Brand new dad

Repent ye! For his day is at hand...

It's not really the done thing to blag content from other blogs, but I couldn't help myself here. The mighty Scaryduck, aka Alistair Coleman - BBC radio bod, Sparklehorse fan and, of course, French cabaret chantoose - has a link today to something truly terrifying. The utterly serious, in deadly earnest, thoughts of the Reverend Ian Paisley.
Once you've enjoyed the amusing URL, delve deeper into the retarded, second-hand, circular arguments of a man for whom no self can be too important.

Or, if you can't be bothered, the last paragraph of the introduction should serve:

Paisley: "I have simply made a precis of [Dr Wylie's] excellent work, 'The Papacy is Antichrist,' because its demonstration cannot be surpassed. I have also added some additional material."

People vote for this halfwit. Please stop.

Ah! London. Come with me, if you will, where overhead the Docklands Light Railway careers unpiloted into the bowels of Bank and, outside the sleeping Artful Dodger pub, the morning sun gleams as if refracted in amber through a milk bottle half-filled with last night's piss. What a town.

Right now, I'm humming tunes for guitar parts to a new song. We're playing it for the first time live in Brighton, so I could really do with nailing a part down. It's there in my head, but not quite in the hands yet. It'll come, though. Always does eventually, even if for Astronaut it took about three years. Hey ho.

Tonight Anexo - a Gaudi-inspired cash hoover above Turnmills nightclub on Clerkenwell Road. The bar is billed on its website thus: "like being at home only better". Now, I am not the most houseproud man in the world, but how my flat could be improved by the introduction of 100 suited wankers gargling Sol and bellowing at each other is a moot point. Let's leave them where they are, eh?

Snow this morning. An old grey London sky shedding flakes. And, by all accounts, shades of winter between management and record company of late. But nothing to stop the residual glow from mixing this weekend.

The new balances from Charlie's sound great. More live-sounding, more of Simon's great drum chops and a greater feel of urgency about the whole enterprise. You might even say they rock.

And anyway, all will be well in contractual hell, I repeated to myself, as the number 67 whizzed past Preferred Pizza and Just Friends Cafe, down past Brick Lane and into the dark morning maw of Aldgate.

Tonight, there will be pancakes to warm me up and some fizzy wine, too. Cava extra seco. And life is sweet.

Heading west in the Raymobile this afternoon. Back to Cardiff for final album tweaks.

The old cliche has it that albums are never finished, merely abandoned and I suppose one benefit of all our contractual wrangling is that we've had time to listen dispassionately and sort to diamonds from the rough.

It seems we're all agreed the drums got sold a bit low on the first mix, and that they could do with a bit more action here and there.
We'll see.

Regardless it'll be good to see Charlie (Francis) again, in his new gaff in Roath, and spent a night with the folks back in St Mellons.
(that's two 'L's and stop sniggering).

How could we have doubted? Henning Wehn was hilarious. OK, I'm not sure how long beyond seven minutes the deadpan-German-doggedly-explains-poor-jokes schtick could be stretched, but for last night it was a gem.

Sadly, pipped into third, Henning didn't quite make the final, but look out for one guy who did. A brilliant blind scouser called Chris McCausland whose dry observations on bomb disposal and shark attack left the packed Coach and Horses helpless with laughter. A true joy.

On the other hand, the compere wants shooting. Pardon my French but, really, what a c**t.

Today: Madly compiling artwork, translating reviews, organising mixing trips to Cardiff and miscellaneous admin for Gasolineroland. Well, it keeps me out of mischief.

Tonight, our grand first viewing of the comedy stylings of Henning Wehn. This could be an unforgettable night. I'll let you know...

Weekend pros and cons

Pros:
1. Will Self book and fizzy cola bottles.
2. Wales are good at rugby again. Prepare for hysteria in the Valleys and another false dawn.
3. Marcus Brigstock: a fine comedian who makes me feel better about my corduroy jacket.
4. The starters at Luba's Place, Essex Road. Pickled herring, red cabbage and potato. Divine.

Cons:
1. Arguing about drinking while drunk.
2. Shipping nine goals against Red Star Camden.
3. The main courses at Luba's Place, Essex Road. Pelmeni dumplings. One was nice, two were nice. But 25 with no sauce? Not nice. And where exactly in Russia do they sun-dry tomatoes?

I forgot. Introduced yesterday to an unforgettable first taste of Hungarian liqueur Unicum, the premier digestif of Budapest's Zwack distillery.

An enlightening introduction to the product on the Zwack site makes extravagant claims about its benefits to health and the peerlessly euphemistic "daily performance", but does warn that "At first sip, Unicum may come as something of a shock. The secret, as Peter Zwack says, is to get people to taste it twice."

Well, upbraid my impatient palate if you must, Peter, but it was I could do to not spit it all over Justin's keyboard and run screaming from the room. Unicum, if I may make so bold, tastes nothing less than Chartreuse served in an ashtray, and scarcely would Dennis Nielsen holding a knife to my testicles induce me to taste it again.

During the war, Allied bombers reduced the Zwack factory to rubble, but it was rebuilt in 1948 and though Peter and his father were forced to flee to America in upturned barrels (I'm not making this up) while the Communists took over the factory to make an inferior (!) liqueur, the Zwacks subsequently sued the Communists for copyright infringement and with the advent of perestroika returned in triumph to bring Unicum back to a grateful Magyar nation.

Phooey. My brother's in the RAF, maybe they could go back and finish the job.

I'm a Guardian reader, but I love being at The Times. More money for less work, vintage newspaper hours and, in a small corner of Admiral House, just over the road from Fortress Murdoch, Merlin's Online cave. Three desks piled chest-high with many years' worth of books, pamphlets, press releases, videos, software and God knows what else. I swear if the cleaners ever get to the bottom of it they'll find coal.

Yesterday the TES had a six-hour strategy meeting, and by 3pm, shell-shocked survivors were reeling back into the office. Rod, who'd been at the Water Rats the night before, had the glassy stare of a man who'd looked into the corporate abyss. Fiona looked up like she'd been scrapping, but then she is the Dennis Wise of the office. Fight/empty house etc. The aforementioned Merlin (John, editor of TES Online) was absent without leave, due to give a presentation and, after several frantic calls, found to be laid low with a bug. The birthday drinks of Times stalwart and 1986 picket-line driver Dave, had nothing to do with it, a pub spokesman said.

Chief sub Howard, meanwhile, was puzzled by a greasy spoon interlude that morning with a small Turkish proprietess who was noiselessly going about her work until a certain song came on the radio, at which point she broke into a plate-rattling wail that continued until the end of the song, whereupon she fell silent once more.

Keen to identify the song, Howard repeated the wail to mostly blank looks, but my fellow freelance Pete had it. ah-AH-EEEEEEEEEEEE-ah. It could only be bequiffed 90s country strummer Chris Isaak and his palate-arching hit Wicked Game.
To find out what Chris is doing now visit his terrifyingly illiterate website:
http://www.repriserec.com/chrisisaak/isaak_frames2.html

I particularly recommend the news page. Not too busy then, eh Chris?

Well, the cobwebs are off. And after eight months off - and give or take the odd equipment-based mishap during "Familiar Clown" [sic] - not half bad. A bit sloppy in places, but nothing a few more shows won't fix and - crucially - the sound, the energy and the spirit are right. A near-full Water Rats wanted more and, thankyou Ray, fair fuckin' play, like.

Everyone was hammered by the time I got back from dropping off the gear at Elephant & Castle, so a large party was led, swaying gently past The Scala, into the karaoke morass of Dun-Na-Ri - a bilious enclave of shit-kicking builders and tottering bleach. The bouncer is built like monumental masonry and coincidence it is not.

Oddly, the quality of karaoke was rather high. A tall, blonde lady sang Whitney. In tune. A short, square-shouldered man with a quiff sang rock and roll standards and knew all the words. Some young ladies of our acquaintance sang Abba, with harmonies, and lo Bjorn, it was good.

And it was good. All of it. Again please.

Water Rats tonight. Should be a decent turn out of regulars as we haven't played since May last year. Shameful statistic really, but events, you know, events.

It seems all things are coming to head at once. Deal, finally sorting the album out, line up, licensing. The finished article? No. This is just the start, but much has happened already in January and if we can keep the plates spinning, who know?

For today: have fun, play well. That's all.

University Challenge. One of the few forums where my many years of hoarding small amounts of useless information about everything actually comes in handy. Last night the goggies of Bangor got a right shoeing from Jesus College, Oxford (or was it Cambridge?). Paxo was in fine, withering form - to wit the relatives birthdates of Sartre and Hugo - but it was a question on engraving processes that stuck with me. Acid etching on copper, what was it called? What is it....? Too late. Aquatint. Ah, aquatint.

Suddenly I was back in Monmouth aged 15, post exams and recently acquainted with contact lenses, girls, alcohol and a thrilling whiff of rebellion with my new, improved friends.
Pete Kent was impossibly cool, I thought. Son of a vicar, he had floppy blond hair and Tom Waits records. Tom Waits! Ramshackle, primal howling that didn't sounds anything like Led Zep or The Police. Songs with no guitars and whatever a "thirty-ought-six" was.

I didn't get it, but Pete did, because Pete was cool. He also liked The Doors and Stump, dancing in the louche, Californian manner of the former to the insane West Country babble of the latter.

Anyway, aquatint. Pete and I did Art A-level together and our teacher Pete Major was big on printing. Screenprinting, lithograph, dry point and aquatint. We had a still life of a giant, horned bull's skull. We had copper plates and acid. And sharp instruments. And individual printing presses – huge corkscrews affixed to plates of steel and felt. We scratched and scratched and painted on brown masking. We developed the plates, dipped like photographs in shallow baths of hydrochloric. We massaged in ink and screwed the presses down hard. The limp paper peeled away and there was the skull. Ancient, backwards - newly wet but very dead.

I've still got that plate somewhere, rusting in a portfolio under the bed in Cardiff. And I don't know what happened to Pete. He was in Cheltenham last time I saw him, but I doubt he stayed there very long. He wasn't the type.

7, double 16. A resounding two-darter to avenge a home defeat at killer. Only it was Kate wot done it. Current singles score: 5-0 to the lady. Must do better.

Korean was a delight as ever, Busan's charming proprietess nattering away over assorted culinary treasures including kimchi (chilli-pickled cabbage, the national dish, exquisite), ho bak bokum (courgette in sesame oil), bulgogi (sizzling marinated beef rolled in lettuce) and dolsot b. bim bap (rice, veg, egg and chilli in a stone bowl). You should eat here (opposite The Garage, Highbury Corner).

Babies, then. Ahhh, cute, smiley, gurgly, oh, grizzly, smelly, loud, LOUD.
Battalion of accessories.
Dominate the surroundings like you invited America round for the afternoon. [sotto voce] not yet... not yet...

Wembley. Hunter. 10-9 again. Sadly, I was gripped for snooker rocks.

Anglo-asian joy tonight. Darts followed by Korean at Busan on Highbury Corner. Drink may be taken. Well, it certainly can't hurt my darts.

Omigod. The Caves were awesome. A joyous collision of Undertones agitation and melodic Supergrass swagger. Metro was swarming with industry wonks and now I know why. Made me proud to be almost Welsh.
And what about The Features? Bearded Nashville folk with a vicious take on down-home country rock. This is the band that pushed Kings of Leon down the stairs and stole their lunch money.
The bar has been raised.

Surveillance: spotted on Sky News in The Tottenham before the show, Richard Littlejohn interviewing a British National Party activist. Probably the most right-wing moment in the history of television. Thank God the sound was turned down.

OK, then. The first entry on my new page. Hello.

Last night we had a public rehearsal at our regular space in Corsica Studios, Elephant & Castle, in lieu if having anywhere to play before the Water Rats show on 11 Feb. Sounded good, Will's settled in real quick behind the tubs, the beer was refreshing, and while the subsequent covers of Guns 'n Roses and Nirvana are best left undetailed - nothing to do with me, incidentally - it was important to get a little buzz, after so long off-stage.
Tonight, we're off the see The Caves at Metro, W1. Mainman Simon Parsons is the skinny rhythmic genius you'll hear knocking seven bells out of the drums on Nash Point, so it'll be interesting to hear his own stuff and see what's got Polydor and Sony so lathered up.

Fact of the day: Ixxy's Smoked Salmon and Cream Cheese bagels are delicious. Nothing particularly interesting in that, I grant you, until you read the ingredients list: salmon, lemon, pepper, salt, oak sawdust... Sawdust?