Badly thought out way to get the bad thoughts out.

Monday, 21 January 2008

FWD 18/01/08 Review

Couple No. 1- These two star crossed pieces were licking each others gums next to the bin at the back. It's conceivable that halfway through one of their slurpings the bloke detected a clod of dried cum lodged behind her right incisor, removed it expertly with his own tongue and then discreetly spat it into the bin while pretending to spot Zane Lowe behind her shoulder. That was nice of him. I wish I'd bought him a drink.

Couple No. 2- I was quite happy to hear a bit of variety in the music at FWD, and apparently now it's a barn dance. I remember the good old days, in the 1930s, when me and Wookie would jump into the horse and carriage and gallop down to the local dubstep dance, then would stand at the back next to the gramophone smoking endless joints and stinking of microwave chicken, occasionally putting our hands on our knees and then rapidly crossing our hands over each other while clapping our knees together in appreciation of the latest dubs: what happened to all that? I was keeping my end up by standing at the back smelling of three days wanking but there were some goons in there who smelled like a girl's bathroom dancing around like it was a fucking school disco and they'd had too much Lilt.

The one good thing these two were a good thing for was that sometimes he'd grab her arse just as a low end parp fart came out of the speaker behind me and I could imagine that I was at some sort of sordid Berlin orgy/party-where-models-pretend-to-like-minimal-techno-night and me and all the other miserable looking blokes in brown Carhartt/Addict coats were really into watching women being forced into farting in time with basslines. I saw in my mind's eye a final all-surpassing scene on the DVD in which Flat Eric punches Jena Jameson in the gut dozens of times so that she farts Flat Beat perfectly. Would I clap? Would I admit to my perversion just so I could show my friends this feat, or would I pretend that I was enjoying it on a purely ironic level, just like that incest porn I showed them the other week?

Conundrum of the week: Who was the bigger bug at FWD, The Bug- a man of average height, well above average talent and a large amount of notoriety, or The Bug up my arse whenever a pillhead guffawed into me with the sort of face which says both 'Ooooh! Bare, Bare!' and 'Punch me now before we're both old and you're long dead of lung cancer' at the same time, proving once and for all that actions speak with more subtlety than words?

Music: Wall to wall rubbish. Where was the funky house? It's a wonder all the girls there didn't cut their own ears off and leave us men to lie down in the blood and pleasure ourselves with a the mythical half-grip wobble toss.

Southern Comfort and Cokes: The Bible is mistranslated- only Guardian journalists, women and 15 year olds drink wine. If Jesus had turned his blood into Southern Comfort and Coke I don't think Richard Dawkins would be complaining about diddly shit.

Tunes of the Night

  • Geiom- Reminiscing (Kode 9 RMX)
  • DJ Abstract- Touch
  • Horsepower- Gorgon Sound
  • Burial- Unite
  • Martyn- Everything About You/Broken Heart RMX
  • Ikonika- Please
  • Roy Davis Jr.- Gabrielle
+ almost everything kode 9 played and almost everything Martyn played including that Miss Dynamite tune I don't know the name of.


1 comment:

Ebineezer. G .Darko said...

"I was keeping my end up by standing at the back smelling of three days wanking but there were some goons in there who smelled like a girl's bathroom dancing around like it was a fucking school disco and they'd had too much Lilt."

HAHAHAHAHA...HAHAHA...

Again...
"If Jesus had turned his blood into Southern Comfort and Coke I don't think Richard Dawkins would be complaining about diddly shit."

Funny shit man....