Letter from Cairo

Dear Mr Thomas Cook,

It is with great regret that I find myself locked inside my hotel room, typing this letter of complaint, when I should be outside enjoying the package holiday that I paid a bloody fortune for. This won’t do, and I can assure you that I won’t be using your services in the future.

Since arriving in Cairo last week, the holiday has gone from bad to worse to absolutely bloody disgraceful. For starters, it’s just too damn hot… which wouldn’t be a problem if I could sit beside the swimming pool in a civilised manner. However, the air is heavily polluted here- the horrendous stench of burning rubber is enough to make anyone sick, but now they seem to have started burning human flesh as well. Not on. To make things worse, the noise pollution is extraordinary. All this incessant chanting…what are they even saying? It all sounds the same to me, they could at least have the common courtesy to speak in English. Their entire economy is built on tourism- show some bloody gratitude!

I have never before experienced such appalling customer service. I doubt that Jamie Redknapp would stand for this, and I certainly won’t. It took me three hours to get a beer in the hotel restaurant the other day, an absolute shambles. It’s like a ghost town, only a handful of staff have even bothered to turn up and they are just moping around with million mile stares. Totally unprofessional and, let me tell you, thoroughly unacceptable. It seems like these people lack the basic values to turn into work each day. Sure, go out and make bloody racket- it is a free country after all- but do so in a way that doesn’t affect people who have paid good money to be there. I didn’t get where I am today by skiving off work and shouting in the streets like a bleeding Bolshevik. Those last years of Gordon Brown were no picnic, let me tell you, but you didn’t see me rubbing my shoes against a picture of his face. You know why? Because I was in work, doing my bit to put the Great back in to Britain.

On the rare occasion that we have deemed fit to leave the hotel premises, we have been appalled by how filthy the streets have been. You can barely walk without tripping over flags and rubble and all manner of debris. Hardly the immaculate beauty promised in your brochure. Furthermore, the “friendly vibrant culture” that you promised seems to be a gross fallacy. I was expecting much more of the people here, but my confidence seems to have been misplaced. I can hardly begin to tell you how much I was looking forward to being mobbed by street vendors hoping to sell me sunglasses, bongos and other such hilarious trinkets. That’s the kind of go-getter attitude that I thoroughly approve of, but it is no where to be seen.

My previous points pale in the face of our trip to the museum last night. All around us people were screaming and lashing out. Save for a few rather friendly fellows on horses, the crowds were an absolute disgrace. Crikey Moses, you’ve made your point, now go home and let me enjoy the Jewels of King Tut in peace- or at least have the common decency not to run about ripping the arms off mummies and using them as weapons. I tell you, the things we saw we will never forget. Blood everywhere. People on fire. We even saw a man with his brains hanging out; really shook up my missus, that did. If you think that you can get away without paying us compensation for this you are greatly mistaken. We have human rights too, and it is clear that the tourists are the real victims here.

I have never been so angry in my life. Having flown half way across the world to experience the ‘Wonders of Egypt’, I now find myself wondering how I could have been stupid enough to use your services after a long history of disappointment.

I trust you received my letter from New Orleans.

Sincerely,

Nigel H Mortimer

Reflections Upon A Failure

Hindsight is a rotten, worm eaten cunt. It's rancid discharge, constantly oozing from that tattered and decaying flower, has been passed off as Wisdom, by unscrupulous cunt merchants, since Day One. Or was that Day Two?

I've been around long enough to know this, but it's still hard not to wonder why I even bothered writing for tba. I was already completely disenchanted by the time I'd written my first word, and my first review for the zine proved that I'd have a difficult time getting anything, that I actually wanted to write, published. Instead, I found myself asked to write wiki-lite articles on electronic labels (I know... how horrendously fucking exciting) and asked to write promo pieces for promoters, bands and venues that the editor wished to suck up to. Needless to say, my style doesn't lend itself to such work. After each submission I'd be greeted with praise and enthusiasm, followed (in short order) by the inevitable“I just don't feel comfortable printing this”.

"Fair enough," I'd say, "maybe next month".

For a zine that claims to provide 'a platform for young and fledgling writers', tba shows very little interest in doing so. As for being 'a preview into subversive, unknown and admired creativity', I don't even know what the fuck that means. Perhaps, a 'glimpse into' or 'a showcase for' would be a little more apt. Except, of course, that it couldn't be any further from the truth. Maybe I just don't get it. Perhaps, if I was a writer of the calibre required to write for Pulp Magazine, I'd have had my work printed on a regular basis.

I seem to struggle with The Trivial. It's my main flaw- but please believe me, I'm working on it. Recently, I tried immersion therapy, but after two and a half editions of tba I'd had enough. I fear that I will have to opt for a much more direct course of action- Electric Shock Treatment. The Shoreditch Cure, I believe they call it. Each time the Patient has a thought bearing even the slightest trace of originality, a high voltage blast of current is administered directly to the Corpus Callosum. I hear it feels a little bit like being skull fucked by Zeus.

So, after three months of putting up with it, I've decided to go own way. Please accept this as my letter of resignation. Glad I gave it a try. It was an aesthetically pleasing publication and it might look nice in my 'Portfolio'- or whatever the fuck those snivelling cretin who manage to write for a living carry around with them. But looks can be deceiving. Thrym was very pleased by the beauty of his new wife- until, that is, she revealed- from behind her crimson veil- a Nordic beard and began hammering his purple testes to the banquet table. You can screen print words on to paper, but unless they are even remotely interesting no-one wants to read them. Which is probably why not a single soul has made it this far into my diatribe- and it all started so promisingly too, with it's profanities and oh so eloquent stylings.

I'll cut to the chase. No more metaphors or half-arsed mythological references. I like writing and I like Zines. I feel strongly that the Independent Press is a powerful tool. I believe a writer with even an ounce of courage, knows that making friends at the expense of artistic credibility is not worth it. Not by a long shot.

I want to express myself and work with others who feel the same way.

I'm in the process of starting my own publication based on these principles... and I need help. If you are interested please get in touch. Otherwise, I'll touch you.

(Modern) Love to Burn

What makes a record special? Perhaps it's that ever elusive Something, which elevates seductively spiraling grooves- crudely carved into a slab of vinyl- from the realms of the mundane towards the legendary. Can there possibly be a way to truly measure and compare the fruits which dangle from the branches of Art's rotten tree, as if they were subject to some infallible laws of Science? This very question has troubled critics, as well as a whole class of high society cultural rapists, ever since we crawled far enough out of the primordial slime to stop worrying about impending death and start focusing on the wholly insignificant. The utterly inconsequential. The classic album.

Classic is a strong word, conjuring (to my mind, at least) images of Herakles' children seeking shelter in Athens, Phaedrus' garden parties and Cronos eating his own children. In short, something that has stood the test of time- in these cases thousands of years- yet which still remains relevant and capable of answering some of our questions about ourselves. I don't care what the NME might think, but in 2000 years no one on Earth (if an Earth there still be), will give a monkey's fuck about Vampire Weekend. Actually, my mistake, it turns out that this is already the case. Humiliated, I back track... in the span of the next two millennium, even the Beatles will be forgotten and entirely irrelevant. It is with the self important, and ultimately futile, arrogance of a doomed culture that we feel fit to tempt the hands of fate with premature deification of our meagre artistic excretions. Like Kool Keith, America's greatest philosopher, once said we're making “wrinkle cream out of rat poop”- artifacts so instantly disposable, that a supposedly “ageless” tune is old before it's even been recorded.

Cynical? Well, you would be too if you'd seen even half of the things that I haven't. But if you want a slice of meaningless hyperbole to go with your bullshit pate, I can think of no better place to find it than Boomkat Records, where superlatives are thrown around like infant Chinese girls from cliff tops. Every other record is branded as “killer” or “huge” or (the one that bothers me the most) “Essential”. I'm sorry, but if a record is actually essential to your ability to function as a sentient being, then it's time to give up- just leave your front door key at home, pick a direction and keep on walking. Vinyl addiction is a real problem for a lot of us, and this kind of one-sided reviewing can easily make otherwise sane people lose their financial continence. I, myself, write this from a room pebble-dashed with records- many from Boomkat. Some I still listen to, the rest make superb building up boards. Here's one thing that my bitter experience battling musical cholera has taught me- very, very, very few Dubstep records even come close to being useful, to say nothing of essential. If you think otherwise, you may just find me waiting for you outside of Hit & Run with a rusty claw hammer.

To my mind Boomkat's worst offences come when describing their own imprints, such as Modern Love. The site always deems fit to spew forth the grandest of compliments for the tracks it will profit most from selling. Praise is laid at the feet of artists such as Andy Stott, in a manner that hasn't been seen since Henry VIII's court of yes men tended to the last pussing syphilis lesion on the twisted shaft of his weeping cock. I understand that it's a business and they exist only to sell records, but language is such a beautiful gift it's a shame to misuse it so wantonly. Which, of course, makes me a terrible hypocrite. I can admit that, and I am big enough to admit that quite a few Modern Love records are actually pretty good. Further more, I'm starting to get a bit excited about the FutureEverything show coming up on May 14th at Sound control featuring ML's Demdike Stare and Boomkat DJ's as well as tunes from Finder's Keepers. The real draw, though, is Omar Souleyman playing with Mark Ernestus of Basic Channel (!) and Paul St. Hilaire- it should be quite a bit of fun. Just please don't let me hear you fucking describe it as “Epic”.

From the Archive- 03/10/06

It came as quite a shock to a fairly sheltered young man like myself. For days I tried to deny it. The first step was to blame the liberal media for making up slanderous stories about a truly great man. But it didn't add up. What could those swine in such far left news outlets as Fox and ABC have against this visionary songwriter to make up such intricate lies. We're not talking your run of the mill gossip here- no this isn't the kind of thing that one can take lightly. And besides, the media's so busy busting W's balls and aiding the terrorists that they wouldn't have much reason to make this up. Even my faith diminished when I saw the video confession. There he was sat on a leopard skin couch and wearing knee high Doc Martin Boots... This wasn't the Lil John I had grown to love through such Krunk Klassics as 'Get Crunk' and the deceptively simple 'Damn!'. This wasn't the sensitive mind behind 'Put Yo Hood Up'. But before my eyes here he was, a tear rolling down his saintly face, stuttering and ashamed. There could be no doubt that this was the Lil John- the most potent mind of the twenty first century- and what he had to say has still got me messed up.

I quote: 'Over the recent days there's been- YEAH- some allegations made - CRUNK!!!- about- YEAH!!!- my -MOVE THAT ASS BITCH!!!- character. Its been a hard- CRUNK!!!- time for me -YEAH!!!- and many of those who I thought- ITS A PARTY!!!- I could trust have deserted me. Its not easy for me, Lil John creator of Crunk Juice (Registered Trade Mark YEAH BITCH!!! GET LOW!!!) to come out and admit it but its gone on to long. I've got to say this shit even if its hurts. I have been known- ALRIGHT- to enjoy the tactile pleasure of touching ham.'

That was the exact moment that my life fell apart. My idol, the namesake of my first three children, admitting to stroking and even caressing slices of lunch meat. Sure he joins other to come out- only recently Thurston Moore had made a similar confession, but he's an unashamed avant garde wierdo why wouldn't he stroke the ham? And the bass player from Panic at the Disco was sacked for his penchant for sniffing canned ham and pork(it certainly wasn't because of his oddly porportioned body, tight trousers and ridiculous haircut.)- but this was Lil John, poet laureate of the crunk generation.

Denial soon gave way to attempts at reason. Perhaps it wasn't so bad. So I began doing what I usually do- following the example of rappers no matter how questionable the actions. Just as I had shot my grandmother when I discovered Tupac, raped a baby when they put away R Kelly and intentionally contracted AIDS when Easy E died, I now began buying as much ham as I could- and stealing it when I could afford no more. I started nice and slow, quick brushes of the hand when no one was looking. Before long I was up out of control- I made and entire suit out of Bernard Matthew's wafer thin ham slices and rolled around for hours on my stoop. My ham habit was sending me under, I could wear my ham briefs to my work and noone even suspected my pleasure. For a while at least. There's only so long a man can get away with rubbing ham against his genitals in public places and as my use got out of control my life went into tail spin. I woke up in a jail cell- I don't even know how long I'd been gone but judging from the advanced stage of sliced ham cold turkey I'd have to guess three days.

It may seem like fun to you at the time, your heroes may do it and it might be the only way to get a record contract. But please do your self a favour DO NOT TOUCH HAM. Thats right even when you see Jay Kay rubbing his face against a handful of processed pig or watch Flavor Flav stuff an entire joint of Wiltshire's finest down his down his trousers, you must try and resist. Its just not worth it.