blogorrhoea
Saturday, August 14, 2004
 
INHERITANCE

To live under the Howard regime is everyday to awaken freshly appalled. To watch Labor accommodate the creature's every expedient cynicism and antisocial smear is just too much. I find myself with nothing to say of our present that is not legally proscribed (what would not qualify as hate speech would still dock me on grounds of obscenity) and nothing of our future that would not be unseemly in its pathetic defeatism.

So no politics from me until my medications kick in. Indeed, nothing
from this whole last wasted quarter of a century.

Tony asked me about 'Dogs' yesterday, and how it is Charlie (who
celebrates his ninth birthday with Crash Bandicoot and a hot X-Box as I type) and Max (whose equally expensive, and hopefully gratifying,
twelfth is but weeks away) have come to know the song.

Well, the Who recorded the song back in '68 or '69, and I think it must have been released as a single in Britain because I'm tolerably sure John Peel spun it at me one night whilst I was shortwaving for the latest on Apollo Eleven.

It's a grand ditty of love, for a girl by a boy who finds all that is
best in his world at the White City dogtrack and the public houses adjacent there-to. So dogged is our hero in his affections that he tends to confuse the objects of his desire, and we're not always sure whether he's singing about the mother of his future children or a particularly fine racer. Either way, it's true love, and that's what matters, eh?

It's a hard number to get your mits on these days, unless you wisely
cough up for 'Thirty Years of Maximum R&B'. Which you'd be a prize git not to do, of course.

Anyway, I didn't get to hear this unheralded gem again until me ol' mate Chris plucked it out of his singles box late one beery night. We had just decided we were punks, but it was early days, and the platter
options few. So it was half a dozen spins each of 'Anarchy in the UK'
and 'Stranded' and then into the evergreens. Thus did I fall in love
with 'Dogs'.

It was just at this time that the cassette came along to transform our
lives, and I am not being immodest when I say I was unduly quick to see the new technology's potential.

If two things regularly upset my beery nights in those days it was having my albums scratched by lurching pissbladders in search of a favourite middle-eight or the song-list interrupted by presumptuous philistines who wouldn't know a good party song from a choleraic bowel motion. So I set about producing a library of perfect beery night cassettes.

Beery nights usually started in mixed company, so my 10.00pm tapes would boast a series comprising of three tracks of dance-fodder (whilst Robert Gordon's 'My Gal Is Red Hot' was not to be unleashed too early in proceedings, it was THE kitchen-clearer of its time) followed by a cuddly number (Tommy James' 'Crimson and Clover' was a great one for facilitating those ever-to-be-remembered inaugural hesitant-soft kisses, for instance).

Beery nights usually ended with about five blokes facing each other over a field of dead soldiers and mountainous ashtrays.

These were the beta-males; as gifted in the ingestion of Cascade as they were lacking in the seductive arts, and I (as ever, formidably sound in theory and profoundly wanting in practice) remain proud to number myself among them. As long as he could rely on the company of a few of his peers and a goodly reserve of ale (typically held back for the inevitable denouement in toilet cisterns, car boots and such), the spurned beta-male of 1976 was not difficult to cater for. He needed a 4.00am tape that proffered but two genres: the air-guitar epic (Ten Years After's Woodstock rendition of 'I'm Going Home' invariably hit the spot) and the sing-along anthem, in which category 'Dogs' reigned supreme.

The day comes, in sweet nature's course, when that rare girl chances by who can discern even the beta-male's deeply hidden virtues. That day duly came for us all, and, whilst the 10.00pm tapes would see some use in the years to come, those lovingly crafted 4.00am tapes went into storage with all the other detritus of betadom (you know, Wisden
almanacs, Adidas de la Platas, New Musical Expresses, Emma Peel posters and such).

With Antipodean middle-class middle-agedom typically comes the acquisition of a shed and some loinfruit.

And it was in the former the latter would one day discover 'Dogs'.

 
 
THE DEVIL CAN CITE SCRIPTURE FOR HIS PURPOSE

For my part, I prefer Shakespeare, who convinces me all is a twice-told tale when he observes that thieves for their robbery have authority when judges steal themselves.

And on horror's head, horrors accumulate. Unless one reads the blogs
where today's better bards abide, one is nowadays consigned to a reality fashioned of lies, past and present.

From which no good future can ensue.
 
political economic and cultural observations in the register of dismal dilettantism

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