(Dispite the light-hearted title this post is too long so skip now to save time) Hello, you sinister people. This morning I succeeded in slaughtering my academic future by (inevitably) failing my physics paper. It felt like the worst I have ever done in an exam and my gibbers of hysteria and panic were most definitely audible in the exam room. But I cannot be persecuted, because be there a rule banning mobee phones and cheat notes, no restricting measures have been taken against gibbering. My friends, you are free to gibber. [As my glazed eyes showed no conscious thought, the sound of my black fountain pen nib scratching the paper was louder than any other. Those behind me look up, knowing from the motions of my arm (though they could not see what I wrote) that my paper is being filled with a bizarre mixture of scribble and cryptic symbols. The finishing bell rattles, and the other candidates file out in a quiet and controlled manner. One would think they would have found my situation and the subsequent facial expressions comical, but their expressions are humourless, showing emotions of pity and concern above all else. As they walk to the back of the hall to awkwardly collect their coats, bags, umbrellas and thoughts, my solitary figure can be seen to walk bouncily to the front to converse with the invigilator (with whom I am on friendly terms through a shared enjoyment of rock climbing). He smiles as I clutch my paper, look round as if searching, and relay to him my lucky escape from an unclassified grade... "That was OK, wasn't it? Shall I let you in on a little secret? I couldn't have answered one of those questions correctly, but luckily as I grew hysterical (and started to gibber, Tom, don't forget the gibbering...) a small Incan monkey god descended to my desk and whispered the answers to me." As the invigilator gives me a quizzical look, he notices the relief of the symbols and scribbling on the inside page of my paper. He looks at me with the same concern as my fellow candidates... "Now all I have to do is find someone who can translate his beautiful language..."] No, unfortunately, that was not real. No Incan monkey god came to my aid, so I will definitely have failed. Moving on. I have acquired (through honest means) a copy of "Careless Talk Costs Lives". It is quite acceptable as music magazines go, and as music magazines go *today* it is quite edifying. However, as you would expect, some* (*replace with much or all as you see fit) of it is self indulgent to the point of being masturbatory. Also, one of my pet hates in pretty much all music media rears it's butt-ugly head... Why oh why, why why why do they hand even ONE of their pages over to some bloody cretin whose only qualification is that they know where the asterisk on the keyboard is? This allows them to speak in solid obscenities right the way through and bypasses the need to make any sort of logical, rational or even intelligent statement about the bands/artists in question. This is not some rant against offensive-ness or people expressing themselves through language, it's the complete lack of any new slant or descriptive opinion on the music. Fair enough, some musicians need a good slating, but no decent and well reasoned abuse is used to the point that-however shite the band- any judgement against them is lost and thus the sharp rocks of literate people are not thrown. NME has the "Angst" page in the back, which to be honest consists of letters sent in by the public, but Swells doesn't inspire intelligent comment so they reap what they sow with that one. However, the boring trying-to-be-offensive material referred to in CTCL is not the opinion of the general public even if a new guy does it every week (I can't remember who writes that page) andso unlike the back page of NME does not even provide the odd chuckle. The most excruciating fact is that I'm sure the guy writing it is probably doing it with tongue in cheek thinking, "boy, this'll really offend and shock people!" Yeah mate, about 25 years ago, GROW UP. You've had your fun, you've made people blush, time to think of another idea, this time one that *no on else has done.* Well, that's what I think anyway, I may well be wide of the mark. Aagh, this has turned into a bit of an epic, hasn't it? Sorry. Sorry. Tom XXXXXXX P.S. Props to ian for his consistency in making me uneasy about life with his posts to archel for reminding me about the poetry parrot I suspected him eaten by ken to the guys whose names elude me but who have been keeping us posted on the radio front Mr Moore and Neil I think and to Kirsten for the last subject line (don't let him eat the flower though, best draw him a box) and for keeping up the required level of sweetness and to vel even tough she hasn't posted in ages and HELLO to all the nice new people that have joined. Sorry. +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister@missprint.org. To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to majordomo@missprint.org. 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