Divine Rights Trip & Radio Rats – Weird Weekend

Tracks

1. Monologue 1
2. My Town
3. Monologue 2
4. My Car
5. Monologue 3
6. My Love
7. Monologue 4
8. My Mind
9. Monologue 5
10. My Love (reprise)

Release information

CD-R: 2005, Radium Wreckords, Weird01
Download (exclusively on Rhythm Online): 2006-2012, Radium Wreckords
Streaming / Download: June 2026, Radium Wreckords, under exclusive licence to Next Music
USB Card Album: June 2026, Radium Wreckords, under exclusive licence to Next Music

Press

Reissue June 2026

Musicians

• Dave Pickover [drums]
• Steve de Swart [guitar]
• Jimmy Richards [bass]
• Jonathan Handley [vocals/monologue … later] Radio Rats
• Dave Davies [vocals on last song / reprise] Radio Rats

Band recorded at 5 Bacon Road, Orkney, Northwest in 1994.

Vocals recorded at 11 Rustenburg Ave.,Rondebosch, Cape Town in 2005.

All music copyright Pickover / de Swart / Richards, 1994.

Lyrics and monologue copyright Handley, 2005.

Lyrics

Monologue 1

He woke up on Saturday morning in his flat in Orkney. Very early.

Autumn. He had dreamed of his girlfriend he last saw ten years ago in matric.

A very detailed and long dream. He lay in bed listening to the dawn birds and thinking of her. He knew she’d had a kid about five years ago. Then nothing.

He gets up, has coffee, listens to early morning radio and then hops into his car and heads for Klerksdorp, twenty kilometers away, for breakfast.

Leaving Orkney is always fun. The dry pavements, the litter. General small mining town blues. The desperate single-parent teenage housewives pushing pawn shop prams with damn ugly babies in them. Anyway, he loves the place. But going to Klerksdorp is always a quantum jump up. The thing to do is light a fag, wind the window ever so slightly down and roll smoothly along the highway, just outside the speed limit. He thinks of old speeding fines and this makes his mind hop to speed cops and he remembers the local Afrikaans name for them … koeltekonte … konte wat in die koelte sit. This brings a smile. The car glides through the semi-industrial entrance into Klerksdorp, Cortina Interceptor City, mecca of the second hand car trade, pawn shop paradise, generator of an endless line of heavy metal bands, and why not? Better than dying underground.

[ Song 1 ]

Talkin’ ’bout

M y T o w n

My town, my town is quieter than your town

My town, my town is weirder then your town

People, people never get out of this town

Some of them, some of them have never ever seen the sea

Help me, I’ve gotta get out

C’mon c’mon c’mon I wanna break free

From my town

The postman, the postman on his bicycle looks really ill

The postman, the postman is on anti-sadness pills

His letters, his letters have evil little windows

He’s the angel, the angel of long-overdue bills

Welcome to my little town in the country

Weirder than anything found in the city

People here have never ever seen the sea

But when the sun goes down it looks so soft and pretty

My town, my town is dustier than your town

My town, my town is rustier than your town

Help me, I’ve gotta get out

C’mon c’mon c’mon I wanna break free

From my town

Monologue 2

His car is a sun-faded metallic blue 3 litre 6 cylinder Ford Sierra GLE with cool rims and a reasonable sound system. It’s the love of his life, 7 years old and a little dented here and there. 200,000 k’s on the clock. Seats a bit shabby but dead cozy inside. And a slightly old car smell. Smell of spilled booze, oil, petrol, fags, puke, dust, sweat, sperm, cat piss, all the usual South African car smells. Of course the engine turned like a sewing machine and was absolutely spotless. Your car was your temple in this town, not your body.Your body was there to recline in that temple and control it. Religion was for those radiant other people in small, nondescript cars with fishes stuck on the back. His bible was the owner’s manual, read only in times of mechanical trouble. No mechanical trouble meant spiritual contentment. Anyway, into town he floated, thinking of last night’s dream and feeling just a little strange about it. Miner’s are superstitious. They worship sunlight and the sea. They do not want to die underground. They’re always looking for warnings. Will a bump at 11 a.m. on Monday morning kill them? If the dream indicated danger or radical change in any way should he not pitch for work underground on Monday? The weekend on the surface in the sun represented no danger to him, whereas Monday underground symbolised possible death. Maybe he should spend the weekend looking for her? There was unfinished business there. He still fancied her a lot. He was sure she still had feelings for him. He had gotten on really well with the folks, especially the old girl. The old man had to be dead by now. Ten years ago he had miner’s lung and coughed like a steam train, but was still smoking. Plus he drank like a fish, in other words, like everyone else. But he was cool, told lots of vrot jokes and had amazing spirit. Loved fishing. Last he’d heard they’d moved to Potch. He parked his car. Lots of empty spaces, it was only 8 o’clock. He sat in the car, in the sun, listening to the news, waiting for the Harlequin Coffee Bar to open, feeling a little low and alone. He closed his eyes to rest them a bit and the radio and the sun put him straight to sleep. Like all early-rising miners he could nap anywhere, anytime.

[ Song 2 ]

Talkin’ ’bout

M y C a r

Man from the bank ‘phoned me up one day and said ‘ Hey –

You’re in a tight corner ’cause we see you haven’t paid … ‘

I said ‘ Please Mr. Banker I’m only three months behind! ‘

He said ‘ That wasn’t the deal when you signed on the dotted line.’

Talkin’ ’bout my car.

So the men came around, but luckily I wasn’t in –

They told my landlady they’d whip me for my sins.

She said ‘ Shame on you ! You’re monsters – that’s what you are !

How can you come between a young man and his car? ‘

Talkin’ ’bout my car.

Next thing I knew they came to where I was employed,

They leaned on my boss who called me into his office and said ‘Boy –

If these men repossess you sure ain’t gonna go far….

Best you work double shifts to pay for your fancy car!’

Talkin’ ’bout my car.

So I worked double shifts from 9 to 5 and 5 to 9,

With bankers on my back and my boss chirping all the time,

My landlady was the only good friend I had,

She said ‘ The suits will always screw you, but to see it makes me feel real sad .’

Talkin’ ’bout my car.

Monologue 3

There’s a tapping on the window of his car and he wakes with a start. It’s her, the subject of last night’s dream, looking a little older maybe, but just the way he remembered her.

Quite a shock. She’s laughing at him, soundlessly through the tinted glass.

He winds down the window and her laughter rushes in, the same old insane giggle, unchanged by time. Feeling spooked and a little embarrassed he hops out of the car and after the typical pleasantries and hugs they go into the Harlequin, as the doors are unlocked. The restaurant feels cozy and smells delicious. They talk like two people who’ve got ten years of silence to fill, she with more to say than him. Mostly he just looks at her and realizes that he’s still in love. Of course he can’t spurt what’s on his mind, but she does look dead happy to see him too. When the restaurant begins to fill with Saturday morning shoppers and tiny tots needing high chairs they get out. Old habits persist forever so they walk to the local for a beer. It’s opening time. In the pub he articulates his lonesomeness. She laughs. They make a date for Sunday lunch in Potch, at her mom’s place. They swap numbers. She says she has to leave. She gives him quite an amorous goodbye smooch, which jellies his knees. Then she’s gone. He drives back to Orkney, his mind in a swirl. Sunday lunch feels too far away. Why didn’t he ask her out for the night? He’s in turmoil. When he walks into his flat it feels cold, empty and soulless.

[ Song 3 ]

Talkin’ ’bout

M y Love

[to the glorious anticipation of Saturday night]

Before the sun goes down

There’s one thing left to do

No time to mess around

Just confess my love for you

Wax Smoke Sound Wild

Fire Heat Silk Weird

Wine Time Friend Weekend

Talkin’ ’bout my love

Talkin’ ’bout my love

Before the stars come out

There’s one thing left to say

No bush to beat about

Just ring and give it straight

Monologue 4

So he does just that. He, for the first time in his life,just taps in her number and spurts it all out. She says yeah. He explodes into action. The temple of speed and love gets vacuumed and washed and waxed. He does the same to himself. By sunset he’s on the road to Potch, a beer between his legs and fag after fag being tapped out of the window. The sundown in his rearview mirror is very Country and Western. He cruises into Speeding Fine City and they go out, but not before a bit of a reunion with the old girl and a little pressie for the daughter. And it is so fine. First they eat, then they go dancing, then they cruise. There’s a weird, unseasonal thunderstorm after midnight, by which time they’re back in his flat in Orkney. The love they make is an extension of the heads-down, no nonsense ultra-heavy petting that had been going on in the car on the journey home. The thunder and lightning are still going when they fall asleep. At dawn he takes her home. The old girl is unamused. His second trip back in the fresh new morning is even more Country and Western. He wakes up at noon, dives through the bathwater and zooms off to Potch for Sunday lunch. He walks up the garden path and notices the place looks run down and neglected. His knock on the front door is echoey. No answer. He walks around the house, peering into all the windows. The house is completely bare inside. Now he’s sweating. The house was full last night! An old lady is looking at him over the back fence, asks him why he’s there. He tells her he’s come for Sunday lunch. She laughs and says he’s months late, they moved out two months ago after the old man died.

He passes out with shock, wakes up in the medical ward of the local hospital with a shrink looking down at him…

[ Song 4 ]

Talkin’ ’bout

My Mind

Here comes a man

With spectacles

And pills and pens

Looking skeptical

Hitler moustache

Shiny brown shoes

Frowns and coughs

Says there’s no excuse

For fags and booze

[ I say ]

I think I lost my mind

Somewhere

Between two little towns

Out there

We took it to the edge

Oh my

But now I feel OK

So goodbye

Look at me

I think I’m sane

I’m a working man

With a slave’s brain

To stay alive

I work like a bee

Buzz from 9 to 5

Then eat and sleep

It’s a simple life

And the only perk

Is I get to see

Some super jerk

On my TV

Saying how happy

A stupid SUV

Will make me

Can’t you see

I need to find my mind

Unclaimed

At the lost and found

Waiting

Looking mighty tired

Sleeping

Maybe slightly wired

Dreaming

So take your pen

And fancy pills

Your opinions

And scary bills

And shove them up

Your sorry white ass

I’m out of here

And that’s that

All I feel is tenderness

Could this be love ?

Pills don’t do this.

Wanna keep this afterglow

So hate this place…gotta go

Think I lost my mind

Somewhere

Between two little towns

Out there

We took it to the edge

Oh my

But now I feel OK

So goodbye

[ solo ]

Ta ta you mean old fart

Your pills can’t fix a lonely heart

Gonna find my mind

Waiting

At the lost and found

Hoping

Wandered off somewhere

Thinking

Between two little towns

Dreaming

[ Think I’m talkin’ ’bout

My mind ]

Monologue 5

There’s a tapping on the window. He wakes up, the radio still droning on about the weather and tides. It’s her, laughing soundlessly at him through the glass. He winds down the window. Her familiar old laughter tumbles in. She kisses him. It feels real.

They go to the Harlequin. They talk. He can’t tell her about his two dreams, he’s still too freaked out. Turns out her old man died two months ago. They still live in Potch.

And now he thinks : do I go through all the motions again, according to the prophecy? Do we go to the pub from here? Do I let her leave and I return to my miserable flat? Do I wash and wax my car till it reflects the stars, then take her out tonight and have a ball?

Do we shag? [ Always a burning issue with jollers from Klerksdorp Cortina Interceptor City]. But what about Sunday? What happens if I go there and the house is empty and spooky? Will I freak and end up being given pills and injections by a Potchefstroom shrink? And who will believe me? Or do I break the pattern now? He breaks the pattern.

He goes back to Potch with her there and then, and doesn’t budge from her place for the rest of the weekend. In fact, he phones in sick on Monday morning, from Potch. That same day, just after 11 there’s a huge bump. Three men are trapped in his section underground. He resigns.

[Reprise: Dave Davies of Radio Rats sings ‘My Love’ ]

——-oo0o0oo——-

Artwork

Original CD-R 2005