Saturday, 27 February 2010

Giggy Gig Gig.

Right. Quite often I'm going to write something on here but then end up not due to things like time and my stupid memory. I am far too tired to write a proper blog post now for example, but if I don't write something now, I'll end up not doing it til at least Monday, by which time I'll be all like 'Oh God, I can't be bothered now,' or something equally as lame and then I don't end up writing it at all. So I'm going to knock up a quick thing now so I can come back and expand on it later. And if I don't, it'll be up here anyway and you will all know what was once momentarily in my brain one Friday night. Right? Right.


So yeah. I went to a gig last night in London. This gig was awesome. It was BITCHES single launch gig at Old Blue Last. They were awesome OBVIOUSLY. Doesn't take a genius to work out that I'm gonna say that, right? Right. What I wasn't expecting so much was just how much I enjoyed TEETH!!!, who were supporting. I remember seeing them sometime last year at Old Blue Last and they really didn't float my boat. I dunno, maybe I just wasn't in the mood for them or something. I saw that they were playing with BITCHES again tho and so thought I'd give them another go. I had a pop on their page and they've got some tracks free to download. I gave them a little listen and thought, 'You know what? I like what I'm hearing here.'
So I already went into the gig with my mind having somewhat been changed by them, and I tell you what, my mind was totally changed by their set last night. They were AWESOME. I'm a bit too tired right now to describe them but a basic sum of them would go something like L + V + D = AAA, or rather, 1 laptop operator + 1 vocalist + 1 live drummer (who plays his drums like they have hired him to spank them into submission as frantically as he possibly can because they really love all that S&M shit) = Triple Awesome.
TEETH!!! are electrical energy. When we run low on fossil fuels, we should use them to power all our appliances.
Check 'em out. Here is the address for their!!!?ac=teeth!!! where you can listen to stuff. My personal favourite track is 'Whhhaaaatssss Upppppppp (NO EDIT)'
They can haz MySpace too: where I just discovered a link to a download of three songs I didn't have. Cool!
Go on. Check them out. They're pretty fucking great.

As ever, BITCHES can be found here: here: and here: but really, if you're a regular reader of my blog and you HAVEN'T checked them out already, then I am thoroughly ashamed of you. Hang your heads, you.

Oh yeah. Young Athletes League played too. They were first on. They were pretty sweet too. Some nice synth+laptop+guitarloops slightly Arthur Russell in style, but it's an influence. They're not apeing in any way. They live here: and here:

Right, well I was going to go to bed now, but the women's olympic curling final is on the telly. You lot go listen to some great music I've just given you links too, I'm gonna go watch some women in tracksuits push stones and sweep ice. That's how I roll.

Sunday, 21 February 2010


You know what's a massive pile of rotten donkey's dick? The new Cheryl Cole single that's what. Well, I'm assuming it's the new single anyway, I heard it when I was looking at shoes in Schuh. Fuck me, that song is DREADFUL. But you know what the worst thing about it is? Yes, it's my favourite shit thing about shit songs, the lyrics. whoever wrote them didn't actually think about what they were saying for even a moment. I remember hearing a story about a song, I can't remember which song right now, but I remember that the song is FUCKING AMAZING. Anyway, story goes that the lyrics were written in the space of a car journey to the studio to record the song. This Cheryl Cole song sounds like she made up the words while singing, and while stoned.
The chorus:

'I don't need a parachute
Baby, if I've got you
Baby, if I've got you
I don't need a parachute
You're gonna catch me
You're gonna catch if I fall
Down, down, down.'

Okay, how many times have you ever had your fall broken by a parachute? NEVER. Do you know why? Because parachutes are totally ineffective on any sort of short fall. Cheryl Cole seems to be implying that before she met this person of her dreams or whatever, she would wear a parachute all the time in case she fell over so that it would bring her gently and safely down to the ground, which would make her stupid because there is no way that any parachute would be able to open in time and be in any way capable of creating enough resistance in the air to stop her from falling right smack crack on the ground hard.
Or maybe she has the confidence in this human that she would be willing to jump out of an aeroplane without a parachute and would simply count on him catching her before she crashed into the ground and she would be safe. This would also be really fucking stupid, because unless the person in question was Clark Kent she would not only plummet to her death but in attempting to catch her, the person she loved would probably die from having a pop singer falling into them from several thousand feet up in the air.
Either way, 'Parachute' is lyrically a fucking dreadful song. But hey at least the music is really exciting and interesting to make up for it, right? Oh no, hang on...

What, you think I'm being harsh? Go on. Go here read the lyrics and tell me I'm wrong. Tell me those aren't the lyrics of a stoned 14 year old. Tell me there is any merit to those words whatsoever. You can't. Because there isn't.

Tuesday, 16 February 2010


Something's been on my mind recently...
You know what I hate? Babies. Babies are stupid and anyone who has one is an idiot.
You know what else I hate? People who sound like cake when they talk. There is nothing more annoying than trying to speak to someone who has a voice like a Victoria Sponge or a Black Forest Gateaux. Even a triple choc chip muffin voice is irritating. 'Oh, sorry, what are you trying to say to me? I can't understand you because you sound like a cake!'
Urff. Imagine combining the two tho. A baby that has the voice of a cake. A 'Cakeyvoice baby' if you will. That would be just about the worst thing ever.
Although if this abomination ever were to occur, I'm sure it's parents would love it despite it's obviously off putting abnormalities. Then again, to have a 'Cakeyvoice baby' you would almost certainly need two total freaks of nature to have been mating in the first place, so it would definitely be in good hands parent-wise. What controls a freak well? Of course, the answer is two freaks. That's simple maths, that.
With society as it is as well, this family of freaks wouldn't even need to go and live in a cave anymore, or join a travelling circus! They would just be free to walk among us! What is the world coming to?! It's political correctness gone mad I tell you.
Well, I guess I'll just have to get used to living in a world where this kind of thing is acceptable, I suppose.
Could be worse. It could be a baby with an owlhead and an idiot face! That is not even worth considering.

Saturday, 13 February 2010

Axl's Adventures In An Open Mic Night (Chester Arms, Oxford, 08/02/10)

I've been a bit quiet on here for a bit, so here's a little something I got up to recently.
Just over a year after my (fairly disastrous it has to be said) first ever open mic night reading, I decided to man up and give it a go a second time. Surely it couldn't go much worse than the first, which was one at college where I mumbled and tripped my way thru my words and made a lot of people complain about one poem in particular that I read. Oops.
This one was in the Chester Arms, so it was kind of my first 'proper' one.
So yeah, I was kind of bricking it.
Someone, I think it was my Mum, said I should just treat it as if I was acting (referring to when I used to do acting/performing arts yeeeeeears ago), but it's completely different. When you act you're basically in a role and as much of yourself as you put into that role, you still get to hide behind the fact that it isn't really you. You're being someone else. Standing up in a room full of people reciting something you have written, you put your whole self on display almost. It's a completely different thing.
So yeah, I was kind of TOTALLY bricking it.
But I did it.
And it seemed to go down pretty well. In fact, I sort of totally nailed it. The response was great. People laughed in all the places I wanted them to, and seemed to really like what I'd done.
It felt pretty fucking great.
Anyway, the whole thing's a little bit of a blur. I can't say a massive amount more about it, so instead I shall simply share with you the three poems that I did.

Along The Seafront

'Jim, Jim is that you?'
'Jim, why have you got your umbrella pulled down over your face like that?
It's not even raining.'
'I'm hiding.'
'From what?'
'See the sea to my left?
That sea stole all my ex-girlfriends
and turned them to mermaids.
Now they try and tempt me into the water,
knowing I can't swim.
Knowing I would die.'
'Why don't you just look the other way then?
That would solve that, surely.'
'I can't.'
'Why not?'
'See the café to my right?
That's where my ex-girlfriends fathers go every day
to mourn the loss of their daughters.
If they see me, they get very angry,
and try to push me in the water,
knowing I can't swim.
Knowing I would die.
So if I want to walk along the seafront,
I have to make sure I'm not seen.'
'Why not just avoid the seafront altogether?'
'I can't.'
'Why not?'
'My doctor told me
that I need the sea air.
She said it's the best way to deal with the hair
growing on the inside of my lungs.
See, the hair gets all clumped up
restricting my breathing,
and the salty breeze untangles
and erodes the hair easily.
So I have to walk along the seafront,
But I want to make sure I'm not seen.'
'Surely there must be another way.'
'Well of course there is,
but have you ever tried inhaling a hairbrush?'

Pot Of Tea

Dear Diary,

Today, Mother came round
to share a pot of tea
and the afternoon gossip.
'Do you see David anymore at all?'
'No, but a friend of mine knows his sister, Lisa.
Apparently she has a kid now.'

Mother never dunks her biscuits.
She prefers to take a bite,
then have a slurp of tea immediately after.
That way, she says,
'You don't get the grit
in the bottom of your cup.'
Mother is a particular fan of Garibaldis.

Fucked Up On Garlic Crabcakes

I've got a camel on my back and it's excitably drunk,
Like Thelonious Monk.
Spunk dribbling out the side of it's mouth.
It's got three humps,
His girlfriends got AIDS and mumps,
So he dumps her.
She throws herself under a train,
Everyone curses her name,
As they're going insane in a three hour standstill.
Jack and Jill popped a pill and got their fill,
Staring at their hands,
Jill sucking on Jacks glands.
Jill was pregnant in the mornin',
Went to a clinic and got an abortion.
Things were never the same between them.
Jill started drinkn',
And Jack started going to gay clubs.
Got himself a hardon,
Got taken up the arse in Covent Garden,
But forgot to use a condom.
Now he's got Hepatitis B.
Jill's too drunk to see the car in the road,
And she gets mowed down.
Paralised from the waist down in her nightgown,
She'll never walk again.
Meanwhile, my camel friend is chewing on my ear.
He really is a fucking nuisance.

'Pot Of Tea' was given 'Poem Of The Week' by the website ABCTales, which I was pretty fucking chuffed with.
'Fucked Up On Garlic Crabcakes' was the one that all the complaints were made about at the college open mic night. It went down MUCH better at this one. Long term readers of this blog might recognise it, as I first wrote it on here nearly 3 years ago now.

I am working on some new stuff to do at the next one. It's not going to go down as well as this one did, but hey, at the moment I'm feeling pretty encouraged to try this a few more times and see what happens.

Friday, 5 February 2010


Bonfrancesdelatourdoorjour, my poor fucks. I'm back once again and I'm gonna type your fucking brains out. Woo-hoo!

RIGHT. Nothing has been pissing me off recently, in fact I haven't really had a lot to say at all about anything. Alex won Celeb BB, as I predicted, got hitched to the massive junga'd one, and in a fortnight or so there'll probably be some story bandied about the tabloids that she is out getting pissed and her tits are falling out onto some letchy fucker's face, causing all manner of 'Isn't she appaling,' and 'Oh, I can't believe her,' comments backed up with grainy photos that could quite frankly be a dog on a treadmill eating a cake for all anyone knows, but it'll be enough for people to have her 'villified & pilloried in the stocks of common gossip,' as Tom Stoppard wrote in 'The Real Inspector Hound.' Damn, that is a good play. I was in that play, years ago, and we did a bloody good job of it if we do say so ourselves. Of course, that was when I had long hair. Which is where the nickname 'Axl' comes from of course. Yup, Axl isn't my real name. Believe it or not, my real name is Escargot deMontfort Tubular Psychosis Renegade Smithington-Hyde III. Yeah, here I lie on my bed of slaves, eating chocolate coated raspberries hand picked and prepared by panda bears. Nothing tastes quite as good as senseless exploitation. Oh yes. I wash them down with my Aunt Yenga's breast milk. Aunt Yenga was a tiny lass in her childhood days, but grew to seven foot four in her 20's. She is the only woman I know who can write with both feet. Aunt Yenga once told me 'If it aint broke, don't fucking break it, whatever you do, or I'll fucking cane you, you little shit.' Aunt Yenga used to feed me from the many bottles of homemade wine that she had floating around the place. Many a time would me and Aunt Yenga get blotted on radishes and cabbages and talk about the news and weather. She preferred itv's news coverage, whereas I was more inclined to trust the BBC. A friend of mine once worked for the BBC, fluffing the Blue Peter presenters before they had to do serious items. If they had to whimsical items, then someone else would do the fluffing. My friend you see, specialised in bringing out the worst in a person. I remember I had to stop going out with her after finding that a bottle of wine at a dinner out we were having had been replaced with something altogether less appealing. Anyway, she once invited me to a recording of Blue Peter. Richard Bacon was a lovely chap. Konnie Huq also made me feel more than welcome. She had this strange habit of touching her right knee whenever she knowingly lied.

That's all I have to say right now I'm afraid.