Hosing off for the Night

Winter. She be a savage beast. Or a season. Either way.

It's Hip to Be Cool

So, why am I doing another one of these? Well, put simply, I thought it would be cool to replace [Deleted] with [Deleted]. Now it's 20% ANZAC, 40% Colonial, 30% Pilgrim and 10% Peaceful. 60% of it is from the '60s, while the remaining 40% is divided evenly between the '70s, '80s, '90s and 2000s. Oh and it's meddled again.

Sincerely,

2007.

The Hugh Sells Out

Apparently Tom's finished a song. I see no better reason than that to place him firmly atop my jubilant pile. But shouldn't I be judging this on blogs alone? Well, no. That would be accepting defeat. Speaking of which, that's exactly what some weird tribe did when a rival tribe offered them a bag of legs from the ankle down.

Spine Shut Ladders

Not bothering too heartily with patience, I have plonked Tom back into bronze position on the back of three new posts. He's not likely to remain there very long, of course, as the posts in question have fairly weak spines, but I may as well give him enough rope and a few inches now before his stakes are finally burnt at the Joan and his fingers slip into oblivion. The top two still seem to be subscribing to the "less is more" school of writing, and are putting themselves on considerably shaky turf, whilst wholesome Stephan holds out for another couple of months and another couple of Booze & Karaoke™ anecdotes. Harry, on the other hand, is busy re-sculpting his fingers for a tunnel at the end of the light. He's even cleaned his train for the occasion.

And then there's Anh Tu. Slumped unceremoniously in a steel tub of coal on Harry's express, he whittles away the hours by thumping monochromatic melodies with the wooden stumps on the ends of his arms, and planning world-beating literature for when the Australian version of the voice recognition software arrives. He's currently exempt from competition, and his punishment is extra ambition.

If Tom And The Pole Cats does indeed hit stores in the near future, Ben will be thrown out of complacency and into the vile pit of the second fiddlers, making room for Tom and his security complex, which comprehensively guards his secret desires and serves as an intimidating backdrop for the inevitable sophomore slump. And he will remain there until one of the other competitors releases a full-length LP. So forever, then.

Somewhere else entirely lies something else entirely, so excuse me.

A Room of Their Own

Bucket Men have slapped their sticky glutes onto the bandwagon and found a virtual home of sorts. Granted it would be preferable if it was a real website and not just a blog with a veil, but still, it's progress. Jack has too. Everything's free and you'll soon see why.

Bye.

Six Foot Bullet: The Offer

If Tom, who recently posted an address, manages to complete his proposed album, he will permanently* obtain the dubious honour of top spot on my rankings. And there has to be singing on the album. More specifically, by him. And, of course, singing lyrics from his own pen. The max number of instrumentals on the album is zero.

One completed single will see him securely in third, with the only place to go being up.

Look forward to the hit single "Tom And The Pole Cats" and the factually accurate "He's Hugh".

*Permanently providing none of the other competitors complete albums. Perhaps excluding Anh Tu, but I probably don't need to say that.

Lumps

And don't they all have a deeper connection as a result. Side by side, hip by hip; peddling fingers by gaping paws. Asides aimed from the corner of their mouths while the vision centre races for the prize. And the placebo adrenaline which pumps from clenched orifices is swept up and hung in the air. Maybe it's because that special someone is on the bench.

Still, I wouldn't hesitate very long to call them nasty names. And it would be even shorter if I was quick-witted. That said, I'm in the wrong. Ho ho. Where I belong. Break.

So, as I was saying, I'm going to continue to end with hints. Unintwined, of course. For ever.

Plates and Plexiglas

Told to buy three pounds of big fat fish, I returned instead with a slim slice of chocolate cake, which, I soon discovered, wasn't exactly the best fish substitute on the market. Nevertheless, I stood by my word and smugged the askers with a well-honed and perfectly weighted plate of stubbornness until they had no choice but to throw up their hands (which took them quite a while, as the fact that their hands were in their stomachs ironically prevented them from gagging the bulimic way) and accept fate's basket, admittedly my concoction. Of course the fact that I wasn't paid for my errand put a big fat three pound dampener on my celebrations, which had dubious origins anyway.

My house in its foundations was soon returned to after this encounter thanks to my presence therein. I inevitably fixed myself a carefully orchestrated cup of brown and gazed headlong out of one of my windows — well, both actually, in between blinking. And it was a nice day. Earlier, you see, when I was firmly in paragraph one, it wasn't as weatherly pleasant. Mucky rain and blotchy heat, neither offering relief from each other. Now (or then, as it turned out) I was rather chuffed to discover I hadn't, in fact, taken the weather with me. But Ben's cringe aside, it was perfectly balanced between two extremes, and incapable of getting anyone sensible down.

It was later that I slipped into mood mode and reached for the phone. But she sounded bored and spouted clichés, so I withdrew my funds and surfed for my fix instead. Soon the dusk audience dawned on me, and I began to feel that this unhealthy motif should be shelved and, perhaps, repressed. Ne'er to be mentioned again. I'll take the stage, sure, but I won't stay back and clean the curtains any more. Cue Ben's classy eyes going glassy. Internal scolding hurts the worst.

"I know," I said, for I knew.
"All the more reason to cease," added Ben.
"I know."
"Do you still want me to go and get coffee?"
"Hmm," began Bobshot. "I'm still not allowed to improvise?"
"No," I said firmly.
"Oh," said Bobshot. "In that case, yeah."

But Ben never left. Maybe it's a kind of "Waiting For Godot" thing or something.

I, on the other hand, is the lover's letter. Or so I keep telling myself. Not aloud, of course. But then there's that unforeseen. That wonderful unforeseen. And that equally magnificent future it's probably not attached to.

Thanks for the bullshit.

New Yeahs

Late, yes. But no promises. Maybe 2007. For now I'm spilling ink.

Excuse me, there's something I'd rather like to hold.