firstly, something that may be of interest to those of you living in That London: CAT POWER

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Sun 5th may 7:00 Bush hall 310 Uxbridge Road tickets, 12:50 (rare pleasure, www.rarepleasure.co.uk)

this is in shepherd's bush, i'm told. not being au fait with the nation's capital, i can say little more than that. quite how we're all going to fit onto the pubic area of a man in the livestock-control business i am, as yet, unsure. from what i'm told, if yer interested, the number is 020 8222 6933 or you could just take a chance and turn up, i spose. its a bit late, i know. sorry i didn't tell you all this earlier, but i had my dick stuck in a hole in the toilet wall (the THINGS you learn from caitlin pigtails posts. shame she wasn't more specific. this turned out to be linked to some sort of extractor fan, and i didn't quite get the blow-job i was expecting) anyway... you would like to come. you know you would. and you shall. i think it would make perfect after-greenwich-picnic entertainment. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- an odd day, my friends. it announced its arrival with a furious thumping. not my head, this time, a real sound, not the sort that the people in the Back Of The Microwave make. a shuffling, and a yelp, and then silence. good, the man trap got her. i turned over and went back to sleep, and two hours later i got up and freed her. she didn't thank me, just stared and stared with those huge pupils and hysterical eyes. she was trying to say something, but the gag prevented her. i think it was 'why?'. but i don't know the answer to that, so i put her back in the laundry cupboard and left her there, with a look that said 'let that be a lesson to you'. -------------------------------------------------------------- another hour passes. someone is throwing stones at the window. i contemplate letting them continue to do so, and staring at the wall a little bit longer. tom waits is singing 'and its time , time time...', and if i had a cigarette and a bottle of whisky, i'd feel like some sort of album cover. but its 10 a.m., and i generally don't start on the hard liquer until 10.30. i can hear someone shouting outside the house. and then, as if in response, the banging from the laundry cupboard begins again. oh, for fucks sake. what does a boy have to DO to get some peace? i open the curtains, and there's a fat, balding man in a tu-tu and a leather basque tapping at the glass. 'WHAT?' 'i've got a message, its from --- who's that shouting?' 'its noone. nobody. ignore it' 'it sounds like somebody is calling for help' 'its the woman upstairs. she's a big beatles fan. what do you want?' 'i brought you this. its a merkin' the man hands over a battered cardboard box. a merkin? the word sounds familiar. i look down at the object in my hands, and when i look up the man is gone. inside the box is a mass of brown fibres, stitched together at the back - like some sort of wig. there is a note attached: 'set the lady free, or i'm calling the police ps. thanks for sending the boys round. i enjoyed them immensely a.p.' for a moment i wonder what my aunty penelope could be playing at. she doesn't hang out with men in tu-tus, not since she joined the mafia. then, a more sinister explanation strikes. a.p? could it be?..... could it possibly be? there's a return address on the box. 'a house in brighton that is not archel playforth's. somewhere in brighton, far away from where archel playforth lives' clever, but not clever enough. not this time. she forgets i am an International Man Of Genius. she must have got away from those white-slave-traders i sold her to. i wonder who the boys she refers to might be as i phone my friend mavis, the hit-man. 'worrafuckdyawant?' my friend is not impressed to be called at such an early hour. perhaps he has been out all night, doing strange Exotic Organised Crime type-things. 'mavis? its ian. i wonder if you can do me a favour...?' when you name a boy-child mavis, you have to expect some sort of adverse reaction. the boy is going to spend every day of his Growing Period suffering. intensely. you're either going to produce a nervous wreck, or an out-and-out psychopath. mavis's mother wanted an out-and-out psychopath. she'd got bored of the women's institute, and wanted a child who would be able to get her some hard drugs. i met mavis in a gutter. he was trying to steal my wallet, and i was trying to stand up straight. several hours later, he was leaning back, smoking a cigarette, and saying i'd introduced him to a whole new world.... to this day, he's the only b&s loving hitman i know. what? what did you think i meant? anyway, i promise mavis i'll give him all my special b&s memorabilia if he'll just go down to brighton and remove an.....unwanted......nuisance. i don't have any special b&s memorabilia, but i'm sure i can find some. i mean, its easy to get hold of, innit? i can imagine him now, chatting amiably to some little old lady on a silverlink train, fingering his machete and humming 'electronic renaissance' to himself. he's not to finish off the Scurrilous Southern Get that is archel playforth. he's merely to hurt her a little. scare her. scare her into silence :- about her superiority, about my shortcomings, and about the nun in my laundry cupboard. why do i have a nun in my laundry cupboard? i don't know. i just woke up and there she was one day. i went to let her out, but she screamed about calling the police, so i had to bash her with my 'scooby doo' bubble bath bottle and throw her back in. since then, i've thought about chopping her up and feeding her bit by bit down the plughole, but i've just painted the bathroom tiles and don't want to spoil them. all this by 11 a.m. after the first bottle of vodka, i put on some lighter music. planning a knife attack seems so much more socially friendly to the sound of saint etienne. -------------------------------------------------------------- 'the 'state that i am in' stakes' when my sister was small, she woke up crying one morning. she told us she had had a bad dream. when we asked her what it was about, she told us there were horses, and they were dancing. quite why this frightened her is a mystery to this day. i have a waking dream, separate from the waking dream we all inhabit. i am lying, on my back, licking the dust from my lips, and savouring its bitter crunch. swallowing the dirt, and craving more. above me, there is blue sky, stretching to the mountains in the east and the cloud-bank in the west, where it dies. the sun scorches my face, but i don't care. i am watching the chestnut legs stride slowly and gracefully past, staring up as the beasts above me walk either side (they won't step on a human unless they have a policeman on their back), and are gone, to a place i can only imagine. all that remains is what always remains - the sky and the memory, reminding us all how small we are, and how tiny and defenceless a human can be. horses. freud thought they symbolised the untamed side of the human. a potentially rampant sexuality kept in check by our superego, just waiting for the moment when it could be free. dreams of horses had only one meaning - and there was a reason middle class, respectable ladies were so troubled by them. to others, they symbolise freedom, escape, travel. to some, the white horse is an embodiment of the devil. others fear black beasts, racing from an unseen source, impervious to any command but those of their skeletal riders. to some, they're just animals. friends. workers, or money-spinners. john jennett suggested we buy one, train it to race. some would howl in protest at the very thought but i can only imagine the majesty of 'the state that i am in' as it glided over the green, decked in terry-towelling and valourous in velour, galloping past the stunned spectators, and striking some sort of blow for a kinder, freer world. of course, it would only be a metaphor, and, like most metaphors would be able to go free once it had rammed the point home. would we dream of this beast? perhaps. perhaps we already do. go free, little metaphor. i fear i may have used you badly. see you sunday? i'll be the one in the fishnet tights xx ian +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister@missprint.org. 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