I haven't until now.
Thanks for the recommendation.
17.10.2025 05:10
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I haven't until now.
Thanks for the recommendation.
I'm still a FLIP YOUR WIG lad. humanizingthevacuum.wordpress.com/2018/09/21/r...
Farage calls critics “left wing extremists.”
Trump calls Democrats “Radical left wing lunatics and the enemy within.”
Same hymn, different parish.
They need an enemy to sell themselves as saviour.
The real fear isn’t violence it’s an organised, coherent left that remembers how to speak.
Victoria Park, April ’78.
Rock Against Racism.
The Clash, Steel Pulse, X-Ray Spex, Tom Robinson Band, Buzzcocks.
Eighty thousand marched from Trafalgar Square to say no to the National Front.
No brands. No sponsors.
Genuine question
who from today’s scene could’ve stood on that stage?
Sonic Youth — “Kool Thing” (1990).
Icy bass, guitars that flirt with chaos.
Kim’s voice winding around irony like barbed wire.
Not a song, a dare.
The Fall — Totally Wired (1980).
You don’t have to be weird to be wired.
But it bloody helps.
Smith didn’t perform, he twitched truth into rhythm. Sounds like caffeine arguing with God.
Magazine — Shot By Both Sides (live ’79).
Devoto sneers like he’s grading the audience.
McGeoch turns the guitar into a nervous breakdown.
Too clever for punk, too twitchy for pop
Mudhoney — Good Enough (1991).
Jangle building to a static fuzz,
like frustration learning to sing.
Still rough, still righteous.
Bloody cracking.
Birdland — Hollow Heart (1989).
Birmingham’s answer to The Stooges, or so the papers said.
Touted one minute, torn down the next.
Burned bright, burned out, left a cracking single behind.
Still sounds like promise getting punched in the mouth.
Flag alert.
Neville’s no Orwell but he’s not daft.
Prod the cloth and they call you a traitor.
They’ll call him a wrong un, for stating the bleeding obvious
Wave it long enough, it means shut yer gob.
Not pride , just noise for gobshites.
So the enemy is now anyone with a bookshelf.
Blames education, fears punctuation.
Wants Britain thick, loud and grateful.
Funny, innit.
Two ex-footballers say something half decent about people and the right wing panic
Lineker talks refugees, Neville talks decency, and suddenly it’s war on “woke pundits.”
They’re terrified of anyone with a platform who can string a sentence together without blaming immigrants.
Buzzcocks.
Boredom (1977).
Still sharper than most of what passes for rebellion.
Two chords, one truth,
the future got boring faster than they did.
![David Bowie - Moonage Daydream (Live at Hammersmith Odeon, London 1973) [4K Upgrade]](https://cdn.bsky.app/img/feed_thumbnail/plain/did:plc:3bdnbnpacxwtugi46tlej6p2/bafkreifmq3432l6xsdu2ioiarckdj2776hjaotyudmvuodcyxukpuezd64)
Bowie .
Moonage Daydream (live, ’73).
Whole stage looks like it’s running on ego and eyeliner.
Mad, messy, brilliant.
Like Britain before the hangover.
They ask why Thatcher still looms.
Because we never scraped her off our shoes.
Every lot since just polished the stain and called it progress.
Desmond wants £1.3 billion for losing.
Fuckers made a fortune floggin’ misery,
now havin’ a sulk in Saudi.
Built his empire on tits and telly,
still reckon’s he’s the victim.
We’re all skint,
but the bastards want tipping.
Parallel universe?
Nah, Same one, just the lights flickering
They’ll cheer a car crash if it’s waving a flag.
Badenoch talks bollocks in full HD
and they call it vision.
Water bills up again.
Raw sewage in the rivers, bonuses in the boardroom.
We’re paying extra to swim in our own mistakes.
Turdsday it is.
The nation’s true religion.
Admin, banking, and family diplomacy.
Every flag’s a warning sign.
Hanging there like the laundry of decline.
The Police.
Synchronicity II (1983).
Middle management apocalypse set to a hi hat.
Office stress, suburban despair,
and Sting shouting like he’s late for enlightenment.
Still bangs, still bleak.
Soft Cell — Say Hello, Wave Goodbye (1981).
Drama in eyeliner form.
Two blokes making heartbreak sound like a cabaret exit.
Still hurts, still perfect.
Buzzcocks “Harmony in My Head. 1979”
Sounds like a mind in discord,
singing back at itself.
Let the noise sharpen your hearing.
Cocteau Twins.
Heaven or Las Vegas.
Sounds like angels on helium arguing in a lift.
Dream-pop for people who can’t face daylight.
Still glorious, still baffling.
Bauhaus doing Bowie, 1982.
Shot under Camden Lock , tunnels, feedback, eyeliner.
Ziggy through a hangover,
all grandeur, no gloss.
They didn’t cover him, they exhumed him.
Re my previous post,
yeah, that chair.
The Maxell ad.
If you know, you know.
Everyone else?
That’s what goths did before ring lights.
Peter Murphy.
Cuts You Up.
Beautiful melodrama from a man
who made a career out of sitting in a leather chair.
Still, it bleeds better than most.
Kate Bush, Army Dreamers.
Pretty tune about dead kids.
Bronski Beat said more truth in falsetto
than most manage sober.
They’re on about keeping pubs open later.
Can’t see the point.
The 80s and 90s crowd are ready for bed by ten,
necks creaking, feet done in.
The young ones don’t even drink ,
they just film the pint and go home.
Different century, same bad ideas.
World’s gone daft and half burnt.
Everyone’s arguing with the weather.
Anyway, here’s Hüsker Dü.
Louder than reason,
shorter than hope.