A chicken, a goose and a turkey walk in to a pub.

“CLUCK! CLUCK! A pint of Stella! CLUCK! Please! Barman! CLUCK!” says the chicken.

“HONK! HONK! A pint of Best please, HONK! Good sir!” says the goose.

“GOBBLE GOBBLE GOBBLE! A Bacardi Breezer for me! GOBBLE GOBBLE GOBBLE!” says the turkey.

As the barman pours the drinks the three fowl argue about who pays.

“CLUCK! I got the last CLUCKing round it, at the Red Lion! CLUCK!” asserts the chicken.

“HONK! You lying HONKer! cries the goose. “That was me!” HONK!”

“GOBBLE GOBBLE GOBBLE! Gollocks!” interjects the turkey. “You haven’t bought a GOBBLE GOBBLE! round all GOBBLE! evening!”

“HONK! No way! HONK!” protests the goose.

“CLUCK! Yes way – pay CLUCK! up! CLUCK! Or CLUCK! else!” threatens the chicken.

“That’ll be eight pounds thirty, please, chaps” says the barman.

“HONK! WHAAAAAT?! HONK!” yells the goose. “The best HONK! part of ten HONKing quid for three HONK! drinks? How do you HONK! work that HONK! out?!”

The barman frowns and folds his arms. “Two eighty-five for the Stella, two fifty for the Best, and two ninety-five for the Breezer, equals eight pounds and thirty pence.”

“CLUCK! He’s right! CLUCK!” said the chicken, who was a clever chicken, and good at mental arithmetic.

“HONK! You always go for the most expensive HONK! HONK! drinks!” says the goose accusingly to the turkey.

“GOBBLE GOBBLE GOBBLE! It will all come out in the GOBBLE! wash!” says the turkey uncertainly.

“HONK! Huh! HONK!” responds the goose.

“CLUCK! CLUCK! We should get some crisps and CLUCK! nuts!” announces the chicken. “I’m feeling… rather… PECKISH!”

The three fowl collapse in clucks, honks and gobbles of laughter at this joke whilst the barman looks on in mounting despair.

“GOBBLE GOBBLE GOBBLE! Three packets of McCoy’s please!” the turkey manages to say through honks of mirth.

“HONK! Why is it always on my HONKing round that we buy the HONKing snacks?” mutters the goose, but everyone ignores him.

The barman sights. “What flavour?”

“CLUCK! One Salt and CLUCK! Vinegar, one Cheese and one CLUCK! Plain please! CLUCK!” says the chicken excitedly.

“GOBBLE GOBBLE GOBBLE! What about nuts?” says the turkey.

“CLUCK! Oh yeah – I CLUCK! forgot!” says the chicken. “And a packet of dry roasted CLUCK! peanuts please!”

“HONK! I want plain! HONK!” cries the goose.

“CLUCK! Okay we’ll get both! CLUCK” smirks the chicken.

“HONK! Arse! HONK! This is gonna cost me a pretty HONK! penny!” wails the goose.

“GOBBLE GOBBLE GOBBLE! I want some Mini Cheddars! GOBBLE GOBBLE GOBBLE!” yells the turkey.

The goose rounds on him, hissing in anger. “HONK! HONK! HONK! You greedy HONKing cunt! First the nuts, now the Mini HONK! Cheddars! And on my HONKing round! HONK! You pay for these! HONK! YOU PAY!”

“Calm down please or I’ll have to ask you to leave!” shouts the barman.

“CLUCK! Just pay – we’ll CLUCK! sort it out later! CLUCK!” says the chicken soothingly.

“That’ll be twelve pounds and fifteen pence,” says the barman.

“HONK! WHAAAAT?” splutters the goose. “How the HONK do you work THAT out?”

The barman says, through gritted teeth, “Seventy pence each for the crisps, ninety for the nuts, and eighty-five for the Mini Cheddars, comes to three pounds eighty-five, added to the drinks, comes to twelve fifteen.”

“CLUCK! Hang on! CLUCK!” says the chicken, cogitating. “CLUCK! Yes – he’s right. CLUCK!”

“HONKing hell,” mutters the goose, getting out his wallet. “I have to HONK! break in to a HONKing twenty now.”

The three fowl collect their drinks and snacks and retreat to a corner table. They munch happily for a while until the chicken says:

“CLUCK! CLUCK! Anyone fancy a game of pool?”

TO BE CONTINUED

This had me in tears…

…of larffter.

Another palpable hit from the Socks!

The air stands still and shimmers
Cities sweat
Everybody thinks: seaside!
Parks and lakesides swoon with lovers
Children run forever in the endless
Endless school holidays
And the cunts next door
Play Razorlight
Loudly
At their barbecue tonight
And therefore
Must die
Sigh.
Summer

Saw this today outside the Swallow Royal Hotel in Bristol:

I suppose it IS only 28 and a half weeks away.

Merry Christmas to one and all.

Even the cat looks bored

Something about this doesn’t excite me, and I’m not sure what. It’s not a bad album by any means, nor are Doves a bad band. Some of the songs here – the title track, Jetstream and Winter Hill especially – are fantastic. Perhaps its because it’s my first Doves album, in fact I know nothing of their other work. Or perhaps it’s just the universal critical praise heightening my expectations too much. Or perhaps it’s because the lumbering “funk” experiment, Compulsion, the longest track on the album, is shite. Really, REALLY shite. They seem to be trying to sound like Blondie, for fuck’s sake! Come on, lads, have some dignity – it’s not funky, it’s not experimental, it’s just bad, a b-side piss-around at best. Now I know Doves used to be Sub Sub, but that doesn’t forgive Compulsion. A far better example of their fusion of elegaic mope-rock and dance is Jetstream with its propulsive bass and skittering rhythms. If more of the album were in this vein, well yay, but, sadly, it ain’t.

Kingdom of Rust, the song, is the best thing here, following on from Jetstream and sending expectations rocketing even higher for the rest of the album. With a great tune, Wild West riffs, and a sense of bleak forlorn open spaces, this is the song that made me sit up and notice. Again if the rest of the album had been up to scratch, whooo. But then we get The Outsiders which I can’t even remember, and there are several other tracks which similarly fail to lodge in the memory. Birds Flew Backwards almost erases itself as you listen to it. Unfortunately, I can’t forget Compulsion, for all the wrong reasons. The closing tracks which follow, the frantic Mirrorball and the slightly twee ballad Lifelines, aren’t enough to make up for it.

It’s like the last Elbow album, which also fails to move me. Competent, heartfelt, professional, worthy, critically lauded, Northern. (And it’s not because I’m a southern Jessie that Doves don’t work for me; most of my favourite bands are from up North: The Fall, Smiths, Beautiful South etc.) Funnily enough there are two tracks – Spellbound by Doves and The Loneliness Of A Tower Crane Driver by Elbow – which sound exactly and interchangeably the same. Swap the CDs round in their cases and I’d barely notice.

Once upon a time, there were some snails. From Failand they hailed. One day they qualied, railed, wailed, flailed, and, due to an excess of ale, ailed, went pale, frail, and – finally – failed to prevail.

One was devoured by a nightingale; one was jailed, then bailed, then inter-railed and derailed; two were trampled underfoot at a clearance sale; one got fired by e-mail; another got knifed in Perivale; three went stale; one went beyond the veil; two more got lost on a false trail for the Holy Grail; one went blind and couldn’t get its head round Braille; one got bogged down in too much extraneous detail; one got blown up by a suicide bomber in Israel; one suffered a calamitous betrayal; another embarked on a disastrous career in retail; one couldn’t decide if it was male or female; one expired because it could neither inhale or exhale; one succumbed to limescale; one fell in love and was cruelly rejected and then committed suicide in Marseilles; one was lynched by incensed anti-gastropod readers of the Daily Mail; two sailed to Shale in a pail and got caught in a gale of hail and then got swallowed by a whale; and the last got impaled on a rusty nail.

What a sorry tale. The snails could have prevailed, but, instead – unfortunately – they failed.

After work on Thursday 30 April, I was on my way to Sainsbury’s on the bike (Bellinda),  riding  along the Feeder Road in the cycle lane. It had been raining, and conditions were wet, the rush hour traffic was heavy but lane discpline is good on the Feeder. I intended to turn right into Cole Road which leads to the Showcase Cinema and then from there to Sainsbury’s. I therefore indicated (I’m a good cyclist), and moved to the middle of the road. There was nothing coming the other way, so, great, I thought, I can nip across onto the cycle lane on the far side. I briefly noted the muddy puddle in the gutter, which obscured the true drop of the kerb (2 inches, rather than plane with the road as I foolishly assumed). I hit the kerb at too shallow an angle, and – OOPS! The bike aquaplaned, and I hit the corner of a brick wall with my right shoulder, chest and leg. I lay there stunned for a bit, cursing myself, as the rush-hour traffic zoomed past, no doubt relishing the demise of a hated, bastard cyclist. Yay for them.

Woe for me, though:

I blame myself, I was going a tad too fast, my snap decision to zip across didn’t take the conditions into account, and that naughty puddle hiding the kerb from me…

Oh and Bellinda was unharmed apart from a bit of damage to the handlebar tape.

Someone stopped and helped me clean it up a bit, then I somehow managed to ride to Boots to buy some Savlon and anti-septic wipes. I even made it to Sainsburys. The next day I could barely walk, and phoned in sick. I ended up off work for two weeks – this coincided with the time my old PC decided to die, so I couldn’t even go online to amuse myself. Thankfully someone lent me box sets of The Wire and I went through the first 2 seasons pretty quickly.

Back at work and back on the bike now. Knee still a bit wonky – hurts like hell if I bend it the wrong way – and I am off to Cornwall on a cycling holiday soon, though I doubt I’ll be able to do the Falmouth – Lizard trip that I’d planned.

The wound has almost healed over and looks like this now:

I recently revisited the scene of the accident, there were no bloodstains on the wall or even bits of Bellinda’s distinctive blue handlebar tape. It was immediately apparent that the drop kerb wasn’t plane with the road and could only be mounted at a virtually straight-on angle with racing bike wheels. Curse that muddy puddle!

Anyway, this is only the second accident I’ve ever had in, what, 25 years of cycling? The first time was someone else’s fault, they pulled out from a junction without looking and knocked me off. Was able to claim for damage to Bellinda, but this time, I cannot claim, as I can hardly sue a muddy puddle. Or a kerb, or myself.

Sorted with new PC now, Packard Bell imedia D2317 with nice big screen, 2g memory and 140g hard drive. Still in process of setting up, and there have been a few glitches (I wish I’d never heard of Bad Pool Caller) but mostly OK. And it’s a VAST improvement on the clapped-out old Dell I’d been relying on since – gulp – 2003!

Not that anyone reads this or cares, but…

The reasons this blog has been a bit quiet for a month are:

1. My PC has finally died. BSOD. I therefore have no access to a computer outside work (and am doing this on my work PC during work time hence the brevity).

2. Had a nasty accident on the bike at the end of April which laid me up for 2 weeks  (and thus could not access any computers at all as was off work!). Lush photos of the juicy wound will be posted once I have a new PC.

Normal service will be resumed, etc. Album reviews of new Doves, Peej and Therapy? albums will follow.

Nick W

Kev F Sutherland and his amazing Scottish Falsetto Sock Puppet Theatre perform their version of Planet of the Dead! And they seem to have noticed the same plot holes as me…