I saw Mira's CD/Dbl LP Oneonone in a list from one of my regular suppliers, Carbon.disk [1] run be good ol' honest Barrry-poo's, and decided to order it on the strenght of her short yet rather splendid place 'Too slim for suicide' on Susan Lawly's unequalled 'Extreme Music From Women' CD [2].

I was in hospital by the time the record arrived (admitted via A+E but still looking ravishing in off-the-shoulder ball gown and D.M.'s), getting my insufferable year old urological problem sorted out at long last, poor old sod. So, all I could do was sit, Japanese style, on my bloody uncomfortable NHS beddy (beddy#4, Lister ward, Whipps cross hospital) gazing longingly at the very daity and tasteful sleeve artwork (although the inners are numbers' by Vallade (is that a company or a person?) with (still following me?) a PTFE coated rubber catheter sticking outta my little blackend rag of a chin-chin and a plastic bag full of my very own gloriously golden urine a'hanging by my side (eaten yet?), thinking, thinking, thinking "I wanna play this record nursey!" Oh, the frustration! Oh, the bouts of pain! I don't have a CD Walkman and even if I did it wouldn't have been much use for I purchased thee vinyl version and will not be persuaded otherwise, bend for me or not.

The overall impression one (one! Don't you jest hate that?! Sounds like a right royal pompous old git. Old git by itself will do fine thanks) gets from the album , sleeve art. And the Kodak Instamatic photo of, I presume, Mira as a little girl (heh, heh, heh) on Echo beach far away in time, is a nostalgic yearning for the happy, safe and cosy childhood past, all warm and suggy-wug and googoogooo and gagaga and gerogerigegege and a place where you can quite easily and contentedly..."lay screaming for hours...they were trying to drag me into their dreary and luxurious materialist world, while I wanted to play with dirt, eat sand and keep pebbles in my mouth. See how far my little stream of pee would reach, smear excrement in my cot and lick my fingers. Touch those extraordinary flowers in my crutch, that were a miracle to me." [3] An avant garde/experimental Judy Evans (of early 1980's pop/punk band 'Girls at our best'... christ, it's 20 years already my little spring tchickens!) Hey, I just dug out the Extreme Music From Women booklet from the chaos of my slumish room-cum-office-cum-fuck chamber, you may be very familiar with it, (the booklet, not my...) the one which smells so good after having been marinated, personally, by William Bennet himself in over-generous helpings of the old ultra-varnish and, it notes, that our Italian Mira was 'manufactured' (ho ho, groan. Old joke) in Sooth Efrika boyie, but is based (based!? What, like Thunderbirds?) in grotty shitty old Ingsocsville...Why on earth would you want to come to this wretched dump and suffer the dreadful weather and tard mentality that I, and others like me, have had to endure all our lives, despite attempting an escape. Some bloke called Trevor Brown made it to the "other side'' where bog himself awaits us. Most of us weren't so successful . So why do it Mira baby, why? Heat from your days in sunnier climes got to your pretty little headdy-wed did it? Going to Gleneagles tonight for your din-dins? I'll send you up a menu with your bread and cheese.

Anyway, new paragraph, lets go!!! 'Manufactured' is the word that has triggered me off this time and is the one I'm going to dwell tediously and repeatedly on and on and on about until both my readers are even more sick than they are now, yeah, I've started so I'll just have to bloody well finish, see I was 'made in London' , (Salvation Army Unmarried Mothers Hospital, Hackney) I've got that slogan tattooed across mu forehead coz I'm the milkybar kid, hard as an after eight mint stuffed up S Club 7Tina's honeypot, tough as a fucking dandylion in a storm force wind, a big, strong and dare I kick modesty in the great bolshy varblockos and admit to you, a masculine and mountinous region of a cheloveck and fuckin' retarded to the point of where I'm proud as shite , smug as cat piss and conceited as my own contaminated jizz and just because I wanna try on one of those nurses dresses I saw being worn in the hospital, (beddy #4, Lister ward, Whipps etc.) you know, the figure-hugging blue ones with the white stripes and hidden popper fastenings as featured in that bog awfully depressing and I wanna snuff it film 'Naked'... I think it was, if the imbecility of old age hasn't got to me already in my sorry state of advanced decrepitude, (looks like I'm too late) doesn't mean to say that I'm any less of a may-un than you two bunch'o'worthless faggy-wags...that's all I'm capable of in'it?! Oh, except of course for producing more and more brainless fucks like myself, a perpetual mass of mindless ants, a termite queen, yeah, that's me, clad in blue with white striped popper fastened nursey outfit, fertilized once then forever damned to pump out accursed basteado offspring endlessly, thoughtlessly, proletariatly...a real live 'Bertha Twill' of 'Filth' [4] comic infamy, who's always up the fucking duff, inexhaustibly delivering bloody little cunt sliders from her magic chuff. I mean really, think a 'fuckingboutit...who's septic dicks do you suppose these Umbro, Joe Bloggs, Calvin-cunting-Klein, Versace, DKNY, Timber-fucking-land, Nike, Speedo, Adidas, Giorgio assfuckio, Gola and Ree-bleeding-cock wearing brainwashed fucking walking-dead unpaid (they pay them!) advertisements dribbled off the end of then? Come on fuckers, come on, you know I'm fucking right and if you don't it's because you're cunting well one of 'em and I am right, have got the right to be right because "I'm not wrong about any of it" (12) , tell that lorra lorra lot to Cilla then, Klaar chook, you old fook!

Oh man, if only I could be as happy and content as missy Mira here, then I wouldn't be all burning up inside and feeling condemned to write these not very nice at all slovo's and launching such refined and highly polished (like fucking fucking fuck fuck!) literary attacks that sqirt diarreahtickly outta my filthy rot like rhino's piss. Ug. Horrible.

So, where was I? Yes, Mira sloughs off her extreme Susan Lawly debut, at least as far as my observations go and I am writing from a very personal angle (just in case...). Extremity may very well be best but I need the other stuff too, the stuff for which coexistance isn't permitted by the one and only that is the strongest and that insists on the fact that there is nothing more to say. And so, like little Alex, as I slooshy, I know such passionate slovo's for it is as true in Burgess' classic as it is in this stinking wicked world that thinking is for the gloopy ones and that the oomny ones use like inspiration and what bog sends and so, as Oneonones slabby-wabs of shiny pitch-dark vinyl go lung-a-lung-a-lung on the trusty gramophone, I viddy the best I can scrawl across these blank sheets, my pretty pretty. Drown Duran Duran in the Mathmos Barbarella and off we go then...track by track by track coz, just like Billy Spicegirl (as William or [5]) I'm not fucking lying on my fucking back fucking fakeing it, all ooh ooh oooh and aah aah aah darlings, nursey dress or no nursey dress I'm for real.

'ms. meteo (poolside mix)'... Gentle, soothing warm orange white noise opens this first track, "take me to the sunshine, take me to ????, take me to the sunshine, take me to your ??? "fades in and repeats, the echoes of an era now past, of sun and sea and a sky and a memory that all become progressively more cloudy and hazy as we leave this intimate and heavenly fantazy to slooshy 'skin with me'... skin-up? I hope not, not drugs again, tedi-arse and boooring and of the rookerfull of times I've tried this crap the next morning my rot tastes like the sewers around here which is nothing compared to the sewers around here tasting like my rot. Loverly loverly music is the drug and I'm addicted. I wanna get into it, not out of it. I get my fix every fucking morning, right now it's Brainbombs, every fucking day, every fucking minute and every fucking hour and Artemiev's 'Listen to Bach' [6] the most beautiful and emotionally moving piece of music known to humanity, fuck fuck fuck your fucking synthemesc and velocet and drencrom, just give me GG and TG and that too cherry bright and ripe to mention and that which I said before and that which I said after the saying of the one I said before and give me the irrisistable and heavenly sweet angel Alithea coz I'm not on this earth to be happy or honest. I'm here to take what I want... and I want you! But! But, but, but. I don't think this is about sodding splify-wiffs afterall. Good. Glad to hear it. This is 'baby', though not Whitehouse 'Baby' [7]... that was a bizzare one alright! Nah, this is regular baby, like baby-baby-baby, gurgline bouncy baby ('tis a fine game of ball they played with him'... [8]) naked baby...Or! Or! Or! I've just twigged , just sussed maybe... Oh, I'm too embarrassed to say it but I've come this far... it could be recollections of some particularly good, you know, thingy session, like 'er may-kin-lurve (nursey gear?)... Nah! Don't really think so, our Mirack wouldn't do a dirty thing like that.

'nostalgia' wastes no time (just like li'l ol'me) , no gap between the tracks and the title fairly well encapsulates the impression I get as to the underlying theme of Oneonone..."and I think about you now" and, I feel, will always so do.

Side two (of the LP) commences with 'sparrow' - not quite sure where the poor little sparrow comes into the scheme of things here, more like the old Fry'' Turkish delight ad, full of eastern promise and all that vibe, oh yum yum, send me a box of the real Mcoy in one of those round boxes with layer upon layer of that dusty talcum powder stuff, ecstasy! Perleeeze, please, please, I''l do a dance for you Mirewreck, just for you, a (hairy) belly dance and tell you while I do it exactly what molesting me means, a dance slow and teasy in the plivacy (Japanese spelling) of my own, in the process of (2 years!) decoration, room (fancy a trip to Ikea then?) Your very own plivate (Japanese) show. Watch me wiggle my slender old hippy-wips, waggle my peach-like boo-tocks, show orf the results of my se-food diet (I see food and I eat it, hmmm...), get overexcited and have to be carted off to horse-spital. Again. Ravi Shankar, Buddha of suburbia, Public Image Limited's 'Flowers Of Romance', (there, got it in!) it's all in there somewhere, somehow, intentional or not. Superb. I love it! And it gently rumbles into 'three teas please', an unbalanced muddle of memories, one lump or two, which fades away to allow 'schmyk' to tinkle those ivories on the ol' joanna. A compassionate and slightly melancholic piece with a filmic quality... Edward Artemiev would be proud and I'm sure Tarkovsky would have considered using this in Soly-arr-iss, Mee-roar, Sssnowwed, Kliss. Simple and beautiful (not unlike your humble reviewer, post-diet and post-transurethral prostatectomy).

'ithanga'... A deep hum, fingernails down the blackboard-wise, sleepy, dreamy, soft reverberatory vocals sapping the will to ever want to wake up again and have to face this stinking wicked world yuk yuk. If only bluey-strippey-poppered drapped nursey had given me the special, special, special shower that my 85 year old buddy Charleyboy (of beddy #3, Lister ward, yeah?) enjoyed, I could have then played 'ithanga' over and over on a waterproof Walkman borrowed from some starry old soonka while nursey, still blue dress garbed but unpoppered, soaked through with lovely hot shower water all steamy and dripping, soaped and sudded me in that clinging and now polished rubber-like shiny shiny sodden dress, with the integrity and devotion you only ever get in the real NHS. But!... I didn't qualify! All I bleedingwell got was the order (!) to use the creepy and off-putting commode as they wouldn't chance me in the regular bog so soon after an operation! So embarrassing. So undignified. Hmmm...maybe I should have bought the CD after all, writing a review in such an attentive and intense way as geeky Gary does for you, and only you, my two faithful readers, sure requires the convenience of the compactual discusien formatology, dun' it Mate? Now I've got to swap records for side three, what a drag and I've worked so very hard today, sunning myself in the (rare, believe me) warm Snaresbrookian sun. Convalescence is my flakey excuse, what's yours? Jobs? I've tried doing jobs. They call it work, I call it hell. They call it employment, I call it slavery and, in any case, my new career as a writer of subversive literature has never looked so bright! I think I've seen the light.

'routine (the dancing bear)'...my ex.wife (I really did run for my loif!) used to call me 'little bear', (like Caligula being called 'little boots' by his sister, the sick fucks) sweet in' it? Coz I used to make a puffy, straight pursed lipped mouth face (how else can I describe this fucking stupid expression?) when I was deep in thought (not a very common occurance to be honest with you), so she reckoned. Well, she's now gone, I'm alive and I'm yours. My neice & nephew , the one's I'm trying to brainwash (shuuuu...), call me 'uncle beary', it's true, I'm proud to be uncle beary. An alien heartbeat conjured from a dream forms the backdrop upon which pluckings, clinkings and droneings are layered. Very 'Nurse' (not Lister/blue/wet etc.) and this takes us directly into 'the more you do the more you do' (tell me about it) which invokes, for me, a surrealistic Dalinian ladscape full of 'paranoia critical' double image tricks. Yes Sir, "Everybody love Dali" said Dali. "I like Ermine, silk and all other golden symbols" said Salvador Dali. "Take money from rich people, take money from poor people and give to Dali", Gala Salvador Dali speaks again. "As you know, Dali's veeerrrry rrrrrrrrrich! After wharn day of whoark, Dali receive a huge kwan-tit-ty of tcheques!" Who could have had his luck, did you know he once discharged over...Now I won't say it (coz I've forgotten), but look what a short piece of music can do, the power of it, makes you do things you don't want to do, but do really.

'isabella' starts off innocent enough, luverly luverly p-p-p-p-pee-an-oh? Then starts to sound like a track from the aforesaid PIL record..."Go back, go back, oooh oooh oooh, aaah aaah aaah" however the fuck John goes. Sorry Johnnyboy I just can't be fagged to go and get it out (or the record). Go Lydon and enjoy it. Rolf's wobbly bit of card, er...wobbles, in time and tune, hmmm call me a reviewer? Call me what you like, it don't and won't make a ha 'peth of diff...ol' Willybum "never even claimed to be a musician" [9] and now Billy Spicegit is yak yak yaking on that Whitehouse is "really the only group that matters". Forty-plus,we still are the future, your future! Do either of you two watch 'Absolutely Fabulous'...?

'daydreaming at night'...A less potent than, but as enigmatic as, Vicious Teengirl's (brilliant name, T-shirt please!) 'Tutampiga' on the Susan Lawly Extreme Music From Africa CD [10]. I'm assuming, in spite of strongly believing never to assume any fucking thing, that Myerog has this in her no doubt stupendous and I-can't-wait-to-be-invited-over-to-see-it, collection. Dream on uncle beary, especially after this abomination of a review. Actually, talking about t-shirt's, why don't you both write to Nastrovje Potsdam [11] in Germany and ask them for their Mailorderkatalog Fruhjahr 2000? There's some excellent designs if ever I saw some! I did an order from my hospital beddy (#4, Lister, etc) for a 'Killer Chick' and 'Psykobitch' t-shirt, both of which depict crazy girls in the act of flashing our old friend the red red vino on tap. Wonderful. I also ordered a couple of records, one of them for the like, sleeve pic alone. I'm already the proud wearer of one of their "Pornstar' t-shirt's and player of the 'Shit Sushi' 7" complete with fairly arousing, though don't get too excited, Japanese scatophagous cover photo (all sold out you vermin, Ha fucking ha). Funny surprise in Sainsbury's today: saw some veck wearing an excellent 'I Šporno' t-shirt and on the threat of a slight tolchock he told me that he got it in New York. So, do me a favour, any one out there in sick underground cultsville, if your over there, get us one, in M or L size. Please, I have at least tried to entertain you for a short time from your miserable, sad and vacuous live's. Try and be grateful. Try and and and and there's more...for those of you with unparalleled taste in special excellence there is a photo on the inside back page of Nasty Potsys katalogue 2000 featuring two models showing off clobber by 'Big Brother' ; Now, the girl on the right with headphones has the kind of litso that brings dead men back to life. I can't go on any more for fear of what might happen to these new shiny cycle shorts that I'm wearing and anyway, I've run outta slovo's apart from 'indescribable beauty' and, if you keep the katalogue, she will "always be this beautiful, no matter how old and stupid and blank and pinned-up and tucked and sucked in and high-heeled and lied and drugged..." [12]

Side three finished ages ago it seems. Got sidetracked. Ok., side four and 'simple friends'...Oneonones only disturbing track if I may call it such. Digging up something in the stiffeling heat, it's like the goddamn tropics in my space age divorcee pad now, the piece slowly becomes an exumic celebration of decaying flesss and there's maggots (did either of you see some TV show with a quite attractive, German I think she was, girl eating a spoonful of live maggots? Wow! Now there's an idea, what a total turn-on, pretty girls calmly, or horrificly, I don't know what would look best, munchmunching on nasty wriggely mag-otty-wots... a whole video's worth! I suppose Peter Sotos is gonna say that it's been done. Well, I'd really like to viddy that! Real horrorshow!) and stench and gutty-wuts. 'simple friends'...? Obviously we're not looking at this from the same angle at all. I guess I'm sick, yeah. "A sick fuck, I kill for pleasure, blood is my game, I hate the weak..." [13]

'battery beach'... Similar to the style of 'three teas please' and 'upiyano' is in the same vein as 'schmyk' with the addition of a gorgeous soothing angelic voice from heaven (more than I deserve) competing, yet also, collaborating with, the push/shove/bashbash/barkbark of unidentified instruments or is it all done on computer now? I don't know, but what I do know is that the 'I love you' virus is all over and it serves you all fucking right with yer doubleyou doubleyou dot fucking dot coms, you doppy flock of lemming-like consumerist sheep. Idiots! Didn't you see it coming? Have you all got the brains of an ancient sad-old-bad-old 1970's glam star? How's your bloody E-fucking mail now? Simon of DDDD [14] zine must be euphoric, unless he's drunk himself to death with that homebrew stuff some folk get all excited about. Nah, give me maggot eating S Club 7 lookalikes anytime. Would not Tina look just ultra-orgasmic staring out from the cover of some kid's magazine, I don't know, J-17 or whatever, with a rookerful of legless live 'alive' o grubs stuffed in her now filthy & stinking red red lipped rot?

Sorry Mira. On we go. The clocks chime in 'afrique du mal' whilst we dreamily doze..." I thought I heard a stranger! We're having tchicken tonight" [15] Do you remember seeing that ridicularse ad for 'Chicken Tonight' cock-in-sauce mix? Wow! Do these walking arsewipe advertising trendy finger-on-the-fucking-pulse of a three week old sun bleached turd actually know what they're doing? Yep. I reckon they surely do, the wine bar gutter crawling BMW driving on-line bastard filthy preverts! And now... silence. And now...darkness. Then, from someplace, somewhere, cometh light, and soothing sirens, toy police cars and ambulie, a childlike voice sings... "I'm slipping away, nowhere to stay, got a roomful of things..." The toy cars stop, the cool blue white noise gets the upper hand and... we are gone. 'slip sliding' consigns us back to the darkness. The darkness which is the final darkness. The darkness of forever.

Okey-doke, another (my fifth) spiffing review completed. Wonderful and inspirational magic by Mira Calix (how do you pronounce that Stark Trek looking surname?) My advice is to buy buy buy. Don't be bastids with no manners and not the dook of an idea how to comport yourselves publicwise 0 my two readers, git on to Barry and see for yourselves. Meet ya behind the bicycle sheds Mirakins but for now I'm orf to see my close friend and confident, Germaine Greer, who's been a bit tied up lately. Unfinished business you know, give 'em enough rope. Now, is that nurses dress dry yet...?

References for sad male geeky otaku (most women would have better things to do with their precious time and, believe me, we are running out of it)

Carbon.disks, p.o.box 28, cromer, nr27 9rg, uk
Various artists - Extreme music from women CD 2000 SLCD023. Susan Lawly
Lyric from Nurse With Wound - Insect and individual silenced LP 1981 UD08 United dairies. No reissue that I am aware of circa spring 2000.
Filth! Comic. Rob! Top Floor! 25, Pirbright Road, London SW18 5NB, UK.
'Another crak for the white whip' - Musings on Whitehouse and the latest reissue by Billy Spicer. (As I said, ask William... or, I suppose, search the sodding net, if the 'I love you' virus ain't beaten you to it. That'd be a shame)
Edward Artemiev - Solaris, The mirror, Stalker CD 1999 ELCD 012 Electroshock Records. Available from Fourth Dimension Records & Mail Order, P.O.Box 63, Herne Bay, Kent, CT6 6YU, England (Tell Richo that Geeky Gary sent you)
Whitehouse - Quality Time CD 1995/1996 SLCD012 Susan Lawly
Quote(ish) from The One Hundred & Twenty Days Of Sodom by The Marquis De Sade 1785 Arrow edition 1990 ISBN 0 09 962960 7 (Read this book if it's the last fucking thing you ever do)
Quote by William Bennett - WKFR radio interview from original Come Organisation cassette Whitehouse - USA 1, Live Action 9 WDC883044. More than likely available on Susan Lawly archive material audio tape LA9 (New York 83) easily purchased from Susan Lawly, PO BOX 914, Edinburgh, EH17 8BF, UK and I'll give you the E.mail & WWW addresses even though as far as I'm concerned you can stick yer mousie modem up yer jacksie. They are: info (AT) susanlawly.com & www.susanlawly.com and fuck you too.
Various artists - Extreme music from africa CD 1997 SLCD016 Susan Lawly
Nastrovje Potsdam, Mailorder, Postbox 3864, 78027 Villingen-Schwenningen, Germany
Lyric from the song Daddo on Whitehouse - Mummy and Daddy CD 1998 SLCD020 Susan Lawly
Lyrics from the songs Slayer & Slutmaster (Ok., so I got the lyrics to these two tracks muddled into one, so fucking what? All record collectors are pretentious arseholes anyway) on Brainbombs - Urge to kill CD 1998 LOAD 022 Load Records
DDDD Fanzine, Marleys, Minstead, Hants S043 7FY UK. 1 pound Post-paid (If they're still on line and I don't mean webwise)
Quote from the film Eraserhead directed by David Lynch 1976(1) Carbon.disks, p.o.box 28, cromer, nr27 9rg, uk

Scat vids/pics (hetro), Copies of 'We like poo' zine # 1-4,
Any interesting Laser Discs-PAL or NTSC,
Blue nursey dresses w/white stripes & popper fastenings, medium size I guess ? (unsoiled), info on good t-shirts, Rare Come.Org. merchandise (orginals), Rare Broken Flag merchandise, Stuff by Brainbombs, Gerogerigegege, Kina Shoukichi, Sutcliffe Jugend, G.G. Allin, Hanatarash, Brujeria, Good postcards... Oh you get the sick picture now, don't you? That'll do. To:

Gary Simmons
Gertina
Hermitage Walk
London E18 2BN
England

Tel/Fax ++44 020 8989 6599
www.nonet/stillinstoneage