Greetings my little lovelorn lab rats. Desperately seeking another nibble of Zombie's discarded chorizo?
Probably not.
Spent the weekend puking my guts up after my sister tried to poison me with the Chilli-non-Carne she'd made for her birthday party (those Quorn guys need arresting). For five long hours I was all kidney beans and meat substitute. My sister isn't veggie, but I am. As are my kids and, when I'm cooking (which is most nights) My Good Lady Wife. Now then, I'm not one of these who like to bang on about animal rights and all that shit, cos I generally don't give a fuck. In fact, let me make my case clear. I'm vegetarian not because I love animals, or even like them, or am against the inhumanity directed at the animal kingdom. I'm vegetarian because I hate animals. I hate them so much I don't want to eat them. They roll around in their own shit. As such, they are not getting near my innards. Anything that sniffs it's own faeces out of the context of niche East European porn made for a minimal audience does not deserve the comfort of my bowel. Perhaps I paid for this philosophy over the weekend by being forced to eat Quorn, which is basically made from the shit that animals roll around in.
Whatever, this put me in mind of more ideas for a great night out in Liverpool:
The Slow Suicide Game -
glue index finger firmly up nose. Wait for nail to grow long enough to pierce the brain. This may take up to five years, but it sure as hell reaps quicker and more tangible rewards than walking to the Barfly expecting some entertainment on a Saturday night.
Now you have to be over 18 to join this site, but in case any Krazyhouse regulars managed to get in here by stealing their brother's credit card, you should learn that the white guy hopping from one foot to another whilst getting off on Franz Ferdinand (!) and holding two bottles of Becks is neither hardcore nor attractive. You silly little infants. Now be off with you.
Strikes me my on-line journal is already rolling on the one track, therefore let me continue unabated with some more thoughts about Zombie's World:
Quiggins of Liverpool is closing down. Good. Serves you all right for selling your pathetic souls to the scallies who have held your deformed bollocks in their hands since the moment you signed your tenancy agreement, which obviously had a 'sell utter shite for three times it's value' clause. The closure of Quiggins has been a done deal for years and no amount of petitioning will change that. Why not divert your energies into setting up a co-op of alternative market traders to put pressure on the council to secure an alternative site that doesn't involve the same shark landlords you've been dealing with for years. Better still, why not grow up and do something that's really alternative instead of concentrating on how best to exploit the pocket-money of 14-year old wannabes? Where were you guys when every other alternative in Liverpool was raped? The Palace? Sloans? Macs? The Pink Parrot? X-Streams? Flip? Remember when the 147 pool hall was alternative? How many of you made a fuss when the scallies took that over and swapped Led Zep on the jukebox for Kylie? Now we're left with K1,K2 &K3 (with no discernable difference between either) Le Bateau (Pink Parrot it ain't) and Barfly (complete with Bring Your Own DJ night). The Palace has been a skeleton store for years and Probe records has never been the same since it got booted out of Matthew Street. If the alternative scene in Liverpool dies, it's not because of the council, or the Evil Duke of Westminster, it's because of laziness. How many would actually ask the Krazyhouse DJs to stop taking the piss by playing the exact same selction in the exact same order week after week? And to think - all it'd take would be air-conditioning and working toilets at the Zanzibar and we'd be away. The seeds are there. The demand is there. Time to lift the apathy. I hate to say it, but thank for god for The Swan (university tipping-out times excepted).
One more thing, Quiggins people. The Bead Store. You sell BEADS guys, hence your name. Mostly you sell BEADS to schoolgirls. Some of them will doubtless shoplift. But, again, you sell BEADS. Some of them have the ripe value of 10pence. Does this mean you need the fattest, most ridiculous black-suited security guard to stand sentinel watching over your precious BEADS? I think not. Some context, please. After all, you're only selling BEADS. Or maybe it's an elaborate cover for some weird crack ring you have running. In which case, get some rottweillers for your fat-arsed security, cos, damn, those schoolgirls get vicious when it comes to crack.
Bless you all. Until next time I can be arsed...
Probably not.
Spent the weekend puking my guts up after my sister tried to poison me with the Chilli-non-Carne she'd made for her birthday party (those Quorn guys need arresting). For five long hours I was all kidney beans and meat substitute. My sister isn't veggie, but I am. As are my kids and, when I'm cooking (which is most nights) My Good Lady Wife. Now then, I'm not one of these who like to bang on about animal rights and all that shit, cos I generally don't give a fuck. In fact, let me make my case clear. I'm vegetarian not because I love animals, or even like them, or am against the inhumanity directed at the animal kingdom. I'm vegetarian because I hate animals. I hate them so much I don't want to eat them. They roll around in their own shit. As such, they are not getting near my innards. Anything that sniffs it's own faeces out of the context of niche East European porn made for a minimal audience does not deserve the comfort of my bowel. Perhaps I paid for this philosophy over the weekend by being forced to eat Quorn, which is basically made from the shit that animals roll around in.
Whatever, this put me in mind of more ideas for a great night out in Liverpool:
The Slow Suicide Game -
glue index finger firmly up nose. Wait for nail to grow long enough to pierce the brain. This may take up to five years, but it sure as hell reaps quicker and more tangible rewards than walking to the Barfly expecting some entertainment on a Saturday night.
Now you have to be over 18 to join this site, but in case any Krazyhouse regulars managed to get in here by stealing their brother's credit card, you should learn that the white guy hopping from one foot to another whilst getting off on Franz Ferdinand (!) and holding two bottles of Becks is neither hardcore nor attractive. You silly little infants. Now be off with you.
Strikes me my on-line journal is already rolling on the one track, therefore let me continue unabated with some more thoughts about Zombie's World:
Quiggins of Liverpool is closing down. Good. Serves you all right for selling your pathetic souls to the scallies who have held your deformed bollocks in their hands since the moment you signed your tenancy agreement, which obviously had a 'sell utter shite for three times it's value' clause. The closure of Quiggins has been a done deal for years and no amount of petitioning will change that. Why not divert your energies into setting up a co-op of alternative market traders to put pressure on the council to secure an alternative site that doesn't involve the same shark landlords you've been dealing with for years. Better still, why not grow up and do something that's really alternative instead of concentrating on how best to exploit the pocket-money of 14-year old wannabes? Where were you guys when every other alternative in Liverpool was raped? The Palace? Sloans? Macs? The Pink Parrot? X-Streams? Flip? Remember when the 147 pool hall was alternative? How many of you made a fuss when the scallies took that over and swapped Led Zep on the jukebox for Kylie? Now we're left with K1,K2 &K3 (with no discernable difference between either) Le Bateau (Pink Parrot it ain't) and Barfly (complete with Bring Your Own DJ night). The Palace has been a skeleton store for years and Probe records has never been the same since it got booted out of Matthew Street. If the alternative scene in Liverpool dies, it's not because of the council, or the Evil Duke of Westminster, it's because of laziness. How many would actually ask the Krazyhouse DJs to stop taking the piss by playing the exact same selction in the exact same order week after week? And to think - all it'd take would be air-conditioning and working toilets at the Zanzibar and we'd be away. The seeds are there. The demand is there. Time to lift the apathy. I hate to say it, but thank for god for The Swan (university tipping-out times excepted).
One more thing, Quiggins people. The Bead Store. You sell BEADS guys, hence your name. Mostly you sell BEADS to schoolgirls. Some of them will doubtless shoplift. But, again, you sell BEADS. Some of them have the ripe value of 10pence. Does this mean you need the fattest, most ridiculous black-suited security guard to stand sentinel watching over your precious BEADS? I think not. Some context, please. After all, you're only selling BEADS. Or maybe it's an elaborate cover for some weird crack ring you have running. In which case, get some rottweillers for your fat-arsed security, cos, damn, those schoolgirls get vicious when it comes to crack.
Bless you all. Until next time I can be arsed...