Last night Li and I were bored after playing pool and eating vegetarian pork pies (these things are awesome) so I suggested we go to the cinema, it didn't matter what was on, as long as we snuck cider in just fine.
Of course we managed that because we went to the VUE in Harrow where the employees are either autistic or don't give a single shit. The popcorn we got was mixed and large, just like my first girlfriend, but unlike her it was delicious and by the end I was sad it was gone.
Anyway the film that was on first was The International which I thought would be some kind of retarded action movie because the trailer had gun fights and quick cuts just like all those stupid MTV shows. WRONG. It was just retarded and Clive Owen acts like a pussy version of James Bond who shuffles paper for the civil service instead of having sex with hot spies.
It starts with some fat guy being murdered who is Clive Owen's accomplice. It really fucks me off when characters start smoking really early on in the film because you know you're not going to have a cigarette for at least an hour and fifteen minutes. This particular piece of shit was at least seven hours long. Is it wrong to need nicotine patches and gum just to watch a fucking film?
Oh yeah, Naomi Watts is in it too, she flutters about like a blonde big nothing and gives an awful speech about THE TRUTH and JUSTICE which was exactly like Sideshow Bob giving his "Bah! I derive your truth handling abilities!" speech in the end of that Simpsons where he becomes mayor.
Anyway it turns out there's this bank and it works with mobsters and dodgy middle eastern countries (no surprise there - how come it's never tamil tigers and stuff?) and it lasted a million billion minutes.
There was only one real gun fight in the whole film which strangely features Clive pushing his thumb the whole way through a persons chest like some kind of boring middle class suburban civil servant Bruce Lee. Some other prominent people get murdered and stuff but I can't really remember the whole thing because it sucked so hard.
Weirdly there were a bunch of, I guess unintentional, nods to Laurel and Hardy and Scoobie fucking Doo. One chase scene was exactly out of Scoobie Doo, with a wide angle shot of one character chasing the other, and then turning around and running the other way. And at any moment I kept expecting the fat character to say "Whyyyy youuuuu!" when anything went wrong.
To summise it's a stupid piece of shit and if you're going to waste your money on it you'd better have enough strongbows with you to not care so much, or go see Hotel for Dogs instead like I wish I had.
Wednesday, 11 March 2009
Sunday, 6 April 2008
Can I suggest you get fucked?
THAT'S how Whitehouse's 2003 album - if you can call it that - opens.
First I'll tell you what I've been up to, dear readership of None.
I finally went to see my GP about general anxiety, panic attacks, depression and all the other symptoms of being a neurotic internet-frequenting shut-in.
Well, actually, the reason I went to the GP was this awful twitch about three inches above the base of my cock, if I was standing straight. She suggested it may be an STD. Turned out it wasn't. It was just a twitch. Occam's razor (Occam's bladder?), just like the time
I thought my heavy leg
was a life threatening blood clot.
That turned out to be an imagined heavy leg. I spent four hours in
A+E regardless.
So while I was at the GP, nice lady by the way, eager to prescribe me drugs, I thought I'd
mention my crippling anxiety/panic attacks and my not-so-crippling but still very much there
depression. She got me referred to the local mental health unit and prescribed me a low dose of
Diazepoo which works to make me feel calm and content and sometimes prone to lying down and drawing things for my friends. I've drawn a few things so far, they don't make much sense, more an intricate web of silly paterns and fractured doodling, but I'll give them away because they're not really for me to keep.
The lady at the mental health place was typical. Nodding and going "mmhmm." a hell of a lot, so I complimented her on her shoes and started cracking awful jokes until she smiled for me. Haha, made you smile, lady. Her shoes weren't that great at all.
They were supposed to be black, I think, but had turned black-grey. She was wearing the same pair the second time I saw her
and she had her hair pushed back behind her ears which is an awful
look for everyone. But when you're dealing with depressed whingers
and alcoholics all day long I guess you don't exactly aim for "Hot" in
case they want to fuck you. There's a lot of real crazies there who would
probably try. Big fat guys who mumbled to themselves and wore baseball caps.
Gotta wait two months before they can start sorting me out, which is better than the last time I went about this time two years ago, where the waiting list was six months so I went private and saw a man called Thomas who advised me to move to Brighton, where I developed a penchant for drinking every fucking day and taking drugs and stuff. Also his head resembled an egg with glasses.
What else have I been up to, uh, it was my girlfriend Rhia's birthday so we went to see The Sonics. They were really great for a bunch of old guys with a dead drummer. The drummer wasn't there, that would have been both fucked up AND useless. They had this young guy on instead who did a pretty decent job. Seriously though don't talk in between every song.
There were some old Sonics fans who had turned into either obnoxious old drunkards or obnoxious old drunkard yuppies who were really really annoying and either hurling abuse (why?) or singing every other word, THEN hurling abuse.
The Sonics were supported by The Horrors who didn't do their typical Horrors thing and instead played mostly new stuff.
Figured it would have been more garagey considering who
the band was supporting.
That was a bunch of fun but it made me wish my legs were thinner.
I also went to a Sushi themed party which was okay but not really my kind of people.
Also it wasn't so much a party as it was a gathering.
There were studenty types there and more cock and gay jokes than I cared for,
probably because everyone was sucking down on a shisha pipe and repressing homosexual urges. p.s. I missed out on the sushi but got free wine (for free).
I've also had more headfucks than I've cared to deal with but I won't go into them because they're probably more boring than the tripe I've already put up here.
Currently I am listening to just three tracks off Psychic TV's last effort which is weird avant-glam I guess you could call it. The three tracks I am listening to are "Thee Body," "I don't think so," and "BB". Genesis P Orridge is a weird one but I love him anyway. My mum really hates him because of a few encounters back when she was illustrating for Sothis. Apparently he can be a bit of a creep. Current 93's main, uh, Current David Tibet did an impression of Genesis for me over some food in Chinatown. "David, do you have any maltesers?" he said. Since then I've wanted to go to PTV with a whole pack of party-sized maltesers and flood the stage with them.
I've been listening to a lot of Joy Division and Current 93 too, as well as Satie. I think "Lament for my Suzanne" has got to be one of my favourite songs at the moment.
Right now I've got The Doors playing because my Dad stumbled into my room, drunk, and requested it. It's 3pm.
That reminds me, a friend and I have made a pact to not take any shit from anyone for one week. It's going okay. Thought I'd have a chance to test it out with some pretend gangsters from Pinner who were strutting around saying things like "blud" and "browns" and "seeeeeeeeeerious?" but Pinner gangsters are even shittier than Harrow gangsters. I don't think they've even started leaving the tags on their caps in Pinner yet.
Anyway, whatever, life is both really good and bad and I guess that's normal. Here are the lyrics for all of Bird Seed:
Hey, knuckle-nicks
I'll tell you:
It's helping
I'll tell you:
You're doing the right thing
I can see you're used
And I don't know where you've been
But I do know past failures still haunt you
Thoughtless slow remarks you later regret
It's hard to own up and take the blame
For being a nervous gibbering wreck
So go on be a careless fucking onlooker
So you can sit and not-think about pain
I know about gasping attacks and mirror-blood
I know about shitbags and shame
I know a fuckload more than you realise
A fuck of a lot more than you think
I know why you can take a kiss
But not a bone-count hug
I know you bite your fat banana fingernails
And I know why you'd need to shave
I know you're a slow fussy pathetic eater
And I know you don't sleep much
But I'll still tell you:
It's helping
And I'll still tell you:
You're doing the right thing
Question: did you ever hurt yourself to make somebody sorry?
How often do you pretend to be sick?
You ever wanted something very much but never told anybody about it?
Are you such a slug you can't live without a fucking sundae?
You ever made a bit too much fuss over your cuts?
Yes, the cutting will be quite dramatic
If you get the crisscross slit right
And show an exposed piece of bone
Ready for harvest
And in a few seconds' time:
In a drop of anal red the poison
And your totally disgusting diseased unkempt disgusting excuse of a body
Continues to react
Till mere days after the cutting
The cancer says well hello
In between fairground muscle twitches
And clearly white scaly shit
Tinkerboy says burnt it out
The little cunt doesn't know what the fuck he's talking about
And just weeks after the cutting
You really don't know
How well can you imagine
How soon cheap tears are forgotten
Because there's no wasted kleenex or sympathy
Nobody would give a fucking toss
For a quasi-glamour of your symptoms
For your Russell’s sign
And for your atrocious sleepless lucidity
Because what if they were provoked?
It's prefectness and it's all there
No more pointless trawling through self-helped books for triggering examples
No more daytime trash or drunken wisdom
At first it seems not to be working
Til you get that imitation of danger
That means you can no longer convince yourself it's not working
More and more and more
So right now would be a good time for blackmail
Who have you ever tried to make guilty?
Have you ever told on anyone?
What somebody has told you not to tell
My question: I said have you ever told on anyone?
Yet I'll tell you:
It's helping
And I'll tell you:
You're doing the right thing
More and more you wonder if anyone really gives a fuck
Do you sometimes feel that:
You talk too much
You don't listen enough
Do you admit to letting others push you around?
Who's pushing you around now?
Who's hitting on you now?
Who's the pervert hitting on you now, kuckle-nicks?
Has he successfully perverted an ethic?
Has he destroyed a doll body?
I'll show you what's it like not to have hands
And I'll show you how to hold on tight
I'll show you how to piss on your own bedclothes
And sit in a closet
You'll learn to sweat while unconscious
And I'll show you the electric stick
You'll learn about the kitty-cut
Before the privilege of seeing your own blood
I'll let you suck brown-brown and clairil
So you know how papa's so brave
I'll show you the wide-awake nightmare
And now you can buy some fucking fear
So new question: can you:
Spot a person who's like me?
Can you:
Imagine a difference between their body and yours?
Can you:
Imagine a person who looks like me?
Could you:
Spot a person who looks unlike you?
Can you:
Spot a person who's how you want to be?
Can you:
Imagine a person who you'd never want to be?
Transferring people is a fucking degrading thing to do to them
And one day the you'll understand that
One day the you'll understand that:
Cut hands has the solution
We'll feed you to every hungry bird
We'll feed you to every starving animal
And we'll let them eat fat till they're full
And will let them drink blood till they're drunk
As I tell you:
It's helping
While I tell you:
You're doing the right thing
_______________________________________________
Just like your father
Just like your mother
What sort of example do you think you're setting?
Do you talk that way to your sister?
Does cunt talk that way to your sister?
So why'd you say that?
You know you can't get away with that
You know what's coming to you now, don't you?
Coming to cunt
I just can't believe you did that
You cunt, you fucking cunt
Who do you think you are?
Who the hell do you think you are?
Who the fuck do you think you are?
You stupid fucking cunt
Do you talk that way to your sister?
Would you talk that way to your momma? Eh?
Come on, cunt, do you talk that way to your momma?
Do you talk that way to your momma?
Didn't she teach you any manners?
Look at me and say you're sorry, cunt
Cunt says sorry
Cunt's gonna say sorry
You're nothing
Cunt's nothing
Zero
Just remind yourself
Remember you're fat
Remember you're stupid
Remember you're ugly
Just like your fucking mother
Just like your fucking father
Have you got a good view?
Fat, stupid and ugly
A fat, stupid, ugly cunt
Are you remembering that?
You fucking cunt
I really can't believe you did that
You vulgar, common, coarse piece of shit
Your hanging and sick wobbly meat flab
Flabby folds your flesh
You're a disgrace
You're a total disgrace
And where's your fucking decorum?
Yes, decorum, where is your fucking decorum?
Cunt's fucking decorum
You fucking cunt
Just like your fucking mother
And just like your fucking father
See that?
What's that over there?
Yes, cunt, that's a door
I just want you to look at the door
Now I'm a really positive person
But you don't know what can happen from day to day
As you think about it in your mind
If I walked out that fucking door
And the door closed
And as it closed
It slammed shut
And no matter what you did
No matter what you fucking did
You could not open the door
And you knew you could never look into my eyes again
Hear my voice again
Feel my touch again
You're right, you know
About that door
You really shouldn't think about it
A huge mistake to fucking think about
You don't have to think about the door
It makes you feel uncomfortable
Doesn't it?
I know it does
You don't have to feel like that
It's distressing
It's really distressing
A terrible think happened
My friend was stabbed in the street
By some drunk
Dead before he arrived at the hospital
Wouldn't it be terrible?
Think about it
Even if you could get that door opened
And you were to search
You could never find me again
You will never be able to see me again
You will never be able to hear my voice again
Feel my touch again
You'll never be able
All that fun we had together
The great times we had together
The coast
The night-time
The hotel
The journey home
Even if you were to open that door
You would search but you could never find
You're nothing
Cunt's nothing
Zero
Just remind yourself
Remember you're fat
Remember you're stupid
Remember you're ugly
Fat, stupid and ugly
Just remember that
And also remember life's tragedies
Think about them
I still think about it
You see that door?
You see that door?
You see that door?
You see that door?
Cunt, do you see that fucking door?
_________________________________________________
Can I suggest you:
Get fucked
While you lie about child-molesting gropes
And parkbench flashers and pervert creeps
And anal virginity and polaroid snaps
And verbal abuse and bathroom rapes
I don't know how well you can:
Remember your own pointless glue-sniffing adolescence
That fumbling floppy sex
In between fags
Those pathetic fistfights
All those pathetic petty thefts
And this and that and this and that and this and that
And every other fucking Adidas-clichéd cringe
Can I suggest you:
Pose
While you take another frantic glance at your shopwindow reflection
Ensuring the stinking lie is maintained
Because that's the difference between you
Yes, that's the difference between you
You'll let a leering scumbag beerdrinking rat
Raise your nostrils for a close-up smell
Of fingertip nicotine and animal fat
And force an open dead mouth
Lap up ounces of semichem sweat
So can you feel that:
Would be a truly truly disgusting thing?
And that's the difference between me
I'll open the package
I'll watch the show
I'll enjoy perfectly well-made art
I'll get in line behind stupidity
I'll let you lie through your teeth
I'll make you feel special
I'll not pick out the mistakes in public
I'll just put it down to passion
And feigned memory lapse
What did you want to be when you grow up?
Certainly not raped
That's the difference between you
A drunk? A drug addict
A motherly protector of the young?
Another bed-staining cunt?
A child molestor that needs to be told?
Or just a craven lust-driven artist
Channelling confusion and fear
Into a sickly limp repetitive craft
Yes, that's the difference between you
You'll act late and surprised
You say you loved sex?
You'll love being hated for the act
The filthier the abuse and the desperate underage details
The fatter the payback
So rather than just listen
Be altered by what's been said
Now that's the difference between me
I'll show you emotional truth
I'll show you the fucking source
I'll show you yet another fucking liar
And this is for the you
I'll show you that something that makes you:
Feel different
Feel special
I'll give you:
Thoughts
Images
Sounds
I'll give the you something
Even more interesting than the last one
And I'll tell you why it's the best one yet
And then you can look back on it all
And say:
This is the best thing that ever happened to me
And see:
Why you never became a dancer
_________________________________________________
You boy
What's it like to wet your foot in a cold swimming pool?
What does your voice sound like underwater?
At night?
Can you do the chickenskin swim?
Can you do the chlorine gargoyle?
Can you wriggle like an eel?
I don't know why you'd be proud
Of your 33 hours' lack of need
You're another shut-in freak
Living off the burn of boy's own razzled body
Another cop of instant coffee
Another plastic spoon
Another table routine
I don't know why boy's proud
Of a nicotine hack
What's so fucking clever about that?
You little cunt
Another tube
Another tube of shitpaste
Squeezed out
Squeeze out that brown hairgel squirt
Your fave long tube
Recarving boy hollow
Into the splash
And I really don't know
No idea
I have no fucking idea why boy'd be proud
Of another case of flu
Another running nostril
Another running mouth
And don't just sit there chatting
Nodding amicably
Give me those lights
And stop giggling, chickenskin
Face the feast of powder
Cos I know you'll scream and tell the whole fucking world
So what is it like to put your foot into the cold swimming pool?
What does your voice sound like underwater?
Can you do the chickenskin swim?
Can you do the chlorine gargoyle?
Can you wriggle like an eel?
Come on boy
You're home
Hey chickenskin
You're home
Wriggle like a fucking eel
Wriggle like a fucking eel
_______________________________________
First I'll tell you what I've been up to, dear readership of None.
I finally went to see my GP about general anxiety, panic attacks, depression and all the other symptoms of being a neurotic internet-frequenting shut-in.
Well, actually, the reason I went to the GP was this awful twitch about three inches above the base of my cock, if I was standing straight. She suggested it may be an STD. Turned out it wasn't. It was just a twitch. Occam's razor (Occam's bladder?), just like the time
I thought my heavy leg
was a life threatening blood clot.
That turned out to be an imagined heavy leg. I spent four hours in
A+E regardless.
So while I was at the GP, nice lady by the way, eager to prescribe me drugs, I thought I'd
mention my crippling anxiety/panic attacks and my not-so-crippling but still very much there
depression. She got me referred to the local mental health unit and prescribed me a low dose of
Diazepoo which works to make me feel calm and content and sometimes prone to lying down and drawing things for my friends. I've drawn a few things so far, they don't make much sense, more an intricate web of silly paterns and fractured doodling, but I'll give them away because they're not really for me to keep.
The lady at the mental health place was typical. Nodding and going "mmhmm." a hell of a lot, so I complimented her on her shoes and started cracking awful jokes until she smiled for me. Haha, made you smile, lady. Her shoes weren't that great at all.
They were supposed to be black, I think, but had turned black-grey. She was wearing the same pair the second time I saw her
and she had her hair pushed back behind her ears which is an awful
look for everyone. But when you're dealing with depressed whingers
and alcoholics all day long I guess you don't exactly aim for "Hot" in
case they want to fuck you. There's a lot of real crazies there who would
probably try. Big fat guys who mumbled to themselves and wore baseball caps.
Gotta wait two months before they can start sorting me out, which is better than the last time I went about this time two years ago, where the waiting list was six months so I went private and saw a man called Thomas who advised me to move to Brighton, where I developed a penchant for drinking every fucking day and taking drugs and stuff. Also his head resembled an egg with glasses.
What else have I been up to, uh, it was my girlfriend Rhia's birthday so we went to see The Sonics. They were really great for a bunch of old guys with a dead drummer. The drummer wasn't there, that would have been both fucked up AND useless. They had this young guy on instead who did a pretty decent job. Seriously though don't talk in between every song.
There were some old Sonics fans who had turned into either obnoxious old drunkards or obnoxious old drunkard yuppies who were really really annoying and either hurling abuse (why?) or singing every other word, THEN hurling abuse.
The Sonics were supported by The Horrors who didn't do their typical Horrors thing and instead played mostly new stuff.
Figured it would have been more garagey considering who
the band was supporting.
That was a bunch of fun but it made me wish my legs were thinner.
I also went to a Sushi themed party which was okay but not really my kind of people.
Also it wasn't so much a party as it was a gathering.
There were studenty types there and more cock and gay jokes than I cared for,
probably because everyone was sucking down on a shisha pipe and repressing homosexual urges. p.s. I missed out on the sushi but got free wine (for free).
I've also had more headfucks than I've cared to deal with but I won't go into them because they're probably more boring than the tripe I've already put up here.
Currently I am listening to just three tracks off Psychic TV's last effort which is weird avant-glam I guess you could call it. The three tracks I am listening to are "Thee Body," "I don't think so," and "BB". Genesis P Orridge is a weird one but I love him anyway. My mum really hates him because of a few encounters back when she was illustrating for Sothis. Apparently he can be a bit of a creep. Current 93's main, uh, Current David Tibet did an impression of Genesis for me over some food in Chinatown. "David, do you have any maltesers?" he said. Since then I've wanted to go to PTV with a whole pack of party-sized maltesers and flood the stage with them.
I've been listening to a lot of Joy Division and Current 93 too, as well as Satie. I think "Lament for my Suzanne" has got to be one of my favourite songs at the moment.
Right now I've got The Doors playing because my Dad stumbled into my room, drunk, and requested it. It's 3pm.
That reminds me, a friend and I have made a pact to not take any shit from anyone for one week. It's going okay. Thought I'd have a chance to test it out with some pretend gangsters from Pinner who were strutting around saying things like "blud" and "browns" and "seeeeeeeeeerious?" but Pinner gangsters are even shittier than Harrow gangsters. I don't think they've even started leaving the tags on their caps in Pinner yet.
Anyway, whatever, life is both really good and bad and I guess that's normal. Here are the lyrics for all of Bird Seed:
Hey, knuckle-nicks
I'll tell you:
It's helping
I'll tell you:
You're doing the right thing
I can see you're used
And I don't know where you've been
But I do know past failures still haunt you
Thoughtless slow remarks you later regret
It's hard to own up and take the blame
For being a nervous gibbering wreck
So go on be a careless fucking onlooker
So you can sit and not-think about pain
I know about gasping attacks and mirror-blood
I know about shitbags and shame
I know a fuckload more than you realise
A fuck of a lot more than you think
I know why you can take a kiss
But not a bone-count hug
I know you bite your fat banana fingernails
And I know why you'd need to shave
I know you're a slow fussy pathetic eater
And I know you don't sleep much
But I'll still tell you:
It's helping
And I'll still tell you:
You're doing the right thing
Question: did you ever hurt yourself to make somebody sorry?
How often do you pretend to be sick?
You ever wanted something very much but never told anybody about it?
Are you such a slug you can't live without a fucking sundae?
You ever made a bit too much fuss over your cuts?
Yes, the cutting will be quite dramatic
If you get the crisscross slit right
And show an exposed piece of bone
Ready for harvest
And in a few seconds' time:
In a drop of anal red the poison
And your totally disgusting diseased unkempt disgusting excuse of a body
Continues to react
Till mere days after the cutting
The cancer says well hello
In between fairground muscle twitches
And clearly white scaly shit
Tinkerboy says burnt it out
The little cunt doesn't know what the fuck he's talking about
And just weeks after the cutting
You really don't know
How well can you imagine
How soon cheap tears are forgotten
Because there's no wasted kleenex or sympathy
Nobody would give a fucking toss
For a quasi-glamour of your symptoms
For your Russell’s sign
And for your atrocious sleepless lucidity
Because what if they were provoked?
It's prefectness and it's all there
No more pointless trawling through self-helped books for triggering examples
No more daytime trash or drunken wisdom
At first it seems not to be working
Til you get that imitation of danger
That means you can no longer convince yourself it's not working
More and more and more
So right now would be a good time for blackmail
Who have you ever tried to make guilty?
Have you ever told on anyone?
What somebody has told you not to tell
My question: I said have you ever told on anyone?
Yet I'll tell you:
It's helping
And I'll tell you:
You're doing the right thing
More and more you wonder if anyone really gives a fuck
Do you sometimes feel that:
You talk too much
You don't listen enough
Do you admit to letting others push you around?
Who's pushing you around now?
Who's hitting on you now?
Who's the pervert hitting on you now, kuckle-nicks?
Has he successfully perverted an ethic?
Has he destroyed a doll body?
I'll show you what's it like not to have hands
And I'll show you how to hold on tight
I'll show you how to piss on your own bedclothes
And sit in a closet
You'll learn to sweat while unconscious
And I'll show you the electric stick
You'll learn about the kitty-cut
Before the privilege of seeing your own blood
I'll let you suck brown-brown and clairil
So you know how papa's so brave
I'll show you the wide-awake nightmare
And now you can buy some fucking fear
So new question: can you:
Spot a person who's like me?
Can you:
Imagine a difference between their body and yours?
Can you:
Imagine a person who looks like me?
Could you:
Spot a person who looks unlike you?
Can you:
Spot a person who's how you want to be?
Can you:
Imagine a person who you'd never want to be?
Transferring people is a fucking degrading thing to do to them
And one day the you'll understand that
One day the you'll understand that:
Cut hands has the solution
We'll feed you to every hungry bird
We'll feed you to every starving animal
And we'll let them eat fat till they're full
And will let them drink blood till they're drunk
As I tell you:
It's helping
While I tell you:
You're doing the right thing
_______________________________________________
Just like your father
Just like your mother
What sort of example do you think you're setting?
Do you talk that way to your sister?
Does cunt talk that way to your sister?
So why'd you say that?
You know you can't get away with that
You know what's coming to you now, don't you?
Coming to cunt
I just can't believe you did that
You cunt, you fucking cunt
Who do you think you are?
Who the hell do you think you are?
Who the fuck do you think you are?
You stupid fucking cunt
Do you talk that way to your sister?
Would you talk that way to your momma? Eh?
Come on, cunt, do you talk that way to your momma?
Do you talk that way to your momma?
Didn't she teach you any manners?
Look at me and say you're sorry, cunt
Cunt says sorry
Cunt's gonna say sorry
You're nothing
Cunt's nothing
Zero
Just remind yourself
Remember you're fat
Remember you're stupid
Remember you're ugly
Just like your fucking mother
Just like your fucking father
Have you got a good view?
Fat, stupid and ugly
A fat, stupid, ugly cunt
Are you remembering that?
You fucking cunt
I really can't believe you did that
You vulgar, common, coarse piece of shit
Your hanging and sick wobbly meat flab
Flabby folds your flesh
You're a disgrace
You're a total disgrace
And where's your fucking decorum?
Yes, decorum, where is your fucking decorum?
Cunt's fucking decorum
You fucking cunt
Just like your fucking mother
And just like your fucking father
See that?
What's that over there?
Yes, cunt, that's a door
I just want you to look at the door
Now I'm a really positive person
But you don't know what can happen from day to day
As you think about it in your mind
If I walked out that fucking door
And the door closed
And as it closed
It slammed shut
And no matter what you did
No matter what you fucking did
You could not open the door
And you knew you could never look into my eyes again
Hear my voice again
Feel my touch again
You're right, you know
About that door
You really shouldn't think about it
A huge mistake to fucking think about
You don't have to think about the door
It makes you feel uncomfortable
Doesn't it?
I know it does
You don't have to feel like that
It's distressing
It's really distressing
A terrible think happened
My friend was stabbed in the street
By some drunk
Dead before he arrived at the hospital
Wouldn't it be terrible?
Think about it
Even if you could get that door opened
And you were to search
You could never find me again
You will never be able to see me again
You will never be able to hear my voice again
Feel my touch again
You'll never be able
All that fun we had together
The great times we had together
The coast
The night-time
The hotel
The journey home
Even if you were to open that door
You would search but you could never find
You're nothing
Cunt's nothing
Zero
Just remind yourself
Remember you're fat
Remember you're stupid
Remember you're ugly
Fat, stupid and ugly
Just remember that
And also remember life's tragedies
Think about them
I still think about it
You see that door?
You see that door?
You see that door?
You see that door?
Cunt, do you see that fucking door?
_________________________________________________
Can I suggest you:
Get fucked
While you lie about child-molesting gropes
And parkbench flashers and pervert creeps
And anal virginity and polaroid snaps
And verbal abuse and bathroom rapes
I don't know how well you can:
Remember your own pointless glue-sniffing adolescence
That fumbling floppy sex
In between fags
Those pathetic fistfights
All those pathetic petty thefts
And this and that and this and that and this and that
And every other fucking Adidas-clichéd cringe
Can I suggest you:
Pose
While you take another frantic glance at your shopwindow reflection
Ensuring the stinking lie is maintained
Because that's the difference between you
Yes, that's the difference between you
You'll let a leering scumbag beerdrinking rat
Raise your nostrils for a close-up smell
Of fingertip nicotine and animal fat
And force an open dead mouth
Lap up ounces of semichem sweat
So can you feel that:
Would be a truly truly disgusting thing?
And that's the difference between me
I'll open the package
I'll watch the show
I'll enjoy perfectly well-made art
I'll get in line behind stupidity
I'll let you lie through your teeth
I'll make you feel special
I'll not pick out the mistakes in public
I'll just put it down to passion
And feigned memory lapse
What did you want to be when you grow up?
Certainly not raped
That's the difference between you
A drunk? A drug addict
A motherly protector of the young?
Another bed-staining cunt?
A child molestor that needs to be told?
Or just a craven lust-driven artist
Channelling confusion and fear
Into a sickly limp repetitive craft
Yes, that's the difference between you
You'll act late and surprised
You say you loved sex?
You'll love being hated for the act
The filthier the abuse and the desperate underage details
The fatter the payback
So rather than just listen
Be altered by what's been said
Now that's the difference between me
I'll show you emotional truth
I'll show you the fucking source
I'll show you yet another fucking liar
And this is for the you
I'll show you that something that makes you:
Feel different
Feel special
I'll give you:
Thoughts
Images
Sounds
I'll give the you something
Even more interesting than the last one
And I'll tell you why it's the best one yet
And then you can look back on it all
And say:
This is the best thing that ever happened to me
And see:
Why you never became a dancer
_________________________________________________
You boy
What's it like to wet your foot in a cold swimming pool?
What does your voice sound like underwater?
At night?
Can you do the chickenskin swim?
Can you do the chlorine gargoyle?
Can you wriggle like an eel?
I don't know why you'd be proud
Of your 33 hours' lack of need
You're another shut-in freak
Living off the burn of boy's own razzled body
Another cop of instant coffee
Another plastic spoon
Another table routine
I don't know why boy's proud
Of a nicotine hack
What's so fucking clever about that?
You little cunt
Another tube
Another tube of shitpaste
Squeezed out
Squeeze out that brown hairgel squirt
Your fave long tube
Recarving boy hollow
Into the splash
And I really don't know
No idea
I have no fucking idea why boy'd be proud
Of another case of flu
Another running nostril
Another running mouth
And don't just sit there chatting
Nodding amicably
Give me those lights
And stop giggling, chickenskin
Face the feast of powder
Cos I know you'll scream and tell the whole fucking world
So what is it like to put your foot into the cold swimming pool?
What does your voice sound like underwater?
Can you do the chickenskin swim?
Can you do the chlorine gargoyle?
Can you wriggle like an eel?
Come on boy
You're home
Hey chickenskin
You're home
Wriggle like a fucking eel
Wriggle like a fucking eel
_______________________________________
Saturday, 16 February 2008
Tuesday, 11 December 2007
I told you these would be sporadic
I haven't felt the need to procrastinate this much since I discovered MySpace and Facebook, but you know what, those don't do it for me anymore so I'm posting a bog, typo intentional, that no one's going to read. Except those of you I ping on MSN in about half an hour when I'm done.
Since my last post I've been up to approximately nothing whatsoever. Well, I've been up to usual London malarkey: getting drunk, going to gigs, all of that nonsense, but hardly anything at all. In fact, my day-to-day routine has become so formulaic and depressing that I really need to do something about my boring shambles of a life before I go insane. My friend said to me, "imagine flying into a rage," well I'd happily go outside and stab up the neighbourhood but I'm wearing pajamas and I want to at least look good when I'm arrested/shot to death.
By the way, internet police, just in case you should pre-empt some kind of columbine-like shooting, not to worry, I cried like a baby this one time I killed a fly on purpose.
So here's the beaten track that is my weekday. The day doesn't matter, it's always pretty much the same:
See what I mean? I need a real, proper, bonafide job. Where I HAVE to shower in the morning, or I'll get fired for stinking up the office / cash register. Where I HAVE to leave the house and soak up some vitamins from the sun. And interact with people where, instead of typing emoticons to express how you feel, you say words.
I'd at this point like to note that I'm not a pathetic recluse that suffers from zero human contact, I do go out, I have a girlfriend (who is great) and I'm not fat.
This is pretty boring right. Here's some more boring stuff.
Free cocktails were abound, though, so a good evening was had. Ish.
Another one I went to recently was a Sony party in Shoreditch, at their new gaff The Colour Rooms. I think it's called the colour rooms because there are a lot of different colours, and they're in rooms. There were midgets dressed up as smurfs who were handing out free vodka (and enjoying some themselves, I think) as well as a bunch of media twats really high on cocaine who were simultaenously really boring and really repugnant. Fuck them.
There was a party on at Punk in Soho too but I didn't go to that because: a) I was going to see Babyshambles for free at Wembley Arena and b) that's it. But, uh, I should have gone at least for a bit. Who knew you could get away with charging four quid for a pint of Fosters in a plastic cup? Me, because I've been to 333. Don't go there. Ever.
THREE! Stealing drinks off peoples tables in pubs and clubs. Man, it's pretty easy to get drunk for free, even when you're broke! My girlfriend and I did this at Mother bar, the poncy shithole just above 333. It was full of absolute turds and reminded me of a night out in Harrow except it was really fucking hard to get home afterwards. I'm glad I pissed on the toilet seat there.
Since my last post I've been up to approximately nothing whatsoever. Well, I've been up to usual London malarkey: getting drunk, going to gigs, all of that nonsense, but hardly anything at all. In fact, my day-to-day routine has become so formulaic and depressing that I really need to do something about my boring shambles of a life before I go insane. My friend said to me, "imagine flying into a rage," well I'd happily go outside and stab up the neighbourhood but I'm wearing pajamas and I want to at least look good when I'm arrested/shot to death.
By the way, internet police, just in case you should pre-empt some kind of columbine-like shooting, not to worry, I cried like a baby this one time I killed a fly on purpose.
So here's the beaten track that is my weekday. The day doesn't matter, it's always pretty much the same:
- Wake up between noon and 1pm. Feel hungover or tired, stumble to computer at my desk.
- Fumble at a deck of cigarettes. Put one in my mouth, light it. Mm, nicotine.
- Stick on some music. For the last few weeks it's generally been weird post punk that some kindly souls have uploaded to blogspot. Or iTunes. Definitely not Soulseek, because I'm not a thief, okay?
- Refresh facebook and myspace for five hours or so, half-heartedly typing up some articles inbetween (on a good day).
- Cool, it's the evening now. It's acceptable to get drunk. Gather change, stumble to shop, buy red stripe and pack of fags if necessary.
- Blur
- Sober again. Lie down and read and then pass out while some obscure garbage plays out on my Zune. I don't have an iPod because I gave it away to a guy who hates me now.
See what I mean? I need a real, proper, bonafide job. Where I HAVE to shower in the morning, or I'll get fired for stinking up the office / cash register. Where I HAVE to leave the house and soak up some vitamins from the sun. And interact with people where, instead of typing emoticons to express how you feel, you say words.
I'd at this point like to note that I'm not a pathetic recluse that suffers from zero human contact, I do go out, I have a girlfriend (who is great) and I'm not fat.
This is pretty boring right. Here's some more boring stuff.
THINGS WHAT I HAVE DONE LATELY
ONE! I saw that film The Golden Compass. My girlfriend absolutely INSISTED that I read the book before I see the film and, by jove, I'm glad I did. The pacing was really off and there was a bunch of stuff that was toned down a lot compared to the books, but it had bears that wore armour and cute animals and all that so it was kind of enjoyable. I'd see it again. They really ballsed up the ending though.
TWO! I've been trying to blag as many free press parties as possible but it's not going so great. I went along to a party at the Tate Modern for some collaboration between BT and a Spanish company. There were an awful lot of David Brents dancing around to forgettable electro spun on the decks by Bob Geldof's adopted alien baby Peaches Geldof. No, really, she's a fucking alien.
TWO! I've been trying to blag as many free press parties as possible but it's not going so great. I went along to a party at the Tate Modern for some collaboration between BT and a Spanish company. There were an awful lot of David Brents dancing around to forgettable electro spun on the decks by Bob Geldof's adopted alien baby Peaches Geldof. No, really, she's a fucking alien.
Free cocktails were abound, though, so a good evening was had. Ish.
Another one I went to recently was a Sony party in Shoreditch, at their new gaff The Colour Rooms. I think it's called the colour rooms because there are a lot of different colours, and they're in rooms. There were midgets dressed up as smurfs who were handing out free vodka (and enjoying some themselves, I think) as well as a bunch of media twats really high on cocaine who were simultaenously really boring and really repugnant. Fuck them.
There was a party on at Punk in Soho too but I didn't go to that because: a) I was going to see Babyshambles for free at Wembley Arena and b) that's it. But, uh, I should have gone at least for a bit. Who knew you could get away with charging four quid for a pint of Fosters in a plastic cup? Me, because I've been to 333. Don't go there. Ever.
THREE! Stealing drinks off peoples tables in pubs and clubs. Man, it's pretty easy to get drunk for free, even when you're broke! My girlfriend and I did this at Mother bar, the poncy shithole just above 333. It was full of absolute turds and reminded me of a night out in Harrow except it was really fucking hard to get home afterwards. I'm glad I pissed on the toilet seat there.
MUSIC WHAT I HAVE BEEN LISTENING TO
Exploiting the Prophets - Kind of like if The Horrors raped Joy Division in a dark alley and Joy Division had a baby that was ignored for years and years and had to fend for itself and got into drugs and needed a bunch of therapy. Cool! They've got two albums out, Code of Coincidence and The Thaw. They're both cool but The Thaw is a lot less punky and avant garde. You can find them here.
Akron/Family - Love is Simple - My friend sent me a track by these guys a while ago and it was really twee and it made you cringe really hard because it was so happy but after I listened to it about thirty times I started to really like it. The album's more of the same, folk stuff about love but it's really nice.
Nas - Purple - My friend told me to listen to this song just now so I listened to it. It's pretty cool but I really can't deal with hearing about how all your niggaz are in the pen right now.
Blaine Reininger - Broken Fingers - Sounds like Bowie trapped in space. Makes me want to shoot myself in the head because it's real depressing but I like it so much I'd probably bleed rainbows.
According to my last.fm: I've been listening to a lot of Coil, which is funny because I've only got the album The Ape of Naples on my PC and I don't really dig it that much. Also I have Restless Day off Scatology which is a great track and I've had that on repeat for a few hours at a time 'cos I'm weird.
Akron/Family - Love is Simple - My friend sent me a track by these guys a while ago and it was really twee and it made you cringe really hard because it was so happy but after I listened to it about thirty times I started to really like it. The album's more of the same, folk stuff about love but it's really nice.
Nas - Purple - My friend told me to listen to this song just now so I listened to it. It's pretty cool but I really can't deal with hearing about how all your niggaz are in the pen right now.
Blaine Reininger - Broken Fingers - Sounds like Bowie trapped in space. Makes me want to shoot myself in the head because it's real depressing but I like it so much I'd probably bleed rainbows.
According to my last.fm: I've been listening to a lot of Coil, which is funny because I've only got the album The Ape of Naples on my PC and I don't really dig it that much. Also I have Restless Day off Scatology which is a great track and I've had that on repeat for a few hours at a time 'cos I'm weird.
TO CONCLUDE
Thursday, 20 September 2007
Alan Titchmarsh
YOU'LL HAVE to pardon me for the shitty photos but they wouldn't let us take pictures while Alan was actually on. And there wasn't much in White City worth taking pictures of other than the BBC studio. I did see a fat boy actually, but I didn't have my camera out at the time.
After a lengthy ride on the tube where I read The London Paper six or more times I finally arrived at White City station. This ugly building was just down the road and was to be our gateway to OAP chatshow paradise.
We were pretty early so I got Lee to roll us some cigarettes because I suck at it. I'm still on the rollies and they look like papier mache models of tiny bananas fashioned by blind, spastic toddlers. He rolls them okay but I had to hold the filter pretty tight. See that funky wall behind him..? It's some kind of crazy BBC thing to show the diversity of the company, I guess, since it was adorned with all sorts of cartoon characters. Lee's sitting in front of some poor wheelchair bound BBC runner.
Jesus christ, look at that guy on the left. That's what happens if you don't pay your license fee.
So we got let in through the front gate where there was seemingly tight security. Metal detectors, scanners, beefy foreign guys. They were shit though, some guy walked through and let off a beep, all he got was a tired "hey, come back." I swear I could have had kilos of coke in my bag and they wouldn't have noticed. They're probably pretty used to that at the BBC actually.
Anyway some bird took us through to the studio. It was a long walk but all the old people did well and didn't die of exhaustion or anything. When we got in, it looked something like this:
Now, I thought this was actually Alan Titchmarsh's house. But it's just a fucking studio. Notice all the grey hairs, no lie, we were the youngest people there by probably thirty years save for one or two forty year olds who had to accompany their decrepit parents.
Some asshole "comedian" came on stage to entertain all the gravedodgers and told a bunch of shitty jokes about how things are different up north. He also made a bunch of vaguely sexual jokes which was frankly fucking terrifying considering the average audience age of 5,000.
Alan came on eventually greeted by raucous cheering (mainly from us). According to my girlfriend who I told to watch the show since it was live, us yelling ALLLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANNNNNNN was perfectly audible. At one point I shouted pretty loud and he jumped in his seat and looked as confused as the senile old bitch next to us.
We sat through the first show (there were two showings) because we were promised free booze in the break. There wasn't any though, that prick comedian was lying to us. There was orange juice so we left.
"Those two young boys have to leave now" said some lady on the production team. They escorted us off premises and told us we couldn't go to the BBC bar because we didn't work there. Assholes.
After a lengthy ride on the tube where I read The London Paper six or more times I finally arrived at White City station. This ugly building was just down the road and was to be our gateway to OAP chatshow paradise.
We were pretty early so I got Lee to roll us some cigarettes because I suck at it. I'm still on the rollies and they look like papier mache models of tiny bananas fashioned by blind, spastic toddlers. He rolls them okay but I had to hold the filter pretty tight. See that funky wall behind him..? It's some kind of crazy BBC thing to show the diversity of the company, I guess, since it was adorned with all sorts of cartoon characters. Lee's sitting in front of some poor wheelchair bound BBC runner.
Jesus christ, look at that guy on the left. That's what happens if you don't pay your license fee.
So we got let in through the front gate where there was seemingly tight security. Metal detectors, scanners, beefy foreign guys. They were shit though, some guy walked through and let off a beep, all he got was a tired "hey, come back." I swear I could have had kilos of coke in my bag and they wouldn't have noticed. They're probably pretty used to that at the BBC actually.
Anyway some bird took us through to the studio. It was a long walk but all the old people did well and didn't die of exhaustion or anything. When we got in, it looked something like this:
Now, I thought this was actually Alan Titchmarsh's house. But it's just a fucking studio. Notice all the grey hairs, no lie, we were the youngest people there by probably thirty years save for one or two forty year olds who had to accompany their decrepit parents.
Some asshole "comedian" came on stage to entertain all the gravedodgers and told a bunch of shitty jokes about how things are different up north. He also made a bunch of vaguely sexual jokes which was frankly fucking terrifying considering the average audience age of 5,000.
Alan came on eventually greeted by raucous cheering (mainly from us). According to my girlfriend who I told to watch the show since it was live, us yelling ALLLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANNNNNNN was perfectly audible. At one point I shouted pretty loud and he jumped in his seat and looked as confused as the senile old bitch next to us.
We sat through the first show (there were two showings) because we were promised free booze in the break. There wasn't any though, that prick comedian was lying to us. There was orange juice so we left.
"Those two young boys have to leave now" said some lady on the production team. They escorted us off premises and told us we couldn't go to the BBC bar because we didn't work there. Assholes.
Wednesday, 19 September 2007
Supersuper London Fashion Week show
SO HERE'S the deal, I managed to blag a guestlist spot at the SuperSuper magazine party in Kensington tonight, stayed for a bit then rushed home quickly to make a blog about it. The haps:
I arrived at some classy tube station (really, it was classy, the whole place reeked of being well groomed and pound coins) in Kensington and waited for my pal Lee, bandmate, friend, and fellow you'll hear more about should you carry on reading. The moment he blipped his way through those barriers I knew we looked like a pair of utter tossers. He was dressed head to toe in white and I head to toe in black, save for grey stripes on my trousers and spots of white on my shoes.
We made our way toward the venue which had temporarily been turned into Vauxhall Fashion Scout for the LDN fashion week. Jesus christ, we thought, look at that queue. It stretched for miles so we headed on to see if there were any familiar faces nearer the front. Lo and behold, there were. Hopped the barrier, we did.
Not that that mattered. The queue wasn't moving and it hadn't for about forty minutes. We were surrounded by drainpipes and Hoxton Haircuts and it looked like we would be for a while, until we played the press card which pretty much got us in straight away. Hey, I'm press. BLOGS ARE PRESS.
Thanks muchly to the kind people at the door.
Inside we strutted around after the free bar, which was free. Beer was drunk. Lee decided to get us interviewed, videos of which will be going up on certain UNNAMED websites. Until I've seen the footage anyway. We basically didn't know what we were talking about and stuttered on all the questions.
"Who's your favourite designer?"
uhhhhhh...
Then the free bar ran out so we trotted about lifting unmanned drinks until it was time for me to head off. I grabbed a goodie bag and walked back to the station, retardedly querying passersby where the train station was. It was just over there. (There)
Pictures and links and stuff to come, oh loyal readership of none.
Blog over.
I arrived at some classy tube station (really, it was classy, the whole place reeked of being well groomed and pound coins) in Kensington and waited for my pal Lee, bandmate, friend, and fellow you'll hear more about should you carry on reading. The moment he blipped his way through those barriers I knew we looked like a pair of utter tossers. He was dressed head to toe in white and I head to toe in black, save for grey stripes on my trousers and spots of white on my shoes.
We made our way toward the venue which had temporarily been turned into Vauxhall Fashion Scout for the LDN fashion week. Jesus christ, we thought, look at that queue. It stretched for miles so we headed on to see if there were any familiar faces nearer the front. Lo and behold, there were. Hopped the barrier, we did.
Not that that mattered. The queue wasn't moving and it hadn't for about forty minutes. We were surrounded by drainpipes and Hoxton Haircuts and it looked like we would be for a while, until we played the press card which pretty much got us in straight away. Hey, I'm press. BLOGS ARE PRESS.
Thanks muchly to the kind people at the door.
Inside we strutted around after the free bar, which was free. Beer was drunk. Lee decided to get us interviewed, videos of which will be going up on certain UNNAMED websites. Until I've seen the footage anyway. We basically didn't know what we were talking about and stuttered on all the questions.
"Who's your favourite designer?"
uhhhhhh...
Then the free bar ran out so we trotted about lifting unmanned drinks until it was time for me to head off. I grabbed a goodie bag and walked back to the station, retardedly querying passersby where the train station was. It was just over there. (There)
Pictures and links and stuff to come, oh loyal readership of none.
Blog over.
Monday, 17 September 2007
First post on another throwaway blog
MUCH LIKE every other creative endeavour I've started on a whim, this is bound to fall into that "I did that once" list. DJing? Oh yeah I did that once. Joined a band? Yeah, I was in a band one time. Well actually, I'm in a band right now, but I haven't played any shows. Still, it's cool to say yeah, I'm in a band. Right?
Anyway, the lack of alcohol but the presence of an unhealthy sleeping schedule has prompted me to start up this blog. For all of my outer-most thoughts, for me to chart my ridiculous japes about town or what have you. I don't really know yet.
Let me first post a few links to other folk riding the web 2.0 wave. I don't really know what web 2.0 is exactly but apparently blogging is it. Here's my miserable Finnish pal's blog, which is full of cryptic posts about stuff that makes me want to kill myself. There's also Teahawk's blog which has a bunch of neat stuff on it like one thousand chatlogs.
What can you, dear reader, expect of this blog? Why, self indulgent tripe, of course. The internet's made this easier than ever and I'm not about to miss out.
Tomorrow I am attending The Alan Titchmarsh Show with two good pals of mine. It was supposed to be three good pals but now it's two. So I guess I'll write about that tomorrow. Apparently there is a bar. We were gonna get t-shirts printed with Alan's face on them but that kind of fell through. So we're just going to get drunk and cause a scene instead, probably. I'll be trotting down to my local Londis for the 2-for-2.99 wine of the month deal, which will make that train ride go that much quicker. I wonder if they'll even let us in.
So toodle pip, and let me end on this note:
I have become, in one swift registration, all that I hated about the internet.
Anyway, the lack of alcohol but the presence of an unhealthy sleeping schedule has prompted me to start up this blog. For all of my outer-most thoughts, for me to chart my ridiculous japes about town or what have you. I don't really know yet.
Let me first post a few links to other folk riding the web 2.0 wave. I don't really know what web 2.0 is exactly but apparently blogging is it. Here's my miserable Finnish pal's blog, which is full of cryptic posts about stuff that makes me want to kill myself. There's also Teahawk's blog which has a bunch of neat stuff on it like one thousand chatlogs.
What can you, dear reader, expect of this blog? Why, self indulgent tripe, of course. The internet's made this easier than ever and I'm not about to miss out.
Tomorrow I am attending The Alan Titchmarsh Show with two good pals of mine. It was supposed to be three good pals but now it's two. So I guess I'll write about that tomorrow. Apparently there is a bar. We were gonna get t-shirts printed with Alan's face on them but that kind of fell through. So we're just going to get drunk and cause a scene instead, probably. I'll be trotting down to my local Londis for the 2-for-2.99 wine of the month deal, which will make that train ride go that much quicker. I wonder if they'll even let us in.
So toodle pip, and let me end on this note:
I have become, in one swift registration, all that I hated about the internet.
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