The latest test to befall me happened today.  Slid and I have never slacked in our commitment of gaining more exposure for My Dick in the mainstream media.  To that end we have utilized all manner of social media to help spread the word.  Imagine my surprise when after placing an ad with Facebook they DISAPPROVED ME!  What??  Are you serious?  According to them our ad used objectionable language…blah, blah, blah.  OUTRAGEOUS!  So are they saying that any disgruntled racist fathead can have a group page but I can’t place an ad that says, “My Dick Wants You”?  Unbelievable.  I assure you that I have assembled my team of lawyers and we will crack back on those ungrateful guttersnipes!  To quote a great My Dick tune: We Will Chase Them Like Rats Across The Tundra!

I will keep you posted on the legal proceedings and just know my poppets…it will take more than some Facebook prude to shut My Dick down.  Cheers!

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Facebook Has Chosen the Wrong Brit to F*** With is a post from: My Dick Speaks

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(Father was a grand speaker and jokester.  He once planted a pound of marijuana in my steamer trunk and then informed the prefect at the boarding school.  What a laugh we had after I served those hellish 3 years in  HMP Peterborough.)

Now that I have that off my chest…let the blog continue.

Here are my ten New Year’s Resolutions that I wanted to share with you, my lovelies.  Perhaps I can be of service as you consider the myriad ways you want to improve your un-glamorous, meaningless lives.  One can hope.

NIGEL’S NEW YEAR’S RESOLUTIONS

10. Do more for the poor.  For example, offer coupons in lieu of cash.

9. Visit my sweet Mum more often.  If I can’t do that, send Reggie to the old folks home with some flowers.  On second thought I’ll just send Reggie with flowers.

8. Drink less…when I first wake up.

7. Smoke less…hashish.  Actually, that seems awfully drastic.  How about if I smoke less on Tuesdays?  Fair enough.  Done, done, and done.

6. Have sex with women whose full name I know..or at least their first name.  Or who I know for sure are women.

5. Do more for the environment.  I commit to being more “green”.  Cash is green, isn’t it?  I commit to making gobs and gobs of filthy lucre.

4. I will write the great American novel.  I will call it “My British Accent is an Aphrodisiac to American Women”

3. I’m will seek out that bastard, Glenn Beck and punch him in the baby maker.  That way he really has something to cry about.

2. I will own a world championship calibre Roller Derby team.

1. I will hunt down My Dick until I have no breath left in my body. Those bastards have obligations, after all!

So there you have it…my New Year’s Resolutions.  What are your resolutions?  Post them here so that I may have a good laugh at your expense.   If any of you talk about world peace I swear that I will find you and give you the Glenn Beck treatment.

Cheers!

Nigel

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Americans Are Shiftless and Lazy Plus Nigel’s New Year’s Resolutions is a post from: My Dick Speaks

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I have just returned from Aruba where I spent the Christmas/Boxing Day season chasing island tail and drinking copious amounts of spiced rum.  As I was basking in the glorious and perfect sun…in the nude, by the by…I thought this might be an appropriate time to write about holiday gift ideas that you can use during this season.  Of course, I had this idea well ahead of Christmas but was far too intoxicated to do anything about it.  These gifts are perfect any time of year so there you have it.

RIDE IN STYLE

Like you I loathe the annual Christmas Lexus commercials.  The surprised man or woman comes out of the house to see a Lexus topped with a bright red bow.  Ugh. Disgusting.  If you’re going to purchase a car as a holiday gift don’t waste money on a cheap Japanese go cart.  Behold the glory that is…

The Maserati Quattroporte.  Italian made luxury for the discerning gentleman (and for ladies, as well.  You ladies should absolutely ask the men in your lives for this luxury chariot.  You may have to wake them up in that “special way” for a while but it’ll be worth it for him…and for you…of course).    My personal shopper told me all of the various engine specs and luxury packages but my human brain could not take it all in.  And finally what does any of it matter?  It’s an F-ING Maserati!  I myself have several and I highly recommend them.  Have you ever known me to steer you wrong.  Oh wait.  STEER you wrong!  Ha ha ha.  Oh my, I AM a droll one.

GIVE THE GIFT OF TIME

Not giving the gift of MORE time, my lovelies.  No, I’m talking about the gift of time that’s encrusted in diamonds and weighs more than a bowling ball.  If you are looking for something a bit more personal perhaps this watch by Chopard will be more your speed. Wait.  SPEED. Ha ha ha.  I AM a clever boy!  Here’s something any loved one (or LOVER) would appreciate receiving.

Good God, this watch is ugly as sin but with a price tag like that how can you not buy it?!  With this watch you say, “I may be a moron to sink 1.1 million dollars into a watch but at least I can.”  Let the huddled masses glow green with envy as you parade your fabulous wealth before them.  Because in the final analysis you have no true friends.  They are jealous of your money and fame.  At least my friends are.  I wouldn’t have it any other way.

THE GIFT THAT KEEPS ON GIVING

Of course I realize that people are a bit under the gun financially.  I too have been hit by this worldwide recession.  I have had to cut my manservant Reggie’s weekly allowance to a mere pittance.  But in lieu of money I have given a wonderful gift that he can wear with pride…an authentic My Dick t-shirt.

Hand made in Guatemalan orphanages, these shirts are a wonderful gift for the true devotee of My Dick…or for anyone who wants to make a spectacle of themselves on the street.  Plus, I’ve always been told that the holidays are about giving, so stop being so damned selfish!  Buy a shirt and give it to a loved one!  You don’t want a hard working little orphan to lose their job, do you?  I don’t care either way.  My stock portfolio is busting at the seams.  All is right in the world.

Anyway, there it is, my poppets.  Another successful holiday.  I am going to pour another Johnny Walker Blue and apply some aloe vera to my…tender areas.  That Aruba sun blisters mightily.  Til next time.

Cheers!

Nigel

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Holiday Gift Ideas from Nigel is a post from: My Dick Speaks

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Women bear the brunt of it, of course.  And please, don’t talk to me about Meryl Streep or Sigourney Weaver.  They are the exceptions.  For every Meryl (a delightful woman, by the by.  I have Summered in the Hamptons when she was there) or Sigourney there are thousands more that stop working because they’ve reached an age or weight threshold.  What truly galls me is that the Hollywood power brokers and producers who will make public statements and “mourn her” are the very blood suckers that perpetuate the entire operation.  Nothing will change because the vampires are in power and they are on constant vigil for new meat.  Throw a rock and you will hit the next victim.  The tragic reality is that there are a million Brittany Murphys plying their craft in Hollywood and many will fall prey to the Hollywood machine.  And as the cult of celebrity grows, we, the public, will demand more sacrifices to be made in its unholy name.

Listen.  I’m no saint.  The music industry, the industry that I have devoted my life to, has done more to fuck talented people than just about any other.  Hollywood…Nashville…pick your poison.  I like to tell prospective clients, “Bend over and wait for the anal exploration”.  And I must confess that I have bagged my share of pretty actresses with the promise of a part in a music video.

(Pause)

Now that I think about it, maybe I’m the last person to make commentary.  I guess it just struck me as kind of a needless death.

Another Johnny Walker Blue should do the trick.  I’ll probably forget that I even wrote this.

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Hollywood Eats Its Young is a post from: My Dick Speaks

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Yes, my lovelies…wounds.  As many of you know I attended a “key party” this last week.  Now I don’t normally go for the swinging lifestyle (Swingers tend to hail from the suburbs.  They also tend to be on the portly side…at least, that’s what I’ve gathered from watching those sexy HBO documentaries) but my steady companion of the last ten years thought it may be something worthwhile for our relationship.  Seeing as I was filled with the joy of Johnny Walker Blue (and about 4 different male enhancement supplements), I agreed to participate and thus and so we made our way to the festivities.

The place was alive with possibilities as I dropped my keys to the Bentley in a large goldfish bowl by the front door.  The host ( a wealthy sheik from the Middle East, by the by) invited my lady and I to have a drink at the bar.  I asked the bartender for a JW Blue (of course)…neat.  Father always used to say that all cultured gentlemen should drink their scotch neat.  To my horror I was told that there was no Johnny Walker Blue.  The barkeep ran through the entire list of single malt scotches and bourbons but it was all cheap swill as far as I could tell.  My intuition told me that things were about to turn ugly, but nothing could have prepared me for just how ugly.

At that moment the door flew open and a man burst through, wild-eyed and depraved.  It took me a moment but as I looked closely at the figure I realized that it was none other than Tiger Woods.  I had seen Tiger at various charity functions throughout the years and had played a round or two with him.  This was not the same Tiger.  This Tiger had completely shaved his head and was outfitted, from top to toe in a  Stanford Cardinal red suit with matching shoes.  In his hand he carried a matching red cane.  He looked more like a pimp than the world class gentlemen I had become acquainted with over the years.  And those eyes.  I shudder now as I see them in my memory; sex crazed  and angry with little humanity behind them.

He made his way to the bar and asked the bartender for a Hennessey and Coke.  He gave my lady a once over then shot a look at me, stirring his drink all the while.

“Tiger, good to see you.  It’s Nigel Cunnington from last year’s pro-am.”

He simply stared and continued to stir, never once breaking eye contact.

Now in my years of managing My Dick I have come face to face with danger too many times to recount here (I will save those stories for another day) but I must say that as I gazed into Tiger’s eyes I felt a fear like I had never known before.

“Give me your woman, ” he said, matter of factly.

“Well, Tiger, I have no problem “giving you my woman” (I actually made the quotations gesture with my hands) but I believe that there is a protocol.  You see, there’s a goldfish bowl by the door…”

Before I could finish my sentence I felt the business end of his cane strike my knee.  The pain was excruciating as I fell to the floor.  He continued to club me across the back and neck, all the while screaming, “BEHOLD MY PERFECT SWING, BITCHES!”  I confess that the last thought I had before I blacked out was how correct he was.  He really does have the perfect swing.

Alas, my lovelies, that’s the last thing I remember.  I woke up the next morning in the back seat of the Bentley with a note from my lady friend saying she was leaving me to serve her new master, Tiger.  Thankfully, I have a medicine chest (more like a steamer trunk) filled with various pain killers to ease the aches of my body.  And I’ll have my revenge on that scalawag.  For when I drift toward that drug induced slumber I see that perfect swing in technicolor detail.  Once I’m healed I’ll take that swing and fleece the lads at the country club, perhaps even go pro.

I believe a wise man once said, “When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.”

Cheers!

Nigel C.

PS- Many thanks to the fans of My Dick who continue to share news of the new website.  Put a piece of My Dick in your sweetie’s stocking.  Vintage concert t-shirts available at www.myrichardrocks.com.

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Tiger Woods Has No Soul is a post from: My Dick Speaks

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Franchise building.  Interesting.

So we sought counsel from our advisor group and the Vietnamese gangsters who run our poker night and we have decided to invest in one of two possibilities: cricket or roller derby…with ladies.  I must confess that I have no idea where to even see a roller derby match (Did I get that right?  Do they play matches?) or how to even buy into a roller derby team but I have the cash (and the desire) to make this happen.  If anybody knows how the hell we should proceed drop me a note here.  Better yet if anybody has photos of the ladies in action…well…that would be just delightful.  Meantime, I’ll be sipping my Johnny Walker Blue out of my brand new gold “rocks” tumblers.  Solid gold, my lovelies.  Not that gold plated shite.

Cheers!

Nige

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Nigel takes on Sports Management is a post from: My Dick Speaks

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Now…I’m off to a “key party”.  I may be gone for a few days.  These things tend to take on a life of their own.  Cheers!

“Nobody seems to know where My Dick is. If not for the music they left behind, orphaned snot nosed crying infants of musical brilliance, it might be that they never existed at all. But My Dick does exist. It rocks…and rocks hard. And if I find those miserable drug addled bastards I swear I will take back what they stole from me.

Fucked up at the Far East News Desk… A Round of Singapore Slings… Musings on Elephantiasis

The last time I saw My Dick was during a mini-riot in a Singapore opium den where the band had a standing—although brief—house gig. The times were dark and weird and not for the faint of heart. I was trying like holy hell to do a profile of the band. For three weeks I followed them from their lice-riddled flop house to the bar and back again, asking them questions, only to be met with blank stares and shrugs.

The most disconcerting thing was that they had no problem sharing their booze and exotic drugs. Even their harem of zonked out “ladies” were made available to me (and taken advantage of with a dervish fury. The locals sold a tonic that gave any man the stamina of a herd of Indian Elephants. I poured it over cereal). But answers? Pleasantries? Fuck no. Tough nuts, all. The night of the riot was a blend of a ghastly over the top trip and the final degradation of man as he ate his own amidst the rubble of civilization…or something akin to that.

On this night the locals responded less than kindly to their particular brand of American “rock and roll”, expecting something perhaps a bit more salacious. And once the crowd got whipped into a snarling, foaming frenzy all “round eyes” were going to take it in the shorts.

I suddenly found myself up to my neck in tiny people fucked on mushrooms and a local concoction of spiced rum and monkey blood called “goofballs”. The odds were clearly against me. Thankfully, I carried a black jack in my pocket, for just such occasions, heavy at the end to explode a human temple with one swing. I landed a couple of swift blows and tried to make my way to the side exit. I turned and saw My Dick; back to back jabbing their instruments at the blood thirsty throng.

Over the din of screams and howls I shouted, “To rock and roll you magnificent depraved bastards!” The drummer looked at me, wild eyed, a human hand in his mouth (or did I imagine that?) and flung his drum stick at me, where it lodged between my dinner jacket and vest. My memory fades but suffice it to say I cannot hear their particular brand of devil music without feeling the ache of the wounds I suffered that night.

Spare the Rod, Spoil the Child… Good News Travels Fast

After that I became a man possessed. I hunted them, staying two steps behind at every turn. A flyer announcing a gig would turn up the day after they had played. Maddening. My Dick cast as Moby and I as Ahab. And in those years I began to piece together the weird and twisted history of a band that by all rights should have done to rock and roll what Ali did to Liston…fuck it up.

What information that exists rises here and there like flares from desperate seamen lost at sea. As best as the townsfolk of Lincolnshire, England can remember, drummer Peter Johnson and guitarist Rod Burns, kicked around in several forgettable bands playing the bubble gum pop tripe that was the fashion of the time. Bands with cute names like The Puddy Tats, The Confessors, Paisley Platters…the kind of names that might cause a self respecting musician to put the business end of a shotgun in their mouth.

Self respect, however, was not an issue for Johnson or Burns. Several young ladies from the area described sexual depravity and fetishes that rivaled anything from Nero’s Rome; certainly acts that went beyond the pale for most typical late aged teens. Around the time of “Paisley Platters”, Rod and Peter started hanging with a young bass player by the name of Jack Bates. He had a rap sheet longer than a foot long… with charges ranging from solicitation to drug possession and intent to distribute. Retired Chief Constable Liam Fier remembers arresting the trio over a dozen times in the Summer of 1969.

At this point, the trail runs cold. As the promise of the 60’s disappeared into the ether, so did the three Lincolnshire lads. Nobody remembers when they left. One minute they were there. The next minute they were gone.

As I consulted my notes looking for any clue that might lead me to solid answers I pictured those smug self satisfied bastards staring at the floor just shrugging their shoulders at me. The silence of them (even in my drug inspired imaginings they rarely spoke) forced me, in my desperation, to turn more and more often to my medicine bag for relief. In the throes of my drug psychosis I convinced myself that I could connect to them, literally transport myself to that time by exploring the dark places of my soul. In some sick way I was trying to channel the spirit of 1969 looking for any direction; all the while losing more and more of my mind.

And then fortune, that painted up trollop that loves me and loves me well, gave me a freebie…a juicy wet fuck of a break that defied belief. One particularly desperate morning, my editor sent me a note over the telefax from a woman who lived in the northern country of Belgium. She revealed that at one time she had been engaged to Richard Cummings, the eventual lead singer of My Dick. I hopped the ferry across the channel onto a train and made my way ever closer to the FUCKING key to the whole shit burning mystery!

How Now Sad Frau… The Mystery Deepens… The Cult of Zero Personality

Rebecca Guille, a homely, dowdy woman in her late 40’s, welcomed me into her home with a slight wave of her hand and motioned for me to sit on a small sofa. She brought out a large, dusty scrapbook with a picture of Richard Cummings. I did not see the scraggly, long haired madman that I remembered, but, rather, a clean cut nondescript young man, wearing a silky white choir robe. As Rebecca opened the picture album, she spun a tale that defied reason or reality but made perfect sense to me.

Richard Cummings gained notoriety as a member of the Chorale at St. Brieaux de Cristal in a piss print of a town in Northern Belgium. To hear her tell it, Cummings was a devout man who never touched a drop of alcohol. Tearfully, she confessed that they had planned to marry until that awful day in May of 1972. Witnesses recall that three masked Englishmen entered the church where Richard was performing and kidnapped him at gun point. For days, Rebecca and his family awaited a phone call…anything…a demand for money. Nothing. Days turned to weeks turned to months.

One year to the day of the kidnapping, a letter came in the mail. Cummings had written it (that much was certain) but the content was riddled with some monkey fuck nonsense about “Subterraneanism” and the “Power Down to Power Up.” Richard did mention a coming sonic excursion that would rip the doors off our collective consciousness. He signed off with a crudely drawn symbol; the eponymous symbol that has graced every album since the band’s third release, Snow Job. And that was the last she ever heard from her dear Richard Cummings. He had gone over to the dark side, brother. Richard Cummings doesn’t live here anymore.

As I read through the letter, my instincts told me that this story was less “rock and roll dream turned nightmare”, and more horror show Stockholm Syndrome, bad nihilistic cult trip. Those bastard British miscreants had scrambled poor Richard’s brain, sacrificed it at the altar of all that is unholy and depraved. What happened in that year between the kidnapping and the letter is anybody’s guess. None of those mealy mouthed shit birds had the decency to exchange two words with me.

The Horror, The Horror aka My Dick’s Scorched Earth Policy

Seeing as my medicine bag neared empty—as well as my expense account—I made my way back to the states to further explore the strange trip of My Dick. To call these guys cursed would be the understatement of the fucking millennium.

As I traced their steps through the lower 48 I found one incident after another that might have broken the backs of lesser men: the studio fire that destroyed the master tapes of what many consider to be their masterpiece, multiple arrests for solicitation and drug possession, rampant and scary drug abuse… the list goes on and on. Every city had a story of wreckless carnage left in the wake of a gig. One club owner described a scene so horrific that hazmat suits were required to clean up the backstage area. The boys were playing for keeps, apparently; but to what end remained the million dollar question.

And yet when you talk to the typical fan of My Dick you will find an almost steadfast, violent devotion to the music. So finding myself stymied by one dead end after another, I went to the one place I had avoided almost from the beginning: the music. I barricaded myself in my mountain retreat and started from the beginning of their catalog. Starting with “Explodes” I braced myself for the oncoming descent into utter chaos and madness. As the first note rang in my ear my fears were fully realized.

I Saw The Light and How My Dick Saved My Soul

Dear reader, I wish I could describe for you the range and depth of ecstasy and horror that I experienced during that time. It occurred to me that the drugs and booze coursing through my veins had something to do with what I was hearing. Each song, each note, the interplay of voice and instrument…brought me to a place of ecstasy and tragedy like I had never experienced before. I lay prostrate on the floor unable to make sense of anything.

It is powerful shit to be sure and one should not dare to attempt to take it in all at once. Cummings’ vocals rise above the din of this putrid world with the clarity and brilliance of angels. And the rhythm section of Bates and Johnson seemingly annihilate their instruments with each song; their desperation breaks through Rod Burns’ blistering guitar giving it perfect compliment. Between the laughter and the weeping I found myself descending into insanity and yet I found a strange sense of peace in that dark, unknown place. And as the last note lingered in my ears I understood all at once the mystery of My Dick. And just like the band, the feeling was violent, fleeting…and gone.

So now the fact remains that My Dick has disappeared, fallen off the grid, so to speak. Rumors run rampant and conspiracy theories abound. Some conjecture that they are awaiting the time for the “Power Down to Power Up.” We simply cannot know until those beautiful degenerates resurface. But one thing remains true: My Dick rocks. It rocks hard. It rocks long. Prove it to yourself. Find the music. Listen to it and you’ll understand. My Dick will leave you breathless, begging for more.”

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A Friend of My Dick…Dies is a post from: My Dick Speaks

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Donna B. from Poughkeepsie, NY writes,

“I am such a huge fan of My Dick.  I used to listen to them on my older brother’s record player when I was a kid.  I couldn’t get enough of My Dick, so thank you for the website!  Of course, I was heartbroken to learn that they have disappeared.  Any word from the band since launching the website?”

Excellent question, Donna.  No.

Michelle C. from Chicago, IL writes,

“I am interested in a career in band management and was wondering what advice you might have for a spunky go-getter like myself.”

Hmmm.  Thank you for your query.  I can only speak for myself, but I got into rock and roll for the bang tail, drugs, and filthy lucre.  You have no idea the number of willing and available women who like to hang around bands.  Now that I’m thinking about it,  this may be the better option for you instead of management.  If you have no moral qualms with have having indiscriminate sex with lots of people backstage (and why would you?  It is 2010 after all) then you have quite a future ahead of you.  And the great thing is you don’t necessarily have to be attractive.

So, there you have it.  I’m glad to be of service.You’re welcome.  If you have any burning questions feel free to write me at nigelc@whereismydick.net.  More than likely you will receive a response in broken English from my manservant, Reggie, but you never know.

Don’t forget…tell your friends, tell your parents.  Together we can piss off the world.

Cheers!

Nigel Cunnington

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Advice from Nigel is a post from: My Dick Speaks

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We recently undertook an aggressive marketing campaign to take the lads from underground darlings to the ranks of mainstream rock gods.  Our website, www.myrichardrocks.com, details the triumphs and tragedies of one of the most influential bands of the last 30 years.  You can buy original copies of My Dick concert t-shirts, for God’s sake!  Things were going swimmingly until the lads decided to go off the grid…so to speak.  They refuse to answer correspondences and so we are moving forward until they reappear.

Right about now you’re probably asking, “So what the fuck is this blog all about if there’s no band?”  Well, who the fuck are you to ask that?!  You’re lucky I don’t give you all manner of what for, you snotty little prig!

Sorry.  The Blue clearly has my brain in the throes of a violent psychosis.

I’ll share stories from my years on the road and experiences with the rich and infamous.  Now you can live the rock and roll lifestyle vicariously through me.  Rock and roll has always been about pissing people off.  Or pissing on people.  Who am I to judge?

Signing off for now.  Check back often.

Cheers!

Nigel Cunnington

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Seeing is Believing is a post from: My Dick Speaks

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