ha ha haaaa

TRANSFORMASNAX: I woke up a-dreaming on a Tuesday. I was picking a rambunctious nosegay. A big old floppy-eared rabbit sang me a song and I smiled at the sun and he said "Let's Get It On!" I carried on my way across a field so green with only a fox with the pox inbetween. He offered me a cigarette. I offered him a light. He was pretty hammered; he was looking for a fight. Apparently a badger with n Uzi and a dagger got a gang of evil scientists to fashion a device. A device, such a sinister, savoury dark minister, capable of carnage on a biblical scale! I got onto my blower-ohone and rang the other guys, told them to bring all of their expertise and come in disguise. We've battled evil pop machines but now we're fucking tripping! I thought I'd done it just in time but... What's that coming over the hill? Approaching me against my will? Not on Spice but set to Kill! If the drugs don't get me, the badger will! It's a giant Transforma-snack! Oh! I turned on my heels and then I legged it. The crisp was quicker than expected! I lost it in a forest and collected a hundred gold coins from a walrus in a suit. He gave me safe passage to the nearest little village, where I'd meet up with the reprobate and concoct a plan. On the road again I came across a flock of beagles in a van and I offered to drive them 'cos they had nee hands! Reached the little village (I was just in time for tea), where I met up with Mr. Wood, French and G.I.B. We dined with the general of the animal army - My, oh my, he was a vicious little cunt! Eight Buckfasts passed. We were singing songs. Mr. Wood got kicked outthe bar for one too many bongs! We forgot why the fuck we were there in the first place. We didn't really care though... What's that coming over the hill? Approaching us against our will? Not on Spice but set to Kill! If the drugs don't get us, the badger will! Oh my God! It's a giant Transforma-snack! Oh! Picked ourselves up and then we dusted down and turned around to see a trail of destruction and poor Mr. Fox was squashed by crispy blocks! The animal people were devastated by the loss and they were very cross. That fox meant a lot to me. I comforted the llama, lemur and Pete Docherty, headed for the tavern and got Wood out of a tree. Arrived at the tavern and we had a cup of tea, armed ourselves with instruments and dropped some LSD... We phlew the phunky theremin into the badger's lair; He was waiting with the giant crisp, a pheather in his hair. The scientists were shooting at us with potato guns so we shot at them, the noise of which resembled dying suns! Making our approach with the ROCK at the ready and a steady target locked on the badger's greedy belly; Coming up now, a reconstruction of the way O.P.E.N. fucking ROCKed when we saved the fucking day!

BILLY WAS A MANIAC: I'd like to introduce you to Billy. Born and raised in a caravan in Chilly, Latchousieville, an animal capable of adding and subtracting inconceivable digits in the blink of an eyelid! People used to [********] and I had increasing doubts in the back of my mind, but he was increasingly kind; a pillar of society. But he harboured a secret and I'm gonna tell it: Billy was a maniac, Billy was. Billy was a maniac but he was good at mathematics, Billy was. Billy was a maniac, but really... He went to Uni the same man, blended in the background; Billy qualified to be an accountant. [********] but after a few it was like Jekyll and Hyde; quiet to the point of silence with a tendency to be violent. He stayed at Uni a changed man. His drinking habit cost a man an eye; He didn't bat one of his. He was colder than an ice rink, wouldn't go to see the shrink. "I'd rather go out for a cold drink!"; his usual words, A trifle absurd but that was crazy Billy all over the front page after another violent rampage in the University cafe. He wanted to stay. They asked him to leave: He wasn't very pleased. Finally arrested with a massive price to pay, he broke out of prison, went to hide in San Tropez. It wasn't long before they had a killer in their midst, a little like a gorilla in the mist. Infecting the whole island like a cyst, the catalyst to assist the British government in capturing the sin that had been eluding them for years And then bring Billy in... If they asked, people would tell, "Billy was a maniac!" and run like hell! If they saw, people would yell, "Run and tell the family that Billy was a, Billy was a maniac!" Billy was a maniac, I really must stress! Kick him in the arse if you really want to test his durability: You'll see straightaway, You should have listened to me. I really suggest you turn around and flee, 'cos the crazy motherfucker won't listen to me! Billy was a maniac, Billy was. Billy was a maniac, but he was good at mathematics, Billy was. Billy was a maniac, but really... Billy was a maniac, Billy was. Billy was a maniac, but he was good at trigonometry, Billy was. Billy was a maniac, but really... Billy was a maniac, Billy was. Billy was a maniac, but he was good at Sin and Cos and Tan, Billy was. Billy was a maniac, but really... Billy was a maniac, Billy was. Billy was a maniac, but he was fucking good at calculus, Billy was. Billy was a maniac, but really....

JAZM: What is music? To me, music is life and life is music. Go on then, I use it. Please don't abuse it. Groove with it; find the rhythm in the veins, flowing through the blood pumped from the heart to the brainskull. Now you know it's a 4/4, it's kinda major, feeling it. It's a nice key signature, yeah yeah I like the flow. You don't know where it's coming from, you can't grab it, you can't flip it like a chica up an down, doggystyle. You know I feel it though. I'm telling you, the music, It's there man! With you every day in the radio, in the car, flowing from your stereo, you want to listen though, you want to feel it though, but some of that shit is corrupt though man, you know the ones I'm talking 'bout... Music is the sobriety, the psychological link between you and me. The soundtrack to the life that we all see, life that we all hear, life that we all hold dear. Why not be all you can be? Give your music its own personality! Fill it up with raw originality, practicality, pure insanity, then... Pick a riff, pick a rhythm, pick up a bass. Slap G, Slap E like a smack in the face. Fast paced, slow paced; whatever the case, Jazm like your life's worth, Rock the human race. Funk is the spirit of every musicality: Pick a principality, kid, or hit reality. Play what you please when the jam is in session, play something fucked up, make an impression! O.P.E.N.'s the epitome, similar to epiphany, of musical ability and lyrical prosperity is what keeps the tunes alive. Don't care about your white smile, don't make music with a hairstyle. "Walk the Green Mile"? If you think you do, embarrassment is waiting for you. When Jackie P rocks the mic, you stand up and listen and if you're fake, your fucking pussy arse starts pissin'! Keep your eyes shut! Keep your ears wide open! Keep the music flowing! Keep the bass bins blowing! Mics are red hot and the amps are hardly coping! Don't ration the passion! You are listening to O.P.E.N.

wHAT A LOVELY DAY: Every little thing that could have was going wrong: Frenchy lost his body paint and Woody lost his bong, Jackie P had the flu and Triple lost a C and the man without a shoe, well, that was G.I.B. The car had broken down and nobody had a mobile. How very docile. Nearly a mile from civilization! We needed to be patient so we started walking in a line to reach our destination. There we were, looking like a bunch of criminals; we weren't angry but were sending out subliminals. Animals getting in an affray; people were Talking to us but we had nothing to say. Many other people would be kneeling by their steeple, praying to their God, asking why it is that way? We were walking, smiling, thinking, "What a lovely day! Ha ha ha!" Stress is a killer. Sit back and sip a Miller or a clever little mixture of herbal tea. The lesson that I'm stressin' is a question we're forgetting: Are we heading for World War III? I guess the point I'm trying to make is that id take it all a little less to heart and less seriously... Maybe I'm a smidgen optimistic in my vision of a civilized world of harmony? Half a mile in we see a lovely little message written on a Audi. I'll tell you what the message said. It read: Have a nice day! with a smiley faced head. We sort of kind of were but we sort of kind of weren't - like the feeling in the car when the radiator burnt. A lot of shit could have been said but it wasn't. What's the point in whinging when the problem's in the bonnet? If people stop attempting to lay the blame, continue to try hard and play the game...Stop living your life so fucking mundane! Keep chasing your goals and then hit your aim! We were almost there, the lights were getting bright [*********************] afternoon and now it's nearly night, but... What a lovely day!

DISHONESTLY DEPARTED: Every other day it's the same thing; you want it your way, no matter what I say. You can see you're hurting me, destroying me, completely. I don't want to talk about it any more. I meant what I said when I called you a whore. You blamed it all on me when I busted his jaw. There's blood on the floor. I turned on you. Your face turned blue. Fell over, left, right next to Mr. Ecstasy. A colourful carpet, collage of catastrophe. Moments of madness, it finally got the best of me and I feel no remorse. Dishonestly departed, you're together at last. You've been cast into the oblivion on your ass. The fire in my heart ignites the rage of memory: You were a disease. I'm free. My mind is at ease. You've been casting shadows in my mind that I thought were the result of guilt and anguish trying to drive me crazy, but I'm realising all the criticism and the cynicism is the damage that you've inflicted. Confidence and preservation of a life in which I had thought i was controlling but you fucked me over. Now the table's turned and testimonies are flying and the lies seem to be leading to people dying. My personality has always been split. A part of me used to take it, the other did not take shit. And now I'm left with a hint of Sigmund Freud, whose studying suggested twas the devil inside every fucking one of us. [*********]master of ceremonies, schizophrenic, highly energetic, poetic, a lover of phonetic prose and adverbs. I never used to listen to the voice that told me that I should discard your heathen body so your soul could be cast out. Now the voice is speaking through my mouth and doing whatever my heart is suggesting... like choking your life out. Every single day it's the same thing. You've got it your way and now I'm insane. You have taken over me, infected me discreetly. I've been pulled into the back of my own mind; you have taken over and now I'm a lie. I should have stayed away that one more time and you'dve never had a chance to make your advance. It's probably why we're sitting in this padded room. I'm talking to myself. I'm talking to you. We're trapped inside a jacket. We're together at last. We're in oblivion. You've got what you wanted but it's all gone to waste. Can you smell the irony? How does it taste? You've been suppressed by a guest you've never met before. There's blood on the floor. I turned on you. My face turned blue. Give up the ghost, you can't hurt me. A slit of the wrist is fucking easy. The id has disappeared; it left with the blood flow. I'll write it on the wall just so that they know. My personality has always been split.

LE SAC MAGIQUE: We came across a little magical delight on a trip into The Other Zone on Saturday night. It shimmered mystically with a mythical glow and as I stepped up to Le Sac, a minor quid pro quo... Quest que c'est dans Le Sac Magique? What is inside Le Sac Magique? Is it metaphorical? Maybe metaphysical? Lyrical? Visual? Or maybe even digital? The colours on Le Sac were of a yellow and red and just to look at Le Sac gave you a pain in your head. Like Superted or Spottyman another man may say, maybe left behind at a YMCA By a travelling mage from, let's just say, France, Perplexing the simple through ceremonial dance. We read a pamhlet attached to the strap and Le Sac flew O.P.E.N. with a thunderclap! Maybe Woodmonsieur uttered forbidden words; a canny wee collection of rhymes and verbs. Quest que c'est dans Le Sac Magique? What is inside Le Sac Magique? Quest que c'est dans Le Sac Magique? C'est nes pas mal; c'est magnifique! Where does it come from? What does it mean? What is inside le sac? Maybe a machine? Maybe a fiery little crustacean, hell bent with ideas of world domination?

TIMOTHY LEARY: If you want to come with me, you'd better lose your phallacies, 'cos where we're going and who to see is the one and only Timothy Leary. The Beatles (John and Paul and George and Ringo) wrote The Yellow Submarine-y. Put that down to Timothy Leary. It's a well known fact that if you stand at the back you're a lot less susceptible to paranoia attack. If you stand at the front though, the feeling will sure flow, if you have a drop of Abby Hofmann's ha-ha-ha-ha! Put the beer in the boot! We're ready to shoot! We're getting fucked! Timothy's bringing his usual entourage of stuff. People all around the world and all around the galaxy, join me please, in saluting Timothy Leary. Timothy Leary gave his children acid, Timothy Leary, LSD. Timothy Leary, he was always placid, Timothy Leary, LSD-D-D-D-d-d-d....

KICK UP THE VOLUME: What are we here for? Were we born for war? Why do we treat life like a chore? Take more risks and then explore. Life is short. We make it even shorter; polluting the sky, infecting the water, sending our kids into the pits of Hell. Blood in the swell upon the banks of reason. You know they'll call it treason even if you end up pleading not to go into the frontline to take part in hunting season. Atmospheric overload. All hail The Hypno-Toad! Waiting while we all erode? Let's grab a mic and plug it in and KICK UP THE VOLUME! Don't do what you're told, just do as I say. You'll never grow old, you'll just fade away. Try to be bold and fight the decay. Your time has been sold so just fucking play! Do you think we're serious and are you now delirious? Is the music genius or borderline mysterious? Rocking like a bunch of fucking animals who've taken something. Didn't get it by prescription; found the funds to feed addiction. Not by pills or pain-infliction but causing waves, music friction. Nothing better than being heard. Nothing worse than coming third. Always doing what we want, O.P.E.N. never stop! Apart from then, and we'll do it again when we come to the end and when we do you'd better nod your fucking head! KICK UP THE VOLUME WHEN YOU WANT TO BLOCK OUT ALL CONFORMITY! OH YEAH! Turn it up. They'll listen. TURN IT UP NOW.