Wednesday, June 23, 2010
you read it here first, now thrill to the glottal stop.
Ever wondered what a slacker Scot with a poetic bent itching like an ingrown toenail sounds like ? Peter Mullen on Prozac ? Taggart on Tamazepan ?
Well. Torture yourself no more.
Since the seed of polite interest was first sewn on these very pages, the idea has been percolating down through the top soil to where exhibitionism lies buried. The drawers are full to bursting. The undershorts are sullied.
The performing monkey might be rusty, but the organ still grinds.
The motivation is thus. If the distance between here and an open mic event is unconscionable, I might as well dig out a loose leaf of poetry or two and record it at my leisure. Break out a bottle and inflict some lines on unspoiled flesh. I know. Remote villages and slave factories around the globe idle in anticipation of that first instalment. The moneylenders shut up shop.
Exhausted spinsters fend off those last advances and demand a little hush.
Well. If it is not your bag, my advice is go f@ck yourself. A free gig is a free gig. And who knows ? While it might not float your boat, this punch-drunk fool may still raise a wry smile between now and the bigger curtain whispering down.
Of course. I am as woefully unprepared as always. I have not even begun to engage with the logistics of orchestrating such a monumental event. The inbuilt microphone on the PPC remains untested.
Stay tuned. Or detuned. Whatever gets you off.