ALL MUSIC BRATS MUST DIE!!!

Of course I don't mean that literally, some of my dearest friends are in Choir or Orchestra. But why must they move our platforms-nay, our masterpiece in progress- around so that they can perform on OUR stage??? I mean, seriously!

Granola

I've decided to emulate Snowy's habit of writing longish blog posts with no real point because there is really nothing better to do. Today I'm going to discuss the merits of granola. Great stuff, that.
Perhaps I ought to explain. See, I grew up in a fairly hippie-ish town snuggled up to the Rocky Mountains. Its many marvellous attributes include gallons of fresh air, pretty mountains, a healthy athleticized culture, cheap pot-scented incense to pollute the fresh air, and granola. I have learned to love that stuff.
My dad buys the cheapest granola on offer, which varies from day to day. This means that I never know quite what to expect when I open the canister for an after-dinner snack: Ginger? Cherry Vanilla? Honey-Oat-Nut? Tropical Fruit? I do not lie, these are all potential granola species with the possible exception of tropical fruit, although that one thing did taste suspiciously of dried pineapple...
Anyway I suppose granola is my middle class American hippie-brat equivalent of paste circa 1976. Great story behind that:
(It's best in Paul's own words but I'm afraid I don't have it memorized. I do my best to duplicate. Try reading it in a "croaky South London brogue" for best results.)
So we'd been putting up posters for A Night of Treason, right, and we was all quite hungry. There was nothing to eat, really, an' it was too late to get anything. We'd been putting up posters with this flour-and-water paste and there was some left in the bucket. So I said to the guys "Hey, d'you think we could eat that?" Now Bernie had this saw, right, and it was Bernie's special saw, y'know, nobody touches the saw. So I took the saw and heated it up over our fire and made the paste into sort of a little cake, and it cooked. I had some and it wasn't too bad cos I was so hungry. But nobody else wanted any, for some reason.

TNT and Pinkish Punch

Amicae mea succeeded in making my act my age by dragging me off to a dance. From beginning to end it was rather fun, however, apart from the rap. But I'm getting ahead of myself. I started talking about my central point right away and I really don't wish to spoil it.
Hokay, so I show up at MJF's house bearing all my overnight kit, meaning a pillowcase stuffed with the contents of a small city as well as my bulging green sleeping bag. She frets about eyeliner while I debate whether or not I should wear my padlock. Brainsponge arrives, insisting on minimal makeup and bearing a book. Peaches and Pilot show up, Peaches being overenthusiastic and Pilot attempting to calm her. We don dresses and descend the stairs to the oohs and aahs of those assembled. After taking a full newspaper's worth of photos, they finally agree to drive us to our destination.
We eventually get inside (after a brief moment of panic concerning my coinpurse), and suss out the scene. Peaches tries to dance, Brainsponge gripes about the noise, and Pilot goes off to join her volleyball crew. And then I tried the punch.
For some reason it is obligatory to have punch at parties. Some genius decided to capitalize on this by packaging watery pinkish food coloring as an edible substance with only a few warning labels. When we first walked past the punch cooler we decided that the stoners had probably spiked it; after we tried some we realized we were right. For a beverage that bad it was actually amazingly addictive. (Hey, three a's in a row. Wow.)
Luckily we didn't die of punch poisoning and the DJ finally emerged from his headphones long enough to play a decent song, "TNT" by AC/DC. It was great!
Take one punker grrrl. Add several overenthusiastic friends and one makeup bag. Take the mixture to a dance. Sprinkle in a little spiked punch. Add adrenaline and associated hormones brought on by close proximity to amazingly fanciable lads. Turn up the volume on the already booming amps. Add "TNT" and WATCH ME EXPLODE!!!
The short and long of it is that I ended up doing the pogo on top of a wobbly cement bench. I am forever indebted to Sid Vicious for inventing that dance, and to Siouxsie Sioux for pissing him off. YEAH!!!
Of course there were other curious incidents, such as a 6'1" girl walking down the stairs with a 5'0" guy, or the stoner wandering around red-eyed and staggering, or a rather bizarre conversation conducted in the relative privacy afforded by a pillar, (please remind me to kiss that pillar on Monday, it is my new best friend), but these I will explain in depth later.
After the dance we went to Brainsponge's pulchra villa for gossip and pizza and a few episodes of Peaches' new favorite sitcom, Smallville. Funnily enough one episode was indeed about spiked punch, only their's was green. I ended up counting down the hours until 10:25 tomorrow, when I will be rapidly exiting biology hell to rejoin my faithful graffiti table in Gov. Hmm, 20:53 now.

A Safety Pin, a Sneer, and a Pair of Bondage Trousers

(And again, I resist using the red font.)
Argh I slept in too much this morning and I wasn't even up all that late.
I do have a point. Really!
As you may (not) have guessed from the title, my post today concerns that greatest of 20th century rock bands, The Clash. (And please don't feed me any waffle about how Led Zeppelin was better, musically, stylistically, blah blah blah. Sure they have a few great songs: "Going to California," "When the Levee Breaks," and the inevitable "Stairway to Heaven," but really who in their right mind can play a twenty-minute drum solo or molest an octopus without coming off as a perverted idiot? The entire Led Zeppelin saga is simply further proof that rock stars are not normal people.)
Anyway, I'm not going to give you The Story of the Clash Volume One, (not the album. No way am I parting with that), although I probably could. Instead I am simply going to quote Billy Bragg and say that "without the Clash, punk would have been a safety pin, a sneer, and a pair of bondage trousers." Only today they sell for $60 a pair at Hot Topic. Actaully that is not a direct quote seeing as I don't remember the original quotation but really people that is besides the point!
Anyhoo they are a great band and I can strongly reccomend them to any fan of Green Day, Good Charlotte, Rancid, or any of those other rich kids masquerading as Strummer's Last Stand.

Like T-Shirt, Like Brain

I still need to upload my photos but for the moment my blog is regretably photoless. Apologies. Please allow me to grovel at your feet. You know it really bothers me that there is no longer a word for you-plural in English. I think I'll go back to using "thee" for you-singular, as in "Yarbles! Bolshy great yarblockos to thee and thine!" in _A Clockwork Orange_ by Anthony Burgess.
This has nothing to do with my main point. Whoops.
My point is T-shirts. I've determined that you-plural can tell a lot about a person by which T-shirt they are wearing. The following is an in-depth analysis HA GREAT WORD, THAT of various T-shirts seen around. Being one of them musical types I'm focusing on band T-shirts today.
Killers shirts: Given that the Killers graced Red Rocks with their presence recently, the large percentage of Killers shirt-wearers is not surprising. These shirts tend to be worn by girls of the trendy set, usually with coordinated accesories and cute shoes. The music appeals to them because it's pretty, catchy, and gets a lot of radio airplay. New-new-wave rock is the hot new item.

Franz Ferdinand T-shirts: Franz Ferdinand will also be enlivening the Colorado rock scene while they tour to promote their upcoming album. They play "music for girls to dance to" although their shirts are mostly worn by guys. Trying to pick up chicks? Because they have an artsy logo, natty suits, and a garage-guitarpop sound, they are appealing to the masses. Therefore an FF shirt does not denote a rebellious spirit.

Led Zeppelin shirts: These are very thick on the ground, especially those advertising Led Zeppelin IV, or ZOSO. There are several good reasons for their popularity: a) the album is among the highest-selling records of all time, b) it's got a nifty logo, and c) Stairway to Heaven. Need I say more?

Ramones shirts: These are nearly as common as Killers T-shirts and are often worn by the same set. The sad thing is that people will pick up a shirt because of the "Hey! Ho! Let's Go!" logo and wear it without even listening to the music. In many cases it comes off as a pitiful attempt at rebellion, or simply a really good shirt.

Beatles shirts: Although supposedly "phony Beatlemania has bitten the dust," (yeah STRUMMER!!!), everybody still loves the Beatles, okay?
Rolling Stones shirts: Ditto. Only this time it's "no Elvis, Beatles or the Rolling Stones in 1977." (And yet this song was written by Mick Jones, Keef impersonator extraordinaire!)

New York Dolls shirts: Only one so far but I'm hoping the trend catches. I don't own a single Dolls album and yet I still think they rock. Plus they really had style, from Johnny Thunders's lipstick to Sylvain Sylvain's halter tops. Doesn't get much better. Plus, anyone wearing a Dolls shirt must know something about underground rock, or else they wouldn't have the shirt.

Velvet Underground shirts: Hurrah for Warhol slam-bam. More excellent underground rock that denotes an arty personality and a liking of bananas. "Peel slowly and see."

Green Day shirts: I saved the best for last. Since Green Day came over the weekend, everybody has been mooning over Billy Joe. Although I applaud the political motivation of the group, I prefer Franz Ferdinand for musical skill and the Clash for everything, style included. The sad thing is, we're having entertainers, nay, media giants telling us not to believe "the redneck agenda" put out by the national media. They conveniently forget to say that they are a part of the media they so fear. Yeah they've joined the church.

And finally, Blondie shirts are for sale at Nordstrom, bearing the low, low price of $77 apiece GREAT WORD, THAT. To look at that price and remember that Debbie Harry shopped at thrift stores is a sad thing indeed.
Thus I conclude the ideology of tshirts lecture. Nuff said.

Next On The List!

Since I posted my worshipful Sid and Nancy review I have ceased walking into chairs and have mostly regained my normal accent. I no longer leave a wide track of smashed furniture in my wake and really only my vowels come out funny. Which is relatively normal. I'm sure you were all dying to hear that, huh?
As usual I do have a point but it's taking me rather a while to get there. Sorry.
OKAY!!! Point for the day: Jasper's List of Essential Punk Movies and other things of general public (dis)interest.
I formed my movie list a while ago, at roughly the same time I started amassing titles for my booklist. I'm adding to it all the time, but this is where it's at now, at its best and most essential form:
Westway to the World: * * * * *
This is definitely one of my very favorite movies, a rockdoc that isn't as typical as the rest. It has everything: great music, great interviews, and great stories. Mick talks about music, (the Kinks, the Stones, his infatuation with Keef Richard), Joe talks about the folklore behind the music, (how really rock'n'roll never dies, and how important it is to keep it alive and growing, branching out into new genres as you go), Topper gets teary-eyed about his heroin habit, and Paul tells some hilarious stories about his bandmates and the life on the road, (so when I first saw Mick Jones all I could see was his hair, wif a li'l bit of nose pokin' out...)
The Filth and the Fury: * * * *1/2
Oh, if only it weren't for Malcolm McLaren...
The End of the Century: * * * * * for sheer laugh value.
This is a documentary that manages to be nearly as funny as Spinal Tap. It really proves that, to paraphrase Time Out, brothers stick together even when they hate each other and aren't really brothers. To quote the late great Dee Dee: ONECHEWTHREEFAW!!!!
This Is Spinal Tap: * * * * *
The comic genius of Christopher Guest gives us this hilarious rock doc. It pokes fun at everything, from splashy light shows to drummers. You know how it's usually the drummer that dies?
Brighton Rock: * * * * *
Wonderfully creepy British noir thriller, with superb acting all around, especially Richard Attenborough as the sinister Pinkie Brown. Good fun.
Sid and Nancy: * * * * *
'Nuff said.

Regrets, I've had a few...

...But then again, too few to mention
I did what I had to do
And so it proves without exemption
I've planned each charted course
Each careful step along the highway
And more, much more than this
I did it my way
For those of you expecting a Frank Sinatra homage (though why you would expect that, I can't imagine) sign off now. This has nothing to do with Sinatra whatsoever GREAT WORD , THAT.
And today the post actually has something to do with the title. Amazing.
Sadly for me and even more sadly for you, there are people out there deprived of their daily dose of Jasper insanity given through the pages of Lunch The Musical. This post is for them, since much of the material here will be covered in today's comic. So here goes.
Last night I had the opportunity to watch Alex Cox's cinematic masterpiece, Sid and Nancy. I was catapulted into punk heaven from the word go.
A bit of background on the film:
A few days ago in Art, I showed my truly awesome art teacher a few pencil sketches I had done of noted Punk/Post Punk figures: Chrissie Hynde, Joey Ramone, Debbie Harry, Sid Vicious, Cyndi Lauper, Johnny Rotten, Joe Strummer, and Paul Simonon. She looked down at the sheet and after a brief pause yelled "SID!!!" "Uh, yes indeed," I said, hoping to have found a kindred Sid worshipper. "Did you see the movie?" she asked, "it was pretty depressing." I hadn't seen the film but had spent many long, bored hours reading reviews of it: Amazon.com, Time Out, and The Video Hound's Golden Movie Retriever. (Yes, we natives of Beefburger-Skyscraper-and-Yellowcabland are far too fond of our dogs.) I had put it on the top of my Jasper's Fairly Sordid List of Punk Movies but I thought there was no way Herself would let me see it. Luckily I thought wrong.
It is indeed a very depressing movie, from the opening moment when a catatonic Sid Vicious is found sitting on a bloodsoaked matress. But really it is a brilliant film, with so much attention to detail that
a) When Sid is ushered out of the Chelsea Hotel, surrounded by cops and reporters, there is a moment when the frame is a perfect replica of one of the newspaper photos about the incident
b) On the album Sid Sings, he begins the song "My Way" by saying "You wanna hear My Way all told?" In the movie he begins the song this exact way
c) They got his actual chainlink necklace for the actor Gary Oldman to wear
d) Malcolm McLaren is picture perfect: "But Sidney, as a Sex Pistol all your earthly needs are met! You have food, a place to stay, designer clothing. Why could you possibly need money?"
e) and there is Clash graffiti in one of the clubs.
Despite all the depressing stuff, there are some very sweet scenes that would cause my romance-loving friend Peaches to squeal with glee, and the acting is absolutely superb.
AAAAGH it's brilliant.
I was left with a pretty atrocious North London accent and a tendency to walk into chairs afterwards. I almost knocked over a lamp because I rammed into the table carrying the laundry basket. This shows how profoundly moved I was. Really.
Cheers,
Jasper
P.S. Where could I get a pizza?

Beauty Black and Blue

I'm known for my long e-mails consisting solely of song lyrics, and recently I've formed a fixation with "No Feelings" by the Sex Pistols and "Frankly Mr. Shankly" by the Smiths. These songs recently prompted me to write a good if slightly disturbing lyric of my own, so I'm printing the relevant bits here.
Frankly Mr Shankly
Frankly Mr Shankly this position I've held
It pays my way and it corrodes my soul
I want to leave, you will not miss me
I want to go down in musical history (etc.)

No Feelings
I've seen you in the mirror When the story began And I fell in love with you I love yer mortal sin Yer brains are locked away But I love your company I only ever leave you when you got no money I got no emotions for anybody else You better understand I'm in love with my self My beatiful self A no feelings a no feelings A no feelings For anybody else Hello and goodbye in a run around Sue You follow me around like a pretty pot of glue I kick you in the head you got nothing to say Get out of the way 'cos I gotta get away You never realise I take the piss out of you You come up and see me and I'll beat you black and blue Okay I'll send you away I got no feelings a no feelings No feelings for anybody else Except for my self my beatiful self dear There ain't no moonlight after midnight I see you stupid people out looking for delight Well I'm so happy I'm feeling so fine I'm watching all the rubbish You're wasting my timeI look around your house and There's nothing to stealI kick you in the brains When you get down to kneel And pray you pray to your god No feelings a no feelingsNo feelings for anybody else Except for my self (OK, so that's nearly the entire song. Sue me, I'm a Pistols fanatic.)

Plus "The Flowers of Romance" has been a Pistols song, a PiL album, and a Sid Vicious backing band. Anyway here's my pitiful tune which references these:
Moonlight enfolds you
It's tragic, it's holy
Romance surrounds you
It's killing you slowly
I love you, I hate you
You're painful, you're lonely
I'll watch you, I'll stalk you
My heart's for you only
Oh, Beauty black and blue
Don't let it murder you
The flowers of romance
Have long ago faded
Please save me your last dance
You know that I'll hate it
We ought to be living
The life of the dreamers
I'll watch you there dancing
Beneath golden streamers
Oh, Beauty black and blue
Don't let it murder you
My sorrow, my beauty
Are paler than moonlight
I know you don't see me
It's dark after midnight
My brain's locked away
And I know you don't miss me
I'm lost, it's okay
I'm in musical history
Beauty black and blue
Don't let it murder you

Look, Snowy, It Ain't Red!!!

(one of those posts that have nothing to do with the title. I'm writing in aqua in honor of my beloved new cruiser. Read on.)
Yay, Jasper got a bike! The bike, officially and fully titled Absolutely Sweet Edie Marilynne, Queen of All Rockabilly Cruisers, (Edie Marie for short), is painfully slow uphill, murderously fast downhill, and gorgeous, making her absolutely suited to me. The name comes from a Bob Dylan song (Note to BertHedgehog: Bob Dylan is the one who is still alive. Note to Snowy: Bob Dylan rocks! Note to self: Bob Dylan is not a Welsh poet.) "Absolutely Sweet Marie," a Warhol muse, Edie Sedgwick, and Marilyn Monroe with a few extra letters. I was chronically affected as a child by a picture book about a lady who named her wheelbarrow.
I had a point when I began writing, I swear...
Oh yes, the joys of haunting the library.
My dear friend Peaches has a good deal of trouble getting her geometry completed on time. (As do I but I at least start the damn stuff.) Therefore I spend a good deal of time supervising her in the library with some hefty Clash-related book pretending to read or just having a good snizz. (My regime of 10:30 PM to 6:00 AM has made it possible for me, like Paul Simonon, to sleep on cue.) But recently other beings have been haunting the library. Other beings of note. HA HA HA HA!!!
.
Incidentally for all those somewhat confused by my Blog name, I am in fact a female of the species as explained in my profile. I go by "Jasper" because it's a cool word not to mention a gorgeous mineral (poppy jasper...aah the connotations of that) and "Ritchie" because it is a time- or at least Kurt Cobain-honored alias plus Sid isn't using it at the moment. RIP, mate.
Which leads me through the channels of my twisted mind to my last scintillating HA GREAT WORD, THAT point: WHAT IS IT WITH SCOTS AND VODKA?????? Really! Two of the members of Franz Ferdinand met in an argument over vodka. Hieronymous et al request vodka donations for the BDP. What is the mystique? Or maybe it's because I'm only part Scots and have been living in Beefburger-skyscraper-and-yellowcabland for too long.
Whatevs, maaan.
...and deep inside you, a tiny voice whispers "Come to the dark side. You know it's true. Warhol really is God."
Cheers,
Jasper.

Sid Sings

Well, I'm back from another pitiful attempt to coax my pallid, Irish-American hide into some semblance of a proper tan. Ordinarily I do not sunbathe because I have so much else to do, but today I had to work on a science note-taking assignment so I decided to increase my likelihood of getting cancer while doing so.
To keep my interest cemented onto the page, I brought out my CD book and Discman so that I wouldn't be bored to death. This led to my re-discovery of the 1980 album Sid Sings. And, O my brothers and sisters, it is great!
Background info:
In 1977 (I hope I got to heaven...) Cook, Jones, and Rotten decided that they were sick of Glen Matlock, and his "waffling on about nice things, like the Beatles." Matlock was sick of Rotten's ego trips, so he left the group. This left them without a bass player. Ooh, what are we gonna do now? Luckily for the remaining Sex Pistols, Johnny Rotten's best friend was learning the bass. He wasn't very good, in fact he was terrible, but he looked the part and had an amphetamine habit to match. Sid Vicious was promptly installed in the group. This was not a good idea. Perhaps Sid could have detoxed and learned to play, but later that year he met Nancy.
Nancy was a junkie who came to England on the coat-tails of the Heartbreakers. She nauseated the rest of the group, but the more they disliked her, the more Sid was attracted to her. She introduced him to the junkie existence and it all went downhill from there. The Pistols broke up in 1978 during a disastrous US tour in which Sid was routinely awakened by cattle prod.
After the rest of the band split up and went their seperate ways, Sid and Nancy moved to New York to be near the scene created by Television, the Ramones, and the New York Dolls. To earn drug money, Sid performed a few dates at Max's Kansas City, with Clash man Mick Jones on guitar. One of these shows was taped and released after Sid's death as "Sid Sings".
This is a gem of an album, containing such musical treasures as "Born to Lose," "Search and Destroy," "Somethin' Else," the junkie anthem "Chinese Rocks," and Sid's horrendous version of "My Way." Since it is live, one also hears the remarks of the audience and Sid's narcissistic replies.
Sid: If you want a personal touch, I can't be ****ing bothered.
Fan: You're a poseur!
Screaming girls: Sid, you're a rock star!!!
Sid: Why don't you shut your ****ing mouth?
Sid: It's really swell to be here, maaaan.
Sid: Was that the personal touch you all wanted?
This is a great album but sadly out of print. It's still for sale on Amazon, which means that there are still people dumb enough to actually sell it. Buy a copy or the updated but not necessarily live edition, "Search and Destroy."
NOW, DAMNIT, NOW!!!!!!!!!!!

How to be a Punk: The Reading List

(Teal today, people.)
Over the past six months or so, I have been conducting a detailed study in How to be a Punk. This does not mean simply listening to "Pretty Vacant" ad infintum. No, there is a literary element to Punk as well. Below I present a list of books guaranteed to make you feel pretty vacant.
THE LIST:
A Clockwork Orange, by Anthony Burgess.
Yarbles, what a horrorshow book! This is the perfect complement to a chasha of milky chai and Ludwig van's ninth. I only have two warnings to give any malchick or devotchka who wants to read this: First and foremost, it is a very violent book. The imagery is very dark and it describes the lowest level of the human condition. Definitely not for the faint of heart. Second, it is written in nadsat-speak, making it largely indecipherable. Who knows what "devotchka" means (besides of course a good band)? Listening material: Never Mind the Bollocks
Brighton Rock,by Graham Greene
The author is namechecked by John Cale on Paris 1919, Paul Simonon and Johnny Rotten cite it as an influence, and the book becomes an overnight punk-junkie classic. Its fame is well deserved. (Yes, I named my guitar after it.) Listening material: Clash UK or "The Guns of Brixton" on London Calling
1984, by George Orwell
This is similar to Clockwork Orange in that it deals with the scary world of the future, but it has an even stranger premise. The government, headed by Big Brother (he is watching you...) can edit the past. Doublethink. Get out speedwise. (More invented slang in this one.) Listening material: London Calling
The Best Short Stories of J.G. Ballard
More Orwellian prose put in a SciFi setting. A must for those who like dark humor or philosophical thought. Listening material: The Essential Clash, disc 2
The Crying of Lot 49, by Thomas Pynchon
I have seen paranoia and its name is Pynchon. This is a wonderful, weird, wacky story about rival mail services (I kid you not) set in post-Beatlemania California. It has wonderfully bizarre characters, like Oedipa the confused housewife, Hilarius the crazy shrink, and the Paranoids, a Beatlemaniac rock band. The perfect pop art novel.Listening material:The Queen is Dead, by the Smiths
Happy reading! Keep sniffing, you punks!

Brighton Rock

(Hey, I recently found that I actually could change my font color so we're going with red.)
Right, this is one of those times that the title has little or nothing to do with the rant du jour. (And in case you were wondering, I don't speak French well either.) The real topic for the day is politics. And _Brighton Rock_ as well because it is an awesome book, but this is its only mention. Maybe.
Ok enough dithering. I present: THE CARTOON REASON FOR THE WAR IN IRAQ! (Please note: this is an informal, comedic, and way oversimplified version of the story and not valid material for any college thesis.)
If we cannot find Osama, bomb Iraq
If the economy hurts your mama, bomb Iraq
If we're breaking all the rules and the public thinks we're fools
If we cannot find Osama, bomb Iraq!
Really it all started as a non sequitir in Bush's brain. Of course, the public demanded a reason WHY we ougt to bomb them.
Public: "Hey, dude, like, I know this is a big deal for you, but, uh, why do we have to bomb them?"
Bush: "Uhhh..." (pulls out security report and reads first word) "Nukes. Yeah. They have nukes. (Well, so do we, but...)"
Public: "Whatever, dude."
The British public is less easily impressed, but Tony is not about to let his old buddy down.
Tony: "Oh, come off it, lads, they really do have nukes. I heard it on the BBC! It must be true! Call in the National Front!"
British public: "Wotever y'say, guv'nor. Put the tea on, luv!"
So we invade Iraq. And then Tony hears that they don't really have nukes.
Tony: "That's bollocks!"
And so he needs to divert attention from his errors. He thinks and thinks, until he finally proposes...
Tony: "TWENTY-FOUR HOUR DRINKING, LADS!"
And the British public bursts into a drunken rendition of "F'r 'E's a Jolly Good Fellooow..."
Leaving Bush in Iraq all by himself.
Sadly, since the tragic death of Joe Strummer and Johnny Rotten's decision to live in his own little safety-pin-and-amphetamine world, the only people left to defend the youth of today are Green Day!!!
O my brothers and sisters, all you malchicks and devotchkas upset with the world, all my dearest malenky horrorshow droogs, WE ARE DOOMED!!!!
...and all that cal.
Cheers,
Jasper.
PS Brighton Rock sincerely is a good book. Read it whenever you can. Ditto _A Clockwork Orange_, hence the nadsat-speak at the end.