Sinister: it's not just candles that are aflame

[Gordon]

Stuart Murdoch Saves Damsel in Distress!

Hey kids, he was there in an instant, a flash! Camera Obscura were mid-set
at Edinburgh's *The Venue* this evening, sweet tunes all of them: good
enough to sing to yer grannie as, indeed, Ms. Tracyanne (?) announced she
was... anyway, it was all harmony and magnificent bass playing until one
particularly boorish lass, who'd been heckling all the other bands with
unchoice and bellicose drivel reached a point in her battle plan (her head
went 'kerlunk', possibly) and decided now was the occasion to experiment
with projectiles. I was standing pretty much next to the stage but only
noticed the aftermath of what we must assume was a direct hit as the music
stopped, chanteuse stormed off stage (a dignified retreat, actually) and the
now sodden lyrics to a new number lay scattered by her mike stand and...
ENTER Mr.Murdoch, from the rear of the auditorium, all efficient gusto as he
demanded the immediate expulsion of the boor from the premises. 'We were
just going anyway' she blared petulantly (sorry,only one 'l' this time
Ms.Llew: you'd have been dismayed by this lassie's lack of wit or
comportment) as she was let to leave amongst much jeering and muttering of
'poor show' or words to that effect. Thankfully, and to general applause,
the Camera Obscura returned onstage to delight us with a rendition of 'I
want to go home'. Apt under the circumstances, for them, but we didn't,
because their music was fine. Fine! Yes it was.
The next sighting of the Belle and Sebastian man (content, see, although I'm
beginning to struggle, albeit in a twee key) is outside the venue; The Venue
as he is returning from a white van parked around the corner there to fulfil
it's role as receptacle; vessel; indeed, *chora* for musical gear. I catch
his eyes and he looks completely human, but I'm no stalker, really, so I
avert my eyes towards a handy car bonnet: a neat vehicle in dark blue, as
far as memory and sodium streetlighting permits me to describe it, which
happens to be owned by a member of... Camera Obscura. Anyway, I'm admiring
this automobile in the abstract as Stuart stops behind me to while away some
moments in semi-English with a couple of Japanese tourists who recognise
him. Pop star, sound man, bouncer, general cultural ambassador...
Meanwhile, for this bonnet also has multiple talents, Michael and I have
taken to displaying Camera Obscura merchandise on it: two petite and
desperately un-ironed T-shirts, a box of CD singles and a few copies of
their latest album for a tenner a throw (but don't throw them!). Michael is
capitalising on his experience as a record shop employee to offload what
becomes a grand total of three items. I, on the other hand, put my
experience as an offloader of capital to use in purchasing one of  said
three items: it's a shiny new copy of 'Your Sound'. It doesn't have *your*
sound on it Carey (occasional sinisterine and now 'synthesiser woman' of
Camera Obscura): we'll have to wait for the next single for that.

Sinister birthdays. Sunday's the day, is it? I remember my first red knicker
day a couple of years ago .I'd just arrived back from a short trip to
Greece. After a picnic in Greenwich park, I'd eventually made it back to my
hotel room: an absurdly opulent affair; all swagged velvet, brocade and
watered silk, rented cheap off the internet. It was late at night. Very
late, and I was all tired and emotional and playing with fire of various
sorts, the most obvious manifestation of which was the flaming end of a
rolled up copy of that day's *Times*, as I attempted to conjure up a further
greeny-blue flame from a by now dribbling teaspoonful of absinthe-soaked
sugar. To be honest, it was all getting rather out of control in the
pyrotechnics, but I was moping over the fact that no-one had actually got to
*see* my red underwear (Sloggi, in case you were wondering). The briefs were
vintage then, and have since been consigned to the dustbin. I can only
attend navy knicker days now.
Tonight I haven't been indulging in anything so potent as absinthe. In fact,
contrary to what folks might think, my posts of late have been written in a
state addled by no more than a bewilderment as to why I'm writing words at
all rather than, say, watching television or shopping for... red knickers.
Cigarillos are my poison of late. I bought two little card boxes of them
from a tobacconist's on the Lawn Market before the gig this evening: Zino
'Sumatras' and -pricey these- 'Hoyo de Monterreys'. The shopkeeper kindly
provided me with a mini and mobile humidor in the form of a self-sealing
plastic bag, especially seeings as the latter brand tend to dry up rather
quickly. As usual, it's the posh stuff (real Cuban tobacco) that has the
shortest shelf-life. 'Burning twice as bright but half as long' to
paraphrase Rutger Hauer in Blade Runner, although if you pursue that analogy
with any enthusiasm you'll find it perplexing in that I was alluding to the
longevity of the cigarillo in the unlit state. Anyway (you'll forgive my
using the word 'anyway' rather a lot, along with colons, semi-colons (mostly
inappropriately and, indeed, interchangeably) parentheses, qualifications,
meanderings... ellipses and -the real killers, these- other words and
figures of which I am, but you will not be, unaware). Anyways (bleh!) when
not imbibing alcohol these sumatras and monterreys kick quite a punch. Ahem.
One becomes distinctly high. During this evening's music I felt light as air
and, even though my feet were aching with all the standing up, the rest of
me was flying. A pleasant, quite delicately narcotic, sensation. That is
until afterwards, when with no music or company to buoy me up I crashed back
down into a small crater of the soul. It took me a whole train journey to
get back on track (groan). Maybe I was tired, too: still subconsciously
engineering the state of being 'tired and emotional'. Still, it didn't last
long: it must have been a quality bit of misery.

So, I'll take my cue from Stevie Trousers' brilliant post to end this one
with some brief thoughts. Actually, I've already done that bit (groan,
apologies etc.). So, I'll take my cue from Stevie Trousers' brilliant post
to end this one with some thoughts about what sinister has meant to me over
these past few years. It's become a big part of my life. I've bought all the
Belle and Sebastian albums. I rarely listen to them (only kidding, almost).
It keeps me up at night (it's 03:31: whoever suggested posting takes fifteen
minutes is either very clever to write with such speed and cogency or is
spouting nonsense. Perhaps they avoid words like 'cogency', which has me, at
least, reaching for the dictionary to double-check, but I like to maintain
an expanding vocabulary). Sinister posts are often what I wake up to, in the
absence of a woman to keep me entertained with sexy chit chat before
breakfast. I spend longer than is healthy on #sinister, but it's been a
great source of companionship to me. I love you lot. And for those of you in
the more far flung reaches of sinisterland; those of you who do not
regularly get the chance, for whatever reason, to attend 'picnics' and who
may be forgiven for thinking some of us are really cliquey and have all the
fun making private allusions to one another: I've found that the real
revelations; the most affecting stories; perhaps even the truest of
friendships, are those that have been cultivated and remain by means of the
content sent to this here mailing list. Honey has done a marvellous thing by
setting up and maintaining a mailing list with a unique atmosphere and
whilst the rest of us make sinister what it is on a daily basis, it was
Honey's genius to mould it so. I realise I don't need to tell you this, but
it's my own pre-amble to saying THANK YOU HONEY!

There. I can bugger off to annoy the Americans on #sinister now.

Gordon x

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