now i know how joan of arc felt.
now i know how joan of arc felt.
kind of hot around the arse and a little bit sweaty. damn those nylon
knickers!
hello, my dears. its been a funny old funny old, hasn't it? we have
chickfactored, some of you have tigermilked, and some more of us have
picnicked (a big HRAY and thanks to those of you who turned up to saint
james's park on a sunny september day. i won't report back. the joy was
just in being there, it won't carry over into print). so far, i have yet to
read a report of the chickfactor ball. i might attempt one at the end of
the mail.
(note added later on: for those of you who are going to read this for a
review, don't bother, i didn't write one. sorry, n all that. perhaps you
could read it anyway, if you feel that way inclined. you might learn
something. then again you might not but HEY the world is full of fucking
risks, okay, you don't take risks, you don't LIVE...)
------
err...where was i? oh yes:
these dark nights encourage introspection. the window pane throws up an
artificially illuminated me. suddenly, i stand between myself and the
outside world, seeing myself translucent, and spectral, surrounded by the
softness of night. there's a strange sort of magic there. in the window
pane, and behind it, in the darkness.
is it that i believe i could lose myself in the night? wander out into it,
sink into it, feel the comforting absence and obliterate everything but the
air flowing in and out, in and out..?
maybe. but, as the buddha might have said:
'cut the sentimental claptrap, anscombe, its fucking boring'
this is what i'm doing tonight -
i'm staring out of the window at a flickering silhouette. a nun, raising a
hammer and letting it fall- an image thrown by candlelight onto a frosted
glass window, a woman at work. a work in construction. i wish i knew what
she was doing..
that fucking nun is up to something.... i came across her a few weeks ago,
and i told her she could live in my shed. from what i could tell, she's
hiding from someone, possibly the police, possibly some mutant nuns. she
did try to tell me, but i was watching 'brum boys bounce best' at the time
and i wasn't really listening. i remember it involving lemonfresh toilet
duck and some dodgy bodily positions but that's not my sort of thing. leave
that to the likes of archel playforth.
occasionally, the light of the flame catches the nun's silhouette and throws
it into colour. if i squint, i can discern the navy of her habit; the glow
of a cigarette; the glittering of a disco ball.
yeah, she's got a disco ball. or so i suspect. i haven't seen it. she
won't let me into the shed. i've tried to point out that it belongs to me,
but this doesn't seem to make any difference. says my essence will 'pollute
the aura of tranquility and the spirit of diligence that fills this once
unholy cesspit'
i think she found that severed head under the floor. i DID try and explain
that..
anyway. i've asked sister janice (that's her name. a stupid name, if you
ask me, but the only time i pointed this out she threatened me with a
chainsaw) what she's up to. i was DEAD subtle and everything...
me: 'hi. i'm just bringing you a cup of tea, and looking at my garden. i'm
not trying to look through the windows, or spy on you, and i'm CERTAINLY not
going to run at you when you aren't expecting it, and try and knock you out
of the way. are you having a nice day?'
sister janice slejj: 'yes. thank you. i'm not very busy. not doing much.
not building anything. definitely not building a space-rocket, or anything
like that. i'm just being a nun. a quiet little nun. with no plans to
raid your house for components when you aren't there, because that would be
dishonest. and i'm not. dishonest, that is. i'm not dishonest.'
she's a fucking sly one, that one. i have no idea what she's up to. i
tried to run at her when she wasn't expecting it, and knock her out of the
way, but she seemed to have guessed my Clever Trick (i wonder if she has
been reading my 'Ian Book Of Clever Tricks'? dammit, that was the BEST
ONE!). and when i recovered from the blow to the head, she was back inside,
doing whatever she is doing.
-------------
usually, i'd find other things to interest me, but my jeff stryker dildo
appears to have gone missing. a lot of things have lately. sister janice
says she suspects i have Very Big Mice, and that i should leave a block of
the finest jarlsberg outside my house every morning, to tempt them away.
weird. every morning the jarlsberg is gone, but still the mice steal
things.
i haven't seen one yet, but i'm pretty sure they're there. watching me.
perhaps i should tell you about other things. okay, here's a brief
synopsis:
1. i have drafted a letter to the polyphonic spree. i have told them i am
excellent at playing the maracas, and would welcome the chance to travel
continents in a white robe, singing to all and sundry. i am sure they will
write back soon and invite me to join
2. i have been completing the rough copy of my book: 'evil space-aliens are
watching us, and they plan to suck our brains out with their nasty sucky
sucky ooh nasty brain sucky tentacles'.
one should keep titles short, and to the point. see how i do it? some of
you could learn..
3. i have come to the conclusion that belle and sebastian may not actually
exist, and that they're a Clever Trick (a Clever Trick NOT in the 'Ian Book
Of Clever Tricks', which makes it a Very Clever Trick Indeed), an illusion
manufactured by certain members of this list who work for the brain sucky
nasty ooh sucky sucky aliens to get together certain intelligent, articulate
members of the species and use their powers for evil purposes.
more of this in later messages. it may be dangerous to let them know i
suspect them at this point.. and one should be very certain before throwing
accusations, or resorting to violence
4. i have sent archel playforth a letter bomb, as she is clearly an Agent Of
Destruction working for...
well.... best not to say, just yet.
oh, and i went to the chickfactor ball. but perhaps the review should wait.
it doesn't want to be here, not tonight. its happy to stay in the back of
my head for a while longer.
take care. the truth is out there.
but probably not where you're looking.
xx
ian
+-------------------------------------------------------------------------+
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+-+ "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! +-+
+-------------------------------------------------------------------------+
(Previously, on Belle and Sebastian on the Weakest link...)
<Anne> Voting over, it's time to reveal who YOU think is the WEAKEST LINK!
<Orchestra> DUM DUM DUM DUM... DUM DUM
<Stuart> Isobel
<Richard> Stuart
<Bob> Richard
<Isobel> Richard
<Orchestra> DUM!
<Anne> Stuart, let me guess, you need someone to take some joy in something
you do?
<Stuart> Aye, and she needs a man who's either rich or losing a screw!
<Anne> Isobel!
<Isobel> Yes anne.
<Anne> Why Richard?
<Isobel> Well I think someone here's already lost a screw, so I don't really
need Rich anymore.
<Anne> Okay Richard, they don't need you anymore, and with two votes you ARE
the weakest link GOODBYE!
* Richard does the catwalk of shame
(..Inside interview room)
<Richard> I'm a wee bit pissed off about being voted out when I'm so close
to winning the money, to change my mood a little I'm going to be posing down
the pub, I'll be seeing my reflection and I'll be looking slightly rough,
and by the time I'm sober I'll have forgotten what I've had, and
everybody'll tell me that it's cool to be a cat oh yeah cooool for
cattss....
(..Back to studio)
<Anne> And on to round seven, you have now got £350 in your kitty out of the
possible £6000, we're down to 3 and we're going to take 10 more seconds off
the clock we'll start with the strongest link from the last round, and
that's Bob. Let's PLAY.. the WEAKESTLINK!
<Orchestra> DUM DUM DUM DUM...
<Anne> Start the clock
<Orchestra> DUM DUM!
<Anne> Bob, Michael D Hurley is the mayor of which city in Maine, USA?
<Bob> Belfast!
<Anne> Correct! Isobel, Richard Richard and Edward Hitler were two
characters in a Comedy Show called what?
<Isobel> Er.. um.. The Twee Rabbit Fun Show!
<Anne> No the correct answer is Bottom. Bob, famous photographer Bob
Webzell has a photo entitled the what bike?
<Bob> Belfast!
<Anne> Correct! Isobel, according to one of the slogans of the hit TV
series X-files, the Truth is where?
<Isobel> I know! The truth awaits me, but still I hesisitate because of
fear!
<Anne> No, the Answer is The Truth is Out There. Stuart, in business, the
term used to describe procedures within a firm that enforced the
non-disclosure of information between departments in a firm, typically to
prevent illegal use of insider information is what?
<Stuart> Not telling ya.
<Anne> No, the answer is Chinese Wall. Bob..
<Orchestra> DUM... DUM... DUM DUM!
<Anne> The time is up, and after voting off six SUPPOSEDLY weaker links, you
have managed to bank absolutely nothing. In the next round whatever money
you bank will be trebbled and added to your total, so there's potentially
£3000 up for grabs. Who's going to help you bank this money, who's going to
leave with nothing? Have the COURAGE to VOTE OFF, the WEAKEST LINK!
<Jon Briggs> Bob was once again the strongest link, Isobel was the weakest
link, but in this critical stage of the game who is going to get the votes?
<Anne> Voting over, it's time to reveal who YOU think is the WEAKEST LINK!
<Orchestra> DUM DUM DUM DUM... DUM DUM
---
(..to be continued)
Ken
_________________________________________________________________
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To send to the list mail sinister(a)missprint.org. To unsubscribe
send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to
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+-+ "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! +-+
+-------------------------------------------------------------------------+
Hi All,
Just a quick note to inform you of another couple of
birthdays to write in your diary:
1/ My Sister, Clare. (Yesterday (7th October))
2/ A friend of mine, Alex. (Yesterday (7th October))
3/ One of the best singer/songwriters EVER!!, Thom
Yorke (lead singer of Radiohead, if you are
unfortunate enough not to know who he is). (Yesterday
(7th October).
Well, there you have it.
If any of you get bored, just fly to Australia, and
then come to Adelaide, and then come to the suberb
Medindie. I'm sure Mum will let you stay for a while.
Read you around.
Nathan Rupert.
__________________________________________________
Do you Yahoo!?
Faith Hill - Exclusive Performances, Videos & More
http://faith.yahoo.com
+-------------------------------------------------------------------------+
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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! +-+
+-------------------------------------------------------------------------+
Ahoy there...
erm...I know I have asked this before but thought I'd try again:
Any Sinister people (...) in Leeds?
Just moved here and feel a bit...lonely (awwwww)...
OK.
Bye!
Zoe
-----------------------------------------------
" Passivity in life, in politics, is problematic: it means acquiescing to a
status quo that damages people along class,gender, racial, sexual and other
lines."
R. Dyer
_________________________________________________________________
Join the worldÂ’s largest e-mail service with MSN Hotmail.
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+-------------------------------------------------------------------------+
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To send to the list mail sinister(a)missprint.org. To unsubscribe
send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to
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+-+ "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! +-+
+-------------------------------------------------------------------------+
mornin' kids,
just to let you kow that idleberry got fed up of
y'all. Seh told me to tell you this. Yu hadn't been
adoring her as much as you had previously. Remember
when she'd write something, and like, a whole bunhc of
you would post, and go "is't idleberry the best?" and
sugges her for presidentship (it REALLY happened.
Seriously.).
Well, you hadn't been adoring her enough of late, so
she quit. She left you before you could leave her any
more than you already had. You fickle cruel heartless
people. She relied upon you for the maintance of her
ego, and the adoration of her character. It saved her
the hard work of loving herself, to have people to do
it for her. Although, it sort of helped. It made it
easier when other people seemed to think the same as
her.
Anyway.
Shes gone, off in a diva stylesulk. I'm sure if she
had a feather boa instead of a keyboard, she'd flick
it over her should,er turn her perfect little nose in
the air, close her eyes in quiet indigance, and turn
on the spot, and storm off. But its not easy without a
feather boa to get the look quite right., I hear she's
been shopping for one, for her next diva moment.
If you're good, she might slip back though. She might
slip back through the door, looking sheepish and hping
you won't notice, but that you'll have missed her
presence at any rate.
Meanwhile, I am here.
Thank you for your attention.
Love,
retro^sec
(secretary to idleberry, keeper of the ego)
=====
<a href="http://retrosec.blogspot.com/">http://retrosec.blogspot.com/</a> thoughts
__________________________________________________
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from News and Sport to Email and Music Charts
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To send to the list mail sinister(a)missprint.org. To unsubscribe
send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to
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+-+ "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! +-+
+-------------------------------------------------------------------------+
*** off topic alert (as per my last post: apologies) ***
*** self-indulgent alert -this man should keep quiet***
end of disclaimers
A is for Abigail, the girl at the top of the class in primary school. We had
the sort of mutual admiration of competitors, except I think she won. A is
also for Anna who I went to the pictures with. She had perhaps this passing
resemblance to Glenn Close and I remarked at the beginning of *Dangerous
Liaisons* that I found this Close woman rather ugly. This didn't go down
well. There is another more recent Anna. 'Whatever you do, *don't* flush the
loo in the middle of the night because the woman who owns this place really
hates noise at night!'. I flushed the loo.
Angie, who opens the door to her cabin dressed only in a towel. 'Hi there!'
She says with a grin and a wink. She had a higher degree from the Irish
Catholic Girls College of Flirting.
B is for Bonnie. However, I don't think Bonnie was her real name. She wanted
me to take the day off work so that we could go walking in the Hackney
Marshes. I went to work.
C is for Charlotte. I enjoyed the slight pleasure of wiping some chocolate
off her lips in a Turkish ravine, but she was going out with another. She
also fancied this mad Estonian bloke, who I suppose had a sort of dangerous
charm, especially in caves. I remember this guy enthusiastically explaining
to me how he was designing a dairy back home to look like two big tits.
C is also for Catriona, who was from the year below but we shared a higher
art class. It was reasonably well known that I fancied her but was too shy
to ask her out. Still, she indulged my flirting with a sweetness that was
fanciable in its own right.
Another C is Ceren, who I insisted upon snogging in Belgium. I'd been on a
bit of a spree that week and thought I was invincible. We later traded long
letters. Long, not as in the number of words but as in extreme length to
width ratio.
Claudia, who took my arm on the way into Ronnie Scott's, assumed I owned a
castle back home and generally made me feel like a movie star.
C is also for Catherine. We were at a meeting. I made some comment. She
added something vaguely opposite in meaning and we glowered across at one
another. For some reason, later that evening, in a bar in the bowels of a
converted coal barge, something clicked. The walk home involved a doorway,
the middle of the street and some shocked old men as we sat in a late night
cafe doing things that didn't have much to do with the croque monsieur and
two coffees we'd ordered.
D is for Debbie. Two, actually. One was the kind of girl who hung around in
different circles in High School but then you meet again, years later, and
it's a surprise for each other to discover that, well, she doesn't even mind
fiddling with my smelly socks. I always had a bit of a crush on her from a
distance, I suppose, and it's not that anything happened on the latter
occasion either, apart from the socks bit, and we were both rather pished
at the time. Still, it was enough to make one wonder.
The other Debbie I've got written down in red biro capitals in a diary entry
marked 7th January 1998. I'd obviously written this as I'd suddenly
remembered a name from earlier. In another diary I've got a leaf from a
willow tree pasted to the page. The leaf is still green and here's her name
written down again, with no explanation. Just the name, in the middle of the
previous and otherwise blank page. The tree was her favourite one. It's in
Islington, just at Duncan Street by the entrance to the canal. I made sure
to pick a recently fallen leaf, as it would have seemed to be vaguely
violent to pick a leaf off the living stalk. She used to go out with a
drummer in a well known rock band. She had a younger sister who was called
Hannah, I think, who was equally cute. We all went down to see Shane McGowan
at the Water Rats once. Debbie walked me home and we kissed on her doorstep.
E is for Elita and Esther. Elita was terribly cool, and Esther was the 10
out of 10 looking violinist in the orchestra. I never got close to either,
except
for when the former yawned at my camera as I took a group shot in Canada.
Last I heard she was going out with a chef . E is also Eli from Bergen, who
I whiled away some time with in Brussels Airport which is, otherwise, an
extraordinarily boring place to be. And for Eva, but I'm still in touch with
her. She is now married to a German.
F is for Fiona. There are three Fionas. One of them called me a sex object
after I went skinny dipping in the Atlantic one night,
but then it was rather embarrassing because I decided to visit her at her
flat one day and she offered me a mug of tea. It was valentine's day and her
boyfriend was coming round. I hung around long enough to say hello to him
then made my excuses. I went shopping for hotpants in Istanbul with another
of the Fionas, 'Oh, what do you think?' she says, ripping the changing room
curtains back and swivelling her hips. 'Erm... nice.'
G is for Georgina. One of my best friends from school knew her family, so
the three of us went to the cinema once. She was a boy's sort of a girl;
wore pass-me down rugby shirts trophy-style, and was extremely popular all
round. G is also for Gillian, who asked me out once. I declined. I was still
getting over...
Helen. I was the new kid in town, circa primary seven and one day an
emissary was dispatched to ask me if I'd go out with her. I didn't really
know what 'going out' with someone actually meant, but said ok anyway,
because she was one of the prettiest girls in the class. At this time I
turned down all the invitations to discos I used to get, until my mum found
some of them and suggested it was rude of me to simply ignore them. So after
that I accepted the invitations, but Helen rarely came along, so I snogged
whoever else was around instead. Finding out the facts of life in first year
of High School ('Oh *please* let us be the externally fertilised sort!' went
my prayer to God, in biology class) put a traumatic end to innocent French
kissing because, after all, it was all leading *there*. It also spelled the
demise of my relationship with Helen, who found an Older Boy. After this, we
both went on a weekend to the seaside with a Sunday School youth group and I
spent my time pining over what I'd lost.
I is for Ilaria, from Genoa. To be honest I'm struggling with the I's but
she appears in two separate occasions in an old address book.
J is for Jenny, from Sweden. We sat up all night at the edge of the woods,
discussing life, the universe and everything, keeping each other warm 'till
the sun rose. We wrote to each other for years after that. I got a garbled
message once about her being in London and wanting to meet up, but I got the
message too late or something, so I've never seen her again. I've kept all
her letters though.
J is also for Jane. We were standing outside her digs. She shared a room and
it was about 1am. She says 'Shall I walk you back to your room?' 'Oh,
but you're just home now, it would put you too much out of your way...'
Idiot-moi, it never even occurred to me what she meant.
J is also for Jennifer, with whom I was supposed to be organising a softball
match amongst some Clerkenwell architecture firms. She was a girl with an
attitude and a decidedly weird edge. Perhaps she cultivated it to make her
appear more interesting than she actually was, but I still found her rather
fascinating, not that I pursued the matter. However, she did seem to go
along with me some way, you know when everyone in a group has noticed that
two of their party have been in deep conversation with each other for a
whole evening, oblivious to everyone else; nod nod, wink wink they go as we
get up to leave.
K is for Kate, who I was secretly in lust with while I was going out with
Helen. We used to walk home from school with each other, along with Helen
and Claire and Jill.
K is also for Katy. We'd lie on the floor of her apartment, listening to
Rachmaninov's Vespers whilst leafing through the pages of a large book of
Durer etchings she'd stolen from the Royal College of Art. 'Now Gordon, L***
is coming over. She's an artist and is having some trouble leaving her
boyfriend. I'd like you to set her straight, ok?' 'Ok.' Or walking down Dean
St. at 11.30am 'Now if you were a normal boy we'd be thinking about going
for lunch somewhere like that place over there. But as it is, there's
someone in this bar here I want to catch up with anyway, so come this way.'
I
was flunking work again, but the woman understood. Katy was a goddess.
Karen is, I think, the name of the girl I lost my virginity to. She offered
me sex lessons in the afternoons after our initial encounter, but I was
scared of getting beaten up by her boyfriend who, I suspected, was a bit of
a bruiser.
L is for Leigh. Back in primary school, she introduced me to the word 'boob
tube', which I though was vaguely naughty. She was also cute. L is also for
Lauras. High School Laura left for Australia. She returned to the UK for a
week and arranged via Jill that I meet her in a certain coffee shop on
Monday. I made some excuses and said maybe Tuesday. She waited in the coffee
shop on Wednesday, Thursday and on Friday morning Jill passed on the message
that Laura was now returning to Australia, hated my guts and never wanted to
see me again. I was simply too shy to turn up to what I regarded as a date.
It was a pity, being shy like that. Because If I hadn't been, I'd have met
her at the coffee shop and I might have turned out a normal adult. The other
Laura I never really fancied, but I made more passes at her than practically
any other girl, mainly because I was desperate for some holiday sex. We were
standing in a group getting our photo taken and she squeezed my hand
tightly, which was subtly sexy in a secret sign kind of a way, but by then
it was too late and I was no longer interested.
L is also for Laetitia from Portland, Oregon. You don't quickly forget girls
when you remember them riding beside you on a camel. 'What?' I say, looking
at her rather quizzically. 'Nothing' she mutters, shaking her head and
grinning.
M is for Michelle, who had a gay boyfriend who propositioned me one
afternoon as I sat drinking cocktails at the end of an empty Atlantic Bar
and Grill in Piccadilly. He invited me over to their sofa. 'Sorry I'm not
that way inclined but I wouldn't mind [I turn my gaze to her] ...having sex
with you.' 'Ok.' Ah, nice and simple. She worked in the box office of a
theatre in the West End.
N is for Natalie. The first day she arrived at my primary school she sat at
the opposite end of the table. She was gorgeous, with long blonde hair and
the biggest, most cheerful smile I've ever seen, flashing her blue eyes all
the while; the only girl who's eye colour I've ever actually noticed, apart
from Catriona's (her's were hazelish). I was out for a walk with my mum one
Sunday afternoon and there was Natalie, riding around on her bike. She
smiled over, put both her legs up on top of the handle bars, and carried on
her way free-wheeling acrobatically down the cul-de-sac. Whoar.
There is also Nathalie the French au-pair, which would have been nice in
theory.
N is also for Nameless. I wouldn't say that just because I can't remember
their names at the moment that they are somehow less important. It's maybe
even the
opposite, in a certain way, like in the passage from the *Prime of Miss Jean
Brodie* which I'll paraphrase into 'The only reason you keep referring to
her by name is because it's the only way you can remember who she is'.
Still, for these purposes I'll carry on with the named, 'though I'm banging
my head against the wall trying to retrieve certain persons from this
nameless
category.
O is for Orlaith, pronounced Orla. She was a bit of a team with Angie, and
had this way of breathing out cigarette smoke (Menthols) so that it would
drift slowly past her large, dark eyes, at which point she reminded me of
Sean Young in Blade Runner. A bunch of us had gone for a sauna, armed with a
litre-sized bottle of vodka. Most of us didn't have any clothes on but she,
coyly, kept a towel wrapped around under her arms. Until she got into the
shower, however. Then she just had to smile. Somehow then she lost her
glacially cool facade and looked nothing so much like a girl that you wanted
to hug. However under the circumstances, such a move might have seemed like
something of a liberty, so I just smiled sheepishly back.
P is for Patricia. Tricia played second violin. Along with Catriona,
she was my big crush in the latter High School years. She had the kind
of face that I literally couldn't drag my eyes away from. She looked just,
so,
right somehow. I was completely in love and in lust in that overwhelming way
only adolescents seem to be, when everything like that is happening for the
first time. I only ever mustered the courage to talk to her once, even
though practically everyone in the orchestra considered my supposedly
private yearnings as fair gossip after a 'will he? won't he?' fashion,
either helped or not by friends trying to 'arrange' things on my behalf. I
asked her for a dance. It was one of these slow, cheek-to-cheek dances... I
am blustering hopelessly into a conversation about what we've eaten for
dinner
(she's a vegetarian). 'Argh! My gaucherie oh Lord save me from my
ineptitude,
I love this girl, make, oh please make my conversation skills improve!' But
it was not to be and I never got over my embarrassment. Traumatising,
traumatising.
Q is for... I draw a blank at Q.
Rachael was the daughter of an Australian professor who decided to make
money for herself in a daringly controversial way for a girl of her station.
Great conversation and wow, she was good at her job.
S is for Susann, from Berlin. I leaned over to kiss her goodbye and her lips
slipped from my cheek to my mouth but although I liked her a lot, I couldn't
say that I fancied her, so I quickly twisted my head up and round to end up
smiling at her, then we hugged and I was off.
I'm staring at a photograph taken in a restaurant which had a resident
storyteller much in the same way that some restaurants have house bands. It
is in downtown Teheran, and three girls are posed around a 'hubbabubba'
tobacco smoking device. I'm sure one or two of them have names beginning
with 'S', but once one starts trying to wrack one's brains it seems as if
the mists blow over with ever more soaking density, obscuring the view and
blurring the ink. Smiling straight at the camera, very beautiful, with the
kind of beauty everyone acknowledges with a mixture of awe and sheer
pleasure since it is so clearly beyond that of the common lot... I think her
name is Sabadeh, or something sounding like that. Next to her is a girl I
actually worked with and knew better, who has the kind of beauty a painter
would see, because the bone structure and the eyes and intelligent mouth are
all there once one starts to look. She may have been called Shirin, and yet
it doesn't seem quite right. Damnit, I've been trying to remember this name
for the past half hour. I thought it would come back to me once I'd found
the photograph here, but no.
T is for Tamara, who later styled herself as Vesna. She sent me a new year's
card featuring lots of cigarettes once. Nothing in it beyond that, but she
did have style.
No, I've never met anyone called Ulla or Ulrika, even if there's a fine
Sillustrator going by the former name.
V is for Victoria, the first girl I ever kissed. It was in primary two, on
Monday morning. I'd seen a film the previous afternoon starring Errol Flynn
and had used it as a learning exercise in how to handle women. So Victoria
gets up from her desk to hand in her homework. I quickly get up to do
like-wise and catch her up about two-thirds of the way to the teacher's
desk. I grab her around the waist and shoulders and plant my lips on hers
for a lingering embrace. Then I detach myself and continue towards the
teacher, who is too shocked to say anything much. At playtime my Action Man
arranges to marry her Cindy Doll.
Xenia, Warrior Princess,Yvonne and Zoe don't feature in my personal list,
yet.
Gordon
A tree has sheltered one from the storm, but one had better depart swiftly
after, lest it start to drip.
+-------------------------------------------------------------------------+
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+-+ "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! +-+
+-------------------------------------------------------------------------+
Hi sinister,
it's been a while since my last post, more than an
year i think... in this
period i've changed my email address and began uni
(i'm in my second year,
now)
i have nothing b&s related except that i always love
them and i've seen them
live in april.
i have a friend that is called like me and it's the
first time for me having
a friend with my same name, i still feel strange about
it.
i'm knitting my winter bag, but i'm not that good,
though i find it really
relaxing... it's a weird period for me, my head is
still on holiday and i
waste my time checking my email, but i never receive
what i want. it's a bit
pointless checking emails every two or three minutes
and really
disappointing, so i'm waiting and hoping that i will
stop.
fortunately university started this week, i have new
apt mates, we're in
five and i'm praying that they won't be sort of dr
jekyll and mr hyde
people like last year :)
i have a new mary lou lord obsession and a lucksmiths
one too. last weekend
i was in my sister's boyfriend home and oblige him to
give me some of his
cds=> great thing they're wonderful.
hm... it's since june i'm trying to write to sinister
and at the end i write
this meaningless post... i'm sorry, next will be
better i hope
love
francesca
______________________________________________________________________
Mio Yahoo!: personalizza Yahoo! come piace a te
http://it.yahoo.com/mail_it/foot/?http://it.my.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! +-+
+-------------------------------------------------------------------------+
Today I woke up at half past two in the morning.
There's no chance for a lie in when you have your own
dairy. I put on my wellies and walked out into the
farmyard. There was a strange atmosphere in the
cowshed. The cows looked at me funnily, with anguished
expressions. I stood at the gate for a while before I
went in, trying to work out what was wrong. Then I
realised the strange atmosphere smelled a bit like
yesterday's Chicken Korma and noticed Barbara, the
youngest, most rebellious cow, standing looking
guilty, with a takeaway box hanging off her ear. That
one's trouble alright! Usually she's happy sneaking
into the the lounge when I'm out in the fields and
watching Bargain Hunt, but stealing food is pushing it
too far. And I wanted that curry for my tea.
I gave her a good telling off. Having such a big
bottom means you have a certain amount of
responsibilty, as I used to say to an old girlfriend
of mine. She was always trumping too. "It was Mick",
she'd say. "Mick's not even here" I'd say. "He's
hiding" she'd say. Grr...
Anyway, with all those fumes in such a small shed, it
would only take one cow to get a bit excited and the
whole thing could explode. She was a bad cow. I gave
her some of the soggiest hay I could find, and she
went into a corner and sulked. She won't make me feel
guilty, though. Not this time.
I'd spent Sunday morning with a spanner and a tuning
fork, tightening up Daisy's udders. Now each teat
plays a different pitch and if I pull them in the
right order I can play the them tune to Terry and
June.
I sang along this afternoon while I was milking and
had a go at playing "Judy and the Dream of Horses."
The cows didn't seem to like it, and Daisy shuffled
about, causing me to miss a B flat. They seem to have
a thing about horses. I think it's an inferiority
complex, what with horses having all the fame and fast
shoes and funny little men sitting on their backs.
Still, I love my cows more than any horse. I love them
more than anything, more than my car, my dog, my cat,
my rat, my Carl, Brian, Dennis, Trevor, and Al. More
than smelly old Isobel. Oh Barbara! I'm so sorry!
Please forgive me! I didn't mean to do bad!
Stuart
__________________________________________________
Do You Yahoo!?
Everything you'll ever need on one web page
from News and Sport to Email and Music Charts
http://uk.my.yahoo.com
+-------------------------------------------------------------------------+
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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! +-+
+-------------------------------------------------------------------------+
Hello
Caitlin said:
<<Music is wonderful>>
I quite agree. Last night my sideburn sporting Kung Fu kicking housemate was
sat watching Sex and the City ("It's not just for girls" he protested) so I
went upstairs and listened to the radio. As the final string wobbled and
faded on a guitar as a song finished I realised a faint sound of music was
coming, one note at a time, through the wall we share with next door. I
switched off the radio, lay on my bed, and listened. Slowly, carefully,
someone was playing "Ticket to Ride" on a keyboard. Sometimes they'd hit the
wrong note, and wander back to the bar before to play it again. Sometimes
they'd be confident and play the whole song through. They sounded to be
working their way through the whole Beatles songbook.
I listened for a while, but it sent me to sleep. Next time I hear them
playing, though, I'm going to get out my Casio and join in.
Jonathan said:
<<there isn't really
much going on in the b+s world>>
S'true, but at least they're doing nothing IN STYLE:
http://www.banchory.net/belleandsebastian/240902.html
Sam said:
>Please everyone who loves the Shigs and Nintendo go
>and buy Mario Sunshine.
>
>I'm too excited to say anything else.
I wish he had said something else because I couldn't understand that at all.
It did, however, remind me that I need to go to Mario's, the barber down the
street, to get myself a haircut. Last time I was there he gave up half way
through, waving his comb and scissors in the air and shouting "I am sorry!
There is a nothing I can a do with your hair! It is a too curly wurly!!",
then sent me home with a smile and a tiny tissue.
I hope things go better this time. Maybe I'll get it all cut off. I never
know what to say when I'm in the barber's chair. He stands behind with
scissors in one hand and a razor in the other and I panic. Usually I just
ask for something "not too long and not too short" and, suitably baffled,
they just give me the same cut they did last time.
I've got the afternoon off and I'm still here at work. Oh, the power of the
internet...
Robin xxx
_________________________________________________________________
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To send to the list mail sinister(a)missprint.org. To unsubscribe
send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to
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+-+ "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! +-+
+-------------------------------------------------------------------------+
Please everyone who loves the Shigs and Nintendo go
and buy Mario Sunshine.
I'm too excited to say anything else.
__________________________________________________
Do You Yahoo!?
Everything you'll ever need on one web page
from News and Sport to Email and Music Charts
http://uk.my.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! +-+
+-------------------------------------------------------------------------+
