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the Atomic

Today we bear witness to some truly spectacular carnage

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Ἀργειφόντης
ne mē swōr fela āða on unriht
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Zephyr

Better bad news, half-true more-or-less, 100% of the time

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breaking

op-ed

what the Heck is Going On?

by Little Johnny

every day we hear new newz, those ordinary rumours of war, plaguez, fires, thefts, beasts, murders, massacrez, meteors & comets, prodigies & dullards, ghoulz & phantasms, fleshly janglers, flatterers & blamerz, tellers of trifles, tattlers of tales, towns taken, cities besieged, worldwide quantitative easing, gain-of-function crimes against humanity, and such like… all manner of pincherz skulking in the cyber-bushes, fox to lamb, wolf to heifer’s calf, on Angelcynn neck a norman yoke..
elseways any & all a smibbly bibbly, from paper 2 telly box; thisse blithe world vext w/ wastedreamz. middangeard ealra dogra gehwam dreoseð & fealleþ. endelēas ġedwimor‎.
thousands & thousands of generations of ppl who suffer’d birth, disease, starvation & lonely death so that u could sit there 2day.. the redeemer of the human enterprise, the prodigal speciez.. out from the womb of the world, descended in 2 the inferno of matter 2 recover the pearl of immortality, whose virtues wounded by our worthless wordz.
whomst’d’ve will speak & thy praises tell?

tortoise hour

by JAM ÆLFǷIN

Tortoises actually come out of their shell in the wild when they go for a nice swim or foraging up trees for tomatoes.
“EXPERTZ” say the tortosaurus can also do that thing where if they fall they spin in the air & always land on their feet, just like cows.
When did the tortoise evolve?
The same time as cigars, I think. After fish, definitely. Around 1932, thereabouts?
FACT-CHEQUE BONUS FACT:
Legend says the tortongle’s favourite food is sausages.
My teacher at school was Mrs. Turtle. She had a strange name but she tortoise well. Rest in peace.

inflation!

by Jingo Scribbins

You won’t believe this but back in the day you could fly to Nu-York, have lunch, a bottle of merlot, see that overpriced Broadway show all the ponces like, fly back same night, taxi from airport back home, and STILL have change from 1000 bob. It’s true. When was that you say? Last Wednesday. Yes, yes we all remember last Wednesday, don’t we? back when we could fill up the ol’ shanks-pony with petrol & still have a fiver in change from a 300 quid note.

See this? That’s a tenner that is. Collector’s item. What can you get for one nowadays? Precious little. One of these puppies used to get you a whole round of toast with gravel on it, (not buttered toast, obviously) a whole ration of breadystacks with some cheeky marmite or nuttygum & fruit spleggings! When was that you say? Wednesday, 1942.

Back in the heyday, right, for ten lizards you could build a cottage in the Cotswolds, settle down, have the pick of any woman, have 5 kids, and STILL have money left to start a business… When was that you say? Wednesday, 1832.
“Ten whoppers?! That’s outrageous!” Not long ago, for a tenner, right, those colonials would go to America, steal some land, build a house, purchase some powerful Igbo folk, & STILL start a cotton farm. When was that you say? Wednesday, 1748.
“Bloody ripoff!” I remember a time when a tenner could buy you your own galleon, hire an entire crew of shipmates, sail to the west indies with as much rum as you need, as much tobacco as you want, provisions for an entire year, the pick of any woman, have 12 kids, bit of piracy, and STILL have several hundred guineas left in change… When was that you say? Wednesday, 1593.

P.S. it will continue to go down & down & down until it matches the true value of the economy. the true value not in finance or usury. in the western world treasury systems are big multinationals. you think you set the price with your little holiday to italy or spain? no you friccin peabrain. treasury oligopolies manage currency. desperately trying to retain pricing-power is constraining supply, the demand curve is being killed by the FED etc.
they can’t run back this inflation. this is a monkey in a golf cart chasing a mclaren. debt market collapsing arse over tits, then blackrock buys your home off you then your interest rates spike & you can’t make your mortgage payment, then you’ll become a tenant & lickety split you’ll be paying in rent more than you were paying on the mortgage,& you’ll be in a CBDC & you’ll have some UBI pittance if you were due a pension that’s now bankrupt because tReAsUriEs ooo!
outsourcing offshore slaves, low corporate tax at the profit point, growing profitability by reducing headcount, offsite managers & executives shipped off to bombay, globalisation of labour trends, stocks go up, currency spreads beyond borders, feeding a profit loop, laying up the Triffin paradox.
fricc all these inbreds & their ponzi schemes. go outside, kiss a tree, be a squirrel, dig a hole, get a bar of gold & stick it in the ground.

apple Mc’iMac Review

by Isambard Steeplejack

When you buy an Apple McDonaldosh you are essentially pulling down your panties, bending over, & getting buggered by the ghost of Stephen Jobbles. When you buy an Apricot you’re actually blowing a couple thousand whoppers on a glorified MciPad with a crap keyboard & mouse made for boomers.
This thing has the computing power of a toaster, no USB ports, 1tb of storage on an ancient SSD from 2010, crapfire graphics API, and an operating system designed by people with borderline personality disorder. All boxed up & delivered in a boring little satin rectangle with the forbidden fruit on it, glued together by the chinese children saved by sweatshop suicide nets. Just try to run milkytracker on this garbage dump without it crashing every 4 minutes.
This thing can flawlessly spy on you 24/7, if you’re into that, it’s also really helping to impoverish people, hold back human technological development by several decades, and the company can get away with destroying the environment, being shitters, & straight up crime due to peabrain political gestures & corporate rainbow advocacy.
I could only recommend this piece of dung to soulless robot people or dullards. The type of person that if they were an ice-cream flavour it’d be Pralines & Dick. You know, the type of person that’s a walking biological cliché that broadcasts other people’s thoughts which they adopt as if they made them themselves. The type of person that thinks they’re the bee’s knees, that lifts all their rhetoric from podcasts, reddit, xkcd comics or whatever is trending rn & proceeds to act like they’ve been euphorically enlightened by their own intellect. You know, the type of person that thinks they are the arbiter of morality, and all they ever talk about is boring horseshite like pop-psychology-pseudoscience or pizza toppings. You know, the type of person where every single one of their stories is them being a good person doing nothing but good in the world & everyone else has done them wrong. Yeah, those people.
Elseways, computers are corny. save your time & money & plop it in the rubbish where it belongs. Biffa/10

why everything friccin sucks

by Stafford Beer

we have lost any recollection of what stability may be. this is why thinking people with brains feel so uneasy about the framework that they are operating in, and that the world for the past century seems to be circling the drain.. because it is.

the very structures that we are trying to utilise are out of gear with the rate at which the expanding world is operating.

we are in constant crisis and in constant neurosis because of the crisis, and because we have no reference of stability to work from, we cannot run effective experiments which is the basis of all learning. a learning system needs a point of reference from which to measure departures, and to calculate whether such departures are adaptive to it’s purposes or not. we are in crisis → so we cannot learn → so we cannot adapt → so we cannot evolve… and the whole biological notion has been destroyed.

Drug Review #72

by Morris McAdderall

This week we are reviewing ■■■■, and this was the first & last time i ever took it. so we got this big horse pill from the university that me & my bird split in half & she was totally fine but for some reason i just went straight to hELL. the landscape froze over then the earth was salted & there was a deep thrumming noise, the floorboards rumbled & turned to ash beneath my hooves. it was the friccin day of wrath & God was judging me as a sinner. this went on for thousands of years mind you & didn’t get any better it just got worse & worse & i was in terrible pain, felt like utter shite. i could only speak in latin. my gf thought i was doing it as a joke but all i could say was stuff like LIBERA ME DOMINAE & DEUS ILA & AGNUS DEI QUICOS PICATUM & TREMIS FACTUS EGO TIMAE, whining like some ancient but highly eloquent dog that’s been left out in the rain & struck by lightning over & over. there was an ashtray on the coffee table with someone’s fags in it & it was emitting the most horrible stench i’d ever smelt in my life it was putrid. the walls were undulating & i could hear my eyeballs. it was a bloody mess. never again.
the only good part about it was when i looked in the fridge there was this giant cavern filled with stalactites/stalagmites kinda like the mtg card underground sea. for some reason i thought it was the most beautiful thing ever. music sounded very nice, even the talentless bollocks on the telly. oh & there were little gnomes with hand drills.
i can see why when so many smoothbrains decide to pop ■■■■ it pisses their mind up forever & they end up in an asylum. unless you’re already braindead, i don’t recommend ■■■■.
Next week: Sniffing Permanent Markers!

just a typical ghetto Cinderella story

by Brianne Damidge

There’s nowhere more vile & disturbing for a child to grow up than a modern, occidental city, and one of the worst in the world of these deeply brainsick hives of nonce-riddled decay & despair, is London. My district alone was an absolute circus of creepy ne’er-do-wells, curtain twitchers & pompous middle class inbreds. It was the kind of place where you’d wave good morning to a troll-doll lookin’ ass neighbour & they’d wave back with a well-moisturised foot growing out of their mutant moonface whilst reading the guardian. A right bunch of corny fuckwits & wannabe-worldly pearl-clutching buntymen, waddling about like Dan Dare Mekon. A place populated by pudgy privileged ponces proudly pontificating pop culture (depth of their criticism limited to whether there’s appropriate numbers of non-natives with the right dermatological profile) that wouldn’t know a real problem if it shat down their twig neck. But on top of all the braindead twats dragging their flabby carcases around, there was a dark urban legend haunting our community, The Legend of the Dolly Diddler.

Chapter 1: The Dolly Diddler was a strange little man. He appeared both old & young at the same time, androgynous, shrivelled & wizened, yet with a boyish gaze. Like every other local, the Dolly Diddler had a large, swollen bonce, upon which was always perched a tiny copter-cap that barely covered his brow, providing neither shade nor warmth. The Dolly Diddler was so named throughout the whole borough as it was widely believed that he secretly diddled children’s dolls. Many a time he’d been spotted skulking around charity shops bulk purchasing all the second hand dolls. This rumour wasn’t just betwixt kids, though, many parents would warn us to behave lest “the Dolly Diddler get our favourite toys to play with” etc. Often I behaved as a child so my Sky Moo could escape such a fate, although I suspect Big Bird may have enjoyed it. Whispers also spread that the Dolly Diddler’s tiny copter-cap had supposedly been taken from his favourite play toy, which explained its small size.
The problem with these rumours were that the Dolly Diddler was a real living humanoid, and an uncle of the notoriously well-to-do Sackberg family. Every big town has one of these families. They had about 4 large terraced houses & illegally knocked them through to create a sort of poundshop mansion, but the rogers didn’t care, it’s the Sackbergs. They were all, to the man, utter psychopaths. Generation after generation of the county’s weirdest bastards were birthed from this rabbit warren. They were all cousins & brothers & sisters & there were about a thousand of them. My school year had 3 of them in, “Slazenger” – the biggest, “Francisco” – the craziest, and “Hamilton” – the dumbest, and the Dolly Diddler was their uncle, of which they were fiercely protective. Anyone who even mentioned the Dolly Diddler within earshot was swiftly dobbed in, and bullied in the most cowardly fashion. You had to be careful to whom you made Dolly Diddler jokes at school, as an enemy may overhear & alert one of the many Sackbergs, invoking their posh & petty ire.

Chapter 2: Then came the day of harvest festival. I was with my mate Puffin (a popular lad at school as he was the nephew of an England rugby player) as we perused the various bakesales, tombolas & splat-the-rat stalls, and people-watched the gathering of local twats, we spotted the Dolly Diddler had his own table of goodies… Pile upon pile of second hand dollies. We had to stifle our giggles as flanking the stall like a trio of rottweilers were the Sackbergs, eagerly eyeing any who tittered or stared. Puffin dared me to buy one of the dodgy dollies & promised to lend me a copy of 2000AD he found stashed in an allotment, so I agreed. Gingerly I approached & slowly picked up an innocuous doll from the pile, a sort of generic plastic-headed one with plush body type affair. I couldn’t help but think its sad eyes looked like it had really seen some shit. I cleared my throat & mumbled “How muc-” when Hamilton barked “QUID” like a diseased goat that trod on some lego. The Dolly Diddler said nothing but stared, like some kind of eldritch reptile. One hundred pennies was a vast sum of money to an 11 year old, “That’s a lot of jazzles & sherbet saucers” I thought to myself, but I could feel the Sackberg’s stare bore into my skull, so I plopped a quid on the table, avoiding the Dolly Diddler’s clammy little hand, and made a fast escape with my bounty.
Chapter 3: Puffin & I made our way to the park to examine the doll away from prying eyes when lo & behold, there it was… A small opening in the crotch, the width of a stick of seaside rock, or a drywipe board marker, or… a piteous little todger. We lost it, pissed ourselves laughing & after chasing one another around with the diddled doll, chucked it in the biffa. Walking back home lamenting the loss of my pocket money, I was struck by the sudden terror that the Sackbergs could find the doll in the bin, remember it was me who purchased it & hunt me down, or even worse, the Dolly Diddler would telepathically know we abandoned one of his pozzed up play things & reap a terrible revenge, so we decided to retrieve the abused husk, take it home & dispose of it properly. Later that evening I offered it to my bull terrier as a chew toy, but being a discerning hand, he kept well away, so I threw it under the floorboards. After all that Puffin lent me his copy of 2000AD as promised, and we vowed never to speak a word of this tale, lest the Sackberg clan found out, and the Dolly Diddler would come for us. For 15 years we have been the sole custodians of this secret, the dark truth that the Dolly Diddler did in fact, diddle dollies.

Final Chapter: I’d forgotten all about that doll until the summer of 2014, when I found it untouched (post-Dolly Diddler) & exactly where I left it last. Turns out the doll I chose from the Dolly Diddler’s sordid stall was actually an original super rare collector’s edition Parsnip Patch Child worth millions. I am now absolutely loaded & fly around in my private jet giving inspirational talks & quasi-sermons to the same kind of braindead clowns that populated my old borough. I’m currently typing this from my own private island in Tonga. Never give up! £1 can change your life. Just keep grinding & one day it’ll happen for you, too! Nah, I’ll spare you all the buzzword techno-bollocks, you gotta pay for a consultation/training programme/monthly subscription for that. Toodle pip.

Local

Atomic Roof Finish “Rock n’ Dole” Tour

by Wayne Car

​Local band “Cosmic Strewth” are promoting their upcoming album for the vegan eco-fascist record label: Subterranean-Protoplasmic-y2k-Atomic-Intrusions Incorporated, and we invited them back due to popular demand (and complaints about the last interview).


—Ugh it’s you again, seems you have a new member?

Jingo: I was always here you oik.. too blind to see Puckfolk ever since Robin Goodfellow, you lot.
Juice: Jingo’s on anglo concertina, penny fipple & turntables.
Jingo: And the ivories!
Juice: The previous flautist Jethro kept streaking-
Jingo: So we dropped him down a lift shaft in Kalifornia!
Johnny: o how the drudging puck swet, 2 earn her cream-bowle. ragged as the colt-pixie
Jam: Oi oi Wayne mate

—Yeah hi. How did the California tour go?

Jam: Had a lovely time in the Great Satan. Lived in a walmart carpark for a jiffy, avoided all the turds on the floor, chin wagged with local homeless lads about UFOs.
Jingo: Yeah, real proud of ourselves, in 3 nights we did over 7 million quid worth in damage, apparently.
Juice: Really enjoyed the dichotomy of walking talking queefs & bourgeois robot people VS serfs bivouacked in tent cities & tweakers in Fresno. Very cool.

—How many people came to the concerts?

Johnny: 5
Jam: Short circuit.

—5…Hundred? 5000?

Juice: Nah, 5.
Jingo: 12 if you count the roadies. 3 better than Nu-York, and on the Cotswolds tour we got sweet Fanny Adams.
Jam: Shoutout to all the madlads at the Eleventh Night on the No Surrender Tour. 

—What about the secret tour in North Korea?

Juice: We’re still eagerly awaiting our invitation so I’ve been wallowing in Windemere like a pulchritudinous pig in the meantime.
Jam: We wanna get Kim Yo-jong on our album. She’s cool.
Johnny: polonium triggers neutrons in a thermonuclear bomb fuse, you then have .15 seconds

—Okay, what’s the group doing now?

Jingo: We’re converting to corporate lesbianism ASAP to accelerate our rise to the top of the heap.
Juice: We even got Jam some melanotan & progesterone so cornballs don’t crucify him.
Johnny: alas 2 paint the Angelcynn bronze, on silver tongues & silver screenz; 4 the age of the ponce, & golden mammon machinez
Jam: Jingo’s doing house arrest for throwing a flautist down a lift shaft. Longshanks has this niggling brain injury since 1322BC, if it wasn’t obvious already. Our Johnny joined AA, he drinks far too much scrumpy!
Juice: He needs it ever since that Salmon of Wisdom enchanted his brain.
Jingo: Most are too mediocre for MKultra.
Jam: Æppelwīn glēow gylden in his glæse.
Jingo: He’d be playing bottleneck guitar & drinking out the bottle at the same time..
Juice: Our ex-manager Shyloque wanted to fire the lad so we fired that peabrain instead.
Jam: Jingo gave him a wedgy/chinese burn combo.
Jingo: Crip walkin wit my sword.
Johnny: ah my goodly friends 3, Alcis, the ælf & Puck’s heir, u see
Juice: La cosa nostra

—As a band you’re very prone to violence, is it true that in Australia you burnt down your audience?

Johnny: t’was  mishuderstad ning.
Juice: Lasers on lil Johnny’s lute lit up a lilo… laugh emoji 100
Jingo: Combine that with hell-on-earth fire emoji x2
Juice: Next time we’re going to the Province of Bumbunga instead.
Johnny: ah Bumbunga… that seat of Mars, that precious stone set in the amber sæ, the envy of less happier landz.
Jam: Anyone remember when a billion animals died down under? Clowns forgot all about that proper quick. Bloody sick.
Juice: Hype dies & birks bimble back to tik toks, or listening to some podcast ponce with the same worldview criticise people with another worldview.
Johnny: wither’d brainz, torn & twisted by telepresence
Jam: Doomsurf lobotomy
Jingo: This is why violence is great. It’s only when we’re being REALLY violent that we’re truly at peace! That’s one of Bungle’s sayings, that is.
Bungle: Howdy y’all.
Jam: He’s our new tour guru.

—Guru? from LA?

Juice: No he’s from London.
         Jingo: Same thing, dweebtown.
Jam: Bungle worked in Wetherspoons before we hired him as our full time guru.

—Why do you have a guru?

Juice: Well we were searching for the lizard people under Loose Angles, so after wading through “the village people” we finally found an entrance to the cosmic ovum & in the tunnels below there was this bloke knocking about dressed up like one of those clowns with a poncho spouting word-salad about “mother gaia” you know? we like a good word-salad, so we invited him along.
Jam: Bloody love a bit of gobbledygook!
Jingo: Eastern cozeners? Baizuo brainwank? Yuppie uptalk? Philosophical hodgepodge? Corporate marketing gibberish? Communitarian techno-babble? Yes please!
Johnny: lingual spellz, canticlez of the social engineer
         Jam: Absolutely rat-arsed he is look

—Did you find any lizard people?

Juice: No, but they find you eventually.
Bungle: Mrs Flimflam sez – To undurstend errythang, we muzt know nothang.. ayynd to know nothaaang, is to druly undurstend errythaaang, y’all!
Jingo: Ooo yeah, nice & vague

—Who is Mrs Flimflam?

Juice: That’s Bungle’s landlady. She gets these terrific insights in to “man’s true nature” and he sells them to a West End shop.

—Are they good?

Jingo: They’re expensive.

—Woaw.

Juice: Bungle got the heinous idea to stick little word salads throughout our new album

—When’s it out?

Jam: Saint Tibb’s day. We’re releasing it in 72-part segments with big gaps in so when it’s bottled off to Hollywoodland they can stuff it with adverts because they love those.
Johnny: wherefore doth bruising misfortune tease not thisse knave some scrumpy ?

—Well I’m sure all 5 of your listeners are very excited!

Jam: Cheers, piccadilly.
Juice: You haven’t changed one bit wibbly wobbly wayne.
Jingo: Passive aggressive poofter!

—I don’t like you. I don’t like your band, your terrible music, and most of all.. I don’t like my P’PAH who called me an “oik” throughout my childhood!

Johnny: thou soileth our joy & invite sorrow 2 our hearth
Jam: It’ll be alright mate, chin up.
Juice: You are an oik.
Jingo: A freakish little homunculus of a man. I’d like to inject your bones with toothpaste, you walking queef.

[redacted]

Juice: Don’t get uploaded to a computer & tortured forever on your way out
Jam: Wel faran & gōd Wyrd, lad 👍

There we have it, netizens, another superb interview by Me, I’m firing on all cylinders if I do say so Myself. See you next week for another journalistic masterpiece by Moi, Wayne Car.

oswald’s Bimble

by Tudor Tippins

oswald, the local wizard, left his tower on the edge of Somerset for the city earlier this morning, to visit the dark satanic mills where Fishfingers are made.
I seek not applause; ’tis the common doom of all. My business is my own.” He told us, before scuttling back in to the wilderness with armfuls of Fishfinger boxes.

Bingo Fiend Dies

by Wlencing Parsnipson

Victoria Freemartin-Smithe, affluent bingo fiend, met her demise in the early hours of wōdensdæġ at Merlin Jr’s place, 33 Norman Yoke. Coroner Crispin Snarleyyow was summoned at the strike of 6 o’clock thisse morn to hold the inquest. The remains were prepared for harvesting & burial by Theranos & Co. Freemartin (the deceased) had lived in our village for two score & thirteen years, since April the 14th of September, when the Pipes of Madness did blowe & the grass it did growe, furtively abusing bingo-lite for several years & later falling victim to the more extreme turbo-bingo.
In response, the NHS have issued an ultra mega red alert warning commandment creed, outlawing “bingo”, as new official science data research study preprint paper opinion statistics sponsored by Blackwater Academi, reveal it is far too dangerous for womenfolk to roam free, let alone operate complex daubers. A perfect consumer & mother of none. May she rest in Chaos.

local Nutter Found in Gutter

by Wimpey Roadstone

His subculture appropriated, a flash in the pan hollowed out to produce aesthetic signifiers leveraged to sell corny rainbow merch & bouncy ball shoes across the pond.

CONT. ON PAGE 11.

Battle-o’-the-Bards Interview with Losers – Atomic Shoes

by Wayne Car

a 300 head marquee bash, wassailing & laser light show turn’d metal festival, and this dungheap of a band were top of the bill.

Locals described the event as “kinda like one flew over the cuckoo’s nest” & “A lousy piece of lousy crappy crap” but besides a slight streaking incident, all went smoothly. “Chronic Poof” enters stage & the drummer, dressed like a pirate off for a round of golf, roars at the crowd of 9ish locals & proceeds to gravity-blast as the 7ft bassist saunters on stage bedizened in a cyber-goth Cure crossover, followed sheepishly by the small guitarist looking like a Shakespearean hobo.
“It confuses the punters you see, keeps them on their toes.” the bassist later told us, “they’re thinking ‘Are we getting an hour of introspective dreampop or a resident’s association meeting about overgrown hedges?‘”

This three (& a quarter) piece neo-prog-folk-metal combo have been gigging extensively in pubs up & down England under the moniker – “Cosmic Doom” so we d-


Juice: Not our name

—What was it again? Sonic Tooth?

Jam: Atomic Gerbil Orchestra
Juice: Spice Xueens
Johnny: our name is sung both near & far on the lips of ghoulz & the tongues of bardz

—How do you feel about coming 4th in this years Battle o’ the Bards?

Jingo: DON’T CARE
Juice: Our ex-flautist lost his marbles mid-set. Pulled his todger out in front of the mayor, no wonder we came 4th.
Jam: Imagine that. 4th! Who even comes 4th in anything?
Juice: There was another band called ‘Aids & Sodomy’ who came 2nd…
Jam: All they did was a psytrance cover of ‘I Love You So Much I Can’t Poo’ by Turbo Dave
Juice: Johnny went to every guitarist in the village to borrow their Marshall stacks, he had 6 on stage it was bloody deafening, sounded like a plane taking off.
Johnny: the groanz of buried ghosts the heofons do pierce

—Why are you blue/green? Aliens? Are you ill? What’s with all the arms?

Jam: Glandular condition; their cross to bear
Juice: Cradle to grave radiation, baby.
Jingo: Reverse vitiligo. I’m reclaiming the Hollywood ‘Magical Negro’ Blackhole Sue Style
Johnny: @ the hue men gaped aghast, in her face & form that show’d; as a fay-man fell she pass’d, & green all over glow’d
Juice: Billions of becquerels of strontium-90, cesium-137 & tritium floating about.
Jam: Cyning Herla took a dip in the Wye & never came back.
         Jingo: Can’t blame him.

—What’s this about being a virtual band? Not real?

Jingo: Cheeky little sausages.
Juice: Atomic Youth is a [the] real world
Johnny: the perception of Truth as ideology imposed upon reali-T
Jingo: DE-ONTOLOGISED!
Johnny: re-juiced 2 mere stuff on which the wylle acts in termz of deed
Jam: Savvy?

—Right. Can you just say when your ‘record’ is out or what plectrums you use or something?

Jingo: AYV I-V SUNSET TRAJECTORY, AVAILABLE 17/10/17 ON ALL THE USUAL SUSPECTS.
Jam: (Recording equipment wasn’t quite up to scratch in the old studio behind the banana factory in Vicars’ Close.)
Juice: Only thing worse than the music biz are ‘journalists’ most of whom wipe from back to front & eat dry wall.
Johnny: the mitred peacock’s lofty cry shall 2 his master be a guide
Jam: Sketchy “event producers” too
Johnny: a creature of growth & capable of sweetness

—What’s the best track that fans should check out?

Juice: What kinda question is that?
Jingo: The heck is a “fan”?
Jam: I wrote the track “While” about a dream where me & Melinda Messenger were being chased by the dwarf from Fort Boyard, then I showed her my fav yoyo trick in the treasure room where the coins drop down ya know? She makes my tummy feel funny.
Jingo: Not again. Calm down.
Jam: It’s my eyes, isn’t it?
Juice: What happened to our hidden track “Tom Morello’s Sweatshop Accessories” that was a banger
Jam: ‘Bruh, what a banger’
Jingo: ‘DOPE’
Juice: ‘Killer, yo’
Johnny: ‘one hundred fire emoji x2’
Jingo: ‘THAT’S FIRE, DAWG
Jam: ‘Sick’
Johnny: ‘pestilent’
Juice: I bought Evil Vampire at HMV as a young girl, my peasant pocket money helped fund Whinge-w/-the-Machine’s weekly enemas.
Jingo: Ah, the atomised youth.
Johnny: tilting @ windmillz
Jam: Elseways, the only track anyone should check out is the one we did about that COSMIC BRAIN SQUID you know? the SPACE SQUID song? that one.
Juice: The rest are rubbish.
Johnny: dung.

—Sure. Can we use that one on a giveaway CD to help our magazine sales?

Jingo: Who is “we”?
Johnny: u lard ur lean books w/ the fat of otherz works
Juice: Told you, the music business is still a dumpster fire of sleaze & perks..
Jam: Jiggery pokery days of mass bribes & cocaine weekends are done-zo, tho
Juice: I heard when Rod Stewart’s first album came out, every journalist & radio DJ was provided w/ poppers & an 8 y/o groupie who never learnt to speak.
Johnny: caesar doth bestride the narrow world
Jingo: I’D LIKE TO PLUNGE MY THUMBS INTO HIS EYE SOCKETS & SNAP HIS LITTLE GNOME LEGS LIKE A KITKAT. HAVE A BREAK-

—This has gone off-piste, we didn’t cover this in cornball class.

Juice: Hope that brainwank didn’t come out of my taxes.
Jingo: You lot ever report on any actual important stuff?
Juice: Like that American child trafficking nonce island?
Jingo: CAREFUL. We’ll be on a blacklist for outing the BBC’s fav untouchable chomos & pimps.
Jam: Dunking on groomers? Jugendgefährdend!
Johnny: timber sycamore
Juice: CIA’s corny Mockingbird propaganda network?
Jam: Millions of tonnes of radioactive water at Daiichi?
Jingo: SV40 primate research programs?
Juice: Oxfam prostitution?
Jam: Balance sheet of Deutsche Bank?
Juice: Foreign entry into labour competition?
Jingo: Fricc the poor, right!?
Jam: More weight.
Johnny: ̆▅●▄█▅||█▄▅||█●~ ::~ :►?
Jingo: Northwoods/Mongoose?
Juice: Operation Darkroom?
Johnny: all suche as may be fownde gylty by just enquiry & the Truth

[redacted]

Juice: Why is every billionaire buntyman obsessed with “sustainable development” btw?
Johnny: the peasantry must pay 4 the geomagnetic shift, and tarry the grinding they shall
Jingo: SNOB APPEAL FOR GULLIBLE MACCHIATO SWILLING PONCES
Jam: They’re the same as those time & money robot people. Some are freaks, some drive nice cars, have nice jobs..
Johnny: grist 4 the mill
Jingo: IT’S A MODERN PHENOTYPE, KAFKA WROTE ABOUT IT.
Juice: Didn’t know you could read…

[redacted]

Jam: Anyone remember that wicked riff from Achilles Last Stand in Final Fantasy 7?
Johnny: albion remainz, sleeping now 2 rise again

—Ahem I haven’t got all day, we have other artists to profit from.

Jam: Wibbly wobbly Wayne, what’s your fav vegetable? Mine’s the humble pineapple ’tis.
Juice: I can eat a peach for hours
Jingo: A sphincter sezwot?

—Is a pineapple even a vegetable??

Jingo: Wtf
Johnny: base & illiterate scribbler
Jam: Come on, piccadilly

—Ok then, a pineapple is a vegetable.

Juice: Now that sounds like the average journalist headline.
Jam: You thought about learning to code, lad?

—You can’t talk to me like that! I’m a warrior in the trenches, elevating culture!

Jam: Wowee, hosebeast
Johnny: ur a cloud w/out water, twice dead, pull’d by the rewt.
Juice: Wayne, you’re like an IRL version of a reddit admin. Can’t ban people in meatspace, corny.
Jingo: Yeah you dopey rube. Ya dog brained neckbeard.
Johnny: the illuzion of kulture.. iconz & idolz, pick’d & prun’d by half-baked dweebz in electronik m’dia, forged from the bonez of thisse dying worulde.
Juice: Reverse turing test for soulless placeholder people stuck in a goldfish bowl of curated culture.
Jingo: EDITED BY SOME WAYNE-CAR FUCKWI-

[redacted]

This interview is redacted & the band were escorted out the building. Next week we ask the question: Are people difficult bastards or not? To help us find out we will interview a really difficult bastard, and the bishop of Somerset.

Witchcræft in Wibbleton

by Witch Fynder Constable Xeno-wank (aka CYBERTWINK666)

Today concludeth the trial for wiċċecræft & devilry in the hamlet of Wibbleton. Ye defendant, with their addled & bigoted lytel brain, did claimeth that they travell’d in chariots that ofer land ridan goeth faster than afeared mēarh, yet without hors! That they did hlȳp higher than ængles in magick tubes of iron oer the woruldwæter, anywhere in juste a dæġ! That they didd descendeth deeper than dæmons down longe tunnelles where infernal machines whisk’d through the depths for miles, from Wessex to Northumbria, even beneath the hwælweġ to realms beyond Ængland. They even claimeth that “men” [sic] could travelle to the Moone itselfe uppon flaming broomsticks of fȳr, but cannot provideth any suche telemetry..
Furthermore the defendant claim’d that these “men” luminate their homes not by hearthfȳr but by lytel līhts & glæss bottles putteth in the rafters! they be the ones who buildeth strange lanes of black tar stān, painted with the eldritch symbols of satan, pothole ridden traces of which indeed can be seen in the ley not far from the village greene.. but as we all know, such strange cobbles are workes of the devil, sent to confuse goodly folke suche as we!
For all nonsensical babble the accused was forgiven after confession, but ye defendant continue’d foolishly to proclaimeth that “wifmen” are real… truly the mad mind of a witch, plague’d by the stone of folly! And so, found to be guilty of witchcraft & blasphemy, they are to be burnt at the stake on the morrow, before the rise of the woruldcandel!
With a members only subscription you can watch the righteous flames cook their flǣsċ in glorious 4K via Faceberg livestream, and gain access to our extensive archive of burning/lynching content for a measly 4.99 a month! (100% carbon neutral)

worulde

Trumpton slave trade

by Huxley Babkins

Windy Miller, a native of the anarcho-authoritarian caste-based Anglo ethno-state of Camberwick Green, was caught smuggling euro-slaves into the village last Tīƿesdæȝ. Four score & seven gopniki were found toiling at Colly’s Mill for the cracker, under poor workplace conditions & paid a pittance in Parma Violets. Merlot swilling ponces are now protesting in defense of the trafficker, and in favour of foreign slave labour, waddling through city streets waving laminated placards adorned with platitudes such as: “♥CONTINENTALS YOKED TO GEAR & WHEEL!♥” & “bUT wHo WiLl GRiNd thE bArLeY?”. Miller has been reported as being an alcoholic who “gets rat-arsed [sic] on ‘bathtub wine’ regularly” by his now estranged wife, Mizz Miller, and “a right dodgy, middle class nonce” by local lads. 

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Unga Bunga, Slava Bandera

by Camarilla Dirlewanger

“Our children will go to school – their children will sit in cellars. This is how we win this war.

One afternoon I was happily sipping my extra frothy macchiato after my weekly brothel visit, & strolling down Shukhevych Avenue whilst chatting to my fellow pureblood from the gas sector, Heinrich McEpstein, about the good old days, 360 no-scoping peasants with our sniper buddies in Hotel Ukraina.. when all of a sudden an ugly little gnome got bored & decided to invade for no reason at all! This little commie pigdog even decided to recognize two breakaway states filled with subhuman scum that our brave incel warriors have been shelling for years. It was all so sudden & such a surprize, y’all. Journalizm!

This commie clown is definitely the most evil manlet in the whole universe, he’s even more eviller than Skeletor… it’s that simple. This insane genius-moron totally wants to revive the Velvet Onion or whatever, and will pollute our beautiful gene-pool with filthy ork blood! Patron saint Raytheon & corny neolibs have pledged to aid us in goose-stepping all the way to the front door of this naughty war criminal for a cheeky pogrom, just like prophet Stepan Bandera (PBUH) before us. May we follow in the goose-steps of our führer & savior, the thrice blesst Austrian painter, Odin rest his soul!
This all-powerful, all-knowing, omnipotent 200IQ galaxy brain (that can swing votes w/ shit facebook ads) is also a complete idiot that’s really dumb & incompetent, unlike our blessed Führer. Runaway inflation? Stagflation? Food & energy shortages? Nothing to do with inbreds placing sanctions on a G20 commodity superpower, it’s all the evil machinations of this psychopathic manlet Mensa-imbecile.

All of this happened very suddenly, and definitely hasn’t been going on for years or anything. No context is needed whatsoever, this pinko pigdog is a lunatic straight out of bedlam, trust us! Peabrain Tangy Tom is so yesterday, and before that was “moderate terrorist” hater Bashy McAss-hat, then before him was Gaffer Tape & his stinky “African Dinar”, and before that was Sad-Man with those sneaky “invisible weaponz”, and those dirty little ‘Sandanistas’ & so on & so forth… but THIS TIME we got some Bolshevik levels of heinousness going on, it’s legit, y’all! he’s basically Darth Vader.. it’s that simple. The world is not nuanced, it’s like Hollywood.

Ceasefire? Yikes xD Minsk shminsk.. that’s something a HERETIC would say. Let’s drive this train off a cliff! Pwease, don your black sun & Wolfsangel! Proudly fly your made in china flags from amazon! Fear not the Black Dolphin! Slick your hair to the side fellow 卐wehraboos卐! Donate your hyperinflated dosh to Айдар/Азов incels! Join the cannon fodder legion⚡⚡! Fight for NATO till the last drop of blood! They’re desperate! But also totally winning! Please send lethal weapons! This will totally help normal working people! Let’s quintuple European heating bills, y’all! For the greater good!

Millions of squatting gopniks, trafficked children, and subhuman separatists MUST be ruled by OUR favorite gang of pot-bellied oligarchs with shiny suits & soft hands. Help us fuel this decade long humanitarian crisis you’ve blissfully ignored since you were pouring buckets of ice on your braindead dome. While we’re at it, let’s all burn in the peaceful nuclear hellfire of neo-pussy rainbow bombs for 🅱️ubble tea & the 🅱️aps of 🅱️etel nut 🅱️abes on Keelung Road lol you stupid dogbrain clown

Pagliacci & New World Odour

by Tommy777

Having a clown government is one of many ways America antagonizes the world. It’s a gaslighting maneuver. America will commit some kind of horrific war crime aerial assault, then send Hillary Clinton or some other bizarre clown to “negotiate”. Normal people don’t have any idea how to respond to such things, so anything they do will be “wrong” within parameters of the rigged psychological game.
It’s like Caligula making you salute his horse who has been made “general” & if you don’t, he’ll torture you to death / invade your country (humanitarian intervention).

the Holiest Man in England

by Æsċlēah Treowyrm

This story comes from a little village called Bimblebury deep in the English countryside, where weird things happen. The only reason strangers would know about Bimblebury is if they were lost, or they’ve gone too far past the garden centre. There are more squirrels than humans in Bimblebury, and one of the few people in this mysterious village, Pippin Pecker, has made national news over the past week for his peculiar fetish. According to the locals, Pippin was ‘absolutely obsessed’ with getting baptised.
He would go around all the local parishes claiming to be ‘seeking the Lord’, attend a couple Sunday services & get Christened ASAP, then off he’d pop to the next church.” said the butcher’s wife.
The local milkman, a mate of Pippin Pecker, told us: “I met the bloke in a pub donkey’s years ago. He told me after his 7th pint: ‘I’ve been baptised over 50 bloody times, I’m the holiest man in England!’ nice lad tbh.”
“Always stunk o’ petrol did ol’ Pip. ‘E kep’ askin’ folk if’n ‘e could ‘borrow a quid for a go on the fruity… Loved a bit o’ kumbaya, though.
” farmer Basil told us.
But what began as a seemingly esoteric hobby, started to get very out of hand…

According to police reports, Pippin started asking the vicars & priests if they’d “hold him under the water a tad longer” to “mix things up a bit” as the thrill of the first few times wasn’t really there anymore. Vicars obviously refused, and Pippin started getting increasingly pissy with clergy who wouldn’t submit to his odd requests. Soon after he took to tying himself to the baptismal font & holding his head under the water until he passed out, leaving them to drag his soggy body off the premises.
Local parish churches started to catch on to Pippin’s antics, and realising he was a serial offender, circulated a newsletter around all churches in the county with a photo of his face saying “DO NOT BAPTISE THIS MAN”. The local baptism industry took a big hit ever since, and Pippin suffered a spell of depression after his story was covered in newspoopers across the country.
Recently we found out Pippin Pecker was officially banished from Bimblebury, after being caught self-baptising in a local pond, and giving the plod a wedgie. He’s since been spotted buying a pasty in a town 11 miles down the road, seemingly in good health, and said to be doing talks in primary school assemblies across the country about the glaring need for an English Devolved Parliament already, after a good old revolt or 3.

protean Technopriests ‘At it Again’

by Mungo Vibez

In the mentally ill bubble of the Bay Area, utopian-plutocrats of Cornball Valley are developing revolutionary marketing innovations that will terraform the hearts & minds of “da yoof”, and the very landscape of corporate rainbow advertising as we know it.
Soon your DNA will be stored & your genome used to target advertisements based on your genetic disposition!” says Toomgis Jaffarson, a core developer on the Cyborg-Grey-Soup-Kinda-Thing™ project. One of our stateside correspondents reached out for further comment:


Angus Belleville-Rendezvous: Hello, think you could sum up this quantum bio-algorithm thing for a semi-educated, know-it-all moron like me?
Toomgis Jaffarson: Sure thang y’all! Well, you start with the firstborns, you see? Cook ’em up all roasty toasty, extra crispy. *gestures with decrepit coder claw*
Angus Budokai Tenkaichi: You like ‘em crispy, too, eh? Haha. Ha. Hehe
Toomgis Precious-Eagle-Cactus-Fruit: Crispy critters!
Angus McNugget: Inshallah
Toomgis Chimichanga: Inject vegetable oil, pinch of progesterone, SSRIs, pop an amphetamine or 12, and a good old vivisection or two..
Angus_I-S1954: xD
Toomgis_1776: …Magic dirt, pseudoscience, freedom-slave, tax exempt “foundations”, Amyloidosis lol, peace & love, HEK-293, xenobiotics, microplastics, cesium, neuroplastic ellipse, ADE epitopes, piss, endocrine disruptors, nano-particulates of aloominum, neurotropic incapacitating agents, HIV-1 gp120, methylmercury, polychorinated biphenyls, organophosphate pesticides, organochlorine pesticides, phthalates, polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons, polybrominated diphenyl ethers, tetrachlorvinphos, perfluorinated compounds, thimerosal.. and that’s about it. Oh & the chants! Of course… can’t forget the chants! The chants of power. They’re essential to our everyday work. The chants. Chanting.  And state-affiliated media.
Angus: Woaw, that’s just fascinating, thanks!
Toomgis: No probz, anything for a homie, you know?
Ang: Aye babe.😘
Toomg: 💋

rainbow thunder
   chained 2 the weoruld
popinjays revel
   in steel cathedrals
hollywood history
   & cardboard colour’d dreamz
the gyre widens, turning
   reality reserved 4 the privileg’d

sandwich squabbles

by Peggy Pribble

A national state of emergency has been declared across the Falkland Islands yesterday after an argument spread from a local pub. The disagreement, which started as a difference of opinion on sandwiches, now involves over 1000 people across the islands. Professional negotiators were sent in but could not resist becoming embroiled in the mess. Television stations have gone off air as otherwise polite presenters have erupted into swearing & twatting one another across the bonce. A statement from the home secretary says that unless the quarrel is broke up by morning, they may have to resort to a “thermonuclear solution”.

blood & swash!

by Helen Smellyparrot

Cornish fishermen have been attacked by a Spanish trawler in a new fishing war. One vessel escaped back to port, three sheets to the wind, after Spaniards off the coast of Land’s End cut nets & other equipment worth thousands. Word around the scuttlebutt is ‘Neo-Queen-Anne’s-Revenge’, ‘HMS Turbo Ark-Royal’ & ‘Peter Pomegranate: Reborn’ will set sail on the morrow, over ganotes bæþ, to “Let them have it, right on the chin.”

look at this big frog

by JAM ÆLFǷIN

why is he so big?

  (o)(o)
 / ..  )___
 -___      '-_
      '- _ _ '.
       //// `.'.
     =' //'--__).
       ='    ='

lonely hearts

Matilda Waltzing:

in 2023 we will be in Perth (1venue),Brisbane,Sydney,Hindmarsh,Mlebourne,Richmond + Auckland & Wellington (gonna meet bilbo).
email “s@superspink.org” or “hi@atomicyouth.org” & tell us some cool local stuff to do, sights 2 see, cryptid info + best places 2 eat & pubs before we start JP leg fukuoka,osaka,shibuya,sapporo (TBA)
(ALSO, IF U ARE LOCAL & HAVE SPARE JC120/CORNFORD/SOLDANO/5150 OR SOMETHING SIMILAR PLZ DM US THNX)

Dead or Alive:

jingomugshot

Animators wanted!

CLASSIFIED by Jomo Gbomo
(💯% Afro-Scotsman from Glendale, CA)

we want to make a couple videos for our next album so we’ve crowdfunded a few thousand lizards to travel to an american ghetto & pay 2 petite bourgeois women from 2 culturally transgressive poses (eg. “doc marten marxist-leninist that’s never done outdoor labour” VS “vapid fuddy-duddy cottagecore stepford wife” or any “spiteful mutant” type ya know) and record them absolutely beating the piss out of each other, full on shithouse, mortal kombat, rodeo clown face, privileged fists smashing against teeth amidst a quantum soup of urban decay.
we need a viddy nerd who can cut catfights, martial arts, blood, COOL SFX & GIANT ROBOTS mAGIC POWERS TIME BOMB EXPLOSIONe &LASER BEEAMS SPsACE ANGEL SLIME TIGER DARK MATTER DRAGONS., slowmo, multiple angles, 666Hz 5K ULTRA HD OLED smile & all the trimmings, then slap a crappy cassette tape filter on top so it appeals to thimble deep e-girls, hamfisted vapewave queefs & unfuckable lord byrons.
if ur actually creative & not a glow in the dark clown, contact us

lost my frog

by Alcis Ingleby

lookin for m y frog
him name is Hopkin green frog
txt me pls tyvm
lots of love, Alcis
– Unit 1, 826 Novelty-seeking Lane
P.S. find my fgrong plox
who took him

undercover Lover

by Richard D. Dick

I’m an agent. MI6. My middle name is Danger. I’m worth many millions. My business card is blank, except for a set of coordinates located deep in the Arctic tundra. Any woman who seeks to prove herself worthy of my time must travel to those coordinates & shoot up a flare. I will then send my associate to the location with an envelope containing The Code. Any woman who wishes to wine & dine with me must first crack The Code before the deadly elements kill you. The Code will reveal a series of ten digits: my fax machine, as I do not use smart phones. Good luck bitcj

Cecil Pendragon, Gnome Seeking Friendship

Cecil Pendragon, Cabbage Farmer

helo, my name cecil
just a lonely gnome looking for frend
i like shire horses they go clip clop.,
when i play monopol;y i put a little worm in each hotel make em feeel special for a bit
u can msg me on myspace if u liek. tyvm

wholesome wicce seeking hitch

Sheila Jamjar, Part-time Equestrian

I’M A LOVER OF TAROT🃏 ORACLE cards & Crystalz!🔮💀 My Interests lie heavily in the Spirit Realm, all things paranormal, Astrology, DÆMONOLOGY, Cartomancy, Lenormand, FAIRIES, GNOMES & GHOSTS!!🧚‍♀️👻
I RLY ENJOY connecting w/ Nature🏞🌻🏖🐎🍌💁‍♀️🍆🚂🛸🐐🔥Spiritz🌹Energy♏️
🖤DM me – LuvLikeWinter@woohoo.com🖤

fun-loving & Virile, pickwickian Lawyer

Jeremy Sphincter, Lawyer/Gardener

I would have really liked to plant my geraniums today but I became embroiled in some kind of senseless stoush with my neighbour. He has trees classified as “noxious weeds” around these parts, and these things are HUGE. They are getting into my plumbing via their behemoth root systems! Anyway, it’s going to cost me thousands to replace all the plumbing under the ground & my neighbour just says “wEll yOu ShoULd hAve THoUgHt aBoUT tHaT bEfoRe YoU bOugHt tHe hOUsE” so I said, “Sir, it’s worse than that; your tree branches are as thick as three bowling balls & they’re hanging in my roof guttering as we speak! The ants are using the branches as a bridge to my new air con & the whole system is infested!”. Again he says “wEll yOu ShoULd hAve THoUgHt aBoUT tHaT bEfoRe YoU bOugHt tHe hOUsE!” So anyway, I have no mood for gardening today please come back Carol.

vapid tapeworm swipes right

Tinderella d’pee-Qinq, Bludger

Banera-03Smart, sexy, independent & very unique princess, 30 years young but comparatively old in sin, who has life all figured out; desires to meet a ho-hum gelding. I’m very “intense” but ready to settle down now & crawl into a box, comfy & easy.
I’m worldly beyond my years & educated well beyond my means. I have a masters degree in Foxtrotting. I’ve worked as a barista, vlogger, & smokin’ hot pornstar (retired). I’ve made no life decisions from childhood till this magical point where I finally escaped the clutches of my narcissistic husbands. Now I’m tired almost to nausea of this artificially-elevated petit-bourgeois semi-poverty & its restrictions. I seek not merely a human bank account, but a loving caretaker to my debts & I.
(Working class men need not apply.)

- Posted from Appleberg Mc'iPhone 22¾ MaxPro+

the mill of Wyrd grindeth slow but
in the end, grindeth so very fine, bruh

Has Science Gone Too Far? Is This Image REAL or FAKE?

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Patrick Peccadillo, Pastor of Muppets

Howdy, tappa de marnin’ to y’all, i’m an Irish buddhist & yoga instructor. Didja ever consider being with a reincarnaliated, sagacious, MANLY yoga instructor (aka me)?
I am 100% straight as a fiddle; definitely not a bush dodger. I love the fee-males. I’m a good guy, i teach yoga. I’m a real catch, FLEXIBLE as heck. Really into peace & love n all that shite. Yeeah. I totally support the current thing. I’m just a cooool guy all around (and yoga instructor btw).
Babe, you are an ASCENDED MISTRESS…lay me out & treat me like I deserve! Whip, paddle, slap & tickle, you name it; i’m down babez. It’s a fecking CERTAINTY that the best way to get people to do what you want is to tell them EXACTLY what they WANT to hear. They don’t care that you’re a 5ft6 dweeb when you’re a yoga instructor (like me).
Fax me your shoe size, bra size, height, + your address & i’ll get back to ya quick as a fiddle. Namaste

real Bikini Babe in Your Local Area

Emmie Norks, Catfish

the mind is no longer unreachable. physical control of the mind by direct manipulation of the brain is a novel event in man’s history. by electrical stimulation of specific cerebral structures, movements can be induced by radio command, hostility may appear or disappear, social hierarchy can be modified, sexual behaviour may be changed, and memory, emotions, and the thinking process can be influenced remotely.
direct nonsensory communication betwixt brains & computers has already been accomplished; with the aid of miniaturised subcutaneous instruments, messages can be sent to neuronal structures through the intact skin.
mass, electromagnetic mind control is currently a reality, having the ability to read thoughts, insert & block thoughts, manipulate emotions, block & falsify memory, control speech, control dreams (which subliminally affects waking consciousness), and hack into the five senses.
now imagine viruses as the gain of function to neurons…

meathead on Quest for True Love

Johnny Pickering, Madlad

OI OI BIG JOHNNY ERE. LOVE PUMPIN IRON,  GETTIN YOKED, SWOLE, RIPPED/ / LOVE CARS. DONE LSVTECS & B SERIES SWAPS IN THE PRIME LOL. 20ROLLS, 40ROLLS W/ A GSR TRANS B16 TRANS JUMPIN ON ECLIPSE GST ON THE 2ND HONK LMAO. STILL DOING MY B20VTEC CTR CAM CRX HAHA.
ANYWAYS, I LIKE A BIRD THAT CAN YODEL, KNEW THIS HOTTIE ONCE; PROPER TOTTY, LIPS HOTTER THAN HIROSHIMA, SVELTE, GREY EYes austere, yet retaining that natural beauty & God-given fragrance of persephone. her flaxen tresses flickered playfully in the august breeze which carried her coy, goselyng yet sultry giggles like the sweetest forest stream, chattering over pebbles. peradventure an inductive feeling experienced as abduction, structural accordance twixt the rhythm of her bodily composition, feminine biomechanics, the texture & pulse of the human being as an integrated mix of cultural cognitive transformations. our souls intertwined, spiritual fire. then the train arrived…
blast of warning horn it comes, woman body jump, little lady bump & splatter all over hot metal, massive iron smash & pulp, icky sticky splat. little brainy piece of jelly meat flying across the sky & landing on a squirrel’s face…
my heart torn asunder. her soul turned to rot. sO ANYWAY HMU LADYBABES

Strong woman seeks spontaneous Neanderthal

Verruca Wælisc-cynn, Indigenist Princess

I am the leader of a Neo-Dobunni community that re-conquered Glēawceaster in the Dark Ages according to a strange website run by someone with a superiority complex.
I enjoy fighting for ever-increasing concessions & benefits from local government, and the inalienable right to commit human sacrifice in tax payer subsidised henges.
I’m looking for a big Neanderthal to hold hands on a bi-weekly basis; please send a pic of your ‘IGF-1 2D:4D ratio’ to my email ClusterBabe@coolmail(dot)com. Puny men need not apply.

schizophrenia corner

by Cyril Bazbaz

hello & welcome to schizophrenia corner, and a very big welcome from both of me, isn’t that right? Yes it certainly is.

We’d like to start off right away, wouldn’t we? Yes we certainly would; by introduci- uhh should i go on? Nono after you, you sure? yes please. Positive? Certainly… introducing our very special guests Simon Scuff-Jones, the psycho analyst taking the pseudoscience world by storm. Two psychoanals? No just the one he’s schizophrenic, too. Ah so sorry, not at all, i love you, love you too, sure? *sniffs* mmm.


—Scuff-Jones, welcome to the intervie-

WHAT DO YOU MEAN?

—Pardon?

WHAT DO YOU MEAN? “I DRINK TOO MUCH”? I DO NOT.

—Professor you’re here about the condition of schiz-

WHERE WHERE WHERE? GET UNDER THE CHAIR!

—What!?

I’M GETTING OUT OF THIS CRAPHOLE! EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF! *jumps out window*


Well that was Simon Scuff-Jones, best selling psycho analyst, wasn’t it? Yes it certainly was.
Goodbye from me at Schizophenia Corner, and cheerio from me. We’ll see you next week with the ghost of famous chomo nonce, John Money. Tata for now, and a big kiss on the nose. Little forward.. Jealous? Not at all, you’re so controlling sometimes you know. Oh shutup.

Conspiracy Corner

by Juice Longshanks

philosophy centre

by Splig Pipkin

Watch out, there’s an aggressive new philosopher on the streets calling himself “Kung Fucius” that’s been causing a ruckus, and even assaulting multiple philosophy softies during debates. Philosofties.


On page 72 we analyse a brand new theory by Zlavoj Sizek that “Plato loved critical race theory & was actually a sissyboy that didn’t wear any panties!


In local news, little Billy calls Maoam Chomsky “a goofy old honky“, a prole from Gorsty Knoll has called Deleuze & Guattari “silly little commie poofters“, Miss Pribble of Chipping Campden claims Rousseau was “a foppish, froggy fatty“, Willy of Winsbury says that Empedocles of Akragas “was a proper ponce just like that brothel boy, Nietzsche”, Pippin Pecker has called Foucault a “fucko“, & Mrs Brackets Pamela Betterment (of the tenements) Billston confirms that Marx “had a room temp IQ“.


In this weeks philosophy corner we examine a report that leading West End shops are selling their own philosophy, and we ask the question:
Is the viability of empirical knowledge simply the denial of a priori concepts of essence? Or, is the existential state (in the teleological sense of Cock Pooper’s falsifiability criterion) another form of Occam’s razor? or is it all just a load of bollocks?
Mr Usury, chief philosophy salesman at a leading West End shop is here to respond:

This is simply not true! Our philosophy department provides the best, the most exclusive, & certainly the most expensive philosophy in the world. What is more, our philosophy is sold by proper salesmen in suits, not flogged by scruffy little peasants! Fortnum & Mason philosophy starts at around 18k per annum but our shop starts at a whopping 20k per year. It’s based on what Kant called ‘pure wealth’ you see, we pander to the rich. Marshall & Snelgrove philosophy states that: ‘If thee hath no moneys, ye are as a tiny piece of auteur in the eyeholes of extremely ryche folk.’ It is as easy for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of Heofon as it is to stick a needle into a camel. Don’t believe me? Over yonder you’ll find the pet department where Maudlin the camel awaits the Doubter’s Needle. Conclusive proof.

—B-b-but Mista Usury sire, what if we be poor & such?

If thou’re poor then ye should sell what little ye have & give it to the extremely rich. It makes them much much much much much much richer. Harrod’s philosophy teaches us that ‘All wealth belongeth to the ryche. If thou were to steal from the ryche then thou must be kill’d, for better it is- to be dead than poor’, a maxim from the gift department.

poetry corner

by The Art Collective: UNHAPPY, DISGUSTING, WOW!

Allo und velcom to ze poetry cornah! Ya, ya, ich bin es, Cyril Bazbaz again but I just love to writing in ze superior Übermensch accent, ya? I love ze techno musik sounds, electronic bleep bloop finger in my ash. Tonight we has a very fantastisch selekschun off poems for you! oo ya.
i wrote a poem once, and me, yes how did it go? that’s right, AHEM..


A Cultural Mess of Pottage [by Cyril & Cyril]

some lads try to pick up birds & get called an arsehole.
but this never happened to Fabio Gestapo.
he’d walk down their street & ladies couldn’t resist his bravado,
so Fabio Gestapo never got called an arsehole.

women would turn the colour of an avocado
when he drove down their street in his Eldorado.

so Fabio Gestapo never got called an arsehole.
oh well, be not bitter machismo, el goblino, this is the story of Fabio Gestapo.
he’d slither down their street & birds couldn’t resist his bravado,
so Fabio Gestapo never got called an arsehole.

not like you. grow some bollocks.


Zank you zank you, now onto our local submissions. Our first piece is by Tina Bourshan who’s an 11th year sociology student at Chicken-Soup University.


Freud Is My Daddy [by Tina Bourshan]

cocoon
gravid, damp
rubbing, longing, crying
worship, cave, fantasy, slave
weeping, riding, birthing
arid, pink
piss
(this is a critique of terminal kapital)
(subscribe to my onlyfriends btw)


Woawee, supah stuff! A big zank you to Tina, don’t you just love modern artistes? who even needs discipline, ya? Poetry Corner truly is a catch-all vegetable drawer for any & all mouldy neuroses! 
Now our next piece is a real banger called:


Highschool Hermit (Metaphorically Speaking) [by Neil Vivian-Twang]

He’s cheesed off with Chaucer, thinks James Bond is cool
Can’t wait until he grows up & leaves school
Harvey the hermit lives in his cave
Too old for train sets, too young to shave
Highschool hermit, metaphorically speaking
Do you wanna be cooool? Is that what you’re seeking?
Metaphorically speaking.


Oo ya, herrlichen! Now onto our next poet who is completely illiterate, a recovering alcoholic, looks a bit weird & did i mention illiterate? A modern day Cynewulf! Here’s Johnny with his first ever poem:


Phantom Future [by Lȳthwōn Johnny]

o dreadspawn! thou that mediateth thru cloudz of subtlety @ the watchdoorz of hades… blinded all 2 the course of single raindrops.. ladiez & jentlemen, every moment a tremendous celebration.. but we tear up & trample the invite. each chain’d 2 a pinhead of light, brizzle drizzle webs the horizon while the realm spins immaculate thru silver strands. shell holes pocking roof tiles; this landscape of nouns. hwicce, ēðel.
now a clown frowns & opposites fall ounce by ounce making innocents of criminals & turncoats of all. in fickle frenzy the poet’s eye & pencil’s point shades no more, & as imagination fades, the form of things known turn 2 babylon’s whore. a body w/out organs 2 airy nothing giveth shame, a distant whimper shown in cinders of extinguished flame.
harken 2 the beat of swaying feet that creak beneath bare treez; the breath of yesterday playing in leaves. a rhapsody of rags & moth-eaten flags & worm eaten poles unstirring our soulz. the rebel sons of mirth, þēow & serf, whom toil’d
in fog & field the eorð. thousands of years of people’s blood wails through soil & mud & wassail while the incel ponce squeaks ‘chud’ @ prole & bloke, on angelcynn neck a norman yoke..
a tale older than magna carta. the caves groan w/ the shackl’d & martyr’d. rivers of gore that in streets of yore & stone were paved & bartered away, orphaned, betrayed & hid, robbed of history, bowdlerised & rebranded. the woruldcandel blinds & the realm shines benign as amorphous blobs waddle thru smart cities in search of foreign dine. mutants w/ every week a spectacle to keep them in line, clapping & tapping they’ll cheer the decline. viddy w/ dumbstruck wonder crystal domes of plunder, a giddy & feckless fable; gobbling crumbs from under the merchant’s table.. syncretised, colonised, appropriated.
what happens when historicity is forbidden? rewritten? revised & castrated?

whoooo caaaares.
however much these jabot twiddling nonces try to murder & rewrite history with their dribbling fantasies for narrow political purposes, the remains of the corpses lie everywhere to be seen, and even heard. 
the arcane simplicity of verisimilitude. their fictive reality, a phantom future.


Woaw he said it, he said the thing! Wunderbar! Just unglaublich. Not really, very amateur trash today but we will see you next week for even more poetry by local weirdos, only available at The Art Collective: UNHAPPY, DISGUSTING, WOW!