Wednesday, 2 January 2013

2012: My Top 17 Pop Moments

17. "Kickin' with your bitch who come from Parisian"


16. "All the other girls they say you're full of it"


15. "Kiss me hard before you go"


14. "You can't help it and I don't care"


13. "Set the cheetahs on the loose"


12. "It's much better if you add in some poetry"


11. "We'll never be afraid again"


10. "Shout to all my lost boys"


9. "Let me turn your rain into sun"


8. "So you'd better watch your back"


7. "Now I'm lying on the cold hard ground"


6. "Why the sudden change?"


5. "I'm a lucky ducky getting mad shit for free"


4. "Looking for some trouble tonight"


3. "Got on my buttercream silk shirt and it's Versace"


2. "When I'm bangin' on the radio"


1. "I'm not the one that you should be making your enemy"

Tuesday, 12 June 2012

Kitchen Fucks: Gumbo Jumbo


I’m a slut for turning anything into a themed event, so when my homegirl @jesshartdesign suggested rustlin’ up some gumbo to complement our True Blood marathon I nearly shat my pants with joy. Sookie Stackhouse, bottled Bud and a hotpot of bubblin’ Louisiana vamp-juice – what’s not to love?


Heres how: Start with the Cajun Holy Trinity (in which the Father, Son and Holy Ghost are represented by celery, green pepper and onions, respectively). Finely dice your God-mix and leave it to sweat gently in a large pan with a glug of olive oil. For the sake of clarity, we’re calling this pan The Church.

In a separate saucepan (The Cauldron) get started on the blood: rich vegetable stock, chopped tomatoes, tomato puree, a splash of red wine, a shot of bourbon and a veritable gang war of herbs and spices (parsley, dill, smoked paprika, cumin, oregano and black pepper). Simmer away until the booze begins to evaporate and the mix no longer tastes like happy hour at Merlotte’s Bar & Grill.

Once the trinity has softened in The Church, throw in some torn chestnut mushrooms, thyme leaves, sweet Scotch bonnets, vampire-warding garlic and chunks of human flesh. For the last part, I used smokey ‘facon’ and veggie sausage but you could definitely use actual dead animals if you have no morals.


The final shift at the morgue (chopping board) involves kale, lettuce, red pepper, baby corn and okra. These join the aromatic congregation in The Church along with a tin of cannellini beans and enough boiling water to nearly cover the mix. Leave this on a very low heat whilst the greens wilt.


At this point you should have a Cauldron of bloody liquid and a boiled congregation in The Church. Next, take a large, deep pan (The Gumbo Pot) and heat some olive oil before adding plain flour and molesting with a balloon whisk until the roux cooks to a fawny beige. Add gradual ladles of the stock and let the sauce amalgamate (metaphor for precarious nature of integration in Deep South).


Empty The Church into The Gumbo Pot, turn the heat down and give a witch-like cackle as you swirl the mixture about. Upon tasting, I decided mine needed an arseload more salt, pepper, paprika, tobasco, etc. Finally, leave the gumbo to simmer (anything between 10mins and a thousand years – if the blood clots, hot water will loosen it).


I fancied something more pornographic than the traditional rice accompaniment so I took a small bowl and combined garlic, onion, mustard, egg, sour cream and grated smoked cheddar. I spread this goo over toasted walnut bread and grilled until bubbling like a vampire on a sunbed. A buttery corn-on-the-cob and a bowl of hot, smokey gumbo later, I was drawlin’ like I done lived in Bon Temps all mah laaaaife.


Wednesday, 6 June 2012

Where Are They Now?

It’s the classic question. What happens to the leagues of reality TV rejects once their initial fifteen minutes of fame wear thin? Criticism abounds regarding the effect of the talent show upon the careers of its participants but my investigations have evidenced that The X Factor burns bright in the personal journeys of many. I caught up with a few of the show’s stars for a chinwag.


Lloyd Daniels – X Factor series 6


So Lloyd, you’ve famously been representing Niall Horan in the security decoy project, Wrong Direction. Tell us about that.
It’s been mad to tell you the truth. I’ve been getting more pussy than I can fit in my tiny Welsh mouth. One lady actually tried to put a rampant rarebit up my crack at JFK airport.


It sounds like rewarding work. Tell us about the rest of the group.
Well there’s Joe McElderry – he plays the one that can sing – as well as Rikki Loney and a couple of lads from my old school class. We’ve really struggled to find ethnic minorities so our Zayn just uses a lot of fake tan. You can imagine the trouble we’ve been getting from the political correctness brigade for that one.


Quite. Do you have any plans for the future?
No, that’s all been taken care of by our management. Once the decoy demand dies down, we’ll simply be taken somewhere remote where they’ll shoot us in the backs of our heads.


Wrong Direction can currently be seen at most One Direction gigs, leading rabid fanatics away from stage doors.


Austin Drage – X Factor Series 5


So, Austin, after finishing 8th in 2008, you went on to pose for a number of LGBT publications. Did that open many doors?
Definitely! When I first left X Factor there wasn’t much demand. But as soon as I took my shirt off at G-A-Y the offers came flooding in. At first I was nervous about taking my clothes off but then I came to realise that the more naked I was, the more people liked me.


So you took off more than just your shirt?
Oh yeah, I got it all out. Nipples, bum, legs, willy, balls. It felt strange at first but everyone seemed so happy when I did it. These days I just try to take the work that involves the most nudity.


And that’s how you came to be involved in the adult film industry?
Exactly. It was strange at first, because I’ve never really been into other guys and the things they asked me to do were quite painful. But they give you this sniffing stuff and that makes it a lot easier.


Austin (stage name Austin Tatious) can be seen in ‘Sauna Lads Pt 3’, which is available as a download from his personal site.


Wagner Carilho – X Factor series 7


Wagner, you’re one of the X Factor’s all-time biggest personalities. Tell us what you’re up to at the moment?
Well hello, dussus, and may I just take these opportunity to say what a fine and noble gentlemen you are. You are reminding me of a beautiful flower. You have ladies’ hands.


Right, thanks Wagner. So I hear you’ve opened up a new music venue with another X Factor alumnus.
That is correct. I have joined forces, as you say in this wonderful language, with the most big-hearted and also big-breasted and dignified lady, Ruth Lorenzo. Sometimes she wears the dress where you can truly see her boobies, you know? But she is a lady and I have the most profound of respect for her. Together we are running a nightclub for the salsa and all Latin dance. But no zumba.


And do the two of you perform at all?
…because the zumba is not part of my culture but of course you have all these big fat ladies – and I mean no disintent – but all they want is the zumba and to know nothing of Latin culture.


Well thanks, Wagner, it was great catching up.
Fucking zumba.


Wagner and Ruth can currently be found at The Lorb Shack in Stepney Green. Classes start from £32.99 for men and £17.99 for ladies.


Craig Colton – X Factor series 8


Hi Craig, tell us about your recent movements
Well to be perfectly frank, they’ve been all over the place. At times I swear my ring’s about to burst into flame. It’s the stress.


Could you tell us a bit about your current tour?
I’d be delighted. I’ve been working (pronounced weeerchking) with the fabulous Mary Byrne on our tour of Britain’s workingmen’s clubs and it’s literally been non-stop.


What can fans expect? Show classics like ‘Jar Of Farts’ and ‘I Who Have Nothing’?
Actually, we’ve taken things in a very new direction with the material. We’re currently performing a repertoire of Victorian music-hall numbers. Big hits like ‘Little Bit O’ Cucumber’ and ‘It’s Cold Without Your Trousers On’ – all the classics. We’ve got a fab accompaniment from old Bert on accordion. We have a laugh.


Any personal favourites?
‘Boiled Beef And Carrots’.


Craig and Mary are currently on tour and tickets are available for £1.25 from any good workingmen’s club. The Album, ‘Any Old Iron, Any Old Life’ is available to purchase on cassette.


Part 2 of this interview series kicks off next week with Storm Lee and Katie Waissel.

Friday, 27 January 2012

Angry Letters: Dear Urinals,

Allow me to preface my thoughts with a short apology. I am sorry. I do not want to hate you. I have the bladder of a pygmy shrew and you are all such willing receptacles. I should be grateful, I know.

The thing is, urinals, I do hate you. Metal trough, novelty mouth or Bowl Duchamp, I truly despise you all. You are instruments of torture and altars of piss-splattered humiliation. You are the ninth circle of toileting hell.

There are some things in life that just don’t make sense to me and the perverse custom of communal urination is one of them. It has always confused me that society, the same beast that teaches us to keep our shameful appendages covered, expects us to swagger like saloon-entering cowboys into public toilets and whip out our members without question.

“Oh, it’s not a big deal,” people tell me. “Nobody cares,” they assure me. Well I do.

Is it so unreasonable that I like to empty myself in the luxury of a private cubicle? I certainly wouldn’t make the nasty bum-fudge in front of anyone else so why should I be any more willing to dispense lemonade? It is my bodily fluid after all. Surely I have the right to dispose of it in the manner of my own choosing.

Unfortunately, toilet politics are complicated in the strange land beyond the trousered stick-man. I don’t fully understand the rules but I know that loitering in wait for a cubicle invites weird looks that make me feel like Louis Spence at a Millwall game. There must be something wrong with him, I hear them thinking. Perhaps he has an incredibly tiny penis, a micropenis even. How awful for him.

Or perhaps, I hear them think, he is some kind of pervert who simply wants to eavesdrop on our chatter and splatter. He definitely looks like a bit of a fruiter. I mean, what real man wears purple drainpipes?

I blame my suffering on no one but you, urinals. Were men’s toilets all lush sanctuaries lined with individual booths, I would not have this problem. If I could rip you from those yellow-tinged walls and relocate you to your rightful place in a museum of sexual torture then I would be happy. Unfortunately, the vast majority of the male species seems to disagree with me. Not only are most men seemingly immune to your gurgling, soap-cubey wickedness, they seem to actually enjoy the lack of privacy, viewing it as a point of camaraderie.

Well I’m sorry, urinals, but it’s not okay. It’s fucking weird alright?

Your Sincerely

Cubicle User

Fools & Gold: Have Some Conviction, Killjoy!

It is that time of year again. The X Factor has found itself a winner and that winner has a single out. It is at this point in proceedings that all serious music journos are required to whip out their cocks and wank furiously whilst wailing about their first Radiohead purchase. Of course to do this in the privacy of a locked bathroom would be ludicrous. The serious music brigade are out in force and they want the spunk of pop resentment to land right in our faces.

I remember listening to Damien Rice for the first time in 2002. It was like a revelation. I was fourteen going on fifteen and I had never before heard anything like the strained, icy romance of The Blower's Daughter or the frightening, complex duality of I remember. Three years on, I was listening to a CD of 'O' on an aeroplane when I fell asleep and thought I had dreamt a bonus track more beautiful than anything else on the album. It wasn't either of the actual bonus tracks hidden at the end if the recording but it was probably their presence that inspired my aural hallucination. Anyway, this song haunted me for ages but I can not, try as I might, remember its tune. It has to stay there, on that plane where I dreamt it, somewhere in a cloud over the Atlantic.

The point of the dream song is that we all form emotional attachments to music but we can't wrap them up in cotton wool and expect to find them unchanged each time we revisit. The Telegraph's Neil McCormick seems to disagree with this and has instead chosen the easy option of throwing his arms up in the air in protest at The X Factor turning an alternative classic into pop tripe.

The thing is, Neil, The X Factor is a walking embodiment of commercial music. For it to pick a track for one of its winners, that track must already be easily accessible. That track must have wheelchair access and a disabled parking spot. When Alexandra Burke sang Hallelujah in 2008, she was singing a karaoke classic that had been covered more than two hundred times and featured in the soundtracks of Shrek and The O.C. She was not, contrary to popular opinion, squatting down for a wee on Jeff Buckley's grave. When 2010 winner Wett Flannle bawled out his languid cover of Biffy Clyro's Many of Horror, he was covering a track that was already very popular with fourteen year old girls. He wasn't making it so.

The same is true of Cannonball. It is a song with a simple melody that you'd have to have lived under a rock for the past decade to not know. It is not abstract trophy of NME readership, suspended in the cloudy ether like the Childlike Empress in The Neverending Story.

Don't get me wrong, I'm hugely disappointed that Little Mix will be making their first mark on the industry with Damien Rice's Cannonball. I'm disappointed for them because I think that they are better than that. They are better than covering a drivelling ballad that no longer means anything anyway. They deserve their equivalent of The Promise or Freak Like Me or even, at a push, Independent Women Pt I. Until they get that, I shall agree with @Popjustice's tweet, "At least there's one good thing about the Damien Rice cover - It's annoyed Neil McCormick"

Are our associations with the music we love really so weak that they crumble under the pressure of a mainstream cover version? I believe people should have more conviction in their music tastes. When I say conviction, I do not mean a horn-rimmed muso ranting on about liking the Smiths before it was cool. I mean accepting the fact that you cannot hold on to anything forever. Look back on the first time you heard a song - when it was new and untainted by association - look back on that moment with fondness but don't ever expect to get it back.