Welcome companions,
may the Nicaraguan wood weevil never feast 'pon your favorite axe innit.
Come stroll with me awhile through the winding, spellbinding World of Rock.
As we journey we'll no doubt encounter exotic creatures, places whose names sound strange and alien, hinting of the marvels that lie therein. Such names as Newton-le-Willows, the romance and glory of the World of Rock that resides in such a place.....but sweet reader, there lies a tale for another day!
Day 198 : W.o.R.
As I scrape the road rime from my hair, which obviously takes a fair bit o' scraping, I'm pondering.....whither goest The Swillers? More times of modest yet testing upheaval are upon our half-wit heroes, yet as I cogitate...I SAID COGITATE!....further 'pon the brave lads and their mighty foe....
life in general, I have come to the surprising conclusion that the very dunderheaded charms that so oft lead them into the mire also enables them to paddle safely in the shallows of adversity!
Shall our Dolts of Rock once more look with flinty gaze over their domain as the mightiest purveyors of the noble boogie, doubt not dear friend, quick coffee and a fag and all will be theirs again innit.
Day 201 : W.o.R.
Was visited at twilight by m'good friend and fellow dude 'pon the rock highway the laconic, iconic Beef Suite. Beef had dropped by the winnebago for coffee, fag and much needed dose of rock! The poor boy, whilst loping toward the Rockstorm residence, suffered a nasty, potentially traumatic attack of 'whingeing songsmithery'. Some misguided soul was playing, with their windows open mind, a 'Snow Patrol' cd, Beef, deep in thoughts of a rock nature, was unfortunate enough to wander into this unbidden midden and entered my abode white as Joey Ramones' skin, shocked to the core! I, as any good la' should, provendered hot beverages and nicotine, taking time only to slip 'Funhouse' by the Stooges into the player and set off into the gathering gloom armed with a copy of 'Far beyond Driven'.
Needless to say that once the sonic transgressor was located I meted out therapy in the shape of Dimebag and the chaps, the light was seen and such tasteless incidents should
no longer endanger passing dudes down that way again-job's a good 'un.
Day 223 : W.o.R.
Kind of short day today, not heightwise y'understand nor even lengthwise, stop tittering in the back Cholmondely, more I venture short on interest. Fortune doth glow 'pon the brave warriors of the World of 'The Ruts. Ahhh, a blast of 'Babylon's Burning' and all seemed so more interesting, by the time Tool's 'Aenima' had left the very air itself uneasy, the evening shop was upon me and
...lo thus the day didst pass - champion!
Day 237 : W.o.R.
AAh, lo 'tis time for the rally season to begin and naturally I shall be accompanying The Swillers on their jaunts various 'pon said rally circuit. Once more to witness the boundless idiocy of th' chaps as they purvey their own inimitable brand of th' Rock and stumble mentally and morally blindfold 'cross the green fields of this happy isle. I can only hope to repeat such joys as; Alan's accidental self-locking inside the back of a 71/2 tonner on a hot morn after a beer and curry strewn night. Spud's anguished small hours phone call from his tent after awakening alone, finding no-one to talk to/at, a cry for help ignored whilst the collected might of Th' Band sipped late hours coffee in t'christian bikers fodder und coffee emporium-splendid times! The almost legendary burying of Bone ear deep in mud, his head covered in salt and exploding slugs, his bandmates guffaws filling the night air. I shall of course dear reader be firing missives from the front, so each stumble, gaseous outburst, every episode of pink eyed buffoonery will be yours to savour, come taste th' band eh? Or possibly not methinks 'pon reflection.
Enough of this whimsy for the present,
cometh the day, runneth the man I say.
Day 242 : W.o.R.
Zounds! Word has reached the Rockstorm ears that The Swillers, in a state approaching anxiety have
headed in the general direction of the Practice Room! What could have driven our own Rock glee club into the arms of Madame Desperation? The word on t'street is; given the impending (temporary) return of Cow to th' fold, it suddenly dawned on the doomed that a MUSICIAN may be amongst them! Witnesses have testified to seeing Bone run, shrieking like a schoolgirl, through the country lanes around th' Practice Room (pursued by Spud who was naturally attracted by th' girlish cries). Much mulling in the wold I tell thee! The end result being words like 'competent' and 'tight' being bandied about, what is this all coming to?
Surely th' rustic charms of our heroes is enough to carry th' day,
or is a Swillers concept album on it's way?
'Tales of Swillographic Oceans' anyone?
Day 311 : W.o.R.
Have just finished getting the dust out of the th'Winnebago 'pon returning to th' road after the Shires bike & music fest, said fest held much in the way of buffoonery from many heroes of th' local rock scene. Tales from this endeavour will be doing the rounds for many moons methinks-the pics may appear on this very site and others, although the one featuring Ronnie (The Swillers) and Spadge (Drink till Dawn) may have to involve legal advice! It was a bash of some note and was thoroughly over-enjoyed by all who attended, the most over-enjoyment did seem to be based in th' Drink till Dawn camp (now wittily re-named 'Drink For a Bit Then Have a Lie Down' by th' Gruesome Twosome-the wags) and of course The Swillers who over-enjoyed themselves to the point that Ronnie barbecued his own stomach and of course Toddy, whose performance led to him winning the 'Most wobbling but not falling over' competition,
a spendid result for all concerned!
Must sleep now, one feels quite wan.
Day 311: W.o.R.
Lawks, one's quite fatigued one must say! Following a summer of mirth and merriment in and about Camp Swiller I'll confess to seeing a good few sunrises before bedtime. I have witnessed such joys as the 'Gruesome Twosome' attempting to balance folding chairs on their not insubstantial ears, Toddy has on many occasions demonstrated his uncanny 'wobbling but not falling over' capabilities and other events common decency prevents me from relaying to you fragrant readers. During th' heady days of summer I was pleased, nay privileged to have been present 'pon the mighty occasion of Hayseed Dixie 'gittin up sum y'all' (I think that's th' colonial turn of phrase) with our very own Happy Halfwits at th' Olde Griffin at Earlstown. Fortunately the Dixie chaps appear to have imbibed aplenty prior to jumping up into th' maelstrom o' hopelessness that is our brave boys at work and thereby escaped th' full horror of the situation! The pictorial proof of said debacle will soon be available for perusal. Ho Ho indeed amigos!
I feel sleep comes on swift wings, my hangover beckons. Bon nuit.
As a wise man once said;
"Remind me Donald,
how many is a Brazilian?"
Day 327: W.o.R.
Well tickle my boyish torso with crisp fresh asparagus if th' days have not shortened and lo - the dark days of winter beckon, crooking a wizened finger (or am I thinking of the unfortunate 'Spud and his Digit of Power' episode?) and drawing us away from th' light. As I write The Swillers are preparing themselves for The Tour of Wrexham and outlying provinces, the warm up gigs I've witnessed thus far provide ample proof of a band hungry, well peckish for glory in th' homelands. So I recommend that you catch th' heady glories, should you reside within th' confines o' the motherland, of our merry band of lackwits
as they saunter rockwise to a town near you.
I must leave you now as the chemical toilet in th' winnebago becomes noisome.
Day 338:W.o.R.
And lo...as soon as the snows have melted, the days lengthen and once m'boyish tresses are bathed in th' warm glow of spring sunlight. How verdant our lands become as once more, loins girded (or should that be girdered?) The World of Rock enters th' summer Phase. Heralding this comes a new sound for aforesaid summer...and that sound is th' near mythical Deadweighs plying their trade with "You Shot Me", It's like being licked by Ron Asheton whilst Billy Childish makes a cold cut sandwich repaste. Find it, hear it, rock.
Farewell for th' present my sweets.
Day 557:W.o.R.
By th' billowing bellbottoms o' Beelezeebub what went on there? One moment I was nestling m'head in th' voluptuous bosom o' summer, th' next Rockstorm has come around to a wintry blast up th' fundament!
I cannot begin, fair grazer of this humble column, to begin to recount to you the sights (and smells) I witnessed th' summer past! Enough to say that th' Bouncing Bounders o' Rock aka Th' Swillers have once more lived up to their deviant reputaion, helped along by brother Welsh notables Drink Till Dawn. Such times indeed...during m' period of abject squalor 'pon th' Road o' Rock with aforesaid mutants, Bone 'The Golden God', or as he's better known to those around him 'The Moaning Sod', filled th' void left in DTD's ranks following th' departure of th' Mighty Phil da Bass. What were they thinking? Th' noisy one was merely given carte blanche to make even more noise more often in different places...idiocy I say!
What ho then m'lovelies, must leave you now as th winnebago needs a clean, nay shovel out after a season spent 'pon Waistrel lane, th' re-cycling facilities shall be overwhelmed by th' sheer volume o' Stella empties and kebab wrappers I have been abandoned amongst. Dear reader, I sometimes wonder whither life goest, I suspect it doth goest onward into Th' World of Rock!
Day 561:W.o.R.
Gadzooks, Never did I think I would see Th' Swillers portal to th' web change in such short order! I can only assume that being taken under th' Lardstone & Maldoon umbrella has brought some kind o' 'organisation' to th' Dimmocks o' rock. To those of you who may not yet have bumbled into th' Lard 'n' Mald I speak of a media empire that spans a good two or three things! Their coporate motto speaks volumes - 'Purveyors of Small Town Skullduggery' - not to be trifled with I warn thee. Rumour has it that they also represent
'The Deadweighs', th' almost mythical outfit that are rumoured to stalk
th' misty glades o' garage rock. such company do our soft lads now keep innit.
Must bimble off into th' gathering gloom, in th' distance I hear th' sound of Transits being emptied of lumpy black things....and guitarists - noisemongers - Oh aye la, 'tis Friday's eve and th' bands do gather.
How lucky for me they gather in pubs!
Lucky bags on and in hope I leave.
Tally Ho!
Stardate 23076:W.o.R.
ABDUCTED I SAY!!
Fellow traveller, I am somewhat disturbed, nay traumatised I declare!
It is my unbelievable task to inform you that I have been held against my will by creatures
from another planet. I had been enjoying th' pleasures of th' Prince Of Belgian beers of an evening in th' pleasant, although as usual trying, company of a Swiller or two when, during the fuzzier part of th' proceedings I felt a abnormal presence. Normally I would have assumed th' worst and taken Spud to task for this but no 'twas worse than th' Metal Midget! I was suddenly whisked from this
(un)reality and found m'self 'pon a ruddy great alien craft.
Surprised? I should coco sweet reader!
I won't for the benefit of the more sensitive amongst you go into fine detail, enough to say that shiny, glowing objects have been places where a Rockstorm should never have to endure .
Hard, unforgiving surfaces everywhere and scarce hope of a Haemorrhoid cushion.
Oh the despair, not to mention discomfort, I cannot convey, most especially when I discovered these creatures were obsessed with none other but.............th' Blaggers o' Boogie themselves.
The Swillers! Oh yes, the poor deluded, multi limbed, gurgling fiends liked nowt better than a marathon o' rock in a Swiller stylee! It was terrifying enough being in the clutches of a technologically superior race, then to discover that I hadn't been lifted from Terra Firma for my own worth only as a presumed acolyte of Th' Divots o' Rock! For aeons these poor interstellar devotees o' classic rock had waited undetected above our planet only to latch on to th' mindless storm o' noise that emanates from th' Welsh hills.
Thank Hal Arthur C. Clarke shuffled off before my return, th' auld bugger would have been gutted!
I, peruser o' m'musings, am still somewhat weakened by my ordeal and have to take to my bunk.
Even th' simple pleasures of th' winnebago have been tainted and sleep comes but fleetingly.
That could be because I'm parked outside Spud's hovel
and th' constant din of The Scorpions is a tad distracting.
I will return with such tales that would sober a Swiller.....probably!
"To go where no-one has gone before..
...and I'll tell you for why!"
Rik Rockstorm
On the never-ending Road of Rock
