Joey Santiago in Sheds Shocka

 

16 12 2009

Today history changed.

Today, Joey Santiago, from the Pixies, asked us not to refer to him ever again as ‘Joe’. 

“Call me Joey” he begged the universe.  The universe responded, reeling, convulsing to his hearfelt plea.  A raft of people who had referred to him as the dreaded “Joe” donned hair shirts and gouged out their own eyes for their previous moniker atrocities. Me included.

I had commited this crime also.  Knowing I had caused even the slightest furrow on the brow of one of the pixies had me reaching for the Bible and a zx spectrum.  The only way I know how to absolve my sins.

I crawled, virtually, across the net, to beg forgiveness. I crawled for ten whole minutes, negotiating the straights of ‘From the Desk of Victor Obogu’ (he just needs to ‘rest’ the funds…jeez!) and crossing the perilous ‘BUY111 YOUR111 MEDS1111 ONLINE1111′ ravine to ask the only question that could make things right…

‘Can I refer to you as the J-dog?’ I entreated him, on the Twitter mountain

‘yes’  came the mountain-and-mohammed-type reply.

Today was a good day.

Today Joey Santiago said I could call him the J-Dog.

If you’d told me when I was 16 that in 16 years time Joey Santiago would be acquiescing to me calling him ‘the J-Dog’, I would have fucked you up. Not really. But it sounds dramatic.

In other news.  Here’s a new word for you, that comes to you directly from the Sherby57/Angel interface which brings the two great worlds of surreal blogging together:

Bontempt:

To tempt someone with music made by a plastic red and white organ that sounds like a wheezing bagpipe.

Here’s an example

You: Hey, we’ve had a lovely night. Shall we prolong it by going for coffee at mine and listening to ‘Hammond Organ moods?’

She: Don’t Bontempt me!

See if you can use ‘Bontempt’ this Xmas.

A drawer full of jostles

I’ve got a drawer full of jostles, in case anyone’s interested.  Ask Drazic from Heartbreak High.  Ask Adam Cameron.  He’ll probably try and rope you into one of his get-rich-quick schemes. There’s this one scheme he had where he was all “Let’s go to Yabbie Creek and get people to pay us to stop throwing Barry M Dazzle Dust pots at them”.  Poor Adam. Little did he know that Barry M pots are £5 a unit, so it’s a large deposit needed to start the scheme, and we would need investors. We asked Theo Pampletis but he said he didn’t want to spend his kids’ inheritance on it. Which was strange, as he doesn’t actually have kids, he just has two potatoes on sticks that he refers to as ‘the kids’. I think he needs to talk to someone about it, frankly.

Needess to say the start up costs were starting to spiral out of control. 

But I’ve a drawer full of jostles. Some with your name on them.

Interested?

World of Sheds Xmas

Season’s Greetings, Shed devotees.

Today is Christmas day. That means exactly 62 years ago, Jesus Christ was born in a lowly bike shed in Burscough, outside the Youthy.

Today, the Shed family celebrated in the usual traditonal way. We decorated the ceremonial toilet and we ate the Christmas beef jerky toast toppers.  I wore my pirate trousers and went bare breasted into my neighbours house and declared “Ja! Santa Ich bin gut this jahre!”, as I do every year. It wouldn’t be the same without it. One year I didn’t and the kids were so disappointed.

During these times of finanical hardship, my family were treated to gifts bought entirely from charity shops. Mum sheds was treated to an leatherette ice bucket with a silver horse’s head on the lid as the handle.  Dad Sheds was the lucky recipient of a petrol station glass decanter circa 1987.  Sister Sheds was delighted to recieve a second hand bikini and brother shed was spoilt rotten to a gift with purchase of a magazine romance novel called ‘Jane Jone’s Diary, not capitalising on the success of Bridget Jones’s diary, but a very poor attempt at, using words like ‘singleton’ and overusing the phrase ‘note to self”.  A real page turner.  He loves a good love story. Shed friends recieved smoked glass tumblers, a grey, black and red lamp shade from a boy’s bedroom in the late 80s, a wooden wall ornament with an ariel outline of Majorca on it and a broken camera in bits in an ice cream box.

They were truly delighted.  Why shop anywhere else shedders? Charity shop shopping is a win-win situation for any occasion.

Happy xmas Shed fans. Please allow me to extend my thanks to everyone who reads the blog, who follows me on twitter and on facebook. If it wasn’t for you guys, I wouldn’t have carried on, I’m sure.

Bontemptation at Work

You may remember that I’m championing a new word to enter the english language. The word is ‘Bontempt‘. You may have noticed some of my ‘followers’ and I using it, in what can only be described as, a ‘cavalier manner’.

Read more about ‘bontempt’ here: https://worldofsheds.wordpress.com/2009/12/16/joey-santiago-in-sheds-shocka/

Well, WoS fans, my thoughts about the cause entered the atmosphere and affected the collective consciousness.  The thoughts transcended my mortal body and were projected onto a heavenly screen. The gods, paused from the revelry of their ferrero rocher party.  The stopped. Bearded jaws, dropping, to marvel at the heavenly projection. A smile played upon their divine lips. I don’t know what game it played though. Not sure what games smiles play. I’m not a doctor of smiles, OK? I didn’t choose that module at university. I did English literature and read the boring ‘Wide  Sargasso Sea’.  Had I not made a bad decision, I might know. Just leave it OK? I DON’T FUCKING KNOW.

Sigh.  Anyway, the Gods saw the projection, and before switching over to ‘You’ve been framed’ (the Gods love Harry Hill) they saw fit to return my thoughts back to me in a physical manifestation.  

Today I was leaving work and I was exiting the fire door, just for kicks. I stumbled over a box of musical instruments. This was the happiest of health and safety violations, for what should be contained in this serendipidous hazard?

Ecce!

Come hither, play me.

Come hither, play me.

Dare to dream, Shedders. Dare to dream. The Gods may be listening, if they’re not messing about with Seasonal chocolate.

Joey Santiago in Sheds Shocka

Today history changed.

Today, Joey Santiago, from the Pixies, asked us not to refer to him ever again as ‘Joe’. 

“Call me Joey” he begged the universe.  The universe responded, reeling, convulsing to his hearfelt plea.  A raft of people who had referred to him as the dreaded “Joe” donned hair shirts and gouged out their own eyes for their previous moniker atrocities. Me included.

I had commited this crime also.  Knowing I had caused even the slightest furrow on the brow of one of the pixies had me reaching for the Bible and a zx spectrum.  The only way I know how to absolve my sins.

I crawled, virtually, across the net, to beg forgiveness. I crawled for ten whole minutes, negotiating the straights of ‘From the Desk of Victor Obogu’ (he just needs to ‘rest’ the funds…jeez!) and crossing the perilous ‘BUY111 YOUR111 MEDS1111 ONLINE1111’ ravine to ask the only question that could make things right…

‘Can I refer to you as the J-dog?’ I entreated him, on the Twitter mountain

‘yes’  came the mountain-and-mohammed-type reply.

Today was a good day.

Today Joey Santiago said I could call him the J-Dog.

If you’d told me when I was 16 that in 16 years time Joey Santiago would be acquiescing to me calling him ‘the J-Dog’, I would have fucked you up. Not really. But it sounds dramatic.

In other news.  Here’s a new word for you, that comes to you directly from the Sherby57/Angel interface which brings the two great worlds of surreal blogging together:

Bontempt:

To tempt someone with music made by a plastic red and white organ that sounds like a wheezing bagpipe.

Here’s an example

You: Hey, we’ve had a lovely night. Shall we prolong it by going for coffee at mine and listening to ‘Hammond Organ moods?’

She: Don’t Bontempt me!

See if you can use ‘Bontempt’ this Xmas.

 

Angel Art

Horace *sob* What have you become?

Sometimes people like to send me things. Mostly it’s soiled undergarments, other times it’s artwork they have done in homage to WoS.  Attached herewith is a ‘piece’ by regular contributor to my live spaces blog, Sir Clive ‘Funky’ Sinclair. I may have posted it before, but I can’t remember. Enjoy it again anyway and feel free to add your own artistic interpretation. Here’s my interpretation:

Here we can see that the artist shows Horace with his head slightly bowed in shame to symbolise Angel’s irreverance to the periodic table of elements. Across his ‘head’ an intrusive zx spectrum appears, to symbolise Angel’s intrusive thoughts about the hardware. Behind Horace we see a burnt out tyre that represents the questioning of taken-for-granted truths from a point of constipation. The artist does not ‘deny’ there are certain truths about a world of sheds, just that, it’s a load of made up nonsense, mostly.

Hazard of Parsnips Chapter 7

and so the greatest love story/epistolary novel/writing experiment continues.  Catch up with previous HoP Chapters here:

http://sherby57.co.uk/2008/10/09/a-hazard-of-parsnips-chapters-1-2/

https://worldofsheds.wordpress.com/2009/08/27/a-hazard-of-parsnips-chapter-3/

https://worldofsheds.wordpress.com/2009/10/14/hazard-of-parnsips-chapter-4/

https://worldofsheds.wordpress.com/2009/10/14/hazard-of-parsnips-chapter-5-get-it-here/

https://worldofsheds.wordpress.com/2009/10/15/oh-no-not-another-hazard-of-parsnips-chapter-6-by-sherby-57/

https://worldofsheds.wordpress.com/2009/12/01/letters-to-dr-angel/ Chapter 6a

https://worldofsheds.wordpress.com/2009/12/02/dr-angel-replies/ Chapter 6b

Dearest Clarence

I am writing this in the past. It’s obviously the present as I’m writing this, but as you’re reading this it’s from the past. Keep up.

Today the sun roused me, like an egyptian pharmacist or maybe a psychiatrist prescribing ritalin off-licence. With that sun and that pharmacist came a sense of heightened awareness, the likes that I have not been aware of for many a year. For it is today, o beauteous day, that I am TRULY conscious for the first time in my whole miserable life.  Today, I love you.

I know it is only 24 hours since we met. O, sweet knave, so much can happen in 24 hours. Thou couldest watch Hollyoaks and Hollyoaks ‘in the city’ as well as a full ‘Come Dine with me’ when it was 5 episodes, each of one hours duration.  It was yesterday that I alighted the ‘cumfybus’ and took the sweet, sweet trip into Wigan to the Emporium of Cash Converting where I was to selleth my Sega Drive of  Megas.  O, handsome knave, it had been a lean month.  Lord Karl of Kennedy had been out of the country on tour with Sir Ricky of Martin and had not sent his usual brace of rabbits to my father.  As you may know, my father is Lord Kennedy’s gigolo. Lord Kennedy prefers the term ‘Man-thang’. My father said that the job descrption said ‘gigolo’ and he didn’t spend 3 years doing a doctorate in Gigology to be called a ‘Man-thang’. My father is a proud, proud gentleman, Clarence. I said your name incase you drifted off. Did it work?

It was in the Emporium of Converting Cash that our chance encounter occured. You were looking in the glass cases at an amp for your flying V guitar, but I watched you settle on a gold ganja leaf chain. O, how fine you looked as you tried it on.I knew it was poor manners, but I couldn’t tear my hot eyes away. O happy ganja leaf! O happy chain! O, what I would not have given to be lying around your neck, nestling into your chest.

It was then you became aware of my forbidden glances. You manoevered your bulk into position so you could take a full look upon my person and my countenance. O, unhappy moment.  My yearning fell upon your cold soul. My longing fell like seeds onto a pavement. You held my gaze and gruffly ejaculated “why are you looking at me weird?”.

I stare into your very soul. a long intense gaze. Desperately my eyes search yours. I try and move your frozen heart with my thoughts. Every fibre of my being wills your affections towards my unworthy brow. Your eyes slowly close, in abject ecstasy, I reckon, your breath quickens and you softly sigh “what’s that on your top lip?”.

I put my hand up to my face and realise there was an unwelcome invader to our beautiful tryste.  My sausage roll from Greggs the Bakers had left soft pastry interlopers upon my lip and had become affixed to my Collection 2000 lipgloss.

Your face changed. Not literally. You didn’t get someone elses face.You know this, so I’m not sure why I’m telling you. what I mean is that your countenance did change to form a picture of abject disgust.  Your jaw jutted and your eyebrows did plow great furrows into your forehead. Your chin did wrinkle and pucker and you looked like Sir Gordon Ramsay.

“This wench has herpes” you bellowed. To no one in particular. I fled from the shop, hand to my lip, desperately wiping every last crumb of sausage roll. I ran and ran. In my anger and shame I kicked a can of Red Bull at Greggs in an act of wanton futility and my cheeks burned like the fire that Take That and Lulu were keen to ignite.

As my cheeks burned hot, it was then I understood:

I love you. Yet, you were repulsed by my very form.

What could I do? I needed a strategy to excite and delight your very eye. A way to woo you. Some form of sexual voodoo, white witchery. Anything. You had to be mine. I alighted the cumfybus to return to Hesketh Bank and my Father’s lodge on the estate of Lord Kennedy’s. On the bus, I was suprised to see my girlhood companion, Lady Spinderella, on the backseat. I sat next to her, and we made our usual greetings. She noticed my flushed countenance and I noticed several blueblack bites of love poorly concealed under the collar of her Naff co 54 coat.

“I see you have sweet marks of love on your neck, Spinderella. What knave makes these black holes of love and how did you entice him? I’m not being funny or anything, good lady, but you smell like a butcher’s shop”.

“Ah!” began the good lady “I am courting Sir P of Diddington. These black holes of love that you see before you, poorly concealed were hard won, lady. For Sir P did not care for my glances when we met at Prince’s Nightclub. No, he only had eyes for Lady Jennifer of Lopez. However, I entered a hot body show in Burnley, and won. News of my victory spread far and wide and Sir P heard of the felicitatious knowledge. Consequently, he felt a yearning so strong that no remedy could abate, not even calpol. He could contain himself no longer and he had to have me, like a black and decker workbench or Stream of Soda”.

It was then I knew. My course of action was charted for me, like a great sea adventure. My voyage began. I picked up my quill and began to write to the only person I knew could help me…

To be continued…

Lady Sandra Growbag

Dr. Angel Replies

Dear Lady Salt

You have indeed arrived on the very door that can affix the nosebag of knowledge to your snout. 

I have entered many a ‘hot body show’ and they are indeed elaborate and complex affairs.  Dare I say, almost a ritual. Hot Body Shows were invented in 1432 by Sir Special K who insisted on guests to his parties wearing red leotards, by which he would judge them on the well known dimensions of: goitre, guttage, truncheon, and haunces.  The Winner would be declared ‘the winner’, then everyone would down some thunderbird and run up and down the stairs, then do a ouijaboard, get freaked out then their mum’s and dad’s pick them up.

Today, few of Sir Special K’s traditions remain other than haunches and goitre. Truncheon and guttage have been replaced by the dimensions of sturdiness and attention seeking. Let me walk you through what you might expect:

You enter the hot body show through the Tuba monster section of Carlisle. Just next to the airport, home of Stobart Air.

You will be carrying a marrow with the words ‘thumbscrews’ implanted into it’s DNA.

The Hot Body Show will take place at ‘Carlisle Mike’s Beard Arena’.  You will enter by the ‘Wandering hand in a Sauna’ Gate.

The first dimension you will be judged on, of course, is haunches. There’s only one way for haunches to be and that’s powerful, like a powerful horse.   You will be asked to rear up, from your normal four legged rested state, onto your hindquarters, and pretend to throw an impertinent Orator off.  The judges will be looking closely for a flourish for your rear, and will be looking for tendons, sinewy. 

Tomorrow, dear Lady Salt, I will tell you about the further dimensions of goitre, sturdiness and attention-seeking.

That boy is in the bag!

Laterz