onionbagblog
Enemy Within
Well lookey lookey here... A campaign to highlight how worthless and crap the NME has become. Five years ago I may have heartedly agreed, but with the onset of old age and Soulseek supplying me with enough substance rather than style (and all for FREE as well) - I just don't give a toss to be honest.
'Compromised by greed and cynicism...'
Well I never! Big business publishing empire in Let's Make More Money Shocker! They're selling you out kids, just like they were on the back of punk, rave, madchester and the current barrel scraping 'nu rock revolution' wank.
By definition, the NEW Musical Express is always going to reflect the market and the new musical market is shit right now; imprints from major labels masquerading as indies, rush-releasing half arsed, half finished albums, running shit scared of online leaks and desperately trying to squeeze the last dregs out of the corporate dollar of a music retail business model has eaten itself with greed.
Who the fuck actually walks into HMV and forks out fifteen quid for a CD anyway? People that probably buy soup in cartons rather than tins. You need to download, darling, or wonder at the WOWness of CD WOW; failing that then go have a word with that nice Mr CD on Berwick Street or if you are an oik out in the sticks then there's always shitty supermarkets for fucks sake.
The current 'scene' of a dead horse that the NME is trying to flog is no different to the uninspiring treadmill of turd that I was foolish to climb aboard on ten or so years ago. Retard rock knobbers ejaculating all over the tombstone of Lennon and his lumpen rich white rock star back catalogue. And with ridiculous haircuts as well. That's just the old fart in me dribbling more drool of course.
Having just uploaded 500 albums to my iPod (go on: 'You Useless Tosser!'), I'm pretty confident that if I was to repeat the whole process in five years time then I very much doubt that my choice of tracks would change. Unless of course Billy Bragg enters a period of artistic hyper-activity, a vault of long lost Clash albums are found and Diesel Park West get together for that difficult tenth album.
The very reason why the NME is full of so much twaddle is because the tossers who lurk between the adverts for ringtones are twaddle as well. Angling Weekly can be a right rip roaring read, but only during the fishing season. Content is king, blah blah blah. This very blog was born with the intention of banging on about music, but I soon realised that non league football and a fascination for crap pics of the capital is oddly more exciting than some knobber New York junkies who can just about hold down a couple of chords.
Meanwhile...
Riots Break Out After Pete Doherty No-Show
Big fucking deal, buddy. I was all set for firebombing Sainsbury's next door to Dulwich after the 3-2 home defeat to Whyteleafe midweek. There was about as much interest in that story from a sane readership as well.
'The NME was better in my day' is the usual pub bore rallying cry just before he puts another dime in the jukebox, baby, and selects some Smashing Pumpkins shite. Of course it was you knobber! That's the whole fucking point! Aside from making cash from chaos for IPC Media, the NME exists to remind every generation that they are YOUNG and different to their dad. It's just a bit of throwaway FUN, and if I was an eighteen-year-old fresh faced youth once again heading off to Cirencester University living in Mr Tony's Britain then FUN would be exactly what I was in need of right now. Plus a sympathetic bank manager of course.
The rock-stocracy (clever, don’t you think?) are always going to reflect with rose tinted specs back to an era that never really existed. Does the NME really matter? DID the NME ever really matter? It's just a newspaper for fucks sake (which admittedly is doing very well right now at trying to desert any of its indie heritage and become a lightweight piece of 'style' journalism that appeals only to the staff that write it).
Historically the NME has used a selection of writers who I admit have always looked out for, safe in their knowledge that a byline by Steven Wells must mean 100% fact, tell it like it is etc. In his heyday, Swells was a rock god, flicking up two fingers not only to the artists but also the NME as well. Cocksucking and not criticism seems to be the case now with the little to choose between the adverts and editorial.
But you're confusing me with someone who gives a shit. Move along the magazine rack. Click through to the next site (or blog). Write your bloody own.
'I use the NME...'
Not anymore Johnny boy...
*obvious parallels with My Radio Don't Rock over HERE*
| Friday 1 October, 2004 |
Well lookey lookey here... A campaign to highlight how worthless and crap the NME has become. Five years ago I may have heartedly agreed, but with the onset of old age and Soulseek supplying me with enough substance rather than style (and all for FREE as well) - I just don't give a toss to be honest.
'Compromised by greed and cynicism...'
Well I never! Big business publishing empire in Let's Make More Money Shocker! They're selling you out kids, just like they were on the back of punk, rave, madchester and the current barrel scraping 'nu rock revolution' wank.
 Angling Weekly can be a right rip roaring read |
Who the fuck actually walks into HMV and forks out fifteen quid for a CD anyway? People that probably buy soup in cartons rather than tins. You need to download, darling, or wonder at the WOWness of CD WOW; failing that then go have a word with that nice Mr CD on Berwick Street or if you are an oik out in the sticks then there's always shitty supermarkets for fucks sake.
The current 'scene' of a dead horse that the NME is trying to flog is no different to the uninspiring treadmill of turd that I was foolish to climb aboard on ten or so years ago. Retard rock knobbers ejaculating all over the tombstone of Lennon and his lumpen rich white rock star back catalogue. And with ridiculous haircuts as well. That's just the old fart in me dribbling more drool of course.
Having just uploaded 500 albums to my iPod (go on: 'You Useless Tosser!'), I'm pretty confident that if I was to repeat the whole process in five years time then I very much doubt that my choice of tracks would change. Unless of course Billy Bragg enters a period of artistic hyper-activity, a vault of long lost Clash albums are found and Diesel Park West get together for that difficult tenth album.
The very reason why the NME is full of so much twaddle is because the tossers who lurk between the adverts for ringtones are twaddle as well. Angling Weekly can be a right rip roaring read, but only during the fishing season. Content is king, blah blah blah. This very blog was born with the intention of banging on about music, but I soon realised that non league football and a fascination for crap pics of the capital is oddly more exciting than some knobber New York junkies who can just about hold down a couple of chords.
Meanwhile...
Riots Break Out After Pete Doherty No-Show
Big fucking deal, buddy. I was all set for firebombing Sainsbury's next door to Dulwich after the 3-2 home defeat to Whyteleafe midweek. There was about as much interest in that story from a sane readership as well.
'The NME was better in my day' is the usual pub bore rallying cry just before he puts another dime in the jukebox, baby, and selects some Smashing Pumpkins shite. Of course it was you knobber! That's the whole fucking point! Aside from making cash from chaos for IPC Media, the NME exists to remind every generation that they are YOUNG and different to their dad. It's just a bit of throwaway FUN, and if I was an eighteen-year-old fresh faced youth once again heading off to Cirencester University living in Mr Tony's Britain then FUN would be exactly what I was in need of right now. Plus a sympathetic bank manager of course.
The rock-stocracy (clever, don’t you think?) are always going to reflect with rose tinted specs back to an era that never really existed. Does the NME really matter? DID the NME ever really matter? It's just a newspaper for fucks sake (which admittedly is doing very well right now at trying to desert any of its indie heritage and become a lightweight piece of 'style' journalism that appeals only to the staff that write it).
Historically the NME has used a selection of writers who I admit have always looked out for, safe in their knowledge that a byline by Steven Wells must mean 100% fact, tell it like it is etc. In his heyday, Swells was a rock god, flicking up two fingers not only to the artists but also the NME as well. Cocksucking and not criticism seems to be the case now with the little to choose between the adverts and editorial.
But you're confusing me with someone who gives a shit. Move along the magazine rack. Click through to the next site (or blog). Write your bloody own.
'I use the NME...'
Not anymore Johnny boy...
*obvious parallels with My Radio Don't Rock over HERE*
| #permalink |
Crap Match Report
Dulwich Hamlet 2 Whyteleafe 3, 28/09/04
I missed the first goal (Kevin Cooper after 53 seconds apparently) having been reduced to the trots and a long sit down, the turd treatment coming after hearing Mr Tony's conference speech on C4 News. And relax...
With our Beloved Leader (Mr Tony, not Martin Eede) facing protests earlier in the day, I arrived at Champion Hill with my own act of defiance ready to spring into action; Whyteleafe were awarded a penalty just as my Marin was being wheeled into the ground. Like all good box-to-box midfielders, I timed my run to perfection, walking behind the goal wearing my spoddy luminous cycling top with the aim of distracting the 'Leafe spot kicker. A lone cyclist looking like a twat doesn't exactly have the same impact as 5,000 CUNTryside Alliance members, although a twat is a twat to be honest. Mr Tony made it to the end of his speech and Dulwich were soon drawing 1-1.
Pete Garland was playing his best game for Dulwich since his return, combining his skill with his new found fitness levels. A looping long range header from Kevin Cooper after only eight minutes gave Dulwich the lead again and Whyteleafe's run of four consecutive away victories as Champion Hill looked to be coming to an end.
Speaking of 'coming to an end,' has there ever been a more camp lino down at Dulwich? You couldn't get more camp if you bought a two man tent from Argos, pitched it up on the touchline and invited the Pet Shop Boys to perform in a pink 'n blue top.
Just over half an hour gone and 'Leafe were back level with Kevin Lock scoring a close range header after a scramble in the Dulwich box. The remainder of the first half was about as inspiring as the drizzle that rained down over East Dulwich. The only moment of note was Coach Engin Salih booting a ball out of the ground when it should have been a replacement for... a ball having just been booted out of the ground. It really was that dull.
Much of the same for the second half and so it was left to the now familiar routine of seeing Sebastian Schoburg stretch his long legs as a late second half sub. The Whytleafe winner came after seventy minutes with Kevin Lock scoring his second with a perfect chip over Dulwich 'keeer Paul Seuke.
The evening started with a session in the dumper and strangely ended that way as well. Not quite 'we’re shit and we know we are' but this was a pebble dash of a performance.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
crap match report compendium
hamletweb
| Thursday 30 September, 2004 |
Dulwich Hamlet 2 Whyteleafe 3, 28/09/04
I missed the first goal (Kevin Cooper after 53 seconds apparently) having been reduced to the trots and a long sit down, the turd treatment coming after hearing Mr Tony's conference speech on C4 News. And relax...
With our Beloved Leader (Mr Tony, not Martin Eede) facing protests earlier in the day, I arrived at Champion Hill with my own act of defiance ready to spring into action; Whyteleafe were awarded a penalty just as my Marin was being wheeled into the ground. Like all good box-to-box midfielders, I timed my run to perfection, walking behind the goal wearing my spoddy luminous cycling top with the aim of distracting the 'Leafe spot kicker. A lone cyclist looking like a twat doesn't exactly have the same impact as 5,000 CUNTryside Alliance members, although a twat is a twat to be honest. Mr Tony made it to the end of his speech and Dulwich were soon drawing 1-1.
A twat is a twat |
Speaking of 'coming to an end,' has there ever been a more camp lino down at Dulwich? You couldn't get more camp if you bought a two man tent from Argos, pitched it up on the touchline and invited the Pet Shop Boys to perform in a pink 'n blue top.
Just over half an hour gone and 'Leafe were back level with Kevin Lock scoring a close range header after a scramble in the Dulwich box. The remainder of the first half was about as inspiring as the drizzle that rained down over East Dulwich. The only moment of note was Coach Engin Salih booting a ball out of the ground when it should have been a replacement for... a ball having just been booted out of the ground. It really was that dull.
Much of the same for the second half and so it was left to the now familiar routine of seeing Sebastian Schoburg stretch his long legs as a late second half sub. The Whytleafe winner came after seventy minutes with Kevin Lock scoring his second with a perfect chip over Dulwich 'keeer Paul Seuke.
The evening started with a session in the dumper and strangely ended that way as well. Not quite 'we’re shit and we know we are' but this was a pebble dash of a performance.
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Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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crap match report compendium
hamletweb
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Go West
With the Westway to the World roaring overhead, I've always wondered why you would need to leave West London with Little Venice located within. Something to do with the locals maybe?
The Grand Union Canal must have been the hub of Paddington when it was built in 1801. Look for it on an A-Z over two hundred years later and all you see is a sorry little strip of water with the great orange blob of the Westway obliterating it on the map. Which sums up quite well what the situation is like on the ground; towering pillows of concrete cutting out the daylight as London's twenty first century traffic races out of the capital and heads out West.
All of which means that underneath the arches of one of London's busiest and most brutal transport routes is perhaps the most peaceful part of Paddington. Only dead fish swim with the sea and all that. Give me the Georgian pace of life over London's fast and loose thrust of today.
The Grand Union was the industrial infrastructure of West London for over a century, only put out of business in 1900 with the railway next door at Paddington arriving in town. When the canals were nationalised in 1948, the Grand Union remained the last waterway to handle commercial traffic. Forward to the 1950's and the Westway was the final pulling of the plug, reducing this corner of London to the current Little Venice tourist trap. Except few tourists want to venture anywhere near an overhead concrete gyratory system, leaving Little Venice one of London's genuine lost little treasures.
The Paddington loop of the Grand Union is essentially a triangular transport interchange; The Rembrandt Gardens fill one side, routes off to Camden in the north and west out towards Notting Hill complete the junction. Lined along the route are a combination of living properties (moorings withstanding), tourists trips and converted canal boats that are now cafes.
Past the sanitised tourist stretch is the sanitised shit house. I admit to being slightly concerned cycling over a pipe pumping gallons of pooh from sea to shore with a slight leak spraying random green apple splat. The experience was only made tolerable seeing the football top worn by Captain Shit Shoveller – Liverpool away, which is quite apt when you think about it. The 1989 pigeon shit away design would have been asking just too much.
My only experience of messing about on the water was one long week of an alcoholic haze back in the day when I had the time, money and physical capability to be able to indulge in a week long alcoholic haze. Not much is remembered apart from falling asleep in the sun on the top of the boat, and then being woken up by the cheer of a crowd of Suits in a nearby Oxfordshire waterway pub as we passed by. A Danger - Work in Progress road sign had been bastardised by my crewmen with the O and R in Work being replaced with an A and an N.
Two hours of cycling westwards towards Westbourne Park and a hat trick of West London wonders hit me. A rare occurrence, I know, so I savoured the moment. As if passing right next to the Westbourne Park bus garage with a row of Routemaster 23's wasn't enough, and then if the thrill of seeing the yoof doing their thing on the skatebaoard park almost made up for being splattered in shit... round the corner and there she was: The Trellick Tower!
Even with an overcast September morning failing to light up the landscape, the combination of the Trellick, the Grand Union and Captain Shit Shoveller and his leaking pipe leaving him in the... shit, all made up for the West London locals.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Wednesday 29 September, 2004 |
With the Westway to the World roaring overhead, I've always wondered why you would need to leave West London with Little Venice located within. Something to do with the locals maybe?
The Grand Union Canal must have been the hub of Paddington when it was built in 1801. Look for it on an A-Z over two hundred years later and all you see is a sorry little strip of water with the great orange blob of the Westway obliterating it on the map. Which sums up quite well what the situation is like on the ground; towering pillows of concrete cutting out the daylight as London's twenty first century traffic races out of the capital and heads out West.
Danger: Wank in Progress |
The Grand Union was the industrial infrastructure of West London for over a century, only put out of business in 1900 with the railway next door at Paddington arriving in town. When the canals were nationalised in 1948, the Grand Union remained the last waterway to handle commercial traffic. Forward to the 1950's and the Westway was the final pulling of the plug, reducing this corner of London to the current Little Venice tourist trap. Except few tourists want to venture anywhere near an overhead concrete gyratory system, leaving Little Venice one of London's genuine lost little treasures.
The Paddington loop of the Grand Union is essentially a triangular transport interchange; The Rembrandt Gardens fill one side, routes off to Camden in the north and west out towards Notting Hill complete the junction. Lined along the route are a combination of living properties (moorings withstanding), tourists trips and converted canal boats that are now cafes.
Past the sanitised tourist stretch is the sanitised shit house. I admit to being slightly concerned cycling over a pipe pumping gallons of pooh from sea to shore with a slight leak spraying random green apple splat. The experience was only made tolerable seeing the football top worn by Captain Shit Shoveller – Liverpool away, which is quite apt when you think about it. The 1989 pigeon shit away design would have been asking just too much.
My only experience of messing about on the water was one long week of an alcoholic haze back in the day when I had the time, money and physical capability to be able to indulge in a week long alcoholic haze. Not much is remembered apart from falling asleep in the sun on the top of the boat, and then being woken up by the cheer of a crowd of Suits in a nearby Oxfordshire waterway pub as we passed by. A Danger - Work in Progress road sign had been bastardised by my crewmen with the O and R in Work being replaced with an A and an N.
Two hours of cycling westwards towards Westbourne Park and a hat trick of West London wonders hit me. A rare occurrence, I know, so I savoured the moment. As if passing right next to the Westbourne Park bus garage with a row of Routemaster 23's wasn't enough, and then if the thrill of seeing the yoof doing their thing on the skatebaoard park almost made up for being splattered in shit... round the corner and there she was: The Trellick Tower!
Even with an overcast September morning failing to light up the landscape, the combination of the Trellick, the Grand Union and Captain Shit Shoveller and his leaking pipe leaving him in the... shit, all made up for the West London locals.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Messenger in a Bottleneck*
After a hard week of burning rubber around South London, the 'wheel that turns is the wheel that earns' winds down by... going hell for leather at Herne Hill Velodrome. The South London Olympic site hosted the Speed, Skill & Sausages event on Sunday, otherwise known as the courier community cycle fest.
The Sausages refers to the post-race barbecue of course, and nothing at all to do with the tightness of the lycra.
Never have so many cut off combat shorts been seen in the same place since Ned's Atomic Dustbin (worst fucking webshite - EVER) were last on tour. Of course it goes without saying that the day job requires responsible citizens who obey the Highway Code and stay within the speed limit. This all changes on the track with lap speeds touching just over thirty seconds.
Any seasoned cyclist will tell you that fuckspud pedestrians who ramble onto the road are as much a pain in their bony cycle seat arse as cocky cabbies. Even my short journey from Sunny Stockwell to Herne Hill led to a lesson for some free wandering fucker into the power of the free wheeling bike. Green light equals GO, and not the chance to test the strength of a metallic Marin frame over human bone. I win every time.
No surprises then to see a stray knobber trackside at Herne Hill, seconds before a fixed wheel bike with no brakes was attempting to break the track speed record. His excuse? Collecting corner flags from the football pitch situated in the centre of the circuit. Makes a change I suppose from the 'but you're not a car' bollocks that I usually get.
The courier community is currently involved in an industrial dispute and this weekend off was a well timed occasion to form stronger bonds. Over one hundred and fifty couriers employed by London Messenger company SMS are on strike after a new management regime imposed new weekend working conditions. The rate for paid drops has also remained the same over a six year period.
Over 25,000 daily drops were made by the riders before the dispute. Four rider reps were sacked outright by the Waterloo based company and the industrial action has been registered with the TUC, for what it's worth (probably not very much).
The fear is that being a low paid, un-regulated labour market, finding scab staff, legal or otherwise, will not be difficult. The irony in employing cheap, foreign labour is that SMS has recently won the contract to deliver passports on behalf of the Home Office.
The job description may not include death, but for an industry which involves such high risk, this is no way to treat your workforce. A date has been set for late November for the trial of a HGV driver who has been charged with driving without due care and attention in an incident which killed London messenger Sebastian Lukomski.
The punishment, if found guilty, is disqualification from driving for a 'short period of time,' and the possibility of having to re-sit the driving test.
The couriers testing the century old Herne Hill circuit on Sunday weren't motivated by a barley above the minimum wage pay packet; they weren't intimidated by a London transport infrastructure that squeezes cyclists out into the periphery where they are most vulnerable. Cycling is their life and they pedal for pleasure. Admittedly there is pain in that pleasure but it sure beats being a Johnny at the bus stop.
*yes I know, weak...
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
london messengers
speed skill & sausages
| Monday 27 September, 2004 |
After a hard week of burning rubber around South London, the 'wheel that turns is the wheel that earns' winds down by... going hell for leather at Herne Hill Velodrome. The South London Olympic site hosted the Speed, Skill & Sausages event on Sunday, otherwise known as the courier community cycle fest.
The Sausages refers to the post-race barbecue of course, and nothing at all to do with the tightness of the lycra.
Never have so many cut off combat shorts been seen in the same place since Ned's Atomic Dustbin (worst fucking webshite - EVER) were last on tour. Of course it goes without saying that the day job requires responsible citizens who obey the Highway Code and stay within the speed limit. This all changes on the track with lap speeds touching just over thirty seconds.
Pedestrians who ramble are a pain in the arse |
No surprises then to see a stray knobber trackside at Herne Hill, seconds before a fixed wheel bike with no brakes was attempting to break the track speed record. His excuse? Collecting corner flags from the football pitch situated in the centre of the circuit. Makes a change I suppose from the 'but you're not a car' bollocks that I usually get.
The courier community is currently involved in an industrial dispute and this weekend off was a well timed occasion to form stronger bonds. Over one hundred and fifty couriers employed by London Messenger company SMS are on strike after a new management regime imposed new weekend working conditions. The rate for paid drops has also remained the same over a six year period.
Over 25,000 daily drops were made by the riders before the dispute. Four rider reps were sacked outright by the Waterloo based company and the industrial action has been registered with the TUC, for what it's worth (probably not very much).
The fear is that being a low paid, un-regulated labour market, finding scab staff, legal or otherwise, will not be difficult. The irony in employing cheap, foreign labour is that SMS has recently won the contract to deliver passports on behalf of the Home Office.
The job description may not include death, but for an industry which involves such high risk, this is no way to treat your workforce. A date has been set for late November for the trial of a HGV driver who has been charged with driving without due care and attention in an incident which killed London messenger Sebastian Lukomski.
The punishment, if found guilty, is disqualification from driving for a 'short period of time,' and the possibility of having to re-sit the driving test.
The couriers testing the century old Herne Hill circuit on Sunday weren't motivated by a barley above the minimum wage pay packet; they weren't intimidated by a London transport infrastructure that squeezes cyclists out into the periphery where they are most vulnerable. Cycling is their life and they pedal for pleasure. Admittedly there is pain in that pleasure but it sure beats being a Johnny at the bus stop.
*yes I know, weak...
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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london messengers
speed skill & sausages
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