Rain, Wimbledon, heaps of tourists and er, bombs - it can only mean one thing; yes, British Summer Time is here.
At time of writing no one knows who is responsible for the botched car bomb attack in London but it does have the hall marks of a Bagdad drive by. Not that they drive by, they just blow up but you get the drift.
Now it seems that Islam is targeting nightclubs - The Ministry Of Sound narrowly avoided a fertiliser bomb not too long ago. Last night Tiger Tiger. It was a probably a Euphoric Trance night, if they played Funk and Motown there wouldn't be this kind of problem.
Seriously though, how many of the British public were opposed to the Iraq war? How many Politicians voted for it anyway at Tony's behest (sexed up dossiers not included)? Guy Fawkes had the right idea; why kill civilians? Why do Terrorists rarely target the policy makers and always the dumb schmoes who are unlucky enough to be around at the time?
I guess that's how most Iraqis feel about the US and British forces and the Shias/ insurgents.
Friday, 29 June 2007
Wednesday, 27 June 2007
Go Back To Sleep
"...some may call it the nanny state but I call it a force for good" Margret Hodge. Labour MP.
Don’t you feel so much safer now? In addition to the two hundred or so times you appear on CCTV each day (Londoners at least) and the tracking system called Oyster cards, we now have a Public Smoking ban too. What next? Coffee cup inspectors so we don’t scald our widdle mouths?
Whist I’m all for protecting the population against themselves (i.e. gun control, incitement to racial hatred laws) surely this is one that edges into You can’t think for yourself so we’ll do it for you territory. As someone who remembers smoking on public transport (and who detested it) I am incredibly grateful that it has been banned, so why am I so opposed to this final nail in the coffin for tobbacco? I don't even smoke.
I asked my friend who smokes and he said he couldn’t wait. That caught me off guard. As a smoker of some years he had taken to avoiding pubs altogether just to escape temptation. He was looking forward to the day he wouldn’t suffer one of his many lapses just because he ventured into the boozer of a Friday night.
In addition to this the Public Smoking Ban will undoubtedly reduce the amount of smoking that occurs in the UK and relieve the beleaguered NHS. The smoking ban would yield a benefit of 2.3 – 2.7 Billion a year – equivalent to treating around 1.5 million people currently on waiting lists.
The libertarian in me can’t help but feel a bit defeated by the whole Big Brother-ness of it all. I’m probably just bitter as my days of sneakily smuggling joints into Brixton Academy are numbered.
Go back to sleep Britiannia, we can think for you.
Don’t you feel so much safer now? In addition to the two hundred or so times you appear on CCTV each day (Londoners at least) and the tracking system called Oyster cards, we now have a Public Smoking ban too. What next? Coffee cup inspectors so we don’t scald our widdle mouths?
Whist I’m all for protecting the population against themselves (i.e. gun control, incitement to racial hatred laws) surely this is one that edges into You can’t think for yourself so we’ll do it for you territory. As someone who remembers smoking on public transport (and who detested it) I am incredibly grateful that it has been banned, so why am I so opposed to this final nail in the coffin for tobbacco? I don't even smoke.
I asked my friend who smokes and he said he couldn’t wait. That caught me off guard. As a smoker of some years he had taken to avoiding pubs altogether just to escape temptation. He was looking forward to the day he wouldn’t suffer one of his many lapses just because he ventured into the boozer of a Friday night.
In addition to this the Public Smoking Ban will undoubtedly reduce the amount of smoking that occurs in the UK and relieve the beleaguered NHS. The smoking ban would yield a benefit of 2.3 – 2.7 Billion a year – equivalent to treating around 1.5 million people currently on waiting lists.
The libertarian in me can’t help but feel a bit defeated by the whole Big Brother-ness of it all. I’m probably just bitter as my days of sneakily smuggling joints into Brixton Academy are numbered.
Go back to sleep Britiannia, we can think for you.
Tuesday, 26 June 2007
Queens Of The Stone Age – Album Review
A quick mention should be made of the particularly wonderful new album by Queens Of The Stone Age Era Vulgaris. If like me, their third album Lullabies To Paralize left you scratching you head a bit then the band's fourth offering really is a return to the accesibility of Songs For The Deaf .The songs are in equal part heavy, bluesy, heartfelt and have that fantastic achingly cool quality we know and love Mr Homme & Company for. The funky stop-start stoner grooves show up on Misfit Love and I'm Designer whilst Into The Hollow gives us a glimpse of a more pensive QOTSA.
In fact I'd go so far to say Josh Homme's singing sounds better on this album that he has on previous efforts. He seems to have mastered a style that really suits him. The drumming is equally bombastic despite lacking the ferocious Dave Grohl (as on Songs...)
All Death Metal - all the time!
Wedding Bells
Well, the weekend passed without a Hollyoaks-esque bout of caterwauling. My family celebrated the marriage of my younger Brother to his long time partner.
Despite having a family tree more complicated than a Jerry Springer Special I’m pleased to report no feuds were begun or renewed and it went rather well. In fact at one point I was more anxious than my Brother as the anxiety of reading in public crept up on me. Don't worry - I didn't read any of my own compositions, they wanted a Bible reading.
I myself was surprised at how much I enjoyed the company of my Aunts and Uncles and the many friends of the family who appeared. I think I finally managed to shuck off the shroud of teenage-like angst that usually envelops me when I go back to Dorset and get down to the serious business of partying. After all, there is little better than grooving away to Motown with your Mum, buying your baby brother drinks and hearing everyone telling you your Lady she looks ‘Lovely’.
Despite having a family tree more complicated than a Jerry Springer Special I’m pleased to report no feuds were begun or renewed and it went rather well. In fact at one point I was more anxious than my Brother as the anxiety of reading in public crept up on me. Don't worry - I didn't read any of my own compositions, they wanted a Bible reading.
I myself was surprised at how much I enjoyed the company of my Aunts and Uncles and the many friends of the family who appeared. I think I finally managed to shuck off the shroud of teenage-like angst that usually envelops me when I go back to Dorset and get down to the serious business of partying. After all, there is little better than grooving away to Motown with your Mum, buying your baby brother drinks and hearing everyone telling you your Lady she looks ‘Lovely’.
Friday, 22 June 2007
A Virus With Shoes
I've long held the opinion that human beings the planet over need to keep an eye on our population. Not a commmon or popular belief I grant you but I honestly believe that the world is only finite and therefore can support a finite amount of life.
Imagine my disgust when I picked up a Telegraph supplement today and the cover story was how having four kids is the new status symbol for the comfortably off. It's not enough to have a high flying city job, be a yummy mummy, have a tennis coach for the kids and go on foreign holidays - now you have to over populate the world with your progeny.
Years ago (1999) when I saw the Matrix I was really impressed by Agent Smith's very insightful and very erudite speech:
I’d like to share a revelation that I’ve had, during my time here. It came to me when I tried to classify your species and I realized that you aren’t actually mammals. Every mammal on this planet instinctively develops a natural equilibrium with its surrounding environment, but you humans do not. You move to an area and you multiply, and multiply until every natural resource is consumed. The only way you can survive is to spread to another area. There is another organism on this planet that follows the same pattern. Do you know what it is?
A virus.
Even the great Prophet himself, Bill Hicks tells us:
I'm tired of this back-slapping "Isn't humanity neat?" bullshit. We're a virus with shoes, okay? That's all we are.
So, with my theory there are too many of us founded on these rather shaky foundations of Pop Culture you can imagine I was over the Moon when Sir David Attenborough himself appeared on the BBC this morning and basically said the same thing.
That we need to stop procreating so much - not that humanity is a virus that is.
Whilst I can't imagine the world will be rushing out to stock up on condoms after this proclamation it's interesting to know that even our films and comedians are ahead of the game on environmental issues sometimes.
Imagine my disgust when I picked up a Telegraph supplement today and the cover story was how having four kids is the new status symbol for the comfortably off. It's not enough to have a high flying city job, be a yummy mummy, have a tennis coach for the kids and go on foreign holidays - now you have to over populate the world with your progeny.
Years ago (1999) when I saw the Matrix I was really impressed by Agent Smith's very insightful and very erudite speech:
I’d like to share a revelation that I’ve had, during my time here. It came to me when I tried to classify your species and I realized that you aren’t actually mammals. Every mammal on this planet instinctively develops a natural equilibrium with its surrounding environment, but you humans do not. You move to an area and you multiply, and multiply until every natural resource is consumed. The only way you can survive is to spread to another area. There is another organism on this planet that follows the same pattern. Do you know what it is?
A virus.
Even the great Prophet himself, Bill Hicks tells us:
I'm tired of this back-slapping "Isn't humanity neat?" bullshit. We're a virus with shoes, okay? That's all we are.
So, with my theory there are too many of us founded on these rather shaky foundations of Pop Culture you can imagine I was over the Moon when Sir David Attenborough himself appeared on the BBC this morning and basically said the same thing.
That we need to stop procreating so much - not that humanity is a virus that is.
Whilst I can't imagine the world will be rushing out to stock up on condoms after this proclamation it's interesting to know that even our films and comedians are ahead of the game on environmental issues sometimes.
Wednesday, 20 June 2007
Cough, hack, wheeze.
Apologies for the dearth of any new content of late, I have been waylaid by illness. In June. Is there anything quite as pointless as being ill during the summer?
Anyway, after a few days of waking up with a sore throat last week I promptly developed a husky voice on a par with Bonnie Tyler (what do you mean 'who?') on Saturday. By Sunday I was doing my very best Barry White impression - not helped by the many beers I drank at Pete and Layla's Wedding reception. By Tuesday I was bored of impressions of pop stars of yesteryear and the voice went AWOL pretty much all together.
All of this couldn't have come at a worse time as my friend Pete is over from the States and I've not been much fun at all. And then there is the small matter of the Bible reading this Saturday - where did I put those Strepsils?
Anyway, after a few days of waking up with a sore throat last week I promptly developed a husky voice on a par with Bonnie Tyler (what do you mean 'who?') on Saturday. By Sunday I was doing my very best Barry White impression - not helped by the many beers I drank at Pete and Layla's Wedding reception. By Tuesday I was bored of impressions of pop stars of yesteryear and the voice went AWOL pretty much all together.
All of this couldn't have come at a worse time as my friend Pete is over from the States and I've not been much fun at all. And then there is the small matter of the Bible reading this Saturday - where did I put those Strepsils?
Friday, 15 June 2007
Don't You Just Love It When
Don’t you just love it when you’re just bumbling through life, moseying through the 9 to 5-ness of it all and someone, maybe someone you don’t even know that well, comes and gives you something that really brightens up your day.That happened to me today.
One of the designers at Titan Towers © turned me on to Broadway Project. I’ve long known that Russ has a spookily similar taste in music to myself but this time he has outdone himself.
Broadway Project is Bristol based sample-meister of the first order. Being a lover of jazz, hip-hop beats, breaks and cinematic sounding shenanigans I literally swooned as the album opened up. Indeed Compassion left me feeling a bit breathless. If you dig Cinematic Orchestra, Bonobo, Aim, Zero Seven or have even been seen near a FSOL album then I can’t recommend this enough.
And now the embarrassing bit. Compassion came out in 2001! And since then Dan Berridge, Broadway Project’s main protagonist, has released three more albums. Sweet Lord!
My favourite review has to be this one:
“Imagine Tom Waits duetting with Portishead and being produced by Boards of Canada… desolation, anger and redemption hasn’t sounded this alluring in a long time’
5/5 Jockey Slut
Thursday, 14 June 2007
Half Nelson - Film Review
As some of you may be aware I’m hardly the most stringent film critic but I think I can honestly say I saw a really good film last night.Half Nelson is one of those great American films that manages to veer away from all the clichés and better yet, finish on a slightly ambiguous note. The film’s protagonist is a white teacher in an inner city school and whilst it would be easy to slip into a ‘black people can’t redeem themselves without educated white help’ a lå Dangerous Minds the film neatly sidesteps the obvious. In fact it is the teacher who becomes closer to his redemption through his friendship with a pupil than vica versa.
The score, camera work and direction make Half Nelson a real understated, indie treat.
Go see it!
Wednesday, 13 June 2007
Jon Courtenay Grimwood – Book Review
End of the World Blues
Jon Courtenay Grimwood
Paperback
Kit Nouveau has been hiding out in Japan, half a world away from a past he’d rather forget. However, trouble is never far away: he’s having an affair with a yakusa boss’s wife, running a Tokyo bar for bikers and now his ex-girlfriend has gone missing.
Contemporary sci fi is doing a roaring trade in anti heroes or reluctant gunslingers with checkered pasts and Kit Nouveau is a welcome addition to their ranks. The lead character is firmly rooted in Noir and works steadily toward his redemption throughout the book. Grimwood writes with authority on Japan and evocatively recreates London and the differences in cultures.
The book is wonderfully written and the tension is sustained throughout. The only weak link in the book is the sub plot, which is linked by the slightest of plot devices. Lady Neku, Baroness of Nawa-no-ukoyo sometimes feels as if she is a refugee from another book but perhaps that’s the point. Still, the story works incredibly well as a contemporary thriller littered with cunning observations, dark humour, slick dialogue and likeable characters.
A slick, exciting contemporary thriller with a slightly baffling sci fi sub plot.
8 / 10
Tuesday, 12 June 2007
My Busy June
Despite my heavy cynicism of the whole process it seems the end is in sight for our house buying. And relatively stress free – discounting the three-bedroom maisonette we narrowly missed out on. We heard from the Vendors the other day and it seems we could be on the move come July 7th. Boxes have already started being filled and thoughts turn to meter readings and removal firms.
However, before the joy of uprooting ourselves arrives we have two weddings to attend. The first should be a happy affair as my friends Pete and Layla come over from the States to have an English reception – for all the people who couldn’t make it out for the main event in Vegas. This will be a grand opportunity to hook up with my good and exceptionally tall friend Kurt and talk a good deal of guff all night. Hell, I may even have a boogie.
The second event leaves me feeling a bit queasy, as it’s one of those family wedding type things: Something that happens with great regularity in my family. The prospect of having the whole family under one roof for one day brings me out in a cold sweat but duty calls. My younger Brother is tying the knot so I can't even lie and say 'I'm busy that weekend'. I’ve been called on to read from the Bible (oh the irony) and wear a morning suit (mourning suit?). The guest list seems to have been set up to force as many people who don’t speak to each other into one room as is possible.
I guess it will be a bit like the UN… or Hollyoaks. Sweet Jesus, I just hope they have some proper whiskey behind the bar and none of that ‘blended’ muck.
However, before the joy of uprooting ourselves arrives we have two weddings to attend. The first should be a happy affair as my friends Pete and Layla come over from the States to have an English reception – for all the people who couldn’t make it out for the main event in Vegas. This will be a grand opportunity to hook up with my good and exceptionally tall friend Kurt and talk a good deal of guff all night. Hell, I may even have a boogie.
The second event leaves me feeling a bit queasy, as it’s one of those family wedding type things: Something that happens with great regularity in my family. The prospect of having the whole family under one roof for one day brings me out in a cold sweat but duty calls. My younger Brother is tying the knot so I can't even lie and say 'I'm busy that weekend'. I’ve been called on to read from the Bible (oh the irony) and wear a morning suit (mourning suit?). The guest list seems to have been set up to force as many people who don’t speak to each other into one room as is possible.
I guess it will be a bit like the UN… or Hollyoaks. Sweet Jesus, I just hope they have some proper whiskey behind the bar and none of that ‘blended’ muck.
Saturday, 9 June 2007
Happy Birthday Mum!
There ain't nothing like a Dame... and there ain't nothing like this Dame in particular.
Hope you have a great day.
x
Hope you have a great day.
x
Friday, 8 June 2007
Online Shenanigans
What seems like a very long time ago now I began working on an adventure for the Dungeons and Dragons role playing game. Specifically - Iron Kingdoms by Privateer Press.My aim was to create a PDF that people could download from the Internet and then run the adventure for their friends. I had no idea it was going to turn into such a mammoth project. I commissioned artists, designed a layout, spent ages buggering about with text and after a suitable period of procrastination; finally finished it.
You can find the fruits of my labour here:
http://www.buccaneerbass.com/rls/html/homenews/index.shtml
I have to say I'm feeling a bit good about seeing it on the Internet - but also dreading it in case people decide it sucks. Oh well, at least I finished something!
Thursday, 7 June 2007
Neal Asher – Book Review
Prador Moon
Neal Asher
Paperback
The beneficent Polity Collective come face to face with the warlike Prador, a crustacean-like race of carnivores. Unprepared for such carnage the humans have to learn the art of war quickly of face extermination.
It’s difficult to read Prador Moon and not make comparisons with Iain M. Banks and Richard Morgan. Like Banks and Morgan Asher never seems to commit to any one sub-genre of Sci Fi but cooks up something in between, however he lacks the darkness these two authors so easily conjure.. The book’s tone is dirty, sexy, violent and frequently funny in a humour that is rooted firmly near the gallows. You get plenty of hi tech bang for your buck with this book, some excellently realized (if slightly B-movie-ish) bad guys and Asher has a real talent for describing space combat in a gripping and tense fashion.
The main problem with Prador Moon is that at 232 pages you’ll be left wanting more. It’s almost as if the story is the first part of something longer. The sub-plot is never fully explored but the central characters are well drawn and the near mythic Jebel ‘Up-close-and-personal’ Krong will keep you amused to the last page.
Awesome, hardcore space epic.
Verdict 7 / 10
Wednesday, 6 June 2007
Good Luck and Welcome Back.
Just a short wee post today.
Firstly I'd like to say Good Luck to my friend Jesse who is off to pastures new. After living in Italy and Ireland for a few years he is off to Brighton to seek his fame. Jess is a great illustrator - you can see his work in the links section.
Naturally the Lady and I quite fancy a trip down to Brighton to get away from The Big Smoke. We'll see you soon Mr Speak, keep in touch!
Secondly I'd like to say 'Welcome back to Blighty' to Anne - technically she doesn't arrive until tomorrow but I thought I'd get in early. Anne is one of those great American types, you know, a) Has a passport and b) Didn't vote Bush. What is more she can speak German and knows allsorts of things about English History that I'm ashamed to say I have no clue about.
See you soon Anne!
Firstly I'd like to say Good Luck to my friend Jesse who is off to pastures new. After living in Italy and Ireland for a few years he is off to Brighton to seek his fame. Jess is a great illustrator - you can see his work in the links section.
Naturally the Lady and I quite fancy a trip down to Brighton to get away from The Big Smoke. We'll see you soon Mr Speak, keep in touch!
Secondly I'd like to say 'Welcome back to Blighty' to Anne - technically she doesn't arrive until tomorrow but I thought I'd get in early. Anne is one of those great American types, you know, a) Has a passport and b) Didn't vote Bush. What is more she can speak German and knows allsorts of things about English History that I'm ashamed to say I have no clue about.
See you soon Anne!
Tuesday, 5 June 2007
Alan Campbell – Book Review
Scar NightAlan Campbell
Paperback
The ancient city of Deepgate hangs suspended over the seemingly bottomless abyss, resting place of Ulcis, Hoarder of Souls. Inside the crumbling spires of the temple Dill, an untested angelic youth, begins to realize the full weight of his responsibilities.
With echoes of Gormenghast’s bleakness and weary tradition Scar Night is an unmistakably dark book. Strangely the book focuses on failure rather than any American high fantasy heroics, many of the characters are weighed down by their own shortcomings and sentiments. There are a good many morally grey areas in this book that serve to make both the villains and the protagonists more plausible. Frustratingly the lead character, Dill, never really reaches his full potential. The books female characters often steal the limelight: an assassin with a heart of gold and a vampiric amnesiac.
Pace, prose and plot are well managed until the books closing chapters where things feel a little rushed and not fully explained. However, the book neatly sidesteps all traditional fantasy stereotypes and is well worth a look.
Scar Night is wonderful read, inhabited by flawed characters, set in a city almost choked with pollution as it is with lies.
8 / 10
Monday, 4 June 2007
Little Kid With A Beard Is One Month Old
Well, who’d a’thunk it? The wee blog has been rattling along for an entire month now. I can't believe it's June already!
It hasn’t really been the catalyst to writing short fiction I had thought it would be but it has taught me a few things (like how bad my proof reading is). However, it has been lots of fun and I confess to a surge of egotistical joy each time one of you lovely people posts a comment. More please!
In other news – I’d just like to say well done to Sofia, who ran the race for life in Farringdon yesterday. She raised a whopping amount of cash for charidee and I’m pleased to say the weather stayed good. After burning off all those calories she (and supporters) headed to Smiths of Smithfield for a rather spanky brunch. Yum.
Saturday, 2 June 2007
Maul Suit (Short Fiction)
It just got out of hand. Really out of hand.
I’d been cooped up in the flat for close to three months, not going out, not spending a penny I didn’t need to. I cancelled my holiday and even told my family I wasn’t buying presents that Christmas, I bullshitted them and told them I’d lost my job. Finally by January I had enough and it arrived on a Monday. I threw a sickie and paced around in excitement. It took three blokes to deliver it. Three. Two just to carry it and a third with shotgun, said they were getting hacked off with people doing them over. But I’m forgetting, you haven’t been here for awhile you don’t really know what it’s like these days.
It started a few, say five, years ago. People just started to become cunts. Seriously, I’d always thought that the English were supposed to be polite in an institutionalised-racism-class-war kinda way. It crept in slowly at first, little things that would wind you up or piss you off for a whole day if you let it. Zebra crossings turned into a joke. The very nature of a crossing is built on trust. The pedestrian trusts the driver not to mow him down should he step onto the sacred white and black stripes between those odd lollipops. At first it was just now and again but then more frequently: drivers just didn’t give a fuck anymore. I nearly got knocked down four times in a week on the same zebra crossing. That was when I knew things were getting bad.
And then there was the underground. It had been an unwritten rule that you let people off before you got on. Then you noticed people just seemed to be incapable of waiting. The platform staff would remind the punters over the tannoy but it never did any good. They remodelled the carriages and made the doors bigger, put fewer seats in. Didn’t change a fucking thing. It just turned into a scrum.
And then punches started getting thrown.
In 2009 more London Underground staff resigned due to ‘excessive violence in the work place’ than any other career. The media were onto it in a second.
‘Commuter Rage’ they called it, but they didn’t have a clue.
The following year London Undergound tickets carried a line of legal text. It amounted to a waiver. If you ventured underground your personal safety was your own issue and you couldn’t sue them if another passenger attacked you.
Suddenly, every accountant, office worker, city boy and graphic designer had to attend kung fu classes three times a week just to get the tube. With one single line of text they let the leash off of all the pent up fury of the commuters. Like any savage creature they turned on each other.
For awhile people boycotted the tube because it was so dangerous but the trouble just moved to the buses. The underground at least had the unique charm that what ever hideousness you inflicted on you fellow commuter would remain out of sight. Gangs of kids from estates would come onto the tube looking for a fight. Maybe one or two of them were carrying blades.
It didn’t matter. They got destroyed.
By now even so much as a breach of personal space constituted a short and usually quite punishing flurry of blows. I saw a kid, maybe seventeen, big afro, big attitude deliberately bait some nerd with a button down shirt and a laptop. Clearly the laptop was insured but that didn’t stop the nerd putting up a fucking good defence. Then the Afro pulled out a switch knife and before he’d even flashed out the bright metal blade the nerd had gone to town on him.
Used the laptop like a brick and stoved his head in.
That was the first fatality due to commuter rage. The effect was seismic. People started buying stab vests just to go to work. Blokes would wear cricketers boxes to look after the family jewels, flak jackets became fashionable for the middle class graduate. It seemed like you couldn’t get to work without having to stare someone down or fend off an assault of some sort.
So, three blokes delivered it. The most expensive thing I own I shit you not.
A Maul suit.
Putting it on was weird, I felt like one of those sick fucks in the leather suits with the zipper across the mouth. I soon realised this was entirely different. The suit had stab proof armouring throughout. The chest plate, crotch guard and helmet were almost military standard body armour. There was an in built mobile phone that called 999 if your heart rate dropped below a certain level. Best of all though were the gauntlets, in fact the whole of the forearm was covered in a heavy metal plate that continued on past the knuckles by two inches. I could barely operate the lift buttons in my apartment block but that aside they were amazing.
I’d seen other people wearing them and always though ‘wanker’ but known in my heart of hearts that I was gut wrenchingly jealous. Now I was the ‘wanker’ and if people got in my way between Hainault and Bank I’d rip them a new arsehole.
The first week was like a holiday. People avoided you on principle, I felt like Robocop on coke. Even blokes that could really handle themselves (you can spot them if you know what to look for) give you a wide berth in a Maul suit.
No one gets into a ruck unless they can really help it but you push in for a seat, play your tunes over some tinny mobile phone or barge onto a crowded tube at peak time and you’re dog food. In crowded conditions like that you’ll most likely get a head butt, if there’s room to swing a cat (even a small one) the fists will start flying. Only pretentious martial arts wankers throw kicks in a Tube ruck. I’ve seen more blokes have kicks blocked and then get their knees dislocated than you’ve had knee tremblers round the back of you local.
Anyway, the first week was a holiday, almost felt like normal commuting. I did my best not to bait anyone, some geezer tried to push on, round the side of me before I had a chance to get off on the Thursday. I mashed him in the back off the head and he went down like a ton of shit.
Second week things got a bit tricky. Word obviously got out that there was a ‘suit’ on the tube. I don’t mean like city boy/ insurance or stock market suit, I mean Maul suit. This pissy little gang of kids come down all ramped up on skunk, gangster rap and starbucks. I knew they were gonna give me shit as soon as I clapped eyes on them. They were sly though I give them that.
They didn’t start on me but they chose the girl next to me.
She was alright looking, bit chubby, her bra was too small so she looked like she had two mini breasts sitting above the normal ones. She wore awful jewellery but I’ve shagged a lot worse in my time. She had what I call ‘council estate eyes’, the sort of expression on her face where the best she could hope for was a bloke called Daz, a baby called Chardonnay and a free tanning bed promotion (fuck me she needed it). They started flicking up her skirt. To her credit she threw a corker of a punch and split the lip of this weasely looking toe rag. Inside my suit I laughed to myself. She could punch I give her that. Then they started in pairs, one to distract her whilst the other would try something. They had her mobile out of bag first, then they swiped an earring. She looked panicked, her ear lobe was bleeding, she’d landed a few punches but they seemed unperturbed. No one in the carriage moved an inch, some just bristled as if to say ‘don’t kick off near me or I’ll pull your arms out of your sockets’. Then one of them, a spotty dirty blonde lad in a white tracksuit, stepped forwards and grabbed her wrists. The weasel knelt down and pushed his hands up her skirt and before I knew it her knickers were round her ankles.
I lost it. I was annoyed with myself that I’d let it go on so long but there ain’t no Samaritans underground. I felt the weasels nose break as the blunt edge of the maul suits reinforced gauntlet plunged down into his face. He dissolved under the blow and the claret was over his chin and chest in a second. The rest of them descended: four of them. I’d missed the bruiser, he’d kept a low profile but now the action was on he shambled up with a dull excitement in his piggy eyes. On the floor weasel boy began to wail through his ruined face, I stomped on the little fuck to show them I wasn’t messing about. They all pulled out blades; the big guy had a cosh.
Fuck, I thought to myself. It was mental, even though I was wearing a stab proof suit you still think you’re gonna die. It’s like when you start snorkelling as kid and your brain thinks you’ll choke so you can’t control your breath properly. The cosh hurt, I tried to block it but he was good, he went for my knees. I soon had him in a headlock and was using him as fleshy shield. His knife-wielding friends backed up a bit until I was done mashing his face up.
I accidentally caught the girlie on the backswing, I think she must have ducked down to retrieve her scanties, stood up and then whammo!
Sorry love.
So like you can see, it got out of hand. I only bought the suit for protection and now I’m looking at five cases of GBH, ABH, and aggravated assault at a guess.
Good thing is though, because of the helmet no one can identify me, I had to sell it otherwise they’d pin it on me.
God bless E bay eh?
I’d been cooped up in the flat for close to three months, not going out, not spending a penny I didn’t need to. I cancelled my holiday and even told my family I wasn’t buying presents that Christmas, I bullshitted them and told them I’d lost my job. Finally by January I had enough and it arrived on a Monday. I threw a sickie and paced around in excitement. It took three blokes to deliver it. Three. Two just to carry it and a third with shotgun, said they were getting hacked off with people doing them over. But I’m forgetting, you haven’t been here for awhile you don’t really know what it’s like these days.
It started a few, say five, years ago. People just started to become cunts. Seriously, I’d always thought that the English were supposed to be polite in an institutionalised-racism-class-war kinda way. It crept in slowly at first, little things that would wind you up or piss you off for a whole day if you let it. Zebra crossings turned into a joke. The very nature of a crossing is built on trust. The pedestrian trusts the driver not to mow him down should he step onto the sacred white and black stripes between those odd lollipops. At first it was just now and again but then more frequently: drivers just didn’t give a fuck anymore. I nearly got knocked down four times in a week on the same zebra crossing. That was when I knew things were getting bad.
And then there was the underground. It had been an unwritten rule that you let people off before you got on. Then you noticed people just seemed to be incapable of waiting. The platform staff would remind the punters over the tannoy but it never did any good. They remodelled the carriages and made the doors bigger, put fewer seats in. Didn’t change a fucking thing. It just turned into a scrum.
And then punches started getting thrown.
In 2009 more London Underground staff resigned due to ‘excessive violence in the work place’ than any other career. The media were onto it in a second.
‘Commuter Rage’ they called it, but they didn’t have a clue.
The following year London Undergound tickets carried a line of legal text. It amounted to a waiver. If you ventured underground your personal safety was your own issue and you couldn’t sue them if another passenger attacked you.
Suddenly, every accountant, office worker, city boy and graphic designer had to attend kung fu classes three times a week just to get the tube. With one single line of text they let the leash off of all the pent up fury of the commuters. Like any savage creature they turned on each other.
For awhile people boycotted the tube because it was so dangerous but the trouble just moved to the buses. The underground at least had the unique charm that what ever hideousness you inflicted on you fellow commuter would remain out of sight. Gangs of kids from estates would come onto the tube looking for a fight. Maybe one or two of them were carrying blades.
It didn’t matter. They got destroyed.
By now even so much as a breach of personal space constituted a short and usually quite punishing flurry of blows. I saw a kid, maybe seventeen, big afro, big attitude deliberately bait some nerd with a button down shirt and a laptop. Clearly the laptop was insured but that didn’t stop the nerd putting up a fucking good defence. Then the Afro pulled out a switch knife and before he’d even flashed out the bright metal blade the nerd had gone to town on him.
Used the laptop like a brick and stoved his head in.
That was the first fatality due to commuter rage. The effect was seismic. People started buying stab vests just to go to work. Blokes would wear cricketers boxes to look after the family jewels, flak jackets became fashionable for the middle class graduate. It seemed like you couldn’t get to work without having to stare someone down or fend off an assault of some sort.
So, three blokes delivered it. The most expensive thing I own I shit you not.
A Maul suit.
Putting it on was weird, I felt like one of those sick fucks in the leather suits with the zipper across the mouth. I soon realised this was entirely different. The suit had stab proof armouring throughout. The chest plate, crotch guard and helmet were almost military standard body armour. There was an in built mobile phone that called 999 if your heart rate dropped below a certain level. Best of all though were the gauntlets, in fact the whole of the forearm was covered in a heavy metal plate that continued on past the knuckles by two inches. I could barely operate the lift buttons in my apartment block but that aside they were amazing.
I’d seen other people wearing them and always though ‘wanker’ but known in my heart of hearts that I was gut wrenchingly jealous. Now I was the ‘wanker’ and if people got in my way between Hainault and Bank I’d rip them a new arsehole.
The first week was like a holiday. People avoided you on principle, I felt like Robocop on coke. Even blokes that could really handle themselves (you can spot them if you know what to look for) give you a wide berth in a Maul suit.
No one gets into a ruck unless they can really help it but you push in for a seat, play your tunes over some tinny mobile phone or barge onto a crowded tube at peak time and you’re dog food. In crowded conditions like that you’ll most likely get a head butt, if there’s room to swing a cat (even a small one) the fists will start flying. Only pretentious martial arts wankers throw kicks in a Tube ruck. I’ve seen more blokes have kicks blocked and then get their knees dislocated than you’ve had knee tremblers round the back of you local.
Anyway, the first week was a holiday, almost felt like normal commuting. I did my best not to bait anyone, some geezer tried to push on, round the side of me before I had a chance to get off on the Thursday. I mashed him in the back off the head and he went down like a ton of shit.
Second week things got a bit tricky. Word obviously got out that there was a ‘suit’ on the tube. I don’t mean like city boy/ insurance or stock market suit, I mean Maul suit. This pissy little gang of kids come down all ramped up on skunk, gangster rap and starbucks. I knew they were gonna give me shit as soon as I clapped eyes on them. They were sly though I give them that.
They didn’t start on me but they chose the girl next to me.
She was alright looking, bit chubby, her bra was too small so she looked like she had two mini breasts sitting above the normal ones. She wore awful jewellery but I’ve shagged a lot worse in my time. She had what I call ‘council estate eyes’, the sort of expression on her face where the best she could hope for was a bloke called Daz, a baby called Chardonnay and a free tanning bed promotion (fuck me she needed it). They started flicking up her skirt. To her credit she threw a corker of a punch and split the lip of this weasely looking toe rag. Inside my suit I laughed to myself. She could punch I give her that. Then they started in pairs, one to distract her whilst the other would try something. They had her mobile out of bag first, then they swiped an earring. She looked panicked, her ear lobe was bleeding, she’d landed a few punches but they seemed unperturbed. No one in the carriage moved an inch, some just bristled as if to say ‘don’t kick off near me or I’ll pull your arms out of your sockets’. Then one of them, a spotty dirty blonde lad in a white tracksuit, stepped forwards and grabbed her wrists. The weasel knelt down and pushed his hands up her skirt and before I knew it her knickers were round her ankles.
I lost it. I was annoyed with myself that I’d let it go on so long but there ain’t no Samaritans underground. I felt the weasels nose break as the blunt edge of the maul suits reinforced gauntlet plunged down into his face. He dissolved under the blow and the claret was over his chin and chest in a second. The rest of them descended: four of them. I’d missed the bruiser, he’d kept a low profile but now the action was on he shambled up with a dull excitement in his piggy eyes. On the floor weasel boy began to wail through his ruined face, I stomped on the little fuck to show them I wasn’t messing about. They all pulled out blades; the big guy had a cosh.
Fuck, I thought to myself. It was mental, even though I was wearing a stab proof suit you still think you’re gonna die. It’s like when you start snorkelling as kid and your brain thinks you’ll choke so you can’t control your breath properly. The cosh hurt, I tried to block it but he was good, he went for my knees. I soon had him in a headlock and was using him as fleshy shield. His knife-wielding friends backed up a bit until I was done mashing his face up.
I accidentally caught the girlie on the backswing, I think she must have ducked down to retrieve her scanties, stood up and then whammo!
Sorry love.
So like you can see, it got out of hand. I only bought the suit for protection and now I’m looking at five cases of GBH, ABH, and aggravated assault at a guess.
Good thing is though, because of the helmet no one can identify me, I had to sell it otherwise they’d pin it on me.
God bless E bay eh?
On The Move
To my complete amazement it would seem I have been living under the same roof for close to two and half years. To say I have led a nomadic existence wouldn't be too much of an exaggeration. Since age 16 I have been in no end of ‘digs’, flat shares and house shares… some better than others. A friend of mine once challenged me to write down every address I had lived at and then worked out the average time I lived in any one location.
It was about 7 to 9 months.
However, now the Lady I find ourselves in the hazy, limbo realm of knowing we are moving but not yet having a completion date. This will no doubt be a bit more traumatic for the Lady as she has lived in the area for close to ten years now.
If I’d had a quid for everytime someone had said
‘Oh have you thought of living in (Insert Borough), It’s very up and coming’ I could have bought somewhere outright… If London becomes any more up and coming it will be the first city on the f*cking Moon.
Actually that would be pretty cool! Anyway, I digress -
That we managed to find a place at all was a bit of a miracle what with the Lady’s aversion to venturing south of the river and trying to afford something that wasn’t ex-council (Titan salaries suck by the way).
Lo and behold an angel did appear and in a booming voice did say
‘Get thee to Hoxton where upon ye will find a flat that is on a shared ownership scheme. It shalle have two bedrooms and be in Zone One for easy transportation to Londone Towne.’
‘Bugger me’ said I, as all sorts of agnostic troubles fled my eternal soul.
'No thanks, I’m asexual' said the angel and disappeared in a blinding white flash of light.
So, here we are, about to buy a third of a flat in Trendy ™ part of London, just me, the Lady, several cases of toy soldiers and a shed load of books.
Excited? Certainly.
Skint? Definitely
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