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no borders | woe is me / stuck on the frontiers of two countries / as one of my party pleads with state bureaucracy / and so i see / it can be relatively easy / blue eyes and greenbacks gets you where you want to be / cos if you’re white, west and waving dollars / you can normally avoid these horrors / and it shouldn’t take the brains of scholars / to see the sense in people who rightly hollers that we need / no borders for mo / no borders for thando / all people need to freely come and go / no borders for you / zulekha and lou / borders split the people this we know / no borders for pete / no borders for bakit / no borders for suraya and sarit / burn borders for star, kamini, korra / pike, petra, pablo, prudence and pandit / there was a drama at huwara on the journey to ramallah, dear me / there was no one not in a hurry / but not every jawaaz safar’s bound in burgundy / and all this concrete, stupid papers and the premise of security / leaves people trapped, delayed and angry / now with all this shit how can there still be hope for peace? / if only these folks defied their orders / and they helped take apart these borders / and we also did our bit like we ought to / we could find new friends in every quarter / cos we need no borders for jez / no borders for suresh / move freely shlomo, neng, sy and changez / no borders for sven / none for our nguyen / no borders for mukela and monzen / no borders for capital is a crap ideal when not extended to people / no borders for deek, rachel and rafik / no borders for metiga and monique / but ‘course it isn’t just in distant lands this fucking shit is happening / fear, politics and headline-grabbing / boils it down to us versus them as with everything / and the hateful powers that be create this bolted door mentality / fool us with threats of foreign thievery / and tell us if we’re kept apart we’ll be safe, free and happy / bullshit! / cos if we didn’t pull up ladders behind us / and we focused on what links and binds us / and rejected hate, fear and unkindness / and we put these bordered times behind us, we could get / borders out our heads / no borders for lourdes / no borders for shiv, chila and chavez / freedom for aung san / welcome to szczepan / that bloke who plays for watford, alhassan / how quick we forget / millions of us let / abroad with no reciprocation yet / if we had to flee from brutality / ‘course we’d expect asylum and safety / where’s the solidarity? / we need to make connections, cause a stink / logic, knowledge would surely help us see / these borders are bad / no borders for my dad / no borders for anebo and iyad / folks from everywhere and willing to share / their tales from brisbane, bari and baghdad / no borders for vlad / the boring and rad / every person, infant, lass and lad / time to bring them down / raze them to the ground / bring closure to this xenophobic fad / every border’s bad.

friends | it’s good to see you again my friend / it must have been, i don’t know, it’s been too long / it must have been ages since we’ve last seen each other/ let’s get down to the business of fun / it’s miles and miles that set us apart / but frankly i’ve got more to do with you than with my neighbour / cos we want the same things / we love the same things / basically, we share the same things / we’ll remember the when and where we’ve taken thumbs and trains, coaches and planes / to take us to each other / to share some time in our lives / joy and good times seem to be endless now that we all have reunited / so why can’t we all live in the same place? / a tropical island is politically out of the question / we’ll remember the when and where we’ve taken coaches and planes, thumbs and trains / to take us to each other / to share some time in our lives / moving countries and continents has its appeal / when the paperwork isn’t such a fuss / to have each other in our daily lives / would it be the same? / for now we continue with what we do / fingers crossed next time will be as good as the times before / we shall see each other soon / we’ll remember the when and where some of us have used methods of transport irresponsibly / we’ll remember the when and where / thumbs and trains and fewer planes.

easterly | hey there schätzchen, i’m coming to berlin / i visited my bank and got euros not sterling / yeah, all these trains go east / and i know where to get off / at the city reunited thanks to david hasselhoff / strange white fluff is hanging in the air / it’s reminding you of some detergent-selling podgy bear / and you’ll show me a new place / a secret garden on the spree / only known to all your flatmates, drunken punks, you and me / and i wonder what’s for tea / bad brains, broad beans, bodines and broccoli / peaches moved out, vaginal davis moved in / but i haven’t yet deduced if that means anything / let me spell it out / b-e-r-l-i-n / berlin, berlin, berlin / sunday breakfast up at morgenrot / or we’ll skip it, dude, whatever, dude, whatever floats your boat / cos i know you’re kind of tired from a busy week at work / you can stay longer in bed while i tidy up your room / two more hours and i’ll be going home / we’ve got time to do some demos on your dinky dictaphone / then i’ll have to bugger off via the city on the seine / but it won’t be long before i will be seeing you in berlin again.

great place for a date | some of the best times are always had together / let’s go on a date where there’s fun to be had forever / this place is special / you’ll have to see it for yourself / yes it’s dark and dingy and things never work as planned / where will we all run to once this place is gone? / where will we all go to? / people worked hard to make this place work and look good / officials, bailiffs and the like come knocking on the door / who’s wrong and guilty? / it’s plain to see / buildings neglected for years, no bargains up for sale / where will we all run to once this place is gone? / where will we all go to? / it’s a great place for a date / where will we all run to once this place is gone? / where will we all go to? / it’s a great place for a date / dear property developer, you’re ruining people’s lives / but we just won’t go away cos it’s too great a place for a date / where will we all run to once this place is gone? / where will we all go to? / it’s a great place for a date.

manchester rambler | i’ve been over snowdon, i’ve slept up on crowden / i’ve camped by the wain stones as well / i’ve sunbathed on kinder / been burnt to a cinder / and many more things i can tell / my rucksack is often my pillow at night / and the heather is often my bed / and sooner than part from the mountains, my friends / yes, i think i would rather be dead / i’m a rambler, i’m a rambler from manchester way / i get all my pleasure the hard moorland way / i may be a wage slave on monday, it’s true / but for now i’m a free man with rambling to do / the day was just ending / as i was descending / through grindsbrook just by upper tor / when a voice cried: "hey you!" / in the way keepers do / he’d the worst face that i ever saw / the things that he said were just bullshit, and so / in the teeth of his fury i said / “if you want to part me from this mountain, my friend / you will have to drag me off it dead" / i’m a rambler, i’m a rambler from manchester way / i get all my pleasure the hard moorland way / i may be a wage slave on monday, it’s true / but for now i’m a free man with rambling to do / he called me a louse / and said: "think of the grouse" / well, i thought but i still couldn’t see / why the old kinder scout / and the moors round about / couldn’t take both the poor grouse and me / he said: "all of this land is my master’s" / and at that i stood shaking my head / cos no one has the right to own mountains, it’s true / any more than the deep ocean bed / i’m a rambler, i’m a rambler from manchester way / i get all my pleasure the hard moorland way / i may be a wage slave on monday, it’s true / but for now i’m a free man with rambling to do / i once loved a maid / a spot welder by trade / he was fair as the rowan in bloom / and the hue of his eyes / mocked the june moorland skies / and i loved him from april to june / on the day that we should have been married, of course, yes / i went for a ramble instead / for sooner than part from the mountains, my friends / yes, i think i would rather be dead / i’m a rambler, i’m a rambler from manchester way / i get all my pleasure the hard moorland way / i may be a wage slave on monday, it’s true / but for now i’m a free man with rambling to do / so i’ll walk where i will / over mountain and hill / and i’ll lie where the bracken is deep / i belong to the mountains / the clear running fountains / where grey rocks are rugged and steep / i’ll sit with my humous on brown for my lunch / as the curlew flies high overhead / and say sooner than part from the mountains, my friends / yes, i think i would rather be dead / i’m a rambler, i’m a rambler from manchester way / i get all my pleasure the hard moorland way / i may be a wage slave on monday, it’s true / but for now i’m a free man with rambling to do. (written by ewan maccoll)

dirty crusty holiday | i’ve had it for this season / i’m ready to pack my bags / i feel like santa with my tofu-laden sack / off to a place that i used to frequent more / before i joined the glorious ranks of adulthood / what happened to this life? / i’m sane and healthy but i’m stuck in a trettretmühle / it’s two a.m. / this place is crucial but will it mean the same in two hundred years or more? / i’m off on my bike / staying up late in smoky, filthy places / i’m off on your bike / seeking out places and their people who know how we feel / i’m gonna have myself a dirty crusty holiday / leave my hair to do what nature and hood dictate / i ain’t no monk and i’ve no intention of becoming one / so i seek connection in disorder and noise / i’m off with my bags / staying up late in smoky, filthy places / i’m off on your bike / reconsidering this life instead of a nine to five.

come on in | finally came the day when common sense prevailed / we took apart the fence and law / innocent folks freed and kids no longer jailed / and fortress europe was no more / understanding waves came lapping these fair isles / and swiftly swept away our fear / frontiers gone, the only obstacle’s the miles / we made our friends feel welcome here / come along, come on in / the press were quiet, they’d sensed the strength of public view / and kept their hateful bile restrained / no more shrieks of stealing jobs and jumping queues / got more human and more sane / the sniffer mutts retired to normal doggy lives / the border crossing guards retrained / harmondsworth was quickly put to better use / grünau fell, it went the same way / come along, come on in / we came over in a prehistoric time / we came over just this year / every movement had its reason and its rhyme / for folks from far away and near / matters not a jot the time that we arrived / borders must not block our way / nation states are bullshit recently contrived / but fuck ‘em folks, come in and stay / come along, come on in.



itchy heart | it has really been some time since we last cycled these streets together, but your bike got nicked, and mine is elsewhere. thanks to public transport we’ll keep on riding: we’ll make our way across town, north and south, east and west, and sarf. #12, #36#, #77, #12, #45, #77. however, when i’m stuck on the bus i can’t help but think about the fun times we’ve had, with sunny weather, cycling and raingear. this is how it was, and how it might be, but for now my cycle rides only last a short amount of time.

get on yr bike | well the winter chill is creeping in and the sunshine’s gotten lower, and it’s freezing more like a night in iceland than an afternoon in goa. well, we could stay in and hibernate, but there’s things i’d like to do, so honey get on your bike: please, please honey get on your bike. we’ll be warm as toast in winter coats and the cycling helps to heat us. there may be icy roads and white van men but we won’t let them defeat us, still, when we get to the venue, well, i might need warming up, do you think you could oblige? oh please honey get on your bike. well, i’m all for staying in sometimes and it’s twice as fun with you, but tonight there’s gigs and films and actions: things to learn, see, create and do. there’s a night ahead of excitement and experiences we’d like, so honey get on your bike.

don’t be slack, all yr music’s black | queens pose and preen at trade and nag nag nag: beats and amnesia is their bag. gay white forgetfulness is a drag when all their house and techno came from black detroit fags. it’s always pumping in the percussion, they shake tush and they never stop to wonder how the beats got there. it never comes up in their discussions, i ain’t fussin: to me it’s strange to drift on and not be aware. pan to the london indiepop punk scene: now, i don’t own one northern soul lp, but we can see the ancestery from jazz and blues to shit today and all in between, so props to the motown sound, the underground, the stuff they did that spawned all those black and white smiles. big business might own it now, but it’s too loud to be forgot by all the freak audiophiles. humousexual’s happy to admit, with no black music we’d be twice as shit: if nazi hardcore boys could see it, we’d have a better world with more smiles innit? so know what you’re listening to, what it’s been through: be chuffed as fuck that these folks decided to share. i ain’t saying you should change your taste, just cogitate how there’s a wealth of beautiful history there. don’t be slack, all your music’s black. know what you’re listening to.

supermarket humous vs smoked tofu spread | every once in a while there comes a time to make a choice more important than riding bikes and lusting after boys: it’s kind of strange that we’d base decisions where we’d like to live on each place’s kinds of processed food you eat with your bread. supermarket humous vs smoked tofu spread. shall we go to tesco laden with carrier bags? i think it’s safe cos tubs of humous don’t come with security tags. can we go to marktstrasse and einkauft jars of tofu spread, please, then weigh up the pros and cons of foods in our respective countries? supermarket humous vs smoked tofu spread. you could move back, i might move there: our thoughts of changing scenery are fuelled by thoughts of what we’ve shared. we could pig out, but one we’d miss: it could be worth going without to taste the tofu in your kiss. there is no textbook-sure solution to a problem such as this. it’s a promise and it’s a threat: i never wanna sing about no important crap. again, we’ve had the best of times eating humous in hyde park, and spent days and nights with tofu in your sister’s flat. one’s expensive, one we could easily make ourselves, but there’s relief for lazy faggots on the supermarket shelf. serving the economy with pricey addiction is my favourite new obsessive prediliction.

up the road | dear indieboy, would you like to come to my house? i know it is very far from the south. if you make it here, you have to sit down to piss: europe is as simple as this. it might be cold, it might be hott, peeling wallpaper, bolted doors, leaking roof, cat-killing landlord, but for now it’s ours. we live in a beautiful village, even though it’s a bit like exile. lovely people in a great place, so come on by: you’ll find us a bit way out over here on the border of northeast zone three. it might be cold, it might be hott, but always plenty of tahini. let’s take a walk to the canal and the marshes cos it’s fun. here we are and here we go, rent-free and for now it’s ours: i do hope the papers won’t arrive before we finish that five kilo bucket of tahini.

seven hundred kilometres | 700 kilometres to cross, 24 hours counting the cost of us living in places where we’re not quite neighbours. tried once and failed with leaves on the line, but no problems or fuck-ups this time, custards and exercise and best behaviour. and i’m covering those miles and i’ll be seeing you again. my ozone layer-destroying plane lands me in pouring hannover rain: two hours to my favourite part of niedersachsen. no railway obstacles at this end, only single boys who clearly want to be friends: i kick myself for my limited vocab and my dodgy accent. but i can’t contain the smiles cos i’ll be seeing you again. nordstemmen, else, alfeld, kreiensen, einbeck-salzderhelden, northeim, noerten-hardenberg, and we’re almost there, it’s only a few miles down the track until we get to goettingen. and i can’t contain the smiles cos i’ll be seeing you again.

give me humous or give me death | there’s nothing finer than cloves of garlic: eating it fried or raw is equally rad. your processed food must be like chewing carpet, i’d rather die than eat brain donor kebabs. cos there’s shit in your burgers and disease in your mince, and milk gives you bad breath, so, give me mashed-up chickpeas, give me humous or give me death. it’s a promise and it’s a threat: i’m never gonna sing about no important crap. humous, veggies and tofu spread, it’s like a matter of life and death. living here or living there, tell me to spend my money where. give me mashed-up chickpeas, give me humous or give me death.

humous vs humanities | is it a crime if it doesn’t rhyme?

sex lib d-beat | du sagst mir (und ich werde nicht rot. ich frage dich) und du rennst nicht weg. [ you tell me (and i don’t blush. i ask you) and you don’t run away ]

loosen up | you’re invited to relax your muscles, and loosen up. unwind your clocks, undo your knots. take some water from the tap, calm your aorta. girls, grow moustaches and eat molasses: boys, wear bikinis and eat tahini. or eat some cake, stay up late. punks and hippies, eat some chickpeas, and as your inhibitions melt, eat some spelt, put it inside you. destarch your stiff upper lip, take sips and shake both your hips. shake it like there are no bones inside of you, and loosen up.

batty street | i think i might be dreaming, queer utopia is here and i’m feeling like creating, learning, laughing and screaming: getting stuck in and having a go. the place is teeming with active kids who came from enfield and ealing, but not enough from darjeeling, not enough from cairo. yeah, we know there’s still work to be done, cos not exactly everyone will see or hear of batty street - but look what crowd’s assembled here, a diverse mass of sorted queers all hanging out in batty street. i’m slowly dealing with me ignorance and now i’m just beaming, cos me jaw gets exercised when i’m kneeling and there’s always good things entering me. and we’re stealing glances at graffiti drawn on the ceiling, and we’re helping with the spuds that need peeling, and everything we do we’re doing for free. for some queer autonomy, politics and not much sleep, make your way to batty street. for a filming, fuck or feast, just head down to aldgate east, you’ll find it there in batty street. it’s wonderful in batty street, i wanna be in batty street.

southeast fifteen | this time, for once, i will not chicken out, say no, or run a mile or two. the motto’s ‘peckham up’, like it was my home ground. peckham up, with no strings attached: ‘no commitment’ they say. would you like to share a little secret? i know peckham better than i know boys.

die | national front and bnp: die, die, die. violent macho brainless fools: die, die, die. homophobic sexist bastards: die, die, die. paul daniels’ best trick ever: die, die, die. nazi bastards you fuck off and die, die, die. (written by health hazard)

riah gnos | you left today, only for a short amount of time, i’m sure. you left today, and i dig my head into my pillow. there’s something that’ll make it hard to sleep tonight. how am i gonna sleep tonight? life goes on, and we can start counting the days backwards again. sweetly soapy scent of hygienic hair: my thoughts are triggered by my sense of smelling. bollocks to the beauty industry, cos my pillow still smells of chemicals you put in your hair.

next september | cup of tea and a nice sit down, scuzzy backroom gigs in kentish town. chickpeas and monchichis and things we’ve come to love to share all on hold as from now: geography and distance won’t allow a fumbling hug to reel around, cos arms can’t reach from over there. now, we’ve lived far apart since 2002, but extra mileage augments the missing you. idle strike days in brockwell park, tinny bathroom gigs and trashy art, fanzines and leafy greens and humous. poking fun at haircuts, sharing apfelsaft and cashew nuts, good books, suggestive looks, and more humous. shame that there’s no room for geiger in rucksacks, but i’ll cure these itchy feet and i’ll be coming back: next september’s not so far away. we’ll be having fun, impatient for the day when we can be back together, sipping rooibos tea and out discussing the weather. i’ve no right to complain, jumping puddles in chinese rain, the stimulation fires but couldn’t satisfy all needs. i’ll be sure to write soon, be it from bilbao or babbacombe. i hope you pass your last exams, and keep the emails coming, please. now we’ve seen 30 months of fun, come rain or shine: i can’t predict your thoughts but you’ll stay in mine.

humous is great | you can spread it on a bagel. no meal is complete without humous on my table.
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punk rock boy | punk rock boy, don’t be coy, and don’t panic in horror, faint or take flight when i ask you what you’re doing on friday night. there’s a gig, lesbo pig: they rock, and the gig’s not too far from your house so i had hoped that you could accomodate. riding bikes, sleepless nights: we’re excited about the gig tomorrow, the one with pete dale and rachel holborrow. pre-gig tea, swap lps, this boy is dexterous with his seven inches, i’m all ears for the things he wants to play, be it emo shite or what he wrote today.

yumus & yumus beats | for some reason or the other, the energy doesn’t flow today. for some reason or the other, the energy didn’t flow today, so we get on our bicycles and pop down to the nasty supermarket. so we pop down to the nasty supermarket, and get a tub of ... here’s what you’ll need for a basic humous recipe: 400g/8oz tin of chickpeas, two teaspoons of tahini, two teaspoons of lemon juice, one clove of garlic, crushed, and a little salt and freshly-ground pepper. (chickpea, tahini, lemon juice, salt, pepper, garlic). here’s what you do: drain the chickpeas, leaving a little of the water. place in a blender and add the rest of the ingredients. blend until smooth. if dry, add a little olive oil. spoon into a bowl and serve: it’ll keep in a fridge for three or four days. the easiest way to make it is in a blender, but you can do it by hand: you’ll need to mash the chickpeas and then mix the ingredients in a bowl, vigorously.

special friend | oh special friend, what say we go up to my room and try to write some emo songs? i’ll inappropriately bring my mouth organ if you bring your acoustic guitar. there’s nothing more i’d like to do than sing the roof off, but my flatmates are asleep, and the walls are paper-thin. they locked the park at dusk today, in irrational fear of what folks might do, but what say we jump the fence and play our dumbass songs until we get bored? may i propose goofing around with borrowed keyboards as the way to spend the day? i’m hoping you might feel the same. we could surprise ourselves, and see, we’ll never know if we don’t try. it’s not some way of killing time, it’s the kind of thing that keeps us sane and alive. this is how i’m feeling, oh special friend.

figures | is there something i don’t know about 4-5-6-letter words sitting in a quiet room? is there something i don’t know about 4-5-6-letter words having the recipes all sorted out? queer is a 1-2-3-4-5-6-letter word.
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cum sarf | hey there sussi, come down to sarf london, me socks are almost dry and it’s time to put them on. it’s such a lovely day, it’d be a shame to waste it, so get out of your front door cos i’m patiently waiting. crampton street and roots manuva, ruskin park and brixton tube, i’ll take us on the scenic route past metro central heights, the busy streets of peckham with their international sights. s-a-r-f-l-o-n-d-o-n, whatcha got? sarf london. five-finger discount and free distractions, safeway savers and direct action. cycling in the sunshine down walworth road, it’s kinda cheesy but i think to myself what a wonderful world.

manc wag | hey there honey, come up to manchester, it doesn’t always rain, you won’t need a sou-wester. it’s such a lovely day, it’d be a shame to waste it, so get the bus from london cos i’m patiently waiting. oldham street, the star and garter, salford lads club and heaton park. i’ll take us on the scenic route past strangeways hmp, we won’t shop in the arndale but we’ll use the loos for free. m-a-n-c-h-e-s-t-e-r, whatcha got? so much to answer for. valerie we will not forget, tot and bette davis and the balconettes. nodding to the noises of polythene, i think you need to pay a visit if you’ve never been.

go west | hey there petal, come over to bristol, the coach is pretty cheap so don’t fear matters fiscal. it’s such a lovely day, it’d be a shame to waste it, come west, come west, go west young man, please don’t keep me waiting. come to cafe kino and drop by here, lubricate your journey with butcombe beer. sitting out on college green and movies at the cube, if the bristol kids are fruity you might wanna bring ‘doms and lube. b-r-e-e-e-e-s-t-o-l, whatcha got? bristol. stitch-stitch, hombré and sarah records, headfall, soeza, aspects, disorder. climbing up park street to there and back again lane, we had a smashing time in bristol and i’m glad i came.

come take my hand in winter | come take my hand: there is a perfect place to watch the cold dawn break. it’s eight o’clock, you’re half asleep, but this can’t wait. we spent a week hoping for dropping mercury, and with it days pregnant with possibility. come take my hand, and we’ll canoe down to the bottom of my street, suitable clothing insulating hands and feet. there will be smiles all round, tranquillity and peace, hiding our lunches from the greedy ducks and geese. come take my hand, and we’ll go out relishing late-december rain, reminding us that we are alive once again. i can’t believe how lucky we are to have this, a day for nature, kids, all’s well and nowt’s amiss. come take my hand, and we’ll go out rescuing wildlife from the slick, the bay of biscay to the edge of the arctic. a thousand cormorants are cause for our concern, the turtles, true’s beaked whale, tusk, tannenbaum and tern. come take my hand and we’ll go out rolling like toddlers in the snow, but before we venture out there’s something you should know: it’s fun to do it outdoors and may i suggest we build an igloo, screw inside, then take a rest?
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warum sind die eigentlich alle so anders? | whooooo! howl! snarl! aaaaargh! mwuhahahahahaaaa!

zombie-werewolf feudin’ blues | well curse my soul my boyfriend’s truly dead and his family all hate me, i’m afraid they’re gonna have my hide or head. i’m crying werewolf tears over my rockabilly blue suede shoes: i’ll make no bones about it folks, i got the zombie-werewolf feudin’ blues. i’m proud of who i am, i’m sorted with my furry face and hairy palms, and i’m never happier when there’s a full moon and my honey’s in my arms. but all this subterfuge and secrecy is necessary til they call a truce and in the meantime we’ll be dreamin’ of losing these zombie-werewolf feudin’ blues. won’t somebody explain to me the logic of this stupid ancient feud that makes it hard for me to hang out with my sexy dandy zombie boyfriend dude? it makes me want to quit the streets of glasgow and elope to cannes or kathmandu. yeah, i’m driven to despair by these goddamn zombie-werewolf feudin’ blues.

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horny tattooed cycle courier boy | i seen this boy bomb down victoria street, stops on his way at christchurch gardens to eat. he’s got lovely eyes, a wonky smile and knobbly knees, he fills his sandwiches with fresh humous and non-dairy cheese. will he ever notice me? i’ll stop distracted when this horny boy rides by: something about fluorescent yellow always catches the eye. i hope this boy is into boys and boy-on-boy sex, cos i know he’d look as good naked as he does in gore-tex. i’d like to blow him, once i get to know him. thinking about him riding round the city, can’t help but wonder when he’ll bring his package to me. but it’s not all about what he wears, how he looks, what he eats, or the cute way when riding he lifts his arse of the seat: i think there’s similarities in our attitudes, cos he hates cars and drivers and yes, i hate cars too, and i adore him, my shorts are wet for him. he’s got me inner tubes all tied up in knots: not every boy in town has got what he’s got. he caught me staring once at critical mass, i rode behind him to get a good view of his lovely ass. one day he’ll teach me basic bicycle repair: one day i’ll run my fingers through his car pollution-filled hair. o bike courier boy, i hope you’re a queer boy. well, he’s top of the shop, he’s totally the best, he’s cycling down the road in a high visibility vest. oh bike courier boy.

na na hey | a dead and cold town could lead you to thinking that there’s fuck-all here of interest to you: this isolation, anonymity, would leave the most of us with that kind of view, but there’s no point in being down cos these situations can be remedied, i’ll bet: remember that every stranger is a future friend, an accomplice that you haven’t yet met. investigating, talking to each other, learning from ourselves and don’t forget: na na hey, we’re spoiled for choice for stuff for us to do today, with magic in people and skips, sunshine in smiles and excitement in puckered lips. na na ho, borders and clocks can’t tell us when or where to go, and when we get to thinking that this town is shit, we get to thinking we should do something ‘bout it. i spent too much time sitting here in my bedroom consuming and wasting valuable days: we can’t create a culture, we won’t see things good just by sitting around waiting for change, and what’s more besides, there’s inherent bonus of empowerment from d.i.o. - we’ll learn more from a minute with a tin of paint than we could from a year of shite tv shows. don’t want to sound like crappy middle management, but people, let your ideas flow. na na hey, we’ll sit and listen if you’ve got something to say. there’s only so much itv a mind can take: we need a culture than gives us room to create. na na ho, don’t fear fuck-ups and let your inhibitions go: i can’t begin to list the things i’ve learnt since killing my fear of getting my fingers burnt. na na hey, we can’t be idle while we wait for next payday and waste the things in life that come for cheap and free, stuff all around that’s gratis and non-pecuniary. na na ho, we need the chance to share the thoughts and skills we know, and when i say yeah go! there’s still folks asking why: may i welcome them to the world of d.i.y.

gloves | he lays me on his couch, horizontally, puts on his rubber gloves and talks reassuringly, then he inserts his fingers ... i’m in love with my dentist: it’s hard not to get excited when he’s rummaging around in there.

ray’s records | one sticky summer night, one week gone of meetings and gigs, makes a kid restless for cheap distractions: something to blow out the cobwebs and fill up a hole, something to stop the cramps and braindeadness from setting in. no point in sitting indoors waiting for life to occur, and spendy scenes aside, there’s still options. chances for dance, romance and pants in piles on the ground, and opportunities for intensive geekness abound. preamble now complete, it’s back to the deets of the night and the adventures had in that corner: his name was raymond and he lived a half mile away, he promised herbal tea and chocolate, and videos and toys, but when i got there, something made me forget about the tea: the most incredible hip hop record collection: he had everything that jean grae and mike ladd ever did. roxanne shante was his cousin and he’d met rakim: no shit, this flat was full of magic and i’m glad i came. it’s such a novelty, you know most folks listen to crap: too many fags are into dido. i was so excited i forgot why i was there, and spent the evening examining his treasury. raymond was patient, but by two o’clock he was bored: we bumped and talked about the uk scene. he asked if i was up for coming round again soon: i said fuck yeah! and next time i will be bringing blank tapes.

amateur cops | this whole world’s filled with amateur cops: i see them in the morning when i go to the shops. this whole world’s filled with amateur pigs: i see them in the evening when i go to a gig. (written by coping saw)

oh well noel | christmas is normally shit: i get fucked off with it from the day fenwicks deigns to count down the shopping days, but aside from the madness, the general crapness, we can amuse ourselves in ingenious ways (yes, folks: your christmas wishes can come true ... sometimes). from first meeting noel, on a cold christmas eve (big coats, gloves, and long sleeves) our liaison was pending. we were braving the hell of northumberland street, pushchairs under our feet and insane xmas spending. not exactly the scene for a bored frisky queen to have adventures. i was making my way to an evening screening: i was way early meaning there was some time to kill. i reject the idea of pointless christmas shopping: i was more up for copping-off with boys for cheap thrills, but nothing prepared me for what i saw walking my way. the most heavenly boy in the whole of newcastle: my thoughts turned to his asshole as he ventured indoors. being quite into boys i had no other choice but to follow this noel upstairs to the first floor, and that’s where he stopped, at the place boys go for adventures. he loitered with intent at the eldon square toilets for a like-minded boy who could satiate his needs. well, i’m normally shy, but i gave it a try, cos it’s not often i have the opportunity, but he looked away as if he wished to say no thanks, mate. his message was clear, and so i shrugged and said oh well, getting off with noel plays no part in my fate. well, it could have been nice, but i’ll look on the bright side: at least i was on time for my cinema date.

g i v e m e h u m o u s e x u a l o r g i v e m e d e a t h




[ lyrics ] [ discography ] [ video ] [ gig archive ] [ reviews ]

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no borders | woe is me / stuck on the frontiers of two countries / as one of my party pleads with state bureaucracy / and so i see / it can be relatively easy / blue eyes and greenbacks gets you where you want to be / cos if you’re white, west and waving dollars / you can normally avoid these horrors / and it shouldn’t take the brains of scholars / to see the sense in people who rightly hollers that we need / no borders for mo / no borders for thando / all people need to freely come and go / no borders for you / zulekha and lou / borders split the people this we know / no borders for pete / no borders for bakit / no borders for suraya and sarit / burn borders for star, kamini, korra / pike, petra, pablo, prudence and pandit / there was a drama at huwara on the journey to ramallah, dear me / there was no one not in a hurry / but not every jawaaz safar’s bound in burgundy / and all this concrete, stupid papers and the premise of security / leaves people trapped, delayed and angry / now with all this shit how can there still be hope for peace? / if only these folks defied their orders / and they helped take apart these borders / and we also did our bit like we ought to / we could find new friends in every quarter / cos we need no borders for jez / no borders for suresh / move freely shlomo, neng, sy and changez / no borders for sven / none for our nguyen / no borders for mukela and monzen / no borders for capital is a crap ideal when not extended to people / no borders for deek, rachel and rafik / no borders for metiga and monique / but ‘course it isn’t just in distant lands this fucking shit is happening / fear, politics and headline-grabbing / boils it down to us versus them as with everything / and the hateful powers that be create this bolted door mentality / fool us with threats of foreign thievery / and tell us if we’re kept apart we’ll be safe, free and happy / bullshit! / cos if we didn’t pull up ladders behind us / and we focused on what links and binds us / and rejected hate, fear and unkindness / and we put these bordered times behind us, we could get / borders out our heads / no borders for lourdes / no borders for shiv, chila and chavez / freedom for aung san / welcome to szczepan / that bloke who plays for watford, alhassan / how quick we forget / millions of us let / abroad with no reciprocation yet / if we had to flee from brutality / ‘course we’d expect asylum and safety / where’s the solidarity? / we need to make connections, cause a stink / logic, knowledge would surely help us see / these borders are bad / no borders for my dad / no borders for anebo and iyad / folks from everywhere and willing to share / their tales from brisbane, bari and baghdad / no borders for vlad / the boring and rad / every person, infant, lass and lad / time to bring them down / raze them to the ground / bring closure to this xenophobic fad / every border’s bad.

friends | it’s good to see you again my friend / it must have been, i don’t know, it’s been too long / it must have been ages since we’ve last seen each other/ let’s get down to the business of fun / it’s miles and miles that set us apart / but frankly i’ve got more to do with you than with my neighbour / cos we want the same things / we love the same things / basically, we share the same things / we’ll remember the when and where we’ve taken thumbs and trains, coaches and planes / to take us to each other / to share some time in our lives / joy and good times seem to be endless now that we all have reunited / so why can’t we all live in the same place? / a tropical island is politically out of the question / we’ll remember the when and where we’ve taken coaches and planes, thumbs and trains / to take us to each other / to share some time in our lives / moving countries and continents has its appeal / when the paperwork isn’t such a fuss / to have each other in our daily lives / would it be the same? / for now we continue with what we do / fingers crossed next time will be as good as the times before / we shall see each other soon / we’ll remember the when and where some of us have used methods of transport irresponsibly / we’ll remember the when and where / thumbs and trains and fewer planes.

easterly | hey there schätzchen, i’m coming to berlin / i visited my bank and got euros not sterling / yeah, all these trains go east / and i know where to get off / at the city reunited thanks to david hasselhoff / strange white fluff is hanging in the air / it’s reminding you of some detergent-selling podgy bear / and you’ll show me a new place / a secret garden on the spree / only known to all your flatmates, drunken punks, you and me / and i wonder what’s for tea / bad brains, broad beans, bodines and broccoli / peaches moved out, vaginal davis moved in / but i haven’t yet deduced if that means anything / let me spell it out / b-e-r-l-i-n / berlin, berlin, berlin / sunday breakfast up at morgenrot / or we’ll skip it, dude, whatever, dude, whatever floats your boat / cos i know you’re kind of tired from a busy week at work / you can stay longer in bed while i tidy up your room / two more hours and i’ll be going home / we’ve got time to do some demos on your dinky dictaphone / then i’ll have to bugger off via the city on the seine / but it won’t be long before i will be seeing you in berlin again.

great place for a date | some of the best times are always had together / let’s go on a date where there’s fun to be had forever / this place is special / you’ll have to see it for yourself / yes it’s dark and dingy and things never work as planned / where will we all run to once this place is gone? / where will we all go to? / people worked hard to make this place work and look good / officials, bailiffs and the like come knocking on the door / who’s wrong and guilty? / it’s plain to see / buildings neglected for years, no bargains up for sale / where will we all run to once this place is gone? / where will we all go to? / it’s a great place for a date / where will we all run to once this place is gone? / where will we all go to? / it’s a great place for a date / dear property developer, you’re ruining people’s lives / but we just won’t go away cos it’s too great a place for a date / where will we all run to once this place is gone? / where will we all go to? / it’s a great place for a date.

manchester rambler | i’ve been over snowdon, i’ve slept up on crowden / i’ve camped by the wain stones as well / i’ve sunbathed on kinder / been burnt to a cinder / and many more things i can tell / my rucksack is often my pillow at night / and the heather is often my bed / and sooner than part from the mountains, my friends / yes, i think i would rather be dead / i’m a rambler, i’m a rambler from manchester way / i get all my pleasure the hard moorland way / i may be a wage slave on monday, it’s true / but for now i’m a free man with rambling to do / the day was just ending / as i was descending / through grindsbrook just by upper tor / when a voice cried: "hey you!" / in the way keepers do / he’d the worst face that i ever saw / the things that he said were just bullshit, and so / in the teeth of his fury i said / “if you want to part me from this mountain, my friend / you will have to drag me off it dead" / i’m a rambler, i’m a rambler from manchester way / i get all my pleasure the hard moorland way / i may be a wage slave on monday, it’s true / but for now i’m a free man with rambling to do / he called me a louse / and said: "think of the grouse" / well, i thought but i still couldn’t see / why the old kinder scout / and the moors round about / couldn’t take both the poor grouse and me / he said: "all of this land is my master’s" / and at that i stood shaking my head / cos no one has the right to own mountains, it’s true / any more than the deep ocean bed / i’m a rambler, i’m a rambler from manchester way / i get all my pleasure the hard moorland way / i may be a wage slave on monday, it’s true / but for now i’m a free man with rambling to do / i once loved a maid / a spot welder by trade / he was fair as the rowan in bloom / and the hue of his eyes / mocked the june moorland skies / and i loved him from april to june / on the day that we should have been married, of course, yes / i went for a ramble instead / for sooner than part from the mountains, my friends / yes, i think i would rather be dead / i’m a rambler, i’m a rambler from manchester way / i get all my pleasure the hard moorland way / i may be a wage slave on monday, it’s true / but for now i’m a free man with rambling to do / so i’ll walk where i will / over mountain and hill / and i’ll lie where the bracken is deep / i belong to the mountains / the clear running fountains / where grey rocks are rugged and steep / i’ll sit with my humous on brown for my lunch / as the curlew flies high overhead / and say sooner than part from the mountains, my friends / yes, i think i would rather be dead / i’m a rambler, i’m a rambler from manchester way / i get all my pleasure the hard moorland way / i may be a wage slave on monday, it’s true / but for now i’m a free man with rambling to do. (written by ewan maccoll)

dirty crusty holiday | i’ve had it for this season / i’m ready to pack my bags / i feel like santa with my tofu-laden sack / off to a place that i used to frequent more / before i joined the glorious ranks of adulthood / what happened to this life? / i’m sane and healthy but i’m stuck in a trettretmühle / it’s two a.m. / this place is crucial but will it mean the same in two hundred years or more? / i’m off on my bike / staying up late in smoky, filthy places / i’m off on your bike / seeking out places and their people who know how we feel / i’m gonna have myself a dirty crusty holiday / leave my hair to do what nature and hood dictate / i ain’t no monk and i’ve no intention of becoming one / so i seek connection in disorder and noise / i’m off with my bags / staying up late in smoky, filthy places / i’m off on your bike / reconsidering this life instead of a nine to five.

come on in | finally came the day when common sense prevailed / we took apart the fence and law / innocent folks freed and kids no longer jailed / and fortress europe was no more / understanding waves came lapping these fair isles / and swiftly swept away our fear / frontiers gone, the only obstacle’s the miles / we made our friends feel welcome here / come along, come on in / the press were quiet, they’d sensed the strength of public view / and kept their hateful bile restrained / no more shrieks of stealing jobs and jumping queues / got more human and more sane / the sniffer mutts retired to normal doggy lives / the border crossing guards retrained / harmondsworth was quickly put to better use / grünau fell, it went the same way / come along, come on in / we came over in a prehistoric time / we came over just this year / every movement had its reason and its rhyme / for folks from far away and near / matters not a jot the time that we arrived / borders must not block our way / nation states are bullshit recently contrived / but fuck ‘em folks, come in and stay / come along, come on in.



itchy heart | it has really been some time since we last cycled these streets together, but your bike got nicked, and mine is elsewhere. thanks to public transport we’ll keep on riding: we’ll make our way across town, north and south, east and west, and sarf. #12, #36#, #77, #12, #45, #77. however, when i’m stuck on the bus i can’t help but think about the fun times we’ve had, with sunny weather, cycling and raingear. this is how it was, and how it might be, but for now my cycle rides only last a short amount of time.

get on yr bike | well the winter chill is creeping in and the sunshine’s gotten lower, and it’s freezing more like a night in iceland than an afternoon in goa. well, we could stay in and hibernate, but there’s things i’d like to do, so honey get on your bike: please, please honey get on your bike. we’ll be warm as toast in winter coats and the cycling helps to heat us. there may be icy roads and white van men but we won’t let them defeat us, still, when we get to the venue, well, i might need warming up, do you think you could oblige? oh please honey get on your bike. well, i’m all for staying in sometimes and it’s twice as fun with you, but tonight there’s gigs and films and actions: things to learn, see, create and do. there’s a night ahead of excitement and experiences we’d like, so honey get on your bike.

don’t be slack, all yr music’s black | queens pose and preen at trade and nag nag nag: beats and amnesia is their bag. gay white forgetfulness is a drag when all their house and techno came from black detroit fags. it’s always pumping in the percussion, they shake tush and they never stop to wonder how the beats got there. it never comes up in their discussions, i ain’t fussin: to me it’s strange to drift on and not be aware. pan to the london indiepop punk scene: now, i don’t own one northern soul lp, but we can see the ancestery from jazz and blues to shit today and all in between, so props to the motown sound, the underground, the stuff they did that spawned all those black and white smiles. big business might own it now, but it’s too loud to be forgot by all the freak audiophiles. humousexual’s happy to admit, with no black music we’d be twice as shit: if nazi hardcore boys could see it, we’d have a better world with more smiles innit? so know what you’re listening to, what it’s been through: be chuffed as fuck that these folks decided to share. i ain’t saying you should change your taste, just cogitate how there’s a wealth of beautiful history there. don’t be slack, all your music’s black. know what you’re listening to.

supermarket humous vs smoked tofu spread | every once in a while there comes a time to make a choice more important than riding bikes and lusting after boys: it’s kind of strange that we’d base decisions where we’d like to live on each place’s kinds of processed food you eat with your bread. supermarket humous vs smoked tofu spread. shall we go to tesco laden with carrier bags? i think it’s safe cos tubs of humous don’t come with security tags. can we go to marktstrasse and einkauft jars of tofu spread, please, then weigh up the pros and cons of foods in our respective countries? supermarket humous vs smoked tofu spread. you could move back, i might move there: our thoughts of changing scenery are fuelled by thoughts of what we’ve shared. we could pig out, but one we’d miss: it could be worth going without to taste the tofu in your kiss. there is no textbook-sure solution to a problem such as this. it’s a promise and it’s a threat: i never wanna sing about no important crap. again, we’ve had the best of times eating humous in hyde park, and spent days and nights with tofu in your sister’s flat. one’s expensive, one we could easily make ourselves, but there’s relief for lazy faggots on the supermarket shelf. serving the economy with pricey addiction is my favourite new obsessive prediliction.

up the road | dear indieboy, would you like to come to my house? i know it is very far from the south. if you make it here, you have to sit down to piss: europe is as simple as this. it might be cold, it might be hott, peeling wallpaper, bolted doors, leaking roof, cat-killing landlord, but for now it’s ours. we live in a beautiful village, even though it’s a bit like exile. lovely people in a great place, so come on by: you’ll find us a bit way out over here on the border of northeast zone three. it might be cold, it might be hott, but always plenty of tahini. let’s take a walk to the canal and the marshes cos it’s fun. here we are and here we go, rent-free and for now it’s ours: i do hope the papers won’t arrive before we finish that five kilo bucket of tahini.

seven hundred kilometres | 700 kilometres to cross, 24 hours counting the cost of us living in places where we’re not quite neighbours. tried once and failed with leaves on the line, but no problems or fuck-ups this time, custards and exercise and best behaviour. and i’m covering those miles and i’ll be seeing you again. my ozone layer-destroying plane lands me in pouring hannover rain: two hours to my favourite part of niedersachsen. no railway obstacles at this end, only single boys who clearly want to be friends: i kick myself for my limited vocab and my dodgy accent. but i can’t contain the smiles cos i’ll be seeing you again. nordstemmen, else, alfeld, kreiensen, einbeck-salzderhelden, northeim, noerten-hardenberg, and we’re almost there, it’s only a few miles down the track until we get to goettingen. and i can’t contain the smiles cos i’ll be seeing you again.

give me humous or give me death | there’s nothing finer than cloves of garlic: eating it fried or raw is equally rad. your processed food must be like chewing carpet, i’d rather die than eat brain donor kebabs. cos there’s shit in your burgers and disease in your mince, and milk gives you bad breath, so, give me mashed-up chickpeas, give me humous or give me death. it’s a promise and it’s a threat: i’m never gonna sing about no important crap. humous, veggies and tofu spread, it’s like a matter of life and death. living here or living there, tell me to spend my money where. give me mashed-up chickpeas, give me humous or give me death.

humous vs humanities | is it a crime if it doesn’t rhyme?

sex lib d-beat | du sagst mir (und ich werde nicht rot. ich frage dich) und du rennst nicht weg. [ you tell me (and i don’t blush. i ask you) and you don’t run away ]

loosen up | you’re invited to relax your muscles, and loosen up. unwind your clocks, undo your knots. take some water from the tap, calm your aorta. girls, grow moustaches and eat molasses: boys, wear bikinis and eat tahini. or eat some cake, stay up late. punks and hippies, eat some chickpeas, and as your inhibitions melt, eat some spelt, put it inside you. destarch your stiff upper lip, take sips and shake both your hips. shake it like there are no bones inside of you, and loosen up.

batty street | i think i might be dreaming, queer utopia is here and i’m feeling like creating, learning, laughing and screaming: getting stuck in and having a go. the place is teeming with active kids who came from enfield and ealing, but not enough from darjeeling, not enough from cairo. yeah, we know there’s still work to be done, cos not exactly everyone will see or hear of batty street - but look what crowd’s assembled here, a diverse mass of sorted queers all hanging out in batty street. i’m slowly dealing with me ignorance and now i’m just beaming, cos me jaw gets exercised when i’m kneeling and there’s always good things entering me. and we’re stealing glances at graffiti drawn on the ceiling, and we’re helping with the spuds that need peeling, and everything we do we’re doing for free. for some queer autonomy, politics and not much sleep, make your way to batty street. for a filming, fuck or feast, just head down to aldgate east, you’ll find it there in batty street. it’s wonderful in batty street, i wanna be in batty street.

southeast fifteen | this time, for once, i will not chicken out, say no, or run a mile or two. the motto’s ‘peckham up’, like it was my home ground. peckham up, with no strings attached: ‘no commitment’ they say. would you like to share a little secret? i know peckham better than i know boys.

die | national front and bnp: die, die, die. violent macho brainless fools: die, die, die. homophobic sexist bastards: die, die, die. paul daniels’ best trick ever: die, die, die. nazi bastards you fuck off and die, die, die. (written by health hazard)

riah gnos | you left today, only for a short amount of time, i’m sure. you left today, and i dig my head into my pillow. there’s something that’ll make it hard to sleep tonight. how am i gonna sleep tonight? life goes on, and we can start counting the days backwards again. sweetly soapy scent of hygienic hair: my thoughts are triggered by my sense of smelling. bollocks to the beauty industry, cos my pillow still smells of chemicals you put in your hair.

next september | cup of tea and a nice sit down, scuzzy backroom gigs in kentish town. chickpeas and monchichis and things we’ve come to love to share all on hold as from now: geography and distance won’t allow a fumbling hug to reel around, cos arms can’t reach from over there. now, we’ve lived far apart since 2002, but extra mileage augments the missing you. idle strike days in brockwell park, tinny bathroom gigs and trashy art, fanzines and leafy greens and humous. poking fun at haircuts, sharing apfelsaft and cashew nuts, good books, suggestive looks, and more humous. shame that there’s no room for geiger in rucksacks, but i’ll cure these itchy feet and i’ll be coming back: next september’s not so far away. we’ll be having fun, impatient for the day when we can be back together, sipping rooibos tea and out discussing the weather. i’ve no right to complain, jumping puddles in chinese rain, the stimulation fires but couldn’t satisfy all needs. i’ll be sure to write soon, be it from bilbao or babbacombe. i hope you pass your last exams, and keep the emails coming, please. now we’ve seen 30 months of fun, come rain or shine: i can’t predict your thoughts but you’ll stay in mine.

humous is great | you can spread it on a bagel. no meal is complete without humous on my table.
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punk rock boy | punk rock boy, don’t be coy, and don’t panic in horror, faint or take flight when i ask you what you’re doing on friday night. there’s a gig, lesbo pig: they rock, and the gig’s not too far from your house so i had hoped that you could accomodate. riding bikes, sleepless nights: we’re excited about the gig tomorrow, the one with pete dale and rachel holborrow. pre-gig tea, swap lps, this boy is dexterous with his seven inches, i’m all ears for the things he wants to play, be it emo shite or what he wrote today.

yumus & yumus beats | for some reason or the other, the energy doesn’t flow today. for some reason or the other, the energy didn’t flow today, so we get on our bicycles and pop down to the nasty supermarket. so we pop down to the nasty supermarket, and get a tub of ... here’s what you’ll need for a basic humous recipe: 400g/8oz tin of chickpeas, two teaspoons of tahini, two teaspoons of lemon juice, one clove of garlic, crushed, and a little salt and freshly-ground pepper. (chickpea, tahini, lemon juice, salt, pepper, garlic). here’s what you do: drain the chickpeas, leaving a little of the water. place in a blender and add the rest of the ingredients. blend until smooth. if dry, add a little olive oil. spoon into a bowl and serve: it’ll keep in a fridge for three or four days. the easiest way to make it is in a blender, but you can do it by hand: you’ll need to mash the chickpeas and then mix the ingredients in a bowl, vigorously.

special friend | oh special friend, what say we go up to my room and try to write some emo songs? i’ll inappropriately bring my mouth organ if you bring your acoustic guitar. there’s nothing more i’d like to do than sing the roof off, but my flatmates are asleep, and the walls are paper-thin. they locked the park at dusk today, in irrational fear of what folks might do, but what say we jump the fence and play our dumbass songs until we get bored? may i propose goofing around with borrowed keyboards as the way to spend the day? i’m hoping you might feel the same. we could surprise ourselves, and see, we’ll never know if we don’t try. it’s not some way of killing time, it’s the kind of thing that keeps us sane and alive. this is how i’m feeling, oh special friend.

figures | is there something i don’t know about 4-5-6-letter words sitting in a quiet room? is there something i don’t know about 4-5-6-letter words having the recipes all sorted out? queer is a 1-2-3-4-5-6-letter word.
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cum sarf | hey there sussi, come down to sarf london, me socks are almost dry and it’s time to put them on. it’s such a lovely day, it’d be a shame to waste it, so get out of your front door cos i’m patiently waiting. crampton street and roots manuva, ruskin park and brixton tube, i’ll take us on the scenic route past metro central heights, the busy streets of peckham with their international sights. s-a-r-f-l-o-n-d-o-n, whatcha got? sarf london. five-finger discount and free distractions, safeway savers and direct action. cycling in the sunshine down walworth road, it’s kinda cheesy but i think to myself what a wonderful world.

manc wag | hey there honey, come up to manchester, it doesn’t always rain, you won’t need a sou-wester. it’s such a lovely day, it’d be a shame to waste it, so get the bus from london cos i’m patiently waiting. oldham street, the star and garter, salford lads club and heaton park. i’ll take us on the scenic route past strangeways hmp, we won’t shop in the arndale but we’ll use the loos for free. m-a-n-c-h-e-s-t-e-r, whatcha got? so much to answer for. valerie we will not forget, tot and bette davis and the balconettes. nodding to the noises of polythene, i think you need to pay a visit if you’ve never been.

go west | hey there petal, come over to bristol, the coach is pretty cheap so don’t fear matters fiscal. it’s such a lovely day, it’d be a shame to waste it, come west, come west, go west young man, please don’t keep me waiting. come to cafe kino and drop by here, lubricate your journey with butcombe beer. sitting out on college green and movies at the cube, if the bristol kids are fruity you might wanna bring ‘doms and lube. b-r-e-e-e-e-s-t-o-l, whatcha got? bristol. stitch-stitch, hombré and sarah records, headfall, soeza, aspects, disorder. climbing up park street to there and back again lane, we had a smashing time in bristol and i’m glad i came.

come take my hand in winter | come take my hand: there is a perfect place to watch the cold dawn break. it’s eight o’clock, you’re half asleep, but this can’t wait. we spent a week hoping for dropping mercury, and with it days pregnant with possibility. come take my hand, and we’ll canoe down to the bottom of my street, suitable clothing insulating hands and feet. there will be smiles all round, tranquillity and peace, hiding our lunches from the greedy ducks and geese. come take my hand, and we’ll go out relishing late-december rain, reminding us that we are alive once again. i can’t believe how lucky we are to have this, a day for nature, kids, all’s well and nowt’s amiss. come take my hand, and we’ll go out rescuing wildlife from the slick, the bay of biscay to the edge of the arctic. a thousand cormorants are cause for our concern, the turtles, true’s beaked whale, tusk, tannenbaum and tern. come take my hand and we’ll go out rolling like toddlers in the snow, but before we venture out there’s something you should know: it’s fun to do it outdoors and may i suggest we build an igloo, screw inside, then take a rest?
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warum sind die eigentlich alle so anders? | whooooo! howl! snarl! aaaaargh! mwuhahahahahaaaa!

zombie-werewolf feudin’ blues | well curse my soul my boyfriend’s truly dead and his family all hate me, i’m afraid they’re gonna have my hide or head. i’m crying werewolf tears over my rockabilly blue suede shoes: i’ll make no bones about it folks, i got the zombie-werewolf feudin’ blues. i’m proud of who i am, i’m sorted with my furry face and hairy palms, and i’m never happier when there’s a full moon and my honey’s in my arms. but all this subterfuge and secrecy is necessary til they call a truce and in the meantime we’ll be dreamin’ of losing these zombie-werewolf feudin’ blues. won’t somebody explain to me the logic of this stupid ancient feud that makes it hard for me to hang out with my sexy dandy zombie boyfriend dude? it makes me want to quit the streets of glasgow and elope to cannes or kathmandu. yeah, i’m driven to despair by these goddamn zombie-werewolf feudin’ blues.

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horny tattooed cycle courier boy | i seen this boy bomb down victoria street, stops on his way at christchurch gardens to eat. he’s got lovely eyes, a wonky smile and knobbly knees, he fills his sandwiches with fresh humous and non-dairy cheese. will he ever notice me? i’ll stop distracted when this horny boy rides by: something about fluorescent yellow always catches the eye. i hope this boy is into boys and boy-on-boy sex, cos i know he’d look as good naked as he does in gore-tex. i’d like to blow him, once i get to know him. thinking about him riding round the city, can’t help but wonder when he’ll bring his package to me. but it’s not all about what he wears, how he looks, what he eats, or the cute way when riding he lifts his arse of the seat: i think there’s similarities in our attitudes, cos he hates cars and drivers and yes, i hate cars too, and i adore him, my shorts are wet for him. he’s got me inner tubes all tied up in knots: not every boy in town has got what he’s got. he caught me staring once at critical mass, i rode behind him to get a good view of his lovely ass. one day he’ll teach me basic bicycle repair: one day i’ll run my fingers through his car pollution-filled hair. o bike courier boy, i hope you’re a queer boy. well, he’s top of the shop, he’s totally the best, he’s cycling down the road in a high visibility vest. oh bike courier boy.

na na hey | a dead and cold town could lead you to thinking that there’s fuck-all here of interest to you: this isolation, anonymity, would leave the most of us with that kind of view, but there’s no point in being down cos these situations can be remedied, i’ll bet: remember that every stranger is a future friend, an accomplice that you haven’t yet met. investigating, talking to each other, learning from ourselves and don’t forget: na na hey, we’re spoiled for choice for stuff for us to do today, with magic in people and skips, sunshine in smiles and excitement in puckered lips. na na ho, borders and clocks can’t tell us when or where to go, and when we get to thinking that this town is shit, we get to thinking we should do something ‘bout it. i spent too much time sitting here in my bedroom consuming and wasting valuable days: we can’t create a culture, we won’t see things good just by sitting around waiting for change, and what’s more besides, there’s inherent bonus of empowerment from d.i.o. - we’ll learn more from a minute with a tin of paint than we could from a year of shite tv shows. don’t want to sound like crappy middle management, but people, let your ideas flow. na na hey, we’ll sit and listen if you’ve got something to say. there’s only so much itv a mind can take: we need a culture than gives us room to create. na na ho, don’t fear fuck-ups and let your inhibitions go: i can’t begin to list the things i’ve learnt since killing my fear of getting my fingers burnt. na na hey, we can’t be idle while we wait for next payday and waste the things in life that come for cheap and free, stuff all around that’s gratis and non-pecuniary. na na ho, we need the chance to share the thoughts and skills we know, and when i say yeah go! there’s still folks asking why: may i welcome them to the world of d.i.y.

gloves | he lays me on his couch, horizontally, puts on his rubber gloves and talks reassuringly, then he inserts his fingers ... i’m in love with my dentist: it’s hard not to get excited when he’s rummaging around in there.

ray’s records | one sticky summer night, one week gone of meetings and gigs, makes a kid restless for cheap distractions: something to blow out the cobwebs and fill up a hole, something to stop the cramps and braindeadness from setting in. no point in sitting indoors waiting for life to occur, and spendy scenes aside, there’s still options. chances for dance, romance and pants in piles on the ground, and opportunities for intensive geekness abound. preamble now complete, it’s back to the deets of the night and the adventures had in that corner: his name was raymond and he lived a half mile away, he promised herbal tea and chocolate, and videos and toys, but when i got there, something made me forget about the tea: the most incredible hip hop record collection: he had everything that jean grae and mike ladd ever did. roxanne shante was his cousin and he’d met rakim: no shit, this flat was full of magic and i’m glad i came. it’s such a novelty, you know most folks listen to crap: too many fags are into dido. i was so excited i forgot why i was there, and spent the evening examining his treasury. raymond was patient, but by two o’clock he was bored: we bumped and talked about the uk scene. he asked if i was up for coming round again soon: i said fuck yeah! and next time i will be bringing blank tapes.

amateur cops | this whole world’s filled with amateur cops: i see them in the morning when i go to the shops. this whole world’s filled with amateur pigs: i see them in the evening when i go to a gig. (written by coping saw)

oh well noel | christmas is normally shit: i get fucked off with it from the day fenwicks deigns to count down the shopping days, but aside from the madness, the general crapness, we can amuse ourselves in ingenious ways (yes, folks: your christmas wishes can come true ... sometimes). from first meeting noel, on a cold christmas eve (big coats, gloves, and long sleeves) our liaison was pending. we were braving the hell of northumberland street, pushchairs under our feet and insane xmas spending. not exactly the scene for a bored frisky queen to have adventures. i was making my way to an evening screening: i was way early meaning there was some time to kill. i reject the idea of pointless christmas shopping: i was more up for copping-off with boys for cheap thrills, but nothing prepared me for what i saw walking my way. the most heavenly boy in the whole of newcastle: my thoughts turned to his asshole as he ventured indoors. being quite into boys i had no other choice but to follow this noel upstairs to the first floor, and that’s where he stopped, at the place boys go for adventures. he loitered with intent at the eldon square toilets for a like-minded boy who could satiate his needs. well, i’m normally shy, but i gave it a try, cos it’s not often i have the opportunity, but he looked away as if he wished to say no thanks, mate. his message was clear, and so i shrugged and said oh well, getting off with noel plays no part in my fate. well, it could have been nice, but i’ll look on the bright side: at least i was on time for my cinema date.