Spiked

...taxi ride home last night after an evening wandering around an almost empty college during my cryptically named 'evening duty', listening to The Slits second album and some Death Chant downloads... the taxi had an oddly hyperboreal smell inside it, as if the cold from outside had been sucked in and kept there, just to shake the molecules down... temperature reduced to raw olfaction.

Actually, I'm not sure what hyperboreal means but it seems to fit. Later, I'll look it up perhaps, though I like not knowing what words mean and just imagining - spent a great deal of very funtimes in my early teens with an Anthony Burgess novel and no dictionary...

I was tired but if you blinked too fast tiny crystals of nicotine floated through the air... playing very loud in the car was The Fuhrers Face by Spike Jones and his City Slickers, a song that seemed to make the car into an tiny encapsulation of the Kubrick version of the The Shining, a sensation enhanced by the taxi driver himself - who looked like Gandalf squashed against William H Macy in a one person lift-shaft...


We talked a little about Spike Jones and the similarities with the Bonzo Dog Doodah Band...he showed me the CD cover - Spike rattling the drums with a Joker suit and a smile that wrapped around his head - "You just get the sense that, it isn't a job, couldn't be...that it was just a guy having real fun with his friends... that's gone now..."

Outside, a man dressed as a Viking stumbles home while a Ghost Ship makes it's ways through Western-Super-Mud(Carnival Time in Somerset)...