bleeding out. between the covers
damned damned damned. in an orange peel plastic wig.
Well. A promise is a promise. This time last week, a bunch of reprobates gathered at the drop in clinic which is sometimes the comments section on SibLINGSHOT ON THE BLEACHERS. And got to bandying words on the subject of definitives, counterfeits, and perennially indulged placebos. Cover versions of good standing, in short. A karaoke chorus of the weary and/or addled; inexplicably resuscitated under a ragged flag. Snowballing – literally – out the fists of an exuberant Warden, a few choice calls promptly escalated into a free-for-all. A gaggle of voices joining the fray. Only one of them still anonymous. And so it was, finally, Nazz Nomad who hurled down the gauntlet: his proposal that the bretheren engage in a loose cooperative, a transatlantic puddling of resources to nominate some kind of \”top ten\”. Now. I am not even nominally drawn to numbers. I have a deep aversion to all things arithmetical. And. I refuse to participate in the disordered spectacle of a beauty pageant. Anyway. What might be \’No. 1\’ in my personal hit parade today, will almost certainly slip down the charts by tomorrow. Besides. Who would wish to loiter even close to \’No. 10\’ ? Gordon Brown, maybe. And that just proves my point.
The faintest trace of claret and everything knee deep in the red.
Still. I did sign consent. It was only on reading the small print that it occurred to me that I\’d been \’duped\’. All these f@ckin\’ rules. And who\’s to say Nazz might not just be yankin\’ my chain ? That\’s the thing about operating on European Time. The onus, by default, requires the \’old world\’ proceed first into battle. Caution to the wind. Arses to the Channel. The Americans turn up on the beaches only at the last.
Sergeant Bilko to our Corporal Clegg. Pulling on Cuban cigars. Parading in bespoke uniform just as the krauts are getting pummelled on the eastern front. Taken by the tradesman\’s entrance. Actually. All this \’Dud\’s Army\’ sniping is merely a stalling device. I have no idea in the slightest where to go from here. The weight of those decent covers already provided is stifling. I\’m bleedin\’ out.
I thought I\’d already screamed for help. It must\’ve fallen on shellshocked ears. ▼ THE DAMNED: HELP from \”New Rose b/w Help!\” 45 (Stiff) 1976 (UK)