BEYOND THE IMPLODE 3 - BRITISH AIRWAYS 0

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.

Suddenly - a voice boomed from the stage - DONS AN' DON-ETTES! HE'S TRAVELLED ALL THE WAY FROM STREATHAM TO BE WITH US IN OLD STREET. HE'S A LEGEND BACK FROM THE SAXON DAYS, THE ORIGINAL LYRIC MAKER, SCOURGE OF THE COMPLAINT NEIGHBOUR, THE BLACKWALL TUNNEL MOUTH HIMSELF, IT'S TIPPA...TIPPA...

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.