Review by Pi

There can never be a more succinct joining of family get togethers as when we held our Christmas dinner in the clinic. Whilst cousin Cathy was having her womb scraped clean of her fathers mistakes, in the cold sterile chamber beyond, we sang carols and drank sherry in the bright yellow waiting room. We listen to Kate Bush and bite big marks off a fresh cooked turkey which Father is handing arround. Juice and fat run hurriedly over our chins. When she emerges walking bandidly on week legs, tears streaming, we cheer and laugh. Aunt G, who’s a Papist shouts abuse and throws a bag of flour on her. But its a prank, soon hugs drown out the laughs. The carols resume as our celebrations continue, presents are given and received. Our family has never been this close, our joy as complete. Later we drink the useless little smudge of human flesh my brother removed.

Review by Pi

The gentle Nazification of the soul is explored in that most 21st century of forms, the book. Deep yellow, its pages thick and smelling, almost, like their fish glue binding. The Beach is the classic erotic novel, with little to no poon, but with every suggestive leaf painted in violent arousal. Every tree penetrates the sky to bleeding joy, and the deep dark pits of the soul echo anus. Garland effortlessly crafts visions of tribal life onto a cast of meaningless nobodies. I doubt anyone could give a fuck by the end of the first few pages and most will not finish the book, after discovering anything else to do. Grumblestiltskin! By now you must realise this whole exercise is futile. I’m off to make the tea.

Review by Pi

Siliver sliver the damp cold snakes sparkley over nonsense taste flesh. Smack flesh pillows together, then draft more. Head fug, truned on warm air, so to clear, but gray and colour increase. Slug mickle zestie tang back and grab monkey fruit with salt. Quick noise grabs and throws sound room over, and visible specturm flashflashflashes. Throat cloud with tabs and nuts. Clean with citron. Too many persons to quick the night chased morning fled. But still 5 shots with coke and lime comes and goes. Tomorrow will not happen.

Review by Pi

I quite enjoy the one big meal a day thing. I lash down tea and coffee all day and when I find a dirty crumpled fiver or a friend eager for my company, I go for a dirty great fry. Now I will happily eat anything, not like my plant hating friend here, but for preference I like the first thing I eating in a day to be breakfast food. Sausage bacon eggs, that kind of mollarky. So whats your point?

Review by Pi

A real stunner of a building, it immediately conjures images of the earlypostbrutalist structures of the Russian and Bangalorian School. It sits squat like a toad, a forlorn military bunker ripped to eye from the cold brown embrace. Luck are those who work within, who study there. The bare concrete, so bravely unadorned, upon every floor, ceiling and wall, provide the perfect gray dream upon which the mindscapes of future knowledge can be constructed. Beautifully drawn in the mourning pallet of the blind, the arts block is a stunning fuck you to those who think Dublin is ugly.

Review by Pi

What a lot of cock. Boring lazy and designed to make what ever monster it is that writes the play lists for Radio 1 in the uk cream all off the leg of his ma, what who he’s banging. And as his slightly green jizzism starts to crystallize and the album keeps playing and you feel the creeping horror rise within you, as if you’ve just noticed some walking up the ally behind up has started to run at you. I quite enjoyed bit of it on first listening, for instance face for the radio is a nice little tune clicking over without really putting you under any strain at all. Its just that they obviously are all a bit of wank fucked onto pete d‘s portrait. Must try harder, next please, I haven’t all day.

Review by Pi

It all seemed so innocent. Didn’t it? It did t’me. Fuck it for a while I believed it would be fun. They were some how much more likable than oasis, wholooked like they might give you a kicking and steal our weed, or the pedo looker Jarvis. Fucking blur were all shouty like bumping into a group of mates in the pub a bit worse for wear on e and shrooms (oh look lots of drug references, I must be cool). Then alburn fucked off for a bit, started doing side projects, went travelling in Africa and released the excellent Mali music, and then there was that whole shit on your breakfast plate the gorillaz. Jesus
that was terrible. Even the fucking name. piss. Anyway then blur tried to turn into radiohead and did the passable thinktank. It was toss in places but I liked a few tracks. And that more than I can say for a lot of things. But this little side wank in the mirror is really bad. Oh, I’m sure people will say its great. Innovative. Its not. Its alburn buggering around. Singing through a cardboard box from the sound of it. Its basically british sea power and we all know how foolish we were to allow them in the sitting room. Balls balls balls.

Review by Pi

Myths of the near future. What do they mean by that? The obvious poetical necessity of it, as a concept is that of a stunning arrogance. It reeks of the smug old boy system, of school ties and port, of ruddy faced men in blazerslaughingly clubbing a baby seal to death. The idea of myths of the near future is that twinkle in the eye of the cock stain jock on the first day of school when he realises that he’s going to be fine here. Perhaps the most obvious direction of thought demanded is that of neo-architectural poetry from southern France, the stiltedly intentional verse of François Glempz. Gently gently the klaxons draw a picture of themselves, gently gently you realise that it is true, or a truth, or a version, and idea, a perspective of the truth. They start gently gently to revel in themselves, an aural dance of the seven veils.
But in that, as here you never see her friendly beaver tongue. Just as here you never see any evidence of talent, ability or skill. They must have them somewhere, they didn’t just pull golden skans out their asses. The video for it is amazing. But the live jools Holland recording is terrible - they look shite live don’t they- most bands sound fantastic on jools. Shame. you tube it and tell me if I’m wrong.

Review by Pi

Razorlightning rod. White jean wearing crocks of cack. In the morning you know you won’t remember a thing is a gleeful telling of date rape, as Johnny crows and dances round the semi conscious naked form of some drugged girl he’s about to plough. Disgusting. And they play it on the radio. I hope the dpp is drawing up a file.

Review by Pi

I love lily allen. She’s fucking fantastic. I would eat her if I could. On bread with a little brown sauce. She has a damn sweet voice, a beautiful turn of phrase, and a wildly misjudged sense of style. Fuck it I’m not going into any greater details, it’s a good album and she is great fun.