Monday, 30 January 2012

Hudson Mohawke

Speaker's Corner with Hudson Mohawke
If there's one thing I love, it's communication. But did you know that people communicate in different ways all over the world? These are some fun linguism facts that you can read!

Mind Your Language!
Some cultures certainly know how to do an insulting! (These are not for the easily offended!)
Your mother has never been born!

When you bend over, an obscure early rhythm & blues recording goes out of copyright!

Every time I fuck your sister, it is as if I am in the occult section of an old, dilapidated library. I look over to my left and I see an old man sitting there, naked, with his feet on the chair and his knees wide apart. His shrivelled balls hang uselessly, dessicated, like deflated leather balloons, it is quite disgusting. He has no cock. He fixes me with his eyes, sharp eyes, redolent of an ancient evil, older than the earth itself, and I feel a terror like all the terror in the universe is concentrated within my being. It is as if I am a nexus for all the terror that ever existed. However, I do not feel this way when I fuck your uncle!

Lost In Translation!
Though hilarious in their own languages, some foreign jokes just won't translate into English! Here are some of my favourites...
The young lady wishes for a new dress. Perhaps this young gentleman will buy her one!

My father was supposed to build a fence, but instead he gave birth to an elk with human feet.

A woman walks into the bar. Her elbow reminds you of an elbow that used to belong to a friend of yours, Piotr. It was taken from Piotr several years ago when he was mugged during a weekend city break in Copenhagen. Even now, he lies awake at night thinking about his elbow. Is it safe? Is it happy? He has changed since the incident. He was once very charismatic, confident and outgoing, good at his job (he is a forensic accountant), but now he rarely goes out and he is being sidelined at work. So you turn to the woman and say, "those are nice shoes, I'd like to eat them!" Slowly, she looks you up and down, then finally she says, "why the long face?" It is at this point that you look into a nearby mirror, and you see that you have become a bishop.

Did You Know..?
Curiously, every word in John Lennon's hit Imagine exists in the tongue of the Crimean Tatars, though the meanings could not be more different!

Lennon's record label Apple cleverly decided to take advantage of this quirk by shooting an alternative version of the promotional video especially for the Crimean market, to convey the lyrics as they would be understood.

The video features Lennon driving his white piano like a tank around northwestern Asia, conquering it territory by territory for Crimea. As the song reaches its climax, Yoko Ono appears in the form of a harpy and perches on Lennon's outstretched arm as the Red Banner burns behind them. It has only ever been seen by twelve people. Since 1993, ten of them have been murdered.

I fear I may be next, and so I intend to go underground for the foreseeable future. See you soon, language lovers!

Hudson will return when greater stability comes to the North Caucasus

Monday, 23 January 2012

Django Bates

He takes a stool at the counter of the diner. His overalls are covered in oil and sin. Can't stand it. As he puts down his coffee mug he sees oily fingerprints streaked across white ceramic. Looks down - greasy brown daubs like mud craters litter the surface of the counter. Scanning the diner he sees people eating and talking, unaware that this powerful cinematic symbol of his failings covers their clothes, their faces, their food, the furniture the walls the windows oh my God I can't do this anymore. I can't keep it down: "THE TIME HAS COME FOR THIS TO BE OVER NOW!"

The people look up: "holy shit, that is one angry mod shop guy!"

Django Bates: Angry Mod Shop Guy.

But what's this? A police officer bursts through the door, discharges his pistol three times - once a bang, twice a bang, three times a bang. Bang bang bang. Django Bates falls back against the counter, dead.

That was me, three months ago - Django Bates, car modification technician. And yes, I'm dead. But how did I get here? What brought me to this place, this dead place?

"When I was a kid, that was all I wanted to be, a car modification technician. Now I'm a car modification technician and I can't fuckin' stand it. Where did I go wrong?"

"You just need to dig deep and rediscover the child within, Django."

I used to sit with my dad in the garage and watch him fixing up vehicles. He was the best in the area. All the guys from the neighbourhood would come in to request his services.

"Hey, Bates. I want this fuckin' van tricked out so I can fuck bitches in back, alright? Do it or I'll shoot you in the ass."

"Eh yo, Bates - I wanna big old fuckin' cannon on the roof that fires dildos at people. Think you can do that? You better, or I'll shoot you in the ass."

"I want this car stripped down to the fuckin' chassis and rebuilt with a fuckin' buffalo carcass, you got me? Don't make me shoot you in the ass."

I wasn't interested in school, girls or sports. Most days I cut classes to go hang out on my own at the car park and try to pimp people's motors without anyone seeing. Couple times I got caught and hauled in front of the principal.

"This boy's obsession with cars will be his undoing, you mark my words. Is there no room in his heart for love?"

After I finally got out of school I went to work in a local mod shop for a guy called Al. Al had become the best in the area after my dad was shot in the ass when I was 14.

"Eh, kid. You're pretty good with these cars. But you work too damn hard, son. Don't you gonna find time to live once in a while?"

"Hey, fuck you."

Still, I managed to meet a girl, Yolanda. We got a house, had a kid, and I took over the mod shop after Al was shot in the ass. And that was where I spent all my time. Didn't even see my kid, Martin, or Felicity, something like that, I dunno. Well, Yolanda got tired of me not being around so she quit town with the kid. I'm not too sure when. Think it was a few months before I noticed. I found a faded, yellowed letter on the kitchen table: "Dear Django, I love you, but I can't be with you until you stop messing around with cars and start realising what's really important. I'm sorry."

Well, that was it. I sold the house and moved into the mod shop, and that was all I did, modify cars, day and night. And I hated it. I hated every fuckin' minute of it. But I couldn't stop, oh no. No, I did it because I had to. Because I just didn't know what else to do.

"Man, that mod shop guy, he knows his shit, but motherfucker don't sleep no more. Don't even go in there, he's crazy."

"Stop! In the name of the law, I command you to stop!"




And this is where you came in, and I started to tell you my story, which I've just told you. And I've finished now. So hey - you better learn the lessons I didn't. Be safe.

Don't let your life end in farce.
Spend too much of it messing around with cars,
You too could get shot in coffee bars.
(It might even happen up your arse.)

That was a public service announcement from the British Council for Responsible Car Modification

Sunday, 15 January 2012

Me Me Me Me Me

We've got a real treat here to kick off the new year - the creator of Scurferens has agreed to this very special interview.

Scurferens. If anyone had ever heard of it, it would probably be known as 'the blog that nobody reads'. Why bother?
Yes, well, when I first started writing Scurferens back in '10, I wanted to do something a bit different. There were plenty of blogs out there that were supposed to be funny, but weren't. So I thought it might be an interesting idea to do a blog that looked like it was supposed to be funny, but wasn't, but actually wasn't supposed to be that funny anyway.

It wasn't an interesting idea.
I know that.

But hats off, you set out to write an unfunny blog, and you succeeded. Then, some time in 2011, you managed to make it even less funny. What was going on there?
Well, basically, no-one was reading, no-one cared. I'd grown tired of trying to figure out what people wanted, so I decided to start telling them. You see, the thing is, I'm not an entertainer. It's not my job to entertain people. I'm a serious artist.

For me, art is a conversation. But it's a conversation in which I talk and you shut up. People think conversation is supposed to be entertaining, but conversation's only as entertaining as the people involved, and most people are purely functional. And so conversation is really more of an ordeal, a humiliating dance we have to do in order to overpower others and gain access to their resources or whatever.

In the conversation of Scurferens, you are gaining access to my resources, and my resources are the educations of all of you by me. Education isn't entertainment, it's more like medicine. And medicine isn't supposed to taste good. Show me a medicine that tastes good.

I quite like a nice honey & lemon cough syrup.
Yes, but cough syrup isn't a real medicine, is it? It's just a drink. It doesn't really work. If you want to get rid of a cough, the most effective way to do it is to eliminate the source, by removing the lungs. That's what they teach you in the SAS. And that's what I'm trying to do - I'm removing the lungs of society. And I'm holding them up to society's face. And I'm saying: "look. Look what you've made me do." That's powerful.

The towns and villages of Ancient Greece, they had a figure, called the Maniakós. Now, he usually lived in a cave up on a hill at the edge of town, and once a week the citizens would walk up to the top of the hill, and throw stones into the cave. And the Maniakós would run out, barking and swearing and making all manner of strange gestures, and the villagers would run away back down the hill, fast as they could, laughing their heads off. Occasionally, he'd catch and eat one of them. So as much as they enjoyed this ritual, there was real fear there. And they needed that fear. It made them feel alive. And that's who I want to be. I want to be the Maniakós for a new generation. I want to inspire fear. With fear you can... [he pauses, supposedly to collect his thoughts, although I suspect he's trying to be dramatic] control people.

I need it, that will to power, to keep me alive. Like those people needed the Maniakós, like the Maniakós needed them. If he hadn't that function to perform he'd have been kicked to death. The Maniakós was like the queen bee. Or the Highlander. There could be only one. Once the role was assigned, all others perished.

It doesn't matter that I'll never acquire this power. It never matters, not to the blogger. In the blogger's mind, he or she is addressing the entire population of the internet. But the reality is more like a recitation of adolescent poetry in an abandoned workshop or outhouse, empty but for the detritus of a stranger's life. What's the deal with this cat mask? Look at these amusing photos of people in stupid clothes. Except they're not stupid anymore because a generation of hipsters has modelled its look on them. Hey, there's a 1981 issue of Fiesta at the bottom of this box! I'm going to scan the cover later and write something pithy to accompany it.

The blogger is a tragic figure.

Great stuff. So, what can we expect from Scurferens in 2012?
Probably just more of the same old shit. Or if you're lucky, I might run out of ideas some time in April and just let the weeds grow. I expect I'd try to style it out at first - "Scurferens is going fortnightly from now on because I'm busy or something, I don't know." I'd do it like that, I think, be all flippant about it. But really, I'd be wracked with self-hatred and terror. Though no-one else would even notice it's gone. This is what blogging does to you. It's pathetic. I mean, it's just a fucking hobby, isn't it?

Am I really any better than a 48-year-old man called Malcolm, who has an elaborate train set in his attic? Who, every evening - every single fucking evening - gets dressed up as a 1950s engine driver and spends two whole hours making his stupid little plastic trains go round and round and round and round and round. His kids hate him. They won't bring friends round. Rita, his wife, she can't bear to be touched by him. While he's upstairs with his trains, she's on the internet, desperately trying to get laid. But she can't, you know why? Because no-one wants her. No-one wants her because she doesn't have hair, or a face. It's just smooth, all round, top to bottom. She has a tube coming out of her neck that allows her to breath, and another one for food. Only Malcolm would have her. But she's still a woman, you know? She still has needs. And she deserves more than this... fucking... man-child. Do you know he's never made her come?

How awful.
This woman is trapped. Trapped in that smooth pebble of a head and in her miserable, sexless life, if you can call it a life, with Malcolm. Malcolm has Oedipal issues. I don't really want to talk about Malcolm anymore, can we change the subject?

Thanks for speaking to us.
It's been a pleasure.

Monday, 9 January 2012


"Why do people lie, Dad?"

"People lie because they don't care, Son. They lie because they don't care..."

That thing I said about Scurferens returning today. Well, I've been sick. Back next week.