Stretch MacGibbon endorses NOT this guy


daniel irons art and design. too good. Stinkeh. Click on link to see more GREAT, I mean GREAT art and posters from Daniel Irons.

We are just about at the logical conclusion of bolloxing on about being the greatest country in the world for all my munki life anyways. A bit of humility wouldn’t go amiss. Still If Captain Douchebag gets in, y’all better learn to play the banjo. Everyone knows how a banjo can ruin a party.

Good night and good luck.





Working Title/Artist: Louis Hine (American, 1874-1940): Newsies at Skeeter Branch, St. Louis, Missouri, 11:00 A.M., May 9, 1910  Department: Photographs Culture/Period/Location:  HB/TOA Date Code:  Working Date:  scanned for collections
Stretch here. I have been not smoking the smoking cigarettes since August 1st 2014. I feel healthy, my lungs are full of air. I go for long and boring runs now and sorta see the point of it. Sometimes, I cough and enjoy the lack of a wheeze and that little bit of phlegm that would jump out in to my munki mouth. Despite years of abusing these little wonder sticks, I can now look forward to living maybe five to ten years longer and see my family and friends flourish into old age. Ahhh.

BUT, Jesus, fuck that, I fucking miss them. Here’s why:

  1. Travel: Standing at a bus stop or train station, occupying your time with your own thoughts is generally boring. Smoking a cigarette fills time. It fills between 5 and 8 minutes. You look at the board and it says 18 minutes until your travel device arrives. That’s two lovely, enjoyable cigarettes. You don’t want to be thinking about stuff like how to be a better munki or solving the world’s problems. That’s none of your business. Smoke. Also, in Winter it keep you warm and safe.
  2. Tramps. The majority of conversations I have had with people of the streets have occurred around cigarettes. In fact, on one holiday to San Francisco, I spent most of my holiday money passing out cigarettes to the homeless, causing petty tramp-fights due to the queues forming around my person. I felt like Jesus did when he smoked, I did.
  3. Accentuating a shit situation: You have a row; lose a job; the car won’t start; you get clamped; a piano falls on your sister; Christmas Day; Salman Rushdie keeps hanging around you; Lupita Nyong’o says you have no talent and you’re not funny; fucking Ryan Gosling actually has young geese (fuck sake); you pay your TV license and they give it to Ryan Tubridy to keep up his sense of self-worth; you find out there is a God, but vow to continue to trust the tenets of nihilism etc… With the aid of a cigarette you can stop, regard the situation, shove one in your mouth and take a timeout. Without cigarettes, the only option is to revolve and revolve and revolve quickly until dizziness makes amends.
  4. Funerals: Socially awkward, uncomfortable, cold, long, boring…. Stand outside and smoke. You’ll look anxious and people will forgive the chain-smoking, thinking you’re working through issues. You’re not. You barely know the deceased. You are just ignorant, but y’know content.
  5. Social occasions: See above. Smoking areas are now the only places in bars or clubs where people are actually having fun probably. Be careful though: outgoing people tend to use wild hand gestures to add to their boring stories. Smokers will burn you real good. You’ll make friends, fall in love, sway… anything you want and you ARE getting the night air. What could be better? The downside is the cancer and the smell of ya. Also great for getting away from the desk at work. Well except when getting to the spot and the most boring person in the company is there. Bullshit conversation about their social life and then you avoid eye contact for years. YEARS!
  6. Life expectancy: How fucking long is long enough? Do you want to live forever? I’m not sure I can afford to live until a ripe old age. I’m skint. At a certain point, the onset of old age will make my remaining munki years slow and cumbersome. Naturally I would be okay if I had an optimistic outlook, but fuck that, that hasn’t happened and tumblr_ndm5w7gn2p1tjsogwo1_250isn’t going to. So now I’ll have to endure a healthy, broke end of days. Sounds great. But, if I go back on the smokes, I can shave off a number of those painfully boring years, despite suffering a terrible painful death coughing phlegm on everyone. Hmm…what to do?
  7. Cause of death: So, yeah, If I don’t smoke, I will die from something else, right? What if the thing that kills me is really stupid, like being run over or being eaten by penguins or falling in the shower or being assassinated accidentally by a secondary terrorist organisation or choking on rocket or choking on asparagus or choking on a Pharmaton or choking on yoghurt or falling off the Eiffel Tower or falling out a bungalow window wrong….grrr? Instead, a persistent cough, breathing apparati…later.
  8. Non Smokers: Hey I don’t smoke but I’m not a non-smoker, right? You can fuck right off if you think that.
  9. They taste fucking wonderful and go so well with booze and LSD. In fact if you are doing acid, I recommend about 60 cigarettes (80 if microdots are your thing) and of course, breathing. Breathe, Shirley, breathe! Who do you think you are, Tom fucking Cruise?
  10. Finally, remember, we are all alone. With a cigarette you are never alone. You have a sense of purpose. That sense of purpose is to smoke a cigarette. It is one of the simplest things you will learn in life. This and the knowledge that most humans you encounter in life are straight up conservative assholes and they think the same of you. Family, friends, confidantes, your religious entity, doing good deeds, receiving praise? None of these things will ever give you the same feeling as the first optimistic 30 seconds after lighting up a beautiful stick of dried out leaves. Inhale, exhale. Life is good. For now.

Smoke if you got em’!

The music that made me sicker: The Chemical Brothers – Exit Planet Dust


The bruthas gonna work it out

To say I was obsessed with folk music back in the early 90s would be an understatement. My friends and I would regularly get together and listen to Woodie Guthrie, the Clancy Brothers and any group where a large woman was surrounded by three suited men with guitars. We would sit in my bedroom, styled like a 1960s New York walk-up and play records, smoke pipes and talk about revolutionary politics. I sported a beard and wore tweed or a cotton-wool mix jumper, sometimes a cap.

This would lead to some sniggers and pointing from locals, but hey those cats were always like that. Whenever they hassled me or committed violence, I would yell,
“Hey, keep your hands above the Mason-Dixon line, thanks.” Sometimes with a two-finger salute and a ‘keep on keepin’ on’ look. Sweet, my claws were sharp, I tell ya.

Sometimes we would get dixie-fried on rum or gin and discuss the records we needed to get. The one we all agreed on was the Carmichael Brothers, a black folk group from Harlem. Richard, Ben, King, Arthur, Caesar, Roy and Chico made up the group (see above, note: Arthur and Caesar are standing behind the other five and crouching. They were off tha hook those two.) The interesting thing about these cats were that they were the only all-white group in the black folk music scene, which caused consternation at many of the clubs they went to. Gigs would be slated for crashville before they started, with race hate groups attacking them for being black but white customers pointing at Chico’s mop of red hair and Aran jumper querying whether they had the right club.

Anyways, one night while driving around in my lead sled, I spotted a late night record shop open. I flicked through the vinyl for a while, but couldn’t find anything except ‘new’ music. I went up to the cat at the counter and asked where the folk section was. He told it wasn’t that kind of shop. I figured that he didn’t know his groceries at all. I persisted.
“Do you have a folk section?”
“I told you. This is not that kind of shop!” he angrily batted me away.
I walked away fuming spotting the folk section to my left.
I screamed.
“So. What is this?”
“That would be our folk…Oh, sorry man, I thought you meant something else. It is pretty late.”
I angrily pointed at my beard and my jumper and my sandals and threw my arms in the air.
“Sorry man, what can I do you for?”
I stopped hyperventilating and asked him if he had anything by the Carmichael Brothers.
“The Chemical brothers?” he asked.
“Focus your audio man, The Carmichael brothers.” I said.
“Yeah, the Chemical brothers.” he looked at me quizzically.
“Sure, here. The Chemical brothers, Exit Planet Dust,”
I looked at the cover. A couple walking down a road. On the road. This was the beatnik dream right here. It looked modern but the car behind them suggested the era was right. A bright yellow sticker with price covered the album title. I was not deterred.

I ran home excitedly and then ran back to the shop to collect my car. Exhausted, I fell into bed, but not before putting the record on and plugging my headphones in. Sleep came quick, with the refrain of “The brother’s gonna work it out”

Fuckin bangin! I had to get to the shop to collect my new trainers. My shaven head felt real good these days and spliffs were commonplace in my significant armory. I would take the tobacco out of cigarettes and fill with a combination of bud and hash, walk near cops and puff away. Ha, what did they know, the galoots?I had changed. In the words of Nick Cave,

“I’m transforming
I’m vibrating
I’m glowing
I’m flying
Look at me now
I’m flying
Look at me now”

I had been listening to Exit Planet Dust on a loop of fury for about two weeks. It was the soundtrack to every step and every breath I took. The feeling engendered by those electronic bass-lines and breakbeats made me move in a way I hadn’t since a boy when I competed in ballroom dancing competitions which due to a lack of a certain vaccine meant that an outbreak of polio in Dubalin town left me as the winner over and over. Oh yeah! Disco shoes!

My friends looked at me in my red long-sleeved Adidas top, my weathered jeans, shiny new trainers. They seemed unhappy. I tried to lighten the situation.

“Sup, bros”
“You, you look different. Allen said.
“Coz, I’m all that and a bag of chips, yeah?”
They looked at each other and then at me.
“It’s not like I have a glow stick up my arse. (I did) Just new music, new me, y’knaa?”

Things got tense between us. I would drag them to raves and off my head on whatever I could get my hands on, I would be flying around, dancing like a loon. Waving a different glow stick in the air. it really was da bomb as they say. Copping with fly girls, life was sweet. I looked over at my friends in the corner and they swayed gently to this new music, their Aran sweaters with huge sweat stains in the armpits, their drenched cords sticking to their legs. They huddled into each other like sheep in a storm. The uncertainty in their eyes was palpable with a smattering of wooden threads. I felt sorry for them. Those songs, “Chemical beats,” “Chico’s Groove,” “In dust we trust.” They were me now. I had a drumbeat in my head and it wasn’t gonna stop.








Two months later my three friends took their lives by renting a plane and flying it into a mountain. At their eulogy, I eulogised eloquently with emotion,

I’m alive
And I’m alone
And I’ve never wanted to be either of those

I didn’t believe this. If only they had hung on, they would have been there when i combined indie rock, folk and dance music to create the band Folk Implosion.

My name is Lou Barlow and this is my story. The truth is out there, but you can’t handle the truth.



The music that made me sicker: Bonjovi – Slippery When Wet


Bonjovi, circa 1986. Naked. NSFW


A man in a white van deliberately killed a pigeon in front of me yesterday, swerving to connect with the ignorant bird. I put my paws over my eyes to avoid the blood and feathers, forgetting that I too was in traffic and therefore smashing into a miniature family, whose dismissive looks made me realise that they hadn’t suffered any mortal wounds.

I thought of that white van guy, so popularised during the hysterical media years of the Irlanda Celtic Tiger as a man who liked to drive in a white van, stop and eat a full Irlanda breakfast roll. I forget the economic implications of his type as I wasn’t really listening. Maybe he was showing off to the friend in the passenger seat, bragging about his ability to both swerve and off rodent birds. I felt sad for my fellow animal. No one deserves to die because a man’s penis is too small.

This slightly macho behaviour brought me back to my early days when as an 11-year old munki, I saw a musical video where what seemed to be hairdressers or coked up afghan hounds called Bonjovi took to a foggy stage and high-jinked a song called, “You Give Love a Bad Name.” I was instantly intrigued. This is what it meant to be a man I guessed. Immediately I grew my hair into unmanageable split ends and pondered whether a bullet smashing through my arteries would indeed lead me to question someone’s shitty attitude toward love.

Back then I was in love with everybody. Love was all around me. Susannah Hoffs hadn’t yet turned up on my doorstop. Still hasn’t. Every girl who walked by was a potential mate. The year previous my munki penis exploded one night and frightened me so much that I asked for random adult help with the facts of life, which I know now is that your paycheck belongs to someone else. Something Tommy knew only too well in the physically impossible “Livin on a Prayer.” But back then in aul Irlanda, the facts of life were taught as a mish-mash of gentle winks; nudges; black magic; don’t touch that or that; treat women like you would treat your sister; don’t treat your sister like you would treat those ‘women’; gay people only exist in America and for God sake don’t bring a baby into this house until you have a mortgage.

Confused and unfortunately not alone,  I followed this Bonjovi thing to its logical conclusion. From constant listening to Slippery When Wet, I innocently dreamed of a life in ‘sunny’ New Jersey. The sex sounds in “Social disease” made me want to go out find a girl and get whatever disease she had, just so I could hit the streets (of my small village) wearing ripped jeans with a silk scarf, a mullet, a loaded tennis racket on my back and admittedly a very itchy scrotal sac.

Back then I thought that all sexy ladies were no doubt blonde, sported tight denim shorts and had sass coming out of their ass. Years later I learned that denim shorts were the evil refuge of line-dancing motherfuckers both male and female who mated regularly on the slippery floors of my local nightclub. Their children now wander around killing pigeons for sport, think abortion only happens on ferries and believe racism is close to cleanliness or godliness. Can’t remember which.

The peculiarities in the image Bonjovi projected were that once you got past the L’Oreal beauty of Jon Bonjovi and the “Joan-Jett-with-a-penis” Richie Sambora, the rest of the band were kinda odd-looking. Drummer Tico Torres looked liked everyone’s Dad or at least the most masculine looking of the Pink Ladies. But it was mad keyboardist David Bryan that I used to find intriguing. He seemed to be a from different planet, almost like a different animal. Bryan had that haunted look of a poodle who was doing something not appropriate to his species, an unhappy Bontempi playing shaggy dog who doesn’t want his paw on the keys. No, he wants his water dish. AND Breakfast. Good boy.

Also weird lyrical confusion in “Livin on a Prayer,” as probably mentioned elsewhere, Gina tells Tommy that we have to hold on to what we got, it doesn’t make a difference if we make it or not. Then later tells him that we’ll make it I SWEAR. Which is it Gina? Which? Fuck sake Gina, get it sorted. Meanwhile, Jon’s back seat seems to be a cesspool of bodily fluids of the good times he had with the good ol girls. Later he seems to move on to just banging prostitutes, but y’know with love in his heart.

Anyways, the demented strains of keyboards at the beginning of this album led me into a world that within months I easily figured how to get out of. As a young child I realised this keyboard solo to be the work not of Satan but a buffoned, narcissistic, arsehole Labradoodle. On a school trip I wandered into a small record shop in the blue-slate mine town of Bangor, North Wales and picked up a cassette of Metallica’s “Ride the Lightning.” I stood in a luminescent cave with headphones on with a look of absolute horror as white skinned creatures crawled down the walls and thought, ‘what the fuck have I been doing listening to fucking Bonjovi!??’

The following day after the death of the pigeon, I accidentally killed a small beautiful Blue Tit. For a moment I felt a surge of adrenaline. I knew that feeling Richie Sambora and Jon felt when writing those songs. Balls brimming with the fluid of the Gods, cowboy boots filled with no socks, wet brains with rawk music sparking and setting fires and an optimism that some good ol boys from New Jersey to Tokyo could look the world straight in the eyes and say “I’ve been to a million places, and I’ve rocked them all!”

Then I looked at the emulsified beautiful bird, frowned and felt like shit for the rest of the day.

The best goddamn thing on the Interwebsicle

via Dangerous Minds

Elvana: Just the tribute act needed in times of crisis

Came across these at the weekend. Surely this is the future of live dead music. Genius. What makes it wonderful is that the Elvis impersonator is not even that good an Elvis.