Merry Boxing Day!

And in honour of boxing day here's a little video of Murat & Daniel Paul tackling a digger

Merry WASTEradio Christmas!

Holy crap.

Christmas is here and we have decided to spit in the face of shit telly, annoying relatives and eating too much by giving you a whole Christmas packed show of goodness to listen to instead of having to watch that episode of Friends where Ross kisses Rachael for the 877th time.

You can either listen to the show on the player to your right or if you've been a very good boy/girl you've subscribed to our podcast on iTunes - in which case you can expect a nice little bundle of joy downloaded and ready for your Christmas listening pleasure.

Or, if you're really fucking lazy and have eaten all the mince pies - you can download it HERE.

Merry Xmas/Chrimbo/Christ-mass.

x



Track Listing:

Wild Billy Childish & The Musicians of the British Empire - Santa Claus
Low - Just Like Christmas
The Knife - Christmas Reindeer
The Drifters - I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas
Albert King - Santa Claus Wants Some Loving
Jack Penate - Tonight's Today
Brenda Lee - Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree
Wham! - Last Christmas
Mariah Carey - All I Want For Christmas

Shit Sandwich

You may or may not know this, but one of the worst possible cusses amongst our group of friends is to call someone a ‘shit sandwich’. This probably sounds a bit odd, but think about it for a second: how shit is a shit sandwich? I don’t know about you, mate, but my world comes crumbling down to a salty pile of soggy bread and recovered meat when I haplessly tuck in to a ‘Chicken Tikka’ sandwich that I bought from a corner shop because I was all pissed up and forgot to eat dinner at the right time.

Shit sandwiches are depressing, and it’s not just your ‘Chicken & Sweetcorn’ or your ‘Crabstick & Salad’ sold in corner shops: it can even happen in ‘Pret’…

You are never safe.

On the way to Chichester the other week, Natalia got out of the car to buy us all sandwiches whilst we were stuck in traffic in Putney. She asked me what I wanted, but I was too busy looking cool behind the steering wheel of my Peugeot 106 to choose. Just as she left the car, I suddenly realised that what I wanted more than anything else was a ‘Turkey Christmas Special’. Natalia came back with a ham and mustard baguette, and I felt like crying. I knew it was my fault, and I couldn’t get angry with anyone apart from myself or my Peugeot 106 and how cool it made me look. To make things worse, Natalia said that it had been a close call between the ham & 'turd baguette and the turkey, cranberry, stuffing, mayonnaisey dream that was so nearly mine. The only thing that stopped me from doing a Brian Harvey and running myself over* was the delightful fact that Jon got a Chicken & Avocado sandwich, possibly one of the blandest sandwiches offered by the haut-de-gamme sandwich providers (Pret, M&S etc.)

Given all of this, it may surprise you that I had an intestine sandwich yesterday, and I really fucking enjoyed it.

I’m in Turkey at the moment, spending Christmas with my extended family. In the village nearest to our house there is a little stall with some tarpaulin covering a few plastic chairs and tables. This modest little shack has but one thing on the menu: Intestine Sandwich, otherwise known here as ‘kokoreç’ (pronounced, funnily enough, ‘kohkoh-wretch’). Gag I did not, however, and I wolfed down a half portion in around 5 minutes flat. By the by, when I say half portion, that does not mean that I’m a pussy; a half portion means half a loaf of bread… filled with a lamb’s intestine. 

Basically, what happens is that lamb intestine is wrapped around a spit that spins around in front of an open flame. When you order your sandwich, Mr. Intestine slices off however much you want, chops it up into little pieces, puts it in a pan with a fair few spices – no doubt to mask the taste – and fries those puppies up until they’re nice and crisp. Then he just slaps the mix into some fresh bread. I usually ask him to take out a bit of the bread so as to tip the offal vs. bread ratio in favour of the intestine. This isn’t some age-old Turkish trick so don’t worry. Heck, try different things out: double the intestine filling, ask for extra cumin or chilli. Go crazy and have a whole loaf! That’s the great thing about kokoreç: you can really go to town and let your hair down.

After eating the sandwich we went to see my cousins, aunts, uncles, grandma etc. I told my Uncle Ustun (pronounced Oostoon, not Euston) what I had for lunch and I could see a mad twinkle of jealousy in his eye.

Natalia, do you remember when we were desperately hunting for jobs at the beginning of the summer and you got asked to go to Edinburgh for a media/production training course with heads of industry and such types? Do you recall that when you told me about it, I tried my hardest to look happy for you when actually it was quite clear that I was about to puke on your toe from jealousy? Well, that was the situation yesterday except this time it was my toe in the line of fire.

Anyway, Uncle Euston then told me that the best intestines come from lambs who have never eaten any grass i.e. who have only ever drank their mother’s milk. This would make them very young indeed. He then said that the trick is never to see the lamb being killed. Then it's OK!

Oh how we laughed.

Later on he had a really nice cake, some beer and drifted off to sleep, so his jealousy abated somewhat.

What’s my point? Not sure. What I’m trying to say perhaps is that I know that a few months ago I would have laughed if someone offered me an intestine sandwich. Laughed right in their eye, I tell you. I would have had a Chinese Style Chicken Wrap instead, even though wraps always have too much bread at the end, and not enough filling.

But back then I was a different man: I was ‘pre-intestinal’ Murat. I’ve changed, and now I’m saying: let’s not be too quick to judge. Think before you call someone a shit sandwich, or even a sandwich shit. Make sure you really know what you’re talking about – give everything a chance.

If we all ate a few intestine sandwiches once in a while, the world would be a better place.

* On 31 May 2005, Brain Harvey was admitted to hospital in a critical condition after falling under the wheels of his Mercedes-Benz motor car, whilst driving. According to Harvey, the accident happened after he felt sick from eating too many baked potatoes. He pulled over to be sick, and whilst his head was outside his car, he tipped over and accidentally ran himself over.

Bridget v Murat

Bridget: "No, no no. Not Borat...Morat. Like moron, but with a rat"
Visual Pleasure by Dan Wilton

Not serious enough.

Why aren't people as serious as this these days?

Klaus knows how to chop wood

Visual Pleasure by Dan Wilton

Drinking Games.

We here at WASTEradio wholly condone, I mean condemn (ho ho), the excessive use of alcohol leading to anti- social behaviour and indeed vomit. However I recently came across a drinking game that could not be overlooked, even if it does encourage getting plastered. It encompasses two of the most frequently indulged activities of the festive period; drinking alcohol and watching the television.

"What about a cultural sojourn or something more religious?" I hear the traditionalists cry….. This is realism, mate. You know, like a scene straight out of the Royle Family. "We know what we like and that's whiite, whiiite, whiiiiiiiite." No, no, I digress, that's my favourite quote from a Hovis advert.



So now I've got the moral objections out of the way, back to the game. There are a few variations but the rules remain the same.

1. Record your favourite TV show or film
2. Concoct a communal beverage, nothing too rancid, although mouthwash or aerosols may be used in an emergency.
3. Gather round the TV, worshiping it like an alter.
4. Begin watching the screen.

There are a few caveats to the rules so as to introduce a competitive element, therefore making it a game and not an exercise in dulling the pain of Christmas. The aim of the game is to PAUSE the programme at pivotal moments and guess what the presenter or character will say next. The example that I came across was one that used Nigella's Christmas Kitchen as the programme. Nigella is a particularly good one as her speech oozes innuendos and semantics.

Nigella makes a Lychini – lychee martinis to us commoners. They are one part vodka, one part white rum and two parts crème de lychee. "I like to garish it with" PAUSE…Now to guess what she says next "the souls of ten virgins!" is one guess, "Ear wax!" is another "A delicate sprinkling of bodily fluid!”. The answer is actually tinned lychee. Next. Nigella is making star-topped mince pies. She makes her own pastry, and fills the pies with homemade mincemeat. She browns the sugar "so treacly smelling" she gasps breathlessly. "What I find makes my life easier is"…PAUSE. “Money!” is the first guess, “Licking the edges with my moist lips” is the second, "Smothering you in between my tits you filthy slut!"…The answer is actually putting them in the fridge the night before, but you get the picture. The person with the most accurate answer is exempt from drinking; everyone else must toast their stupidity.

This works equally well with Eastenders, Gok Wan's How to Look Good Naked and Murder She Wrote.

If you're in the mood for even less human contact but want to drink and watch a screen, play the drink whenever Arnie gets kicked in the balls game, whilst watching Total Recall. It's a slow start but guaranteed to leave you hammered.

Merry Christmas!

I'm so glad they're back...

Eastenders

Waltz With Bashir.

Having watched this animated film the other day, I felt I should tell you all just how excellent I thought it was. It's seminal and unmissable and all the other cliches you can think of. Go and take a peek - below are some stills.

Bouncy Boy Returns for 'Sup Magazine: Live Review of Wax On

Wax On is a club night with humble roots that started in 2004 at World Headquarters in Newcastle; a club that is held affectionately in the hearts of many a Toon dweller. The unstoppable juggernaut that it is kept on going and its dominion over all things Northern and Electro continued – they expanded to Leeds in 2006. Boasting rather impressive residents likes Annie Mac and Erol Alkan, it was a fail safe fix for me when I was twitching for a bit of rowdy electro in my days of yore as a student in Leeds.

So, revisiting this night I felt a mixture of nostalgia and excitement. The excitement was derived from the line-up, which was juicy and plump with such inimitable acts as Digitalism, Annie Mac, Switch, Plastician and Brodinsky. The live music was to come from Ladyhawke - the blonde, fringed songstress. Bracing ourselves from the biting cold, we watered ourselves amply in the local Working Man's club nearby and set off.The organisers announced some last minute tickets to the venue and I couldn't help but feel slightly cheated out of some breathing space/any space to move or dance. Gripes aside the venue is excellent and stands tall in the face of competitors of the same ilk.

Ladyhawke played in the Stylus which is the largest room in the venue. She seemed unfazed by the swell of people - mostly students in front of her, which resembled some sort of apocalyptic mass from the safety of the tier above the pit (from where I cowardly watched). Her laid back, slouchy warbling did not come across as morose and she held her own in front of the packed venue. Many pieces of her Peaches backed LP My Delirium were performed with panache. The infectious Paris is Burning was pretty rousing and of course got a good sing-a-long from the crowd. It was a top notch start to the evening.

We made the transition from Stylus to the smaller, more intimate Mine Bar and got an ear full of dub-step that was given the Plastician treatment. Back to Stylus for Annie Mac who gave us a signature mash up – that type that makes you wonder "where did that sample come from?"... which was both unpredictable and predictable. We were then treated to some more aural treats by Switch as the night drew on and then Brodinsky let rip with some pretty heavy I'm going to beat your ear drums into submission techno.

The night had come and gone without anything too untoward occurring. Of course everyone was a bit dishevelled and misty-eyed, but you wouldn't expect anything less. I was having a drink at the bar with my partner in crime, something happened that put a cherry on top of the waxy cake. This guy – a bouncer who for legal reasons will remain unnamed had some kind of Arnie complex. He wanted to flex, god damn, for anyone who would watch (that would be me then). First he gave us a preview on his Nokia of what was lurching beneath his bulging polo shirt. Then before we knew it we were holed up in a disabled toilet having an impromptu photo shoot. Er what? I'm not sure either, but Bouncy Boy aka Muscle Mary seemed to have a great time and so did we.








Photography: Jonangelo Molinari

'Sup Review: Herclues & Love Affair - Matter - 28th November.

It's a weird experience going to Matter. After getting off the tube and walking towards the monumental structure that is the o2 centre, you are suddenly transported to Milton Keynes town centre on a Friday night...that is if Milton Keynes is actually inside a large shopping mall with fake palm trees and lots and lots of security guards - I wouldn't know, I've never been.

As far as 'super clubs' go, Matter has actually done quite well for itself. Lots of space to move around, a nice industrial warehouse look to it (championed by Panorama Bar in Berlin) and an amphitheatre sort of feel in the main room with ascending seats facing the stage so you can be that little bit more judging of the band/crowd beneath you.

But super club's aside, we came here to see Hercules & Love Affair - the much acclaimed 8 piece band who are well and truly bringing back disco. Hurrah.

To look at, the band are a bit of an odd bunch - Andy, the band's creator, stays out of the spotlight and plays keyboards and samples behind Kim Ann; a serene front woman with an androgynous look about her, and Nomi; a glamorous and vivacious party girl who both share the lead vocals, whilst the rest of the band are an assortment of trendy and energetic boy musicians. Offstage they're relaxed and friendly - the bassist shared lovely stories with me about sweating and being stung by a bee on stage - and this transcends into their live performance. Nomi does some serious bum shaking, the trumpet/trombone players work their synchronised moves and the bass player really does sweat a lot.





So, with all this visual pleasure to keep your eyes entertained it's even better when they bang out songs lie 'You Belong' and 'Blind'. There's something about live brass instruments in a club environment that makes me do a little sex wee - and the way they have mixed this with their modern disco sound is what I really like about Hercules & Love Affair.

The crowd were a mix of young gay boys (reaching as far as humanly possible over the stage to touch either Nomi or Kim Ann), old drama queens, straight up and down lads and clear-lensed cool kids. About as mixed as you can get really, which makes for a really relaxed and fun filled gig - bar having to stand next to a few oddly matched horny students sucking on each others faces.

The night was topped off with the added bonus of being able to travel back home by BOAT whilst chowing down on an S&M (Sausage & Mash, not Sado-Masochism) buttie. All together a thoroughly enjoyable evening. Fresh.



Visual Pleasure by Dan Wilton

Review written for 'Sup

Bouncy boy

This strapping young man is a bouncer.........yes a bouncer. A bouncer....that insisted on flexing for Mr Firecrotch and I in a disabled toilet in Leeds on a recent jolly to Wax On, a clubnight in Leeds. We were there to review the night and catch up with some chums, but this really took the biscuit.

Words actually fail me. Well brilliant and bizarre are two but that's it.

Little Gem.

Hello again.

When people refer to places as ‘gems’, or ‘treasures’ that are ‘tucked away’, it tends to get my goat. Don’t get me wrong, sometimes you can catch me calling a pub a ‘gem’, such as the Faltering Fallback near Finsbury Park, but I say it in the style of the late Jimmy Carr. Besides, the entire façade of the Faltering Fallback is covered in ivy that turns red depending on the season, and it’s called the Faltering Fallback, and it probably serves fine ales.

But given that this is a serious piece of reporting, and that Jimmy Carr sadly passed away recently, I have banned all use of irony. So, no gems.

Luisa took us to a place today I had no idea existed.

Every other Thursday under an archway in Bethnal Green an auction takes place selling goods confiscated by the Metropolitan Police. A lot of the items on sale are what you would expect to find: a shed load of bikes, mobile phones, a couple of cars, car radios etc. The catalogue however does get a lot more random:

376: A gothic revival armchair

377: A fire screen and plant stand 

Lots 349 to 355 were as follows:

A pair of ankle boots size 36

A blue and white Chinese style vase and multi colour similar

A Mahogany bottle coaster sterling silver inset and gallery surround

A pair of black and red vases and matching ginger jar

10 assorted hand decorated wine glasses

A pair of green smoke glass vases

A collection of Colour Box teddy ornaments

Bruce Forsyth. Bruce Forsyth. Bruce Forsyth.

My personal favourite, though, was lot 121:

1 x pair of Nike trainers, 1 x cream jacket, 1 x pair of socks, 1 x pair of sunglasses

All of these items were tied together with some string. Clearly they were a set, and I couldn’t get the picture out of my head of a man wearing nothing but a pair of big white geeky Nike trainers, socks, a cream jacket, and a pair of creepy sunglasses. Whoever this man is, lurking somewhere in my imagination, I have an enormous amount of respect for him. I just hope he never sets foot near a school.

 I reckon these auctions will revolutionise fashion. At any one time, people will only be allowed to wear items listed in the same lot. If you got kitted out with lot 119, for example, you’d be laughing: not only would you be able to cover almost all of your body, but you’d have some spares in case it was really cold, you soiled yourself, or you’re a bit nuts and enjoy wearing two shirts at the same time time. Of course, you’d get all the ladies too:

1 x white jacket, 2 x brown shirts, 3x pairs of Gap jeans, 1 x pair of socks, 1 x bottle of Zara aftershave.

One of the guys who ran the auction told us that they were all stolen goods. The first thing that came into my mind was, ‘who the fuck steals a pair of ladies sandals size 40?’ (lot number 3). Then I thought about the credit crunch and wanted to kill myself. Far more interesting, I think, are the people who got mugged in the first place.

 We’ve already pictured the dude wearing lot 121, and probably had sex with whoever wore lot 119. Let us now consider whoever was wearing lot number  117:

 1 x jumper, 3 x mascaras, 1 x brush, 1 x pair of tweezers

 I find it hard to believe that someone would be so vain as to carry around a brush, a pair of tweezers and three different mascaras. I feel vain enough carrying my guyliner everywhere I go (inside left pocket) in case a moment arises when I feel the need to be eccentric, or just bring out the shape of my eyes a little. This becomes all the more weird given that this person was wearing only a jumper.

Moving on now from The Generation Game©, and passing Through the Keyhole®, let’s have a go at guessing who the previous owner of lot 117 was:

This is obviously a lady…

(applause)

Good. Umm… Am I right in saying this lady wears a lot of mascara?

(applause)

OK so, lady… mascara… Hmm. Every lady uses tweezers, so not much of a clue there, but she obviously pays a lot of attention to her hair. Does she have quite a distinctive hairstyle?

(applause)

Right. This is quite puzzling. She’s got a distinctive hairstyle, wears lots of mascara, plucks (not that I have a problem with that), and is incapable of putting on enough clothes before leaving the door.

Aha! Was lot number 117 previously worn by… Amy Winehouse? 

(ravenous applause)

(Cue Sir David Frost)

Stream of shit

Hello.

It’s 6:30pm and I am currently in my studio. Working with me is Daniel Paul, head of visual pleasure. I’m bored of working, but Dan doesn’t want to leave yet because he’s “too busy”. What he’s actually doing is trying to translate what Uberding – a German blog site he did an interview with – has to say about him. I can only speak fake German, so I can’t really help. The tagline of the blog is pretty hilarious though: ‘…uberlife, uberstyle, uberfashion, ubernight, uberyou, uberme…’ 

In order to fill the time, I have decided to write some sort of stream of consciousness, kind of like what the surrealists did. Automatic art, yeah? So, here we go with my trickle of shit… 

It’s cold. Really fucking cold. I have a small heater under my feet, but it’s not really cutting the mustard. If I had mustard, I would rub it over my body to make myself warm. Instead I’m wearing all the clothes that I wear outside, plus a Christmas jumper that I bought from Camden, well, last Christmas.

George Michael.

Seriously, I’m actually shivering and Dan keeps on making strange noises. Shouldn’t have eaten so many chips – they’re weighing my stomach down and making me feel slightly queezy. The last time I felt this queezy was when I watched Saló by Pasolini. Have you watched that film? If I say you should, and then you do, please do not judge me. It is a good film. Maybe I should explain myself slightly. The film is an adaptation of one the Marquis de Sade’s novels, but set in Italy during the Nazi-fascist reign in WWII. A group of fascist aristocrats kidnap a around twenty young Italian men and women, take them to a mansion in a town called Saló, and proceed to sexually abuse them. The four aristocrat men listen to stories recounted by prostitutes about their sexual experiences, most of which are pretty extreme. They do this in order to ‘get in the mood’. When they are sufficiently aroused by the prostitutes’ tales of exchanging bodily fluids with deprived bishops, they choose one of the teenagers to do something weird with. At one point, for example, one of the prostitutes talks about someone peeing on her face. A man then gets up, drags a girl into the bathroom, and makes her watch him take a pee in a urinal whilst she’s having a wee on the toilet. 

Fuck it’s cold. 

I first started watching this film with Luisa, Jon, Nina, and Becky at my house a week ago. We were around 30 minutes into the film so some freaky shit – freaky shit? Who am I? – had already happened. One of the prostitutes recalls the time when she killed her own mother so that she could visit a man famous for being an avid coprafiliac. That’s someone who’s massively into eating shit because it makes them feel sexy.  Apparently Scatman John used to be one, and that’s why he died. I don’t think that’s true by the way. I think he’s living in an island in the Caribbean with 2pac, Elvis and Marylyn Manson. Wait, he’s not dead. He just wishes he was, or something. Anyway, she informs her audience of her experiences with this man, who apparently ejaculated on seeing her eat turd. Curious. The main aristocrat guy then praises the prostitute for killing her mum. Apparently she had no choice, as the pleasure she would get from smearing poo poo on her face was just too much to resist. The mother got in the way so that’s that. Off with her head. I’m such a loser. At this point, a girl starts sobbing. The aristo asks: "why?", and we are informed by one of the other strumpets that her mother died trying to protect her from the kidnappers. The man gets super horny about this for some reason, and takes down his trousers. He lays a turd in the middle of the room, pulls his trousers up – no wipe, by the way – and screams at the girl, telling her to eat it:

 “MANGIA! MANGIA!”

 Do you reckon Scatman John and 2pac would get along?

That’s the point in the film when the Doovde cut out, and everyone let out a sigh of relief, me included. Luisa then said “Oh thank God, we don’t have to watch the rest of the film.” This was when something really weird happened. I found myself on the brink of saying: “Come on, let’s put it back on. I want to see what happens. I’ll wipe it with my t-shirt – I’m sure it’ll work,” but thankfully I held myself back. However, even though I managed to avoid my friends judging me…

My mum’s just called. 

Sorry… yeah, so even though I managed to avoid my friends thinking I was a pervert, the damage was already done. I now knew that there was a pervert inside of me, waiting to be unleashed. But it was actually a good film, with a clear political message: ‘Fascists eat shit.’ I’ve watched the whole thing since – not by myself, I’d like to add – and it truly is a classic. 

Instead of cleaning the Doovde - as I did a few days later - we put on Magnolia instead, which funnily enough turned out to be… 

…a pile of shit.

Dan’s finished now, so I’m off.

Thank you, and goodbye.