Heart of a Punk - Soul of a Rasta

Welcome to our fluctuating, fictionating music ghetto. If a band's music truly possesses The Heart of a Punk or The Soul of a Rasta it is listed, visited, reviewed, revered and adored. The man who decides who gets into the ghetto is "The Bigot" (John), on your behalf I "The Editor" (Ed) usually request verification of The Bigot's credentials for his holding this self appointed position. This month for the first time since 1996 I can't do this, please read on!

If you happen to aim a misjudged swipe at a cockroach with the heel of your slipper and fail to squish the poor unfortunate immediately, but instead you simply sever its horrible head from its quite unpleasant body, the cockroach will scuttle away as if nothing had occurred. Its bloody neck will seal itself, so it won't bleed to death, and its breathing will not be impaired since it doesn't take in oxygen through its mouth but through minuscule holes in its various body sections. Still the lack of head will sound the cockroach's death knell, because after seven days or so without a mouth the poor bugger will die of thirst. Does a cockroach possess a soul? When a cockroach casts off its mortal coil does it go to cockroach heaven or cockroach hell? These matters are of no importance to us here; please submit to memory only the fact that without a head eventually a cockroach will die of thirst.

Recently it was brought to my attention that certain people think the Bigot & I just make up the crapola in this Fanzine. "Eh who said that?" They think all this stuff is merely a flight of fancy, lacking direction, common purpose or a coherent theme. Well frankly I was shocked and disgusted on hearing that such nasturtiums were being cast; sorry, I was shocked and disgusted on hearing that such aspersions were being cast. Yes Mr Stephen Hawking of Cambridge you maybe correct in your supposition that there is no direction, common purpose or a coherent theme to our Fanzine; but we are simple folk here who don't readily understand grand concepts of blah blah & yaddar yaddar. But having read last month issue again, with St Valentines Day stuck in the middle of February, surely the theme of the Fanzine was LOVE. Couldn't you feel the LOVE radiating out from each and every carefully chosen word?! Anyway it's one thing to choose a theme with the aid of hindsight, this month however I'm going to show you good and proper Hawking by choosing from the outset "Friends and Family" as the theme for this month's fanzine. So prepare yourself for a deal of contrivance, you want direction, common purpose and a coherent theme Hawking, you've got it!

Monday 2nd March, At Friendships End.
Bleary eyed and back from Wales, and thankful that it is now light outside when it is time to get up in Shropshire - getting up time in Shropshire is when the milking shed generator starts at 6 o'clock if you were in any doubt. Anyway there I stood in my own kitchen at six twenty, not looking out of the window onto the unkempt garden but looking through the side window onto the picturesque aspect of our half empty jerry built concrete coal bunker. I know I positioned myself here for some reason a second ago but at this particular moment I can't for the life of me think what for. I stare at me reflected back in the double glazing; I dare myself to remember what I'm here for, both specifically and universally. Many, many years ago I fooled myself into believing that one day this unpleasant visage of mine would somehow become an acquired taste, but I am still waiting in vain for that day to come, and today looking at my own reflection only makes me wince. My wince turns to a sudden start as I realise the reflected eyes in the glass are not my own. A heavy piece of cold hard metal slowly descends down the entire length of my back and my hands uncontrollably fall onto the work surface in an attempt to keep myself upright. I moisten my eyes in an involuntary burst of rapid eye movement and try to disassemble my own reflection from what is beyond. Behind my reflected face is the face of another. A face I recognise. The face of my old friend and partner The Bigot, standing stock still beside my store of anthracite grains, peering unsmiling at me through the kitchen window at six twenty five on the morning of the 2nd of March 2009. It takes less than a millisecond for my brain to facilitate me with a logical reason for his appearance.

Bigot was dead: to begin with.
There was no doubt whatever about that.
Old Bigot was as dead as a doornail.

What stood on the other side of the double glazed unit was the ghost of Jon The Bigot, a mere shadow of my old friend come to say farewell, come to warn me, perhaps to haunt me. No, no, no! What a load of bollocks! It was The Bigot, in the flesh, in blood and in bone. The Bigot here?
The Bigot staring at me with eyes full of rage! Shit he knew! How had he found out?! Someone must have told! Shit, shit…..shit! I bet it was Greg who blabbed, what a tosser or was it Jimbo? Anyway The Bigot knew and now nothing would be the same, I was deeply and incontrovertibly in the sticky stinky unshakable brown stuff.

You see unfortunately I had neglected to tell John back in October 2008 that I'd asked Greg to sell The Fanzine on Ebay, and I had also neglected to tell him that I'd set up a website for the Fanzine in January. It was wrong, I know. But I didn't think he would find out. He's never been on a computer, let alone owned one. I won't bore you with the gritty detail of what passed between us that morning, I've raked over our conversation seven hundred and forty two times and I am still unable to paint myself in a good light. So The Bigot will not with us this month, there will be no news, no credentials exposed, and worst of all no expenses! Like a headless cockroach I wait patiently to die of thirst.