Mum’s The Word / July 1 2009
Nice to know that motherly love is alive and well and living in north Derbyshire.
Overheard by me and Audrey in the park this morning:
‘Shanazy, come here. Come here, Shanazy. Shanazy! Come here! Shanazy! Damn you, you filthy little maggot. Wait till I tell your dad.’
She was a pretty little thing, too – for a filthy little maggot, that is.
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Bass Bummer / June 28 2009
Gilo, the Enormous bass player, has just handed in his cards to go play with a tribute band.
We wish him all the luck in the world but it does leave us with some gigs in the diary, an album to finish and no bass player.
If you are, or know of, a good bassist – think Nick Lowe or Bruce Thomas or Jerry Scheff, definitely don’t think Mark King – please get in touch at mail@napoleonfantastic.com or mail@enormousreloaded.com.
You have just got to be good. Doesn’t matter what you look like or what kind of gear you have or whether your gold-plated, special brushed-alloy, rubbed-on-the-thighs-of-virgins strings are the latest thing, just be good and professional and dedicated.
Drop us a line - even if you are a hairy bloke from Coventry with an old Fender Jazz. (You know who you are.)
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Agony Uncle / June 25 2009
‘Why the long face, Davy?’
‘Oh, good morning, Reg.’
‘Don’t tell me, you went out in the village with young Nelson over the weekend, got drunk, got some bird pregnant; got a heart full of regrets and a head full of hangover. I’m right, aren’t I? Tell me I’m not wrong.’
‘You’re not wrong. I mean you are wrong. I was just thinking about - ‘
‘You young lads these days, you have no respect for women any more. Not like in my day – we knew how to treat a woman, we did. Like a lady. Always treat a woman like a lady, Davy.’
‘Reg, I was just - ‘
‘I was treating women like ladies while you were still in short trousers. Before that, even – while you were still a bubble in your dad’s beer, actually. I know what I’m on about, me, when it comes to the female sex. Sex in general, actually.’
‘Reg, have you had your medication this morning?’
‘What medication?’
‘Nothing. Thanks for the advice. About women.’
‘Don’t mention it, Davy. As I say, I am something of an expert on the subject, and I do like to share my experience and knowledge with others. Now, tell your Uncle Reginald why you look so down in the dumps.’
‘I’m fed up with my pathetically bad business skills, Reg. While my brother was here over the weekend - apart from drinking too much again, I managed to turn down two bands who wanted to book the studio. I keep turning bookings away, trying to get the new Enormous album finished. I just can’t seem to find enough hours in the day. I should have taken the bookings. My finances are in a terrible state.’
‘Who were the bands?’
‘You wouldn’t have heard of them.’
‘Who were they?’
‘Progression, a jazz-rock band from Derby, and This Machine, heavy-metal four-piece from Coventry.’
‘Hmm . . . jazz-rock, you say? Heavy-metal, you say? Coventry, you say?’
‘That’s right.’
‘There is nothing wrong with your business skills, Davy – or your taste and integrity.’
Thanks, Reg.’
‘One thing, though . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Finish your bloody album!’
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Crack / June 21 2009
Ouch! Gardening should be banned. My back has gone all funny.
This is what my back keeps telling my mouth to say every time I try to sit down or stand up - two things I do quite frequently throughout the day: ‘Good Lord!’ (Actually, those are not the exact words.)
There I was yesterday, vigorously employing my favourite spade to remove a few sods from the potato patch (oh, how I love removing sods) when . . .CRACK! Something snapped in my nether regions.
It felt as if someone, for medical or purely sentimental reasons, had taken it upon themselves to plunge a large baseball bat inside my pelvic girdle - via the delicate Lawrence back passage - and pulled it back out again very quicky. And not in a good way.
After a few Google searches and a telephone conversation with NHS Direct, I discovered the rather amusing fact that human beings have in their bodies something called a ‘coxix’ and other things called ’spinal discs’ - both of which can bruise or break or get damaged very easily.
Have you ever stood from a sitting position and felt as if you had just broken your back? I have. Has the emptying of your bladder ever been accompanied by the feeling of hoofy young stallions galloping merrily around on your stomach? Mine has. When one sits at a mixing desk drinking coffee all day as I do, this is a significant disability.
Anyway, must dash. Whoosh! CRACK! Ouch.
(I have already had too much caffeine today and right now I fancy another one of my famous hair-on-chest strong coffees, but I can’t actually physically get to the kitchen any more to put the kettle on, not without crawling there on all fours. Still, such a thing would not be uncommon for me.)
In the meantime, I’m moving to enormousreloaded.com, different servers and web addresses and redesigns and all that, so expect a little disruption to normal service. I’ll let you know what the url is for my new home once I’m all settled.
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Twit / June 15 2009
Follow me on Twitter. It’s a hoot. Sorry, tweet.
(Sings) ‘I will follow you if you follow me.’ Who was that? I hope it wasn’t Genesis. It wasn’t Genesis, was it? Genesis were officially a bit crap- especially after Gabriel left. Probably still are.
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Barbeque Bastards / June 13 2009
Thank goodness for the benighted legions of lower-class families that surround me.
If it were not for them in general, and my cerebrally-challenged next-door neighbour in particular, I would not have such a robust system for making my Ben Sherman shirts smell like incinerated cow shit whenever I wash them and hang them outside to dry on sunny afternoons.
(Thank goodness also for my invisible radiation gun that has a pronounced and deleterious effect on cherished male body parts.)
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The Other Egghead / June 11 2009
‘Oi, Lawrence! You’re clever. Come here. Want to ask you something.’
‘Oh, hi, Reg. What’s up?’
‘The Eggheads, our pub quiz team, have just lost a member due to missus problems. Fancy joining? Thursday nights, sink a few pints.’
‘Sorry, Reg, I’m really not - ‘
‘You know loads of . . . stuff. Probably. The first prize is a gallon of beer and a joint of beef.’
He grinned at me as if nothing in the world could be more desirable than a keg of stale ale and a block of frozen red meat.
‘It just isn’t my thing, Reg. Sorry.’
‘Nonsense! Get yourself along this Thursday to the Dog and Duck and demonstrate to the regulars the full majesty of your general knowledge.’ He paused for effect, then, moving closer and lowering his voice, added: ‘Might help you land a bird.’
‘Jeepers. You really think so? Right, I’ll be there!’ It was obvious I was humouring him, but he didn’t seem to mind my sarcasm – he’s fairly used to it by now.
Suddenly, his eyebrows shot up dramatically as if trying to escape his face. ‘Oop! There go my eyebrows. They’re early today. Must dash.’
‘Are you all right?’
Yes. Nature calls. I need to empty my bowels, Davy. My eyebrows hike up like that when I need to go. Saved my life that has, many a time – during the war, especially.’
‘You’re weird.’
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Telling Teenage Fortunes / June 7 2009
No.42:
You will, beyond your wildest expectations, manage to get a date with Sally, the sexy new girl in class.
You will be bowled over by her. Sitting close to her in the Rose and Crown, you will cup her delicate chin in your hands and say: ‘I think I am falling in love with you.’
Arriving at school the following day you will discover that she has dumped you. She is now going out with Glynn, the head boy and rugby team captain.
You will also discover she has been telling everyone that she thinks you are ‘creepy.’
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Considering Mister Shooter / June 3 2009
‘Well, as I keep telling you, it’s very inconvenient and annoying, to say the least. Please make sure it doesn’t happen again. Thank you.’
That was me on the telephone this morning speaking to a nice woman called Velma at the local Post Office depot.
Velma is the latest in a long lone of Post Office employees who have been hearing my complaints about a certain item of mail that is delivered on a regular basis to my address. She is the latest of a dozen various officials who have told me: ‘Yes, sorry about that, Mr Lawrence. We’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.’
Despite her and her colleagues’ well-meaning assurances, I am happily confident that it will, in fact, happen again.
About six times every year, an large envelope addressed to a Mr P. Shooter – a previous tenant, I have ascertained - is stuffed through my letterbox. Inside this envelope is a glossy catalogue displaying in full-colour and highly graphic detail a large range of sexual toys and various rubbery implements from a company called Up Yours.
Whilst I am not totally averse to quickly flicking through its pages before depositing said catalogue in the bin, I have noticed that the range of products available is almost always entirely the same; Up Yours’ range of wobbly vibrators and pink, blow-up dolls has, over the years, remained pretty constant. Thus, I do not need to see any more. Neither, I suspect, if he were in receipt of his catalogue, would Mr Shooter.
It seems that the Post Office has been ignoring my requests, however. And I do not have any intention of personally contacting Up Yours; goodness knows what else they might send me once they have my details. I do not want my actual name on further envelopes full of offers to buy embarrassing ‘real-feel’ contraptions at knock-down prices.
Not being listened to seems to be the story of my life – well, the main chapters, at least.
I am feeling slightly anxious and uncomfortable for another reason this morning, also. I had a lurid dream last night in which I was engaging in rampant sex action with the pretty wife of a Hammond organ-playing friend of mine. I still feel very guilty about it – she’s a happily married woman, after all. That dream was immediately followed by another in which I was on trial at Nuremberg.
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Fake-Tan Baaad-Ass Man / June 1 2009
I was accosted at the door this morning by a traveling rapper.
‘I is sellin’ fake tans, innit.’
I just couldn’t believe my eyes. An team of ugly white teenagers with bags full of fake tan products were going door-to-door selling their wares.
My one was wearing baggy, white Bench jeans, an NY top and cap, and enough bling to sink a battleship. ‘So is you want some, mate? It’s good stuff. We is sellin’ out fast, man, innit.’
‘Dressed like that, you couldn’t talk me out of a burning car let alone get me to purchase a stolen bottle of radioactive fake tan cream. Now be off with you!’
He seemed genuinely amused ‘Wha!? You is well weird, man, innit.’
‘Hmm.’
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