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Sinister: the power of love
by Matthew Henderson 13 Nov '02

13 Nov '02

It can strike you at the oddest times. It hit me tonight, lying in my bed, in the dark, trying to sleep. It's been so long, I was wondering if it would ever happen again. Actually, that is a lie. I wasn't thinking about it. It was completely unexpected. Such a strange and powerful turn of events. I don't think anyone ever sees it coming. Then, out of nowhere, WHAM, like a ton of bricks. Like a diamon bullet shot straight through my forehead. I felt it. I really felt it. I began to writhe about, twisting and turn in my bed, underneath my duvet as I came to the slow realization of what was happening. Considering how random it was, I wonder how many people very actually have that feeling. It's still resonating as I type this. It was so powerful, I had to get up, climb down the ladder, get on the computer, and write to sinister about it. This is my first post in a while, but something this important must be told. It must be vented. It must be shouted out for the entire world (or the sinister world) to hear. And it always comes from the most unexpected places. In this case, it was Radio Two. Just after Driftwood. It was Huey Lewis and the News. At that moment, I knew I was okay. Living in Glasgow has been interesting, but it never really settled with me until now. Yes. Oh yes. Now that's the power of love. And it don't take money. It don't take fame. You don't need no credit card to ride this train. -Matt P.S. On a belle and sebastian note, those bastards have really been cranking out those Q and A's. Go them. Now someone should urge stuart for more treasure hunt clues. Does anyone else think he has too much time on his hands for a pop star? P.P.S. I'd like to welcome Elizabeth to the Sinister fold. She sounds deathly cute, doesn't she? It's a shame she has a boyfriend, but if he's a Clash fan, he's alright in my book. Sounds like a damn cool guy. I would very much like to meet him. _________________________________________________________________ MSN 8 with e-mail virus protection service: 2 months FREE* http://join.msn.com/?page=features/virus +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ 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: Santa's Little Helper
by Madeleine McNeil 12 Nov '02

12 Nov '02

My darlings, In a foolish display of bravado I offered my services to Llaura Llew, in her guise as Mother Christmas, boss of the Sinister Christmas Gift Exchange. Little did I know that she would expect me to dress in tight green garmets, prance about, and do her bidding. I look terrible in green! La Llew is, of course, the Boss, but I will assist with things such as holding the cloche hat as the names are drawn, alerting you all to the last postal dates, and reassuring you all that money is no object. Llaura never says things like this, as she is a slave to the almighty dollar, ever fixated on the amount of boys she can bribe to cover themselves in chocolate. I, however, as a lowly elf, have more of the common touch. Do not fear if you are feeling strapped for cash. Sinister is the home of the slacking student and the underemployed waster. It's not what you buy, or how much you spend, it's the imagination you put into it, and the amount of glitter you stick on it. Now is the time to revive your Blue Peter cutting and sticking skills! So, don't feel you can't be involved in all the fun if you can't afford much. Second hand is the way forward, folks. I, for example, am particularly fond of those clocks that one finds for sale in charity shops. They never work, they're hideous, but they tell the right time twice a day and they make the room look all spangly. And, of course, you can opt to only send to your country, thus saving on postage. But don't expect me to like, do anything, so don't email me if you want to be involved. I am just the comedy sidekick, the one who has to prance in an unflattering colour to make the real boss look better. Email the Llew here: Lleweth(a)hotmail.com if you want to be in on the Exchange. And WHOOT! but isn't How Does It Feel going to be a wonderful night? I'm slimming to get into my cordroy mini skirt as we speak. I advise you all to come along - not because of chance of seeing me in a miniskirt. It probably won't happen, due to the chocolate cravings that overtake a lady in the wintertime, but because when I went to HDIF I had a grate time and I think others did too. And it will be ace to have a get together at Christmas, so we can all get pissed and punch each other just like they do in Eastenders. Love Madeleine _________________________________________________________________ Add photos to your e-mail with MSN 8. Get 2 months FREE*. http://join.msn.com/?page=features/featuredemail +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ 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: running miles in Some Boys Jumpers
by Ben Apps 12 Nov '02

12 Nov '02

Hello, The other day I was walking down the street, past the Los Angeles Village Hall, when I noticed they had a big banner outside that said "Jumble Sale". Woo, I thought, I didn't know they had jumble sales in the states. How exciting. So I went in, and was greeted by none other than the shopkeeper from Festive Road, who had sent Mr Benn on many an adventure during my childhood. I asked him, "what's this all about then?", and to my astonishment he told me that it was a jumble sale just for 'sinister listees', but that I probably wouldn't know what that meant. My excitement had reached fever pitch. "But I do, I do!" I exclaimed. "I'm on the list!" "Oh", he said sounding rather suprised. "I suppose I'd better tell you all about it then". he went on to tell me that it was a very special kind of jumble sale where lots of items - clothes, books, records, toys, sweets - weren't sold, but exchanged or donated. "so it's a bit like the Christmas Present Exchange that Laura Llew organises?", I asked. "Not really", he replied. "That's a special thing. Once a year, where you get a nice suprise. With the jumble sale you get to see all the stuff and pick the things that you think you would like. So it's quite different really", he added. He let me into the village hall to take a look around, and I picked out some boy's jumper that was bright red and had a a pretty pattern on the chest. "What does he want in return for this?" I asked the shopkeeper. "Oh, nothing. That was Mr Benn's, he grew out of it. It's yours!" he replied, but as he did a troubled look spread across his face. "What's wrong?" I asked. "Oh, nothing really. Just that I wish I had a name for this sale, other than just 'Jumble Sale' ". "Hmmm", I pondered for a moment with my jumper in my hand. "That's it! 'Some Boys Jumpers' call it 'Some Boys Jumpers' " "I like it!" said the shopkeeper, "I think I will!" "I have to tell all my friends on the list about this. What should I say?", I asked him. "just tell them to pop in", he said. Tell them to go here: http://www.members.aol.com/someboysjumpers and tell them to donate lots of jumble!!! They can ask me any questions about it too, by emailing someboysjumpers(a)hotmail.com" "Excellent!", I said. "Oh just one more thing, does Honey know about this?", I asked. "Yes, he does, and Linda too", he replied. "I'm hoping they might contribute some jumble!" And with that he winked at me, and as if by magic, disappeared. Ben xXx _________________________________________________________________ The new MSN 8: smart spam protection and 2 months FREE* http://join.msn.com/?page=features/junkmail +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ 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: RSC
by Kieran Devaney 12 Nov '02

12 Nov '02

Dear Sinister, You might remember a few posts ago (ok probably not) where I mentioned having not sent a thing I wrote about a pub in Birmingham. Well, in a fit of 'I should really be doing something else' this evening I reread said thing and finished typing it up. The reason I didn't send it when I'd finished writing it, and the reason I didn't finish typing it out was that I went completely off it, and the thing is, I'm not sure if I like it all that much now either. But nonetheless, these ideas have been swimming round my head since this time last year and so I should probably get them out, even if it's not in a format I'm entirely comfortable with. Catharsis etc. Apologies also for the vast length of it too, it's significantly longer even than one of my average Sini posts. I'm sorry. I'm not sorry. Make of it what you will. Love, Kieran 1. The Ravenscroft Social Club doesnt allow black people on the premises. Thats one of the rules. I vowed never to go there again after I found that out. Or at least I use that as an excuse not to go, cynical of me, but in truth I always felt an outsider there, as a member of the audience dragged onstage to become part of the act. Clubs like the Ravenscroft (I can barely getting away with calling them clubs anymore) have been so satirised, parodied and even celebrated as part of a kind of innocent cultural nadir, and it shocked me how close these knowing critiques got to the reality. Or perhaps not. It can work in reverse, the lads down the pub, quoting Enfields lads down the pub sketch, which quotes the lads down the pub. It was all too much for me. Of course all this came later. The first time I went there was for an amateur pantomime, Aladdin. My brother and I were unimpressed. The room was smokier than we were used to, and smelt of stale beer, we werent used to that either. I wont pretend I remember more than that. 2. Clubs like the Ravenscroft are on the wane, a bit of a joke, a dark, cluttered anachronism. Outside, the paint is flaking off in big, dusty chunks, illuminated by orange security lights. The equally dusty windows are barred with rusty cages, the walls crowned with rolls and rolls of barbed wire, far too much. As if they had bought a whole job lot of barbed wire, without quite knowing how much was actually for sale. 3. They dont let Asian people in either; Ive been assured of that. Its sort of funny, because the Ravenscroft is now in a predominantly Asian area; all tight little roads crammed with council houses. A front door that steps right onto the pavement. My Gran lives there too; shes one of the Ravenscrofts regulars. Shes finally buying her house from the council, an investment! Of course all this came later, people like my Gran were the mainstay of the local populace when the Ravenscroft opened and made its rules; her and my granddad. I dont know if those rules have ever been challenged or brought into question, But no black people would ever want to go there. Said my mum, who hates the place. She didnt come along to the pantomime. True, true, I thought at the time, but it isnt any excuse. That rule is one of the most wrong things Ive ever encountered. And yet and yet it doesnt seem to matter, the place is falling apart, going bust, only propped up by an ever shortening cast of regulars. Itll be gone soon, perhaps they all will. An odd little footnote, a quirk. 4. I dont remember my granddad much. He had a stroke when I was only small and lived spent after that. Remember the clips about carers they would show on Comic Relief, the ones theyd keep repeating when all you really wanted was more Lenny Henry? Well that was my Gran for a few years. When we used to visit them he would sit there on a threadbare brown settee, watching old westerns on channel four. Always old westerns and always channel four. Did he have them on tape? I dont ever recall seeing one on TV at home. We used to sit behind him, on his bed (because he couldnt get upstairs) and my dad and Gran would talk about their extended family. My dad is an only child, but he has hundreds of cousins, and my mum has an elder sister who never had children. As a result I have neither cousins nor uncles, but a wealth of second cousins, and great aunts and uncles, most of whom Ive never met, but those are the people my Gran and my dad would talk about. On the walls (though it has been changed now) was wood-effect wallpaper. Wood effect wallpaper! And on the wall behind where we would sit was one of those paintings so hilariously featured on recent nostalgia shows, a girl in a blue dress standing, forlorn, crying against a because her dog (also pictured) had broken a vase. By the TV he used to watch was a big jar full of five pence pieces. For us. They were the old style coins, the bigger ones, a whole dusty jar full. Useless. 5. He looks a bit like Samuel Beckett in the photographs Ive seen. The same darkness and light in the eyes, same sharp point of flicked back grey hair. The same look, past the camera and at the photographer. He was Irish too, all my grandparents were. The only thing I can ever remember him saying was when he and my Gran visited out house, I must have been very small and he said: Dont push your luck, to me. Very Beckett. Of course all this came later. At the time he didnt look like anyone, wasnt like anyone. In my Grans front room the one she never used (and still doesnt, to my knowledge), was a dresser full of his trophies, for darts and snooker. My brother and I always liked them. They were the plastic type, mostly, with thin circles of velvet on the bases that I couldnt stand the touch of, and a little gold plastic darts or snooker player on top. Some had little holographic squares that gleamed different colours in the light as well, those were our favourites. They look tacky now, but they were great at the time. He must have liked them too, to have a whole dresser full I dont think they were that hard to win. 6. When he went into hospital I wouldnt go and visit, everyone else did. This might be the last time you ever get to see him. My mum said, the might was unrealistic. I couldnt give an answer to that, but I still didnt go. 7. The night my other granddad died was eventful. Unable to sleep I came downstairs to the toilet (our bathroom is on the ground floor, unlike most), more for something to do than out of an actual need. The phone ringing stopped me in my tracks. At the time our phone was in the kitchen, it was one of the old style ones you had to put your finger in and turn to dial a number. Being only young at the time I barely realised that a phonecall in the early hours of the morning didnt bode well, so I decided to let it ring until whoever it was went away. But they didnt. After several minutes deliberation I picked it up. A womans voice I didnt recognise asked for my mother in a sombre tone. Still I didnt sense anything particularly unusual. Waking her up reminded me of Christmas morning, waking my parents up early and excited. She told me to go back to bed and I heard her do downstairs and then come back up shortly after. The light in my parents room clicked on and then off again and I heard small noises coming from inside. The next morning, my mm woke me up to tell me that granddad had died. Her dad. I cried for ages, he was the first person Id eve lost. We were close, he only lived up the road. 8. When my granddad died, the one whod had the stroke, it was different. He had been too distant for too long. We had all known he had gone into hospital to die. My dad was pragmatic about it, I suppose, he couldnt be anything else I dont think they were ever very close. I remember my dad talking to him, loud and slow, as if deliberately copying the cliché it can work in reverse like that. But my granddad wasnt distracted from the western he was watching at all. Westerns! I didnt go to the funeral either, I think only my dad did, the rest of us were at school I think. I do remember all of us (as we were then) in the car, picking up my Gran from the church, St Annes my mum and dad met there for the first time at a church disco. We were taking her to a little gathering at the Ravenscroft Social Club. There was a little buffet set out when we arrived, and an empty DJ booth at the back, with one of those big light boxes that turn on big slabs of coloured light, chunky triangles or red, yellow and green, playing in a random sequence that a child could identify. My brother and I sneered when no one was looking, together we silently knew that we didnt feel anything, but it would be wrong to show it. How long had it been since we were last there? I remembered the smoke in the air, though no one I could see was smoking, and the smell of alcohol, though no one had yet started drinking. Later, amid boozy condolences and recollections I, staring down at the table noticed the veneer worn away in the greyish light, and where drink had seeped in and cracked the wood underneath, long, straight splits. His drink? Doubtful. Possible. 9. The interior is much like similar places youve probably been to. Dark, smoke faded burgundy wallpaper, dark wood, cigarette burned seats. A few snooker tables up the front and a couple of garish fruit machines. A disco ball! A sticky dance floor in the middle, but nobody dances there anyway. A smell of cheap fags, cheap booze interwoven with everything. Thats all it is, a big room full of that. 10. You can tell when the Ravenscrofts golden age was by the records they play songs years old that were unfashionable when they came out, havent aged well. Perhaps Im being unfair, its all relative. I think my real resentment of the place started that day, after the funeral I didnt attend. Before that it was just another hazy memory with vague discomfort attached to it, along with the quad bikes on holiday and hitting my chin on the side of the swimming pool because I was so nervous about jumping in that I tried to grab hold of the side mid-jump, a lesson indeed! 11. A dichotomy seems to be emerging regarding whether or not I should hate the place or not. It certainly appeals to the sort of person that Im not, and cant even pretend to be (or at least I dont think so), but you cant condemn somewhere for that. But it seems to stand, too, for something passed, lost, a culture, an England (a cliché I know, but what else can you apply to that which is already a cliché, a stereotype? How do I go about sneering at somewhere that beats the ironists at their own game? Sincerity without being aware of the original irony is this years irony. But this whole parenthesis has become a bit of a non sequitur; cliché does not necessarily beget cliché, such blithely easy rhetoric obfuscates where it seeks to enlighten. But despite that, or perhaps because of it I cant help falling back on, falling into step with familiar little groups of words. Clichés work better in my head than anything else I can come up with. A poor reflection on the writer perhaps.), but an England which we cant get back, not just lost, but unfindable. Which isnt to stop people trying even now two England flags still hang visible from neighbours upstairs window, one horizontally and one vertically (which orientation is better form?). But the Ravenscroft Social Club irks me. They both want to embody something about England, something English (please excuse the half tautology), but they fail, of course they do, the thing cotton flag is limp and weary, orange under the streetlights, they fail in a quietly drab way (that these symbols, the flag, the club, may once have said something, back in a whimsical England that dwells in the play-worn grooves of those records made by singers whose vocal inflections were called quintessentially English. I wont name them). But of course, how English is it to fail at that? Its so English to fail at representing the English. The failure of the English flag to unite and represent the English is such an English failure. Ha ha ha. This is where the clichés come in again; this is where theyre important. When we use a cliché it covers up our meaning rather than revealing it. We hold that clichés meant something once, thats why theyre still used, but used to no effect, now stripped of meaning and significance. So it is, I believe with the flag and with the Ravenscroft Social Club. The Club as I see it now, dingy and detached from the everyday, must be defined by its patrons who, outside, lead their own interesting lives. Inside they are stifled by the forced semblance of community, of people theyve grown old with and stopped understanding. But they still go, presumably for the memories, for what it was and what they were. What was it like there thirty years ago, forty? Much the same I suppose. And thats the point its why there are no new regulars. But different too. What was it like at the time punk crossed into public consciousness? How did they react to race riots? To the ever increasing Asian population in the area? The context has all changed, back then their rules would have seemed terrible, surely. Keeping their doors closed while so many others were opening them. Could we perhaps admire the fact that they took a stance, however unpopular, even if we dont admire the things they stood for? But Im not even sure their rules needed defending. More likely seems the club, a meeting place for the white people of the area, doubtless, tucked away amongst the Asian community. And the rule seemed ok to most of the patrons, and to those (there must have been some!) to whom it caused some discomfort, the situation where questioning it would have seemed appropriate, never arose, or the presence of friends outweighed that unsettling urge. Anything for a quiet life. Its easy to forget that not everyone is troubled in troubled times. 12. On the way downstairs I noticed three spots of dirt on the white flock wallpaper. Roughly circular in shape and quite well defined spots of brownish grey, muted against the raised surfaces of the wallpaper. The dirt had accumulated from constant hands brushing against the white, a place to steady oneself before turning down the narrow staircase. Two near the top and one at the bottom. 13. The third time I went there was the worst, and last, incidentally. Of course, I didnt know at the time. It was telling my mum about that third visit that prompted her to tell me the rule about black and Asian people not being allowed in, and I vowed never to go there again. Then came the guilt, wondering whether or not I was just using that to mask my own aversion to the place which is something abstract, Ive tried to pin it down, but to little avail. The thought of that dirt on the wallpaper, the three spots, repulses me, and yet I instinctively find my arm rising and the palm resting on the spot, defining yet more that little circle of dust and grease, the perfect place to push onto and guide yourself down the stairs, spots covered with the dirt of the rest of my family as well as my own. Sitting in the Ravenscroft Social Club is that. A grimy history, partly my own, but not a history I recall being part of, or want to be part of. A history of not dancing on sticky dancefloors, or ash faded seat covers with little iridescent rings on black and yellow cigarette burns, the whiff of alcohol, coarser on their breath, the hair, teeth, fingernails the same sticky yellowish grey. A smile. The slabs of colour on the light box flick on and off, always the same sequence, the same records, the same people not dancing. It was someone elses history, that they were too proud of, or not quite proud enough of to pass down properly, dying out. We can paint over the spots on the stairs, but the other is a deeper set grime, one that has stripped away the veneer and cracked the wood underneath, his history, their history and mine. The only difference being that I dont want it. Did they? I presume they wouldve accepted better. I wouldve sought out better. Would I? 14. In the Headmasters office, all of us Youre not in trouble. But you always sort of were with him, regardless, a loose tie or half untucked shirt was enough. Is that an unfair thing to say? I was told his wife is very nice, but arent they always? The defining moment, perhaps, if such things even exist, which I doubt was probably standing outside one morning and glancing over to see him standing right directly behind a boy on the steps there who was completely oblivious to his presence, much to the mirth of his better-positioned mates whose barely suppressed giggles eventually gave the game away. Ha. A pretty cheap laugh, really. But would the Headmaster have found it quite so singularly amusing if the boy had been talking about him? Had said what he really thought? Of course not. I see whenever I think of him. Its an appropriate image. Despite him being my Headmaster for all of seven years I still know nothing about him, other than that his wife is quite nice anyway, which someone else told me. Despite his laborious and measured assemblies which he would deliver in what I think he hoped was grand and eloquent rhetoric, often offset by his hilariously terrible reading skills, despite those and everything else I still cant imagine approaching him, Id have nothing to say, even if I had something urgent to say. He would stifle it. Typically that isnt a slight against someone, because not everyone is compatible, but with him I cant help thinking that thats the case with everyone staff and pupils. Unapproachable because theres no conceivable angle of approach as though hes hiding directly behind his job, behind something, authority, his own sweeping rhetoric or pride and we can see him there behind it and we grin along with it, half out of fear and compliance and half out of the sheer ridiculousness of his being there. Him! And we wait for whatever it is to turn around and discover him there, ending the joke so that he can grin all sheepish and realise it hasnt been quite as funny as he thought it would be. But crucially that turn never comes; our hints just arent strong enough. 15. We were there in his office then, not in trouble. We had all won awards, in fact, mine being the French award. I had gotten the best mark in that years exam. It didnt feel like much really, ours was a class of seven dossers, me included if Im being honest and Id managed to bluff the exam better than the other six. Or at least thats how it seemed to me at the time. Mine was by far and away the lowest grade receiving a prize that day. That was hardly the point. Or perhaps it was entirely the point, I cant rightly say. The very idea seemed ridiculous though, disingenuous with the purpose of exams, whatever you think of them, and in direct contrast to all those You arent competing with each other speeches that had been so commonplace prior to the exam period. The award, incidentally, was a book token for £7. We were to go out and choose a book, which would then be presented to us on the night. I chose Jeanette Wintersons Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit her best and most humble effort by some distance. Of course all this came later. I went off to the award evening, despite no small reluctance on my part. It was a sad sort of evening. A man Id never seen before gave a speech congratulating the pupils of the school on not fighting with each other after the events of September 11th. He was a large, self important looking man, wearing a heavy mayoral type chain across his shoulders and later, when my name was called out and I went up to collect my book I could see the exploded blood vessels on his nose, ruddy cheeks and tiny gimlet eyes which he fixed on me with a word of congratulation more perfunctory than sincere, an awkward, clammy handshake. It was a listless evening too, obligation over desire, the going through of well-worn motions. Im not sure who its for, really, that weak little bit of ceremony, the rehashing of bland tradition. I couldnt see the point. Do we owe the past this much? 16. Afterwards now, on the way home in the car. Despite the chore being finished with, I still wanted to stay fixed in the grey mist shell of my bad mood, my annoyance at having gone through something I saw as a waste of time. Rather that be glad it was over I felt the need to crystallise my feelings, hold on to them as tangible and not let go. Ive always liked travelling at night though, the allure of the milky, brown-grey, almost purple sky over cities in winter illuminated orange by strings of streelights, a melancholy kind of light, offset by lewd shop frontages bristling neon. Still open. It wasnt that late. The black tarmac roads glazed sickly orange, streetlights in slick rainwater. It was cold and we were in the car on the way home. I started feeling better, in spite of myself. My brother and I in the back, my Dad driving and my Gran in the passenger seat. We didnt talk. That is, we dont really. What was there to talk about anyway? What had it been like for her? Nice I suppose. Did my Grans distance from speech night, and from us, lessen her ability to see the ridiculousness of it? Or was it my own fatal proximity that overcharged my own judgement? Was I condemning the innocent appraisal of talent and achievement (my own included)? Im unsure. I objected, I think, not to the celebration of achievement itself, but rather the manner which those celebrations took. As if the school, that man I hadnt seen before, the Headmaster were all saying This is what we can produce as if our achievements (my own middling one in French among them) defined us, as a school and as people, as though an exam grade were a characteristic, an end in itself rather than just a means to an end. Were these really the faults of the evening? We all agreed it was an evening for parents rather than the pupils themselves. So perhaps both my Gran and I were right. For her it was an innocent event. A simple matter of watching her Grandsons be praised in public for what they had accomplished, watching them shake the hand of a man that, though she didnt know this herself, she knew as well as they did. Whilst I, closer, could see the faults, and the little hypocrisies. As in assemblies where the pupils (us!) were constantly reminded that we were in the top 20% of the country where intelligence is concerned and that, mysteriously, this was thanks to the school! Trying to stay annoyed I mulled all this over in the car as we reached a turning that would either take us straight on past the Ravenscroft Social Club or round the corner to my Grans house. She broke the silence and said: Shall we go for a drink? 17. Inside it wasnt quite as I remembered it, but the image of the place that night will form my lasting memory. The larger section of the club was cordoned off, in darkness. I could just make out the dull shapes of it in glints of threadbare Christmas decorations. A smaller area at the front, crowded with two snooker tables was in use. Five blokes lounged on the tattered seats sipping pints, occasionally rising to take up a cue. Years of play didnt seem to have made them any more adept at snooker, it was as though they no longer appreciated the game, no longer felt anything from the competition, but still they played on. My Gran half introduced us and they seemed about as interested in us as we did in them, a nod. A small serving hatch in the corner acted as a bar. We sat opposite, uncomfortable, reluctant. I stared blankly into the darkness, avoiding conversation that wasnt to be had, partly annoyed at myself for playing up to the sullen teen stereotype, for being what those blokes playing snooker expected exactly. The other two times Id been here I had felt out of the moment because others around me were enjoying themselves, but this time nobody was, nobody seemed to be, they didnt seem to know what they were doing there, know what had dragged them through the chilly night to a poorly stocked bar and two battered snooker tables and each other. A sense of community bound up in their silence? Mid November and already a few worn strands of tinsel half heartedly heralded the arrival of Christmas. Afterwards, I wondered if, had I known, about the rule I mean, had I known that, would I have put up a stand in the car, said no, refused to go into a place like that on principle? Could I pass judgement like that on my Gran, a regular there for most of her life? And how self-motivated would that decision have been? It was better, of course, that I didnt know at the time. Easy to judge the gruff men playing snooker for nothing, easy to mock the naff xmas decorations, but more difficult to stick to what you know, think, to be right, to condemn a part of their past, reject a part of your own, hurt someone, cause a scene. And for what? An outdated principle, probably forgotten or irrelevant to the men inside, held in the shabby décor. Perhaps they were ignorant of the rule themselves, like I was at the time. Easier to go in. Better that I didnt know. Of course all this came later. We had a drink and then went home, leaving my Gran in there on her own. The next day my mum told me that they dont let black or Asian people into the Ravenscroft Social Club and thats when I vowed, thats when I had my excuse to never go there again. _________________________________________________________________ Protect your PC - get McAfee.com VirusScan Online http://clinic.mcafee.com/clinic/ibuy/campaign.asp?cid=3963 +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ 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 can see my heart beating as one (OR perth, picnic, vancouver action)
by Helen 12 Nov '02

12 Nov '02

Hello I thought that now, what with all the talk of the Antipodes, was a good time to post again and get in on the action before it becomes passe. I also take this opportunity to claim the Australian capital of Sinister for Perth, and remark that for a place so small and isolated we have done fairly well, even exporting our kind to various other parts, where they do strange things with rain, and have jobs with certain bands (although, when theres rain I personally like to enact the seminal scene from Singin in the Rain and pretend to be Gene Kelly.) *** BRIEF PUBLIC ANNOUCEMENT*** Speaking of exports, I shall soon be joining the ranks and armed only with the knowledge of Canada that comes from episodes of Degrassi (Junior) HIIIIIIIGH I shall be making my way to VANCOUVER for some months soonish. Yes Kids, if you live in VANCOUVER or know anything about it, or even have visited it in your dreams, you can contact me and tell me about it. I reward nice people by buying them alcohol. Things to do before I go: * watch more episodes of Degrassi so I am down with the lingo * practice calling pieces of currency comical names * Go to a PERTH PICNIC. Thats right picnickers its all on in Perth. The plan so far is to have it on the 30th of November, so that should be plenty of time for you all to re-organise your busy social calendars (even though I KNOW that nearly half of you are unemployed). It can be a farewell before the population of Perth sinister once again becomes decimated, cause you know, its Perth, all the hipsters leave Its THE LAW.* New people are always welcome (and I know that you exist because a girl in my class told me about YOU). Details are sketchy but we thought we could go to Kings Park, mainly because Terry only has to walk down the road and hes a lazy sod. We may organise food and tremendously over-cater like last time, so best to email me. Although if you bring alcohol to share no one will mind if you dont bring any food. *****RAMBLE***** I have spent a lot of time recently photocopying pages and pages of a record of my heartbeat. Im not quite sure what I shall do with them, but perhaps I will wallpaper my room. At any case I am surely keeping it for posterity. You see, I had to have some tests on my ticker and the doctor said heres the monitor for 24 hours, do what you normally do. So I decided that normally on this night (few months ago) I would have gone to see the Lucksmiths who were playing, so I took the monitor along as it was easily concealable although I did fool some people into thinking I was bootlegging when I flashed it around. Thats because it looked like a tape deck, because thats all the high tech machinery I DID have on me. They were, in fact, recording my heart beat for medical purposes onto a cassette. I shot a quizzical look at the nurse when she produced it and hooked me up. Apparently medical science hasnt kept up with the massive developments in recording technology as well as the music industry. Anyhow, now I have a record of my heart at a Lucksmiths gig. Its great. I wish I kept a better record of the night though, (like: 8.10 The Luckies told joke about flying in and how their arms were tired) but I am pretty sure I can see the way my heart fluttered when Marty walked past and I poured over it today and noted oooh, that must have been when they played Frisbee. Except they didnt play Frisbee, I remember that now, because I remember being annoyed. Speaking of What Bird is that I had a copy of this out the other day checking out the birds. Here, however, I am talking about the book, not the album, and birds of the feathered kind which have nested in our tree. The little ones have hatched now, you can just see their heads. I plan on making myself wings and joining in on their flying lessons. But the best thing is watching their mother attack everything that comes close, and these tiny birds take on the big magpies with tremendous courage. Go team! Segueing like a maniac, Helen * When I say this is THE LAW I mean it. I got an odd phone call at first in the middle of the night, tipping me off, and sure enough I got my first hipster caution the other day. The incredibly hipster policeman (cause if you cant beat them) told me that this town wasnt hip enough for the both of us. Apparantly they had a tip off. So I packed my bags to hot tail it out of here. Although I did wonder if they had made some mistake. It turns out that they had, and I got a very apologetic phone call from a hipster secretary, who expressed deep regret at their mistake, and informed me that happily they had re-checked their sources and found I only met two of the ten hip criterion, so I was allowed to stay. But hell, I had already booked my ticket +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ 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 can see my heart beating as one (OR perth, picnic, vancouver action)
by Helen 12 Nov '02

12 Nov '02

Hello I thought that now, what with all the talk of the Antipodes, was a good time to post again and get in on the action before it becomes passe. I also take this opportunity to claim the Australian capital of Sinister for Perth, and remark that for a place so small and isolated we have done fairly well, even exporting our kind to various other parts, where they do strange things with rain, and have jobs with certain bands (although, when theres rain I personally like to enact the seminal scene from Singin in the Rain and pretend to be Gene Kelly.) *** BRIEF PUBLIC ANNOUCEMENT*** Speaking of exports, I shall soon be joining the ranks and armed only with the knowledge of Canada that comes from episodes of Degrassi (Junior) HIIIIIIIGH I shall be making my way to VANCOUVER for some months soonish. Yes Kids, if you live in VANCOUVER or know anything about it, or even have visited it in your dreams, you can contact me and tell me about it. I reward nice people by buying them alcohol. Things to do before I go: * watch more episodes of Degrassi so I am down with the lingo * practice calling pieces of currency comical names * Go to a PERTH PICNIC. Thats right picnickers its all on in Perth. The plan so far is to have it on the 30th of November, so that should be plenty of time for you all to re-organise your busy social calendars (even though I KNOW that nearly half of you are unemployed). It can be a farewell before the population of Perth sinister once again becomes decimated, cause you know, its Perth, all the hipsters leave Its THE LAW.* New people are always welcome (and I know that you exist because a girl in my class told me about YOU). Details are sketchy but we thought we could go to Kings Park, mainly because Terry only has to walk down the road and hes a lazy sod. We may organise food and tremendously over-cater like last time, so best to email me. Although if you bring alcohol to share no one will mind if you dont bring any food. *****RAMBLE***** I have spent a lot of time recently photocopying pages and pages of a record of my heartbeat. Im not quite sure what I shall do with them, but perhaps I will wallpaper my room. At any case I am surely keeping it for posterity. You see, I had to have some tests on my ticker and the doctor said heres the monitor for 24 hours, do what you normally do. So I decided that normally on this night (few months ago) I would have gone to see the Lucksmiths who were playing, so I took the monitor along as it was easily concealable although I did fool some people into thinking I was bootlegging when I flashed it around. Thats because it looked like a tape deck, because thats all the high tech machinery I DID have on me. They were, in fact, recording my heart beat for medical purposes onto a cassette. I shot a quizzical look at the nurse when she produced it and hooked me up. Apparently medical science hasnt kept up with the massive developments in recording technology as well as the music industry. Anyhow, now I have a record of my heart at a Lucksmiths gig. Its great. I wish I kept a better record of the night though, (like: 8.10 The Luckies told joke about flying in and how their arms were tired) but I am pretty sure I can see the way my heart fluttered when Marty walked past and I poured over it today and noted oooh, that must have been when they played Frisbee. Except they didnt play Frisbee, I remember that now, because I remember being annoyed. Speaking of What Bird is that I had a copy of this out the other day checking out the birds. Here, however, I am talking about the book, not the album, and birds of the feathered kind which have nested in our tree. The little ones have hatched now, you can just see their heads. I plan on making myself wings and joining in on their flying lessons. But the best thing is watching their mother attack everything that comes close, and these tiny birds take on the big magpies with tremendous courage. Go team! Segueing like a maniac, Helen * When I say this is THE LAW I mean it. I got an odd phone call at first in the middle of the night, tipping me off, and sure enough I got my first hipster caution the other day. The incredibly hipster policeman (cause if you cant beat them) told me that this town wasnt hip enough for the both of us. Apparently they had a tip off. So I packed my bags to hot tail it out of here. Although I did wonder if they had made some mistake. It turns out that they had, and I got a very apologetic phone call from a hipster secretary, who expressed deep regret at their mistake, and informed me that happily they had re-checked their sources and found I only met two of the ten hip criterion, so I was allowed to stay. But hell, I had already booked my ticket +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ 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: Dialogue: Crass wank (BOWLING INFO UPDATE 3:30pm SUNDAY)
by kenneth.chu＠uclh.org 12 Nov '02

12 Nov '02

On Blind Date (which is apparently like "The Dating Game" in America) the other night there was a round where the girl has to pick a boy out of three boys by asking questions, yes, which is what happens every week, but, this time the three boys were EXACTLY the same, like EXACTLY, like, so EXACTLY that they can't even be twins, there are three of them for a start. Two boys were wearing the same blue shirt and black trousers and one other boy was wearing a red version of that same shirt and black trousers. The girl picked the one in red shirt at the end. Note to self: Wear red shirts. Speaking of blind, there is a little park next to my place of work, which I always thought was quite pretty despite being bit run down, but I've never really discovered the true inner beauty of it until yesterday on my way to work, I was greeting by a man with the most radical pair of trousers - they were flesh coloured - wait, no, he just had no trousers on, hang about, if he wasn't wearing trousers why was he checking if his flyers were undone? NO! he was playing his human flute! In public, one hand on hip and the other hand letting it rip. Exactly what I needed to see on a Monday Morning on my way to work, exactly what everyone need to read about on a Tuesday Afternoon. Note to self: Don't wear flesh coloured pants Speaking of intricate fingerwork, did you know that we're all going BOWLING this SUNDAY? @ Finsbury Park, Rowens Entertainment/Bowling centre. I'd just remembered how early 2pm is, so NOW it's at 3:30pm! This gives people chance to come on time despite being hungover. Ok? So bowling: 1) This sunday 17 Nov 2) 3:30pm 3) at Rowens Entertainment, Stroud Green Road, Finsbury Park I've even got a map thing here http://www.multimap.com/map/browse.cgi?addr1=Everton+Forbes+(W+I+O+N+O)+Trav els+Ltd,+11&addr2=Stroud+Green+Road&addr3=London&pc=N4++2DQ&client=public&gr ide=531385&gridn=186837&scale=10000 I've already got quite a few confirmed attendances and mostly of girls (woohoo!), so we need more boys - wait what am I talking about... more girls yeah! And invite your friends etc. to come bowling! Email me if you have probs or want my phone number for chatting me up with. Note to self: Wear bowling shoes. Hark Hester said: >>.. Anyway, those of you who've heard the new St Etienne offering "Finisterre" will recognise the line...<< I think Finsiterre is a bit freaky. Note to self: The flow of this email is wearing thin, stop. Note to self: The end. Ken Note to self: Thank fuck for that. +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ 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: Have you ever been to a Harvester before?
by Mark Hester 12 Nov '02

12 Nov '02

....as a matter of fact, I haven't, and the fact that I haven't was contributive to me gaining a rather high score on an "How Much of a Snob Are You?" on the modern interweb some time ago. Now, Beefeaters, they're different. I've been to plenty of those. In fact, when I move offices in a couple of months' time the nearest thing approximating a pub will in fact be a Beefeater called the Longwall. A couple of weeks back we all headed down to the new building to see what it's like. Seriously odd is the answer. Whereas our current place has a pond, the new one has a Water Feature, which is no good for fish as it consists of a very, very shallow sheet of water moving over a metal plateau. With coloured lights. The new office also takes open plan to new heights (or depths) as there are NO DIVIDES AT ALL, not even between the restaurant and the reception area, which'll be, erm, *interesting* when there's fish on Fridays. All the references to Harvesters in the archives are about combine harvesters, unfortunately.... Anyway, those of you who've heard the new St Etienne offering "Finisterre" will recognise the line at the top from Michael Jayston's spoken parts, which he utters with such gravitas that they seem of the utmost import. I had no idea who Jayston was, so I went a-googling, natch, and discovered that he was a "character actor" who'd been in loads of stuff without actually being the real star. Donnie Darko has real stars - Drew Barrymore and Patrick Swayze. It's a really great film and v. funny in places - go see it. There's a bunch of kids in Oxford right now called Trademark who look like the Cuban Boys, play eightiesish synth-pop (a bit like Nemo) and fill the gaping hole left by the (presumably) defunct Holy Roman Empire in the wackiness stakes. They even gave a physics lecture in the middle of their set last night, to precursor their song "Sine Love". Stuart Djing at TIHIFTBL? Yay! Mark. ______________________________________________________________ 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: Have you ever been to a Harvester before?
by Mark Hester 12 Nov '02

12 Nov '02

....as a matter of fact, I haven't, and the fact that I haven't was contributive to me gaining a rather high score on an "How Much of a Snob Are You?" on the modern interweb some time ago. Now, Beefeaters, they're different. I've been to plenty of those. In fact, when I move offices in a couple of months' time the nearest thing approximating a pub will in fact be a Beefeater called the Longwall. A couple of weeks back we all headed down to the new building to see what it's like. Seriously odd is the answer. Whereas our current place has a pond, the new one has a Water Feature, which is no good for fish as it consists of a very, very shallow sheet of water moving over a metal plateau. With coloured lights. The new office also takes open plan to new heights (or depths) as there are NO DIVIDES AT ALL, not even between the restaurant and the reception area, which'll be, erm, *interesting* when there's fish on Fridays. All the references to Harvesters in the archives are about combine harvesters, unfortunately.... Anyway, those of you who've heard the new St Etienne offering "Finisterre" will recognise the line at the top from Michael Jayston's spoken parts, which he utters with such gravitas that they seem of the utmost import. I had no idea who Jayston was, so I went a-googling, natch, and discovered that he was a "character actor" who'd been in loads of stuff without actually being the real star. Donnie Darko has real stars - Drew Barrymore and Patrick Swayze. It's a really great film and v. funny in places - go see it. There's a bunch of kids in Oxford right now called Trademark who look like the Cuban Boys, play eightiesish synth-pop (a bit like Nemo) and fill the gaping hole left by the (presumably) defunct Holy Roman Empire in the wackiness stakes. They even gave a physics lecture in the middle of their set last night, to precursor their song "Sine Love". Stuart Djing at TIHIFTBL? Yay! Mark. ______________________________________________________________ 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: The Shortest Novel in the World
by elizabeth trawick 12 Nov '02

12 Nov '02

Hullo Sinisters! Ah, this is my first post. Does it feel like it? It certainly does to me. I don't wish to bore you, so I'm not going to ramble on (at least I'm going to try not to). Yes, to the post! When I first heard of Belle and Sebastian, I was dating a very tall boy named Chris. He was absolutely infatuated with them as far as I could tell. Myself? I listened to the likes of Tool, A Perfect Circle, and Nine Inch Nails. Though Belle and Sebastian were far from my taste, I still tried them out. I'm not sure if this is horrible, but I downloaded a few songs. Included were: This is Just a Modern Rock Song (one of Chris' favourites, the first he suggested), Is It Wicked Not to Care, and Don't Leave the Light on Baby. Of course, being the "hard fucking rock" fan I was, I didn't like them. Oh my, were they much too girly for me! I thought the lead singer (oh, Stuart, bless you!) had a nice voice, though Isobel, I respectfully called 'the other' at that time, was not so pleasant but rather annoying. Yes, this was coming from the mind of someone who thought Maynard James Keenan had the prettiest voice in the world. It's been a year or so since then, and Chris and I have stopped dating. That was very short-lived, as was my listening to the few Belle and Sebastian songs I had on my winamp playlist. Just a few months ago, though, I started dating another boy. By this time I was listening to 'emo' bands such as Saves the Day, Jimmy Eat World, and the occasional Tool I was still interested in. Him? He was absolutely in love with The Clash and Belle and Sebastian. After a while of being in his car and listening to nothing but Belle and Sebastian, The Apples in Stereo and Beulah, I began to actually like these bands. Oh, the wonders of Stuart's voice and Isobel's cello and... oh, I could go on for ages like this, so I'll stop. Now, look at me. I'm a Sinister! My Tool and Saves the Day cds have been thrown under my bed somewhere and my car is filled with cds by Beulah, Belle and Sebastian, The Smiths, and Pulp (oh, is it wrong for me to want to kiss a man twice as old as I?). Oh goodness me, I'm giddy just thinking about "Me and the Major"! I think this is turning into a novel, so I'll stop now. To be honest, I think this post is my way of thanking Belle and Sebastian for brightening my cd collection. xoxo, -Elizabeth _________________________________________________________________ Protect your PC - get McAfee.com VirusScan Online http://clinic.mcafee.com/clinic/ibuy/campaign.asp?cid=3963 +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ 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! +-+ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+

1 0