Moseley Folk Festival 2008

This was not as olde fashioned and kitsch as it sounds. Here's a brief roundup of the best bands I got to see at Birmingham's top festival weekend.

Chris Wood is one of the UK's top singer songwriters and certainly had a beard to impress. With songs about fish & chip romance and 4x4's, as well as topical gags about Gary Glitter he had the crowd eating out of his hand. His atheist anthem "Come Down Jehovah" had some tongues wagging but no one really minded because he's so grumpy yet articulate- which is what we all aspire to be.

Brummie punk folksters The Destroyers certainly had the locals in raptures but personally I was unmoved. Wide eyed Irish frontman Paul Murphy invited us all onto some kind of apocalyptic carousel as he shouted a load of tosh about a mouse that lived forever and some guy who asked to be buried alive then changed his mind at the last minute. Meanwhile, his 12 piece brass and fiddle collective worked themselves into a right frenzy with fake-swooning and silly poses.

The highlight of the night was undoubtedly The Bees, a six-piece from the Isle of Wight with their impressive blend of folk-rock, psychadelia and funk. Stir in some slide guitar, hammond organ and frequent instrument swapping and you get a pretty impressive spectacle. These were advert-soundtracks stolen by Citroen and Sainsbury's but played here as the good lord intended them. More than makes up for the ridiculous hats: cowboy, gamekeeper, milkman.

Closing the night was Jose Gonzalez- the hottest Argentinian Swede ever to come out of the mean streets of Gothenburg. He barely looked up from his guitar and his 10-minute tuning session irked the cider-fuelled Brummie audience. However, he was quickly forgiven due to his eloquent Swedish accent and a brilliant Kylie Minogue cover to add to his more polished acoustic offerings.

Overall a pretty good festival and good proof that Midlanders also know about culture and stuff.

Lancashire Music Fortnight

Thats right, as you guessed from the title pretty soon we're going to be bringing you the lowdown on the best unsigned talent from Lancashire, proving once and for all that the area is wrongly overlooked adnd is simply full of hot talent, and we don't just mean Dan Hendrie's arse.

Hopefully we'll be bringing you some sexy free downloads, interviews with the bands you should be listening to [because they aren't a bunch of pretentious wankers] and, what the hell, I'll throw in some surprising and unexpected Deadlights news before anyone else.

You can look forward to just about the best [we can lay our hands on] of;

Switchboard Spectacular

Mindshock

The Acoustic Project

Deadlights

Eat/Sleep/Events

The Corsairs

Kr!ss Foster

The English Tea

Former Sleeper Cell Bassist/Vocalist turned Producer - Andy Mitchell

and many more of those who get back to us.

You lucky bastards.

The Metro Movie

Hot on the heels of our hard hitting report on Metrosexuality, comes this masterpiece. Enjoy

Jane is 16, or at least she said she was. How much trouble are you in?

So today, we take a break from my experiences in France in favour of something else.

Those of you logging on still expecting to see full frontal female nudity will have to go disappointed a little bit longer, sorry.

Today, we talk about the news, or rather the lack of news we encounter everyday, and its effect on everything from food prices to the law.

This isnt just about my usual complaint that every week people go out and buy magazines about Jordan's new loft extension or Kerry Katona's fat arse, we're talking about sensationalism. The credit crunch is aprime example, as we already know, if people were to continue spending as normal the whole problem would evaporate but news where everything is ok is as much fun as drowning, so we're told that your bank manager has lost all your money down the bookies and as a result we're all going to be homeless and poor forever, accepting work from the new rich in Ethiopia and the Congo for 10p a year.

Further to this is the whole Gary Glitter saga, first off I must point out that Paedophiles do deserve horrible punishment. My suggestion is that they be shot, then crushed, then trampled by wildebeest into dust, then the dust should be fed to dogs, then we should blow up the dogs.

However, as the title of this piece may have suggested, thanks to sensationalism, old Gazza has been hounded to the ends of the earth purely because he used to be famous. Lets take a walk down real street for a second, you probably know someone who, in the eyes of the law at least, has engaged in "inappropriate activity with a child". The law states anyone under 16 is a child, so if, like myself and many of my friends some years ago, you are 16 or 17, with a 15 year old girlfriend, then you my old son are a dirty Paedophile, even if you're not having full sex.

Then we come to the disturbing trend of nightclub doormen taking "favours" to let underage girls in, not widely covered in the news, but we are all well aware it happens. Magazines aimed at teens show them how to look older, and a number of news stories I've read this week have involved underage drinking.

One in particular is another of these house parties arranged on Myspace, to which serval million univited guests turn up and trash the joint, everyone is very angry of course, but the 15 year old girl who organised it and had invited some men old enough to be her dad, just says;
"It was just meant to be a few friends round for a couple of drinks"

The men in question claim they thought the girl was 19, I saw a picture and I could easily believe that, but they get reprimanded by the press, and not the girl who if we're honest shouldn't have been drinking in the first place.

I digress though, back to Mr. G, now his case was different, the kids in question were easily recognisable as kids, but why was such heavyhanded [and appropriate] action doled out to him, yet the bar owner who used these girls, and the parents of the girls (who must have known they were prostitutes) not similarly dealt with?

The law is the law, simple as that. It isnt the place of the press to dole out justice, and we can be sure that this whole thing would have played out in much fairer fashion if the press had not hounded for Glitter to be shot (for Paedophillia, not his shit albums).

I agree with all current child protection law, but I do have an idea for a new one. It should be illegal to mislead a man as to your age, when I saw that photo and realised the girl in it was only 15 I was shocked, how many guys out there are running a serious risk every week just because a little girl wants to grow up too fast?

Shouldn't we deal with these magazines that encourage this behaviour? Shouldn't we shoot the woman who recently designed a series of clothes for 11-17 year old girls emblazoned with words like Hussy and Slut?

I'm sure many will be quick to respond to this piece, lets just hope that girl doesn't come to try her luck with you next time you're drunk, a touch of make-up and a thong saying "juicy" can obviously add at least 4 years to a girls age.

Happy Birthday Kirsten!

The baby of our group has finally reached the big two-one. There was a.. well, drunk, celebration last night for which I have proof in the form of the most monumental hangover. Nevertheless, Happy 21st to you, Miss Henriksen.

Please note, that below I have included that photo of us that you fucking hate, sorry, but at least I'm not as bad as Sheep.. how is that lovebite on your face?

The Hardcore Effect in France - Part 2

It was perhaps 10am when we finally emerged on the French, or wrong, side of the Channel. Straight away it was all wrong. Everyone was driving on the wrong side of the road and there were bagettes everywhere, like a hand grenade had detonated in a granary.

People always knock England, Nat especially, but we really take it all for granted. I'd come from a place where modern and new buildings made of glass and steel line the roads and the countryside is well tended, I had arrived in a place no less beautiful, but there was a lack of cleanliness and freshness about it I'd never encountered before. It had a rustic farmhouse charm, everything was nicely built from tan bricks and the sun shone.. right onto the graffiti.

Im a fan of graffiti in many ways, I enjoy such classics as "Stacey C. is fat whore" as much as the next man, but in France its everywhere. I didn't see a single building, wall, roadside, tree, car, train, person or nun that hadn't been tagged with spray paint, and while some of it was quite good it sort of ruined alot of things too.

Paris lay just ahead and I have to be honest. it was nowhere near as pretty as I'd always believed. My view was of rundown apartment blocks, graffiti and broken windows.

I'm fully aware that there are some truly wonderful places in Paris, St. Germain for one, so I guess I'd just been on an unfortunate route into the city. Yet, and I never thought I'd say this, London seemed prettier, cleaner and more alive than its counterpart. We arrived at Paris Nord on time, and with the abuse of the driver still fresh in my mind we disembarked to find the Metro system, which turned out to be around a million times better than the London Underground. Almost instantly all my assumptions of the Brit hating and snooty frog were evaporated in a welcome that was warm and genuine.

The woman in the ticket booth smiled at me and then treated me as if I was the only other person on the planet with the same blood group, and again later on the platform, a nice african gentleman pretty much threw himself onto the live line to prevent us missing the gap.

We got to Gare de Lyon a little early, but so did our TGV service, which was fast, efficent and pleasant on the way there but on the way back proved that if the French rail network were a racehorse, you would just shoot it and make it into substandard adhesive products than attempt to get it to do what you'd like.

It was a pretty good 8 hour train ride to Antibes, where I got to enjoy a great view of the Alps, which are great for snowboarding if you can avoid the ladies named Bunty and Francesca, with mink coats for the apres-ski and stupid multicoloured jumpsuits for the on-piste.

It was fucking hot, to be blunt, when we got to Antibes. Nat's sister, Julia, was waiting for us on the platform as she was to be providing us with somewhere to live for our tiem in France. She was genuinely happy to see us, not least because it had been a long time since the sisters had seen each other. I left them to it, and as they jabbered on in Polish we began the hot walk back, her giant suitcase in tow, which had begun drawing other pieces of luggage into its orbit.

We arrived at a more than modest studio apartment, where I promptly died from heat exhaustion. It was around now that the news was broken to me that our epic journey would take 5 hours longer on the return leg, and I would arrive at Hardcore Towers at 5am, thats 2 hours before I had to work a 13 hour shift.

Now, if you had been in the apartment opposite and you had seen me, you would have thought that I'd just set fire to my own hair and attempted to extinguish it with a bucket of hot sulphuric acid. Fiery, angry tantrum over, I died again.. on a sofa.

Luckily for me, tomorrow was the start of some seriously good things...

More Tomorrow..

The Hardcore Effect in France.. Part 1

So, France.

Despite the best attempts of Jeremy "Jezza" Clarkson to put me off, I had a really good time. As old Jez once said;

"France, like Wales, is a wonderous and beautiful country, ruined entirely by the people who live there"

I left at 1.30am, a truly ungodly hour, on a rainy Thursday morning. On the way the Preston, a city I despise like no other.. except Blackpool, I must have counted 4 lights on during my entire 11 mile journey, and three of those were in a 24 hour garage so it really hit home what a truly stupid time it was to be setting off on a long journey.

I hit Preston around 2am, where my only company in the deserted bus station was a lone asian security guard and a drunk bloke wielding the world's largest kebab across the street. It didn't bode well, only half an hour in and I was cold, wet and pissed off. I should say at this point that I don't want to put across the impression that I dislike travel, I very much enjoy visiting new places I just don't like to travel with Nat because this involves her suitcase, which is larger and heavier than the moon. I am the type of guy who can quite happily travel for a month with only a handful of t-shirts, some toiletries, some clean underwear and a copy of FHM. I of course found it curious she had packed her entire wardrobe, a car jack, a microwave, a lifesize cardboard cutout of Nelson Mandela and a set of musical tiepins but nothing in the way of pain relief for my destroyed back.

Because of the unique way in which The Hardcore Effect is funded, we'd been booked on a coach for the first leg of our journey. It had been decided after much chin scratching and pots of green tea that travelling the long and complicated way would provide great subject matter and would save our valuble pennies, infact there was very little difference between our chosen method and the smart mans choice, the plane. I must admit that at the time I had felt this was a smart choice, especially with two more destinations on the schedule before January, it turns out this was as smart and frugal as cutting off your own feet to save money on shoes.

Our Megabus service arrived late, the only positive about our whole trip on this service was the driver who took over in Preston, who makes the Queen's head butler look woefully inadequate and lazy. We boarded, and encountered a smell unlike anything outside a homeless person's boxer shorts and row after row of students. I've never subscribed to the "dirty student" stereotype, up until last month almost all my dearest friends had been students, they were clean, well fed and industrious people and plesant in everyway. Yet here I was, knee deep in the foul smelling detritis of my own wrongness.

If they weren't asleep across two seats, they were fat and sweaty. They all had the most horrendous B.O. and faded AFI t-shirts. Smart arse attitudes and loud poorly formed opinions surrounded me. Nat was, not surprisingly, uncomfortable with the idea of sitting next to one of these cretins and so when we saw there were no free seats together downstairs, we headed up to find there were even less seats upstairs. She turned and headed back down,a nd as I let her pass one fat sweaty idiot next to me piped up;

"yeah, there are no seats up here, so you're the dickheads"

No, he was the dickhead as I was about to prove. I waited for Nat to be out of earshot, and filled with a rage that came from nowhere, I barked firmly under my breath that either he woudl apologise for that comment and never open his stupid mouth ever again, or I'd be expecting an apology of one of his surviving family members. Now, I'm no good at fighting.. at all. Infact I'm quite pathetic, but this proved to be the tone for the whole trip - Anger and impatience. I was not a man with which to fuck and unable to back it up or not, I was going to murder the next person to test me.

The fat idiot apologised rapidly, which I didnt expect, I was almost certain that he would have got up, gathered some sweaty student mates, and kicked me to death. Somewhat relieved, I descended the stairs where Nat had found a seat next to a sleeping bloke with long hair, and I took up position behind some young Russians and next to a person.. at this stage that was all I could figure out. It was definitly a person.. a sleeping person with a cagoul on and the hood pulled up.

We set off finally and I considered sleeping, but the noisy foreigners in front put me off this idea. One looked like Lovejoy, complete with the I'm-a-gypsy-thief earring, so instead I tightly clutched my i-pod and wallet and sat back for a sleepless night.

We arrived in London about 7am, and made our way to the Underground system. Which I fucking hate when I have luggage. People don't walk round you, they walk through you or over you, its the land British manners forgot and its so expensive that I had to sell my lovely new apartment to afford tickets for the short 4 stop ride.

I attempted to descend the stairs to the platform, but had to stop and find a chiropractor to realign my spine, until, complete with a new wheelchair I came back to finish the task, and after violently fighting my way onto the train I could relax for at least 7 minutes. I seem to have caught the eye of a young lady in the next car, who kept glancing over, making eye contact then flirtaciously looking away, before looking back and smiling. This sort of attention can under any circumstances usually be considered good, except she was reading jobs today, obviously looking for a new career after her previous job, as one of those things that used to advertise Monster Munch, had ended.

After a stop or four, and a million flights of stairs we finally got to the Eurostar departure lounge at London St. Pancras'

I was expecting luxury and relaxation here, what I got was some lukewarm brown water that was supposed to be coffee and a lot of Americans. The fat and loud American tourist is another stereotype I've never believed, I have American friends. I've known Melody for, as near as makes no difference, a decade. Which scientists say is "A fucking long time" for someone you met randomly in Yahoo chat when you were 12. She is smart, fun and I love her dearly, we've stopped short of buying a cottage in Devon but you get the picture that she certainly isn't fat, loud or obnoxious. Yet again however here I was, having to accept that I'd been stupider than the son of that Welsh woman from Big Brother, who admitted to a fondness for blinking, and a blancmange.

To summarise, the Eurostar is crap. I had no leg room of any description, more than on the Megabus, but still not enough for a guy as tall as myself. There was nothing but old chewing gum in the carpet and a long series of Americans mis-pronouncing words and being generally ignorant of European customs, such as not being overweight and annoying.

The driver then addressed us;

" 'Ello Madames et Monsieurs, I am Jean-Pierre and I weeell be your driver for deese trip to Paris Nord, we 'ave an expected travelling time of two 'ours zeventeen minutes, wheech I 'ope passes as pleasantly as ze hundred years war. For our fat American friends there ees an overpriced bistro in car number 4 selling traditonal French beefburgers and for ze Engleesh pigs travelling wiz us today zere is some warm beer wheech I would be honoured to speet into for you zis morning. We shall be arriving in Paris at 11 am local and correct time, where I 'ope you all contract bird flu, unless you are French. Pleese enjoy your trip wiz us today, Merci"

So, while the American bloke next to me complained incessantly about being on a train which travels faster than the ones at home, which are overtaken by tectonic plates and people from Eastbourne, and a lack of free champagne to go with his bucket of Cola and fries which were made from the entire potato export quota of Ireland for this year. I sat back and waited for Paris.

More tomorrow..

Old Skool gamez Rool

I'll admit I'm not a big games fan. This year we had all three Playstations in my house. I think I played the PS3 once for about 10 minutes. Call me an old git, but I'd choose Pacman over Ridge Racer any day. I'm such an old git in fact that I had to look up the PS3 on Wikipedia so that I could find the name of one of its games. Try and see gaming from a bystander's point of view. If you only have one TV in your house and it's being used for game after game of ProEvo, it's bound to get dull after a while isn't it? If I wanted to watch a bunch of lifeless chumps kicking each other's balls, I'll just watch Eastenders.

The Wii is a step in the right direction as it forces you to get off your arse and do something. But if you're playing baseball, football or tennis, why not just go and do it outside? If you're crap at sport don't worry- a couple of Stellas and you're better than Babe Ruth, Ronaldo and Nadal put together...

In my view, games should be kept simple. The second that Mario and Sonic went into 3D I lost interest. Helicopter shoot em ups used to rule the planet but because we don't fight real wars any more you're given tedious missions like guarding some Canadian diplomats in Slough or delivering cocktail sausages to the UN. Give me some rockets and 56 lightly-armoured enemy choppers to shoot down! And of course the helicopter should have so many missiles and such thick armour that it would be unable to take off in reality...

My favourite game of the moment has to be Battle Pong. Just like traditional Pong but with powerups and weapons. Check it out: http://www.miniclip.com/battlepong.htm

Honey, I'm home

Hi kids, I'm back. Like all true Englishmen I've managed to drink beer, eat some spicy things, insult a frenchman and come home exactly as white as I was upon my leaving.

I have so much to share with you all, but sadly after a 19 hour trip and no sleep for 48 hours I now have to work for 13 hours before falling asleep in a sheperd's pie.

I'll be back as soon as I can.

Bolt from Beijing

Sport, sport, sport. That's all we ever talk about, I hear you say. I'll keep it brief, but I can't help but marvel at the new 100m and 200m record holder Usain Bolt. Journalists love him because his name makes a great headline (BOLT FROM THE BLUE, THUNDER-BOLT etc) but the rest of us love him simply because he runs bloody quick. I'll get this Bolt-rant off my chest, then we can go back to talking about credit crunches, rain and those naughty Russians.

One word on Russia though. I wonder- how many Americans woke up that day, heard that Georgia had been invaded, and flew into a mass panic, bought huge stocks of food, formed local militia and built baracades in case their state was the next unfortunate victim? If it’s any less that 100 millions I’ll be astounded.

Anyway, back to Bolt. It's so much his achievement as his attitude. Here's how his 100m record-breaking day went according to an interview.
"Got up, ate some nuggets, watched a little TV, went back to bed. Got up a few hours later, ate some more nuggets, then ran 100m in 9.7 seconds"

I wonder what those nuggets contain- chicken? vole? nandrolone? I say we should all adopt the relaxed Usain Bolt attitude to life. Everyone should start eating nuggets and just sleeping when they're not doing anything important.

If more people had had that approach to life just think where mankind would be now. If Einstein had spent more time relaxing with German reality TV and a bucket of KFC he could have invented a working time machine or proven mathematically that there is a God after all and he's very very angry with us...

If Gandhi had rested a little instead of tiring himself out with speeches, he could have raised a massive monk army that would have overwhelmed the British Empire and reduced it to the size of a small hamlet in Wiltshire.

If JFK had spent less time gallivanting to Berlin he could have been wise to his eventual assassination. Like a ninja, he could have sprung from behind the grassy knoll, wasted Lee Harvey Oswald with an uzi then driven the open-top limo at breakneck speed back to the hotel for a night of hot steamy fun with Jackie.
As it happened he was knackered so they shot him.

To cut a long story short: if you want to succeed in life, eat some nuggets and go back to bed.

Amen.

Latest Olympic news

All the latest scoops from Beijing, hot off the press.

-Britain soar up the medal table by plundering the "specialist" events of pony trecking, yachting, extreme ironing and dogging
-Middle aged men who should know better try not to touch themselves as they watch pre-teens prancing in leotards. Another day of women's gymnastics...
-Britain win a bronze on the pommel horse. Ex-Blue Peter presenter Matt Baker gets overexcited causing him to fall headfirst into a pit of eels
-Everyone agrees that China can keep Tibet after all, and as a reward for staging such a bloody good Olympics they can have Bhutan as well

The day orange squash saved my life

Oh dear god. What a day. Here I was, all set to regale you with another amusing mugging story from the Parisian underworld, when this happens. Bear in mind the following story is not for the faint hearted or squeemish...

I went to give blood today for the first time in a year. Just a little prick (ooo-er matron), needle goes in, needle goes out. It all went fine.

"Put your finger on that"- Nursie says, pointing to the mark where the needle had gone in. I did as she asked but putting pressure on that spot on my arm (the bit that only heroine addicts are meant to touch) suddenly made me come over all funny. I really wanted some Um Bongo but there was no one there to give me any. It all went grey and I began to wish I'd gone to Ikea instead...



I woke up and four women were standing over me. That cliched "unconscious guy's point of view" shot you see in films. I had absolutely no idea where I was. At first I thought I'd fainted in a shopping centre, but the age of these women reminded me of a Blackpool Tower Ballroom Dance final. I laughed at an imaginary Bruce Forsyth and they all exchanged worried glances...
I suddenly remembered the needle, the vein and all the rest. I'd been screened off from everyone else and made to sit under a fan. Clearly not a very good advert for giving blood. I felt like a patient in a Vietnam war hospital.

A bloody good rest, 10 cups of orange squash and 8 biscuits later I was well enough to toddle home. "It's perfectly normal for your first time" said Nursie.
"It's my 7th time!" I whined. I'll never get that crystal decanter now...

Despite the nastiness of it all, that brief sensation of not knowing who you are or where you are was actually quite cool. Maybe they could work it into an Alton Towers Ride.

Anyway, next time I'm definitely going to Ikea (we're not being sponsored by them by the way- it just happens to be nearby)

The essential British checklist

As Benji sets off to the continent full of fear and trepidation, I'm still readapting to like back in the good ol' UK. It's been hard, believe me. My Coventry English is now very poor indeed. We have little words like gamboll, tip-top and backie that are easy to forget and harder to remember... If only the local radio had subtitles...

Still, to celebrate my return I've been slowly ticking off all the British experiences I've been hankering after for the best part of 14 months:

Scotch eggs: 1 (handmade)
Real ales: 5
Tea: 15
Bovrils: 1
Pies: 1
Puddings: 7
Crumbles: 1
Getting rained on: 8
Night out with lairy men in white checked shirts: 1

I still need a full english breakfast, a cornish pasty and a sunday roast. The cravings are unbearable. I feel like the ever-pregnant Kerry Katona...

two-month update

well, just before I set off I thought I'd share some interesting stats I've found out as we enter month three of The Hardcore Effect.

Most referenced word/item/topic

1) Scotch Eggs
2) Football
3) Blancmange

Most victimised celebrities

1) David Hasselhoff
2) Kerry Katona
3) Olof Mellberg
4) Petter Hansson
5) Lukas Podolski

Most used swear words

1) Fucking
2) Shit
3) Bastard(s)
4) Cunt
5) Cockbadger


On another note, voting for The Hardcore Awards begins next FRIDAY. See you next thursday people.

Au revior!

Well, just mere hours to go now till I embark on an epic train journey to France, giving the Hardcore Tour a touch of much needed class.

We've got euros, we've packed and I have a police photo-fit of two guys who look suspiciously like Flava-flav and Pat Butcher from the Ravman.

I weirdly have a dark sense of forboding about this trip, whether its that I have a long journey ahead, the fact that I'm passing through several crime-ridden cities in the dead of night unable to speak the language in many of them or just that the final destination is France.. something doesn't sit right with me.

I've already received some solid advice;

1) Don't accept any help on the Metro

2) Don't make it obvious you are a foreigner

So, with reluctance I've removed my union flag passport cover, my England football shirt and my drunken imperialistic urges and adopted a cunning disguise to allow me to pass right through undetected, it looks a bit like this;

or more accurately, this;

The problem is that Jonathon Foreigner doesn't like the honourable British Tommy, we don't share many interests for one thing.

They enjoy cheese, and surrendering. We like beer and fighting. We're just natural enemies, so I've informed the British Foreign Office I'm going to be in France and all they suggested to avoid being singled out as a foreigner is "try waving a white flag and not washing".

Sheep offered me some help with communication, teaching me invaluble phrases in French, truly a beautiful language;

"Le Chauffage-centrale ne marchait pas" - "The Central heating is broken"

"il n y avais pas de savons, dans le salle de bain" - "There is no soap in the bathroom"

cheers mate.

I am sure however, that despite my fears, this plan shall all come off without a hitch and I'll have a few epic stories to tell upon my return, for now though I leave you in the capable hands of Ravi until I return.

The day Welsh saved my life

So what's the big hype about Wales?-I hear you wonder.
Well actually it's a country I owe an awful lot too- I'm half Welsh, 50% of my family are Welsh and a lot of my ancestors also were Welsh. Even more than that though, the good people of Wales actually saved my life while I was living in Paris. Without them I could well have perished in a gutter like so many disgraced PE teachers.



One Parisian Saturday night I got a little tipsy in a bar with mates and got the night bus home at around 3am. Bus number 13, which is apt due to the slightly inconvenient events that were about to unfold.
I was a little tipsy so when I saw everyone standing up despite there being free seats next to the gangstas at the back, I scooched in next to them. Hell, I thought, hundreds of aristocrats got their heads chopped off so that people like me could do this. Like the scarlet pimpernel, I plugged in my mp3 and waited...

A chap sitting across from me who looked like Flava-flav started looking at me, grinning with his gold teeth and mouthing something. Alarmingly, he didn't have a clock round his neck. If he'd been the real deal we could have just done some beat-boxing but this guy was more interested in in my crown jewels, both literal and metaphorical. I grinned stupidly and tried to concentrate on Kylie Minogue blasting in my ear drums. Suddenly the bastard came over and shoved his sweaty hands in my coat pockets! Empty thank god. Then he tried my jeans. Now, I was wearing very tight anti-ferret trousers so the pockets were dangerously close to all that I hold dear in the world. To defend my dignity I brought my hands down to stop him with a resounding scrotum-saving "smack".

Flava-Flav's boy(z) took offence at this. His mate, who looked like a cross between a Turkish butcher and Pat Butcher sauntered over, jabbed me in the chest and (in French) shouted: "How dare you stop my friend from feeling your crotch for pennies and suchlike". What do you do in this situation? Speak English or accented French to him, and suddenly he'll know I'm a foreigner and thus a rich source of travellers cheques and marajuina. I had to say something, so I spoke Welsh. An old poem I'd learnt once about the best time to go to the bog to ensure good digestive transit...


He was dumbfounded. The ancient Celtic consonants spouted from my lips like machine gun fire. Images of druids, cheese on toast, rugby and crazy drunken nights out in Llanelli were too much for him to comprehend. Had this guy ever played pinball on the pier at Llandudno or drunk Brains at the Horny Ram Tavern in Ffestiniog? Possibly not.
"You are French? German? English?" he demanded.
"Ar i'ach a gach a bore..."
He shouted again, too loud this time. The other passengers were getting shirty.
"Ar afiach gach yn hwyr". I tried to supress a smug grin.
The bus driver roared from the front. "Oy wot choo doing you slaaaaaag?"

Nuff said. Pat Butcher and Flav were chucked off the bus and some old geezer let me sit next to him.
"Actually I'm not Welsh at all" I told him.
He looked at me as though I was an escaped asylum patient and we drove on...

That's why the next time you're in Wales, learn the entire Welsh language. You never know when it might come in useful. Next time a copper tries to arrest you, read some Welsh poetry to them and they won't bother you again.
The system works boyo.

Libellous News We Just Make Up #1

Welcome to this, the first in an ongoing series of features where we shall make up the news purely because its far more entertaining, tonight's headlines;

Out of work actress Sarah Jessica Parker offers bareback anal for a packet of Jammie Dodgers

Despite the apparant success of the Sex and The City movie, old SJP finds herself struggling to find a new gig, pretty much unheard of in recent weeks apart from the odd mention of her troubled relationship, The Hardcore Effect tracked the actress to a Travelodge in North Wales.

So desperate her current situation, the painfully thin actress begged our writer Ravi, for his solitary hand made Scotch Egg, this clearly wasn't going to happen but Parker's desperation only grew until, with a wild look in her eyes, she began offering unprotected anal intercourse in exchange for a lone packet of "Jammie Dodgers"all our team carry in case of emergency.

Parker's agent claimed in a later statement that these events never occured, although went on to describe the offer as "a good deal".

Bored BeeGee taunts orphans

It would seem Barry Gibb, the former BeeGee, is finding the relaxing pace of retirement a litlle dull.

Our team responded to a phone call from a resident in the Slough area, who informed us of a low flying helicopter that seemed to be "bombing" a piece of local land with blunt objects. Upon arrival at the scene we traced the helicopter to the grounds of the Stella Artois Home for Spousal Abuse Orphans, where Gibb, cackling maniacally had set up an industrial food blender between the roundabout and the swing set and was callously dropping what appeared to be kittens and fluffy gerbils from his helicopter into the blades below. One orphan was injured when Gibb dropped his bottle of Bristol Cream and the bottle shattered yards from the child.

What follows is a transcript of our reporter's conversation over the sound of the rotor blades;

Ravi: Oi! Gibb! What the hell are you doing?!

Barry: What does it look like? I'm fucking murdering animals in front of kids, alright?

Ravi: Why?

Barry: Why not?

Ravi: You make an interesting point.

Barry: I know I do, I'm Barry Mother-fucking Gibb! .. give me my bottle back!

At this point, Gibb broke into song, namely an impromptu medley of "Straight outta Compton" and "Fuck The Police" before fleeing in his chopper.

His agent later apologised, claiming Gibb would compensate the orphans by offering them work "In my coal mine, or cleaning the fucking chimney.. or something"

Robin Gibb was unavailable for comment.

Racist Edmonds property deal falls through

Despite the recent sale of his mansion in the town of Crinkly Bottom, Noel Edmonds' attempt to buy a cotton plantation in north Africa fell through last night after the presenter reportedly asked the current owners where "his" black people were. More on this as we get it

And finally;

Unconfirmed reports are coming in that Dale Winton had opened fire with what is described by witnesses as a "Heavy Machine Gun" outside a Hackney branch of Lidl, after the budget German food store refused to stock his favourite kind of jam. Witnesses at the scene have told police the star was further provoked by an unexpected "bottom patting" from David Hasselhoff.

Going straight

Hello one and all. Very sorry for my recent absence from the blog. I have been busy moving out of my French hovel and back to my Coventry home via North Wales. That in itself was a chore as there is only one airport in North Wales and its only flight is a twice monthly postal biplane from Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch. So I flew to Liverpool and voyaged to Snowdonia using Merseyrail and an endless succession of rural bus services where you have to sit next to a sheepdog and haggard men in rocking chairs stroke their blunderbusses with increasing vigour as you draw near.

Highlights of my life in the last fortnight include:
- severe internal damage following a massive feast involving steak and ale pie, chips, apple crumble and too much real ale
- climbing Snowdon and getting a great view of...some cloud
- proving that you can actually walk through Liverpool without getting your kidneys stolen
- a handmade scotch egg. A fucking handmade scotch egg.
- meeting up with old mates from school, who are all either married, gay, divorced or milkmen

The UK is mainly the same as I remember it. Everyone's talking about credit crunch (is that a new breakfast cereal?), kids still have no bloody respect and DFS adverts are butchering yet another rock classic.

I will regale you soon with amusing tales of my French exploits, including the time I got mugged, and errr...the other time that I got mugged.

It might actually blow your mind. Sorry in advance.

News that doesn't matter..

Lifes full of it, in these stupid little magazines that line our shelves, so i thought it would be good to take a look at just how stupid the crap people pay to read is..

I've surfed around and this is today's news.. that doesn't matter;

- Keanu Reeves has grown a new beard
- Kate Moss thinks a wedding in Ireland would be "quite nice"
- Lisa Snowdon can't get laid
- Celebrity make-up artist Laura Mercier talks exclusively to ELLE about what her key looks for the new season are and how to get them just right. Fucking Great.
- Some dickhead has decided that glossy leggings are in fashion.
- a man who may or may not play the bongos has hit his wife

Thats just with 4 minutes searching.. its all so hopeless.

The Concise Hardcore Guide to The Olympic Games

Well, already the new setup is two months old, and its been a fair old slog.

We can certainly count our superior coverage of Euro 2008 among the highlights thus far, but you may have noticed we've ignored the Olympic Games. Surely this would have been a truly great opportunity to take on another stupid challenge and really let rip again, but we haven't and for one very good and incredibly simple reason, the Olympics are shit.

Today, I saw a news report claiming we'd been "disappointing" in the dressage event, which is basically looking good on a horse, a skill as useful as a condom machine in a nunnery. Someone from Britain today won a gold medal for riding a bicycle in the rain while complaining alot about said rain proving a handicap, most six years olds can do it, we're British.. rain is our thing. Last time I checked, Olympic quality athletes weren't water soluble.

The lack of subject matter for us doesn't end there; Olympic football is rubbish, no-one in the world gives a shit about sailing and you can't see most of the events anyway due to the vast amount of smog. Then theres that stupid sport where ladies on skates do a bit of sweeping and someone then slides a kettle of some sort down their nicely swept floor, then they get all tearful if their kettle doesn't end up in a similar position to a German or Lebonese one. Frankly ladies, if thats the worst thing that happens to you today, you've done well.

I'm sure it shows wonderful dedication that an athlete can train their whole life, dedicating all their free time to chucking a discus or sweeping the kettle floor, but I still truly hope I never have to sit next to one on a train journey. I certainly hope I never have to share a changing room with a male figure skater, there's something about a man in sequins and spangly trousers that deeply scares me.

I would go as far as to say that we'll boycott both current and future Olympic games unless the following new events are implemented immeadiatly;

Beer Drinking
Scotch Egg eating
Scotch Egg throw
Flaming / trash-talking
Jet-powered roller blading
some kind of submarine relay event
Monster trucking, with explosives
Wargames
fights to the death [Gladiator style, with Spades and stuff]
Fishing, with explosives and electric current
Gay-off's
highwire juggling over volcano
Shoe golf
fooket [Invented by my mates, fucket is a mix of football and cricket and involves beer]

So until our demands are met, no more coverage. sorry.

If we can be serious for a moment..

Today's update is suspended in solidarity with the people of Georgia, invaded yesterday by a large number of Russian forces.

Already reports claim as many as 1,500 lay dead, and despite many peoples beliefs the repercussions of this incursion will effect the whole world. The conflict has the potential to escalate massively, especially as as we write Russia is continuing with air strikes deep in Georgian territory.

We all hope that a sane solution can be found before this spirals into a global conflict. More tomorrow.

Things with a design flaw

Today's post celebrates all those little things in life that annoy us with their stupid flaws, the little details that a monkey would have noticed, but a third year degree student clearly didn't.

1) Plastic cooking utensils

Ok, this is simple, plastic.. melts.. So, what are you going to acheive by poking a plastic spatula into a hot pan?
Delicious.

2) Batman's motorcycle

No mudflaps.. he's just asking to get that cape cuaght in some moving parts.

3) Democracy

Ah, a truly representative society, populated in majority, by morons.

4)Pandas

Teetering on the brink of extinction for some years now,Panda's are stupid, half-blind, hideously uncamoflagued and as keen on sex as Gary Glitter's nephew. a diet of equally rubbish and pointless bamboo, which contains no energy whatsoever also renders them permanantly knackered.

5) Crane flys

Each fly lives for a rather disappointing 24 hours, during which time they make a special effort to mate to rather pointlessly continue their useless species. They don't even eat.

6) Male nipples

As useful as a lettuce crash helmet.

7) Women

You would honestly think that with millions of years of evolution behind us, our women would have outgrown the need to be pointlessly oversensitive and emotional. We don't even have childbirth down yet, every bloody time its just another small person ripping its mother in half and forever spoiling her lovely flat stomach.

8) Sleep

We don't actally need it, one thing evolution has done for us is it has made us so "fuel efficent" we now get our entire energy supply from our food, making sleep redundant, and no-one is truly sure why we still do it because it turns out that whole thing about it reorganising memories? Probably not accurate.

9) Urinals

Purposefully designed to splash your own pee back at you and anyone nearby, cheers.

10) Pensions

You spend your whole life saving for a day that may never come, on the off chance that the greedy morons you give it all too won't loseit trying to make themselves abit of extra pocket money and to top it off what at that age are you going to do with the cash? How will you possibly gain any enjoyment out of it? you won't be living, just existing.. with a gold plated dialysis machine.

11) Men

Designed for a by-gone era, now modern life and technology have no use for such man skills as hitting things really hard with rocks and starting impromptu fires, and we don't really need to track and stab a box of frozen findus crispy pancakes, we're outclassed on most levels by women. I'll finish by digressing into the remnants of what was going to be my big post on sexism by sharing some PROVEN scientifics facts taken froma book put together with the help of the worlds most prestigious institutions, including Harvard and Cambridge.

First off, I want to point out that the study found neither men nor women to be the superior sex, they are just different and desgined by time and evolution to perform different but equally important roles. lets go;

1) Women are *technically* safer drivers
ok, so only in daylight, but women have much wider peripheral vision than men. Men's eyes are designed to seek out one object over s distance usually, and then guage the speed and direction its moving, women's vision is designed to watch for things sneaking up on the cave.. as many road collisions are now side-on, women have the edge.

2) Men can naver find things
This is because testing found that women are capable of remembering very complex patterns of colour, believed to be from the days of foraging and berry gathering and for monitoring the health of a baby. When women open a cupboard or fridge they look for the pattern they remember from the item they are searching for, say the butter, men will scan left to right, top to bottom looking for the word "Butter" and consequently never find it. This also explains why only men suffer colour blindness.

3) Men Never listen and Women can multi-task
A double header here, but ladies will all know that if your Dad or boyfriend is reading he can't hear a damn thing you say where as you can talk on the phone, perform a brain operation and prepare Penne Arabiata. This is because women have far more connections between the two sides of the brain, this makes them very sociable also and offers them great social skills. Women will often hint at things where as men are direct, this again is believed to be from the days when women spent all day together while the men were away, for safety in numbers, to ensure the "herd" stayed together women never directly spoke of a greivance to another woman to prevent splits in the group, which lead to phenomenon of "bitching", another form of bonding. The woman in question gets to voice her distaste of another woman to a third party and the group remains solid. Men on the other hand must be direct, its hard to be polite when you're being mauled by a bear. As for the not listening, like our vision, our brains are geared for concentration on a single task, because at these times the single task the man may be performing would become lethal or very very dangerous if he were to become distracted, distraction is not an evolutionary option.

4) The classic "pain threshold" question
Finally, this is answered, and its one men win! ..sort of. During the majority of the time, women have a greater threshold for pain, whereas when focused on a task a man's ability to absorb pain becomes even larger than a woman's, an injury must not prevent a successful hunt, afterwards however he'll get "man flu" and say he's dying, this is natures way of ensuring blokes get themselves patched up before going off to do anything else stupid.

5) Women are non-confrontational
This is so advantageous in the modern world, conflict is so last 1000 years.
Again, its all down to brain wiring, and this is also the source of the biggest conflicts between men and women. First off, you must understand two things, when a woman has a problem, she talks. Her brain is geared for analysis, and by speaking on the subject of whatever is on her mind she also gets to have a firmer understanding of it in her mind and feels many times she can feel better just vby talking and maybe having a little cry. Men don't talk, the male brain is designed for dealing in terms of "what am/is I/he/she/it going to do next?" not a woman's "what is going on now?, what is relevant at this point?", its solution engine. No-one ever successfully outwitted a sabretooth tiger by talking about how annoying it is that it won't sit still long enough to let you shoot it, you beat it by next guessing it, by SOLVING the problem, not by ANALYSING it. So women talk, and men sit in silence, often looking into a fire or mindlessly channel hopping, and will continue to do so until they have a solution to their problem.. I even do it, but you don't notice until someone says. This however, is where all the conflict begins, your girlfriend comes home and goes on about how that bitch at work has been saying this and that about her and has bought those shoes that your girlfriend had her eye on, as a man you immeadiatly think "Why would she be telling me this, unless she wants a solution?"

SO, the bloke offers a solution to the problem, which infuriates the woman, who just wants to know you're listening, and just wants to talk it out, and you get angry because you think moaning about it is fucking stupid unless you intend to correct it.

So to summarise, its Women FTW! we've had our time sadly lads.. so.. pub anyone?

[For more information on this study, and to learn how to prevent arguments with your other half, check out "Why men never listen and women can't read maps" its on amazon or something, and its fucking awesome.]

We're sorry...

.. I've been stuck in work practically 24 hours a day and the others have all been tied up with things too so we haven'tupdated in a massive 3 days, but its ok, shhh.. Benji's here now..

The Hardcore Effect Awards - Music Video Nominations

OK, so here we go with our first award, please don't forget to vote in the poll on the right of your screen, which should appear pretty soon.

All the videos picked are chosen for different reasons, some its the quality of the direction, others the innovation,or the comedy value, the kick-ass dancing or the plain fun of a raucous live performance, enjoy

There is an opportunity for a few more videos to be added before the poll opens, so don't be shy about sending us your ideas before nominations close.

The Nominations [so far] for Best Music Video ever are;

"Whats it gonna be?" - Mike O'Connell feat. Yoshido, taken from the album; "Million Dollar Strong"

"Smooth Criminal" - Alien Ant Farm, taken from the album "ANThology"

"Virtual insanity" - Jamiroquai, taken from the album "Travelling without Moving"

"Silver Lining" - Beulah, Taken from the album "The Coast is Never Clear"

"Club Foot" - Kasabian, Taken from the album "Kasabian"

"Learn to fly" - Foo Fighters, Taken from the album "There is nothing left to lose"

What Happend..

..to all the humorous photos? We've been inundated with a message that asks why we don't bother putting up piccies like we used to, well weknocked our heads together and tracked down this little collection.. enjoy.

Funny Videos

Funny Videos

Viral Marketing and T-shirts of the future

As per Ravi's suggestion, a series of funky, if mildly offensive, Hardcore effect T-shirts are going to be available before the end of the week.

We'll also be giving a load of these away, because any publicity is good publicity. From what we can gather, the people who come here come back, which is just plain lovely, but we aren't attracting any new bods so tell your mates this is where its at.

Hardcore Tour Update - Stockholm

So, I thought it was about time to fill you guys in on what we have planned for this trip of truly epic proportions. Already there has been talk of making it an annual event, but it turns out all is not as simple as we had hoped.

First off, aside from the usual rules on our filming such as; Don't fucking do it near airport security, I've today been informed that any filming in Ostermalm [the really trendy bit] is "inadvisable"

Yesterday, Sheepy was giving me a run down of the first book he has purchased since he gained his newly acquired skill, namely reading. It's called "Watching the English" and is basically full of the little customs and weird behaviours that make our culture insanely alien to outsiders. Let me tell you now, we have fuck all on the Swedish.

Paul Maher has just come back from thatarea after a factfinding mission for his relaunch of Deadlite Snowboards, he managed to dig up this information before he left;

"How you get to a club doesn't always matter, as they're often located in a district where there are clubs everywhere and people just walk between them throughout the night. Some clubs however require a certain something upon arrival. For example, pulling up to Spy Bar in a cab filled with 8 people just won't fly. A VIP club like that has a (if arriving by taxi) 2-3 person limit per cab. Pulling up in a limo with 10 people on the other hand is fine."

I was aware we'd be requiring a limo for Spy bar, purely because we don't look trendy enough to get in, it never occured that we may encounter highly inflated prices because every bastard in Stockholm requires a truly massive ride to get passed the doormen, my worry increased with this little piece of advice;

"One thing to always remember is that the doormen at clubs seriously mean business in this town, and they have no self perspective whatsoever. This is where the humor part comes in. Always let them have their power-trip and laugh about it with your friends over drinks inside. Getting into clubs in Stockholm has pretty much become as tough as getting through New York airport security. So don't be drunk, and if the doorman tells you you're an idiot then just agree. He's just looking for an excuse to keep you out from all the fun"

Charming, just like home in that respect then, only the confusion continues;

"Also remember that a mean doorman doesn't necessarily mean a fabulous party inside, which is what many people seem to think. It all comes down to what your goal for the evening is. In general, the meaner the doorman, the more scantly dressed women and men inside, and a relaxed doorman often means a relaxed atmosphere inside.
Another thing to avoid when it comes to doormen is name-dropping. Telling him you know Bono or the President won't get you inside any faster. Honestly, the likeliness of him even knowing who either of them are , are slim to none."

So, if we don't get killed to death by doormen or mocked so badly for our transport arrangements we vow never to set foot outside again, at least we can enjoy Stockholms famously sexy women, right? .. right?

"The fact is that if you look hot but your friends do not you're not getting in at the upscale clubs if you're not Paris Hilton. "

sounds good from a male point of view doesn't it, but...

"The rules of flirtation are pretty universal but the men and women in Stockholm are often beautiful and picky, so it's not always an easy venture (contrary to popular opinion and urban legends). Start by scoping out the potential victim and see if the eye contact seems to be of the appreciative or the "leave me alone" variety before heading over for a chat. If appreciation is sensed then step two is in order. Step two consists of starting up some easy conversation, and NOT over-the-top compliments. The person already knows you're attracted to them, so save the massive compliments for when you've at least spent a few moments together.

After that you're on your own. Either you've got it in the bag or you'll be left with your drink alone on the dance floor. Keep in mind that buying somebody a drink in Stockholm doesn't mean a thing to most people. Some people will politely decline so as not to give the wrong impression, but most will take the drink, say thanks and then hook back up with their friends in 2 seconds flat if they're not interested."

Confused? We'd better get you a drink...but wait, theres fucking rules for this too, so don't go charging in there, this isn't the Boar's Head in Norwich y'know;

"When you've finally made it through the hassle of actually getting into the club the next obstacle appears, namely ordering drinks. Basically waving money or yelling at the bartender will be ignored by said bartender until you stop. Just standing around, looking politely at the closest bartender will get you the best service. If you've got the confidence, a little flirting can get you a long way also.
Tipping isn't a necessity but it might get you a couple shots at a cheaper price later in the evening. Another thing to keep in mind is that coins in general are frowned upon, so keep the bills at hand. If you do receive a couple coins as change when buying a drink then just leave them at the bar. Scrambling for pennies is considered pretty cheap."

So, you've been mocked, robbed, ignored and possibly beaten due to your crappy dress sense, but just when you think you can take the Mr. Sad Bastard approach and slope off home for masturbation and a frosty beer....

"People seldom head straight home after a club closes. A few minutes of mingling outside and gathering up the crew are a given. After that most people head off to their favorite after-hours joint to eat and decide who's going home with whom, who's having the after-party and how to get there. The eating part is also a nice way to round off the evening and actually hear what people have to say, since you couldn't in the loud club."

The guide finishes with this nice little gem;

"Now go out, have fun and be safe, because Stockholm is a great town to party in."

Well, you certainly sold it to us mate. Don't get me wrong, I can't wait to hit the parties in one of the most fashionable and trendy cities in the world, its our goal after all to see if this hassle is all worth it, it is just occuring to us however that we may have bitten off a bit much. I honestly feel more comfortable about my imminent trip to Monaco, which is fucking full of celebrities.

So far, it sizes up like this;
-we've spent most of our budget on a stretch Hummer
-we may not be able to get any worthwhile footage
-we can only guarantee entry to THREE nightspots, purely because we've been invited
-we will probably run out of money 2 days in

It would seem my original concern, that we would end up with a lovely video of us all having a jolly nice time but which would be as boring as speed dating in a nunnery, was ill-founded.

I'm sure you'll all get a laugh out of this one, especially because I don't think we will...

Big Thanks..

.. to Cassy and Katy, two of our most frequent visitors for this pointless but sweet gesture;

ttp://www.experienceproject.com/petitions/Get-The-Hardcore-Effect-On-TV/-2110192001

I feel like Bob Geldof

Luckily, I'm not Bob Geldof, I'm not an irate Irishman for one thing, but I do hate Mondays and I'm annoyed for no real reason at the news of his stupidly named children dabbling with drugs.

We've been looking into the possibility of selling our souls while we ride this wave of minor success that may not last, and short fo shouting "Give us your f*****G money!" we're out of ideas. We're blogging in an enviroment that is hostile toward us, we're new and as such scary in ways never before imaginable. We are not bothered about making wild generalisations, mildly racist remarks and embarking on epic pieces filled with intelligent but mildly offensive banter.

This in itself draws only the minority of hostility we face within the blogging community, and while being the main reason no-one will work with us, it is not the only reason. Which brings us nicely to this months topic; Identity. Gender identity, National identity and personal identity are all aspects of ourselves upon which we are judged.

Scientists tell us that if we have an interesting or unusual name, we're a lot more likely to be successful in life. If you are a Caucasian, heterosexual male between 21 and 45 the world is your oyster where as if you happen to be a muslim women with a speech impediment, life isn't so kind.

We intend to investigate this fully, and by fully we mean we're willing to travel as far as Morecambe and spend no more than £1.72 each, because no fucker will work with us.

So, unless your name is Fifi Trixabelle, stick around.. you might just like what we've got coming up.

Benji On Duty

Hey kiddies, you're stuck with me for the next few days and like any unwilling and disconnected father, I'm ignoring you today in favour of the pub and falling asleep in front of the TV.

Ravi, you see, is busy proving my "people are stupid" argument is totally accurate, by going to Wales. Why? beats me too.

So while he spends some time with the boyos, sheep shearing and whatever else the Welsh do, sing I imagine, I'll be dealing with the majority of the update work just has he will be doing when I take the Hardcore Tour somewhere a little bit more glamourous than Wales, namely Cannes, Antibes and Monaco, yes, Monaco.

I am James Bond.

So, expect plenty of Brainwashing to commence as of tomorrow so I know you'll be ok in my absence, can't have Ravi convincing you to ride bicycles, eat organic peace bread and wear vegan sandals now can we?

Tonight, Michael . . .

Welcome, one and all, to my post.

Life has been quiet on the whole. I've been moved to Newcastle, which is a little bit awesome. One of the Boss' is on his way out, and so we had a bit of a shindig down old Newcastle town to see him off.
Being me, and knowing exactly who I am, I decided to not drink during the meal, instead preferring to sup on a cooling pint of Coke. This was my fruitless endeavour to retain a sense of decorum throughout the night, at least as long as the head honchos were present. Being the newest addition to the Newcastle team, I was anxious to not make a complete fool of myself. Being the youngest, I was more anxious still to not be thought of as the idiot child.

All out the window, naturally.

My request for a coke (no ice, cheers mate, I know your game . . .) was met with derisive sneers and various colleagues questioning my sexual orientation. After assuring them that I was indeed heterosexual (and attempting to prove it by sharing my personalised chat-up lines) I was permitted to order my drink, amidst relentless mockery.

After the meal I was forced to have a "real" drink, and somewhere between ten and eleven pm, somewhere between six and seven pints and somewhere between explaining to my Boss that I really did need to "have a poo" and my Boss explaining that I'm a bitch and applying make-up to me, borrowed from a waitress, somewhere between all these things my night turned a deeper shade of hazy.

I recall being in a nightclub and seeing two of the delightful young ladies who served us our meal. Usually my shyness would have stopped me from going anywhere near them, but emboldened by Mistress Artois I took the liberty of introducing myself. By introduce, I mean that I walked behind one of them at the bar and dry-humped her bottom.
Responding quite well, somewhat surprisingly, we had a bit of a chat. I remember struggling to hear her over the hubbub, so curled out the verbal version of the pile I'd been discussing with my boss earlier.

"Look love, I can't really hear you. You might as well go, y'know, away."

I really am on a roll in the whole women department at the moment.
I recently managed to compare a pretty girl to my dead cat before getting into a rather heated debate regarding everyone's favourite British Hero, Major Richard Sharpe of the 95th Rifles. I'm told that this conversation culminated with the timeless line "You might be pretty, but your opinion on this matter is incorrect. I'm going write your name next to the word "worthless" in my dictionary."
I also managed to get punched by a girl in Lancaster last night. I have no idea how I provoked her, and more worryingly, I have no idea which venue I was in at the time. All I know is that she tapped me on the shoulder, said something and then punched me in the face. And because I was drunk, I hit the floor like a sack of shit.
Still, at least it's not knife crime.

So, in my honest opinion I am not to blame here. I am the victim. Alcohol is the culprit, and I damn well mean to ensure that things change. There's a good person locked inside me, a good Sheep who doesn't poo in inappropriate places, who is capable of holding a pleasant conversation with a lady and who, essentially, is not a social hand grenade.

I am now on a mission to find this Sheep, and I shall be documenting my attempts here. In order to make things a little but more interesting, I shall also be launching a campaign to find Mrs Sheep. Doubtless, hilarity shall ensue.


Reference drunken text messages, I can safely say that all of the ones Ben receives are relevant. Quoting TV comedy is one of the few things in my banal existence that actually brings joy into an otherwise lifeless day.

Starting . . . NOW.

Another way.. [The Hardcore Party?]

While Ravi's post may be all eloquent and humourous, its also the collected musings of the Eastbourne W.I., the Stafford Ladies' whist drive team and his own wishy-washy, pansy, nancy boy, softly-softly views.

Yes, Im a big fan of Sweden, but lest we forget sir, that I fucking hate the Daily Mail and am a great big lefty at heart. However, we have clearly gone too far the other way at this stage. Its a difficult balancing act between social responsibility, and freedoms and liberties. Sure its ok to write an anti-war poem and start a drum circle Mr. Spider, but its is not fucking ok to invite people to behead soldiers.

Yes, its daft giving a knife mugger one million years in jail, but its also daft to blame it on his father and send him to Alton Towers. Both sides of the coin are wrong in their own special ways. When people speak of Labour they throw around horrible and dated terms that conjure up negative images of the party, words like Communism, Socialist and cockbadger.

Communism, as long as you don't confuse it with Stalinism, works.. simple as that. There has only ever been one truly communist state, Chile. It worked so fucking well that all the greedy fatcats from here and the US arranged for the CIA to clear it all up behind closed doors. Fact is that a person only needs so much, Why does a footballer get to earn upwards of £50,000 a week, while I have to manage on £12,000 a year? Why do nurses get a pittance and "outreach advisors" get 45k a year?

Communism isn't exactly based on the principle that everyone should have the same, end of. It basically is a concept whereby people are not restricted by the circumstances into which they were born, as it stands now rich people have kids, who inherit their cash by doing precisely fuck all, people like me and you have to work ourselves into the grave for nearly nothing, because they hoard more than they can ever spend. Every communist knows that a rocket scientist or a doctor deserves more cash than a road sweeper or a tea lady, what they say however is that the tea lady should be given an equal chance from birth, to become a rocket scientist.

We could happily redistribute the wealth in this country and all live in pretty luxurious conditions, and a quality of living increase for about 80% of the country, maybe more after all there is a fucking lot of money in football.

Now the flipside, are the conservatives, or a bit further on to the right, facists. Facism (and being a conservative) works on the tenet that;
a) ALL poor people are lazy and don't want to work
b) ALL poor people are theiving criminals
c) The less of said poor people that get rich and successful, the more money we have to hoard amongst us

in contrast with the labour view;
a) ALL poor people are virtuous and oppressed by the upper classes
b) ALL criminals are fundamentally good people, born into bad circumstances
c) The more of us that get rich, the less leverage those bastards have over us

Now the reality is more like this;
a) SOME poor people are lazy and no good, the majority are hard working and honest
b) SOME criminals are unfortunate and deserve the chance to sort themselves out, but shouldnt be allowed to abuse this leniency
c) It doesn't really matter who has the most money because tax should be relative

So, why do we settle for a bunch of parties that are too blind and arrogant to see they've gone too far to one side that they have effectively merged into one party with the same goals, but violently opposing hidden agendas?

In the style of those nice banking people, we are here to show you, there IS another way.
Communism? No ta, Facism? not for us thanks.

We need to simply take the best parts from both the left and the right, judge each situation on individual merit and just damn well get things sorted.

Lets be honest, democracy is fucking stupid, it will be on my eventual list of "Things with a stupid design flaw", average everyday people from across the country all vote one way or the other to select a winner, who basically tells them whatever they want to hear to secure their vote, then systematically sets about doing the exact opposite of what they promised purely because it was never thier intention in the first place. You'd think the majority would have figured this out and relised that if they voted for a new party, other people might just do it too. You'd think they'd be able to spot some bullshit a mile away.

The problem with allowing anyone over 18 to vote is that the vast majority of them are fucking stupid, people who believe that by emptying an entire fridge of milk in the supermarket they'll find a magic pint that lasts three months, people who believe our saviour is the son of dead carpenter, people who say "sumfink" instead of "something", people who let Jade Goody get famous and read about Kerry Katona's new loft extension and believe its perfectly acceptable to park in a disabled bay despite not being disabled.

Its madness, worse than madness. It sets the whole of humanity back because of a collected minority's old fashioned or intolerant views. It results in a whole church going against its own teachings of love and acceptance purely because one of its preachers likes touching other men's bottoms, and its just not acceptable. As for a fair alternative? I'm stumped.

Dictatorships are so 1980's.