Tuesday, February 01, 2011


HEY! Ever spent your teenage years listening to moody industrial bands and reading De Sade, convincing yourself that humanity's a worthless joke and that mass murder's of no more consequence than peeling potatoes...but then been wracked with internal conflict when you realised that, deep down, you actually love your mum? Ever taken the moral high ground against SWP paper sellers, then gone to a gig, ordered three cans of Kronsta Kronenberg, then said, "Oh, hang on mate...two more, please"...and then disappeared into a jungle of 150 Pink Kross fans without paying while the barman plods back to the fridge? Are you the kind of person who'd inform your 7-year old nephew: Backstreet Boys? They sing about BUMS, don't they?, just to savour the spectacle of him crying and refusing to play his CD Christmas present? If you've answered - YES! YES! YES! then...congratulations! You've just stumbled across the Eridu of cockbloggery. Welcome to BTi v.2011.

I hail from a family of distinguished music critics. Ask Robert Christgau - it was none other than my father who memorably summed up all records released between 1966 and 2001 as "SHITE". My mother, meanwhile, was bang on the money when she stated: "Listening to the Sex Pistols...a sure way to let the devil into the home!" My brother was notorious in West Hampstead pop crit circles for his review of the Steve Miller Band, namely: "If anyone called ME 'Maurice', I'd knock their fucking teeth out." And who can forget my sister's gleeful appraisal of The Artist Formerly Known As The Artist Formerly Known As Symbol, that fateful night she gushed, "PRINCE! I LUGGHH PRINCE! HUH-UNGGGHHHH! PRINCE! I'M GOING TO SEE PRINCE AT WEMBLEY!! DERRRPP!" ?

Still, for arcane and unfathomable reasons, Lord Ganesha selected ME, the runt of the litter, to write the entire history of music. It's a burden I could do without, to be honest. If only you could see me, chained to this keyboard, wading through the filthy canal of lies with the dredge net of truth. I haven't even mentioned Bachman Turner Overdrive yet, let alone the Revolting Cocks. It'll be 4011 before I'm finished. Everything's in a right mess, my chronology's gone through the window. I should have just stuck to the simple continuum formula:


Oh fuck it - shall we all stop blogging, and rob a bank instead? Come on - don't tell me you've never imagined yelling "STICK IT IN THE BAG, FUCKFACE!" while jiggling a sawn-off shotgun in some stripey-tied Nigel's mush. Don't tell me you wouldn't cheer the fuck up if you had a bunch of co-conspirators to plan the blag with, rehearsing endless scenarios, being in on the most genuinely exciting 'team building exercise' you'd ever experience. Don't pretend there's ONE dubstep tune that could come close to the adrenaline buzz of BLAM BLAM, SMOKE EVERYWHERE, SIRENS WAILING, PENSIONERS FLAILING, putting a Group 4 guard on his arse, scrambling into the getaway car and speeding off in hysterics. Don't con yourself that waking up with a small fortune and a one-way ticket to Tokyo wouldn't piss over 4 more years of 'Alarm Clock Britain'.

I wonder what the best headgear would be? I'd personally love to raid NatWest in a white motorbike helmet, but that might restrict vision. Perhaps it'd be better to stick to the traditional, honest-to-God balaclava - never let ETA down, after all. I never got the robbers who wore stockings on their heads. Bet you £5 there was a bit more going on there than mere 'facial concealment'. Still, if you want to mix fetishism with fucking over the Black Horse, who am I to criticise? How about wearing a trouser leg with eyeholes cut out? Or a V For Vendetta mask? See, the possibilities are boundless. Now, isn't this more interesting than discussing how we might be able to reconcile glitchcore with popism?

I personally reckon that all bank robbers should be granted political amnesty anyway. It beats working! I don't know what the hell this country's come to, when a bit of private initiative and thinking outside the box lands you in the slammer. No stick-up merchant ever razed my local council facilities, or sent some kid up a non-secured ladder to break his back. I believe every man, woman and child possesses an inner bank robber, sussed to the fact that a lifetime of graft rarely makes you happy - and ultimately means sweet FA when they pop you in the soil. The trick is to ensure your inner blagger doesn't wither up and die. Feed 'em, folks, feed 'em...

Best of all, I just think turning over HSBC would be a bloody good laugh. And a great way to get fan mail afterwards! Though without attracting the truly creepy, sad types who write to serial killers ((or DJs)).

Oh well, please yourselves...it's one alternative to suicide, anyway...

Cheer up, willya? Look, I know I couldn't be arsed to write anything in January, but it's 2011! Year of the Rabbit! I have no clue how this affects my Chinese sign, but I wouldn't mind Fortuna flinging a few more punts my way. Say, £8 million? A fair sum for a fair man. Oh, and big up that astrologist guru who recently made up a new star sign, for a cackle, and completely fucked the list up. Bad news for pagans - this means all the angles on your runes are out of kilter too. No wonder none of those spells got you laid. Still, don't cry - I once rang the bloke on the London TOPY hotline, to find out how to fix the Grand National and pull Beatrice Dalle. He told me to get lost, he was eating his tea!

* a very special, sultry BTi mix for Valentines Day


* WOOFAH LEAKS - could the latest round of incriminating emails SINK the UK's leading reggae, grime and dubstep fanzine?

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