Author: goodbyeweirdo

A glorious protuberance

The wind hung limply in the air as crowds gathered around the ocular spectacle that stood around the horror that is the west pier; confidently portraying their natural attributes that hold point, purpose and form in a multitude of varieties, also milk; for babies. Human babies.

Although relatively small in number for a sunny protest day in Brighton, the Free the Nipple movement drew peoples gaze away from their ice creams and selfies for there was something greater on display; the female bosom.


With the intent of bringing about equality for all genders and abolishing the age old idiocy of hiding women’s nipples because of some social stigmata of sexualisation, Free the Nipple plan on normalizing nudity for women by bringing the offending protuberance to the fore front of their cause; much to the joy of many young boys and leering old men it seemed.

As a white male, I have an endless barrage of privilege, even if I grew up lower class on benefits in violent neighbourhoods of London. My social standing allows me freedoms that many of different cultures and genders have died fighting for, yet I was born with it and will enjoy it into old age.

The first thing I noticed at this march for equality, which instantly set my blood boiling, was the sheer amount of unabated, unashamed ogling that was occurring from the passing male contingent. The two knuckle draggers that first caught my eye stood leeringly postured, swaying ever so lightly from the three or four pints of Carling in the Harvester before hand, phones raised and drool hanging from the corner of their collective mouth. Their faces gave away their emotions; they barely seemed to contain their sheer disbelief and joy at the sight of a horde of swaying mammary glands. After a few minutes a member of the march wandered over and asked them to delete the photos they had been taking, which they very clearly did not, but in exchange, the pair parted with about a fivers worth of coins for their troubles into the collection bucket and strolled off, and if I were to make a judgment, they were both heading home to masturbate furiously to the bootlegged sound of football chants whilst occasionally glancing at their phones.

This theme carried on for the duration that I stood there; groups of young boys congregated on the scene, even more gobsmacked than the middle aged drunks, though they may have been shocked at the sight of female anatomy that did not resemble a scene from a pornographic video cassette – one that features a heavily moustached man pounding a big breasted girl from behind on a tiger rug in…oh wait, that’s probably quite tame in comparison to what the youth are used to nowadays. I digress; once again, the phones were out and many sniggers were shared, and each time the same girl who appeared to be running the event would ask very nicely if they would refrain from taking pictures and delete whatever material they had already taken.


Where were my feelings of anger towards these interactions coming from? Was it the absurdity of their reactions to something that I personally support and feel at ease with, making my open minded liberal approach superior or was it my despair at the uneducated yokels that litter our towns and cities for being so boorish? Maybe it was a subconscious feeling of protectiveness that is ingrained in the male psyche towards women who “aren’t as capable of looking after themselves” (or so some would have us believe)? So many possibilities, it’s probably best not to think about them and carry on with life.

As a man there are so many interactions in life that I will never experience or even have the capacity to truly understand that at times it shakes me to the core. How can we be so far removed from our sisters whilst being aware of the daily grind that many of them face? Even without constant sexual harassment or ridiculous pay gaps, the small aggression’s they come up against day in and day out are so out of reach of our understanding that it’s no wonder we aren’t progressing out of this continuing age of sexism faster.

The complexities of something as simple as the nipple are absurd to say the least, but for those of us that do not come up against that and other patriarchal idiocies it can be a minefield of good intention, mansplaining and confusion. It is where even the better educated of us that are concerned about equal rights for women and other genders need to not charge into the furor, all guns blazing with opinions and answers on how to change the world, but sit back and listen to how women think it should work.

It does not directly affect us and I don’t think that we should form our own strong opinions on the matter. In an ideal world you would not want someone from the elites of Eton lecturing others on the struggle and strife of council estate living, even if their intentions were honest and true. By the same merit, we as men do not need to bring our own good intentions to the table by trying to form solutions when there are plenty of strong and capable women that can do it for themselves. Our job is to support these ideas and spread the word of equality, positivity and unity from those that live and understand these struggles, by actions within our privileged spheres we can exhibit change from within.


To return to the boys that were so overwhelmed by the sight of many pairs of breasts, after some careful thought I have come to the conclusion that although their actions were not very courteous or acceptable socially, their exposure to flat chested women and drooping breasted girls can only be a positive. By normalising the female areola you allow change to occur, the mystery and desexualisation becomes defunct and young boys who have grown into adult men hold beliefs that their fathers and peers did not hold before them.

Rather than chastise our youth for their sometimes derogatory opinions and ways of thinking, we should maintain forever and always that every single human is a product of their environment and that with nurture and education, we can shape our world into a better form of equality than we have now. We will never find universal peace and there will always be a downtrodden, but if we can find unity within our sexes then we may be one step closer to creating a better world for our children to live in.








We are broken beings of irreverence.

Time tuned sets of saline and servitude.

Underneath the ashen faced earls of wisdom swims a hundred gawping fish

The feeding of the nine million.

We are broken like horses hobbled at birth.

Calliper our legs till our backs ache and we fall to the floor in gratitude for we have lived piously through the eons.

The feeding of the few.

Five years, a point of absorption that follows us to the grave lest we open our hearts and learn from our elders.

We carry the weights of our great grandparents and beyond though we may never know it.

We are broken but these are our charms, our flaws and our graces.

To be fixed would to be perfect and perfection has little point in an ocean of chaos.

Swirling dust storms of matter and dead skin skip daintily across the face of Jupiter, and somewhere on the other side of the galaxy a breeze lifts the hair from your eyes and you remember that you are never alone.


The Derwent



And it was if a fog had been lifted from the chasms of the cornea.

An amphibious creature with green orbs for eyes and a chirp like no other ambled loftily on the edge of the Derwent waiting for a reaction…they stood motionless, petrified of the possibilities.

Hyenas and Vultures scuffed around on the far bank with intent. The air was electric.

Time passed in stalemate, a distinct lack of pieces and an understanding of the rules; the planets continued on their path into oblivion and another black hole swallowed up the night sky with glee and gusto.


Surrounded by a wall of gorse, the Lutrinae perched on a tuft of pampas surveying the mountains across the valley waiting for a sign from the gods, but it never came. Signs are for fools and the doomed.

The water seeped into the folds of skin and fur, defying logic.

What came next was laid out in the stars.


The light shifted slightly to the left, and beyond the shade of the frog laid a pebble; a slight indent breaking up its perfectly spherical shape crowned the top. A vision of geological wonder


The water separated as Moses bade the red sea but no act of god made it possible, merely the fusion of atoms.

The nuclei from the mouth of Aristophane himself







Whilst researching a certain individual that I’d rather not name, mostly due to the nature of the idiom, all press is good press; I came across a phrase I had not heard before – Neomasculinaty.

Said individual has coined the term, purporting it to a set of ideas that base men as the victims in this recent rise of fourth wave Feminism. He states on his website that the idea is to “aid men living in Westernized nations that lack qualities such as classical virtue, masculinity in males, femininity in females, and objectivity.” Now as a young male in my late twenties, I can see how many men that don’t have a clear understanding of what feminism means lap up this idea in their droves, and much of it has to do with media portrayal of sexuality.


I am not a scientist or an incredibly intellectual person, but I know that there is something genetically different about being a man, mostly from my own experiences. The majority of the positive role models in my life have been women but their input can only change my mentality, not the make up of my gender.

This is the basis for many excuses by the patriarchy, the Neomasculines if you will. The ‘we are bred this way and therefore we shall act accordingly’, school of thought.

Though I do not deny that there are certain attributes that men have over women, the same applies to the opposite sex. We are different. Where this becomes sticky, is the idea that we are programmed the same way, as we were thousands of years ago.

Through evolution many of us have neglected the burdens of our hunter gatherer instincts to spend more time trying to locate the nearest wifi hotspot or negotiate six lane motorways. Maybe if you can track an animal without shoes on through rough terrain then kill it with a spear, cook it on a fire you made by hand and then skin it for a coat are you allowed to grab a woman and objectify her in any way you please. Then again, the likelihood of women being treated better in ancient times is probably higher than now, due to the fact that families and tribes were smaller and all depended on each others varying skills. So that argument is boorish and invalid.

Our genetic make up and needs have changed to suit our environment and so should our expectations of society. Even today there are still tribes that hold a matriarch as head; though few in number, the idea of equality is not an impossibility.


I cannot deny that there is a crisis of masculinity. I have felt it and it troubled me through my late teens and into my early twenties. Occasionally something will still bother me and pose troublesome questions, but because I have the privilege of my family unit, I know that it is not the fault of women. Sure there are some feminists that deserve to be thrown into the pit of Sarlacc, but along with them I’d throw just about any hardline nut there is; from vegans and home ED parents to politicians and pop stars. Extremism gives every group a bad name including feminism; it’s a waste of tar to throw on a good ideology that has been hijacked by the shit covered few.


We as men or boys are constantly bombarded with a million different ideals to stick to, many of which contradict each other. And though this kind of advertising has been pulsating towards women for a lot longer, it does not null the point that young men are being affected in incredibly negative ways via visual and aural stimulus at this current moment in time.

The rise of these extreme new ideas such as Neomasculinaty show that many men are feeling confused, dejected and very angry at the media attention to women’s rights. Men need and deserve rights just as women do, a basic tenant of feminism and equality, but to make it seem like men are being trodden down and abused in the same way is utter nonsense.

Rape and domestic abuse happens to people of all sexes and religions, yet the fact is clear that women have and still do suffer more than men in those crimes the world over. The simple statistic of two women murdered each week comparable to thirty men a year should be enough to highlight the difference.


Rather than pay credence to this publicity seeking neolith, we should spend more of our time learning and educating each other about what it means to be who we are. Women are allowed to be strong and independent and men are allowed to talk about their emotions and have down days. These are both massive generalizations towards the opposite sex, but the most commonly talked about attributes that are not allowed to cross to the opposite playing field.

The problem is, within each sex, there are hundreds of other sub categories that add to the complexity of the individual situation. Not every man wants or needs to be more in touch with his feminine side, and some women like the roles that they play within a historical patriarchal ideal. That does not mean people are being oppressed because they don’t sit in this new world of strength and individualism, they are happy in the life that they lead. The danger that emits to segregation and misunderstanding of ideas is assuming that everyone wants your own freedoms. We should all be in agreement that we need gender equality and we need it now, but within that equality each person should not feel afraid of being him or herself, providing no harm, mentally or physically is committed to another person.


Those men that follow this imbecile around believing his hate filled rhetoric are merely confused little boys that were neglected of an important education in the prime of their lives.

Because of the negligence by parents and the state education system, we create these vacuums of confusion, and when people are confused many turn their attentions towards fear and hatred, purely because it’s easier than treading the complex path of understanding. You can apply this idea to the current refugee crisis for an anchor if need be.

To use violent intimidation tactics in order to shut this kind of thought down exacerbates the situation, giving in to the ideas of these men that any thought of themselves and their own well being is met with hostility; something I found growing up as a white heterosexual male. Unfounded, but it was once in my psyche and the reasons were valid, it was how I chose to deal with them that made the difference.

I once believed that human beings are inherently evil. We all have the capacity to be malevolent dictators deep down, but through many years of constant conversation and self questioning, I realize now that education is the key to changing the most hard line of extremists into respectful citizens, and we must all play the tutors.






Behind the shells of my eyelids droplets of purple ink pulsed against the dark blue of the iris.

A heavy breathing resonated from the other side of the room and the rain and wind howled together at the window, mercilessly and without purpose.

The technicalities of a new year are written on paper, but the transition is just another day in which we go about our standardized routines; some clutching their heads and their guts in joyous resentment. Others fresh faced and jovial, hoping that two thousand and sixteen will be a more fruitful and prosperous year than the last. Little do they know, it’s all the fucking same.

We will be faced with wars, propaganda, tomfoolery, happiness, alcoholism, death, screens, diets, disasters and diabetes. We will hope and hate in much the same way as we always do, just a tad closer to the end. So wallow in your self pity and your holier than though ethical choices, your pockets of money and your sleeping bags.

There is only one door, so best not be afraid of it.


Once again our tiny island has helped set the course for a certain future that is steeped in the classic uncertainty of a pointless feud.

Our cries have been ignored and each level of power has taken it in turns to re assure our collective concerns that we are indeed the noble benefactors of western philosophy.

The relentless visuals from the commons solidify the fact that we are helpless in the face of the jackals rolling around on the green leatherette; laughing in the face of death and destruction.

Now more than ever, we as civilians are duty bound to react not with despair and pessimism, but with hope and positivity. By laying down to the former, we are playing into the hands of our imbecilic members club elite of corrupt politicians. There is strength in numbers, and hope if we desire.

I firmly believe this, but my heart and head hold sway in equal measure to both arguments. Unfortunately, the pessimist is buried deep within my heart; a tumor that has developed a morph like face and a personality that I am too attached to, one that I surely could not terminate out of love. In order to speak with clarity, one must be true to themselves.

With this in mind, I testify that we are all doomed. Not doomed in the sense of an A board wearing right wing preacher, merely in the fact that we will undoubtedly never know or see the world in which many of us truly desire. It is not in the nature of politics and certainly not in the nature of business and the banking sector. Why would they care for the long term plan when they are living to the extent of their lives and not much further. The money comes in, their purpling gristled members bulge with excitement and that is pretty much that.

Why would they care for a world they will not see fail in their lifetimes? That horizon is still a number of decades off in theory, but what then? It is little of their concern, a short man syndrome approach to life.

So in this doomed view of the world, what are we to do? Give up the fight? Apply nail varnish remover to the corneas in liberal amounts and wait for the lights to go out? Maybe, I don’t have the damn answer, if I did I wouldn’t be sat here pondering the pointless.

Wars happen, we generally get involved and there isn’t much we can do to stop it. The hordes in Washington failed to stop the Vietnam War and a million people in London failed to nullify the Golf* war MK II.

Part of me would like to tell you to get on with your lives and ignore them, if you pretend they aren’t there, maybe they’ll get bored and go away? That usually works with bullies and Jehovah’s witnesses so why not politicians. If we stopped caring about anything that they did, they would feel less inclined to incessantly ruin our lives and go bother someone else; perhaps they would simply sit around sniffing each other’s rectums in the hopes of turning a profit. As Chuck Berry once said, “you never can tell”

As much the image is sweet, they would more than likely format a system akin to Burgess’s ‘A Clockwork Orange’ and peel our eyelids from our faces, making us watch as IDS plays piñata with a refugee in a wheel chair that’s trying to fill out a housing benefit in brail. The year is 2020 and all benefit forms must filled out in triplicate in Olde English. That’ll sort the foreigners from the patriotic and worthy.

Godspeed oh noble warriors, decide for yourself on the course of action, and let it be in unity for the good of all those who will precede us.

Return to the Savage Boo Hoo

The industrial forklift hoisted a stack of amps and guitars high into the night sky. Inside the Camber Sands Butlins, drunken kids ran amok, highly strung security paced about the stairwells and doorways like caged chimps and various bands loitered about looking for something to do. Unbeknownst to most, this was to be the last night of a twelve-year legacy that has spanned probably the last great wave of bands and further, eight members and more than its fair share of highs and extreme lows.

The dressing room pre gig was a strange mixture of emotions bouncing back and forth across the 70’s sci-fi esque walls; Anger, sadness, despair, relief, you name it, it was there. Although I was not a founding member of the band, it affected my life with great impact, and not always for the better. I am appreciative of every moment we spent together as friends and band mates, but I will never shake the pain and turmoil it caused within each one of us.

All things must end, but the memory will always remain, scarred into the cerebellum.

A brief interview for the NME, last minute tune up and the lights went up, and out forever.

Tour Photographs around the UK of The Eighties Matchbox B-line Disaster - The Savage Boohoo Tour 2010 by Doc Foster

Tour Photographs around the UK of The Eighties Matchbox B-line Disaster – The Savage Boohoo Tour 2010 by Doc Foster

D. Knight

Exit_International: ‘Our Science is Golden’

Amidst the obvious Welsh stereotypes and the terrible bands you would have heard of already, stand Exit_International, knee deep in sheep. Without a doubt, one of the hardest driving rhythm section bands around, but then again I suppose that is what you get if you give fuzz pedals to naughty boys.

This time around on album number two, they have grown into refined gentlemen of taste and one rather rugged beard. The songs are advancing into so many territories whilst retaining that classic thunderous sound that you would struggle to point out their numerous influences, but a few that have been thrown around aside from the usual Nirvana/Mudhoney, are; QOTSA, Mars Volta and even ‘Motorhead fucking the Pixies’, with a few tinges of Primus thrown in for good measure.

Though not every song is an instant floor filler, the pop hooks laced in-between Scott’s howling vocals are a sign of a progression which many bands on the heavier side of the fence struggle with during that clichéd second album.                        Rather than push on the volume to make a wall of sound resembling a rubbish compactor fighting with an 8 x 10 stack, E_I have begun taking the melody back, putting it in it’s rightful place alongside that kick in the mouth you probably deserve.

That said, this isn’t a pure sing song album. ‘Fuck Yeah! Depression’ is a raucous journey into the fucked up world of Ren and Stimpy, stopping off briefly for a shotgun battle with an old car whilst slinging around a bottle of Brains till the knees don’t support the body. It’s an album to pump yourself up to before a night out as you put on your best lipstick and feather boa, heading out looking for skinheads to beat up, or dreaming of the glory years of grunge and post punk as you flail around in a moshpit of a band that wishes they were as heavy and sexy as E_I.

With the odd track that feels a bit like filler, they are more than made up for by the likes of ‘Kojak Rollneck and album titled, ‘Our Science is Golden’. Both drastically different in style, the latter as close to a ballad as they get, they deliver in a way that makes you sit up and take notice, leading to a feeling that by the third album, they will be heading into In Utero territory, mixing a slightly mellower sound in places, but honing that thunder they are so well versed in producing.

The only problem I find with this album, as with many bands I’ve loved over the years, is that it doesn’t truly do the band justice sonically. Live they are a six legged beast that comes at you full force spitting fire and assaulting your ears with screams to make a banshee cower, but on record it, doesn’t quite make you shit your pants in the same way. That said, it’s still one of the most important records that isn’t in your record collections yet.

The fog.

Mother, I am scared.

I have fallen into the trap I have for so long, despised.

My fatigue is preventing my left brain from utilizing it’s intentions and I find myself sat in front of items of uselessness for extended periods of time, more often than not, for no purpose.

The curve is one of good cause; it is shaping the foundations of a bewildered existence and forming my uses for hands that need exercise – though this does not mean that I fear the regiment any less.

I can barely hear the whir of the gears over the sound of the extractor fan; which is set to go off at precisely 22:30 and return at 06:30. Does that mean that the interior is broken?

I am scared for my insanity, which appears to creep slowly closer to the door; in lieu of any vitality, it shall depart for good I fear.

I once craved monotony due to historical evidence on the part of not having stability in the eyes of a good society; the thin roots that find heritage from the gypsies are that of original hatred of which I will perhaps forever distance myself from. You cannot choose your inheritance.

The mud that covered me as a child is a dwindling speck in my iris but the smell of wood smoke is strong in my nostrils and I hope to immerse myself in the reeds and fire once again.

Maybe not now, but one day before I depart, the seed of my loins will shelter under canvas and seek adventure with no guilt for their nakedness; a piece of flint encased in sinew piercing the sun with primitive ambition and a desire for pleasure in all it’s forms.

For now though, it is time to step back and relinquish wealth and comfort for truth.

The Forest

The forest was dead now.
The damp fallen trees lay slain across the canopied floor and they were silent. Not a peep arose from their rotting corpses.
Inside it’s belly an ecosystem was thriving.
The blue sky crept through the branches scattering light off into strange tangents, off the ivy and onto the matted brown mulch.
It played havoc with my vertigo.
The wind pushed the trees away from the heavens; they creaked and groaned their responses.
They were under siege on all sides.
I could hear traffic in the distance. A buzzard cicled slowly overhead, silently following the zephyr.
Burnt out carcasses of Kawasakis and Yamahas protruded like gravestones to lost kings, cutting sections from the greenery. Their rusted hilts did not look out of place as the forest ate them up; an ephemeral pyre to make the passing from youth to eternal destruction.