Peter and the Test Tube Babies - Peter's old blog logs

Dave's blog, old stuff
Recent entries you might have missed, we delete the old crap.

This 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.

Disgusted 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.

Bingo!! 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.

It is 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.

Consider 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.

Gender 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.

I seem to have gone off on a tangent….what was I gonna do? Oh yes, that egg sarnie.

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 Neolithic period.

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 21^st 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 daveflatpig@genie.co.uk

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:

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.

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 THAT????

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.

2 I have never been kicked in the bollocks or stabbed by another amateur winemaker or countryside hedge collector.

Should you have any winemaking/drumming/autoerotic tips please feel free to contact me at:

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".

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 daveflatpig@genie.co.uk, 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