Tag: Bill Drummond

It is approaching midnight on Hogmanay 2023, and GANTOB is well past her stated deadline for submitting her final blog (23:23).

So I am initiating the agreed kontingency plan.

I suspect that there will be complaints – introducing a new person for the final blog of 2023. Exceeding 400 words. Too much jargon. Too many pictures.

From tomorrow GANTOB (the projekt) will no longer exist, apart from the small matter of the difficult second book. Don’t ask me what comes next, though you may want to check social media (X or Instagram) to get a head start. I’m just the dogsbody. GANTOB and the forces unleashed by Demokratisation are the “kreatives”. The Benefaktor is the funder.

GANTOB (the person) had very much wanted to post today’s blog, but she, Ali and family seem to have dropped off the radar. I have made some urgent enquiries with her hotel in Newtonmore. They found discarded materials in one of the rooms the “Finks” family checked out of this morning. The best guess is that they are currently stuck somewhere up near Drummin. If they’re lucky they’ll have found the bothy nearby. Perhaps they’re snowed in. There’ll certainly not be any mobile reception. If they’re desperate, perhaps they’ll be eating the black buns that GANTOB had reportedly bought for first footing tomorrow morning. Let’s hope that, to keep warm, they don’t have to burn the Curt Finks papers that they had so carefully packaged up and placed in the boot of the car.

The Kreative Tyrant in her had wanted to “feel” the final piece, rather than have it scheduled days ahead. That’s the risk you take. Blame Storm Gerrit, or whatever it was that came next.

The Benefaktor and The Foundation Doktor are currently “in transit”, on the way to Vienna for the Neujahrskonzert by the Wiener Philharmoniker, at Musikvereinsplatz, near Karlsplatz. All the Ks, as GANTOB might say.

Little Grapefruit might well be back in Vienna (apparently hunting “The Third Man”), after teleporting from her gaff in Wigan to “Ernie Toffee’s” art passage at Karlsplatz subway station (a location proposed by JR in a comment on a piece by Ariadne). And I am told that two rather minor characters from the blog – The Philatelist and Paula – are also making their way to the Austrian capital (good luck if you’re planning to piece together their involvement – though if you want to submit a theory of your own, and have a spare 800, 1200 or 1600 words, I am sure you know what to do, or can find out).

I am reliably informed that GANTOB and The Benefaktor are at loggerheads about their forthcoming volume GANTOB’s 2023: A trilogy. The Benefaktor is keen to spend his money within the financial year, for tax purposes, so wants a basic “book of the blog” – a simple cut and paste job. GANTOB is striving for “artistik purity”, so wants it to read like a book rather than a blog, however long that takes – replacing the early audience participation bits (snip, stuck, skateboarded etc) that were there to entertain/ build audience. I’m worried that she is promising too much. You may remember that the last book almost broke her. I have offered my services as editor, if they have the materials to hand.

Here’s what I do know: There is major restructuring underway. If all goes according to plan, some of GANTOB’s previously unreleased spying from October will feature in part 1 of the forthcoming book. This will apparently help pull together some of the loose ends in parts 2 and 3. But real life is messy, so don’t expect everything to be concluded neatly just because the year is coming to an end. In fact, 2023 has been particularly chaotic – arguably more disjointed, unfair and unpleasant than even The JAMs predicted.

And here’s what I hope: That this post will be replaced in the book, once the snow melts and GANTOB reaches her “black sheep kroft” and settles into her new life.

And should we be reading anything into the fact that the map of Drummin is on a website called ARIADNE, which shares its name with a double GANTOB contributor from Australia? Or do we just need to accept that ARIADNE is short for ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE AIDED D-BAND NETWORK FOR 5G LONG TERM EVOLUTION?

Eventually everything connects.

If you want to read what happens in the final version of this 99-day-tale (which will be GANTOB’s second book – unless a more definitive account of Curt Finks’ or Little Grapefruit’s adventures emerges), and have not yet submitted a blog (the payment for which is a copy of that as yet unpublished book), then you have until 11:59 (GMT/UTC) on 1 January 2024. That is a minute before the bells in Samoa. If I am able to upload it to this website before 12:00 (GMT/UTC) then you will receive a copy of the book. 400 words are all that is required, on a topic related to GANTOB, ideally with a picture. Read more here on how to do this. But beware: if you or I fail in the task of uploading your planned piece on time, then you may not be eligible for a copy of the book. GANTOB will be the final arbitrator. Please note, however, that she (and perhaps The Benefaktor) has the right to delete posts that I have approved. Her decisions are final. Good luck!

Oh, and Happy New Year when it comes, wherever you are, and many thanks for all your interest in GANTOB (the projekt) during 2023. I don’t think that anyone had any idea in July that this would end up in quite as elaborate a project as this – two books, with contributions by dozens of GANTOBers, and counting (books and people). Long may it continue. It’s keeping a bunch of us occupied, albeit unpaid.

But for now: “Shut up! It’s that time again, kick out the old, welcome the new”, as Dirty Den once shouted, and The JAMs of course sampled in 1987.

DEPUTY GENERAL Manager OF GANTOB (THE PROJEKT)

23:59 on 31 December 2023 (UTC/GMT)

I had an extremely busy day yesterday (day 98 of this blog). Preparing to move back up to Badenoch, but not The Manse. Posting three pieces by three GANTOBers. Messing up the numbering of these posts.

This is the third post. It’s definitely still 30 December 2023, in Honolulu. And will still be 30 December for a couple more hours in Samoa.

The post below is by Liam, concluding his earlier piece about Susan and The Krossing. You can watch a video that I (GANTOB) made in tribute (with help from my family) at the B&B where we’re staying before our move.

I am posting it at 23:23, Honolulu time. We are then stocking up at the local Coop and finally moving in to our new place before readying ourselves for Hogmanay. Work is a distant thought (3 January). WiFi (beamed to a dish via local beacon or something) and a perch for me to use in my telesales persona are already tested.

I will post my final blog for 2023 by 23:23, Inverness time (i.e. GMT/ UTC). Then I will prepare the book of the blog.

Thank you for making the last 99 days of 2023 such fun.

Yours,

GANTOB

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The caffeine was beginning to kick in, and Susan decided it was time to put on her big girl pants and get involved in the madness. 

All around her were people who all seemed so different, yet all seemed to share a zest for life, a willingness to immerse themselves in a common cause, and were not afraid of what anyone might think. For once in her life, Susan wished SHE could be like that. What was stopping her she asked herself. The answer to that was, of course, nothing. nothing except her inane fear of not being in Kontrol! 

But in order to find out What The FUUK was really going on, she had to leave her inhibitions aside. It was now or never. 

She has a wander around the room, taking in all the Skools that were happening. A coffin made of cardboard was in front of her. It was diligently being put together by a friendly looking chap. Let’s call him Andy, for that was his name. “What are you doing and how can I help?” Susan found herself asking. The answer was that this coffin was going to be filled with 23K shredded words from the Eulogies of people who had died in 2023. And once full, it was to form part of the procession along with The Peoples Pyramid. You can help by doing some shredding said Andy.

So Susan found herself reading through the eulogies of people she didn’t know, had no connection to, or any links whatsoever. But on reading these words, she realised that this wasn’t actually true. She read the celebration of each person’s life in the words of those that knew and loved them, and it suddenly clicked. Everyone and everything is connected. Every living soul, every person who has passed, every action and every reaction. 

The Epiphany was real! It was happening to Susan and she embraced it. It all became clear to her. The reason GANTOB had done what she did. She realised that the things she herself held as being important were nothing of the sort. The things people put emphasis and importance on were nothing more than a charade.

Susan was now questioning her whole life, but rather than being deflated, angry or Konfused, she felt alive. She had found her tribe. She couldn’t wait to find GANTOB.

LIAM

30 December 2023

Gaynor’s daughter LittleLegs has provided an excellent rendition of this Little Grapefruit tale:

Gaynor contacted me yesterday (in a short Instagram post), with a glowing reaction to Ariadne’s blog on The Museum of The KLF. You will recall Gaynor’s two parter Grey is the colour of hope from earlier this month.

Well here is Gaynor’s fuller response. A beautifully imagined dreamscape, riffing on Ariadne’s post, inspired by Little Grapefruit and Vienna, but very much Gaynor’s own.

Over to you Gaynor…

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How had I stumbled into Little Grapefruit’s opulent abode?

I had been traipsing alone around Vienna, feeling a little melancholy. It was a Wednesday afternoon, a bit drizzly.

I was walking almost on autopilot. No direction, no purpose…

I stumbled on the Hundertwasserhaus which was a building of sheer beauty, glowing with colour like a patchwork on this otherwise gloomy day. I marvelled at the blue, orange, yellow and pink paint and tiles.

I felt the sensation of not being alone, stood in front of this building. I looked slyly to each side of me so as not to draw attention to myself – but no one was there. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling. I looked up, wondering if someone was looking out of the window above. Tree tenants perhaps? Then, without thinking, I looked down towards my feet (more to admire my trabs really).

And I saw her: the tiniest perfectly round little grapefruit you ever did see. She had a smooth shiny rind. Grapefruit blinked up at me for a while (I knew she was a friendly Grapefruit – don’t ask me how). She rolled along waiting for me to follow – she trundled, and I trotted.

We passed a beach populated by iron men and a necropolis full of memorials, finally stopping outside Wigan Casino.

Little Grapefruit’s house was on the other side of the road. There was no mistaking it.

It was beautiful, with a gigantic almost spiritual golden dome perched between two huge concrete blocks and a vast front door overlooked by three medusa heads guarding the door. There were two planters with the number 23 painted on. To the right of the door were nearly identical walls forming the front of the building. On both were huge black letters: MU MU (not in a typeface I recognised).

She led me in. I looked around admiring the sensuous artwork of Gustav Klimt.

Grapefruit’s carpets were lavish – probably best for rolling about on I thought.

I knew I had to leave. I felt it was time, so I tipped my hat and waved farewell. I turned to exit via the front door, expecting to see Wigan Casino. Instead, I walked out of a blue metal graffitied shipping container full of smoke and the deafening racket of Chinooks and sirens were blaring and the sound of Amber Rudd trying to reclaim chaos battered my ears. I legged it.

GAYNOR

30 December 2023

This is Stuart’s third blog in this process of #Demokratisation for December 2023. Read his previous posts about The Foundation Doktor (and indeed The Doctor) and the connection between The Benefaktor and his granddaughter.

Today he is focusing on Little Grapefruit and family, and a kurious twist in The JAMs history (awakening unpleasant memories of that period when I thought that I had killed The Benefaktor). Note too the unexpected Edinburgh connection.

I’m glad that The Benefaktor recovered from his tumble – I still have unfinished business with “Douglas” (as he might or might not be called) and his apparent interference in my father-in-law Curt Finks’ life and legacy for a period spanning 50+ years. I just need a bit of time to piece together the evidence that I have collected over the past few months. It’s all packed up in a box in the boot of our car, outside the Newtonmore hotel where we’re staying before making the final stage of our journey to our new home. Winter tyres already fitted.

Over to you Stuart, with grateful appreciation of the distractions you have provided in this blog. We will hear more about the adventures of Little Grapefruit in post 98b, from another regular GANTOBer. Then we really need to get on the road.

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Little Grapefruit has been touring the continent for weeks but she still keeps in touch with news from back home in Greater Bowlingham. She has particularly enjoyed seeing her travel diaries uploaded onto GANTOB’s blog, recognising many of the places in the old photographs selected to accompany her adventures.

All she has to do is roll herself into an internet café and nestle quietly near a router to tune her mind into the pathways of the World Wide Web. This should not come as a huge surprise to human beings. We accept that birds, bats, dogs and cats all perceive the world differently to us, picking up on audio frequencies and elements of the light spectrum inaccessible to humankind, and Little Grapefruit is the same.

By the time she reaches the next town, it is late and the only internet café has closed for the night. Anxious to catch up on family news and feeling the need for warmth, she rolls along suburban streets until she finds a quiet house with an open catflap and hops inside. Locating the household’s hub in the corner of the dining room, she settles down and starts surfing.

Emails checked and socials perused, she clicks onto GANTOB’s blog and is amused to find it is referencing The Fall again. Little Grapefruit knows all about the group as she takes particular pride in artists that acknowledge her citric cousins. Lemon Kittens, Lime Cordiale and Tangerine NiteMare are all favourites, as is The Fall’s 1988 album and ballet ‘I Am Kurious, Oranj’.

Little Grapefruit begins composing a blog for GANTOB, all about how, that same year, The Justified Ancients Of Mu Mu decided to actually become The Fall, attempting to rename themselves The Forever Ancients Liberation Loophole, and how Mark E Smith was having none of it.

She writes about the idea rebounding on Drummond and Cauty when the bootlegging jokers who ran Swansea’s Fierce Recordings turned themselves into a fake Justified Ancients Of Mu Mu in return, releasing a fraudulent JAMs 12” and advertising a New York showcase with The Pooh Sticks together.

A few paragraphs in, though, Little Grapefruit thinks better of it. There just isn’t enough fruit in the story to hold her interest, let alone that of her friends and family back home in Bowlingham, she reasons.

She deletes her email. The KLF Re-enactment Society can deal with that one, she’s sure.

STUART HUGGETT

30 December 2023

Cover image is from a scan of the Pooh Sticks/ fake JAMs gig poster

Curt Finks has finally arrived at the hide, with his friend Bronwyn and visiting academic Prof Grayling Muir. Finks is still reeling from the interview with the Fringe of the Fringe journalist. The concluding part of the reconstructed tales of Finks and friends from the late 80s and early 90s.

Part 1| Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

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Eventually Curt Finks calmed down. Bronwyn had learnt to shut out her friend’s witterings when he was having such a rant. However, Grayling Muir sat listening with studied attentiveness as the Reverend’s story unfolded – a joker distributing a different programme in his name for each of his Edinburgh Fringe performances. Who could possibly have set up such an elaborate scheme, with such convoluted rules? In contrast, Finks’ performance had not changed since his 1972 debut.

Thankfully, conversation moved on. Grayling was detailing his research so far. The Brent Geese had arrived on their scheduled day, flashing their green, yellow and pink tags as a challenge for the local bird watchers to document and track their route, mourn the missing, and tag the newest additions to their flock. But a few geese in one corner of their patch had, for a second year, started to show a stumbling state of stupor.

Recounting the natural history of this strange condition, Grayling painted a gloomy picture. Some of the birds had been found circling incessantly. Others slept through the day as if scared of the sun, surfacing only at night to start their shuffle all over again. Yet more showed even more worrying signs, a distant look in their eye before disappearing, their tags found discarded in a trough that cattle and sheep shared in an adjacent field.

According to Professor Muir there had been reports of similar episodes in letters responding to his various publications on this phenomenon. Similar behaviour had been observed in Canada and Siberia. After recruiting volunteers from an advert in the same journal, Muir carefully tabulated the details of the plants growing where the geese had been found. On one occasion he noted the little yellow flowers found in a puddle of vomit close to an affected goose

Intensive statistical analysis, using mainframe computers in the veterinary department of his Canadian university threw up an unexpected pattern. A strong correlation between number of Brent Geese affected and proximity to patches of ragworts. Finks and Bronwyn Gosling knew this part of the story: the eradication of the culprit flora.

Now that the area was clear of the cause of their illness, the Brent Geese numbers had boomed, without a return to their toxin-induced catatonia. “And that”, said Grayling, flourishing his most recently published paper, “ends my Muir Trance Series”. A coot in the distance peeped out a rhythmic call.

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Reconstructed by GANTOB and Ali from discussions with Bronwyn Gosling and details from Curt Finks diaries, 1988-1992

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…

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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…

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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

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(*) 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…

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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