Day Three Hundred and Twenty Six: Voices

Ants and I done a really fucking good radio show today and is definitely worth checking out. A lot of alt rock, rock n roll and a little bit of weird punk too.

Check it out here, and let me know what you think!

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Day Three Hundred and Thirteen: Deek IV

The conclusion of Deek’s story. You’ll be able to find part one, two and three at the links.

She grabs the pint n turns roond an starts walkin away so ah walk up behind her n grab her by the waist.

“Where ye goin hen?”
“Dancefloor. Mon.”

We hit the dancefloor and she stands there noddin her heed to a couple of good tunes, takin care no tae spill any of her drink. Priorities; ah like it. It’s at this point ah notice she’s wearin a lovely red dress wi matchin stilettos. Ah’m no intae red, but she looks pretty stunnin tae be fair. They play an AC/DC number n ah decide to dance closer tae her. When it’s done we break apart again and she motions fur me to come closer again. As ah move in she pulls ma heed doon tae her mouth n whispers in ma ear.

“You’ve got something in yer beard.”

That’s the best line ah’ve heard for a while. Usually ah go in first n kiss the burds but she’s playin it cool, takin charge. Ah grab her wee waist again and she leans back n chucks her pint in ma face.

“That’s whit ye get ya creepy dick!”

Ah’m ragin, an through ma Strongbow filled eyes I catch a glimpse of her walking away aff the dance floor. Ah woulda followed her but ah could barely see straight. After aboot a minute eh rubbin ma eyes ah could see again an ah noticed a bunch ey lassies who’re standin wi Ronnie pure guttin themselves laughin. Ah flip Ronnie aff and he just aboot falls oan his fat arse in hysterics. Cunt.

Ah make ma way through the now busy club and intae the toilet tae gie ma face a wee wash. After negotiating the bog queue ah run the tap under ma hands n splash some cold water in ma face then check ma self in the mirror. Ma brown beard has taken on a slightly sticky feelin an a weird yellowy tint since the cider incident, so ah wash it again before checkin ma self oot in the mirror one more time, suckin ma gut in for good measure. Ah pull the comb fae ma back pocket through ma hair and make ma way back oot into the night. This minor setback wisnae gonnae stop me pullin a lassie the night. No by a long shot. Ah order two more jacks and hit the dance floor. Even if I’m showin ma age a bit, the night is still young.

Day Three Hundred and Twelve: Deek III

Part three of my insight into Deek. The name of the band he and Jack are in is yet to be decided. Find parts one and two here and here.

Jack slinks aff into the night and I’m left on ma ain an am soberin up pretty fuckin sharpish. The club’s playin some decent tunes but between the sticky floors and the black as fuck walls combined wi the overpriced drinks and dodgy strobe lights, it’s a pretty grim spectacle. We seem to attract people the kind eh people who like to wear black a lot. The guys are partial to tartan trousers and coloured hair dos, but the lassies are aw the same: black hair n black clothes. It’s like a fuckin ninja disco in here. Depressed by Ronnie slinging his moves in front eh a couple of fat burds with blonde hair in skirts that are far too short and holey tights, I make my escape to the bar for an overpriced jack n coke or two. Couple of drinks later and I’m on the prowl.
The bar’s startin to fill up which is good news cause there’s mair than a few nice wee burds floatin aboot. A stand aboot at the bar for a while tryin tae look, how dae ye say it, non-che-launt. A couldnae stop thinkin aboot that chancer Jack n whit he wiz dain wi oor money right noo. It was pure guttin, but a wiznae for chasin after that sorry cunt. He’s mare n capable of findin his own way back tae the van. Four JD’s later an the world’s become blurry around the edges. Ah’m feelin like a bit of a rock star noo and, cause ah know these Aberdeen fuckers willnae be able to understand whit ah’m sayin, ah decide to change ma approach n try tae chat up this nice wee thing that’s been eyein me up aw night. Ah order ma fifth jack n slide across the bar tae introduce ma self;

“Awright hen?”
“Er…hi.”
“Noticed ye lookin over at me there, thought I’d come say hi.”
She takes a step back tae eye me up, so I stop slouchin n suck ma slight beer gut in. She probably cannae see it in the dark but ah play it safe all the same.
“Eh…naw…”
“Haha, it’s cool. I’m just a regular kinda guy. Ye probably recognise me as the bassist in the band that played here the night.”
“Oh really?”
Knew it. The band thing works every time.
“Do you sing as well?”
Her eyes light up an she moves in closer. For a second ah think it’d be wrong to lie but then ah realise this is all about one thing and one thing only, an that a lie will get me further. When it comes tae the endgame, morality is pretty far from yer mind. As far as I’m concerned the only morality in sex is the age of the pray and the species ey the game yer huntin.
“Aye, aye. Singer tae. Multitalented, me.”
“Whits the band called then?”

Ah tell her the band name an move a little closer, puttin ma arm around her waist. Lassies like it when ye dae that.

“Eh…whit ye dain?”
“Just getting a bit better acquainted wi ye. Hi, ma name’s Derek but ma mates call me Deek. And you are?”
“Sandra. Could ye no dae that, please?”
“Ah, dae ye no want me hen?”
Aye she does. She pure does.
“You oan something? Get yer hands aff me.”
“How, ye got a boyfriend?”
“Naw it’s just a bit…much, that’s aw.”
“Let me buy ye a drink.”
“Naw. Let go of me.”
“Just wan?”
“Ah said LIT GO EY ME.”

Ah remove ma arm from roond her waist and ease aff a bit. Some lassies aren’t into public displays of affection and that’s cool by me. It’s all good. We’ve got all night.

“So, dae ye want a drink or no?”
“Aye, a pint ey Strongbow’ll be lovely.”

That was some change eh tunes there, but ah oblige aw the same. Barman takes a while tae get tae us so I filled the space wae some innane bollocks to show her whit an interesting character ah wiz. She looks well impressed, her eyes sparklin as ah tell her aw aboot the band n that. Then the Strongbow arrives alongside ma double jack n coke. It’s time to pull oot the big guns.

“Cheers.”
“Cheers.” Ah say an we clink oor glasses together.

Day Three Hundred and Ten: Deek II

Part two of yesterday’s story. WOO!

JP was left tae tear Jacks equipment doon and take it tae the van cause Jack found himself indisposed with a phone call on the porcelain phone but I felt a sorry for him so I helped him oot a bit. Ronnie’s a little particular aboot his own gear so we left him to tear his drums doon himself. The tour manager said that he found us a place to crash the night at his mate’s hoose, which was pretty fuckin sound of him, but I doubt I’ll need it. I’ll be goin hame with a lassie the night. Sleepin in a bed. Well, eventually. Maybe sleepin. I dunno. We’ll see whit happens. By half eleven we’ve finished packing up the gear and the promoter opens the club. I asked him if he had our guarantee – which’ll probably go toward petrol money – and he handed it ower to Jack. Fuck. That’s bad, bad news. I have to be honest, I didnae see him leave the toilet and when I checked he’d fucked off. He always does this when he’s had a few. Fucking cunt. That petrol money will be gone by the morning and old Deek here will have to pay for it, like the idiot I am. We didnae shift as much merch as we’d have liked either tonight, so we cannae use some eh that cash. After aboot an hour the club starts tae fill up and Ronnie hits the dancefloor, eyein up lassies and tryin to get his chat oan. Jack puts in his token appearance which gave me enough time to grab a wee word wae him. It’s a conversation which went something like this:
“Jack, Jack? JACKIE BOY!”
I had to shout cause he was sitting starin into space, with that look on his face like he never understood what wis happenin around him, but wae a big fat daft smile signifying he was enjoying his current state of mind. That’s how ye know he’s utterly pan handled – big dopey smile, and empty saucers for eyes.
“Deek maaaawnnnnnnnnnn! Whur tha hull ye been?” he says, grabbing ma neck and pullin me in close for a hug, kissin me oan the cheek. He gets pretty affectionate when he’s drunk even though his legs, his common sense and his wallet urnae worth a fuck.
“Been here the whole time, pal! Ye pished?”
“Aye man. Ah’m absholutely fu –hic- fucked, mate. Dun in. Where ur we?”
Shit. He’s goat the hiccups. That’s never a good thing.
“You got the petrol money there?”
“Eh, naw mate. I do not.”
“Ye sure? Promoter said he gave ye it.”
“Naw man. He never gied us a thing. Not a thing.”
“JP husnae goat it, neither’s Ronnie.”
Ronnie moonwalks over, smooth as ye like, leavin a trail of unsatisfied lassies in his wake.
“Awright troops. Whit’s the craic?”
“Deek wis telt by eh cunt promoter that he gied me the money.”
“And Jackie boy here says he’s no goat it.”
“Ach man, fuck it. We’ll sort it the morra. Did ah tell ye ah love you guys? Yer special tae me. Even you, Jack.”
Ronnie grabs us both together in a bear hug. He’s a big guy, is oor Ronnie, so when he hugs ye, ye know it, however this is unusually affectionate. Bet he’s fleein. Jack clocks the weirdness – a fuckin Poriot level insight, given the current state of his mental faculties – and sees it fit tae enlighten us, changin the subject as he does so.
“Here, Ronnie, ye oan somethin?”
“Jack, Jack, Jack Jackie boy. Ye’ve such a nice face, did anywan ever tell ye that?”
He pecks Jack on the cheek: shit is getting legitimately bizarre. His pupils are as big as pinballs and he’s grindin his jaw somethin fierce. A look doon and he’s produced a tiny plastic bag with a few white pills in it.
“This here’s some good, good fuckin shit here. Wan eh they lassies ower there gave us em.
Brilliant!”
“Is that so?”
“Fuck sake Deek. Ye sound like ma da when ye say that ‘Is that so?’ whit fuckin age ur ye, 45?! Any eh you two interested in poppin a couple eh these bad boys?”
Jack blindly reaches for the packet but I guarantee that if he takes one eh them, we’ll be spending the rest of the night in A and E. He’s a right sleazy bastard when he’s oan pills. Legit. I pat his hand oot the way
“Hink yer awright there, Ronnie. Mind n get some watter noo, eh?”
“It’s all good Deek. Ye might talk a bit like ma da but I love ye aw the same. Ye big beautiful bearded cunt!”
Ronnie’s pretty touchy feely when he’s oan pills, so he grabs ma hand n kisses it before moonwalkin back onto the dancefloor. I dunno how he’s no para, to be honest. Unless yer in an environment when every other cunt is pilled oot their faces, there’s always that fear that yer gonna get busted by the bouncers. Bad craic man. Bad fuckin craic.

Day Three Hundred and Nine: Deek I

A new story for ya’ll. It’s related to this. Enjoy.

That wis good. Wisnae the best, but it wis good. I’d like to open every tour like that. Couple eh bum notes but it’s no great shakes, the crowd lapped it up even though Jack wis hammered. He’s no figured oot the balance yet. I’ve been at this game for about 7 years noo and he’s still no got the balance right. If yer too pished when ye go on stage ye get thirsty really quickly, and then the fatigue kicks in as ye burn through the excess carbs in the booze, so by the halfway point in the set yer choking for a drink eh something that’s no beer and yer ready for yer bed. He took it on the chin but, and we played well. Ye have to get a wee buzz on before ye hit the stage but ye don’t want to overdo it so ye can continue later on. After a couple eh songs I’d sobered up, so I just topped it up wi mare beer, unlike Jack. At the guitar solo in “Sick of Bricks” he jumped over n told me that he wisnae feelin that great. Nae wonder, he’d already tanned a bottle eh vodka afore we hit the stage. Mad cunt.

Anyway, noo that the business is oot the way it’s time tae get doon tae the pleasure. Aberdeen’s club scene is pretty shite to be honest, but since we’re kicking this tour aff on a Saturday night we’re hitting the clubs. The promoter has set up a bit of an after party for us in the venue, so hopefully the drink will be flowing an hopefully there’ll be plenty eh burds tae. Unlike any other singer I’ve ever met, Jack’s no in tae that kind eh thing. He’d rather just get pished in a corner and dance until he vomits, so it’ll likely be me and the walking woman repellent Ronnie who’re left to party on to the bitter end like true rock stars. JP’s like me in that he’s got a missus, but unlike me he’s devoted tae her. I’ll never understand that; I’m in this band purely for the wummin; he’s in it for something else entirely. Lead guitarists n singers are supposed to be the hell raisers yet it’s the bassist and the drummer eh this band who do the real demonic shit. JP’ll be back in the van reading afore half one, sober as a fuckin judge, and Jack’ll be in away with it by half twelve. Don’t think that’s a complaint, by the way; less for them, more for me. I’ll just need to see if I can ditch Ronnie at some point. It’s been a wee while since I goat a good ride on tour, and if I’m honest with ye I’m glad we arranged this tour after Christmas. I was sick of stickin to the one woman. Been far too long. Far, far too long.

Day Two Hundred and Thirty One: Untitled #2

punk is dead

The punks on the left
neat spiky hair
in the jet black east wing
wallow in despair
to the left over remnants
of the dancing
on the centre-right floor
getting on down to the populist
rock n roll dance floor fillers
pumping from the speakers
at volumes loud enough to
shake the studs from
their immaculately tailored
leather attire

They are simply just too laissez faire
to allow themselves
enjoyment of the “commercial” things
even though that’s what
night clubs are for

Week after week they return
politics in tow
but this is not parliament

The punks to the left
ragged and jaggy haired
in their red star corner
have filled a table with
empty plastic cups
and just enough alcohol
to discard punk rock politics
taking to the night
regardless of context
finally raising a smile
to the speaker of the house
a DJ by any other name

Gone are their good intentions
moving in slow motion
under the flickering house lights
along to the sounds that everyone else knows
and despite their well kept
anti-commercial appearances
they do too.