BEYOND THE IMPLODE 3 - BRITISH AIRWAYS 0

AWAKE, SOLDIERS OF THE LAMB!!!

SO, the politically correct bully-boys at British Airways have been humbled by the very God whose Son's sacrifice they unwisely attempted to REBUKE! The vicious and cowardly attack on our sister Nadia Aweida - VICTIMISED by Godless BA SCUM for wearing her crucifix with pride - has rebounded spectacularly; traces of Polonium210 on this heinous airline's fleet show that our saviour the Lord Jesus Christ shall NOT be mocked!

So begins the editorial of the xeroxed paper that popped through my door this morning. The piece is attributed to Christian Voice 'shepherd' Stephen Green, who provides his mobile number, 07931 490050, urging anyone with info on the 'enemies of God' to get in contact "as soon as humanly possible", "because time is running out". Other articles deal with the cinematic trivialisation of demonic possession, mainly slating the recent release Requiem, plus calls for boycotts of various UK businesses and academic institutions. A PO Box number at the end accompanies some reproductions of pro-life sticker designs (100 for a fiver), which range from your standard SPUC embryo heads to designs depicting petrol bombs and injured scientists, accompanied by slogans like THIS IS OUR ANSWER TO FAMILY PLANNING! and ABORT MARIE STOPES. There's also a cartoon of a crusader slaying a dragon with a star and crescent on its belly.

But never mind all that, for a minute - British Airways - seriously, they're the shame of the skies - treat you like a bunch of babies; whinge at you if you whip out the Bibl...er, a magazine instead of observing their poxy safety demo (look, there's only one thing that's going to happen when your plane goes down - VIOLENT, BLOODY DEATH, with 170 other passengers stamping your ribs into powder as their ripped up, limbs-still-twitching corpses get sucked into the void); and seem to believe that a glass of disgusting cheap red wine'll leave you bladdered. Just try getting a third (tiny) can of Stella out of the bastards - you'd have more luck raising the dead. Personally, there's nothing I'd like more than to see BA get sued to buggeration for negligence, so that excellent carriers like Singapore Airlines can bring travellers joy and happiness by getting them completely off their nuts on vodka and orange.

Still, Polonium, eh - it's this year's Bird Flu, only marginally more interesting, as we're at least heading back to proper spy business. ((Oh, and also the fact that, despite the hysteria, Bird Flu didn't actually reduce Britain to a depopulated wasteland patrolled by SAS death squads in gasmasks, with a handful of survivors roaming London Underground tunnels, sprouting feathers. As turkey, parrot, chaffinch and robin were cruelly dispatched this time last year, BEYONCE THE IMPLODE was the only blog to stand up and cry: STOP THE MADNESS! Try believing me from now on....)).

It's almost like we've gone back to the old days of Vatican bankers swinging under Blackfriars Bridge. Suicide bombers may think they've got a valid political / religious axe to grind, but bomb, bomb, bomb, bomb - give us a bit of variety, for God's sake....at least now I genuinely feel like a disposable human pawn, caught, alongside millions of others, in the eye of the storm of all-out tech-war! Weedkiller and nailbombs indeed! But when former Soviet assets start getting wiped out by radiation, it feels so retro you almost expect a convoy of rag and bone men to hit the streets, flogging sheets of lead so you can turn your pad into a DIY anti-fallout shelter. After 5 years of torturous pontification and pseudo-religious bunkem, Armageddon's finally getting interesting again.

As I picked up the phone, Carruthers was squirming in his swivel chair to the Stranglers' paedophile anthem Bring On the Nubiles. Kid Fiddler Cornwell sang I've got to lick your little puss / and nail you to the floor. "LISTEN, CUPCAKE," I warned the voice on the line, which didn't sound entirely unlike the clotted lisp of some pompustulant Hampstead housewife....Nicole? Cindy? Taz?... "LISTENING TO AND DISTRIBUTING EVP RECORDINGS IS ILLEGAL, YOU ARE ASKING ME TO BREAK THE LAW". Chipped teamug with a ziphius smear. Stuffed dolphin's head on the wall, dopey rictus smile like a goofy, subnormal, hydatoid rape fiend. The time Brian from accounts pushed a cigarette into its gob for the office photo. The day, that sunless day, when someone etched an arrow towards the quacker's decapitated bonce, and scratched out "TERRY'S WIFE". In glyphs.

"The finest pipe shandy crack!" muttered the old bearded coot, he's never stopped dribbling about Suez since they kicked him out of the Navy for touching up little girls in 1960. Enough grime on the lunch pub window to filter out a small nuclear sun, glitterball FX as shards of piss-weak light try to cut through the tar clouds. Endlessly bleery spitoon bullshitters work over congealed black onion baps and the slop from out of date kegs. A pint of sand. A cancer stick waved at floating tits, "Corked that back in my day!" he sniggered when another bag of damaged goods shuffled past to purge herself in the bogs.

Six dates; six bladder infections. I didn't even get as far as asking Number 3 her name before I'd sicked up over the table. "Eat!" I shouted as I skewered a pile of inedible fungus and forced myself to chew. Watched her eyelids bruise and ripen like toadstools. Date 5 had a cute tattoo, "I LOVE ME" across her left cheekbone - she fell under a cycle courier, and I pissed myself laughing as she tried to separate her hair from the spokes. We fucked all night after that. Date 6 wanted to listen to the EVP tapes, but I wouldn't risk a razor up the arse for a couple of minutes of feeling swell. An imparter of underground ephemera AKA: show-off! But she wouldn't stop hassling me, ringing all the time...Carole? Nicole? Cindy?

So I got down with the programme. Lobotomised myself with porn. Japanese courtesans bedding down with winking squids, beaks poised to suck and violate every inch of skin they could get their greedy maws 'round. The Sexy Secrets of Sabrina's Submarine. Yellowing old scraps of shiplogs, pirate goth erotica, deep-throating eels. Come on coral.

Coral....that was her. Last memory - her fumbling around with the tapes, having laced my green tea with drugs. Thinking I was knocked out, paralysed. But actually still conscious and trying not to laugh. Coral wincing as she tried to make out the faintest of sounds. Do ghosts really roam the earth or do they only emerge to perform to an audience. Willing herself scared. And then screaming BOO!, the bedsheet wrapped around my head, her fainting and farting a streak of 'fear poo' into her sky-blue knix. Norway '99. A drunken Catholic granny with shingles feeds a terrapin a biscuit. And YOU'RE A VERY, VERY WICKED LITTLE BOY. JESUS DON'T LOVE YOU NO MORE, SON. Shoplifting a card for Coral's funeral, a paean to guilty regret. But accidentally bagging a "HAPPY BIRTHDAY YOU ARE NINE " card. Her old man introducing Mr Fist to my guts, a boot in the bollocks - right over her open casket. Her horse-faced sister chewing gum, sexy knife jaws and come to deathbed eyes, hate-sucking me out of my skinsuit and into the gaping magnetic throb of her womb. Birth backwards.

I wanna be an airborne ranger
(I wanna be an airborne ranger)
I wanna live a life of danger
(I wanna live a life of danger)
I wanna go to Eye-ran
(I wanna go to Eye-ran)
I wanna kill an Irani-an
(I wanna kill an Irani-an)
Blood! (Blood!)
Guts! (Guts!)
Blood! (Blood!)
Guts! (Guts!)
Kill! (Kill!)
Kill! (Kill!)
Maim! (Maim!)
Hardcore! (Hardcore!)
Hardcore! (Hardcore!)
Feelin' Good! (Feelin' Good!)
Hardcore! (Hardcore!)
Rape! (Rape!)
Pillage! (Pillage!)
Plunder! (Plunder!)
Kill! (Kill!)
Hardcore! (Hardcore!)
Hardcore! (Hardcore!)

OK, so I spent NO MUSIC DAY pondering what it is I want out of music, and I came to the following conclusion; I'm well fucking angry!! I'm angry that a bunch of pink-shirted, hairgel-buttered GOWKS are driving around London in their fucking little Foxton's Estate Agents motors (with the word 'PUNK' etched on the sides) without fear of brutal, bloody assault. BY DESERT ORCHID'S ROTTING PLONKER - how the HELL have these shitbags escaped a hard, hearty kicking into the Royal Free? Listen up - all estate agents are cunts. They are the enemy. Fuck making music - get out there on the streets and SMASH THE FOXTONMOBILES!! - preferably with the smug fuckmuppets still trapped inside. I don't want to hear another perfectly segued dubstep mix, I want to hear the sweet, shrill strains of estate agent screams, imploding windscreens, exploding petrol tanks! THEN we can all go down FWD and frig ourselves bandy to Skream.

Punk used to be about ugly sexy kids fighting back. I think this is why I never really got too fanatical about The Ramones. It goes without saying that the first Ramones LP is great and all that, but even better if you play it as a 'mono' recording by flipping the balance over to the guitar channel (the bass channel sucks) and then fool about with your turntable speed belt, to get the tempo to around 37 rpm. But anyway, here everyone was in UK79 - political violence on the streets, wildcat strikes, SPG intimidation and inner-city meltdown - and what were our punk rock cousins across the Atlantic singing to us? Rock rock...rockaway beach...rock rock...rockaway beach...rock rock...rockaway beach...it's so fucking hot on rockaway beach!I bet it was, you long-haired cunts! Not that I'd know about beaches, I was only 3 at the time. Anyway, seeing 'PUNK' painted onto an estate agent's car is legitimate grounds for aiming a brick at the driver - you're acting perfectly within your rights, the very word's an incitement to vandalism!

So what do we want and need from music? Well, I can't speak for you. But I reckon the answer's more records like Kings of the Wild Frontier by Adam and the Ants. An album that - get this - manages to fuse proto-Big Black feedback with Burundi battle hymns and speedfreak jazz-funk; swipes Nietzsche quotes and then clusterbombs them into catchy pop choruses; liberally plagiarises riffs from Link Wray, the 'Born Free' theme tune and Ennio Morricone; bashes out songs about Joe Orton, sadistic pirates, domesticity-induced nervous breakdown, Red Indian warriors and giant ants laying waste to civilisation. Too fucking right!

What? Bollocks to that? OK, howsabout a series of winter electro / synthpop festivals, to be held in (actual) laboratories. Instead of BORING / predictable stage backdrops, (real) scientists will be on hand, doing proper experiments ( ie- putting light through prisms and creating rainbows, making magnesium strips flare up, dissecting estate agents and members of the Fratellis, etc) while the musicians perform. Art meets education, y'know. While we're hob-nobbing with the cream of the scientific elite, it might be worth discussing whether it's feasible to reanimate Screaming Lord Sutch, while putting the remaining members of The Who 'to sleep'.

"Nej!"you pandiculate? OK, how about the formation of the world's first Riot Grrrl football team? See, this is what NO MUSIC DAY leads to, a wealth of wonderful ideas - I'm clearly winning hearts and minds with this post. Oh alright, I gave up at around 8.50 pm and put on some Knifehandchop, because I couldn't see the fucking point personally. It was as if I'd gone back to the old days, when my dad used to roar at me, "THEM BANDS...A BUNCH OF EEJITS! AND YOU'RE A BIGGER EEJIT FOR LISTENING TO 'EM!" His whole argument was that bands should wear "PROPER FUCKIN' CLOTHES" and learn to play the tin whistle, because they hadn't grown up in abysmal poverty in rural Ireland. "I HAD TO WALK 3 MILES TO SCHOOL, IN THE SNOW...IN BARE FEET!" he'd yell at me over the kitchen table, reminding me that no matter how 'left' I thought I was, I'd always be a snivelling jessie, a pathetic, prissified product of the late 20th century Decadent West, never condemned to sleep in a crane cabin on a construction site because guest houses across West London had placards reading "NO IRISH NO BLACKS NO DOGS" hanging up in the windows. I suppose he had a point. Well, no suppose about it, we couldn't escape it really. My punk/skin brother had rolled up one day with some anarcho-punkoid maenad on his arm, and was wolfing down his pork chops and mash when my dad went into his "I HAD TO WALK 3 MILES!! IN THE SNOW!! NO SHOES!" spiel. "Why didn't you put some shoes on?" my brother quipped. Seconds later, he was sprawled in the hall, picking his head out of a debris of mash and broken plate. Yeah, those were the days, eh - a bit of republican folk and, if my mental case mother was around, the odd smattering of 'Country' Willie Nelson. And the rest of the musical world? Noisy, vulgar, big-mouthed eejits, the lot of them. Pooves.

I know I'm always hating on white reggae, but I'm willing to have a puff on the peace pipe if we're talking INDESCRIBABLY BADLY PLAYED white reggae.

Just check this out - Terry and the Idiots, probably the most notorious UK punk band ever, performing a deliciously atrocious version of "Anarchy In the UK", trying to goad a pub full of apathetic and hostile straights, then launching into a 'reggae' track so 'cod' Britain and Iceland once went to war over it, before one of the audience naffs upstages our DIY hero.

As far as I know, nobody's ever discovered Terry's whereabouts - he really is punk's lost son. Other parts of the film featured him walking around council estates, getting drunk and bemoaning his lack of mates or sitting around slagging off the fact that 1970s television closes down at midnight.

Apparently the Golden Shoe pub is still around, located on Meeson Street in Hackney. I'll be along there one night soon to pay my respects (incidentally, there's a pub in Stamford Hill called 'The Birdcage' which I'm pretty sure is the same place that Tony and his mates go to in the 1975 Horace Ove' flick "Pressure" - though, seeing as he was living in West London, this might have been a bit of a trek). Anyway, fuck all those boring "Bloodstains" compilations - you want obscure raw punk? Here's the gospel, brothers and sisters. Even the New York No-Wavers never got this shredded.

NOKIAs are really crap at taking photos; the above might look like a gooner's half-hearted attempt at 'happy slapping' in Finsbury Park station, but it's actually Tippa Irie getting the crowd to join him in vocally slamming Hear Say (see post before this, etc)



Believe it or not, this is Top Cat in 2006. The pic was actually taken from above the stage, so how it's ended up looking like it was shot from beneath is a mystery to me. What you CAN'T see is this quite fit girl who was dancing on her own all night. In fact this looks like I shot it from her perspective. Dunno, madness, mobiles...



A rasta bows his head in respect as Tippa and Tenor Fly bang on about how great they are. Incidentally, it might look like half the crowd were kitted out in luminous paramedic jackets - don't worry, it's just the (mobile's complete lack of ability to handle) light.



For everyone banging on about Al Pacino / Scarface at the moment, check the back of Tenor Fly's T-shirt. Or you would be able to if I'd taken these on a proper camera.

(MANY THANKS TO **** FOR HELPING ME TRANSFER THESE TO MAC)

**((UPDATE - ER, THEY WERE CRAP, BUT NOT THIS CRAP - SOMETHING'S GONE HORRIBLY WRONG ))**