It's enough to still be there.
We have a DVD coming out! And it's full of utter rubbish! It's called Radiohead Television and right now you can pre-order it from our website. Yes, that's right, our website does more than just confuse people, it now offers a DVD that will…confuse people. It's basically stuff we threw together in and around the time we were making Hail to the Thief, and it includes: mad cartoon videos of some of the songs! Live performances with bad quality picture! Songs that weren't good enough to make the album! And a good deal of my face if you like that sort of thing! All of which is hosted and masterminded by the ever-enigmatic Chieftan Mews! Is he a disembodied presence who must be kept under glass for 18 hours a day to keep his essence from dissipating? Is he a former civil service worker with a disturbingly strong predilection for raw meat? Was he even anywhere near the garden on the night of the 31st at all? What-tell you here? And risk destroying the Radiohead mystique? Not on your Nellie. But at any rate, much of it makes me giggle and cover my mouth, so here's hoping it does the same for you, or some equivalently pleasurable reflex action.
My birthday was lovely. Jonny and Jamie came by and the four of us had dinner. Rachel offered to cook, but I kept hovering around the kitchen and offering what I personally consider extremely helpful tips. However, for some reason she saw this as a distraction, and finally stomped out, telling me that if I was going to throw a wobbler every time she added an extra pinch of salt to anything, I could make my own bloody birthday dinner. Which was just as well; I mean, she was cooking the stuffing outside the bird. How are you supposed to get the juices in?
Anyhow, we finally did sit down to dinner. Jamie's quite nice, a bit on the quiet side, but she got me a lovely V-neck sweater. Perfect thing to wear with the cold weather coming, ta Jamie. Jonny got me what has to be one of the most brilliant presents in the history of the British Empire; a year of whatever I like from the Banbury Cake Shop on St. George's, charged to his account. Not that I can't afford the cakes myself, but it'll be nice to go in and obtain them from Ms. Buckle, the counterperson, without having to go through the bother of handing them my charge card. Incidentally, Ms. Buckle, without fail, asks me the same question every time I've gone in there for the past ten years. "How's the rock-and-roll life treating you, Thom? Still staying away from the dirty girls?" Yes, Ms. Buckle. Wouldn't dream of such a thing, Ms. Buckle. "Ah, you're a good lad." Then we went outside and chopped wood. Jonny and I, that is, not Ms. Buckle and I. It wasn't any sort of Robert Bly nonsense, if that's what you're thinking. I just wanted a new sound to mess about in ProTools with, so I had us take turns chopping while the other recorded.
The others sent packages: Colin sent me a large jar of apple blossom honey. The only alarming thing about it was the dried red thumbprint on the side of the bottle. I'm not sure I want to know quite how the honey was obtained. Ed sent me a Lefty Frizzell box set; 16 CDs! I'll never listen to it all, but at least I can leave the booklet in the loo for me to read. And Phil, well. I opened Phil's parcel and it had a dry rag with a smiley face drawn on it. His heart's in the right place.
It's days like those that are the ones I simply want to drink in. I don't know how right I feel about it; it seems almost derelict, particularly in this day and time, to devote so much of my attention to simple idyllery, but my God, it's just so nice. Back when I was younger, I couldn't abide silence at all. I always had to have a tape playing, or an instrument in my hand, or at the very least, my own voice was always at hand to employ. Now I practically thirst for lack of sound. There's just something so pleasant about having nothing to disrupt my train of thought. Obviously it can't last forever; that would mean I was dead. But it doesn't stop me from being a glutton for it.
Well, Malcolm Glazer looks to be out. Which means we've avoided having Manchester burned to the ground for at least another season.
My birthday was lovely. Jonny and Jamie came by and the four of us had dinner. Rachel offered to cook, but I kept hovering around the kitchen and offering what I personally consider extremely helpful tips. However, for some reason she saw this as a distraction, and finally stomped out, telling me that if I was going to throw a wobbler every time she added an extra pinch of salt to anything, I could make my own bloody birthday dinner. Which was just as well; I mean, she was cooking the stuffing outside the bird. How are you supposed to get the juices in?
Anyhow, we finally did sit down to dinner. Jamie's quite nice, a bit on the quiet side, but she got me a lovely V-neck sweater. Perfect thing to wear with the cold weather coming, ta Jamie. Jonny got me what has to be one of the most brilliant presents in the history of the British Empire; a year of whatever I like from the Banbury Cake Shop on St. George's, charged to his account. Not that I can't afford the cakes myself, but it'll be nice to go in and obtain them from Ms. Buckle, the counterperson, without having to go through the bother of handing them my charge card. Incidentally, Ms. Buckle, without fail, asks me the same question every time I've gone in there for the past ten years. "How's the rock-and-roll life treating you, Thom? Still staying away from the dirty girls?" Yes, Ms. Buckle. Wouldn't dream of such a thing, Ms. Buckle. "Ah, you're a good lad." Then we went outside and chopped wood. Jonny and I, that is, not Ms. Buckle and I. It wasn't any sort of Robert Bly nonsense, if that's what you're thinking. I just wanted a new sound to mess about in ProTools with, so I had us take turns chopping while the other recorded.
The others sent packages: Colin sent me a large jar of apple blossom honey. The only alarming thing about it was the dried red thumbprint on the side of the bottle. I'm not sure I want to know quite how the honey was obtained. Ed sent me a Lefty Frizzell box set; 16 CDs! I'll never listen to it all, but at least I can leave the booklet in the loo for me to read. And Phil, well. I opened Phil's parcel and it had a dry rag with a smiley face drawn on it. His heart's in the right place.
It's days like those that are the ones I simply want to drink in. I don't know how right I feel about it; it seems almost derelict, particularly in this day and time, to devote so much of my attention to simple idyllery, but my God, it's just so nice. Back when I was younger, I couldn't abide silence at all. I always had to have a tape playing, or an instrument in my hand, or at the very least, my own voice was always at hand to employ. Now I practically thirst for lack of sound. There's just something so pleasant about having nothing to disrupt my train of thought. Obviously it can't last forever; that would mean I was dead. But it doesn't stop me from being a glutton for it.
Well, Malcolm Glazer looks to be out. Which means we've avoided having Manchester burned to the ground for at least another season.