LECH

On January 14, 1872, Jozef Mycielski stepped onto the porch of his villa, which was situated on the outskirts of Baczkow in Southern Poland, and surveyed his vast demesne. Beyond the arbour at the end of the garden stretched the Niepolomice Forest with its tangled labyrinth of hornbeams and lime trees. A lynx briefly lingered in view before withdrawing into the undergrowth. Jozef began to reflect on his life, all that had passed, all that he owned, all that he loved, but found that despite his adventures, his enormous wealth, his beautiful wife and children, he felt an aching void in his heart, an inescapable nothing. Then in a moment of profound insight Jozef came to understand that every man must accept the destiny he bears inside himself. And his destiny was beer. Premium Pilsner to be precise. On realising this, the hollow started to fill. He smiled. The very next week Jozef founded the Lech brewery - named after his eldest son. Ever since then Lech beer has been the choice of artists across Europe.

Lech beer. Get on it. It feels at home at any party.

Here's a picture of Nima modeling a can.


I don't know why Nima's always on our blog. I guess we just like the same things.

Lech is the new Campari.

Brittas

On Wednesday night the In Your Face squad rolled to the Brit awards, the music industry's annual who's got the biggest willy competition sponsored by Blackberry, gack and talking to people while looking over their shoulder.

I was lucky enough to be seated next to Estelle, who was nominated for several awards. She is one of the angriest people I've ever met. We got on really well. Although she was sitting with her back to me, we still managed to share a peculiar fractured conversation about her dress. She actually thought I'd asked for her address, which was slightly uncomfortable.

Estelle was accompanied by one of her managers, a voluptuous southern belle from Houston, who lounged with contrapuntal ease on her chair amidst the sea of suits. She seemed genuinely disappointed that Earls Court One wasn't a place of historical note. Her buttery drawling voice sang out, 'Honey I thought this was gonna be held somewhere old like, you know, a castle or at least an actual court, but it's just a conference centre'. Thankfully this slight despondency made her oblivious to the rutting MDs who had started cock fighting behind her.

At some point Take That descended in a spaceship and played a song. Then this happened:


Take It from I'd Prefer Not To TV on Vimeo.

For one transcendental moment a record company executive put all his inhibitions and insecurities to one side and just lost himself in his favourite song by his favourite band. It was beautiful.

I woke up on Thursday feeling utterly torn down by the buckness of sugary liquor. Fuck knows what I was drinking, but it definitely had peach juice in it. To my surprise I didn't want to kill myself and for that I was grateful.

Be Aggressive....

Here's something to cheer you up on a Monday lunchtime. My friend Gavin introduced me to Brad Neely through the now-defunct superdeluxe.com. I think you can now see his brilliant animated videos at along with lots of other weird and wonderful animations at www.adultswim.co.uk Baby Cakes is still my Fav though - here he is. Claire

You don't love me, all I am is a link to you

This video just raped my eyes on Channel U.

Stylish Pizza

This is for all the producers and production managers out there.

Are you sick of sparks bitching when the Dominos or Topps pizza turns up for late break? Are you tired of hearing shit like 'Why can't we just have a curry instead'?

Well we may just have found the solution for you, particularly if you're shooting in the Stoke Newington area. Stylish Pizza.


As you can see they specialize in Indian and Italian style pizza. So next time a spark acts up, order a Vindaloo mozzarella thin crust from Stylish and tell him to fuck off.

Wussup Haters

From time to time the waffle house of my mind is consumed by a terrible feeling of self-loathing. It comes creeping while I sleep, grovelling out of my unconscious until it finds full voice in the morning. Before I know it I'm singing 'ooh baby I hate myself' in the shower to the tune of Peter Frampton's 'Baby I love your way'. The water can't wash away the tears. Once self-hatred has taken hold there's nothing you can do. You just have to ride it out.

Cocaine and pornography are of course great ways to induce self-disgust, but I find attending celebrity parties equally effective. Sunday's post BAFTA bash hosted by Prada was no exception. I got the call in the afternoon and immediately told myself I wasn't going. Seven hours later I rolled into The Double Club with all the ease of an automaton. Here's the problem: I superciliously pretend that I hate celebrity culture; I sneer at the E! head perverts who queue for hours just to smell Tom Cruise's Thetan farts at a premiere. But the truth is that I'm equally as fascinated by the famous. I'm just in denial about it. And that makes me a cunt - a cunt who's prepared to schlep all the way to Angel on Sunday night to stand in the same room as Mickey Rourke only to make a point of hating it.


So there I lurked in the corner of the club under the Congolese mural. After an hour I began not only to feel like a cunt, but also to actually resemble one - a yawning vulva with flappy labial ears and a distended clitoral nose. I clumsily spilt a glass of Champaign. Five waiters immediately surrounded me. The trickle of celebrities turned into a stream. I began to think like a cunt, slipping into an imaginary conversation with Mick Jagger as he walked past. Hello cunty. How's cunt face? Really. Still in Bad Cunt taking the waters. By now I was immersed in pure anger. Ooh baby I hate myself.

Then I bumped into Nima.

Your bars will just be bitten like Holyfield's ears

Silver's angry. In fact he's fuming. It should be the happiest time of his life. Things are really starting to happen for him. He's on tour with the X-Factor finalists JLS, Bad Lashes and Diana Vickers. He's got a tune out with The Game. But he's also got road beef. With Ironik. Apparently Ironik's been all up in his phone and all over facebook 'chatting bare breeze', trying to get girls to delete him. And it's driving him insane. So he's taken matters into his own hands, teamed up with Jaycee, merked Ironik on a track called 'Your Time's Up', and put it on the tinternets.

Silver's vocal is pretty weak, but Jaycee's bars are funny.

'I'm ashamed to say that you're from this proud nation
When I saw you in Newcastle wearing lady's foundation'

You can hear the whole thing here:



I've said it before and I'll say it again: I love Ironik. It upsets me that people are mean to him. But we're all staying strong and, although we've been talking about it for months, I can confirm that 'Tiny Dancer' is back on the release schedule. It's just a new way of marketing. The tantric single release stratergy - you feel like it's coming, but it never quite does. It's designed to heighten your pleasure, like making love to Sting. But now it really is coming. And like a Rocco Siffredi money shot it's coming In Your Face. The track's been re-recorded. Chip has a verse. We're shooting a video in the next couple of weeks. Jonathan Lipman is his new manager. (That's right - his mum isn't doing it anymore.) Lipman is the PR man responsible for the 'careers' of Bianca Gascoigne, Kenzie, Harvey, Heather Swann, Andy Scott-Lee et al. So we're in good hands. Charlie Brooker talks about him here:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/culture/2009/jan/31/charlie-brooker-celebrity-agency-review

Listen to the words.

Wednesdays with Skinner

Claire was reading her favourite magazine 'Campaign' the other day when she stumbled across this:


You've got to love Biggie. He just puts it out there, reminding us what the actual reality of actual reality is like.

Facts. Realidad.