0 3 / 0 8 / 0 7:
"free will is the predictability of personality. with life being inherently meaningless, death too is equally senseless. suicide therefore doesnt change anything. the only option is to surf on entropy, and make the most of whatever predicament one plunges into. life and death are no time to be practical. every flower is descended from a weed, and all flames are hollow."
- gx jupitter larsen (the haters)
for those of you in london who don't already know, there is a new rough trade shop, just off brick lane. whether first strike in a new war on the fascistic march of the mp3, or last brave hoorah and fuck you before the inevitable death of the artefact, it doesn't matter. go there now, buy things, go home, listen to them, h o l d t h e m i n y o u r h a n d s.
so, hostess elisabeth and myself are sitting in the s&m cafe, islington, enjoying our bangers 'n' mash, and what, you may ask, are they playing on the stereo? the theme tune from casualty. no, really. is this meant to inspire excitement in the clientele? excitement at the thought of physical harm? of seeing physical harm done to another? of pappy, poorly written drama? what's next, black beauty in the supermarket? catchphrase in the pub? perhaps a more appropriate song for the s&m cafe might be this monumentally annoying little ditty: "daddy, would you like some sausage?"
myself quite a fright this week by opening
the dishwasher while it was still going. shouldn't they make it so you
can't do that? y'know, like they do with washing machines?
it was like some medieval vision of hell,
in a box. it was all steamy and hot, it
spat at me. i may have screamed like a girl.
"if, before every action, we were to begin by weighing up the consequences, thinking about them in earnest, first the immediate consequences, then the probable, then the possible, then the imaginable ones, we should never move beyond the point where our first thought brought us to a halt."
- from 'blindness' by josé saramago
before university broke up, the lecturers were pushing a writing competition organised by the women's library. the subject of submissions was to be 'what women want'. and many were the eye-rolling suggestions as to what my fellow students would submit. one chap suggested that he might, by using a thesaurus and several foreign language to english dictionaries construct a concrete poem, out of as many different versions of the word 'cock' that he could find, the shape of the poem of course representative of this word. another fellow student thought she might write a piece connecting abortion with a women's right to be beaten should she so choose. sadly, for one reason and another, neither of these pieces were submitted. my piece, which was submitted, was something of a jokey reaction to the idea that any one person or piece of writing, could describe 'what women want', because callmeoldfashioned, call me a rabid callmanholecoverswomenholecovers feminist, but aren't women individuals not merely described by their uteruses? no? would the competition have been run if the subject was 'what black people want'? no, of course not, nor should it have been. it's ridiculous. it seemed to me that what women in general want could only be explained in very broad (no pun intended) terms, thus my piece, which is pretty tame, chiefly sarcastic, far from literary or clever, but seemed like a good idea at the time (and has not been selected for inclusion in the exhibition -funny that) feel free to skip this should it bore you by clicking here, it does go on a bit:
surprise, wonder, satisfaction etc.)
it is not
my intention to ever betray the receiver
of this composition during the period that they are elsewhere,
soon the entirety
of the currency which belongs to me will be presented to the receiver
of this composition.
exclamation of surprise,
wonder, satisfaction etc., the touchings of the receiver of this composition's
lips to another surface for the purposes of the expression of affection,
(exclamation of surprise, wonder, satisfaction
i call to your attention
the constituent letters of the word which
describes aptly the regard to which i have
previously requested that you use when interacting with myself.
exclamation of surprise,
wonder, satisfaction etc. (i ask that a
unisex stocking-like apparel should be
delivered unto myself in a colloquial sense x 4).
glastonbury was exactly
how you imagine it to be from no doubt having gloated over the media
coverage from your warm, dry armchair. i shall use one word and leave
it at that. that one word is torrential.
saw some good bands though, arcade fire, editors (who, despite
what the venerable gude says, do not sound
like coldplay. everyone knows that chris
martin sings like he's got the hiccups, whilst tom
smith sings like he's the deaf kid in school who no one liked) and
we were also lucky enough to see the stooges, together with the ensuing
invasion. the journey back from glastonbury though, on the
wettest june day on record, was quite a task of endurance.
dismantling the tent in the pouring rain was a bad start that only grew
worse as we stopped at the
popham diner for hostess elisabeth to change out of her pajamas,
only to find the toilets closed "because they were vandalised
yesterday". so the pajamas saw
us all the way home. the popham diner was a bleak fucking place. ran
by two disinterested looking eastern europeans, it was a bare room with
plastic seating and a menu that consisted of three things maximum,
scrawled in biro on scraps of paper sellotaped to the walls. grim.
believe it or not, diggerland really exists. be afraid. i'd jokily suggest we go there but i think mr. roast would be a little too keen.
"trying to locate the girls' exact pain is like the self-examination doctors urge us to make (we've reached that age). on a regular basis, we're forced to explore with clinical detachment our most private pouch and, pressing it, impress ourselves with its anatomical reality: two turtle eggs bedded in a nest of tiny sea grapes, with tubes snaking in and out, knobbed with nodules of gristle. we're asked to find in this dimly mapped place, amid naturally occurring clots and coils, upstart invaders. we never realized how many bumps we had until we went looking. and so we lie on our backs, probing, recoiling, probing again, and the seeds of death get lost in the mess god gave us."
- from 'the virgin suicides' by jeffrey eugenides
a great expression: 'ideologically promiscuous' -discuss, adopt, get t-shirts printed etc.
new spam approach:
we took the cat
to the vets to see to her growing catalogue
of ailments. a sign up in the reception area read missing, black
cat, answers to the name 'godot'. um, irony
trust me when i say that three of the most terrifying words in the english language are 'wacky', 'timmy' and mallet'.
months of misleading, inaccurate
and downright w r o n g forecasts, i think
it's high time that performance related pay was introduced for weathermen.
-special agent dale cooper, twin peaks
at last, another rare occasion where the christian establishment show their true backward thinking, retarded colours.
i mean, just look at his stupid, inbred grinning fucking face. could you ever tire of punching that? not convinced i could. the real problem is though, that this bloke isn't the problem, the real problem is his colleagues who think the same way he does but are too afraid to say so. get them out of the retard closet i say, go on fellas, tell the world just how ridiculous you truly are.
the perceived 'innocence' of childhood takes a richly deserved kicking. why do we feel the need endlessly romanticise nature? this kind of debunking can only do us good; next stop the retardation orgy that is the concept of purity? we can but hope.
and so another new whitehouse album, 'racket', is breech born into the world. and this one's even more percussive, easily outstripping the cheeky, 28 minuter 'astheticisis 2006' in both breadth of sound and pure balls-out-shit-on-the-living-room-carpet extremity (though it still only just nudges a little further towards half an hour mark). some tracks still retain the 'time-stretching' effect incorporated into the whitehouse sound during the 'mummy and daddy' era, but this new record takes things much further and in often surprising directions. for a large part anyway 'racket' isn't even really 'noise' (in the strictest 'distortion only' sense), chiefly utilising looped percussion, the use, and let's be honest abuse, of african instruments such as djembes and doundouns. but fear not, whitehouse haven't gone all peter gabriel on us, nor have they gone all techno. no, anyone foolish enough to try and dance to this record is liable to do themselves a serioius mischief. the soft option this ain't. this is still some of the most brutal and extreme music you'll hear anywhere; together with some of the most agressively 'ambient'. purists may balk at the development in sound but since when has progession been a bad thing? didn't they plow that same high pitchedsqueal furrow for long enough? 'racket' is both a sea change and a reminder that when they put their minds to it, whitehouse can still piss all over the opposition. so, different yes, but also fucking great. -fear not nay sayers and industrial reactionaries, remember, should you wince at change, we'll always have 'i'm comin' up your ass'.
"do i look like i have on my forehead, do i look like i have on my face, complain here, and rip me off?"
-the fall, 'the acute' [from the album 'are you are missing winner']
our new chair! gub bless ebay. the venerable gude remarked that it was very futuristic and asked whether we were going to take it in turns to sit in it and say "warp factor nine mr. sulu".
finally some hip hop i can get on board with.
the fucking recessed ceiling lights in the flat are failing one at a time. the epidemic started in the kitchen and one by one, like lemmings of myth and legend, they're all following suit. most recently it's been the turn of the light over the bathroom mirror... on a completely unconnected note, it's amazing how young i've been looking of late... in fact, my god, i'm gorgeous.
worst, most embarrassing lyric heard for a fucking dog's age, from interpol's 'rest my chemistry': "you look so young, like a daisy in my lazy eye" um, o dear.
this weekend i found myself uttering the following sentence: "there's a big difference between baking a cake and driving a car." my god, i'm a genius.
"we are so afraid of the idea of having to die, said the doctor's wife, that we always try to find excuses for the dead, as if we were asking beforehand to be excused when it is our turn"
- from 'blindness' by josé saramago
hostess elisabeth has now undergone her second series of spinal injections, though this time they only did one side for some reason no one seems to be able to explain to our satisfaction. i'll say it again, if we had money, we wouldn't be subject to every corner cutting whimsical lily-livered cunt in a white coat that the nhs could throw at us. we'd be in charge instead of just being lowly cuntstomers. while she was undergoing the procedure i took the time to eat my packed lunch in the waiting room. the receptionist then came over and asked me to eat it outside as i was surrounded by starving patients who'd been told not to eat after 9 the previous night. there they were, no doubt salivating over my peanut butter and marmite sandwiches... oops. so, anyhoo, hostess elisabeth has time off work to recover... and manages to contract laryngitis. when she coughs it's reminiscent of a rusty trumpet spitting out a whistle onto wet gravel. it actually tightens my chest to hear it.
yesterday i found myself at ikea stroking a bumerang. i think there may be something seriously wrong with me.
a man after my own heart. give him a fucking medal, not a prison sentence.
another fantastic, and much recommended, evening of cabaret and masked wrestling mania at lucha britannia brought with it this time, along with the excitement and thrills of the ring, a somewhat unexpected experience, not to mentioned another kid of 'ring' altogether. we've seen magicians as the interval acts, we've seen burlesque dancers, comedians... this time however it was to be something different. in between bouts, the wrestling ring was decked out for the next cabaret act, a decking out which consisted of a large artificial cow, replete with rubber glove udders, copious plastic sheeting, a tub of margarine and a large rubber dildo stuck to a wooden stool. on came the performer, who was introduced as 'mouse', dressed as a milkmaid. it soon became clear that underwear and mouse were strangers to one another. the margarine was 'employed' and the stool/dildo combination duly sat on and shoved in respectively. a certain amount of bouncing up and down was entered into, with not inconsiderable gusto. she then got naked very quickly. more margarine. now on all fours, her e n t i r e h a n d was inserted into herself. it was at this point i realised that this young lady would never have made it through the qualifying rounds of opportunity knocks. then the funnels appeared. large, plastic funnels. these were inserted into her- well, we'll just say into her, and a carton of milk was then poured in. out came the funnel and 'mouse' then proceeded, by facility of some kind of kegal exertion, to squirt said milk at the audience. this operation was then repeated w i t h h e r a r s e. it's amazing the sheer volume of milk that a slight young lady's backside can accommodate; not to mention the distance it can then squirt it, the sphincter part-prolapsed into a kind of puckered fountain of sainsbury's semi-skimmed. 'mouse' left the ring to cheers, jeers and general amused incredulity;there she goes, the faces of the crowd seemed to say, we shall not see her like again... if we're lucky. i left that night with a series of mental images i shall never be able to erase but with a feeling that i had created a memory, a memory that i could regale the grand kids with. not my grandkids you understand, someone else's.
the bathroom bulb has now been replaced. let there be light. turns out i'm not gorgeous after all. o well.
recommended: (audio) 'racket' -cd- by whitehouse / (comestible) rabot estate 72% baton, from hotel chocolat / (visual) lucha britannia! / (sensorial) being in a club with no one smoking!
reviled: (audio) hostess elisabeth's soul-grating cough / (comestible) earl grey tea / (visual) a spitting dishwasher / (sensorial) the mess left of the roof of my mouth after the over indulgence of sherbert pips
and finally, some great, almost dickensian spam begging:
"from: madam susan cole.
here writes madam
susan cole, suffering from
when my late husband
was alive he deposited
though what bothers
me most is the stroke that
i want you to stand
as the new beneficiary to the
it is often said
that blessed is the hand that
hope to hear from
you soon and god bless you
please send all
emails to my private confidential
a nice, clearly non-fraudulent woman...
where do i sign?