Eastertime is here and the egg rolling done happened and the shiny guy got nailed already! Me, I was up in the Grampian hills around New Pitsligo checking out those magnificent Recumbent Stone Circles. I’ve now been to 87 of them and there’s at least 15 more on my list I just gots to see. If the next shamanic generation is really on its way, then I reckon Grampian is gonna be the place for the main axis of the scene. It’s cheap, far away and the temples are already in place. All we gotta do is crawl up there. And these places are so overlooked that I found loads of Neolithic tools still wedged between a Recumbent stone and its flanker at one temple – beautiful sparkling things that must have lain there for millennia. I gotta go back there because there’s more just waiting, so don’t expect me to clue you in to what circle it was. Hey, and I even took a photo of St. Kane’s church in New Deer. Kane? Saint Kane? Are we talking reluctant Christianity here or what?
Lambs! Running around the field behind our house! First time since Foot & Mouth that farm animals have been livelying up the place. What a sight! My girls and I stood gasping and howling with joy as they came bouncing out of the articulated hell-on-wheels they’d called home for the Goddess-knows-how-long. In our home, Easter ain’t no ass-borne-death-guy. Easter is what it says it is – a Goddess riding the Oestrus Cycle. Just look at the dictionary and it tells us we’ve entered "a hormonally-controlled cycle of activity of the reproductive organs in many FEMALE MAMMALS [my capitals]." So why does all this Springtime and birth and female stuff get highjacked by shiny death-gods who tell us they died for us? Even the Saxons worshipped their Goddess called Ostara at this time of year. Indeed, if we worship what we see, no invisible sky gods are gonna get a look in. Gimme my own brain and I’ll think with it. Gimme the brain the state wants me to have and I’ll drink with it.
Yup, and I’ll drink to the Queen/Mother who finally popped it – the only royal who could still cause a rumble of compassion in me. Well, not so much a rumble, but deffo the occasional murmur. Although, when we consider that the last Empress of India made it to the 21st century, we’re talking more than just good genes here. This woman lived to be 101. Surprising how long you can live if you’ve gotta thousand muted morons cossetting your ass. And I do know how much she meant to the older generations of Britain – I myself was brought up as a commemorative-plate-hugging royalist. Cried with inspiration throughout Prince Charles’ Investiture in North Wales in 1969. I was twelve. Luckily, by the time I was 13, I’d heard the Doors, the Rolling Stones, and the Plastic Ono Band and my forelock-tugging days were over, baybee! Over over over over. So it was particularly unlovely to see the BBC taking 28 minutes out of every 30-minute 10 O’Clock News seven days in a row for gushing Royalist Bum Lick. Bend and Flush one more time – I still see a clinger we ain’t polished enough. Yeah, enough. Enuff’s enough. Thanks for saving London in the war, lady. Didn’t fuck off to Balmoral – what a heroin. Let’s run that fact by the serfs a coupla thousand more times.
Lambs! To the slaughter we must not go! Sussed out and trussed up for Blair & Co. And just because Tony’s Telecast with Dubya saw him wearing the most sheepish grin of all time, let’s not think Herr Blair is now our wonderful paternal ram. Nere man, that sheep’s head’s gonna lead us into pain and suffering before we know it. It’s poignant to be commemorating 20 years since the last debacle in the Falklands, just as the shadow of war descends upon the little town of Bethlehem. If the Holy Land, home of Christianity, home of Judaism, home of Islam, is the place where it is always going off, is this not evidence enough that our sense of worship is up the chute? To all these different peoples who are defending the same bit of scrub in the name of their religion’s origins, should we not suggest this solution:
Why don’t you just sod off to somewhere nice? Why not go somewhere with space? Somewhere not near the Dead Sea, where fish can swim and you can have a paddle. I know the world’s getting overcrowded, but it’s time to face up to the fact that you all don’t get along.
If someone was shooting at my ass everyday (and shooting at my children’s asses everyday), I wouldn’t wanna stay just to make a point. Even if my ancestors had been there 10,000 years, I’d pack up and sod off. The Ancients had to move all the time. Historically, it happened all the time and still happens. There would be no loss of face. I know Hitler moshed the Jews bigtime and they wanna piece of forever as payback. But moving into the Westbank is about as practical as three opposing families of houseflies fighting over the rights to squat the same rim of a boiling saucepan. Whichever way you look at it, even for the winner it’s gonna be a temporary thing. As a forward-thinking motherfucker, I have a simple longterm solution:
Okay, now I’ve said my bit and they’ve all listened, I too will sod off. On a trite level, the new Brain Donor single looks and sounds amazing – definitely fits in with the whole shmear so far. Oh yeah, and to all the people at the Aberdeen show who kept asking me what that horrible sludge was coming out of the PA before and after my show, it was the first LP by Speed, Glue & Shinki. So now U-Know!
Love Fucking Peace (Love a Fucking Piece)
Mr. DRUDE (M’Lud Yatesbury)
Peace Commissioner to the 12 Tribes (self-styled)