A short musical interlude.

Many Happy Returns

 ” Sing “

Many Happy Returns were active for a few years in the mid 1980s.  They played many in East London, often with The History of Gardening and The Assassins of Hope.

Their track ” Sing ” can be found on the 1985 compilation LP  ” We Won’t be your fucking poor ” along with such bands as The Assassins of Hope, Stone the Crowz, D.O.A, Oi Polio, Virus  etc

Many Happy Returns

You came to me with a broken wing,
You said I fed you good,
But your reply when I took you in,
Was that you didn’t think I should.

Sing sing, sing lets hear you sing,
Sing sing, sing lets hear you sing,
Lets hear you sing.

You know you needed me that time,
But all this you deny,
But I know you honestly,
I’m everything I reply.

Sing sing, sing lets hear you sing,
Sing sing, sing lets hear you sing,
Lets hear you sing.

You left me when you felt ok,
Of that I don’t regret,
But while you came,
You made me pay,
For all you went & spent.

Sing sing, sing lets hear you sing,
Sing sing, sing lets hear you sing,
Lets hear you sing.

Now you see my face everywhere,
The writings on the wall,
& you can fuck, your profiteering,
My lyrics say it all.

Sing sing, sing lets hear you sing,
Sing sing, sing lets hear you sing,
Lets hear you,
Sing sing, sing lets hear you sing,
Sing sing, sing lets hear you sing,
Lets hear you sing.

Lyrics by Dan Colley 1985
Music by Dan Colley & Many Happy Returns 1985

Many Happy Returns were

Rob Mellor : Lead Guitar
Dan Colley : Rhythm Guitar
Daniel Fadil : Bass guitar
Dennis Fadil : Drums
Larry Peterson : Vocals

Recorded at Recession Studios Hackney London E8

Remastered by James Peterson
Video made by James Peterson


Exciting News Chums

 The History of Gardening

Peel the Skin

Free MP3 Download

From the 1984 Tape release

” Pork “


Unrelated photo of the kind of degenerates and low life that listen to

The History of Gardening.

Download  Peel the Skin  for free here.


Here we can see ” THOG ” fans ritually  preparing themselves for a concert by the  heathen ” pop group ” who they worship as idols .  Before the concert takes place, THOG  fans gather at secret locations, usually the back of bike sheds, dark alleyways and ancient Neolithic, monolithic sites. Here they loiter around, usually making the place look untidy and not fit for decent folks. They appear dishevelled, unkempt , forlorn, aimless and a general blight on any civilised society’s notions of decency.  History of Gardening fans can be found usually below the bottom rung of societies ladder, as they are extremely clumsy and untogether and have slid off it. They are generally to incompetent to survive in the 21st centaury. They would be more at home employed as scarecrows, organ donors or used as hat stands . No hopers, losers and misfits generally look down upon both THOG the band and their scruffy and strangely, smelling followers


Poster for The History of Gardening

The Greyhound



Art: Paul Trew.

And now a message from our sponsers

The System

Slaves to the Machine

Beloved disciples of Obsidian Oblique, Listen! Hark ! What aural delights await your tender lugholes.



  CD and LP cover by yours truly.

We at Obsidian Oblique are pleased to announce that our artwork graces the cover to one of Scotland’s finest Punk Bands.
The LP will come complete with a poster and booklet. Oh you lucky people. Start digging deep into your pockets for the chance to own such a high quality and much sort after artefact of artistic splendour..
And  for your delight here’s a gander of the poster that will come with the LP

                                    Another day, another dollar.

 Check out The Systems Facebook page for details

Here’s a few variations that we worked on. One of the good things  with Photoshop is it allows you to spend ages doing a multitude of variations. That is also one of it’s faults in a way. Where as before with paper and pen or board and paint, once you had finished  a piece that was that. Now with Phtoshop you can go back several months later and change the things you are not happy with. This twerking and fiddling about can go on indefinitely. Hours slowly merge into days, as oblivious to the outside world, I sit staring into the flickering computer screen, as I retouch and correct mistake that annoy me. It’s a dirty job but no one has to do it.


The Hipster Trap.


Unused back cover.

Here is how to deal with a blight upon our cities and culture.
Display in an artistic manner  bulky old analogue  Television Sets. spawned and scattered in an eye catching array. Wait patiently for Hipster to meander by on his or her way to some meaningless meeting concerning a pop up media event they are going to curate.
When they stop to smirk and take a photo to post to Gawkr  (or what ever trendy bloody thing they post these things on) We have them where we want them. The trap is sprung and the  one tonne weight that we have positioned to drop upon the intended target, it cut loose.  Job well done. If you haven’t access to any one tonne weights, grand pianos, Hippopotami or a selection of over weight  llamas can also be applied.
And some different versions of the poster


All in all we are rather chuffed with the results.

And in the end, that is all that matters.

A Million Houswives Pick Up a Can of Dreams and Spray

Tyme Never Strays…
The Weed Of Tyme Beareth Bittern Fruits:

Callisthenics For The Masses.

Although it was no bad thing to be toning up the ethereal muscles in such a manner, it was nonetheless a slightly tiring way to pass eternity. Especially as the music of the spheres gave one little in the way of rhythm by which one could groove one’s booty in time. Beautiful though the winds of time may be as they played upon the Aeolian Harp of Eternity, they hardly had a solid four-on-the-floor with which one could get in time and work that ethereal body. Still, all things considered, at least it gave one a chance to ponder the eternal verities as one moved.
Little did each of them realise that they were thinking exactly the same thing as they moved. ‘If I watch the one in front, and then move as she does, then no-one will know that I actually have no idea what the hell I’m supposed to be doing. I can get away with it. They will think that I can hear the same music as them, and that the unthinkable is not the truth: that I have no sense of rhythm.’
Was it, one wondered, a proof of the eternal over mind, the universal consciousness spoke of by Brahmin, Hindu and the good Mr Jung that made them think thus? Perhaps: but could it not also have been little more than the carrying over of a kind of paranoia that had fuelled them in their more fleshly incarnations?
A slight pause here, perhaps, while we ponder upon the notion of such fleshly incarnations…
Ah, that’s better: where was I?
Yes, the paranoia of the flesh. So to speak. It has to be said that all of the girls now partaking of the exercise that would hone their astral bodies to a peak of perfection had, in their more earthly stages of incarnation, suffered from that sneaking feeling that everyone else in the bloody world knew more than they did. There was something, some secret or key to existence, to which everyone else in the whole damned world was privy: everyone except them. And while it was sometimes easy to dismiss this as just a feeling of insecurity or a lurking lack of self-worth (self-wrath, even) that was nothing more than a passing phase, still it refused to go away.
Even now, now that they had attained that peak of metaphysical (post-physical, even) being that saw them exist both outside and within the fabric of spacetime, AT THE SAME MOMENT, that vestige of paranoia and fear still lurked within the very core of their astral being. Beings? Well anyway, they still had.
So they continued to move in time with the arrhythmic music of the spheres, pretending there was a solid beat. For what they failed to realise was that, the very nature of spacetime being curved as it was, so they were all following one another in a loop that had no beginning or end. For, gentle reader, you may have been wondering how – if each girl was following the one before her – then did the girl at the front of the line know how to set the beat.
The answer of course being that none and all set the beat at the same time.
There was also the little matter of them never having been drop-dead gorgeous in their physical beings. Nor, come to that, had any of them been women. Quite the opposite.
But that was just another little lesson to be learned, wasn’t it?

Apparently the time has come to talk of many things, and though I like cabbages, I am not fond of Kings…

Many Mystics Munch Magic Mushrooms

If paradise was twice as nice as thrice.


Gradely P. Spencer was a man of few words. Indeed, even those that passed his lips on the odd occasion that he deigned to speak were of little, if any, consequence. So when he uttered the immortal word ‘Bugger’, it was pretty obvious that something of no little import had impinged upon his, admittedly usually quite distracted, consciousness.
Frankly, he had never seen anything quite as awe-inspiring in all his days. Frightening, too. Let’s face, to any man who had developed the kind of antipathy to women as anything other than an alien species to be appeased in order to assuage his lusts – a common enough attitude and stance amongst those who were of the same vintage – the sight of women  who were the size of a small galaxy was enough to cause a seizure.
Which it almost did, to be honest. He was so dumbfounded by that which assaulted his senses that he completely forgot for a moment that he was piloting the good ship Lusitania on her maiden voyage. The idea of naming a space cruiser after a ship that was most famous for getting sunk was not something that evaded the strong sense of irony that had kept him on the edges of sanity during the interminably long voyage. For a moment or two, it looked like he would bow to the inevitable and the sense of humour that made the cosmic joker what he was – a complete bastard, actually, but never mind – while crashing his ship into the nearest mass.
‘Skipper, what the blooming heck is that?’ he asked himself. Odd as that may seem, it was this kind of irrational behaviour that had kept him able to function during the long voyage. Everyone else may have been placed in stasis, leaving him with no-one to talk to, but he wasn’t one to let that get in the way of a good chin-wag. Oh no, not Gradely P. He had a simple solution to the loneliness: he became not just one man, but the entire crew of the ship. Adopting a variety of accents, he would issue orders and then carry them out, changing with an almost chameleonic grace to become the alter-egos with which he now populated his enclosed world. The thing that concerned him about this was that he was finding a little too much succour in the act: even to the point where some of his personae were plotting a mutiny against the captain that drove them so hard. He found himself muttering to himself in dark corners, looking over his shoulder lest he should stumble upon himself and discover the plot.
Anyway, that was why he was talking to himself in the strangled tones of a Scots second lieutenant who was trying desperately to hide a drink problem but was failing miserably to the point where it was common gossip amongst the rank and file. Which, on reflection, was hardly surprising: it was almost impossible to keep a secret here.
‘Ted, I have no idea who or what they are, but by God they’re incredibly impressive,’ he answered himself – the Scot was Ted after his father, who had settled in Burnley after travelling south from Ayrshire at the turn of the century – before adding: ‘One thing for sure, though – I can’t afford to loose my concentration at such a moment again. We were nearly sucked into the gravitational pull of that black hole.’
‘Skipper, that’s no way to talk of a lady,’ he implored himself in shocked tones. ‘And sure you mean “lose”, not ‘loose’ at that,’ he added.
‘Poetic license, old lad,’ he told himself through gritted teeth. Honestly, some people…

I wish I was in Italy stuffing my face with fine food


And here’s another post, that for a few precious moments, will fill up the gaps in your life before the inevitable embrace of death takes us all.

That’s a cheerful thought for you on this glorious summers day here in Blighty. I don’t actually subscribe to that morbid outlook, but it was the first thing that popped into my head when I thought  what on earth am I going to write for this post. Here I was sitting here with a new picture to show you but stuck for anything witty or constructive to say. I blame the weather myself. I really just want to sit in the garden and read, not sod about on the computer wasting your precious time with this nonsense, but Hi Ho on with the show.

So how’s your day been? Seen any good films lately, read any decent books? Have you seen  what her at no 23 has been getting up to when her husband is at work? Gawd Blimy, what a palaver!

Hmm, I am still procrastinating  as you can no doubt tell.

How do I entice you and so many others to  part with  your hard-earned dosh to buy my Magazine ( when it’s finished that is ) or any of my products on my Cafepress store?  After all  what have I got to offer that you really want?  It’s not as if any thing I say  or do is particularly earth shattering is it? I am just another  twit amongst countless millions that haven’t a clue what’s going on in this world but has access to a blog to waffle on about nothing in particular.

I really do think it’s the weather. It’s just beautiful outside and instead on concentrating on  some amusing post, I keep looking out the window at the brilliant blue skies and thinking back to when I was at school . I would be stuck in some boring lesson , day dreaming in a world of my own, watching the clock as the hands agonizingly, slowly edged towards the hour and the end of the schoolday and  as usual thinking of the summer holidays that were slowly inching closer. I would have that feeling of butterflies in my stomach, that intoxicating sensation of  anticipation, of knowing that for seven long weeks I would  be able to do what I want to do. No Maths, No P.E, no barked, angry shouts of No running in the corridors.   Just  the prospect of weeks of sunshine and doing what I want to do, that’s of course if I didn’t make to much of a mess, annoy my mum and be back in time for tea.  Well I was a kid, not an arctic explorer .

Anyway enough of this nonsense. I doubt you want to read any more, that’s if any one has read this at all. No doubt as soon as it starts raining again (and this being Blighty it will be very soon) my neurons will be firing and my imagination will be stoked pouring out ideas to enthral you.


Anyway there’s a picture what I done at the top of this post. You may like it or you might not. Who’s to tell.


Rumours from Terra Incognito

Discordian Power Blog

Info to the People!


The Organ 'zine; music, art, underculture...

Wyrd Daze

The multimedia zine of speculative fiction + extraordinary music, art, & writing.

Bollie's Haberdashery

Traders of fanciful preloved garments, trinkets and treasures...Workshops to tickle your creativity and fun to fill you up with!

WitchesBrewPress's Blog

Jesus, Junk, & The Jurisdiction: Michele Witchipoo's Blog

The Other Rock Show

it rocks, Jim, but not as we know it...

Rockalterno's Blog

A guide for beginners to the religion of music...

Downturn Abyss

A sideways universe of the inter-war years

The Pseudoscientific World Of TOMTIT

Rumours from Terra Incognito

Scarfolk Council

Rumours from Terra Incognito

Fragmented Fears

Chaos Crawling From The Wreckage

Pádraig Ó Méalóid AKA Slovobooks

The Ongoing Thoughts of a Middle-Aged Man

%d bloggers like this: