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[Nov. 12th, 2007|09:38 pm] |
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SO. We're thinking about getting the old KO back on the road to full, unadulturated, pulsing stardom... Actually, fuck that, we're going to build ourselves a new road, because the other is so fucking ugly. Like a road-traffic accident. Innocent until proven guilty.
Me and Ults are wanting a place to perform the new musical utopia. One of you is going to supply the stage. Confess.
I forgot this thing existed. Can't say I care for it, not when the first time I pick it up in months, it informs me of the death of one of my past pussy-parades. I didn't even get to kill him. Is there no justice?
He was annoying as fuck, anyways, and I was sick of the sight of him... I'm just wondering (in a totally and completely uninterested sense of the word) what it'll do to our fair Boy Wonder. If it guts him, I'll dig the writer-man up and kill him again for making Techno cry. He knew I couldn't stand the fucking riot. Revenge from the coffin, yeah?
Anyway, I have better things to do than talk to you usuals. Got bits to shag, and shags to bit. Laters.
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 30th, 2007|08:58 pm] |
JONES!!!
FIRST OFF. SWITCH THAT ROW OFF SO I CAN SCREAM AT YOU PROPERLY.
WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU SPIKE ME WITH WHEN I WAS DEALING WITH LITTLE CHRISTOPHER, EH?
I SWEAR I'LL BREAK YOU FUCKING FACE OFF IF YOU DON'T STOP DANCING. OR STOP ME DANCING.
MY LEGS ARE GOING ALL OVER THE SHOP. I'M TWITCHING LIKE A CRABBY RABBIT ON A PYLON. YOU TELL ME WHAT YOU DOSED ME WITH AT ONCE, YOU GRUBBY LITTLE OIK, AND I MAY LET YOU LIVE.
AND SHUT THAT FUCKING NOISE OFF BEFORE I SET FIRE TO YOU AND SLING YOU, BAGGY ARSEHOLE FIRST, OUT TO THE DOGS.
I CAN BREAK YOUR FINGERS IN A HUNDRED AND THREE DIFFERENT PLACES. STEP AWAY FROM THE DECKS.
IN FACT, RETURN THOSE PISSING DECKS TO WHOEVER YOU NICKED THEM FROM BEFORE I INSERT THEM INTO YOUR FACE.
I AM WARNING YOU. |
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 16th, 2007|11:17 am] |
Neon's been busy.
Found me a serious, solomn little slip of a thing called Christopher, mooching around outside of The Pinstripe Emos gig last night, writing notes in his little leather-bound journal, glaring at people with his big black eyes.
I couldn't not have him, could I? It's better than a goff, even, baiting him... Goffs know their place. He just insists he hasn't got one. Simple boy, doesn't know you have to make your place: cut it out from the background and stick it on a big fuck-off shiny plinth.
Oi, Techno. You're either in or you're out: I don't hang around for anyone anymore. Strap on a pair and dive in. Little Christopher could use some company, yeah? |
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| (no subject) |
[Jul. 25th, 2007|12:26 pm] |
Fucking.... See, now, this is WHY you should never go soft. Because stuff like this - fucking life - always stabs you in the face if you're not biting it's hand off. You should all listen to the Lady Neon: believe that she knows what's best after all, yeah?
I've been angry for years, feels like. Ultra's moping round with a face like a smacked nan and even though this would usually make my trippy little heart pound up to my eardrums, she just looks so... cocking miserable. Misery is something I like causing, not seeing. It's too ugly.
See all the busy-body support networks are already in place: nets to catch the tears and that, yeah? Yeah. Well I don't need one, thanks for asking. Why would I? I'm Neon. Made of diamonds and cold steel, me. Nothing can touch me. Not even the fact that the person who means more to me than Eno is currently up her fine duffer with the spawn of everything we stand against. She wants it left it, I know she does. I can see it in them eyes, even if she can't. She hates me already. And not the fun kind, neither. But I just... can't let that happen. NO, I won't. I fucking won't!
Fuck me, this is poofy banter. Probably shouldn't have drunk that bottle of gin... Not least coz the offy doesn't open til after 2pm. Piss you, I'll make it open! |
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| (no subject) |
[Jun. 14th, 2007|07:16 am] |
Reckon I've broken my tongue!!
We in the wars, us. Too right. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jun. 9th, 2007|01:39 pm] |
RIGHT, stuff this up your granny for a barrel of soldiers, I'VE HAD A FUCKING NUFF OF THIS, YEAH?
Going to have to do something about it, aren't I? Tried being the human, but it's just not in my nature, is it?
Start running. |
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| WOT. |
[Jun. 5th, 2007|06:47 pm] |
RIGHT YOU BEIGE PIG-DOGS.
I've been in Berlin for reasons you don't need to know about and would probably explode your head anyway. And I come back.... I come back to find... this THING. This plain, boring, smiling, kind, indie-loving ALIEN wearing dungarees and a fishing hat- God, I'm going to be sick....
Explanations. Now. I know where you all live. |
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| (no subject) |
[Dec. 1st, 2006|12:31 am] |
God, the world is dull and rubbish when the law takes your knives off you.
I had a real thing going with that old biddy. She used to walk down that same path in the park every Thursday, expecting me to come out and slap her about with my blades a bit, wanting me to. You should have seen her little wrinkly face whenever she saw me, it made your cockles warm, it really did... I wonder what she'll do now?
Five years committed, probably. Perhaps I played too hard?
So, lack of proper weaponry of the shiny sort means I'm sitting here, twiddling my wotsits and waiting for something to happen, which is not in the spirit of the K.O. We make things happen. So here I am, making something happen... Don't cream your pants.
Anyone need two fiery and really arse-tossingly brilliant musicians? We've got the look (blinding), we've got the attitude (diamond), and we've got the musical knowledge to set your brains alight and shove a firework up your unmentionables.
Kraftwerk Orange are coming out to play, my hated ones.
In the meantime, ULTRA?!? You glittering bag of points and beats, you. My ultimate electro witch. What you say to swiping a few bags of those sweeties we saw the other day and going out onto the streets of Lon-dun armed with the ability to spit rainbows like psychodelic llamas?
We could rain down the pain, or whatever Vince's dad used to say... but better. |
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| (no subject) |
[Nov. 1st, 2006|04:58 pm] |
I've always found life a bit tedious - full of unoriginal wankers getting excited about stupid little things because their favourite band says it's 'in' or whatever - but this is getting beyond a joke, now.
I've done NOTHING with my fine self for ages now, and I'm getting that blood-boiling feeling. Last time I had this sort of energy and restlessness I was sent down for 6 months (GBH, one survivor.... me), and while it's all fun and games to prod the dykes for the first month or so when doing time, I'd rather not be that close to a sweaty loafer or cheesy strap-on again, thanks.
Doesn't help that bloody Ultra is still not speaking to me. Not that I care, but she's quite a diverting girl in a 'little bit special' sort of a way, and boredom can make you want speak to anyone. She spends all her days stalking Ashcroft, I think, but she hasn't admitted this. Well, she wouldn't. Incriminating evidence, innit? She knows she can't trust me in court after that business in Berlin.
Went and bought myself some absinthe the other day (need to get some more now, obviously) and spotted that lanky tart of Ashcroft's hanging outside the supermarket. Dunno what the prat was doing, but he didn't half look terrified... those bright eyes he's got on him were as big as the old 7-inches, pale, sweating, shaking. Just how I like them. Didn't see me looking neither.
I might have to extend the hand of friendship to another HoJ member. That's if Ultra doesn't get her A-cup act together... worth bearing in mind, anyway.
Right, fling this over a fence and call it jazz. I'm off out to get slaughtered and, if the price is right, do some slaughtering myself. Shame that green bloke's not about anymore... he was a Cockney fire-cracker him. Haven't seen him about, recently. |
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| (no subject) |
[Oct. 1st, 2006|04:50 pm] |
I'm really bored. Bloody Ultra has pissed off YET AGAIN and I have no one to play with.
What're you people up to this evening? Anything interesting?
It makes me want to shrivel up and die in black with a bowl-cut to ask this but... anyone fancy doing anything with me? I will kill you if you bring this up with me again or spread it about the place, though.
There are only so many times you can clean a keytar. And apply make-up onto the people you pass in the street before they call the police. |
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| Is it any wonder that I'm too cool for school? |
[Aug. 16th, 2006|09:22 pm] |
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Well, just come back from meeting that DJ Jones... went for a few coffees. He's brilliant, what a music man! He says he'll get onto that scruffy bloke he lives with about getting K.O. an interview in the spreads. He said he'd do it the other day, but apparently he hasn't seen Dan since yesterday morning. But he'll do it when he does.
Fiendish. Watch yourselves: the K.O. might just be hitting your earpieces with our full-throated roars of music sooner than you could imagine.
That's if I can find Ultra, who's gone AWOL again: she's such a pranny, that girl. Makes me wonder why I keep her about the place. Useless tart.
Anyway, I have to go down the po-lice thingy in about a fat hour and get identified for something that certainly wasn't me with a keytar I certainly haven't got. Bunch of pop-drivels... I'll show them. I can take on a police force... look at Milton Keynes.
The pure sharp force of electro rests it's case. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jul. 26th, 2006|07:27 pm] |
Those old biddies can put up a fight.
Just got back from Community Service with Ultra... I wouldn't be doing it, but it's the only way we can get out of going to prison for stabbing up the bloody Zooniverse ages ago.
Plus, they've had me electronically tagged.
But I think even the managers have realised by now that there's no point in asked me and Ultra to wipe the old craggies' stinking bumholes for them... not after last week's eventful night shift. I told them that shit would hit the fan and other cliches, but did they listen? Nah. Was it my fault Mrs Goodcrumble had that heart attack? Nah. She brought it on herself, just for the attention, I reckon.
I don't see why they keep us about... probably getting paid off by the council. Technically, me and Ultra are still 'highly dangerous', just not so much 'at large'.
Anyway, the weekly sessions at Old Prunes make me question the idea of remaining alive much longer... but then I remember electro will keep me young. And if not, all that absinthe surely tones the system, eh?
Can't find Ultra... she had a bit of a fit on the way home, not sure why. Wasn't listening to her. She tends to get supersonic when she screams: only the bats can hear her. Still, I hope the ditzy clart's alright.
What else? Oh yeah, party on Saturday was good... got thrashed and put on possibly the best DJ set any of those lowlives had ever heard in the entirety of their miserable little lives... then went on the Jones' squat to finish business. I feel a bit of a collaboration coming along with that sparkly boy... he's a bit good!
Suppose I'd better try and find the blonde bombshell before she gets herself some damage... laters. |
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| Hello. |
[Jul. 13th, 2006|08:59 am] |
| [ | mood |
| |  cranky | ] |
I am awake and it's before 9AM. That's not right, is it? No self-respecting fondler-of-beats should be awake before 2 in the afternoon: that's just a given. Bloody Ultra's still asleep, and all. I might go wake her up with a short, sharp blast of gothic darkness at its climax, right in her earhole... that'd get her up. Up to be sick, but up anyway.
Anyway, am just sat here blinking at things until it's time for me to be awake properly. And watching Richard and Judy (or at least I was until I threw my coffee mug at them... so we need to fork out for a new TV set, too). It's hell!
Well... that's not strictly true. Hell is in fact listening to that puffy-haired ponce fight with his bleeding moany boyfriend... I swear, if I have to hear them debate the merits of Jazz against Nu Wave again - both of them about as musical as a fart in the bath, might I add - I'll have to stab them up. Again.
GAH! I've had, like, the worst week ever... but that's okay. Me and Ultra are supposed to be going out tonight: there's a new DJ on at Club Numberhaagen down the West End... Jims or James or Jones or something, who's supposed to be hotter than a fat lad's armpit in midsummer right about now. Ultra's never been to that club, neither (not too shabby, actually... music more Drum&Bassey than I usually like it, but cheap drinks and lots of company), so we'll have a night out... try and erase the memory of this week away from our minds.
I'm off for a nap, til a sensible time comes round and I can wake up properly. Sounds like tonight's going to be a long one: can't have me falling asleep on the amps now, can we?
Laters. |
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