Sinister: A strange abberation in this land of potted plants

[robin stout]

Hallo:

Ever since they re-paved the high street I've felt like tap dancing, and 
yesterday, as the sun shone and the puddles dried up, I felt it more than 
ever. Luckily for me, I've taken to wearing trainers just in case such a 
feeling should grab me around the waist and try to spin me around, and they 
helped me to keep my toes from moving too far. Instead, I jumped onto a 
bench and tiptoed along, until enough people had begun to look that the 
feeling went away. I hadn't been back on terra firma for more than a few 
footsteps when a crazed pigeon came headlong towards me, aiming more-or-less 
at my nose.

Urban pigeons belong to two schools. There are those who take care of their 
appearance, shiny feathers, plump chests and a sailor's swagger as they trot 
along the top of the war memorial. They spend their days looking out for 
half-eaten vegetarian wraps from Boots, and at night hang around outside 
Metro's to drink the pure tears of dumped teenage girlfriends. They have 
this town all worked out, and look down on us from under the church gables 
and give a disdainful "Coo". The other type of pigeon arrives in the city on 
a Monday and lands on top of the multi-storey car park. By Tuesday it has 
decided that petrol has a certain flavour other toxic liquids cannot beat. 
By Thursday it has realised that not only is petrol blinkin delicious, it 
also gives enough nutrition for breakfast, lunch *and* dinner, and that, 
despite the fact that its left leg is currently spinning around on the wheel 
of the number thirty bus to Newport, it has never felt better. By Saturday 
it decides, with the type of gay abandon only a brain-damaged bird could 
manage, to fling itself headfirst along the high street at the potato-faced 
passers-by.

Fortunately, for other reasons, I have recently taken to wearing trainers, 
and they enabled me to step lithely to the left and deflect the deranged 
ball of feathers off my "Vote Nader" lapel-badge and towards a nearby 
display of garden ornaments. Gwen and Hilary weren't so lucky, their 
stratospheric heels and fullsome bosoms hardly helping their efforts to stay 
upright. I overheard Gwen say to Hilary: "Oh, I hate pigeons. I hate 
everything that flies, you know. Birds, aeroplanes". Hilary wobbled 
sympathetically.

But all this is somewhat beside the point. What I should be saying is: Isn't 
the Books EP just a great record? Your Cover's Blown standing up for the new 
vibe with a determined chin and some splendid lyrics; and Your Secrets, a 
great recording with some heavenly harmonies. I could write you a postcard 
about the unusual strength of the recent singles' B-sides, but I'm sure 
you've noticed this already yourselves.

A big hullo to all the sinipops I met at glasto, including 
Ian-the-dirty-vicar, Rener, Mark, Ken, Carsmile, Starry, Lixi, and a 
far-away but apparently real Sam Walton. It was good fun, wasn't it? I 
enjoyed the mud most of all. When I woke up in the morning it was like a 
muddy alsatian had visted during the night and had a good shake. My 
strangest moment of the weekend was trying to meet someone "by the big 
purple tent", only to realise that big purple tents were all the range in 
Somerset this year and the campsite was full of them. It was truly a horror. 
It reminded me of a story my mum told me once about a leprichaun and a 
handkerchief. I have never trusted small Irish men since.

Like Mark H, I would also love a little snifter with sinister folks on the 
weekend of the Somerset House gig, though the Friday would be best for me. 
So if anyone has any plans, then let me know. My ticket says "7 o'clock" on 
it, but last week I also received a rubbish postcard announcing that the 
time has changed to 7 o'clock. Not much of a postcard - they could have 
filled the space with something exciting like a small discussion on the 
belle and sebastian b-sides, but oh well. Then, just the other day, I was 
phoned up at work by a ROBOT WOMAN, who refused to have a chat and instead 
told me, in the tone of voice she usually reserves for evaporating puny 
humans, that the time has changed - to 7 o'clock. So that's 7 o'clock then, 
kids. Oh yes.

Heavens above, I really should go!

Bye!

Robin x

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