On matters mixed and structured not

The time hath cometh for discourse on the very nature of employment and the matters of unpleasantness therein, be they latent or otherwise. Why doth we toil for pittance fare, when existence should be spent perusing the wonders of nature from an establishment of mirth, washed down with the mead of one’s volition to the backdrop of bossoms free and bores dear?
Do we not see, how the striving for pay, eludes no time for things merry and gay?
Are we not men of leisure, women equally so? Are we not masters of beasts?
Why are we subject to such desires base, that time is spent not pursuing matters idle but occupied with receiving raise?

Make note, when days are here of gentle men using pistols for their automobile to render repaired, should we not ask, why?
Bolts of wheels round, that hath with pistol been fixed, have ne’er been found.

That and other things.

Oi

So where are we?

It is late June, I have no electricity and the weather is shit. Cheated of another summer. I may have to relocate to sunnier climes if this keeps on going.

Due to a fire in our staircase, the whole building is without electricity and, subsequently, hot water. I feel like I’m taking part in a new run of How we used to live: Early Victorians. I wake up to the pleasure of an ice-cold shower in a pitch-black bathroom, followed by coffee made from boiling water in a saucepan on our gas cooker (at least that still works). Breakfast consists of whatever I can store without using a fridge (dry bread, marmalade, the odd apple). After work I rush home to make dinner before the sun goes down, again using only ingredients that doesn’t need refrigeration. Making lunch for the following day is an impossibility. Dinner and washing up taken care of, I recline in my living room reading books until there is no more natural light, after which I sit in darkness and smoke cigarettes and drink warm beer until it is time to go to bed. Last night that time was 22.30pm.

To add insult to injury, I can no longer do any washing of clothes. Use a Laundromat I hear you say. That would be kosher if I had any cash. As I don’t, I have had to resort to washing socks and underwear (the essentials) by hand, again in a pitch black bathroom with ice-cold water. As for the remaining laundry, I’m considering arranging a dirty washing amnesty point somewhere in the living room, as my bedroom is becoming full (and somewhat smelly). I suppose I could burn all the dirty washing and use the fire as TV replacement. Actually, no, enough fires.

On the plus side, I have started to appreciate the various stages of natural light throughout the day, and I haven’t watched TV for almost two weeks. My body clock is slowly reverting to what I assume must be the pattern of pre-electricity humans; rise at dawn, retire at dusk. Never has daylight been this precious to me. At least it is summer. Had this happened in the dead of January I would probably have hanged myself or administered a dose of strychnine, in the dark, of course, and probably shivering cold.

Still, it’s not all bad.

Last Friday I went to the ICA to see the first ever My Bloody Valentine show in almost two decades. Petka managed to get tickets and kindly took me along. Announced last minute and billed as a rehearsal for their sold-out shows across the UK and Europe in the following month(s), we were treated to something we never thought possible, and not a moment too soon.

Was it good? Yes, it was very good. In the space of a few years I have now managed to tick off quite a few boxes in terms of childhood musical heroes that I’ve experienced live (Dinosaur Jr with the original line-up, My Bloody Valentine, Megadeth, Misfits (sadly w/out Danzig), and The Pixies etc). But enough about that. My Bloody Valentine, for those who don’t know, was responsible for recording the best album ever made, ever. It’s called Loveless, and unless you hear it, you will never know what perfection is. Seriously, it is that good. Go and buy it / download it / copy it from a friend now. It was released in November 1991 and more or less bankrupted their label, Creation Records. But so what? Even if it had cost £1 billion it would have been worth it, fucking up the sonic landscape and perceptions of beauty forever.