BEYOND THE IMPLODE 3 - BRITISH AIRWAYS 0

I saw this Evening Standard headline the other day, "POP LEGEND DEAD IN LONDON HOTEL ROOM". I only caught a quick glimpse of the cover photo and spied Marc Almond standing next to an old bloke. "Marc Almond is dead" I texted someone, making a mental note to do a 1,500 word blog post about how great Bedsitter was. Later on, reading someone else's paper on the WAGN, I found out the real goner was Gene Pitney. Oh well! It's like that time, many moons ago, when I ran into a bar, delightedly and breathlessly informing everyone that Mick Hucknell had hung himself, only to discover 20 minutes later that it was actually Michael Hutchence.

I've become a bit sick of the Internet. I think they should shut the damn thing down for a couple of months. OK, I'd miss one URL, namely the amazing http://www.ptpart.co.uk/colors.htm : a load of sound boffins get together and argue over the definitions of various noise colours. I especially like ORANGE NOISE, which apparently is most easily generated by a room full of primary school students equipped with plastic soprano recorders and BLACK NOISE ((one contributor notes, The comic book character "Iron Man" used to have a "black light beam" that could darken a room like this, and popular SCI-FI has an annoying tendancy to portray active noise control in this light )).

But the rest? Nutters, the lot of them. Banging online DJ mixes!! In the name of Kali, let me assure you fellows that you're no DJs unless you've studied David See's authoritative 70s tome on how to be a professional disc jockey. How many of you have access to mobile units with disco lights? Ever played to 40 kids at Starlight Youth Club in Luton? Could you effortlessly swing from Status Quo's "Down Down" to the Bangles' "Eternal Flame" once you're realised it's nearly closing time, and hence time for the remaining nervous clubbers to bag off, clinging to each other and swaying like mantises (or manti) clutching onto stalks of wheat in an autumnal field, had Horse-Hoeing Husbandry, that most seminal text of the British Agricultural Revolution, contained a freaked-out 'acid flashback' chapter.

No, it's all lunacy on the Net. And on mobile too. I've got a Nokia 3310 - OK, so it's crap and I can't send pictures on it, but at least I won't fall prey to phone muggers. I've worked out, nearly 75% of the times I use it are when I'm drunk. What a waste of time! I keep expecting it to die on me, but like a zombie with a grudge, it's survived 4-storey falls, water damage and being thrown at a wall in a fit of temper. Anyway, here's a "nice" story for you. Some woman at work, who I am fairly friendly with, asked me outright this week if I'd ever fancied her. I said no, and when pressed to explain, I said I found her "too nice" (slight lie, but no need to be nasty about folks' looks). She just laughed - OK,so far, no worries. Then she starts sending me mental texts the next night, swearing like a trooper (out of character), addressing me with the opening line, "OI SHIT 4 BRAINS" and then telling me she doesn't give a fucking fuck and she's not going to let anyone fuck her over anymore and this is the new fucking her so fucking deal with it or fuck off. What in the devil's outhouse? You can shove your technology up your arse, I was happier when people used to leave death threats on answering machines. Marshall McLuhan was off his head when he said "The medium is the message". The only message I get from this medium is DON'T USE ME. REVERT TO PRIMITIVISM. And surely that can't be right. Put me on a remote Scottish island with 10 years' worth of reading, Magner's cider and wild red salmon, and I'll be a happy cat. The 5am wind battering fishermen to watery graves and pounding the front door like a squadron of spectral bailiffs will be music to my ears.

(PS- I'm not really bitter. Just bored)

(UPDATE - Many thanks to new (cough) blogger 'Doppelganger', who kindly sent me some legs of lamb in the post)