Thursday, March 20, 2008

Plasterer's Radio

"I hope they play British Sea Power!"

More tunes and Thom Rot for you in this week's edition of that dearest of radio institutions "Unknown Pleasures".


Daft Punk - Robot Rock (Soulwax Remix)
Battles - Dance
Art Brut - Bang, Bang, Rock 'n' Roll
Pussy Galore - Dick Johnson
Teenage Fanclub - Ain't That Enough
The Albany - Secrets of the Night
Grand Puba - Let's Go (CK's nee-swearing Radio Edit)
Tom Waits - 16 Shells From A 30.6
Julian Cope - Out of my mind on Dope and Speed
Masters of the Obvious - Rot, Rot, Rot
Herman DĂșne - Seven Cities
Von Vox Braun - Lord of Pesetas
Shane McGowan/Pogues - Cracklin' Rosie
The Hidden Cameras - In The Union of Wine
Tyranosaurus Rex - The Woodland Bop
Pelle Carlberg - I Touched You At The Soundcheck
The Smiths - The Boy With The Thorn in his Side
Sugarettes - Rain or Shine
The Flaming Lips - It Overtakes Me
Low - Canada
Young Marble Giants - Choci Loni
Feiet - 1,2,3,4 (My Gay Husband Remix)
Field Music - Tell Me, Keep Me
Link Wray - Hand-clapper
Lee Hazlewood - Hello Satdee Morning
Ben Folds Five - Kate
PP Arnold - Everything's Gonna Be Alright
British bloody Sea Power - Everybody Must Be Saved

Have fun with it!

Wednesday, March 12, 2008

Wanksy III

"The Subjugation of the Proletariat in the Age of the Neo-Con"

Radio Daze

"...that was "We built this city on rock'n'roll" by Starship
and now, to take us up to the news...
...Huey Lewis and the News!
with "The Power of Love".
Don't you dare touch that dial!"

Don't worry kiddies, I haven't been nudging the turps, I am merely using the language of the Disc Jockey. The reason for this is that somebody has been damn fool enough to let me near a radio studio.

For some weeks now, I have been rolling up and playing third fiddle on a show on Newcastle's soaraway kick-ass radio station NE1FM. "Community Radio for Newcastle and Gateshead on 102.5FM!"

Sorry, I have to say that last bit. It's compulsory.

Basically, the current inception of the long-running "Unknown Pleasures" franchise features three well-fed fellows playing records and talking tommyrot to an audience of about five.

Whatever trevor, the three of us enjoy ourselves and it keeps us out of the saloon bars for a few hours. Also, you would not believe the amount of trim that hangs round a radio station, willing to put out for anyone who has been near a microphone. They hang off us like fruitbats and that's the truth, Ruth.

By now, I can tell you are positively salivating at the prospect of this groaning aural smorgasbord. Well, if you pitch up at at 9pm on a Tuesday night you can fill your boots and listen online or via 102.5FM if you're in the Newcastle upon Tyne area.

I know you, though. Yours is a fiery, impulsive nature that cannot wait til no dam Tuesday night. You want it now don't you, you impatient whore?

Very well, you've beaten it out of me. Here is the show from March 11th to listen to or even, if you are truly depraved, to download and listen to time after time.

Have fun with it!

The glamour of radio.

Tuesday, March 11, 2008

Wanksy II

Dazza writes: "The dorty bugger, getting his lad oot when there's a bairn behind him and Frank Sidebottom watching from the sides. Porvort!"


What ho, chums!

Please forgive the rather robust language in the preceding post. Watching that oaf in action for my local sports team tends to leave me feeling rather prickly. Let us move on.

As you doubtless know, I bow to nobody in my appreciation of art. However, I do draw the line at the tiresome clever-clever graffiti of middle class poster boy Banksy. Whether it's the "Rik the Student" politics in his oh-so-controversial works or the drooling pseuds that fawn over his every move, this wassock gets my gorge rising like nobody's bidness.

In a very intelligent and high-concept stroke of art counter-terrorism I have, therefore, commissioned a genuine street artist from the north-east of England called Dazza, who has set about defacing Banksy's so-called artwork with the crude weaponry of the schoolroom anarchist. To wit, by drawing big, spunking cocks on them.

As Brian Sewells might put it, "it works on many levels".



Sunday, March 02, 2008

Ins and Outs: March '08

Slamdunk the funk, poindexters!

Here we are then, what? The merry month of March and once more the Ins and Outs Committee have strained every sinew, busted every gut and climbed every mountain in order that you, yes you!, will know your rampant rabbits from your filthy habits, your Ann Summers from your Selwyn Gummers and what's bizzle and what's drizzle.

Quakers and shakers, Ins and Outs am here!


Whilst front and centre in the Spearmint Rhino, beckoning the Ukrainian pole dancer over and, producing a battered box of Milk Tray, asking her if she'd care to be your sweetheart?
Telling impressionable young ladies that you are a musician and once won a coveted Metal Hammer magazine award (Riff Lord, 2002)
Addressing men as 'My dear' and women as 'Mate'.
Having endured a windbag spending fifteen minutes on his take on American Middle East policy with particular reference to Syria and Iran, leaning across and asking him if he has any idea where you can get a moody MOT?
Asking your GP if he will give you a sicknote as you are suffering from "existential ennui".
On being asked by a work colleague about your plans for the evening, cheerily informing them that you will be "fucking two black guys".
At the golf club's sherry morning, when the Captain asks if you prefer dry or sweet, beckoning him towards you and muttering in his ear, "Can you help a brother out with a little taste of 'brown'? I got a fucking monkey on my back that's needin' feedin'!
Firmly establishing that your friends and family are aware that you "aint no hollaback girl".
When preparing your last will and testament, stating that any eulogy must begin and end with "Much love and respect to Dr. Dre".
Dickson Etuhu. He's not strange. He just wants to live his life this way.
Having a right old chin-wag about the novels of Milan Kundera with the lady who puts the labels on the jars at the Sperm Donor clinic.
Dancing the night away with senoritas who CAN sway. Those non-swaying bitches can fuck right off.
A propos nothing, slowly intoning "Bonedigger bonedigger. Dogs in the moonlight."
Swearing, angry old blokes playing cards in the pub.
Complimenting a lady acquaintance on her new hairdo, making reference to the fact it gives them a definite resemblance to Moses Kiptanui.
Claiming that one's minuet steps have dazzled ball-goers throughout the major kingdoms of Europe.
The rump-shaking, serious point-making musical stylings of MIA.
Making frivolous appeals.
When paying for your Doritos and chocolate digestives at 3am, telling an unconvinced service station sales assistant that you get "more play than the RS mu'f'kin' C!"


Any person "amusingly" referring to the non-diet version of Coca Cola as "full fat" Coke.
Protracted conversations regarding the Weight Watchers points values of various cakes and pastries. Here's an idea; if you're on a diet, why not eschew the cake option altogether?
People who print out their e-mails. Worse than Hitler.
Weirdos who wear Nordic mountaineering gear to go to the pub in.
Tubbyboohooing about third world child labour. If some of Britain's pampered layabouts had to put in twelve hours a day in a sweat shop they might not have so much time for happyslapping, binge-drinking, texting and being obese.
Sponza Palace in Dubrovnik. Shite.
Superheroes with "ordinary lives". You've got the chance to walk around in your pants all day, fighting crimes and banging cocktail waitresses two at a time. Instead you choose to work in a poxy office and wear jam-jar specs? Caped cunts.
Going on and on about tapas. Just get a ham and cheese toastie down you before you go to the pub.
Facebook groups. As pointless and wassock-infested as "Socs" at University.
Giving serious thought about whether you should switch to grieving for Brave Eduardo, having put in a good solid year getting unnecessary over Brave Maddie.
Murdering prostitutes. That is so nineteenth century.
At your trial for unlawfully re-connecting your gas supply, claiming to be a modern-day Prometheus.
Dish-faced pop chanteuse dullard Adele. Chasing pavements? Chasing burger vans more like.
While one of your dreadful mates is busy pressing his suit with a prospective soul-mate, repeatedly bellowing "Get in that ass, Larry!" in their direction.
Oxford commas. They are, rubbish.
On receiving an e-mail from one's Head of Department with an attached consultation document, with instructions to prepare a departmental response and identify key action areas by the close of business inst., returning said e-mail with the single comment "LMFAO!!!!!!"
Reckoning that your recipe for jugged hare is to die for, dahling!, when frankly, it ain't all that.
Obese giant pandas, unable to get pregnant. Lay off the bamboo if you want to get some Tyne Dock, toots.
The Bronze Age.
Refusing a friend's request for a small loan, claiming your hands are tied by those pricks at City Hall.