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  • CONFESSIONS OF A SPAMBOT! (18+)

    My name's Tile - Maurice Tile. Between 1983 and 1999, I was a successful cleaning products salesman, racking up profits as I roamed, suitcase in hand, from door to door, across the land. On 8th October 1999, I was in Hastings, attempting to flog some discount scouring pads and mop heads, when a small private jet plummeted from the sky, landing on my Volvo and completely mangling my body. 

    Cybernetic scientists rushed me to a top security facility - my years of sales and marketing experience deemed too valuable to be allowed to perish! After months of surgery and coma-induced fantasy, I awoke in a private ward. A nurse wheeled me towards a mirror and slowly unpeeled my bandages...the shock nearly sent me back into my comatose state! Whether I was now man or machine, I cannot truly tell. All I know is that the desire to make a quick buck burned more fiercely inside me than ever before! 

    A doctor took me aside and explained what had happened. I had been rebuilt as a SPAMBOT, and my new marketplace was to be...the World Wide Web! To the people living around me, I would just be plain old Maurice Tile - your average guy next door! But as soon as I connected to the internet, I would morph into MAURICE TILE - spambot extraordinaire, clogging up bandwidth with my relentless marketing overkill!

    I was flown to a warehouse in Copenhagen, patrolled by armed guards. "Behold!" yelled Dr Ometoso, motioning towards several thousand containers, each stencilled with the legend VIAGRA. "The new world currency!" the quack gurgled excitedly. "Tile, your mission is to shift every last ounce of this stuff by the end of the month - another 10,000-box consignment's due in soon!"

    I traipsed down the street, breathlessly, until I found an internet cafe'. Logging onto the Net, I felt my synapses crackle! Working at inhuman speed, I fired off 13 million emails around the world in 20 seconds. Orders began to flood in - within 5 minutes, I'd sold 9,000 boxes of Viagra. I moved from Blog to Blog, filling thousands of comments boxes with junk in the time it would take the average 'human' to enter their Yahoo password! Bloggers wept and cursed, as their lovely posts about hauntology were buried beneath a welter of spam! I, MAURICE TILE, was truly the ULTIMATE SPAMBOT! 

    A buzzing in my frontal lobe signaled the arrival of a new psychic email...from Dr Ometoso! "TEXAS HOLD'EM!" he ranted. "SHIFT, SHIFT, SHIFT! EMPHASIS ON CASINO OFFERS, WE NEED 50 MILLION MESSAGES OUT THERE BY 14.50 GMT! DO NOT FAIL US, TILE!"

    MSN had a seizure and collapsed as I saturated the net with gambling promos. I was just about to take out AOL too, when, suddenly - 

    A hand grabbed my collar, spinning me round in my swivel seat, and pulling me away from the monitor. "BASTARD!" a voice howled, as a fist connected with my face, sending me sprawling onto the internet cafe' floor!

    I couldn't believe my eyes - it was Brian Frinton, the Tottenham-based trading standards officer! "You can call me...FIREWALL FRINTON!" he sneered. "I was hit by a high-speed train in 2000, after my dog strayed onto the line," he explained. "However, cybernetic scientists managed to re-build my twisted body with McAfee VirusScan. You're nuffink but a common spambot, Tile - and I'm putting a stop to your little game!" And, that said, he yanked the modem lead out of its socket!

    "YOU'LL NEVER TAKE ME, FRINTON!" I roared, lunging for his (etc, etc)



    12:54 PM

  • 5 RECORDS THAT APPEARED TO ME IN DREAMS

    1) Prince Jammy presents....SPIDERMAN GOES MAD

    Presumably a lost 'dub' classic - but hey, you know the way dreams go...it could have been C&W for all I know. Sadly I woke up before I got the chance to play it. Brilliant full colour, cartoon front cover, with an extremely vexed Spiderman bursting out of the sleeve, while the back cover featured comic strip panels depicting Spidey beating up Prince Jammy in his studio; hurling a plantpot through a window; and punching a traffic warden. One track was called "STAMMER AND TACKLE DUB". I can honestly say I would trade half my reggae CDs for a copy of this. Which, as it doesn't exist, is unlikely to surface any time soon.

    2) Various 7"s - Tippa Irie, Lloydie Crucial, Panhead

    This trio of platters seemed to be part of a series of 'answer records' pertaining to a character called "Michael", allegedly the organiser of a community centre in Notting Hill, who seems to have become embroiled in some sort of controversy. The Tippa Irie tune celebrates Michael's receipt of an OBE, and congratulates him for putting Notting Hill on the map. Why Tippa would care about West London seeing as he's from South is beyond me. Lloydie Crucial is better known for producing early-90s jungle anthems than reggae 7"s (maybe, in dream 'WTF?-ness', he was standing in for Leslie Lyrix?), but he weighs in anyway, with a venomous sideswipe at Michael, claiming that the OBE's turned him into a bighead, and arguing Plenty pickney getting bored while Michael sip tea with the Queen. Panhead adds to the debate (presumably following the developments from his home in Jamaica), retorting that Michael is innocent and should be reinstated in his role at the community centre. EH? Presumably there's a few more records in this non-existent series that explain how or why Michael got the chop. If I come across them in another dream, I'll let you know.

    3) Pixie - Fuck the Nation

    That's Pixie as in Pamela Colman Smith, who designed the Rider-Waite tarot cards. You can see a really cool pic of her in Google Images, she's got a mental hat...or is it her hair-do? She obviously left an impression on my subconscious - she looks like she'd be fun to get drunk / do laudanum with - as I dreamed she recorded an LP called, rather improbably, "Fuck the Nation". Yeah, yeah - I know - you'd put £10 on it sounding like Ruth White or Delia Derbyshire or something. But it was quite raucous and shouty, if memory serves me well. Wouldn't have been out of place on the Praxis label, with loads of high-pitched screaming and saucepan-bashing. Sadly, I was playing it in a flat containing a dead body, and me and a girlfriend were getting quite frantic, working out how we'd dispose of the corpse without being arrested and wondering how easy it'd be to saw off a limb with a cook's knife. I was glad to wake up from that one. 

    4) Crass - Clockwatching flexi 7"

    I can't believe I liked Crass so much as a youngster that I used to dream about them too. I haven't a clue what this sounds like, as the dream mostly consisted of me trying to deliver the item to a cow shed in the middle of nowhere, and continually losing it in an airport. I think I had to make 4 tape copies of it and send it to some people, as part of whatever courier deal I was running. Didn't make much sense. Dreams seldom do. I don't even have an abusive, wicked uncle to blame all this shit on. 

    5) The DAF live box set

    Did you know that DAF reformed for some one-off reunion gigs in 2004, and recorded these for a quadruple box set? NO? Did you also know that, between tracks, they launched into stand-up comedy routines? I got as far as Allied bombs flattened Dresden...but at least the pigeons stopped shitting on me! before I woke up, laughing my arse off. So much for po-faced Teutonic types...oh, hang on. This never happened, except in my head. 
    4:09 PM
    • Post a comment...
      • John Eden

        I really really want all of these to exist... NOW!

        3 years ago

  • BTi presents...a rollercoaster tale of romance and obsession..."DEATH COMES WEEPING!" (18+)

    Me and Jenny had been going out for 18 months and, despite her awful collection of Oi! records, things were going well. I loved my feathercut knuckle girl and was pretty sure she was the one I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. Like I said, things were really good between us - until April.

    One day, Jenny casually mentioned that she'd befriended a Pierrot. At first, I just laughed it off - I didn't know why she'd want to waste her time with some fucking weepy clown, and guessed she'd soon get bored. But, as time went by, she began to hang around with him more and more. We'd meet up for a drink and she'd spend half an hour telling me about the Pierrot's problems! I tried to play it cool, but it was getting under my skin.

    "He sounds like a right wanker, no wonder he got dumped!" I laughed.

    "You're so cruel, Dave," Jenny snapped. "He's a really nice person, he just needs a lot of sympathy and support!"

    Our evenings would end in an argument and a silent bus ride back home. The Pierrot was driving me round the bend. Things came to a head in May, when I scored two tickets to go and see Michael Jackson, on the evening of my birthday. I called Jenny at her workplace to tell her the good news, but her supervisor said she'd called in sick. When I got home, I excitedly flashed her the tickets. 

    "Oh," she said. "Dave, I'm sorry, I can't make that night - the Pierrot's having a party- he invited me and I promised..."

    "Fuck's sake!" I thundered. "It's Michael Jackson's farewell tour! How can you miss THIS for some pyjama-wearing poof and a few camparis?"

    "Don't call him that!" Jenny raged. "And anyway, why did you bother buying a ticket for me? You know I don't like Michael Jackson"

    "Well, I don't like The Business, but I went all the way to fucking Kent to see them with you!" I countered. "Anyway, where were you today? I rang your workplace and they said you were off sick! You were...you were seeing the Pierrot again, weren't you?"

    "So what if I was?" Jenny yelled. "He was feeling down, we went to Hyde Park for a walk and a chat."

    "That bastard's always feeling down!" I screamed. "There's fucking people getting gunned down in Iran, and he just simpers about in make up, feeling sorry for himself!"

    "I hate you!" she roared, grabbing her Harrington and storming out.

    I was determined to sort this once and for all. Jenny'd left her mobile on the sofa, so I picked it up and flicked through it. 189 messages from the Pierrot! "THANK U 4 BEING A FRIEND XX" read one, with a picture of a teddy bear's head. I couldn't believe my skinhead girlfriend was texting this loser! 

    I hit 'REPLY' and typed in "HI, ITS JENNY. MEET ME ROUND MINE IN 30 MINS". Shit, I was out of control! But I had to see the bastard in the flesh and warn him off her! To my disgust, he texted back almost immediately - "ON MY WAY, CANT WAIT XX :-)". I went into the kitchen and pulled a knife from the cupboard. I was gonna give the cunt something to REALLY cry about!

    20 minutes later - the bell rang! I flung open the door, grabbed the Pierrot by the throat and dragged him inside. He screeched and burst into tears as I booted him in the ribs and up the arse, as he tried to curl up in a ball on the floor. I then hauled him to his feet, punched his cap off and slammed his face into the wall. He let out a volley of sobs as blood gushed from his broken nose. I kneed him in the bollocks, waving the knife in his face, shouting: "You EVER come near...."

    Suddenly - the front door swung open - Jenny had returned! "What the - JESUS CHRIST! DAVE, WHAT ARE YOU DOING, YOU FUCKING PSYCHO? LEAVE HIM ALONE!" She head-butted me and ran over to fondle the Pierrot, who was crying his eyes out and bleeding heavily all over his costume. "J-Jenny...I th-thought you wanted to thee me!" he bawled through a gobful of bloody snot, as she cradled his head and shot me a look of pure contempt. 

    "You sick wanker!" she snarled. "You don't know what you've gone and done!"

    "Fuck it!" I howled. "I've seen your phone! 189 fucking messages! Texting each other night and day! Come on, how long have you been screwing each other! HOW LONG? You cheating bitch! Have you fucked him in our bed?? How could you do this to ME?"

    Jenny suddenly calmed down, and fixed me with a frosty glare, as the Pierrot continued to sob and shudder in her arms. "Take a look at his face," she ordered, dabbing away some of the blood with a Fred Perry handkerchief. I did a double take and gasped...it couldn't be...it couldn't...

    ...he looked just like...

    "I know how much you love Michael Jackson," she hissed. "He's been really down recently and he just needed a mate, someone to talk to, especially with his marathon farewell tour coming up! So, when I told him you were a massive fan, he agreed to arrange a special backstage party before the gig, as a surprise for your birthday! You were meant to offer your spare ticket to my mate Liz and go with her - only to find me and Michael waiting for you at the venue, with several bottles of champagne!"

    "Oh my God," I groaned, feeling a migraine coming on. "What have I done?"

    "And check out the plastic bag behind the sofa!" she fumed. I went into the living room, located the bag and peeked inside. It was my entire collection of Michael Jackson LPs - each one signed by Jacko himself, with a cheery dedication to "MY MAIN MAN - DAVE!" "I got Michael to sign them for you today, when we met in Hyde Park," she snorted. "Now I realise I shouldn't have bothered!" 

    "Please," I whimpered.

    "Oh, fuck off," she snapped. "We're over. I don't wanna be with some jealous, psychotic nut! Have a nice life." And then she and Michael left. 

    A month later, Michael flew to LA to rehearse for his tour, where, unfortunately, he had a heart attack and died. So, I lost both Jenny AND my only chance of seeing the King of Pop perform live. Still, I've learned a valuable lesson from all of this. Don't always make assumptions about other people, or jump to conclusions about why they're doing things - the truth may just surprise you. 


    11:54 AM

  • THE TOP 5 RAUNCHIEST SONGS EVER &hearts ! (warning - steamy adult content)

    1) KALYANJI-ANANDJI - "Dance Music" ('Commander' soundtrack)

    Epic 70s Bollywood disco slow-grind - so utterly dripping with wanton debauchery, the original record goes for £300, purely to prevent children from stumbling across it. I'm pretty convinced this was recorded in the middle of a forest of aluminium palm trees, inside some impenetrably dark nightclub, with the 'singer' spinning around on a revolving, zebra-skin water bed, beneath a neon purple light. I say 'singer' cos she actually just 'la-la-la's a bit and lets loose some of the most decadent orgasmic groans ever committed to vinyl, all over a squiggly synth, with the odd burst of mocking laughter. There's also a bit that sounds like a budgie playing the kazoo. This is, without doubt, the true sound of S.E.X and, if Kalyanji-Anandji had been rightly venerated (along with RD Burman) as the foremost producers in their field (instead of miserable corpses like George Martin or homicidal nutjobs like Phil Spector), then maybe Madonna wouldn't have bothered boring our arses off with her pathetic, cynical, self-absorbed stabs at creating the sort of 'sexy music' that only a repressed Tory backbencher could seriously get off on.

    2) RATS - "Tattoo" ('Nice Tracks' LP)

    Rats were an early 80s no-wave/post-punk/whatever group from Italy who released a brilliant LP called "C'est Disco", then a track on this comp, before disappearing (sadly, they later reformed as some fucking dismal rock band, without lead vocalist Claudia Lloyd). "Tattoo" is a really sublime slice of Mediterranean pop with ethereal guitars and low-key, seductive vocals dipping in and out of the mix. My Italian is very poor, so I don't know what she's saying, but that's irrelevant anyway. I once saw an interview with Scottish drug enthusiast Irvine Welsh, where he said that if you didn't end up rutting to Marvin Gaye's "What's Going On", you didn't have a sex drive. If he'd heard this, he wouldn't have made such a rash statement - and he might have written some better hochmagandy scenes too.

    3) Z-FACTOR - "I Like To Do It In Fast Cars" (12")

    Some American electro obscurity, with a bloke and bird discussing their preference for messing about in motors. Admittedly, this is more 'snorting coke off a Lambourghini (sp?) steering wheel' than 'a quick bunk-up in Tony's V-reg Estate round the corner from Mirage in Luton'. I've never had a fast car, but I'd love to gun one down the Amalfi Coast at a ridiculous speed while playing the second Suicide album. Unfortunately, there's a pile of complete and utter wank in the world called 'capitalism' and I was born on the wrong side of the fence to realise this dream any time soon. Still, some of you on Myspace are famous musicians - go on. Just a couple of hundred grand...you can afford it, you liars. The tune is far better than anything Kraftwerk ever recorded, and ends with an almighty crash, for all you JG Ballard fans. Incidentally, when I was going through my uniform fetish phase (back in my 20s sometime, I can't remember exactly), I was never into nurses, nazi commandants, policewomen (spit) or any of that sub-Jim Davidson shit. Girls in RAC breakdown clobber - that did it for me.

    4) SYLVESTER - "I Need Somebody to Love Tonight" (12")

    I reckon this is producer Patrick Cowley's finest moment, though feel free to tell me to fuck off and that "Menergy" was better. Doesn't make you right though! If we'd sent this track to Mars, Earthlings would probably enjoy a slightly better reputation across the solar system - instead of being constantly referred to as "that bunch of subnormal cunts who've only got as far as H-Bombs and Twitter". But what did we transport to Mars instead? A Blur track. Thank fuck the rocket crashed. Here, over one of the most hypnotic disco riffs ever conceived , Sylvester makes a plea for contact and lurve so spine-chillingly heartfelt it makes you want to lamp Morrissey for all that whining he did about going home alone one night. Who the hell's that self-pitying joker to tell US "Oh, shut your mouth"?

    5) BLOOD AND ROSES - "Spit Upon Your Grave" ('Love Under Will' 12")

    I also went through a goth fetish phase, many (blood red) moons ago. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to make a commitment to this subculture - something about wearing a frilly ruff, growing my hair long, wearing make up and taking Mick Mercer seriously that turned me off. But how can anyone hate goths? How can anyone hate furries for that matter? Check out the pictures of furverts dancing on the "History is Made at Night" blog (oh just google it, I hate doing links) - how could you harbour any malice towards these folks? Fuck the Martians and their superior intellect, I'd rather stay on a planet where people unashamedly dress as foxes and racoons. Well, I know who I'd rather go out raving with, anyway. OK, goths haven't helped their cause with those boots with 5" soles, nor all that neo-folk tripe, but the snakebites'n'black and fascination with Mary Shelley I can handle. Sadly, many members of this tribe tend to be wary of non-goth paramours, so I couldn't even persuade them to pop round BTi towers for a gander at my blue vinyl copy of "Bela Lugosi's Dead", just cos I was sporting a pair of Wranglers. I guess if you wanna get down and dirty to this song, you'd better be semi-interested in doing so on a witch's tombstone at midnight. For my money, it's pure rock n roll sleaze, and possibly the best thing the Banshees never recorded - but then again, that probably isn't hard, arf arf!

    What you waiting for? Crack out the poppers and get freaky.
    11:52 PM

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