Day 30. I’ve become kind of caught up in the excitement & humour of the Twitter account-cum-Political Party, the Northern Independence Party (or NIP) & the prospect of it achieving a small amount of success in the form of some councillors & maybe an MP or two. They’re already standing former Labour MP Thelma Walker in the upcoming Hartlepool by election, a seat which Labour has held since 1945 & which Sir Keir “Keith” Starmer (aka – The Abstainer) is likely to lose to the most corrupt & murderous UK government in living memory. Sadly, the electoral commission is saying that NIP failed to register on time (as a legit political party, that is). They are however pressing on with their campaign, only standing their candidates as independents for the time being.
On another of the fledgling party’s social media posts, they asked their followers what song should become a free North’s anthem. I could think of no finer a song to fill this position than this rowdy & romantic New Wave classic by Mancunian Post Punk heroes, The Fall. I hope you’ll agree.
Hit the North Hit the North (Hit the North) my Cat says eeeee-ack Hit the North Hit the North Hit the North
Ninety-five percent of hayseeds (Hit the North) are corn-pones, guaranteed Hit the North Computers and fashion hotels Cops can’t catch criminals But what the heck, they’re not too bad, they talk to God Religious
Hit the North Hit the North Hit the North
Manacled to the city Manacled to the city (hit the North)
All estate, all es, all estate agents alive Yell down nights in hysterical breath Those Northern Lights, so pretty Those big big big wide streets Those useless MPs Savages
Hit the North Hit the North Hit the North (Manacled to the system) Hit the North
From the back third eye psyche The reflected mirror of delirium Eastender and Victoria’s lager The induced call, mysterious Comes forth
Hit the North Hit the North Hit the North Hit the North
Hit the North Hit the North Hit the North Hit the North
Hit the North Hit the North Hit the North Hit the North
Looking for some great music? Check the Song of the Day (Chaotic Neutral) Spotify playlist.
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What follows is a short spoken segment which Mark E Smith, reluctant Working Class Autodidact & erratic frontman of The Fall, recorded for Greenwich Sound Radio in 1983. Smith was already becoming respected for the poetic & eccentric content of his band’s lyrics (see The N.W.R.A below), which he whittled down from huge blocks of prose written with a similar methodology to Kerouac’s Spontaneous Prose technique.
Here we hear Smith not only giving an insight into his writing process (about 50/50 chance of being serious) but also some poetry. Please enjoy the audio & the transcript I have provided below. The section which describes the process was taken from here, while the poetry & prose which follows was transcribed by myself.
Hello I’m Mark E. Smith and this is The Mark E. Smith ‘Guide To Writing’ Guide.
Day-by-day breakdown
Day One: Hang around house all day writing bits of useless information on bits of paper
Day Two: Decide lack of inspiration due to too much isolation and non-fraternisation. Go to pub. Have drinks.
Day Three: Get up and go to pub. Hold on in there a style is on its way. Through sheer boredom and drunkenness, talk to people in pub.
Day Four: By now, people in the pub should be continually getting on your nerves. Write things about them on backs of beer mats.
Day Five: Go to pub. This is where true penmanship stamina comes into its own as by now, guilt, drunkenness, the people in the pub and the fact you’re one of them should combine to enable you to write out of sheer vexation. To write out of sheer vexation.
Day Six: If possible stay home. And write. If not go to pub.
Using this method, this is a poem I wrote called London.
(Mock American Accent) I’d just got over to London, get me a pint of your fine old British ale.
London.
Decadent backbone of former empire.
Spittle chinned Southerner looking forward to next holiday.
Digitale Croydon, fourteen pound per hour.
An immigration backlash type situation here
And there’s an Indian clerk in the backroom with a literature degree,
His boss is a roofed architect over-bathed, intense.
Project Victoriana Punish,
His clothes are flapping United Nations:
Japanese pants, odd boots, Euro shirts.
Is no shirt, his mind is Parisian
Fifties situationist
and ‘neath his designs you have no choice,
Stay where you are.
He is looking down on you from his tech drawing board.
Take the chicken run, run to the bog
You can do it
Do not
Warning! rumours of grey cancer builders greatly exaggerated
Manchester.
Dear TV Times,
Your majesties, I have concocted, through the noble invention and the blarney craft of the humble Northener, a system where by constant annoyance by the telephone van be erased. This entails explosive charges, left to me by a dead sailor from Bury, being wired up under every windowsill, close proximity to my ears. When phones ring and are inconvenient to the ears I just press table lamp-like what next to my bed and they blow up. I got the idea from a book.
Yours sincerely,
Mr Reg Varney.
Please note: all herbs is available from P.O. Box 935 GTV Manchester. Once you get a bit of pain I was splitting myself, them hilly-billies.
When it happened we walked through all the estates, from Manchester right to, er, Newcastle. In Darlington, helped a large man on his own chase off some kids who were chucking bricks and stuff through his flat window. She had a way with people like that. Thanked us and we moved on.
‘Junior Choice’ played one morning. The song was ‘English Scheme.’ Mine. They’d changed it with a grand piano and turned it into a love song. How they did it I don’t know. DJs had worsened since the rising. Elaborating on nothing in praise of the track with words they could hardly pronounce, in telephone voices.
I was mad, and laughed at the same time. The West German government had brought over large yellow trains on Teeside docks. In Edinburgh. I stayed on my own for a few days, wandering about in the, er, pissing rain, before the Queen Mother hit town.
I’m Joe Totale The yet unborn son The North will rise again The North will rise again Not in 10, 000 years Too many people cower to criminals And government crap The estates stick up like stacks The North will rise again X4 Look where you are Look where you are The future death of my father
Shift! Tony was a business friend Of RT XVII And was an opportunist man Come, come hear my story How he set out to corrupt and destroy This future Rising
The business friend came round today With teeth clenched, he grabbed my neck I threw him to the ground His blue shirt stained red The north will rise again. He said you are mistaken, friend I kicked him out of the home
Too many people cower to criminals And that government pap When all it takes is hard slap
But out the window burned the roads There were men with bees on sticks The fall had made them sick A man with butterflies on his face His brother threw acid in his face His tatoos were screwed The streets of Soho did reverberate With drunken Highland men Revenge for Culloden dead The North had rose again But it would turn out wrong The North will rise again
So R. Totale dwells underground Away from sickly grind With ostrich head-dress Face a mess, covered in feathers Orange-red with blue-black lines That draped down to his chest Body are a tentacle mess And light blue plant-heads TV showed Sam Chippendale No conception of what he’d made The Arndale had been razed Shop staff knocked off their ladders Security guards hung from moving escalators
And now that is said Tony seized the control He built his base in Edinburgh Had on his hotel wall A hooded friar on a tractor He took a bluey and he called Totale Who said, “the North has rose again” But it will turn out wrong
When I was in cabaret I vowed to defend All of the English clergy Though they have done wrong And the fall has begun This has got out of hand I will go for foreign aid But he Tony, laughed down the phone Said “Totale go back to bed” The North has rose today And you can stuff your aid! And you can stuff your aid!
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I needed to close some tabs on Safari on my iPad & I realise that I have read these various articles & poems but not closed tabs because I don’t want to lose them. Maybe I’d like to refer back to them or reread them later. I could bookmark them, I know, but I thought it would be nicer to share them with my readers. Hopefully you can find something interesting here. Knowing the way I “collect” open tabs like this, I’m sure this won’t be the only post like this. A couple of times a year (maybe more, maybe less), I’ll share what I’ve been reading.
Day 29. The video for this great tune by Björk is sadly age restricted. I do include it below though you’ll have to be logged into YouTube to watch it. The official audio on YouTube is also included below.
It’s one of my favourite tunes by Björk, a sensual downtempo piece which calls to mind the halftime rhythms of Dubstep as much as the murky electronica of Trip Hop. Great video too.
You’ll be given love You’ll be taken care of You’ll be given love You have to trust it
Maybe not from the sources You have poured yours Maybe not from the directions You are staring at
Twist your head around It’s all around you All is full of love All around you
You just ain’t receiving (All is full of love) Your phone is off the hook (All is full of love) Your doors are all shut (All is full of love) And be the little angel (All is full of love)
All is full of love (All is full of love) All is full of love (All is full of love) All (All is full of love) All is full of love (All is full of love) All (All is full of love)
Looking for some great music? Check the Song of the Day (Chaotic Neutral) Spotify playlist.
Buy Tom a coffee?
Tom loves coffee. If you’ve enjoyed any of the content he’s created then please consider donating a few quid to buy him a cup.
