tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-196559052024-03-23T18:16:12.071+00:00BEYOND THE IMPLODE 3 - BRITISH AIRWAYS 0Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18359756054171146584noreply@blogger.comBlogger417125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19655905.post-30603917778588708842011-11-01T11:47:00.000+00:002011-11-01T12:48:25.911+00:00AN OPEN LETTER TO ALL BABIES BORN YESTERDAY<strong><em>Dear Shithawks,<br /><br />Congratulations! Not only have you arrived pissing and screaming on Planet Earth, wriggling around like peeled slugs in a bag of salt - you've just ramped up the global population to the 7 BILLION mark! Woo-hoo for you! I remember when I was forcibly farted out of the womb, all those years ago, so I do understand what you're going through. Seeing as my mum drank Guinness throughout her pregnancy, I nearly ripped the poor woman apart on my exit, scowling at the midwife, howling for a kebab and literally vomiting with relief at having escaped the dark ambient soundtrack wafting around her uterus.<br /><br />Thing is, when I landed on this miserable rock, there were only 4.5 billion humans on Earth. I had everything staked out - I was gonna conquer America, penetrate the Bermuda Triange, play speed garage on the Great Wall of China! Even a youthful Howard Jones reckoned he could raise £500 for Help The Aged by shaking everybody in the world's hand and getting to know them better. Everyone could find a seat on the tube. There were 2.5 billion less people and, by dint, 2.5 billion less irritating tossers fouling up the air.<br /><br />But now, we've got 2.5 billion bandwagon jumpers...joining the planet like they 'belong'...trying to cosy up to us, convince us they've got a 'right' to be here...and you're one of them. Don't think so, fuckface! Read up on some Malthus, you wrinkly, bald idiot, and don't DARE grizzle for a feed 'til you've checked out the figures.<br /><br />Look, the thing is - this is OUR party. We were here first. We don't need you here. WE ARE THE WORLD. That's WE, not you. Where were you in 1985, when we were all cheering on Status Quo at Wembley, just to keep Mengistu in Courvoisier and SAMs? You're basically a late gatecrasher. Just fuck off to Mars, you stupid, mewling brat.<br /><br />Love,<br /><br />Everyone born before 1977. </em><br /><br /></strong>Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18359756054171146584noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19655905.post-23378612650182578862011-09-27T19:05:00.001+01:002011-09-27T20:07:50.948+01:00GOTH / NOT GOTH? pt 2<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQxMYt2dAOKnGTVQrWLN29bnsYZr1wbB1PqwFnrLb0cneCl_Svz21RUVCtBEImvrFwPcMN01cmKDfz2gyVQM_NNweUDlKYZUx4YXp4hvMLYZ9ggiZsBHPdM6mbEY9OzaReK3Dh/s1600/032208.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 206px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQxMYt2dAOKnGTVQrWLN29bnsYZr1wbB1PqwFnrLb0cneCl_Svz21RUVCtBEImvrFwPcMN01cmKDfz2gyVQM_NNweUDlKYZUx4YXp4hvMLYZ9ggiZsBHPdM6mbEY9OzaReK3Dh/s400/032208.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5657111150175059554" /></a><br />Over the course of the past 36 hours, me, Chairman Dubversion, Sacha Colgate and John Eden have been having this great Twitter argument about GOFF, and debating whether or not bands like The Birthday Party, Siouxsie, etc counted as real goffs, as opposed to The Mission, The Sisters and The Neph. Eden bailed out of the debate for most of it, to do some ironing - in disgrace - but I thought I'd introduce some audio evidence to back up my side of the argument. Yep...welcome to the early 1980s, the years when REGGAE WENT GOFF!<br /><br />I can't be arsed to go all the way back to the Ostrogoths / Visigoths ((who were more like Hells Angels with pigtails, anyway)) so let's just say that GOFF arguably started in 1816, during the Romantics' legendary 'lost weekend' in Geneva. Percy Shelley, Mary Wollstonecraft and Claire Clairmont jumped a barge to Switzerland to chug copious amounts of opium with Lord Byron. It was around this time that Byron was so blitzed off his tits on drugs that he could barely tell a squid from a sofa, but this didn't prevent him from billing the almighty bender as a <i>literary shindig</i>. <br /><br />History informs us that, during this Swiss soiree of SUBSTANCE ABUSE, Byron bet Mary Wollstonecraft ((the 19th century Caitlan Moran)) £5 that she couldn't write a ghost story. In response, Wollstonecraft giggled for a couple of hours, repeatedly squeaking "I'M NOT A GOFF! I'M NOT A GOFF!", and then effortlessly knocked out <i>Frankenstein</i>. A disgruntled Byron spilt his opium tincture all over the sofa when forced to cough up his fiver. However, he should have kept his dosh in his pocket - <i>Frankenstein</i> might be about a mad scientist who brings a corpse back to life via electrical current but, technically, it's NOT a 'ghost story'. Still, try explaining that to a junkie while he's crawling round the carpet, frantically licking cushions. Similarly, it's literature's loss that the Geneva wasters never got round to reading Claire Clairmont's contest entry, about three shamen hired to remove a malevolent and ancient evil from a building, though her effort, <i>Ghostbusters</i>, was plagiarised by Hollywood leaches two centuries on. <br /><br />Less than 10 years after the Geneva beano, Shelley had thrown a seven, Byron was disabled and knocking around with Greek freedom fighters, and Wollstonecroft was back in London, mourning her consumptive babies. Hans Christian Andersen, a perverted Danish intelligence officer with a fetish for underage goose-costume sex, became a literary superstar with sentimental trash like <i>The Little Mermaid</i> ((though we now know that the Danish government illegally netted and butchered up to 10,000 mermaids in Scandinavian waters between 1825-1840, during a severe cod shortage)). It wasn't until 1845 that some get-rich-quick London hacks, deploying a string of pseudonyms, knocked out a stream of penny dreadfuls detailing the exploits of VARNEY THE VAMPIRE, and GOFF was temporarily resurrected. Andersen hadn't accounted for European yootz preferring to read about bloodsucking undead counts going crazy and biting everyone, instead of crap about spoilt brat princesses sticking peas under pillows. Finding himself out of vogue, Andersen fell into a deep depression, before falling out of bed and drowning in a bucket of goose fat. <br /><br />Meanwhile, an Irish jackeen called Bram Stoker was dossing around in London, trying to join the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn. Like most occultist groups, the HOOTGD was full of unbelievable snobs, so he had little joy on that front. To make things worse, his mate Pamela Coleman Smith ((aka 'Pixie')) blagged membership, by dint of drawing some crude cartoons for a deck of tarot cards! ((incidentally, she never got credit for her card art 'til years later. Occultist groups, eh?)) So, to stick it to them, Stoker decided to scribble down some proper GOFF classics, the best known obviously being <i>Dracula</i>, which he batted out in 1897. Al Crowley might be idealised by scores of spotty industrial fanboys...but hey, <em>who bagged the Hammer franchise?</em> <br /><br />GOFF was pretty much everywhere by the beginning of the 20th century. From HP Lovecraft, to people mocking up photos of fairies and smoking clove cigarettes in crypts, if you weren't goff...then man, it's like you just weren't there! Unfortunately, in 1914, World War I broke out and the wholesale massacre of an entire generation led to the subculture falling by the wayside somewhat. It wasn't until 1979, when some bored Melody Maker hack was sent to review a gig by a godawful punk band called Joy Division, that the phrase "BUNCHA GOFFS" entered muso terminology, and the subculture was reborn once more. <br /><br />If we agree that GOFF's musical heyday was the early 1980s, I offer up these fine audio examples of some of the genre's most influential classics: (yes, you can click on the links, and summon up each song to your desktop -just like magick)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsRmI_ahawcIT_WSmemCigiHSsL-HK8cvVTf4bhRCGO69AVnUqGgavAon0y7X91qkTNZ2xseeZzv-CHHEzQdRxjy0FkyyIiV5bc7Vk08u8EKOcViTy4LSg7LfED-ERhlVLmS6s/s1600/Lone-Ranger-Barnabas-In-Collins-Wood.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 250px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsRmI_ahawcIT_WSmemCigiHSsL-HK8cvVTf4bhRCGO69AVnUqGgavAon0y7X91qkTNZ2xseeZzv-CHHEzQdRxjy0FkyyIiV5bc7Vk08u8EKOcViTy4LSg7LfED-ERhlVLmS6s/s400/Lone-Ranger-Barnabas-In-Collins-Wood.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5657112276728141362" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.sendspace.com/file/2ykxvy">LONE RANGER - Barnabas Collins</a><br /><br />Clearly cut from the same body bag as Bauhaus' <i>Bela Lugosi's Dead</i>, this genuinely creepy haunted dancehall anthem focuses on the despicable crimes of a wicked and dreadful vampyr called...er, Barney...particularly his ruthless attack on the unfortunate Sister Joyce ((who was just trying to get to the Birdcage in her 'alter back an' ting. Hey Althea, Donna - NICE of you to just fuck off on the bus like that without waiting, huh?)) Unlike Lugosi, Barney can actually transform himself into a bat though, which gives the entire track a spine-chillingly sinister undertone. I especially love this because when all these popist twats with faces like the BBC's Ben Brown start mithering, 'AH YES, GOTH..ROCKIST! PRACTICALLY SKREWDRIVER IN KOHL...RACISM, PURE AND SIMPLE!', they're fucking oblivious to the fact that Lone Ranger was hanging out in some cemetery in JA, trying to convince himself he liked the taste of blackcurrant in his Red Stripe, and looking better in his goff hat then they'll ever do in their miserable fucking...whatever popists wear. <br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh419u-1sCJqo-lpqwRjF2cUTmzVaqN0s60_2x4D_p_vaNoq72yhafEvPYGFJexR5dYsMDZNsqoG4f5owAE_hBWnxd5zFxJ2NJ4UAIyXzHdHd2Jqda_K8SJ6R7X5hZvyYImuYUd/s1600/1_2c5de74aac9cc20aa84ef2f5d4ac8e16.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 391px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh419u-1sCJqo-lpqwRjF2cUTmzVaqN0s60_2x4D_p_vaNoq72yhafEvPYGFJexR5dYsMDZNsqoG4f5owAE_hBWnxd5zFxJ2NJ4UAIyXzHdHd2Jqda_K8SJ6R7X5hZvyYImuYUd/s400/1_2c5de74aac9cc20aa84ef2f5d4ac8e16.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5657099065751741522" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.sendspace.com/file/n5xmpm">MASSIVE DREAD - Vamps On The Corner</a><br /><br />Clearly taking his cue from the Banshees' more psychedelic album artwork, Massive Dread commissioned an LP cover comprising some chicken-faced mutants fleeing from a vampire that's either a) inexplicably got a shadow b) wet himself...with oil?? Anyway, come one, come all....send Mick Mercer if you like...I'm stating this song is a bona fide GOFF tune, and no word of a lie. The bass and FX on this are as dark as vampire pee, and Pete Murphy would kill to be able to laugh like that. Oh my bad, spot the fake GOFF analyst - Pete Murphy NEVER laughs. He probably does a 'Hmpph' snort every now and then. But boy oh boy, has he made the rest of us <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nZUIxGJ-ykI">cackle at times</a>. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjodnbD-0A6dTCzeyVdrLnomTmLJzJ6ykNyJzbY4SKhoLosMLLHK3rH4UD0UUJ5QQfd30aessIOj0pz_48Q6iOBO8xQPXKIN2kJ9mRo0Kuo60iHsgJI3kvxlg8KvOsqctAcGWhr/s1600/images.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 264px; height: 191px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjodnbD-0A6dTCzeyVdrLnomTmLJzJ6ykNyJzbY4SKhoLosMLLHK3rH4UD0UUJ5QQfd30aessIOj0pz_48Q6iOBO8xQPXKIN2kJ9mRo0Kuo60iHsgJI3kvxlg8KvOsqctAcGWhr/s400/images.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5657107074256758530" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.sendspace.com/file/ibn6y7">SANCHO - Chase Vampire</a><br /><br />If Dubversion is correct ((IF)), then, by 1986, the early progenitors of GOFF had given birth to the more dubious creation GOTH, and the world dissolved into one almighty 12" megamix of <i>This Corrosion</i>. Or maybe Eden's right, and it was all just about the clothes? Anyway, after Prince Jammy and Wayne Smith proved you could use computers to make reggae ((previously dismissed as some far-fetched <i>Tomorrow's World</i> fantasy - I am serious, kids)), it wasn't long before Sancho jumped on the corpse cart and whacked out this novelty Electro-Goth number. Check the similarity between this cover art and the sleeve to Les Vampyrettes' proto-goff 12" <i>Biomutanten</i>! True fact - this track led to a short-lived, bizarre Slimelight dance craze, where punks would line up, 'British Bulldog 123'-style, and jump tall blokes in capes as they tried to charge through the gaps, before chasing any remaining vamps down the stairs into the techno area. But a kid in a Love & Rockets shirt got a Chinese burn one night, so they banned it. <br /><br />You should have seen Sancho's TDK ad, though. That was PROPER mean.Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18359756054171146584noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19655905.post-30187387069271580852011-09-16T00:33:00.003+01:002011-09-16T00:43:04.927+01:00BTi JUKEBOX RETURNS<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6onWL5rrRYfqnRkDC46_X_ukX9fnzuiiDyuSc772svJihC2AU9n2blp9zn6DJMO_TXG5Ae_7AXhzLuJEJwAngwKWAaXo7uRIFIyes0PzTWstIZdK4Vh7znNtjthM39UnZb4g5/s1600/iraduo.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 281px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6onWL5rrRYfqnRkDC46_X_ukX9fnzuiiDyuSc772svJihC2AU9n2blp9zn6DJMO_TXG5Ae_7AXhzLuJEJwAngwKWAaXo7uRIFIyes0PzTWstIZdK4Vh7znNtjthM39UnZb4g5/s400/iraduo.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652733996520806418" /></a><br /><br />I love these novelty songs, uploaded with purely wholesome intent on the understanding that nobody seriously contemplates committing an act of violence against representatives of our ruling party!<br /><br /><a href="http://www.sendspace.com/file/kk4akh">LIVING LEGENDS - Tory Funerals</a><br /><br />((PS- DON'T click the emerald green 'download' link, the real one's lower and to the right))Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18359756054171146584noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19655905.post-53401938220168813752011-08-23T13:22:00.002+01:002011-08-23T13:32:57.526+01:00RADIO MIND beano at Broadstairs, Friday 2 September<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiXOiQepIU98rhYSF_6lHBe2kcw8cmpDcq7TBz6foVTC5g2s4ecgymoK0pWrApJncxR3Hr8UMHoSFkWcrHmuCj9GJRfDi_WsQM3NYfNzP0cKyP3bqiqgjrHi29EYTiOSiwpQ5m/s1600/mod.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 375px; height: 275px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiXOiQepIU98rhYSF_6lHBe2kcw8cmpDcq7TBz6foVTC5g2s4ecgymoK0pWrApJncxR3Hr8UMHoSFkWcrHmuCj9GJRfDi_WsQM3NYfNzP0cKyP3bqiqgjrHi29EYTiOSiwpQ5m/s400/mod.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5644026049885397138" /></a>
<br />((<i>Some mods, fannying around with deckchairs, AGAIN. Suppose they'd get four years if they did this now</i>)).
<br />
<br />Unless you've seen the event details on Failbook, you'll probably be unaware of this event, so I'm going to give it the oxygen of publicity here:
<br />
<br /><strong>The Old Lookout Gallery Broadstairs,
<br />Harbour Masters building, Broadstairs Harbour,The Pier (right next to the beach)
<br />Broadstairs, United Kingdom </strong>
<br />Opening 2pm Friday 2nd September: Exhibition runs 2nd September - 5th September 2011
<br />
<br />Opening Times: Fri - Tues 10 - 4pm.
<br />
<br /><em>The Old Lookout is the chapel of a religious pirate radio cult whose radio station Radio Mind, is relayed by its' Missionaries across the golden sands of this popular seaside resort.
<br />
<br />Inspired by an obscure group of early 20th century Anglican clerics with a shared interest in telepathy, psychic research and psy...chology as paths of divine/human communication, Radio Mind will take over the Old Lookout gallery, Broadstairs as an outpost from which to re-open the paths of transmission through performance, broadcast and participation.
<br />Radio Artist Magz Hall specialises in creating sound and radio events outside conventional studio settings and this micro transmission investigates the shifting terrains of the transcendent and the quotidian through new communications technologies. Drawing on early 20th Century experimental Protestantism, historical and mythic seafaring cults and the powerful mythology of the radiophonic aether, notions of radio, piracy and the religious imaginary will be brought into question.
<br />
<br />This radio installation will broadcast from an 18th century fisherman's hut in Broadstairs harbour, its beams and panels salvaged from scrapped vessels, and will broadcast across the immediate beach area as a micro-FM broadcast to be transmitted by beach-mission cultists baring radio receivers.</em>
<br />
<br />So, there you go. I'm not so hot on the Anglicans, but it should be interesting - plus I haven't been to a wind'n'rainswept beach, listening to inhuman electronic sounds, since the time my cousin dragged me to Bundoran for 'Krazy Nite Krazy' at O'Gorman's nightclub. That alone SHOULD have landed us four years in clink...Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18359756054171146584noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19655905.post-75380812298247814402011-07-20T12:39:00.006+01:002011-07-20T13:25:32.568+01:00A STATEMENTI feel compelled to issue a statement clarifying my position as Barnet & Brent correspondent for WOOFAH magazine.<br /><br />When I joined the title in 2007, I did so in good faith, believing that an independent mag for grime, dancehall and dubstep fans was inherently a positive move, and one that would sidestep the usual publishing concerns of boosting circulation and subscribers by rehashing any old shite from a press release. <br /><br />As the events of the past fortnight have confirmed, this was sadly not the case. <br /><br />First came the 'interview' with Leslie Lyrics in Issue 1. Had I known that the 'quotes' featured had been obtained by illegally hacking Professor Lyrics' Nokia 3110, I certainly wouldn't have contributed copy to the magazine. Unfortunately, it appears that the editorial team was content to pull the wool over my peepers as well as yours. <br /><br />During my frequent visits to the WOOFAH office, I often spotted a man in a kaftan and sunglasses, clutching a large hessian sack marked SWAG, darting out of the back window and making his getaway in a badly beaten-up golf buggy, mere seconds before my arrival. Whenever I raised this with the editors, I was assured that everything was 'OK' and that it was most likely 'a neighbour, collecting milk bottles'. I received this answer six or seven times. <br /><br />In fact, when I openly challenged the editor, to his face - <em>Is the print run being bankrolled by Gadaffi?</em> - he just looked me in the eye and categorically stated, "No". <br /><br />We now know this to be a brazen lie. <br /><br />But the lie didn't end there.<br /><br />In 2010, a WOOFAH co-writer, whose identity will remain anonymous, met me in a pub near Warren Street and handed me a dossier of emails he'd collated over the previous two years. They paint a picture so gruesome I can scarcely bring myself to convey the horrors within. <br /><br />The dossier included: proof that WOOFAH writers had phoned the Met to get London grime nights cancelled, just so they could submit articles about police heavy-handedness; AIM chat transcripts revealing that shipments of fresh new releases from international artists, forwarded to the magazine for review, had in fact been intercepted in Stoke Newington, redirected to Dublin and listed on eBay; proof that the infamous Droid v Eden 'Kings X clash' was staged - all 'live mixing' having been provided by a fellow WOOFAH hack, hidden under the table((a retrospective photo of the event, when enlarged, reveals that the decks weren't even connected to the amp)).<br /><br />You, WOOFAH's loyal readers, deserved better. <br /><br />It is with the utmost regret that I have to report that the person who provided this dossier cannot comment further on the situation. This is because he was found dead in his home, just two hours ago. <br /><br />In light of the above, I therefore wish to announce that, with immediate effect, I am resigning from the zine and will henceforth cease to have any connection to WOOFAH whatsoever. I thoroughly reject any suggestion that I was aware of the foul play committed by the editorial team during my time on the zine, and must insist that any enquiries regarding the aforementioned crimes are directed to the former and present editors, as well as the dubstep editor, most likely. <br /><br />Sincerely,<br /><br />Martin.Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18359756054171146584noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19655905.post-64252183295595728892011-07-13T17:04:00.002+01:002011-07-13T19:41:28.428+01:00iTUNES IS CRAP - OFFICIALThroughout my life, I've been accused of being a technophobe. I guess this stems back to 1985; while all the other kids were playing 'Donkey Kong 2', I was still trying to guide that blob of mercury through the maze. I personally think technophobia's a harsh one to pin on this cat. Maybe it's the technology that's flawed, and not me - ever thought about it like that?? <br /><br />I mean, take email: supposedly the greatest advance in instantaneous global communications since the carrier pigeon...and yet every memorable, genuinely enjoyable email I've received over the course of 12 years has been outweighed, 100 zillion to one, by bullshit like <em>STOP BEING A LOSER WIN TODAY You don’t need designer clothes to play at this casino. Play from the comfort of your home</em>. Ask Chairman Mao - he was so sick of spam, he just shot the fucking pigeons from the sky. If only half of these'firewalls' did the same. <br /><br />What about mobile phones? Listen, I'm not given to product endorsement, but I'll say it: the Nokia 3310 was the best phone I ever dropped down a flight of stairs and I bitterly wish I still had it. I could fire off a 140+ character text in about 20 seconds ((and I didn't even use text speak)) and I felt every beep and vibration a mile off. Shit, there were child soldiers out in <em>the Congo</em> who heard my incoming text alerts. The only thing I couldn't do with it was take pictures of my cock and text them to my girlfriend, or go on the internet to buy DMX Krew CDs - ooh, bothered. It was a tough, vicious beast of a phone, seemingly impervious to whatever concrete, wooden or steel surfaces I hurled it at, and of absolutely no interest to muggers whatsoever. <br /><br />So what about now? Well, after leaving my iPhone in Texas 3 months ago, I decided to opt for an HTC Wildfire instead, purely 'cos it was £200 cheaper ((no, my iPhone wasn't insured. Only thick people actually lose their phones)). And hey, guess what? Now, I don't have a fucking clue if anybody's calling me because it takes about a decade to go through 'Settings' to get a proper, honest ringtone ((what's all this whirly ambient shit?)); knocking out a text on the miniature touchpad feels like playing a game of 'Operation', taking me 20 minutes to nail down five words; and the predictive text options make me feel like a ventriloquist puppet for some smug cyborg - hey, just complete my sentences for me why don't you, twatbot. But I can take pictures and 'streaming video!', and a pair of windscreen wipers goes SQUSHHHH across the screen when it's raining locally, so that's OK then! <br /><br />Had enough yet? What about tube trains? In the old days, it used to be hilarious when a city banker got trapped in the carriage doors, after a last-second sprint down the escalator. You could sit back and watch him sob in terror and agony as the PORTALS OF PUNCTUALITY crushed his worthless bulk, requiring about 6 people to help pull the red-faced spanner into the carriage. Now the doors just lightly poke against folk's shoulders and retract after a few seconds. Where's the fun in that? <br /><br />Oh please yourselves. It brings out my inner SPG officer, any odds. <br /><br />I'm no technophobe but, if I resent being held up in queues behind doddery old ladies, then I sure as fuck ain't taking it from a bunch of robots. This simple attitude explains why I treat all new applications and technological developments with extreme caution. <br /><br />Nonetheless, there are three interzones where I'm delighted to engage with technology, and they're called MEDIAFIRE, MEGAUPLOAD and RAPIDSHARE. Why fork out $200 + shipping for a 5-LP S.P.K retrospective box set, when you can download the lot for free within five minutes, and then delete it all once you've realised the live sound quality's crap and the uploader forgot to include the <a href="http://www.discogs.com/sell/list?release_id=76542&ev=rb">slightly pricey </a><em>No More</em> 7" anyway? Squeeze every last penny's worth out of your home broadband fee, that's what I say. Maybe it's the equivalent of eating 'til you mess your pants because of 'the starving Indians', but let's face it, people in China would love the freedom to illegally download out-of-print industrial rarities, and I think it's an insulting waste of bandwidth not to do so on their behalf. <br /><br />Subsequently, the idea of using the official iTunes store to actually BUY tunes always struck me as semi-retarded. UNTIL...I was cleaning up my flat last week and came across a £25 iTunes voucher. Ah yeah - a 'redundancy present' from last year. Perhaps if my former workplace hadn't made 30 people redundant six months before they kicked me out, I'd have received a decent gift. Anyway, 'waste not, want not',etc, so I decided to scratch off the code and spend the voucher on a few things that seem to have eluded Mediafire etc. <br /><br />What a fucking fiasco. Hey, Apple, here's an idea - why don't you explain to your users, UP FRONT, that they need to include a) at least one number b) at least one capitalised letter when creating an iTunes password, instead of pissing my time up the wall by listing your requirements AFTER the fact? About 10 minutes later, I was actually ready to 'go shopping', having had to re-log twice after being bombarded with account activation links. Oh and nice 'search' function you got there, boy - funny how all roads lead to Rihanna. <br /><br />Anyway, my first port of call was BLACK ROOTS' <i>Black Roots With Friends</i> album from 1993 ((£7.99)). I had a tape copy of this reggae release many moons ago, back when it could be found in remainder bins for about 99p. For some reason, the platter's languished in near total obscurity over the years, though I was really keen to hear it again. To be fair, it's not an amazing album - this was more of a nostalgic head trip, as I wanted to listen to <i>Juvenile Delinquent</i> and <i>Tribal War</i> for the first time since I was 17, back when I still didn't have much of a clue about reggae and every vinyl buy was a wild stab at hitting jackpot. Still, it's aged OK. Ish. It's funny hearing the group sing <i>Don't be like the Protestants and Catholics / Who are killing dem one another...</i>...wow, we really did host some wicked sectarian wars back in the '80s and'90s, before the Islamic fundamentalists jumped on the bandwagon. <i>Tribal War</i> sounds a bit different to how I 'remember' it; I'm certain there was a bit where the rhythm drops out and gives way to a "WAR-ORRR-ORRR-OAAAHHHH" dub echo, which definitely ain't on this download...but maybe I'm confusing it with that "BOY-OY-OY-OY-OYYYYY" bit in Trinity's <i>Three Piece Suit</i>. It's been a long time after all. Can't tell you who Black Roots' 'friends' were on this album, as iTunes didn't bother to list any credits. <br /><br />Incidentally, <i>Black Roots With Friends</i> actually comes with two bonus albums tagged on; <i>Blue Moon</i> by Kevin Eastwood and <i>Triad</i> by Adrian Brown / General D / Tippa Ranking ((or 'Tippa Ranks' as lazybones iTunes chooses to refer to him)). Kevin Eastwood's OK for a lovers rock gargler<br /> ((yep, as the album title suggests, he does a reggae version of that soppy old croon-tune)) but he didn't really float my boat. The <i>Triad</i> album sounds ace though! Never heard of any of the three UK singers/MCs responsible, but the tunes are great, especially Adrian Brown's <i>Don't Care A Damn</i> and Tippa's <i> Lef Out The Coke</i>. So you can imagine my disgust at checking out the original release details, and discovering there's an extra three tracks that iTunes didn't bother to stick on the download version, including a song by General D called <i>Poll Tax</i>. Hey, thanks a fucking lot - <i>Triad</i> isn't even on Mediafire either. Don't suppose anyone can burn me the missing tunes?<br /><br />So this is the mighty iTunes?? The main problem is that there's simply nothing on there you can't blag for free elsewhere ((except Black Roots, obviously)). I ended up looking up ancient speed garage tunes that I hadn't heard in ages, but then I got paranoid that some of the labels might have been affiliated with Ministry of Sound, so I jacked it in and downloaded <i>Take The Money And Run</i> by Steve Miller for 79p instead, purely 'cos it was playing in a bar in Houston one night and it made sense in a sort of 'getting wasted in cowboyville' style. Hardly has the same effect in an overcast NW London, but sod it, it wasn't my wonga - and you can never have enough songs about teenage sweethearts going on an armed robbery rampage while being chased around the state by a bent sheriff. It's like <i>Zombie</i> by the Cranberries - to you, it's probably some maudlin dirge about Northern Ireland and all the Protestants and Catholics killing dem one another...but I've just got a Thai pole dancer with skull make-up and a rubber bat tucked into her G-string implanted on my brain, forever, thanks to some glorious Bangkok bar specialising in face-value thematic interpretations of song titles. One girl wore a hard hat and jived around a toolbox for AC/DC's <i>Shake Your Foundations</i>. Guess they could have just panned to some retired stockbroker waking up in his shitty hotel room with all his credit cards missing for <i>Take The Money And Run</i>...<br /><br /><br />Thank Bejayzus for Xylitol and Hacker Farm. Speaking of which...Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18359756054171146584noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19655905.post-80213533171709450672011-06-08T11:24:00.007+01:002011-06-08T13:43:20.058+01:0035 YEARS OF TEARSI turned 35 at the weekend. I know this fact's less interesting than spotting Nordic deities' faces in the clouds, but it's led to a shedload of HAVING A THINK on my end of the deal. <em>When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things</em>...or so wrote St Paul, in his letter to the Corinthians, as he wolfed down another hit of crack while 'Shanghai Cindy' zipped up her white cowboy boots, snatched £20 off the dresser and scarpered out the door. I think my problem is that I haven't really put away my childish things, yet. I'd rather have a Mars Bar than unlock the meaning of life. I still get the urge to smash tube windows when I hear the sludgy opening geetar riff on the first Chaos UK EP. About the only childish thing I <em>don't</em> do anymore is cry over the <em>'Night Night, Jamie'</em> bit at the end of <i>Jamie and the Magic Torch</i> - but then, that ludicrous mindfuck of a cartoon hasn't been on UK TV since the GLC impl0ded. <br /><br />Incidentally, this blog's been pretty silent on the whole 'Nick Clegg crying over music' scandal - but doesn't it make you want to vomit monkeys? I mean, for fuck's sake. I can understand a grown man getting a lump in his throat 5 minutes into The Pogues' version of <i>The Band Played Waltzing Matilda</i> - you know, it's a pretty harrowing indictment of the inhumanity of war, complete with teenagers having their legs blown off in trenches, stinking mounds of corpses, shells exploding everywhere, crippled war veterans wheeling themselves past silent, gawping crowds - a fake cough and misty eyeballs are wholly appropriate for a song like that. But... <em>crying over some My Cunting Valentine song, because it reminds you of that indie girl who dumped you in the Horn of Plenty before Dub War came onstage??? </em>- get the fuck out of here. Great - our quackistocracy's jointly run by an adult baby who blubs over songs, and a Smiths fan. I'm not a massive Gadaffi supporter ((unless, of course, the Daff's innocent - hey, don't always knock the underdog without the full facts)) but you have to admit - you wouldn't catch him snotting into a kleenex over some friggin' tosh like Spiritualized or Sparklehorse. <br /><br />Naturally, I utilised Twitter to demand that Clegg spill his guts concerning exactly which songs cause him to cry. If he'd replied with <i>Bright Eyes</i> it still would have made him an epic wussbag, albeit one who gives a shit about the plight of fugitive lab rabbits who've taught themselves English. However, if he'd come back with something by Duffy, we could have safely committed mass suicide in collective disgrace at having been co-subjugated by such a waahhmonger. As it happens, Clegg didn't respond at all, instead tweeting some fake rubbish about visiting a factory, in order to deflect attention from my persistent enquiries. Beyond all doubt, this oaf has wept to Scouting For Girls. Or The Feeling. Whoever released that <i>She's so luggghly! She's so luggghly!</i> dreck. <br /><br /><i>She's so luggghly!</i> I used to think that straight women bawled to Sam Cooke, Otis Redding and Rick Astley records because they'd detected, in these performers' soulful vocals, masculine qualities that no 'real' man could ever live up to. These sonic sorcerors fed women a teasing glimpse of a romantic shangri-la that would forever be denied them and, subsequently, the female listeners wept and wailed in frustrated lust, as their real-life spouses roared obscenities at O2 Customer Support in the background.<br /><br />Now, I'm not so sure. After all, Otis Redding openly admitted to just sitting on the dock of the bay, wasting time. Where I come from, that's usually a hangable offence. If he'd been sitting IN 'The Dock Of The Bay', grabbing a pint with Mick Sweeney and watching Channel 4 Racing...<em>wasting time</em>...there'd have been fucking tears alright, and not ones of ecstasy. By the way, if you aspire to the Crust Punk subculture, forget the vintage Deviated Instinct patches - you have to give credit to Otis. He was literally dossing around on a dock all day YEARS before those glue-huffing, atonal Bristolian fleabags Disorder were squealing "<em>Vomiting green haired punx / Standin' on the dole.."</em> and pledging themselves to lives of indolence. If Otis had been on the dole, he'd wouldn't have 'stood', he'd have sat. Actually, he wouldn't have been on the dole, because he wouldn't have even moved from the dock of the bay. The DSS would have had to send snoopers to the bay to ensure he wasn't doing any undeclared fishing ((fat chance)). <br /><br />Aye, it's a mean trick the soul singers pulled on womankind...I guess straight blokes' equivalent would be Betty Boo putting on a space helmet and gyrating around a gigantic Freudian alien tentacle. Still, dating's not what it used to be. Have you seen these pick-up artists? It's like a swarm of cockroaches in bootcut jeans. All droning around Covent Garden, practising their lines. Apparently, the best way to line up a tumble is to 'neg' women, by offering them a mixture of compliments and insults - <i>Nice earrings...ya fat cunt!</i> and the like. I dunno, it's not like in my day. We used to drink a flagon of cider and work up the bottle to tell goff girls that we dug graves for the council and that our parents didn't understand us. Show off an unusual birth defect, like a third nipple or a tail, and you were in - provided she found the idea of pillow talk about SPK 'being better than The Cure' less troublesome than traipsing back to Houghton Regis at 3am on her own. Well, that was the theory. Anyway, I think what I'm trying to say is that Buddha wasn't lying when he rattled off that wisecrack about how the further you go, the less you know. Quite frankly, my advice to younger BTi readers, having reached this major milestone in my life, is...<i>Uh?</i>Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18359756054171146584noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19655905.post-64257621570160680992011-05-20T12:56:00.003+01:002011-05-20T14:30:16.022+01:00PSYCHIC ATTACK ON DAVID WILLETTS - MAY 22, 2am<strong>WHY?</strong><br /><br />David Willetts is just one of scores of Tory shitbags that could have been selected for this attack but, in short: he's the reason your kids probably aren't going to university any time soon, unless you farm out your organs on eBay. He's also claimed that the primary cause of mass redundancies / unemployment is WOMEN, all of whom got ideas above station and LEFT THE KITCHEN UNATTENDED, in order to pursue frivolous pastimes such as getting jobs that maybe<em> won't </em>make them want to sever their arteries in silent frustration. However, truth is that Willetts could discover a cure for cancer tomorrow morning and he'd still deserve it, 'cos he's a <em>Tory</em>. Even if you hate students, you should all take part in this attack, <em>because he looks like a paedophile, inn'it</em>. <br /><br /><strong>WHEN?</strong><br /><br />The attack will take place at 6pm PDT / 9pm EST / 2am GMT on Sunday, to tie in with the anticipated 'Rapture' celebrations. For those not in the know: 89-year old evangelical arch-warlock Harold Camping and his followers are ganging up in California to usher in 'The Rapture', when Jesus Christ is expected to turn up in a chopper, whisk the chosen, saved few to paradise and obliterate the rest of us, because He's had it with Richard Dawkins' bullshit. Regardless of whether or not the Big Yin actually shows, Camping has unwittingly sparked off a chain of global media coverage, generated a fast breeder meme and opened up a temporary gateway between parallel universes - simply by getting more than 23 people involved. What WE'RE going to do is take advantage of this reality gap and hitch a ride on Camping's coattails.<br /><br />Think of it like this: the Rapture mob are having a huge party in the flat downstairs. We're simply going to lower a cable into their flat and syphon some of their psychic electricity for our own purposes. <br /><br />There's been a lot of crappy debate about WHEN we should actually do this, with people arguing the toss about the accuracy of time zones, <em>yadda yadda</em>, but 2am on Sunday morning is a good time to get the UK involved. Most people will be out, partying, drinking and dancing, and these Dionysian conditions can't fail to bolster the effects of our ruthless psychic strike on the hapless Tory gimp. And, let's face it, this is going to be a better use of your mobile at that time than texting your ex from the top of a night bus, apologising and grovelling for a second chance. <br /><br />As long as more than 23 people take part in this attack, we'll be playing a full hand - and Willetts' miserable fate will be sealed...<br /><br /><strong>HOW?</strong><br /><br />I am now going to reveal a powerful sigil, which you can easily type on your keyboard or keypad. We are going to invoke a particularly strong image - namely, the GREAT GOD PAN <em>urinating copiously onto David Willetts' face</em>. <br /><br />To do this you will simply need to manipulate your D, C, 8, =, -, () and O keys, to create the following sigil: <br /><br /><strong>8===D ---- C(-o-o-)D</strong><br /><br />Feel free to freestyle on the length of Pan's plonker, or the quantities of the jets of pee, but you should adhere to this basic template. All sigils should be posted <s>in the 'Sigils Box' at the end of this post ((usually masquerading as 'Comments'))</s>BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 2-3am GMT. Remember: while you type the sigil, you should actually try to imagine the Piper of Arcadia cackling with glee as he vents the steaming contents of his bladder at a cowering Willetts. <strong>((EDIT - Fuck that - use Twitter, saves a load of scrolling and clicking around here. If you haven't got Twitter, sign up for an account now, takes about a minute. Please RT everyone else who tweets the SIGIL OF VENGEANCE between 2-3am)). </strong><br /><br />PLEASE NOTE: the Sigils Box should ONLY be used for the above sigil, and as a contribution to the mass Willetts mindfuck. This isn't the time to start wishing for a lover or a lottery win - we need to conserve as many psychic volts as possible to fling in Willetts' direction. <br /><br />Best of luck! Come on - we can do this...Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18359756054171146584noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19655905.post-1948923276574932172011-05-18T15:38:00.008+01:002011-05-19T13:16:14.049+01:00A PSYCHIATRIC EVALUATION OF "BAKED BEANS AND EGG" BY MACKA B<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR9rYUgDySEZEXuiiPKcAvR1cWCToOyLYsN18slzO98Mg4b4rw-w3-to_zuFc46xWEYA3hfsLblAauqkfZ9pRZbR8LT3Dn_CGS4OzobNTy08Rt5O7Zqy5PaZVnL6qrGzUWbWo3/s1600/15842448%255B1%255D.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 396px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR9rYUgDySEZEXuiiPKcAvR1cWCToOyLYsN18slzO98Mg4b4rw-w3-to_zuFc46xWEYA3hfsLblAauqkfZ9pRZbR8LT3Dn_CGS4OzobNTy08Rt5O7Zqy5PaZVnL6qrGzUWbWo3/s400/15842448%255B1%255D.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5608083528451912754" /></a><br />Basically, Brummie MC Macka B pops down the pub for a lunchtime Guinness and a game of dominoes. He's jotting down some lyrics about Indian chicks, or something, when he suddenly spots his old mate, Fred. He hasn't seen Fred for yonks - or at least since Fred got married to a white lady. Macka bounds over to greet his old mucker, only to recoil in horror when he observes his pal close up - Fred's positively emaciated! Reeling in shock, Macka demands to know what's going on. <br /><br />Fred begins to cry as he relates his misfortunes. It transpires that marrying a honky proved to be the biggest mistake of Fred's life. Yep, what they say is true - white women really CAN'T rustle up a meal to save their lives. Despite Fred's encouragement - in vain, it would seem - his wife is utterly incapable of plonking meat or fish in the pan without charcoaling the bloody lot. In fact, the only 'dish' she's remotely proficient at making is 'baked bean and egg' sandwiches - although, as a Sunday treat, she also serves Fred a packet of ready salted crisps for afters. Fred reveals what a lesser man would be too ashamed to admit - he has eaten nothing except baked bean and egg sandwiches for the past 278 days. <br /><br />Clearly moved by this harrowing testimony, Macka offers Fred (who's now weeping hysterically in a foetal ball on the pub carpet) an invitation to his flat to sample a four-course Caribbean meal. Unfortunately, this generous offer leads to Fred going completely bananas and making a spectacle of himself in the boozer. "<em>Yes Fred...YES... you are invited</em>," Macka reiterates, in an attempt to calm his spar, who's now throwing himself around the pool table and excitedly informing uninterested drinkers that he's going to Macka's for tea. The two friends part ways - Macka to prepare this gargantuan, wholesome noshfest, and Fred to presumably spend three hours gawping at a packet of Persil, frantically praying his wife comes home to put the washing in. <br /><br />Come 7pm, Fred rolls up at Macka's on his moped - no doubt buzzing with adrenaline and gripping the handlebars with sweaty, trembling mitts. Macka's laid out a ginormous spread, which causes Fred to rub his hands and lick his lips. In fact, Fred's so blown away by this vision of gastronomic paradise, his eyes actually turn red. Macka heads into the kitchen to fetch some plates and tall glasses for the carrot juice - only for Fred to pull his helmet back on and announce that he has to go back home...to help his wife butter the bread for their baked bean and egg sandwiches! Notwithstanding Fred's appalling lack of time management, a bewildered Macka B is left rightly enraged as he watches his old 'friend' scooter off into the distance. After all, Macka's gone to a lot of trouble knocking up this banquet, only to be cruelly snubbed by an emasculated ingrate. At least Macka can put some of the rice and peas and dumplings back in the fridge, to keep for later in the week, but it's still been an afternoon of toil in the kitchen for nowt. Perhaps feckless Fred didn't even pause to consider the social aspects of <em>'going round X's for dinner</em>' - which means that Macka also wasted his time (and £1.50) hiring a DVD copy of <i>Babylon</i> from the local library. Macka closes the door, half-heartedly chews on some yam and ponders his ex-mate's selfishness.<br /><br />Except...what if 'Fred' <em>doesn't exist</em>?<br /><br />Hmm...we've kind of been here before though, no? Macka had another friend, didn't he - the one who tried to go out with that Indian chick. He's canoodling on the sofa with Mr Singh's daughter - probably feeding her some line about wanting to go travelling around India and how he's fascinated with Hindu spirituality ((even though she's Sikh)) - when, suddenly, her brothers' turbanned death squad charge thru the front door, wielding splintered hockey sticks, forcing "Macka's mate" to flee via the bathroom window. Or what about that other 'friend' of Macka's, who went to the barber and got a wet-look haircut...only for all her hair to fall out, and to then have her hastily sourced wig knocked off by a jiving rude boy down the dancehall on Friday night? <br /><br />Yup...it's the old "<em><em>...happened to a friend</em></em> ((break eye contact))" syndrome - a classic case of transferral. You know...like my 'friend' who once went to BASH, got drunk, yelled insults at Ari Up and then tripped on a beer bottle, falling arse over tit. Or that 'friend' from Luton who blew his chances with the SWP girl by blurting out, "<em>Gyorgy Lukacs</em>? What, the guy who wrote <em>Star Wars</em>?" Ultimately, Macka B is directing his righteous tirades at the phantom in the mirror. It's patently MACKA who grovelled to his wife in exchange for baked bean and egg sandwiches; MACKA who offended the local Sikh community by being unable to keep it in his pants; MACKA who screwed up royally when he tried to cop the Jacko look. It's a long, depressing list...but the sooner Macka faces up to his shortcomings and addresses them, in a spirit of responsibility and maturity, the sooner he can move on and shed the coachload of demons rioting incessantly in his mind, causing him to blame others. <br /><br />(<em>Originally submitted for WOOFAH 5, but Droid told me to fuck off</em>).<br /><br />PS - why is Lionel Richie having a strum in the mirror in the top left hand corner?Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18359756054171146584noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19655905.post-17298042771629535822011-05-06T19:56:00.008+01:002011-05-07T05:41:44.633+01:0010 AMAZING TRUE FACTS ABOUT HOUSTON1) Yes, you are <span style="font-style:italic;">fucked </span>without wheels; entirely at the mercy of the city's Yellow Cab mafia. Imagine some giant baby went ballistic with a trillion Fisher Price Motorway sets and a stockpile of Meccano, and chucked about 50,000 McDonalds drive-ins, car dealerships, video/DVD rental shacks and stores called 'Jed's Fishing Supplies - <span style="font-style:italic;">World's Biggest Tackle Emporium</span>' around the sides, at random - and you still wouldn't be close. I asked a girl where I could pick up some fa...cigarettes. "There's a gas station up there, just up on the right!" she beamed. "Oh OK," I replied, squinting at a blinding white, dusty highway that vanished into a horizon of skyscrapers and scaffolding. "How long does it take to walk?" "Oh, you can't WALK there!" she mouthed, like she was speaking to a baby in a pram. "It's a 10 minute ride!" It took me a day before I actually saw snatches of avenues and houses. As you might have guessed, everyone knows everyone in certain districts, but it was hard to detect any sense of community - more like an endless stream of trucks and cars thundering by, atomic splitting across the freeways, before disappearing from view.<br /><br />Incidentally, if you want to beat the traffic, you can always (ask your taxi driver to) use the HOV lane - that stands for 'high occupancy vehicle', which, in Houston, translates as 'more than one person in the motor'. No, that's not some sarcastic aside. <br /><br />2) Houston cab drivers are the eyes and ears of the Illuminati. They know EVERYTHING that's going down in the Global Theatre. Bin Laden bopped? "NAH, I AIN'T BUYIN' THAT!" one dude called Marvin told me. "You look at the pictures of him in, uh, 2001 and he looks real young, OK? And then, in 2006, he's lookin' not so young, much older, right? That's the <span style="font-style:italic;">dialys</span>. He was comin' inta Houston, gettin' fixed up at the dialys center. That's what killed him, THE DIALYS, and that was years ago, years ago! His family owned a condo over by Clear Lake, they got run out after 9/11. But I knew one of the nurses, and she saw Bin Laden gettin' the dialys. So I ain't buyin' that 'til they show the body! You go and research that, look up the dialys." Incidentally, Marvin once gave a lift to George Bush Snr. and <span style="font-style:italic;">"that Saudi Arabia prince guy"</span>; he knows all the scientists at NASA and gave them "common sense" advice on rocket design, which they've sneakily incorporated and passed off as their own work; and he supplements his taxi-driving income by dealing rare Animals and Beatles vinyl originals. <br /><br />I tried advancing Marvin's theory with Al, who used to be a Noo Yoik cop for 20-odd years, 'til he suffered a debilitating knee injury and returned to his native Houston. "NAH, I DON'T BUY THAT, THEY SHOT BIN LADEN ALRIGHT!" he angrily countered. "DO YOU EVER GO TO FRANCE? YOU GOT THAT TUNNEL? THEY'RE KINDA WIMPS, HUH, THE FRENCH? BUT OBAMA NEVER GOT RID OF THAT ASSHOLE, GEORGE BUSH DID ALL THE WORK SMOKIN' HIM OUT! YEAH, THE FRENCH...THEY SURRENDERED IN WORLD WAR TWO, RIGHT?" Al's got everything Merle Haggard ever recorded, he revealed.<br /><br />3) Contrary to common belief ((and CNN overkill)), nobody out there ((bar the cabbies)) gives much of a toss about Bin Laden. I only saw a couple of DON'T MESS WITH TEXAS posters ((and one I'M A LONGHORN DAD! bumper sticker)). Similarly, the idea that the Lone Star State's full of mentalist evangelo-churches is an urban fib on par with 'Soviet Russia suppressed Christianity'. What you SHOULDN'T 'mess with' in Houston basically boils down to a) their motors b) NASA c) the Houston Texans. They're not very keen on the Dallas Cowboys, to put it mildly. OK, it's hardly West Ham - Millwall, but Cowboys-embossed windshields are just begging for trouble when you're speeding carefully through Houston. <br /><br />4) Despite my best efforts, I was reasonably disappointed in my inability to locate a biker bar plastered with Confederate flags, ZZ Top on the juke, a barmaid with a Lone Star T-shirt tied off above her belly button and some bearded, bandanna'd, fingerless-leather-gloved pool shark called Zip 'Mad Animal' McGhee shouting "YOU ASSHOLE!!" at me the moment I asked for a Corona. Honestly, I did try. But all I got was three old bald guys, playing covers of <i>Brown Eyed Girl</i> and <i>Folsom Prison Blues</i>, while the Mexican barmaid kept on repeating, "You're too thirsty...lime with that?" as I ripped through the Corona stocks. Just realised, I forgot to tip her. <br /><br />5) Oh, 'Dusty' from ZZ Top still lives in Houston, and they're all quite proud of the fact that international success and multibillion record sales never went to his fluffy, beardy head. Fair enough. I don't see George Michael popping back to Burnt Oak to pick up a shirt at Hassans or put a float behind the bar at the Bingo Hall ((he snubbed me on Twitter too, the fucker)). <br /><br />6) It's not remotely original or funny to point out the bleedin' obvious transatlantic 'FAGS' blooper. Even 12-year olds wouldn't find that amusing. And I hardly use that term for cigarettes when I'm in London, anyway. But, for reasons beyond my ken, I was struck down with some strain of smoker's Tourettes and couldn't stop saying the F-word, for the duration of my visit. I don't think they heard me correctly, though - or at least nobody waved a fingerless leather glove in my face and screamed "YOU ASSHOLE!" <br /><br />As for the, huh huh, "<span style="font-style:italic;">American girls go kerr-azy for a Brit accent</span>" thing? LIES. Maybe if you're some ponce who can ham it up ((the old ladies over there were going spare over the royal wedding)), but try asking Jimmy Pursey - he was licking his wounds and crooning "THEY DIDN'T WANT US IN THE USA", moon landings ago. It's also difficult to gauge whether Houstonians 'get' UK irony, as they seem too laid back ((again, except the cab drivers)) to pull you up on quips. You kind of know you're veering out of their comfort zones when they reply with, "OH HA HA, YEAH..." with a tight grin and "WTF???" in their eyes. And if you pick up the best duty free bargains this side of Gibraltar (($16 for a big fuck-off bottle of Wild Turkey!)), don't blurt out, "Great, all aboard the party plane!", 'cos they'll just turn all serious and respond with: "Actually, sir, drinking from your own purchases is prohibited on flights,"<span style="font-style:italic;"> etc</span> ((they also don't realise you're funning around when you state that the Pussycat Dolls were actually men - even if it's true)).<br /><br />7) You never know who you'll bump into in Houston. One minute, you're looking for a non-existent cigarette machine, or a 2nd hand record mall flogging C&W and zydeco rarities ((somebody scribbled down an address for me, but nobody I asked could decipher it)) - the next, you're knocking around and shooting the shit with a posse of Houston Texans cheerleaders, who've descended <span style="font-style:italic;">en masse</span> for some promotional bonanza. I think the unbelievably foxy one with the beef jerky tan wasn't that impressed that I didn't want to buy their forthcoming season calendar ((actually, I would have if she'd signed her mugshot with "I JUST GO <span style="font-style:italic;">CREAMY BANANAS</span> OVER BTi BLOG!!" - tho' they'd probably have sued me for violation of endorsement policy, or summat)), but Miss Houston 2010 was wandering around too, and she even smiled and said hi to me, before some member of the Houston police dept. started yelling "BEHIND THE CHAIN! SIR, GET BEHIND THE CHAIN, THE CHAIN IS THERE FOR A REASON!" and whisked my blonde princess away to shake hands with a fat kid in a Texans shirt. She actually gave me a long, lingering look as she departed, and I wasn't even on ecstasy. Wow, do I still have the old magic? Spurned by dozens of goth chicks, only to be claimed by Texan beauty pageant ROYALTY itself? Things got even better when some bloke in a suit popped along and said, "Hey, sir, enjoy" and plonked a bottle of beer with a Houston Texans label in my hand. "What's the name of your publication?"<br /><br />After that, things got a little crazy. An Ethiopian taxi driver had a minor altercation with a snowy-haired, handlebar-moustached cabbie which spilled into a passive-aggressive stare-out at the main entrance, and a guy in a blazer with a goatee suddenly figured out that I had nothing whatsoever to do with the event, and that some gatecrasher from England was just ambling around, picking up miniature trophies and sashes at random and pestering the cheerleader squad with inane questions about hating the Dallas Cowboys. One cop stomped over and asked me, "SIR, ARE YOU CARRYING VIDEO OR PHOTOGRAPHIC EQUIPMENT?", and I twigged that a burly gang of male and female plod - all weighed down with diving belts containing handguns, handcuffs and some unpleasant-looking canisters and blunt objects - were giving me 'long, lingering looks', so I thought it best to hail a cab and get the fuck out. God knows what it was all about. <br /><br />I later excitedly told Al about this random encounter, but he just sort of dismissively snarled, "OH YEAH, THOSE CHEERLEADERS...LITTLE GIRLS...WEARING THEIR...LITTLE THINGS", before telling me that his mom's suffering from a bedsore and the hospital's no damn good. <br /><br />8) Contrary to bigoted British beliefs, not everyone in Houston is a gutbucket. Sure, a few are, but it's not so different from Finsbury Park in that respect. But fucking hell, the food is mental. I've always considered myself a shameless hog - if you ever have a heart attack in a greasy spoon, I'll swipe the fried bread, beans and bacon from your plate before the ambulance arrives - but Houston food floored me. It was too much by far. Take, for instance, the 'chilli' dog - a vulcanised hot dog with cold mincemeat dumped over the top. Or the 'armadillo egg', which is basically a jalapeno pepper that's been wrapped in a pound of ground beef then deep fried. If you order this, don't expect a couple of egg-shaped munches. Expect four lumps of battered thrombosis, each larger than a hand grenade. That's a starter, by the way. I gave three of these away to Clinton, a guy in a porkpie hat who had some theory that Obama wants to get rid of NASA. <span style="font-style:italic;">"But I was talking to some of the scientists at NASA, and they told me explorin' Mars is a waste uh tahm anyway,"</span> he solemnly nodded as he crunched his way through my abandoned armadillo eggs. <br /><br />9) Not many sing-alonga-Jesus CD promos on the TV ads - just some of the most mind-blowingly banal and evil health commercials I've ever witnessed. Take 'the Exelon patch'. A woman dances with her Alzheimer's-befuddled mother on the front lawn, and lovingly smiles as her ma sits in zombified silence at the breakfast table. The Exelon patch, the voiceover assures us, is enabling this family duo to enjoy some quality time, before the inevitable bodily shut-downs announce their arrivals - because, after all, that's your mom right there and don't YOU think she deserves some semblance of dignity in her final daze?<br /><br />Deserves, er, <span style="font-style:italic;">what</span> exactly? Check the official medical blurb, speed-rolling across the screen: "THE EXELON PATCH DOES NOT OFFER ANY GUARANTEE OF PREVENTION OR OFFSET OF THE EFFECTS OF ALZHEIMER'S DISEASE...THE EXELON PATCH CAN CAUSE VOMITING, NAUSEA AND DIARRHOEA...IN SOME CASES, HAS RESULTED IN HOSPITALIZATION AND DEATH"...and on and on it goes...basically stick some vile post-it note placebo on the old dear, and you can ensure her gastric system's blitzed to a pulp in no time! This was then followed by some ageing brunette urging her Latino sister to take some sort of drug to reduce the amount of plaque in her blood. "Now, I know you exercise, and you've amended your diet, and that is WONDER-FULLL," she drones to a blurry polaroid of a teenage girl, who has never been, and never will be, her sister. "But I'm doing this for you - you ARE going on this medicine - and I'm NOT taking NO for an answer. <span style="font-style:italic;">You've always done so much for me...now I'm going to make you DO something for YOU</span>." Sinister's not the word, especially when the disclaimer ticker starts scrolling "LONG TERM EFFECTS INCLUDE LIVER DAMAGE". Er yeah, scrap the NHS, great idea...<br /><br />Incidentally, if I ever get Alzheimer's, just put a bullet in my head, it's kinder all round. My dad insisted on that and nobody listened. <br /><br />10) My mobile phone's still over there! Fucking hell, of all the places to leave it...Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18359756054171146584noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19655905.post-91107663677991611782011-04-28T22:40:00.002+01:002011-04-28T22:46:53.401+01:00TICK TOCK TO BULIMIA<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX4q1nQ2m5qlW3q9RAgb31QSP7KqZIzfSfqGuvET7ZbfpOisRvdY4qXClrgicmOX5ccZ5kHS_sSKjzoFrV3Z5-7CexUWLOaXiFfjreE_EiyWoXGF38II-_enZRpF3dHVEG5hW5/s1600/bullshit2-1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 273px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX4q1nQ2m5qlW3q9RAgb31QSP7KqZIzfSfqGuvET7ZbfpOisRvdY4qXClrgicmOX5ccZ5kHS_sSKjzoFrV3Z5-7CexUWLOaXiFfjreE_EiyWoXGF38II-_enZRpF3dHVEG5hW5/s400/bullshit2-1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5600753118950225458" /></a><br /><br /><br />Let's hope it pisses down tomorrow, eh?<br /><br /><a href="http://www.sendspace.com/file/n8wp0h">THE DRONES -"Corgi Crap"</a>Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18359756054171146584noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19655905.post-86024390474177719982011-03-29T11:15:00.011+01:002011-03-29T13:57:39.593+01:00MY 5 MOST CHERISHED OLYMPICS MEMORIESThe Olympics. Of all the sporting tournaments on God's earth, this is the one that probably brings us closest together. Everyone remembers their first Olympics. Shit, everyone remembers<em> the</em> first Olympics, back when Pan cheated at dominoes and some teenage doxy got turned into a bag of onions. Rich or poor, black or white, atheist or mormon - regardless of our differences, the Olympic Flame burns brightly in each and every heart. <br /><br />With that said, I recall a grand total of three people I've met, over the course of 34 years, who actually gave a fig about the Olympics: <br /><br />1) Mr Smith (real name), the repulsive PE pervert who used to get off on spanking small boys with a plastic rounders bat, while simultaneously lobbing a million spanners into the entire theory of 'evolution'. This red-faced cunt, who also liked 'Northern Soul', would scream utterly incomprehensible obscenities in our faces, such as "I'M NOT ASKING YOU TO BE BOB BEEMAN, BUT STOP ACTING LIKE A SPASTIC!" ((to this day, I'm grateful that I have no fucking clue who Bob Beeman is, and I spit on whatever Olympic trinkets 'Bob' did or didn't win)). Proof of this cuckold's miserable sadism was the lengthy essays he'd force us to write whenever we were caught skiving in the boiler room. These would inevitably ((so as not to tax the fuckwit's dying brain cells)) be based on the starter line, "THE FIVE BEST THINGS ABOUT THE OLYMPIC GAMES ARE...". In truth, all we had to do was fill 2 sides of A4 with "THE FIVE BEST THINGS ABOUT THE OLYMPIC GAMES ARE THE FIVE BEST THINGS ABOUT THE OLYMPIC GAMES ARE THE FIVE BEST OLYMPICS ABOUT THE GAMES THINGS ARE", <em>etc</em>, because the dipstick couldn't read and just threw our work in the bin anyway. <br /><br />2) The mentally ill Kiwi woman who I had the misfortune to share a flat with in Bethnal Green in 2004. She would wake up at the crack of dawn, plonk herself yoga-style on the sofa, turn on the BBC's Olympic coverage and literally not move until midnight. How is it possible to be interested in <em>every</em> sport under the sun? I suspect this madness was actually a ploy to stop me and the Australian girl from watching <em>Hollyoaks </em>when we got back from work. ((Also, for a so-called 'sports lover', the passive-aggressive Kiwi witch used to sulk and bang pots around noisily if I ever had the audacity to flick on the football)). As a result of this month of invasive gymnastic bullshit, I grew to wish BBC sports presenter Clare Balding nothing less than an impromptu , unmarked grave. <br /><br />The Kiwi twat once went into a sanctimonious rant about how, seeing as I didn't vote, I didn't have the right to criticise the government. I asked her if she knew the name of her chosen party's education secretary. She suddenly went off on a tangent, bringing up dead WW2 soldiers and how they'd given their lives for my right to vote, <em>etc</em>. I tried to point out that they were probably more worried about their own impending fate should some mental, one-bollocked nazi have managed to stamp his jackboot over the entire globe, but I soon gave up and went out for a pint. Let's face it, if you'd transported the 1930s/40s unions to the march last Saturday, you'd now have anarchists complaining how their peaceful protests were overshadowed by the horrific violence in Hyde Park. <br /><br />3) Some guy who worked at a company I was at, who owned no music. Seriously! He liked "all sorts of music", but didn't own a single CD. I guess it's no surprise then that he uncritically liked "all sorts of sport" and probably dug a Brazil shirt out of his wardrobe every four years. He was a sycophant and a pub bore. <br /><br />As for the Games themselves...I remember precisely the following five events:<br /><br />* The time somebody planted a bomb at one in the US <br />* The time the PLO shot the Israeli team in 1972 ((and I only remember that 'cos of a documentary about it, years later)) <br />* The time that Irish woman cheated by taking drugs in a swimming pool. Or she didn't, I can't remember now... <br />* The Japanese Judo team who won <br />* The time Baxter caught Tucker Jenkins hiding in the gym 'horse', perving at girls<br /><br />I mean, what else happened? Who cares? It's just the non-musical equivalent of the Proms. The football games are rubbish - even complete trivia anoraks who've memorised everything about Cowdenbeath's friendlies between 1960-2010 know bugger all about what happened at Olympics matches. Watching 17-year olds with 6-year olds' bodies, who haven't eaten in 12 months, prancing around with ribbons and circus swings is even worse than <em>Minipops - </em>at least the kid pretending to be matey from Imagination was funny. Weightlifting is unwatchable crap, the poor man's version of those 'World's Strongest Men' contests, where that Icelandic guy used to roar, "I'M NOT A BLOODY ESKIMO! I'M A VIKING!" before going bright red and nearly killing himself dragging an HGV over a distance of 10 metres. I blame fencing for our 'health and safety gone mad' culture. I mean, there's a button on the end of your sword - why the facemask? Every now and then they stick on some 'wacky' new sport that we're all meant to go nuts over - like sumo wrestling. Sorry, but I remember fat kids fighting at school, and it was a hell of a lot more entertaining than that tedious crap. As for swimming - look, I swam 2,000m for Help The Aged once ((or was it 1,600m? 800m? I can't remember, go with 2,000m)) and I promise you, you don't need a nose clip. A waste of resources and tonnes of stupid gadgets you don't really need, that's the Games in a nutshell. Ban the bastards.Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18359756054171146584noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19655905.post-26764934994153158542011-03-27T16:04:00.003+01:002011-03-27T16:44:09.526+01:00THE SAVAGE CULT YOU LOVE TO HATEScenes of savage, mindless anarcho-violence on Piccadilly yesterday. You do wish, though, that the BBC could have talked to the ageing couple with the Unison flag, who remained in the throng outside Fortnum & Mason throughout three police charges. Or the bloke with the two pre-teen girls, who were both so terrified by the ordeal that they...giggled and talked to each other. Or the shop staff on Piccadilly who, in a state of pants-wetting terror, left their doors open, allowing customers to walk in and out. Or the constant stream of 'normals' pouring from the tube station, walking around the burning placards, and casually asking what was going on. Or the tourist girls taking pictures of themselves against the Piccadilly billboard, unperturbed by the sinister Black Bloc youth who...<i>gave them directions</i>, temporarily removing his muzzle of HATE. Or the lone guy with the Communist Party flag, who was summarily HARANGUED by rabid anarchists who...completely left him alone. Or the people posing for their snapshots in front of the line of riot cops ((OK, sneer about collaborating with the tools of the state, but they DO make cool pics - weirdly enough, I saw a cop sticking his thumb up for one of the photos...)). Or the blonde girl with the Harrods bag and her parents, who simply picked their way through the mob, only to be mercilessly....IGNORED. Or the diners in the restaurant who chomped away, polishing off their fish and chips as they watched us through the window. Or the girl running the ice cream stall, who was so paralysed with fear she had no choice but to stay there...<div><br /></div><div>As for the ammonia...the overpowering, pungent stench of...oh, I dunno, I couldn't smell it. Tell you something for nothing though - those orange smoke bombs <i>smell rank</i>. </div><div><br /></div><div>A real night of terror. A thug in a black ski mask bumped against me, threw his head back, and said 'Sorry, mate'. I've been subjected to more hostile jostling on the Victoria Line at 8.45am. </div><div><br /></div><div>Actually, the only time that<i> any </i>of the folks above looked worried were when the old bill suddenly threw themselves forward, unprovoked, and sent columns of protesters scattering. But that's how they operate. It doesn't make me angry, doesn't even surprise me. You can chant <i>Your job's next!</i> at them 'til you're hoarse, but they'll never get it. </div><div><br /></div><div>Then, switching on internet radio later, a taxi driver rings into a BBC call-in show, claiming that he was so scared 'his hands were still shaking', because five masked kids had sat in front of his taxi. Obviously the luckiest cabbie on Christ's earth, never having had to eject a raving, drunk idiot or <i>violent late-night piss-taker</i> from the back seat. Which leads me to the question - what sort of <i>wimps</i> are we all meant to be, these days? Where was all this FEAR? Some banks, clothes stores and upper class food vendors need a scrub and some new glass, and that's about all that <i>the anarchists </i>did yesterday. No tourists kicked to death. Nobody put in immediate danger ((except for when the police drove a van through the crowd at Oxford Circus, or waved their truncheons around like blind drunks attempting to smash a <i>pinata)) ((</i>actually, one of UK Uncut could have fallen off the roof at F&M and crushed someone <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000099;">@UKhealthandsafety</span>)). The BBC is essentially suggesting that this basic level of vandalism <i>petrifies</i> YOU, the London citizen. It scares you, and you need to be protected from it. Now, <i>how big does that make you feel</i>? </div><div><br /></div><div>((In other news: the Subhumans might have sucked, but their skull logo still makes a great addition to the back of any leather jacket))</div>Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18359756054171146584noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19655905.post-22021032689120499912011-03-23T10:40:00.007+00:002011-03-23T12:02:19.822+00:00TEMPORARY HOARDINGJohn 'Boy' Eden once stood up in a hall full of Germans, sipped some lukewarm water and solemnly intoned: "<em>Every time you apologise for a lack of blog posts...a fairy dies!" </em>Well, that's pretty hip-to-the-jive, daddy-o, but what about good old-fashioned MANNERS? Answer me that. Heavy manners...that's what the world needs today. Otherwise you'd just have CIA-backed Islamist <em>cats and rats</em> stuffing gullible youths to the gills with halluco-drugs, destabilising honest-to-God socialist democracies and squatting the Gaddafis' gaffs! Incidentally, you really should check out a copy of today's <em>Star</em>. Apparently, Mad Dog's gone on the run with 40 virgins. I was wondering when his all-grrrl ninja hit squad would finally make an appearance in this fiasco. It's also cool that the <em>Star </em>got its pix of the grrrls via Google Search ((I only know this 'cos they're the first pics that came up when I googled 'GADDAFI GIRL BODYGUARDS' for some joke post on BTi about the geezer looking like Charlie Harper, about 3 years ago)).<br /><br />I've been playing this new online game called 'TWIT-AARGHHH' recently. You have to enter 140-character tweets and, if you get re-tweeted by 10 people, you win a Libyan dinar. The best way of bagging the loot is to repeat, <em>ad vomitorium</em>, some witty political comment that hardly anyone disagrees with. For instance, you could tweet: "HMS CUMBERLAND COSTS 90K A DAY IN LIBYA CONFLICT - NHS CUTS, WE GET YA!" and you're guaranteed at least 5 re-tweets. Well, that's how it works in <em>our </em>corner of the blogosphere; if you wanna follow Mariah Carey, I guess any old shit about praying for Japan or winged rainbow-chasing unicorns will do. Smiley Culture's tragic demise also highlighted the sheer dearth of material by the guy on BoobTube. After about 4,000 <em>Police Officer</em> tribute video links in the first hour, everyone had to switch to linking to <em>Shan A Shan</em> and <em>Entertainer Entertainer </em>to avoid looking like copycats. Incidentally, I decided to follow Obama on TweetORama, guessing that, in return, he'd re-tweet a few of my offerings and boost my player ranking. No dice - he just spent the whole time banging on about, "WE MUST ENSURE THE AMERICAN CHILD HAS ACCESS TO EVERY OPPORTUNITY FOR ADVANCEMENT," or "TRANSPARENCY IS KEY TO MAINTAINING TRUST". Word to the wise, reader - don't believe ANYONE who uses the word 'transparency', they're all fucking liars. If you could see the moral sewers flooding these clowns' homes...anyway, the world's 'most powerful man', playing online games all day...I ask you!! At least Gaddafi didn't act like some SEGA-ogling nerd.<br /><br />So far, I've been re-tweeted about 11 times, which means I've earned a Libya buck and a cent. Bollocks! If you google 'BTi_Enquiries' you can follow me ((follow me, leave your homes and family, leave your fishing nets and boats upon the shore)) and stay up to date on the latest blog news. Do bear in mind tho' that, since I've been Twattering, actual blog posts have dried up to 1 a month.<br /><br />Still, I'm gonna try and crank something out here in a short while, preferably before it all kicks off on Saturday. There's so much going on on the weekend, I really don't know where to head for first. Thank God I've got a GPS app now, is all I can say. Could certainly have done with one of those in the '90s - if only to find a nearby boozer, when the Workers Power crowd started hollering like Yoko Ono into their megaphones. As far as I know, Ian Bone ((once 'Britain's most dangerous man')) is sticking on a 'Tahrir Square in Hyde Park!' event and, now, the SWP have nicked the idea ((as usual!)), only relocating THEIR 'Tahrir Square' to Trafalgar Square. What's with nicking other squares' names, for fuck's sake? You don't hear the '92 Battle of Waterloo being referred to as the '<em>London Race to Berlin', </em>though a proportionately equal amount of nazis got pounded as a result, and let's face it - you're not gonna get gunned down on the 26th. I just rang up Coral and they're offering 2/1 on horseback charges across Hyde Park and 1/4 on the Trafalgar Square 'Egyptians' getting kettled. Ah, Hyde Park...that was my first proper riot. You never forget your first time, especially when you're 18 and you've just left home three months before. I still don't know how I managed to hurl myself over the rails from a standing position, but may I be struck down with radiation sickness if that's a word of a lie. Actually, maybe the UK Uncut lot are a better bet - during the early afternoon at least.<br /><br />And there ends my apology for not posting much.Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18359756054171146584noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19655905.post-24857727743635894042011-02-01T01:31:00.002+00:002011-02-01T13:30:08.080+00:00HAPPY NEW YEAR!! LET'S ROB A BANK<span style="font-weight:bold;">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, <span style="font-style:italic;">you actually love your mum</span>? Ever taken the moral high ground against SWP paper sellers, then gone to a gig, ordered three cans of <s>Kronsta</s> 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: <i>Backstreet Boys? They sing about BUMS, don't they?</i>, 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.<br /><br /></span><br /><br />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: "<span style="font-style:italic;">Listening to the Sex Pistols...a sure way to let the devil into the home!</span>" My brother was notorious in West Hampstead pop crit circles for his review of the Steve Miller Band, namely: "<span style="font-style:italic;">If anyone called ME 'Maurice', I'd knock their fucking teeth out</span>." 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, "<span style="font-style:italic;">PRINCE! I LUGGHH PRINCE! HUH-UNGGGHHHH! PRINCE! I'M GOING TO SEE PRINCE AT WEMBLEY!! DERRRPP!</span>" ?<br /><br />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: <br /><br />1) ELVIS BEATS TWO STICKS TOGETHER IN THE JUNGLE -><br />2) FARADAY FUNNELS LIGHTNING INTO GUITAR -> <br />3) MASSIVE RAVE IN HOLBORN! <br /><br />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'. <br /><br />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?<br /><br />I personally reckon that all bank robbers should be granted political amnesty anyway. <em>It beats working! </em>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 <em>my</em> 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...<br /><br />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)). <br /><br />Oh well, please yourselves...it's one alternative to suicide, anyway... <br /><br />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!<br /><br /><strong><em>COMING SOON...</em></strong><br /><em>* a very special, sultry BTi mix for Valentines Day <br /><br />& <br /><br />* WOOFAH LEAKS - could the latest round of incriminating emails SINK the UK's leading reggae, grime and dubstep fanzine?</em>Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18359756054171146584noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19655905.post-75972138710948105152010-12-22T16:40:00.003+00:002010-12-23T01:57:57.834+00:002010 LISTENING POST - THE TOP 5<span style="font-weight:bold;">1) INTERNET HIT SQUADS SOCK IT TO THE RIAA AND MoS</span><br /><br />Easily the funniest musically-related thing to happen on the internet in yonks. <a href="http://www.boycott-riaa.com/facts/">The RIAA</a> decided - in its infinite, greed-induced idiocy - that it'd employ the services of ACS Law, a London-based firm of lawyer thugs, to pressure file-sharers into coughing up thousands of pounds for the audacity of downloading Daisy Chainsaw tunes for free, or whatever. So, understandably, internet INSURGENTS ((cheers Kay, keep 'em coming)) DoS'd the RIAA site to buggeration a couple of days later, while wily hackers ripped into ACS Law's site and plundered a bunch of confidential emails ((sound familiar?)) from the firm's head honcho, Andrew 'Cuckold' Crossley, scattering them to the four winds of the WEB. As well as exposing the fact that ACS Law didn't have a leg to stand on ((like most scum-uh-d'erf bailiffs, they swipe their swag by trying to frighten the uninformed)) it was most amusing to see that the firm was struggling financially. As for the emails sent by Crossley to his ex-wife Louise...well, they had to be read with Rihanna's <i>Unfaithful</i> in the background, for full comic effect. <br /><br />Then the coke-bloated manatees at MINISTRY OF SOUND decided to muscle in on the action, repeating the same trick with the aid of cash-grubbing sharks Gallant Macmillan. I know Spiral Tribe's white rasta / didgeridoo-honking schtick got a bit annoying at times - but hey, at least they never shat all over their own subculture. Jesus, am I glad I got refused entry to that dump of a club back in 1994! Anyway, the MoS got DoS'd, leading to tears from distressed Eric Prydz fans who couldn't buy tickets to see the cock juggling MP3s for half an hour. Nice one! The MoS were chomping at the bit for file-sharers' personal details but the ISPs told them to fuck off ((credit to normally-bungling BT, they refused to budge)), and there's gonna be a follow-up court hearing next month. Remember - there's always "<span style="font-style:italic;">Ministry Of Sound Mediafire</span>". Treacherous rats. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">2) THE RISE OF THE VUVUZELA</span><br /><br />What can you say about a grubby plastic trumpet that's capable of reducing skree-hardened power electronics veterans to sobbing heaps? Apparently, the vuvuzela was invented in Ireland, some time around 200BC, and later smuggled into Africa by pirates ((or so some bloke down the Galtimore told me)). In fact, the KAZOO OF THE ANCIENTS is so feared that 9 out of 10 Goa Trance DJs admitted they would cancel a slot if there was the remotest chance of somebody sneaking a vuvuzela into the venue ((the tenth said he'd cancel if Ganesh didn't lay on some IDF girls with green dread falls...pah, where's DAVID SEE when ya really need him?))<br /><br />Suitable for a whole host of special occasions - rush hour / your cousin's wedding / Gregory Isaacs' funeral / carol singing / alerting protesters to impending kettles / summoning Cthulu / when your insurgen..er, neighbour puts on Shakira - etc etc - the mighty VUVUZELA made its wrath known in 2010! If anybody wants to get me a Xmas present this year, don't bother with any rare Ninjaman tunes on CD-R...I'll gladly accept a vuvuzela instead. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">3) "DRUM AND BASS IS PLAYING, AND THE BEER IS OPEN"</span><br /><br />Natch. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">4) THE ONLY THREE MUSICAL RELEASES I ACTUALLY PAID FOR ALL YEAR</span><br /><br />Oh, I've got a job now, if anyone gives a flying. But for this cat, a fair chunk of 2010 was marked by compulsory Jobcentre Plus seminars ((outsourced 'trainers', as you'd expect, including the intriguingly monikered 'consultancy', MAZE 8. I mean, if you wanted to convince 12 unemployed bods that this four-hour session's gonna get 'em MOTIVATED and BACK IN THE SADDLE IN NO TIME, you'd surely name your company after A SERIES OF INSURMOUNTABLE WALLS AND DEAD ENDS, yeah? Jesus, 'Maze 8'. Sounds like some shitty '90s ska/punk combo. Still - I learned a lot of acronyms that afternoon)). Subsequently, I pretty much hit Mediafire for all my tunes this year. Having said that, I did spunk £20 of the taxpayer's money on a CD and two 7"s. <br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjRxDycCW7PrWfDltnQQjH8-LvbZF_P_U3-mGpTQHbIUyWJA0JBS9HrD_wqlh-3cwgkLALAopdju7MoE5-FPSRMeeBcsG1Ovgb4qKX-qPEtoOgza5ofWuaZr2bVbiDjEGel7rf/s1600/stagediver-i.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 250px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjRxDycCW7PrWfDltnQQjH8-LvbZF_P_U3-mGpTQHbIUyWJA0JBS9HrD_wqlh-3cwgkLALAopdju7MoE5-FPSRMeeBcsG1Ovgb4qKX-qPEtoOgza5ofWuaZr2bVbiDjEGel7rf/s400/stagediver-i.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551324208526713890" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg4fJ5ABYfwKUXEoqOLkUoJ2QaE-dyeQN1uPtM5yXz59KQkqN5CzBfFrimj-3VpvDRcdsPY8SNNySk1Yb0SO07BshFJwq8BZTs8pgLvCfjpu4-nRC0of_ibUTisFVX4x8O2oqd/s1600/333.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 333px; height: 333px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg4fJ5ABYfwKUXEoqOLkUoJ2QaE-dyeQN1uPtM5yXz59KQkqN5CzBfFrimj-3VpvDRcdsPY8SNNySk1Yb0SO07BshFJwq8BZTs8pgLvCfjpu4-nRC0of_ibUTisFVX4x8O2oqd/s400/333.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551324124134734162" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlNbHk5TZSPToa3UZavBNQdPtCSnNw5-W1dF0Q0lezQIYz3R11wkzsnBLBHqipMXgUy7euHjlfe85vUJjLWpH1t6P_Z46FgEaxS7i9XFoTFK8if38B_1TkoNGUo9TeoGxTc9GE/s1600/images.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 233px; height: 216px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlNbHk5TZSPToa3UZavBNQdPtCSnNw5-W1dF0Q0lezQIYz3R11wkzsnBLBHqipMXgUy7euHjlfe85vUJjLWpH1t6P_Z46FgEaxS7i9XFoTFK8if38B_1TkoNGUo9TeoGxTc9GE/s400/images.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551324017278456546" /></a><br /><br />Two of which were reissues, but who cares? It's just been one non-stop punk / amigacore / block party round BTi Towers. <br /><br />Oh - I actually quite liked the new A.R.E WEAPONS album too. Complete Suicide rip-off, but they do it well. I've also heard a preview of the XYLITOL remixes album, including stuff by blogosphere founder WOEBOT, those Bagpuss-fanciers BELBURY POLY, NOCHEXXX, KID SHIRT and a stackload of other sonic reprobates ((Brian Eno sent in an effort, but it got thrown in the bin, after much laughter)) - more on this in a bit. The excellent <a href="http://digitalreggae.blogspot.com/">Digital Reggae</a> blog kept me going with some rare old school biz from Courtney Melody and King Kong. They've also got every single Ninjaman LP ever up there, if you wanna save your space bucks. Scoff your mugs off all you like, but if there's a better soundtrack to drinking Laphroig, lighting a fire in the living room and watching foxy Italian students flail around in the snowdrift outside my flat than <i>The Balfa Brothers Play Traditional Cajun Music</i>, I don't wanna know about it.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">5) BTi / YOU ARE HERE / UNCARVED ANARCHO PUNK PODCAST</span><br /><br />Put it this way: <br /><br />The mix comes out on 5 November. <br /><br />Five days later, anarchy erupts on the streets of London. <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">COINCIDENCE?</span>Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18359756054171146584noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19655905.post-87514232031762513152010-11-14T13:07:00.007+00:002010-11-14T18:43:17.206+00:00TEAch yrself ENGLISCH: 1) "Drum and bass is playing, and the beer is open"<span style="font-weight:bold;">ORIGINS</span><br /><br /><i>Drum and bass is playing, and the beer is open</i> is a common UK slang expression, which has been in existence for nearly 400 years. It is typically used to denote the fact that things are 'going rather well'. It can also be used to describe events that would be considered 'fun', 'cool' or 'wicked'. <br /><br />The popularity of the phrase declined somewhat in 1997, around the time that 'drum and bass' degenerated into sock-hatted students nodding off to <i>Brown Paper Bag</i>. However, it has enjoyed a brief revival as of 10th November 2010, when arsenal supporter and renowned retard KAY BURLEY used it to describe a student riot in London. <br /><br />Casting a rheumy eye over the Flickr gallery of history, we click on 3453233.JPG - aka the year 1604 - and discover that genius wordsmith, master boozer and distinctly amateur sword-fighter CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE was the first to popularise the phrase:<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">GOOD ANGEL: O Faustus, lay that damned book aside<br />And gaze not on it, lest it tempt thy soul,<br />And heap God's heavy wrath upon thy head.<br />Read, read the Scriptures. That is blasphemy. <br /><br />EVIL ANGEL: Go forward, Faustus, in that famous art<br />Wherein all nature's treasury is contained.<br />Be thou on Earth as Jove is in the sky;<br />Lord and commander of these elements. [Exeunt]<br /><br />FAUSTUS: How I am glutted with conceit of this!<br />Shall I make spirits fetch me what I please,<br />Resolve me of all ambiguities,<br />Perform what desp'rate enterprise I will?<br />I'll have them fly to India for gold,<br />Ransack the ocean for orient pearl, <br />And search all corners of the new-found world<br />For pleasant fruits and princely delicates.<br />I'll have them read me strange philosophy, <br />And tell the secrets of all foreign kings.<br />Drum and bass is playing, and the beer is open. <br />Come, German Valdes and Cornelius,<br />And make me blest with your sage conference."<br /></span><br /><br />However, Martin Bernal, author of the controversial tome <i>Black Athena</i>, argues that the phrase actually originated in Persia, where it was first coined by OMAR KHAYYAM while penning his <span style="font-style:italic;">Rubaiyats</span>. Unfortunately, as the phrase didn't scan, Khayyam scribbled it out. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">WHEN THE PHRASE SHOULD BE USED:</span><br /><br />eg - <span style="font-style:italic;">Dublin / Kings Cross, August 2009, via SMS</span><br />MRS DROID:How is the clash going?<br />DROID: Drum and bass is playing, and the beer is open ;-)<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">(transl: "I am beating John Eden, and have discovered a stockpile of Colgate to boot")</span><br /><br />* When one's just copped off with a crush at a weekend-long warehouse rave<br />* Hurtling down Route 66 and playing Cutty Ranks at full blast<br />* When Thatcher's death's finally announced<br />* 5pm, Friday<br />* Winning a pub quiz<br />* Going on holiday<br />* Smashing up Millbank<br />* At Notting Hill Carnival<br />* Surviving a bus crash in which all the other passengers perish<br />* Nayim scoring against *rsenal from the half-way line<br />* Thinking you've lost £50, then realising you changed your jacket<br />* The time those cage fighters in drag panelled the piss-taking drunks in Swansea<br />* Watching <i>Fatal Deviation</i> (it's on BoobTube now!)<br />* Creating an urban myth and watching it spread like wildfire<br />* Just chilling out<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">WHEN DRUM AND BASS IS NOT PLAYING, AND THE BEER IS DEFINITELY <span style="font-style:italic;">NOT</span> OPEN:</span><br /><br />* Working with people who CC the boss in on every email<br />* Listening to <i>Intelligent Drum and Bass Vol. 1</i><br />* Walking into a Goa Trance night by accident<br />* Listening to somebody talk about horoscopes<br />* Waking up in Morden on the last tube home<br />* 7am, Monday<br />* When a prized, rare dancehall 7" starts skipping all over the place<br />* Catching 20 seconds of <i>Mock the Week</i><br />* Getting kettled<br />* Actually signing up to 'Comment is Free'<br />* Being late for a WOOFAH deadline<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">USE AS AN EXCUSE</span><br /><br />As everyone is aware, the most plausible excuse for any offence, from vomiting all over a host's sofa to microwaving your partner's Radiohead CDs, is always, "THE DEVIL MADE ME DO IT". But, in certain circumstances, <i>Drum and bass is playing, and the beer is open</i> can also fulfil this requirement. For example:<br /><br />NASA: Mission Control to ISS...Mission Control to ISS, are you receiving?<br />ASTRONAUT: Uh...International Space Station, receiving...<br />NASA: What the hell's going on up there? <br />ASTRONAUT: Uh...loss of power...O'Mahoney's been sucked outside...can't...quite see him...<br />NASA: Sucked outside? What's going on? Can you confirm systems failure?<br />ASTRONAUT: Er...not sure...<br />NASA: Who's in charge? <br />ASTRONAUT: .....me...<br />NASA: So what's going on?? Why isn't the docking port secured, damn it??<br />ASTRONAUT: (<i>long pause</i>)...drum and bass is playing, and the beer is open.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">DID KAY BURLEY USE THE EXPRESSION CORRECTLY?</span><br /><br />It's highly unlikely Kay Burley has kept up to date with developments within the 'hardcore continuum'®, so she probably can't tell her Photeks from her Peverelists. Needless to say, Burley has displayed constant symptoms of deep bewilderment over the course of her career at Sky News – which isn't that surprising, given that the rolling news format's just a blatant copy of the <i> Grandstand</i> template. It is more likely that Burley's internal voice continually relays the line "WHEEP! WHEEP! WHEEP!" on a 24/7 loop, and she probably didn't even know what she was looking at when she opened her trap. So, in a fit of startled ad-libbery, she just chucked in the first cliche'd phrase that sprang to her tiny mind. Pretty much how senile football pundits come up with lines like, <i>"And there's no way Villa can come back from this one! Unless they manage to turn the game around."</i>Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18359756054171146584noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19655905.post-91211330522568117442010-11-08T11:49:00.004+00:002010-11-08T11:54:01.054+00:00How NOT to co-host an Anarcho-Punk podcast for YOUAREHEAR<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr9rkdSTDqOXi2lxPz9hFFjsqYT9D08qmAEzJzYTQo7JKgPKx36bP1QqlbVsRmkxCF2g2UCr-m5k5t8wkVTVz6N3Ce7PFxKSnN5AWtLv-XkKmn4Ull5AGLZc2q_9nPdrQTCg_8/s1600/1160339141060.gif"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 112px; height: 112px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr9rkdSTDqOXi2lxPz9hFFjsqYT9D08qmAEzJzYTQo7JKgPKx36bP1QqlbVsRmkxCF2g2UCr-m5k5t8wkVTVz6N3Ce7PFxKSnN5AWtLv-XkKmn4Ull5AGLZc2q_9nPdrQTCg_8/s400/1160339141060.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5537137795528099602" /></a><br />1) Reckon that spontaneity's a greater conduit for wit and lively chat than reading from a script, and subsequently prepare no notes whatsoever on the records you've selected. After all, you've heard them a zillion times, so it's not like you'll freeze up, have nothing to say and have to frantically ad lib when the mic's in your face, is it?<br /><br />2) Have a few drinks before the recording, to counter your phobia of microphones. Knock 'em back sharp-ish, get pissed too quickly and then spend the duration of the podcast slurring, umming and erring.<br /><br />3) Despite your long-suffering co-host's constant reminders to keep the mic at chest level, keep raising it to your mouth and/or leaning over to talk directly into it, ensuring your co-host has to spend hours editing out all the pops and distortion ((and beer swigging slurps)). <br /><br />4) Have your mind go inexplicably blank when trying to describe the previous record, and why you think it deserves inclusion in the Anarcho-Punk canon. Reveal that the most interesting fact about, say, feminist punk-popsters Hagar the Womb is that they formed in a toilet. Summarise a certain tune's relevancy by saying it's "really good". <br /><br />5) When the record's actually playing, and despite your co-host politely reminding you, for the 9th time, that these songs last about 2 minutes and that the next track needs to be cued up and 'ready to go', spend this brief breathing period gulping down lager, congratulating yourself on not having cracked up laughing so far, and popping into your co-host's kitchen to say hello to his partner.<br /><br />6) Try to open up with some feeble joke about the Kronstadt uprising, then realise it's crap, so just veer off topic and start ad-libbing about something else entirely.<br /><br />7) Yabber all over the top of the Crass track so your co-host has to re-record that segment. Then find nothing to actually say of any value about that band.<br /><br />Still...<span style="font-style:italic;">could have been worse</span>. We could have done an Oi! podcast. <br /><br />Anyway, the BTi vs Uncarved vs YouAreHear production is up <a href="http://youarehearpodcast.blogspot.com/">HERE</a>. Many thanks to Jim and Magz for taking a punt and slipping the monkey the keys to the zoo, and to John Eden for providing the superior commentary, technical know-how and the Crass and Academy 23 tracks, which I forgot to bring to the recording. Apologies to The Mob, I don't really 'hate' you. Here's a rough track listing, for those who can't understand drunken Burnt Oaker:<br /><br />Conflict - Berkshire Cunt<br />The Ex - Human Car<br />Crass - Securicor<br />Xpozez - Skitzofrenia<br />Class War -Better Dead Than Wed<br />Six Minute War - Strontium 90<br />Twisted Nerve - Neutral Zone<br />The Apostles - Mob Violence<br />Blaggers ITA - Jail House Doors<br />Potential Threat - The Hunt Is On<br />Flux of Pink Indians - Tube Disaster<br />XS Discharge - Lifted<br />Exit-Stance - Ballykelly Disco<br />Dezerter - Ku Przyszlosci<br />Hagar The Womb - Dressed To Kill<br />Oi Polloi - Commies And Nazis<br />Lost Cherrees - The Wait<br />Academy 23 - Ceartas Air Sgaith Albannach<br /><br />And check out some of the other fine You Are Hear podcasts, including highlights from this summer's Sonar Festival. I'm off to nut a fur trader, see ya in a bit.Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18359756054171146584noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19655905.post-54181429737838608622010-11-04T23:20:00.005+00:002010-11-05T02:07:05.439+00:00OUIJA HOORS((HA HA, I FORGOT TO POST THIS ON THE DAY - MY BAD. CUT OUT AND KEEP FOR NEXT YEAR))<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-2rxFZoziZ4dIYWZWwwcSdoboDr22dbvYOw3zlmnMLeucEtvSGcm5Cu_J3LRpTaxF-xS4A_dJNRBakRwpZ-UGF-Pk7mHGWaOE6jyQLz0noZnKWcVjnnMFhff9oiQ9l3ShRwgU/s1600/Sven.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 304px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-2rxFZoziZ4dIYWZWwwcSdoboDr22dbvYOw3zlmnMLeucEtvSGcm5Cu_J3LRpTaxF-xS4A_dJNRBakRwpZ-UGF-Pk7mHGWaOE6jyQLz0noZnKWcVjnnMFhff9oiQ9l3ShRwgU/s400/Sven.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535858827231186690" /></a> <br /><br /><i> ABOVE: Typical Halloween night bullshit</i><br /><br /><br /><br />I know some pagans get upset if you don't refer to it as <span style="font-style:italic;">Samhain</span>, but, according to Catholic doctrine, Halloween is the night that all the ghosts, ghouls, satyrs, demons, fauns, poltergeists, vampires, zombies, lycanthropes and <span style="font-style:italic;">hoochie coochie men</span> get together and throw a massive party, before the shutters come down for All Saints' Day. It's basically like a load of ravers being banned from Glastonbury and setting up a DIY festival in an adjacent field. Incidentally, Samhain started off as a joke among Irish druids - it's true! It was a way of scaring the bejayzus out of the 'warrior class', who'd usually have spent the night drinking heavily, cussing the druids and bragging about how many heads they'd collected. Each Samhain saw these berserkers retreat early to their huts for a restless, sleepless night, while the druids got trolleyed, ran around screaming and honking on vuvuzelas ((possibly)) and reduced the hardest men in the village to quivering wrecks. <br /><br />Now, some smartarses like to crack out the Waddington's OUIJA BOARD at Halloween, reasoning that the high volume of spirit traffic is bound to net them a few lively ((erm...)) ones. They then cry their eyes out when the ouija board bluntly tells them to "FUCk oFf PEniSbREAtH LoL", flies across the room and starts a house fire! Duhh - what did they expect? Using a ouija board on Halloween is the equivalent of setting up an unmoderated forum about PUA techniques; somebody's gonna troll it to death in 60 seconds flat. Shit, if <i>I</i> end up trapped between worlds when I cark it, I'll be hassling the 'ouija set' at every given opportunity. Be honest with yourselves – your dead grandmas have absolutely NOTHING to impart to you... and anyway, would you really drag them back to THIS?? This festering compost heap?? Where a specimen like george osbourne not only avoided being strangled at birth, but actually managed to get through this month in one piece?? Do you honestly think your grandparents would thank you?? Just look at some old photos, for Christ's sake...let sleeping dogs lie. And if you try it on with my grandparents, you're liable to get a slap, my friend. <br /><br />Still, if some of you insist on dabbling, you might as well know what you're getting into. So here's a brief guide as to who'll be pulling your planchette on the night:<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">The Devil</span><br /><br />AKA 'Auld Clootie', 'Old Nick', 'The Goat of Mendes...the Devil himself!', etc. Not many people know this, but the Devil wrote the first ever fanzine. It was hilarious, and he rightly mouthed off to his fellow angels about how good it was – 'til God cast him out of Heaven for the sin of pride. It's highly unlikely that the Devil will bother to attend your ouija session, unless you have some very pretty Catholic schoolgirls taking part. Of course, rogue spirits may <i>claim</i> to be the Prince of Darkness, cos they know that saying that'll make you shit yourself, but don't take all brags at face value. The Devil also likes to appear as the Virgin Mary, from time to time, 'for a laugh'. However, for some unknown reason, he can't get human feet right, so it's a dead giveaway when Our Lady of Fatima turns up with cloven hooves, demanding a barrel of Watneys Party Seven ((also, the Blessed Virgin doesn't listen to Discharge)). <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;"> Poltergeists</span><br /><br />Poltergeists are the Hells Angels of the spirit world. They started off in Germany, wrecking peoples' kitchens, but over the past 30 years they've established chapters across the world, united by an unspeakable hatred of inanimate objects and humanoid lifeforms. A poltergeist rarely engages in detailed ouija chatter - you'll probably get a couple of 'NO's before your wok mysteriously rockets out of the kitchen and proceeds to beat you around the head with great gusto. Contrary to most exorcists, there is only one way to get rid of a poltergeist. It's to lie in a foetal position on the floor, beneath a mountain of broken plates and saucepans, sobbing and moaning, until the spirit gets bored and wanders off to fuck up somebody else's oven. Still want to crack out that ouija board?<br /><br /><i>Spectres</i><br /><br />Spectres are pretty weedy, in a physical sense - they certainly don't have the power to smash your precious dubstep collection to pieces, or hurl babies from their cots. But they are remarkably good at psychological intimidation. Think of whatever bothers you most - this is all you'll be hearing about from these wind-up merchants. Your ex died in a tragic car accident, and you still have nightmares about the taxi ride to the hospital...that's right - the spectres will conveniently inform your circle that you <i>had a wank on the morning of the accident</i> and not let the subject drop, 'til some other spectre barges in. Oh, if it's any consolation, you do get other supernatural types butting in and taking over proceedings - so you won't be stuck with the same piss-taker all night. Unfortunately, they do tend to get more spiteful and creatively twisted as the evening draws on. Other common tactics include pretending to be your mum ("U R NOT MINE") or informing you when you'll die ("B4 X FKTR").<br /><br /><i>Pixies</i><br /><br />AH HA, WOULD YE LOOK AT THE WEE FELLAS? THE WEE LASSIES WITH THE WINGS? Pixies think they're well cool, but even a novice ouija dabbler would have to be a complete waste of oxygen to take this mob seriously. They're fond of playing word games and acting mysterious, but it's just the supernatural equivalent of a Divine Comedy fan lulling around on a beanbag, spliffed out of their brains, and trying to catch you out with passive aggressive sarcasm. Tell pixies to fuck off. Yes, from me, if necessary. Otherwise, watch your ouija session degenerate into an episode of <i>Give Us A Clue</i>.<br /><br /><i>Dead Pop Stars</i><br /><br />There's a time of foolishness in every youngster's life, when the manipulation of an ouija board to contact a dead musician seems like a swell idea. Perhaps Kurt Cobain might pop along, to offer some profound relationship advice? Or Sid Vicious will say hello, and give you tips on being the only rebellious teenager in Wing? ((it's a village near Leighton Buzzard, seriously, look it up)). What you don't realise is that, if these characters were egomaniacs when they were alive, how swollen d'you reckon their heads are now, after years of adulation and being blu-tacked in poignant, monochrome poses on bedroom walls across the world? Pretty fucking swollen, I'll let you know. I mean, the last two are probably bad enough, but imagine getting the Gibb brother who died, or Karen Carpenter. I contacted Ian Curtis once ((using a JetStar 12" cover with the letters and numbers scribbled on in felt tip, and an upturned whiskey glass with a horse's head on it as a planchette)) and all he did was moan about his Factory contract and how he hated playing down South. IMPORTANT WARNING - Rick James became a poltergeist, do NOT piss around invoking him. <br /><br /><i>Jinn</i><br /><br />I don't speak Arabic, fuck knows.<br /><br /><br /><i>Nan Clark's ghost</i><br /><br />Here's some NW London psychogeography for you. In Mill Hill, there's a street called Nan Clark's Lane. It's basically one of the richest places in the UK, flanked by 7-bed houses worth about £5 million, twee cottages and lots of foliage. It also happens to be the stomping ground for a ghost. I've heard scores of variations on this, but the background's basically that Nan Clark was a housemaid for some big wig and one night she got stabbed to death by a maniac / by her employer / by her employer's wife, while leaving her employer's house for the night ...either way, a sharp knife was involved. I mean, people as far away as Colindale talked about it. Apparently, if you go up Nan Clark's Lane at night (which is pitch black), you get to hear manic sobbing and screaming and, if you're really unlucky, Nan jumps out, still sliced up and gutted, and fondles you with a clammy, ghostly, bloody paw. You're sitting there smirking at such superstitious nonsense NOW, but I bet you haven't ventured up there on your own at midnight.<br /><br />Subsequently, Nan Clark is a real prize ouija catch - it's the only way of finding out what actually happened on that night of blood-soaked terror, and who carved her up. Unfortunately, if she doesn't stray from Nan Clark's Lane, you're unlikely to get in touch with her from your flat in Michigan. But if you do, let us know. Cos my dad swore she hung herself.Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18359756054171146584noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19655905.post-19126395500987156852010-10-26T00:34:00.011+01:002010-10-26T02:02:46.412+01:00AND THEN...ON DAYS LIKE THIS...george osbourne ((fuck the caps)) lives. Gregory Isaacs dies. Hey, nobody ever said this was gonna be easy...<br /><br />At risk of turning into rent-a-eulogy, I have to give a big tip of the trilby to the Cool Ruler. Before I started to hunt down roots and ragga LPs, I only really knew him from his 1982 hit <i>Night Nurse</i> ((wasn't this track actually used in a late '80s TV advert by the cough medicine manufacturer of the same name? Please, someone, tell me I'm not dreaming it...)), and I didn't really give him much thought. Needless to say, I soon changed tack when I heard <i>Slave Master</i> and caught his turn on the classic flick <i>Rockers</i>...<br /><br />It was said that Isaacs could park his flash motor outside any venue in JA, knowing that nobody would dare leave so much as a fingerprint on it. I'm just glad, for the car's sake, that he never put this theory to the test in Burnt Oak. There are so many songs you could pluck out of his repertoire to create a makeshift Youtube-on-a-blog headstone, but this is still my personal favourite: the time he teamed up with Ninjaman in 1991, on one of the first ragga LPs I ever bought. Just to recap - Ninja and Gregory Isaacs once shared studio time together. How their egos didn't clash and save the Large Hadron Collider the job remains a mystery. Sorry Youtube sounds like a cellphone, but there y'go...<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/brpzCx47QSI?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/brpzCx47QSI?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />By the way, I was intending to write something about Halloween. Remember that inconclusive, interactive BTi 'text magic' experiment from a few years back? Well, I was thinking we could do something similarly fun for Halloween this year. Like.. mask up, get some vuvuzelas and rusty scythes, and HACK OSBOURNE'S HEAD OFF HIS SHOULDERS, THE FUCKING WANK.Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18359756054171146584noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19655905.post-3921646791606352072010-10-21T20:43:00.009+01:002010-10-22T20:03:00.655+01:00YOU KNOW, IT'S ON DAYS LIKE THIS...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8DQ-m6OE4L_TxUnsxulhhyZM65JBcfTTm2TqCXfSsCSk5M7p3_zUjpVFbeeI2mVh-MUomyCan-Skz6ZFESOZ-3BbLHsVNmYbllkEb82dCLRaLu7hNv7bt-5lc8IRl4GzNHGP9/s1600/ari+up.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 260px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8DQ-m6OE4L_TxUnsxulhhyZM65JBcfTTm2TqCXfSsCSk5M7p3_zUjpVFbeeI2mVh-MUomyCan-Skz6ZFESOZ-3BbLHsVNmYbllkEb82dCLRaLu7hNv7bt-5lc8IRl4GzNHGP9/s400/ari+up.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5530596080095700162" /></a><br /><br />...I sort of regret shouting, "GET OFF THE MIC, YOU OLD HIPPY...YOU'RE A DISGRACE!" at Ari Up.<br /><br />Oh well. <br /><br />I doubt she heard me anyway. She was too busy toasting over Nicolette's singing. <br /><br />Still, I'm a bit old fashioned at heart. I like to stub out my cigarette and take off my hat whenever a coffin's being carried out the door, regardless of whether or not I usually took the piss out of her. Why, I'd do the same for Don Letts ((er...don't hold me to that one)). So, I'm going to be good today and only say nice things about her:<br /><br />To give her her due, she was an annoying white rasta before you were. Yes, YOU - don't bullshit. Just because you changed your name from Jeremy to JAH DUBKAT when the first Spiral Tribe 12" came out, and wasted your money on a Twinkle Brothers LP because you knew shit about reggae, doesn't mean you broke any boundaries. In fact, the Crustie and Goa Trance communities should be holding a candlelit vigil in Ladbroke Grove, right this very minute. ARI WAS THE QUEEN OF THE WHITE RASTAS. I mean, try and imagine how provocative she must have looked to meat'n'potato pie racists in 1970s Britain. It's a bit different from spending £80 on rasta extensions in Kensington Market, so you could whip peoples' arms while you were jiving around down Megatripolis. <br /><br />Her version of <i>Fade Away</i> was so good that when I later heard the original by Junior Byles, I thought it was a bit dull. So, there you go. She trumped a real rasta, once.Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18359756054171146584noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19655905.post-86095960573635449412010-10-13T20:09:00.006+01:002010-10-13T21:55:51.761+01:00THE CRASSICAL COLLECTION: FEEDING OF THE 5,000<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTNfsVfMVpse7mh5u8xBr1A6VPzsxATh3ERpFMo8YOsmzAXjQ2090txSiqL6UOJUA-40ZWOQx47FKFM0pbVcJCug5Opt5kdgsXn7PWlx7olfOwitfR_VuYLrRCVtiQAXjBMlIz/s1600/crass-thefeedingofthefivethousand-crassical_LRG.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 185px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTNfsVfMVpse7mh5u8xBr1A6VPzsxATh3ERpFMo8YOsmzAXjQ2090txSiqL6UOJUA-40ZWOQx47FKFM0pbVcJCug5Opt5kdgsXn7PWlx7olfOwitfR_VuYLrRCVtiQAXjBMlIz/s200/crass-thefeedingofthefivethousand-crassical_LRG.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527628792993584338" /></a><br />First time I heard <i>Feeding of the 5,000</i> by Crass, back in Easter 1990, it was comparable to the dream sequence in <i>An American Werewolf In London</i> where the zombie stormtroopers burst into the guy's pad in an orgy of senseless, savage slaughter. Having grown up with a Sacred Heart hanging over the telly and a genuine fear of Hell, hearing a band call Jesus a <i>rapist</i> who <i>sucks</i> was about as rock'n'roll as music could get, and the fact that the whole platter sounded like a buzzsaw fight breaking out on the tube just added to the appeal. The only pics of the band were disembodied, murky snaps that looked like they'd been clipped from Victorian photographs of Bedlam. They all had weird names and they lived in a commune, which I thought was a network of wigwams, in Epping Forest. They were anti-military, anti-system, but obviously not do-gooder Quaker-types; hence lines like, <i>I'm no deaf, dumb fucking jerk / I'm no spastic lying in the street</i> or <i>Jesus Christ can save my life / But I can always use me knife</i>. What's more, they were all probably dead or in jail for subversive activities by 1990. <br /><br />Actually, Catholicism wasn't that bad. It was more ludicrous than anything; watching some senile, flakey goat in a frock bang on about the <i>Sunday Sport</i> being filth, and all the older Irish guys, my dad included, straining like huskies on a leash, eager to get Mass the hell over with so they could send the women back home to put the dinner on, and go for a pint and an argument in the social club. I remember the time my dad drove us to Knock, to see the infamous statue of the Blessed Virgin that used to weep blood. "AH NOW...SHE MUST HAVE STOPPED FOR TODAY," he growled in front of the clearly inanimate, non-bloodied alabaster object. Come on, he didn't believe in it any more than you do. The nuns made my mum's childhood an utter misery. They couldn't have really endorsed any of this tosh - they just did it 'cos it was drummed into them from birth. Then again, I probably wouldn't be so flippant if some grotesque pig of a padre' had tried to bum me. <br /><br />Anyway, I fucked up on a lot of the Anarcho-Punk Commandments. Sorry, I can't turn vegetarian while pork pho exists, and I refuse to wear rubber shoes - I'd rather stare death by electric shock in the face. It's Crass's fault - they made me question <span style="font-style:italic;">everything</span> to the extent that I eventually ended up questioning the anarcho-punk dream. But I always had a soft spot for <i>Feeding...</i>, so I decided to check out the newly remastered CD version ((that's had ex-bass player Pete Wright - actually the most troublemaking and funny ex-member at the moment - threatening to drag Crass through the High Court, for 'betraying' their ideals)). So what do you get with this reissue? Well, the remastered packaging's a complete waste of tree. The only new 'fact' to emerge is Penny Rimbaud's claim that the Mafia sent him a warning letter about <i>Reality Asylum</i>. Straight up - one of the Gambinos apparently rattled off an angry missive concerning a blasphemous, 45p UK punk single. It's just that Rimbaud forgot to ever mention it before, obviously...<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">But..what does it sound like??</span>, you DARE whinge, you seal-culling sap? Well, it's still a racket, relax. I slightly prefer the original vinyl, purely 'cos it had more kick on the drums, more SKRAK on the rhythm guitar...and it was nice watching the pic of the man with the flag spin around on the label. But it's nearly there. Let's just say that all those previous CD reissues are gonna be selling for 1p on Amazon Marketplace from now on, and <i>Feeding...</i> is still a raucous, narky and hilarious punk classic - guaranteed to piss off old ladies and sullen ex-sergeant majors. Well, it would be if 'old ladies' existed anymore...most 60-year old women are dying their hair blonde and taking overhead mobile snaps of themselves for their Facebook profiles. The days of Jane Birdwoods swapping cucumber sandwiches and using binoculars to spy on young people with funny haircuts are about as anachronistic as Prestel, Busby or the Pools.<br /><br />You also get a bonus bag of demos: the group's '77 Soho session, which sounds like it was recorded in '57 ((I'm not kidding)) and comes across like Terry & The Idiots trying to infiltrate the skiffle scene - including a rant about Tony Blackburn, who apparently deserves a blow to the <i>bloody 'ead</i>. Still, <i>Demolition</i> and <i>I Don't Like It</i> are so crap, they're actually funny ((admittedly, they're also exactly how I used to sound on guitar)) and the version of <i>Owe Us A Living</i> is MAJOR side-splitting territory - be warned. The Feb '78 demos are more like proper CRASS ((probably 'cos they'd sorted out the line-up by then)) and are pretty much a warm-up for <i>Feeding...</i>, with rough, spikey versions of the tunes. Almost like having a very well recorded tape of a gig from the era. <br /><br />Let's not forget though, it wasn't all fun and games. They upset the Mafia.<br /><br />Thing is...you could pop in a time machine and sit in on the actual recording session, and it'd never sound <span style="font-style:italic;"> quite</span> as great as it did when you were 13.Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18359756054171146584noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19655905.post-61261829215826248752010-09-30T14:40:00.003+01:002010-09-30T14:56:58.141+01:00GOTHS JUST WANNA HAVE FUNSo if the first car sets off at midday and moves at 80km/h in a constant direction, but the second car sets off at...<br /><br />2B! <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">2B! WAKE UP! What the HELL's wrong with you all today?!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Sorry sir...some goths with spinning tops and a mysterious dryad in corpse paint dragged us down the park at 2.50am, to dance around a bonfire for Samhain.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wtKsK9wxDQA">But sir! It's true</a>!</span>Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18359756054171146584noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19655905.post-89940822201153416552010-09-28T06:22:00.019+01:002010-09-28T13:08:45.775+01:00GOTH / NOT GOTH<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7-kCaSUSTGggV93CcjKVN6pDUo6kJh_3soKAj4HB__n1U0UcjlAbSK2UjcGDHgqrFvP6KvrlaM2vrftOWbgrNgnUvbf9xJFpTSwSht12fIyYu5LLV-wIxJeYVU_L-QhLQ0MU6/s1600/hitlersock.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 243px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7-kCaSUSTGggV93CcjKVN6pDUo6kJh_3soKAj4HB__n1U0UcjlAbSK2UjcGDHgqrFvP6KvrlaM2vrftOWbgrNgnUvbf9xJFpTSwSht12fIyYu5LLV-wIxJeYVU_L-QhLQ0MU6/s400/hitlersock.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5521830743066413970" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.whomakesthenazis.com/">Who Makes The Nazis?</a> is a new blog exposing wankers in the neo-folk / martial music scenes ((about 90% of them, then)). Personally, I could do with never seeing another snap of that desperate attention whore Boyd Rice ever again, but I suppose if the site saves <span style="font-style:italic;">just one</span> curious child from wasting his/her money on a totenkopf-emblazoned duvet cover, it'll have done its job. So far, the blog's content's mainly been an expansion on material from that <a href="http://www.stewarthomesociety.org/wakeford.html">Stewart Home v Tony Wakeford expose'</a> from a few years back, but it'll be interesting to see what else the author dredges up.<br /><br />As far as I'm concerned, Death In June can sod off with the 'industrial' and ((especially)) the 'goth' tags, though. You ain't fit to even MUTTER the saturnalian syllable GOFF 'til you've torpedoed a fucking great hole in the ozone layer with a stockpile of hairspray - you get me? Subcultures' sartorial diktats exist for a reason, or else you'd just have crusties wandering around saying, "Yeah mate, I'm a Ted. Honest."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWtTOphsc5h4tJmGLyov8z_tMJs9EL984mAaWx4CsDmEv6r2n-Qwt5JHB3el2DGCypGVsDj21jA2_wG0BG8ICGgfeyf1u-GfFN_MIeaPqqwhxxtoGmfSEm4t7jYofioUkrAlbS/s1600/crapbandcantsing.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 249px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWtTOphsc5h4tJmGLyov8z_tMJs9EL984mAaWx4CsDmEv6r2n-Qwt5JHB3el2DGCypGVsDj21jA2_wG0BG8ICGgfeyf1u-GfFN_MIeaPqqwhxxtoGmfSEm4t7jYofioUkrAlbS/s400/crapbandcantsing.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5521835867594210802" /></a><br /><i>((Sol Invictus: about as 'goth' as your mum...)) ((unless she's a goth))</i><br /><br />All the goths I ever knew, regardless of gender, enjoyed a drink. I'm talking psychedelic snakebite by the gallon here, natch. Here's a quote from Albin Julius, some neo-nazi loser who plays in a 'martial' band, from an interview I just half-arsedly googled: <i>If I one day will leave Austria to move to another country, at the moment I can only think about Italy. How couldn't someone love a nation that makes sooooooo excellent cappuchino and wine</i>. What the fuck? People, can we PLEASE not confuse these steaming streaks of paralysed piss with the GOTHS? Tamora must be turning in her grave. Even Pete Murphy never uttered <i>sooooooo excellent</i>, let alone in connection to a frigging cappucino...((and you'd think, with these idiots constantly stressing the importance of European brotherhood and culture, they could be bothered to spell the fucking thing correctly...)) CAPPUCCINO - ha ha, I fucked that one up...<br /><br />Still, I did have a good laugh when perusing some of the links offered by <span style="font-style:italic;">Who Makes The Nazis?</span> One of these, 'Health Spy', has a tonne of info and links concerning David Myatt and the Order of the Nine Angles (ONA). DON'T READ <span style="font-style:italic;">ANY </span>ONA STUFF, YOUR EYEBALLS WILL NEVER FORGIVE YOU. Short version is - oddball called David Myatt forms Satanic order while living in a caravan, writes convoluted essays about the occult, helps set up Combat 18, 'becomes a Muslim fundamentalist' ((for the blowing people up / anti-Jew aspects)) and whiles away his days setting up blogs with sock puppet accounts and singing his own praises ((albeit humourlessly)). Anyway, there's some teenage / early 20s Satanic group in California called White Star Acception ((google it)), which claims to be influenced by the ONA, and features two gobby girls ((or, just as likely, one bloke)) called Chloe 352 and Kayla 352. WSA has a Wordpress account, and it's some of the funniest bollocks I've seen in a while.<br /><br />Basically, WSA see themselves as 'sinisters'. This means they pledge alliegance to Satan, consider David Myatt an incredible guru, they love National Socialism and the Taliban and they can't wait to hasten the arrival of 'Dark Imperium', which is something Myatt probably made up during his caravan years. Kayla / Chloe seem particularly obsessed by the awesomeness of nazi skinheads, as well as the aggressive, feral instincts of black street gangs ((<span style="font-style:italic;">I...I'm confused</span>!)), though they're extremely rude about Vietnamese immigrants. There's some awful, sub-Richard Allen fiction about skinheads in Leeds in 1973 on the site too ((seriously, don't bother)). <br /><br />Anyway, the sinisters hate the 'mundanes'. The mundanes are the blind, pathetic sheeple who hold down regular jobs, pay their electricity bills and don't take Burzum seriously. It's every sinister's duty to rape, steal from and 'cull' the mundanes. If it wasn't for the fact there're so many dreary articles on the site, I'd swear the whole thing was just a prank to wind up right wing Satanists ((who seem to be well pissed off with WSA, and with Kayla's / Chloe's inability to shut their traps)). <br /><br />According to the original ONA guidelines, you have to meet strict criteria for acceptance into the left hand path. This includes being able to run 26 miles in four hours and cycle 200+ miles in 12 hours; learning how to play the 'Star Game' ((don't ask, not worth it)); and then culling a mundane. Presumably because she spends all her time sitting on her arse in front of the keyboard, Chloe prefers the less physically demanding entry route instead: <br /><br /><i>You – and each other participant, if any – then say:<br /><br />I am here to seal my Fate with blood.<br />I accept there is no law, no authority, no justice<br />Except my own<br />And that culling is a necessary act of Life.<br />I believe in one guide, Satan,<br />And in our right to rule mundanes.<br /><br />You – and each other participant, if any – then make a small cut on your left thumb with the knife</i> ((pussies - can't they even do a Sid?)) <i>and allow several drops of your blood to fall onto the paper</i>.<br /><br />Wannabe WSA-ers are then required to say the following: <i>I swear on my sinister-honour as a Satanist that from this day forth I will never surrender, will die fighting rather than submit to anyone, and will always uphold The Code of Sinister-Honour.</i> Sinister-honour is a big deal, you see...it's like infernal mafia. You can't ever leave the family. Also, if anybody takes a swipe at your kin, you have to go and kill them. You know, just like Leeds skinheads used to do in 1973, apparently. However, this is where Chloe fucks up - I can reveal that this charlatan, this QUACK, has <span style="font-style:italic;">broken the code of sinister-honour</span>. <br /><br />What happened was this - Kayla / Chloe was on 'mysatan.net', a kind of Bebo for Satanists ((I'm not making this up)) when some girl called 'Mercedes' allegedly cussed her <i>honky ass</i> and claimed that the WSA were full of shit. Now, I know what you think should have happened. Chloe should have obtained Mercedes' IP address, accessed her home details, rounded up the WSA in a stolen truck, driven to Mercedes' place and carved her into a hundred twitching pieces, before scrawling HEY HEY WE'RE THE SINISTERS on the wall, in the gutted chick's own blood ((with a swastika underneath)). I mean, that's sinister-honour in action, according to the rules. What REAL sinisters do. I mean...Chloe wouldn't deal with this serious infraction by just...going on Wordpress, pasting Mercedes' abuse and BEING RUDE BACK?<br /><br />It's easy enough to google, but be warned - it's hardcore fare. She calls Mercedes 'bitch', 'dumb fuck' and 'dumbass mutherfucker'. Mind you, she does do a <span style="font-style:italic;">P.S Pardon my foul language, it was unlady like</span> bit at the end, so that's OK then. Just because you're out to smash ZOG and cull the mongrelised multitudes of mundanes, there's no need to leave your manners at the door. What she, Myatt and all these Satanist twits DON'T realise is that if they had the balls to down a crate of Buckfast and play <i>Release The Bats</i> at full blast they MIGHT actually stand an earthly chance of meeting THE DEVIL, right in their fucking squalid bedrooms, and that the REAL harbingers of Ragnarok are <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fQzYnbljZ9Y">THESE TWO</a>. You get me?<br /><br />Naturally, I hope <span style="font-style:italic;">Who Makes The Nazis?</span> digs up some prime dirt on Die Form. Never liked them. <br /><br />But cheer up! <a href="http://speakerspushair.wordpress.com/2010/09/27/live-from-the-goth-trials/">DUBVERSION's done a REAL goth mix</a>, as in 'what goths back then were really listening to'. It kicks off with my favourite Banshees song ever, and full points for including <i>Temple of Love</i> and <i>She Sells Sanctuary</i> - seemingly obvious, but the only goths I met who didn't like these were Teds in black wigs. And Fall fans need to accept that <i>The Wonderful and Frightening World...</i> is a bona fide GOFF platter. Minus a million points for the inclusion of Theatre of Hate - but hey, I'm not gonna start bitching like a pig after the hash I made of the BTi A-Punk Mix ((Sendspace took it down after members of Exit-Stance rang the RIAA)) ((not really)), and Dubversion admits he hates them too. <br /><br />In the spirit of inter-blog memery, which I haven't done for ages, here's 5 other Goth / Not Goth moments I personally like: <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">BLOOD & ROSES - "LOVE UNDER WILL" EP</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiIZ-WQjF-4Zv63YIs8xsl4-Sx46WgRrTOQXXwg2EFoPmDdFcvWc51dNJc9a_lQRXByftq9MByzbGSoy7OIL10_onVRh7PhVGYsqMiDGPj_OM1udD8lqXE-fn6SgBus9naUeXw/s1600/Blood-And-Roses-Love-Under-Will-E-360159.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 192px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiIZ-WQjF-4Zv63YIs8xsl4-Sx46WgRrTOQXXwg2EFoPmDdFcvWc51dNJc9a_lQRXByftq9MByzbGSoy7OIL10_onVRh7PhVGYsqMiDGPj_OM1udD8lqXE-fn6SgBus9naUeXw/s200/Blood-And-Roses-Love-Under-Will-E-360159.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5521907266004093314" /></a> B&R would probably disown the 'Goth' tag themselves, but look at the evidence: they used to play gigs with black candles on stage; they lived in a squatted hospital; they had occult symbols all over the record ((to boost sales, allegedly)); and their guitarist literally looked like a corpse that'd stumbled out of a Victorian fireplace. This 12" is spot on, and musically ticks all the boxes too: <i>Love Under Will</i> is fun and sweaty pogo punk, <i>Nekromantra</i> has a load of witchy 'WOOAHH-AHHHHs' and <i>Spit Upon Your Grave</i> is more GOTH than GOFF itself. In fact, I'm choking on hairspray just listening to the guitar riff ((girls', not mine; I was never a Goth)). <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">THE MONOCHROME SET - "EINE SYMPHONIE DES GRAUENS" 7"</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtUwhOvb8MtG-u1QzkJz9SU0C-8aY5czldBUIA0HtFLA1pOvIvFq5JPTVUPNxHxpDZ0NJnSSNf1GjRQgncVxi_360p36blmPA-hsprMSnIJEWQSfI9tiuHc8WdL3mytLpgPIJw/s1600/monochrome+set.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtUwhOvb8MtG-u1QzkJz9SU0C-8aY5czldBUIA0HtFLA1pOvIvFq5JPTVUPNxHxpDZ0NJnSSNf1GjRQgncVxi_360p36blmPA-hsprMSnIJEWQSfI9tiuHc8WdL3mytLpgPIJw/s200/monochrome+set.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5521908825147293426" /></a> Yeah yeah, they weren't Goths. But c'mon, check the bassline on this. It's basically proto-Goth in a Marakesh beat club, with low-down vocals detailing Nosferatu's attempts to cop off with a Catholic schoolgirl. The singer was an Indian prince or something, and they went REALLY shit after 1981. I guess they're a bit too fey for the Killed By Death crowd, and neo-folkies will hate them because they never recorded a song about Heidegger - but if they had done, it probably would have been quite funny. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">ALIEN SEX FIEND - "E.S.T (TRIP TO THE MOON)" 11"</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUkebbwfFTQct8xgQTPAlktX6Onf9biKvrF9Gsi028Ybex0e037ciSTuTdXIaN_hsiOqBSDQgOb6mX0-XccJlQcNHly2CNjfNepFTy5fuGUNPo4iLUzNqDIMB7JvXLiNXn34nc/s1600/Alien-Sex-Fiend-EST-Trip-To-The-M-27868-991.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 180px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUkebbwfFTQct8xgQTPAlktX6Onf9biKvrF9Gsi028Ybex0e037ciSTuTdXIaN_hsiOqBSDQgOb6mX0-XccJlQcNHly2CNjfNepFTy5fuGUNPo4iLUzNqDIMB7JvXLiNXn34nc/s200/Alien-Sex-Fiend-EST-Trip-To-The-M-27868-991.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5521911464789342930" /></a> Not trying to be perverse when I say I prefer this to <i>Ignore the Machine</i>, it's just that I heard this one earlier. Dubversion's so right when he says ASF were a million miles away from the po-faced stereotype of goth. The A-side's a groovy dance number that could've been a chart smash on a less neurotic planet, and <i>Boneshaker Baby</i> goes all punkabilly on the flip, in a sorta Cramped-up style. <span style="font-style:italic;">Eddie Cockroach!</span> And to top it off, <i>I Am A Product</i> is a nice slice of glacial industrial that sounds like it was recorded in a dungeon with steam pouring out of ventilators ((ie- Slimelight)). Wasn't this the first 11" single ever pressed? <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">WAYNE HUSSEY ON THE JAMES WHALE RADIO SHOW</span><br /><br />Take a Mormon who's been denied the juice of the barley for all of his young life. Put him in a couple of bands and get him knocking 'em back like Tantalus, to make up for lost time. Then get him tanked up, stick him on a late night ITV chat show hosted by a patronizing hobgoblin and watch a nation of insomniacs rock with laughter as he makes a complete spectacle of himself. You could tell the cool kids from the mundanes the next Monday at school - the cool ones were taking their shoes off and tapping them on their desks during Science, before dissolving into private joke laughter. Fucking hell...was Wayne sinister that night, or what?<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />KILLING JOKE - "FIRE DANCES" LP<br /></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5-xKs5asIacIaDimPLWXAn9QG0KANdoh8J2Mmv5C9ZgPNEDvcqiTY_IOTtlBqRYsE_oQzlUBelB1Mo1_BUEtlkLJLuVjCuhvYCzabh3vq_TRgCT6A-itHUaaj-0bwmFRx0njJ/s1600/KillingJoke-FireDances.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5-xKs5asIacIaDimPLWXAn9QG0KANdoh8J2Mmv5C9ZgPNEDvcqiTY_IOTtlBqRYsE_oQzlUBelB1Mo1_BUEtlkLJLuVjCuhvYCzabh3vq_TRgCT6A-itHUaaj-0bwmFRx0njJ/s200/KillingJoke-FireDances.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5521916055556386018" /></a> Why don't Killing Joke fans like this one so much? You do realise the whole album's about staying up all night raving? <i>Dominator</i> was always a good one for watching khol-smudged, 6 ft 4 girls jive around to. <i>Feast of Blaze</i> reminds me of a mad goth girl called Ruth who once spent an evening rearranging coloured marker pens on the threadbare carpet and babbling on about how they were different countries. Pissed meself laughing, though I didn't have a clue what she was on about. Became a nurse, apparently.Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18359756054171146584noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19655905.post-44355479698710631112010-09-22T02:45:00.001+01:002010-09-24T11:52:18.817+01:0010 YOUTHFUL MUSICAL RITUALS I (SOMETIMES) MISSI turned <span style="font-style:italic;">firty four </span>a few months back - another year closer to becoming my dad. I've never taken pop music entirely seriously - Chas & Dave, Adam Ant and Suggs kinda set me up for a lifetime of disappointment - but I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss some of those pointless, naive rituals we used to perform on a regular basis. You know, back when we'd gather round the communal copy of NME in the sixth form library, before slipping it under one of our jackets and retiring to a wall outside a corner shop to slag the whole rag off...while the indie kids cried to the librarian. <br /><br />By the way, you can only really get away with this shit if you're under 25. If you doubt me, take a long, hard look at Charles Shaar Murray and ask yourself if you want to amble down that cul-de-sac. So, 'kids', enjoy all these while you've still got time...<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">1) CLAIMING BANDS</span><br /><br />The way it went: Tom and me were 13 and he announced he was getting into The Clash. He couldn't though, I swiftly reminded him, cos The Clash were <span style="font-style:italic;">my band</span>. My sister got her photo taken with Joe Strummer in the <i>Hendon Times</i> in 1979, so he could fuck off with that idea. "OK," he replied, after a few pained moments of speculative lip chewing, "I'm into The Specials." That conniving bastard claimed The Specials, so I could never really get into them 100%. Oh sure, I could listen to them, and vice versa for him and The Clash...but they were HIS BAND. Meaning that, if I purchased anything to do with The Specials ((or 2-Tone, for that matter)), I was entering his personal fiefdom, and admitting that...that...HE WAS RIGHT. <br /><br />This seemingly innocuous Thursday afternoon exchange bore major consequences for each schoolboy's individual psychic development. The Shanghai butterfly coughed its lungs out and blew us down completely separate paths. He ended up shaving his head and getting into mod culture and Northern Soul. I morphed into a scruff and was more at home with ragga and Crass, which he detested. One day, the twat laid claim to Joy Division, sucker-punching me from out of the blue. Although I seethed inside, I immediately hit him back by claiming The Pop Group. Ha, he actually bought <i>Y</i> when Radarscope reissued it in 1996 - snivelling like my personal lapdog, as he shuffled into the queue at HMV, incriminating CD in his hand. See, I'd won - he'd just conceded that my music pissed all over his utopia of Lambrettas and FACwhatevers. A week later, he told me that <i>Y</i> was "the biggest load of pretentious shit" he'd ever heard, but I knew he was just desperately trying to save face. <br /><br />When I was 23, I met a ragga fan at work. Instantly, I blurted out "Ninja", and he retorted with "Shabba". We used to scour Petticoat Lane Market for Ninja vs Shabba clash tapes, just to prove the other's dibby dibby soundbwoy unworthiness. Fucking hell...the day I chanced across a copy of Shabba's <i>Just Reality</i> album ((which was out of print for a period)), and which I knew he desperately wanted on vinyl, I genuinely felt torn. I bought it anyway, only I didn't tell him about it. One night, we were both drunk and he was going on and on about it, and how it was his favourite album, and how he'd never seen a copy ever since somebody had nicked his cassette version, and I foolishly revealed that I'd bought it a month before. Man, the look he gave me...I'd have got a better reception if I'd nutted his wife on the hooter.<br /><br />"I'll... tape it for you," I offered - half feeling genuine remorse, half gloating over having plundered his base and <span style="font-style:italic;">captured his flag</span> - even though he was morally 'in the right'.<br /><br />"FUCK OFF!" he growled. "You can bloody sell it to me...you know how much I like Shabba!"<br /><br />"But you can have it for free...on tape."<br /><br />"IT'S NOT THE SAME, AND YOU KNOW IT! HOW WOULD YOU FEEL IF I FOUND A NINJAMAN 7" AND BOUGHT IT WITHOUT TELLING YOU???"<br /><br />You see - hit your 30s, and all this shit is just lunatic. 'Claiming bands' indeed. Imagine me telling Woebot that he can't write about LaMonte Young anymore, but that I'll generously back off from mentioning Luigi Nono! Though I still think <i>Ghost Town</i> sucks compared to <i>London's Burning</i>, and I hate Ben Sherman shirts. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">2) MUSICAL MYTHS</span><br /><br />Did you know that the <i>Unknown Pleasures</i> cover illustration is actually a scan of Ian Curtis' brain waves, taken during one of his epileptic seizures? Or that Curtis was a necrophile who worked at a funeral parlour, prior to starting up the band? Or that Phil Collins' <i>In The Air Tonight</i> is about a murder at a camp site? Or that Buster Bloodvessel once out-ate Ian Stuart at a burger bar contest in Kings X? Or that Tommy Makem & The Clancy Brothers were being monitored by the CIA for producing subversive material? ((shit, that one turned out to be true! Though John Lennon got all the headlines when they leaked the list...))<br /><br />These days, just go on Wikipedia and you can discover the entirely boring, factual truth about any artist you care to mention. Pre-internet, we used to make up rubbish about pop groups and spread it like wildfire. There was an air of mystery that true musical knowledge would later serve to crush. Back in the day, you could happily believe that TG's <i>Hamburger Lady</i> really WAS a compilation of extracts from the diary of a hospital nurse who'd been jailed for sexually interfering with a woman with third degree burns. Try explaining that on a forum now, and see how many self-styled <span style="font-style:italic;">industrial gurus</span> jump into the thread to remind you that the lyrics are *actually* based on a piece of fiction by Al Ackerman, and that the lyric says <i>"flashed on the carpet"</i>, NOT <i>"jizzed on the carpet"</i>. Thanks, Mr Pedantic. Hey, here's a flame thrower - there's a fairy hostel down the road, jump in. <br /><br />Sadly, dump the mythology for cold fact, and you soon realise that the world of pop is actually quite dull. It's just normal people doing normal things, only with sound coming out of the end. I suppose we've got the Lady Gaga hermaphrodite thing to while away the odd 5 minutes, but even that's not as interesting as the fact that the Pussycat Dolls were men. <br /><br />And Karen Carpenter died after the rest of her clan believed her to be possessed by the devil, locked her in a tiny room, called a priest to exorcise her and let her die of dehydration, gagging to death on her own tongue - OFFICIAL. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">3) ARGUING ABOUT WHO'S BETTER</span><br /><br />Musical taste's just one of those things. I've been getting into cajun and zydeco recently, though haven't really had the time to brush up on the musical roots and history. The fact that YOU may have spent all of last week listening to Insect Warfare, and believe their brand of hyper grindcore shits all over the Balfa Brothers, doesn't interest me in the slightest. You might as well tell me 'the Baltic Sea' shits all over 'architecture', for all I care. Luckily, most of us are mature enough to accept the diverse grandeur of the musical spectrum, in all its beauty and mystery.<br /><br />Yeah, yeah, BORING. What about that time in The Horn of Plenty, when I utterly DEMOLISHED Mark's PATHETIC argument that "the Levellers are better than the Pogues"?? I mean, what sort of dickwit would even entertain such a ludicrous concept?? With a cider in hand and anger in my eyes, I conclusively proved to him ((and his underage girlfriend hangers-on)) that the Levellers were middle class mummy's boys playing at tramps, and that their dirge was nowt more than the Saw Doctors with B.O...whereas the Pogues encapsulated the speed rush of London and the rage of a thousand tormented navvies' souls, pushed from their wandering grounds by the steamroller of urban regeneration. Fuck, I was so good that night, one of his UAD harem even tried to sneak a kiss with me when he lapsed into a coma ((of shame)). <br /><br />Don't forget, I grew up with a generation who actually used to write and post letters to the NME, saying Steven Wells should be killed for slagging off the Manics. Arguments about bands were 10 a penny. People would even argue against bands they hadn't heard, just because they thought 'Slint' was a stupid name. Motley Crue fans used to beat up Metallica fans outside youth clubs. The worst arguments ever were jungle vs techno; by Pan, some of those ran for days. Beatles defenders were particularly obnoxious, but you could easily dispel them by mentioning that 'Pakis Out' demo they once recorded. Try doing the same with two clowns ranting about BPM and beat-matching. <br /><br />The great thing about internet forums is that you can keep up this ancient tradition until you're in...I dunno, your 90s? Plus throw in bits accusing your opponents of being ignorant and racist, if you really want to spark a reaction ((ie- "Well, I guess preferring PiL to Funkadelic <span style="font-style:italic;">would</span> be natural for someone who <span style="font-style:italic;">detests black music</span> - hey, at least the closet BNP members on Radio 2 cater for your tastes", etc etc)). But don't try it at work. It's fucking bad enough having to deal with yet another jumped-up pipsqueak calling a 'strategy and focus meeting' without some temp goading you into a Vampire Weekend vs MGMT argument ((they are both shit compared to Methodist Centre, by the way)). <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">4) FANCYING ANABELLA LWIN</span><br /><br />When you're 14, it's OK to fancy a 14 year old. When you're 23, it kind of switches to reminiscing about how much you fancied her when you first saw her on TOTP, a trillion years ago. When you're 30+, it is completely fucking unacceptable to buy a copy of <i>I Want Candy</i> on Discogs, just to ogle the cover. Same goes for middle aged male critics who speak well of Japanese girl pop, as if their fawning reviews are gonna somehow launch a sigil into the crotch of the universe which'll get them into bed with said Nipponese bopettes. <br /><br />When I was 6, Lwin stood for some punk pirate gang who were going to go to the country and swing around naked, catching fish with safety pins on the ends of pieces of string, while illegally taping songs off the radio. And, faced with dross like Steve Miller Band, Kiki Dee and the Stray Cats, that made her mind-blowingly attractive at the time. Now, I just look at old clips of her and see my niece with a funny haircut. Sometimes, if you truly love someone, you have to let them go. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">5) STAGE DIVING</span><br /><br />My first ever stage dive was at a Snuff gig. I can't remember much about this band, except they were vaguely controversial and did cover versions of <i>I Think We're Alone Now</i> and the BBC test cricket theme. Part of me was convinced that the crowd was going to part when I flung myself off the edge, and that I'd end up being stretchered out of the New Cross Venue with spinal fractures. I'd recommend it, it's a laugh, though not QUITE as amazing as I thought it was gonna be. The stage wasn't that high up, really, so it was more like a quick flop than some epic plummet. I did get advised afterwards, by some friendly crustie, that you really shouldn't do it if you're wearing army boots, as they can take out somebody's nasal bridge on the way down. I don't know whether Converse would make much of a difference, to be honest, but...don't shoot me, I'm just passing on what he said. <br /><br />Do people still stage dive? To be honest, I don't go to many punk or hardcore gigs now, and I suspect the bouncer policy would be to enforce 'health and safety' by bundling you through a fire door and kicking your cheekbones in. Stage diving at a reggae or dubstep night is obviously inappropriate, and if you do it at a work Xmas party you run the risk of getting sued for assault. I'm still up for it, though if I ever do it again, I want a serious drop this time. Maybe I'll try next year's Proms. The closest I've come to stage diving in recent years was when I fell off a platform in a Russian nightclub, with no crowd to catch me - and believe me, that fucking HURT. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">6) WINDING UP GOA TRANCE DJs</span><br /><br />Basically, there are five ways of DJing:<br /><br />a) the 'slap anything on' method. This is what John Peel used to do. If the music's good and the crowd's had a few drinks, it works fine. It's fun and anyone can do it, which is why 'Superstar DJs' fear and despise it. Oh wow, did I miscue that Casco 12"? Boo hoo - get us another double vodka, will ya? <br /><br />b) the DAVID SEE method. Forget it, none of you'll ever be good enough to master this. <br /><br />c) the reggae method. Lots of people think they can do this, but often fall short. Google "eden droid kings cross clash" for more info. Jah Shaka's good at this. Best to leave the DJ well alone. <br /><br />d) the 'Superstar DJ' way. This involves being an egotistical cock who turns up at 3am, plays four tunes, gets paid £5,000 and then drives off to do ketamine with groupies in a hotel room ((still, beats working!!))<br /><br />e) the OVERLY SERIOUS GOA TRANCE MIXMASTER style. Ha, this is the one we're going for.<br /><br />* Get everyone in your posse to individually go up and ask for <i>Police Officer</i> by Smiley Culture. Far more fun if there's a big crowd of you ((it doesn't have to be that tune, but I'm fond of it as it became our flat's anti-trance anthem of choice, back when I was living in Camberwell, and it'd make me cackle if future generations took up the torch - plus you get 'Smiley points' for every DJ you successfully get to play it. We eventually replaced this tune with <i>Set You Free</i> by N Trance - overly serious Goa Trance DJs HATE that one)). Come the 4th request and there'll be red steam spouting from the booth. <br /><br />* Ask for something on Flying Rhino Records. When the DJ produces it, scowl and say, "I meant the Tripitaka remix...oh, forget it". Shoot them a disgusted / pitying look and storm off ((works best with a male DJ and female requester)).<br /><br />* Hover near the booth with a scrap of paper and pen. Just draw some cartoons, or something. They'll assume you're scribbling down the names of all their 'white label' tunes and will freak ((I guess you can bugger about with a mobile phone too)).<br /><br />* Position yourself and a mate parallel to each other across the DJ booth. Play 'catch' with an invisible ball. Explain you're working on your chakras and call the DJ a fascist if s/he intervenes. <br /><br />* If all that fails, go up to the booth and yell, "NOW, LOOK HERE..." and violently slam your palm down next to the turntable ((and get to ready to run - Krishna never passed on his message of universal love and peace to bouncers)). Of course, if it's a party ((which was every single fucking party in Camberwell for a couple of months)), make a call based on how hard the DJ's friends appear to be.<br /><br />Just remember - Goa Trance is evil, and these tactics are therefore completely justified. If you try any of this at a grime night, well, that's your funeral. <br /><br />Also, feel free to wind up 'professional buskers'. Not the regular guys, but the dick ones. This whole 'professional' thing only came about because the guy who plays the bossa nova synth down the bottom of Covent Garden station whined so much about police harrassment that LUL decided to set up designated 'busker spots'. Of course, if you wore a raggy old coat and could only play one Howlin' Wolf harmonica riff ((which would be ace)), you were denied a pitch in favour of some ex-session musician who needed the extra dosh to fix his patio. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">7) THE 'JUKEBOX OF SHAME' CHALLENGE<br /></span><br />Like I said, when you get over 25, people care less and less about what you listen to, which makes this game unworkable for old cunts like me. To be fair, it only really emerged from certain circumstances in my past, and might be hard to replicate anyway. Basically, me and my male friends were sitting around this pub in Luton called The Cock, which had a jukebox. Every now and then, depending on their sixth form class schedules, fellow UADs would pop in in the afternoon, for an illicit shandy or 10. <br /><br />The old paddies at the bar weren't really fussed about wasting drinking money on the jukebox, so we had free reign. What we'd do is scope the juke for the worst possible tunes, and make a note of them. The dare was, if a group of attractive girls came in, one of our party had to go up to the juke, put in 50p, and select three of the worst songs on it. So, for instance, if three foxy girls with punky hair - who'd obviously be our perfect partners in crime, in the endless suburban war against MR BYRITE - came into the pub and shot you discreet looks, you'd have to put on Hall & Oates, or Wet Wet Wet, or Mr Blobby's Xmas number 1, or some utterly horrific shite that you'd never want to be associated with. You know how certain Indian tribes used to make their kids walk into the desert, gobble down peyote and hang from a pole by their nipples, to break them into adulthood? It was sort of like that, but utilising futile musical embarrassment as the ultimate nullification of our egos. <br /><br />Of course, the first tune would kick in before the full selection was made. As the pub would have been silent ((except for the Channel 4 racing)) beforehand, there was no doubt as to who'd put the crap songs on. This is where it got fun. You wouldn't believe the amount of people who'd forfeit the dare, and therefore had to buy 2 pints for the group, so any brave souls who DID take the walk of shame would be watched eagerly for signs of weakness. Obviously, turning round and shouting, "I PUT THIS ON FOR A BET!" was cheating. The trick was to summon up as much resolve as possible and just casually select the tunes, with a straight face, before returning to our group ((I think you had to stay at the juke for 2 minutes, can't remember now)). <br /><br />To think that Croats were getting gunned down in Snipers Alley at the time...and we had kids who'd bottle it, and stick on three Nirvana songs instead. I kind of fucked it up by bursting out laughing, which counted as 'cheating',though I did manage to piss everyone off with <i>Pray</i> by Take That. But I remember one kid who fell to pieces at the juke, turned bright red and looked as awkward as hell. The JUKEBOX OF SHAME had claimed yet another victim. He later committed hari kari ((possibly)). <br /><br />Of course, if we'd stuck really good stuff on the juke, the girls would have sussed us as being 'desperate' and trying to impress them, so there was never any real loser or winner in this farce of a game. You spend your teenage years in Luton, then tell me what you'd have done to kill the afternoon. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">8) ACTION / SHADOW DANCING</span><br /><br />This was invented by some guy I used to know, and is the most retarded fun you can have in a dull club ((Tiger Tiger's a good place to try it - THOUGH, as always, watch out for those bouncers)). Tiger Tiger is the London nightspot those Islamic fundamentalists wanted to blow up because they claimed it was full of 'slags'. Taking 'slag' to mean 'prostitute', they were sort of correct, cos the upstairs bit used to be packed with Iberian and East European doxies, who'd sit around in J-Lo style gear, fingering near-empty glasses of wine, and causing naive estate agents to shit a brick and convince themselves, <i>She definitely keeps looking over at me...ah, still got the old magic!</i> Add a load of R&B hits, an unhealthy plague of Autotune, £4 for a bottle of some obscure beer nobody really wants to drink, and horny blokes in white YSL shirts, and the only escape is...ACTION DANCING ((or, as some folks call it, 'shadow dancing'...though I prefer 'action', as that makes less sense)). <br /><br />Here's how you do it:<br /><br />a) Run towards other club patrons as if you're going to crash into them<br />b) Veer off at the last second, and speed away in another direction<br />c) repeat ad infinitum<br /><br /><i>Everyone's partyin' in the club tonight...all the ladies movin', feelin' alright</i>...and the ACTION DANCERS comin' up on the right...fuck, this was a laugh. Here is the downside - bouncers (citing health and safety) will claim that you're running with a glass and could trip up and take your own eye out, so, for your safety, they're obliged to toss you headfirst onto the pavement. If you explain that you're dancing, they won't buy it. BUT, remember... clubs like that all run to a systematic sequence: punters coming in -> punters going to the bar -> punters checking people out -> punters dancing - > punters pulling - > punters leaving. Action dancing is literally zig-zagging across the dashboard of social control, breaking the club sequence. In other words, security will be slow to respond - it'll take them a couple of minutes to cycle through the WTF? stage before they do anything to eject you. Make a note of the nearest fire exit, just in case. <br /><br />I don't do it much now. For some reason, people don't want to join in, unless they're so drunk they're seeing stars. <br /><br />Why are R&B fans so moody, by the way? You're singing about licking people up and down, not the Armenian Holocaust. You've got your Cristal and the ladies in the club - can't you count your blessings and crack a smile, for Gawd's sake?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">9) SLAGGING OFF "SELL OUTS"</span><br /><br />In 1993, an independent group called Blaggers ITA, who'd made a philosophy out of physical anti-fascist activity, signed to EMI Records and THE WORLD FELL APART. Suddenly, they were as bad as Combat 18, if not worse. Fanzines ditched trivial concerns like boycotting Nestle' and building opposition to the impending Criminal Justice Bill in order to concentrate on exposing the Blaggers as SELL OUTS of the lowest order. Years later, this was followed by even worse atrocities, like Black Flag selling <i>Nervous Breakdown</i> to some mobile company and Iggy Pop acting like a total spaz on car insurance ads. <br /><br />Fear of having your subculture co-opted is the MY BAND! syndrome, only on a mass scale. There's also something a bit postured about the outrage, to be honest. Y'know, like people who cry when their football team loses...I'm not sure I buy it. It's a tad creepy watching 30+ folks raving about the fact Chumbawamba signed to EMI after years of being the squeakiest clean ducks on the scene ((though it was hilarious when their backstage rider demands got leaked to the UK A-Punk underground around '94 - what a bunch of greedy fucks!)), or how Lady Gaga shouldn't be allowed to sport the Icons of Filth logo on her jacket. Like, who cares. Pop stars, inn'it? These days, I'm more concerned with working out why Little Snitch clogs up my laptop. <br /><br />But this is a great pastime when you're a kid - especially as it can be used to annoy other people. For example: "Babes In Toyland are far better than the Lunachicks - the Lunachicks are just a few ripped off Pussy Galore riffs, with tinnier sound". <span style="font-style:italic;">"Oh yeah? Well at least the Lunachicks didn't SELL THEIR ARSES to Warner Bros, ha ha ha! That's right...you might as well let Disneyland spoon-feed you the corporate pap you so obviously crave!" </span> And everyone should wind up Iggy Pop fans about the car ads, they get really pissy (funnily enough, Fall fans don't seem bothered about the Vauxhall advert. This is possibly because they're so used to justifying everything Mark E Smith does on nebulous post-ironic grounds, including his drunken 1983 rant about being 'oppressed' by 'the black man on my TV'). <br /><br />Slagging off sell outs is only a brief phase, though, as you soon realise that the tunnel never ends. Back when I was a teen, the idea of Black Flag's music being used to sell anything was preposterous, so certain puritans would have to find umpteen other reasons to damn a band. The guitarist bought a flat? CONFORMIST! They released a 7" with a glossy cover? SELL OUTS! They were on the Chart Show last Saturday? BURN THE BASTARDS. All you can do with people like that is pray that their own obscuro heroes flog a track to Persil, and revel as they spontaneously combust in self-righteous apoplexy.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">10) LISTENING TO JOHN PEEL</span><br /><br />Technically impossible now, anyway. Ask anyone who taped songs off his show what their biggest regret is, and they'll all tell you - cutting his voice off in between tracks. I remember buying an EP by the hardcore band Doom and instantly realising that UKHC records weren't as good as on vinyl as when John Peel played them at the wrong speed, or when he'd drop 'em in right after some ditzy Wedding Present session track, or when he'd chip in with a comment like, <span style="font-style:italic;">"Bound to be doing the rounds at pool parties this summer...that was 'Mega Armageddon Death pt 3' by Electro Hippies...and this one's from the 'Boiling Point - Music From Hot Countries' compilation on Phil-Disq..."</span><br /><br />((PS - I have three Smiley points to date, one being a 'Super Smiley' because the DJ was playing indie and rock at the time))Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18359756054171146584noreply@blogger.com2