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Neil Scout

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How To Pick Up 14-Year-Old Girls [Sep. 8th, 2004|03:07 pm]
Neil Scout
Luxembourg @ Islington Academy

So, was it really worth it? You jumped on the shining big train to take you far away from the falling leaves and four-wheel drive of your safe suburban home, and into the smoke, romance and dysentry of the big city. Upper Street is glistening in the evening sunlight, the buildings shimmer and pout through the heathaze. You can see it in the eyes of the young stockbrokers who gather round terrace bars. Everyone is on heat. Oh God, you think. They must be in Angel, playing with my heart. But stick around- tonight, it's all about you. You're in the gang, you're one of us. Sit back and enjoy the ride. Care for a frappé lattucino?
Three hours later, you stroll to the bus stop and take a long and pensive drag on your last Marlboro Light. Your eyes blink at the neon glow and your head continues to spin, all visions of dashing suits and ice-cool haircuts that melt into the Smirnoff Ice. Your ears still in rapture at the euphoria of disco chanson and small-town funk. How was it for you? Did the earth move? I'll let you in on a little secret. We were watching you all the time, because we like to watch, and we know it did. We also know that you weren't faking, because you is my wife now, Dave.
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Charles Hatcher, j'accuse! [Sep. 7th, 2004|03:06 pm]
Neil Scout
When one has taken an oath to make daily updates, quality control becomes an issue. It is inevitable that even the most fertile minds will endure the occasional lean period. On such occasions, Brian Eno's Oblique Strategies can be of enormous help. With this in mind, I selected a card from the pack. 'Try putting more reverb on the hi-hat', advised Brian. Unsure what the literary equivalent to such a production technqiue might be (alliteration?) I pondered my next move, when inspiration came through my comments page.
After The Noble Sausage's recent investigative report on binge-drinkers, a M. Charles Hatcher of Dunmurry writes to deride me as a 'despondent, detached ascetic' of Kafkaesque proportions. Quelles conneries! I, Neil Scout, despondent! I, who merely take a realistic view of human nature, and set the barometer of my expectations accordingly! I, Neil Scout, detached! I, whose thirst cannot be quenched, who participates in every sport and diversion open to humanity! Were I detached, I should have spent Friday evening at home, sipping green tea, taking digital photographs of cats and milling around on MSN messenger. I, Neil Scout, ascetic! Opposition to immoderation does not an ascetic make, just as an instinctive revulsion for the organising principles of Socialism does not a Himmler make.
In the face of such damning Judgement, at least I can look in the mirror and know that Neil Scout does not hide behind a mask. I happen to know for a fact that 'Charles Hatcher' is a humble paleontologist who in real life, answers to the name of Michael Sodem. Pseudonyms might seem fun, but the need for them always indicates a profound self-loathing; one of Kafkaesque proportions, might I suggest.
So, noms de plume, play not with fire, lest the Noble Sausage shall sever your masked head with a single stroke! Bravo!
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How Does It Feel To Be Loathed? [Sep. 6th, 2004|03:38 pm]
Neil Scout
Literature is dead. The visual arts are dead. Pop music is in its final death rattle, only a few hardy souls like Franz Ferdinand's Alex Castrato and Luxembourg's David Shire still bothering to bail water out of the Titanic. Today's youth have no medium, or even desire, to express themselves; less still any coherent thoughts or emotions they could express in the first place. They are contended to graze on the cud, punch the clock, and concuss themselves on stimulants when at leisure, so that they will never be troubled by a single thought. For the future if this country, our government need to tackle binge drinking.
This weekend, in a special invetsigative report, The Noble Sausage posed as a young, denim-clad, grinning cretin in order to infiltrate a group of typical London youths. I am sure the results will shock my readership just as much as they disgusted me. Would these youths make any diversions from the pursuit of pleasure, any attempts to accomodate art or culture in their evening out, or would it be as vulgar and direct as a tube journey, changing at Gratification Broadway and terminating at Nausea Central?
I got my answer immediately, as we met in some shed or other on the riverbank, where an earnest old man with a WWI moustache was attempting to serenade the posing cognoscenti. Nobody there paid the slightest attention to his senile wheezings. Like pack animals, they were too busy preening themselves, scrutinizing each other's wardrobes and looking down their noses at everything around them. Before long, my party decamped to something called Wetherspoon. I have never seen such revolting decadence and I never wish to again in my life. A vile, rat-infested drinking den, with beggars and theives sleeping face down in the sawdust. These places are the new Sodom and Gomorrah, and I am sure they do more to lead or youth astray than all Cable TV channels combined. A party of five can hunch round a table and purchase enough spirits to flood the entire city for less than a shilling a head. A pint of vodka for tuppence, a pitcher for fivepence. One dreads to think what poisonous ingredients make up these dirt-cheap mixtures. I attempted to restrain myself, sipping on a whisky and munching homemade sandwiches, but my companions made gluttons of themselves, drinking until oblivion and beyond. Some purchased dinner, although most did not bother, and when the microwaved gruel arrived at our table I could understand why.
We rounded off the evening by crawling fifty yards down the high street to a discotheque. The posters promised soul and disco, but the music was banal and for some reason Luxembourg's excellent new single, 'Readers' Wives', was nowhere to be heard. I accosted the DJ to ask if I had missed it, as surely no soul playlist could be complete without it, but he laughed in my face. I left shortly after midnight, his cruel mockery ringing in my ears as loudly as his candyfloss sixties pop. None of my 'friends' even noticed my departure, all making exhibits of themselves whether incoherently flailing on the dancefloor, sobbing hysterically in a darkened corner or chewing the face off a total stranger. On the long and lonely march back to Tooting, I resolved never to have anything to do with them as long as I live--
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Testosterone is Legitimacy [Sep. 3rd, 2004|10:30 am]
Neil Scout
Nothing has given me more delight this year, with the exception of evening walks along the beautiful canals of my beloved Tooting, than the ongoing campaigns for this year's presidential elections in America. The way events play out offer an absolute validation of The Noble Sausage- in America, men are men and only the strongest will triumph.
Gripping the podium, the thrilling Arnold Schwarznegger addresses the camera and snarls: "To those who doubted our economic policies... stop being economic girlyboys!!!" A magnificent turn of phrase. This cuts right through the dull pedantry peddled by our bureaucratically minded fools at the BBC- politics as Punch and Judy. If god is in the detail, god is truly dead- if we are to progress, we must crush effeminate pontificators. We need men who deal in absolutes.
Even the mincing Democrats are coming round to this truth, appointing the hard-nosed John Kerry as the man to turn them around. He is basing his entire campaign on his experience as a soldier, and good for him. Politics is, or should be, open warfare, and to have killed a thousand darkies in cold blood is a much finer credential than any overrated administrative experience or comprehension of policy. The likes of Kerry and Howard Dean eschew statesmanship, and sound more like Hulk Hogan or the Ultimate Warrior in a pre-fight warm-up, salivating over how they will pulverise their emasculated foe.
The American people have spoken, and decreed that they do not give a fig for George Bush's qualities in these categories- they will pacified by having a film star at the helm- and, to quote an ideological adversary of mine, the public gets what the public wants. Every time he speaks, George Bush diffuses charisma; eloquence; unshakeable self-belief.
In Albion, our own politicians have quite a distance to travel before they will catch up. Tony Blair leads the pack; in his stylish suits, he hangs out on the Italian Riviera with leading figures of the Socialist Left like Silvio Berlusconi; a surefire way to keep the 'Romo' vote on board, whilst suurounding himself with fierce, snarling pitbulls like Charles Clarke and John Reid; the untouchable prima donna, surrounded and made inaccessible by a squadron of hefty bodyguards. Heartbreakingly, the Conservative party have struggled to find a means of response, and been left to founder. There is light at the end of the tunnel, if only it can be seen. I would urge the Tories to eschew think tanks, canvas teams and other frivolities, and plunge all their funds into making a Hollywood blockbuster of their own that would rival all politicans and turn these pariahs into pioneers. Quentin Tarantino could direct, to add his own inimitable touch of 'cool'. The film would star the party's leader (who else?) and be called Die Howard. Perhaps a co-starring, Rutger Hauer role would suit Boris Johnson. In this post-Lord of the Rings age, of course, it would not be enough for celluloid to capture Michale Howard's triumph over a dozen top terrorists; millions would have to be laid to waste in each frame. Perhaps the action scenes could be shot on location in Iraq; that would add authenticity, and kill two birds with one stone.
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(no subject) [Sep. 2nd, 2004|02:35 pm]
Neil Scout

What The Hell Happened Last Night?
LJ Username
What did you drink?
You wake up in the morning next to: imomus
...who is wearing: fake tattoos
...and rolls over to you to say: Wanna do that thing with the broccolli again?
...and then: chloroforms you
This cool quiz by joneccleston - Taken 89845 Times.
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The Low Wedges [Sep. 1st, 2004|10:07 am]
Neil Scout
As I lovingly fondle my collection of 7 inch singles from the mid-to-late nineties, from time to time I ruminate on the days when all it took to raise my spirits was a gang of four moptop misfits from the home counties, trying to take on the world with three chords and the Kinks' back catalogue. Of all these bands, surely the one most deserving of their current status at the bottom of history's dustcart are The Auteurs.
In fact, I'd wager that 90% of you have forgotten them entirely, or at least gone ten years without hearing the name. Amongst all the Symposiums and Livingstones that cluttered Lamacqland, a special shelf was reserved for these miscreants, like one of the eminent sinners in Dante's Hell. Their advocates claimed great things for The Auteurs, but they never managed the lustre of Echobelly, the sexiness of Puressence, the urgency of Fluffy, or the refined classicism of Northern Uproar. The misguided New Way was followed by the egregious Cowboy Blues and their one minor hit, 'Johnny Valentine'; after that, nothing. Music moved on, we discovered new, sophisticated and literate acts like Saint Etienne and Black Box Recorder, and The Auteurs were swept aside, left to flog Big Issues outside the derelict Good Mixer.
Bearing all this in mind, I was somewhat confused to hear that 'art.country' urchins the Low Wedges would be performing an Autuers tribute gig, featuring all their singles in chronolgoical order. Did they really believe that anyone still cared?
The result was, of course, lamentable. Luke Haines, the only person to whom this show could have meant anything, was not in attendance. Obviously the band had found no way of contacting him; the poor fool must have been persona non grata in every PR man and agent's office for the past decade.
The Low Wedges themselves delivered a competent, if moribund, performance, stuttering their way through dirge after dirge like 'Chinaman Chipshop'. They tried to add colour to this most colourless of palates through the wiry frontman's Johnny Cash drawl and the use of a toy whistle, but really it was like eating a plate of dry spaghetti and boiled potatoes. The appearance of that cretin from The Vichy Government, who encored with an improvised version of 'Future Generations', highlighted the insular, cliquey and generally irrelevant nature of this Angular coterie. Looking at the dozen or so in attendance, once could see members of The Vilets, Giftpig, Losers of Today and Art Brute. May their precious careers all go the same way as The Auteurs have- down a burning toilet cubicle on a Sunday evening at the Reading festival.
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The Loneliness of the Pioneer [Aug. 31st, 2004|11:04 am]
Neil Scout
It has been brought to my attention by some of my nearest correspondents -for, at heart a Romantic, I eschew the terseness of email and communicate only by carrier pigeon- that The Noble Sausage has had scorn and disapproval poured upon it in recent days. It is with a heavy heart I admit that I foresaw all of this.
To these naysayers, I will admit that there is a metatextual distance between the Neil Scout who greets you on these pages and the real, living and breathing, Neil Scout. Like us all, I am not without my private miseries. Prick me, and do I not bleed?
But, suffice that my prose giveth cerebral nutrition, good chear and restoreth elapsed values to this pestilent age, what of it? It disappoints me to see the public clamour for Reality and Authenticity. I pose this question to my Criticks- what if they rounded on all artists in this vulgar fashion? David Bowie would have remained a barrow boy from Dulwich, peddling fifth-generation R&B in a shoddy charity suit and tunnel-visioned mod pudding-bowl cut. Bryan Ferry would have been the archetypal geordie, smithying in his soul the consciousness of brown ale bottles, flat caps and black & white shirts strecthed across obese bellies. Worse still, The Clash would have remained withering fops in monocoles, top hats and tails, punting and playing croquet in their videos whilst writing langorous odes to lazy summer days in Winchester.
The Noble Sausage has spoken- now think on, naysayers. "We are used to men deriding that which they cannot comprehend." -Goethe
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The Culture of Confession [Aug. 28th, 2004|12:18 pm]
Neil Scout
As I idle away the hours between my daily 6am SAS assault course and my afternoons in the study, dedicated to the feverish composition of prose, I, Neil Scout, sometimes read the work of lesser mortals. Even you, pitiful reader, may have had your own bleating updates come under the scrutiny of the Noble Sausage.
Il me semble que, as Lacan would put it, livejournal seems to be another venue in which all the human race can do is witness one another's shame. The Culture of Confession is a dominant force in this excuse for a century; we bear witness to our pity and misery through such social documents as Wife Swap and You Are What You Eat (the Carlyle of our times), and in a desperate bid to conform to the herd, we rush off to our laptops and vomit out our own self-hatred onto these... these... "blogs". The saddest thing is how these puerile bids for attention are rewarded with a vapid fix of what I call e-affection, as people who would cross the road to ignore us stumble over each other to console the bloggeur by typing *hug*.
There is a way out of this feeble serfdom, and I, Neil Scout, will illustrate the road to liberation in the coming days.
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Deconstructing the medium [Aug. 27th, 2004|03:16 pm]
Neil Scout
People may arch an eyebrow quizzically that The Noble Sausage's choice of medium should be livejournal. This is for reasons of discipline. Whilst other literary giants have foundered upon the rocks of this banal, soul-crushing medium, the sweet siren songs of memes, polls, insular argot and celebrity haikus calling them to their destruction, I shall resist and prove that man can express himself through any medium.
All that is required is a will of iron and a resolve of cold steel. Like Ulysees, The Noble Sausage will stand firm in these choppy waters. I shall not bend.
I explained as much to two of my young proteges, Rupert Chowder and James Manor, as we took afternoon tea in my peacock sanctuary yesterday afternoon. Manor lost his index finger to one of my rheas- I explained that the rhea had no respect for him, because his will had subjugated- he did not acknowledge the force of nature, and nature had therefore mastered him. How far these fools will have to travel, to attain the status of Noble Sausage!
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Welcome To My World [Aug. 27th, 2004|03:08 pm]
Neil Scout
The Noble Sausage is founded -in an homage of sorts to this nation's next Prime Minister Michael Howard- on five incontrivertible beliefs.

Firstly- The Noble Sausage rejects all existing perceptions of culture as being 'high' or 'low' and will bring an independent form of Scrutiny to all topics of merit.

Secondly- The Noble Sausage shuns irony, but embraces pretension.

Thirdly- The Noble Sausage is Beyond Good And Evil.

Fourthly- What the Noble Sausage won't tell you, because it doesn't want to depress you. It only wants to impress you.

Fifthly- The Noble Sausage vows to deliver one piece of original, diverting and insightful analysis per day, every day. Bank holidays inclusive.
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