So after a few months of setbacks, I finally got a chance to drop my M16
Props to Bwiv on the video tip, Nevs for being a top bloke, and also Bad, Meet Evil for the headwear…
The last two tracks are a little out of sync, but you get the idea
So after a few months of setbacks, I finally got a chance to drop my M16
Props to Bwiv on the video tip, Nevs for being a top bloke, and also Bad, Meet Evil for the headwear…
The last two tracks are a little out of sync, but you get the idea
Well, here it is, the first song from the upcoming DeathStarrs LP – Immortal, Co-Produced by Suffa from the Hilltop Hoods.
Here’s the audio, Enjoy:
Oh, my poor pussy
It takes a lot to make me blush, probably because years of violent video games, movies, strange science fiction and hardcore pornography has left me completely desensitised to most emotional situations.
The last time I remember crying was while watching the Korean film Brotherhood of War (which had the mouth watering tagline ‘This makes Saving Private Ryan look like a children’s movie’ ); the final scene involved an elderly man uncovering the remains of his brother on the hill where he left him 50 years earlier after a climactic Korean war battle which was amazingly over dramatised in traditional asian cinematic style.
There was not a dry eye in the house.
But I think that was because of a sudden outbreak of pink eye.
When I was a child, my parents reveled in the glory of their VCR; we weren’t the first in our street to have one, but we always managed to stay on top of most technological breakthroughs. While others were still maneuvering a red chicken across a road on their Atari 2600, we had already upgraded to the Commodore 64 (with 5.25” Floppy Disk drive, none of this tape nonsense). To this day I still remember the commands to play games.
It’s no surprise that when DOS came around I was already a dab hand at it.
I think a lot of my younger readers have switched off by now. The prospect of typing in commands to get their copy of California Games working seems as ludicrous and antiquated as having to spin a little wheel when trying to make a phone call.
Oh yeah, we had to do that too. There was none of this ‘pushing buttons’ business. It took no less than a few minutes to dial a number. If the number you were dialing had a lot of 9’s in it, then you had better pray to god you were adequately hydrated because you would probably be there all day.
Saturday night was video night, and like clockwork I would often trundle down to the local video store and get myself a variety of violent tapes; the age of DVD’s have unfortunately spelled the end of one of my favourite aspects of the video shop experience: the amusing shaped covers.
Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell’s ‘Overboard’ came in a box that was filled with blue liquid, giving it the impression that the image of the boat on the cover was surrounded by water.
The ‘Fright Night’ box was shaped like a coffin, in fact, most of the horror section was arranged in a way to accommodate the bizarre shapes and sizes of the boxes contained on the shelves. Most of them had puffy jackets, and any movie that had eyes printed on the cover were more than likely adorned with those funny googly dolls eyes glued to make the printing seem more lifelike.
Tsshh, yeah, because ‘real’ eyes do 360 degree spins when your car hits a speed bump.
For a 10 year old however, it was like being in movie heaven.
Unfortunately as time went on and the videos were passed from one renter to the next, you could watch their condition slowly deteriorate like wilting flowers on time lapse cameras.
By the time I had any sort of desire to watch Overboard, the jacket had been well and truly punctured and the amusing blue liquid had drained away, presumably over someone’s distinctive early 90’s white plush shag carpet.
I also learned quite quickly that if you position yourself on the other side of the ‘Adult’ section, you could look at the back of the R Rated videos without arousing suspicion from older folk.
Of course, when we upgraded to the VCR from the humble Betamax machine (which in some ways was actually superior to the VCR), the old clunking supposedly inferior format simply lay collecting dust in our garage; a sleeping giant waiting to be loved once more.
Seeing as it was no longer being used, I converted a section of our garage into a multimedia centre. Of course the term ‘Multimedia centre’ isn’t particularly the best way to describe an overturned milk crate, a gargantuan Betamax machine, a small mattress and an ageing wood paneled Rank-Arena television. Although at one point I did manage to encircle the enclave in curtains, more so as a desperate attempt to mark my territory and let my older brothers know that this cordoned off patch was ‘mine’.
Of course it didn’t deter them from pranking me; one of my brothers had soon discovered that he could fart in a glass, hold his hand over the top, and open it in front of my face releasing the terrible gasses trapped within.
Using this method he could effectively fart on me from any room in the house.
Quite ingenious really.
Of course it meant that anyone using the glass afterwards would soon discover that their tap water would be filled with bubbles.
It was like a poor man’s Sodastream.
I would waste my Friday and Saturday evenings in my space age multimedia suite, re-watching the only good Betamax titles I had in my vast collection. It didn’t take me long to learn all the words to Top Gun and Beverly Hills Cop II.
“I get $20 for a car, $50 for a limo, what the fuck is this?”
“This is my truck, here is $100”.
Ahhh Chris Rock, you were a genius in that movie.
And so, after years of guns blazing, soul draining video games and constantly watching my Betamax because I felt “the need, the need, for speed”, I can confidently say that it takes a lot to make me blush.
Although I am squimish at the site of medical procedures.
But that’s beside the point.
Anyway, you can imagine my surprise one day when my grandmother was able to break through my normally observant stone walled exterior; ironically it took the likes of ‘Are you being served’, the lamest comedy series ever screened on television to do so.
For those not in the know, Are you being served is a British 70’s sitcom that follows the exploits of a number of over acting and limelight seeking employees of Grace Brothers department store. The show itself was so camp that if the name had been changed to ‘Scout Jamboree 1976’ then I doubt the viewing public would scarcely have noticed.
Most of us will be familiar with the character of Mr Humphries, the outwardly gay store assistant played by John Inman who was well known for his catch phrase, “I’m Free”.
Others however may not be familiar with the exploits of another well known character, Mrs Slocombe, who was dearly in love with her prized cat, creating all manner of hilarity when she would walk into the store and loudly exclaim, “Have you seen the rain outside? Awww my poor pussy is all wet”.
Essentially it was the role of Mrs Slocombe to walk into frame, drop a few double-entendres regarding the state of her feline, and then walk off shaking her head while repeating the phrase, “Oh, my poor pussy”.
As you can see, Are you being served will go down in history for its true comedic genius.
Now I like to think that in some way, shape or form my memoirs have the ability to act as a sign-poster or a warning of what not to do in some socially awkward situations. I want to let it be known to all and sundry that watching Are you being served is not particularly a negative experience that one must avoid, however it should be noted that watching it alone in the company of your 89 year old grandmother is probably not the wisest decision one could make.
After laughing gingerly at the awkward situations presented in this week’s episode, both her and I sat with smiles on our faces sipping warm cups of tea, happy and content in the knowledge that our evening’s television viewing was relatively pure and unspoiled.
Enter Mrs Slocombe.
“My pussy has an infection, its puffed right up it has”.
Suddenly alarm bells began to ring in my head, the introduction of Mrs Slocombe into any scene of Are you being served is basically a visual warning that the level of double-entendres in the next few minutes would probably reach highly unacceptable levels.
I began to sweat and cast an eye sideways towards my elderly grandmother as Mrs Slocombe delivered round two of her deadly vagina monologues.
“Oooooo yes, I think it’s an infection, my pussy has swollen up to the size of a watermelon”.
All I could do was cringe and wait for the constant barrage of poorly scripted comedy to finish. By the time Mrs Slocombe had walked out of shot, the definitive air of silence had become almost deafening in the cool and dimly lit front room of my grandmother’s house.
To add insult to injury, Channel 10 had cut to a commercial, and an all too familiar blank screen appeared; the sign that something had gone wrong while switching to a commercial and whatever had been lined up to fill in the 30 second spot was not ready or cued up properly at the control desk.
And so there we sat, the two of us had just witnessed an awkward display of ear cringing pussy themed comedy, a barrage of bad jokes that were resonating more due to the 30 seconds of blank screen silence that followed.
After a minute of sitting awkwardly in my chair, my grandmother leaned across and whispered softly in my ear.
“All that stuff….”, she began
“All that stuff”, she paused, “that had a double meaning you know”.
I sat dumbfounded. She nonchalantly flicked the channel over to the ABC and began to look longingly at Kerry O’brien as he feverously dissected the GST.
I was still in shock, and after another minute I turned my head to the 7:30 Report, pretending that then last two minutes of my life were merely a dream, and that they had never happened.
Anything relating to sex seems like it is taboo for most people to discuss with families, and I often think that anyone who has an excellent report with their family on the matter of copulation doesn’t really have as healthy of a relationship with their loved ones as they would think.
I cringe whenever I overhear in shopping centre’s a mother/daughter team talk about sex openly without any sense of decency. I think because in most cases parents never officially sat down to talk about sex with their children, instead leaving it to the school system to educate their young ones on the intricacies of sex and its repercussions.
My parents never gave me ‘the talk’, in fact the first mention of sex my father ever nervously made in my presence wasn’t until I was 18, and he waited until the opportune moment for one of my female friends to arrive at the house for a visit before he hit me with anything sex related. As I was walking her to the front door he shouted to me down the hall, “Use Condoms!”
She looked at me bizarrely and a sense of panic seemed to run rampant across her face, she must have thought that I was about to do something terrible to her.
I still distinctly remember our first sex-ed video in primary school. I don’t exactly remember the year, but as young as grade 6 we were garishly given the ins and outs (excuse the pun) of ‘making love’ by Ms Owen, our elderly religious education teacher.
If the whole affair wasn’t bad enough, Ms Owen revealed to the class that she used to be a nun, which explained her penchant for playing the guitar (at that point the only nuns I really knew of were in terrible 1960’s children’s movies), so her sexual knowledge wasn’t exactly the most reliable port from which to launch young impressionable minds into the stormy seas of fornication. I liken the experience to leaving a man with no arms in charge of a classroom of push-up enthusiasts.
Curiously Ms Owen was also only born with two fingers on her right hand, a thumb and a pinky, which of course lead to the unfortunate nickname ‘Ridgy Didge’.
Nobody ever saw her lose her temper, but we often heard stories about poor unfortunate students who were caught doing ridgy didge impressions in her company; expulsion often resulted.
And so our entire grade squeezed themselves into the tiny music room of Marymount Primary to watch a nervous two-fingered ex nun introduce our feature presentation, “The Miracle of life”. As she apprehensively pushed the VCR cassette into the player and pushed play, the boys around me became quite excited; would we get to see some tits? How in depth is this really going to go? Do babies really come out of a woman’s arse just like Norbet Benton had told us in the playground only a few days before?
After a few seconds it became apparent that tits were definitely not on the menu.
Instead, a naked cartoon boy and a naked cartoon girl invaded the television screen. 18 Years later I still haven’t forgotten the first line of the video:
“I am a boy, I have a penis”, cut to the girl, “I am a girl, I have a penis on the inside, I have a vagina”.
A penis on the inside? A small murmur began to descend over all assembled, and one girl began to freak out as she realised that her vagina was really an inverted penis.
Or so we were told.
In the end we filed out of the room looking a lot more confused than when we went in, and even the accompanying teachers shook their heads in amazement at the level of simplicity sex had been reduced to by the presentation.
If what the video was saying was true, once our penis goes inside a vagina, an army of sperm suddenly descends from nowhere and wiggle inside the naked cartoon girl; 9 months later a child magically appears in the arms of the naked woman, both smile, cue credits.
It didn’t explain the bizarre stiffening of my penis on occasion, and it certainly didn’t explain why I found it so pleasing to look at Virginia Lee from across the classroom. It took me until grade 7 for me to realise that all those years ago, she was my first crush.
As a frantic bi-fingered nun shooed us towards the door I couldn’t help but feel that the school’s sex education class had let me down. Where was I going to be in a position to be naked with a girl? I was in grade 6 for heaven’s sake, the closest I came to naked women was finding my father’s stash of Penthouse magazine’s he had hidden under his bed. Lastly, where was I going to find these ‘sperm’ things? Were they a type of tadpole? I didn’t realise that to have sex I had to wade knee deep in water and begin examining the life cycle of frogs. Was this before or after I find myself the naked woman?
It was all too confusing.
The chicken and the egg scenario had suddenly been blown out of proportion; what came first, the chicken or the egg? Neither, apparently before anything came, a trip to the local estuary was required.
Come grade 7 and I still hadn’t really got my head around the intricacies of sex.
The coolest kid in our grade was Anton Mayer, well, I think he was cool; every free dress day he came to school wearing a Chicago Bulls jersey with matching shorts, brand new Jordan sneakers, and an array of stiff Starter caps that sat precariously on the edge of his bob haircut.
He looked like a ball player, nay, a member of East 17, his only negative feature was the fact he was a clear foot shorter than anyone else in the grade. That didn’t seem to stop the girls from liking him, especially Danielle Camilerri, the tallest girl in our class who towered over the top of him like a Brazilian catwalk model bending over to pick up a dropped can of corn at the supermarket.
The two would often escape into the ‘unknown’ of the trees that surrounded the tuckshop area, emerging only after the bell rang smiling gingerly from ear to ear.
It amazed me; Anton didn’t have to lie about his sexual exploits, unlike Luke Cowan, who foolishly told me he had sex with Katie Winkleman in the nearby lake when they were both in grade 3.
“Wait, in the lake?”
“Yep, in the lake”
I pondered what he said, the sheer physics of it didn’t seem right; not that I knew enough about sex to pull him up on his outlandish claim. I simply nodded, and continued reading the Penthouse magazine the two of us had just stolen from the newsagency.
Our cunning plan was to spend 50cents on a newspaper, slip the offending title in between the broadsheets, and then make a quick getaway before the shop owner cottoned on to the fact that we have just scarpered with an expensive 18+ magazine.
We took our ill-gotten gains to our hang out spot, the empty block of land over from the Luke’s house, a location that conveniently overlooked the lake where he and Katie had supposedly ‘done the deed’. The water lapped gently at the shore and after a few moments of looking at the photos, becoming excited, and then not knowing what to do about it, the two of us buried the magazine so we could return the next day and pick up where we left off.
Of course the local council seemed to have other plans, and as the two of us coasted up the street walking back from the local shopping centre, we stood a gasp at the site that presented itself before us; an army of trench-diggers feverishly cutting fresh holes in the dirt, directly over the spot where our pilfered issue of Penthouse magazine lay.
We were heartbroken.
The next day work had ceased, and approaching the site we ran across the newly ploughed earth, our noses alive with the smell of freshly maneuvered topsoil, and began to dig desperately for our beloved stick magazine.
It was gone.
My first ever porn mag had disappeared into the ether, either stolen by a disheveled council worker or dumped among a huge pile of unclean fill in the backlot of a council dump station.
And so began my downward spiral into the addictive world of pornography, every waking moment of my life from that point seemed to be aimed towards trying to recapture the high I experienced that fateful day while in early primary school.
Back at Marymount Primary, as the sexual education video climaxed and Ms Owen gently nudged our class towards the door, my mind began racing, flickering over the exuberant claim made by Luke Cowan in that vacant block of land years before.
I imagined him and Katie Winkleman swishing around in the water, kissing madly as they both removed their clothes and began to have sex. It was at that point I truly admired Luke and his marathon effort in nailing Katie; he was a smart kid, his plan to have sex in the lake was genius.
I mean, he didn’t have to go far to find the tadpoles.
There’s something wrong with my hotcakes
I knew something was amiss as soon as he asked me for my hotcakes tray.
Phrase and Flagrant had kept me highly strung for several days; not because they’re un-reputable people, actually far from it, but more so because they are obsessed with bodily functions and foolish child like pranks. Tactic One and I had spent the evening before precariously moving mugs of poo off our doorstep, which is a story that is too mind bendingly complex and intricate to even begin explaining.
Needless to say, I was on edge.
All one has to do is picture the dullness associated with long car trips and constant touring, and you soon click to the realisation that some people like to fill those gaps and amuse themselves in rather devious ways.
So when Phrase leaned across and slyly asked me, “Arch, have you finished with that hotcakes tray?”, images of the night before flickered across my mind. Poo stained mugs and drunken ‘home movie’ prank footage peeled back my mind and suddenly I became very wary that my discarded hotcakes tray would soon be part of some devious plan that somehow involved a video camera and a range of bodily functions.
My assumptions were soon proven correct when Phrase looked me directly in the eye and sharply blurted out, “Seriously, I feel like I’m going to puke all over this table”.
We’ll come back to this story.
To gain a better understanding of it all, one has to start at the very beginning; a small duplex apartment smack bang in the middle of Burleigh Waters on the Gold Coast.
In an effort to meet upcoming release deadlines, M-Phazes and Bliss had locked themselves in a room with the soul intention of nutting out the entire Bliss N Eso Day of the Dog remix album in under 48 hours.
Sometime around the 49 hour mark I popped around my head the door to find the two of them swimming in a sea of used coffee mugs and full ashtrays, at each other’s throats with language so blue it could be rolled out, painted with stars, and flown as the Australian flag.
They had managed to beat their own self imposed deadline, but it had come at the cost of sleep, adequate nutrition, and large tufts of hair that had been pulled from their already scarce crowns in fits of frustration.
As he was bundled towards a plane, Bliss turned around and offered us a chance for more shows on the second Bliss N Eso tour of 2006; The Get Loose tour.
Needless to say, with the release of a hastily assembled mixtape only a few weeks before, we were more than happy to get any shows we could.
Phrase and Flagrant were part of the tour as well, and from day one it soon became apparent that I had bitten off more than I could chew, and the concept of keeping one eye open while sleeping would have to become a reality.
I walked in the door of Tactic One’s house (where the two had been staying) to find them both slumped over a couch, laughing their heartily gorged guts up while watching a Steve O DVD. The premise was simple, two hours of watching Steve O eat things, poo on things and generally vomit on everything that was in the direct vicinity.
Something stirred deep within Phrase that night…and it wasn’t just his dodgy dinner.
He was the original prankster.
I’ve been told a million stories, most that I can’t divulge, but one tidbit instantly springs to mind.
While touring in Tasmania with Bliss N Eso, the group found themselves stranded at their hotel with a spot of car trouble. Unable to start their tour van, the tour manager left everyone and went to telephone the RACV (well, the suitable Tasmanian equivalent) and get some assistance. It was during this time Phrase took the opportunity to open the hood, and scatter several transsexual playing cards across the engine.
Smiling while closing the hood and walking back towards the van, he calmly sat himself down, and waited for management to return.
Needless to say when help arrived, a red faced tour manager was left to explain to a hefty looking mechanic why he was suddenly coming face to face with several large shemale cocks.
Easy, subtle, yet fiendishly stunning.
Needless to say it came as little surprise at the way I reacted when Phrase asked me for my hot cake tray on that warm Bundaberg morning.
Although the tray was empty, save only for a slight smearing of maple syrup, I was reluctant to give away the flimsy Styrofoam container; seemingly because it still held some monetary value in my eyes. I wanted to make sure I had fully gleaned every last ounce of food off it before I sent it to its imminent death.
Reluctantly I handed it over, and with a smile that only the devil would fully ever be able to appreciate Phrase told us all “You guys go and get the car running. Flagrant, get the camera”.
Cue foreboding music.
Myself and the others made a shifty beeline towards our rented people mover, which in the past few days had slowly been turned into the scene of a localised air service disaster zone. The stench of cigarette’s wafted slowly through the cabin, adding insult to injury to the smell of beer that had made its home on the chip packet infested floor.
In the boot of the vehicle were 6 hastily stacked travel bags, squished against the side of the van to make room for an array of audio equipment, and a devious looking black garbage bag that was filled to the brim with what everyone had jokingly called ‘The Haul’.
The Haul consisted of left over alcoholic and non alcoholic drinks that each member of the rag tag crew had managed to lift from backstage riders on every leg of the tour. Every chance we could, The Haul was flung out the back of the van and into a waiting tub of ice.
It wasn’t long before Phrase emerged from the McDonald’s restaurant brandishing a suspiciously closed hot cakes container. He sat in the front of the van, and slowly peeled back the lid.
“Look at this fellas”.
There, in all of its crowning glory, was a freshly laid poo.
I can still remember it like it was yesterday. One’s diet on tour generally consisted of fast food and whatever other crap could be farmed from passing towns as quickly and cheaply as possible.
It was this culmination of dietary faux pas’ that had created Phrase’s soon to be legendary turd.
A light brown mush that sat atop a perfectly white Styrofoam hot cakes tray in a Mr Whippy-esque swirl. I was instantly barraged with images of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk assortment, which always had that swirly one that everyone always seemed to leave until last.
“Keep the car running”, we were hastily told.
With those immortal words, he and Flagrant boldly strutted towards the front doors of the popular fast food chain, giggling inanely like small school children.
Two minutes later the doors burst open, and the two of them sprinted towards the van as fast as possible.
‘GO, GO, GO, GO!” they shouted, hoping to jump into the passenger door of the swiftly moving van like Mad Murdoch leaping towards the A-Team van as a bevy of crazed gunmen left loose volley upon volley of badly aimed automatic gunfire.
Landing in the car door safely like parachutists hitting a mark, we pulled up several streets away to observe the hastily filmed footage from Flago’s video camera, a device that had become the bane of my existence during our brief rendezvous.
Like a scene from Event Horizon, all of us stood huddled around the tiny LCD screen in awe, trying to make sense of the shaky footage that a still puffing Phrase and Flagrant had just captured.
Enter Phrase, clad in his peronalised Socceroos jersey, approaching the counter holding the offending ‘hotcakes’ in complete nonchalant-ness. A young man stood at the counter, his acne and squeaky voice were fiercely outshone by the frizziness of his hair.
“There’s something wrong my hotcakes”.
“Well, many apologies for that sir, we’ll just get you another one”
This raised P’s hackles.
“I said there is something wrong with my hotcakes, you have to LOOK at them”, he boomed with complete authority.
From behind the camera, a giddy Flagrant couldn’t help but contain his excitement as the pre pubescent fast food worker slowly peeled back the lid of the hotcake tray. At this point time itself seemed to stop, and everyone in the van held their breath in utmost amazement as the last piece of creaky Styrofoam slid back off the top of the tray, and the camera jiggled uncontrollably in excitement.
The young man’s facial features quickly drooped from a perk smile, into a frown that can only be described as a semi-circle drawn on the front of a balloon.
It was at this point the doors of the restaurant blew open, and the two men ran towards a hastily moving van, filled with 4 clueless white guys, six hastily stacked travel bags, and an ominous looking garbage bag filled with pilfered booze.
Just an ordinary day on tour.
First peek at the new Syntax/Cam Bluff remix project. Enjoy it? Spread the word.