Sinister: *[delete as applicable]

[Tim Hopkins]

Honestly!

Anyone who has seen the Blair Witch project and wasn't [scared /
bored]* shitless is a brainless poltroon with less idea what makes a
good movie than The Divine Comedy have about instinct. The film is a
crock of [gold / shit]*. One's opinion on this film is not a matter of
taste, it is a statement of one's political-philosohical
weltanschauung. Anyone who doesn't enjoy it is [an intellectual giant /
blatantly as thick as congealed zebra shite / a scumsucking bucket of
pig bollocks]*. That film made me [laugh / cry / shake / want to hurl /
write a poem / five pounds thirty five pence and a big chewy lovebite /
a man]*. What's more the film is [a cultural phenomenon / just another
piece of marketing bullshit]* because it is the first film where
[internet "word of mouse" has made it a huge hit / the internet has
been cynically exploited as a direct marketing tool]*. And YOU are
[part of it / falling for it]*. I'm sorry but I feel very strongly
about this.

Now I have got that off my chest I can get on with my diary of what has
been happening in Tim-land, because I know that you know that I know
that you want to know.

I think a "what the hell does scare you then" thread is a great idea. I
am scared by big dogs, followers of rugby union and the thought of
being made to listen to 'Ummagumma'. Ever. I am also scared of using
the telephone, 4AD Records t-shirts and the power of female sexuality.
Although of course I would tend to equate gender less directly with
physique than some. So it goes. Apart from that, the only things that
scare me are taking records back to shops for refunds, being looked at
askance and the phrase "time gentlemen please".

I was going to contribute to the five finger shuffle thread, but that
scrounging git CookMS1996 went and stole my best line (shaking hands
with the unemployed). Clearly football skills of that kind are only
learned while living the life of a street urchin and stealing whatever
you needed to eat. The skanker. You know he only puts that Scottish
accent on to impress American ladies? His real speaking voice is a very
thick Droitwich brogue. Imagining Scottish Grandfathers off the telly
is sad.

We thought up a new euphemism last night, just before Steady Mike began
his accapella elbow fart rendition of 'Turn, Turn, Turn': Jazz
Strumming. 

How can it be true that there is one true love in the world for any one
person, when beer, gin *and* cigarettes exist? EH? 

Last week I saw the Tindersticks and this week I saw The Clientele.
Both were very great indeed. 

Tindersticks, like B&S, have taken up some soul influences (they
covered Oddysey's marvellous 'If You're Looking For A Way Out' and Anne
Peebles's much more marvellous, in fact total undisputably genius
'Walking the Wrong Way Down A One Way Street'). They did them both very
nicely, thank you for asking. Did I say it was marvellous? Oh, well I
should have. 

Clientele, on the other hand, could be custom made for fans of Felt and
Galaxie 500. I am not the worlds biggest fan of either of those groups
(that honour goes to a stupendously fat man who lives somewhere just
outside Leicester, I am told, although apparently I was close).  I
think that, too often, Felt and G500 hadn't the songs to underpin their
fabulous noise, but the thing about Clientele is that they are really
rather fucking good, although I haven't heard their records so they
might be great live and terrible on record for all I know. The exciting
thing is that I think I have found a new band to love. That's nice,
isn't it? 

You are all no doubt sick to the back teeth (what a pleasant phrase...)
of tales of the London picnic shindig. Much fun was had by all, except
the small cabal of young men and women wandering forlornly around
Primrose Hill, with lower-lips (!) all a-tremble, saying "I wish Nick
Dastoor was here". 

The high point of the picnic for me was being regaled with rock and
roll road tales from Mr David Moore Chelmsford UK's time roadieing
(sp?) for Blodwyn Pig and Man.

That's enough of that, I'm off to the toilet for a ham shank, a little
jazz strum, a spot of executive relief, as it were, from the
contemplation of my inferiority. Sex, like life, is fundamentally a big
competition and once again I've lost without even knowing I was in the
contest. What a pisser. Just as well having my arse kicked gives me the
hard horn.

Feeling kind of benign as I bask in the glory of the close-season
coming to an end,

Tim

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