Bella Lasagne - Pawn in the Reign of Emperor Sam

Why is Bella Lasagne’s restaurant named Rivoli’s?

And why does Fireman Sam continue to let his young niece and nephew dine in her establishment when she’s constantly setting fire to it?  Rather than take his position in the local community seriously he prefers to wait for the inevitable accident to happen and then just lecture everyone afterwards.  Seems he’s just trying to keep the people of the village of Pontypandy within the iron grasp of Emperor Sam through fear and intimidation, they all know that if a fire occurs and only incompetent Elvis is there to save them then will surely perish.

So why is Bella’s restaurant named Rivoli’s?  I have a theory.

Emperor Sam in his bid for supreme power needed proof of the savage danger of fire, an icon, a victim.  Rivoli was the name of Lasagne’s late husband.  She lost him in a tragic firework accident, he’d bought a magnificent firework that lit the sky in the shape of a loveheart with which he intended  to surprise Lasagne.  He’d bought it from a man with a handlebar moustache and a habit of twirling it whilst muttering gleefully under his breath.  It was his gift to her on their fifth wedding anniversary, a token of his undying love.

He told her to go to the upstairs back window and look to the skies.  Patiently she looked into the night sky as her husband below lit the firework.  She patiently waited a bit longer.  Suddenly the garden below her exploded in ravenous flame, it streaked between the fences like napalm.  In the throws of wildest panic she dialled the emergency services, 999.

Elvis arrived minutes later and bravely fought the nonexistant flames in the cafe itself and dashed upstairs to get Bella out.  As he rushed back downstairs with Bella over his shoulder in the well rehearsed Fireman’s Lift, she screamed at him.

“My-a husband, he’s still-a outside in the fire!”

“Oh, bloody hell mun” panicked Elvis “Where’s Sam when you need him?”

Where indeed was Sam?  Visiting a sick Aunt?  On a well deserved holiday?  It mattered not where he was, rather where he wasn’t.  And he certainly wasn’t in Pontypandy.  He needed to prove he was indispensable.

When Sam arrived back in the village we can’t be sure what happened.  We can however assume that there was a conversation with Bella that went something along these lines:

“Oh Sam, it all happened-a so fast.  And Elvis, he-a… he-a tried, but he just couldn’t save him.”

“I know Bella, I know.”

“Oh Sam, I…”

“Hush now, Sam’s here now lovely.  You now know the dangers of knock off fireworks don’t you?”

“Yes-a.”

“Don’t worry, Sam’s not going to be leaving here again, I’ll make sure that nothing like this happens ever again.”

“”Oh Sam…”

“Shush now, at least one thing’s come out of this, you can start using your maiden name again.  I always did like the sound of it, such a pretty sing-songy name, Bella Lasagne.”

“Yes-a Sam…”

Presumably he then proceeded to take advantage of her in fragile state of mourning.  He probably cackled himself to sleep at night for weeks on end, his perfect scheme bestowing him complete power over the village.  Bastard.

Honesty: An Ephipany and a Confession

When I was at university I crumbled because I realised I was a phoney. I’d considered the possibility for a long time, but I had it confirmed for me there in less than a month. My arrogance had gotten me A level results, shitty A levels in shitty subjects, but results they were and my arrogance had used those to get me into a two-bit university on a Mickey Mouse course.

My arrogance had done very well for itself by all accounts, but when the semester, and lectures themsleves started proper I knew my arrogance didn’t have what it takes to make me a success, to get me through it alone.

For a year I relied on this dominant aspect of my personality, allowing it to stand up and justify my drink and drug fuelled nonchalance. I mention the booze and drugs not as an excuse, just for context. But during that time of ego driven audacity, focused on doing nothing of effort and worth, another personality trait built itself up slowly, quietly, until it had completely overtaken the running of the show.

Subservience. Spinelessness, the inability to believe anything my own mind concocted that contradicted another person, because surely they knew better than me right? I mean they could say words that had meaning behind them, emotion behind them. They must know better than me.

And I kept hiding for a long time, reacting in ways I know people would want me to, appeasing everyone, being phonier than I ever could’ve believed I would. Just so others would think me likable because of my overwhelming urge to be agreeable.

Reacting, not interacting.

And it still goes on to this day. Even though I’ve gained confidence and pieced together bits of what I think I believe, which is still very little, I still betray these thoughts, myself.

At work I refuse to stand up for them, I choose to denounce them and instead find reasons to fortify the bullshit of others which permeates around the bar. It’s why I’m the best barman in town, why I’m the best barman in a backwards community.

I started having these personal revelations because I’ve been trying to figure why I hate my writing beyond the usual necessary tortured artist routine. And I’ve sussed it.

It’s not honest, it’s guarded and during the earliest moments of the writing process it’s convoluted by pandering to what I think will be considered clever, to what I wat the big boys to think of me. And whilst bits may sound original and clever, every piece is speeding off to a false start, flying out the gates with a brace strapped to it’s leg by being written in the wrong manner for the wrong reasons.

Today I started reading Franny and Zooey by J.D. Salinger, someone once told me it was their favourite book and as I write this I’ve already nearly finished it, which is non small accomplishment for a slow reader as I am. It slammed home that my realisations about my writing are inseperable from realisations I have to make about myself, they go hand in hand and skip happily down the road towards a sunset with a subheading titled wisdom.

I find myself wishing I’d read the book when I was told about it, but reading it any earlier would’ve negated any effects it had on me. Except maybe to inflict this same American twang I’ve inflicted on the poor buggers who’ve read this far.

Conclusion? Getting back into reading has done me the world of good, I’m enjoying catching up on the 8 or so years of emotional growth that they missed out on helping to foster. But really seriously, as in I’d kick your arse if you dared interupt the next part of this sentence, no longer does my arrogance prevent me from listening and no longer does my subservience defy me from answering.

Stop trying to be seen as clever, be honest and don’t pander to those you seek approval from.

That goes for writing words, but it will go for my actions as well.

New Year Promises, New Year Lumps

In an effort to regulate my sleeping patterns and the order of my day, I’m trying to break myself into some good habits, which of course everyone’s always trying to do. But, I have a powerful weapon on my side, a tool of great power used for decades by self-congratulating self-help gurus. I have a list.

The list is the key to harnessing the power of our own guilt, look at those bulleted points there, each unaccomplished goal a sneering attack on your character, your own ambition mocking you in a booming voice, holding a knife to your throat and threatening to rape your self worth.

Ahem. So, yeah, a list, the same sort everyone makes at the beginning of the new year, full to the brim with hungover repentance and promises to the almighty Me of a better tomorrow. I have a slight advantage though, for starters it’s not New Year’s Day and I’m not hungover and I haven’t been hungover for a few days now. Which is where my list begins.

1. Drink less. Now listen up Davies as I’m only going to say this once, drinking every night no matter if it is just one or two jars, is totally unacceptable. You can feel your body working a whole lot smoother today after a few days off, can’t you? Right, there you are then. So, from now on you drink only a few times a week, and if you like you can go apeshit on those days, get so ballsed that you try to seduce streetlamps by crooning Lady in Red whilst wearing nothing but your mother’s underwear. Just have a couple of nights off a week so you can wake up in the morning and feel fresh, instead of being eaten inside out by the black hole of memory from the previous night.

2. Food. More of it. Better quality. I’m not succumbing to whims of Jamie Oliver here, but I truly think I was eating better in Comprehensive school, when the only crap they served was pizza comprising of 80% olive oil and sausages comprised of 40% expelled fellow pupils. At least 2 meals a day, at least one of which is lovingly crafted with your own hands. And no Davies, lifting the plastic film off the shit storm stroganoff, stirring it and putting it back in the microwave is not lovingly crafting it.

3. Books. Read at least 30 of them this year. You know all that time you spend constantly refreshing the pages of websites that only update twice a day? Well you can cut that right out now and go pick up book instead, you’ve got a pile of them to your right that you haven’t even touched yet, despite spending 2 quid on them and I will not have you wasting money young man. The 30 is just an arbitrary number and not that important, it’s just a goal to work towards, the important part is just getting some regular reading in. Before bed would be a good idea too, remember we discussed having a more regular routine earlier? Well this’ll help out with that.

4. Writing. Go back to all those half finished pieces and have a good crack at finishing them. Don’t criticise or over think them until you get to the end, that’s what redrafts are for. Don’t cut yourself down until you’ve finished. Get back to writing something everyday, write about how many tiny dead flies there are in the store room, write about the intricacies of clipping your toe nails, write about knocking one out to an episode of Thundercats. Write anything, you don’t even have to bother with sentences if you don’t fancy it, try just an endless stream of imaginary curse words, it’ll pick up your spirits if nothing else, you pansy ass fromelinger.

5. Exercise. Hmm, not so sure about this one. No in fact, sod that, I like my beer belly just the way it is, in fact this year I think I’ll attempt to join a heavier division. Right, so no exercise and more fags, got that?

There are more here on this bit of paper but I’m fed up of talking to myself in a condescending voice, I’d rather just get on with it now.

For the record, the growth in my armpit that has been expanding and contracting for the last 4 months has turn into a boil, complete with three massive puking yellow heads on it. Either that or a boil has grown over the top of it, there’s no way to be sure yet but I promise to keep you posted.

Update: Boil is popped and leaking like your momma’s minge when I saunter in wearing her negligee, suckers. Whether the boil is a seperate entity to the lump is still unknown.

Right then, let’s have some MF Doom and Tubeway Army to celebrate.

Stereo!

If I hadn’t already had the snip I’d be off somewhere right now making ninjas-in-training, Pavement-kareoking babies like this pair.

Sorry broody indie ladies, what’s done is done.

Dear Miriam…

Now I’ve seen everything, an Agony Aunt giving helpful, no, scratch that, insightful advice. And from The Sun as well, whoddathunkit?

Thank you StumbleUpon, you make the long nights entertaining.

Still Humming Lullabies Mixtape

As I’ve started working full time recently I’ve not had much spare time at all, and any of it that’s been spent on writing has been directed away from this blog and to matters that seem like they have deadlines. I have however had time to listen to music, there’s always time for music no matter what you doing and from that sprung the idea of making mixtapes to be posted here that some way relate to a specific activity. Being the brand conscious daddio that I am, the titles of the compilations in this series will probably all begin with “Still…”

Enough expository dialogue, today I present to you :

Still Humming Lullabies

Follow the link and type the 3 digit code displayed next to the box in the top right hand corner. There’ll then be a 25 second countdown and after that you just need to click the Download button that replaces the countdown. The files are compressed as an rar archive, so you’ll need to download WinRAR to decompress it.

The purpose of this compilation is not just to lull it’s listener to sleep, but to continue interacting the listener’s brain and grandly help orchestrate fantastic and grand dreams. No one dream in particular, but just to stimulate that subconscious creativity that dwells inside us all and manifests itself as we sleep. From the warped non-sensical dreams that trip over their own ideas and colours to the complex, plot driven sorts that upon waking feel like you’ve participated in an epic adventure, all the way to those that are of no discernable form; I believe dreams help lubricate a person’s imagination and can also be an awful lot of fun.

The theory that music can do all this, is all lovely and nice, but very probably untrue. However, during the making of the playlist I zoned out and submerged myself in the Land of Nod and in recent memory it’s not been so idea packed, plot driven and at the same time nonsensical as during this nap. To give you a taste of what I mean, this particular dream involved a child’s relationship with a book and his ability to travel to and from it’s magical lands in a circular/ouroboros manner due to it being published at regular intervals as a serial. Whilst it makes perfect sense to me there’s no way in hell I could delve any deeper than that and still have it make any sense to anyone else reading this. Which I see as reason enough to indulge this little theory and the perfect excuse to make a compilation of ambient, minimal and purely obtuse tunes.

Track 1 - goes nowhere - Melissa Welch

Taken from the 3 track ep “sleep-wake” that Melissa released in 2005 when she was only 16. It’s described everywhere as a very dream-like track and I can’t argue, making it the perfect starting point for us. I can’t find much about Melissa on the net she does however have a myspace page showcasing her most recent musical efforts.

Track 2 - Scenic Recovery - Labradford

From the self-titled 1996 release, this album saw Labradford dabbling with sampled and real time percussion which I’m informed had not been heard on previous Labradford releases. Later albums would see them embracing the string section amongst other consistencies of post-rock movement and the seeds of that to come0 are obvious in this track.

Track 3 - Subterraneans - David Bowie

The final track from the first of Bowie’s “Berlin Trilogy”, and one of the few Bowie album’s I care for. The first half of the record features short, more pop-orientated songs whilst the second half is chocked with long instrumental tracks that can probably equally credited to the series’ collaborator, brian Eno.

Track 4 - I Wrote This Song for the Girl Paris Hilton - Vincent Gallo

Artistic Jack of all trades and probable colossal wanker, Gallo’s “outrageous” stunts include making his “disease-free” sperm purchasable over the internet for $1 million to anyone bar those of dark complexion and cursing film critic Roger Ebert’s colon with cancer. This song is taken from the 2001 Warp Records release “When” and probably appeared in the short film “Honey Bunny” featuring Paris Hilton, though it’s too pretty a song to hold that against it.

Track 5 - A Moment to Myself - Alex Smoke

Glaswegian minimal techno taken from his second album “Paradolia” available on Soma Records. I don’t know a whole lot about him and am far too lazy to research properly, but I know he’s in Cardiff at the end of the month and suggest you all check it out.

Track 6 - Over and Over - Apparat

Apparat aka Sascha Ring is part-owner of the label “Shitkatapult”, with himself having done a John Peel session in 2004 and the label being featured as label of the month on the show in July of the same year. Interesting bit of trivia, the first track released on the label was actually a rock ‘n’ roll release, fancy that.

Track 7 - Safety in Number One - A Cloud Mireya

A collaboration of members from Prefuse 73 and ON!AIR!LIBRARY!. Recorded as a side-project during down-time from their main bands, the collection of songs on the album “Singular” started off as lullabies with some stretching out to epic lengths, making them the perfect addition to this compilation.

Track 8 - Warszawa W Nocy - Dictaphone

German duo Dictaphone’s Nacht ep is all clicks and glitches layered with resonant ambience, their background in film scoring imbues the music with an emotional and human touch, seperating them somewhat from everyone else doing this sort of thing.

Track 9 - Little Red Riding Hood hit the Road - Robert Wyatt

Starting his musical life as a member of the influential Canterbury scene band The Soft Machine, Wyatt during his spell with the band Matching Mole jumping from a window during a drunken party and became paralysed from the waist down which led him to quit the band and drumming altogether. He spent his recuperative period rejigging what would’ve been the Matching Mole album into his second effort, the humourously titled “Rock Bottom”, from which this track was taken.

Amusingly, sabotaging a pub or bar’s atmosphere by selecting an obtuse, overly long, or song otherwise likely to irritate the clientele through use of an MP3 jukebox is generally referred to as “Wyatting”. Well, its amusing to smug, miserable old sods such as myself anyway.

As I’m an idiot and can’t figure out how to make a torrent file work properly, I’ll be using the webhost I’ve linked to above to host the files for the time being.

For best results Still Banging On recommends you start this compilation right before taking your 4 pm nap, at a moderate volume and on a sunny day.

beverly hills 90210

I had a massive geekgasm when I watched this just now, The Flaming Lips performing on Beverley Hills 90210! The dialogue mixed in is brilliantly cheesy,

Bad ass centre parting bloke - Hey, is that The Flaming Lips?

Minnie Dolph Lundgren - Well it’s not Michael Bolton.

It was such a phat geekgasm that I grew thick black glasses and a spotted bowtie. And Kelly Kapowsky looks fitter here than in her cheerleading days in Saved By The Bell.

poetry vs. the fuzzy head

My experimentation in hangover cures is continuing to make advances in nursing me back to health after a night out (or sometimes a night in) and I’ve discovered a new method which now brings my grand total up to two. I’ve spent the day listening to bebop and spoken word poetry so that I now have a cure even if it’s not a Sunday morning, as that’s when the Hollyoaks omnibus is on. In fact I think it might even be better than watching pretty faces and mindless drama, as surely lubing my brain with jazz and then forcing it to life through comprehension and contemplation of words might actually be beneficial for me.

The dude below is named Rives and I rather like him. You can watch more videos and learn a bit about him at shopliftwindchimes.com

Hangovers are worth the fun of the night and the new joys you uncover when looking for ways to defeat them.

Faceless Music - Radio is the way forward

I’ve come to the conclusion that most mainstream indie bands want me to hate them despite trying as hard as I have to like them.

Whilst staring daily into Microsoft Word’s frighteningly white screen, I habitually listen to BBC 6Music hoping for a flash of inspiration but usually have to satisfy myself with bobbing my head to the latest indie hits and the occaisional obscure gem of a record (These beauties are in plentiful supply on Stuart Mackonie’s Freak Zone, 6pm Sundays). The nature of the radio playlist leads the catchier numbers to stick in your head and the quality songs to eventually win you over and become cherished tunes. With stations such as this, the playlist is one of it’s greatest assets, but with others it becomes their greatest burden. This of course is a simple matter of personal taste.

Recently I’ve introduced a new distraction to my morning routine, the double bill sitcoms on the Paramount Comedy Channel. Slap bang it’s 9 am, there I am watching Two and a Half Men, relishing the innuendo and the stolen guffaws from the forbidden low-brow humour. But alas, their ad breaks are lengthy and plentiful and one can only make so many cups of coffee and smoke so many cigarettes in the period of an hour. Whatever is a boy to do?

The answer comes to me as I recall my channel hopping infested, early teenhood amd gadzooks! How could I forget the default starting position for the short attenion span endowed - the music channels!

Right, so the canned laughter has subsided and some weasly geezer-prick is trying to sell me cheaper insurance for my imaginary car, let the flicking commence before starving child deserving of my money forces me to send him money monthly from my imaginary bank account. Ooh, I know this one, it’s got that clicky drum beat and ace bass riff! Cor, the drummer looks like a bit of a plonker with that silly scarf and horrible hair, though I suppose it’s a drummer’s perogative to be a bit kooky, how else are they going to get noticed? Saying that, Christ, look at the singer - why’s he moving like that? Ohh, this must be the band I heard someone talking about with the singer with the muscles disease or the spazzy nerves or something. Look, there are guys doing it in the audience too and women are actually dancing with them! Hang on a minute, perhaps it’s been too long since I’ve been to an indie club and this is what they do now. The answer to that one is no, it hasn’t been too long, I don’t think I could handle being surrounded by this level of twatishness.

After an hour of ad breaks this inner monologue turns from the surprised whelping seen above to the silent raging and ranting that until now I had reserved for the Sunday Mail.

Oh mainstream indie, why do you do this to me? Just as I was about to embrace you once more as something fun and enjoyable you show me what you really are. It’s like meeting that fittie off Myspace that you’ve been exchanging dirty messages and pictures with for months and finding out that she’s not hot, just a wizard with photoshop. Watch out for those photos taken from above fellas (Yes, I do enjoy being a shallow git, hating makes the days seem shorter).

But as with internet dating, it’s all my own fault really and I know it. I know I’m a pretentious, judgemental prick and I also know that the mainstream indie is based on image as much as talent, yet I let myself mix the two together and now it’s just turned into something hateful and dirty, like punishment wanking in your sister’s bed.

While I’m not going to completely immerse myself in bands who’ve barely had a photograph taken of them, let alone a record pressed I do feel like I should go skulking back off to the weblogs to find something obscure and faceless, I know I’ll miss the banter and the intimacy of the radio.

So I just have to take away with me this lesson that I thought I had learnt in 2002 : Do not watch music channels and do not read popular music magazines, music should be heard and not seen. Oh, with the exception of being at a gig of course. Or a recording. Or unless you’re reading it off a sheet in order to play it. Hmm, I think I should’ve made the last half of that rule broader.

Regardless, I’m sure I’ll have forgotten this again in another 5 years time, but with any luck I’ll just stick to Kerrang!TV, I can handle Linkin Park looking like wallies and sounding like the weedy kid in the Under 14s Football Club.

radio recommendation

I’ve found a new favourite for Sunday morning listening to assist the nursing of a hangover with a nice cup of tea, comedian Ruseell Howard’s 6 Music show.

Howard, of Mock the Week fame, is joined by sidekick Jon for some gigglicious banter that this week encompassed car crashes, valentine’s day and Parisian restaurants. It’s far more entertaining than it sounds, particuarly Jon’s seemingly eternal misery and moaning. They also spin some enjoyable songs, but as with the best Sunday morning radio the focus is on rambling conversation. Thank you lads, I now have something better than Hollyoaks to ease my Sunday morning hangovers.