BLITHERINGS 003: CATS EYES
Windscreen wipers flailing inches from my face, struggling to concentrate on the road ahead, the orange light of the fuel-gauge flashed up on the dashboard in front of me. Moving to the inside lane and indicating to pull over for the petrol station, I forgot about my usual game of ‘how-low-can-we-go’. Subconsciously noting the make and model of the car behind, I exited onto the slip road.
Stepping out of the van, a well-fed 40-something laughed as he sat within the cabin of the HGV beside me - yet again I’d parked with the fuel cap on the wrong side. Holding the hose in one hand and the pump wedged upside down in the other, I watched as the decimals steadily rose on the back-lit screen. Wind swept out across the florescent floodlit forecourt. The rain seemed heavier from beneath the canopy of the garage.
Half an hour later, hurtling down an A-road on a breezy Wednesday evening, my nemesis for the day was in sight. Having made the quick fuel stop, I had caught up with the cunt that had spent a previous 15 minutes tailing me so closely, that, through my mirror, I could count the individual black heads on his fat, rubbish, nose.
He was driving a silver Vauxhall Astra. The makings of a British summer holiday were bouncing haphazardly around his boot; a sea of towels, windbreaks and lilos. ‘Who blows up their lilo before leaving home?’ I asked myself, searching for more reasons to detest this traveller, determined to ruin his vacation before he’d even arrived.
Wrestling with the CD player, I shoved in an old jungle mix to suit the mood. Hi-hats and snares blazing away, my eyes returned to the road and suddenly I began to spit with fury - ‘WHERE HAD HE GONE?!’
Dusk gradually spread across the skies and with my nemesis nowhere to be seen, I finally relaxed into driving. My foot eased off the gas and rear wheels dimly kicked up an oily mist as I sped off across the rolling moorland. The silhouette of distance trees masked the faint outline of a truck in the horizon. The roads had quietened and my temper settled. This is my favourite time to drive.
Bored of Ray Keith and Nicky Blackmarket, I fumbled through the scratched CD's that lined the passenger seat to find something more suitable. Given that Mary Anne Hobbs is no longer broadcasting (you’ll be missed), I suddenly remembered the playlist I’d knocked up on my iPod the day before. A selection of tracks that I’d been itching to scan through.
First up, NDF - Since We Last Met on DFA. As cats-eyes streaked past, this synthetic dream lasting almost a quarter of an hour captured the moment. Following that Tiga’s remix of The XX - Shelter, had a simple yet additive nature. With ‘XX’ buzz overflowing, it’s comforting to hear a remix that hasn’t decided to shit all over their stripped back nature. Coupling these alongside Matthew and Toby by Rocketnumbernine [Text Records] and Kochari - The Truth [forthcoming on Fentplates], a remote and cut-back dub track with immaculate timing, I pushed myself deeper into my seat.
Exile - So We Can Move (Teebs remix) reinforced the broken sounds my ears yearned for that evening. Feeling a little too relaxed for driving, Supra1 – Ghoster [Trouble and Bass] and Nastynasty – Bleeding [Frite Nite] brought me back on the level with some fantastic highs and well thought out vocals.
It was time for a coffee. Koreless – 4D had caused the headlights in front of me to weave across the road ahead. I searched, bleary eyed, for a service station that was still open.
Pulling into the deserted Texaco, my favourite track of the evening had just come to an end. Games – Everything Is Working [Hippos in Tanks] won’t break boundaries or cause much of a stir, but more likely float on past, quietly brilliant.
I opened the shop door for the lone, oddly familiar customer. He politely thanked me and strolled out into the darkness. Squinting, I saw the Vauxhall he was headed toward, lilos included. In my passive state I was helpless, trapped between profound caffeine dependence and an overbearing grudge.
The indicators flickered and the doors unlocked. Leaving the car door ajar, he turned his engine over. The radio snarled back into life and the unmistakable beat of the Sepalcure xlr8r podcast I had been playing hours before echoed across the concrete. My shoulders dropped. Instantly my hostility evaporated. Turning my back to the now beloved stranger I walked into the shop, slid a paper cup from its stack and pushed the flashing button marked ‘press for hot water’…
Words: by a scrivener
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DEAR DRIVERS WHO DON'T SAY THANK YOU
You are up there with Kerry Katona, BBC Three and X Factor in terms of things that have been put on this beautiful planet of ours just to ruin our day. As a wiser man than myself once said, manners cost you nothing and lack of manners will cost you your thumbs… which you failed to use to thank me with – well he didn’t say the last bit but you get the idea.
To attempt to replicate the fury you cause in others, I would like you to imagine this scenario. You are out doing your weekly shop (though you probably have people to do this for you on account of how important you are and your time being so precious, I mean who else is going to buy GQ or admire themselves in each shop window they pass?). Your arms are laden down with heavy bags of groceries and household goods, and you are running late for your partner’s birthday. You are about to leave the shop when you notice a fellow human being, man or woman, wearing a smart suit and sunglasses, performing the difficult task of saying ‘Yah’ into their mobile, hoping to head into the store through the same door you would like to exit out of. You stop and, out of the kindness of your heart and to save a collision, you push the heavy supermarket door open, arms straining under the weight of your shopping and conscious that this is adding to the amount of minutes you will be late for your true loves annual celebration, and hold it there for the suit to saunter past.
What a hero you are - right! Surely this person will recognise how chivalrous you have been and turn round to thank you before falling madly in love with you, right? WRONG! What actually happens is that this embodiment of tailored arrogance sneers at you, spits in your face, rips the shopping from your hands and then proceeds to kick it all over the floor whilst yelling about how much better they are than you, as your eggs and blueberries fly in all directions.
You, you ungrateful twat, are the shopping kicker. Every time you refuse to acknowledge some one else’s effort to get out of your way, you are volleying their hobnobs into next week! So either you start saying thank you, or we take your thumbs, the choice is yours.
Words: Ollie Cullen
You are up there with Kerry Katona, BBC Three and X Factor in terms of things that have been put on this beautiful planet of ours just to ruin our day. As a wiser man than myself once said, manners cost you nothing and lack of manners will cost you your thumbs… which you failed to use to thank me with – well he didn’t say the last bit but you get the idea.
To attempt to replicate the fury you cause in others, I would like you to imagine this scenario. You are out doing your weekly shop (though you probably have people to do this for you on account of how important you are and your time being so precious, I mean who else is going to buy GQ or admire themselves in each shop window they pass?). Your arms are laden down with heavy bags of groceries and household goods, and you are running late for your partner’s birthday. You are about to leave the shop when you notice a fellow human being, man or woman, wearing a smart suit and sunglasses, performing the difficult task of saying ‘Yah’ into their mobile, hoping to head into the store through the same door you would like to exit out of. You stop and, out of the kindness of your heart and to save a collision, you push the heavy supermarket door open, arms straining under the weight of your shopping and conscious that this is adding to the amount of minutes you will be late for your true loves annual celebration, and hold it there for the suit to saunter past.
What a hero you are - right! Surely this person will recognise how chivalrous you have been and turn round to thank you before falling madly in love with you, right? WRONG! What actually happens is that this embodiment of tailored arrogance sneers at you, spits in your face, rips the shopping from your hands and then proceeds to kick it all over the floor whilst yelling about how much better they are than you, as your eggs and blueberries fly in all directions.
You, you ungrateful twat, are the shopping kicker. Every time you refuse to acknowledge some one else’s effort to get out of your way, you are volleying their hobnobs into next week! So either you start saying thank you, or we take your thumbs, the choice is yours.
Words: Ollie Cullen
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SHREDDED WHEAT RUINED MY SEX LIFE
Dear…Shredded Wheat,
You are the worst of all cereals, and I do not refer to your tasty, bite size incarnation, but you and your lumbering hay like bails of wheaty nonsense.
My reason for this statement is this; you’re the worst thing you could ever eat in front of someone you fancy, have just had sex with, or are vaguely attracted to, with the possible exception of another human being…or the person in question’s pet. Like your cousin the ping pong ball, you have the ability to make a perfectly able human being look like they have the mental capacity of a recently defrosted neanderthal with the coordination of a recently anesthetised drunk, simply by daring to use you for what you were intended, which in your case is nourishment.
First you must spend about three minutes trying to cut through your wheaty biscuit thing. It is never as simple as Ian Botham makes it look on your disgracefully inaccurate adverts and only someone well versed in the art of axe murdering would manage it first time. You then spend the next couple of minutes chasing the sliced off wheat round the bowl, before you finally manage to shovel a load into your mouth, which predictably goes in at all angles and you end up with bits of wheat hanging out of your mouth like a lazy donkey. If that wasn’t enough, the dribbling of milk through the shredded biscuit sieve, now protruding from ones gob, goes back into the bowl which now just looks like a white puddle with hay in it. That is the final straw. And mouthing the words ‘I love you’ at your recent bed partner, whilst resembling a starving inbred who has never used a spoon before, does not make up for the damage you have already done.
So for all of the above, Shredded Wheat, I think I speak for a nation when I say, “Fuck you, you owe us sex!”
Yours Sincerely
Ollie Cullen
Dear…Shredded Wheat,
You are the worst of all cereals, and I do not refer to your tasty, bite size incarnation, but you and your lumbering hay like bails of wheaty nonsense.
My reason for this statement is this; you’re the worst thing you could ever eat in front of someone you fancy, have just had sex with, or are vaguely attracted to, with the possible exception of another human being…or the person in question’s pet. Like your cousin the ping pong ball, you have the ability to make a perfectly able human being look like they have the mental capacity of a recently defrosted neanderthal with the coordination of a recently anesthetised drunk, simply by daring to use you for what you were intended, which in your case is nourishment.
First you must spend about three minutes trying to cut through your wheaty biscuit thing. It is never as simple as Ian Botham makes it look on your disgracefully inaccurate adverts and only someone well versed in the art of axe murdering would manage it first time. You then spend the next couple of minutes chasing the sliced off wheat round the bowl, before you finally manage to shovel a load into your mouth, which predictably goes in at all angles and you end up with bits of wheat hanging out of your mouth like a lazy donkey. If that wasn’t enough, the dribbling of milk through the shredded biscuit sieve, now protruding from ones gob, goes back into the bowl which now just looks like a white puddle with hay in it. That is the final straw. And mouthing the words ‘I love you’ at your recent bed partner, whilst resembling a starving inbred who has never used a spoon before, does not make up for the damage you have already done.
So for all of the above, Shredded Wheat, I think I speak for a nation when I say, “Fuck you, you owe us sex!”
Yours Sincerely
Ollie Cullen
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BLITHERINGS 002: TRUDGING
A few nights ago, at roughly ten-o-clock, I woke on the sofa of a darkened living-room. The screen in front of me spewed out the incessant title menu from the Jurassic Park 3 DVD I'd shoved in earlier.
My ears were overwhelmed by some militant dubstep that the internet had decided to pipe through my headphones. I had apparently been multitasking. Disgusted, I shook myself free from the audio-visual overload, meandered into the kitchen and peered lethargically into the vat of apple and blackberry crumble I'd prepared the night before. The king of desserts.
With the housemates all away, I was left to my own devices. After debating whether I should either watch mediocre films, phone someone who might be keen on wandering to a bar, or just head adolescently to Spankwire (the true king of internet porn sites), I had concluded that eating an excessive amount of pudding and trawling through the internet for new tunes and sounds was arguably the best use of my time.
Pouring the double cream onto my third helping, I returned to the sofa. Shuffling the laptop and headphones back into position, I ignored the TV and began typing. Squinting down at the keyboard, that loathsome sense of ‘what the hell am I doing?’ poured through my veins....
I looked up...a T-Rex looked back. My head filled with questions that I wasn’t willing to answer. How many hours of my life have I spent doing this? Why do I constantly need to listen to new music? Do I actually need this much cream?
Suddenly, my ears pricked, and my gaze quickly shifted to the portable screen. My efforts rewarded, I had stumbled across another gem to add to the ever growing list. Discarding the drenched dessert and broken dreams, I grabbed pen and paper and frantically etched the details of this latest discovery across a month old Saturday-Guardian.
Later on that week I confessed the events of my evening alone in the Prince of Wales. After addressing me with a few disparaging nicknames and replenishing his drink, my friend paused, as if to decide what to say, frowned, and then asked which tune had caught my attention.
I had found Linstigator and subsequently Street Light Chronicle by Disclosure. Briefly researching the duo and discovering that these London brothers are only 15 and 18 years old, the maturity of the tracks they’ve so far produced is nothing short of impressive. Further proof that the UK music scene is still churning out talent.
Whilst explaining my search in the pub, it became apparent that when it comes to trudging, I'm not alone. Website after website and hour after hour of soulless bleeps and whirrs just to find four or five minutes of spine-tingling perfection. Was it all worth it? The resulting discussion, including which websites, podcasts and broadcasts were used to waste evenings, and which tracks have been found and how, lasted until closing time.
One of my favoured trudging techniques involves mindlessly clicking links from one good tune until I find the next. Lonely Galaxy’s Have a Heart, featured on their debut EP this year is one such track. As is the Jon Hopkins remix of Wild Beasts - Two Dancers. An artist adored by Four Tet and someone who repeatedly churns out fantastic remixes. This is potentially his best.
A simpler technique is to have something rammed into your lugholes from every available source. On the off-chance you haven’t heard, Mount Kimbie have recently released their debut LP Crooks and Lovers. I’ll let you decide which track is your favourite. They’re all worthy.
Strangely, Guido’s debut album Anidea, released in May on Punch Drunk seemed to slip through the net, this is definitely worth a listen. As is Temple Keys by Girl Unit which can be found on his soundcloud now.
Soundcloud has proven to be a massive perk in the world of trudging. More and more artists appear to be heading towards it and musical discoveries are made all the easier. Marek Hemmann’s track Junoko is one personal ‘cloud highlight.
As we were gracefully asked to leave the pub and began the hard slog homeward, I stuck in my headphones. Within ten minutes I’d concluded that there was no shame in my hours of searching, after-all my ears were enjoying the rewards. By the time I’d managed to get the key through the door, I had only one thought on my mind.
Crumble anyone?
Words: by a scrivener
- - - - - - - - -
A few nights ago, at roughly ten-o-clock, I woke on the sofa of a darkened living-room. The screen in front of me spewed out the incessant title menu from the Jurassic Park 3 DVD I'd shoved in earlier.
My ears were overwhelmed by some militant dubstep that the internet had decided to pipe through my headphones. I had apparently been multitasking. Disgusted, I shook myself free from the audio-visual overload, meandered into the kitchen and peered lethargically into the vat of apple and blackberry crumble I'd prepared the night before. The king of desserts.
With the housemates all away, I was left to my own devices. After debating whether I should either watch mediocre films, phone someone who might be keen on wandering to a bar, or just head adolescently to Spankwire (the true king of internet porn sites), I had concluded that eating an excessive amount of pudding and trawling through the internet for new tunes and sounds was arguably the best use of my time.
Pouring the double cream onto my third helping, I returned to the sofa. Shuffling the laptop and headphones back into position, I ignored the TV and began typing. Squinting down at the keyboard, that loathsome sense of ‘what the hell am I doing?’ poured through my veins....
I looked up...a T-Rex looked back. My head filled with questions that I wasn’t willing to answer. How many hours of my life have I spent doing this? Why do I constantly need to listen to new music? Do I actually need this much cream?
Suddenly, my ears pricked, and my gaze quickly shifted to the portable screen. My efforts rewarded, I had stumbled across another gem to add to the ever growing list. Discarding the drenched dessert and broken dreams, I grabbed pen and paper and frantically etched the details of this latest discovery across a month old Saturday-Guardian.
Later on that week I confessed the events of my evening alone in the Prince of Wales. After addressing me with a few disparaging nicknames and replenishing his drink, my friend paused, as if to decide what to say, frowned, and then asked which tune had caught my attention.
I had found Linstigator and subsequently Street Light Chronicle by Disclosure. Briefly researching the duo and discovering that these London brothers are only 15 and 18 years old, the maturity of the tracks they’ve so far produced is nothing short of impressive. Further proof that the UK music scene is still churning out talent.
Whilst explaining my search in the pub, it became apparent that when it comes to trudging, I'm not alone. Website after website and hour after hour of soulless bleeps and whirrs just to find four or five minutes of spine-tingling perfection. Was it all worth it? The resulting discussion, including which websites, podcasts and broadcasts were used to waste evenings, and which tracks have been found and how, lasted until closing time.
One of my favoured trudging techniques involves mindlessly clicking links from one good tune until I find the next. Lonely Galaxy’s Have a Heart, featured on their debut EP this year is one such track. As is the Jon Hopkins remix of Wild Beasts - Two Dancers. An artist adored by Four Tet and someone who repeatedly churns out fantastic remixes. This is potentially his best.
A simpler technique is to have something rammed into your lugholes from every available source. On the off-chance you haven’t heard, Mount Kimbie have recently released their debut LP Crooks and Lovers. I’ll let you decide which track is your favourite. They’re all worthy.
Strangely, Guido’s debut album Anidea, released in May on Punch Drunk seemed to slip through the net, this is definitely worth a listen. As is Temple Keys by Girl Unit which can be found on his soundcloud now.
Soundcloud has proven to be a massive perk in the world of trudging. More and more artists appear to be heading towards it and musical discoveries are made all the easier. Marek Hemmann’s track Junoko is one personal ‘cloud highlight.
As we were gracefully asked to leave the pub and began the hard slog homeward, I stuck in my headphones. Within ten minutes I’d concluded that there was no shame in my hours of searching, after-all my ears were enjoying the rewards. By the time I’d managed to get the key through the door, I had only one thought on my mind.
Crumble anyone?
Words: by a scrivener
- - - - - - - - -
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ANGER: STOP WATERING DOWN FESTIVALS
A quick look on the Crack magazine video blog, while not only heralding many a laugh, showcases a particular video by Adam Buxton that sums up the state of modern festivals.
Aptly titled The Middle Class Festival Song, Buxton tells the story of his mate who goes in his 4x4 to attend brilliantly made-up festivals with names such as Chillax, The Inoffesive Electronica Festival and Pimms In The Park. The chorus talks of him “loading his chill bag with nibbles and wine” and going to the Advert Stage to see Moby.
It’s a fucking bang-on parody of the state of the modern festival. As live music has become and more popular, the number of festivals has dramatically increased and the corporate fuckers have wrapped their fat fingers round many of them. Even Glastonbury, widely considered to be the first and last bastion of cutting-edge festival experience has suffered in recent years, with watered down line-ups (James Blunt anyone), sound and noise curfews (rock’n’roll) and a very middle-aged crowd (no revolution in the air).
Festival clothing, VIP festival packages, stages sponsored by companies, mobile charge points and worst of all the music. So much fucking shit music.
Take the prime culprit - V Festival. My first and main problem is Virgin sponsor it, that’s an appalling start. When making the fatal mistake of going there a number of years back, we were told politely to keep the noise down by security because we’d wake the families. What the fuck? It was like I’d mistakenly walked into a crèche drugged up to my eyeballs and armed with firewood and cider.
And yet again the music!!!! Have a quick look at who played for a full day on one of their stages last year: The Saturdays, Will Young, N-DUBZ, Asher Roth, Tinchy Stryder and Pixie Lott. If I’m not mistaken all the above have at some point sold a huge amount of records to people under the age of 14.
I’m not against people who like watered down, unimaginative, shit music, as long as they don’t inflict it on me. What I’m against is festivals like the V-Festival sucking the life out of the spirit of the festival.
You know…the festival. Contrary to popular belief these days, a festival is not watching 15 or so bands getting pissed and going home to recover. I’m talking about people coming together collectively under the banner of unity, dialogue and performance. Where you can get off your tits without worrying about the police presence. Where you can meet a third generation Goa hippy called Frog, as well as Alan who is a builder from Droitwich, and chat to both for three hours about the relative merits of cheeses. Then getting a massage from a random, going on a stroll for three hours and then watching an experimental folk band from Cirencester blow your collective brain out with their time signatures. Then falling in love with your mates again over some German techno, going for a walk in the woods and then returning to bed convinced you’ve just changed the space time continuum…Alternatively, Snow Patrol are on the Vodafone Stage. What do you think sounds more fun?
Words: Thomas Frost
A quick look on the Crack magazine video blog, while not only heralding many a laugh, showcases a particular video by Adam Buxton that sums up the state of modern festivals.
Aptly titled The Middle Class Festival Song, Buxton tells the story of his mate who goes in his 4x4 to attend brilliantly made-up festivals with names such as Chillax, The Inoffesive Electronica Festival and Pimms In The Park. The chorus talks of him “loading his chill bag with nibbles and wine” and going to the Advert Stage to see Moby.
It’s a fucking bang-on parody of the state of the modern festival. As live music has become and more popular, the number of festivals has dramatically increased and the corporate fuckers have wrapped their fat fingers round many of them. Even Glastonbury, widely considered to be the first and last bastion of cutting-edge festival experience has suffered in recent years, with watered down line-ups (James Blunt anyone), sound and noise curfews (rock’n’roll) and a very middle-aged crowd (no revolution in the air).
Festival clothing, VIP festival packages, stages sponsored by companies, mobile charge points and worst of all the music. So much fucking shit music.
Take the prime culprit - V Festival. My first and main problem is Virgin sponsor it, that’s an appalling start. When making the fatal mistake of going there a number of years back, we were told politely to keep the noise down by security because we’d wake the families. What the fuck? It was like I’d mistakenly walked into a crèche drugged up to my eyeballs and armed with firewood and cider.
And yet again the music!!!! Have a quick look at who played for a full day on one of their stages last year: The Saturdays, Will Young, N-DUBZ, Asher Roth, Tinchy Stryder and Pixie Lott. If I’m not mistaken all the above have at some point sold a huge amount of records to people under the age of 14.
I’m not against people who like watered down, unimaginative, shit music, as long as they don’t inflict it on me. What I’m against is festivals like the V-Festival sucking the life out of the spirit of the festival.
You know…the festival. Contrary to popular belief these days, a festival is not watching 15 or so bands getting pissed and going home to recover. I’m talking about people coming together collectively under the banner of unity, dialogue and performance. Where you can get off your tits without worrying about the police presence. Where you can meet a third generation Goa hippy called Frog, as well as Alan who is a builder from Droitwich, and chat to both for three hours about the relative merits of cheeses. Then getting a massage from a random, going on a stroll for three hours and then watching an experimental folk band from Cirencester blow your collective brain out with their time signatures. Then falling in love with your mates again over some German techno, going for a walk in the woods and then returning to bed convinced you’ve just changed the space time continuum…Alternatively, Snow Patrol are on the Vodafone Stage. What do you think sounds more fun?
Words: Thomas Frost
