Everything that I’d like to say tonight must be digitally imprinted via fingerprint immaculacy to the megastack. The big paragraph that can’t be read and ridiculed by every other fucker besides me with a computer. The initial temptation takes hold and I get a social media vulnerability voodoo-doll all sewn and knitted, awaiting only that big button click. Luckily some last gasp instinct saves me from the dead-giveaway bokepost, and I instead turn to this little documentation station. See, here, thoughts are considered, carefully, and imprinted audibly somehow with permanence unaltered. It’s a foolhardy stew at first whiff and the punters run. But the one or two inquisitive, like-minded, warp-minded, small-minded ego-freaks sniff something that speaks to them, and so we gather to piss in our pots, and pass around for the sniff. Yes, that’s two sniffs now and count ’em three, but we must relax if all of this is to be extracted. Right, I’m gonna do that thing where I talk like a farmer. Cringe later, love you.

Clapton. On a big fuckin stage. There goes Eric Clapton. Did ye ever see him playin’ guitar? Naw, he’s deadly. The Catholic Church were opposed to his early efforts through no fault of his own, ’twas the piggish brits called him God. So, they got in touch with Peter Green’s ma, and had a sacred ordination or somethin’, on his hands, and he came along one cut later with a new thing. Not altogether better, just a bit different. But see, the religious duties imposed on poor Greeny drove him to distraction; and after about five albums he forgot to cut his nails, then pawned his famous Lemondrop Les Paul to Gary Moore in a fit of quasi-pious magnanimity. Just kinda lost it. The good die young. But! the religious question is indeed a most pertinent one when you consider the endeavours of our EC. I mean the man has stood the test of time, no doubtin’ it. And every other sainted singer payin’ the cost unnoticed. Like it must take a toll. Or maybe they just have the life of it. They say Coltrane was a saint, preacher man. But who’s to say that the sacred high-held jazz bais aren’t somewhat comparable to the humble street singer, in a funny kind of way? It’s not very hip anyway, any of this craic, is it? Like nobody goes partyin’ to a mass. I’ve got a feeling though, (disagree most seethingly if you please) a feeling that, in spite of themselves, some of the most God-denouncing Erudites are actually invisible priests. I dunno, probably they do know it of course and just put it on for a joke. Dawkins. Dishcloth faced fucker. No time for him. Gervais. A genius! What the hell happened him? An extraordinarily short-lived peak. Rippin. The American Office. Not for me. Ah well. Think we’re just about done, let’s see…


Ye know what’s a funny thing. You walk a horn. Take a walk stride head up immersed. Purpose is envelopment. Van Mo’ said Jazz is Zen. So rather than the theoretical groundwork and up, with life-duties affirming and no doubt informing, it’s a walk through the park self-neglected. At least a thought appears that suggests that this may indeed be the case, but this is only a temporary distraction from the wheels which are now visible. To see the lines, feel the swing. Suddenly, ‘do, not-do;’ the carousing wheels of inspired swing and immortality intended are opening before you. You haven’t felt this before. You’ve certainly never seen it, the sensation so physical. Ears open, the moment is yours, and you belong to the moment. Course you’re gonna cross a road and be sure to glance. And the coarsened city kids collect their conkers, sour pears. Harvest for the determined. Well. Who knows what’ll come of it. But wasn’t it pretty?