Saturday, August 02, 2003
Asthma…
Unable to breathe…
Can't hardly breathe...
*gasp*
You don’t have to rush back in to things in order to prove something to yourself; you don’t have to define yourself by who you’re with or what you want. Definitions (and lists therefore) mean permanency and the world is not permanent. People are not fixed values and set qualities. People are processes. The world is a process. That includes you. This is also why lists are rockist; even mutable, transformable, changeable lists; their very existence at any point in time demonstrates a move for permanency. (One day I may define ‘rockist’. Ha!)
Shoot down sacred cows? Are they unassailable now? After smashing the previous sacred cows themselves and claiming nothing is unassailable? That from now on everything has changed? No; they become a new order themselves. Maybe.
Eric Cantona did it best. Stopped. At his peak. Imagine if Bowie had done! Who is it now who’s a crotchety old man, always harping on about the perfect aesthetic of rock music, decrying everything that came afterwards? Meltzer? Is he the one who believes nothing can get any better than The Rolling Stones and Hendrix and The Who? Who doesn’t bother anymore? He’s wrong, of course. But also right. Because what place does he have now to continue striving? To try and carry on forever? Bangs’ taste died with Bangs as did his writing but not alas his name and legend and mythology. You die. You stop. Or you try and carry on forever. Very few who try the latter maintain quality. Not that quality matters. Metal Box and London Calling came out in the year I was born.
Don’t have heroes, and certainly don’t have these fuck-ups as heroes. Don’t make the reporter more important than the reported. Cult. Of. Celebrity. We all need…
I am broken – fix me.
No.
I am bored – entertain me.
I am absent – distract me.
One thing I forgot to mention in the part about Paul Morley below, is that as much as he may curse the death of the 7” vinyl disc there is a whole generation after him who loves CDs. The silver, the perfect images pressed onto the surface, the very fact that the disc itself can be painted with an image to represent the music, to accentuate it. The intangible rainbow of colours that rise and evaporate in sunlight, streaming across the real surface of the disc, the part where the music lies, ripples of colour, all colours, in infinitesimal patterns and shifts. The socialist uniformity (utopia?) of the jewel box, so utterly throwaway and shelvable. Indestructible? I don’t think so. You can destroy them; it’s a joy to, because it takes effort, to physically snap a CD, to scar it’s surface; you have to mean it. Black plastic? No thank you. That’s your first kiss. I can’t remember it. The real magic is in putting the psychedelic silver disc into a black box and having this perfect sound emerge, time after time… Maybe. It’s not your magic. But you’re not writing for me. I’m not writing for you.
8/02/2003 10:26:00 am
It's quite simple, isn't it?
This isn't one of mine. I'm quite prideful of my images, but this might be better than most of mine. Wait till Todd hosts some images for me. Wait till you see the sunburst. I am not urban.
8/02/2003 12:59:00 am
Oh for fuck's sake. Who cares about the fucking process of writing? Just fucking write. When did the writers become more important than the subject? Than the readers? You selfish twats.
ARGH.
I'm getting dragged into this.
I say again; all I want to do is tell people what I love and why and then maybe they can understand and we can all love everything together...
8/02/2003 12:59:00 am
Hmmm... K-Punk. I don't know who you are. Punkonscious. It doesn't have to be ugly though, does it? Ugly and unfriendly? Only city-dwellers have time for the ugliness-as-anti-professional. Maybe. I don't know. I want people to be able to read it.
8/02/2003 12:19:00 am
Friday, August 01, 2003
Trace a political kiss from your lover’s lips…
Did I ever tell you that Jaws is my favourite film?
Is Marcello looking to wind-up The Church of Me? Recent posts have erred more and more towards the explicit in terms of revealing the function of the blog (less The Church of Me than The Church of… well, those of us who read it know who, Marcello, and I’m almost crying as I’m writing this and I don’t even know you so fuck knows how you must feel every day); the possibility of a book is mentioned more and more often (it must happen, mustn’t it?). Your “history-book-thing”. I hope it’s helped. I hope it will continue to do so. Purely for selfish reasons, you understand?
I have no idea who Jim DeRogatis is and I’ve never read Lester Bangs but thank you, Sam. One thing though; Reynolds has been around for a fair while…
A bad stomach through Wednesday night as a result of a dodgy kebab (when will I stop filling my body with shit?) and all I could do at 4am was listen to The Colour Of Spring on headphones. My trail through the hinterland of 80s pop music continues apace with Tears For Fears; this week I went out and bought their first three albums after one too many encounters with “Mad World” for comfort over the last few months. How much have I enjoyed Songs From The Big Chair? A lot. I’m enjoying it now- “Shout” is a great tune. How much braver is this than, say, a legion of so-called alternative bands operating these days? Organs, synths, sax, guitar, lyrics about something (how old do I sound? < / fogey >). The new SFA is a nice enough pop album but there’s an intensity about this that Phantom Power is missing to its detriment. Maybe it’s an 80s thing, Depeche Mode, U2, earnestness, white flags, primal scream therapy… Didn’t Mansun want to sound like Tears For Fears? A shame they were such complete fools.
Sitting at the train station, Thursday lunchtime, and the child next to me, maybe 6 or 7, stank of chips and TCP. Further down the platform two sisters, at a guess 18 and 15/16, stood together, cut from the same clay, neither stunning but the younger one that touch more alive, a shade slimmer, more confident, a touch luckier with the family genes than her older sister… How must that feel for the elder sibling? Soul destroying? Does she even notice?
For the first time in a long time (as long as I can remember) I have fingernails. I’m not sure how this came about. What do I do with them? Quick, hurry, someone get a splinter so I can tweeze it out with my digital cartilage (is that what it is?- isn’t it the stuff your hair’s made of?). I so want to pick them to feel the satisfaction of pulling them from their roots, it’s so much better than slowly tearing off a scab…
Interesting article in G2 today about the Fight Club-like phenomenon of New York’s “inexplicable mobs”. I, of course, being 24, male, mildly media-savvy and open to suggestion, want to start one of these in Shaldon or Cockwood or Pinhoe.
Overseen magazine article headline; My cheap Spanish boobjob disfigured me for life…
Word doesn’t like ‘boobjob’ but it suggests ‘blowjob’ quite willingly as an alternative- does this say something about Bill Gates?
A scribble in my notebook (Moleskine, naturally) reads “think about going jumping…” As this is undated I must trust memory, never wise for me, and if memory serves it’s a reference to sitting on the breakwater that juts from Boatcove into the approximation of a bay that is Dawlish seafront, listening to the walkman (Manitoba or Bark Psychosis, I imagine- is it ever anything else these days?- I must make some more minidiscs) whilst some teenagers next to me (I was there first) debated whether or not to go jumping from the end of the breakwater. “Is it safe? It’s a long way down. Is it cold?” Do it, it’s ace, imagine that feeling between jumping and immersion, imagine that blood rush as you hit the water, the adrenaline… They jumped, but only after I’d made my way to the middle of the cliff, where I watched them like the voyeur I am. I haven’t jumped off the breakwater in years.
Don’t go in the sea off Teignmouth. Work is underway to repair a broken sewage pipe. 2003 and we’re still pumping shit into the sea off our beaches. When the wind blows off the sea in winter, when the waves get chopped up and whipped across the seawall and beneath the viaduct, that orange foam which floats across the crazy-golf and discolours your alloy wheels, that’s not natural.
Don’t go in the sea off the North Devon coast either; a fifteen-year-old Marine Biology student has spotted a Great White Shark. No doubt in Tring an eight-year-old flutist has seen Elvis… No, that’s cynical. Experts say that from her detailed description of the fish’s movements and size it could well be a Great White. It makes my laughing dismissal of the River Lizard which I tell Emma haunts the Exe seem a little foolish. Meanwhile more people decide to search for the Loch Ness Monster. Makes the carp in the ponds at the university seem slightly sinister.
Get poisoned in the sea off the south coast of Devon. Get eaten in the sea off the north. As I keep telling myself; when you live in Dawlish everyday is a holiday. I’ve never been on ‘holiday’. As a child we couldn’t afford it and by the time I could have earned enough money to take myself away on holiday my modes of escapism had become long established. At various stages since I was, what?- four?- these have swung from my imaginary friend Robin to drawing to reading to playing football to taking drugs to getting drunk, all the while (all the while?- bit strong… from time to time) music there as the valve behind the valves? Escaping too, not from.
Paul Morley in The Guardian Review (mental note from my good side; be careful Nick, you have no idea who the fuck this guy is but he’s probably quite important – mental note from my bad side; fuck it) bemoaning (is he though?- really?) the death of the single. The single is the 7”. The single is not multi-format. Though Morley himself admits that he helped introduce multi-formatting when he worked as Frankie Goes To Hollywood’s promotional director, his attitude towards this act of murdering something he loves seeming to be oh well, it’s dying anyway, and isn’t it fun seeing the shiny new things we can kill it with? There’s magic in those black wax dinner plates and their little grooves, magic in being able to see the stylus move inexorably to the middle of the record and it’s never-ending groove; getting lost in that groove and then being snapped out when it’s time to turn it over / put a new one on. Keeps the concentration up. Do CDs encourage us to make music an addition to our lives because we can just press ‘repeat’ and keep the spinning and spitting out music for ever? So we can do something else other than listen? So the 80s killed the 7” and with it the singles chart and TOTP; what else are they going to be blamed for? I was born in 1979, so you can shut up right now.
The first single Morley bought was T Rex. At a guess he still has it somewhere, and even if the original has long been lost or broken or worn out, I imagine he’ll have found a replacement. He talks of being ‘defined’ by singles, by 7”s, by individual songs. Maybe each new 45 helped him grow as a person. Being ‘defined’. The first 7” I bought was “Bad” by Michael Jackson. After a week I used it as a frisbee because I was bored of it. It broke. Ch-ch-changes… The constant struggle for me has been to avoid definition, to keep myself out of those boxes. Maybe because the boxes I wanted access to were denied me, so therefore no boxes are good enough. Maybe because deep down I always suspected that there wasn’t anything to define. The idea that a record (or a succession of records) could define me, however much I love it (yes you, Spirit of Eden; yes you, The Stone Roses; yes you, Orbital ‘Brown’; yes you Paul’s Boutique [notice how I pick albums rather than singles?- rockist through and through!]). I’m Nick Southall and that’s as much as you’re getting.
Googling one’s own name; the triumph of postmodernism?- the triumph of the drive to self-celebrity?- a desperate clutch at binary, abstracted snatches of fame in order to bolster an insecure mind? I also work for Nickelodeon, for a political organisation in Woolongong, South Africa, as a professional footballer, and, most weirdly, for Exeter City Council (not a relative!). But mostly, according to Google I am me. Which is reassuring.
Morley’s praise of singles may be a devoutly poppist gesture (the Pope condemns dirty gays, says they shall not be allowed to marry, says it is against the “natural moral order”- oh come on John) but his tangible glee at the arrival of the iPod and the endless lists of untouchable, ether-dwelling songs, downloaded and paid for individually (if at all!- punk fucking rock!) reveals him as a definite rockist*. Why? Lists. Lists. Lists. Definition, permanency, codification, clarity, order, rules, balance, truth. Oh Paul. Didn’t you realise? His new book is about a journey (presumably metaphysical/fictional [“I don’t write fiction- I invent fact”]) with Kylie Minogue (she’s not hip anymore, Paul- “Can’t Get You Out Of My Head” passed when The Flaming Lips covered it live, we all love “I Luv U” now, didn’t you know?) through history from “the pre-modern through the modern into the postmodern and beyond”. The truth is revealed in one sentence, with almost pornographic explicitness; “There will be no objects to hold or fetishise, people will simply collect lists.” There may be no “compulsive alphabetising”, but you can bet there’ll be even more compulsive pseudo-meritocratic ranking and rating. True chaos is anathema to pop music, and the rockist (and the poppist) cannot deal with it, so they list (verb; to list, lister, listing, listed).. People won’t even need to listen to songs anymore, they can just look at the lists. All is well.
Oh, I mean it’s a really interesting article and everything, much better than Petridis’ awful Kraftwerk piece last week, but all this bemoaning the transmutation of the single from culturally resonant gem into marketing man’s commercial tool is negated by those four words that start the penultimate paragraph; “In my new book…” And to then go on and praise lists as well…
I still can’t bring myself to massacre Tom Cox after his awful thing in The Sunday Times last weekend. “In my new book…”
Playlist during the writing of this post; Tears For Fears, Wire, Tricky.
*Not, of course, that the terms ‘rockist’ and ‘poppist’ mean fucking anything. Just so you know.
8/01/2003 11:45:00 pm
Wednesday, July 30, 2003
Outkast
So the ADHD suffering New Zealander who has been entrusted with the BBC's flagship alternative music program on Radio 1 (that'll be Zane! Lowe! the! indie! Tim! Westwood!) plays the new Outkast single last night and reveals in the process that he knows nothing about anything apart from talking really fast and loud. When he actually slows down his hyperactive yelp and attempts to address what he's playing he comes up with "yeah, Outkast, man, they're just, such a banker, if you buy an Outkast record you know you're going to be... entertained... their music is just so... intricate... and... entertaining..."
Thanks, Zane.
"Ghetto Music" (muse-sick?) is, by the way, insane and brilliant. "Feeling good, feeling great / feeling great, feeling good / how are you?" I'm fantastic.
7/30/2003 10:08:00 am
Tuesday, July 29, 2003
Bark Psychosis
Alienation, technology, paranoia, beauty, evocation, space, silence...
(c) Phil Nicholls
Coming soon...
7/29/2003 09:43:00 am
Monday, July 28, 2003
The following 2,300 words constitutes the last essay I ever wrote for my degree. As such it's over two years old now. It also received the highest mark for a written piece that I achieved in the three years at UCN - 73%, after the marking tutor (Graeme McBeath, a Great Man and Fine Archer) had given it 70% and sent it away to the external markers, who saw fit to raise its score by 3%. I'm not entirely sure how you can quantify something being worth "3% more" in an academic context, but there you go. Anyway, the essay is about the internet and I've just stumbled accross it after believing I had lost the file for the last two years. I thought you might like to read it.
Does Computer Mediated Communication Humanise or De-Humanise?
The other day whilst surfing through websites and internet messageboards of the various bands I have interest enough in to remember the names of when faced with a computer rather than a pile of records, I stumbled across an interesting signature line tacked onto the bottom of one individual’s postings on a particular messageboard;
“The internet is a mask that hides my face and reveals my soul.”
One can interpret this as meaning that the perceived anonymity of the internet allows a greater freedom of expression than is achievable in the outside world, but does this mean that the internet is a purely humanising technology? Is the internet and the freedom of expression and access to information that it allows us another step along the technological road to utopia as envisaged by Marshall McLuhan? The very act of using computers, like writing, reading (both of which are of course intrinsic parts of using computers), the cinema, music, etcetera, adds to our culture, to our understanding of ourselves, to the richness of the human tapestry. Possibly.
There are simple objections. It has been claimed that the internet could dehumanise people by allowing them to do whatever they need to do from home by computer, thus removing significant human contact from their daily lives. Certainly there are many elements of human interaction that may be minimised or eliminated by the existence of the internet, but these elements do not constitute the entire spectrum of human life. I can buy certain items over the net thereby eliminating interaction with shop employees. I can do some banking over the net thereby eliminating interaction with bank clerks. I could, theoretically, find a chatroom and spend an evening discussing topics I’m interested in with like-minded people while I have a relaxing drink. Indeed, on occasions, I have. But only on occasions. I have not been inspired to completely shun what might be termed ‘real’ social interaction with family and friends in favour of living out a purely ‘virtual’ existence. Certainly, there may be some people who would choose to eliminate as much human interaction from their lives as possible with the aid of the internet, but I would suspect that these people would shun such social interactions whether they had access to cyberspace or not.
Even a slight erosion of our individual levels of social/human interaction may be detrimental though. The theoretical vagaries and ruminations of Jean Baudrillard tell us that
all our machines are screens. We too have become screens, and the interactivity of men has become the interactivity of screens. Nothing that appears on the screen is meant to be deciphered in depth, but actually to be explored instantaneously, in an abreaction immediate to meaning – or an immediate convolution of the poles of representation… The machine (the interactive screen) transforms the process of communication, the relation from one to the other, into a process of commutation, i.e. the process of reversibility from the same to the same. The secret of the interface is that the Other is within it virtually the Same – otherness being surreptitiously confiscated by the machine.
(Jean Baudrillard, Xerox and Infinity, 9th page)
Baudrillard may have concerned himself largely with abstractions, and his methods of expression may have been confused and confusing, but from time to time his remarks and observations appear to be nearing profundity. The reality is that every day millions of people in the western world go to work, and increasingly to school and to college and then back home again, and sit before a monitor-screen for hours on end, working, learning, communicating, interacting. Whether this interaction works simply and primarily on the level of the brain processing new information, or on the level of the eyes focusing on streams of digitised text and images, or whether it is on the level of communication with other human beings with the screen as an incidental medium, the fact remains that the screen is intrinsic.
This may not necessarily be a bad thing. In some ways the screen equalises people by dehumanising them – it s hard to be intimidated or awed by a screen, hard to be distracted or enamoured and thus have one’s judgement impaired, because by and large the screen will be the same wherever it is, whoever is using it. It will almost always be an off-white plastic box housing a glass plate and a tube. If, as Baudrillard suggests, we become the screen when we are using it, then we all become equal.
Computer mediated communication, and this must be the internet by-and-large, eliminates much of the noise from lines of communication. When reading an email we are faced purely with the words upon the screen, presented in a clean, clear, instantly readable font or typeset rather than a messy, idiosyncratic, indecipherable script. We are given pure communication on the screen, with no distractions at its base level, the Other is not concerned with how they look or sound, the Other is not distracted themselves by noise. But the screen is not enthralling like a human face, is not captivating like the varied timbres of the human voice, and thus gives rise to other distractions outside of itself because of this. When faced with an anonymous off-white box and a ream of aesthetically monotonous text typed by a loved one, the temptation to turn and gaze out of the window, to stand, walk around, go to the kitchen and fix a drink, is greater than when in the actual presence of the real person. The screen is not possessed of charisma, even if the person creating the text one is engaging with is.
If computer-mediated communication is to humanise us it must do so through the culture it is part of, or possibly creates. No internet experience can be deep enough to be responsible for forming culture. And, perhaps more importantly, anyone using the internet already belongs to another culture. Internet experiences lack the depth of real-life experiences. Because they are limited to the auditory and visual modes, internet experiences cannot take advantage of the often more emotionally charged senses of smell and touch. The greater the emotional content of an experience, the more likely it is to be remembered, to be etched into our brains and hearts. Thus, many internet experiences will not be as powerful as real-life experiences with similar semantic content. These experiences will be less likely to have an effect on an individual's beliefs and habits.
By the time people experience the internet, they have already been greatly influenced by the real-life culture that they were raised in. That is to say, they bring their culture to, rather than taking it from, the internet. I have been made aware of bands that I have gone on to like over the internet, of books that I have gone on to read and enjoy, but the fact remains that my interest in music and literature stems from something outside of the internet cultures I have engaged with. Are the values of internet cultures or subcultures any different to the values of other cultures or subcultures? Are people who use the internet and engage in discussion groups, chatrooms, messageboards and so on a part of a separate internet culture, or are they members of other cultures who happen to use the internet? We may well do better to consider this to be the case. To decide what kinds of values groups using the internet have, we need only look to the kinds of values those groups have in real life. For instance, there are lonely people who use the internet in an attempt to find relationships with others. If we classify them as belonging to an "Internet Dating Subculture", then we are glossing over the more important, more human aspect of their situation, which is that they are lonely. The internet is the means by which they attempt to solve their problem, but it is not a defining aspect of their problem; they are lonely before they became the screen, and it is possible that all the screen can do is offer a simulacrum of the cessation of loneliness.
The question of whether computer mediated communication is humanising or dehumanising rests perhaps on the question of whether or not virtual or simulated activities are humanising or dehumanising. The internet is still in its infancy compared to the cinema, to literature, even to rock and roll, and the hermeneutics of the internet are still even more underdeveloped. For an invalid incapable of getting to the shops, online supermarkets which deliver may well be a massively liberating tool, not only for the individual directly concerned, but for friends and relatives who may have otherwise felt obliged to provide support. Likewise an email may well, by the nature of the remove of its medium, allow a freedom of expression that is rarely achievable face to face, but people have known this and exploited it through writing letters for thousands and thousands of years. Email, by its very nature, is quick and ephemeral, mails tend to be written quickly and ad hoc with little attention paid to the orthodoxies of traditional written communications, hence the rise of emoticons and truncated spelling and grammar in order 2 get the msg across quickly ;oþ. Most email service providers only provide limited space for preserving mail anyway, making the recording of emails a hindrance – one cannot simply place an email in a (real) box and keep it like one might do with a love letter.
Messageboards, chatrooms and emails are all forms of storytelling, which is an intrinsic part of human nature. Storytelling is one of the primary tools we have at our disposal in the quest to more fully understand our own natures. Indeed, culture could be said to be the telling of stories about the way we live and interact, and email and other forms of computer mediated communication allow more of us to tell more stories quicker and more easily than we ever have before. In this way we are able to more fully participate in the construction of our own localised cultures, even though those cultures may not literally be localised geographically. However, in order to have stories to tell via email or internet discussion groups, one needs to have experiences which one is able to articulate onto stories. That is, if the stories are to be based in truth. Computer mediated communication and storytelling is not a replacement for other more established forms of storytelling and culture – people did not throw away their radios when they bought televisions, did not stop kicking balls when video games became popular, they simply re-arranged schedules to allow time for new activities as well as old, dependant on what their individual preferences were.
I think a way of exemplifying how the internet can be viewed as representing culture, is how one as a tourist in a foreign country is afraid of behaving not in accordance with local customs. In some way, this fear is recognisable online, because entering a chat room for the first time can make you feel odd. People are talking, and when you join the conversation, you might be ignored after a while, because the others spot that you do not know the slang, the expressions, abbreviations and 'emoticons'. The acculturation of people's communication in, for example, chat rooms has taken form as 'netiquette', norms of accepted behaviour. Writing in capitals is understood as SHOUTING, and is not appreciated. After a while, one becomes used to this and gradually achieves those abilities and forms of behaviour which is required to be accepted as a part of the group. One has to learn the conventions of storytelling in that particular new environment.
Today, as the geek is increasingly being numbered out by students, housewives, my ageing, semi-retired father and, roughly speaking, ordinary people (though predominantly still white, male middle class Americans and Western Europeans), it is even more important to study what relations we have to the internet and what is happening inside its cosmos. Not only how we interact with the new technology, but also how we understand the people we meet online, how we mirror ourselves in the screen in front of us, and not least how the technology shapes our selves and minds. Whether one should assign the responsibility for the foundation of an understanding of these issues to sociology, cultural philosophy, media studies, or anthropology, is debatable, but at least we can recognise that they need to be understood.
Does computer mediated communication humanise or dehumanise? I met my best friend over the internet, we were both aware of each other before we encountered each other in cyberspace, but we had never met or communicated directly until I began using a website that he ran. But the fact remains that our fondest memories of each other and our best experiences together are not based in cyberspace – we do not talk on the phone of chatroom exchanges that particularly moved us - but rather in the real world, in the times when we made the effort to traverse the country for each other’s birthdays, for gigs by bands we both like, for the sheer hell of seeing each other and enjoying each other’s real company. The internet can distract us from such activities, it can even facilitate the arrangement of such activities, but it cannot, for me and my best friend at least, replace those activities (though my best friend is a website designer, its his job to try to!).
Conquering new fields of knowledge and experience is always exciting and satisfying. It is human. If computer mediated communication allows us to conquer new fields of knowledge and experience, then one must assume that the ends, if not the means, is humanising.
Bibliography
Cultures Of Internet, Virtual Spaces, Real Histories, Living Bodies;
Edited by Rob Shields; Sage, 1996.
Virtual Culture, Identity And Communication In Cybersociety;
Edited by Steven G. Jones; Sage 1997
Xerox And Infinity; Jean Baudrillard; London: Touchepas 1988
Postmodern Media Culture; Jonathan Bignell; Edinburgh 2000
7/28/2003 09:05:00 pm
The smell of babies weirds me out. Part of downstairs in the library smelt like a baby's house earlier, that strange odorific coalescence of Marmite, digestive biscuits, stale milk and goo. Ughn. I don't like it.
7/28/2003 04:59:00 pm
I've got hold of the four Codename: Dustsucker tracks currently available on SoulSeek. First impressions are very good indeed. I shall endeavour to shed some light this evening.
7/28/2003 04:58:00 pm
Pete's considered opinion of Dizzee Rascal...
"That CD that Emma's got, that Dizzee, that's shit, his beats and rhymes are shit - you wanna hear some real UK hip hop."
The middle-class white 30-somethings in the music industry may well be spilling their jizz over Dizzee, but the 17-year-old provincial hip hop fan, a real life track-downloading, record-buying, Fubu-wearing fan who lives and breathes this shit whilst you're secretly listening to Steve Miller (more about that later, Tom Cox), thinks Dizzee is crap.
There's a kind of beautiful symmetry there.
7/28/2003 10:50:00 am
Sunday, July 27, 2003
I have decimated a bottle of port (x5 - decimate means reduce by 10% and I've done at least 50%). I am going to bed. Like you care. Like you even exist. All these names are real people.
7/27/2003 01:51:00 am
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