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Sinister: here are some flowers.
by Richard Gillanders 26 May '03

26 May '03

I'm missing the touch I had more than once. but it is not lost. I've lost the touch I once had. but is this fortune or mis-? take. for example. everything. apologies would be lost on you. but you're not missing them. YOU CAN NEVER EVER DIE I fell for you. and what a way. away from here. I'm living. in my mind. I have nothing to worry about. take. for example. everything. I was there. I was not the only one. not for a change. of direction: upwards and onwards. I am more a part of things than ever. but apart from things. apart from most things. I am living. forever. for now. is forever. now? now and forever. more. shall be seen. or else. everything is a trial. now is a trial. everything is forever. until. no more. lonely nights. never be another. day or night. I'm always there. there is away. there is a way. to there. I will go. and return. return. return. return. return. return. enter? SHIFT. titles need not have meaning. meaning that. titles are only titles. and not everything. titles are not forever. titles are not a trial. subject? yourself to[o]. whatever. you like. or. need. to. have. or. want. to. have. to. have. to. have. to. have. to. have. and to. hold. the front page. should have titles on? it shouldn't not be forever. trying. to be. or not. to be. that is. the question: weather, etc. I like rain with sun. I like rain without sun. and maybe me. reign with son. forget. me. not. to go on: YOU CAN'T EVER NEVER DIE better out than in. better out than in? better in than out. whether in or out. weather out. always. almost. out. for the count: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. 5. whatever it was. that was. counted. when I awoke. birds. you can't ever never die. to say you could would be a lie. if it ought to be or not to be. life cannot be bought. if not to me, it ought to be. love can be brought. wait and see. weight and sea. problems. for everything. for forever. I'd like to see the sea weighed. in a way. with scales. under. and in. and everything. forever. and not just by calculation. for calculation is worth zero. I think I've found a problem with my equations: everything is not forever. not always. not forever. not always. anyway. any way. you can. do. can do. this guy says the horse can do. his name is paul revere. and here's a guy who says if the weather's clear. I am paul revere. I like mud. I am no bum steer. valentine's epitaph. __________________________________________________ It's Samaritans' Week. Help Samaritans help others. Call 08709 000032 to give or donate online now at http://www.samaritans.org/support/donations.shtm +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister(a)missprint.org. To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to majordomo(a)missprint.org. WWW: http://www.missprint.org/sinister +-+ "sinsietr is a bit freaky" - stuart david, looper +-+ +-+ "legion of bedroom saddo devotees" "peculiarly deranged fanbase" +-+ +-+ "pasty-faced vegan geeks... and we LOST!" - NME April 2000 +-+ +-+ "frighteningly named Sinister List organisation" - NME May 2000 +-+ +-+ "sick posse of f**ked in the head psycho-fans" - NME June 2001 +-+ +-+ Nee, nee mun pish, chan pai dee kwa +-+ +-+ Snipp snapp snut, sa var sagan slut! +-+ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+

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Sinister: I love my car
by Retro^Sec 26 May '03

26 May '03

well well well.... here I am again.... This has been a perfect weekend for me, even more perfect than last weekend, with its B&S gigs, and picnics, winchester clubbing, and stuff. Don't get me wrong, last weekend was grand. I think pretty much everyone had fun. Last weekend was great in a social way. It was really cool. But this weekend was ready-made for me. It was my little weekend of personal fulfilment. I passed my bloody driving test! I thought I'd failed: it was a poor test by standards, although I avoided bunny hopping across the road; I didn't have the not-stopping-at-the-stop-sign issue; and there wasn't a scraping sound to be heard from the wheel and the kerb. I did bump the wing mirror of another car, much to my instant dismay, especially when the examiner grabbed the wheel and helped me. But apparently, it wasn't my fault. The woman on the other side could have been more helpful, and given me more squeezing space. My examiner was really nice. He tried to calm my nerves (the tell-tale symptom of my shaking hands and beads of sweat across my brow and the air was blue with my language) and talked about other things, telling me to take it easy. And god bless him, he passed me. May he have a long and prosperous life and may little birds tweet nicely as he walks down the street and stuff. So to celebrate, the fifth test, I went out and bought me a car. Now I just have to find a finance package and insurance policy to fit my budget. Its a shiny, brand new red VW Polo, if you were wondering. I fell in love when I saw it. In the meantime, I've been practicing my manouvers (you thought I didn't need any? oh, you!) in my brothers Punto. I probably won't be driving to any future picnics too soon, I want to get used to this whole experience of driving alone before I go out on the motorway. Don't want to rush into it, and get caught like a bunny in the headlights. Still, I'm sure eventually I'll be toddling along the M8 with my picnic hamper in the back to the nearest picnic. Be it in Edinburgh or Glasgow. Incidentally, back to that issue of the gig, and the other issue of the TV thing. Laura Llew: drop your your home addy and I'll get the video sent to you. cheers retro ===== <a href="http://retrosec.blogspot.com/">http://retrosec.blogspot.com/</a> thoughts __________________________________________________ It's Samaritans' Week. Help Samaritans help others. Call 08709 000032 to give or donate online now at http://www.samaritans.org/support/donations.shtm +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister(a)missprint.org. To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to majordomo(a)missprint.org. WWW: http://www.missprint.org/sinister +-+ "sinsietr is a bit freaky" - stuart david, looper +-+ +-+ "legion of bedroom saddo devotees" "peculiarly deranged fanbase" +-+ +-+ "pasty-faced vegan geeks... and we LOST!" - NME April 2000 +-+ +-+ "frighteningly named Sinister List organisation" - NME May 2000 +-+ +-+ "sick posse of f**ked in the head psycho-fans" - NME June 2001 +-+ +-+ Nee, nee mun pish, chan pai dee kwa +-+ +-+ Snipp snapp snut, sa var sagan slut! +-+ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+

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Sinister: Sleep your cock around
by Caitlin Ross 26 May '03

26 May '03

[this was written on Saturday; this was my first chance to post it. It's not very good, but I'm going to post it anyway] ANTISOCIAL Like every night last night, I stayed in and watched the television. I stayed in and watched because Belle and Sebastian were on. What can I say about it, though? There's not much that needs to *be* said, is there? On the telly, all the best bits get edited out - the inter-song banter gets cut, the performers' relationship gets skipped by the camera. Much better to see it live, you know. I would have offered to tape the gig for people, but I've never worked out how to tune my video. I didn't bother to watch much of the Mull Historical Society, but kept flipping back and forth between the gig and Big Brother instead. See, it's just as if I'd been there. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING If I'd been *at* the gig, I wouldn't have bothered to watch on the TV. Not even the full set was shown; Step Into My Office Baby, for one, was edited out to make room for "give us everything you own, you heartless bastards" interludes. But I didn't go to the gig, so I had to make do. You can tell I wasn't at the picnic either, because otherwise all those Reporting Back posts would have mentioned me. BLAST FROM THE PAST Walking to work the other day, I saw a sign in a shop window. "Now here," it said, "GHD!". "Wow," I thought, "he's back!" We could do with him around the place again. IN CASE YOU WERE WONDERING Of course, if you're going to go all Classic Sinister, subheadings IN CAPS are an absolute must. So are smutty puns in the subject line, of course, and a delicate mix of on-topicness and random wibbling. If you're one of those people that's already been on the list for six years, you'll already know all this. Some people swear by otherwise-unintelligable posts full of in-jokes, too, but they're probably best avoided. Writing them and reading them too, to tell the truth. See, if we all do this, maybe we can bring back the golden days of 1998. IF THE WHOLE WORLD WAS A PUBLISHER Of course, now every man and his kitchen equipment have a blog, it's just not the same. All the people who could write *good* diary posts have wandered off elsewhere. IS THAT ALL? Probably. love xx Caitlin -- http://www.joannou.net/topofthestairs/ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister(a)missprint.org. To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to majordomo(a)missprint.org. WWW: http://www.missprint.org/sinister +-+ "sinsietr is a bit freaky" - stuart david, looper +-+ +-+ "legion of bedroom saddo devotees" "peculiarly deranged fanbase" +-+ +-+ "pasty-faced vegan geeks... and we LOST!" - NME April 2000 +-+ +-+ "frighteningly named Sinister List organisation" - NME May 2000 +-+ +-+ "sick posse of f**ked in the head psycho-fans" - NME June 2001 +-+ +-+ Nee, nee mun pish, chan pai dee kwa +-+ +-+ Snipp snapp snut, sa var sagan slut! +-+ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+

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Sinister: No one would believe me. Then.
by a.s.t.r.i.d＠nme.com 26 May '03

26 May '03

Hello people, long time, no see. Hope you're all ok. Lots of great stuff has happened since the last time I wrote. I've met The White Stripes for instance, they were super nice. And Jack was really good looking, for a boy. Eh. Yeah. He was gorgeous. And Meg was really sweet. Other from that, I recieved an e-mail from Stephen Chbosky (author, one of my absolute favourites) the other day too. He wrote the most beautiful e-mail I've ever recieved, or rather, the most beautiful WORDS anyone has even written about me. Oh my. I've been in contact with Shirley Lee and Wiz Kid Management too. Cool stuff. Fuck. I turned into a namedropper. I've always despised them. Anyways. I was out wandering about in the big forest surrounding this huge mountain outside my appartment building a couple of days ago. And it was just so painfully beautiful. Everything is green now, and I love that. I mean, in the summer, everything is equally green but spring shows every shade of green that you could think of. But, as another sinisterbite pointed out a while ago, spring also seems like the invisible invitation for overweight middle-aged balding men in khaki shorts to take off their shirts. I saw one just the other day, and that was during a walk when I saw about five people. So one out of five in that area are that kind of men. It doesn't matter how many they are, every single one is equally unpleasant to encounter. Hrrrr. I'm going to a crazy woman soon. Well, I'm the crazy one, really. It's one of them phobia-psychiatrists. My mum is paying her good money. And we don't have a lot of money. And my phobia is so stupid that it's alsmo amazing. I'm afraid of... wasps. Little, striped, innocent wasps, for you maybe. Evil, aggressive, darkminded wasp-fuckers for me. I HATE THEM SO MUCH! Today, the plan is that I'm supposed to spend some time with a wasp. Get to know him, his interests. Well no, but the spend some time thing was true. Apparently, the body doesn't calm itself down until after twenty minutes. AH! I spend as little time as possible with wasps. They're so awful. I can handle small spaces. I can handle clowns. Well, they're a bit fucked-up and I wouldn't want to meet one in an alley on a late night, but then, who would? I'm ok with dogs, and I'm ok with... er... yeah. But I'm not the freakiest one though. You can be afraid of tons of things. For example (these are real phobias): -Fear of the colour white -Fear for ugly people (...) -Fear for people who've amputated something -Fear for really long words -Fear of flutes (!) -Fear of peanut butter sticking to the roof of your mouth (Well just DON'T EAT IT THEN!) -Fear of food (I think I've got some sort of anti-phobia to that) -fear of memories -fear of bald people to name a few. I'm sure they're real troublesome to have. AH. I feel very sane right now, how lovely. I have to go now because I'm going to be late for my meeting with The Wasp otherwise. Urgh. I have a stomachache out out pure nervousness. If it's called that. Well, take care and look out for wasps. And that might be the last time I'm saying that. (Wohoo) Astrid P.S I will meet my first sinisterbite in June, maybe. He's called Anders and he's from Oslo, Norway and he's great. Yay! ______________________________________________________________ For up-to-the-minute music news, reviews and specials visit http://www.nme.com Get free e-mail (anyname(a)nme.com) now at http://www.nmemail.com The sender of this e-mail is NOT an employee or associate of NME, nme.com or any other IPC magazine. +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister(a)missprint.org. To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to majordomo(a)missprint.org. WWW: http://www.missprint.org/sinister +-+ "sinsietr is a bit freaky" - stuart david, looper +-+ +-+ "legion of bedroom saddo devotees" "peculiarly deranged fanbase" +-+ +-+ "pasty-faced vegan geeks... and we LOST!" - NME April 2000 +-+ +-+ "frighteningly named Sinister List organisation" - NME May 2000 +-+ +-+ "sick posse of f**ked in the head psycho-fans" - NME June 2001 +-+ +-+ Nee, nee mun pish, chan pai dee kwa +-+ +-+ Snipp snapp snut, sa var sagan slut! +-+ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+

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Sinister: subject yersel' to another realm
by mail 25 May '03

25 May '03

It's been a long and lonely broken glass, broken forehead and missing mouse strewn treck, pal, but the missing slipper is now on my foot. PARENTAL GUIDANCE To be honest here, I'm in no mood for the sanctimonious sh*t. F**k off. I've had a sleepless night troubled by the bending moments of the world's longest bridge based - beaucoup moi - on a revolutionary spinal torsion system clad in anti-drag co-efficient techno glow worms and Christina Aguilera is making a damn politico correcto racket in my ears and it's all my fault. As I said I'm in no mood for argument: this is just the way it is... bear with me if you want: if not; don't: as Mamet quoted: KISS keep it simple stoopid. I'm about to make things bl**dy complicated. Plique; the fold. Just thought I'd add that in to confuse you. Com *pli* quated. See? OK. I'd be the first teenager to despise what I write as unintelligible nonsense but the difference now is, to hell with it I *know* better and I believe it is within my capacity to be, if not a 'grown up' in the conventional family-rearing sense then not least someone who's processed enough information to be both in thrall to the wonderfull results of the injection of some of the world's greatest fiscal economies in the making of teenagers as the new chosens and... distanced enough to put it in perspective: the ideology of youth, yung un, is not a wishing to be so; it is a re-treading of the boards with what seems like infinite power and if, wary as you may be it is true reaction: beware: striding before you in mock importance is a false prophet. Who, after all in their right minds would feel energy directed backwards except teachers? Forget passing the conch for a moment: just bl**dy forget it. So onto the prologue: There are certain circumstances... let's take, as an initial example Liz Burton to Michaelo Jackson. He is warped way beyond her dreams and as talented as that suggests. Both in tabloid hate mode- and who wouldn't be?- rout for these guys: the man can dance anyone's ass off and twicefold around the universe and we call the little shit a perv I mean give the guy a f**kin break. The morning sun is shining; is blinding me in bed in one of those 'God's Holy Light' moments in the circumstances that, drug-wise offer an affirmative awakening *WARNING STREAM OF CONCIOUSNESS AS IF THE REST WEREN'T* of the cerebrum pleasure centers re-wired; and wait for it; I'm about to tell you here for there is action by way of 20 naked women, 20 jack daniels and SODA (not coke!!) and 20 strong hits of Brazillian tobacco. First up, some of the girls. THE GAMINE She has the perfect body. Her breasts in alignment with her bottom and the way she cocks her head side to side so with a smile and her crop topped hair: it's the cropped top that lends one to think Paris in the sixties... she almost has it were it not for the betrayal of not Americain French but lachrimose scotch and so... passing on (love you honey; really : ILOVE U) THE FERTILITY GODDESS That eloquence of dancing I mean she moves and swerves like you wouldn't believe then she, just to flatten you, makes a gravity high heeling manouvering defying thing with the mirror by the compromised lil' bar room space and, well... now she's in line of the air conditioning system that is blowing a storm in her locks as she; as she GLANCES at you. THE BRAINS Making up for all other deficiencies this girl is in the process, with a wink, to instructing some un-named fatal beauty in the art of '20's vaudeville: I'm a short guy but I'll be Tolouse Lautrec sort of short for more and more and more and WHEESHT! twirling knickers of bright red lace and, to catch up on the fatal beauty accomplice... it's doe deer territory: real gorgeous cute but in the spray cream on her inner thighs fun ... hell; pal. THE FIRE Whirling around the pole like a dervish. This incredible olympic capacity has a price, I'm afraid to say from a presbeterian outer Isles dressed in black sense. Comes at a price and this one is in a certain brittleness of spirit: each of us to match her impossible targets and,, WHOA! she made the top and she spins like, yes I've said it before but there's no time to catch up with this PHENOMENON. But as, before I could catch my breath: she has the unhappy expectation of things even greater than the magnificence of her wake. And now to the joys of the interactive TV system; the modernistimo disembodied sense of being. AH mean I'm bored of yer Marxist shit. I'm damned bored by it. I DO NOT BELIEVE. I'm sorry honey I don't. I'm trying in this old alignment of factz and esotericism to get at stuff and... let me tell you £20,000 worth of trans continental knowledge: WE do pretty patterns on the Woody Allen.. It gets little better; on the face of our pretty little planet. The bestest video on MTV's chill out channel. It goes like this: The elderly young at heart do their 'dance through joy' upper body not too excercising motions whilst: up at the top of the class is this SO GORGEOUZS .... i mean nonchalant blonde item so despairing; so good; so with it in her ugly dress. Ah'm keepin' it real: I'm a snob and I'll protect the shires from the infidels but I'll also borrow enough money to praise allah and the rest of them and I know they know I'm not enlightened enough but I'm on my way there and they and I know it. YOURS TRULY Gordon. +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister(a)missprint.org. To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to majordomo(a)missprint.org. WWW: http://www.missprint.org/sinister +-+ "sinsietr is a bit freaky" - stuart david, looper +-+ +-+ "legion of bedroom saddo devotees" "peculiarly deranged fanbase" +-+ +-+ "pasty-faced vegan geeks... and we LOST!" - NME April 2000 +-+ +-+ "frighteningly named Sinister List organisation" - NME May 2000 +-+ +-+ "sick posse of f**ked in the head psycho-fans" - NME June 2001 +-+ +-+ Nee, nee mun pish, chan pai dee kwa +-+ +-+ Snipp snapp snut, sa var sagan slut! +-+ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+

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Sinister: Manic Mungo
by P F 23 May '03

23 May '03

1. Rain all the way to bumping dazed and awed at a modernist monument in a green field. Memories of Muldoon in the paper, writing �Long Island� and �Hurricane Alison� in the departure lounge. Down the aisles the scraped blonde stewardesses in their cobalt skirts and orange tans. Prestwick�s desolate fields, distant water, ticketless train North through Troon to the jolt of Glasgow Central, the great wooden halls. 2. In the city of stone, rain coming and going, past Starbucks and the other chains: one shopping avenue turning into another, like an endless allegory for the world I love, the anonymous town whose geography you�ve not grasped, just bleeding street to street, leaking people. Reading about Eco over a �3 burger. Horse racing on a TV, Irish newspapers plastering the walls. George Square like a place in Alice or Talisman, a new magic spot. 3. Kelvinside, architecture, picking at phrases and buildings. Pewter Pot, thinking of how it all came together. Driven by Chu. Honey�s alive. Locals do pro jobs of Elvis and the Carpenters. The Nipper sings �This Charming Man�, just this once, to a sparkly backing track. Chu walks �Ticket To Ride�. The video looks like a scene from Glasgow Transport Museum. Dick has never sung karaoke before: a whim takes him and he redefines the whole weekend. Strange string jabs, tempo changes, mad lyrics: I can�t believe them as they flash up. �Someone left a cake out in the rain / And I don�t think I can make it / Cos it took so long to bake it / And I�ll never have that recipe again�. The second instrumental break, turning into a Bong theme, is longer than many whole songs. For days we debate it: even whether the phrase in the song is �MacArthur�s Park�. Defining. 4. The Care Bear sells cakes, others buy ale. Shearer waving across the room, saying it�s like �This Is Your Life�. Big Jim walks in to similar effect. Possibly the best disco in the world: where else would you get Twisterella, Like Lovers Do, Girls Just Wanna Have Fun and The First Picture of You in a row? (Let me know.) The lad Stout is slender and elegant. There should have been a poll to declare him the best dancer. He�s John Revolting, with or without a Neutron Bomb. Watching Dicky Knee dance to Hazey Jane II, it moves me, his movement; maybe just because Nicky D always reminds me of him. So does May, I say, on another day: I understand, he says. The cops come looking for us, or maybe YOU. Perhaps they had heard about a new drug, �Cake�. 5. No mornings in Glasgow, only the provocation of an Orange band passing down a high street, its pipes poignant and militaristic at once. I�ve never heard anything like it, not so casual and close-up, and I think about our proximity to Belfast. The kids gather round the TV like it�s 1959, or really 1989. Mediocre media bands, such pointless contingencies, so meaningful at such a unique convergence. We marvel at Bowie�s plans to storm TV with the gospel according to Patricia Hewitt. 6. Back down the orange tube, dark dank and sodden, what romance a fraction of its map promises. The CD fairy has bought and brought a CD, bearing the gospel according to Marion Brent. The park drips with memory and promise. In the epic boozer only the journey from catsup thru mayonnaise to BBQ compensates for the result before us. The lads weigh up the girls and their Moomin accessories. On the pink cinders at the heart of everything we kick our frustration into the dust. I flick the ball over 96 and volley it in: he says it was like Glenn Hoddle. Then he decimates us. It�s almost an honour to lose to such quality. Jairzinho with a McGrath knee. I make the rusty bar clank. It spits back the ball. The Nipper plays with a grudge in his foot and a song in his heart. It�s �Dancing In The Dark�. Not that one. Magnificently he backheels in my corner. Zola with a Mike Joyce cardigan. 7. I practise ways of saying �That�ll be Dale Winton�s best man happy� as we descend on the many-layered labyrinth. Literally, but not figuratively, I meet Pat Nevin on his way down, greeting the passing lads who coo his sudden name. Spaceship hall of golden landing lights. Delgadoes are loud, climactic, not very eloquent. Mull Historical Society are energetic rock: everyone goes shopping. Belle and Sebastian are polished, transformed from whenever you first saw them, though maybe not from whenever you last saw them. They switch instruments like they�re REM making Out Of Time. They play them all rather well. I don�t know how they do it. I�d like to find something to complain about, but I can�t. But everyone else can: in the long post-morten (harket) the consensus is against new songs. I realize something I�d not grasped till now: * Belle and Sebastian have ceased being twee*. 8. Backstage the clan Murdoch hang out with glamour kids and Stevie W music. We go instead back to the 1960s and drink a box of beer. The passing time makes everything funnier: we don�t need �drugs�. The CD fairy disapproves of Wings. I admit, the way it keeps stopping and restarting doesn�t improve matters. I blame the CD. The CD player. The owner. The parents. The Teacher�s. The Rolling Rock. My editor drinks vodka with no chaser, like a Boy Racer seeking the greyhound of the dark hour before the dawn. We all disagree about Storytelling. Amazingly, many haven�t even heard it. And I thought *I* was no fan. Shearer shows up in the middle of a mid-night quest for a wee lassie locked in an office somewhere whom he must pick up at 3. I don�t know if he made it. I don�t know if she moved. We remember how we started, and how I ended up with more than I started with. Dicky K doesn�t remember his funniest lines, viz: a) �Sure, it�s a slippery slope, but who cares?� b) how the Nipper had made �hipster� mean �contrarian� c) �Ooh! Ooh! Ooh! The Monkey Gibbon!� You had to be there. It still wasnae funny. 9. 96 (for it is he) says �My name�s Cook � am I a cook?�. A colleen asks about films: �Has anyone seen 200 Cigarettes?�. Alasdair: �No... have you lost them?� 10. In Carsmile�s face weariness and hope strive for dominance. 11. I can�t believe the thrills of the city. I blame Love and Money. They go to my feet. A pint of Belgian beer is cheaper than a can of Foster�s in my local off-license. I look down a long table at the last supper, through smoke and daylight. Scotland has no geezer nouns but an adjective. RJG identifies �The Missing Link�. The Missing Link calls us, cruising through the gloomy Sunday. It�s nae gloomy. As soon as my editor leaves, the heavens open. Up stairs out of the pour we remember auld fitballers: Ian Ferguson, Jim Bett, John Hewitt. Tony Day. Action at Tesco�s, threats at Sainsbury�s. 12. The western road in evening light; Dicky K�s place is like Bath, an extravagant splendour. A fact-checker is something to be. � I�ve always thought Scotland has good light, he says. I agree, but then � where doesn�t? (Someone - who? - says it in print about the South of England: such claims begin to Cancel All The Way Through.) The Blue Skies enter the quiz. The thrill, the challenge, the teleology. I can�t believe how much everyone knows. The kindly lights shine a dab of their glory on me. 96 wins a bottle of vodka. If only Jerry was around to make a start on it. 13. My second kebab has no bread, no salad, just healthy stuff like chips. Jack and I eat on the pavement, remember the Czech Republic, and listen to the dark river. It crashes under night and day. I hate pool, but this is the world�s best pool hall. Wee Ailsa puts on the Sundays and Danny Wilson, and the club downstairs has to listen to it too. I disagree with everyone about Orange Juice and Aztec Camera. I can�t believe no-one considers them funky gibbons. The motorway roars at night like a concrete river. Dicky K says he likes singing, and delivers a Sandie Shaw number. 14. The East End emerging impoverished at Glasgow Cross. Old drunks saluting RJG�s air-force jacket. In the hothouse ��Heroes�� plays somewhere, air raid sirens sound elsewhere. We wonder what the obelisk is for, I wonder why the wee kids never come here, and why it�s deserted now. I read the �LLPJ� notes, and actually she comes in this direction, as you�ll all recall. Union Flag on a building: we take a vote on whether it should be a Saltire. Naturally only a Sassenach would think so. I snap a bridge without the Care Bear on it. Architecture and religion, maybe morality. The river, I say on more days than one, looks so good tonight. 15. St Enoch�s to Hillhead: I find it cool the way the kids use the tube, when I wouldn�t: reassuring me it has a purpose. At Omar Khaiam�s we have fried onion rings and a steakknife, and cops show up again. � Perhaps, says Cookie, they thought this was a criminal record. It�s Real Gone Kid. To be listening to Real Gone Kid in a pub next to Glasgow University, with rain sheeting down outside, is about as much as I can hope for at this time of life. Then �Call Me� plays, which is more than anyone could hope for. We count pubs, and agree that Jackson Browne�s �Take It Easy� beats the Beagles�. 16. You can write details about the days, and a wise man says the details are what matters. But so do the generalities: the feel, the flow, the freedom. We won�t be kids for long. We piece together the lyric in the Caernarvon, and study a map of Scotland. Oban, Mull, Peterhead, Ayr where Lloyd played in the Cristal Palice. 96 realizes something big and simple in our presence: we came early to B&S, but even we missed out on their prime. 17. The basement heaves with people and red light. A guitarist croons about �poets, kings & clowns�. I get introduced as a virgin: I sing most of my song OK. � Great song, says someone. Maybe it was the author of �all you poets, kings and clowns�. A Dutch vanilla duo sing about �spicy coffee�. The song goes �Spicy coffee, Spicy coffee, Spicy coffee, Spicy coffee / I love coffee, I love coffee, I love coffee, I love coffee / and coffee loves me�. 18. The Piping Centre is posh and spruce for its dowdy-road surroundings; the vibe is Scottish Conservative, that odd forgotten theme. I reach Buchanan Galleries and remember that it�s a shopping centre, not a gallery. In George Square I find myself in a crowd, tumbled like an Oedipa Maas into yet another strange scene: the square is filling with hundreds of working-class women who�ve marched from Kelvingrove, on their first day�s strike from working as nursery nurses. Their joy at hearing 60s records played for them, their cheers for everything the speakers say; maybe for many it�s their first demo, for I hear a delight in it that reminds me of fictional representations that I usually find unrealistic. Yet this is real. Surprise at their own unity, their capacity to do this: as women, too, maybe scorned by men � and I look at the few men here and wonder about their own sense of it, and how it all fits with trades-union masculinity and all. And that feeling of relativity: this is one strike, one issue among so many, and will never really be top of an agenda � but it means so much to them, and here and now it�s the issue that matters. Wandering at the edge of the ending crowd, I find Tommy Sheridan, CND badge on his grey suit, talking to groups of women. The first picture of him: the penultimate picture of May. 19. I walk into an old silver dream of Glasgow: out the windows of the Gallery of Modern Art I watch the plazas and bollards, coffee shops and cool people. I remember a tape I never made in May 1991: it was going to start with Goodbye Mr Mackenzie. 20. St Vincent�s Street is like Manhattan. We order lunch in the world�s best pub, under the portrait of Brian O�Nuallain. � This, I say when my Dublin Grill comes � this is the best thing ever. I have been saying it every day. We take a picture of it. Even the Guinness feels like Dalkey. Ecstasy, we agree, or perhaps he�s just hulmering me. I let him walk back to Broadway: I climb past Strathclyde to the black stone Cathedral. In the cellar I visit St Mungo�s tomb: like Pippin or is it Merry I drop a lucky penny down his well. The brass-rubbers grin kindly. A woman is asking attendants about the stained glass, talking about being a Catholic but still liking it here. � It�s all the same God, says an oldster. � Really? I think: Then why the schisms? The cobbles shine with passed rain like a BBC drama from 1990. At the airport Celtic fans sport sombreros: the departure lounge shows them the original Milan match with Wolstenholme commentary. I hope they�ll get lucky. They don�t. __________________________________ Do you Yahoo!? The New Yahoo! Search - Faster. Easier. Bingo. http://search.yahoo.com +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister(a)missprint.org. To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to majordomo(a)missprint.org. WWW: http://www.missprint.org/sinister +-+ "sinsietr is a bit freaky" - stuart david, looper +-+ +-+ "legion of bedroom saddo devotees" "peculiarly deranged fanbase" +-+ +-+ "pasty-faced vegan geeks... and we LOST!" - NME April 2000 +-+ +-+ "frighteningly named Sinister List organisation" - NME May 2000 +-+ +-+ "sick posse of f**ked in the head psycho-fans" - NME June 2001 +-+ +-+ Nee, nee mun pish, chan pai dee kwa +-+ +-+ Snipp snapp snut, sa var sagan slut! +-+ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+

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Sinister: back, right, back, back, cross, back, left, together
by R.Playforth＠sussex.ac.uk 23 May '03

23 May '03

You know, it's not as easy as you might think, keeping the still small flame of Sinister alive and well in Brighton. For one thing, I am approximately 400 miles away from Glasgow. For another thing, the cost of living is so exorbitantly high - because after all, who WOULDN'T pay over the odds to live next to a doomed pier and amongst drugs, crime and festering rubbish? - that I cannot afford to travel to that fair city, or anywhere. Hence, I missed the smorgasbord of delights that last weekend, by all accounts, was. For a third thing, it's been bloody raining here for about seven years and everyone knows that B&S is really SUNNY DAY music. I did, however, bravely struggle out to the Mackerel Fayre on Sunday. Mackerel in various forms was, unsurprisingly, consumed, and the Salvation Army band rocked out with renditions of Lord Of The Dance and For Those In Peril On The Sea. I feel that Stuart Murdoch would have approved. Also, the nets were blessed by a vicar (in fact I think he was an Archdeacon) in order that the fishermen shall have a good catch for the whole year. Isn't that nice? Despite being unable to socialise with the Sinisterkids, I have attempted to retain a life by joining a *tango class*. At least, I went to a session last night. It is really sodding difficult. I felt about as graceful as a gorilla in concrete shoes, which is a bugger because there is NO room for manoeuvre where gender lines are concerned - the man leads and the woman follows in high heels. Despite having barely picked up the most basic step, by the end of the class I was thrust into the arms of a succession of sweaty strangers. Which some may feel is not the worst way to end an evening... but I think I might look elsewhere for my aerobic exercise - preferably somewhere that doesn't involve any contact with other human beings. Or pivoting. I'm sure we're all looking forward to Eurovision on Saturday. I'm rooting for Estonia, because their entry is called Eighties Coming Back, and also Latvia (go Baltic states!) because theirs is called Hello From Mars and so fulfils the criterion for a B&S association (Space Boy Dream in this case). But obviously Tatu will win. Actually, if it stops raining, I might resist the temptations of the tight-T-shirted ones and go and see a SAMBA PARADE - the finale of the Brighton Festival. If last night is anything to go by, watching dance is more enjoyable that actually doing it. Also if it stops raining, I might think about a Brighton picnic. It's my birthday on June 19th you know. Actually there are quite a few important Sinibirthdays in June. But more imminently, I believe New York's finest Miss Laurel has a birthday on Sunday. So think of her as you awake with your Eurovision hangovers, and smile. love Archel PS. Marianna and Sharon - soon, soon you will see the light and stop worshipping the false god Justin. I'm with Kieran and his plan for Gareth. ******* Rachel Playforth Resources Assistant Sussex Language Institute University of Sussex Falmer, Brighton BN1 9QN (+44) (0)1273 678006 +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister(a)missprint.org. To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to majordomo(a)missprint.org. WWW: http://www.missprint.org/sinister +-+ "sinsietr is a bit freaky" - stuart david, looper +-+ +-+ "legion of bedroom saddo devotees" "peculiarly deranged fanbase" +-+ +-+ "pasty-faced vegan geeks... and we LOST!" - NME April 2000 +-+ +-+ "frighteningly named Sinister List organisation" - NME May 2000 +-+ +-+ "sick posse of f**ked in the head psycho-fans" - NME June 2001 +-+ +-+ Nee, nee mun pish, chan pai dee kwa +-+ +-+ Snipp snapp snut, sa var sagan slut! +-+ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+

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Sinister: it's written all over my face
by patrick doyle 23 May '03

23 May '03

wotcha, how are you? I recently attended the big sinister weekend. Caitlin Pigtails was there. Other people were there too; some even played football, whilst I merely retired to the shade to climb a rather unimpressively small tree. The hoarse sound of trainers against gravel could be heard in the distance as Miss Lucy Brown and myself watched from afar. The Pinefox was obviously prepared for such an event, looking rather school-boyesque in his wee shorts and t-shirt, while some idiot was clearly not, shuffling about in his Dr Martin boots, tsk. However fun watching a live game of football was, I found myself being distracted by the geriatric roller blader with an remarkable Knack (m-m-m-my sharona!) for skating in circles (backwards, no less) repeatedly without appearing to grow bored for, what I remember, as being quite a long period of time. As the rain began to get heavier, we decided that heading back to the pub where we could watch football without getting wet would not be a bad idea. A rumour started to circulate within the pub that the Delgados would be appearing on stage before the mull historical society (whoever made this decision wants firing) so the lovely Ms Sunnyset, the fantastically shy Mr Stefano, the divine Ms Idleberry, the adorable Ms Brown, some other guy with floppy hair and glasses who wants to be in Jackass and myself used public transport in the form of a taxi to get to the Royal Concert Hall just in time for the Karen Dunbar gig. She was pretty great; she made a few slip-ups, like stating that Hate was the first Delgados album, saying they were still *working* on Hate and pretty much having the cheek to stand on stage and be such an absolute prick. But what can you say, her harmonica playing was second to none. Monday the 19th of May was officially my last Higher exam, which therefore means I can leave school whenever I want, maybe Ill wait till the last minute, make them think Im gracing them with my presence for yet another year or perhaps Ill leave tomorrow, put them out of their misery. I decided last month that Im not going to University this year after all; the thought of studying at Sunderland doesnt particularly appeal to me so Ive decided on taking a year out, in which I plan to move to the city of Glasgow where Ill gain some work experience whilst building a stronger photographic portfolio, thus giving me a better chance of getting into the University of my choice hooray. (at this point, you might be wondering what relevance the subject of this post has to what Ive been writing, who am I to keep you in suspense?) The topic, as Im sure you know, is from the quite wonderful I Want the One I Cant Have, by the Smiths which seems rather relevant to the way I feel right now. I do indeed, want the one I cant have and it is indeed, driving me mad. So mad infact that its quite hard to think of anything else, which is why Im sitting here at 4.30am writing about the weekend as a feeble attempt to take my mind off things. * Failed. Anyway, its now 5am and this coffee wont drink itself. Cheerio Patrick x *It was also Morrisseys birthday when I started this post. _________________________________________________________________ Express yourself with cool emoticons - download MSN Messenger today! http://www.msn.co.uk/messenger +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister(a)missprint.org. To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to majordomo(a)missprint.org. WWW: http://www.missprint.org/sinister +-+ "sinsietr is a bit freaky" - stuart david, looper +-+ +-+ "legion of bedroom saddo devotees" "peculiarly deranged fanbase" +-+ +-+ "pasty-faced vegan geeks... and we LOST!" - NME April 2000 +-+ +-+ "frighteningly named Sinister List organisation" - NME May 2000 +-+ +-+ "sick posse of f**ked in the head psycho-fans" - NME June 2001 +-+ +-+ Nee, nee mun pish, chan pai dee kwa +-+ +-+ Snipp snapp snut, sa var sagan slut! +-+ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+

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Sinister: lost johnny
by Dirty Vicar 22 May '03

22 May '03

Hello, Dirty Vicar here. Bless me Sinister, for have sinned. It's been several months since my last confession. I'm not really sure what I've got to show for my time off. In fact, this post will be a succession of negations: - I have not started a blog, as I am not so narcissistic as to think people would like to read reports of my daily walk to and from work. And while I could fill a blog with record, gig, comic, theatre, etc. reviews I'd probably not keep it up to date and so the whole thing would be another life-item to be depressed about. - I did not go to Glasgow to see Belle & Sebastian play. It certainly crossed my mind, but vicaring does not pay as well as some might think, and flying over to stinky sterlingland. In any case I am flying over to Glastonbury in late June, and I must ration my appearances in your fair country. I was also a bit skint because I went off to that Iceland for Easter. Everything you've heard about Iceland turns out to be true. I liked the place a lot and I'm thinking of going back there in the winter to see what it's like then. Sadly I did not meet any B&S cover stars while I was there, nor had Damon Albarn been reduced to pulling pints in his bar, but I did see a littli pony in the zoo called Sigur Ros. do you know who also hasn't posted in ages? That's right, that plucky Jenowl. Where is she these days? Or has she resubscribed under a different name. I'm all excited about the Eurovision on Saturday. Apparently the organisers are going to cut to a video if t.A.T.u.'s stage act gets too smutty. One final thing - if I promised you a tape of anything and haven't sent it to you, will you send me a mail reminding me of it? maybe then I will actually produce this tape for you. Oh, maybe. DV +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister(a)missprint.org. To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to majordomo(a)missprint.org. WWW: http://www.missprint.org/sinister +-+ "sinsietr is a bit freaky" - stuart david, looper +-+ +-+ "legion of bedroom saddo devotees" "peculiarly deranged fanbase" +-+ +-+ "pasty-faced vegan geeks... and we LOST!" - NME April 2000 +-+ +-+ "frighteningly named Sinister List organisation" - NME May 2000 +-+ +-+ "sick posse of f**ked in the head psycho-fans" - NME June 2001 +-+ +-+ Nee, nee mun pish, chan pai dee kwa +-+ +-+ Snipp snapp snut, sa var sagan slut! +-+ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+

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Sinister: what if...
by Kieran Devaney 22 May '03

22 May '03

Dear Mr. Gates, May I call you Gareth? I know a lot of your fans call you that, I assume without having first acquired your permission, which strikes me as being somewhat impertinent, so I thought it best to ask in advance of what will hopefully be a fruitful and lengthy correspondence between the two of us. I represent, and I hope I use the word to its full effect here, the hearts and minds of an internet group known as Sinister, which is a fan-orientated mailing list for the band Belle and Sebastian. I could imagine that a gifted musical connoisseur such as yourself would be familiar with the bands work (in fact it would not at all surprise me to discover you a fan of the various side projects undertaken by the bands members!). However, given your strenuous schedule of touring, recording and promotion its feasible that the strictures of time and fame have prevented you from yet encountering their music, though I am more than sure that the band are familiar with yours. But now we come to a trickier part of this letter, because as much as I enjoy the records you have made to date, which is a great deal let me tell you, I play them all the time, and I always look out for your appearances on television - I have a large collection of them on tape - but despite all that I feel as though you have not yet found a song which does full justice to your astonishing voice. Let me pause here to talk a little about your voice Mr. Gates, though I am never quite sure where to begin when discussing it - its soaring, euphoric cadences, rolling like Scottish hills in the autumn mist, its gentle, almost child-like lilt through those most touching passages. I think you have the voice of a generation. Unique, sonorous, versatile, equally as powerful as the lion and as graceful as the gazelle it hunts, as timid and coy as the otter and as proud and glorious as the eagle. This voice, so potentially epoch making in its scope and clout has so far, in my most humble opinion, been ill-served with the songs it has been given. So far it has been your voice, and that alone, which has made your work worth taking note of. Let me make it clear though, that I take nothing away from those songs, I love them with all my heart, to hear a word against them is to charge my blood with a rage both great and terrifying. And yet, and yet, they seem to take us only as far as the brink of the abyss, if youll pardon the metaphor, and just as Nietzsche mocked Kant for finding the key to the cage, but choosing to remain inside, so too has your record company found that key, which is you, but seems reluctant, lord knows why, to let you take that leap, and throw us headfirst into a new era of musical innovation. As your keen, acute intellect may have discerned, I feel that I have such a song for you to sing, a song that will take us beyond that barrier and into a musical realm that has eluded us all for so long. But I have erred slightly, the I in that last sentence should rather be we, for, as I mentioned, I represent a whole organisation of Belle and Sebastian fans, and, following extensive enquiry, debate and, it must be said, heated argument, we have collectively concluded that there is a B&S song which we believe will take your career to that next level, the level I know you deserve, why, the very first time I heard you sing on Pop Idol I knew it, and time has only served to nurture that belief, to make it stronger and more fervent. There is a Belle and Sebastian song called Chalet Lines. It is a doleful, but beautiful ballad about the rape of a woman, and yet dealt with with such moving sensitivity, such grace and care that it never comes across as crass and ungainly. This is the song we think you should sing. If you have not yet heard the song, I would urge you to listen to it, listen hard and true and I think you will agree that it seems almost deliberately written for the sweeping grandeur and elegant tones of your voice. I think a more sure fire hit record has never been conceived. I implore you to consider this Mr. Gates, if not for yourself, if not for us at the Sinister list, then for music itself. Much is at stake. Yours Sincerely, Kieran Devaney and Sinister _________________________________________________________________ Hotmail messages direct to your mobile phone http://www.msn.co.uk/msnmobile +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister(a)missprint.org. To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to majordomo(a)missprint.org. WWW: http://www.missprint.org/sinister +-+ "sinsietr is a bit freaky" - stuart david, looper +-+ +-+ "legion of bedroom saddo devotees" "peculiarly deranged fanbase" +-+ +-+ "pasty-faced vegan geeks... and we LOST!" - NME April 2000 +-+ +-+ "frighteningly named Sinister List organisation" - NME May 2000 +-+ +-+ "sick posse of f**ked in the head psycho-fans" - NME June 2001 +-+ +-+ Nee, nee mun pish, chan pai dee kwa +-+ +-+ Snipp snapp snut, sa var sagan slut! +-+ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+

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