hair conditioning

why is it that we have this idea in our heads that we're indestructable, that we can take anything we could possibly throw at ourselves. 'when I spike you, you'll know you've been spoken to'. it's been a funny couple of weeks, all in all. the equivelant of looking back at your photo album and realising that the last 200 photographs only span a couple of months. it's probably best to start with the biscuit convention, where gin came up one tube, tonic up another, to converge in a lemon that presented an easy way to suck the resulting mixture, like a bottle of poison with an onion on the end, but slightly healthier. funk without irony and shaky dancing and the next thing we knew M the C was outside reading his book. more funk and rosie yearning to cosy up to cornish and then we begin the stroll back to hartington road for some stringy threads. it descends swiftly into slightly bad craziness with hair ftying and eating and neighbours made cross by traditional cornish ballads and I grew tall and had a moustache and placed my arm in a sling for some unethical rum stealing. like I said, bad. and then Matt became a delivery man with his bag and hat and we were going to go sit in the hot tub but instead went for a breakfast that passed by in a blurry haze like evaporated fat. park cafe park. onto the beach where tommy slept and cooked and joff threw himself in the sea and nick went to the cinema and rosie entwined her way through the lanes to work and we went home to sleep it off and waking I found that I had lost my soul.

back in the Yeastern after a stroll barefoot through town dressed as a folk festival and gradually off for beach and country and western and ale swapping and back for quiet curries and a rice sandwich and talk of driving to stonehenge for the summer solstice. jeds birthday and matts birthday fall on the same day as that blonde hunk Boris Johnson and as mett sets off in the morning to meet beefy and I stroll into town for pasties and onto the beach with tiny bottles and the tide coming in and rosie and jed swim out to rescue a boy and then to sit in the gutter outside the lion and lobster then in search of belgian and pear cider and we trail back to stringy threads and banana pancakes rosie talks to a voice only she can hear and as we walk home she is followed by a keen young blue lighter than darts along behind her like a small child.

we arrive home to find matt and sophie and beefy in our house with the fan and in the morning beefy prepares a breakfast whilst rosie and tommy and jarvis and daniel prepare to drive to stonehenge and they set off I remain with the folks from bath and after primark we go to the beach where matt and beefy go in the sea and I drift off asleep. they leave and I go to a poetry night finding out that rosie and the other going to stonehenge actually ended up in cornwall. i get told off for mocking slam poetry but come second again. jed nearly entices a hip hop superstar back to his house but gets free cds. the next day a small time tea tour takes us to the beach and martha is in the sea I ride in victoria's car to the eastern not sure what happens next I think I go to jacobs with a bottle of wine and eating food in the park and home and sleep early sleep early

next day rosie has the ssore with the poo and I don't really remember that day but we end up on the beach with a large orange moon that we fail to swim out to and then the next day I manage to swim in the sea but am dragged down by the weight of my wet clothes and ought to buy some more seaworthy attire.

more haziness and then into the 44 and a half hour work marathon sandwiching a 32 hour shift between two shifts at the pub together with troublesome cricketers and A Game At Chess and free wine with yr art and then going to the Worst Free Party in the World, at two thirty we set off to walk from Hove to Black Rock, expecting a massive sound system and a load of crazy ravers with white gloves. always good for a laugh. actually what we find is a couple of speakers and someone playing a trance CD off their stereo, with about 25 spangled people wandering about "touch! it's my birthday!" doug makes some new friends and after an hour or so we decide to go home. dom tommy doug and fran go sit in a hot tob.

the next day Pasta in the Park and touring an art exhibition a garden in the Office with Art Girls and currying favour recycling in a spare electric wheelchair heather ale stamp collecting

Richard Whiteley is really actually dead. It's the final countdown. Rest in peace.

into London to go see Jamie Liddel. He harmonises with himself using sampler and beat box and orange clothing. some ales outside The Black Friar. a weekly arrangement. no, it was lovely, a good old fashioned leafy garden in the big city ahead of us and a lovely old chat and I learned the 4 step mechanical hand "hey baby" motion. maybe a bit too many ales and we find pasty and go to the 'club' JL was cool. I paid bloody £3.19 for a packet of Golden Vag. This makes me sick. Ha. At the end we accost poor JL who probably gets a bit spun out by the picture of him that Rosie has in her wallet. they pose with him as the father of her child. when we try to take him back to our house he runs away. stupid petty arguments on the way home, a microcosmic wittgenstinean eye. it's not just a cigarette it's a bloody metaphor and they don't smoke well. we meet some albanians at east croydon and rosie searches for chocolate whilst I sulk. she tries to sleep on the floor of brighton station but we get kicked out

the next day I'm actually shaking as we teenage gang amble about town. everyone seems to be going a bit sketchy at the moment. after stir frying we head in the rain to the yeastern without londis lighters and see daniel and the happiness consultant and victoria and gay alex who we haven't seen in ages and is back from america and then as we walk back past the evening star we see matt and jay and a pint of ipa and I fall off the chair and god knows what else and then home and then in the end I think I realised I should probably just stop complaining and go with the flow because it's funny how things turn out

The Cruellest Month

The New Hat
Originally uploaded by Dolores Luxedo.

"April comes like an idiot,
Babbling and strewing flowers" - Edna St. Vincent Millay

Your search found 1 person who enjoys watching Death Train.

It's so hot. Oppressively hot. And me without a summer wardrobe. I've been trying to keep up but to no avail. Massive dilemmas with the festival (they don't want us back on the original site). Am searching for new site amidst other reams of trouble. Got second place in another poetry slam despite being told off for dissing 'slam poetry'. "Don't you like slam poetry?" "Of course I do. But the way I react to anything is by being cynical, negative and sarcastic about it."

A weekend of far too little sleep once again. Rosie, Tommy and the cornish tried to go to Stonehenge but ended up in Cornwall. Drinking ale on the beach with Martha and Lou. Riding in Victoria's car as our hair grew in front of our eyes. Going to be in a band with two singer/bassists called Double Bass. Perhaps. Not going to Glastonbury so lent my tent to someone who is.

Ha. So we were sitting outside some cafe yesterday (you don't really have a choice about doing that sort of thing in Brighton. If you haven't been spotted sitting outside enough cafes then they deport you out to Portslade or Southwick.) and Alice asked me to name the 5 aspects of my dream girl. Ha. I settled on the first 4; [not have a problem with my height/vision/hearing, really really really funny, not going to sleep all day just because they went out the night before, and kinky as]. The fifth one I couldn't decide upon. Was toying with [ambitious but apathetic] but that sounds a bit too much like me... to be honest, I think if I had more time to think about it I'd revise the other ones too. But that's the nature of these spur of the moment decisions.

I have plenty of work this week. Me and Rosie are doing jobshare. God I can't keep up with summer. Not Summer Hoyland, that is, but this time of the year. It's actually too hot for me to be at full energy. It's too hot for me to sleep. I can't remember the last time I got a proper night's sleep. Still, can't complain.

Wrong Music

Tea VS Egg and the chicken head
Originally uploaded by Dolores Luxedo.

I think this series of events is going to need a bit of history behind it. About 2 years ago, me and Andy formed a breakcore bokecore lockjaw DJ & MC act called DJ Tea and MC Cake. As DJ Tea, Andy played some pounding pounding breakcore music, spazzed out on hardcore painkillers and beer, broke records and knocked me over, as me, as MC Cake, would take the microphone and rant about water, rats, obesity, farmergabber, and other such fascinating topics, whilst inhaling helium and throwing sponges into the crowd. We were hot. We were asked to not perform at the Ocean Rooms or the Volks again, we damaged the floor at the Hot House, I nearly got beaten up by an angry psy-trance raver, I slid backwards down a muddy slope into the table containing the decks propelled by Crazy Mad Jo. This all culminated in our entering a DJ contest and being robbed of first place by a man who could scratch, like the scratchy man in Plato's Gorgias. And then Andy went away to Australia and Tea and Cake went into hiatus.

And then, onto the scene, there came a new challenger, none other than DJ Scotch Egg. Known to others as Shige, he was part of the Brighton Breakcore scene for a while. but launching himself as DJ Scotch Egg, he became a megaphone wielding MC who, with the assistance of Henry Siiitmat, produced a pounding breakcore beat over the top of which Shige would rant on about KFC and curse violently, pausing only to hurl scotch eggs into the audience. Sounds familiar?

About a month ago, my housemate Rosie made a chicken head for my housemate Tom. Made from a large sheet of yellow fluffy material, it fitted over Tom's head like a chicken-themed gimp mask, not having any eyeholes. Tom was chuffed. Yellow, with a red felt beak and crest, it was lovely. And who should steal the chicken head? None other than Shige. Stealer of our ideas and of Tom's chicken head, he also once stole Nick's pint in a pub. Something had to give...

And so, the other day, we went to go see Buck 65. Lustful and growling, he was, and a fine show. He has a new song that goes Flaming Skeleton / On a motorcycle as the chorus, which is definately my sort of thing. Not quite sure about his keen-ness for pastoral elegy, but you can't have everything.

Then, after Buck, Tom and Anna and Victoria met me on the beach, and we went to the Volks to go see Shige. I was littered with faux-pas, firstly accidentally saying something inappropriate to someone who may or may not have been Anna's new man, and then accidentally giving Victoria a nosebleed and then getting kicked out of the girls toilets whilst trying to clean it up.

Shige comes on stage. The plan is that I'm going to get him to eat some chicken stock. Not entirely sure where that comes from. So about half way through his set I get up on stage and offer him the stock. He's not having any of it, and I just stand there, looking serious, the packet of chicken stock held out in front of me. Shige continues to run about with his microphone. I stand there. 2 minutes pass. Tom comes up to me; "I can see the chicken head." "Put it on me", I reply. Tom puts the chicken head on me. I am now blind. I continue holding the chicken stock. Shige continues his stuff. Then I begin to smell burning. I lift the chicken head to reveal my eyes. The box of chicken stock is on fire. A man from the Volks comes along and puts it out. Amist the smoke I get the microphone from Shige. We duet for a bit. Then I get the microphone.;

"I've eaten so much
I feel so fat,
And I'm stuck in a box
With water and rats".

Again and again. Pounding pounding breakcore. I think the crowd liked it and this continues for a bit and then the breakcore gets louder and louder and I wouldn't be surprised if something exploded because it all finishes. We get the chicken head.

Afterwards two things happen. Shige manages to get the chicken head back and also it turns out that both me and Shige are banned from performing at the Volks for being too loud. This is actually the second time this has happened to me.

All in all quite a funny evening. Apparently Henry (who wasn't there) cursed himself for missing 'the MC Battle of the century'. And he's a man who doesn't use hyperbole lightly.

Cod on!

Word. I am still thoroughly blind. Alas and alack. So after waking up on the tiger skin rug, I eventually persuaded leather boots man to let me go. So it got to Sunday morning and Rosanne woke me up at about half past seven because we were setting off to bath.

"A girl.. then two boys.. then another girl.. then two girls.. then a boy.."

Together with Donatello who had hit his head on the wall and was seeing colours we strolled down to collect our tickets from the station, and then went to go see Zak and Bam at the Car Boot Sale where they were selling a typewriter and other assorted goods. Daniel Taylor went to work and we codded on to the train. We wrote the words "Cod on" on a page of notebook, as a total quota of coddings we were permitted to utter. The train announcer treated us to some of his guitar chords. Old people sat next to us. That was cool. Then suddenly, in Bath, which is all Sandstone, along Upper Bedford Road and to Matt's pub, which he lives above. That familiar crippled form waving at us from the top window, and then down comes Matt. We sit outside the pub with Matt, Sophie and other Bath-folks and then go up to see Matt's room, where we sit around for a bit.

Now Matt had told us that there was going to be a 'street party' going on in Bath. But a 'street party' could be anything from a small amount of people limbo-dancing in the road to a proper full on rave. Eventually we get around to setting out to go look at this party. The other week M the C jumped out of his window because he saw a friend of his walking a dog past. Landed on a picnic bench where two girls were having a drink- did his knee in but got their phone numbers.

"I've got to be back here at four for another practice."
"Matt, it's half past four now."
"Oh well. Lets go then."

My god. They weren't joking when they said street party. The place was packed, a great big heaving road full of sound systems, reggae, hippies, spangled people, stalls, and that smell in the air you get at festivals.. smoke in the air from a rolly on a summers day... there were strips of turf along the ground for reasons that didn't need to be explained.. we bumped into Sarah but then we lost Matt and Sarah in the crowd and bought some cans of beer. Strolling up through the crowded street, some crazy people with terrifying grins, and pounding pounding psytrance, "I didn't like it at first but then I took a load of drugs and listened to it for seven hours and it's BRILLIANT" . . . walking back and we meet up with Matt and Sarah again and then this guy is clawing at my back making teen wolf noises more of the street and then gradually we keep searching for some cod on and Matt has to go off to the pub to play bass and so we head on to the pub and we finally catch up with Ed who is beefy and we get some ales and cider and meet the rest of the kids from Bath. Matt plays his bass with notable flourishes, up and down the stairs we run to the back to the street and we finally get a cod on and then meet this man called David who is wearing an unusual millitary style coat above his bare chest and we bring him back but then as he disappears inside we find some crutches in the street and Matt the Cripple stumbles home as we carry his bass and back to the pub where Matt works and up to the roof where we sit on the roof and watch the sun set and then back to the party downstairs for beefy has booked out the whole of downstairs and it is a rococo lounge which is massive and there is a barbeque and apparently but I don't remember it Matt and Rosanne are trying to open a bottle of tomato sauce and it exploded and went all over rosie and all over her clothes and face and matt licked it all off her face and then rubbed the tomato sauce that was in her hair into her hair but she can't remember it either and then she phoned tommy and becky and we go to find records in Matt's room and Rosie has fallen asleep along with Sarah on his bed and we try our hardest to wake them but no avail and return back downstairs and I meet many people from Bath and Haywards Heath who are all lovely and gradually the party finishes and I think I have lost my bag but it is actually somewhere and matt finds it and then we manage to wake up rosanne and sarah and so we go to beefys house but matt gives me two bottles of wine to carry but I drop one of them and then we get to beefys house and I pass out for a bit but wake up and then we meet this guy called will who said something mean to me and then I try to go home but we are in bath so I don't and he is actually probably quite nice and then we go to this other house where matt made a sculpture out of a mirror and a washing line and this man is trying to make me go to the shop and I pass out for a bit there I think and then back home and I am wearing Matt's sunglasses and we climb over a wall and find outselves very close home and we get back and there is nothing but a room with two people asleep in it and contrary to our expectations we find Beefy's Noodles and a breakfast in a can and so we cook up the noodles and matt cooks up the breakfast in a can which is beans and hash browns and sausages and then we are eating the noodles but then the breakfast goes in on the noodles and he is drinking gravy from the bean tin and eating mush and then we fall asleep for two hours and then me and rosie wake up and leave matt a note and go out to explore bath

so bath is lovely, although it is a bit of a maze for us, and we go in many circles. we look at childrens clothes and squishy skin cleansing products that make your hands all clammy and glittery, we buy sandwiches and find a park to sit and eat them. we try to go look at the abbey and the roman baths but end up in a craft fair, where we try and decide which dog picture Tom would buy, we see a man with slumpy feet. we arrange to meet Matt at Jay's Cafe, which actually turns out to be called the Jazz Cafe, and we have a cup of tea and read "Ireland's Own". Rosanne mutters about crocodiles. Matt and Sarah and (?Mark?) turn up and then we set off to go to the bank and go to the loo in waterstones and then Matt gets a call from beefy and it turns out his boss wants to meet up for a chat.

so me and rosie have to go back to matt's house to get our stuff so we go a ridiculously roundabout way back to the pub and we have matt's keys so we get our stuff and then we go back to meet sarah and mark? and matt at the jazz cafe and it turns out that matt has lost his house and his job. however he may be moving to brighton to exercise show ponies so we sent him a load of property papers from Brighton. after a sad farewell to matt and the kids from bath we buy a packed lunch, I buy the ploughmans sandwich and rosanne goes for a prawn layer. on the train, we eat our lunches but drift off into a sleep and miss our stop. getting off in fratton, we are faced by maniacs with ghetto blasters and a cross drunk racist girl. eventually as the annoncer tells us the stations too many times we draw into brighton and head home in time to see anna hall sicking up and into a deep sleep catchiing up on deep sleep

man its so loud in here

I'm more or less blind, and I have nothing to blame but my own stupidity. I'm one of those troublesome long sighted folks, and can't type without my glasses. Sadly, the spectacles have absconded. I'm so blind. I don't think I can get any new ones for at least two weeks without paying out a load of money. This sucks bad.

Anyway, on with the story. Settled upon this water tower, I look at the submarine launching in the distance, unfold my portable lap top onto my portable lap, and begin to write you this tale. It's a bit of a movable type bloggue entry today. The scottish winds blow cold, and like an LED kept in a fridge, my keyboard is glowing red in a colour you wouldn't expect unless it was some kind of diode. You see my trouble. They want me to write about the launch of some kind of nuclear submarine.

So it started quite normally. I went to work at about half five, poured ale, made witty banter, cleaned up broken glass and specks of blood, put glasses in the glass washer, emptied ash trays. The usual.

And then once the working day was done, I filled up a lemonade bottle with one and a half pints of Espresso Stout, and strolled off to Daniel Taylor's house, where he had been entertaining with tuna steak and witty banter. I missed the steak but not the banter.

It is only one year now when my hair was all tangled up in beeswax. Happy Birthday Annie Hell. At least it's not mud.

So Daniel lives in a twisty maze with 'secret passages' and darkness. David Bowie stepped out of a dark corner with a cruel smile, but we walked on. He has the best magazine, it is all about celebrities but they edit the photo to make them look really fat and then have these pictures of fat scantily clad celebs. Like "Cake Moss" and "Belly Brook". It's amazing.

Dave took a photo of his 'man organ' on my camera the other day. It is a joke he likes to play upon finding a camera. The film is currently at Jessops and I shall put the picture on my bloggue when it gets developed. If it gets developed. I think Dave need to be an active as well as passive participant in the world of Internet Porn. I only say this because I believe he would respect me for doing so. I hope so, anyway. If you don't want to see Dave's cock, then I would avoid this page for the next week or so.

Dude, I can't believe I just wrote that. Duude.

Tom ate a whole load of chicken stock cubes. That was cool. I respect anyone who would lick a pigeon anyway, but the chicken-stock-eating is up there with the fly-powered aeroplane. Respect once again. Touch.

And then we went to ussu to get the stock cubes and then this car pulled up and it was jason and he was there in the car and there was this dead guy in the boot and he was all covered in salt and danny was there with the antifreeze and jason was just driving and driving and there's blood coming out of his ear and then the whole engine lift up out of the bonnet and its like in jurassic park and then we're screaming and you can see the car turn and then j'm lying on this tiger skin rug and this man is there and he is telling me that everything is going to be alright and he is wearing leather boots and telling me that everything is going to be alright and i feel so soft and warm and i am on the tiger skin rug and he is wearing leather boots and telling me that everything is going to be alright and so soft and warm on the tiger skin rug and I am warm and everything is going to be alright

Having ten teeth.

discontinued dancing shoes
Originally uploaded by massdistraction.

So I got outed yesterday.

Rosanne: "So, hey, why do you think Chris is down in the dumps today?"

Alice: "I think he wants a girlfriend. Actually, I think he wants a boyfriend."

Rosanne: "What?"

Alice: "You know, someone like Andy. To take him out for pasties and all that."

Rosanne: "What?!"

So it turns out that Alice meant that I needed someone like Andy to go eat pasties with and generally complain about my woman troubles (or lack of them). But Rosanne thought that I'd just come out of the closet to Alice that morning, and that this was her way of telling her.

So now everyone thinks I'm a big old gayer. My life is ruined.

Ha. I josh. Only that last paragraph, I josh. The rest is true. Bless.

So I spent a very decadent afternoon yesterday. Iced coffee and cakes (or buns, if you're from the north. Certain parts of the north, anyway). Followed by sitting in a hot tub sipping cheap champagne from tall glasses. Most classy indeed.

Then we went and played tennis with Tommy and Fran. More exercise than I've done in quite a few weeks. But fun, nevertheless. Tommy only has one arm, so his tennis playing was a bit limited, but he did well. Me and Fran had quite a few 'ralleys' of resonable length. Yes, definately an option for healthy outdoor activites.

Melty tasking

Alas. Our bread maker has kicked the bucket. Well, actually, its true owner came along and took it back. The forlorn crust upon the breadboard is all that remains of a flourishing bread industry in our house.

On the plus side, we just got tickets to go see Jay Jay Liddel at the 100 Club. Heck yeah!