Sunday, April 16, 2006

Green Felt Moss and Sound of Rain

Cancelled again, the salt of the air. We bundled like dognuts (dognuts, not doughnuts) from the train, tumbled along the platform as the train departed, taking with it the salt from the air. The landscape spoke with a grimly voice: The planet is dying. But fear not. George Clooney, Edward Norton and Chris Martin are on the case.

(Chris Martin once said: Would it really be possible to start Nazi Germany if you'd just been listening to Bob Marley's Exodus back-to-back for the past three weeks and getting stoned? Would the idea of the Holocaust seem so appealing?)

(He also said, of Brian Eno: He's the cleverest man in the world since Bob Marley died and John Lennon died.)

The landscape needs more superheroes.

How to Become a Superhero.
No.1: Get yourself genetically modified.
The disadvantage of this method, of course, is that the public is both ignorant and highly suspicious of anything genetically modified. So if you were to take this route to superherohood you would do well to call yourself Captain Frankenstein. Or The Death Ray.

Because death will take you, you have no need to worry about the planet dying. Chris Martin will take care of it. And that bird from Greenpeace, Cat Dorey.

People called Catherine who call themselves Cat? Please.

Chris Martin in his bright blue SUV took the bend past his local Knightsbridge shops and, with his wife elsewhere, was distracted by the neon London lights that, after all this time, still had the power to seduce him. The words on his hand (‘remind self that self is self is self - we are all one to the power of the universe and the answers are in/on our hands - we can all do it together’) were swamped by the sudden rush of sweat as a result of that too tight bend that Chris, safe in his SUV, failed to consider as he gazed a trance into the hallowed forms of flashing signs and the illuminatori of the Knightsbridge set. The planet was dying and all Chris could think about was his Oshkosh bio-degradable nappies that, once used, could then be used to sow vital rice and grain plants for the people of Africa, young Apple’s mess a perfect underlay of fertiliser made, as it was, from the finest organic baby food, perfect for the (re)cycle of life and all those who sail in her (the vast Titanic-like vessel of life, that is). A huge tapestry network blanket of fair trade nappies, pre-fertilised by the offspring of the great and the good, rice and grain and trees for all, a lasting legacy of the triumph of acting together as one and actively, you know, doing something positive about the future. Don’t knock it. But before all that, before the actual, physical spread of the offspring, so to speak, of his offspring across the barren tundra landscape burning beneath African skies, Chris Martin slammed his gigantic SUV into the back of a small goods van that, unfortunately for Chris, was being driven by some big spiky bastard who had no time at all for what he often referred to as ‘falsetto faggots like that twat from Coldplay’. Chris, leaping from his SUV (leaving Apple unprotected, a sitting target for all manner of right-wing anti-fair trade terrorists etc.), flashed the back of his hand as a gesture of peace. Unfortunately again for Chris, the previously mentioned swamped ink had run together to form not a message of hope and oneness, but the words ‘you dozy fat fucking gimp – why don’t you drive properly?’ It was, as all later agreed, a freak, million-to-one occurrence and the height of unfortunateness, given the situation of Chris’s then situation.

(The trouble with any kind of negative take on Chris Martin and his ilk, is that you (not me, you) could end up sounding like Jeremy fucking Clarkson. This is, after all, fiction. One shouldn’t read too much into it.)

After his crash debacle, his brand new biblical baby and his wife acting herself to all sorts of honours, Chris decided, with all things considered, that it would be best to call it a day. Retreating to his poolside home of dog house built of straw, he licked his wounds and rued the day that he decided to get too big for his bones. Outside his kennel, buried beneath the pile of finest organic pet food beef, was the manifesto that he and Bono had drafted only two weeks before.

How to Become A Superhero.
No. 2: Put fish in barrel. Shoot.
A great way of bigging yourself up until you are so full of bluster and self-righteous ha-ha that, even though you’re aware of the fact of being aware of your own useless, impotent situation, you can fool some of the people some of the time into believing that you are a hero to be reckoned with. The disadvantage of this method is that you could easily be exposed. Well, so what?

The Bono/Martin Manifesto - Points 1-4:

No. 1.
I/we (Bono and Coldplay (well, Chris)) will tell popes, dictators and presidents where to get off not just through the power of our great songs, music, lyrics and performances but also through the power of going right up to them and telling them where to get off. You fuck with pop stars, man, and you pay the price.

No. 2.
We will also endeavour to welcome within our ranks all manner of other big faces who can help us to further our cause(s). Yes, we understand that, since the death of that intellectual giant Marley, the intelligence quota of pop stars has taken a dive but, at the least, we can welcome, surely, the likes of Eno, Byrne, Stipe, Baez and Bragg. Note: Don’t ask Mark E. Smith to join us. Apart from the fact that he hasn’t got the world’s ear in the palm of his hands like we have, he once said of me, Bono: “Bono? My window cleaner’s got more to say for himself than that cunt.” Which wasn’t a very nice thing to say. At all. One day I/we will make him pay.

No.3.
In the future all things will be green and beautiful like they were in the past. No more war. No more unnecessary deaths. No more corporate conglomerates raping our women and putting up nude pictures of our children on the internet. No more America. No more damn Yanks making our lives such an unending rollercoaster of misery with their big yappy voices and their stupid fat arses and their obsession with slimming and looking beautiful. Those warmongering arsehole fat cunts. As Harold Pinter said: “I want to communicate to you that/War is bad/And terrible/In case you didn’t know/And that all wars are started/By the Yanks/Who/As everyone knows/Are despicable villains/And really fucking stupid/In case you didn’t know.”

No.4
All could be okay if only we could condense the words of this rum manifesto and get them whittled down to a size where we could get people to wear them on the back of their hands. Or on their foreheads. Stencils that say: Future for all fight back against globalisation smash the state and the lying liars who tell lies. Oh, what a reversal of the elements of capitalism and that. We’ll show them. Public people in public spaces making their views known to the public. It’s in our hands, brothers and sisters, it’s in our hands. Or, rather, on our hands.

Dognuts. The train departed the station. The salt in the air, gone. We tumbling down the platform like dognuts, those crystalline acentic particles that resemble, under a microscope, ship’s wheels. Or, instead, the large nuts on the sides of fire hydrants. Big red dognuts. Attractive, authentic and built to last. That was us, dognuts. Yes, the planet may be dying, but us, the dognuts of rail station and tumble, will go on forever. Watch us roll there Chris, you just watch us roll!

17 Comments:

Blogger Molly Bloom said...

I loved where you took the Chris Martin inspired rant. I loved the descriptions of the superhero too. It reminds me of what John Lydon said at the Nordoff Robbins Musical Therapy bash. He was saying that it wasn’t a ‘Sting/Bono led charge for glory’. Like you say, it’s a super-hero thing. I, Chris Martin,have to write something truly fair-trade on my hand to, you know, make sure that everyone knows how worthy I am. Truly worthy and saint-like. I can’t really be anything other than a super-hero can I? Even my baby’s name is organic and fair-trade. I can’t stand that Paltrow either. I thought the attack on his hand-writing was great and the nappies was truly superb!! As Liam Gallagher said, ‘If he wants to write something down, I’ll give him a piece of paper and a pen.”

Is it any wonder that he (and Bono) can wax lyrical about all things from nappies to world poverty when they have gigantic corporate funds in their stupid fists. What? Grand ambitions? You? Surely not? How many albums have you sold on the back of your risible shit??? Martin is clearly loved….his lovely litte wife, his lovely little baby Tangerine. Loved by clean shaven boys and their moony faced parents who have no end of stuff to put in the recycling bins. He’s a blowhard. He says quietly in his lyrics, ‘Does anybody else feel low?’ as the audience smiles back at him, with tears in their eyes. Yes, we feel low Chris, we really do. They take comfort in his jingly falsetto and his friendship bracelets, no doubt laced up by Gwynny ‘I want to fuck my dad’ Paltry. Or, as Liam Gallagher called her, ‘the gawky bird’. They both wallow in their own goodness, literally swimming in their own humility. They took over the Teenage Cancer Trust gig with their anti-war rants – you know, if they want to do that, fair enough, but don’t do it at a teenage cancer gig. Do it at your own fucking gig. Self-righteous idiots.

I like the way you use the numbers to order this piece and build up to a crescendo of rage about Pinter. Your poetry quote is just unbelievable. Truly unbelievable. How can he get away with this shit?

Goodness, rant over for this morning.

And another thing....

10:23 AM  
Anonymous Chris Martin said...

Very good, Paul. But, you know, it's the journalists (vultures) misquoting me. And what am I to do? Eh? I'm Hollywood now, thanks to the missus. And you can't be Hollywood without standing up to the man. Without being green. I'm on the global stage and I've got something to say, dammit. Just like you.

11:04 AM  
Anonymous Bono said...

Do you know whose lyric was just voted the nation's favourite, Paul? Do you? Mine. I speak for the people.

11:05 AM  
Blogger Anthony Osborne said...

Did Chris Martin really utter the Bob Marley vs Nazi Germany quote? Hope so, it's priceless. Listening to 'Exodus'may not make you want to jump up and start Nazi Germany but it does make you want to run out and stone a few gays to death and then kick your woman into the kitchen - but not, you understand, when she's 'unclean' once a month.
Wasn't Marley a dope-addled cretin who didn't have the basic horse-sense to get his cancer treated before it spread and killed him? And he never washed his hair, the smelly shitehawk.
Don't get me started on Martin and Bono - or Paul Hewson as his Ma knows him. Arrogant, patronising, neo-colonial ... all of that could be excused if they didn't churn out such anodyne, gutless tosh.
As Glenn Branca used to say - put blood in the music.

1:15 PM  
Anonymous Harold said...

I didn't write that Betty. Paul, you've hurt my feelings. I rhyme better than that.

1:24 PM  
Blogger Molly Bloom said...

Obviously Harold hasn't heard of sarcasm.

Oh yeah, I should've known.

1:26 PM  
Anonymous Apple said...

My daddy is an embarrassment. He keeps taking my felt tips to write on his hand. And why does my mummy have all of those sucker marks on her back? Was it an octopus?

2:47 PM  
Anonymous Gwyneth said...

Shall we just have a talk about this? I'd like to be friends. You know, we could all be friends.

4:15 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Chris Martin on Marley, Hitler and Eno. All here:

http://arts.guardian.co.uk/features/story/0,,1493914,00.html

6:17 PM  
Blogger Molly Bloom said...

Sadly, as I write this, Sting and Sheryl Crow are on the TV. How apt, I think...can we have a Sting rant next please?

Justin Hawkins says that Chris Martin should 'burn in hell' along with Bono. Go Justin!

Also, I think Simon Hoggart hits the nail on the head when he describes Live 8:
"Actually, watching much of Live 8 on Saturday I felt that the singers had more in common with politicians than they might wish to admit.
Like politicians, almost everything they said was designed to enhance their public image while appearing extempore and sincere. Like modern politicians they deal in appealing soundbites, not all of which tolerate close scrutiny. Like ministers, they like to imply that mobilising the masses, either in Hyde Park or at an election, will in itself create the solutions.
And like politicians they have a tremendous sense of their own importance, being whisked around by limo and by helicopter, treated with awed respect, surrounded by murmuring flunkies whose jobs depend on doing what they want, when they want it." The Guardian July 2005.

Mediocre, Pisswarmplay. They are the new way of sedating the nation: kidding them into believing that they 'believe' in something, anything.

Oh, don't get upset with Liam and Noel, Chris. (Boo hoo) Get yourself a tattoo (it doesn't rub off when you have a bath) for 'Divine' (tastes like shit) Chocolate and fuck right off! Personally, I want to know that hundreds of small children have suffered in the name of my chocolate. Where's the enjoyment otherwise?

I can't believe those Marley quotes are real...

7:53 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

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12:50 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Hi, interesting blog. Liked the bit about my sister ('Catherine calling herself 'Cat'. Please'). Just thought I would add that she has been called 'cat' long before she could put it in words herself. Your comment made you sound like a self-righteous moron and all that....

3:28 AM  
Anonymous Cat Dorey said...

When my mother was a beautiful young 20-something, she went to see 'Cat Ballou', the 1965 comedy-western staring Jane Fonda. She filed the name away and, when I was born, it came out stuck to me. (This is a possible cause of my seeking out the company of law-breaking, loveable misfits.)

At school there were 8 Catherine/Katherine/Kathryns in my year. Cathy was too sweet and no one spells Cate right. Caddie stuck for a while. My family stubbornly clung to Cat and I like it.

So anyway, I'm touched and rather bemused to find my name included among such interesting, if irritating, people. Does this make me an E(nvironmenta)-list celebrity? I'm just a girl...

I'm enjoying your writing, especially "While ivy twinned..." and the giraffe dream story. You've inspired me to get off my arse and get back to writing about something other than fish.

That'll teach ya.

Peace & starfish

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