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The flowers, the glass.

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My mother was upset so whilst I was gardening (guerilla) I collected some little white flowers with thorns in their stems, chopped them up and put them in a vase for her. Not because I’m nice, but it is apparently a nice thing to do. I think she liked them but I can’t be sure because I had my earphones in.

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They smell pretty darn good too people. If you have a friend, or significant other, or a mother, perhaps you could do the same. Also, if anyone knows what flowers these are – please tell me.

The flowers, the glass.

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Pucker Playlists: June

1. Kanye West – Bound 2

“I know you’re tired of loving, with no body to love…”

What kind of wanker would I be if I neglected one of the most anticipated releases of 2013. I see Kanye as a wizard of sorts, so absurdly pretentious and self-interested in his own aspirations and abilities but so undoubtedly deserved of his acclaim. There are few people who will be revered in the realms of pop music in the future. What Kanye has done for hip-hop will be talked of for years to come – each album throwing the face of hip-hop as it is known to the general public into new and exciting directions. From the doubled sped motown samples, to the synth and auto-tune to the new industrial rock-rap of Yeezus. I’m not saying at all that he is entirely original. Yeezus reeks of Spank Rock, Death Grips, Cannibal Ox who have championed future rap as it were for some time. The references though will at least lead some of the more un-inspired hip-hop fans of the beaten track. At least it’s not another Ludacris album.

2. Odd Future – Lean 

“If I was a dinosaur, I would be a flexosaurus….”

I really have no idea who Hodgy Beats tells to shut up over and over again for the 29 seconds of this song. It must be important for it to roll onto the recording of the song. When have rappers ever sworn on songs otherwise? I lack the vocabulary to adequately articulate my love for OFWGKTA. This song makes me want to smoke till my eyes are swollen, my tongue is dry and my mind is stuck on some ridiculous scene from The Moomins, I mean have you seen that cartoon, what the fuck are they supposed to be??

3. Mac Miller – Love Affair

“Raindrops make me feel romantic….”

If you have no time for jazz you can stick a fucking saxophone right between your fucking butt cheeks until it slides unhelpfully past your dry fucking unprepared sphincter into the dirty realms of your rectums and then you cry and cry and try and sit down to put your head in your hands, but you can’t because of said saxophone.

4. Chet Baker – I Get Along Without You Very Well

“I recall, the thrill of being sheltered in your arms…”

Of course I do, because Chet sings like the taste of that hot coffee, freshly poured, tumbling smootly down your throat on cold autumn mornings, into your chest to your very fingertips as the wind howls outside and the rain shows no sign of stopping.

5. Bombay Bicycle Club – Rinse Me Down

“Give me the eyes…”

When the wind hits your face and the tears come and you run on and on and the pain comes and goes and comes again and ground moves faster and slower, or so it feels and the sun doesn’t come and the breathing is more difficult but you carry on with your heavy legs and disappointed skies and somewhere, someone smiles because you didn’t give up.

6. Machinedrum – DDD

“You’re here…”

If you run all that way to catch the tube and the doors close in your face and some c**t laughs and so you punch them over and over again in the face until the soft warm breeze of the underground heralds another incoming and/or someone pulls you off and calls the police.

7. Frank Ocean – Dying For Your Love

“On the frontlines of disaster…”

One of the notable events in the history of urban music in America, undoubtedly urban black music the world throughout was the declaration of Frank Ocean as being homosexual. The uncomfortable male bravado and homophobic sentiment in the community ran rank in the air and had certainly come to a head and the world was overdue a fall guy, willing to take the weight of the revelation that young black men could be gay. As far as I am concerned anything Ocean does from here on in will be worth watching. A spokesperson for a lost society of young black men. Superb song.

8. Death Grips – No Love Deep Web

“Stranger clutch, sine wave deconstruct….”

This is probably what Batman listens to in the Batmobile when he is careering through Gotham about to fuck up the Joker or some shit. Probably.

9. Death Grips – Pop 

“Lit up rock you live under….”

Any album that has an erect penis on the front is worth listening to right?

10. Danny Brown – Monopoly

“Her stank pussy smell like cool ranch Doritos…”

With a vocal that comes as a frantic call to arms, peppered in staccato, referencing the oddest of metaphors – hello Danny Brown. If you want to act real gangsta, but you’re a middle class white kid who doesn’t want to seem like you’re a “cliche” to listening to Odd Future, listen to Danny Brown. Tell all your black friends.

Those pesky muslims, I mean terrorists, I mean muslims…

I suppose those words are almost interchangeable now. The synonymity between any action taken in opposition to the United States of America by any self-proffessed muslim is accepted as terrorism, regardless of context or understanding. When Tsarnaev strapped an improvised explosive onto his back and left it in congress to the international stage of the Boston Marathon, there was categorical understanding that this was an action to cause inexorable devastation and hence a truly reprehensible act. What marked this event as unique, or perhaps not, was the pondering melodrama of whether this represented an attack by an organised Islamofascist group, perhaps Al-Qaeda? Subsequently, as the once Chechan origins of the brothers came to light, the world immediately sought deep inside for that word they had used with such cavalier fashion and labelled the act as one of terrorism; in one swift action revealing their embarrassing and bigoted political lexicon.

Let us be clear, America is a stormfront. The apparently serious “One nation under God…with liberty and justice” and “Have a nice day‘ attitude, stifle essentially what represents a disturbed society with aggressive and violent intentions towards one another and indeed the American opposition in general. Consider the following. In 2012, a gunman walked into a cinema in Aurora, Colorado and shot 12 people dead, injuring 58 others. In 2011, another 6 people were killed and 18 others injured in a shooting carried out in Tucson, Arizona. Again in 2012, 20 children and 6 adults no less, were shot dead in Sandy Hook Elementary School.

I am generally of sound and clear mind and correct me if I am wrong, but I cannot recall a single occasion where the word terrorism was offered, let alone used in the above contexts. The reason is clear – it was politically redundant. Americans are not terrorists by context of definition. What we are looking at is a word which is dangerously loaded with emotive capacity. Terrorism has come to mean any crime committed against the nation of America, when performed by a muslim. It is an ominously vague word which has achieved broad application both in politics and the press in making us feel a certain way about muslims. I should make clear that of course, a muslim can commit terrorism, but this does not hold connotation that this act is incontrovertibly associated to faith. It simply serves the American narrative and justifies savage and brutal overseas subjugations. Boston may yet prove to be a terrorist act but as confessed by one Phillip Mudd, CIA Deputy Director, the act has yet to demonstrate politically driven or funded extremism.

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One of the greatest social commentators of our time, George Orwell made an observation on the term, fascism.

“It will be seen that, as used, the word ‘Fascism’ is almost entirely meaningless. In conversation, of course, it is used even more wildly than in print. I have heard it applied to farmers, shopkeepers, Social Credit, corporal punishment, fox-hunting, bull-fighting, the 1922 Committee, the 1941 Committee, Kipling, Gandhi, Chiang Kai-Shek, homosexuality, Priestley’s broadcasts, Youth Hostels, astrology, women, dogs and I do not know what else.”

We are of course in a similar zeitgeist. Terrorism is what Fascism was to Orwell. The original meaning has become so distorted, it is beyond recognition, rendering it perfect for indiscriminate use, wherever possible. It is not however entirely forthcoming and often tends to represent a very establishment agenda, conveniently escaping the truth.

What terrorism represents essentially is American discourse. It represents the justification of aggressive expansionist American foreign policies and repeated and un-opposed ignorance of international law. It represents the unsaid understanding of the western world to stand by whilst drones circle above the heads of children whilst they sleep in their bed at night. The act of bombing a marathon itself was terrifying, but that does not make it terrorism. Someone needs to tell Obama that however, since he feels:

“Any time bombs are used to target innocent civilians, it’s an act of terror.”

I won’t bother to correct his terrible English, but regarding the above statement, I guess he is the expert.

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My first run in the longest time.

I’m really happy today. I’ll get to why later but for so long, this song has been spinning around in my head. It didn’t make sense particularly; it is about the love between a son and his father, particularly emphasising just how captivated the boy is by his father – overtly a beautiful charming sentiment. I’ve always loved this song, ever since I first heard it and every once in a while when I feel particularly positive about life, I feel its words tumbling from my lips. God knows, I’ve never had the best relationship with my father but I guess I must still love him on some level. You should watch it, just to have an idea of how I’m feeling at the moment.

So this morning having finished what seemed like an incessant weekend of nights, I apprehensively made my way to the gym. You’ll recall that feeling you have when you’re a girl and you’re about to embark on your first sexual encounter and everyone has told you about “the pain” and you’re so worried about “the pain”, that all you do is think about “the pain” and ultimately what results is what is essentially a prolonged (or not) friction tolerance test; not enjoying it whatsoever? Well me neither, but I imagine that’s how it must feel. I really didn’t want that pain again.

When I got to the gym, it was already pretty busy and I was lucky to get onto one treadmill; ensconced between a candidate for the world’s largest man doing his best to test the weight threshold on the machine and a petite brunette girl (bitch), donned head to toe in lycra who casually glared at me for reasons unknown. I made a mental note of this and later during my run, I was careful to shake my head towards her periodically, showering her in some of my man sweat. At one point I draped my sweaty palms across her stupid face causing her to lose balance and fly from the machine into a strategically placed dumbbell behind. No no, I kid, I didn’t actually shake my head towards her.

So I ran, and no pain! I cannot articulate how relieved that made me. My vocabulary is incapable of construing the equal quotients of relief and happiness I feel at present. Of course, there is a degree of apprehension but, no matter, I will take it easy and carry on with those ridiculous ITB exercises and hopefully, I can bore you with some more running stats! For those of you who don’t care, neither do I. Piss off.

So I ran 5k (3.16 miles) in 26 minutes 53 seconds. Average pace was some 8.34 miles/minute which is nowhere near where I have been or want to be but I care not. I’m back! Here are my splits:

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Not brilliant, as I say but it felt good to do all the same. My fitness has simply plummeted to the ground however. This is my heart rate throughout.

Screen shot 2013-04-22 at 20.44.02Look at that! Almost 180bpm with an average of about 178bpm throughout. To put it in perspective, previously I was running at a rate of 140bpm at my shorter faster runs. Absolutely incredible to see how much a few months can reduce overall aerobic capacity.

So anyway, I’m back. Back again. Shady’s back – well he can fuck off. I fucking hate Eminem.

 

 

Hungry hungry Suarez

Well, Luis Suarez got a bit bitey in that last match didn’t he? I’m not going to use this post to remind you what an awful human being he is (because fuck me, he really is), but to dedicate it to some of the more important issues that resulted. The puns.

Players on the Suarez Menu:
Aaron Hamsey
Mcdonald Mariga
Andy Carrot
Bacary Lasagna

The fang’s favourite…

13/2 for Player of the Year. Might be worth a nibble.

Suarez gives Liverpool some added bite.

Liverpool are toothless with Suarez.

Disgraceful. Luis Suarez is not being fed enough. Just £2 a month can get enough for him to stop eating footballers.

Sky are making an absolute meal of this…

Previewers have been saying “This one promises to be very tasty” about this game all year.

Suarez fights tooth and nail for Liverpool.

If it looks like a rat and bites like a rat. Its a RAT!

Chelsea were bitten by the hand that fed them.

Liverpool will send him to Chewwentus by the end of the season. That or Bayern Munching.

Branislav Ivanovic. Now there’s a mouthful.

Ivanovic is good but I couldn’t eat a whole one.

26.2 miles around London and a Plasticine faced chef

The London Marathon is on Sunday. This is normally something I find reason to get excited at, but for all intents and miserable purposes, I’m not too enthused this year. It might be because this is the third time in three years that my application has been rejected from the very outset, without any sense of indecision. I have been suspecting racial bias for some time now and am contemplating writing my expose in the coming weeks and blowing this thing out of the water. It might be that I am still slightly injured with this bothersome Ilio Tibial Band Syndrome (ITBS), which seems to be determined in tearing out any satisfaction that I might yet have gleaned in life and cheerily pissing all over it, in front of my stupid sobbing face, arse cheeks flapping in the wind. Well no, it’s probably not either of those things. What it will be though, reader, is the fact that I can expect, without any shadow of doubt the casual entry to the race of any number of inconsequential celebrity oxygen thiefs; so deprived of merit or worth, I cannot bring myself to even think of their names. Like Gordon Ramsey. You know Gordon Ramsey? Well that is the degree of unrelenting cuntage we are dealing with. I can’t stand that man and his plasticine face and the simple thought of him and his merry brigade of nobodies taking part in the marathon year upon year, troubles me more than words can say. In my mind, I am hoping that someone has the sense to tie all their shoelaces togther at the start of the race, so when the pistol fires to set the runners off, they all fall flat on their faces in earned stupid unison. Whether anyone will do that, I just don’t know, but I can hope.

In more positive news, since my recent interview has now been left in the hands of the Gods and Luther Van Dross, I can begin running again. I have put it off for long enough. These are mutually exclusive events I should add; the lack of running was due to the aforementioned ITBS and not because I am the kind of pillock who needs to take a breather from something they are apparently passionate about everytime they wake up with a bad hair day (I should add, for all of you who believe in bad hair days; they are not bad hair days – you just have shit hair. Ditto passports. Stop saying “My passport photo makes me look terrible, you mustn’t see it.” I have news. THAT PICTURE IS AN UNEQUIVOCAL MATCH FOR YOUR STUPID FACE. It is irrefutably you. Your picture is not ugly, my friend, you were just not made for the close up.)

In any case, next week I shall gingerly begin running again, in apprehension of that dull ache in the right side of my leg and of course I shall be letting you all know how things are getting on. I know my fitness must be shot to pieces, having now not run for the best part of two months. I feel more unfit than a 90 year old asthmatic grandmother going down on her grandude with wheezy vigour, choking on her ill fitting dentures. Pass the inhaler.

The Boston Marathon and the inevitable castigation of Islam and Muslims

Two days ago several explosives tore into, what was supposed to be the finishing line in one of the world’s most recognised and beloved marathons, converting one of the most enjoyable moments in the sporting calendar, to a requiem of grief and sorrow.

Speaking as an international observer, I can only empathise as to how Bostonians might be feeling at this time. To inflict such a brutal attack on an event without political affiliation is truly deplorable and I hope for a quick and speedy recovery to all of those who were injured in the attacks and an ultimate resolution to this unpleasant affair.

This aside, America reacted with familiar prejudice in the ensuing hours following the event. With literal moments having passed, conservative commentators were calling for the death of all muslims, declaring Jihad in America and calling for reform to the recently revised immigration reform. How ironic. A young Saudi man, whose biggest crime was apparently to have attended the event and been injured in it subsequently, was rugby tackled as he fled the post blast commotion. This man was flanked in hospital whilst recovering from his injuries by the FBI, questioned, mentioned as a suspect, arrested and then released in a bizarrely discriminatory fashion. No such treatment was entitled to any of the other injured patients.

The American and indeed general Western media driven demonisation of Muslims is no new thing and shows considerable and repeated oversights, with no suggestion of correction or balance. The Oslo Massacre in 2011 was peddled over and again as having been the action of muslims until Anders Breivik was sentenced. Ditto Oklahoma City in 1995. Observer bias is a persistent characteristic of western media platforms and from the moment that two planes flew into the World Trade Centre towers, the script was written.

The 2010 Terrorism Situation and Trend Report reveals some, perhaps surprising statistics on international terrorism in the European Union. In 2009, there were 294 incidents reported as terrorism. Of those 294 incidents, 237 were carried out by European separatists. Another 40 attacks were performed by anarchistic parties. 1 of these 294 were performed by a muslim group. Let me put this in another way. 0.34% of attacks were caused by muslims. David Rapoport, an expert on terrorism, referred to a current wave of terrorism neutralisation based on religion and ethnicity inspired directly as a result of that fateful 2001 morning.

I don’t expect to see any changes in the coming months or years, simply because I am not an idiot. I know more than to assume anything different in the indoctrinated eyes of the western media. What I cannot fathom however, is the unrelenting self-sympathetic agenda of the American people. On the same day as the Boston Marathon, 33 Iraqis died and 160 were injured as a result of political unrest in the middle east, a direct result of American foreign policy. 200,000 civilian men, women and children have died as a result of the ongoing conflicts in Iraq and Afghanistan. Over 2,000 Pakistanis have died as a result of American operated drone strikes since 2004. Where are the interviews with these families? Where is the media haranguing of the western politicians responsible for these relentless atrocities? Can we be assured that Obama will not rest until he has brought the perpetrators of those events, aka himself, to justice? I imagine not.

Of course, there is every chance this might be the result of a Muslim attack and for that I cannot condemn it on strong enough terms. This however does not excuse the shameless agenda to point the finger in a brown face at every turn.

As a member of the human race, I feel saddened by the news of any death inflicted by intentional violence. It is a sad world we live in, where the colour of your skin and location of your death is considered of notable precedence.