Sinister: A body without organs

[Michael Jones]

Oh, wayward ones...

April.  Aprill.  AprILL.  Oh yesh, three days on a South Coast
post-rock council estate and I'm as phlegmy and viscid as a
helicopter full of guacamole falling on a glue factory.  That's what
you get when you share a cloudy plastic beaker or four of Kronenbourg
(I know, I know - it wasn't a weekend of principle) with a
semi-retired ex-Scouse noisepopper.  Full of germs, these North
Londoners.  He didn't recall our old Physics teacher Tom Goddard with
any more affection than I did.  Tom, if you're reading this -
Bernoulli, Berphooey.

My chest may be as clogged as a barber's vacuum, and my head as
glutinous as month-old milk, but the memories are as yet undimmed:

Dastoor, seized by the same demons that possessed Macca in '73 -
"Jet"*, complete with fevered sofa-bed bouncing.  Ol' Snake-Hips
playing deep in the latter stages of the 5-a-side campaign, soaking
up wave after wave of Delgadian assault, pricking the balloons of IPC
prose-monkey offence with his needle-sharp tackling.  Arantxa, who
seemed to have a different outfit for morning, afternoon and evening,
reeling back 18 summers with tales of Arconada, Camacho, Butragueño -
"just say 'Sociedad' again... for sampling purposes, you understand."
 Mr Chelmsford UK relieving the viral shudders with cups of java. 
Labradford halting time.  "Play It Again, Sam".  Human ashtrays. 
Pinefox, wandering.  With a packet of Minstrels.  Sun, sand, sea and
sambuca (which I'd always thought was a topical solution for applying
to warts.  Seems I was right).  No sleep 'til Sevenoaks.

(* from an LP described as "tasteless and offensive" by Max Blaska -
from Alaska! - at Amazon.com.  He's less equivocal on the subject of
"Ram".)

Of course, one eventually has to return from such a bubble of
unfettered faffing-about, and damp, grimy reality slaps you in the
chops.  Peter Jones is dead, as is Larry Linville.  I read with
interest (but not comprehension) that Annie Lennox Lewis Collins is
to be stripped of his/her WBA belt.  "Not only will his/her pants
fall down", writes former Hawthorns favourite Remi Moses in today's
Independent, "but he/she will have to go to back of the queue when
the next batch of season tickets are released".  A sad state of
affairs and no danger.

Mike (look at his face!  Just look at his face!).


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