Something for the Weakened

Archive for January, 2007

Hit Up

January 30th, 2007 by

The number of people dropping in around these parts has been fluctuating wildly over the past week or so. Usually the hit counter I have hidden behind the scenes here registers about thirty different visitors a day (how many are real people I shan’t even begin to speculate). That dramatically plummetted to single figures about ten days ago, which set me wondering. Had I offended everyone so horribly that they all deserted me at once? Had all the world’s web spiders suddenly been destroyed in some kind of meta-arachnid holocaust? Had the site gone down? I have no idea what the answer might be and became even more confused when the counter shot up to over sixty hits in one day at the end of last week. So I ask, what have you people been doing? Were you all off for a weekend in Clacton that I wasn’t invited to? Did I really offend you all but then you realised it had been your fault all along and you came rushing back, looking for solace? Have you broken my hit counter? I’m guessing I’ll never know, but would love to hear your thoughts. Stooge.

Radio Ka Ka

January 28th, 2007 by

I’ve just heard that there are only two more editions of the most joyously eclectic terrestrial radio programme to be broad cast. Mixing It has been running for a about sixteen years now and though I’ve been unable to listen to it much since it was shunted onto Friday nights, I’ve been having fun with it on Listen Again since my dalliances with broadband have been successful. What with my recent Mark and Lard nostalgia, this has left me with little hope for the BBC’s musical output in the future. If Humphrey Lyttleton dies then I fear all BBC radio will die with him.

What I’ve learnt this week . . .

January 26th, 2007 by

That my gum is infected in some way and the swelling makes me look like a hamster storing tucker.

That Homepride stir in sauces taste unbelievably boring – especially their chilli con carne.

That the walls of my room are really thin.

My G.P.’s name (though I will be forgetting that again over the next week or so).

That creating an Amazon wishlist is actually very easy indeed.

That the mysterious transparent fluid that gushed from my nose for about thirty seconds when I was hit hard in the face with a football when I was fourteen was actually cerebro-spinal fluid.

That my nose was slightly fractured when I was about fourteen (see above).

That King Alexander are a splendid band deserving of an audience of more than seven paying punters (they’re on MySpace somewhere – do go and have a listen).

That opening my own comic shop might actually be feasible.

That being out four nights in a row is possible – will let you know if eight is doable at some point next week.

Nostalgia

January 21st, 2007 by

Those of you who pay attention to the rambling arse piss that makes up these writings might remember my moaning about nostalgia on a number of previous occasions. So, in a moment of unadulterated hypocrisy I’m going to link to a couple of sights brimming with happy memories for me. First up this one here is filled with snippets of radio from the happiest period of my working life. I particularly recommend the Mr McScotty clip which has lodged the phrase “Christ almighty” in my brain as a piece of comedy gold. The other takes you to the first part of the pilot to an unmade series by two British comedy heavyweights, brought to you in just about watchable YouTube format. The other two parts that constitute the rest of the episode can be found in the linky bit on the side. I remember being rather baffled watching it first time around, it being such a departure from their other broadcast work (what with it being something like a sitcom) and haven’t seen it since it’s one terrestrial repeat a decade or more ago. It’s still a little baffling (but what would you expect from the pair), but is well worth twenty-six minutes of your time. A DVD relese seems unlikely – there’s only a pilot extant after all – so, better downloads aside this is probably your best chance to have a look. Go on.

Teething Trouble

January 20th, 2007 by

The dental countdown begins once more. I had been hoping that it would be this six month check up where I would be able to dispense with the services of the expensive, beautiful harridan that mocks my teeth on a half annual basis. But yet again, my mouth defeats me mere days before the cancellation date for the appointment looms near. This time around I will be forced to pay for her to look at my first wisdom tooth poking through my gum and to examine the peculiar pussy discharges emanating from my inner cheek (the one on my face, that is). Perhaps she’ll look from my diseased gob into my eyes while she holds me down in the chair and see that she’s wasting her time with that bloke in a Hawaian shirt on her desk, as we run away to Scarborough to, I don’t know, mend teeth and err, whatever stuff it is that I do. That or she’ll just squeeze my abcess. Now that’s real love.

Stiff (but not in a good way)

January 15th, 2007 by

If that’s not on my headstone, I’m going to haunt all of you bastards!

Aching

January 14th, 2007 by

I am currently in a couple of dozen worlds of pain. This is entirely down to my decision to go ice skating two nights ago. Not something I had ever done before, as would have been obvious to any casual observer as I clung to the fence round the rink and occasionally flailed a wild leg out at ninety degrees trying to regain balance or decapitate a small child. By the end of it, I was almost able to happily skate around the rink without losing balance, waving my arms wildly and grasping for the sides. Almost. But this, combined with a sleepless, rut filled night (not my own, I’m afraid), my body and brain are in a pretty shocking state. I hope this hasn’t effected my ability to write heartfelt tributes and so, I give you

And this month’s obituary is . . .

January 14th, 2007 by

. . . something I’ve been meaning to write for a couple of days now, so apologies if it is a little late. On Friday I learnt that Robert Anton Wilson had died. Not exactly a household name, it’s true, but a writer who touched my heart and, more importantly, my mind on many occasions. He will I imagine be best remembered for his fiction – particularly the wonderful Illuminatus Trilogy he co-wrote with Bob Shea (I think). A fascinating meeting of stories in a style aping Joyce, but concerning secret sects, gold plated submarines, the Discordian movement (of which I am a pope – no, really)and features a bewildering cameo by Buckminster Fuller amongst the myriad real people shoe horned into the wider conspiracy the plots hang around.

I will perhaps best remember him for his non-fiction work. This was introduced to me by Grant Morrison’s ever fascinating letters pages that ran in fnord the back of his comic The Invisibles at the tail end of the last century. Apart from the incident where he asked all his readers to masturbate over a sigil at a given time to keep the comic afloat (a simple precept of Chaos Magick that I was sadly unable to participate in due to the time delay newsstands experienced in those days), Morrison would often muse on the influences that flowed into his mystical creation (a great deal of the series had it’s roots in various forms of magick and conspiracy theory – at the time of it’s writing neither were as in vogue as they were to become). Wilson’s series of books The Cosmic Trigger were mentioned as essential reading on a number of occasions and I felt duty bound to hunt them down and read them. This I then did.

Being at the tail end of my teen’s at this point, and going through my own attempts at mystical awakening (generally unsuccessful, thank you for asking) and generally being a bit of a filthy hippy, Wilson’s words spoke to me as no other’s had. His anecdotal style, relaying his numerous experiments with LSD, Crowleyan sex magick, more LSD; his research into the works of Orson Welles, Mayan civilizations, the possibilities of alien intelligence; his friendships with Terrence McKenna, Timothy Leary, Hugh Heffner. . . All of these things meld together in those three books, along with so much more besides and did an awful lot to help form my world view. They did have some help in hindering it when I found myself dwelling in the Chapel Perilous for some time, but that is thankfully now some way behind me.

I must have been in my twenty-first year when I noticed an advert in the Fortean Times that Wilson would be giving a talk in London. I roped in my pal Bourney who I had leant the book to (in exchange for a biography of Klaus Barbie – it’s probably a good idea that we didn’t start a book club really), booked tickets and a month or so later headed off to the event. He must have been in his mid sixties at this point but hearing the man talk fnord for an hour was a wonder to hear (and certainly took away the sour taste of Paul McKenna who compered the evening). Quite what he spoke of has been lost to the ravages my mind experienced over those years, but the feeling of extreme joy stays with me. That and seeing Ken Campbell in the bar during the interval (he once did a twenty-four hour theatrical adaptation of The Illuminatus Trilogy – it may well have featured Sylvester McCoy).

As I’ve grown older, my views of the world have altered to some extent, but a lot of those core values I discovered in the texts of Robert Anton Wilson will always stay with me. Even though I no longer consume many of the products he so vigorously promoted, the spirit behind them (or often caused by them) shall always remain with me. As shall possibly his greatest creation – the fnord.

May Eris protect you old friend. Praise Bob.

Weekend Distress

January 7th, 2007 by

I need more hobbies. It’s nearly five o’clock on Sunday and I’m still sitting around in my dressing gown. What have I acheived over the past couple of days? Two hangovers, an awful lot of crap television, a lack of sleep brought on by big lass rutting, one quite poor gig, one reasonably pleasant stag do and a severe lack of zinc. I can’t even buy new comics anymore, without voyaging nearly twenty miles. Haven’t even managed to buy oil for my rusty bike chain. Maybe I’ll go and have shower now. Maybe not.

T’ings

January 4th, 2007 by

Couple of t’ings – paramount amongst these is the fact that I’ve finally buckled down and gotten a new e-mail address. This I’m sure will show Orange the error of their evil ways and will eventually send the whole company into receivership within the next few weeks. Until then, I’ll still be using my old account to check for mail from those of you that have that address, but if you do want to contact me on the new one before I send out a mass e-mail (for whatever reason you like) please send it to theweakened at gmail dot com (that is how you do these things in the hope of avoiding spam isn’t it).

T’ing two comes in the form of the first part of my year in review (the part destined not to gain me any filthy luchre). About seven minutes into this video you will find the fourty seconds of television that has made me laugh more than anything else in the past year. The number of people I’ve tried to explain the joke too is vast, only a few actually got it and I guess a number of you won’t either, but do watch. Rewatching it sober mere minutes ago still made me laugh more than I ought to have. The rest of it’s alright (though I found ‘Zombie Idol’ a bit weak), but please join me in my appreciation of KIrk, Kirk and Khan’s Pizzeria (it’s not actually called that, but I think it’s a better title). Enjoy.