Entertainment For Lively Minds
The WORD: 1963-1986
The dawn of the 1960s brought about not only a social revolution but also a technological one. The rise of space age materials were soon to change forever the way that The WORD magazine was assembled.
“I don’t know what they were using to glue the spine but you could usually get a decent contact high off it,” said one reader, swatting at a cloud of imaginary dragonflies, that became such a common fixture in the hallucinations of readers that they were eventually granted full species status and made the subject of a Wildlife on One special, narrated by David Attenborough.
The spinal adhesive turned out to be a highly venomous jellyfish, native to the Great Barrier Reef, which was rolled-out into a sausage-shaped strip and then pounded flat before the pages were attached. Amazingly some of the jellyfish survived the process. Following a number of fatal stings the WORD ditched the glue and switched to the polonium staples that are still used to bind the magazine today.
1967 (ISSUE 57)
WHO AMONG US HEEDS THE SILENT CRIES OF THE STAR DAISIES?
An editorial by Mark “Sun Child” Ellen
Jasmine Blossom; Lotus branch; Mighty Buddha; Tiny mouse. Where does mankind figure in this vast tapestry, intricately woven from the fabric of the universe? Or has he already been removed, cast-out from the garden of Eden for his shameful hang ups about his own naked body? Will there be a return from cold exile to the nurturing bosom of innocence? Will there come a time, dear reader, when, once more, the wheels of our cars break upon contact with butterflies? Will we ever cease our plunder of mother earth’s finite resources and instead stop to ponder the fragile existence of flowers; their sad journey through life from seed to wilt, for aren’t we all just flowers?
Today I meet a pair vision-questers - importers of divine insight from those far-flung celestial courts of transient wisdom, accessible by means of Dr Leary’s miracle food pills for the mind, or (for the staunch traditionalist) via the more arduous route of rigorous daily yoga sessions and the enthusiastic consumption of lentils.
On an unassuming suburban street in Walthamstow I peel back the corner of a corrugated iron fence - a curtain on reality exposing a deeper truth - to reveal a broken tract of waste ground. The so-called weeds that make this wilderness their home offer some insight into the way that nature chooses to express itself when freed from the oppressive trowel of the landscape gardener. At the centre of this wild island, deemed unworthy of being grazed by the surrounding cattle, squat two visionaries sharing deep communion with the soil.
The frizzy-haired flower child in the voluminous, lime green pantaloons is none other than Mellow Yellow song-smith and cosmic truth-sayer, Donovan. His companion, David Bowie - a relatively new head on the scene - is a dapper dandy, like some kind of far-out city banker who has turned his head from mammon and licked the all-knowing face of the Godhead.
“We chanced upon this urban oasis one night and immediately realised that it was part of the moon,” says Bowie. “Of course we immediately summoned the world media. So far you are the only person to have responded.”
“It is a gift,” says Donovan, affecting the reedy tones of a medieval warlock. “As part of the earth ascended spaceward so too did a piece of the moon descend upon east London.”
“How many miles high are we at the moment?” I enquire.
“Miles are a human notion tied up in the ownership of land and property,” preaches Bowie. “The Lunar Gnomes have but one unit of measurement – the accumulated deeds of a good man.”
My follow-up question, regarding how one of these so-called Lunar Gnomes goes about getting measured for a suit is lost, engulfed in the mind-blowing revelation about to issue from the lips of Donovan:
“The Star Pixies have 5000 words for love but no concept of war.”
“Right on.”
“I shall summon them,” he says removing a telescopic wooden flute from the breast pocket of his pied-piper jacket.
As Donovan trills a spritely melody, I join Bowie in staring intently at a distant mound of disturbed earth that I take to be the terrestrial residence of the Star Pixies. Suddenly he grabs me violently by the lapels.
“There! Can you see them!”
“Yes! Yes!” I lie, excitedly.
“Notice how the music guides their movements, which in turn inspires the music.”
“They were drawn to the moon by the whispering of the Star Daisies, which are the repositories of all universal knowledge,” says Donovan, resting his flute.
I look askance at a forlorn patch of daisies that I inadvertently trampled in my haste to reach this pair of visionaries.
“There is wisdom in the Star Daisies for those who have the ears to hear it,” continues Donovan.
As the three sit in silence, straining to hear the barely audible teachings of our interstellar plant brethren, our reverie is abruptly shattered:
“Oi!”
Two burly men are approaching from far side of the field.
“It’s the man!” bleats Donovan like a panicked sheep. “Two of them! Run Mr Ellen! Run for your life!”
With our exit blocked the three of us take off in the opposite direction across the broken ground, Bowie uncharitably shoulder-barging me into bronze medal position, causing me to stumble momentarily. As I haul myself over the corrugated iron fence, a pair of hands grasp hold of my green velvet jacket wrenching it off my back. Dropping down once more into metropolitan suburbia, I flee like a lizard who has amputated his own tail to escape the attentions of a predator.
POSTSCRIPT
You can never go back dear reader, but that doesn’t stop me from trying.
The following morn, peering through a gap in the fence, I observe a gathering of suits congregated around a bright yellow digger. My green velvet jacket hangs limply from the roof of the cab like the flag of a defeated nation.
Where have all the flowers gone, I hear you ask? What was once a flowerbed for the Star Daisies is now a burial mound of bulldozed earth.
When will they ever learn, dear reader?
When will they ever learn?
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Continued from above...
1971 (ISSUE 61)
EAMONN FORDE EPISODE OF ‘ON THE BUSES’ “SWEARIEST YET.”
WORD scribe Eamonn Forde is set to appear in a future episode of the hit LWT series On The Buses, touted by the show’s creators to be the most foul-mouthed yet. The popular comedy set in a London bus depot follows the lives of Stan Butler and Jack Harper - A pair of two happy-go-lucky drivers who constantly outwit their rule-obsessed nemesis - Inspector Blake.
“Eamonn’s unscheduled appearance on the set of On The Buses surprised us all,” said Stephen Lewis who plays Blakey in the show. “Hilarity ensues when he calls my character a ‘broom-lipped c***.’”
Other characters on the receiving end of the Forde’s caustic wit include Jack Harper, rechristened “The Bolshevik” by the writer who is clearly enraged “by what happened in Russia,” and Stan’s sister Olive, referred to throughout as “the transsexual Lulu.”
“Eamonn’s improvised dialogue and cryptic references to Chaka Khan had us all in tears,” said series co-writer Ronald Chesney. “When he bear-hugged Reg (Varney) and then wouldn’t let go, we all thought that he was going to kill him.”
Fears that the amount of swearing might make the show unsuitable for evening viewing have been dismissed by ITV chiefs, who insist that the episode contains no more foul language than an average edition of Nationwide.
HANNAH: “I’D LIKE TO BAKE THE WORLD A CAKE!”
WORD reader Hannah has announced that she would like to bake the world a cake!
“ At the moment I’m thinking of making a lemon drizzle cake, although I will make another cake for people who don’t like lemons.” She said,
“Donations of flour and eggs will be gratefully received,” she continued, adding “I’ve just had a look in the fridge and I think I’ve got enough milk.”
1977 (ISSUE 67)
PROG ROCK TO DOWNSIZE
By WORD Prog Correspondent and Junior Chess Champion Ian Mercer(14)
“Please don’t address me as Melkior the Science Mage,” says Melkior the Science Mage. “My name is Andrew Scum.”
The change of name is the least of the many metamorphoses that Melkior has undergone since we last crossed wands . The sonic wand is gone altogether, as is the cape and the long, flowing hair, now replaced by a brutal crew cut, torn denim jeans and a printed T-shirt depicting a pair of Beefeaters enjoying an act of mutual masturbation.
“Prog Rock has reached a kind of critical mass...” counsels the Melkior/Andrew hybrid.
“...You have to remember that musicians are still operating on a three day week. That’s barely enough time to create a suite of songs for a double album, let alone listen to it. There’s a new generation for whom the everyday lives of hobbits, wizards and advanced star-faring civilisations have very little relevance. We aim to recapture the interest of the youth by releasing punchy two to three minute songs with minimal chord changes, that tackle contemporary subjects such as what wankers the government are, and that barmaid at their local called Tina who they fancy. We intend to market this new music as Prog Under New Control, abbreviated to PUNC.”
I remark that these changes appear to represent a scorched earth policy aimed at wiping all traces of Prog rock existence.
“Look, the cost of terraforming an alien world for Alan Dean to paint has skyrocketed. Add to that the expenditure for any freaky architecture or bizarre transportation and the whole exercise becomes untenable. That enormous sky galleon on the cover of Yes’s album Fragile crashed after 10 minutes in the argon-rich atmosphere killing all 6000 crew and an alien meta-consciousness called Bal. You just have to face up to the fact that Prog has become incredibly self-indulgent. During our last tour we ritually sacrificed a drum kit on stage!”
“But if I followed the plot of that show correctly you had to sacrifice the drum kit in order to close the Sprios Gate and...”
At this point I am violently head-butted by German keyboard virtuoso Stephen Zorn (née ‘Von Steuben’). I awaken hours later in a tattoo parlour where a large bald man is partway through etching the image of a dragon on my arse.
1985 (ISSUE 75)
WORD GOURMET UNREPENTENT AFTER EATING FROG CHORUS
Of the many types of success, the most bittersweet is that of the one hit wonder who, like some hero from Greek tragedy, takes hold of fame only to see it slip from their grasp. This tragedy is compounded when unforeseen circumstances conspire to bring a promising career to a premature end, leaving relatives, friends and admirers to grieve and to wonder what might have been.
On Tuesday we at The WORD were shocked to discover that our fan club secretary – fraZer leWry - had been instrumental in cutting short the career of The Frog Chorus who, in collaboration with ex-Beatle – Paul McCartney, enjoyed a recent number three hit with We All Stand Together.
“I ate The Frog Chorus with a blackberry and star anise sauce. I regret nothing,” said LeWry when quizzed by senior WORD staffers, Mark Ellen and David Hepworth.
“If the frog chorus reform under a different line-up I will eat them as well. I will also eat any Frog Chorus tribute acts,” he added.
“In hindsight all the tell-tale signs were there...” said WORD editor, Mark Ellen, nervously fingering his skinny keyboard tie as Money For Nothing by Dire Straits played at high volume on a matt-black hi-fi unit.
“...fraZer’s capitalisation of random letters in his name points to the kind of heavy metal poisoning that one associates with a person who dines exclusively on bullfrogs.”
At the time of press fears are growing regarding the whereabouts of Paul McCartney and Rupert - the albino bear who witnessed an early live rehearsal by the chorus and who later joined the band on keyboards.
“I’m sure wherever they are they were delicious,” said leWry enigmatically, before wiping his mouth with a yellow checked scarf.
A written statement issued to WORD magazine by the big golden fish that sings the operatic in the middle of We All Stand Together read:
“It is very worrying that at any time I could be eaten Fraser Lewry.”
WILD-HAIRED IRISHMAN DENIES STREET ROBBERY SPREE
A wild-haired Irishman has appeared in the Old Bailey charged with carrying out a string of daring street robberies.
Bob Geldof, a pest controller from Dublin, struck terror into his victims with his chilling catchphrase: “Give us your fucking money!”
Speaking in his defence Geldof said: “I was collecting for charity to feed the starving millions in famine-stricken Ethiopia. My exact words were: ‘People are dying NOW. Give us the money NOW. Give me the money now.’ I never once asked anyone to give me their fucking money.”
The case continues.
ovarb
the psychedelic section was inspired - the teachings of Donovan are a long-lost secret
Mellow
In a odd moment I bought tickets to see Donovan last night*
Now I know why.
Peace.
*Albert Hall, 3rd June. Doing "Sunshine Superman".
*Stands and applauds*
Just when you think he can't get any better.
“Miles are a human notion tied up in the ownership of land and property,” preaches Bowie. “The Lunar Gnomes have but one unit of measurement – the accumulated deeds of a good man.”
This will be my mantra henceforth.
Brilliant
I don't know what else to say. Brilliant.
Am I the only one
Who is faintly disturbed by postings like this?
So much effort, for what?
You ....
....And me both Mr (?) Ape
Horses for courses
I think this is brilliant - dazzling imagination, superb lively writing. If you took away all the literature that required effort to create, you could close down the libraries.
But if you prefer your prose flatter that's absolutely fine by me, as is your right to say so in public, though I don't really understand your motive in making the effort to do so.
Edited.
I seem to be doing this a lot lately. But my post wasn't adding to anything Capt. U. had already said, so off it goes.
He gets a Rosette
with the word 'Winner' on it, and the acclamation of the Massive, a discerning bunch who appreciate that someone would take the time to create flights of fancy just for them.
For this -
the entertainment and delight of the readers here.
I think it's great - inventive and funny.
Presumably because he enjoys it?
It's a great parody of the magazine,very well written and entertaining. I don't know if backwards7 is a frustrated journalist, a pseudonym for a well known published writer or just someone who likes writing and for whom this blog is the only outlet. But if he (or she) wants to put in the effort to produce pieces like this, then more power to his/her keyboard.
"So much effort, for what?"
The joy of writing? An attempt to get a job with the Word? Who cares?! I find b7's writing very entertaining and a highlight of this blog.
I work on the principle...
...that since I spend a lot of time on this blog, which is essentially free to use, I should try to put something back into it that hopefully adds to its value.
I’ve been online since 1995 and in that time I’ve belonged to a lot of different websites and message boards. These forums are only as good as the content that’s posted on them. If you post a blog that reads “Hey, isn’t this band great?” and then make no effort to explain why you like them and what their music does for you, then you’re not really adding anything.
Some people here like the things I post. Other people, no doubt, quietly mouth the word ‘c***’ whenever they encounter something with my name on it. I don’t care either way because once I’ve signed-off on a piece of writing I’m already working on the next thing. In this case it’s a 500-600 word review of a double live album by a Romanian black metal band for another website. I’m not getting anything for writing that either. I even had to go out and buy the record myself. The horror!
I feel sorry for you if you genuinely believe that every action has to yield some kind of tangible result for it to have value. My experience is that it’s often the intangible things that make life worth living. The reason that I write and post on this blog is the same reason that I do anything. Because I like doing it and it doesn’t hurt anyone.
Added Value
Re this point:
"If you post a blog that reads “Hey, isn’t this band great?” and then make no effort to explain why you like them and what their music does for you, then you’re not really adding anything. "
Sometimes, it isn't the original blog post that counts it's the discussion that follows.
Despite the amount of music I listen to, I sometimes find it incredibly difficult to describe music or explain what it does for me without turning into late 80s NME hack and using words like 'Shimmering shards of celestial majesty', 'sun-drenched harmonies' etc...and I give up and leave it to the Pro's.
If someone starts a "hey aren't The Dutch Uncles great" type post it doesn't mean they can't be bothered to describe why, it's simply that they want to alert the Massive to something they might like, and get a birrova Steve Wright style chitter chatter going with the Posse. Sometimes only a Youtube clip will do. Alternatively, some of the great Word debates have started with something as innocuous as "The 80s were crap..discuss".
The 80s were crap
Except for 1986. That was, like, year dot for me.
My admiration for the author
is based on a healthy combination of admiration, respect and jealousy.
Why does he do it?
for the poon-tang it gets him, fella
Poon tang
They usually only have to buy me a small sweet sherry.
B7
is a prince amongst men. And writing long, silly pieces on a blog, purely for the hell of it is indeed pointless. Gloriously so.
PS. he exists. I've seen him. Or at least the form he chooses to adopt on this earth.
Expecting flak
I am expecting plenty of flack for this, but I dont agree with the general flow of this particular blog.
Sorry, but FWIIW, I think the air of smugness / self satisfaction in the OP is overwhelming.
I am on my way to the prefects office in anticipation of a sturdy kicking.
Indeed.
Although, to be fair, I do recall writing similar sprawls at school to impress friends and certain 'hip' teachers.
I don't think...
...anyone's saying you have no right to think that, Les. But it seems a bit churlish and mean-spirited to say so. When someone spontaneously shares a piece of their creative writing, I think there are two options open to the well-mannered: express pleasure, if that's what it brings you, or if not, keep schtum out of politeness. It's not like B7 has expressed a contentious argument, or deliberately sought controversy. He's just posted something he's written. If people don't like it, I reckon they should just not comment. It doesn't seem like the place to say "that's crap and I don't know why you bothered" to me.
Babies is
well ugly thou, innit, Bob?
manners.
Bob, you are quite right, it was rude of me to say the things I said. I should have had the courtesy to have kept my trap shut.
Sorry folks.
Well, no, reading my post back....
...I came off more than a little preachy Les, so forgive me for that. Hard to get the tone right sometimes, isn't it?
Have an up for being a thoroughly decent bloke, in any case.
Getting the tone right.
That is something I have yet to experience.
If I ever do get the tone right, I will let you know!
:-D
Smugness / self-satisfaction
I don't get that from b7's posts at all. He seems a modest, unassuming chap. As I've often said though, internet postings often lead to to varied interpretations.
You've reminded me of an excellent Fall lyric though.
"The Observer magazine just about sums him up. eg. self-satisfied, smug."
For What It's Worth From Me
I don't intend to give you a sturdy kicking (you're probably older, and bigger than me anyway) but I've never detected an 'air of smugness/self satisfaction' in Backwards7's written work. Yes, he probably knows he's creative, and has a flair for writing; but I get the impression he's a reluctant entertainer. But we're the one's who are waving the flag for him, shouting his name from the rooftops and printing 'I Heart B7' t-shirts. Backwards7 is one of the least boastful men I have the pleasure to barely know.
(Do you think I can have his autograph now?)
I know you've apologised...
I just wanted to say this: how you can in one post talk about the OP's "smugness / self satisfaction", and then in another acknowledge that you've never met him, and are never likely to, beggars belief.
I think its a
being a victim of geography rather than a will or desire to meet. I can speak from experience how rough bridging that gap can be.
OP - An interpretation
While not wishing to continue this, I would like to say that my interpretation of OP was original post, & nothing personal was meant about the Original Poster.
My apology / explanation is / was either accepted by you at face value in good faith, or it isnt.
I was going to finish by saying that I wish I had never replied, but I have had a LOT of positives from this episode, so I would be lying if I did express regrets.
I wish I had worded things differently, but I didnt.
Sorry. (hopefully for the last time)
OK
I promise I'll get off your back too. Lessons learned and all that.
There's just one thing...
...that disturbs me about this. Whilst most of it is the usual top-notch whimsical flights of fancy, I have heard that Fraser's freezer is stuffed with rare beasts which have not been seen preserved so close together since the hold on Darwin's HMS Beagle was emptied. The chilling detail of the yellow scarf will haunt me for some time.