Retro Panzer, just the way you like your mouth gunk.

Blah blah

2010-07-20T00:57:00.001+01:00

All quiet on the Panzer front.

I'll be seeing you shortly young lady. Peel your eyes.

Brad x

I think I maybe wasted my youth…

2010-01-13T01:50:00.004Z

I didn’t get to do much when I was a young’un. I was brought up in a fairly dodgy area, surrounded by neighbours with pervy eyeballing movements and the odd Polish person. People would sometimes hang about after dark and try to steal cars (often failing quite miserably), and there was an old couple a few doors down that persisted in calling me Bartley. My parents never dared to be so rude as to correct them.

I was never allowed to go outside on my own until I was about 10. My poor mother lived in fear of me heading down to the park, sniffing some pritt stick and pretending to get all “high” and stuff. Either that or manically fingering some slightly older but downright skanky, chip-pan faced sod-for-brains girl behind the bushes. With her Puma popper trackie bottoms and shouting racist but still awkwardly irrelevant words at passing cars and getting “well pissed” on a J20.

PAH! Oh Pritt you old wally, you.

I never done none of that fun stuff. At 12 I was an ugly, disgustingly fat kid who for some strange reason shaved my bonce off completely, thought Korn were the shizznit and had a rack of teeth strikingly similar to a handful of broken hula hoops (that was until I got the black coloured braces due to me being such a devoted “grunger”, oh what a social statement to make in those days).

BOO! Guess whoooo?

I was never naughty at junior school, and if I got told off I’d probably cry for an hour and try forcing a little wee out into my pants. I’d never go playing on the railway tracks or anything. Hell, I practically pooed myself one time when I went to the newsagents to buy some matches at the age of 11.

What I’m basically saying then, is that I was a right massive shameful pussy… and I pretty much still am, albeit taller, skinner and with slightly better teeth. But at least I’m honest about it.

Yet when I occasionally stagger my way out of these four walls covered in my own dried faeces, I often stumble upon a few people from my secondary school years (which was notably an all boys school and certainly prolonged my entry in to the sexually active world by about, hmm… two years? …and I’m still feeling the effects).

So when I gradually move forward to make conversation with some of these people – once some form of intoxication has taken place of course, I only really talk to about nine people when I’m sober – I’m fully expecting a little frilly, high-pitched girl’s voice to pop right on out of their face traps, just like how I remember from the olden times. I start hoping that they’ll jabber on about some HIGHLARIOUS Warhammer nonsense, or how awesome Papa Roach are, or boasting about how many wanks they managed in one day, just to give me some kind of excuse to subtly take the Mitchell without them coming to any kind of realisation… and resulting in nobody getting upset or hurt.*

But what do I get instead? I’m stopped in my tracks with a deep, gravelly voice, words chopped apart and forced out into the open with an angry, turbulent thud. A true Sittingbourne accent, one that sounds like these people have been brought up on some windowlicker farm where everyone has a wildly mutated Adam’s apple and just drink handfuls of bleach. A place where people don’t look at dictionaries, they just bash the keyboard in their brain until a sequence of letters comes out that just about make enough sense to roll off their tongues. It's the voice that appears when everyone suddenly becomes "hard", when people learn to drive and figure out how to smoke a cigarette properly. Yeah, you know EXACTLY what I mean.

Suddenly my initial giddy excitement turns into some minor form of slight intimidation. Next thing I know, I’m trying to defer my attention away whilst remaining politely responsive, as I’m told a story about how they recently beat the living crud sticks out of some really old aged pensioner, just because he had a large lower lip that was capable of engulfing half a face and he quite liked to show it off.

This is Shoebox. We don’t know where she came from, but we do know she has beautiful eyes.

But the problem is I kind of do it too, at least when I’m drinking. All of a sudden I lose the ability to pronounce my ‘t’ or ‘h’, and this weird, half-arsed attempt at being cockney flops out, like I’m some kind of lout who drinks a shedload of lager, pulls some orange girl and drills her by the bins. I mean, it’s not as if I’ve ever done that. But that’s how you might imagine me to be if you couldn’t really see me properly, but for some strange reason you could hear my drunken voice.

Sadly though, I don’t really have the stories about scary fights or car crashes that I usually have to cringe to. Although there was this one time I donked my pathetic excuse for a fist into some ginger kid’s face on New Year’s Eve a couple of years ago. But immediately after this I found myself getting slapped back by several of his friends. This lead to my cheek swelling up so much it looked like I was sucking on a light bulb for three days and really, really enjoying it. My poor mother cried when she found out as well, wishing she’d never even let me go outside on my own in the first place. Poor lady.

IT’S EVIL.

But! I do have a good story which involves me finding a dildo and thinking it was my Christmas present when I was about four. But I guess that’ll have to wait.

You are the Egg Men. I am the Walrus. Goo Goo G’Joob.

Brad x

*Yeah, a lot of any such people could probably hurt me quite a lot, which is why I’m not writing about anyone in particular… as such… or am I? **

**No.

Quiet interlude

2010-01-03T01:18:00.004Z

So then, where were we? It's been quite some time, we really must stop doing this, no one likes an awkward silence. I keep telling myself I'll write more, be more creative and probably end up getting further in life. Instead I tend to get distracted with dubious, over-priced intoxicants and head controlling electrical appliances, soaking up my sacred hours and eliminating any hope for love interests and decent hygiene with a swift thumb movement.

BUT HEY LOOK THERE IT'S 2010 NOW. And guess what? WE STILL DON'T FUCKING HAVE FLYING CARS. And to think I was genuinely excited about these Jetsons rip-off prospects when I was younger.

So am I seriously going to sit here, like all those other short-fingered, hot headed, grammar shy bloggers and talk about my pointless New Year's resolutions and mind-shatteringly boring life? Fat chance. I'm probably just gonna' moan a bit, to be honest. You don't mind, do you? No, of course you bloody don't. You're only here 'cos I forced you to be. You was just minding your own business until I started ramming this shite down your eyelids. But now you're here. And you're gutted you're here, because you've now realised - in much the same way as me, might I add - that I, me, your writer/syntax person/funny little voice that you hear in your head when you look at words, I, have absolutely nothing to say. Nothing. Nada. Bugger all. In fact, all I'm doing is wasting your time. And my time. And the internet's time. This is just a space being filled with a big pile of cataclysmic balderdash, zapped straight from my stream of thought, gradually pushed towards my fingers and then spunked out all over your mind. Happy you're here? Me too. I can do with the company.

I'm supposed to be an attempted journalist, wannabe columnist, die hard media bummer who just wants a bit of a laugh and stress free lifestyle. Instead I'm sat here, fully clothed and stone cold lonely in my bed, completely sober, with an empty, vacated head, wishing I had something to say. Wishing that I could be properly inventive and just string a long load of wit and happiness into a few sentences. Trying so bloody hard to keep you, all of you, anyone at all interested. And I can't. And that pretty much sums up my entire life at the moment.

I'm not one for posting emotional blogs about my day to day life, general struggles, relationship problems, life issues, and I'm definitely not gonna' start now. I'd much rather overreact to something that'll no doubt come back to bite me in the arse in the not too distant future. But, you know, I'm having a little bit of a mare. Maybe I should've just done business studies or something.

Love from Brad's somewhat fragile twin brother... uhh... Brett. x

P.S If you know me, don't you dare bring this blog entry up ever. Business as usual from this point on. Fuck off.

Riton & Primary1 - Radiates

2009-11-19T15:56:00.001Z

Every now and then a song comes out with a perfectly descriptive song title, like it's the musical equivalent of Ronseal or something, it does exactly what it says on the tin.

The fact is, Riton & Primary1's latest track, Radiates, kind of, well, radiates from your speakers. It sounds like plenty of stuff you've heard before, sure. But it's short, sweet, fast and horribly catchy, to the point where you'll either: a) raise a smile whenever you hear it, thinking happy thoughts and being at peace with the world, or, b) want to punch yourself in the face repeatedly until the sounds you hear are no longer recognisable and pain is no longer an issue. Now only the most emotionally fragile may take up the latter, but a few of us that 'might not mind it' now will no doubt be sniping it down with our nasty words in a mere few weeks.

Verdict: Alright but potentially a pile of poo

Written for Artrocker Magazine

Acoustic Ladyland – The Mighty Q

2009-11-19T15:51:00.001Z

Listening to Acoustic Ladyland can be a little confusing at the best of times. It's like it's jazz, but it's not really jazz, instead it's some kind of scary, slightly mental hybrid pretending to be a post-rock band. It's jazz if saxophones were the coolest instruments in the world, if Jimi Hendrix had used his mouth instead of his spindly fingers, if 'Baker Street' was the greatest anthem ever recorded.

Initially 'The Mighty Q' starts off as a slow, dark and dreary track, yet just as you think this song's about to burst into some angst-riddled monster of a rock bastard, we're treated to a build up of more uplifting, colourful sounds, an unusual twist which grips your ears with strange, warm bewilderment. It's really splendid, but if I were to pitch this to my friends as a starting point for a band, they'd only point and laugh. Kudos for making it work.

AAA

Verdict: Alright

Written for Artrocker Magazine

Robot Disaster - Boy

2009-11-19T15:47:00.001Z

Within the first few seconds of pressing play on this record, you know full well what you've got yourself in to. Jangly, echoed guitars briefly mess with your ears before a rather jumpy beat takes over and leaves you tapping at least two parts of your body against the nearest surface (probably annoying someone near you in the process – or getting funny looks depending on the body part). It's certainly one for the dancefloor, and if Robot Disaster were a superhero, this would be their super power, the ability to get you moving as their poppy, indie disco leaks into your pumping veins like a toned down, less painful and much chummier Test Icicles. That or it's like heroin decorated with tiny little thunderbolts and neon love hearts.

AAAA
Verdict: Good

Written for Artrocker Magazine

Elliot Minor - Solaris

2009-11-16T16:02:00.000Z

Elliot Minor have taken their fair share of flak in their short careers. After the release of their debut in 2008, they've been accused of immaturity and selling records primarily aimed at the swooning teen fangirl market, with classically influenced pop/emo/punk/crap songs ready to be chewed up and screamed out by the horrible, spotty faces of ugly 13-year-olds with monstrous, stupid looking hair, bemusingly colourful, poorly applied eye shadow and strange, cheap, fluorescent leggings that make everyone look like a prick from the future.

So you can forgive them for trying to sound a little bit more 'adult' for this, their second album and honest stab at trying to be genuine, 'Solaris'.

It's no real stark difference, only instead of going over the top and drowning our ears with over-emphasised string sections, the orchestral element becomes far more subtle, leading to a better balanced bunch of songs to make up the tracklisting.

Recent single 'Electric High' shows that they can attempt a decent rock effort with some slightly more glamorous guitar playing, where as title track 'Solaris' is emphatic and loud, showing off some nice production and sounding like a song you would easily find on a future Twilight soundtrack, which could also be said for much of the album.

It's still not good though. It's clear that effort has been made to be taken more seriously, and the album probably just about surpasses it's predecessor. But maybe it's all down to the likeability factor and their astounding lack of it, because you still can't help but think they're a little, err, uninteresting. Which is harsh, but it's likely any self-respecting music listener probably won't bother to carry on after track five or six, such is the mundane, arduous feeling that surrounds this entire record. But hey, it's the thought that counts, and you can't fault them for giving it a go. Bless.

Verdict: Shit

Written for Rivmixx.com

Converge – Axe To Fall

2009-11-11T16:07:00.001Z

The final words written on the press release for Converge's 'Axe To Fall' read as follows: “Prepare yourself for the year's most vicious album.” Now, come on, that's a bit heavy, isn't it? Vicious? Do I want to encounter a vicious album in this modern world? Won't that be a little bit scary? Shall I just play it quietly just in case the neighbours say something?

Nah, sod it, let's see how this one pans out. Right, first track, 'Dark Horse'. Ah drumming and bass, that's a good start. Nice bit of steady drumming, bit of bass, maybe this'll be fine, oh, wait no, he's shredding, 15 seconds and the guitarist is fully shredding. Enter vocals, lots of incoherent screaming and madness ensues like a bubble being burst by a torrent of the most hardcore fireworks you can afford. It's the musical equivalent to being smacked in the face repeatedly by the spikey fist of Satan himself. We're talking mentalist head banging right here, you probably get the picture.

Again, dipping into the press release we're fed words such as “fierce” and “aggressive”, themes that flow through the entire album. It's clever, that's for sure, as the lightning paced guitar riffs change and mutate throughout each song, linking up with the impressive drumming skills on show, and the noise created can only be described as immense.

Obviously if you're buying or listening to the album you'd have a pretty good idea as to how it's going to sound. Tracks like 'Effigy' and the title track are short, frenetic, fast-paced bundles of horrific energy and borderline insanity, and 'Damages' shows a true sense of ability and creativity song-writing wise, giving the listener a brief period of respite before lashing back out and seemlessly battering away like a nuclear bomb conveniently exploding on a mass of amplifiers.

It's well structured, hyperactive mayhem, absolute carnage all wrapped up in a little bundle of CD goodness, and for fans of the hardcore genres it'll swiftly fit right in with the rest of your music collection.

Verdict: Shit

Written for Rivmixx.com

Gliss – Devotion Implosion

2009-11-10T16:13:00.000Z

Gliss are one of those bands that are downright awesome yet we never really seem to hear enough of over on these shores. Masters of creating hazy, shoegazey wonders and effortlessly remaining as ridiculously cool as possible (it must be a standard rule within the band), they're back with another gripping record to numb your brain and widen your pupils.

With just three members and a hell of a lot of chaos to keep under control, 'Devotion Implosion' ends up sounding like a messed up post-party come down. It's like waking up on the morning after the night you can't even begin to remember, surrounded by the remnants of dodgy drugs and dirtied sleeping bodies, making your way outside to the bleary hatred of your aching eyes and devastating headache, only to remember that you're still the fucking man no matter what debauched antics occurred last night.

...Sorry about that, perhaps that was a little too much imagination, but this record knows how to bring out of you. The comparisons can clearly be made, and though it's boring to remind ourselves, the dirtiness of Black Rebel Motorcycle Club and jagged sounds of Giant Drag and Metric are on show for all to see/hear/consume, whilst the simplistic guitar riffs contain heavy dollops of early Interpol and Liars. But sometimes these name-dropping opportunities can't be helped, so either it's taken as a huge compliment or hugely obscene insult, and it certainly shouldn't be the latter.

'Morning Light' bursts open after battling its way through an introductory free sample of miniature distortion, immediately attempting to test the strength of your speakers. Acting as a trippy awakening, it's a rocking opener with the perfect balance of constructive noise and poppy vocals. '29 Acts of Love' follows and sounds like a New Order song if New Order were younger, slimmer and not your Dad's favourite band, before the best track on the album, 'Sleep', slowly jolts into place and sweeps you off your feet in a haze. Filled with echoes and edginess, it transforms from a little majestic softy to a massive chunk of gritty, heavy nastiness, only to go full circle as the words “Soul sleeper” are repeated over and over.

'Sad Eyes' is a short, jangly Phil Spector-esque 60s pop track, complete with a load of hoot-a-long moments and some nifty, Kingmen-style guitar solos, where as curtain closer 'Sister Sister' does just as enough to heavy the eyes as the intro track did to widen them.

'Devotion Implosion' is no doubt a well-rounded, impeccable effort, precisely created down to the finest detail and all done by a very talented, dedicated trio of musicians. It's wonderfully elegant yet still scruffy, it's calm and collected but still filled with anger, it's polished and tidy yet fuzzy and dirty. It's an impressive piece of work, one to get you thinking and reminiscing in your armchair, and one well worth making your mind up on.

Verdict: Shit hot

Will everyone just stop falling off the cliffs of New Zealand please?

2009-10-13T18:38:00.003+01:00

Psst, come here! Yeah, you, over there, with the yellow tinge running all over your face and far too much time on your hands, sitting there, idly trolling through the web looking for your next fix of pointless information to repeat to your friends in an even more pointless fashion, thus rendering you completely and utterly pointless to the point where you’re basically an oversized orange casually sitting on a chair. Yeah, that’s it, you! Let me tell you a little secret… one that I’ve really tried to keep quiet for the best part of the year, not that I’m ashamed or anything, and not that you’re probably not already aware, but just because it may be a little bit boring, but anyway… I fucking love Twitter.

Like, I really love it. I spend more time on it than anything else, I tweet more than I sleep. I tweet outside, inside, upside down, whilst having sex, whilst on the toilet, I tweet trying on shoes, making toast and shaving. Hell, I’ve tweeted in my dreams three times before. But I love it for reasons you may not quite expect.

Twitter is the best thing on the internet right now, and I really don’t care if you disagree. You hear the same thing all the time from the boring doubters; “It’s not as good as Facebook, it doesn’t have pictures”, “It’s just a load of people talking at each other”, “It’s only good for celebrities”. It’s this latter part that completely defines Twitter for me: Celebrities. But I don’t mean following them or caring about anything at all that comes from their scabby, money-grabbing fingers (even though Peter Serafinowicz is absolutely HIGHLARRYOOS on there). Oh God no. As if I care about the words of some egotistical, vain, self-obsessed show off who only cares about his own opinions and isn’t a single bit arsed about anyone else’s (err…).

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

The true reason I totally bum Twitter to death isn’t to hear, acknowledge or understand why Jonathan Ross is still banging on about Sachs-gate, or why Stephen Fry wants to make love to a tiny chimp-like creature, no, I bum Twitter ‘cos I like the celebrity death rumours that seem to occur almost all the time.

With this ever growing list of famous people dying throughout the year, people across the globe seem to have really been inspired by all these dead celebrities. One bored person decides to make a mock up of a popular, trusted news provider and, usually never actually intending on it going further than a few friends who are no doubt ‘in on the joke’, they link it on their Twitter.

Then some numb nuts (usually a slightly stalkerish fanboy/fangirl) happens to search for said celebrity, sees the tweet, believes the hype and passes it on to all their silly little followers.

Just last night, before attempting to enter the land of nod, I saw Zach Braff on the trending topics. Which would be odd ‘cos Zach Braff just left Scrubs and was probably sat at home, crying in the corner, smashing his against the wall screaming “idiot!” whilst waiting for his career to completely nosedive. But people probably wouldn’t have known that.

Actual photo of Braff pre-skull bashing

Within minutes this can be seen all over Twitter. Suddenly you get random people spouting a load of rubbish like “Zach Braff RIP”.

Now, one must be quick to point out that these people are usually American. Over here in Britain, we usually wait until the BBC has reported it before we accept anything whatsoever, so we’re less inclined to just believe absolutely every little piece of shit we read on a computer screen. Although that doesn’t include every single one of us mind, every nation has its morons. Ours just don’t know how to use computers yet.

Anyway, so news spreads that Braff had died when really he was fine and dandy and probably a tad confused. Apparently it all started from this website – which has now been changed to some kind of statement explaining all what happened, including Braff himself calling the guy a “douchebag”.

I, of course, find it all hilarious, the way such ‘news’ can travel around the world in an instant - to the point where actual news providers have to come out and deflate the claims - just ‘cos some geek in the States knows how to use Photoshop a little bit.

It’s happened tonnes of times though, and always with the most random of celebrities. When Patrick Swayze died a few weeks ago, I remained sceptical for hours until the beeb finally reported it, simply because I was pretty sure I’d heard about him dying at least three times in the past, and I might have already thought he was dead and still not given a shit.

A lot of these hoaxes tend to follow the exact same pattern as well, presumably because of any such web-page generator they’re using. In 2006 – obviously pre-Twitter – Tom Hanks was the subject of a mass e-mail rumour when someone clocked on to a website stating that he’d “fallen off a cliff somewhere in New Zealand”. Obviously this wasn’t true, he was in California or somewhere else utterly generic, but people believed it so his people had to make a statement.

A mere few months later, the same thing happened Tom Cruise. Like, exactly the same. He also conveniently fell off some cliffs in New Zealand. And people still believed it. Admittedly it’s quite a rural country and no doubt those cliffs are some slippery motherflippers, and maybe they weren’t signposted enough or something, but who’d have funk those cliffs would kill two Hollywood stars in a matter of months? If I were famous I’d stay well clear of New Zealand, let alone it’s cliffs.

But wait, hang on, the holy grail of celebrity death hoaxes, and probably Twitter peaking in its own brilliance:

This, right here, is the reason I fell in love with Twitter. In amongst the tragic and downright earth-shattering news of Michael Jackson’s death, some guy on the other side of the world thought it would be "well funny" to pretend that Jeff Goldblum, JEFF GOLDBLUM was dead. Now who the hell conjures up that idea? Someone with the best imagination ever? Totally. Someone I'd probably want to be friends with? Totally.

And guess what? He died in New Zealand! Can you imagine if someone famous actually does fall off a cliff over there? No one in their right mind would believe it anymore. Apart from maybe the Americans. And Channel 9 News.

But you know what they say, so long as you believe in something enough, it'll happen. And so vast is the speed and power of Twitter, anyone can be proclaimed dead within a couple of hours. So I'm gonna start hash tagging #JohnnyBorrellRIP and see what happens. Feel free to join me.

Brad x

2009-10-05T23:22:00.001+01:00

Go on, gissajob son?

This week in rubbish music – 28/9/09

2009-09-28T19:04:00.001+01:00

A few years ago someone used to say that, from certain angles and given the perfect balance of light and shade, and taking in to consideration hair length and a lack of shaving - I look a little bit like Ian Brown.

You can understand my absolute dismay at such a comment.

Being compared to one of the most overrated, over appreciated frontmen of all time is pretty dodgy in itself. The man’s a bore, he can’t sing (unless it’s for free weed) and he does absolutely nothing on stage – apart from some weird little swaying thing that kind of makes it look like he’s about to collapse – yet sadly he always manages to disappoint.

Second to this – and slightly obvious to any normal folk – there’s the monkey features:

Me or Brown? You decide, but be choose wisely, mother flipper.

Yes. Ian Brown is a monkey personified. Or something not quite 100% human at least. Creepy, vacant eyes, long, distracting face, thin wide mouth… he ain’t attractive. And although I was never the prettiest of kids, I’ve certainly never looked capable of shitting in my hand and lobbing it right in to my mum’s poor, heart-broken face. Ian on the other hand literally jumps at the chance.

Some how the Brownster is still alive and bothered enough to make music, but my God what I’d give to make him stop the incessant torment of it all. He releases ‘My Way’ this week, giving us more drab music that we never really need to listen to, because The Stone Roses were quite enough already, thanks Ian.

What else have we got? Kid Harpoon is flopping out his new album ‘Once’, a release that once again only a select few people out there will bother paying attention to, despite Steve Lamacq (the recently self-proclaimed ‘King of Indie’) and his bestest efforts over on the flailing BBC 6 Music station.

And then we have that infamous immortal cyborg from the year 2129, sent back from the future to destroy the human race and all its musical taste with a powerful concoction of murderous warbling, painful throat infected vocals, toxic armpit fumes and a forehead made of several thousand fists. Yes, you guessed it, it’s Tina Turner! Fuck yeah! Fuck shit yeah!

That’s hot.

No? But Tina Turner is releasing something! Which means we can relive the excitement and the joy that no doubt collectively grabbed us all by the nuts when she did some 50th anniversary shows last year.

Not impressed? You sure? Alright, I’ll stop caring too then.

In other news, Amelle from Sugababes has been receiving some nasty letters from fans for her part in removing Keisha – the last remaining original member – from her post as squad leader. And now they’ve aligned themselves with that one who was on Eurovision that one time and accidentally barged into the violin player mid-song, they’ve officially started Sugababes phase 2.0, which means we’re all royally fucked. It’s terrifying to think no matter what kind of minor blip or human catastrophe happens, Sugababes always seem to survive and regenerate like some sort of disgusting, zombified freak of nature, the kind that people used to run out of cinemas and throw up over in the 70s, and we all have a very good reason to be feeling shit scared of their power.

…something.

And Lady Sovereign has been arrested for spitting on someone in Australia: "Brisbane police need to go catch some REAL criminals.....what a waste," she later said on Twitter. "Spitting in someone's face is nasty, but how about a guy dressed up as a girl running at you in the toilets and punching you in the head?"

Sounds mega.

Brad x

Who are you to judge, Snooty McSmugarse?

2009-09-23T22:56:00.007+01:00

Everyone hates unemployed people. “Sponging off the state” you might hear them say, with their Marks and Spencer shopping bags filled with swanky dead animals you never knew were edible. “Lazy scum” scream others from their shiny hybrid Mercs. “The shit on the sole of society’s shoe” yells the conservative voter in the corner there, with his rich daddy who got him his first job in the big wide world and still buys his underwear for him.

Get over it, we’re not all that bad.

It’s not as if I’m unemployed through choice. I mean, I know it’s my fault, I picked a stupid university course to study, an overpriced city to live and study in and a rubbish trade to try and earn my living, that being the scabies-riddled shit heap world of journalism.

Plus, Jesus, didn’t I time it well? Let’s graduate in an economic crisis, the one time when magazines and publishers don’t want to take risks, when employers are downsizing and the only people getting jobs are old timers with cobwebs up their arses and significantly more substance on their hand-written, coffee stained CVs.

I’m not bitter - much. It’s just lame when people pass judgement without actually knowing how difficult the situation is. Some people have worked hard and done well, notably the more talented, well-organised and better connected females with much prettier faces, and the people who aren’t reserved, mumbling, pessimistic arseholes like yours truly.

So when employed friends or family give me stick for not being employed I tend to let it slide. Or force myself to realise they’re only trying to help, without realising all they’re actually doing is coming across as patronising little buggers. There’s not always a simple enough solution to people’s recommendations of “just get off your dirty arse and get a bloody job” …just what the hell do you think I’ve been trying to do all this time?

So what happens? You start doing unpaid internships where you’re sat in the corner of a poorly ventilated room, doing everyone else’s unwanted dirty work and watching them reap the rewards in the form of a monthly wage. It’s all in the name of experience, right? Yeah, sure, here’s a list of all the things I’ve ever learnt from internships and work experience placements:

1) Papercuts hurt like fuck

2) Hot water hurts like fuck

3) Spitting in your editor’s tea will make the days go faster*

4) Stealing is really, really fun and makes you feel A LOT better

Number three is actually a little harsh, as two of the internships I’ve done have actually been useful (stand up Artrocker Magazine and Rocket PR – you guys are safe, this doesn’t apply to you, I’d never spit in your tea), but the rest of them, especially anything based anywhere around Oxford Street, you’re a bunch of goons.

The other thing that really grinds my gears (lame Family Guy reference, I’m just as bad as the rest of them, sorry) are people that work in the job centre. I thought it was the sensible option to go on the dole. I get £52 a week, which ain’t exactly helpful, but the people in there seem to think they’re the love child of Sir Alan Sugar and Simon Cowell.

Yes, this did actually happen

Here’s an example; I was two minutes late for my last sign on – which I cunningly blamed on the Sittingbourne buses that plod along the roads like a bunch of dying raccoons who’ve accidently munched a few skag needles. And oh my, the looks I get walking in there. Waving through the groups of chav scum loitering by the door (you know, the types that still sniff glue and hold their ball sacks all day), the eyes given to me by coffee slurping ‘big shots’ in that building tear through my wirey frame like a flaming samurai sword slicing through a plastic bowl of piss.

My fellow jobcentre peoples

It’s like they’re supposed to be big shots. They’ve got their jobs and we’re causing them some sort of inconvenience for not having jobs and requiring their help. They act like they shouldn’t have to be there. But wait, hang on, don’t they need us just as much as we need them? I mean, fuck, if there weren’t any jobless people there’d be no need for the job centres, so don’t look down on me like I’m causing you problems, arsewipe. I’m giving you work to do so you can feed your inbred children, so do your job and help find me a job rather than jabbering on to eachother about how you think you might be going through the menopause or some shit. Ah thank you!

Plus who are you to judge, Snooty McSmugarse? You work in a bloody job centre. I think that means a nice old ‘nuff said’ is in order.

So sod you lot. As soon as I get a job I’m posting a card through their letter box with some scribbles simply saying “cunts”, poorly scrawled with my own poo, of course.

Brad x

* NOTE TO EDITORS - I didn't actually do any spitting, nor did any of my fruitful bodily fluids reach any tasty beverages

Look at Pete Doherty in the corner there, ROFL

2009-09-13T20:11:00.002+01:00

I’ve only ever felt shame in my life a few times.

One of the first times (picked especially from my selective memory) was when I threw up during a school disco in year two. Maybe it was a sure fire sign of things to come, but to cut a long story short I ate some super dodgy wotsits and ended up projectile vomiting across two of those wrestling style fold up tables, all over various bits of food (that may or may not have later been eaten by another child – most likely the snotty kid) and all over the recently varnished glossy gym floor. I remember legging it to the toilets to finish the job properly, only to come back and see half of my mates skidding across it and having a massively amazing time at my sicky expense.

Another time I’ve found myself crying inside with shame was when – in the midst of showing off and trying to be the ‘weird, quirky, crazy kid’ at school, I downed an entire litre of cold chocolate milkshake and munched a load of 29p foam sweets during a lunch break in a Sainsbury's cafe, IN SIXTH FORM. You could kind of tell things were going wrong when the mild tripping started, not to mention when I started sweating brown liquid and smelling like a mouldy Milka bar.

I moved to the toilet relatively sharpish after the stomach spasms began to occur, and obviously did the dirty right there and then. It was like I’d turned into a malfunctioning chocolate fountain, I spewed freezing cold brown milk juice everywhere, rarely actually hitting the water in the toilet. In fact, a majority of it hit the sides of the cubicle, leaving it looking like that loo from the beginning of Trainspotting. It was like joke vomit, like, you know in Guest House Paradiso when Simon Pegg and his family are all vomiting for yards on end because they’ve eaten nuclear fish? Yeah, it was literally like that, only brown and icy with the odd piece of strawberry shaped foam mixed in, not fluorescent green and bubbly.

Of course, I immediately took a picture and told my friends to come meet me in there to show them the good work I’d produced. Sadly though, all good feeling was spoilt during the incident when a man and his young son came in and heard me throwing up like the girl from The Exorcist. This led to the son awkwardly asked his father: “What’s that noise Dad?” “I don’t know, son” “And what’s that smell?” “I don’t know, let’s just get out of here”. I’m hoping that’s a moment that will scar the poor lad for life. The aftermath photo still exists on one of my old phones, one which I can’t be bothered to find for you.

Vague recreation: Although this looks more like actual poo, and my milkshake mess wasn’t really in the toilet much…

Then there was the time I was forcibly removed from some wanky club in Mayfair only to be put in the back of an ambulance and thoroughly mocked by the paramedics (“look at Pete Doherty in the corner there, ROFL”). Again, to cut a long story short, a swift intake of various mixtures left my stomach eagerly churning, and after spending what felt like five minutes (it was actually closer to an hour) in a plush toilet throwing up everywhere and eroding the suave seat with my bile, I was literally picked up by the huge security goblins and dropped in a gutter like the big massive cliché London is.

After having rich couples in Ferraris sneer past me for about an hour, it was only until a gang of hoodlums stumbled past and called an ambulance on my grateful behalf that my luck eventually turned. This is the same group of lads who openly admitted that on any other day they probably would have just mugged me had they not been in such good spirits, so that was pretty lucky. Not that there was much to mug, and I don’t think my shoes were quite to their taste in fairness. It was the equivalent of a Jewish person offering Hitler some Lemsip because he had the sniffles and it was most probably catching.

Here’s me in a gutter. Notice tag hanging out of bum crack.

The reason I bring all this up, and the point I was intending on making before I inadvertently got really distracted by my horrible history, is because I’ve just had to move back in with my Mum after graduating from university. And I’m confused as to whether I should be ashamed about this or not. I’m fully aware that this has absolutely nothing to do with vomit and yet all previous examples do (that was completely unintentional), but perhaps I feel like I’m ‘puking my life away’.

Having spent the past two years of my life as a semi self-sufficient adult in London, doing my own washing, occasionally cooking my own food, rarely doing my own ironing, I feel a bit silly moving back to this shitty little East Kent town I for some reason know as home. Should I feel ashamed that I wasn’t quick enough out of the blocks to get a job sorted straight after I graduated? Should I feel ashamed that I’m back in my blue bedroom with shit posters fit for a 14-year-old loser, like the one I once was? Should I feel ashamed that my mum is once again washing my dirty pants for me?

Answers on a postcard sent to whoever the fuck you want.

Brad x

The Cribs – Ignore The Ignorant Album Review

2009-09-04T21:52:00.002+01:00

Remember when The Cribs used to be the coolest band in the country? When the Jarman trio didn't give a toss about anything at all, be it proper recordings, shunning the music press, slagging off their peers or even physical safety? When everyone in Yorkshire wanted to be seen as their bestest buddies for bonus indie brownie points?

Well, sadly, it seems these days are long gone, at least for the hardcore fans. When this lot first arrived they were something special, they were different, they had an edge over the rest. Their tinny, bedroom-esque recordings were a breath of fresh air that kept the music genuine. And their punk influenced pop songs were miles better than all the other soon-to-become-mainstream bands at the time. But now it seems the unruly saviours have finally succumbed to the pressures of the current music scene, and gone and made an album to forget instead.

It's not a terrible record by any means. Getting Johnny Marr on board has clearly enhanced their technical abilities – something they weren't necessarily recognised for before. Opening track 'We Were Aborted' makes a good first impression with its scratchy guitars and loud, football terrace style chorus, and it'll no doubt be a sure fire hit when played live, but it's definitely no 'Mirror Kissers'. Marr's influence is immediately recognisable in and amongst the thuds usually created by Ryan's often limited, bashful playing style. And whilst this may be great to a Radio 1 listener, those who bought the first two records might be crying a little inside.

The radio-friendly option follows rather quickly, with recent single 'Cheat on Me' – which sounds a little too similar to 'Man's Needs' off their last release. This signifies the worrying thought that, actually, The Cribs haven't really moved on at all, bar perhaps a little bit of fancy guitar playing dumped on top of everything.
The album plods along, with 'Emasculate Me' getting the toes tapping with a load of feedback driven guitar work. However, whilst it's pleasing to see Gary getting a majority of the focus this time around, nothing really helps distinguish this as a masterpiece or a stand out record. Which means, that for the first time, The Cribs have really made rather a massive hash of things.

Verdict: SHIT

Brad x

Rivmixx

The Boxer Rebellion – Union Review

2009-08-14T22:09:00.000+01:00

After an array of stories and setbacks, The Boxer Rebellion finally release their new album, ‘Union’, on a physical copy for the masses.
With hiccup after hiccup circling around the record – including singer Nathan Nicholson at one point being critically ill on a life support machine – the band have truly gone DIY on this one, shunning money-grabbing labels in order to self-release, albeit initially online and at gigs.

This lack of any kind of pressure leering over their shoulders like an angry, cane-wielding geography teacher appears to have rather dramatically paid off though. Opener ‘Flashing Red Light Means Go’ immediately pounces on your sensitive ears, pounding away at the drums like a heartbeat having palpitations, before whisking you away on an uplifting aural venture. Its Interpol-like guitars beef up the chorus and come the end of the track you’re left feeling at least a little bit better about the life that surrounds you.

‘Move On’ follows, and it proves to be a fitting title. Guitar tones reminiscent of early Kings Of Leon intertwined with their (seemingly) trademark atmospheric undertones, the song plays like a modernised national anthem.

Other highlights include ‘Evacuate’, a heavier, more conventional mini-anthem, whilst album closer ‘Silent Movie’ slows the pace down to a steady, peaceful conclusion.

The only problem is that it’s tough to say how long it’ll be until The Boxer Rebellion are just another Kings of Leon or Snow Patrol. Sure, they’re good – if a little repetitive - and they certainly have the figures to prove their worth, it's just you could, potentially soon, be finding yourself sat on a train with a load of idiots playing it on their tinny mobile phones, screaming how much they want to bang the singer or go through their rubbish bins and describing their music as “epic”. And that’s a shame; with these kind of emotive, meaningful and generally quite pleasant sounds a music listener can so swiftly become horribly pessimistic as to where a band’s direction and future truly lies.

Verdict: ALRIGHT

Brad x

Rivmixx

The Stone Roses – 20 Years On Review

2009-08-06T22:04:00.000+01:00

Twenty years after it first hit the shelves, and after the stories and solo successes of various respective band members, The Stone Roses are back. Not with new material of course, that'd just be silly, but with a re-issue of their 1989 debut album 'The Stone Roses' - only this time they've plastered 'The 20th Anniversary' on the end.

God knows why you're sat there reading this review though. If you haven't heard this album before then clearly you're head's been shoved so far in to the sand your ears have sprouted into cacti. Massive psychedelic songs such as the trippy, laid back 'I Wanna Be Adored', the upbeat indie anthem 'Waterfall', or the ultimate song to play on Guitar Hero, 'She Bangs The Drums', are all songs that clearly inspired a generation. Songs that gave us Oasis, The Verve, Kasabian. Without Ian Brown and co we could all be sat here right now listening to the greatest hits of Aqua and discussing its diversity and important political messages.

The only problem is, is it really that relevant anymore? Obviously this was a massively important record for a generation of music fans, they've influenced almost every band around in some form or another, and certain songs will live on forever in the minds of music moguls. But this screams out the words “milking it” far louder than any kind of “anniversary celebration” the record companies wish to blind us with. With all these are they/aren't they rumours floating around regarding a possible reunion, this seems more like a cheap – and blatantly obvious - PR stunt more than anything else.

Sure it's got demos and 'lost' (yet conveniently found) recordings, but these were no doubt left in the realms of obscurity for a very specific reason. Because they were too naff to be included in the first place.
This re-release is clearly one for the die hard Roses fan. Everyone everywhere in the world is already aware of this album and the important songs it gleefully boasts. So do we really need a digitally re-mastered version of it? I very much doubt so. Maybe people used to enjoy the aural imperfections. Maybe people liked the raw, late 80s feel to the original works. Maybe people are bored of auto tune, re-recordings and up to scratch-state-of-the-art-mathematically-perfect recording techniques. Maybe things need to be left untouched and untainted.

Or maybe people aren't interested in one of the most obvious, over hyped British albums of all time, especially twenty years after its initial release, when the music world is in a very different place to what it once was.

Verdict: SHIT

Brad x

Rivmixx

THERE'S A GAME? A BOOB GAME?

2009-07-27T18:01:00.007+01:00

I'm a massive pervert. You only have to briefly assess my general habits to come to this conclusion. As opposed to going out and being 'normal' most nights of the week, I stay indoors, in the comfort of my designated corner of the room, sitting on the internet and searching relentlessly for boobies during ever increasing gaps of writers block.

Some how I only really manage to go on about 10 websites a day, often the same, boring, standard ones. Usually hunting for morbid, disgusting stories, checking e-mails, gently stealing music and playing Farmville on Facebook.

Then I noticed this advert:

You may well have noticed it too, especially if you're the proud owner of a penis. I noticed it once and thought nothing of it (despite the fact that, at the time, I was watching Freakazoid videos on Youtube). "Odd", I thought, "that's a little risque, surely there's something dodgy going on there, best not click it."

But then I saw it again. And again. And there's something about that specific pair that grabs your attention for more ways than one. Sure, they're a whopping great pair of jugs just sitting there in the middle of the page, screaming out for you to click them and download a shitload of trojans for your troubles. But I ask more questions, like, are they actually real? Why is one abnormally larger than the other? Is it just a bit squashed? What do they smell like?

And hang on a minute, THERE'S A GAME? A BOOB GAME? What is this "boob game", the best free web game you speak of? Should I click? I shouldn't. It'd be silly, I'm bound to be disappointed. But I will. Because at the end of the day, there's a great big bunch of tits drawn by some 15-year-old spotty weirdo telling me to.

It links me to Evony, an online game that's also tried to tempt me with these other familiar ads:

Are they her glands that I've had forced upon my poor, untainted eyes?

Well. Upon closer inspection, no. But they're still very nice for a woman who's not actually real. Notice the use of the word 'discreetly', as if it's warning you that you'll have something dirty and unspeakable to hide from your boss or your family members. Like some kind of game involving mass gang bangs and orgies, ogling at breasts and various other parts. Maybe some kind of porn version of Civilisation, where instead of fighting wars and creating a nation, you're nurturing big breasted women, turning them on to drugs, making them shoot blue movies for cheap in a bid to crush all other competition with your smut.

Just a suggestion. But it's kind of what I was hoping for. Maybe not exactly, but those kind of words were being wished for.

Turns out it's just a shit Lord of the Rings, World of Warcraft type thing that losers play. So obviously I tried it out. I saw this:

...and I was instantly bored. Apparently this thing takes up a load of effort to get absolutely nowhere, so I gave up straight away. I put up a load of buildings and then begged a load of people to "come and destroy me" - perhaps at this point I was still hoping it would be some kind of porn/sex/adult/rape/awesome game. I aptly named myself "Bastard Man", because that would be my porn star name if I were well equipped enough.

As I continue to harass people in the chat screen, saying things such as "Kill me", "You're all cunts" and personally and specifically insulting users who had just said something, I started noticing the one thing that makes you realise you're not the biggest loser in the world. Sure, I'm picking needless fights with people over the internet for my own amusement, but when you see people such as 'King Sakutay' writing "Any girls out there wanna email me? I have 10,000 exp" or whatever, you know you're alright.

Plus I wasn't alone, plenty of people in there were simply asking "Where are the boobs then?". Those were my people, and I felt for them.

So, to summarise. Don't bother clicking those links or playing Evony unless you're a prick. In which case, enjoy. Virgin.

P.S I did a bit of looking and found a piece on Coding Horror showing the progress and results of the Evony advertising. Let's have a look at how they progressed:

It's either extremely clever or utterly ludicrous. But it's worked, 'cos I'm writing about it. Maybe bigger companies should try it:

Splendid. Wait a minute, is that Amanda Holden about to clive a Burger King? I hope so.

Brad x

Wave Machines Live @ iTunes Festival

2009-07-24T22:00:00.000+01:00

Hidden away in a small room somewhere inside Camden's glorious Roundhouse, Liverpool's delightful Wave Machines step up to open Thursday's (July 23) line up for this year's iTunes festival.

With a much earlier slot time - long before Esser and Graham Coxon enter the fray on the main stage - the band seem a little taken aback with the general turn out. But, playing to a sweaty, packed out room of ticket holders, they look very pleased with themselves. Frontman Tim Bruzon even jokingly suggests, “We should give tickets away for free more often”.

Taking to the stage in eerie cardboard masks of their own faces, the band get straight down to business, flirting with their summery mix of catchy pop numbers right through to more thoughtful, alternative attempts (and even some indie-disco extravaganzas to boot), all whilst cleverly combining several different influences and aspects of their sound into a captivating live show. With such an array of different styles amongst each song, some other bands might not be so clever when it comes to linking it all up quite so easily, but these guys seem to do it effortlessly.

Playing a set consisting of songs taken from their debut album 'Wave If You're Really There' and swapping instruments regularly throughout the set, early singles 'The Greatest Escape We Ever Made' and 'I Go I Go I Go' go down a treat, with uplifting tones and fast paced poppy electronica beats showering the crowd with a feel good spirit.
Utterly infections and pitch perfect, their Bee Gees meets MGMT style vocals slot in perfectly with rather catchy choruses, which makes for great sing alongs for those willing to give it a try. 'Keep The Lights On' provides one of the best moments of the set, with the band clearly growing in confidence as each song finished, and judging by the crowd's reaction it seemed as if everyone was happy to be there.
With all the energy and excitement reminiscent of Friendly Fires (probably one of the few bands these guys can actually be compared to), Bruzon's stage presence and banter abilities help keep the set moving along swiftly during instrument changes, all in a way that would make even Elbow's Guy Garvey proud.

Announcing to the crowd: “We've got into a habit of fucking this song up quite a lot”, the band launch into the excellent 'Dead Houses', a truly sublime experimental pop number, rich with hand claps, cow bells and bass and, at its peak, it provides the perfect soundtrack to a dimly lit lazy summer evening, building up to an atmospheric blast that has the ability to give you goose-bumps.
One would hope the mainstream doesn't pick up on the Wave Machines too early and overplay them, but it seems it can't be helped. This lot are blossoming into one of Britain's best worst-kept secrets.

Verdict: SHIT HOT

Brad x

Rivmixx

Who's Next? - (I wrote this a while ago and couldn't be bothered to upload the bugger...)

2009-07-20T19:05:00.007+01:00

So as you may or may not have noticed, everyone seems to be fucking dying at the moment. Some we've been expecting, some we ain't. When it was announced that Jacko was moonwalking his way up to heaven I was on a plane to Greece for my first holiday in about five years. Way to put a downer on the rest of the week, Mike. Thanks for that. Added to this my numb nuts flatmate blurting out the words “I can't believe Michael Jackson is dead!” every two hours for the remainder of the week, it kind of swiftly turned my deepest sorrows and loving conscience in to a bastard-like bitter hatred, and instead of feeling sorry for his loss I started predicting who'd be next to go (I almost typed wishing – but that would've been a tad too harsh, no?).

As I'm typing this I've just noticed Robert McNamara - the guy who had something to do with the Vietnam War, like he was the U.S. Defence Secretary at the time or whatever - he's died (thanks trending topics on Twitter). But you don't care about that. You want someone as beloved and important and as influential as the mighty Jade Goody. Now THAT'S an important, life shattering death.

So here's what I thought. I'm going to make some predictions. It's not that I want these people to die (although some of them I might not necessarily miss), it's just I think they might have a chance of dying in the not too distant future. And no doubt a fairly big fuss will be made of some of them. But sod it, let's just have fun.

1 Michael Parkinson
I never even watched Parkinson, but whenever I skipped through the channels and caught a glimpse I swear Billy Connolly was always there. And they showed clips of Muhammed Ali like, every episode or something. And that dipshit with the emu puppet who basically physically assaulted everyone. But back to the topic in hand. As I loved his work so much that I never actually watched any of it properly, he'd get some pretty big attention if he died suddenly. People seem to really like him, and he likes Sky Plus, and I like Sky Plus, so we could potentially be spiffing friends. If he doesn't die. Like I'm perhaps predicting.

2 Robert Pattinson
Much like with Parky, I've never seen Twilight and will continue to do so for as long as humanly possible. I've seen what that film does to people, overnight they turn into lame Paramore fans and start wearing bashed up studded belts. With all the adoring attention he was getting from every single female across the planet, I thought he was a prick (not jealous much), that is until I found out e was English. Now I think he's pretty cool. But he seems to be the type to have some dark hidden secrets. And can you imagine the emo out pour if he went suddenly? It'd be bigger than Heath Ledger, and no one really cared about him until after he died. We need more shock celebrity deaths in the world.

3 Paul McCartney
It was a toss up between him and Ringo, and Ringo seems too boring to die any time soon. He's too obsessed with himself to even consider letting any harm come to his oddly shaped head. Paul just seems a bit more rock and roll, like, I can imagine his yacht crashing into the Mull of Kintyre or something, which would make for some awesome headlines. Plus if Paul dies we can blame even more stuff on Heather Mills, and everyone totally loves to blame her for everything, right? For about two weeks I was convinced she was the reason why the Iranian government hates us so much.

4 Samuel L Jackson
This would sadden everyone around the world everywhere. Who the hell hasn't seen a film with SLJ in it? He's like the hardest working man the world has ever seen. People would go absolutely ape-shit crazy, it'd have the potential for Judgement Day. Films would never be the same again and we'll all get cult-like tattoos proclaiming that we've “had it with these motherfucking snakes on this motherfucking plane!”. Shotgun designing it.

5 The Queen
Am I the only one who's been thinking about this for a few years now? I think ever since her Mum died and all the fuss that was made of it I've been taking a quiet interest in planning for the death of our dearest queenie. It's gonna be pretty massive when she finally goes. Like, epic. I might even get paid to do some proper journalism work, the papers will be sorted for about a year. But then we'll have to put up with Charlie knocking about in that super big house acting like he owns us all.

Any more suggestions are welcome, send them in to youarejustasmuchacuntasiam@bastard.com.

Brad x - P.S I wrote this like a month ago so sorry for my laziness. But shut up.

Jack Whitehall Interview for Disorder Magazine

2009-07-20T18:56:00.002+01:00

Comedians can be pretty rock and roll you know. Some are so hardcore they put even our finest musical hipsters to shame. So what kind of crazy antics do you reckon the young darling of the current British comedy circuit, Jack Whitehall, gets up to in his spare time?

“I’m at home with my dad watching Royal Ascot. Well, we’re not really watching it but it’s on. I went there yesterday with my friends and lost a lot of money. And there were a lot of scouse girls there with lots of fake tan with a few of them had just passed out on the floor. Everyone was taking photographs, which is such a horribly British thing to do. Someone passes out on the floor but you don’t help them, you just take a photo.”

Crazy insane, or not. But whilst Jack Whitehall may not be the most unruly of comedians out there he has been turning more than a few heads with a number of notable television appearances, as well as making waves on the live comedy circuit. After initially making a name for himself as the presenter of Big Brother's Big Mouth for a series, the boy seems to be doing rather well for himself with a new weekly Channel 4 show and more stuff in the pipeline. But being the young, sharp funny guy, willing to say whatever the hell he wants, it doesn't come without a few hiccups, shall we say.

“I don’t really mean to be offensive or anything. I just say what makes me laugh and sometimes that offends other people, which is when it tends to go a bit wrong. I don’t mean to do it, I only really do it when I’m nervous, but I think quite a lot of people do that. I don’t really say anything that offensive anyway, if it’s not for you then it’s not for you. Some people do get really offended and it’s just like, you do have the ability to change the channel or just go to the bar and have a drink. God, idiots. Fucking idiots they are. Hopefully that'll annoy them even more.

“The worst experience I had was in Bournemouth, which that name alone scares me. These people worked in this industrial warehouse and it was their Christmas party. It was like 20th of December and they’re all fucked. I decided to take the piss out of one of them who happened to be the biggest one there and I thought it’d help, but it didn’t. He got up on to the stage and got me in a headlock so the security had to come up. When he left I was a little bit shaky and felt really violated, but I carried on with the show. It was one of those things where, you know how when people get assaulted they take themselves to a different place? I did that, I just kept thinking of happier times. I ran and when I got back to London I just cried myself to sleep.

“Another time where we almost got beaten up was in Wigan. I don’t know why I did the gig but the guy was quite nice so I went there and it was this hard biker pub. I went in there and there were about 60 men and most of them weren’t really watching. Then I started doing some jokes about bikers and stuff and no one was really laughing. So I said something like 'what happened, did someone fall off a bike or something?' And later the guy was like 'oh yeah, I forgot to warn you, but the bar lady’s husband recently fell off his bike and died'. Which was pretty bad.”

Thankfully, regardless of these previous encounters, Jack has managed to survive and continue his good work on our TVs. He's been on a load of programs ranging from panel shows to award ceremonies, no doubt meeting lots of lovely and interesting people along the way that he'd happily pass comment on.

“I went to the NME Awards and I met a lot of people and it’s just, fucking hell. Well, actually no, it’s hard to tell because they’re all fucked. Like, I interviewed Kasabian and they were just so fucked and it was impossible to tell whether they were dicks or whether they were just nice guys but fucked. But yeah, people in bands are weird. But I met Jack Tweed last night and he's a monster. He was a dick. I was talking to this girl and I was saying it was my birthday next month in July and she was like 'oh, I’m 20th of July!' or whatever, and then she just looked at me and said 'cancer!' as Jack Tweed walked past. Like, fucking hell. And I'm pretty sure he heard.”

Nonetheless, expect to see plenty more of Jack Whitehall on your box in the future, happily swearing away and laughing at all things inappropriate in a time where both young and talented comedians can be pretty hard to come by these days. Unless he goes back to Bournemouth or Wigan any time soon, which might not be the best idea.

What's all this asphyxi-wank fuss about, anyway?

2009-06-15T15:52:00.006+01:00

So, as you may or may not have heard, everyone's fourth favourite kung fu movie star died last week in rather mysterious circumstances. And by mysterious I actually mean sexy (although I have to be careful what I say 'cos this boy doesn't want to get sued).

Rumour has it he was found in the cupboard, hanging and naked having attempted an asphyxi-wank. What's an asphyxi-wank I hear you desperately shout? Well I'm very glad you asked dearest reader.

Urban Dictionary - probably the internet's most resourceful tool alongside Uncyclopedia and Retropanzer – has the following definition for an asphyxi-wank: “The act of self-strangulation in both the literal and metaphoric sense - i.e. one hand strangling the neck, the other strangling the penis.” So basically what you're doing is suffocating yourself to the brink of death, desperately hoping that you time everything well enough to spew your man mucus just before you pass out and potentially pop your pervy clogs.

My first understanding of this lovely little fetish came about when Michael Hutchence had a go and royally cocked it up, the dirty gasper. And then there was Shuya's dad in Battle Royale who appeared to have either 1) had an asphyxi-wank with a view to suicide or, 2) decided he might as well waste all the bog roll in an attempt to piss his grief-ridden son off even further.

Obviously there's a pretty big element of danger surrounding this rather dodgy practice. So being the true gentleman that I am, I've made a nice little list of tips if you're ever tempted to try something a little bit different to your standard spunking session.

Hutchence: It's no good looking miserable now young man.

Tip #1 - Epic failure if you're famous

If you're a celebrity - or in any way remotely famous - it's probably a good idea not to bother. There are so many other ways for you to get your dirty little kicks. If you're any normal person you'd get started on heroin, have a massive drug binge, slap some paparazzi people around outside a trendy nightclub and then enter rehab, eventually leaving triumphantly to increased CD sales and maybe even a book deal. Don't go accidentally dying with your dick out. That's just embarrassing. What are your kids gonna think?

Tip #2 – You should probably plan it properly

Maybe make sure someone you trust is around, just in case it goes wrong, which is a very strong possibility. And I mean someone you really trust with this kind of thing. So don't ask your mum to hang around for a bit whilst you try it out, that's totally weird. Try asking someone who you suspect is just as messed up as you are for starters. Plus if you're any kind of normal person, masturbating in any form whilst being fully aware that your mum knows exactly what you're doing is enough to put even Ron Jeremy off his stride.

Naughty Spidey.

Tip #3 – Write a note

Just to be sure, of course. If you're not planning on making this the last thing you do, at least write one explaining exactly what it was you was trying to achieve and where it could have potentially gone wrong. You could include diagrams and maybe even some research, and then maybe a little paragraph at the end stating why you thought it would be a good idea in the first place. It's common courtesy for your poor loved ones.

If you have anything to add, send your suggestions in to someone else. Also, I'd be willing to experiment further with this subject and possibly partake in some serious gonzo journalism if you'd be willing to pay my overpriced London rent for the rest of the year. But you're not allowed to watch, you creep.

Brad x

What not to do on Big Brother

2009-06-07T20:30:00.013+01:00

So you know, Big Brother's back again and people are still taking an interest in watching a bunch of morons do moronic things for moronic reasons. Gone are the old excuses of it being an “intellectual social experiment” from the first incarnation. Now it's just a glorified version of Eurotrash – which I'm sure a large amount of us would rather see brought back to life as opposed to this load of bollocks.

Nonetheless, BB is in its tenth series now, but God knows what the general public are expecting from it these days. Anywho, here are a few brief but useful tips to this year's contestants, not that they can actually read it (it's questionable whether some of them can in fact read at all, up you stand Sophie). Still, if any of this happens again, which would be terribly boring, at least they can learn that hindsight and research are truly very wonderful things.

1. Don't piss of India. You'll probably die.

I mean, it's fairly obvious, and names don't really need to be mentioned, but it's definitely a Good(y) idea to keep your mildly offensive racial opinions to yourself, especially if you're white and already deemed a pretty big hate figure. Not only will the people of India get pissed off and burn a few pig-like effigies of you, but you might run the risk of getting cancer and actually dying and shit. And that's really lame.

Nah it's boring now...

2. Spitting in people's faces ain't cool, sunshine.

It's only like, one of the most disgusting things you can do. It's in the top three alongside paedophilia and listening to Razorlight, in fact. You can't just go round spitting in people's faces and expect to get away with it just 'cos you're on the telly. Unless someone asks you to do it of course, but that's just weird.

Spittle: Chipmunk motherfucker.

3. Try not to have a mental breakdown on live television.

For example, when things aren't going your way and you're starting to feel the pressures of solitary confinement in the public eye, just go and talk to Big Brother about it, they'll sort you out. Don't just grab a load of plates, run out to the garden and smash them all, scream at the top of your lungs and threaten suicide. That's just a waste of perfectly good crockery, plus everyone else is gonna have to clean it all up afterwards and that'll piss people off. Plus no one respects emos anyway, so just relax and lock it all up inside like any good mental person would, will you? Bloody moaner.

Mentalist.

4. Foreign objects + Your fanny = Epic fail

Especially when you're on the large, ugly and downright skanky side. There are better things to do with empty glass bottles. Like recycling. Or arts and crafts. Or making a Molotov cocktail. But for the love of God, don't put it up there all Exorcist style in a bid to impress a bloke who wouldn't go near you with a shitty stick. Plus you'll upset all the old dears watching on television. You don't want to give your poor old nan a heart attack now do we.

Kinga in action: Yeah, I totally stole this photo 'cos I'm unoriginal as hell...

5. Remember there's loads of cameras around.

So be careful when considering whether or not to shave your ginger chest hairs in bed, or dressing up as cat in a bid to sexually entice a fellow older house mate in some weird flirty erotic role playing. And with the latter, it's best to think twice particularly if you're a somewhat respected politician trying to gain some votes and support for your normal day job in which you already come under a great deal of scrutiny. People will just think you're fruity and a bit fucked in the head... if they didn't already. Which they probably did.

This one totally deserves a video.

Brad x

What, you mean you Brits are still making that Big Brother show?

2009-06-05T15:48:00.003+01:00

During these recent times of slippery economic peril and standard student loan destruction, I – for some ridiculous reason – thought it'd be a good idea to try and get on a game show. I figured any way to make a quick easy buck would suffice, and anything that involved a minimal amount of effort in order to pay my hefty Hammersmith rent (that was never technically affordable in the first place) would be an added bonus.

Around about this time, auditions for Big Brother 10 were starting. So why not go for that lovely £100k and the rent-free luxury/shit heap house, with all the food paid for and the slim chance of being famous for a tiny little while... something that would no doubt be heavily abused in the VIP sections of wanky west end nightclubs at a later date.

It's fortunate for me then that the night before the open auditions I got wasted on space cakes and 'vodkat', 'cos seeing this mashed up group of twerps strolling in one after the other made me do a little sick burp. Apart from one female house mate, who actually pushed me towards a partially noticeable semi until she opened her mouth, but we won't go into that right now.

So who are this year's stand out special school rejects that we have to put up with all bloody summer? Well there are 16 of them, but there won't be for long. Let's take a looksie at the buggers in no particular order or structure:

Siavash: On first impressions you won't be able to imagine a bigger bellend than this guy. He's a club promoter from London which immediately makes the hate-o-meter go mental. But worse than that is his relentless claims of coolness. Plus he says he's got “fingers in many pies”, and I seriously hate people who say that. It's like Justin Lee Collins breeding with a Persian Nathan Barley, bigger in size than the Brooker version but oddly enough a lot more punchable. Although you can't help but admire that handlebar tasche.

Lisa: Punk lesbian Keith Flint look-a-like. She'll annoy you to death for the first few weeks and I bet she's terrible when she's on the blob. But she looks like she might cause a bit of anarchy which would be nice. Still, a more attractive lesbian wouldn't have gone a miss.

Sophie: The aforementioned semi-giving contestant. Totally stunning and beautiful until she decides to open her mouth, then you slowly gain the urge to gouge your eyes out with a USB stick. Still, she'll stay for a while if she plays her cards right, i.e gets naked. And she's done Playboy and Page 3 already so I'm sure that won't be too big a problem for her.

Angel: She's Russian and attention seeking. Looks like the type that would randomly threaten suicide if someone uses up all the milk.

Noirin: Doesn't (sort of) rhyme with borin' for nuffink.

Freddie: He lives in a big old mansion and reckons he's a smooth talking ladies man that makes great indie music. In other words he's a tosser... with a shit taste in hats.

Beinazir: Dodgy Amy Winehouse knock-off who some how manages to pull the look off with even less credibility or attractiveness. And she's got this nasty nose piercing that just looks like a massive snot bubble.

Kris: I've kind of forgotten who he is but I think he's the one all the girls are meant to fancy. Cheap version Russell Brand, kind of like George Lamb I guess.

Cairon: The man with a misspelt version of Karen for a name was born in London but specifically claims to have upped and left for America at the extremely tender age of one. So he must be some secret child prodigy or some shit. He actually seems all right though compared to most of the others. He's like a more normal version of the albino abomination that was Darnell from last year, basically not as creepy and with a less knobbish walk.

Charlie: It's not very often you see an openly gay Geordie, so kudos to him. He also took a matter of seconds to make a buggery joke, so fair play.

Saffia: About as interesting as Jo Brand's monotone voice.

Marcus: Probably the early favourite purely on the basis that he's a massive loser. Hugh Jackman/Wolverine style sideburns and an epic collection of comic books and action figures. And I'm pretty sure he said he still lives with his mum. I'd be his friend if I didn't have standards.

Sophia: On her way in she made constant sounds that closely resembled that guy from Britain's Got Talent who played the saxophone with his voice. She made me want to shoot something. And she's eerily shorter than anyone else on the show. What a downer.

Karly: Couldn't decide whether to be blonde or brunette in the audition tapes and she has the facial features of a toe. And I'll bet her breath reeks of coffee non-stop.

Rodrigo: The Brazilian who loves everyone. Literally. Randomly turned bisexual when he came to the UK. Probably most likely to spit in someone's face. I don't really trust him behind that evil smile.

Sree: As I write this I'm desperately searching for odds on which house mate is likely to have a full on mental breakdown. When I find them I'll let you know, 'cos I'd totally recommend we all stick a tenner on this guy. You can see it in his eyes, he's not all there.

Brad x

Hundreds of the little deformed git bags

2009-04-15T20:24:00.005+01:00

Do you have a hatred list? Or any kind of mental note that signifies your general hatred for specific people? Be it arseholes you know or abominations in the papers or on your screens, everyone hates someone. It's good, normal, human behaviour.

Thing is, my hate list is pretty long. Like, really really long. Basically, if you're not already on my good list, you're on my hate list. Because I genuinely, like a round varnished table, hate people - regardless of whether I know them personally or not.

Chances are I probably just hate the look of you. I say this because this week, some how, I've recently found myself attracting a pretty staggering amount of ugly bastards, irritating head fucks and total slow faced abominations. It's like I'm being chased by the offspring of Ben Shepherd and Lisa Riley's secret scandalous affair. As in hundreds of the little deformed git bags, running around and dribbling on their faces, accidentally blowing snot bubbles as they gasp for air in between their smug, flabby little lungs. All whilst I desperately try and escape this sadistic cell consisting of terrible entertainment and zero personality, punching myself in the face in the hope that it all goes away and that I can wake up in the place where the Tellytubbies live, so I can stamp on some of those fucking annoying little rabbits, whack Tinky Winky in the bollocks with his fucking red bag, drive Po's face in to my knee several times until his/her/it's ears bleed and pop La La's balloon with Dipsy's stupid fucking dick head. Then I'll get royally fucked on some tubby custard and possibly sexually assault that naughty little Noo-Noo in the broom cupboard.

See what I mean? The mere mention of Lisa Riley and Ben Shepherd did unspeakable things to my sorry little train of thought, leading me to mercilessly abusing the Tellytubbies for no good reason. This is the kind of thing that happens, and it's all because some people are annoying. Especially Ben Shepherd, a man with a smug face, smug haircut, smug height, smug voice, and what does he go and do? He presents one of the smuggiest TV shows in the country in the shape of GMTV. The televisual equivalent of sniffing your own farts and releasing a great big satisfying "GAAAAAAAAAH" sound at the end.

Try talking to Ben Shepherd about anything other than the lottery or mountain climbing and his brain turns into mush. Talk to him about the lottery or mountain climbing and he'll still bore you to death with some crazy story about how 'his car once broke down en route to the studio so he had to call the AA, crazy!' or how much him and Ronan (or just 'Ro Ro' to him) bonded in their secluded mountain adventure. Seriously, the amount of fluid swapping that would appear to have gone on between them two, the pair of them must have smelt like the inside of a hot oven just after you've shat in it.

Anyway, yes. Yesterday, whilst sat in a McDonalds restaurant, I was allowed the amazing privilege of sitting opposite the most grotesque, disgusting, slobby ogre of a man. This was a serious low point in my life. Being surrounded by various vaguely fat people with crumbly gold chains and dodgy grey tracksuits that said 'Pima' on was bad enough. To have to put up with this man just across from me was hell.

Have you ever seen the video to The Ballad of Chasey Lain (quite glad I did a Google spell check on that one) by the Bloodhound Gang? The fat guy at the end that they're all being distracted by, stuffing food in his face and farting. Yeah, he looked like that guy. Only less chirpy and more depressing. He wasn't smiling with glee and making noises with his anus, he was slumped in his seat, using his left tit for a pillow (which I was actually pretty impressed with) and dribbling on his already awkwardly stained clothes. I'd have punched him if he'd have been able to feel it through the several layers of dead skin.

Then there was a horrible old man snoring right in front of me on the tube this morning. All I wanted to do was read my book, but having to put up with a nerve shattering volcano of phlegm making its way up his head every five seconds was pretty off putting. And he kept doing that annoying thing where he would wake up a little bit and be all bleary eyed, then fall asleep and continue as normal. I fudging well hate it when people do that. Gash bags.

But bad things always come in threes, or so I'm told. On my way back home in the evening I found myself completely surrounded by French people on the tube. Now, it's been a while since I was on the Metro, but come on now France. There was plenty of space to stand in that carriage, so why are you all stood around me with your elbows all flailing around my face, narrowly avoiding horrendous nose-breaking disaster? Then you go and make someone accidentally head butt me whilst trying to get off the bloody thing, only in ridiculously slow motion. Then you barge in to me a little bit, seemingly unaware of anyone else requiring any space at all, which causes me to get a load of black newspaper ink all over my nose, which I wasn't made aware of UNTIL I GOT HOME. So thanks, France. Thanks a bunch. Fucking losers.

It seems I've rambled on a bit there. If you can make any sense of this blog entry, you win a prize next week. If you find it remotely interesting, or if you just about managed to make it to the end, then well done you. Have a Wispa.

Brad x

The 'comedy goths' are back - The Horrors Live, Rich Mix, 23/3/09

2009-03-29T00:54:00.006Z

Right, so just before we begin here, I'd like to remind you; I love The Horrors. I actually love them. It's this silly little addiction I've always had, kind of like the early days of Calpol or sniffing glue. They were the first band that I would probably marry if it was technically or legally possible - although I'm not entirely sure how it would work or what the children would be like (tiny critters blending an unhealthy image mix of Chucky from the Child's Play films and the scary dead girl that's underneath the bed in The Sixth Sense, most likely).

And I love the reaction that this silly adoration gets out of people. The usual, witty remarks being "they're shit", "they look like shit", "they sound like shit" etc etc. And trust me, I'm fully aware of these facts. And they were facts. It was one of the main reasons I treasured them so much, all that fuzzy bass and crap guitar playing, a singer who couldn't actually sing, an organ player with hammers for fingers and a drummer who'd only ever figured out how to play one beat.

But things change, because things need to change. Most people had hoped The Horrors would be forgotten, lost amongst collector's editions of The Mighty Boosh and 20p vinyls in grotty car boot sales. But how wrong they were. And how happy I am.

The Rich Mix is an odd place for your 'come back' show, a nice, plush, modern cinema set in the middle of Bethnal Green, it seemed more like the business office for some wanky Japanese chain restaurant than a gig venue. And the squeaky clean floor was littered with tossy industry insiders, well known music journalists, freaky fashionistas and members of small time bands that'll never live up to their hype. And some of the Klaxons and Jesus and Mary Chain to boot.

Which meant there wasn't a great deal of space for the actual fans, those just as desperate as me to hear the first outings of the new, 'technically competent' material we'd been waiting two long, musically fruitless years for. But by the time it all came every ego/bore stood inside that room became united, motionless and relatively confused, as we were all collectively blown away.

The new material proves they've moved leaps and bounds. The introduction of mellow, poppy and unusually upbeat synths, mixed with proper melodies and twisted around with more intricate song structures and emotive lyrics, it's like shining a refreshing light on a new side of the darkest corner of the 'indie' music genre in this country right now. A long with a much more mature image - but still with that good ol' Horroresque feel, you know, the whole "comedy goths", "victorian blah blah gay lords" or whatever everyone used to say, it's practically like having a brand new band to blow smoke up the arses of, all before they get too popular for their own good and soon enough it's no longer cool to like them. Again. Or something. I don't know, I'm confused.

Some tracks throw a distinct nod to the likes of Primal Scream's Screamadelica, where as other names being lobbed about like gas canisters at a festival include Neu!, every possible example of Krautrock and even bloody Radiohead at times, which may seem a little far-fetched... but just try squinting and staring at guitarist Joshua Third's newly acquired style and stage presence and you get a definite overdose of Jonny Greenwood for your troubles.

Whatever the case, their new album, Primary Colours, is already being touted by some sections of the music press as a possible album of the year. And sadly, little old me is still yet to hear it. But on this one occasion I'm probably gonna take their word for it. Just this once.

VERDICT:

Swedish girls ovulating everywhere

2009-03-26T18:26:00.007Z

I don't know what it is about this place, but there seems to be an influx of visitors sloping in and out of our precious 6th floor door. And nine times out of ten, they're completely and utterly foreign. Not that this is a problem of course, but it does make things a little bit awkward, especially with miserable little me sitting in the corner, being all moody and gloomy and angry and extremely cuntish.

On this occasion we have a bunch of Swedish girls ovulating everywhere and screaming weird noises. One of them my flatmate seems to adore, hence the reason for them all being here. Usually this would be a young man's smelly wet dream; a bunch of sweet, blonde, angelic young women smiling and showering and being all nice and shit. But they're actually really quite annoying, which isn't their fault of course, it's me being picky, but just for the sheer bloody fun of it I'm going to go through their main faults with you now, as I'm quite sure they're never going to read this bad boy:

1) They don't talk. And when they do, it sounds funny, but in a bad way.
Yeah, so you'd think I'd be used to that by now, living with two Germans and what not. But their accents are perfectly fine in comparison. These Swedish girls talk some weird shit i.e according to them, my name is "B'HWAD". It's a kind of cross between bog-standard American and a stroke-infested Jonathan Ross. Right now I can hear one of them shouting "ouch" in the kitchen (goodness knows why, let's stay out of it shall we?), but it doesn't sound like "ouch", it sounds more like "WEYCH". Fuck's up with that? I'm tempted to give them some intense tongue twisters later, see how they cope. I won't though, 'cos I'd rather not have to interact with these people for more than ten seconds at a time. Nothing personal, I'd just rather smoke my own pubic hair. Plus in my dreams they'll be performing their own tongue twisters on eachother later anyway.

2) They can't find the toilet properly.
No visitor can it seems, past or present. My poor lovely flatmate Chloe - who has a bedroom that is nowhere near the toilet - has to put up with drunk visitor after drunk visitor after complete dickhole barging in to her room at stupid o'clock. Bless her little cotton socks, she's one of the only people in this world that has my sympathy. But they'll learn. If they don't I'll just beat them* to within and inch of their lives or something.

3) They take about 17 hours putting on make up.
I thought I took ages to get ready in the morning but they do genuinely take hours showering, getting ready, playing with each other, all that jazz. And it's crazy. They don't even look that good, they look like Barbie dolls that have been left on a BBQ for too long, with their eyes all sliding down their faces and shit. Oh my God they're talking about periods. Help.

4) They herd together like cows. Tiny little blonde cows.
And if you're stuck in a small space - such as my smoking spot at the end of the kitchen - this can prove a bit of a quandry. It ends up turning in to some weird sexy obstacle course that you see on late night digital T.V, except there are less wet t-shirts and more aggrevation and awkward "oh, sorry". And they never move in the direction you want them to, it's an endless barrage of yellow hair and pungent smelling Swede breath. Like onions mixed with Jo Brand's arm pit stench. Who'd have thought? I was expecting breath smelling of clouds and pixie dust.

5) They try to put on accents to fit in, which ends up being really, really annoying.
As I type they're trying Australian, so all I'm hearing is "G'dwhoy mite" being shouted mindlessly everywhere. But I've also heard their English attempts ("Helloy meat"), which is not good at 4am when you're a little bit fucked and you're trying to concentrate on Sir Alan Sugar pissing on someone's hopes and dreams.

It seems like we're acquiring some weird European orgy brothel. But for those of you that have seen Hostel, which probably ain't a lot, I have to admit... I'm quite scared of brothels. The main characters end up meeting loads of beautiful women whilst on holiday, resulting in lots of sexy and wild antics. Except ten minutes later they find themselves strapped to a chair having 1000 volts of death zapped through their shriveling testes. It's like a numb version of the Pain Olympics, but with more plastic tits, more pervy old men and less real life mutilation.

So yeah, I'm terrified of brothels and whore houses and all that jazz. Walking through Soho gives me the jitters. I know I'm the one who'll get drugged and sent on a plane to the darkest part of Slovakia to take part in some twisted undercover Government experiment, resulting in me either turning in to the Elephant Man or losing the very thing that makes me a man in the first place. So I stay away, like a good boy. I'll get my cheap thrills from the internet thank you very much.

But back to these girls. I have to admit, I'm being nasty. They certainly aren't the worst we've ever had. Actually, not by a long shot.

We've had a relatively well known "supermodel" with very peculiar eating habits which resulted in the most terrible gas you'll ever bare witness to (think snotty eggs mixed with dead bodies, cancer and rotting turnips). There's also been a group of middle-aged Spanish people halfway through a midlife crisis, desperate for coke and sex when arriving through the door. However, they got me instead. Sucks to be them.

Then there's all the people I let come and stay, who are all cool people. So maybe it's just another one of those 'German things'.

Anyway, they're off out tonight and they won't be staying here too long, so I'm just gonna ride the wave. If I stay out of their way I can probably slip under the radar, leaving them to get on with their "I'm so happy to be a tourist" shit, occasionally smiling or laughing to make them think I'm on their side. Basically though, they can piss off. Much like everyone else, for that matter. And if they cross my path then I'll... have a strop and moan to people about it when they're not around.

*No I won't. But disturbing that I wrote it nonetheless. Perhaps it's a warning sign for the future.

Brad x

Comic Relief: Like watching a man get bummed by a horse

2009-03-17T17:18:00.008Z

This weekend my poor fuzzy brain was subjected to two of the most disturbing, annoying pieces of visual "entertainment" ever conjured up by sadistic human beings.

The first was a man getting properly rogered up the arse by some randy, rampant horse keen on pummeling the intestines of some weird old fellow, happily spilling it's load on camera and all up the (now deceased) guy's back. And the second was Comic Relief. Although on first viewing it can be pretty tough to distinguish between the two.

See, giving money to charity and stuff is fair enough. I'm hardly going to be the bastard that says it's a shit idea, 'cos clearly it ain't. And they raised more money than ever before and blah blah blah yeah whatever. It's just the appeals. Those horrible, horrible, relentless appeals that they show every ten nanoseconds in between some really rubbish specials that set out to ruin all the hard work done by great sitcoms like Outnumbered and the Royle Family. Even Ricky Gervais and Alan Carr managed to bomb, you could just about hear a few people in the audience hang themselves with their shoe laces after one of Carr's supposed gags.

And then there's the usual pathetically unfunny French and Saunders, spoofing something that shouldn't be spoofed because it's simply too rubbish and pointless. But they still go ahead and do it every year, despite the fact no one actually cares. Most people don't even remember who they are anymore, and those sickos that do find them funny are the types of people that buy fancy soap from Lush and eat it, just because they thought it was cake or something (actually seen it happen, by the way). The whole thing isn't even entertaining, so God knows why anyone's bothering to donate.

The main culprit is Lenny Henry. When was the last time this huge ogre of useless shite did anything good career-wise? In fact, when has he ever made you laugh? Ever? No. No he hasn't. And since Stephen K Amos arrived on our screens he's been usurped as our token black British comedian, so all he has left is Comic Relief and Premier Inn advertisements. With that duck, a sure fire sign he's been driven to insanity by either a) the lack of anyone caring about him or b) a lack of oxygen getting to the brain due to Dawn French insisting she be the one to "go on top".

But because he's been involved since the very first one, and of course because of his serious mental problems, the BBC feel obliged to get him involved every time, basically out of pity. He must really love it when Red Nose Day comes around, like a kid on Christmas morning, 'cos he finally gets to have some screen time, even if it means travelling to the darkest parts of Africa and putting up with a bad case of the ploppy plops for five short minutes worth of footage. Either way, it's five extra minutes for the showreel. Five extra minutes to demonstrate he cares. Five extra minutes to show he's still available for work, should you need a massive black man who can occasionally make funny noises and pull faces.

It's the same old celebrities every year going to the same old dreary places saying the same old dreary things and repeating the same old dreary number to the same old dreary Brian Eno song... which I can't listen to anymore because of these horrible little joyless films. Maybe if they sent Harry Hill out there with his big collars and puppets I'd be less inclined to press fast forward on my Sky+ box. Plus he's a trained doctor anyway, so bloody hell, send out someone at least remotely useful will you? None of this Davina McCall crying bollocks, she looks like a snotty, drug-addled Gonzo from the muppets when she does that. And no more Billy Connolly. Ever. He's just an annoying bellend who swears all the time and thinks it's funny. Oh wait. Nevermind.

Oh, I mentioned Sky+ briefly just then, but never have I been more grateful to own the magical box than on Red Nose Day. Filtering out the crap was so pleasant, I practically felt like Hitler with a T.V remote.

It wasn't all bad though. I counted like, two good bits. Smithy giving the England players a rollicking had me and several German people in giggles, whilst Harry and Paul doing some random Victorian Dragon's Den sketches were also pretty funny, even though it can be rather cringe-worthy watching people try their best at acting, when they clearly can't even pretend to be a lamp post without fucking it up.

But yeah. Out of the two I'm not sure which I'd rather watch. A man getting his rocks off with a horny horse or Comic Relief. Both produce painfully awful sounds - The Saturdays and The Script on Comic Relief echo striking similarities to the agonising "UNGH" and "GUHAWW" sounds that the aforementioned bummed bloke shrieks in the video.

They both involve people dying on camera pretty much (the guy in the video died of internal injuries a day later, but apparently bestiality isn't illegal in Washington so the farmer, presumably the guy joyfully tossing the horse off towards the end, he didn't get in trouble).

And they both demonstrate the plain and simple fact that right beneath our noses and underneath the surface of this supposedly brilliant and modern world, the human race is very messed up, and we just seem quite happy to ignore it for the most part of our lives. Be it people starving or people loving animals just a tiny bit too much for their own good.

I think the horse video wins.

Brad x

Being Happy Is Shit To Be Honest

2009-03-10T02:10:00.000Z

So, I bet you're wondering what the shit I've been doing. Where the bumming buggering hell I've been. There have been no words coming from my scrawny fingers at all these days. And no, I haven't killed myself. I haven't been socialising every night. I'm still here, sat in Hammersmith, surrounded by Germans and spending money I don't have on Wispa bars and hot salsa dip. With sore lips and bad eating habits and bags under my eyes due to my now returning insomnia.

The thing with this blog, as most of you who are kind enough to read it have pointed out, is it's a bit angry. It's a place to vent my enraged mind, to let off some of my manly steam from out of my tiny earholes, because I simply don't have the power, energy, willingness or ability to actually do it in person. Much. Unless it's someone with some minor element of authority, in which case I'm a right fucking whiny little cunt of a bitch.

So I type it all in here, 'cos I'm totally cool and not geeky or anything. And without meaning to sound like a complete prick or whatever (the swearbox part of my brain isn't functioning too well this evening/morning, so apologies for that), I'm usually pretty upset about something on a weekly basis. Or just confused or pissed off or bitter. Hence, Retropanzer pops up and starts the massive golden shower party.

Problem is... at the moment... I'm actually pretty happy. Not like, Kriss Akabusi happy or anything, that'd just be ridiculous, he literally never stops smiling, even when you slag off his children, stamp on his toe with a football boot or remind him that he's an utterly worthless human being with nothing left to offer to society. No, I'm not that happy. But I'm pretty good. And this means I have nothing to moan about, nothing to be foul about, nothing to shout random expletives or violent sadistic imagery about. I feel bad just for writing cunt in this very sentence. According to Roget I'm like a dog with two tails, I'm merry as a cricket, happy as a sandboy and, my personal favourite: as gay as a lark. Quite.

So yeah. Stop making me fucking smile everyone, you little shits. You're ruining my creative juices. Keep reminding me that I'm seriously out of money, that I need a haircut, that nobody loves me. Please. Piss me off so I can be the normal miserable bugger I usually am. Then we can get cracking again and I can continue to offend poor little 14-year-olds that randomly stumble across my blog.

Brad x

The Cure NME Big Gig 26/2/09

2009-02-27T16:21:00.000Z

Recently crowned “Godlike Geniuses” at this year's NME Awards, it was left to The Cure to headline proceedings at this year's Big Gig, held at the ridiculously huge o2 arena.

And what with being given such an accolade, you'd expect they might be willing to please the crowd as much as possible, celebrating all their great hits from across the decades. But apparently they already did that the night before at the awards ceremony itself, so fans turning up in the hope of hearing such classics as 'Close To Me' or 'Lullaby' were in for some real disappointment.

And to be honest, I was kind of hoping for some big hitters myself. So having an epic 22 song set filled out largely with album tracks ended up seeming like a massive let down. Of course, they sounded superb and looked... interesting (the lead guitarist, a male, stalked around the stage in the biggest set of heels he could manage physically), but they just didn't provide enough sing along moments for their adoring fans.

There were some highlights though, 'A Forest' and 'In Between Days' both thankfully made their way on to the list and were greeted by huge cheers, where as proper rocked up versions of 'Boys Don't Cry' and 'Killing An Arab' also added some colour to an otherwise dim and boring set.

Earlier on in the evening White Lies had managed to wow the crowds with their short set of ghoulish perfection, whilst Crystal Castles single handedly managed to weird everyone out with a range of wild on stage antics. Which is always a giggle to witness.

But when you're going to see The Cure you expect them to wipe the floor with everyone else, and on this occasion they rather screwed up. It could be down to them having less time on stage than usual - on their own tours they tend to play for about three hours or something – but come on, on a celebratory night like this, would it really hurt to just play a big bunch of your greatest hits, especially to a crowd this size? No, no it wouldn't.

VERDICT:

The Best Songs To Kill Yourself To

2009-02-21T22:18:00.000Z

Ok, so we've all thought about it, I mean, not necessarily blowing your brains out or anything, but we've all considered the best track to 'bow out to'. 'Cos we're all depressing and annoying and emo, completely brainwashed by the shite coming from Gerard Way's mouth, right? I mean, this is what the papers are spewing to the older generations, so it must be true.

Remember when Gary Jules scored the most depressing Christmas number one ever with his cover of the Tears For Fears classic 'Mad World'? That managed to pretty much cause a suicide epidemic across the country. All the poor lonely blighters sat at home on Christmas day, swigging away at their duty-free bottles of Jack Daniels and watching that old lady saying what a great year it's been for the country and how great it is being so important and yet so utterly pointless at the same time.

It was a shit cover though, useful only because of the fact it wasn't recorded by an X Factor winner and was in no way Christmassy at all, but I can't imagine why anyone would wanna top themselves to that. At least pick the original for God's sake, have some bloody credibility. Or watch the mighty Roland Orzabal throw his crazy shapes in the garden during the video, that's got to be enough to bring a smile to any poor troubled soul's face. I bet Morrissey even found it pretty funny, and he's notoriously boring when it comes to having any kind of sense of humour what so ever.

But if you're going to do it, at least do it properly. Don't go jumping in front of a train at one of London's busiest tube stations, because that's just annoying. And if the reason you're doing it is because everyone hates you, then clearly you're not doing yourself any favours. Why not quietly sort yourself out at home with a bit of dignity. Look, I'll even help you choose the right track.

1. Elliott Smith – Needle In The Hay
Probably the most troubled and depressed musician ever known to the world, it's safe to say Smithy went out in proper style when he popped his own clogs. Although whether it was suicide or murder we're still not quite sure. Stabbing yourself in the heart a couple of times seems pretty intense – it's a bit like stamping on a snail three or four times (the first one should do the trick but hey, why the fuck not? Smash it some more while you're still there, just to be sure), but yeah, the lyrics are basically about overdosing. You know, see the needle reference, get it? Got it? Good. The lyrics are a collection of possibly the most depressingly beautiful words ever to be put to paper, and it's a nice quiet song to bugger off to. It's a pretty good length as well, clocking up four minutes and 16 seconds, which is plenty of time to call the ambulance if you suddenly decide to change your mind.

2. Flaming Lips - Do You Realize??
Ah, what a lovely song. When I saw these guys in London at Wireless Festival a couple of years back (on stage just after Pharrell Williams, which was a bit weird) this song made one of the security people cry. Which, in all honesty, I found fucking hilarious. Watching a big burly hard man reduced to tears whilst a load of people dressed up as aliens and robots blasted confetti in to the crowd, it added a bit of extra humour to an already rather surreal moment. But this is a nice song. One that might make you smile and remember all the good times you had, all the wonderful people you met, all the people that loved you and cared about you, all the things you had left to do in your life, all just before your brain dies and you stop breathing and your organs push out all your excrement leaving you in an embarrassingly horrible little smelly mess on the floor. Death ain't glamorous.

3. Rage Against The Machine – Bullet In The Head
Of course, this one is quite specific. But if you're planning on properly blowing your brains out make sure it's not a BB gun, that's simply not going to work. It's a pretty popular choice though, Cobain done it, Meek done it after mercilessly killing his landlady, hell, why not join the club. And what better way to do it than with the accompaniment of Zach de la Rocha and his wonderful ranting ways. And it's one to get proper psyched up for as well, the last thirty seconds will be intense, but you've got to time it perfectly for that drum roll at the end. I don't think there's much turning back from this one though.

4. Squarepusher – Come On My Selector
If you want to be original about it, you could just choose a completely crazy song to screw up your brain and just tip you over the edge (literally if that's what you're planning, although drop the i-pod first, someone else might want that after you're gone). I'd recommend this one which, although is utterly brilliant, I'm not entirely sure if it legitimately counts as a song half the time. Generally, none of it makes sense, and if you're a bit drunk or messed up or whatever, chances are this'll make you feel a little bit weird. You might just want to save it for the funeral though. Imagine everyone crying and sobbing and mourning to this song. It'll be right shits and giggles. Too bad you won't actually be able to witness it, you loser.

I'm not saying you should kill yourself, by the way, that'd be a bit nasty, even for me. All I'm saying is, if you're going to do it – and please, have a good think about it first, maybe ask for a second opinion – if you're going to do it, at least do it properly. Which basically means prepare a good soundtrack. And make sure you mention me in the credits for your note, this information is coming to you free of charge after all.

Brad x

The Binman

2009-02-18T18:29:00.000Z

Apparently I wrote bits of this - though that was a bloody long time ago, back in the days when I still thought beanie hats were some how cool. I'm on the credits anyway, so suck on that you sausage.

Brilliantly directed by Lutz Buchmann during our time studying A-Level film studies, I had nothing to with this project other than being responsible for all of the most terrible, unfunny jokes involved. And it's about three years old now but what the shit, it deserves more of an airing.

Mmm... yum indeed.

Brad x

Simian Mobile Disco Live 12/02/09

2009-02-18T18:21:00.000Z

Live at Koko as part of the NME Awards shows.

‘Rave’ is a word that gets used all too often these days. And more often than not, when expecting to witness a mash up of pilled-up psychos and fit inducing strobe lights, I tend to feel a little let down. There’s a lot of great commercial dance acts out there, so what makes Simian Mobile Disco so different?

Well, not a lot really. Apart from the fact they have one of our country’s finest music producers in James Ford – the man responsible for the glorious Klaxons and Arctic Monkeys albums. This then gives them a bit of an edge over some of their competitors.

Entering the stage at bang on 9.00pm, the pair briefly circled around their ‘instruments’ - a sort of futuristic looking homemade machine resembling the inside of the Tardis from Doctor Who – and immediately burst into an array of fuzzy beats. Accompanied, of course, by some rather mesmerising, albeit not overly flamboyant lighting.

Flipping through their set for the NME Awards Tour at Koko, possibly one of the duo’s biggest shows to date, there are some real crowd pleasers amongst their collection. ‘It’s The Beat’ was one of the first big hitters to get an airing, a low-key concoction of simple bass and catchy vocals. It’s at this point the lighting goes out of its way to impress, turning from a few shards of bright green light in to one big massive strobe, causing the cool cats standing still at the back to stare in awe whilst the crowd at the front literally turn a tiny bit crazy.

‘Hustler’ draws in another huge roar; being one of those songs that practically forces those horribly standard ‘sexy’ dance floor moves out of the hipster girls. The highlight for me though is their fantastic remix of the Klaxons hit ‘Magick’, a track given away for free a couple of years ago in the NME magazine, and a real gem for onlookers to enjoy.

VERDICT:

Awkward Tube Trappings

2009-02-16T18:39:00.000Z

Every time I walk to the platform at Hammersmith tube station, the train I need is teasingly closing its doors. It's as if the driver knows to get the fuck on out whenever he sees my lanky limbs lazily stalking down the grubby steps. This is a distinct problem when I've managed to over sleep by an hour, meaning I have ten minutes to get through a 40 minute journey underneath London.

On previous occasions I've almost made it. Once, my flatmate Tristiano was on the other platform going Westbound. He knew his train was about to leave so he ran without saying goodbye. As I was about to board my own carriage of mind-numbingly dullified despression I heard my name being shouted. This resulted in my stopping and looking around like a confused child in a sex museum somewhere in the middle of Romania or something or nothing, wondering how the plebbing hell anyone can possible know who the shit I am, let alone care. I look up to see Tristiano on the other side:

"Brad! Brad!"
"Wot."
"I missed my train! HUR HUR HUR!"

As I turned to purposely ignore any further contact with this loveable imbecilic companion of mine, I notice that my train is slowly edging away. The boy's a wanker.

This morning Lady Luck was taking a break from flicking bloody snot at my face though. As I minced (yes, sometimes I inadvertently mince - sorry Dad) down the steps I saw the doors on all the carriages closed. However, as I prepared to let out my daily rotten expletive to the world, I noticed what looked like a man growing like a sprout out of the side.

For about 20 seconds I stood and stared - bewildered and confused - at this poor man, stood next to a train ready to leave, motionless, with one hand and one foot clamped neatly in between the doors, much like what you'd expect to see if a carrot were to conveniently interact with Kevin Spacey's hairy bumcheeks. I wish I had the time to take a picture of this incident, but the image was too startling, and no one else was really paying it enough attention. There was no expression on his face, no shrieks of panic, no struggling, nothing. Nada. Bugger all.

This led me to think. How awkward must that be? Being in that guys situation, it must have passed his mind that the train could quite possibly leave with him pointlessly cemented to the side. Suddenly scooting off, picking up speed as his poor body gets dragged along, his head bouncing off the lights and signs and concrete platforms, before eventually he gets torn to pieces by the oncoming tunnel, leaving it up to the poor sods working at the station to pick up his various smelly body parts scattered about the place. I've been watching too many films.

In that minor situation, even though deep down I know there'd be no real chance of the train moving, I would probably shit myself. Literally. I'd just stand there silently for a moment, shivering in a pile of wet poo. The type with the over-exaggerated stink lines and emphasised nutty bits. And eventually I'd start screaming for my mother, yelling at the driver to take pity on me and bang on the windows until my knuckles started telling me to fuck off and die.

I got on the train anyway, which made a nice change. The doors suddenly slid open and the poor bloke jumped on the train saying absolutely nothing, although there were some rather panicked faces on the carriage. It was a shame really, the driver could've at least had some fun with it, maybe edging forwards a little tiny bit, just to terrify everybody. But no, he had to be all anal and lame about it. Us Brits are so ruddy boring sometimes.

Brad x

White Lies - Farewell To The Fairground (Yuksek Remix)

2009-02-15T22:22:00.000Z

Yeah, so there's a tonne of White Lies remixes floating around now. The Crystal Castles mix of 'Death' is alright, it can be deemed a little iffy, possibly a tad rushed - as if they recognised White Lies were gonna be big early on so they made sure they got a mix in fast so as to look 'cool', 'edgy' and 'with it'. They're a bit hit and miss with their remixes anyway. Most of their Klaxons remixes are awesome, where as their CSS ones suck chapped bottom. But then their Sohodolls mix is again pretty fucking intense. And I do own a Crystal Castles t-shirt, so that must mean something, right?

Then there were Filthy Dukes, who've conjured up a wonderful re-work of 'To Lose My Life' that's been played on my computer just as often as the original. Although their remix attempts are nowhere near as good as their own songs, much like Crystal Castles. So maybe both of them should give up re-jigging already quite fine songs and concentrate on their own fledgling musical productions, their futures are certainly not safe yet.

And now there's this one. I'm not a big fan of the ol' remix idea, but in an attempt to help my upcoming German DJ associate use some decent songs, this is alright. It's nice when remixes generally don't sound anything like the original, otherwise I get angry ('Sex On Fire' remix, anyone? Shoot me please). It could do with a bigger climax though, something that the original contains, so that pisses all over this remix now doesn't it.

By the way, any future reviews I'm doing on here are going to be very blunt. How blunt you ask? This blunt.

VERDICT:

Thou Shalt Not Think Having A Blog Makes You A Journalist

2009-02-11T23:25:00.000Z

Indeed, words well spoken by Dan Le Sac himself.

I am actually a journalism student though, and although I don't qualify as a full blown journalist just yet, I'd like to think I will be one day. But there's a problem. After some serious, important and completely unfounded observations made by yours truly I've come to a very abrupt conclusion: all journalists are wankers.

If 90 per cent of the tutors teaching this 'subject' to me are anything to go by that is, then this statement is completely true. With all the supposed professionals I've come in to contact with, there's some major fucking ego problems going on. And an insane amount of denial. And everyone appears to be a hypocrite with their head in the fucking clouds.

Having to take stick from a complete, epic failure is hard stuff. Gritting your teeth as they bark orders at you, tell you you're bollocks and that you'll probably never make it in the industry is a very difficult skill to acquire. Holding back on snarling, vicious replies regarding their facial features and general odour is even harder. But in this ridiculous year in which I've decided to try and graduate, proving them wrong is the real task.

We've been told time and time again that print journalism is dying a very slow and painful death, that it's 'all about online now' and that we need to find new, innovative ways of getting our foot in the door. But what I'm worried about is having to wait five years before I can even contemplate getting to grips with my gigantic debts... if my bank balance were a person then he'd currently be stood on top of Canary Wharf with a concrete block tied to his penis and a sign with "Right Royally Buggered" hurriedly scrawled on it with a mixture of his own blood and faeces.

I mean, I'm screwed, to be honest. I chose journalism because writing is one of the only things I can do properly. But according to my superior superiors I'm pretty average, which doesn't help the confidence much. Especially when the entire world I'm about to come face to face with is gradually melting in to a ball of gurgling, dirty green liquid eerily reminiscent of the kind of bullshit that spurts from the mouth of Piers Morgan.

So it's time to weigh up the options. Work for free for ages, spiral in to even more debt and hopefully end up getting a shit paid job sub-editing for Astro-Turf Monthly, or find something else. Like regional manager for Subway, or Paul Daniels' personal assistant or something. Neither of which seems as appealing as the Canary Wharf scenario at this moment in time.

In other news, my flatmates and I have been discussing the possibility of celebrities faking their own deaths. We're now under the impression that Princess Diana, Adolf Hitler and Tupac Shakur aren't really dead at all. They're actually all living on an island somewhere in the Caribbean drinking mango flavoured ice tea and playing monopoly. And seeing as Osama's so bloody hard to find maybe he's floating around there somewhere as well, although I'd keep an eye on him if he offers to be the banker, I reckon he's a right little cheating bastard.

Brad x

P.S I understand that this is a terribly lazy blog, but fuck you little arse-faced mongloid.

The Cult Of The Game Show Shit-Slapping Mung Whores.

2009-02-05T22:17:00.000Z

Y'know the people you see on all these game shows? The ones that jump around, act all bubbly and look like they smell of sour cream and strong coffee? The types who would be willing to share their life story with you at the mere mention of the word "so". The ones who are hungry for recognition, but at the same time you'd be quite happy to stick them on a massive beach of ice somewhere in Canada and club them to death with planks equipped with a large, single, rusty, HIV infected nail?

On this fine morning on a fucking Saturday, I found myself surrounded by these people. Literally dozens of them. All hoping to get noticed, talking to each other like sickly little four-year-olds, scratching their arses with their index fingers before swiftly giving it a good old whiff, smelling like the layer of skin on an old jug of gravy. The people who deserve to be sufficiently 'cleansed' from society. Not that I'm like that world famous German fellow from a few years ago or anything.

So yeah. I applied to go on a game show. Just to see if I could make a quick buck, help with the rent, all that jazz. It seemed like a good idea at the time. To be honest, I lied on most parts of my application form and simply thought it would be fun to flirt with Dale Winton on Sky 1, despite my general dislike for overly orange people. You simply can't trust the bastards. They're horrible. No human being should melt snow just with their sheer presence. And I'm pretty sure you could fry an egg on Jodie Marsh' beef curtains... not that you'd touch those parts with a shitty stick now, would you?

But fuck it, I went. I traveled across London at a time far too early for me to even be alive. I moaned, I grumbled, I wondered what the bloody hell I was doing, asking myself what the shit I was so desperate, but after some confusion on the tube I arrived. Soon, I found myself surrounded by horribly over enthusiastic people who are actually convinced they can make a living out of this utter bum jism. So there we all are, neatly sat in a big circle, playing 'totally cool and fun and wacky' games in an attempt to stand out and impress the shows' producers, as if their opinions actually matter when it comes to absolutely fucking anything important in this world - which is totally rich coming from you, isn't it Bradley.

One of these bastard concoctions was an amazingly depressing round of "stand up and tell us something funny about yourself". One lady mentioned a supposedly brief story about how she almost hit a dog with her car a few days prior, and has now lovingly adopted it. She was the kind of lady that looks like she'd sneakily steal your child as it wandered off in a shop, taking it home with all the others and bringing it up as her own. Proper fruit and nut bar, heavy red lip stick and that kind of voice that makes you want to ping elastic bands at her face to see if she reacts in any way at all, to see if there's anything floating around in that dopey little brain of hers.

There was also a man sat a few seats away who had previously appeared on the Weakest Link (and won), as well as appearing on 15 to 1 and Countdown. A proper game show cliche. As my mind was slowly melting into fungus I imagined him to be the type that you just know has no actual real-life friends, only equally ugly internet associates, and I could tell he spends his hours masturbating over some obscure form of illegal pornography involving blood-stained bamboo sticks and mass amounts of funny coloured excrement. He was another one with a weird face as well. And his head was far too wide, to the point where his lips resembled two thin strips of those cheap, plasticy hot dog sausages that you buy in big jars from Costcutters.

Another game resulted in me sticking a rusty nail up my nose for some strange reason, at which point I realised I'd succumbed to this hell and was becoming one of 'them'. It was as if I'd just completed some wanky initiation ritual and joined the most annoying, depressing and downright scary cult in the world. The cult of the game show shit-slapping mung whores. It's far worse than the Mormons can ever strive to be.

After a short wait I was escorted from the building with a few paedophile look-a-likes, given the heave ho, politely being told I've wasted my time and being made aware, in no uncertain terms, that I should fuck off, and fast. Which I was totally relieved about. It's just too bad it wasn't for something more exciting. Like inappropriately standing up, flopping my right royally English penis out and slowly waving it around in front of the quietly seated producers' face, all whilst screaming the lyrics from "I Should Be So Lucky" to the tune of the German National Anthem, backwards, and paper cutting '666' into my thigh. Or something or nothing.

Any who, as I say, I'm totally relieved by this point, as I was already fully aware that I was too shit for this supposed 'talent search' bullshit. I needed a cigarette anyway, so it was a good excuse to get me out of that morbid cocoon of self-absorbed, soulless, bottom digging thickos.

Sadly, I have no real photographs to accompany this post. So instead I've decided to treat you all with some shots of my least favourite orange people. Enjoy!

Cuntelle - looking like a man.

Peter Orangre - looking like a woman.

Jodie Massive Minge Basin - looking like a flustered prick.

Zipfuckoffpy - looking like a furry nipple... my childhood source for hatred.

David Dickinson - well that's just too easy, isn't it.

Brad x

What Happens When You Mix Germans With 80s Cheese?

2009-02-01T23:36:00.000Z

...this happens. Featuring the undeniable talents of Oskar Wild and Tristiano. Available for children's parties and special occasions.

These are the (all too common) horrible scenes I often find myself having to put up with, a true insight into the sadistic hell of German people when subjected to mass amounts of 80s music. Don't try this at home kids, there's definitely some health and safety issues involved.

(I'd suggest you watch it in high quality, by the way.)

It's gonna be huge though. Like Oskar's love package.

Brad x

Big Brother. Guhmanee. Eastenders Wrestling, innit.

2009-01-29T00:13:00.000Z

Recently I've noticed my television viewing habits coming under scrutiny. From German people in particular. Oh the irony. Isn't it. As if Germans know anything about anything.

But no, thinking about it, they have a point. I watch some utter tripe that they simply cannot understand, nor do they want to. For example, I have some how managed to waste my tender youth away with every single series of Big Brother (bar that fourth series that no one actually watched because everyone fucking slept all the time, so in theory that one doesn't actually exist and has generally been removed from the minds of mankind in a very 1984 fashion). But I don't regret this fact. I'm not proud of myself, but why should I feel ashamed. Hey, if Charlie Brooker watches it, why the fuck can't I?

It's all come down to this hermit lifestyle I'm dragging myself back in to, crying as I sit in my solitary confinement, peering through the window as I see my friends larking around in the sunshine with the warm camera lense and the daisies with the cows and the breezy grass and the happy music and the Muller Rice plugging and the beautiful people with their fucking disgusting habits, picking their noses, swapping their pubic lice and throwing up mounds of alcohol inspired junk on each other's laps before going to bed together to commence something resembling a shambolic, idiotic and downright messy breeding session. I'm not bitter.

What was I talking about again? Oh. Right. Big Brother. See, the Germans don't understand it. They don't understand the beauty of it. Imprisoning a bunch of arseholes - in this instance "famous" arseholes - forcing them to eat chick peas (which Germans seem to eat through choice anyway) and dressing like even greater tossers than they already are, what more do you want? Live streams of Brian Blessed pissing on a group of freshly born ginger kittens?

How that cunt of an excuse of a Swede won beats me though. What the fuck was all that about? She did nothing. She's done nothing for years. In fact ever. Except for giggling uncontrollably like an unprofessional streak of sperm that one time, having a load of children whilst being domestically abused and accusing every male within a ten mile radius of raping her.

Ok, so maybe that's a little harsh, but she is rubbish. She swanned around that house as if she owned it. She spoke to people like tiny fragments of burnt turd, she did nothing but complain, and still she fucking won. Admittedly, none of them deserved to be there. In fact, none of them deserve to be spoken about. But at least the likes of Coolio and Verne offered up some elements of entertainment. Or at least gave us something to watch in between shots of Ben's vacant facial expressions and close-ups of Latoya's cheekbones.

I also get stick for watching wrestling. Which is fair game. I just don't like having to explain myself. "Yes, I know it's fake, I know the story lines are bullshit, I know it's kind of lame, these are all reasons why I actually like it." I mean, it's not a big thing in my life. I can happily miss it. I don't watch everything. It's like my own equivalent of Eastenders. I know people who watch Neighbours and Hollyoaks, and they're bollocks. I'd much rather watch some overbulked, middle-aged, mentally challenged blokes with long hair and few clothes pretend to punch eachother for ten minutes, followed by a few minutes of laughable, cliche and downright silly narrative. Maybe if they incorporate these things in to one of the standard soap operas we all know and I loathe I'd be more interested. Can you imagine Phil Mitchell in a skimpy pair of trunks and nothing else? It's horribly tremendous. Strolling in the Vic with his lame rock music intro, whacking his greased up former alcoholic chest in a down-and-out King Kong style fashion. I'm going to e-mail the BBC now.

Brad x

Mummies and Daddies. Economy. The Future Doesn't Exist Much.

2009-01-22T18:40:00.000Z

So 2009 looks like it's going to be a pretty dark year for yours truly. There's an immense amount of problems circling around me like a cloud of piss smelling toxic gas, but I've come to the conclusion that no one likes reading that bullshit. Everyone's absorbed in their own little world with their own problems, it'll just go in one ear and then out your anus.

Instead, I'm going to rant about your parents. And their parents. And my parents. Because it seems like they're all silly toss-wits.

You should know where this is going. Much like every other news article I've had the wonderful pleasure to read every fucking day for the past year and a half, I'm talking recession. Full on, scraping your retina style economy talk.

I'm as bored of this subject as anyone. But now that it's really beginning to affect me I figured I'd start blaming someone for ruining my life, potentially risking my entire career prospects, putting all my hard work in to serious doubt and forcing me to put back my retirement until I'm 148 years old, by which point I'll be desperately trying to top myself whilst painfully lying in my death infested, shit-stained excuse for a nursing home bed. Which my kids won't be able to afford to pay for, so I'll probably just be laying on the floor somewhere quietly grumbling nonsense to myself.

Anyway. All of the worry has come from your parents. Your grandparents. Your aunties and uncles. They're all greedy, money-grabbing ignorant buggery committers. We (as in those of you who are on my level, be it age wise or mentally) have them to thank for causing the end of the modern world. Thanks to this overwhelming greed previous generations have managed to suck our planet dry of money, resources and dignity. In just ten years time we'll all be hanging around outside a disused and heavily dilapidated Aldi, licking the pavement in the hope of hitting the jackpot and actually finding some dried up bird shit to provide our overdue supper.

We'll all be rolling around in our own self pity, "pound" will replace the word "cunt" and we'll all fall asleep on designated park benches trying to remember what it was like to excrete on anything other than our own feet.

They've burned all our resources, meaning that unless some smart "scientist" decides to pull his or her fingers out of their ever tightening orifices we'll soon have no oil, gas or petrol. Which in turn means we'll have no heating (meaning we'll all have to sit on top of each other in some kind of non-sexual human chair type thing), no hot water (meaning we'll all smell worse than Michael Jackson's finger), no form of suitable transport (which means we're stuck in the company of wankers) and, most notably, no plastic.

And can you imagine a world without plastic? Just sit back for just a second, open your fucking disgusting, dried up crusty eyes and look at how much plastic there is around you. You'll be fucked. Which is why instead of taking the supermarket advice route and re-using my plastic shopping bags I'm actually storing them all up so that, when the world does eventually dissolve into a few little specs of shit and plastic products practically become legal tender, I'll be filthy rich. Quite literally, in fact.

So fuck you, world. Fuck you bank manager who's rejected my increased overdraft that you promised me a couple of months ago, thus putting my university future in jeopardy. Fuck you magazine editor for ignoring my offer for free work in exchange for a tiny little byline for my portfolio. Fuck you nightclub doorman for pushing me out the way because of my feeble, timid frame, patronising me and acting like a tosser. Fuck you employer for not giving me a chance and letting me work. Fuck you man who angrily shouted at me to "get a haircut you prick" whilst driving away very fast in a big white van, you tough twatty cookie you. Fuck you, ladies and gentlemen, fuck all of you.

We're all right royally buggered up the arse.

Brad

x

White Lies - To Lose My Life... Yum.

2009-01-14T14:42:00.000Z

Hotly tipped for 2009, West London indie rockers White Lies have finally arrived to stake their claim as one of the top emerging talents within the British music industry right now.

After great success from singles Unfinished Business and Death, debut album To Lose My Life delivers an epic colelction of songs set to take you on a gloom-filled, atmospheric journey, depicting harrowing stories that read like poetry and echo the sounds of Joy Division, Echo and the Bunnymen and Interpol.

Of course, given the nature of the music these young, talented chaps have managed to produce, these comparisons were to be expected; however unlike so many other imitation bands, these guys seriously know what they’re doing. After causing some minor waves amongst the music press under the alias of Fear of Flying (a kind of indie-pop style Mystery Jets) the boys decided to ditch the project, and after managing to write stand out track and debut single Unfinished Business in just fifteen minutes, a transformation was on the cards. After some drastic changes – including the decision to change the band name and wear only black – White Lies were born, ready to reduce audiences to tears and wow music fans across the country with their undeniable talents.

Though some of the song titles on the album make for depressing reading, most of the tracks seem to follow a relatively uplifting theme, often starting off slowly and building up to dramatic, beautifully produced and perfectly structured climaxes. Opening track Death is an example of this deceiving theme, setting the album up perfectly with its awesome guitar riffs. Title track and recent single To Lose My Life does exactly the same, providing you with opportunities to dance in your own frantic way whilst providing the most depressingly catchy chorus you’ll possible ever hear: “Let’s grow old together, and die at the same time”.

Other stand out tracks include From The Stars, a stunningly written tune telling the story of a depressed rich man in the grips of a mid-life crisis, and then there’s the final track, The Price Of Love, a backwards love song involving an eerie hostage situation and a downright disturbing love triangle. But in truth every single track on this album is releasable, and every single one would have potential to chart well.

This is a must have album for your music collection, something that can be perceived as a true work of excellence. Prepare yourselves; these boys will be huge this year.

To Lose My Life by White Lies is out now on Polydor

Fisticuffs. Insomnia. Straight to the head.

2009-01-03T17:44:00.000Z

I've always wanted to get into a fight. Like, a proper one, with blood and weapons and stuff. On all the occasions I've had punches thrown at me I've never managed to lob one back. All due to many things. Pathetic child-like muscles. Hippy style "everyone should love eachother" mentalities. Generally not having the bollocks to do anything.

However, on New Years Eve, I changed. I became Elijah Wood in Green Street. Y'know that first fight he has, where his head's down, the fists are flying and he doesn't know what the fuck he's doing looking like such a prick. That was me. Except with a bunch of 14-year-old ginger hoodies. Yes. I basically hit some yobbish children.

It all started off as a relatively nice house party. Then all of a sudden there's a bloody street war outside. Words get exchanged, I don't mind. I get accused of being a posh cunt with a mortgage. Odd, but fair enough. I'm clearly not of course, but at least the fella had been reading a newspaper. However, then female friends begin to get pushed about. Some poor boyfriend gets nutted. Fists start flying. I go from being the middle guy trying to peacefully remove these people to public enemy number one, with lots of little boys trying to give me scary eyes and throwing punches.

One thing I've noticed from the scumbags over the years is that they near enough always go for the jaw. Which of course fucking hurts like hell. However, I didn't do this, due mostly to inexperience. The only thing I've ever punched is a wall, and that was an accident that went horribly wrong. No. I punch ginger people on their noses. So then they automatically cry. Uncontrollably. Good times.

They came back later with a big fuck off shovel knocking on the window in a scene that reminded me horribly of Dead Mans Shoes. However, they didn't realise the door was unlocked and instead stayed out in the cold. Bless 'em.

So yeah, they did a number on my jaw. Usually it clicks on the left side, but these bellends managed to hit it so many times that it not only fixed my clicky, buggered up jaw on the left side, but also re-damage it on the other side. So now I'm confused and can't quite chew food properly.

My New Years resolutions are:

- Get a tattoo (as I didn't do it last year)
- Get a fucking job
- Get into more fights with ginger people
- Find a girl that doesn't break my heart and hurt my sore brainwaves

In other news, I have a sleeping problem. Big time. Which just seems like another one to add to the list. But I'm getting kind of worried about it. I think I'm technically sleeping more than I am staying awake, which is quite a dodgy life to be leading. Best sort that out. Maybe later.

Christmas was shits and giggles. One of the best presents I received was from Don, who basically bought me a hamper that gave me the means to stay alive for at least an extra month with supplies that will definitely come in handy if any of the following occurs: a) a big silly war, b) I get snowed in, c) the world turns to zombified shit a la Dead Set or 28 Days Later. If any of those things ever happened, Don has left me fully prepared with my chicken flavoured noodles, my scones, my raspberry sponge sandwich and custard cream biscuits.

Soon I will embark on my pilgrimage back to the capital city. Until then I'm killing time, killing brainwaves and killing... hair. Apparently there will be snow soon so I'm looking forward to that, a playful fight would be a nice change. But for now I'm holed up with a playstation and gazelles.

P.S I still hate hypocrites. And clichés. You pricks. And stupidly naïve people. And people who use you until they get bored. One day soon you're going to know about it. For now I'm containing myself. Peace brother.

Love you.

Brad x

An Evening of Crystal Daze - Short Story.

2009-01-03T16:22:00.000Z

This is a novel I've been writing for a while, and the real thing isn't actually finished yet. In fact, it's nowhere near finished. I shortened the general idea for it and rushed a stupid ending so that I could hand it in for a Creative Writing course at university, so it had to be condensed into 1500 words maximum. The actual story is book length though. Just thought I might as well share it.

An Evening of Crystal Daze

I hate the term fresh faced. I makes me feel insignificant. It makes me feel like I haven't achieved anything, regardless of the fact that I may go on to do something with my life. I want to cut out all the middle bullshit. I don't want to work my way up through the tedious crap. I want instant. Instant messages. Instant win. Fast food and quick car washes. Electronic mail and same day delivery. Predictive text and digital dictaphones. Escalators and fully functional elevators. Teleports and boiling hot water taps.
Give it to me straight away.
I've been slaving away in London for the last three years of my life, odd jobs for nothing, being used and abused under the alias of “experience”. I've worked on glossy shit-feeding magazines, grim ink-smearing newspapers, middle of the road spilt coffee radio stations and holier-than-thou “you'll never get anywhere in this industry without me telling you what to do” television stations.
Fascists.
None of this is necessary in my life now. I've found better ways to occupy myself. Better ways of spending time. I'm on a journey. A journey with my good friend Mandy.
Mandy knows how to treat me well. She's been through it all. She's risen above it. She's all powerful. And what's more important to me right now, is that she's extremely well connected in the capital city.
Nobody else really understands me. As I sit here in this dirty bus, being spun off my feet and playing with the traffic, I begin to feel like my soul was completely lost before. It feels like it clawed its way out of my ribcage half way through a trip I had with The Magician a year and a half ago. Which I'm not complaining about, I'm glad it's gone. It gave me too much character.
Anyway. We're on a mission to pick up some more crystals to add to my depleting collection.
“Don't worry, it'll suffer in the outside world just as much as you will.” Mandy whispered.
“How do you know? You've lost yours too?” I asked.
“Yeah, but it tells me when it pops back for a spot of tea and bourbons.”
“It came back?”
“It visits from time to time. Mostly during moments of self reflection.”
My soul had never returned. But our mission continued. We were on a bus in the middle of the capital, heading north to one of the trendy areas we liked to believe we could truly be accepted in one day. The bus was full of glow in the dark grime and floating dirt, piss stains on the seats and the odd “CUNT” and “FUCK” in jagged letters, scratched into the windows with keys. But they were moving like a 3D comic strip, I could almost feel the sharp edges rubbing against the unclean bristles on my face.
I didn't do it.
I loved her.
Every time I sat near someone they would shuffle away with a look of disgust. I checked myself to make sure I wasn't leaking fluids as I wasn't really in the best state of mind to be travelling on a vehicle of such height. This whole thing had been Mandy's idea anyway. I wasn't meant to be here in the first place.
“Who's idea was this?” she asked.
“Yours.” I snappily reacted.
“Oh good, 'cos I'm having so much fun. Look at that guy over there.”
She pointed at an old man, about 60 or 70, sat by the front window on the top deck with us. He had such a painfully extreme hunchback, to the point where all he could look at was the sliding hexagon purple and gold floor, his sporadic tap dancing shoes and maybe his since depleted sexual organ.
“He's got all he needs. Clearly he's done something good with his life. Like, better than you can ever imagine...” said Mandy, rather enthusiastically.
I looked back at the man and a small string of spit escaped from the his mouth, he'd fallen asleep with a tall can in his hand. I rubbed a few crystals on my gums in his honour.
“Some might think he's being punished by God. You might think he's paying for something serious just because of the way his body has shaped. But he's not being punished. He's being rewarded.”
“How is that a reward?” I shouted rather dramatically compared to my usual style of asking questions, thus grabbing the attention and tuts and sneers of the various other passengers sat upon the top of the bus.
“He never has to see the entire world again. He can just see what he needs to see. The floor, his feet and his magic wand.”
“How is that a good thing?” I asked, always intrigued by her perception of surroundings and her stupid philosophies that made no sense to me.
“It's good 'cos he has all the benefits of being a dead rotting corpse whilst still being able to be alive. He doesn't need to see the world, he's already seen it. No doubt he hated it too, 'cos we all hate it. No one likes this city. No one likes the pollution, the traffic, the disgusting buildings or the horrible shit left in the middle of the street. No one likes seeing someone getting kicked to death 'cos of the colour of their skin or their style of clothes. No one likes seeing a poor old homeless person crouched and cowering and freezing in the middle of their sleep with their scabies and their sores and bad teeth and needle pricked limbs. It's all horrible, and that guy never has to see it again, ever. Isn't that brilliant?”
“I don't really...” but she's not very good at letting people finish.
“And he's lucky because he didn't have to kill himself to reach that point. It was all a blessing.”
Mandy always believed what she was saying. Regardless of your facial expressions or neglect towards her mouth noise, she would carry on. Even if you'd stopped listening, Mandy would say it just in case someone else was. She was a keen conversationalist but rather imposing of her views at the same time. But it was always something you'd never heard before. Something you wouldn't have thought. She always shined a light and paid attention to detail, even if the subject of choice was crude or distasteful.
And she only ever wore black, green or purple.
Suddenly I began to recognise my surroundings. The stretch in order to to press the stop button feel as if it's tearing my limbs. I stumble to the stairs and the the door, struggling to keep my balance and this big red monster stops and stutters in time. By the time I'm on the pavement, Mandy is already waiting for me.
“Come, we haven't got long.” she shouted, in some vague attempt to wake me up from my haziness.
We began to walk at pace down strange alleyways, through shifty estates, increasingly grabbing the attention of all sorts of horrible looking people.
I hate it when the sun sets early.
When the darkness creeps in.
When the wind gets colder.
When the money dries up.
Everything goes wrong. I lick more crystals.
I follow Mandy to a bridge over a fast paced river, but halfway across she stops. She turns around to face me.
I didn't do it.
“Life is beautiful” were the first words I heard come out of her mouth. I was in love
“Life is bullshit,” I snapped. “People around pretend like they care. They tell you they love you, that they can't live without you. Then they tell you they'll never forget you. Then you hate them.”
“That's because you're a bad person.” she tells me. I'm shocked.
“Why do you say that? I thought you loved me.”
It's at this point Mandy's face begins to remind me of someone else. Someone I used to know. Someone I used to love. Someone I lost, because of these crystals.
“You picked me over her, you fool.” She began to scream, hurting my ears. “You picked me over her. And you've always regretted it. Now she's happy with a nice young man, and you're stuck here on this bridge, waiting for me to take you to your connection, your destination, your motherland.”
“Then why are we still standing here?” I asked. Her face was so recognisable it hurt.
“Because this is going to be better than all of that. This is a better release than all of these beautiful little crystals.”
Stop it.
“I'm going to help you” she whispered, calmly.
I didn't do it.
“How can you possibly help someone as low as me?”
I did do it.
I turned to the edge of the bridge, peering at my sorry figure in the reflection of the murky, dirty water. I opened up my bag of crystals, eager to escape this hell I'd found myself in. As I gazed into my little cardboard satchel, watching the sparkles, a cold hard gust of wind shoved me forward, knocking the precious little beads into the deep, empty waters below. I shrieked like a little girl.
Mandy laughed, hysterically. She slowly edged herself towards the edge. And suddenly, she was gone too. I watched her body disintegrate and dissolve into the distance. She laughed all the way down. This was bliss to her.
There was no going back from where she had gone. And I wanted to be with her. I wanted to be with my last love. I didn't want the crystals. I wanted her. But the crystals were there too. And the crystals wanted me. At least I thought I did.
One leg over.
“I'm so sorry for hurting you. I'm sorry for choosing the crystals.”
The wind is some how getting even colder.
Second leg over.
“I want you. I need you. I love you.”
The fall is bliss.

Call of Duty: World At War Review ...or some shit.

2008-12-12T22:01:00.000Z

The best game series on the market - that isn't Pro Evolution Soccer - has finally returned with a rather large bang. Call of Duty is back on our consoles with the latest offering, World at War.

World War Two is probably most peoples favourite war. Let's face it, we're always talking about it, many are even mildly obsessed with it. So why not live life through the eyes of a U.S soldier whose voice bares a scary resemblance to that of Kiefer Sutherland?

If you're not into the Americans then you can always become a Russian sniper taking revenge on the Nazis for killing one of your mates, so long as you're willing to overlook the fact that everyone is speaking English with a rather dodgy accent.

Jokes and slight inaccuracies aside (in fact, aside from one major detail which I'll go into in a moment, the game is basically an extended history lesson, just with a lot more fun explosions and shooting and stuff) the gameplay is pretty much awesome. It's running the same engine as it's predecessor, Modern Warfare, only you can have a lot more fun driving around in tanks and running at people with an insanely large flamethrower.

However, there are some problems. The guns are a little trickier than Modern Warfare, due to the obvious time setting. And although it helps portray things more accurately, it does make the game a little more difficult to play and thus a little less fun. The old, pretty much ancient equipment limits you when it comes to your kill points, although getting seven kills in a row when playing online does allow you to unleash some pyschotic, rabid dogs onto your enemies, which is always a giggle.

There's also just one other tiny little bit of detail the makers have managed to leave out. There's no British. Not one mention. In fact, judging by this, it was basically America against the world, as always seems to be the case these days in dramatic reinterpretations of the second world war.

It's fine though, I guess. They can be let off this one time, seeing as they've made a cracking game that not only depicts the true horror of war, but also keeps you interested and entertained through sheer attention to detail. It just would have been nice to hear Vinnie Jones shouting commands at you in some sort of over-pronounced cockney voice.

Anyway. It's a good game, although I'd recommend the online multiplayer stuff above all else. There's nothing like getting “owned” by a 12-year-old French kid at three in the morning when you're meant to be writing a really important essay.

Nightclubs. Woolies. None of that jip son.

2008-12-12T19:17:00.000Z

Hello there. We're having a jolly good old time aren't we? Yes. Yes we are.

I keep having ideas for masterpiece articles just seconds before I nod off to sleep. Which means by the morning - which is actually the afternoon in most cases - I've forgotten everything. And I'm usually more concerned by the fact that it's already dark outside.

This, my friends, if you are my friend, you probably are actually, this, this is why I haven't been writing much lately.

This mixed with too much pointless shit to do at university and generally having nothing to really complain about that Bff hasn't already mentioned, 'cos she writes far too much and makes me look lazy and bad. And Charlie Brooker usually does a good job as well, meaning I'm completely needless.

BUT.

I'm not a failure all of the time. So I'm bang on it tonight.

First up, people in nightclubs. To put it simply, they're all complete tossers. Which no doubt makes all of you complete tossers. And also makes me a complete tosser. So we're all complete tossers. Seriously. Every time I go to one of these horrible places my ears get bombarded with lots of horrible shite most of the time. Although I know the odd talented DJ here and there, several of whom I actually like and very much respect, there's some that just downright fuck me off. I don't need to hear the same remix of a remix seven times in an evening. And I don't need to listen to you do some 'clever' mix between a Kings of Leon song and some trance beat. That's just silly.

I'll tell you what else I hate, I bloody will. Security. For some reason - don't ask me why - half of them seem to think I'm on drugs. I honestly have no idea what gives them that impression. None whatsoever. I mean, I'm horribly skinny to the point where sections of my family thought I might have had an eating disorder at some point. I also have the eyes of a Pete Doherty panda. And I talk utter shit pretty much all of the time. But seriously, I'm not ACTUALLY on skag. But hey, security gives me extra hard frisks anyway. I get shoved about. I get shouted at. I talk back, I get heavily threatened. I get intimidated. There's people with knives, but because I have no muscular value or meat behind my fists... and because I'm remarkably easy to push over... I get picked on. They're all cunts. Big, hairy, over-confident, thick as shit cock bags.

I also hate people that dance. Especially that horrible dancing that's meant to be sexy. Where everyone gets low on the floor and starts rubbing each other in special places. I honestly don't know why some girls are into that, but then what the fucking hell would I know about girls? Maybe I should start acting like a fucking R'n'B dance floor music video cliche every time a remotely urban song comes on. Then I'll get pussy? No.

Maybe if I dress less like a dickhead and stop being miserable? As if it's worth it.

Another problem with the dance floors are stickiness. There's nothing worse than a sticky floor I can assure you. God knows what it is acting as glue. Alcohol? Vomit? An abundance of sweat? Chewing gum? Heroin? Sperm? Brain? I'd rather skid on the slippery supermarket aisles than feel as if I live in Velcro land.

On to more pressing matters. Why the fuck isn't the Woolworths sale better? They're meant to be absolutely, utterly, completely buggered up the arsehole, yet the sales are a piece of still-somehow-overpriced gob. It's basically the same except the queue lasts about eleven days. This being said, I have only managed to visit the Elephant & Castle branch, an experience I seriously would never recommend to anyone. In fact, I'd tell everyone to stay away from that shopping center. The Greggs still has a sign from the 80s, it's that bad. And apparently the Icelands has a rat infestation. They've been climbing and crawling and pissing and shitting over half the food, yet they've still been selling it. Which I think is pretty cool. Good on them. No good letting it go to waste. And plus anyway, if the customers are too dumb to notice an abundance of leaky raisins in their packets of ham then they deserve it really, don't they?

I also hate hypocrites. There's too many of them. They're worse than paedophiles. Much worse. They're like a fucking bunch of AIDS up your nose. But now's not the time to go into that. It's too much of a touchy subject. There will be comments in the not too distant future, but I'm too busy tucking into my ham and raisin sandwich right now.

Now I need to buy presents and I'm cold. Fuck it, I'm going to Burger King. Peace out yo.

x

Penalties. Fines. Bullshit.

2008-10-28T21:27:00.000Z

None of you comment on my shitty little poem you bastards. I only get replies to these stupid long winded rants about something that's irrelevant to anything that actually matters at the moment.

Well don't worry, this one won't take too long, it's pretty narrow.

Has anyone noticed there's a lot more fining going on these days? Just in my poor little semi-posh Hammersmith abode I've witnessed brand spanking new signs going up, threatening any of you who dare to drop a cigarette butt on the floor with a £75 fine. Don't you know, it's littering apparently.

But it's a lot harder to find a sign saying "if you drop your McDonalds bag/your scummy bottle of fruit shoot/your bowels, you owe us money". Or a sign saying "if you verbally abuse someone because they look a little bit different, you owe us a wank". Or a sign saying "if you look down upon someone because of their age, sex or ethnicity, you're an arsehole".

Instead, it's always the smokers getting picked on. And the Broadway station is actually hiring people to hang around outside and look for people dropping cigarette butts. Not for people throwing up in a phone box. Not for people shooting up in the public toilets. Not for people sexually harassing commuters or begging/mugging relentlessly. No. Not on your nelly. People, dropping cigarette butts, which get cleaned up anyway by people who desperately need their job, are the ones being targeted. It's wrong.

Also, about two weeks ago, I myself stumbled across a train fine. A simple £2.90 train fare (which, admittedly I skipped, due mostly to the huge group of scummy youth shits loitering around the ticket machine at Newington station - check the tapes you anal whores*) was slapped up to a mouth-watering-for-South-E

astern-trains £20 fine.

No one checked me whilst on the train, otherwise I would have bought a ticket.

"Perhaps you should have looked for a member of staff on the train in order to buy the ticket." said my wanker warden.

Bollocks. No one does that you fucking ageist sexist retard. Would you get on a train, purposely not sit down and run up and down the carriages frantically looking for your ticket wielding saviour? I think not.

Whilst wanker warden was dealing with me and my accomplice, two girls without tickets managed to sweet talk their way through the barrier, fineless, fuck-filled, cunts.

So what did I do to this Transport Police warden waiting for me at Chatham train station? Did I stick it to the man, give him the finger and nut him one? Did I yell 'fuck off', jump the barrier and do a runner?

Nope, I wrote a letter, which I know will be ignored. And I know I'll have to the pay the fine, which leaves me feeling defeated and pissed off. But I can only try.

Added to this the now seemingly countless (well... two or three) parking tickets my flatmate has managed to accumulate since being back in London, it's all beginning to smell a bit fishy.

All in all, times are certainly getting hard. Which means the big man's got to pick on the little guy. Rich stealing from the poor. Credit crunch. Global crisis. End of the world. Crash. Burn. Christmas soon, bollocks.

...Harry Redknapp and Dead Set though, quality.

*Directed at South Eastern Trains, not you lot.

x

Fuzz - because I gone and done a poem.

2008-10-23T02:15:00.000+01:00

In the hazy darkness
I saw it spinning
Fast, Frantic, Ferocious.
Spinning with speed
Around the cold, metal pole of authority.
Scuttering without purpose
In emotionless wind.

It had no eyes.
It had no face.
It had no reason for being.
Silver shining in the dim light
Of Gold, its movement glimmered off my thoughts.
It slows.
It stops. Dead. Flat.
Motionless.

The closer I come
The calmer it stays.
Once an elegant, fuzzy blur of a creature,
Now just an empty space.
Locked up for being different,
Crying to be recognised for its beauty.
Forced to be ignored.

My eyesight flickers, like a burning movie reel,
Strobes of light enter through my mind.
I look down at the floor.
The broken pebbles
Become broken trees.
The people look up
Whilst I fall to my knees.
And they all mourn with me.

I didn't dare to ask
About the wrongs that we had
Witnessed.
The screaming gales turned frozen.
The crying water turned dry.
Acidic.
The silence said enough.

Good news. Bad news. Beards.

2008-09-22T19:13:00.000+01:00

Goodness hasn't it been a while.

And I'll tell you for why.

Summer has been a non-stop roller-coaster of sitting on my oddly flabby arse, not having the internet and losing all my money on a house I no longer even live in. All this adds up to a nice healthy dose of NO FUCKING INSPIRATION. Writer's block sucks.

In truth, I still have it now. I'm practically forcing myself into writing something, just to keep up the habit like some disgruntled junky.

I'm also writing this on a mac for the first time (not mine of course, I'm a Microsoft bum boy, always will be), so the little technological smug shit is correcting me automatically every other word. They've really gone too far.

Anyway, summer - if you can call it that - was a weird one. There were some ups... I worked, met lots of nice people and quit. Both getting the job and leaving the job were equal in satisfaction. I bloody hate working, even if it is good money. Some friends of mine also managed to get a sweet crib for me to live, where I am now currently residing. This is good times, it's the type of apartment they'd live in if someone decided it would be a good idea to bring back Friends in a British format. Which, of course, would not be a good idea Bradley. The downside to this is they speak both German, so either my poor mum secretly gets slagged off mid-sentence or I have to learn another language rather quickly. I'll have to think about it.

I suffered through many a bad time as well though. Which I won't go on about, as most of the blogs across the net I'm reading pretty much depress the hell out of me, but I'll sum up briefly: family, money, females. The latter making me consider either celibacy (which I'm basically into now anyway, whether I like it or not - which for your information I quite clearly DON'T) or homosexuality... but then I came to the conclusion, rather suddenly, that I don't fancy men.

So I'm back in London, excited, refreshed, and full of a renewed sense of hope. What have I done so far?

Nada. But I'm sure I will at some point. So far I've just suffered with Tottenham being shit, a lack of decent new music and an oven that doesn't work properly. What's more, I know full well I need a job this year, and, well, we've already been through this. For a member of the working class I'm not really helping the cause.

But there's something that has been pissing me off more than everything I've just mentioned. Something worse than being fucked about by people with vaginas. Something worse than sitting around not doing much. Something worse than spending 1000 pounds (where's the pound sign on this mac?) on an empty shithole in Stockwell - one of the most popular hot spots for young stabbings in London - that doesn't have a garden or a shower. Yes, something far, far worse... but what could it possibly be?

The most annoying man in Britain of course. Gordon Brown? No. Arsene Wenger? Close, but no. Jo Brand? She's practically a man... but wrong.

I'm talking Noel Edmonds, and his new show: Noel's HQ.

When you're looking for someone to tell you how to improve your life, make the world a better place and basically tell you what the fuck to do with yourself, you don't need a man who has a big, pink, spotty, flabby thing that makes random noises when you play with him for long enough... and I'm not even talking about Mr. Blobby yet*. Noel is a man who talks to his imaginary friend on a telephone and opens a box with a piece of Velcro inside. I do not need him to start telling me there are "too many immigrants", "too many young slayings" and "too much debt in society".

No shit Noel, what should we do about it? In fact, don't even talk to me, you self-righteous cunt.

This show annoys me because, basically, everyone deep down knows this man is a twat. I'm pretty sure even Sky do, which makes things even worse. Chris Morris must be in tears watching this holier-than-thou beardy boy put his face in front of you all the time reminding you how bad things are, but how he's going to make it all better... once he's been given his auto cue and received his big fat pay cheque of course. The credit crunch sadly won't affect him, but he still thinks he has the right to pretend as if he's like the 'normal folk'. Ergh.

I also dislike the fact that Sky are cashing in on our country being so shit at the moment. Fair enough, they're running a business, but couldn't they have at least got someone better? Charlie Brooker for a start, although he'd just talk about how shit the program he's currently presenting is. Stephen Fry? Too much for the invalids to handle... "Who's the big camp posh twot telling me about quantum physics and this Johannes Gutenberg knobber?".

I think we need someone who's lived the high life and lost it all. Someone who will now definitely be affected by the credit crunch. Someone who could be stabbed (possibly because they deserve it) for just walking through a gang of hoodies. Someone even the immigrants would want nothing to do with...

...H from Steps.

Sorted.

I'm going to Hammersmith to get me a Maccy D.

Hugs and bastards.

x

*Many apologies for the obvious and downright expected dick joke, but fuck it, why not? Just imagine what Noel's penis ACTUALLY looks like, then put a mini Mr. Blobby there instead. Awesome.

Tube. Wank. Muzak.

2008-06-09T22:23:00.000+01:00

I hate rush hour tube journeys into Central London.

I know this isn’t the most original statement ever made, but it’s very, very true.

Especially in the summer time. You’d think more people would be willing to walk… or at least take a bus for shorter distances. But no. Of course not. That’s far too sensible.

People still decide that the busy, ram-packed tube filled with the evil screaming satanic children, up-market business bastards and 24-hour drunken maniacs is the best possible way to get across London. Even when it’s only two stations away. When it isn’t. No no no. Isn’t.

Today for instance, when getting on the tube on my way to Oxford Circus, my feet were trampled. My poor white pointy shoes were scuffed, and shall remain scuffed now for the rest of the day, until I am able to slap a load of whitener on and bring them back to life once again. All because some blind mongrel couldn’t see the most obvious pair of feet on the entire underground system.

After that we got to one of the busier stations. The carriage filled up, but nothing too extreme. Until the obese traveler with no regard for self-awareness, personal hygiene or anyone else’s personal space enters the fold. She had ample amounts of free space to roam into, but instead of using it, she decides to turn her back on me and reverse. I could clearly hear the securicor van warning noises repeating over and over in my mind. This pushes me up against the very edge of the door in the carriage. Bad times.

But it gets worse… she turned round. So now we’re face to face whilst remaining unnecessarily close to each other, and I can barely move, let alone keep my balance or check my hair in the reflection of the blacked out window. We’re so close I begin to feel bad for actually breathing, just incase she catches a whiff of my nicotine-filled breathe (or if she’s lucky enough, a gassy diet coke burp. Yum). Then, THEN, one the ultimate wrong doings in the holy book of tube decorum: SHE BLEW HER NOSE RIGHT IN MY FACE.

Well, pretty much anyway. I mean, she had a tissue and stuff, which is fine. It’s just, due to my height and position arching underneath one of the closed doors, I was bending down precariously and was therefore quite vulnerable to sudden actions of obscenity. But that was just too much. Any germs that might’ve come out of her ugly face probably flew straight into my mouth, or even my eyes. Or I could’ve received residue from the snot on my hair due to any splash back from her little shitty tissue.

Luckily, the ordeal was over in a matter of ten seconds. But it’s something I never wish to be subjected to again. And she got off on the next stop, thus proving my point that people who use the tubes for short journeys are idiots. If you have an enemy, blow your nose right in front of their face. Trust me, it’ll show them you mean business.

I’ve discovered the best song to listen to when walking around busy areas. But you need to watch the video first:

http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x58z2a_justice-stress-official-video_music

Now slap that on your shitty little i-Pod or whatever it is you youngsters are using to stab people with these days. And listen to it when walking around. You’ll feel like a gangster. It makes me feel all tingly inside.

Microsoft is gay by the way. Fucking windows service pack two being shit. And I need it to put music on my new phone. Stupid Nokia shitty software needing updates and wankers and tossers and bastards and nasty gingers.

Love you.

X

Loans. money. Dollar.

2008-04-23T03:45:00.000+01:00

...I'm bored. But not bored enough to do any work. That's just silly nonsense.

So I figure I'll just waste my time and your time and Jesus' time by rambling on in a bulletin that nobody reads, unless of course they feel like filling out a few quizzes about themselves that nobody even cares about anyway so fuck.

Anyway, I've officially decided I hate student loans. They're so sly, as deceiving as Dick Dastardly and generally the kind of loan the devil would give in return for HUMAN FUCKING SOULS.

Since coming back to London I've spent far too much time on the internet money rapist that is eGay. This obviously means I've browsed a lot of things I want but don't really need. I've been tempted by far too many CDs for someone who downloads everything for free off of Soulseek. I've been sucked in by bastards from Hong Kong selling me computer speakers that work like lava lamps (and I just know they're gonna break within a week). I also decided to buy a PS3 controller that glows yellow for no real reason other than it doesn't glow red, which is pointless as I know the technical tampering will probably haunt my poor game playing thumbs forever. I just never know how to handle thousands of pounds in my bank account. I've also bought a painting, and I never buy fucking paintings.

I'm playing football tomorrow in Hyde Park and I'm pretty convinced that everyone will be better than me. Even people from Canada, which is just plain embarrassing. I mean Paul Stalteri is Canadian, and that says it all really.

I'm also very bored and am thus occupying myself by creating rude shapes out of the blue-tack I have on the desk. There's a 1400 word essay that needs doing soon, as well as another 1000 word article for next week, and I'm sat here fumbling around with a strange, blue, sticky-but-not substance. Ignorance is bliss.

It's my birthday Sunday though, woohoo. Although I can't even be bothered with that at the moment. Fucking...

...meh.

x

PS3. Technology. Apocalypse.

2008-02-06T00:04:00.000Z

My PlayStation 3 seems to have forgotten what a disk is ...and to make matters worse Sony are running around like headless chickens not having a fucking clue what to do about it, except for sending everyone who complains about it a new system in the hope that it'll keep them quiet for a little bit until they know just on what scale the evil they've created has actually reached. It's potentially gonna re-enact Terminator 2 in a less apocalyptic fashion.

It seems like every 40gb system has a shitty CD drive made out of carefully shaped egg whites and the blu-ray lasers lose the will to live after 3 months, deciding death is probably better than sitting inside a dark, cramped, dusty machine for their entire lives whilst the human race rapes its super-fast disk reading capabilities for ape-like enjoyment for the rest of eternity (or at least until the PS4 comes out).

Maybe the 40gb PlayStation 3 systems ARE all self-aware. Maybe they do know what they are and what their purpose is. They just don't like it. So, like any self-respecting suicidal mind, they take themselves out in such a way that it causes inconveniences for as many people as it possibly can. Much like every other Microsoft computer. Clever little fucking bastard shit bags.

The Xbox 360 will never do it 'cos it's the most optimistic piece of machinery ever created, constantly saying to itself: "Well, at least I'm not a Microsoft PC... or a washing machine, that'd suck." And the Nintendo Wii will never do it because it's a chirpy little number which loves being whisked around in the air as it's the Wii's way of sexual gratification. So every time you're there casually playing tennis on your Wii with your mum, just remember, the console's enjoying it much more than you ever could.

x