Terrible day at the office. Started badly, ended badly. Woke to find an extreme inflammation of my sacred limb had developed into what can only be called a new plague. Phoned lady in question who denied being a hostess of hellspawn rash. Despite being NEARLY DEAD and quite frankly in no state to run the third most influential music etc. magazine in the Old World, I came into the office anyhow: Only to find Chris Carew, editor of “Stare Go On I Dare You”, that soul-sucking muzak rag that is crying out for punctuation in its title sat on my ledge-desk. He wanted to discuss a distro-share whereby I would give him access to Gnome’s distribution network (every Oddbins and half of the UK’s Tandys) and he would throw open the doors to the “golden calf” as it is known in the trade (Braggs the Bakers). “No deal fat boy” quoth I and booted him out.
So day progressed lucidly to soundtrack of Miracle Gash and the Klimbers’ new 10” on Empire Magazine Recordings. Fruity anti-cash rhymes set to phaaat electro-retch. “All day sunshine. Bikini leash. Freedom is a toolbox.” Yep?
Everything swimmingly I thought. Inflammation decreasing. YES! Maximal sensory music appreciation increasing. YES! Until I get PROFOUND SUDDEN HEADACHE that is surely the result of HECTIC PARTY LIFESTYLE. Went home early. Deep ambient snooze to Bark Haze LP, pray for wiser day in morrow.
Catch a bean Jesus,