Friday, September 29, 2006


Right, this is the first BASH review I've done without a hangover, so let's go. This is partly because myself and John Eden left the club like good little worker drones at 1.30am. I think Eden's had a lucky flutter on the horses or something, as he was happy to pay 15 sovs for a shared taxi home. If he'd just been patient and showed a bit of resolve, I could have bagged us a cab for a tenner in 5 minutes, no problem. Taxi-haggling's an easy enough art to master, it's just another of life's varied mind games. Either that or you follow Ninjaman's example and blow the driver's head off.

In the queue to get in, I ended up behind four complete tossbags. One of them was having his bag checked, when he pulled out a tube of hairgel. "It's cos I wear a baseball cap!" the eejit mouthed off. "I work for London Lite!" he crowed, waving around a burgundy baseball cap with the free paper's logo on it. For those not in the know, London Lite is a free shitrag full of articles like It's Puff Doherty (about Pete Doherty from Babyshambles supposedly being some raving noofter because he wasn't injecting smack into his eyeballs at some gig). The paper employs a bunch of dour cunts to thrust copies into people's faces in the street. The time that one of these churls gets a sound thrashing is coming down fast, I just hope I'm there to witness it. The girl at the cash desk rolled her eyes, eventually Dobbin and his scummy crew made way so I could enter.

First up was some DJ playing an OK-ish roots and rocksteady selection, none of it massively stands out, you know, the usual, the dub of Horace Andy's Money Money, etc. I do wish white people with rucksacks wouldn't dance around like prannies, but I'll let that one pass- FOR NOW. As for the skinny streak of piss with the white baseball cap, shining a high-powered camera light into random punters' faces, death at the barbed tail of a seething stingray would be too merciful.


Oh alright, it didn't really. However, I did see Tippa warming up for his set by nodding his head and sipping a beer. I don't normally chat to famous people, but I made an exception this time - and so I bring you a blogosphere exclusive - the BTI INTERVIEW WITH TIPPA IRIE

BTI- Hello

TIPPA - Alright

BTI - Do you live in North London now?

TIPPA - Nah mate, South London, Streatham!

BTI - I'm looking forward to this

TIPPA - Ha ha. No problem, just another day at the office

BTI - Yeah, 'Coughing Up Fire''s one of my favourite reggae albums

TIPPA - Ha ha. Yeah, 'Coughing Up Fire'

BTI - See ya

TIPPA - See ya

So Tippa comes on and chats and it's a real treat, impossible to describe or transcribe here. I didn't even mind that he was getting the audience to shout out 'Marijuana' at one point - and that's coming from a militant anti-dope smoker. Apart from that, he rightly crowed that he was the best, as Trevor Sax set up the tunes, and chatted about promoting peace in the community while, to my left, a girl lurched around as if possessed by a rum-blitzed duppy.

His set was pretty short, maybe his days at the office are charged premium rate. I was about to sod off, but THE BUG came on stage with WARRIOR QUEEN. They fucking rocked, the first track was her shouting over what sounded like an industrial ragga beat blowing down a factory chimney. I can't really recall the rest, as I ended up talking to someone. Incidentally, I think Kevin Martin has viewed my requests to be admitted to BASH on the guest list. He certainly looked uncomfortable when I saw him, and he gave me a 'nonce' handshake (one of those ones where he shook my fingers instead of my hand - bless!). No doubt he's currently wracked with guilt at being such a stingey capitalist whore, and.....SHIT! I forgot to ask Tippa what he thinks of white MCs. THE END.

Thursday, September 28, 2006


The Text Magick rite was a complete success - for those who took part, rest assured that your innermost desires are now whizzing and zinging like psychic bullets in the cracked skull of CHANCE.

I'm aware that some sceptics considered this to be some sneaky little trick - that the number actually belonged to an ex-girlfriend or a police station or something, or that I was merely trying to see how many people fell for it before smearing their messages all over this blog for others' entertainment. It actually wasn't a prank and, as stated, the SIM card no longer exists, in this mortal world at least. Past attempts at sigilisation etc have largely been earth-bound rituals, so this experiment gives us the chance to observe whether 'Magick' works better when conducted 30,000 feet in the air.

Of course, I was exposing myself to great risk - had 20 disgruntled readers decided to text "I WISH FOR MARTIN'S PLANE TO BLOW UP ON THE WAY BACK HOME", who knows, that Noel Murphy LP sleeve could have been my virtual headstone. Anyway, I have a good feeling about this, so keep your feet on the ground but don't stop reaching for those stars.

There's this great shop down the Reeperbahn in Hamburg called 'Loonies', which is basically a Poundstretcher dedicated to ultraviolence. Among the wares - samurai swords, crossbows, crossbow pistols, red pepper spray, CS gas sprays, Black Widows and ball bearings, tazers, riot police-style batons, knives and those old skool leather gloves with the really hard metal bits sewn into the knuckles. Not that I'm a violent man, by any means. But you know these pampered prats in London who get together to play these incredibly juvenile 'urban games', where they have to track each other down with water pistols? Imagine signing up to one of these playschemes, only to dose your co-players with a faceful of CS gas! I'm sure the bored middle class homeowners who take part in this sort of bumfoolery would soon stay off the fucking streets if a couple of players stocked up in 'Loonies' before joining in.

But I mean! Samurai swords indeed. Bet the damn things fall to pieces as soon as you unsheath them. A true samurai sword is meant to be able to slice cleanly through a fully grown bamboo plant, or so a Japanese Jeff Mills fan once told me. These swords in 'Loonies' cost 55 Euros apiece, and I'm loathe to presume that any highly trained samurai warrior would flog such a prize for the same amount that the teenage girls in the street were demanding for hand shandies . The samurai (or is it samurais? oh who cares) were a bunch of fascist, aristocratic cunts anyway and I have nothing but contempt for the idiots who vicariously venerate those peasant-murdering bastards. The crossbow was probably crap too, as handy as it might be to own during the Xmas season.

Friday, September 22, 2006


Here we go, a post about a RARE / CULT RECORD, albeit one that won't you cost you a fortune (though God knows where you'll find a copy). My mother still has this on vinyl (I doubt it's made it onto CD), though I've borrowed it so often I might as well just keep it next time round....this is basically a guy called Noel Murphy, recorded knocking out some hooligan Irish blues in a rich brogue growl with his acoustic geetar, in one take - it could have been in the back room of a smokey pub or in someone's front room. It's minimalist but don't take that to mean 'powerless' - his vocals carry a fair clout, raw and deep, by turns seething and jocular.

The standouts for me are always going to be "McAlpine's Fusiliers" (Murphy's version being one of my favourite 20 songs ever), a classic rant about a doomed gang of brick-hard navvies who keep getting fucked around by their bosses. The song namechecks The Crown in Cricklewood - a place which might be familiar to London Irish kids who grew up in North West London in the 70s and 80s. I don't know why, but hearing this particular boozer namechecked on vinyl means more to me than any other musical London reference.

There's also a version of "The Patriot Game", an old rebel song (not that that stopped Slob Dylan from completely ripping off the tune and crediting it to himself on "With God on our Side"), only adding a lyrical sideswipe at book-burning fascist numbskull Eamon deValera, which manages to be simultaneously quiet and restrained but has a sort of slow-burning intensity. Balladeer for the damned.

Tuesday, September 19, 2006


OK, I haven't much time to bullshit around with a lengthy intro to this one, so here's the score; on 25th September, I will be boarding a flight to Hamburg, Germany. This seemingly innocuous journey will mask a highly sinister occult ritual - one in which you, dear readers, may play an extremely pivotal role.

Here's what to do - it's simple.

1) ON SEPTEMBER 25TH, BETWEEN 6PM AND 7PM BST, text a desire to the following number - IT'S LONG GONE. No need to do 'magickal' re-jumbling of letters or any of that schtick, a straight forward text in proper spelling will do.

Don't be shy, no mortal eye will read it. It could be a wish for a bit of cash, or loads of sex, or for Starbucks to go into liquidation - who knows? Revenge on your ex? A lucky horse? The fall of a politician or hated boss? However, be aware of 2 factors -

a) the more extravagant the wish, the harder it might be to achieve, unless

b) a group of you team up, and text exactly the same wish. Strength through numbers, and all that. But then again, as far as I know, nobody's properly trialled Text Magick before, so anything's up for grabs.

Incidentally, I know the Temple of Psychick Youth were into the next bit, but you don't necessarily have to toss yourself off while you're sending it (but feel free to do so if self-abuse greases your bacon-grinder)

2) DO NOT RING THE NUMBER. Or do if you like, but there won't be any answer. If someone DOES reply, shit your pants, cos that ain't no human pickin' up, baby, believe!

3) After 7pm BST on 25th September (or 8pm in Germany), the SIM card to which your texts have been transmitted will be used in a ritual and disposed of in a highly secretive manner at a pre-determined spot. From then on, don't text the number, or you'll just be spunking your money up the wall.

Finally, I can only add that if we don't experiment, we can't complain about lack of results.

Thursday, September 14, 2006


How it begins depends on which version you pick; a staircase plunged in shadow, primitive film (coiled up in a can for 30-odd years, the movie "the police arrested") washed with lime green walls, a vampire shuffling upwards, black leather coat squeaking between clatters of heavy footstep and typewriter rhythms, snippets of information in a now long-expired yellow font -

Or two film-makers returning to the scene of the crime, to find their victims, to chart the effects of the child abuse, a game of detective work interspersed with the highlights of the first time round; halcyon days on North of England council estates that BBC 70s-retro fetishists can't hope to recapture.

Well, if your father can't belt you, I'll have to take your father's place, won't I?

Those jumper patterns; like 70s haircuts, unrepeatable. The whole landscape's been burnt down, only to be replaced by vague memories of how a decade should have been. A Guilty Pleasures-infested glitterball with the odd dash of bandit moustache and tough cop, and Blackburn Asians with outhouses who dream of being Marc Bolan. Nothing so primitive as this fucking ogre on the screen, the 7-year old boy's lank hair trapped in his fist, the tears and shivering and the hair gel pushing back what's left of his graying cowl....

Students, international socialists, Marxists...all the other worms that crawl out from under t'stones..

And her, following in his footsteps, a bitter-faced hag, old before her time, a face so taut and eyes so dead that a genuine smile would surely crack her visage from cheek to cheek. Sitting opposite Child Star Number 5, let's see, how about 'fresh in school uniform' look this time, let's work out what's her crime

If you were my daughter, I'd smack you around the face!
Who the hell do you think you are?
Are you a slut?

Bring on the tears, the threats of expulsion to dark cells. The first version informs us that consent was arranged for all persons appearing. The consent of who exactly? The parents? Right- so if you combine every apparatus of the state at your disposal - the family, the law, the church, this mickey-mouse unit of interfering exponents of 'tough love' - what realistic chance do these kids stand? The pornographers never interfere on their behalf, one duo (male/female) just keep rolling, while the other duo (male/female) take it in turns to play bad cop / bad cop. Punishing future crimes, making pre-emptive strikes right into these brats' psyches. What release form did these kids sign to give their consent to this charade?

And then, 15 years later -

Course I've got dreams, I've got dreams like the next man...but they won't come true. I'm a loser

The sergeant sits there, rifling through felt tip pens. He swallows fag smoke and espouses his philosophy - the value of his work and the hordes of international socialists who want to devastate Britain, throw the decent people into concentration camps or acid baths. People'd disappear if the commies had their way, of that he's certain. And then he sits in that yellow cell shot with that 6-year old (too terrified to talk) mere inches away, and the stinking cell bog to the left hand side. He pulls that retarded child out of bed by the hair, George almost chokes on his tears and snot, skinny pink arms poking out of his vest. Drags him downstairs, dull green wallpaper and stacks of empty cardboard boxes. DON'T PUT IT ON! The kid clutches a handkerchief across his face, even the most docile viewer can't fail to get the message, DON'T FUCKING FILM ME. But like all good porn, we have to see everything through til, if not the bitter end, at least the point where sheer physical exhaustion terminates the scene in hand. And then on to another fresh scene, another child yet to stain his or her face with frustrated tears, more bullying immortalised on steadycam. But you'll have to catch the sequel to understand how George went on to hear the voices emanating from ventilation grilles and radiators, the ones that told him to do things with the booze and the ladies, and how he ended up in a Salvation Army hostel at 30, barely able to write and convinced of his own worthlessness, the impossibility of finding love, the payoff for what these cunts did to him that rainy day in the North, without his consent.

So are we going to sit around and define child abuse? The sergeant is bollocked when the first film comes out - or nearly comes out, instead being bundled straight into a vault. He loses his job with the force and lands work dishing out dinners in a local school. Great. And he can retire and replay it over and over again, because what he did was sanctioned and therefore certainly not as vile as some jumped-up blog post makes out; actions were inspired by due duty and concern, to keep them young hoodlums on the right path, it was a service to society and to their long-suffering parents, and most wonderful of all, before half of them had ever committed any sort of crime. She won't use language like that again, the little slut; he won't play truant again after this short, sharp shock, except the truant somehow ceases to be a child star and ends up clutching a can of high-strength lager and nearly snarls out admissions of self-defeat in an attempt to keep in the tears. This abuse was sanctioned, and so we can sift through it and play it as straight social expose', documentary or a little look at the 70s Britain that false memories forgot. Or we can look through that lingering shot of Rashida's face (She still lives in the same house where she grew up, but declined to be interviewed...), infamous felt tip pen thieving little scrote that she was, or the smooth slow track across the station as the truants are Cortina'd in, and realise we're staring into the hidden heart of kid porn.

Friday, September 08, 2006


Well, the Porn Symposium is really hotting up! Initially kick-started by Naughty Nina, 22, of Infinite Thought, the event has progressed from light petting to more intimate groping, with Doppelganger now joining in too. The barometer for this steamy symposium now reads at XXX degrees Celsius - and it's only just begun!

None of that right now, though. Some announcements. Dubversion has "returned to the blogging fray", as our more eminent online scribblers would put it. He now has a blog called All the pretty horses can go fuck themselves and death can piss up a rope too , which has just been added to the links bar. Young man Owen has also been reinstated, as I understand that the rash of Measures Taken / IT / K-Punk contributions to Socialist Worker were conceived and submitted as part of a three-way bet.

You know, it's funny, the seas freeze over, once mighty civilisations crumble to dust, the tadpole evolves into the man and beyond - and yet, even if I lived to be 89 billion years old, I'd still never run out of amusing anecdotes about the SWP. I'll never forget the Criminal Justice Act riot in Hyde Park in 1994, when the SWP stewards accidentally found themselves in a bottleneck with some gay rights marchers who were all dressed up as nuns - you've never seen so many embarrassed student militants trying to pull away in different directions, while the stewards started shouting at them like they were errant runts on a school trip to the Natural History Museum. Funnier still was the fact that the SWP got hoodwinked into coaching down a few ravers who promptly jumped on the tube and went shopping instead! Admittedly though they did boast a bigger turnout than the trio of saddos who turned up to represent the Lib Dems - their banner was bigger than the three of them put together.

Sorry for not linking any new people for ages, but it takes me ages to do them, especially when I'm 'working'. You have to open up blogs, copy the URL, then go back into this blog, go into template, copy one of the existing links so you can paste the full line below the rest to make a new one, then realise you've just 'copied' over your original copied you have to go back to the URL, and then start over....

Still, it's not like a massive volume of user traffic comes through here anyway. Or at least it didn't til I started symposiuming around. Incidentally, is there any music more profoundly melancholic than the muzak they used to accompany 70s porn? It's like a sucidal Burt Bacharach conducting a lounge jazz band on mogs.

Tuesday, September 05, 2006


I guess what you could tell your local Marxist group is this; porn's actually quite boring, I've never come across a film that captured the thrill of stepping into Kensington Market back when the place was full of goths and punks and stank of Castrol GTX and joss sticks. Similarly, I've never seen a centrefold pose that could equal a girl whacking out a bass riff through a stack of amps. 'Communist porn' is an oxymoron. Increase the tribe, peace and war, Ian

Maybe he's right and that's me told. Maybe not.


I first came across Nanami Kurasawa in Tokyo's Aki Habra electronics district. In between all the shops punting robot dogs, reclining toilet seats and spare bionic eyes, there lies a massive porn store, literally five floors of filth. Me and N found ourselves being swept inside by a rush hour human wave attack, plus it was raining and we needed to kill a few hours.

This joint was the Harrods of hardcore porn, stuffed with tens of thousands of DVDs, mags, videos and implausible sex 'toys', such as a battery operated cyborg wanking hand for those too tired or lazy to knock out their own 5 knuckle shuffles, and a dildo that would eviscerate a Blue Whale - seriously, it was the length and breadth of a child. As far as fetishes go, the DVDs had them all ; women being tortured by fish-hooks through their noses and eyelids, period sex, coprophilia, pony girls, lesbian cops, girls in Power Ranger costumes, train groping, pissing into flowerpots, My Little Pony, vomit fetish, burger bar rape, androids....a lot of it seemed geared towards the subjugation and humiliation of women, but then this is the country where women are obliged to remain standing on the tube when someone vacates their seat, so that a salaryman can waddle across the length of the carriage to park his arse.

"Martin, come here, look at this", N spat for the 39th time. And then I saw it - the vile plastic-wrapped hellish trash that I knew existed, but had never guessed I'd actually see. Kid porn.

The front cover of the DVD featured a photo of a girl who looked about eight at oldest, sitting on what looked like concrete steps, her face contorted into a grizzly howl, her arms yanked to the right-hand side, her wrists in handcuffs. The back cover featured snapshots of the contents, some fat ugly Jap forcing himself into her mouth, pinning her down with his beergut, sneering as her face twisted into more hideous screams.
"We have to buy it". I can't even remember which one of us said it first.
"You sick cunt" - that was both of us.

So we drifted off, but kept gravitating back to this one particular DVD. We couldn't actually believe it existed, when you see it in front of your eyes it's so out there, you feel you're hallucinating.

"Don't be so stupid. This isn't allowed on Earth, it belongs to Spaceship Tokyo, along with all these hilarious shrinkwrapped packs of schoolgirl knickers (complementary photos of the supposed 'wearers' thrown in). Customs at Heathrow might find it, then that's it, your whole life down the drain. They wouldn't understand we simply wanted to view the horror out of an unquenchable desire for the truth, or even that it was post-ironic carcrash curiosity, they'd just see us as a couple of nonces."
"We could buy a portable DVD player, watch it over here, then throw it away."

Reader - how can I convince you that despite our urges to view this real-life nightmare, we 're actually not bad people? Like, you could trust us with kids and stuff? A hip hop track was booming out over the shop, some misogynist stuff about porking Puerto Rican bitches, or smoking Korean bitches, I can't remember. Three salarymen in suits were milling around, going 'Ohh', and passing DVDs to each other on their post-work smut trawl. One of the DVDs had a pic of 4 Japanese girls in latex NYC cop gear brandishing guns. That was one of the ones I ended up buying.

"We could just throw away the cover, and...what are we saying? This is out of order, this is way too fucking sick!"

A vision - customs, Heathrow Terminal 3 ; trying to tell the cops, "We had to see it, so we could believe it , know it was real! We weren't going to wank over it". And then being bundled into a van full of prematurely balding, salivating weirdos, stinking of milk and glaring through coke-bottle glasses. "Ah, your first time!" one of them grinning through a couple of yellowing, chipped teeth, pulling a stained child's mitten from his anorak pocket. "You get used to it after a couple of decades, the sublime pleasure far outweighs the punishment beatings!", and he pulls his cardigan up to expose a network of razor scars across his ugly paedophile chest -

So we left that DVD well alone, the filthy exploitation of children could remain Aki Habra's guilty little secret. I bought another DVD, a bukkake one, and N bought a mag. He went bright red at the counter, though the little guy serving us didn't seem to give a toss either way. There were T-shirts hanging up by the door, mostly cartoon graphics of tied-up women, and one of a blonde, European kid's face, wearing oversized shades, and underneath, in punk scrawl, Baby Fuck. Imagine wearing that one down the street.

N opened his mag up back in the hotel room, the mid-pages had a laughing, naked Japanese girl arching her back and unleashing a spray of brown diarrhoea into the air. The next two pages were just close-ups of shit-splattered bedsheets. N ran into the bathroom and gagged his lunch into the space-age toilet.


I freaked out on the 12-hour flight back, partly due to lack of sleep and too much booze. I was convinced customs were going to find the bukkake DVD and arrest me. It was, after all, 'hardcore' and UK laws still governed this sort of thing. I had another vision -

Customs ripping my bag apart, as a disgusted-looking tall young man, hair neatly shaved and in pastel clothing, passed by and gave me a withering look. His bag would be packed with paper lampshades adorned with pictures of dragons, little Buddhas he'd bought at numerous shrines, a set of chopsticks, books, pieces of art, clothing and cultural objects. My bag would spill open to reveal weird Spiderman dolls, menus stolen from fast food joints with mad manga designs, tapes by the Japanese Oi! band Cobra, a rare Japanese copy of The Pop Group's How Much Longer Do We Tolerate Mass Murder? CD, a translucent umbrella and some cartoons of samurai that a drunk Damned fan had drawn for me in a bar in Shinjuku - as well as a bukkake DVD. This well-adjusted, normal, intelligent man would 'tssk' as he strode unhindered through customs, planning his first authentic 'Japanese party' in his flat, where he'd slip on a kimono, serve his guests sake in small bowls, put on some traditional Japanese music and tell them all about the wonderful, lush volcano-riddled islands, and what a shame it was that Old Japan- the REAL Japan - was gradually being eroded by gaudy technology, streets heaving with pedestrians, ear-splitting pachinko parlours and neon-washed noodle bars, where me and N had spent all of our time, stuffing our gobs in the rain and pretending to look for replicants. Said man would endeavour to learn to speak Japanese, find a Japanese girlfriend, perhaps attempt to write a book about his travels and the humble fishing peasants he met on the way. I'd be taking a kicking in some West London police station, for bringing gratuitous sperm-sodden muck back to Airstrip One


The DVD features Nanami Kurasawa, a beautiful, rather thin-faced woman with jet black long hair. If you were ever going to level the 'drank so much sperm they had to be stomach-pumped' jibe at a celebrity, you probably couldn't go wrong with her. She seems to be the SAS of the Japanese Bukkake underground, the one who undertakes the most daring missions, and gets splatted the most. Incidentally, while looking her up on Google, there appears to be a 'Nanami Kurasawa' active in the dolphin conservation movement. I don't know if it's the same person.

Kurasawa looks a bit older than her co-stars. This isn't so much in terms of age, she just has a resigned maturity about her. You keep expecting her to suddenly say, "I really don't belong here", and walk off set, leaving her two giggly fellow actresses giving "WTF?" shoulder-shrugs to the camera.

Maybe Kurasawa's star has waned since. There's probably been tonnes of younger, more hungry actresses, keen to tear up the ranks and stake their claims to being Queen Bukkake. Maybe they go in for more extreme stuff than Kurasawa did, in an attempt to knock her off her perch, in a constant bid to ride the porn rapids before they suck all these glorious starlets into whirlpools of oblivion. Either way, the DVD's not very good. I'm not going to lie and pretend I felt 'nothing', but 20 minutes later, I felt the desire to make a cup of tea. There isn't a great deal going on. The worst part is when one of Nanami's co-stars sticks her tongue right out in anticipation of a drenching, and you can see it's all green and furry. In another shot, Kurasawa blows a spunk-bubble like it's Hubba Bubba.


Ages after, me and N were sitting in Amsterdam, in a pub off Rembrandt Square. We were laughing at a load of people who'd just announced they were off downtown to check out some porn shops.
"Pah", we sneered, "We've seen it all. You're wasting your time, you should have seen what we saw in Aki Habra, it would fry your minds!"
We were irritating the fuck out of everyone. We told them about the DVD with the kid, what, about 20 times. They just wanted to go and explore their own thrills, but we were now porn experts. We'd seen the depths of capitalist pornographic exploitation. Like magi hunched over grimoires, we'd looked hardcore porn in its mascara-blushed but rheumy eye, and come out unscathed. Everyone else knew nothing, we were unshockable!
"You should have seen this place in Aki Habra, Amsterdam's shit, this is tame in comparison", we ha-ha'd. Everyone bristled at our self-obsessed arrogance, but we knew we were right and they were wrong! We might have been a couple of cunts, but we had PhDs in Porn, and were still laughing at all the greasy Red Light District punters' attempts to break their own limited taboos as we bought more beers and played "Pacman".

Monday, September 04, 2006

quick porn interlude....BASH 7 REPORT

I started the evening in a pub in the West End. I thought it'd be a nice way of getting in the mood for Bash, which wasn't scheduled to kick off for another 5 hours. I sunk about 8 pints, had an argument with someone, and then headed off towards Old Street.

In the Barleymow, round the corner from the venue - who should I spot but ****, my former mucker at Parcelforce and now occasional porn director. Some might have interpreted this incident as manna from heaven, given the current BTI porn posts - no doubt **** had been sent to me for a reason. I didn't get much chance to discover what it was, as John Eden swept in, in a filthy mood, belligerently gripping my arm and snapping, "Tonight, you will see, racist ; the power of the white MCs".

Something was obviously troubling John, so I blew out **** completely. **** isn't a bad person, but I was actually glad John dragged me away from him. We used to get up to a load of high-jinks together and were forever disappearing from work at the most hectic times, retreating to a cafe to eat liver and onions and discuss wild money-making schemes. Most of the time, we just petty-thieved from local stores in Hendon. We were atrocious influences on each other. Ultimately though, he's the kind of person who'll say, "Let's go splits on a pack of fags", then leave the pub with your 2 pounds 50, and you wouldn't see him again for a month.

He also once promised me a walk-on part in one of his porn flicks, I was supposed to be a hellfire preacher who kicks down the door mid-orgy and starts lecturing the jungle of twisted limbs about sin and debauchery. I even sat down and knocked out some lines for it, based loosely on the Irish-American detective in the 70s horror flick The Living Dead at the Manchester Morgue.

However, **** wanted a girl with multiple piercings to whip me and finally eliminate me in the scene. I vociferously disagreed, I might have wanted to show the film to my grandchildren some day, and didn't want them to see me being flayed and killed. He thought offing a preacher would be a great sequence for a film that was loosely based around vampires. I thought it would be much better if the preacher just appeared, went into some mental sermon, gobbing everywhere and shaking (not that I needed much practice) and then cut to another bit of fucking once he'd snarled 'HAIL THE NEW VATICAN!' into the camera. Subsequently, **** decided to scrap the preacher idea, the petty-minded cunt.

Back to last week, me and John entered Bash after a few more pints. "YT is great.." John was snarling. "All I fucking hear from you is 'honkies shouldn't do patois'. Why the fuck not? Who are you anyway, John Tyndall?"

"Look," I countered, "Can you imagine YT or Ari Up holding their own against Ninjaman or Bounty..."

"Ninjaman's over!" John roared. "It's 2006, not 1994. Who the fuck are you to talk? You wouldn't dare get up there and chat. You think you're the only white man in the village to like reggae...yes!" John was now waving his bottle around and trying to flick beer at my cigarette. "Martin, the only white blogger who's heard of Shabba Ranks! Come on, Mar - tin, tell us all about this reggae fad! Cos you're the only white man who's ever heard it! You sure know what you're on about with your copy of Just Ragga 2, that was 1993, wasn't it? How utterly relevant. Why don't you go and tell Mala what a race traitor he's become".

Suddenly John jumped up and ran to the bar. Some mate of his, who looked very similar to him (they both had specs), had wandered in. The 'mate' was accompanied by a small girl. It was obvious the 'mate' fancied the bird and wanted to cop off with her, and was using Bash as a backdrop. I suddenly had the urge to puke, I'd skipped lunch that day and my stomach felt really beer-logged. In the background, someone was playing reggae.

Kevin Martin, aka THE BUG, was staggering around, high-fiving anyone he'd remembered to stick on the guest list. As this didn't include me, and I didn't fancy getting ejected by Kevin's doorman / bouncer / bodyguard, I chatted to Johns 'mate'. "Do you fancy her?" I asked. I'm sort of psychic like that. I bought another bottle of Stella and went to the toilet.

YT was onstage, but I was behind a pillar, so couldn't see him very well. Eden was lurching around like a speed-frazzled ostrich, pushing young dancers aside, waving his camera around like Russ Meyer discovering a Big Tit Tree. "Yes, YT, excellent", he was trying to shout over the din. YT looked a bit older than I expected. He wasn't bad actually. But honour is honour, and I'm simply not retracting my anti-white MC argument, even if it might be flawed. Four angry black blokes were waving lighters and shouting about burning the 'bablyon boy' onstage, but YT maintained his composure despite this heckling.

Boomnoise came over and said something, maybe he can remember what it was, I can't. I asked the girl John's 'mate' was gagging for something about Camberwell, where I used to live between 1994 and 1995. I can't recall her reply, but she was moderately interested in the 'mate', though if he'd really wanted to shatter her love gasket, he'd have been better off taking her to the Tippa Irie Bash at the end of September.

By this stage, I was getting tired-drunk and running out of fags. I simply couldn't be arsed to go outside and find a newsagents to replenish my haul of snout. Eden was flailing his arms around like a demented windmill and shouting something about being the first person to include YT on a mix. I thought he was going to take the mic at one point.

I had to face facts, I was crashing. I bought another beer which I couldn't even be bothered to finish, I was pissing like a racehorse. "Kevin Martin", said a girl at the bar, kitted out in some sort of 'punk kimono', with rips and zips and her electric blue hair pulled back into a bun, skewered by steel chopsticks. "I want to make love to him. To feel his beard scraping my navel as we 69 to the two sevens". The next thing I remember was haggling with a taxi driver over a quid on the fare back home, and thinking shit, Bash was still on, I'd left an hour and a quarter early!

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