(NOTE: Hope you'll pardon the re-posting of previously released material. Actually even if you don't I'm bloody doing it anyway. But this amused me and I don't know how many people saw it, so I present it again for your... erm... faces.
I was asked, a couple of years ago, to chip in a bit for the blog section of the MySpace page for my first band Hoffman, assembled by our erstwhile word/larynx-smith, Mark Gristock. The following is an account of my joining said august institution.
I hope you enjoy... Do go and listen to our various ditties, BTW. I play bass on them.
That's us below at our first gig, BTW - circa 1993 I think. My back, as was my custom, is very firmly audience-wards, on account of absolute terror... Pic by the very ace Sarah Schofield, nee Brown...)
The early 1990's were largely unkind to me. I subsisted exclusively on butchers' waste. Bouts of narcolepsy were punctuated with extended periods of destitution, forcing me to kip in pub skips and touch bad men in bad places for coins. Illiterate and clumsy to an almost biblical degree, I had only two skills - looking away from things and people; and weapons-grade smoking.Happy chance, then, that it was precisely these abilities that landed me gainful employment as the electric bull-fiddle player in Hoffman.When assembling the band its founders were aware of a missing link in their chain. 'We're too outgoing!' they remarked over brandy and cigars. 'What we need is some way to tempering our natural exuberance. It burns too brightly for mortal eyes. We will scare the locals. Bear in mind, gentlemen, that we are denizens of Somerset. Even the use of the word 'denizens' may have us burned as witches' 'What we need, gentlemen, is the humanising element of awkwardness. And someone with a bass. I don't want to go anywhere near it. Bass is for numpties and twats...'Word must somehow reached them of my existence. I was awoken one chill November morning, by a knock on my skip. They had sent their batman, the redoubtable Bowyer of Yeovil, with a flask of hot Lucozade and 20 Bensons. 'Mr Davies,' he said, 'The Hoffmen request your presence at the Small World Club.' Wiping the congealing vomit from my Husker Du T-Shirt, I took the gloved hand he'd extended, and pulled myself out of the midden, making my way to the black car that awaited us, engine purring like some wheeled panther in repose.I had heard of the Small World Gentlemens Club before. It opened its doors exclusively to young musicians of the independent persuasion, the guitar toting aristocracy of Wessex. It was there, in the confines of the club's Dead Room, that I was introduced the fabled Hoffmen. I recall only three of their number in detail. First was Mark, the son of a Dutch Viscount, a dandy, poet and swordsman, robed in a suit of powder-blue. Next was Daniel, a swarthy figure, possibly of piratic extraction, ostracised from his pirate kin on account of a pair of butterfly-like wings that grew from his back. In the opposite corner was Michael, a gentleman thief, bearing a combined air of threat and nobility, his garb the sharpest of the group and marking him firmly as one of the Swell Mob. The fourth man is barely worth mentioning. In fact 'men' would be more accurate, as the figure behind the drum kit was refreshed on an hourly basis, swiftly transported to the Philippines for infractions I was never party to.Daniel was first to speak.'We need a bass player,' he began, lighting a Turkish cigarette of a brand I do not immediately recall.'Why me?' I replied, squinting in the glare of the low ceiling lamps.'We heard you can smoke,' answered Michael. 'We heard you're the best. We need that...'Mark, setting aside his silver-topped cane, pulled a cigarette case from his jacket, and opened it, proffering me a cigarette. 'You know this is your destiny...'I avoided his gaze, but reached forward, taking one of the porcelain-white cigarettes. He lit it. I fixed my eyes to the floor.'Did you see that?' remarked Daniel. 'Such terror of even the most basic human interaction!''Then it's agreed?' asked Michael.'Agreed it is...' said Mark, pocketing his lighter. 'That’'s our bass player...'
The fools!! Fools I say! They still owe me £5.75 for this piece, depicting the famous British (UK) comedianist "Tony Hangcock", in one of his equally famous "Half Hour"s.
So. Here you are, January, you bloated Monday of a month.
Not wishing to open 2012 on too dour a note, but this drear January business should be addressed front and centre. January blows. It blows at an Olympic standard (a fitting standard, give all that pish happening in London this coming summer). January is dark mornings, near-perpetual cloud-piss and a full twelve-monther before the too-recently departed midwinter jollity is renewed.The best we can expect is that it slips by us quickly, or that it snows. Snow is the great absolver of the dull months. A welcome imposition of pure beauty on the flat bleak English winter. Something about the turn of the year leeches the romance from the season. From here it's slog, possibly slush, until Spring shows up.I, for my part, have some projects - both new and much delayed ones - which may raise a chuckle. Top of the increasingly guilt-inducing List of The Unfinished is the second series of A Disappointment. I've been extended a genuinely humbling degree of goodwill for that first series, and I would love to repay that goodwill by besting those first episodes. Work began last summer on this, in the form of decreasingly legible / comprehensible notes. There are a few new characters on the way. Many things people have liked are in the bin. Much still remains to be pulled out of my arse at the last minute, in the time-honoured fashion. What is certain is that this series will be the last. And that it will contain Evil Bullseye.
I owe some good friends across The Pond a fairytale, too. And I have been quietly chipping away. That's their's to tell you about, though.
Something that is actually, actively, an actual active thing, however, is Series 2 of the award-dodging Soldiers of Tangent with the inimitable, and weapons-grade-awesome, Mr Marty Perrett. It's a dream show, for a lazy bugger like what I am. We do no prep. There's not a great deal of editing. We just turn up on Skype, and talk in spiralling nonsenses until I have to help put Leela to bed. Episode One of this second run is out now, with the second appearing when we feel the urge, which may well be soon. It's a lot of fun. Listen below:
There are a few other bits and pieces looking likely for the next year. I may also find time to eat cakes.
Oh and some bears did a Xmas podcast as well. Using my gear... cheeky...
Anyway, January-miff aside, a Happy New Year to everyone. 2011 contained one highlight of life changing magnitude - the birth of my impossibly wonderful daughter Leela Rose. 2012 will, frankly, have to shit diamonds to beat that.
The most excellent Jason Warden over at ShadowCast did me the huge honour of asking me to not only read this fantastic story, but host the episode too. David Tallerman's Caretaker in the Garden of Dreams is a delightfully icky helping of surreal dark fantasy. While my horror hosting skills, frankly, have some way to go, I was chuffed beyond measure to hear that Mr Tallerman himself "hadn't entirely realized what a deeply horrible story "Caretaker" is until (he'd) heard it read like that". If you'll permit the momentary self-congratulation, I'll call that job done :)
Actually it's quite a bittersweet time. Jason recently posted that ShadowCast's future imay be in doubt. I, for one, would be greatly saddened to see it go, if it comes to that. Had I the time, I would be honoured to take it on full time, but I have fingers in a whole van load of pies right now, and I just wouldn't be able to do it justice. Here's hoping someone can keep this fantastic venture going.
Furthering my quest to reduce myself to a disembodied voice, whispering disquieting fictions into strangers' ears, the splendid folk over at Dark Fiction Magazine bid me contribute a narration to their latest issue. Graham Joyce's fantastic Xenos Beach recounts one man's attempts to escape from recent heartbreak on a secluded Greek beach, where he encounters something both alluring and unsettling.
I present the following, figure 4(B) from my forthcoming paper for the International Journal of Astrobiology - 'Towards a Jovian Biology - The Hidden Fauna of Gas Giant Planets'. Please forward my Nobel Prize cash to the usual adress...
According to Wikipedia, that sparkling island of veracity set in a raging ocean of falsehood / bullplop, 3.4 million Londoners, visitors and assorted moths use the London Underground each day.
I will freely admit I may appear a bit biased in loving James Harper's awesome series of animated shortsLife in a Tin City. I'm in one of them. You may also recognise the voice over the Tannoy in the opening. And James is an old friend, was Best Man at my wedding, and is a long-time co-conspirator. But these are fantastic little vignettes with a brilliant premise - weird stories from random Tube passengers. All high-quality nonsense, written and animated by James.
