The perils of an urban runner
Posted: 16/05/2012 Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: city running, i hate running, running in a city, start running, stopped running Leave a comment »
The wind in your hair, the solitude of the trail, the feel of warm Vaseline slowly evaporating around your genitals. Yeah: running is awful. 85% of the time spent running is done wishing your shins would stop aching, your nipples would stop bleeding and shiftless children would stop heckling your diminutive spandex knob.
For city dwellers, maintaining a runner’s lifestyle is an arduous undertaking. For many of us the luxury of rolling hills are a fantasy. Instead we’re to make do with whatever shit-smeared, graffitied patch of gangland greenery we can find. This has a tendency to throw some rather horrific hurdles in our already strenuous path.
Here are the top five perils of the urban runner:
Children
I’m sure the collective noun for a group of children is a bastard. Nothing strikes fear into the heart of the urban runner like spotting a bastard of children. As you correct a bitter posture, mop your brow and attempt to emulate an Ironman in training you’re suddenly aware of your incredibly erect nipples. The bastard can smell fear as you approach. ‘Nice tits!’ one of them shouts. ‘You look gay!’ says another. ‘YOUR MUM!’ comes your caustic riposte. Your heavy panting/crying does little to drown out their jeering as you resume the gait of a great clunking nerd.
The omnipresence of junk food
Inevitably your city route will take you past junk food and drink. More often than not, only drunks shovel that dross into their maw. However, there’s something about the smell of junk food that’s strangely seductive when you’re running. Everything bad smells good: beer, exhaust fumes, tramps, even Chinese food. To make matters worse, the people gorging themselves see the lust in your eyes, staring out from their luminescent glut-houses. Them necking carbs; you, healthy, yet far closer to death and dribbling, face pressed up against the window like a pig snorting for truffles.
Animals
I’m a dog person, provided the owner doesn’t see runners as one big sweaty tennis ball for their beloved Killer. Dogs, however, are pussycats. The real shits are geese. Canadian ones. Vicious, territorial, hissing gits of the towpath. Canadian geese casually flap around all nonchalant and dumb, then, as soon as they see you coming it’s as if you’ve tried to chat up their bird in a nightclub. If you’re to tackle geese, you need to be big. If they prepare to attack, throw your hands in the air. People will think you’re loco, but they’ll have nothing but respect once they see how flawlessly you’ve dismissed those winged hell beasts.
Clothes
With every Matt, Dan and Alex running around in tracky-b’s, a wife beater and a classic Adidas hoodie from JD Sports, you’d be mistaken for assuming that you’ll look like anything other than a complete dick strutting around in the latest threads from Nike. The T-shirt you’d normally reserve for the painting and decorating won’t cut it with the city runners. You need to spend a fortune on the latest material from NASA in order to put the running Nazis off the scent of fresh meat. Sadly, no running clothes look good. Gone are the days when you’d look like the slightly rotund member of Run-DMC.
Runners
If a group of children is a bastard, a group of runners is a twat. Spying a twat of runners elicits much the same response as spotting a bastard of children, except scorn replaces fear. They effortlessly patrol the towpath like a pack of Lycra-clad vigilantes, yelling things such as ‘on your right, feeble pedestrian!’ as they barge you into the canal. One of them appears to be smoking, another either has the post-run bananas, or he’s just really happy to be running. Effortlessly fit, they represent everything you’re not. They’ll post their personal best on Facebook.
What’s putting you off going for a run, you fat slob?
How to use Instagram
Posted: 04/04/2012 Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: Android, Facebook, filters, how to, how to take pictures, Instagram, iPhone, the sky, Twitter 3 Comments »Instagram is great. For those who don’t already know (and Blackberry owners), Instagram is a photo sharing application that lets users take pictures, add filters and share with their friends. Instagram is to pictures what The Edge’s effects pedals are to his guitar playing.
Now it’s finally launched on Android, it’s only a matter of time before Instagram becomes horrendously passé. In the future our kids will ask, ‘but you were the generation that pioneered digital photography! How come granddad’s pictures are better than this grainy toss?’ So make the most of it while you can.
The good news is that it doesn’t take much to become a pro Instagramer – or iPhoneographer as some have dared christen themselves. Here’s how it’s done:
Throw plenty of shit at the wall
Instagram’s all about quantity over quality. It’s like Twitter in that you’re far more likely to get a response provided you saturate your feed with an assortment of the non-events you pursue in your free time. It might be some decorating you’ve done; a muddy bike after a long ride; or the dead prostitute you’ve woken up next to in a cold, blood-smeared room at a Travelodge. The options are endless. Eventually the insipid photography you’ve chosen to represent your dreary life will be ratified via a few likes. You’ve made it! Why not put on an exhibition?
Keep it stock
There are some basics you’ve got to master before anyone will take you seriously in the ruthless world of Instagramography. You can take a picture of any old crap and it’s passable once you’ve layered a filter over the top. Exposed brickwork is always popular. Urban decay is so hot right now. Whatever you had for dinner is a great one. Cats in boxes. The sky! As humans it’s easy to overlook the great firmament that looms over us 24/7, so make sure you take a picture of it doing something slightly different than the thing it did 15 minutes ago. Remember the mantra: Red sky at night, Instagramer’s delight. Red sky at morning? Yeah, fuck it. Take a picture of that as well.
Filter into oblivion
That picture of a nondescript, poorly lit alleyway that tramps defecate down won’t impress anyone. But add a little X-pro II magic to the mix, with a twist of tilt-shift and BAM! You’re now your own self-facilitating Tumblr blog! Have you thought about doing band photography? ‘Cos you’re like, a pro or something! You were always quite artistic, but your parents made you do business studies because art is for wastrels. Watch the likes roll in. You’ve finally been recognised for your vision. Don’t touch me, bro. I’m framing my next Instagram shot.
Add a pretentious title
Once you’ve layered your picture with more filters than the Brita factory, it’s time to label them with painfully overambitious titles. This is your chance to unleash your inner artist. Don’t just call it ‘A Window’. Call it something like ‘A crestfallen portal that looks into the deepest chasm of my empty, empty soul’ or ‘Life is a decaying plastic Ikea chair that’s been discarded in a skip and crapped on by pigeons’. Failing that, title it after any of the books by the philosophers you learnt, and subsequently forgot about at uni. Go deep!
Are you using Instagram? Does the Android launch signal the end? What Instagram staples piss you off? Do tell.
Things I hate: Gigs
Posted: 11/03/2012 Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: gig etiquette, talking at gigs, using iphone at gigs, why I hate gigs 15 Comments »The thrill of seeing my favourite band was once enough to eclipse the terror that accompanies spending time penned by a mass of sweaty, idiotic and tactile public. For the well-seasoned gig-goer, nothing rouses disdain like the realisation that in order to fulfil a rapidly fleeting interest in music, we’re to endure wretched people for extended periods of time. I’m talking about gigs.
Problems with attending gigs stem from the fact that you’re observing something highly personal in a public space. Regrettably, people that may or may not give a toot about the artist you’ve paid hefty pound to watch are invading the 20 centimetres of personal space you hold oh so dear, and most of the time they’re intolerable morons. There are several abhorrent behavioural traits that your common gig-going goon will observe, but for the sake of brevity I’ll limit myself to my five biggest gig grievances:
Claiming a place
You have to get to a gig early if you’re to secure a good spot. Fine, drink beer, but beware: once you’ve left your space for a piss/top-up, it’s fair game. Drunkenly elbowing a path back through the crowd and expecting your place to be there when you return is a definite no-no. Should you require a solid real-estate investment, why not consider booking a seat on the balcony? Although, no matter how much you try and justify sitting on your arse up in the nosebleeds, remember that you’ll garner nothing but disdain and expressionless stares from the floor dwellers who look like dumbstruck UFO witnesses among a mist of fart smells.
Filming/Taking pictures
Hi, budding Donn Pennebaker: No one wants to see your ill shot, shit-sounding home movies from three miles back. You’re not in the press pit and your slipshod Youtube video won’t make you Internet famous. If you insist on taking grainy shots of the poorly lit fop on stage, do as the professionals do: take pictures for three songs, then put the camera away and enjoy the gig IN REAL LIFE! Equally as intrusive are those who, once filming’s begun, insist on holding their camera aloft, only to gaze into the diminutive LCD screen that now draws the gaze of everyone behind like moths to the flame.
Talking
Where’s the pickaxe? If there’s one thing that detracts enjoyment from a gig the most, it’s the number of blathering shits that find it impossible to cement their frothing rents shut. I’m always disappointed that an artist will simply play over the inane murmur of yammering dolts, knowing they’d have the support of the audience were they to unplug their guitar and dash it round the hollow skull of the discourteous shit who feels that his/her feckless conversation is more important than my £15…and the music, or something. There’s nothing wrong with the odd sentence here or there, but to be ignorant of a performer so much so as to engage in a full conversation is downright rude.
Bands
Bands! What the hell are you doing? You’re dull. This could be symptomatic of my once rich and varied gig attendance, but have you noticed that bands don’t put in the effort any more? There are, of course, exceptions; however, I’m getting a little tired of the endlessly dreary stream of tepid, guitar weary piss that dribbles onto stages of late. You know you’re onto a loser when the band takes to the stage with about as much gusto as a fart in a care home. I’m sure getting blown by groupies night after night, living on the road with no responsibilities and fulfilling your life-long dreams must be a real kick in the balls, but could you please try and make it worth me missing that breast examination special on The One Show to be here? Thanks.
Molestation
Not just one for the girls. Having survived many a near buggering at an all boys’ school, imagine my horror upon learning that my sweet arse is fair game in the real world. You’ve managed to secure a great spot at the front. At first the pressing weight of the crowd provides a welcome support, but as the main act settle into their set and everyone begins to sweat, you wonder if that warm, throbbing protuberance you assumed is the soft hand of a fair maiden is in fact the bulging jeans-cock of a hairy sex offender. There’s nothing you can do. Your arms are pinned. You’re Bobby in Deliverance, but there’s no duelling banjos, just Mumford & Sons.
Have I missed any? What do you hate about gigs?
Luke Lewis, the NME and the irresistible rise of Ed Sheeran
Posted: 16/01/2012 Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: #howshitisedsheeran, apology, Brit Awards, Ed Sheeran, Facebook, Luke Lewis, NME, Twitter 7 Comments »
It pains me to side with an artist as innocuous as Ed Sheeran. I’ve never listened to an entire song, but the 15 seconds I have heard have been enough to indicate that he’s far from being my cup of tea.
However, a sold out tour, triple platinum album and a handful of Brit nominations would indicate that he does have a few fans. And that’s fine for most of us, but not for the NME’s online editor Luke Lewis, who last week decided that his disdain for Mr Sheeran had reached a zenith.
I can understand it must be frustrating being Luke Lewis. When us plebs hear an artist we dislike, we avert our gaze. Whereas Luke has to not only endure the streams of tepid piss that come shooting through the NME letterbox, but he’s often asked to write favourably about it.
Not content with fulfilling his role of informing 14 year olds who they should listen to, Luke felt that his contempt toward Ed Sheeran needed galvanising via a Twitter and Facebook campaign. The campaign of hate was imaginatively titled ‘How Shit Is Ed Sheeran?’, and came with a corresponding hashtag that would allow Luke to compile his results into a in-depth report due today. The campaign garnered some truly gut-busting responses, the best of which were retweeted on the NME’s twitter page. Sadly, they’ve since been deleted. Indicative of a guilty conscience? Or backtracking for fear of alienating quite a hefty number of their readership? Both?
Now matter how you feel about Ed Sheeran, you have to admit that what Luke Lewis did was somewhat churlish. Not content with rating Ed Sheeran’s debut album and moving on, Luke and the NME retweeted bile without getting their own hands dirty. Their actions were tantamount to cyberbullying, despite Lewis’s protestations that his #HowShitIsEdSheeran campaign was, ‘Just a bit of Twitterfun’ (spoken like a true bully).
I viewed the activities of Luke and the NME as a desperate attempt to jump on a bandwagon of hatred; an effort to claw back some credibility in a climate of music, abundant with blogs and message boards. But it doesn’t work like that when the musicians you chastise one week, you venerate the next. Furthermore, when that chastising is done on a national scale, the ginger-bashing’s quite pathetic, and wholly irresponsible.
Besides, having a publication as tired and irrelevant as the NME branding something as ‘shit’ is like the ocean calling rain ‘wet’. Lest we forget that the NME once trumpeted Viva Brother as ‘the future of guitar music’.
Update: Luke Lewis has since issued an apology on his Facebook page.
CERN to use text-walkers as ammo for ‘dull’ Hadron Collider tests
Posted: 30/12/2011 Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: CERN, Higgs boson, Large Hadron Collider, mobile phone walkers, shopping, texting 1 Comment »
Scientists at CERN have announced that they’re to begin using oblivious phone walkers as projectiles for their latest Large Hadron Collider tests.
With interest dwindling, and faced with boring and confusing test results, physicists at the CERN laboratories near Geneva, Switzerland, have been examining ways to rekindle a public curiosity driven senseless with X Factor, Strictly and Piers Morgan.
The state of the art lab, which cost £6.19bn and spans the Franco-Swiss border, was constructed to address the most fundamental mysteries of science. However, when it became apparent that the tests would not yield pioneering results such as hoverboards, functioning Lightsabers or children that can sit still and shut the fuck up in restaurants, public interest in the activities at CERN diminished.
‘Ever since people stopped thinking the world would end when we switched this thing on, we’ve had huge problems trying to drum up interest in what we do here,’ said a CERN spokesman. ‘Introducing figures of utter derision into our tests will hopefully change this.’
‘Text-walkers’, ‘moron trekkers’ or ‘ambling twats’ as they’re known, are seen as ideal projectiles, owing to their low intelligence and disregard for the safety of themselves and others. The latest tests will find those who place finishing a text messages above safety flown to the LHC, whereupon they’ll be accelerated round the 27-kilometre tunnel, and collided at a velocity just shy of the speed of light.
While the tests will work to reignite public interest in the esoteric goings on at CERN, the physicists were cynical about uncovering any ground-breaking discoveries. ‘To be honest, we’re pretty bored of what’s happening here. We’re just tired of these vapid morons clogging up the pavement. Even blind people have the etiquette to use a dog and stick.’
Merry Christmas, or Happy Halloween from John Lewis
Posted: 11/11/2011 Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: Christmas ad, head in a box, John Lewis, John Lewis Christmas, John Lewis Christmas Advert, Morrissey, The Smiths 1 Comment »‘They’ve only gone and done it again!’ went hoards of clunking dolts as John Lewis’ Christmas ad went viral. What many viewers have failed to address is the highly sinister undertones manifest throughout this Crimbo cry-fest.
Watch again and note how it conveys an air of ChildLine, with the parents of the protagonist seemingly unable to grace their little bundles of joy with even the slightest bit of affection.
The scene is set amid sleepy suburbia. There could have been a murder. Here’s where we meet our Kevin. His frequent sighing indicates he’s depressed. He sits like a prisoner on the cold landing, throwing a ball against the wall like McQueen in the cooler. He’s then seen tapping manically on the table like a bear gone mental at a Russian zoo.
‘Can make a good man turn bad’
Not content subscribing to the old adage that a watched pot never boils, our boy attempts to speed up time by revolving in his father’s chair at a terrifying, unnatural pace. His sister looks on, petrified. These scenes are interspersed with frequent sighing. I hate people that sigh.
Kevin’s latent insomnia is briefly alluded to, followed by a Groundhog Day-esque montage in which his family can be seen enjoying is solitude in the background. Themes of time and the occult are touched upon. The boy is then seen locked outside, sighing, ominously toing-and-froing in the freezing conditions (note the breath condensation, a blatant homage to M. Night Shyamalan’s The Sixth Sense).
The father, oblivious to his child’s boredom, nullifies his son’s incessant fidgeting with a threatening hand. At dinner, little Tommy doesn’t so much as eat, but rather shovel his food like some soulless spectre. Fleeting glances from his parents convey not the eternal love of a parent, nor concern, but rather a sort of stifled panic not seen since The Exorcist. Kevin throws himself under the covers, wishing it would all go away.
It’s Christmas, and Kevin wakes and makes his way toward his parents’ bedroom. Upon arriving he’s met with a look that says, ‘how the hell did you survive the abortion?’ rather than the glee of a young family experiencing their first Christmas together.
Kevin smiles, and moves toward the bed holding a parcel that has suspiciously similar dimension to that of a head. His sister is nowhere to be seen.
‘Guess what’s in here, you bastards?’
‘For gifts you can’t wait to give.’
Paedo chic: Coming out from the shadows
Posted: 13/10/2011 Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: chic, fashion, men's fashion, paedophile fashion, street style 2 Comments »There’s a sinister, yet alluringly dressed menace stalking the streets and playgrounds of British suburbia. A menace who’s surreptitiously been at the forefront of a halfhearted new look known as ‘Paedo Chic’. It’s a dour, pedestrian style that draws influence from charity shop and chav street fashions. Paedo chic is the dowdy, jumbled and musty old trend that’s taking UK cul-de-sacs by storm.
It’s a style that’s been gathering momentum away from traditional fashion for some time. Only recently has it been galvanised via a number of high-profile paedo pioneers making their way into the mainstream. Today, paedophile chic devotees are popping up everywhere; appearing in the Daily Mail; shopping at Asda and Millets; and making up a large proportion of the audience on the Jeremy Kyle Show.
Despite its unfriendly overtones, paedo chic is a look that anyone can work. Here, we’ve compiled a handy rub-down of many paedo staples so you can try out the look behind the safety of you net curtains.
This is Iain, 29. Iain’s working a dark, techie and functional look. The jacket says, ‘let’s tussle!’, but the glasses and backpack say, ‘only after I’ve downloaded and encrypted these files!’ Iain has that sci-fi, Matrix nonce style perfected. The joyless matching of black leather to a characterless turquoise TK Maxx shirt accentuates his washed out and worn facial features. He certainly knows how to work the mob gauntlet. His furrowed brow gives him that evasive demeanour. We’re sure he just wants to get home, stick a Fray Bentos in the oven, and get down to some quality Chatroulette time.
Well hello! Who’s this cheeky chappy? Remember guys, if you’re gonna accessorise, more is more. Just ask Greg, 46. This foxy old cad’s got all the delicious ingredients for a huge nonce pie, but has zhuzhed up the recipe by adding a set of rad wheels for dessert. Nothing screams limp, ominous sex offender like an unnecessary wheelchair. There’s room for you +1 with this handy and fun little add-on. We’re giving extra credit for those gorgeous leather gloves, reverse midriff display, and velcro shoes. Go get ‘em, Greg!
Here’s Neil, 22. Muted, unassuming pastel colours are a great look for the urban paedophile, and here they’ve been matched perfectly. The blue really draws attention to Neil’s pallid complexion, with his acne and harrowing eyes creating striking, haunting contrasts. Neil’s natural features are a huge benefit here, marking him out as a simply stunning nonce. Simple, dangerous and ready for a trip to Legoland. His crooked smile, unremarkable hairdo and cold white ears give his face an asymmetry that’s crucial for pulling off this number. To achieve a complexion like Neil’s, a strict diet of microwave dinners and fizzy Ribena should be adhered to. Neil’s got the look that’ll have nervous school office workers dialling the local police station for. Brillo!
Step back gentlemen, and make way for the Karl Lagerfeld of kiddie-fiddling fashion: Ray Hewlett, 63. Unnecessary raincoat, layering up, jogging bottoms, long hair and the use of a wheelchair despite having the ability to walk mark Ray out as a paed truly at the top of his game. Hewlett’s credited with kick-starting the paedophile fashion movement during the 70s, and, having cultivated his look for a number of years, he’s a well respected face on the ring. His rumpus of wearisome Scope threads embolden the ephemeral and effortless look of a paedophile, all topped off with Ray’s signature wiry locks. We also love the handy multi tool lanyard. His look says unassuming sexual predator on the prowl. Grrr.
For paedophiles, an infinitely more harrowing variation on the wheelchair is the electric scooter. Add a basket full of torches to the mix and you have yourself a genuinely terrifying ensemble. Just imagine being stalked by David, 61, with the whir of his electric motor doing little to drown out his frenzied panting as he draws nearer down the darkened alley. David’s sporting that casual day-at-court look that says, ‘How can I be a paedo? I can’t even take a dump without running out of breath, let along chase children!’. Whatever you say, Dave. We love the tracksuit bottom/suit trouser combo, and that sallow shirt really compliments David’s bleak features. His mouth agape is a lovely touch, lest we mention the white socks. Absolutely perfect.
X-Men Budgets
Posted: 24/06/2011 Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: Stan Lee, Wolverine, X-Men 1 Comment »
On the set of the next X-Men movie, Stan Lee comes face to face with the realities of studio cutbacks.
Other things Bruno Mars would probably do for ya
Posted: 24/06/2011 Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: Bruno Mars, Grenade, music, new single, other things bruno mars would do 2 Comments »If someone told you to jump off a cliff, would you do it? Singing sensation Bruno Mars probably would. He sure is keen. Ladies, if you ever happen upon a similar man you’d better snap him up real quick, because a man like Mars will actually jump in front of a train for you if only you’d ask. He’d shoot himself in the brain at your request. That’s dedication! Imagine Bruno, working himself into a Deerhunter style frenzy, picking up a handgun, pressing the barrel against his temple before pulling the trigger and blowing his brains out…for ya. Of course you’d be left to deal with the bloody mess, probable mental scarring and hours of subsequent police questioning, but who cares? Get this man some life insurance!
Would you do the same? No, probably not, because you’re a selfish bitch. Here are some other things our man Mars is probably willing to do for ya:
- Move to Spain for ya.
- Give up his seat on a train for ya.
- Unblock a drain for ya.
- Hijack a plane for ya.
- Name his child Dwayne for ya.
- Resit sixth grade for ya.
- Nuke the Ukraine for ya.
- Douse his balls in acid rain for ya.
- Sever his jugular vein for ya.
- Launch into a drug fueled, anti-Semitic tirade for ya.
- Sodomise Alex Zane for ya.
Do you know any other man that would do that? No. Because every other man is a dick for not wanting to kill himself for ya. I wish Bruno Mars would jump in front of a train for me. *Sigh.
Things I hate: The Windows 7 advert
Posted: 23/06/2011 Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: like what you see it's a new PC, Lindsey, new windows advert, Windows 7 advert 5 Comments »I hate adverts. I’m sure the success of adverts depends on people like me grabbing strangers in the street and asking, ‘HAVE YOU SEEN THAT WINDOWS 7 ADVERT!? IT’S AWFUL! I HATE IT! I HATE IT! I HATE IT! I WANT IT TO DIEEEE!’, before screaming off into the distance.
There’s a place reserved in hell for the creators of this baseless dross:
'What the shit have you done to the dado rail!?'
Meet Lindsey, 57. She thinks her eight year old PC is good enough. Eight years old! What is it? A Difference Engine? I didn’t know you could access Faceparty on one of those. Using Microsoft Word on an eight year old PC must be like typewriting onto a sheet of idiot.
You’d have thought Lindsey would have gone looking for a new PC had she wanted one? Well, seemingly not. Cue Microsoft going all Pimp My Living Room on her arse, and turning her living room into a bone-fide, gaudy laptop showroom. I’m speechless!
Yo, dawg, we heard you like PC showrooms...
Everyone knows that if you’ve been using the same PC for eight years, not only are you a light-weary moron, but you’ve essentially been missing out on the luxury of having a PC store in your house. How I’ve mocked my parents with their furniture and pictures as I bask in the warmth of pastel coloured walls strewn with monitors that beam lifeless reams of stock imagery upon my empty, wretched soul.
'Dad's on the phone!'
Had Lindsey torn herself away from flirting with Gavin the PC guy for one second she could have taken the call. It’s from Tony, her husband. Tony works every hour heaven sends in a job he hates so that Lindsey can sit on her fat arse all day reading Take A Shit magazine and shovelling Snack a Jacks into her pie hole.
Tony’s trying to tell her how much he loves her, and that he’s leaving his job so the two of them can finally travel around Sri Lanka. For God’s sake don’t make any unnecessary purchases on the credit card.
‘I’m busy. Looking at new computers’
Oh no.
Lindsey’s daughter slams the phone down.
‘Oh. But…I need to tell her something’ The lines goes dead. Tony holds the yellowed receiver to his ear before carefully placing it back in the cradle. He slowly opens his top drawer and reaches for the antique pistol that belonged to his father. Pressing the rusty, cold barrel into the back of his mouth, his finger tentatively rests upon the trigger.
‘It’s lighter than my handbag!’ says Lindsey excitedly, fawning over the cheap plastic, baby shit brown machine. Lighter than her handbag! No hard task, given the amount of consealer, Vagisil and dildos she insists on carrying round with her all day.
'I'm a PC, and this, is marvellous' clunks Lindsey.
As she turns back towards the ersatz glow of her newly furnished computer room, a police car wearily rolls up outside her house.
Hug Life Posse Strike Again!
Posted: 21/05/2011 Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: hug life, hugged, Hugging mugging, mugged 1 Comment »
It’s the docile crime wave that’s rocking Manchester to its very core. In a series of compliant attacks, young professionals based in the Northern Quarter are having their digital toys ruthlessly snatched like candy-laden babies. They’ve fallen victim to a benign hug.
For a number of months a gang known as ‘The Hug Life Posse’ have been terrorising Manchester’s digital sector, targeting prosperous but unkempt digital types who boast high-end Apple gadgetry such as iPhones, iPads and iPods.
The Hug Life Posse wait patiently while their target gets smashed up on specialty ales such as Hobbit’s Brown Finger and Curly Wurly Edale. Stalking like tech-hungry cheetahs in the Serengeti, it’s only when their quarry has vacated the safety of its watering hole that the huggers begin their fatal attack with astute precision.
Working in pairs, one of the two huggers will distract their victim with light banter. The jovial prey is too jolly on grog to comprehend what’s happening. It’s then that the attackers deliver the fatal maneuver. Gradually, the assailant makes the, ‘give me a hug’, arms outstretched gesture. By now the victim believes he has built sufficient rapport with his attackers, and in a split second of misinterpreted camaraderie, he obliges the deadly hug.
It’s at this moment that a second assailant carefully rifles through the victim’s pockets, pilfering whatever he can find, drunk with lust like an Apple fanboy on launch day. If the prey becomes suspicious, the hugger will dazzle his victim with verses of a boozy sing-along favourites such as ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’ by Queen.
Only smaller items are taken, however, a number of Hug Life victims describe the horror having woken up without keys, shoes and even limbs. One victim relives the terror having been targeted by two ferocious huggers one starless night: “It was terrifying. They took all my gizmos. One minute we’re hugging, singing ‘Nothing Compares 2 U’, the next, they’re gone. They even took my Kindle. I’m not too bothered about that, though. It’s completely shit.”
Phil Henson of Greater Manchester Police said: “This Northern Quarter iPhone robbing spate reminds me of the great Chorlton-cum-Hardy pager thievery of the early 90s. It’s a vile and heinous crime spree that affects everyone in our fair city. What kind of world are we living in where you can’t even embrace a man without having your overpriced Apple products pinched? A shit one. That’s what kind.”
The police have several leads, and are appealing for witnesses or anyone who’s been a victim of a hugging to come forward. “We recommend that any close contact with strangers be avoided. No kissing, no hugging, no love making. We’ll crack this one, even if it’s the last thing we ever do in the history of policing. Ever.”
More Names Announced for NeilFest
Posted: 10/02/2011 Filed under: Uncategorized 1 Comment »
Homeless Matt
Homeless Matt, the weird guy who does open mic at The Swan, tops the list of additions to the NeilFest line-up this summer.
The outspoken musician who attends every open mic night in the Berkshire area will make his headlining debut at NeilFest in July.
Known for adding his own brand of desperate dour balladry to hits such as ‘Cheeky Song (Touch My Bum)’ by The Cheeky Girls and ‘My Humps’ by The Black Eyed Peas, this will be the singers only festival appearance, after some recent remarks regarding children landed his name in both the local newspaper and on the sex offenders register.
Neville The Cancerous Mole
Also confirmed on Friday for the three-day drink and drug binge extravaganza are Datchet rockers Neville the Cancerous Mole, Bracknell country-math band %%%, and Ascot-based Mumstep trio Smashing Shirley, who’ll appear on the Saturday night to help raise funds for more beer and nitrous oxide.
Shirley Draper of Mumstep trio Smashing Shirley
Speaking about the festival, promoter Neil Sullivan said, “Once again we’ve set a benchmark for the DIY festival. NeilFest had its humble beginnings in our back garden at uni, and now moves to the heady climbs of Leigh’s dad’s allotment.
“It’s not massive or anything. It’s just well chilled out. There’s no advertising like all the big festivals. We like to keep the everything local.”
This year’s DazFest is being supplied by Mike Chaff’s homebrew cider, with drugs food provided by local dealer Ammo.
Ammo. He loves pussy.
NeilFest takes place on Leigh’s dad’s allotment from Friday, July 8 to Sunday, July 10. Tickets are available by ringing Neil.
Realistic PR of the day: Smashinglad – Alt Ctrl Del!
Posted: 08/02/2011 Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: CTRL, Topman 1 Comment »(Disclaimer: This post is not about a new music show called CTRL from Topman)
Smashinglad are gonna pull down your pants and dry hump you from behind with their new tepid music smell, Smashinglad Alt Ctrl Del! Hosted by Radio 1 button presser and serial rapist Vermin Kaye, the series will bore music fans to mental breakdown, as it features a veritable ‘oh crap, not them!’ of new and vapid music acts. Each show will have an exclusive ‘controller’, who’ll choose the acts Smashinglad have endorsed, in true Smashinglad Alt Ctrl Del! style. Lined up in the Alt Ctrl Del! hot seat for shows 1 to 3 is that arsehole one from the Inbetweeners, James Buckley, misfit Heather Small and high-lord of all that’s abhorent and lifeless in music, Mark Ronson.
With six insipid instalments taking place each Thursday, Smashinglad Alt Ctrl Del! kicks off on February 10th on Channel 49, and will air mediocre, but well lit performances from the blandest acts around, including Fuck Topman and Topshop, Topman Clothes are Probably Manufactured by Blind Seals, Brother, TOPMAN CLOTHES ARE SLIPSHOD SHIT and How Much!? For a fucking cardigan?, to name but a few. Smashinglad Alt Ctrl Del! paid the likes of Rod Hull, Leo Sayer and Sting to curate undersubscribed gigs in cities up and down the country. Now Smashinglad bring Alt Ctrl Del! to the small screen, giving viewers the option of moaning about modern music from the comfort of their own home. Miss out!
Vermin Kay says, “Yeah, I can’t really be arsed. Hopefully it’ll be a chance for people to see that I’m not just a rapist, but also an okay TV presenter. It’s annoying that this ‘ere telly show is a showcase for shit. There’s not a lot of live music on TV at the moment, only that slippery lizard-man Jools Holland and his awful, awful world music, so I guess it’s better than that. There’s so much great music being made; maybe one day we’ll get to hear it!”
Danielle Volkswagon, Senior Marketing Manager, Smashinglad says, ” Smashinglad Alt Ctrl Del! is about revenue. Alt Ctrl Del! means we get to feature the most commercially viable bands, dress them in our clothes, and put them out to the Channel 49 audience. It excites me thinking about how much money we’ll make – we’ll end up with huge piles of cash as these gawping, picture weary retards pile into our stores to try an emulate these marvelously named. We’ll be stinking filthy rich, all the while portraying the idea that we actually give a hoot about new music!”
Cool and wicked etc.
/Ends.
The National – Saturday November 27th @ Manchester Academy
Posted: 03/12/2010 Filed under: Uncategorized Leave a comment »I’m quite prepared to dislike the National this evening. Manchester Academy’s capacious and characterless space is thronging with bearded 20-somethings, all moping around like middle-aged emo kids. The Academy’s a painfully featureless venue that’s currently playing host to a painfully featureless support act. Talking throughout gigs is infuriating at the best of times. Right now though it’s quite justifiable.
Space is getting scarce. Men all around are clapping, squealing with excitement. Many of these men clamber stage-ward. I hear one of them confer to his friend as he walks past, “I hope Matt looks at me!” before shrieking off into the melee.
The National walk through a purple haze of light to fervent applause. They open with ‘Mistaken for Strangers’. It’s agreeable but, like a few they play tonight, lacks the depth that on record takes the band from the doldrums, to the euphoric heights that have many a grown man clunking like a love-starved schoolgirl. If there’s a Jonas Brothers for this demographic, it’s the National.
Occasionally they hit their stride. ‘Anyone’s Ghost’ is tender and sobering and near perfect. While their songs are engaging enough to hold the attention of a Saturday crowd, many of whom are now itching to drown their sorrows at the pub, it isn’t until ‘Bloodbuzz Ohio’ that things start to take off.
I admit, I’m knocked back. I wasn’t prepared for such a level of proficiency from a live act, especially here. It can so easily be a disappointment. Not tonight. Great sound, great songs. On ‘Conversation 16’ they slightly prolong the pause before the toms and it sends a shiver down my spine and I go a little mawkish. Only a band like the National could take a lyric as ridiculous as, “I was afraid I’d eat you brains” and furnish it with such blissful profundity. It’s quite poignant, and the reason why the National are slowly making their way into the CD collections of people across the land.
Between songs, and despite the lugubrious nature of much of their music, the band are in good spirits, and regale a baying crowd with stories about Aaron on the tourbus.
‘Sorrow’ and ‘London’ garner awe. There’s an encore and the band finish with a beautiful a capella of ‘Vanderlyle Crybaby Geeks’. They’ve tried to hush the audience. The audience have tried to hush the audience, but to no avail. There’s nearly a fight as one man chastises another for breathing too loud.
As I leave a see the gaggle of man-fans crowding around the tour bus. More fights are breaking out. “I want Matt to sign my ass!” says one. “I’ve got a line from Start a War tattooed on my balls!” says another.
Afrirampo – WE ARE UCHU NO KO
Posted: 04/11/2010 Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: afrirampo, WE ARE UCHU NO KO Leave a comment »
This is gonna be a glaringly biased review. You’ll struggle to find two-bit reviewers such as myself who won’t offer to cover an album by a band they love. And as far as I’m concerned, my beloved Osakan noise spirits Afrirampo can do no wrong. They belong in a stratum of magical musicians that draw a smile so broadly across my face that I don’t even recognise what a bad song by them sounds like. This is annoying because WE ARE UCHU NO KO (We Are Kids of the Universe) is a genuinely thrilling album, so just pretend that you’ve read this first bit.
For many they’d be an awkward sell. Shrieking, immature Japanese girls combine tribal and difficult sonic punk-something or otherness. Lets go with this: they’re insanely fun! In a bloody great river of melancholy and taking oneself too seriously, two noisy, unintelligible girls shouting and generally being unruly about music, all the while rocking with total abandon is a truly excellent thing.
If you’re familiar with Afrirampo then WE ARE UCHU NO KO is much of the same, albeit in a finely produced, varied and expansive package. The first disk retains that unabashed, chaotic and exciting immediacy of their early albums. Here songs are polished, timeless in their assortment of doomy-punk riffs, caterwaul shrieking and crazy tribal drums. I don’t know what the hell they’re saying, but I join in with the “AFURIRANPO!” and “POPOPOPOPOPO!” on ‘Sore Ga Afrirampo’. I know and smile at the constant reaffirmation of who they are. I love a band that does that.
It’s this stock that makes them great. ‘Tou Zai Nan Boku’, featuring their call and response lyrics atop the hugest raw guitar, gives the whole affair a pure and enticing characteristic. It’s like listening to two rambunctious and brave young anime explorers preparing for war after playtime.
WE ARE UCHU NO KO isn’t all so loud either. ‘Egolo Island’ is quite considered, and paves a way for an Afrirampo that play with melody on a whole new, yet familiarly audacious level. ‘Whyto’ is gentle, playful and displays a tender side to the duo that you’ve always known lies behind that brash.
From there the album takes a more somber, reflective tone, playing, as it does like an inevitable goodbye. ‘Yah Yah Yeah’ and ‘Sunwave Dance’ have an air of sadness, the duo calling out to each other, seemingly lost and separated on the latter. ‘Hoshi No Uta’ (parts 1-5) are expansive and experimental, in parts chaotic to glorious inhibition. Too soon you’re onto the final part. The most coherent, funny, sad and beautiful piece of music on WE ARE UCHU NO KO.
What makes this album even more perfect is that Afrirampo have indeed disbanded. And who can blame them? This is a fine swan song. Where it was all too much, too chaotic, too tribal, too screamy, too noisy, too magic, too stupid, WE ARE UCHU NO KO is all of these and more. There’s no other side. No bullshit. I’ll miss it greatly.
