Sinister: Bug of the month: Flu...."Fuck You!"

[Alasdair Cook MC1996]

Howdy pardners.

I think I'll follow the thread that didn't really start with the
reintroduction of the list crush and say VOTE FOR ME BECAUSE I'M THE
GREATEST! NO-ONE ELSE IS BETTER THAN ME IN THE WHOLE WORLD! It's true.
Maybe. The sky's a nice shade of pink at the moment. I'm rambling.

That competition of Ian's is the first thing I've won since that
cardboard replica of the Space Shuttle in primary school. Although Simon
Gooch's was better. Me saying that doesn't mean he wins, does it? The
follow up could be called "At least he's got an excuse for being a
prick". Although mine could be followed by "These are the Stains of...",
I suppose.

Is it a sign of getting old when you start to think radio 2 is better
than radio 1, or is it just a fact? There was a brilliant Marvin Gaye
program on last week, which I only managed to hear half of before being
interrupted by a phone call from Archel's mysterious Mr 5 Star. They
were a great band, weren't they? They looked a bit like the Jacksons,
and they sang about their washing machine or something. 

Anyway, well done to the Manic Street Preachers for getting to number
one without the use of any cynical marketing ploys, oh no. What we need
is more po-faced sloganeering at the top of the charts, that's what I
say. Vive la revolution!

Today I bought Woody Allen's "Complete Prose". The man makes me wonder
why anyone else even bothers to try and be funny. A snippet, from his
"secret private journal":

"Getting through the night is becoming harder and harder. Last evening,
I had the uneasy feeling that some men were trying to break into my room
to shampoo me. But why? I kept imagining I saw shadowy forms, and at 3am
the underwear I had draped over a chair resembled the Kaiser on roller
skates. When I finally did fall asleep, I had that same hideous
nightmare in which a woodchuck is trying to claim my prize at a raffle.
Despair."

What is art? Rat and tar are both anagrams of art, therefore they both
ARE art. So the greatest piece of art would be a rat in some tar. I'm
getting emotional just at the thought of it. I'll commission it for 50
squillion moonbeams. Or a pork pie on stilts.

I feel I've not been quoting nearly enough people lately. Let me rectify
the situation:

Mustapha Christoffa:

> Last night me and Julia went to the 'Spit 
> and Polish' launch, it was really good.  Ben Vaughn, Laura Cantrell & Radio 
> Sweethearts played, they were all really brilliant.    Stevie Jackson plays 
> bass with Ben Vaughn, and he's growing a huge 'afro' style haircut.   I 
> think they're playing Aberdeen tonight and London on the 24th, you should go 
> if you like country music with laptop steel slidey guitar thing.  Bumped 
> into big Alisdair Cooke, he was on his way to see Kate Rusby who everyone 
> fancies.  I hope it was good Alisdair, I'm sure it will have been.

Unfortunately, due to a small cock-up with overbooking of tickets etc I
thought I had a ticket for Kate Rusby, but didn't. Luckily, though, all
I had to do was follow Chris and Julia's scent back up the road and I
was led to the same gig as they, which was very good indeed. Laura
Cantrell was a little bit country, Ben Vaughn was a little bit rock 'n'
roll, both were a whole lotta Cool. Buy their records at the end of the
month and keep the MacDonald and McDonald Shoeshine empire going. And
even though I missed her this time, yes Mark she is.

Alexander:

>  I hate buying shoes.

Just do what I do, and keep buying the same pair of shoes. I've had the
same shoes three times now. The front of these ones came off when I was
playing football, but I stuck it down with superglue. I love my shoes.

and then:

> I like big bums. I like Isobel's bum. That's all I am going to say.

I have nothing to add.

Steve:

> Increadible (sic) smallness...playing with transformers...Bony M...catchy bits...raising  > the ante...ass...not going down well...ass (again)...here we come...wearing 
> nothing...ouch.

I have no idea what he was talking about, but it sounds filthy to me.
This is the sort of thing we need more of. Keep it up, boy, etc etc.

>  just as we were reaching the 
> bottom of the slope, whooping and hollering with excitement, my feet got 
> themselves caught on a lump on the ground.  according to one of our friends 
> who was observing from nearby, it looked like i had activated some sort of 
> ejection seat.  i very quickly launched from a reclined sitting position to 
> a fully erect standing position, hovering about a foot over where the 
> toboggan had passed just moments ago, and then continued my foreward 
> rotation, landing face first in the snow, with my arms outstretched in front 
> of me, as if i were reaching for the now quite distant sled.

I'm sorry, but this made me fall about laughing. It reminded me of the
end of the first Naked Gun film, where OJ goes flying down the stairs in
his wheelchair. I once almost broke my back sledging, so I suppose I
shouldn't find it that funny, but I do.

Erica:

> I forced Alistair to sit on my knee at one point, and was
> suprisingly light as a feather. Poor boy, thats what you get when you offer
> a modern girl a seat.

Funnily enough, I got off the divine Miss MacArthur's knees rather
speedily because I felt like I was crushing the poor girl to death.
Someone's being mucking with gravity around here. 

Iris:
> try rhyming IRIS????

Would shy kiss do? That almost rhymes, and it's very twee. It sounds
like a Field Mice lyric or something. Iris gave me a shy kiss. She
didn't really, I'm making it up. Bah.

Erica again:

> JESUS MARY MOTHER OF GOD

Why is Erica saying this with the voice of Paula Cullen so very funny?
Someone explain.

Alexander again:

> Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
>       Erwrought with golden and silver light,
>       The blue and the dim and the dark cloths,
>       Of light and light and the half light,
>       I would spread the cloths under your feet;
>       But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
>       I have spread my dreams under your feet;
>       Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

Can you hear my heart melting? It sounds a bit like a cow drowning in a
field full of mustard. I love that poem, but I can't remember who it's
by. Is it Auden? Fill me in, literary types. Not literally, of course.
Literary. What?

Oh, and ARANTXA SANZ. Just because.

Alasdair xx
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