Wednesday 12 October 2011

Danny Drive Thru 7" Launch/ Mind on Fire's 7th Birthday

7 years. It's hard to believe it's been 2 years since I wrote about the party at Islington Mill, yet so much has happened since then. Like the mother fuckin record label. Pow. After last year's Great Minds compilation (which really packs a few heavy punches if you ask me), the next vinyl release is Danny Drive Thru's new 7 inch Psychedelia Smith. It's sick.

On Friday 14/10/11 at the Soup Kitchen we'll be celebrating both our 7th birthday and the release of the single, with sets from all the residents and Drive Thru. I probably don't need to tell you how good that's going to be.

On a side note:  two big 7's happening on the 14th is the kind of faux Kabalistic parallel that I tend to get excited about (but probably doesn't mean very much other than that we're all going to have a lot of fun). In the meantime check out  of Danny's Violence Makes The World Go Around (Naive Machine Remix).

  Danny Drive Thru - Violence Makes (Naive Machine Remix) by MindonFire


Tuesday 20 September 2011

Dayse and Aver EP01- Review

Like a scratched Isaac Hayes record, the industrial soundscape of 19th century Manchester provided the sultry mood music to the conception of a new age. Spinning frames, steam engines and the howls of disfigured children; a sensual rhythm to which Karl and Friedrich thrust their swollen and throbbing dictations deep into each other’s minds. The hirsute lovers tangled like spiders caught in their own web of intellectual lust, it became impossible to tell where one beard stopped and the other began. Sometimes, Engels would pretend to be the proletariat, tied tight to the frame of his bed, while Marx played the cruel Mill owner. “Spare the rod and spoil the child, my dear boy,” he’d say, spitting on his hand. It was in this setup that they penetrated further into the concept than ever before. Distributing his warm wealth across Engels’ perfect oily body, inspiration struck. “I’ve got it,” he shrieked, “My best line yet… but what rhymes with ‘chains’?

Stains. The Capitalist bed sheets were well and truly soiled that day, leaving a mess the servants of the Imperial Machine are still struggling to remove. With all of this in mind, it‘s fitting that Dayse and Aver’s ode to our city is a reflection on the revolution that it helped to inspire. It comes in the guise of a hip-hop concept album- portraying a not so distant Mancunian dystopia. A terrifying cauldron in which brutality, surveillance and hidden menace meld to form a hellish urban penal colony. D&A have created a future every bit as vivid as the books and movies that inspired it; and in doing so, they have provided a powerful commentary of the present.
This debut is a soundtrack for a world in which many of us carry tracking devices in our pockets, willingly, like lambs unaware of their shepherd’s plans for them. Our midnight bus rides, blazed and bleary, are under the cycloptic gaze of countless security cameras.  Dayse’s lyrics confront a society that has allowed the gap between the rich and the poor to widen, systematically removing the safety net from under those who lose their grip.  References to social philosophers from previous centuries show him to be a well read MC, acutely aware of the Industrial Revolution’s parallels to the present.

Dayse and Aver The beats laid down by Aver match the lyricist’s dexterous flow with a sonic syncretism the two have honed through years of performing in The Natural Curriculum.  Opening track, Hell Is a City, is a statement of intent- over a haunting wall of synths a sample, sourced from the bowels of science fiction, warns the listener that returning to Earth is suicide. And right about then Aver introduces us to the Bass- lurching and stuttering and heavy as hell.

The EP’s strengths lie in its diversity, various flows and styles are fused seamlessly; from nocturnal jazz of Dark Matter to the MF Doom-esque psychedelia of 221120100. Human Zoo sounds like some kind of nightmarish Native Tongues production. Despite the nods to influences (some obvious, others less so), EP001 stands out on its own terms as a work of individuality and artistic integrity. Somehow managing to sound both old school and futuristic, Dayse and Aver have hit on something that deserves to be noticed.


Friday 16 September 2011

Haunted Insomniac Ambient Mixtape

 
1. Hildur Guðnadóttir- Elevation
2. Francesco Tristano- Andover
3. Deathprod- Dead People's Things
4. Aiden Baker- The Sea Swells a Bit
5. The KLF- Elvis On The Radio, Steel Guitar In My Soul
6. Caretaker- False Memory Syndrome
7. The Hafler Trio- Buggy White Flings
8. Oren Armarchi- The Evening So Soon
9. Murcof- Come Quislera Decirte (Remix)
10. Iancu Dumitrescu- Grande Ourse
11. Tangerine Dream- Birth Of Liquid Plejades
12. ASVA- Birds

Wednesday 7 September 2011

Free Trojan Horse!

Something interesting has been happening over the last few months. A good band actually seems to be getting some of the attention they deserve... and (whisper it) they're actually nice guys too. If, like me, you are sick and tired of boring run of the mill, marketing campaigns disguised as bands getting all the buzz, then this is undoubtedly a good thing. I mean, who the fuck actually listens to WU LYF anyway? Certainly no one that I'd rescue from a canal boat fire.

If you live in Manchester and have been cursed with the insatiable desire for new and exciting music, you'll be pretty familiar with the great "scene" we've got going here. Lots of great musicians make great sounds for great people in great places. It’s all really great. Unfortunately, the rest of the country tends to overlook all the good stuff coming out of the city in favour of the endless stream of anaemic pussbags erupting from Wilmslow’s ass like a tepid pill shit.

Perhaps this is starting to change to some extent. Like the blinding flash of light as the police raid an illegal sex dungeon, there is hope for the disenfranchised. Our days of being chained to the greasy torture rack of anonymity may be a long way from over, but one of our own are about to break free. Having just been featured in Classic Prog Rock Magazine (that ubercool guardian of hipster style and taste), Trojan Horse are about to embark on a nationwide tour which is bound to increase their profile.

Personally, I couldn't be happier for them. I've been living vicariously through Nick Duke's beard for the last few years, whispering into the ears of underaged emo girls that I used to be in a band with the guy. Things are about to get a lot better for me. And for You, because The Horse fucking rock. Comprising of three ginger brothers and some other Guy, the band is often referred to as Eccles' answer to Hanson-  and believe me, their jaunty Prog-Metal styling totally lives up to the comparison.

To celebrate their recent turn of fortune, the Horse are giving away their debut LP (which I reviewed a few months ago) for free. So why not click HERE and download it? You could even listen to it... if you're into that kind of thing.

Friday 2 September 2011

Manchester Evening Coming Down

Rain, too cold for August, hammers down from an unforgiving sky. A damp cotton hood does little to protect my aching forehead from the icy daggers. A waterline has worked its way up my jeans, slowly, like poison creeping towards the young Montague’s heart. My shoes- wet and heavy- are drowned corpses.

I’m not headed anywhere. There’s no reason to be out in this weather, but I walk all the same.

Hands in pockets, I drift through Piccadilly Gardens, my shoulders bump into strangers and I don’t try hard enough to avoid the tsunamis of bus splash wheels. The perverted lights of the amusement arcade pierce the dull night, grotesquely twisting the shadows of old men sharing cigarettes outside a betting shop. Under the concrete archway, Somali boys in brand new baseball caps laugh and huddle close together. A young couple kiss on the low bridge over the fountain, stopping to watch me walk by.

I pretend not to notice.

Bars and restaurants are full of strangers, as alien to me as B-movie atrocities. Lads clad in white t-shirt horror, swagger into the rain, oblivious to all as they shout and sing. Like brothers in a morgue, they all smell of the same cheap fragrance. Further down the road, men in pinstriped suits and no ties, talk on and on about mortgages and their daughters’ university fees and the state of test cricket. Their shoes seem dry- I wonder how they got there.

A beautiful woman rushes past me, her pendulum hips awakening butterflies in the pit of my stomach. A suitcase follows her towards the station like an enthusiastic dog, its wheels slip sliding on the wet pavement. I wish I could go with her too, but she moves faster then my serotonin depleted soul can manage. Soon, she’s out of sight, lost among a crowd of passengers in waiting. By the time I reach the taxi rank, I can’t remember what she looked like.

A left at the Star and Garter takes me into a tunnel’s cobwebbed womb. The flickering of the overhead yellow lights always play tricks on my eyes, conjuring phantom shapes to dance around me. I sit down for a while, finally out of the rain, back against the filthy brick wall of my haunted cave. Happily, I remember a can of beer in my bag. Passing pedestrians sidestep me, as if avoiding a fallen gorgon, careful not to make eye contact. Sipping the cold beer as the trains roll over head, I feel, momentarily, content.

Time travels, cars drive by and more trains pass above me. Two cops in diseased jaundice jackets walk towards me. I attempt to hide the can, but they don’t care either way. They just walk by. Using my hands, I get to my feet. Out of the tunnel now, I climb the hill through the industrial estate where balding men get blowjobs in maroon Cavaliers. Tyres screech as someone makes a get away, or perhaps begins a pursuit- I can’t say. Two whores in tall leather boots and high skirts stand beneath a single blue umbrella. Madonnas in boob tubes. I smile and say hello, but they just scowl and look away- disgusted by an uninvited traveller in this barren land. Unexpectedly, their snub hurts more than a lifetime of averted gazes. “Fucking Cunts,” I mutter under my breath- kicking a puddle and instantly regretting it.

In Ancoates, where the giants once were, amidst the rubble of burnt out mills and crumbling warehouses, kids- with the glowing eyes of hungry foxes- ride by on the back wheels of their bikes. I begin to think about the moon, invisible behind the clouds, and whether it really controls us. Are we just marionettes, twisting at the whim of Dianna’s silver strings? I pick up a litre of whisky from the nearest off licence, deciding that wheat and barley have stronger pulls than any lunar cycle.

The path along the canal is strange and muddy so when I manage to climb down there I’m completely alone. I watch the stadium’s floodlights reflecting in the murky water, which moves just as I do- propelled by a force we can’t understand. I continue my aimless journey. I am Nebuchadnezzar, king of Nothing. Through the lonesome dark and endless sheets of rain, I push onwards towards my kingdom. I’m going Nowhere.

Tuesday 9 August 2011

Dayse and Aver Interview

I've started writing occasionally for the Mind on Fire website now, so some stuff will be there and not here. One such article is an interview with Manchester Hip-Hop duo Dayse and Aver, who have just released a rather sick new EP. My review of the record soon to be appearing on www.mindonfire.co.uk 

Thursday 14 July 2011

The Death of Venice (A review of Old Story by Zoir)


A dignified death.

That’s all Simon really had left to hope for these days. After spending more than three decades as a copyright protection agent for a major record label, he had increasingly become sickened by his line of work. He couldn’t really put his finger on it. He was wealthy and working for an industry that many people, far more talented than he, had sold their souls to be part of. Maybe it was the thrill of the chase that he missed; back when the first MPC came out he used to handout lawsuits like they were fundamentalist hate pamphlets. With new advanced music recognition software anyone could do his job. Amateurs. Where were they when he was working undercover at Bronx block parties, sporting a ridiculous hi-top fade and listening out for Steely Dan samples? His name had been made by taking on the Zulu Nation. He’d given hell to those bastards, and he was proud to play his part in making a fiercely independent art form conform to the rules of his employers at The Majors.

Maybe this is was how Wyatt Earp felt, he’d think to himself. Once The West was won, what was there left to do? But Earp had Hollywood. Simon’s own autobiographical screenplay hadn’t even warranted a rejection letter. He was burnt out, an ageing relic of a history unknown. He wasn’t a hero to anyone- his daughter resented that he spent his life prosecuting teenagers for downloading music they couldn’t afford. Christ, he was pretty sure she was file sharing it too. But what could he do? Sue his own family? No thanks, he paid enough in alimony already.

Jaded, he’d made the big decision a while back. He had lived like a Narc, but he would die like a Roman Emperor. It was a simple plan, but quietly refined. He would see out his last evening in luxury. When his regal corpse was discovered, it would be clear that he had parted on his own terms.

Tonight was the night. Sweating and a little bit nervous, he began the ritual. It started, perhaps less divinely than he would have liked, by taking a dump. Ever conscious of his mortal legacy, he refused to be found amidst the ruins of his evacuated bowels. Emptying them of his own accord was his ultimate victory over Nature. Unable to adequately survey the dark forces stockpiled inside him, he sat there until he was certain that he was quite through. Satisfied, he donned his velvet dressing gown, opened a bottle of wine and sat on the sofa. He listened through the entirety of Fleetwood Mac’s Greatest Hits (Warner Brother, 1988), enjoying his last mouthfuls of vintage Bordeaux.

Music was his life, and now it would be his death. It was timed to perfection. As No Question Asked (Nicks, Kelly Johnston) began to fade out, he stood. Next song. Next step. He marched triumphantly to the bathroom, accompanied by the Second Prelude of Bach’s Cello Suite (Yo-Yo Ma, 1983). His soundtrack was audible in every room of the apartment thanks to the central music system the Bose engineer had installed. After running through a full mental checklist, he disrobed and climbed into the warm candlelit bath. When Tomorrow Never Knows (Lennon/McCartney) began, he took his razor and cut through the flesh of his wrists, wincing as he sliced through tendon and skin. To avoid any unnecessary mess, he maintained an impressive resolve to carry this act out below the surface of the water. He closed his eyes and tried very hard to imagine himself floating downstream.

As usual with Simon, there were conflicting motives in this selection. The obvious reason was its reference to the Tibetan Book of the Dead. When his final playlist was analysed by a reverential detective, he was sure to be beatified. On a more personal note, he had made a lot of money suing artists for the unauthorized use of Beatles songs. Now all doubts and troubling thoughts were banished by the cheerful memory of bankrupting unknown bedroom producers stupid enough to sample Strawberry Fields (Lennon/ McCartney).

Lying in crimson water up to his neck, he felt calm, collected and proud that he had, at last, taken full control of his own destiny. He waited for his swan song to begin, already pre-empting the beauty of fading out to its glorious climax. Unfortunately for Simon Venice, it seems that fate was determined not to be outwitted by a man. Instead of hearing the opening organ and slide guitar of Free Bird (Collins, Van Zant), he heard a young boys voice speaking to him talking about old stories. What was this some kind of memory? Had he passed over? No something else. Drums. Oh Fuck. Fretless bass and piano arpeggios. Oh shit... oh God...Oh No. Please no.

He recognised it and knew what had happened. A few days back he'd been handed a copy of Zoir's EP to comb for copyright infringements. He'd given it a cursory listen in the car on the way home. It had made him feel vaguely uneasy and irritated so he decided never play it again. But something had gone wrong. Somehow this had made it's way onto his playlist, right where Free Bird should have been. He screamed, “No! This can't be! Free Bird! Free Biiiiirrrrrddd!”

He sobbed, muttering something about how “the bird changed” and began, as if by reflex, to analyase the tune to pinpoint the piano sample. “I'm gonna get this guy,” he spat. “He's history, wait till we file.” The obvious falsity of this statement only made him more irate. The music was taunting him. It had been chopped up so far beyond recognition he couldn’t make it out, not now anyway. There was a chaos wrapped around those notes, as if Zoir had crafted the beats just to torment a dying man. To taint his final moments.

He breathed a sigh of relief as the song came to an end. Maybe it was just that song, “If I leave here tomorrow,” he repeated to himself as if he could mentally control the computer in his living room. But he had to hope, and having lost so much blood, he was hardly in his right mind at this point. His petition to the gods of Southern Rock was in vain; as the synths of “It's on There” began to surround him he couldn't help but think of all the unanswered prayers of his youth. A torrent of bitter memories ran through his mind. He'd always been a disappointment to everyone he knew. And now his daughter, what would she think?

Fuck.

His contemplation was broken. The warm ambience and vinyl cracks of the song's intro had taken him on an introspective journey but it was soon severed by a total aural assault. It was as if Future Sound of London had OD’d on ketamine and been reborn as vengeful wraiths hell bent on ruining his party. He'd been in some tricky positions throughout his life, and usually managed to remain fairly calm- but in that moment he lost all self control. He lifted his arms out of the water. He instantly regretted breaking his first and most important rule.

Arterial blood pulsed slow and irregular from the demented grins on each of his wrists. Monochromatic rainbows arched sureally around him. Profundo Rosso. Deep Red. The whole world had been whitewashed and was being painted red by a mad man. This was not the plan. This could not be allowed to happen. Simon Venice was gripped by an irresistible force of self preservation. Vanity is a man's downfall, but also his greatest strength. “If I get out of this, I'll let Zoir know he saved my life,” he thought wistfully. Imaging his face on the cover of various True Story rags, he pulled himself out of the tub.

He tried to stand but was too light headed. Reaching for something sturdy, he put his hand on the toilet roll holder and lost his footing. Simon fell over. His fall was broken by the hard porcelain of the toilet, which his mouth wrapped around. Teeth cracked and tore through his lower lip. Lightning. Pain. He crumpled to the floor. Above him the bog roll was still spinning, coating him in paper like freshly fallen snow.

Resigned to defeat he finally let go. Simon Venice was overwhelmed by a feeling that his heart was pumping in time with the wonky Dupstep crawl of “Resh Kesh then Repeat”, struggling along and missing every third beat. He reached a stage of Zen like acceptance. This was it. This is what he was listening to and he was powerless to change it. He began to drift into unconsciousness.

It felt a lot like some of the trips he'd had back in the seventies. Strange patterns began to form on the walls and he had a hard time looking at anything for very long. He zoned in, blacked out and came back around again. Synchronicity. First his body had mirrored the music and now, as he became too weak to maintain any clarity the music blasting out of his speakers began to do the same. The fluttering samples and stunted beat of “How Far?” perfectly matched his fluctuation between Being and Not.

And then it was over. The EP that is. The silence was so loud it hurt his ears. A last injection of strength coursed through his broken body. “What?” He howled, fuelled by a hatred of Biblical proportions. ”This can't be right. How can a whole EP be shorter than fucking Free Bird!?”




Friday 3 June 2011

Neshamah Radio- 01

Despite countless pleading letters  and several hours spent begging on late night phone-ins, noone has yet deemed fit to give Spurious Scholars his own radio show. But that's a tired and washed up media anyway, so I've taken matters into my own hands. Here is the first in a new series of podcasts celebrating the frequencies that get me excited. Bollywood, funk, soul hip hop and prog it's all here. Maybe future mixes will be a bit more focused, but this is an appropriate introduction to Neshamah Radio.






Track List:

1. Omar Khorshid- Raqset El Fada [Dance of Space]
2. Ananda Shankar- Streets of Calcutta
3. Secret Chiefs 3- Blaze of the Grail (Cover of RD Burman's Shalimar Theme)
4. Naftule's Dream- Oy Tate (Oh Father)
5. Shabazz Palaces- Kill White T?
6. The Gospel Comforters- Jesus Will Help Me
7.  Ennio Morricone- Violenza Inattesa
8. Fantomas- The Godfather
9. R.D Burman- Aja Mara Dil
10.Teebs- Bound Ball
11. Karlheinz Stockhausen- Stimmung (Model 11)
12. Jungle Brothers My Jimmy Weighs a Ton
13. Anachiskati Choir- Alilo 
14. Godeigo- Monkey Magic
15. Gong- Golden Dilema
16. Kronos Quartet with Asha Bhosle- Dum Maro Dum (R.D Burman)
17. Estradasphere- Planet Sparkle (Courtyard Battle 1)




Monday 14 February 2011

Now for something completely the same

Trawling through the hard drive and finding a few things to post from last year. Not at all relevant to the events of today, but then again they probably never were.

Gig Leg- Now Wave 03/03/2010 - Deaf Institute

Dedication and professionalism, that's what I like to think that I bring to any job I put my hand to. Not to mention, tranquillity and some killer dance moves. But most of all I am efficient.

I'd been drawn to the Deaf Institute tonight to try to do some research for a piece I've been writing for Monk's Monthly. For weeks on end I'd been staying up at night, soaked in sweat, puzzling over a riddle as ancient as it is clichéd. A koan, which, if Master Hakuin was to believed, would expand my consciousness beyond my wildest imagination. Having spent much of the last decade trying to do exactly that, this assignment filled me a zeal I had never before experienced.

It must have been by the hand of fate that I decided to put away my dusty books and manuscripts for an evening and see what was going on in town- for if, as usual, I had dedicated myself to my studies, I would never have spotted my biggest lead yet. And even better, it had to do with that other topic I write about occasionally. Music. As a wise monk probably never said, I had the chance to catch two birds with one net. Who would have thought that the answer to the question which had so ruthlessly tormented me might be found at a gig?  But, then again, who would have reckoned on the The Phenomenal Handclap Band? As I stared at the listings, I began to shake with excitement. If they didn't know the sound of one hand clapping, nobody did.

There is a real problem with trying to go to a  gig after weeks of meditating in solitude. The crowds and the noise and (dare I say it?) the excitement can really be to much to take in. Fortunately, being the dedicated professional  that I am, I know a few short cuts to reaching the party spirit. However, on this occasion,  it meant trekking out to Moston and banging on a steel door for thirty five full minutes until it was finally opened by a sketchy albino called Frank. Eventually, I arrived at the Deaf Institute, but to my dismay I had completely missed the gig. Instead of the beatific sounds of hand clapped epiphany that I had hoped for, I found myself in the midst of an Electro night full of students.

On a projector screen, behind the DJ, a young Lou Reed looked down on us. Andy Warhol and Nico also made appearances, as if to suggest that this was some kind of artistic equivalent to 1970's New York. The only similarity I could find comes in the title of a Velvet Underground song- "Oh! Sweet Nuthin”. This was a club night totally lacking in substance, and from the speakers the sounds of Nothing blared at full volume.  Any trace of decadence on display was merely the light hearted frivolity of those who still have Serotonin left to burn. In this crowd, I felt distinctly out of place, like Charles Manson visiting a Young Conservatives club.

Worryingly, being one of the few males present able to grow facial hair, I was beginning to attract unwanted attention. “I love beards”, cooed one girl, seconds before shrieking, “They're playing Battles!”, and bouncing  around ,clapping her hands like the Jonas Brothers had just come on stage. If I had known it was this easy when I was a  much younger man, my life may have turned out very differently. But now, I was just looking for an escape. As I made my way towards the door, another teenybopper leaned over as if to kiss me. It took me a second to realise that she was trying, instinctively, to sniff a mysterious white residue that had somehow gotten onto my moustache. Pushing her away, I downed my whiskey and stumbled out the door, beginning my long walk home. As I shivered in the cold night air, I tried to console myself. So what if I didn't manage to see the band I was supposed to review OR find the answer to my Koan? At least, I had, once again, failed efficiently.

Friday 11 February 2011

Dance like an Egyptian

It's party Time in Egypt right about now so get down with Omar Khorshid

Viva Revolution

Congratulations to the people of Egypt, after more than two tough weeks, finally Mubarak has fled. I'm still a bit worried about what will come (any that gets the US/UK seal of approval will be just as bad), but for now let's celebrate with our Egyptian brothers and sisters.

The world is changing.

السلطة الى الشعب

Thursday 10 February 2011

Bairaag Dance Music- Kalyanji Anandji

This is a tune right here...working on a podcast of Turkish, Indian and Iranian funk at the moment. Soon

Tuesday 8 February 2011

Waiting

From the rocker on his porch, the old man watched the silhouettes appear on the horizon, barely specks descending the low treeless hill a few miles west of his cabin. He made no effort to gauge the time by the evening sun and needed not make any calculations as to the time of his visitors’ arrival.

A cool breeze ran through his tattered red shirt. Wind chimes sounded. He had crafted them from wood, so many years ago- a gift for his wife. The sweet sound, different each time yet so familiar, had always soothed him, and in these his last years, they heralded memory’s ebbing tide. So simple, just wood and string, but what else was required? The ancient notes, random and to no meter, were an immortal tribute to the old oak tree, which had been ripped from the earth in a fierce storm. In fact, it had been that very tree which had finally convinced them to settle there after so long on the dusty trails. Majestic on the banks of the fast flowing creek which cut through the stead, it summoned feelings they were beginning to forget. Home. Over the next decades it had rewarded their faith with shade from the sun and- once the children were born- leant its strong branches to climbing feet, untamed imaginations and rope swings.

Sad eyes, which had seen their fair share of both horror and beauty, tracked the travellers as they steadily made ground towards his home. Men had been here before- to rob and to destroy- but he’d always been able to keep them at bay. He’d had the boys around then though, born and raised on this land, they’d been a match for any newcomer. That was then. Now he was alone and all that was left to defend were the ghosts of a past more real than the present. More certain than the future. Alive within and around him, they spoke with each creak of the house’s wooden frame. In the tall grass, not far from where he sat, he still thought he could see his youngest son’s blood. A dark crimson pool had had welled up just short of the porch steps. That was the end. It had been just him and his daughter after that, for a few years at least, until the winter of the Fever. He found himself alone on land that he had always expected to share. Yet he could not leave; everything that was Him was here. So he remained.

Alone. But never without companionship. Perhaps, when he’d been young he wouldn’t have understood- but, somehow, he was content to sit back and watch the reflections of his life ripple in the wind of time. His life had been a full one, tainted by sorrow, untouched by regret.

The moment approached, riders passing a plot of land marked by five wooden crosses. He had buried them all himself, each time with one less pair of hands to help. There was not a soul left to put him in the ground, when the day finally came. Was this it? Surely, he had survived worse odds, but each day that passed was one less left to live. He waited. There was no point to rushing, nothing to be gained through recklessness.

Around him, songbirds sang their merry hymns of tranquillity. Soon they would flee, to be replaced by buzzards and crows- one way or another.

He breathed deeply, slowly reaching to his right where his rifle rested. He felt the familiar weight as he lifted it to his shoulder. The blueprints of his house were carved deep into the calluses of his hands and his aim was steady. As he waited, he recalled that he had used the same gun to put down the horse that had carried him here. And he thought, “It’s funny what you think of when you’re old”.
.

photo by Fazal Sheikh

Thursday 3 February 2011

Letter from Cairo

Dear Mr Thomas Cook,

It is with great regret that I find myself locked inside my hotel room, typing this letter of complaint, when I should be outside enjoying the package holiday that I paid a bloody fortune for. This won’t do, and I can assure you that I won’t be using your services in the future.

Since arriving in Cairo last week, the holiday has gone from bad to worse to absolutely bloody disgraceful. For starters, it’s just too damn hot… which wouldn’t be a problem if I could sit beside the swimming pool in a civilised manner. However, the air is heavily polluted here- the horrendous stench of burning rubber is enough to make anyone sick, but now they seem to have started burning human flesh as well. Not on. To make things worse, the noise pollution is extraordinary. All this incessant chanting…what are they even saying? It all sounds the same to me, they could at least have the common courtesy to speak in English. Their entire economy is built on tourism- show some bloody gratitude!

I have never before experienced such appalling customer service. I doubt that Jamie Redknapp would stand for this, and I certainly won’t. It took me three hours to get a beer in the hotel restaurant the other day, an absolute shambles. It’s like a ghost town, only a handful of staff have even bothered to turn up and they are just moping around with million mile stares. Totally unprofessional and, let me tell you, thoroughly unacceptable. It seems like these people lack the basic values to turn into work each day. Sure, go out and make bloody racket- it is a free country after all- but do so in a way that doesn’t affect people who have paid good money to be there. I didn’t get where I am today by skiving off work and shouting in the streets like a bleeding Bolshevik. Those last years of Gordon Brown were no picnic, let me tell you, but you didn’t see me rubbing my shoes against a picture of his face. You know why? Because I was in work, doing my bit to put the Great back in to Britain.

On the rare occasion that we have deemed fit to leave the hotel premises, we have been appalled by how filthy the streets have been. You can barely walk without tripping over flags and rubble and all manner of debris. Hardly the immaculate beauty promised in your brochure. Furthermore, the “friendly vibrant culture” that you promised seems to be a gross fallacy. I was expecting much more of the people here, but my confidence seems to have been misplaced. I can hardly begin to tell you how much I was looking forward to being mobbed by street vendors hoping to sell me sunglasses, bongos and other such hilarious trinkets. That’s the kind of go-getter attitude that I thoroughly approve of, but it is no where to be seen.

My previous points pale in the face of our trip to the museum last night. All around us people were screaming and lashing out. Save for a few rather friendly fellows on horses, the crowds were an absolute disgrace. Crikey Moses, you’ve made your point, now go home and let me enjoy the Jewels of King Tut in peace- or at least have the common decency not to run about ripping the arms off mummies and using them as weapons. I tell you, the things we saw we will never forget. Blood everywhere. People on fire. We even saw a man with his brains hanging out; really shook up my missus, that did. If you think that you can get away without paying us compensation for this you are greatly mistaken. We have human rights too, and it is clear that the tourists are the real victims here.

I have never been so angry in my life. Having flown half way across the world to experience the ‘Wonders of Egypt’, I now find myself wondering how I could have been stupid enough to use your services after a long history of disappointment.

I trust you received my letter from New Orleans.

Sincerely,

Nigel H Mortimer