Tuesday, 26 March 2013
"I awoke chewing on Mr Johnson's Testicles."
Tish Jackson, The Love of A Zombie is Everlasting.
"I love it when mental patients escape."
"Each of us changes when placed next to the other."
John Siddique, Full Blood
Sunday, 24 March 2013
(Written 21/03/2013) James Herbert hardly ever did interviews. It’s still proving hard to find his television appearance on the Graham Norton Show. He did appear with Graham on radio just several months ago however and admitted his belief, at the ripe old age of 69, to evil cabals (sects). The testament of one man like that is more worthy than the blabberings of a thousand pillocks.
He is of course widely acclaimed/hugely influential and so on (remember that term from the front matter in his novels) but his book The Magic Cottage was put down less than half way thru for being just about the slowest and most boringest thing ever written by a world famous author, contrary to popular belief. You can chalk that off however and backheel it under the rug because he pulled a blinder in 1999 by penning THE ABSOLUTE BEST BOOK EVER in OTHERS, or to put it more subjectively, me most personal favourite book ever.
What. A book. That is. And enough said already. Forget just about every other novel and author, the only inspiration needed comes right from that. There is an element of regret about now not ever getting the chance to let him know, to say, “Hey Herb, listen, your book Others etc etc was this that and the other...” It’s important to do that with the people responsible for moving you. It reminds them to keep doing it, if nothing else. And you have every right to approach them no matter where they are, in a weird stalker pest kind of way, because their story has bonded you to them for life. You are imparting a token of received wisdom. Call it a side-effect of exposure. Consider it your duty. Plus they appreciate it more than the flash of a camera or autograph.
(Written 21 March 2013) As for Nasser El Sonbatty, well just recently Schmoe coined a phrase comparing bodybuilders and Christians. As Christians ask what would Jesus do whenever they are in a dilemma, so bodybuilders get into trouble, they can ask themselves, “What would Nasser El Sonbatty do?”
For example, you are considering doing the splits and shaking your ass a lot after some funky robotic movements in sparkly yellow posing trunks during your evening show routine to Troublemaker by Ollie Murs. It’s either that or some manly classical poses to Conquest of Paradise by Vangelis. You can’t make your mind up. Okay. So step back and ask yourself—what would Nasser El Sonbatty do? The answer should be straightforward.
Quite literally at some shows it’s one embarrassing thing after another. Many would argue that a fully grown buff geezer stood up on stage on the verge of throwing shapes in nowt but a g-string and tanning oil can be nothing else but. If you want a good laugh it comes highly recommended, especially for you ladies. We are forever perplexed by these new routines and movements, constantly exhorting, wow, I could never imagine Nasser El Sonbatty doing that.
Nasser was the standard of sense. There was never any mucking about with Nasser. He was a man’s man. When he took the steps onto that platform with the smoke billowing from behind him you made sure you were concentrating. The thrills and spills were over, no more pop songs, the disco dancing was done, because here was Nasser.
His Yugoslavian accent, big glasses and tight spandex training outfits might have brought him an element of ridicule if the guy wasn’t built like a battering ram. Gawd, he was huge was Nasser. Always one of the biggest cats on stage if not the biggest outright, in an era when monstrosities like Paul Dillet were flexing absurd amounts of quivering vein-streaked mass about. Thick, dense, blocky, and wide as a French door patio.
So just who was Nasser El Sonbatty, when he was here? The guy with the second best shoulders ever, that’s what.
Friday, 22 March 2013
Thursday, 21 March 2013
Sunday, 17 March 2013
Sunday, 10 March 2013
You have to be your own biggest fan. Even if you make it big-time with a cult worldwide following and find a shapely naked number one fan in your kitchen in the middle of the night strapped with dynamite, you have to like your own stuff more than he or she does. It don’t matter if you attract queues of screaming cheerleaders who each have tattoos of you on their smooth prom queen thighs, you have to like your own stuff more than they do. That’s the trick, ladies and hippopotamuses (apart from keeping breathing). That’s the kicker.