So I bid my mother goodbye and frankly, it was while trying not to laugh or cry as the dismal rain fell on the Caruso warping its way from the graveyard CD player, born on Friday the 13th and died on Friday the thirteenth…and everything means nothing and nowt.

And in the wise tinted retro spectacles I now, grey bearded, must wear, I know, I came adrift like Billy Pilgrim and Jack Kerouac eloping with my selves muttering ‘Rules are for fools’ and ‘I wanna live in a movie’ We say all sorts of embarrassing shite when we’re young and suppressing the shadow of death the best we can in order to hope a little’s lying around in bits like our personalities were..we gather them up and make a collage.

Off I’ve been on the protracted wander that led from the dismal cemetery to Coupars Magic parlour Where he has gathered the many strange and wonderful devices that he uses to perform his sonic wizardry and play several musical instruments with an approach inexplicable and entirely self taught that makes maestros feel like one fingered fuckwits and quit..I will not lie even for love.

I brought some scraps of tunes and hard won verse and he gave me an organ peddle and made a face that meant ‘Let’s get this done while we still can’
and Time has changed me, and so have you.

All of this is true.

The lunatic reunion finished and I walked with a cane and two of my sons down Providence Place, the Poet Isobel followed me with a camera..I have the film as evidence, it was murder and everyone was a suspect and guilty.

We Needed Oliver Jackson who played many instruments with all his fingers but principally Drums and we needed George Boarer who played many other instruments but mostly the bass guitar and sang dark and lived there above a garage in Providence Place like the Fonz..these people sleep in musical instrument cases and cannot and will not quit, they will break your heart as it breaks mine that I cannot write their stories in full which are still being written.. A sketch of them and mine are here heartfelt and factual unflinching. I hope you can feel them.

Firedogs are the flourishes on the brazier blackened iron hard by the heat of the flame and time has changed me and so have you.

The clock is tap- tapping impatient, Tick fucking Tock innit?

Brent 3.06am 13/12/2017 Peacehaven in Albion.

The Firedogs are not a ‘normal’ band
Bios will say this shit but I am not a P.R. bot.

I am a Lifelong fan of Mr Andy Coupar and Mr Brent Jackson..I’ve followed them since they were

lunatic teenagers gigging twice a week and ‘practicing’ (a party with jamming NO RERUNS) twice..
Two things happened..they gained a big live following based on the Iggy style kamikaze fronting of Jackson and the increasingly stunning guitar rule breaking of his stalwart..
They added some killer tunes and chorus’s and Mr Ron Richards House producer at Abbey road studios and Genius gentleman saw them live and took them in abbey road two nutters are the best songwriters i’ve heard since John and Paul.
‘Who?’ Coupar said.
John Peel professed he loved the Lunatics So they split up. 88..
Reforming In 2014 With their best drummer (producer teacher) Ollie jackson and The mighty G (The best lead guitarist that ever played bass! world traveller Singer Hawklord.) To make an LP of the Lunatic songs they wished they’d recorded, they soon found ten thousand fans had joined their page and got more than 2 million video views They had a sit down…worldwide radio play and some festivals got terrorised…
Then they decided to start jamming.. a freer wilder approach where the previous was free and wild..
Still the old chorus’s that nag n stick still the old killer tunes..but a new will to push the sonic envelope and say the unsaid..  
This is the firedogs. it’s what they’re doing now.

Soundman to G has he’s going onstage: What sort of music do you play?
G: Lets find out shall we.

Ron Richards (22 January 1929 – 30 April 2009)
John Peel, OBE (30 August 1939 – 25 October 2004)

Thank you granddaughter, you’ve got to love them…no apparently you have to.

I have now officially been making my own art and stories and songs for half a centaury..

There are people who still regard me as ‘The Kid’ on here and those poor long suffering folk can confirm that’s not hyperbole they can also confirm that I’ve always been this eccentric and gregarious..what they can’t do is explain why I aint better at the ‘Art’ after spending oceans of time at it..

I had a whale Friday night with the inner circle at the 2nd Nora LP sessions..if there’s a place I’d like to spend a birthday in more than Coupars magic parlour it’s slipped my mind.

Chorus: Here for our younger viewers is what I’ve learnt in 58 years of tenacious survival by audacious bluff..Count your blessings!

I’ts one of them phrases your nan and the bible say and you see as trite religious homilies..
However having died thrice once in Glasgow I can assure you it’s a 100% legit magic mantra, explanation and the first thing one thinks after a resurrection…oh and there are many, many second chances.
Count your blessings!
I do.
I’m glad to be here and I’m glad you’re here too.

Brent Peacehaven, 28th August 2017.

Every fortnight as some of you will know a small satirical newspaper called Private eye is published in this country and is available to all, many of you my friends, will give it a miss, as large swathes of it are concerned with subjects you feel, I know, life is just too short to dwell on…

This is a view I understand and sympathise with, sometimes I only read the Cartoons, There’s only so much rank injustice, corruption and pomposity one can laugh at before it rings hollow like a gigantic bell… Fortnight upon fortnight and without fail, since I was a teenager, this publication has reeled off and highlighted a steady flow of tales of the double dealing, money grabbing and bent in our management and legal and ruling ‘classes’, A heap of odious, sociopath, politicians, Businessmen and media figures… unhinged by the prospect of a whiff of power and wealth into acts of breathtaking selfishness and greed, tens, no, hundreds of thousands of acts of moral bankruptcy and betrayals of common decency, exploitation and opportunism that would make a parasitical insect wither with shame. As entertainment goes it’s a pretty masochistic and questionable choice actually, I’ve come to realise and I have to wonder how it goes on and on and on.

I prefer the brevity and incision of verse really and song specifically and I feel two song quotes sum up the situation with agonising exactitude.
“The worlds insane and we’re all to blame in a way” Paul Weller, “The Butterfly collector”
“People aint no good” Nick cave, eponymous.

Today I read in the ‘Eye’ that, ‘according to Facebooks own figures there are more 18 year old men on the platform than are currently alive on Earth”
Fancy that!
Is it any wonder that a sea of souls pretend, indeed yearn to be someone else?

I celebrate my youngest sons birthday today, He’s Thirteen and Innocent, untouched by the seething ocean of maggots before him..Baby Jesus on a unicycle Shall we do something about it? Or just fold like all those others and stagger off into the wasteland of lonely broken liars and mercenaries doomed to never feel again the contentment and belonging we once imagined?
Fatherhood…it’s a bastard.

Brent. 02/05/2017 (tuesday)

I missed PMQT that week, I’ll admit it, I’d been worn down by the walking dead shuffling meme by meme to a racist, entitled, Great British fake off, rendered afraid by the zombie-fying forces of Murdoch and the pith hatted medias sly tally ho for the billionaire vision of the new serfdom..I was blown out by the Carry on House of commons inanity of the coming isolationist trumping of Albion and the consequences for my kids education
and the National Health service about to become the Virgin and associates health company sell off. I had the wacky adventures of an aging wonky indy band in Plasticine to make in an attempt to alleviate the bitter broken heart of a socialist facing a shit storm of inane compliance..
I’d worked late in the studio (garage) and missed the tolling of the bells of uprising, probably a good thing, if i’d heard it live I may have had a cardigan vest.

It happened like this but I can’t tell you why..the career politicians gathered in the house of conmen had been eyeing up Jeremy who was sitting staring at a sheet on his lap and saying nowt, later it emerged that even his own colleagues had feared he’d grown sick, he looked more pale and red eyed than usual and seemed distracted.. you could hear the whispers on his side contained a lot of concerned ‘Jezzas and jeremys and the hubbub opposite had the phrase ‘we got him’ and the word broken in it..

The prime minister wore her splendid new plum leather trousers and gave it some histrionics about a strong unified nation having sent some in-genuine commiserations out to a victim of something, in the tone of smug winners everywhere she looked to Mr Corbyn to add his opening bit and a long awkward pause fell and radiated out from him like a SBD fart of some magnitude, then just as the tension reached it’s disconcerting apogee Jeremy stood and smiled suddenly at the hollow clothes horse opposite and spoke.
‘Did the right honorable lady opposite sleep well last night?’ some Whig wag brayed ‘Yes thanks’ and childish laughter ensued
‘Did she? Was she not woken by the bells? The alarm bells that wake the people of these islands? did she sleep through them, her and her swivel eyed Bullingdon billionaire lackeys with their deregulation and free market bun fest disregard for their homeland, these marionettes of boggle eyed super rich media barons based over the seas and their corporate pals who pay nothing in to our island yet tell it what to think, those dinosaurs who run riot through pension funds and gorge the profit of the common decent man, the worker, the veteran, the aspiring young, was she not woken by the bells that toll for her and her backward Etonian privilege? The heartless hollow competition? Did she not hear these decent ordinary Brits get up and go on and then realise..They like France and Germany and Holland? Did she not hear the alarm bell sound of the billions of pennies dropping as they further realised that her and her co conspirators and Mr Trump and his golf club friendless well to do’s are the real enemies of liberal democracy, Not Europe, Not Putin and not Kim Jong, THEM! they are thieves and liars, mad men even, selling greed and competition and calling it ‘Nature’ and fate like comic super villains..and disregarding the youth who yearn for more, for real unity not a sound bite for the Mail and Sun, Did she forget Iceland? Did she forget the misery her snake oil salesman austerity caused for the infirm and elderly the struggling single parent the disadvantaged..DID SHE?’ The house of open mouths was historically stunned at this unexpected and heartfelt outburst and the career conmen in there had even forgot to bray as Jeremy Corbyn fixed his opposite number with a steely and coruscating stare..and finished..
‘Is she so cocky and arrogant so swept up in her own hyperbole and certainty that she thinks Google and Amazon and the aforementioned Bransons and Murdochs can serve our nation up to her elitist mates like Tescos? Has she really slept through the bells?
I’d like to finish by quoting Iggy Pop gentleman..’
“Life is not a business”
The Alarm bell went off and woke me in error at 4.30am on Thursday morning and the dream was gone like snow on water.

Brent Jackson Peacehaven. 20th April 2017.

As the big wheel turned and the millennium arrived in 2000, I found myself living in Frederiksberg, Copenhagen, Denmark, washed ashore battered and jaded from the struggles of unionism against the tide of Thatcherism’s market free for all, the cold and ‘hollow competition’… ‘Had a bit of a nervous break-dance and…Well anyway I was a refugee among the Danes; I’ll spare you the gruesome boredom of the details…

The third Saturday I was there, in the corner of the square that shared the large communal back gardens of Svanholmes vej all the immediate neighbours came out and got together and caught up, painted fences, weeded gardens and took care of each other and the area, those who were busy, shy or disinclined put more toward the beer and pizza, I learned it wasn’t a law but a tradition and for me an Englishman it was a revelation..and frankly an alien experience..and absolutely fucking wonderful..How did they do it every month? why? It relieved local services and caused a reduction in the rates! I pondered long on it as I sipped from the bottle and munched on fine local pizza..

They had a sense of community and togetherness a feeling of extended family connection we simply lost before I was born and only vaguely experienced in village life in the sixties..They knew each other better and liked each other more! I felt like I’d arrived on another planet and penny lane was being piped from the sky…my grin hurt.

Where was the envy and rivalry? The hollow competition?

It’s laughably simple of course when you examine it, they don’t have ‘Toffs’ they don’t have hoards of millionaires, the entitled…and the vast majority live so well, so gracefully and stylishly as a result..Generally speaking and of course there are a few exceptions but they are few and anomalous…Their culture is not soviet Russia they are not ‘trots’ they are a dynamic upbeat innovative society with fantastic health and public services and they party and love like Celts..

They have not been infected by the greed of the upper crust into the dog eat dog shit show Albion has become…they simply haven’t…and the Mail and Sun and the like, those brown tongues of the ruler set, don’t want you to hear about it they want you to regard the world in the knee jerk reactionary black n white that serves them..The Scandinavians see us as sick with ego and lust and our society as a broken free for all a mad eyed unjust circus…and that’s what the Tory wants…Carrot town with also rans of misery in every other door way…

I’ve seen it with my own eyes and it works better than the miserable bollocks Mrs May is offering in her tasteless leather trousers on behalf of her millionaire crony’s…and if she expects me to sit back and except this filthy rigged game run like a post code lottery, for my children and grand children, for these islands and tribes I love then she can dream on..I’ll fight it to my last dying breath with every possible method at my disposal and if you are not happy with the society the culture she’s offering to your family to your people, that odious cosmetic liar thief, then you should fight it too and vote her and her henchmen to oblivion come June.

They are the villagers
a torch wielding mob
they march up to the castle
and elect the fucking knob

They are the villagers
a banal bovine barrage
they like the queen and Simon cowl
and Nigel fucking forage

You are a villager
your head is full of sticks
You are not a free man
you are number six

They’ve never left the village
where life is simple, steady
don’t tell the villagers
They’re dead already

Empty hearted inbreeds
who hold the whole race back
stared out the window in their class
and the village stared right back

Ignore the mobile library
It’s for nans and gays
I’d rather play a shoot em up
and I can’t read anyway

They stay in their hovels
on a diet of porn and pot
and vote for the tories
and the land that time forgot.

Brent Jackson.

Oh dear oh dear what times…a safe Labour seat falls to the Millionaire business feks and their zombie legion…even a spectacular tail spin by UKCrap cannot cheer me..

Have to be honest and realistic, many, many, good hearted lefties, some I like and admire are just not having Corbin…and it’s starting to feel like the media propaganda attack on poor old Jez has worked, and we simply can’t get even slightly left of centre without those who just can’t and don’t ‘believe’ in him..

And there’s nobody else who looks like they can attract them…

I’ve been a little guilty of wishing more people had been to Scandinavia, had stayed away from the mainstream news and hell, logged off and read a bit…starting to see it as an elitist folly to some extent, losing hope that people will suddenly wake up and be sickened by the business before community, ‘Great’ British sell off.

It gets worse when you realise you’re wishing Jezza could do a ‘Trump’ and really tear into the opposition, they seem such easy targets…so self evidently materialist and self serving…but sadly, the very qualities that make him a decent human being refusing to join the dog and pony show at the house of con men, are the same that stop him attracting the populist vote.

It’d death by thrilling irony as the NHS goes private before our eyes and the jaded except the dog eat dog world theme park Britannia…I’m chewing the desk here in frustration as the healers and educators the non materialists are swept aside like incompetent henchmen in those clichéd film/games who cannot shoot or punch you but are just there to die and keep you playing..
2000 years later and still praying for salvation, still stained by that stupid Hollywood conceit that drives every other movie, One man against the mob/world/corporation, you know that plot that never EVER happened in real life….still wishing for a Cinderella twist.

Dark visions plague me again and I hear the voice of my granddad a communist who wasn’t having the Tory ‘vermin’ whatsoever and couldn’t walk past an underdog for trying…a pillar of the community who had no enemies where he lived…(and a fine piano sing song leader too apropos of fuck all) and He’s saying..’Wishing you had wheels will not get you bus fare’
‘Rise!’ called a wavering tired sounding voice of defiance.

For Gilly. O2/24/2017

The posh thinkers, The libertarians, even on the left,
are doing what they’ve always done,
throughout history..
patronising and dismissing the common man with their floral guess work.
They are experts on nothing except looking different, superior,
They have built nothing except their phoney fairy tale selves.
They have studied nothing and researched little properly,
that supports their highly individualist opinions
Such striving is for workers and specialists..and both are of course
completely alien to these shape throwing self obsessed poseurs who
Know nothing of the struggle of the lower and under class
or the dedication of the specialists they’ve produced against the odds.

You know who they are
They have spent this year Kicking and slandering a decent man.
Smug in their view oft their disconnected elevated opinions.
I don’t need them to think for me, Do you?
See, while those attracted to the decent man fret about the deal for the young the sick,
About the hopeless tone of life in the toxic, immoral, dog eat dog food fight of free market capitalism
These clowns concern themselves with rebranding the same old slanders and pseudo mystical nonsense they have always used at any hint at an increase in collectivism..
They have used the same bollix since Stalin..because of course Mao and Pol pot and arthur scargil have discredited socialism forever..
Just as Cortez, Hitler, Genghis Khan,Thatcher and the pope have proven unrestricted expansionism and aquisition are just DANDY!
It’s comic.
Look they’re having a competition a BEANO!
Strive for glitz and glory half a kilometre from the Grinding poverty on the site of Western genocide..
Talking about, scorning the flaws in systems is fun aint it?
A great game.
I’m going for gold me like…
For clever talkers what fun!
(it’s better than working)
The trumpers..the balls out yank capitalists are particularly tragic comic aint they?
Listen to them claim their system, which is marinated in old European cynical desperation (Can you hear that hopeless tone?)
..their system is the best..Built entirely on the destruction of the indigenous folk (the Holywood holocaust that’s not so fashionable anymore)
The work done by slaves from another holocaust (still quite fashionable)
Their system is the best
Despite the Atomic bombs
The glamorisation of greed and exploitation of violence and theft
The objectifying sexed up glitter of it all…
Right Left Theo, Auto Merit ocratic all these flavours
have an obvious thing in common a child could see
That’s right a small shadowy elite with all the power and wealth
Talking bollocks whilst holding The Herd, The Sheeple…You.In utter contempt.
Watch you struggle
Disadvantaged and disunited by their rigged cheat game..
They laugh and gorge.
Look! (and try to believe your eyes)
They are happy to have one child eat all the food…
Have all the freedom..
Whilst the others fight among themselves.
To the dim numb death..
Sociopathic narcissi? Psychos?

My family is a collective.
Natural as thunder and lightning and far more annoying.
My children share and support or else.
Granddaughters equal to sons
Each gets the same support, love, dinner..

Talking about the flaws in systems is fun.
A great game.
Fixing the flaws
Fighting the bullshit
Demanding justice
(look at your babies)
Your old nan..
In this hollow cold competition
Is that a great game..
I confess I’m still revolting..

Subsequent to yesterdays epiphany (see last blog) and struggling with ye olde ill health as I am and subsequent also to staying up late faintly deranged by the meds editing the new Arnie Slipshod Tubecast..I woke and had to go around the corner to the little deserted shop in Ashington Gardens past the Old peoples death camp on the corner of Round hay avenue and Downlands way which some bean counter in a cupboard decided to call Downlands given the choice of ’round’ or ‘down’ this kafka fan went for ‘down’
Round being presumably too indicative of reincarnation and down being the brutal old boy sat outside defiantly smoking and I called to him “I hope that’s a spliff!”
“I wish!” he called back precipitating a serious coughing symphony..downing the corner into roundlands way I noticed a local wit had sprayed “Old Cunts” on the fence down the side..”Old Cunts court” it is then..clearly a superior name.
I have had some experience of the geriatric nursing world (via acquaintances in the ‘profession’) and therefore know that they are simply packed with interesting and demented characters who rarely receive visitors..
This is of course is but one of many indicators of just how bonkers and doomed the human race is..People are just not prepared to face the reality of collapse and death, the mess and tragedy of it all..the tribe and family (particularly in the first world of course) is retreating into Sim world at a rapid rate. In the interest of slight balance my own mother refused the idea of living with her children and opted for an early stroke in an underfunded and demoralised NHS hospital corrugated hut instead.
The other indication of our impending doom is doubtless the mobile phone..apart from the obvious anti social thumb twitching junky element there’s the matter of power you charge the damn thing until it says 100% then switch to standby/inert and leave it an hour in which it does nothing not even lighting up inexplicably and it will say 82% even entirely un used..I’ve done a short shoddy survey and this is the norm..imagine the power wastage across the nation and the world…imagine also the profit to the dark lords of the power supply bastards of oblivion.
There will be plenty of ‘rockstar’ anecdotes in subsequent segments including unflinching inside stories on The Late Road Lunatics, How I beat The fatlord as a Union activist and the adventures of a fame dodging creative who refused the money.
There you go that’s the first instalment of ‘The memoirs of a has been who never was’ (which now i’m assured I’ll never make it to old cunts court) I am resolved to write in easily digestible bite sized parts and post here on the criminally ignored, blog of ‘the funniest nobody in the universe’.. a title I bestowed upon myself just now..because. I think you should definitely consider commenting on the ‘episodes’ as they occur, as the funniest, stupidest and rudest will be included in the final master work..which will bestow upon you a kind of immortality as it will obviously be, one day regarded as superior to all other works of literature..ever..anywhere…I’ll be looking out for those who pretend to like and admire me and if they don’t appear the consequences will be frankly negligible..but I will know you couldn’t be bothered and of course it will mean you can prove you read it originally when not having read it will be regarded by future generations as a certain indicator of tastelessness and ignorance of herculean proportions..which to be honest I wrote purely from the desire to include the word ‘herculean’ on a whim.


Brent (Arnie slipshod, the Flawless blade) Jackson
Peacehaven early feb 2017.