Podcast Relaunch

The 'I Drink Tea' podcast is dead. It is wiped from history. In it's place the void will be filled with the Disorgcast!

What''s the difference? It's still going to be around five minutes long, they are going to contain philosophical musings, humour, stories and perhaps the odd tune. The aim is to produce one a week, rehearse before recording, and add in some quality control.

The first one is up and ready to go... (iTunes feed should be up in a day or two).
https://disorgcast.podbean.com/e/disorgcast-1-game-of-jams/

Bunnet Sonnet

The flat cap, sometimes known as 'the bunnet'
Yorkshiremen and pensioners wear them.
Lurking like someone in a whodunnit!
Smoking cheap cigarettes now and again

That hat doesn't suit you, aged several years
Reminds me of the seventies racists
When people ignorantly voiced their fears
Through vile words on a regular basis.

Thankfully today, things are far less tense.
We've started working together; a team.
Doesn't stop the public from being less dense.
They think that a whippet is an ice cream

He who sports a flat cap, makes his own bread
Hides for hours and hours, working in his shed.

A Tanka and a couple more Haikus

The Smell
It was a bad smell

You left me sad with the lies

and finger pointing

terrible accusations

It was the dog that farted

Long Day

The day drags onwards

So tired I can't stay awake

perhaps I am dead?

Spot

Sore bit on my head

How did the spot develop?

I drink Clearasil

Seasons

The Seasons

Autumn avenue.

The wind blows leaves in my face.

Help! I cannot see!

The winter cold bites.

Harsh, searing the skin. It burns!

Splat! My face falls off.

Bloody daffodils,

custard yellow plague, it hides...

TWAT! Rake in my face.

Hot sun marred by rain

Beetroot red meets ghostly white

ARRGH! Burnt flaking skin.

Starstruck

The smooth cold surface offered a vague form of comfort, slightly soothing the pain in his face and arms. He made an attempt to lift his head, grimacing as he did, before deciding to place his cheek back on the cool tiled floor. Blinking his eyes open, the blurry surroundings slowly come into to focus. There are dark red markings on the painfully bright white tiles, instinctive curiosity makes him drag his fingers over the markings, jerking as a bolt of pain shoots down his left arm. 

The markings are blood, he guesses his blood due to the taste metallic in his mouth. He reluctantly swallows. He runs his tongue around the inside of his mouth searching to see if any teeth are missing. Some of the blood has seeped into the grout between the tiles. Slowly rubbing his fingers across the the tiles the red marks remain, dried onto the floor. How long has he been here? Does blood take long to dry? He moves a hand to his head, briefly wincing as he touches a tender area, rough and crispy with dried blood.

The smell of mildew is in his nostrils. At the other side of the room there is a toilet bowl, he wants to throw up. In his current condition it feels a mile away rather than eight feet. Looking up the edge of the sink peers over the top of the worktop. He grabs for the edge of the sink and he tries to pull himself up into a sitting position. A cry of agony rings out as he twists his body round. 

Memories were thrown up, the time he was punished for daring to stand up to his high school nemesis, who had regularly relieved him of his dinner money. He had spiked the bully's drink, stripped him naked and let him wake up under a table in the middle of a crowded dinner hall. In revenge the bully's older brother had gotten involved, the sound of his arm cracking, crushed in a door, still sounded fresh in his memory. 

Nothing was ever proven about the spiking. The brother was excluded from school, due to being caught in the act by a teacher. The bully however left him alone after that, deciding that he wasn't worth the trouble. Last he'd heard about either of them was a rumour that the brother was inside for G.B.H.

The pain was worse than the broken arm; a different memory came to the fore. A few years ago, his failure to embrace monogamy had caused a problem. The result was repeated attempts to kick off his testicles by his wife Mary. As the memory fades the pain he can now feels easily eclipses the pain from that particular scene, sadly though, it doesn't fade.

He feels worse sitting up, momentarily pondering lying down again. He glances over at the stained tiles and then down at his clothes, covered in blood. He wonders where things went wrong? Holding tightly to the edge of the sink, agony throbbing through his muscles, riding a wave of exhaustion that almost brings him back to the tiles. He fights against it with every ounce of strength he doesn't have. Letting out a howl, he throws himself back up on to his feet, nearly losing his balance, gripping tightly onto the sink to stop him crumpling into a heap. Lifting his head to the mirror to see the extent of them damage. Upon seeing his reflection he almost falls back in surprise, not quite sure if it is the pain or the sight of bloody mess that greets him.

He'd never intended for any of this to happen, he should have stuck to punching Big Brother contestants and TV talent show rejects, at least if he had, he would not be here. Perhaps he'd have been caught and sitting feeling sorry for himself in a police cell, which would be infinitely preferable to this.

2017: What The Fuck Is Going On?

On 1st January 1987 the artists known as The Justified Ancients of Mu Mu AKA The JAMs AKA The KLF were formed. Whatever you think of they they were innovative, they became the biggest selling act and they had fun doing what they did, then they deleted their back catalogue.

1987: What The Fuck Is Going On? An album that was experiment in sampling, rap and dance music would be unleashed upon the world. 30 years later I'm sitting in here in my kitchen writing a blog not about the KLF, but new year resolutions.

I have no resolutions, Most things happen waves, there will be waves of wanting to get more exercise, being creative, wanting to do something with music, wanting to write something, and the best thing to do is ride the wave as it comes along, there may be incomplete projects scattered around, but they can be picked up again on the next wave.

Looking at the JAMs/KLF, they worked on numerous different ideas, some worked and grew, some floundered. Following that as an example for constructive learning, here am I, experimenting and planning on throwing some things out into the work, some old, some new, some reworked, some with added fertiliser, some planned for a very long time, others off the cuff. Managing to produce a final result and feeling a decent job has been done on them will be success for me. I am not too bothered about what happens with the end result. With that in mind I decided to try remixing a track I had never heard, and didn't listen to until I had completed the mix.



Merry New Year.

Gramophone Douchebag

It's sometime between 1991 and 1995 I'm in HMV on Princes Street in Edinburgh, I've walked into a very spacious shop with lilac carpet and white walls, it looks humongous, it feels like it goes on forever. I'm wandering about checking about the import CD singles (ooh look '˜Pictures of You' Extended single remix and '˜Handbuilt By Perverts') and T-shirts that are available ('˜Sheriff Fatman', a massive Ned's Atomic Dustbin logo in orange and fluorescent yellow.) I'm not buying vinyl here, no, if I want that, I'm off searching Vinyl Villains, hunting down 7" and 12" singles by The Cure, Carter The Unstoppable Sex Machine, The Wonder Stuff, Ned's Atomic Dustbin, Pop Will Eat Itself and Kingmaker. By comparison Vinyl Villains is small, dark and cramped, every inch of space used, notable 7" records and picture discs mounted on the walls, and more prestigious 12" singles and albums hanging from the ceiling.

I loved going round both shops, searching out interesting items, these days Discogs is where I'll find something if I really want it these days, but nothing beats wandering around a record shop to see what treasures I can unearth. It's a shame that HMV stopped being such a place, in the mid 90s, they did some structural work on the building and it was closed for the best part of two years, the Virgin Megastore had been alright, but it wasn't the same, it was dark and dingy but still large, with not as good a selection of stuff as HMV had.

Back to the present, last week I randomly wandered in to escape the office at lunchtime and found it dark, dingy, feeling much smaller than it used to. New albums and DVDs, that was fine, the selection of CDs seeming far smaller than it had used to. I went upstairs and wandered round the DVD boxsets, the entire floor felt cheap and unloved. I'm seeing box sets and films, ultra cheap. Back in the 90s a video with two or three episodes of a TV series would cost about £12-13. It would probably have cost about £50-150 for the whole of a season of an American TV series. Now it's costing £10 for 13+ episodes of a series. Is it me, or do other people get a feeling of devaluation? People stream music and only want to buy one or two tracks, there's the suggestion that the album is dying. Music feels like it's losing it's value, but so are TV series and films, 'œhere have a film out just six month ago, it's only a fiver!' I'm not sure what to make of it, I went back downstairs to escape the depressing air of worthlessness.

I wandered up the back of the shop, where they were now selling vinyl again, new pressings of old classics, The Cure's 'Head On The Door' and a double gatefold LP of '˜Disintegration' caught my eye, pleasantly surprising me, but price tags of £15 and £18 seemed a bit steep. I spotted Blur's 'Magic Whip' LP for £25! Which you might think given my experience upstairs, I am devaluing the art, but for fuck sake! I paid that for a mint copy of the KLF's '1987: What The Fuck Is Going On?'. I have bought vinyl albums by artists on Indie label, they cost £10 or not far above. How can anyone justify £25 for a newly released album, when smaller labels, printing far less copies, without the economies of scale can produce such items, for far less? It's pure greed on behalf of the labels and retailers. Someone needs to remind them that vinyl isn't just for hipster douchebags with gramophones.