My last post was a reblog from people who I live/d with in Manchester, they are very much worth following if you’re into fashion/ design/ etc.

There is always scope to improve and I assume that self-criticism is healthy; so here is a short list of things I would like to improve that relate to my writing.

• Cut out awkward use of long words
• Learn how to use semi-colons (does anyone know how to use these?)
• Adapt a less frantic voice, especially when blogging about politics and music
• Write prose more regularly
• Avoid uploading shit poetry on the internet
• Redraft
• Try to be more positive when reviewing shit 
• Consider the semantics of using ‘shit’ in the place of ‘things’ in everyday life/writing
• Be more positive generally
• Eat something besides super-noodles and pizza at least twice a week, preferably a ‘brain food’
• Develop characters
• Go see more plays

I think that about covers it.

My natural inclination is to approach anything ‘new’ sceptically: chinos, the atomic bomb, National Socialism, at one time or another all these things were ‘new.’ Had they each been treated with the appropriate dollops of scepticism it’s possible that a wide range of major human catastrophes would have been avoided. So when an email arrived from the editor suggesting I write a feature on up-and-coming band Air Castles I was understandably hesitant, maybe I wasn’t right for the job, perhaps the band deserved a feature written by somebody more receptive to ‘new’…

The Strange and Dangerous World of Max Mansson.

“To understand a man is to understand his art.”

It was midday, the weather was cold and dull- the mood understandably uneasy. My information lead me to believe that this entire project, this entire entity of sound that society was now calling Air Castles was fronted by a man by the name of Max Mansson. I knew I first needed to get a bearing of the man if I was going to complete the piece. I contemplated my options, how I would reach him I didn’t yet know, I had only one point of contact: Billy, the bands PR.

My conversations with Billy were conducted via email- brief and faceless, I had a vague sense that Billy was hiding something from me. When I asked to interview Max in-person Billy told me it was an impossibility, Mansson wouldn’t be in Manchester in the coming weeks, but would a phone interview be fine? I reluctantly agreed. Every serious journalist knows that answers are meaningless if you can’t look a man in the eyes when you’re asking him the questions. I was beginning to suspect that I was entering into some sick cult; I would need to act out their rituals before Manssson and I could reach an understanding. Billy had already provided me with a copy of the band’s album Lights, I felt my next move should be to listen to it in its entirety.

Though the music itself was dull and uninteresting, the kind of music best enjoyed by bed-wetters and the middle-aged, it was becoming clear Air Castles were no longer simply about the music. I felt I was on the verge of uncovering something much more depraved. Had I devoted adequate time to analysing the lyrics, or to listening to the album in reverse, perhaps I would have uncovered some of Mansson’s acrid secrets, but I had neither the time nor the inclination to conduct some sort of musical dissection. My feelings about Mansson were already tied up in assumptions and conjecture; I endeavoured to confront him.

It was around this time Billy crept back into my inbox to tell me Mansson would be available to talk the following morning. I had been out-foxed. How was Billy aware that waking before noon was my Achilles heel? Was somebody at the magazine narking? The prospect of me getting up by 11am was unlikely, against hope I made my preparations. My questions focused on Mansson: who was he? where was he heading? for what foul purpose had he been born? I prayed that I might wake early, so I might uncover these truths.

But by the time I woke it was all too late, in dreams I had seen visions of decadence: burning streets the product of Mansson’s hand, but waking at 2pm I was, as always, just short of the scent. My attempt to discover the truth had failed. With all other options exhausted I turned to Google to provide me with the answers, but there was only one Max Mansson to be found. A plump individual sporting Ray-Bans and a pubic beard: this was clearly not the insidious Max Mansson I had been dealing with; this was a hipster who’d be more comfortable discussing post-irony over a platter of cheese burgers, than masterminding a secret society. I had spent two days hunting for Mansson, but when I finished up my investigation I was no closer to him than I had been when the search had begun.

Air Castles were a front for a madness that lurked beneath. Looking back now I know that the name ‘Max Mansson’ must have been a pseudonym all along; like Snow Patrol, Coldplay and Keane before them, Air Castles are the latest example of the music industry using insipid rock music as a front to something altogether more sinister. But who or what Max Mansson was, I will never truly know.

Air Castles’ album Lights is release on the 2^nd of April, single Falling to Pieces is released on the 26^th of March

The man from the bus was still preying on my mind, lurking like Hamlet’s ghost or the spirit of Ronald McDonald. Having nothing better to do and nothing better to write, a follow-up article on Mullets seemed the obvious path to take.  But how it would pan out I didn’t know- for every Terminator 2 there is a Shrek the Third, a Matrix Reloaded, a Lion King 5. If you haven’t read the previous article of course, this will all seem meaningless, the abject rambling of a deranged mind: so I advise you to read it here before you continue.

The most difficult part of writing a ‘Top 5’ article on mullets is constraining the list; there were plenty of fantastic mulleteers that missed the cut. I’m sure the selection will be controversial, such a task is never easy and doubtlessly certain omissions will cause some readers offence, but onwards- to fear offending is to fear life itself.

No. 5 – Bono

Now more famed for his patronising rants about poverty and his mediocre protest songs, back in the 80’s Bono had a hairstyle almost as big as his ego (harharhar).  In this particular photo we see a classic example of the Mullet/Quiff hybrid, in my opinion not quite as potent as the purer, more ‘business at the front’ mullet, but nevertheless worthy of a place at the bottom of our list.

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My Venture Into Fashion Journalism - The Mullet

When riding public transport I often transplant myself to an alternate reality, draw up questions so I can vomit up the answers. What would happen if terrorists attacked the bus? Would I survive? Would me and the guy a few seats infront fight them off together? Become blood brothers? Retain a mutual respect for the rest of our lives? It’s fucked- and documenting these thoughts likely provides my friends and family with evidence for when they make the inevitable intervention- but nevertheless, sometimes in the course of these brain spasms I strike something real, something raw.

Today on a bus, amid the donner kebabs and piss-stained streets of Manchester, I reached my hand into eternity and pulled out something of substance: 2012 is the year of the mullet. 

Oxford road:  through town centres, through curry mile, past the libraries and museums, and into the heart of the city- surrounded by students and tramps. Young scholars- the girls wet for Gordon-Levit; the boys hard for Zooey Deschanel- each uneasy in their undecided future. Men and women who cough and scratch themselves and ask you for some spare change with eager, soul perturbing eyes. 

I was waiting, yawning, when I caught my first sight of him boarding the bus. He’d have been inhuman was it not for the humanity of his battle-wearied face. He knew it all and he knew nothing: double denim, pierced ear, mullet; half gypsy, half king. I knew at once that I had witnessed an unknowing setter of trends; a god of rock’n’roll. He had a touch of Bruce Springsteen about him, but what that touch was would have been impossible to pinpoint. As he snaked his way to the top deck, I attempt to dissect what I had just witnessed- a vision of a style still half-known.

The mullet grabbed me most- a hairstyle that seems ugly at a first glance yet is somehow so enticing. Bowie, McCartney, Sting, George Michael, the German football team of the 1980’s, all these fashionisters have seen their heads adorned in mullety glory, and now once again its popularity is on the rise. Hair is slowly becoming all about business at the front and party at the back; there is no stopping its resurrection, its ascension to heaven from earth.

All other styles are dead besides the mullet.

Take your scissors in your hands and do what must be done.

In a nut-shell:

The play will focus on Steve a recently turned 18 year-old whose desire to become a soldier, conflicts with the liberal anti-war values of his parents.

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The Indie Super-Club: Propaganda

I’m not sure how much longer my soul can take this battery. I’m down twelve vodka cokes, but still I’m not numb. My body refuses to be numb, I feel it’s paying me back for some heinous crime I’ve committed against it: does it still begrudge me falling down the stairs when I was eight? “I’ll have a pint of cider,” normally I wouldn’t touch the stuff but tonight I’ll make an exception.

By the time I locate Clive I already need to go back to the bar, the lights and the bodies make navigation almost impossible, it’s a labyrinth of depravity.  Clive’s a maniac, he loves it:“just go with it maan.” Clive doesn’t care about anything, as he speaks he swings mad-eyed glances over the girls dancing around us. He came for a lay and nothing more; most people who come here come for a lay, at least five Topshop princesses are begging for his cock.

I have to get out. We’re surrounded by bouncers on all sides. The rest of the crowd seem unaware of their gaze, they simply carry on, they enjoy themselves. But I’m ill at ease, one slip and they’ll be dragging me out. I throw a couple of shapes first to put them off the scent, it’s Mr. Brightside, it’s always Mr. Brightside.  Every move sees you brushing shoulders with somebody or something. “Watch it mate…” I consider letting loose on the bastard, but Ed Sheeran’s dough-faced, check-shirt anthems have the fucker all riled up, I second guess myself, size him up and think that maybe he could take me in his state of red-eyed delirium.   

The DJ’s a television celebrity- an actor from The Inbetweeners. I take a look at the man behind the decks, something about his face, about his manners, offends me. He’s an embodiment of the worlds’ evils. Over the last 10 years indie music has become the arsehole of the music industry, this place is a temple for post-Strokes dirge and the man on the stage is the high priest.  All that remains is the question of how much Fratellis he crowd can digest before they question their enlightenment, till it all comes tumbling down. I order a couple of doubles and stumble back to Clive- it seems at last the alcohols beginning to have some kind of effect.

I read in the introduction to a book once that the role of art and literature was ‘to explain without explaining.’ I think that sums it all up pretty well.

“I write because I have to, or need to.”

We perpetuate the lie because it sounds quaint, but the statement’s meaningless, it’s a relic of children obsessed with the notion of the artist. I write because I feel I have something to say, or I want to spill a thought, or because I’m bored- usually the latter. I can admit it unashamed because it’s a truth. 

Cameron’s Crackdown on the Fascist BNP

David Cameron, with the support of all three of the main political parties, has announced plans to crackdown on membership of all political organisations, such as: the EDL and BNP, that are demonstrated to have ‘fascist intent.’ In a speech delivered today, Cameron said that all members of fascist organisations will now be forced to wear emblems to publicly demonstrate their political allegiance. Furthermore, Cameron vowed to give more rights to non-fascist parties by cutting legislation that prevents them from holding widespread rallies to publicly burn and condemn pieces of fascist literature.

In his final comment of his speech Cameron stated: “Fascism cannot be allowed to grow, it is a curse upon democracy and freedom, for too long we have allowed the fascists to hold us down: Britain will rise again!”

Tutankha-MOON

THE ANCIENT EGYPTIANS have long been a subject of fascination for historians, however recent hieroglyphs seems to show that life back then revolved around more than just building pyramids. The tablet containing the hieroglyphs, discovered near to Alexandria, appears to show a figure with the head of a jackal revealing its rear-end to a group of its fellow gods. A historian we spoke to said: ‘well it’s not totally confirmed at the moment, but I must say it certainly does look a lot like Anubis could have been drawn doing that.’

Leslie Neilson’s ‘Naked Gun’

IT WAS very sad last year when beloved comedy actor Leslie Neilson passed away, however according to source who were close to the former ‘Airplane!’ actor, he spent the last few months of his life dusting off his playboy skills. In spite of having been happily married to Barbaree Earl for over ten year, upon hearing of his declining health Leslie was frequently seen in the downtown areas of Los Angeles accompanied by groups of foxy young women. ‘He was like an animal,’ said one source who did not wished to be named, ‘he had the sexual stamina of a rhinoceros, and triple the charisma.’

I don’t understand people who bitch about their fellow passengers on public transport. You’re going to be around people with questionable personal hygiene, it’s the nature of the beast. There are always other options:you could learn to drive for instance or, if not that, then you could always get a taxi if being around so many of your fellow human beings bothers you so much. In fact, maybe you could have avoided the whole public transport thing altogether; if you were a little less judgmental and a little more friendly then perhaps you might have a friend willing to give you a lift to wherever you need to go.

I love this idea- and it’s one you hear a lot- that people nowadays are a lot more ‘media savvy’ than they were: because obviously in the past people were much more stupid than they are now. It’s one of those phrases that you hear on television a lot. People will sit, and they’ll listen to an ‘expert’ talking about ‘media savviness,’ and they’ll agree: ‘people are more media savvy these days; that bloke on the television is completely right.’