Monthly Archives: December 2009

Send a New Year Message to an Arms Dealer

Yeah, it’s another facebook group, but fuck, it’s better than going outside.

ITT, murdering bastards and co-owners of Brighton arms dealers EDO have a facebook page where “ITT employees from around the globe can connect with each other.”

It’s been squatted, join whilst you still can and give them a seasonal tip this Christmas:

The next Smash Edo demo is on January 18th – for info at:


Class Crisis After That Facebook Group

Somewhere in a council flat in South Shields a young lad is crying tonight, his family’s Christmas dreams shattered by an angry mob of stroppy teenagers and sectarian trouble makers.

A dangerous, vanguardist and elitist movement has brutally attacked an innocent North Eastern family, showing utter contempt for our class and our struggle.

In scenes not witnessed since the Kronstadt uprising, the hopes of young Joe Mclederry have been shattered by reactionary forces rigging the charts and hijacking the coveted Christmas number one slot.

What next I ask you comrades?

Stoke Newington latte slurpers breaking into our homes and replacing our brown sauce with balsamic vinegar?

Mobs of Public School teenagers ripping copies of The Sun out of pensioner’s hands?

The Eton Wall Game replacing the footy?

Chip shops burnt to the ground?

Not even Stalin tried to fix the Christmas Number One.

We must not let this war on our culture to take root, for all our sakes, not just Joe’s Mam. Don’t let the facebook fascists win.

We call on all who value class solidarity to turn on their stereos and play Joe Mclederry’s haunting Christmas song as loud as possible, over and over. Open your windows, sing along and be proud.

Joe Mclederry’s cover of Miley Cyrus’s ‘The Climb’ is the new ‘Internationale’. Proletarians the world over will one day sing this song with pride as the red and black flag is raised over Facebook HQ by Cheryl Cole wearing Union Jack knickers and a Primark hoody.

Do it for Joe, do it for Jordan, fuck, do it for Jade.

La lutte continue.

Democracy in the land of bacon

This is what happens when pigs get above themselves.  Police brutality at Copenhagen.

A serious note on that facebook group

It’s all still to play for in the X-Factor/facebook struggle for chart topping success.  Rage Against the Machine have a small lead but with heart-throb Joe Mcelderry’s single released on CD tomorrow this battle is far from over.

Like we give a shit who the Christmas number one is.

the void’s campaign for, first East London diva Stacey, and then good, honest Northern boy Joe has some serious flaws concerning basic sincerity.

In short we did it for the lulz.  That and the unmissable opportunity to out-prole Bone.

If the facebook kids get a success then good luck to ’em.  Seeing the smug look wiped off Cowell’s eyes may make up for the sight of a tearful Joe Mcelderry on Boxing Day morning (it’s become a habit).

But this isn’t politics.  Class struggle will not be furthered by shopping.
There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down brothers in the instant replay.

It isn’t even music.  Cowell and co make music for, by and large, children.  To get all het up about X Factor winners is like throwing a strop about the latest Ben 10 dolls lack of artistic integrity.

From Bill Haily, to The Monkees to Stock Aitkin and Waterman, there’s always been a segment of the pop market aimed at 11 year olds.  It’s what they like.  It has about as much impact on the wider music scene as Monsters vs Aliens has on on arthouse movies.

One person on facebook said:

“”I’m taking part because I want to see if we can decide who we want to be number 1.”

We means the 30,000 or so who have bought multiple copies in an attempt to rig the charts.  ‘We’ means the minority who have decided the proles aren’t culturally correct and intend to punish them (we’re off again).  It’s cultural elitism and it’s crap.

The folk who buy a copy of Joe’s single for their kids this Christmas won’t be overwhelmed by the power of the masses if the facebook group succeeds.  They really are the masses and are likely to hear the single and think ‘what a bunch of daft wassocks shelling out money for that pile of shite.’

We still can’t help hoping Joe pulls through though and his Mam gets that new house they’ve always dreamed of.  The alternative is too unbearable to contemplate.

Tom Morello backs internet campaign to give him lots of money

Rage Against The Machine’s guitarist, Tom Morello, has backed the internet campaign to buy his record.

Morello, who’s a multi-millionaire wrote on Twitter:

“Rage’s ‘Killing In The Name &
The X Factor’s goofy Christmas single are neck and neck for num one spot on UK chart,”

“England! Now is your time.”

Sony, Amazon, Apple and facebook are also said to be quietly delighted.

Meanwhile a young geordie lad is nervously keeping his eye on the sales figures in the hope that he can finally get his Mam out of that soulless tower block in South Shields.

Johnny Void after that facebook group

In a grotty bedsit in Dagenham, a forlorn figure stared into space, a forgotten cigarette smouldering between nicotine stained fingers. Like the cigarette, this pathetic creature of a human had been forgotten, thrown on the landfill heap of life and abandoned.

Across the road was the slum of a house that he remembered, the house where the love of his life had lived. Now she was gone, moved onto owning her own chip shop business, her son now growing up and on his way to becoming a successful lawyer. All of that while he live in squalor with his memories.

Ten years ago it had been. Ten long and lonely years since that fateful December of 2009. Joe and Olly and Stacy – they had all been set for superstardom only for it to shatter like a cheap, Poundland bauble at their feet. It had been them, the others, the fans of music which did not come off a factory conveyor belt that had ruined it. Over and over they had downloaded a single track, screaming their battle cry at the tops of their lungs, a battle cry which echoed around the pasty skinned creature’s head.

Once upon a time, it, he, had been a loyal foot soldier, minion to the person who had been the world’s most powerful music executive. But those days were long gone: Simon Cowell had been toppled from his throne and so had his little voice box, the one who wrote blog posts and letters to try and get them, those they called “the haters”, to change their heathen ways. But they had failed. Just like his imaginary relationship with Stacy. Even his Forth Life Stacy avatar had left him.

Dropping the dead cigarette end to the floor, it surfed through the annals of the internet, downloading the information straight into its mind. There was no need for monitors and keyboards now, not when it could be streamed so easily straight into a person’s mind. The pittance that the creature received from the world government only just covered the connection fees, but nothing else in life mattered any longer. This was it. Watching as they grew and carried on their quest, restoring music to its former glory, bringing back to life a distant memory where musicians were just that – people who could write words and play instruments and spent years creating their craft. No longer did something called “Karaoke” have a stranglehold on the music industry.

Yellowed and broken teeth gnashed together as the numbers appeared before him. Once again, for the ninth year running, his attempts to get Joe’s one and only single to number one had failed. Instead, live feeds from every news station throughout the galaxy began to flicker through his brain. All of them showed the exact same image: Millions of people, standing shoulder to shoulder, arms around each other, laughing and smiling as they sang to the thousands of waiting cameras:


by Rach Gee offa facebook

Joe Mcelderry After That Facebook Group

Joe would never forget that fateful night.  Deep down he knew Stacey should have won, but the roar of the crowd, George Michael’s tender embrace and Cheryl Cole’s obvious pride banished any thoughts of guilt from his mind.

My how they’d partied that weekend in South Shields.

The first thing he did was buy his Mam, dear old Eileen, a house.  It was a modest affair but with a sunken bath and decking in the garden.  She’d been thrilled.

What he didn’t tell her was that he’d borrowed the money from Geordie Mick, the local hard man.  Joe was confident that with the royalty payments, the tour and worldwide press attention, that he’d pay him back in no time.  It was to be a decision he’d regret for the rest of his life.

He’d heard mention of the facebook group urging people to buy some old heavy metal record he’d never heard of in order to stop him from getting the Christmas number 1.  He’d found it quite amusing and trusted Simon who’d told him not to give it a second thought.

Ironically neither the heavy metal band or Joe Mcelderry were to be blessed with a Christmas number one that year.  Fans buying multiple copies had forced executives to ban both records from the charts leaving Jedward’s version of Frosty The Snowman to storm the airwaves.

It was a blow to Joe, although he was confident Simon would back him after inviting him to a meeting in his slick London offices.

“Listen Joe, I’ll be frank, I’m afraid it’s bad news”

Joe’s young face crumpled as Simon continued,

“The money’s all gone.  We spent over a million promoting your single and we’ve lost the lot.”

“I’m cancelling the tour and taking Jedward out to the States.  I’m sorry Joe, but it’s over.”

Joe couldn’t hold back the tears and even the impassionate Cowell felt a twinge of pity

“Look Joe, I’ve had a call, Buttons has pulled out of the Hartlepool Municipal Pantomime and they need a replacement.  I can put you in touch if you like but there’s nothing more I can do.”

Joe hadn’t taken him up on the offer, too shocked and crestfallen to even think about panto.  Leaving the office he met Jedward who were drinking champagne and playing on a DS in the plush reception.  They were pleasant enough but didn’t offer him a glass.  As he left he heard them giggling and felt sure they were laughing at him.

Christmas was a bleak affair in the Mcelderry that year although he tried to keep his spirits up for his Mam’s sake.  She was more worried about where the money for the house had come from than anything else, but he assured her he had an interview in the Daily Mirror and a photoshoot in Sugar and not to worry about money.

The truth was money was all Joe could think about.  The press weren’t interested in an X Factor has-been.  The truth was he’d clammed up whenever interviewed.  He was only 18 and just didn’t have anything interesting to say.  All the journalists seemed to want to know anyway was what Jedward were really like and whether the rumours about their incestuous relationship were true.


The first punch knocked him to his knees.  It was Boxing Day and he’d just popped out to Tescos  for an economy loaf and packet of custard creams.  Looking up he saw Geordie Mick glaring down out him along with two other snarling and fearsome men.

“You’ve got two weeks Joe,”

Geordie Mick had said as a succession of kicks were aimed squarely at his limp body.  They never touched his face.

Joe could hardly walk as he carried his meagre shopping home.  He told his Mum he tripped but wasn’t sure she believed him.

As the days passed Joe became increasingly desperate.  He friends soon tired of his frantic appeals to borrow money and in any event no-one in South Shields had the kind of money Joe needed to pay back Mick.

When the two weeks was over Joe did the only thing he could think of.  He ran.


Getting off the coach in Victoria Station, Joe felt disorientated by the big city.  Knowing no-one and with nowhere to go he wandered the streets, his hands nursing a can of K Cider to help keep out the cold.

With two weeks growth on his young face and dressed in shabby Primark, no-one suspected that he was Joe Mcelderry, winner of the X Factor.  The next day as he made his first claim for job seekers allowance the advisor had joked about his name saying,

“Well you don’t look anything like him, he’s much better looking than you darling,”

She’d laughed.  Joe had considered making a complaint but he was more concerned with finding a bed for the night.  Taking pity she gave him the number of a young people’s hostel warning him that they might be full at this time of year.

Sadly for Joe she was right.

They’d told him to come back in two weeks and they may be able to offer him a place.

For two weeks Joe walked the streets, ignoring his Mother’s frantic phone calls until he swapped his Nokia pay as you go for ten fags and a 3 litre bottle of White Lightening.

He drank constantly, the nights were so cold and the days so long and empty.  No-one noticed the tearstained scruffy teenager clutching a can of cider and checking phone boxes for money.  There were countless kids like him on the streets of London.

His giro hadn’t lasted long.  The first time he begged he winced with shame, but even that became easier.  He discovered that if he asked enough people for just 20 pence each he would soon have enough for a can of his preferred white cider.  And naturally the drunker he got the easier it was to rely on the pity of strangers.

He was finally accepted into the hostel where almost everybody drank almost all of the time.  Joe’s life became a blur after that, sitting in a Hammersmith Park drinking with the underbelly of London life.  He’d tried to tell them he was Joe Mcelderry, X Factor winner but they just laughed, one of them saying, “Aye lad and I’m Richey from the Manics.”

Joe later found out that he was indeed Richey from the Manics but never told anyone, his discretion being bought with a bag of chips and a promise of a savage beating.

Occassionally Joe had moments of lucidity and when he did he’d call Stacey.  He felt so guilty for that night, robbing her and little Zachory of a glistening future.  He knew Stacey was struggling, so he never let her know how bad things were, telling her he was back at college and doing fine.

The one morning he awoke in the tiny hostel room that resembled a prison cell and realised hit was time to speak to his Mam.  He’d tried to cut himself off emotionally, the drink helped, but inside it tore him up and he knew how much she must be hurting.

Geordie Mick had been brutal.  She may walk again, the doctors weren’t sure, even so she was terrified to go outside.  Having had to sell the house she was in a B&B waiting for a place from the council.  They’d told her to expect a long wait.

Joe cried and cried that day.  His Mother didn’t blame him but warned him he must never go back to the North East.  Geordie Mick was not the forgiving type.

So Joe drank and drank and days turned into weeks turned into months.  One night he’d turned up outside Cheryl’s house, drunk and shouting incoherently.  In fairness Cheryl had come out to see him, though Ashley glared at him menacingly from the window.

“Listen pet, we’re not friends, it’s just a job pet.  I mean I’m sorry an’ all, but I just can’t help you.”

Shamed Joe had asked for a little spare change, anything, just 20p, his next can of cider never far from his mind.

“Aww darlin’, I would but we’ve just ‘ad the pool serviced and Asley’s totalled another car.  I’m sorry pet but we’re all strugglin’ at the moment.”

Joe had fled ashamed.

The hostel was a dreadful place with people shouting and singing all night and regular fights.  Joe just kept his head down.  He had the life he knew he deserved.

It was a bright Summer morning when Joe came to his decision.  He begged like never before that day but this time the money wasn’t spent on on the usual cans of cheap cider.  Joe felt a new clarity as he bought a fresh outfit of clothes from Peacocks although people were less sympathetic to his pleas now he had clean clothes.

But, by eight’o’clock he had enough to carry out his plan.

His hands were trembling as he booked himself into a modest B&B for just one night.  He made sure the room had what he needed, a bath and a phone and then spent the last of his change on a half bottle of Grants vodka.

Lying in the warm bath that night Joe’s head had never been clearer.  He rang Stacey, just one last time.  He thought of ringing his Mam but he just couldn’t face it, not now.

The first bite of the razor hurt more than expected and he flinched knocking the bottle of empty pills he’d taken as a precaution into the bath.  Screwing up his eyes and tensing his wrist Joe persisted making the only decision he’d ever made that seemed to make sense.

His death wasn’t even mentioned on facebook.