Live

I’ll tell you what I did the other day, I went to the fucking wrestling, y’all. TNA, which apparently stands for Total Non-stop Action (not Tits ‘N’ Ass, as I had assumed [well, hoped]). Why the “S” in “Stop” doesn’t warrant it’s own letter is never fully explained to my mind. Perhaps someone decided, like Sam “Include me out” Goldwyn when he looked at Ars Artis Gratia (Art For Art’s Sake) above the roaring lions head on Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer films that TNSA just didn’t look right (Samuel Goldwyn famously said “Shuffle it about a bit”, leading to much ummming and ahhhhing and shuffling from foot to foot from his underlings before someone just said “Yeah, alright.”, which is why it now reads “Ars Gratia Artis”, trivia fanzzz). “Featuring Kurt Angle, Jeff Jarrett, Samoa Joe and AJ Styles!” the ticket excitedly proclaims. I don’t know who any of these people are.

TNA, yesterday

So what the hell do I know about wrestling? The square root of fuck all, that’s what. As my companion and I wended our merry way there I was mistakenly under the impression that it was them Mexican wrestlers with the masks which are meant to be dead good that we were on our way to see. It wasn’t, and he filled me in on the language and a brief history of the art. Apparently it started with the circus strongman and “Survive ten minutes to earn ten bucks” style competitions and has since developed in to this monster that one sees before you. There may be some holes in that potted history, but in essence, that’s it.

Rammed. It was absolutely packed in there. Full of virgin boys, the scent of Lynx and sexual inadequacy heavy in the air. But the atmosphere was good. The least pretentious crowd I have ever come across in the sense that everyone was there to enjoy themselves, not to be seen or to simply say they had been (unlike say, to pluck an entirely random example out of the air, ATP Release The Bats at Space 2) and it was enjoyable.

Is wrestling fixed? Of course it is but when I watched Jurassic Park I didn’t think the dinosaurs were real and I still think that is ace. It doesn’t matter that the events are staged, these people are still extraordinary athletes. I couldn’t get up there and do the stuff they do in a six sided (?) ring for ten minutes without coughing up a lung. And nor could you (except, off the top of my head, maybe two of you. I’m talking to you Tom and you Kevin. Hmm, I wonder if I could arrange an MMA contest between them pair? I could tell them it’s for charity, I ‘spose.).

Kurt Angle and Mick Foley, yesterday

There were some politically interesting moments, such as where an “Iranian” wrestler (To much booing), Sheik Yerbouti or something, bowed down and prayed to Allah before his fight then kept cowering out and tried to run away. And some interesting perversions of language - A female tag team called “The Beautiful People” which proves that England and America truly are two countries separated by a common language. Beautiful is a relative term. Also appearing in that fight was a professional horse frightener called ODB who I found myself strangely drawn towards. I wonder if she has had any surgery?

My favourite part of the night was a tag team brawl featuring some fat lads (Hey, fat blokes are people, too! - My companion) who declared the match to be “A good old fashioned Birming-Ham street fight”. Hmm. A Hurst Street fight, maybe. There were no stabbings and nary a knife was pulled. They did bonk someone on the nut with a “Wet Floor” sign (There was also a broom or two in use which reminded me of a time many years ago when I saw the singer from a successful Birmingham band chase someone down the street with a broom outside the Sanctuary late one night cos they had nicked his wallet.*) and they dropped someone through a table. Which was fun.

Magnus Brutus from the new Gladiators was there and had a fight and won, and another English wrestler was there too, but he lost. We missed Kurt Angle and the main event cos my companion had a train to catch. But it was a good night, a bit too much music by James Alan Hetfield and his merry band of pranksters for my liking, but you can’t have everything.

Some gladiators, yesterday

Be seeing you…

*If you think you know who it was, please leave yr answer in the comments.

What with Foxy Knoxy being all over the news at the moment, I thought it was time to take a flippant disregard for the feelings of real people who have lost loved ones and assess women who kill in a purely attractiveness based way. Sort of like the opposite of what Miss Naked Beauty claimed to do, But with out the obvious and boring titillation and hypocrisy involved in “empowerment” (Gok Wan is not really a committed homosexualist, by the way. He is mad for the pussy, can’t you tell? I met a gay once, well, I passed a gay bar on a bus, and none of them looked like him so he can’t be, can he?).

Gok Wan, pussy magnet, yesterday

The appeal of murdereressesses (potential sp? Check before posting.) is the power. All men, that’s all men, no matter what they say, long to be swept up in the arms of a strong woman and dominated, treated like a baby, bummed and murdered. And that is a fact. They long to be shown their place and seek nothing more than torture and a slow, painful death, which Is why I sincerely believe that murder cannot be committed by a women, it should be seen as a mercy killing, almost a blessing.

In my research for this I have discovered that Kimberley (can’t be arsed to cite references, just take my word for it, yeah?) seems to be the most common name for murdering girls. Unfortunately I have chosen not to represent them here because they are all fucking horrific rotters. Horse frighteners, one might say. If I were being murdered by a Kimberley, the end would come as blessed relief.

So without further ado, in reverse order, let’s flippantly disregard human feelings, taste, and cries of “too soon, too soon” (what? are you still upset about that twin towers thing? Cos that was fucking ages ago.) and look at the top ten bitches we would all love to die at the feet of with a cord around our throats and a hand around our engorged penises…

10. Yoarashi Okinu - A poisoner and a geisha! How exciting can you get? I can’t find a picture of her but let’s be honest, she’s Japanese so she is bound to be delicious. Plus, being Japanese, and this isn’t a crass generalisation, she would definitely be amazing in bed. I’ve seen the internet.
9. Brenda Andrew - Orange is definitely her colour as the jumpsuit she habitually wears will attest. She shot her husband to death in the driveway for $800,000 insurance money. Which used to be a lot of money. A woman prepared to do that will surely be prepared to do anything.
8. Diane Zamora - A naval loon who was imprisoned for her role in the killing of her love rival, Adrianne Jones. The man they both loved was secretly hoping they would get together and the three of them could love, I idly conjecture through ignorance.
7. Brenda Ann Spencer - In her youth, obv. The recent lack of male attention means she has let her self go somewhat. The inspiration behind Saint Bob Geldof’s only song, “I Don’t Like Mondays”. The only thing that pushes her down the list is her connection to that despicable cunt.
6. Ruth Ellis - This Belgian sweetie was the last woman to be executed in Britain, specifically for the murder of her lover, David Blakely. With her fifties style good looks, she has earned her place in the list. Ladies from the fifties were, ofcourse, greatful for it, cos it hadn’t been long since the war when they had to settle for GI’s. Therefore probably up for everything. Also a sleb due to the manner of her death, hanged by Pettigrew.
5. Susan Atkins - Also known as Sadie Mae Glutz, was a member of the Manson Family and therefore endlessly cool, inspiring t-shirts to be worn by arseholes and Marilyn Manson, so not all bad, eh? She had a hand (literally) in the murder of Sharon Tate which makes her something of an icon, as far as killers go.
4. Jeena Han - Bumped low by the fact that she didn’t actually get around to killing anyone, but what a tangled web we weave. She certainly tried to, in a roundabout fashion. Worth reading just to see what some people get up to in their spare time.
3. Elizabeth Bathory - Raving mad countess who bathed in the blood of virgins that she tortured and killed for fun. An absolutely filthy piece of skirt who kept the villagers in fear and was a female Count Dracula. A bit like Vampirella, which is hott. Mad, bad and dangerous to know, and, most probably bucked like a seahorse.
2. Kristen Rossum - 26 year old beauty who murdered her husband with fenantyl and tried to make it look like a suicide. The only thing that keeps her from the top spot is the slight discomfort you might feel each night as you nodded off. Would you wake up the next morning? If you did, how intact would you be? And had she recently taken out any insurance on you?
1. Amanda Knox - In with a bullet, figuratively. Perhaps it should be “in with a penknife and barbed wire wrapped dildo”? We all know what she is accused of, the bizarre sex murder of that Meredith Kercher which obviously means that she would be up for anything, bedwise. Which is a real bonus in this league. This nets her a comfortable first place. Well done.

Foxy Knoxy, in happier times, yesterday

Be seeing you…

Due to Future Of The Left splitting up, (idle speculation that you heard here first, viewers) they pulled out at the last minute (and also scrapped three tours, sure signs of a band in trouble) leaving a lot of unhappy punters. A lot of people got refunds and went away therefore missing out on the worlds greatest Mclusky tribute act, Untitled Musical Project. In all seriousness they should have stuck around because UMP would have cheered up any FOTL fans with their cheeky Falco-isms, provided they hadn’t seen them before. Which got me to thinking, re-imagining the whole scene, what if, y’know, f’r instance all the FOTL fans had stayed? What if they had all watched UMP? What if they had won them over? What if this was the start of something beautiful for them?
Well it wasn’t. It was just another gig where a certain amount of effort was put in, a certain amount of joy was shared, and a certain number of songs are played with a certain amount of passion.

TV

In the teen-high-school-drama version, a disinterested crowd form around the foot of the stage, Future Of The Left’s name writ large across the backdrop. Backstage we cut to the band themselves saying, “We’ve got to do this, boys, for Falco.” They do a one for all and all for one thing with their hands on top of each others. “Let’s do this thing!” they jog onto the stage.

UMP kick off their traditional opening, a squall of noise and feedback drowning out the background noise and making everyone sit up and listen, if only they hand been standing.

Taking the stage they begin sloughing through their opening number, people start looking up from their tiny glasses of beer (high-school movie, y’all.) and start to nod appreciatively. The song goes down a storm. “Thank you, thank you.”s from the band, applause from all around.

Competently the plough through the majority of the back catalogue, Andy’s (s’bassman) backing vocal seeming to have got a kick up the arse from somewhere, adding a real weight to the numbers.

Seizing the chance, smiles spreading from mouth to mouth, they play better and better, glances paying off each other.  They are lost in the music, three men in love, but nothing funny about it.

There were new(ish) songs played tonight and they stand up to, and surpass the likes of “Why Isn’t Paul McCartney Dead Already?” and “The People Vs. Michael Miller”. After a long period of stagnation, it’s very positive to see them progressing again.

They clatter into the final number having secured for themselves a place in the heart of everyone present when disaster strikes! Every string on the lead singers guitar snapped! There was no way that they could continue the best set of their career…

Andrew Barry Graham, yesterday

The only issues tonight involve Kieran’s (Vocals/ Guitar) guitar and mic stand, no one on stage declaring “I’ve had enough of this, does anyone mind if we don’t play anymore?”

Glancing around in fear, they appeal nervously to an increasingly hostile audience, they want satiating. “Please, we have run out of strings, we can’t play on…” bottles hurtle towards the stage, a girl n the front row raises her hand, “I can help…”

The mild irritant of having to replace his guitar dealt with, some members of the band seem a little bit bored…

Pulling the wires from the braces on her teeth she offers a trembling hand to the singer and realising her beauty he snatches them and swiftly restrings the guitar. They play louder, better, faster and harder than ever before, the bond between the singer and the girl in the crowd grows, and they long to be in each other’s arms.

Exploding to the end of the song, the band are carried shoulder high from the venue, paraded down the street towards their destiny, within a week, they have both number one single and album. History is good to them, the years kind…

As always, photographs by the lovely Miss Brid Rose. She will take photos for you if you ask her nicely. Coming soon, some three thousand plus word pieces on people you have niether heard about, nor care about. And rightly so.

Be seeing you…

Fuck, son. Were you there? Man, you missed out, you fucking suck, son. Monotonix, man, fuck.

There are no words.

All photographs by Brid Rose. Incompetently arranged by me. Don’t click on them, it looks shit. Go to her face book and befriend her, she’s moderately friendly… well, she can be pretty miserable, and is a bloody nightmare to live with, but there you go. You could add me too, if you want. But those links may well not work, or give you the most intimate access to my facebook. Worrying, really…

Again, many thanks to the fantastic Cassie and her soon to be legendary Tiger Rag. There will be a proper review, with letters making language in there. As long as she approves. She rules me with a rod of iron, viewers. A rod of iron.

Be seeing you...

So did you go to that Erol thing?
Yeah, yeah Erol Alkan, Late Of The Pier, Midnight Juggernauts, Simon Bookish and…
Any good?
Yeah. It was alright.
Alright?
Yeah.
How come it was only ‘Alright’?
Well, it’s like, well, you know I love Erol, yeah?
Yeah.
Well he played a Disco 3000 set.
What, Pulp and that?
Disco 2000 you idiot.
I was joking, I know. So what’s this Disco 3000 business?
Like balaeric stuff and that.
Sounds good.
Yeah it was. He was. I mean I prefer housey, stupid sort of stuff, but it was really good.
So why ‘Alright’?
Well it was the wrong set.
How do you mean?
Well if you were DJing for a bunch of students who came to see Late of The Pier what would you play?
Probably electro, techno, indie remixes, that sort of stuff.
Well that would work, see? But no one was into it.
Really?
Yeah. The crowd was just kind of standing around, waiting for him to finish so they could watch the band. Cos he was between the bands he was sort of like a resident DJ at a club. The person most into Erol’s set was Erol.
Shame.
Yeah.

Late Of The Pier, yesterday

Haven’t you had some run ins with Erol?
Not run ins, I just seem incapable of being dignified when he’s around. So this time I resolved to stay away from him completely.
Did you?
No.
What did you do?
Punched him again.
Twat.
Yep.
So apart from Erol playing the wrong set, what was it like.
Well there was no atmosphere in there. Late Of The Pier played well but there was no passion for it from the crowd.
Well it was on a school night, wasn’t it?
Yeah. Maybe that was it. It was all students in there, too.
Nothing wrong with students, old man.
Well, no, yeah. But I did wonder how many of them wished they were in Hoxton watching some ultra cool underground band called The Cunts or something equally shocking.
I don’t follow you.
Well it’s back to the atmos and enjoyment factor, innit? After the last Late Of The Pier song there was brief applause and everyone just walked off. Yer man from the band, the lad who was hitting pads all night said “Thanks a lot, you’ve been a great audience.” and though there was no trace of irony in his voice I think he was taking the piss.
So what are you saying, then? You seem to be reviewing the crowd, not the show.
The crowd is the show, man! If you went to see Fugazi, Spiritualized and Devo but the crowd couldn’t be arsed the show would be crap, wouldn’t it?
I guess…
And you can basically work out what the bands will be like by just listening to them on CD or their myspace.
I suppose, well actually, I’m not sure that I agree.
Then you are wrong.
So I still don’t really understand what you are saying? Was it any good or not?
The bands were good but the show, the atmosphere, the crowd was disappointing.
Oh. Well what would you have changed?
I’d have put it on a Friday or Saturday for starters, dropped the drinks prices (£3 a bottle!), and put Erol on last. That way people could boogie on in to the night. Not just sort of mill about wondering if it was time to go home or not.
‘Boogie’!? You really are showing your age there, man.

Late Of The Pier again, yesterday

This review was commissioned by the fantastic Cassie for her soon to be legendary Tiger Rag. All photographs by Brid Rose.