The -ism schism

“Tourism, human circulation considered as consumption is fundamentally nothing more than the leisure of going to see what has become banal.”

They exhort and exclaim ‘Race! Gender! Grace, rendered! Semite! Hinter-Sex! Polar-Binary! A.I.dentity! Hybridity! Religo-Exclusivity! Transrobo! Nu-Agenda-netics!’ Who’s exhorting and why so loud?

Blag Queen du jour Moron D. Buggeroff was interviewed by Out and loud Newcastes and had this to say “The straight white patriarchy has dominated the spotlight for far to long, this is our chance to shine, to eradicate the everyday ‘maleodrama’ of privilege and prejudice and usher in a new system of perception and mediated imagery.  We will decide the labels, the stratifications (sic), the classifications for this new promised land”. Quite.

Image result for dr moreau

“Be still now, no pain no gain, irreversible transformations were the stuff of nightmares once, now, they are the Nu-topian dreams of the unhappy consumer who fancies  change like applying clean socks”

Dr. Moreover: Who do you want to be today, tomorrow, yesterday and forever? Identi-TECH can offer you any choice, any image makeover, what you see is what you get, all surface no depth. You wanna be a merm-unicorn a la an experiment from Dr Moreau’s mutant island? We got it for ya.

Chip and Pin your way to oblivion with our new mark of the beast ‘inser-tech’ that allows you to *gosh*  open a door and *horror* be controlled by a clone-drone operator paid for by your council tax. That’s right, your liberty is our preserve, the blind and pignorant get what they deserve. T&C’s conditional on payment of unconditional terms. 

If, like me, you can’t even wake up and embrace the day without being floored by these flawed terms then the time is now to contest, resist, desist and begin to reconstruct their meanings before meaning is out of your interpretation.

The new ‘normal’ renders the ‘other’ abnormal. Thus, the club’s rules have flipped, if you’re not on the list, you’re not ‘in’. ‘Orientationism’ has supplanted archaic forms of discrimination, there’s a new She-Riff in town, un-white and unhappy … with everything.

Be vigilant out there. And always read the small print.

Guy Debored 2018 ©





‘I’m Apartacus’ – Engendered gender agenda


“A mental disease has swept the planet: banalisation. Everyone is hypnotised by production and comfort — sewage system, elevator, bathroom, washing machine.

This state of affairs, which arose out of a struggle against poverty, overshoots its ultimate goal — the liberation of humanity from material cares — and becomes an obsessive image hanging over the present. Between love and a garbage disposal, young people of all countries have made their choice and prefer the garbage disposal. A complete and sudden change of spirit has become essential, by bringing to light forgotten desires and creating entirely new ones. And by an intensive propaganda in favor of these desires.

Gilles Ivain (aka Ivan Chtcheglov)”

‘Identity’: What is it? Who am I?  long the  fabricated social construct of complete control it has taken over and assumed a total stranglehold on needs, desires and choices. Mercantile poverty has been relinquished by ‘spiritual salvation’, ‘born this way’ has outpaced ‘born to run’.

Now you can exercise the freedom to choose a persona, to assimilate a view … overnight it’s as if it’s changing your tea-taste from Tetley to Typhoo. New consumers are being created and shaped, the new YOU is being prepared for new uniforms, new ways of thinking, all the better to usher you into this exciting new existence. Do not dare change your mind, it’s a one-time’ opportunity y’hear?

‘I just can’t believe all the things people say, am I black or white, am I straight or gay? … People call me rude, I wish we all were nude I wish there was no black and white, I wish there were no rules’.

Where once to be stratified,  labelled and categorised rendered you a ‘victim’ of qualifying and quantifying it has been replaced by a pick ‘n’ mix ‘Select-a-Self’, a devise your own acronym, you can BE whomever/whatever you choose.

Opt from tags like ‘fluid, liquid, gloopy, watery, runny, gooey’ apply gently and venture out into a new sphere. Like Bible Joe and his coat of many colours, express yourself with the exhortation ‘I am me, I am free’.

Difference has become conformity, separation has become standardisation.

Image result for llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch train station

‘Oi, hands off, I got there first. Me mates can call me Llan’

Guy Debored 2017 ©


The spectacle subjugates living men to itself to the extent that the economy has totally subjugated them. It is not more than the economy developing for itself.


‘Kickstarter … Indiegogo … Rockethub … Pledge … Gofu.yourself …’

The crowd-funded masses amass the archive of recorded histories, ready to plunder to re-appropriate, to renovate, to recall, to remind. The spectres of the (un)dead haunt existence, screens exhume, tech resurrects, the past sits side by side with the present, the future yet to be unearthed. An evil retrieval that replaces memory with misremembrance. A ‘passed’ rewritten for the purpose of crass commerce and craven careerism. You’re too blind to see your own transparency, your vision swayed by the rainbow’s gold.

Riefenstahl Rule #1 The triumph of the swill is the objective at ALL costs

Ego-liberalism reigns supreme in the ‘living’ veins of the ‘auteur-crat’, all narcissistic nonchalance buried deep within the recesses of the ID, barely submerged motives of market economy rule. Mammon and merit go hand in hand, ‘mate’.*

The documentarian as distraction-dispenser of devious deeds and desires, the historiographer hawking (alleged) halcyon days and horrorshows.  Blithely aware that they themselves are the commodity as spectacle, they alone are the PRODUCT, the wares being offered for sale and consumed at a price. What price DIGNITY? What is the INTRINSIC VALUE?

Through detournement, the play of image, voiceover, and subtitle, ‘great art’ dissolves the totality of representations that structure our societies. Everything leads back to the false totality of the spectacle: the spectacle is the ongoing propaganda of images.

Questionable art structures and soothes for surreptitious gain.

Riefenstahl Rule #2 the message always justifies the means.

Chasing a cause to verify your own inadequacies as flesh and spirit, an energy vacuum masquerading as ghoulish gaping, the kind that did for Kevin Carter, the conscience conquers eventually. YOU’RE NEXT, Risible Briton.


The vulture gathers round its prey. And waits to capture. CUT!

The spectacle reduces reality to an endless supply of commodifiable fragments, while encouraging us to focus on appearances.

Do not be deceived by disguises, look for the agenda, it is in there, lurking. Liberation awaits those who reveal TRUTH, commiseration is destined for those who reveal only their eroded souls and decayed dreams. Those who are yet to realise will be resigned to solitude and illtruism, their negative effects seeping in and through their core.

*much overused and now redundant form of amicable affection. Passive-aggression is latent in many instances.

Guy Debored 2017 ©

The comeback of the backcomb

‘But certainly for the present age, which prefers the sign to the thing signified, the copy to the original, representation to reality, the appearance to the essence… illusion only is sacred, truth profane. Nay, sacredness is held to be enhanced in proportion as truth decreases and illusion increases, so that the highest degree of illusion comes to be the highest degree of sacredness’

Mick Miller Jr

Standing on the Head & Shoulders of symbolic violence*

He’s back! The wait is over! Stop the clocks! William Blarnard Allgusto Gallagher, known throughout CULTURE as LIAM ©. To be known by a single moniker allegedly makes you IMPORTANT and VALUABLE a la Madonna and Prince and lest we forget Adolf, AntunDec and Wagner.

The hetero-retro man, the Manc (performing professional), the poxy moron, the intellect vacuum, the vocal puncture gasping his rasp! To mass knicker wetting and nappy filling across the lands this return is the most anticipated since Beady Eye’s ‘triumphant’ dent in the psyche (less so the tills) way back yore. Remember? You must!

In these times of despair and malevolence what this ailing globe needs is more 60s derived, piss-weak over the counter cultural rehashed grooves and studied moves allied to (oh-so) macho posturing. Yes, the last 25 years have passed and NOTHING’S changed. No lessons learned. Blokes, birds, booze, braggadocio and big coats. Another dusting down of the casting off. Well-worn clichés bandied about for the umpteenth time. The Icon of the imbecilic, the idol of the ignorant. Dark days becoming darker, sunshiiiiiiine from a black sun.

But, that’s the way the bored hordes want it, like Han Solo in carbonite, time must be locked, frozen in a moment, a calcified memory of times when being ‘madferrit’ meant you were ‘cool’ and at the top of the hip, your cultural capital at its zenith.


‘FAME! We’re gonna live foreveeeer’ Well, in aisle 14, next to the frozen spring rolls, Iceland, Goole.

The all-pervasive cult (sic) of celebrity has its genesis from this time, when LIAM ©. was cultivating his stereotype for the edification of the ‘bloids, adorning the glossies, ever hawking his wares to the hawks who would eventually turn on him.

This ambassador of ersatz echoes (appropriated underground sounds, recycled alternative attitude, recuperated rebellion ad nauseum) who was unwittingly (go figure!) on the payroll of the Neu-Labour neo-liberal project, an unpaid intern for war-monger Tony Baloney’s ascent to the polit-throne, a hypno-headrushing three years (1994 -1997) all soundtracked by a simulacra’d scene of bad copy and poor taste.

Recent PR meet and greets have found LIAM © resurrecting his old lines, safe barbs, dredged digs and jocular japery on the same topics, tired and trusted themes, like his ‘art’ it’s retrieve, repeat, recoil. Over and over.

C’mon, who hasn’t missed that constipated swagger (best get those bowels checked, maaan), the gaseous ill-wind-blag, the affected posing, the social media-headline generating fratricidal musings over Lil’ Jimmy Krankie’s own solo droppings ( a modern day Lame and Unable), all disingenuously PR driven drivel designed to coax the fossilised figures out from behind their inner sepia screens and an attempt attract some new disciples keen to sample a taste of that pre-millennial hullabaloo, back when the drugs were aplenty and the days were heady. ‘Real’ rock ‘n roll, yeah?

His re-emergence from enforced seclusion (‘those prying paps, maaan, snapping me when I’m going through me Rik Waller does Jim Morrison phase’ below) is instigating Proustian reflexes of programmed behaviour from the time-warped tribe; like moths to a flickering flame wherein the flame is a barely functioning anachronism who’s thawed like Cro-Magnon man, oozing pilt and emanating backward exhortations. Again.


‘Who ate all the piiiiieeees?’

Since 2009 this bird’s been flying solo so low without the lyrical perfections of said sibling, Manchestoh’s very own Hervé Villechaize tribute act.


Noel Laurate #1 ‘If I had a gun I’d shoot a hole in the sun’ (‘I can’t compete with that, I’m calling it a day’ Leonard Cohen’s dying words 2016) **

This last clutch for relevance is driven by the desire to keep the brood fed and watered, a long-standing inability to ‘keep it in his denim strides’ resulting in numerous siring which means the bank manager’s calling, the balance closer to red than black, debit not credit. Fortune teller Noel saw it coming on the millennium chiming  ‘Put yer money where your mouth is’: ‘Ready or not and come what may, you betcha going down on Judgement Day, so put yer money in yer mouth,  and your hands right up on the wheel’

His litter (the acknowledged and ‘vicariously alimonied’ Legal Ed.) are proving as mercantile to the system as they flit between the ‘none-more’ worthy’ worlds of modelling and thesp work. Well, with ‘Genes’ like theirs culture’s in a better state *Gielgud combusts*

In the hyper-connected virtual net-trap Matrix LG1 is the ONE, he is NEO-Man, his ‘art’ a crayon labyrinthine rabbit-hole of never ending whining and draught-tunnels. Watch that barnet, the Cherry Blossom‘s not dry.


Swill-iam at his 18th, Burnage Working Men’s Club. His ‘Kylie in Neighbours goes High School Reunion’ phase (courtesy M. Gallagher ©)

So why comeback now? Well, top-strologer profit-prophet Alan McSee asserts ‘1997 + 20 = 2017 which in Egyptian numerology translates as ££££+. Plus, his forthcoming Diana themed released ‘Queen of our heartaches’ is mighty zeitgeisty, innit?’ Sure is, Al.

The grim-pending long-player As you were (‘Oooh, the tension, I wonder what it will SOUND like?’ Berk Arkwright, Salford) gathers a ‘crack’ team of tune Doctors and version surgeons to assemble that HIT. Where once he would have decried such devolution as ‘inauthentic’ and not rock ‘n’ roll, maaan’ this is his final shot at credibility, his resorting to committee workshopped pop-rock the desperate plight of an inveterate man.

Caught between courting the consumer groups ‘tweenagers’ torn between this nostalgia fossil and nouveau pin up Harry ‘Le Style’ Styles and the historelics that cling to their ossified recollections, hours of Youtube repeats not satiating their cravings. This return is their salve, their saviour saves. This IS the Second Coming, Ian Brownbread.

The rear-guard gate-keeping taste-makers such as Minister for Britpopeganda, Steve ‘Call me Lammo’ Lamacq and Sean ‘None more Northern than me’ Keaveny are primed to utter their required mutterances, be braced for such profound adjectivising as ‘Tour de force’, ‘Plugging that plank shaped hole like no other’ and ‘Watch out Noel, Yul Brynner’s back in town’. The lackeys await their orders.


‘Fook, firing more blanks. Wish me girth did, I’d be loaded’

In the society of the spectacle fake desires are cultivated and true feelings manipulated. Autonomy replaced by blind acquiescence***. Beware the clone-drones, they will be legion.

* In the work of Pierre Bourdieu, symbolic violence denotes more than a form of violence operating symbolically. It is “the violence which is exercised upon a social agent with his or her complicity” (Bourdieu and Wacquant 2002, 167)

** Taken from 2011’s mammoth boundary demolishing single If I Had a Gun…”. Tellingly it’s B-side is titled “I’d Pick You Every Time”. Me too, Noel, me too …

*** ‘What sleeping arsehole …’ (sic)

Guy Debored 2017 ©

Inter-bred dunderhead in PR driven charm offensive. Dupes fall for it.

“In the spectacle — the visual reflection of the ruling economic order — goals are nothing, development is everything. The spectacle aims at nothing other than itself.”

Prince Harry Arrives In Australia Ahead Of His Military Secondment With Australian Defence Force

Ignore the insignia, the pageantry, the barriers between, the security cordons, the militarised henchmen, the processional palaver, they are just like YOU. Honest, Guv’nor, salt’thee Erf. Gawd bless ’em all.

The spectacular system servers want you to know that they’re just like you. And me. And them over there. Dopamine issues, head ment-all out of sorts, problems are problems maaan, whether you got no bread on the breadline or ounces of opportunities and open doors.

Depression is the ultimate respecter of democracy, ya hear, whether you’re falling out of Annabel’s or into Wetherspoons, these plummeted depths of despair gets everyone and anyone. Even ‘war-heroes’ and ‘men about town’ such as Henry Windsor, those inner-turmoils, those crises of faith, those days of inability to move, the black fog, the treacle-thinking, well, rest assured this ambassador of hereditary power and control totally feels your pain, his patronage of such ‘good causes’ keeping him on the straight and narrow, away from hi-jinkery-japery, another illusory sleight of hand designed to ‘normalise’ these masters of millennia, empathy devoid exhibits of soft malevolence, surreptitious string pullers masked by their political and military lackeys, centuries of blind acquiescence sustaining and maintaining these Moloch worshipping monarchs.


Definitely nothing to see here, right? 

Deprogram, disconnect, unplug, step back, see behind the veil, the shroud cloud, the matrices of mind-fuddlery. THEY are not like YOU. Your problems are compounded by their firm grip on reality, their control of the monetary mechanisms, the manipulated media-scape that filters your perception, this is a ruse to take your eye off the ball, keep you trapped inside your own preconception-prism-prison, ply you with junk psychic data, inoculate to sedate, numb you to dumb you down.

Guy Debored 2017 ©

The day of The Jackal © ™ ®


The more powerful the class, the more it claims not to exist, and its power is employed above all to enforce this claim. It is modest only on this one point, however, because this officially nonexistent bureaucracy simultaneously attributes the crowning achievements of history to its own infallible leadership. Though its existence is everywhere in evidence, the bureaucracy must be invisible as a class. As a result, all social life becomes insane.

The fanfare parps ‘London’s latest luxury magazine, made for stylish minds’. Sifting through the fugue our experts have translated this as thus: ‘yet another sub-style-bent-gent-slapper-chap-slag-mag for trough-toffs hits the streets, a glossy, solitary brain cell-shopped and put-together journal rife with overpriced accoutrements, extortionate threads, unnecessary objects and dumb-aspirational mind debris’. Too much for their tiny minds to process this exclamatory emission goes straight to the cerebral cortex that activates the CONSUMPTION cord.

The Jackal (to the glimpsed view, the askance glance it looks like The FUCKED: deliberate subliminal slogo-massaging from the crack team of recent Oxbridge flotsam turned meedge-gradz? Unlikely) joins the amassed assortment array of  street-flyered middle-managing mind muck (c.f. Shortlist, Time Out, Shim, NoMusicalExpress, Debt not food, Stylist, ES (free with the Evening sub-Standard) all ‘bibles’ for the well-offluent unthinking credit whores surviving on Pater’s plastic, a uniformed conformity accepting amoeba-mass carrying expensive rhino-hide bin-bags to store their gaudy wrist-wear and scalp-sauce.

A magazine published to counter and cater for the rise of ‘Alpro Male’ shaker-makers, who grow their hirsute chin-follicles in the image of their UFC crushes, these fem-men in crises seeking affirmation through mediatised modes of manliness, their reflection a shadow of their self-esteem, unknowingly infected and affected by the same body-dysmorphia for decades aimed at their sub-sex counterparts: ‘da birds’.


‘Be totally honest, guys, do I look a booby in this? The Jackal assured me this look is IN this week’

This new consumer-crowd occupy the desire-abyss created by the ‘beauty industry’, raptors seeking low-vibro gateways, ‘ we can make you look younger’, ‘we can make you feel younger’, ‘we can make YOU younger’.  All illusory, all part of the seduction. Owning does not make cloning. No metamorphosis will take place. Your emptiness will return shortly after adorning said outfit/garment/paste/trinket.


Britpop anachronism, intellect vacuum and serial seed sower Liam Gallagher and current paramour. Is this really what you want to be?! 

Jack-Ed Robin ‘Shit me with your’ Swithinbank (you just KNEW there’d be someone with a name like that, probably the descendant of a land-owning slave-runner going back centuries), spawned from quasi-dead livestock, almost certainly inbred to the point of illegality (it’s only illegal within the lower ranks) is (dis)ably abetted by* Henry, Jeremy, Lionellen, iMax-Brutus, Eevon and Tex.


When the Jews return to Zion / And a comet rips the sky / And the Holy Roman Empire rises, / Then You and I must die. / From the eternal sea he rises, / Creating armies on either shore, / Turning man against his brother / ‘Til man exists no more.

Lest we forget, the antichrist, arch enemy of the Nazarene, the desolate one, the numbered beast, Damien Thorn was borne of the JACKAL, this ‘free’ magazine is an OMEN. Nothing’s for free, especially from these kind of print-stables, what they appear to ‘give’ they recoup ten-fold, your essence, your spirit, your soul becomes the preserve of them to be rinsed, purified, puréed and pillaged. You have been warned.

Do you really want to look like THEM? Wanting to look like them requires thinking like them, becoming them, your volition submission kick-starting a perversion of the bodysnatchers,. Once in they will burrow, fester and assume control, however, you can never BE them, they wouldn’t allow it, theirs is a closed shop, a democratic dead-end, a genetic fluid-emission sharing-frenzy devoid of feeling, these partnerships are inhuman transactions, enacted purely for breeding more of the discharges ad finitum. The system is ridden with these mutoid slaves to Himmaculate Consumption Guides whose edicts are ‘spend on trend, pay for spiritual dismay’ they know that total satiation is never an option, this is a gaping void that can never be plugged. However they persist, you must resist.

You will know them through their utterances such as ‘I’m good’ when asked of their well-being, their daily coffee ritual will inevitably commence with ‘Can I get a *insert sugar based coffee flavoured milk here* to go …’.  Their dress sense will feature such ‘brands’ as the ‘keeping it street’ Jack Wills, the pheasant pluckers go-to jacket Barbour, chinos (mustard/plum/lime green), and laceless deck shoes, a get-up that renders even their younglings middle-aged fogeys, ever-decaying entities.

With an exterior like that can you imagine the inner-catastrophe? Show no pity.

Guy Debored 2017 ©

*collectively these banter-brethren go by the name of Thomas Carlyle’s Diogenes Teufelsdröckh (which translates as ‘god-born devil-dung’). If the cap fits, lads.

WANTED: A refuge from the NME © and its b®ands.

“Young people everywhere have been allowed to choose between love and the garbage disposal unit. Everywhere they have chosen the garbage disposal unit”


Less ‘shining a light’, more lining up a shite.

The VO5 © NME ©, formerly the New Musical Express ©, once more than a music paper, formerly an organ of critical theorising, cultural contextual chat, a site of intellectual investigating, searing, thought-provoking criticism (remember that word?) that challenged, confounded and created consternation in the minds of the readership. The right to reply letters page would be inundated with erudite, intelligent and irate missives aghast at the whims and flights of fancy of the scribes. It meant something, more than something, it meant everything.

Although you’d need to be in your post-35s hinterzone to remember those days, nowadays it’s a FREE (life)style bible in a universe of FREE ALIVE-style bibles, 100% adverts for food, drink, sports, clothes, cosmetics, itself, its sister ownership-off-shoots, oh and not forgetting some music-merchants plying their wares in the name of INDIE*.  Zombie-groups (re)playing undead sounds featured in a carcass-coffin vessel of mundanity and irrelevance where if it features it means it’s graded between 3 to 5 stars. Ain’t the future-present-past-now brilliant?!

Mike Williams (Bald Ed. VO5 © NME ©): “Politicians and people with influential voices are being irresponsible with their words and changing the views of otherwise decent people. There’s a negative and demonised view of vulnerable people not that different from us who have been badly affected by wars and terror attacks. We want to show a bit of the reality.” (The Guardian 14/02/17) 

What you are about to read is an imagined re-enaction of a probable-fantasy group-think gang-meet of the VO5 © NME © crew sometime this year.

Venue: IPC H. (low I) Q.


M-Will: ‘Guyz, think All the President’s Men crossed with Press Gang, yeah?’

‘Hey guyz, right, how are we going to move forwards, bring in the sides this week, action some perpendicular para-sizing?

The Summer’s boxed off as we’ve got an exclusive with the … *gulps* the comeback of the back-comb King, none other than Liam Gallagher and news of his new exciting side(part)-project. But, more of that later …

Here’s my inbox think-noise to get things going: there’s a lotta talk politics-wise about immigrants, refugees and the displacement of human-people. Yeah, yeah, I know what you’re thinking ‘we’ve had Bangladesh in the 70s, the Band Aids, your War Childs, they didn’t work, what else can WE do?’ I get it, guyz, but, WE have to try, our livelihoods depend on it.

Now I don’t want to alarm too many of you, your basic-rate-wage-income-salary-coke-fund is safe for now, but, with sales falling dramatically we need to up our game and start bringing in more super-consumers. They just ain’t buying it. Tragedy = turnover, yeah?

How about we get on-board, in-bed with Bands 4 Refugees, some no-marks and super-skid-marks and umbrella them as a ‘super’ group, ya know, like those 1960s super-acts like Cream, Blind Faith, Traffic? Whaddyamean who, Tabotha-Anomie?? Erm, they were like an unprecedented, prototype ‘come-to-gathering’ of titans, a bit like Bland Aid IV. But, with super-integrity and super-super-talent.

Back to the ‘refu-bee-gee’ crisis (hur-hur see what I did there?) … to show our support for the aid agencies and charity-covens we’ve decided to help amass the cream of the current crop of super-exciting artistes. Sadly, the Dumfords, the Coldploys, the Adulls, the Paddingtons are busy with b®and-commitments (Brylcreem © and V05 © are direct competitors in the hair -rearrangement market). Even The Doc’s tied up, we tried in-vein. Vain! Lolz! Anyhow, I digress …

If we can’t cash in on the deceased then the next best thing is the soon-to-be, framed and presented by the dead behind the eyes.

We gots (and no, no word of a lie this isn’t a roll-call for the Brit Young-C*nti of the Year 2016):

Poxie Geldoff-spring of the dishevelled, bedevilled money-mitherer and monarchy-monkey Sir ‘give me your money and I will save it … err … THEM’ Bog Off-Gold. Her ‘deeply upset’ fizzog’s sure to get some sister rag-mags on-board and also mask the true motives of this super-project. Plus, the one-time Boom-Rat-catcher needs to keep what’s left of his off-seeds on the straight and narrow and off the ‘wheel and barrow’**. A two-way beneficial street for us.

Here’s a glimpse of the seismic meet-up of the global-givers: 


Two bit Peace***-artists (and co-organiser) Henry ‘Harry’ Koisser and his frat-kin Sammy, super-keen to change things across the universe with Dumb and Som, the ensemble’s rhythm sectch.

Henry Harry’s ‘sent a LOT of texts and emails and Whatspps to as many people as he can think of … Joe from Circa Waves**** was a last minute addition, he called him about three days ago about it …’

Slave brain-salve, Isaac Drumbo, he copes by handing lollipops out, not sure what Freud would make of that.

Soft Olly off of Years & Years, the voice to sink a thousand drinks (of Rat-Kyll), his inbuilt auto autocue still 5 seconds behind human-meantime. Extreme patience is required when engaging.

Also totes immersed in this spiritually-nourishing, bank-balance incrementing project are:

Ellie, Jonty, Nige-One, Izzy, Auzzie, Chazzy, Rupert, Dessica, Shim Zlady, Hugo and Skank.

They’ve wracked their brain cell (all that private education too) and hit on the emotion-notion that The Stones’ seminal classic ‘Gimme Shelter’ is the note-perfect anthem to articulate the forced diaspora we see on our shores. A song about social unrest and destruction is still an an-them for THEM, THEM that are bereft, THEM without a roof, THEM devoid of a coffee-to-go, THEM without the latest Iapp, they deserve our pity and love and above all our TIME. Time don’t cost us, man, it cost THEM lives.

Here’s the super-main event from the VO5 © NME © Awards ©. Now tell me you don’t FEEL anything?! #shiversupthespine 


NM-er Sub-Ed Torquine St. John: ‘Mike, please, me ‘ead’s bangin’ I went to the Cereal Café’s Annually Awards’ Aftershow last night, three Grot-brews necked, a snort of Vimphetz and now these Anadin simply aren’t cutting it’.

Cue further nose-picking, cranium-scratching and tech-tickling from these ‘dip (shit) young dung slingers’.



Now I don’t know about YOU, but, I’ve got a few bones to pick through here.

Take ‘Choose Love’ as the message, a lazy play on that 80s anti-mammon-mantra as adorned by George and Andy Wham, from subversive to recursive (again …), a depressing sign of the times (then and now). Choosing love? As opposed to what? ‘Hate is Gr8’, ‘Opt into opprobrium’?

This counter-intuitive marketing horseshit is designed purely to sell the sponsors’ consumables, the magazine’s vacant ideals, the ‘artists’ (sic) product and career-extensions.

Re: the chosen-chanson, why not go for ‘Welcome to the jungle’? Too raw and too edgy? ‘Wherever I lay my hat’? C’mon guyz, you need to get your super-thinking caps on, yeah?

‘Gimme Shelter’s been watered down that many times any trace of veracity and potency has long been pissed into the drink-streams of Gen Britta © ,

No wonder the Stones agreed, this version will make any self-respecting person go straight to the original, throwing more coppers into the coffers of these coffin-dodgers. The wheel keeps turning.

‘It’s important not to be like Bono’

Having a go at Bono, I mean it’s nigh on impossible not to hit the target with the fella, but, these gimps manage to do it, with a Gatling gun to boot. Thing is, as hypocritical and odious as the leprechaun can be he’s still produced infinitely better music than any of these parasitic narcissists can ever dream of.

Ultimately the end product makes Bowie and Jagger’s prescient Stella Street rendition of ‘Dancing in the Street’ seem as transgressive as 1930s Berlin.

They say every generation gets the cultural totems it deserves, Generation Zed’s supping from a puddle of shite.

‘Member, text WE F.U. NOW

Guy Debored 2017 ©

*floating, meaning-free noun with 20th century roots in an archaic form of independence and innovation. Now a bland uniform of conformist sounds and styles.

**Narc reference first used by William ‘Bugsy’ Burroughs in 1951

*** I know, this generation’s Matt Bianco.

**** Beats me, I’m-a gerrin’ sub-Kaiser Chiefs vibes meself.

Scions Faction

“The status of celebrity offers the promise of being showered with ‘all good things’ that capitalism has to offer. The grotesque display of celebrity lives (and deaths) is the contemporary form of the cult of personality; those ‘famous for being famous’ hold out the spectacular promise of the complete erosion of a autonomously lived life in return for an apotheosis as an image. The ideological function of celebrity (and lottery systems) is clear – like a modern ‘wheel of fortune’ the message is ‘all is luck; some are rich, some are poor, that is the way the world is…it could be you!”

Anais Gallagher and Brooklyn Beckham

The manicured mutant ‘model’ (sub-hu)man-servants of the Order

And they keep coming. The off-spring demon seeds, the genetic gut-rot, the parasitic progeny of the plebiscite system-serving, crown curtsying class, the middle management toads, craven in their cravings, foisting their scrotal-sack-sludge vacuous vacuum dead-eyed detritus onto a society already depleted and devoid of dazzle and decorum. The trudge of the every-day grows greater as these waste-worms waltz and schmaltz their way into culture-consciousness. Collectively these culture cancers drag the shards and embers of history down deep where light is scarce.

Mixing and cross-pollinating with each other, this new bloodline blending of talentless, brainless, witless, thoughtless molecules and matter tugs despairingly at the forelock of their monarched masters, hob-nobbing with the nabobs, ever supporting the structures and stratum that confine and contain the masses. Grotesque polluters of the fame game, ushering their spawn into the fray, affirmation seeking avatars of artlessness and avarice.

The dynastic elite regal and royal overlords fratenise with their subjects at PR soirees, award ceremonies, galas and parlors, covertly legitimising their status and superiority as the sub-lings endorse their every move and act. They effect to be like the ‘normal’ citizen as they use their media machines to take our eyes of the reality, skewering our perception via tech-straction, diverting our gaze towards the haze of fabrication.

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Ill-Wills: ‘Look, Ginge, you and your kind are down here, get it? I have enough of this shite with that ‘brother’ of mine. Brother?! What larks’ 

Ginge: ‘Ok, my Masser. Can I go now?’

These disciples blindly follow their forebears, the purveyors of plasticity, the retro-renovators ripping off the innovators atop their moneyed-mansions and gated gardens, reaping the benefits of Downing Street deals, inching their tiny frames up the ladder, one rung at a time, their obsequious behaviour perpetually acknowledged by their slumming slum-overlords via realm-reign-rewards from the revolting.

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N.G: ‘So what you’re saying is that in years to come I and my enema-excretions will be assimilated into ‘high society’ and they won’t have to do anything to get there? Modelling, acting, journalising, photographing, whatever they choose?’

T.B(colosis): ‘That’s right, Neil, just follow the rules and obey the orders’

Fuck’em all Palace Memo 14th January 2017:  Head Liz-ard overheard saying ‘OB-hayve, Dimbulb Dave, your time will arrive, but, first we need more scum-sucking and pointless posing, you are still at Emissary Stage Two. Your bony skag-skeletal bird is at Stage One, too much pouting not enough shouting. END

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Dimbo: ‘Er …erm … is it 5?’

All gains made have been unmade, the counter-cultural anti-establishment edicts erased and extinguished. Be vigilant, this is just the beginning. These cultural sites are the new (inter)breeding grounds. There will be more of these (e.g. Moses and Apple Martin *shudder*).

Wake up those who can’t see, refuse to see, resist or are scared to see. Fear got us into this mess, THEY fear us.

Guy Debored (C) 2017

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Kate Nash (is alive)

The spectacle is not a collection of images, but a social relation among people, mediated by images.”

Village Underground in London, England’s hip Eloi^ East Square Zone 1 saw the performance of ex-Brit School attendee Katherine Elizabeth Victoria Doris Nashington III. And what a performance it was.

All shapes, moves, licks and grooves appropriated from the grungey distressed-dressing-up box circa 1992, re-enacting studied poses lifted from Le Tigre, Bikini Kill, Sleater Kinney, a lukewarm (easy to predict a) Riot Grrrl power deranger, Babes in Toytown, as Spicey as a veg korma.

Entering to the echoes of Lesley Gore’s 1963 tower-power-ballad and proto-feminist anti-man-stranglehold-relinquishing ‘You don’t own me’ the stage is set, the stall is out, this lady ain’t for turning (apart from my gills green). Filtered footage plays backgroundly, totes-tastic tour trips and seen-scenery snaps tell us that Gnasher is a happy-go-lucky grrl next door who loves nothing more than rolling round affecting coyness and camera-shyness. Will this effervescence inhabit the music?

Former Sylvia Young ‘un Katie addressed her swooning mass comprised of friends and family (2-4-1 mates rates, innit), competition winners and life losers, if the company you keep speaks volumes then deafness awaits me.

One-time Anna Scher Horror-witch^^ Kat is an activist, ya know, activating all things actively especially them that got mental health ‘shoos, yeah? In a 2016 inner-view with DisGrazia she said ‘Activisting is a passion, right, sister done run for money, yeah, ‘member, lots of us have a tough time at times, yeah? Just ‘cos you see a smile it don’t mean nothin’, yeah? Demons don’t stop for no one, ok? If all’s tip up top then everything’s hip to hop, well, that’s what my guru Benjie says anyway. Diva la Causa, lol!’

The inspirational Spice Girls in happier times. 

Nina Conti alumni, aspiring actress and one-time Crib courtesan Kathy is all-a-glitter bawl, screeching and beseeching her flock. Flailing and wailing her set-to is littered with songs about the global femme-struggle (boo!) international fem-pain (hiss!), wimmin-problems ‘cross the universe (eek!) anguish-free and rote, a total faux-emotion replay. She says ‘Trump’ her people cheer, she asks them to boo, they boo, it’s Nuremberger King, fast-food fascism. Registered dissent is just a click away in GBUK17.

The tension is palpably tepid, illuminated screens pop up from the limbs of Daisy, Maisie and Craisie from Hoxtonshire as they record the ‘moment’, these digi-documents never to be viewed again, them data hounds keep chasing the tail of tech.

The lights are on, but, no one’s home

‘New song’ ‘Agenda’ shows Nash’s intent (or is it ‘Or-Gender’? hard to tell nowadays, what with all the LGBTSLWWBLAMECNPP declinations flying round), the backing trio superfluous as an R ‘n’ B compu-noize emanates and tsunami’s the sound-space, it’s Missy Mary J. Left Eye-lliott’s detritus, even Mrs Jay Zed not giving this trope-tripe the Bey-once over.

One ode ‘Dickhead’ (the phallus is a fallacy, see) with the (grammar syntax horrorshow) refrain ‘why are you being a dickhead for?’ shows that K-Teen-Ash isn’t going to be featuring in any English textbooks anytime soon, ths txt spk sonata a portent of failing standards. I should’ve OFSTED at home.

Inevitably 2007’s (s)hit-making ‘Foundations’ with its mockney-miserablising moping-sobservations about ‘him’ and the parting of the union rears its head, a collective sing-along ensues as this diction-fiction is squeezed out, ev-er-y sy-lla-bull en-un-ci-ated. It makes Lily Allen sound like Patti Smith.

A tongue-in-cheeky cover of Antipodean dull-bot Daniel Bedingfield’s ‘garage’ anthem of hope-a-dope ‘Gotta get through this’ enlivened proceedings a tad and getting through it was all I achieved all night. My garage beckoned with additional hosepipe and exhaust actionomics.

‘…and I know that I should let go, but I can’t …’

*revs and inhales*

^ H.G. Wells reference, yeah? Ya know, The Time Machine, a book where according to the World Fact Library ‘the Eloi live a banal life of ease on the surface of the earth’ 

^^Clueless reference, yeah? The film? Not the same when you have to explain it, is it?

Guy Debored (c) 2017