Christ I’m tired of these whining snivelling bastards polluting the radio. You might be thinking that Snow Patrol are easy targets, but who gives a fuck, they deserve to be targets. Whenever I hear a Snow Patrol record I just want to die on the spot.

And not in a good way either. I feel like flushing my head down the toilet repeatedly just to feel alive. I feel like smashing as many pint glasses as I can over my head until I’m numb.

Gary Lightbody is from a town in Northern Ireland called Bangor. Now if you aren’t familiar with Northern Ireland, Bangor is a seaside town that actually has no inhabitants at all. It’s like Pripyat, Chernobyl only without any of the radiation or fun.

That’s why Lightbody’s songs are so desolate and shit. He’s upset about having been raised in such a hellhole. But no-one actually cares. Apart from all of those whinging indie kids who just get off on his dire bollocks because they don’t know any better.

Shame on you Lightbody. Retire before you ruin life for us all more than you’ve done so already.

There isn’t really any real trick to having emo hair it seems, other than growing a fringe and neglecting to care for it. Here are some of my current ‘favorite’ emo hairstyles.

Here’s an example of someone who has taken color and the fringe to the extreme. Fuck knows how she navigates around the place, I’m guessing through sonar like a dolphin.

This isn’t you typical emo hairdo, although he does remind me somewhat of Morrissey. It’s far too well kept to be Emo actually. You just can’t wash your hair more than 3 times a year if you want to be taken seriously by the emo crowd.

This is the perfect example of emo hair gone wrong. She looks like she’s graying for fucks sake. Even my granny wouldn’t dig this do (if she was still alive). I suppose this would be cool if you were deliberately trying to portray yourself as world weary and 65.

Christ on a fucking bike! This guy looks like the bastard child of an emu and Malcolm McDowell. Is it just me or is his hair eating him!?! It seems to be alive! Freaky shit!

Here’s another emo haircut that went awry. Again it seems as though the hair is possessed by the spirit of an 18th century conquistador hellbent on invading anything, whether it’s Poland or an innocent girls face.

Fuck since when was Edward Scissorhands emo? Actually now that I think about it he always was. Sure didn’t he live in that castle all in his own for most of his life? And then when he came down to see Ms Ryder he fucked everything up by being seriously clumsy with those hands of his. He was truly creative though, unlike most real emos who are just art school rejects.

Persecuting emo kids is incredible fun for all the family and there are rumors that it’ll be commissioned into an Olympic Sport in time for the 2012 London Olympics. Here are some of my favorite ways to keep emos miserable! Why don’t you give it a try too?

• Remind them continually about the inevitability of their own death. Make up stories about recent deaths in your family. Tell them about how every one of your pets died since childhood.
• If they smell, tell them about it! This will normally be the case since they are forbidden by emo law to actually take showers. It’s a well known fact that Gerald Way hasn’t scrubbed his cock clean since 1986.
• Persecute them at every opportunity…..and I don’t mind round them up into death camps. Instead flick peas at them at dinner, fart in their general direction and exclude them from nights out in the town.
• Create false evidence that proves your emo friend is adopted. Merit will be rewarded if you manage to convince them that their natural parents aren’t interested in knowing them. You might want to mention that they were abandoned on their current guardians doorstep on a wet and windy December night with only a soiled newspaper sheet as cover.
• Ask to read their poetry and scrutinize it excessively. Be sure to place emphasis on grammar and spelling mistakes. And laugh everytime the phrase ‘I want to die’ surfaces, which will naturally make for a lot of laughter.
• When you’re visiting an emo at home, sneak onto his/her computer and alter their Bebo profile to make them look like a Neo Nazi. Their PC-chums will break off all contact leaving Mr/Miss Emo yet more alienated.
• Whilst you are on their computer, erase all of their Mp3’s. You might want to physically remove the hard drive from the PC case and stamp on it a few times to make sure it’s fucked. If their iPod is in sight, ensure it suffers a similar fate.
• Tell him/her that you slept with their partner last night and that you’re now together forever.
• Alternatively if they’re single, tell them that everyone in town thinks that they’re a freak without genitals who passes the hours by sobbing to Elton John and Abba records.
• Why not use the old classic and ask them ‘why they look so happy’ every 5 minutes?
• If they have a goldfish, kill it by dropping their soiled bandages into the bowl. You might want to stir the water with a teaspoon to make it look a bit more dramatic. They’ll think poor Goldie has exploded.
• If they have a guitar, snip all of the strings with pliers whilst they are out of the room. When they restring and start playing it, inform them that you’ve never heard a more terrible guitar player in your life.

Emos, ever find it difficult to say exactly what you want to in life? Well here is a list of some popular sayings that you might want to adopt into your everyday speech!”

General Severe Depression

“God seriously shit on my soul when I came out of the womb. I wish He’d just stuck pins in fucking eyes and had me killed right there and then.”.
“Life will never get any better. I will always be stabbing away at my arms hopelessly with an olive fork.”
“What’s the point in ever changing your pants when you’ll just shit them the next time you have another panic attack?”
“I think I have cancer. I think this time it’s terminal.”
“I hate myself and I want to die.”
“Fuck it all, fuck everything.”
“There is no hope. Hope is washed away at the bottom of a vodka bottle”.
“Life is fucking pointless. I wish I could drown myself in a vat of my own urine”.
“I’m useless and my balls smell. And what makes it worse is more cock’s abnormally short”.
“I don’t even know why I get up in the morning. Even my kitty gives off an aura of hopeless despair.”
“I’m tired of feeling alienated from everyone. Only the razor understands me. It knows how I feel. It wants to become a part of me and make me leak blood so red”.
“Last night I dreamt I committed suicide by gorging on Big Macs for a week. It’s a pity it takes so fucking long. Mom would know something was up. ”
“I’d end it all right now but I need to get revenge on that bitch. I could always try to hang myself with my underwear and get my parents to send them after I’m dead. Then she could really catch a whiff of the despair”
“Life is like a cock wound that will never stop seeping. Suicide is like trying to cut your cock off. It can always go wrong. Jay Leno will testify about this.”
“I feel like peeling myself to pieces with a knife. I want to hunt deep inside my body for the last remnants of hope that she’s about to cruelly snatch away from me.”
“I’m already dead inside. You might as well finish me off by chopping off my balls.”
“I hate God. He fucking ruined it all for me. Why did I have to be part of His stupid fucking plan? Why couldn’t He have made me into a seagull? What did I do to deserve this hideous body?”

(more…)

I’m sick of this shit. I’m sick of seeing emo’s tongue each other every-fucking-where I go. I’ll be walking out of Subway and they’ll be literally fucking on the seats outside. And you can’t say anything without sounding like a homophobe.

And you can tell these fuck-wits aren’t gay. They’ll only ever tonguekiss when an equally skanky emo-girl is in close proximity. These bastards play gay in order to win women. I wouldn’t mind it so much if there were actually gay but that’s obviously not the case.

Next time I see them kissing I’ll whip out my dick and scream “Kiss this, Mother!”. If they come within a foot of my purple throbber I’ll rinse them down with my blood red piss and call the police. That’s right. I’m reporting these fuckers to the cops from now on.

By the way if you’re a girl and you think Emo Boys kissing other Emo Boys is cute then you’re wrong and obviously a dyke and you should be reported to the coastguard immediately. I’d pay anything to see you strung up in a net by your feet at the docks.

And another thing…..if you try to approach me for a tongue kiss in order to impress a girl I’ll bite your tongue off and spit it back down your throat. I’m far too virile for these pussy emo boys y’see.

So you really want to be an emo then? You should seriously check yourself into a mental asylum. I mean if you’re really that desperate to get laid turn gay. It’s more profitable in the long run and a lot quicker. Besides emo always leads to bum sex of one variety or another. It’s inevitable.

Argh I can see you are a persistent little bastard (or bitch, I don’t want to discriminate on the basis of gender)! Ok follow the steps in each of these sections and you’ll be emo in no time.

Cutting

• Self mutilation is extremely popular amongst young emo’s. In order to get started you must have something sharp in your hands. I recommend starting with a toothbrush. Now in order to cut yourself you must have already drank a quart of vodka and be on the verge of mental collapse. If you aren’t already, I’d recommend watching 2 new episodes of the Simpsons back to back.
• Once you are sufficiently pissed, drag the toothbrush across your arm as hard as possible. Whilst you’re doing this it might help to think of all of the shit things you’ve done to other people in your life. Continue digging the brush into your skin until it’s red as hell.
• Now once you’re finished with your first gouge, run into your bathroom to examine the damage. With any luck you’ll have left a big red mark across your arm. Now run around your house screaming until someone acknowledges your wound. If no one is awake jump on top of them and thrust your arm into their face. You must make your first cut known to everyone who’ll listen.
• Your parents will inevitably be distraught that you’ve injured yourself. Be sure to blame your behavior on their bad parenting. You might want to take this opportunity to blackmail them into buying you presents. Promise that you’ll stop hurting yourself if they buy you the entire My Chemical Romance back catalog.
• Now that you’ve made your first cut you’re ready to move onto bigger and better things. Why not try using a black ballpoint pen this time and aim to make your wound even redder? Continue on to ensure your parents keep buying you loads of neat stuff.

Sex

• In order to be emo you must be at the very least bisexual (and preferably pansexual). Sexuality is integral to your status as a misunderstood emo. You must make it your job to keep people guessing about your sexual preferences. Tell your father that you want to get married within the year and then bring an emo boy home the next night and rid him on the coffee table in the lounge just before your Dad gets home.
• Only ever kiss people of the same sex in public. Kissing privately is a waste of time.
• As I outlined earlier, it’s best to declare yourself pansexual. Pansexual’s are basically allowed to fuck everything that moves (and some things that don’t). Pansexuality is a growing trend throughout the emo world and it’s set to outgrow bisexuality by 2010.

Emo Clothing and Fashion

• Black is the order of the day here. We recommend shoplifting from thrift stores as it means you’ll be able to save all of your money for developing your alcoholism. Besides the guilt from stealing from the poor will make self-harm all the more entertaining at a later stage!
• Apply as much eye makeup as you can and in any shape possible. It doesn’t really matter, they aren’t any set rules here. Try to look like Ziggy Stardust after he’s been fucked by an elephant.



• If you’re a lazy mofo who’s short on creativity then you might want to go for the band hoodie and t-shirt options. You can make a half-assed stab at masking your laziness by tie-dying the bottom of your jeans. Or by coloring your hair blue, green or read.

Personality

• Remember as an emo you should not have a personality. It’s completely forbidden. If you are found uttering something halfway witty you’ll be immediately be carted off by Gerard Way’s droogs and placed under house arrest until you admit that you’ve been a bad boy/girl.
• Public panic attacks are in vogue and throwing them regularly in crowded places will win you respect of your peers. If you can’t summon a panic attack, try smashing your head repeatedly off of the sidewalk. If anyone tries to stop you, drop your pants and take a big steaming shit right there and then and roll about in it shamelessly.
• As an emo it’s extremely unfashionable to harbor any pipe-dreams of getting married. Or ever being happy for that matter. If you’re smiling too much then you are probably too happy and should rectify this immediately by either burning down a room in your house or converting to Zen Buddhism (the religion of the miserable bastard).
• The unwritten rule of emo is to treat your parents like shit. Remember they were the ones that created you! They are responsible for absolutely everything that’s gone wrong in your life so far and it was all for a quick fuck in the dark that was seriously inadequate anyway. You should spend at least 34 hours a month berating your parents face-to-face.. Leave suicide notes around the house and bloodied shirts. Tell them that once you’ve raised enough money from being a whore that you’ll leave the house and work full time in a titty bar.
• Why not form an emo band called ‘Bleeders Digest’?

Remember Jesus doesn’t love you and you’re going to die!

I didn’t actually know what Emos were until the other day but apparently they are a bunch of teenagers who roam around graveyards by night on the hunt for equally tormented souls and Subway sandwiches. Essentially they are exactly the same as Goths only they listen to ‘My Chemical Romance’ very whose name would imply that they are a bad My Bloody Valentine cover band.

But yeah I don’t really understand the point in the whole Emo thing. Grown men have been crying in public for generations. Just look at Morrissey for Christ’s sake. He’s been weeping ever since Johnny Marr walked out for refusing to suck him off after a show. Why invent another useless label?

Emo kids come in all different shapes and sizes. Most of them have truly shit hair as standard though.

Anyway over the next few weeks I’m gonna take more time to investigate the emo subculture to see how it differs from goth (if at all). If I’m lucky I might ever bag myself an Emo Kid to run some tests on, although whether or not this is desirable is up for debate. After all they’d probably end up moving in with me, contributing nothing to house keeping, smearing their own blood all over my bathroom walls and sleeping to mid afternoon.

In this new section, Cocteau Twins guitarist Robin Guthrie reviews cheeses from across the globe in his usual curiously grim manner.

Edam

I’ve always found the Wax to be a complete burden. You’d be sitting there cutting bits off it and all of a sudden you’d come to the red part and you’d be a bit lost for words. Usually I end up with a slice which contains half wax and half cheese and in that situation I just eat it. It’s the easiest way really. I’m just worried about the prospect of one day shitting a major wax ball. That could cause some serious anal complaints at some point in the future. It won’t stop me from eating them though.

Cheddar

It’s the old favourite isn’t it? Frankly I’m quite bored of it. It’s something your ma would always buy for the sandwiches and it just become too commonplace for it be exciting. I do still have the odd bit of it now and again just for nostalgia’s sake, nothing more. There are other cheeses out there that seriously kick its ass though. Most of them do in fact.

Danish Blue

Everytime I eat Danish blue I can hear my arteries close over just a little bit more. It’s terrifying. You bite into it and you know your chlorestrol score is going to go up by about 100 points. Regardless, it’s fucking tasty. I wouldn’t buy a whole block of it though. Instead I prefer to buy the little squares you can get in pic n mixes. Usually I’d just go down to the Co-op and buy some of it from the Cheese Pic N Mix section. You can get about 5 cubes for £1 which is incredible value.

Gouda

I could never really tell the difference between this and Edam. I think Gouda is Edam’s pailer less pronounced cousin. That said, I can have no complaints as it is a tasty little number. Goes well with a glass of chardonnay after spending a hard day moping around the house.

(more…)

Yer’ve Got Fucking Great Teeth is the new album from Robin Guthrie, a follow-up to his rock-de-force ‘Imperial’ and ‘Vimto Has It’s Merits But It’s Still Shite’. We were lucky enough to interview the man himself, asking him about his new album and how life in general has been treating him.

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Name : Thom Yorke

Goth Name : Captain Cavemouth

Rank : Lieutenant-Colonel

Joined the forces : 1992

Thom Yorke has always been closely associated with weird. He looks weird, he sings weird and he probably smells weird too. This is not down to shaky parenting or air pollution. It is down to the fact that he is an uber-goth at heart.

He comes over so bloody miserable on Radiohead LP’s as the rest of the band will not allow him record an album choc-a-bloc full of darkwave classics. That is why their new album is taking so long. Him and Robert Smith are doing what Severin and the latter did in the early 1980’s, they are forming a shite side project which will likely only last one album and will allow both to create a godawful album that no one in their right mind will listen to.

Yorke is currently back in the studio with Radiohead which probably means that he is thinking of leaving the Goth hierarchy for good. Some of the members lower down in the hierarchy have been calling for Thom’s resignation for a long time now, citing Radioheads Kid A album to be far too radio-friendly for it to be considered a true underground classic.

Whether Thom stays or leaves, his presence as a Goth will have left a sour taste in a lot of peoples mouths.

Name : Peter Hook

Goth Name : Widehook

Rank : Lieutenant-Colonel

Joined the forces : 1976

You probably had already suspected it. And it will not come as a big shock to you that the Hookster is in fact a massive Goth. If you’ve heard of any of New Order’s recent performances you will have noticed how they seem to be rather unwilling to play any New Order material. It is Hook’s mission to transport the band back to 1979 so that he can become the new divaesque gloom merchant of the band.

Hooky is the head Goth chef. He’s been practising food preparation for over two decades yet he still cannot master the cheese toastie much to Robert Smith’s annoyance. Smith who is eager to see Pete produce some good grub for once has invested in over £10,000 worth of kitchen equipment, cooking lessons and recipe books for the New Order bassist, without any noticable improvement in his cooking ability.

He’s basically shit 10 grand down the bowl. Imagine how many big macs he could have bought with that? Those would have kept Bob going for just over a fortnight. Now he going to be left hungry forever until the Goths manage to bring in a semi competent chef and frankly what are the odds of that? Most Gothic types love being starved, they love the eroticism behind it all and as much as they may complain about their rumbling bellys deep inside they want Hooky’s tenure as head chef to last forever if possible.

Name : Robert Smith

Goth Name : The Archbishop of Lard

Rank : Lieutenant-Colonel

Joined the forces : 1984

Smith is by far the most popular member of the Goth brigade. His career as podgy lead singer of Goth rockers the Cure has won him and the Goth movement a hell of a lot of converts.

The singer is currently head of discipline for the Goths. If any Goth is caught grinning even momentarily, Bob telephones the men in black coats who lead the merry criminal kicking and screaming into the back of a black ambulance which heads back home to the House Of Goth.

The victim is then strapped to a stretcher, left in a cold cellar for days where they are subjected to torture from Bobeth. Usually this takes the form of Bob dressing up in a skin-tight PVC nurses uniform, suggestively munching away at a battered Crunchie whilst his victim, whose eyes are usually crazy with hunger tracks every munch that Smith takes of the bar.

Robert is somewhat famous for his ties with the Nestle corporation. There have been rumours recently that Smith is interested in acquiring the company for a fee of in excess of £130 million. If his bid is successful Bob will be able to feed his inquenchable lust for Kit-Kats on a permanent basis. Expect to never see the Cure perform live again. Expect Nestle to start producing chocolate coated bats within a month. Expect goths all around the country to balloon in size in salute to the hairy one.

Name : Paul Daniels

Goth Name : The Short Dank Cunt

Rank : Lieutenant-Colonel

Joined the forces : 18??

When it comes to being purely evil there are no better examples than “The Short Dank Cunt” a.k.a. Paul Daniels. Ever since he was a toddler Daniels derived much pleasure from microwaving cats. In fact he was featured a record number of 26 times in a national tabloid for such exploits.

Daniels was granted an honorary role as Lieutentant-Colonel of the goths sometime in the 18th century. Since then his lack of motivation and general shiteness have seen him make no advances up the ladder of gothdom.

Daniels is often the target of Robin Guthries practical jokes. On April Fools day last year Guthers tampered with Paul’s brakes leading to his car careering head on into a tree at 120mph. Daniels miraculously emerged from the accident injury free. Many people believe that Satan himself intervened. And they are probably right y’know.

There have been many efforts to oust Daniels from the movement for various different reasons. Many Goths subscribe to the belief that if people see that Paul is a goth, the majority of the public will therefore assume that all Goths are like Daniels i.e. midgety bald cunts. Which may or may not be close to the truth.

Name : Robin Guthrie

Goth Name : Steak Knife

Rank : Lieutenant-Colonel

Joined the forces : 1982

Many would consider Guthers role as Lieutentant-Colonel of the goths as an unlikely one. In the past he has expressed his distaste of people from the scene. He was also responsible for the execution of over 100 vegetarians during his reign as the axe wielding maniac of the dream-pop band the Cocteau Twins.

Do not let his everyman image deceive you. Guthrie is second in command behind Christ as the upholder of the Goth manifesto. He acts as servant and bodyguard for Jesus and can often be seen holding up fast food outlets and off licences all around the country in order to ensure that his leader’s demands are met.

There has of course been much speculation about Guthries dedication to the cause. When not serving the Lords every need he sits around watching daytime television whilst trying to invent a computer program that will predict the winning lottery numbers without fail every week.

Guthrie also refuses to attend the annual Goth black-tie dinner. He can instead be found at home, sitting on the toilet wearing a black robe and crown praying that Christ will one day choke on a pea at dinner so that he can take over his role as Colonel.

Name : Jesus Christ

Goth Name : El Cid “The Dark Swarvy Version”

Rank : Colonel

Joined the forces : 0AD

Every organisation has to have a top-dog. A player to call the shots, if you will. Little do his followers know but Jesus was and remains King-Goth. Ever wondered what Jesus was at during his 40 nights in the desert? I’ll give you a clue, he was not in the desert. He was back in Jerusalem trying on P.V.C. corsets.

Judas was the only disciple to ever witness the Saviour in drag, and being a hateful sod decided to betray the Lord because of his eccentricity.

Most Goths dispute Jesus’s position as Colonel in the scheme of things. And many attempts have been made on his life. Fortunately any such assassination attempts have failed mainly due to Jesus’s body being caked heavily in make-up preventing any bullets from injuring him.

Jesus used to share the role of top-dog with his other two incarnations, Jehova and the Holy Spirit. Jehova resigned as co-colonel in 1981 after Christ confessed his love for the Cure’s seminal album Seventeen Seconds. The Father, incensed at his Son’s questionable taste in popular music decided to foreit his position with immediate effect. It is rumoured that Jehova now runs a god awful circus act in India.

Unable to cope with the loss of the Father, the Holy Spirit turned to Contreau to allievate his problems. His alcoholism lead to some rather strange managerial decisions being made including the creation of The Mission and Clan Of Xymox. He resigned from the hierarchy in the early 1990’s.

Rumours abound that the Holy Spirit is trying to re-enter the Goth fray after having a boozing session with Robert Smith last Saturday at the Purple Turtle.

Unless you’ve been stranded in a cupboard for the last 500 years you will have encountered a Goth. Most consider Goths to be harmless, soulless creatures who masturbate over Anne Rice novels and Jesus and Mary Chain LP’s. This is far from the complete picture.

The purpose of this page is to inform the ignorant of the threat that goths pose to society and the various tactics that they will employ to try to get you to join their ranks. In due course we will also outline the real hierarchy of goths.

Goths? Organised?

That’s right, many insiders consider the goths to be the new Fourth Reich, a highly efficient unit of posers, loners and whingers who are ready to enslave the world with their horrificly bad make-up, poetry and clothes.

The True Hierarchy of Gothdom

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having a wail of a life without richey? disgusted at everyones inability to understand the cultural value of sartre? offload your vitrol at richeys archive of pain!

Oh Richey! I learnt how to wail Sleepflower in F minor today, just for YOUUUUUU!!!!!

Richey, I was looking for you in my tumble dryer again and I got my head jammed in it! And my big brother came along and turned it on to make me cry!

Oh Reeeeechhyy! I wish I was 4st 7lb like you instead of 14st 7lb!! I wrote 4 real on my arm again with a markerrrrrr! I can’t scrub it off because its permanent and my skin hurtsss!

Oh no! The intrinsic despair of this moment is getting me down! I must go off and read some Camus and cry for Richeyy!!

Last night I. Sat up until 4am listening to the holy bible and crying into my oranges, drinking vodka until the tears were streaming out of my eyes!! God I miss you boy!

richeypoos, smear some of your welsh cheddar over my soul ryvita! i’ll give you a chain of daisys for it!

download the alt kan repeteres video (70 odd megabite)

the video commences in style with jokke playing the opening riff of the song on the piano. on the top of his piano lies his bottle of beer and his bowlar hat. once he finishes the piano piece he jumps up and crowns himself with his hat. he then begins to growl like a big nordic ice bear at the camera, strutting after it as if it were his dinner. he continues unabaited and he gains and gains on the camera. but before he can catch it…….

out of absolutely nowhere the video changes gear and it takes off from where bohemian rhapsody left off. jokke is joined by his long time comrades may irene aasen and petter pogo. notice how above they keep changing places? this happens consistently throughout this part of the video. in the third shot from the left petter pogo declares himself the king of nordland. and jokke doesnt care. he supports mr pogo’s claims, and rightly so! see jokke is from oslo. which is in south norway. and is the capital. making him the king of norway. so such matters as the king of nordland are unimportant.

we exit to the bar scene where jokke is lying with his head down tanked on ol/beer. notice how he is sitting adjacent to the beer pump?

well…..in the next shot he isn’t there. he falls over! and whereas most men would begin coughing up their lungs jokke continues. continues growling for his beloved home country and his beer and his ice bears. this man sings from his testicles.

jokke soon recovers and is more than ready to give his stamp of approval to pogo’s magnificent hat. mr pogo swings his hip’s like only a carpenter can. its beautiful. and all the time the hat stays perfectly perched on top of his head. it doesnt tilt. it just stays there. he then turns his head to begin winking at mr pogo (we don’t see this as its off camera). jokke who is still mildly intoxicated after about 30 pints of pilsner attempts to hijack pogo’s guitar (or is he just feeling it up) but this doesn’t fade pogo in the slightest who continues on and on!

whereas most men would be very displeased about another interupting their heroic guitar solo, mr pogo laughs it off and both him and jokke begin growling into the microphone in unison. like two vikings after a spree of beer and blonde dames. suddenly out of nowhere may springs up behind the gentlemen and its like a family union. like the sailor who came back from his long long 5 year journey with many fish and tales for his wife. may has not fish or tales for jokke but she still makes her prescence felt.

just when you thought things had reached their peak, jokke goes up another gear. notice how above there is two jokke’s then three jokke’s? its remarkable. and just to make it even more remarkable 3rd angry jokke begins growling at smiling talking jokke. no doubt he is recalling many of his past beer glories to himself. it is important not to miss reflective jokke who is over staring at the window. notice how he is completely unfazed by the oncoming train. this man has balls. uber balls. uber norsk balls

just when you thought everything was winding down jokke picks up his cane and starts dancing with it. not just any sort of dancing mind. he twirls and twirls it. and twirls it. this is what beer can do to a man. not to any old man though. one must have the seed of virility born in their bellies. jokke had the share of about 50 men in his belly.

notice how mr pogo’s hat is still perfect after all of the above. this truly is a bloody miracle. the man looks very sinister, like he’s about to slaughter many goats. but he wouldnt as he has a good heart. and a very good hat. but i’m sure his heart rivals his hat for goodness. the last scene is of jokke and he is still dancing. he is crouched down and is swinging his body around like an old man. it is very endearing and takes me back to the old country. if only every video could be this good.

thank you jokke and the valentines.

yes it is finally here. the drunken hero’s tribute to richey is complete and you can download it exclusively here.

RICHEY IS ALIVE

Richey is alive (x 4)

On an overdose of chocolate cake and orderves
You finally realised how much they got on your nerves.
Sean’s pungent farts
Wire’s womanly smicker

Your youthful looks were your passport to Vienna
Where you immediately started on a 4 day long bender.
And now you’ve forgotten
about where you belong

Richey would you like another pancake?
They’ve got almonds in them.
I made them just for you
And this song too….

26th january 1995

applied for a job as a red coat in a holiday home in minsk today. i need to get away from that vulture. he’s been haunting me in a ever worsening cycle of nightmares. nightmares which corride what is left of my tarnished soul. i spent 5 hours today crying into a open packet of frozen fish fingers. i can no longer handle this. today i have been having destructive thoughts again.

i really fucking regret shaving my wig off. i was walking through cardiff today and saw an italian selling candy floss to children. if only i could have stuck my head in the bowl i would have been left with a kinky hair-do. i just can’t see a way around it. unless i can somehow hijack the candy floss stall.

i think i’ll do it you know. i have nothing else to lose. once i have my new pink flossy wig i will be a born again hero on the music screen. the only problem is that fucking vulture. i mean does he even like candy floss? if he does i can see him eating it all just to try to hijack the small piece of happiness i have in my life at the moment. but at least if i have the machine i can remake my wig. i’ll have to ring james soon and tell him to warn sean that if he comes within a meter of my wig i will kill him. that rat bastard would eat anything. anyhow i am starting to perk up a little.

it has been a while since i have had a good dance. i mean i know in the past i have ripped the piss out of my home nation. i’m starting to come to terms with who i am. i cannot play the guitar for shit, but like 99.9% of welsh men i can out-tango any old fucker! i might call nick around now and ask him if he fancies a few shandies and a bit of a shuffle to the tom jones best of.

27th january 1995

failure……depressed, i got word back from minsk today, they’ve reject me on the grounds that i am a complete fucking mentalist. such is the trials of life i guess. and on a much brighter note diary, i finally did it! i managed to successfully hijack the stall and i couldn’t fucking be happier. this particular stall can make candy floss in 10 different flavours.

10 different flavours! fucking hell man. now i can have a technicolour wig. although i’m thinking of maybe just combining two colours. pink on my left side and blue on my right. this will be my best every attempt at self expression. blue + pink hair. fucking hell. albert camus would be in tears right now.

nick didnt come around last night. he said he had to go to the A+E again with Sean.. that daft bastard is always there. he’s either in because he has fallen down the stairs or he’s bitten off more than he can chew. i mean i don’t think he actually chews at all. there was one time when we were playing a gig at the marquee during the early days and during a drum fill in motorcycle emptiness he began choking on a plate of spaghetti. i mean a normal person would eat it with a fork but he just hammered the whole thing down his fucking throat. he can be a bloody embarassment. last night he was in hospital again because of his ongoing addiction to pasta. for christ sakes he needs to get his bloody jaws wired together!

anyhow nick was pretty upset about it all last night. he says that sean has come forward with a lyric about last night called 10,000 worms. apparently he nearly died. he had a near death experience were he met a talking hot dog of light and was sent back of earth because he tried to bite it. fucking idiot.

28th january 1995

i got a phone call from an excited sounding james earlier this morning. we were talking on the phone for about 3 hours and all he wanted to talk about was this fucking masterpiece that sean had written. i can’t believe it. i don’t want to hear anymore about this shit at all. i mean how good could it be. i am he lyricist in the band and its something that i do very well. if sean becomes the new lyricist what will i do? i wouldn’t mind becoming the new bez but i’m afraid i cannot dance to most of james’s songs. too fast and brash. i can only dance to sinatra and shirley bassey numbers (of course not forgetting to mention my personal favourite tom jones).

i’ll need to phone james later and find out more about this situation. before it develops into a crisis. i mean honestly, how fucking good could a lyric with such a fucking awful title be? there is no point in speculating it will only hinder my own creative flow. what i think i’ll do tonight is write a whole album of songs about candy floss and wigs. its becoming a bit of a fetish i know but ever since i gave up the vodka i have had a lot of time on my hands. anyhow bye for now.

29th january 1995

and here are the…….ahem lyrics…..

10,000 hell bent worms
down my throat
wrigging around
making me choke

i went to heaven
and was met by a hotdog
a tasty looking fellow
and a friendly one too.

spaghetti choke – made me boke
boke boke boke, boke boke boke
back up to heaven with the hot dogs,
burgers and talking chips

10,000 hell bent worms
down my throat
wrigging around
making me choke

i bit the fucking traitor
and he planted my arse out
and told me in no uncertain terms
to write this fucking down.

james has already finished work on 10,000 worms, this is pretty embarassing. he sent a demo copy of the song away to the NME and they’ve been raving about it all night apparently. i’ve expressed my concern to nicky and he says he’s going to have a word with sean later to see if he can maybe sway him to write some new words for the song.

and i’ve just received a phone call from nicky now. apparently seans went on a violent rampage. he can be a right touchy bastard at times. he’ll be alright in a couple of days i suppose. the last time he went into a huff was after james took a piss at his home and left the seat up. he went missing for 3 days. apparently he went for a run down the M4 bollock naked hurling traffic cones at on-coming cars. the police found him in a ditch covered in dirt and love bites. hopefully he stays away longer this time – i have enough time to write another 4st 7lb. yet i can’t stop thinking about candy floss.

seanus during his 3 day m4 rampage

i’ve been eating it all day. its getting serious. my teeth are about to drop out. well it feels that way anyway. i can’t sleep and i couldnt honestly give less of a fuck. i am on a permanent sugar rush, i haven’t felt this good in years! i am off now to tescos to buy some breadcrumbs. battered candy floss will most definitely be a rather tasty prospect!

30th january 1995

in the past 3 days i have put on a total of 2 stone. ah well i’m still on a high and i’m enjoying life all the more for it. the police found sean earlier this morning, apparently he was caught in newport town centre pestering aled jones for an arm wrestle. he is still in police custody and i’ve convinced both nicky and james to refuse to bail him out (i told them i saw him sniff their underwear one morning, worked a fucking treat). now i can begin rewriting 10000 worms! oh what an epic it will be!

anyhow my spending (on the you know what) has risen astronomically over the last week. i’ve had to lift £300 each day, just to ensure that i have enough ingredients to get me through the day. last night i had a somewhat perverse dream. i dreamt that i got a new dog – a poodle this time and that i put him in the candy floss machine. mr vulture then came along and ate all of the fur off him. i woke up and wept for a few hours. sometimes i think this is bordering upon obsession. i can handle it. i think.

31st january 1995

bad news, really bad news. today sean broke out of prison and came around and smashed the stall to pieces. what the fuck am i meant to do? how the fuck am i meant to survive without it? i should have known that this would happen, that bastarding twat is like houdini. i mean when the band first started james tried to get rid of him by tying him to his bass drum and lowering him out of the tour bus into the severn. we heard a mighty great splash and we all had a bit of a laugh and when we got home he was sitting there soaking wet, forcing salt and vinegar crisps into his mouth. he didn’t say a word all afternoon.

i am sitting here quaking, i don’t know what the fuck to do at all. tonight i am going to stay over in london with james in preperation for our tour of the usa which starts early next month. i think that will prove to be a distraction. i keep on looking up ceefax to see if the police have caught him but there is no sign. oh fuck someone is at the door.

1st february 1995

i’ve decided that i am going to leave the band and the country so i can continue with my candy floss consumption in peace. i’ve had enough of the band making snide remarks behind my back about my spiralling weight and shoddy dental hygeine. i think i’m going to go to calcutta. i hear it is the candy floss capital of the world. apparently they make whole buildings out of the stuff over there. i am very excited. i would feel a little sorry for the leaving the guys but hey! i’m fucked off my head on sugar.

over and out. richey.

lyrics
frou frou fish in mid morning traffic jams

frou frou fish in mid morning traffic jams

whilst buckling my trousers
in a pub in wimbledon
it clearly dawned upon me
that i was born to lose
my eyes were sunken
my pubic region shaven
with ill baited breath i
scratched my bare dimpled bollocks

at day, and night i came……

my wrinked hands will solve all your ills!
oh…..nausea.

soothed by the thought of kinky masterbation
and with my devilish eyes set upon an elderly woman
aligning my pink crusader as close it can be so
all of the time i maximise the pleasure by

pulling it rounder (tighter)
rounder! (harder)
rounder! (harder)
pulled rounder!

the cocteau’s started life as a banshee’s tribute band eager to exert their haunting musical approach on such classics as “bleached dry like a cockney whale” and “but i am”. the bands early years were marked by much turbulence. an ongoing row between robin and elizabeth over who should impersonate siouxsie threatened to cut short the bands career. robin was adamant that he was the ideal fellow for the job. he spent many a night in his home in grangemouth home attempting to perfect the trademark siouxsie sioux pout.

liz was not impressed. in a fiery interview between the couple in the winter 1983 edition of the grangemouth times liz was reported to have said “yer a fucking bastard you are guthrie! you look nothing like siouxsie! you may be able to pout like her but you’ve got nothing on me!”

what sparked the row is as yet unknown but many insiders have reported that liz found a bottle of peroxide inside robin’s coat pocket along with a note which apparently read “fuck you fraser, once my hairs blonde you wont be able to take away my birthright. i was born to be siouxsie. you, my dear woman are nothing but a treacherous leech! sure you may have a vocal range that rivals jarvis cocker’s! you do not however possess what it takes to be a worldwide phenomenon!”

at the beginning of 1984, bassist “billy boy” heggie decided that he had enough of this hilarious in-fighting and thought that it would be best if he left the band and instead audition for a role in scottish television’s new soft porn serial “take the high road”. guthrie – who was extremely upset by the loss of his close friend decided to make up for any ill feelings between them by writing the theme tune to the show. the new “take the high road” theme tune was an instant classic and made its way into the uk single charts – debuting at #5.

delighted with the singles success the band decided that it was now time to begin composing their own hits. since elizabeth was too busy compiling new, comical ways to inflict pain upon the gruffster, the lyrical duties fell down to robin. he did not waste time getting stuck in either. his first lyric “ack aye guinness” (commonly mispelt as aikea guinea) was a vicious attack on a deaf bar man who would not supply him with his drink of choice. guthrie stated in the NME “yeah, my first lyric. its a bit of a fucking shambles really. at the time i wrote it i was sinking about 30-40 pints a day and you can sort of tell that from the coarseness of the prose”

the chorus to the song, seems to be an impassioned plea from a man at his wits end.

fuck, please
please
guiness, lager ahoy!
dont make me fucking slap yer!
he he he he he he

a week after its release “ach aye guinness” went straight to the top spot of the uk charts, leaving both the public and the band spellbound. after interviewing a key representative of the british public for the music weekly melody maker, the interviewee claimed “no one bought it, in fact i’ve never heard of the band or the song, are they death metallists?”. things looked rather fishy. how did the song get to number one if not a single soul bought it? cue crimewatch.

on the april 1985 edition of the british crime appeal programme crimewatch, a bearded man of “stocky build and poetic tongue” could be seen ramraiding over 50 different HMV outlets across the country with a forklift truck. police are still oblivious to the man’s real identity, although they are optimistic of finding their man due to the wealth of evidence left behind at the scene. according to derek cock of the metropolitian police “16 empty packets of smoky bacon crisps, a can of tuna and a note reading ‘fucking ell raymonde, we’re going to the top!’.were found on location at the glasgow branch”.

police investigations aside, the band were very much on a high. around this time liz was drinking around a quart of gin a day, guthrie around a quart of gin an hour and their new recruit simon, well he was sober for just a while after this. the band found raymonde on a murky street corner in skegness performing a strikingly coherent version of captain beefhearts “one life, one cock” on acoustic guitar. although the band were looking for a bassist, they decided they liked the cut of raymonde so much that he could take over guthers job as lead guitarist, relegating sir gristle-a-lot to keyboards and bass.

tension was building within the camp. 4ad were constantly demanding an album. robin was constantly demanding curling tongs. none of the band could be bothered. raymonde was already tired of the in-fighting and decided to spend as little time as possible with the waring couple. he dedicated most of his waking hours to leggy blondes, rum and duran duran concerts.

in a vain last stab at success, mr guthrie attempted to ease pressure from 4ad by recording himself wanking off a guitar for around 40 minutes. he decided to secretely record liz fraser’s insane ramblings by bugging her with a microphone. guthrie went on to explain “lorelei – how i laughed at that one. she was arguing with a dustbin. i mean she’s always arguing with household appliances. she tries to speak in their own language. i mean i’ve spent many an hour trying to explain to her that she’s not going to get any sense out of them but she just won’t listen”

the album was completed within a couple of hours and was released to the market under the title “She May Have The Voice Of God But She Argues With Frigging Kitchen Appliances!”. the album completely bombed and the band decided to split soon afterwards.

all three members now work in chip shops in grangemouth. how fucking romantic.

many a fine scotsman can bare testimony to the fact that they love drink. in fact all of them can. scotland is what can be deemed as a cesspool of stale ale, belle and sebastian tribute bands and haggis. this was particularly the case in the late 80’s, where a bunch of young starlets from a god forsaken oil refinery town decided they would attempt to change the world through their unique style of incoherent ramblings and glittery poguesque guitar lines. robin guthrie of the cocteau twins is considered by some to be one of the best lyricists on the planet. throughout this section we will explore mr guthrie’s work and the subsequent motivation behind it. so fellows! strap yourselves in prepare yourself for quite the ride!

Is life getting you down? Ever considered bludgening yourself over the head with a golf club? Does shaving all of your hair off and wearing stripey pyjamas sound like a plausible solution to lifes woes? If you’ve answered Yes to one or more of the questions above, you may be imminent danger!

With the help of dearest Itchy we have formulated a few excellent ways to excuse your self destructive ways whilst causing your loved ones minimal distress!

Excuses Which Will Go Down Well With All The Family

• I drill holes in my skull in order to mourn Black and Deckers decision to withdraw their world renowned saw “King Cutter” from the market. It could cut through tiles, glass and flesh beautifully
• I hurt myself for the Bolivian farmers who have lost over half of their yearly crop to drought. Consider each swipe of the razor a small sacrfice for each ear of corn lost to the unforgiving earth
• Octave Mirbeau’s debut album “My Singed Cock” highlighted the practicalities of jamming my manhood in a toaster through the use of subliminal messages on the epic track “Get Yer Dick In That Toaster”
• The Miners Strike effected me in such a profound way that I have decided to start a Hunger strike until all of the coal mines are reopened. The exception is that I am allowed to eat coal and broken glass.
• In order to celebrate the sacrifices made by our feminist sisters throughout the ages, I have decided to place a giant cork up my birth canal, listen to Sinead O’Connor CD’s and dedicate my life to fist fights, automobiles and beer



• I bludgen myself repeatedly with a gardening spade in recognition of the fact that I will never taste Alan Titchmarsh’s cock
• In order to commemorate the death of Itchy’s beloved hound Snoopy, I decided to watch the Beethhoven series of films back to back. By the time I’d reached the end of Beethoven II I had shaved all of my bodily hair off, bitten my fingers down to matchstick shards and mailed my spare cock to Itchy’s parents along with a sympathy card.
• I stapled my testicles to my television set after gaining a brief glance of Carol Vorderman’s twod on the hit reality tv show “I’ll Show You My Twod And The Way To A Ruptured Ball Sack”
• I gouge holes into my skin in order to free the gin swigging micro lephrachauns which reside within my veins. They tell me that they want out again tonight so they can go and see a stunning reproduction of the glorious crime drama “Les Miserables” in Belfast Grand Opera House
• Where we came from we had nothing. We were brought up in a complete vaccum and could not relate to anything. We were forcefed toast and jammy dodgers at breakfast. We had to walk 50 miles to get to the closest cinema. There were no hospitals in the Valleys, only tents pitched in fields rented from farmers. I was born in such a tent. The midwife was a goat. All of my suicidal tendancies stem from that day. That horrible horrible day were farm animals mocked my naked tanned arse with their gloats and moos.

13 amusing ways to kill Bono of u2 (who’s real name happens to be bono vox monkhouse the third)

We are looking for more

1) Steal the Edge’s hat. Hide it in Bono’s dressing room. And wait……

2) Put him in a straightjacket then tie him to the back of a yacht. Coat his hair in breadcrumbs before releasing several million killer seagulls on to the tart.

3) Lock him in a padded cell and play a selection of Coldplay and Travis LP’s through the walls. He will have lost the will to live within an hour. If not, take him out of the cell and place his head in a toilet bowl. Flush until he stops breathing..

4) Get Anne Widdecombe to breastfeed him until either he runs out of puff or Widdi’s milky cocktail blows his head off.

5) After a U2 concert, approach him and ask for his autograph, instead of handing him a pen uppercut the bastard with a clothes iron.

6) Formulate a mathematical equation which indefinitely proves he is a complete tosser then send it to him via mail. He will die of grief.

7) Subject him to a year’s worth of anal probing. The day before the probing ends shove a glockenspiel up his chufty and watch the bastard wheeze.

Invite him to lunch with John Prescott, sit next to John and feel his leg. If he looks at you stare in disgust at Bono..the fireworks shall commence.

9) Kidnap him. Pepper his testicles/head/liver for 10 minutes in a preheated oven before serving to a tribe of starving wolves/african children.

10) Kidnap him (yes again) and kidnap Yoko Ono. Place Bono and Ono into the same room and lock the door. Bono will have clawed his own eyes out within half an hour.

11) Beat him to death with his own sense of self satisfaction.

12) Invite him to the local heritage museum and acquire some popcorn from the confectioners stall. When in the commoners yard offer him some popcorn before lifting him up and slipping him through the mangle. Press neck until death.

13) Grab him and bung him into a time machine. Take him back to the heydey of the potato famine, remove him from the car and then ship him into a shopping trolley. Chisel “I have all of yer potatoes ye rotten starving irish bastards” into his forehead with a preheated sand wedge before wheeling him into Dublin town square. he’ll be hanged at traitors gate within a jiffy.

well folks this is becoming beyond disturbing now, recently we’ve been peppered by a number of extremely vulgar phone calls from a certain invdividual (a.k.a simon price). below are transcripts and recordings of these calls. the voice has been distorted to protect the identity of the caller and to show him in his true colours. YE BIG GIRL!

call 1 : download

richey cut me. cut me hard. cut me like a bar of soap. i can no longer feel my testicles. they are numb. numb like my swollen decaying black heart which will never be complete without the sensual touch of your loving razors. i am beginning to foam. i can feel my body beginning to shake like a washing machine. enter me richey. enter me hard. mount me like a legless camel. spit inside my body. let your vodka soaked tongue pirouhette with my red raw tonsils.

yours discreetly

—

call 2 : download

everytime i think of you richey i think of my mammoth like horns of love caressing your gaping harlot holes tenderly. i think of you and that harlot vulture, sitting drinking vodka whilst playing scrabble like true soul mates until dusk. fucking double fuck double fucking vulture vulture fuck fuck. i’m moist and getting moister, i’m fat and getting fatter, my semen is thicker than chip pan resin. my willy is swollen like a lead balloon. i’m expanding richey! ive grown to 5 and a half inches. i’m turning purple. my veins are looking like the main course tonight sonny jim!. i’m ready to begin pumping. pumping into you. pumping so hard that vodka will begin geysering out of your manly slots like eve marie saint in on the waterfront. under neon loneliness fucking simon price up his swollen chufty. blarbos extramango blingo wingo fucking dingo. simon fucking vulture fuck shitting bollocks

below is a transcript of a somewhat unsuccessful radio interview conducted with richey shortly after the release of motorcycle emptiness.

interviewer : ladies and gentlemen, we have quite a bloody special for you here today! we have richey edwards from the manic street preachers, say hello richey!

richey : hello!

interviewer : oh for gods sake man put some bloody effort into it! you sound like a fucking weasel! say something else

richey : hello!

vulture begins making a racket in the background

interviewer : i see you’ve brought a friend along today, whats his name?

richey : he–

interviewer : actually shut up man, we’ll have a bit of a guessing contest today, um i’d say he looks like a godfrey. oh he’s quite a happy chap isnt he? oh-ho-ho-ho! he’s opened his mouth!

vulture continues to make his prescence felt

interviewer : oh he’s opened his mouth again! and again! AND AGAIN! if only if you opened your mouth as much richey, we’d have a fucking interview!

richey : we’ve always been about hypocrisy

interviewer (impassioned) : look here edwards i dont want you bringing that damn bird down to your level! you havent said a damn word this interview, and the birds been speaking the whole time, I WANT YOU TO APOLIGISE TO THE BIRD! APOLIGISE TO THE BIRD! APOLIGISE TO THE BIRD!

interviewer rambles whilst mr vulture goes fucking ballistic in background

interviewer : ladies and gentleman we have quite a few problems with vulture going mad throughout studio, we will now satisfy your aural needs by playing motorcycle emptiness by the manic street preachers ya ya ya!

motorcycle emptiness begins

interviewer : sorry for any disruption during motorcycle emptiness, mr vulture loves it!

mr vulture chirps happily along to the song

a cutting insight into rocks ongoing myth

police are interrogating a vulture over suspicions concerning the disappearance of welsh rock maestro richey james edwards. mr edwards was last seen exiting the london embassy hotel on february 1st 1995 and has not been seen since. there have been relatively few leads in the case over the last few years. that was until yesterday morning when a top police investigator decided to look more closely at the infamous 4 real shot.

if one looks closely at the bottom of the shot one can see a cheeky bastard vulture attacking edwards. police have been interviewing relatives and close friends of the deceased to attempt to find out how edwards related to the bird. we interviewed band mate sean moore in an attempt to find out more…

Interviewer : “how did he and the bird relate?”

Sean Moore : “he didnt put his dick in it if thats what you’re implying, mind you it was one of the few things he didnt fuck”

Interviewer : “no i wanted to know how he met the bird, why would it attack him?, i mean for gods sake the man had to get 75 stiches after that incident”

Sean Moore : “he brought it back from holiday for james. james has a tendancy to eat rarer dishes. he’s big on italian and greek ya see? richey showed him the bird and he was instantly bemused. he told him that he couldnt eat a whole fucking vulture. from then on i guess richey formed a relationship with the bird, he took it everywhere”

Interviewer : “everywhere?”

Sean Moore : “look if you keep on asking stupid questions i’ll fucking can you one”

Interviewer : “ok then, is it true he took it to whitechapel with him? i’ve heard that it was the reason why he left there so early”

Sean Moore : “yeah the bird went fucking mental in there, the two had a serious falling out. it saw how thin he was and tried to feed him scraps of food it had stolen from other patients plates. richey was pretty opposed to that. every time we visited him he wouldnt speak to us, he was completely fucked like. he kept muttering about the bird being on the fucking loose around the wards. by this point it wasnt really visiting him much, it was just flying about shitting on the elderly, then things came to a head in the games room one evening

Interviewer : “what happened?”

Sean Moore : “the bird swallowed the cue ball off the snooker table, started choking like a bastard. richey heard it from his ward and he bolted in and began given it the heimlich. it was really awful. here was a pale and ashen man choking his bird over a billiards table. feathers all over the baize. the crippled were zooming around the table in their wheelchairs not knowing what the fuck to do. eventually the ball popped out though, richey was called out by the management and was released”

Interviewer : “how did he feel about that?”

Sean Moore : “how do you think he felt, he was crying all the time. the bird had abandoned him, it had had enough of his shite. at this point in time he was really frantic. he was saying about how he had visions of him being carted over the severn by the vulture, being dropped in. james nearly pissed himself at that image, in fact we all had a brave chuckle at his expense. how the tables have turned.

Interviewer : “what?”

Sean Moore : “well when james went into his room in the london embassy the he went missing his bed was completely covered in feathers. we knew it was too late. he’s fucking gone and that bird could strike again any time. fucking hell turn the tape off

at this point in the interview moore burst into tears and i complied with his request. if you have any information on the whereabouts of the said vulture dont hesitate contacting crimestoppers on 0800 505050.

moore. he’s now completely terrified of all species of bird. especially those with twods.

well folks we have an exclusive for ya here today, we proudly present you with richey’s last ever set of lyrics. yes, these are the ones that wire has been hiding for god knows how long. its time to stop everything and read what must be some of the finest and most poignant words ever committed to paper.

HER FEET, MEET | seven severns make seventy seven | me grizzly bacon arsehole | cutting down doors | palaces lined with razor wire | staring blankly ahead | what van gogh was to knives | store bought despair | clobber my lobsters | the long, brown and sticky temptation | shagpile cruisers | mrs bradfield | you told porkies | those scissors that wink | is a line a line? | from somalia with love

her feet, meet triangles are clashing inside my head i can’t handle the darkness the darkness and the triangles are plotting against me they are trying to cut me trying to cut her feet off.. like a ballerina she fizzes around the light i stood by the door…….i stood by the door and saw your name i stood by the door…….i stood by the door and no-one came yeah baby, i stood by the door standing by the door with her feet in my hands dangling them like porcelain her feet arent there, they are here here today yet gone tomorrow i stood by the door…..a gentle refrain i stood by the door…..communist retrain i stood by the door…..and she softly answered i stood by the door…..and nobody came

seven severns make seventy seven

jumping jack flash and roddy frame
could never take the blame
for my rock and roll excess
its down to sex
down to collect, the next
phase.

i have it all planned out
(seven severns make seventy seven)
i will shave my head and adopt a new pose
(seven severns make seventy seven)
dauchau or dresden, here i will reside
(seven severns make seventy seven)
in this chamber of despair i have no where to hide
no where, i said no where. yeah. oh-oh.

battling death with rhythm guitar
i’d rather hammer my lungs with cigarette tar
(yeah cigarette tar baby)
cutting so deep i cant feel my nerves
crying into my oranges, no wonder i am so disturbed

and i say, seven severns make seventy seven
littering the backseat with burger king wrappers
and i say, seven severns make seventy seven
store bought chicken never tasted so good
as food….as food….never tasted so good.
i cut……i cut………for the food…..for without food
i stand in front of the mirror, spirtually nude.

probe me i’m death
i cant read or write
probe me i’m death
bad chickens make bad shite
i’ve got the runs baby
and my toilets backed up
penicillin overdose, nicky’s off to perth
for theres nothing better than home
(seven severns make seventy seven)
and i wanna go alone!!
(seven severns make seventy seven)
no taxi drivers! no sterile malls!
i wanna go home, i wanna stay home!

me grizzly bacon arsehole

cherish the staple gun
caress the terminal
feel alive in feeling dead
rap a roll of bread
around your manly head

drizzly days and drizzly nights
living in gwent is not without its frights
working in a colliery full of gay men
union leaders erection akin to big ben

here i come, here i pop
dear seanus, get the fucking mop!
my seed is slime, nor green nor red
manly shackles nee nuts, come to fucking bed!

me grizzly bacon arsehole is sunburnt
and sundried, its screaming
for the vaseline, for instant relief
from its hellish sunbaked state.

cutting down doors

i am what is known in some circles
as a greasy fellow
my pastimes include cutting,
burning and karate.

some say daniel son
some say richey son
but all i know son
is that my belt is black
and with my weal glazed limbs
i will smiteth your arse

in terms of the s word
i will tell you this my friend
i have plenty of socks,
in a plethora of sizes and colours
some smell like hell
some smell like rot
behold, a dead rabbit!
dip him in the pot!

cutting down doors
no more blood on the floor
i dont want it anymore
i want to destroy the dancefloor

palaces lined with razor wire

death camps appeal to me more than you
i am bored of you and your teenage view
look at me and call me incompetent
my glamour is tied to the local parliament

weeping forever, nothing will turn me around
sony, toshiba, invest millions to perfect their sound
glazed in misery, this cloud will never shift
i’m bored again, i’m bored of rock riffs

polka’s the path, no other way
donning our blouses, the middle aged call us gay
i’ve had enough of this new world pact
my skin is turning a pale pale white

pale as my heart
pale as death
i have nicky wire under house arrest
i’ll never let him go
i’ve got him on uppers
he revolts….he is suffering…dairylea triangles for supper.

staring blankly ahead

all i can do is stare blankly ahead
theres nothing here for me now
but this nothingness ahead
staring blankly ahead
stapled to my bed
razors round my head
staring blankly ahead

theres nothing in my mind
but the nothingness i’ve left behind
staring blankly into my fishbowl
i yearn for something more
to skip around in the sunshine
donning a victorian dress
made out of precious lace
imported from the orient

staring blankly ahead
i might as well be dead
staring blankly ahead
i think i might already be dead
staring blankly ahead
wanna shave my head
staring blankly ahead
put a bullet in my head.

what van gogh was to knives

shave me!
stab me!
gouge me!
colour the canvas with the hue of my despair!
for i want to become
what van gogh was to knives

oh van gogh!
you always had your cock out!
oh van gogh!
you would have chopped it off
if it were not for disco!

let us go down to the discotechque
where valley itchy
will break his valley neck!
dancing and a-tugging
shagging and a-hugging!

let us go down to the discotechque
where valley itchy
will forcefeed his valley speck
to fat valley wrecks.

store bought despair

feel nothing but hate – resorting to crime
death rings and rings, chime, chime, chime
liberty manifests itself in a state we call home
erection, solid, could have been sure its bone

alive today but feel real dead
aftershock sneeze hole in my head
never wanna live, hoping im gonna die
essex, lancashire screaming for execution pie

madonna screams for new world hit
krakow, belsen in new world blitz
lying, deserted in a cold dead room
foetus screams “where is the womb”

global leader smiles at teenage suicide
the elderly the victims – contemplate pesticide
dreaming of death i hope it comes soon
bludgen myself in the eye with a wooden cooking spoon

clobber me lobsters

fishing for food
fishing for love
lobsters, whelks, vodka from above
tug on my rod, home it right in
sixteen fish lying in my tin

casting off the severn bridge
this little fishy is going in my fridge
4st 7lb – catch of the day
its big, its beautiful, tears at bay

walking like a lobster
walking right through
life immortalised on the side
of a can of soup
red and vegetable
oxtail gloop
dip my danglers longwise
swoop swoop swoop

The Long, Brown and Sticky Temptation

the glint in his eye
nearly made me die
i knew i had to exchange it sooner or later
for inside the wrapper, lay the alma mater
that which would make him cry

the caramel was melting
like butterlies fermenting under
a chocolate brown sky
one bite was enough
to convince me that i wanted to puff
on his scaly valley candle.

a mars a day
will never drive this dismay away
but whilst im in your arms
i can come to no harm
the blades are sharp, my limbs rake thin
etching “caramel love” deep into my skin

shagpile cruisers

exploit my gaping sphere of chastity
make me moist and ravenous
i will always say yes
mongoloids on tape
tearing each other apart
reattaching body parts with masking tape

she no longer suffers
she lost her will to live
at a petrol pump
the meter swallowed her credit card
she beat herself up
with the petrol pump in hand

how i long to stand proudly beside the petrol pump
mic stands are no longer cutting it
i want to experience the ultimate
in self mutilation, self harm, self injury
i want to feel
the pump against my head
before i take the big dip.

mrs bradfield

mrs bradfield outted me
now i’m a-crying
mrs bradfield had a cunt
that was electra-fying!

fuck me harder
fuck me quick
ah – my manly clanger!
is like a fucking brick

i would like you to look me in the eye
and i’d like you to tell me that you don’t love me
come on- tell me that the foam was a lie
come on fucking grease girl – i’ve had enough
of yer suspenders and yer fucking stocking
clogging me air hole – blow hole – every fucking -
type of blow hole – mole – wankety

i’ve lost control again.
i’d like to fuck you like an animal.
my animal. my vitirol
spit on my tanks ye cheesy bitch
you dress like a fucking elf
this is not elf day
maybe world day
but certainly not fucking elf day

harder (groans)
harder (moans)
harder (foams)
harder (drones)

YEAH!! YEAH!! YEAH!!!

oh fuck it all
fuck everything
fuck me
let me….find a girdle the fits

you told porkies – now you are stuck in north somerset

twatty twat – the dutchess of kent
aunties bloomers – fanny for rent

amphetamine gun – snorty snort
bridges a-burn, mort-ity mort?

love is like a rottweiler
it fucking barks and barks
and then finally
it bursts out of yer trousers

it eats your zip
never does it catch

scratching will not suffice
set arm to match

i’m burning in north somerset
green goblns in north somerset
wish you were here in north somerset
with me in north somerset

grope me not – leaves
grope me not – heaves
in the attic not – leaves
in the basement not – heaves

heave-ho, leave-ho, peach-ho, vander-ho
fuck this. fuck that. fucking elvis – fucking twat.

is a line a line?

when i look at you woman
im thinking “jesus what gristle”
when i look at you woman
im thinking “are those tits or flat tyres”
my mind is absorbed
by your curvascious hide
it reminds of childbirth
my own birth
blasting out of those flaps
like a bat out of hell.

the bat lies awake
dreaming of past glorys
he remains indebted to meatloaf
for putting him on the map
meatloaf lies awake too
dreaming of lesser glorys
robert plant, jakob dylan, drew henry,
jimmy white, joe stallin and terry grittiths.

i can think of a line
and i can think of a time
when lines fell into lines
but i never fell into line
because you were that line
and as lines progressed
you fell flat
im sitting here in this line
waiting for it to move.

those scissors, that wink the epitome of my existence is my inability to watch darts without succumbing to desire and sticking an arrow in my forehead fuck robin hood or william tell nihillism has got me under its spell i really couldnt give a shit anymore poor snoopy is sleeping on the kitchen floor. i’ll wake him up and make him some pop tarts although i cant really see the point as within the next five months the bastard will be dead im becoming lethargic i see that glint i realise i need a way out i need to stop the voices which persistently tell me to join the police force SWEET RELIEF! i’ll follow in my parents footsteps and give myself a funky hair-do a snip here and a snip there and my hair begins falling everywhere. a snip here and a snip there sweet nothingness, my dear head is bare!

from somalia with love nothing left but this, time continues to crawl life insignificant like a kittens paw drowning in eternity, i feel so small handwriting symbolic of my mental scrawl. communist doctrine – tyranny so far from home stalin now lifeless – like a garden knome breaking down walls for the socialist pact nothing will bring my happiness back. treaty’s so contrived, strike fear into the heart your hate filled love is driving us apart my motorcycle is running out of fuel corporate fat cats forcefeed africans with gruel. gruel is a tool to blind the somalian fool who believes that capitalism is a tool to rob them of gruel they spit and mewl screaming “wheres me gruel”

It is 6am on February 1st 1995 inside the kitchen at The Embassy Hotel in the outskirts of london. Two men in their mid 20’s stand in the center of the room staring at each other. There is no movement.

Sean : Right you bastard, where are the jaffa cakes they just didnt disappear did they?

Richey : Oh nooooooooooooooooooooo. I hid them under the patio!

Sean : You did what you little bastard! ~checks frantically through cupboard, finally finding a packet of salt + vinegar crisps. Sean opens them and looks inside, finds the largest one and begins to force fed it to Richey~

Richey : These arent too bad actually……….

Sean : Faints + takes a heart attack

~Young James has heard the comotion he comes into the kitchen to see what has went on. You can obviously tell he isnt well pleased. By this time Richey is standing over Sean wondering what to do~

James : WHAT THE HELL’S GOING ON

Richey : He tried to force fed me again

James : What did you do to him?

Richey : Nothing.

James : Thats all you either say ‘Nothing’ What the hell did you do with him?

Richey : Nothing.

James : Your really beginning to annoy me you little fag…..

Richey : Ohhhh Nooooooo. Bootiful Walkers Salt + Vingear Flavour, take me back to my fatherland!

James : Enough of your shit ~James produces a bat, and scones richey over the head with it 150 times~ There you go you bastard ~suddenly realises the blood, James rushes to check his pulse~ OH SHIT IVE KILLED THE BASTARD. WHAT WILL I DO WHAT WILL I DO???? James rushes outside and sees a crack in the patio, he checks it and lifts up the stone tiling, James drags Richey out of the kitchen and into the garden, and begins to bury him under the patio, James rushes back into the kitchen to check on Sean~

James : SEAN! SEAN! Can you hear me?

Sean : Urrrfffffff. ~Starts to stir~ What happened?

James : You drunk too much last night, have you seen richey?

Sean : No

Thankfully due to large amount of jaffa cakes Richey buried under the patio, he still is alive under there today feasting away. Thank heavens for that then.

welcome to another superb fucking edition of another drunken hero. today’s feature centres around that lovely little bastard known as paul fucking morley. for the benefit of the audience i will entitle this lecture “how to spank a cock 101″.

first and foremost people a little quiz. of the two characters presented below who is more full of shit?

a)

b)

times up! hand up your papers to the front. for the results of this spanking gorgeous quiz tune in another week.

to say that paul morley is a dick is like saying jo brand is a dyke. his mouth foams shit like a rabiant rottweiler. one will only see sir morley on one of those “TOP 100 most wanked off” specials they show on channel 4 when they’ve ran out of friends episodes to re-run. he will usually begin by making a wry comment about a band or an artist for example “marc almond was a gaping fuck, he put steve backley and tessa sanderson to bed, he was nihillistic with a crew cut, he made me want to dance, he made me want to fuck the misery out of the world with a chilling chord sequence such as C Major D Major and G Major”

after this inital outburst, mr morley will then resort to being a smug old bastard, usually producing a cigar and a wry smile. once the show reaches its final half he will begin reminded the viewers about how he was an integral part of the punk/post-punk scene through his ventures in a anarchic second-rate pub band and his meetings with such fuck-dykes as bono, siouxsie sioux and ian curtis. he particularly prides himself on one chance encounter with mister curtis in a late night Tesco’s in Burnley in mid-1980. according to the accused he met curtis at the washing powder section. mr curtis had his head stuck in a king size case of daz and was weeping like the prime drama queen he once was. paul went over to curtis and attempted to prize the box of his head, he realised that if he succeeded, his efforts would be remembered as a post-punk king arthur/excalibre episode. oh how the bastard pulled. he pulled and pulled! and mr curtis wept! and still the fucking box wouldnt come off! in fact contrary to popular opinion this is how ian curtis died. he did not hang himself. he suffociated in a box of washing up powder. anywhoo, ian died in paul morley’s arms and he will continue to remind people of that until he himself passes into the murky depths of the afterlife.

paul morley you are a cunt and your hands are still tainted in daz. salutations mudder-fucker!

Perhaps the greatest question mankind has ever had to face is that of the musician. Of course there are many varities of musician, those who play rock, those who play country, those who know what soap is, those who obviously dont. Listed below are some defining characteristics of the average musician

Tone Deaf | Busking | Fashion | Autographs | VCR Licking | Creatures Of The Night | Gas Stations

Tone Deaf

Many so called musicians are completely tone deaf. To test if your favourite musician is tone deaf or not, either listen to them live, or raid their home looking for the latest Bruce Springsteen LP (ahem)
Almost 60% of all musicians have some form of facial hair. Whilst most people agree that this additional hair is used solely for public image purposes it has been speculated that the majority of musicians have insects crawling all over them and the facial hair acts as a very effective trap to strand the little critters.

Busking

Another common characteristic of the average musician is alcoholism and its subsequent effects on the persons lifestyle. Whilst your favourite musician should technically be a millionare, it is more than likely that he/she has spent all of their money persuing the rock and roll lifestyle (ie getting totally smashed out of their head in the local bar) Many musicians who are at least a little bit competent attempt to busk for money, pieces of bread or half full cans of Carlsberg

Fashion

Horrendous sense of ‘fashion’. Personally the word fashion sends shivers down my spine, simply because many of these bozo musicians are seen as the pioneers and figureheads of fashion. If a musician was to walk into an awards ceremony wearing an empty sack of potatoes that would be the latest craze.

Autographs

As you may have seen musicians can sign autographs at a frightening rate, one would suspect that this was because of the amount of times they have signed items for fans. Those people are sadly mistaken. The average musician spends more time signing forms in police custody for alcohol related offences than paying attention to their fans

VCR Licking

On the note of alcohol, you will never see a musician purchasing head cleaner for their VCR, simply because their corrosive saliva carries out the same action as the traditional ethanol-based cleaner. It is not uncommon for the average musician to open up the case of their VCR and to begin licking the video heads clean

Creatures of the Night

It has been generally accepted that the majority of musicians have superhuman powers and can see in the dark due to their enormous levels of narcotics intake. This is not the case, most musicians have trouble identifiying light because they are primitive cave creatures who spend 99% of their time holed up in a rehearsal room, bed or a bar.

Gas Stations

Another interesting characteristic of the musician is their bizarre fear of gas stations. Maybe its to do with the fact that many gas stations are in remote places and are often prone to armed robberies. However this is not the reason. The musician is a walking fire hazard. On many a hots summers day, many musicians have instantaneously burst into flames due to the fact that there body is generally composed of vodka, thus it is too much of a risk for a musician to approach a gas station in case they triggered an enormous explosion

Translations of Jokke’s lyrics in English can be found at Two Drunken Men run by Knut_Norw and myself. So there you go.

I am OK Jokke and I am streng. Uber streng. Today children I will teach you how to make a yacht. First grab the beard of a fellow viking, remembering to produce a kitchen knife so you can begin to saw the hair off. Once ye have the hair off, uproot yer floorboards and begin assembling them in yer vineyard. After a mid morning meeting with the vino, attach viking beard hair to wood. Then hope to god you have a ship.

Anyhow being Jokke aint easy these days. Stragglers are everywhere and I have little time for them. All I have time for is the bergs, bears and several moose. I still play guitar but cant seem to come up with that generation defining anthem that has long been associated with me. Her Kommer Vintern was the pinnacle of my career, it was about a hot night I spent with your mother in the Swiss Alps. She was yodelling like the Swiss mongrel she is. What exquisite noise. I started beating her to death with a giant Toberlone. She thought it was a dildo

This brings me onto a key point

TOBLERONES NO MATTER HOW HARMLESS THEY MAY LOOK SHOULD NOT BE USED AS DILDOS.

With that issue addressed it is now time to address my immense virility. My testicles have the volume of several small dams. They swish and swash as I bounce from side to side during my sublime solos. My large testicles enable me to address issues that really matter instead of singing about how inadequate you feel after a dyke ran away with yer dog. I sing about war, beer and marzipan pigs. Instead of merely singing about killing innocents, I do it. Yesterday I killed 300 gerbils in a tumble dryer. I used their screams as a sound sample for my new record “I use my testicles to open beer cans”.

forgetting “her kommer vintern” my all time greatest hit must be Øl which is about virility, norsk gods and most importantly beer. below are the lyrics in english.

Jokke og Valentinerne – Øl (beer)

my testicles are overflowing with the juice of god
is that a german dame? i wonder if she’ll squeal if i take off her skirt
her armpit hair resembles that of dear mothers
and although mother fucking is in vogue this year, i’d rather sit down and have a beer.

dear thor in valhalla i must have left my bottle opener in the barn beer!
however the weight of my testicles is overbearing beer!
AND I MUST REMAIN SEATED AND STROKE THEM until the call of the dawn beer!
AND BECOME SLIGHTLY AROUSED AS MY CALLOUSES SCRAPE AGAINST MY PUBIC TRIM beer!

oh dear fuck, although i love my testicles i’d rather have a beer
i’d really rather have a fucking beer.

testicular swelling can be relieved by a loving woman
THE TYPE OF GIRL WITH FORESTS OF ARMPIT HAIR AND A WILLING RIGHT HOOK
THE TYPE OF LADY WHOSE SELF ESTEEM IS COMPLETELY DEPENDENT
ON HER ABILITY TO ACT AS A HOUSE WIFE AND A PUNCH BAG.

odin, you have been like a father to me, you have given me instinct beer!
you’ve given me large testicles and a remarkably acute pelvic reflex beer!
a stately home blessed by the almighty killer seals of the lofoten islands BEER!
BUT MOST IMPORTANTLY YOU HAVE GIVEN ME BEER!

oh dear fuck, although i love my testicles i’d rather have a beer
i’d really rather have a fucking beer.

OK JOKKE!

~CUE BEST SOLO IN THE HISTORY OF ROCK MUSIC~

my erectile tissue appears to have got the better of me
i have managed to catch my member on the fridge door
oh my dick is stranded in that fridge
it’s really stranded in that fucking fridge!
beer beer beer beer beer beer beer!
beer beer beer beer beer beer beer!
beer beer beer beer beer beer beer!
beer beer beer beer beer beer beer!