Ooh, ooh, ooh, Nostalgia.

We are so old sometimes. Radio 4, knitting, nice cups of tea, and nourishing soup to dip our bread into.

And then sometimes we're teenage gang.

The Story of a Panic

Yo. It's been a while. Reading week involved a lot of reading. I worked in the pub on Friday night and Saturday morning. Friday night involved me drinking a bit too much American Pale Ale and then smoking a Jazz Cigarette afterwards and becoming really pale and sketchy and not really knowing what was going on. Jez claims I passed out for two hours on the fuuton. However Rosie claims when she came in in the morning, he was the one passed out on a chair. So who really knows who passed out. Maybe we both did.

Saturday, well it was non stop hecticness with lots of northerners down to watch Sunderland play Brighton. Busy busy. Then I went down to the Eastern to mutter disconcertingly at the staff there, but instead Rosie downed Bloody Maries and I drank lots of HSB and then we bought some sausage and mash ingredients from Sainsburies together with some Irish Cream and a blue sugary alcopop, and popped into the Albert to drink gin and tonic and ale, went home, drank Waitrose wheat beer and cooked sausage and mash, went to the Lion and Lobster for pints of ale and smoky sitting on the floor, went to this party where I lost my hat and my phone and ranted at some innocent hippies, inhaled some laughing gas, ignored some americans, fell asleep for an hour, woke up again, found Rosie asleep in a bed and Nicky P may possibly have scored with some girl or maybe didn't but they were both gone when I woke up. I got my phone and hat back the next morning, but then Dave Bushnell was down, and he had read this article about going swimming in the sea off Brighton, and before long, we were swimming in the sea.

Alex Poofy and Tommy Kiraminski wussed out, so it was just me, Rosie and Dave. I think we lasted about 90 seconds. I came out of the sea shivering and muttering and with salt water streaming out of every hole in my face (and as Deleuze and Guatarri point out, my skin is full of tiny little holes). I was so shaky but this old man on the beach made me a rolly because I was incapable of doing so myself. Dave produced a thermos flask filled with mulled wine. That was cool.

We have a coffee table now. I've been reading large amounts of Lacan and Derrida and other crazy french people. They are fun. O yes. On Monday it was Tommy Ketaminski's birthday, and by coincidence Tommy Withie's birthday. They are both born on the same day of the same year, and they are both called Tommy. This is Higher Power Stuff.

So we went to the Hand in Hand and drank ale and went to this Jazz club and this Jazz singer sung Tommy "Happy Birthday" in a well jazzy style.

I'm so weak. I need to stop burning the candle at both ends. QNI tonight. QNI last night. Radio 4. E.M.Forster. Tea. Cake. Yes.

Rouselle and Humme

Makes them both sound like they are noises rather than Philosophers. An elegant soiree yesterday. Beautiful and free from crudity. New leaves perhaps are being turned.

I am so bad at thinking of things to write. Maybe my life is too dull.

Terraseconds and a big tub of chicken bones

Back in St. Albans. Camping was excellent. Most chilly and a bit too muddy, but Arthur and Joey created a beautiful landscaped garden with boardwalk and canals to divert muddy water from flooding into the fire-pit and wreaking havoc with the cooking.

Ha, and Anna Hell missed the snow. But her glass eye did fall out in the mud and become all sticky. She didn't get any saline solution to clean it.

Phone Mast Dave

Phone Mast Dave
Originally uploaded by Dolores Luxedo.

Well, I thought I might as well try and get the fiikir / bloggue thing going down, and how better to go about doing something new than with the Phone Master himself. Those dreads, so long and pliable. Those balloons, so full of laughing gas. Those pupils, so dilated. Don't you just want to take him back to your house for Christmas so he can meet your family and murmur incoherently about politics?

I'll sleep when I'm dead. Or really really tired.

God rest Jacquie D's soul. Apparently Metallica are really from the midlands. If you listen to their song, "Master of Puppets", you can definately hear a birmingham twang. They probably hang out with Napalm Death and Alan's Cousins by the water fountains.

My bag's packed, I have 12 cans of Morrison's best bitter, a warm cloak, an orange tent that feels nice when you rub your face against it, 25g of Golden Vag, and other such accessories for stomping around in a muddy field till Monday. Heck yeah.

Paramnesia and related issues

Okay, now the bathroom floor is covered in boke as well.

I'm going away for the weekend, camping in the cold, so after watching Rosie make a slightly futile effort to clean up the boke; "cleaning my boke up makes me want to boke up", I took my big bag of stuff to uni. Off back to the fair city of St. Albans later today. Go find Paul Pepper and other St. Albans angel-headed hipsters. Drink ale probably. Go camping tomorrow morning. Hell yeah.

Other than that, my life has become some kind of routine. Alas. Drinking too much, (hence Rosie's boking experience), running errands, reading Freud, dude. Sorry. This is dull.

Man, it's so loud in here.

Just a quick post. Been a busy weekend. So Jez brought some candles-in-bottles back from work because the lights have gone in our bathroom. Like, big bottles of Jack Daniels covered in flakey red bits of wax with candles stuck on the top. We put one on top of the loo, and one by the sink. I get up at about 11, go into the bathroom to wash my face, brush my teeth, etc, and go to light the candle on the loo. Hmm. It's gone. So I light the other one.

What the bloody heck is that in the toilet?

The bottle and candle have fallen in. And someone has moved their bowels upon them. It's gross. I clean it up. Turns out Rosie couldn't find the candle so she couldn't see if there were any surprises in the toilet. Ha. How cool is that?

I feel like I've been drinking all weekend. Dude. I feel weak. Anyway, more later.

So I have a bloggue.

So I have a blog. But I'm a bit concerned I'm going to lose sight of the purpose of having a blog. What was the purpose again.

1. Theatre for what I want to say, whether anyone wants to read it or not.
2. Archive.
3. Box of rats.

So I'm employing a load of american girls to go "miaow" at regular intervals rather than buying a metronome. Nicky P got a big german guy to play the drums and then go "NEIN!" when Nick got out of time with the big german metronome guy. But Nick likes that stuff.

The sweet taste of ambrosia

So I bunked off school yesterday and Jed came round with 6 Seville Oranges and a lemon and 2 kilos of sugar and some string and some muslin and we made loads of marmalade. That was cool, a big boiling pan of sugary orange stuff all frothing up and then turning into marmalade. We now have six jars worth of the stuff, and we might do a second batch tomorrow. When it goes all yellow and frothy and you stir it, it all swooshes up and scalds you on your hand with hot molten orangey sugar. It's amazing. And so we can have home made marmalade on our home made bread (turned into home made toast) but unfortunately with our Waitrose butter. I'm gonna go buy me a churn.

Ohhh, and it looks like Can't Snorkel might be headlining in the fair city of Brighton and Hovis. Heck yeah! It'll be our first ever gig outside the Hertfordshire area, and it's going to be a laugh and a half. So I'm going to be standing in the cold sticking posters up at some point. Just think, there's a whole generation of kids in Brighton who have never had the joy of singing along to "I'd rather have a hyperactive skinny girl than a big man (but a big man will do)". For shame!

Click click click. Charlotte Perkins Gilman kicks ass. Not only did she write The Yellow Wallpaper, but she also wrote a science fiction book called Herland about a world populated solely by women. Much as I try to steer well clear of actually studying feminism, that doesn't mean it's not cool. Heck no.

Freud

So yeah, Freud admits to poisoning one of his patients in "The Interpretation of Dreams". Hectic. He gives her something called Sulphonal, which later turns out to be poisonous. Savage. The patient succumbs to the poison.

Things are changing. Our tap broke, for a start, meaning that we have no hot water. Well, we do have hot water. Constantly. At the rate of 6 drips per minute. This makes washing up even more difficult than before, and I thought having soluble hands was the major problem. Now I have soluble hands and only a really slow method of getting hot water. So I'm going to do the washing up in the bath.

Not whilst I'm in the bath. Partly because it would be pretty gross, and secondly because we don't have a light in our bathroom at the moment. Which actually means I can have TECHNOSHOWER. The two lights are a red bicycle lamp which flashes, and a tealight (nightlight). Together with steam from hot water, this actually makes our bathroom into some kind of rave every time you wash. All I need to do now is pipe through some hardcore or techno or breakcore or bokecore and get some glowstick soap.

Man, I bet you are all well thrilled about these technical details about my day to day life. Mmmm. O yeah.

Buy me a new pair of shoes.

So, as is the tradition in these times,

"This is my new blog. Here you can find out fun stuff about me. Now ain't that great."