Fuel-less September Drudion

September 2000ce

Forward Thinking Mofos, belated Salutations!

I’ve been stuck in traffic these past few days, and just got back from the Abbot’s Bromley Horndance, after a Braindonor recording session up in Nottingham. I came down the M40 to see lines of commuters panic buying at the pumps, and two long lines stretching through Hungerford on both sides of the road, clogging up the A4 and burning up even more fuel in the process. Now it’s 11pm in the eerie sci-fi Wiltshire silence and no-one’s going anywhere. It’s the day the earth stood still. I’m listening to Neil Merryweather’s lost ‘70s Space Glam LP Kryptonite on headphones (that Utopian production on ‘Let Us Be the Dawn’ gets me every time), while the almost full-moon bleeps through my bedroom window.

Hey Drudes, I’m touring Britain in October. And it’s my great pleasure to welcome back Mr. Donald Ross Skinner! Yeah, me‘n’Donneye have been back in touch for the first time in 6 years and it just felt like yesterday. He'll be doing a guest spot halfway through the show, some guitar and some keyboards and some bass‘n’all (we‘re trying out ‘Leperskin’ and ‘East Easy Rider’ and a coupla other loop-based things from Peggy Suicide). So get your permanent markers and tartan ribbons, and plan your Donneye banners well in advance. Gimme 100 minutes and I’ll show you Rock‘n’roll.

But they surely must sort out this fuel crisis before my tour starts, and it’s gonna really test Stoney Blur’s mettle. Death to Poseurs! Death to False Mettle! Meanwhile, in Russia, the former rising stocks‘n’shares of the Nuclear Aristocracy (call them the new Chernobility) have sunk to an all time low. “We all live in a nuclear submarine”, sing the headlines of Pravda, while President Put-the-Boot-In does photo-calls in his sailor suit, but leaves Murmansk early in case the bereaved Roosky Mamas tear him limb from limb. Down at the bottom of the Barents Sea, catching fishes 1-2-3? No, ‘coz the fishing stocks are too depleted, and what's left is already pre-cooked. Further north, inarticulate Art-kick tourists in search of the Arctic found … Nothing. No Ice, just blue water. India under water. Africa walking. What a scene of confusion. And the seas keep rising. In Ulster, it’s Protestant fighting Protestant on the streets of Belfast. It’s the parasitic paramilitaries’ paralytic parroting of every Patriarchy in the World. Me, I’m re-fuelling by spending September watching magical Earth-happenings like the Severn Bore and the Trent Aegir. Oh, and maybe I’ll go and see Chicken Run again. Hey Zeus, Hey Thor, Hey Odin, Are we living for the Mother? U-Betcha!

As Flipper sung in 1982, “Life is the only thing worth living for!”

Right ON!

Love on ya,

MR. DRUDE (M’Lud Yatesbury)