You’d think if they could summon Lucifer they could at least form a proper circle”

DAY FIVE: I arrive in a car driven by the wonderful THE BRIDGE, we wander around the campsite twice seeking for seekers until the absence of the sound of The Amplifier makes us realise we are at the wrong campsite. The positive outcome of this is that when we arrive at the actual campsite a hoard of Bricklayer primed Others are waiting to help tent us up. Hugs all around, the first of what seems to be a constant stream of love in these parts. The Amplifier is on top Tequila drenched form, trying to get himself burnt to death whilst doing all shouting. Just when you think he’s stopped he’s off again, and the endless ancient ritual of The Shushing Of The Pilgrims begins in earnest. 

I die of exposure in my tent and am woken up into a dream of Joy about 10 minutes later by some fucker announcing that it’s DAY SEVENTEEN and time to die on the outside as well because we’ve got a sexed up giant to arouse. DisClaudia, actual Eris, aka The Authenticator, starts doing All You Need Is Love and we all go “wah wah wah wah wahhhhhhh”, ironically, from inside our frozen bubbles of cold. 

Falth teeth mutht be worn for all rishual elementh.

We race to the Cerne Abbas Giant in all his morning glory, and are gifted a raucous and strange stay at home sendoff by actual geniuses in robes – John Higgs, Doing The Cameron (it’s obviously another fucking dance), lights blue touch paper then fucks off, leaving us floating like Higgs Bozos, Fruish in a death mask STILL not invited to the party despite the stone FACT that he has written one of THE all-time great novels, Discordian or otherwise, four and a half hours without a breath leading to LOVE, Doctor Bramwell, who inspired me to want to commune with the Damanhurians at the first Festival 23, his voice slowed down on tape the first inkling that we are already left consensus reality as the The Big Dick Man Of Chalk speaks to us, reminding me of that terrifying moment in Moore’s ‘Jerusalem’ when the angel turns it’s head and talks to Ernest Vernall.

We cheer ourselves and each other, sing the sings, do the dances of the daft, kiss each other at the kissing gate, raise the graffitied cock and balls of our beloved Albion high and are covered in His jazz. Drone misses it, all hail Discordia!

The second of many races, this time to the port, where a wonderful joy-filled employee of the decade is waiting to keep the myriad smiles on our faces as we hit the ferry, and the bar. Upon arrival at the car park everyone groks, with much derision, the slightly unfortunately named Magic Peter’s van, who does kid’s magic shows and ballon penis modelling.  Myself and The Psychogeography Teacher (o.n.o.) aka The Donkey Rabbit arrive at the bar and notice a notice informing us that the unfortunately named one is doing his do THIS VERY AFTERNOON, and our impending hoots of derision are fortunately halted in advance by a friendly “HELLO! I AM HE!” from the table next to where we are about to hoot.  We tell Magic Peter about our pilgrimage and Magic Peter asks us to come and watch his show, saying that it will probably be a bit lowbrow for Pilgrim’s such as ourselves. Cue hoots of derision, finally. This is the point where it becomes clear that to prove how highbrow we are we ask Uncle Peter to make us an anatomically correct balloon Cerne Abbas Giant. Magic Peter agrees in his agreeable fashion, although perhaps he’ll model that for us AFTER the show. I feel slightly guilty when Magic Peter appears some time later with a balloon homunculus a tenth my height but with a much bigger cock, the bastard. Although we DID go and see his show, I DID made some quite quite dark jokes out of the side of my mouth to the unfortunate Electric Dreamer throughout. To be fair he WAS talking about kid’s bottoms quite a lot, and his magic phrase was “supersonic sausages”.  I barely had to whisper anything to the Electric Dreamer for it to be a bit dark. What was brilliant is that the presence of so many (hur hur) “grown ups” at his show forced Magic Peter to improvise, quite possibly for the first time ever. Ken would have been well pleased, so there’s that…..I still hold this holy relic, more flaccid by the day, eventually to become a small pile of used balloons. 

Some more OA practicing on the deck of the boat. Happily The Resurrected is over the miscommunications that lead her to believe The OA movements are the same as the Time Dance and she has decided to get it together (which she does, with aplomb), and we have 2 extra pilgrims for good measure, made of Enthusiasm (and Psychogeography) (Teacher)

Lisa “Luxury” Lovebucket aka the accidentally monikered Cilla Black has jizzed 21 euro on a cabin and i have a shower (and a crafty shit, against Lisa’s wishes.) (It is almost the last time either thing will happen on this tour, so i have to strike whilst the arse is hot i feel) 

The arrival at Damanhur, sobbing. Here’s Horus, there’s our kid Pan…Earth, Air, Fire, Water… holding on to Pigspurt’s Daughter, for dear dear life. I’ve wanted to be here for longer than i’ve known about it, possibly more than this lifetime, possibly much more than that. We gift the Damanhurians a spectacularly out of tune All You Need Is Love and they return the favour by letting the geese loose in the garden, a maze of primary colours and childish statues pull daft faces at us and i realise that they too are serious about not being serious. The ONLY spiritual revolution worth knowing MUST leave us with split sides, seekers, otherwise it’s a sham.  Kermit – KERMIT – gnows this as he puts his hands in the red rock and has some sort of a vision on the spot. He’s already considering calling his girls back home and announcing the move, and we’ve only been there for 23 minutes!  (an aside: Suddenly His Holy Name sounds well Sephiroth; “To our right, the busies, guarded by The Liver Birds, And in the mystic East  – KERMIT”) (The Holy Black Frog Of Joy)

We hit the shops. We empty their shelves of booze and i am a little nervous that they will think we are tourists and not serious pilgrims. Everyone has cheese, presumably there is going to be a really glorious farting competition later on. 

I watch some of the top and tailing for tonight’s performance, and am totally enamoured by Daisy as she barks her way through an utterly thrilling and punk rock rehearsal. You want Immediatism, seeker? Well here it is, right where you are sitting now. No, not there, over there.  Over THERE.

The show is blinding and raucous, totally incoherent.  Kermit is loving wearing his dress. (“IT’S A ROBE HORTON, IT’S A ROBE!” says an obviously sexually confused frog enjoying all air wafting his downstairs) Happily some of the Damanhurian audience at least recognise the OA Moves, even though they will most definitely be sat there utterly perplexed by the rest of the show.  (Note to self: ask the Damanhurians if any of the OA moves are also Damanhurian moves.) The Dreamfisher is cute as a squirrel’s nut with a neck pillow for a hat and accidental red wine bus stains on The Fire And The Pot’s duvet, tendrils of proper Other emerging from her dreams disguised as puppets and plant music, La Chanteuse treats us to a version of ‘Is That All There Is?’ with, as is typical of Discordians, the lyrics changed like naughty skool kids do at assembly, and there is a brilliant ending with the inflatable dice being thrown around like a chaos soccerball by happy Damanhur kids. 

Delicious Damanhurian spread.  We are made to feel so welcome here. Home.

Party starts, just Pilgrims for the first half an hour or so, Brits abroad, and i am little nervous that they will think we are tourists and not serious pilgrims. Fortunately some Damanurians join us and it suddenly feels like a cultural exchange again, our riddim culture for their sacred dance, with Kermit and Josh doing what they always do – setting the place AFIRE. Nervous now. I lost two out of three memory sticks that i brought with me already (see what i did there eh, pilgrim?) but fortunately most of the things i wanted to play are on the one that remains. ‘Who Built The Pyramids?’ goes down well, as does ‘What Time Is Love?’ Roberto De Simone’s 1976 sex dream stomp opera ‘Secondo Coro Delle Lavandaie’, and especially my Prince acid medley, 23 positions in a one night stand. When I play Nancy Nova’s astounding ‘The Force’ The Gay Masters are being thrown around the big screen, which makes me happy like you wouldn’t believe, then some of my OA crew throw some shapes down the front. At this point we are super in sync, and i am also happy feeling like i got my oar in helping us earn the all important DO THE DANCE credits for our mission, as The Bricklayer looked quite terrified when it appeared earlier that I was to be let on to the stage, which let’s face it seekers, is probably for the best, nobody needs to see that brilliance on a Monday without a special hat, and i may have made the show incoherent. (*Incandescent) (it was fine being incoherent without my help, thank you very much, the idea that my presence might have provided any clarity sounds preposterous, and IS preposterous, but preposterous seems to be a theme around here, so i’m going with it)

Going straight to bed early doesn’t happen of course, there are Damanhurians with wisdom to impart, Firestarter starting fires, MoneyBurner and The Eye Of The Storm doing the same in the most intense burn i’ve been involved with to date, Clamjamfrie singing out his soul, a big solid boy, a donkey that thinks it’s a rabbit, and – surprise surprise – Cilla Black and The Discordian Accordionist are so pissed they have to be dragged away for drunkenness and more volume than the rest of the seekers put together. Some time later Cilla reappears from her tent all smug because – let’s face it – the volume has not changed one iota since her departure. I am a little nervous that they will think we are tourists and not serious pilgrims, so much so that despite being part of the problem I start shushing with the best of them, convincing myself that i am only staying awake to keep other, noisier, pilgrims in line. It’s a beautiful dream, seekers, but it’s BOLLOCKS, MAGNIFICENT BOLLOCKS. Cilla informs me that her other half’s fears of her mental instability returning (returning? yes returning, she actually used the word returning) upon her personal return to Damanhur are fortunately ungrounded on account of how the community have made her an honorary member of Sapphic duo Mel and Kim. She’s SHPESHAL, apparently, falsh teeth and all….oh sorry those are her ACTUAL teeth, she apparently won a Nobel Prize for most spectacularly half arsed dental work. God, how I Love that goddess, if she didn’t already exist you’d have to make her up anyway. I can barely breathe for laughing as she becomes beer guzzling foil monster, 2nd from left. I stupidly admit to a prayer for rain during the Imming, at which point our own multi purpose Goddess Jaqui (aka Surrender) expels me from the rainproof salmon foil we are steaming in and makes another request for me to design an extension for her house. She keeps confusing me for an architect instead of a fuckwit, my own fault for shaving off the tramp beard, i guess. I am now more handsome but still gullible it seems, it’s the downside of being a Fool, someone like Surrender will quite rightfully poke fun at your too open mindedness. Still, how I Love that rent-a-goddess, if she didn’t already exist you’d have to make her up anyway. 

Myself an The Rework make plans to build an electronic battery operated shush box – basically a white noise generator with a random LFO controlling it’s volume – because a) Noisy Seekers, and b) much Noisier Shushers, the intensity behind Our Kermit’s beautiful little boy eyes betraying the fact that the irony is completely lost on him as he tries for the umpteenth time to get other seekers to calm, and quieten, down, with another barrage of highly enthused industrial volume machine gun shushing. God how I Love that God, if he didn’t already exist you’d have to make him up anyway. 

I go to bed, and giggle myself to sleep to the joyous fuffles of Laurel and Hardy next door arguing over who broke the tent zip, where’s my pillow Josh?, and who has the mogodonzzzzzzzzzz.

DAY TWENTY THREE: up early to wonderful Damanhurian coffee, or coffee as it’s also called. Oh, go on then let’s call it PILGRIM COFFEE, Black and funny, like I like my frogs. Well, everything else is slowly becoming Pilgrim something or other – Pilgrim tee shirts, Pilgrim Tarot, Pilgrim Guidebook, Pilgrim showers, Pilgrim poetry, Pilgrim Pilgrimage, Pilgrim toilet breaks….I Am wondering why there isn’t an audible gasp of amazement every time one of us walks past.   I add a shot of Ginseng to the coffee, and make a note that Pilgrim Ginseng Coffee is now BEST DRINK EVAH, although the ones served by fellow pilgrims at various points on the bus come a very close second. Crap coffee, but the service…..(kisses fingertips) I have a shower, and am feeling fresh as a Daisy, until i see Daisy. God how i Love That Goddess etc etc. The Bricklayer has a quite quite wild glint in the old balls doesn’t she? We are her madness, Seekers, and look at the state of us. I am reasonably convinced that when future scholars unearth the clues we now leave in this new Age Of Grummit that they will ponder over why the star chamber in the famous Leaning People’s Pyramid of Toxteth points not to Sirius but straight to Orion’s Massive Cock and Balls…..And of course having modern equipment and a new story they will finally discover that we weren’t seeded by beings from Sirius after all, but by the second star to the right.


Our prayer from the previous night has been heard by the Damanhurians (which, let’s face it was always going to happen as they probably don’t all go to bed wearing eight pairs of earplugs), thankfully they have received us in their generous hearts as pilgrims and not tourists, and we assemble in the hall to learn to DO THE DANCE. The closest translation to the phrase “show us so we can understand” is “ YOU / SHOW / ME / THE WAY / AND THE POWER / TO KNOW”. I whisper to The Bricklayer that surely it should be “us” instead of “me” and when she asks our host Espiride she responds, to much “DOH!” spiritual hilarity; “same thing”.   “They” (the Damanhurians) have brought in a plant for us to practice to, and once the electrodes are attached the sweet new age sounds flow into the room. Our Dreamfisher asks for us to actually dance to the sounds but unfortunately we are locked into a learning groove so this doesn’t quite happen, but at one point the musical plant electrodes are attached to the Magnolia from The Pool Of Life that the Liverpool Arts Lab have brought as a gift for the community, and for a few seconds it makes a much dafter Discordian melody, like that wacky bit near the end of Rinder & Lewis ‘Lust’. I don’t know if anyone else could barely hold it in, but I was definitely dancing laughing, giving the lesson just that extra edge of wonder and it almost feels as if we may be immanantising the eschaton a day early. I wish we had made a point of practicing more in tune with the plants once we had committed the moves to physical memory. As “new age” music goes that was right up, and out, THERE. Reminded me of the music of Pauline Anna Strom in some ways, really cleansing and very holy. No surprise that Pauline Anna Strom believed herself to be “consort of Tiiiiime” (2nd small regret, that Pilgrims were pronouncing tiiiiime wrong)

Gifts are presented to the community, the aforementioned Magnolia for their temple garden, some shiny rocks from Australia, and we appear to have convinced the Damanhurians to paint Our Lady ERIS inside their latest temple space!! So our first intention, to END STORY, seems to been achieved by accident, without too much fuss. Eris has finally been invited to the party – THE WAR NEVER STARTED. We already won.  Instead of alphabetical order we go in Pilgrim Tarot divined synchronic disorder into smaller groups into The Temples Of WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?!

I’m crying already. WHAT IN HELL ARE WE DOING TO OUR HOME? It’s time to take our place amongst the stars and yet we’re arguing over fucking BREXIT? The first temple is a bit like one of the paintings in the Jehovah’s Witness fanzine The Watchtower, but without the horrible white facist cynicism or having killed Prince, a peaen to lost loves and the lives of those beings we share our home with and are danger of losing, for good. Fucking idiots. Not them, US. and not in a good way.  Collateral damage in our quest for enlightenment? We can’t immanantise the eschaton soon enough right now. I read somewhere that Orang-utans have got about 25 years tops. And now GIRAFFES have been added to that list. If that doesn’t break you into bits and urge you to reform on to a quest for a future worth having, then nothing will.

Second chamber appears to have ourselves painted on the walls, with FALTH TEETH (whith mutht be worn for all rithual elementh) and one of us disappearing into a vortex, the constant ringing of bells and singing bowls lure us into another chamber, and another, and another, beauty upon wonder upon magic. One temple seems to have OA dance instructions painted on the ceiling and Our Cilla painted on one of the panels. We finally arrive in the Hall Of Mirrors, every bit as mystical as the Kraftwerk song, and the room multiplies our 17 strong posse into a crowded room of seekers travelling in many dimensions simultaneously. The Bricklayer takes the lead and begins to DO THE DANCE and we spontaneously form a circle and join her, whereupon we are ushered out very quickly, and i can’t work out if it’s because we are being sacrilegious or because of logistical difficulties with the next group being too close behind! Shame as the simplicity and otherness of this place was busy rearranging my DNA.

We exit one of the most beautiful places that any of us have ever been, outside it is raining dandelion angels, and I am greeted by a Damanhurian with big funny teeth and the CERN grin, leaving me bursting with suppressed laughter, AGAIN. Pure Joy follows this Pilgrimage around like a happy puppy.

In the evening there is delicious Pilgrim pizza, encoldened by the Discordian Steering Committee trying to work out a simple and effective ritual for CERN, a gently rained on OA movements rehearsal in a spotlit carpark, a cutup dress, and more campfire action. And so to tent, for tomorrow we immanantise the eschaton, etc

Early waking, some Money Burner arse kicking, plenty of PILGRIM COFFEE, and we are off to be the Wizards. First port of call is the CERN visitor centre, where we totally fail to pass ourselves off as tourists and most of us are told off, for sitting two to a chair, rolling Jimmy Cauty’s gift to Shiva around the floor like a tiny ART BOMB, or placing an obscene homunculus balls deep in a projection of the centre of CERN. During the (very psychedelic) light show i try and very subtly DO THE DANCE, although upon finishing i turn and there is Larry, spreading his wings like the angel that he is, DOING THE DANCE not quite so subtly. Those scousers, eh? De do doh don’t de doh?

We head to the centre of gnothing to Imm The Esk (etc), and as we are about to (literally) walk the bridge to the cosmic age (all mobile phones to be turned off etc) around the corner trot one…two….three….FOUR HORSEWOMEN OF THE ESCHATON, one is even on a pale rider. At time of press they are nameless, but for now let’s call them Love, Peace, Art, and Joy. The giggling subsides again and we walk the bridge to complete our mission. 


After we re-set Planet World Daisy Campbell is in a heap on the floor; a spent, burst condom in the elaborate mating dance of the eternal Protuberential and the eternal Orificular. The Drummer drums to lead us back out of these woods and Daisy shouts “CAN WHOEVER IT IS STOP THE FUCKING DRUMMING PLEASE?!” instantly breaking the wonder. It appears spontaneous, and probably was, but afterwards i realise this was a totally necessary event, because of course we totally failed to build any kind of banishing into the ritual. So that was a fucking lucky escape 🙂  I think i can speak for all of us pilgrims in saying that this ritual has leaked into our “ordinary” (read: “ASTONISHING”) lives somewhat, and can hardly conceive how much more dangerous this would have been without any sort of banishing.  When we get home one of our number has a full-on breakdown, and i’d like to thank them profusely for taking our burden on their shoulders, otherwise we’d ALL be in Deep Shit.  Get well soon, man, we’re all thinking of you xx xxx  Meanwhile as we baptise ourselves in the local stream we notice our Sage, the delightful Sage With Onion suffering mild heatstroke on the bank of the healing waters, turns out he nearly carked it during the ritual and needs a serious dousing to revive him. Another H E R O. 

On the bus on the way home we hear the news – turns out this very day in a secret underground laboratory inside a mountain in Italy there has been made the very first observation of radioactive decay of an element whose half life is THIRTEEN TRILLION TIMES THE AGE OF UNIVERSE. This preposterously rare event apparently proves the existence of DARK MATTER,  which according to the presentation at CERN makes up – you guessed it – 23 percent of the known universe. 2 days later the UK government becomes the first in the world to declare a state of Climate Emergency. We’re taking the claim for that as well, and in fact any and all batshit post eschaton news items. Have we gone mad? Or is Planet World now becoming sane? 

The final leg now and we have two tasks: not keep the kids up all night at the campsite, and enter Jung’s dream of Utopia.  We all go to a wonderful rowdy meal at a local eatery run by very forgiving but mainly very pissed off looking staff. The beer flows. I am so hungry i could eat a horse. So i DO. Pretty good. Fortunately for the kids there is a small beach near to the campsite, where The Moment Maker and The Rework do heroic doses of acid. No surprise as these fuckers are also HEROES.

Next morning and it’s all hands on tent as we head out nice and early for Lake Zurich, and Jung’s granite tower at Bollingen. It’s such a beautiful day, and a fitting end to our journey. The Liverpool pilgrims are in charge today, so of course  we are all made honorary Scousers and sing Scouse hymns such as ‘Ferry Across The Mersey’, ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’, and ‘The Power Of Love’ as we get treated to another of The Enthusiast’s famous psychogeographical tours of Liverpool whilst walking around the Swiss lake. There are absolutely hilarious terrible jokes from The Glassy Dude, every time a bemused cyclist whizzes past the kazoo players are out in force making a whizzing past noise, and at one point we actually find THE SACRED MANHOLE COVER. What the fuck is it doing in Switzerland??! I pause for a while with my special bell soaking up the special. We are here, pilgrims, we are here, a dream of Liverpool inside a dream of Karl Jung’s vision of Utopia, a dream within a dream. We make it to the tower and in a field of dandelions we remove our shoes and press on down to the lake, where a small stone marked “Le Cri de Merlin” becomes the place we consecrate with our gifts as I ring the bell and Eric, The Omphalos reduces us all to poetic tears of sorrow and hope for the great mother and our heroic endeavours to save her, and ourselves, with our magical journey, as deep as the eternal cosmic ocean of LOVE to which all beings belong.   The third and final of the sacred Magnolias is planted (the second having been planted at the centre of the ritual site) and The Tour Manager “ushers” us “politely” back to the bus once more, and home, now a concept extended beyond mere geography and into the sublime love of our fellows on our continued pilgrimage into the post eschaton future of Planet World.  

A few weeks later and all of this seems like a dream. A dream within a dream within a dream, a Russian doll of improbability and magic. Did it really happen? Are we lucky few really part of this living myth extending across the borders of the real via a manhole cover in Liverpool, a dream of Utopia, a scientist that fell off his bicycle and accidentally set the stage for the next phase of human evolution, God’s cock, an insanely ambitious theatrical production from 1976 whose repercussions and the book on which it was based still inform modern civilisation to it’s hidden core, and the Director’s hugely inspired daughter,  a temple of arcane knowledge hidden deep inside an Italian mountain and built by hand by a community whose founder was from the future, singing plants, sacred dances, the moment immediately after the Big Bang, dandelion seeds spreading far and wide, signs and symbols everywhere we turn,  and a wheel of silent wonder that forever spins in a field in Switzerland at 2.23 April the 23rd 2019?

So what next? It’s now officially year dot on our pale blue dot.
ART WAR? We Already Won. 

Love, light, and Peace – horton (aka The Phonomancer) xx xxx


My messy and enthusiastic ruminations on Daisy Campbell’s astonishing one woman play “of note”

I could compare Pigspurt’s daughter Daisy Campbell’s Pigspurt’s Daughter to two things – actually given the human imagination i COULD compare it to ANYTHING, law of fives and all that, but for the sake of your sanity i’ll hone it down to a mere two – one of them would have to be Daisy Campbell’s Pigspurt’s Daughter, the map being EXACTLY equal to the terrirtory (o.n.o.). The other comparison would be with Malcolm’s Number; the largest number that has been thought of by a human brain, a number so big that if you were try to cram all the digits into an area the size of said brain, the resulting information would be so densely packed that it would create a singularity – a black hole.

Except in this case the numbers aren’t just the mere digits with which our feeble monkey minds can barely tickle the surface of a reality, but living, breathing, farting, screeching, guffawing, IDEAS bursting forth in slow motion then sped up again to the approximate digestible speed (o.n.o) until you, dear listener, think you might have just done a beef tea blowback you’re laughing so hard.  And the ideas that we find so densely packed here would never squish down into something as pedestrian or as metaphorically joyless as a Black Hole, THIS version of Malcolm’s number (which we….should we call it ‘Daisy’s number’ or the more unruly and therefore more appropriate ‘Pigspurt’s Daughter’s number’?) THIS version of Malcolm’s number is all about Light – the forthcoming Buddhist Apocalypse squeezing aaaaaaaalll notions from aaaaaaall creations, evri wan sum ting into an octarine pinpoint of light, a new dawn, a new day, a new life, a new anything. You thought Ken Campbell was creative? did you? did you? That the constant bullying goading and cajoling to exact the tipytoppest of performances which he always expected from his performers (I was sat right at the front, about a Ken’s eyebrow away from Daisy, but I REALLY kept wanting to shout “speak up a bit!”) (Daisy Campbell is not quiet, it’s just the family way to heckle performers) , and seemingly moreso his daughter (“Have you done anything of note?” he would lovingly sneeringly inquire at her at family get togethers “Have you done anything of NOTE?”) was actually some kind of madcap jealousy that someone else somewhere else could be having a different experience to him and MIGHT KNOW SOMETHING INTERESTING THAT HE DIDN’T.  

Topics covered in this homage to almost definitely the maddest and funnest and most always challenging dad in all of creation may or may have included; wearing rainbow knickers on your head to absorb the pronoia rathar than deflect tinfoil’s paranoia, disappearing up your own father’s arsehole, your own father disappearing up your own arsehole whilst you’re wearing his old soiled fatsuit, Robert Anton Wilson –  the omnipresent prophet of our age, God(dess) as a mushroom and sentiently directing the affairs of our world right under our noses (which are shaped like bums),  J.R. Bob Dobbs and The Church Of The Subgenius (this isn’t mentioned) (“they”re supresssing our rights to freedom of speech!) (which is why they is burning money), money burning, Ken Campbell, Big Mind Therapy, flying saucers (of course) (not really), gastromancy (using your bum for divination purposes), all the world’s a fnord and all the men and women merely players (being played by mushrooms), digging up a corpse so that you can burn the bones and insert the ashes into a brick in the forthcoming People’s Pyramid (Bill Drummond was present at tonight’s performance, and Bill doesn’t impress easily, but I GUARANTEE you that Daisy is a massive hero of his (and should be of yours too) and right where he is sitting now he is whispering to himself “what the fuck is glowing on?”) , the different kinds of art made by Doris The Parrot, Marshall Mcluen’s masterclass in story, my life as a nit-nurse, not being prone to hyperbole but WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU SITTING HERE READING THIS WHEN YOU COULD GO AND DO SOMETHING LESS BORING INSTEAD? The Forthcoming Buddhist Apocalypse is forthcoming, don’t you know? The Eschaton is being immanentized – not out there as previous maniacs have tried to suggest, but in HERE, right now, everywhere and everywhen, underground, under the soil on top of your head, there’s no need to worry – we’re already dead

At the end i bought a brick. It cost me a hundred pounds that i can’t affnord. That Daisy Campbell is one hell of a saleswomen. All she needs is The Pipe.  And there we sit watching it all uncurl, howling with laughter, monkeys banging at Her evolutionary obelisk. The Time is now, brothers and sisters, the time is now. Right where you are sitting.


SEEKERS: Here begins the reclamation of the word “Muppet”

How is this become an insult? 

Muppets are anarchic, smart, hip, sexy, wild, creative, loving, insanely and intensely funny, and gnow the cosmic joke to their souls (*hands) 

The Muppets transcend age, race, creed and all other isms – did you know that in the middle east there are two characters on Sesame Street that are a Jew and a Palestinian and they are next door neighbours and really good friends? 

It’s TIME to reclaim our essential Muppet nature, seekers. 

It’s TIME to tell the world that there is a difference between Muppets and puppets – a puppet will sing at it’s master’s pleasure completely unaware of the power behind it’s behind and will accuse YOU of being a Muppet because you dare to already know that the whole world has it’s fist up your arse, and are happy to Do The Dance anyway.

It’s TIME to tell the world that you are a Muppet and dang proud of it because the Muppets are one of the all-time placeholders of joy in this messy roustabout we call L I F E

It’s TIME to put on make up, it’s time to light the lights – Just ask my beautiful beautiful friend Kermit, the nigger. He can testify that it’s not easy being green, and it’s even less easy being brown. Life just is not easy being anything, but MUPPETS ARE HERE TO HELP, all they ask is your laughter.


GODDESS BLESS JIM HENSON XX xxx ALL HAIL CONCORDIA, AND HER SISTER. I hear she’s fun at parties, invite her, and her friends the MUPPETS!  Now also known as the GRUMMITS!


REVIEW: HEARTBREAK, Moth Club, June 15th, 2018

June 15th, 2018. A date that will be etched indelibly on everyone’s hearts from now, alongside the simple heartfelt whisper; “they’re back”

I first encountered this freak phenomenon the first time they were back (they weren’t), sometime around 2007 when i’d been asked to bring my laptop to play a few cosmic bits and pieces at the amazing Washing Line club in Camden’s Constitution, in exchange for 50 quid and some beer. No proper decks but DEAL! I LOVE 50 quid and some beer!  I turn up and play some slow motion cosmic synth warmups to the obligatory 3 men and a dog. 

(STOP PRESS: AS I AM WRITING THIS, i get a message from my friend Neil, who was also present at the Moth Club. It reads “I wish it was last week again!!!”)

The band come on. I haven’t a clue who they are or anything, I’m only here for 50 quid and free beer. For the first few minutes me and my girlfriend are cringing at the pretentious display on offer, a Shoreditch Twat in a badly fitted suit, five years out of time Mighty Boosh fans, singer pulling all the soft rock moves, clenching his fist with fake emotion. Our cringe quickly turns to out and out derision and we are hooting with laughs. And then a few short minutes later we are stopped dead in our tracks as The Twat falls to his knees;  “HAIR LAQUER! Everything i am i owe to you!”. The thing is…..he means it.  GODZ IS NOT A PUT ON. The clenched fists, the histrionic emotion, pulling his hair out in desperation, he is begging, pleading, imploring, DARING us to listen, and listen good; “YOU – WILL – NEVER – SEE – ME – SITTING – DOWN”.  He isn’t out of time after all it turns out – WE are, WE are The Twats, so conditioned to the ever present irony of the post pop human condition that sincerity is always questioned before the truth dawns, in front of a pop duo of momentous import, out of time because timeless, this could be Otis Redding at Monterey or any show by those other two all-time soul dripping synth duos, SUICIDE or Soft Cell. 

And a few short months later, before i get chance to see them again, HEARTBREAK are gone. Sucked under by “musical differences” or more likely money, record label stupidity and LIES, or wondering why the hell they aren’t christmas number one EVERY FUCKING WEEK.  Inside i’m hoping it was over a woman, her lipstick and lies turning brothers in soul into mortal enemies like a proper legend. 

Nine years pass. Nine years lost to my own Vampire, and I’m still not that convinced by Italo disco – preferring the drum sounds of it’s predecessor –  Italian electronic disco –  to it’s grating manufactured Stock Aitken and Waterman sounding big snares and bad hair. But slowly the rest of the world is convinced that Italo is one of THE important musics, even recent bootlegs and re-issues of some of it’s rarer tracks on fantastic labels such as Dark Entries and Disco Segreta are starting to fetch silly money on Shitcogs.    Despite this, and despite never having a second chance to see them live again I have been faithfully playing their one perfect album to anyone and everyone that would listen.   Suddenly there’s a cry in the darkness. There is going to be a gig. Just a one-off, see what happens, but with a hint that this might be their equivalent of the eagerly anticipated Soft Cell finale later this year, Say Hello, Wave Goodbye.

I’m already crying on the way to the show. Before i left home I was listening to the essential Sun Ra chants compilation “The Space Age Is Here To Stay”, singing along with all my self, when i burst into tears, and find myself picking up the record sleeve and thanking Sonny Blount for all i’m worth. He came here to give us this music, on this good erf, in order that we might deepen our understanding of truth and beauty and be so consumed and so CONNECTED that we go into the world and use that connection to make the here and now a better place for all beings.  Even after he had a stroke he insisted they keep wheelin’ him on because what he had to say was so vital for all of us.  And again, on the train to the show Francesca Way asks me about Heartbreak and i’m forced to concede that these two guys are kind of the same deal, although how DARE they let their petty lipstick rearrangements come between a planet and their vision? Selfish, guys, you know it’s true, keeping it all to youselves, leave the rest of us in a plastic void where Art is there to hide the truth instead of reveal it.

Almost immeditely upon entering the Moth club my attitide towards “Italo” is starting to change within me. This is not just music with a shit drum sound. This is music BY the people, FOR the people. Cheap Drum Machines and Hair Lacquer. Here. Now. There is such a sense of camaraderie and connection in the air and this grows in me by the minute, deepened by DJs Piers Martin and Woody from Red Laser records, and a live show fron Italo Connection 2.0, Fred Ventura taking the mic in hand and telling it like it is, in much the same way a hotly anticipated performance by Heartbreak’s Sebastian Muravchik will do. Here we are in a working men’s club of all places and Fred Ventura seems to be equivalating DANCING with THE STRUGGLE. 

Now i is finally starting to get it, just in time for Ali Renault and Sebastian Muravchik to take to the stage.  Seb’s suit is still too tight. Is this just how they’re supposed to be worn? is Seb wearing a hand me down? Is he that broke and broken romantic dreamer?  or is it some kind of metaphor for his passion for life bursting him at the seams?   He’s also sporting a rather silly hat, but only because this opening NEW SONG (YES!) is about Saucy Jack The Ripper.

We’re in an asylum, and the lunatics have taken over. They must be strapping me into my thorazine again now because there-is-no-fucking-way-that-any-synthesizer-could-hold-me-that-good. A group hug featuring the welcoming claustrophobic arms of madamé strobelight and msr. le synthé. And what’s more the fact that this is new material unbuckles the trousers of Mr Expectation – THEY ARE BACK!  Not Just for a little while, but F O R E V E R.

Let’s get this straight (from the start): HEARTBREAK ARE BACK! AND HOW! with LIES! LIES! It’s all i hear falling from your mouth – Campaign for this to be Christmas number one NOW!   A snowflake covered pedestal and everything, even The Living Swastika Theresa May is up offa her knees and everyone is finally dancing in the truth.  We don’t have to take it from on high if we’re of the Masochistic persuasion, just let those synthesisers CRUSH your soul, and remould it into ‘Robot’s Got The Feeling’ WOOOOOOH RIGHT ON!”

A wise man* once told me that the difference between rock and roll and soul music can be visualised thus: ROCK AND ROLL = Mick Jagger (or Roger The Fox Daltrey or horrible Verve man or whatever cunt), pointing at their cocaine flaccidified cocks and screaming “look at mehhhhh!! Look at meeeeehhhh!! ooh, why dontchya look at mehhhhh! oh yeah! Awlright!! Any underage girls or foxes in the house?”  SOUL MUSIC = OTIS at Monterey. “Look at YOU”, he implores, “Look at YOU! So beautiful.  Here we are. Together.”  Heartbreak’s Sebastian Muravchik somehow manages to sympathetically synthesise the two with no tail touching in the very same way you might see Uncle Jarv or  Uncle Nick, one more time with feeling. Sure, he struts and frets his hour upon the stage but every adoration is thrown right back and all the stars are splashed across the ceilling.  And here we are. Together. 

And then they play “We’re Back”! The debut single and hotly contested opener from their one perfect pop album (sorry Ali, A&R cunt was right) 

(Heartbreak didn’t want the album sequenced like that, which is interesting as it takes on a completely different meaning when placed right in the middle. At the start makes it THE greatest step up fuck off into the limelight since “CLEOPATRA – COMIN’ AT YA!”, in the middle it’s more like a pair of lonely depressed middle aged men harking backwards at possibilities, and we’re back into rememberberry land. Either way it’s truth is undeniable)  (and this is where it gets REALLY WEIRD, because the obvious show opener tonight would have been ‘We’re Back’ but sticking it in the middle where it would have been on the album does a different thing again, it becomes a pair of true artists wantonly defying expectations by not opening with it. Bastards!)

“Looking back, i can’t feel…where is my peace of mind?

Sounds like fun – dancing vibe

something is not quite right

is it good? is it bad? The way your song words sound

Should i cry? should i laugh?

Listen to your heart

So – you’ve heard it all before?

Well, We’re back, from the disco to the radio

you’ve not heard it all before – cause We’re back!

….warm it up and we finally find some peace of mind”

it’s as beautful a notion of pop music as anyone can mention, up there with ‘It’s Bigger Than Hip-Hop’ (yes, Kanye produced it! THE greatest rap record of time. I KNOW #metoo) True artistic vision can be sniffed in the wind as easily as the fastmoneymusic which pollutes our lives with it’s reminder to pay, and don’t dance too much, keep it middle class, everything used to be better in our day, focus on the new sofa and the soporific horror of the quote unquote real world. Meanwhile Heartbreak are the real deal. Dance your fucking arse off, fag burns on the sofa, put everything you got into The Church Of Saturday Night, and in doing so make it Monday night and Tuesday night and Wednesday night (etc), rise together into the rarified air only breathed by the gods into which our species must evolve or drown in our owwwwwwwwwn shit.


THE SENTENCE. A book by Alistair Fruish

My review written immediately after the initial reading of this crucial – and still unpublished – masterpiece of literature – A single sentence of 40, 000 monosyllabic words detailing a dystopian prison sentence of the not too distant future and transporting it’s readers into the present, the eternal NOW

what to write when words seem no use post your book as all words there that burn an’ sear on to the brain an heart leave a trace too large fer all that comes next to say their piece so with a smile and for my brain i tried Higgs words as well on all on the years of strange an that too did the trick of mind we need now for my hope comes big but I read it on my own so not left a mark the same way as yours as i try and sleep and can’t and think of all of us as we take turns at Kate’s where i sit on a plank my shins on fire to stop the sleep as the chap that wrote this great great work sees it all new as each brings a new face to what he said like Ben brings depth an’ soul an’ Jacqs is full of the moon and fire a’ love as too the child of Ken’s they fierce and burn an’ Rap he takes it slow finds fun in each next word and makes us laugh at things we else might not see an’  Mel all feel she fills our hearts with joy and sad and POW the word love hits our ears and stops our hearts for one brief joy an’ back to mind now comes Higgs as he talks not of one whole and top down but all of us from side to side and each a face and each a view and all of it joins to all of it and each sees the whole and each shares their side and each with a voice and in the end all of us made strong like a bunch of twigs all of us in the spire as we need to set free our mind forge chains and fight for all those in our world all sons and wives and dogs and fish and trees and OUR mum as we wait for an out that soon comes but not soon as we would like whilst a Fart lets free in that House of White and we wait and we wait and we wait and we plan and we wait and we make and we wait and we hush and we loud and we play and we dance and we laugh and we wait and we make and we wait and we wait we wait in the dark and we look at the light and we find the else folk and we build big daft clocks that are stop but tell the right time all day long as the time is NOW as we wait and we wait and we wait an’ we burn our quids an’ we do what we do and we wait and we wait and we wait and this new book is fer sure a big part of our new world’s rise to life and soon come soon come soon come LOVE full stop we WIN and that game ends and we head for the pub with cheer


Upon arrival we thought that eating a ‘Jon Spencer Blues Explosion Burger’ (at the stand that also sold HOT SANDWICH PULP!) might help. Maybe it did. Either way, day three was almost as good as day one.

Wasn’t really feeling the Warpaint thing. Young ‘uns that didn’t realise that the eighties were basically crap until The Acid hit. One of the more interesting things that happened in the eighties were maybe Einsturzende Neubauten, who we watched for half a set then foolishly skipped off to see Money Mark, but he wasn’t up to much. We also went to see about five minutes of Gonjasufi, who weren’t so hot either, but made us laugh because mister damp T-shirt was playing bass. In a smelly T-shirt way.

Then the evening took an unexpected turn. I was dragged to see PJ Harvey. And whaddya know? Unbelievable. Some of it was definitely a sex appeal thing – she is almost unbearably cute, but the whole thing rocked, definitely helped by…Mick Harvey being in the band?!?! Really?! Ouch! Half expected to see Blixa do a guest spot, maybe a cover of People ain’t no Good. Either way it was pretty funny as well as being all rocking and that.

Then another strange turn. I lost my girl, wandered past some racket and found myself drawn into… Swans. I have always HATED Swans. YUK. But… wow! just… wow! Nasty white angry dirge turned into… nasty white angry dirge, but with such a funk I couldn’t believe it. There were moments when they were the nearest thing I’ve ever witnessed to how I imagine those Can shows must’ve been. Intense and wild and… groovy? Really? Jesus. Anyway, I found myself running forward and dancing my tits off.

This left me SO READY for Animal Collective like you wouldn’t believe. Seems everyone but me reckons that they’re crap live, but surely after this there can be no more debate. They were almost the best thing at the festival. Almost.

The best thing happened right after Grinderman, and cutesy fanboy Nick Cave knew it before it even happened…spent most of his set telling everyone to go see them (“they’re the greatest, just the greatest, they’re the reason any of us are playing rock and roll in the first place”). I too am about to gush my face off here, but for those of you that already love this band just the one word will do, and that word is Suicide. SUICIDE. SOOO-I-CIIIIIDE. I have seen this band over and over and over since I was sixteen, and every time it’s the same. I laugh, I cry, I shake, I dance, I scream with joyful abandon. I swear that this is the best gig I’ve ever seen them do. And tonight at Primavera they are ON FIRE and I’m shaking to the most delirious rock and roll since Jerry Lee. I’m laughing at that acid fried tramp – seventy fuckin’ two years old – being the most inspirational singer alive, I’m crying big gloopy tears all the way through the most HOLY HOLY version of Che, keyboard chops going all funky at the end and all, dancing like an animal to a super-sexy Girl, screaming uncontrollably when Marty’s high keyboard part burns its way into the call-to-arms that is Frankie Teardrop. As Suicide always point out to the deaf ears of the goths and the Rock’s Rich Tapestry box-tickers , they’re called Suicide because they wanted to recognise LIFE. Come on get up! COME ON GET UP!! We’re all Frankies! COME ON GET UP!!! I swear that this was the best gig I’ve ever seen them do, again.

So it’s the last night and we’re all just about still standing. Although the concrete has taken it’s toll on the legs, we all amble up to see the other Rev. They were my favourite band on earth for about five years until they got ‘goooood’, but tonight it’s easy to remember why they were my favourite band on earth. Deserter’s Songs – not even their second best album – is still beautiful. Jonathon Donahue is scary as all hell – I think he finally read the ‘how to be a rock star’ book that someone gave him as a leaving present, but something about him is kind of phoney, not quite real, and I can’t be sure if it’s the bottles of wine that he’s freely swigging from or the tablets he looks like he’s on (prescription), or that he’s discovered Jesus, or just that he’s quite, quite insane. Whatever it is, he’s fascinating to watch, and Mercury Rev… they SOAR. Sorry, but it’s what they do. And it’s not even their second best album.

Trying to squeeze the last nuggets of joy from what has basically been the best music festival I’ve ever been to, I manage to convince a few of the gang to head over to the big party, promising that Declan Allen will probably play a bunch of Motown. He doesn’t play any. He DOES, however, treat us to the best indie disco most of us have never been to, songs we never thought we’d get to rage to again – Teenage Riot, Boredom, Shot By Both Sides – we careen happily around the room, and I’m reminded why I ever bothered in the first place. Nothing else is as good as music is it?


For some fucking stupid reason the idea that The National were popular made me think I’d like to go and have a look. Eh? Seems that day one was so good I’d forgotten that John and Jenny Punchclock have got such shit taste in music, because they don’t actually LIKE music, they like going out and getting drunk and dancing and meeting fellas and making love and doing the hoovering and shopping for MP3s. Anyway, maybe you’d like them if you like UGLY MIDDLE AGED OFFICE WORKERS WITH GREY HAIR GREY CLOTHES GREY VOICE GREY MIND AND GREY SOUL. As the world’s most unimaginative bass player (quite a feat given what most cunts pass off for bass “playing” 99 percent of the time) plays THE SAME INDIE LANDFILL BASSLINE OVER AND OVER AND OVER WHILST SOME FAT CITY BOY WITH THE SAME LACK OF STYLE CREAMS OFF THE PROFITS FROM YOUR GULLIBILITY THEN GOES HOME AND LISTENS TO (the infinitely superior) ROBERT PALMER. Fucking kill ’em. And yourself if you like them.



Mainly day two was shit. Not quite, but almost. Ariel Pink’s Haunted Graffiti actually sounded as strange and ancient as their records, Half Japanese were just fat, and that band from Sheffield… oh yeah, they were QUITE GOOD. There was a man near us that had obviously left his T-shirt in the washing machine a few days too long. We kept trying to dance away, but his smell kept re-appearing. A very Pulp detail.

They were QUITE GOOD. Quite good, as in perhaps the best pop group to ever escape from the UK. Russell was there but you couldn’t hear him. So was Cocker, but you could barely hear him, either. To be honest you could barely hear owt apart from Nick on the ones and twos and about sixteen billion people singing every word. I’m still reeling from missing Pulp at Glastonbury ’95, but between this and Cocker’s sublime festival appearance at Secret Garden 2009 I’m slowly coming to terms with it. Basically, I am very very very very happy that it is ON again, even if it’s just for cash or because collecting antique glass just ain’t as good as rock and roll. I bumped into Candida in the street last year, training to be a counsellor. Christ, imagine going to see a counsellor and it turns out to be Candida. What would you tell her???!

Anyway, LOOK, PULP ARE/WERE/WILL ALWAYS BE A M A Z I N G. You don’t need me to tell you that. If you don’t get it, you don’t like pop music.