it all went downhill from here...

Backstory, circa 2003 this dude used to throw drinks at us in star in leeds when we used to windmill to hatebreed and arkangel, we then dedicated a good year to winding him up, ended up in him picking a fight with tommy minns outside while the dude was wearing zebra stripe jeans. He was crying and screaming, 'don't you know who I am?' to which minns said 'aye, yer a cunt' to which captain spammo said 'no I'm vivian westwood's son'.

----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: xchrisfilthx
Date: Apr 15, 2006 12:07 PM

this sounds like good stuff guys-when you getting a
demo out there? also- i'm putting an alldayer on in leeds sometime in september if you guys are up for it.
sorting a venue but bands who are playing so far:
not dead yet,
break a sweat,
xnervous wreckx,
trying to get pointing finger over if diogio sorts some stuff out and also an american band depending on who'll be over at the time. there will be no bad modern metalcore bands playing as im trying to keep it within the style of what i like and love in hardcore. all the bands will also be straight edge.
it's my first forray into putting on a gig let alone an alldayer, but i'm getting alot of advice from other promoters who've bin around a bit and want to put the effort in to make it something special.

----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: Deal With It
Date: Apr 16, 2006 4:48 AM

OH KEWL FUMBLES IN LIFE

we don't want to play your shitty show, you're everything that's wrong about hardcore. Hope you get drunk soon so people stop thinking you're in any way shape or form like myself. You're a five minute flash in the pan and the sooner you drop out and leave us alone the better.

xget fuckedx

----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: xchrisfilthx
Date: Apr 16, 2006 5:02 AM

i'm just a guy trying to put something into what i love. if you didn't want to play you could have just said-theres no need to send messages like that. whoever replied originally i thought seemed nice and helpful.just because yeah you've probably been in the scene for ages, doesn't mean i feel any less passionate about hardcore than you. you don't own the music and who can like it or can't. everyones got to start somewhere.
good look with your future.


----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: Deal With It
Date: Apr 16, 2006 5:15 AM

you don't love it, you're just in it cos you think its some fucking little social clique you can worm yourself into. I can see right through you, so can everyone else, you're as fake as jordan's tits.

it's a shame someone replied being nice and helpful, cos it probably gave an inkling anyone likes you, you don't belong here, you belong at panic at the disco shows. Believe me, you are a LOT less passionate than me or any of my friends. To you, passion is some fucking buzz word that you bat around to make yourself seem like some fucking genuine dude, when in reality you're just out to get your dick sucked and enlarge your social clique. You're a poser, I see you standing there at shows trying to get your fucking stance right or something, I mean, the very fact that you're trying so fucking hard to blend into some aethetic shows how shallow you really are.

There's nothing wrong with being a new kid on the block, there's everything wrong with being a new cunt on the block.

STRAIGHT EDGE BELONGS TO US, AND YOU WILL NEVER BE ACCEPTED.

your's truly

vegan meich

ps fight me

The Sorrows of Young Bernard

Is it appropriate to give a name to the cells that make up your colon, beyond calling them 'colonic cells'? Should we individually call each of our skin flakes after things that take our fancy? Do we name the hairs on our head, or the veins that run to our heart, or the cancer growing in our bowel? 'Of course not!' the people cry. Then why name the collection of cells that we flush out with a morning after pill? It was no more a being than our femur. And yet...

It was nothing. A fusion of two reproductive cells, that in a short space of time gathered a scientific idea of what it was to become and set to work building and forming. Unbeknownst to the diligent cells, this formation was unwanted. After six weeks of furtive construction and realisation, the cells were stopped in their path, and killed. The reasons for this are unimportant, but if it makes the moral purists out there feel better it was because the pregnancy in question stemmed from the incest rape of a minor, or for the social cohesionistas, it was rape of the financial kind, a couple incapable of raising a child in a cruel, uncaring, bourgeois world. Like that, building stopped, cells stopped in their tracks and withered away. The mass came out, in its own humiliating way, punishment enough to the mother who had to watch her instinctive calling flush down the toilet quite literally. And that was that. Back to the checkout counter, or the law degree, or life on jobseekers. But the tale is not over for the thing that could have been, not by a long shot. On the contrary, the story is neither just beginning nor ending, but floating somewhere in the infinite inbetween. To better illustrate, it would be provident to follow the cell mass into the toilet, beyond notions of purgatory and afterlife, into a future more plausible and infinitely more exciting than any notion of heaven or hell.

Travel, traverse, transcend. Onwards and upwards. Take one step forward and two steps back. The trick is not in the destination, but in the journey itself. Upon that toilet flush an opening is made to bigger and better things, far beyond the ken of mere mortals. This abortion is privy to the workings of the known universe. Don't believe the lies spun by the pro-life lobby, a terminated future is far greater than any tangible time-lined concept of life.

To tap out is to tap in, the stream full of the gazelles of the plains, those who have given their throat to the fangs of death. They know, in their dying moments, what is waiting beyond their death, beyond the meal that sustains the predator for a week or so, beyond the scraps that the buzzards pick.

Energy.