Hello again fair patrons of Sinister... I know, I've been quiet recently. Yet again I've been hiding in the shadows, peeking my head out occasionally from munching Haribo at the back with the cute boy with the mohican to send a few of you emails and go drinking with you and have conversations about chair orgies and watching *some* of you (not that I''m mentioning any names....noooo) then go on to play some serious chair gymnastics. So it goes, I've not meant to be this quiet, honest. Just I was back at home in Manchester over Easter 'angin' with the Manchester Sinister Maaaaasssssiiiiivvveeee (Hello you lot, especially Ben App's Bro-proof if it was ever needed that sibling rivalry is alive and well in that family from what I heard when we went to see Belle and Sebastian at the Apollo) and back working at the Cornerhouse with a computer which for reasons best known to itself would not let me post to Sinister. Oh how I tried! I did have a lovely gig report from Manchester to send to you, but no doubt you've heard more than enough about all that for now, so all I will say is reports of my violent streak have been greatly exaggerated. Honest. So, now I 'm back in London, not eating a chicken and in the midst of exams (Two down-one to go. Lucky me, huh?) and trying to find a house. For some reason, this endeavor which seemed relatively simple when first thought about has now turned into the most mammoth task of my life with people arguing about what area they want to live in, where they might be over the Summer and all sorts of craziness ensuing. The way it's going, I think I may just become a mad bag-lady and live in a box outside Camden tube station and drink Diamond White all day and hope that some nice person may come along and buy me records occasionally. When I told this to the boy in the tree, he just laughed and said I already was a mad bag-lady half the time and had nothing to worry about. He wants me to go and live with him in Carlisle where there's a nice castle we had a picnic near the last time I went to stay with him and we got drunk, watched Blade 2 and had a disco in his flat in honour of the fact that the Queen Mother had died. Everyone kind of wants me to go everywhere at the moment really which isn't necessarily a bad thing. Cay's grand tour if you will, stopping at Cardiff, Carlisle and Derry along the way. Book tickets for your meeting with her now if you will. Oh yeah, and I'm working at a Wetherspoons in Whitehall now too if any of you lot fancy coming in to visit me and laugh at the fact that even though I swore I would never EVER work for a big company where the managing director sports a snappy mullet (I kid you not Popkids) after the few months where I was a Debenhams Mod, I've somehow managed to end up working in a pub where I can't shake my all-new-improved-Liza-Minelli-whenshewasinCabaret-fringe and get down with the funky beat whenever the will takes me (or at least, that's what I'm leading them to believe-just wait until my last night there....hehehehehe). It's not too bad I suppose, they let me look like a badly dressed Mod if nothing else, and sabotage from within is always the best way I suppose. I just hate having to smile and act like a moron for a living. (Oh well, there is always the added irony the day after I got the job there I ended up getting rat-arsed with a load of Polish and Icelandic people to the point where I don't really remember getting back to Camden all that well....) Is this too much of a diary entry? If so, I apologise, there is supposed to be some content in here...oooh, here we go. I am impressed by the amount of covers that the glorious Belle and Seb are managing to pull off. Someone somewhere should make a bootleg CD of them all. I know I'd buy it, if only for their version of "I am the resurrection" in Manchester. I rung the boy in the tree when they were doing it and held my mobile up so he could hear it, and bless him, I could hear him singing along to all the words. Was very sweet. And they've converted me to the Stone Roses now, as I was forced to go home and nick my wee bro's Stone Roses album and realise how good that version is too. I've never really been a Stone Roses girl, I mean what with being from Manchester and all, I've never seen the point of buying the albums when all I have to do is go to some silly 15 year-old-nu-metal-"Indie Kid because they like the Stereophonics and Travis" (If you like these bands, I really don't mean to offend. Insert band name here if you know what I mean)-club and hear them practically play the whole album and watch spotty teenagers try to act like Ian Brown. Then I came to London and went out and saw silly Southern grown Indie Men lurching around the dancefloor when they played the Stone Roses pretending to be Northern and realised the sillyness of the whole situation and decided that all could be forgiven. There's a song on my walkman now, some old Northern Soul tune about how some woman likes London in the rain. I don't. It makes the bus drivers behave more like madmen then they do already and messes up my hair when I'm walking home from Sainsbury's. Archel is better than Ian, just because of her tactics with everything sado-masochistic or otherwise he launches through the windows at her, and because she organises wicked Brighton picnics. Someone, (think it may have been Rob) was wondering about where the Poetry Parrot had gone to and the ever-wonderful Liz Dappers always includes poetry in her wonderous posts, so I thought I'd make a forey with something I found. It's by Charles Bukowski and I know that someone has posted it before, but it's so lovely and sad I can't help posting it again, just in case no one's ever seen it. And it's something I can relate to, being in love with someone even though you've never met them, or even seen them, but you're in love with their voice and their words regardless. It's called "An Almost Made-Up Poem" An Almost Made-Up Poem I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny they are small, and the fountain is in France where you wrote me that last letter and I answered and never heard from you again. you used to write insane poems about ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you knew famous artists and most of them were your lovers, and I wrote back, it’s all right, go ahead, enter their lives, I’m not jealous because we’ve never met. we got close once in New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never touched. so you went with the famous and wrote about the famous, and, of course, what you found out is that the famous are worried about their fame –– not the beautiful young girl in bed with them, who gives them that, and then awakens in the morning to write upper case poems about ANGELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, they’ve told us, but listening to you I wasn’t sure. maybe it was the upper case. you were one of the best female poets and I told the publishers, editors, “print her, print her, she’s mad but she’s magic. there’s no lie in her fire.” I loved you like a man loves a woman he never touches, only writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom, but that didn’t happen. your letters got sadder. your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all lovers betray. it didn’t help. you said you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and the bridge was over a river and you sat on the crying bench every night and wept for the lovers who had hurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but never heard again. a friend wrote me of your suicide 3 or 4 months after it happened. if I had met you I would probably have been unfair to you or you to me. it was best like this. Love, Chai Tea (Wouldn't it be good if drinking Chai Tea made you good at Tai Chi? Think about it) and Cigarettes, Cay Cola-Cube xXx "If I can't dance, I don't want to be part of your Revolution..." -Emma Goldman +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ 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! +-+ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+