God Damn Lips
It’s here! The #mysteryweekend Newcastle 2019 Book is now online! Of course, you might know it by its proper title: The Time that Three Friends Went Away for a Spiffing Adventure. And Everything Was Fine.
You can read it, along with all the other silly books, on the Books page.
Highlights of this particular literary work include:
TenniversaryIt’s been ten years since one of the most important cultural events of our, or anyone else’s, lifetimes. The Papples’ debut album, Wasting my Life, was released in May 2009 to a largely indifferent public.
To celebrate this milestone, Ian and myself made a pilgrimage to a number of sites on the south coast where the photos for the album sleeve were taken. We then recreated as many as we could find to mark this seminal tenniversary event. Join us, now, as we take you through all of the photos we recreated, slowly, one by one, whether you want to see them or not, like a distant relative showing you some old holiday photos.
InterludeLadies and gentlemen, we have now reached approximately the mid point of this website, so this is a suitable time to take a short break. Please feel free to take this opportunity to visit the bathroom or step out into the foyer to avail yourself of our wide range of beers, wines, spirits and snacks.
Part two of Pouring Beans will begin in a few minutes. In the meantime, please enjoy five minutes of gleeful silliness that everyone of sound mind ought to have in their lives.
Time HoleWelcome to the Time Hole. Do you want to see the past? Do you want an insight into how things once were? Could you handle how much a time share in London was in 1982?
Regardless of how you answer these questions, it doesn’t matter. Let me present you with a recent find of mine. I “stumbled” across a copy of the Women’s Journal from 1982 (as you do) and inside was a bounty of adverts. And I do mean a bounty, because half the magazine was adverts. I don’t think I would have minded paying the 60p for it 36 years ago but my eyes would have screamed over from the sheer volume of glossy makeup, perfume, skincare, appliances and cooking apparel pornography thrust directly into my brain.
Luckily things are a little (little, I’m not referring to you, Little Miss Internet) bit more toned down for 2018. Let’s open the Time Hole for a bit. You like butters and spreads, right? So did people in 1982:
I was planning on scanning the whole thing but, as Emma quite rightly pointed out, every time you turned the page it creaked as though the glue was about to give up and run away to Greece to open a juice bar down on the beach.
I’ve never heard of this brand. I can only presume it doesn’t exist anymore, meaning that that the high demand referred to in the advertisement was actually baloney. Still, I’m sure 95% of the industry is baloney and the “butter mountain” was a real thing seen HERE in all its glory courtesy of our good friends at popular online wank-filtered encyclopaedia Wikipedia.
I wasn’t alive then but it sounds as though it was a good time for all.
The secret life of ChrisMy past is a shady, murky place. Little is known by the general public.
A while ago, it came as a surprise to everyone when I revealed that I was once jilted at the altar by a bear. But there are more secrets to be revealed, and today I am finally ready to share one with you. For a long time I wasn’t sure I could ever tell anyone about this, because to be honest I don’t remember it, but apparently – many years ago, longer ago, in fact, than I thought I had ever been alive – I was a stylish Edwardian lady.
It all seemed quite improbable until the evidence turned up: this lovely portrait, hanging up in my local Wetherspoons, that undeniably shows me in my previous form.
What hasn’t come to light yet (and I’ve asked the landlord about it, but he said he didn’t know, and he had other people to serve so I had to stop asking him) is what my name was in those days. I doubt it was Chris. It would have to have been something more delicate and ladylike. If your research produces any results on that front I’d be glad to hear them.
Trekkin’ Abroad: Norman D.So many posts in so few days. It’s almost like it’s the end of the month and people have one eye on the Bean Counter.
No matter. This isn’t just any post, this is important. Listen carefully.
I am posting to the Beans from a foreign location. I am, literally, Trekkin’ Abroad at this exact moment. I am within a country apparently called Norman D., though as yet I have been unable to ascertain its surname. However, armed only with this rudimentary information, I’ve narrowed down some likely suspects.
An English footballer, who mainly played defensive positions, Norman Dodgin’s professional career lasted from the late 1940s to the early 1950s and he died in 2000.
An author, most famous for his 1915 book South Wind, Norman Douglas died in 1952 – interestingly, at a time when Norman Dodgin was at the height of his professional football career. A coincidence? Unlikely.
Confusingly born in Breslau, a German city that no longer exists because it’s now called Wroclaw and in Poland, Norman Dyhrenfurth was a cinematographer who produced movies for National Geographic in the 1960s and is apparently also known for a film released in 2007, which is two years after his death. He was born on May 7th, the same as me. Another coincidence? Unlikely.
Clearly these are the three most eminent Norman D.’s in the world, and so logically if I am in a place called Norman D. then I must be in one of them. All three are dead, which brings the unsettling but inevitable conclusion that I have gone on holiday to a corpse. However, it seems to be a reasonably nice corpse, with a pleasant apartment that has a balcony and a short walk to shops and bars around an attractive harbour front setting, so if this is life inside a dead body it’s not all bad.
I am due to leave this place on Sunday and if any further information about the location or identity of Norman D. comes to light, I will share it here.
Four Word Reviews: Christmas with MahaliaIt’s been the hottest April since records began, or something, with temperatures up to 28°C here in the tropical south last week. The flowers are out in force, bees are buzzing around and the sky is a clear, vivid blue. With all that in mind, then, I am unable to explain why this might be a good time to review Christmas with Mahalia, a 1968 album featuring ten gospel versions of Christmas songs with rich orchestral and choral accompaniment. But evidently it is a good time, because here we are.
2005 callingIt’s now thirteen years since I first had a phone with a camera built into it and decided that I wanted all my phone contacts to be associated with photos of that person on the phone, so when my phone rang it looked like I could see them on the phone.
Since I didn’t get pictures of anyone hanging up, I can only assume these sad, lonely ghosts of 2005 are still on the line, listening to an engaged signal, patiently waiting to talk to me.
I will not answer you, ghosts of the past. Stop calling me.