Please see below for extravagent details.
The first full length album by Jack Scandal who, looking back wrote 25/4/6:
Who can say just how deep the feeling goes? A handy tenor sax is never enough to distinguish between the sparring parties - a full-bloodied-bodied nugget of inspiration rates highly these days. What is there left? Interminable conflicts appear, appease, re-appear. Who can claim responsibility without knowledge of the four secret supplicant applicants investing wisely in foreign PR industries? No one, thats who. This is no longer a war, but an ideological minefield, a natural hazard perpetrated by subjective moralists, enthusing over their own silly little squabbles to self-justification.
I discuss the question in rather overly grandiose terms not because of simple snobbery or dialectical self-interest, but stuffy concerns for back-door reliability in the proverbs of a new generation. My old allies are abandoning me in hours of need no greater and no less treacherous than any that went before. A sorry state of affairs that would doubtless leave any man cursing Zeus-like deities for their inefficient visions of grandiose splendour and insipid technical difficulties.
How hard could it possibly be?
This is not some risque promised land, but a home grown zion that spits upon the Rastafarianism of greasemonkey supercillisms. I want more light, more illumination cast upon every surface imaginable, destroying the shadows, forcing them deeper. If this is impossible then I may as well give up, my heavily knit brow will remain forever rested against the ironing board of my discomfort. What now to do in the hour of need?
A dumb mute Captain Kirk impersonator approaches me from the side street, winking suggestively with frantic jerks of the head that one assumes must be the result of some former paralysing injury incurred by the wrath of a vindictive chiropractor anticipating correctly the non-payment of a most irritating patient. He beckons me into the stinking corridor with a flick of the wrist, his fingernails, bitten right down glisten with the nail-polish of an outcast doomed to never quite get the hang of certain social situations. I realise that the fool has been stealing Dulux paint samplers, and slopping the contents onto his fingertips without restraint or reason, a desperate attempt to fit in with a native population of savages and snobs. Poor thing.
I follow more out of pity than curiosity, and bend down to read the pastel green words roughly chalked into the grimy pavement:
HLP ME TO FED MY THEE KINDNISS GREATLEE APPRESHIATED WTH MCH LUV XX WIF AND THRE CHIRREN WELCOM 2 DISENEE LANDE WOT R STARVIN IN THE GAOLS OF IMPERIAL FRANCE CIRCA 1658. THRUST ME I CLD NOT LIE 2 U EVN IF I WANTED, MY TONGUE AS ALREADY BEEN CUT OUT 4 LYIN BY THE KING OF SAUDI ARABIA MAY CONTAINE TRACES OF ORSECHESTNUTS WEN I TOLD IM I WERE CAPTIN KIRK. WATCH OUT, THE MONGOLS R COMIN
Reading the damn thing is made almost impossible by the poor lighting conditions down here, but I eventually get the gist of the message and surreptitiously remove my watch, slipping it into my trouser pocket. I stand up and gesture for the man to go down further into the deepest reaches of the alley. While his back is turned, I hit him in the head with a brick. What else could I do?
