Outlaw Order: Death in the Wild West #1

People have been debating the legitimacy of many of the tales of the wild west for the past 100 years, whether the blood-thirsty outlaws of legend were real or just the product of dime novels and drunken lip smacking. The many legends of the west, and there are more than you can count, have all been tested, some debunked and some validated, what is known for sure is that this was a time of lawlessness, debauchery, gang banging and indiscriminate violence. Another reality of the wild west is that every one of its central figures ended their stories in a hail or bullets or with a rope taut around their neck.

Crawford Goldsby

1876 - 1896

Crawford Goldsby, better known as Cherokee Bill, was truly one of the final death twitches of the lawless west. His twenty year existence was comparable to that of Billy the Kid's, almost ten years of notoriety under his belt before finding himself on the knotted end of a rope. He had even been described as a "bloodthirsty mad dog who killed for the love of killing."

Though there are many similarities between the two, legend has it that Goldsby had killed his first man five years before the Kid, at the age of 12. Not only that, but Goldsby was justice fucked a year earlier than the Kid. His final words before getting the rope? "I came here to die, not make a speech."

Jesse James

1847-1882

Perhaps one of the most (in)famous outlaws of all time, Jesse James was the true innovator of organized crime in the wild west. Alongside his brother Frank, he formed The James-Younger Gang, and putting their confederate army training to use, they robbed just about anything they could carry. Despite being hailed as a Robin Hood figure, there doesn't seem to be any evidence to show that The James Gang shared their riches with anyone. Obviously the dime novels of the time took serious liberties and made a hero out of one of America's most notorious gangsters.

The law never managed to catch up with Jesse, ironically enough, it was his own associate, Robert Ford, that assassinated him in their hideout in order to collect the substantial bounty that had been placed on his head.

Wild Bill Hickok

1837 - 1876

Nope, Frank Zappa wasn't a lawman and as far as I know he had nothing to do with the gold rush in Deadwood, South Dakota. However, Wild Bill Hickok sure was and he sure did. While the legitimacy of many of Wild Bill's exploits are up for debate, and his body count greatly exaggerated, he has nonetheless become a huge part of American folklore, and like many heroes of the wild west, his candle was blown out before it could expire.

Wild Bill was your quintessential gunslinger, a talented marksman, a chronic gambler and a fish for whisky. Legend has it that Bill thrust nine inches of steel death into a cinnamon bear that had attacked him in his sleep. Impressive as it is to have walked away with your life in that grizzly scenario, Wild Bill eventually met his maker in a much less likely setting, the poker table. A notorious alcoholic and gambler, Jack McCall, or "Crooked Nose Jack", emptied his pistol into the back of Bill's head during a game. Hickok died with a handful of aces and eights, now known as "the dead man's hand".

Big Harpe

???? - 1799

Back in January, I wrote a little bit about the murderous Harpe brothers (You can read it here), and to say that Micajah "Big" Harpe was a cold-blooded son of a bitch would be a huge understatement. The man was the prototype for the American serial killer and his murderous legacy is embedded deeply into the nation's folklore. To say as little as possible; Big Harpe enjoyed killing people, and he indulged himself every chance he could get. It has proven impossible to scrub away the stains that he and his cousin left on the soil of the American Midwest.

Big Harpe's death was as dramatic and brutal as his two year campaign of terror. A posse that had been tracking him and his family for days finally caught up with them and an all out horseback chase ensued. Harpe took a number of bullets during the chase and was eventually incapacitated. The late 1700s was a very disorganized time for law and order, the federal marshals hadn't long been founded and so dispensing justice was largely the responsibility of the public. In the case of Big Harpe, payback came in the form of decapitation. His head was left in a tree nearby a crossroads, which is to this day known as "Harpe's Head."

Musicians that could beat up Robb Flynn (Machine Head) in a fight.

The more things change...

Machine Head's Robb Flynn is known to run his mouth off about everyone and everything that doesn't ring his bell. He's insulted more artists in the press than he's recorded albums over the last twenty years. He's claimed that there's nothing dangerous about music anymore, completely dismissing the flourishing underground metal and punk scenes. He's complained about Avenged Sevenfold's "cover album", when he himself recorded a Nu-metal album in his youth. He's gotten into media bitch fights with Kerry King and DJ Lethal. He's complained about social media and the Internet...via the Internet. And finally, he recently gave his expert opinion on music and how none of "us" care about it enough anymore, despite the fact that no one has any money to splurge out on another generic groove metal album.

So, Robb likes to talk smack about things. That's perfectly reasonable, I like to talk smack about things too. I probably deserve a good arse tanning for 90% of the shit I've talked on this very blog. However, sometimes opinions turn into fightin' words, and I imagine Robb Flynn wouldn't stand a flipper baby's chance against the following musicians.

TALK SHIT, GET HIT. SON.

The keyboard player from Sparks

Fast forward to 1:06

Few people inspire the kind of fear that Sparks' keyboard player deals like cards on a blackjack table. He can sit there for hours, hammering out notes and staring into the abyss, but we all know that the abyss is staring into him.

Hulk Hogan

He released a rap album, this counts.

Corporate leg-dropper Hulk Hogan has pimped himself out for the last thirty years and in doing so has attached his name to everything from bobble heads to spaghetti hoops. Unfortunately for Robb Flynn, Hogan also has a habit of attaching his boot to people's faces.

Doyle Wolfgang Von Frankenstein

Doyle looks like Frankenstein. He could probably open a jar of marmite with his pecks. If the fucker even approaches you, you should probably hope that he's looking for directions and not your skull.

79-year-old Charles Manson

Robb Flynn has made some ridiculous comments during his career, but if anyone can out-crazy him, it's Uncle Charlie. Even at 5'2 and 89 years old, I reckon Manson would make Flynn squeal. That, or have one his drugged-up acolytes do it for him. Either way is fun.

The short-lived B-52's Flintstones tribute act

The B-52s, one of the most fun and energetic bands of their time, would have no problem disposing of Robb Flynn like wet tissue paper. Not a lot of people know this, but the Love Shack doubles as a serial killer's murder lab. That's where the dude from the Manic Street Preachers is.

The Blue Man Group, even without the blue

The Blue Man Group never shy away from a fight. Robb Flynn would make one snarky comment on press day about the performance trio's gimmick, and he'd soon find himself on the mean end of a lead pipe. The BMG don't fuck around and they're best not to be fucked with.

Jackie Chan

It's Jackie Chan for fuck sake, of course he'd take Flynn to school like a crying child. You should be surprised that Jackie has had a pretty successful music career. He's probably made more money as a musician than Flynn, too. That makes me smile.

The dead guy from INXS

Death via autoerotic asphyxiation has to rank high in the top list of ways to fuck yourself up, so Michael Hutchence knows how to fuck someone up. Necromancy (actually, all black magic) is still illegal in Ireland, so I'm told, but so is molesting children and the priests still do it. So maybe reanimating Hutchence for the sole purpose of beating up Robb Flynn wouldn't be such a bad idea. It'd be like Trent Reznor fighting a pussy Zakk Wylde.

Spermswamp

Not much is know about Spermswamp, other than his (I'm assuming this is one guy) makes the kind of woeful pornogrind that only Spanish crusties and nudists would care to indulge in. However, though Spermswamp's identity is somewhat of a mystery, I imagine he's developed quite a powerful fisting arm.

These creepy North Korean kids

Even North Korean children are frightening. These automaton cabbage patch kids could probably even rival Flynn's guitar wankery. They'd certainly outnumber him and they're probably highly skilled marksmen because if you live in North Korea, chances are you're ready to open fire on Westerners on sight. 

Blind Willie Johnson at his blindest and deadest

Dead as he his and blind as he was, good ol' Willie Johnson was no stranger to fighting. The man started a riot in a New Orleans court house simply by playing a tune on his ol' geetar, imagine what he could if he really hated someone, if he weren't so fucking dead.

100th Post Extravaganza

100                                   wun

100              one hundred 

 Onehundred

wan hunner

 Wun hutrt

100 and counting

Ask Nora #3

Back like a bad rash, it's Ask Nora!

If I can see you - why can't you see me?
Mysterious Nigel

Unfortunately after a serious accident involving a spork, a frisky Belgian and a slip and slide, I lost the ability to see anything within the Mysterious Spectrum. It’s like colour blindness, but with mystery, and I’m pretty sensitive about my disability. Thanks for bringing it up, dick.

I’m writing this while driving at 220 mph on the Autobahn just outside Dusseldorf. My mother’s head is on the dashboard in front of me and the rest of her is in the passenger seat. We had a small accident with a circular saw. My question is, should I take her to the hospital for treatment or should I just accept this as our life now?

Thank you in advance.

Accept it as your life obviously. How could you possibly want to give up on what is clearly a golden opportunity to team up with her as a crime fighting duo? Mother & Son – Birthing the World from the Womb of Justice. Travelling from place to place, solving crimes and cracking puns like “Crime is no way to get a head in life” and “My Mother would escort you to prison, but she’s got no body to go with” and “Shit, I decapitated my mother”…Hmm…That last one might need some work but you get the idea.

If humans had tails, what do you think they'd look like? I think they'd be like rats tails but shorter, fatter and more fleshy but I'm sure there are other possibilities holy shit how did I make it italics and how do I turn it off.

I think you might be right, but I’d prefer them to be more like a red panda’s. Them things are fluffy as hell. You’d have a duster AND a pillow built into your spinal cord. If that’s not living the high life, I don’t know what is. I may just have very low standards of living though. Also, Ctrl + I.

What do you think she'd be like if the statue of liberty could talk?

Well she was built in France and has been in New York a damn long time, so she’d be a French Yank. A Frank. Which makes her sound like a man. Holy shit, the Statue of Liberty is Transgender. I’VE SOLVED THE MYSTERY!

Where is the female clitoris located? is it on the leg? Is that why people hate Chaffing so much? I'm so confused, help!

I want to help, but I feel like really the only help I can give you (and the vaginally endowed half of the population) is to tell you to never touch a woman. It just sounds like you trying to finger someone will be more akin to a vigourous thigh prodding rather than something pleasurable. All women encounter at some point a person who is convinced they’re treating the clitoris to a fiesta of sensations but in reality is being about as arousing as a striptease from Pennywise the Clown. You sound firmly in this category. There is no saving you. Go. Be free. Be abstinent. Maybe remove your fingers just to be safe.

Your column is sinful and I'll shut it down. You don't know me and can't find me. Heh heh heh.
Love Dave.
If anyone has any information on the whereabouts of this master of disguise and subterfuge, please email us at thatmakesitnotnora@hotmail.com. We are clearly dealing with a terrorist of huge skill and importance. All we have is his full name and email address, we need your help to identify and locate this man and bring him to justice.

Get your questions in to thatmakesitnotnora@hotmail.com or eat a bowl of shit.

Cinema's finest moments #2

Ken'ichi Endô shoots smack so he can remove himself from a dead girl (Visitor Q, 2001)

A Takashi Miike film is like a harsh noise gig in the basement of a massage parlour. It's sleazy, dangerous, and leaves your senses curled up in the foetal position, drenched in piss. I've always had nothing but praise for Miike and everything he's done for cinema, he's been a huge inspiration for my own writing and always will be, but sometimes (Actually, most of the time) a Miike film can cross boundaries that you didn't even know you'd etched into your brain.

Visitor Q is one of my all time favourite films. You could say that it was a huge inspiration for the French New Extremity movement, a movement that I'm certainly no fan of, but because those films lacked the poetry and disfigured humor that Miike has been peddling for the last twenty two years. He'd perfected absurdity and grit long before young directors started pushing 85 minute long torture porn flicks. For a man who has been in the industry for a long time and amassed a protracted filmography, he has never pandered to an audience that wouldn't understand the kind of work he deals. Visitor Q, arguably his most inaccessible work to date, isn't an easy film to swallow, even for those that do understand Miike's punk rock philosophy.

To list off every inhuman atrocity that appears in Visitor Q would be to write out the entire script for you, but there is one stand-out scene that not only defies the laws of decency, but squats over them and squeezes out a steamy one.

I'd like to start off by saying that Ken'ichi Endô is a fantastic actor and deserves all of the big gigs he's had over his career (Crows Zero, Cromartie High, Dead or Alive 2: Birds, to name a few), but if anyone else had agreed to do what he did in Visitor Q, they'd probably have been kicked out of the film industry. So without going into too much detail, here's the scene that could have proven to be a career killer for a lesser talent;

Endô plays the deeply disturbed and perverted father of the Yamazaki family, Kiyoshi. Over the course of the film he has been flirting heavily with his female co-worker, who seems to laugh off all of his attempts at seducing her. Kiyoshi becomes infuriated by the rejection, follows her, sexually assaults her and chokes her to death. Uh-oh.

Things get even worse for Kiyoshi, however, far fucking worse. He takes the dead woman back to his house with the intention of chopping up her remains, but just like any other fucked-up salaryman, he decides to put the boots to her body one last time before he gets rid of her. Again, Kiyoshi finds himself in deep shit (literally, just watch the movie), and realizes that he can't remove himself from the woman due to the tightening of her muscles from rigor mortis.

Luckily, Kiyoshi long-suffering heroin addict wife comes to the rescue and places her husband, who is still genitally attached to the dead woman, into a bath rub. After a number of attempts to free himself from her, the wife has an idea. She whips out a bag of China white and administers a hot shot to her worried husband, and sure as day, his stiffy turns to an iffy. The couple share a heart-warming family moment together and CUT! Que a resounding "awww" from the studio audience.

I highly recommend this film for anyone with a tough stomach and with somewhat higher standards in their choices in disgusting and absurd cinema. You won't see a teenage girl being tortured and raped for two hours, the way most of the "shock" films seem to be headed these days, but you will get a well structured and genuinely interesting painting of the world's most dysfunctional family, even if that painting is dotted with feces and breast milk.

Observing the occult; An Interview with a Wiccan.

A few months ago I began a project to delve as deeply as I could into the occult, in all of its forms, without actually practicing it myself. I'd become interested after reading Peter J. Carroll's Liber Null (1978), and though I poked fun at Carroll and the book in an article not long after finishing it, I wanted to read more. After weeks of sifting through odd library books and trying to separate the fact from the fabricated on all the expansive electronic resources the Internet had to offer, I realized that reading was only going to count for half of the job. There'd have to be footwork and there'd have to be faces.

Without knowing where to start, I found myself back on the Internet. I was worried about the credibility of any sources I might find there, but after speaking privately with a number of people involved with modern paganism and witchcraft, the shovel found the chest. Unfortunately, like a number of other projects I had in the pipeline, my adventure into the occult was cut short by declining health, growing lethargy, and all the setbacks associated with them. There's always next time.

I did get to speak with a number of magick practitioners while I was still firmly set to the rails, however, and many were happy enough to allow me to interview them for an article. Unfortunately, even after regular correspondence, only one of the five people I was in contact with got back to me. Her name is Teal, and she is a practicing Wiccan from the United States. The questions were brief, but I have to thank her for giving me as much insight as she could.

Can you tell me a little bit about yourself?

T: My name is Teal (real name!); I live in the Midwest US and I’m studying for my Bachelor’s in Secondary Education. I like reading, math, and philosophy.

How and when did you become drawn to the practice of witchcraft?

T: I’ve been studying Wicca for a little over 2 years, along with my boyfriend, who I’ve been dating for three years. I was inspired by a friend who had been practicing for many years. His beliefs interested me, and I had been tired of the Christian dogma for a while.

How exactly would you describe witchcraft to someone who knows nothing about it?

T: Witchcraft, magick, and ritual are the Wiccan version of prayer. It is "the art of bending energy to your will." And it is an art, one that takes practice. The generally accepted time it takes to become a witch is a year and a day. One can become a Wiccan whenever one decides, but there are skills and philosophies to learn to be a witch. Not all witches are Wiccans and vice versa.

How has witchcraft impacted your life? Have there been any cons as well as pros?

T: I chose Wicca because I wanted to raise my future children more loving and accepting. It’s turned out to be pretty great for me too. Wicca has given me something more in life, just like a born-again Christian. I’m a born-again Wiccan! I have something to believe in, and I’ve learned to be more accepting of people and to be angry a little less. But it’s been hard. It can feel isolating having to not really talk about it, especially when I’m excited about a big revelation.

Is it true that there are dangers involved in witchcraft?

T: The biggest danger is being ostracized if people assume that, because you’re a witch, you’re evil or satanic. As for dangers in actually casting, let’s first talk about spell backlash. Ordinarily, you'll draw the right amount of power for a spell instinctively. But if you try to draw too much and can't control it, the consequences can range from a headache to drawing the attention of something you don’t want, which is my next topic. If magick is done right, with the proper precautions- cleansing, casting a circle, not being reckless- nothing is going to harm the practitioner. But if a witch deliberately goes outside the guidelines and starts causing harm, they’re going to draw the attention of entities that feed on negativity. And they’ll feed on the person, drawing off their energy and making them sick. It's part of the Rule of Three. Whatever you put out comes back to you times three. It doesn't mean that if you break someone's arm, you'll break three bones. But you might be inconvenienced three times the inconvenience they're suffering.

Are you open about your practice or do you prefer to keep it a secret?

T: I am careful about talking about it, which is the expectation, not to bother people. I won’t hide it if asked, and I freely wear my pentacle, but I wouldn't go around proclaiming it.

Are you connected with any other practitioners outside of the Internet?

T: I practice with my boyfriend and two close friends. We're a tight knit family. I also try to teach others because I have a unique Tradition, through which I feel I have a lot to offer.

Would you recommend witchcraft to others or does it take a very certain kind of person to be able to take on the art?

T: Not everybody can do this. It takes someone who is patient, willing to give a spell the time to work. It takes someone dedicated to following without exception the Wiccan Rede, which is “Harm none, do as ye Will.” Mostly, it takes someone who is loving and accepting to begin with. To us, all paths are valid. There is no room for spite or hatred in this religion. All are welcome, as long as they do the same for others.

100 things that are more important than Fred "God hates fags" Phelps dying.

1. Using a four month old newspaper as a coaster so you don't leave rings on the coffee table.
2. Pausing in the middle of a wank to look up to the sky and listen to the Angelus.
3. Getting really peeved at Roman period architecture.
4. Scarfs tucked into turtleneck jumpers.
5. Subhuman rollerskating assholes.
6. Eating an entire bowl of crushed salty biscuits with wet hands.
7. Counting every second of an hour for two days straight.
8. The uncontrollable urge to shit somewhere you're not supposed to.
9. Government sanctioned baby fighting.
10. Small children making a fucking show of themselves in public.
11. Tesco brand lemonade at the world's worst picnic ever.
12. Lads who buy muscle rub cream just to have it.
13. People who can't stop verbally masturbating in public and don't even realize they're doing it.
14. Mary Harney.
15. Combining trad music with electronic.
16. Facial tattoos.
17. Teenagers getting really excited about seeing each other for the first time all week.
18. Excessive hugging.
19. Children's television presenters who hate the cards that life has dealt them.
20. People who brag about remembering the 90's because they've spent most of their lives failing.
21. Drinking Benylin and grape juice.
22. Drinking sizzurp.
23. Re-learning how to play the tin whistle after years of inactivity.
24. Of all the instruments primary school teachers could have forced you to play, the fact that they chose the tin whistle.
25. The fact that there's a tin whistler reading this who doesn't find my comments about the tin whistle in any way entertaining.
26. Weird Norwegian craic.
27. People who don't bring the motherfucking ruckus.
28. Hitler painting Eva Braun's head on poodle bodies.
29. Badminton as a national sport.
30. Kodaline getting really scared by the presence of Public Enemy on the bus to the vegan yoga retreat.
31. The cast of Fair City and the promises that were made to them.
32. Television stations that go idle for six-seven hours when they could be airing porn or happy slapping videos.
33. Doing push-ups at a party.
34. Wearing elbow and knee pads on your bicycle.
35. Ten hours of uninterrupted nipple pinching.
36. Complaining about the Dublin hip-hop scene on an Internet forum for crippled fishermen.
37. A clown's place in modern society.
38. Missing her smile.
39. Watching the Iron Sheik break a man's neck.
40. Films about spooky ghosts.
41.  Losing all motor skills.
42. Coolio on a British game show.
43. Going to a nightclub with the girlos and being pound for the pound the heaviest coke user among them.
44. Building a house from the inside and forgetting to make a door.
45. Playing snap with tarot cards and accidentally giving your best friend two months to live.
46. Realizing that The Dandy Warhols are actually pretty good.
47. 100 man tournament of death for the right to eat Emma Stone's lip balm.
48. Expressing your dislike for something in a Youtube comments section.
49. People who get their hair cut the same way as football players.
50. Wearing a big black trench coat to college.
51. This.
52. Exploiting the working class.
53. Growing your fingernails out and becoming a Chinese wizard.
54. Bands that tell you the tuning of the song in the title.
55. Hyperventilating when you see a cat wearing little slippers.
56. Being white and teaching children how to waste pasta on art.
57. Carving a glory hole into the photo booth in Tesco.
58. Braided beards.
59. Training under the sword for twenty years, but hoping that you will never have to use your devastating new skills.
60. Quitting the team, then showing up at the last second and winning the game for them.
61. Going to the prom with Jaden.
62. The credits at the end of the six o'clock news.
63. Wanting to pull that fucking prick's stupid looking moustache off.
64. Loneliness.
65. Setting off fireworks in a creche.
66. Buying the movie rights to Josef Fritzl's teenage years.
67. Casting Zach Efron as teen Josef Fritzl.
68. Having the fucking sack to say that The Human League aren't one of the best bands ever.
69. Picking fights with your spouse because it's the only passion you can salvage from the relationship.
70. Creepy knock-off breakfast cereal animals.
71. Fighting the urge to pull the braces out of a someone's mouth.
72. Screaming at the pedophile to run away on To Catch A Predator.
73. Weird Lucozade flavours.
74. Donating your body to science before car bombing a children's Christmas play.
75. Getting arrested for not liking America.
76. Decaf anything.
77. Learning Tibetan throat singing because your stupid band aren't stupid enough.
78. Taking car advertisements seriously.
79. Babies coughing loudly without any consideration for anyone around them.
80. The sound of a baby's cough.
81. Teaching your dog to play basketball because a movie told you to.
82. Accidentally torturing your partner to death because they forgot the safe word.
83. Nürnberger Rostbratwurst.
84. Counting ever tile on your floor and then wondering why you did it.
85. The latest in women's footwear being a sponge on a string.
86. Social justice writers on Tumblr.
87. Blackenstein.
88. Weird Lithuanian craic.
89. Scary dog funeral.
90. Lightning powered dildo phone.
91. Professor Mentok's school for unclaimed orphans.
92. Old people requesting shite songs on the radio.
93. Sea cow.
94. Moon dog.
95. To crush your enemies, see them driven before you, and to hear the lamentation of their women.
96. Becoming physically and mentally dependent on Spiderman toothpaste.
97. The fact that a far superior human being and musical legend, Scott Asheton, has died.
98. Playing the best trumpet solo ever on your own in a field.
99. Growing a moustache that looks like a fucking spring roll hanging under your nose.
100. The Rick James impersonator from Mayo.

Cinema's finest moments #1

George Eastman eats a foetus 
Anthropophagus (1980)

Joe D'Amato is your quintessential Italian writer/director if you're of the mind that any good Italian film has to be either a gore-soaked flesh buffet, a hardcore porno, or a combination of both (most are a combination of both). While the critics were accusing the audience of suffering "a decline in taste", Italian movies were rolling over each other in the rush to accommodate the blood-thirsty perverts and 1980 was a landmark year in good old fashioned limonchello flavoured nausea. While D'Amato certainly never reached the level of infamy that Lucio Fulci and Umberto Lenzi had all but made their own, he did manage to produce a few cult classics amid his excessive repertoire of hardcore porn flicks.

One of these cult favourites is 1980's Anthropophagus. While it was probably the runt of the pack when you consider all the other fantastic horror films that came out in this year, Anthropophagus is still one of those films that takes a nice little comfy place in the back of your brain and reminds you that it exists every now and again. I wouldn't go out of my way to dig up D'Amato and hand him a posthumous award for "Best Director Ever", but he shouldn't be ignored entirely. Not when he gave us this, the most stand-out scene in all of Anthropophagus;

When George Eastman eats the fucking foetus.

Now you can forgive writer and actor George Eastman for not appearing in too many films since his role as the dehydrated serial killer Nikos Karamanlis in Anthropophagus, mainly because I imagine trying to score a gig after covering your face in oatmeal and eating a baby is like trying to sell yourself on the streets with a scabby mouth.

Here's the quick run down. Nikos (the dehydrated cannibal with the heart of gold) has been running around for a while at this point in the movie and the rest of the cast are very much aware that he'll stop at nothing before they're all dead. If memory serves me right (which it doesn't), this guy walks into a cave while looking for the pregnant Maggie, who had been kidnapped earlier on in the film. BIG. FUCKING. MISTAKE. You see, Nikos doesn't like this one bit and he'll spare no expense in doing all that he can to fuck up their day. So Nikos gets angry, stabs Maggie's rescuer in the shoulder and then strangles Maggie until her legs stop kicking. 

As any true artist is never content with their last work, Nikos decides that he hasn't done enough to mess with these people. So, reaching down to Maggie's nether regions, he pulls out her unborn baby and chows down on it like a KFC bucket meal. That's the kind of guy Nikos is. 

A special shout out to head in the bucket. Another of the film's finer moments.

How ketamine made me fall in love with King Krule at a nuclear bunker rave in Kuwait.

SHITE UK magazine
Starting a journalistic revolution with bitter resentment and narcissism.

We were smoking reefers as thick as children's wrists in the VIP area of a secret Kanye West gig exactly 4 kilometers under the London underground. I hadn't slept in two weeks, my time was much better spent doing bumps of MDMA at sticky college dorm parties that I wasn't invited to (I went ironically) and tricking clueless teenage girls into talking about minstrel singers that I had, in fact, just made up.

So, I was doing all this cool stuff with lots of black people who like me when suddenly my pager starts beeping. Blurry eyed and drugged as a mule, I tried to focus on the message, and could just about make out the words 'bunker rave', 'Kuwait' and 'bring drugs'. Kanye offered me a bite of his lamb shank, but I had to decline, I hadn't eaten in nine days and wasn't going to start now. I excused myself from the party and crawled through a series of pipes toward the surface.

Hopping on my Islamic bicycle (Wearing my skin-tight Burka, ironically but also politically charged), I rode to Heathrow airport where I'd meet an American named T-Wizzle. Together, myself and T-wizzle would take a Boeing B-50 Superfortress to Kuwait, where the world of Kuwaiti House and Post-Trance music would be waiting for us to arrive. 

I'd been to Kuwait for drug orgies about seven times by now, but this was T-Wizzle's first time. He was making a really big deal out of it and I was all 'ugh'. I just kinda ignored him for the rest of the flight, listened to my Tobi Vail spoken word tape and made charcoal drawings of my own asshole.

When we arrived I was totally ready to party again because I'm always ready to party because I'm a 90s kid and remember Nintendos and Pokémons. So T-Wizzle steps outside first and instantly feels the heat on his shitty American skin and he starts complaining and I'm all like 'ugh'. If you can't handle the stone-baking Kuwaiti desert, stay home in your super upper class mansions you teetotaling bourgeoisie posers. You have no business in investigative journalism.

Anyway, so after a four hour dune buggy ride through miles and miles of desert storm, we arrived at the bunker rave. T-Wizzle jumped off and he was all like 'how do we get in?' and I was all 'ugh'. It was kinda obvious that this guy was a total newb at life and that I'd experienced so much more in life than he has, so I explained to him that there's only one way to get into a secret nuclear bunker rave. It's like, a universal thing here. We walked to the main entrance which peeked from a large hill, I tapped on the steel gate eight times and played a few notes of "Colourless Colour" by La Roux on my tin whistle. T-Wizzle looked on in total amazement as the gate slid open and we were ushered inside by an emperor tamarin monkey in a purple cardigan.

So, we were the first to arrive or something, I wasn't really paying attention because I was already snorting up huge lines of black lotus flower, a drug that can only be found in the fictional world of Conan the Barbarian. I have people everywhere. Anyway, so we're sitting there in the VIP area and listening to some UK grime artists that I'd already heard months ago, and watching all of the other posers wobble inside like big poser jelly pyramids.

The first to arrive after us was a large group of  men and women in clingfilm trousers. They were completely naked above the waist and had ironic statements like 'Libertines 04'' and 'Vote Labour' painted on their chests, it was totally sweet but T-Wizzle didn't get it because he's not from London. The fucking ignorant cunt.

So, I'm all basking in the inside joke when suddenly, out of fucking nowhere, the prince of fucking Bratislava rolls into the bunker Freddy Mercury style atop a sea of midgets in yellow spandex. He notices me immediately and rolls over our way to compliment me on my last article about urban hip-hop music and the different kinds of tranquilizer darts that compliment it. I just kinda shrugged him off and went back to rolling a super doobie for me and T-Wizzle, who was like, totally freaked out by everything at this point. 

Anyway, we smoke up the doobie and T-Wizzle starts going green and I'm all 'ugh'. I decide to leave him on his own so I can go and dance ironically with everyone else dancing ironically on the quote unquote, DANCE FLOOR. I start moving my arms around the jerking my head forward in time to the music and who catches me eye? Only the drummer from Nirvana! 

I immediately take my chance to whisk him away and take ironic photographs as if I actually like his stupid mainstream band. I'm figuratively chewing on the irony here and I can already hear the collective laughter of the secret London indie cinema scene. Just when I'm about to take one of me and him throwing up gang signs, T-Wizzle appears out of nowhere, dump tackles me and starts rubbing ketamine on my face. I instantly soak up all of the drugs through osmosis (my body's osmosis is like, faster than most) and suddenly realize that I like King Krule.

So like, whatever. Fuck off.

Pop rock is child molesting propaganda.

Unless you're one of those abyss-gazing doomsday preppers from the US, you've probably heard the news that all those Radio One and Kerrang! bands from the early to mid noughties are falling over each other in their frenzied operation to molest as many kids as they can before their "best of" albums signal the end of both career and popularity.

Maybe those doomsday preppers are right to hide themselves from the rest of mankind, maybe their apple pie flavoured paranoia was warranted. Rather than hellfire and brimstone, we're seeing a different kind of apocalypse, one heralded by side fringes, fingerless gloves and naked children running through the streets in frightened droves.

Who is to blame? Certainly not funk, I tell you that. Funk was smoking a crack pipe on an egg chair while this shit was going down. You leave funk alone. No, ladies and gentleman, we're currently experiencing the decline of sexual integrity and you can bet your bottom dollar that it's because we allowed pop rock to happen. The music of despondent white people waxing their bodies and choking on tears in suburban bedrooms.

Gary Glitter, he reminds me of someone...

...aghast!

Good god!

Indeed, when you thought you were supporting the music industry by sauntering into HMV and buying the latest in "emotional hardcore" or stadium-friendly heavy metal, you were actually putting money in the hands of a covert child molesting syndicate disguised as sexy chart-rockers. They made fools of us all.

You cannot, for all that is fair, be blamed entirely for the actions of coked-up goblin kings. To say that you, the fan, are the problem, would be to assume that each and every one of you knowingly purchased a record with the intent to fund a giant pedophile fortress complete with sentinel towers and a moat full of kiddie-fiddling alligators. No, you cannot be blamed entirely. You're just a large part of the problem, because you know, you listened to this crap. 

Of course, it wasn't enough for these people to take money from fans and use it to fund their depraved antics, no, no, they wanted much more than that. I don't know about you, but I've never seen an indie kid or an emo go out of their way to buy vinyl. I wonder why that is? Because if they did buy the vinyl, there's a chance they'd be able to hear the backmasked subliminal messages behind their favourite toe-tapping rock singles. If you spin "Rooftops" backwards on a vinyl, you can make out the unmistakable Welsh drawl of Ian Watkins urging his fans to touch the neighbor children.

The song is also loaded with pedophile slang;

Rooftops

Will we make a mark this time

Will we always say 'We tried'

Underlying pedophile message

We will touch kids,

We will always say 'we touched your kid'.

Rooftops

Standing on the rooftops

Everybody scream your heart out

This is all we got now

Everybody scream your heart out

Underlying pedophile message

Standing on the rooftops,

Everybody abduct the children,

This is all we got now,

Better go abduct some children.

Sickening.

So where did it all begin? We can trace popular rock's rich history of fucking kids all the way back to Jerry Lee Lewis and his 13 year old cousinwife. There's no doubt in my mind that the trend starts (and may very well end) with Jerry Lee Lewis. I had to go outside a while ago to clear my head and think of some Jerry Lee Lewis song titles to use as clever euphemisms, but after a half hour riverside walk, I decided how very lame the idea was. So just look up some videos on Youtube, I'm sure you'll come across one.

That's fucked, Jerry, and you know it.

So, the seeds were sewn, seeds that would eventually blast from the ground and rise and bulk-up into giant great oak trees of malevolent sexual intent. You bastard, Jerry. You doomed us all.

I hear you asking, 'how do I know if pop rock has turned ME into a pedophile?', well, there's only one sure fire way to find out, friend. First, if you have a portable computer device, leave this article open and do exactly as I say in the order I say it. Go to your local playground. It is best that you travel by vehicle, as you may need to make a hasty escape and you can't always trust your feet when you're begin bathed in red and blue lights. Okay, are you there yet? Good. Now, are there children in the playground? Look for the children. Ah, you've found one, excellent. Now, I want you to stare at the kid. Keep staring at it.

Do you;

A) Want to have sex with the child.

B) Don't want to have sex with the child.

C) Want to have sex with the child.

If you answered B), thank the heavens, friend, all those years of going to all ages, magazine sponsored rock gigs haven't taken their toll on your mind. You're okay. Go home.

If you answered A) or C), I'm afraid you're beyond hope. You've crossed into the darkness, there's no coming back from this vile place. Your only chance at redemption can be found at the end of a barrel or perhaps a surgeon's table. All those sock gloves, Vampirefreaks, faux art house music videos, and all those days of being "random" with your friends...they all played a part in turning you into a child molesting machine. I'm so, so sorry. 

But don't blame yourself, you've been poisoned. Poisoned by pop rock in all of its ghastly shapes and sizes. If it makes you feel any better, just know that life itself is small and insignificant. Remember that mankind is just a fleeting, quivering fart from the celestial anus, and that you may one day be reborn as fly, a thought or the laughter of a newborn.