Sunday, 14 June 2009

A (bottle of) Bulleit to the head.

I'm reading poetry. And getting drunk.


I sleeped for the first time in living memory

without waking up. My world at the moment is full of bad situations and bad decisions and the knowledge of hurt I'm yet to cause. And Trying to plan in when to do it. I hate these things. I don't like to cause hurt or grief to other people. But I can't and won't sacrifice myself.

Saturday, 13 June 2009

The Sound of Emptiness Part 1

Woodcat is without joy, but without sadness. There is a strange emptiness lurking within

Never Give all the Heart

Never give all the heart, for love
Will hardly seem worth thinking of
To passionate women if it seem
Certain, and they never dream
That it fades out from kiss to kiss;
For everything's that's lovely is
But a brief, dreamy, kind delight.
O never give the heart outright,
For they, for all smooth lips can say,
Have given their hearts to the play.
And who could play it well enough
If deaf and dumb and blind with love?
He that made this knows the cost,
For he gave all his love and lost.

Advice I take from Yeats, and pass on thus to you.

Thursday, 11 June 2009

I went to ninja school so that I could murder you with just one little punch...

I think that's how the song goes. Anyway, it sums up a lot of how I feel a lot of the time. At work, we've been engaging in all these internal projects. Mine is involved with designing and building a behemoth of a database, and a GUI front end to talk to it. Up until now, I was part of a team, some of whom had coding experience, some of whom had more experience writing documentation, so I could learn lots from them. But now they have been re-deployed to external projects. Which is good. Except the entire company database project has become the ME-show. And I don't even know how to code html that effectively, let alone build a complex front end database application with php.


Monday, 8 June 2009

An Apology. And A Promise.

The BNP have done rather well, Nick Griffin having acquired the role of MEP for the north west, and Andrew Brons for Yorkshire. This is entirely abhorent to me, and yet I cannot bring myself to go and stand in a pointless protest in the centre of Manchester. I say pointless, you wonder why. Whilst I despise this, and whilst it is not right, it is a democratic decision, and more importantly it is my fault, and the fault of every other apathetic sod who didn't find the time to sort out voting this year. Protesting after the appointment will not change things. These men will not stand down. By our apathy we stand by, and the ignorant and feckless and racist and awful are able to clamber to power, and ruin our country with bigotry and hate. But I promise you this. I will never forget to vote again.

Sunday, 7 June 2009


I have a house pest. It's name is Phil. It lives in the spare room and grumbles, cheerily. Welcome house pest!

Saturday, 6 June 2009

And I'll never sleep again

I'm a mess. It's funny. Yesterday I existed as I always do, in my bubble. I was woefully behind in getting the spare room ready for the onslaught of having a housepest, and I'm still not prepared, but from tomorrow morning the spare room needs to be habitable. But this doesn't concern me, other than my slight worry as to how much crap I appear to have accumulated. And yet. Yesterday everything was fine, and in the evening I went to watch a film with a recent acquaintance. It turned out that this was a sort of date, and that was pretty cool, albeit pretty surprising, and he seems really nice. It doesn't seem to be related, but today I'm suffering from a certain degree of melancholy. Maybe it is related. My bubble is a solitary metaphorical space, and it suits me that way. And I'm awake and a little sad, with no clear ideas as to why, other than concerns of losing my solitude. And I'm awake and sad. And I'll never sleep again.

Thursday, 4 June 2009

When I grow up...

... I want to make cakes. And brownies. And sweets. General confectionary. And I would like a shop, where I sell tea and other various liquids, and have a long counter full of goodies. It will be AMAZING.

Wednesday, 3 June 2009

The Woodcat is sad today

There were more redundancies at work today. It's no good. I don't know at the moment what the future holds, but I'm sad for those who are gone, and apprehensive for the future.

Monday, 1 June 2009

What I dun

It's been a while, so I feel I should catch up. Here are some of the things I've been doing.
1) Going to my cousins wedding
2) Babysitting my nephews
3) Making new friends
4) Going to the book club
5) Making brownies. And other cake
6) Going to see lots of gigs, including Ghostface Killah, and Machinefabriek, and Murcof, and a bunch of other stuff.
7) Making arrangements to do things I haven't done yet
8) Finding a room to rent in a house in September
9) Eating chocolate
10) Dancing like a fool

I've had a fun couple of months :D

Recent discoveries

Espresso powder is amazing. And versatile. But so far, the best use I've found has got to be the banana, blueberry and espresso milkshake. Sounds icky, tastes AMAZING.

Saturday, 28 March 2009

Sparky Deathcap, sleep, and living in the postmodern equivalent of nuclear fallout

Tomorrow night, I'm going to see Sparky Deathcap at Fuel cafe in Withington. My sort of new friend Phill puts on gigs once a month as Mushaboom Folk, and is one of a whole host of lovely Manchester promoters who put on awesome nights so lazy folk like me don't have to. He is also, as far as I know, the only one who pretty much always gives away free cake at his gigs. Which is total win as far as I'm concerned, despite the fact that of late they haven't been homemade. Lazy Philly. I think I have a friend crush on Phill. Tomorrow was originally supposed to be Klaus Says Buy The Record, but the line up... Well, it changed. Sparky was awesome last time I saw him so I'm really looking forward to this. Also on the line up are The Shrieking Violets. I've never heard them, but I'm very excited about this, as this is my sort of new friend Dom's band. Dom also co-runs my current favourite club night, Panda Panda, and is also the subject of one of my newest friend crushes. (I should explain about friend crushes. See lower down the page, marked by **)

Although I'm excited about tomorrow night, I have qualms as to whether I can make the distance in terms of staying awake for it. I've been sleeping such a lot lately, and yet I'm still permanently exhausted. I haven't cleaned my flat in over a week, and to all intents and purposes, it looks like I'm living in the aftermath of nuclear fall out. There is stuff everywhere. I haven't changed my bed in nearly two weeks, I haven't washed up since Monday, everything I need to take to the tip is shoved unceremoniously in the spare room. And I've been slobbing about all morning watching reruns of Dark Angel on E4. Yeah well. Maybe I should put on my decontamination gear and set about cleaning this pit...

Also, I ordered a copy of Words Are Dead on vinyl a couple of weeks ago from Amazon, and it arrived yesterday. If only I lived in Portland, Oregon. I could further my non-friend crush on Justin Ringle into mild groupie-ism. Wow. I know he's a bit bald, and has big ears, and looks super grumpy in pictures. But when he talks... And that smile. That smile that happens in his eyes before it even hits his lips. Wow. He's a massively attractive man. Why is is always pretty unobtainable musicians??? Gah. Of course, if he comes back to the UK any time soon it is my intention to flirt with him shamelessly.

** Friend crushes. You know when you're a twenty something girl, and you meet a twenty something boy, or indeed a twenty something girl, and you are overwhelmed by the desire to become friends. But you don't have any desire to get into their pants. Just that you find them, well, interesting. Intellectually. Artistically. The random twinkly bit in their eye means that you think they would understand the funny when you point out the generally considered unfunny. And that you can be yourself and witter, but at the same time you find something about them cool and aspirational, that you can be a better version of yourself in such company. The friend crush is something people don't often understand. Most people become friends through circumstance and the long drawn out process of mutual acquaintance, and to do anything else implies romantic or sexual intention according to the rules of modern day society. But, my friend crush, I do not want you that way. I don't want to see you naked. Not even to laugh and point. And there is the possibility that prolonged physical contact (like hugging) would make me feel physically nauseous. I just want your conversations and silliness. That is, I would like to be your friend.

Sunday, 15 March 2009

A certain lack of chemical reactivity

Gah. I have realised that my finances are in a terrible state, so re-introducing swimming must wait until pay-day. However, I will be re-introducing yoga, and cycle-biking, and playing with my hula hoop, because I'm all grown up that way.
In other news, the Woodcat met up with a boy. There is a certain lack of chemistry. Oh dear. He seems very nice.

Saturday, 14 March 2009

The Woodcat has plans

It's been over a year since I last went swimming. And I'm getting fat. Bizarrely, it's not stopping me getting attention from boys. But it is impacting my health, and the way I see myself in the mirror. And, in my less lucid moments, it makes me seriously question any attention I get from boys, and come to one of three conclusions. 1) They are crazy. 2) They have poor taste, or poor self-esteem, or they have a poor intellect, and are thus unable to distinguish attractive from unattractive... All these are lumped together, as these make me look down on the people who offer the attention, at the same time as lowering my own self esteem. 3) The prescription on their glasses needs changing. So the Woodcat is a woman with a plan. She is not entirely crazy you see, and in her more lucid moments she realises that despite what her mother may say, she looks okay, most of the time. She also realises that while she does not consider herself to be in any way beautiful, she is not an out and out dog either. Some days she looks quite nice, and if she took a little care of her appearance, that sometimes could become a most of the time. The big thing she has realised though, is that photographs decrease her self esteem. When she was going swimming regularly, she was slimmer. Not thin, not by a long stretch. But slimmer. And nearly every picture of her that people took looked, well, okay. Not great, but okay. Woodcat has a little face, and doesn't carry extra weight that well. It's not noticeable in "real life". But in a photo? Well, she starts looking like Quasimodo very quickly.
So Woodcat is planning to start going swimming again. In the mornings before work. Starting Monday. No doubt I'll only be able to do about 10 lengths, 20, at a stretch. But we are starting.

Saturday, 7 March 2009

Horse Feathers Lyrics (as taken from the Horse Feathers myspace page)

Arguably, Justin Ringle is currently my favourite poet. Because thats whats these songs are. Pure unadulterated poetry.

Lover of things,
won't you agree
how the winter could bring
the darkest spring?

With hell on your face,
dirt on the walls
in the back of the place,
you grew and complained.

Father of three,
won't you believe,
that the ones in between,
the ones that are blamed.

Of fickle faith,
cynics that seethe,
how their children are cursed,
cursed to believe.

It's like marrow without bone.
To live in a house with no home.
Where the son is the darkest seed.
He crawls with the curs in the weeds.

Where had you been son?
Not in the street, not in the yard.

Only once, I'll call off the dogs, if you call off your guard.

Where had you gone?
Where had you been?

Maybe he could wait a while?
Maybe grow too tired or old.
Maybe they just lay to look.

While we were young, we all laughed and we sung.
Now we've been beat by work.
Oh, he just waits, he just hopes, and he prays.
But the more she is loved she hurts. . .

It's rude to rile her up.
Those fools for god don't love another's touch.
Making babies for good or grief?
To these types of fools he pleads,
"If beggars aren't loved they leave!"

She learned it from a book.
Suiters approach, receive dirty looks.
Calling on her for good or grief.
These types of fools who beg and never read.

We are young and we are weak.
Just as blank as we are bleak.
Too far gone in our heads.
We all live and work in the red.

We're cold,
we had done all we've been told.
There's no court for our case.
What failure gave us suits our taste.

We all bend, we all break.
We all forfeit what we make.
Too far gone, in our heads.
We all live and work in the red.

We're cold,
we had done all we've been told.
There's no court for our case.
What failure gave us suits our taste.

There's no money to our names.
Empty pockets to our graves.
There's no court for our case.
What failure gave us suits our taste.

Now we've got concrete.
A place those blacks won't be.
If we come they'll know.
They should flee,
They should go.
Here comes a white shadow.

Blues aren't made from greed,
this feast on famine pleads.
To take their space,
if we can, if we may,
make a darker day.
Please, shame on me.

These things, they come in threes.
This feast on famine pleads.
To take their space,
if we can, if we may,
make a darker day
Please, shame on me.

This street ain't made for me.

A bitter birthday.
I can't shake.
It seems that lately,
there's no break.

I'm pleading.

Why can't I see?
It seems that lately, I curse me.

A bitter birthday.
You can't make.
It seems that lately, there's no break

I'm pleading.

Why can't we see?
It seems that lately, you curse me.

How do you go?
A curse it is right behind.
How do you go?
A burden may change your mind.

I just heard the news,
a new one is on your line.
I just heard the news,
it's taking all my time.

What will you do
when I'm fine?
What will I write
when I'm fine?

I just heard the news,
a new one is on your line.
Legs they're wrapped around,
a victim by surprise.

What will you do
when I'm fine?
What will I write
when I'm fine.

Helen, if you called my name you know I'd go.
In much the same way the sun steals the snow.
I've been burned by the heat two bodies make.
A little bird told me that your type is too ripe to take.


Lyin' on the floor and through your teeth.
Tell me where you've gone, speak softly.
Crawlin' from the dark up to your feet.
Tell me where you've gone, speak gently.

Crawlin' from the dark up to your feet.
Tell me where you've gone, speak softly.
Tell me where you've gone, and what you've done.
A fever keeps on comin', I want none.

Are you true to me?
Are these vows we say profane?
Are you true to me?
Are these vows we make obscene?

Heathens kiss softly.
From their mouthes there's nothing.
They cruelly come gently.
With violent lips smashing.

Heathens kiss softly.

Oregon loves too few.
Oregon loves just you.

Curse the rose, curse the rain.
Now two bodies, can't start the same.
How our sun has gone away, there aren't days,
there's just different gray.

How can anybody only just sleep?
How can anybody only just leave?

Who talked to you?
Who's in your ear?

Probably a better man.
Who's probably got better plans
for wealth or success.

Baby brother don't you know?
I'm cross when you come,
I'm cursed when you go.
I won't waste my time, let the worst get in line.
I fruitlessly labor for show.
As time passes distance grows.

My son is so late.
Mother trust I will bring you a face,
even on the wrong days,
you know I could dream to lay,
next to that body,
I've yet to make.

This is what it is to be.
Call it joy in youth,
don't dare call it free.
He won't come, he won't crawl.
He won't answer at all.
I fruitlessly labor for show.
As time passes distance grows.

Father your failures are so grave,
they have seeped to son.
No amount of wishing,
for grace to be regained or won.
10,000 pounds of hope,
on the shoulders of one.

It's clear to me,
how the son has gone to seed.
It's clear to me,
how the roots shape the tree.
If I found a penance to be paid,
if I found a payment to be made.

There's no real letter to write,
To no real father of mine.
With no real things,
it's hard not to think.
With no real things,
it's hard not to sing.

Father your failures are so grave,
they have seeped to son.
No amount of wishing,
for grace to be regained or won.

Stalling, stalling, the hardwood of pews is calling. We want this news. Lovely ladies make pretty babies, it's true. That woman's not you. Take your body and clothes to places he won't go. Your life as you know is hopeless, it'll happen too slow. Oh, she's tricked, she was trapped. Her body was lacking white and red, those hues lost in bed. Oh, they would speak language exacting. Oh, they would lay, parts practicing. And through it all he won't call. Lovely ladies take your beauty to your grave.

Boys, they've got wicked things on their minds. Before the father said you're toein' the line. Like a finch on Saturday, sin with wings. Give your tongue to God, on Sunday sing. It all seems fine. These things are off your mind. Remember we're born to die, but she was born to cry. To cry herself to sleep. Red cowards in the home of the brave. Rather the knaves and crooks that twist the good book. Peasants, paupers, pilgrims they are the same. They give their dollars to God but they need their pay. It all seems fine. These things are off your mind. Remember we're born to die, but she was born to cry. To cry herself to sleep.

Viscious are the mouthes she tastes. Wicked are the vowes she breaks. Leaving all her luck to haste. Leaving all her luck to waste. All these things in a box, where she goes she lays. Leaving all these men tonight, leaving all these boys to fight.Leaving all her luck to haste. Leaving all her lust to waste. All these things in a box, where she goes she stops. Hell to all these moneymakers. Lives they won't mistake. Oh, you knew I loved to hate her. Eyes that won't debate.

Painless ghosts, of which she knows, the smell in her clothes, the smell in her nose. There's blood on the snow. Bring your love, it's on your tongue, it's on your roads, and in your toes. There's blood on the snow. Tuesday's violence, we're alone. Into their beds they approach their doom. Their heads, their lips, their chests, their hips, they walk. Them bones they move, they talk. Their bones they bleed they rot. Their tones they're forged, they're wrought, into what they're not.

Bound in blue, they wind into a love some would say is grand in its making. Worms may sing, that from beneath their graves, they're found embracing. Some might say love without touching. Bones may break, parts keep on bleeding. God loves honest doubters. Praying is always work. The best things will happen to the worst.Tuesday's lovers, Monday's mistakes.

There are things you tend to say when you're alone. There are tones you tend to take when you're at home. Let me be that thorn, thistle, or key. Let me prove you'll unlock just for me. It's in your eyes we fail to even try. It's in our blood to watch each day go by. It's in our times young men they're living on dimes. It's on our minds to put our hands to throats. There are things you tend to say when you're alone. There are tones you tend to take when young hearts are broke.

Lady, you fondle then fight, tonight. By tomorrow you should grow. Hades, the place you reside tonight. By tomorrow we should know. It's likely you will lie as your tongue will taste the sky. Like it was once. And maybe, you will bruise as you fall right through this roof. Like it was once. It's likely you will prove that these things they come in two's. Like it was once. And maybe, you will bruise as you fall right through this roof. Like it was once.

The wall breaks on the phone if at all, if you call. A hole from which to see your head, if words are dead. Some things always stay the same. How you looked wet from all the rain. Like lavender the smell of your hair, silly errs postponing your despair. And I'll wait, I'll wait. Take a ticket to my own fate. Maybe I'm too late.

Walking and running, sucking and fucking at your will. You won't debate us, nor entertain us. It's your thrill. A bitter pill that you must take. Broken bones and hearts, that's your fate. I want out, I want to curse and shout. Get me from your mouth. Haters win, it just all depends if they won't, they won't miss a thing. We have just gone south. Get me, get me from your mouth. Heaven is what's just gone south. Do what you want, leave just your mouth.

They move, they touch. Perhaps too much. They love to sing, only to be seen. They are cross 'cause they are clean.They are grave 'cause they are green. By tongue, by teeth. By fist or feet. There's two on the nose, it's bloodied and broke. I hid to see. Eyes full of rose. She tips on her toes, her father's ears, they are keen. Late in a dream, it remains to be seen if his grave is in flames. They move, they touch. Perhaps too much. They love to sing, only to be seen. They are cross 'cause they are clean. They are grave 'cause they are green.

Mother's sick. She's gone mad. A daughter's tricked, she's been had. Life just don't always fold up neat. Sadness will come in different sheets. As blue eyes state, on your father's face, hides some grace. All those years your youth has stole. How your wife and your body has taken toll, toll, toll. Grab your mother, bring her ears. Tell her things she'll never hear. Like how her bark, it has calmed before her bite, bite, bite. We're beat, beat, beat asleep on feet. Goodnight, night, night let's calm this fight.

On Wednesday, I went to see Horse Feathers

The gig was amazing. The first support act didn't quite blow me away, I'd never heard Animal Magic Tricks, she has a nice enough sound, and a really good voice, and for the first couple of songs I was completely enamoured, but there was not enough going on in terms of range or variety to keep it entirely interesting for quite as long as the set lasted. Men Diamler was the second support, again, I've never heard before, but he was incredible, by turns ridiculously sombre and frenetically funny. Half way through he unplugged his guitar to play a song called Life is a Terrible Thing entirely within the crowd, and he was jumping in front of people and generally creating the best amount of uproar I've ever seen. And then Horse Feathers were just everything I could have wished for. And then some. I got hold of the first album, Words Are Dead, on iTunes late 2007 because I was becoming quite a fan of Peter Broderick, and I was interested in the other projects he was involved with. And I've been massively overplaying it ever since. Recently the second album, House With No Home was released, and it's ridiculously beautiful. They played a lot from the new album, as I think that's what most folks are more familiar with, and a decent amount of older ones, with an encore of Falling Through The Roof, and then when they'd finished we got talking to Justin Ringle who seems like an incredibly nice man, and disturbingly attractive when he smiles, and he gave me - gave me, how cool is that - a copy of their 7", and I paid some cash for a poster, and now I seem to have this deal with Justin Ringle that if I contact him and send him the monies, he will send me copies of both albums on vinyl! I'm so excited.(Though I will try and obtain them in ways that aren't inconveniencing nice folks that give me free stuff, but it's a lovely offer!)

As for the venue... Pretty good actually, a decent size for that sort of gig. Bar is downstairs, then there's a pretty big room upstairs where the bands play. I'm pretty sure when I was a kid Dulcimer was an amazing art supplies shop called Quarmbys, and the upstairs was a really cool toyshop, where I once got this puppet of a skunk. I'm pretty sure I still have that somewhere actually...

- I must confess, I felt absurdly bad about the idea of asking Justin Ringle to put himself out for me and send me vinyl, so I just sent him a message saying thank you for the 7", and how lovely it was to meet him. Then I looked on Amazon, and have bought a limited edition copy of Words Are Dead on vinyl for $16. It did surprise me, and amuse me, that there are 8 (now 7) copies for sale altogether, and 3 of those copies on there for nearly $60 each!

Friday, 27 February 2009

Woodcat is an accidental stalker...

So on Monday (?), yes, Monday, I sent an email to the people behind a blog that I'd happened across. This is not really something I'd generally do, as I'm under the impression that people blog self consciously for the first few weeks they do it, in case anyone reads it, then they realise that it's freakin rare for anyone to read your blog, and even when they do, they don't care what you say, who you are, why you say it, blah blah blah... See, no one's reading this, so no one cares if I say any of this... blah blah blah. The only times this changes slightly is in very specific instances. Blogs about music. Blogs about gigs, which are really a subcategory of those about music. Blogs by musicians, again, a subcategory of those about music. Blogs about films. Blogs about food. Seriously, if you can't eat it, watch it or listen to it, it's most likely that nobody cares. But, I digress. As I mentioned, I contacted the authors of a blog. The blog in question was, unsurprisingly, a music blog, and I'd just spent about 20 minutes listening to previously completely unknown to me, yet completely ace, songs courtesy of this, and combined with the title of the blog curiously reminding me of an incident a couple of weeks ago, I sent a brief note of slightly stalkery thanks, as below:

I thought I'd send you a weird email...
Because I happened across your blog this evening. Having caught my eye because of the most recent title - oddly reminded me of dancing and giddiness in ____ a week or so ago - I played all the random songs I've never heard of, and wanted to say thanks! Thus, here is a weird little stalkery type email, with words to that effect...

Anyway, I duly got a reply back, and the reply seemed a little self effacing, and selfconscious, which is exactly the response I expected, if I indeed expected a reply at all. And that should have been the end of the matter. However, the author of the response asked a question, about the location of the dancing and giddiness. So I replied, and he replied, asking more questions, and now there is the most ridiculously 51 email long email thread in my inbox, and, perhaps curiously, it turns out that he is the random boy I was dancing with briefly a couple of weeks ago. And seems very nice, and as originally suspected, young. Stalker was turned stalked part way through the week, when he added the Woodcat on facebook, and she found out he was born in 1985! Which makes her feel a little old... And so, the Woodcat is an accidental email stalker. Oh dear...

In other news, this week has been mostly quiet, although I did skip along to Emmy the Great on Tuesday, at The Ruby Lounge, which was ace. I'd expand, but there's not so much to expand on. I could wax lyrical about her lightly tripping whimsical lyrics sung in, by turns, mournful and joyful form, or the amazing perfection of the performance that lacked a bum note, a false start, or an unbalanced element with regard to the levels of the sound quality. But I'm not a gig reviewer, I didn't take a note of the set list, and half way through I was ruing that it was so good, because if she had been any less I could've taken my sleepy self home to bed. I can tell you that highlights for me included The Easter Parade, which (I think? Or was it Absentee first? No, I think it was The Easter Parade first... See, I'd be no good doing this properly) was the opening song, as well as Absentee, MIA, 24, Dylan, and of course, First Love. Needless to say, if you get the chance to go, Emmy the Great is not someone to be missed as she flits through your town. In short, and using the worse phrasing possible, Emmy was Great.

Also, I'm so happy that i'm not the only petty little grump in the world... Passively agressively of course... Looksee!!!

Sunday, 22 February 2009

So I did not win a ukulele

Tonight was predominantly about ukuleles. I saw the best ukulele rock opera I've ever seen, courtesy of Sparky Deathcap, as well as a beautiful set by Kathryn Edwards, who I've never heard of and I'm keen to hear more, her vocals are delicately haunting, plus any one who can play an accordian is awesome in my book, and a fairly entertaining song about beards from Jam on Bread. I did not, alas, see Jeremy Warmsley, as I left early. I'm having one of my don't touch me or I will punch you in the face episodes, and the boys Paddington and Corky did not seem able to maintain a sensible distance, or refrain from talking to me and just talk to themselves instead. Maybe I'm overly tired, or maybe it's just that they've had five or six pints and I'm woefully sober. But I have to be up early anyways, and violence is not generally considered to be a valid answer, so I thought to leave. Also, Meursault were doing little by way of being entertaining, a surprise since what I'd heard on recordings sounded promising. Live, not so good. Shame.

The definitive Woodcat

Using only quotes from Ulysses, I define myself thus:

- When I makes tea I makes tea, as old mother Grogan said. And when I makes water I makes water.

- Ask nothing more of me, sweet. All I can give you I give.

I have a little red motor car...

Yes, yes I do. This car was actually the cause of a little strife last summer, and the loss of a friend. Don't get me wrong. No body died. But there were misunderstandings and weirdness, and now the Catflap thinks I fancy him, and is weird about things and stuff. None of this, however, means I love my little car any the less. My little red car is excellent, and I drove it for the first time yesterday. My dad has been mending the bits and bobs that were wrong with it, and yesterday I washed my car, and took it home where it lives with me. MINE. All mine. Already it is making me want to acquire a new ipod, for plugging into the stereo for long car journeys... But in the meantime, I am thinking mixtapes!!!

And we started something on the dance floor...

Having not really seen Chiquita properly for ages, we decided that Friday we would hang out, but in a go out to town and have the eats kind of way. The original plan was to head to Wagamamas and eat lovely food, and drink saki, because saki is nice, and because it makes you feel drunker than you are, b ut doesn't seem to hurt in the morning. By the time we were half way there though, we were hungry. And outside Tampopo in Albert Square. So in we went, and pondered the menu. I opted for the seafood Yaki Udon with a glass of the house white, and Chiquita picked the chicken Pad Thai, also with the house white. I love eating noodles with chops sticks. Mostly because I am terrible at eating with chop sticks. Absolutely appalling. And I find it hilarious, mostly because I look around and find that no one else can either. I always think that messy food you have to eat with chop sticks is good date food, because you have no option but to be yourself, given the likelihood that most of your dinner will end up on your chin. Tampopo was really nice, despite lacking saki, but I think that Wagamamas has the edge, and I'll have to plan a visit soon.

After Tampopo we wandered into a bar like a club, and ran away super quick, then wandered into a club like a bar, where we stayed for a while and chattedy chatted to Corky, and Panda Ross and Panda Dom. I got myself a little bit drunkardly, and myself and Corky started talking most randomly about the fact that we'd like to put on a club night. And I would like to, but I recognise that I am lazy and unmotivated. And if such a plan came off it would be down to Corky's dynamism prior to my own. After maybe an hour, we turned around, and suddenly the empty club had acquired people. I don't know where they came from, but presumably through the door. The quiet seep of people continued for some time, and then suddenly, a really good song came on. I wish I could tell you what it was, but I was drunk, and and I forget. Anyhoo, Corky and I decided to start the dancing. Because no one hits an empty dance floor. But we do. And it was infectious. soon enough, we left the danceful nicely packed, and sat back down with Chiquita, and watched red cardigan man dance. Go red cardigan man go. He was incredible. Possibly terrible, possibly not. But doing his own thing, red cardigan man cared not a bean for anything else. And that is so cool.

Chiquita and Woodcat left quite early, and Woodcat may have accidentally volunteered the spare room out for tonight... Awesome evening. I will be going to Panda again

Thursday, 19 February 2009

Ukuleles and telephones

Today seems to be have been a day for pissing around on the interweb, and making anonymous new acquaintances. I've just had one of those weird telephone conversations with someone I've never met, yet have excessive amounts of nothing to talk about with. Essentially, the Woodcat is being a nice person, and offering to litter a club with flyers for a gig for the guy who is putting on the gig. Obviously, this is an entirely selfish aim, as I want all these small promoters to keep putting on the gigs that I'm too lazy to look into arranging myself, but recognise that they need help sometimes with flyering, and telling what is, and so on. So anyway, I called this chap to arrange the acquisition of said flyers, and must have been talking for a good forty minutes about, well, nothing really. I like such conversations, they remind me that the world is full of nice open friendly people after all.

Incidentally, if anyone's in Manchester on Sunday,The MIGHTY UKULELE FESTIVAL starring JEREMY WARMSLEY & MEURSAULT looks to be really fun!!! Obviously there's Jeremy Warmsley, and Meursault, and cakes, and the potential for winning a ukulele, and Sparky Deathcap, and some other fols on the side. All in all, pure WIN.

Wednesday, 18 February 2009

Woodcat, face burn and a bowl of chilli

I swear, the kitchen at my work is jinxed. Carlos accidentally threw his lunch on the floor today. And luckily it was cold. Not so lucky was the Woodcat, yesterday, when she accidentally threw a boiling bowl of chilli on the floor, which splattered EVERYWHERE. Seriously. The floor. The fridge. The water cooler. The walls. And the Woodcat. Boots? Check. Skirt? Check. Top? Check. Cardigan? Check. Hair? Check? Face? Alas, check. Some of the lovely people at my office rallied round and started cleqaning it up for me, while I dealt with the head-to-toeness of the chilli, and discovered the lovely cheek burn I'm currently sporting. Thankfully it's not too bad, but it does look a bit gross, and I've got a lovely yellow scab right on my check bone. The Woodcat's looking right purdy. On the bright side, the chilli fell right side up, and there was enough left for lunch!

Right now I'm playing the mix tape, well, cd, that Corky made for me. Much Brazilian giddiness and all kinds of fun.

Monday, 16 February 2009

pieces of us were left on the tracks...

For my birthday, Corky gave me a mixtape. On a CD. How very modern and new fangled. He also gave me a summer beneath the trees. I'm just getting around to playing it now, and ruing not having done sooner. Even if I hadn't heard about the addition of Peter Broderick to the mix, there is an unmistakably distinctive note of his influence in this magnificent, yet gently undulating collection of lovely, and really the only thing I can think to make this album in anyway better will be to play it again when the washing machine isn't on.

Sunday, 15 February 2009

Wow. Wow. Wow. Wow. Wow.

This is so much better than my idea for bacon baked alaska.

Underachieving Pandas

Last night was excellent fun, there was dancing and dancing and the giddy. I went with Corky and Christina to the Saki bar, where Underachievers and Panda Panda were putting on a joint night. I've never been to either club night, but the music coming from Panda Panda was significantly better, and I am thinking there must be attendance in the future, and shapes thrown on that there dance floor and whatnot. There was perving at pretties, and dancing with boys who were flagrantly too young. One in particular, who was sufficiently crazy enough to introduce himself, despite my flailing limbs and rhythmless form. He seemed like a nice chap, and, I'd say, attractive as it goes, but he couldn't have been more than 24. I find it disconcerting that the only boys who chat me up actually are, well, boys!

I accidentally ingested a couple of vodka tonics, which goes against the no drinking plan. But, I can't say I feel as bad as could be expected, and certainly not as bad as Corky. I seem to have agreed to help compile the ultimate play list of all time... Think I'd better get my listening habits up to date!

Saturday, 14 February 2009

I already loved the music of this man

But now I think I love him too!!! Seriously. Watch these at your peril, for I think you will also fall under the spell...


It's Saturday, YAY!!! I've not been out for a while, due to that unfortunate consumer necessity, the monies, but tonight I believe there will be dancing and foolishness and a general good time all round. Excellent...

Thursday, 12 February 2009

Inexplicable joy and shiny pink hearts...

Town was beautiful this evening. Well, it wasn't. It never is. But there are some days where joy seems to permeate everything, to shine from every corner of existence, and on days like that the little things are everything. A woman's face breaking into a smile as she meets her friend. A boy seated on his father's shoulders as a family walk down the street. Shiny pink hearts blu-tacked to the window of a chip shop as you sail past on the bus. On days like this, life is wonderful.