I am sometimes considered a little weird and occasionally a bit off-the-wall. That suits me fine because, in all probability, I am. Being ordinary is common, and I take pride in being uncommon.

This Saturday afternoon, at exactly 2pm, all on my own, I took part in a group event. Eh? Well, yea, actually. You heard of flash-mobbing? No? You will.

In principle, a flash-mob is a large group of people who assemble quickly in a public place, perform an unusual activity for a brief period of time and then quickly disperse. The odder the better.

There is no real purpose to such activity. It’s random and it’s meant to be. It should stop as suddenly as it starts, and its participants should behave as naturally as possible while carrying it off, before melting discretely into the crowd. In many countries, there have been mass silent raves at busy railway stations, huge pillow fights, cycling demonstrations, and other completely random stuff.

Martin and I have been working on a new track. We’re not giving it out yet as it is a fair way off still from being finished, but get ready! Seany mumbled something into a microphone too, and somehow it’s still in the track, I just can’t seem to delete it. ) It sounds good though.

Often a track is crafted around a sample, and it is this sample which dictates how the finished product would sound. In our case, it was the other way around: Martin stumbled upon a spoken sample which seems like it was made to go in the breakdown.

This is the text of the spoken sample by a famous actor type called Quentin Crisp. God knows where my mate found it, but it’s pure gold! (It lasts a minute and a half, though.)

“I have been to restaurants in Soho whose denizens have crossed social and geographical barriers to reach them.

“In one I have seen a girl sitting amid musical pandemonium with a book open on her knees and her little finger entwined with that of her true love. Of course, she was not really listening, not really reading and not communicating with her friend in any way that required effort or style.

“It would be hard to say whether the jukebox caused the death of human speech, or whether music came to fill an already widening void. But, unless the music is stopped now, the human race, mumbling, snapping its fingers and twitching its hips, will sink back into an amoebic state where it will take a coagulation of hundreds of teenagers to make up a single unit of vital force, which, once formed, will only live on sedatives, consume itself on the terraces of football stadia, and die.”

Now if that isn’t a quote, I don’t know what is!

I hate veg. Don’t make me eat it.
I won’t give in till it’s stone cold.
I’ll give that smile: and then it’s hopeless.
You’ll never win an argument with a seven-year-old.

Catch me! Oh, you can’t. Shall I run slower?
Can I keep the change? Ar, go ‘ed, pleeease?
Can I stay out just ten more minutes?
Cos it’s not dark an’ I won’t sleep.
 
Alley, alley-in! No back-answers!
I know where you’ve all hid so where’s the fun in that?
I can see the grown-ups watching
Ready to open the door and shout
If I go anywhere near their garden.

It might be thick as pig-shit but it always brings it back.
Drool flying everywhere it wants another throw.
Eats cats for breakfast but sticks when there’s no cats.
My dog’s the bollocks.