Blog of the week: “Black Metallers Doing Normal Stuff”. Plus, Black Metal in London and a “Satan save the Queen” exclusive poster (featuring Burzum).
I have been living in Norway for a while, back in the day; great country, producing great things – music – and bad things – beer and prawn-flavoured cheese.
I was living in Bergen, the place to be if you are into Black Metal, rain, or both. Church burning is alright, but I’ve always been more interested in what Black Metal-heads do on Sundays. When I found “Black Metallers Doing Normal Stuff” I thought: “They do normal shit. Cool.”
Now I live in London, so I thought: “What about the Black Metal scene here?” We’ve already posted something about Satan-East London here some time ago, but we wanted to know more about it.
I Googled “Black Metal in London”, and, among other things, the following pictures appeared.
A recycled cd clock with two buses and two black metal hands.
A “Satanic Whitechapel” t-shirt.
The Black Metal Burger King.
A picture of people disliking Ikea.
Three vintage nurses.
Finally, here’s a poster we made for this year’s Queen’s Diamond Jubilee, with a Burzum twist.
EAST LONDON’S DANDIES - THE TRIUMPH OF FAT-SHION.
Fashion is like religion for the kids of East London.
Many can be bragging about fancy - and ridiculously pretentious - Paris, full of people that look like they just came out of a stereotyped magazine, their hair done like they were riding a motorbike in the streets of Calcutta - wind + fake dust bought at Colette + hairspray = posh Parisien look - but the streets of London still hide the best of the suburban dandies’ style.
Neil, 59, event organiser on benefits.
Left foot - Church’s of England classic brogues.
Right foot - Sainsbury’s orange plastic bag.
Prabhakar, 41, conceptual artist/blogger on benefits.
Shopping for organic canned Full English at the Turkish off-licence with a casual look.
Yellow and blue is so tomorrow.
LaQuischa, 36, light designer/mom of eleven kids on benefits.
Chic yet confortable; shop until your ass drop, at the ‘D SCOUNT SUIT CO PANY’, while practising the latest Yoga trick you have learned from your personal Guru, Brahamavisna ‘Mozzarella’ Upanishad.
The next big thing: kids dressed like dead old people the day they get buried.
BANKSY WHO? The alternative London street art scene.
Every Spanish tourist coming to London is very eager to see all this Banksy stuff on the walls, and when they see a shit copy printed on canvas in the market in Camden Town they get all excited, thinking that it is the real thing, they point at the squalid replica and say: ‘Mira, es un BANSKY’ - yes, they call him BANSKY, nobody knows why.
Don’t get me wrong, I respect Banksy, but there are so many street artists worth a mention in London town, going unnoticed because they are not fashionable enough for Dazed, and because Metro does not give two flying fucks about them, therefore the guy on the District Line ignores their opus.
Look at this ‘KILL DA HIPSTER’ thing, found in Shoreditch, home of the ‘Shoreditch Twats’.
What about this piece, lost somewhere in South London? Free, at last.
Who the fuck is Camilo? A cool dude, with a linear yet sophisticated style.
‘Jesus is alive’, just like Big Paul from Leeds and Big Rick from Bradford, mate.
NO, YOU CAN’T.
Stuff you can do in Hackney (also known as Crackney): go to the park, get stabbed, go to Hipsterland on Broadway Market to buy overpriced organic useless and tasteless stuff, get mugged, get robbed, drink yourself blind in a pub whose sign says ‘Friendly atmosphere, everybody welcome’ and then you realise it was a big lie and the customers - chavs, chavettes, old geezers with yellow beards and no teeth - can tell you to ‘go back to Shoreditch’, then adding ‘you twat’ if you don’t sport the right outfit - you can choose between different combinations, but the sneakers must be Reebok Classics.
If you want to do something else, it looks like you are fucked.
No ball games, danger of death, and if you don’t respect the rules, then CCTV footage is going to nail you. Got it, you cunt?
This is an interesting one; the only good thing about council flats is the tiny garden in the back, with pigeons roaming through the rubbish, but no ball games and no dogs are allowed.
Therefore, kids can stay there as long as they do nothing, and dogs can only dream about running wild in the green.
It looks like they are taking the piss.
Get rid of the fucking garden, if no dogs, no kids, nobody and nothing is going to use it.
Another one for the dogs. I do not understand the sentence, but I do get the sense of it.
This time, the chav who owns a dodgy-looking, misshaped-faced Staffordshire Terrier, probably high on Stella Artwat or Carling, felt he had to be heard by the authority, so he erased some words from the sign.
Result: a senseless cacophony of nonexistent terms and vocables.
Danger! If you are stupid enough to try to get your ass inside one of them containers for second-hand clothes, then you could be trapped for life.
In fact, in an area in which the majority of people are skint drop-outs on benefits, who is going to dump broken shoes? And who is going to collect them? No-fucking-body, that is the right answer.
