My column got spiked

Over the weekend I wrote my Morning Star column, which this week is about LSD. Then yesterday, for the first time, the editor refused to publish it. 

The subs told me: “Not that we’re anti-drugs or anything, but he reckons you’ve crossed a line by actively, massively advocating the stuff.”  

So I’ve written them something new, which I’ll email in the morning, though it’s probably too late for this week’s copy of the paper.

Meanwhile here’s the column they didn’t want. If you regularly read this blog but not my MS columns, it’s worth remembering this was written for print, not a blog, with their house style in mind (ie. it’s a bit different from most of my blog entries and not so readable onscreen!) and also it might be old hat because I’ve boffed on about this subject here already. But anyway… 

Chris thinks we should all get high.

Of all the illegal drugs that I think should be legalised – which is all of them – top of my wish list for a Get Out Of Jail Free card would be LSD.

I know when you argue for legalising drugs, you’re supposed to place your argument within the context of accepting that they are fundamentally a Bad Thing. Drugs are bad, m’kay?

I know legalisation or decriminalisation are meant to be presented as a strategic change-of-approach for combating drug use. I also know lots of people have ruined their lives by getting hopelessly addicted to substances, legal or illegal.

But with all that in mind, the point I want to make is: acid is bloody fantastic and, if you haven’t had a go before, I think your life would almost certainly improve if you tried some tomorrow.

What else have you got on? Get home from work and spend dinner time discussing whether Kate should’ve won The Apprentice, or why the nazis got two seats in Europe? Doesn’t sound like much fun to me. Then you’ll probably watch telly.

No access to a dealer? Ask anyone you know in the arts, or your scruffiest friend, or best of all, your kids’ coolest mate, to hook you up.

In one go, you’ll not only score but also your son or daughter will suddenly have fat kudos to spare, once the school rumour mill finds out their parents know how to party.

What you need is a warm summer evening, some trustworthy old friends and a pleasant field. Maybe take a picnic. Don’t try LSD out clubbing though, because you’ll get your head done in.

“Mind expanding” is a clichéd and vilified phrase, yet it is drop-dead accurate, when referring to acid. Apart from what you may get up to while you’re not quite in control – which is itself largely myth – it’s about as dangerous as a cup of coffee.

On acid, I have thought, visualised, smelled, heard and imagined in ways different to those which my mind was/is capable of straight. It’s not in any way a replacement for ‘real’ experience, however it is a powerful, memorable additional experience.

Cocaine is a drug about me, me, me. Marijuana is a drug about doing nothing and eating crisps. Booze is a drug about fighting, crying and kebabs. MDMA (ecstacy) is about hugging people on the dancefloor while the beat goes on.

But I believe LSD is a drug about tapping directly into whatever it is that we channel as creative. So, almost God then. A direct line to the part of our brain we most need more of in our existence.

By the way, sorry if the acronym “LSD” sounds scarily out-of-date and a bit faux-hippie, especially when most kids talk like an episode of The Wire and blow their allowances on ounces of cocaine.

I only started calling it LSD recently because I realised that when you say “acid” in the United States, quite a few people don’t actually know what you’re talking about. I guess the nickname never filtered across the Atlantic properly.

At the end of last year, I got back into acid as a creative tool, after a long, long break and I’ve been working on some improvised (mainly piano and electronic) music under its gorgeous influence, ever since. I set up recording equipment in the living room, get high and play piano or mess around with beats until I get bored and do something else. No idea whether it’s any good – only time will tell – but it’s a lot of fun and I feel that the rest of my creative life has been enrichened by the experiment.

Quite apart from unbanning the stuff, it should probably be on the national curriculum or added to MMR.

Amid the MPs’ expenses scandal, we’re finally beginning to understand the extent to which we, the public, can not know stuff. Conspiracists and engaged sceptics have understood this all along; that assuming huge, grand sleight-of-hand tricks upon the wider public can’t take place because of checks and balances is just poppycock.

So here comes the next layer – that they’re all junkies as well. Those who seek to control our personal behaviour through the making of laws are either rattled out of their minds on expensive whisky, snorting cocaine, or, it turns out, stealing every duck pond they can get their grubby mits on.

Let’s do a substance analysis of all the pipework in the Houses Of Parliament. If they don’t find just the fattest, fuck-off-est proportion of cocaine, I’ll be very surprised.

More than that, it’s a grand addiction to stuff. Material possessions as the mark of status – the classic capitalist fail. You know, the current recession is one of the biggest arguments I can think of for living the life you really want to live. Fuck the law and the fear of poverty; if there’s a thing you want to try or a place you need to visit, you’ve got to just do it.

And if that includes taking a beautiful hallucinogen that will make even just one evening unforgettable, then stop being such a pussy and go for it.

The Moz-pot

I’ve had an unusually strong response this week – in both directions – to the Morning Star column about Morrissey and David Walliams. Funny, because I was expecting a much bigger response to the violently angry blog entry, which never came. I guess if you write about a galvanising figure (La Moz more than La Wally), your readership will be ambivalent. 

One of the column’s keenest critics is Jim Bob’s manager and acetastic Englishman-in-LA blogger Marc. But I find his emailed responses so fascinating, enjoyable and amusing that I must be careful not to deliberately write columns just to catch his attention – I’m ashamed to say I focused on Morrissey at least partly inspired by knowing Marc was listening to his new album (in at number 11 in the USA no less!) and would react strongly to my opinion. Anyway, we’ve spent a lot of time together and love arguing about things.

This morning, Rifa and me walked around Preston Park and it was lovely in the sunshine, hardly anyone there except a few pooch-draggers. Reminded me for the first time in ages why I love Brighton so much, contrasting with regular thoughts recently of moving on somewhere else. If only California weren’t bust. 

Hmm, I think I’ll write about Battlestar Galactica and the BBC’s coverage of the U2 album next.

new year’s day part 2: boiling over (part 1 later)

Happy new year.

Upstairs, the boiler suddenly starts making a horrendously loud, relentlessly intense clattering. Like it’ll explode in seconds. Christopher runs upstairs. Pushes some buttons, it gets louder. Switches it off. Despite having only bled the radiators in the last two days, young Chris is convinced the boiler fan has bust. Nothing else could make that noise.

Looks at instructions and warranty. Boiler is only 2 years old but just out of guarantee, apparently. Chris shitting it. Cold night, no shower, two hot water bottles.

In the morning, Chris phones the man who installed it. No longer there – doesn’t exist anymore.

Phones Glowzone, who give a rough quote over phone that comes to something over £400, if the fan is broken. Apparently parts for Worcester Bosch Greenstar are pricey because it’s “so new”. Chris shitting it some more. Glowzone advert says “no callout charge” but they have a hefty “diagnosis fee” (huh?) which is then refunded off the work.

Chris then phones Our Man In Brighton, Tim from Pioneer (fantastic, reliable, etc. etc. – they’ve done everything from our whole bathroom – pissing all over a B&Q botch job that we escaped just in time – to replacing our kitchen ceiling).

Tim sends round Russell just 20 minutes later (I kid you not). Russell points out that the pressure gauge is on zero. “Did you just bleed the radiators?” he asks.

Young Chris can barely type this bit. Adopts a slight working-class drawl to minimise cringing middle classness. Result: sounds like Jamie Oliver.

“Um. Yeah.”

“Well you have to bring the water pressure back up obviously, otherwise the boiler is a kettle with no water in.”

“Oh. God.”

“That’s why the gauge here, right on the front, was down at zero.”

“Oh yeah. God. Sorry.”

“‘S’alright, I earn £100 an hour.”

Well… some twats dialed 999 when they got the flu bug.

eurotour diary #1

I fucking did it again: rubbed huge blobs of shampoo into my eyes mid-shower. I have no idea what I’m suddenly doing wrong in my 30s to be unable to wash my hair without oracular self-harm. The third time in a week and it’s become a psychic burden whereby I’m convinced it will trigger a difficult day, so of course it does. Packed. Repacked in a different case. And again. Decided fuck it I’m not going on tour. Then left for the train. 

SOUTHAMPTON 

I’m here to open for – but much more importantly see – Carter USM’s secret show, because I’ll be in Europe for their two larger reunion gigs. Plus Marc is back in the UK. Except that in the repacking panic I left my acoustic guitar pick-up, some cables and several other vital bits at home and I’m supposed to be on the Eurostar tomorrow morning. So I play a short set using a hi-hat mic on my acoustic (clarity but no balls), which goes surprisingly well – quite upbeat and jokey – then instead of sticking around I have to jump on a train back to Brighton to pick up the stuff. Missing Carter. And I carried all my stuff for the Europe trip all the way to Southampton then home again.

PARIS

In the French bakery at St Pancras, I’m waiting for Frank when an elderly couple wander over. He wants a croissant but she wants a crepe from the café next door. Their solution is to each go into the adjacent café and sit and order separately, but sit right next to each-other separated only by the glass window dividing the two cafés. They seem quite content.

Anyway, I’ve got to say Eurostar is lush, I’m sure we accidentally booked First Class because we get a gorgeous meal, much better than airline food, with dessert and wine if we want it (I have apple juice). On my mind is my key task for today: to pick up the hire car in central Paris just before rush-hour and drive it across town to the venue, over that infamous lethal roundabout that doesn’t count on anyone’s insurance, when I’ve only ever driven a tiny bit of right-hand drive in L.A.

So I’m nervous. But what transpires is worse: at Gard du Nord absolute muttons at Europcar won’t let us have the car we’ve booked. Frank has the credit card to pay – but no driving license. I have the license to drive – but no credit card. Despite us both being there and it being totally sound, because if I crash Frank pays, obviously, somehow they won’t let us take the car – the name has to be the same. And it doesn’t say anything about this on their shoddy excuse for a website, they deliberately gave Frank the impression when he originally booked that this wouldn’t be a problem.

None of the other car hire companies sat in a line can help because all their cars are booked.

We leave carless (and late) but hold the booking, hoping to resolve it over the phone. No such luck, in fact they attempt to charge us a €1,400 cancellation fee for not taking the car and the customer services woman is almost impossibly rude to Frank on the phone. They only relent on the fee after a shouting match – I’ve not seen Frank so angry. God, we’re stranded! Might as well get on with the gig.

Dinner at La Fleche D’or is delicious despite it seeming like quite a grimy club. It’s set above a railway bridge looking out over a set of railway lines. Seedy glamour abounds but the other musical acts are utter shite. I learn a harmonica solo for a smart new FT tune (quite a short, quick one) with a working title of Dan’s Song. 

Drinking heavily now (mixed emotions at not having to drive) I chat to this nut-job singer Cosmo Jarvis at the venue. He’s not playing tonight, his band are touring supporting Gabriella Cilmi around Europe and the TM knows Frank. The band are charming guys but Cosmo is filth: just one of his stories is about drinking some bloke’s piss, catching thrush from it, then giving it to his own band-member by snogging him. They’re good company but I find myself edging away in case I pick up something nasty.

Next morning, after struggling to work out train routes and fare budgets, leaving us aghast, we are rescued by Frank’s Parisian punkrock friend Cham from Jedethan, who used to work at Avis and scores us a Cleo. We’ll have to drop off in Geneva, leaving a gap in our transport plan between there and Vienna, but the deal is much, much better. A blessing in disguise. The icing on the cake is, the pick-up is in the north-west of Paris so we take a hefty Metro ride and I won’t have to drive through the city, just out onto the motorway north.

AMSTERDAM

Traffic, traffic traffic. Amsterdam rush-hour but I’m not scared of right-hand drive anymore, even when I turn right onto the tramline. SatNav takes us down several narrow alleys to the wrong Paradiso, so we’re scarily late.

Italian dinner. Hotel room on the fourth floor, with no lift and steep stairs but an amazing balcony looking out over the rooftops. Despite being on the edge of the red light district, which I’ve never seen, we decide to kick back in the room / on the balcony and go to bed pretty soon after that. Therefore apologies – I won’t be able to tell you about stoned late-night debauchery in the ‘Dam because there wasn’t any.

I’ve just discovered my new-ish mobile phone has a golf game on it. That’s what I was doing at 1am before faling asleep.

wherewithal and I

Ups and downs.

In the shower I got gallons of shampoo in both eyes at once and was in blind agony moderate pain for 15 minutes. Rinsed and rinsed but I was in a hurry. Decided the “I’ve been crying insanely” look was good to go.

Then I stumbled out of the house and went to Union Chapel to play piano for Turner, with Biffy Clyro and Friendly Fires for Jo Whiley’s Little Noise Sessions (for Mencap). Jo wasn’t there, she’s just had a baby (her 96th I believe) but I got to meet Mathew Horne (warning: his myspace currently has Keane playing, in case you want to switch your sound off before clicking through) from Gavin & Stacey. Normally Horne would be enough celeb for any event – he was lovely and better looking in real life – but he got out-A-listed by rock superstar Mr Bryan Adams, who’d come especially for Frank and came backstage to the vip bar with his gorgeous missus for a chat. Didn’t miss out the humble pianist either – was supremely down-to-earth and genuinely very interesting. I went on wiki today and now wish I’d been more up-to-speed because he’s a veggie and has done important work for animal rights causes that I’m down with – but of course we didn’t touch on any of that stuff.

I wish we had, cos I could’ve wound Frank up about his recent abandonment of vegetarianism in favour of getting vicious food poisoning from dodgy chicken. Korma or karma?

Later I became dreadfully seedily drunk on bourbon, ran away before everyone got the drugs out, found myself stuck on a broken tube train without the wherewithal to get out and walk, so missed my last Brighton service from Victoria, spending the rest of the night at Costa Coffee, Gatwick Airport.

You’re right of course, I should’ve hoovered indie-scene charidee cocaine, punched out the guy I hate, done the sex with the blonde and wound up frying comedown eggs in a TV star’s kitchen. One day they’ll get me but not yet, dear reader, not yet. 

[edited for content]

In other news, I can’t get any music made fo shit but I’ve just made sublime artichoke and sweet onion chutney of my own damn recipe. Maybe Anjum Anand’s sitting at home writing songs.

real remembrance

Poppy Day thoughts after some personal stuff… Post-tour malais kicked in worse than usual, despite being delayed a few days by the excitement of the US election. I guess it was A) a fantastic tour B) cut short in its prime and C) we hung with some of the loveliest people, so I’m really feeling the lack of Hoodrats, sitting at home catching up on boring paperwork. We reunioned yesterday to catch Johny in Cottonmouth Rocks play some gothy bash in Brighton, alongside Mr Jack Cooper, Vile Imbeciles and Restlesslist. Absolutely lush bill. Not a duff moment, despite The Hope’s mediocre set-up. Young Thomas White was there with a big sexy beard and Restlesslist all dressed up as ladies which was almost as disturbing as Vile Imbeciles’ normal stage outfits.

I head for Europe in a fortnight – on the train, thank God – which will be a markedly different kind of adventure, driving Frank from Paris to Vienna, before we get chauffeured around Italy, playing solo and duo shows all the way. I’ve never driven in mainland Europe before, my only experience of left-hand drive is a few nervous trips around Los Angeles. I did make it from the 101 Café, up the 101 to Eagle Rock at night in the pouring rain without killing anybody (or spilling my spiced chai latté shake) but everyone’s hands were very sweaty upon arrival. So I’m not convinced the Gard du Nord pick-up in the centre of Paris at 4pm-ish is the ideal place to start… nor the Swiss Alpine roads in November the ideal place to continue. Hopefully we won’t meet Clarkson, James Bond or some super-rich Euro speedfreak coming the other way on a twisty bit, or it’s ravine time for us all.

Anyway.

This is the week we remember veterans, however I’ve always been profoundly uncomfortable with the dominance of the Royal British Legion’s red poppy, especially during the years they used “wear your poppy with pride” as an aggressive slogan. Of course, I have absolutely no problem with people who decide for themselves to wear the red poppy but, similarly, I hope nobody has a problem with my decision not to wear one and to wear instead a white poppy, if I can get hold of one. I suspect, if I had a profile high enough to be on any BBC TV programmes this week, of any kind, it would be an interesting pre-air issue. They really seem to force presenters and guests to don the poppy. I’ve written to them to ask about their policy and, if I get a decent response, will let you know what they say.

Two contrasting problems with the red poppy.

First a pro-soldier argument. I think the red poppy signals tacit acceptance of the MOD’s abject failure to ensure the life-long welfare of veterans and their families. The very idea that we need to, even in part, provide for soldiers out of charitable donations is a disgrace, if the state (which is us) is to employ people and send them into battle. It should go without saying that they are looked after for life and their families are similarly supported. Anything less is disgusting – the duty of care is mine through taxation, not charity.

By embracing as an establishment a charity responsibility in that area, we both absolve the government of responsibility and, at the same time, distract attention / donations from other, equally (or even in my opinion more) deserving frontline professions such as firefighters and nurses. 

Secondly, an anti-soldier argument. The real victims of war are civilians. Soldiers decide to take the job – we don’t have national service any more and the army is a well-paid career in comparison to many. And they aren’t employed to die or get injured (armies aren’t armed and trained to lose), if we’re honest about it, they’re hired, trained and armed to kill people, subjugate and control those they don’t kill, and destroy ‘enemy targets’.

Civilians in war zones have no such choice. Particularly in recent years, when our armies have been sent to foreign lands to engage in highly politically-motivated invasions, occupations and military actions which have nothing to do with any direct defence of our own British sovereignty – and were sold to the British people and MPs on a bunch of fat lies – we show an astonishing lack of interest in civilian deaths and casualties by comparison. Half the time, we don’t even count them. They’re the ones I think we should be remembering.

trouser-free near miss

I must be going mad. I’ve spent most of the morning sat in front of the laptop with my guitar, just in a t-shirt and pants, trying to tape a new song. Then I decided to go for a walk around the park, so I put my hat, jacket and boots on, opened the door and stepped outside. I was about to shut the door when I realised I wasn’t wearing any trousers! If I hadn’t clocked in the nick of time, I’d've been locked out without phone or cash because my house key is in my trouser pocket.

I’d even gone upstairs to get a pair of socks.

Howard, the… Duck!

Last night I tricked Howard from Halifax into filming his suicide, for use as a hard-hitting allegorical short film about the economic collapse. I phoned his agent on the pretext of casting for a BBC one-off drama version of Death Of A Salesman. His agent was my sister’s friend Phill, although I have no idea why. Phill is a lovely fella but he’s not an agent at all, let alone the representative for the round-faced speccy Halifax man.

Anyway, I booked Howard for an advance fee of £10, plus he wanted tuna sandwiches and ginger beer, plus a high repeat percentage and a small percentage of advertising revenue, even though there are no adverts on the BBC. Then we all went to an office complex in Bournemouth and shot what we pretended was the first day of this extensive, expensive TV movie, except that everyone there – crew, hospitality, actors – were all just pretending, in order to get the one vital scene, which was Howard shooting himself in the face with a gun. I swapped the blanks myself.

Once that was done, we all went home and I phoned his agent back to apologise for the tragic accident and explain that the BBC had cancelled our production out of respect for Howard’s family, so we had to quit. 

Then I edited together this shit-hot snuff short out of the one scene that mattered, with some prime Johnny Cash in the background like the final scene of Generation Kill. I can’t remember which song though. When I woke up this morning, for a few seconds I was so convinced it was real, I was itching to get on my Mac to look again at the film, because it was an anti-capitalist masterpiece and Howard had truly died for a Good Cause.

I was gutted when I realised.

autumn clean… like spring clean but in autumn

Home started returning to normal yesterday, after damp-proofing and re-decorating madness – that turned downstairs into a dusty bombsite for three weeks – was done with. I was able to clean all the living room furniture and move it back where it should be and had an amateurish go at really scrubbing the kitchen. Best of all, I took the books and shelving units and piles of other stuff out of the bedroom, which suddenly feels enormous.

There’s a lot still to do, especially rewiring our audio set-up but on the whole it’s lush. Which scarily means it really is time to clear out the attic – and perhaps learn about eBay for piles of old crap unwanted book’n'music gems.

We’re rehearsing tonight for This Ain’t No Picnic tomorrow. I think KCLSU is my favourite London venue – the room rocks without being divey, the sound kicks it out, facilities are decent and you can look out over the Thames while you soundcheck. Plus we’re sandwiched like a minced beef pattie between two stridently enscarpmented live bands, Bearsuit and Future Of The Left. Might be worth using our AAAs to go back Sunday as well, because the whole bill rocks.

some pain, some jim and some scam

“Dead” redirects here. For other uses, see Dead (disambiguation).
For other uses, see Death (disambiguation)

I hurt: heartburn all night and I was surely dying. Earlier, decorators left windows open and – late evening – eight big flies buzzed around, trying to escape. I imagined Death had floated in. So when I woke with chest pain at 4am, I knew He was waiting (ooh hooh!) I knew He was waiting for me.

Jim sent demos. He’s been writing scripts yet still knocks out the finest new songs I’ve heard this year, in a couple of wet afternoons. So dark though. Jim made me think of Death, maybe it was his fault.

Either you buy shares or you don’t. People who do gamble for profit, that’s the point. But now, with gamblers losing money, the US government will nationalise that loss with tax dollars. Everyone who didn’t buy shares in the first place still funds the bail out of those who did. Simple and sick: a swindle of epic proportions. The American government has made me think of Death for years.