John Askew

More Bullshit - Sept 09

Ok you muthas. Here’s your cocking blog. Now do one.

Reminder to ones self: Don’t forget to spin the same old bullshit you read in every other dj’s blog (including your own which is particularly dull and predictable) about how amazing you and your music are – remember the reader does not want to read anything outside of the “usual”.

Right you are, here goes - new single bla bla bla, loads of remixes bla bla bla, gigs bla bla bla, more gigs bla bla bla, new mix album bla bla bla....

Whatever. If you want to know about the serious stuff then my website has it all with bells on. So shall we all give ourselves a well deserved break and talk about something a little more interesting and varied and leave the same ol same ol “yeah man I’m still trying to find ‘that hook’ to complete the sidechained effect on my new bass heavy sub-tech masterpiece” to the factory chickens?

They say “what goes around comes around” and I believe in this but I’m really hoping in the case of Tesco’s recycled Toilet Paper that the saying doesn’t apply. What’s the crack (no pun intended) with this shit (again not intentional)? I’m all for recycling and doing my bit to save the planet but re-using toilet roll that I potentially wiped my arse with in the past is quite frankly taking things a tad too far.

Tescos – you can take your recycled toilet paper and shove it up your..... oh....that’s what you were going to do with it anyway. How rude of me. I’m so sorry.

Ok be serious for a second and tell them about the gigs and stuff.

Oh for the love of God – do I have to???

Yes you bloody do. It’s what they want to hear and keep quiet about toilet stuff you turnip.

Pissing hell...alright....

I’m at Heathrow Terminal 5 writing this (yawn, heard it before – wake me up when he says something of any substance will you) waiting for a flight to Argentina and it’s been a long time since my last blog (not long enough mate) so I have a shit load to tell you about – so we’ll have to go back – way back, but first, while it’s still fresh in my mind – let me let you about something that happened a few hours ago as I was waiting for a bus at Swindon station. Yes how glamorous is my life – I get the bus to Heathrow now instead of driving. Why? Because it’s cheap, it’s easy and it means I don’t have to take out a second mortgage to pay for airport parking. There’s also the added bonus that you don’t need to worry about being over the limit when returning from gigs where the hospitality has been overly generous.

So I’m at Swindon station waiting for the National Express (cos my life’s in a mess) when this little scamp no higher than a space hopper comes racing round the corner at break neck speed – so fast in fact that at first I only registered him as a flash of Burberry in my peripheral vision. As I turned I got the full view of the oily little monster making good with his legs across open ground – the distinct “shh, shh, shh, shh” sound of the inner leg of a pair of JJB Sports tracksuit trousers moving at pace.

“Oi!”

I tuned back and joining the fun came a rotund biscuit barrelled shaped Policeman – weighed down by his bullet proof vest and an over enthusiastic utility belt full of far too many bits of equipment (it doesn’t matter how many pouches you put on that belt mate – you’re still not a member of the LA SWAT), sweating like a wrong un with a red face panting like a dog that’s just swum the English channel. As he bounded past me I could hear his breathing straining as though he was experiencing a vicious asthma attack. Never had the word “Plod” seemed more appropriate that at that precise moment. I just wanted to shout out “give up mate – you’re never going to catch him!” or “call for back up!!” but I managed to resist - and then they were gone.

The crowd of people around me waiting for their busses looked at each other in shock and then some of them burst out laughing. I’m not saying that huge fat policemen who can’t keep up with teenagers half their height in a chase is funny but – it was an incredible thing to witness. Who am I kidding – it was fucking hilarious.

As I sit here now thinking about it my amusement has turned to confusion and somewhat annoyance. We, the British taxpayers pay high rates of taxes for the Police to deal with crime – surely therefore one of the criteria for becoming a police officer should be that you can run 200 meters without passing out?? I know in America they have huge great big fat police officers but it’s different there because the criminals are having to outrun bullets.

Sorry, tangent over where were we. I can’t remember everything I meant to tell you about in this update but I’ll do my best.

So there was a gig in Swansea – at the new Escape club which was pretty cool. In the day building up to the gig I went to the Brecon Beacons with my good mate from Scotland Graeme to do the legendary Pen-y-Fan mountain trek, which was an amazing day. The weather was terrible which made visibility pretty poor on the peaks but the overall experience was incredible. You see I’ve been trying hard to get in shape for this sponsored trek I am doing for this years Children in Need appeal (oh here we go – big yourself up why don’t you) – 200 miles across England from St Bees Head on west coast – right across to Robin Hoods bay on the east coast. This walk, the aptly titled “Coast to Coast”, was the brainchild of one Alfred Wainwright and is a challenge Mat (the mate doing it with me) and I have been talking about for some time. We leave on 26th September and are expecting to complete it in 12 days of walking with maybe one or two rest days in the middle if required. If I turn up to Digital Society in October on crutches – you’ll know why because the day of that event is our last day of walking (if we make it n time). So anyway – here I am in Wales with Graeme having just completed the Pen-y-Fan and after 5 hours of marching in shitty rain and mist we finally make it back to the car and with a real sense of achievement it is decided that the best course of action is for us to both jump into the river running next to the car park. And why not indeed! (I’ve stuck a few photos on my myspace page).

The gig at the Escape was pretty good, not the best in terms of turn out but then again it is an enormous venue to fill and its been pissing with rain all day. Still there were maybe 450 in so enough for a good party and we had a brilliant night and met / hung out with loads of wicked people. Giuseppe Ottaviani was headlining and his set was absolutely rocking.

The next morning – still feeling a bit tender from the trekking in the brecons the day before Graeme and I head back to mine for a lazy Sunday of watching DVDs and sinking freezer chilled Kopparbergs. On the way back, with our heads a little fuzzy from all the Welsh hospitality the night before we decide to stop at the Mcdonalds on the road out Swansea. We make our order and then Graeme kindly offers to pay but when he hands over a Scottish 20 pound note the following conversation happens:

Guy at the window says “Sorry we can’t except Scottish money”.

“What do you mean?” I ask. “It’s legal tender the same as any other UK pound note what exactly is the problem?

“I know that sir but we have been told my management that money coming from Scotland is more likely to be forged and therefore we are not allowed to take the risk. It’s not my decision it’s just what I have been told by my supervisor”

“Please repeat exactly what you just said one more time so I am 100% clear on the Mcdonalds policy towards the Scottish people?”

“No this isn’t a policy against the Scottish people, just their money”

“But if you’re suggesting the money coming from Scotland is ‘more likely to be forged’ then I think you are in fact making a rather offensive statement about the Scottish people. Don’t you? And I’m sure if you googled the origin of the name of your company you wouldn’t have to go too far back in the family tree to find the ancestral origins of your companies founder in Scotland – which would be rather ironic now wouldn’t it?”

Blank face.

“Sorry Sir I just work here”

“I know mate, I’m not giving you a hard time I’m just baffled by this policy which in essence could be classified as a form of racism (his face goes an icy white when I use the “R” word) – “don’t worry pal - can we get some extra ketchup and we’ll be on our way”.

I know I can be an annoying twat sometimes but this incident really pissed me off and I had a big rant about it on the way home (poor old Graeme – having to listen to my bullshit while nursing a sore head – sorry mate!). In the days that followed I called Mcdonalds customer services to try and get some of this stuff on tape to include an audio sample for you in this blog, but they kept fobbing me off saying the person I needed to talk to was out of the office and they would call me back. 3 calls and nobody ever got back to me. Still it doesn’t matter how much you slag them off or how much the film Super Size Me puts you off eating their rancid horribly toxic food – those golden arches always manage to lure you in when you are at your most vulnerable. They’ve got us by the swingers ladies and gentlemen. Bastards.

What else has happened? After month working on it I finally finished my new mix album for Digital Society (which comes out in October if you’re looking for something to spend your hard earned wedge on). It’s taken ages to find the exact music I wanted to include and to complete the mix but finally it’s done and I’m really pleased with it. After finishing it I tried not to listen to it for a few weeks so that I could come back with fresh ears on a long car journey I had coming up. Sadly when that car journey came around I must have accidentally pressed the bastard “traffic report” button so every 10 minutes the mix was interrupted by Cheshire travel news. Why is there nothing in the bastard handbook to tell you how to turn the cocking thing off?

Next up was The Gallery at Ministry of Sound in London. It was an absolutely wicked night. Infected Mushroom were headlining and I played after them which is always a joy because they play at about 144 bpm. They brought a more underground crowd than is usual at MOS so it was loads of fun playing to them and no matter how hard it got – it wasn’t hard enough. Oh joy!

Then the following weekend I headed to The US for a couple of gigs in Seattle and New York. Waiting to board at Heathrow I studied my travel schedule for the first time in detail and worked out that after 14 hours of flying to get to Seattle I would be in the city for just 8 hours before I had to catch a flight back to NYC and most of those 8 hours would be at the club. This was going to be a tiring weekend to say the least.

When I arrived at Seattle airport I called the promoter who was caught in traffic but who said he would be there asap. No worries, I’m happy here in the arrivals lounge doing one of my favourite airport pastimes – watching people being reunited. Now this is something I can do all day long and normally I make up the background stories behind each reunion in my head. But this time I saw something quite extraordinary. I saw numbers of US military personnel, still in uniform, who must have been returning home for leave from Iraq or Afghanistan being met my huge groups of loved ones who whooped with joy as their son/brother/husband etc walked through the arrival doors. Without wanting to sound too unmanly it was really quite an emotional thing to witness. What was even more moving was when I found myself back in the departures terminal some 8 hours later watching the opposite side to this euphoria when families were having to say goodbye to their son’s and daughters, their husbands and wives – who’s holiday was now over and who were therefore heading back to war. I can’t explain this flip side very well but let’s just say I found it pretty disturbing – watching the loved ones physically breakdown, clearly terrified that this might be the last time they see, or hold or talk to their son, or husband etc. And then the young soldiers (some of them didn’t look a day older than 15) trying to put on a brave face and reassure their families that they would see them all again in 6 months when their tour ended. I’m sure like me most of you are against the war in Afghanistan but my god I feel nothing but respect and admiration of these young people putting their lives on the line for their country. It takes balls. Serious balls.

Thanks for that John, you’ve really managed to bring me down you morbid bastard.

Sorry but this was supposed to be a diary that did document everything of interest from my travels and not just the good bits. It’s funny, while we’re on that topic – of only documenting the good bits – I had some mails after my last blog saying that it wasn’t right that I described some gigs as shit as it made the promoters look bad and that it wasn’t fair on them as they were trying hard to help support a scene that was indeed in desperate need of help. Well I think that’s a valid point to make but if you are one of the believers of this view then might I suggest you don’t read any of my blogs ever again because what you are essentially asking me to do by “omitting the bad ones” is lie. And if that’s the kind of blog you are after then I can think of several that would be more suited to your requirements. This is and will always be a warts and all blog. If you don’t like that, then please stop reading – I’m only going to disappoint you again in the future.

The last thing I want to do is fuck up a promoters chance of making a solid night, but at the same time I’m not someone who feels the need to try to make myself look better/bigger by only talking about the good gigs and you also overlook one glaringly obvious fact – if the numbers at a gig are shit and I’m headlining then I’m as much to blame as anyone – and I’ll be the first to admit that. Its funny – in some countries I can fill 4000 capacity arenas on my own and yet in small towns in Ireland and Scotland recently I struggle to get more than a hundred through the door. What I will say is that I am now actively trying to avoid doing those gigs again which will be good for all parties concerned. Ok? Are we friends again? Now stop your bitching and go and make me a cup of tea – milk no sugar.

2nd hand stamp collecting. What the fuck is that all about?

No that’s not it.

Marmite vs Bovril? Nope.

In the ongoing good drummer vs bad drummers debate Paul Kodish from Pendulum is pretty damn amazing while that scruffy bird from the White Stripes is hopeless – bless her though she gives it her best shot.

No, try again...

Ah yes – Seattle. The gig was brilliant (there happy now!). I play for 3 hours and love every single second of it. It was also really cool to get to hang out with Victor Dinaire who was at the venue. He’s a super cool guy and has always been a big supporter of Discover Records music on radio in the US and I will always be grateful for that. After the gig Marq the promoter takes me back to the hotel where I have just enough time to shower and change before heading back to the airport for my 7am flight to JFK. At the airport, after going through luggage checks and entering the departures area I notice a dubious looking shop which considering the strict security measures at US airports following 9/11 I’m surprised to see in a departures lounge (see photos on myspace).

I buy some bubblegum before getting on the plane. American bubblegum flavours are always incredible and luscious. British flavours by comparison are pathetic and weak. It says something about Britain in general that yellow and green sweets here are always lemon and lime while in the US (the land of dreams and deliciously synthetic flavoured gums) they are always banana or watermelon or something equally exotic.

The flight is smooth although the oriental guy sitting next to me who has an outrageous body odour piping out from under his arms keeps turning my air conditioning off every time I close my eyes. At first I didn’t notice because I genuinely fell asleep and then must have forgotten I’d not turned it off myself, but then I caught him red handed. Even with my guys closed I knew he was tampering with the controls because the elevation of his arm pumped out more of his poisonous gas into my face. I waited till he fell asleep and then turned all three blowers on in a desperate attempt to drive his rotten underarm aroma towards the rest of the cabin – hoping that n flight the sordid vapour would disperse enough not to kill anyone it engulfed. Think what his poor wife has to deal with when they are on the job. Christ poor woman.

At New York I am staying in a hotel I have been at before – directly overlooking the ground zero site where the World Trade Centre buildings once stood before the 9/11 attacks. The view looking down into the enormous void where the foundations once were is quite unnerving and from the 50th floor there is a strange feeling that again I can’t quite explain. I relive the images of the planes crashing into the buildings in my head. I took 2 photos for you which are on the myspace page now – but they don’t really give an authentic replication of the incredible size of the hole.

I order a burger and turn on the TV. It’s CNN news and the headlines dominating the screen are of a plane crash that day in the Hudson river in New York. What the fuck?? Are you kidding me??? The Hudson is right outside the hotel past ground zero – I go back to the window and look left and right along the river while listening to the news report in the background. Apparently a small aeroplane collided midair with a sightseeing helicopter and both fell straight out of the sky into the Hudson and were instantly submerged killing all occupants of both aircraft. Because the bank of the Hudson is a massively popular tourist area there were literally thousands of people close by with cameras already in their hands so some of the images being shows were pretty shocking of the mid air carnage. I keep watching the news for the rest of the day as eye-witness accounts and interviews with aviation experts give way to live footage of the NYPD divers and engineers using cranes to lift the wreckages out of the water onto a colossal cargo tug ship – everyone working desperately hard to get every piece recovered before the tide changes and the current picks up – potentially washing bits of the debris away. This happened literally hours ago and the fact that it is less than a mile from where I am sitting watching it fuels my morbid fascination to keep watching even though there is a possibility of seeing dead bodies pulled from the water at any moment. Eventually that possibility is too possible for my liking and I turn off and pass out.

The gig at NY’s Love Club is ok. Not amazing. Not shit. Just ok. If it wasn’t for the fact that both my previous gigs in the city have been mind blowing I’m sure I would have viewed this one as better than ok but the standards were set so what can I say? I just really hope to come back to NY again as it’s one of my all time favourite places to both play and visit. Such a vibrant city full of colours, noise and excitement everywhere you look. I love it. I am literally gagging to come back and play there again soon.

After the show I hang out with Thomas Datt and his missus who kindly drive me back to the hotel. They are both lovely people and it’s nice to be able to catch up properly in the hotel lobby where we can each other speak.

When I wake up I’m met by the most incredible pain in one of my ears. A piercing pain which stabs away at me. When I get out of bed to go for a piss I feel slightly off balance as well. Something isn’t right.

On the flight home the pressure in my ear during take off is excruciatingly painful. I do my best to sleep as a means of avoiding having to deal with the pain till I get back to the UK. I manage a few hours and wake as we start our decent into Heathrow. The pressure builds in my ear again as our altitude drops. Christ I need some fucking pain killers.

I press down on the button for the 4th time to get the stewardess over to ask for aspirin and a glass of water. She doesn’t come and then I remember what she said during the safety demonstration before take off “Also on the life vest is a whistle for attracting attention.” Should I? Could I? Or would I get arrested and escorted off the plane by anti terrorist police for tampering with safety equipment.

When I get out of the airport I’m feeling terrible. My throat has also now swelled up and I’m feeling really dizzy. I call and book myself in to see the Doctor and also call James my manager to tell him to cancel my gig the following weekend in Los Angeles. It’s gutting to have to do that and I would like to apologise to anyone in LA who went to that gig expecting to see my play (I’m coming back in November though), but no fucking way was I going to get back on a plane for 11 hours of that kind of agony again and no way was I going to risk damaging my ear more by being in a loud club within the next few days or weeks if this shit persisted.

In the end the Doctor says I’m hugely run down advises me to take a month off djing with no late nights, no loud music and plenty of rest. She uses the “burning the candle at both ends” line which is one of my Mum’s favourites. She also takes some blood tests saying that she suspects I have glandular fever and issues me with a course of antibiotics. The blood test results wont be back for a week and she advises me against all strenuous exercise till we know. I tell her about the Coast to Coast walk I am doing in 6 weeks time and say its essential that I can do training. She says that if I have Glandular fever I can forget about doing the Coast to Coast at all let alone the training for it. Gutted. Absolutely gutted. I call Mat and tell him the walk might be off. After years of talking about it and finally doing it – absolute rock bottom.

As it turned out, the antibiotics worked and the blood test results came back as negative meaning we were back on! I stuck to the doctor’s advice though and cancelled a few other gigs to give myself a full month off and during that time I tried to get to bed by 9pm every night.

So with a month of early nights and days focused on my other work with my radio company I suddenly and without warming found myself addicted to Big Brother. Don’t ask! It just bloody happened alright. When you find yourself watching the housemates sleeping you know its time for a firm back of the hand across your own face. Still – it was brilliant wasn’t it and I hope Bea has been getting loads of shit from the general public. What an absolutely revolting human being she is.

Did you all hear about Caster Samanya? She was the athlete who won the gold medal in the 800 meters at this year's World Championships in Berlin. Because of her incredibly masculine physique she was forced into doing a gender test as various officials suspected she might in fact be a he. How bloody embarrassing for her! When I heard this story I was shocked and felt so sorry for the poor girl. What was even more shocking was when they announced the results of the test – which I am still struggling to comprehend now. She has both male and female sexual organs. What? Excuse me? Come again? She is both man and woman. As I read the words in my newspaper over and over again I could not come to terms with this information. It really is a completely shocking conclusion to an incredible story and although it seemed highly inappropriate I couldn’t stop imagining how her husband/wife/boyfriend/girlfriend reacted as he/she/they first got Caster into bed and came face to face with “the goods”. What would they have thought? I guess if they were bisexual it would have been like winning the lottery. And now the whole world is treating her like a freak – and the poor girl is on suicide watch. I wish everyone would leave her/him alone.

There’s more to tell you but if you’re as bored as I am then I think I’ll do us both a favour and end this terminally dull horseshit here and now.

It’s now the morning after my gig in Argentina – at this year’s SAMC. It was absolutely wicked but I’ll tell you about that next time when I’ll also be discussing the classic “blue rinse” hair do that could be set for extinction as the generation of pensioners who have been rocking that look for so long slowly move on and I’ll also be debating the pros and cons of the Manitou Telehandler. Could it really be the most awesome bit of farm machinery the world has ever known? With a name like that it’s certainly in with a chance.

Until next time ladies and gentlemen.....

Something, something Darkside something, something complete.