new weird shit from Clifton Street Cardiff
SO HERE IS THE NEW VIDEO!!! which Cosmo and Flapsandwich put together a supergroup together for, for one song only!!!! BINGO WINGS presents CHEAP BACCY!
donate anything from 1p to £1million (go on) and you will receive a download of the album in your email TODAY and a CD in the post in a few days!!!!
thank you…. click:
in case you missed the first video which travelled around the globe and made headlines:
winter’s over, lets get dressed in a onesie and dance on a roundabout
So, the album’s landed and here’s the first video, including the cops busting us, on the magic roundabout in Splott:
to own the full album, which includes ON THE GOULASH, donate anything from 1p to £1million and you will receive a download of the album in your email TODAY! nice one…. click:
Giveaway ends October 30, 2016.
See the giveaway details
at Goodreads.
try this: https://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/show/206269-chav-punk-hobbit-the-quest-to-the-end-of-the-world
There was shit all over the bedroom. Leads and clothes and blankets and plates and im a fucking useless messy fuck. I cant stand things being put away. It confuses me. So this is why I spread everything all over my house like some mad spoilt child. A tidy room will last no longer than a minute after I enter it. I don’t see the mess. Unless someone points it out. But I was now buried up to my waist in crap and nothing was ready. I was burning the backing tracks on to CD for tonights show, and trying to pack for a weekend of gigs in the Lake District with my fave party crew in the land, Lost & Found.
I dragged my sacks of shit down the stairs, including a bag of drum breakables, kindly borrowed to me by Torrie of The Crypt Jam room in splott. We had just spent two weeks jamming in his studio. I had planned to buy a kit. But I had run out of money that I had stashed from France. We piled into the packed car. Me, Shag, Pestis and Gogo. And off we fucked to the north of england….
The TeddyBears blasted all the way up. The boys were stoned out of their boxes, or did they always go into this amount of detail? They also seemed to know every single line of every film we talked about. I cant remember fuck all. I watch game of thrones and the next day people are describing what happened and im thinking did it? I don’t rememebr shit. I seem to not posses a memory. Mates rant about fucked up adventures of times past and I literally have no recollection. Did I fry my brain with all the naughtiness I fed it in my youth? Or maybe i use different parts of the mind. Or maybe I was born without a memory. I read books manically. And ok, sometimes I hit an epiphanical breakthrough which changes the shape of my psyche, but as far as recalling anything ive read…. zero.. So I politely ignored the conversations and drifted off into my weird place. Neither here in the car nor anywhere else in particular… just kind of in a day dream of nothingness.
We pulled up on the road about 10 minutes from the festival. Pestis had been toeing it up the motorway and his driving was spot on. But now we had hit the lanes and his 3 passengers were all crying and varying shades of grey. I was ready to Ralph. We parked up and I, walking round in circles, I spotted Shags skinny legs in cheerleader socks as he hung over a gate, blowing chunks into a cows field.
Damien welcomed us to the festy and I set up my tent, borrowed from my flat mate, nextt to Shag and his long mate, Nick The photographers. My tent was covered in a pretty pattern of butterflies and heath, bright purple and pink. Within 4 mintues all the shit I had scraped off my bedroom floor was now spread around the tent. It stunk and I couldn’t find fuck all. Home!
Darkness descended and the glittery lights and muffled throb of soundsystems brought out the ravers in force.
I was struggling with the hi-hat clutch. the soundman looked on baffled as me and shag both tried to put the kit together.
“But, arent you the drummer?” he asked.
“Um, yeah, but ive never set up a kit before. I been playing 10 days”
He then set it all up as I headed backstage. Dj slipped disc had turned up in red despite us all agreeing that no colours were to be worn on stage . he was also saying he didn’t want to play the backing tracks on the CDj as requested. I didnt want them imported as mp3s, or played from the dodgy laptop drive, or connected to the system through a £1 lead. Nerves were high, Shag and The Wraith were on the verge of sickness while jabz seemed chilled in his poncho, and Flakira was, despite her debut dance at afestivalonly being a short while ago, one of the most relaxed amongst us.
I had no idea what was going to happen but was already regretting not putting in a few live shows locally before our first ever festival performance. We had tried to play Cardiffs Gwdihw a few nights previous but the idea had fallen apart moments before our stage time, due to lack of interest from, well, anyone, and logistics, lack of drum kit….. etc.
It was time to let fate do with us as she pleased. We were in the hands of the gods now
We kicked off with the The Grey Woman, an unreleased tune featuring The Wraith who paced nervously in a black hood until she sang inaudibly due to shit monitoring / festival soundchecks. Pestis took to the stage in his nighty looking like he had just escaped from the secure unit… Flakira winded her hips and Jabz and Shag rocked it hard. It seemed to be working… I was drumming on time (ISH), I planned to come out of the headphone socket of Slipped Dic’s CDJ but the booth was the other side of the tent. 
This was confusing as no one could see how the music was coming out of the speakers. Defo needed him on stage…
During my practice sessions, the previous fortnight, I had caught myself drifting off and having to correct my timing. A space cadet, hmmm Crumpets. or going into stories, or negative spirals…its become a habit over my lifetime. And what I love about drumming is how you cannot leave NOW, and you learn to stay present. This is Buddhism 101….. this is the loudest meditation in the fucking world. This is THE NOW -the very place where happiness resides! Let’s get enlightened..
After having to correct myself on stage i was convinced it was the track and not me. I ran through the crowd over to the dj booth to discover Slipped Disc had sneakily set up his laptop through a cheap lead and was playing the backing tracks from his laptop CD Drive!!!!!
YOURE PLAYING THROUGHT THE UFKCIN LAPTOP CD DRIVE?A?A??A
YES!!!!
THANKS. ITS JUMPING LIKE FUCK OUT HERE ON EVERY TRACK!!
NO IT AINT!
YES IT FUICKING IS, IM TRYING TO DRUM TO IT!!!!!
NO IT ISNT….
IT FUCKKING IS!!!!
I sat back on the kit and screamed YOURE FUCKING SACKED!!! we plodded through the set. Which was in totally the wrong order due to the cd not displaying track names. So no one knew when their song was on, and I was drumming to a jumping backing track.. It was like a bad school play with people coming on and off looking confused and not knowing what they were doing.
At the end of Paramatma the boys done the outro so out of tune and dragged it out so long that people seemed to be falling asleep in the front row. Then the extra long intro from Music Like Dirt droned on, with it being an instrumental,no one had anything to do on stage, so they all left, along with about 80% of our audience……I drummed along solo on stage. At the end there were two audience members left. We had cleared the entire fuckin tent. Result!
We had to remember we were doing this for ourselves. Not to try and impress others. This was always the rule. So, in having two people left we had in some way failed.
One was a man who, on studying the video footage after, appears not to move a muscle for the entire performance, just peering on looking completely baffled. Next to him is another chap in a cap, who is completely losing his shit to us. He gets it! And he’s the only fucker in the north of england that does. He danced like a maniac, whooping and flailing his limbs for the entire set.
Backstage we congratulated ourselves for getting through it and enjoyed the strange absence of any feedback from anyone in the vicinity. A telling sign that no one knew what the fuck it was. We had confused everyone. And had a great time doing it. I can only thank Damien of Lost n Found for taking a chance on us… here is a short clip of Dark Angel at our first ever gig as Clusterfuck……………………… 360 view (drag the screen around to look around the tent!)
>>>>>>>>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>
I joined Flakey in the Funk tent, a goth in a funk tent! Amazing… I went off and danced to wonky house and then headed up the Cottage where I danced to drumn bass til the wee hours. Everyone was off their tits and seemed about 12, I was like a Dad age. When did this happen. Did they all think look at this dad trying to rave with us kids? The records seemed to be pitched up to the max as the tiny venue went ballistic to jungle and DnB I had a jig but then some young ones with those weird kid n play style hairdos and big selfie machines started swarming so I fucked off to my tent. As I laid down all the music on the festival site was turned off. 4am. Ahhhhhhhhhhh perfect timing I thought and then laid there til midday listening to a generator which was parked the other side of the hedge. Drove me fuckin insane. It may have been the nerves too, because in my stress in learning how to drum over the last fortnight, since my return from france, I had completely neglected the fact I was playing Sunday night at solfest as Flapsandwich…
I ran round the site putting my usb into peoples devices collecting any flapsandwich songs people had with them and then exported a few things from Ableton I had been working on, most notably a new collaboration with Cosmo…. I made a fat playlist in my tent and bing! I was ready to go. My nerves never settled once during the entire day and I headed off for a nervous poo. This weird phenomena I remember happening the first time I played in The Lion in Chepstow when I was 17. I was stuck in the bog with a churning gut and the runs. And now at the age of 39 it hadnt got better. And I still had 12hours til I was on…
9 poos later….
A taxi was parked up near the entrance and two sharp men with cases looked completely out of place, the smaller one had an ACID logo on his top. Hardfloor, had to be. They looked like scientists. In a way they are. I went over and told them how much I loved them and made a complete tit of myself. Never phased by famous people usually, I fell apart and was like a teenage Beleiber. I bowed to them and said I love you and said mahogony roots was the best song in the world and then bowed again and walked off awkwardly.
An hour later they were eating soup back stage, and there was a empty seat between them. ~So I sat in it. It was really awkward. They slurped their soup, really seriously and I just sat there trying to think of something to say.
Good Soup? I offered.
Good soup. came the robotic germanic reply from the smaller guy as the big one ignored me.
At Loungevity I bumped into Lindsey who used to run the trailer trash tent at beatherder. She had seen Clusterfuck the night before. She said it was Goth as fuck and said it would suit their new tent at beatherder! (yes please, my fave fest of the year for many years). I went back to her van, met some of her crew and chatted about music. She said how lost people were when sicknote ended.
On the chalkboard outside Lost N Found Tent: HARDFLOOR. and then me, after hardfloor. I got to the front of the tent and danced with the pregnant girl, who was having contractions while stomping around like a warrior in the dust. What do i dfo of the baby comes? Dont worry she said theres a tent out back ill nip in there.
Hardfloor took the crowd to ecstasy, everyone sweaty and rejoicing. . They dropped Mahogony Roots! The trailer trash crew turned up and and we had a stomp together, one of the guys said he loved the clusterfuck gig last night, and could see the potential in it, ‘but you need to find something to do on stage, you are not a drummer. Get a real drummer.’; fucker. He’s right. But im loving it so much!! Fuck it I will drum! And I will get better! I aint playing the fuckin mouse again… no chance…
1.30 I took to the booth and played a little set to wrap up an amazin weekend in the lake district once more… thanks to every one who made it happen.
Heres my set…. free download..
https://soundcloud.com/flapsandwich/solfest-2016
‘The true artist has no public; he works for the sheer joy of it, with an element of playfulness, of casualness. Freedom discovers man the moment he loses concern over what impression he is making or about to make’ – Bruce Lee
I packed my rucksack, had a big arsed brekky, exported the rest of the instrumentals and headed off out into the sun.
I walked through town with a bounce in my step. I was feeling good. I had a focus now. Getting back from france last week I hit a rocky bottom immediately. The food and the sun and the good living had come to an end. The morning after landing I found myself in tesco, surrounded by nutrition free lumps of corpse wrapped in plastic. And pesticide laced identical looking vegetables; Gone were the wonky misshapen, beautiful fruits that nature seemed to squeeze out with pleasure. I could no longer pluck them from the vine, still warm from the sun as they squelched their organic goodness directly into my blood stream.
Now, I could unwrap an avocado from Kenya, which had been force fed chemicals and forced to grow in a factory then shrink wrapped,. stuck on a truck, then a plane. Then a truck, then a warehouse, then another truck and now I was stood in front of it feeling sorry for the poor bastard. There was no goodness left init. They may as well print one out on a 3d printer. And it had probably been injected with something to make it last. When I was picking veg from the potage in france if I didn’t eat it immediatley then with in two days or so it had gone soggy and disgusting. But tesco’s finest veg was probably plucked weeks ago and it still looked unripe. suspicious.
I walked around the strip lighted cube of shrink-wrapped death.
I left. I hid under my duvet for 2 days. The grey poured through my window. The view a derelict building covered in pigeon shit. The smell Subway Meatballs pumping out of a silver chimney. to the left outside of my window a glass panel was still boarded up and the smell of death hung in the air. my neighbour had fallen through it to her death a year ago. I read some Marcus Aurelius. No amount of Stoicism could fend off this paradise hangover.
I ignored all texts and calls.
Is this my reality? Is this the reality I have chosen for myself. A shithole housing association flat. Is this where I want to be as I approach 40? Alone, unloved and unloving, in my pit.
I looked around., half the room was piled full of crap. I didn’t want any of it, but yet couldn’t throw any of it. The other half of my room contained my studio which I had just set up. 2 large yamaha speakers a consellation prize for 9 years of hard work in my previous band, before we lost a bandmate and it all crumbled to nothing. And the brain of the studio was a mac mini, a computer that used to belong to a friend who died of alcohol related problems. All my leads were crammed into a box which i inherited from my mate’s dead dad’s workshop. A vinyl record of my old defunct band hung on the wall shot to pieces with a gun. sicknote: the johnny no-cash remix. Behind where my exflat mate’s head board used to be there was a wide mass of fading grey / black drips all down to the skirting board. One wall featured a big orangey brown stain about face height that also spread out and dripped downward to about knee height. The place stunk. Lots of holes and cracking plasterboard and big stains and shit on the smelly carpet.
Why am I such a messy cunt.
Surrounded by death and grey.
Luckily I had no time for much musings. I had a deadline. A live gig in 10 days for a project I had never taken live. We had created a collection of songs last winter in the bigger room, when I was set up in there. We released it as an album and a few people got off on it. Not that many. Then we got a booking last month. I flew back from France. And if it wasn’t for the gig I don’t think I would have.
So I snapped out of the gloom over the course of 6 icecreams and a huge dose of Montaigne.
I cleaned the room bit by bit over a day or 3. I met a few friends in cafes and drank tea and talked shit.
Then today I headed down to the crypt: a local rehearsal space for the community. I was presented with a present from my band mate and good mate, Pestis. My first set of drum sticks. Buzzing my tits off. I set up the Crypt’s drum kit. in completely the wrong way. discarding the kick and bringing a tom, snare, crash and the bottom of a hi hat all to about waist height. I stood there surrounded by my new friends. Fuck playing the mouse. Lets GO…..
But,.Could I play?
Dj Slipped Disc Jocky clicked the tunes into motion. Pestis grabbed his 50s style ribbon mic and started to strut his stuff. Flakey adorned her silver waist jewels and began to rotate her hips.
And I smashed the holy fuck out of the drum kit, completely out of time, all over the fucking place, with not a single fucking care in the world.
I will never play a mouse on stage again as long as I live. And i may never fill a pot with compost again….
Who knows whats next…
But for now………………………….
Let the clusterfuck commence.
The things to write about. Its been a series of splurges trying to scratch beneath the surface. Nothing that interesting is coming. I am beginning to wonder if there is any point in writing any more. It was fine as a diary to catalogue the daily events of an adventure i embarked on. But to speak daily here when there is nothing exciting happening seems pointless. What can i talk about. I can keep going around in circles with my continual eternal head fucks, but to what end?
I start a new paragraph here. Because im empty. I suppose i want to get somewhere deep. Without preaching. Just lay something bare on the page that some one else recognises. Some one else relates to it and sees it as a part of them too. And just recognising that tiny glimmer of shared experience in the writing suddenly feels like they are not alone. A shared moment across time. A shared feeling. A connection through time and space. A feeling shared. Lifted from my soul and laid bare on the page, and understood and felt and shared by a lonely stranger in the future in another land. I guess this is the power of writing. This is what excites me
I read the self help books, they tell you what to do. In 10 neat steps to make your life better. But you rarely do these things. Nobody does it. They just read it. And feel like they are doing something to improve their lives. You leave with a set of instructions on how to fix a problem. But sometimes a set of instructions isn’t what we need. If we go to a friend and tell them our problem and before we’ve even finished they come up with a ten point plan for recovery, we’d leave feeling pretty lonely. And unheard. I guess this is the feeling i am left with after finishing the latest trendy self help book of the moment. Initially i come across an article, review or recommendation. I get excited. I think this sounds amazing. The dopamine kicks in, I buy the book asap on amazon and am excited by the thought of it turning up in the next few days and how im going to drop everything to devour it. In the whole process this is probably the best time. Then it comes and i tear it open. I rub my hands on it. I smell it. I flick through. I read the back. I read the contents. I am so excitied about devouring this information. Another fix. I know i am going to be a better person once all this is in my brain.
At the first opportunity i sink all the introductory bits into my brain. I read fast. Im looking forward to getting to the meat of the system. I pummel through the story of the authors failures and eventual success. I go through the obligatory Flight of Flight bullshit they all seem to talk about. And how we don’t have the need to fightsabre tooth tigers these days. Why the fuck did we evolve so excellently into the most cleverspecies on the plant but for some reason a part of our brain still thinks we are cavemen and there might be a tiger in the stationary cupboard. I skim through this chapter, as it seems to be the same chapter in every one of my self help books. And i know its leading up to thecrux of the system, and i need the system, because im broke. I dont work . I need fixing. I need Self Help…
Usually thenwe are presented with 10 chapters. 10 tools. 10 steps to take. One per week often, like we are going to be still messing about with this in10 weeks time!! Dont they understand we want the info in ASAP and in 10 weeks time we’ll probably be half way thru another book after stuffing our confused brains with the techniques of several other books and articles that promise to fix us.
I read it. And try and get through the bits where the athour talks about imself or name drops by skimming and just fly toward the bits where there is anything i can learn. It all seems to be common sense, but it feels like revleations to me. I get excitied. It tells me to do exercises but i keep going, i just need this wisdomin me. Selfhelp.! Im helping my self!!! Im reading, thats good init?
At the end of the book i have a vague recollection of a load of techniques that i havent tried and the acronym of some system that is already dissapting from my memory. I close the book whack it on the shelf. Do i feel better? Noi dont. I havent helpedmyself.
This is not self help. This is asking for help from an author you have never met. And that author getting a lift from amazon to your house. Instead of listening t o a word you say they start blabbing on about how they are so succesful, they wereonce like you, but now theyre not. They sussed it. And they are friends with Branson and Gates now. But you’re not. Dont worry they once hated themselves and lived in a cupboard and ate fluff for 6 years. But now they are so succesful, they got it sussed. And here they are in the shape of a big shiny white hard back book just gleaming at you like come cocky know it all bastard. And for a minute you are impressed. They are going to share all thheirsecrets with you,the loser!!!! If you just shut up and listen for a few hours, they are going to completely outline every single step they took to become rich, sexy, and loaded. And if you can remember this massice volume of random advice, maybe, just maybe you can be like them.
But dont moan! Thats the lizardbrain you unevolved bastard. I dont want to hear your story .I dont want to hear excuses.I just want you to folow my ten week plan. And you too can be clean and loved like me.
But i
Dont want to hear it. I told you, i was once a sad lonerwith nolife but this is the system to stop that life. You want to stop your existence? Then stop moaning. And listen to me, the winner here.
Eventually this guy fucks off. He shuts the door and i remember practically nothing he said,. Other than i am a loser and i could be like him if only i could be like him. But… He failed to mention most of his money and success and come from the sales of this book shich were pushed on people who were lost in life. People looking for answers and susceptible to anyone selling what they claim to be the answer. He goes. With a wink and a click of the toungue he shuts the door. I look through the dirty nets as he slips into his jag and sits in the drivers seat. He doesnt movefor a while . I see him look at himsel in the rear viwe mirror. He looks athimself for a whilre. His steely grin has folded down into a lumpy sad face. He stares. And then slowly drives off.
A few hours later after trying to remember all the techniques that Chad gave me and trying to do some of them but just feeling like a twat, i flick throught my phone book. Im feeling pretty shitty . I dont think ill eve be Chad. I cant even get a job and i dont socialise. I cant be this networking machine with gun ho attitude and an acronmyn for every situation. I have problems.
I stop on C in my phonebook. Scribbled is Chuck, i had a chat with this guy in a bar one night. he seemed like the loneliest guy in the world. His eyes contained the pain of many pasts, far too many for one man. people seemed to keep away from him. he smoked constantly and poured spirits into the split in his wrinkly face.
I picked up the phone. Buk i said
Who is it.
Its tristan, you propbably dont remember me
Hey Tristan man hows it going?
Yeah ? Um what you up to.
I m just here going stir fuckin crazy again man, trying to process this goddamm mess. How bout you? Fancy headin out for a chicken sandwich
Stand Up has always been the number one fear to conquer for me. And it was even more scary than i had anticipated! I’ve always had an irrational fear of being the centre of attention.
But there is a chihood memory which may have been the birth of this fear.
It was a talent competition in Butlins in the 80s with several hundred parents watching kids perform.
My little brother had gone up and was mid way through his tap dancing routine, the audience were crying. Everyone loved him. As usual. The Christmas before he had brought the entire school and all the parents to tears with his rendition of The Snowman. The hardest kid in the school turned up at our front door with 50p for him the next day, coz he loved it so much.
I was a weird reclusive type who mainly locked myself away and tapped away on computers. I was weird. But in Butlin’s i thought id get up and tell some jokes. I remember having a loose plan in my head of some stuff i’d talk about to the big crowd and i was up for it. I tugged on my tearful Mam’s shoulder pad,
“I’m going to go up.”
“Hmmm?” she said turning back to cry at my sequined brother do the Good Ship Lollipop.
“Mam, i wanna put my name down.”
“What? What would you do up there?’ she asked
“I dunno, tell jokes and stuff,” I replied.
She looked at me, tapping me gently on the leg, “shhhhhhhhhhhhh” she said. She continued to tap as she turned her attention back to my ginger superstar bro.
Jealous? Well i never wanted to be a tap dancer. But I wanted to have a go at speaking with the crowd. Shushed by my Mam. No Jase, what the fuck are you thinking?
I never touched a mic. I never was at the centre of attention. And whenever it seemed like i was about to be. I would fall apart. But i developed an amazing coping strategy: LEG IT. It seemed like the only way. Just get the fuck out of there as fast as possible. I often wonder what would have happened if i had walked onto stage in the 80s. Would i have been a hit! or a flop. would it have helped me overcome my shyness or made it worse?!
Even when i was in my band, touring for 8 years, i managed to stay hidden in the shadows. I took care to never stand out, and somehow managed to escape the limelight despite our growing fanbase. Most people didn’t even know i was in the band. And that was the way i liked it.
So what is this all about? Why am i like this?
I’m all for facing my fears and pushing my limits so i decided i’d try and face this weird aspect of myself and iron it out. I joined a Speaker’s Club in Cardiff. This was terrifying. I done my first speech, to introduce yourself, to a crowd of about 20. I went into some dark stuff and scared the hell out of my fellow club members. I left in an embarrassed flood of despair, and didn’t manage pluck up the courage to return for almost 2 years.
I then rejoined and done a couple of speeches and freestyle speaking, some went well and some were total disasters, but i made some great friends in a friendly supportive environment. I still didn’t know why i was doing this, and when people asked I said i had no use for public speaking and that i was simply doing it to overcome a lifelong fear.
Then i went for it. I went for the big one. I was booked on to do my first ever 5 minute comedy warm up slot. I had guidance from Keith Palmer, who, without, I don’t think i could have done it. He spent several weeks helping me pull a set together. On the night the Fear was unreal . I was backstage with several other folk who were doing it for the first time and we were all a total mess. Sweating, pacing, crying, talking to ourselves, rocking, and lying on the floor sick. My name was called. I had a friend, my partner and my parents in the crowd. I had told them about it, really didn’t expect them to turn up to St Pauls in Bristol on a Saturday night! Especially as my Dad was usually in bed by 8. There it was. The lights were hot and 30 years after Butlins my Mam was sat there waiting for me to take centre stage. I was about to die in front of my loved ones. I was fucking terrified. My body shook. And i was ready to run. fight or flight? i was definitely preferring Flight! Who the fuck was I to say hey everyone, you bought your tickets, and hey, im the entertainment, and I THINK IM FUNNY. And thanks to everyone who drove here and made the effort. IM HERE!!! fuck fuck fuck . I didnt wanna go. Keith stepped up moments before i hit the stage. He shook my hand, Looked at me deeply in the eye. I felt like i was tripping. everything sloooooowed down. The compere introduced me . I cant go out. Clapping!! oh fuck.
Keith said ‘ TAKKKEE YOOOOOOOOOUUUURRRR TIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIME. GO SLOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWLY. YOU’LL BE FIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINE’
I stepped out, about 70 people looked at me and the host whispered into my ear, take your time, and shook my hand….. here’s what followed:
below is my original script as it looked the day before i went on stage, as you can see most of the ‘jokes’ didn’t land, and i forgot half my fuckin script. but hey… and the hecklers?wtf…. Any how, it was exhilarting and im chuffed as fuck i’ve finally done it. I may get back up. i’ll decide after i’ve got over the complete trauma of my 1st gig. Cheers for checking this shit out.///..
Hiya. Hello wembley. How are we?
I am Jason! Hello!
I am from Wales! (arm gesture to get crowd to cheer)….
Did you know Welsh is the fastest growing language? The number of WElsh speakers doubled last year. From 2 to 4.
I learned some Welsh phrases.
Yakidar!!!! YAAAAKIDDDAAAAAAA – Popydping
Bulbosbluuch -that means i have a spacehopper for baLLS….
Im really Proud to be welsh , i love wales….. i m moving to france tomorrow..
my freinds in wales describe me as…………………
Jonathan Creek.
Ronald McDonald.
Frodo Baggins.
A Big Issue Seller
Rolf Harris
Angela Lansbury
A Short Arsed Hairy Jippo Bastard ….Cheers Nan! (thumbs up)….
Any one got any phobias……
I got one…… WEIRD Fucking Noises!!!!!!!!!!!
Volume ,,,,, everything same]
More gentle sounds can send u nuts cant concentrate…..
Ii have been pursued my entire life. Pursued By Small Noises. Small crap noises that
don t belong where i am. They are not meant to be there but they turn up and fuck with
my mind. The common ones are breathing and eating….
I came across an article recently and it exists, and its called Misophonia! Thankfully i
have found that this is actually a recognised disorder I text my my girlfriends Ive got
Misophonia! she relpies Ok ill stop making you Miso soup . It s weird how in Alcoholics Anonymous there first thing people tell you is their name.
At last i belong to a group…..I am Jason and I am a Misophonic.
I love silennce…… Except at a comedy gig -when i need laughter!!!!!
Breathing in here back there . Keeep it downnn/////
i m not sure if im completely mental but even right now, (pick out a sound – traffic / seat
squeeking / etc) i am listening to that and am finding it very hard to concentrate on
speaking to you.
Big noises don t bother me. They are supposed to be there. These are the sounds of
things happening. What i m talking about is the noises that dont belong there. The ones
that sound apologetic for existing. Just creeping up behind you like some weird sex pest
that keeps stroking you.
My flat mate, well, my ex flat mate, was a lovely Chinese guy. I really liked him.But at
5am every night from the opposite end of my flat the coughing would begin. Quiet and
pathetic. Like a Chihuahua with a pube in its throat.
(Ch Ch Chu Chu Cheugh).
Then minutes later he would be over the toilet clearing his throat of phlegm Cecking up
flem all over my toilet. I would lay there listening. (Puking sound eeeeuuurgghhh
wwwwuuuughhh wwrruuugh! )
I would then slip back into a dreamy silent sleep. At 7am he would be having Noodles for breakfast! (Schhhhklllllllluuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuurp pop
SChlllluuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuurp POP).
DAN SNORING!!!! My friend, wouldnt wake up, I Stood him up! still snoring….
A Fart 3 blocks away in the middle of the night and im up and on the prowl with a torch…..
A previous flat mate (theres been a lot) used to sleep in all day. He would come into the
kitchen around 2pm most days, and glide past me crusty eyed with his cat in tow. I
would be working at the kitchen table (laptop keyboard gesture) and he wuold open the
fridge behind me and take out some sliced ham. He would then take a scissors and begin
to snip the ham into smaller pieces and put into his cat;s bowl. The creepy ham snip
behind my lug hole was enough to send me over the edge.
Schnnnniiip Schhhhhhnip! Schhhhjnip! >>>>>>the sweet sound of a nervous
breakdown . More sound in roommm……… Point it out.
This strange disorder has been with me all my life. AS a child i would awake 2 hours
before my family to enjoy some peace before school. Pure bliss. Then my mam would
come into the living room. She would cross the living room carpet, her slippers slapping
on her heels:. (Thhhhhhh slap Thhhh slap thhhhh slap). Then she d open the blinds
(chhhh chhhhh chhhhh chhh).
Id go and eat my sugar puffs in the kitchen/. Now dont get me wrong, I dont mind if you
stir your coffe with some vigour. You know grab the spoon add gthe sugar and stir the
fucker up and dissolve the sugar like that (vigouroues stirring motion) VOILA!!!!
However, a feeble coffee stir in the morning is one of thr worst wounds in the universe
for me. Dont ask me why but it has always sent me into a rage.
Tin Tink Tin Tink Tin Tink tink Tink.
Now the odd thing is I love to MAKE noise. I am a music producer! I love dance music….
Big it up….. Maybe i chose this career to get my own back! I love the sound of my own
noise!
At the moment i took a job on the side, all great performers have to take side jobs
so…………….
Roni Size had a paper round, Pete Tong was the Avon Lady, And …..I, I sell Eggs.
My mam is well proud of me! I love to eat eggs, I fucking hate selling eggs. But the eggs
are paying the bills…. Just stood there all day as people come up and ask about the fuckin
chickens.
Are they happy chickens? – squeeky voice
No, they are on Prozac mate.
Do they have space to roam around?
No mate, They’re under the counter….
I have become pretty successful at selling eggs, much more than i have as a music
producer. (SMIRK)
Each week while I am selling my eggs a busker comes along to the market. Now i love
buskers. I fully encourage people to perform in the street, However this busker is the
bastard love child of James Blunt. That cockey rhyming emotional wimp who croaks out
his song which for some reason millions buy. I mean have you heard his voice? This is
the same voice as the busker who joins me every week. How can something so FEEBLE
make me so MURDEROUS? Sounds like he s crying……….
(himmy himmy heeem himmmy heeeem heeeem) <<<<<<<<<<<<<<shorten it………
Im off now, please keep it quiet. And gimme a shout if you want some eggs.
massive shout out to Keith and The Comedy School and all the excellent charity work they do, respect.
Many people are self publishing these days. Aside from the Success stories of 50 shades of Grey, The Martian and a few others, is it possible to actually make a living from this?
I say NO! At least not until you have published many titles and have a solid fan base. My book has received positive feedback from anyone who has read it which is lovely but it has failed to spread into the world and make me rich!
Here, are the mistakes i think i made in publishing my first book.
There’s nothing more exciting than seeing your first book in print, and i would highly recommend it! When i ripped open the box and first cradled it like my first born, i squealed and popped like cheap bacon in my new tefal titanium pan.
The book is getting great reviews on Amazon and it has inspired a fewfriends to change things in their life and has made others laugh. Surely effecting people is more important than MONEY?
Huge thanks to everyone who has read it and had the time to share their thoughts or recommend it.
If you don’t have a copy yet, some Amazon sellers have now completely devalued my art, and for some reason you can grab a copy for £3.01, here!
massive thanks to Norris Nuvo, Laure Lajarthe, Paul Bevan, Cai Hughes and Eleanor Burns.
0
Dickie Balboa. Do you remember him? The legend that drove Sicknote around from approximately 2006-2011. He put so much into the band, and although he had a wicked time with us, he got very little back. A true giver in the truest sense or the word. Eventually succeeded by Stevie G, another legend and true giver. I feel these guys gave the most to the project financially, always keeping vans on the road for our benefit, and silently absorbing the costs to ensure the sickness arrived. Anyway he left in 2011, and had to get a job, sell the sick mobile and sort his situation out. I think he was feeling under-appreciated and his personal circumstances were in dire need of some attention. Dickie then became a charity bag collector. Delivering the bags one week and collecting them the following week, for British Heart Foundation. It helped that he was a hoarder, his house was notorious for being full of junk. From floor to ceiling in most rooms. He used some of this junk to ensure the charity was getting it’s quota, but still worked flat out, usually starting his rounds at 4am each day. He worked his balls off. He paid off his debts, and managed to save a little bit. Dickie, being Dickie, stashed his little savings at home. He wasn’t one to leave it all in a bank. Fuck the system. So he had it stashed in a box buried deep within his junk upstairs. It would take a thief days to find it.
At the end of last year, Dickie opened his back door, and some kind of back draft thing happened. The open fire, that was blazing away his winter chill, spat out a ball of flames right up the wall and across the ceiling. He stood upon a bench and began to pat the wall and ceiling out, but managed to pretty badly burn his forearm. It was no use, in a matter of seconds the entire kitchen ceiling was alight. He headed for the stairs to retrieve his little stash, but the fire was spreading fast. He stepped outside to survey the situation, and then decided on one last mad dash. A neighbour was passing and grabbed him, thankfully, and stopped him going in. He dragged him to the opposite side of the road and they watched as the entire house went up in flames. The fire brigade came and put it out. The roof was gone. Every window melted. The doors gone. All of his belongings. Money. Everything reduced to a smouldering pile of soot. The only thing he had was the clothes he stood in, and his Sherpa van parked outside.
The neighbourhood, Abertridwr, an odd dead-end village in the valleys near Caerphilly pulled together in ways that help build faith in humanity. These are people without a pot to piss in. And they are giving everything they haven’t got. The local pub landlord gave a room for people to drop off donations. The community were dropping in fridges, sofas, money. Scaffolding companies put up free scaff on the remainder of the bricks. And they began to raise money with local and online collections. Everybody, even people who didn’t personally know him put money in the pot, and although not a lot of money, it afforded Dickie some emergency help with his basic needs. Friends cleared out their spare rooms and he is staying locally with the friendliest and most colourful insane characters. He had always said he needed a clear out.
here is the news article with the link to the local donations (now expired – £835, spilt between Dickie and his neighbours)
I got the bus up there before christmas and done a couple days work. It was fucking hardcore. I thought it was game over, but no, he was determined to build his house back. If you had seen it you would have no doubt agreed with me, that this was impossible. There was fuck all left. Piles of black shit. Collapsed black ceilings, Stairs black and hanging off wall. And not much else. The roof was gone, save a few burnt beams, and the rain pissed through, making it all a smelly, soggy, pile of black ash. When I first arrived he was stood covered in black soot, arm bandaged, soaking wet carrying buckets of black shit, what was his belongings, and dumping them in a donated skip outside. Somehow still cracking jokes. Determined and full of life as usual. My second visit, a roofing company was on board, and a delivery of donated roof tiles turned up. It was me and Keithy Cammando’s job to get the tiles up the scaff to the roof. Killer job. The roofers were unbelievably fast, and the new roof was fitted in an afternoon. Drenched, sweaty and fucked, I got some chips and got the bus back home.
That was over a month ago. I went back last night. The upstairs had windows fitted, a new staircase was in. Scaffolding gone. Aside from that and the inside looking a little cleaner, it was still an absolute bomb site, with all downstairs windows and doors yet to bet fitted and nothing inside but burned walls. The rain poured down hard, it seems to never stop in Abertridwr. I located Dickie at his friends house up the road, and he invited me in. A fat dog with a squashed face and short legs yelped and squeaked and jumped all over me. Dickie’s arm had recovered well, but his hands were ground down in places to fleshy bloody cracked sores, and the rest of his skin was covered in the soot. He looked knackered. He was rebuilding his home from scratch with hardly any tools and relying on help from anyone who would offer it.
We had a cup of tea, and in true Dickie style, he had us laughing our arses off in no time. And yes, Dickie being Dickie, there was no insurance. He had bought the house in the 80s. Never insured it. Never contents or buildings insurance. Nothing. Basically everything he ever had was literally up in smoke. He had to give up his job to dedicate himself to the task at hand, and is relying on handouts from his local community. Completely mental. Never seen anything like it.
So, the Tribe, if it wasn’t for Dickie we wouldn’t have cut our teeth across the country in the early days of the band and gathered up the following and the scene which ensued. I’m not sure who knows Dickie, but I do know those who have met him, love him. He is a true gent and was a total father figure for Sicknote, always in the background making sure it all went off. A true giver, who deserves help. So I’m asking you to chip in. Even a single penny will help. There is nothing too small. The state he is in at the moment even a tin of Aldi beans is a true help. Help him out, a couple of pennies will do, and whatever we get together I will take up to him at the end of the month and make sure he’s got some money from the Tribe to help him move on from this complete nightmare.
If you donate, I will write your name, every single name, in a big card and put the money in the card. I’ll update every night or two (with screen shots of paypal) with how much we’ve got and a list of donators for that day (unless you’d rather stay anonymous). I plan to take the cash in a card up to him at the end of February, and hopefully by then we’ll have a lump. I think this is the way forward, I know he’d be embarrassed if he knew we were doing this. But it’s about time he received. His local community helped, and now it’s our turn! I thought I’d set this up and see what happens, if it fails, as I’m aware he wasn’t that well known and was never in people’s faces, then so be it. But even if it’s £50 I take up to him, I know it will help. He slipped into the conversation last night that the windows downstairs were about £200 each and he needed outer doors too. So my target is £500 to bring to him. If it’s less or mOre! then so be it.
Flakey has just set up a Facebook group to share ideas to help him out, here.
If anyone has any other ideas drop me a message, or just turn up at his house, and help him out! Abertridwr Street in Abertridwr (you can’t miss it). It’s been a few months and it’s a long way off from being liveable. Chuck a penny in and Help the legend that is Dickie Balboa here or press button below. THANK YOU!
target £500 by March 1st 2016:………
RAISED SO FAR:
[updated daily]
People who have chipped in:
Nick Bray, Paul Bevan, Nick Walker, Joe Marvelly, Eleanor Burns, Stevie G, Jason Doghouse, Karl Parkinson, Johanna Hartwig, Matthew Downes, Rev & Flakey, Dom Atreides, Andy Thimbleberry, Victoria Leadbeater, Toby Evans, Joe Goddard, Julia Round, David Sheppard, Becci Barker, Theodore Ellinas, Gina Wathen, Lesely Haywood, AM Bligh, Mouse and Badger, Jason Phillips, Stuart Forsyth, Paul Hardy, David Newton-del-Campo, Luise Tomlins, Craig Lee, Mark Deer, Crocker, Stephen Cuky Cooke, Swag Minal, Hobaps and Major Triadz, Karl Baker, Sare Bear, Anna Doolan, John Garton, Ange n Mark, Annabel Tinks Neilson, Keith Harman, Rebecca Gould, Philip Crisp, Les Wilkins, Caroline Richards, Sian Richards, Jessika Burridge, La Laure, Lorraine Boyle, Fozzys, Heather Casey, Emma Money-Kyrle, Julie Kirk, Simon Betts, Joanne Taylor, Emma Barnes, Stephen Reed, Rowena Brook, Caroline Tomlinson, Joel Morris, Yin Hau, Janine Palmer, Michelle Nicholson, Maja Palser, Tina Price, Audrey Jackson, Megan Dugmore, Robin Weallans, Gavin Bolton, Timothy Barker, Julie Acorn, Paul Riddell, Geraint Short, ………..
thanks to every one of you. we will put all your names in a card with the cash. x
here is Dickie’s living room:
FLAPSANDWICH 