s worth reading less you can list on the
profile, pretending you read it years ago.
So yeah, hanging round those quarters, and all sortsa curious
things happening.
Discovering folks a fella sees every day wandering round the
tower risin from the guts a The University Of Ulster, and yet
never a word spoken. And there they are, right there, those
faces, and so it’s banter in the comments and the messages
and then all’s well in the morning when it’s wandering past
wi the head down anew.
Cause nothing’s worth saying less it’s said with an LOL at
the end.
I’ve bantered about MySpace before, and the reason I remained
there right through, even when the initial article was done
an sorted and filed away and forgotten, the reason is because
there are wonderful people to be found, stories to be heard,
sonnets to be uncovered.
And because it’s easier to hit the Add To Friends button than
it is to wander cross to a bar and strike conversation wi
someone looks like maybe they mighta heard a Bright Eyes
record one time or other, they’re not really sure.
And true, in the course of it all, a fella has to meet all
those prejudices head on, square up gainst the bastards, say
all about “No, that whole thing about the lonely folks sat
battin opinions back and fourth cross forums dawn till dusk
in darkened rooms wi the telly tuned off-station three feet
from the monitor, that whole cliché right there needs a fair
old kick to the back a the balls. Because in this day an age,
ain’t no sense pretending there’s something wrong with
talking to folks via the 1’s and 0’s.”
Because in this day and age we need to accept that yeah, some
folks do meet via these things, and some of these screen-
names represent some fucking incredible people, and all
sortsa friendships end up being minted, and maybe sometimes
even a conversation that starts in the digital ends up at a
table outside a café in Belfast and the air’s alive with the
soundtrack a that Tom Hanks / Meg Ryan picture nobody
remembers, the one about the email, the one that wasn’t
Sleepless In Seattle.
So The Duke on the train to Belfast, and the Lord having all
sortsa tribulations on the printed page, and Judas yellin
bout “I’ll beat yo ass crossmaker!” and still, it’s hard to
focus when the mind’s reelin in the manner in which it reels.
Because way back in the midsts of a few paragraphs ago, back
when I was trawling through the Northern Ireland forum
things, back then I encountered a lass by the name of Naomi,
cept she wasn’t called that in the forum, fact she had the
best screen-name thingy anyone could ever conceive of.
And to save her embarrassment I won’t say what it was, but it
reeked a Pete Doherty, it talked of songs played at the Death
Disco that started so fast and ended so slow.
So we got to talking, like you do, like maybe one time you’d
say “I got to talking to a lass in the corner of a bar run by
Lithuanian musicians”, now it’s all “I got to talking to a
lass on MySpace.”
Probably she has some Lithuanian Musicians on the friends
list, probably they sing about their baby did them bad.
And graphs, geometrical analysis, all sortsa scientific
shenanigans, what it all revealed was that neither of us were
demented, least not in the bad way, neither of us were
adverse to the idea of a conversation that had all sortsa eye
contact involved, and also, most importantly, both of us were
gonna be in Belfast on the same day, stood to reason we
should hang out a while, have a talk or nine bout how no, the
Artic Monkeys haven’t sold out an’ it’ll be gloves cross the
eyes of anyone says different, this sorta thing.
And so, aye, sat on the train. And the grass and the brick
and the grass and the brick and then the grass getting
further from the carriage, then the bricks getting higher
either side, aye, and it’s Belfast Lough out yon window,
t'is, and it’s The Odyssey Arena were, far as I can tell from
reports I made up, David Grey went mad not so long ago and
blew the fuck out the front three rows with an AK.
“Wobble-Necked Singer Goes Fucked In The Mentals!” screamed
the headlines that never appeared.
Curious visions; David Grey curled up in the corner of a
police cell, the single bulb swaying this way and that, and
the eyes, what they say is “I couldn’t take it anymore! The
fuckers knew every word!”
But no sense worryin about anything other than how in a
couple hours a fella’s gonna be in the presence of Naomi, and
also the wonderful Joanne, the latter prone to flinging
conversation in askew directions with the kinda abandon ain’t
nobody seen since Miles Davis freed his last style on that
September morning back in 91.
The previous week, Sir Fleming, inquisitive, wants to know
what the score might be here, anyroad, how come The Duke
appears so calm about it all?
Where’s the jitterin and the stammerin and the terror in the
jaws?
And the reason, what I say, is that I can’t allow for the
jitterin and the stammerin and the terror in the jaws, not
for a second.
Cause what it is, just a couple folks meetin up, hangin out
for a time, discussin the great and the good and the
shamefully rotten.
S’all it is, ain’t no big deal.
And so not for a second saying anything along the lines of
“But still, a fella can hope.”
Because he can’t.
Because doctor’s orders, see, aye, hope of that sort, plays
havoc with a man’s composition, hope of that sort let loose
on a fucker like The Duke, damaging as a litre a moonshine
flung cross a stomach ulcer.
So no, because what happens, what happens is a loada
nonsense. What happens is Harry Potter Woman and TXT Woman
and Film Noir Woman and… and aye, Sinéad and Dublin happens,
and for sure, Dublin was somethin incredible, somethin that a
fella's still tryin to process, but a painful event a lot of
the time, no sense assuming otherwise.
(And the friendship stemmin from it, makes the pain what
mingled with the elation worthwhile, more than worthwhile,
impossible to fathom how much more without the assistance a
fifteen Russian architects and an army a frostbitten
mathematicians.)
So you keep these things out the mind, if you’ve any sense,
which I haven’t, which is why it was right up front, couldn’t
move this way or that without winding up knee-deep in the
bastards.
And considering this whilst walking round Belfast, whilst
also, to a much lesser extent, considering stuff like this
here, too;
How Belfast has undergone some kind of refurbishment in the
last five years, how all traces of the Orange or the Green
been swept under the carpets a the city hall, been replaced
by multitudes of emo kids an goth types, not an Adam’s Apple
to be seen, none a them set to drop a nut for the next
decade.
How there ain’t a hope in hell of finding a sash round
anyone's shoulder, but still, there's a thousand lasses
outside every bar dangling coffin-shaped bags and wearin hats
wi the fella out Nightmare Before Christmas.
How I was all the content in the world to wander round those
side-streets, streets I ain’t walked on my own since back in
the day when I ended up plastered on the kerb outside a KFC
askin folks if they knew anywhere a man might find a guitar
tuner.
And all the while the hand on the phone, and eventually, aye,
the beep an the vibration and the “1 New Message”, and me
stood in the toilets of a fast-food place tryin to get as
deep into the urinal as possible without splashin the leg.
On account of the folks either side, on account of there’s no
need for them to know what goes on there, and for sure, they
don’t want to look, but who can help it? Who can avoid it,
when you know the eyes don’t for a second belong in that
position, who can keep them from heading exactly that
direction?
No-one, is who.
And making a note about how I won’t mention this to Naomi.
What I learn is that Naomi and Joanne, they’re sat outside a
café near Fresh Garbage, being an incredibly hip type
establishment dealing in pot-paraphernalia and gothic
apparel, being the place to find any number of adolescents
arguing about who gives the least amount of fucks, who cares
the least about how the mascara’s all run down the face, who
spent the littlest amount of time deciding what shade a death
to paint the cheeks.
And horror, on account of fifteen or thirty of these Murder
Doll-soaked teens stood round about, and a terror, fuck my
eyes, I can’t let them know I’m not sure what I’m doing. I
don’t wanna be looking over all inquisitive, since who knows,
maybe Naomi and Joanne are among them, on account of I was
all the confident in the world that recognition would be an
immediate, painless affair, but in the thick of a self-
conscious glance-frenzy, who the hell can ever be sure?
So plenty dandering past and looking whilst making sure they
don’t know I’m looking, and then sat on a wall, and a phone
call, a “Think maybe I walked past you, I dunno” and a “Yeah,
I think you did”, and then praise Allah, turns out I know
exactly where the café is, and so wandering back, but a smoke
first, so the youngsters assume I was off getting something
in the record store across the road, the kind that lists as
“Imports” what we all know are “Fresh off the back of a truck
bound for Ebay, stolen out Dylan’s own arse and pressed to
illegitimate compact disc”.
And then there they are, right there, Naomi and Joanne, and
what I notice is that Naomi looks even better in the light of
the three dimensions, that she has a wonderful hat, that
she's got the eyes an the smile lead to all sortsa Things
like what we discussed, the kind ain’t no good to no-one.
And saying to myself, the last thing you wanna do is stutter
an stammer and break up sentences and ramble, that’s the last
thing you wanna do, but who can wax coherent in such a
situation, and so it’s bafflingly idiotic responses to the
simplest of questions, like “Do you want a coffee?” and when
a simple “No, it’s ok, thanks” would suffice, what instead
falls out the face is a buncha balls about “No… see… thanks…
on account of… caffeine, see, had plenty, far too much… um….
Fuck…yeah”.
And what amazes me is how quickly this passes, this
discomfort, and how little downtime there is, in that there’s
really none, since if I’m not yackin, which is by far the
best arrangement, then Naomi’s talking about a fella she
works with, fella talks to himself all the damn day,
brilliant surreal soundscapes risin from the caverns hind the
coffee and the screen, or else it’s Joanne telling us bout
the time she burnt her eye with a candle. By accident,
obviously.
So what it is, is it’s wonderful.
And all the while finding myself looking for too long towards
the eyes, an then a sharp about-turn with regards the pupils.
Except sometimes I don’t, except sometimes I hold it, just
see what happens, and what happened was that Naomi held it
too.
And very peculiar, and all sortsa thoughts in the skull,
thoughts about “My God. I could sit here for the rest of
whenever an never get tired a this, cept I might need to go
to the bathroom sometimes, on account of the caffeine, see.”
Because beautiful, it turns out, she was, and is, and also,
wonderful.
Cause for sure, a fella sees beautiful folks all the time,
but god forbid you should say “hello” to them, ain’t nothing
can come from it but a devastating lash a the tongue shreds
the flesh from off the teeth.
And thinking this is peculiar, but in a good way, and yeah, I
think, I mean, yeah. I could start getting all sortsa
infatuated if I didn’t watch myself.
But who can watch me when look, there’s Naomi, she’s laughin
bout how Joanne took the conversation in the direction of
abortion, how she’s fairly grey on the issue, truth be told.
And also - I get to hear about drunken terrors in the
Limelight toilets, get to hear about plans regarding
Sociology degrees, get to hear about Naomi’s Willy Mason
badge goin AWOL at a concert, and the mercenary feats
required for to reclaim said item.
And Willy Mason, what’s that song?
“Ain’t gonna fear no pain
Ain’t gonna fear no pain any more”
Because he’s right. It’s pointless. Because standing back and
doin nothing, it results in a whole fuck loada regrets and
night’s spent pukin up questions you shoulda asked fifteen
years ago. A fella finds himself sat in the dawn-light thirty
years later with a head fulla cancer and a gut fulla
morphine, finds himself sayin “Shit. I shoulda met her / I
shoulda asked her / I shoulda played there / I shoulda wrote
that” and the reason he didn’t, is on account of the Pain,
that pain that a man might find curled up in the furthest
reaches a the Fear Glands, strands a inhibition and
embarrassment and uncertainty thick enough to break the spine
given the right chance.
So aye, there was a fear there, most certainly, because you
never know when folks are gonna say “Actually, turns out he
was a fuckin prick kept rambling half-sentences about
caffeine and Dr Benway.”
And the point is no, fuck that, because what results, see,
what you might find is that there you are stood in Great
Victoria Street station and Naomi says “I wish you could come
with us” and then it’s the arms round a fella and what feels
like pure, 100% proof safety, and the lump in the throat an
the flicker in the chest and the fringe threatening to get
that bit further down the face with every exclamation of the
sort, but fuck it, ain’t no use hiding these sortsa things
now, fuck sakes, folks already know I liked White Noise, I
ain’t got nothing to hide when it comes to the waxin and the
batterin and the scrawlin cross the white.
And this very day, Sir Fleming eyein the mobile phone in a
fella’s hand, all sortsa suspicions.
Cause it’s been in the hand more than is altogether medically
sound, this much is certain, but the messages, what they
relate is a buncha stuff about how it turns out, yeah, she
kinda realised maybe a fella’s thoughts weren’t all that
plutonic in ambition, and the twist, enough to fell a
thousand Faheys, the twist is that it might be mutual.
And so who can blame a fella for askin something long the
lines of “So, um, what about maybe doin it again, maybe this
Saturday?” and who can blame the self same fella for the
elation an such when the answer, clear as day, turns out it’s
a yeah.
Also, in other news, misery, torment, and oh, my baby done me
bad one time.
Thanks folks
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
dyslexic fuck, what’s that banter they got goin on, anyhow,
something uproariously challenging no doubt, somethin woulda
sent Pythagoras racin for the guillotine, “Cut my fuckin
skull off!” he’s hollerin, “Ain’t no way I can live knowin
what I know now!”
And what do you know, say?
Knows this, t’is, here, what it is, The Duke, he’s got all
sortsa grins on the mug, a look a bafflement.
“The fuck’s with this bafflement” Sir Fleming’s asking, “Say,
now, the fuck I say?”
“Well, see, the facts of it all point in this direction, this
one right here, just after these words, see, yes.”
The facts of it all. Something challenging, something
unexpected, a tension, kinda tension greets a man talking
about Jeff Fay-Hey in a room fulla motherfuckers high on Fah-
Hey.
“I think, I mean, maybe, see, what it is, some sort of
romantic tomfoolery. I think. Mean, yeah.”
Sir Fleming bounding to the feet. “Well fuck my gums, don’t
TELL me for Gods sakes! I want a thesis or I want nothing!”
So yeah, The Duke, scuttling off in the direction of the
keyboard, bent o’er the QWERTY, hammerin the letters this way
an that, and Sir Fleming doing the same someplace else, since
look here, Generic Mugwump, the fabulous seer only gone done
got his own blog.
And thinking. The fuck happened, anyhow?
And the rattle of the train carriage, shuffling long the
brain-planes, and watch out, on account of Northern Ireland
Railways done upgraded, these new trains, impossible to hear
without 60’000 volts to the back a the lobes and an anechoic
chamber, and so the drunken youngsters being herded off the
tracks, “Get the fuck out the way, train’ll be straight
through your face fore you know what happened!”
And on the train, aye, sat reading Last Temptation Of Christ,
trying to hide it from the middle-aged woman to my left,
looks like she ain’t unfamiliar with the underbelly of a
baptismal puddle or nine, looks like she might slice my face
off in some kinda demented fundamentalist frenzy should she
realise, holy shit, what’s this filthy nonsense right here,
what’s this talk about Jesus as a man, what’s this perm on
Magdalene’s head?
Sat on the train, an the rumble an the rattle an the grass an
the brick.
Because the reason, clear as day, here it is;
Few weeks ago, The Duke busy whoring himself cross the web-
net, look here, come see, I got songs filled wi ointments
plucked from the bellies a harpies, I got stories bout my
baby done me bad, I got other stories bout I done my baby
bad, all in the key of a half-tuned G, all for the price a
nothing at all, come get some now, thank you please.
And what happens, in the midst of it all, stumbling cross a
society of folks all united under one indisputable fact; We
Live In Northern Ireland, And Also, Turns Out We Have Myspace.
Cause everyone has Myspace nowadays, don’t you know, cause
nothing’s worth hearing unless you heard it sixteen months
ago on the far corner of a “friends” list stretching from
here to the skulls lain top a Golgotha.
Cause nothing’s worth doing less it’s done in full view of a
digital lens all Dutch Tilt and photoshopped backwards cross
the banks a Jordan.
Cause nothing’s worth saying less it’s said in a quote from a
record by folks wi fringes to the knees and songs about My
Head Hurts (On Account Of The Pain In My Head).
Cause nothing’s worth reading less you can list on the
profile, pretending you read it years ago.
So yeah, hanging round those quarters, and all sortsa curious
things happening.
Discovering folks a fella sees every day wandering round the
tower risin from the guts a The University Of Ulster, and yet
never a word spoken. And there they are, right there, those
faces, and so it’s banter in the comments and the messages
and then all’s well in the morning when it’s wandering past
wi the head down anew.
Cause nothing’s worth saying less it’s said with an LOL at
the end.
I’ve bantered about MySpace before, and the reason I remained
there right through, even when the initial article was done
an sorted and filed away and forgotten, the reason is because
there are wonderful people to be found, stories to be heard,
sonnets to be uncovered.
And because it’s easier to hit the Add To Friends button than
it is to wander cross to a bar and strike conversation wi
someone looks like maybe they mighta heard a Bright Eyes
record one time or other, they’re not really sure.
And true, in the course of it all, a fella has to meet all
those prejudices head on, square up gainst the bastards, say
all about “No, that whole thing about the lonely folks sat
battin opinions back and fourth cross forums dawn till dusk
in darkened rooms wi the telly tuned off-station three feet
from the monitor, that whole cliché right there needs a fair
old kick to the back a the balls. Because in this day an age,
ain’t no sense pretending there’s something wrong with
talking to folks via the 1’s and 0’s.”
Because in this day and age we need to accept that yeah, some
folks do meet via these things, and some of these screen-
names represent some fucking incredible people, and all
sortsa friendships end up being minted, and maybe sometimes
even a conversation that starts in the digital ends up at a
table outside a café in Belfast and the air’s alive with the
soundtrack a that Tom Hanks / Meg Ryan picture nobody
remembers, the one about the email, the one that wasn’t
Sleepless In Seattle.
So The Duke on the train to Belfast, and the Lord having all
sortsa tribulations on the printed page, and Judas yellin
bout “I’ll beat yo ass crossmaker!” and still, it’s hard to
focus when the mind’s reelin in the manner in which it reels.
Because way back in the midsts of a few paragraphs ago, back
when I was trawling through the Northern Ireland forum
things, back then I encountered a lass by the name of Naomi,
cept she wasn’t called that in the forum, fact she had the
best screen-name thingy anyone could ever conceive of.
And to save her embarrassment I won’t say what it was, but it
reeked a Pete Doherty, it talked of songs played at the Death
Disco that started so fast and ended so slow.
So we got to talking, like you do, like maybe one time you’d
say “I got to talking to a lass in the corner of a bar run by
Lithuanian musicians”, now it’s all “I got to talking to a
lass on MySpace.”
Probably she has some Lithuanian Musicians on the friends
list, probably they sing about their baby did them bad.
And graphs, geometrical analysis, all sortsa scientific
shenanigans, what it all revealed was that neither of us were
demented, least not in the bad way, neither of us were
adverse to the idea of a conversation that had all sortsa eye
contact involved, and also, most importantly, both of us were
gonna be in Belfast on the same day, stood to reason we
should hang out a while, have a talk or nine bout how no, the
Artic Monkeys haven’t sold out an’ it’ll be gloves cross the
eyes of anyone says different, this sorta thing.
And so, aye, sat on the train. And the grass and the brick
and the grass and the brick and then the grass getting
further from the carriage, then the bricks getting higher
either side, aye, and it’s Belfast Lough out yon window,
t'is, and it’s The Odyssey Arena were, far as I can tell from
reports I made up, David Grey went mad not so long ago and
blew the fuck out the front three rows with an AK.
“Wobble-Necked Singer Goes Fucked In The Mentals!” screamed
the headlines that never appeared.
Curious visions; David Grey curled up in the corner of a
police cell, the single bulb swaying this way and that, and
the eyes, what they say is “I couldn’t take it anymore! The
fuckers knew every word!”
But no sense worryin about anything other than how in a
couple hours a fella’s gonna be in the presence of Naomi, and
also the wonderful Joanne, the latter prone to flinging
conversation in askew directions with the kinda abandon ain’t
nobody seen since Miles Davis freed his last style on that
September morning back in 91.
The previous week, Sir Fleming, inquisitive, wants to know
what the score might be here, anyroad, how come The Duke
appears so calm about it all?
Where’s the jitterin and the stammerin and the terror in the
jaws?
And the reason, what I say, is that I can’t allow for the
jitterin and the stammerin and the terror in the jaws, not
for a second.
Cause what it is, just a couple folks meetin up, hangin out
for a time, discussin the great and the good and the
shamefully rotten.
S’all it is, ain’t no big deal.
And so not for a second saying anything along the lines of
“But still, a fella can hope.”
Because he can’t.
Because doctor’s orders, see, aye, hope of that sort, plays
havoc with a man’s composition, hope of that sort let loose
on a fucker like The Duke, damaging as a litre a moonshine
flung cross a stomach ulcer.
So no, because what happens, what happens is a loada
nonsense. What happens is Harry Potter Woman and TXT Woman
and Film Noir Woman and… and aye, Sinéad and Dublin happens,
and for sure, Dublin was somethin incredible, somethin that a
fella's still tryin to process, but a painful event a lot of
the time, no sense assuming otherwise.
(And the friendship stemmin from it, makes the pain what
mingled with the elation worthwhile, more than worthwhile,
impossible to fathom how much more without the assistance a
fifteen Russian architects and an army a frostbitten
mathematicians.)
So you keep these things out the mind, if you’ve any sense,
which I haven’t, which is why it was right up front, couldn’t
move this way or that without winding up knee-deep in the
bastards.
And considering this whilst walking round Belfast, whilst
also, to a much lesser extent, considering stuff like this
here, too;
How Belfast has undergone some kind of refurbishment in the
last five years, how all traces of the Orange or the Green
been swept under the carpets a the city hall, been replaced
by multitudes of emo kids an goth types, not an Adam’s Apple
to be seen, none a them set to drop a nut for the next
decade.
How there ain’t a hope in hell of finding a sash round
anyone's shoulder, but still, there's a thousand lasses
outside every bar dangling coffin-shaped bags and wearin hats
wi the fella out Nightmare Before Christmas.
How I was all the content in the world to wander round those
side-streets, streets I ain’t walked on my own since back in
the day when I ended up plastered on the kerb outside a KFC
askin folks if they knew anywhere a man might find a guitar
tuner.
And all the while the hand on the phone, and eventually, aye,
the beep an the vibration and the “1 New Message”, and me
stood in the toilets of a fast-food place tryin to get as
deep into the urinal as possible without splashin the leg.
On account of the folks either side, on account of there’s no
need for them to know what goes on there, and for sure, they
don’t want to look, but who can help it? Who can avoid it,
when you know the eyes don’t for a second belong in that
position, who can keep them from heading exactly that
direction?
No-one, is who.
And making a note about how I won’t mention this to Naomi.
What I learn is that Naomi and Joanne, they’re sat outside a
café near Fresh Garbage, being an incredibly hip type
establishment dealing in pot-paraphernalia and gothic
apparel, being the place to find any number of adolescents
arguing about who gives the least amount of fucks, who cares
the least about how the mascara’s all run down the face, who
spent the littlest amount of time deciding what shade a death
to paint the cheeks.
And horror, on account of fifteen or thirty of these Murder
Doll-soaked teens stood round about, and a terror, fuck my
eyes, I can’t let them know I’m not sure what I’m doing. I
don’t wanna be looking over all inquisitive, since who knows,
maybe Naomi and Joanne are among them, on account of I was
all the confident in the world that recognition would be an
immediate, painless affair, but in the thick of a self-
conscious glance-frenzy, who the hell can ever be sure?
So plenty dandering past and looking whilst making sure they
don’t know I’m looking, and then sat on a wall, and a phone
call, a “Think maybe I walked past you, I dunno” and a “Yeah,
I think you did”, and then praise Allah, turns out I know
exactly where the café is, and so wandering back, but a smoke
first, so the youngsters assume I was off getting something
in the record store across the road, the kind that lists as
“Imports” what we all know are “Fresh off the back of a truck
bound for Ebay, stolen out Dylan’s own arse and pressed to
illegitimate compact disc”.
And then there they are, right there, Naomi and Joanne, and
what I notice is that Naomi looks even better in the light of
the three dimensions, that she has a wonderful hat, that
she's got the eyes an the smile lead to all sortsa Things
like what we discussed, the kind ain’t no good to no-one.
And saying to myself, the last thing you wanna do is stutter
an stammer and break up sentences and ramble, that’s the last
thing you wanna do, but who can wax coherent in such a
situation, and so it’s bafflingly idiotic responses to the
simplest of questions, like “Do you want a coffee?” and when
a simple “No, it’s ok, thanks” would suffice, what instead
falls out the face is a buncha balls about “No… see… thanks…
on account of… caffeine, see, had plenty, far too much… um….
Fuck…yeah”.
And what amazes me is how quickly this passes, this
discomfort, and how little downtime there is, in that there’s
really none, since if I’m not yackin, which is by far the
best arrangement, then Naomi’s talking about a fella she
works with, fella talks to himself all the damn day,
brilliant surreal soundscapes risin from the caverns hind the
coffee and the screen, or else it’s Joanne telling us bout
the time she burnt her eye with a candle. By accident,
obviously.
So what it is, is it’s wonderful.
And all the while finding myself looking for too long towards
the eyes, an then a sharp about-turn with regards the pupils.
Except sometimes I don’t, except sometimes I hold it, just
see what happens, and what happened was that Naomi held it
too.
And very peculiar, and all sortsa thoughts in the skull,
thoughts about “My God. I could sit here for the rest of
whenever an never get tired a this, cept I might need to go
to the bathroom sometimes, on account of the caffeine, see.”
Because beautiful, it turns out, she was, and is, and also,
wonderful.
Cause for sure, a fella sees beautiful folks all the time,
but god forbid you should say “hello” to them, ain’t nothing
can come from it but a devastating lash a the tongue shreds
the flesh from off the teeth.
And thinking this is peculiar, but in a good way, and yeah, I
think, I mean, yeah. I could start getting all sortsa
infatuated if I didn’t watch myself.
But who can watch me when look, there’s Naomi, she’s laughin
bout how Joanne took the conversation in the direction of
abortion, how she’s fairly grey on the issue, truth be told.
And also - I get to hear about drunken terrors in the
Limelight toilets, get to hear about plans regarding
Sociology degrees, get to hear about Naomi’s Willy Mason
badge goin AWOL at a concert, and the mercenary feats
required for to reclaim said item.
And Willy Mason, what’s that song?
“Ain’t gonna fear no pain
Ain’t gonna fear no pain any more”
Because he’s right. It’s pointless. Because standing back and
doin nothing, it results in a whole fuck loada regrets and
night’s spent pukin up questions you shoulda asked fifteen
years ago. A fella finds himself sat in the dawn-light thirty
years later with a head fulla cancer and a gut fulla
morphine, finds himself sayin “Shit. I shoulda met her / I
shoulda asked her / I shoulda played there / I shoulda wrote
that” and the reason he didn’t, is on account of the Pain,
that pain that a man might find curled up in the furthest
reaches a the Fear Glands, strands a inhibition and
embarrassment and uncertainty thick enough to break the spine
given the right chance.
So aye, there was a fear there, most certainly, because you
never know when folks are gonna say “Actually, turns out he
was a fuckin prick kept rambling half-sentences about
caffeine and Dr Benway.”
And the point is no, fuck that, because what results, see,
what you might find is that there you are stood in Great
Victoria Street station and Naomi says “I wish you could come
with us” and then it’s the arms round a fella and what feels
like pure, 100% proof safety, and the lump in the throat an
the flicker in the chest and the fringe threatening to get
that bit further down the face with every exclamation of the
sort, but fuck it, ain’t no use hiding these sortsa things
now, fuck sakes, folks already know I liked White Noise, I
ain’t got nothing to hide when it comes to the waxin and the
batterin and the scrawlin cross the white.
And this very day, Sir Fleming eyein the mobile phone in a
fella’s hand, all sortsa suspicions.
Cause it’s been in the hand more than is altogether medically
sound, this much is certain, but the messages, what they
relate is a buncha stuff about how it turns out, yeah, she
kinda realised maybe a fella’s thoughts weren’t all that
plutonic in ambition, and the twist, enough to fell a
thousand Faheys, the twist is that it might be mutual.
And so who can blame a fella for askin something long the
lines of “So, um, what about maybe doin it again, maybe this
Saturday?” and who can blame the self same fella for the
elation an such when the answer, clear as day, turns out it’s
a yeah.
Also, in other news, misery, torment, and oh, my baby done me
bad one time.
Thanks folks
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
October 13th 2005
Friend a mine, all sortsa distress, batterin the msn thing on
account of who the fuck bothers to walk four doors up the
road anymore? All sortsa horrors bein related, and then a
pause, long enough for to assume the connection broke off,
but no, what it is, is he’s saying;
“Shit. I think I’m emo.”
When the fuck did this happen, is what I want to know, and
then proof, I want his word that he ain’t listenin to no
Chemical Romances or Bullet For My Valentine or nothing of
the sort.
“God no! I dunno. I just think I am. I’m scared I’m gonna
wake up wi those fucking stars tattooed on my neck or some
shit.”
But it’s ok, because no, I think what’s going on is we’re
just self-obsessed, over-analytical, neurotic, narcissistic
types who worry too much about our fringes.
Not those types with the red and the black upside the jaw and
then a week later it’s something else, on account of the
Fashion changed, on account of we’re all into showbands now,
1958 vintage, aye, that’s where it’s at fuckers.
So fuck it, I’m saying. Do what you wanna do, so long as it
is what you wanna do, and not on account of you got this girl
in the brains thinks shaved at the back and fringe to the
knees is the hottest thing since back when folks used to
shave the middle on account of that Firestarter fucker.
And considering this for reasons I ain’t ever gonna work out
this side of a psychedelic experience, thinking it all over
in the back of a taxi couple nights ago, half four in the AM,
Sir Fleming and myself yacking to the driver, fella from
Malta hollering bout drunken students givin ‘im all the grief
in the world on account of no, you can’t get in the damn
boot, fuck off.
Sir Fleming gets out eventually, and it’s me and Travis for
the home stretch, he starts telling me about Putin, how he’s
a motherfucker if ever was one, how he’s behind the killings
being attributed to the Chechnyans, how it’s all to justify
his own political skulduggery.
The Duke noddin, yeah, he’s nothing short of a cunt, that
Putin.
Travis flies off on a similar tangent about Iraq, and then
Afghanistan, how the Kurds are a buncha madmen, how they’re
all up Bush’s arse to the tonsils, and then, all matter-of-
fact;
“But of course the only ones who will really benefit from
this are the Chinese.”
I dunno much about the Chinese, so I just “hmm” is all.
“They got the red army just ready to walk on over to Iraq,
takes six, seven hours. And they will, because the bible
says, so, there you go.”
So there you go.
Apparently it says “The Mongolians will rule the world.”
Discussing it all with Sir Fleming today, he says, “Didn’t
they already?”
Stumped, and then a nod, and then some deep pondering.
To wit;
Why do folks assume these Biblical prophecies are always in a
state of “To Come”? How do they know that everything
prophesised hasn’t already happened, and now we need to go
find a new book for to discover who’ll be assassinated, who’s
gonna win the 2017 Oscars, who’s gonna rule the world etc
etc?
Fucked if I know, ain’t no sense worrying about nothing
except how last night I almost got served by Tesco Woman, but
then the lady in front of me sent me over to customer
services, since I only had one item.
See, some folks think they’re being kind, but the truth is
no, in all honesty I’d rather you didn’t say a fucking thing,
if it’s alright and so on.
Thanks folks
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
account of who the fuck bothers to walk four doors up the
road anymore? All sortsa horrors bein related, and then a
pause, long enough for to assume the connection broke off,
but no, what it is, is he’s saying;
“Shit. I think I’m emo.”
When the fuck did this happen, is what I want to know, and
then proof, I want his word that he ain’t listenin to no
Chemical Romances or Bullet For My Valentine or nothing of
the sort.
“God no! I dunno. I just think I am. I’m scared I’m gonna
wake up wi those fucking stars tattooed on my neck or some
shit.”
But it’s ok, because no, I think what’s going on is we’re
just self-obsessed, over-analytical, neurotic, narcissistic
types who worry too much about our fringes.
Not those types with the red and the black upside the jaw and
then a week later it’s something else, on account of the
Fashion changed, on account of we’re all into showbands now,
1958 vintage, aye, that’s where it’s at fuckers.
So fuck it, I’m saying. Do what you wanna do, so long as it
is what you wanna do, and not on account of you got this girl
in the brains thinks shaved at the back and fringe to the
knees is the hottest thing since back when folks used to
shave the middle on account of that Firestarter fucker.
And considering this for reasons I ain’t ever gonna work out
this side of a psychedelic experience, thinking it all over
in the back of a taxi couple nights ago, half four in the AM,
Sir Fleming and myself yacking to the driver, fella from
Malta hollering bout drunken students givin ‘im all the grief
in the world on account of no, you can’t get in the damn
boot, fuck off.
Sir Fleming gets out eventually, and it’s me and Travis for
the home stretch, he starts telling me about Putin, how he’s
a motherfucker if ever was one, how he’s behind the killings
being attributed to the Chechnyans, how it’s all to justify
his own political skulduggery.
The Duke noddin, yeah, he’s nothing short of a cunt, that
Putin.
Travis flies off on a similar tangent about Iraq, and then
Afghanistan, how the Kurds are a buncha madmen, how they’re
all up Bush’s arse to the tonsils, and then, all matter-of-
fact;
“But of course the only ones who will really benefit from
this are the Chinese.”
I dunno much about the Chinese, so I just “hmm” is all.
“They got the red army just ready to walk on over to Iraq,
takes six, seven hours. And they will, because the bible
says, so, there you go.”
So there you go.
Apparently it says “The Mongolians will rule the world.”
Discussing it all with Sir Fleming today, he says, “Didn’t
they already?”
Stumped, and then a nod, and then some deep pondering.
To wit;
Why do folks assume these Biblical prophecies are always in a
state of “To Come”? How do they know that everything
prophesised hasn’t already happened, and now we need to go
find a new book for to discover who’ll be assassinated, who’s
gonna win the 2017 Oscars, who’s gonna rule the world etc
etc?
Fucked if I know, ain’t no sense worrying about nothing
except how last night I almost got served by Tesco Woman, but
then the lady in front of me sent me over to customer
services, since I only had one item.
See, some folks think they’re being kind, but the truth is
no, in all honesty I’d rather you didn’t say a fucking thing,
if it’s alright and so on.
Thanks folks
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
October 2nd 2005
Sat moanin to a lass all about oh, look here, I done wrapped
myself in The L and ain’t a damn thing can be done about it,
and look here, I wanna talk to that lass right over yonder,
but I can’t, on account of I don’t know her and what the hell
does a man say in these situations, and look here, blah blah
blah, what the lass says is “I don’t wanna hear your fuckin
moanin, don’t gimmie none a that shit on account of dig this,
fucker, you could have it if you want it, and you know so, so
shut the hell up.”
A man tends to shut the hell up in light of such information.
But I never got it, on account of geography, but maybe it’s
for the best, since the lass has that kinda thing goin on
gets a fella thinking he could be happy in her presence, more
so, gleamin in the dark.
Studies prove this is nothing less than catastrophic.
Cause what it all boils down to, what I got to yacking about
with Sinéad one night a while back, is that the best songs
are written by folks out their heads wi lust-soaked misery.
If it’s a choice between John Lennon hollering demented bout
he wants to hold a lasses hand, or the horrors hiding midst
the grooves a Double Fantasy, all “Gosh, fuck my last ball
I'm in all sortsa love and happy as a fresh-rid hole”, then
holy shit, I’m gonna take the fella spends twenty minutes in
the bathroom every two hours grimacing and cursing his every
pore.
So what the graphs show is that a man needs this kinda loner
thing to be goin on, but the pie-charts, they show that you
also gotta be careful, see, on account of the second a man
starts enjoying it too much, the prose starts getting that
bit blander, the tunes start getting that bit more polished.
Buncha no good bullshit is what results.
Thankfully I’m in a position for to be smacked in the teeth
with it all 24-7 these days, on account of the following, but
first, a confession.
I ain’t said this as such in an Official Capacity, but I
think now I’m gonna have to, since things have been getting
all sortsa Personalised over the last few months and it makes
sense that sooner or later these tales are gonna involve the
Day To Day, so it’s time the veil was burnt fuckless.
What the veil hid was the fact that The Duke was a filthy
stinkin college student.
What this implies is that everythin herein is the workings of
a horribly smug fucker with a penchant for smart-arse Student
Humour.
No, this would be a misconception, on account of I have no
identification whatsoever with 99% of the folks who wander
past on a daily basis, and all the better.
But what it all relates to is that a while back you may
recall I mentioned a lass I noticed in a grocery store, a
beautiful lass what stunned my very guts right there and
then. What happened was I later learned that she worked in
the Tesco’s near here, so yeah, plenty trips for to get
carrots or whatever, coming back an hour later on account of
well holy shit, I forgot to get the potatoes, and then back
again on account of I better get cigarettes and red bull
while I’m at it.
So anyway, wandering through the campus corridors the other
day, the door opens to my left, who the hell should walk out?
Only Tesco Woman!
So she’s there, and I see her most every day, and it’s all
very very soul-destroying because no, what can a man say?
Nothing that isn’t undone by the shuffling and the stupid
hair and the awkward jokes that no-one gets on account of
really, they ain’t much funny.
Thank god a man has Bob Dylan singing about “It’s all right
Ma, I can make it”, otherwise who knows what kinda trauma
would result, some sort of frenzied race through the streets
a Johannesburg with nothing but a tire-iron to hide a man’s
shockingly inadequate modesty.
Thanks folks.
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
myself in The L and ain’t a damn thing can be done about it,
and look here, I wanna talk to that lass right over yonder,
but I can’t, on account of I don’t know her and what the hell
does a man say in these situations, and look here, blah blah
blah, what the lass says is “I don’t wanna hear your fuckin
moanin, don’t gimmie none a that shit on account of dig this,
fucker, you could have it if you want it, and you know so, so
shut the hell up.”
A man tends to shut the hell up in light of such information.
But I never got it, on account of geography, but maybe it’s
for the best, since the lass has that kinda thing goin on
gets a fella thinking he could be happy in her presence, more
so, gleamin in the dark.
Studies prove this is nothing less than catastrophic.
Cause what it all boils down to, what I got to yacking about
with Sinéad one night a while back, is that the best songs
are written by folks out their heads wi lust-soaked misery.
If it’s a choice between John Lennon hollering demented bout
he wants to hold a lasses hand, or the horrors hiding midst
the grooves a Double Fantasy, all “Gosh, fuck my last ball
I'm in all sortsa love and happy as a fresh-rid hole”, then
holy shit, I’m gonna take the fella spends twenty minutes in
the bathroom every two hours grimacing and cursing his every
pore.
So what the graphs show is that a man needs this kinda loner
thing to be goin on, but the pie-charts, they show that you
also gotta be careful, see, on account of the second a man
starts enjoying it too much, the prose starts getting that
bit blander, the tunes start getting that bit more polished.
Buncha no good bullshit is what results.
Thankfully I’m in a position for to be smacked in the teeth
with it all 24-7 these days, on account of the following, but
first, a confession.
I ain’t said this as such in an Official Capacity, but I
think now I’m gonna have to, since things have been getting
all sortsa Personalised over the last few months and it makes
sense that sooner or later these tales are gonna involve the
Day To Day, so it’s time the veil was burnt fuckless.
What the veil hid was the fact that The Duke was a filthy
stinkin college student.
What this implies is that everythin herein is the workings of
a horribly smug fucker with a penchant for smart-arse Student
Humour.
No, this would be a misconception, on account of I have no
identification whatsoever with 99% of the folks who wander
past on a daily basis, and all the better.
But what it all relates to is that a while back you may
recall I mentioned a lass I noticed in a grocery store, a
beautiful lass what stunned my very guts right there and
then. What happened was I later learned that she worked in
the Tesco’s near here, so yeah, plenty trips for to get
carrots or whatever, coming back an hour later on account of
well holy shit, I forgot to get the potatoes, and then back
again on account of I better get cigarettes and red bull
while I’m at it.
So anyway, wandering through the campus corridors the other
day, the door opens to my left, who the hell should walk out?
Only Tesco Woman!
So she’s there, and I see her most every day, and it’s all
very very soul-destroying because no, what can a man say?
Nothing that isn’t undone by the shuffling and the stupid
hair and the awkward jokes that no-one gets on account of
really, they ain’t much funny.
Thank god a man has Bob Dylan singing about “It’s all right
Ma, I can make it”, otherwise who knows what kinda trauma
would result, some sort of frenzied race through the streets
a Johannesburg with nothing but a tire-iron to hide a man’s
shockingly inadequate modesty.
Thanks folks.
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
September 18TH 2005
Sometimes a man needs for to vent, is all, two years worth a
steam built up ‘hind the eyes and ain’t been a valve eased
for fear of fuckin with the sprinklers.
Sometimes he needs to let the sprinklers sprinkle is all, and
so the jaw gets slightly damp, but better that than goin some
horrific shade a mental and maybe throwin boiled eggs at
folks in the street or, god forbid, buying that James Blunt
record.
A series of events, fairly unfortunate like what that Blind
Lemony Jefferson or whoever got involved with, y’know, with
him out Earth Girls Are Easy. A sequence of fairly
catastrophic mini-apocalypses in the brain-sauce, some shit
like the following;
Fallin in the L. Let me be the first to state that the emo
folks and Ryan Adams were right. It is nothing short of
hellish. Let The Duke step three feet past The Limb an note
that aye, masturbation fairly reeks a sulphur these days.
If maybe I had a floppy fringe and some mascara and a minor
chord for to rest on, what I would probably holler is
something like;
I fell in love when I was 15, I ended up getting drunk and
giving her a song called Why Bother?, ended up a damn cliché,
the moping teenager all fried in the fuck cause The Girl
Don't Wanna Be Molesting Me.
Ended up cryin on the way to church one morning, Unknown
Pleasures by Joy Division crawling out the tape-deck, cider-
fumes rising from the tongue.
I fell in love when I was 18. Ended up getting engaged and
realising that no matter what horrors had gone on back in the
day, or were set for to commence shortly, still, I knew that
what I felt when she kissed me was the kinda safety
impossible to come by this side of an iron johnny.
Saturday past, I see her walkin with her new fella, get all
sortsa bitter about it, get to mouthin shit like what you’d
fling the hell in front of a bus if you caught it creepin
round the corners of a lyric sheet.
I fell in love when I was 23.
It was suitably painful.
It is suitably painful.
So the lesson to be learned from it all, since there’s always
a lesson, since there’s no way a man would be waxin so 14-and-
fuck-boiled if there weren’t a worthwhile point to be made,
is that the more pleasure a fella gets from a sensation, the
greater the agony he can expect when the initial high gets
torn out the skull and the eyes scream in light a the clarity
afforded the Reality Of It All.
What makes it all the more gloriously pitiful is that a fella
realises these things the far-end of a knuckle-fuck.
While we’re on the subject of The Horror, The Horror, best to
throw in a line or two about the truly terrifying state of
mind a fella was in earlier this eve.
What a man might hint, is that the depths of incomprehensible
madness plunged two years back have never seemed so freshly
plausible, never since the morning back in the day when a
golden sanity streaked cross a fellas gut.
What might be said is that Smile by Brian Wilson is one of
the most beautiful records I’ve ever heard, and yet tonight,
I had to turn it off, and was shaking, no less, with how much
it scared me all of a sudden.
And what I’ll note now is that a screening of Malcolm X made
the world fall into place anew. Spike Lee’s fucking
masterpiece so completely made me forget myself that by the
time I remembered, enough hours had passed for The Horror,
The Horror to be have been shoved back into the realms of the
What Happened A While Ago.
So now a man can go crawl into the sleep-hole and be content
with the audio-book lullin him towards dreams of the lass I’d
give my limbs to, should she want them, which she doesn’t.
Can get to thinking about the woman who seems to have become
rather fond of a fella, believe it or not, and who, for sure,
gets a fella all sortsa giddy in the Particular Regions Of
The Psyche devoted to lust and longing and all that is
discussed Up Yonder, and yet why the fear in The Duke’s eyes?
On account of the fella in her mind that she fell for
doesn't, I’d wager, bare any resemblance to the scrawny,
awkward reality.
And on that disgustingly self-pitying note, (a g minor,
natch) I’ll say only that I promise not to get this horribly
self-indulgent for at least another three weeks.
Sorry folks
Thanks folks.
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
steam built up ‘hind the eyes and ain’t been a valve eased
for fear of fuckin with the sprinklers.
Sometimes he needs to let the sprinklers sprinkle is all, and
so the jaw gets slightly damp, but better that than goin some
horrific shade a mental and maybe throwin boiled eggs at
folks in the street or, god forbid, buying that James Blunt
record.
A series of events, fairly unfortunate like what that Blind
Lemony Jefferson or whoever got involved with, y’know, with
him out Earth Girls Are Easy. A sequence of fairly
catastrophic mini-apocalypses in the brain-sauce, some shit
like the following;
Fallin in the L. Let me be the first to state that the emo
folks and Ryan Adams were right. It is nothing short of
hellish. Let The Duke step three feet past The Limb an note
that aye, masturbation fairly reeks a sulphur these days.
If maybe I had a floppy fringe and some mascara and a minor
chord for to rest on, what I would probably holler is
something like;
I fell in love when I was 15, I ended up getting drunk and
giving her a song called Why Bother?, ended up a damn cliché,
the moping teenager all fried in the fuck cause The Girl
Don't Wanna Be Molesting Me.
Ended up cryin on the way to church one morning, Unknown
Pleasures by Joy Division crawling out the tape-deck, cider-
fumes rising from the tongue.
I fell in love when I was 18. Ended up getting engaged and
realising that no matter what horrors had gone on back in the
day, or were set for to commence shortly, still, I knew that
what I felt when she kissed me was the kinda safety
impossible to come by this side of an iron johnny.
Saturday past, I see her walkin with her new fella, get all
sortsa bitter about it, get to mouthin shit like what you’d
fling the hell in front of a bus if you caught it creepin
round the corners of a lyric sheet.
I fell in love when I was 23.
It was suitably painful.
It is suitably painful.
So the lesson to be learned from it all, since there’s always
a lesson, since there’s no way a man would be waxin so 14-and-
fuck-boiled if there weren’t a worthwhile point to be made,
is that the more pleasure a fella gets from a sensation, the
greater the agony he can expect when the initial high gets
torn out the skull and the eyes scream in light a the clarity
afforded the Reality Of It All.
What makes it all the more gloriously pitiful is that a fella
realises these things the far-end of a knuckle-fuck.
While we’re on the subject of The Horror, The Horror, best to
throw in a line or two about the truly terrifying state of
mind a fella was in earlier this eve.
What a man might hint, is that the depths of incomprehensible
madness plunged two years back have never seemed so freshly
plausible, never since the morning back in the day when a
golden sanity streaked cross a fellas gut.
What might be said is that Smile by Brian Wilson is one of
the most beautiful records I’ve ever heard, and yet tonight,
I had to turn it off, and was shaking, no less, with how much
it scared me all of a sudden.
And what I’ll note now is that a screening of Malcolm X made
the world fall into place anew. Spike Lee’s fucking
masterpiece so completely made me forget myself that by the
time I remembered, enough hours had passed for The Horror,
The Horror to be have been shoved back into the realms of the
What Happened A While Ago.
So now a man can go crawl into the sleep-hole and be content
with the audio-book lullin him towards dreams of the lass I’d
give my limbs to, should she want them, which she doesn’t.
Can get to thinking about the woman who seems to have become
rather fond of a fella, believe it or not, and who, for sure,
gets a fella all sortsa giddy in the Particular Regions Of
The Psyche devoted to lust and longing and all that is
discussed Up Yonder, and yet why the fear in The Duke’s eyes?
On account of the fella in her mind that she fell for
doesn't, I’d wager, bare any resemblance to the scrawny,
awkward reality.
And on that disgustingly self-pitying note, (a g minor,
natch) I’ll say only that I promise not to get this horribly
self-indulgent for at least another three weeks.
Sorry folks
Thanks folks.
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
ARCHIVE
September 18th 2005 - July 26th 2006
September 18th 2005 - July 26th 2006