No one can succeed like Doctor Robert
Tweet Ah lads, I can't handle this humid weather. It's suffocating. Earlier, a trip to the shop for a cooling lolly nearly left me collapsed in a wheezing heap. Night time is worse. I ended up rooting around the freezer for bags of frozen veg to put under my sheets last night. They sort of worked too, like reverse hot water bottles with broccoli florets in them. In case you're wondering, I didn't share my bed with the foodstuffs. I patiently watched a bit of BBC News 24 as they worked their magic. I can be a bit gross at times, but even I wouldn't sneak a bag of veg back in the fridge after it was semi-defrosted by the radiant heat from my crotch. John Daly: Keeping the Jimmy White flame of smoking in sport alive. My friend tells me it's terrible bad weather for 'golfer's hole'. This unsubtle euphemism describes an otherwise unspoken rash that will be familiar to any man who has spent a hot day doing repetitive physical activity in Penney's underwear. The aformentioned friend and his golfing chums periodically suffer from this embarrassing scourge. They've a lot of extra nylon to deal with, y'see. Indeed, it's so common in the golfing community that they talk openly about it in the pub and compare treatments. The slathering on of Vaseline at 7am, the sly dock-leaf dropped down your jocks behind the fifteenth tee. It's all part of a hot day's golf. I'm going to post a techno-y MP3 because I haven't done that in a while. MP3: Deepchord presents echospaceelysian This track is a cut from the monolithic dub techno album 'the coldest season', which is produced by Stephen Hitchell and Rod Modell. I associate dub techno with two wildly different types of situation. The first normally occurs on a bank holiday Sunday afternoon. You find yourself wobbling through the blasted wreckage of a house-party to open a window, any window, as long as it lets out the mong. Invariably, a few survivors are splayed on couches, staring at lampshades and muttering about heading down to others of their ilk in the Bernard Shaw. An impossibly cheery techno-wonk's ipod, running on the barest shred of battery, will be burbling through the speakers. What's playing? Why, dub techno of course. My second experience normally occurs at home, late at night when I am feeling a little down in the dumps. I put my headphones on and surrender to this music. It's a security blanket. So deep, dark, cavernous and luxurious. All those soft undulating effects following the sparse bass, echoing, hissing, drawing the mind further and further into space or perhaps more aptly 'a space' where everything melts away except form and texture. Often dub techno music is barely representative of anything (one of the tracks from the deepchord album I mentioned is called "ocean of emptiness"). Such a meandering, repetitive journey through texture maddens those who criticise the genre. But, to me anyway, it is the very abstraction they criticise which provides the ultimate means of escapism.