Stig Of The Dump: 2010 in “short”..

Its that time again and much like Christmas, your Birthday & that hairy Sad sack from the Raggy Dolls-looking arsehole John McCririck; it comes but once a year, is laborious & leaves you feeling hollow inside. Its my jovial, whimsical & ultimately grandiloquently long winded YEARLY ROUND UP.

This in fact, is actually only the second one to date & lets face it, probably the last, if the Mayan’s were any where near as accurate as one hopes (winky face).

If I’m honest I don’t remember a lot about last year but with the amount of weed I’ve smoked of late, I’m surprised I remember what a year is, so in order to stretch this out beyond “the students kicked right off”, I have done some research into exactly what did happen in Two Thousand & Ten Anno Domini. The first thing I found out was that 2010 was officially “The Year Of Youth”, which as I’m nearing death by the day, makes me hate myself more than I already did when I woke up AGAIN this morning, as does the fact that my waning interest in the world around me is such that last year evidently passed me by so un-notably, I had to use my interbrain (Wikipedia) to write what is, in all honesty a completely futile, self gratifying and pointless yearly round up.

One of the few things I do remember from last year was the Icelandic ash cloud that grounded half the world. Mainly because people more successful than myself were sorely inconvenienced, taking to sourly twittering like a high school cheerleader who’s daddy refused to buy her a car and as flights were cancelled quicker than a Michael Richards gig at the Apollo i sat back and laughed hysterically. Now it’s easy for me as a failure & pauper to laugh at those more fortunate than myself but there’s something I love and find so humbling in the fact that every now and then Mother Nature likes to remind us, no matter how many technological advances we make, she is still in charge, as she oh so vehemently did by killing over 230,000 people in the Haiti Earthquake, of coarse people dying in their thousands, crushed by rubble & decimated buildings is slightly less hilarious than people missing flights but once the dust settles, I’m sure we’ll see the funny side (see what I did there).

In May’s General Election the Conservative Party, led by David Cameron, won the largest number of votes and seats but still fell twenty short of the required majority, resulting in a hung parliament, which meant Nick Clegg went back on everything he had pledged to start with so the Lib Dems could form a coalition with the Blues, sort of like when the ugly girl in teen movies abandons her friends as soon as a “cool” kid chucks some willy her way. In other words selling out harder than Iggy Pop in those insurance adverts. David Cameron, a man with cold dead eyes is undoubtedly the harbinger of the apocalypse & every single one of you who voted blue will eventually be eaten alive by a plague of locust, while those of us equally responsible due to our apathetic lack of votes, look on as we’re whipped by skeleton’s & forced to stoke the burning fires of Hades. That said, last time the Conservatives got in, Punk was born & we smashed shit up, so perhaps in these times of economic crisis & elitist oppression we might actually hear some decent music. Although I’m sure the same characterless, whiney voiced pop acts will top the charts with more of that mass marketed musical equivalent of a badly prepared Maccy D’s double cheeseburger from the 99p saver menu (McWrongalds- making childhood obesity more affordable). Admittedly I may not be their chosen demographic these days, so far am I from my youth that the only things I know that kids are into these days is knife crime, N Dubz & teenage pregnancy.

In July, Wikileaks released over 90,000 internal reports about the United States-led involvement in the War in Afghanistan from 2004 to 2010 but most people, in our country at least, were too busy watching Big Brother & frothing over professional cunt Katie Price’s sham marriage to cross dressing, ex celebrity Big Brother contestant & shit cage fighter; Alex Reed. Meanwhile our transatlantic cousins lived their lives vicariously by gushing over Lindsay Lohans stint on lock down & Hollywood’s favourite racist & anti-Semitic Mel Gibson & his series of insane threatening phone calls to his girlfriend. Plus most Americans are either so blinkered that they never realised Bush was an actual real life rubber headed retard or like many of today’s Brits, are so obese that they couldn’t type Wikileaks.com into a search engine if they tried, their rolly polly fingers like comedy inflatable hammers, hitting multiple letters at the same time, bulging flab spilling across the qwerty keyboard like Buddy Love changing into Herman Trump. Unlike skinny old me of coarse, who didn’t read them because I was too busy obsessing about my own opinions & getting drunk to waste my time reading about how fucked the world is, in turn further compounding my very reasons for drinking excessively in the first place.

Not to be out done by the Haitians, a bunch of people who have actually achieved something with their lives and therefore were a much bigger loss, along with a few who hadn’t, rather selfishly decided it was time to cash out as well (Not that anyone with any life left to live will have any idea who half of them are). Unfortunately many of the names are less of a reason to celebrate than last years jackpot Jade Goodie, unless you believe in a Wizard in the clouds & in turn think they have gone to a better place, in which case why do you look both ways when crossing the road?.. This year Hip Hop suffered some huge losses with the tragic passing of the incredibly talented Michael Larson a.k.a Eyedea (seen performing “Shadows Have Shadows” in the video above) as well as monotone, gravely voiced pioneer, Gangstarr front man and heavily rumoured fruit; Guru. We lost Apache of “Gangsta Bitch” fame, Malcolm McLaren, the man credited as bringing hip hop culture to our British shore with the incredibly bad “Buffalo Gals” and for my coffin dodging b-boys out there, everyone’s favourite old school lunatic & Graff/Hip Hop legend Ramellzee

Elsewhere in music we said goodbye to Night Nurse singing Reggae star Gregory Isaacs, ex-Sterephonics drummer Stuart Cable who beat me to the punch by drinking himself to death, Boney M singer Bobby Farrell and finally R&B sensation and a man probably responsible for thousands of children but not personally, in that council estate kind of way; Teddy Pendergrass, sadly died aged 59. As well as musicians, actors dropped quicker than a drunk man’s standards with Apocalypse now star & Easy Rider; Dennis Hopper, child faced midget Gary Coleman, Lost Boys cast member & childhood wreck head Corey Haim. Also Tony Curtis, Father to sexy, leggy hermaphrodite Jamie Lee Curtis died at 85. British comedy legend & the man Lee Evans got his style from, Norman Wisdom finally gave up aged 95 & American star of Airplane, Police Squad, Naked Gun & one of my favourite comedy actors of all time, Leslie Nielson passed away at 84.

Other people lucky enough to be chosen by the invisible Genie in the sky were Pokemon writer, Takeshi Shudo, Comedian Greg Giraldo, SpaghettiO’s inventor Donald E. Goerke & possibly the biggest loss of all, He Pinping, the worlds smallest man. However in what seems like a cruel injustice, Danny Dyer, Kanye West and Jack Skellington’s body double, Lady Gaga are all still alive and in need of a kicking, not to mention CUNTSJedCUNTSwardCUNTS, those two Something About Mary-fringe having Irish fucks that somehow managed to crawl out of the abortion bucket they were surely meant for.

2010 did see one death well worth celebrating, Big Brother aired its last ever series. A programme that solidified reality T.V in the hearts of the brain dead & stupid, responsible for bringing us Jade Goodie & her retarded widower Jack Tweedy, that pan faced ex man Nadia (who looks exactly like my mate Doug), Kinga a.k.a her that fucked a wine bottle & got up to the neck in trouble, Science, my ex class mate Michelle Bass, 2 porn stars, Leah Walker & Nicola Holt (neither of which are those glossy high end porn stars, or the girl next door types, both in fact more the “oh my fucking god WHY am I wanking to this dirt, is she melting, JESUS, fuck, I think I’m going to gag”- types, that you regret stumbling across and feel soiled for watching way before reaching that inevitable guilty crymax. Or as i like to call them “Tear Jerkers”) & worst of all that sour faced bag of bones Nikki who must be in her 30’s but looks 12 like the mentalist from The Orphan. And that’s just the ones horrifically burned into my memory, changing who i am forever, like Dexter Morgan seeing his own Mother massacred right in front of him. There was also a lengthy list of other mishaps so vacuous & moronic the only possible explanation I can find for their existence is that they must all have accidentally grown from contaminated unwashed Petri dishes & escaped from labs like Rage monkeys, only to be herded up & thrown on our idiot boxes.

Elsewhere in the world of wanton voyeurism we saw Big Brothers feral incest child, & life support for Ant & Dec, I’m A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here come into bloom. A programme that I had pegged as just another bottom feeding reality t.v show & hated so much that the thought of it caused stomach bile to rise to the back of my throat. However it some how managed the impossible & miraculously proved me wrong, an occurrence almost as rare as a Susan Boyle orgasm. Don’t get me wrong it is as complicit as every other asinine Reality show for dumbing down society, feeding off desperate celebrities like cannibals & regurgitating, re-eating then defecating the same old tired concepts with the same old has-beens & never-where’s for the population to lap up. But if you plant enough seeds in enough horse shit you will eventually get roses. An almost poetically apt turn of phrase given the star of the series, Gillian McKieth. A vinegary voiced scottish woman famous for thumbing through other peoples dog eggs like a fucked up BBC commissioned version of Two Girls One Cup. A women who has spent so long getting away with talking shit that she has started to believe her own waffle. Watching her hamming everything up, feigning illness and “fainting” like a 50’s oscar winner, all while looking like an alcoholic art teacher on the verge of a breakdown, has to be my T.V highlight of the year, not that I ever watched much T.V as everytime I hit the ON button all i could ever find was Friends or Scrubs repeats, which seem to be constantly looping like the nightmares that plague me every time I close my eyes. Another repackaged chimera freak fest of reality t.v & talent show “Don’t Stop Believing” burst onto our screen like a camp child vomiting up bright crayons & highlighter ink but that’s a WHOLE next rant (one you can read HERE, if you ever manage to finish this mammoth dissertation)

In September I managed to beat the odds by adding another year to my sentence in this never ending sit com we call life, losing a lot of people money & disappointing even more. An achievement I celebrated as I do every year by eating animals & drinking so much that I dramatically reduce the odds of me seeing another 365 but this isn’t about me, if it were it would be much more interesting but ultimately more depressing for you to read.

In October the International Space Station surpassed the record for the longest continuous human occupation of space, having been continuously inhabited since November 2, 2000 (3641 days), marking the beginning of the end as those in charge seal our Total Recall like future on Mars. Which is probably for the best as in October Mother Nature got pissy again, killing over 400 people and leaving hundreds missing in an earthquake and consequent tsunami off the coast of Sumatra, Indonesia, we of coarse continue to arrogantly ignore the obvious harsh warnings and blindly suck the planet dry like the germs and leaches that we are.

October also saw, not the biggest, but in my unbiased opinion, undoubtedly the single most important event to happen in the whole of 2010, the release of the Mood Swings LP. Knowledge Mag kindly gave it 3rd in the years Top 10 Hip Hop releases & it continues to received support from RWD Mag to HHC & Conspiracy Radio to 1xtra. Featuring bangers of epic proportion which, according to the odd narrow minded uk back packer, may possibly be a little too synthy for their outdated dusty preference & in the opinion of one “journalist” it may possibly have too many expletives but then anyone who makes the conscious decision to be offended by what are just words, none of which are aimed at them or any minority in need of defense, is a cunt of the highest order. More specifically Mark Moore is a prize cunt & can take his comparison to the Gorillaz, mix it in a bowl of dick, along with his lack of knowledge about modern music, wash it down with a side of Aids, then fuck off & die twice. It is without question one of the seminal albums of our generation & shows an artist with a deep knowledge of self, expressing his inner angst with multi layered levels of metaphor and imagery, who also talks about beer, weed & fat birds a bit… Buy it NOW from HERE for just £6.99 along with all other merch including the coveted Team Hate colours, the HATER T, endorsed in the pic above by Wu Tang’s Raekwon the Chef, your mum & dad will hate it but then they don’t understand you like i do, so fuck them.

If I’m honest I’ve completely lost interest in writing this hate filled bullshit anymore and I’m also slightly worried that these blogs may come back to haunt me as I get sectioned & drugged up to the eyeballs like a laboratory dog, or hear little exerts read back to me in a court of law as I stand with a blank stare & blood on my hands, so I’ll end with possibly the most covered & sensationalised news story of last year… “the students kicked right off”.

Stig Of The Dump: Don’t Stop Believing

Now, before you dedicate half your working day, or sacrifice your afternoon “Loose Women” session to this blog I should point out that I am well aware of the fact that I am not normal and that habitually watching things that I hate just for a quick fix of that sweet gut felt anger that I seem to need to get me through the day, is obviously a bi product of some sort of deeply routed sociopathic problems and I too am waiting for the day my face is plastered across the tabloids for garrotting a string of prostitutes with a child’s “Tweenies” skipping rope. However, if you were hoping for a dose of that “At least im not as mental as him” feeling that I can see as the only sane reason you would read this shit in the first place, im afraid your in for a disappointment. On this occasion the semi literate ramblings you are about to read, assuming you can stick it out, or have managed to get this far, are in fact far from my usual misanthropic button bashing hate fuelled tirades, instead, on this occasion they are the words of a man at his most serene, although admittedly somewhat tinged with the fear that the switch has already been flicked.

At the time of writing I had spent the previous few days in the mother land, getting inked by my kinfolk at Trackside, hooking up with my peoples, escaping the dog shit hustle & bustle of our countries capital and most importantly meeting my two week old Niece “Matilda Beaux Dixon”. A genuinely life changing experience and one which left me feeling very philosophical, after all I am bitter and aging and yet, held in my hands or sleeping on my shoulder was the personification of innocence and beauty, so new to this world that her soft baby hair smelt comfortingly sweet. The only genuinely 100% purely good person I have ever met. All of my distain for people and the world we live in, momentarily at least, eclipsed by the newest edition to my family. This, however isn’t the serenity I speak of.

After a day or two of genuine happiness (of coarse I should have known that was too long for my usually shit existence on this dying planet) the unfamiliar feelings of positivity and joy were quickly juxtaposed with undoubtedly the worst news I have ever had in my life. News that has also changed me as a person and obviously such a blissful high MUST be followed by an earth shattering come down, so the heart breakingly bad news was, of coarse, followed by a further kick while I was down. Specifically in the form of hours of commuter hell, on an overly hot National Express metal worm, in the company of people I would happily have paid my last pound to punch in the face.. After deciding to get off my train home to Londung early by jumping off in York as my lady type was working in Thirsk. then spending money I cant afford to sit on another shit train for another hour of torture punctuated by rowdy groups of Middlesborough fans, shit food and drunken orange nanas flapping their bingo wings while stinking of cheap wine & Berkley Menthol & shouting about cock, THEN a shopping trip around the local Co-Op buying shit reduced food & a life long taxi drive through the 1920’s, eventually I managed to get a nights “sleep” in a broken bunk bed in a Cottage miles from anywhere. I woke up frankly wishing I hadn’t. The first half of the day after the worst day of my life is pretty much a blur, just hours of trippy semi conscious, head boggled mind fuck. Until, after staring at the T.V blankly for I have no idea how long, my saviour came to me, Channel 5ive’s “Don’t Stop Believing” (shut your mouth).

If God did exist and he wanted to take time from ignoring the genocide, famine & natural disasters to tell me things would be ok, THIS is how he would have chosen to speak to me, with the most epic brain rape ever and with such an inspirational name. For those who have never been fortunate, or low enough to find themselves staring at Channel 5ive’s “Don’t Stop Believing”, truely the arse end of all talent shows, here is a brief synopsis.

Less the illegitimate downs child of X Factor and Glee- more the product of 2nd generation incest, conceived in a three way cluster fuck between High School Musical, Pop Idol and every single one of those shit awful “human interest documentaries” about death, terminal illness and any other life time trauma they can crow bar in to keep the grey lifeless population from actually doing ANYTHING with their lives, other than guzzling tea & ready meals while living vicariously by tuning into other peoples lives from the sofa their bloated arses have become part of. The basic outline of the programme is that Amateur Dramatic/Musical groups compete to see who can permanently damage their facial muscles by forcing the most extreme shit eating grin or furrowed brow while they sing, dance and butcher contemporary pop numbers, unbelievably making them worse than the shitty originals, in that way that only aspiring Broadway tossers can.

Complete with a panel of tenuously qualified failing celebrity judges comprising of the past his prime, characterless “sexy to the kids” number 3, Duncan, from boy band Blue. Turkey necked Mother I’d Like to Bludgeon to Death; Tamsin Outhwaite, who has somehow managed to mature into one of those aging soccor mom slags from every American teen drama ever. One time big titted pop country singer Anastasia who has had her face pinned back so far that she has no features and looks a burns victim in a plastic mask and of coarse the staple pantomime villain, in the form of the ridiculously named “Chucky Klapow” an excessively camp & desperately dressed man who could compete with Danny Dyer for most pointless human being on the planet & who’s parents must have been either drunk, retarded, part of a cult or 4 year olds when they named him.

The second the dayglo colours in the opening sequence were forced into my eyes like Alex Delarge in Clockwork Orange, I felt something pop in my brain. I think I must have experienced the same feeling as people do seconds before they die, the moment when their brain floods with DMT. It felt like my brain went into over drive, the nausea forcing my Pineal Gland to produce Serotonin at an alarming rate, making me feel more peaceful and serene than I have ever felt in my life. The only way I can describe it is like those War Film scenes where people are being torn apart by mortar fire or mines, explosions with guts and limbs flying all over, all shot in slow motion and set to a classical music sound track, kind of like when your mind blocks out heavy trauma with hallucinations. It was perfect, the voices were shakey and over stretched, the dances were over the top and looked like they had been co-ordinated by a crash victim. The groups were made up of overweight girls, guys with plucked eyebrows and those weird people you see in small towns who should be good looking but you can see “that face” in there somewhere. The ones who don’t even have an ugly face with character, the sexiest people in Great Yarmouth, or those people who look like fake tanned, English versions of the cool couple in Napolean Dynomite. And the group names were so contrived it was surreal “Unity”, “Powerplay”, “Swish”, “Cherish”, “Sorority”. By the time I saw Emma Bunton & her bong eye introducing “Fusion” a collection of Catholics and Protestants from Northern Ireland who were brought together by their love of musicals, I almost vomited my own arsehole through my nose and slipped about on my own innards like a baby dear trying to find its feet for the first time. I can’t work out if the show is aimed at the clinically insane, the inhabitants of your average hospice, retarded children or those creepy fuckers with dead eyes that present Kids T.V as if they’ve just smoked rocks.

All I can say is watch it, you will either cry your body dry with laughter or spend the next few weeks trying to gouge out your eyes & screaming yourself awake like a Vietnam vet having acid flashbacks.

You’ve been warned…

Stig Of The Dump: Massacring Valentine’s (HHC Magazine)

With this being the February issue it would be remiss of me to not rant on some Valentines shit and I know a hairy, ignant fat man might not normally be your go to guy when it comes to advice on affairs of the heart but I’ve been unfortunate enough to have mine tainted by the odd succubus and it has to be said, of late, my gash game is impeccable (apologies to my man size brothers and whoever else’s share i must be taking) So with that in mind, look past the fact you probably think your macking harder and accept some pointers. For the Ladies its simple, no matter how crass it may sound, forget cards, don’t waste your time with romance, just suck a dick, not like normal, but like the antidotes in it, let the freak out for the night and he’ll love you, or at least feel obliged to say it ! For the “man dem” pimping is harder. You might think some grand gesture of huge bouquets of flowers or expensive restaurants is what she wants, you may be right, but if it is, she’s high maintenance and you should tell daddy’s little princess to fuck right off !! If she’s a keeper then she’ll appreciate attention to detail ! So in the run up to the day (Feb 14th for those who fuck up) pay attention to more than her chesticles and buy something cheap that’s related to something she’s said (childhood memories are an easy score) and cook for her or order in, again if she bitches tell baby girl to take her ungrateful ass to the bank and SHE can take YOU out !! If you get the gift n meal right you’ll save mad coinage and still look a proper bad man romantic !!.. Now this is basic guide due to word limit so think for yourself fuck nuts and when the advice pays off, think of me while bumping uglies on V Day.. (No Peado !!) Class dismissed. Now fuck off piss off.

Stig’s Top 10 Moodiest Musicians (HHC Digital)

With the release of Stig Of The Dump’s new album, Mood Swings, we got the self-coined Sexiest Fat Man In Show Business to compile a list of ten utterly moody pop stars. Here’s his picks…

1. Daniel Johnston
Watch The Devil & Daniel Johnston – you’ll see my man was on another level of touched but made some of the most amazing music ever. If you’re anything like me you will take comfort from the fact that even at your worst you are no where near as shit pot mental as some people.
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2. Kurt Cobain
Okay, he killed himself, but that doesn’t make him moodier than my number one pick – just less alive. And let’s be fair, in today’s world he probably did his fans and himself a favour, what with Iggy Pop doing insurance ads and Lionel Richie promoting Walker’s Crips. Were he still around, Kurt would no doubt be appearing as a judge on America’s Got Talentless Lunatics To Exploit or singing “Doo doo doo doo dooooo, I’m loving it” for McWrongald’s during the three-minute product brain-wash intervals that appear on the idiot box every 20 seconds anyway.
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3. Mariah Carey
A great philosopher once said “Women are like roller coasters – fucking mental.” Now far be it for me to make wildly sweeping statements like all women are crazy – that would be a generalisation of heinous proportions and both misogynistic and completely unacceptable – but I will say that every women I have ever met has been completely “If you don’t know what’s wrong, then I’m not going to tell you” bat-shit mental, on some level at least.

Mariah takes the nutty crown though. She is so insane that I think ultimately her lunacy is the source of almost all of the female insanity in the world. They’re like vampires: if you kill the head, those who haven’t completely turned will become normal again. She was that girl at school who all the dudes wanted to rest their still developing nuts in and all the girls either wanted to look like or hated because she was so popular; the one who walked through life having everything done for her just because she’s pretty, but underneath, because she was also insanely insecure, she was a complete bitch to everyone and a nightmare girlfriend to any boy stupid enough to not run for safety the second he cleared his mind enough to see sense. Now imagine her if she could sing very well and got paid a shit load of coin, then became all growed up, had breast implants which made her tits look like they were a foot apart, and had an even higher opinion of herself to hide the even lower opinion she really has of herself. That’s Mariah. One day she will kill – her name should be Mariah Carrie.
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4. Cage Kennylz
One of the illest that ever did it, but short of the eyeliner and fingerless gloves dude is still hella emo.
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5. Stig Of The Dump

A.K.A Stevie Dickhead The Sexiest Fat Man In Show Biz a.k.a Your Lord And Master a.k.a God Doing Stand Up… You damn fucking right. You can all fuck off and die twice as far as I’m concerned. I’m polite and like people on the surface but trust me, while shaking your hand I’m also praying I get to be the one who hits you with a hollow-point head shot once the zombie invasion starts. I’d have put myself at number one on the list but I haven’t been sectioned and I’m yet to take it upon myself to cut short my sentence with the rest of you brainless rubber heads on this husk of a planet.
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6. Eminem
Underneath all those stupid voices and forced rhyme schemes lies not only possibly the best that ever did it but also a right huffy bastard. Anyone who goes from being questionably the best ever to an embarrassment all because, from an outsider’s point of view, his angst and anger-driven hunger and talent became self-pitying garbage needs his head sorting out. Although he loses points for being super rich, anyone who says money can’t buy you happiness definitely has enough. It might not be able to buy you that soul-quenching, love-filled happiness, but that just cracks and turns out to be a sham anyway. It can definitely buy you that ’shiny new shit to paper over the cracks’ happiness and that’s better than nothing. Man up Marshall, “you acting like a lil’ bitch right now”.
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7. Noel/Liam Gallagher
Moody in the classical sense, these two whining bastards argue more than me and my ex. Noel’s face was so sour it almost imploded on itself when Jay-Z headlined Glasto a couple of years ago – he looked like he’d been brushing his teeth with vinegar and gargling lemon juice. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for rock star rebellion but that used to involve smashing your instruments, chucking TVs through hotel windows, dead prostitutes and drug binges, not “He started it” and bitching about someone else headlining a festival because you’re no longer relevant, you’re old, your opinion is invalid, essentially you’re just waiting to die… You had your fun and made a wedge, at least have some decorum and die quietly.
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8. Grace Jones
A notoriously stroppy diva who I couldn’t help but notice in a photo from a recent Gig Guide article, looks alarmingly like Don Cheadle doing A Sharks Tale-On Ice, in drag. I don’t understand the appeal of people like her and her mini-me, Lady Gaga: What exactly is it about androgynous, gender bending, laughably dressed, self obsessed lunatics that makes soulless fashion followers want to crawl up their arsehole and camp out in their lower intestines? Next week you can catch me in the pap section of the London Lite dressed head-to-toe in a shell suit made entirely of Kraft Cheese Slices and a hat made of an actual child’s shit. It’s a statement about the shocking state of childhood obesity – nothing to do with being an attention seeking chuff nut.
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9. Whitney Houston
She may not seem that moody on the outside, and she’s definitely composed and in good shape for her age on the surface, but that’s because she’s out of her mind on crack. If you look into her eyes they’re vacant. My girl has an incredible voice given all the rocks she’s smoked but she is definitely touched and if you don’t believe just watch her performance on last years X Factor (although I would normally rather eat my own vomit than watch that televisual hot dog egg of a program). She performed ‘live’ looking like the skeleton from Tales From The Crypt in a ball gown that looked like a wedding dress; she resembled an alcoholic spurned bride who was on the hunt to kill her ex-fiance after 30 years of lonely bitterness. If you’re a normal adult who avoids such crap you may have been fortunate enough to miss it, but rest assured Simon Cowell’s massive forehead and seemingly un-talked about resemblance to a younger Susan Boyle with a shitter hair cut still managed to steal the show.
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10. Kanye West
Moody in the colloquial meaning, as in shit, not legit or counterfeit. The fucking megalomaniacal, big-jawed, number one on my hit list when I pull a ‘falling down’ downsy looking jar head.
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Stig Of The Dump: Maybe Its Because Im A Londoner (Part 2)

Anyway, back to the story and the actual 2nd half of the 2 part EPIC (I know, you’ve been hear 10 minutes & the story still hasn’t started but the word EPIC being over used should have been a clue. Here is a quick pic of when i first got into hip hop, just to keep my A.D.D types from straying.. and so you know exactly  how hood i am.

I was in unusually high spirits for the first time since puberty, having had a hugely productive day and at the time in question, just left a meeting with Lewis Recordings regarding the release of my lead single and subsequent album. A meeting that had restored my faith in life. I was heading home to my lady type, a beautiful woman who miraculously continues to let me put my nob in her and stands with me in public, without pressing charges or receiving financial gain. On top of that i had managed to completely avoid rush hour and while grinning and going down the escalators at Angel Station (The longest single escalator rise in Western Europe, one of a million useless facts clogging my head up like a broken latrine on Glastonbury weekend), I was recognised twice and both times showered with fleeting compliments, all, due to the moving nature of escalators, while not having to engage in any “stop and chats” about Asher D !!!! I think I was possibly even smiling, walking with a skip in my step, momentarily tricked into being inspired and full of the promise of positive things to come. In fact had I been forced into a “stop and chat” I wouldn’t have minded, I would have happily given a completely endearing performance with the perfect balance of humility and charm and for possibly the first time, since…. the first time, it would have been genuine. But then in typically punctual fashion the arse fell out of it and the colour drained but of coarse not to that romantic sepia brown that suggests a simpler, happier time. No, to the lifeless monochrome they use on News broadcasts while flagging up images of the Earth dying, a lonely singular flower petal dropping to the ash covered ground.

As I was walking between the two escalators with the afore mentioned unusual skip in my step, at about the halfway point, I approached a man about my size waddling like an out of breath elephant in one of those comedy “It’s a Knockout” style novelty costumes (unlike your more graceful and light on their feet fatty like me) If I was a city boy prick or your average commuter drone, I would have tripped him up and walked over his head just to get a step closer to the train but it wasn’t rush hour and of coarse more importantly, im polite and was in a good mood. So I followed his waddling side to side pattern and at the optimum time so as not to lose my happy momentum or break either of our strides, I went to walk around him. Of coarse, as I was cutting into his line of walking, although with a good 3 or 4 steps between us, I looked back and said excuse me, while stepping in, because im polite. I know I was a fair distance ahead as I had to look back in order to make eye contact because, as in case you had missed it, im polite. As I did so he lunged forward and in doing so almost fell flat on his sweaty, so droopy it looked like it was melting, face. His arms pushing me to the side as if he was Rick Moranis in “Honey I shrunk the Kids” and I was unsuspectingly about to drop a size 12 right on top of his loved ones. He lunged so hard that I thought for the first time in history a Weeble was going to wobble AND fall down (don’t know what i’m talking about, check this, its the kind of stupid memories that keep my awake at night). My initial reaction was one of such disorientating shock that I just stood still with my arms slightly out to the side in a “what just happened” fashion, like when people get hit in the head by flying balls or walk into lamp posts. I was dumb struck.. As my brain tried to compute what happened, auto pilot kicked in and I stood on the escalator a few steps behind him. As i finally processed what had happened I heard him muttering “fucking idiot” to himself, to which I replied, still in half shock and sounding like a child who’s voice was breaking “I said excuse me, I didn’t even cut you off”, to just a shake of the head. For the next few seconds I heard him muttering to himself as my brain started to boil and shake inside my skull. Just as my pupils popped and filled with flames I shouted “YOU FUCKING IGNORANT CUNT” to which he looked back and said nothing.

By this point I was so incandescent with rage that I think I may have blacked out for a minute because for some reason I decided to let it slide, I decided to just walk past him on the left hand side of the escalator, head straight to the platform and not look back. As I went to walk past him however he obviously took it as another attack on personal space as, for no apparent reason, he barged to the side pushing me into the moving rail and advertising boards and making my rucksack and in turn laptop bang off the wall. At which point my urban survival skills kicked in and I elbowed him clean in his “Churchill dog” looking face. Then shoulder barged him back, pushing past as he fall backward letting out a scream, then as he sat on his arse holding his nose i looked down with my firey eyes and barked “Cunt” like a Tourettes sufferer, then continued on in my path to my platform. No one else was on the Down or Up escalators at the time and to this day I don’t know what he did next, with any luck he’ll still be at the bottom of the escalator perpetually rolling like a tin of beans on a super market conveyer belt, as apathetic Londoners step over him, listening to their IDicks, completely oblivious to his cries of help. I have subsequently decided to avoid the Tube as much as possible through fear of my first kill, although when it inevitably comes i will obviously write about it in minute detail with as many meandering side rants as possible and some tenuously linked picture at the top all for the reading pleasure of about 4, my mrs, my flat mate and myself (the latter 2 having probably already heard it first hand in high volume and much less concisely, imagine that, LESS concisely)

Until then follow @StigOfTheDumpUK on Twitter and you can read all about a mans decent into madness in real time text updates… WALLOP

Stig Of The Dump: The End Is Nigh (HHC Magazine)

LOCK YOUR DOORS, CLOSE YOUR WINDOWS, STOCK UP ON WATER AND CANNED FOOD AND IF POSSIBLE GET A GUN…. THE CREDIT CRUNCH IS HERE (ok so I’m late with it but its still topical so fuck you). That’s right BE SCARED !!!!! All jokes aside this is a serious issue, people who are paid 20 times more than your parents and spend their lives chasing money like it’s a replacement for their lack of happiness can no longer afford to chuck as much coke up their beaks and they’re now having to redecorate their Chelsea loft apartments without the latest Banksy canvas.. Even worse, trust fund babies and the other idiots who got caught up in the hype caused by Location, Location, Location and all the other crap house buying programmes, who went out and bought shit hole houses that they then wasted even more money on doing up with Sweden’s finest IKEA tat with the hope of fooling other people caught up in the frenzy to buy it, have lost they’re nest eggs in the housing market crash… FUCKRY !!!  It does seem however, as if the war in Iraq is over and done with, nonces have moved on to other vices and the environment is no longer going to cause the world to explode, so peaks and troughs, swings n roundabouts. If you’re a normal person who is busy trying to live day-to-day then you probably give as much of a fuck as I do about the fear mongering.. Basically the rich will stay rich and the rest of us will scramble around in the dirt. Same shit different day, same day different shit !!!.. now where’s my full page columnat.. im like the Dalai Lama to these cock wallops.. oh and I almost forgot.. FUCK OFF PISS OFF ! HHC has now jumped into the future & found a home online, so go peep HHC Digital for free magazine downloads.

Stig Of The Dump: Maybe Its Because Im A Londoner (Part 1)

Apparently getting into physical altercations with other commuters on London Underground is just what I do now, I’m probably only one argument away from murdering one of you. Now despite looking like an aggressive, fat homeless drunk, I can say without any irony or sarcasm, that when not acting like a tit on stage with a Mic’ in my hand, I am generally a polite, well mannered person. I have a solid moral compass, I’m social, civil, willing to apologise when I’m in the wrong and for the most part capable of functioning as part of a normal society. Of coarse its all an act as I’m a miserable, selfish, apathetic misanthropist who is sickened by what’s deemed to be “Normal Society” and I couldn’t feel less akin with the utter fuck wits who over populate this planet with their stupid hair cuts, “skinny lattes” & text idioms like “lol” & “Rofl” AARRGH, just writing them to explain how much they annoy me fills me with such self loathing. BUT I suppress all that in the ever futile and vein hope that my complete lack of faith in humanity will one day be proven ill judged, admittedly it will probably lead to a stroke in later life but it also ensures that I don’t bludgeon people to death for being happy or shove them in front of trains for reading Harry Potter books when their fully grown adults with jobs & rent to pay. I’m also, up to a certain point, a pacifist, unless, it would seem, when I’m miles underground in a dirty network of tunnels being over charged for the pleasure of sharing my personal space with over rated & un avoidable…….. PEOPLE.

Yesterday, for the second time in my life, im neither proud nor ashamed to say, I hit someone while commuting in London Underground. As a few people have asked what happened (one is enough to deem my life interesting and warrant this tirade of waffle) I have decided to recount both incidents in separate blogs, in a see through attempt to justify them. And of coarse ive opted to do so in typically boring detail for you to read as you sit and procrastinate from work, school, Uni or signing on.

The First Time: “If only I’d had a cape”

The first time I was sat, mid afternoon on a Piccadilly Line train returning from my lady types house. There were a few people on the train but it was pre rush hour so there were a handful of empty seats & plenty of standing room. I was sat right in the middle of a row of seats with spare seats either side of me (as obviously no one wants to fight for elbow space with a fat man, like I care about you judging me when I get to stretch out like I’m travelling first class, id rather live less time in luxury then more time standing). On the same side was a mild looking man in his 30’s (Imagine Ned Flanders if he was less jaundice and a snappier dresser) & his 4 /5 year old daughter who were sat at the end of the row. On the other side of the glass partition were two 18-20 year old “yoots” both in those two-piece track suits that all idiot teenagers “from the ends” don’t realise look like over grown baby grows or youth offender uniforms. Two of those candidates for “cleansing” who have that insanely annoying habit of holding their mobiles right in front of their stupid faces while talking into it, apparently oblivious to the advances in technology that now mean you can hold it to your ear and talk at the same time. Two representatives of a generation that think “2 Pints of Lager & A Packet Of Crisps” is British comedy at it’s zenith, stood with their hands down their pants (unaware that fondling your balls while conversing with another man is weird, unless you’re being examined by a Doctor or your a Gay but both of which should probably be carried out behind closed doors) They stood shouting about some inane shit, something about how good a rapper “Road Man A” is as oppose to how bad “Road Man B” is or finger popping some skank in the park, or knives or “funky” or whatever your average 17-19 year old prize tit is into these days. Now I’m pretty anti-censorship but out of some sense of “respect for others” I was force-fed as a child, I try and avoid swearing every second word in front of children & old people. Admittedly, I try and avoid them like the plague all together but when I feel obliged or I’m guilt tripped into going to weddings or family birthdays or any other function I have to drink my way through, I am conscious of my choice of language. Unfortunately it would appear these kids didn’t have parents who would slap the taste out of their mouths or hit them with wooden spoons for doing such a thing and when asked by the child’s Dad (very politely, all be it too politely) if they could tone down their language, they reacted by sardonically upping the filth & aiming it at him, taking time to pepper it with a few threats and taunts. Now one thing I hate more than anything (at least for the purpose of this story) is a bully, so after seeing 2 stops of the Dad clearly fearing for the safety of both himself and his child and allowing the anger to rise inside of me like a cartoon character turning red until steam whistles out of his ears. I stood up and without saying a word (and in what could have been a choreographed scene from a shit Guy Richie film as I generally have the hand eye co-ordination of a one eyed drunk man with cerebral palsy) I walked over and punched the most aggressive of the two right in his horrible little face, banging him clean out and leaving him slumped against the door just as it opened at a station. At which point his friend panicked and yapped at me like a novelty back flipping dog, while helping him off the train and I, still having not said a word, sat down and went back to my second hand Glossy magazine. In retrospect I have put the lack of thanks and subsequent awkward silence down to the other commuters having never witnessed a “super hero” in action and in no way down to the fear that they might have been next or that I was completely insane, if only I’d had a cape they would have known.

Should you have another hour of your life to throw away frivolously, you can find the 2nd part of this 2 parter here

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Stig Of The Dump: “Cliche’s ARE cliche’s for a reason”

It happened again, i had a thought, a thought i didn’t fire off to twitter quickly enough, so it decided to hound my every conscious second like a dripping tap… a big noisy shit tap, dripping shit into my head for hours, so i put it on paper, except its not paper because we seem to live in the future where everything magically exists on your laptop’s/pc’s little window into the ether, until one day when the computers fight back & were all totally screwed. Anyway its here, making room in my head for more stupid fucking thoughts.

“If you love something, let it go, if it comes back its yours, if it doesn’t it never was”. Don’t be so stupid, why did my ex scream at me like a T.V Boot Camp Sgt Major every time I took more then a nanosecond to get through the front door? Because she was fully aware that her cats would have run free quicker than Fritzl’s daughter at her first sniff of freedom.

“It’s better to have loved and lost, than to have never loved at all”. What a load of trite bollocks, next time you’re lying around in your pants & wailing while snot bubbles pop out of your nose like a child that’s dropped its ice cream because you understand EXACTLY what Will Smith is going through in Hitch. Or next time you’re uncontrollably sobbing to The Streets “Dry Your Eyes Mate” like a fat girl trying to catch her breath, all because another relationship failed & you don’t know why the same problems keep on arising, every….single…. time…. Why didn’t he/she love you enough to work it out? Why couldn’t you just accept each other for who you are? Why? They said it was them and not you but it MUST be you?? Just as you’re obsessing about constantly having your heart broken until, eventually, if you’re lucky enough to have a decent innings, when your eyes turn milky and your skin sags like wet cling film, you die alone. Then try and tell me that the pain slowly eating away at your soul like a super-bug is way better than a life of hollow meaningless copulation with an endless string of equally desperate skanks who are too busy “living life” to settle down. We’ll see how you react when your friends drop that gem on you.

“What you don’t know can’t hurt you” OK, next time you find a lump and you will find a lump as when you’re waving goodbye to your 20’s they inevitably appear intermittently like deafening reminders of your mortality, so when you find a lump, which after months of procrastinating through fear you finally get checked out.  Well just before you get the test results why not try putting your fingers in your ears and shouting “I cant hear you, LAH lah Lah lah, i cant hear you”. You might get lucky, the tests might have come back negative, then you can carry on convinced that your alive due to your blissful ignorance, as happy as a tape worm in John McCririck’s lower intestine. If on the other hand its positive, you’re fine as you wont know anyway, so you’ll have saved yourself months of chemo, a bald head & definitely wont die at all.

“What Doesn’t Kill You Only Makes You Stronger” Except of course Osteoporosis or Muscular Dystrophy?

“Knowledge Is Power” OK, lets fight, you bring a paper back & i’ll wear steal toe’s & brass knuckles, lets see how far you get with your P-Q edition of Encyclopedia Britannica, maybe you can speed read about Qwan Ki Do while i break your face.

“A Bad Workmen Blames His Tools”. Really, well only a complete tit sits on the sidelines & offers their unwanted opinion instead of getting involved and helping out, plus SOMETIMES, you judgmental prick, a workmen does have to make do with shit tools.

“Money Can’t Buy You Happiness”. No, you smarmy twat, you’re right but only because Happiness is objective, if they could measure and manufacture happiness on a factory work line, I guarantee it would be the biggest selling product since Cillit fucking Bang, even Barry Scott would kick his own mother in the neck to stock up on it come sale day. Until then, money CAN buy you alcohol, drugs & loads of stuff, all of which make us grin from ear to ear like the avaricious, materialistic plague of greed we are, at least until the hollowness returns by which point you’ve earned more money.

In case you hadn’t worked it out, I hate clichés, mainly as they’re only ever uttered by the type of tabletop magazine philosophising tossers who have nothing of interest to say, the kind of people who think buying drugs is as easy as buying a newspaper, “they’re coming over here and stealing our jobs” & that paedophiles are EVERYWHERE.

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Stig Of The Dump: There’s Always Next Year. (2009 Review)

Go grab a brew or a brewski, strap in & spark up.. its gonna be a long one.

As i sit here on the living room floor of my goon from another poon’s yard, 3 days into next year, 3 days of pointlessly futile resolutions & the same hollow falsely promised new beginnings brought every time the clock strikes midnight on December 31st, 3 days of the same ever pressing feeling of impending doom COMPLETELY over turned by 3 days of Megadrive & piff, which single-handedly eclipsed the whole of 2009 & once finished, forced me to reflect on what utter cock rot last year was. Not only did so called Grime MC’s start rapping on House music, presumably hoping we wouldn’t notice how much of a desperation fueled attempt at making money it was, not to mention how shit it was and above all how GAY it was (not in the men being special friends with other men way.. we know “Urban” heads are against that, in their tight jeans & candy colors  but in the OH MY FUCKING CHRIST is he really rapping over house music, kinda way) but also despite Jay Z’s best attempt at sucking his own dick on a record, Auto-Tune  is still alive & well (don’t believe me just check the level that every one’s favorite crack head Flava Flav sunk to on his latest track “You Know I’ll Never Let You Down” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AbfgYFig2Fw ) while elsewhere in Hip Hop (used in the loosest way possible) Chris Brown got all Dap C & punched a lady type, on this occasion his mrs, right in her grill but lets be honest tho even battered & bruised Rihana would still catch a willy. Our charts were invaded & sullied like a Catholic choir boy by piss weak children all chasing the Capitalist dream, one of which was momentarily suicidal, of coarse twittering about it is in no way clearly a VERY public cry for attention and if true, help (a moment of clarity perhaps). Lil Wayne continues to be held aloft as the best rapper alive, although i think we could use it to our advantage & blanket cull all of his fans, instantly halfing the amount of cunts on the planet. More recently Maniac (a grime producer) tried to murder his pregnant girlfriend by attacking her with an iron bar & then pushing her in a river, all so his mother wouldn’t stop his tuition fee’s but don’t worry somehow a hand full of Grime cats are sympathetic towards him (cos shit is deep on road.. man need dem tuition fee’s) http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/london/8395601.stm

Outside of the music i used to love, there was the biggest Jedi mind trick of our time. Just as people were actually questioning the world leaders, just as American citizens started to question Bush’s term in office & there were rallying calls to impeach him for his theft of the previous election, SUDDENLY the media was all a frenzy about the possibility of a female or black president. Fast forward to 2009 & they allowed the last thing anyone had previously expected, Obama was sworn in & he INSTANTLY contradicted his promise to pull soldiers from Iraq but shut the fuck up & fill your bloated faces with fast food & reality T.V while your leaders sit in the drivers seat charging us all head on towards Armageddon, although lets not focus on the death of thousands of innocent people in the name of false democracy (you are now free to buy McDonalds & Coca Cola) and of coarse a minute number in comparison who lost their lives in the fight for freedom, hugely profitable black oily freedom !!!! especially when there were endless celeb fatalities, or lucky escapes as i prefer to look at them.  We said goodbye to a whole Hello mag full of the fuckers, we lost David “Asphixy wank” Carridine, Patrick Swayze & DJ Rock Raida, we got rid of Jade Goodie (who, no matter how much the idiots paint as a martyr, was just another fuck whit, thick council rat who made it famous by sucking off another desperate nobody on Big Brother & marrying another, then went on to redeem herself by being racist on the “celeb” version of the same Televised shit fest) Brittany Murphy JUST managed to get her name in the year of the dead celebs but was beaten by Tony Hart, Piss head chef Keith Floyd, Steven Gately, Maggie Jones (Blanche from Corrie) Wendy Richards (sour faced Pauline Fowler), Natasha Richardson (Liam Neeson’s wife) every young boys fantasy Farah Fawcett and of course that dude, what was his name, that black guy who tried to become a white guy but ended up looking like a Chinese women, whats his face, no, seriously, what the fuck IS his face. Of coarse im referring to the biggest self appointed modern day Jesus of them all. Michael “jesus juice” Jackson (proof that so long as you record a few catchy pop songs you can fuck all the kids you want and people will look the other way… take note Pete Townsend & any other future aspiring noncey pop stars, you can go the MJ/R Kelly way or the Gary Glitter way.. its all in the music) all those tragic or in some cases welcomed deaths & Kanye is still walking around like a one man bag of attention whores… fuck your god.

But don’t let the death, or survival of a bunch of people far more important than you get you down, not when you have a recession to enjoy, all those job cuts, increased taxes & the housing crash. On the plus side we all united in hating on those money hungry, pin stripe clad, city boy cunts for a few months as the country fell to pieces and we bought our last needless purchases of “stuff” in Woolworths & Zavvi (in turn putting Pinnacle distribution into liquidation & fucking over, almost bankrupting a heap of independent Labels), Officers Club, MFI, Barratt’s Shoes, electrics store Empire Direct, Borders & a million independent & family run businesses (including the SORELY missed HHC Magazine, although u can still cop it in DPF for FREE from www.hhcdigital.net ).. Not to worry though McDonalds, Starbucks, BP, Nestle, Microsoft & Apple are all still going strong.

AHHHHHhhhh bollocks to it all, i cant be bothered anymore, there’s always next year though eh? because of coarse devils won’t run the world then, idiots wont be in the majority & people will put other humans & the planet before their Flat Screen TV & I.Cunts.. but will there be a next year, next year.. if the interpretation of the Mayan Calendar by loners & paranoid stoners is anything to go by, we are all doomed in 2012 and just looking up from my lap top to see Dappy from N Dubz on Buzzcocks, not a day too soon. After todays news that a friend was KICKED half to death on New Years Eve & is currently on life support, i personally cant wait. Fuck it, no one questions Busta on his mental 4 year prediction of the Apocolypse…

THERE”S ONLY 2 YEARS LEFT

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Stig Of The Dump: Opinions are like assholes, everyone has one & yours is full of shit…

It dawned on me recently that i hadn’t offered my oh so sought after & terribly written opinion on completely un-important bullshit for a long time. Having chosen to ignore the fact that no one actually cares & instead opted to stick with the self delusion that, as a representative of the people (the miserable, misanthropic, self rightious… people) my opinion is not only sought after but indeed needed, where would the world be if it weren’t for the gems of life coaching & force fed hatred i serve up so eloquently… Fucked that’s where. Consider this like a modern day Holy Bible, not only can you misinterpret it & regurgitate chunks of it to judge others but it is also packed with double standards & much like the King James version, changed to suit me, all with another fat beardy white guy who looks down on mankind. The only thing missing is a talking snake (avoiding the obviously playground dick joke).
One of the subjects I’ve decided the world need’s to know what they should think about, is the XFactormas number 1 dispute raging at the time of writing. For the lucky few who are able to live life in the real world instead of through the internet like the rest of us self loathing or blindly ignorant idiots, a Facebook group set up to rebel against the currently “X Factor” dictated Christmas number 1 by boycotting Simon Cowell’s latest puppet & buying Rage Against The Machine’s “Killing In The Name Of” has garnered HUGE support. Support from celebs such as radio 1’s pudding faced voice of the brain dead, DJ Chris Moyles and R.A.T.M’s own, completely impartial guitarist Tom Morello to thousands of group members & like minded idiots with no genuine struggle or hardship of their own to worry about (oh & no doubt an equally large number of dumbed down people who DO have more important things to worry about but are all too easily distracted by shiny things, colourful patterns or Freinds & the malnourished jaundiced gash on Hollyoak’s).
My problem isnt with the backlash against manufactured, disposable, shallow pop music or even the GENIUSES who set up the face book group having placed bets with bookies before hand @ astronomical odds. My problem is with the army of Sheep in Wolves clothing. Whordes of woolly covered followers bleating away, fully oblivious to the fact that they are the same mindless followers of fashion who appear to be unaware that “Killing In The Name Of” & the X Factor winners song, which i refuse to find out the name of, are both owned by Sony Music Entertainment, with R.A.T.M being on Epic & the X Factor winner on Simon Cowell’s Syco Music, both subsidiaries of Sony. Avoiding getting lost in discussing weather R.A.T.M being on Sony is Raging Against The Machine they are owned by or weather it is making sacrifice & dancing with the Devil to push to a wider audience BLAH BLAH BLAH… i personally LOVE the track & play it @ the end of every show i do.. The fact is we live in a capitalist world, a world full of mindless followers who want the new shiney thing as long as its faster, cheaper, more shiney & bigger or smaller depending on context, than the last shiney thing. Those are the idiots who listen to mainstream day time radio, those are the target audience of bullshit mainstream T.V, they are the same fuck nuts who followed X Factor from the start & voted in their MILLIONS for a winner, despite not voting to save our civil liberties when anti terrorist laws were brought in allowing the police to stop & search without reasonable suspicion.
I generally avoid watching Barney or Teletubbies due to the painfully nauseating music involved & employing the same freedom of choice, i avoid the mainstream radio stations, so why the fuck do i care which hollow, vacuous, characterless voice is Christmas number 1. If your anything like me you will be about as interested in the winner of the race for Christmas number one as you are in listening to the Queen drivel on about 2009 like the out of touch, irrelevant & dated old fuck that she is… instead trying to get through the wrong date of celebration for the son of an imaginary wizard’s birthday without drinking your way through the forced conversation at dinner, all the while day dreaming about shanking your own folks in the neck with a broken Turkey shin.

Also, much as i love to hate on all these soulless, fame junkies clogging up our airwaves more than most, the simple fact is YOU CAN TURN YOUR RADIO OFF, my hating on them is from the angle of a starving artist, its like your local family run organic produce corner store hating on a conglomerate GM Tesco’s.. its different, its allowed but you lot are the ones who hold the magic key, CHOICE.. if you don’t like whats played on the radio TURN THE FUCKING THING OFF you self indulgent moaning, bloated cunts… and more to the point, why the fuck is everyone suddenly jumping on the band wagon just because its Christmas… Once the walking Coca Cola advert that is Santa has fucked off so will the false sense of hope & good will & those desperate nobodies you buy magazine after magazine to read about will still ruin the charts, stupid people will still be the majority & you will have made about as much difference as a scented tea light in a raging shit fest of a sewer.. breath it in you failing bunch of useless bastards.

If you find any holes in my argument feel free to point them out in your own blogg which much like my obvious mental health problems & impending early demise, i will be completely ignoring in favour of doing whatever the fuck i want.

That’s the cobwebs dusted off, you’ve been a terrible audience… goodnight.

x (no bruno)

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Stig Of The Dump: How Did It Come To This

Its 03.30 & I’ve been on my lonesome for just over 24 hours, as Synners is away to a wedding in Poland, my lady type is in Brighton for a birthday party and my day to day kinfolk are other wise engaged or doing something i cant afford and am probably too miserable to partake in. Now 24 hours may not seem like all that long but its decades in Stig years, there’s nothing i hate more than un occupied solo time, due for the most part, to the ensuing onslaught of introspective and bullshit tangents firing off at a hundred miles an hour and plaguing my head like a 3am neighbours house or car alarm that just WONT STOP FUCKING RINGING… I’ve rinsed Guitar Hero (but cant complete the last 2 songs on HARD setting as I’m incapable of such high speed hand/eye co-ordination so my creepers just seize up like I’m throwing gang signs) and as is the way with most things in my life if at first i don’t succeed try one or two times more then think fuck it and leave it for weeks. I’ve watched them squeeze every last drop out of over dramatised human interest stories on “America’s Got Talent”, my lowest point being when i realised i was watching an adult male twirling fire batons to a backing track of Elton John’s “I’m Still Standing” and even that hasn’t rotted my brain enough to put a stop to the feeling of purgatory like boredom. I have no weed or alcohol to dampen the storm of unproductive shit still raging in my skull, i have no company to burden with my incessant negativity about the very things I’m forced to turn to out of pure despair. I’m OBVIOUSLY too busy to do anything productive like cleaning and I’m incapable of writing any coherent lyrics as I’m totally void of inspiration and as such trapped in a vicious cycle, in which i need to write or do something to alleviate the cancerous tedium eating me from the inside out like a fucking super bug but at the same time I’M TOO BORED TO DO SO. So instead Ive taken to writing about the problem in the vein hope that by focusing on the issue i will somehow cancel it out like a double negative. I WAS WRONG… fortunately tho after writing I WAS WRONG my phone went and after a lengthy conversation ranting about how shit my evening has been its now about time to watch some porn and sleep (assuming I’m not still clicking links in 4 hours).. now think of all the things you could have don’t while you were procrastinating and reading this utter waffle. Fuck Off, Piss Off…

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Stig Of The Dump: Big Brother (HHC Magazine)

“Ya life’s monitored on CCTV, yo/And these kids think Big Brother’s just a TV show…”

I was going to say for those of you who don’t know (edit: at the time of writing) Big Brother 10 has started, but let’s face it, unfortunately, whether you wanted to or not, you already do. I could start my reasons for hating Big Brother with clichéd jokes about people sitting on their sofa in their house doing nothing while watching people in a house on a sofa doing nothing, but that doesn’t hugely bother me – if you want to have your brain slowly churned into shit that’s on you.

My issue isn’t even with the fact that it envelopes our TV like a fucking rash so everywhere you turn you end up face-to-face with the soul-sapping shit, especially when I could just turn over and watch re-runs of Britain’s full of deluded mentalists who think being desperate, deluded and retarded is Talent or American, Let’s See How Many Characterless Singers We Can Exploit For Their Family Losses In The Hope That We Find A Mass Marketable Idol; or if they’re not on there’s always I Used To Be A Celebrity, Get Me Back On TV, plus I generally try to avoid watching the idiot box as best I can. (Holla at Come Dine With Me though!)

And my problem isn’t even that our nation’s favourite racist, fear-mongering comic-book tabloids are filled with scandal surrounding the nobodies in the house. No, my problem is that most of the nation is swept up in a tide of brainless shit and rather than discuss important issues, or indeed unimportant but interesting shit, it instead ends up spewing bollocks about the single biggest advocate of the cancerous fame junkie culture we live in, where vacuous, talentless, soulless fuck-nuts devoid of personality make up for their lack of achievements in life by fighting for attention as their only goal is to be famous for the sake of being famous.

If fame is a bi-product of talent – like it is for singers, footballers, actors, writers and whatnot – it’s understandable. However, if it’s your only goal in life then I thoroughly hope you go out the same way Jade Goody did. I recently saw Nicky Grahame of BB9 fame at Vibe Bar on Brick Lane and just knowing the sour-faced, child-bodied, growth-on-humanity was still alive ruined my whole day.

If simply considering applying for the programme didn’t fill me with such shame, I would try and enter the house just to bludgeon every one of my housemates to death with their own hollow personalities. Failing that, a claw hammer would do…

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