(choke choke cough) Just arrived back in the hot oven of London with a sour taste in my mouth. After making the mistake of nurturing a single piece of chewing gum the whole car journey back from the rain-lashed Midlands, the upper portions of my gastro-intestinal tract now feel like they're coated in thick melted plastic. How very nice.
But what a very nice few days it's been. The big move up north has begun - on Thursday I drove most of my possessions up to my parents' place, with the good intention of driving back again that night to sort out some more bits and bobs back here in the Smoke. However, the temptation of a barbecue proved too strong to resist.
That night I had a premonition - I dreamt that I was going to London Zoo, and they had a dinosaur enclosure there - Jurassic Park-style shenanigans of course ensued. Unbeknownst to me, in real life I would be invited to the Cotswold Wildlife Park the following day. I was most relieved to experience an escaped-dinosaur-free environment. (Which kind of messes all over my previous "premonition" statement, but there you go.)
Continuing the twin themes of the Cotswolds and barbecues, on Saturday the girlfriend and I booked into a very nice B&B in Upper Swell in the aforementioned region. More stomach-bloating-fun was undertaken that evening at a barbecue in a pub in the even-more-amusingly-named Lower Swell.
And then, today, no barbecues alas, but two sausage-fests all the same, and to continue our Cotswold Capers, a hike up the magnificent sheep-poo-slopes of Cleeve Common.
All in all it's left me quite exhausted. AND IN NO MOOD TO TAKE ANY OF STU'S LEMON JELLY DISSING! It's a fantastic album, full of fabulous tunes and beautiful melodies, and it all holds together like an intricate dream. It cuts through the cynicism prevalent in Western adulthood, and transmogrifies your mental shape to its state prior to it being stained by the negativities of life. Life-affirming, I believe is the word (or 2). And I write this as, blasting from my speakers, the tortured soundscapes of "Finding The Bomb" from the Dust BrothersFight Club OST attempt to rip apart whatever construct I have in lieu of a soul. So it must be good.
That NME review does sound pretty funny, though. Tough I can't help but feel though that their cynicism is too deeply-ingrained to trust the buggers' opinions. They never treated Dumpy's Rusty Nuts with the amount of respect appropriate, for example. (The best band I've ever seen where the fat bearded lead singer, covered in luminous face-paint, played the motorcycle handlebars at one point.) Cough.