So much time has gone by since I last wrote anything to all of you 1400 souls scattered around the world like daisies on a hillside (flattery seems like a good way to begin things), that I do so now labouring under a chronic case of trepidation. Perhaps everything I will write from this point on will be gibberish. In a way, that would be something of a relief. But it isn't to be. Being non-sensical has always struck me as an affectation. I often wonder about the bums I've seen on the streets who talk to invisible friends and enemies. Do they really see somebody there? I have a suspicion that they don't. Perhaps they are all unconsciously conforming to the accepted stereotype of what a loony should be like. I suspect that real loonies don't stand on street corners raving to invisible thieves and demanding the return of their shoes, but sit placidly, in nice, conservative clothes, in nice, conservative homes, brooding. That said, I did once sit next to man on the tube (between Hendon Central and Brent Cross, in case, by some wild chance, somebody was interested in that detail) who was about seven feet tall - I only exagerrate slightly, so I hope I'll be forgiven -, muttering dark words about rape and murder. He was gaunt and would fix me with a bulging eyed stare before snarling to nobody in particular that he wanted blood. He had a crumpled shopping bag, and he kept removing videos, one after the other, all gruesome horror films. I got off at the next stop terrified, and hid behind the staircase until the train had pulled out. That anecdote dispensed with, I would like to pose a question: am I the only person in the world who doesn't like The Kings of Convenience? Their songs all remind me of the Trumpton theme, but without any of the pleasant associations. Today I alphabetised my CD collection. Does that bring me closer to godliness, or mean that I should do more hard drugs? Probably neither. Godliness and drugs are a bore, and closer in relation that one might at first suspect. Thankfully, there are other options. It need hardly be mentioned that I am excited about the prospect of seeing Belle and Sebastian at the Royal Albert Hall, although I am slightly sad that finances do not afford me the pleasure of harassing old women in provincial ticket offices. I wonder if she'll go and see them too? Or whether the couple from the Oxo adverts will be there, rekindling old romantic memories? they probably have a lot of free time since they stopped selling gravy. This is all becoming very low brow, isn't it? Next I'll be writing about Hello magazine before, perhaps, going out and clubbing a woman over the head in order to drag her back into my cave and showing her the hot red things I've managed to make come out of pieces of wood. Then it will just be dribbling and mushy peas for me. I'm sorry, this is awful. It can't all end this way, can it? With Oxo and Trumpton and Hello magazine? No, let there be a glimpse of salvation at the end of this length word-tunnel. Let forgiveness come to woeful metaphors. Let the sun shine on the heads of the loving, and let the loveless remember the sunshine even in times of rain. Let there be light. Let there be life. Let there be sweet dreams. Let me not mention the Eurythmics. Goodnight. Ruvi. +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister@missprint.org. To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to majordomo@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 +-+ +-+ Nee, nee mun pish, chan pai dee kwa +-+ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+