Drunk.

But - y'know - very much in a different way to a few weeks ago.

"LIGHTS! go out! Walls come tumbling down!"

I despise Paul Weller. Anything grotesque and broken in the 90s guitar pop landscape, he begat it. Literally every single fucking thing which degraded the possibility of the form in mainstream pop, he has his dirty fingers in. By his actions, and his actions of his followers, he reduced words like "Integrity" and "Purity" to spat insults. He didn't just diminish the possiblities of pop in his own work - but by implication. Anyone trying to do the heart-on-sleeve thing is going to try and find a way past the dogma and the reaction-anti-dogma (i.e. Dogma) of his followers and detractors. Can anyone do it? I don't think so, anymore. Post-post-post, we're incapable of processing such things.

His fault. All his fault.

"At JERICHO! The walls come tumbling DOWNEA!"

I return, after bouncing around the flat, making tea and cheese on toast and running conversations in the head.

The rest why I can't despise Weller for his actions is how hard and how far he reached before collapsing into the pit. The Style Council were probably the furthest a band has ever gone to try and bash an iota of sense into their own fanbase, up and to including their own career destruction. Weller could have easily worked out an easy way to ride the Live-Aid wave to rock-music career, but instead he got dragged down with socialism and soul music, to the point where House-influenced LPs got vaulted by record companies. He was so impossibly dumb that it's a little harsh to make the actions of his dottage race back through the timeline to warp everything else he did.

So, I don't.

"You don't have to take this CRAP! You don't have to sit back and RELAX! You can actually try changing it..."

So don't. Weller is a man who banged his head against the wall until he cracked. The lesson isn't that you shouldn't assault the wall - the absolute brilliance of material like "Walls come tumbling down" where a fantasy of socialistic, pure, gorgeous revolution threaten to tear apart the soul-influenced pop justify every breath the man he takes - but rather that you should throw yourself into that dent until it collapses or you do. Yes, you may die and fall to irrelevance - but if you're briliant enough someone should throw themselves into the gap to recieve the dozen cross-bow bolts to the chest. Eventually, walls come tumbling down.

And I think of that, sip tea, and turn my eyes to the script I was writing before first hitting the drinks and start hammering may forehead against the dent.

Lights go out. You know the rest.