Sinister: Dreddie and the Creamers

[Michael Jones]

Lissenup, goofball.

Clocked up another iteration on the flip-board of life yesterday... 
I’m now the same age as Jimmy Cricket when he first died (Colwyn Bay:
Victoria Pier, June 1974; audience consisted of discombobulated
leftists expecting to see a slide-show on Aneurin Bevan).

How delightful to see the phrase "fuckin’ nail" revived on almost
exactly the second anniversary of its first appearance in these
pages.  We have one-time poster Ellis Bell to thank for that gem, not
Brad the Lad.  Thank the Lord God Our Vengeful Master In Heaven that
*that* sort of jabbing invective doesn’t appear anymore.

There have been mumblings about the Decline Of Belle and Sebastian. 
Is there any greater contrast in nature than that between the intense
pleasure of slinging a handful of fresh TicTacs into one’s mouth (the
aromatics, the clash of enamel and carnauba wax) and the mundane
experience of grinding the minty bullets into sugary powder shortly
afterwards?  I think not.  If we scale up these little barrels of
fructive goodness to, say, the approximate size and complexity of a
Scottish pop band, we see the gap between Lithe and Frowsy expands
to, ooh, about four years.  Y’see, as the Finns once sang (together,
as a nation), It’s Only Natural.  Just a model of course, and one
lacking a complete dataset (I can’t get cinnamon ones anywhere).

Underdastoored of late, aren’t we?  He’s busy blogging, apparently. 
As the name suggests, this is an activity precisely between blagging
and logging – containing elements of both (the knavish scheming of
the con-artist, the hardy outdoor endeavour of the lumberjack) while
ultimately resembling neither.  I just hope he’s wrapped up warm.  Or
at least packing some heat. 

Ta-ta,

Mik'.


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