Last day to vote on the festive 50 - don't miss out - chose your favourite artists from 2009 http://ping.fm/cbXeI

Lots of great music music and DJs 24 hours a day 7 days a week on Dandelion Radio http://ping.fm/mV6on

Voting closes on the 30th of December http://ping.fm/eCnTd

Don't miss your chance to vote on the tracks you've loved this year in the Festive 50. http://ping.fm/JRzFy

This first show is only an hour long but in January I'll be offering 2 hour shows and, perhaps, more! http://ping.fm/vjmAk

Join me at the station that celebrates the memory of the legendary John Peel. http://ping.fm/xrKrf

Only a couple more days to my first show on Dandelion Radio. I'll be playing out throughout the month on the rolling schedule.

Now playing VULNAVIA - by Lord Numb

;)

Playing now America Del Sur

Playing now Baskyl http://ping.fm/2JRMJ

This week's Analogue Island is now playing on Penwith Radio @ http://ping.fm/KStG1

Playing now on Analogue Island - Spiders Leg

Playing now on Analogue Island Bette Dillinger http://ping.fm/pDAGI

Playing now Musetta - wonderful mellow vibes.

last weeks Analogue Island (25) is just starting http://ping.fm/0pwl2 - the best in independent music!

I'll try to make sure that AI 25 is repeated on tomorrow before AI 26 goes out.

Apologies but it seems last week's show (ai 25) is not being played out but instead ai 24.

Analogue Island on http://ping.fm/gQOGS
at 20.00 GMT (that's in about 5 minutes). The best in independent music.

and also Musetta
psychon
Kinky Cinch
Gorbunov
Anni Hogan

repeat of last weeks show Musetta
psychon
Kinky Cinch
Gorbunov
Anni Hogan

On tonight Farmer Joe & The Ignorant Corpses
JP Buckle
Bette Dillinger
Mark Duffield
IG88
The B-Side Project
The Ambient Society
Spidersleg

Last week's Analogue Island, the independent music show, is repeated in ten minutes http://ping.fm/cipcu

Last week's Analogue Island is repeated in 10 minutes http://ping.fm/maoIK

All the best in new independent music. Last week's show repeated tonight 8pm GMT. New show Friday 8.30pm GMT http://ping.fm/nwPwd

Who is on AI tonight @ 20:00GMT ? pt 2:
The Ambient Society
Spidersleg
Musetta
psychon
Kinky Cinch
Gorbunov
Anni Hogan
penwithradio.org/

Who is on AI 25 tonight @ 8pm? pt 1:
Farmer Joe & The Ignorant Corpses
JP Buckle
Bette Dillinger
Mark Duffield
IG88
The B-Side Project

Vote for your 3 favourite tracks of 2009 in Dandelion Radio's Festive 50 poll at http://lnk.ms/4XrV1. Poll closes 30 November

New show this Friday 2030 GMT. Analogue Island 26. New independent music. http://ping.fm/gVCfc

Vote for your 3 favourite tracks of 2009 in Dandelion Radio's Festive 50 poll at http://lnk.ms/4XrV1. Poll closes 30 November

Just listening to Auction for the Promise Club's track China. Hear them here http://ping.fm/ru6nY

Playing now Bette Dillinger http://ping.fm/H78ZP

If you are quick you will catch the second half of the new Analogue Island show http://ping.fm/7rFfT

New Analogue Island starts in 45 minutes @ 20.30 GMT. http://ping.fm/ugbru

Including music from Farmer Joe & The Ignorant Corpses, JP Buckle, Bette Dillinger, Mark Duffield, Spidersleg, Musetta, Anni Hogan

First new Analogue Island for 4 weeks tonight at 8.30pm GMT http://ping.fm/Ywrxc

The first new Analogue Island show for 4 weeks tonight at 8.30pm GMT
http://ping.fm/qFwlT

NEW ANALOGUE ISLAND this Friday 8.30pm GMT. Show Number 25 After a months break Analogue Island is back with a new show. All the best in new independent music!http://ping.fm/JY3Gw

NEW ANALOGUE ISLAND this Friday 8.30pm GMT. Show Number 25

After a months break Analogue Island is back with a new show.
All the best in new independent music!

Farmer Joe & The Ignorant Corpses
JP Buckle
Bette Dillinger
Mark Duffield
IG88
The B-Side Project
The Ambient Society
Spidersleg
Musetta
psychon
Kinky Cinch
Gorbunov
Anni Hogan

Vote now for your favourite track of this year in the Dandelion Festive 50 http://ping.fm/xMQdw

A blast from the Analogue Island past - an early episode on now.

apologies for the complete lack of new shows and journals while I spend more than a few days being all and virusy

ill

All my updaters are up dating each other and I am now caught in an eternal, infinite feedback loop.

Check out this review of new HealeyIsland album http://ping.fm/G4YoW

HealeyIsland http://ping.fm/Mj9G5
An atmosphere of smokey, electronic, down-at-heel cabaret. Elements of warm jazz and light music mixed with close up electronic beats, basses, melodies and momentary glitches. A journey through an imaginary landscape of run down ballrooms, dance halls and clubs, through lives and stories.

Light music meets dark electronica. HealeyIsland, Not Afternoon, But Evening. Out Now. http://ping.fm/GeT5t

New HealeyIsland album Not Afternoon, But Evening -out now on CD. Buy @ http://ping.fm/96cie

The Ambient Society Show, playing track from new HealeyIsland album @ InsomniaFM
http://ping.fm/mAwWG
6.html

http://ping.fm/TKUF1 The new HealeyIsland album is finished and will be available soon as a cd and iTunes release on White Label Music. You are invited to a sneaky peak listening preview of some of the tracks from the album.
Smokey electronic down at heel cabaret. Elements of lush jazz and light music mixed with close up electronic beats, basses, melodies and momentary glitches.

Analogue Island on now for the best in new independent music http://ping.fm/z1rhz
Followed by the excellent HeadSpin show at 9.30pm

Have listen to 4 of tracks from the soon to be released HealeyIsland album http://ping.fm/Jl6VO

http://ping.fm/hdlVY 4 new tracks from new HealeyIsland album. Coming soon.

http://ping.fm/0cm8D four new tracks from the soon to be released album 'Not Afternoon, But Evening'. Streaming only.

Analogue Island can be heard now on Penwith Radio http://ping.fm/TREgz

Tonight (8pm) and tomorrow (7.30pm) you can also hear last week's show. http://ping.fm/gx77V

This weeks Analogue Island will be a repeat of one the previous 24 episodes.

Just playing DJ AJA http://ping.fm/8eT5Q

Playing now Dean Woods http://ping.fm/73yOd

Playing now - American Green http://ping.fm/AYizj

Not the same Selby tho' :0

The Yorkshire version of Selby was once on the East Coast mainline. Not anymore.

Selby is also a place in Yorkshire and was once the largest coal field in the UK.

More twinkly music from Portland in Maine - must be something in the water Selbyville http://ping.fm/cgneb

Playing now on Analogue Island Like Black Horses. http://ping.fm/pjl8w

Two free HealeyIsland track http://ping.fm/vvqYH

Playing now on Analogue Island - the nice folksy sounds of Nina-me from the excellent 23Seconds net label.

Now playing on Analogue Island the electronic jazz rock stylings of ne:o

Playing now on Analogue Island Spidersleg http://ping.fm/QwYnY

Playing now on Analogue Island Ribside. http://ping.fm/Fi5m0

Coming after Analogue Island at 2130 gmt+1 - The Head Spin show with William Fontiane.

Juuuuuust starting this week's new Analogue Island on http://ping.fm/lkW1G
Playing now We Are Smug

Coming up in ten minutes. Analogue Island 24 - this weeks new episode. http://ping.fm/nqI9r

Now playing on Analogue Island Ladydata http://ping.fm/aA2er

On now, last week's analogue island http://ping.fm/Rj5gp all the best in new music. playing now Bitbasic next Musetta

Tune in now for Karl and Sammy's show on Penwith Radio

Looks as if A.I. is running a bit late tonight. Stay tuned.

http://ping.fm/z6QyO Analogue Island 24 - just about to start. KNit One Pearl One knIt oNe peArl onE

KNIT ONE PEARL ONE - ANALOGUE ISLAND 24 is about to start - great tunes http://ping.fm/vqzKt

And for the best in Net Audio Sounds http://ping.fm/pe3NT

Now playing on Analogue Island Bitbasic http://ping.fm/BKCMH - For an hour of the best in independent music.

A.I. 23 has just started - now playing 2nd Mouse http://ping.fm/a8Y7k

Analogue Island 23 just starting on Penwith Radio. http://ping.fm/VBvjQ

Don't miss Thursday's Analogue Island

Playing now Crimson Death

Now just started Analogue Island 22 - from 20.35 till 21.35 GMT+1 http://ping.fm/vcofK just click listen live.

Coming next on A.I. Electromagnetic Impulses with DJ Crimson Death http://ping.fm/kvLxO

Now playing on Analogue Island - Professor Kliq.

Analogue Island 21 is now on http://ping.fm/Uf2ih now playing the superb Bright Star Catalogue.

Listen in to the news at 5pm followed by more from Dave Pascoe on Drive Time. http://ping.fm/wVrrU

Then at 14.00 GMT+1 Alan Jones till 16.00 when Dave Pascoe take over with Drive Time http://ping.fm/59Met Tune in for great radio.

Followed by Tim Carr Mystery Year from 13.30 to 14.00 GMT+1

On Penwith Radio now Julian Horner with the Sports Review until 13.30 GMT+1 http://ping.fm/2TacA

Starts in ten minutes.

All the best in new independent music from across the world.

And
Aleksi Virta
The Bright Star Catalogue
Professor Kliq
Dj Crimson Death and Electromagnetic Impulses
Amen Dunes
Sr. Aye

On tonight's Analogue Island:
Happy Elf
dessktop
Small Radio
BitBasic
C Behind 12
Barnacled
Northcape

Stay tuned in after A.I. 21 for William Fontaine's excellent Headspin Show from 9.30pm GMT+1 till late.

Starting on Penwith Radio at 7.30pm GMT+1 Analogue Island 20 (rpt) followed by this week's new show AI21 at 8.30pm GMT+1

Coming tomorrow - 7.30pm GMT+1 AI 20 - 8.30pm GMT+1 AI 21. AI21 with great music including tracks from Northcape and Happy Elf

Analogue Island 20 (the repeat) has just begun. http://ping.fm/PN62Z - just playing Nid and Sancy from the Electronic Bible.

A.I. 21 will go out next week instead.

Unfortunately due to technical hitch down at Penwith Radio tonight's show will be A.I.19 not A.I. 21.

Don't forget 2 hours of Analogue Island from 7.30pm GMT+1 tonight http://ping.fm/rWkZC

All the best in new independent music from around the world on Analogue Island. On Penwith radio now http://ping.fm/5uaX5

Tune into Analogue Island, it's just started. http://ping.fm/0FkeY

This week's new Analogue Island (20) has just started. http://ping.fm/xjZmO and click listen live.

Check out this review of Dean Woods http://ping.fm/FnxYz

8.30pm GMT+1 Analogue Island on http://ping.fm/k0S78 now!!!!!! Independent music from across the world.

click the link http://ping.fm/6GsT6 and click listen live now for this weeks Analogue Island independent music show.

Just starting now this week's Analogue island http://ping.fm/5NVyq all the best in independent music.

Don't miss this weeks new episode of A.I. details here http://ping.fm/mXy3z

04/09/09: 7.30pm GMT+1 thru 9.30pm GMT+1 two episodes of Analogue Island - the best in independent music http://ping.fm/MKDAB

Don't forget you can hear last week's Analogue Island in half an hour http://ping.fm/z1Pn7

I know Skyapnea (like sleep apnea) - not skypanea (whatever that is)! - When it's recorded live it's recorded live.

Analogue Island 18 has just started http://ping.fm/XCQMl

This week's episode of Analogue Island (18) is now starting on http://ping.fm/1e0NE click listen now all the best in new music.

You might want to visit my new blog

Take a look at http://analogueisland.blogspot.com/
Analogue Island is the blog for the Analogue Island internet radio show. This streamed from Penwith Radio every Thursday and twice on Fridays. The blog contains reviews and other useful pieces of information.

Cheers

Analogue Island 17 (last week's show) starts in 8 minutes on http://ping.fm/BKEV5

Analogue Island 17 (last week's show) starts in half an hour on http://ping.fm/BKEV5

Check out the A.I. blog for a clock show UK times, reviews of artists etc etc http://ping.fm/XCA7q

Don't miss tonight's repeat of last week's A.I. @ 8.00pm GMT+1 on http://ping.fm/782vj

Check out the review of Sample Oak records 2nd Mouse on http://ping.fm/yNKOR

http://ping.fm/lnFYY out this labels website here.

There's a Rack and Ruin Records feel to this Friday's Analogue Island - a selection of great tracks from a superb label - plus lots more.

apologies for the no play of Tuesdays repeat slot - this was due to a schedule change (which is now permanent) AI still goes out on Thursday and twice on Fridays

This weeks Analogue Island is just starting http://ping.fm/9tNYo on Penwith Radio

A.I. 8.30pm GMT +1 tonight. Fantastic new independent music http://ping.fm/wAIjc

All on Analogue island this Friday at 8.30pm GMT +1 !!! www.penwithradio.co.uk

AI list of the 2nd part:
my first trumpet
Once We Were
Chiptots
paniq
eQo
NunParty
The Bright Star Catalogue
Les Vieilles Salopes

This Friday list of the first part: bath aide
Leaping Boy
MT
MarkerX
Xurxo Romani
Autorotation

Check out the excellent 23seconds net label resources page http://ping.fm/jTb7O

Don't miss the Tuesday replay of Friday's AI music show 9am GMT+1/UTC+1 - so much good music.

When you visit the Analogue Island blog http://ping.fm/jKu05 why not follow with the newly added Google Friends Connect. It's a great way to find out who else is reading Analogue Island and interact with them.

For a broad definition of independent music listen to Analogue Island - info and links here http://ping.fm/sZgsm

I'm also giving first previews of Herb recording's latest artist Jack Marchant and of a new HealeyIsland.

Here's some of the artists on Friday's show Lungbutter, DJ AJA Inc. Stanley Beckford, Homesic, Plush Concept, HealeyIsland, Dana Halliot, Auditory Canvas, Jack Marchant, Faycal Ber, The Ansion,The Macadamia Brothers

Next Friday's AI is a treat with diverse music from across the globe for more info check out the AI blog http://ping.fm/48kSB

11am BST/GMT+1 Tuesday Analogue Island repeat of Friday's show http://ping.fm/qs4GE

The best in independent music tonight http://ping.fm/9Hmta 8.30 UK time (7.30 UTC/GMT)

Don't miss tonight's Analogue Island http://ping.fm/Uvd5O @8.30 UK time(7.30 UTC/GMT)

Tonight's Analogue Island 8.30pm (BST) (that's 7.30pm GMT/UTC).

Don't miss tonight's Analogue Island music show http://ping.fm/fW9kp

Don't miss tonight's Analogue Island. 8.30pm UK time (that's 7.30pm UTC/GMT) go here for a clock telling UK time http://ping.fm/o4bzU

Don't forget to tune in to tonight's repeat of last week's Analogue Island - all the best in new independent music @ 8pm .

Hear last week's show tonight @ 8pm BST (7pm UTC/GMT) http://ping.fm/yoRgU

New one-hour show each Friday 7.30pm UTC/GMT. (that's 8.30pm BST)
Confused? See UK time clock http://ping.fm/QXgDz

On this weeks show:

The Peach Tree
Bersarin Quartett
cantaloup
Barbagallo
Parachutes
Professor Kliq
d_rradio
Azoora
Camp Actor
We vs. Death
Millimetrik featuring Port-Royal
Azeda Booth
Homesic

This weeks Analogue Island is subtly concerned with matters existential. Fine offerings from We vs Death and d_rradio simultaneously lifting us up while reminding us that it is all bound to end sooner rather than later.

Check out the latest 'flash review' on the Analogue Island blog: Autorotation http://ping.fm/mc8f8

Check out the latest flash review on Analogue Island of Autorotation http://ping.fm/mc8f8

More rain....

Check out the first "Flash Music Review" on the Analogue Island blog. Artist: Reconsiderate http://ping.fm/gux7P

Check out Ixtlan from 23seconds.net tunefully experimental Swedish elecronic music http://ping.fm/zuCBy

The best in new music on the Analogue Island music show live online http://ping.fm/hb4lw

From electro-punk to IDM, lo-fi to post rock http://ping.fm/FPznS

Want to discover new music? Be first with Analogue Island. http://ping.fm/Eevc5

Tired of the big label's music? Don't despair. Lots of great new music on the Island http://ping.fm/5AaVG

Hear Analogue Island here http://ping.fm/b6qRF Thursdays and Fridays.

Thanks to everyone who listened to Friday's Analogue Island. It's repeated on Thursday Repeats are played out on Thursdays @ 7pm UTC/GMT

Check out the Analogue Island Blog for album previews and reviews, news and much more.
http://ping.fm/qaGDZ

Analogue Island now on Live Journal http://ping.fm/JgxSu

Check out the new release from The Sunset People. See a preview here http://ping.fm/WgcNQ

New one-hour show each Friday 7.30pm UTC/GMT. (that's 8.30pm BST)

Repeats are played out on Fridays @ 6.30pm UTC/GMT and Thursdays @ 7pm UTC/GMT..

Here is your time machine: http://ping.fm/peKov

Here is your station: http://penwithradio.org

........that's who appears on this weeks Analogue Island.

Dadanoys
Homesic
WATCh
Barbagallo
Electromungo
HK119
Sonic Weekend
Jesper Norda
eQo
Jenifer Ávila
Crepusculum
Gylepomp
Metricks
Ribside

We give first plays to the new single from Watch and a track from Barbagallo's new album Floppy Disk, dip our toes into the creative cauldron that is Sonic Weekend (would take a taste from the cauldron be a better analogy? Though the word Cauldron does come from the Latin caldarium meaning hot bath.....). Anyway - dip or taste - take your pick.

Oh yes it is. Back with a new show this Friday.

From South American Electro Punk to Robotic Nordic Amazonians, this week's Analogue Island is a show of contradictions. Oh no it's not.

We give first plays to the new single from Watch and a track from Barbagallo's new album Floppy Disk, dip our toes into the creative cauldron that is Sonic Weekend (would take a taste from the cauldron be a better analogy? Though the word Cauldron does come from the Latin caldarium meaning hot bath.....). Anyway - dip or taste - take your pick.


Dadanoys
Homesic
WATCh
Barbagallo
Electromungo
HK119
Sonic Weekend
Jesper Norda
eQo
Jenifer Ávila
Crepusculum
Gylepomp
Metricks
Ribside

An amazing band with a truly amazing sound - SIlver Wizard; echoes of Hawkwind, with a dash of Portishead. Violins and Theremins and much more. http://ping.fm/nEnfS

Find Bran and his prolific, diverse and engaging sounds here http://ping.fm/0XYEH

Higher Than Hope - amazing sounds http://ping.fm/PPm4Q - brilliant poetic electronicalism.

METAL BOX. To celebrate the 100th release on WLM To celebrate the 100th release on White label Music we are launching a new limited edition series of electronic titles available exclusively via the website. This collection will include the until now unreleased Electronic Bible Chapter 3 compilation (currently only available on itunes), The new Thrift Compilation series and a series of albums by artists new and old. The first 2 releases will be launched on Tuesday July the 21st 2009. Each CD release will be numbered and come in a limited edition metal Box. Posted direct to your door. For more information about Metal Box visit the shop @ www.whitelabel-music.co.uk/musicshop. Remember these releases cannot be bought anywhere else only through the label. This enables us to keep the price low, eliminate the distributor and keep the label truly independent. The price includes packing and posting. THRIFT: 11 hand picked tracks ranging from bluesey lunacy to operatic electro, a real cross section of WLM catalogue. It's a label sampler for those not familiar with our artists, the majority of tracks are previously unreleased. 1-Wire Mother -` the blue gene' taken from the album `Super computer' 2-Vars of Litchi- ` F Suite' taken from their debut album 3-Pygmy Globetrotters- `man and banana make melon' new release.!! 4-The Canine Love Affairs-` we are the dogs' new release!! 5-A$BO KID-`I love you ( and the drugs you do) new release!! 6-Healeyisland-` your final journey' new release!! 7-Headcleaners-` before the world was made' new release!! 8-The Vince Rogers Project-`Dawn Approaching' from the album `Lillyrosepetunia' 9-The Mirlitrons- `Jovian thereminist plays the blues ' from the album `Quaas Cresent'. 10-Pony Harvest-` Beauchief Abbey' new release!! 11-Sonic Weekend #3- `Smashed Cars' taken from the album `SW3'

Out on MONDAY 21st of July. The THRIFT compilation album from WHITE LABEL MUSIC. Features a new track from HealeyIsland

Exciting, imaginative, beautiful new album from Barbagallo - Floppy Disk. Wonderful with elements of Kevin Ayers, early Soft Machine. Engaging melody, esoteric elements within a framework of beautifully crafted songs.
http://ping.fm/8VdnN

Tonight's Analogue Island goes out @ Friday 7.30pm UTC/GMT. (UK time that's 8.30pm BST) listen and shout on http://ping.fm/qGS8k

WHite noises banish the gloom - shshshffffslssls

Ok, so we have had several shit summers. Well, two shit summers if precision is required of a blog that nobody will read. However, two shit summers is enough to force anyone into a slough of despondency; the misery of the rain and the endless grey of the sky. It’s as if we have been forced to endure twenty eight months of continual winter.

And of course now that we are all poor, there’ll be no foreign holidays to alleviate the gloom. I’d propose that there’s a good possibility we will all have topped ourselves by March, if it were not for the danger of having my blog branded as an entreaty to suicide - some kind of satanic pact to lure defenceless teens to an early self inflicted death. Which of course it is. But before you go off and end it all, I’d like to draw your attention to a small glimmer that is lighting up the horizon of inevitable decline:

In March - at the end of March - on March the 27th and 28th at the Rainbow in Digbeth in Birmingham there will be a spark, or rather several sparks, that will serve to re-ignite your interest in life. I am talking of the White Noise Electronic Music Festival. Here’s a link I prepared earlier http://www.whitenoisefestival.co.uk/

There’s a fantastic gloom defying line up which includes some of the most exciting names in electronic music: HK119; Beat Bigot; Dave Ball; Ribside; Asbo Kid; Pop Will Eat Itself’s Richard (DJ set); Contra Mundum; Playground Mafia; Jash......... the list goes on and on. Also, in an exclusive rare in this age of 24 hour pan global interconnectivity, a chance to see Ann Shenton DJing for the first time since she received her deserved Damehood in the 2009 New Years honours list. Dame Shenton will be hosting regular spots throughout the weekend.

Satire 'n' fiction

THIS BLOG IS A WORK OF SATIRICAL FICTION AND IS ROOTED IN MY IMAGINATION and not REALITY*. It does not speak of any aspirations on my part or any real events or people. Your cooperation and understanding is, as we say, very much appreciated. Fin.

* 1)excepting instances where White Label Music is mentioned.
2)excepting in the use of the name HealeyIsland - which is the name I use to make music under

Blog is elsewhere

It has been rather quiet on here. If you want read the rest of this blog go to Myspace

You look like a twat. May be it will catch on.

"So you made it?"
I thought about answering this question with a slightly superior - well yes I'm here aren't I? But then I remembered how Mister Popesceu doesn't like smart mouths. He has a tendency to bloody them.

But where actually did I make it to? A remote island, the crime hub and secret lair of Mister P? The back of a smelly transit? A field in Hampshire? No, none of these. Where I had made it to was the main concourse cafe of Edinburgh Waverly Station. You know the kind of place - they used call them buffets. What was once the BR Buffet is now called something much grander. Though I can't actually tell you what it was. When Mister P is about all other things recede into the background. It is, I imagine, like being shot and bleeding to death. Gradually your focus narrows to just one small point, all peripheral objects fading into a grey static that eventually darkens into nothingness. All that is left is a key hole of blurred bright light and the sound of a voice saying. "You still look like a twat."

Unfortunately Mister P was right. I did and still do look like a twat. It is an occupational hazard. If you are a musician you have to dress like someone attempting to start a fashion craze. One's desire for success numbs one to the actual reality of what one really looks like.

Railways

I always find travelling by train a wonderfully civilised experience: peoples' back gardens pivoting passed the window; redundant and weed covered factory plots, a testament to all those exported jobs.

On arriving at my destination I enjoy stepping off the train, the toilet paper and excrement spattered rails and sleepers below as I stride across the gap. Alas the phenomena of the open air evacuating toilet is all but a thing of the past. Damn you Richard Branson! It is right that, as the era of civil discipline and well ordered society passes with it should go the notion that, if you happen to finish having your shit just as your train pulls into a station, you should stand there for four or five minutes with it staring back at you from the bottom of the bowl.

On (or rather underneath) those trains that still have "flush and spray" the evidence is undeniable, modern man no longer believes that notices ordering passengers to refrain from using the toilet while the train is in the station should be observed.

As a small boy I believed that these notices referred not to flushing but instead to having a wee or a poo. I remember spending a long and uncomfortable half an hour at Birmingham New Street due to my observance of this particular misunderstanding.

God or Gas - A Dialogue

So, why did I move out of my Aunt's house? Why did I stop serving stimulant free cakes and cookies in a Christian Cafe? Well, it all got just a bit too creepy: the trances, the speaking in tongues, the tongues (someone put their tongue in my ear), lack of any form of enjoyment or stimulation, the disapproval, the approval, the loss of identity, the gaining of a new identity, all of the above proved too much for me.

Then, of course, there is the general post modern malaise which, when worn along side the V-neck of born again fundementalist Christianity, looks out of place. I am the proud possessor of one such post modern malaise - the kind that says it doesn't accept the existence of any
God figure, yet lingers about on the vaguer more fuzzy edges of spirituality in a way that might be termed bet hedging. But said in a snappy enough way to fit on the front of a T-Shirt.

My internal dialogue might go something like this:

Is there a God?

Oh no there is no God. But I'd like to believe that there is some sort of benign presence watching over everything.

Intervening?

Oh no not actually intervening. Just watching, benignly.

So there is a God then.

No (shuffling uncomfortably), just a presence.

But if there is a presence and it can watch, even benignly, then it must be pretty powerful.

Yes, powerful.

Like a God?

No (with some irritation).

So what is it then? A big giant gas cloud that thinks nice thoughts while it watches everything?

Fuck off.

That's it. You believe in Gas.

No. I don't believe in anything.

You've got gas though.

(shuffling uncomfortably) Oh yes, I've got gas.

Open a window then. God you stink.

I know.
(It is worth pointing out that I am not say that God stinks only the person who is taking part in the imaginary dialogue. What I mean is that the two peoples who are conversing - one of them stinks. The other person says he - the other person that is - stinks - not God but the other person. OK? Good.)

Please, tell your friends.

Hi

Don't forget to tell your friends about this blog. The more people who read it the warmer and fuzzier I feel!

The Joy Of Film

You are probably wondering why I haven't written anything for a while. The reason for this is, nothing is happening to me. I am existing inside a balloon. It's green coloured and I think it's filled with carbon monoxide and oxygen, one part to seven parts. This has left me feeling rather drained. I no longer sell cookies, nor do I live with my aunt. Instead I have a little bedsit on the grainy side of town. You know the kind of place - everything is shot in that low key greyish colour scheme that British directors favoured in the late Eighties and Early Nineties; the pre Four Weddings grim look. Well it would be if my life were a film. I suppose a more apt description would be that the weather has been overcast and I live in a shit hole.

I keep meeting women who talk too much, suffer with their nerves and have bowel problems. These women who are usually about thirty to forty years old all come from the character type pioneered by Alison Steadman. For myself, I have gained weight enough to successfully carry off a Timothy Spall impression.

Yesterday I sold my guitar to a man who swore his name was Mike Leigh.

Oil

I am going to spend the next week cleaning our leader's oil tanks. Yes we have leader, he is called Nobby and wears brown nylon suit with a silk tie and brown desert boots. Why I have to clean out his oil tanks I don't know. Where does he keeps his oil tanks? I'll find out. Is he my leader? Not really. So why am I doing it? Uh? Um? Nnnn. Have another cookie.

Baking

There is an art to making chocolate cookies without chocolate. It is an art I do not possess. Sally, on the other hand does possess the necessary skills and she agreed to show me.
"How can you call them chocolate cookies if they don't have chocolate in them," I asked politely.
"If you look at the sign on the counter it says chocolatyish cookies. And anyway, anyone who comes here is usually a congregation member and would know that chocolate is forbidden." Sally underlined the word forbidden for me by furrowing her brow.

So how does one make cookies that are not forbidden? Well there are lots of herbs involved and cinnamon, of course what else, and, of all things, Marmite. Now I like yeast extract, but only on toast and definitely not if it is pretending to be chocolate.

"Try one," said Sally sometime later, thrusting a plate of warm brown disks under my nose.
"Oh, er, thanks." I took one, broke a piece off and popped it in my mouth. The smell coming from the oven, a mixture of wet rope and dirty horse blanket, had tipped me off to the fact that the cookies must be an acquired taste. Give me a Penguin any day. Mind you I think even the popular flightless bird branded chocolate biscuit is coated in a substitute these days. Anyway, at least I won't be tempted to eat the stock. May be that is the idea.

Next, apple pie without apples. Something about Eve and a snake I think.

Holy Folks

Ok, so I admit it. I embarked on this Congregation thing without reading the brochure. I didn't think to ask any questions, assuming that it would be just a load of fuzzy, nebulous, post Christian Christianity. You know the kind of thing: Don't hit people; don't steal; don't kill anything unless you can eat it; Pray a bit. It seemed, based on my blind assumptions, that it would be worth being holy, in the detached cynical way I have already mentioned, for the sake of rent free living. I was wrong.

God's Bookshop and Cafe (toilets available across the road in the Library)

The suggestion was proffered with just the right amount of subtlety. I didn't feel offended. I wasn't made to feel as if I had been sponging. No, Aunt Hissop handled the whole thing sensitively.
"Denis dear have you seen this?" said my Aunt holding a sheet of badly photocopied A4 in her hands. It was the Congregation's Daily News Letter.
"No. Is it interesting? Shall I take a look?" I strode over to her chair. I used only short strides as we were indoors and her lounge is quite small. Leaning over her I squinted at the piece of paper.
She began to read. "It says here that God's Bookshop and Cafe are in need of a shop assistant. I thought that you might want to go down and see about it."
The bookshop and cafe to which she referred, though not actually owned by God, is run by the Congregation in his name. A kind of franchise I suppose. How could I refuse.

For That Personal Touch

Hello to all those people in London, Antwerp (there is only one of you from Antwerp so you are extra special), New York and Glasgow who stop by to read this blog.

Guess who has got Google Analytics?

A Brief Note On My Aunt

Until now I have always accepted that my Aunt's name, Hissop, with out question. She was called Hissop before I was born. It is the name I have always used when addressing her. But just recently I began to see her name anew. Hissop. Why not Janet or Carol or any one of those good evangelical Christian names? Why is she named after an expectorant and a herbal expectorant at that?

I am, of course, familiar with the concept of adopted names chosen because they give the person who chooses them a new flavour. The name on my birth certificate is Denis. But I, at various times, have chosen to call myself Dee Dee.

How then does one go about asking a genteel woman in her late fifties why she calls herself after a sputum inducing medicine?

It would be easy to understand her choice if it was a name given to her during the course of practicing her religion. A kind of initiation or baptism name. But she was called Hissop long before she became a member of the Congregation and began bothering people with random acts of kindness. There isn't even a family connection to be explored. Aunt Hissop is not a blood relative. She is one of those "friends of the family" Aunties. The kind who always sends you a card on your birthday and who shows a keen interest in what you are doing without being judgemental.

You Are A Cult

And the Lord said: "Let there be lots of young women wearing jeans and unfashionable knitwear."

Ever one for a challenge and not wishing to appear ungrateful to my Aunt, I have thrown myself into the life of her Congregation - they do not call it a church - and joined the band. Oh yeah - I now rock for Jesus. Though I hasten to add that I am doing this in an ironic manner. That doesn't mean that I am laughing behind my joined hands. No, that would be wrong. Instead I am being wry. But only internally. Oh yes and in my blog.

At least I get to meet lots of virgins this way. Though I am not sure if a virgin is any use to me. But, yeah, I get to meet lots of young and not so young Christian women this way. I have a theory that they put male hormones in the post celebration orange juice, because all the women have hairy top lips. For myself, I have begun to grow breasts. Must be because I drink the lime juice.

If you are wondering why my blog has been a bit slow recently it is because I have been taking food parcels round to needy families. These parcels include clothes and food - mostly knitwear and tinned goods. I visited a house where one such needy family lived, yesterday. The garden was a mass of four foot high grass mixed in with children and generous helpings of dog shit. I picked my way up the garden path, avoiding the rusty bikes and the various bits of broken things and found the front door. It was slightly ajar. From within I could hear the sound of thunder and loud music followed by explosions and then Mel Gibson shouting something. I pushed the door with my foot and shouted hello. Mel shouted something back. I was just about to go in when a large dog appeared, or rather lurched, from nowhere and began to bark and growl at me. I started to back away only for my progress to be arrested by the hand of a large man dressed in vest and shorts.
"What the fuck do you want?" he asked.
"Parcels?" I said.
"What?"
"Parcels of food from the Congregation?" I realised that ending every sentence with the up turned questioning inflection, as popularised by Australian soap operas, was probably not wise. I tried to be more masculine and assertive. "I got parcel. Yeah - food and stuff." That seemed to work. I was pointed in through the door.
"She's in there watchin' tele'. Don't mind dog. It won't bite, it's tied up."
I followed the sound of Mel's voice and found myself standing in a room full of adults, all related and of various ages. They were watching the biggest most impressive HOME ENTERTAINMENT SYSTEM I have ever seen.

Later, after an age standing in the doorway I took advantage of a quiet bit of the film, in between the shouting and the explosions, and introduced myself. I was handed a can of beer and told to make myself at home. After the film we burnt the knit wear and threw the tinned goods over next door's fence. I haven't had that much fun in ages.

It transpires that the members of the Congregation, with their uninvited offers free food and clothes, are viewed as a public nuisance by many of the homes they visit. Their selection of families is based not on any objective evidence of need but instead on some prurient middle class idea of what constitutes respectability. If the application for an antisocial behaviour order is successful we at the Congregation will have to find some other good work to do.

Just as a foot note. One of the people I visited said I was in a cult. Or more precisely he said, "You're a cult, you're a cult."
"I'm a cult? There has to be more than one person for it to be a cult. Do you mean I'm in a cult?" I replied pedantically.
The letter box opened one more time. "No, I said you are a c*nt." Said the voice from within emphatically.
"Oh. I see." I said and took my box of Christian giving back to the car. I decided against mentioning this exchange to my Aunt.

God Given

Ok, so I wasn't drugged. I attended the church of my own free will. In fact I spent the whole of easter at prayer. Well, not actually at prayer. More standing there looking like I was praying while everyone else prayed. I was actually busy looking at Jackie. She is, if I can use modern parlance, a hottie, a Christian hottie. Amen.

Church

Without agreeing I attended my Aunt's Church with her. I don't know how this happened. I remember falling asleep at about half six in the morning; I know this because the birds were singing and sun had come up. Next, I am propped up on a bench, surrounded by old ladies and odd looking young men and women. They were all singing. Some of them had guitars. O' Lord.

How did this happen? Was I drugged? Or is my depression worse than I thought? I have to accept that it might even have been an hallucination. I hope it was.

Downer

At this moment my life consists of staring blankly at a floral patterned wall. I do this while in bed. This is where I spend most of my time. I do not shower. I eat very little. I think I might have depression.

My Aunt is very kind. She makes me soup and tells me to cheer up.

You will excuse me if I don't write much today.

Sunday

My Aunt Hissop made Sunday Lunch for me today. It consisted of over boiled floury potatoes, limp cabbage and grey beef. She served this with what I thought were biscuits; later, after I'd spent most of the meal complimenting her on the nice biscuits and commending her for being a brave cook for serving them with the main course, I discovered that they were Yorkshire Puddings.

Nice to be back in old England.

A Dish Best Left To Set

Home at last. Well, I say home. I am actually staying with my Aunt Hissop. I do not have a place of my own and my Aunt offered me a room. Just until I get myself sorted. Tomorrow I will buy a new paper and look for a job.

My retreat from Austria was augmented with one final gift; another slap to add to the many. As I walked through the lobby, dragging my bag behind me - it doesn't have wheels but I felt too morose to carry it - I was stopped by the man in the yellow vest who likes cheese.
"So, it is true. You are going. I am sorry. I liked you. Good luck." He said this with genuine feeling and I felt tears prick at the corners of my eyes and a lump rising in my throat. It seemed that all my broken optimism, my feelings of despair were obliquely summed up in those few kind words. I felt the weight of what had not been achieved pressing against my chest.
The man in the yellow vest continued. "God, the man Popesceu has no idea. Replacing you with that Drew Sarson's. He can't even play an instrument. It doesn't seem fair that such a shit should get your wages when he has no talent. And such good wages too. You must be sick. But you have been here a long time. You must have plenty of money to take home, eh?"
Wages? Drew Sarsons? Was I hearing things? Drew Sarsons was taking my place in the band? He was going to mime to my guitar playing? He was going to be payed and handsomely? I should have been payed handsomely? I wanted answers. I wanted revenge. I took hold of the man's wrinkled arm and squeezed it. "What? What? What?" I was babbling. In my head I could feel that my eyes were rolling about, crazed and out of control.
"Calm down, calm down. Didn't you know?" The man in the vest smiled and pulled his arm free of my grip. "You must hate both these men."
I nodded and gulped in air, unable to speak.
"Go home. Now is not the time. Think of your saying in England about revenge best left to set before it is consumed." He smiled at me again and offered me a reassuring pat on the back. "Mister Popesceu is too dangerous. You should forget about him. But Drew Sarsons, well, he has an eleven year old daughter." And with that cryptic comment he took one step back, turned and walked off into the swarming crowds of holiday makers.

There was nothing for me to do but return home, get a job and wait. But wait for what?

and freedom..........

An envelope was pushed under my door. It contained my passport and airline ticket. There was also a brief note telling me to go. This was couched in rather earthy language.

I am free. Free from my contract. Free to go wherever I please and do whatever I want.

My flight is tomorrow and I can't wait.

But then, when I think about it, I feel cheated. Where is my money? I haven't been paid properly for all the music I have played. I also dislike that I am being replaced by a tape recorder.

Oh well, no time for crying. Home is calling. I wonder if I can get my old job back at Ray's Mini Mart? I thought about sending Mary a text. Better not.

Replaced

As quickly as it began it is over. I am to return home on the next flight. My berth in the band is to be filled by another tape recorder; I was suspicious that Mister P asked me to record all my guitar parts onto a digital recorder. He said it was so he could play my "excellent guitar playing' to a friend of his who runs a big record company.

It Is Work Really

Having just reviewed what I wrote yesterday, I now feel more depressed than ever. My enhanced state of depression does not stem from any shame at my outpourings of misery for the whole of the world to read. No, the thing that has caused me to SUPERSIZE my depression is the use of the word work in the context of describing my current position. Music was never intended to be "just a job". It was meant to be a lifestyle. It was meant to be anti-work. Yes I expected to have to work hard, but I never ever expected to call what I do by the name work.

psycho-blog and a quantum physics joke

At the risk of turning this into a psycho-blog I have to admit to having difficulties in leaving behind my feelings of anger towards Drew. This has led me to examine my feelings for Elaga. Do I really love her? Is that why I am feeling this way? Well, I thought about this for two days and came to this conclusion: No I don't love Elaga and never have; my anger towards Drew is rooted in my own unhappy situation. But, then, I am repeating myself. That is, of course, another sign of instability.

In an effort to right myself spiritually and emotionally as it were, I have taken up swimming. More precisely I have plopped into the pool - by that I mean slipped listlessly in to the tepid waters of the Max Planck Memorial Pool - and paddled about. I feel I must clarify the wording of the last sentence. Let me explain what I mean when I say plopped. I didn't do anything anti-social in the pool - I am attempting to describe the way I entered the water. This isn't American Pie 11 for heavens sake.

Nervous over explanation - another sure sign of nervous disorders. Perhaps I need to see a psychiatrist. I gather that there are lots of them in Austria.

Although, with work, I am very busy at the moment. Where will I find the time? I can't be in two places at once, can I? Or can I?

Cosmic Inertia

When one gets one's hopes up one is bound to feel disappointment. I felt disappointed when the information on Drew turned out to be nothing more than a few vague details about Drew exposing himself to a group of nuns in the town of Ghent when he was a student. This revelation served one useful purpose. I decided, there and then, to stop fixating on Drew. Despite his rather facile and annoying personality, he is actually nothing more than an irritant. By focusing on him, irrationally, as I now realise, I am losing sight of what my actual goals in life are.

Anyway, the universe has a way of leveling things up. He will probably step in some dog shit tomorrow, or get hit by a bus or something. Whatever it is, it will be for the universe to decide.

I wonder if there is a central office which I can write to requesting a particular course of action? A kind Universal Karma HQ, a Customer Services Department or something like that. If anyone has such an address, please let me know.

Mystery Phone - Of Course

The telephone rang this afternoon. Which was strange because I didn't know there was still a telephone in my room. I had the last one removed after Elaga took to ringing me at four o'clock every morning to yell abuse. I traced its muffled chirrup to the space beneath my bed, brushed the dust off it, grabbed the receiver and answered it.
"Hello?" I asked, still surprised by the mysterious appearance of a telephone in my room.
"Hello?"
"Yes? Who is speaking?" Nowadays I am naturally suspicious.
"Is that Dee?" asked the mystery voice.
"Er, yes. Who wants to know?"
"You don't know me but I have some information about Drew Sarsons which might be of use." The voice was quiet, almost inaudible. It was difficult to tell if it was male or female.
"Oh. I see," said I, my interest pricked.
"Yeah. Can we meet?"
"Of course. But can I ask one thing, first, before we go any further?"
"Now? Of course, ask anything you like."
"How did you get this phone into my room?"
The question was obviously unexpected because the caller hesitated and seemed confused. "I... I didn't put the phone in your room. I rang you though."
"Oh yeah," I laughed. "Of course. Just my joke."

We meet tomorrow at lunch time, just before I begin a marathon three hour set in celebration of a local dignitary and his selfless acts of kindness to local children.

Followed

It seems that no sooner do I step outside the front door of my room than I am joined by Herr Cheese, the man who likes British Catering. This is not his real name you understand, it is one I have made up for him. I must admit that, in bestowing this name on him, I have fallen prey to the feelings of irritation he engenders in me.
But he is only trying to be friendly, I hear you say.
Well yes, I take that point. But why does he have to follow me round everywhere? And why does he have to ask such annoying questions?
To your original point you might add that I am isolated and in need of allies and friends wherever I can find them?
My reaction to this second point would almost certainly be one of annoyance, so I recommend that you don't make it. Ok?

why?

Things are only quiet because I am so busy. Keep looking. Back soon

Authentic

I am compelled to ask why, when so much importance is placed on dressing up like people from the Nineteenth Century, brides and grooms don't choose to serve their guests some of the excellent food from that era. The tradition does not extend that far. May be it is because they have spent so much money on getting dressed up in absurd costumes that there is no money left for food. I hear gruel is rather lovely.

Party Food

As I made my way through the warren of corridors that make up the staff complex, with a plate of stolen cocktail sausages and cheese cubes in my hand, I ran into my old friend the solarium cleaner. If you remember he is the man with a fetish, I think that is the correct word, for English catering foods such as grated cheese. He smiled at me and gestured to my plate of food.
"No pineapple? No sharp pointy sticks?"
"No. I removed them. I find the sticks..... I find that the sticks stick in my throat." I let out a laugh to alert him to the fact that I was joking.
"Ah! A joke."
"Yes."
"Have you been to an English wedding?" He asked this question while poking at the food on my plate with his index finger.
"Oh. The food. Yes it is a bit of a give away. But no. No it wasn't an English wedding. Though I believe that the couple were Anglophiles." I smiled the kind of smile that implied he must understand what it means to be an Anglophile and he reciprocated with a smile of acknowledgement.
"Can I have a piece of cheese?"
"Of course."
"Thank you. You are very kind."
"Not at all. It was leftovers, and anyway I stole it . You can have a sausage as well if you want."
"Thank you."
Here our exchange ended and I retired to my room to write this and eat my stolen party food.

Quiettime More soon.

I am having some quiet time. Sorry.

diffo

I am experiencing difficulties. I hope that you will be patient for at least another day or so.

Victorian Era

This week we have had a busy schedule. When I use the term 'we' I refer, of course, to the band I am in, not the royal 'we'. This weekend, which though still current already feels as if it were a long time ago, we have played thirty four weddings at various sites around complex - from the smallest closet to the largest banqueting suite. We have churned out our bland and lifeless renditions of Manilowe classics to audiences made up of fractious, tense and waring family, old and long discarded friends and anonymous obscure hangers on; you know the kind of thing: boy friends of nieces'; girl friends of nephews'; fourth cousins; that woman from the local church who used to hold the groom when he was a baby because nobody dare tell her she couldn't; Lance from marketing that the bride shagged on her hen night.

The wedding industry, and I do mean the wedding industry as opposed to institution of marriage, is a wonderful thing to behold. It has its own very peculiar and very strong aesthetic, which is based on some illusory idea of the past and its fashions. I read somewhere that many of those traditions currently extant in the UK, and much of the Anglo-Saxon world, like the cake and the big dress and the men in frock coats and top hats, spring directly from the Victorian era.

Unfortunately, any attempt to attain and recover an idealised, fictional and incorrect notion of the past is doomed to collapse amidst disappointment and recrimination. The effort and expense required to recreate something that does not and has never existed, as I am sure any good particle or quantum physicist will tell you, is so huge as to be unquantifiable. No wonder people fight at weddings.

Shirts

Today has been one of pleasant relaxation. I headed into town and bought myself a new shirt. It is covered in ruffles. This is not my own choice but rather one necessitated by the bands new image and new set of songs. After visiting the shirt shop I browsed in an Austrian book shop and drank some nice coffee.

The Truth About Drew Sarsons - Part Two: The Reckoning

Although I am, by both design of nature and by accident of nurture, a person who believes in the fundamental goodness of everyone, I have struggled to place the behaviour of Drew, and my reaction to it, within my existing interpersonal and interrelationship frameworks. Or, more simply put, I don't know if I should find him and give him a smack in the mouth.

My usual reaction would be to believe that Drew's behaviour was probably a result of a misunderstanding, and that it was up to me to be friendly and let any slight I may have perceived rest on my own shoulders. But somehow I feel too angry to sublimate what he did. It may be that I am just full to the brim with taking such a lot of shit and that now, after having picked up one final straw, I am bound to act to save my sanity. Yes, unfortunately for Drew, I must have revenge. But how?

The one advantage of being so apparently placid is that people believe that you are incapable of seeing their flaws. This is, of course, not true. And Drew has one big flaw which, against my better judgement and good nature, I am going to have to exploit. Well actually he has two big flaws, but is the reckless vanity involved in wearing a toupee to cover his premature male pattern baldness something that should be, in all consciousness, exploited?

I will not detail his other peccadillos now. It is worth noting however, for regular readers of this blog, that the other flaw of which I speak is not terrorism related. That was just another of his imaginings.

Tricks Of The Trade

It appears that Drew was playing one of his "famous" practical jokes on me when he claimed to have been beaten by Mister P. He was joined in his jape by Elaga, who is now his girlfriend again. Actually I should have realised that those two were always destined to be together; and not worried too much when Elaga kept proposing that we marry.

You will note that I put the word famous in inverted commas when I refer to Drew's practical joke. Indeed, he has an established reputation for making mischief with people and people's lives which is unparalleled. He is merciless in his game playing and has damaged the prospects of a number of art world and non art world people.

A concerned outsider warned me that Drew hoped I would confront Mister P and incur his wrath.

And what of Elaga and her part in this? Well, as I have noted already, Elaga and Drew are meant to be together, so she feels compelled, nay driven, by some dark imperative to please him and make him jealous simultaneously. It is worth noting, however, that these actions are dictated, not by the conditions of her relationship with Drew, but by something else.

First to contend with in this is the age old and immutable law of father daughter relationships and its impact on Elaga and her behaviours. This law demands that daddy's girl Elaga be motivated by a desire to please and displease her father alternately. One moment she craves his approbation and approval and seeks to behave in a way that encourages this. The next moment she is disgusted by his pleasure in her choices and by his undoubtedly patronizing expression of the belief that she is still his little girl. Her behaviour is moderated, as all are behaviour is, not by her own choices, but by the rules laid down in programming establish, or inculcated in her, while she was still a child.

Secondly, Elaga hates me because I have consistently refused to commit to her and this has driven her into the arms of Drew.

It may be either one or both of these postulations.

Another interesting development is that Drew has also managed to convince Mister P that he really is a genuineee American. This has led to renewed talk of marriage between Elaga Drew. As a result of this Elaga and Drew are planning to visit a Parson. I think Mister P is interested in his passport.

It is likely that, surplus to requirements, I will be home within the week.

I am not a mime

I had my first experience of playing to an audience with the new band members. They are good. In fact they are so good that they sound like they are miming to a tape - which they are. Yes, as depressing as it is, my new colleagues are all non-musicians. This has the unfortunate effect of making my rather labored (labour is the English spelling) chugga chugga live guitar sound intrusive.

Escape?

Escape?

It seems that Elaga has heard of my nasty mischief - this is what she called it.
"Why did you tell my father? Drew is all messed up. I will never speak to you again"
At least she is off my back and not being all "lets get married. I love you," anymore.

Beating

The phone in my room rang at about half past three in the morning and on the other end of the line I could hear sobbing. At first I thought it was Elaga as this was one of her favourite hobbies. I listened patiently and waited for the self pity to begin oozing from the ear piece. When the sobbing finally stopped I was surprised to hear a mans voice, weak, barely audible, but definitely a man's, asking me why?

Dramatic stuff? That's what I thought. But the drama was about to increase. The voice was that of Drew and he wanted to know why I'd told Mister Popesceu he wasn't an American.
"Because you aren't an American."
"So? You didn't have to tell him. He nearly killed me. Oh my god my face..." Drew sobbed some more. Then, just as I began to feel guilty, his mood changed from one of misery to one of anger. "I'm gonna kill ya," he said, falling back into his American drawl as if nothing had ever happened."
"Oh," said I, falling easily into the mode of English understatement.

European And Other Enlargements

It is beginning to look as if my dream of musical success has been irrevocably broken. I started out hoping that I was going to be able to give my own uncompromising brand of quirky and individual music to the world. There was a faint desire for immense wealth and global popularity, but most of all I was driven by a desire to have people hear what I do. Now though, as I sit and strum my way through yet another rendition of "I Write The Songs" by Baz Manilow, while Ruben, the bands new front man and singer, struts and preens along the front of the low level stage that is our new home, it all seems so impossible.

At least when I was in a band where the other members had grown to hate me I had sense of belonging. Now though I am in the worst kind of situation. I am an irrelevance. Yes, sure, my strumming is important in that it helps to give the songs a fuller sound, but aside from this I might as well be back home stacking shelves. All the original members of the band, bar me, have either been sacked or have resigned. I am all that remains of the line up that embarked on this "tour" with hearts full of hope, full of confidence and full of optimism.

Why am I still here? That is a question I have asked myself many times over the last few days. Well, aside from the guitar, and lets face it my playing has never been that good, I am here because I am a fully paid up, unrestricted member of the European family. Now I know that Romania is now part of that family, however, this is only the case - and this is where I am at my most useful - after certain caveats have been applied. Apparently, in opening her arms to the nations of the east Mother Europe has had to insist that they don't all come running over at once. She has asked instead that they form an orderly queue and wait patiently until such a time as their home economies have given up what opportunities and benefits Mother Europe might want to take and make use of. Then, and only then, will it be prudent to allow the workers from these countries the opportunity to work and travel freely as fully paid up members of the European family.

As you can imagine this makes me popular with the eleven recently joined Romanian members of my band. Oh yes there is a poetic symmetry to everything in this world.

My band! I will hold onto that illusion for as long as I can.

Oh and one other thing. I am also still here because I signed a contract that says I must be here.

Trodden

When we arrived back at the Spa complex in Austria I was tired. I have two days of what Mister P refers to er and er, pronounced as one might exclaim if one has trodden in something nasty. Then, when I have met the new band members, who arrived several days ago and are now nicely settled in, we begin practicing for our new engagement as the resident wedding band.

Joke and Smoke

"Do you remember when Drew came for dinner darling? When he was going out with Elaga?"
Mister Popesceu laughed at this memory and began to smoke an imaginary cigarette, taking exaggerated drags and blowing pretend smoke through a hole in his pursed lips. "How can anyone smoke a cigarette with such pretension? That puh, puh, puh, sound he makes with his lips when he sucks on the filter of his Marlbro Lights. Why does he do that?"
"Why does he smoke those sticks of paper?" Asked Missus Popesceu. Mister and Missus Popesceu began laughing uncontrollably. The car veered across the road once more.
"Careful darling, you are scaring Denis."
"What? Does he think I might make him smoke one of my man's cigarettes? Full tar, that is what you need. You kids you are all the same."
"Sorry Mister Popesceu, but if you remember, I don't smoke."
"Oh yes. That's right." Mister Popesceu frowned and the mood became sombre once more. Eventually we pulled over at a rest stop and Mister P bought us all a burger and fries.

When Is A Fake Not A Fake

We drove on in silence for a few more miles. Eventually the silence was broken by Mrs Popesceu. "He is not American?" Incredulity filled her voice.
"No. He isn't. He's German."
"Really? Did you hear that? Drew Sarsons is not American. He is German."
When he spoke Mister Popesceu seemed equally sceptical. "German? No, it can't be. He has an American accent. He is a Yankie." He nodded and smiled in agreement with himself.
I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "No, really, he is German. He's from Koln or somewhere. He's never even been to the states."
Mister Popesceu turned in his seat to look directly at me. We were driving along at what was probably one hundred miles per hour and he wasn't even looking at the road. "Denis, I hope you aren't having a piss with us. You have already laughed at our daughter and now you are laughing at me and my wife."
The car swayed across two lanes of motorway.
"No, honest Mister Popesceu, he is German. His accent is fake, just like him."
"You know he is right about him being a fake darling," said Mrs Popesceu patting her husband on the shoulder and gently encouraging him to look back at the road again.
"About art, yes he is a fake. But about being an American, no I won't have it. Now both of you shut your mouths, I am trying to concentrate on the driving."

The Truth About Drew Sarsons

"Why did you tell my daughter that you were Canadian?" This question, asked as it was by Mrs Popesceu, caught me off guard. We were driving at speed across Europe in Mister P's Jeep Grand Cherokee and conversation had, until this point, been sparse. I saw Mister P give a glance into his rear view mirror, as if he was checking my reaction, and this put more pressure on me. He looked concerned.
"Oh," I laughed, "I'd forgotten about that." I looked back out the window and pretended to concentrate on some distant object.
"You forgot? You forgot, and now you laugh?" She seemed angry.
"Oh, well, you know. I meant no harm. It was only a joke." I realised how lame I sounded and attempted to explain myself in more confident tones. "You see Mrs Popesceu, being here in Europe, being abroad, well I am a foreigner. I felt, well, I felt self conscious."
"Denis. In Austria we are all foreigners. It does not excuse you laughing at my daughter."
It was then that I saw my chance to wriggle off the hook. "Oh I wasn't laughing at her. I was trying to impress her."
"Impress her?"
"Yes, by laughing at Drew Sarsons."
Mrs P smiled. "Oh that little prick. Oh I see. Then that is ok then. Those Americans... they are so..."
"Oh, Drew Sarsons is not American Mrs Popesceu, he's German." I was telling tales.

Denis Healey, Old Labour And The Face In The Tan Leather Seat

At first I did not see the woman sat in the front seat of Mister P's Jeep Grand Cherokee. It might have been because I was sat in the back seat or because the windows were tinted to almost black. It was, perhaps, half an hour before I noticed the eyes, staring back at me through the sun visor vanity mirror. When the eyes blinked the face almost disappeared. The realisation that I was not alone was quite disturbing. Finally the face spoke and it was then that I realised that the reason I had not noticed it before was because the skin was exactly the same colour as the tan leather of the seats. I moved uneasily, causing the leather to creak beneath my bottom.
"You are little Dee Dee? No? I have heard a lot about you. My husband he talks of you and the band all the time." The face smiled.
"Yes, I am. I am Dee Dee," I replied. Though not without thinking that the application of little as a prefix to my name was incorrect.
"Dee Dee? What kind of name is that? Is it made up? Is it a rock and roll name?"
"Yes." I felt embarrassed at having to answer this question, suddenly aware of my stupidity and the pretension of choosing such a name, any name, apart from my own.
"What is your real name, Dee Dee?"
I shuffled about in my seat, adjusting my seat belt, and then answered. "My real name is Denis."
Mrs Popesceu laughed at this. And then , as if she now needed to get a better look at the joke she was enjoying, she turned in her seat. "Denis? Denis? You mean like the Chancellor of Harold Wilson's government?" She laughed some more." I can see now why you had to change your name. Politics is not cool anymore."

Not many people under the age of forty will remember Denis Healey, Chancellor for the Labour Government from 1974 to 1979. The last Labour Chancellor before our current one, Gordon Brown. Although Mrs Popesceu was old enough to remember him, I was surprised that a Romanian woman, one who had been under communist rule during those years, knew who he was.

"Are you related to him?" Mrs Popseceu asked, her face suddenly serious.
"No. It's just a coincidence."
"Dee Dee," she said, "you will learn that in this life nothing is a coincidence."
The driver's door opened and in climbed Mister Popesceu.

Slaps and notes

I was writing about working in the fields, picking winter greens. I thought that they were cabbages but I was mistaken. Winter greens is what they are, a product for use as animal fodder.

I intended to write lyrically about the grey horizons, the interminable rain and the odd succulence of the winter green's leaves. However, having been immersed in said rain for a week now, and being unable, as I am, to rid my nostrils of the smell of those oddly succulent but highly pungent leaves, I have no stomach for it.

Anyway, events have superseded my creative desires. Mister P turned up yesterday.

I was, as you can imagine, quite angry with him, and my intention was to quit this excuse for a band and head for home. My initial attempts at brave and assertive confrontation were somewhat thwarted by his insistence on conversing only in Romanian. Then, as my irritation began to fuel my foolhardiness and I chose to raise my voice as a way of making my point, he hit me. The blow, in itself, was not especially hard. The shock of it, however, coupled to my innate understanding that he is actually really rather dangerous, served to bring me to my senses.

It is necessary that I clarify exactly what kind of blow was laid upon me: I was not punched, nor was I jabbed; I was not hit on the nose or in the stomach; I was not grabbed by the collar or the scruff of the neck; Neither was I kicked between the legs. No. Mister Popesceu chose instead to slap me. The slap was of the sharp and quick kind which, when delivered, initially produces a stinging sensation, quickly followed by a general warming of the area. Tears appeared in the corners of my eyes and all momentum was lost.

The hurt which my pride suffered was alleviated somewhat by Mister P's announcement that we were going back to Austria.

Later, as I collected my things, I noticed that someone had stuffed piece of paper into the pocket of one of my mud caked shirts. Although it had been folded many times to make it so small as to be almost undetectable, I could see that it had writing on it. It was a note. A message of some kind. My instincts told me not open it there and then, in the presence of Mister P.

Crop Picker

Let me write a little about what is known in the trade as "picking".

At some hour, in the dark of the night, I am roused from my wardrobe come bed by a ferocious shaking from the gnarled hands of Ringo, the old man who was sat in the armchair when I arrived the other day. I have a light breakfast of crackers and cheese. The cheese is unlike any other I have tasted. It is soft and tastes bitter and comes in cellophane cubes. On each cube there is a picture of that familiar and popular dairy emblem, the Labrador dog. I have not even allowed myself the luxury of playing with the idea that those small cubes of "Woof" are, in fact, cubes of dog's milk. Romania seems like along way from home but it is not so far as to produce that particular delicacy.

I make my way down to the street below and wait, with a crowd of fellow pickers, for the mini bus to collect us and take us to the field where we are to work. It is still dark at this time and will be for several more hours.

Sorry I have to go..... More later!

Cabbages and Callouses

I must apologise for not writing much this week. The reasons are twofold. First, of course, I was away from my normal computer access point. Secondly I have been otherwise occupied. This occupation I speak of is not very rock starish at all: I have been in a wet Romanian field cutting winter cabbages. Yes, that's right, cutting cabbages. It turned out that my digs were not paid for and, if I was not to be turned out onto the street, I had to work to pay my rent. The kind people on whom I was imposed as a lodger/guest were helpful enough to offer me the chance to join them at work in the fields.

I have tried ringing Mister P but he is not answering his phone. All I can do is sit tight. I will give it a week and then I am going to head for home. By home I mean England.

I feel quite disillusioned. Where are the new band members? Why am I having to pick brassicas to pay my bills?

My hands are coarse and calloused, my clothes are caked in mud.

Sleep

After a difficult cooking experience in the outdoor balcony kitchen I retired to bed. I say bed, this term is applied in only the loosest way; it was more of a wardrobe come vanity dresser.

At about half past three in the morning I finally got to sleep. At twenty five minutes to four in the morning I was woken up by the sound of trains on the adjacent commuter railway line.

Family Life

I arrived in Bucharest and was met by a friendly woman who described herself as an associate of Mister P's. After a few pleasantries about my journey - my journey was anything but pleasant - I was directed to an underground car park where the van was to be left. From there it was short walk to a small flat where I am to stay for the time being. This is unusual in that the flat is home to a family of Romanians who speak no English. No introductions were made, nor explanations given to either me or the family. Mister P's associate simply placed my bags in one of the bedrooms, kissed me on the cheek, shouted something at an old man sat in the corner of the sitting room, and left.

It appears that there are about six adults and five children living in the house, all of whom are from the same family, either through marriage or birth.

I am make the evening meal tonight.

comedy store

Van Ride

I have been given a schedule which demands I drive none stop for twelve hours at a time. Judging by the speeds this van is capable of this timetable is somewhat optimistic. It is rather old and decrepit. Things are a little better since I became immune to the strong smell of exhaust fumes. With the windows open I can just about breathe, just as long as I don't stop for too long in traffic. In stationary mode the fumes tend to build up somewhat.

I can understand why Mister P didn't want his daughter to accompany me on the trip, what with the slow to work breaks the fumes and the bald tyres. There is also a rust problem. But it is so extensive it would be more appropriate to describe the van as having a slight paint problem.

I have suddenly discovered the appeal of prayer.

Bucharest

Bucharest
Category: Music

I have been given an address in Bucharest and Euroflex road atlas. Oh yes, and the keys to a white van with a dodgy starter motor.

Hiatus

For the next six or seven days I will be posting shorter and less frequent blogs. This is because I am being sent on an errand by Mister Mister Popesceu. I am to drive to his home country to collect the new members of our band. Then we must rehearse.

I am please about this because it means I can avoid Elaga. Obviously if Mister P decides she must accompany me then I will have to accept that.

Perhaps this means I will get my passport back.

Freud is dangerous and so are blogs too

My date with Elaga went as well as can be expected. We ate at one of the Spa's restaurants so I could use my staff discount. Does that make me cheap? We chatted and she told me that she preferred the words "love making" to the word f**king. I thought about telling her that I preferred the words escape and run away to the words commitment and fear. All this while Mister Popesceu lurked in the background. Can someone lurk obtrusively?

Interestingly enough, Elaga has begun to psychoanalyse me. She has just started a new course module at her college. Freud's theories are dangerous in the wrong hands. I am worried that, if she finds the right thread and pulls on it, I might unravel completely. It is as if she can read my mind, see into the darkest corners of my soul. Either this or she is reading my blog.

I have at least one pleasure to look forward to: we are going out for an evening of private views and wine with the dreaded Drew Sarsons. I hope he tells me how great he is again.

Moooove over

I am beginning to feel a bit paranoid. Everywhere I go in the hotel I hear mooing noises followed by laughter.

Do I have balls?

"Do you have a clitoris?"
When I heard this strange question I assumed, naturally, that it was directed at someone else. For a moment I thought that the voice sounded familiar. However, the words it spoke were so odd that I immediately discounted the possibility that it might be anybody I knew.
"I said, do you have a clitoris?" This time the voice emphasized the word "you". My curiosity finally stimulated, I turned around. "Well? Do you?" The voice asked. I came from the mouth of Mister Popesceu.


Mister Popesceu was in town to choose the new members for our band. He looked well, but he was not happy. "You fucking musicians are shit. You waste my fucking time. I should finish you all." He gestured to a chair and I sat down. "Don't worry about the band. i have good musicians. Reliable. From my home country. They will show you how to rock. Ok?"

I nodded.

He leaned over and sniffed at my hair. "Now, tell me, do you have a clitoris or not?"
"No. Of course I don't have a, a," I suddenly felt unable to say the word.
"So why do you not want to see my girl? Are you a gayboy?"
"Girl? Gayboy? What? I'm not a, I'm not gay. And I don't think that you should use that.... What I mean to say is, well, gayboy. That isn't appropriate. Homosexual, yes. Gayboy? Well it isn't...."
"So you are a gayboy then?" Mister Popseceu took two steps back, as if he wanted to get a better look at me.
"No. No, I'm not. I like girls, women. I like women."
"Good. So you will ring Elaga and tell her that tonight you will fuck her!"

With hindsight it seems utter folly, but, at the time, I could not see why Mister Popesceu was intervening on behalf of Elaga. He was not the obvious choice for match maker. I decided to be honest and tell him that I did not feel attracted to Elaga; rekindling our relationship would only cause heartache for both of us.

There are some people who can speak softly and yet express menace. Mister Popesceu is one such person. He has no need to shout. "So, you insult me and you insult my daughter? I was wrong about you, you do not have a clitoris?"

As I sit here and read his words, I am struck by the absurdity of his gangster posturing. Surely, in the modern era, with a strong European police force, this kind of behaviour cannot happen?

Anyway, I must sign off now. I have a date with Elaga Popesceu. We are going to fuck.

Pornography

My ferocity disappeared before my confrontation with Janine began. It was the look on her face that did it. Until now I hadn't bothered to look at her when I collected my newspaper, our exchanges limited to my few poorly pronounced German words: danke, bitte, yah. The look in her eyes, as I walked into her domain to make my complaint, told me, before even one word was spoken, that she hated me.

Instead of striding up to her booth, with its till and pile of lottery tickets, I veered off and browsed the magazine racks instead. She looked so ferocious and I am not very brave.

There was another down side to my aborted attempt at assertiveness. As I struggled to regain my composure in front of the rows magazines, I hit upon the idea of making a purchase to, perhaps, appease Janine. Blindly, and with unseemly and nervous haste, I snatched up the nearest periodical and thrust it towards the waiting Janine. 'Danke," I said, groping in my pocket for whatever money I could find. Janine snorted and then made a strange mooing sound as she bagged up the magazine and took my Euros.

Later, to my shame and embarrassment, I discovered that I had inadvertently bought the German pornographic magazine "Meierei". I did not know people felt that way about dairy cows.

Newspapers

Today is cold. So cold that I have avoided going outside. However, at about three o'clock I was forced by hunger to make the dash from the staff quarters to the main complex. Here there is a choice of four restaurants, each offering food from a different region of the world. I decided on Chinese-style themed food.

As I settled down to my bowl of noodles and gigantic, growth hormone stimulated, black eyed prawns, someone slipped into my dragon bedecked booth. It was the man who appreciates the finer points of British buffet food. "Hi, ok if I join you?" He was wearing, as he always does, a vivid yellow vest. I tried to avoid looking at his sun aged arms and concentrated on my food. "Got the paper," he said, patting a folded up copy of a newspaper with his hand. "You read the English press? Best in the world the English press. So fair, so rigorous." He smiled and began to open the paper out on the table. A corner flopped towards my bowl of food. "Ooops, sorry. Forgive me. The Guardian, do you read this paper? I think it is my favourite because it is like the Berliner. Though, for myself, I do not take the Berliner. Too pompous. And too German." He laughed to himself, nodding at his little joke. "I am German," he said, obligingly offering the one piece of information which made his joke slightly more understandable but much less funny.

Catching a glimpse of the masthead I realised that it was today's paper.
"How did you get that?" I enquired, irritated and surprised that he, a German, should have an English newspaper on the day it is published, when I, an Englishman, have to wait three, four and sometimes even five days to have sight of one.
"Oh, they deliver it to my room every morning," he said with a nonchalance that only served to irritate me more.
"Who does? Who delivers it to your room?"
"House keeping. Or rather Janine from the shop does."
"Um. I suppose being a guest you should expect that." I said this by way of an explanation to myself and as a way of quelling the rather irrational anger which was beginning to build up in my chest.
"Guest? No I am like you, I work here. I am not a guest. If that were so, I would be skiing or something."
"You work here?" I couldn't imagine what this octogenarian, melanoma covered case for strict dress codes could do.
"I keep the solariums clean. Did you know that the mixture of sun creams and skin cells builds up very quickly. If it is left unchecked it can, in some rare circumstances, spontaneously combust! If someone is in the process of being solarified, then well, I leave the rest to your imagination. Safe to say that they would look just like your English melted cheese." He pulled a suitably ghoulish face. "And the sun bed in question would have to be completely refurbished. It might even need sending to Dusseldorf.
"So you are really very important then?" I said without attempting to disguise the sarcasm in my voice.
"Yes, quite so."

Surely, I thought later, it is the music that is important. Without the music there is nothing. I puffed out my chest and strode into the shop to confront Janine. I would have my birth right. I would have the English papers on the day that they arrived!

Cancellation and Persuit

Our set for this evening has been cancelled. This fortunate and much appreciated relief is nothing to do with the personnel events of earlier. The reason for the cancellation is storm damage. Our usual venue has been damaged by the high winds.

I was so excited by the idea of a night off that i went straight to the bar and began drinking. After three, perhaps four, large glasses of Vodka-something-or-other I began to feel sociable. I scanned the room to see if i recognised anyone. Over in the corner i spotted Amy Krugge from my band. She was with her new boy friend, the Spa complex gym supervisor. They looked as if they were having an argument so i walked over to join them.
"Hi! Can I sit down?"
"No. Now fuck off. Can't you see we are busy?" replied Amy to my polite request.

I returned to the bar and began playing with my mobile phone. Elaga's number appeared on the screen and then, a few micro