Thank you once again to F’da F’da for a kompelling answer to the krucial and universal (in these klimes at least) question 10. The letter K is most definitely present and korrekt for this anxiety provoking topik.
Parental advisory warnings firmly in place.
All hail Eris, the Goddess of Kaos,
Diskord & Konfusion!!!
All hail Diskordia!!!
So what the fuuk is addiktion, and does it differ from addiction??? I think, within the kontext of our present pamphlet publikations, I kan make a kase for it being a predilektion for the letter ‘K or k’!
GANTOB, the karakter, was certainly fond of its use. I for one soon found myself sliding into a ‘K / k’ addiktion quite readily, and before long I was falling down multiple ‘K-Holes’ in my endeavours to kreate a lasting and konstant path that kould lead us to the ‘Church of “K”‘(LF)…
Klearly this journey is as kontentious as it is kreative, and has needed kontinuous leaps of ‘faith’ in order to persevere in my search for ‘Kollektive Enlightenment!!!’. This is not just a kare-free probe, it’s more a dedikated research projekt into the kause of this K(LF) addiktion.
There kan be no doubting the KLFRS are deeply involved in the kontinuing intrigue surrounding the KLF. Their most recent ‘diskovery’ has been that of the ‘K-Line’, a mystikal ley-line from Trancentral in London to a manhole cover in Liverpool! Keeping the kaos alive and kicking, the KLFRS konstantly kause ripples in the Sea of Kreative Konsciousness!!!
Speaking as someone who definitely has an addiktive personality, the konstant drip, drip, drip feeding of all things ‘K’(LF) through a digital kannula keeps the kraving for knowledge at a kritical level… This kan kause konflict with friends & family when your konversations kontinuously return to the ‘Kause & Effekt’ of your addiktion to, and koncerns surrounding, the seismik revelations of the ‘K’(LF).
Someone in a previous pamphlet – Capt. Apophenia I think – once said; “In the world of Mu you’re never more than 23 feet away from a trilogy!”
This appears to be true as I presently find myself writing my third (and final?) offering for the GANTOB projekt. Will this kure my all-enkompassing thirst for more knowledge of the magnifique ‘K’(LF)? I doubt it, I thought I was klean after the shenanigans of 2017, but there’s always ‘that’ box at the back of the brain, waiting to be opened once again!!!
Six years later I received an overload of ‘K’(LF) activity via the digital kannula. The resulting synaptic transmissions activated the lid on ‘that box’, and my addiktion was triggered once again! I soon found myself falling down that now infamous ‘K’ Hole and tumbling headlong into the resultant kaos & konfusion… 2023; What The Fuuk Was Going On???
Before you know it, you’re making kontact with fellow addikts, seeking the path to ‘Kollective Enlightenment!!!’ returns with a vengeance, entwining you in its ever-embracing arms! New kreatures from the ‘Church of ‘K’(LF)’ seep into your consciousness, GANTOB, The Benefaktor, The Doktor, The Photographer, Capt. Apophenia, Urs, Little Grapefruit, Tillerman, Stephen Clarke 1980 and more besides.
Joining old friends like; Eris – The Goddess of Kaos, Diskord & Konfusion, Drummond & Kauty, The Diskordian Society, Howard the Porpoise, Freeman Hagbard Celine, Malaclypse the Younger & Tarantella Serpentine. They blend and become one massive intravenous digital hit of ‘Special K’(LF), taking the user to new heights of perception, known as ‘Total K-Vision!!!’
Once achieved, ‘Total K-Vision!!!’ gives you krystal-klear klarity, and this WILL lead to ‘Kollective Enlightenment!!!’ At this point there is NO turning back for the addikt…Not even an Intervention by ‘Special K’ Kounsellors will be able to kure them of their addiktion to all things ‘K’(LF).
By now ‘normality’ has become very, very blurred. I feel I have become more addikted than ever to the wonderful world of ‘K’(LF) and this should be giving me kause for koncern. But it isn’t! It may lead to the inevitable kar krash, but I kare not, for I am on a mission, a mission to bring the world ‘Kollective Enlightenment!!!’
I still feel in komplete kontrol of my mind, and konsider any komments that kriticise my treatise on “What Is Addiktion” to be kounter produktive to the overall projekt! The projekt is always more important than the person(or is that the other way round?). The projekt must not fail, the projekt will save you, the projekt WILL save humanity…
So, in closing, do you konsider this pamphlet to be the astute observations of a kharismatik and kultured individual, or the inkoherent diatribe of an insane psykhopath? Does it actually answer the original question, or konfirm nothing? That is for YOU to decide, should this ever pass the kommunications department at GANTOB HQ and become available.
We are approaching the deadline for the third book (23:23 on 30 June 2024). To earn a copy you will need to answer one of the 23 Questions and/or make a written or artistic contribution to the 52 Pamphlets. There is still time and we may need to go beyond 52 pamphlets (but not beyond 30 June 2024).
This question was asked by Little Grapefruit, at the end of her imagined year as Bill Drummond. It is number 15 of the 23 Questions.
We have three answers here, by Gaynor, Christine and Jane. We also have some examples of melodies as selected during the proceedings of a recent GANTOB committee, reported back by Little Grapefruit. Thank you to all involved in the production of number 46 of the 52 pamphlets.
If you have an idea for a pamphlet, please don’t be alarmed that we are coming close to number 52. We may need to go over that number, in which case we can do some shuggling about for the final book to keep the totals tight. As long as we have your submission by 23:23 (GMT) on 30 June 2024 your entry will be considered. The same applies to answers to the 23 Questions (ideally focussing on the as yet unanswered questions). Email your submissions to mailto:100percentvinyl2@gmail.com.
MY MELODIC LIFE/ MANTRA (by GAYNOR)
What is melodic? Life is always twist and turns, up and downs. How do we know we are alive without them?
This is my melodic fall back when I can’t see in front of me, when I need reminding who the hell I am (and to get a grip).
She’ll carry on through it all, she’s a waterfall
And I do. I’m quite famed for this
I carry on through life
Resilient to the core
Raising my brigantine sails
My stormy melodic life
Rushing water always finds a way to join the big calm pool
Crashing over moss and rocks and vertical drops
She’ll carry on through it all….
My song of my melodic life thanks to the Stone Roses’ Waterfall
GAYNOR 29 May 2024
Set sail & tie yourself to the mast. Credit: Gaynor
MELODIC? (by CHRISTINE)
Listen to Christine narrate her piece
The question was asked by Little Grapefruit. Little Grapefruit is melodic. Bounces about making mad observations about the world, from his perspective way down there, when all he can do is bob. One day he bobbed off, went across the sea. And his cousin Angharad, she bobbed along to see him. She was also melodic. She bounced around Liverpool, making noises and squishes and squashes and rolling down steps in a very melodic way.
Then along came Christine who had to tell us all about Little Grapefruit’s Welsh cousin Angharad. And she does so in a melodic voice wouldn’t you say? There’s something about her voice. Maybe it’s because she’s a Scouser. She hasn’t lived there for thirty years, but still she’s got the melodic way going on in her voice, just the way most Scousers have. Or at least the nice ones. The cranky ones don’t seem to have the melody going on: they bark a bit more. But nice Scousers, they don’t. They jump around in their trabs. Maybe that’s what makes them melodic, because their trabs are so bouncy, so their voice bounces as they talk too. I don’t know, because even when I wear boots I’m still melodic.
So what is melodic. It’s something that sounds nice, that’s for sure. Something that flows, bounces, beats, jumps, breaks. A break’s melodic. I love breaks. I’m a junglist. I love jungle. That’s very melodic. It’s better than that old dance music that you used to get in the 90s, 80s rather. 80s/90s. Sometimes we banded them together didn’t we, in the books, you know, and the puzzles? It was always 80s/90s. But there was a difference between the 80s and 90s. Because the 80s was a bit like “doo do doo do doo”. And the 90s was more “boo boo boo”. Very melodic.
I like melodies. We can sing along to a melody. Let’s make a melody about Little Grapefruit.
“Oh Little Grapefruit,
You’re very bouncy”.
That wasn’t good was it?
It’s the best I could do.
I’m still in bed.
I was up at 5. Up at 7. Up at 9. But half 10 I’m back in bed. That’s melodic. That’s definitely got a bounce to it.
I’ve been to my polytunnel twice. That’s not very melodic, apart from when the wind blows.
But outside the polytunnel, the birds sing. That’s melodic. Apart from Pedro the peacock. He’s not very melodic. Nah. He just goes “pkwaaah, pekkkha”. Nothing melodic about that. But the robins, and all the other birds, that go tweet, there’s definitely melody in there. It’s nice. I love it.
Some say police cars and sirens are melodic. But I really don’t miss them, not since I lived in the countryside. I haven’t heard one in years, not in my own home. I’ve heard them when I’ve gone out places, but not here. The only melody we get here is birds.
CHRISTINE 30 May 2024
Credit: Missi and Skell
JURA MELODIES (by JANE)
50 commoners singing to the sea.
Sand crunches, waves lap, swallows scream;
scratching of midge bites, sipping of whisky.
Four hands clapping from a passing boat.
Cough cough cough
Rat tat tat
George types 1984.
Down in the boathouse banknotes crackle.
JANE 1 June 2024
Walking on the beachWalk to Orwell’s HouseWalk to the Boathouse
Gathering to sing new Jura song by the Boathouse. Credit: All four Jura photos are by commoners choir members, with thanks
A GANTOB (committee) MEDLEY
Little Grapefruit was listening in to the meeting of the GANTOB Legacy Committee. The Benefaktor was chairing. Hiding under a couple of Braeburn apples and a wrapped quarter of watermelon, and nestled in beside a family of kiwis and an unwashed beetroot that had been placed in the fruit bowl in a rush to empty the shopping trolley for its next trip, she was unobserved by the humans. She could hear Urs and Katie in the room, at least two voices that she did not recognise, and Gillian joining in on Zoom.
Over a scheduled break from the tedium of yet another meeting, they were comparing notes on favourite music. Urs was commenting on the tingly anticipation of hearing a favourite piece unexpectedly on the radio – the opening bars, the recognition, dropping everything to listen attentively, shushing everybody else, concentrating, immersing oneself, the build to the release of the first line of the vast chorus singing out in the Usher Hall, Albert Hall or Westminster Abbey. She is talking about the opening bars of Handel’s Zadok the Priest. Not that she is a royalist. She is at pains to point that out. Once the second line has been sung, Nathan the prophet is announced, and the SATB are fully in their stride, the job has been done – Urs will be back doing her accounts, the dishes or tending to her cuttings. That is a tune, even if it only uses a couple of notes.
The Benefaktor is dismissive of this. Why on earth make do with music that fills you up before it has really even begun. He prefers a piece that takes you right up to the end, leaving you wanting more. He connects his phone to his Cambridge Audio network player and insists that everybody sits in total silence for the next 11 minutes 27 seconds. He does not announce the piece. It is, he explains, a guilty pleasure. Not something that you hear on BBC Radio 3. It starts with guitar arpeggios. A bassline comes in like footsteps. Little Grapefruit likes the first line, which is about going out without your shoes on. She doesn’t wear shoes. The singer is thinking big – the whole world, the purpose of music, other existential thoughts. There are chords that bleed into the next line, the B flat lingering into the C major, reinforcing the interconnectedness of it all. Sweeping strings, and then a tempo change, each section full of simplicity and wonder, a climax, then a sense of waves breaking against the rocks of emotion and loss. A jump to Brazil, smiles, sun, drum rolls of anticipation, religion and mind altering substances. And the final scene change, back to the original theme, “stay together”, “sing together”, “all feel the benefit”, concluding with a guitar solo that lasts over two minutes and stops without warning, just when Little Grapefruit thinks that she could surf these chords for ever. She is left with an aftertaste of feelings that she does not really understand. A smorgasbord of elation, sadness, longing and love. Like the bittersweetness of a grapefruit. The Benefaktor has raised his hand, demanding several seconds of silence before they can move on.
Katie, The Foundation Doktor, is up next. Little Grapefruit knows that she is smarting from a recent breakup. Dr K has gone back to 1975 (year not the band), and a John Cale track called “I Keep A Close Watch”. She listens to at least one of the various versions (or covers) every day at the moment. This version – the Cale original – opens with piano and swooning strings, then some brass and a slide guitar. Against this beautiful melody, Cale’s voice is flat (emotionally). It’s perfect for the piece. He sounds broken. At the line “I still hear your voice at night” Katie sobs into her hoodie sleeve, but stays sitting, waiting out the end of the song. She doesn’t have to wait very long. All too quickly it’s into a repeated chorus and slide guitar. Done and dusted in under three and a half minutes. TFD leaves the room as her grandfather starts deliberating on the track. “Leaves you wanting more – willing a return to the original theme”. But Little Grapefruit is not listening. She’s back to that chopping board, attempting to separate beauty from sadness.
Gillian is up next. She has chosen a more recent track – Emmy the Great’s Trellick Tower – and explains before The Benefaktor starts playing the track on her behalf, that she does not relate the lyrics to her personal circumstances. She just loves the song. And Ali has given up religion. He is a crofter now. Little Grapefruit listens in carefully. A simple piano line, the vulnerability of the voice, the bass. The Benefaktor begins to interrupt at the lyric “Been burying the books you left”, but Urs stops him. There’s an optimistic leap of a key change – from C major to F major, and then the explanation for that lift in spirits: “trying to keep you”. Urs hurries out at the mention of a “Relic of a love gone by”. Little Grapefruit sits absolutely still for the final 10 seconds as the sustained piano fades to nothing.
Last up, it’s one of the voices that Little Grapefruit didn’t know. The Benefaktor is being a smart aleck: “So _______” (it’s a name or word that LG doesn’t know and can’t pronounce), “be frank with us. Has any song earned your stamp of approval?”
After a rather dusty conversation between these two older men, The Benefaktor puts Big Star’s 1978 song Holocaust on the HiFi. Little Grapefruit listens attentively, shivering up against the bristly skins of the kiwis. She is terrified. She pokes one of the apples to shift a little bit and let some light in. Alex Chilton starts singing, his broken whisper of a voice, so vulnerable, after a haunting introduction of piano, cello, slide guitar and acoustic bass. A choir joins in. Little Grapefruit realises, despite her experience of such things, that this is a song about loss. She is not sure whose loss. There’s an intimacy: “You’re sitting down to dress”. Frailty. Bereavement. Ambiguity. Bile: “You’re a wasted face, You’re a sad-eyed lie”. The instruments howl out the last of their melody.
And with that The Benefaktor slaps the table and calls through to Urs and Katie. “That’s more than enough time”, he shouts. The spell is broken. The GANTOB Legacy Committee is reconvened. There is mention of broadening horizons beyond The KLF. Little Grapefruit is not listening. She is reliving the dozens of melodies captured in these four songs, all memorable in their own right, tugging at the heart strings, beautiful despite desolation, or cresting on the power of carefully selected chords as if taking flight. The kiwis, however, have heard none of it. They have a different idea of melody. They have their headphones on, plugged into Taylor Swift’s biggest hits, looking forward to her concert at Murrayfield that night. Each to their own.
Gimpo – as ever – was the one who had to keep an eye on everything while the other two swanned about. After beating the bounds and congregating, he sent us all towards the Ferry while he made off back to the van. It wasn’t the best evening for a Krossing on the Ferry. It was rough as fuuk. With each step I took the boat would either rise to meet my foot, or swoop away causing me to wobble and go off-kilter. I stood close to the Panda and kept one eye on my precious niece. By now she had submerged herself into the madness and was wearing a retractable traffic cone on her head, tilted to the side like a fine hat and fastened underneath the chin. Like me, she was no stranger to mishaps. She had the biggest of smiles as she took in the madness around her. I could still feel her pain though. We were all called to silence as the roll call of names ensued and the lights from the Liver Buildings shone bright across the water. We gasped and gulped as my brother’s name was read out among the names of those to be Mumufied this year. A reminder that he was gone.
I’ve often gathered my family together in the autumn months to take the Ferry ‘cross the Mersey to remember our Dad/Grandad/Great Grandad. At least one or two were obliging most years. I didn’t go back to Liverpool much since I left in 1994 when I was 21. I tried to keep it to once a year. If someone died, was born, married or had a significant birthday then I was usually persuaded to return more often. I like a family party, even if it is a wake. It is nice to see everyone together and remember those who have passed. Talking about the good old days.
One year, on a bright and balmy October afternoon, I managed to get at least 10 of us together, and we took the Ferry to the other side, and back. We never got off the Ferry, straight back to Liverpool and then off out for tea: that was our tradition. This time our Ray even made it. He never had before, and he never made it again. This year he was on his best behaviour and made it to the Ferry terminal to meet us all there. He wasn’t even gouging out or rattling too badly. We posed for photos, all four siblings, even some of our kids. My mum loved it and thanked me for arranging everything. Just as we were about to pull back up at the waterside, before the sound of the chains, and the smell of the oil, Raymond disappeared into the toilet. We all got off the Ferry and looked around for him. Eventually, he came skipping down the gangplank. He was fuuking muntered. He was smiling and laughing. My Mum announced his full name while rolling her eyes. Most of the family muttered in unison, “Oh for fuuk’s sake”. I took him by the hand and led him along with me, asking him how he’d been and if he was buzzing? “Yeah!” he nodded. I was long past being angry with him for being an addict. I saw it as a potentially permanent, terminal illness that deserved empathy, understanding, the odd chin wipe and a constant stream of £20 handouts. As I said, I didn’t see them often, so it was never too onerous to endure. I loved my brother dearly; we were best friends all our lives.
Christine’s brother Ray
Dad was still holding my hand as we walked off the Ferry. I felt him walking slower than me, so I tried to slow down. It had been like this for a while now, but I didn’t ask too much about it. I just walked slower or sometimes I would take a step forward and then back – a bit like Scottish dancing where you take two steps in the same place before you move along – but slower and still holding his hand. I noticed how Dad’s hands had become smoother than they used to be, even the traces of oil were gone from his nails.
He hadn’t fixed a gearbox in ages. I missed having a Scania parked at the end of the path. I was always proud to show off Dad’s lorries to my mates when he brought one home and would use my acrobatic skills to get up to the cab, informing my friends that they were not allowed up here. I’d smile at myself in the large wing mirror and enjoy the smell of the cab.
We walked along the waterfront, looking across to the other side, Dad informed me correctly that it was the best view in the world from over here and the poor sods from Birkenhead didn’t have it all that bad: at least they get to look at Liverpool. The view from our side of the water was pretty grim. We called Birkenhead the Badlands. It was really fuuking grim in the 80s: everything was. Dad had to sit down. I could see it was upsetting him, so I declared it was time for another sandwich and some of Auntie V’s homemade delights. He agreed and I was even allowed to hold the Kiaora bottle this time. We sat looking across the water, thinking to ourselves, munching away on Viennese Whirls and Battenberg. Dad finished off the butties too. Divine.
Summer came and went. Dad took me to see my other aunties, one by one. We had a lot of days out me and Dad that summer. I had to start the big school. It was a convent school. I was dreading it. I had heard about the Nuns from my sister. She was 12 years older than me and had been taught by the same nuns and so had my brothers. The Sisters of Mercy. I had been informed they were merciless. A few weeks into term, Dad got a date for his operation that was going to make him better. I was assured by everyone that he would soon be right as rain. I love rain.
Ray’s brick
At last, I heard the chains clunk. We were waiting by the exit keen to get off. A girl ran past and shouted “Fuuk that boat!” as we disembarked. It was a rough crossing. As instructed we walked slowly and in an exaggerated manner along the landing pier and out towards the Badlands. The choir from Toxteth was waiting on the other side singing aloud, informing us that “one day like this a year would see me right, for life”.
Me and my niece locked into a hug and wiped each other’s tears. “That fuuking boat though!” we laughed and wretched in unison. The ice kream van chimed the tune of Justified and Ancient, and a police van tore towards the terminal with its siren and lights. It wasn’t for us. We were all surprised. Flares were going off, smoke and colours. We collected my brother’s brick. He was heavy, I’m not going to lie. The pyramid led the way, on a forklift truck of course. I followed the crowd and I found myself walking along a strip of the waterfront I hadn’t walked down since 1983, when I was with my Dad. I thought of everything in a flash that had been and gone over the 40 years since I was last here. What had life taught me? I realised all at once the knowledge I had gained, the stories I had seen unfold. I wasn’t sure how, but for that moment, I knew. The tears streamed down my face. The Panda saw them and wiped some away and nodded his big Panda head. That Panda took care of me. He fermented foods for me: pickles. I like pickles.
Mr Pickles with Panda head
Dad died just before 8 pm on Tuesday 25th October 1983. Karma Chameleon was number one in the UK Charts and Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers were number one in the US Charts with Islands in the Stream. I sat in my bedroom with my pull-out poster of Boy George. I didn’t cry. I didn’t cry for years after that, not properly.
The crowd gathered around the Pier Head at 5:23 pm. It was pissing down and we were soaked wet through after having the bright idea to walk along from Toxteth. It wasn’t raining when we left, but by the time we got to the gates with the little turret on top of a bigger turret the wind swooped sideways from the Mersey through the Kings Dock. Intense sharp rain right in the face, drenching the clothes through. The ice kream van went past a while ago heading towards the waterfront, playing their tune as they got close to us. They must have noticed the flashes of hi-viz on our attire, or maybe it was because my husband was wearing a giant Panda head. He got a lot of attention that day and it kept him dry from the rain. We gathered and danced and sang together, some played the drums. We were all from the same tribe, all banded together in our madness and grief.
The bus pulled in at the Pier Head. I was sat on my hands clenching myself to the seat trying not to focus on the tea splashing around in my belly as we took a wide corner into the bus stop. I fixed a smile on my face so as not to have the focus shifted to my very full bladder. Tea goes through you very quickly. While I didn’t want to spoil the day by being demanding, I couldn’t risk wetting my pedal pushers. I looked smart when I left the house this morning. Mum had left my blouse and pedal pushers out on the side for me, all ironed and smooth, with white knickers, a vest and some frilly-edged socks. Dad commented, “Sunday best!” when I got dressed. It wasn’t Sunday though, it was Monday so I didn’t have to lie about going to church today.
Dad took me straight into the landing terminal where the ferry embarked from and took me to the turnstile of the toilets, waiting for an old lady to come to the gate at the same time as us. Dad took 2p out of his pocket and passed it to the old lady we had never met. She knew what to do. She stood me in front of her, put the 2p in the turnstile and then pushed me up close to the bar and we both poured into the public convenience together, two for the price of one. I didn’t feel the need to do any handstands in these toilets. Instead, I hovered over the seat and aimed in the general direction of the loo, just like Mum had taught me. “Do not sit on that seat!” she would always remind me. She wasn’t there to remind me today, but I knew it was dirty and I could not tolerate smells. I gagged at the stench and quickly pulled my sleeve down to cover my hand while I unlocked the door to get out of there and buried my chin and mouth in the ruched collar of my blouse. I washed my hands and breathed in the smell of the council soap. It was the same smell as the soap at school, and every other public toilet. I pulled tongues at myself in the mirror as I rubbed my hands together, splashing the suds between both hands. I looked down realising I had covered myself in water from the sink. I tried to rub it dry with the cotton towel. I pulled a clean bit around, scrunched up my wet blouse and rubbed it with the towel. It didn’t dry it. Now I just had a scrunched and wet blouse. Oh well. I shrugged to myself in the mirror and walked on my tip toes with my arms in the air out of the public convenience.
Dad was waiting for me. He looked like he’d missed me because his smile was beaming at me as I used my belly to push the bar to get out. I was tempted to do a cartwheel then but as I looked down at the floor it was dirty with cigarette butts so I decided against it also knowing that those types of “acrobatics” as Dad would call it, had no place on the street. Instead, I took giant steps still with my arms in the air until I got closer to Dad. He took my hand and pirouetted me around on the spot. I bowed to him and then walked normally, or as best as I could until I tripped on a flagstone, falling to my knees.
The best thing about pedal pushers was that I didn’t rip them as I fell. Instead, I just had a spot of blood on my knees from the graze. Dad took his chequered hanky out of his pocket, still folded in a square and neatly ironed with his initials on the corner, WJF. He gave it a rub and said, “It will be a pig’s foot in the morning!”. We snorted and laughed.
We started to walk away from the Ferry terminal, at which point I asked, preparing to be disappointed, “Are we going on the Ferry Dad?”
“First I want to show you something”, he replied.
It was only a short walk along the Pier Head to the War Memorial. We walked slowly. Dad sat us down in front of the War Memorial and put the Kwik Save bag on his lap. He took out the sandwiches wrapped in tin foil. Some were cut into quarters, in a triangle shape and the other sandwich was cut in half, not in a triangle. He passed me one of the small triangles. I bit into it, left the crust hanging out of my mouth and smiled at Dad. He took a bite from his buttie and said “Divine”. I knew he was referring mainly to the butter and not the whole buttie. Dad loved butter. I checked once by holding a buttercup under his chin and right enough, it shone golden yellow on his big grizzly round face. He loved butter.
William Flanagan. Seaman and Fireman.
Dad reached across and took the crust from my mouth, knowing I wouldn’t eat it anyway. He checked and there was a bit of chicken still between the crusts which he took out and popped into my mouth. I said, “Amen!” and swallowed. Dad finished my crust and wrapped the foil around the rest of the sandwiches. He took the lid of the Kiaora bottle and held it to my mouth while I took a sip. “That will do”, he said, and safely took the bottle away from me to avert any further mishaps, I presumed. Dad started towards the War Memorial and began telling me a story. He asked how old I was now, “almost eleven, in eleven days” I replied.
He began: “Well when I was 7, I had a Dad. He went away to sea to fight the Gerrrrrmans. He never came back”. I felt his sadness. “I was just a little boy”, he said looking up at the War Memorial. Dad walked around the outside edge of the Memorial, there were hundreds of names all around, and on the inside too. He found the list of names of the Seamen who lost their lives on HMS Manistee and pointed to a name on the list. It was written “W. Flanagan”. “William John Flanagan the first”, he explained. Dad was the second, my brother the third and I had the cutest little nephew just one-year-old. He was the Fourth. Bless him.
William Flanagan. Seaman and Fireman. Died at sea aged 41. His boat was torpedoed once and he survived, the second time it happened he didn’t. War is stupid!
“Did you cry?” I asked.
Dad said, “No, I didn’t cry for years”. I thought that strange but didn’t push for any clarification. I went down the list reading all the names out loud, most of them were Irish-sounding names, so they were easy for me to read. Dad walked to the water’s edge and leaned onto the poles looking over the water at Birkenhead. He reached into his pocket took out the small medicine bottle and popped one of the tiny tablets under his tongue. He looked exhausted. Had I worn him out already? It seemed I did that these days. We walked slowly back towards the Ferry terminal and showed our SaveAways to the man at the turnstile. He let us through and pressed his little clicker twice.
Dad found us a seat on the deck. The sun was shining on the water and the view of the Pier Head suddenly became enchanting as the boat took off. We were on the Royal Iris. I’d heard a lot about her but this was my first time going over the water.
The Pier Head building was huge and it didn’t seem to get smaller as we moved away from the water edge. I could see the Liver Birds on top from this distance without straining my neck to look up. I imagined them flying away with the other birds and then realised that would be sad if they were gone, so I flew them back. I put my arms out like wings as I stood on the deck, feeling the sway of the water beneath us. The sun shone on Dad’s face as he raised his chin up and smiled, the wind catching his curls on his full head of hair. I sat backwards between his knees and let him cuddle me for a minute. I rubbed my soft cheek on his spikey chin. Dad got a shave every morning but by lunch time would be able to annoy me by rubbing his stubble on my face, making me giggle. It didn’t annoy me today. I rubbed back and forth slowly, bobbing along on the water over the waves and looking back towards our hometown. The sound of heavy chains and a sudden bump brought me to my feet as I realised we were on the other side. We got off the Ferry hand in hand both of us looking out for things that I could potentially trip over. I smelt the most glorious of smells, one that will always remind me of my dad: engine oil. I breathed in the air and remembered the days when Dad would come home late for tea with bags of sweets and his overalls still on. I would try to intercept him at the door so I could get a cuddle while he still had the smell of engine oil on him. I loved that smell. It was warm and cosy.
Christine, 1 May 2024
Pamphlet 37 of the 52 Pamphlets
If you would like to contribute a pamphlet or an answer to the 23 Questions then please get in touch.
We counted the pile of 10ps on the table. We had enough for two SaveAways. Adult and child. Adult all areas. Child was All Areas anyway.
Dad made the butties while I was dawdling and doing handstands against the bathroom door, making sure it was locked. Dad had a proper sulk with me the other week when he knocked me flying into the living room because I was on the other side of the door doing a handstand when he walked in. I made it worse by doing my dying fly act, expecting it to be one of my brothers who had tried to kill me and knocked me into the brown Formica table. After a moment of screaming “Look what he did to me” I opened my eyes to find the man who usually comes to my rescue, scalding anyone in his path. The bathroom door was the only door in the house with a lock on it.
Me and my Mum and Dad. May 1979
After brushing my teeth, rubbing my face with a wet and warm flannel coated in Palmolive soap and rubbed together to form a froth, gargling along to the tune of Ave Maria with a teaspoon of salt in a glass of warm water; I spit! Prepared to leave the bathroom and face the day with my Dad. It was going to be a good day, just me and him. I did a jiggle, a giggle, one last handstand quietly against the door, rolling into a curl onto the floor, pirouetting up, raising my leg over the sink, smiling in the mirror, touching my nose with my tongue, wriggle my shoulders, touch one ear to one shoulder and then the next, stand up straight, feel uncomfortable, wriggle about again, unlock the door. Blink my eyes. One, two. Not bad. Smile. Don’t blink again all day.
It was a bank holiday, so we had chicken butties with chicken left over from Sunday lunch. The doctors had said that due to Dad’s heart condition he wasn’t allowed butter. I know we both had butter on our butties that day. We agreed they wouldn’t be butties otherwise. They would be margarineeees, and no one wants to eat one of them. A bottle of squash and chicken butties, with salt and butter and medium sliced bread. Divine.
Dad’s HGV licence
Dad had been out of work since his company went bust. He was a haulage contractor and a commercial mechanic on the Dock Road in Liverpool, doing very well before I came along. By 1983 everything was gone. There was no longer any income. And there was a new baby to support. Dad got angry when he saw politicians on the telly. He said they were all arseholes. If you’ve read some Kurt Vonnegut you will know what an arsehole looks like already.
I may not have been drawn to write about this day, had my mind not recently been jolted back to a walk I had with my father in 1983. One of the last walks I had with him. My Mum used to say that life goes round in circles, taking you back to places you need to revisit. It does seem that way. We do tend to find ourselves walking down the roads we have previously been down, just as a reminder and to get a better understanding of the last time we were there. To see deeper into a situation long since passed.
It was November the 23rd 2023. A day I had planned for. Awaiting messages, clues, codes. What was it going to be? I don’t know when I started waiting for that day, but it was likely a few years before. 2017 probably, but that period was all of a blur, given the circumstances. I couldn’t ever reliably remark on what happened that year. I survived, and so did those that I entered into it with, that was our blessing. We’re all still here, but one. But that’s another story altogether.
It was cold, the wind swirling around the Pier Head, rain changing direction between every building. Rain often fell sideways on the waterfront. We congregated, waiting for the hour and for the Ice Kream van to appear again and more importantly, the Pyramid. Dazzle was waiting at the end of the landing pier. “Get in! Is right! It’s fuuking Dazzle!” I squealed. I hadn’t come to terms yet with my power of manifestation.
Dad dropped the pile of 10ps on the bus conductor’s tray. We got on at the Douglas Drive end of Moss Lane. We were on the 310 out of Maghull. This is when we had our best times, just me and my Dad. Maghull held tensions. It was indeed a nicer place to live than Norris Green but it was still fuuking grim. The bus driver handed over the two Saveways. Dad checked the date with the bus driver just to be sure before he started instructing me to rub off my silver panels. Monday 30 May 1983. It was my birthday in 11 days. I counted it out in my head and on my fingers and nose to be sure, yeah 11 days.
We got upstairs before the bus turned the corner into Foxhouse Lane. Sitting in the front left seats, my feet dangled from the chair. I was next to the window and squished my face against it, breathed out and watched the condensation from my breath spread out across the window, blurring my view. I sat back and drew a smiley face on the window then looked through the eyes to see the houses below with their gardens with big trees. I love those trees, all of them. They’ve been there all my life. Dad looked on the opposite side of the road, his favourite pub was over there. It was too early now for it to be open. I wondered if Dad would pop out for the last orders tonight. As we drove past the bungalows, I remarked how they looked like cute little doll’s houses with paper flowers all around the edges of their neat gardens. My mum loved neat little front gardens. Ours was a neat little garden, although my Dad and my brother often messed it up by parking cars on the drive to fix them, pouring oil down the path and then taking the wheels off and letting the car sit on bricks for weeks. I don’t think the neighbours liked it much either.
As we turned the corner onto Hall Road, Dad squeezed my knee, partly to stop me from kicking the panel of the bus in front of me so I didn’t annoy the driver but also to make me laugh. It got me every time. I didn’t want to laugh. I hated the sensation of having my knee squeezed but Dad did it anyway. I laughed and used it as an excuse not to look at the senior school I would be joining at the end of this summer hoping Dad wouldn’t ask me if I was excited. I wasn’t. I swung my jaw up in the air opening my mouth until my ears felt squeezed, then twisted my jaw to the side while bringing my shoulder up to my ear and then again in the other direction with the right ear towards the right shoulder. I wriggled, and squeezed Dad’s knee between my thumb and index finger and whispered “The Clutching Hand”. We both laughed. Dad put his arm around my shoulder and pulled me in. Being my prickly self I quickly sat up straight and placed my hands on my knees. I tensed my shoulders and held them back until we were safely past Pat Thompson’s Dance Studio: the best thing about Maghull until the roller rink opened. We were safely out of Maghull for the day.
Maghull was pretty in comparison to the rest of the journey into town. Arriving outside the Bus Station, the stop after Old Roan, you could feel the warmth of the day beginning to ascend on us. It was almost 10 am. The industrial fumes from the docks seemed to make it to these parts: it always smelt funny to me. You never knew if you were going to have to sit and wait for a driver while the bus engine was left running to add to the smell. Maybe that was the smell: maybe I couldn’t smell Bootle from here. I got impatient and opened up the bottle of juice, squeezing it as I drank ensuring it ran down my face and blouse. Dad took it off me, placed the lid back on the Kiaora bottle and rubbed my sticky chin. I was wriggling again and didn’t realise I had started kicking the panel until I felt the knee sensation. I tensed, sat straight and concentrated trying not to do those things.
The houses were dirty along the next bit of the road, from all the passing traffic I assumed, and not being cleaned. “I need a wee”, I said. We were at the Black Bull. Dad nodded. He waited for the bus to take off and he pressed the button and stood up. I followed. We got off the bus at the next stop. Dad said, “Let’s go and see Aunty V for elevenses, we should be just in time.”
We crossed over the road, over the bridge and down the road to the cleanest house on the street. We knocked on the door. Uncle Martin was by the vestibule door with his coat on: he was just going out with Alan. We said, hello and goodbye in a brief exchange and then me and Dad wandered down the back of the house to find Aunty V in the kitchen. We’d passed the dining table on the way through. It was set for elevenses with cakes all laid out. Aunty V jumped when she heard Dad’s voice, expecting it to be Uncle Marty. She threw her arms around him repeating his name, “Billy, Billy, Billy” only stopping when she saw me in the doorway behind, slowly walking past the cakes with bigger eyes than usual. She kissed me on the head, spun me around into a chair, put a lovely china plate in front of me and reached for a doily to cover the plate. “Which one do you want first?” she asked. This was an informed decision and one that was easy to make, “Can I have the Victoria sponge please Aunty V”. I knew I couldn’t travel far with a slice of that and the others looked like they could be wrapped in a doily.
Aunty V and Dad
Dad and his twin sister went off to the kitchen while she made a fresh pot of tea. I could hear them talking while my finger scooped the cream out of the middle of the cake and popped it in my mouth. Aunty V made me a cup of tea too, which reminded me I needed the loo. I asked politely then made my way upstairs. It was just a loo on its own, with tiled walls, no lock on the door and no room whatsoever to do a handstand. I went down the stairs on my bum and did a roly poly towards the vestibule door, being very careful not to kick it. When I walked back into the kitchen Auntie V was saying to my Dad, “Well the world won’t be the same without you, so do your best Bill”. Her eyes turned towards me as she nodded to my Dad.
Homemade Battenberg and Viennese Whirls were wrapped up in doilies as we made our way onto the next bus at 11:12am from the Vale. Next stop the Pier Head. I know I am going to need another wee by the time I get there.
Listen to Gillian and Christine narrate their emails
This is #GANTOB2024 Pamphlet 35. That means that we are two thirds of the way through the 52 Pamphlets. And it isn’t even the end of April 2024. The end stages of GANTOB (the project) are rushing on. These pamphlets are contributions towards the third GANTOB book.
We are therefore 2/3s of the way through the third of three books. On publication of 52 Pamphlets (the book) GANTOB (the project) will end. That will probably be sometime towards the end of July 2024.
It is therefore time to start taking stock. The GANTOB Pamphlet Committee calls it “evaluation”. “Securing the GANTOB legacy”. But that’s just jargon from The Benefaktor. It makes the project sound like the London Olympics or something else much grander than it is. Though there are certainly times that GANTOB (the project) feels like a marathon.
Luckily, Question 22 of the 23 Questions gives us a route into exploring the project’s impact. Skellbert’s Pickles has asked “GANTOBBING: HOW WAS IT FOR YOU?”
I like that. GANTOB has become a verb as well as an anonymous participative art project. It hadn’t dawned on me that the present participle of the verb “to GANTOB” would have two “B”s, but it makes sense.
I want to hear from people who have participated in GANTOB (the project).
First up, it’s Christine. Let’s make our introductions.
After this pamphlet I am handing over to Christine (AKA Missi Formation) for a trilogy of personal pieces.
GANTOB was born on 27 July 2023, a few days after reading about the refresh of The KLF Re-enactment Society, and while ploughing through The JAMs’ book 2023: a trilogy for the first time. On 13 August 2023 Christine followed GANTOB’s Instagram account.
GANTOB messaged back that same day:
Many thanks for the follow. If you’d like to enter the Grapefruit Are Not The Only Bombs 2023 Kompetition please send a message via Instagram or an email to 100percentvinyl2@gmail.com, asking a question about how you can improve 2023 for yourself or others, giving a bit of context to the question, your name and address. The 23 winning entries will be sent a copy of the book by post, which will include a quote answering their question. Examples already submitted include “How can I improve my swimming skills?” and “Will AI develop empathy during 2023?” Please ignore this message if you have already submitted an entry. It’s not always easy to match up name and Instagram identities. #GANTOB2023
The rest, as they say, is history. Over to you Christine…
17 April 2024
Shwmae GANTOB (The Original),
I’ve been rather busy lately, what with the house and the garden and slaying the mud monster that tried to destroy my polytunnel. I’ve also been busy writing, something that a year ago I would have laughed out loud if you’d have told me I’d be enjoying. Ha! I’d have snapped! I have always struggled to write, I got through my studies with one-to-one support from my dyslexia tutor and tears and tantrums before deadlines. I have no confidence in myself, and the times I’ve been treated like I’m stupid still resonates through my brittle ego. I felt most things I say are shit and meaningless. I’d rush to finish my sentences so that people didn’t have to listen to me for any longer than needed.
Then one day I got a calling to throw a leaflet into the very river I had been out protesting and singing about to defend it from the rubbish it was having pumped into it. “Our waterways are losing wildlife, plants and flowers, we can save it we have power”, I sang again as I let the paper plane fly from my hand taking a sharp turn downwards into the mud at the side of the river, just out of my reach. I felt bad and good, unruly and accomplished. Such a tiny act got me out of the house and doing something as instructed to perpetuate some madness about to stir. I liked that.
The antics of a grapefruit got me all excited too. I’ve always given substance to inanimate objects, talking to them as they appeared in my path: “hello chair, you’re looking pretty today sitting there with your shiny legs”. I have a whole drawer of googley eyes for inanimate objects that look a little lifeless. It helps others to understand why I am talking to the objects I see around me. Anyway, I started writing about the Grapefruit, as you know. No one seemed to mind at GANTOB the project if my writing was shit, rambling or silly. So I just wrote. Then when I saw it in a book, I couldn’t read it because it was in a book, I flicked through looking at the pictures and examining the tables, placing my finger under the odd line of someone else’s text, which I felt compelled to read. Then the second book arrived, this was even more off-putting. I flicked through the pictures and put it down, leaving it for my husband to read. He assured me I had read most of it anyway as I had been reading the blogs. Blogs are easier for me to read and I never feel guilty about not finishing one if it is too long. I scroll on. I love books. I’ve got hundreds of them. I have read most of them, but often from the back to the front.
There were talks about a third book, and invitations to write and contribute again, except it all seemed to get way too serious and the main characters lost the round and squishy pinkness I had become fond of. I was bored.
I had several pages in my Google Drive where I had started a sentence or two, but often clicked them closed when I next opened my MacBook. I was very bored by now. Waking up in the middle of the night is a speciality for women my age, often catching a glimpse of the clock at 3:23 am. On March 6th this year, it was my dad’s birthday. I was feeling particularly emotional and couldn’t get back to sleep, so by the time it was 5 am I started writing to settle the boredom and to keep me quiet. I’ve been known to move inanimate objects around in the night. The screeching of table legs on hard floors is annoying in the middle of the night, or so I have been informed.
So this night, I wrote and it flooded out. Poured. Oozed. Dribbled and dropped, right out of me. It hasn’t stopped since and I don’t know quite how to deal with it. Compliments on my writing‽ Absurd! Unheard of. It has been an emotional year. I’ve struggled with grief for most of my life and this year challenged that pain, and brought it to the surface for me to examine again. I didn’t want my story to be about the KLF. They really bore me. Not just the band, but the KLFRS and their lack of inclusivity. However, the facts were, on 23rd November 2023 I walked down a road I had not been down in forty years. Life had taken me on a huge journey to complete this circle returning me to the same bit of waterfront I had only ever walked along once before.
I would like to share with GANTOB some of the writing I have done since March. GANTOB certainly inspired me. You should be careful doing that! Going around empowering others to do their thing, it’s dangerous and beautiful, and very kind. I wasn’t going to share it with you, but when Gillian informed us through her blog today, that GANTOB will not exist after the next book, I just wanted to let Gillian know that she did good and I would like to thank you/her/him/them/it.
Diolch yn fawr iawn.
Cheerio and thanks for all the Grapefruits.
Christine
I replied a week later.
24 April 2024
Dear Christine,
I have been thinking about your email of 17 April.
Here is my response to some of the themes and points you raise.
When I was newly hatched as GANTOB, back at the end of July 2023, the world was new, brightly coloured and full of new people to meet. It was fun. I was working, with a reliable salary, in a comfortable house. Bursting with creativity, guided by The JAMs’ imagined version of 2023 (from their 2017 trilogy), I tried out a lot of new ideas. It was all paper aeroplanes and the liberation of destrukting a kollektion that had taken Ali (and latterly me) decades and £+++ to gather. I was on fire. I burnt out.
The Benefaktor took over. He funded and printed my early work in the first book. We spread the load, coopted others from our circle of friends, family and associates, and then from across the world through the process of Demokratisation, and knuckled down to document our 2023, in real time. This became the second book. The inner circle of GANTOB pretended to be artists/animators/writers even though we knew that we weren’t really. It was fun pretending, and to be knocking about with people who are properly creative and sparky. The second book has some differences from the blog – there is less of the snipping and art, more of the backstory, through The Philatelist’s chapters and the trip to Vienna that Ali and I took over Hogmanay. I don’t know if they are of any interest to you or others – but they certainly helped Ali and me understand some of the mischief that The Benefaktor had perpetrated and some of the quirks in the life of Ali’s father Curt Finks.
The 400-word snapshots in the second book were all very well, but they didn’t allow elaboration, even if we strung a few posts together. I wanted to give myself and others the opportunity for longer pieces. This gave birth to the 52 Pamphlets idea for the third book. Some early pamphlets meant that the writing took a literary turn, through William Blake (whose work I didn’t know, but I have now explored via Stuart and Urs’ contributions) and Kurt Vonnegut’s Cat’s Cradle (which was a connection back to my much younger self). It has helped me understand why I have kept coming back to topics like the 1960s and The KLF throughout my adult life. (+) It has corrected some misconceptions and poorly remembered ideas. And it has helped me read, process and write new thoughts down much more rapidly.
I have enjoyed reading the pamphlets that others have contributed, and have been inspired down completely unexpected paths. I have certainly engaged my creative side in ways that I could never have anticipated and have met some lovely people, albeit via email and social media. Unfortunately, I have to I accept that anonymity is absolute as GANTOB (the person). I am proud that the combined power of GANTOB (the project) has unofficially completed the 9 Missing Years in Bill Drummond’s memoir. I am pleased that some of the output of Curt Finks is in print, including in Vipers Tongue Quarterly. Once the Muons pamphlets are complete I will be able to file the rest of Curt’s writing away as “curios”. There will no doubt be some GANTOB writing that will go the same way.
There have been times when I have been very busy with other things, when I have had to force myself to sit and think, devise creative challenges, write and print pamphlets and personalise them and remember to post them and update the social media feeds. Recently, with the evenings getting lighter and bird song pulling me outdoors in my spare time, I have had to remind myself that I have made a commitment to other contributors, to The Benefaktor as funder, to readers of the blog. I am on “task and finish” mode. I am empowering people. I am inclusive. The power of positive thinking drives me on.
The paper aeroplanes have all been launched. My kollektion has been Destrukted. I have developed and shed my childish ways. GANTOB (the person) now has baggage, commitments and deadlines to meet. Over the past 9 months our youngest child has flown the nest, I’ve changed job, moved house, settled into a completely new way of life with none of the old certainties. My father’s health is failing. I can see the effects on my writing. I am now exploring the past, relationships, loss. I am finding a philosophical streak. I try to write in a way that will interest others, but perhaps we are all really writing for ourselves. When I read the first draft of the third book – which the Deputy General Manager of GANTOB (the project) has committed to having on my desk a few days after the final pamphlet – I am not sure that I will be able to be objective about this work. Perhaps I should ask you, as my most frank critic.
So what? That is always the question, though not yet one of the 23 Questions. Perhaps I will add it today. Having written this all down I realise that your path may have followed a similar trajectory to mine. From cuddly representations of cartoon grapefruit that can swim and converse in pubs and clubs you have moved to a very touching exploration of your life and family. I am delighted to include your trilogy as part of the 52 Pamphlets, and am very grateful for your feedback. I will have to think how I can capture the spirit of early GANTOB as we reach the project’s end.
Thank you for everything,
GANTOB
Pamphlet 35 of the 52 Pamphlets
Part of the answer to questions 22 and 23
Stay tuned to the blog for Christine’s trilogy over the next few days, and consider making your own written or artistic contribution to The 52 Pamphlets, the 23 Questions, or feeding back about your experience of GANTOBBING. You can navigate your way through the different parts of this project using the menu at the top of this page.
(+) I am not sure if I am brave enough to attempt the same type of approach for the other itch that I really want to scratch before GANTOB’s work is done – The Crying of Lot 49 by Thomas Pynchon. I read that at around the same time and have felt it tugging at me recently. The intrigue, symbolism and nonsense in that book may explain a lot about The KLF and GANTOB.
As a final point, GANTOB (the person) would like to say that in her experience The KLFRS has always been very approachable, supportive and inclusive.
Today I’m packing up, again. Leaving the motorway hotel in central Scotland to move into… well, I don’t want to give too much away. I’m looking forward to a change. You’ll need to keep reading.
I have been distracting myself by re-reading part 1 of the blog (posts 1-33). If this is going to work as a book I realise that I will need to substitute some of the “audience participation” sections with more narrative elements. I have plenty more to tell you, largely from my research into The Benefaktor and friends. Again, I don’t want to say too much…
Except to say that some of the revelations focus on Vienna. Which leads nicely on to Ariadne’s second post for this blog (make sure you read her first post too). We’re back with our most popular character, Little Grapefruit, rolling around the city.
Art work by Ariadne.
Thanks Ariadne!
That night as Little Grapefruit fell asleep under the Spraybanane she dreamt of Vienna but it wasn’t the city that she had spent the day rolling around. It contained elements of Helsinki, Bratislava and other cities that she had yet to visit.
There was a lot to explore in this dream Vienna. After rolling down one particularly steep staircase Little Grapefruit found herself rolling from cobblestones onto sand. She was standing on a beach somewhere back in Finland. Above her the Aurora Borealis glowed a beautiful array of various shades of grapefruit.
She took a roll along the sand enjoying the exfoliating effect it was having on her rind. A path appeared before her and at the end of this path stood a low rectangular building. It looked very dark and like no one had stepped inside for many years.
Little Grapefruit was unperturbed and bounced inside. She found herself rolling down a long corridor, the light was low but she could make out the words SHAG SHAG SHAG painted in large black letters on the walls. She rolled into a large room. The Top of The Pops theme tune circa 1987 played in the background.
Credit: Ariadne
In the middle of the room sat a completely white 1968 Ford Galaxy. Surrounding the car were large display cases. 23 to be exact. One contained two tuxedos, one white, one black, with two matching Flying V guitars. In another stood mannequins in long white robes with horns sticking out from underneath the hoods. And in one almost hidden, shoved in the back near the exit there sat with nothing else inside it, one lone, singular brick.
Little Grapefruit made her way around the room looking at everything in these dusty glass cases, large fluffy deer stalkers sitting next to mirrored shades, the charred remains of a wicker man, fake moustaches, one pencil thin, the other heavy and bushy.
There was a lot to take in, but she had done so much rolling and she needed a sleep, she jumped into the deerstalker, snuggling into its softness and thought about her travels. How for such a small fruit she had seen so much of the continent, all on her own. She felt very proud of herself but slightly melancholy as well. As her tiny eyelids closed all she could think was that sometimes life is a very lonely adventure.
ARIADNE
29 December 2023
Any ideas about the location of The Museum? Please post below. I wondered about The Secession Building – that would look “grape” with a grapefruit on top.
Today’s blog is provided by The Observer. It gifts a copy of the second book to a couple of loyal GANTOBers who haven’t been able to provide a blog. And it also provides access to a “hidden” GANTOB pamphlet.
Merry Christmas to one and all.
X-ray eyes scanned over parcels. Silence sat uneasily in houses across cities and countryside, punctuated by the rustling of paper and the occasional skretch of sellotape for late wrappers. The Foundation Doktor headed back to her hospital akommodation after a night shift. She percussed and palpated the packages from her immediate family. She unwrapped a long chunky box that contained a kardiology stethoskope – perfekt for detekting those klicking and leaking heart valves in her next set of exams. She would be visiting The Benefaktor’s townhouse in the late afternoon, but snatched some cereal and headed to bed for a few hours.
Meanwhile, Little Grapefruit was rolling around the bowl, looking for the presents hidden in the limited nooks and krannies in the perfekt kurves of her home. She was looking forward to seeing her cousins – The Limes – for the family lunch. She’d speak to her Welsh cousins on Zoom later on, after watching the Dr Who Christmas special. Big Grapefruit had talked about a Lost Doktor too, but Little Grapefruit was too excited to stop and listen, zooming around faster than a CERN experiment – a multicoloured stripe discernible only if you blinked fast enough.
Nothing kryptic here – if you’d like to read Little Grapefruit’s Christmas (GANTOB pamphlet X30), simply click the image. GAP (X15) is hidden in a previous post.
Across in Stirling, GANTOB and Ali were making their way to student akommodation to visit their son, who preferred the kampus to their motorway hotel. There was nobody else in the flat, so there was plenty of space for their goose, cheese and brandy sauce. A cloved onion was rolling awkwardly in milk in one of three pans on the go. Roast goose was Ali’s choice – a Finks tradition. It seemed in rather poor taste to GANTOB, after their feathered adventures this year.
Santa Klaus was on GANTOB’s laptop in the hotel. She (Santa) was adding names to GANTOB’s list of recipients of the second book. A_____ was having a frantic month. And C_____ had been laid low with a winter bug. No opportunity to komplete a blog – barely time to swing a sprout, as they say in Santa’s village in Finland. Both added to the list. GANTOB wouldn’t mind.
And The Benefaktor was sitting in a leather chair at the front of his house, thinking about something The Photographer, the clype, had mentioned in his Christmas email. But it was Christmas, so he would let it pass, and had a second of his wife’s exceptionally good mince pies.
In this poetic post, loyal GANTOBer Skellbert’s Pickles provides useful detail about one of the GANTOBverse’s quiet but key characters: Bronwyn ______, née Gosling. Watch out for further revelations involving Bronwyn over coming days.
Over recent weeks, in unrelated work, Skellbert’s Pickles has created some rather wonderful art out of other GANTOBverse/ Curt Finks pieces. I didn’t want them to go to waste, so I have used a couple of them to accompany this post. If you’d like to find out more about the original Curt Finks sketches, you’d better get hunting around the text in Little Grapefruit’s trip to Vienna, or the picture in Stu’s Dr Who-themed post to download GANTOB pamphlet X11. But, as usual, that’s a GANTOB diversion.
Over to you Skellbert’s Pickles…
It’s all about the numbers. Since 1680, the ornithologically minded have been keeping a registry of Goose aktivity at King’s Lynn, with the late 20th century portion largely being kompiled by Curt Finks’ ringing kompanion Bronwyn Gosling.
The Eschaton will be Lentilised (a good day to dahl). Sketch by Curt Finks (1997), dekorated by Skellbert’s Pickles (2023)
Bronwyn is numinous behind our numerik scenes, taking five guises, often the subjekt of appropriation.
Her Keredigion black sheep form’s voice appears throughout the defining ambient house moment ‘Chill Out’, and with a recent stand-out appearance in re-enacted big-screen form at the Skool of Death, alongside Dolly and Elvis. This Bronwyn inkarnation has been known to mooch down to Cei Newydd where she is in kahoots with the tribes of the porpoise.
As a Blodwyn Pig: when all is said and done, Bronwyn surely infiltrated some slide guitar sounds into our erstwhile young ancients.
In her preferred Brent Goose form, Bronwyn kontributes to the energising of that ley line as she traverses the Atlantic between Iceland and Mathew Street. She is kurrently escorting a member of the Bowlingham Clan, who recently leapt into the Mersey, headed for Jura and beyond, Will Bronwyn lead this little one to Brent Goose Rock or to more Baltic klimes? Or even to Nordkapp karrying sub-sub-optimal Elvis vibes in her heart kourtesy of a street performer she encountered near Liverpool Central station (which was almost enough to send the author running for a one way trip to the bottom of the Mersey, even after surviving the great swell of the Krossing in monokrome and hi-vis animalistic form the previous night).
Unreferenced so far, Bronwyn flocks with Swallow-kind to reach the equatorial realm of Bioko, formerly the Fernando Poo of great eskatorial renown. I detekt little of import here. It seems Bronwyn has a streak of nostalgic yearning for 70s kosmiche, and perhaps some as yet undisklosed nuklear frissons with Curt. Indeed what kould be hotter for kategorising minds than precision kataloguing in that dark Fenland mud? It is diffikult to tell from afar whether Nora were aware, or even part of digging this nature scene, a feathered love pyramid, if you will forgive my awkward stretching of a geometric metaphor.
The married Bronwyn _________, living inkognito, in polite society.
Soot-eye needs a Sweep. Sketch by Curt Finks (1997). Decorated by Skellbert’s Pickles (2023), including Snail House, Sofia, Bulgaria
It kould be time to give Bronwyn another kall. She has more to report than the kurrent state of foliage in East Anglia. Is she visited by Curt Finks ghost? King’s Lynn Curt, a poor man’s dream of kloth and boards, writing by numbers.
By Skellbert’s Pickles
19 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!
In today’s blog – the follow up to yesterday’s post – Missi Formation (sometimes known as Christine) brings us back to the book that we are supposed to be re-enacting – The JAMs’ 2023: A trilogy. Revelations aplenty. Thanks Missi for helping us komply with The KLFRS’s rules – to recreate, reposition, destroy or destruct: are you sure that you’re really an anarkist?
Angharad found herself in the little bar, sharing in conversations on Anarky. She wondered why we aren’t all anarkists, and settled on the idea that was related to empathy (see table 2.3).
Angharad asked the name of the fellow anarkist she was talking to. Tat’jana reached out her hand and introduced herself. Angharad wondered if this was the friend her mother Kristina had been desperately seeking since they were separated at a rave back in the 90s. She realised there had been false rumours about Kristina and Tat’jana being bandied about, especially the one about the submarine. She knew that was just nonsense that the KLF had made up.
Angharad and Tat’jana spoke for some time before Angharad braved the conversation. She was looking for reference points that would tie her with memories from her mother’s stories. She knew her mum had the old sound system in her barn, the size of a small aircraft hangar, in Wales. She also had the big Triptych projektion skreen, the old trusty Edirol mixer and a stack of old DVD players.
Angharad was aware that she could not hang around for too long, she still had plans to meet up with Little Grapefruit one day soon. Angharad skratched her grapefruit brow, thinking hard of a way she could summarise what this Tat’jana had told her so far, could she use the K-Konjekture formula? Angharad was not sure if it was the akcent that made it sound like Tat’jana was using K’s to replace the C’s. She did realise in these Baltic regions – and indeed for most of Eastern Europe and further afield – they preferred a good kicking K to a C.
Turning to Tat’jana to pose the question, Angharad spotted the little ice-kream tattoo on Tat’jana’s wrist. It was the same as the one her mother has. They got them on a day trip to New Brighton after hanging out on the film set for Letter to Brezhnev. The JAMs later stole the Ice-Kream and K idea.
It was her! Angharad gasped! Tat’jana offered another drink of vodka and a slice of lard, Angharad refused.
Angharad wondered for a moment what her mother Kristina would think about being reunited with Tat’jana. She knew she had been desperately seeking her, but did she really want to get the band back together? It was after all 2023 and possibly too late for the Christmas number 1 entry.
ANARKY
EMPATHY
Community living
Caring for your neighbours
Self-sufficiency
Sharing what you have grown and not harming the environment
Mutual Aid
Solidarity or empathy for those who are treated unfairly is considered to be a form of natural morality – Kropotkin
The glue that binds us all together
Empathy is seen as a glue that helps society stay together and not degenerate into a war of all-against-all
Revolutionary organising
Beyond notions of solidarity lies empathy, the practice of people deeply listening to and understanding one another in a very real and fundamental way
Konnections
Without empathy, the Konnections between people that need to be made in order to effectively challenge the alienation and atomisation inherent in Kapitalism and institutional authority will not happen
Each of the intrepid explorers of the GANTOBverse have provided 400 words about the characters introduced in the first GANTOB book (published September 2023) and this blog. In return they will be sent a kopy of the book of this blog (planned for publikation 23 January 2024). Each household can provide up to three blogs. You can still provide a kontribution, as long as you have an excuse for late submission.
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