That Book By Nabokov

I knew that would get your attention.

Yes, alright, TD is not dead. What happened was this: after reading yet another Guradian editorial about how all is well in our glorious isle, and how being appalled at murder is moral panic and hence a bad thing; and one in the North London Daily Mail* about how climate change will take our children from their playgrounds, the tin drummer fell as dead, on the ground: he was then buried but was not in fact dead. Owing to a clause in his will stating that an emergency button had to be put into his coffin he was rescued after only 30 days of eating wood and maggots. And breathing...well, we'll leave that for now.

However.

His health is poor, so he advises his readers not to expect too much (ie regular, well written, knowledgeable posts).

For now I will say only this.

The TOTP2 retrospective on The Police this week was fucking brilliant. As were they. The pop group I mean. I know the real police also need a retrospective, but we're not going to see that any time soon. I mourn, as does everyone else, the death of Tony Wilson (pbuh) but I disagree with him about The Police. They did not piggyback New Wave: they were clever, stylish, intelligent and cool.

And they referenced Nabokov.

Evidence of dumbing down can be seen by the fact that the 1980 original release had the above quoted line; whereas the 1986 re-recording said: "that famous book by Nabokov" as if it needed some explanation.

Anyhoo. I love music with hinterland; and the lyrics of The Police have hinterland. As the retrospective showed, Sting's solo stuff verges too much into the lick-my-own-ass territory: I wonder if Stewart Copeland brought him down to earth occasionally.

Hey ho. Look, I'm working near as dammit full time now so don't expect anything good. This country is, though, more of a shit hole than it was when I "died", complete with even more arrogant lefties telling us that everything is fine and that to believe that murder cannot be tolerated in a civilised society is "right wing". Hooray. Some of my best friends are right wingers. Andrei Kanchelskis for one.** [rest of paragraph edited to remove drivel]

anyway. Some of you might be under the impression that I outed myself as "[edited and obscured on legal advice]". Au contraire. He was my ghost, and himself died unexpectedly after a lethal cocktail of The Daily Mail, eight pints of Stella, four packets of plain crisps, and the sight of a local youth spitting into the street. Tragic, really.

*The Independent. In case you didn't know.

**I'm guessing at this. I liked him anyway.

Update:It seems the break has not stopped my rubbish writing! Never mind. It's too late to do anything about that anyway. Still, it's not an inevitable condition for everyone. If you don't want rubbish writing, consider an online degree in English composition. Also, ditch the Stellas. They do for your writing what they do for your driving.