Monday, March 26, 2007


This interview was conducted with two 18-year old girls, Fern (F) and Ella (E), in the White Hart public house in Whitechapel. For the purposes of this interview, Beyond the Implode (BTI) comprised myself and Admiral Banton. A fifth party - a dishevelled, morbidly obese slug called Jack (who for unfathomable reasons spoke in a cockney taxi driver accent despite having been educated at the same private school as Fern) - was also in attendance, but his contributions amounted to very little and have subsequently been omitted from the following transcript.

BTI: What are your credentials as posh girls?

F: I attend a fee-paying school near Brighton called St Bedes, I'm just up in London for the day as my parents have bought a new house here. They're psychologists. I was boarding until my parents bought me my own house, which has a great garden - nearly 2 acres. I think parents should send their children to private school, especially those in London - get out of the city, and definitely get a garden. Having said that, I hate private school, it's awful. They teach you to judge people, everyone's lower than you. I have no idea what it's like to go to a comp. We're just finishing our A-Levels.

E: I've just had my head shaved for Cancer Relief. Do you think I look like a lesbian?

BTI: No.

F: I was bisexual when I was 16, but not anymore.

BTI: Who wasn't? What are your aims, career-wise?

E: I'm studying English, Politics, RS and Ceramics, I want to be a diplomat in a foreign country. I'm also going to patent white seat belts, so people don't get burned when they put them on in summer, because the black ones absorb more heat, don't they? I'm also going to launch a range of T-shirts, they'll have slogans on them, like 'What's the plan, Stan?'

F: I'm going to be a director - films and theatre. I'm also going to start my own magazine focusing on these topics. I went for an interview at St Martin's but they actually told me I was "too posh and bossy"! Don't you think that's deplorable? I'll find somewhere better.

BTI: What kind of things do posh girls get up to?

E: I'm thinking of getting a tattoo.

F: I once poured a boat of gravy over a guy's jacket. I was working in a pub, and he said "Excuse me, this beef is too cold". So I tipped the gravy all over him. I hated pub work, I'll never do it again. The pub manager used to slag off all the customers to us and then slag us off to the customers. I'm also going to Uganda, to help them build houses.

BTI: Oh, we know someone who went there to visit an AIDS clinic.

F: AIDS? (horrified pause)

BTI: Well yes, there's a lot of it over there.

F: Oh God. It was bad enough having my first round of jabs, I just cried. The nurse told me I was more of a crybaby than her three-year old daughter. What else do you know about Uganda?

BTI: Well, there's the Lord's Resistance Army, who are pretty brutal, though they're mostly concentrated in the far North.

F: I've never heard of them - you must be making them up!

BTI: Seriously, Google them tomorrow. Also, you have to watch out for those AIDS Mosquitoes, one zap and that's it.

F: Oh God

BTI: No, we just made that one up

F: I'm going to wear socks on my arms and legs to protect myself from mosquitoes.

BTI: Why not use a mosquito net like everyone else?

F: I never thought of that. Anyway, I'll be safe, my dad's hired an armed guard to look after me while I'm out there. But I don't want to touch any of the people. I wear rubber gloves on the bus, even in London.

BTI: What if you're halfway through building a house and a Ugandan co-worker collapses and cuts his arm, and you have to pull him to safety?

F: I wouldn't touch him.
F: I'm going to whittle a knife when I'm out there. I took my trousers up today.

BTI: You took your trousers off today??

F: No, I took them UP (shows off leg). Look. I'm going to be a clothes designer.

At this point the interview terminated, as 'BTI' made our way to the Rhythm Factory. Unfortunately, Ruff Sqwad refused to come on stage until the venue had ordered them a Domino's pizza, a process that took longer than our collective patience could bear, so we missed them. We would have brought the posh girls along, but we reckoned we'd just have ended up paying for their drinks all night (and no doubt buying several Domino's pizzas for Jack)

Tuesday, March 06, 2007


Yeah yeah, I know, the last post was abysmal - how could a German ex-war criminal be aged 75? Did he commit unspeakable nazi atrocities at the age of four? Well yes, he did actually!

Anyway, you'd all better start taking me seriously from now on. Improbably, this blog's ended up alongside Mark K-Punk, Momus and Simon Reynolds in an in-depth online scribbling expose' in Russian newspaper "Big City" (sort of like "Metro" but with brains) - the article's here

Monday, March 05, 2007


The world faces a singles epidemic, or so the radio told me last night. Relationships all over the shop are going down the pan. Wife leaves husband for milkman, husband has affair with daughter, daughter leaves father for social worker, social worker has illicit fling with a mandrill - then mandrill turns round and announces that he needs some space!

Pulling people is really easy if you know the basics, and I'm going to show all you single BTi readers how. Forget looks. There's loads of supermodel type girls where I work, and all of them spend 50% of the time complaining about how cold and thoughtless their boyfriends are. This is because their blokes are generally neurotic nutcases who've read 'dating tips' knocked out by some alcoholic, struck-off psychiatrist, advising them not to phone a pretty girl more than once a week and to stand her up on her birthday in order to generate 'interest'!

If I can pull, anyone can, and I don't say this lightly - in a past life, I once strolled down the Hellfire Club with John Merrick, to check out a laudanam-fuelled HP Lovecraft gig, and the elephant-headed fuck told me I was cramping his style!

So here, for the benefit of all you single readers, is an eight-point guide to pulling. Forget whatever they told you on TV, THESE TIPS WORK. If one doesn't, then simply move on to the next. As with any social experiment, there are always minor drawbacks, which I've tried to include in some detail. I am primarily addressing heterosexuals here, and from a male perspective. I know that's fucking boring, but I've tried to provide some additional footnotes for this waning weblog's cache of devoted female readers.


Everyone thinks this is a joke, until they try it. What you do is this: get a stuffed teddy bear, put it in a Wu Tang shirt, and take it down the pub. Buy it half a pint, and sit next to it. Eventually, a woman will come over with a smile and ask what's going on. This ALWAYS happens (NB - obviously, when I say 'pub' I don't mean some dive playing Country & Western records with a couple of suicidal old blokes drinking themselves into comas). When she asks, give her a little boy lost look with the faintest hint of a grin and say "He's my only friend". Bingo - you're in.

Disclaimer - when you say "He's my only friend", don't whine it in an Arthur Fowler voice or start crying. Also, when you end up back at her pad (which, I can't stress enough, WILL happen), for God's sake don't turn around and say "That was good, wasn't it? I learnt that trick from a BLOG. A blog on the INTERNET, which I spent time reading." Also, it doesn't have to be Wu Tang, put it in a Sheffield Wednesday shirt if you want.

SUCCESS RATE FOR WOMEN? - Don't bother, it doesn't work on men (unless they're childkillers).


Kids today, eh? When I was young and growing up in Burnt Oak, trainsurfing was as exciting as it got. Younger readers might benefit from this one. Simply go to your nearest rail station, wait for one of the trains to stop, jump on the back and hold on tight! Eventually, the British Transport Police (NB - sorry to be parochial, these dating tips apply in any country, incidentally) will catch you, tell you you're a bloody lunatic and send you off to a detention centre for a couple of weeks, where social workers will try to engage you in mindless 'youth activities' and exercises designed to improve your sense of self-worth (IMPORTANT WARNING - DO NOT, REPEAT, DO NOT LET THEM TALK YOU INTO PARTICIPATING IN ANY CHANNEL 4 'DOCUMENTARIES' ABOUT YOUNG OFFENDERS BEING ENTRUSTED TO START THEIR OWN GARDENING BUSINESS). Just say "yeah", "sorry", kick your heels and you'll soon be out.

Then go back home - and reap the benefits! Once the local disco dollies discover you've 'done time' for trainsurfing, they'll be all over you, girls are really attracted to adventure and fearlessness. Milk your 'bad boy spitting in the face of death' image for all it's worth. Yeah yeah, some other bloke's just bought a moped - so what? A rival suitor's made a dubstep mix - and? She's been asked out by someone who thinks they're an edgy punk 'cos they've given up cheeseburgers - big wow. She'll only have eyes for you, fantasising about your facial features contorted in the wind the day you zoomed from Kings Cross to Sheffield.

Disclaimer - if you fall off the train, you're fucked - I don't know how to chat up angels. Also, this doesn't really work so well when you're in your 30s, women find it 'irresponsible' and 'stupid' for some reason.

SUCCESS RATE FOR WOMEN? - Not advisable. If you end up with a jealous type, you'll have to field nonsense like this: "Come on! Let's get drunk and run across the M25! Why not? Why don't you want to go mental with ME? Oh right, so it's OK for you to risk smashing your limbs to a pulp and electrocution for your ex...what's wrong with me then? What, you reckon I can't trainsurf? I can! Come on, let's go down the station now! What, don't you love me?" etc


This one's a blinder. You'll need a radio, pen and paper and a mobile phone. Tune in to your local cab rank late one evening - when the pubs and clubs are chucking out is a good time. You'll notice that the rank operators supply their drivers with the name, location and mobile phone number of each pick-up.

All you have to do is listen out and jot down the details - stay put, you won't be going anywhere tonight, that all comes later. Whenever a female pick-up's announced, make a note of which club she's been to, the time, and her mobile number. Go for as many as possible, the 'numbers game' and all that.

Then, a couple of days later, simply ring each girl. Say "Hi, is that (HER NAME)? This is (YOUR NAME / FAKE NAME). We met a couple of nights ago at (VENUE) - do you remember? Ha ha, no, I was really hammered too! Anyway, thanks for giving me your number - just wondering if you'd like to meet up for that coffee tomorrow?" Piece of cake.

Disclaimer- if she was sober and only spent time with her friends that night, she'll probably suss you as a total fraud. Though you do get the cheap thrill of causing complete 'how the fuck did he know that?' paranoia to gnaw at her core.

SUCCESS RATE FOR WOMEN? - Surprisingly good.Your average bloke was probably pissed off his face, and will convince himself that you were literally hanging off his arm all night, on the strength of one phone call.


Most major cities have language schools. What you do is: hang around outside until you see a Japanese female student leaving. Follow her onto the bus / tube / train and get a seat beside her. When she's flicking through her marked coursework - as she will, because the Japanese are really work and study-conscious - lean in and suggest a few grammatical improvements. Ask her back to your place and offer her a free lingo lesson. Make out that you're a bit cultural. Ask her to translate that Japanese bit on Track 1 of that David Bowie LP - the one where he's a clowny-looking, watercolour mess on the cover. Voila - you're in.

Disclaimer - there's very little chance of getting arrested, killed or beaten up with this one. But don't do it if you're a real language teacher, it's unethical.

SUCCESS RATE FOR WOMEN? - No dice - Japanese blokes can't abide worthless female gutterslime who display the slightest sign of possible superiority in any field (except child-rearing).


So old, it hardly requires explanation, but just in case...say you're walking past your local launderette and you see a girl inside. Race back to your flat, load an Adidas bag full of clothes and turn up at the sud joint.

Load your clothes, and then spend the next two minutes staring into the machine. Don't take any less time than this, or you'll blow the scam. When your time's up, turn around and ask "Do you know how to work this thing?" Don't worry about looking stupid - billions of people have their own washing machines and never use launderettes, and even Sir Patrick Moore would struggle with some of the infernal contraptions they use in the Blackstock Road wash houses.

When she's helped you set your spin cycle, ask her how long it usually takes. When she says "About 50 minutes", reply "Oh, think I'll pop round the pub. Fancy a drink?" It's that easy.

Disclaimer- actually, nothing can go wrong. Who in their right mind would rather spend 40 minutes thumbing through a 2-year old copy of "Hello" and watching "Masterchef Goes Live" without sound on some crappy portable TV? At worst she'll say "no", in which case just go for a pint and try again another time. If you think this is bullshit - God rot you! - just listen to "Launderette" by Vivien Goldman.

SUCCESS RATE FOR WOMEN? - Foolproof, though you can probably just go straight for the drink question instead of fannying around with the machine.


As long as you don't mind being shot at, getting blown up, being expected to defend yourself with shitty weapons that don't work, being injected with test vaccines without your permission and developing some dehabilitating syndrome, having to wade across piles of rotting corpses, being told to have a cup of tea with NATO officials and do nothing while gangs of lunatics burn down villages and engage in mass rape, being patronised by Jim Davison, watching your friends die or get seriously injured, having a nervous breakdown, and then being tossed aside, unthanked, slagged off by cretinous left-wing students and fobbed off with a lousy pension and a piss-poor pittance of a compensation payout - go for it! Girls love squaddies.

Disclaimer - my dad was in the Irish Army for a short while (mine-clearing on the coast after WW2), and he never met any chicks. But he did end up in the glasshouse twice - once for sneaking off to have a pint when he was meant to be on watch, and the second time for waving a gun in his sergeant's face and letting off a shot over his head (because he was upset he'd been put in the glasshouse the first time).

SUCCESS RATE FOR WOMEN? - As above, but add sexism and endless grunts of disappointment from blokes when you don't wear your paraboots to bed.


Philosophers tend to link sex with death, which is why an anti-war demo's a good place to pull. Oh come on, you don't think we really turned up at the Criminal Justice Act beano in Hyde Park in '94 because we actually cared about the erosion of civil liberties? Demos are wicked places to pull, and here's why 1) If she tells you to go and piss up a rope, you can disappear into the crowd and never have to see her again 2) When people get together as a mob, they undergo powerful psychological changes. I don't know why, but they become more confident and their senses become enhanced. This includes horniness, as well as the sudden desire to stamp police dogs to death and lob bricks through embassy windows 3) It's well known that young males who join the SWP (who never miss a demo) are subjected to rigorous brainwashing by their elders and forced to suppress their sex drives (so aforementioned elders can get first crack at any nubile 17-year olds who join the party). Chances are a girl will be so impressed that you're NOT slagging off Workers' Power, Class War, Respect, the Communist Party of Great Britain, the IMG (do they still exist?), the Labour Party, the Sex Workers Co-Operative, the Lesbian Avengers, Sinn Fein, the Finchley Maoist Scooter Club, Bristol Rovers or the Sugababes - through a megaphone! - that she'll probably take a shine to you and let you slip your arm round her waist when the pigs kick off and everyone starts shoving each other and throwing bottles at cars.

Disclaimer - again, can't see much of a problem here, but try to avoid being penned in by the cops, or you'll have to stand in the rain for 2 hours with a load of crusties half-heartedly shouting "Come on, let's ruck 'em!" while the filth trot around on horseback, playing 'Snakes' on their mobiles. I cracked up when I heard that Libertines song that went "Did you see the stylish kids in the riot?" - what fucking riot was that, then? The one at IKEA?

SUCCESS RATE FOR WOMEN? - Definitely. Put a scarf round your face, throw a couple of bottles and you'll have revolutionary blerks inviting you to the Living Marxism 2007 conference all evening. Either that or sticking you in a camp to be re-educated, or gassed alongside such counter-revolutionary elements as the elderly, unemployed, disabled, etc

8) ER....

Save up all your money and go to either LA Cafe' in Manila or Genie's nightclub in Luton. If you can't pull at either spot, kill yourself, the game is up.

Disclaimer - You've never come remotely close to wishing the male gender extinct til you've seen a 25-stone, 75-year old German ex-war criminal in bermuda shorts, sandals and white socks trying to bogle to the Pussycat Dolls (who are men, by the way) in some squalid bar packed with Filipino teenage prostitutes, or a desperate, 18-year old chemistry student nervously gulping down his pint of Fosters while being pawed by a gang of menopausal housewives and praying that nobody finds out.

SUCCESS RATE FOR WOMEN? - Oh, stop whining, you thieving hyaenas make me sick.

Right, fuck all that, time for MARCH LISTENING POST

MARY ANN HOBBS PRESENTS 'WARRIOR DUBZ' - Cd on some dubstep label (2006)

The artwork for this CD looks like some sort of obscure European heavy metal LP - women with big, bare tits pose in leather boots while eagles try to peck at their nipples. Sort it out! It's like all these Hed Kandi posters, pure smut. Ann Summers parties on the dancefloor indeed! Do you reckon Jacqueline Gold's had plastic? Look at her hands, it's a dead giveaway. Anyway, this is dubstep. Nothing jumped out and threw me into the kitchen. Business as usual.


I've spent years avoiding 60s guitar music, I could never see the point. A bunch of pot-smoking liars going on about the Swinging Sixties and how you kids just don't know what revolution is, etc. I had a few exceptions - Jimi Hendrix, who was the first person to ever use an electric guitar properly, Screaming Lord Sutch and the Savages and Captain Beefheart. I was a bit wary of checking out the Pretty Things, but this record's fucking incredible. By the way, get the MONO version as the remastered STEREO edition's a travesty. Psychedelic but razor sharp, and pissing over the Beatles from a motorway bridge, with songs about WW2 casualties set to military rhythms, like a phantom army of drummers and pipers swarming through Blitz-wrecked East London; Voodoo gods; getting fucked on acid on a bench and going on a mental gutterpunk joyride; wanking onto an eiderdown; and the perennial favourites, dead girlfriends, lost loves,mental breakdown, tears, DEATH, SORROW. I take back everything I ever thought of them. Just check out the way the guitarist punches his strings on "She Says Good Morning", makes the Stones sound like a bunch of weeds squabbling over who gets to sleep with Anita Pallenberg tonight (AGAIN...)


I'm sure everyone's sick to death of hearing about this now. Anyway, after years of using magick to annihilate his ego, Eden suddenly re-discovered it, big-style, and has been bigging himself up to the rafters. However, as far as I understand it, Paul Meme won this, didn't he? And all because he didn't feature a child on vocals. Let that be a lesson to you all.

Come on, don't get all arsey with me. Would you listen to a mix with a 5-year old girl shouting things over the top? It's the stuff of nightmares.

Children with microphones!! I didn't even like them when I was one.

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