Sun Ra’s Pink Elephants

An unofficial anthem for Elephant & Castle…

Which brings to mind the massive potential Sun Ra offers as a creative inspiration for heterodox election campaign videos. Imagine a transpontine flavoured version of…

Images From Election Video

In response to a few of you asking, here’s the “adverts” from the beginning and end of the mayoral election video. Just click on the thumbnails to go to the bigguns.

A letter in the South London Press

London Mayor 2012: Yes, the rumours are true. I’m running.

Ladies & gentlemen, I can confirm that I will indeed be standing for election as Mayor of London next year. I’m in it to win it.

Check out my first election broadcast:

I began with absolutely no plans to run for elected office, given representative politics is about as much use as fellatiating a comatosed eunuch. However the weight of pressure from you, my adoring public, became too much to ignore. Over the weekend I sought the advice of the people closest to me: my seven wives, a team of advisors and a focus group. It is only with their backing and love that I make this step today.

As the campaign moves ahead I will release more detail on my policy commitments. But for now, let me say this: Boris, Ken… the show’s over. I’ve got you in my sights, and I always get my man (men).

Whilst I plan to run a prudent campaign in which I essentially hijack the election events of richer candidates, donations would be very much appreciated. Please send them to the usual address, and ensure you make all cheques payable to the Catford Anarcho-Situationist Headquarters (CASH).

See you in City Hall!

“Greetings From South London” Postcards

Armed with a semi-adequate appreciation of John Urry‘s theories on the touristic gaze, I have decided to act. Rather than wait for the neoliberal hub of central London to subsume the transpontine and offer ordered, sterile, homogenous “sites” for tourists to “gaze” upon (as is already happening on the South Bank), we must make sure they gazing at (and appreciating) what we want them to – traditional (and, indeed, under threat) South London experiences. And so…

(Gun not included)

In conjunction with the Revolutionary South London Tourist Board I present to you – the first in a series of transpontine postcards… Featuring brave new tourist sites including Stockwell Bus Garage, the Mandela Way T-34 tank and the Catford Cat.

These are already on sale at a number of emporiums: a few tourist stalls on the South Bank, exploitatively tied into the Kardorama monopoly, now stock them after what I can only describe as some guerilla shelfstacking… and Utrophia in Deptford also sells them.

So, what do we reckon? 30p for South Londoners, $20 for tourists? That’ll do nicely!

At Last!! Evidence That The Mighty Pteranodon Still Flies Above South London

Here it is. This could be the final piece in the empirical jigsaw that finally proves South London is home to the last remaining squadron of pteranodons – previously thought to have died out millions of years ago.

Soaring high above the equally threatened with extinction Heygate Estate, this majestic beast is no doubt looking for a fishmongers to ramraid.

Many of the world’s leading palaeontologists have long since stopped returning my e-mails and so were unavailable to comment at time of going to press. And, of course, some naysayers may argue that the photo may have been digitally manipulated.

But we won’t let that stop us rejoicing, will we my possums…?

Embrace it – our collective spirit animal. The Pteranodon.

 

 

The Wireless Mystery Theatre: An Investigation

As any successful republican should, it is my cherished aim to personally replace monarchs in their unelected positions of power. And so it was only right and proper of me to muscle septuagenarian, funkmeister & early bookies’ favourite George Clinton out of the way to claim the patronhood of the Wireless Mystery Theatre…

This Northern Irish-based group of young creatives is one I have admired for many, many years. Since founding in 2010, they have… done much good work… in the third sector? Euthanizing disabled dogs? Erm… (Edit: Wireless Mystery Theatre transports the audience back to the Golden Age of radio, to be AWED! and AMAZED! as they present radio plays live on stage. You are offered a peek through the studio’s perspex glass to watch the live music, the hand-cranked sound effects, the ‘radio personalities,’ and the old-time commercials all as they happen.)

Imagine then my sense of horror, embarrassment and even auto-epicharikaky when I awoke from my mid-day nap to find the Wireless History Theatre had used their Twitter account to make a host of unfounded allegations against me. So enraged was I that if I’d been in Wimbledon rather than Catford I would have beaten a greyhound about the face with my own codpiece.

I feel I must categorically deny their allegations. Their libellous comments in undeserved bold, mine in the red of a cose-to-breakdown teacher…

Well, @FreeSouthLondon has accepted the offer to be WMT patron and has already stormed into the office and been very patronising indeed. [Admittedly, I retweeted this one. It's not even remotely true, but it placed me in a position of being the dominant alpha male, which I see as a vote winner in the forthcoming London Mayor election...]

“Oh, yes, very good,” he said to one of our actors, “But have you considered playing it in a Dulwich accent?” [Now this is where it turns nasty. Everyone knows that the real accent of the real decent salt-of-the-earth types who really go to real Dulwich Hamlet matches pronounce it "Daahlitch".]

He has leafed condescendingly through our accounts and described them as “Pre-revolutionary… but that will change.” [Admittedly this was another one I was tempted to retweet, even though by this stage my legal team were involved, for it positions me - as I am - at the forefront of the exhilarating headfirst rush into the teleological buffers.]

He has torn up our constitution, demanded we separate from the tyrannical ITC, and given 2 thumbs up to our version of Dead Man in Deptford. [I don't even know what an ITC is! And whilst I may well give two thumbs up to a performance of A Dead Man In Deptford, after this acrimony they are likely to be anally inserted.]

Now he is “strongly suggesting” to the musical director that the WMT theme tune be replaced with this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vddY0nGy8Ws [Yes, we can all revel in the nonsense of Pimlico, first stop of the transpontine deserter, but since I wasn't actually there in their office, I fancy some scallywag foolishly looked at its SW1V postcode and assumed it south of the thames...]

Why, when he says “strongly suggest,” does he accent each syllable with that blackjack? [A shameful allegation that I brandish a small club to threaten people. Not true. It's a bloody great spiked cricket bat.]

I should think it prudent for you to follow them on Twitter or keep a regular peeled eye upon the website so you can organise protests against them should their show ever tour in your town.

 

Wolfie’s Fan Art Corner

I received a charming piece of fan art from a young boy called Steve the other day:

It warms the revolutionary vanguard cockles of my heart to see youngsters getting inspired by my transpontine heroism. Feel free to send in any other children’s illustrations depicting either myself or South London’s struggle, and perhaps we could arrange a prize for the best efforts.

In Defence of Jonnie Marbles

After careful deliberation, something unfashionable in the internet age, I’m offering the revolutionary transpontine interpretation of recent events.

Jonnie Marbles sat through hours of polite investigation, gentle probing and media elite slippery avoidance. Elite gently nibbling elite.

He politely tweeted commentary, as it seems did half the world.

And then he stuck a pie in the face world renowned bastard, Rupert Murdoch.

And then all (polite, ineffective complaining) hell broke loose. Marbles, in absentia, was dragged over the lukewarm coals of digital justice by panicking lefties and dreary salt-of-the-earth types. He had, apparently, ruined everything. The chance to topple Murdoch’s Empire gone, vanished in a splatter of shaving custard. Apparently.

But I put it to you all that the problem lies not in Marbles’ stunt, but in the complete failure of the rest of us to join in.

There is a class of disreputable bastards of which Murdoch is currently merely the most visible that deserve at the very least a pie in the face.

Ten solid days of worldwide pie throwing would drag us closer to something resembling utopia than at any point in non-theological history.

But do we pick up the pies and join in? No! We make crawling attempts to intellectualize our own lack of balls. We decry the bravest man amongst us as somehow cowardly. We roar inside with jealousy knowing this damn sexy bastard has lived so brighter in one moment than we ever will. We even go so low as to dehumanize the elderly as an invented class of unables (would you babytalk a “nigger”?)

The problem with Marbles is, if anything, that he is too much for this world. This world, from Tooting to Tehran, should be pitipataring to the sound of the #splat hashtag made real, made revolutionary, made plural.

Marbles, I’m proud of you. I’m honoured you picked up the luridity and melodrama of our transpontine ways in your time in Mitcham, and so fantastically unleashed in the face of an enemy.

The Best Webpage in All Transpontinia

Here it is.