Not sure about the spelling. The guitarist is very dyslexic, but i’m trying to pretend its a trendy respelling. Anyhow, here we are again playing songs and talking nonsense in the cloud in the sky.

To be continued, possibly…

As a full moon halloween treat to you here is the video animation to the Rude Mechanicals’ song Another Glass of Wine.

To be continued…

To be continued…

I painted my walls white today.

It was uninteresting.

I failed to get rid of the woodchip wallpaper, apparently the walls might fall apart if I do that, its a 300 year old house, the landlord would not be amused, so I painted them white. At least they are no longer dirty yellow in colour.

Whilst painting I thought.

I usually think that too much thought is bad for one, but today I did seem to come up with three good ideas. I know, 3 good ideas from me in one day is unlikely, probably why I have a headache now.

The second idea is that I can paint a picture of orchids and use it for my botanical illustration students and in a video animation for the Rude Mechanicals songs Orchid and Big Lies – which has the line “orchids grow best where seamen is spilt”, an old folk belief that orchids can only grow where animal seamen has been spilt.

The third idea was that my subconscious is sabotaging me. Its like that song by They Might be Giants, “Where your eyes don’t go a filthy scarecrow waves its broomstick arms
And does a parody of each unconscious thing you do”. Only mine isn’t just doing a parody of me, its deliberately preventing me from doing things. It looses the keys every time I need to leave my flat. It stops my ability to count every time money is mentioned. Every tiny glimpse of success it sabotages. On my graduation from Art School I sold all my rather grotesque 12ft oil paintings for vast amounts of money, a top gallery wanted to be kept informed about my work and I was given a year long residency. What did I do? Gave up painting and did live art instead. A couple of years later I was doing part time work as a model, I landed a job in a Sony ad which paid £4000 for one days work. My agency thought they were on to something and paid for me to train as an actor. What did I do? Had a brain haemorrhage that put me in hospital and took three years to recover from. Now once I would have said that I was not to blame for the haemorrhage, but now I wonder if it was actually self sabotage. Many other instances like this have happened, like sacking the drummer and violinist, which also meant the bassist quit, just as the band was beginning to get somewhere etc. So what I ask you now is – how do I stop self sabotaging? Do you get the same thing? And if so have you come up with any way of stopping it? Perhaps I should have part of me surgically removed? This isn’t so much an idea as a big question.

The first idea was to read Jeremy Henty’s poem Ugly Little Boy for the next Rude Mechanicals Naked Podcast. Jeremy was our drummer when the band started. Ugly Little Boy were the only lyrics he wrote for it (he liked to be known as Ugly Boy) but for some reason it wasn’t played that often although I thought it was very fitting somehow. Jeremy passed over to the next world two years ago. A friend of his got in touch with me recently which brought the lyrics back into my head. So i’ll be reading them as part of our next podcast.

Of course if I’d become a successful artist back in 1999 I would probably never joined the Rude Mechanicals, never met Jeremy, and not writing this blog now, and you wouldn’t be reading it.

Today I left my tower and ventured into the outside world.

Wearing my sequinned mask and red velvet cape I initially felt protected by the magic force, but it wasn’t long into the journey when my sequins became nervous, they warned me of the dangers that lurked. Strangers in sinister face coverings skulked in every shop. A helicopter flew above me, constantly purring in the summer sky. It tracked my movements, checking I didn’t fall out of line, didn’t disobey.

A hot day. Pink and red skinned beasts lay virtually naked on the public garden lawn. Why don’t they grow fur like other animals? Its so much more attractive. Miss, my cat, agrees. I walked once around the block and returned hurriedly to my tower, daring not to enter a shop incase they shot me with their germ loaded machine guns, I know they hide such things behind the counter.

At home I have tea and fresh cake ( an experiment with albino rats this time). Miss tells me off for having left the tower. I should have listened to her, but I had finished the animation (coming out with the Rude Mechanicals new album in the spring next year), and I’d podded the podcast with the rest of the Rudes –

and I just wanted to check that the outside world still existed and wasn’t just a hologram projected on to my windows.

Well it does exist, and it’s dangerous.

So, I ask myself, what have you been doing these last few months in your lockdown tower?

The answer struggles to come forward, a deep grey blur holds itself over my mind like winter morning fog. Perhaps I was just switched off for the past few months, like a robot, and am only now being switched on again, my circuits slowly getting back into function.

Then from within the fog breaks through the memory of baking cake, making animations, and creating a sculpture of the inside of my brain for my friend Nic.

The cake tasted nice, the animation was and is obsessive, the brain sculpture unfinished, it sits and stairs at me from the corner of the room, thinking.

I am now a very big creature with semi-transparent skin and round fish like eyes.

Where did I get the ingredients from for baking cake from when I haven’t left the tower?

Ah yes, I remember, the rats that the cat kills for me.

(Its hard to tell myself from the cat and perhaps we are becoming one beast.)

The dust in the corners tastes like flour

(or at least what I remember of it)

Sweetened up with delicious aphid poo from the lime tree that grows just outside my window.

All brewed up in my cauldron to create a delicious cake.

Would you like me to post you some?

And of course helped down with a large glass of whiskey.

Photo be the imaginary Lord Martland.