It’s time for Schrödinger’s cat relationship counselling

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NO. NO. NO. Theese is nawt vawt I meant.

Stretch here.

Have you ever woken up with your partner standing above you with a pillow in their hands and tears in their eyes? Has your partner ever given you items (laundry, books, barbells) that have disrupted your balance as you were walking down the stairs? Has your partner brought you for long walks in deserted areas with cliffs and walked ahead of you for the entire time never looking back? Has your partner ever adjusted the brakes on your car before you get to work? Have you nearly been murdered by a hitman, only to escape by the fact that he and your partner got their dates mixed up? Yes. Well, there is a consensus in the counselling community that this may be down to a failing relationship. I mean why else would your partner want you dead? You’re perfect.

All relationships go through ups, downs, and round and rounds. Some fixable, others doomed, and a third group called “what the fuck is going on here?/Doing it for the kids.” This is a grouping with people who are too lazy to split up, too financially invested to move away from each other or who realise that one day they may figure out they love each other again. (Love here being defined as a mirroring of the infant state. I learned that yesterday from a cocky baby).

What is a relationship anyway? Freud defined it a boat that carries your cousins on it, due to the questioner having a stutter. Stoics would say you should never become needy. You should never NEED another person if you love them. As you gaze across the dinner table at your partner whose knuckles are red from gripping their knife and fork, a memory is evoked of their face with pupils dilated and all that mattered was you. The realisation hits that you need to talk. You become that needy stoic hating loser, constantly questioning the validity of the situation. They eventually do a “not a-fucking-gain” arch of their eyebrows and you wander off angrily into a bottle of rum until it dawns on you that yes, you are supremely fucking annoying.

Months go by, without physical contact, sometimes, no eye contact. You discuss the kids as if locked inside the UN. The clever kids look at each other and then from one parent to the other, weighing up the merits of their eventual choice, enquiring of cousins what their parents are like JUST IN CASE. You try never to argue around the kids, but that is impossible. Kids are experts in conflict management as they have spent years observing harassed teachers slowly going mad trying to get through each day.

THE CRISIS: You can’t/won’t break up. The kids matter too much. You don’t want to fight anymore. The spark may be gone but the daily realities haven’t. What to do? Well, maybe turn to quantum mechanics and the idea of quantum superposition: The Schrödinger’s cat relationship counselling paradigm.

METHOD: Both participants walk into a room, placing a recently procured wooden box (from somewhere like Woodies, any kind of wooden box will do. Build your own if you have skills) on the floor. Face each other. Try to make direct eye contact. Take a deep breath. Open the box and mentally place your relationship inside. Before you close the box, place a divisive issue in the corner of the box. Something like the misinterpretation of a night out gone wrong or a who’s who of people who fucked up your wedding, adding weights so as not to balance to one side of the family or other. There is a 50% chance of these issues causing an explosion that will kill the relationship.

Close the box. Your relationship, which has caused so much chaos up until then, is now equal parts alive and dead. It’s in the box. If you open that box you will see exactly what state your relationship is in. Do you want to do this? Well, Einstein, do you? (Einstein retorts, “Don’t bring me in to this! I’m on the toilet”).

So, when your friend, let’s call her Debbie, comes to you and says that she is having problems with Bobbie, tell her that in order for them to have a relationship, it has to exist on many different wavelengths at the same time. However remind Debbie that they will never see wave behaviour from their relationship as it is too big an object. Also, don’t forget the main thing. Debbie is not going to get this. Debbie in particular is what scientists would call, “a thick.” Bobbie is stupider than Debbie, as Bobbie wasn’t born Bobbie, but Bobby. He thinks it’s cool to be called Bobbie. Fuck Bobbie. Bobbie is undiagnosed ‘thick.’

So, if you feel comfortable spending every waking hour with the same person for the rest of your life, yet know that there are issues that could potentially destroy everything that is good there at any moment, consider the box. The box may save you a lot of money and heartache. You will never have the respect of your children though. Children just be like that.

 

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Stretchcast Volume 4: More Skittish than Hashish

But other than that, we had a lovely day


Latest mixage

1: Battles – Africastle (Gloss Drop)
2. M83 – Midnight City (Hurry up, we’re dreaming)
3.Warpaint – Undertow (The Fool)
4. Grinderman – When my baby comes (Grinderman2)
5. Amon Tobin – Rosies (Out from out where)
6. Laurent Garnier – Gnanmankoudji (Tales Of A Kleptomaniac)
7. Shit Robot – Take em up (From the Cradle to the rave)
8. Two lone Swordsmen – Rattlesnake Daddy (Wrong Meeting)
9. Pavement – Perfect Depth (Westing by Musket and sextant)
10. The Fall – Paranoia Man in a cheat shit room (The Infotainment Scan)
11. NeuNegativland (Neu)

Downloadable it be (Click arrow on side of Soundcloud thingy)

A nation once again…my munki hole

In such a state of crisis, Irlanda has voted in the second coming of the Idiot-child. They had Dubya. We have N’dahhhhhh

So proud…oh so proud

“The future is the only place we have to live” N’dahhhhhh

and here’s what it actually sounds  like

The flag is evil
Welcome: living leg-end

I was walking down the street
I saw a poster at the top

I was only on one leg
The streets were fucked

And the poster at the top of street said:
“Do you work hard?”

I was only on one leg
The road hadn’t been fixed
I had to be in for half six

I was only on one leg
My blue eyelids were not
There was a curfew at half nine
For my kids

There was a poster at the top of the street
Encapsulated in plastic
It had a blind man

So I said: “Blind man, have mercy on me.”
I said: “Blind man, have mercy on me.”

The flat is evil and full of cavalry and Calvary
And calvary and cavalry.

“Do you work hard?”
It said, “I am from Hebden Bridge.
Somebody said to me: I can’t understand a word you said.”

Said: “ 99% of non smokers die”
“Do you work hard?”
“Do you work hard?”

I was walking down the street
And saw a picture of a blind man

The flat is evil
Of core? cavalry and calvary

Of core

Blind man, have mercy on me
Said, blind man, have mercy on me
I am a ?
My blues eye get…ID/I get
My curfew was due half eight
Now its half past six

My curfew is at 9:30
I said. “Do you?”
Blind man! Have mercy on me
Blind man! Have mercy on me
Blind man! Have mercy on me

I’m on one leg
My eyes can’t get fixed
And my kids
Can’t blue eyes get fixed

Blind man! Have mercy on me
Blind man! Have mercy on me

Stretch Songs of Joy 2010 parto uno:damnation

Stretch here…again…sick, sick, sick, y’know how sick I am? I’m in bed with me sistah! (Thanks Fast Show)

It hasn’t stop snowing in 14months…This littul munki has been suffering influenza for 6 of those months, the Irlanda Government borrowed all the money on earth and forgot to pay it back. Little Squishy at one year, already has accrued debts thanks to the banky people and if people really think the Rubberbandits are going to cheer up the country, then people are fucked.

Look into my eye! I am not an Ewok!

Anyway, what happened in music this year?…Miley Cyrus researched a duet with Cypress Hill, by taking a hit from a bong, all the while recording it for posterity. Cynically, it ended up on Utub and Daddy Warbucks was disappointed. How disappointed? Well, he took his shiny belt off and our Miley sure knows what that means…Bonio had back problems which stopped him performing at onshore corporate rock site Glastonbury. Disappointed hippies had to make do with Stevie Wonder who slagged off Bonio saying that having no eyes didn’t stop him from performing…In Irlanda, the annual faction fighting festival, Oxegen, caused JowwwwDufeeee to peel his translucent skin off as stories of gang rape, stabbings, genocide, moider, people catching their death, casual racism and Eminem latest moanings were transmitted through the airwaves to the unemployed, the old and ne’erdowells who all got outraged for an hour and a half, then went back to reality…Finally, many Irlanda people lately have lined up to defecate on Gerry Ryan’s grave…the dead radio star’s penchant for coke seems to be more newsworthy than the rape of the Irlanda by men in white shirts. Miley Cyrus be aware!

Shit Robot – Take em up

Marcus Lambkin makes house music that sounds like eighties music which sounds like the future. It’s very cool and the vibe makes Stretch feel like dancing and I is not even at a wedding. At a wedding, the practice of dancing and holding a full pint of Smithwicks is a necessity. Putting the pint over a friend’s shoulder while screaming “New York! New York!” is another necessity. Waking up naked in the shower covered in vomit and flowers is not a necessity, but can happen, just that once.

Unkle – Natural Selection

I like this song…that’s it really. Nah, a band that grabbed my attention when I saw them at Electric Plink Plink. Wasn’t expecting much but got milled with loads more. The song concerns the need to find the “right one for me.” An interesting idea, if it truly exists. She is there, then she’s not, then she is, then she’s not…frankly, it’s probably meaningless. Still, this year Stretch hovered on the brink of utter out and out madness. In 2011, I will replace the word “hover” with the word “teeter,” until one day, I will just stand nearby making smart comments about the stupid brink.

The Fall – Bury! Pts 2&4

A lot of kids around my area seemed to have got prams for Christmas. I hope this is the case, coz a lot of the fat ones ain’t fat no more.The Fall, the Fall, the Fall… At that festival I have mentioned, Mark E.Smith apparently screamed at those Scottish lads, Mumford and Sons…Here’s what the Big E said “”We were playing a festival in Dublin the other week. There was this other group, like, warming up in the next sort of chalet, and they were terrible. I said, ‘Shut them cunts up!’ And they were still warming up, so I threw a bottle at them. The band said, ‘That’s the Sons of Mumford’ or something. ‘They’re number five in charts!’ I just thought they were a load of retarded Irish folk singers.”

Anyway, the Fall gave the best gig of the year at Tripod (according to Stretch taste) and their latest album, Your future Our Clutter is as good as anything they’ve done. Buy it and keep him in fags!

Underworld – Scribble

The award for the happiest song of the year goes to this. It is impossible not to throw your hands up in the air everytime he sings “And it’s okayayay,” unless you are John McCain, coz that’s just not going to happen… A good comeback album and a great gig in Dubalin sees them bringing back the nineties to those of us who haven’t left them yet. I was watching that thing about Live Aid last night and it made me think how awful the second one was… There aren’t enough threats in the world these days to cause Duran Duran albums.

Bonobo – Kiara

Winner of many awards and just the coolest fucker on the planet at any one time, this is the opener to Black Sands which continues Bonobo’s exponential growth. I know it’s an idealistic view, but if more people encourage their kids to listen to Bonobo and turn off the aul Xfactah, then the future will be bright and Simon Cowell will melt. This won’t happen, because there is always another cover version to do.Vote for the right Simon!

Right, that’s the first, more to come eventually, if I can get my shit together. Now, I’m going to see if rum really cures influenza

Entitled

This came on my ever-expanding shuffle today. I had forgotten how nice this song was.
Got me thinking about the nature of entitlement. Every munki knows that you are not entitled to every munki thing, however you tend to think you are anyway. This leads to problems as realistically what you are entitled to doesn’t equate with the amount you feel you are entitled to. The risks of feeling entitled are plain to see, as there’s no guarantees to any of your entitlements, whether they include things which you are actually entitled to or not. Those things you are entitled may never seem enough or their nature changes, as does yours and then everybody’s fucked. The limits of your entitlements cause huge frustration and resounding resentment, despite the knowledge that is there, which is that you already know the extent of your entitlements. So, you get it sorted. You are entitled to this and you are entitled to that, but not that and definitely not that, coz THAT will fuck every munki thing up. So you feel entitled to sit back and relax, smug in the knowledge that you are now a rounded individual. All the same though, there’s always one prohibited entitlement that can y’know make the little munki in you sad with longing.
Know what I mean?

Being attacked by obvious insects preview no 2 the drag queens

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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.