here on my own now, after hours.. the pub is empty. i like it that way. the only light comes from the blinking of the cash register and a small row of fairy lights strung behind the optics. the juke-box has stopped playing and i am savouring the silence. it nuzzles up to me, curling its presence around me - an old friend, rarely encountered, sorely missed. they don't make pubs like this any more. in fact, they never have. the Ian's Head is a curious place to be. usually, it is a haven for the flotsam forgotten by time. you'll see various people you recognise, and many that you feel you know, vaguely, from some guess at an existence that never quite materialised. there's a special seat in the corner for charles aznavour. he only visits occasionally, but everyone knows him by name, and he never has to buy his own drink. cole porter pops in from time to time. visit on karaoke night, and you'll catch him singing "under my skin". but only when he's finished chatting with hermann hesse. these are the quieter nights. on the busy ones, three legged ostriches jostle for position at the bar with hare krishna devotees. the buddha gives an audience at the long central table, surrounded by prophets; priests and prostitutes from all the ages. he never says anything, and they never listen - that's the way they all like it. huge parties of office workers pour in, dancing to whatever songs play in their respective heads, all joining together in a final horrific cacophany. not tonight. the Ian's Head is closed for business. i sit, sipping an orange juice and staring at the string of flashes - green, purple, hexagon, yellow, as they light up one spirit bottle after another, and i try to forget about the ghosts that haunt every room. i'm escaping. you see, last night, i was visited by an angel. yeah, yeah, i know. how very billy graham. but this angel didn't have a special message for me. he didn't want to share the secret of existence, or make me live a righteous life. he wanted to eat my chocolate and surf the internet for porn. ------------------------------------------------- saint peter turned up about half-past-six. i've just got home from work and am preparing to relax with "take it like a man 4 - uncut and extra-long" when i hear a cough from the sofa next to me. a coughing sofa, how odd.... he smiles. he's come as an old-testament prophet. you know the sort - eyes, hair, staff.. the shock of finding such a creature next to one on the sofa whilst one is in the middle of fondling one's special secretness is enough to falter the hardiest of fucknuggets. "oh, don't mind me. where are the maltesers?" i put my special wand of wonder back where it is nice and polite to have it and ask him to use the doorbell next time. "but i'm an angel, we don't need to" "no, you don't need to. but its considered polite not to interrupt a person when they're....when they're......" "when they're fantasising about four-way-sex with a blonde-youth, a saint bernard and a jar of horlicks powder?" he doesn't wait for my reply... "sorry, couldn't make friday, so i decided to come early". he looks down at my wilting pride and joy - "bet you wish you'd done the same" i remind myself that smashing a Minister of God over the head with my bagpuss glass probably isn't a very good idea. it might get broken. "were you this rude to mary?" he looks at me quizzically. "you know, mary, mother of jesus?" remains blank for a minute, and then realisation sets in "oh, HER... sorry, not really my department, that one. the witches and the catholics tend to make more fuss about her and, personally, i tend towards being C of E...... anyway, no, that wasn't me....... that was gabriel. and HE'D have been more likely to join in... ya know, they say she was a virgin when he arrived.... they say nothing about when he left.." i resolve, mentally, to check this allegation should i ever meet gabriel, turn the television off and go to the kitchen to fetch the substandard-balls-of-honeycomb-joy. when i return, my guest has adjourned to the computer, and is looking at www.hot-jocks.com with some distaste. "this isn't really my thing. have you got anything.....different?" "different?" i'm not sure what he means "listen, you can't download anything dodgy on there. i'm not into that sort of thing, and you can get into trouble for-" he's stopped listening, and has evidently found something that pleases him. the screen depicts a young black woman with startlingly red hair (only on her head, mind) licking the nipple of a nubile sylphette who, for some reason, is wearing a nurse's uniform. "really...can't you see this sort of stuff at home...where you're from? i mean, i don't want that sort of thing on my computer, its....erm....." he mutters something about a holy-firewall and is busily entering my credit-card details into www.nanny-nymphettes.com "no, you can't DO that. there's no credit on it. can't you barter with them? offer them a soul or something?.... - not mine. i'm using it" "bartering with souls went out years ago. christopher marlowe pissed all over THAT little game. no self-respecting credit agency would have anything to do with Absolute Reality these days" with a sigh, he closes the site down "haven't you got ANYTHING interesting on here? what's this?" www.jeepster.co.uk - "you won't like that. its a record label. they're quite small and there are a couple of bands that i like that-" too late. he's already ordered himself a t-shirt and is staring, entranced at the screen. "what is this wondrous vision before my eyes?" "stop being sarky. i happen to LIKE that band. she sings with them, and yawns sometimes in the middle of their concerts. look, she may not be perfect, but -" "perfect? PERFECT, MY BOY? SHE IS THE LIGHT THAT MADE THE DARKNESS FEEL. SHE IS THE WHISPER THAT HERALDS THE THUNDERSTORM. SHE IS THE REALITY FOR WHICH I HAVE LONGED. THE PURITY I THOUGHT COULD ONLY COME IN DEATH - ABSOLUTE DEATH, THAT I MAY NEVER EXPERIENCE" "oh...okay then. i suppose she is quite nice, if you like that sort of thing" "who might this raindrop in the desert of existence be?" "err...her name is isobel. isobel campbell. she sings with a band called belle and sebastian. sometimes she plays the cello too. she has a nice voice, but sometimes it goes all whispery and weak and-" "DO NOT PRESUME TO CRITICISE SUCH PERFECTION. where may i find such a creature? you must take me there, and introduce us." "oh. i've never actually met her. i danced quite near her at a festival once, but she didn't look at me. oh, and once i stole some beer and oranges that - oh, never mind about that - i don't know where she lives. try scotland. its a big country, just north of england. quite pretty, so i'm told. although i've only really seen raspberry fields. look, i'll find you an atlas. don't drink the beer, its manky, and don't take the piss out of their-" i am talking to myself. the room is empty. the computer flickers, makes a whirring noise, and shuts down. i turn out the light, and tell myself not to think about things. i just need to lie down for a while, take it easy, perhaps have another tablet. its perfectly normal to imagine you've been visited by extra-terrestrials. fuck, it happens to so MANY people - jimmy carter; roswell; joan of arc. bloody saint teresa of avila was always wibbling on about such experiences. you've got nothing to worry about, ian.. you're perfectly, perfectly, sane. i take a seat, switch the video back on. it doesn't appear to be playing properly. i fiddle with the tracking a little and jeff stryker reappears, only to be replaced by a man with a long beard, a flowing robe, and a staff. a man i recognise from somewhere. "ian... i have gone to seek my destiny in the north of your island. there is one of whom i have dreamed, one who i must find, or dream.... forever. be happy, my friend, and save me some more of those little chocolate-honeycomb thingies" bloody hell, over my BEST porn tape, too. ------------------------------------------------------------------ but now, the bar is empty. and, as i may have mentioned, i like it that way. if this were a joni mitchell song, a bar-maid would walk by in fishnet stockings and a bow-tie and say "drink up now, its getting on time to close". but this is MY head, not joni's, and, for once, i am In Charge. i consider putting "blue" on the jukebox, but the silence is too fine. and then....she's there. she looks around her, fingering her coduroy skirt, chewing her nail, and wearing that familiar expression of perma-boredomn that both pleases and exasperates me. she shuffles over to the bar and fetches herself a babycham. "isobel?" she looks in my direction, but she doesn't see me. she is humming to herself, a tune i should know. it sounds vaguely like "the boogie woogie bugle boy from company b" but it isn't. she calls over, asking who's there. and i don't reply. what do i tell her? be careful, my dear, there's an angel of the lord coming to scotland, entranced with your beauty and convinced you are his destiny. watch out he doesn't descend on you without warning, especially when you're wanking. she'd laugh at me. a clever man once told me 'ridicule is nothing to be scared of'. but i still am unable to live my life according to this wisdom. i slip out of the bar, unnoticed. Ian's head, once again, is no longer mine. as i walk away, the lights go on. the jukebox launches into melody, and i can hear the sound of many people laughing, talking, singing an old, old song "then i saw her face now i'm a believer i couldn't leave her if i tried..." (to be continued, i'm afraid) ian --------------------------------------------------------------------- okay, in a break with ian tradition, time to acknowledge that this is a list and that other people sometimes post too. some of you, indeed are rather fine: kirsten kenyon said:
you're laughing at me...
never, dear, we're gaping in amazement, admiration, and perhaps we're a little bit jealous. corduroy boy said the following:
Trailers before Lord of the Rings: Vanilla Sky. Tom Cruise is a pilchard *but* I only looked up from my popcorn because the first track for the soundtrack of Vanilla Sky was, methinks, Looper
yes, i was shocked by this too. it does seem like a big break for monsieur davide. it may even convince me to see the film (which, from the reviews so far, looks RUBBISH, although one should never trust a reviewer). where from here, i wonder? there's no stopping the man who once talked of watching elvis licking pavements. one day, i suspect he'll be licking pavements himself, and being watched. perhaps being watched by the likes of drew barrymore, brad pitt and judith chalmers. and we'll say - "i saw him when he was NUFFINK. he OWES us" hmmm...there was more i wanted to say, but it escapes me. how you've entertained me over the last couple of weeks, my lovely fluffy friends. how you've made me smile, chortle, laugh. how i guffawed at that satirical goth debate. it could only have been satirical, couldn't it? i mean, people don't say "being a goth is like being gay, you'd never want to do it", or words to that effect, in seriousness, do they? of course, we'd never say that. because that would make us a bunch of... no, no rude words on sinister. you know what i was thinking. have nice nights, people, don't blame it on the moonlight xx ian ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Tomorrow will bring happiness Or at least, another day Phil Ochs ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ 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 +-+ +-+ "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! +-+ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+