Gods of yesterday

Not quite right either.

The power of pantheon-ism: The older and more mystical I become I seem to hear the voices of the Gods of yesterday whisper and sing from all sorts of strange and unexpected places. I find a "warm Jeep seat" kind of comfort in this. Having denied myself spiritual experiences for some time these ethereal events stir my cold and alcohol starved heart. The door in my office has taken to sounding like Chewbacca. It makes mournful noises as if castigated by a manic Han Solo or upset at the loss of some Wookie stronghold or home planet. Then there is the cold water tap that, with the right adjustment, sounds like Draculus, the great green bird who advised and scolded the dim Noggin the Nog from time to time. How I miss his wise words, they came at 5.40 on the BBC just before the main news (that was when there was proper monochrome news, not the biased drivel we currently get). There is also the microwave that gives a stirring rendition of the first few bars of “Jump” by the Pointer Sisters. It makes heating up any tin of your favourite Heinz product fun and provides the opportunity for a quick disco dance around the kitchen. I also know of a fire exit that's producing ZZ Top crunch guitar noises but I can't quite remember where it is. That of course is another problem with getting on a bit. Did I mention the toilet flush that once pulled does the scary bit from “Echoes” by Pink Floyd? And I'll never forget the lathe in a dockyard engineering workshop that was a dead ringer for most of Tangerine Dream's back catalogue. What a drag it is getting old.

Fuck it! It's going to be a Marks & Spencer, Sadistic & Masochistic & Multiple Sclerosis based Christmas this year complete with hampers, frozen limbs, tiny cheese burgers and miscellaneous high street and web based vouchers from the company of your choice which will most likely be one that has failed to pay any kind of meaningful tax in the UK since Winston Churchill was a boy. Leave the greedy but clearly legally acting big boys with their milky coffee and warehouses alone I say, adding more tax money into the government coffers only encourages politicians to do stupid things with your cash. It's like talking to one of them on a doorstep, it only ever gets worse and feeds the flames. Good luck to them and smoke 'em if you've got 'em. Tomorrow will be my Black or possibly Bleak Friday, I'll source all the relevant Chrissy booty, squirrel it into the back pocket of my jeans and then sit in the car with a warm bucket of KFC leftovers and salmonella whilst listening to the Comedy Hour on Radio Scotland (the home of witty banter). I often find that on reflection, these things I muse over and daydream about seldom come to pass and if they do they are always a bit of a disappointment. In life it's the anticipation that counts for most of the enjoyment. Learn to make your latte last Young Master.