Folk horror on the cricket field. Clearly hostile conditions.
This enigmatic window display was one of many examples of Llandudno going pretty fuckadoodledoo on my last trip there.
Also of particular note was the public address system outside the amusement arcade pumping out a constant stream of 80s hits like 'I Want to Know What Love Is' by Foreigner. I don't know how to explain why that was trippy but it certainly was. Perhaps it was something to do with visual stuff like this making me feel like I'd been beamed into a Surrealist painting for the night.
Raymonde Toulouse has really excelled himselves with this track. It's very influenced by Kraftwerk, with a feel a little like Trans-Europe Express, complete with impassive, detached, slightly German-accented vocals. Hmmm, there's maybe a bit of Wir Sind Die Roboter thrown in somewhere, too.
Out on the piste
For the daylight hours
Then back to our chalet
To discuss social problems
Left-wing skiers
We are left-wing skiers
Clad in our goggles,
Our helmets and skis
We seek skiing for all
Not just the bourgeoisie
Left-wing skiers
We are left-wing skiers
Ascending the ski-lift
To our apogee
A landscape before us
Of inequality
Left-wing skiers
We are left-wing skiers
Distributing equipment
In a disadvantaged area
We make our favoured pastime
More egalitarian
Left-wing skiers
We are left-wing skiers
Left-wing skiers
We are left-wing skiers, etc...
Out on the piste
For the daylight hours
Then back to our chalet
To discuss social problems
Left-wing skiers
We are left-wing skiers
Clad in our goggles,
Our helmets and skis
We seek skiing for all
Not just the bourgeoisie
Left-wing skiers
We are left-wing skiers
Ascending the ski-lift
To our apogee
A landscape before us
Of inequality
Left-wing skiers
We are left-wing skiers
Distributing equipment
In a disadvantaged area
We make our favoured pastime
More egalitarian
Left-wing skiers
We are left-wing skiers
Left-wing skiers
We are left-wing skiers, etc...
Lyrics: ©Raymonde Toulouse, 2025
I do worry about Uncle Monty. Did a few mushrooms at his hunting lodge last year and now he thinks he's fakkin' Cernunnos, the Horned One, Lord of the Wild Things. Don't know how his bird puts up with it myself.
Really loving what these housing developments in Wakefield are doing to my head. Makes me want to become an estate agent.
Psychedelic jogging is certainly bracing and very good for the constitution, but the woodland spirits I keep passing seem such a solemn bunch. Wonder what's eating them.
Mike Oldfield endlessly multitracking his pleasant and inoffensive noodling may seem innocuous enough, but it's altering the very fabric of space-time.
Here's what Hubble's been picking up.
New levels of fucking fuckedness from the hunting, shooting and fishing crowd.