getting higher and higher

Stretch say hi… bees are necessary until one of them stings you and then you say “Fuck”

“Exterminate the brutes!”

Ah, an entire generation of journalistos will constantly reference Joseph Conrad, much to the bemusement of a fickle public, fed on a diet of amateur dramatics and folly.

Thinking a lot about drugs lately. Wanna but don’t do nowt now, life is weird enough. Back in the way back when, the choices of music I would put to different drugs were very odd. When I smoked hashishash, I had a ritual of bathing and listening to Mazzy Star’s She Hangs Brightly, then splaliff two would be

"How could they make that mistake? They're obviously completely different"

Slint’s Spiderland , watch some TV and then Nick Cave’s Your Funeral My Trial which would send me off to sleep with my last joint on my lips, only to wake minutes later with enormous burns on my skin. I lived in a crypt.

While doing speed, I couldn’t listen to anything but the theme tunes to annoying Nintendo or Sega games. It was ridiculous. Ol’ Mama and Papa Stretch used to wonder why a rapid child jingle was playing at 9,000 decibels from my room. They would walk in to find me jogging furiously (like Ian Curtis) in a circle screaming, “Next level! Must reach next level!” Destroyed our relationship.

Acid was a difficult one. Nothing really worked, until I tried movie soundtracks. There was always an evocative moment in a movie which would suit my disposition. In Jackie Brown, the bar that Jackie meets Ordell is one of the places I will want to go in my life. Not the Grand Canyon, not Machu fucking Picchu, but that bar. The same goes for the bar in Repo Man where Circle Jerks play.

Essentially it was bars I wanted to go to. Although, there seems to be a qualification. The bars must have low lighting and red velvet chairs or little tables with lamps on them. If possible with a barman like in Pulp Fiction who says,

“My name is Paul, this is between y’all!”

Ohm splutter, spit,  speaking of Repo Man, click here. The laziest piece of journalism (apart from my own) I have come across in a long time. Fucking morons. When I heard Repo Men was coming out, I knew this type of stupid mistake would be made, but I thought journalists could go on to IMDB and do two seconds of fucking research. Stupid Stretch. The two movies have completely different plots for the love of the baby Buddha!

I did ecstacy once, waited for five minutes, fell flat on my face and never did it again. Friends tried to get me to do it again, but you learn your lesson. Whatever makes your face and the floor copulate should be avoided at all costs. Listening to Art Attacks right now and drinking a vat of rum, later to the big town to see the Fall. Now, how to get there.

Anyway, the greatest songs of all time usually sound a little like this…

it’s wednesday…it’s hippity hoppity hate

Word o’Stretch

Oh yeah…I realised this morning how scared I am of the peoples of the Irlanda. Since slamming in to this country over three decades ago, I have been mesmerised by the beauty of the land, the bigotry of the peoples and the stench of bullshit that permeates the vista. I hate Chridaburgh. I hate Bonovox. I hate DoloresCranberry. I hate JackEL. I hate DamiendeDempsey. I hate Intuanua. I hate VanthemanthebabyMorrison. I hate WestBoyzone. I hate snowspatrols. I hate these things.

BUT, I love Mary McAleese. She so fine. She mineohmine. Here’s my tribute

Happy Birthday letter to Stretch Macgibbon from Stretch Macgibbon

Dear Gibbon,

In the last year, I have been making less than huge efforts to educate, inform and the other one.

Dedication is what you need and damn it if I don’t have that. It would require an amazing amount of willpower and intelligence to make this mlog work well. Alas, I have neither. My brain is the size of a walnut and my ass is pink and durthy. I have gigantic fleas living on my back and my CD player may be broken. Grim animals stalk my every move. My immediate family have deserted me and the taxman is after me.

I live in a world where Shakira funny cow voice is lauded and Coldplay still jump around in their oh-so-crazy costumes. U2 spend more money per day on their claw then the GDP of Achill. Ronan Keating’s hair still thinks it’s 1994 and Bob Dylan won’t shut up. Metallica are older than Gandalf and Dave Mustaine has finally made the album he always wanted to make…again! The Black Eyed Peas have pulled many sheep over people’s eyes and Lady Gaga is a poor man’s Madonna, who in turn is a poor man’s new wife.

So, I have failed. Low viewing figures and people’s obsessions with Bell’s Palsy and Glenda Gilson have made me slightly sick in my mouth and I wonder is it time to quit this lark and go back to smearing poo all over Irlanda. A compulsion to continue is stalled when I hear people say the Picnic instead of Electric Picnic, when I hear Glen Hansard and Damien Dempsey are still alive, when I hear Mundy, when I hear Mundy.

When I think of rock journalists, I think of Nick Cave,

And maybe you think that it’s all just water under the bridge, Well my UNfriend, I’m the type that holds a grudge.I’m your creator. I think you fuckin traitor, chronic masturbator, Shitlicker, user, self-abuser, jigger jigger”

Jigger-jigger, that’s how I feel.

Anyway, till next poo

Stretch Macgibbon, here as long as I fucking well please!


I sold my camisoul to the Devil. He wants it rather much like

Oh yeah. Stretch those abs until they split.

So, I was walking in the woods recently and got trapped in a badger snare. Oh it hurt so bad. A PIXIE flew up to me and I said “help me out of this fairy.” He took one look at me and said “Are you ready to go see Jesus?” I said “For I say unto myself, I am scared of the little man with wings flittering about my head and with a whackity whack of my palm I squish you little freak of nature .” I was startled how much like a religious moment that felt. So startled in fact that my bloody ankle squeezed itself out of the trap and I was free. I dashed through the forest with a smile on my face and a song (“Sure Shot” by the Beastie Boys) in my heart. Oh good fuck what a marvellous way to escape an annoying situation. Haha. If only God was here, but he isn’t because at this point in Stretch’s story, God doesn’t even exist. Ahhh.



So yeah, then I travelled through the trees like a monkey would and fearing the approach of the Nazgul, who inexplicably hate water, I waded into the water at three inches, nearly drownding myself and sneered as they screamed at me like fishwives. Along came Arwen or whatserthingamie and I caused trouble by asking her did she fuck Reese Witherspoon or Stephen Tyler or both in that “Crazy” video?

“That’s my Dad!” She spouted in an American accent and looked all pouty.

“Touchy.” The Nazgul tittered to themselves and patted each other on the back and wandered off pinching each other and singing Loni Anderson songs. Me and Arwen looked at each other and decided that was the gayest thing we had ever seen. Even now I can hear bone crunching against bone in my head. I waved farewell to that creepy Aerosmith wench and hopped and a skipped on my way to what I

dirty little secret

dirty little secret

thought was home.

The light-stippled leaves and early morning dew on the branches made me feel like one of those characters on the covers of religious education books. I looked at my footsteps and thought, footsteps. I arched my little neck and looked toward the heavens and thought, ah, heavens then I  forgot to look down again and fell down a hole created by badger-baiters (think Ku Klux Klan with Jack Russells).  I was thinking this is definitely the end of me when I heard a lilting voice.

“Stretch, Oh Stretchah.”

I knew this voice. Bollocks. I knew this voice real well. It was the sound in the middle of the night you don’t want to hear for it was my father, Sean O’ of the Lilting voice. He would stop a room dead as he sung “Danny Boy” without a hint of sarcasm or nausea while people writhed around the floor cringing their way into pure sick. Oh he was real sound, real sound! People would feel the need to approach me and say to me,

“Hasn’t your beautiful father a lovely voice?”

“No, he’s a cunt! Don’t rattle your rosary beads at me, Mary or I’ll take them off you and…”



Standing there in his cords and crusty cardi with his arm leaning on his leg by the fireplace, he was a man adults loved, kids fled from. A decent man, who would pass the time of day either whispering wise words to the lady in the shop who was having bad times, or, raving at the crows who would try to eat his seed. A funny man, indeed. With his teeth in he could look like that nerd from R.E.M.

So here I am cornered in this dirty hole trying to hide from the one person who could help me out. I shivered as he looked in my face.

“Mary, would you come out of that hole for heaven’s sake.”

“Don’t call me that.” I NickCaved.

“You’ll catch your death, put a cardigan on, like a good man.” His voice whirred and he threw a spare cream cardigan down to me. It lay on the floor. I couldn’t stop looking at it. Its power compelled me to put it on. But I mustn’t.

Fuck this!  and I decided to dig and dig and dig.

Two days later, I ended up in a small bar in a small Australian town called GiddyuporI’llrapeyi somewhere in the arsehole of Queensland and was surprised to see that Australian beer was still shite. Drinking gallons, I soon was drunk enough to chat up this woman wearing shades with a very gruff voice who was shifting uncomfortably all over her bar stool. After my initial chat-up lines were dismissed, I realised that she was a he, and he was Warren Ellis.

“Warren!” I flailed about.

Recognising this name, he countered, “That’s right mate, it’s me!”warren_ellis_203_203x152

We talked about music and about playing violins as guitars and being famous when you are at the end of the sentence, Nick Cave and… Some local Nigels, bored of sticking it to each other in the jacks, decided they’d had enough of the “mealy mouthed hippy and girly looking gibbon” (their words, not mine) down the end of the bar and threatened us with grappling hooks.

“Eef yuow figgits dent fick off outta thees place, we’ll fickin kangaroo you in the face, IN THE FACE” one of them opined.

I screamed “Fuck you Sub-continent-incontinent-Jason-Donovan-fisting-faggots!” and ran out of the pub.

Sprinting down the dusty dirt road with the squeals of Warren Ellis whirring about my little head, I thought to myself. I don’t know where I’m going, but I sure know where I’ve been. Hanging on the promises in songs of yesterday, An’ I’ve made up my mind I ain’t wasting no more time.

Jesus, Heather Locklear’s looking rough!

Anyway, so that’s where I have been and judging by the amount of letters, postcards, faxes, emails, telex, telegrams, pigeons, twitts etc that I have received since I have been detained in foreign climes, I have realised that you fuckers don’t actually give a shit. So if you are reading this, why not smack yourself really hard in the face with a small guppy and politely whisper in your own ear, “GO FUCK MYSELF!”

Ysee you started this

Stretch’s Scary Halloween Song No.3: The Carny

Eight minutes of doom and gloom following a circus troop through what seems to be an Irish-summer worth of rain in a tale full of dread, dwarves, nags and other scary things from Nick Cave’s imagination.  If you feeble-types get a chance, read his novel, And The Ass Saw The Angel.  It has similar themes of dread, but less rain.

Anyway I got into Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds when I got the Tender Prey album as a teenager. This album made me bin the remainder of my Doors albums, although in fairness I had vomited on a number of my tapes, after a lot of the red sick-maker Southern Comfort. I drank more than my littul body could cope with. I still have some of the crusted tapes. The Doors seemed fake compared to Nick Cave. He seemed more powerful, more energetic, more real, more European (despite being from Oz), more me.

The second album of his I got was Your Funeral My Trial, which contains some of my favourite songs of all time. The shit-kicker at the end “Scum” about two journalists: “they gave me a bad review, and maybe you think it’s just water under the bridge. Well, my young friend, I’m the type who holds a grudge.”

I would listen to this album to get me to sleep for months, and every night “the Carny” unnerved little Stretch.  The glockenspiel and xylophone hammer away through the song driving forward this march of circus freaks. I would shiver thinking about the rain and the poor starving horse. All the employees scared shitless, because the Carny had gone and an uneasiness is there. They don’t want him to come back.  They bury his horse, but seem to be afraid of it.

Well, I as a little Stretch would be lying in the dark, the crackling end of my joint providing ample light to see shadows move around my room; faces appearing and disappearing.  Noises heard in strange parts of the room. A slow feeling of panic would rise and fall with each illumination. The marching beat would continue and my eyes flick around unnerved by I don’t know what and then the xylophone would end the song and I would shake myself out of this trip, lean down, hit rewind and do it all again.

The vid below is from the Wim Wenders film Wings of Desire, in which Nick plays live. Good clip as it’s when Nick was at his mostest.