Wednesday, August 30, 2006


I stole my first jazz mag in 1990 ; prior to that, my only contact with pornography had been the odd dismembered rump, boob, leg, pubic clump or bad 80s blow-dry, flapping around on torn and smeared pages in areas of relative seclusion (think railway cuttings, public toilets, the few snatches of North London / Luton green space, etc). The mag was called Revelation; given that this was my first proper delve into the mucky world of filth, and considering the rather quaint pseudo-apocalyptic religion I'd been nailed into, the title was pretty fitting.

Right, I'm going to get something out of the way first. This theft certainly WASN'T a 'male rite of passage' - anyone who trots out that stale old line is basically admitting they were born to be a wanker. Secondly, this wasn't part of a 'boy's natural curiosity'. I can't explain this fully right now - Post 5 might throw up some some semblance of a plausible explanation, assuming you last that long, dearest and most sorely cheated reader (yeah, I'm sorry about the pissing rabbit thing too) - but in the name of Laura Gemser, would these hairy-palmed 'HEY BABY, JUST EXPRESSING A NATURAL URGE!' halfwits please FUCK OFF (and take those I'm into S&M for the psychological aspects, the role reversal and transferral of power interest me deeply rubber quackers with you. God, can't anyone just want an overload of kinky smut for the pure guilty hell of it anymore? If porn's not soaked in sordid guilt, then I don't want it - it's like taking ecstasy without talking shit about Osiris poking his beak through the rainclouds while laughing at Audio Two's pre-school rap)

Enough, we can pick these nits later. Anyway, to kick off this marathon of sleaze, I would like to address the nature of jazzmag pulp fiction. Since porn moved onto the Internet, this 'art form' has shuffled wearily towards the grave - unsurprisingly. After all, these mags were bought for the pictures ; the 'stories' surrounding the naked poses were little more than filler knocked out by chain-smoking hacks in snot-stained snorkel jackets, in order to reduce the costs of sourcing even more snaps from agency photo archives. Online, there is no need for these narratives.

Subsequently, while 'erotic fiction' remains the feckless slave to literary convention, jazzmag scrawl represents the ultimate in disembodiment. The stories in these wankrags (((which no self-respecting Erotic Review onanist would touch - these belong firmly to the realm of Forbuoys newsagents, Pukka pies, queuing for the 36 in the rain, Little Chef shithouses))) are credited to the girls who appear in the shots, who in turn have been 'reborn' with new fake names and identities. The girls now exist as interchangeable automatons, their 30 minutes spent in front of the camera has become the least relevant detail in the process.

Authorship dissolves, the writing is clipped and forced, 0 to 60 in 3 seconds to meet space constraints, paragraphs hacked and pasted into each other, anything to prevent them from snaking off the page or bleeding across the photos. The writing is as disposable as the mag itself, compressed pseudo-fantasies amplified and tearing themselves apart, before splitting like cells only to re-cluster a few shiny pages later.

Consequently, the effects can be ludicrous. I shall give a brief description of the contents of Revelation. The cover features a girl who looks uncannily like the Eastenders character "Dawn Miller", making an 'O' shape with her mouth and thrusting her pink pants-clad derriere outwards. The back cover features an amusing advert for an affiliated publication ; one of the previewed stories is titled "While the Cat's Away..." and features a furious looking woman glaring at a Boycie from Only Fools and Horses lookalike who's been caught, starkers, with a young dolly bird wrapped round his waist.

The first 'story' in Revelationis a 'Q&A' with 'Elaine', a 'top London masseuse', and is accompanied by pictures of a German-looking woman, who gradually strips off and rolls around over the course of eight pages. 'She' explains that The difference between a prostitute and a masseuse is that a prostitute has to sleep with whoever pays her, even if they're ugly or dirty, but I get to pick and choose my clients. After this bizarrely spurious take on the sex trade, the author hones in on the rude stuff ;

Q - Do you have any particular favourite types of client?

A- There was a time a couple came to see me...(some superfluous waffle to cover a few lines). I was sitting on her boyfriend's face while she rode his cock, and we were facing each other, so I could play with and suck on her tits. Soon we were all moaning and groaning and I climaxed at the same time he screamed out and pumped her wet pussy full of cream. It was one of the best orgasms I ever had....I hope they come again soon!

Q - Did you charge them for it?

A - Of course I did, I'm not a bloody charity!

The second story features the cover star, a self-confessed "nymphomaniac" who's not into love or sentimentality. I'm into sex and shagging. 'Her' tale begins with a recollection of the photo shoot currently assaulting the viewer's senses :

I slid off my low-cut top and immediately became wet, the shoot was really turning me on. I felt so sexy in my sheer panties, and wanted the photographer to take me right there and then but the idiot didn't even seem to notice! I couldn't believe it, he was more interested in playing with his camera than with me! What a waste. Oh Christ - not one of them!!

We then get some examples of her vivacious sex life. While dining in a restaurant, she spots a famous rockstar. She unbuttons her top and makes her way to his table, to get his autograph. He ends up fucking her bandy in a public toilet. However, as she emerges semi-naked from said convenience, she bumps into a cop, who decides he'll let her off a charge of public indecency, provided she sucks him off. I'd better not give away his identity she says of the famous muso, I've got a lot of respect for him, and I love his music. He's very more ways than one!

However, it doesn't take much detective work to suss that she's obviously referring to Ian Astbury, lead singer of The Cult, whose 1987 LP Electric remains one of the few UK heavy metal albums worthy of praise, and one of Rick Rubin's best productions to date.

Obviously realising that he's...sorry, 'she''s spent too much time dawdling over these 'memories', the author goes into hyperdrive to bring the story shuddering to a carcrash of a conclusion. There's so many other things I could tell you. The time I seduced every 16 year old boy in my street in three days flat. Or the time two lesbians locked me in a room all weekend, and wouldn't let me leave til I'd taken their dildos, tongues and licked their pussies dry. Or the time I was invited to an S&M party and got to torment and humiliate submissive men all night long. Hey, who knows, maybe we'll bump into each other one day and I can add you to the list!

The third story concerns a woman who's just booked a holiday, by herself, to Africa. I was desperate to get away from the office for a while...and especially away from that prat Philip, who couldn't make me come! I'll refrain from reproducing any of the tat that follows, but it should come as no surprise that she ends up getting shafted by a couple of black blokes.

Story 4 is reportedly a 'true story' by a porn model who, while out hitch-hiking, gets picked up by a psychopathic rapist who takes her back to his foetid bedsit and attempts to attack her. However, he ends up bursting into tears, with his head in his hands- it transpires that he's impotent. Tempted to stove his head in with a lamp, the chick instead takes pity on him, and before long they're both splashing around in his bathtub. She soaps up his plonker, which miraculously stiffens, and gives him the blow job of his miserable life.

The 5th story is a fairly dull account of some weekend swingers who play a game of 'strip tennis'. There's a rather unpleasant description of one of the women running the wire of the tennis racquet over her friend's husband's bellend ; for some inexplicable reason this story is accompanied by pictures of a Neneh Cherry lookalike with her twat out, eating a hot dog ; a streak of mustard slithers down her forearm.

Ian wasn't impressed with the bukkake vids, not one little bit - he removed his raven-feathered Russian hat and peered at the screen. We'd been slumming it in Hotel Stern, slap bang in the middle of the Reeperbahn ('room features - opening window') and had fallen on hard times ; Ian's leather trousers were flecked with schnitzel crumbs, my throat was cracked from St Pauli chants and too many Marlboro Reds and Dunkelweissbiers.

On the screen, Nanami Kurasawa was licking globs of manfat out of another model's armpit, while 2 Japanese hobgoblins clawed and strangled their pixellated joysticks, mere inches from her face. What was in that look she flashed the camera ? Was she taunting the viewer's distance and seclusion? Some hidden sexual knowingness? "Filmed bukkake breeds real bukkake", I whimpered to Ian. "She knows the viewer gets as much as her co-stars do - a nod and a wank. Only the viewer soaks the carpet, not live flesh. But he gets as much a spectacle and as little physical contact as the 'real' wanker. It's a simulation of a simulation...", but then my voice went for good.

Was she only squinting to prevent the babypaste from ruining her contact lenses? Nanami dribbled some cum onto another model's tongue. "This isn't very rock n roll," Ian harumphed, turning back to his paperback Jim Morrison biog

I needn't quote any more examples from Revelation, I'm sure you've got the gist. From such lazy British hackwork the likes of On the Busesdoth spring. I won't stray off on topics such as "Why the fuck do so many porn models wear those hideous shoes with clear plastic heels?" ((my ex once asked me this very question and demanded to know what sort of men considered them a turn-on; "I don't know, I've never read one of those mags, I prefer the real thing!" I roared triumphantly. Honestly though, I told her I didn't have a clue but agreed they were vile)).

Scrawls spiralling into madness; what became of these pulp hacks? Porn's permeation of straight society swung the door back into their mugs - unable to compete with mainstream absorption of erotica, they became as anachronistic as the pamphleteers who used to mooch around Tyburn flogging the last confessions of condemned cow thieves ; victims of their own cannibal industry. The splayed glossy shots these hack writers had temporarily puppeteered would smile back at them, grins between bare calves and puckered arseholes, while overglossed lips, once animated with bike shed chat and hastily cooked slang, would form perfect 'O's, before being ripped into legs, boobs, rumps, pubic clumps and dumped in areas of relative seclusion, like here.


Right, here's the score, this blog used to be all about 'live' spur of the moment posts, but has become a sluggish torpid mess - the amount of half-written crap 'saved as draft' buggers belief. For instance, I had a wicked thing comparing the Lily Allen album to Michel Houellebecq's "The Possibility of An Island" in which, in my mind at least, I successfully rubbished both as the most pants cultural products of the 21st century. But I can't be bothered to finish it. An over the top reappraisal of Bikini Kill descended into a sideswipe at Japanese girl punk bands, who I labelled traitors to the Riot Grrrl cause, but unfortunately this line of argument became so convoluted that I can't focus beyond the 48th paragraph now - just buy all Bikini Kill's albums and you'll get what I mean.

There was also a brutally unflinching account of a woman I met earlier this year, who has morphed from a moderately insane, vodka-fuelled 'loon' into a fully-fledged, hardcore born again Christian, and is currently bombarding me with group emails which we're all meant to forward on to 10 people, in order to defeat Lucifer. The most recent one had a story about a little homeless guttersnipe who was told to knock at a door and say the words "John 3:16", resulting in him being given a room and a bath. Unfortunately, I thought it'd be a wheeze to email her and all the recipients on the email list a warning about teenage burglar gangs using the old "John 3:16" routine, plus the announcement that I'd sold my soul to the Devil when I was 6, in exchange for a Fisher Price 'electric guitar'. This hasn't gone down well at all, and I'm now slightly worried for my own safety. Coincidentally, my mother has suddenly had the retina-scorching revelation that God might not actually exist, and appears to be losing her faith. Well, it's a pity she couldn't have done all this in 1976 and spared me a pile of misery.

Which leads on to another unfinished post, about the interiors of Russian churches, but I just can't be bothered with that either.

So I think I'll gatecrash this online 'porn symposium' thing. Although my contributions may be about as welcome as a cunt at a christening, I'm planning on kicking cigarettes again soon, so it'll keep my hands busy. In fact, I think I'll do 7 or 8 contributions. I'm just going to flood this blog with as much porn filth as I can and see what happens.

Monday, August 21, 2006


I've learnt a lot as a result of painting my flat white. Firstly, don't get smart and try to protect your boots by sticking a pair of plastic Tesco bags over them, as you'll slip and fall off the stepladder, and bust the same hand you previously fucked up by falling off the stage in a Russian club (taking a windowpane with you for good measure).

Secondly, learn to drive and buy a car. Getting a massive tub of emulsion and a stepladder from Tottenham Hale to Finsbury Park via tube is 'interesting'. (Having said that, if I'd known you could scatter whole clusters of passengers from your path by simply swinging a steel ladder around, I'd have started carrying one around with me years ago).

Thirdly, make sure you go out afterwards splattered in paint, funnily enough peoples' attitudes towards you totally change - I don't know why, but every shopkeeper suddenly became chatty, big shaved-skull blokes kept calling me "mate" and a barmaid even brought a stool over to me, from across the bar, when she clocked me standing at a table where everyone else was seated. Why this is, I don't know - but I look forward to unravelling further the secrets of the HANDYMAN.

Fourthly, pay some other cunt to do it, it's a pain in the fucking balls.

Sunday, August 06, 2006

heatwave listening post

NOTE - the best thing I heard all summer was three Paraguayan women banging out some Guarani battle hymn on a large drum in Kaiserslautern Station. In lieu of having to actually bother writing about the World Cup after all, here's a load of half-arsed music reviews. Just to break it down ; went to Germany ; got my bag searched at Heathrow for having a Clash T-shirt with a gun on it (no, that's not a joke); got very pissed ; cheered on a drunk Scouser as he pumped the contents of 4 fire extinguishers all over the tents in the 'Fan Kamp' ; watched Trinidad's "Soca Warriors" promise to party all night, win or lose, only for them to slink off, miserable and dejected, when Paraguay whacked them 2-0...what rubbish fans!! Especially the ones with blonde hair and German accents ; upset a Gordon Ramsey lookalike ; missed the Angola v Iran game and accompanying neo-nazi protest rally against both teams' presence in Leipzig, due to friend's inability to master the concept of being ONE HOUR ahead of Britain - the trains can't be blamed, they really do run on time (((as it happened, don't think any of the nazis turned up anyway, nor the Angolans. As for the Iranians, not a peep, but did meet some Preston North End supporters who tried to persuade us to go to some dodgy bar with a load of schlampen shuffling around in the nip to Joan Jett's I Love Rock And Roll - but instead we went to ask where we could buy some bratwurst, only every German we met thought we were saying breakfast, and boomed, "HO HO! BREAKFAST IS NOT FOR DIE NEXT EIGHT HOUR!". Incidentally, do you know what a currywurst is?? It's a bratwurst with a dab of English mustard. This is kind of like the German equivalent of a vindaloo - a tasteless banger and a smear of Colemans. You should also try asking for hundwurst, it doesn't go down well at all. They really love animals over there))) ; and tried to steal a Lufthansa mat in the shape of a football pitch - and failed DISMALLY. Like most of these fucking records I'm about to 'review', in fact :

GNARLS BARKLEY - "Smiling Happy People", or whatever it's called
The worst summer record since ATB's "9pm (Til I Come)". Sounds like a demo recorded down the church hall. Smiling happy people befucked ; sweating, violent dickwits throwing themselves under trains on the Victoria Line, more like. Speaking of which, I was on a stalled train at Euston Square cos the BTP were trying to arrest a bunch of hooligans on one of the other carriages, when the driver asked if any members of the public could go and assist! I did temporarily consider wading in on their behalf to apprehend the juveniles, and to get my head thoroughly perforated while the hapless plod cowered in a corner - but a pregnant blind woman beat me to it. Smiling happy people? Gnarls Barkley are a blight on the face of humanity. THIS IS SHIT.

DJ RUPTURE - Low Income Tomorrowland
Do you remember how you used to slag off MIA? Listen to the remixed version of "Pull Up the People" on Track 2 on this mix and feel very small indeed. I don't have the track listing with me today - because I am typing this from work!! (which, I suppose, means I'm technically a 'paid blogger' - so fuck Yasmin Alibhai Brown - the mutton-faced doughball) - but it rocks like a bastard, the whole thing.

QUINTESSENCE - "Self" LP (from 1971!!)
Matt Woebot thinks this is a pile of shit, I think it's fucking abysmal, the only people who like it are currently living in a squat just round the corner from Powys Square in 1971 ((you can ask them, via wormhole)), growing their own dope in cracked plantpots and discussing a Hare Krishna uprising against capitalism while some hippie woman bellydances around the dog pee-soaked sofa and begs her dropout economics student-boyfriend for "bread" so she can pay off her faredodging fines. It's just the most ridiculous hippie cliche' of an LP ever, and I half-wanted to find it amusing cos of that, but the music's rancid. This abomination should therefore be played, at high volume, on every tube carriage during rush hour until Gnarls Barkley records are outlawed.

V/A - "Semaphore" CD
A load of people messing about with radar equipment and the like on a boat in Dunkirk. Somebody needs to do some potted history of "maritime electronics" when they have a couple of spare days, as this is actually quite good. It's what Nurse With Wound's "Shipwreck Radio Vol 1" might have sounded like if Steve Stapleton hadn't become a self-satisfied goat farmer ; far too many beats and rhythms to become a tedious 'experimental' drone, and genuinely more interesting than any micro-house / power electronics recordings I've heard in yonks. See, Gnarls Barkley dress up like naval officers, but they can't bloody sound like them to save their lives.
Incidentally, have you ever been to the disco on a ferry crossing? Dutch women trying to prise open the Klix machines, drunken seasick blokes projectile vomiting all over themselves as they puke into the wind on deck - and occasionally, some great ultra-obscure hi-NRG records. Until, of course, a colossal squid snatches up and crushes the paltry vessel, flinging your mangled corpses to the seabed.

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