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.

Hats and Such

I saw a man down the street today. To call him not very sharp would be to put it bluntly. He did, however, have a rather nice hat. One's upstairs flaws can often be overlooked with the aid of a good hat, such as was the case here. Sharpness is overrated, anyhow. It creates too many pricks.

The Phony Rung

Shoesie correctly pointed out that my rankings are judged mostly on quantity, rather than quality. I'd say about 90%. So to win my undesirable favour all one needs to do is do. Still, I'd like to clear up a few things. His current air of self-deprecation is refreshing in lieu of his previous manner, albeit in an unsettling way, and his dismissal of himself in favour of the currently hibernating Pewter Pew is unfair. P.P.'s biggest strength is his lack of pretension — though his biggest weakness is spawned from the same source, in that sometimes you get the feeling that you'd enjoy a particular weekend chronicle a tad more if you were actually there at the time. I find it akin to explaining your dreams — when they don't feature gold pine cones, that is. He does make for an interesting tonic, though.

It seems the Diplomat landed on this persona to combat his face-to-face manner, much as I vented my unpleasantness in the face of my timidity. A totally organic reader may get the wrong impression. Lucky we don't have any, then. Ah but maybe this is our true selves, and that deep within we're angry, lusting lunatics. Either way, his walls are better than mine. Most likely he'll celebrate this revelation with a blow on the ol' shoehorn — after the well-worn "Who's up for a good shoehorn?" line wears off.

The Shoehorn saga seems to have garnered me that elusive corner of the spotlight, which was most likely my intention in the first place. Thus the real key to my rankings seems to rest on how much attention I get. I am a whore, after all. Though I'd never admit it.

Rotten Sun

Plunging into the wrong pastime tomorrow. For coins. Need certain arms to wrap my gift. Tip the scales. A twenty should do it. Apologise to the fish. Elope and sew hips. One of those jerks was standing at the foot of some obstacles screaming: "I need your lap!" He had a point. It was a stanley knife wrapped in a bum glove. I bade farewell and filled my accountant. He bought me a jet. I mastered it, flew it and found a spouse somewhere.

How to Eat Cape Cod

His sexually-charged persona (three hundred hours of community service) certainly doesn't lend itself to the Juan, but I'm sure there's enough rough and proper stuff beneath the surface to see his extra-busy hand try itself at good ol' fulfillment and all that jazz. Hopefully his shoehorn isn't too persuasive. Though much grander, the next's shoehorn is outweighed by a weightier mind, and only rarely overpowers his hands when the tricks convince and the moment is right. He knows what he's looking for. The last knows too, but his is a harder thread to weave... Or so I believe.

So all this boils down to me and my steam, standing on some sort of mountain and chesting my pride rather aloofly. And I don't care for your verdicts. Or the shapes you twist your pricks. Or even how you clean your specks and spicks. I don't even care for proper sentences. I'm just a lonely country boy with nice ears.

So one, I predict, will die in a sea-side shack near a pier. Here's hoping, though.

Ah screw it.

Here's a breath at the top of my lungs and a bedside end a significant amount of time later.

Hollo Monday

Some wanker wrote the last post. Still, I'm a tad disillusioned, but that always happens to me.

The Mediums III

1. Music.

Listless

Here's the list hinted at in the title:

Glorious Promotion

The much-fabled Bucket Men have finally joined the modern world. You can find four of their songs and a slew of not much here. You can either listen to them there and then with horrible compression, or you can download them in high quality for your own masochistic use.

The Jack Nicholsons, too, have leapt onto this unstable bandwagon with pretty much the same deal, only with slightly less content.

Neither should hold any interest to anyone interested in music.

Madam Council Worker

Where to turn in times of trouble? Madam Council Worker. The first thing that strikes you upon entering her abode is a startling range of off-beat bohemian ornaments and framed mirrors. Soon you begin to notice the subtle but claustrophobic aroma of incense, which hangs in the air like a lynched man but smells far worse. None of this, however, could prepare you for the sight of Madam Council Worker herself. Clad in elaborate brass beads and platinum bracelets, she resembles a watermelon wedged into wedding cake. Layer upon layer of colourful fabric was wrapped around her body, with the only visible flesh being that of her bony wrists and creviced face, to remind you that you are in fact staring at a human being.

It was many a problem that led me to her door. Far too many to go into here. Suffice to say, I'm up a creek and in a spot. I tried all the usual solutions: reasoning, denial and alcohol, but none of them improved my situation. Madam Council Worker was my last and only hope.

I first heard of her from a friend of mine, who, after suffering years of alcohol, drug and physical abuse, turned up one day looking positively radiant. When I asked what brought about this amazing transformation, she simply smiled and replied: "Madam Council Worker".

"O Madam Council Worker, I have travelled many Ks to reach you and seek your advice."
She gazed at me through thick lizard-like eyelids and nodded slowly to herself. I waited in obvious discomfort.

"Fuck off," she said eventually, waving me out rudely with her bony wrists.

And I did.

Observational Tragedy

There's a swan in the river. Glistening like a porterhouse steak, it makes its first mis — I wish I could be free like that swan. Free to float where the lecher's roam; free to please as I please; free to give thanks to banks and part with seas. But who'd update the times? It's either freedom or self-sovereignty. And no one's giving me an easy answer. Hmm. Maybe my mike's not on. Hello? Testing, testing, swan two three. No one reacted. It must be on.

You know what a swan represents? A swan represents the glorious, albeit brief, union between two older swans. And you know what I represent? I represent the swan. The trial's tomorrow, followed swiftly by the tribulation. I'll be there, of course. And so will you, I hope. We can sit there and watch the jury box. It's going to be a wonderful match. Maybe I'll even strike it. Not too hard, mind you, just enough to keep it in check and obedient.

Not that I would say anything like "I'm feeling lucky. Lucky's feeling luckier", but sometimes things get twisted and, well, it sounds that way. I'll tap off the beaten path whenever possible, though. And drink from the faucets of tennis. I'm also not liable to say something like "I'll blow a balloon until the air bursts out", but again this dude gets misconstrued. If only words weren't so definite and minds weren't so unappealingly made-up.

But the swan, still see-sawing and cutting a fine line through the lake, has become restless. Then again, maybe I just haven't seen it sleep. I'm only there two minutes a day, after all. Unfortunately that didn't hold up well in court. You won't catch me trying that again. Goodnight.

Betty Lou Has the Minor Key Blues

By Chris White, Rod Argent and Hugh Hamilton

"I'm a parent at last!" she screamed, her eyes dancing — or so it seemed.
"Really? How did this happen?" I wondered.
"Would you like me to go into detail?" she asked, but her inflection was unclear.
"Yes please."
"I found a baby in the chimney."
I paused.
"That's funny," I began, "I found a chimney in my baby."
"What?"
"Nothing."

If I settled for less, she wouldn't have taken my watch. Without it, I just keep bumping into things. The irony being that if I could find my way to the watch shop, I'd buy another one. It's a cruel, cruel world. Aside from that, though, life's pretty good. Especially if you can ignore those starving white kids in Africa. Which I could up until the point where one of them spoke to me in English. You don't want that to happen, really. You don't want to see them as real people. But when he spoke, he could have been my neighbour or my next door neighbour and my stiff lips quivered.
"All right," I said, "I'll fund your excursions."
"What?"
"Nothing. Here's a dollar."

Now I'm in a bit of a spot. If it wasn't for my collages, I wouldn't be able to cope at all. They are my livelyhood, you see. Though the critics invariably describe them as "derivative and uninspired", I know them to be ahead of their time and worthy of Mark Twain himself.

I walked in on her and she was with another man. Several other men, in fact. And women, too. They were having a business lunch at a café. Cunts.

"Hi."
"Hi."
"What?"
"Nothing."

Kapital Letter

I slapped a man in Freo just to see him die. Slaps, however, aren't lethal, and this was no exception. He merely nursed his cheek with one hand and punched me with the other. That experiment cost me a pretty penny in hospital bills, but I suppose it's better that I learnt it early in life. Well, at least before I became an assassin or anything.

But such things are mere contrivances on the road to true fulfillment. Is it a road littered with harmony, though? Well, socialism is based around the building of a classless society, so I assume it must be littered with something. Whatever that may be, though, the whole thing boils down to a lack of labels and unclear definitions. Sure, the "I'm not a communist, I'm a Marxist" defense failed to convince the authorities during the black-list years, but today's world is much more tolerant and gullible. With the right backing, a New English socialist could really go places. And hopefully they'd be the right ones.

Why has it become such a dirty word? Is it really that much different from capitalism? No. In fact if you remove the democratic element and all that stuff about private ownership, capitalism is very similar to communism. And yet here we are, waging war against Wales for having a few fanciful ideas about harmony. Well I'm here to change all that.

I propose a revolutionary new system where there is no government at all. That's right, no laws, no elections, no nothing. Everyone can just run around and do what they want. And no one would be prosecuted for exposing themselves in public.

How I Learned To Stop Reading The Tom

They have bits that fit together. Some call it destiny, others call it genetics. I call it fun. They have fingers that interlock over great distances. Fingers that disappear and shake. But particular hassles and reluctant turtles do not a happy couple make. And I should know; I saw two people kissing on a train. Seems like a rather unsavoury pastime to me. And there's too much oil and grease for it to be sweet. Stick with the bits, I say. Stick with Heaven's template for recreation. But don't spill a drop.

They say it leads to heartache and cigarettes, but I know that's a crock. The stalk leads to heartache and smoking leads to cigarettes, not the other way round. You can't believe everything they say. Especially if you know they're lying. But that's neither clear nor fair. Too much of it, you see, is wasted. Whether it be in rolls of toilet paper or on someone's toes. There's really only one place for it. If the bits fit, don't fix it.

My studies led me to believe that the most sacred act in our play was that of the embrace. But after hugging several strangers and a few pillows, I began to realise that I really wanted somewhere to stick my bits. Preferably somewhere willing. Meanwhile time around me was running out. There were only so much years before my ne'er-do-wells eroded into a clutch of wrinkled flesh, ne'er to be seen again. And I wanted to close the deal long before then.

I failed, of course. Now I spend my time vicariously prying into these two's lives, waiting to see if either of them befall that which befell me. I put my money on him, because, as they say, you have to learn how to sink before you can swim. Call it philanthropic justice, if you will. But if you do, make sure you explain it to me.

Plastic Tips

I rode from Pacific crests on plastic tips but only reached the ankles, not the hips. Granted there were certain things that could be done from that position, but my interests lay elsewhere and my pants were full. I'm not one to reach for the prize without having reached the podium. And plastic tips only get you so far.

Glimpses make it worse, though. Like a fake glass of water when you're fairly thirsty. Sure, you could just take it and swig, but that would be accepting deceit. And deceit is not something I'm willing to rest on. Everyone else may do it day to day (via night), but I have pure, clean-cut intentions. No washing powder behind these ears.

I did, however, gather up my plastic tips and placed them on my desk. After close inspection, I discovered that most of them consisted of nothing more than worthless advice, whilst the rest were divided between endless peaks, suspicious glancing blows and loose, perpetual change. It's a wonder they got me this far.

I made a loose grab for ships on changing tides but there's more to me and less besides. There's still hope, or so I've heard. I could claw together a small fortune and sing its greasy melody to superannuation. And then we'd really start living. Breathing, too. It's been so long since they sent word.

Plastic tips can creep and grind from any pocket or mouth. Each one can observe your sleeping, found your finding and lock your housing. It's a pity none of them can smile. But I won't split or milk their honey or grit their tiling. I'll just lie back and say, "Here lies a man stooped in truth and steeped in youth. With fanciful manners and daily planners, he uses four walls to keep up the roof." But without rhyming, obviously.

Mostly Archetypal

One, a remarkably tolerant and beautiful maiden, the other, a stunted fiend with busy fingers. Not to mention smarts, wit, grace, vibrancy, tenderness, and vanity, stubbornness, pessimism and ineptitude, respectively.
"You're my favourite thing," said the latter one morning, "and we're out of milk."
"Thank you, and no," replied the former.

Which brings me to my point: there has been a fair amount of change since 1502. There were no computers in 1502, yet here I am in 2005 using one. It's funny how the world works.

"Let's never leave this couch," said the latter on another morning.
The former smiled wistfully and went to work.
A few hours later, the latter left the couch and went to the bathroom to experiment.

Or to put it bluntly: I'm verging on a sneeze.

"I could can your behind and charge a lot for it."
"Don't be cheeky."

Oh and I'll make it.

Cushion the Envelope

Well, enough I suppose. I shouldn't keep rolling in the gutter and brushing off on the postman. It's like engulfing someone in dour ash, and soon they may just sneeze the wrong way. I'd say "No more" if I believed it, but I'll cross my organs and try to keep my mind on pleasantries. One last thing: picket fences never yield enough time.

Well, there'll be some. Sitting on couches and standing on corners. Golly gosh. A mil-lion memories lying over some glaring hurdles. Incidentally, I'm bringing some mighty impressive springs for my daggy shoes. Oh and a positively optimistic smile.

If it weren't for the blind, I could observe the sky. Bastards. And if it weren't for fees and seas... Well, I was piecing together magazine pictures and piercing personalities, and mixing up cauldrons of improbable potions, but their pie charts have been comprehensively dwarfed, superseded and overshadowed by this lovely oven, with its produce of sweet biscuits and lame cakes.

Two generations can sing of one men guys, but one generation can sing of two, and he tries.

More Dead Words

Yeah yeah. I mainly grumbled about that because I was fed up with myself. I'm not saying that songs are the ultimate vehicle for words, because obviously you can cut a whole lot deeper with a novel or even a poem, but songs, when done right, are infinitely more pleasurable to experience. And it's a visceral pleasure. Sometimes you can read a poem and think "Why don't you just come out with it, Yeats? You're a lonely, miserable bugger in some vanity tower by the river. We get the picture." Yes, you can defend it by the way he says it; the beauty of the words and all that jazz, but that's nothing compared to what you can get from a great piece of music. Music transcends intellectualism. And yes, I know it's really idiotic to compare the two mediums. Basically all I'm trying to say is that music has leapt to the top of my pile, and this argument is purely a matter of my personal taste. In my last medium ranking post, if you'll remember, I placed writing at the top, with the justification that it's "the most expressive". I meant "expressive" in an intellectual kind of way; profound ideas and all that. Well, now I've thoroughly gone off profundity. It's just me, of course. Writing is a terrific medium.

Ironically I once stole from Yeats and compromised him heavily in a song. It was all that shit about swans too. Thanks Bob.

Y2K Bug Blues

Somehow I expected toppling buildings and distressed damsels. But here we are, reemerging as though from a short sabbatical. And here I am talking without the excessive clog of faux cryptitis. Perhaps I no longer need to disguise the fact that there is nothing beneath the surface.

I am the faulty leg, to be sure, but I'll try and hold up as long as I can and keep this second coming* from the toilet seat. Hopefully there's enough womb for us all.

Like the man with the "We All Die At Noon" sign around his neck, I have a healthy amount of egg on my face. Luckily this time it wasn't expelled by a business man negotiating unsuccessfully with his innards on a bus filled with school kids. When you've caught your breath, I'll move on.

The tall and the short of it (if you know me, you'll take the latter option) is that I'm prying my fingers back into working order and letting the buggers run free in a meadow somewhere. Excuse me if I don't acknowledge the cackle of diplomatic applause. Presumptuous, I know. Hoot hoot baby.

Roll your eyes and smoke 'em while we're here. I want to get it over with before hand. Now I plunge into the depth of my wallet to get a few coins off the loan-moths, which I will try to fashion into a crisp Venetian ticket. Goodbye my juvenile spatulas. I'm off to the weep of a violin.

Cheerio.

*© William Butler Yeats and Ben, 1921 and 2003, respectively.

The Mediums Mach Their Second Territory

1. Music.
Easily the most enjoyable medium to experience, and that's all there is to it.
2. Writing.
Dead words that occasionally elicit pleasure. The Human Condition™ doesn't bear scrutiny, however, so most of it is rubbish. At least with a song you have a tune to fall back on.
3. Film.
In the hands of such a lot fools trying to anathematise the way that you feel, but has produced a handful of pleasant distractions.
4. Art.
Still dead, but if you avoid the galleries you may find something that's worth a look.
5. Theatre.
Yeah right.

With life-affirming love and affection,

Hugh

A Smirk from the Shoes Down

Hugh And The Times
Chronicling The Human Condition™ since 1905.

Either we've all hit concrete and won't be able to make it to China, or it's just me. The man with a life seems to be living it instead of writing about it, while the other third has put up a firm and cryptically unstable roadblock that could, in all honesty, mean anything. Yours faithfully seems intent on limiting the spidery stride of his poison fingers, so he's no help either. If I could be so bold as to call this a triumvirate, then I'll say that I will really miss 66.666666666667% of its writing, and be somewhat glad that I won't be tarnishing it as viciously as before with my 33.333333333333%.

The wretched idea of waiting "till I feel like it", as if I'm a mellow who travels by breeze, is locked and keyed in combat with the borrowed aphorism, "It's better to burn out, than to fade away" and twisted unfairly in a similar manner as its '90s embodiment, who now resides in oak with a lot less looks and an absent consciousness. But that jerk deserves to have his words twisted. And his potatoes pinched.

The lowest point? Ooh. So many to choose from. But I think it has to go to criticising myself under the pseudonym "A Well-Wisher". Wanker.

Hugh And The Times
Wanking on canvas since 1905.

It can only go up from here.

I couldn't even resist slipping into that awful tone here. But all's fair when you're amoral. Which moral remains to be seen, not to mention the issue of a missing space, but I'll stick by it anyway. I suppose it's better this way. Back in the day, I'd finger the keys even if they weren't in the mood, which isn't necessarily the best road to mutual happiness. Now I at least wait until they consent before I dive in.

What about that fellow who learnt to stop fearing himself? Well, since he will never ever ever read this, I have a really strong urge to insult the pepper out of him. He will never ever ever ever ever complete one track. He will never ever ever ever ever post on his site again. Yes, exactly. They aren't insults at all. They are selfish extensions of my warped psyche that say a lot more about me than him. Then again, his most recent burst of enthusiasm and ambition was so short lived that I became annoyed instead of expecting. No, that's not a reason either. Nice fellow, I suppose. Hope he marries and lives off the earth.

Hugh And The Times
Terminally self-obsessed since 1905.

Well aren't we all? No? OK, it's just me then.


Hugh And The Times
Looking forward to 2098, if not beyond since October.

If you can cut through the preceding drivel, then you shall hear my heart from here on in. But seeing as it's not much of a talker, I'll continue anyway.

Incidentally, for those of you in a serious enough state to consider a marriage of sorts, I offer you the use of this line, which I probably won't be able to use myself for quite some time, if ever: See you in court.

Hugh And The Times
Ho Hum.

You're History

The best thing to do is smile grimly and let the past be just that. Your history ain't mine, doll. I'm still lacked in clews. Also, a Hello to Ms. Laurel & — I know your discrete admirer and he's even smaller than me. Please dress more discreetly/completely.

Shoehorn Harry Lets Loose on Nervous Nymphs

The less said about that, the better.

"What did I do?" he asked.
"Exactly," I replied.

He then flew off into the clouds and got promoted for his altruism.

Harry's Agile Wit

Obviously shaken by my comments, Harry has posted the following rebuttal on his site:

I WILL FUCKING SHOEHORN YOU ALL!!!!!!

Harry The Shoehorn Shithead

Harry The Shoehorn Shithead and his catchy name are four steps away from noosing my head. How can I live down the fact that he has been updating more regularly in recent times than me? Actually it's not as hard as you think, especially in lieu of tepid passages of uninspiration such as:

It's been uneventful of late. I'm FUCKING TOP SHIT!!!!!! I wish I had my camera. I could show you my throbbing shoehorn.

And he lives for all the pregnant women.

Look elsewhere! Stephan's site, for instance.

161st Anniversary Special!

I'm so excited I'm speechless.

But is He a Poof?

I apologise for addressing you like a person (which, as Ben correctly identified, only leads to the pitfalls of “Sorry I haven’t updated for a while, but nothing much has been happening…"), but this matter deserves to be treated on a human-to-human level. Ben (of Betweenways fame, and a burgeoning songwriting talent) uncannily, if not overtly, resembles Oscar Wilde. This is going by one small picture in the paper, mind you, but the fact that Stephan Fry, who also resembles Ben, plays Wilde in a biopic only serves to reinforce my separated-at-birth suspicions. Also, Ben arguably possess wit, which the other two have in spades. Well all right, Wilde has tenfold the amount of Fry, but still.

Leonard Cohen on a Pile of Electric Ladies

That said, there is a certain indefinable somethang that bears thinking about. But this has nothing to do with thinking.

Not including my own compositions, what is the worst song ever written? Because Of by Leonard Cohen, of course.

Cheerio.

Horsehead Lane

My lung-metre was ticking over the mooning dog-end. My tie had the dread-look. Almost blue eyes idiotically named a piece In The Wee Small Hours, which is the equivalent of saying "That's a giant big house!" But there's no feeling of regret or shame when you're planting the hard yards on Horsehead Lane.

I count Vampires among the closest. I braid proud donkeys until they are but snuffed powder. And I ate four fortnight's worth of weeks whilst holding out the mail in nocturnal military posts, each briefly-attired and temporarily-weary accounts of daily mathematics. But there's no fame to claim when you're lying teethless on Horsehead Lane.

My arms were empty (Military Triggers) and laid-off by teachers. My catch meant I had enough rain till the King lost his peaches. And my greatest feet had exclusively-clubbed cuff-linked toes. I was the least happy during morning time, mainly because the real noble and good recordings were ignored, leaving only the fauxs. But there's no one too tame or beyond blame when you're alone, unpaid on Horsehead Lane.

I was overarching the target with a gift-wrapped bow. I was fretting my lap with an arrogant crow, which was instrumental in making the blue lights blow, and confident in what agony-aunts know. But when you stop to lift the top off a red-light dame you find yourself staring at Horsehead lane.

Bedpost Leanings

I was enhancing a rowboat near my riverside recording studio (the birthplace of my Celtic meanderings with Paradise Pussies) when a yard of communiqué rattled my fingers and caused me to react. I deciphered the message with the help of my senses and told the reader: "Ho, this is Ben. Just worrying about your mental state. Heard the latest Looking For Legs record and it disturbed me. Particularly the lines I just want those unholy eyes upon my chest/With the holster slipping favour at the mutual crest. And when a stream of rockets spoils the dockets in your pockets/You'll have another excuse when your eyes fall from their sockets from All The Spoilt Positions. Anyway, I'm sure I'm just being paranoid, but I think we should have a luncheon together. Ho-up." Poor Ben, I thought. He didn't get my subversive angle. But I decided to comply with his request.

Due to touring commitments with The Pink Butterflies, I had to postpone the meeting until the following week, so it was a later Friday when we met at a modest lunch-house and began an exchange much like the one that follows.
"Ho," said amiable Ben.
I nodded.
"Listen," he continued, "I'll get straight to the point: I'm worried about your mind."
"I gathered," I said.
"It's just that I'm afraid all this isolation and prolificacy seems to have had an affect on you — and your work." Ben looked genuinely concerned, and for a moment I was touched. Withdrawing my hand, I finally responded.
"Nonsense," I said.
"Then how do you explain A pillar arose from my southern clothes and froze Rose in a stunned pose?" he asked.
"I'd prefer to let the work speak for itself."
"And it does. That's why I'm here."
"Look Ben," I said, "you've got nothing to worry about. Without entirely ruining the mystique, I will say that you have been reading a lot of my lyrics at face-value."
"Well I sure hope so. But whatever comment you're trying to make, these perverse fascinations can't be healthy. I'd understand if you made the comment once, but it seems to crop up in every song you do these days."
I smiled. "That's the point."

This encounter inspired me to begin work on a new triple album for my rock-jazz outfit Praise The Pill entitled On My Hump. After writing the opening track, Elsie Has Blown A Fuse, I wandered outside with a satisfied smile and gazed at the river. No one was about.

The steam had dissipated when I returned and I decided to wait until tomorrow before I attempted any more songs. Still, I knew that I was on the verge of something great and would soon add to my many masterpieces. I began envisaging critical reaction on my bed and almost believed that I shall be released, if only for a moment.

Pointed in No Sense

I wrote something yesterday but quit the browser before I got a chance to publish it. Naturally it was my best work.

Post to Post, L.A. to Chicago

In a haze, nay, in a daze, nay, in a phrase.