When Bane broke Bruce Wayne’s back we were told it was forever, but backs can heal. Wayne started walking, then started doing kung fu, then started kicking the shit out of Azrael the schizophrenic medieval knight who acted as an interim Batman and turned the suit into a cyborg murder machine. Yeah, Wayne made a comeback. When Superman was killed by Doomsday back in the 90’s he eventually fought his way through the afterlife (in a series of really dull comics all painted in soft tones) and was reborn. But he was Super, so he could. But now Batman’s fallen out of a helicopter, and stopped breathing/moving/living. It’s hard to see how he comes back from this one.
Remember these handsome guys? They are members of the BNP and they were shot a couple of years ago at some rally to protest against all the muslims in Christian churches. They did such a good job that today, in 2008, the Koran is STILL not being taught by any vicars, priests or nuns or in any way being connected with God and the baby Jesus.
Despite their amazing work, some critics said that their look was a little dated and that maybe the BNP should have a look at updating their style and general something something about public image. So we were delighted to receive a new photo of some BNP members who were snapped by one of our friends shortly after putting one of their totally brilliant leaflets with hardly any spelling mistakes in through his front letter box.
Click through to see the new faces of reasonable hate.
Here in London where the streets are paved with gold, we are roughly four years behind in terms of the nuances of metropolitan America's literary gang wars. Are they still happening? Is n+1 still dropping flaming bags of shit on McSweeney's doorstep? Are people in Williamsburg still playing kickball and thinking they're adorable? I digress...
With that said, we are fully prepared for the consequences when we say that we still totally bum Dave Eggers.
As the 2008 slams the brakes on, editors the breadth of the land put their feet up on the desk and just serve you some reconstituted yesterdays: top-10-20-30-50-100 countdowns of stuff that happened over the past twelve months. But as you grind your way through one end of year music supplement banging on about Kings Of Leon & MGMT after another, your eyes go oblong and there's a sense of intense, giddying deja vu. Haven't we seen it all before? In every other magazine/paper/webzine/cereal box? Like, every year? Forever?
Slice through the crap: this is The Only Top 35 Albums Of The Year Countdown You'll Ever Need.
Our intern Michael in the Montreal office is actually from New Hampshire, and he's all serious and stuff. You might remember him from a couple of weeks ago, when we asked him whether farts were actually just air-poop, and he researched the subject for us and delivered a considerate answer. Recently, we asked Michael what he was scared of, and because he's a serious guy he answered seriously. "Heroine" was one of the things on his list, along with "driving in the rain - as a passenger or driver," "standing on a balcony above the third floor," and "playing tackle football." But by far the most interesting thing on his list was "sticking my arm into a hole". So of course we had to ask Michael to go stick his arm into some holes and document the results. We want what's best for him but he said we were sadists.
What do you get when you cross a hairdresser, two ripped condoms and one night of screwing? Horrible dicks.
In the latest in a slew of bizarre and unsavoury scientific studies (here, here, here and more entertainingly here and here) it has emerged that the link between big firm hair and bad sex is more than just a rumour. Have cancer, aids and acne been cured or something? Because there seem to be a lot of doctors out there twiddling their pipettes.
Film-maker, organiser of London goods-exchange program Free Shit Salt Grit, and this dude's son Leo Leigh has documented his day spent with sci-fi and fantasy enthusiasts in a south London pub. At one point this one of them sounds like he is on the verge of actual human tears while talking about Back To The Future. Listen here.
Why is it when we posted like two sentences about how The Cribs smeared blood all over their faces at the Vice UK three-year anniversary party everyone swam up like sharks sniffing for a job? Or even when warned about how soul-annihilatingly awful something was, you still just had to click—and then you blamed us for baiting you? Yeah, we can be sick fucks sometimes but guess who's even sicker? You.
You like The Death Set right? So do I. Have you seen them live though? The thing is that’s kind of the point with this band, their spitting-Wham City-circle pit-flare gun-dogfight-love-in all comes together when its breathing fire directly into your face. So it’s good then that they’ve just announced a secret show tonight at the Old Blue Last. They're on at about 10.30, Titus Andronicus and Fan Death are on before. Come! Scrum! Fun!
My housemate is a recording artist and she sometimes records in studios that other recording artists have been recording in immediately before her. Just recently she was putting the finishing touches to something or other at a studio where a popular "dance-rock" act had been doing the same thing and she noticed lots of scissors and bandages lying around the place. She asked someone what it was, and apparently the bandages are these new army issue morphine soaked things that get you totally high if you put them on, but then as soon as you take them off you stop being high immediately with no comedown.
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