You know people, as I sit here in the Hills, in this massive luxury mansion with five swimming pools, in my white designer undies, on this beautiful, massive, spotless, white leather couch, served by the constant sun shining into my 16 12x12 bullet-proof privacy windows, overlooking LA, I can't help thinking of the UK, that good old land which makes me think of three guys, "the three amigos" as I like to call them - Mike Skinner, Craig Guthrie and Banksy.
I know I'm a big star and all that and I can afford the fattest slippers ever, but I still like good shit and cheap shit as well, and that's where the UK directly comes in.
Mike Skinner was this guy born in North London but brought up in Birmingham or so I've heard. He did this album called "A Grand Don't Come for Free" which could be shallowly described as a bedroom concept album, a collection of naked urban poetry, a masterpiece revealing the dichotomy of working class intellect intertwined in modern art and human emotion. It is truly brilliant nevertheless.
Craig Guthrie was some guy from Scotland who had flashes of sheer brilliance in the realms of literature and poetry. He wrote an incomplete collection of short philosophical epistolary stories in the form of Cleaning Down and The Existential Solipsist alongside some incredible multi-varied forms of poetry. A charm to be sure.
No-one knows much about Banksy, but if one was to have any form of religious, spiritual or Lego-based epiphany through modern art, then it would probably come whilst looking at a rat dressed as a third-world mercenary soldier raping a baby on the side of a bent over phone-box on top of an overturned police car in Brixton.
Anyway, apparently there was this one night where they all got together along with Lemmy from Motorhead, Alice Cooper and Ozzy Osbourne, stayed up all night getting pissed and doing balloons, and then the went off and spray painted Liam Gallagher's house with suggestions of homosexuality and he came out fuming with nothing on but a green Parka, with his penis flapping about in the October winds and all and then he chased them all off laughing into the night!
You know, while I lie writing this, wrapped in Japanese silk, sipping my imported Henry Weston cider in one of my big fancy mansions with five swimming pools in the heights of Beverly Hills, I think... I miss the good old UK. As a matter of fact, it's the only place I've seen a grown woman from Newcastle urinate and expel a copious amount of diarrhoea over an historic monument whilst balancing a large, open, overflowing donner kebab with extra onions and sauce and not dropping a crumb.
So anyway, this is Jeff Goldblum signing off, I'm off to feed some undernourished baby rescue hedgehogs back to health and do some acid, I've got an early morning interview with Howard Stern.
But you know what? Before I go I'll recommend you this for your weekend... pack some tight bongs with the finest green you can gather... reap the grape and lay the table with your finest glassware... switch your oven on and your phone off,,, and spend the day listening to Mike Skinner and reading Craig Guthrie... have a look at a Banksy or two on the internet as well... Jeff says treat yourself, go on, you know I'm smiling my great big, biggest Jeff smile at you. :):):)
Touch base soon kiddos, here's from Hollywood,
yours truly,
Jeff xxx
