Frampton Comes in a Hive!
Grammy Award Winning Beephiliac Peter Frampton risks life and reputation by losing his mess in – yes – a beehive. Viewers have a chance to win a jar of Frampton’s controversial man-bee honey.
Niggaz With Gratitude
MC Ren revisits his gym teacher Mr Melton Mowbray to thank him for giving the upstart Ren a chance in the greater Compton cross-country trials. In emotional exchanges, they address the controversy that followed Ren finishing 111th after stopping to kick a swan to death (“he was crip-walkin!”), and Ren freestyles over the sound of Mrs Mowbray preparing sandwiches. The swan’s family appear briefly, flapping and shit.
Plantera
Fans of Pantera grunt and roll round in dung, while the world’s leading botanists attempt to interpret whether they are trying to communicate something other than their appalling taste in music.
This month on crime vault, we present the just-released transcript of the interview between Detective Inspector Michael Schenker of the Berkshire police and Desmond Tutu, renowned local bank robber, following a recent hold-up at the Giant Haystacks Building Society in Gwent.
D.I. Schenker: We got you bang to rights, Tutu
DT: You got fuck all, copper
DIS: Not true, we’ve got the bank videos, plus the pavement artist did a massive sketch of you coming out
DT: Fucking hell, I knew I shouldn’t have stopped, but he seemed really good
DIS: I know – it’s the guy outside the chip shop who does film stars, isn’t it?
DT: Yeah, did you see his Paul Newman?
DIS: Yeah, really good
DT: I know
DIS: He also did one of Dustin Hoffman in Dog Day Afternoon
DT: I think you’ll find that was Al Pacino
DIS: Fuck off, it was Hoffman
DT: Fuck off was it
DIS: You slag
DT: And you’re supposed to be a Detective, this is sad
DIS: Who are you, Barry Norman?*
DT: No, I’m Desmond Tutu
DIS: Yeah, and you’re a slag
DT: At least I can tell the difference between Dustin Hoffman and Al Pacino
DIS: (bangs door) Constable!
Constable Cassavettes: (enters room) You called, guv?
DIS: Yeah, who was in Dog Day Afternoon?
CC: That would be John Cazale, guv. A very fine actor, as it happens
DIS: (Frustrated) Not him! The main guy! (turns to DT, points thumb at CC) Fucking hipster, this one
DT: (rolls eyes)
CC: In that case guv, you must mean Al Pacino
DT: (Triumphantly) Thankyou, constable!
CC: You’re welcome. Slag.
DIS: (pinching brow with thumb and forefinger) Well, it seems I may be wrong.
DT: Just a bit. Say, did you enjoy Tom Hanks in “Rain Man”?
CC: (giggles)
DIS: That’ll be all, constable!
CC: Guv. (Leaves room)
DT: Look, even if I was coming out of the bank, you’ve got no proof it was me who done the job
DIS: Oh dear, oh dear. (bangs door) Constable!
CC: (immediately enters the room)
DIS: Fucking hell, were you standing right outside?
CC: Yes, guv
DIS: (Looks creeped out) OK. You said we had the bank videos?
CC: I certainly did, guv
DIS: Bring them in please
CC: Er, we took them back
DIS: (Weary pause) What?
CC: They were overdue
DIS: OK, perhaps you can save me an aneurysm and explain what THE FUCK you’re talking about
CC: They had ‘Short Circuit’, ‘Commando’ and ‘Room With A View’, and they were all overdue. Some of the lads thought we might as well drop ‘em back to Dave’s Videos on the High Street. Guv.
DIS: I see. So when it was reported to me that we had ‘the bank videos’, what that meant was we were in receipt of a number of rented films, as opposed to incriminating evidence that may help us bring a dangerous criminal to justice.
CC: (Fumbles helmet and looks at shoes)
DIS: Right. Dismissed.
CC: Guv. (Leaves room)
DT: Well, here we are
DIS: Looks like I’ll have to let you go
DT: OK, I’ll be off then
DIS: OK bye
DT: Bye. (Leaves room)
DIS: (Sits on corner of interview table, lights cigarette, shakes head while looking wistfully off into middle distance) Al Pacino. Fuck me.
* Ex-Film reviewer for BBC
Each month (approximately) we stop someone in the street and ask them what they’re listening to. This month, we bumped into Waffles, an out of work labrador impersonator, who was chilling outside the post office in Boscombe, near Bournemouth. So Waffles, What’s On Your Headphones?
“A dub compilation.”
See you next month!
Popular poet/librarian Philip Larkin died in 1985. Due to his repeated use of choice language, not to mention his – shall we say – ‘nodding acquaintance’ with racism, he currently languishes in Purgatory, where he has found a comfortable niche running the library (famously ‘shushing’ Baphomet after the latter was loudly guffawing at a copy of Fox’s Book of Martyrs), and penning this popular and informative column.
Hi all!
To begin with, I’d like to address last month’s postbag. To Maureen in Smith’s Falls, your sister-in-law is clearly hysterical – you should be able to blast Volume 4 until at least 11pm, whereupon local by-laws will have to be referred to. And to George in Solihull, as I’ve said before, I’m not a fucking bus timetable service, but I believe the number 12 route was recently scaled back on Sundays – your best bet is to get a 57 into the village, then a 35b (from outside the Post Office) which will take you as far as Horseshit Lane – but it’s a local route, so bring a book.
And with that, we arrive at this month’s column. I’d like to look at an early video classic from Celtic Frost playing “Into The Crypt of Rays”, and use it to give a few pointers on what makes a choice metal performance. Let’s watch the video, then discuss.
I think you’ll agree, that’s meat and drink for the metal inclined. But where does it all go so right? I’ve summarized some big ticket items:
- The singer is called Tom G Warrior – the G stands for ‘God is a tosser’ (ref: interview in Tin Gizzard #78). ‘Warrior’, while not his real surname, it strong and fanciful, and also serves as the beginnings of an explanation for his leather getup – otherwise let’s face it, people could be forgiven for thinking he’s some rich accountant’s gimp.
- The ‘lyrics / headbang’ ratio is very impressive. There are parts of the performance where he basically sings a line, then does a headbang – you don’t get that with the Bee-Gees. In addition, the leant over headbanging style preferred here shows early promise of a witch-like Dowager’s Hump – an essential demonic accoutrement for even the most casually repugnant peddler of what Crowley called ‘the dark stuff’.
- The camera occasionally strays to the bassist. I know what you’re thinking – the cameraman is trying to get sacked. But look again – the bassist is left handed. A sure sign of devilry at work. What seems like a rookie error on the part of the technician instead reveals itself as a sly nod to the scale – and subtlety – of wanton depravity at work here. One almost expects a fucking ginger midget to appear.
- Lastly, back to Mr Warrior – look at those leather clad elbows. Your first reaction on seeing this was no doubt the same as mine: “Hello”, I thought, “Tom’s got a bit of a tennis injury there”. A reasonable assumption, but during my years working in Hull University library, I’ll estimate I spent about 80% of my time researching the occult and arcane, and believe me when I say the elbow has been known as ‘satan’s knuckle’ since time immemorial. You’ll forgive me if I reveal I felt a chill down my spine as I saw Mr Warrior’s arm clefts clad in such willful splendour. I only hope he understands the forces he’s tempting with such a display – from my window here in Purgatory I can occasionally glimpse hell through the belching sulphur, and let’s just say I’ve seen people getting seriously bothered by unspeakably randy bum-demons for a lot less.
Anyway, there we have it – watch the video again and mull these points. Then watch it again just because you have nought else of any consequence to do. And please join me next month when I’ll take you on a particularly disturbing journey to see where Tony Iommi’s fingertips ended up.
Until then, may your riffs be dense and your solos immense,
Phil
xox
Recently my good friend / only known reader Jeremy Latta (host of TV’s “It’s Jeremy Latta!”) floated the idea of interviewing me for his excellent blog. I quickly agreed, whereupon he took his foot off my throat and cellotaped a list of questions to my forehead, like a modern-day Martin Luther for the Jian Ghomeshi set.
Your scribe explains Coventry's Ring Road to a baffled but mesmerized Jeremy
But don’t take my word for it – in fact, dont take my word for anything; I make a lot of shit up. Anyway, go here, and read, damn you, read until your eyes fart blood!
Loyal followers, basement dwelling denizens of the interwebs, and that guy who reads over people’s shoulders in internet cafes. Couple of points of order I’d like to address tonight:
- Firstly, I’d like to apologise to the poor soul who innocently typed ‘aviary in upstate new york’ into a search engine, and ended up here. I had a word with the powers that be, but unfortunately you’re not going to be able to get those two minutes back
- Secondly, I have linked to my new twitter account, which is under the name of ‘HP_Spacecraft’, because I deleted my original ‘Lonesomeaviary’ account and now can’t get it back. The internet is a sour-faced, fickle mistress. Also, the way the tweets are formatted here, it looks like they all start with the letter ‘o’. But they don’t, and despite having a degree in software engineering, I dont know how to make it stop.*
OK, that is all – you may now return to your season 3 of Magnum P.I. DVDs.
* aha! I made it stop by completely changing my theme. It’s like when I avoided doing the dishes by moving house.
cons: wacky racist/anti-semitic catholic homophobe domestic abuser
pros: can point to scotland on a map*
* has to be map of scotland
We here at lonesomeaviary have no idea what use anyone could find in poetry, but given the dearth of new material, we humbly present:
On returning to Pipstock
by Pádraig O’Bagel
at first I see
the otters playing
rampant, whilst a bat
shits on itself, asleep upside down
it seems perturbed; I blow snot laughing
at the winged tosser
the rambling club takes up
a corner of the Golden Bladder
local pub; hub!
for the thick woollen-socked
bearded members, deranged.
peering through my eyebrows
I recoil betwixt a sausage roll and
quiz sheet
could it be that Dónall has
not turned up?
the bugger
With my hands in the air, and my feet in two separate shoes, I humbly admit: I have neglected my blogging duties. Since I have been away, crops have failed, women have given birth to bizarre children with little seahorse heads who keep cracking wise, and Mickey Rourke finally took his library books back. Exactly why have I been so slovenly?
- I found a way to take a loaf of bread, zap it with my bread gun to make it really big, then carve a viking ship out of it, and sail around an imaginary version of the cosmos leaning over the side and engaging in cheeky back and forth banter with passing asteroids
- Following her turn as Nancy Donovan on tv’s 30 Rock, my modest Julianne Moore spank bank reached a state of chronic fullness, demanding I retire to a ramshackle shed and ‘sort myself out’; this alone took months
- Pint-sized amuser of the people Gary Coleman passed away, and unlike you soulless urbane hipster scum I actually remembered what his classic performances meant to me; I needed time to ‘deal’
- Mistakenly thought blogging was like farming, and that I needed to let my page periodically lay fallow in order to avoid the build up of pathogens and excessive depletion of soil nutrients
An occasional series where we celebrate the nonsensical lives and blatant asshattery of popes throughout history.
CE 325 – Pope Desmond I storms out of the Nicene council after a furious slagging match with Cardinal ‘Big’ Dave O’Rourke, before slipping back in because he forgot his shopping
CE 889 – Pope Lucius IV accidentally invents buggery after tripping and falling onto a pile of conveniently positioned altar boys
CE 1349 – Pope Pugnatius X, ‘the boxing pontiff’, sets back relations with the eastern orthodox church by an estimated 300 years after a blatant rabbit punch in the 8th round of the annual east/west church pit fight, held that year in Swansea, Wales.
CE 1794 – First American Pope Bob Johnson I sacked after just 12 minutes when the Vatican admits they were just taking the piss.
