EXNE column 2.

Evening Strumpets, The following piece was written early last year as I was once again attempting to go jogging on a regular basis. Moves Like Jogger Warning: The following piece contains admissions of taste which may cause you to take deep inhalations, and pull a face resembling a constipated Aled Jones hitting a High C. Ever since I was born I`ve been in a gang of one. I think Return of the Jedi is a better film than The Empire Strikes Back. I prefer AC/DC with Brian Johnson than Bon Scott, who in my opinion sounded like Ray Alan`s sidekick Lord Charles. Unlike everyone else in this Sceptred Isle, I`ve never understood the dependence upon tea which the Colonial masses hold, I`d rather have a lovely cold glass of water to quench my thirst or cool me down. Don`t give me that twaddle about how tea is the best drink to lower your temperature “They drink it in India don`t you know”. They might do, but when I have a cuppa on a hot day within minutes I`m sweating like Fred West taping Rose through a hole in the wall, whilst wearing a gimp suit. I sometimes think that I have a PA system attached to the back of my head which regularly announces these appalling beliefs whilst I`m out jogging, because there must be a reason why people in cars, on bikes, or even just walking past me in a gang, feel the need to bellow obscenities at me. The bile and venom aimed at my admittedly, well preserved, cachet must be the result of having riled these anonymous dissidents and their cackling flocks. As a person of girth who wishes to reduce his waistline, I have finally come to understand an age old truth. If I want to lose weight, I have to eat less and move more. Sounds easy doesn`t it? Have you any idea of the effort it took to step through the door for the first time in my jogging attire. It took so much guts, which is ironic because that`s exactly what I have and the main reason I was putting myself through the arduous task in hand. Whilst out jogging, or my version of jogging anyhow, I found it difficult to decide which faecal matter was more difficult to avoid. The literal type in the form of Dog`s eggs which adorn the pavements making them resemble Bobby Sands` cell walls following a force fed Vindaloo, or the metaphorical type in the form of vile heartfelt utterances and yells thrown by the good old British Public, which clung to me like a Pit Bull to a sausage roll holding toddler. As I continued my casual scamper I mused upon why people would feel the need to lean out of windows of vehicles, placing themselves and others at great risk to inform me that I should “Get my legs up” before completing the sentence with a description of my bulk and illegitimacy, at least that`s what the polite ones did. I arrived home spent in so many ways. I`ve been out a few more times since, and it continues to happen, but I`ll let you into a secret. These braying shallow humourless thoughtless judgmental felchers, have started motivating me. Because if they`re shouting at me, it means that I’m out there being shouted at, and not sat on a sofa sticking pies into my head. Ultimately, they lose. Right I`m off to go and watch Open all Hours, I find it so much funnier than Porridge….Only joking! Till the next one, go on, go off and learn something new,

Nice to see you again.

Evening strumpets, Here`s another new song, and I think it`s a belter that can only get better. Carl is playimg a loaned guitar (as we were walking into the rehearsal studio he uttered the immortal words "did you pick up me guitar?" to which I replied, "No, and I didn`t wipe yer arse either") so the mix is a bit poor, but hopefully you`ll get the giste. Till the next one. learn something new, Mark.

Holly.

Evening Strumpets, Here`s a real talented lady from a place called Boro, whom it has been my pleasure to support on a number of occasions. Have a listen, and enjoy the blooper, but the voice more so. Till the next one, learn something new, Mark.

Crying in the front room.

Evening Strumpets, I was introduced to the guitar at such an early age it regrettably eludes me to post a specific year on this marble to assign it to. Me Uncle Mick, who was my Mothers daft little brother was one of those lucky sods who was born at a time when Rock N Roll was hitting the radio airwaves, albeit restricted certainly in the North West of England, when they were about 15. Can you begin to imagine the experience of, after having survived the Second World War and the grey drabness which that evolved artistically and musically, hearing Chuck Berry, Little Richard, Jerry Lee Lewis, and of course Carl Perkins, whilst suddenly realising that firstly a libido existed, and secondly, you weren`t the only one with one. Uncle Mick was one of those kids who had a radio which could pick up the oversea`s radio stations. Picture his face the first time he heard "A wop bop a loo bop a boom bam boom!" I often do. He then got the fortune of after having been spoiled initially by this free at last realised new world music, and over the following four or five years becoming accustomed to the usual drab replica with which may have been assigned to "too much of the same" schemata by the original Punks i.e his generation; to be in his early twenties when he first heard a couple of Scouser`s singing about how you should love them do, because you know they love you. You know where I`m going with this. Stones, Zep, Cream, Floyd, etc. I`m introduced to him in 1971. Uncle Mick had shown Our Gary a guitar, but Gary snapped the strings and wanted to know how to restring it. That`s how his head worked, and still does, if I`m being honest. By the time I was old enough; which as previously stated still eludes me, possibly 5 so we`ll say 1976, to see my first guitar in real life (this was the seventies remember) I fell in love with everything about it. Which is funny, because the guitar in question had no strings. It had been given by Uncle Mick to Our Gary and as previously posted had been attacked with a pair of scissors. I loved that guitar. It was huge, and it was ungainly, and it was hollow, but man alive I loved the shape and feel and texture and everythingness about it. Until it was restrung by Uncle Mick and given to me for Christmas in 1978. Now it wasn`t right. It was a real instrument. I`d have to put time and effort into translating the sounds previously Philharmonthropic in my head into the blunt and thubbed notes my soft, oh so soft fingertips would make when pressing the cheesewire like nylon strings onto the drunken Glaswegian hardness of the fretboard of the instrument. My fingers bled. I learnt The Grand old Duke of York and, like a satisfied purveyor of superficiality, I put it under my bed, willing to tell anybody who should care to listen that I could now play the guitar. Which I did, aged 11 and now in Senior School, to a lad called Carl Dalton. We were in the music room at our school, and this time I can tell you what the time was; Autumn 1982. Carl went and got two guitars, one for him and one for me. He proceeded to play, in a note only fashion, the riff of "Another Brick in the Wall". I sat there agog. He was David Gilmour. He was now the coolest person I had ever seen in my life (and he still is if I`m being honest)and he was asking me what I could play. Grand Old Duke of York was not only at that time a million years away, but also as forgotten as that thing the wife asked me to do last night after having had a glass of wine. However one thing I remembered was that if I put my finger on a string and slid it up the neck of the guitar it would make a sound not unreminiscent of how we imagined an erection might sound if the soundwaves allowed. A much more sophisticated use of novelty "bonk on" sound than a ruler, if you don`t mind me saying. Amazingly it worked. Carl just said "cool" and taught me how to play the Floydian "dur de dur dur" which once home resulted in me immediately pulling my dusty and loosely tuned guitar from under my bed and again practicing until me fingers bled. Since then I have become a bit better at playing the guitar, but have remained as ever still in love of Carl`s guitar playing. In 1989 within a month of each other, my Mothers Sister and Mother died which means that my Uncle Micks sister and his Mother died which means that my Auntie and my Nana died. I couldn`t make my Aunty Sheila`s funeral because I had just started Polytechnic, and Mam God bless her had not told me the date as she felt it might be too upsetting, When Nana died I was invited to stay at Uncle Mick`s in Silverdale. By this point like most Hippies, Uncle Mick had done remarkably well professionally and was (still is I think) head of the water board for North Western England. He was neighbours with Geoffrey Durham, a magician known as "The Great Soprendo" who was married to woman called Victoria Wood. He had "a house on the hill", with a balcony overlooking Morecambe Bay. He was also, for the first time I`d ever noticed, very sad. we sat on the balcony, in the dark, sipping sambuca and discussed rock n roll and Django Reinhardt and Stephane Grapelli, and agreed to have a jam the next day. Uncle Mick had a drum kit in his front room (I still think that`s very cool: It was in his FRONT ROOM!!!) and several guitars, bass guitars, amps, pedals etc. I started the jam,as is the way, playing the intro to Johnny B Goode, and we were away. The next two hours, were full of a joy you can only behold if you`re making music. At one point I looked over to Uncle Mick who was enjoying playing a Bass lick over a blues tune, whilst his son held a steady 2/4 on the drum kit, and I kid you not, there were tears in his eyes, though not of sadness. Uncle Mick did not cry at Nana`s funeral, in fact the first time I saw him cry was as we both held Mam`s hand as she lay dying of Brain cancer nearly twenty years later. I`ll be honest, I didn`t cry at nana`s funeral, even though I had loved her as much as the truth loves an outlet. I think we did our crying in that front room, jamming, playing, pissing about. I am blessed to still be in a couple bands with my mates, one of which, as you well know is Carl. Here endeth the lesson. Till the next one, Learn something new. Mark.

Les Goes Dancing at The ASDA.

Evening Strumpets, Blimey, the laptop`s let me on again. I`ve been asked by James in Ontario to post the stuff I`ve been writing for the past year for EXNE onto this blog, so here`s the first one I wrote, just over a year ago. It`s hardly Nabakov, but it`s hopefully got some stuff in which will make you smile. Prince, Squiggle, or whatever the bantamweight eccentric legend likes to be called these days, once said that there comes a time in every man`s life (Or woman`s, you won`t be finding misogynistic offerings on here, unless of course the tea`s not on the table by the time I get home) when he gets tired of fooling around. Judging by the fifteen dozen paternity lawsuits the Lilliputian performer has against him, it would appear that such a time is yet to appear in his time on this marble. He also said that I should not to make him chase me because even doves have pride. He`s obviously not all there, but he wrote Cream so he`s forgiven. Possibly true trivia point 1. Apparently Prince is generous enough in the britches department to be able to pleasure himself, should he be required to do so. Prince may be right, but there certainly does come a time in everyone’s life when they get tired of doing the weekly shop at “The” Asda? President Mugabe has been known to send opponents of his current rise in the “Top of the Pops tyrannical existence Top 40”, to the local “The” Asda, at Eleven O` Clock on a Friday morning. A badly written list with ambiguous words such as “veg ” and “fruit” in one hand, and a voucher for 50p off a ten litre bottle of Persil Liquid in the other. The gonad electrocuting machine would be plugged in by the poor sap themselves upon return to Mugabe`s torture chamber, for a little light relief. The shopping experience, and you can insert Morrison’s, Sainsbury’s et al into the place of Asda, has become the domain of mobility challenged, casually wandering, gormless, existence stealing, mouth breathers. Is there ever a more wonderful sight to behold than a bored 17 stone Giant Haystacks doppelganger, lazily leaning on a trolley, trousers displaying his upper rump topiary, wandering with no rhyme or reason along the frozen meat aisle? It is no accident that very sharp knives are currently unavailable to buy within the aisles. Or guillotines. Or those machine Guns out of “The Wild Bunch”. Though no jury in the land would convict an Asda shopping related homicide, surely? But of course there is a reward for negotiating your wonky wheeled trolley, avoiding the mobility scooters, myoclonic toddlers, and braying sweat stained pond life pyjama clad twenty “somethings” through the gruelling previous 25 alleyways (including the Pet food aisle, and I don`t even have a pet, why do I walk down there?). And that reward is 3 bottles for a tenner. A choice of white, pink, or red wines to allow you to welcome the weekend into your sad and dreary life. But wait, look closer. To call the selection offered “wine” is akin to describing Shredded Wheat as a tasty breakfast. The selection is reminiscent of a concrete boot laden Frankie Boyle after he`s just completed a marathon, whilst gargling with Corsodyl. Weak and without taste. The final insult of course is the checkout. Name tags with legends such as “happy to help”, lay beneath scowling faces which peer, daring you to ask, just ask for help. Faces which look like they`d rather be washing Tramps genitalia than putting your Pek, beef pastes, and frozen chips into your bag for life, that is if you`ve remembered to unpack the blasted things from the boot of your car. Right, that`s your lot. I`m off to Tesco`s Express to buy a tiny bottle of wine and Brussel sprout, and pretend that I’m a Giant with a cabbage. Another thing this laptop does is bunch all text together so there are no gaps. Bear with me, hopefully this will soon be rectified. Here`s a new song from the Charmers which I posted a first version of just before Christmas. I think this may be one of our better ones, and should definitely in the set soon. Till the next one, learn something new, Mark.

a nice little catch up.

Good afternoon Strumpets, You must be tired of reading this, but I`m continuing to have problems with accessing this blogspot, laptop and security nonsense, but every now and again, I`m able to sign in. How this works is beyond me, but I`m sure someone can explain. We will soon be purchasing a new computer so hopefully this should not be too much of a problem for much longer. The Charmers have played a gig supporting the wonderful Boss Caine at the Green Room in Stockton. It was a really nice night, and off the back of it we have been asked to play at a wedding, which should be quite the thing. Here`s a vid of Boss Caine for you to peruse. We`ve also been writing, and hopefully either in Easter or Wit week we will be going into a studio to do some recording. Here`s a new song, which andy wrote after Carl thought it would be a good idea for Mark (the other one in the band)to wear a washboard and a bucket on his head whilst playing, the idea being that then people could throw objects against him in time with the music. It`s very rough, with myself making several mistakes, but we`re still in the process of working out arrangements, structure etc. Ned Kelly Buckethead Blues. As for the Broken Broadcast, we`ve just recorded two new songs, which are sounding fantastic, even if I do say so myself. We`ve also played quite a few gigs, one of which has been recorded on YT for prosperity. Here it is, and is quite a length, but worth it if you have the time. This was filmed in November, and I`m sporting a movember, if you were wondering. That`s more than enough to be going on with so till the next one, learn something new. Mark.

our Nephrons home.

Evening Strumpets, Here`s the other song from the other night, as rough and ready as the last one, but with an added MASSIVE BURP from Carl at the end. I tire of asking for any feedback. Till the next one learn something new, like how to give feedback! Mark.

3 legged Dog.

Evening Strumpets, here`s a new song by The Nephrons performed by 3 of them. the fourth fella had a cold and missed the practice. Rough as hell, but with a bit of spit and polish this might just be something good. Till the next one, learn something new, Mark.

Rotten song.

Evening Strumpets, I`m making a point of recording rough demos of songs as I`m reaching an age where the writing process if left is soon forgotten. here's the latest one. The chords, which if I'm being honest usually come pretty simply, once I relax and get into a playing zone, result in the more tricky business of mostly a series of grunt`s, utterances and words, the main one of which for this one is "Rotten", purely because I`m sat next to my bookcase on which john Lydons Autobiography "No Blacks, No Dogs, No Irish" is sitting. It`s a great read if you get the chance.

listen to ‘Rotten ’ on Audioboo

I tire of saying this, please feed back, Can`t remember the last time anyone did. Incidentally, Mountain View California. Whoever you are, let me know, because I owe you massive thanks for keeping this blog going. Till the next one, learn something new....really Mark.

Our Home.

Evening Strumpets, Here`s a demo of a song that fell out of me hands and head earlier today. Not sure if anything will come out of it, or what form it may end up as, but I have to say I really like it. I can see a big build up for the middle eight section, but then I can also see little green men most friday evenings.

listen to ‘our home’ on Audioboo

Please post any feedback. It really means a lot. Till the next one, learn something new, Mark.