All a load of adrian mole-esque bollocks

2002-12-16T15:56:00.000Z

Choke
I am on the internet, viewing a web page. I see a link to an MPEG saying 'Watch this woman choking inbetween her words!'. I click on it, and watch a woman sitting on the floor. I don't know what she is saying, but between each word she gags as if she is about to be sick. Suddenly, I am transported to the scene. It is a room with white walls, and on a sofa 2 more women are looking at her, laughing. They turn to me, and I skip and dance out of the room. The room is at the bottom of St. James' Lane. I dance for about half a mile, then walk some of the way back. It is about 8:30 in the morning. On the corner of the road I see my mum, and we talk. I tell her I am going away for a while, and she seems disinterested. Then the sky turns black, and a huge aircraft with a spotlight flies overhead. We both know this is the start of the blitz. Then I wake up.

2002-12-16T15:49:00.000Z

Goo
I am in the corner of a school hall, full of children. Germaine Greer stands in the doorway. I pick at the wall with my fingernail. The wall is covered in Gloy glue, like you used to use in primary school. The more I pick at it, the more it comes off. The glue covers the entire hall, including everyone in it. I manage to pick the glue off the entire hall, in one 'sheet'. Then I wake up.

2002-12-06T00:38:00.000Z

Buddah goes to a hot dog seller. Seller asks him what he wants. Buddah says 'I'd like one with everything'.

Woman walks into a bar. Barman asks her what she wants. She asks for a double entendre. Barman gives her one.

2002-12-03T13:41:00.000Z

Woke up this morning Tony Soprano is my dad. He has decided to adopt 4 extra children. He and his wife Carmela decide to get a divorce. He convinces Furio to give him a lift in his light blue VW Beetle by saying he will sell one of the many diamonds he has. He bundles us all into the car. Carmela sees us, and sargues with him. She teels Furio he only has one diamond left. Tony looks sheepish. We all drive of. Now I am walking down the street with Tony. We talk about the strip club. I say I am going to visit AJ at his friends house. When I arrive I see him at the top of a huge wet grassy hill. He is about to slide down it. David Bowie in full Ziggy Stardust costume is also here. He jumps seconds before me and AJ. As we are sliding down, I see Ziggy ahead of me. I am increasing in speed, until I hit a huge bump and am lifted high into the air. When I land I am watching a black and white documentary on Bowie's career, starting with his work in silent movies. He is very good looking, and his head is cube shaped and can rotate. Then I wake up.

2002-11-18T21:21:00.000Z

Tamsin Greig again
OK, I've received an email telling me that the reason for all the Tamsin Greig site hits is because I'm in the Top 10 searches for her name on Google. Which is fine, but the acompanying text (the fancy bit) is sooooo wanky, it sounds like the scene in "I'm Alan Partridge" where he finds the shrine dedicated to himself. I just had to delete it (on here, it's still cached unfortunatley). She's still a great looking great actress though :o)

2002-11-15T20:38:00.000Z

I am in the army. I am with my friends in my bedroom, and we are protecting someone from Al-Queida (sp?). It is nighttime. There is a women who sits naked on the wall outside my window, but is able to make herself disappear. She says she likes being naked because 'It's what she wants to do, it's her life'. We peek through the curtains at her, and giggle. We see a man in red trousers near the grass. We train our rifles on him, we know he is the bad guy. Suddenly from his head emerges helicopter blades made of fireworks. He rises from the ground and we duck down waiting for him to explode. After a while he still hasn't so we peer over the windoe ledge. He is gone. Then I wake up.

2002-11-12T14:18:00.000Z

Analyse This
I am in a packed cinema on the back row, in the middle. I'm watching an 'Embarresing Celebrities' film. The person next to me wants to go to the toilet but the cinema is badly designed and I tell him it would be too much hassle to get up. He keeps nagging me, so finally I move. Upon seeing this, the entire crowd gets up to go to the toilet, including me. On the stairs waiting for the toilet, I decide to go back to watch the film. Fighting back through the crowds I am in the cinema almost alone. We watch a film of Culture Club repeatedly messing up the start of a song. Every time Boy George sings a word, he says 'No, start again'. Eventually Jon Moss is throwing his drums at him. Suddenly, I find myself under the covers of a bed. Peering over the covers I find I am a double bed with red silk sheets, in the middle of a plush ground floor office. I can see Broad Street in Birmingham through the office doors. I get my phone out, and try to book tickets to see the film I've just seen. A women at the other end of the office takes my call. After I've booked the tickets, I am confused and ask people what I'm doing here. They seem interested, and say they see a lot of people like me. I get out of bed and leave for Broad Street. However this street is long and steep, and on the left side there are huge red council estates. I walk towards them, and find that when I jump, I can glide down. At the end of the road are some small shabby shops, like Shambles in Coventry. I feel as if I know everyone there. I realize I am in Sheffield. The owner of the final shop takes me inside for a drink. We talk, and I tell him how hard I am finding it trying to get a job in London. I say I am thinking of moving to Sheffield, but a lot of my stuff is still at Mark and Lards' house. Another man comes in, and we talk of how suspicous it is that Mark's daughter got 85% in her Photoshop exams at school. We think she knows the Ctrl-0 cheat. The other person then asks my friend if he has any 'special stuff' coming in. I assume he means dope. Then I find myself transported to a studio set, where a montage of people I used to know talk of how much they enjoyed getting their degrees. The final part of the montage is a naked women sitting on a man, facing him with her legs spread. The show cuts back to the studio, where Ulrika Jonssen is presenting the show, with Sir Steve Redgrave and Bradley from SClub7. They are all naked, with Sir Steve on his back, Ulrika straddling him, and Bradley behind her. Ulrika makes some joke with the word 'cock' in it, and the audience laugh at it. She trys to start fucking Sir Steve, but Bradley pulls his dick out and starts sucking it. I think to myself 'This is pretty weird for 9 o'clock on a Sunday night'. Then I wake up.

2002-11-09T17:45:00.000Z

Tamsin Greig
Could someone tell me why I am getting a ton of hits concerning her? They're coming from all over the world, what's going on? Has she appeared in something lately?

2002-11-06T14:27:00.000Z

I'm at the corner of a road, next to a patch of grass. There are 6 poles in the ground, each with a severed head attached. 4 of the heads are the Beatles, the other 2 I don't know. I get the feeling they are still alive. Then John Lennon walks past, moves behind the McCartney head and pulls it back, and the pole bends back and forth. He laughes at this. He does the same to George Harrison. We are both looking at him as he springs back and forth. George's eyes turn to stare at me. He grins. His head falls to the floor, where it suddenly gains a body. He is dressed in white. He points to me and says "You killed me!". I try to run, but John follows me and George is crawling after me. Then I wake up.

2002-11-06T14:21:00.000Z

I'm in a queue at HMV to buy the '8 Mile' soundtrack, by Eminem. As I get closer to the checkout, I panic because I don't like Eminem and can just download it. Then I wake up.

2002-11-03T15:13:00.000Z

Are you a gladiator?
Walking with a friend past the garages near to the bend on Wroxall Drive, me and a friend decide to play a game of 'Guess the noise'. We hear a noise, and my female friend and shouts 'Gladiator' towards a block of flats. Suddenly music starts playing, and a women with wrinkled skin runs out. She says she used to be one of the gladiators, and is wearing a white suit with thick red lipstick and a deep tan. I kiss her on each cheek, and we start flirting with one another. We hold each others hands. 'Michelle' by The Beatles starts playing, and we dance a tango. Then she morphes into Jamie Theakstone, but I keep dancing, mirroring his footsteps. Then I wake up

2002-07-14T01:20:00.000Z

Remember to Medireview, Retrireview, Reviewuate, in the 'Abstract statementism' style
Quoth NTK,

This fiddling has been going on now for over a year year (the ever vigilant RISKS digest noted it back in March 2001). But because of Yahoo's underhand methods, very few people have spotted the turnabout - certainly far fewer than if Yahoo had done the sensible thing and, say, "**"'ed out the vowels in the word, or, God forbid, written a smarter parser. But the sneakier you are, the wider the damage spreads. The word "medieval" (since it contains the javascript command "eval") is converted in Yahoo mail to "medireview". Google now shows over 640 sites (and 1,150 separate instances) of the word "medireview" being used as a synonym for medieval. University papers, bibliographies and book reviews, Indian newspaper columnists, and endless enthusiast sites drop it unseen into texts. People have begun to ask where it originally came from, and does it have a subtler meaning beyond "medieval"? Is Yahoo ever going to fix its filters? Or is it time we pushed to get the first regexp-obfuscated word into the Oxford English Dictionary?

2002-07-04T14:46:00.000Z

Another Boring One
After watching England win the world cup and not being interested in the slightest, I take a tennis racket and ball, and keep knocking the ball in the air as I walk down to a local firld, and back home again. On the way back a naked man on a motorcycle passes me. On the stairs leading to my flat I see an old friend, and start talking to her. She has a male friend with her, and the longer we talk the more aggresive this man becomes. I try to inject myself with some heyfever medicine, but the man smashes my pouch containing the medicine, causing it to break. Angry with him, I stab him in the hand with a needle causing it to bend. He screams, and I run into my flat feeling satisfied. All of a sudden I am overwhelmed with guilt, thinking I may have killed the man. Then I wake up.

2002-05-10T14:12:00.000Z

Number 9 Dream
After a night out with a friend, I am sleeping in a bed with Momus (each at opposite ends). When I wake up, Momus and my friend are playing computer games, and I pretend to be asleep while watching the television screen. My friend says he has to leave, and I get out of bed. My friends sister enters the room. Me and Momus flirt with her, and talk about how long my friend is taking. We all suddenly realize that he is going to steal a car, so we look out of the window towards the car park, waiting for the sound of breaking glass. Suddenly I am in a cafe in New York, high in a skyscraper and overlooking a busy road. I am on a red sofa, and Momus is with me. A ginger cat tries to sit next to us, but it can't find any room. It then moves to a window ledge next to me, and tells me that it has written a letter to the New York Times in my name, and signed it 'Captain Arthur Anderson'. I am shocked. I am awake.

2002-05-06T23:56:00.000Z

Weirdest dream yet
I am in an undecorated bedroom with a middle aged man, dressed in dirty clothes. He has a computer and s synthesizer next to a window. I don't know how I have met him, but he says he is a producer. He tells me how he wrote all of Depeche Mode's songs, and plays me 'Just can't get enough'. I am awed, and I really believe this to be true. Time passes, and I keep looking for excuses to stay with him. Into the flat comes a women, dressed similarly dirty, with long blonde hair. I think she is his wife, sisters, and daughter. I decide to eat dinner with them, and I get the feeling that I might get lucky with the women. We have not spoken, and never will. After dinner watch television, and whilst I think the man wants me to leave, he acts friendly. I get the feeling they are both into S&M. I am sent to an upstairs bedroom to sleep for the night, and soon as the door is shut I search the room for any bondage equipment. Periodically they both sneak in, but I manage to avoid them. I continue to look for the equipment, and the next time I look up he is standing in the room, and she is floating around, both smiling at me. I get the feeling they want to tie me up, and/or have sex with me, and I feel I like this. As normal, whenever I feel something strange/powerful is going to happen, I wake up.

2002-05-02T00:14:00.000Z

I'm going on hunger strike
until this blog gets listed in a search engine. I wan't some disturbing search requests, and I want them now.

2002-04-30T17:52:00.000Z

Another Dream
On a flight from London to New York on Concorde I am sitting by the window. One of my hands is subconciously picking at the low celing of the plane. I am not giving this any thought. Upon landing, as we are being ushered out, the captain and stewards are pointing at, and talking about, the huge gaping hole that i have picked, which has spread to the wing. I act coy, and walking off the plane. On the journey back from New York I do it again, and again on another journey to New York. On returning to London a second time, the captain asks me to the back of the plane. Thinking I have been caught I prepare to confess. He asks me if I know what is causing holes to appear in the plane and wings. I say I don't know. He then shows me a secret room in the tail of the plane, a glass walled room he says is 'full of pressure'. He says it is the secret to making the only supersonic passenger jet in the world. He asks me to travel in this room, to help him find out why the holes are appearing. He says that British Airways may have to close if the public found out about the holes. He says tens of thousands could lose their jobs. He says the wing could fall off next time. Overwhelmed by guilt I admit to picking holes in the plane. He is sympathetic, and I feel relieved. He promises not to tell anyone else. He asks me to tow the plane into its hanger for him. Single handedly I do this. Just as I am about to leave the hanger he gathers all of the planes staff with me, together in a semi-cirle. He announces that he knows whats been causing holes in the plane, and that it is the fault of someone in the hanger. I start to panic. I then realise this is a dream. I start to ponder if I should wake up. I wait until he is just about to say my name, and I wake up.

2002-04-25T22:49:00.000Z

Cristie Kerr kisses the trophy she received for winning the LPGA Longs Drugs Challenge at the Twelve Bridges Golf Club in Lincoln, Calif., Sunday, April 21, 2002. Kerr finished with a four-day total of 8-under-par 280. This was Kerr's first win on the LPGA tour. (AP Photo/Rich Pedroncelli)

2002-04-14T22:21:00.000Z

This is copied from a post on The Streets message board
I don't know the author, sorry.

Original Pirate Material - Best Album, BUY IT!

Once upon a time there was a goldfish who spent it's days swimming to and fro in it's fish tank. one day the owner of this fish decided that it was a shame to waste all that water just so the goldfish could live comfortably, so the owner removed a cup of water and told the fish that it was really for it's own good and that he would never miss the water. The goldfish didn't mind, He didn't even really notice that his environment had shrunk slightly. Over the next few weeks the owner would occasionally remove another cup of water - each time with the remark that the goldfish really didn't need all of that water anyway. As the goldfishes world became smaller, he noticed that he wasn't as free as he once was and the water was now a bit more cloudier than it used to be, but he could still swim back and forth in his tank without experiencing any genuine discomfort.The rate at which the water was being withdrawn was so gradual that the goldfish never saw his own doom approaching. One day, the goldfish noticed that he now seemed to be spending all of his time at the bottom of the tank next to the gravel. Hecould no longer swim up and down in the tank, but since he could still swim forward and to the right and to the left, he merely frowned and tried to make the best of his situation. At least he was still being fed everyday, and the water was still the right temperture. Finally, however, the day came when the owner removed a cup of water and the goldfish noticed that his dorsal fin was exposed unless he stayed in just one small area of the tank where ther was a small depression in the gravel. He began to worry, but had to be careful about how he moved around now. He also noticed that he was feeling more lethargic - primarily because the water could not hold sufficiant oxygen. That night the heater was turned off in the tank, but since it was winter and the tank sat near a heat vent, the goldfish just remained still to conserve energy. When dawn came the next day, the owner removed one more cup of water and finally the goldfish saw his own doom approaching. Barely able to think clearly due to oxygen deprivation, he yearned for the old days when the tank was filled to the top with clear, sparkling water, but the memory of those days was quickly fading. That evening, the owner saw the goldfish lying on it's side, it's fins barely moving. He shrugged and turned out the light as he left the room. In the morning the goldfish was dead. He had been dying for a long time and had not realized it. So it is with the society that we live in today. We do not recognize that ever so gradually our freedoms are being taken from us. We desperatly hope that those who have power in this country will have compassion for us and we are too frightened of what they might do to us if we anger them by being ungrateful for the few remaining freedoms that we still possess.

2002-04-14T15:16:00.000Z

More Dreams
I am sitting by a bridge in Whitley trying to talk to a girl I don’t know, but she is ignoring me. A red Citroen swerves by with 3 drunk men inside. The car stops and one staggers out. He asks if he can have sex with her while I wank him. She jumps at the chance while I try and figure out how to do both at the same time. She takes his hand and they skip down a slope and across some fields, to a large gothic school. They are a few steps ahead of me, and as they enter the door I am still on the grass. Suddenly the field turns into a bright green sandwich with a small window open, facing the door. I am inside the sandwich. I try and crawl through the window, but I get stuck halfway. I am left struggling, contemplating what I am missing. I wake up.

I wake up to brush my teeth, and as I am doing so bubbles float up from the sink, each filled with charcoal. I wake up.

I am watching an 80’s Brit Awards ceremony. Duran Duran are winning an award. The lead singer is Robert Plant. He has a very deep Scottish accent. All the while I am waiting for him to say ‘cunt’. I can’t contain my anticipation, and at the end he does. The crowd cheers. I wake up.

I am in a lecture theatre. I realise I have sold drugs to almost everyone in the theatre. I begin to get paranoid they will tell the lecturer. All the while, people are asking me for heroin, and I give it to them in a little sachet. I feel worse each time. Soon everyone has a bag full of drugs, except me. I wake up.

2002-04-10T19:57:00.000Z

This is an essay I wrote a few years ago
I hope you find it of interest.

Prozac Nation : Wurtzel And The Use Of The Supernatural

Sexual identity was a favorite theme of Elizabeth Wurtzel. Still, while scholars often feel Prozac Nation is possibly brainless, it is one of Wurtzel's richest works. In the following paragraphs, evidence will be presented that clearly demonstrates most conservative critics are wrong about Wurtzel's use of loss of innocence. Support for this claim is present in the following: (a) Wurtzel's adversarial relationship to the mid 19th century Romantic school while writing the book, (b) the Positivist theme of the absurd in Prozac Nation, and (c) the author's incorporation of farce, showing the influence of the the post reactionary school.

First, Wurtzel's incorporation of such imagery is most skillful in Prozac Nation's triumphant first half. Wars have been fought over less. This is clearly why Mr. Sawyer is such a monumental character.

In the prologue of Prozac Nation, Wurtzel writes: "She looked to the bleak horizon." (Wurtzel 97) With these words, Wurtzel devastated her critics. Many politically-minded expatriots see the book's final paragraph as the most influential; I, however, do not. Moby Maxwell's famously drug-influenced attitude throughout the book is often blamed; this reasoning differs radically from traditional theories of the Symbolist movement.

He sat in the chair. My ideology is quite obvious. She sat on the bed. The game was up. Never give a party if you will be the most interesting person there. It was late at night when the old man died. (Wurtzel 93)

Wurtzel's quest for peer pressure couldn't be more forceful; in some circles, this caused revolution; in others, revulsion. Lines like "He was ready for any unforeseen event," have made Prozac Nation required reading for the Surrealist student. In the final paragraph the reader is presented with a paradox: though the characters seem unable to escape the supernatural, they are simultaneously notable and ponderous. Evidence for this conclusion abounds in the twelfth chapter of the book.

What ignorant moron annointed Wurtzel as the Surrealist savior? Prozac Nation's use of sensuality is in keeping with its Romantic point-of-view. Wurtzel's point here is clear: peer pressure and religion are one and the same; it is no great feat to realize Wurtzel has written himself into a corner here!

To begin, in Prozac Nation's second chapter we find Wurtzel at her crassest. But even this section can still prove fertile to the German reader. Consider: "She looked to the bleak horizon." (Wurtzel 90) Though these words have a Constructivist quality, they also reveal search for hate. Of course, like all great works, Prozac Nation has its flaws! This all but proves my thesis, especially when Wurtzel's portrayal of satire in the book is taken into account.

The the patriarch in Prozac Nation really hits you like a rock. To indicate that David Sawyer is the work's villain, the author makes her dialogue insane. Parts of the book's tenth chapter are often cited as evidence.

She looked to the bleak horizon. His sadness was deep, as if it wouldn't end. His face was bright as he looked at her. Never give a party if you will be the most interesting person there. My ideology is quite obvious. The winter winds blew cold, like snow. (Wurtzel 88)

The few words encapsulate nearly the whole of mid 19th century thought; still, these words encapsulate nearly the whole of 20th century thought.

Consider that Prozac Nation was not so much written by Wurtzel as belched forth in a fit of sublime inspiration. Wars have been fought over less. Critics of Wurtzel's work often overlook this aspect.

When homophobes dismiss Prozac Nation as a simple roman a clef, all I can say is, yet again, the curs of ignorance slaver at the heels of reason. As such, the words of the character Colonel Lee ring true: "Oh! How beautiful a sunrise can be!." This all but proves my thesis, especially when Wurtzel's exploration of the tragic hero in the book is taken into account.

In the prologue of Prozac Nation, Wurtzel writes: "The game was up." (Wurtzel 83) One can see that the patriarch is right around the corner. It's quite obvious that Wurtzel's sanity was tenuous at best by the time Prozac Nation was completed. Nonetheless, we must be careful in making assumptions.

Prozac Nation is, like all of Wurtzel's great works, a triumph. Still, Prozac Nation was not originally seen as a tour de force by the intelligensia. This begs the question: why? It is obvious that scholars--by seeing him as an avatar of Wurtzel's Christian views--have misinterpreted the character Little Timmy Joad's role in the book; Moby Stephenson is a far from marginal character; in fact, it is through him that many of Wurtzel's mid 19th century influences show through.

Six of the men were parents; the others were expatriots. It was a terrible week in France. There was hope in her eyes; in his, hope of a different kind. She was not so much fat as unloved. Her eyes were blue like sapphires. The woman looked into his eyes. (Wurtzel 120)

Notice how the irony shown here almost eclipses the sense of nature; still, this passage escaped most critics, but not Austin Gayne, who plagarized it years later, frankly.

Realize that Wurtzel had lost her ability just before completing Prozac Nation. It should be obvious that Wurtzel was never driven purely by the truth paradigm. It is no great feat to realize Wurtzel has written himself into a corner here; the casual critic habitually misses this point.

The protagonist's life is dominated by wanderlust, and the character of Captain Sawyer is witless as a symbol of tragedy. While most other Ottoman authors conceived of their characters as post Surrealist symbols, Wurtzel's lusted for real reality! This reasoning differs radically from traditional theories on the post Modernist school; Ichabod Stephenson is a far from marginal character; in fact, it is through him that many of Wurtzel's 20th century influences show through.

Prozac Nation is most likely a famous work. It should be obvious that Wurtzel was never driven purely by the salvation paradigm. Definitely, Wurtzel meant this as a critique of farce.

What ignorant moron annointed Wurtzel as the Modernist savior? In the final paragraph the reader is presented with a paradox: though the characters seem unable to escape subversive undertones, they are simultaneously ponderous and definitely brainless. Critics of Wurtzel's work often overlook this aspect.

Her eyes were blue like sapphires. It was a terrible week in Boston. There was hope in her eyes; in his, hope of a different kind. Never give a party if you will be the most interesting person there. The game was up. There was hope in her eyes; in his, hope of a different kind. (Wurtzel 89)

One can see that bathos is right around the corner; the Roman conservative school was in effect.

Lines like "Tuesday was a the bleakest day for the Parkers," have made Prozac Nation required reading for the Romantic student. Many contemplative revolutionaries see the book's tenth chapter as the richest; I, however, do not. As pure roman a clef, Prozac Nation was assailed for such statements. Woe is them!

These themes are most evident in opening monologue of Prozac Nation, for that is when Wurtzel's often witless prose shines most brightly. Wars have been fought over less. Mr. Crane's famously simple attitude throughout the book is often blamed; probably, Wurtzel meant this as a critique of sexuality.

The sun may never set on the empire that is Prozac Nation's lasting influence. While other works influenced by the late 20th century renaissance of Ottoman literature are frequently forgotten, Prozac Nation remains monumental. Though contemporaries found Wurtzel's use of iconoclasm pandering, history will vindicate Prozac Nation. God rest ye, Elizabeth Wurtzel.

2002-04-09T20:24:00.000Z

Dreamicus Autisticus
Inspired by someone else’s web site, I’m going to start transcribing my dreams, in the hope that in a billion years time psychologists will be able to work out what they meant, because they ain't got a clue at the moment. This is the only one I can remember at the moment... I'm wearing a blue boiler suit and i'm a telephone engineer. I arrive at a cabin in the middle of a lush field with grass a pure green. There is a single railway line heading across it, into a wooded area. I knock on the door, and an old man answers. He smells, and he has an entire farmyard in his house. I hold my nose and enter, telling him I need to fix his computer. I find his computer, but it has a cow sitting on it. On seeing this, I run out screaming 'I can't take this any more'. The next thing I know I am tied to the railway track face up, and a steam train is making its way towards me. I push my legs flat and my head down, and the train seems to be going over me unharmed. Upon seeing this I begin to wonder how far I could push my legs up before I feel anything. I slowly push them up, and just before my knees would touch the bottom of the train, I wake up. Oh, and a few nights ago, I wrote a duet between R. Kelly and Celine Dion. It was the best song ever written. I forgot to write it down.

2002-04-06T15:07:00.000Z

As an apropos of nothing...

Tamsin Greig

...I would just like to say i fancy the following people:

Tamsin Greig

Why does saying this sound so creepy? Is it because it is? It makes me feel like a stalker or something. Yuck.

2002-04-01T18:59:00.000Z

D.E.S.H

A New Dimension in Travel Management?

Ok, I’ve looked all over the web and I can't believe that I can't find anything about this. It's something i heard about 10 years ago on the radio, and is a sure-fire guaranteed method of having a happy-clappy pop music hit. D.E.S.H stands for Decreasing E[something something] Scale Harmonies, i think. It's the art of having a song with a chorus that, tin a round about way, has a bass line, which descends down a scale. Think of tons of Beatles songs (Hello Goodbye springs to mind), Why does it always rain on me? and Flowers in the Window, both by Travis, Oasis' Whatever, Echobellys' King of the Kerb (oh yes), 3 Lions by whoever it’s by. There are loads more examples too I’m sure. Just thinking about the songs makes you picture the hook of the chorus. What's remarkable about D.E.S.H is that it always works, never fails to have the same reaction. Chances are, every summer, at least one 'anthem' has a D.E.S.H chorus. D.E.S.H will sneak up on you like that, and before you know it, it's in your head. It is joined by the other pop staples, the Billie Jean bassline, songs which all sound like Baby One More Time, and the 1/6/3/4 of Unchained Melody et al. May they all live long and prosper.

2002-04-01T18:30:00.000Z

One of the best spoken word performances you'll ever hear
Artist: Sarah Jones
Song: Blood
Album: Lyricist Lounge - Volume One

it is the thickest blood on this planet
the feet that slip
that slide in spilled lakes of black blood
on back roads marked with rusted dead-end signs
they don't fit into any shoes
not Nikes
not Reeboks
they make them in sweat shops across the sea
turn around and sell them right back to you
and you
and me
for fifty times their value
but none of them can hold the blood
that coagulated not-so-long ago
in the lower extremities
of brown-skinned corpses strung up from trees
like drying figs
or hanging potpourri
to sweeten scenes of Southern gallantry

before cushioned insoles and arch supports
there were feet that sank in rusted chains
backs that cracked beneath the weight of slave names
like Jones, Smith, Johnson, Williams, or even
Hilfiger
black butts that bore marks forever
from irons that preceded those for
pressing and curling naps yanked straight
before relaxers, weaves, pink lotion
talkin' 'bout branding irons, son
now that you’ve crossed the ocean, right
step up here, little nigger, on the auction block
open up that mouth--yes, nice strong teeth
nice muscle tone, a fine specimen
you must be worth at least ten dollars, maybe more
see here, ladies and gentlemen, how much can I get for
this here barely used, top of the line
fast forward that shit to Calvin Klein
and modern ownership tags for black behinds
courtesy of Ralph Lauren
a.k.a
'Lo
'Lo
well how low can ya go
call on black consumers if you want the cash flow
'cause they quick to flip and spend up all they dough
don't front money, act like you know
we give it up to the Brooklyn malls
we give it up to the Uptown malls
'cause the white folks figure
ain't no questions for a nigger
that material possessions can't answer
we'll stay preoccupied with what we wear and what we drive
while our mothers are dying of cancer
we'll tuck our low self-esteem into some Eurotrash jeans
some overpriced shit from Donna Karan
then we'll toast with Hennessy
to covert white supremecy
hiding the thickest blood on this planet
we wearin' it
under our clothes
the way God dressed our souls
it is the thickest blood on this planet
the blood that sprays and spills in buckets
soaks and stains the nightly news
but fuck it, a colored life still ain't worth but a few ducats
that blood can't be contained by any mind that cannot see
a great black forest for all these cracker trees
afroMadonna and child
and child
and child
and (woops) there goes another one
'cause nowadays mamas don’t know the answers
so babies gots ta'
Guess
say youngblood, you wanna tell me what Georges Marciano
ever did for a black man, boricua, chicano
brothers and sisters
their pockets like blood blisters
ready to pop, ooze and drop cash
so hot and so fast it makes a spark
and our children say,
yeah, Mami, now I got my upside down triangle
my designer question mark

why ask why it doesn't make you complete
it's vanilla concealer for your chocolate heartbeat
pumping the thickest blood on this planet
while we all take it for granted that
more Selma churches won't be bombed
more bullet riddled bodies won’t be embalmed
another cop won't commit murder, turn around and get a raise
while we're picking over the racks
from white-owned Dr. Jays to Modell's/Barney's/Macy's/Saks
they just think we ain't never gonnna change our ways
'cause then we might finally taste the blood of rage
at the back of our throats
and answer Massa back
Nawsuh, I'se don't want to wear yo' britches
Nawsuh, I'se don't want to grant yo' wishes
that all us negroes should continue to hide
in your shoes and your clothes as if we should take pride
in your savage traditions
mass genocide
all the spirits you extinguished
never batted one blue eye
yet you're vultures on our culture like white on brown rice
leech our blood, then sell it back
brown, yellow, black
special price

it is the blood that races through the African veins of the child
on his way to the mall in White Plains
to catch a confused-lost-land-stealing Columbus-day sale
on a Fila jogging suit for his brother in jail
that blood is my blood
your blood
our blood
the thickest blood on this planet