Thursday, 25 June 2009

NME moves over a Gear

With the news that current NME editor Conor McNicholas has handed in his resignition to take charge of Top Gear magazine let's chart (in two simple steps) McNicholas' influence over the magazine:



Thursday, 9 April 2009

Toothy mash

What's better than 'The Daily Tooth'?

'The Daily Mash'

Thursday, 12 March 2009

No longer fingernailed for you

Dear London,
Hi, it's Tom, how are you? I've been thinking for the past hour of what I may write on this first line and to be truthful nothing seems to fit and so nothing is what I'll write.
You've probably noticed that the last few months haven't been great between us, I'm sorry, I could have probably been more sensitive but I just find it hard to express myself sometimes. I'm not going to write reams and reams of prose to you containing all the 'it's not you it's me' shelf bought cliche spiel because it's insulting, so I think it's best to just lay my fingernails on the table and be honest.
I don't think it's working between us anymore, we are too disparate as individuals, our wants and needs are so different that I can't see how we can develop a true relationship but just grow more and more apart and by staying together we'll end up causing more harm than this email could ever do.
I truly think that it would be for the best if we end what relationship we have before I hurt you more.
I'm sorry and I hope we can meet up occasionally for a drink, I think we might even get on a bit better that way!

Yours sincerely, Thomas xxx

Hi babe! What you talking about you silly sausage? Lol!
Don't worry about it we'll be fine!
I'll come over later and we'll get crunked up and go to Shoreditch's warehouse party, I'll get some mandy and we'll talk about it all then, it'll be fun! Lol!
Laters babe!

London xoxoxo

Hi London,
I'm not sure it's a good idea if we go out tonight, I'm not really in the mood to be honest and I don't think you really understood my email. If I'm going to be truthful I've been thinking a lot recently about my old friend Leeds. We saw each other a week or so ago (don't worry nothing happened!) and since then she's been in the back of my mind, the only reason I'm telling you this is because I didn't want you hearing it from anyone else if something ever did happen between Leeds and I. Derby tried to split us up before and I don't want him shit stirring.
Leeds and I just seem to have more of a bond, I'm sorry.

Thomas x

Oh babe, you should have come last night it was off the hook! Dalston was there and he'd booked this band to play called 'Crystal Christskull', they were aceness, like, they played, like, indie but with, like, the guy singing like the guy from The Fall, yeah? Everyone loved them, no one danced or anything 'cos they were all, like, on loads of ket! I'm going to do their press and be, like basically, their stylist and stuff.
What you chatting about all this Leeds stuff for? She's so out of the loop dude! Lol!
Can you remember when we made those 'Friends' style lists of who we could cheat on with and mine was, like, 1: L.A, 2: New York, 3: Berlin, 4: Portland, 5: India and yours were basically 1: Leeds, 2: Brighton, 3: York, 4: San Francisco, 5: like, somewhere dead quiet and boring! Lol! You're so cute and funny!
Let's go around SOHO's tonight, he has this new bar where literally no one can get in and, like, EVERYONE who is anyone is there!

London lmfao xoxoxo

You really don't get it do you? We're over! Finished! I don't want to see you anymore, we're not compatable. I don't know if I'm not being clear enough, or if you are just upset, but we are no longer an item. Speaking of items, I've boxed up some of your things that you had here like your black cape, checked shirt and fake glasses, I'll drop them off at Brick Lane's place for you.
Again, I'm sorry. Please don't be too upset.


Lmfao! You can keep my black cape LOL! I don't wear it anymore, ebay it for me hun!
Sometimes, yeah, I basically think I'm the greatest DJ ever! Like, last night I was playing records at this Vice thing yeah, and everyone was like bummed out or something so basically I thought 'fuck this' yeah and put on Blink 182, like being ironic ( I think!LOL!) and everyone said that that's exactly what they wanted to hear and so after that I basically just played a load of dead shit records and they were awesome!
Hey, don't be sad! We'll sort us out babe!
Luv ya!


Please don't reply to this email.
We are not going out.
We are over.
I don't want to see you or your irritating friends ever again.


Lol, you're funny!
See you tonight!


Saturday, 7 March 2009

Your precious time

Just the other day I happened to find myself in conversation with someone regarding The Daily Tooth, they told me that they've heard it's funny but can't be bothered reading it themselves as it's too long.
Too long.
I happen to heartily disagree, the posts run for no more than a few hundred words at the most and it wasn't that said person was too busy to read it, just too lazy. It's not condensed enough, not bite sized Heat style pull quotes; it's something that you have to spend 5 minutes reading.
In response I'd like to dedicate a blog to not only this person, but everyone who is too lazy to read anything:

Dear busy folks...

Go fuck yourselves you brain dead simpletons.
The end.

Short enough?

Monday, 2 March 2009


A: It must have been around 2001 when horror movies ceased to cause any particular perturbation or 'heebie-jeebie' rattling night time sweats in me, before this I found no better way to make myself feel prickly than to scare the living DNA right out of my body with a fright film. Then I saw 'Threads', a British movie about the effects of the Cold War, a 'what if...' scenario made for television in the mid-eighties and it terrified me so much I genuinely believe that it altered the already fragile settings of my encephalon and mind and re-wired my tunings so that true 'horror' movies no longer had any effect. Previously had I watched, let's say, 'Ghostwatch' at midnight in bed and then realised I was in the need for bathroom refreshment I would have probably rather lay in my own urine all night rather than experience the frightful journey in the dark to the toilet. After 'Threads' the only thing I was scared of was a fucking atom bomb tearing through my house and making my face melt off.

B: Sometimes boys talk about something so much that they begin to actually believe that the utter nonsense they are speaking is in fact the most perfect idea ever formulated.

Whilst traveling with the other three of Televised Crimewave we hit upon the topic of cause and effect, specifically how one small action, as tiny as it may be, could change a persons life within a blink of an eye from what it is now to something almost unidentifiable. As four boys together we quite inevitably decided that such a course of action might be a desirable change from the norm.
After ten minutes chat of why killing someone may not be the best idea we've ever come up with and whittling it down to either chopping someones hand off or standing completely naked in a pitch black room together with a strobe light, we decided that we just wanted to find our limit of absolute terror and push ourselves over the edge.

Please keep reading, I know how all this sounds, we sound like idiots. Bored idiots. But we're not really. I'd like to say we are explorers of the darkest corners of the mind, but that makes us sound like Goths and we all know Goths are the most deplorable bottom feeders of all sub-cultures. Apart from maybe Levellers fans.

So anyway, what did we decide? What could we possibly do to make our brains feel like they're going to shut down and leave us like gibbering wrecks?

Yes, camping; an activity that is enjoyed worldwide by fathers and sons, friends, music lovers, fishermen, trappers, poachers, the scouts and people who can't afford a proper holiday. Sounds lovely doesn't it?
Well our trip wont be.
We're going to a place near Stevenage that sounds so scary I nearly had a conniption fit in the car just talking about it. It's near a massive lake which is surrounded by an exceptionally large and dense forest and along with this it houses a mental asylum on it's grounds.
Yes, a mental asylum.
Where real mental people live.
Rob said they found patients at the bottom of the lake. He might be lying but I hope he isn't.

The following is our camping list, note that every item has been selected carefully and with good reason.

(Disclaimer: We are not Goths we are pop stars.)

1: Single man tents x 4

2: Bottle of whisky x 1

3: Cans of imported lager x 12

4: Brass hand bell x 1

5: Ouija board x 1

6: Book of spells

7: Sandwiches (lots of)

8: Matches

9: Mobile phone with brand new sim card x 1

10: Digital camera x 1

11: Machete

12: Plastic bottle containing fox / cat blood x 1

The Rules

To make sure that the excursion doesn't spiral into a farcical teen movie in the vein of 'Up The Creek', a coming of age weepy like 'Stand by Me' or anal rape a'la 'Deliverance' we have devised a simple plan that should be stuck to.
If adhered to the following set of rules will provide maximum terror and minimum safety.

There must be only the four members of Televised Crimewave. Initially I thought it may be fun to bring one of our indie superstar friends such as Ryan Jarman of The Cribs, Eddie Argos of Art Brut or Nick Hodgson of Kaiser Chiefs. They were ruled out for several reasons, they aren't in our band, Ryan certainly doesn't own clothing that will keep him virginal from the night time elements, there wont be enough booze for Eddie and Nick would probably be more scared of the Ouija Board than Rob.
Plus they're all too busy being famous and popular.

The team of brave souls has to be driven there by Rob's Dad (Big Rob) so that the group can't shit themselves at night and drive home.
Arrival time at the scary forest should be no later than 1pm (the group is to spend 24 hours) and upon finding a clearing close to the lake but not too far away from the mental home the tents should be erected thus:
Each one man tent (chosen for the simple fact that being in a tent on your own in the middle of nowhere proper puts the willy's up you) should be constructed and placed at least 15 foot from the other, giving the impression of loneliness come nightfall, whether they are in a line or facing each other is left to the groups discretion.

Each man is to then consume a sandwich.

A small recce of the area is to be mapped out noting the distance from the lake, blood curdling screams from the mad house and any creepy tree stumps that might look like vampires or nutters when it's dark.

Fire wood should be gathered in abundance and placed in a pile near the tents, conversation at this point should turn to bravery and the fearless nature of each person. Anything that can be hacked at with the machete should be (evidence of machete heroism is to be captured on camera)

At 4:30 pm a pentangle should be made with sticks near the fire wood and tents (Batneck ©).

Each man is then to consume a sandwich.

As dusk falls the mobile phone should be switched on. The use of a fresh sim card is required as no one should know this number; ergo no bother from outsiders yet we should still be able to ring the police if a real life mad fucker tries to get us.

The Ouija board is to be unpacked and placed in the center of the pentagram, in turn the brass bell should be placed onto the Ouija. Thelemic rule suggests that a blessed ring of salt should be placed around each user so as to protect them from any evil spirit conjured, but it's still light so fuck that.

Each man is then to consume a sandwich.

Once the evening is upon the group and night has truly begun (I don't know, about half six? Surely it'll be a bit dark then) the fire should be lit and sat around. Each member may drink as many of their 3 cans of lager as they like and now has a personal choice as to whether they have another sandwich. Talk at this time must turn to the paranormal, the extraterrestrial, the unexplained, urban legends, terror movies or all five. The lager has been bought in such small supply so that whilst it gives the fearless explorers mild dutch courage it doesn't make them pass out shit faced with absolutely no care whatsoever for fright. Once the lager has worked it's way through to the bladder and mecturation is imminent each person must do their liquid business on their own and in the opposite direction to the rest of the team. They are not allowed to take the bell, the phone or the machete but may take the book of spells if they actually think it'll make a fucking difference. Oh and at some point one of the team has to go and piss in the lake on their own, that'll be dead fucking scary!

Whilst still around the fire the team are allowed to open the whisky and swig at will, but always in turn. It's no good if one person is sat there shivering with fright whilst everyone else is spangled out their box running around with a machete throwing the fox / cat blood everywhere.
Speaking of the blood, it's time to use it.
By now it should be about half past ten and everyone should be scared but mildly drunk and full of adventure, so the best thing to do is get the bottle of animal blood and place it on the Ouija board. Essentially what is happening is a game of spin the bottle but in this horror version if it lands on yourself you are required to read a spell from the magic book. Don't bring a magic book for kids with Paul fucking Daniels on it, no one wants to see a coin disappear or a floating tea towel, bring one that has a picture of Satan on the front or written in Latin or was found in a grave or something. The older the better and if the cover is made out of human skin you are a double hard bastard.
The bottle has blood in it because blood is scary and it's animal blood so it's probably full of disease which opens up a new genre to the trip; zombies and mutating infections.
You have to read out the spell in a scary voice, not a funny scary voice like Marty Feldman or a mong, but as though you actually want Lucifer to appear and slap you on the head.

Each man is then to consume a sandwich.

Everything should be documented on the camera especially the above and next part. Sometimes ghosts and horrible things liked fucked up, twisted faces and gnarled babies only show up on cameras and if you can keep checking a digital camera right there and then it'll fuck you up massively. Which, obviously is what we want.

Keep drinking the whisky, keep pissing on your own, keep photographing, keep eating sandwiches and keep an eye on the machete.

At this point you have a choice, either go and throw stones at the asylum windows or go for a swim in the lake.

At midnight the valiant troupe should pour each other salt circles around the Ouija board and bless them for protection. Thing is by the time you read this bit you will already be there and have realised I haven't written 'Salt Shaker x 1' on the list above, plus non of us are priests so trying to bless something will just be us talking shite to a pile of salt. Neither is there a torch listed above. Never the less, sit around the Ouija.

(Disclaimer: Ouija boards are incredibly dangerous and fucking unbelievably shit-your-pants scary, so don't go fucking around with one. We're doing it because we are utter morons and have a machete NB. Buy machete off ebay)

Place your finger tips upon the brass bell and relax.
Ask if their are any spirits whom would like to make contact. Once you have established a spirit take it in turns to ask the astral being questions, scary or pleasant questions depending on your mood.
Be aware that evil spirits may take the guise of long gone relatives or friends and follow you home.

Use the talky board and drink the whisky until you are so frightened that you think your veins might explode with pressure. Everything in the dark should now resemble something horrifying and essentially you will have opened a portal to another dimension with the Ouija.
Once everyone is tired place the bell in the centre of the Ouija, extinguish the fire and go to your respective tent, on your own, in silence.

Proceed to spend the next seven hours scared out of your fucking mind, holding your wee in until you get an ulcer and more than likely crying.

If you hear the bell ring in the night it is probably best to kill yourself rather than let what is out there get you.

Happy camping wimps!


Wednesday, 25 February 2009

Follow the Bleeter

 'POGs', they were rather exciting for roughly 3 days weren't they? You recall I'm sure, small cardboard disks featuring a caricature of a hirsute caveman and a thicker plastic disk that you used to topple stacks of...oh, alright about 3 minutes then. 
 Well what about 'Furby'? They were so popular housewives were beating the living piss out of each other in toy shops so that their screaming offspring might cease their pained wailings until the next hot release of ammo was shoe horned into their playground artillery. Marginally entertaining for half an hour at Christmas time until a cockeyed uncle pointed out that it resembled a babbling female pudenda, adding an extra five minutes of guffaws before the gathered family turned their attention to a dog hurtling down the street with a man's underpants between it's teeth.
 'Tamagotchi', a plastic egg containing a virtual friend whom requires an inordinate amount of attention; essentially a prototype Myspace.
 How about 'Twitter', everyone remember that? Exceptionally popular for about 18 months before people came to the conclusion that they could now NEVER, EVER, EVER escape the banality and absolute mind crushing nonsense of their friends, their friends' friends and people who don't even exist. At the end of it all people woke up to the fact that they were reading snippets of dreary bullshit from every item on Earth that could possibly advertise something that no one will ever need.
 I signed up to 'Twitter', don't look for me I'm no longer there.
 I was genuinely intrigued to find out why so much news coverage has been dedicated (see 'wasted') to something so flaccid; I lasted roughly five and a half minutes. 
In five and a half minutes I could have made and drank a cup of tea / glued and undercoated a 'Games Workshop' figurine / said a prayer / done 600 sit-ups / enjoyed sexual intercourse...twice. 

 But no, I spent that time on 'Twitter'. Not setting up my account, but experiencing the soup-brained dullness of it. I quickly found someone I knew and 'followed' them (or whatever creepy verb they assign to it) and soon I had people 'following' me, people who I have done my utmost to avoid as I find their personalities so fucking draining I'd happily sit in a bath tub full of my own Mother's blood as I tattooed swastikas onto my face with a rat's fang rather than converse with them. 
My ex-girlfriend was on there. 
"Wow" I asked myself "I wonder what nuggets of sublime information she shall lay on me!"
Now, I'm not a bully so I won't bother pulling anyone to pieces in public, but let's just say it was less than holding. So what else can I do? Well, I tried to find Stephen Fry, just to see if he got out of that lift OK, but then I thought why the fuck should I?
 Essentially it's a tool invented to make the ordinariness of everyday life seem as glamorous as that of a Hollywood starlet or a Formula One racing car driver, yet where an actress may write something along the lines of "Well, what can I say? I had to tell Spielberg 'No! remove your tumescence from 'neath my skirt at once!' And he was just swift enough, as nay a second later Stephen Fry alighted from the elevator, wild eyed and pissed to the gills!" your common-or-garden 'Twitter' user might inform us of their bewitching decision between a boiled egg breakfast or a can of Skol. 
 In truth no one could give one solitary fuck about what you are doing every second of the day and you in turn really don't want to be informing people about how dismal your existence is:
"I'm on the 38 bus, I'm doing this from my phone!"
"I was on the 38 earlier, is it still busy?"
"Not really, where you on the same one as me?"
"I don't know"
"It's stopping at a bus stop"
"Yeah, it did that when I was on it"
"Are you still getting my messages OK? I went under a bridge"
"Yep, still getting them"
"What you doing now?"
"Just letting the gas from the oven leak into my lungs, seems like a fun idea".

 You may question my disdain for 'Twitter' as I write and update my blog, but there is a universe of difference, the first and most important being that I can write as much as I wish on here, create sentences that last for record shattering time and riff wildly upon a single subject, whereas on 'Twitter' you are chained to a limit of 140 words. On here I'm not in conversation with anyone, I'm drafting (albeit frivolous) thoughts and diatribes; on there the thoughts you may draft are merely mild brain farts. 
 And why are the majority of people on there right now farting away? Because they read that they should get involved with it, with this revolutionary new concept that will forever change the way we live our lives, no one wants to be left behind because if it's in the papers then you're already too late aren't you? Because remember, it was those same papers that printed ream upon ream of articles about 'Tamogotchi', 'Furby' and 'POGs'. They weren't telling the public about the new craze, they were too busy INVENTING the new craze in their very publications.
 Well fuck the papers, fuck the news, fuck bite sized pieces of non intellect, fuck wasting your precious time, fuck popular culture, fuck Stephen Fry and fuck my ex-girlfriend, if you're so enamored with your own lives write an autobiography, sit down and take time out of this mortal coil to draft an exquisite tome of lush verse and page turning intensity, because it wont be long until we're expressing our love to each other through the medium of thumb typed messages whilst snuggled up on the sofa. Some of us are well versed in this digital fucktopia already.

"Daddy, what did you do in the 'Twitter' days?"
"I sat on top of a skyscraper with a book and a bag of sandwiches and watched the Earth burn while everyone stared at their thumbs".

Get out there and fuck someone.

Lts of xoxox T 

Friday, 20 February 2009

Sub-par DJs heeere we go!

As our proud nation buckles like an arthritic giraffe under the colossal weight of our current economical decline and people are turned away daily from their places of work it's good to know that those whom occupy the more frivolous and tawdry corners of the employed world are still trading their piddlingly negligible wares for a trade off of wedges of cash and the smiles of a few thousand children.
Well, it would be a lovely dysentery tinted view to have, but I'm afraid even our jockey de disque célèbre seem to be letting the side down. You see, the other night I found myself in the company of several inebriated compadres, all of whom were riled to the point of riotous acts bought on by the fact we were unable, nee´ unwilling, to partake in a pub quiz. We arrived at the pub intent on flexing our vast and varying talents in the exhaustive world of general knowledge and our fantastic capacity to drink ale and devour bags of dried pig skin. Stray hair included.

To cut a long story short we refused to do the quiz because it was far too fucking busy and we couldn't find a solitary seat in the house, the whole place seemed to be filled with either profesional sad bastards who turn up to every quiz going in a 12 mile radius or tables occupied by cheating fucking students.
After voiciferously commenting on our miffed situation and coming close to having an altercation with three Gordon Gecko looking Tories who seemed to be either confused, shocked or aroused by the fact that the outline of my penis was visible beneath my jeans we left to find more salubrious environs; We didn't find any and went to a fucking student night at KOKO instead.
Now student nights on a whole are dreadful places to be unless:
A: You are so drunk that the walls you are enclosed in have absolutely no bearing or influence on the current state of your brain.
B: You haven't had sex in such a long time that the thought of a wide eyed, barely legal first year student fresh from mummy's arms and intent on 'finding herself/himself' balances out against the fact she/he will be fucked out her/his skull on three WKDs and so absorbed and bewildered with everything that it all becomes 'random' to her/him.
C: You are a first year student fresh from mummy's arms, with a loan and zero capacity for alcahol matched only by the same limited capacity to say 'no' to any sexual advance.
Even then you should be questioning your sanity....unless of course you are 'B', which was a trick to test you.
Anyhow, this is the place we found ourselves, some of us 'A's some of us 'B's and plenty who were 'C's but thankfully unconnected to us in any way. This is where the core of what I'm attempting to express comes into play; I seem to have trailed off course somewhat.

Zane Lowe.

If anyone reading this is unaware of Zane Lowe then I shall not do you the dis-service of pointing you in his direction.
KOKO at this point was more than likely at capacity and it's stage was adorned with large flashing lights, turntables, televisions and a gangly streak of piss with an effluent devouring grin. Let it not be my judgment to to speculate on old Zane's wage packet for the evenings 'work', but I'm pretty fucking sure it was about £3000 or so...I could be way off the mark but I doubt it and for any amount of money being payed you would have thought anyone would have the courtesy to play at least one song in it's entirety and not just 30 second snippets of songs 'mixed' into one another. He's djing indie and pop songs not fucking dance music, he's Zane Lowe not Carl fucking Cox. Oh, and what else is he doing? He's only dancing around the stage like a complete and utter cunt, mugging it to the crowd like he's Bono. Bono, there's another cunt who needs to get some self respect.
If I'm out and want to dance I want to hear Smells Like Teen Spirit all the way through, not up to the end of the first chorus where it is swiftly and quite terribley segued into Katy Perry, which in turn transforms into Oasis before ones feet and brain have even had the time to compute what the fuck is going on, making dancing a fucking mathematically impossible task to comprehend and leaving said person twitching and spasming on the spot, terrified of starting to do the Macarena in case it turns into This Charming fucking Man.
Zane, are you not being payed enough to warrant the punters hearing a full song?
Is it some kind of odd recession tactics employed to give people the impression they are having a good time and getting value for money whilst you yourself take a pay cut? I somehow fucking doubt that.
When I go to a wedding, which, granted, are few and far between, the DJs ALWAYS know what is required of them. They play great songs to throngs of pissed up revelers who want to dance and cop off with people and the only difference between a wedding and that night were a few more people and a few less cummerbunds.
Oh fuck me! That's another thing, not only was he not content with letting us hear a full song, he then had the audacity to talk over the top of the snippets like a fucking waltzer operator, at one point I was pretty sure he was going to tell someone their blue Volvo had been clamped.
DJs should be heard and not seen and they should be fucking grateful of their precarious position because they can very easily be replaced with a far more efficient entertainer, the jukebox.
They only cost a quid for five songs.

Wednesday, 18 February 2009

Welcome to frustration land!

Good day everyone, as you can see from the words directly in front of your eyes I have created my own livejournal page. I used to put all my rambling rhetoric and snotty nonsense on the TELEVISED CRIMEWAVE blog but the more crap I write, the less it seems appropriate to shove it round any u-bend but my own.
So here it is, in all it's glory!
If I were you I'd get on board and follow this blog while you can because it's pretty obvious to all those concerned that it wont be long until it's been privatised (no I wont fucking spell it with a z) and streamed live from some powerful satire based website like The Onion or The Smoking Gun or PopBitch or erm...the er.....fucking Guardian or something.
So climb aboard the idiot bus, tune yr brain into and stay in doors.
At all times remain in your homes.

Tom Greatorex

History is a Conman

You may have heard by now the dire news of forthcoming events.
You may even be talking amongst your compadres, discussing the best way to snuff out your own existence whilst there is still time, time before ears are polluted, time before your eyes are burned from their sockets, time before you have to witness middle class 14 year olds donning denim pantaloons with go-faster stripes down the sides.
Time is a lying illusion and irony and ignorance are it's conjuror and necromancer.
Do you know how time works?
Time turns heroes in to washed out alcoholics, quivering atop their brittle stilts that only years before were held rigid by the hands of the 'people', whilst the villainous, miscreants of the same age are glorified in rose petal Vaseline and once again slickly inserted into the arse of the nation.
Time brings about public heresy this time how?
By formulating the idea in the pulpy skull of Fred Durst that 'Limp Bizket' should put their disagreements to one side and...good Christ my
Red hat.
Red hat.
Red hat.
No doubt they will assault our airwaves once more with their brand of illiter-osterone (I just made that compound word up, I like it) droolings. The rotund one with the red hat who married/kidnapped/fathered Britney Spears swinging his knuckles like a caged man-child, whilst the 'quirky' one blacks himself up like Thomas. D. Rice. Apparently there are others in this goon show, but I'm un-aware of them.
Where is their audience I hear you cry?
Surely, anyone who was imbecilic and dimwitted enough to have funded these gonks the first time around will have grown up and either died or become chairman of Daddy's empire. The kids of the same age today are indubitably more informed; what with the advent of the internet.
So it's down to the twenty-somethings, those who more than likely had the common sense to call shenanigans on Nu-Metal in the first place, who now see Limp Bizkit and their ilk as 'funny', 'random', abitofalarfmate.
Irony I call shenanigans on YOU!
Where were you in 1999? If you where were I was then you'll already be at the gates, armed to the teeth with sense!

Did At The Drive In and The Strokes happen for nothing?

Thomas Greatorex - over and out

An Open Letter to the Cathode King pt.2

Following the publication of the below post (An open letter to the cathode king...) a few fellow television devotes have been in touch suggesting that I should actually send a copy to Ofcom.
After a small amount of detective work it seems that Ofcom will not respond nor comment on programs that have yet to air and advise would be complainers (myself) to contact the broadcaster directly.
With the help of a few friends it turns out that this is ITV2.

Therefore it was ITV2 that was to be the recipient of said email.

I'll update you all once/if a reply is sent.



An Open Letter to the Cathode King

Dear Ofcom,
As an avid user of the (full colour) televisual audio and visual receiving set I have become recently dismayed to learn of a telecast concerning one Ms Paris Hilton. After closely perusing my transmission guide of forth coming presentations it was brought to my attention that Ms Hilton will be appearing in a production in which she attempts to procure a new formal compeer. I bring to sir/madame's attention the following printed chronicle that served as a delineation to the viewer:

"The show will follow the captivating Ms Hilton as she flies to the UK for an intensive search for a new friend she can depend on."

Firstly one would like to point out that Ms Hilton has recently served a custodial sentence for reckless and intemperate operation of a petrol automobile. Whilst the 'Wild West' rules of the Americas may deem her time in gaol adequate I'm not sure what our Country needs is more iniquitous miscreants. Do we not have our fair share of broadcasting cads and lawless fops such as the deviant Jonathon Ross and the frankly evil Russell Brand? And what would happen should Ms Hilton and the detestable Brand meet? Copulation? Please sir/madame pardon me for such foul language. What could one deem as 'worse' in such a situation; out of wedlock fornication or unplanned procreation?
Secondly, materialistic broadcasting such as this may be 'trendy' and 'in vogue' (i.e. 'Panorama', 'Three Men in a Bigger Boat', 'Have I Got News For You') but the majority of your public, like oneself, find it palpably pornographic in it's nature.
There was a time when televisual events where just that, an event. Just the thought of Princess Diana's car wreckage beamed into our homes for 24 solid hours way back in 1997 still to this day sets my skin to that of the gander. A truly innovative and remarkably moving portrait of our Princess. Other touching highlights such as the falling of the Berlin Wall (smeared only by the wailings of leather clad street vigilante Mr Hasslehoff), PM Margaret Thatcher having her bouffant trimmed on the News at 10 and the rightful dismissal of the drug addled, sex pervert Richard Bacon from upstanding entertainment show The Blue Peter.

If we are to let such an abomination of a documentary to be aired then where do we stop I ask? Shall we soon be viewing telecasts of Sir David Frost water skiing whilst exposing his genitals (once again I apologise for my continental language)? Or perhaps a broadcast of the hideous punk rock star Sting parading one of his famous 36 hour tumescent beasts? How about Terry Wogan fucking a big fat bird right up her arse?

I believe my point has been laid out firmly and adequately in my correspondence and I eagerly await a reply,

Yours sincerely Thomas J Greatorex

The Wordy World and it's Worldly Words

Language as a form of communication has quite rightly been evolving since it's inception, from animalistic grunts (of which many people are still to this day fond of), to vowel formed belches (of which many people are still to this day fond of), right up to the intricate web of verb, noun, pro-noun, suffix, syntax, adjective and so on (of which many people to this day are still unsure of which means what).
The evolution of language can (probably, although not without argumentative research which will not be presented here) be traced parallel to the growing wants and needs of mankind. For example, a goose has absolutely no need for a car jack, thus being that a goose is incapable of driving a car therefore rendering the need to change the tire of an automobile redundant; ergo, the goose does not have a word for 'car jack' just as it has no word for 'car', 'steering wheel', 'petrol', 'de-mobilizer' or 'Anti-Freeze'.
We, as humans, require words for these inventions simply because we require the inventions themselves.
This is not to say that the goose is a mute creature, forced to sail the lakes without communication, the goose simply has language for the needs of itself. For example "Hiiisstthhh" would roughly translate as "Protect goslings, keep away", or "Honnnkkkk" which could possibly read as "Food is in sight, goslings in tow" and so forth. The language that the goose employs serves to guide the goose through it's own natural enviroment.
And whilst the goose's language will have undoubtedly evolved over time (more than likely to include "wholegrain bread" "toastie loaf" and Tesco's "Best of Both") it has done so with an elegant simplicity that in no way whatsoever would become so idiotic as to really piss me off, unlike our fellow human counterparts.
If you have so far been operating under the misapprehension that this blog is either about geese or cars you may want to stop reading now.

Our human language, in this instance the English language, has never had particularly fixed ideals; Obviously certain rules apply, but it is a language that has been bastardized and twisted since it's inception due in part to current slang, trends and advertising campaigns for lager.
But sometimes changes, however minimal they may seem, really boils my fucking piss.
Cases to be reviewed:

To start a sentence, a human sentence in a human language, with the word 'so' implies that whatever is about to follow this prefix is of utmost importance and those whom are about to receive the information have been waiting for it with baited breath.
A classic example of this would be: "So, I have your test results here Mr Lamonte and it seems that the mobile phone will be stuck there for some time unless we operate immediately". Mr Lamonte has obviously been waiting to hear about the lodging and removal of his telephonic device with absolute eagerness, hence the prefix "So...".
Why then, do people who I could care less about talk to me thusly: "So, I bought these new UGG boots that blah, blah, blah, fake tan, blah, blah, blah, Basshunter...".
It is something that is happening with alarming regularity and I implore ANYONE out there who does it to STOP IMMEDIATELY!
You fuckwits.

2.'I'm sorry but...'
Starting a sentence with "I'm sorry but..." is akin to starting it with "I'm not a racist but...", both imply that what is to follow is generally going to be dishonest and that you have very little conviction in what you are offering to the conversation.
Do you hold you opinions so low that you have to apologise to a person before you offer your tuppence worth? The irony being that the majority of the time such a person could not care a jot whether the other is offended at all.
This utterance is usually accompanied by two rather strange occurrences: a. The speakers voice ascends to a soapbox straddling shrill warble, thereby offering subconsciously that what is about to be spoken is utter bollocks, and b. The eyes, become wide, the eyebrows become arched, yet the eyelids remain virtually closed. This is to give the impression of unflinching honesty, whilst remaining totally blind to the fact that you are a cunt.

3. ''ere mate...'
Hearing this as an opening gambit implies only one thing, waste matter shall invariably be involved, either you are about to have the 'piss' taken out of you or you are about to have the 'shit' kicked out of you. If you are truly unfortunate the former shall be followed by the latter in quick succession.
The irony of the second word is very rarely purposeful, as a colloquialism we all know mate means friend (for 'mate' in America see 'buddy'). So why the usage?
Rev. Archibold Q.T Humbucker states in his book 'The Study of Beastly Language and the Rise of The Super Lad' that it is "used to lure the, usually, spoddy goit into a false sense of security". The flaw being that a sense of security is swiftly eradicated once the victim spots three, sixteen stone calcium silicate conveniences hurtling towards them, fists clenched.
Such gentlemen may use the term thusly: "'ere mate, do you want yr head kicking in"?
To which the answer should almost always be in the negative.
So why ask? Why 'mate'? Why anything? Would it not be preferable to simply state "Here, stranger, I shall prepare myself to pummel you. Catch this Jimmy!"?
The element of surprise and security has been taken out of the statement 'ere mate...' through evolution and years of beatings.
'Mate' is now a threat, created ,unwittingly, by human dog shit.

4. 'Basically...'
A word favoured by those who may also appropriate number 2 on the list. Whilst there is nothing particularly aggrieving about the word, it's usage has become deplorable.
Certain people pepper their conversations with this word which renders what they are trying to communicate anything but basic. Surely not every aspect of your life, from washing the cat, to graduating University, to getting married, to burying your youngest child can begin with, contain and end with the word 'basically'?
Yet it is the most common cause of me stopping listening to your conversation. Why is that? Because you are equating everything you do to the simplest of things. No one is interested in the simplest of things when it comes to a story, or the creative aspects of your work. No one wants to look at a square or a circle, they want tetrahedrons and four dimensional trapeziums. They don't want red or blue, they want Burnt Sienna or Cobalt or deep burgundy.
In essence, or more topically 'basically', people know your life is fucking tear jerkingly pointless and boring so fucking spice it up you dullards.

5. 'Gay'
One must point out that the discrepancy comes from the word 'gay' being used in the pejorative sense, such as:
"God! Uuugghh, there is nothing to do on a Tuesday night around here!"
"You shouldn't be going out anyway St Peter, not til you've polished those gates"
"It's just so GAY around here midweek".
It should be noted that it's not the first time the word 'gay' has been corrupted from it's original meaning. Father Lionel Galacticus' tome 'There Were Words That Once Were and Now They're Not' shows that 'gay' used to mean happy, which was then appropriated to mean homosexual and now just means, well, rubbish.
If you are one of the many knuckle dragging, mouth breathing frog spawn looking thick as pig shit twats who use this term thusly, please remove yourself from this mortal existence we refer to as life.

There you go, a simple exercise in the language and usage of humans.
Go forth and spread the good word(s).

Thomas James Greatorex

Softly Comes the Rapture

Under the title 'Hotels, Homes and Heaven' a magazine was to be born, with all manner of stories, illustrations and photographs.
Whilst we are waiting for it to be completed I thought I'd post my contribution on here for all to read.
Thank you.

Softly Comes The Rapture

This room has seen all manner of death. All faces and facets of evil. These four walls reek of death and decay, the dying and the tortured. These four nicotine stained, cancerous walls that if home to eyes and ears would be struck blind and deaf from being witness to underhand wrong doing and pestilence and plague. I lay here on my sheet covered coffin, not a headstone by my crown nor earth and spade at my feet, cushioned by red pillow and satin and comforted only by a feline companion by the name of Fragrance. This room that has become a home for the deathly and a hotel for the vampiric living. The God of light in the far right spews out it..s daily serving of unjust law and reportage, documenting the lives of the normal, the lives of the carefree, the lives of the respectable, the lives of the living and I just float here upon my coffin, silken shawl draped elegantly over skin and bone. But how that shawl would shiver and shudder and oh how that shawl would shake and surrender to the bedroom floor if only it was made privy to the secret my corpsicules and vessels hold. That dark truth that is shared only by my body and mind, that rancid knowledge which eats away at my conscience just as I..m eaten away physically by the Rapture made real by either needle or men.

I do, I lay here and I dream. Images that gush upon me like the rays of the sun, I bathe in them and let them envelope me like blankets of bright beaming tenderness caressing my broken body and giving wings to my feet. I dream that it..s not a death cot upon which I doze but an elegant four poster that flourishes with all kinds of wild flowers up and down it..s structure, filling the room with a different kind of fragrance to that of the pet with the same name. Yet Fragrance would still roam this lush, deep carpeted palace, mewing drunkenly with excitement at the many extravagantly shaped birdcages set with precious stones that seem to drip from the ceiling and the ceiling itself adorned lovingly with intricate hand painted murals of cherubic figures and angelic faces. The tiny wire doors to the cages that once upon a time would have been under lock and key swing freely by their hinges, filling the room with hundreds of tiny birds of all colours singing their tunes of freedom and frivolity, painting the ceiling once again this time with flashes of the greens, reds and yellows that make up their wonderful plumage. Windows would burst open and soft fingered breezes from every ocean would each carry a single petal of apple blossom and place it next to my lovers cheek which sleeps soundly next to mine. He would stir at the sound of Fragrance..s purring and he would embrace me.

I stir at the sound of Fragrance..s purring and once more I am cast asunder, back into dank reality, my dreams which the future could never birth, for my future has been written, are cast to the floor and lost beneath the sorrow and carelessly spilled alcohol that the carpet holds over it..s dark blue face for comfort. The carpet hides itself from the sickening trade that it..s forced to be witness to every day and were it not for adhesive, tacks and a sense of cowardly duty would contort itself out of the room and away into the night. The large wicker framed mirror on the wall above my head would leave with it if only it could. The images of brutality and degradation that it has to recreate churns it..s stomach and were it not for the laws of physics would close its glassy eye. Mahogany bedside table, filled with treasures of hairbrush, money safe, candles and oils, well, it too would be gone were it not for the bedside lamp that sat upon it, keeping it pinned to the floor and illuminating the tomb. The lamp wouldn..t leave. The lamp is a lamp.
Neither half asleep nor half awake, inanimate objects make troublesome thought. Fragrance..s whining and prowling however are as real as the Rapture and act as door bell and alarm.

This tomb contains no clock, no time piece, there is no use for such thing here. A clock here would point to no time. It would stand as still as the dead that it served and no second would pass, no minute would be created and no hour visited. The hands would tremble and point outwards toward the door, toward the exit. Time doesn..t exist here as it does out there, time here is told in inches and sterling, in perversions and stamina, in sweat and in blood.
Time here is told by the Rapture.

Oh what a princess prowls this room! My emerald shawl moves like a perfect skin, like water, around every contour of my body, over my magnificent breasts and ..tween my Rapturous thighs! My sunburned strawberry flowing mane in ringlets and pearls cascades down my cheekbones and settles by full bodied plump lips in deep red!

As the treacly gracefulness of Fragrance slinks between wall and wardrobe the lumbering ink smudge of a man bowls between corridor and here, clattering the door shut and impregnating the happily stale air with the stench of many a drink and lonely night. A hulking shape in the shadows full of grunts as gesture and unsteady steps. What the night may blow in to your home may be often strange, but here in this hotel the strangeness is apparent when nothing comes. This night is not strange. This night is as any other. Such as the last and more than likely the next, this night is repeated and I may give praise to the Lord that it is, that I do the work of God and He shall save me. My slow death is placed upon me by the Lord and I see that it is done so that I may act upon His word. Sinners and the sinful shall come to me seeking forgiveness and shall be cast down with affliction whereupon then can they only repent and be forgiven. I am their confessional and the Rapture is their penance.

Money box once again secured and the garments of a man scattered hither and tither, I sit like a proud majesty, no longer feeling the weakness or sickness, upon this hulk of blotchy mass, him covered in thick wiry hair and I as though beautiful as a red tear from Christ himself, writhing back and forth consumed by the all white light of the Saviour, the Holy Trinity, the Madonna, the One True God. The stairway to Heaven is one littered with thorns and poison teeth, scratching and tearing at the heels and ankles of sinners, but to brave this assent is to be accepted into the arms of the Lord. The decent to fire and everlasting pain is a path of simplicity and ease, a path taken by the cowardly and false prophets. To be absolved and cleansed first you must be tormented and broken.

Thrown from him like rider bucked from stallion I embrace the floor as my faith is tested by the devil and unholy fists kiss my lips and temple. With fiery hair clenched in his hands I..m brought up to face him and once again I..m tested with a kiss of saliva spat from his drunken mouth. Naked like Greek warrior and goddess, the narrow bridge between my eyes now shattered to represent a drunken bolt of lightning and milky white skin tainted and stained the colour of my lipstick. Forced once more by strong arms and powerful willing upon the bed I close my eyes and think of Pan. With my wrists held between my shoulder blades he shudders to fulfilling climax and I shudder to God and he is engulfed in the Rapture, unaware that the seed of forgiveness runs through his veins.

Clothed and spent he leaves with the staggering lethargy which brought him here. Whether any of them know the forgiveness that streams through them I shall never know, the Rapture is a silent hymn that finds voice at times most unexpected. Dozens upon dozens of sinners and ungodly creatures have been cured by my holiness and then only those that I know of! Oh Fragrance, how many more have heart and pulse that sends the Rapture dancing around the veins, for only I have felt her presence but a short while? How many more have been drenched in the white light and cured by holy fingers? How about Bobby, Fragrance? Bobby, such a wondrous lamb, trembling hands taken in mine and comforted like only one with wisdom to impart can. Eyes so innocent and artless, a face that expressed such wonder and naivety, yearning to taste and know, dying of thirst for the coming of age. Oh Fragrance what of Bobby? Could one such as he yet to be foul to this life? But for sure, he was born was he not? There Fragrance lives the answer, for this life we exist in is far from blameless and for everyone, be it judge, preacher, maid or lame, we are born into sin and in sin we shall wallow lest we be saved and born again.

All sin passes you by does it not my love? Ah and the sin of the flesh is second only to the sin of what else money may buy. Is it a sin to devour and bury your pain? So say the lawful, the so called lawful and lawmakers, so lawful they return home at night to there wives and the memories of no more than an hour before are washed away with the odour of passion and lingering ignorance of Rapture. The lawmakers whom frown upon us Fragrance and what do they know? They know how time flows. But they don..t know how it feels to see the branches of turquoise beneath skin bulge and strain, flex and contort with the knowledge that in seconds all pain will be eradicated. Sometimes, moments before the sliver of cold and steel scratches the surface, you can see the Rapture gathering, arms to the heavens and the Lord..s face in every cell. Tiny rivulets of deepest love settle, just as I lay back and settle, the faces of those who enter jaded and fogged, swirling and dancing, finally coming to rest in the form of a one true love. All limbs awash with soft flock and cotton, from toes to lashes waves and waves of numbing beauty. The faces of the lawmakers and the lawful. The faces of the healers and helpers. And you Fragrance, hidden in fear, but fear not for this is not the Rapture, not for me, the Rapture lives on many times over. Lifted from coffin to coffin and laid at the feet of the Lord.

I do, I lay here and dream. This final dream. One of cages and flourishing birds. Of open windows and cool breath. Of blossom and serenity. Of Rapture and light.