BEYOND THE IMPLODE 3 - BRITISH AIRWAYS 0

Brian Pounce sauntered down the street, blasting out the Pussycat Dolls on his iPod. He'd just come back from a deeply satisfying morning mingling with the proletariat in Woolworths, and he was feeling peckish. The cultural studies lecturer decided to grab something to eat immediately, instead of waiting til he got home later on. After all, despite the protests of left-wing snobs, hedonism was an important component of the working class psyche. He and the kids just wanted to dance, fuck and eat! And anyone who said different might as well just hoist a swastika to the top of the mast and spit on the black man.

Outside MuckDonalds, two protesters handed out leaflets, grimly detailing the multinational corporation's crimes against the planet and humanity. Not that Pounce was having any of it, though!

"Reactionary rockist scum!" he yelped, screwing up one of their leaflets. "I suppose you expect us all to listen to Stockhausen and Napalm Death, while chewing our cous-cous and sun-dried tomatoes!"

"What?" enquired one of the protesters, genuinely bemused.

"Hippies!" Pounce foamed. "This isn't just a fast food joint, selling barely edible processed meat to punters, it's the powerhouse of the Black Pop Revolution! The Tamla Motown of takeway food! Look!" he gesticulated, dragging the protesters inside and waving his hand around the restaurant. Some hoodies sat around near the back, swearing. A morbidly obese mum fed her sprogs. An old man muttered in the corner. Two black nuns were wolfing down their burgers after a morning spent hard at prayer.

"But that woman - she's making herself and her children ill by eating this crap," said one of the protesters. "And it's not even that cheap, compared to.."

"You're the ill ones!" Brian screeched. "I suppose you'd rather see these people in a gas chamber? Why not just stick on your brown shirts and stamp their gay pop-friendly heads into a pulp?"

"You're fucking bonkers, mate!" the protesters retorted in unison.

Pounce suddenly grabbed the Fanta carton from the hoodies' table and took a glug. "A toast...a toast to CHAV POWER! Death to the fascist rock elite, to its Nuremberg summer festivals and to all the scum who'd gladly see R Kelly crushed under a..."

"Fuckin' pussy'ole, you takin' the piss?" one hoodie raged, trying to grab his drink back.

"Go on, merk him," his mates chanted. "Fuckin' wasteman".

"Would you like a leaflet?" one of the protesters asked the hoodies.

"Oi! What's going on here?" cried Michael Wanktrap - store manager! Like most managers, he was a complete cunt who'd push a blind man under a train for the price of promotion, and he wanted to restore peace and order in his branch.

"Fuckin' wanker," the hoodies roared as Pounce jumped up on the nearest table, continuing his rant. "THEY CALL HER 'SODCASTER', BUT I CALL HER SISTER!" he yelled, pointing at one of the nuns.

"Get out of here, or I'm calling the old bill," Wanktrap snarled, grabbing one of the protesters' arms.

"GIMME THAT FUCKIN' DRINK BACK, CUNT!" the aggrieved hoodie yelled as Pounce leapt from table to table.

"Get your hands off me, you fucking twat!" the protester shouted as Wanktrap made a feeble attempt to restrain him. "I'll have you for assault. This is a free country, I can hand out what I like..."

"GO ON, WES, SHANK HIM!" a girl's voice screamed.

The protester kicked Wanktrap in the bollocks, sending the officious prick reeling - to the delighted cheers of the long-suffering MuckDonalds staff! Wanktrap tumbled across the restaurant, bowling into the group of hoodies and knocking them to the floor. Assuming the staff's applause was directed at him, Pounce bowed, raised a clenched fist and exited the restaurant. He had a lecture to give at Goldsmiths College that afternoon, and didn't have time to wait around for the cops to come and sort out the MuckDonalds fracas.

***************************************

"Now," Pounce said, addressing the students in the lecture hall. "Your assignment last week was to listen to and analyse the song Surfin' Bird by the Trashmen. So, what do you think? Any theories as to the meaning of the song?"

One student raised his hand. "Is it a thinly-veiled reference to amphetamine sulphate?"

Pounce snorted in disgust. Another hand shot up. "Well, sir...it was recorded shortly after the Cuban Missile Crisis..maybe the 'surfin' bird' is a nuclear warhead?"

"Yes," a fellow student joined in, "and there was mass panic across the US at the time, they thought there'd be a serious escalation to all-out nuclear war...hence 'everybody's heard /'bout the bird / bird bird bird / the bird is the word'!"

"Not only that," another excited student chipped in, " but the whole MAW-PA-PA-POW bit could be an attempt to simulate the sound of ten million gurgling, frenzied death rattles, as the entire Western hemisphere is plunged into the Styx of atomic holocaust!"

"NO....NO..." Pounce groaned, banging his head against the desk.

"I know!" one rugby-playing student snickered. "It's about a bloke whose bird's dumped him!"

"WHAT IS FUCKING WRONG WITH YOU?" Pounce screamed, kicking his chair across the hall. "It's not about anything, you fools! Understand? It is GLEEFULLY MINDLESS POP! You're supposed to get drugged up, go wild, fuck each other in the streets, anything - but don't listen to the lyrics or try to make sense of them! What sort of rockist brainwashing did you idiots undergo at school?"

"So, sir," asked one girl, furrowing her brow with concentration, "are you saying that we should totally ignore a song's lyrical and/or aesthetic content, so long as it's amusing on a simplistic, childish level?"

"No, don't ignore it...embrace it!" Pounce howled, barely answering her question. "Become the song! They're your songs, they belong to YOU...the factory worker...the washer up....the single mum...the garage mechanic...the Asian....drifting through the hell of 9-to-5 drudgery, just living for the weekend...."

"But sir," another girl objected. "I applied for this 3-year cultural studies course so I could land some fantastic job at the end, like editing the NME, or publishing books about art and music - not to work in a kipper factory or bring up kids on my own!"

"You'll never graduate, you stuck-up BNP fuckbitch, til you've spent six months listening to workplace radio! That's real pop for real people, not some neo-nazi Goldfrapp pap for halfwit Guardian-reading muso-whores!"

"Take that back," the girl wept. "I'm half-Balinese".

"No - you should be taking POP back from the oppressors!" Pounce wailed. "Stock, Aitken Waterman....that golden hit factory of yore, betrayed by the fascist rock scum who've conned you into building contrived careers, steeped in rivers of teenage working class blood!" And with that, Pounce tore up the coursework that his group had submitted earlier in the week.

"Hey! We spent hours on that!" the disgruntled students yelped. But Pounce had already stormed out of the building. If the rockist pigs wanted to wallow in their own racism and classism, so be it. But Pounce wouldn't be the man to sit and watch as their sordid ship went down!

********************************

Pounce was in a huff. He was playing ABC at full volume on his headphones as he marched into Oval tube station. On the northbound platform, two emo kids were sniggering as they defaced a Hed Kandi poster, drawing moustaches and glasses on the cartoon faces of the dancing babes! Pounce clenched his fist and seethed. These nazi bastards were literally pissing jets of steaming HATE into the faces of the billions of teenagers who'd grafted long and hard to look the part on a Friday night. These scummy rock leftovers didn't have a clue about working class womens' dreams and aspirations, nor the crystalline beauty of the Wigan Casino all-nighter!

By the time he reached Camden, he was beside himself with fury. He decided the best course of action was to head for the Music and Video Exchange. Normally, he only bought his CDs at Our Price or ASDA - the peoples' stores. But then, he didn't intend to purchase anything from this scuzzy joint! It was well known that the MVE only catered for the type of die-hard Tory filth who venerated John Peel as if he were a god, rather than a snide, sexless puritan who'd spent his Beeb career cocking a snook at young black women up and down the land. No, Brian was on a more fulfilling mission - an all-out assault on rockist oppression!

"HA HA HA! Oh, HO HO!" he chortled to himself as he discreetly thumbed through the Stereolab rack, carefully damaging the record covers within! Dozens of Ike Yard, Big Black and Swans rarities were rendered unsaleable, as he tore, gouged and ripped the sleeves! A limited edition Motorhead import depreciated in value by £30, thanks to a spot of deft, destructive fingerwork on Brian's part!

"Oi, it's him, over there, that's the prick who's been trashing our stock!" one of the counter assistants yelled. Several MVE personnel hurled themselves over the counter, tooled up with marker pens and pricing stickers! Brian dropped the Bishi 12" cover he'd been mangling and fled the store, legging it towards Kentish Town tube.

**********************************

"Fuck this, let's have a break," panted Gary, gesturing to his work colleague. They'd been struggling all day to get a grand piano down 9 flights of stairs, and they still had 8 floors to go! "I fancy a pint, how about it?"

"Sounds great," said Barry. "I'll just tie the piano to this stair rail, so it doesn't come loose, and we'll be off. What's the weather like?"

"Looks like rain," mumbled Gary. "Also looks like this blog can't be bothered to continue the story anymore!"

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph...watch out!" Barry snapped, as he lost his grip on the piano. The instrument whizzed past Gary, crashed through a plate glass window and plummeted into the street - landing on Barry Pounce, as he fled the irate MVE workers. The popist was dead, killed by the very instrument that had once pioneered such astounding hits as Candle in the Wind and Ebony and Ivory. THE END (thank fuck)

Do you want a chicken supper Bobby Sands?
Do you want a chicken supper Bobby Sands?
Do you want a chicken supper
You dirty fenian fucker [ad nauseam...]

Well, that was fun: a dank basement round the corner from Smithfields Market, the stench of body odour, KFC farts, spilt lager, Superkings...watching the bluenose master race roar. Incidentally, I don't mean to diss all Gers fans - I met a couple of friendly blokes up for a beer and a chat last night and, I should stress, I'm completely anti-sectarian (personally, I wish all deities would tumble off their respective crosses and leave us the fuck alone -except for Lord Ganesh, obviously, but then he forces me to write this tosh at trunk-point anyway!) - but I also had the surreal experience of being interrogated at the bar by two huns, who took particular exception to my St Pauli T-shirt...

Hello! Hello! We are the Billy Boys
Hello! Hello! We are the Billy Boys
We're up to our knees in fenian blood
Surrender or you'll die
We all follow the Raain -gerzzz

Basically, some fat piece of German nazi trash (imagine sports pundit Danny Kelly with bigger breasts) and his, er, distinctly un-Aryan comrade (a half-black bloke who looked like the unlucky recipient of several centuries of inbreeding) decided it'd be a good hoot to corner me as I was ordering a round, and act all aggressive (with the backup of a few hundred pissed-up anti-paddies). All night I'd been quizzed by Gers fans and I dished up the same contrived story: "ST PAULI? WHAT, THEY'RE LINKED TO CELTIC? DUNNO MATE...WAS WORKING IN HAMBURG A COUPLE OF YEARS AGO AND WENT TO A LOCAL MATCH AND BOUGHT THE SHIRT..I'M SPURS ANYWAY..." Which satisfied a fair few of them. Well, what would you do if it was you and 250 of them?

But Fat Nazi Cunt decided to inflict severe GBH on my earhole. I neglected to inform the cretin that, were the Fuhrer still hauling his rancid carcass across the Fatherland, he and matey boy would be sizzling in a crematorium (and what a slow roast that'd be! I mean, I'm not the slimmest man on Earth, but this nazi slob probably had "HERR SCHEISSHUND'S KEBABHAUS" on his 'friends and family' call plan). "ST PAULI ARE...." he spat, and then swivelled his finger round his temple. "THEY ARE MENTALLY SICK, VERY LEFT WING QUEERS...ANTI-FASCISTS..REALLY BAD PEOPLE!"

"They are fascists?" I barked. "That's disgusting!"

"NO, THEY ARE AGAINST THE FASCISTS!" Fat Nazi Cunt retorted.

"Against Hitler?" (me). "Very good, yes?" (feigning outrage) "My grandfather fought against him, to keep Britain free!"*

(* a lie. My grandfather sat around Sligo in Ireland, wearing a cowboy hat and telling people he was American - complete bullshit, but hey, it beats working)

Get this - the prick was so outraged he actually spat a blob of phlegm over his own tits. Meanwhile, the mighty ZENIT ST PETERSBURG put a goal in. My Hun colleagues, who'd dragged me to the club, betting that I'd chicken out, looked rightly deflated. I walked over and elbowed them in the ribs. Ah, bliss - and all under a massive union jack, stretched out to cover a whole wall of the club -

And, 27 years after the event, they still can't stop banging on about Bobby Sands.

Zenit score a second. Hate gobbed at the plasma screen. Frowns and scowls. Rabid pride for the landmass where frigid Woolworths supervisors tell young employees, "don't say CHEERS to customers...this is a shop, not a pub!" I elbow and elbow and elbow and cackle into my pint of Kronenberg 1664. A Kronenberg for St Petersburg. St Petersburg, Leningrad, the glorious city where I got so drunk I pissed potatoes and had my heart torn open with a stanley knife. Kala was her name, she stuck me good and proper. The Gers are displeased. Rumours, conspiracies abound. A filthy fenian mafia ruins the beautiful game. Deals done with the referee, sinister Russian oligarchs exchange nods with the Catholic cabal. Jesus came down to save us all, brother and sister, hand in hand, but look at the fucking schism he left the Celts. 2046 AD, and you'll still hear songs about Bobby Sands starving to death in prison. Celtic fans enjoy the conspiracy yarns too. Disapproving growls about freemasonic linesmen, dirty lodges fixing results. Bluenose barristers making discreet phonecalls to the SFA. The Fat Nazi Cunt and his Belfast Flute Band shirt. Probably never even been there, the poser. Could have eaten his weight in Ulster Fry-ups, though.

Spilling out of the club, in a pub round the corner from Farringdon tube, I'm informed by my colleagues that I've got bigger bollocks than the pair of them - the prats - but that I shouldn't have elbowed their ribs so vigorously. Apparently I made it really obvious and some vexed Gers fans noticed me doing it, though 7 or 8 pints kinda obscured the fact. Anyway, here's a question - I vaguely remember a German punk song that had the chorus "NAZIS ARE NO FUN!" - can anyone recall who recorded it? I've had it in my head all morning. I'm going for a fag, I'll write something about music soon.

Just to let you know, I've been roped into going to a Glasgow Rangers supporters' pub tonight to see the UEFA Cup Final.

For the benefit of foreigners / people who know nothing about soccer ((by the way, you can tell which people only got into football during Euro '96 because they whinge "NO, ONLY AMERICANS CALL IT 'SOCCER'...IT'S 'FOOTBALL' IF YOU'RE A REAL FAN!" Er, I have a stack of 80s football programmes that prove you wrong, fuck-os...)) , here's the score: Rangers fans are diehard protestants. They love the queen and they hate Irish catholics. I mean, really hate them. Their rivals, Glasgow Celtic, are catholic. I kind of support Celtic, purely because of my parentage and cos I still believe in justice and freedom.

Today, I'm wearing an FC St Pauli T-shirt, a German team who have supporter links with Celtic and who hate rangers as well. So this is a bit like going on a BNP march in a burkha. I'm not sure why I agreed to go, maybe it's a subconscious deathwish. But assuming I don't get my head perforated tonight, I'll be back later this week with the thrilling MAY LISTENING POST!

By the way, rangers are playing ZENIT ST PETERSBURG tonight. Get this - Zenit finished bottom of the league in 1967 and should have been relegated, but, because they're a Leningrad team, and the city was celebrating its 50th year since the revolution, the Communist government decided they could stay up in the league after all! There's red power for ya.

Here we come...walkin' down the street...got scales on our bodies...and claws on our feet...HEY HEY, WE'RE THE REPTILES...

So, anyway, the jobbernowl won. London is in the hands of a lunatic.

In the town of Killorglin - some dump in County Kerry in Ireland ((I don't know if this is true, but my dad once told me that, genetically, Kerry folk are 80% human and 20% pike - then again, he told me that Dubliners were "a shower of bastards" and that people from Donegal were "the Jews of Ireland", whatever that meant - and he once asked a female Glaswegian who visited our humble abode, "GLASGOW? WHERE ALL THE HOORS COME FROM?", so let's just say he was never happier than when in County Sligo - don't blame me, I've never figured out intra-Celt rivalries)), the people there enact a mysterious ritual every August, known by some as the 'Puck Fair'.

It's basically an excuse for a 3-day beano, but with one bizarre twist. The townsfolk form a posse, charged with the task of marching into the mountains and capturing a wild goat. This sounds like the kind of shite Australian backpackers do during their gap years, so they can then spend years bragging about how tough they are - but it's not really a big deal in Ireland. My Irish cousin John (RIP) was a retard with a 12" cock, and he used to love going out into the fields and kicking seven shades of dung out of any cow, bull or donkey that crossed his path. It's true! I know you think this blog's all bollocks, that I'm really a mild-mannered bank clerk who just happened to chance across a free Sham 69 CD in a packet of cornflakes and has spun a web of fallacy ever since, but this is no word of a lie. He could probably have battered a polar bear to death with that plonker. Anyway, back to the goat-snatchers. They come back with a goat, the townsfolk stick it in a cage, give it a crown and declare it 'King Puck'. Basically, the goat is king and rules for 3 days, during which time the locals dance, drink, take gards' eyes out and surf a Bacchanalian wave to Hellsville.

Not everyone's sure why this carny takes place. Some scholars profess that it all kicked off in honour of the Great God Pan, who used to run around the woods and hills, chasing nymphs ((probably 'Benny Hill' style, the filthy old bastard...)) and invoking sweet chaos with his pipes. Others say that it just indicates a healthy disrespect for politicians and monarchs of all shades and hues.

All I know is that London's just elected a cunt of the lowest order, purely because some morons thought it'd be a bit of a 'laugh'. Either that, or they're so deluded and naive they actually think Tory influence will shoe them up the property ladder, or stop hordes of Muslim bombers using the bus after 6pm, or whatever. I'm ashamed to live here, to be honest. I'd rather have had the goat for mayor.

Oh yeah, I'm out of Finsbury Park now, and living next door to a Hindu temple. I found a nearby boozer and met a bloke whose dad used to be in the RAF ((like the Air Force, not Baader Meinhof)). "DOUGLAS BADER?" he spat, as if recalling some kid-fiddler rather than the handicapped hero of the Battle of Britain. "TOTAL WANKER!!! NOBODY IN THE RAF HAD ANY RESPECT FOR HIM!!! CRASHED HIS PLANE SHOWING OFF IN FRONT OF A BIRD, THAT'S HOW HE LOST HIS LEGS, FUCKING IDIOT!!! AND THEN, AND THEN, JUST COS THE RAF WAS SHORT OF PILOTS, HE FLIES OUT WITH HIS FAKE LEGS...AND CRASHES AGAIN!!! FUCKING IDIOT, COULDN'T FLY A PLANE FOR SHIT!!!"

Well, at least the quality of the pub banter improves the further you go up the Northern Line.

Dr Manasa smiled as she peered at the microbes wriggling around on her petridish. After years of painstaking work, she was about to change the course of history. Since graduating from Bengal Engineering and Science University in 1986, she'd devoted her time and effort to developing a biochemical solution to benefit mankind - proof that, in the right hands, science would always be a beacon for hope and liberation. As she turned from her microscope, she considered the sacrifices her family had made to enable her to pursue her studies, and she wished they could see her now. As she prepared to receive a delegation drawn from the global scientific community and selected members of the world press, she paused to consider the incredible announcement she was about to reveal. After 22 years of obsessive testing and research, Dr Manasa had developed a safe, side effect-free and permanent cure for AIDS.

However, her lab assistants, Terry Brickwell and Pat Winkle, were far from impressed! "I hate Dr Manasa!" spat Terry. "Stupid old cow! The only substance she should be allowed to handle is Fairy Liquid - washing up after she's cooked her husband's dinner!"

"She's so ugly and boring, she probably hasn't got a husband!" Pat growled. "Bloody woman! Coming down here and putting male scientists out of work! If it wasn't for her, we could have used this lab to manufacture our own speed pills, we'd have made a fortune selling whizz to teenagers at the summer festivals!"

"Interfering old bag!" Terry spluttered. "I wish we could get rid of her, I'd love to teach her a lesson."

Pat cackled. "I know what...she's developed some strand of super-microbes that kill AIDS on contact, and she's unveiling it to the press tomorrow...let's draw male genitalia all over the lab, then she'll look a right prat!"

"I've got a better idea," sniggered Terry. "I've got some rabies in a jar...how about I mix it up with her microbes and create a lethal virus?"

The assistants high-fived and went down the pub in good spirits - both men anticipating the opportunity to get rid of the meddling Manasa... and to abuse the principles of science by turning the research laboratory into an illicit drugs factory!

Oh shit, wrong post...anyway, today's blurb marks a very special historical occasion. For a start, it's the last BTI post ever to emanate from the stinking shithole sewer that's the Blackstock Road. Heed me, GOSLINGS: I'm off to more leafy surroundings. Long-time readers may remember that during this blog's 'amplic phase' (ie-heydalek.blogspot.com), I complained about pigeons nesting in my flat's gas flue, and Islington Council's reluctance to either a)) send pest control to shift them or b)) grant me a permit to kill them with a hammer.

Well, that was October 2005; now it's May 2008, and the flying rats are still there, cooing and natterng and pissing and fucking and whatever pigeons do. So, glad to say, I must be on me way - fuck you Blackstock Road. Fuck your morbidly obese community support officers, your charity bookshops for hairless dogs, all the septic grease in your junk food joints...and, most of all, that football team. Oh, and Jeremy Corbyn too.

Anyway, cheer up! If you live in London, you can vote for the mayor today. I'm very disappointed in Garry Bushell, he was meant to be running for the English Democrats, but apparently dropped out due to "work commitments". The EDs' website has headlines like "ST. GEORGE'S DAY POPULAR CHOICE FOR NEW BANK HOLIDAY BUT WILL THE SCOTS AT NO. 10 LISTEN?" Red Ken I used to like, but I find him a bit boring and desperate now, he's lost his spark. I'd just like to give a big shout out to the fuckwits who dissed me eight months ago when I said Boris Johnson has a really sinister agenda, and that, for all his buffoonery, he's deadly serious about class cleansing in the capital; well, if he wins, tough shit, cos he's not going to look after creative account directors who dig baile funk either.

Brian Paddick's a no-no because the only thing worse than a hippie is a hippie cop; the Green Party, if elected, will ban working class people from flying overseas from Heathrow ((and probably build 'greenhouse camps' to gas objectors with deadly tomato fumes)). Is George Galloway standing? I saw him mouthing off on the top deck of the Respect bus in Tottenham Court Road on Tuesday evening. The boogie bus was pumping out really radical anthems like R.E.S.P.E.C.T and Bryan Adams' Summer of '69.

So, after some deliberation, I just thought, fuck it, and voted BNP. No, I didn't really. Or did I? None of your business, you nosey trulls. Men died screaming in rat-infested trenches for my right to a secret ballot. Oh for Cthulu's sake, Boris is going to win, isn't he. This is London's hour of darkness, as alluded to by the ill-fated whale in the Thames two years back.