Sinister: Reykjavik Cowboys go Glasgow

[Robert McTaggart]

      *---*      HAPPY BIRTHDAY SINISTER BABIES    *---*

Hello Campers,

Say it loud, I'm back and I'm proud.  I had a lovely holiday, thank
you for asking.

Highlights...

A two hour ride on one of those lovely Icelandic horses across fine
mountain scenery, although this seems to have given me a strange gait
and a dull ache somewhere unmentionable;

Being forced up a near vertical cliff by my significantly more
energetic travelling companion, complaining all the way, only to be
rewarded with the most amazing view of a volcano and the coast and a
huge glacier;

In the Blue Lagoon, the cure for every ailment known to man, just
sitting there as the warm water eased over my bones and soaked into my
pores;

Not going to poxy Damon Albarn's bar (why does everyone ask me that?);

Last but not least, hanging out with the mighty Olla, our Icelandic
Sinisterine, and discovering that she rules with the best of us,
especially after Tom, the middle-aged Minnesota millionaire who
latched on to us, had bought us numerous drinks in a futile attempt to
convince us that mercenary capitalist bastards had feelings too.

But, God knows, you kids want to know about Belle and Sebastian.  As
my flight conventiently came in to Glasgow, I was able to attend the
B&S whist drive/bingo/youth club event at Maryhill Community Centre,
(next door to Taggart's car complex, the source of much merriment) an
occasion that allowed me to meet "Tasty" Tim H!O!P!kins, the famous
Mister Ed (our chauffeur for the night), the delightful Ooooooon, the
publishing David, not to mention "zany" autograph hunter Calumn, along
with a few of the usual suspects.  Keith "Snap Happy" Watson was
causing trauma with his funsize camera, playing air piano (a true
multi-instrumentalist) with Tim to "Outdoor Miner", and missing the
golden oppurtunity to drink in a band named after his favourite
drummer - Bonham.  Susannah had a cold.  Jackson Jeffrey Jackson was
wearing little more than a smile, to celebrate his hat-trick against
Newcastle, Rachel's breasts preceded her, Katrina and David and Anne
and Paul and Linda and Chris and Julia and Sandy and were there too.
We mingled and dug the sounds.  Then we were herded like cattle
through to the "auditorium".  Katrina's botty shuffle across the
dancefloor (no stilleto heels by order of the management) was the
unexpected support act, and then some band or other came on and played
some songs.  They were damn good, you know.  Lots of stuff of
"Sinister", a scattering of new songs, a couple of "Tigermilk" ("that
song is available on Electric Honey Records" said cheeky choirboy
Disco Stu), we were introduced to Momma Murdoch.  It was like watching
a (good) dress rehearsal in some ways, which was fascinating in its
own right.  Star of the show was undoubtedly Stevie, who appeared to
be playing "The Boy with the Arab Strap" entirely on his own as the
rest of the band disappeared behind monitors and pianos.  They left,
we went to the bar (the barman, with a completely unnecessary lack of
dignity, was practically begging me to drink), mingled a bit more,
digged Andrew Symington's Booty Bouncing Bohemoth beats, and went home
"tired...but happy".

That's it really.  See (some of) you at the weekend.

Love,
Tagnusson xxx
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