Dude! Check me out! I'm totally doing stuff!

That's totally cool.

_chris! // 00:28



Did anyone else see the Imagine programme on hip hop, or was it just me?

I set out planning to hate it, ever since it was bileld a few weeks a go as a quest for the soul of hip hop which, dispite being the nebulous and vague concept that apparently sums up the entireity of a large, messy, pioneering, conflicting and, let's be honest here, black genre, was apparently found in Eminem, who's guitar-deploying Cleaing Out My Closet was very lyrical.

One of the problems was it seemed to think that Gangsta Rap was all there was, and was all Tha Kidzzz were in to. I may not know much, but that's wrong, right? This he proved by wheeling out 50 Shit, and some archieve footage of the LA riots. I'm not realy sure what the point of the whole exercise was, except maybe to win some points with his kids. And it was his kids that this was really about the subject, but did find out that Yentob, endowed as he is with a budget and a job that means he's contractually obliged to do these sorts of things, is a better parent then most in his attempts to understand his kids better.

Deeply unsatisfactory, devoid of either A: a perspective from the children or B: any idea what it was trying to do, but it was saved by the fantastic interview footage of Ice T leaning against a convertable with four scantily clad women standing in glacial poses staring into the middle distance like male models whiel Ice T himself informs us "keeping it real is about going to school". I love the paralell universe where the more breasts you have on screen, the more socially relevant you are!

_chris! // 22:06


Yes, I know you've heard the below before, and you'll no doubt here it again in the next three months and six days, before I move to Southampton. I don't care, becuase I'm excited and you're not important and Lucy is.

_chris! // 21:10


Ooooh, I'm coming up, so you better get this party started... /

So my zine's nto exactly going anywhere. I promise this will change.

Today I got very excited- spurred on by the sheer adulterating joy of the Gay Bar video, I set out to get me
Fire and, while in my local Satan's Clit Sucking Compact Disc Emporium I discovered, joy of joys, that someone had decided to get in Careless Talk. Flicking thru and reading True's editorial, about passion and caring, I felt caracteristically elated and then, standing at the desk paying, with my feet sitting happily praising the joy that is overly ventilated, disgusingly cheaply made canvas footwear while the rest of my body crused my tiny little mind for wearing a parka while it slowly tried to cook itself to death, I thanked the man who was taking my money so kindly from me for finally getting it in.

I don't know why I did that. You don't talk to Satan's Clit Sucking Compact Disc Emporium employees, because they do not like you. I once gave my reasons for returning a CD as "It's shit", said with a big fucking grin on my face like I was MAKING CONVERSATION, FUCKER and the guy mumbelled, "No it isn't" under his breath. I learnted there and then never to bother talking to people who sell me music, because they do not love me, the bastards.

But this man did. This was the man who got Careless Talk in. He! Personally! There was a que and I had to go to work, but he was mentioning other magazines he was thinking about getting in, tho it would be a fight because we are but a small store, you know? and CT was only in on a trial basis, to see who liked it.

I left the store buzzing, feeling like I had some how, in some way, made a small Indie Kid mark and I wasn't alone anymore. This buzz is good. This buzz, and all the talk of passion and caring that falls of CT this month, and, let's face it, Fucking Electric Six Motherfucker, will see me thru these four beautiful days off work I have, and out into Fucking Zine Writting.

Oh yes, I'm coming up, so you better get this party started.

_chris! // 21:08



Fucking Eddie Fucking Izzard Fucking /

So this is odd. This morning, my mother was convinced my sister was going to die, horribly, in the back of a cab on the way home from work. Not long after this fear abated, when confronted with the awesome power of logic to the tune of She’s Home Already, she was looking up, at three in the morning, when Hollyoaks was on.

But that’s not relevant. What’s relevant is that my sister phoned me and some of her friends during mass (only one of us answered, the scamp) to get numbers for Izzard, 24/12/03, London. We say Yes! Yes for the love of Christ! And there’s four of us now, all wanting in on the fantastic Izzard, 24/12/03, London joy.

We don’t get in on the fantastic Izzard, 24/12/03, London joy, it having already filled up with other, more on-the-ball sycophants. They are wrong, horrible and wrong people, who I will happily stand outside the venue and kneecap until someone comes and takes me away.

But whatever, because there are tickets in somewhere very far north, but we don’t know anyone there, and later there aren’t tickets there but there are in Birmingham and Sheffield. Quick mental calculations eventually reveal that we have People in Birmingham, or near Birmingham, or may have won Scrabble with Birmingham. By now it doesn’t matter, because we have tickets for Birmingham, the day before my birthday.

I am a happy little pixie now, although the above has nothing to do with what I wanted to tell you about. The people of our church are lucky I was distracted with the excitement and the Oh! Oh! Can we do that day? that place? that time? that I didn’t have time to whip their asses. Because oh, how whipping was wanted.

See, that don’t like Izzard. Why not, I hear you cry, hands to cheek, shock to O-shaped mouth. My dears, I know. But still they do not like him. We ask them why. Funny man, we say. Funny man who makes us laugh (and you laugh too, mother. Don’t even try moving to that side). I don’t like Julian Clarey, either, we are told, and little pennies start to fall, and them comes Or that man who’s on Channel 4 every nite and then it’s just What the fuck? Are you real people?

Or it should have. These were women who were wearing trousers, the sick cross dressing pervert freaks! How dare they suddenly attempt to deny fashion freedom to some people and not others?? These are men who are Sick, and Vulgar I am reliably informed by a woman with peroxide blonde
Cooper Temple Clause hair. These are the kindred spirits of that stupid woman on the radio last week who, a member of the Synod as totally motherfucking slapped down by the Bible bitching on gay men saying The Bible is up for interpretation (but you see that Koran over there? Should be fucking flexible like faith rubber, that should... ).

I have no idea why I kept my mouth shut and didn’t say anything, why being called sick and vulgar and disgusting, from such blatant homophobes, who capped it all with their lazy, half-arsed conservative pseudo-feminism, why I didn’t stand up for myself and my make-up bag and my Justin Timberlake poster in the face of these Juile Birchill avatars in Catholic drag.

Fuck, I’m angry with myself now.

_chris! // 13:39


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