46. 25th February 2025. Still Ill

 There's no way of typing the word 'Ill' without it looking like the Roman numeral for 3.

Call of Duty before bed? Appalling idea. Played till 11.30 last night, went to bed. Came down again at 1. Back to bed at 1.30, awake till somewhere around 5.

Not helping the general torpor, not bringing light into the world. 

Writing script but the illness appears to be bleeding into it. 

Listening to the U2 Eno album 'Passengers', which is better than the 2nd disc of their debut Boy reissue - god that stuff's dated. Sometimes there's a reason that tracks weren't released at the time. 

Cancelled going to see The Peaceful Hour tonight (missing guest night, rubbish), cancelled an Anfield Wrap this morning, given Tom my Sturgill Simpson ticket for him to do with as he pleases - the idea of driving to Manchester, standing for three hours, driving back, does not appeal.

May well be letting Josh have my season ticket for the Newcastle game tomorrow, watch from the warmth of the living room instead. 

Matty suggested going the gym might help. Seriously not on board with that idea. 

A lot of moaning. 

Hold on, just found this lyric:

"Elvis - white trash/Elvis - the Memphis Flash/ Elvis - Beatles smoke hash/would've been a cissy without Johnny Cash"

Which is enough reason to turn on Bono. Jesus. Sure he thought it was deep/facetious at the time. Not good. Not anywhere in the remote vicinity of good. Underworld summed up Elvis much better. 

Enough moaning. 

Update: "Elvis - the bumper stickers/ Elvis - the white knickers/ The white n***er"

God almighty. 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

19.1.22 Decide yourself if radio's going to stay

Image
 Note to self: yesterday was about a single, it played at 45rpm, change the speed. Full on John Peel "this one plays at 33" moment there. Which didn't benefit Michael Stipe in any way at all. "We're REM, from Athens Georgia. This one's new." They were all new, we knew nothing about them other than the whispers that were coming out in the music papers. (Aside: J's on a video call in the living room, Daisy's in with me; she's currently hiding either under the banjo on its stand or behind the Rickenbacker in its case. Both are worrying me. i am, quite ironically, having kittens here. See what I did there? Dad jokes all over the place.) REM were one of the groups that made me want to own a Rickenbacker. These and The Church more than The Jam or The Beatles strangely enough.  Back to the point. The radio wasn't playing REM in 83. Not that I recall. (Another aside, I'm writing this while watching/listening to PMQs - we've just had a Tor...
Read more

23.1.22 Argentina has gone to town over the death of an actress

Image
 So I'm leaving 81 Renshaw after yesterday's afternoon gig (those of you on twitter knew about this at tea time yesterday, if you're on Facebook you'll be under the impression I couldn't be arsed as it was a weekend - simple truth is I hadn't checked whether the post had actually posted, so now I know where the readership comes from. Clue - not Twitter) - - and I have a browse. I can't help it, it's nature, it's how I'm built, how I'm wired. I manage once again to not buy the vinyl copy of John Cale's Music For A New Society with a simple, "You don't really need it, not at the moment, how much did you send on that book yesterday?" It's not a matter of finance, or of perceived value, it's an acknowledgement of obsession and an addiction to getting the next thing. Bought something new and shiny and wonderful? Sound, what's the next thing you think you need? Wonder why I don't do drugs? It's that. It's t...
Read more

20.1.22 They're only made of clay

Image
This is the return to Ben Webster that I promised. (Yesterday/ A Couple of days ago?) This is me saying that I'll return to something that I was going to talk about and actually doing it. Treasure this moment, it's quite rare. I am, if you hadn't already noticed, easily distracted. Hence the endless asides. And asides within asides.  This is how writing tends to work. This is how *part of* writing tends to work. For me. Others will have their own rhythms and rituals, I can only talk about mine. It's all about the music. The music has to be right. If the music's not right then nothing's happening.  A couple of days ago I was revisiting the script for The Comeback Special; putting some new lines in, changing and removing some old lines that just don't work as they used to. We live in a different world now. The Trump and Farage gags still work though. Which is an appalling indictment of the world at large and its tendency to tolerate appalling little men as lon...
Read more