Saturday, 24 July 2010

Dear Number 8



Dear number 8.

Hello neighbour.
It's me from number 10. I know we've never been properly introduced, but trust me when I say I know you very well. I do believe we have certain matters to discuss.
Now it occurs to me that there are several things about our homes that you don't seem to realise. I for one have long accepted that our walls are paper-thin, and I may be able to hear noise from both you and number 12 depending on which room I'm in, but I can live with that. However, instead of blaming the architect, or the builders who constructed this street many years ago, you immediately assume it's our fault.
You're so very quick to call the landlady at 2 in the morning whenever my flatmate has friends around, or whenever I'm watching television at a reasonable volume with the windows open. It does get a little stuffy in my room sometimes, and a bit of fresh air does me the world of good. Yet you are prepared to deprive me of that because you can hear it from your adjacent window? How about turning on your own fucking TV and seeing if I give a shit? You even find the need to make complaints to my land baron about noise in the street. Let me tell you something woman, I'm not renting the street, the street is public domain. That's not my responsibility.

I've just recently moved into this street from Jesmond. The vast majority of houses in Jesmond are filled with students, and they do make a lot of noise on the weekends. They've had a long week of lectures and coursework, and they like to unwind when it's all over. I can understand that, of course they made noise, but I've developed a little mindset known as patience.
Patience entails not running to the teacher and telling on someone, mainly due to the understanding that said someone has a social life, something that you craggedy old fuckers don't seem to possess. I know it, my flatmates know it, the street knows it, even the fucking police know it. Still on a weekly basis you feel the need to pull them away from patrolling the streets, and keeping the neighbourhood safe to send them over to our house so we can talk with them about how fucking stupid you are.

Maybe you'd get to sleep a lot easier if you didn't spend your evenings standing by the window waiting for something to complain about. If you disapprove of your neighbours making sounds at various points in the night, I suggest moving in next door to a mute, or preferably to the middle of nowhere.

Yours sincerely,
Fuck you.

Thursday, 18 February 2010

Musical Cancer



The three men that you see in this picture, were collectively known at one stage in time as Reuben, one of the greatest bands in the history of English music. These young 3 guys from Aldershot worked as hard as they possibly could to keep putting out fantastic music, touring relentlessly to simply finance their records. They released three fantastic albums in their time, musically eclipsing any of their contempories with jarring instrumentals, fantastic lyrics, and the aggressive force of Jamie Lenman's powerful voice. Even with their relentless touring and loyal fans, things became harder for Reuben, with Jamie working in a local chippy just to keep a steady income, so the band split up.

Reuben could have been huge, they were one of the most talented bands of their time, and their music was ignored by the mainstream, because the British populous is more interested in buying music from these pricks!


Ladies and gentlemen, I give you, musical cancer. John and Edward Grimes, or "Jedward" as retards insisted on calling them, started out as 2 insufferable little twats who got their big break on Britain's most popular shortcut to fame, The X-Factor, performing songs with less musical prowess than a Butlins staff tribute to Steps. Simon Cowell described their performance the same way he described the first time he saw The Exorcist, continuing with "I thought it was horrible, but I wanted to see it again." Fairly amusing quote there, but I would compare it more to Date Movie, being that their performances were perpetually shit and I would never get paid to sit through it again.

Now besides from the fact that the twins look like malnourished Johnny Bravos twinned with an 8 year old Robbert Pattison, there's nothing else that's really interesting to say about them aesthetically, however it is interesting to think why anybody would want to spend hard-earned money on this appalling excuse for a single. Teaming up with Robert Van Winkle (That's Vanilla Ice to you) they have immediately pigeonholed themselves to one hit wonder status, drafting an over the hill, 42 year old white rappist that lost relevancy almost 20 years ago.

The music video is probably the most disgraceful visual we'll see this year. There's an intense feeling that washes over you once you finish watching their pop promo, the sickening thought in the back of your head that you've just gotten dumber. It's the gut-punch feeling that you've just witnessed something completely devoid of artistic integrity and creative merit. How could somebody ever find enjoyment in two Vanilla Ice wannabes jiving around with Vanilla Ice (Who himself appears to be a Fred Durst wannabe). They're the only kids that can cover a song as stupid as "Ice Ice Baby" and make Vanilla Ice look better by comparison. They're at the bottom of the rap barrel, along with Marky Mark & The Funk Bunch and the Insane Clown Posse, who have reportedly fell through the barrel due to weight restrictions.

Mankind will really need to pull their fingers out to regain the dignity lost by buying this dross. Maybe we should all pitch in a couple of pounds to finance a true alternative music triumph. Maybe something like John & Edward being put into the stocks for a week, whilst The Residents pelt tomatoes at them. That should wipe the shit-eating grin off their faces.

John and Edward will surely fade away in the months to come, but you people in the target market will only be happy to accept another creatively bankrupt piece of musical dirge to fill the black hole in your brain where good taste should be. You'll nod your head in your sickening nightclubs, to the same old bass drum beat you've heard on a million top ten hits before, completely ignorant to all the great music you're missing out on. You will wander round this rock for your whole life, not knowing that you forced bands like Reuben to split up, because you'd rather buy Jedward's single instead.

Tuesday, 26 January 2010

The Journey Conspiracy

con·spir·a·cy (kn-spîr-s)
n. pl. con·spir·a·cies
1. An agreement to perform together an illegal, wrongful, or subversive act.
2. A group of conspirators.
3. Law An agreement between two or more persons to commit a crime or accomplish a legal purpose through illegal action.
4. A joining or acting together, as if by sinister design: a conspiracy of wind and tide that devastated coastal areas.

The uttering of said word can lead to several images penetrating your brain like pop up adverts on porn websites. 9/11, JFK, Watergate, Scientology. All widely publicized by the media and paranoid Internet rumour-jockeys. Fire, blood, and explosions are among the sights that attribute to the impact of the word, but most people aren't aware of the effect the group of conspirators below have on the world.

Starflower

No, this isn't a group of sex offenders, it's Journey! The craprog-rock band that reached the height of their popularity in a far, far away land, known as the 80's. More specifically their psuedo-inspirational song "Don't Stop Believin'" has been coined as an epic anthem by morons ever since.

It is my belief, that Journey have been cutting deals within the media industry, to keep themselves in the charts, and locked into our consciousness until the end of time. Beginning with Family Guy singing Journey Karaeoke, following with the X-Factor's Joe McElderry singing Journey Karaeoke, and finally with American musical TV sensation, Glee, jumping on the last carriage of the High School Musical bandwagon by leeching off 2 pop-culture beasts at once.

Call me, crazy, call me paranoid, call me what you will but I believe that in many years from now, Steve Perry will use the download charting numbers to power a machine that will keep him singing his ball-churning, helium-fueled ballads until the end of time, therefore solidifying the stranglehold on the idiotic masses, and building up his crappy, uneventful, curly-haired dross to be way more than it actually is.