Music Icons Who Aren't Very Good Singers.

I was thinking about how I will never be a rockstar as I lack all musical talent, and then I realised that some of the most influential Musical Icons aren't very good singers. In fact, some can just about sing in tune, but they are still awesome.

Here's my list:

• Liam Gallagher - The arsehole frontman of Britpop legends Oasis (and then the disappointing Beady Eye), Liam has an extremely sharp voice. He pretty much just shouts. Honestly, listen to Oasis songs and it's clear. Liam sings the heavy songs like "Cigarettes & Alcohol", "Acquiesce" and "Live Forever" while Noel (who can sing) takes songs like "Half The World Away" and "Don't Look Back In Anger".
• Billie Joe Armstrong - Very good frontman. Very good songwriter. Ok singer. He's not bad, but he's not particularly good. Listen to "Time Of Your Life". Great song, and it's the "everyman" appeal which draws people to Billie. He could be just anyone.
• Ian Curtis - Curtis almost sings like a caricature of a singer. It's very deep and very strange. It sounds like he's doing a bad impression of someone else, but it works.
• Johnny Rotten - The quintessential Punk. He can't really sing, but he's outragious and a showman. If he wasn't such a good showman, he would have faded away and be forgotten.
• The Clash - The Clash are arguably the most influential Punk Rock group of all time, and not one of them can sing in tune fully. They each adopted lead vocals for different songs, for instance, listen to songs like "Bankrobber" (Strummer), "Guns Of Brixton" (Simonon) and "Should I Stay Or Should I Go" (Jones).
• Tom Waits - Not many ordinary people know of him, but those who appreciate truly excellent and raw music think he's a genius (which he is). His voice is unique and has been described as sounding "like it was soaked in a vat of bourbon, left hanging in the smokehouse for a few months, and then taken outside and run over with a car." Listen to his early stuf (such as the studio version of "Ol' 55") and it's clear that he can just about sing, but it's the rawness and phenominal lyrics which make him an Icon; albeit an often overlooked one.
• Lou Reed - Simply a legend. He helped define and shape not only an era, but also music itself. He voice is strange. It is deep and almost vacant, like an echo. When listening to "Perfect Day", Reed is clearly out of tune in parts, but that's what makes the song. It gives it a melancholic feel which is distinctive to Reed.
• Jim Morrison - Regularly called the greatest frontman ever, Morrison wasn't the world's best singer. He was good, he could hold a note, and he could blow nearly any audience member's mind, but his voice didn't hit you hard. It wasn't particularly original, but he was.
• Iggy Pop - The Godfather Of Punk (who unfortunately now does car insurance ads and sings on American Idol) as often mocked with The Stooges for simply being weird, and barely able to sing or play their instruments. But this was the birth of Punk. It didn't matter. Iggy is regarded as quite possibly the greatest frontman ever, and the fact that he wasn't that good a singer was part of the Stooges' experience.
• Kurt Cobain - Extremely influential. Desperately sad. For me, he sums up Generation X. He's regularly named one of the greatest singers ever, yet his voice isn't perfect. There's better singers out there, but his voice was sorrowful and bleak. It was imperfect, just like him, and just like eveything Nirvana was.
• Jimi Hendrix - The greatest guitarist ever. Period. But, as far as I can tell, he sort of cheated everyone when it came to singing. He's good, but when you listen a bit closer, he just appears to be half singing/half speaking. It's a strange mix which really worked. He is a definition of the 60's, as far as I'm concerned.
• Bob Dylan - Often credited as the greatest songwriter ever and the 20th Century Shakespeare, Bob Dylan has influenced numerous performers over the years. However, if you listen to him, his singing voice is pretty shit. It whines and grates like an untuned violin, yet he's still considered a musical genius.

So, if you're a good enough song writer with a voice which is barely in tune, you can still become an Icon. Which means there's still some hope for me if I get some singing lessons....and talent.

54

This was inspired by one of the stories on Comic Relief a few weeks back, as well as "Time" (which features one of my favourite lyrics ever) and "Hold On" - both by Tom Waits. Again, not one of my best as it's a first draft. Needs more poetic bits.


54

54 years they were together. Most of their life.
They met in early '54 at a dance hall. 3rd Of February.
She wore a florial dress that night, he, his father's suit.
It drown him but he felt like a man. His name was Roger.
He approached her, nervous but determined.
Her eyes were big and green, her silk was pink, her hair was mousy and brown.
Her name was Marie, and didn't like it when people called her Mary.
He said he liked her dress and asked for a dance; her cheeks became rosy and she obliged.
They danced to The Chordettes - "Mister Sandman". He was in a dream.
He walked her home and a kiss on the cheek behind her garden hedge. She didn't want her mother to see.
That night they fell in love.

They married in '56 at the church on their road. It was cloudy on their wedding day, but they didn't mind.
They couldn't afford a wedding ring, so they borrowed her late grandmother's.
She moved into his family house two days later. His mother liked her, and so did his father.
He got a job at a shoe-menders. Fixing soles and mending heels.
She helped around the house.

It was in '61, when they got their own home, a small flat in the Elephant & Castle.
Two rooms, a kitchen and shared toilet. The walls were paisley and green, like her eyes.
The floors were made of old, bent wood. The boards would creak under a kitten's paw.
She had a flowerbox outside the kitchen window, where she grew daisies.
It wasn't much, but it was their home.

In '64, they tried for a child but couldn't.
Either she was barren or he was infertile.
They didn't know which.
He bought her a Yorkshire Terrier from a man in The Ship.
She loved it and called it Brando, after the actor.
He was firm that Brando would sleep on the floor, but always woke up with him laying on his feet.

Her mother moved to Cornwall in '72 and died a year later.
It was cancer, the doctors said. Cancer of the pancreas.
They tried to make it to the hospice before she died, but were an hour late. She never got to say goodbye.

They went on a foreign holiday for the first time in '81. They went to Spain.
The beaches weren't like Brighton or Broadstairs, and he got sun-burnt on the first day.
She just went red. She never could tan - her skin was too sensitive.
They stayed in a little villa which looked on to the bold, blue sea.
They would watch the boats and sip their drinks. His a beer, her's a Blood Mary.
He would always make a joke, and she'd always laugh.

He retired in late 2003. He was tired of work and had back problems.
He planned to spend his days doing crosswords and watching TV.
She wasn't looking too good. Always tired, stomach pains.
They went to the doctors to run tests.
She was scared. He never let go of her frail, silky hand.
She was diagnosed with cancer in 2004. Pancreatic, like her mother.
They didn't know how long she'd live. Only a few years, or maybe more?

They spent their days playing cards, reading, watching TV.
She began to forget the rules. Most likely age.
She forgot dates too. She'd forget what day it was or the way home from the shops.
He took her to the doctors again as it became more frequent.
It was September 2006 when he found out she had Alzheimer's.

She quickly got worse as it took hold.
Some days she'd forget who he was.
She'd be hurtful.
She couldn't help it.
He wouldn't let her see him upset.
She wouldn't be able to understand.
Each day varied.
The cancer was eating away at her even more.

It was early 2008 and Marie was asleep in bed.
Roger was sat in the chair next to her bed.
Her eyes were vacant, except for the pain.
Her skin was yellow, like a skeleton wrapped in cling film.
Her mousy hair was now thin, almost non-existent.
He glanced at the calender resting on top of their old record player, dusty from years of rest.
3/2/2008.
He wanted to cry. He wanted it to end.
Marie was sick. He was sick of her illness.
He no longer wanted to watch her die. He couldn't.
He couldn't watch her struggle to sip water through a straw.
He couldn't leave her bed-bound any longer.
He couldn't explain to her why she was in pain everyday.
He couldn't spend another moment watching tears fall from those big, green eyes of hers.
He wouldn't let her suffer any longer.

Roger cleaned off the dust and put on their record. The Chordettes.
After closing the florial curtains, he picked up his pillow.
Marie still slept, wincing slightly with pain.
Her breath was raspy as it swept through her throat.
Tears filled his pale eyes as he watched her.
Slowly leaning over her, his tears dropping over her heart, he raised the pillow.
He thought about how he'd never see her eyes again.
"I love you, Marie. And I promise, this won't hurt a bit."

Unravelling The Myth Of "The Clean Break-Up".

I've just wrote this. It's about breaking up. It's not sexist or intentionally disrespectful to women, and it's not a generalisation. It's about two individual (fictional) people, yet I think people can relate to it. It was strangely inspired by Jarvis Cocker's "I Never Said I Was Deep" and "Where Do You Go To My Lovely" by Peter Sarstedt.

It's not one of my best, probably the opposite in fact, but I'm bored at work.


Unravelling The Myth Of "The Clean Break-Up".

Let's unravel the myth of "The Clean Break-Up"....

It's never easy, it's never simple, it's never gonna happen in any other way.
She'll scream and she'll shout and never listen to what you have to say.
Don't try to be decent, don't try to be nice, 'cause you're guaranteed to "ruin her life".
Just bite your tongue and zip your lips, and whatever you do, don't look at her tits.

Don't let him speak, don't let him apologise, don't let him talk.
You could sit and discuss, but you'd much rather sqwawk.
You know full well what he's trying to say, but he deserves to pay.
You understand what he's saying, though he is wrong.
Get angry, but don't cry, you've gotta be strong.

Let her say what she wants, and let her do as she wishes.
Play your cards right, or you'll sleep with the fishes.
She may kick, she may scratch, she may bite.
But always remember, it's a one-sided fight.
Don't hit her back, that is a disgrace.
Just be a man and guard your face.

How could he do this, make you look like a fool?
You've been so loyal, you always played ball.
He used you, he took what he wanted and left you cold.
And to think, this was the man with whom you'd have grown old.
He doesn't appreciate what he has - or rather, what he had.
He was always no good, why didn't you listen to your Dad?
He's just a ponce, a sponger, a prick.
He has shit sense of humour and an inadequate dick.
He's not a real man, he's just an overgrown boy.
You'll have nothing to miss, you've still got your toy.

Don't worry about your things, you'll have them soon.
They'll be scattered on the lawn via the window of your room.
She'll smash your CDs and rip your shirts,
'Cause she knows how to get you where it hurts.
She'll break your things, and leave the TV.
But it could be 50/50 with the PS3.

This was gonna be easy, or so he reckoned.
Well, fuck him. He's a not staying a moment longer, not a second.
Kick him out of the door, grab him by the scruff.
Not long after he'll be followed by his stuff.
Get rid of ever possession, every last thing.
Especially the PS3, that'll really sting.

You better walk away, in fact, you better run.
Sticking around won't be much fun.
She can't forgive you, you've broken her heart.
Just get outta there, c'mon, be smart.

That's it, fuck off, get away from this place.
And make sure you wipe that stupid fucking look off your face.
You're not wanted, you're not needed, you're the bain of my life.
And to think, I was thinking I'd one day be your wife.

She'll move on, soon or later.
Though, deep down, she'll always hate ya.
You've gotta be different, you've gotta be mature.
So make sure you don't tell your friends she's a whore.
Soon you'll realise this was all a farce.
Maybe you'd be better off gay, and deal with a different pain in the arse?
But perhaps you shouldn't lose faith, maybe you shouldn't give up.
However, that doesn't mean go shag a slag with a bucket for a vagina and a Double-G cup.

He's gone now. He's said his last farewell.
Now let your tears fill your heart's wishing well.
You've earned it my dear, you've been through enough.
It's ok now, you no longer have to be tough.
Let those tears stream, let them fall.
It's time for you to tear down that wall.
As you lay curled, and you sob and you cry,
Remember, your heart is broken, but you will not die.

That Morning Feeing.

After watching BBC News last night regarding the conflict in Libya, I was inspired to write this.

That Morning Feeling

That morning, Joe woke up at 7:14 precisely. He had set his alarm for 9:00, but his alarm clock wasn't in sync with his body clock.

He pulled the covers off himself and his dog, using his toes to find his slippers, he thrust them on, and stood up - groaning. Opening the curtains, he was welcomed by a melancholic sky. Grey, with a the sun trying to fight its way into visibilty.
He lit a cigarette and looked at himself in the mirror. He did not look healthy. Dark circles, bloodshot eyes, stubble, oily skin. He smoked half his cigarette, and placed it in the kitchenette ashtray. It went to his head if he smoked it all.

He lifted his rigid leg over and into the bath; climbing into it, he pulled over the yellowy-green florial shower curtain. The pipes groaned a tiresome 7am groan as he turned on the taps. They were set on their opposites - HOT as cold, COLD as hot - and he kept meaning to change them, just like he had for the past 4 years.

He switched on his TV as he dried himself. That towel never dried him properly, and he always ended up using the hairdryer on his body instead. He always thought to himself, if someone were to peek into his window at that point, he'd look like a pervert using the hairdryer on his balls.

He got fed up, and left his hair damp. He contorted into his dirty jeans and his aged Joy Divison t-shirt. He bought that when he was 19 from Camden - back when he thought it was cool to like obscure Indie bands and drink wine in bars. That was nearly a decade ago. He didn't know why he continued wearing it, it just made him feel old and depressed.

The transfer from carpet to lino felt weird under his bare feet as he stepped from the living room into the kitchenette, he made himself a bowl of Coco Pops for breakfast. He liked Coco Pops, but he felt like a 12 year old when he ate them and a paedo when he bought them. He felt as if people looked at him, thinking: "What does a man of his age want with Coco Pops? He must be a paedophile." He wasn't a paedophile. He liked kids, and would one day want his own, but first he'd need a woman who wanted to date him for a long time, and usually he didn't get past the first date.

He sat on the sofa, feet perched on the coffee table, watching daytime TV through his knees. He didn't know why he had a coffee table, he didn't like coffee and also rested his tea on his lap or put it at the foot of the sofa. He guessed he felt obliged to buy one, as if it was a necessary thing, for if he didn't, he may become a social outcast. He friends would betray him, for he didn't have adequate facilities for them to rest their drinks (and they weren't fans of his methods).

Neville, his dog, slowly trudged into the living room, glancing at him lazily as if to say greet him and acknowledge the time of day. Neville clambered onto the sofa, curled into a semi-circle, and resting his head inbetween his front paws, began to watch TV.

Joe could never comprehend why daytime TV was so shit, or why it he was watching it? It was aimed it slackers, he thought. He hated it, yet every so often he found himself watching it. Jeremy fucking Kyle. He had to watch him, because he hated him. He'd watch the home renovation programmes with mild interest, always pondering what he'd do if he became a home-owner.

Plucking odd socks off of the radiator behind him, he tugged them onto his feet. Neville went to get his lead while Joe pulled on his dirty, old Converse. This was a routine both he and Neville knew backwards. Neville, though only a dog, knew that it'd taken Joe (on average) between 24-41 seconds to put on his footwear and make it to the front door - where Neville would wait - picking up his leftover cigarette on the way. Then he'd pull on his coat, which was pre-equipped with dog-shit bags and a lighter, and grab his keys.
Joe would always get one foot out the door, before checking he had his keys, and then leave with Neville in tow.

That morning, like every morning, Joe and Neville took the lift down to the ground floor, crossed over the road, turned left, walked down for about 44 seconds, turned right, headed forward for about 72 seconds, go around the back of the mini-cab office, down the alley where he that drunk girl gave him a BJ - he always looked at the exact spot where the incident occurred with a mixture of satisfaction ad self-disgust - and then took a right into the small, fenced-off, grassy area where Neville would release his load.

He would then let Neville off his lead. Neville would begin to run to show enthusiasm, but would stop within a few moments, as if he thought: "What's the point?"

Joe would usually sit on the bench, light a cigarette, spread his legs lean forward, hands clasped and watch Neville piss, and wait for that all important moment when Nev would unload his morning turd and Joe would have to go pick it up.

That morning, however, things were different. As Joe sat - legs spread, back arched, hands clasped - watching Neville shit, something happened. Off in the distant sky, there was a strange occurace. It looked a long, dark shape falling to the ground. It only took a moment before Joe realised would it was, and a overwhelming sickness came upon him.

And as it headed for land, Joe thought about everything. About it all. He thought about how he hated the job he had, the flat he lived in, and the people he knew. He thought about how he had little emotional connection with his family, and it saddened him that he was no longer close to his Mum. He wished he had tried harder with her, but knew it was too late now. He thought about the aspirations he had - to be a writer, to be a husband, to be a father, a grandfather, a family man, a homeowner. He thought about the life he had, the potential he had wasted. He thought about what a cock-up the whole world had become, and how the beauty had been replaced with concrete. He thought about the nature of existance, and he thought that mankind were just arrogant, over-evolved insects. Most importantly, he thought, "Fuck."

The only thing Neville thought was, why was it taking Joe so long to pick up his shit?

My Fifth Stand-Up Set

This is my 5th set. Bit nervous due to family and friends in the audience

My Top 40 Tom Waits' Songs & Top 10 Albums

Top 40 - Tom Waits

The songs are in no particular order, and the albums the songs are from are in the brackets.

01. "Tom Traubert's Blues" (Small Change)
02. "Small Change" (Small Change)
03. "I Don't Wanna Grow Up" (Bone Machine)
04. "Time" (Rain Dogs)
05. "Little Drop Of Poison" (Orphans: Bawlers)
06. "I'll Be Gone" (Franks Wild Years)
07. "Jockey Full Of Bourbon" (Rain Dogs)
08. "In The Neighbourhood" (Swordfishtrombones)
09. "Lullaby" (Blood Money)
10. "God's Away On Business" (Blood Money)
11. "Never Let Go" (Orphans: Bawlers)
12. "Whistle Down The Wind" (Bone Machine)
13. "Innocent When You Dream (Barroom)" (Franks Wild Years)
14. "Hang Down Your Head" (Rain Dogs)
15. "Christmas Card From A Hooker In Minneapolis" (Blue Valentine)
16. "Take It With Me" (Mule Variations)
17. "Lie To Me" (Orphans)
18. "Burma Shave" (Foreign Affairs)
19. "I Never Talk To Strangers" (Foreign Affairs)
20. "The Piano Has Been Drinking" (Small Change)
21. "Way Down In The Hole" (Franks Wild Years)
22. "Better Off Without A Wife" (Nighthawks At The Diner)
23. "Ol' 55" (Closing Time)
24. "The Black Rider" (The Black Rider)
25. "Tango Till They're Sore" (Rain Dogs)
26. "Black Wings" (Bone Machine)
27. "Goin' Out West" (Bone Machine)
28. "House Where Nobody Lives" (Mule Variations)
29. "Bottom Of The World" (Orphans: Brawlers)
30. "Road To Peace" (Orphans: Brawlers)
31. "World Keeps Turning" (Orphans: Bawlers)
32. "(Looking For) The Heart Of Saturday Night" (The Heart Of Saturday Night)
33. "Bad Liver And A Broken Heart (In Lowell)" (Small Change)
34. "Heartattack & Vine" (Heartattack & Vine)
35. "Train Song" (Franks Wild Years)
36. "Get Behind The Mule" (Mule Variations)
37. "9th & Hennepin" (Rain Dogs)
38. "Just The Right Bullets" (The Black Rider)
39. "Martha" (Closing Time)
40. "Woe" (Blood Money)


Top 10 Albums - Tom Waits

These are in order, Number 1 being the best. This simply my opinions out of the albums which I've heard. They may not necessarily be his best, but they're the ones I enjoy the most.

01. "Rain Dogs"
02. "Small Change"
03. "Bone Machine"
04. "Nighthawks At The Diner"
05. "Franks Wild Years"
06. "Mule Variations"
07. "Swordfishtrombones"
08. "Orphans: Brawlers"
09. "Orphans: Bawlers"
10. "Blood Money"

Some Songs I've Been Listening To Over The Past Few Days

Yes, I am bored at work. Don't judge me.

1. "Ansaphone" - Pulp
2. "I'll Be Gone" - Tom Waits
3. "No Surprises" - Radiohead
4. "Catcliffe Shakedown" - Pulp
5. "Riding Daphne" - Infant Sorrow
6. "The Piano Has Been Drinking" - Tom Waits
7. "Idler's Dream" - Oasis
8. "Tupelo" - Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds
9. "Wild Is The Wind" - David Bowie
10. "Glorybox" - Portishead
11. "Friday I'm In Love" - The Cure
12. "It's True" - Thee Spivs
13. "Pretty Baby" - Billy Childish
14. "Not Perfect" - Tim Minchin
15. "Girlfriend In A Coma" - The Smiths
16. "Road To Peace" - Tom Waits
17. "The Thrill Is Gone" - BB King
18. "New England" - Billy Bragg
19. "The Man Comes Around" - Johnny Cash
20. "I Am The Resurrection" - The Stone Roses
21. "Bar Italia" - Pulp
22. "Do The Wait" - The Scenics
23. "Pieces Of What" - MGMT
24. "Keep Me In Your Heart" - Warren Zevon
25. "I'm Gonna Move To The Outskirts Of Town" - Rod Stewart
26. "Working Class Hero" - Green Day (Cover)
27. "Train Song" - Tom Waits
28. "Which Side Are You On?" - Billy Bragg
29. "Five Years" - David Bowie
30. "Jumper" - Third Eye Blind

My Second Stand Up Set - "Utah"

Taken on 2/1/11, this was roughly written the night before. Read video info to explain starts as recordings fucked up.


Part 1:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EofoZ7WNaek


Part 2:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bNyVtWDuUBc

Russell Brand - Do I like him, or don't I?

I just watched The British Comedy Awards on Channel 4 (thank fuck for SKY+!), and I'm stuck in a bit of a dichotomy.

Russell Brand won this award: "Outstanding Contribution To British Comedy".

This is where I have a problem. It's not that Brand doesn't deserve the award, it's just that I can't work out whether I like him or not. And the similarities between us bug me, as I feel like I'm trying to be him (even though I'm not).

For instance, I wear my hair up at the back, I wear tight jeans, waistcoasts, neck-scarves, winklepicker boots, and eyeliner. I, too, am an eccentric. And our influences and heroes are pretty much the same: Bill Hicks, Jack Kerouac, Jim Morrison, Stewart Lee....

Shit, "Forgetting Sarah Marshall" is one of my favourite films, and the soudtrack to "Get Him To The Greek" is one of my favourite albums.

I think my main problem with Russell Brand is that he is a very clever comedian (he proved this with his last show "Scandalous"), yet he relies on jokes which are nowhere near as good as he has proven his skills can produce. It annoys me that he can write excellent satirical jokes, but instead chooses to simply exploit his openly wild sex-life for humour. To me, it seems cheap. He's wasting talent.

I also have a HATRED of celebrity culture, and I can't help feeling he is the epitome of "celeb". Yet, I believe that he's a good enough actor, definitely has charisma, is very well dressed, and can be very funny. He claims one of his influences to be Bill Hicks, yet he's almost become evrything Bill Hicks stood against.

Russell Brand has proved that you can be eccentric and successful, and he has tested the boundaries of comedic controversy.

I do respect him. Fuck me, my first ever proper joke on stage was: "Before you say anthing, I'm not trying to be Russell Brand with the hair. Honestly, who'd wanna be Russell Brand? I would. he's rich and he's fucking Katy Perry."

And still, I can't bring myself to say that I truly like him. Is it the fact that I think people assume I'm trying to be him? Is it 'cause he is talented, and everything I should hate, but don't? Is it that I fear that if I ever became successful, that's what I'd become - a talented performer who would rather bask in the pseudo-glory of celebrity culture?

I don't know.



It's probably 'cause he can get laid and I can't.

Followers

Followers:

If you have many, you have popularity. If you have a few, you have loyalties. If you have one, you have a stalker.

First Ever Stand Up Gig

This my first ever stand up gig, not particularly good. I was nervous and the delivery's pretty shit, but hey ho! Check it out, or something....fam.

The Diary Of A Closet Psycho (#2)

This is something I knocked up quickly a few days ago. It's probably not as good as the other one. Needs work. Also, once I've got enough of these, they will start to form some order.

7/7/10

I was late today. I got up late and had to rush about. That fucking parrot kept following me on the floor and got in my way. I was ironing, it was under my feet. I was doing my hair, it was there. I was brushing my teeth while looking for my keys, and it was in my way shouting "Fuck" and "Cunt" and my name.
I got so fed up, so I stood on the fucker. I did it without much thought (instinctively, you could say). I just kept stomping and stomping. Watched its pewny, little head crack under my shoe, which I then had to clean, making me even more late.
I didn't have time to clean up what was left of the bird. I'll have to do that when I get home. No rest for the wicked.

The Diary Of A Closet Psycho (#1)

This is an idea I've had for a while about a character, the title's pretty self-explanatory. Please bare in mind, it's a first draft.


6/7/10

I'm fed up with Public Transport And I'm fed up with the ignorant pricks on Public Transport. One of these days, I'm gonna enter the London Underground with a 9mm. Just shoot the cunts. Gender? Race? Religion? None matter. I'm not prejudice, I won't discriminate.
I'll blow away every one of them that deserves it. The smelly twats who shove their armpits in your face. The lazy cunts who don't give up their seats to the pregnant and the elderly. The pricks who sprawl their legs across two seats when you need to sit down. The foreign students who openly choose to ignore the basic etiquette of the Underground. The useless, arrogant staff who're fed up with their own meaningless lives, so they try to disrupt yours.
And especially, the cunt who sticks chewing gum on the seats. I'd smile as I force the barrell past that cunt's tonsils, pull the trigger, and watch the back of their slap against the tube wall.

Welcome To Post-War Britain

"Welcome To Post-War Britain"

Blood drowns these once semi-celestial streets.
Blades protrude from the bodies of the youth, fins rising from oceans of flesh.
The youth shoot each other while the old shoot themselves; hospital walls turning a deep crimson.

The arthritis-ridden, poverty-stricken watch-maker works the time away, as the rich-unemployed-yet-fully-capable-mother-of-twelve-whore sits on his back, cigarette in one hand and a can in the other. A leech sucking on the Welfare State. Time is running out.

The Police saunter through the streets, stopping the Poets and the Saints as the teenage 'gangstas' stab the War Veterans for their wallets, the heroin-addicted mothers carelessly beat their children to death, and the paedophiles play their twisted games with the young.

Meanwhile, in a bin somewhere in London, Shakespeare sits with Blake, Byron & Lennon playing Poker - gambling away the last of their Respect.

And as the Chaos pulsates, a Raven perched on The Tower turns a ghostly white and lights a cigarette, watching its country die.

Stranger At The Station

Stranger At The Station

We met at the station, in a hazy world of newspapers
coffee cups
flattened sweet-wrappers
pigeon shit
and xenophobic Londoners.
Just a passing glance. Once commuter to another.
A split second connection, lifetime affection.
I've seen you a thousand times.
Each time, different clothes, different hair, different voice, different skin, different face, same person.
I've seen our future together.
First date meet the parents awkward sex-life finish college part-time jobs start Uni tiny flat scrounging for money beans on toast lager & vodka chilly Winter nights huddling together for warmth, graduate,
dead-end jobs first car redundancies debts tears laughter arguments sex a little luck new jobs promotions in the black new car Summer holiday in Greece,
surprise pregnancy youthful panics 9 months a bundle of joy a shit-filled nappy no sleep the big three-o relationship doubts troublesome times,
second child rekindled love dinner parties wine & cheese comfortable wages grey hairs sagging skin erectile dysfunction viagra menopause kids grown & leaving home,
too quiet at home buy dog health problems depression retirement crosswords & daytime TV dog dies parents die no sex first grandchild love for life,
a lump it'll be ok slow deterioration I love you death bed funeral sorrow & regrets just memories and a lonely death.
I love you, whoever you are.

The FUCK IT Manifesto

The FUCK IT Manifesto

"Fuck it" is a phrase uttered by many. It's a phrase which can signify anger, frustration, distress, and disregard. Yet, it is very rarely a sign of relief. A sign of liberation. But that shall now change.
"Fuck it" will be the cornerstone of a new, fresher outlook on life. A strange cocktail of optimism and pessimism, mixed with a drop of spontinaity.

First things first, this new outlook – this lifestyle, this Way Of Fuck It – isn't about being totally careless and lazy. It's not about saying, "I would do my work, but fuck it..." or "This relationship isn't working, fuck it!" No. There is a Dr Pepper attitude which structures this lifestyle. It's a lifestyle which says, "Fuck it! What's the worst that can happen?"


The Way Of Fuck It – Guide

1. This lifestyle isn't about finding excuses to be lazy. It isn't about disregarding your responsibilities. It isn't about being a self-centered prick. It's about seizing life by the balls, and squeezing hard for the seed of liberation.
2. The Way Of Fuck It is about seizing opportunities. It's about saying "Fuck it" to those things which hold us back, when they really shouldn't (i.e. Low self-esteem, ignorant others/bullies, the ridiculous media conformities, unfair authorities...). But it must be understood that some things which may appear to be holding us back, such as work or studies, are actually needed for Fuck It to work properly (for instance, money and knowledge).
3. Fuck It is a kind of productive nihilism. Nihilists have been known to say that life has no objective, as well as believing in total and absolute destructiveness. Those who believe in the Way Of Fuck It ("Fuckites") say that life may not have an objective, but they still strive for one, by breaking down those boundaries set up by ourselves and others which oppress us (mentally and socially), all in the benefit of liberation and self-discovery.
4. One thing which is key to Fuckites is that their uses of this lifestyle are always done with the intention of being productive, not for causing problems or conflicts (if this were to occur, it must be justifiable).
5. Fuckites can be seen as Pessimistic Optimists – they know life has the potential to be great, but also know that it'll probably be shit. It is this balance which fuels the Way Of Fuck It. It encourages Fuckites to search for the good aspects of life, all the while bearing in mind that they won't be easy to find and that they may not be found at all. It is this drive for the good, the great, the beautiful which provides the proverbial Lust For Life.
6. To reiterate, as well as clarify, Fuckites are not about drifting through life on the waves of the Welfare State or the pockets of families/friends, nor do they feel life should be centered entirely around them. Yes, their choices may appear to benefit them more, but they are also made to encourage others to adopt this lifestyle.

Fuckites are about loving life. Fuckites are about finding the good that is usually overshadowed. Fuckites are about preventing themselves from being oppressed Fuckites are about helping others and themselves. Fuckites are about not caring what people think. Fuckites are about embracing being outcasts. Fuckites are about fucking The Man. Fuckites are about saying "Fuck it".

Bourbon Street

I wrote this over the course of a few hours, adding a few lines every so often, while stoned & drunk in Amsterdam. I haven't edited it in anyway, so forgive the spelling mistakes and lack of proper structure. I thought it'd be cool to see where Daniel's head goes when intoxicated.

The title is a tribute to a bar called "Bourbon Street" in a back street of Amsterdam.

"Bourbon Street"

Odd cobbles cover the ground
blackened teeth of the space below

The Devil is near
                is here
                is in the bottom
                of your pipe.

He lurks in the steamy sewers,
crawl through the gutter
to his foul establishment.

In every pill, pipe &
prostitute pussy he waits.
Ready to greet you,
beat you and swipe your
leather wallet.
Perched like a raven

on that ripped bar-stool
he waits. A Marlboro
pinched between his middle
and index, his wrist
limp with lathargic style.
Knees bent, money spent,
fuck the rent.
   All in black with
that burgundy tie - an inch
wide, wider than he's willing
to give.

Cuban heels curled
around that ricketty stool,
a half empty
Bourbon on a tattered green
bar mat.

5 o'clock shadow 24 hours
a day. This is the only
shadow this bastard possesses.

Make a bet, sell your
soul for the price of
a fat whore's service.
Roll the dice, stubb the
butt, slam the drink,
leave the bar.

The wind beats you raw.
The ice tricks your
feet, grab the frozen
lamp post. A silhouette
hunched in the
pseudo-warmth of its
golden glow.

Eyes bloodshot, knuckles
blistered, smile sharper than
the complimentry razor in the
dive he passes out in.

She's had her eye
locked on him for days.
Her sniper-scope vision.
A pack of fags and a
bourbon - no ice. Never any ice.

How he slowly - methodically -
raised that cigarette up to
his lips, sucked it in with
lacrymose eyes, out of the
nose like a dragon, and
then a drop of the
wrist to the dented, tin
ashtray. It captivated
her. So simple, so dark,
always the same.

She was falling for
him. The Nameless Wino in
the corner. On that bar stool,
his back to the jukebox.
All Jazz & Blues.

He liked it there. No-one
bothered him. No-one dared
or cared.

The pasly wallpaper went up
decades ago, now it's
peeling off like the skin
of a leprosy victim.
Candle-lit lamps are clamped
around the walls. Murky
lights in a tobacco induced
fog.

The Usuals are deflated or
shaking in the same old
wooden chairs. Scratched &
wounded from years of
abuse. All men with lost
loves, broken families, and
wasted lives. They search
for the way back into the
past at the bottom of their
glasses.

This dive was once the
pumping heart of the street
it sits on, now it's
dying like a waning
cancer patient.
Its inhabitants are the
tumors, but if it wasn't
for them, it'd be dead a lot quicker.
Catch-22 with 14 usuals.
Not dedicated, just too lazy
to try their luck anywhere
else. Not many
bartenders would put up
with the shit Quentin
does, and has for
a very long time.

The bar brawls have
now become sqwabling
matches with the occasional
right-hook. This is the
only excitement he ever
gets. If it wasn't
for those sons of
bitches, he would've hung
himself just like his wife
did 7 years prior.
But with a name like
Quentin, suicidal
thoughts are a regular
occurance. They have been
for nearly all of his miserable
52 years of his lonely life.

The barmaid - Lucy - is
an old bike. Every pink-nosed
pervert has had a ride on
Lucy. Every one of them on
this side of town anyway.
Buy her a few large
white russians and she'll
gargle your lust-juice behind
the rubbish bins around the
back of the bar.

Vernon would curl himself
over the piano by the
door, tapping at the
keys. On the rare instances
when the door would be
opened and the wind
would blow in, he'd shiver
and start to play
"Unforgettable" by Nat King Cole.
It's the only one
he could remember.


[In "The 'Dam Diary", I drew a little picture of a glass of Bourbon,
an ashtray with a lit cigarette and a stubbed out cigarette.]

It was a Tuesday night,
the coffee-stain moon
shone through
the greasy windows.
A shadow of Vernon's
unconscious body propt up
on the piano was cast
on the sticky floor.

Lucy was drunk and flirting
with each of the usuals, her
blouse almost entirely open,
her big, sagged tits
on show.

Quentin was pouring over
the account books behind
the bar, fighting back the
tears. It was all slipping
away from him.

The door opening like a bodily
joint in an early morning daze.
In he strolled, stonewash jeans
with folded bottoms, worn-down
black cowboy boots, a white
shirt & grey suede jacket.

His hair was bushy and unclean,
like a farmer's hound. An untidy,
maroon beard clung to his lips
and chin.
His eyes were small and tired.
Desperation hid behind them.

He made it to the bar, ordered
a scotch, and sat down.
Nothing out of the ordinary, apart
from the fact that a stranger
was in the bar. An alien amongst
alcoholics.

Vernon, now awake from a cold shiver,
slowly tapped the keys in that
unforgetable order. He knew
something wasn't right.

Lucy sauntered over to him, her
chest pumping up & down with
excitement at the prospect of
fresh meat.
A quick line, show her interest.
He glances at her, smiling slightly
at her drunken state. She thinks
she's so sexy.
Another flirtatious line. This time
he laughs - in her dreams. But
Lucy doesn't have dreams. Just
vivid nightmares.

She tries to playfully
run her fingers around
his neck. He twitches
and moves away from her.
She's drawn blood. He
rubs his neck, she tries
to comfort him - apologise.
He pushes her away, and
she loses her balance.
Screams, shouts, uncharacteristic noise.

Quentin hadn't been paying
attention until now. He didn't
say anything, he just looked
up from his additions,
subtractions, and debts.

Lucy was really shouting
now. Questioning the stranger's
sexuality, like a true
scorned slut. The stranger
was getting irritable, Vernon
had been reduced to rhthymatically
hitting a solo key, him
in the corner by the
jukebox just casually stared
like he knew what was
coming.

Lucy started hitting him now.
Thudding at his back,
screaming out insults to
him. He soon started
hitting her hands away,
thwacking down angry birds.

She got more and more
angry. The violence and
tension growing, burning
up the place.

Then he just snapped.
And a swift left-hook
to her jaw and she was
down. He bent over her,
pummeling her, stomping on
her flabby stomach.

She screamed, begged, cried
for mercy. Vernon huddled
deeper next to the piano,
still playing that same key,
shying away from the brutal
scene in front of him.

The usuals looked on
in disbelief and primal
excitement. It was something
new, fresh, exhillarating.


No-one knows how long it
was before Quentin jumped
in and stopped the stranger
from killing Lucy. Perhaps he
thought she had had enough,
or he was just as
blown away by it like the
usuals?

The stranger swiftly
left, leaving Lucy nearly
dead in a pool of vomit,
saliva and blood. She was
unconscious but still breathing.

As Quentin went to call for
an ambulance, over in the
corner, the man by the
jukebox sucked on his Marlboro.
Perched on his bar stool, cigarette
inbetween his middle & index, he
looked over at what was
left of Lucy, and with a
dead face he said:

"Well, I didn't expect that."

Frankie Boyle VS Katie Price - Wits VS Tits

What better way to start a blog than with controversial comedy!

In December 2010, Frankie Boyle made a joke about "glamour model" Katie Price (AKA "Jordan", or "that money-hungry slag") and her son, Harvey, on his (Boyle's, not Harvey's) Channel 4 show "Tramadol Nights". Harvey, son of Katie Price and Dwight Yorke, has autism and septo-optic dysplasma which has caused him to go blind. Which is no doubt a sad state of affairs, and he must be a brave little boy (no joke, just sincerity).

Boyle, known for his dark, satirical sense of humour, made 2 jokes about Harvey. The first regarding custody of him between Katie Price and her ex-husband, failed popstar and all-round twat, Peter Andre. This joke was: "Jordan and Peter Andre are still fighting each other over custody of Harvey - eventually one of them will lose and have to keep him."

This was then followed by a joke regarding her current (soon to be ex) husband, the cross-dressing cage fighter Alex Reid. This joke was: "I have a theory about the reason Jordan married a cage fighter - she needed a man strong enough to stop Harvey from fucking her."

Now, I was both shocked and in hysterical laughter at this joke when it aired. Some of you may feel this is a vile and viscious attack on a dysabled child. WRONG! But I'll get to that in a wee bit.

Suffice to say, Katie Price demanded a public apology as it had offended her, her family, and some mothers of dysabled children. And, obviously, Frankie Boyle refused. This then became a big hoo-har which is still going on.

I think one thing has been foolishly ignored  - the complexity of Boyle's second joke. Let's analyse this joke together, shall we?

Boyle says: "I have a theory about the reason Jordan married a cage fighter - she needed a man strong enough to stop Harvey from fucking her."

"The reason". What Boyle is saying is that she had a motive, other than love, to marry Alex Reid. She wanted to something from him, to exploit him, just as she has with her son and her personal life.

Katie Price is the epitome of "celebrity" -  talentless prick who gets recognition and money for doing pretty much sweet fuck all.

She has made a fortune out of getting her plastic tits out, having other people write books for her, and selling her shitty, uninteresting story to glam mags. She has had her sex life, marriages, divorces, and son's dysability plaster all over mind-numbingly shit magazines that I wouldn't even consider to use as toilet paper if I had dysentery on a desert island.

Since the dawn of comedy, comedians have mocked those who perhaps shouldn't be mocked. But note that Boyle's joke isn't a pointless attack on an innocent child, but rather a very clever piece of social commentary. By making a sick joke about Harvey, he is saying to Katie Price "don't complain, you've allowed this to happen". Which she has. If she truly did care about Harvey, she wouldn't have thrust him into the media spotlight since his birth.

This begs the question, who should people (including the offended mothers) be angry at? A satirist with a openly dark sense of humour, or a woman who got famous by getting her tits out, selling her story to the media, and who exploited her son's disability so that she could make money and further her obsession for fame?