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Dave
Greetings.
My story begins in the latter half of the twentieth century
when, like so many of my generation, I was conceived in a
hurried bout of unemotional intercourse behind the drum riser at
an Emerson Lake & Palmer concert. My father, an alcoholic
drum tech and drug smuggler, was never to be seen again and my
mother, who played orchestral bass drum for the royal
philharmonic, struggled through a difficult pregnancy
alone.
I was born unexpectedly early during a visit to the Evans drum head factory and slipped from the womb onto the smooth surface of an Evans Strata concert bass drum skin; my improvised cradle for my first few months of life was the shell of a vintage Premier bass drum. It was thus inevitable that I grew up to play the accordion and it was after a sell out gig with my popular folk ensemble, “The Car Park Potatoes”, that, at the tender age of thirty two, I was kidnapped and transported to Guatemala where I was sold into slavery.
The trauma of this incident stripped me of my accordion playing ability and I took up playing spoons for the few coins I could scrounge as a busker.
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EGG
OF THE HOBBY HORSE.
“No
way am I eating a chicken’s fucking period.”
This
was the ungrateful reply I received from my good friend Patrick
Moorhead when, after a pissed up night at the pub, I generously
offered him a fried egg sandwich. We were only sixteen years of
age and I was taken aback by this remarkable insight as I had
never thought of eggs in such a way but could not deny the truth
of the statement. It made me realise that there is always a
different way to look at things, a new angle, a different
slant……a way of going off on a tangent.
Disgusted
at my lack of will power when it comes to updating this blog, I
wondered what to write about and considered the wise words of my
close chum as I pondered a subject. I thought a pertinent
subject on which to espouse might be the frequently encountered
problem of playing drums whilst in a state of inebriation. “I
am an authority on this subject”, thought I, given the years
of experience I have had…..”none drunker have ever taken to
the stage.” Then, however, my bubble of arrogance burst as I
considered the pitiful performances I have made when drunk at
the kit…. I surely cannot dispense advice about drumming when
intoxicated as my efforts to do so inevitably end in disaster.
In particular I was reminded of my shameful attempt to play at
the punk festival at Camber sands when I ended up falling over
backwards through the stage curtain; I looked a right cunt.
Bingo!!
A subject I can write about with confident authority. I have
spent a lifetime looking a right cunt, I have made a cunt of
myself at every opportunity… it is possibly the only activity
in which I have never failed. A photograph should now be
included but with such a wealth of shameful images how can I
possibly choose? Horse riding springs immediately to mind, what
an utter arse I have looked when astride a steed.
It is
most important to fill your time, however, or else the human
mind has a tendency to turn to the most unusual matters and
endow these thoughts with an importance way beyond their actual
merit. Riding horses fills your time, makes your arse sore and
allows you to interact with beings of an alien nature. Look into
the eyes of a dog and you are met with a trusting and faithful
gaze, loyalty shining through, his love of human kind evident at
a glance. Look into the eyes of a cat and the narrow slits
convey an evil which chills the blood, it is immediately
apparent that the every thought of the feline is forged in the
depths of Hades. The huge, brown liquid pools through which
horses and cattle observe their surroundings betray no such
obvious personality traits, so it is far more difficult to know
what lurks in their minds. For me this represents a real
challenge, trusting this creature of unknown mental state to
carry me at seemingly great height across field and dale. It’s
a fucking hobby for some people though, is it not and therefore
better than idling away your time worrying about things that
need not really matter.
Consider
for instance the lot of the primitive tribesman. No hobbies are
necessary as life is filled to capacity with the very stuff of
existence, hunting and gathering, cooking, building a shelter
for the family and all the important things in life. Your
spoilt, namby pamby ponce of a neurotic western city dweller,
surrounded by luxury and convenience, on the other hand, spends
time between soap operas and colonic irrigation wondering if
something is missing from their over protected life. This leads
some to wonder if they are, for instance, a woman trapped in the
body of a man and before you know it they have spent a large
proportion of their disposable income on having their genitals
hacked into strange new designs.
Gender
reassignment may well work wonders for some folk and I would not
for a moment suggest that people remain trapped in the bodies of
others but I would suggest that they consider a hobby before
going under the knife. It is so easy to think “I’m a tad
glum, perhaps I’ll chop me knob off”, but, although this may
seem to be the obvious thing to do, perhaps a few days jotting
down train numbers, filling stamp albums or plodding along on a
docile dobbin may serve as a cooling off period before taking
the momentous decision to slice up the old genitals. In short:
Depressed? Don’t hack your cock/piss flaps off…….try a
hobby. I can honestly say that I would actually rather squander
my short stay on Earth putting stamps into an album than slice
off my penis, and that is saying something.
I
seem to have gone off on a tangent….what was I gonna do? Oh
yes, that egg sarnie.
Comments?
Tangents? Hobby ideas? Vicious abuse? daveflatpig@genie.co.uk
Cheers,
the Caveman. X
Last
Updated March 2008
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