that's when I reach for my recliner

if I owned a recliner, which I do not

the headlines -

1. i’m so very fucking sorry for the world we live in pt.3,456

2. see 1. see also any time in the last few years

3. t-shirts are on sale and their time of sale is short (see the medium read)

4. don’t let anyone tell you what to feel unless they’re really funny

5. this post kind of just peters out, sorry, it’s basically just a trauma response with jokes in it, please read with that understanding

the medium read -

Before I bore you with half-thought out remembrances of times past which may, by some tired alchemy, sooth and entertain you, the future of the left satan (octopus) and cat t-shirts are on sale on bandcamp for a characteristically short length of time. I’m putting the order next Friday morning (15th November) because t-shirt printers have deadlines and our shows - the first in nearly seven years - are next weekend.

It has been very nice and odd relearning the songs though I not-so-secretly (at least now) believe that practise is beneath me. I know, I know. It turns out there are lots of silly words, which are tough to remember. I must admit to having to write down the chorus of ‘the limits of battleships’ and stick to my monitor.

Please, do not confuse it with my set list.

Supports for the shows are Remote Viewing (London) Thank (Bristol) and Death Cult Electric (Cardiff). They have all been selected because they are good bands and nice people. You need to be both, or at least pretend to be, which in the end works out as much the same thing.

ALSO you should expect more comprehensive mclusky album news soon (well, if you care to expect it). I/we couldn’t be happier. It’s going to be a bloody lovely time.

the long(er) read -

I love sayings / aphorisms like ‘hurt people hurt people’ and ‘all violence is an attempt to replace shame with self-esteem.’ I love them. LOVE THEM. Joking of course, I don’t, but I do think of the second one a lot when drunk or tired - rather self-importantly explained it to Genghis (dominant household cat) last Christmas after a few brandies and I think he knew what I was getting at. Yeah, good stuff. Not getting into that today, though. So many opinions, fed through the prism of these truisms, much of it backed up by data. I love data, whether big, ordinal, discrete … you get the picture.

I just fucking love data it turns out.

Anyway. Deep Breath. Out through my … toenails. Centre. Centred. I’ve been lucky/cursed enough to be on tour during several US elections, all of which were thoroughly demented despite being experienced within a cosy little liberal (*1) bubble. On Election Eve 2004 we had all - with the exception of two guitars and a Crowther Audio Hot Cake pedal(*2) - our shit stolen from a Motel 6 parking lot in Phoenix. The subsequent/resulting show is on YouTube, which I suggest you don’t watch because it’s uncomfortable, and not in a cool way. It’s been remarked that that type of energy - frustrated beyond belief but coming to terms with it in real time - suits me. I assure you it does not. It will kill me. Once a month, on average, I am asked if this theft - and the debt accrued as a result - is the reason the band (mclusky, in original recipe phase) broke up. The answer is no. We broke up because we mildly disliked each other. We are British, remember? We reserve hatred, in its most marketable form, for our parents and rival football teams. Speaking of which our daughter drew this the other day after sitting down with me to watch some game I had assumed I had little or no interest in -

A good reminder, if reminders really be needed, that children are little more than sponges with hair and intermittent growth spurts (*3). Still, I’m proud of her. Fuck those fucks(*4).

Anyway, the debt, yes. It was huge, all consuming, about $25000 if i’m remembering it correctly (trauma has it’s own calculator face). I think we finished paying it off in 2011/2012, but that might have been my student loans. One of the more entertaining/depressing aspects of the debt was that Gibson had leant us a guitar which was of no use to us (I’m not a guitar guy, really, so can’t point you to the type, it wasn’t an SG or a Les Paul, more some kind of weird goblin thing). We’d tried to return it for the whole run but their reps kept missing us/it and when our trailer went off into the Arizona wilds so did the guitar - the never used guitar - and we had to pay out $2K, which is more than I’ve ever paid for any actual guitar that I got to play with my hands (considerably more, as it goes).

I’m selling a Gibson SG, incidentally, if anyone wants to buy it from me (I need the money for arts materials, see above). Used in some songs - a couple on the new record - but I’m a telecaster man, it’s time I accepted it.

In 2008 (as future of the left) we were touring with Against Me and left the country just before Obama hoiked himself over the low-Bush-bar. That was nice, though barely felt like a contest (the election, not the shows). A man - and I use the term loosely - punched me in the face as I exited the stage in Seattle, which was nice. He didn't punch me very hard, sadly - I’ve lost teeth in fights, and this was none of them.

We witnessed a diner argument, somewhere down South (I’ve never kept a diary, too busy snoozing in the van), where men in trucker hats sparred comically with other men in LA Raiders Hoodies. No-one died (though everyone ate eggs). Ah, America land of eggs - so many eggs. I think that was the tour where we worked out Jack was eating close to thirty eggs a week and staged an intervention, after which he sometimes got pancakes instead.

Where am I going with this? I don’t know, really. I’m sad writing, trying not to drink too much while listening to mixes of the new record (which is countering the sad but still will not materially affect lives) and avoiding any news whatsoever. Apparently we have human-hand sized spiders in the UK now. Don’t worry. They are probably just as tired as the rest of us.

In 2012 I sat in on an uncomfortable barstool in a barren venue in Minneapolis and watched as the BBC(*5) called the election for Obama, again. We were on tour with AJJ (or Andrew Jackson Jihad, as was) and, again, I don’t remember any notion of a contest. Saw a couple of funny rednecks being funny rednecks at times, but that was pretty much it. I think they knew they presented as cartoon characters and offered no real edge.

This is a picture from that year, taken while we played to an entirely empty stadium in Paris (New Order were headlining this thing, whatever it was). It was a fun show, maybe a little draughty up there. I kept saying I was Marilyn Manson which was funny then because he was just a clown guy to me and not a prolific *** ********. Humour does not always age well. Look at Slayer.

2012, naturally (some pun intended), was the year of Hurricane Sandy. Jack and his wife were caught in New York during the height of it (they were honeymooning, I believe) and the Boston show was canceled because of the apocalypse. Julia, Jimmy and I had to fly into DC then hop a lift with a (very nice) guy called Mike who drove us direct to the venue in Philly, just in time, while Jack managed to hitch a lift with our friend Matt (I’m giving you lots of names here, there’ll be a test later(*6). The net result was that it was crazy as all hell and it was only by laughing a lot and pretending I wasn’t bothered that I got though it. That was fun. Also, we found out we were doing ATP (I’ll write more about that/those experiences sometime) while lying in the back of Mike’s van, en route to Union Transfer (the Philly venue). That actually was fun. Some toe-rags smashed our van window in St Louis and stole Jack’s camera but, happily, not $25000 of other shit. Hurrah! The NY show was in Europa, which is the third worst sounding room I’ve ever played (sorry if you were there) and could well be responsible for my ear problems.

Sorry Europa! Your Polish beer was very nice.

Writer’s note - I fell asleep in my chair at this stage, much to the displeasure of Bonsai, who was sleeping on me (she’s a cat). Looking back over what I’ve written (and taking out a shit load of I’s) I (there we go again) am obviously trying to blather my way through and over trauma, in much the same way that an elderly relative - and I am at least the first of those things - talks about the time she attempted to play the bagpipes while waiting for test results / the coffin to be brought in at a funeral.

And now there’s someone at the door.

falco x

ps. i’m just going to crack on with substack when I have the chance, let me know if you’d like to hear about anything in particular. I’ll be touching on publishing shenanigans and the US tour this year in the next week or so, mostly just as an excuse not to practise the future of the left songs. I mean, you don’t need the correct words, do you? They’re just mouth noises after all.

pps. buy me a coffee even though I don’t drink coffee.

(*1) you know what I mean by this word, don’t be a dick now

(*2) the only pedal I used during the original run of the band (aside from a tuner pedal, which is the most important pedal, no notes)

(*3) of course I don’t believe this - they are also wonderful cat-sitters

(*4) this is most likely hyperbole, you are all very nice

(*5) you can take the X out of the Y etc etc

(*6) there won’t