Pick of the Bobs Take Two...

...It's a Wonderful Blog (Part 1) [...originally posted 21/12/2005...]
"...say Ernie - maybe I got a shot of some bad liquor or something....."


Christmas in Rothergavenny Falls: "...say, give me another brace of that mead, willya - and make it snappy!!"

...and yet everything had started so well. Roberta's homecoming was on the front of the newspaper and all of Rothergavenny Falls was itching to welcome back our heroine from the war. Gee, everyone was so proud of Roberta since she saved that entire troop carrier from the kamikaze pilot. Seems those Japs just can't resist a pair of badly shaved legs smeared in brake oil and piston lubricant doing the okey-cokey. Heck, even Old Man Pooter had to admit that just this once the boys from the old Swipe Building and Loan had him knocked into a cocked hat!


Old Man Pooter oversees another strip rummy evening at Martini's place...

Sonia and the kids were all fine - except for little Zu-zu who had somehow picked up a dose of the clap through running around in a skimpy blouse - in this weather! Kids, huh? Yes, it was all going smoothly until scatter-brianed Uncle Brian worked himself up into such a lather taunting Old Man Pooter about Roberta's exploits and her meeting the First Lady and the way the Old Swipe Building and Loan was in such fine fettle that he didn't realise he'd left the interest from the T4 Popworld Presenters Benevolent Fund in Pooter's lap instead of paying it into the high interest bank account. (And we were going to buy an I-pod for the office too...)


"...and while you're down there Violet..."

So, you can probably imagine how I felt when I got back to the Old Swipe Building and Loan to find an empty safe and a bank examiner hovering over my accounts. Then, as if I didn't have enough to worry about, the local lady of leisure, Violet Bick came in to have one of her Blonde Moments. Seems she wants to run off to New York to re-enact a Hubert Selby Jr. short story with a bunch of guys from the neighbourhood, and can I lend her 10 bucks for some knee pads and an industrial strength grit remover? Gee Violet, I tell her, we're all gonna miss you. Strip rummy nights at Martini's will never be the same again. And don't forget, I shout after her as she's just about to hit the street, you still owe me a peek of your garter belt from last Tuesday. Poor Violet - so accomodating. Still, she'll never be short of a cupped hand to collect her cigarette ash with abductor muscles like those...



But anyhow, I try to buy time with the Bank Examiner, persuading him to take a tour of Uncle Brian's collection of spangly tights while I try to track down the missing money from the T4 Popworld Presenters Benevolent Fund. I run back to the house and Sonia and the kids are running riot. Good job I have two other wives to keep an eye on them, I ponder as I replace the knob on the bannister that always comes off in my hand when I (....ahhh, make up your own gags - it's Christmas....) Son's trying to teach young FredandFreds to Say Underpants. Heck, does he have to keep saying it over and over, I yell. Well, he's got to practice says Sonia as poor FredandFreds starts to cry - I've been standing on his finger for the past fifteen minutes, I now realise. I feel such a heel for shouting that I try to make amends. Here, let me help you sons, I say. Look, it's easy:

U-N-D-E-R-P...

But he storms off blubbing to his mother's arms. What kind of a cockamamey house is this anyway? I shout And where's Zu-zu I ask? She's upstairs with a fever. I run upstairs and sit by her bedside.

- How's you fever? I ask her gently
- Not a smitch of temperature, Daddy! She beams back
- And how about the clap?

She falls asleep and I steal a couple of her opium petals from the vase by the side of the bed in the hope that I can mix them up into some super-strength narcotic that might turn this horrible nightmare into merely a bad dream. I storm back down stairs and as I get to the bottom, the phone is ringing. Hello? Yes, this is Bob Swipe. Yeah she's fine but no thanks to you, you stupid dumb ass penis brained lump of a woman. Listen, lady, that's a fine way to look after our children when they're in your care. What is it, huh? Can't you teach them to keep their legs together when they go out in weather like this? Ah, Mister Welch is it? Now what kind of a name is that for a female Geography teacher called Jane. Oh, you will, will you....?

But before Mr. Welch had time to measure me up for an all-over colostemy bag and matching leotard, I was already on my way over - pride swallowed and cap in hand - to see the only man who could get me out of this goddamn pickle I'd gotten myself into......


Old Man Pooter himself!


To be continued..........



Love on y'all,



Bob

Robert Swipe: an appreciation...

by Mardin Antlers...

Regular readers will be familiar with my occasional stints deputising on these pages. I'm the go-to-guy around Swipe Towers when his nibs is too emotionally racked out to make it to the typewriter; a kind of bleeperised Boswell, perpetually left to dangle at the other end of the line, primed and loaded and ready to step up in the unlikely event that His Master's Voice croaks out. It was me, you'll recall, who filled his britches when Swipe's old man pegged out. I've stepped up to the plate on several other occasions when the jags got too much or if the guvnor had his head too far down the glue bag to achieve what passes for coherence around here; like the time the Gunners lost it big time in the European Cup or when Kaplinsky hitched it out of BBC Breakfast news.

Oh sure, we go *way* back, old Bob and me. I first became aware of the Swipe presence when we both had a sock each in the rough old bad old end of Queensway. We kept ourselves pretty much to our selves - you did back then in the 70s; you didn't know where people had been back then. Or rather, you had a *pretty* *good* idea where people had been back then - and it didn't wipe off quite as easily in those days, no matter what Elton John might tell you. Besides, I had my career to carve and Bob; well, you know all about Bob by now. It wasn't until a bit later that the suspicious nods and winks across a smoke-filled saloon bar gave way to a mutual liking and respect. Our first real connection came much, much later, in the 80s, around the time of the fatwah, when Bob and I were taking it in turns to hide Salman Rushdie. It was in those charged and feverish days that we first really got to know one another, at the hand over time when whichever of us had been concealing Salman in the specially enlarged, state-sponsored brown mackintosh we used for the purpose back in those early days of exile would carefully slip each arm out whilst the other simultaneously slid theirs in, all the while attempting to keep the large, balding, bearded man in glasses crouched between our legs out of public view; not easy to do in the middle of Notting Hill High Street, I can tell you...

Our friendship became formalised when Bob sang at my second wedding - at least, I *think* he was singing. This was about the time that Bob had sacrificed the patiently cultivated pop following he'd been building up since the late 1960s and was beginning to inhabit a far more provocative and outre space. Increasingly, the traditional certainties of the performer's identity were being dissolved; was that *singing*, or did he just have a poodle up his skirt? Was he even a man? And if he wasn't, how far would he let you go on a first date before you had to get the handcuffs out? Strange times.

But now we're both of an age where, no matter what we do, our work will always be overshadowed by that awesome initial promise we both showed. I believe that's what has sustained Bob and my friendship all these years. We both know how it feels to live in the shadow of our former greatness. And now, as we arrow towards that ever-dimishing singularity; that universe-consuming point, it behoves me to say one final thing; take care dear, gentle brother; take care...

A Christmassy Bob (slight return...)

Owing to the surprising popularity of this year's festive podcast, we seem to have used up all 25GB of our Jellycast allocation - this means, unfortunately, that anyone trying to access the show after the download limit had been reached was unable to. Consequently, as a temporary fix, we've posted the show at an alternative location so that anyone who wanted to listen to the show but couldn't access it, now can.

We've been completely taken aback by the demand for this week's episode - so please accept our sincere apologies if you've been affected by this issue - but hope that anyone who had trouble getting the show downloaded hasn't been too badly inconvenienced. We hope you enjoy the show despite the delays and wish all our listeners a very Merry Christmas and every happiness in the year ahead...

Listen to/download A Christmassy Bob here...



xxx
Bob

A Christmassy Bob...

....well, seeing as it's snowing...

;)

Download/listen to A Christmassy Bob here...

...or take a snap of this...



A very Merry Christmas to *all* my reader...

xxx
Bob

My Amy's True...

[...somewhere deep in darkest cyberspace, coffee is being drunk...]
"So Bob, who's the most famous person you've ever met then?"

"When you say *met*, would you include singing 'Oliver's Army' in the vague direction of someone in a near-empty cinema?"

"Erm, no - not really..."


"Oh well, that rules Elvis Costello out then. I was once given two pounds by Patti Boulaye whilst busking. I gave it back of course - thinking she could buy me off with the Tory dollar - the very cheek of it. Robert Wyatt's wife, Alfie, she threw some coins into the hat and said 'he liked 'Psycho Killer', but I'm not sure how much. Didn't have the heart to tell her I'd been singing 'Don't worry about the government..."

"Is that it? God almighty, you've led a sheltered life..."

"Nah, nah I was just trying to remember them, is all. There's Rufus, obviously. And Sally Margaret Joy out of Furniture - remember them? "You must be out of your brilliant mind..." Gerald Harper - he used to live in the house opposite hours around the time he was in Hadleigh. Sir Harrison Birtwistle; he taught me how to play the flute. At least I *think* it was a flute; anyway, I had to give it up after it got stuck up a nostril. He was great, old Harry. Completely round the twist, but a lovely lad. That bloke from the Lighning Seeds who wrote 'Three Lions on the Shirt' lives in their old house now. Can't tell you what it's done to the house prices... Steve Coppell once kicked a ball back to me during a charity 5-a-side tournament. I scored twice in a 3-1 group stage match before we were eliminated in the quarters. He declined to take up the option of a trial, unfortunately. I've also shared a car with Rodney Marsh. He had it at weekends and on Wednesdays and I had it the rest of the time. Economical, ethical and quite a bit of a goer when you put your foot down - the car wasn't bad either. I've had my photo taken with Stan Bowles too - he was a bit of a lad. You'd never believe he and Peter were brothers really, would you? How about you Ames?"

"Well, I don't know where to start - I've probably met everyone who is or has been anyone really. But it's not all it's cracked up to be, is it - fame?

Pond's Cold - Cream...

[...somewhere deep in darkest cyberspace, a sneeze is heard...]

"...AAAAAASSHHHHHOOOOOOOOOOOO"

"It's those miniscule skirts you will insist upon wearing regardless of the temperature. Did I or did I not warn you the other day to wrap up warm as it was minus four? And did you or did you not completely disregard my advice and proceed to go out in the snow wearing a microskirt and skimpy 5 deniers? Well, I'm waiting?"

"Yo dot helpig - cad yo stob havig a go ad be ad pass be sub tissued plead. By dode id streabig ad I'b feeding like shid warbed ub ad I'b really dot id der bood for a legtcher, thag you very buch..."

"Ah, poor Ames! You are bunged up, aren't you! Here, have some Lemsip. I've put a straw in there too. And some ice. Just how you like it."

"Thags."

"Excuse me young lady, but are those my tights you're wearing?"

"I hodesly dode doe Bob, I jud pigged up der firsd pair thad cabe do had. Why, id thad a probleb?"

"It is when you've laddered them darling. They were brand new too. Oh well, I suppose with a few specks of feck blood they'll do for MySpace..."

"I'b do soddy Bob; I probise I'll ged you aduther pair id the Dew Year. You doe wad id's like whed you're feedig a bid udder par ad oud of sords. I bead, loog ad be - I cad hardly keeb by eyed obed..."

"I know petal, I know. Here, you get back into bed and I'll do you some eggs and toast and put some nice soothing music on for you, how would you like that...?"

"Mmm, you're der tobs Bob - thag you doe buch for being do kide ad loogig afder be so well..."

[....sound of Cream's Disraeli Gears blaring out at full volume from the living room...]

"Bob, whad id dat derrible raget? I cad hardly hear byself dink...?"

"I thought you'd like this Ames - it's got Ginger Baker on it..."

"Whode Giger Bager...???"

"He was the drummer. By the way, how do you like your eggs Ames..."

"Udferdilized..."

xxx
Bob

On Golden Pond...

[...somewhere in darkest cyberspace, a contented sigh, followed by a deep inhalation from a freshly lit cigarette...]

"...Mmmm..."

"Did the so-called Doctor know you were a smoker Ames?"

"He probably had an inkling. I mean, there's only so many times you can tell someone you're just popping out for a breath of fresh air in the darkest corners of deep space before you start arousing suspicion. [...pause...] ...Mmm... that was *so* nice...Didn't hurt anywhere near as much as I thought it would."

"You're not seriously trying to tell me that was your first time...??"

"No, I was talking about the calliper, actually."

"But you can still see why I'd want to get it sanded down?"

"Oh sure. I mean, personally I don't mind a bit of thigh grazing. But it's you that's got to wear it all day..."

"And you were OK with all the static?"

"Hmmm - I suppose I'd have to try it with one of us not wearing any tights, just for the comparison. But no, it was mildly hair-raising I suppose - but in a good way."

[Long pause...] "...so, did I...you know...live up to your expectations then?"

"Oh yes - definitely! In fact, it was *exactly* like being savaged by Tony Hancock in drag...in a good way, obviously."

[Even longer pause...] "...and how did I compare to....you know..."

"The Doctor? [pause] ...Look, I think we should just enjoy the moment and not rake over old coals. All I know is that we're here and it's now and I had a really, really lovely time. Honestly. [Whispering] Thank you..."

"So I make you happy then...?"

"Yes Bob. You do. Plus I get to catch up my reading, so yeah...It's good."

"How are you finding the B.S. Johnson?"

"Oh, it's a bit confusing, isn't it? I mean, I keep shuffling the pages and finding I'm re-reading the same section. But no, it's cool..."

"Right young lady; I'm going to get some shut eye. Can you just make sure you've stubbed your cigarette out before you turn the light out. Don't want to burn the attic down, do we?"

"Aye aye Cap'n! Night night Bob."

"Good night Amy. Sweet dreams..."


xxx
Bob

Pondlife...

....The continuing cosmic adventures of Amy Pond...

Amy: Doctor - did you still want to go and see that Gauguin exhibition at the Tate?

The Doctor [distractedly as he's trying to resolder a bit of the Tardis with his sonic screwdriver..]:...of course! Gauguin's one of my favourite Post-Impressionist painters...

Amy: I was never too hot on the Art History. I just kind of like what I like and know when I like it, kind of thing...

The Doctor [...who now has his sonic screwdriver between his teeth as he pulls a spaghetti junction of wires out from beneath the console...]: Mmm-hmm...

Amy: I mean, remind me which ones were the Impressionists again?

The Doctor: ...well, there was Yarwood, Bremner, McGowan, Culshaw - Janet Brown did a pretty good Maggie Thatcher...

Amy: [...]

Bobcast #7 (remastered)...

Merely for the historical record. No other reason.

Ignore/download/listen to Bobcast #7 (remastered) here...

xxx
Bob

Alan Bennett fined for speeding...

And it could be argued that Shane Warne has made his first impact on the series. Yesterday Pietersen was given the use of a Lamborghini, the A$475,000 (£296,000) Gallardo LP560-4. As an ambassador for Lamborghini, Warne had generously made the arrangements for Pietersen.

• Interactive guide to all the Ashes venues
• Sign up now for our weekly email The Spin
• How to stay awake during the Tests
• Follow our daily blog throughout the Ashes
• The latest news and comment on our Ashes site
"This is Warnie's patch", said KP discreetly, "and when I'm in town he looks after me. Just the same as Sachin [Tendulkar] does in Mumbai or [Sourav] Ganguly in Kolkota".

Inevitably the car was bright yellow and almost inevitably Pietersen – once he had established how to open the fuel cap – could not resist. He was stopped for speeding in the outskirts of Melbourne for driving at 121kph and fined A$239 (£149) and docked three points.

Yesterday, Pietersen told his thousands of followers on Twitter that he was looking forward to the experience. Before he was stopped, he tweeted enthusiastically: "Great Ocean Road today ..." Once under way, he added: "Stunning beaches on The Great Ocean Rd.. Gorgeous drive."

At last, then, some cheer for the Australians, but we are not in Tiger Moth territory. In 1990 David Gower hired a light aircraft in Queensland and alongside John Morris, "bombed" the ground, where England were playing against the state side. The tour management had a sense of humour failure; a merry jape became a major issue and morale frittered away as a consequence. This time around everyone is just trying not to guffaw too brazenly in Pietersen's presence. No disciplinary action will be taken.

Pietersen is not the first visiting sportsman to face traffic trouble in Melbourne. Earlier this year Lewis Hamilton was stopped by police for anti-social driving and had his car impounded.

...aaaahh!...

You see, there *are* some nice people out there...

Thanks to everyone on the Rufus Sewell message board forum. (I don't have the heart to tell them that Rufe is just an ingeniously life-like glove puppet operated by me on the odd occasion that I want to 'up my profile'... They'll have to find out some day though, I guess...)

;)

xxx
Bob

Gimme Some Truth...

Two memories centring around John Lennon...

1) It's summer, 1978. A holiday cottage in a tiny Welsh hamlet, smelling of cold stone and the smoke from damp woodblocks - (the cottage that is, we were still only kids so probably smelt of bad breath and marmite. And pooh.) Cas puts the copy of The Beatles Early Years he's just picked up on the journey from Woolies in Carmarthen (?) onto the little box record player - we may even have brought this up with us from London, perhaps? It's a cheapo jobby - £1.99? Not much more than that at any rate. On Contour records, a budget subsidiary of RCA. Cheap and cheerful as it may be, 'Ain't she sweet' starts up and the unmistakable Lennon rasp sings out into the chilly room. It sounds eye-twinklingly good to us, undiscriminating and callow as we are. But then Cas's Dad, Bill, joins us and his eyes are twinkling too. "That's Lennon? - my God, he sounds young...and blardy good." (He was Australian, hence the uplift.) We sit together, six eyes twinkling, until the song ends. Then we go back to being kids, and Bill goes back to being Bill - at least, for a few more months.

2) It's thirty years ago today. I slouch into school where I'm met by another of Bill's sons, Rufus. "Did you hear? John Lennon died...?" (He's not Australian - he's just asking a question that he can't believe he's having to ask, hence the uplift...) I'm going through that hideous teenage phase where the shortest of conversations feels like an entirely unreasonable demand upon my time and resources and I have an unjustifiable and inexplicable hatred of the world. I'm shocked, but I'm not going to let anybody know that."So what?", I sneeringly reply. Later I rationalise this to myself and to others by explaining that I was merely reacting the way that Lennon would have at the same age. Whatever the rights and wrongs of it, by 7pm that evening I'd played through most of the Lennon Beatles songs and what I had of the solo stuff and was as damp eyed as the rest of the nation as the sombre strains of 'In my life' accompanied the closing credits to Not the Nine O'clock News.

I have a far less uncomplicated love for John Lennon than I did when I was a kid. For all its many flaws - 'Drive my Car' is one of Paul's, isn't it? Weybridge is in Surrey, not in Sussex, and the feeling it gives you at times that it should really have beeen called The Lives of Yoko Ono - Albert Goldman's 1988 biography has more than compensated for the tendency that arose in the aftermath of Lennon's assassination to canonise him. The problem with The Lives of John Lennon is not so much the attempt to paint Lennon as a weak, easily manipulated dilletante, prone to violence - especially towards women - who would urge his listeners to 'imagine no possessions' in one breath then sign a cheque for a collection of fur coats before taking his next; all of these are valid criticisms of the man, and there are many, many more with which I would concur. The love may be tempered now by a fuller knowledge of the failings of the loved, but it's no less real.

No, the problem with Goldman's book is the way it deliberately sets out to conflate the faults of Lennon the man with those of the Sixties idealism of which he was and is regarded, rightly or wrongly, as being emblematic. It's a yobbish form of flattery, I suppose, that a former yob like Lennon would probably have appreciated. If you're taking on a gang, always go for the biggest and toughest one and take him out. The others will be so astounded by your nerve that they'll run off. And this appears to have been how things have panned out; by at the very least discrediting (if not actually eliminating) Lennon, neo-Conservatism has put one over on the progressives collectively. There are contemporary echoes here, perhaps, with the recent treatment of Julian Assange who I'm sure would identify with the Lennon whose protracted bid for US citizenship was held up thanks to trifling drug convictions completely dwarfed by the cultural significance of his work.

I read a recent piece by Richard Williams in which he imagined how Lennon might have been had he been alive today. Sure, he would have been a prodigious tweeter and he wouldn't have had much time for modern pop music. But I think he'd also have been very out of step with the prevailing air of caution in the area of public discourse. Watch those early home movie clips of the Beatles goofing around and Lennon's default position when confronted by a camera is to pull a 'spazz' face. He was deeply irreverent throughout and I've a feeling that this anti-authoritarian streak might have acquired a bizarrely fogeyish quality in the current context where people are more concerned with not offending others than discovering what it is that they actually find offensive themselves. Lennon probably had the best bullshit detector going and added to that he was the sort of person who would not hide behind the excuse of a spoonerism if he wanted to call someone like Jeremy Hunt a cunt - do the math...

The Goldman book attempts to portray Lennon as a conflicted and hypocritical character and it would be possible to recognise the hefty tome as the vital act of iconoclasm its author no doubt believed he'd presented to the world were it not for one thing: Lennon's own music. Whether through possessing tin ears, or being too much of a jazzer - or, more likely, because he was in such a rush falling over himself to find the meanest qualities in Lennon and all he said and did that he didn't really listen to the music that Lennon actually produced to find enough self-excoriation for several biographies. Goldman had no need to rifle through their trash to discover that, for instance, the Dakota Building was not the land of milk and honey for its most famous residents that their PR machine would have had the world believe. Double Fantasy may not be Lennon's best work - to the extent that the most exciting music on it is that produced by his wife - but you only have to listen to songs like 'Losing you' and 'Clean up time' to find that Goldman's muck raking as to their drug habits and marital disharmony is otiose.

Lennon may have learned in later life, as we all do at one time or another, the necessity of appearing to stand shoulder to shoulder with one's loved ones and that in order to do so, one needs occasionally to be less than frank for the sake of diplomacy. But Lennon was uniquely talented in (or afflicted by, perhaps, in the solo years) his inablity to edit the candour of the moment from the work. There's a lot - his attacks in song on McCartney, Allen Klein, 99 per cent of his contribution to Some Time in New York City one would hope - that he probably regretted and which others would have dithered over releasing in the first place and finally pulled back from unleashing at the last moment. Lennon just put it out and worried later. Whatever other qualities you could question it for lacking - wisdom, polish, generosity and, in the case of Some Time in New York City, a strip of gaffer tape over his wife's mouth - Lennon's solo work always tells you where he was at at the time he made it. If only for that, with such honesty and self-exploration in such short supply, we could do with him around today.

...and you can listen to the man himself right here...

xxx
Bob

14 comments:
Billy said...
Are you channelling Kate Bush, Bob? Regardless, nice stuff.

20 June 2007 14:05
Rhonda said...
great post. great thoughts.
and I like your garden.

20 June 2007 20:23
Istvanski said...
Nice patio.

I really like the cat ornament.

21 June 2007 04:47
rockmother said...
Pensive!

21 June 2007 04:51
dh said...
Quite beautiful Robert. Does the cat ornament come in at night?

21 June 2007 07:23
Robert Swipe said... I've been dubbing Kate for *years* Billster..

How else do you think she gets those high notes??


L.U.V. on ya,

Bob

22 June 2007 08:11
Mollster said...
Was it you who made her eyes go all funny in 'Army Dreamers' then? Click Click

Always keep looking at the Big Sky. It's huge and full of opportunities. Always look up.

27 June 2007 11:38
Mr Pleebus said...
"I’m left looking up at the clouds, honest clouds, not yet dramatically Turnerized by the colluding sunset and pollution into that wonderful wash of yellows and pinks that I remember from childhood… huge floaters, dirty/pristine globs of falling/staying put water vapour, teased by the vagaries of gravity into majestic galleons of scuzz."

Poetry. Mr Bob, you really should write a book.

Love, Mr Pleebus

28 June 2007 11:24
rockmother said...
Oh poo - I dropped by to see if you had come back but you are still whirling in the ethercloud. Love on ya Bobster xx

3 July 2007 19:25
dh said...
Leave him alone rm...he deserves a break.

6 July 2007 07:22
Tim Footman said...
No he doesn't. He needs to come back and save the universe. We're dealing with a reformed Genesis here, and only the Swipe can stop it.

7 July 2007 07:47
Betty said...
What, Genesis have reformed? Is that with Buster on vocals or Peter Gabriel dressed as Little Weed? Either way, it's awful news.

Swipe is staying at a caravan park in Rhyl for the next six months.

8 July 2007 02:56
rockmother said...
I saw Genesis at Live Earth - not good. Phil Collins looked a bit hacked off as some wag hadn't turned his mic on for the first 30 secs of his opening entrance. Whoops.

9 July 2007 14:45
Istvanski said...
And to top it all, he had a *huge* bust up with that rather nice little Swiss bird of his. That's what inspired him to swear on stage.

L.U.V on ya,

Bob.

9 July 2007 16:28

That Was The Week That Was...

Morte archives from a happier time; when men were men and it took 212 female impersonators to change a lightbulb, but only one to change your mind...

comments:
rockmother said... She's got nice writing old Lucers hasn't she?

PS: Lovely to bump into you the other day despite the fact I made myself the most unpopular person in the supermarket by blocking all entrances to tills without pause for breath!

Romotissuerie of Motissueries (because it's that time of year). xx


10 November 2008 00:36
Istvanski said...
Bob! I take it you have purchased tickets for one of Magazine's gigs at The Forum for next February?

http://www.myspace.com/magazineofficial

Word Verif; cyseg

What the fuck is a cyseg?!?


13 November 2008 12:08
rockmother said... Oh I haven't got the sniffles - just piffles - it's jsut that everyone else is sneezing and a-wheezing it seems. Yes - drink over next 2 weeks? Not at The Lion Rouge - it's gawn dahn 'ill - maybe somewhere in Twickers me old chum? xx

Word verif: ingsonsi - Welsh for something like "he's singing you see" (is iiiit?)

13 November 2008 16:11
Istvanski said... That must explain why you were no where to be seen at the recent Barry Gray gig at the RFH.

Word verif: repti
Just the "l" and the "e" missing from that one.


Betty said...
Only two visitors a week, eh? At least you don't get searches that say "I want Noosha Fox vomit" from Ohio (well, maybe you do).

Magazine are touring? That must be difficult, what with the dead guitarist and all.

Word verification - iwantnooshafoxvomit

15 November 2008 13:05
Robert Swipe said...
Ah, the delightful Mrs. Geoff!! L.U.V.ly to hear from you.

We have a running joke in our house about a neighbour of our's called Geoff who has a wife (Mrs. Geoff) who's always laying out cat biscuits for the felines of our street. We're toying with stealing her idea and marketing an assortment of kitty treats along the lines of Mrs. Geoff's Biscuits...you wait until this recession simmers down, you won't be laughing then...

Yes, Magazine sans McGeoch: doesn't add up, does it? Who will be in his stead? Robin Simon? Ben 'Mendy' Mendelson? Adrian Belew? Cat Balou??

Must dash, I have a kitten to order...

xxx
Bob

P.S. just *WHO* is Noosha Fox?

P.P.S. and what's so special about vomit in Ohio??

P.P.P.S. wrod verficatoon: thelghtprsoutofmoi - you couldn't make it up, could you?

16 November 2008 03:50

Post a Comment

That Was The Week That Was...

Our usual weekly round up of what people were saying about the Robert Swipe Show when they could be bothered to read it...

This week: Week beginning March 20th 2007:

12 comments:
Rhonda said...
you're not seriously taking a "break" from the blogosphere?

20 March 2007 06:59
rockmother said...
Bob - please check your mail. Ta.

20 March 2007 08:14
dh said...
Just catching up on all the Comic Relief fall-out and I see Robert has been naughty. No surprise there. Off you go to the headmaster's office swipe.

20 March 2007 09:24
Stray Photon said...
Oh no you don't, Swipe. Get back here immediately. Stop sulking and get back to work.

I liked "Spinterella". And the video is inspired. I was just trying to think of some other words rather than F. Brill!

I know where you live...

20 March 2007 09:50
the whales said...
Keep blogging, Swipe - plenty of readers out here!

20 March 2007 10:52
Doris said...
But...but...I only just got here! Don't flounce off now, just when I was enjoying it.

Oh, and thank you muchly for the very kind endorsement. I promise I am an authentic nobody with low levels of rancidity.

20 March 2007 11:59
rockmother said...
Not at all Bob - both the vid/song Spinsterella was/is great - re: asbo comment - perhaps I should have put in brackets (I am writing this laughing and smiling as I am joking rather than tapping words out tainted with vitriol and hate)? Going away now.

20 March 2007 13:19
Istvanski said...
There's no point in slinking off to your goth birds splattered in feck blood (even though they're a more tempting type of reader to have compared to yer average Croydon inbred blogger like meself), but by you taking a prolonged break from here will only encourage Photon to post more pics of Windass, which *simply* *will* *not* *do*!

It's YOUR blog, you can and should say whatever the fuck you feel like wether you're sober, rat-arsed or of unsound mind in general.

Seven words spring to mind here:
let, grind, bastards, down. the, you, Don't,

Sheesh, I'll probably get hate mail for daring to stick up for ya.

Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke.

20 March 2007 13:53
Spinsterella said...
>>>she seems to have stopped reading anyway>>>

I've been away on holiday ya moaney auld fucker!

(Off now round the blogosphere to see what you've been up to this time around.)

20 March 2007 15:28
Rhonda said...
You may definitely NOT flounce!
shake it off...
flip 'em off...
come back to us.

20 March 2007 19:55
Tim Footman said...
Hi, Bob,

I think your core argument (raising questions over the validity of the whole Comic Relief project; the whole politics and pecking order of the blogosphere; perfectly fair points, whether or not one agrees with them) got mushed up with the feelings of people who'd put in a lot of effort for all the right reasons (especially Mike Diva) and those who were seeing their product in print maybe for the first time (eg Betty). I think they may have been a bit naive to think there wouldn't be some kind of backlash; to be honest, you may also have been a bit naive to think they wouldn't react so strongly.

Rather than lying low, I think everyone ought to shake hands and agree to disagree and no harm done and sticks and stones and all that sort of thing. Like at the end of Bugsy Malone.

And don't flounce. Well, not much.

Love, light and peace,

Tim

21 March 2007 01:31
rockmother said...
Can I throw custard pies at everyone and blow raspberries and then laugh and cry and laugh again and run around hugging everyone? Goodness - we are all just a bunch of troubled diva's really aren't we. I might have to consider therapy.

21 March 2007 05:07