Archive for June, 2009

A while ago, about four months ago, in fact, you may remember that Birmingham’s sexiest promoter, Mazzy, was executed for being too damned swish. It was a sad day for the midlands, and music in general, but alas, she is now gone. Gone forever. The only good thing to come out of this is that Wolfdisguisedasmonk secured an interview with her on the eve of her destruction. It’s been sitting here, on the computer for ages, waiting for certain lazy, good for nothing cunts to edit it (poorly) and post it. And here it is. It’s a podcast so you have to listen to it with your ears. Unfortunately it’s been so long since I done a podcast I’ve forgotten how to do them and it won’t fit on my free podcast hosting site. So I’ve bunged it up on mediafire.

Mazzy, shortly after her tragic execution, yesterday

Have a listen to it and commemorate Mazzy’s life by giving me money. It’s what she would have wanted. If that doesn’t appeal, some people will be celebrating what would have been her twenty-third birthday on 26th of June at the Queen Of Hoxton in London (a little place just outside Cambridge) so you can go to that, too.

If you see her around then it’s not her, it’s an evil doppelganger and this swine deserves nothing more than having her top pulled down and/ or her bum slapped. Make it so, viewers.

So listen to it, out of respect for the dead

Be seeing you…

Tattoo head face woman, yesterday

Brilliant.
Absolutely brilliant.
This young lady, as you may have heard “fell asleep” whilst getting tattooed and awoke to find 56 stars on her mush. The tattooist claims that she only kicked off about it after her dad saw and kicked off at her. She’s now after nine grand compensation to have it all whipped off (although I think it looks pretty good. Why doesn’t she just have her whole head done over in black?) and the tattooist is after the fifty euros that he hasn’t received yet (that doesn’t seem too bad to me. Not a bad price.).

What she could look like

So she says she fell asleep, he says she didn’t. Well I don’t know who to believe here? Have you ever had a tattoo? Did you nod off? I bloody didn’t. While we are on the subject of my tattoos, do you reckon I could go back and claim I was asleep when I had them done and get some money off of the tattooist, because they are fucking rubbish.

Be seeing you…

Of late, wherefore I know not, I have not been using my time productively enough. As such I have decided to punish myself. I have committed myself to listening, from start to finish, to the new Kasabian album, West Ryder Pauper Lunatic Asylum. I chose this as it is the worst possible thing I can think of to do to myself.

Kasabian, yesterday

Kasabian, for those of you lucky enough to have escaped their wrath are a pop group whom I singularly despise, from their self-cuntiosly dark, edgy name (a reference to Linda Kasabian, a member of the Manson Family), through their claims of being northerners (they are from Leicester) to their shameless aping of other “hard lads” bands like Oasis and Happy Mondays.

It’s halfway through track two now and I have to take a breather. This album is fucking rubbish. I will approach the rest of it with an open mind after having a quick listen to The Minstrel Show by Little Brother.

Back to the grind. To give them a fair crack of the whip (an expression I first heard from Rory McGrath when he was a campsite entertainer/ magician at Woodlands Adventure Park. TRUFAX) I’d better start track two again. I’ll just have a fag first… Ok I’m back, bad, black and mad, let’s go.

Still rubbish. Sounds sort of like a cross between early Status Quo (Status Quo fact; Pictures Of Matchstick Men was actually quite good. If you imagine that you have never heard any other psychedelic music before) and Northside. I have always equated this shower of shit with Northside, a bunch of also-rans that they think they are much more important than they actually are.

Track three is the very definition of filler. A two and a half minute (although it seems much, much, much longer) cyclical wank-jam.

Track three, yesterday

Now Tom is squealing on about being born and music fans the world over unite in wishing that he hadn’t been. It’s the mock-zany psychedelia that pisses me off, they speak of “Blue lightning” like they are the first people to try and subvert things.

I’m going to have to stop it in a minute. I’m getting upset. I can feel myself growing earbrainheadrotcancer. Kasabian are, if you can imagine such a thing, the opposite of music. So bad are this band, and this album, it will be some time before the individual notes used in the songs have been rehabilitated enough to allow their release back into society and longer still before they can be used in other songs.

Jesus wept, are we really only six tracks in? In press they have been saying that they have been listening to lots of Syd Barrett era Pink Floyd (seemingly the only era of Pink Floyd that anyone cares about) which is all well and good but I can’t see what they took from it. Did they take inspiration from Pink Floyd’s exciting and new way of looking at music? Were they empowered to think of new ways to approach song-writing? Have they structured childlike, yet somehow profound lyrics? Have they fuck, they seem to be content with saying “This sound a bit like something off of The Madcap Laughs - that’ll do.”

I’ve had to turn it off again, I’ve started crying. I don’t know if I can face the rest of this, it’s too horrible, like having to identify the raped and mutilated corpse of your only child, knowing that the killer will gloat and walk free. I tend not to use expressions like “I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy” as I think it exposes a paucity of ambition, but in this case I will make an exception. Okay then, before I go back to it, like bobbing for turds in a septic tank. In the interests of full disclosure I will admit that once I admitted that a twenty second section of one of the track from the first album was “alright, like”. But at the time I was so fucking wrecked I didn’t have a clue what was going on, or even what planet I was on.

And so, once more, unto the breach, dear friends… There are certain bands that I like that no one else does, and with most of them I can understand why no one else likes them. There are certain bands that I don’t like, but loads of other people do and I can sort of see what other people see in them. But this band is the aural equivalent of ten pounds of shit in a five pound bag, vileness spilling out everywhere, music perhaps, only for date-rapists. People who swagger around like those two arch-cunts, Tom Munguhungahan and Sergio Pissandurine. Good looking, apparently. Well one looks like the crack fox from Mighty Boosh (you might not have seen that, it was long after the show stopped being funny) and the other sort of looks like a condom full of vaseline with a frown.

Sergio Pissandurine, yesterday

Look, I skipped the last thirty seconds of Vlad The Impaler because it was fucking interminable nonsense. And now we have a ballad. Hurrah. Only three songs left, though. I got this promo copy a while ago and have put off listening to it until I did something really bad. I was going to give it away but I’ll tell you this much, it’s going straight in the fucking bin. Right now in fact, I’ll listen to it from iTunes (my favourite piece of sinister proprietary software. You mean you’ve got an mp3 player that’s not an iPod? What are you, some sort of cunt? An iPod must be the best because it’s made by Apple, a tiny little workers co-op, not evil Microsoft who only want to make money. Boo Hiss. What’s that? You bought an iPhone? You fucking mug! I’ve got some magic beans here, if yr interested…). That made a satisfying snap.

Secret Alphabets contains an instrument that wasn’t plugged in. I’m getting a vibe of “will this do” from the whole album. It just seems insulting, more so even than Relapse, the latest Eminem heap of shit. There is very little difference between each track, the ideas (and there are some, I expect. Well someone must have had the idea to make the album somewhere along the line) seem barely thought through, thrown together and slapdash. If I listen to half of each song, that will do, won’t it? Actually, I think I’ve heard this one somewhere else… skip.

Last song, just grant me the strength to get through this one. It’s called Happiness which is somewhat ironic as my state of mind reflects it’s diametric opposite. It’s horrible, so, so, horrible. I do these things so that you don’t have to.

Then I felt a massive disturbance in the force, like millions of people crying out in agony were suddenly silenced… That’ll be the end of the album then. If I had to use two words to describe this album, I would use the word “Shit” twice.

In all seriousness, DO NOT BUY THIS ALBUM.

In the UK there is a ludicrous political party called the BNP. They are trying to be the respectable face of the National Front (people too fucking thick for the BNP), Combat 18 (people too fucking thick for the National Front), or the Nazis, but merely come across as a laughable, backwards, confused party. Unfortunately, some people in the UK who are entitled to vote are as thick as absolute fuck, too, and they have been voted for.

On June 9th, the BNP fuhrer, Michael-Myers-from-Halloween-faced-gargoyle, Nick Fucking Griffin was pelted with eggs as he tried to hold a press conference outside the houses of Parliament. This was a breathtakingly poorly thought out attack. UAF, the well meaning but flawed organisation behind the attack should be embarrassed and ashamed, despite their best intentions.

Nick Fucking Griffin, yesterday

Due to the UK’s draconian stance on free speech (enshrined as it is in the European Convention, under article 10 of the Human Rights Act), unfortunately, everyone is entitled to freedom of expression. This means that the individuals who threw an egg (please note; AN egg, singular. Not the peltings that most of the press describes.) at Nick Fucking Griffin and his equally contemptible, cuntwitted sidekicks were attacking free speech. Attacking free speech is a form of censorship. And this is NOT something that anyone should be encouraging.

I Disagree Entirely With What You Say, But I Would Fight To The Death To Uphold Your Right To Say It - Voltaire
We have to argue for these fucktard’s right to say what they believe. Just because we defend a persons right to say things, does not mean we agree with them, nor does it mean that we are defending their right to act. An act of violence or subjugation is wrong and we can condemn this.

Donna Guthrie from UAF says that they believe in free speech, but not for fascists, which to my mind puts them in an awkward situation. You cannot put caveats on free speech. You believe in it, or you don’t. If you stop people from saying what they believe because you disagree with it then you are at the top of a very slippery slope (bear in mind here that I am talking about expressing beliefs, not inciting violence. A person should be allowed to believe that white people are better than black or Asian people, or that their holy book is the only one that is the true word of God, but no one should be allowed to act out or incite violence based on these beliefs. While we are on the subject, people should also be prepared to be ridiculed for their beliefs, too. If you have chosen it, it is fair game.). Already in the UK people are being arrested and imprisoned for merely possessing or writing material that is considered offensive or inflammatory without actually harming another human being.

A wiser man than me once said “Don’t use violence against these people, it is their native tongue.” and he was absolutely right. In this hour we should turn to our greatest weapon; comedy. These people can be made to look like the clowns they are with negligible effort, let’s not forget that throughout WWII satires and parodies of the Nazis were continually being churned out and lapped up. Even Hitler watched The Great Dictator.

Mr. A. Hitler, yesterday

Give ‘Em Enough Rope
The more Nick Fucking Griffin and his merry band of pranksters are allowed to say, the more ridiculous they will appear. Their laughable policies simply will not stand up to scrutiny. Peter Fucking Davies (an English Democrat MP, a party with links to the BNP), the new Mayor of Doncaster, promised in his manifesto to (i)Get rid of PC jobs, (ii) to cancel funding for Doncaster’s Gay Pride, (iii)to cut funding for translators for non-English speakers and (iv) to cut the number of councillors from 60 to 20. Some very bold statements that, unfortunately got him elected. It is quite likely that Peter Fucking Davies will end up looking an utter cunt, not only to those who oppose him, but also to those who elected him as, from the top (i) When questioned he could only name one ‘PC job’, that of Diversity Officer. When asked whether or not the current Diversity Officer should bother going into work he spluttered and mumbled that he was currently still employed. (ii) When asked how much funding the council supplied to Pride, he was clueless. When asked if he knew how much money Pride, an event that brought over eight thousand people to the streets, brought into the town he was again, clueless. So he wants to cancel an event  that he has no idea of the cost of, and no idea of the value of. Not the wisest move in these economic times. (iii) Quite simply, he can’t do this, because it is illegal. (iv) Again, this is something that he simply cannot do. He cannot just fire these people. He has to ask them to step down. Peter Fucking Davies and his ridiculous party have done this all by themselves, and no one had to debase themselves by chucking an egg at the prick.

Be seeing you…

Clearly the single most interesting development in the house so far is not Fuckwit or whatever his name is using all the eggs in a vile salad, nor is it the female Napoleon, Sophia, (although there is a chance it’s Angel sucking a raw egg out of it’s shell like it’s the most normal thing to do in the world, seriously, this story is all over the internet. I was watching it, agog.) it’s a love affair between two straight men.
It’s beautiful to watch, two very good looking guys who seem made for each other just fit together really well. I’m not for a second inferring that either of them is gay (although the hair washing incident was a bit Brokeback Mountain) but they are slowly becoming one individual.
This will be worth following because it seems that Cairon is more into Siavash than the other way around. The attraction grew, I would inexpertly guess, from the fact that Cairon is the youngest and is a hip young gunslinger, looking for another hip young gunslinger to link up with. Although Kris is beautiful, he’s not cool, displaying thus far all the charisma of an RSJ, not unpleasant, just there. Siavash, on the other hand exuded a self-confidence and cool even when he was dolled up in the Big Brother regulation uniform (incidentally, has Marcus changed out of those yet into his own clobber? The cunt.). This is what Cairon latched onto and is basking now in his reflected glory. I think they are genuinely friends but worry that Siavash (or S-Man) might get a bit sick of him. A bit like Jabba’s little mate in Return Of The Jedi, or the first person you meet at university and think you will become firm friends for life. Then realise they are a prick within days.
Siavash could get by on his own in the house, he is strong enough to manage and will form other bonds. I am not so sure about Cairon but we shall see.

Sree and friends, yesterday

In other news isn’t Sree an utter, utter cunt? I knew he would be. I hope he stays the distance. I’m not sure yet whether he is being such a twat on purpose or whether it is just how he is, feigning deep seriousness and talking in epigrams stolen from fucking fridge magnets. A deeply oily and unpleasant individual who seems to be morphing into a Riddler in slow motion.
I am very upset that Marcus, though still sense of humour free, has not blossomed into the full grown arsehole I had anticipated. Time will tell.

Favourite line so far - Cairon, in response to Freddie saying he couldn’t choose amongst the girls because of his feelings - “I ain’t talking about my feelings, I’m talking about my dick.”
Be seeing you…