the Atomic
Thrusting deep inside the news pharynx
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ne mē swōr fela āða on unriht
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Zephyr
Better bad news, half-true more-or-less, 100% of the time
breaking
op-ed
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
Eternal November
by Fanny Whipple
Parish of Eðandun sees the opening of the world’s first ever “virtual reality whore” this weekend; the total sensual experience of shagging a sex icon of your choice can now be yours with this computer assisted device! Fully featured computer simulated romp sessions available, with a pair of fully adjustable bristols & shaved rodent clamped at thigh level. The future is now!
Chaps come along & have a go.. 50% discount for virgins! and if you’re a crusty dried up broad, why not buy one for your fella to help him bare the horror of shagging you? Come on down & wet your whistle this weekend for the first ever “virtual reality whore” experience.
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)
lonely hearts
Dead or Alive:
Has Science Gone Too Far? is this image REAL or FAKE?
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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…
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!