Sinister: Isn't it great to be alive? Sometimes.

[Alasdair Cook MC1996]

I look like a twat walking around the streets of Glasgow in the
freezing, pissing rain with a big tomato sunburnt face. I do not care.
Some picture postcard sunsets from the weekend.

Saturday, Midday.

There's a Murdoch running around, naked except for a few inches of paper
thin fabric betwixt waist and thigh. His tufty ginger chest hair blows
in the wind. His stomach muscles are surprisingly taught for a man of
his years. Far too few girls are present but swooning still takes place.
No-one has a camera.

Saturday, Early afternoon.

Who the hell are Slot Jockey? Hey, they've just tanked the huge security
guards 5-1. This could be the start of something...

Saturday, half an hour after early afternoon.

It's too hot outside, so a boy spends what he fully believes to be his
final moments lying on a pub sofa. He drinks coke, which is too
expensive. Outside laughter is heard. He wills himself back from the
brink, though never fully recovers.

Saturday night, 'round midnight. Perhaps later.

"Get out of my chalet, I'm going to bed" are the first words uttered by
some old moaner. Many believe him to be Aidan Moffat, though he is much
less coherent and it isn't his birthday. Beside me on the bed lies an
old man with stupid ginger hair who apparently used to be someone. The
Doo Badleys or something. He is from Thurso and demands drugs. I quite
like him.

Sunday morning, 6am.

There's a Pinefox on the beach, and he's looking like he owns the place.
By 8am he does. A shop assistants song is found alive and well beneath a
sand dune, and much rejoicing takes place. A flute plays Daphne and
Celeste's greatest hits. The kids are all twee fuckers. Thank Christ. A
broken heart string won't stop them now, for the world is singing. This
is the most important feeling in the world. This is the good stuff. This
is

Sunday, far too early.

A boy fears death for the second time, but is willing to watch the Slot
Jockeys (still no idea) play their second round match against Fat Cat
records. No-one knows what Fat Cat records do. Spirits are lifted when a
girl is discovered in goal. Despite much persausion, the boy does not
start the match. He realises the entire weekend is an attempt to murder
him, instigated by a bald Scottish dwarf. He hates bald Scottish
dwarves. Something strange then occurs. While watching from the
sidelines he gets the crazy idea that perhaps he could play after all.
The boy is a fool. He scores because of the simple fact that the other
team has a girl in goals. The Slot Jockey's win 5-0, although one of
them was a refereeing error.
The refere is an idiot.

Sunday, not quite so early.

Consideration is given to throwing the semi-final and taking the money
offered by The Delgados, but wallets give in to egos and the Jockey's
throw themselves into the brink. That is after waiting an age for their
more famous opponents to finish an interview. The game is tight, with
the best football of the tournament on offer. The Slots come through
2-1. Someone calls Stuart Henderson of The Delgados a pathetic loser.
Stuart Henderson of the Delgados is the nicest man in the world.

Sunday, 10 minutes after the semi-final.

The ENEMY (some prefer to call them NME) are fresher, having not played
since the quarter finals (a bye to the final). They won that match 8-0,
and want 10 in the final. They have a former semi-pro, apparently.
Several tired indie-kids stand in their way. Four of them have been here
before. They remember. It will not happpen again. The SJs go 1-0,
however it's soon 1-1. Half-time. A mad hustler acts under orders to get
the Mad Dog to play. He lives up to his rep, biting the NME's ankles and
giving them the hardest time of their worthless lives. 2-1 Jockeys. If
they can just hold on........2-2. Inspired by Murdoch's encouragement, a
captain's example from Jim and the incredible support, Rozzer is put
through by the ginger singer-songwriter and tucks the ball straight up
the journalist's smug bad loser arses. 3-2. Beers all round, and the
glory of the red plastic bucket trophy. It doesn't get better than this.
Stuart Murdoch is called "a spooner" by an uncouth, rude drunk. I love
uncouth, rude drunks.

I wish I'd seen Sonic Youth just so I could have fully appreciated Jim's
representation of how bad they were, which involved pulling his shirt
over his head and banging it against a wooden post until we asked him to
stop.

Everyone buy Trousercuts, not for the rubbish writing of course but for
the free cd. The Clientele continue to sound like they come from another
world, which they must do as nothing in this world can be that good. A
cathedral should be build somewhere in south London just to play the
songs of Pam Berry on 24-hour continous loop. And at 8am yesterday
morning 'Waking Up To Nothing' by The Visitors made me cry more than any
other song, ever. In the world. This is due to 3 reasons.

1. I am really soft.
2. It was listened to in the short gap between a 9 hour journey and an 8
hour sleep.
3. The fat, ignorant drunk behind the mic.

Sadly, it was mostly the latter.

I want it to be next year. I hate waiting. I can't believe Mark
organises his picnic plans to suit me. I'm glad he does.

Alasdair Neil Cook, of which there is only one, and yes he is shite.
Cheers David. xxx
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