Gin Lane (A Romance)

A Cockernee wifey was slumped in the dirt,

Now and then sipping a tankard.

Her vision was blurry and her speech was slurred

Because she was utterly wankered.

Away up a rooftop, all covered in soot

A dashing young Cockernee fella,

Fancied this wifey, sat there in the muck

And so he serenaded her all a cappela:

"Gin! Gin! Glorious gin!

Makes me feel 'appy compels me to sing.

Good times will follow, when this booze 'ere I swallow

In me own filth I'll wallow, drunk on glorious gin."

This fair pearly queen he aimed to entice

Squinted up at the man on the roof

She mused that this geezer looked somewhat nice

as she swigged down some 50% proof.

She liked her a song just as much as a drink

And so winked at the bloke she'd just met.

on baby deer legs she got to her feet

And lifted her voice in duet.

"Gin! Gin! Marvellous gin!

Makes me feel 'appy compels me to sing.

Good times will follow, when this booze 'ere I swallow

in me own crap I 'll wallow, drunk on glorious gin."

From all over the city drunk Cockneys came

Twirling and dancing in tandem.

Dancing and singing they poured into Gin Lane

From East Hammersmith right down to Camden.

A Cockernee knees up of gargantuan size

they all came down there to rejoice,

These loved up piss artists and the drink that they drank

As they all sang aloud in one voice.

"Gin! Gin! Wonderous gin!

Makes us feel 'appy compels us to sing.

Good times will follow, when this booze 'ere we swallow

in our own crap we'll wallow, drunk on glorious gin."

With apologies to Flanders and Swann and the good people of London Town. I spent far longer on the above than I'm comfortable admitting, but, goddamit, it needed to be written.

Love and Fishes

Dave Denton

This One's For the Freaks

The other week, as I was passing, I popped into me mate's mam and dads house, just to make sure that everything's tickety boo and that they haven't been pillaged by vikings. While there I was presented me with a carrier bag of Dave detritus that'd accumulated over the years. Most of this was notebooks full of my witless ramblings and photos from the magical before time, when you had to go round boots and give them monies before you could see that half the pictures you'd took were of some random dude's out of focus chin. In addition to this there were also several doodles and cartoons, because I am me and that's a thing I do.

I'd guestimate the above dates from the early 2000's (Jesus shitting Christ, I'm old) and, sad to  say, probably represents the upper limits of my draughtsmanship at that time. I've posted it above, not just as a bizarre act of flagellation/confession/egomania, but also because, serendipitously, yesterday also saw the release of No Manifesto a documentary film by Elizabeth Marcus about the Manics and the various Manic Street Preacher Fan Men (and women) what follow them. 

I believe I've indicated previously that I've got a bit of a soft spot for the occasionally popularish Gwent beat combo. This however is from the perspective of me now. From the perspective of me back then, when it was still possible to come across a new album, film or piece of art and still get excited about them as if they mattered, the Manics were the greatest band in the history of the universe ever and ever signed God. Or, to put in a slightly more measured  way, they were a philanthropic chain letter*: introducing me to more writers, musicians, poets and thinkers than any other artists I can think of and framing the pursuit of knowledge, critical thought and a predilection towards the arty as things that are not just broadly positive, but actively glamorous. If only for that reason I'm prepared to give any release of theirs at least a cursory listen - although for what it's worth, of the bands last four albums I'd rate at least three of them as being very good to fantastic.

The film itself has a sort of choppy, patchwork structure (which feels appropriate, given the band's fascination with collage), switching between subjects, time periods and mediums at will. It gives a nice overview of the band's history up until 2008, without going into any real depth. I'm not sure if non fans would have any interest in James Bradfield''s mastery of the all day breakfast or Sean Moore's frankly alarming firearms collection, but there's something satisfying about watching the band's creative process in the studio. The film also does a good job of sketching out the central tension between a pretentious rock 'n' roll romantic id and down to earth artisan superego that helps keep the band interesting. It's also refreshingly up front about some of the group's bigger failures, such as their making much more of a splat than a splash in the American market.

While the film's home-made, fanzine nature is part of it's charm it does weaken it in some ways. It could certainly have done with a few less interviews with fans,who all seem plenty nice, but hardly provide much in the way of insight beyond what could be gleaned from five minutes googling. There's also an animated sequence that looks like it was made using Microsoft Paint.

Like a lot of these of these things, No Manifesto kinda lives or dies on whether you've any interest in the artists being discussed. As it stands, I like Manic Street Preachers, so I liked the film. It's very much a portrait rather than an in depth analysis, but that is in no way a criticism. If nowt else the music's good. Also, through it, I found out you can still get Wimpy Burgers in South Wales. Who knew? 

Love and Fishes

Dave Denton

*I think I might have nicked that from James Dean Bradfield, although I can't be sure, so sod it, it's mine now

31 Lies I Tell About My Sister

Today is my sister's birthday, in honour of this and the fact that she's a game old bird I've decided to talk shit about her on the internet. Below are 31 facts about my diminutive sibling that may or may not be true, one for every year of her life

1) Our kid is banned from the town of Merthyr Tydfil. She refuses to tell us why.
2) Our kid ate her twin, provisionally named Ermitrude, while still in the womb
3) Our kid had a short lived rap career in the early 2000's under the  pseudonym Lethal Rizzle
4) Our kid doesn't know the difference between left and right and gets angry when you try to explain it
5) Our kid spends her spare time writing erotic Diagnosis Murder fanfiction, starring thinly veiled self inserts.
6) Our kid self identifies as a bisexual dark pegasus fire wizard trapped in an adult woman's body
7) Out kid was born with a tail, which she now keeps in a jar under her bed. She whispers her secrets to it on a night
8) Our kid's knowledge of the solar system is drawn entirely from The Clangers and Button Moon
9) Our kid kept right on going through hammer time
10) Our kid can and will shit in your shoes if you annoy her
11) Our kid ran away when she was a child, and by ran away I mean she hid behind the curtain and then threw an epic tantrum when we weren't sufficiently distraught at her disappearance.
12) Our kid does not know the rules to hide and seek
13) Our kid does not remove the skin when eating a banana
14) Our kid likes to start every day with a nice, refreshing cup of gravy
15) Our kid saw Thomas and the Magic Railroad in the cinema 23 times.
16) Sometimes, when she's feeling blue, our kid likes to get behind the wheel of her parked car and make brum brum noises
17) Our kid's favourite band is The Wiggles
18) Our kid is incapable of saying the word 'toilet' without  giggling
19) Our kid craves the taste of  human flesh, but will mostly just make do with licking strangers
20) Our kid is in complete agreement with everything that Kanye West has ever said. She also refers to him as Kanye Best
21) Our kid honestly believes if she can't see you, you can't see her and will try to hide by closing her eyes
22) Our kid has yet to walk past a cow without mooing at it.
23) Despite being a health care professional our kid believes that disease is a by product of sin.
24) Our kid has only read four books in her life; The Very Hungry Caterpillar, Each Peach Pear Plum, The Tiger Who Came to Tea and Cervantes's The Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote of la Mancha in the original Spanish

25) When confronted with food  she doesn't like our kid will simply throw it on the floor.

26) Our kid has been cautioned by police twice for shaving her legs in a public space.
27) Despite being only a little over five foot and having a fairly slim build, our kid weighs approximately 32 stone. This is down to her incredibly dense skeletal structure. This also means that....
28) Our kid is incapable of swimming and must content herself with taking a deep breath and running along the bottom of the pool.
29) Our kid has caught all 719 pokemon, fifteen of which are shinies.
30) Our kid wants Gwen Stefani's Hollaback Girl played at her funeral
31) Our kid keeps a "poop diary"

Happy Birthday Kidder, you Magnificent Moo

Dave Denton

God Loves us and Wants us to be Happy

So I've managed 31 days without alcohol. Suck it, voice in the back of my head that constantly tells me I fail at everything.  For those whom drinking constitutes a couple of light ales when on a night out with friends and colleagues, this probably doesn't sound that impressive, but please bear in mind my own relationship with booze is anything but healthy. While I've never felt any physical compunction to drink my go to response whenever I'm bored or at a loose end is to grab a couple of stellas or equivalent and shut my brain down for the evening. The problem with this, of course, is that I tend to get bored a lot and when repeated over months and years it becomes quite apparent that I am slowly poisoning myself.

I had one moment of reverse inspiration that was somewhat sobering - no pun intended. A couple of weeks ago one of my sisters forwarded me a picture of my mam's ex-boyfriend.  Using the term 'boyfriend' for a man in his fifties always feels slightly wrong and doubly so here as I was shocked to find he now looked like a geriatric. The man was, and presumably still is, an alcoholic and looking at him for the first time in about a decade it's readily apparent that it's ravaged him. Maybe, just maybe, it was just a shitty picture, but apparently he's also well on his way down the path of alcohol induced dementia, at least according to one of my brothers who bumped into him on the bus. He apparently rambled on incoherently at great length, never twigging who my brother, who he lived in the same house as for a number of years, was. The ageing effects of any sort of substance abuse is hardly news (hell, living round the corner from a couple of doss houses, it's something I see everytime I pop to the shops) but to see its effects on somebody who in an alternate universe somewhere might have been my step dad certainly gave me pause for thought.

I was quite relieved that I managed the month without any struggle, although the fact that I was worried about this in the first place probably says more than I'm willing to admit. I've lost weight, I'm sleeping better, I feel like I have more time and money and I no longer fear the scorn of the bin men as they pick up rubbish bags that clink and clank like a boozy version of  The Telltale Heart. I've also discovered that I can talk to animals. Granted, the animals do not talk back, but it's early days. I imagine I'll be off the wagon next week as it's my sister's birthday, but for now I'll toast your health with a warm mug of ovaltine, send out a thank you to anybody who was kind enough to sponsor me and bid you adieu

Love and Fishes

Dave Denton