Stretch’s Scary Halloween Songs No.15: Ministry – Every day is Halloween

In-and-Around-the-Box-TheWitch2

“Irlanda’s least aborted Senator” ready to stomp a women’s rights meeting.

“Oh, why can’t i live a life for me?
Why should i take the abuse that’s served?
Why can’t they see they’re just like me?
I’m not the one that’s so absurd”
– Al Jourgensen

The demons that major religions espouse as the dealers of justice in the mythical afterworlds have their work cut out for them. The hourly event horizon that humans are going through right now will mean having a pitchfork shoved up your urethra for eternity would seem pleasant compared to an existence where lies have become a staple of public life. The lie is now reported rather than refuted. The liar is accepted. Yessssss.

The “everything I say is bullshit” paradigm that is currently being used as national policy in that social thought experiment, America, has been imported to this littul land over the past decade or two, thanks in part to Mike Murphy’s early Sunday evening travelogues in the 80s. Americans, they’re mad like! It used to be that a politician or public servant caught in a lie or corruption would resign in disgrace, but now they follow a path of being caught, pilloried, quietly moved aside, then interviewed and then they write the book. They ride out any shit-storm with the gravitas of a life-long heroin user.

Trump’s genius is the flooding of the news cycle with such insanity that media can’t even cope with a retort to the first idiotic tweet. Enter to the Irish cause, Senator Rónán Mullen, Irlanda’s least aborted Senator. Y’see, the Catholic Church collapsed into a black hole cluster fuck similar to that of the Soviet Union and lost control.  Irlandese people realised that apart from the church’s sexual abuse and authoritarian control issues, there was this new issue that basically Mass is really boring. Whatever you can say about Irlandese people, they don’t like to be bored. Look at Storm Ophelia (not Ronan Keating’s sexual preference) where despite three people being tragically killed, the Irlandese tweeted at the hurricane in the same manner some Americans shot at theirs.

Anyways, Mullen paints himself as this country’s moral authority and as a Catholic man, he of course is primarily interested in women’s healthcare. The problem of course is that his methods are seen as extremely calculated or calculatedly extreme. If you are pro-life and a moderate, you have no voice in the upcoming repeal referendum. Watch your feelings be redirected through the Old Testament via post-independence Irlanda, around the skirts of a few bishops, into the tweet machine, the boring Facebook essay, the newspapers and finally on to the televisual organ of the state. You’ll feel like the kid who was chosen last for the Lacrosse team. Ha, Lacrosse. Stupid, stupid Lacrosse.

Mná na hÉireann are in for a battle over the next year. Looking at the the way old white men in America are trampling on the most basic of female health rights, it will not go unnoticed by the tiny penised old white men hiding behind the cloak of God and civil war politics. These men are always keen to tell women what they should think and do. Be more like the Virgin Mary, they say. She didn’t abort her magic baby.

There is obviously nothing wrong with being pro-life. Although to quote Bill Hicks (coz that’s what everyone endlessly does), “Why don’t you lock arms and block cemeteries?” That’s fun, right? Anyways this munki remembers the last abortion referendum and how the choices offered on the ballot paper were eternal damnation or well, eternal damnation with priests. There were more images of aborted foetuses than actual instances of Irlandese women who had abortions, leading this munki to believe that Catholic photographers were aborting babies for their “posed by model” placards. Just my theory.

The problem occurs that the idea of having a reasoned debate about this highly important issue for women has already been fucked out the window, with the baby and the bath water, if you’ll excuse the analogy. What we can look forward is a lot of shouting, and depending on the calibre of the shouter on either side, folksy folks who are on the fence will jump to the side of shouter that least annoys them. It’s a cruel way to decide this, but un-aborted people are generally fucking stupid. Look at Brexit, Trump, our Eurovision picks for the last 20 years, our last Presidential election. That election was about who was going to hardly bother the public eye for seven years. To get there you had to invade the public eye like conjunctivitis.

So, Rónán Mullen is the unchosen voice of some people I know who are pro-life. He will be dragged into studio after studio and he’ll use the Trump model to get his agenda across. Look at his comment about Savita Halappanavar where he said “If there was abortion on demand, she wouldn’t have been in the hospital because she wouldn’t have been pregnant and she wouldn’t have been having a miscarriage.” You see, he throws a stupid statement out there, leaves it hanging, gets attacked and then claims he is being attacked. He will elicit support from balls of negative energy angrily sitting in the armchairs already pissed off that we brought that Irish guy home from Egypt, when there are people dying in the streets. In the streets! Although, don’t give those homeless a euro. They’ll spend it on drugs. Wait, how much do drugs cost?

promo303567522

Example of a placard showing aborted foetuses. Gross

Mullen knows this, as does Trump, Farage, Le Pen etc. You can always appeal to idiots who have no capacity for researching or for most reading. Since the economic crash of 2008, fascists have learned they can re-emerge from the shit because people find it easier to blame Muslims and anyone else foreign than bankers, who are invisible in plain sight because their skin matches their shirts. If economists don’t understand how the world economy works, how will Brian from a hole in the ground in Laois or Jim from a privileged golden carriage on the head of a small poor boy in Dalkey understand the sub-prime mortgage disaster when they share a common belief that Ryan Tubridy is actually an intellectual. Anyone who likes Frank Sinatra is an intellectual, right?

They’re coming to take our jobs. They can’t even speak the language. They are terrorists. People who haven’t learned the lessons from World War 2 won’t realise that the white totems who control the little fascists want to get rid of the Africans, the Asians, the Muslims, the gays, the intellectuals (not Sinatra fans, real intellectuals), the Catholics, the Buddhists, the women etc. When they are rid of them all, well, they’re coming after you stupid white boy, aren’t they? It’s a pity there was no class in the education system that could teach kids about this kind of thing.

Anyways, back to the repeal referendum. This is a no-brainer. The health of women is of paramount importance. They should never be dictated to by ill-equipped men who believe in magic beings in the sky and have Handmaid’s Tale fantasies. Doctors should never be put in the position of not knowing whether to treat a patient who is about to die. Fuck that.

It feels like monsters surround us every day. Every knock on the door could provide trick or treat.  I think Uncle Al should have the last world,

“Oh, why can’t i live a life for me?
Why should i take the abuse that’s served?
Why can’t they see they’re just like me?
I’m not the one that’s so absurd”

 

Read more recent Halloween frights and delights, right?

Stretch’s Scary Halloween Songs No.14: SQURL – Funnel of Love

Stretch’s Scary Halloween Songs No.13: The Cramps – Human Fly

 

Smokin’n’chokin’

Working Title/Artist: Louis Hine (American, 1874-1940): Newsies at Skeeter Branch, St. Louis, Missouri, 11:00 A.M., May 9, 1910  Department: Photographs Culture/Period/Location:  HB/TOA Date Code:  Working Date:  scanned for collections
Stretch here. I have been not smoking the smoking cigarettes since August 1st 2014. I feel healthy, my lungs are full of air. I go for long and boring runs now and sorta see the point of it. Sometimes, I cough and enjoy the lack of a wheeze and that little bit of phlegm that would jump out in to my munki mouth. Despite years of abusing these little wonder sticks, I can now look forward to living maybe five to ten years longer and see my family and friends flourish into old age. Ahhh.

BUT, Jesus, fuck that, I fucking miss them. Here’s why:

  1. Travel: Standing at a bus stop or train station, occupying your time with your own thoughts is generally boring. Smoking a cigarette fills time. It fills between 5 and 8 minutes. You look at the board and it says 18 minutes until your travel device arrives. That’s two lovely, enjoyable cigarettes. You don’t want to be thinking about stuff like how to be a better munki or solving the world’s problems. That’s none of your business. Smoke. Also, in Winter it keep you warm and safe.
  2. Tramps. The majority of conversations I have had with people of the streets have occurred around cigarettes. In fact, on one holiday to San Francisco, I spent most of my holiday money passing out cigarettes to the homeless, causing petty tramp-fights due to the queues forming around my person. I felt like Jesus did when he smoked, I did.
  3. Accentuating a shit situation: You have a row; lose a job; the car won’t start; you get clamped; a piano falls on your sister; Christmas Day; Salman Rushdie keeps hanging around you; Lupita Nyong’o says you have no talent and you’re not funny; fucking Ryan Gosling actually has young geese (fuck sake); you pay your TV license and they give it to Ryan Tubridy to keep up his sense of self-worth; you find out there is a God, but vow to continue to trust the tenets of nihilism etc… With the aid of a cigarette you can stop, regard the situation, shove one in your mouth and take a timeout. Without cigarettes, the only option is to revolve and revolve and revolve quickly until dizziness makes amends.
  4. Funerals: Socially awkward, uncomfortable, cold, long, boring…. Stand outside and smoke. You’ll look anxious and people will forgive the chain-smoking, thinking you’re working through issues. You’re not. You barely know the deceased. You are just ignorant, but y’know content.
  5. Social occasions: See above. Smoking areas are now the only places in bars or clubs where people are actually having fun probably. Be careful though: outgoing people tend to use wild hand gestures to add to their boring stories. Smokers will burn you real good. You’ll make friends, fall in love, sway… anything you want and you ARE getting the night air. What could be better? The downside is the cancer and the smell of ya. Also great for getting away from the desk at work. Well except when getting to the spot and the most boring person in the company is there. Bullshit conversation about their social life and then you avoid eye contact for years. YEARS!
  6. Life expectancy: How fucking long is long enough? Do you want to live forever? I’m not sure I can afford to live until a ripe old age. I’m skint. At a certain point, the onset of old age will make my remaining munki years slow and cumbersome. Naturally I would be okay if I had an optimistic outlook, but fuck that, that hasn’t happened and tumblr_ndm5w7gn2p1tjsogwo1_250isn’t going to. So now I’ll have to endure a healthy, broke end of days. Sounds great. But, if I go back on the smokes, I can shave off a number of those painfully boring years, despite suffering a terrible painful death coughing phlegm on everyone. Hmm…what to do?
  7. Cause of death: So, yeah, If I don’t smoke, I will die from something else, right? What if the thing that kills me is really stupid, like being run over or being eaten by penguins or falling in the shower or being assassinated accidentally by a secondary terrorist organisation or choking on rocket or choking on asparagus or choking on a Pharmaton or choking on yoghurt or falling off the Eiffel Tower or falling out a bungalow window wrong….grrr? Instead, a persistent cough, breathing apparati…later.
  8. Non Smokers: Hey I don’t smoke but I’m not a non-smoker, right? You can fuck right off if you think that.
  9. They taste fucking wonderful and go so well with booze and LSD. In fact if you are doing acid, I recommend about 60 cigarettes (80 if microdots are your thing) and of course, breathing. Breathe, Shirley, breathe! Who do you think you are, Tom fucking Cruise?
  10. Finally, remember, we are all alone. With a cigarette you are never alone. You have a sense of purpose. That sense of purpose is to smoke a cigarette. It is one of the simplest things you will learn in life. This and the knowledge that most humans you encounter in life are straight up conservative assholes and they think the same of you. Family, friends, confidantes, your religious entity, doing good deeds, receiving praise? None of these things will ever give you the same feeling as the first optimistic 30 seconds after lighting up a beautiful stick of dried out leaves. Inhale, exhale. Life is good. For now.

Smoke if you got em’!

Welcome to the age of stupidity…dot dot fucking dot

Further to the Guardian article during the week. Only now have they caught up, although if you go into their archives, it’s possible they may have skeletons. Ha, Edward Snowden, like that’s a real name. Anyways, I am now on a CIA list. Woohoo. Ryan Tubridy wants to kill us all.

DOWN with the kids

gfnobody-thumb-510x287-41652

Sometimes I look in the mirror and see Henry Hill in the final scene of Goodfellas. That moment when he realises the mundane future,  that expression of weariness stares back at me. I’m not old or young: I’m in the middle, the horrible middle youth. Too young to retire and give up, too old to join a band. Too exhausted even to bother with a mid-life crisis. The span between 30 and 50 is as demanding mentally as the hormonal mess of teen years, filled with the same ‘what the fuck?’ moments every morning when you open your eyes. Is this middle youth? Or something else?

Now, I’m a professional something, with a wife, child, mortgage, car loan, two dogs and a non-stick pan. I’m also an uncool, balding, cynical, wrecked shell of a human, who has finally lost control of the handlebars, looking at music reviews, wondering at what point I started missing all the new bands.  My interests aren’t represented in the media, I am unlikely to harass Joe Duffy of an afternoon, am Irish but not that Irish kind of Irish. Demographically speaking I’m from that group who drink heavily, mangle the guitar, play playstation, write, work in a demanding job and worry about money all the time. If that is a demographic.

FASHIONLESS FREAK FASHION BITCH

My dressing room of disaffection contains black t-shirts, black jeans, black boots, pretty much the same uniform since I was eight, but I was cooler then. The use of branding or logos is prohibited by a demented code I developed as a teen. Colour is always the enemy, as is self-help. I am Max Schumacher in an Anthrax t-shirt.

Why? There is nothing that irritates my soul more than when I see people with GAP or FITCH illuminating their chests. Why be a walking billboard? People are conditioned to wear clothes from the many outlet stores that have popped up because they are on special offer and some weird set of unwritten fashion dogma tells them that a little alligator on their shirt will make their peers sit up and demand to know who this fantastic character is. If you’re not going to bother then don’t. Or else become a hipster, but then again I don’t really know what a hipster is. Someone with skinny jeans, no defined muscle mass and cardigan buttons in their earlobes, right?

I do not react well to that market which feeds us. Maybe I’m William Gibson’s Cayce Pollard, who had a pathological sensitivity to logos and brands. Yet, I’m also that loser who wears band t-shirts at age 37, ha! I met a guy in the lift in work a few years back who commented on my Front 242 t-shirt, sarcastically pointing out that he used to wear such t-shirts before he stopped being angry at the world. I stared at this chinless, overweight shit and resisted the urge to punch him. Who is not angry at this world? Oh.

MUSIC HAS THE RIGHT TO PARENTS

It all comes down to my teenage obsession with music and how certain people remain consumed throughout their lives. Others choose to drop these childhood things and wear ties and jodphurs and place Dido on their stereos as it is unlikely to offend anyone. People like myself, whose religion changed after hearing Nick Cave’s “Tender Prey,” feel heartache that the underground we loved is now sponsored by mobile phone companies. We grew up with American or British punk, metal, indie, goth and dance music, not because we didn’t love our country, but because the rare Irish gems faded quickly. We listened to those influential groups long before their recent wallet-filling comeback tours. These days I can’t even listen to the amazing Pixies without a sick feeling in my stomach.

I wonder how weird will it be bringing my son to a Metallica gig when he’s old enough? A guilty pleasure since the age of 11, the thrash metal behemoth stopped being any good after 1988, yet like Fall gigs you go to see them live just in case it’s the last chance you get. The anxiety-ridden metallers are not an underground band from the Bay Area anymore, but a corporation in their own right. During their set, a few years back, I stood happily drunk and watched a man with his son on his shoulders. They were both in awe at the spectacle. Ah, one day, yes, one day, I will force my son to see Metallica and demand that he sit on my shoulders regardless of his age.  Later that night I high-fived the kid a few times until the father got uncomfortable and moved position.

Growing up we watched everything that was new and cool, tried to race ahead of hungry marketeers who needed to commodify everything that we loved and ultimately destroyed any feeling we had for it. The music marketplace annihilated itself because of arrogant executives who didn’t believe in the power of the internet. The tools of production and the ability for music to be uploaded to sites means anyone can be a musician and exist outside of the limitation of record companies.

Oddly this has meant that us middle-youthers get to experience the thrill of our youth for a second time, because the bands of my youth are either starting up again or never stopped. They know that they will make more in this era’s consumer model than in the days when they were popular and influential. This isn’t brilliant news for the current generation. Thousands of new groups fall by the wayside: burning brightly and fading away, all in the space of six months. There are too many old bands releasing event albums and headlining festivals, filling the space young acts should.  Look around now, every festival is headlined by forty or fifty-something rebels with mortgages but no cause other than the derivative output of their generation. How many new bands will be plying their trade in 20 years? They’ll be gone, but there will probably be a new Iggy album.

THE MEATMARKET TURNED VEGGIE

Depressingly evil waking moment: Apple computers have control of my body! My fingers, eyes, ears and lumpy arse have been borrowed at a price by this corporation that constantly bangs me over the head telling me, “No, we’re not a corporation, but your friend. Look how well designed our products are, look how good they go with any room in your house. Doesn’t your dog look cooler standing beside the MacBook Pro? Quick take a pic with your iPhone. Hey is that Gun Club on your iPod?”

Typical though, I am such an old hypocrite, railing against the MAN for all these years, and it turns out the MAN is a geeky fucking hipster who sees even a mess of a human like me as an integral part of his marketing strategy. Apple have since the early nineties forced their oh-so-cool products on a wanton sector of society, the ‘we didn’t have that shit when we were young’ crowd. The age profile for the highest consumers of iPhone and iPad? 30-50, my age-group.

We are willing computer and internet junkies. We don’t see the little adverts flashing through our heads. Every site we go to has a shopping basket, ‘inviting’ us to exist in a global department store. We are the ‘cooler than our kids’ generation and being hooked up to the net, it is mournful for us because we remember the time before. The time before we lost our ideals, that golden time when we ran around fields and wished we had something to stop us from running around fields. Here’s an iPhone! Look! With this app, you can not only control your bowel movements, you can control other people’s too! That’ll be 99c, please.

STUCK IN THE MEDIA OF A SHITSTORM

We are always being informed by the media that we have a unique culture. Do the people who leave comments on the Journal have culture? Those poor bastards can barely raise their knuckles off the floor to actively miss the point. Yet, these are the people who engage with media, my compatriots.

Culture can be video games; gigs; sport; Hello magazine; drinking yourself to sleep after a hard day’s work; the occasional night out surrounded by massive televisions showing footballers at actual size in bars that used to be nice; hoping you will stay alive long enough to finish the many boxsets you are watching and hating Ryan Tubridy because, y’know, he’s Ryan Tubridy.

However, the Irish Times weekend magazine seems to think that the nation is full of upper middle class people who knit their children’s clothes, then wonder why the poor itchy fuckers get bullied at school. Do these things relate to my generation? ‘What to wear when killing foxes. How to stop people killing foxes. Are foxes spreading diseases and killing livestock? Are we too quick to dismiss the ways of the countryside even if it even means the odd fox will get ripped to pieces? How to make fox risotto, with cranberries and chestnuts, YES! CHESTNUTS!’

On the other hand, I am supposed to care about Georgia Salpa, Kate Middleton, Rosanna Davison, John Terry, David Beckham, Tom Cruise, Adele, Susan Boyle, Una Healy, Gerard Kean and Simon Cowell? The question is: would Michael Collins have made this country better or if he lived would he be just another big wanker? Look what happened to Bono.

HERE’S YOUR CHRISTMAS PRESENT SON. NO, THERE WAS NO CELLOPHANE WHEN I GOT IT

While some people are out on their mountain bikes, orienteering their fit bodies around grim mountains, others are spending large sums of money in restaurants to eat chips that just don’t fit in your mouth. A few still sit around and pray to gods who have nothing better to do on a Sunday morning. But then there are those who can tell key events of their lives based on what version of FIFA football they had at the time. Alternatively they are racking up bodycounts so impressive that their Level 50 status brings them to the attention of various military dictatorships, leading to their dream job: John Cusack’s character in Grosse Pointe Blank. The only downside being the eventual marriage to Minnie Driver’s enormous head.

Teenagers of 2013 have more problems than they realise. Not only are they dealing with the adolescent nightmares of peer pressure, alcohol/drug abuse, fraping, and pus all over their visages, now they’ll have to fight for control of their own game consoles from a growing population of aging gamers who remember playing Sonic and Mario and are damned if they’re going to miss out on the latest gems on the gaming market.

Adults my age play computer games. My Dad didn’t. Your Dad didn’t! The supposedly productive hours in our lives racked up in gaming universes mean that to ignore the incredible new games and game engines wouldn’t be fair on us.  These worlds are so advanced that they transcend the divide between traditional adult entertainment of movies and television. The ability of some games like the Call of Duty series to sell more units than any traditional media is pushing them into a prominent area. Pong is gone. The games developers know that their audience are not just kids, but stressed out adults with disposable income who demand quality and the ability to shoot someone in the face.

Alan Moore, the comic artist who created Watchmen and V for Vendetta, has talked about my generation’s retreat to infancy, pointing out that we didn’t really want to take the responsibility of being an adult in the world we live in, since it’s a pretty shitty world. Middle youthers, although that label is redundant, exist in some horrific Judd Apatow version of reality – minus the misogyny. We are immature, yet have mortgages. We don’t sacrifice our enjoyment of the world in order to survive. We vote the lesser of two evils then vote them out when they become all scaly monster. The church didn’t own us like it did our parents so the guilt isn’t really there. But middle age is real, it is coming and it will be interesting to see how the market is preparing for our generation’s needs. What games will we need? Which bands will still be touring? How will we fill our days? Is it wrong to read the New Yorker on the toilet? The country is a mess, but the market is depending on us not to grow up for a little longer

ABOUT THE AUTHOR (ALL YOU REALLY NEED TO KNOW)

Who ever met anyone like Sean Sherlock, the Minister of State for Research and Innovation (Ministry of made up ministries)? Where did he come from? Why does he represent my interests in this internet age? He is three years older than me, looks twenty years younger and smiles like he’s telling you to fuck off. I have never met anyone like him. Maybe I could befriend Sherlock, force-feed him brandy and digestive biscuits and while holding his hair over the toilet bowl as he vomits, demand to know why he is representing me. I might just get an answer. More likely, through the tears and snot he will tell me that he has no idea why at our age I am wearing a Cramps t-shirt, smelling of rum and covered in his sick.

182870_527665477279926_395253768_nThis bunch of words I did wrote was published in the summer issue of CULT magazine 2013.

 

irina palm offkilter/tubridy uncomfortable around children shock…yeah righty

That was a nice movie, kinda… Stretch’s multimedia aspect wll be back soon.

After missing the Wedding present tonight, I will venture forth to Fight Like Apes, missing WASP and Underworld in the process. Buses or booses like my friend usedta say. He wont be offended. He can’t read. It’s odd coz although FLAps are a teenager’s band, I do enjoy their pithy, charming lyrics and their singer’s Siouxiesque perform. Oh listen to me. Up myself totally. CulturefuckingShowesqueeee. I’m changing my name to Hermione MacGibbon. The Underworld gig will be interesting for having such quality support. Shit Robot is great and should get the kudos.

Peep Show brought back some uncomfortable truths. I drank an awful amount of tea and ate a lot of toast. Weird. There’s dry ice in my brain and hairspray in my heart and some rum at the end of my chin.

Being attacked by obvious insects preview no 2 the drag queens

FOR PREVIOUS CONCOCTION, CLICK YAHOOODI MENU-IN

Stretch was thinking of something the other day; something so perfectly formed in a smaller package; a thing of such beauty that my stomach churned on so many levels; an odd incidence of connection that muddles the brain and shifts radiance on to a phenomenonal level, but, hey, then again I was always a remarkably beautiful munki. More Electric Picnic previews which should make the peoples grimace rather than smile; tut rather than laugh; perspire rather than sweat.

The Fall

Weeeeeeel, it’s only been months since I did see Paul Daniels live and here he is again. A field in Laois is not the place you expect

Es magicah

to find Mark E. Smith but there you go. Expect something really bad to happen because realistically, it’s been a while since he produced any real drama. A must for the potential of hissy-fits. Watch old men gasp at the audacity of party-types who try to dance to the Fall, common occurrence over the last few years. You don’t dance to the Fall, you just don’t. It’s dumb. Stop it!

Played Laois two years ago and put on a fairly intense performance. This time will involve glass breakage, ahm sure.

Laurent Garnier

Nobody has ever seen Laurent Garnier and order giver Raymond Blanc in the same room. No one has ever messed with Raymond Blanc’s iPod at a party. No one has ever criticised Laurent Garnier’s pre-gig pavlova. No one has ever told Raymond Blanc that he should go back to being old-skool. No human ever went up to Laurent Garnier and said “aren’t you that chef guy?” No humanoid has ever gone up to Raymond Blanc and asked, “Jewananyeesforagoodbuzz?” Certainly not outside of Dubalin towin. Y’see peoples are more careful than you think. The wrath of Garnier/Blanc can result in botulism or acute deafness. Fear them. They both speak as if they know what they are on about. Fear them. They will take you down.

If you see one, you see the other.

P.I.L.

In Ray Bradburyland, every band who go into a hall of mirrors will come out fat as fried cheese. John Lydon went into that Hall

Go to woodies for the love of....

of Mirrors, but never came out. If he doesn’t do “Open Up” with Leftfield, then I’m a munki’s uncle. Actually, scratch that, I am a munki’s uncle. Jah Wobbles but wont fall down, coz y’see Jah Wobbles but wont fall down. Do you dig? Jah Wobbles but wont fall down. The only pity for Stretch is that Martin Atkins isn’t drumming as I have followed his career closely, much like Al Pacino followed hollowed out beach-boy Keanu Reeves’ career in that ridiculous movie about lawyers and satanic forces and Charleze Theron having a nervous breakdown in an undecorated penthouse apartment. I mean decorate woman, if you are bored and hearing and seeing weird shit, put up a fucking picture at least. I’m not saying I’m Satan, but I’m pretty sure Al Pacino may be.

Bad Lieutenant

Barney is at the festival. Hoookey is at the festival. They not on best of terms. A recipe for insanity. Stretch predicts George Galloway (a man so vain that his mirror regularly windolene’s itself) will in a bout of posterity try and get the two boys in the same tent. A glassing will occur and Brendan McWilliams (a man so vain that his mirror regularly windolene’s itself) will interject describing the men in a cliche so nauseating that the vomit will stop the row for at least two minutes. Guest speaker in the tent, a very drunk Rosanna Davidson will get messy and eyebrow McWilliams. He won’t have seen it coming, but the blood that coarses from his face will remind him to never take his eyes off a DeBurgh set of eyebrows. In jumps Ryan Tubridy (a man so vain that his mirror regularly windolene’s itself) who drags his nonsensical degree-laden girlfriend, Unpronouncable O’Unpronouncable onto the stage and screams like a girl,

“She used to be a fucking Rose of Tralee, and now look at her!”

Steve Bell sits quietly drawing these characters, but becomes uninspired and fucks off to see the Redneck Manifesto. Meanwhile

Oillgemedaafteryanahewilllbatthurya

Senator Dan Boyle tweets about this Donnybrook, but the fact that his tweets are only read by shoddy journalists means that he’s fundamentally a non-human and disappears as fast as a will-o-the-wisp. Steve Bell comes back does a quick drawing of a will-o-the-wisp and imitates Kenneth Williams causing loads of gay guys to imitate him and an unfortunate case of inconsequential sodomy occurs. George Galloway enters proceedings.

Hookey and Barney, fresh from rolling around in their own glasses, sit up and realise that they have the guts of a new New Order album which will sound pretty much like every other New Order album and will be good, not great and wont hold a candle to anything they did with Joy Division. (Stretch loves Movement, so that’s not included in this bitch)

Bonobo

Finally my cuz makes an appearance in Ireland, which doesn’t involve being fed at intervals. After countless letters and emails, I

The barbie was my birthright right. Go on, you say it, Yehudi Menuin. Hahahaha. STUPAH

have finally blocked his email address and sent a ‘cease and desist’ legal letter to stop his bragging about what he has and I do not. I mean there are plenty of things I want that belong to other people that I know I can’t have and in turn, there are things people want from me. You see, in this world of munkidom in which I live, us fellows tend to get a bit protective about our stuff, not property or automobiles or even the fantastic Technics stereo I have. We get protective over simple shit, like for example, an extremely hot Barbie doll (actual size). When people throw peanuts at munkis, we are like yeah, whatever. It would be like throwing bacon fries at Irlandish people, pasta at Italialionions, snails at les Franchees, a stick or rock that reads “we dont think we are better than you anymore, it’s just we evolved by thinking we were better than you, so naturally we can only suppose we are better than you. No offence” at the Ingelandeese and human flesh for the Scotified (based on SKY tv footage).

So Bonobo and myself were loitering in our captivity a few years back when over the fence came this Barbie doll. I spotted the young grinning boy who threw it and his tearful sister and looked away all nonchalant like. Bonobo was equidistant between the doll an ol’ Stretch here. For a few hours we ignored it, but we both started to keep an eye on the doll, and each other. When our keeper, VS Naipul called us for our dinner, we froze. Neither could move. He wandered between us and the doll and tried to get us to eat our grub, but soon became transfixed by the doll. Now, the three of us sat there, staring at this doll. Not a word passed our lips, although I was dying for a piss. The urinals were about 100 feet away and I didn’t trust these fuckers. Naipul had edged slightly closer, so we did the same. After a while, we were sitting in a circle.

The doll was pretty ordinary. It was no Canturi Barbie, but it wasn’t a dirty slaggy Barbie either. In fact it turned out to be Edgar Valdez Villarreal, one of the most sought after drug dealers this side of Tijuana. We did not know this at the time however and because “the Barbie” never spoke we were unaware that it was a man, not a plastic doll. Naipul made the first serious move. Bonobo launched a vicious attack to his face. I adopted my customary fight position, by grabbing on to Naipul’s head and swinging around. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Salman Rushdie writing yet another boring overblown novel about this. I’m sure it will take 4,000 pages before anyone gets a slap.

In the melee, I had accidentally pissed myself and as any gibbon knows, this is not socially acceptable, especially in front of another of your species. The break in concentration allowed Naipul and Bonobo to skip out the gate fighting still, but locking me in the enclosure. I spent years in that place dreaming of that Barbie, its shiny head, pink taffeta dress and stunning pumps, (again, I am sorry but I was completely unaware it was a mexican drug dealer, known for hanging his enemies off bridges). They found V.S. Naipul in the Booterstown Inn a few weeks later drinking silently but sullenly. He refused to speak of the incident. All he would say was that all was lost, but he meant the Barbie. A bit over dramatic that one. Bonobo concentrated on his music career and locked the Barbie in a vault under his treehouse.

This weekend he will be in possession of that Barbie. I will kill him if the need arises. I mean it. Adriana Triana won’t save you.

Brendan Perry

In a tent with knobs on. Bangin’. The only way to describe his music is that it’s like being attacked by an angry rainforest.

Fight Like Apes

A band that do what they do. They are very hard to criticise properly, because you either love them or hate them. The fact that one of them calls himself Pockets just doesn’t wash in Irlanda. Stretch was over in Londondondon a few weeks back and saw so many skinny jeans that he so nearly hyperventillated. Saw so many punks with Green Day Ts on that he nearly vomited. Saw so many blokes wearing fat black circular things in their ears that he was exhausted calling them all individualistic bastids. Saw so many people who bought into the Pete Doherty thing, it just made him sad. Saw two men wearing t-shirts saying “Anarchist.” They may as well say “Antichrist” with an apology saying “Shit, I let the cat out of the bag. Stupid of me, Ol Beelzebub coming down here to earth and the first thing I Fackin do is go to London wearing a t-shirt saying who I am. Thus, completely upending “Verbal” Kint’s argument.

Hypnotic Brass Ensemble

I don’t need to say shit about this bunch of fellas. They just rock.

That’s it. Go to these musicians and you’ll have a good time. Go to Robyn if needs be. Apparently she has lovely hair.

Eat, drink and be the Virgin Mary. It IS all a Catholic conspiracy.