DOWN with the kids


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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


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.


Everyday is like Sunday

Remember when Eddie Izzard wasn’t fucking running around and was just funny.

You need to get your head examined

Remember when comedians were too cool for charity.

Remember when Harriet Wheeler of the Sundays of the peculiarly beautiful yet slightly grating voice was like an Indie wet dream come to life.

Remember when there was a distinct possibility Nostradamus was right and we were all going to die. The Iron birds dropping from the sky etc.

Remember Mr Freezes and the potential life threatening illnesses we may all get from sucking on torn orange flavoured plastic.

In fact, remember Slush Puppies and the potential life threatening illnesses we may all get from sucking on flavoured ice dyed with comb cleaner.

Remember when walking down O’Connell Street in the Dubalin, there was always a slight fear in the back of your head that a bomb might go off.

Remember the sun used to be sunnier.

Remember the threat of global annihilation thanks to the Cold War was at the back of your mind while walking down O’Connell Street in Dubalin, fearing being blown up.

Remember anything seemed possible

Today’s search item of the day: Lorraine bracco wearing leather (You peoples are crazy)

This band really liked their sepia, just like me. Susan Boyle didnae doo justice tae it, ya ken! Blathered, aye!

Stretch Songs of Joy 2009 (Parto duo of threeo)


Not a good day to be on a diet. Vicious feelings of anger now that Rage Against the Machine are the Christmas Number One…Feel duped by the Sony Corporation. I apologise to all concerned…Stomach sick. Indeed!I won’t even mention the Irishing Times description of RATM as a “little known punk metal band.” The standards have hit the floor in that pretentious tome.

Over it. Woohoo. Feeling mental for quite a long time now but the wave has crashed agin the shore and I am ready to blow the cobwebs away with a 400-kilo industrial blower thingy. Being mindfucked for this long has meant the loathing I feel for most things (Michael Buble) has slowed and a calm peaceful worldview has replaced this. Ya Feel me.

Heart attack, no?

The Evil was in danger of taking over. Well, NO. That shit’s over. I am primed. My fist has four lengths of ‘FARMERS’ BEST’ barbed wire wrapped around it. Soon, I’ll be carrying Susan Boyle around with me like a puppet and screaming, “Can you sing now, Mental?” Next, I will use this fist of justice to stop that twitchy bastard Buble’s vocal chords from ever bothering middle-to-old-age ladies again. Oh you best know it! Angry and stupid Stretch! my shit lately has become really dumb. Apologies. I ain’t been readin!

Finally, as I remove the last of the spikes and Jack Russell teeth from the rotting Cowell, I will do something which won’t be popular. I’m going after Peter Kay. I’m sorry, but I’m sick of him. Why can’t he just be a comedian? Why does he have to do charity records and Coronation Street? Why Peter, why? I’ll wipe that smug sense of fulfillment off your pudgy face with my honest-to-jaysus twisted wires of righteousness. Shut up. I ain’t an equivocating muthafucka…..

Brandon Flowers, you just escaped this time. Mos def.

Anyway this is just lovely.

Nathan Fake – Basic Mountain

A piece of ambient electronica dropped into a pan of hot oil, Nathan Fake, if that is his real name, did things in 2009 with music that would excite a small child or one large infant. This song is about a mountain, not one of those fancy mountains with Ugg boots and a sense of entitlement you may see in Dundrum shopping centre. Think more of a mountain walking around Northside wearing a dirty grey tracksuit, covered in stains from its fry that morning. The mountain will be carrying a blue plastic bag containing the Star, a two-litre bottle of coke, skins and a Twix. The mountain’s skin will be slightly grey too from staying up all night smoking spliffs watching some low-rent porn with its friends, all the time wishing they’d go home, so he can rub one off… Later this day, the mountain will run into a burning Marathon Sports and save an old woman called Mags and four pairs of Nikes, thus making it not so basic a mountain after all. Ya feel me.

Alice in Chains – The looking in view

Layne Staley’s dead. Long live Layne Staley’s non dead replacement. Alice in Chains arrived back in the ether this year with a damn fine album. Jerry Cantrell took time out from being an elf in Rivendell to sing sickly harmonies with newbie William DuVall, who himself had a great career as the villainous Greg Sumner on Knots Landing. Black Gives Way to Blue, like all Alice in Chains albums, is about the struggle a man has to keep his hair blonde despite being ravaged with age and mites. It happens too often, too often…

Fink – Sort of Revolution

My partner-in-crime hateses this dude. Not sure why…his voice annoys her..Anyway, Fink’s first album Biscuits for Breakfast was an excellent piece of work… This from his new album is sort of the only track worth listening to…sort of…but it’s great, despite the stupid vid. Maybe I don’t like it..sorta, yeah…aw fuck, I don’t know, anyway…Shoddy.

Dinosaur Jr – Pieces

J. Mascis looks really really old…I am one of those Dinosaur Jr fans who believes that fuck all good has happened since Green Mind, but this new album is pretty good and this tune is what you want if you are y’know into it. What am I saying? Fucking Lou Barlow. I once pinched his ass. Not stole, just pinched. He wasn’t annoyed, actually seemed happy, like he’d been expecting it. Gave me the fear, it did. The fear. Sometimes when I wake up with night terrors, my eyes unaccustomed to the dark, my vision dancing with lights. Sometimes on the periphery, right on the edge of my vision, he lurks. With grinning evil intent, he lies. Lou fucking Barlow.

Revolting Cocks – Touch Screen

So, essentially what was a project set up by Al Jourgensen, Luc Van Acker and Richard 23 has mutated into something scuzzier than a Baileys ad. Although it was pretty scuzzy to begin with. Think of the creepy guy at the end of the bar. You just think he’s creepy. He leaves the bar and goes to his home studio, where he spends the next 18 hours recording with an array of instruments, while you are still at the bar calling him a sad bastard. The joke is on…nah fuck’re drunk, so, result! Anyway, there’s no point introducing these peoples BEcoz the vid is fairly self explanatory…That’s the great thing about life. If your expectations are rock bottom, everyday is filled with glorious sunshine and puppies. People with high expectations: clouds and fucking cats!

Happy JesusFest 2009! If he wasn’t born on this day, then why do I have a fucking Christmas tree blocking all the light to my living room? Well?

In 2010, I will not curse or drink for a living. Oh you know it! Indeed!

subo get lubo, make nice

Ah bonjour mes amis. Stretch ici.

Allo, allo, Ola, Ola, Bonjour, Bonjour, Konichiwa, Konichiwawa.

Pour ma premiere expedition, Je voudrais donner KUDOS GRANDE to les femmes sexie dans la monde de Le Scarecrow et Madame King, qui made me laugh par pitie, mais avec beacoup d’amour aujourd’hui.

Kudos crazy babes! Stretch love ya!

Je voudrais parler avec you about this Susan Boyle woman. Oh La la lallalalalal! Je sais pas. I do not

Susan Boyle, not exactly Peter Ustinov?

comprende. Am I supposed to find her sexy? Am I supposed to believe that she’s a better singeur than the people whose song she photocopie. Il ya numerous reasons why she not make me feel the sex about her. And the Bo make me feel this way! Realities! Quest que passes? Wha? Pourquoi is millions of people lying around leur rotting, pig-fucking, armchair infested, ketchup stained, 99inchtelevisione social-service visited maisonettes, watching fucking reality? Why? Pourquoi? Reality is BIG MERDE. Take a look at the (sexy) ladies from SKMK. They don’t want reality. They want bad-ass bitch Kate Jackson and thinking woman’s shiny trousered crumpet, Brucey Boxleitner. That’s why TV was invented. Oui?

Cette ‘Femme Unibrow’ is number One in Les Etats-Unis. I mean sheeeit. It’s like there’s a big need for normale peoples to make it to the top. Why? Normal people are fucking boring. Susan Boyle is not exactly Peter Ustinov. And dreams, les reves, vache ta mere. Live the dream, live the dream, live my hole more like. That femme derange will have every ounce of her soul sucked out of her by a hungry mass media. They will leave a carcass so rotten, it will resemble that simpering asshole Robbie Williams (GIVE IT UP FOOL). Tout fois I turn the TV on or open un papier, there’s another celebritie having a mental breakdown LIVE. It makes me furieux!! Tres furieux! Meyerde!

Anyway, maybe I should do what french “essence de cool” Fred Avril does and go around randomly hitting people in the face and after that chill to some of his more mellow sounds. JE DIT “CHILLLLL”

Fin. Over to Vous Fred