wise young chaito 24.06.06

i got myself totally wasted like a 3 day old blueberry muffin. it was my birthday on the 14th May and i managed to amass a whole bunch of my lunatic friends together at dust bar,and what we did to the place was turn it into an absolute carvery. sorry all you vegetarians.

i dunno but ive always had green finger's,so my gran said.
diggin in the dirt, pulverising cut worms, growing fertiliser heaps, sticking potatoes in my cupboards so they'd sprout and looking after the falcke heirloom. i even had a couple of bonsai trees which perished after a holiday in plett-i came home to find the poor bastards dry as a dinosaur bone. so it would be most fitting that one would find me at the Chelsea Flower Show. a sold out event i might say. i took a half day off work to enjoy the glorious sunshine and the sweet colours of bloomin gardens, folks in gumboots sucking a lolly-you see, a bergie on the beaches of clifton aint the only one to make you jolly, an array of secateurs that'd make any ninja crumble with fear and mile long snaking queues to view the prize gardens. under the tent there were mushrooms like smurfs lived in, there were stringy, gangly orchids, there were carnivourous plants-alien like which'd scary any predator, there were kaleidiscopic rhododendrons, the ones that line amen corner at augusta national, red roses and Lady Di's too. there were garden gnomes, fake plastic trees, a manure heap and many a sweet pea. and then there was a kirstenbosch- detailed in proteas, stone work, water features and dried namaqualand daisies-it was suif african and it was a winner. it was a kick ass event with some uber toit gardens. but there were many too that just boarded on boksburgh cheese. a cracking event and one for that itinerary. it'll make your grand ma say,'gees that was kief.'














since my bday ive pretty much flown below the radar undetected and close to sober. so after a glorious kip the night before, me, marcus corniman and hurwi set sail for twickenham rugby stadium for the world rugby sevens. ive mentioned that touts who sell tickets at the stadium epitomise the shyte between my toes,but hurwy managed to find a 'good one' who flogged his tickets for less then their asking price. so i said 'uber toit', and for 5 squidders we had a riotous day out. the rugger was fast, swift and full of grass burns. it was a cracker of a day which saw SA triumph in the soup bowl event, good on you bokke.a true patriotic moment.

the weekend of the 9 june was a ripper that squeezed itself like an orange in a garlic press.me and richie gave a two fingered whistle and the isle of wight music festival came galloping towards us,eager to be hitched and to be rode like a crazy horse in the wild west.we rode tube, we rode bus, we walked and we ferried. we were on the isle of wight and it was our turn to colonise. we pitched tent,it was my first. we made use of the rows of portaloos to break the prevailing winds-a strategy Hannibal might have even employed enroute to conquering Carthage. settled in , richies air bed inflated andnow rock n roll would be my doggie bone for 3 ripping days. when you fork out your pickled testicle for a ticket, you fork out and do away with all humanity, hygene and dignity. you will shim like the french hugenouts after the laborious journey from france, but at least youll have heard the greatest rock bands. for three fine days the little island cooked-it was scorching hot and beer was the choice of champions. girls in cowboy boots and cowboy hats, hippies dry and wrinkled as seedless raisins, little kids with mud caked feet and snotty noses. the isle, a quiet scratch on the earths surface was now transformed into a refugee-camp like mass. the prodigy headlined the first eve with placebo. placebo are one of my fav bands, but the melting soft-serve ice-cream they dished up simply left no sweet taste in my mouth, but rather stains all over my tshirt. the nuttiness of the prodigy erased all the heart ache and took a whithered, limp crowd dry from exhaustion and boredom to a frenatically aroused, hedonistic state.the crowd heaved and bounced like crazy people on lsd, moshing, elbowing and stamping on feet.it was great fun and like ronald mcdonald, ' i was loving it'. the crowd were enchanted, and nothing on earth woulda peeled us from the mind manipulating lunacy that was the prodigyfor two more days with stewing pickled livers and with dust filled nostrils and sweaty pits we heaved to old rockers primal scream, lou reed and the legendary foo fighters. new emerging band Cathead drew inspiration from pink floyd and the genius of radiohead to excite me.the upperroom and the windows were exposed for the first time to a massive crowd and an international stage, they musta shat enough bricks to rebuild wore torn bosnia, but they were damn fine. there was also turd dished out. coldplay were so gay that i was embarrased to be in the crowd. i stood alongside about 7 teeny bopping chicks that went absolutely loony for the band screeching like wild banshees,it was scary. richard ashcroft is just sad and full of political bulsh1t and i reckon if he took drugs he'd probably feel a lot better. get over yourself mate, smoke a doobee and forget about the past.
finally the festival exhausted itself out, burnt itself out to its last cinders and i had to get outa there.
getting outta the isle took 8 hours and included being picked up by an isle of wight inhabitant whose future had been palm read, a kip on a bench at a train station, 4 apples and a freak who told me i was going bald. but i let it all slide cos rockn roll was my disprin.
i have vowed that soon, oh yes soon, i shall have a rock n roll band. so ma start padding my room, cos its gonna be loud.

so all you heroes in a half shell, hope you've enjoyed another Chronicles of Dan and don't forget, 'if the paint is peeling, scratch it'

credits roll on........

post script.
'wise young chaito' was a quote penned by hazey b
'Chronicles of Dan' was a quote penned by jacque c

chuck yeager 02.02.06

Ive peeled the shiny red wrapper of the last couple of weeks to reveal one of those great Quality Street chocolates that get eaten first, leaving the liquorice ones with their coloured seeds to rot and die in hell.

as a kid of the 70's with a snotty nose and an aeroplane tshirt which i wore everyday, i was introduced by my older sibling to the glorious bluey purple album of the dave mathews band. if i look back into the cavernous library of my brain, i would probably remember that it was one of the first albums i ever blew my hard earned loot on.

and so it came to pass that dave mathews was playing and we were going. birmingham was our port of call. word had it that the midlands was a brewing stew of red, finely chopped brutality and a side order of violent folk. it was also said that brirmingham was the biggest dump. personally i kinda dug it. it has also become a hotspot for an obscure piece of architecture-the selfridges blob- a mutation of a scoop of blue jelly smothered in sprinkles. in a previous scratching i wrote of future systems, specifically Jan Kaplicky as the biggest turd of an architect. but now i was sitting and shlurping on a cupa hot chawclate in one of his buildings and i actually thought it was great, the building that is. its this amoebic blue blob skinned in a blue sheath and pimpled with wee spun-aluminium discs. if you threw them you could probably cause damage.
contextually the lump both fits in for it totally contrasts all that it surrounds,and it doesnt for it simply has no realtionship to anything around it. it makes me believe that what ever doodle i scratch while ordering fast food over the phone, could be built someday.

the time for the gig had rolled through.the carling academy, no not a school for drinking, is like a big school hall worthy of demolition,but when packed to capacity it becomes another animal. standing, we were engulfed by the herbal reak of sweet mary jane and the sweaty pits of folk from the hinter land. the crowd was tightly packed throbbing, ebbing and drifting to the slow drawn american drawl that has erased all remnants of a boytjie from SA. he played Han Solo, tweaking and straining his voice to belt out a plethora of sounds, thought possible only in a recording studio. he strummed that geet with fingers nimble enough to screw in a maglite torch light bulb and drank tea. it was a great concert and to be watching a master at work was a birthday weekend i probably wont forget.

so my colleague's computer crashed, so he told me and i responded, 'what did it crash into?

the 14th May and my bday rolled itself out onto the grassy pitch of Lord's cricket ground. ah Lord's the home of the gentlemanly game of cricket. kev,richie and i pulled into the ground to see the 'lankans etch out a draw against the poms.
black bowlers...umbrellas and bow ties, and freddy lobbing it in from the grove end. the great greens of the MCC slope forwards and back, its a sea of green but i never got sick. you may not scream ,you may not shout, cos the smell of pigs wil have you in cuffs. candy stripes and old boys clubs. it turns its nose up at you. its a tiny looking stadium, the romans woulda laughed. its hemmed in on one side by the ancient sandy club house and on the other side by Future Systems' press box-the slick space odyssey-esque sausage thats been split while being boiled and glass front inserted. the cricket wasnt worth the salt i added to my slap tjips, but nevertheless it was a totally sweet day out

when i was a wee tyke, with big zits the size of mount fujimori in japan, an afro the size of peter beardsleys and one friend named sven who i kept in my cupboard with my other toy action figurines and a latin translation that needed doing, my bro slipped a radiohead album into my hairy paws. huh, who the f*ck was radiohead?. i didnt know my a*se from my elbow when it came to music. but this little album,called the bends, and i would begin a journey, a relationship which would become stronger and more powerful than any pokemon power.
the 18th of May at the alexander place in Hammersmith will be a day which has been chipped into my memory for all time.
Radiohead were headlining and i nearly cried. on the tickets it chooned 'special guest', i figured that was me and kev.
we sat upstairs in the behemoth that is the Palace, my knees were up my nostrils and people wouldnt sit the f*ck down, but i didnt give a sh*t (partially).
the stage was tightly set up with guitars, keyboards, pianos, drums andsynthesizers. the tools radiohead know how to manipulate and thats exactly what they do. there are no rules , there are no musical boundaries
jonny greenwood hovers, shelters and cradles that guitar of his like a kid who has stolen his best mate's marbles. how many musicians make use of their geet as a violin-johnny greenwood does.,how many musicians can play piano-johnny greenwood can. thom yorke, the front man, a scrawny rat who has the facial features of the bi-product between the monster from goonies and shrek can torment words and frighten lyrics into creative genius. his bodyily movements, contortions and torques would see him handcuffed and thrown into a mental institute.
radiohead have a palette of sounds that is simply beyond comprehension.the band is so tightly composed. the flashing lights and strobes woulda left a japanese nintendo playing 12 year old in sugary sherbert convulsions. to tell you that it was one of the greatest experiences of my short little life would be an understatement.

so ive come up with this idea.they say that computers will rule the world.i actually believe them, but not in the way that tom cruise found out in war of the worlds, but rather in their choice to simply not function and leave the world pondering what pencils and paper are.

i bought the Guardian newspaper. it took me a couple of bog sessions, a couple of days, a 450mile return train journey, a fish and chips meal and a tube ride to chew through it. part of it still sits on my floor.

my boots just keep on walking,dragging me behind and leaving me scratched and torn and needing skin graphs. ive bled because of those boots, ive sweated because of those boots, i now have an ingrown toe nail thanks to those boots. but when they pull me-kicking and screaming like a hungover raggedy anne and andy doll to a wee town down south called Bexhill -on-sea, i can only give them a wipe down and say 'thank you buddy'.
Bexhill is honestly at the crack end of britain. its where old folk go to take long strolls on the knobbly, pebbly beaches that seam this islandic landscape to rid their feet of callouses. fishermen cast their hooks yonder so that i may feed on the best fish and chips ive so far munched. the day i dropped into Bexhill was on a sunday and as always on this little island it wasnt sunny. it pelted down with the rain so hard on my face, the sky was dark and grey, the sea was a stable heaving with white horses and as i sat on my knees crying 'NNNNNOOOOO' , 'the camera panned upwards filming from a birds eyes view. from what i saw, there was an old age home consuming an acre of prime beach front property, a fish and tjips cafe, a museum that got in the way of my intended destination and an extremely beautiful modernist building. eric mendehlson designed the de le warr pavilion and oh what a beauty it is. it was the first modernist building to be built in britain.this building didnt need glossy magazines to make it look phenomenal. the way it sat on a patch of diagonally mowed lawn with its stark white washed walls juxtaposed against the redy orangey browny blobbyness of the beachs' pebbles was simply the perfect setting. its an elongated body with semi-circular glazed stairwells at either end. it has neither front nor back. its ribboned windows are light thirsty and its terrace is great for a game of bowls.3 grandmas perch beneath the sensuously spiralling staircase,looking outwards to the sea pondering beef stew.

what a great building, what a great architect. he's a guy whose book now siddles along side me.

well good folks, its the time when i leave my job as well as endless hours of internet connectivity.so if you dont heaar from me for a while,dont fear,just keep scratching. im going on many a journey now, and eventually will scratch them into your pc' s.so hang tuf and dont cry.
sweetly
the chaito man russian bear hunter,masterswordsman and soon to be Cahity,spanish action figurine version 2.0