Scott Wood describes himself as "a freelance
writer of no reputation whatsoever", so I asked him if he'd like to write
something nice for The Magic Net and he said yes. Given that;
He once phoned me up in the middle of the
night and said, "B&Q, so wonderful you just have to tell someone."
Absolutely slated "Zoen Nostalgia" and did a
horribly unpleasant character assassination on me in the same review.
And got me in deep shit with
the Sea Nymphs for cancelling a gig at the last minute and being too
scared to tell anyone...
...I'm actually rather surprised I'm still
talking to him at all!
SCOTT WOOD PRESENTS
Turn Off The Internet And Do Something Less
about them one day I realised Wombles are not what they first appear. I’d
been reading a fair bit on the Good People. Pixies, elves and
hobgoblins and their kin (don’t ever use the ‘f’ word when talking about
them, it brings terrible luck) and I worked out that Wombles, far from being
some freakish cross between voles and afghan hounds, are a modern
manifestation of the Good People.
the facts: fairies (shit) live underground, Wombles live underground.
Elemental beings such as the Wood Wife and the Wild Hunt are thought of as
guardians of the trees and the forest. Wombles, our little perma-culture
critters, take damned good care of the litter blown common.
come in, nice to see you. Take a seat, oh, hang on, I’ll just move those.
There. Oh, yeah, don’t worry about them, they’re a clean pair, I think.
Anyway, welcome to “Turn off the Internet and Do Something Less Boring
Instead”, my very own niche in the Magic Moments empire. You’ll have guessed
that I’d prefer it if you don’t follow the advice of the title straight away
and it’d be lovely of you to come back to read any future issues of this
inter-zine I may happen to write. The point isn’t to order people off the
net (“All magic lights and the most strange language, ‘tis the Devils own
picture box”), I’ve made mates over the net and learnt things both
fascinating and utterly stupid. I’m also not sure what I’d do without sites
like “The Parking Lot Is Full” (though no more new cartoons) and “Goth Babe
of the Week” (ahem). I just need to remind myself that the internet, like
books, fanzines and other reading material, are great but they’re not the
actual world, they’re a means to an end, not the end. Or to put it another
way, the internet is the map to the pub, it isn’t the six pints of Grolsch,
double egg and chips, the banter or the laughter. It’s not the game of
shit-head, the dodgy band blaring away in one corner or the hazy eyed,
gorgeous person you know you MUST attempt to flirt with before they’re swept
away by their graceful, long legged and beautiful partner who hasn’t got a
Spicy Nic Nac caught in their hair.
point isn’t really to get you to go to the place I’m going to write about
either, though if you do get to check it out, fantastic, let me know what
you think. There’s magic, wonders and treasures everywhere, in places you go
to every day, places that are miles away and places that exist only in your
own head. You really just need to be ready to see them. That’s what I think
is true of the world.
honour of Dr Magic's secret origin, let us hail that great green space that
is Wimbledon Common. You know Mick's story, he landed on Earth in his Ford
Escortron and for the first five years or so he lived with the Wombles of
Wimbledon. I lived there for a few years, before moving to the more suitable
climes of south east London, but the Wombles had a burrow in my heart long
before I ever set foot in SW19. They’re small, they’re furry, they recycle
stuff that stupid humans litter the clean earth with and their little snouts
twitch when they eat or think. How could anyone not love them?
yourself to be tricked by them and havoc will ensue. So remember if you do
find yourself on Wimbledon Common, you should respect the Wombles and their
space, otherwise Wellington will turn over the pots and pans in your house
and Uncle Bulgaria will steal your children, leaving strange eyed furry
babies in their place. As for the pant-dampeningly scary McWomble, I’m sure
that each time he appears in all his lightning and wailing bagpipe music,
some member of the Scottish gentry drops off their perch. He’s a banshee
with huge, ginger whiskers, brrr.
Common, like Hampstead Heath and any other wooded or quiet areas near a mass
of buildings is a bit of a haven. People sneak in there to have sex, tramps
take refuge and people often explore their odder tastes in secrecy or with
like minds there. A friend told me about a bloke she encountered swimming in
a pond that’s by the road Parkside. He was in full wet-suit and snorkelling
gear but the pond is only about two inches deep. It dries out in hot
weather. The rubber suited chap sat up in the pond, took a photograph of my
friend and then carried on with his splashing about.
I was pleased to hear
recently that the local tramp, the Bob-Bob Man is still going strong. He
lives on the common and is called the Bob-Bob Man because he never talks, he
walks along going “Bob, bob, BaaRRRR!” to himself. It’s like he thinks and
speaks in music.