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OF THE HOBBY HORSE.
way am I eating a chicken’s fucking period.”
was the ungrateful reply I received from my good friend Patrick
Moorhead when, after a pissed up night at the pub, I generously
offered him a fried egg sandwich. We were only sixteen years of
age and I was taken aback by this remarkable insight as I had
never thought of eggs in such a way but could not deny the truth
of the statement. It made me realise that there is always a
different way to look at things, a new angle, a different
slant……a way of going off on a tangent.
at my lack of will power when it comes to updating this blog, I
wondered what to write about and considered the wise words of my
close chum as I pondered a subject. I thought a pertinent
subject on which to espouse might be the frequently encountered
problem of playing drums whilst in a state of inebriation. “I
am an authority on this subject”, thought I, given the years
of experience I have had…..”none drunker have ever taken to
the stage.” Then, however, my bubble of arrogance burst as I
considered the pitiful performances I have made when drunk at
the kit…. I surely cannot dispense advice about drumming when
intoxicated as my efforts to do so inevitably end in disaster.
In particular I was reminded of my shameful attempt to play at
the punk festival at Camber sands when I ended up falling over
backwards through the stage curtain; I looked a right cunt.
A subject I can write about with confident authority. I have
spent a lifetime looking a right cunt, I have made a cunt of
myself at every opportunity… it is possibly the only activity
in which I have never failed. A photograph should now be
included but with such a wealth of shameful images how can I
possibly choose? Horse riding springs immediately to mind, what
an utter arse I have looked when astride a steed.
most important to fill your time, however, or else the human
mind has a tendency to turn to the most unusual matters and
endow these thoughts with an importance way beyond their actual
merit. Riding horses fills your time, makes your arse sore and
allows you to interact with beings of an alien nature. Look into
the eyes of a dog and you are met with a trusting and faithful
gaze, loyalty shining through, his love of human kind evident at
a glance. Look into the eyes of a cat and the narrow slits
convey an evil which chills the blood, it is immediately
apparent that the every thought of the feline is forged in the
depths of Hades. The huge, brown liquid pools through which
horses and cattle observe their surroundings betray no such
obvious personality traits, so it is far more difficult to know
what lurks in their minds. For me this represents a real
challenge, trusting this creature of unknown mental state to
carry me at seemingly great height across field and dale. It’s
a fucking hobby for some people though, is it not and therefore
better than idling away your time worrying about things that
need not really matter.
for instance the lot of the primitive tribesman. No hobbies are
necessary as life is filled to capacity with the very stuff of
existence, hunting and gathering, cooking, building a shelter
for the family and all the important things in life. Your
spoilt, namby pamby ponce of a neurotic western city dweller,
surrounded by luxury and convenience, on the other hand, spends
time between soap operas and colonic irrigation wondering if
something is missing from their over protected life. This leads
some to wonder if they are, for instance, a woman trapped in the
body of a man and before you know it they have spent a large
proportion of their disposable income on having their genitals
hacked into strange new designs.
reassignment may well work wonders for some folk and I would not
for a moment suggest that people remain trapped in the bodies of
others but I would suggest that they consider a hobby before
going under the knife. It is so easy to think “I’m a tad
glum, perhaps I’ll chop me knob off”, but, although this may
seem to be the obvious thing to do, perhaps a few days jotting
down train numbers, filling stamp albums or plodding along on a
docile dobbin may serve as a cooling off period before taking
the momentous decision to slice up the old genitals. In short:
Depressed? Don’t hack your cock/piss flaps off…….try a
hobby. I can honestly say that I would actually rather squander
my short stay on Earth putting stamps into an album than slice
off my penis, and that is saying something.
seem to have gone off on a tangent….what was I gonna do? Oh
yes, that egg sarnie.
Tangents? Hobby ideas? Vicious abuse? email@example.com
the Caveman. X
Greetings one and all,
I thought the regular readers of this website might be
interested in the domestic arrangements of us so-called
musicians and how we manage to cope with the mundane matters of
everyday existence amid the frenzied lunacy of our non stop rock
and roll rollercoaster lifestyles. Of course, as a cave dweller
I have slightly more to deal with about the home as my
prehistoric facilities are necessarily more labour intensive
than my more modern counterparts.
After a long day of hunter-gathering, wrestling with sabre
toothed tigers and throwing stones at woolly mammoths followed
by an evening playing drums in some sweaty boozer full of
fighting skinheads the last thing I want to do is run a duster
over the cave. Therefore I take the wife gently by the hair and,
after administering a romantic beating, bundle her into the
broom cupboard and get her busy with the old J-cloths and
suchlike. Well, I can hardly be a new man as I was born in the
I cannot deny that it is rather difficult to keep the old
cave from stinking like the fucking shit hole it is. The main
trouble is the rather primitive toilet arrangement which
consists of an open trench in the middle of the cave. Once it is
full we encourage the dogs to eat the contents, which does
reduce the smell, but then the gormless beasts tend to be less
fussy with their own habits and the cave floor is littered with
dogshit. Happily the wife is soon pressed into service with
rubber gloves and mop under threat of a brutal clubbing.
One of the difficulties of trying to keep up with 21st
century living is the lack of cash when scraping by on a
Neolithic wage. Taking in lodgers seemed to be the ideal answer
and so we placed a stone tablet in the newsagent’s window.
Most of the applicants were so horrified at the conditions in
the cave that they left immediately, however we eventually found
a suitable candidate. He is a very quiet bloke, in fact he is
decidedly secretive, spending a lot of time in prayer or mumbled
phone calls in Arabic. The only trouble is that he hardly ever
comes up with the rent money. I said to him "Look here, Mr
Bin Laden, you really should get out there and find a job."
But he seems reluctant to ever leave the cave so I am going to
have to tell poor old Osama to sling his hook.
Well there you have it, an insight into the life of a busy
rock star at home, now I must be off to give the wife a vicious
clubbing. If you have any tips about cave cleaning or want to
rent a space in the lovely homestead please contact me at firstname.lastname@example.org
Au revoir, Caveman Dave.
Q: How do you know when the drum riser is level?
A: When the drool pours evenly from both sides of the drummer’s
How quickly time flies! (when your brain is filled with drugs).
The last thing I knew it was a fine summer and I couldn’t wait
until September, now the year has fled by and 2007 is upon us
bringing with it who knows what. Yet, like all other punk
rockers, I have been left thinking: “what a fantastic year for
soft fruit 2006 was!!!” A walk in the country one late summer
afternoon in September left myself and the long suffering wife
agog at the sheer volume of hedgerow goodies on offer. I mean,
as your aficionado of all things punk and Oi! will be well
aware, most September hedges bear a bountiful supply of
blackberries and elderberries but to be rewarded with such a
plentiful source of damsons is a thing that seems to comply with
the old seven year rule and then only if you are lucky.
Needless to say, in true anarchic style
meself and the wife loaded carrier bag after dogshit bag with
berries and returned to the homestead with a bumper crop of
hedgestuffs which were soon converted into booze. Autumn in
England provides the ideal recipe for cheap (almost free) booze
and so I give you now my personal favourite recipe:
2 kg of blackberries, elderberries and
damsons (the more damsons the better)
1 & a half kg white sugar
Some raisins and/or concentrated grape
STERILISE EVERYTHING YOU USE WITH HOT WATER
OR STERILISING SOLUTION YOU DIRTY FILTHY CUNT.
Place the fruit and sugar and grape juice
(good for vinosity) in a (clean, non-coloured) bucket and pour
four and a half litres of boiling water over it. When cool
sprinkle the yeast over the top.
Cover and leave for 4 days. (in a warm
Strain off all the solid shit and put the
fermenting must into a demi john. (in a warm place)
When fermentation is finished (month or so)
chuck in a campden tablet and siphon off into another demi john.
After a few weeks of clearing, siphon into
bottles and keep until your resolve cracks.
That’s all there is to it and you should be
able to get six bottles of wine for the price of a bag and a
half of sugar and a tiny sachet of yeast. HOW FUCKING COOL IS
If there was a god ( which there fucking
obviously IS NOT) it would be just like nicking booze straight
off the shelves of god’s offie. That’s the way I see it.
Great things about amateur winemaking:
1 It’s almost free (see above)
2 I have never been kicked in the bollocks
or stabbed by another amateur winemaker or countryside hedge
3 You get really really pissed.
What do you call a drummer without a
Should you have any
winemaking/drumming/autoerotic tips please feel free to contact
Until next time, I salute myself.
CAVE MAN DAVES...
Good day to you all
I was most impressed by Del`s dancing on the Hootennany, he truly
has all the very best moves, His swanky outfit put that scruff
Holland to shame as well. I bet he didn't have such expensive
footwear as Del`s trainers. More remarkable still was Mr.
Chinnery's performance as Mr. Toad in the new version of Wind
in the Willows, an absolutely inspired work of casting genius
as hardly any make up must have had to have been applied. Here
are pictures of chin in and out of costume for you to see if
you can spot the difference and look forward to seeing H in
"The Simon Weston Story".
Happy new year from the caveman and her. XX
SEPERATED AT BIRTH
**What a Doggie (Ta) Doo!**
Kept hearing all this stuff on Radio 1 about Lily Allen losing
her dog to heartless thieves and was so delighted to hear that
the hapless hound had been recovered that I went out and bought
a paper to see if there were any pictures. How my heart sank
when I saw the state the evil dognappers had allowed the poor
wee beastie to get into. Observe the heart rending picture
below.....such a tragic sight.
“What sort of a sad fucker writes a fucking Blog?” I thought to myself when setting about this task. “What the fuck is a blog?” was the other question pressing on my small mind. I decide to investigate and read some of the blogs on My(waste of)space. Previous to this research I had thought that “blog” was a contraction of “web” and “log” but after perusing a few of the diaries on offer I realized that it must be an acronym for “boring load of gobbledygook”. The tragic fuckwits who think their pointless little lives could possibly be of any interest to anybody other than themselves must be among the most misguided imbeciles ever to set foot on the planet. “Hooray” thought I, “they’re just like me.” I realize now that I don’t have to keep updating this thing, I can just put: “Played a gig somewhere and got so off my head that I didn’t know what I was doing and then made a cunt of myself”. Easy.
If anybody reads this page at all they are probably drummers so maybe I should write some sort of “drum chat” (nice and cheesy does it) or just put drum tips for beginners like “shut the fuck up and play the drums, you are not a musician”. Who knows where it could go, if anybody has any ideas about what to write in an interesting and informative blog please feel free to contact me at
email@example.com, abusive comments are very welcome.
In the meantime here is a poor quality drummer joke:
Q: What has three legs and a cunt?
A: A drum stool.
Cheers for now, “Caveman” Dave XX