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.

I'm thinking of doing a spoken word recording, some stories I've written and that, but would really like a soundtrack accompaniement (sp?) to go with it. Something that sits in the background for the most part, but serves to unnerve the listener further. Later swans records spring to mind especially.

If anyone is interested, or knows of anyone who is interested, please get in touch, I am eager to get started with this as soon as possible.

fortress_of_solitude@hotmail.co.uk

Kingdom of Fear compilation - out now!

I Am Legend

I never really thought of myself as a writer, more like someone who wrote things every now and again to pass the time. But now, for my sins, a writer is what I am. I received in the post yesterday my first 'official' piece of published work, in a journal called Abraxas Unbound. The story is entitled Chorus and is a story in the style of Edgar Alan Poe, maybe a bit of Raymond Carver thrown in (just because its brief and gets to the point). It's not a particularly long or adventurous story, but it's mine nonetheless and I'm happy beyond words to be able to have something on my bookshelf with my own words inside.

If you're interested, you can pick Abraxas Unbound up from here: http://www.lulu.com/content/4617742

There's essays within by Colin Wilson as well as academia on all sorts of subjects. It's quite poetic in a way that the first issue of Doghead was almost entirely dedicated to Wilson's first book, and now here I am sharing pages with him. It's a funny old world.

Rut Roh...

Today I finished the first four pages of Doghead the Second.

So, this will definately be out before the world caves in on itself.

If not, I'll kiss your bottom.

Amid the Chaos of the Day

Pacing like a caged animal, left to right, right to left, drinking water habitually, not even thirsty. Can't stop moving, not even for a second, to break this momentum could let the tiredness take over, leave me an exhausted disappointment for everyone in the crowd. The only way to go is forward, so on and on I pace, waiting for the rest of the band to be ready. Finally, silence dawns, and my cue follows.

'We're called Deal With It, and this song is called War Against the Machines.' And with that I brought my fist crashing to the ground. All self control exploded into fragments moments before the song kicked in, and while the first note was struck I was already flinging myself headfirst into the crowd. I was once again running on empty, my energy coming from some deeply sickened deposit of pure survival instinct. Alternating between low singing when I could cope, and bloodcurdling screams when I ran out of juice; the first two lines of one song came out as a garble of nonsensical shouting. I had more important things on my mind, truth be told. I wanted the audience to understand and appreciate fear itself, to feel a great unease, some sort of sick fascination. I didn't care whether they loved or hated us, I just never wanted any of them to forget.

In between songs I'd pour half a bottle of water over myself, in a vain attempt to bring down my boiling blood. I'd fling the rest into the crowd with full force but no deliberation of aim. Time after time I threw myself off stage at anyone stupid/brave enough to stand close by. Grabbing people by the scruffs or collars and flinging them about like rag dolls. I had no idea where this strength was coming from, it was certainly not the sort of power I could muster on a day-to-day basis, instead was something akin to drug intoxication, like my body was riding a high on tension and rage. I throw the mic at people, take pot shots, swing my fists at full force, all the time screaming bloody murder, act after act of psychological warfare, a battle of attrition between me and the rest of the world. Noone in this town will ever fuck with us after tonight, I have neutered the lot of them, laughed in the face of their affectations and puffed chests, shown them what violence really is. I walked amongst them as we played, as though king of their realm, and they bared their bellies with no fight.

I put every last vestige of energy I had into our last set, and in 15 minutes it was all over. I felt cheated in a way, like it should have gone on for so much longer. Battles should last for days and weeks, not have to fit into a slot to let an instantly forgettable act try and fill the void. This should only have finished when I was put to rest, dead on the floor, a sigh of relief breathed out by the world at once. As it was I walked out the venue shirtless and wandered off, steam coming from me like a boiling pan. As I walked away to nowhere in particular I noticed heads turning to watch me go by, either a minor curiosity to them or a momentary distraction from conversation. I deflected their gazes. Even if they thought they knew what had just transpired inside, they had no idea whatsoever. I hated them for their ignorance, but by the same merit I paid them no heed. Ahead I could see a bench by a copse of trees, it seemed as good a place to rest as any. On sitting down the force of my surroundings hit me like a one word poem.

On the grass before me were rabbits by the tenfold, calmly feeding and socialising amidst the hubris of human culture all around, amidst the chaos of the day. The sheer contrast of what I'd experienced less than a minute before, and what I looked upon now was deeply profound, though I had no real idea how. Instead I sat and took in as much of the peaceful scene as I could, basking in its innocence and simplicity, yearning for a time in the future when I could do away with the pretensions and complexities that ruled my waking life.

I hadn't time to process this chain of thought before various people from the venue wandered up; talking and kidding around and causing a ruckus, disturbing and dispersing the rabbits with their prescence. It didn't seem right to sit there any longer.