As I work in the film industry...
I have a friend, John, who does animatronics. You know, the radio-controlled mechanical puppets they used to use for doing monsters before CGI came along and replaced them all (sorry John!).

Anyhoo a marathon drinking session resulted in the following agreement, sealed by drunken handshake.

If I die before I'm 35 John will rig me up (non-invasively) so that at my funeral I will sit up straight out of my coffin and perform the dance moves to the opening bars of Thriller before disappearing out of sight behind the curtain.

Click 'I like this' if you think I should go through with it. Also click 'I like this' if you think I shouldn't because it'll probably give my dear old dad a heart attack.
( pixel_fucker is going to need a bigger brush, Sat 30 Jan 2010, 10:33, 4 replies)

I don't even like the song
It’s almost two years since our little boy was born and a happier, healthier little bundle of joy you couldn’t hope for. The pregnancy had gone reasonably well and we were two weeks short of the due date when Mrs Mork noticed some bleeding at about 1am. We called the maternity ward who told us it was probably nothing but, as we were clearly worried, suggested we come in for a check up. So, laughing and joking, we piled into our little 2 seater (another story…) and packed up all the paraphernalia we had been told we would need in the event of the birth: we were treating it as a “test run”.

So, we arrive at the hospital at about 2am and Mrs Mork gets strapped up to a monitor and through the sleepy haze we watch readout of our baby’s heart rate. All seems under control. The midwives, and doctors, however, are not happy; the heart rate suggests the baby is asleep but does not seem to be waking up, so they ask Mrs M to roll on to her side to wake him up. The effect on the heart rate was astounding, it dropped to about half. Cue, much muted conversation amongst the medics. After a little while the consultant comes in and says “We’re going to do a caesarean. Now.”

“Er, no, we’d rather not if possible.” (Mrs M has severe claustrophobia and the thought of being conscious but immobile on an operating table was seriously worrying)

“No, you don’t understand: we’re doing a caesarean because your baby is in distress.”
At this point things went a bit mad and my recollection is unclear. I remember Mrs M signing a consent form and I remember being taken aside to get “scrubbed up” while my wife was being prepped. I also remember being dragged into the theatre to try to calm my wife down (she was screaming) so that the anaesthetist could get the epidural in.
In the end we were all ready and I spen t the next however long (no idea) talking to Mrs M about holidays, sitting on the beach anything in fact to take her mind off what was happening to her. But eventually we saw the nurses carrying our baby around, weighing him, checking him and finally handing him to us. I will never forget those dark eyes and that rather perplexed looking face as he was handed to us. It was then that I noticed the radio was on, Snow Patrol, Chasing Cars:
“All that I am, All that I ever was, Is here in your perfect eyes
They're all I can see”
I still can’t even think of that song without a knot in my stomach, a lump in my throat and a tear in my eye. At that time we didn’t know that the hours and weeks ahead would involve a dash across London in an ambulance for a possible heart operation, intensive care and special care units and more pain, worry and tears than I had had in my life up to that point. For that brief moment we had peace.

Length? No idea. Weight 5lb 13oz.
(Mork, Thu 28 Jan 2010, 15:05, 4 replies)

Chondrosarcoma
This word became part of my vocabulary when I was in my early twenties. I always thought it was a pretty word, had a sort of a silky, velvety feel to it. But when you translate it into everyday English it becomes ugly and incredibly brutal: Bone cancer.

I was waiting outside HMV for the store to open, as soon as the assistant unlocked the door I made my way inside, grabbed one of the shiny new cellophane wrapped double cds, strolled over to the counter, paid, and then made my way over to Greg’s.

His mum opened the door, saw it was me and directed me up stairs. Greg was in bed – of course. I found it hard to remember the last time I saw him on his feet. We’d grown up together, Greg and I, and he’d always been a little on the porky side. I’d been calling him a “fat bastard” from the age of eight, so it was strange to see him the way he was now. Wasted. Used up. His skin so pale I could see the network of veins hugging his bones. He was constantly off his head on strong painkillers and the usual wicked sense of humour only surfaced in flashes.

He was as excited as me about the cd. It’d just been released that morning and I was the first person to buy a copy from that particular branch of HMV, the assistant told me.

I broke open the cellophane, pulled out disk 1, placed it in Greg’s cd player and we sat back to listen. Greg scanned the artwork. Then as the first track started he said: “The Fragile... This album was made for me...”

I told Greg to stop being such a morbid cunt, I sat in a chair he had near his bedroom window, Greg remained in bed – we listened to the first disk of Nine Inch Nails new album without saying a word. Then, as I changed the disk and after Greg’s mum had brought us up a cup of tea and some biscuits, we listened to disk 2.

We had a crafty cigarette each – dousing down the smell of Benson & Hedges with a can of air freshner so Greg’s mum wouldn’t go mental. After the disk finished, we listened to it again and had one of our long chats about absolutely nothing at all. After a few hours I left.

Greg lasted another few weeks. Then he died.

The funeral took place and I attended, bleary-eyed and numb. Afterwards a select few friends and Greg’s entire extended family went back to Greg’s mum’s house for a bite to eat. Never been very good at funerals, and after Greg’s mum passed me a note from Greg, a sentimental one-word note which stated simply: CUNT !!!, I was in no mood to hang about, I was feeling far too sentimental. But then Greg’s mum said:

“Greg knew this day was coming, of course – he didn’t want it to be a sad event. He said he wanted this song to be played because it reminded him of his best friend, here, why don’t you put it on for us?” Greg’s mum singled me out and offered me the burned cd to put on. Feeling particularly frozen, I went through the motions, placed the disk in the big old-fashioned stereo and waited in front of the assembled strangers (Greg’s relatives) and handful of friends for the music to start.

And when it did I felt pretty damn good. I could tell the music wasn’t much to the tastes of some of the people there, but hey, this is what Greg wanted. And by the end I couldn’t help but have a big shit-eating grin on my face. As the track ended and the room returned to awkward silence, Greg’s mum approached and gave me ‘that look’, which suggested her dearly departed son and I should try once in our lives to act our age.

And from that day to this I can’t listen to this song without smiling and thinking about my best mate who passed on about ten years ago now. Sometimes I even put it on in a pub or request it at parties.

Always gets a few pointed looks, makes a few people nervous. But fuck it, I’ll maintain til the day I die that It’s Raining Men by the Weather Girls is a damn, damn, damn fine song...

Cheers Greg.
( SpankyHanky, Thu 28 Jan 2010, 15:56, 41 replies)

repost: Come Sail Your Ships Around Me.
In this post, I told the story of how I gained the notice of Alice, and noted that I eventually went out with her. This post is about how we actually became an item.

One glorious day I went on a date with Alice. Or at least sort of. Me and Alice and a couple of other people were going to see Nick Cave, but the others dropped by the wayside. Backsliders and hypocrites unwilling to answer the call of Saint Nick, and yet I silently thanked rather than cursed them, and when the day came it was just the two of us.

Could you have but seen the magnificence of me that day! Clad in four shades of black, my hair a very Icarus ascending to the heavens, and as if servants went before me throwing rose petals, a pleasant scent of hair products attended all. Mephistopheles in denim, ready to tempt who he will, and no doubt these things in my stomach are no butterflies but sleek and scintillant incubbi.

I arrived early. Actually three hours early, so anxious was I to not be late. So there was no-one there but people setting up, and this one guy drinking at the bar...

No way. Fuck, I think it is.

"Excuse me...are you Mick Harvey?"

He turned to me, and replied

"Yes, I am."

Even then I didn't know whether it was really him, or just some random fan having a lend of me. He pretty much looked like every other male that was going to be there:

(although in our minds we looked more like this:)

"I...I really loved 'The Adversary'. That was pretty much my favourite song for a while."

At the mention of his lesser-known solo career he bid me sit down (no mean feat in my jeans) and talk to him. Soon we got on to my meeting Alice and the whole situation.

"Are you gunna ask her to be your girlfriend?" he asked when I'd finished.
"Oh, yeah...I mean, not today. Soon, when it's..."
"No!" he slammed his hands on to the bar, and I jumped.

"No! You've got to ask her today. Today or you won't ask her at all. You'll wait and wait for the right time, and there'll always be some reason not to, and then you never will, and she'll go out with Some. One. Else!" the last emphasised with more crashing of hands.

"No, I will, I really.." I said weakly, for it was as my heart was a bell, and those hands the clapper that struck it truly, bringing forth the note that was within me.

"No, you won't. You say you will but you won't. Listen.." and here he leant forward, and his voice lowered.

"Listen...you know what groupies are?"

I nodded.

"We get groupies man. Everywhere, just...beautiful girls. And, it's not...it's not the same thing..."

He stopped, and turned away from me. Did he softly say the word 'Deanna', or has my imagination added that in?

Again his eyes looked into mine, and he held my suit-coated arms.

"I want you to promise me, promise me now, that you'll ask her today."

"O..OK, OK, I promise" I said, actually a bit scared of him, and more than ever wondering if this was really Mick Harvey, or if this was a drunk who had been pretending to be the bass player from AC/DC last week.

"Good man. Good man. I've gotta go and get ready, but yeah, good to meet you apeloverage."

And with that he left.

My brain awhirl, I simply sat for an unknown time, until both relief and new fear came in the form of Alice herself.

I considered casually mentioning that "yeah, I was just talking to Mick Harvey actually. Cool guy", but said nothing. Almost literally nothing. I wasn't that good at talking to girls at the best of times, and this was the worst of times.

The support band passed by like the last bus, and then it was time.

And the guy I was talking wasn't one of the band.

I actually grinned, so great was my relief. If he wasn't Mick Harvey, then I didn't have to follow his advice, which was no doubt part of the jape, trying to get me to make an ass of myself. Or so I told myself.

Some time later, and "all right, this is the last one! This is called the Ship Song!" But wait! The guitarist (Blixa Bargeld) made 'hang on' motions to Nick.

"Hello...er, I am Blixa Bargeld."

"And...er, Mick Harvey was not able to play today, because he fell ill. But he has a note here, which he wants me to read."

"'I met someone before the gig today called apeloverage. And he promised me that he was going to do something. But I don't think he's going to.'"

Oh no. Alice looked at me, and I looked at my oncoming doom.

"'So, I'm going to do it for him. Alice Liddell, apeloverage really likes you, and he wants to know if you would be his girlfriend.'"

And she did.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Sat 30 Jan 2010, 15:18, 6 replies)

Craig David, Seeeven Days (almost)
No funnies but this is one QOTW I can definitely contribute to.

I'll keep the backstory brief, even though it felt like a lifetime when it was happening.

My brother forages for food - it's awesome, he'll find most of a meal growing wild for nothing. I've eaten foraged meals of his and they're mostly delicious, apart from the odd one which tastes more on the rectal side of "interesting". Another fact you need to know is that when he was younger he had a sort of quasi-ironic obsession with Craig David. You remember - "seven days" and "can you fiiill me iiiin".

Last spring he accidentally ate Hemlock. This is one of the half-dozen most deadly plants growing wild in the UK. It causes total body paralysis, including vital organs. He collapsed at his house and stopped breathing. He was airlifted to hospital, and his heart stopped at least once.

When I arrived there, he was in a coma. My family were there, and we held each other up as best we could, but it was a tough call. I hadn't seen my dad cry hysterically, ever, and it still makes me get pretty choked thinking about it. None of us were ready for him to die.

He stayed in a coma for six days. We spent most of that time in the intensive care waiting room. When they said they were going to try and bring him round we were terrified. He might not wake up - he might be braindead. If he did wake up, he might be brain damaged, as the time not breathing might have starved his brain of oxygen.

After an agonising wait whilst they brought him off the drug cocktail which had been keeping him alive, they let me and my other brother in. His eyes were half open. I started crying immediately just because he wasn't braindead. My other bro, who is well'ard, started talking to him, telling him things were going to be fine, that we'd been here all the time, that mum had kept a diary so that when he was back on his feet we could fill him in on what he'd missed.

without even thinking, i sang the little craig david line "fill you in" at him, like we used to as kids.

he smiled, and it was the best, most amazing thing i'd ever seen. cause that, that little smile, that meant that inside that puffy, swollen, half-shaven face, those red, teary eyes, inside that head my brother was still in there and still knew me and our stupid in-jokes.

craig david, thanks for making such bloody catchy music, you old bastard.
( greenish, Mon 1 Feb 2010, 20:59, 5 replies)

Yay! My question - suppose I'd better do an answer (cheers Mods)
[This is actually the follow-up to the top story on my profile, but feel free to read this first]

Let me take you back to 1985. Ronald Reagan was President of the USA, the very first Live Aid concert took place, mobile phones and the internet didn't exist and Che and Xena took to the road.

We'd met in the summer, fallen heavily in love and I'd said that I'd "take her away from all this". I had about £500 saved up in my Post Office account and another £250 limit on a Barclaycard - so I was rich. She had no money at all, had cut herself off from her family and ditched her love-rat married lover (though I didn't know that bit at the time). She did have a portable TV that was hired from Rumbelows but she hadn't told them that she'd left her bedsit in Cricklewood for my folks house, where we were both living while we got our travel plans sorted. This took us about two days - we bought train-boat-train tickets to Paris and packed some clothes and stuff.

The day we left we waved goodbye to my Mum standing at the door and headed up the street towards the tube station, marching boldly, head up, smile fixed. Hang on, I turned round and saw Xena about ten yards behind me, struggling under the weight of her rucksack and we were only half way to the high street. Still, what would be the point in having a true-love that was as fit and strong as you? It reminded me that she was gentle and soft and gorgeous and, and...

Thus started the most amazing honeymoon you could imagine - well, unless your idea of perfection is drinking cocktails out of pineapples on a Caribbean beach while servants tend to your every need - that's never been my bag, nor Xena's. We took the other route to bliss - staying on the floor at my mate Nass's flat in Paris, then hitch-hiking south and west to La Rochelle, staying in the cheapest hotel in town, cooking 'food' in an army mess tin over a gaz burner, hiring bikes and taking them on the ferry over to Isle de Re, sunbathing naked on the wide empty beach, making love in the sea then cycling back to the ferry with the setting sun shining through her dark hair then making love long into the night before doing it all again the next day.

Our plan was to head towards Bordeaux for the grape harvest and pick up a bit of work to fund us for longer. I'd done it in Rousillon the previous year but hadn't really done any deep research into this bit. But, after a week or so, we headed back onto the road, getting lifts easily - one night a lovely couple invited us back to their house to stay the night, otherwise, we headed to the train station where you could always find a cheap place to stay.

The sound-track to this whole trip was supplied via my Sony Walkman Sport - the black one, not the bright yellow version - and a selection of tapes I had. Our favourite tracks though were on a mix tape we had and the songs were Iggy Pop's 'The Passenger' and Talking Heads' 'Road to Nowhere'. We'd stand at the roadside, holding a rectangle of cardboard with a sign on it saying "Bordeaux s.v.p." and when there weren't any cars, or they weren't stopping, we'd sing and dance to the The Passenger and Road to Nowhere.

When we got to Bordeaux, we went out of town to look for grape picking work, ended up in St.Emillion and met up with a bunch of Irish lads. They had found an old deserted house and were living in it and they invited us to stay too. It was a real derelict place - the stairs had gone in the middle and I had to boost myself up and then reach down, pull up the bags and then pull up Xena. Still, it was home, and there was a campsite nearby and we could sneak in and use the toilets and showers. The Irish lads showed us where to get free food too - the nuns would hand out food at six every evening outside their nunnery. We looked for work but there wasn't any really.

One evening, one of the Irish lads told us we ought to go to the Algarve - it was cheap and it was lovely. Sounded alright to us, so we went. First to Lisbon, then on to Salema on the south coast. We haven't been back since, but at that time it was pretty unspoilt there - just one street of little shops, restaurants, b&bs and bars leading from the amazing beach, past the fishing boats, up the hill. We rented a room from a lovely old couple and stayed there for about four weeks, from the middle of September to the middle of October. The weather was perfect, there were little coves we could only get to by wading round the rocks and which were just ours for the whole day. In the evenings we drank and danced and ate fresh fish and chicken. One night, we took our sleeping bag down to a private little beach and slept under the stars after making wild love to the sound of the waves crashing.

By the end of the four weeks we'd explored each others bodies from every possible angle and direction and had hardly been out of sight of each other for a couple of months. But everything has to end, and the money had just about run out when we bought train tickets home. By November, we were living in a one room bedsit in Chiswick, claiming housing benefit and looking for jobs.

I won't pretend that it's all been sweetness and light from then til now, but we're still together, our daughter has grown up and moved away and we still stick Iggy or Talking Heads on the iPod dock after a bottle or two of wine, and if we're less energetic than 25 years ago, and perhaps the frequency has lessened a little over the years, she still knows how to push my buttons, and I know how to wiggle hers. We're planning to go back to Portugal this year to mark the quarter century. The music will come with.

Strange to think that many of you weren't even born back then, and 'Road to Nowhere' will have the same resonance for you as, say, 'Ticket to Ride' does for me.

Ah well.
(Che Grimsdale Best before:, Thu 28 Jan 2010, 16:43, 8 replies)

Random?
I flew to Germany a couple of years ago and as we came in for the final approach, wings dipped low over the Dresden skyline, my ipod, set firmly on 'shuffle all songs', decided from the 5,560 tracks available to launch into a stirring rendition of the Dam Busters Theme.

If I'd had speakers I would have broadcast it to the entire plane.
( Albert Marshmallow is a completely irredeemable cunt, Fri 29 Jan 2010, 12:13, 4 replies)

John Carpenter For The Win
I recently "purchased" the soundtrack to Big Trouble In Little China. With clammy, eager hands, I transferred the songs onto my MP3 player. They were a clutch of eighties masterstrokes: rock and roll infused with thumping synth and hammy oriental overtones. The second track in particular, Pork Chop Express, was made for strutting, and that's just what I did.

I left the house and decided to strut. I had no particular destination. I just strutted (strat?). As the song was coming to an end and my daydreams of being Kurt Russell in a Fu Man Chu wifebeater began to fade, I felt my phone vibrating in my pocket. It turned out to be a company I'd sent my CV to a few weeks earlier. They invited me in for an interview.

In a good mood now, I queued up Pork Chop Express again, strat into town and checked my bank account. There was an extra £150 in there - a rebate from BT. Apparently I'd been paying too much each month for some time.

Things were going well. I decided to get out some cash, have a coffee and then mooch about in town. After some strutting/mooching, I went into a newsagents for a paper. While I was there I bought a scratchcard for the first time in about three years. I won £20.

In the end, I attended that interview, got that job, spent that £20 on some Lego for my son, got some cash out of a notoriously tight-fisted company and imagined I was Jack Burton for a day.

I attribute all of this to John Carpenter and his juicy Pork Chop Express.
(Sir Harrington Titsmith disgraced himself on, Thu 28 Jan 2010, 14:26, 3 replies)

About three years ago my pal-since-juniorschool, Noel, was killed when a kid driving a tractor performed a right turn right in front of him.
Being a long-standing motorcyclist (23 legal years and half a dozen Honda 90 on the playing fields years) he took evasive action which resulted in him sliding 60ft along the Tarmac and then headfirst into a gatepost.
Dead on impact.
Fucksocks.
He was considerably larger than life, utterly loopy and a top bloke.
He had done allsorts with his life, TEFL in Japan, divorced, found true love, made a crossbow using a leaf-spring off a car suspension at the age of 13 etc. The tales that were told at his wake were truley fantastic.
It was the first biker funeral I had been to and the engine-rev salute from the hundreds of bikers who lined the route from his house to the crem still gives me goosebumps.
ANYWAY what capped it off for us all was the choice of music for his curtain moment at the crem.
"Firestarter" by Prodigy.
I doubt I will ever hear so much laughter in a crematorium again.
Good on ya Noel, you lovely, crazy bastard.
I love you and miss you!
X

and to those of you crying "fake" I can assure you it ain't.
( blaireau69 , the Cumbrian Travis Bickle., Fri 29 Jan 2010, 12:59, 4 replies)

Courtney Love Juice
Only my second post.... So please be nice...

Well, as a 17 year old metaller oik I had been out on the lash with a mate, his girlfriend and her not too attractive friend. After the pub shut we retired to their house and continued boozing, by which point we were all in the realms of Oliver Reed like drunkenness. After a while her behemoth like friend suggested I go back to hers for some sexy time. With my beer goggles bearing the strength of rum fuelled Hubble Telescopes I keenly agreed and couldnt wait to discover the joys of not being a virgin anymore.

We got to her place via a dingy rubbish strewn stairwell and proceeded to kiss and went straight to the bedroom and got naked. However, the soundtrack to our drunken fumbling was Hole's Kurt plagiarising album Live Through This. On repeat. Whether I would live through it or even want to was firly on my mind at the time as we got down to it. 'I'm renowned for my blowjobs' said the jellified shape before me. 'Oh good' Thought I. I guess she was renowned becuase the whole experience was very similar (I'd imagine) to having my nethers gobbled by a toothless labrador. All while the harpy Courtney Love warbled tunelessly in the background. Needless to say I did what I had to do and promptly passed out to wake the following morning to the same album on repeat.

This was fourteen years ago and I've never been able to listen to Hole until last week when I Spotify'd it and reminisced to a time in my life where I was sexually abused by an albino orungutang.

The follwing week, talk of my deeds were the topic of conversation and it transpired that out of the 12 guys around the table 11 had all experienced the very same thing. The one remaining guy sat smug in his difference until the following week when he joined the ranks of our flump shagging Apostles.
(Mongoose Gerald, Thu 28 Jan 2010, 14:24, 4 replies)

The Glory of Love
It must have been the late 80s and I was undergoing a sort of sexual awakening at school. I'd got a headstart in the development stakes and found that a pair of well exhibited tits was pretty much all you needed to have most of the boys transformed into drooling lapdogs. I had my pick of the lot.

Thus it was that I found myself on a date at the cinema to see Karate Kid II with one Gregory Birstall, a guy in my class who had impressed me with the suggestion of a date rather than just sucking him off behind the dentists near my house.

Who can forget the haunting strains of Peter Cetera's ballad The Glory of Love? Certainly not anyone who has witnessed the cinematic landmark of Karate Kid II, in which eternally young Ralph Macchio seals the fate of his movie career by mimicking a cheesy tourist drum knick-knack as a martial arts move. The song was all over the radio during that period and, as teenage girl, I was prone to a bit of romance.

Indeed, it was just as that song was playing that Gregory's hand began the inevitable journey up my leg. I'd like to say that I was appreciative of the gesture, but I had other things on my mind. Specifically, the slimy burger I'd bought from a converted ice-cream van earlier in the day. At that moment, it was coursing through my bowels like black plague and was threatening to erupt into my too small pants any moment in a geyser of liquid ordure.

I clamped my legs closed (almost breaking Gregory's hand) but evidently he took this as a coy gesture of shyness and continued to probe snatchwards.

By now, the formless abomination was quivering at my anus and it was all I could do to hold it in while trying to lever Gregory's hand from betwixt my thighs. I could not do both, and my tightly sheathed tits had rendered Gregory incoherent with seething hormones.

"I am a man who will fight for your honour" warbled Peter. "I'll be the hero you've been dreaming of..."

Sometimes you just have to let go. I sighed and relaxed the inward pressure of my thighs, giving Gregory the go-ahead.

Or rather, allowing about a cupful of reeking shit to bubble noisily from my arse with an accompanying wet raspberry that was heard for about three rows in both directionsd. The stench followed quickly after and we were asked to leave.

For at least the next year my tits did nothing to entice anyone on a date with me. The glory of love my arse.
(JessicaJugs, Tue 2 Feb 2010, 14:30, 13 replies)

"Like a cat in a bag, waiting to drown, this time I'm comin' down"
We climbed into the car after what had been an emotional funeral. My mother had died suddenly of an illness that may or may not – for we will never know - have been accelerated by the medication she had been taking for another condition.

Her slide from a healthy, happy 60-year-old to death had been sudden and shocking, my abiding memory of the time being driving up and down the M5 for weeks on end, working nightshifts and sleeping in my old bunk-bed back at the family home.

The car pulled away from Truro Crematorium, and we headed toward home in silence. I forget who in the front seat – either my brother or my sister – turned on the radio just to do something about the deathly atmosphere, but it was tuned to the local FM station and this song:

The Verve – The Drugs Don't Work

"Stop. Stop the car."

We pulled into a lay-by, and cried and cried. I still blub a bit when I hear this song, but turn it to happier memories. It was a sad, heart-wrenching time in my life, but now, ten years on, I've learned to remember the past and not live in it.
( Scaryduck LIKES EGG, Thu 28 Jan 2010, 18:22, 4 replies)

Everyone has a "music not to shag to" story
but a glorious combination of factors conspired to ruin my chances when I was 20.

During my student years I was in a long-distance relationship. This, coupled with a frankly stunning degree of ineptitude with the opposite sex in my teens - I was hardly given much of a chance, I went to an all-boys, rugby-playing school, and emerged straight - meant that it took me some good time to lose my virginity. Yes, it was all due to my better half's unavailability. Nothing to do with big-night nerves manifesting themselves every time I got a shot at the title. Oh no.

Anyway. My first mistake was telling my flatmates this while I was plastered. By this point I'd actually managed to achieve the feat and thought that owning up to previous deficiences would show character, or some bollocks. I forgot that my flatmates were men and therefore bastards.

On one occasion when the ex (then current) Mme. Foxtrot (she was from Chesterfield) was visiting, I decided we were going to enjoy a night of romantic filth like no other, to make up for my previous shortcomings. I cooked her dinner (badly), dimmed the lights (well, turned them off) and stuck Massive Attack's awesome "Mezzanine" album on my fancy new (SHUT UP I'M OLD OK) 3-CD changing stereo.

I'm sure you can see where this is going, but stick with me, it gets better.

After nearly an hour of quality foreplay we finally got around to threading the needle. I have no idea why that euphemism sprang to mind. Shortly thereafter, my stereo disposed of Massive Attack and rumbled around to the Wu-Tang Clan. As difficult as it is to make the woman you love feel respected whilst several huge black men are philosophising on the various ways in which it's possible to degrade the fairer sex, it's much harder to keep her interest in the task at hand when, during the track "Incredible", you yourself start giggling at the dubious claim by (insert name of Wu-Tang Clan member here) that "I devour planets like Unicron, shoot neutron bombs from my arm like Galvatron".

What?

Just as I was congratulating myself for not pointing out that Galvatron's neutron cannon shot beams rather than bombs (although I can appreciate the superior rhyming quality of bombs), she makes me stop - yes, MAKES ME STOP - and turn the CD off. I know! Just for giggling mid-sex at a hip-hop Transformers reference! What's wrong with her? Anyway, I dutifully bob over to the stereo like a human divining rod, and head eagerly back to the bed.

The walls in this flat were very thin.

My flatmates are having a typical evening - listening to Slayer and playing Tekken 3. Unfortunately "Diabolus in Musica" ends shortly thereafter. As we're both trying to get our rhythm back, I can hear mumbled conversation, which I have transcribed below.

"Has the music coming out of Foxy's room stopped?"

"Yeah, think so"

"Oh, brilliant idea... give me a hand with the speakers"

(oh, fuck)

pause... silence

Maybe they're not so ba...

"LIKE A VIRGIN... TOUCHED FOR THE VERY FIRST TIME... LIKE A VIR-IRR-IR-IR-GIN..."

I can still hear that song every time sexual congress goes awry. It's a guaranteed de-stiffener.

No apologies for length - frankly, it was the least of my worries
(Darth Foxtrot A one-man army dedicated to making fetch happen, Thu 28 Jan 2010, 16:12, 1 reply)

I lost my
virginity to an older woman to the tune of UB40's Rat in mi Kitchen

Thereafter, for the rest of our torrid three month relationship My penis was known as "The Rat" and her mimsey was "The Kitchen"
.
( NobbyNobody 21 years a b3tan, Fri 29 Jan 2010, 9:47, 8 replies)

At a beer festival:
It was a truly glorious summer's day in the middle of July, I was sitting on a bench with a beer in my hand, talking to an attractive barmaid. I wondered if life could get any better. Then the band started playing "Comfortably Numb" by Pink Floyd, which I consider to have the best guitar solo of any piece of music ever written.

Whenever I'm feeling grumpy I think back to that day and grin... Like I am now.

Click if you think Pink Floyd are awesome.
( MatJ LOOK, Thu 28 Jan 2010, 15:35, 9 replies)

Final Fantasy VII "Anxious Heart"
I've been completely obsessed with this one since I was eleven.

-When I was playing the game, I left it paused on the train graveyard for two hours the first time I played it, until my mum threatened to throw the PS1 out of the window.

-It was the first thing I learned to play on the piano.

-It was the first thing I put into a midi sequencer, when I started my music tech A-level.

-I discovered OCR around the age of 14 and have probably listened to the remixes of it on there more than the people who made them.

-It was the first thing I made a remix of. The style of it also influenced the first soundtrack I composed for a film studies student (in the first year of my degree.)

You'd think by now I'd be sick of it, but I'm listening to it now for the millionth time and I still get chills.

It's not funny, and I think I'll get some people telling me off since this isn't a "your favorite song" question, but TBH it shaped my life more than any other one piece of music.

(If anyone else knows and likes the piece I'm talking about, I totally recommend going onto www.ocremix.org and getting the "Heart's Anxiety" remix. It's amazing. :) )
(Sivvus trolley collision in the fruit aisle led to a jam, Thu 28 Jan 2010, 14:11, 15 replies)

Dolly Parton, "Jolene"
I always think of this one just before exams, and it always makes me smile and relax. Why? Because of the immortal answer one of my classmates gave on his mock-A2 Music Tech Paper:

Q: Describe why this style of music is known as "Country".
A: Because that woman sounds like a goat.
(Sivvus trolley collision in the fruit aisle led to a jam, Thu 28 Jan 2010, 14:16, 2 replies)

I put all the songs that mean anything to me on a mix tape.
The less said about that, the better.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Thu 28 Jan 2010, 14:00, Reply)

Drifting away... drifting away...
Music is most powerful when its subject matter is something people can relate to and also something they consider to be important. This is the reason why there are disproportionately more songs about love than any other subject. But scratch beneath the surface of this week's Top 20, away from "I love you and you love me", "I love you but you don't love me", "I used to love you but now I love your best mate" etc. and you will find more imaginative situations we can still relate to.

The two songs I Miss You by Bjork and Blues Away by Erasure are musically very different. Different instrumentation, mood and tempo. But the subject matter is exactly the same: singer is fantasising about their perfect partner they believe is out there somewhere but they've yet to meet. World Full Of Nothing by Depeche Mode is about the delicate trust and vulnerability of a girl and boy losing their virginity to each other. You Shook Me All Night Long by AC/DC is about a curvy woman who made quite an impression ;) So yes, we can have serious and tongue-in-cheek songs about all kinds of complex situations involving love. The ones that stand out are those we relate to at an important juncture in our lives.

And though her mood is fine today, there's a fear they'll soon be parting ways.

I'd been with my girlfriend for nearly six years and she was the only girl I'd ever truly loved. Hell, it was my only relationship to last longer than a fortnight! Realising that despite being still very much in love you're miserable being together is hard, but it's even harder to accept and do something about. It was obvious to both of us that living together was breaking us but we'd come to accept it and put up with a daily grind of arguments and unhappiness for over a year or so. I'd leave home from work feeling tense thinking about walking through the door; I couldn't switch off at the pub with friends knowing I'd get a text or call asking me to come home early; I dreaded the weekend where I'd count the hours trying to fill the time in peace until Monday would come round to save me again.

And then I met her. To be honest, it could have been anyone. It was the first girl in a long while to have shown any notice in me whatsoever. Nothing else needs to be said about her other than nothing happened between us and she moved away. But it was a wake-up call. Most of my twenties had already gone by and instead of being out there experiencing life, enjoying myself, doing... well anything, I was suffocating alongside someone I loved more than anthing else in the world knowing that she was feeling exactly the same.

"We need to talk..."

It was strange finally mentioning the elephant in the room. I decided to take a big picture approach and started by saying that we knew she wanted children one day and I didn't so it was probably best we ended as a couple. There was no big fight or lengthy relationship talk, just little conversations where we mentioned splitting up. I remember taking a half day to come home early to pack a bag and walk out, shaking as I started to pile up clothes before bottling it. I recall one morning where we were just chatting happily in bed and she started crying, quickly setting me off the same, as we admitted we didn't want to be with anyone else. We knew the inevitable was coming but neither of us were strong enough to walk away.

And though he's too big a man to say, there's a fear they'll soon be parting ways.

I waited until the next time we'd be apart for a few days before suggesting we make that the time we officially broke up. It would be tough living together in the same house until we found somewhere else to live but we'd never get moving unless we did something. With that in mind, I'll never forget December 2005. I shared the taxi with the love of my life to the train station. Embraced and kissed her passionately on the platform and saw her away with tears in her eyes. The next time we saw each other we'd be single people.

The train left and I reached for my mp3 player. Music is the soundtrack to my life, I'm always listening to music. I'd known for months that I was going to kiss goodbye to my girlfriend and immediately after I would listen to Parting Ways by Pearl Jam: a beautiful love song about two people living with being in a relationship that they know is soon going to be over. My eyes welled up as the gentle guitar and strings intertwined and I walked back home on a clear Christmas Eve, to spend Christmas in my house on my own. Truly on my own for the first time in a long time.

Parting Ways - Pearl Jam (youtube)
( djtrialprice, Mon 1 Feb 2010, 16:25, 8 replies)

A bit personal...
Back in the deep Stone Age when I was in my early teens, I had a strange series of occurrences.

I visited my sister when she was in university and living with her future husband. As they were in classes, I agreed to amuse myself sorting out junk left behind by other people who had lived in that house at one time or another. This included a load of old LPs (vinyl for you young whelps).

One of the things that they couldn't identify was an LP in a plain white sleeve, with one side unlabeled and the other saying only "Wizardo Rekords Special Recordings". On it was some of the strangest and most haunting music I had ever encountered. They gave it to me, and I listened to it again and again for ages.

During that time I went into the Adirondack Mountains with my parents as I had every weekend and holiday as long as I could remember. That album became inextricably associated with the cold and snow of the Adirondacks, along with the silence and isolation. I would go outside at night and there would only be the cold stars glittering down at me and the popping of the frozen trees and the groaning of the ice in the lake to keep me company. It was as though I were the only person for miles, alone in the frozen mountains, with the songs of that album echoing in my memory as I walked through the crunching glittering snow... the music completely suited the scene and the isolation and loneliness in a way that nothing else has come close to.

Over time I learned who the artists were who created the music, and that fueled a lifelong fascination with them. Their music still takes me into strange and remote landscapes in my mind, and that particular album invariably takes me back to skiing across the frozen swamps, the blueberry bushes and bogs and dead trees transfigured into a fantastic blue and white fairyland where I was the only inhabitant under the brittle white sunlight or the frigid blue moon...

The band was Pink Floyd. The album was a 1970 recording of the John Peel Show where they played Atom Heart Mother, Careful With That Axe Eugene and other classics.

I owe a deep debt of gratitude to whoever left that bootleg album behind.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Sun 31 Jan 2010, 21:01, 2 replies)

this is poignant now...
Remember the Cat Stevens/Yusuf Islam song Moon Shadow? The lyrics are about a guy freaking out about losing his faculties, but finding some cop-out silver lining to each event. If he loses his eyes he won't have to cry, or if he loses his hands, he won't have to work, that sort of thing. Well, that's me that is. This really isn't a terrible 'poor me' post (OK, maybe a bit but that can't be helped) so hang in there for a minute or two.

I used to make a living - indeed, have a great life - as a performing guitarist. Sort of flamenco-fusion style stuff which I did through the '90's mainly with a band and/or guitar partner, and we travelled about the globe a bit with it. Creating, performing and recording music, especially of the instrumental variety, is a hugely emotional thing to do. So in a sense apart from maybe sex and argument it makes up the whole of your world of feelings. Things changed, we all moved apart, I got working in other areas, but always had playing guitar as my own satisfaction and release. I was a pretty handy classical guitarist too, and I could usually bring myself to tears with a particularly good rendition of certain pieces.

Then I got this freakin' disease. I have a progressive and degenerative disorder (won't bother y'all with the medical details) that is taking my faculties from me a bit at a time. It will also most likely - but not certainly - be the death of me sometime in the next handful of years. My hands were among the first things to go. I can type - poorly now and using two fingers only, which is good because I can barely speak understandably. Or sing, which is no loss to the world, believe me. Can't eat or drink (get fed by a tube), eyes are problematic, body stiffening up and underweight (take that big girls!)all sorts. Poor me stuff over now, thanks. So you can see how 'Moon Shadow' makes me laugh a bit.

But that's not the thing. The thing is, that without being able to express myself musically, my life as a listener (ears work fine - yay!) has grown enormously. So now, I am more moved by music than ever before. sure, much of it's predictable stuff; off the top of my head The Flower Duet from the opera Lakshme, The Pearl Fisherman duet, some Evanescence stuff (Amy Lee and I share a birthday 12 years apart), obviously lots of flamenco and classical guitar, and these days many varieties of the human voice. Just instant tears.

And yet, in the midst of all that, there are the darndest things, which get me every time. A little happy riff in a Marta Topferova song, this 4 bars of bassline in Fell In Love With a Boy by Joss Stone (yeah, I mean wtf?) and certain guitar solos of Dave Gilmour's for example. Some really unexpected stuff. Why is that do you think?

Well, that's me these days. Got to admit, I'm a better and happier muso for all of it, even if I can't play no more.

Honestly, Joss Stone?
(dadadali has hybrid vigour, Sat 30 Jan 2010, 3:46, Reply)

Apt – adjective: suited to the purpose or occasion; appropriate
I remember the first time Mrs Sandettie and I orgasmed at the same time. Seeing as I was only 17 and consequently sex for me was over very quickly (not helped by the fact that she was as tight as a mouse's ear), the only theory I have as to why I lasted long enough to manage that feat, was because the same bit of music was looping round and round my mind.

The tune was putting me off my stroke and I thought the best way to get it out of my head was to hum it to myself, quietly though so she didn't hear. Just as I start to hum it under my breath, she started panting and moaning, and I could feel the rhythmic spasms of her pelvic floor muscles as she reached climax. Her panting and moaning was enough to push me over the edge and I didn't so much crash the milk-float, more like I caused a huge pile-up in the dairy car-park, complete with explosions and a radio announcer crying "oh the humanity..".

After the last twitch emptied my knackers completely I realised that I had still been humming the tune. I also realised that I hadn't hummed it under my breath as I thought. I looked down at her and she looked up at me with a puzzled expression. Then she asked me,

"Sandettie, was you just humming the theme from The Equaliser?"
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Fri 29 Jan 2010, 10:04, 2 replies)

Late 88.
I messed up.

The girl I was in love with had dumped me because I rather stupidly slept with one of her 'best friends'. It was really messy as we had just moved in together and our social group had either sided with her (rightly so) or stuck with me (my friends.) Despite my pleas she moved out but I wouldn't give her up; I called her on a daily basis, I showed up at her flat unannounced, I sent her letters begging forgiveness and canvassed her friends to see if there was any way she would consider talking with me again but she was adamant - it was over.

I was genuinely heartbroken and spent far too much time moping and drinking to realise that I had lost a lot of weight and was looking like hell, but I kept on writing letters without getting a reply.

Until finally she called me and said we needed to talk.

We arranged to meet at our old local. I had my hair cut, scrubbed up, put on my black suit and bought a small bunch of flowers. Even though I was sure nothing would ever bring her back, I needed to tell her how sorry I was to have hurt her.

I arrived early, sat at a quiet table and waited.

At the agreed time she walked through the door and with the afternoon sun behind her looked more radiant than ever. She was beautiful - and I was a total idiot for ever betraying her love. I knew it and could feel the tears welling in my eyes. I looked up at her and she reached her hand to my face and gently smiled, and at that moment I knew there was a chance. A remote one, but still a chance.

As I went up to the bar to get her a drink I saw some people making selections on the jukebox, and eventually heard the opening chords of a great song by The House of Love. I smiled and for a moment thought that the world was working with me to win her back - until the vocals kicked in and I started to panic...

"Christine...Christine."

...she got up, grabbed her stuff, muttered 'goodbye' to me and ran out in tears.

No prizes for guessing what her old best-friend's name was.
(Tugnut Ex of this parish, Mon 1 Feb 2010, 16:51, 5 replies)

'Girl From Ipanima',
'The Way To San Jose', and 'Piano Man'.

That's the soundtrack to my lift.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Fri 29 Jan 2010, 6:48, Reply)

Over The Rainbow
I think I've told this story before, but a few years ago I met my dad for the first time in New York. He flew from London, I flew from California and we pretty much met in the middle.
The flight over was unventful, apart from getting loads of free booze from teh flight attendants after they'd heard my story (redeye flights are notoriously boring and the flight attendants will talk to anyone who appears to be awake).

Met dad for the first time in 30 years, had a great time with him and my stepmum. All I'd ever wanted in life was to meet my dad, since I was a wee Mentalist, I'd dreamed of him and that he might love me.

3 days later, flying home, emotionally wrought out but utterly ecstatic (the night before he'd kissed me on my forehead and said "I'm proud to have a daughter like you"), same flight crew, more free drinks.

The song "Somewhere Over The Rainbow" came on.......and at the line "and the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true" I broke down in my seat, and sobbed and sobbed and sobbed because my dream really had come true.

Even now when I hear the song, it takes me back to that night and brings a smile to my face.
( Batshitmentalist is sane for once, Thu 28 Jan 2010, 22:09, 1 reply)

no matter how bad the mood
one song that can always cheer me up and give me that fuzzy-back-of-the-head feeling is E.L.O's Mr. Blue Sky. i always listen to music when i'm doing the housework and that's always the first song i play. it's just an instant pick-me-up.

on a slightly heavier note, i love to listen to Mussorgsky's Night on Bald Mountain during thunderstorms. the music seems to fit the raw power of the storm perfectly.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Thu 28 Jan 2010, 17:59, 9 replies)

When my first nephew was about two, I went down to visit.
His dad picked me up from the station, and as we drove off said proudly, "Watch this"

He put on Daddy Was A Bankrobber by The Clash, to which my nephew sang along as only a two year old can.

He knew all the words.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Wed 3 Feb 2010, 11:09, Reply)

Legless post reminds me
Of possibly the most inappropriate half time match entertainment ever.

It is Saturday September 15th 2001, a few days after the twin towers came down and myself and a few friends were watching an afternoon Rugby match at Cardiff RFC. Obviously, the crowd were a little subdued, all talk being of the unbelievable events of the last 4 days, and even the players on the pitch, perhaps aware that the crowd was not paying its usuall attention seemed sluggish and lacklustre.

And then, just before half time there was a low whining roar in the distance, getting closer and closer until an airliner flew right over the ground and it was low, very low, perhaps 2000ft over the centre of Cardiff. Of course the brighter of us realised that airline schedules were shot and airliners were still being diverted left right and centre in the wake of the attack in New York, so seeing an airliner well off the normal routes was to be expected. Even so, it spooked a lot of the crowd, and even on the pitch, play stopped for a couple of seconds as all 30 players and the referee crained their necks skyward nervously.

Within a couple of minutes it was half time, the whistle blew and the players ran off into the tunnel heading for the dressing room and large parts of the crowd went in search of half time burgers, beer and urinals.

Now, for a season or two, half time entertainment at Cardiff RFC was a dance troupe of girls aged 10 - 16 leaping around enthusiasticaly waving pom poms dancing to disco type music led by their (rather fit) dance teacher.

You can see it coming can't you.

about 30 young girls in their glittering costumes came flooding out of the tunnel onto the pitch, lined up in ranks ready, the speakers crackled as the music was put on and the stadium boomed with the sound of Its Raining Men and off the girls went manically into their pom pom waving routine.

The crowd stood, silently, mouths agape, not quite believing what they were seeing.

The Dance instructors face changed from a happy jazz smile into a horrified rictus grin as she realised a third of the way in why the crowd instead of cheering as usual were looking at her aghast.

The poor girls, god bless em, soldiered on to the end, some of them getting quite teary and as the final bar of the song reverberated around the pitch, they fled back into the tunnel to the sound of stunned silence from the crowd.

The second half came and went, I can't even remember if we won or lost, and we had a very subdued few pints after the game.

Quite an experience.


/Edited for datey accuracy
( RadG Drinking Mojitos in the sun, Mon 1 Feb 2010, 8:52, 2 replies)

Smiths
'Punctured bicycle, on a hillside desolate...'

Reminds me of losing myself cycling for hours in the countryside in Worcestershire growing up.

'A dreaded sunny day, so let's go where we're happy
and I'll meet you at the cemetery gates,
Keats and Yeats are on your side, but Wilde is on mine...'

Hanging around in town with mates when we were too young to go boozing. Yes, we sometimes read poetry... we were very pretentious.

'There's a club if you want to go?
You might meet somebody there who really loves you...
So you go, and you stand on your own, and you leave on your own
You go home and you cry and you want to die'

Describes many evenings in my teenage years, I think....

'If a ten-tonne truck kills the both of us,
To die by your side, the pleasure and the privilege is mine'

Falling in love for the first time.

'We cannot cling to those old dreams anymore,
No we cannot cling to those dreams
...
It wasn't like the old days anymore,
No it wasn't like those days...'

Finishing Uni, struggling to get a decent job, and finding myself sitting around in my parent's house again, feeling like I'd gone back to being teenager again.

'Frankly Mr Shankly this position I've held
It pays my way and it corrodes my soul
I want to leave, you will not miss me,
I want to go down in musical history.'

I'm thinking quite seriously about quitting my job at the company I've been at for 5 years. I can imagine this sort of conversation in my near future (apart from the 'musical history' bit).
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Sat 30 Jan 2010, 11:29, 2 replies)

A soundtrack that saved lives.
Having just posted a comment to someone's post below, I'm reminded about a friend's dad.

He used to be the radio guy on a Halifax bomber in WW2. Oneday my mate was visiting an aero museum, and found a bunch of enthusiasts beavering away, restoring an old Halifax. He walked over and had a chat - asking how it was going - and they told him that details and reliable info was hard to find, so they were left guessing in some areas.

Mike pointed out his dad's role in ww2, and asked if they'd like some first-hand info. "Hell yes!" they said.. so a few days later Mike and his 80+ dad rolled up and entered the hangar.

After answering all their questions, telling takes and having a good rummage in the old bird they asked a rather odd question.

"Erm.. this may sound silly, but why is there a microphone in the Nr2 engine bay?"
A happy smile cracked over the old fella's face, and he recounted this story.

During sorties over hostile europe, they'd be killing time, and trying not to be killed. Screwing up German radio communication was one way to nail 2 birds with one stone. The Radio guy would twiddle though frequencies until he heard German chatter, and then on his spare radio he'd transmit the best soundtrack he had to hand - jamming or disturbing their communication. The soundtrack? Up-close and personal "Rolls Royce Merlin".

This game of Radio Cat-and-mouse would continue so long as they didn't have anything important to do :)
( Humpty Dumpty was Pushed Is unaware of having any limits., Fri 29 Jan 2010, 13:37, 2 replies)