Songlists of Ladies Names – D


Daniella – John Butler Trio

Written for his newly-wed sweetheart, this is a groovy-stringed plea to always remain faithful & earnest.


Dirty Diana – Michael Jackson

This wailing beauty can be summarised in two words; Jennifer Batten! As heard with Prince’s Bambi last week this is another electrifying performance taken up a notch.


Dinah – Fats Waller

Not quite so dirty but bouncy bawdy swing from the 300-pound Harlem Ivory-tickler nevertheless.


Dolly Dagger – Jimi Hendrix

Interesting backstory to this one; reportedly about George Harrison’s wife who drank the blood of a cut Jimi acquired after breaking a glass bottle?


Oh Donna – 10cc

Their first single was allegedly a parody of ‘doo-wop’ songs and mimics The Beatles’ Oh Darling.


As ever, Prince has multiple options with Ballad of Dorothy Parker or Dinner with Delores as well as The Cocteau Twins’ Donimo


Please tell Asda what you think about the store and the service you received today

 Well ASDA Stores Limited to quote your full title, leaving aside for a moment your retina damaging uniform & overall colour scheme which, together with the blinding white lights could easily convince a visually impaired old widow to mistakenly believe she’s reached heaven’s gates in a Soviet Aircraft hanger guarded by socially impaired wobbly-looking limes (particularly when stood shopping next to the limes). You farmer-murdering, price-fixing, petrol-contaminating, wedding dress-devaluing illuminous Nazis!

“Now you will forever be living in the pocket of Satan my Master”

Looking for differences and individual idiosyncrasies at your 500+ stores is rather like attempting to visualise the range of facial expressions portrayed by Jean Claude Van Damme‘s denim-clad characters. If only Benny & Bjorn from Abba had been called Stefan & Dieter then they would’ve got there first making Asda Eurovision winners & visiting Abba in a Volvo a chore that joined Ikea on miserable Swedish-themed Sundays.

Your ubiquitous stores appear closer to retail states enforcing their own municipal independence fronted by authoritarian military watchmen in the form of petrol booth personnel & trolley soldiers. The latter whilst under heavy bombardment from repeated strategic attacks leaving their wonky-wheeled ammo crate containers scattered willy nilly about the endless concrete eyeline of no man’s land. In swallowing up whole postcodes rather like an eternal lifesize acquisitional board game of RISK before Tesco nuke Prussia, Assocaited Dairies (the one you know as ASDA) will not surrender the land of it’s Leeds Head Office in the battle to gain Britain’s largest hyper-mega-supermarket franchise (they’ve already won the Worldwide War aka W.W. Why Pay More?).

Having said all that, your range of humus dips ain’t bad.

If only instant carb-heavy grub really could form feminist policy eh?

Here is my ‘local’ (relative to other warzones) Asda’s origins;

The narrator drops two absolute pearls of 60s sexism almost side by side;

While men are buying what they want, the other sex can replenish their wardrobe knowing that there’s a husband within call to pay the bill

The George clothing range has always been the reserve of glamourous luxury after all…erm hang on. This is swiftly followed by;

There seems to be no reason why a woman wouldn’t spend a whole morning here, before going to the pictures in the afternoon”

Ah yes, she deserves to relax after a punishing schedule changing her hair-dryer settings before slaving over the nail file. The freedom for WAGS today was indeed a fight harder fought than the queue outside the boutique on Saturday mid-mornings.

Next post i promise to write about something i actually enjoy…

TRAMLINES 2012: Urban & Free? This don’t make no tents!

Kid Acne knows where his laundry’s done!

In T-minus 2 weekends from now I will attempt to cover Sheffield’s Tramlines Free For All Multimedia Citywide Circus (mostly locally sourced live music) whereby over 800 bands/acts/group events/performances/pissed up mental tosswizards will attempt to entertain us using the almighty power of interpretive sonic frequencies & vibration.

This will be attempted in a similar vein to Hunter S. Thompson a la The Gumball 3000 Desert Rally as per his initial assignment in Fear & Loathing. The most apparent differences will of course be that I don’t smoke (from any distance away from my face), I have hair (turf on the court if you will) & although I’ll most likely be wearing a deafening Acapulco shirt & Aussie beer shorts combo I only have a toothbrush & some old chipforks in my battered leather jacket instead of mind bending psychotropic pharmaceuticals. That’s not to say these can’t be hunted down upon arrival but too many deserving bands/acts would surely have to be missed or overlooked or denied these themselves which may hinder their performance in ways unfathomable. Not to mention the fact that the dizzying array of venues and environs would render any hallucinogenics foolish and misplaced. Such is the delirious bemusement one already feels amidst all the indecisiveness of one’s most thriving habitat. There are many outdoor stages including those in parks, car parks, public gardens, a city farm at Heeley and even a ‘Rude Shipyard’ presumably with a serious case of sailor tongue or docker’s mouth.

How could I possibly know all this dear readers? For those radicalised Cosmic Funky Nuts boyos are ripping up the script with their bare groovy licks of course. Broomhill’s Nottingham ‘Notty’ House Pub, Saturday from 6pm.

In this reporter’s humble opinion, Sheffield thankfully pisses highly upwind and from an almighty height on most other major cities. It has always accommodated a buzzing art and music scene stepping proudly out of the long-drawn shadows of bland, synthetic synth-fiddling electro-pop colder than Mystic Meg’s nipple wax. I remember once trying to rework the Human League’s megahit into a more honest reflection of Yorkshire with the working title ‘Don’t You Want Me Gravy?’ All together now – “I was working as a waitress in a Carvery pub where I meat chewed…”

Extensive line-up can be ogled here:

Not sure why 65 Days of Static are headlining Nando’s New Music Stage though, they’ve been going for over 10 years. Guess it takes people who eat mechanically manufactured chicken a while longer than a nando-second to catch on…

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60 Hours In Berlin Off The Wall

I depart for my oldest mate’s stag weekend in Berlin tomorrow, or I should say at a ludi-chris time of tomorrow morning from east midlands airport – y’know the one that resembles an art gallery with all the art stolen by corporate chain stores desperately vying at eye level by trying to convince you that you’ve forgotten something of upmost importance for your holiday like a pocket teamaid or automated pillow fluffer?

Although we arrive at 10am Friday with T-minus 60 hours to be ‘Brits abroad up to no good but not quite banged up’, I arrive armed with ‘Around Berlin in 80 Beers’ written by the unfortunately named Peter Sutcliffe. It turns out that rather than being the Yorkshire Ripper allowed conditional release to undertake trans-euro express trips comparing the Deustche capital’s finest brewpubs & historic beer styles until he recalls victim’s burial sites, Peter Sutcliffe is much less dangerously an economics analyst in Whitehall (though this is an also increasingly edgy profession in Jack the ‘other’ Ripper’s former slashing grounds) who runs the Foreign Beer Bar at Battersea Beer Fest & lives in Berlin half the time.

Try to outpedal the dreaded condition known as ‘kegleg’

There is a 9 hour bar crawl included in his book which I suspect is a good 7 hours historic context & padding between bars but still, anywhere David Hasselhoff has sung about Looking for Freedom along a 155 kilometre long wall in a LED-flashing jacket is good enough for me. Typing of Herr Hasselhoff, did you know his surname translates as Hazelnut House? No, neither did he until recently according to the latest Big Issue but then he didn’t know where Austria is & his ancestors were from Bremen, the flaming ninnyhead.

To anything less than the best of Berlin’s brews I say “Spulwasser!” (“waste water”). At least this time around on a stag weekend I won’t be having to grapple with a shaved ape-cum-cold turkey junkie in an illuminous man-kini posing like Kate Winslet on a toddler’s mini go-kart outside a respectable rural family pub on the Broads (but that’s a tale for another blog entry). Partridge calls Norfolk the Provence of Britain and Berlin’s just as flat but not quite as wet with buildings even known to rise above 2 storeys!

As my dear pal Alex commented “if you mange to drink all 80 beers in 60 hours you deserve a medal, that’s roughly 1.3 beers an hour, which you’ll have to increase to approximately 2.2 an hour once you’ve factored in sleep time, but as the ancient Germanic proverb goes ‘you can sleep when you’re dead’ – so maybe it’s possible”.

I will make sure that in any tight spot I just think to myself “What would Uter Zorker, The Simpsons plump & gluttonous exchange student, say in this situation?”


Cheers to you Pete ‘I’m a drinker not a ripper’ Sutcliffe!

Grand National 2012; They Race Horses, Don’t They Darling?

Despite the entire thoroughbred-pursued obsessive cruelty & knackers’ yard mentality that it endorses, I can’t help but be swept up by the Grand National & it’s ‘everyman having a cheeky flutter’ spirit; seeing myself as something of a one-day-a-year casual gambler. Even though I should be able to just say ‘neigh’ it’s almost become customary to whack a fiver on the most novelty value name in the 40 running then roar with anticipation as you find the best atmospheric boozer to pretend you take no part in any such non-working class ‘sports’. I mean that last word in the vaguest of terms due to the fact you need several grand & a tiny malnourished Irishman borrower before you can even compete.

Yep it’s a disgusting national past time sponsored by a tasteless parody of a ‘smooth’ bitter & yep those ladies look ridiculous in elaborate headwear flanking windswept Merseyside drizzle dressed up like purses from a sow’s ear (don’t hear that expression enough anymore). Apparently there’s a section of the race named the ‘John Smith’s Daily Mirror Punter’s Club Handicap Hurdle’ which makes you almost pity the commentators. I guess they didn’t know just when to stop accepting corporate funding investments.

Hoping that all jockey's are on the Atkins diet?

Alas in the spirit of some excellently named horses – Shakalakaboomboom (my personal choice at 14-1), Swing Bill, According to Pete, Rare Bob & Organised Confusion being probably the most appropriate, I thought it sensible to devise a loosely related playlist. This may well help spruce up the BBC’s 3 & a quarter hours of build up coverage which otherwise would be like watching the steam rise from a brick of baked horses’ shite.

Compulsive Gamblers – Stop & Think It Over

The Osmonds – Crazy Horses (compulsory I’m afraid, though allegedly about car pollution which is still relevant)

Yello – The Race (generally applicable to all major racing events)

Tom Waits – Jockey Full of Bourbon

Aphex Twin – Funny Little Man (That’d be jockeys again)

Mastodon – Trampled Underhoof (Oh the crushing riffs, from early album Remission)

Manic Street Preachers – Faster (Not strictly written with this subject matter in mind)

Pogues – A Bottle of Smoke

Sample lyric: “20 feckin’ 5 to 1, me gambling days are done. I bet on a horse called A Bottle of Smoke & my horse won!”

Dubliners – Galway Races (Beardy ‘Banjo’ Barney RIP you dear old twanging diamond)

Devo – Whip It!

Randy – Win or Lose

Rival Schools – Used for Glue (Equestrian free vid unfortunately)

And this classic Alan Partridge Day Today clip;

Winner of the most shriveled old boy & highest sockline award year on year

Bookies be damned. Suggestions as ever duly noted & appreciated…

Joblessnessness & it’s disgusting consequences (Pt.II)

As Prince once wrote (& that floating baby-no-tears doll’s head Sinead O’Connor once sang) “It’s been 7 hours and 13 days since the temp agency took my job away” – 2 weeks sans work & that niggling creeping tick of self-doubt & lack of direction has burrowed under the skin of my little toe to take root in my wavering telephone voice & illegible freehand pen-scribbling abilities…

Always knew I’d have to continue this thread at some point after first trying to summarise how debilitating & humiliating the reluctant process of seeking employment can sometimes feel. Here I am tossed back onto the heap of the faceless million plus some whom the government sub-texturally seem to accuse of being feckless – just another statistic.

But then I tell myself to lip up fatty & turn that frown upside down (without doing any permanent damage to my face). I try & wait at least 3 weeks before resorting to the ole rock & roll (dole) as previously mentioned in Joblessnessness Part 1 that can actually become MORE disheartening.

Anywho looky here – there’s a whole 8 pages of jobs advertised in this Wednesday’s Evening Post (Notts nightly rag) but in reality they’re actual 2 pages of A3 (if you’re being pedantic & pessimistic which I’ve decided to be for the remainder of this post). The last 2 sides are mostly for highly trained barstards supremoes with several minutes expertise conning already depleting pensions from the fuel-impoverished Osborne-taxed change-fearing elderly.

Trouble is, worthwhile & well-intentioned charity, human rights & other humane causes have no choice but to follow ‘ahem’ the suits as salesperson shysters. Harassing people with all too little to spare would be bad enough, but the only ones interested & in my experience usually less familiar with the ‘no pause for breath’ uninterrupted barrage of persuasive script tend to be lonely, somewhat reclusive, mentalist windbags who launch off into a tirade of tangents about ‘how plums don’t taste like they used to’ & why they’ve become convinced that the jackdaws are stealing their mail’. Actually one of my mates was recalling how his grandad has genuinely started to believe that the Chinese are stealing all our fenceposts – the ‘our’ presumably being Britain. I pondered whether he is mistaking this for agricultural intensification.

"Pssst Oi! Ginger, Pebbles, you both have your characteristic charms now cut that out!"

Hmmm now let’s see…for some reason the first listing under ‘General Vacancies Part Time’ is CATFIGHTERS – Feisty women to compete in new sport. Earn £50-100 per hour – flexi hours (& the women too you’d imagine – oh how you could imagine) Age 16+ (and this bit’s very important) No Upper Age Limit! Hold my cabbage helmet yep, you read that right. Catsitting is one thing, but any society that advocates & even encourages what could essentially result in Granny Wrestling I’d rather not remain a member of – although as I’ve included above, they do presently have plenty to be angry about.

Any just when you figured every civilised hallmark of a virtuous & progressive city such as ours prospects had been flushed down the khazi it reads ‘tryouts to be filmed by Sky TV’. Hosanna! And the world is right again. What the heck happened to my hundreds of letters to Meussrs. Murdoch demanding the overdue reintroduction of Foxy Boxing (Homer’s favourite female sport) to our screens as the pride of Britain’s attitudes to women in time for the upcoming London 2012 Olympics? Proudly sponsored by Loose Women & some shit bacterial yoghurt brand no doubt. They’ve been punching women of all ages squarely in the face for years already.

This could well be the flipside to a Diamond David Lee Roth 12"

Keep ya posted on my progress folks!

Have you ever been to Electric Londonland?

Well I haaave and it’s become nigh on inconceivable to ‘do’ a full-on largin’ it propa BANGinyaface weekender bender on under 100 smackers. You’d have more chance of getting Fred ‘The Shred’ Goodwin to fork out on repaying your overdraft (Wahey that wins my ‘Joke of the Moment’ award which shall already make this piece look outdated by next week).

One very effective secret weapon against excessive blowout in that there Nodnol is the glory of Samuel Smith pubs (Creamy bland John’s more credible brother). Ironically although Sam always did the far superior bitter whether Old Brewery or Sovereign, it must’ve been his bro who felt the most bitter about his shortcomings in their vast gulf of difference in brewing tradition. High Holborn holds two gems right round the corner from its underground station; Princess Louise & Cittie of Yorke (if you LOVED Princess Louise then you’re bound to love etc). Even the Gents in the Princess are grade II listed along with the rest of its ornately decorated glass interior – not sure how comfortable I was taking a leak on a Victorian landmark. The general pub decor resembles the Hall in Return to Oz minus detachable heads screeching ‘Dorothy’ at you – this only serves to magnify the wonder. Knowing my dad’s appreciation of the standard of public house facilities he’d probably have been suitably in awe enough to contract stage-fright were it not for his overactive prostate. I would’ve taken a photo were there not common laws of decency through fear of being misunderstood (as George Michael said to that policeman).

Like an urban mirage of readily available & exposed pure brewing excellence

The opening statement about the cost to ensure your continued existence in Londinium is mostly due to ever rising train fares now that I’m over 26 (as the least hedonistic member of the 27 club) & therefore no longer qualify for a ‘young’ person’s railcard. If only applicants were based on their youthful behaviour in preference of age – why just the other day I chortled myself into a coughing fit over a phallic shaped snow rocket with gonad-shaped cylinders by the friend’s porch I was visiting in Holloway. Sadly the government/national transport network chooses not the recognise people who’d still rather ‘go public’ between the ages of 27-60. Presumably to MPs & national rail companies that whole midsection of life (though not for me if I keep inflicting a London lifestyle upon myself) is just a slash in the bedpan of travelling experiences overall. Despite not being a student or pensioner I feel I’m currently living some sub-par combo existence of the two…

Many lifeforms at some point during their 20s seem to either straight up adopt or heavily flirt with the notion of a better life in the wider conurbation of Capital City. The majority move back home or outside the ring of Hades that is the M25 in search of better air, water, soil, drainage, etc. Alright then AND value for money if you’re really that shallow & being pedantic. Alas instalments of one weekend in London are about my breaking point (I would’ve written ‘tipping point’ but everywhere expect you to tip people who often have the same skills as you but are in an infinitely more competitive environment).

Snow did make the whole scene is little easier to swallow however (I strongly advise you read John Doran’s vice column ‘Menk’ for more on the emotive loveliness of snow; Something about its nonjudgmental delicate arrival just sends your sense of unruly mischief spinning & unites all walks of life (as they all look idiotic trying to walk on new ice over older black). Well, that and my mate slipped arse over tit in the west end whilst doing a circular jig muhahahahaaaaaaaar (ahem, pause). Shared moments not of schadenfreude but pleasurable reminiscences are more valuable than any trumped up door fee or novelty Del Boy cocktail in our fair capital. It is these that will keep me coming back (albeit occasionally) to catch up chasing quality boozers into a cocked hat with the boys from the black stuff sporting anti-swastika tattoos OI! OI!

"Mr Snowman, sir why are you waving at my parents being arrested?"