Having just refreshed the video offerings previously inhabited by ultra-obscuro Canadian proto-punk geniuses Simply Saucer, Parisian electro-punk upstarts Metal Urbain and the experimental DIY punk of the Nikki Sudden led Swell Maps, you now get to see this lot.


VIDEO BAR:

'Contact' (Brigitte Bardot).
1967 Serge Gainsbourg penned (and Michel Colombier arranged) sub-Barbarella space-love minimalism from the delectable La Bardot.
The future never looked as sexy as it did in the Sixties.

'New Age' (Chrome).
Cheapo attempt to do some kind of Clockwork Orange futureshock thing I know, but it was from the mid 80s and this is the only thing I could find from the truly great and completely overlooked post-punk proto industrial/techno band.
1979's 'Half Machine Lip Moves' LP remains their magnum opus and rivals anything contemporary progressive new wavers PIL, Gang Of Four, Cabaret Voltaire or The Pop Group produced at the time.

'Bronx Warriors Drum Solo'.
I remember excitedly sitting down to watch this film at the dawn of the video era in the early 80's and believing I was about to see the ultimate in ultra-violence (essentially some hack whose Eureka Moment was evidently welding together 'The Warriors' and 'Escape From New York'.
Which sounds a pretty fine idea to me on paper.
Sadly it was nowhere near that good and like so many of the so-called video nasties (Driller Killer, Maniac Cop, Exterminator, etc), were just essentially cheap knock-offs of better and more commercially successful genre-defining movies like the ones mentioned above.
But for whatever reason, perhaps because it was such a shameless rip-off, there's still something I really dig about it.
And then there's this drum solo.
I don't know what the fuck is going on here - some guy sitting out by the docks keeping a steady beat on his drum kit whilst a body lies face down in the Hudson with a sword arcing out of its back as Trash and his crew assemble with revenge in mind.
Or something.


LINKS:

'Metal Fingers In My Body' (Add N To (X)).
Analogue electroclash weirdness by the sadly defunct Londoners inhabiting an orbit outside that of more accessible (and better known) groups such as Stereolab and Broadcast while seemingly more directly influenced by the likes of Silver Apples and Suicide.
Some fine sub-Ballardian imagery on show here - human-robot 69 in particular.

'Rollerball' Clip.
The 70s produced so many memorable futureshock movies (The Apes series, Omega Man, Soylent Green, Silent Running, Dark Star, etc, with Rollerball being another.
This clip, when the degenerate rich entertain themselves by destroying nature for no other benefit than their amusement, was a moment I found eerily discomfiting when first watching the movie as a child.
Now I just think it looks cool.

'Beneath The Planet Of The Apes' Clip.
Another classic (and underrated) futureshock movie. This clip alone surpasses anything the first movie produced - a cult of disfigured mutant humans living underneath the ruins of post-apocalyptic New York where they worship the H-Bomb as God.
Genius.

'Le Planete Sauvage' Trailer.
An animated film I've never seen and only know from the fabulous soundtrack album by former Gainsbourg arranger Alain Goraguer and featuring moody Gallic beats sampled by the likes of MadLib amongst others.

Golf Sale Punk, Why Do You Do What You Do?

Man, this guy must have been doing that job for about five years now.
All he does is just stand there at the confluence of Poland and Oxford Streets holding onto a pole on the top of which is mounted a board bearing the legend 'Golf Sale'.
Where this is I have no idea.
I've worked around Soho for over a dozen years and I've never seen any fucking golf sale, but there he stands in his studded leather jacket and bondage trousers and his Dr Martens and his rings and his spikes and chains and studs and tattoos and all the other punk rock paraphernalia which bedeck his scrawny carcass.
It must take him ages to get all of this shit in order each morning just to go and stand on the human sewer that is Oxford Street all day long clutching a weather-beaten board advertising some mythical golf sale and all for what can't be much of a ball-hair away from minimum wage.
There he is. Playing air guitar with the board. A punk with a job.
Isn't that selling out? I mean, if you're gonna sell-out, sell OUT.
Get a real job, one that pays proper money, enough to keep you in PVC and UHU all year round.
Don't get a job that tramps and alchies customarily perform because they sold their self-respect like a child into sexual slavery years ago.
Don't do this job. Not if you clearly give enough of a shit about yourself to bother sticking together the whole gamut of your punk costume everyday.
Five years.

Before him they had some sorry middle-aged Eastern European dude who wore cheap leather slip-ons with tracksuit trousers and who had a broken drinker's face.
He was the sort of lost-it-all loser you expected to see doing this job, a man who had staggered beyond the final outpost of desperation and tumbled headlong into the arms of defeat.
And there he would stand, in the middle of hell, thousands and thousands of obnoxious, repugnant, slavering molluscs passing this invisible man-island and his fantasy golf sale while all the while he fixed his beaten stare down onto the grey concrete slabs which when wet and dirty could every now and then at least be mistaken for creating what appeared to be a smile, something never to be found in the unforgiving eyes of the lobotomised hordes of shoppers and office drones which he now could no longer evidently bear to meet.
Then one day he was out and the punk guy was in.
Plucked from a life of lingering around boarded-up shopping precincts with a can of super lager kicking puddles and occasionally unnerving some old people.
Boy did his life change for the better that day.
Where is that damn golf sale anyway? Would he even know?
Tomorrow I will ask him.

Le Tableu Noir

I have this weird hankering for a pair of burgundy coloured trousers.
Not demims, but trousers.
These probably aren't very fashionable and the only people I've ever seen wearing trousers of this hue have been either Mod retroists or tramps, so I dunno what that says about me, but hey, I've never given much of a shit about fashion, so who cares?

Anyway, on Friday I went into this shop just off Carnaby Street which sells kinda Sixties style clothes. I've passed it many times before but not being into this groove I never had any reason to venture in before, but the retro Mod thing got me thinking that they might have some burgundy trousers, which they did.

Straight away however I could tell that the ones they had were going to be too tight. They were like drainpipes. I want to wear them with motorcycle boots but there was no way I was going to get them over those.

I said this to the small middle-aged Asian woman that appeared to be running the place but she took no notice of my scepticism and persuaded me to try them on anyway.

The first pair were so tight I couldn't even do up the zip properly so I called to her and asked for a bigger pair.

But as I was stood there waiting in the changing room in my pants and socks, the curtain was suddenly yanked back exposing me to the rest of the shop and there's this little rodent faced woman stood there with the larger size.

Luckily there was no one else in the shop to see my spindly white legs or my crumpled dignity, but all the same, who the hell does this?

Then as I disgruntledly moved to redraw the curtain, I caught her momentarily giving my semi-nakedness what I felt to be a disapproving glance.

What the fuck?!

I mean, take a fucking look at yourself, sweetheart!
Four and a half foot high with a hook nose and sticky-out teeth!
You've got some mirrors in here! Use them!

Anyway, the larger pair, as I'd already guessed, were little better, especially on the leg.

I couldn't get the leg down over any part of the fucking boot.

"Ach, fuck this!" I mumbled to myself and disdainfully removed the bastards onto the floor.

No sooner had I done so however than this freak was back asking how they were and fiddling with the curtain as if about to whisk it back again.

"Em, can you give me a second there?!" I said urgently.

Eventually, back in my denims and boots I explained to her that they were too tight.

She found this difficult to accept.

"Too tight? No. These are not too tight. Maybe you need another size?"

I wasn't interested, but she began to insist forcing me into an irritated explanation of why we were both wasting our time.

"Look, these trousers are clearly supposed to be tight. I could tell that when I first saw them. I knew they wouldn't fit over my boots. Don't worry about it. Thanks for your help!"

But she was clearly not used to giving up so easily on a sale.

Her fat husband and master was probably sat in his vest watching cable TV in the backroom gnawing on a chicken leg with one ear listening in to her failing negotiating technique and his fat greasy fingers loosening his belt ready to give her a good leathering for blowing the deal, but she was getting on my tits now so I didn't give a shit.

Finally in a confused panic she said, "Well, you could wear them with shoes. These are supposed to be worn with shoes, not boots. Your boots are too wide. You need shoes for these trousers!"

Ah, the penny drops; the master's belt is off.

Desperately she tried to show me some other trousers as I made my getaway, but I was having none of it and fled leaving her to a long night gingerly dressing her welts whilst whimpering silently in some darkened bedroom.

Record Shop Boy v The Silent Stare'n'Smile Technique

Shop assistants are a weird species.
Who in their right mind would wish to willingly expose themselves to the insane horror that is the general public?
Especially in the gibbering madness that is retail?
These people ain't normal. You've gotta be some sort stunted masochist to want to endure this demented freakshow on a daily basis.
So I have no sympathy for any of them. They're fucking weirdos and deserve no pity.
And the thing that irks me most about these vermin is the way they descend upon you the second your badly dressed carcass has hobbled over their threshold, like grinning leeches or retarded trolls, hovering over your shoulder with dubious offers of help.
The only help I need, you strange bastard, is directions to the nearest Taser store so I can zap you in the face with 20,000 watts then step over your quivering blubber to find whatever the fuck it was I came in here for in the first place.

But given that this would see me probably achieve a custodial sentence of some sort, I have now developed a far less stressful but equally lethal repellent, which is this: when they ask if you need help, say nothing.
Say nothing but stare straight into their porcine eyes and allow the vaguest of smiles to spread across your lips.
I have been testing this recently and found that this freaks the bastards right out.
Under no circumstances engage in conversation. Not even mono-syllabic answers. Nothing. Just smile and stare.
This is translatable to every sinew of the retail spectrum including the cesspit that is the independent record shop.

I road tested this today in Select-A-Disc (or Sister Ray or whatever it's called nowadays) on Berwick Street.
I could tell straightaway that the geek behind the counter was of the real asshole variety: specs, Gomez t-shirt, whiteboy Afro, said nothing to me as he thrust out his wank-hand for the CD, no smile, nothing, just rudimentary independent record shop contempt.
So I deployed my silent stare'n'smile technique.
Instantly he was paralysed by fear. He was totally unprepared. He couldn't comprehend what was happening. He looked completely disorientated. Sickeningly so. I could see terror etched into all four of his little weasley eyes. His legs appeared about to buckle underneath him. He handed me the CD. His face was white. I cranked up the Mona Lisaesque smile a notch. He retched. I left.
Remember my face, for I will return. Pray you are not working that day!

BELGIAN HANDJOBS & DANISH PASTRIES

“£2.50?! For a Danish pastry?! Christ, I can get a wank in Belgium for a

tenner, sweetheart!”

So said an overweight labourer to the girl behind the till in the bakers beloved

of working-class navvies, Gregg’s, the other day where I was waiting patiently

in the queue to purchase a couple of jumbo sausage rolls.

Which baffled me.

I didn’t understand the point he was endeavouring to make.

Obviously he felt that £2.50 was too much for a Danish pastry, but his

attempt to highlight this by relating it to the cost of procuring, from a

prostitute I’m supposing, manual stimulation of his engorged member in

Belgium, wasn’t immediately apparent.

At that moment I had no way of knowing whether or not this was value for

money or not, having never paid for the privilege in Belgium myself.

Belgian prostitutes, I would imagine, were as adept as any, irrespective of

nationality, at the relatively simplistic process of stimulating the erect

male organ to the point of ejaculation, so from a western perspective I’m

guessing, particularly for an EU member country, that the equivalent of

£10 for masturbation is actually relatively little. However, I also suspect that in

less prosperous nations the same act could be bought for infinitely less.

What this therefore suggested to me was, that if soliciting someone else

to stroke his penis for as little money as possible was how he enjoyed

spending his earnings whilst abroad, then perhaps he should consider

travelling further afield, for example, to the Philippines or Cambodia

where past experience has taught me that this activity is indeed available

for considerably less than £10 if you shop around a bit.


However, such an original exclamatory statement clearly deserved more

rumination than merely examining his construction of an accurate

cost-scale ratio of Belgian handjobs to Danish pastries I felt.

Did this pig-eyed character with a face like a glazed ham possess a more

comprehensive set of figures gleaned from increasingly gratuitous sexual favours

on offer in the Lowlands with which to determine the true cost of all manner of

items for sale in Britain’s high streets I wondered.

For instance, was he to be heard whilst in some dreadful high street fashion store

such as Top Shop buying a sweater:

"£20?! You can get a blow-job in Belgium for that much mate!"

Or in the electrical outlet Dixons browsing for a CD/Radio/Cassette deck:

"£50?! You can get a shag in Belgium for that much mate!"

Or in gaudy furniture chain DFS buying a three piece suite:

"£1000?! You can get a drug-fuelled orgy with two rentboys in Belgium

for that much mate!"

Or in a second hand car lot buying a used BMW: "£10,000?! You can

sodomise a classroom of underage schoolboys in Belgium for that much

mate!”

Where did it end?

Returning to his lack of global awareness on these matters however, I

realised that in hindsight, after he’d harangued the peasant girl in Gregg’s

for the exorbitant cost of the Danish pastries by equating them with the fiscally

favourable price a handjob could be procured in Belgium, I should have

retorted with, “Ten quid?! For a wank?! You can buy a harem of underage

sex slaves in Burma for that much, mate!”


Was this skewed fiscal logic deployed by any other people in life beyond that of

oafish British labourers I then wondered further.

Did terrorists balk at the price of semtex with similar comparisons?

“£100?! For a kilo?! I can get a threesome with a couple of western harlots for

that much in Belgium, Ali!”

Or were terrorists similarly outraged by the price of Danish pastries that they too

were often moved to berate the employees of high street bakeries in the UK

with the economic extrapolation the cost plastic explosives were available for

in Belgium?


But it was the choice of Belgium in relation to red light district activity that was

perhaps the most unusual aspect of this entire incident; the Flemish country not

being one I immediately associate with cut-price sexual favours.

But then, perhaps that's just me.

Perhaps this gentlemen was not really a labourer at all but instead a

representative of a radical wing of the Belgian Tourist Board posing as a gruff

brickie in order to spread the word around British building sites that sexual

favours were to be solicited for eyebrow-raisingly favourable prices in Belgium

thereby, albeit in questionable circumstances, attracting a greater volume of

foreigners into the country who had previously thought it was only good for

chocolate and bureaucracy.

Of course, it was then only a matter of time before it finally dawned on me that

converse to this oik's original proclamation, cake-loving British fatties may

similarly be heard balking at the cost of handjobs in UK brothels.

“£50!?! I can get the same number of Danish pastries in Belgium for that much,

sweetheart!”

And so finally, all of this having shot through my already frazzled head in the time

it had taken the brazen builder to fork over the cash for his Danish pastries; which

he bought despite his vocal recalcitrance; I came to pay for my two jumbo sausage rolls.

“£1?! For a couple of sausage rolls?! I can buy three goats, a sack of rice,

two dozen hand grenades and a year's supply of children in Chad for that much, sweetheart!”

Which is what passed through my mind, but not actually my cracked lips.

You see, I already knew that two jumbo sausage rolls cost £1 in Gregg’s and felt them to

be, given the exorbitance of most other food items in central London, especially for those

in such dire financial circumstances as myself, bloody good value for money as it happens.

- Lord Montague Byron-Swade