The multi talented Thomas McConnell releases his excellent first single, "Penny (Won't Help Me Now)". It will be released as a FREE download from Monday, December 16th at www.thomasmcconnellmusic.b
Tuesday, 10 December 2013
Wednesday, 9 October 2013
TECHNIQUE- Great night in store on Saturday 19th October
Great night promised for Saturday 19th October!
Saturday, 28 September 2013
September 13 Ins & Outs
Ins
Your arse is on your head,
your arse is on your head, you arse is on your head (bring back bald footy
players and refs)
Cantinas
Saspirella
Knowing someone who has
shagged a tomato
Tony Bellows Big gash
Pete shelleys muzzy
Padding out your lunchbox/package
with rice pudding
Oxtail soup toasties
Sucking hard on an oxo
Placing a plaice in yer
mates hood
Smoking rice crispys in a
doobie
Putting a rice
crispy in your bosses top pocket
D.L.T perms
the D.L.T IS INNOCENT campaign.
Being suspicious,
Pork flavoured custard
smoking fresh air,
sly kicks at pets,
knowing what blind scouse is,
snitchin on snitches,
reading echo obituaries before your mar has,
not understanding family etiqutte,
still enjoying pub quizs
not knowing any hard cases at all and enjoying that fact
remembering Kojaks watch
Coal
Bartering with butter
Putting hot dogs in your mates ma’s central heating cupboard
Dicing with Dench
Giving your nan a butt plug for chrimbo
Providing an example to Example…before hastily flinging him off the 14th
Floor
Coffee butties
Curried cotton
Playing cricket on your own
Dreadlock’d pubes
The Systematics
Punching a pygmy
Slapping slid
Chinning Chris Malone
Giving yer boss a
cheeky kiss on his bald head when you’re clocking off
Wearing footy socks
over yer jeans
Eating yer mates
daughters chicken nuggets while yer mates on the phone
“size of a mammoth”
Loitering in Leeds
Dogging in Dagenham
Smirking in Smedley
Rioting in Rhyl
Diarrhea in Derby
Wearing your
aunties thong
Massaging your
bosses lego
OUTs
Ian fucking Ayre and his
harley
Knee length testies
Mark Lawrenson
Manager of the month curse
Knowing someone who sends
champagne over to people they know
That mad manc firm at the
buzzcocks gig (50 yr olds in sheepie’s in a mosh pit isn’t a great look)
Scousers on those magaluf
tv programmes
Rimming a rhino
Lushwives
“Hurr hurrr hurrr” laughs
BRodgers self portrait
You STILL wearing
hoodies? Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
wearing your lads north face
jimmy saville rinses,
talking about lines all the fuckin time
saying totally agree mate, when you’re thinking get me away from this
boring fuck
being stressed,
stressing out,
stressing over xmas menus
the word stress,
not being stressed out
not recognising stress,
stress related cardigans
refuting things
having a cat as a mate,
whistling soft porn tunes,
remembering,
concentrating ,
the word bugle,
having a cousin who’s a loon
shouting medication time on the train
robbin’ rembrandts.
Stealing steak
Nicking Nike
Pickpocketing Police
Talking teak
Getting a tit nudge off yer nan
Young pups passing on wisdom to you
Having a spat with China,
Kicking fuck out of a sausage
Ball bag beards
“Dickcember”( leave your dick hanging out your zipper for the entire month
of December for charity)
Polishing your elbows
Frying a frozen fritter on a Friday
Diced soup.
Collecting grass
Townies
Getting yer mates daughter to hold yer ciggy while you eat her chicken
nuggets
Breaking your nipple
Felching in Fulham
Bumming in brum
Massaging your bosses ego
Remembering Scottie Road
Snarling at a sweaty growler
D. wing
Tuesday, 24 September 2013
Ahead of Tomorow's Liverpool Man u game, here's an excellent read from thenfieldwrap / Karl Coppack
Ahead of Tomorow's Liverpool Man u game, here's an excellent read from thenfieldwrap / Karl Coppack
Our Friends in the North
Our Friends in the North
WEDNESDAY night sees another Cup tie against ‘our friends from the other end of the M62′ (George Sephton, under P.R duress, April 1988) and the continuation of the Scouse-Manc bunfight. It’s the League Cup so no one should be ‘that’ arsed but if this were a testimonial for the oldest Old Trafford car park attendant we’d still fill our allocation and act like it’s St Etienne. These games matter even when they don’t.
In the pre-match ramble before the Manchester derby, Carra accepted the League significance of that game but still considered the Liverpool/United game to be the biggest game in the country. He’s right. Sorry Chelsea but they’re our rivals, not you. True, the derby is still up there and that march from the Albert across the park, usually in the rain, forms a pleasing high of the season, but the United game edges it. There can’t be many rivals who would swap an Anfield win for an Etihad one and similarly Goodison and Old Trafford wins are two very different things.
It’s not the fact that we’re now underdogs since their Sky age dominance, we never won there when we were hammering the giants of Europe, it’s more that it’s historical. We’ve hated each other for decades now and we’ve hated each other for purely fantastical reasons of little significance. Our mutual annoyance at each other’s existence is a start but there’s the accents, the fashion, the haircuts and the larger game of which is the better city. This last dates back into pre-Victorian age when the pride of Manchester cotton industry was met with sniffs from the inhabitants of the world’s greatest port. The Mersey beats the Irlam. I’m putting that on a banner.
Of course it gets overly nasty, of course some of it is hard to fathom and of course it goes over the top but there’s something welcoming about it too. In April 1988 when relations between the clubs were still of 1985 standard i.e. pretty bad, a decision was made to extend the hand of friendship and unite the footballing North West. For one game only United would run out to the Kop instead of to their own fans at the Anfield Road end and would charitably kick training balls into our end to mark this newfound bond.
Every single ball came back on the pitch.
Every single one.
I love that.
The Kop boisterously sang about Bryan Robson’s supposed susceptibility to certain venereal diseases. He waved a nonchalant hand in a gesture that fooled no one. He was to have his revenge two minutes into the game by which time we’d moved onto their other players. No one wanted a chummy relationship. We like hating them and they like hating us. If United didn’t exist we’d have to create them to make the match more interesting. After that game the two managers went for each other when Kenny told the press that they would get more sense out of his baby daughter Lauren than his ranting rival. We were then eleven points clear and were about to wrap up a title that Ferguson could only dream about at that point but we never let a second’s polemics pass without comment. Winning isn’t enough for those games. You have to craw about it for ages afterwards too.
If the main reason for the rivalry is geographical in nature why don’t we do the same for City? They had a decent side when the Liverpool/United thing first kicked off so why aren’t we ascribing STDs to Vincent Kompany? Well, it’s just not the same. United were glamorous back then. Best, Charlton and Law, nightclubs, massive crowds and media darlings. Liverpool were a ‘pint of mild and a bag of chips side’ by comparison and each was mistrustful of the other. ‘You can keep your image; we’d rather have the trophies’ was the credo and the ‘Glams’, despite relegation and the Tommy Doc scandal, were still the club the press wanted to talk about. Readers of a certain age will remember Gerald Sinstadt and later Elton Welsby effusing endless praise to them on ‘Kick Off’ despite the fact that they never came close to a League title. They weren’t true rivals in the footballing sense – just an irritating side we couldn’t beat. The party’s over, Gerald? Back then United weren’t even invited. You wouldn’t think it though. Lengthy discourses of Peter Barnes and Dennis Tueart ate into valuable Liverpool time each week.
City were never that annoying. They still aren’t in a way and if any such rivalry springs from their current success it will be on a par with Forest, Leeds and Chelsea.
To read the full article visit the following link;
http://www.theanfieldwrap.com/2013/09/our-friends-in-the-north/
Friday, 20 September 2013
Thomas McConnell- “John”
Some time ago I wrote a
little review on the here website, advising anyone who’d listen about the
Beatle inspired virtues of one Thomas McConnell.
Since then Thomas has been a
busy feller. Recording more songs, performing with the likes of Ian McNabb, and
having a cover version of a Paul Mcartney song tweeted by Sir Macca himself! So when Thomas highlighted a new song on his
facebook page called “John”, your humble narrator made the foolish mistake of
assuming this was a song lamenting the
passing away of John Winston Lennon.
I mentioned to Thomas that I
thought he needed to start imposing more of his own story into his songs and
maybe back off from the Beatle covers and tributes and was shocked to hear that
I had gotten this one completely wrong. “John”, it turns out is actually
Thomas’ most personal song to date! He explained the sensitive nature of the
origins of the songs meaning (not something he is ready to have splashed all
over a crappy blog page like this) . Suffice to say, I got it wrong. (though
Thomas admitted the lyrics could well be applied to Lennon should a listener
choose to do so).
Give the song a listen and judge it on its own merit. I’d also highly
recommend you visit his page https://www.facebook.com/thomasmcconnellmusicand check out a prolific set of tunes from this
emerging young talent.
Thomas is touring the UK soon, see poster for details
The Sugarmen
Talking of Emerging
young talent from Liverpool, “The Sugarmen” are starting to make waves in the
recently flourishing locall scene.
Hailing from Liverpool
(well apart from one stray cockney), they been mainly playing as support acts, their
energetic songs and shows has seen them gathering more and more of their own
followers with each passing show. They are playing on Alan McGee’s next 359
night
(https://www.facebook.com/events/301380816668818
) on October 4th “District” (Jordan Street) along with Gun Club Cemetery, Keziah, Matadors and Xylaroo, well
worth heading down there for this..
Enjoy and Support.
In other news TOPFLIGHT MFS have a new radio show on air
at http://topflightmfs.blogspot.co.uk/
The Scouse / yank duo regail us with tales about “The
Mabby” (Mab lane youth club) , American Grafitti, white men in tea cosy’s amongst
their usual witty banter and you can hear songs by Daft Punk, Willlie Nelson
(with Snoop Dog), errrr Ace (?), Donald Fagan , and an even bigger “errrrrrrrrr”
for Phil Collins (HEY, I don’t pick the songs!, PC ranks up there with my most hated artists of all time) The James Hunter Six, Junior Brown, and Tim
Timebomb (Proper old school ska by Rancid frontman, Tim Armstrong, best tune of
the night by a country mile) …fucking hell, you can’t accuse this radio show of
being boring or predictable…ska, AOR, 80’s uk shite, some current stuff , a bit
of Bob Marley, a bit of rockabilly and
some Amy Whinehouse!
Just have a listen yerselves yer miserable fuckers!
Tuesday, 13 August 2013
Sabotage Times - The Death of the football casual
Death of the football casual- Sabotage Times
Recent years have seen the slow demise of a culture I once loved. Now all we're left with are kids and wannabes. RIP to the Football Casual.
The fact that I was born in the ’80s rather than grew up in the decade meant that I got involved in the football casual scene on tail end of its glory days. Many would say it was over long before I came along, but the scene was still vibrant with lads of all ages involved when I started going, a decent mix of dressing and violence, if significantly scaled down compared to the generation before me.
There have already been an exhaustive amount of essays and studies written on why young lads get together to fight at football, so I’ll save you the psychoanalytic bollocks and come straight in with rule number one: no matter how straight we walk or how we dress ourselves up, we as men are animals, tribal, and be it for pride, sport or survival, we will fight each other. Rule number two is that within those base instincts, that raw aggression and the uncontrolled environment, your body jolts into survival mode and pumps a dose of adrenaline so fiercely through your blood that it creates a rush more intense than any drug I’ve experienced. It’s that feeling which makes it so addictive.
After a few years having the time of my life, touring the country and continent engaging in recreational violence with my mates, I began to see the scene I loved changing. Films like Football Factory and Green Street had been released, and with them came a new generation of ‘casuals’ who I recognised none of myself or my mates in. As far as I knew, if you wanted to knock about with a mob as a youngun you had to show a bit of respect to the older heads, recognise there’s a way of doing things, and above all show that at the very least you’d stand your ground in a row.
With these lads it was solely about emulating a lifestyle they’d seen on screen: wearing the right clothes, using the right words, listening to the right music, toying with the violent aspects but not wanting to get their hands dirty. These boys weren’t from the same stock as the past three decades of casuals in Britain, the football factory had got a new supplier and was knocking out cheap synthetic copies. Cardboard cut-out casuals.
If you don’t believe me, do a Twitter search for ‘casuals’ or ‘awaydays’ on the morning of a match day. You’ll be greeted with hundreds of muppets across the country sporting their spiky hair and Stoney gear, or posing fully goggled up in their Migs. They’ll either be pulling a well’ard face or looking solemnly at their trainers in some grey urban landscape, desperately trying to create a lifestyle they’ve pieced together from books and films. The reality is chaps, football violence isn’t a scene from Kes. Do you think lads in the ’80s had time to take photos of their footwear while some mental Scouser tried to stab them up the arse?
Before I get accused of being a grumpy old bastard longing for days gone by and moaning about the youth of today – I’m still in my twenties. Admitedly I don’t go to football anymore – HMCS and the Football Banning Order Association have decided I’m not responsible enough to go within a mile of any football ground in the country, presumably for fear I might erupt into a frothing rage at the sight of a blue and white scarf and whack a load of pensioners. But what I experienced was that my generation were the last to uphold, or at least try in the face of an ever growing police presence, the core values of the football casual.
For me, the realisation that the game was over came one morning at our local derby. Our rivals had arrived early and got themselves into a boozer off the beaten track. The usual phone calls ensued. Muffled voices, crowds of heads gathering round the blower like a family sat around the wireless for the Queen’s speech. They were over the road.
Drinks slammed down, caps on, single file out the side exit. Look both ways, no old bill. Touch. Across the road and straight in through the double doors we went, waiting for the roar to go up, jacket up, cap down, ready to shield the bottles that I knew were about to come raining down any second…
And nothing.
They got up and ran. Literally ran past us, heads ducked down, and out the door. Teenagers. Kids with frightened looks on their faces. Sorry mate, we don’t want to play any more. Give us our ball back and we can go home.
(TO READ THE FULL ARTICLE FOLLOW THE LINK AT THE TOP OF THIS POST)
The Death Of The Football Casual
The fact that I was born in the ’80s rather than grew up in the decade meant that I got involved in the football casual scene on tail end of its glory days. Many would say it was over long before I came along, but the scene was still vibrant with lads of all ages involved when I started going, a decent mix of dressing and violence, if significantly scaled down compared to the generation before me.
There have already been an exhaustive amount of essays and studies written on why young lads get together to fight at football, so I’ll save you the psychoanalytic bollocks and come straight in with rule number one: no matter how straight we walk or how we dress ourselves up, we as men are animals, tribal, and be it for pride, sport or survival, we will fight each other. Rule number two is that within those base instincts, that raw aggression and the uncontrolled environment, your body jolts into survival mode and pumps a dose of adrenaline so fiercely through your blood that it creates a rush more intense than any drug I’ve experienced. It’s that feeling which makes it so addictive.
After a few years having the time of my life, touring the country and continent engaging in recreational violence with my mates, I began to see the scene I loved changing. Films like Football Factory and Green Street had been released, and with them came a new generation of ‘casuals’ who I recognised none of myself or my mates in. As far as I knew, if you wanted to knock about with a mob as a youngun you had to show a bit of respect to the older heads, recognise there’s a way of doing things, and above all show that at the very least you’d stand your ground in a row.
With these lads it was solely about emulating a lifestyle they’d seen on screen: wearing the right clothes, using the right words, listening to the right music, toying with the violent aspects but not wanting to get their hands dirty. These boys weren’t from the same stock as the past three decades of casuals in Britain, the football factory had got a new supplier and was knocking out cheap synthetic copies. Cardboard cut-out casuals.
If you don’t believe me, do a Twitter search for ‘casuals’ or ‘awaydays’ on the morning of a match day. You’ll be greeted with hundreds of muppets across the country sporting their spiky hair and Stoney gear, or posing fully goggled up in their Migs. They’ll either be pulling a well’ard face or looking solemnly at their trainers in some grey urban landscape, desperately trying to create a lifestyle they’ve pieced together from books and films. The reality is chaps, football violence isn’t a scene from Kes. Do you think lads in the ’80s had time to take photos of their footwear while some mental Scouser tried to stab them up the arse?
Before I get accused of being a grumpy old bastard longing for days gone by and moaning about the youth of today – I’m still in my twenties. Admitedly I don’t go to football anymore – HMCS and the Football Banning Order Association have decided I’m not responsible enough to go within a mile of any football ground in the country, presumably for fear I might erupt into a frothing rage at the sight of a blue and white scarf and whack a load of pensioners. But what I experienced was that my generation were the last to uphold, or at least try in the face of an ever growing police presence, the core values of the football casual.
For me, the realisation that the game was over came one morning at our local derby. Our rivals had arrived early and got themselves into a boozer off the beaten track. The usual phone calls ensued. Muffled voices, crowds of heads gathering round the blower like a family sat around the wireless for the Queen’s speech. They were over the road.
Drinks slammed down, caps on, single file out the side exit. Look both ways, no old bill. Touch. Across the road and straight in through the double doors we went, waiting for the roar to go up, jacket up, cap down, ready to shield the bottles that I knew were about to come raining down any second…
And nothing.
They got up and ran. Literally ran past us, heads ducked down, and out the door. Teenagers. Kids with frightened looks on their faces. Sorry mate, we don’t want to play any more. Give us our ball back and we can go home.
You see, they thought they were on the phone to their equivalents, the young pretenders like themselves (and believe me we had them the same as everybody did) who’d jump around in the street shouting until the police separated them and they could claim a result for simply being there. When it transpired that they’d actually riled up a sizeable group of twenty-to-forty somethings who were intent on causing damage, and without the salvation of the police escort anywhere around, I saw their faces turn pale.
(TO READ THE FULL ARTICLE FOLLOW THE LINK AT THE TOP OF THIS POST)
Wednesday, 12 June 2013
End Book T shirts
Like I said, we have none left at all at present, but if we get enough people pledging to buy, we will do another run
If anyone is interested can you inbox me on our facebook page https://www.facebook.com/theENDfanzine
or you can email me at fatskin2008@gmail.com we will be enlisting our usual, excellent printers and stockist at Hat Scarf Badge https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100001427523909&fref=ts
Price will be around £13-£15 depending on orders received
Look forward to hearing from you
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