Badly thought out way to get the bad thoughts out.

Saturday, 27 December 2008

Funkle Fuck

Christmas is traditionally a time of both giving and committing suicide, and today I feel like putting my metaphorical hand in my pocket and my figurative head in the symbolic oven simultaneously by bigging up a producer who has had to contend over the past year with having the same name as that guy off Eastenders who did this tune, which I'm sure you'll remember:

Now - is there any other tune which so instantly evokes sitting barely conscious by the bar at Christmas as everybody else whispers sweet Rohypnols in each others ears, staring with limp dead-eyed despair at your beer saturated lap, as wet and unloved as a stone at the bottom of the Irish sea? Wishing that a miniscule fanatic would run screaming into the pub and straight up your bottom, into your lower intestine and detonate a half pound of C4?

Plus - look at his son! I've seen dribbles of sperm embedded in my pubic wig that were less deserving of being screwed up in a ball of tissue and flushed into a sewer. This is precisely why everyone fucking hates Martin Kemp and wants to see him and his coiffured-turd of a son hung by their necks until they look like two bottles of HP Sauce that somebody is squeezing too hard in the middle.

But ^ THIS ^ Martin Kemp deserves none of your hatred (yet). His tunes (listen to some clips HERE) are, a bit like his brother Brackles', weird and wonky with a lot of shuffle in the beats and manage to be deep without losing the jump-n-twist factor.

I'd describe them as 'Deep Funky', if the very thought of such a genre emerging, in a thousand colours of the vinyl rainbow, didn't make my fingers atrophy with horror. But like funky tunes, these tunes have the warm and/or energetic pulse of house music coupled with the swing and sub-bass of two-step. But there's an atmosphere created by the synths and arrangement which you don't really find in the (amazing) UK Funky tunes by producers like Roska and H-H-Banton, which have similarly interesting and bodymovin rhythms to them. I guess you can hear this mixture emerging in tunes like this:

Elements of the dubstep and funky communities/scenes are definitely engaging in dialogue at the moment - Kode 9, whose latest set at FWD was (to the chagrin of some) about 50% funky/percussive house, seems to be leading the way as usual in this respect (and of course FWD itself). And apparently Marcus has been playing some bits by Kode and Ramadanman.

It seems to me that there's a great deal of dubstep (not all of it - see Silkie/Quest/TRG etc.) now which has less in common with UK garage than with DNB/techno/hip-hop, which is fine, but that garage-connection seems strong in Funky, and perhaps some sort of Funky/dubstep hybrid will emerge in 2009 that will help strengthen dubstep's ties to its musical roots in two-step and latterly 'tribal' percussion. [L.D has also just remixed 'Do You Mind' and you can't forget D1, whose 'Oingy Boingy' bridges the gap nicely]

I've recently ranted about the merits of mixing things up on here, and I'd love to see either some slightly slower dubstep or slightly faster funky coming out in 2009 so that its easier to mix them together. When mixing house/techno/garage/funky together I find that dubstep is the only genre that is slightly harder to fit in, unless you pitch the funky up or dubstep down. But some DJs are already managing to do it effectively (see HERE jimmy for a great little Jackmaster mix)

Anyway- Mart's tunes are bleedingly obviously marvellous, and will wipe forever from your mind the image of Martin punching that old dear Dot Cotton in the boat outside the Old Vic for nicking a hanky from his bloomin pockets. That was the original point of this post until I put my pontificating cap on.

Friday, 26 December 2008


HEY GOOD-LOOKIN'! Why the long face? What's the matter, huh, darling? Gee, I was just sitting in my room watching your latest scene from Gagged and Battered Vol. 3 and I could have sworn you looked like you weren't enjoying doing it as much as I was enjoying watching you not enjoying doing it! Now that just won't do! Sure, we all have problems, but sometimes you've just got to suck it up and get on with it. The show must go on. I mean, look at Adam Sandler. He's a big star with the weight of the world on his shoulders, he's got the paparazzi down his neck every second of the day, and you don't see him crying and moping in the middle of The Waterboy 2! He's a professional! Not like you, you WORM!

Does all this ring a bell? Does it sound a bit like what the internal monologue in your head is constantly whispering to you after another long hard day on the set of It's Ball-Draining Men! 4? That is, when it's not telling you to drown yourself and save Arnold 'Whopper' Johnson the bother? Then you're probably a young porn starlet who is lacking in confidence. It can be really hard being in this line of work when you have no self-confidence, especially when you take a second to consider that you're job is essentially to prostitute your idealised physique and to become an empty prism for the brightly burning sado-sexual fantasies of thousands of sexually unsuccessful, misogynistic and borderline sociopathic fiends. Luckily, I'm here to help!

My name is Dr. Peter Lacebo and I have a long and involved history in coming to the aid of vulnerable young women who have absolutely no self-esteem. Now I'm here to lend you a helping hand! Here's a few free tips to get the ball rollin'!

  • Visualise your success. Sure, 'success' in this instance means not throwing up with hot tears of self-loathing stinging your eyes as the first putrid jet of gonhorrea-stained semen shoots down your scream-wracked throat, but can you imagine what failing is going to be like? Just picture yourself swallowing every last drop of that biker's juice and mouthing hollow obscenities at the camera afterwards as a single white tendril explores the concaves of your trembling jaw - just like Michael Jordan does!
  • If you're kneeling in front of an audience and feeling a little nervous, here's a tip I picked up from an episode of The Simpsons! Simply picture the audience in their underwear! In fact, given the circumstances, try and picture them in underwear, trousers, a shirt, a thick jumper, a long overcoat and at a distance of 5000 miles, under the ground, dead. Doing this will enable you to tackle the trickiest of speeches, from summing up the financial year of your company to (as in your case) telling all ten of them to come over here right now and fuck it til your stomach's fatter than Santa Clause's.
  • Think of somebody you really admire being taken from two ways by gigantic moist and veiny cocks, and think about how they would react to the situation. Come on, Jainie! Would Hillary Clinton really let down the team by refusing to almost tear her anus in two for the delectation of a million shadowy perverts frothily masturbating in their darkened rooms?Not on your nelly!
  • Always smile! Smiling has been scientifically proved to release 'happy' chemicals in your brain. So if you smile throughout the torrid near-rape that you're about to go through, even when you are pirouetting on the fat greasy fingers of a tattooed sex-offender, it will all seem like a party in your body to which half of California's ex-convicts are invited! Smiling will also thus cut down your expenses, as you won't have to buy as much cocaine and heroin in order to not feel suicidally depressed, and will actually improve your standing in the porn industry. Why? Because if you're happy (or fleetingly appear to be), the customer is happy! (NB: This doesn't apply if you are making a porno in which the customer will only be happy if you appear to be writhing around in agony on the very precipice of death :-) )
  • Set Up Reachable Goals For Yourself. Write a list of goals for yourself such as :''Don't start cursing God until at least 20 minutes into the anal section'', ''Only take two valiums before arriving on set'' and ''Close your eyes before its too late'', and stick it up on your refrigerator!
  • Break up large and daunting tasks into smaller, achievable steps. Don't think of it as a ten inch long dildo – it's a four part 2.5 inch dildo! And that isn't a clenched fist – it's four fingers, a thumb and a huge hunk of meat, bone and gristle!
  • Remember, a stranger is just a friend you haven't met yet! And five-hundred viagra-hardened, coke-frozen strangers? Well, they're just a desperately needed pay-cheque you haven't got yet!
  • Don't Always Place Yourself In Competition With Others. This is a foolish and futile thing to do, because there's always someone out there who will have gone down on more 15 inch cocks than you have. Or actually, considering how lacking in self-esteem you are, there's always someone out there who will have gone down on less 15 inch cocks than you have. So chin up. Or should that be 'down'? Hahaha! :-)
FIND ANY OF THESE USEFUL? THINK YOU WOULD LIKE TO STOP LIVING IN THE SHADOW OF YOUR CRIPPLING SELF-KNOWLEDGE? Well, you can delude yourself further simply by sending me $55.99 today, so that you can receive my book ''SWALLOW YOUR DREAMS!'', which will teach you how to stop caring about anything that happens to you, given that you are a biological fluke squirming for a universal millisecond atop a random configuration of rock and water! Because remember – once you ''SWALLOW YOUR DREAMS'', just as the uncaring and indifferent universe will, you can swallow ANYTHING!

Wednesday, 24 December 2008

I Got Ho Ho Hoez

Merry Xmas to all illconceviedtatters.

Don't worry, I'll write something that isn't an embedding link for a youtube video very soon.

Sunday, 14 December 2008

God Is A Jungle DJ

aaaaand GQ's probably like Moses or something. If only the ten commandments had included things like ''Thou shalt make some fuckin' noise'' and ''Honour thy selecta''. Mash up soundboys, not choirboys. That's my christmas message.


Someone posted up the first of these on DNBA and I decided to post it up here, plus a few more bits. D-Bridge is wunderbar.

Daylight (with Fierce)

Last Straw (with Spacek)


Creatures of Habit

Friday, 12 December 2008

Pick N Mix

Lately it seems that all the best mixes I've been hearing have been mixing different styles up like sperm in the guts of a gangbang record breaker. There's Ben UFO's latest show, wot I just posted about yesterday, the boy Bizmarc's excellent funky/techno colliding Gorillacopter mix, Spyro and Maximum cross-breeding grime, garage and funky on Rinse a while ago, and many more examples which I can't be fucked to link right about now.

4 Line Haiku off Dissensus wrote this the other day:

"The growing amount of released funky seems to be leading to a lot of house/techno -> funky -> 2step -> dubstep type DJ sets, which is nothing but good news in my book.

I know for a fact that every single mix I'm doing at the moment goes something like that. Most of Ben UFO's recent radio shows are another (probably better) example.

Obviously this sort of thing has always been perfectly doable, but the combination of sped up funky and slightly pitched down 2step covers that slightly awkward BPM gap so perfectly, it would be rude not to do it"
and it reminded me of what Blackdown wrote in THIS post about Funky almost a year ago. Writing about how DJs in Napa in 2007 were mixing funky with bassline and grime and all-sorts of other things, he remarkled:

"(2000) was a halcyon era, where a tempo plateau around 138bpm saw multiple genres and scenes mixing and interacting, with the old school UK garage guard meeting the upstarts of raw proto-grime, dark 4x4 beats like DJ Narrows being mixed with Zinc-inspired breakbeat garage rollers, housey Todd Edwards-style 4beat mixed into proto-dubstep like El-B, Horsepower and Zed Bias.

Since then the various factions have either diverged or fragmented, occasionally interacting but seldom truly engaging in sustained dialog. Until summer 2007. Seven years on, suddenly it felt like there was another tempo plateau appearing again.."
Having recently been extremely excited to hear this kind of DJing style in practice on various aformentioned radio shows, and having rejuvinated my own interest in mixing somewhat by mixing 'Woman Trouble' with UR's 'Timeline' (and discovering an uncanny fit in the process) and stuff like that, I would have to agree that if this style of DJing came into vogue in clubs as well as the bedrooms of GEEKS (lol) it would really be the kick in the pants that plenty of underground scenes are begging for.

Another DJ who has recently been doing this (in fact who has probably been doing it for fucking ages) is Night Slugs' honcho Alex Bok Bok. He talks about the ethos behind the Night Slugs night in THIS Fact Magazine interview, which also includes a mix which perfectly illustrates the sort of informed eclecticism I'm drooling about. You also need to check out his latest Sub FM show in which he went back to back with Dress 2 Sweat's head honcho (there's a lot of honchos sticking their oars in) Jackmaster. It is fucking superb. The link is HERE and the tracklist is as follows...

01 - ROSKA -
02 - D MALICE - monopoly
03 - ILL BLU - frontline instrumental
04 - APPLE - seigalizer
05 - KERIZMA - broken beats
06 - ROD LEE - let me see what u workin with
07 - DJ ROB 3 - the chase
08 -
09 - CRAZY COUSINZ - Infiltration
10 - FINGERPRINTS - just leave remix
11 - LIL SILVA - funky flex
12 -
13 - D1 - ongie bongie
14 - WIZZBIT - jamhot (DAVINCHE remix)
16 - WILEY -
18 - TUBBY - t-mac
19 - ROSKA - our father
20 - ZOMBY - rumours
21 - GEMMY - back to the future
22 - CRIME MOB - stilettos (pumps)
23 - IKONIKA - please
24 - RUSTIE - bad science
25 - ZOMBY - aquafre5h
26 - D1 - bg
27 - LIL SILVA - seasons
28 - GEENEUS - into the future
29 - IRONSOUL - you liar
30 - DOK - big bang
21 - LAVA UNIT - not interested
22 - RUDE KID - sing for me instrumental
22 - NASTEE BOI - bangorz
23 - L-VIS & BOK BOK - bongo ram refix
24 - MALA - hunter
25 - WITTYBOY - attention
26 - DS1 -
27 - DROP THE LIME - hear me (4x4 mosh dub)
28 - PANTHA - damn thing
29 - MYSTIC MATT - igloo 2008 remix
30 - unknown - ENDZ vs ICE RINK 4x4
31 - KODE9 vs LD - bad
32 - L-VIS 1990 - zahonda
33 - STARKEY - gutter music
34 - MOVES!!! - playaz
35 - ILLMANA - shut yr mout rudeboi
36 - FUZZY LOGIC - twiss
37 - PIDDY PY - giggle riddim
38 - L-VIS 1990 - playing with knives refix
39 - KENTPHONIK - sunday showers

There's obviously still a lot to be said for working within a single genre as a DJ - it allows you to go in deep in a way that playing across the board arguably doesn't. But personally I find that the idea of mixing like this actually makes me feel much more excited and pant-wettingly enthusiastic about being a DJ. For starters, it's obviously a lot more fun mixing together different styles of beats and discovering things that (often against all odds) work together in the blend. But it also seems to me that it makes selection a much more individualistic thing.

If you're a strictly dubstep DJ its hard to bring a selection that isn't going to be pretty much exactly the same as the next guy. With this style of DJing you have so much stuff to choose from that you might very well end up playing a completely distinct set from anyone else... And if that sounds like its coming too much from a DJs perspective, maybe it is. But I reckon a lot of people on dancefloors across the country would be relieved to hear a wider range of styles on a night out (I've got to mention Notts based nights Wigflex and Futureproof here, as both are pushing this kind of eclecticism) and it keeps things interesting/NOT BORING when you never really know what's coming next.
Oh, and here's the flyer for the next Night Slugs at which about four different absolute dons are spinning

Other things I recommend mixing up in 2009: Ketamine/Pills, Mars Bars/Apples, Indie Groups.

Tuesday, 9 December 2008

Ben UFO Ruffage Sessions 04.12.08

Too ill and tired to think of a hilarious intro... get a haircut, when is hessle putting out a sven vath tune???, tea is a gateway drug etc etc... This show is farrr too good. Funky, garage, house, techno and an Instra:mental garage tune, mixed expertly. What more do you want - a hilarious intro?

Click HERE.

1. Recloose - Can't Take It (Planet E)
2. Anton Zap - Movin' (Quintessentials)
3. Omar s - Give It To Me (FXHE)
4. Cassy - April (Cassy02)
5. DJ Mystery - Shameless (white)
6. Zander VT - Get Down (Bpitch Control)
7. Roska - Gone To A Better Place (Roska Kicks and Snares)
8. Melchior Productions - Searching (Perlon)
9. Geeneus - Yellowtail (Rinse)
10. Portable - Notions of Slow and Fast (Scape)
11. Karizma - Groove A Cordingly (R2)
12. Pressure - Money Honey [remix] (Hyperdub)
13. Lighter - Skanker (white)
14. DJ Gregory - synth tune on uptown white (white)
15. Grievous Angel - Loser [funky mix] (Unreleased)
16. Tuff Productions - Top of the World [Steve Gurley dub] (?)
17. Tuff Jam vs. Todd Edwards - Need Good Love [Tuff Jam DIY Dub] (XL)
18. Grain - ??? (?)
19. Scott Garcia - ? (white)
20. Dem 2 - Baby You're So Sexy [Dub] (Locked On)
21. Sully - Reminder (Unreleased)
22. Kode 9 - Sub-Kontinent (Rephlex)
23. Instra:mental - Forbidden (Unreleased)
24. Zomby - Rumours and Revelations (?)
25. Likhan - Broken Stepper (Unreleased)
26. Kode 9 vs. LD - Bad (Hyperdub)
27. Brackles - Lizards (Unreleased)
28. Moves!!! - Playaz (Dress 2 Sweat)
29. Greena - Mr. Vansan Too (Unreleased)
30. XI - Dreaming Void (Unreleased)
31. Pangaea - Bear Witness (Forthcoming Hotflush)
32. Milanese - The End [Untold remix] (Unreleased)
33. ??? - ??? (unreleased)
34. Ikonika - Smuck (Unreleased)
35. Pearson Sound - Ex (Unreleased)
36. Geeneus - Knife and Gun [Blackdown and Dusk remix] (Keysound)
37. Joker and Rustie - Play Doe (Kapsize)
38. Peverelist - Esperanto (Unreleased)
39. TRG - Street Republic (Unreleased)
40. Grievous Angel vs. Missy Elliot - Lose Control [Garage mix] (Unreleased)

Not content with being a sick DJ and running a label that Ricardo Villalobos was recently heard calling ''my new Jesus'', Ben also co-runs a night that is huge in the linerforafiver game.

Reasons Why I'm Breaking Up With You, Chad Michael Murray

- You came round my parents at Xmas last year, do you remember Chad Michael Murray? Not only did you flirt constantly with my Grandfather, but during a family game of Pictionary, you drew a 2cm long line and revealed that the answer was my penis.

- Speaking of! I KNOW you took my penis out for a gourmet meal while I was visiting my cousin in Cornwall, AND that you kissed it goodnight on the doorstep and then groped it on its vein. You thought I wouldn't find out, didn't you, Chad Micheal Murray?! Unfortunately for you me and my penis are (or WERE) so close, we're practically SISTERS. It tells me everything, except when it needs washing.

- You treat me like crap. This reached intolerable levels when you strained your sphincter muscles and I slid from the inside of your colon into the toilet bowl.

- Sometimes when we're hanging out at your place making love in the afternoon, I get this feeling that you're thinking of another human cum bucket that lets you urinate in their mouth until they almost drown. I can see it in the limp half-assed way you hold the funnel. Where'd the fuckin love go, Chad Michael Murray?

- All the boys thinks you're dreamy, but the only time you're actually dreamy is when you start floating around the pulsating vegetable and bone tower while pissing blood into my eyes from your twenty foot long fingers as I try to run away but find myself unable to move. This only happened once or twice, too. Some ''Dream'' you are!

- You think you're like the sexiest guy in the world just cos everytime you text me my groin collapses in on itself and I have to be stitched from the calves up by a team of surgeons. Or maybe it's because Durex keep ringing up asking if they can manufacture a vibrator in the shape of your eyelashes? Or maybe it's something to do with being voted ''most fuckable 2008'' by Nun and Priest Gazette? Or that you've slept with 600,000 girls. But you really ain't all that.

- You don't even wrap your hand in bubble wrap before you beat me around the face for not cooking your steak right anymore. Talk about an inconsiderate jerk!

- You try and make me look stupid in front of your friends. Like, just last week when I came round and all your friends were there playing Xbox and drinking beer, and you asked me what the capital of Paris was. Do I look like a geology teacher?

- Last tuesday, when we were doing it in the back seat of your cat, you called out another girl's name. Then she opened the car door and got in. It was just sooo obvious.

- The only thing we have in common is that we both like you fisting me. That isn't enough to sustain a loving relationship, Chad Michael Murray. Seriously, have you not even heard of Scouting for Girls?!

- All my girlfriends say you deserve a lot better.

Monday, 8 December 2008

Wednesday, 3 December 2008

Letters to the Editor pt. 1

I'm often asked what my readership is. To be honest, I have no idea. I only occasionally receive correspondence, and most of it is labelled ''Congratulations! You're the lucky winner of a holiday in the Seychelles!'' To be honest, I have always hoped for a somewhat less gracious and upbeat kind of reader, so you can only strain to imagine my happiness at receiving the following piece of ''Reader Mail'' from a Mr. ''I've planted something in your garden!!'' of ''the brief and bitter past''.

Please, if you have something like the following to contribute, don't hesitate to acquire my home address and send me it in a blood-flecked envelope.

Dear Madam or Dog,

Life seems to me to be a gauntlet through which I must dash, my trousers perpetually falling from my waist towards my scattering ankles. Other than when I am in seclusion, peeping from behind the snug folding of my house's curtains, I am constantly in the grip of a petrifying fear. This is the fear of making a fool of myself, of presenting myself to the cruel eyes of others as an object of scorn and disgust.

I have been known to deliberately burn myself in the summer sun, so as to render my entire body the colour of a blush. Sometimes I staple a couple of tea-towels to my forehead my head, so as to draw attention away from my shameful face. Once, when I sneezed on a public bus, I was so ashamed at my sudden nasal plumage that I was compelled to ball up the goo in my fist and hold it there, seeping, until I could find a sandwich to stuff it in.

I remember the first time I embarrassed myself – it was on the day of my birth. I have seen a video of my birthing and I shall tell you (though it pocks me with shame) now that I slid out of my mother in a horrible state: covered in blood, weeping and completely nude! I see how quickly the doctors clean me, wrap my genitals away in a towel and tell me to stop crying. I see the look of pain on my mother's face, as if she has squeezed out a jagged flint or stone and not a smooth baby boy.

Then too, there was when I was watching ''University Challenge'' with my parents. I was 3 at the time, and recently dis-balded. The quiz-master asked the students how the earth was first weighed, and I was suddenly squirming in the clasp of my ignorance and embarrassment. I lay on the carpet muttering to myself for, well, it must have been at least ten seconds, and I still couldn't think of the answer. My parents were silent, undoubtedly waiting for me to calmly come out with it. Out it did not come.

As it turned out, they took a diameter of its height and cubed it.

A long time ago, I sent away for a book that I saw advertised on the wall of an underpass I was crawling through. The book is called ''Flame That Shame!'' On the cover there is a man, closely shaven and tied and shirted, hanging a jacket over his shoulder and smiling all his teeth out. I looked at him agape. He looked so dynamic and graceful! So admirable! So worthy of emulation!

Cowering before him, I hastily stapled a tea towel to his forehead and wrote down the send-to address on my wrist with the edge of my tea-spoon. Several months pass before they install the chap with the lumpy neck behind the counter at the newsagents and I am able to buy an envelope and stamps without urinating.

The woman at my local post office is so beautiful that I fear her most terribly, more than I fear torture or a sudden death. I am only able to communicate with her through manipulating my penis into the shapes of letters with my trembling hands. But this only seems to compound my status as a misfit, and I am only able to spell out ''P.L.E.A.'' before the sirens begin to whine and I am forced to flee.

There are websites for people like me – the shy guys. One site that I frequent and pay some of my money to sends me secret-camera videos taken at cocktail parties and in offices. The music is awful – slap-bass pogoing amidst a traffic-jam of saxohphones – but I am drawn, shamefully, towards the pictures. They show people talking to each other, over pasta and nibblets, about the ''2p Tax'' and ''Cheryl Cole's status as a feminist icon''. They talk in a number of positions, each more socially intimate than the last, and even use props (mobile phones, napkins, olives and spectacles). It is abject stuff.

I hear they are made by caterers and maids, making a little money on the side, sewing micro-lenses into their nipple-ends and leaving a button off. I started on Facebook at first, innocent enough stuff. I set myself up on there as ''The 02 Arena'' and I now have over two hundred thousand friends. I pored over their photos for days and days, feeling a tremble slide down my stomach every time I came across a salacious snap of a man standing on a beach in the top-nude, or of a person standing in a night club smiling their face. The only trouble is that many of my friends keep messaging me to ask when ''Kanye West'' will be performing inside me.

Later I grew tired of the tamer stuff, and moved on to the sites I have described, and to other sites that I cannot bear, even here – face to screen, screen to face – to describe. Peek through the cracks of wooden clamour that I have nailed around this hades of my awkwardness and you shall see terrible things – a woman, on her knees and surrounded by swaggering men, smiling falsely as one by one they ask her where the ''Teach yourself Spanish'' books are kept. A dead-eyed nymphet, walking a slobbering dog into an outback building, therein ordering an orange juice and crisps from the hairy-armed barman. A handsome man, walking out in front of an audience of half-drugged, starry-eyed subjects, delivering with great gusto and spittle, a speech about the benefits of state ownership. A Justin Timberlake music video. A couple – and here I must force my heel-dragging fingers over the precipice of my destitution – sitting at a table together, stripping themselves of their overcoats and lipsing each other in front of the murmuring crowd and the indulgent smirk of the waiter.

Many times I have hobbled to the basin after watching such flickers and splashed icy water over my sweat flattened skin, trying to drown the daydreams and nightmares.

Well, I had to put a stop to all this. Imagine, I suddenly imagined yesterday, if my computer was to be found by a person, and it was discovered that I entertained thoughts of not being embarrassed? The shame of it! I have decided to destroy my computer after I have sent this missive. I am going to go down to the cliffs of Dover and push it, in a shopping trolley, over the edge into the sea. I fear that somebody will recognise me by my clothes, so I shall have to do it naked, wearing the type of top hat that I would never wear – the luminous green type. I hope this disposal does not itself result in some unforeseen embarrassment, though I'm sure there is no way of completely guarding myself against it. Life is a gauntlet, you see.

I fear death. Yes, I fear it. Do I fear getting to the gates of heaven and tripping over the outstretched legs of James Dean, landing face first in St. Peter's packed lunch? Or meeting Lady Diana and shaking her with Camilla on my lips? God will probably ask me who my favourite member of Take That is.

Or is it hell I fear? Heaven's chariot shall fly past every day, no doubt, and stop a hundred yards from me. I shall run for it, and it will begin to pull away just as I reach the apex of my sprint. I shall have to pretend to Hitler and Khan that I was jogging. But they'll see through that. There are no curtains in hell, cloth or otherwise.

No. It is not that I fear.

Rather, I fear that I will bleed on someone's new shirt. Or that I will rot for a while and get up the nose of a pretty girl somewhere. What if, when I am found in a few days by the landlord with my head in the oven, I have cooked myself for too long, and I am charred and tough? What if, when they find me in the noose, the knot has been tied rather badly and my shirt has lifted slightly, so that they can see my chubby belly swaying about like a bag of custard?

Oh, how I fear ridicule! I should like to disappear entirely, from thought and memory. That is why they will find me, eventually, painted completely red with a three-pronged plastic fork and horns stapled to my skull. How absurd it would look, after all, to find a corpse emblazoned on its face with a dying blush!

lots of love,


p.p.s. You will join me in the silent sepulcher soon, you bloated worm!!

Scuba XLR8R8ER Podcast

Go HERE to download a pissing marvellous mix by Scuba of some next-level depthness. To me this qualifies as genuinely 'deep' music insofar as half the time I don't really know what the fuck's going on (BUT I LIKES IT). I suppose some of this stuff is actually techno rather than dubstep, the borders are extremely blurry at points though.

Special mention must go to Mount Kimbie with the goODDness (see what I did thereness?) of 'Maybes' which is all clicky-beats, vocoder-esque vocals and mournfully sweet chords which sound somehow like a fairy's limp carcass being tossed down a lift shaft. Press release quote: ''IT'S A BIT LIKE WATCHING THE TELETUBBIES ON KETAMINE!!!!!>!">"!>''

01. Shackleton - The Rope Tightens (Badawi remix) (Skull Disco) 00:00
02. Scuba - From Within (Marcel Dettmann remix) (Hotflush) 03:28
03. Mount Kimbie - Maybes (forthcoming Hotflush) 07:34
04. Scuba - Bleach (forthcoming Scape) 10:51
05. Sigha - Expressions (forthcoming Hotflush) 14:58
06. Pangaea - Bear Witness (forthcoming Hotflush) 17:15
07. STP - The Fall (T++ remix) (Sub Solo) 21:21
08. Untold - Sweat (forthcoming Hotflush) 23:52
09. Scuba - Tense (forthcoming HOTSHORE002) 25:54
10. Scuba - Ruptured (Surgeon remix) (Hotflush) 29:33
11. Sigha - Bruised (forthcoming Hotflush) 32:44
12. Baby Ford + Eon - Dead Eye (Plus 8 ) 35:55
13. F - The Untitled Dub (forthcoming 7even) 38:12
14. Scuba - The Upside (Martyn's down mix) (Hotflush) 41:23
15. Toasty - The Knowledge (Untold remix) (forthcoming Hotflush) 44:47
16. Mount Kimbie - William (forthcoming Hotflush) 47:02

Somewhat relatedly, here's a flyer for the latest Berghain dubstep event which I'm going to end up missing because I've spent all my money on Roska tunes and strongbow. Don't make the same mistake I do every Friday though.

Blogging Is For Dweebz

Continuing in the grand tradition of me nicking links off Dissensus and posting them up here, here is a recent Footloose show off 1xtra wot Fastus posted up originally. The picture above shows you how you should dance to these tunes, if you want to get gash with a perm that is. It's also a good way to dance if you want to simultaneously sing a top C or alternatively sterilise yourself manually so that you never have to have any whining little children who force you watch the Tweenies and make sure you can never go to another funky + champers session at Bar Rumba until 6 in the morning.

Footloose 25th November

Part 1 2.00-4.15

Cooly G – Love
Plague A Lero & Nitro – Inside Pushin Up Flowers
Donea’o – Party Hard (Zephron)
Addictive – My Love (Mr Bartley Prod) (2NV)
4Flava ft Ramsey – Gotta Get Away
Funky Family – Get Low
DJ Perempay & Dee ft Katie Pearl – In The Air (Bopstar’s Wonky Remix)
Marc Ambience ft J Melody – Funk Me
Donae’o – At First Sight
Cooly G – Dis Boy
Nu Sound Therapy – Hard Stepping (Karnival Music)
Natty – Bedroom Eyes (DJ NG Remix)
Footloose ft Courtney Dennie – So Dangerous (MIRaw)
DJ Q ft MC Bones – Back It Up (MIRaw)
Alesha Dixon – The Boy Does Nothing (Crazy Cousins Remix)
DMP vs Sadie Ama – Those Were The Days (Crazzi Cousins Remix) (Island)
Spoonface – Circus World (Faada)
Spoonface – Boogie Jam (Faada)
Roska – Gone To A Better Place
Roska – Bounce
Arms ft Courtney Dennie – One Look
Tawiah – Every Step (Arms Remix)
DVA & Serata – I’m Leaving (DJ MA1 Mix)
DJ MA1 ft Sim Simi – Give It Up (Original & M Sadler Mix) (Karnival Music)
Major Not£$ - Hooked On You (Lossol)
Major Not£$ – Viva La Revolution (Lossol)
Major Not£$ ft Mellody – Regular Lover (Lossol)
DJ Darkus ft May – Fingers All Up On Me (Rudimental)
Jook 10 ft 4 Fingaz – Feelin Lonely
Simbad ft Addictive – Now Iz Da Time
Paleface VS Sticky ft Sim Simi – Open Your Eyes (Northern Line)
Mr Roach – Total Confusion
Karizma – Twisted
Mario – Black President

Tier-Ra – Niehi – Now’s The Time (Mediatational Mix) (Ghost)

Part 2 - 4.15-6.00

Steve Angelo & Laidback Luke ft Robyn S – Show Me Love (Hed Kandi)
Geeneus – Piece Of Heaven (Jelly Jams)
Donae’o – African Warrior (Dub) (Zephron)
Todd Terry – Sunday Morning (Kenny Dope Mix) (Tony Records)
Marc Ambiance – Rain Dance
Kentphonik – Sunday Showers (Stalwart)
Crazy Cousinz – Inflation
Suges – We Belong To The Night
Afefe Iku ft Oveous Maximus – Mirror Dance (Yoruba)
DJ Perempay & Dee – Hypnotic
Geeneus – As I (Dub)
G Fam ft Princess – Frontline (Dub)
DJ Spen – Gabrielle (Fatty Remix)
S.I.A – LittleMan (DJ Q Remix)
Lloyd – All Around The World (I’ll Blu Remix)
DJ Naughty – Trouble’s Back
TS7 ft Teresa - End With Goodnight
Reyco Narx ft Shean Williams – Show Me
NB Funky – Riddim Box
Grant Nelson – Phantasm (Nice n Ripe)
Kenny Dope ft James Rouse – Money For Love
DJ Spinna & Ovasoul – You Should Be Loving Me (Wonderwax)
Demah – Up & Running
Babyface Jay – Power Of Music (No Face)

God Taunting Me Again # 4

This is even more blatant than that time he sent me the wrong way to a mate's house and I ended up stuck in a generic cul-de-sac.

Tuesday, 2 December 2008

S.A.D. - What Is It and Do I Have It?

Are you worried that you might be suffering from S.A.D.? Are you worried about anything at all? If so, you might be suffering from S.A.D., which is a depressing thought. Almost as depressing as those bloody grey clouds and that bitter wind that's tossing a damp jumper on your clothes-line up and round and about in an endless and meaningless tumult which only looks like a hollow parody of anger or excitement.

Isn't it funny how the sky seems to speak to us of our existence, like a loftily suspended HDBlu/Gray screen? On bright days the sky seems as huge and rich as our lives and love. On overcast days we appear to be confronted by the almost unbroken dreariness and indifferent pallor of our lives, the manner in which we shamble around our little rat-run world, hopelessly blinded to our imprisonment by either utter thoughtlessness, thoughts directed towards things like interest rates and how much we'd like to see Simon Cowell slip on a supermodel-dipped condom and break his spine falling down a large set of marble steps, or by our insolent and insoluble interest in ourselves.

No, it isn't funny at all. The sky isn't speaking to anyone. If anything, it's floating – like a big invisible poo in a puddle of infinite piss.

Do sentiments such as the above leave you feeling in any sense disturbed, angered or deflated? Well, then, you are definitely suffering from S.A.D. Just in case you aren't quite convinced of the crushing weight of the mental malaise you live under yet, I've compiled a helpful (and hurtful!) list of typical symptoms the typical S.A.D.-afflicted person might expect to suffer in the long cold months of October, November, December, January, February, March, April, May and most of June, July, August and September (as well you would expect them to, the pathetic mewling worms).


When watching Strictly Come Dancing, the usual urge to find a conveniently available stranger that can be beaten around the face with your shivering fist until their bones are jutting from their sloppy cheek-tissue like the red-rib-rack of a raw steak is sharply overtaken by a much more powerful and pleasant desire to hang yourself from the ceiling until your neck swells up and reddens like a cow's lumpen heart.

You have recently abandoned plans to become Abingdon's number one UK funky and bassline house DJ and now find yourself playing bass guitar in a band called Simple Simon who sing about yearning and regret in reassuringly obscure terms and all wear Gap jumpers, even when having sex.

Where once the folds of your curtains looked to you like snug orifices signifying the richly pored skin of a fecund Mother Earth, now they probably have asbestos in them or something.

Rain feels wetter.

Individual parts of your body, including your elbows and nostril hair, feel shagged out.

When you get out of bed in the evening, you are depressed to find that its dark outside already. You are also depressed to find that you've missed Paul O Grady's latest show. Following this, you realise that you are depressed that you've missed Paul O Grady's latest show, and remember that you have a big essay to do on the Stoics and Epicureans, which is a bit sour.

The acronym ''S.A'.D'' appears to spell ''Sad'' to you.

Earlier on in the year you were sat out in the garden with some soulful 2-step playing on the stereo, reading a magazine, cradling a sweet dry cigarette in your lips and contemplating going down the park in a few hours to play volleyball with the female cast of Hollyoaks. Now you're sat in the toilet, listening to your bowels lurch in their casing like a starving pig against the wooden bars of its village cage, gnawing at the sores on your dry purple lip. A moment ago you saw that woman from the Antiques Roadshow floating through the drizzle outside, and you stood up to wave to her, and one of your balls protruded forward, as blotchy red as your cheeks soon became.

When you make a snowball you try to throw it but then are frozen by its similarity to the tumour that is probably going to appear in your testicles when you're in your early thirties.

You find yourself staring, absent-mindedly, out of windows at the endless white swathes of sky atop a thousand stilts of shivering water, and when you look down five minutes later your wrist has mysteriously fallen to bits all over the sink.

Even after you put on six layers of fleece lined winter clothing, you still feel a cold sweat erupting across your sallow skin. You strongly suspect that this is a spiritual sensation, resulting from you being completely alone and helpless in a universe which, if it isn't Godless, expresses only the tangled pandemonium of a ruined consciousness which is, nevertheless, at least an infinite number of times more organised and significant than your own little pea brain.

Whenever you murder a child in the woods, you are compelled to dig through extremely hard and sometimes snow-covered ground in order to bury it afterwards. It is also markedly less satisfying strangling prostitutes when you're wearing thick gloves.

The view from your window once encompassed miles and miles of achingly beautiful and tantalisingly distant countryside. Now you can just about make out someone in an upstairs room watching Deal or No Deal on a High Definition TV that is better than any that you could ever afford.

The Christmas TV schedules, which would have inspired wonder and thankfulness if they had been pushed forward to July now somehow seem to be bloody awful.
Those gold rimmed sunglasses you bought in June are now miraculously both useless and absurd. The same goes for the pink and lime green bermuda shorts you bought in August, and the twenty two boxes of Soleros.

You used to be the only person on your street who lived in complete darkness with all your curtains closed 24 hours a day. Now everyone is doing it, and you don't feel so special.

The Burial album no longer sounds almost completely boring.

Despite ingesting several grammes of the serotonin-splurging wonder-drug MDMA over the weekend, you now feel a bit glum.

Whenever you have to stagger from your bedroom to the toilet with your boxer shorts around your ankles, smudges of grey gutcum slithering down your thighs like slugs catapulted into a brick wall, a dim physiological reflection of the waste and self-abasement your meaningless and contemptuous life has turned out to be, there's a bloody draft blowing up the stairs and you go pimply like a grotesque slab of axe smacked chicken.


Start a blog, you poor bastard.