From Left: Evil Spencer, Liam the Giant, Philly G and Kit, the smart-guy who stayed home and was subbed by Nadine Supervixen.

...and so, once again, to Londonium, where the iron grey sky frowns upon unemployed, middle-aged dandies, feeding their Peter Pan complexes by riding day-glo, off-the-rack fixies at walking pace through the clotted traffic like so many drugged tropical fish infesting a dying reef of shitty brick buildings.

Here's me, skipping down onto the tarmac at LCA.

I was brought hence by the outstretched wings of British Airways, depositing me at London City airport in a magical cloud of civilised adulthood, so far removed from the school-bus depravity and rank incompetence of the filthy, wretched Easyjet and their drooling, retarded patrons. If only I could have enjoyed the experience, but my mind and body had been savaged the previous night by a small pack evil rockers from my homeland.

Yea, it was The Bowers who fucked me up.

They came and stayed at my peacfull pad on Calle Avinyo, to while away a rest-day in Barcelona before tackling the last leg of their short but frenzied European Tour. I was heartened to once again meet and hob-nob with the legendary Philly G, driving force behind many a rockin Melburn outfit. But the civilised Phil was acompanied by a crazed and destructive clutch of filthy bandmates, including Liam the Giant, Evil Spencer and Nadine Supervixen, the 20 year-old stand-in drummer with the face of an angel and the body of a stripper.

Want some coconut? No? How about something stronger??

After scoring a few grams of coke from some Pakistani no-good at the beach, these trouble makers proceeded to turn my humble home into a house of ill-repute, disco dancing lewdly to the MC5 and smearing their bodily fluids allover my nice couch. Then they took me out drinking, with predictably awful consequences. I remember Nadine (wearing a sleeveless red leather jumpsuit) spitting Cashasa at a Honduran bartender and Liam the Giant singing broadway showtunes as Evil Spencer and I heaped insults on confused strangers and scoped for easy pussy. Horrible. The night seemed endless.

They forgot to add "6. Crushing shame, 7. Suicidal depression, 8.Poo in pants"

You know those hang-overs that are so wretchedly bad, so physically punishing and infused with so much shame that you moan and weep and pray for death out-loud, even while in crowded public spaces?
It was with just such a burden that I rose early next morning and made the pilgrimage through the skies to Baaron Von Cupples dismal lair in the heart of Dalston (innit). The cold rain soaked my inapropriately Mediterranean attire as I lugged my heavy sea-chest full of delay pedals and romance novels through the shitty urban sprawl of East London. The thin rasping sound of Baarons buzzer seemed to mock and goad me as I waited for him to let me inside.

So now I sit with the violent and scampish Baaron, mixing "Lights On A Leash", our new tit-ripping prog smash, while outside on the street groups of viscious Jamaican drunks hurl rotten fruit at the window and the dispiriting London autumn serves up extra helpings of freezing wind and drizzle.
What went wrong? I was such a clever and sociable child. I should be wealthy and admired and ruling the fates of many. Instead I find myself balding and tired and squabbling with an anorexic sociopath over whether to put that 808 rimshot on the 2 or the 4.

Godamnit, you bastards better go absolutely bazonkers over this track. It is steeped in pain, conflict and failure and cannot help but make the casual listener think, with an involuntary shudder, "There, but for the grace of God, go I."

But no, really, it's a top notch ditty, suitable for parties and picnics, and we're just as excited as kittens on crank to start playing it at our hilariously entertaining live shows. Come on down for a bucket full of japes and good-timey sounds. Love to see you.

Peace.

 

Ciara Long is her name.

That's right, let the word ring forth, from the peak of the loftiest mountain to the sunless depths of the ocean floor, Ciara Long has the song-title-coming-up-with skillz to pay the billz. Fuck knows who she is, or where she lives, or what cruel stroke from the thong of life finally drove her to do our thinking for us. But there you have it.

The next Civil Civic discoteque smash will be called...

LIGHTS ON A LEASH.

You would curl up like a maggot on a hot-plate if you knew how many truly bizzare name concepts we had to wade through before we finally decided we liked this one best for the tune.

We salute you, name-givers all, for the outpouring of crazed spabbling which hit us after the competition was announced. We are in awe of your foul, damaged imaginations.

We settled on Lights On A Leash without violence, because it has a wonderfull atmospheric quality, good rhythm, nice use of alliteration and isn't going to get the track banned from radio. Top notch.

We would also like to honor these particular entries for putting up a nasty fight....

• EAT, CHEAT, BEAT 
• Hardcore Bodybuilding 
• Non-Stick Panzer 
• Mohammered 
• Happy Birthday 
• At least I Entered 
• Boss Battle 
• Fizzy Blood

But seriously, big uber-props to all who submitted titles. Fun shit, my good people, fun shit. You have enriched our lives.

In other Civic news, we are getting close to gig one of the Civil Civic Autumnal Assault on Europa!!!!

So gear up for more sad, nonsensical reports from the road as we use our bad noise to reduce the collective IQ of western Europe! 

Blam!!!!

Every human being has, in their lifetime, come up with at least one AWESOME BAND NAME.  Seriously, you've done it, even if you didn't realise or don't remember.

Well now it's time to put your dopey, killer band-name skillz to the ultimate test and NAME OUR NEXT SINGLE.

Yeah, you heard me. Get that bong fired up (or use technology) and blurt out some ridiculous/evocative/atmospheric word or phrase in the English language. Our distinguished panel (Aaron, Ben and The Box) will hand down their judgement and then it's LOCKED!

That's the name of our next SMASH HIT!*  Out on limited edition 7" on Too Pure in December.

The winner, apart from concrete proof of their own RADNESS, will receive a signed copy of the 7" and a life sized oil-on-canvas of AARON FIGHTING A VICIOUS PACK OF STRAY DOGS!**

Entries close next Monday 11th October.

You have one week, multiple entries encouraged!!!

email your names to mail@civilcivic.com with 'title comp' as the subject.

*subject to record sales.

**this is a bare faced lie. You will get a 7" though, and eternal glory and bragging rights.