Blood and Thunder!

Some stuff is made of metal.

Other stuff is not.

By the same token, some stuff is metal and other stuff is not.

For example, going to the Cook Islands (or Rarotonga as the islanders say) is not in itself "metal".

However, the local $3 note (minted circa 1992) is. This is because the graphic on one side of the note is of a naked chick riding a shark.



When I first saw it it gave me a good old case of the Blood and Thunder*.

Today, I can't find this note among my meagre possessions stowed in a 70's-esque brown suitcase that I keep hidden in my parents house. Perhaps it returned to the ocean... I know not where it went.

But this I do know:

If the mighty Mastodon had been around in 1992, then on that island, out there in the Pacific, some personal metal planetary alignment would have been initiated along the western spiral arm of our galaxy.

And possibly, indeed it seems highly likely, the gravity of the situation would have caused me to fold in upon myself, and I would have simply blinked off like a light.


* If you are not familiar with the work of Mastodon, you'll likely need to read the lyrics for their Leviathan album.

Strange what desire will make foolish people do

We hosted a nice little sushi party the other night. Having left Hanoi where we hosted killer pool parties, it is of some importance that we have some good parties here too. Anyone who has moved countries will understand this feeling I trust.

(Please load soundtrack now)

So we have repaired to the living room for an after dinner smoke and Mr Terry Lax spies a framed picture of me in Westlake Boyz, on stage holding a pair of girls smalls.

"What," Terry rightly asked, "are you doing in this picture?"

So I began to explain the Westlake Boyz, the concept and subsequent live show delivery.

Now that I've answered the starter for ten, Terry moves to the bonus round questions:

"You were in a boy band?"

After all, for those who know me, I doubt you'll disagree that I can be stubbornly Rockist.

The very idea of it! Frankly I am sometimes appalled myself.

But it's a great fucking story:

There came a need to develop a stock line for the band to use in times of need (another fuck you very much to the other band members in the greenroom at Wave seems warranted here).

We argued at the time that we were providing a service. That in a town like Hanoi, a town where very few good bands play, it was up to everyone - regardless of talent level - had an obligation to contribute to the entertainment options for the international community.

Some people got this. Others just moaned.

But as I was using this line, Terry interrupted with a question I had never been asked about the band.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he said waving the bullshit away. "But how successful were you?"

It was right about then that I realised that while I had joined the band for above mentioned reason, it was primarily flesh that I was looking for. Girl flesh.

And picking up girls in bars just seemed... I don't know... too damned chav.

So without much ado at all, without sparing a thought for any of my rockist eliteism over the years, I traded my morals the first chance I got for a shot at minor league fame and a whole lot of fucking.

"How successful was I? I have a photo of me singing in front of a wall of girls."

But as much as I got what I was looking for, and in that way was a success, I suddenly remember that it's strange what desire will make foolish people do.

What time was it before it was Hammertime?

When I saw the above graph, I laughed so hard that Welmoed, a South African Savignon Blanc, came out my nose. At the time I was supposed to be researching what percentage of online spending in 2007 originated from Google searches.

I do actually - surprisingly even - want to know the answer to that. But I'm sure you can see how I got quite distracted by the email that contained this, and other equally accurate graphical representations of rap lyrics.

Btw: the wine has aromas of grass, fig and lime with an intense, fresh tropical fruit flavours and a long afterteaste... it's some cat's pee I got cheap at the supermarket and any pissed fuckwit can read a label.

Don't Jive Me Turkey - Ya Gots Ta Sass It.

Ok, okay.

I hear you.

Those last two posts were a bit on the nose weren't they. Apologies to all you who wrote in - especially my friends from US and UK - but hey, you could've stopped reading it. But no, you had to go and write in and complain about it. You had to poke your nose in where it didn't belong.

I only have one thing to say to all y'all.

Don't cry about it.

Anyway, I assure that's the end of grizzles from me. I swear.

After all, it's okay to double-up, but three times is jive.

Society by the numbers: 1949,1984,2007

The book mentioned in my previous post was George Orwell's 1984.

I am proud of myself that in my lifetime I have read what all three of the great dystopia novels:

1984
We
Brave New World

Now, for a cautionary note to those who would choose to hear it:

Don't move from a socialist nation you've been living in for years, read 1984 then travel to modern day England.

Doublethink may be old hat, and cognitive dissonance may be worldwide.

But I just wanted to write a note of thanks, England, for treating me to CCTV, zero trust and constant under class treatment.

Question is:

Was Orwell visionary, or has English society always just been fucked?

Perhaps Green Day said it best...

It's been a while since I did any math beyond counting change.

So maybe you can help me with this equation:

These:
- 58% of the US adult population never reads another book after high school.
- 42% of college graduates never read another book.
- 80% of US families did not buy or read a book last year.
- 70% of US adults have not been in a bookstore in the last five years.
- 57% of new books are not read to completion.
- Most readers do not get past page 18 in a book they have purchased.

Plus these:
One Nation Under Gun - portraits of gun owners in their homes (Kyle Cassidey, Newsweek)

Equals:
...?

Extra credit of you spot the kid named after the Uzi submachinegun.

When I did the math earlier, I was left with a remainder that looked very much like the picture below of me peeling caps 100m down range with a Zastava M80.

But then I recently finished a book, so it's ok.

Westlake Boys - restecp!

There was a time when I was in a boyband.

We came from around the world, to gather together to share our passion for music (at least according to the poster on the wall at Z Cafe we did). We worked exclusively in the medium of Karaoke.

And we ruled. At least from where I was standing.

In this case, I was standing on stage with mic in hand and a pair of panties some lusty groupie had thrown my way...

Coming Soon: The True Story of Attrack - The best band never to record

Such was the recognition of the sheer brilliance and genius of their debut single Halftrack (a complete song chopped in half, the second half scheduled for release later as a rare B-side) Attrack never actually had to step into a studio, let alone record the song.

Insiders close to the band even say the concept was such musical genius, that Halftrack didn't even need to be written. Other's disagree as Lance Corporate expressed clear intentions of basing the song's intro around ZX Spectrum loading tones.

(Hear them here)

This photo was taken just prior to their tack-spitting split after arguments raged over naming the album they would never record. Lance corporate (left) wanted to call it "There's Mo Chit at the end of the line", while Double A (right) was pushing for "Nasty Cromula".

The split was deemed society's loss by former Westlake Boy Jake Styles.

Holy Shit - it's the Confessional!

So,

Seems my inner angel has finally won out after all these years...

(Please load theme music now!)

Yes indeed, I'm going to confess... to a childhood crime!


I won't get into details but I will say it made me pretty fucking nervous the day that Tania Alexander from next door discovered someone had written some rather nasty graffiti on the fence outside their house.

In bad pencil.

Worsely spellledt.

“Fuck up you bupets” it read.

It was artistic genius when I did it, I confess, now nearly 30 years later. I don’t claim to recall what made me do it, or for that matter, why I was so far away from being able to spell bastards (what I remember distinctly thinking I was writing at the time).

But yes, I did it. I wrote what i thought was "Fuck up you bastards" on the Alexanders fence when I was about 6 years old.

Me, and my 2B Filthy-tip.

"I'm not sure if I'm ready to admit to this," I, Badhorsy, was quoted as saying when questioned about the impending judgement.

"Although I couldn't help but notice this inquisition is being undertaken very enthusiastically by the very team I myself assembled just an hour ago as the GoodLife Truth and Honour Squad."

"Those fucking bupets!"

So, here, after all these years, I have admitted to my crime. And therefore I must be judged. And it is a duty, thrust upon you dear reader, to find a punishment worthy of this most heinous crime.

And, once sentence is pronounced, then so it shall be, in GoodLife blog form, with photographs and documents to prove sentence has been carried out.

Email your sentence in!

Otherwise…

If you have a confession to make - no matter how talk show shameful it might be - let me know!

Keep it on the chips

If you haven't seen the original Star Trek Cribs, then you should watch it before you see the remix.

Funnily enough, the Vulcan Hardcore 1993 Remix was made by a guy called James Kirk.

Yes, really.

Next stop...

So, this chap to the left may look like a ginge who might growl like chewbacca after a hard days work, but let me tell you, when we were 19 years old and doing mandatory garage band service, this gent let me borrow his bass - for like 2 fucking years.

Now he's gone and met the woman of his dreams.

Apparently the woman of his dreams is the kind of woman that lets him have a stag party in Bangkok.

Cripes.

But before I go, I assure you, it's only the beginning of the end of the gentleman above when we hear these words...

Cigaro deluxo and the Cereal polygamist

Got this scrawled all tiny on a postcard from Norman Same, GoodLife's man on the scene in Mattersville:

"They may all be there at the same time, but it's really only one at a time if you follow," being the dirt here according to Matt Black, as the bar props him up by one elbow over his beer. "It can get real grubby though."

"Like this one chick. We're in my kitchen, getting dragged through that gravely morning after an E thing, and we haven't slept yet so everything’s got that nasty sketched with a pencil look, and things aren’t gonna get any less nasty if she’s got a say in it."

"Uhuh," Mitch Scott is listening, curious but without the relish Matt has for the tale being told.

"I'm there trying to get interested in this bowl of cereal that I thought might help, but at that point it really wasn't offering me much and I was having a hard time with the idea of putting it in my mouth. And then she climbs up on the table, whips up her bathrobe and just scootches down over the bowl.”

"But I'm too caned to shoo her off and she's trying to get right inside the bowl, going "You want some milk pussy huh? There's a good pussy, lap it up, lap it up." And I’m just like what the fuck? This chick’s in my Nutrigrain.”

"But you know, after a while, I'm just like, huh,” Matt shrugs. “What the fuck, this chick’s in my Nutrigrain."

Mitch looks like he's unsure whether to be jealous or revolted. Most times Matt’s soiled tales of polygamy come up, he's happy to relegate them to the part of his skull that deals with his own fleeting memories of sordid encounters and half remembered scenes from random skin flicks.

Unfortunately that part of his skull seems to be experiencing a dull, off-putting ache.

He tries tucking it away with those memories marked “other”; just random stuff, sexually related but by no means sexy. But the idea's not working, because, as always, opening that file leads straight back to the guilty moment his mum walked in on him having a tug to a stick mag.

Damned if he didn't get crucified for possession of those glossy pages, but it was a good lesson in keeping shit secret, 101 in the ancient male art of squirreling stuff away.

“Can’t be talking about that stuff at home though. Some things just aren’t good candour with a girlfriend,” Matt’s says through teeth, lips locked in a smile an inch from the neck of his beer, then takes a swig.

But Mitch is hiding out with all the stuff he has stashed.

All kinds of stuff, from gilded savings in the wank bank, to that expensive little toy he'll be able to use once he's had it a while. That better stay hidden for the time being though, so when the other half eventually spies it, he can claim he’s had it for ages. And it won’t be a lie, so he hasn’t lied to her and she can’t go getting her knickers in a twist about spending good money on something she can't see the importance of.

Like another gin and tonic for example.

A cohiba before i leave-a

After much a-do over all those years - and too much mention of my having far too many leaving parties for any one man to respectably have - I finally got out of Hanoi.

But what happens next?

Amsterdamage - that's what!

There's only one way to find out what's beyond the weed and the mayonaise - so bookmark now and stay tuned!

Thanks to all who came to the ultimate farewell, especially those that didnt make it home for days after.

Here's to ya!

Highlights of the evening included Master Dockery's single track DJ session. Nice!

P.S. - if you want a copy of the smokey animated gif (it's bigger and much less grainy) - just right mouse click and hit 'save image as' and you'll be sweet.