BEYOND THE IMPLODE 3 - BRITISH AIRWAYS 0

Bollocks to alcohol, I'm never drinking again. I'm being serious ; getting scraped off the pavement by the cops is a laugh when you're 16, but being 29 and waking up with a fag-cracked 'Rockford Files' voice, severe diziness and no recollection of what you actually said to a bunch of similar drunks the night before is tragically old hat. I'm gonna swap booze for Thai kick boxing and fresh fruit. Or as Descartes used to say, "Och, ma heid is fucken nippin'! "

Still, being a bit pissed from the night before has taken a bit of the edge off. Four things cheered me up immensely on my (very fucking late) journey to work : 1- I saw a poster in Jeremy Corbyn's (note for foreign readers -bearded Labour MP) office, which read, "Could you look after a disabled or old person?", and I thought, Yes, I could actually. One of my Irish cousins was a spastic and I pushed him around the dirt tracks of Mullaghmore when I was 14, so yes, I can actually do something serious! I'm such a fucking star. 2 - Someone had fingered 'GOONERS ARE UNEDUCATED SCUM' into the grime on the back of a white van - buy this scrawler a pint. 3- Some old bloke got on the tube, with a bald pate but messy, stringy hair exploding from the back and sides, wearing a bow tie, a lime green shirt, a beige cardie and a brown moleskin suit. He looked like an avant garde composer. He was clutching a black plastic bag and talking to himself with a manic grin, which is understandable if you've led an exciting and brilliant life 4- a girl looked ecstatic when a grey squirrel ran across the road. Never mind these nazis who tell you the red squirrels are the master race, her fondness for the supposed grey 'vermin' was deeply touching. Oh and reason 5, I can raise my right eyebrow like Roger Moore used to, I feel like James Brown with 10 cocks right now

ANYWAY, HUMBLE READER, YOU MAY ASK, HOW DID 'BEYOND THE IMPLODE' GET IN THIS STATE?

Well, went down The Foundry for the SAVAGE MESSIAH shindig - older readers will remember some ancient post about me stealing a copy off this zine's author, Laura Norder. This gave me the chance to absolve my guilt and peruse Issues 3 and 4. Both are utterly essential, Issue 3 is some fine scribbling about psychogeographical jaunts in West London, and triggered memories of the group P.A.I.N, who I once saw live, with notorious drug smuggler Howard Marks coming onstage and chatting some shit about the 'erb. There was a gang of punks at the back shouting 'Fuck off you Oxbridge hippy cunt!', which was amusing. The only other things I remember about P.A.I.N was that they had a song called 'Road Rage' and did a cover version of Crass' "Do They Owe Us a Living?" changed to "Do They Owe Us a Lawyer?". Thats drink for you.

Issue 4 is more hardcore, going deep into the mindset of a racist wifebeater, like Soft Cell's "Forever the Same" puked up in print, and is the equivalent of staggering out into the glare of a New Cross sun, framed by towerblocks. Whitehouse and NLP? Bullshit. Laura can be contacted on savagemessiah@hotmail.co.uk - Issue 3 costs 1 quid 50, Issue 4 is 2 pands.

Then met up with the despicable John Eden at BASH, the raggacore club everyone's raving about. It was a bit chilled, more digidub than pavement-raking mash-ups, though one of my all-time favourite 80s UK dancehall smash hits was played at one point - shame I can't remember what it was, but may well have been Peter King's "Step On The Gas". The night was saved by the wicked WARRIOR QUEEN, who came on around 1am, in a white headcoat, and chatted some superb shit. So, highlights of the evening - some great reading, well skill DJing - oh, and discovering that Matt Woebot's into bondage. There is text evidence to prove this. What d'ya make of that then, Francois Roubaix? Good on you, son! Get those furry handcuffs swinging. Excuse me while I go to the toilet and admire my eyebrow before puking my head off.