Skellbert’s Pickles had to be ejekted from his home to submit this post. Otherwise, this would have been his household’s 4^th submission, which is against the rules of #Demokratisation. He writes:

“I fully expekt kreative tryranny to overrule this submission, partikularly as my missive today, is a reaktion to a dark day, which has resulted in Skellbert becoming rather pickled and ranty.  I do not wish to spoil the vibe of your GANTOB projekt, but I was pleased with this piece of writing which flew into my laptop, I would like to think, faster than Kerouac’s soft, strong and very long bit of typewriter paper.  I’ll not be at all miffed if this doesn’t make the cut, but would be glad of your reading it.”

Thanks for your dedication Skellbert’s Pickles. Over to you…

---

Pickling has been going on here since 1680, but the current corrugated pickling house was erected in the 1960s, whilst Elvis was wriggling his deeply corrupting pelvis.

I must admit to a kollection of liberated K2 tat in said barn, but now that I am resident in this tin tabernacle of Mu, it serves as a constant reminder that I am not dead yet. 

We are considering a future Furthur re-enaktment of Chill Out with live sheep and pure Llandewi-Brefi elektrik kool-aid punch.  Local legend has it that there might be psykhedelik treasure buried in the swamp behind my pickling shed.  There’s lots of smiles to the mile out here.

The swallows and the geese have been ruling our skies, ‘til a dirty piece of military hardware came over low this morning, a dark omen for sure, as they were followed by those cuntry folk, who so objected to our occasional forays into their environs to dance. They came through with bloodlust, a depleted gene pool, and malevolence.

We had to get out. It was just too much.  Our neighbours way out west are far less disturbed than those denizens of Ballardian Ingerland, entranced by the city in the South East, that even Gimpo’s Spin has failed to knock off kilter, or perhaps more to the point, put on an even keel.  Koming of age in the stockbroker belt, was freaked out early on by Threads and later tripping at the Deptford Free Festival with the evil pyramid atop 1 Canary Wharf projecting its bad juju on the happy crowd.  Then more evil geometries were raised to their Abrahamic heaven, culminating in the Shard that must burn. Down with that sort of thing.  Missiformation had a good go at toppling their markers on the perimeter of the square mile one night, but that was all a blur even in the moment, ended with her licking a Victoria line tube outta Brixton like a cane toad (this explains much).

To paraphrase the infamous words of Spiral Tribe (your investments may go up or down…)  recently cited during the Krossing “make some fucking noise there’s a genocide going on”.

Anyway, I’m still out here freezing my numb nuts off with my sacred jars of Immanentized Eschatons.

I now find myself 23 words short.  I’ll apologize for spoiling the party with a bit of political reality, but 2023 WTF is going on?

SKELLBERT’S PICKLES

27 December 2023

This kontribution arrived on 18 December, with an elaborate excuse. This included the words:

‘I was not planning on sending in a contribution owing to several factors.

• I have not read 2023: A trilogy by The Justified Ancients of Mu Mu, aside from a brief glimpse of a few pages in the Manchester City Centre branch of Fopp.
• I have already submitted a number of words to Bill Drummond’s forthcoming memoir A Life Model, and that putting more words in to a linked project could be seen as being “greedy” in some way.
• While I had been reading the blog, and following along, I had not done any of the audience participation elements.

So, I was to just leave it be, and read (and listen).
But The Wolves In My Head had other plans (as usual). They defeated my procrastination attempts fairly easily, and (got me to) write what is attached. For my chapter in A Life Model, they have a mere cameo. This time, they wanted star billing. But when looking through the list of characters, one jumped out as a good opportunity to try to work something out.
All credits/kredits goes to “The Wolves”. I just typed it up.
They also insist that they are not related to the internet meme of “There are two wolves inside you…”, nor do they appear on the cover of “Chill Out”, the compilation on Sabotage Recordings. If that’s not in the KLFRS arkives, I’ll pop a message over to them about it.'(*)

PS One last thing I forgot to mention was the final nudge to submit something was seeing the cover for the Christmas RadioTimes [which featured a picture of Mog].

Over to you wolves and Brechtian…

---

They must be wrapping up by now. Points kept being raised, discussed, emphasised. Even though no longer weighed down, the outdoors still made for a tiring place to hear this.

“..and, I think that covers it all.” the wolf on the left said. “Anything to add?” he asked the wolf on the right.

Please say no, please say no…

“Well, I don’t think so.”

A pause. I knew they were waiting for me to make some statement about it all, but I was going to enjoy this silence for a moment.

“OK, I heard what you were both saying, and I can agree with a lot, no the majority, no most.”

“Mmmm?” prompted the one on the right.

“But I still don’t understand why ask someone like myself”.

“Well…it’s. OK, it’s your experience as a former human. I don’t want to offend, but that puts you in a unique position among the people we have met over the years.”

I shifted pose slightly. I glanced over at the back of a carpark nearby a soon to be demolished cinema. Close to civilization, but away from cameras or passers-by. Just what should I be offended over…

“You are the first to be able to offer us a different perspective of it all. If we asked someone who was still alive, our response would be clouded by the fact that we might see you as a threat, or visa versa. Whereas now….”

“OK, I see. I can’t kill you, and you can’t eat me.”

“Exactly. Possibly getting kulled or predated can cloud anyone’s thought process, no matter what tea and biscuits you hand out at the start.”

The wind picked up a notch, blowing an empty can along the carpark. I gathered some thoughts on the matter, dropped half and started my response.

“True balance between the two could have only happened if both had been able to communicate equally from the beginning. That alone, though would not have solved the conflict, just would have made finding a joint purpose more probable. So, ‘least worst’ option is what there is now. You have a possible contribution to the process, but absolutely no obligation to do so for the very reason you’ve just given for asking my opinion.”

“Huh. Well, thanks very much Curt”

“I’ll be on my way”.

CREDIT: THE WOLVES, transcribed by Brechtian

26 December 2023

---

(*) I will ask Brechtian for further details about The Chill Out compilation on Sabotage Recordings on your behalf and update in due course.

It’s not Christmas Day yet. It’s still Advent. So it’s appropriate that we’ve had to wait for this blog. Graham has filed his copy after being out and about for hours in Edinburgh. He’s not very popular at home.

Over to you Graham…

---

Christmas Eve afternoon I head into Edinburgh city centre, ostensibly to pick up some stocking fillers, vegetarian stuffing, plumper sprouts. Everybody is back home, and we have been cooking and wrapping all day.

I pass a guitarist called Inkfields: “To play with fire doesn’t make you an arsonist”, he sings, looking right at me. An image of The Shard flashes in front of me.

There’s a huge crush at the East End.  Along Princes Street, outside Waterstone’s there’s a trio playing jazz Christmas carols. A few people throw coins in the double bass case.  I think back to a Duke Ellington quote I heard recently: “There is nothing to keeping a band together. You simply have to have a gimmick”. This ensemble’s gimmick appears to be wearing colourful paper hats.

I’m wondering about a meeting point arranged in The JAMs’ 2023: A trilogy: Shepherdess Café, London, 17:47, Christmas Eve 2023.

17:20 I pop into Black Sheep Coffee, opposite Edinburgh Castle. Having read the GANTOB blog, I think this is the best GANTOBverse surrogate for Shepherdess Café. I look around the ground floor, then the top. No likely candidates. But how can we know what GANTOB, The Benefaktor and The Foundation Doktor look like? There are certainly no grapefruit rolling around.

17:40. Still no sign. I order, avoiding matcha green, as per GANTOB’s advice. I’m going to sit beside the front door and watch people coming and going. The buskers walk past, laughing. After remembering a later meeting in the book I’m there until closing time. Waiting. Nothing.

I don’t know what I expected. I think of all the time I’ve spent digging, following up false leads, refreshing eBay and Facebook, watching for the KLF, and now GANTOB.

My feet get tangled up in a piece of garbage. I shake it off, thinking it’s a food wrapper. However, inspecting it more closely with the torch on my phone, I realise it’s a green Christmas hat, but made out of standard paper rather than the crepe version from a cracker. And it has words and a familiar grapefruit design. It’s been cut in half – in a zigzig, and then stapled together. It’s GANTOB’s “Paint Them Black” pamphlet, from November 2023. I wonder briefly if it’s the same hat the double bass player was wearing. And then I nip into a Tesco Express and pick up sprouts and a discounted Christmas pudding.

Graham

24 December 2023

Note that image is by Matt Porter.

In another universe Wham! is Number One with “Last Christmas”. But events are rather different in this reality, kommunikated by Mase in this ongoing series of #Demokratisation.

We are fully booked for blogs for the rest of 2023, but if you would like a copy of the forthcoming book and your entry fits into the narrative laid down so far, then we will just need to double up. Numbering conventions will be out of the window, but isn’t that just typikal of all things K. Get submitting. Details on how to apply at the end of the blog.

But for today, it’s over to you Mase…

---

Christmas Eve, 2023 – lightly snowing. The Justified Ancients of Mumu – Rockman Rock, Kingboy D, and The Benefactor – in their secret underground lair, deep beneath London.  Their latest project – the Christmas #1 song Everybody’s Talkin’ At Me by Harry Nilsson (featuring Ricardo Da Force) premix by Tony ‘FU**’ Thorpe.

Huddled around the control board, sipping cocoa, checking the charts. More than just a song – their chance to make history one more time.

A knock at the door… “Who could that be?” asked Rockman from his mixerboard. “I hope it’s not the tax man.” replied Kingboy.

“I’ll get it,” said the Benefaktor.

It was none other than Santa Claus himself! “Ho ho ho!” boomed Santa. “The JAMs’ Christmas #1 hit? I’m impressed! I’ve heard rumors of a special remix by Tony Thorpe?”

Soon Santa was dancing to the catchy beat. “Fantastic! My new favorite Christmas song. How did you do it?”

Kingboy D grinned mischievously. “To win the Kareovision Kristmas Song Kontest, we needed something special to stand out from all the other generic holiday songs. We took a classic like Everybody’s Talkin’ At Me, slapped on a funky beat, and extra flavor with Ricardo’s vocals. Then we had Tony remix it for us.”

Santa chuckled. “How to have a #1 the easy way?”

Rockman chimed in, “It’ll show everyone we’re not just a bunch of crazy old men in silly costumes.”

Santa nodded. “I’m rooting for you! And remember – the true spirit of Christmas is about spreading joy.”

As they worked tirelessly through the night, they felt a renewed sense of purpose – they weren’t just trying to win a contest, they were spreading cheer to the entire world.

The results finally came in Christmas morning – they had indeed won the Kristmas Kontest – thanks to Santa’s personal endorsement!

Celebrating aboard their giant solid-gold submarine, a surprise visit from Tony Thorpe himself. “I heard y’all were using my premix”, he said winking, “So I thought I’d return the favor and create a special dubstep postmix!”

The Benefaktor listened in amazement as the heavy bass and pulsing synths transformed their song into a whole new beast that’ll rock the world for centuries to come. “Wow!” exclaimed Kingboy, “We couldn’t have done it without you, Tony!”

The JAMs raised their glasses in a toast to the power of music to bring people together. Merry Christmas from Trancentral!

Mase

23 December 2023

Image is by Matt Porter, shared on Instagram yesterday.

---

If you have 400 words to submit, please get in touch. Ignore the deadlines, but please remember to provide an excuse for being late. If your blog is used in December 2023 you will receive a copy of the forthcoming book: GANTOB’s 2023: A trilogy, including your contribution. Good luck!

Part 4 of a weekly series. We’re back in the East Anglian village where Bronwyn Gosling, and Curt and Norah Finks lived in the 1980s and 1990s. Series concludes on 28 December.

Part 1| Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 5.

---

3PM. The bus deposited The Photographer and a few other SLRed twitchers in the East Anglian village. He made his way to the Finks’ cottage, thinking back to their first encounter, when he had found Curt kneeling against a drystone dyke in the Yorkshire Dales.

Approaching the cottage, The Photographer struggled with the Finks’ broken front gate, and edged his way along the slippery mossy path, aware of his precious cargo of camera and lenses.

Moments later he was being shown into the spare room by Norah Finks, and plied with a cup of Darjeeling and a thickly buttered scone. Curt was out, birdwatching.

Easing his way past the gate again, he walked the route that Norah had mapped out, camera safely stowed in the cottage, no use at this time of day. He carried a couple of packs of newly developed photos in his bag in case he had an idle moment. Rounding the corner he saw Finks and another man walking towards him. The taller of the two flashed a smile, waved enthusiastically, and The Photographer found himself arm in arm, marching towards the Red Lion pub.

The three men put in their orders at the bar. The conversation flowed easily, and the orders were repeated twice more.

Evening fell. Finks was snoring in the leather seat by the pub’s fire. Prof Grayling Muir was asking The Photographer about his friend’s Edinburgh Fringe activities. The Canadian academic updated him on the interview that had upset Finks so much, with the mystery of the printed programmes. The Photographer’s ears pricked up.

Reaching for his bag he pulled out the packs of photos. Dimly lit, they were almost all of Curt Finks’ Edinburgh shows that summer, taken over a three-day trip.

Neither man was interested in the tourist photos. Muir had the first look, flicking past those of the performer, lingering instead on the photos of the crowd.

After finishing his drink, The Photographer had a look himself. He turned back to a photo of a tall, thin man who was placing a piece of paper on one of the chairs. Though slightly blurred, it was clear that neighbouring chairs had already been leafleted.

Leafing through the rest, he was in no doubt. He knew that face, right back to school days. But what was he up to? He popped the envelopes back into his pocket and said no more. 

GANTOB, reconstructed from discussions with The Photographer, prompted by seeing mention of him in Curt Finks’ diaries 1988, 1989 and 1990.

21 December 2023

---

If you have 400 words to submit, please get in touch. Ignore the deadlines, but please remember to provide an excuse for being late. If your blog is used in December 2023 you will receive a copy of the forthcoming book: GANTOB’s 2023: A trilogy, including your contribution. Good luck!

This pivotal post comes from Andrew. He has been a regular source of inspiration and support for the GANTOB movement since August 2023. This piece takes a nice spin on a couple of konversations that Andrew and I have had over the months. And it involves another Scottish band which, going by the name of the record label they established at the start of their kareer, have a kurious affinity with a certain letter. And it’s an unwelcome return for TB, an irregular visitor to the GANTOBverse recently.

Over to you Andrew before I give too many hints…

---

GANTOB loved The Delgados.  Today was Saturday 12 August 2023, a day she thought would never come. It was a long time since the activities of the “thin men” – and woman – had ceased in 2005. 

She was sitting, shivering, poncho-less in the pouring rain, but that wouldn’t dampen her spirits.  As the first strains of No Danger rang out, she forgot about other distractions and found herself transported out of the bandstand in Kelvingrove Park, Glasgow and into another world altogether.

As the thunderous applause died down, she tuned into a conversation to her right.  A young couple were debating the meaning of a pamphlet they had found folded into a paper plane earlier. GANTOB chuckled and shuffled a bit closer as it dawned on her whose writings they were discussing. Perhaps her efforts were slowly paying off.

At the end of the concert the band returned for an encore. They thanked the fans for their enthusiasm in the face of some atrocious weather, going on to say that there was someone they needed to thank for the push that got them back together. “Could everyone put their hands together for The Benefaktor”, they announced in unison…

GANTOB’s heart missed a beat. Had she heard that correctly? Surely not. The Benefaktor had said he was putting all his efforts into supporting her writing. She had shared her wider influences to keep him engaged, but how he had stumbled upon The Delgados? What did this mean for her and Little Grapefruit?  Had he moved on to bigger things? And hadn’t The Foundation Doktor called him “the thin man”?

She was itching to tell the couple beside her it was her pamphlet. If The Benefaktor was shifting his attention and funding, she would need all the support available. However, she knew that would risk blowing her kover, ripping the fabric of everything she was trying to achieve. 

She was bursting for a pee but dreaded the chemikal toilets. She also worried that she had missed the subway home.

Suddenly, light flooded in, and she sat bolt upright, warm in bed. No poncho required. She knew The Benefaktor was somehow influencing her daily decisions, but this was something new. She had not even known The Benefaktor (or TFD) back in August 2023! His subterfuge was infiltrating her memories now, playing on her sleeping mind. Time to get on the front foot…

ANDREW

20 December 2023

Demokratisation is the process of handing the blog over to you, the reader. There needs to be a link back to characters from the GANTOBverse, or at least mentioned in previous GANTOB writing.

If you have 400 words to submit, please get in touch. Ignore the deadlines, but please remember to provide an excuse for being late.

If your blog is used in December 2023 you will receive a copy of the forthcoming book: GANTOB’s 2023: A trilogy, including your contribution. Good luck!