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BROKEN BISCUITS - more fevered fragmented thinking from the fractured mind of a freak
by Phil Thornton
Five black men who only white people think are cool :
Samuel L. Jackson - one good role in Pulp Fiction does not an icon make
Will Smith - the Richard Blackwood of Black America
P Diddy/Puff Nugget or whatever his name is these days
Will I Am - or the new Wycleff Jean as Swine call him - Beaut U R lad!
Nelson Mandela - I think we all know Winnie wore the bulletproof pants in that house.
Mixmag has re-launched itself under new owners, Development Hell aka 'Mad' Mark Ellen and 'Dangerous' Dave Hepworth of Whistle Test and EMAP fame. They launched The Word Magazine - now called simply Word (as in word up homie or maybe not) a few years and it must be said that Word is a darn good read if at times a little Jools Holland-esque - middle aged, middle class and ever so slightly smug. However, the trend for 'buying in' existing titles rather than launching new ones is becoming something of an industry trend. James Brown's shortlived publishing empire, I Feel Good (James Brown get it?) launched movie mag, Hotdog before buying in the likes of Viz and Bizarre and then losing it all on the excellent yet poorly received 'mature' lad's mag, Jack. Wagadon, the old Nick Logan maverick sold out The Face to The Man who then shafted it altogether. It's like publishing top trumps with established titles changing hands quicker than half shares in the walford car lot (Harry Hill fans).
Mixmag has now had three lady owners since its launch as the trade mag for DMC - that stands for Disco Mix Club doncha know. Back then it had the market almost to itself - apart from the dull but worthy titles such as Blues & Soul and Echoes. In those days club culture was still in its infancy and acid house was still to take off. Mixmag became the only source of up-to-date, diverse clubbing and music information. DJ magazine was launched in the early 90s as a fortnightly alternative - more up to date, more DJ than punter-focused and it found its own niche within an ever-faster dance music culture. Then we had 7 magazine which came out weekly, with even more up-to-the minute charts. Even good old IPC - that stands for er, Idiotic Prehistoric Cavedwellers - launched Muzik as a direct competitor to Mixmag back in the halcyon days of the mid-90s superclub era. Ministry launched their own magazine, we had M8, Notion and numerous other genre specific titles coming and going, appealing to both clubbers and rock n' rollers. Mags that fused music with film, film with fishing, fishing with celeb gossip, celeb gossip with linedancing, linedancing with polevaulting, polevaulting with politcal satire and so on.
Then EMAP - that's East Midlands Associated Press (I think) - bought Mixmag out and the title became a kind of dance music version of Loaded; lots of gratuitous tits and arse photos, interviews and reviews that were little more than re-cycled press releases and an almost whoreish relationship with the big advertisers who funded production costs. The latest incarnation of Mixmag is now under the stewardship of posh scouser, Andrew Harrison and looks set to recapture the good old days when the likes of Jockey Slut managed to cover a diverse range of electronic and dance genres without compromising on the quality of the writing. Infact the much missed Slut has also re-appeared in a slightly different guise as Dummy and new magazines, both aimed at a specialist and more mainstream market keep on coming. Go to Borders and check out the likes of Specialten, Blowback, Marmalade, Illustrated Ape and dozens of others.
Uncut has also relaunched as rather less Jools Holland friendly and seems t be aimed at an ex-NME reader demographic, much as Mojo has become a little less stale and Q has completely ditched its obsession with Dinosaur Rockers. Face it; we are the new golden oldie crowd. Moaning about the state of the NME is almost as sad as whingeing about the age of bizzies and tut tutting at daft young men's hairstyles. They're supposed to piss you off grandad. Much as we'd all like Swine to be a hard copy mag that you loyal readers could take to the bog, it's economically impossible to produce something like this without either corporate sponsorship, massive advertising revenue and/or the help of rich friends. That's why you'll have to make do with a cyber shit for now and that's why the internet has become the brave new frontier for modern writing. We Luddites will always have a sentimental attachment to the smell and feel of paper, staples and ink but that was then and this is now.
I believe that one day all adverts like the Mars advert will alienate sensible football fans to such a degree that every time they see some Three Lions facepainted flags sticking out of their Astra, St George's flag hung from their bedroom window Sky TV never been to a match in their lives Coooooommmme On Engerrrlaaaaand nugget
they will strap semtex to their midriff and set themselves off in the All New Look No Hooligans Super-Wembley soccerdome experience. Are we the only people who used to love it when Big Danish undercover bizzies throttled English yobs as Brian Robson and co struggled to string two passes together? Now if Mars made an advert like that, I'd believe a little bit more.
We were rappin' about my all-time Black Power hero, Robert Mugabe and Higgo scribbles his name down then tells us that Mugabe backwards is Ebagum; if ever you need opressing by a pint-sized dictator in over-sized glasses, then Bobby's yer man but I never knew he was from Burnley. Why people attach significance to words being spelled backwards is something of a mystery to me. Hey God backwards is Dog! And nobhead spelled backwards is daehbon. This reminded us of the time a God botherer approached a friend of ours and informed him that 'Devil spelled backwards is lived' to which he replied 'what's Beelzebub then smartarse?' The answer ofcourse is bubezleeb. Wow, maybe Dan Brown's got a theory somewhere. It's actually Baal Zebub, the Phoenician 'Lord of The Flies' being also the root of Hannibal, Hasdrubal and t all the other little Carthaginian Baals out there.
Don't you hate it when some TV/radio nugget says 'so that's yer news' or 'here's yer weather' like they're yer bezzy or something. It's almost anoying as those voice over chicks who start every sentence up here, drop it a bit in the middle and end end up somewhere over there; like her from Woolworths who sounds like that Namone bird and talks like THAT all the fucking TIME because she's been told IT sounds dead, dead SEXY. Imagine her having an orgasm. Oh, oh, oh OOOHHH, that's yer shag DONE. Here's Spongebob Squarepants with the weather.
Daniel Corbett eh? You can see him practising his shtick in the mirror as a ten year old. Nicky Campbell haircut, ill-fitting Burtons suit, cheesy ketamine grin, perfecting that hand sweep and nod of the head, One day, thinks he, I'll be the biggest weatherman on telly. Mike Yarwood or maybe Alistair McGowan (Mayo - do an impression of someone who can act, cunt!) or that boring twat from Dead Ringers will do impressions of me and little boys will write me letters to ask how they too can become 'personality meteorologists' and I will write them back and tell them it takes years and years of dedication and effort and a passing interest in cloud formations and sea temperatures except if you're a bird because we all know that Kerry Gosney and Jo Blythe know fuck all about mid-Atlantic lows but sure have pert little titties. Daniel Corbett tries too hard, that's his problem. He's like one of those people who say 'I'm a real eccentric me' - no you're not, you're an affected buffoon and that's not the same thing.
LIFE OF BRIAN
Talking of affected buffoons, did anyone catch Brian Sewell's Grand Tour on Five? Perhaps the only good thing that Five have ever commissioned. Now Brian's got his knockers (fnar fnar) but I like the old queen. I only managed to catch the last programme which completed his grand tour in Venice and marvelled at the way in which he imperiously dismissed the modern carnival experience as being suitable only for 'fat old lesbians.' This cantakerous fruit does undisguised disdain better than anyone else on telly and what's more, he knows his shit too. Art history programmes are ten a penny these days and some of em are good and some of em are Ok and some of em really stink but our Bri, he's like Bronowski or Clarke; you trust his opinion, you believe his research, you respect his eloquence. If he didn't labour the stuck-up posho image, he'd be almost perfect.
This month I would most like to twat with a metal pipe :
Colin AND Edith
That rat faced Hun who does the business report on Breakfast TV
Tony Parsons (again and again, you'd never get sick of panning his head in)
Jonathan Ross and anyone else who got a Bafta
Russell T davies for example
All the Doctor Whos
Even Chris Ecclestone
And Tom Baker
Especially Tom Baker
Fords Of Winsford
Boards of Canada
Daughters Of Albion
The Streets (Mike Skinner)
The Streets (Jimmy McGovern)
The cast of Shameless
The writers of Shameless
People who watch Shameless and then say how funny it is
People who write about Shamelss and say how accurate it is
Ray Winstone - fat racist prick
Ray Liota - ooh scared
And his brother
Bird flu carriers everywhere
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