Celtica Radio - a station in darkest Wales, are I am informed , blasting out tracks from the "My Black Girlfriend" E.P.

A review from "Cool Noise".

Saturday, June 03, 2006
My Black Girlfriend by The Disco Students
Firmly from the DIY/John Peel style of music making we have The Disco Students. Their Mark E Smith's Dead may be factually inaccurate but it is a good song with a snarl to enjoy. Lo-Fi fun for the discerning in the family.

Just started to record the first all-new Disco Students CD of the new era. And the retrospective CD isn't even out . Got to get everything done before I drop down dead.
The first song is "Who's Your Favourite Slit?" - it was originally a poem, one that I performed at the live dates I did last summer. I've since set the little devil to music.

Ari Up, Ari Up, Ari Up, Hurry Up,
I can't take no more,
We've gotta keep the noise down,
Palmolive's at the door.
Your favourite Slit,
Who's your favourite Slit, your favourite Slit?
Eaten me for breakfast, a naive provincial boy,
Kept me as a mascot, kept me like a toy.
Made me do the errands, sent me out for tea,
I did all their washing, that was all down to me.
I squatted and I squatted like I'd never squat before,
I took to my new bohemian life one step ahead of the law,
I shared a morning postal round with Vic Godard,
I met some Rastaferians in their lovely yard.
I told them, I warned them they would catch their death,
Standing around in November covered in mud in Hammersmith,
I told them, I warned them this could not go on.
For a while, I was very keen on Viv Albertine,
Yeah, I was very keen on Viv Albertine.

My Shit Don't Stink.

It's painted on a wall outside the old town hall,
Someone wrote it on my fence, using the present tense,
People stop me and ask, "Is it really what you think?"
I say yeah, yeah, yeah - My Shit Don't Stink.

An anonymous note was pushed beneath my door,
A crank caller left a malicious message on my phone,
I get criticised because I cannot hold my drink,
I say yeah, yeah, yeah - My Shit Don't Stink.

And so, it has happened again. We are no longer in the World Cup.
Fuckshittingwankingcuntingbollockingbastardshitpissfuck.

This is the sleeve of I BEG TO DIFFER. The original is by Irish artist John Nolan - someone I've known for nearly a decade. I first met him in St Stephen's Green, Dublin - and have since kept in touch.

I BEG TO DIFFER - is at the factory - look up to the sky and you'll see a chimney belching - that's the new CD being made ( by talented craftsmen).
There are 22 tracks - they are:
1. South Africa House.
2. Kafkaesque.
3. A Boy With A Penchant For Open Neck Shirts.
4. Pink Triangles.
5. Credit.
6. But.
7. Red Flowers.
8. Boxes.
9. Lake Superior.
10. There Is Nothing To Keep Us Here.
11. Sugarside.
12. Love Will Blow Up In Your Face.
13. Letters Of The Alphabet.
14. Yellowhouse.
15. King Cupid.
16. Helen Come Home.
17. Tina Weymouth's Smile.
18. She Loves Me Like A Brother.
19. The King Of The Manchester Baggy Scene.
20. Oh No, You're Pregnant.
21. Mark, What's The Score ?
22. Do You Remember L-L-Longwick?

I am David Beckham's Hairdresser.

Back street salon next to a back street abortionist,
I was going nowhere with my radical plans for hair.
I cut Harry Kewell's quiff into the shape of a peacock,
Then the M62 into Lee Sharpe's sideburns.

Word got round all over the cotton mill towns of the north-west,
I was commissioned to work on Callum Best ( he tipped poorly).
A double page spread in FHM was followed by a four page pull out in the Rochdale Echo.
My time had come.

The Town Song ( £5 pair of shoes)

Went down to the town,
Had a bundle of cash and a determined outlook,
Went down to the town,
I was unknown - and that suited me.

In the town, I stifled a yawn,
Threw up my dinner on a resident's lawn.
In the town, I bought some new shoes,
Cheap enough , cheap enough to loose.

The security men in their bespoke suits,
Stopped me at a barrier they'd made from old oil cans.
It reminded me of "At The Barricades" by Spandau Ballet.
Yes, it was that serious.

You spur me on, son.
Your spur me on.
Your spur me on, son.
You point out all the things that must be done ( and I thank you for that ).

Word has reached me in Dorset that Top Of The Pops is to cease trading . What (exactly) is happening to the world? Melody Maker & Sounds long since closed their doors - John Peel never came back from Peru - now TOTP is going. To be fair, I hardly ever watch it - and when I do, it's with the sound down whilst playing my own choice of music. For instance, I'm watching it now - a group called Wolfmother seem to be pretending it's 1973 again ( quite why anyone would want to do that is beyond me - I was at the real 1973, and let me tell you it was no tea party). I'm playing The Affectionate Punch by The Associates - a very good record. TOTP tonight is being hosted by two dizzy blonde birds who seem to be laying the irony on with a trowel, all knowing looks and wry smiles. To be fair pop music is for the young and gormless - fortunately I still qualify for the latter.

another mark e smith wannabee,
you, yeah you
take your place in the queue
your pickled wits from the graveyard shift
on salford 96.2fm.

all that static from nylon shirts,
smoking 60 a day until your sinuses hurt.
your mother's hands are raw from cleaning the front step,
the front step where you spit and shit.

another mark e smith wannabee,
took the national express from coventry.
kept a fly in a jar for appearances sake
did almost everything for appearances sake.

I Beg To Differ.
That's the name of the retrospective release. The recordings have just been mastered and re-mixed etc - all ready for release. The cover/sleeve etc is being put together now - it'll be out in a month or so.

The Cranberries (from Ireland) were on television again.
I did not like it.
U2 ( from Ireland) were on the radio today.
Left me, left me cold and getting colder.
By the second, by the day.

Big Country, a Scottish group,
Fooled my friends, but no, not me.
The Postcard groups - all meant well,
But seemed to leave a terrible smell,
Whenever they came south ( they were all mouth).

It's up to you, boy.
It really is - it really, really is.
You're our hope, boy.
No-one's getting younger,
And the rent needs paying - do you hear what I'm saying ?

Edwyn Collins and Henry Rollins,
Are either under sedation or deep in meditation.
And where's Billy McKenzie when you need him?
Chasing whippets in the sky.

Watford have won promotion to the Premierhsip - beating Leeds United 3-0 at Cardiff in the Championship Play-Off Final on Sunday. That's good. A few years ago, I was a rabid/avid Watford fan - travelling home and away - try Hull City away on a Tuesday night in November - no laughing matter. In those days I created two characters - Gladys Protheroe and Ray Bloom. Gladys became quite well known through radio appearances and "her" book - Ray, with his website - Ray Bloom 2000 - won over a number of knowing WFC fans. Well, with the impetuus of a return to Premiership football, Ray's coming back. I'm currently working on a new website that will kick start Ray and his family - wife Kim and sons Ray junior and Ray junior junior. I'll pop the link on here soon.

Boy Misanthrope.

Joe Orton said to me ( in a dream),
"Simon, son - you're wasting your time".
"You're not cut out for all of this".
"You're far too conventional "
He said other things too , unmentionable.

I bridled against this unjustified rally,
"Joe - no,no,no".
He replied - "Simon, yes,yes,yes".

You can't or won't sing in a pleasing manner,
You eat with your mouth full - you have no table manners.
You wreck the beautiful english language with your own home-spun grammer.

The little money you do make, you piss up against the wall.
You'll never play the Albert Hall.
Sell your pen and drink your ink,
Shove your songs down the kitchen sink.

In Manchester (1972).

I cannot be named for legal reasons,
I speak from behind a screen,
You see - I've met your type before,
I know your kind, I know you're kind.

So tell me ex-commune resident,
As you stutter and hesitate,
Why the reticence?
And all the use of the past-tense?

It never seems fair,
That Ringo Starr's a millionaire,
It never seemed just,
Paul McCartney licking Jane Asher's nice little bust.

But in 1972,
When the spots on my face,
Made the world a very difficult place,
Marc Bolan & Micky Finn coudn't do anything useful to help.

No Quality Control.

Soul to Soul, they say it's "Coal Not Dole"
Look at those people living in yesterday,
Unworthy men who cannot hold a pen,
How dare they , whilst I'm on benefits,
Sit and smoke in a public place ( which is now against the law)
No Quality Control.
A phrase they learnt , like a tattoo burnt,
Upon a skin that has nothing within.
Soul to Soul, No Quality Control.
I cannot save or be responsible,
For these men who have nothing to offer.
But then I say, and so do they ( I am sure),
You am wrong, I is right,
I am bright and I will fight,
Today, tomorrow and tonight.
'Cos Soul to Soul and Coal not Dole,
No Quality Control.

I hate it when artists put out LPs of cover versions. I always think - what's the point?
Well, I DID. I'm going to do one. 12 tracks - from Patti Smith to Morrissey - and back again. Good idea.

Ex-Commune Resident!

My friend and collaborator Carl Eldridge rang me up and said "Hey, why don't we write a musical about Jose Mourinho?"
"Don't see why not" I replied. So we are. Indeed, things are progressing at such a pace, TalkSport got in touch and four songs from the project were aired on the Hawksbee & Jacobs show this week.