This week's required listening is straight from left field/curveball territory (apologies for the Yanky rhetoric, I really should read more).
I guess there is fuck all to do in Dorset other than get friendly with the Rizzla's and contemplate doom and that's just what Electric Wizard are all about. A place like Dorset shouldn't really be the HQ for one of doom metal's genre defining artists/albums, but fuck, what else can you do??
The incredibly titled album "Dopethrone" with equally amazingly titled songs such as "Funeralopolis", "I, the Witchfinder" and "Barbarian", is a hazy, THC dusted, slow and dirge like trip that takes your head space from Dorset right into the eye of that big fucking storm that's been shooting around Jupiter for the last thousand years. The artwork perfectly sums up the album too.
OK, Ok, it aint gonna be to everyone's taste, but sit back, roll a few joints (you'll need more than one) and let the throne of dope show you what "Deliverance" would have been like if it had of been set in Dorset. "Dueling Banjos" this aint.
I remember when I was a kid, my dad had a coverless copy of one of those Top Of The Tops kinda compilation tapes. He loved "Free Nelson Mandela" by the Specials AKA but I was always a bigger fan of this precious diamond. This be dedicated to my pal Bilo, who lives close to where the video was shot on the Goldhawk Road. Don't bounce brother.
Boy oh boy has my preconceptions of the masters of junk changed in the last couple of weeks. The swine gave me my £50 back!!! A junkies promise was formally worth shit, but '09 might yet be the year of comebacks. Perhaps they been cutting their gear with a bit of epiphany dust, huh?? Still, tie their shoelaces for sure, but don't give them the cash to buy them. Once bitten, twice shy, tell them to fuck off three times.
Cloughy has taken over at Derby again. Although this time it's Nigel not Brian. Football is a funny sport, probably the only one where emotion outweighs any other factor, and we all know how irrational emotions are don't we. Derby have done a Newcastle/Kevin Keegan type thing. Maybe just maybe it will work, but it hardly ever does.
But what tickled me was the fact Mr. Nigel said "I know that this is one of the most exciting jobs in football." What!?!? Really!!! Managing Derby is one of the most exiting jobs in football?? Hmmmmm............ Ok.
Reading this article, though, reminded me of a time long long ago when I was sporting short back and sides during the border period between 2001/02. I was working at Virgin in that dreaded south coast cult town (twin town of Waco, Texas, fact) of Brighton (c'mon erosion!!!), when Derby were struggling at the bottom of the top flight. As I thought they had nout to lose, I rang Derby County and asked a lovely lady on the other end of the line how I could apply for the vacant managers job. She was quite helpful and gave me an address to write to. I didn't get the job and Derby were relegated. Go figure. Good luck to Mr. Cloughy though.
Throughout my entire raving career I've always wanted to go to an Old Skool Acid House rave, but never had the chance. Acid House was the music that turned me away from that dreadful guitar based music that teenagers feed off and it began a new electronic chapter in my life that has yet to be closed.
Due to The End closing down, and me never having ripped up that particular dancefloor before, I thought it was my duty to go there at least once, purely so I can tell future young ravers one of those inflated mythical stories of an old nightclub that's long gone. How many of those have you heard, huh????
Although, this 'Class of '88' night will never have to be exaggerated. For it to be believable though, I might even have to ahhh... deflate it.
I was an early riser and arrived at 10.30pm, it was a bit quiet, natch, and the first thing I noticed was the far wall of the main room which was covered with loads of fluro/glowing Keith Haring pictures (see image, yeah) and a massive smiley face behind the DJ booth. Old Skool aesthetic indeed. It got fucking rammed, busy busy boy, loads of old timers mixed with baby faced boys, 19 year old Mexicans and a fine black chick with a mightily impressive Afro. Alright.
Once my pals arrived, we started to dance and kind of didn't stop..... all night. This was rather perplexing as I'd only forced down half the usual dose down my Gregory. Energizer bunny, ya.
As I don't often go to big clubs anymore, due to them being generally gash and my love for small and secret intimate mish mashes, I forgot how fucking annoying the dealers are, scurrying around asking every five minutes if you want anything. One such twat was this big fat fuck Greek type, who looked like fucking Del Boy and seemed to be a bit too fucking big for his boots. I just wanted to twat the twat, he was one of those "fuck off mate" types, a lingering menace. Still the night was for loving (where's the Afro girl???), the Old Bill will get him eventually.
It came to the point where I was gasping for a joint (fucking tea head), so I made my way to the dark back corner of the main room, where they have a rather handy bench type thing which served a very good purpose and probably has many times for the last 15 years. Standing next to me was a blond girl skinning up herself, she noticed what I was doing and kindly put her thin glow stick between me and her to offer a little more light on the situation. I got talking to her, asking if she was gonna smoke indoors. She'd planned to wait for the nearby smoke machine to go off before she sparked, an old pro indeed.
We swapped particulars as to what our evening's buzz was and after divulging my weakness she starts talking to me about DMT. She claimed to have had a bunch for years but "only had a gram left". She said "I don't know why I'm telling you this, you must just think I'm some kind of blonde posh bird, but....". She went on to tell me the following: First time she did it she got whiplash due to the smoke hitting her so hard. It tastes like mothballs. It's like going down a very multi-coloured psychedelic tunnel with loads of shapes to accompany you. It's the chemical that your brain releases when you die. And the last time she did it she thought she was naked and screamed to the gods "Take me now, I'm all yours!!!!" Needless to say, it was one of my more interesting club run-ins. I wandered off in a cloud of that stale smoke that only solids produce towards the upstairs for my own sweet leaf.
So, eventually it came to the point where I needed that Cape Horn clash of the chemicals, I didn't have any liquid, so had to wait at the bar for fucking ages (enough time to come down really) and handed over £4.60 for a bottle of lager. As soon as I had possession of the Amstel, I turned round at the bar, winked at the old timer behind me and dropped. Seeing this, he grinned insanely and gave an approvingly friendly tap on the chest with his fist in a "go on my son" kinda way.
Back on the floor, it was time to try out one of the 3 raised platforms in the main room. These are between knee and hip height and can comfortably fit 4 peeps to dance upon, in true Old Skool style. It was here, hovering above the crowd when the clash smashed my body. Joe Smooth's "Promised Land" dropped and it was at this moment when I was taken straight back in '88 (see video below). The crowd were gurning and grooving, never before have I seen so many happy faces, getting down like it was the Hacienda. Many shapes were thrown, all of them world class. It was a proper "hands in the air' vibe. A proper Old Skool mash up. Not one person was residing on planet Earth.
I was amazed how many tunes I recognised and had in my collection, like, Lil' Louis "French Kiss", Housemaster Boy's "House Nation", Ralphie Rosario/Xavier Gold's "U Used To Hold Me" and two Ten City tunes, ahhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!! The squelchy 303 acid basslines were littered throughout the night and man they were heavy.
It must have been 3-4am, I had a sit down with me mate, and was thinking that I was all raved out. But my mate, who has a skill like no other for these kind of things, ends up talking to a forty something old time raver called Leslie and her mate, who ended up giving us more gear than we came in with for nout. This gave me a second wind and back on the raised platforms I stayed till 7am (with Afro girl in touching distance), until they did that horrible thing and turned the lights up. Ahhhhhh!!!!!!!!! My eyes!!!! It was time to leg it before the jacket queue formed to biblical proportions.
The sun was coming up, it was still, but freezingly crisp. I walked. New Oxford St, Charing Cross Road, Shaftesbury, Piccadilly, stroll trough Green Park for a bit, Knightsbridge, Sloane Square, King's Road, Battersea Bridge and home. A few joints and a bit of Salsoul disco classics. Bed, by 11.30am, Preston vs Liverpool on in the background and 8.30pm when I woke, thinking "Oh no what did I do, I have just raped my brain, body and wallet." After a short while of feeling sorry for myself, I had a shower, and while lathering up my raved up body, I remembered the moment when "Voodoo Ray" by A Guy Called Gerald was dropped the night before. The tom toms and bassline echoed in my head and I danced for the rest of the shower session, thinking, "I feel slightly shit, but by fuck was it worth it".
Why does Wikipedia have blunt all (ie tiny tiny) info on who produced Madonna's "Into The Groove", Steve Bray, eagle eyes, but has a list of the director, producer, director of photography, editor and the twatting production company (Parallax Productions, Charlie BOREpeeps) involved with the music video??
The pen is mightier than the sword is often the head-scratcher at the centre of most high school debate competitions. But cats, the tune will always be mightier and flightier than the moving image.
Tune, tune, tune. Incredibly crisp, girl and that early House off kilter piano solo!!!!!! There's even a flying cymbal near the start, gaaaahhhh!!!!!! Praise be to he who produced this killa. Check it.
Obviously bored to the hilltops, a chance/random Facebook profile I did discover while aimlessly meandering around the Internout. Having nothing to do during the afternoon thinking, "this is pointless", I unearthed something that proved yes, indeed, there is something on the globe that is more less of a point. This is how one cultured lady describes herself on Facebook and publishes it to the world:
Favorite Music: Pop music and chart music
Favorite TV Shows: Mostly soap operas
Favorite Movies: Grease and dirty dancing
Favorite Books: I dont read books
I can't think of a thing I would say to this lady. Nothing. We shall be ships in the night, our paths never to cross. But I shan't hold it against her, for these days my tolerance is at an adult level, post epiphany. I wonder how many like her I have met already?
However, my own Facebook profile says I enjoy and have activities involving: lazing around, moaning and getting cained. I doubt she'd have much to say to me either. Ahhhh.... the world where we can co-exist together with differing belief systems, just ignoring we even exist. We be live in a utopia.
Every now and then, for reasons unknown, my mind thinks of this strange fascination I have had for a while for Siobhan Fahey (pon de left hand side). Sure, she's white (Oh!), Irish (No!) and likes a drink (Ahhhh!!!). Three strikes, you're out, surely?? Perhaps it's because she has been embedded in my mind since childhood that her charm overrules any adulthood prejudice.
Bananarama, I think still rated as the most successful girl group ever, is one of those stories that couldn't happen in today's carefully constructed, planned DIY climate that litters the industry and fools the public into thinking that something is worthy of street cred. The Nana's were something a little bit real.
They got together in the late 70's when they used to hang about with the Sex Pistols (living above their rehearsal rooms), had run ins with that lizard Malc McLaren, went on to work with ex-Specials, Fun Boy Three and then finally with Stock, Aitken and Waterman. A strange evolution indeed.
Pete Waterman once said that Siobhan was the sour to the other two Banana's sweet, she had a hand in writing loads of their tunes, was always the better lookin' of the three, was the one that went mental and was the one that didn't shack up with Andrew Ridgeley.
Even though she was spoiled by the seed of Dave Stewart via the Eurythmics, Ms. Fahey still retains a certain halo of fascination.
The Rama were never the same after Siob left. Still, they're a worthy combo to re-check out on your old NOW tapes. Hit up "Robert DeNiro's Waiting", "Love In The First Degree", and "I Heard A Rumour".
The Kings Road has recently replaced Battersea Park as the setting for my daytime collie wanders. But, it seems though, that an eerie encounter was on the menu today.
I wrote a piece about the book "Junky" by William S Burroughs just a few hours before my wander and what occurred today could have been directly lifted from those very pages.
Freshly collied up mid-way down the Kings Rd, a young lad approaches me and says, "Excuse me mate, have you got any spare change??" I recognised him and said, "You're from Wimbledon aren't you??" "Yeah", he says "Well, Southfields". I said to him "We met at Fabrizio's funeral" (see mashed of photo of departed below), "Oh yeah", he says, "I see Marcello (Fabrizio's evil brother) quite a lot. I remember you. You look well". That's cos I aint dabbled in a while boy, I think to myself.
I asked him his name, "Luke" he says. I vaguely remembered that and my stomach got that empty feeling, when I thought of a similarly named friend/fiend in a similar predicament. I told him my name and we started talking about Paul Cooper, an older homeless dude we knew, who always had his dog, a Lucozade bottle filled with Special Brew and a whole bunch of Floyd, Lou Reed and Bowie LP's with him. Luke said, "I feel really sorry for Paul, he's a deeply hurt man." Though, neither of us had seen him in ages.
At this point, the lad walks up to a passerby asking him the same introductory question as he did me and gets totally blanked. I think of it courteous of me to reply to his initial query and start to say "Sorry I aint got any money to give you", but he stops me in mid sentence and asks how my Xmas was. It seems he had no interest in my money anymore and I then had to revaluate my 'all a junkie wants is a tenner' philosophy.
"Oh, you know, its all bollocks init, I'm not really into Xmas", I said. I didn't want to tell him I spent it alone, as I had this weird feeling he would feel pity towards me, when it should have been the other way round, no??. I asked him how his was and he said, "Oh, my mother was over from America, which was nice." "Your mum lives in America!?!?, I say. "Yeah, I'm British/American national", wow, that's from the leftfield I thought.
"Well anyway Eddy, good to see you." "You too man", I say, "No doubt we'll see other again" (no doubt I probably will), and whilst walking away he says, "We should go for a coffee next time maybe yeah."
A coffee!!! That's the last thing I would expect him to say. A drink, yes, something even stronger, maybe, but coffee!!! I guess not all of that ilk are the same. His gentle demeanour had somewhat of an impact on me. He walked down towards Fulham way, I towards Sloane Square. I felt strange, that strange feeling I've had ever since Nottingham.
Burroughs said, "If you are in a hurry to score for junk and go around cracking to strangers, you will get beat for your money and likely have trouble with the law. But if you wait, junk will come to you if you want it." I guess in a round-a-bout kinda way this is sadly very true. I'm glad I'm just a tea head.
A world famous actor friend of mine once said, "Acid... only for the headstrong". Yes, indeed, for sure. But, when I think of the people I have met over the years with the same disposition towards junk, I can't help but think. "Life... only for the headstrong".
Hey, the reluctant reader is... reading. Albeit slowly, for I often fall into the trap of thinking, "Scan a few of them helvetica A's, B's and C's through to the X, Y's and Z's and let someone tell me a story via mine eyes??? Or shall I blue slim it, crumble, Drum Gold, roll and lick, go for a wander and make up my own stories via them electric cerebral cortex vibes that seem to flit and flick more, ahhhhh..... creatively shall we say, on the streets of S Dub/U London.
The later folly usually (ie always) wins.
So so so, William S. Burrough's "Junky" is the book that has tamed me sober and made me scan a few Susan's of late. This cat, Bill, has got some plush observational skills (me loves a fellow peep who observes and takes in all things around them, sadly they are as rare as a bad Scientist record).
If anyone has ever encountered any purveyor of the junk or any other form of soma in their lives, Burroughs has a vivid eye for observations (which are based mainly in mid period 20th Century New York and New Orleans) of the characters, lifestyles and stories that are involved in the world of the Horse. A user himself he nevertheless relays the fact that you can never trust one them destructors with an old tatty roach. His writing rings true, even in this day and age, proving, I guess, that the junkie is a species that has never evolved through the ages, but is one that can be multi-faceted and in their own way so similar but completely unique.
He delivers a great sense of realism that never leads to anything too depressing for any casual reader. The best bits, for moi, are Burroughs' blatant contempt but rather accurate portrayal of those who be partial to the puff. Check it.
"One day I was broke and I wrapped a pistol to take it in town and pawn it. When I got to Pat's room there were two people there. One was Red McKinney, a shrivelled up, crippled junkie; the other was a young merchant seaman named Cole. Cole did not have a habit at this time and he wanted to connect for some weed. He was a real tea head. He told me he could not enjoy himself without weed. I have seen people like that. For them, tea occupies the place usually filled by liquor. They don't have to have it in any physical sense, but they cannot have a really good time without it."
Last night, bopping around to a bit of Tubby and Tapper Zukie on moi pod in Asda, I bumped into my old landlady. A big, blonde, Bulgar who I had not seen in 2 and a half years. It was one of those, walk past, double take, oh bollocks, curiosity killed the awkward cat moments.
And here the sordid tale begins; for I fear that with this brief encounter I have got someone I don't know into a bit of trouble.
I been livin' in the same ends for a good few years now, almost long enough to be recognised as the local nutter. Being a really rather observant motherfucker on my solitary collie wanders, I often gaze up at my old flat at number 15. A few months ago I noticed that one of the internal walls in the living room had been painted from a white to a deep blue. Hmmm, that's different I thought.
So, back in Asda, I start talking to the puff pastry. I say, "So you still got the old place yeah??". She says, "Oh, yes". What else do I have to say to the lady?? The first thing that comes to my head, of course. "Oh, yeah, the wall's blue now isn't it." Her face drops into a mixture of confusion and slight shock, "No, it shouldn't be! They not allowed to do that! I'll have to check up on that", she says. "Oh shit", I think, why the fuck would you mention a blue wall to anyone in conversation! I guess my love of detail only leads to socially awkward moments. So, thinking on my feet (brain in feet more likely) I say, "Ummm, well, nice to see you, I hope I haven't got anyone into trouble" and in true Snagglepuss style "exit stage left."
I shall keep thee posted as to when the wall becomes white again. And if the blog doesn't get updated, I've probably been buried somewhere on Blackheath by the residents of number 15. Looks like I might have lost someone's deposit.
Ex-Landlady and Right Said Fred in the same day! I wonder what crazy japes are in store for me today.
Already bored with the faux Xmas cheer and all reggae'd out before 2 o'clock; the now traditional stroll down the King's Road always serves as a type of elixir to soothe one's restless soul. But today it was soothed with the very best of early 90's soulful soothing.
As I walk past a rather swanky black Range Rover pulling out in front of me, mine eyes gaze inside the open window to see, not one, but two members of those zeitgeist makers, Right Said Fred. Yes, the Fairbrass brothers in the flesh, literally pulling out in front of me (but not in that way).
Sadly, the longhaired, leather panted, sleazy looking one wasn't in the back seat with his Red Fender Strat dancing upon his lap. Maybe next time.
It is incredible how Richard and Fred look exactly the same as they did way back when. Perhaps they each have one of those Dorian Gray paintings lodged in their attics.
Although there is no photographic evidence for this little tale, just ask yourself who would be sad enough to make this story up. Probably the same kind of person that would write about it in a blog.
So, to quench your thirst, check out this gem. Surprisingly their only UK number 1. "I'm Too Sexy" was kept off the top by Brian Adams' long tenancy. A contact sport indeed.
It won't be too long before Tottenham Court/Charing Cross Road area changes its spots for good. Everyone knows that the Astoria's foundations are slowly being chipped away ready for one of those Fred Dibnah style bricks and mortar collapses. But recently it was announced that the whole Crossrail ting is also going to force the closure of the Metro Club.
Now, the Metro Club had the shitest sound since sound was created. The kind that would make your hearing go on holiday for a week after exposure, Red Stripe cost about 8 squid a can and I'm not losing any sleep that the place is due for the hammer and chisel.
However, I do have a few good memories of the gaff. The time when I asked the DJ to play "Reward" by the Teardrop Explodes and he dropped it the very next song. The time when a friend found out about the "Rockabilly till 10pm" policy. The time with the sexy Swede (White and gentile!!! Must have been an off day). And the time when I slipped a tab under an unknowing friend's tongue (he didn't spit it out mind).
The last time I went, nearly 2 years ago, I noticed how fucking old I was. I didn't recognise any of the tunes, except a Bluetones one and "Blinded By The Sun" by the Seahorses. The Seahorses for fucks sake!!!! What sort of DJ plays them!!! You can't even dance to "Blinded By The Sun"!!! Needless to say it was quite bollocks. No beats and kids tripping on indie and booze (snooze) alone. Needless to say it was one of those taps on the shoulder from above instructing one to move on and get back into raving. Thank Jesu for Plastic, let's hope a tubeline don't take that from us.
Bye Metro, it was fun, but my ears fucking hated you.
I've never heard anyone discuss the similarities between Scott Walker and Gil Scott-Heron before. Possibly because it takes some imagination and contrasting to visualise and also the fact Heron is one of those artists that people say, "Oh, I've heard the name, but not the music", therefore unlikely to crop up in any convo.
Walker, a lyrically fantasist Anglophile and Heron a lyrically realist black American, share a raw and orchestral backdrop that compliments vivid stories that are cinematic to even the deafest of all ears. Nowadays everyone knows about Scott, of the Walker variety, so my words would be wasted, and 9 years too late, to warrant any effort.
But, the other Scott, Mr. Heron, he's the cat that needs some respect. The some say god-father of hip hop, Heron is a kinda unique soul, a cross between Sly, Marvin and Chuck D. Poetic soul with a hard but gentle pulse. Equally amazing if used for a soundtrack for political action or a night indoors with an Angolan girl. Militant, but sexy.
This week's required listening is "Pieces Of A Man" by Gil Scott-Heron.
Heron was a master of social commentary of 1970's America. He sang of junkies and the evils of the bottle, name checks Spiro Agnew (cool!!!) and John Coltrane (double cool!!!) but also tackled more tender subjects such unemployment and the effects on the family and the importance of setting up a good future for one's children. Even though it's from 1971, the sentiments have not aged one bit.
Unfortunately Heron himself became hooked up in the evils that he so poignantly sang about and became a massive cainer. In recent years he has spent loads of time in the clink for drug related shenanigans and is also, sadly, HIV positive.
Alongside his muso partner Brian Jackson, we gotta give this dude some respect, he is truly deserving of a few hours of your ear time. His work is probably the best stuff you've never heard.
It makes me wonder how something so intrinsically boring can become so popular. I am not immune, for I jack up on this shit daily and love it, never never shall I quit. On the surface, sport is generally a dull affair; a mere game that takes immense patience to sit through. But what makes sport so good (and anything really) is the stories behind it. The stories and the context.
I am a lover of possibly the most "boring" sport ever to cross the mind of us peopleoids. A cross between chess and Waterloo style warfare, played by gentlemen (except the Australians minus Gilchrist and Hussey, natch) of all colours, creeds, religions and the best thing the Empire ever did. I shan't wax lyrical about the pro's of one of the most hated forms of sportisms, but I'll stick to stories and contexts. For stories and contexts will always win over prejudice.
The mighty West Indian cricket side of the 1970's and 1980's were without doubt, full stop, peerlessly the coolest mother fuckers to ever walk onto a sporting field. Even with bright pink uniforms during Kerry Packer's World Series couldn't diminish the sense of them being "Best Dressed Chickens In Town". A crown that is in no danger of being lost.
It would probably be foolish to entertain the idea that before each morning session Clive Lloyd would roll a spliff the size of Joel Garner to be enjoyed during the team's breakfast meetings. It must have happened at least once no?? Perhaps that's why Ian Botham's career curtailed near the end, although he himself is a well regarded walker, not of the solitary breed, but the Mencap variety. But that's just a collie digression.
So, the main course. Michael Holding was given the nickname "Whispering Death" by umpires, due to their inability of hearing his approach to deliver his lethal bowling. In fact many umpires had no idea where he was until he had already run past the crease.
In the days before helmets, chest protection etc, the West Indian bowlers would literally try to kill their opponents with endless spells of short balls that could be as vicious as an Irish girl after a few drinks.
So here is the story and the context. Brian Close was recalled to the England side at the ripe old age of 45. You would think that any decent man would go easy on an old boy, but no, not Michael Holding. Close was always regarded as a double hard bastard and he proves this during one of the most venomous overs in cricket history. Not only did Close not have a helmet; he didn't even have any hair for protection.
In Holding's defence though he did have some reasoning. The 1976 series between England and the Windies got off to a bad start due to the great English (ie South African) skipper Tony Grieg stating that his team would make the reggae boys "grovel". They didn't and England were thrashed 3-0.
So here tis, the graceful gallop of Holding shaving the eyebrows off Brian Close.
Oh and for all the cricket haters out there, here is your reward: the mighty I-Roy with "Tribute To Michael Holding". Cos everyone loves a bit of reggae don't they.
Not long ago on the 38th parallelesque Belgravia/Victoria borders I discovered a book by Jean Jacques Rousseau called 'Reveries of a Solitary Walker'. As a hardcore solitary walker myself, the idea of reading the musings of a 18th century Parisian brother flitted like a glitter ball in mine eyes. Though as a reluctant reader, especially in the case of committing to reams of impenetrable bollocks for some kind of intellectual or self help quest, I decided to do a bit of a background check on Mr Rouss to see if his whimsy would be of any use or interest to a modern day easy walker. The reason being is that I always find that thought processes whilst walking are always temporary, once thought, then forgotten. Moments of fleeting genius that are lost forever in the hazy smoke of Jazz cigarettes. So perhaps Zero n' Rousseau would share something kindred, even kindread if lucky.
However, the thing with Rousseau is that, from what I gather from them general publique, is that by the time Reveries was written he was a paranoid oik who was slowly slipping into mental illness and showing the traits of being a complete shit. Some may point to a brotherhood between Mr Zero and Jacquesy with this description, but I'm sure that Rousseau would have saved himself from too much bother with a bag of JBW, a few Kings and some reggae on his decks used in good fashion to accompany his walkies, surely a pre-requisite for any successful solitary stroller. Sadly Jean appeared to me as a dude I wouldn't enjoy spending time with, so instead of reading his bollocks I decided I would write my own.
The point of this whole ting however, is to serve my memory, vent spleens of, pay homage to, praise all things good. Who knows how long this will last, most things are temporary in the life of Edward Zero, but as long as there is something that needs mad props, this shall serve as its digital domain.
There are very few things that get my chops dripping and balls swinging. These select, special and undeniable few revolve around smoking, reggae, cricket, nostalgia and girls of dark complexion. Any souls that need conversion come into our church and leave the religion and agnostics behind.
