Fall Sunday

A potentially horrid hangover Sunday was recently transformed into a brilliantly pamperful day by my birthday book token. Willfully declining to rise from my bed or answer the phone for 18 hrs, instead I worked my way through Mark E Smith's autobiog 'Renegade' and someone else's musico-docu book 'The Fallen' in a single slothful glut session. The former is MES's reconstructed, denial-filled dictation from his local pub, presumably to a ghost-writer; the latter a personal and documentary account of the author's journey to trace the 40+ sacked or resigning members of MES's personal vehicle, The Fall, over its 30 year history.

Neither are great works of literature, but what fun to read; a guilty pleasure akin to my 'Chat' and 'Pick Me Up' (crap-mag) habit.

MES allegedly loves Edinburgh, though thankfully I've never met him and would cross the road if I saw him on Princes St. I've especially never met him when he fails to show up for gigs, repeatedly. He may have voted Tory, though eschewing politics. And yet The Fall have consistently spewed out glorious, spitting, cacophonous, meticulous stuff.

'What have you got in that paper bag?'
'I chucked out the Alka-Selzer'
'Mm-brrr-zap the subject'
'He wanted sex in the dummies eyes'
'That's what you get for having a hobby'
'A prickly line of sweat covers enthusiast's forehead as the
realization hits him...'
'I've never felt better in my life'
'I got my last clean dirty shirt outta the wardrobe'
'The people I like live in kitchens and halls'