The 8th Wonder of the World

Looking through the early days of the blog and, again and again, stumbling across dead links. What a bastard shame.

Thank christ for Archive.org's wayback machine. A small crumb of comfort.

Slap Shot (1977)

 

Red Star Parade?

Is it a sign? My 180s are few and far between at the moment, so getting a 180 . . . with Celtic flights  . . . on the day that Celtic are playing Red Star Belgrade? Crack shot darts for a "crack shot opposition". (Remember those cliches about Eastern European teams.?)

174/50

The Shoe by Gordon Legge (Polygon 1989)

Eight

At school Richard had been the boy most likely. He won a debating competition and collected A-grade Highers with case. When punk came along in '76/'77 Richard embraced it. Only two copies of Anarchy in the UK reached town: Richard got one and Senga Somerville the other. At youth clubs and school discos, Richard acted as DJ playing Shirley and Co’s Shame Shame Shame while his friends were listening to Tales from Topographic Oceans. Richard was first to wear an anti-Nazi League badge. Students who took part in the sit-ins to protest against the Biafran war would later admit to taking part ‘just for fun’: punk seemed different. Those who marched against the loathsome National Front in Lewisham projected an intensity of feeling. It was unfortunate that not all such demonstrations were as well motivated and executed. Too many causes were led by the ill-informed and supported by the ignorant. Mental said that pickets and demonstrators aspired to strength through exploitation and intimidation. It wasn’t honest like arguing and fighting.

Richard read avidly the music press of the late seventies: Julie Burchill, Tony Parsons, Jane Suck, Jonh Ingham, Jon Savage and the old guard: Charles Shaar Murray, Giovanni Dadomo and Nick Kent. Julie continued to write, adopting an extreme position then justifying it. She slagged off Catholics, worshipped Russia and supported Maggie in the Falklands. (Richard wrote into The Face saying that although Julie was right to support the fight against a Fascist junta, the British public would always be more motivated by the xenophobic side of the conflict.) Jon Savage became an art groupie. Tony Parsons wrote three bile-filled novels that never fully showed his talent. (His review of the first Clash LP was stuck on Richard's wall. Now that was writing.) Jane Suck became Jane Solanas, superdyke. Nick Kent’s signature appeared at the end of a few articles but they didn't seem very enthusiastic. He loved The Smiths, though. As for the others Richard didn't know where they were. He presumed they'd given up and gone fat. One of Richard's deepest regrets was that he hadn’t kept a chart of his most played records. He knew, though, that Parsons' and Burchill's The Boy Looked at Johnny was the book he had read most. While punk in the south attracted the arse-end of the media (high and low-brow), the provinces adopted the ‘No Fun’, ‘No Feelings’, ‘No Future’ triumvirate as dogma and it stuck like glue. Pun intended. The legacy of Sid Vicious meant spiky tops, leather jackets. The UK Subs, Oi and circles with A in the middle. Richard, though, continued to wear his anti-Nazi League badge through Tom Robinson, The Gang of Four, Cut, London Calling, Paul Morley and Dave McCullough.

Richard thought he'd be intimidated at university. He expected to meet people who knew everything about Dylan, Kafka and Scorsese. He was wrong, of course. The spirit of the Biafra sit-ins reigned. Like the hippies who had never heard of Muddy Waters and the punks who never bought any reggae, the students never did more than they had to. Richard left his degree course in English at the end of the third year. ‘I wanted to be trained in logic,’ he told Archie. 'I wanted to be educated to the extent whereby I no longer made stupid mistakes about things. I wanted common sense. One of my teachers at school said that he had been trained in logic at university. He was completely cool. He could see through lies like that. 

And then there was none . . .

Well that 'effing sucks.

The Russ Bray Dart App decided to die on me, and when I reuploaded it to my phone all my previous stats were no longer there.

Starting again from scratch . . . 

Deadwood (2006)

Green on green violence

It's been a real long dry spell so this was a pleasant surprise. Not sure what's happened but my form is off at the moment and it's not at a particularly good time. (In short, the darts season has started.)

173/50

Deadwood (2005)

 

Deadwood (2004)

 

Boo hoo

I won't lie; I'm feeling really fucking flat at the moment. A whole combination of things that I won't go into on here. And not even a first 180 of September helps.

172/50

The Talk of the Town (1942)

 

130 checkout

Just get to the point. File under pleasing.