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!
Comments:
Ha! I just came over from John Eden's link. These last two posts made my morning. cheers
 
Whilst we seem to have entirely different memories of the evening I'm still disappointed you haven't included reference to your entirely munted Eamon Andrews impersonation in which you tried to persuade Kevin that he used to hang out with Jilly Cooper in the 80s. :-)
 
Are you sure that's not because you've just made it up? And did your friend get it on with that girl?
 
I hadn't been drinking all afternoon, had I? Who do you think is the more reliable witness? ;-) You started off by asking him why he wrote "piranha" and finished off with this bizarre monologue about Jilly Cooper. At which point KM made his excuses and left, as he had a club night to run. :-)

And no, I don't think so. She was off to Chile the next day. I thought she was very nice and I will try to find out more for you.
 
Don't worry, I'm not that interested in it. I just thought it was a nice counter-angle to the rest of the report's cantankerous nature. You have to give your readers a bit of romance every now and then, you know? Not a lot, just a bit. Somebody who isn't interested in dubstep and ragga might come and check out BASH if they think they'll cop off with someone there - I'm basically opening up all sort of PR angles for Kevin Martin. You'd think the fact we have a first name / surname bond would get me on the guest list, but no, he won't have any of it.
 
Don't worry, I'm not that interested in it. I just thought it was a nice counter-angle to the rest of the report's cantankerous nature. You have to give your readers a bit of romance every now and then, you know? Not a lot, just a bit. Somebody who isn't interested in dubstep and ragga might come and check out BASH if they think they'll cop off with someone there - I'm basically opening up all sort of PR angles for Kevin Martin. You'd think the fact we have a first name / surname bond would get me on the guest list, but no, he won't have any of it.
 
It would be a bit odd if none of the rest of us could get in because the place had filled up with people called Martin, though?!
 
Stop being so sage. I thought the AAA was going to get the working class into space and reinvent world culture in its entirety through the medium of 3-sided football? Now you're quibbling over the potential unfeasibility of my modest proposal!

I'm not talking about letting Martin McGuinness or Martin the vampire from that 70s film in scot free, just me - a way for Kevin to doff his cap to the fact that we're both named after St Martin de Porres, the priest who was messed around by the Vatican for the crime of being black. He doesn't even have to put me on the guest list, I'm not asking to sit backstage with Tippa Irie and quaff Dragon Stout, he could let me in the back window of the venue like The Clash used to do with their fans, or something.
 
I suggest you put it to him next time you see him. Let's look at it from his perspective:

Entirey of 1st interaction: "Ari Up should be SHOT!!!"

2nd conversation = piranha/Jilly Cooper as above.

3rd conversation: "My name is Martin! Can I get on the guestlist?"
 
This is an outrage. How can you second-guess his perspective? Maybe he was deeply touched by our brief conversations. Perhaps they resulted in a 'Christmas Carol'-style epiphany. For one fleeting moment in the hypocrisy and avarice-ridden jungle of the Music Biz, Kevin came face to face with innocence and purity, and has begun to reassess his place in the whole performer / audience divide. After all, he hasn't invited Ari Up back since, has he? Maybe I provided the electric shock of reason he needed at that particular time in his life.

I'm not asking a lot. I'm not asking Kevin Martin to break off half of his veggie burger and offer it to me, as the other St Martin of history (the Roman centurion one) cut his cloak in half to preserve the modesty of a naked beggar. I'm not trying to muscle in on his stash of groupies, or score free CDs. But I firmly believe that if there's any justice, I'll be granted 'guest list' status when Tippa Irie plays Bash. If I'm not, then that proves 100% there's no such thing as 'karma' -- and as a result, I will be left with no choice but to go on a killing rampage through Soho, taking out as many Buddhists as possible!
 
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