Aaron McMullan Reviews.
Which guilts us into a visit to Mondo Irelando to see what might be new.
Skirting the temptation to read The Duke's opinions on Anne Coulter (and goodness! What is he going to say that Mick Farren doesn't already say with pictures of leather and bondage!) I find that the Duke has gone and seen Brokeback Mountain:
"Hells fire, mean did you ever find yourself all touchy-feely round about a man o' your self-same sex?"
What I say is no, what I say is what kinda mania you hopped on, anyroad?
Behind the eyes, you'll be aware, s'all sortsa flashback.
"D'You Know What I Mean" by Oasis, I'll be damned, s'just gone Number One, this record, sayin, this record's gonna be amazing.
Fella sat beside me way back then, he's sayin aye, I'd wager it'll be tight as a vicar's arse, you can be damn sure ain't gon' be no songs longer than three minutes, ain't gon' be no outlandish production, gon' be focused, oh aye.
Be Here Now, they're calling it. S'gonna be amazing, don't you know?
(And it was, dammit, and I'll defend it to the slight discomfort, best believe it.)
High on the rugged throat o' Gallagher, we set off for to find a tavern might accept a couple moments gruntin' and a cigarette in the yap as answer enough to the question "You got any ID?"
On receipt of a barman sympathetic to our plight, we settled 'side a jukebox stuck on H17, bein "Revolution 9" by The Beatles, that discordant cut/paste symphony spinning close to two dozen times afore someone in the midst of a beered-up brain-wank tore the plug out the wall and trampled the fucker to chards o' mangled mush.
Soon enough, talk took a dive t'wards the mysteries o' the bollocks.
"See", he gets to yackin, "I fancy her, but I can't stand her. Mean to say, I love her, I think, but she curdles the pish in me guts."
Me all nodding. I understand, I'm saying, s'like that lad I asked out, and yet, hetero to the back a the nuts, I am.
"Aye, for sure." And then; "What?"
Sometimes a fella just stumbles into these things, just opens the yap without thinking and next thing anyone knows there he is, flailing in the hedgerows o' hell with those words round about slinging sulphur 'gainst his jowels for all eternity.
Well, like, y'know, that fella. I kinda, y'know.
"And did he?"
Well not then. Later on, like.
Later on round back the club, with the snow to the ankles and the mumbled beats all crashing from beyond the walls. Nothing X-rated, I'm telling him. Just. Y'know.
He studies the end o' his cigarette for a time. "This is some momentous fuckin shit you're flingin on me here."
A silence, aye, thick as the man-slush o' Zeus. Then it's all come on, for fucks sakes, the hell kinda tosser are you, anyroad, a big ol' tosser likes o' which I never once laid eyes on, that's what kind, if'n you accept that sorta banter as Gospel. Fuckin wi' your mentals like there's no tomorrow, that's what I'm doin' here an now.
Couple pints later it's forgotten.
On the kerb by the KFC, the lass is asking me, "So what, then?"
"Well, did you?"
A shrug from yours truly. Who's to say, in this day and age?
More at the link. And always worth the read.
*Me (to husband who is downstairs): Honey?
Me: Are we related to the Franklin-Templeton people?
Me: (sotta voice) F*ck.
Husband: I HEARD THAT!!!