Other: You know what?
Other: No you don’t know what. You never know what.
Fog: Know what?
Other: Why do you never know what?
Fog: What don’t I know?
Other: You don’t know why you never know what?
Fog: I never knew.
Other: You never know why you never know.
Fog: What’s not never not to know?
Other: You don’t know why you’ve never known why you never know?
Fog: Do you know why I never know why I never knew why I never know?
Other: You don’t know if I know why you’ve never known what you never do?
Fog: Don’t you know if you know why I’ve never known what I never knew not knowing?
Other: You don’t know if I know why you never knew what you didn’t know?
Fog: I’ve never known.
Other: You never do.
Fog: I know.
Other: I’m pregnant.
Other: I’m pregnant.
Being an offshoot of the stalled Zoological Fieldnotes series.
Gawd bless our senior citizenry. What they lose in vitality they gain in ever more frequent ‘funny turns’ such as this one.
Morning, exterior shot, Halesowen. Front yard, of a 3-bed semi.
Foggy. Cigarette break. Worked through night. Shattered.
Opposite – tail end of conversation between neighbours. Elderly. Shrivelled. Hale and hearty. All that was heard…
Lady: …and I suppose it’s because of that gay lover of his, the great pooftah! Bless him!
This lady, I’ll add, is old enough to have been shagging GIs for her king and country during the war. The usual overheard conversations that I recall hearing from her vintage are generally bigoted, racist or breathtakingly intolerant. Or really, really boring. I’m making no sweeping generalisations here. Perhaps the bad things just stick more firmly in my mind. If so that’s my failing. I’m just reporting my current impression of matters.
Maybe I found it funny because of a confluence of particular thoughts going through my head at the time. Maybe that’s not funny at all. But there it is.
Now, what it did do is nearly made me orally ingest half a lit cigarette. I dont know about anybody else, but that was straight up the damn near most perfect possible start to any Sunday morning. Bless the pair of them! For being daft if nothing else. For gently prodding my moribund faith in humanity. For blowing a thin beam of light through my murk. That was soooo much funnier than Russell Brand. And I doubt she was even trying to be. Without being willfully debased. Without all the long haired, Dickensian, screeching, faux verbosity. Without the patently obvious supreme effort to remain edgy, cheekily offensive, to push the boundary between clever and being a tosser. Brand’s mistake was this. He wasn’t as clever as he thought he was, his judgement was totally compromised, he was getting-off on his own presumed brilliance, the prick. What an utter wankstain.
Keep on truckin.
Dear friends, it is a deeply worried Foggy that types at you this evening.
It has come to my attention that a flamewar of atrocious, vicious cruelty is musically erupting in our midst.
I have no idea who this woman is, where she may be, if she’s alive, dead or merely undecided, if she’s living in a cardboard box on the streets or in a exponentially more expensive blingified concrete box in Dubai. I’ve no clue as to what the hell she’s supposed to have done, but nothing could conceivably justify what threatens to be a sustained and coordinated assault. It’s simply uncivilised. If she lives, and if she’s plugged into the musical zeitgeist, I dare say she’s hurting bad. It must seem to her that she’s living in a cruel, uncaring, hostile world. This has me deeply concerned. I feel some steps must be taken to push back this tidal bore of bile. And perhaps rescue this poor soul from this aggression.
This woman is getting more beef than Biggie Smalls. And I’m not talking about steak here – though god knows Biggie was called Biggie for a reason. Ah yes, we’ve seen this before, the whole East Coast/West Coast Rap feud – which bore all the hallmarks of a goldrush-era hillbilly clanwar but with less than half the rationality. But with considerably more G-Funk. Musicians have been gunned down in their dozens for insults one tenth of a percent as blatent as Lorraine gets every hour, of every day, for years as far as I can determine. I simply have not been able to fully chart how far down the rabbit hole goes. I hazard a guess that we’re looking at a great deal of potential subsidence damage to properties above. It’s bloody deep, that’s the gist of what I’m trying to get across here. Okay. Placing things in perspective, Mr. Smalls was in no way a spring chicken, the man was more than capable of looking after himself. In what has to be admitted is a music scene with a Neanderthal attitude towards homosexuality, Biggie had the courage, the confidence and the dignity to broadcast his gayness loud and proud by covering the gayest single ever released in human history, a tune where the camp is turned all the way up to 11. Not 10, all the way up to 11. Diana Ross. I’m coming out. It must have taken massive courage, balls of steel no less, to jam along to that while Ross frequently interjected with the self-explanatory exclamation ‘I’m comin!’ followed by a loaded pause before concluding with: ‘out.’ Cheeky. Very cheeky. Biggie Smalls was a player of the game. He brooked no compromise, dodged no meal, no matter how big. He lay into musical rivals. A bit. We’re talking flappy hands, pulling hair and scratching here, bitching. Handbags! Hardly a bloodfeud. Nowhere was anybody – as I understand the affair – ever spending thirty years of their life preparing to avenge the slaying of their dear Papa. Nope. No Diego Montoya to be seen anywhere.
Biggie Smalls is incontrovertably, entirely and completely dead as a rock. They gunned him down. So read on.
I’m in the midst of compiling a dossier. This dossier will need no hint of sexing up. I do not anticipate any problems with the BBC on this – I will not, I feel, be forced to dismiss the Director General over this matter. I will not be bitch-slapping the Corporation silly up and down the law courts. I’m not a deceitful, cowardly, manipulative warmongering bully. I’m not Her Majesty’s Government. This one’s going straight down the middle.
While my dander’s still up, I’ll lay before you a couple of typical examples of what my vigil has established. The list is running in the thousands already. I merely wish to expose the tip of the iceberg, if you’ll indulge me.
Item A. A notorious example. I Can’t Stand Lorraine, originally written and performed by one Anne Peebles in 1973. Subsequently covered and re-released no less than seven times over the subsequent decade, ranging from Humble Pie in’74 and in a disco mix from Eruption in 1978, reaching number 18 in the US charts at that time, to Tina Turner in 1984 in her Private Dancer LP, and then in 1985 as a single, adding insult to insult in a frankly reprehensible double-deuce. Even Seal managed to swing his boot in as part of his 2008 album Soul. Though one gathers nobody noticed at the time. Credit is due to Missy Elliot, who used a sample of the song as the chorus to her 1997 debut single Lorraine (Supa-dupa-fly), getting one back in for the girls. Sadly, it was no less of a steaming pile of shit despite this.
Hopefully you’re all beginning to grasp the scale of this thing.
Item B. One of the worst repeat offenders of them all, with the original release followed by an improbable twenty-five cover versions from performers ranging through Barney the Dinosaur, Hugh, Pugh, Barney and the rest of that rabble, Tom, Dick, Harry, Rod, Jane, Freddy, Des O’Connor, Winston Churchill, Lady Diana, uncle Tom Cobley, one man and his dog, John Doe, Lord Lucan, Admiral Horatio Nelson, Freddy Krueger, the Queen Alien, Nelson Mandela, Mother Theresa of Calcutta, Sean Connery, Micheal frickin Bolton, Billy Crystal, Neil Armstrong & Buzz Aldrin and the entire original cast of Fame! This song featured in the soundtrack to Cool Runnings. It is more widespread than monotheism. More ubiquitous than broadcaster of the apocalypse Piers Morgan.
It is, of course, the 1972 Johnny Nash release I Can See Clearly Now (Lorraine Has Gone), a thorough hatchet job of a song with well-known lyrics overtly suggesting that Lorraine was in some way a navigation hazard, and even more fancifully actually occluded the sun. For shame, Johnny Nash! Given this exposure, I’m stunned that nobody has been struck by this before. Fear not though, let’s push on.
Small crumbs of comfort are scattered about. Billy Myers late ’90s abortion Kiss Lorraine was substancially more affectionate towards the mystery lady. Sadly enough this was more than offset by an unfortunate drawback. It was piss-poor. Garbage. No cover versions anywhere in sight, and nor will there be. More significantly, this track is not played six times every hour by Heart FM, a radio station that stretches credulity to breaking point with it’s hysterical positioning statment ‘more music variety’. This is only true if by which they mean more musical variety than looping the same song over and over and over and over again, for ever. They’ve come close to this, but not quite. Nothing I have yet seen rivals the Daily Express in its claim to be ‘THE GREATEST NEWSPAPER IN THE WORLD’. That’s grabbing journalistic integrity by the hojos and yanking them clean off.
Back on topic.
The real tradegy here is that once there was a time when things were so much better. Clearly this was a radically happier stage in Lorraine’s life, though it does give some clue to her age. Gene Kelly and the incomparably chirpy Singin’ in Lorraine. Awww! How sweet. Gene said it himself – ‘what a wonderful feeling’. Rather full-on for those times as well. Still, in some ways quite odd. I’d be put off if my sexual partner started serenading me a capalla-style in the middle of the act. I’d err on the side of caution and chuck on a Marvin Gaye mix. Or as an off-the-wall alternative, perhaps Provokiev. Whatever floats her boat is fine by me. Still, what consenting adults do to each other behind closed doors is none of my business. Unless there’s a filmcrew there as well. Then I’m more than interested.
I’d close this post by appealing to anybody out there – If you know Lorraine, if you know of her, if you know where she might be found, if you are her, even, please, please get in touch with me as soon as you can. Together we’re gonna straighten this whole thing out.
…is what I’m lacking right about now. I suppose being stuck in a tiny office drinking microwave reheated tea can’t help all that much. Maybe I need a muse, somebody to throw me ideas to work off. I’m a reactive sort of person I guess. Muse applicants can apply here. Don’t all get piling in at once.
Here’s an angle. Perhaps I could start blogging about the blog. Or more specifically, suffering a kind of creative cramp while trying to craft original comedy stylings for said blog. I guess that’s already been done ten-thousand times, but still, it’s something.
No, no, it’s actually nothing.
This is my Angle, this is my blog.
There are many blogs like it, but this one is mine.
Without me, my blog is nothing.
Without my blog, I am nothing…
No, no. That’s not right. I have a life. I have a life! Stop laughing!