Hi Sinister.
Mr. Casarotto looks forward to a flurry of posts off the back of this new
album. I figured I'd use that as an excuse to post. Plus, Robster and
Caitlin appeared in the same digest so I figure I'm in friendly old company
and not at all lost in the swathes of scary new people. Not that I'm really
scared of course: it's all affectation, being the new posing, black or
whatever. Whatever.
I must say I haven't played a Belle and Sebastian album for months. You
know, some pop songs carry good memories with them but I confess even
Tigermilk raises the spectre of miserable times. Boo. They're quite good
though, for a band. I am, currently, high on the bonhomie of Reggae, bought
in bulk on the cheap from Fopp. Goes with the hot, sunny weather. Talking of
cheap CD's, I noticed you can buy 'Pirates of the Carribean' on disc
*already* down at the Barras market. They hand out photocopied lists of all
their stuff. 4 movies for a tenner. The polis wandered past and everyone
scarpered. 'F***in' usless, that kid.' muttered a bald, sunburned heavy
who'd woken up at 4am that morning to ferry the folks and the kids from the
airport, 'We pay the wee sh**te to look out for them and there he is,
staring at the pavement. I'll get someone else.' The poor, hapless youth
looked so innocent, too.
You know those situations where you just know you're about to be accused of
failing to make small talk? Well I do. She said 'You know, you don't talk
much.' I replied 'No, I suppose I don't.' The conversation staggered onto
holidays. She looked at me, perplexed. 'You know, Turkey. Istanbul:
Istanbul's in *Turkey*.'
'Oh, that's nice.'
'Uhuh.'
It was all so much better talking to drunk people in Soho. 'I was invited to
become Robert Plant's second mistress. Down at his recording studio in the
country, his secretary explained to me that the post offered free gifts,
maybe a bit of jewellry and some travel.' Robert Plant, by the way for all
youze kidz, was in a rawk band in the dim and distant glory days of leather
biker jackets and epic bombast and smoking hash in Morrocco. I suppose
things haven't changed much.
I SHARED AN ANTIQUE LIFT WITH GRETA GARBO's GHOST
Well, not exactly, but she'd stayed in the same hotel once. In Istanbul.
GORDON's MINT TEA.
It's really good, even if I do say so myself. The secret ingredient, the one
the berber guys who make it regularly do *not* use, is cinnamon. Anyway,
it's dead simple and the summer drink of mes jours. Take lots of mint leaves
from my mum's garden (I'll ask her if you want, maybe), rip them up a la
Jamie Oliver, place in a glass, with the aforementioned cinnamon and too
much demerara sugar (the berbers like their sugar, as do their camels) and,
hey presto! A deliciously refreshing beverage that won't even get you drunk.
You'll need boiling water too, come to think of it. Oh, and the Cardigan's
'Gordon's Garden Party' on the stereo, for that me me me feeling, if you're,
erm, me.
I'm looking forward to a couple of gigs. The Pernice Brothers are
recommended by the blogtastic
<a href="http://shazz.journalspace.com/">Shazz</a>, who play the wonderfully
named King Tut's Wah Wah hut in Glasgow on ... hmm, I can't find the
listings. Next week sometime. Then and, I can't wait, the RED BULL DOZERS in
the same city, yeah! Are you going to be selling CD's after the gig, Ken?
Perhaps also a NVIP's party, after? Ken, by the way, is the reclusive
songwriting genius behind the 'DOZERS for all you uninitiates, last seen
making out with some beautiful women perhaps, allegedly, in that motel at
the edge of the Arizona Desert miles out of LA and as featured in the
movies. Gees, I don't half talk rot. Last seen in '66, recovering from a bad
acid trip, la la etc. etc.
PUT A BIT OF EFFORT INTO YOUR POSTS. REMEMBER, OTHER PEOPLE MAY READ IT
I don't think so. And, anyway, it'll ruin my flow, know what I mean?
Ok, here's a bit of vital info. About beards. I have a short one myself at
the moment. Oh no! me pubes have migrated! Blech! Yuk. Anyway, pilots.
Evidently no airline pilots have beards, because it would prevent them from
fitting their oxygen masks properly. Maybe that's why all those air aces
from World War One sported dashing 'taches.
Look, I already explained I was no use at small talk.
I think I'll stare into space for awhile instead.
...
Gordon
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