How to Promote

Hey Kids, graf don't pay yeah?

http://www.trendcatching.com/2006/03/how_to_promote_.html

Nobody touch me I have scabies this week! Seriously! They'll be outta here by saturday though, they haven't paid any rent and they've been making jokes about my new hair behind (or IN) my back. Little blighters. Ate two bags of haribo, a pack of maynards wine gums and some weird candy shit from a dodgy turkish shop all in about half an hour. I'm still alive, but I don't advise it.

Love the Carnivore X

Me and my Big Mouth go to MacDonalds

Hi, this is Mark the Synth Master General marking his debut blog with a few typically pointless comments. You probably wont hear much from me, but thats only because my mouth fell off in an unfortunate trowling incident when I was a little girl. I still own a mouth, but I keep it preserved in pickle juice inside an old jar on top of the fridge. Mummy doesn't like me to remove the lid because she claims it smells like a compost heap made of sweaty socks. Then again, what would she know? Her nose is nothing more than a small dead guinea pig with the fur shaved off, such is the quality of modern NHS rhinoplasty.

I am very excited about this gig at Art Rocker, but not as exited as Gary- my mouth. I will have to keep him perched atop my keyboard in his pickle jar, a bit like Steve Martin's love interest in The Man With Two Brains, but with a microphone and shit.

I want to put a stylish Pete Doherty wig on top of the jar, and maybe apply some lipstick for that sexy art school look, but the gobby little prick called me a helmet and said he'd look well bent. I'm having issues dealing with this rejection if I have to be honest, and feel that Gary has forgotten where he came from, unlike J-Lo, who of course came from Yorkshire originally- as she insists on telling us all the bloody day. Maybe if I put some crack in his jar when he falls asleep after Trevor McDonald, he'll change his mind.

Its my birthday tomorrow. Me an Gary are going to have a joint party at McDonalds (the burger chain, not Trevor's gaff); the manager Mr O'Burgerlove says I can bring three friends to the kitchen to help operate the big machine they use to turn cheeky Mcmigrant workers into quarter pounders. Then we'll play musical chairs which is better than a bucketfull is gold sausages covered in Harold Bishop.

During Musical Chairs I wanted us to play the latest Bolt Action 5 tape that all the girls love, but Gary said everyone would get too upset when the music stopped, so he wants to sing old Stock, Aitken and Waterman tracks himself, to ensure peace is preserved and da kidz don't tourch da bitch ass joint blud. He promised to give me a little wink when he's about to stop singing, but I think Gaz sometimes forgets the fact that he doesn't have any eyes.

Still, I cant think of a better way to spend ones 24th year on earth, and if there is anyone out there that can, then god help us all.

Mark Murphy- "The man with one false mouth on his face, and one real mouth in a jar". (NME)

rockstars

In the past rockstars were gods who fell from the sky. Occasionally gracing us with their otherworldly presence they remained eternally beyond the reach of our fingertips.

Today the rockstar has apparently changed. The likes of Pete Doherty and the singer from The Others (Dan Masters?) have broken down the barrier between audience and performer. But is this really true? It seems to me that it is not.

I don't doubt the good intentions of these musicians but it appears that their actions have had entirely the opposite effect to the one they desire. These rockstars are more deified by their fans than any other performers. By acting more human they are worshipped ever more intensely as gods. It's no coincidence that Libertines/Doherty/The Others fans are often of the more obsessive variety. By breaking down the physical barrier between themselves and their audience these rockstars have unwittingly erected an even higher pedestal for their fans to place them upon. The security tape may have been removed but the mental barrier is bigger than ever. It's not their fault, I just find it ironic.

This new breed of rockstar is supposedly a romantic figure and I can kind of see this too; there is something romantic in being greatly talented whilst being equally self-destructive. However, I can't help but feel that they are admired most passionately by those who wished they had the balls to be like them. And while the tragic poet is a heroic figure, the aspiring one is merely sad.

Anyway, is there not more romance in the idea that our rockstars come from another planet to us?

Ed.

YEAH

I felt well shaky at work today coz of all that gin I had at the gig. First time I ever played a gig in a kitchen whilst ed looked like a cross between Cyclops (from X-men) and willy wonka. Im so glad he didn't draw a huge penis on the wall.

I just smoked a really old role-up and I think im going to throw up.

I had beef burgers for tea. I would like to suggest that the new range of 100% beef burgers from the birds eye range are great tasting. However if the band was to get sponsored by a particular brand I would choose Newcastle brown ale as opposed to birds eye.

Mark still likes salt.

Ed's girlfriends (ruth) cat has an eye patch. If I was a cat with an eye patch I would either A: Obviously become a Pirate cat B: Dress like David Bowie or C: Dress like Nick Fury Agent Of Shield (Marvel Comics).

Tobias