"...Robert Algernon Runciple Dayglo Wetherspoon Wilson Keppel and Betty Swipe....you are an habitual solvent and rodent abuser who treats arrest as an occupational hazard and imprisonment in the same, cazual manner. I therefore sentence you to the maximum term allowed for these crimes...."
And with that, they led me away to be detained at Her Majesty's Pleasure, a custodial sentence, an open door and 3 slumbering Group 4 security officers now standing bewteen me and my former gay libertine existence. So humiliating - and, ultimately, so avoidable! If the British National Formulary would only start adding entries for home improvement adhesives, I'd have known that possession of Evostick beyond that adjudged to be for reasonable personal usage was subject to suspicion of drug trafficing! Such a waste too - those three haulage trucks full would have seen me through until at least August Bank Holiday....
Still, things are never as black as they're painted. Prison's changed beyond recognition since I was last inside (...transporting a minor across a State line without a license while dressed in a Pierrot costume, sky high on grouting compound, 1976...) There's a PC in every cell, for one thing - which is how I'm able to post this - not to mention the masseuse (....oooh, such cold hands Brenda....can't you do something to warm them up. Oh, sorry *Brendan*, I thought you had big mitts for a lassie...I'll stick with the Ayurvedic throat rub, thanks all the same...) There's even a pro-celebrity greased wrestling tournament arranged for next month - *can't* *wait* to see Anthony Worral Thompson try to wriggle out of one of Brian Blessed's over arm head locks...
They're a good bunch in here too. I'm sharing a cell with a chap called Lennie Godber; a gentle, lively-minded, adenoidal Brummie lad who's in for breaking and entry with aggravated assault - I've no idea how he ended up in prison, though. Probably drugs. That's what most of us are here for. That probably explains why there are so many floating around here. I mean, I've actually been better suppied in here than I was on the outside. A good job too as I was unsuccessful in my attempts to smuggle in my own secret stash, secreted in my shoes. I don't know how these guys manage to get their deals past the stringent security checks. Mind you, most of them probably aren't wearing open-toed slingbacks like me...
And the other good news is that Lord Longford has taken up the case on my behalf - or was it Long Lordford? I always get those two confused. Anyway, he says that he'll fight all the way up to the European Court of Human Rights in the Hague, if need be. Besides, even if my appeal fails, he seems to think that, with good behaviour, I could be out by 2032 - who knows? With bad behaviour, it might be even sooner....
L.U.V. on y'all,
Bob
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Friday, 30 May 2008
Tuesday, 27 May 2008
Eurovision...
Like many of you, I tuned in on Saturday night to cheer on Andy Somthing-or-other singing Britain's entry in the Eurovision Song Contest (or, Le Contest Eurovisionelle de Song, as it's more widely known on the continent). Like you, I was flabberghasted - not to mention dumbfounded - as the results came in and Arnie's toe-tapping ode to the harmless pleasures of stoat doctoring was voted joint last by the hairbrained listeners of Europe - although, in fairness, I have to admit that the singing clothespegs from Lithuania who went on to finish first were quite extraordinary. They looked almost inhuman, didn't they? OK, so Ally Whatsisface isn't Sandie Shaw - although after a dozen or so Pernod amd Lemsips, he did start to bear an un-nerving resemblance to a bald Petula Clark as photographed by Man Ray - but, Europe: *come* on*!!
Mind you, I wasn't in favour of us going in in the first place, if truth be told. "You mark my words", I told Marc Bolan in 1974, "there'll be rivers of brie before this is all over. It's one thing having a nice holiday in Toulouse Lautrec once or twice a year, washed down by a cheeky claret from Bouganvillea and jetting back from the Costa del Bravo with a straw donkey stuffed with duty free mescalin, but you wait til they all start pouring over here and opening Ciabatta stalls and having a family of twenty on the rates. Now, can I borrow some of your glitter, mine fell down the sofa...?"
And so it has proved. But it's one thing having the shape of your avocados decided for you by an unelected (and probably unhygienic) committee of so-called experts in Ghent and quite another to have your nation's minor pop non entities subjected to pan-continental ridicule in a rigged pageant of ill-conceived Eurocock. When the successor to our great European musical tradition (and Brotherhood of Man) finishes joint last behind a 9-armed inflatable tent with a sythesizer whistling old yiddish folk songs backwards (...and Azerbaijan's was one of the *better* entries...) that surely means the start of the slippery slope. I mean, what next? Jackbooted stormtroopers gunning down innocent Brazilian electricians on the streets, in cold blood?? It'll happen, just see if it doesn't...
But then, the whole ruddy country's going to the dogs if you ask me. Time was when a chap could sashay over the post-industrial wasteland as happy as Larry in a stunning, floor length, brocaded 'man's dress' and calf skin knee highs and, whilst they wouldn't be exactly waving flags at you, the worst you could expect by way of abuse was a few 'ooooh - you are awful'-s and a 'give us a twirl, Anthea'. Nowadays, assuming you can summon up the courage to take the short cut through the sink estate to the Asian corner shop with the extensive collection of Iranian porno betamaxes (I can't recommend Imamuelle III highly enough, by the way...) it's a ruddy nightmare.
First you run the gauntlet of the kids - bonced out of their trees on High Strength Lighter Fluid and badly cut talcum - and they immediately lay into you in their curious new-fangled urban patois - "Yo! Bitch 'ho' mother fucker" this and "Lardy batty raas minger muff lady" that. Then the bloody parents start up - "Oi, you! Nonce features - fuck off back to your barrister boyfriend, you paediatric arse burgler and don't you dare lay a hand on my shitting kids, or I'll have your knob whittled down to a pinprick with a cheese grinder, alright??!!"
Honestly, you've never heard such language from a twelve year old...
L.U.V. on y'all,
Bob
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Mind you, I wasn't in favour of us going in in the first place, if truth be told. "You mark my words", I told Marc Bolan in 1974, "there'll be rivers of brie before this is all over. It's one thing having a nice holiday in Toulouse Lautrec once or twice a year, washed down by a cheeky claret from Bouganvillea and jetting back from the Costa del Bravo with a straw donkey stuffed with duty free mescalin, but you wait til they all start pouring over here and opening Ciabatta stalls and having a family of twenty on the rates. Now, can I borrow some of your glitter, mine fell down the sofa...?"
And so it has proved. But it's one thing having the shape of your avocados decided for you by an unelected (and probably unhygienic) committee of so-called experts in Ghent and quite another to have your nation's minor pop non entities subjected to pan-continental ridicule in a rigged pageant of ill-conceived Eurocock. When the successor to our great European musical tradition (and Brotherhood of Man) finishes joint last behind a 9-armed inflatable tent with a sythesizer whistling old yiddish folk songs backwards (...and Azerbaijan's was one of the *better* entries...) that surely means the start of the slippery slope. I mean, what next? Jackbooted stormtroopers gunning down innocent Brazilian electricians on the streets, in cold blood?? It'll happen, just see if it doesn't...
But then, the whole ruddy country's going to the dogs if you ask me. Time was when a chap could sashay over the post-industrial wasteland as happy as Larry in a stunning, floor length, brocaded 'man's dress' and calf skin knee highs and, whilst they wouldn't be exactly waving flags at you, the worst you could expect by way of abuse was a few 'ooooh - you are awful'-s and a 'give us a twirl, Anthea'. Nowadays, assuming you can summon up the courage to take the short cut through the sink estate to the Asian corner shop with the extensive collection of Iranian porno betamaxes (I can't recommend Imamuelle III highly enough, by the way...) it's a ruddy nightmare.
First you run the gauntlet of the kids - bonced out of their trees on High Strength Lighter Fluid and badly cut talcum - and they immediately lay into you in their curious new-fangled urban patois - "Yo! Bitch 'ho' mother fucker" this and "Lardy batty raas minger muff lady" that. Then the bloody parents start up - "Oi, you! Nonce features - fuck off back to your barrister boyfriend, you paediatric arse burgler and don't you dare lay a hand on my shitting kids, or I'll have your knob whittled down to a pinprick with a cheese grinder, alright??!!"
Honestly, you've never heard such language from a twelve year old...
L.U.V. on y'all,
Bob
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Saturday, 24 May 2008
Eno...
I'm just finishing a monitor mix of one of the tracks from the next album when there's a knock at the door. It's Eno. My God, it's hard to believe he's sixty, isn't it? I mean, he looked about 50 in 1975, so Christ knows how ancient he'll look if he ever reaches seventy! I offer silent thanks to the Gods of Glam for allowing time to be as kind as it has with me. Why only the other day, a young Emo lass stopped me in the street and asked me how old I was. Amazing what a bit of Revitalise and a face covering, Sigue Sigue Sputnik style face mask can do, isn't it? They take years off a person. She might have tried to cover it up by saying "well, that's far too old to be mincing around in a pair of badly laddered panthyose and a sequined bodysuit you addled old poof bucket", but I know by now when I've made the old lady sex wee start to course around - putty in my hand she was - or would have been if I hadn't run slap bang into a lamppost as I was chasing after her. Bloody face masks...
'Come on in then, you wily old reprobate!' I tell Brian, only there's a bit of a comedy of errors as we negotiate the rather tight hallway, and I get one of my curtain hoop loon pants entangled with one of the cables spewing out the back of his Moog synthesizer and we end up spending half an hour trying to pick out a particularly intractable knot so as to free me so I can put the kettle on and make a cup of tea for my old genius of Progressive Art-Rock buddy. It gets worse as we ascend the little ladder that leads up into my attic-cum-studio-cum-boudoir. One of Brian's Ostrich feathers gets caught in my fishnets and there's a sharp shriek of pain as his elaborate headgear rips out two or three of the remaining follicles he has left. Such language - *far* from ambient, I can tell you!
'So, what can I do for you, oh rigorously scholarly enfant terrible of the challenging sonic soundscape?', I ask as we sip Darjeeling and munch our way through half a plate of custard creams and a p-p-packet of penguins. Do I know anything about economics? he asks. I tell him that I might just be able to cough up a vaguely coherent two sides of A4 along the lines of a 'Classical and Keynsian models: compare and contrast'-type essay, but I wouldn't have high hopes of doing more than muddling through the exam. He looks slightly crestfallen - although, of course, that might just have been the after effects of the incident with the ostrich feathers, which are by now looking decidedly dejected and in need of some readjustment - although the elastoplast has definitely helped staunch the flow a little. My fishnets aren't too clever either for that matter, but that's by the by. I'll have to see if Boots are still doing their three-for-two offer...
Anyway, seems Brian's been asked by David Cameron to be the next Chancellor of the Exchequor. They did ask Carole Vorderman, but she's too busy with the Benecol ads - and John Redwood can only do long division, which is going to slow matters down a bit if there's another run on the pound; so Eno seemed the obvious choice. You'll be fine! I tell him - just *improvise*!! But he seems to be quite care worn by all of this - must be the thought of being weighed down by all that responsibility in Number 11, I guess, having to live with the thought that the slightest error of judgement or sign of indecision could lead to a field day for the stock market traders as, sensing the blood of a weak Chancellor, they engage in a high stakes game of brinksmanship with the custodian of the public purse. The pound takes a hammering on the international exchanges as the embattled Treasury raises interest rates, paniced into a last gasp attempt to save the pound by raising interest rates to terrifying levels and, before you know it, millions of homes being repossessed, consumer confidence is at an all time low and the heart is slowly being ripped out of the British economy by Corporate jackals intent on asset stripping a once proud nation's manufacturing base. Still, if they will vote Tory...
'Come on Brian', I tell him, 'this isn't like you! Just imagine you're in the studio grappling with a particularly difficult U2 vocal track....what would you do then...?' And it's almost as if someone's flicked a switch...."That's it! That's it! Of *course!!*', he screams as he leaps around the studio in triumphant delight "Oblique strategies!!" he bellows, punching the air with a fist. I suppose there are worse ways of running an economy than basing your every action on the esoteric and inpeneterable commands of a randomly selected, i-Ching-like instruction card.
George Osbourne, for one...
L.U.V. on y'all,
Bob
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'Come on in then, you wily old reprobate!' I tell Brian, only there's a bit of a comedy of errors as we negotiate the rather tight hallway, and I get one of my curtain hoop loon pants entangled with one of the cables spewing out the back of his Moog synthesizer and we end up spending half an hour trying to pick out a particularly intractable knot so as to free me so I can put the kettle on and make a cup of tea for my old genius of Progressive Art-Rock buddy. It gets worse as we ascend the little ladder that leads up into my attic-cum-studio-cum-boudoir. One of Brian's Ostrich feathers gets caught in my fishnets and there's a sharp shriek of pain as his elaborate headgear rips out two or three of the remaining follicles he has left. Such language - *far* from ambient, I can tell you!
'So, what can I do for you, oh rigorously scholarly enfant terrible of the challenging sonic soundscape?', I ask as we sip Darjeeling and munch our way through half a plate of custard creams and a p-p-packet of penguins. Do I know anything about economics? he asks. I tell him that I might just be able to cough up a vaguely coherent two sides of A4 along the lines of a 'Classical and Keynsian models: compare and contrast'-type essay, but I wouldn't have high hopes of doing more than muddling through the exam. He looks slightly crestfallen - although, of course, that might just have been the after effects of the incident with the ostrich feathers, which are by now looking decidedly dejected and in need of some readjustment - although the elastoplast has definitely helped staunch the flow a little. My fishnets aren't too clever either for that matter, but that's by the by. I'll have to see if Boots are still doing their three-for-two offer...
Anyway, seems Brian's been asked by David Cameron to be the next Chancellor of the Exchequor. They did ask Carole Vorderman, but she's too busy with the Benecol ads - and John Redwood can only do long division, which is going to slow matters down a bit if there's another run on the pound; so Eno seemed the obvious choice. You'll be fine! I tell him - just *improvise*!! But he seems to be quite care worn by all of this - must be the thought of being weighed down by all that responsibility in Number 11, I guess, having to live with the thought that the slightest error of judgement or sign of indecision could lead to a field day for the stock market traders as, sensing the blood of a weak Chancellor, they engage in a high stakes game of brinksmanship with the custodian of the public purse. The pound takes a hammering on the international exchanges as the embattled Treasury raises interest rates, paniced into a last gasp attempt to save the pound by raising interest rates to terrifying levels and, before you know it, millions of homes being repossessed, consumer confidence is at an all time low and the heart is slowly being ripped out of the British economy by Corporate jackals intent on asset stripping a once proud nation's manufacturing base. Still, if they will vote Tory...
'Come on Brian', I tell him, 'this isn't like you! Just imagine you're in the studio grappling with a particularly difficult U2 vocal track....what would you do then...?' And it's almost as if someone's flicked a switch...."That's it! That's it! Of *course!!*', he screams as he leaps around the studio in triumphant delight "Oblique strategies!!" he bellows, punching the air with a fist. I suppose there are worse ways of running an economy than basing your every action on the esoteric and inpeneterable commands of a randomly selected, i-Ching-like instruction card.
George Osbourne, for one...
L.U.V. on y'all,
Bob
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Friday, 23 May 2008
Tokyo Joe's...
There's a strange wheezing sound outside the apartment. I pull the curtains aside to find that a rickshaw has pulled up outside and a small, furtive figure wearing a coolie hat is scurrying up the path to my front door. Funny, I think, I don't remember ordering a take away. The door bell chimes and I open up to find an enthusiastic looking oriental looking up at me. "Meestah Felly out in lickshaw", he gestures. "Solly?? Prease lepeat!" I say - I'm ever so quick at picking up new languages... The diminutive from the Far East perseveres. "Is Meestah Felly! *Blyan* Felly - flom Loxy Music - in *LICKSHAW*!!" The penny drops and, sure enough, there he is, Bryan Ferry, emerging from a sumptuous pile of sonic blue satin - which I later discover to be none other than Jerry Hall - in the back of the Rickshaw. Well, I never, I think to myself - that must have set him back a yen or two.
"Why-aye wor Bob - has tha doon? Comin' oop wor toon wi' me and me bird like, fer wor crack, though but? Ah've jess get me life membership at wor Tokyo Joe's. Eee it's reet good, like. Ther've oner them Muriel jobbies, on wor wall like - wi' portraits of all wor top stars - Jimmy Durante, Marjorie Proops, Nina & Frederick, Danny La Rue, Margaret Rutherford, Christopher Martin Jenkins, Una Stubbs, John Noakes, Christopher Timothy, Rod Laver, three quarters of wor Black & White Minstrel Show and that bloke what does Police 5 - aye but that's a canny programme, though but. I love it, me: 'and remember; keep 'em peeled, though but!' Get in wor front seat wi' Ho Chi Min and let's be 'avin yers..."
Well, how could I refuse? Of course, Ferry's already half cut having stopped off at the Fat Ox for a crate or two of Newcastle Brown Ale, so I'm playing catch-up all night until I decide to go for broke and mainline some Jeyes cleaning fluid. Fuck me, that stuff *can't* still be legal, can it? He's a lovely lad Bryan, but he just doesn't know when to give it a rest with the sauce. I have to make my excuses when the introduction to the new song he's written in honour of the club starts up, and he's straight on to the midnight blue casino floor, starting to make his eyes go slitty by pulling them to the side with his index fingers and dancing around with a chopstick dangling from each nostril. I'm just about to pat him on the back and say my cheerios when he assumes his customary position on the dance floor, back arched, legs akimbo, his hand flailing around in the vicinity of his posterior, the thumb poised to spark up a gold Cartier lighter as the Ferry arse lets rip. My God, you know it's time to leave a party when Bryan starts setting light to his own farts. I give a disconsolate, embarrassed looking Jerry Hall a peck on the cheek as I make my way to the cloakroom. "Tell him to watch himself, pet," I tell her. "With those chopsticks and that lighter, he'll have both ends burning if he's not careful..."
Thursday, 22 May 2008
ChangesOneBob...
I'm often asked what motivates my frequent changes of style and image. My career has been one long kaleidoscopic slideshow of altered personae and ever-more outrageously styled characters and poses. One minute, I'm the fresh-faced mod with the Gor Blimey trousers and button-down Italian shirt singing 'The Gospel According to the Laughing Bombardier 'til Tuesday', the next, Mongy Spatula and his Peripatetics from Neptune sashays past in a turqouise bin liner and bovver boots asking 'is there life in Balham??' The cocaine-addled hauteur and palour of The Thin Grey Elastoplast is replaced by the pink-suited dandified bouffant swagger of the Serious Moodswings Tour. It's a full time job remembering who I am sometimes!
So why do I do it?
Is this some deep-rooted psychosis, a bizarre manifestation of a displaced and fragmented personality? Or have I somehow been locked into the ever-changing cultural zeitgeist - mere flotsam to every whim and fancy of rock fad and fashion, doomed to roam the pop firmament perpetually; restless, driven and in a perpetual state of flux? Quite possibly - although I'd have to add that it comes in bloody handy for avoiding disgruntled punters and stalkers when they don't have a *clue* what you look like.
But this strategy is not without risks of its own. Obviously, looking the way I do, I attract a *lot* of attention when I'm out in public - not all of it welcome by any means. It's not nice, believe me, when you're minding your own business in Boots, preparing to pilfer a pair of 15 denier hold-ups from their three for two range to replace the ones you snagged on your plant grip paper clip maxi skirt, only to be surrounded by a curious mob of sexually indeterminate emo youths, demanding refunds and tugging on your hair to see whether or not it's real. What is it with some people, eh? They just can't seem to accept that there's a difference between fantasy and reality and that just because a man might choose to wear mercilessly gouged out pantyhose and a gauzy, floor-length, see-through tube dress professionally, off duty, he's just as likely to be a Featherstone Rovers season ticket holder and a dab hand at darts who enjoys a pint of mild and a packet of cheesey wotsits in the public bar of the Cow & Snuffers as much as the next man in laddered lingerie and lacy arm-length gloves.
It's just a good job I wasn't wearing the wig, I suppose...
L.U.V. on y'all,
Bob
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So why do I do it?
Is this some deep-rooted psychosis, a bizarre manifestation of a displaced and fragmented personality? Or have I somehow been locked into the ever-changing cultural zeitgeist - mere flotsam to every whim and fancy of rock fad and fashion, doomed to roam the pop firmament perpetually; restless, driven and in a perpetual state of flux? Quite possibly - although I'd have to add that it comes in bloody handy for avoiding disgruntled punters and stalkers when they don't have a *clue* what you look like.
But this strategy is not without risks of its own. Obviously, looking the way I do, I attract a *lot* of attention when I'm out in public - not all of it welcome by any means. It's not nice, believe me, when you're minding your own business in Boots, preparing to pilfer a pair of 15 denier hold-ups from their three for two range to replace the ones you snagged on your plant grip paper clip maxi skirt, only to be surrounded by a curious mob of sexually indeterminate emo youths, demanding refunds and tugging on your hair to see whether or not it's real. What is it with some people, eh? They just can't seem to accept that there's a difference between fantasy and reality and that just because a man might choose to wear mercilessly gouged out pantyhose and a gauzy, floor-length, see-through tube dress professionally, off duty, he's just as likely to be a Featherstone Rovers season ticket holder and a dab hand at darts who enjoys a pint of mild and a packet of cheesey wotsits in the public bar of the Cow & Snuffers as much as the next man in laddered lingerie and lacy arm-length gloves.
It's just a good job I wasn't wearing the wig, I suppose...
L.U.V. on y'all,
Bob
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Wednesday, 21 May 2008
Mime and Lindsay Kemp...
One of the happiest times in my career was that spent working with internationally renowned mime artiste and cat throttler Lindsay Kemp. Oh what fun we'd have, whiling away the hours pretending to be trapped behind a plate of glass or attempting to stave off being crushed between two sliding doors with only the palms of our hands and a doorstop. I was only dipping my toe in the water though, in a dilletante Chameleon-changing-to-suit-the-needs-of-his-environment type dilly dallying, flibbertygibbety sort of way - Linds was the real Master (or should that be Mistress?? I was never too sure...) I mean, he could do stuff I couldn't even dream of - like that one where you pretend you've cut your thumb off and wiggle it about between two of your fingers. Such deft sleight of hand for a man of eighty!
It was Lindsay who choreographed all the shows on the Mongy Spondulick and the Milliners from Jupiter tour and, if I'm honest, he's the one who deserves most of the credit for the stunning visuals we achieved on stage, taking rock theatre to new heights - and Arbroath, if memory serves. They still talk about it at the Ruislip Community Centre, I'm told. Such fun I'd have, dressing up as Mongy, getting into character by groping a few of the soundcrew, mincing around in a tutu *completely* wrecked on Brass-o before bounding on stage in my trademark lyotard and stack heeled boots. I'd get so nervous before shows, you see, that I'd even forget to put my ruddy trousers on!
Lindsay may be the least well known of the Kemp brothers - most likely because Gary insisted on shunting him off to the side of the stage to play percussion wearing a daft kilt or miming to a session saxophonist's solo on 'True' - but no one could have been more pleased for the lad than I was when he finally reached the audience he deserved in that film about the Krays. He's brilliant as Phil in Eastenders too, isn't he? Face only a mother could love...
Ah the New Romantics! That takes me back. You see, it wasn't all mass unemployment, Thatcherism and Rick Astley in the 1980s. There *was* actually something even worse. Spendo Ballenedo and Utra-Volox were probably my favourites, but even they couldn't match the epic grandeur and austere majesty of Blancminge singing "I'm up the Cocking Tree". Oh for the day when someone will launch a full scale revival of that fabulous, innocent time. Hurry up lads, while I can still squeeze into me leg warmers!!
L.U.V. on y'all,
Bob
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It was Lindsay who choreographed all the shows on the Mongy Spondulick and the Milliners from Jupiter tour and, if I'm honest, he's the one who deserves most of the credit for the stunning visuals we achieved on stage, taking rock theatre to new heights - and Arbroath, if memory serves. They still talk about it at the Ruislip Community Centre, I'm told. Such fun I'd have, dressing up as Mongy, getting into character by groping a few of the soundcrew, mincing around in a tutu *completely* wrecked on Brass-o before bounding on stage in my trademark lyotard and stack heeled boots. I'd get so nervous before shows, you see, that I'd even forget to put my ruddy trousers on!
Lindsay may be the least well known of the Kemp brothers - most likely because Gary insisted on shunting him off to the side of the stage to play percussion wearing a daft kilt or miming to a session saxophonist's solo on 'True' - but no one could have been more pleased for the lad than I was when he finally reached the audience he deserved in that film about the Krays. He's brilliant as Phil in Eastenders too, isn't he? Face only a mother could love...
Ah the New Romantics! That takes me back. You see, it wasn't all mass unemployment, Thatcherism and Rick Astley in the 1980s. There *was* actually something even worse. Spendo Ballenedo and Utra-Volox were probably my favourites, but even they couldn't match the epic grandeur and austere majesty of Blancminge singing "I'm up the Cocking Tree". Oh for the day when someone will launch a full scale revival of that fabulous, innocent time. Hurry up lads, while I can still squeeze into me leg warmers!!
L.U.V. on y'all,
Bob
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Saturday, 17 May 2008
The New Look...
Thanks to all of you who've mailed in to comment on my new hairdo. The reaction's been mixed, I have to say - ranging from the unconvinced ("Get yer 'air cut, yer great lolloping poofter!") to the downright rude ("Get yer 'air cut and die, die, die, you great big pansy!") A few of you though were kind enough to ask how the overall effect was achieved, so I thought I'd fill you in on the day I spent with top London stylist, Keith, and how we managed to get that 'ruptured Saluki in a force nine gale look' that *everyone* will be asking for this summer...
The first thing to say about Keith is that he's an *absolute* perfectionist. Everything has to be just so - even down to the tongs in the sugar bowl....though why he doesn't just use scissors like everyone else is a bit of a mystery. He's *so* dedicated to the maintenance of his own impossibly high standards that he won't even *consider* cutting your hair unless it's virtually flawless to begin with. So it's often best to turn up at his bo-ho with a soupcon of Regency-style salon having already had a trim or, better still, wearing a wig that looks pretty much as you'd like the end result to be - as I did. But, assuming you've passed his stringent once over and he agrees to soiling his clippers on your mangy, flea ridden locks, I can't think of anyone I'd rather have let loose on my collection of hideously unrealistic made man fibres attached to a mesh backing and masquerading as human hair.
"So, what can we do for madam today?" Asks Keith. It's OK, he can see perfectly well once he takes the comedy eyes-on-a-pair-of-spring-style spectacles off. (Although there's no excuse for pinching a chaps buttocks, it has to be said. Is it just my ever-so-sensitive skin, or do curling tong burns take a bugger of a long time to scab up?) The initial skirmishes complete - "Something for the weekend sir? And would you like me to throw in some contraceptives and a vat of vaginal lubricant? It's on special offer and comes with free hosepipe applicator for an unmatchably sensual, snag-free shafting action....??") I put my fate in the hands of the maestro. He opts for a Byronesque twist on the Dandy style, with a little Urban Masseev, ironed out Afro - a twist of modernity thrown in to spice up the whole arrangement. That's the CD multichanger sorted - now for the *haircut*!
All told, I'm in there for seven and a half hours, but it's worth every penny (.....I do wish he'd get rid of that bloody meter....) as Keith painstakingly glues each strand of hair together. This must be costing me a *fortune* in u-hu, I think, but after a few minutes, I'm so off my bonce from the contact high of the adhesives that I'd willingly give him my house and half its contents in exchange for a short back and sides and a quickie behind the passport booth at Kings Cross St. Pancras. I do wish he'd trim his nostril hairs though...
L.U.V. on y'all,
Bob
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The first thing to say about Keith is that he's an *absolute* perfectionist. Everything has to be just so - even down to the tongs in the sugar bowl....though why he doesn't just use scissors like everyone else is a bit of a mystery. He's *so* dedicated to the maintenance of his own impossibly high standards that he won't even *consider* cutting your hair unless it's virtually flawless to begin with. So it's often best to turn up at his bo-ho with a soupcon of Regency-style salon having already had a trim or, better still, wearing a wig that looks pretty much as you'd like the end result to be - as I did. But, assuming you've passed his stringent once over and he agrees to soiling his clippers on your mangy, flea ridden locks, I can't think of anyone I'd rather have let loose on my collection of hideously unrealistic made man fibres attached to a mesh backing and masquerading as human hair.
"So, what can we do for madam today?" Asks Keith. It's OK, he can see perfectly well once he takes the comedy eyes-on-a-pair-of-spring-style spectacles off. (Although there's no excuse for pinching a chaps buttocks, it has to be said. Is it just my ever-so-sensitive skin, or do curling tong burns take a bugger of a long time to scab up?) The initial skirmishes complete - "Something for the weekend sir? And would you like me to throw in some contraceptives and a vat of vaginal lubricant? It's on special offer and comes with free hosepipe applicator for an unmatchably sensual, snag-free shafting action....??") I put my fate in the hands of the maestro. He opts for a Byronesque twist on the Dandy style, with a little Urban Masseev, ironed out Afro - a twist of modernity thrown in to spice up the whole arrangement. That's the CD multichanger sorted - now for the *haircut*!
All told, I'm in there for seven and a half hours, but it's worth every penny (.....I do wish he'd get rid of that bloody meter....) as Keith painstakingly glues each strand of hair together. This must be costing me a *fortune* in u-hu, I think, but after a few minutes, I'm so off my bonce from the contact high of the adhesives that I'd willingly give him my house and half its contents in exchange for a short back and sides and a quickie behind the passport booth at Kings Cross St. Pancras. I do wish he'd trim his nostril hairs though...
L.U.V. on y'all,
Bob
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Friday, 16 May 2008
Tramp Smash...
I'm delighted with the way my latest video has turned out. As you'll already know, I really think that the new crop of songs I'm working on with Eno, Visconti, Fripp and the Brotherhood of Man are my most potent since Gestapo Gizzard - and *that's* praise indeed! So you can imagine my even greater delight when we managed to secure the services of none other than Ms. Alison Goldfarpp to play the lead role in the little promo piece we've done for it...
(We were hoping to get Helena Bonham Carter, but sadly she was unavaliable as she's currently being used to frighten off crows in a field in Derbyshire. She says the hours are long and the work's a bit dull, but other than that at least she's out in the open air and, besides, what more could a girl want than to have a ruddy great pole up her arse from dusk 'til dawn....least, I *think* he's from Poland....)
L.U.V. on y'all,
Bob
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(We were hoping to get Helena Bonham Carter, but sadly she was unavaliable as she's currently being used to frighten off crows in a field in Derbyshire. She says the hours are long and the work's a bit dull, but other than that at least she's out in the open air and, besides, what more could a girl want than to have a ruddy great pole up her arse from dusk 'til dawn....least, I *think* he's from Poland....)
L.U.V. on y'all,
Bob
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Tuesday, 13 May 2008
The Victoria Station Incident...
I'm pleased to report that RCA have unearthed yet another lost gem from the vaults. "Tramp Smash" is an out-take from the Freikorps Clambake sessions that took place at Hansa-by-the-Wall studios sometime in the late 1970s. The song was written with Iggy Pop in Berlin on a banjolele - shame that, it was brand new one too....just couldn't stand the combined weight of his six pack and my stack heels... My, my, it's great to hear Eno's sublime two note synth riff again. 3 weeks he spent working on that. Then, in an inspired Eureka moment, he decided to turn the synthesizer on. The rest, as they say, is history. Can't believe we got away with all that top on the tambourine either. Still, that Visconti's a genius with percussion...and has a rarely acknowledged flair for embroidery too, as it goes...
Sadly, the release of FreiKorps Clambake was somewhat overshadowed by my return to Britain from Bavaria. Of course the press made a meal of it as per, and blew the whole thing *completely* out of proportion. I was just on my way to lend a hand at the Unity Mitford Shelter for Underprivileged Blond(e) Haired, Blue-eyed Orphans, and just happened to be wearing fancy dress for a little party we were throwing for the kids in celebration of the anniversary of the Anschluss with Austria and the re-militarization of the Ruhr. Happy days. Poor old Unity though - *so* misunderstood. Born in a small town in Canada called Swastika, and christened Unity Valkyrie Mitford by her demented, extreme right-wing, Jew-hating parents, she became a member of the British Union of Fascists, holidayed with Adolf Hitler and tried to blow her brains out when war was declared in 1939, her long cherished dream of unifying Hitler's Germany and Britain to form an Aryan super power left entirely in ruins. And from that, people have somehow made her out to be some sort of... I dunno, Nazi Sympathiser or something. That's journalists for you.
And so it was with me - a harmless attempt at recreating John Cleese's Ministry for Silly Walks skit whilst dressed in fullblown Waffen SS uniform, interspersed with the odd Seig Heil and cries of "He had *TWO* actually* was somehow massaged by a spiteful media into an embarrassing display of neo-Nazi fascist posturing.
Last time I buy the Daily Mail.
L.U.V. on y'all,
Bob
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Sadly, the release of FreiKorps Clambake was somewhat overshadowed by my return to Britain from Bavaria. Of course the press made a meal of it as per, and blew the whole thing *completely* out of proportion. I was just on my way to lend a hand at the Unity Mitford Shelter for Underprivileged Blond(e) Haired, Blue-eyed Orphans, and just happened to be wearing fancy dress for a little party we were throwing for the kids in celebration of the anniversary of the Anschluss with Austria and the re-militarization of the Ruhr. Happy days. Poor old Unity though - *so* misunderstood. Born in a small town in Canada called Swastika, and christened Unity Valkyrie Mitford by her demented, extreme right-wing, Jew-hating parents, she became a member of the British Union of Fascists, holidayed with Adolf Hitler and tried to blow her brains out when war was declared in 1939, her long cherished dream of unifying Hitler's Germany and Britain to form an Aryan super power left entirely in ruins. And from that, people have somehow made her out to be some sort of... I dunno, Nazi Sympathiser or something. That's journalists for you.
And so it was with me - a harmless attempt at recreating John Cleese's Ministry for Silly Walks skit whilst dressed in fullblown Waffen SS uniform, interspersed with the odd Seig Heil and cries of "He had *TWO* actually* was somehow massaged by a spiteful media into an embarrassing display of neo-Nazi fascist posturing.
Last time I buy the Daily Mail.
L.U.V. on y'all,
Bob
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Monday, 12 May 2008
Drugs...
It saddens me, if I'm honest, when I see yet another young pop artiste falling into the time-honoured pitfalls of the entertainment industry. Not a day passes by without another glaring headline screaming out from one of the red-tops; "Amy's Fresh Shocker - exclusive", or "My Day of Shame, by Cell-Bound Winehouse". Now, personally, I didn't think Back to Black was that bad, but I'm sure she herself would agree that it would have been even an better platter if young Amy had been able to keep her nose out of the Evo-stick tub long enough to do a few final drop-ins on the vocal tracks.
And don't get me started on Pete Doherty. My life, have I've tried! I even tracked him down and had a word with him myself - my God, prison visiting hours drag, don't they? They never seemed that long when I was on the other side of the table. Anyway, after I'd snuck the cake with a file in it past security and spent half an hour trying to offload several grams of barbiturates out of the sole of my stack heeled boots without attracting the attention of the prison guards (you try doing *that* in a gold lame body stocking and matching cape, buster...), I told him all about my own drug hell in the 1970s.
You see, at one point there wasn't a hardware store within a five mile radius of Sigma Sound studio that hadn't seen its shelves completely cleared of its entire stock of adhesives. Sometimes I have to confess, I was so desperate for a hit that I I'd even try a quick fix of polyfilla - yes, I know. It doesn't fill me with any pride, I can tell you. And worse - it just doesn't have the hold of a proper fixative. Oh, I'm completely clean now, of course - apart from the odd grouting flashback and the fact that, on a blustery day, I can still seal an envelope without my tongue from 100 metres away. *That's* an addiction, sonny. But will he listen? Still, youth, as they say, is wasted on the young; which is probably why old letches like me can get away with it, I suppose. "Of course I can help you with your exams Eliza - why, I can still remember the day I took *my* 11-plus. Which reminds me, I must give old Gaz Glitter a buzz - he still has a large assortment of my Bunty Annuals. He's due out in twenty years....
Must dash - Grange Hill's just about to start.
L.U.V. on y'all,
Bob
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And don't get me started on Pete Doherty. My life, have I've tried! I even tracked him down and had a word with him myself - my God, prison visiting hours drag, don't they? They never seemed that long when I was on the other side of the table. Anyway, after I'd snuck the cake with a file in it past security and spent half an hour trying to offload several grams of barbiturates out of the sole of my stack heeled boots without attracting the attention of the prison guards (you try doing *that* in a gold lame body stocking and matching cape, buster...), I told him all about my own drug hell in the 1970s.
You see, at one point there wasn't a hardware store within a five mile radius of Sigma Sound studio that hadn't seen its shelves completely cleared of its entire stock of adhesives. Sometimes I have to confess, I was so desperate for a hit that I I'd even try a quick fix of polyfilla - yes, I know. It doesn't fill me with any pride, I can tell you. And worse - it just doesn't have the hold of a proper fixative. Oh, I'm completely clean now, of course - apart from the odd grouting flashback and the fact that, on a blustery day, I can still seal an envelope without my tongue from 100 metres away. *That's* an addiction, sonny. But will he listen? Still, youth, as they say, is wasted on the young; which is probably why old letches like me can get away with it, I suppose. "Of course I can help you with your exams Eliza - why, I can still remember the day I took *my* 11-plus. Which reminds me, I must give old Gaz Glitter a buzz - he still has a large assortment of my Bunty Annuals. He's due out in twenty years....
Must dash - Grange Hill's just about to start.
L.U.V. on y'all,
Bob
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Thursday, 8 May 2008
Live Aid...
I was one of the first to be approached, of course. The phone goes just as Michael Buerk's heart-rending report is coming to an end, so I don't get to find out if Chinese scientists have had any luck artificially inseminating Cha-Chi with Chin-Chu's sperm. Ah, bless! I pick up. "Bob?? Id's me - Bob" "Oh, hi Bob." "Focken shuddit and lisden willya? Midge and me are puddn a show dogedder and yer'd bedder focken well do it - We've got Bowie, Queen, Macca, Ferry, de Who, Dire Straits, U2 - Springsdeen's donadin' his PA and we've god Harvey Goldsmid in charge of de dickeding - sorry I've god a focken derrible cold, I hope yer geddin' all dis. Sdadus Quo have said dey'll open - well, dere'll be no boggers dere, will dere, so whad harb cad id do? - and Phil Collins has already bagged de firsd class on Concorde, play ad bodh shows gig, but dere's sdill a space so some old hasbeen can dwang dheir way troo a few old prodesd songs backed by a couple of very pissed Rolling Stones. So Bob, will yer focken well do id or whad, y'old eejit???" Well, what could I say? Although I have to admit I was a bit confused when he signed off by asking me if I'd mind doing him a special favour and including a couple of numbers from Nashville Skyline...
Still, a gig's a gig.
L.U.V. on y'all,
Bob
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Still, a gig's a gig.
L.U.V. on y'all,
Bob
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Wednesday, 7 May 2008
Berlin, with Fripp & Eno...
"...I think what this section needs is a bathtub half-filled with kedgeree to liven it up a bit...", muses Brian, pulling thoughtfully on a duty-free Camel light. "What do you reckon Bob?" But Fripp's miles away, mumbling away tartly to himself, when he isn't singing The Wurzels then current hit, "Oi am a Zyder Drinker" that is. "Beck? Oi'll shittim! Page? Oi'll shittim! Weedon? Oi'll shittim! Ooo arr-ooo-arr-ay, Ooo-arr-ooooh-arr-ayyyyy!!!" and so he rambles on like an Alzheimered cretin until Eno tugs at his beard with a tuning fork and yells "Eh? Eh? Kedgeree Bob? Kedgeree!!??
The initial sessions have been a bit of a washout - not helped by my having been completely off my face on Harpic since the middle of 1975. They really shouldn't be allowed to sell it to 12 year olds, should they? Eno's been grappling with the white noise introduction to "I Left Some Kippers at the Nuremburg Rally" while Fripp's supposed to be working out a tortuous guitar figure for the, as yet, untitled instrumental ("Greasy Plinth") that will open the sequence of lengthy mood pieces that make up side two of "Heron Pickling in the Weimar Republic". It's not easy being seminal.
I stroll outside with Visconti for a crafty joint and leave the two giants of progressive rock arguing over guitar parts. "For the billionth and the last time Brian, it's called the fecking *bridge*...." I ask after Tony's then-wife, the singer Mary Hopkin. "Oh she's alright, I suppose..." he shrugs. "Still Welsh...." He tails off with a helpless sigh and I give him an apologetic pat on the shoulder. "Maybe we could get her in to do some Doo-doo-doo-doo-doo-doos on the the middle eight of "My Teutonic Espadrille"? Or has that incontinence of hers cleared up?"...
L.U.V. on y'all,
Bob
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The initial sessions have been a bit of a washout - not helped by my having been completely off my face on Harpic since the middle of 1975. They really shouldn't be allowed to sell it to 12 year olds, should they? Eno's been grappling with the white noise introduction to "I Left Some Kippers at the Nuremburg Rally" while Fripp's supposed to be working out a tortuous guitar figure for the, as yet, untitled instrumental ("Greasy Plinth") that will open the sequence of lengthy mood pieces that make up side two of "Heron Pickling in the Weimar Republic". It's not easy being seminal.
I stroll outside with Visconti for a crafty joint and leave the two giants of progressive rock arguing over guitar parts. "For the billionth and the last time Brian, it's called the fecking *bridge*...." I ask after Tony's then-wife, the singer Mary Hopkin. "Oh she's alright, I suppose..." he shrugs. "Still Welsh...." He tails off with a helpless sigh and I give him an apologetic pat on the shoulder. "Maybe we could get her in to do some Doo-doo-doo-doo-doo-doos on the the middle eight of "My Teutonic Espadrille"? Or has that incontinence of hers cleared up?"...
L.U.V. on y'all,
Bob
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Tuesday, 6 May 2008
Bob's 1001 Glam Icon Fashion Tips...
#1,085...
The Halter-Neck Paper Clip and Hairband Top look....
I'm often asked how I can afford to look so glamorous, living as I do on a retired serviceman's pension and whatever immoral earnings I can weasel out of procuring for the elderly couple in the flat below - a case of rapidly diminishing returns if ever there was one. Well, it's not easy, I can tell you. And it'll get a darn sight harder if that retired serviceman ever finds out I've been skimming his pension for the last 15 years... But, as the time-honoured old adage has it, Necessity is the Mother of Invention. (Or am I thinking of Frank Zappa?) Regardless; here's a great tip for any of you who don't want to allow total impecunity (or astonishing tight-fistedness for that matter) to stop you looking like the belle (or beau) of the ball...
It's really very simple. All you need is 2 clumps of elasticated hairbands (£2.99 for 50 at Superdrug), 2 boxes of multicoloured schoolroom paper clips (99p for a box of approx. 100 from Waitrose) and about 15 hours to spare. The rest is just a question of having impeccable style - note, connoisseurs, the exquisite arc of the neckline and the insouciant hang of the decolletage... - and being foolish (or foolhardy - or *both*) enough to wear a cheap assortment of badly cobbled together tat to a glittering, star-studded event like the British Soap Opera Awards. The Mascara, in case you were wondering, is of course from L'Oreal.
(Well, I'm whurrr-thet....)
L.U.V. on y'all,
Bob
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The Halter-Neck Paper Clip and Hairband Top look....
I'm often asked how I can afford to look so glamorous, living as I do on a retired serviceman's pension and whatever immoral earnings I can weasel out of procuring for the elderly couple in the flat below - a case of rapidly diminishing returns if ever there was one. Well, it's not easy, I can tell you. And it'll get a darn sight harder if that retired serviceman ever finds out I've been skimming his pension for the last 15 years... But, as the time-honoured old adage has it, Necessity is the Mother of Invention. (Or am I thinking of Frank Zappa?) Regardless; here's a great tip for any of you who don't want to allow total impecunity (or astonishing tight-fistedness for that matter) to stop you looking like the belle (or beau) of the ball...
It's really very simple. All you need is 2 clumps of elasticated hairbands (£2.99 for 50 at Superdrug), 2 boxes of multicoloured schoolroom paper clips (99p for a box of approx. 100 from Waitrose) and about 15 hours to spare. The rest is just a question of having impeccable style - note, connoisseurs, the exquisite arc of the neckline and the insouciant hang of the decolletage... - and being foolish (or foolhardy - or *both*) enough to wear a cheap assortment of badly cobbled together tat to a glittering, star-studded event like the British Soap Opera Awards. The Mascara, in case you were wondering, is of course from L'Oreal.
(Well, I'm whurrr-thet....)
L.U.V. on y'all,
Bob
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