Letters To The Editor. Part 2.

After the success of last months 'Letters To The Editor' feature and coz I couldn't be arsed to write anything cohesive I thought I'd roll it out again for another outing, so here it is back by (un)popular demand.

Letters To The Editor. Part 2.
Dear Mark,
I'm a professional footballer, right. I earn approximately £1.5 million quid a year and in return for that I have a duty to maintain my body at the peak of fitness every day of my working life. I train for a minimum of 6 hours a morning, swim for a further two and work out in the gym every other evening. I don't smoke or drink and I steer well clear of fatty foods such as pork and bacon. I have my heart rate and blood pressure carefully monitored by a team of experts twice a week. My personal trainer maintains that I am the healthiest human specimen he's ever had the privilege to work with. I have a beautiful wife, Linda and two wonderful children, Simon who's six and little Farrah who's nearly three. I drive a Mercedes and live in a large house on the Surry borders. I'll probably pack it in at 33, by which time I'll be a multi millionaire.
Makes you sick dunnit!!
Keith Twattist, Smug, Surry.

Dear Mark,
What's all this I hear about some bloke earning a fortune claiming to have invented the cat's eye. Bloody cheek! That was one of mine. Do you think I'd go to the trouble of doing a cat and then not give the fucking thing a set of eyes? Cats, dogs, trees, whelks, sheep, gravel, all manner of flora and fauna - they were all my idea. Sort yourselves out before I send you a hefty invoice for the lot. Now go in peace or I'll invent a 700 ton hedgehog. And don't think I wouldn't. I've had it up to here with you lot. Alright! That is my word etc, etc. Cheers!
God, Heaven.

Hew, yee!
My doctor tells me I don't know my arse from my elbow. 'Course I don't man,' I said, 'that's your job'. I don't expect you to know how to fix a telly, do I? Just as well he said, cos mine bust. Cheeky bastard. Anyway, turned out the tube had gone so i flogged him a new one for a pony. Good job someone knows what they're doing, eh?
Lou Ferringo, Heaton.

Dear Mark,
I'm a big bloke, 17 and a half stone. I like my grub and I'm not adverse to the odd pint or 14 from time to time. I've always been on the large side since I was a youth. I'm 25 on Thursday and I think it's about time for a total lifestyle rethink. I looked at myself in the mirror the other day and it suddenly dawned on me that I'm not operating at my full potential. Simply put, I feel there's a thin person inside me trying to get out. Blimey! I thought to myself, I don't remember eating that! Anyway, tell me, how can I get rid of the bastard for a couple of hours while I nip down the cafe for a plate of chips and a cuppa with 7 sugars? Oh and get ya skates on fam. I'm bloody famished! Nice one.
Fat John. Cheddar Gorge. South Devon.

Till next time.
Big love. Mark. X

Genetic gentrification and rose tinted memories of the Northeasts human scrapyards.

Time,,,,,,,, time, longevity and all things temporal. Those are the things that have been piquing my interest this week. Now the traditional mode of temporality is usually defined as 'a linear procession of past, present, future.' However, who is to say that this commonly acknowledged formula is the same for everyone? After all, we're told in school and church from the very youngest age that 'God created the heaven and the Earth and all things therein in 7 days,' and still had time to kick back and have a roast on the 7th day. Now by any measure that's some going! We all know that the lads got a good engine on him like a kind of celestial Nemanja Matic, an omnipotent midfield dynamo all full of hustle, box to box from the first to last whistle and all that, but 7 days? Whats to say that one of Gods days wasn't a hundred, a thousand or even a million of our years? Relatively speaking the increments of measuring time have been argued over by every sect and religion since the beginning of,,, well,,, er,, time. Which brings me untidily to my point. The particular facet of time and it's measurement I've suddenly found rammed in my face is that of geniality and heritage. The amount of websites and magazine advertising now taken up with people who profess to be able to trace back your ancestry. Why do they do it? And more importantly, why do so many people come to the North in search of their ancestors who are, to them, no more than names. It seems like the North East of England, in particular Northumberland is second only to Scotland for people tracing their humble working class routes, it's as though we were the master default switch on every genealogists computer. They come in droves, always middle class, dressed is brand new yellow cagoules and expensive walking boots to pour over all but illegible copper plate and parrish registers with scant regard for the damage inflicted on their eyes. They scrape the lichen from headstones in Alnwick. They walk beside tiny streams in Morpeth where someone with rickets who two century's ago happened to share 100% of their Mothers surname and 1.575 of their DNA may, just may have walked in inadequate foot ware. What is wrong with them? What is the current obsession with 'Roots'? You could say it's a lot to do with the Catalans and Basques. They, like Northerners have always been people who's main contribution has been human export. Brain, muscle and sinew for hire. From the Newcastle and Durham miners who selflessly went to fight Franco's annexing of Barcelona to Northern Women chucking themselves under the Queens horse's, spoiling Royal Ascot in search of the vote.
There has always seemed to be a Northerner of some gender at the front of the mob to throw the first brick. Some may say that this is a classic example of Northern ignorance and belligerence but I'd rather mark it down as a steadfast commitment to the cause. There's always been a culture of strong left wing political identity in the North as well as the more publicised intolerance and racism we're so often accused of. But this strong identity and working ethic displayed in our grand parents and their parents has always been the main driving force for Northern people leave here in search of a bigger stage and of a living wage and the chance of material improvement. That's why we have these middle class, Sunday afternoon family tree enthusiasts bothering our beer gardens of a weekend. It's largely a matter of economical survival, their ancestors made a hard-nosed decision to leave and their descendants make the soft-nosed decision to come back and claim some Northern heritage by proxy. The stuff in their veins is blood group 'Wey-aye' and when they bleed they bleed a coal and Brown Ale mix. The internet has been a boom for both pornography and genealogists, unsurprisingly as the fundamental principle for both is the same, incremental. There must always be more. More participants, more contortion, more Grand Parents, more second cousins. It's not enough to trace back 2 or 3 generations. They need to find the rusty pick axe that their great grandfather 14 times removed used to cut the first lump of coal out of Durhams first coal face. All the while telling themselves the lie of the 'good old days'. Now as corrupt as the Northern vernacular has become, we have the good fortune to speak a form of the English language which, unlike Arabic or Sicilian, has a future tense. Why not concentrate on the regeneration in the area, of the quayside and Ouesburn in Newcastle, the award winning Baltic Art Gallery, the Sage Buildings or the Millennium Bridge rather than the rose tinted-half remembered, tiresome tales of young northern scamps and the elaborate comic ruses created to prevent their angry mothers from discovering their chronic truancy. These to me are far less interesting. Yet still people insist on concentrating on coo-ing over scratchy-sepia toned pictures of kids in flat caps and tatty knee length trousers holding onto ropes attached to malnourished pit ponies. Remember, there is another North East, vital, living, untarnished places with energy and a greater delight. Places with no quasi Victorian-ancestral claim on us. Where the yolk of a ready made collective history is absent. One that we can talk of in the future perfect rather than the past historic. Places where we can choose to go towards rather than come from. Places with potential, where anything is possible, where everything is waiting to happen.
That's all for now. But how long is now?

Till next time.
Big love. Mark. X

An open letter to the writers of open letters.

To those who feel compelled to address the world from Facebook, Twitter, and email chains, here is a message: No one is listening, least of all Luther Vandross.
We need to have a talk, under the illusion of its taking place in private but actually for anyone to read. Also, the talk will be unilateral and you will never respond to it. Ready? It doesn’t matter, because I’m not listening to you!

The practice of writing open letters must stop. I agree, it was a creative form back in the days of the Bible, and was used effectively throughout history by such figures as Martin Luther, Martin Luther King, and Luther Vandross.

But now every John, Dick, and Luther with internet access can write an open letter for potentially everyone to read, and most of our discourse is already public (I actually originated that last phrase in 1996, which is no. 8 on my list of 25 Things You Don’t Know About Me, just after no. 7—“I murdered a man in Laos on 6/19/2002 and have never been apprehended.”) Writers of open letters, it’s time, for the following reasons, to retire the form, one as hackneyed as the enumeration of arguments through bullet points:

• First, there’s the arrogance of presuming that your letter will really be read by the public, not to mention the greater hubris of signing the letter with your location and date, as if the act of writing it is a historic event whose place and time we must note for the ages. Chances are, no fucker cares enough about the issue to read it, so people end up shamelessly larding their letters with search-engine-friendly phrases like, oh, I don’t know, 'Justin Bieber haircut', 'Angelina Jolie nude' and 'Did Luther Vandross ever really write an open letter? He didn’t, right? It was just a joke, like I thought at first wasn't it?'

• Intervention by letter is an emotionally unhealthy way to address something. If you’re upset about something, therapists often do recommend writing a letter to the person who has upset you — but not sending it. You reap all the benefits of self-expression without the interpersonal conflict. Is it really worth expressing your frustration over VW's fixing of their emmissions stats to have an awkward encounter the next time you run into their CEO, Martin Winterkorn in Asda?

• Speaking of the mega rich, a few people or entities to whom there should be an immediate moratorium on writing open letters: Primeministers; the High Court; billionaires. They are too busy and important to ever read it, except for Richard Branson, because he’s so insecure he has a Google alert set up for his name.

If you absolutely must write an open letter, at least conform to a few tropes of real letter-writing, such as mixing in breezy updates about your own life. For example, in an open letter to Nigel Farage, you might write, “In conclusion, sir, I, for one, am extremely grateful you and your party are doing a great job in showing what a bunch of absolute retards you are as I find morally reprehensible each and every one of your doctrines. P.S. By the way, last night, Sheila and I watched 'The Muppet Show'. We both thought of you!

I would also call for a ban on the short semi-open letter that’s taken root on Facebook and Twitter, such as 'Tuesday afternoons, why are you so interminable?' or 'Oh, Downton Abbey, how I love you,” or 'Dear Luther Vandross, did you ever write an open letter? Also I wonder what music you’d be making now if you hadn’t died in 2005.'

Writers of open letters, since you’ve read to the end of this letter and haven’t rebutted me, I assume you’re in agreement and, therefore, the matter can be considered officially closed.

Yours in meta-openness,
Mark. X

P.S. Due to Soundcloud being a bit shit and regularly disabling mixes due to copyright infringements, we've recently set up a brand new profile over ar 'HearThis.at' to archive all of our podcasts complete with the ability to download them. So click the link and pop across and follow us there. X

"The creatures outside looked from pig to man, and from man to pig, and from pig to man again. "

Unless you've been living under a rock - or simply went to bed early - news broke last night that our Prime Minister, Mr D. Cameron of 10 Downing Street in that there London, got up to some particularly iffy stuff with some unprocessed bacon in his youth. Only now that the internet's bewilderment has begun to subside and the smoke clear can we evaluate the impact of his alleged fumbles with a dead farmyard animal and what it means for his future. Now David Cameron has been accused of being many things during his tenure as leader of this country – but 'Pigfucker' is the latest allegation to be thrown his way. The former Deputy Chairman of the Conservative Party (and Dave's mortal enemy, kind of a Skeletor to Cameron’s self appointed 'He Man') Lord Ashcroft has written a biography titled 'Call Me Dave'. Now this isn't a book I have or ever intend reading so I have to admit that my knowledge of it's contents is entirely vicarious but from what I can gather it reportedly places a seedy filter over the lens of the PM’s less-than-impressive behaviour at university, with allegations of drug use, trashing restaurants and now, inserting genitalia into a pig’s mouth as part of an initiation process. The story has been recounted by a yet to be identified associate of Dave's who is also an MP. It apparently all went down on a night out with the Piers Gaveston society (a notorious Oxford dining club) when as part of a bizarre initiation ceremony a prospective member (in this case Mr. Cameron) was required to lob his old chap into a dead pigs gob. That the dead pigs head was resting in the lap of another member when Dave decided to pop his own member into it is yet to be confirmed but apparently there is a photograph of it but that's yet to surface. The book also claims that Cameron smoked a bunch of weed at college and hung out with James Delligpole and listened to a lot of Supertramp, and to make themselves sound even cooler they called themselves the 'Falm Club'. Now not to defend Cameron but smoking a bit of weed isn't a big deal. I'm pretty sure that everyone reading this has done it I think it's probably more of a big deal why he felt the need to give the most mundane and common activities like smoking weed and going out for dinner ridiculously extravagant names by turning them into clubs or societies. The fucking pretentious dickhead.
But to inject a bit of context into the pig-tale, Lord Ashcroft is a New Zealand born billionaire who pumped £8 million into the Conservative party and served as a former party treasurer to the Tories up until 2010 and was once
firm friends with Cameron. Now this is where things get sticky, Lord Ashcroft was promised a job by David Cameron, once he was victorious in the 2010 election but things didn’t quite work out that way. It was soon revealed that Mr Ashcroft had not paid taxes on his UK overseas earnings in which David Cameron claimed to have had no idea about. Ashcroft, begged to differ stating the Tory leader was aware of the situation from 2009. Now a single, anonymous source and an unverified photo is hardly rock solid evidence. Especially in an unauthorised biography from a man who has very publicly fallen out with Cameron before the last election. However none of that stopped the internet chasing the comedy with the now inevitable/tedious spoof Twitter and Facebook accounts springing up seconds after the story leaked. If you can actually be bothered to navigate your way through all the gloating and ribaldry, there are a few top drawer gags to be had though. Now for Cameron and his spin doctors this is actually quite a serioss pickle, especially this talk of photographic evidence, and however unlikely that might be, a denial is therefore risky without complete confidence there’s no way any such thing happened. In this sort of scenario, you really don’t want to be caught telling, ahem, porkies. There are also valuable social benefits to the news. It’s Monday evening and it’s been revealed – David Cameron might have put his dick in a dead pig’s mouth, meaning that there’s way more to talk about at the water cooler or in the pub than usual. Do say: "Whoa, have you heard that the Prime Minister has been accused of sticking his dick in a dead pig’s mouth? Weird, right?" Don’t say: "Have you ever fucked a dead pig? Till next time.
Big love.
Mark. X

Thoughts On Love And Smoking podcast series: #2 Mozhgan (We Are Monsters)

For the second installment in our podcast series we're delighted to be able to bring you an absolutely brilliant mix from one of the shining lights of the San Francisco scene. 'We Are Monsters' resident, Mozhgan. Draining the fevered sweat from San Frans' underbelly since 2011, the 'We Are Monsters' crew of Solar, Jason Greer and Mozhgan have all been described as a 'best kept secret' of sorts, tag now however that is becoming wholly inappropriate given their current rise. All can now be found playing across Europe's summer festival season with spots at the likes of Dekmantel and Croatia's Garden Party as well as the Sunset Campout parties in California and further afield, serving up top shelf beats ranging from odd disco excursions over analogue jams to cold wave synths and louche Italo and anything that tickles their fancies.
Mozhgan is most definitely DJ who expresses and exercises his/her freedom. Going many places,touching on many genres, telling endless musical stories. For great DJ's, knowing music doesn't mean specialising in one particular style, far from it! It's about creating a trans-generational, genre-unspecific and more versatile sound. A truly cosmic perspective tapping into a wider spectrum of influences. Comfortable throwing together sets which touch base with everything from dub, disco, afro, techno, rock and industrial sounds, it's these ideas that mark Mozhgan out as a truly great selector and the reason we were so happy she so readily agreed to contribute this mix to our series . Anyway, that's enough of our rabbiting on, we highly recommend that you check out her Soundcloud here for a bunch of other great mixes too but before then, sit back, press play and turn. It. UP. X

Till next time.
Big love. Mark. X

Life imitates art as Daniel actaully does the stars this month!! + Traxx on RLS/NTS at Dekmantel 2015.

Anti-mimesis is a philosophical position that holds the direct opposite of Aristotelian mimesis. Its most notable proponent was Oscar Wilde, who opined in his 1889 essay 'The Decay Of The Light' that, "Life imitates Art far more than Art imitates Life". In the essay, written as a Platonic Dialogue, Wilde holds that anti-mimesis "results not merely from Life's imitative instinct, but from the fact that the self-conscious aim of Life is to find expression, and that Art offers it certain beautiful forms through which it may realise that energy." With this all in mind it's with some incredulity that I have to inform you that after months of me assuming Dunsfords identity that Danny has actually done the stars himself this month! Read on you poor confused fools!!!!!


Aries:
It's in the wind, it's all around you. Love? No, asbestos. You're fucked mate. I told you to get that certificate before you pulled that shed down. Not sure why I bother. Don't expect grapes in hospital.

Taurus:
Strong, reliable Taurus. You could be stronger though and as the moon is in the third house this month, take this opportunity to buy those steroids from Big Dave at the gym. Ask for Winstrol. It's the SHIT!

Gemini:
People are talking at work and it's not that jacket/blouse (how the fuck should I know? I'm not psychic you cunt) you just bought. You're weird. You're weird and that thing you do with your nose you think is 'cute' really isn't. It makes you look like you've got Bells Palsy. PACK IT IT! Your feminine and masculine natures are connected but that's the least of your problems.

Cancer:
Your philanthropic side may want to come out and do good works today, Cancer. Your default mode is to care for others but you're very good at overriding that and senselessly murdering strangers. Swings and roundabouts innit.

Leo:
It's going to be a funny old month for you. You'll come into money but you'll also get caught wanking into your Mam's purse. It's not for me to judge but you'll probably go to Hell. Get all of the facts before you proceed.

John Virgo:
That waistcoat looks WELL PENG! Nah bruv, it really does! Fortune favours a televised 147 and a weekend away with Richard Hammond and Dave Benson Phillips. Proceed with caution.

Libra:
The scales are balanced finely but you're one up after you smashed that hard drive. The beak and the CPS have got fuck all on you blud.

Scorpio:
Mustn't grumble eh? That QuickQuid loan has just cleared with a mere 1247% representative APR. The extra nightshifts will cause your wife to leave you, but you'll have enough left for a brass. A classic Scorpio, you know how to prioritise. Bravo!

Sagittarius:
Why are we here? What is the purpose? What is the plan? Don't we flatter ourselves when we indulge the idea that this vast cosmos has a specific destiny in mind for each of us? It doesn't.
Straight up. It's an unfathomable void of nothing stretching to the far limits of the expanding singularity. Eat chips for luck and you'll get a tiny pay rise that takes you out of the Tax Credits threshold.

Capricorn:
Summer is here and you need a reward.Treat yourself to a holiday in Jersey. Buy a Cornetto. Eat the cunt on the beach, eh? You can't though! That bastard divorce is costing you a shit-tonne. Cheat fate by watching every episode of Bergerac in a tan leather jacket. Get used to it. This is your life now.

Aquarius:
You'll re-connect with the inner you at a liquid drum n' bass night in an old pottery studio come warehouse space.

Pisces:
Fucking getting sick of this now. Taxed this last part off of Justin Toper. Fucking Nutkins-a-like owes me a score from that thing we did at that gaff anyhow that time. 'What took place recently has no doubt left you shell-shocked or put you on alert. Suspicious, or what?! Fortunately, a partner or accomplice is sure to come up with an idea that cannot be dismissed too lightly today. After which, you should be able to gamble at leisure'.

Till next month.
Dan. X



We've featured Traxx a few times now here on TOLAS but this new mix from the people at Red Light Radio is an absolute blinder. Recorded for them during this years Dekmantel festival in Amsterdam it's a 2 hour, freeform radio jam that touches on almost every genre, no matter how obscure, you care to mention. Do yourself a favour and jam in in your ears, REAL LOUD!

Till next time.
Big love. Mark. X

Here man! It's Mike Rolfe's Music Review, hew!

Are you in need of some new music in your world? Bored with your iTunes library? Looking to spice up your collection of EPs? You got ears? YOU GOT EARS IDIOT? Well, sit back, relax and read on, my Rocker Boys as we let  Mike Rolfe, Newcastle's moodiest musical polymath and it's third biggest bastard give you a guide to the 5 next big things!

M.R. - "Here, right! Listed below are, like, five fucking artists that I reckon are about to take the music scene by storm. Get to know these hot up-and-comers and be the coolest Guitar Man on the block, for once in your life!

First up is a band called: Fat Feet Foot.

Who Are They?: Based out of Byker, this band has legs for days. No but it does. It’s just legs AND fat ones, too. These fat legs sing at you with such passion, you’ll be like, “oh.”
Critics agree, “what” and “the hell is this.”

Sample Song Lyric:' I walked into your house and what did I see / piles of knight statues looking at me / what the hell is this shit, Jim?'

– from “He's got piles”

Where to catch them next? In a bin somewhere.

Next up it's a group of lads calling themselves: The Golden Chip, Chip Shop But A Band.

Who Are They?: Imagine if your favorite chip shop/legal high retailer was a band! Then forget about that, because that’s not what this is! 'The Golden Chip, Chip shop But Band' are three big lads from Prudhoe who don’t know what words are but when they hold hands, music happens for some reason. The Evening Chronicle calls them, “probably not music and actually kind of frightening.”

Sample Song Lyric: Why do you have a crow in your bathroom / I thought it was a towel and it bit me.

– from “Why Do You Have A Crow In Your Bathroom?”

Where to catch them next?: This, like, barn.

Next up it's the turn of: 'Juuuuuust Kevin!'

Who Are They?: 18 blokes called Kevin who sometimes team up and use their hands for instruments! I saw them at Cluny 3 the other week and the only things I said all night were, “they’re just clapping” followed by, “I think I’m going to go do something else.” Thats ALL I COULD FUCKIN' SAY MAN!!

Sample Song Lyric: Let’s hit the dance floor / we’ll do it right / come on let’s dance / gonna make you feel like you’re floating / hang on you’re actually floating, oh god you’re a ghost.

– from “Come On Let’s Dance Wait Unless You’re A Ghost."

Where To Catch Them Next: Your lasses house.

Next up we've got: Doorwayzz With Feelingzz.

Who Are They?: Get ready for the most unusually sexual, actual doorways you have ever fucking seen or heard of. They're CLASS! You’ll feel extremely uncomfortable and go, “Is that a door?” followed by, “Fuck,, what’s it deein'?” when they take the stage and do properly strange things with each other while also somehow singing with nee mouths, man.

Sample Song Lyric: Give me your hand / let me hold your hand / I want to hold your hand / wait is your hand a fin, what the fuck?

– from “Yee Wanna Hold Handz (With A Doorway, like?)”

Where to catch them next?: Your lasses, lads hoose.

Lastly it's: Derek-Upon-Tweed.

Who Are They?: Derek-Upon-Tweed are the newest music trend to sweep the nation and have headlined literally every single music festival of 2015, sometimes being the only act IN THE WHOLE SHOW and just doing their set 19 times! Listen as they flap in the wind, hypothetically AND literally punching its contents into your ears. But don’t just take my word for it!

“I love Derek-Upon-Tweed!” said one 2015 Ingrum Valley Music & Arts Festival attendee.

“I’ve been to every single one of their shows. What better is there to do with your life than follow D.U.T. everywhere?” said another.

“I think that with that rubbish bin onstage they're trying to say something! I don’t know anything!” another person just like shouted at me, rudely.

Sample Song Lyric: You make me feel so safe and so right / in your arms, I feel the warmth and I feel the light / you have 8 arms and, OH SHITE! YOU'RE A FIRE OCTOPUSS!

– from "Yee've Got Owa Many Arms”

Where to see them : Everywhere! Everywhere!!!! Everywhere everywhere everywhere everywhere!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Till next time.

You can all PISS RIGHT OFF!! Mike. X