CrudCast #3

Just went out tonight, and what a mad mix it was. Streaming quality is still ropey as hell — sounds like you’re listening through a wet sock at 24k — but that’s the state of the net in 2001. Doesn’t matter though, because the content carried it, well almost...

We kicked things off with The BT Call, still the funniest phone rage ever captured: some poor chimp at BT phoning an angry Geordie who threatens to wring his “scrawny fucking neck.” Proper gold.

Then it was into the music:

• FLINCH – “Lucky”
  Wrexham lads, smartly dressed, semi-metal with a melodic crunch. “Lucky” is their best tune so far — tight, heavy, catchy.

• CARPET – “One Two Fuck You” (Live)
  Straight out of Rhyl, recorded at The Breeding Ground. Rough, loud, and couldn’t care less. Pure live chaos, bottled.

• HYFRYD
  From the warped head of Johnny R-Bennig, all the way from Gwalchmai. Twisted, surreal, and sounds like it was beamed in from another planet, as was Johnny.

• SKINFLICK – “Two Ton Loser”
  Bangor’s mutant industrial punk crew, always up to strange nocturnal antics. They don’t play by anyone’s rules, and this track proves it.

• HOBO – “Trencherman”
  Ended on something special. “Trencherman” is just wonderful — deep, sprawling, and sticks in your head long after.

So yeah, that was the show. Rough stream, local bands, weird humour, angry Geordies,

[AUDIO LONG SINCE REMOVED - NOTHING LASTS FOREVER - YOU SHOULD KNOW THAT BY NOW]

Legacies

Today was Nain Betws’ funeral — a solemn moment for Kev’s family, and one more in what’s become a sad pattern these past four years: the only time they all seem to gather anymore is to either marry or bury someone. A clan of professional mourners almost, not by choice but by frequency. It’s tragic how often grief brings people together when everyday life never quite manages to.

I didn’t go to the funeral. Declan's child-minder is on holiday, which meant there was no one to look after him, so the boy and I stayed put. Later, we’ll take a walk up to Knees Up Mother Brown in Betws-yn-Rhos — not to drown anything in drink, but maybe to reflect, remember, and let life carry on in its own messy, unpredictable way.

I’ve always found funerals to be strange rituals. Are they meant to help us mourn someone’s passing, or celebrate the life they led? And once you're gone, what’s left of you, really? A fleeting thought, maybe — a moment someone has when they pass by your old house, or a name that lingers in a half-remembered anecdote. Is that your legacy? Shouldn’t it be something that lives longer and louder?

I sometimes wonder if even someone like Hitler obsessed over that same question — the desire not to be forgotten, regardless of the cost.

I know some people who actually scan the obituaries looking for a funeral to attend — to offer support, maybe, or just to break the routine. Me? I’d rather mourn in my own way, in my own space, without the religious pageantry or platitudes. Let me reflect on someone’s life in silence, or through stories, not hymns. I saw it with Malcolm — the church service wasn’t for him, but done to keep his mum happy. It was a strange compromise: grief dressed up in someone else’s rules.

It makes me think — when I go, how should I say goodbye? Should I plan it in advance? Make it something unorthodox and wild just to throw a wrench in the system? Or should I just leave it up to whoever’s left behind to sort it all out?

But if I do that, there’s a real risk that some vicar will step in to exploit my death — to milk the moment for comfort and control, turning my absence into a platform for their own beliefs.

Maybe I’ll sidestep it entirely. Maybe I’ll just donate my body to science — let a group of medical students have a good laugh flicking my eyeballs across the lecture theatre or playing rugby with my brain. That’d be a send-off no priest could hijack.