Apartment of broken teeth

As a boy, I was fascinated by story of the Trojan Horse. “I'm going to live in horse too one day,” I said.

Today I drove round to Sugarcane's to work on songs for our joint side project, Zacarias Cane.

Sugarcane is the bass player in my band Bo Molasses. At 6ft 7, he must be the tallest bass player in modern rock history.

Sugarcane was well. He told me his brother was on that plane that 'crash landed' at Heathrow on Thursday night. A lucky escape. He walking off the plane without so much as a scratch.

Apparently, he hadn't even twigged the plane had actually crashed until he slid down the emergency shutes and saw all the fire engines rapidly approaching.

"My brother's always been shit scared of flying," Sugarcane explained. "But now he reckons he's gonna fly everywhere, 'cos the probablity of being involved in another plane crash are so infinitely small. He's been 'airline disastered' already."

I'd brought my drumkit with me, which we proceeded to sample drum by drum into his Akai sampler, looping the results into some seriously funky beats, a multitude of cats swirling twixt our feet, which aggravated my cat allergy and lead to much sneezing.

Having smoked some weed, we got down to some recording, setting a drum loop going and free-styling dub bass, dobro blues guitar and vocals to it.

Many bouts of uncontrollable laughter punctuated our efforts.

During one weed break, Sugarcane related the story of a girl's birthday party he attended last week. A mate of his spiked the birthday girl's dog's food bowl with a gram of speed. The dog appeared minutes later, manically sprinting about the place, before keeling over and dying.

Surprisingly, after that we got two songs in the bag.

'It's phat and it's phunky' sounds like a 70's Blaxploitation track and 'Love ain't nuthin' but a compromise', reminds me of John Lee Hooker singing gospel.

Both are loose-limbed rootsy bluesy hypnotic grooves, which will now be chopped up in Sugarcane's computer and hopefully fashioned into coherant finished tracks.

Ah, the joys of modern technology.

Roaring with pain

The standard measurement of fire extinguishers is weight, not size. Just thought you should know.

I woke up around midday to find the sky crying, (or roaring with pain, as my dear old dad used to say). Weather chick on the news said it was to be a day of incessant rain, so when Tom called wanting to hook up at The Greasy Spoon for a spot of lunch, I said "Yeah, why not?"

I grew up with Tom. We've known each other since we were at primary school. I suppose you could say he's my best friend. We're certainly as close as two men can get, you know, without pushing warm sardines up each other's bottoms.

He's an affable rogue, face full of charismatic angles, great sense of humour.

He's a graphic artist and a piss artist, for that matter, but good fun to be around.

I approached The 'Spoon, under cover of a brolly with some trepidation having not been there since the episode a couple of years ago when, wandering the high street late at night in sub-zero temperatures, I desperately needed a wizzle.

Everywhere was closed, apart from the trusty 'Spoon, so I ducked in. The place was empty apart from the hirsute Greek owner and his two sons. I nipped upstairs to discover the toilet frozen solid and a big sign on the door saying "Do not use!!"

Fuck that, I thought unfastening my fly and unleashing the hose.

As I began to empty my bladder (a true torrent of urine) footsteps came a-thundering up the stairs. The owner's eldest son, shouting the odds. He tried to force the door open, but what could he do?

Well, force the door open, drag me out of the place, (hose still pumping) and throw me to the frosty ground outside with a venomous missive to never return, that's what.

Thankfully the owner or his sons were nowhere to be seen as I took my place at a window table and waited for Tom to show, casually eye-flirting with a gaggle of good looking girls at a nearby table.

Tom wrapped a strong arm around my neck and knuckled the top of my head when he arrived, half an hour late.

Last time I saw him, he'd been rather unwell, having developed an infection in his ear which left him unable to balance. He'd spent two weeks crawling round his flat on strong medication with cotton wool stuffed in his ears.

Most amusing.

Taking his seat, Tom noticed the gaggle of pretty girls.

“An interesting thought has just flashed crossed my mind,” He murmured, staring unashamedly at the girls.

“And what’s that?”

“Whether or not I'd like to bone the blondie in the middle. The answer that immediately suggests itself is yes.”

Changing the subject completely, Tom explained he'd arranged our little luncheon to announce something; he's getting hitched in May to long-time girlfriend Pia.

They're planning to go camping on their honeymoon at the northern-most tip of Norway to watch the non-sunset (it just doesn't get dark mid-summer) whilst eating in full dinner dress at their camping table.

Fair enough.

He was wondering whether I might like to be his best man.

Best man? ...Me?

I was pleasantly shocked back by the notion. Never thought anyone would consider me best man material. Even Tom. I enquired what was involved.

Organise the best stag do in history, get him to the church on time, guard the rings and make the funniest best man's speech ever at the reception. That sort of shit.

Sounded easy enough. I agreed. We got up for a celebratory bear-hug. The gaggle of good lookings girls

Tom said he wants to hold his stag do in Barcelona. “A weekend of all out male bonding, drug and alcohol abuse.”

He suggested I get in touch with his mates ASAP to set thing in motion. He'd email me over a list of all their names and contact details.

Lunch over, Tom offered me a lift home in his car. I accepted and nipped off for a quick slash afore departure. I ducked in the ladies' accidentally, and, realising my mistake, walked back out and into the gents' to disturb one of the pretty girls from the nearby table taking a wee.

Odd.

The drive back took forever, mainly ‘cos of all the rain-induced traffic. I skinned up on the way.

Even Tom, a man well-versed in the mind-altering effects of powerful drugs, was dealt a severe blow by da herb and found it tough to continue.

As we crawled along Green Lanes in the mother of all traffic jams, he mumbled something about how he thought all the windows in the buildings along our route were like millions of eyes spying on him, watching his every move.

He pulled up outside mine and an unstoppably wild grin spread across his face.

"Glad you're gonna be my best man, man."

"Yeah, me too."

Before I got out of the car, Tom impregnanted the atmos with the ghost of his lunch. The smell was instant and foul.

I bade him a fond farewell and waved him off standing in the pissing rain.

Shit. I'd left my fucking umbrella in The Spoon.

Doris Day

I'd like begin today's post with a slight pause, followed by long one, then a long squealy drawn out pause that sounds like mouse being run over by a heavy goods train.

I had to go shopping today. Sainsbury's. Total pain in the arse, actually. Thought about leaving it for another day but I only had a small bowl of stale baked beans and a pot of raspberry conserve in the house...and the munchies.

I smoked a big one and set off.

At a bus stop just outside Sainsbury’s, I literally bumped into Lucy, an ex-next door neighbour of mine that I haven’t seen for a couple of years.

Lucy’d just been disgorged by the number twenty-nine bus, along with half a score of other souls all rushing anxiously to fuck knows where.

She was the last person I expected to see and it was all a bit awkward at first, not least because I was riotously stoned and could barely keep it together.

Lucy informed me I looked like shit. I smiled wanly and thanked her for her honesty.

She asked how I was and what I was up to. How was the band going?

I answered as economically as possible.

Lucy asked how Mimi was.

(Mimi is my ex-girlfriend and undisputed champion of my heart, but more about her another time).

I said we’d split up a while back thanks, and quickly changed the subject, enquiring how things were in the Land of Lucy.

Lucy loves talking about herself. Once she gets going she can burn the ears off a person at twenty paces.

Things weren’t great, Lucy admitted cautiously. Good work was decidedly thin on the ground.

Lucy’s an actress and a terrible one at that, in my opinion.

She’d just spent a few weeks as an extra on an American Sci-Fi film being shot at Pinewood, she said, playing a woodland beast (apt casting, je pense). There is an Ibsen play she is about to appear in at a pub theatre somewhere in Islington.

As Lucy described what the play was about, my mind took off, up and up and away to the night of the only theatrical performance I’ve ever seen Lucy give.

Whilst not exactly pretty, when I was still with Mimi I’d always considered Lucy to be ‘worth having a crack at’. Not that I’d ever considered cheating on Mimi for a second, especially not with the next door neighbour, a next door neighbour that also happened to be a good friend of Mimi’s.

I was just of the opinion that if the opportunity arose wherein a shag with Lucy was - given a unique set of circumstances - the obvious thing to do (i.e. if he and Mimi weren’t together anymore for some horrible unforeseen reason, or I was absolutely sure I could get away with it) I would.

I don’t normally go for athletic sturdy types. I prefer willowy indie chicks with small tits, as personified by the lovely Kate Moss and indeed my very own Zosia.

But there’s something about Lucy. Something about her well rounded bottom and hefty baps that aroused my interested and shot her to number one in my ‘Fantasy Shag’ wank-charts for a fair few weeks.

It all began the summer I scaled a step ladder to retrieve a tennis ball from the guttering above my kitchen window and caught her sunbathing naked in her garden.

On top of this, I was convinced Lucy fancied me, a feeling based on nothing more than what I liked to call my 'finely-tuned male intuition’.

One morning when Mimi was conveniently away, Lucy called round to invite us both to a play she was appearing in the following night.

I apologised, Mimi was out of town visiting friends for a few days and wouldn’t be able to make it, but I could.

I was at a loose end, rattling around the flat all by myself, I said. I’d love to come and see Lucy tread the boards and, you know, perhaps we could do something afterwards?

Lucy thought that a fine idea.

I felt a lightning bolt of nervous sexual energy charging through my system, an erection grew powerfully as I stood talking to her.

After she’d gone, I dashed upstairs for a vigorous Sherman, certain fate had dealt me a kind hand - the perfect opportunity to tempt Lucy back to mine away, seduce her as I imagined she wanted me to, get my hands on that shapely harris and all while the cat was away.

I intended to take full advantage.

The venue for the play was the Jackson Lane Centre not that far from my flat, but I got the time wrong and arrived ridiculously early.

It was raining heavily and I couldn’t be arsed to walk back home again, so there was nothing for it but to hit the bar to get slegged.

Now as anyone knows, a full bladder and experimental fringe theatre don’t mix.

The play was performed in the round. I took the precaution of visiting the gents before curtain up. Despite that, soon after the performance got underway, I needed another slash.

Unfortunately, the only way out of the auditorium to the loos was across the stage itself. A definite no-no, so I sat tight.

The play was agonisingly long and complete bollocks. I couldn’t make neither head nor tail of what was going on. I felt the pretentious dialogue wasn’t helped by the casts’ over acting (particularly Lucy’s) and consumed by a desire to take a wizzle, my attention began to wander like an idiot at a village fate.

I played mind games with myself, anything to avoid thinking about urinating.

By the time the play finished, my bladder was so stretched I felt it might explode.

I wasn’t sure whether he could even make it to the toilet without letting go.

Upon reaching the urinal, the resulting pee was awesomely satisfying.

I hung around in the lobby afterwards, waiting for Lucy. When she appeared, I took her back to mine, sat her on the sofa, plied her with booze and weed and then made a spectacularly clumsy effort to ram my tongue down her throat.

Lucy shot away, mortified.

What the fuck did I think I was playing at? Mimi was a friend of hers. They were neighbours, for fuck sake. What kind of cheating bastard was I?

Er…?

Lucy left sharpish with me begging her not to reveal anything to Mimi.

My wandering mind returned to the present. Time was a ticking on. I apologised to Lucy, observing her plain flat face and wondering what the fuck I’d ever seen in her and why on earth I’d risked everything with Mimi and attempted to get inside her underwear.

I had to dash, I explained. I…er…had to go to a surprise birthday party and I was really, really late.

Lucy forced a smile and said she’d better be getting on too, that it was nice to see me. We kissed cheeks in a polite but awkward goodbye.

I entered Sainsbury’s, glancing over my shoulder to see Lucy still at the bus stop staring at me.

“Need to buy something.” I hollered back. “For the party.”

A taxi brought me back from Sainsbury's. I let myself in, bags upon bags of goodies and treats spilling everywhere on the doorstop.

Weird Bob was in the hallway outside his front door. He was naked but for his slippers and held a hard-boiled egg in his left hand and a compass in the other. The egg had a face freshly carved into it with whore red lipstick wildly applied to the mouth. Bits of discarded egg littered the carpet at his bare feet.

Weird Bob held the egg up and shrugged sheepishly. “What do you think?” he gruffed through is teeth. “Looks a bit like Doris Day.”

Fear of hospital clowns

What would you rather eat, a toad's tool or a toadstool?

When I was a kid, I had mate with an older brother who was seventeen, but had the metal age of a five year-old.

I used to go round and play at their house all the time.

One day, the older brother locked me in his bedroom and tried to force me to put on a Snow White costume.
When I refused, he wrestled me to the floor and sat on me, flashing filthy urine-stained underpants in my face.

As I struggled, he held me down and whipped off my trainers and my socks and my jeans and my pants and lobbed them all on top of a high wardrobe and fucked off downstairs.

After he’d gone, I looked round for something to do to exact my revenge.

I found a bunch of Easter eggs in a cupboard that he’d been saving for some reason and ate the fucking lot.

That’ll teach the bugger, I thought.

Apparently, he went nuts when he found out. Destroyed his room in a fit of rage.

Just thought I should share that with you.

Bad Badgers

Is it me, or does the whole world look coloured-in today?

Zosia was restless in bed last night. Kept me awake for hours. She was sleep talking too. At some dreadful hour near dawn, she said out loud in perfectly clear English, “You and me go together like hairspray and lighter. If idea pop into my brain, whooomphf, your hair be burnt off.”

Too much cheese before bedtime, me thinks.

Anyway, as Zosia kept me awake most of the night, I found myself absently fiddling with my privates, thinking uncharacteristically deeply about the events of my life so far and how it is that I'd arrived at that exact point in my life - you know, in bed next to a turbulent sleep talking Polish bird.

I moved to London from Somerset, where I grew up, bringing with me a suitcase of classic porn and dreams of making it big in the music biz.

I joined a few different bands, but they were all crap and went nowhere. I got myself a telesales job cold calling people at home trying to flog them insurance.

'Twas a terrible way to earn a crust, and I hated it. I took a lot of verbal abuse from people over the phone irritated at being disturbed in the privacy of their own privacy. Really rude stuff.

Unfortunately, because the calls were monitored, there was little scope for retaliation. I was forced to sit and take it, or risk getting fired.

Once home though, I’d pull out a sheet of crumpled paper and flatten it on the kitchen table; a list I’d furtively scribbled down at work of telephone numbers of all those who’d been unspeakably rude to me that day.

After loosening my tie, downing a chilled Kronenbourg and speed-smoking a joint, I’d take a fistful of coins and the list, nip out to the public payphone down the street, call each number up in turn and be extraordinarily abusive to whoever answered.

But anonymous revenge was shit revenge, because one day I walked into the office to be confronted by my boss, a certain Shirley MacGerth.

I’ve seen many amazing sights, including the Grand Canyon, the size of which I admit was pretty awe inspiring, but it pales into insignificance compared to the vastness of that lady’s bottom.

Anyway, turns out one of the people I’d called had recognised my voice from my earlier call, put two and two together and complained.

I was instantly dismissed.

And thus embarked on a four and a half year hiatus from paid employment which saw me claiming all manner of benefits and squandering my waking hours in my front room with the curtains drawn playing my guitar, writing songs or watching DVDs in a vague coma-like state brought on by a potent concoction of booze, weed, powders and pills, hands thrust deep inside my filthy underpants, scouring my privates for substances requiring a connoisseur’s sniff.

Under those peculiar set of circumstances, came the inspiration to form Bo Molasses.

And the rest, as they say, is history.

Seeing black helicopters paranoia

Cowboy fights. Nothing but men messing around to the sound of punching cabbages.

Zosia came round last night. We made up for the last few days worth of Mexican stand-off by way of a strenuous wrestle, then afterwards went out to see a gig by The Wastrels.

They were already on when we arrived and on top form.

I know the bass player, Stephan - this Eurasian dude with an afro and a curiously ginger streaked goatee. One of life's odd balls.

Often, when he has people round at his, he'll nip off to his bedroom sporadically to change his clothes one item at a time, then come back to see if anyone notices.

Anyway, he observed me coolly from the stage through glitter covered bug-eyed purple sunglasses.

After The Wastrels had done their thing, me, Zosia and Stephan got chatting.

I hadn't seen him since before Christmas. He explained proudly how he'd delivered all his Christmas cards by tube in one day - a veritable travel card tour de force – but that in between Christmas Day and New Year's, he'd somehow developed an irrational fear of anything that might end his life prematurely.

“A horse kick, Zacarias. Could that kill you?”

Last time I saw him he was kicking around with a new girlfriend. I asked how that was all going.

"Oh, things went swimmingly until one morning we awoke to discover a nugget of poo on the bed sheets between us. I swore it wasn't mine and she swore it wasn't hers. We thought it best not to see each other after that..."