Saturday, 21 May 2011

No Encore: The Sequel

Continuing this theme. When the track below came out (on the comp Macro Dub Infection II), I was young and stoopid enough to want this to be the last 'choon' I ever heard. The kind of idiot male melodrama appropriate for a go-nowhere recent graduate, reluctant to abandon habits he shared with people who now had places to take their scrolls. Let's just say its one-sentence lyric spoke to me. Autobiography: the night I chose this as my anthem, I decided not to show up for my crappy barman job and 'pah-tay' instead. It was an - ahem - somewhat illuminating evening. However, upon returning home the following noon, I discovered that the actual tenants of the flat had returned (no one mentioned that wee matter to me when I moved in that summer), replacing my pah-taying flatmates who had dispersed in an overnight panic. So, technically homeless and very much jobless, there was no other option but to keep the pah-tay going without pausing for a wink of sleep. I at least learned that with little more than newsagent deoderant and a decent toothbrush, one can survive anything with enough grace (cue the the theme to The Wonder Years). The morning after that, I awoke to news of Princess Diana's death; spending a drizzly Sunday rigorously pondering the ashen, laminate complexions of newsreaders, over a warm bottle of Irn-Bru. Go figure. Space restricts discussion of the 'problem-solving skills' I utilised for the peculiar week that followed. Well at least the rest of the country had gone insane by then...

5 comments:

carl said...

sound like you've got a novel right there....

W. Kasper said...

Maybe, but...

http://www.theonion.com/articles/mans-life-riddled-with-continuity-errors,20492/

W. Kasper said...

Addendum:

The morning before I found out the flat belonged to someone else, me and a mate were stopped to take part in a market research excercise, which I thought would be good for a laugh. We were led in to a room of TVs with headphones to view a new ad campaign. It was Milk Tray chocs sold in the style of... David Lynch. I kid you not. Sexual menace, moody synth music and all, with some stylishly dressed Frank Booth type trying to get invade the home of an anxious femme fatale with his chocolates. We had to push levers according to how 'happy' or 'not happy' the imagery made us feel.

Then we were interviewed. I wonder to this day if my frazzled, disturbed, gibbering response killed the whole campaign. Bizarre weekend...

Anonymous said...

your missing the fact that acid got us through that morning. and that it was a fucking good party

W. Kasper said...

I never said it wasn't, Mr. "O.B.". Still a classic choon, nevertheless. Still makes me laugh when I hear it.

I also forgot to mention the necropolis at dawn, which was rather refreshing for the weirdness ahead. Remember the glue-sniffing council employee? He ruined any 'mystical' notions with his head in that paper bag...