A horrible hack

Wet Wolf

Scary Feminist Shit

Year Released: 2011
Format: CD
Label: Nacht Records
 
Reviewed by Captain Fidanza on Oct 27, 2011
This comes from Nacht Records, the same label as two other releases I reviewed for Collective earlier this year and if you go to their website there's loads of interesting stuff to download, much of it for free.

“Recorded live at home” reads the back of this CD and what a home that must be, goodness knows who the landlord is but I imagine the rent is payable in spiderwebs and old biscuits. I rang Foxtons in Muswell Hill to enquire after the property and incredibly, the disgusting fuck I spoke to knew of the residence and was able to arrange a viewing. I arrived at the exterior of the house at the appointed hour and have to admit to being somewhat taken aback by the fact the front door was hanging off the hinges and half the window panes were missing.

When the despicable human shitpile from Foxtons arrived a few minutes later he read the disquiet on my face instantly and immediately explained that they were “working on getting that minor window problem sorted” and that I shouldn't worry about it for a moment. When we went inside, I could hear some vague squawking from somewhere in the house but just assumed someone next door was watching an old VHS copy of that macaw pantomime that came out in 1982.

The unspeakable bastard from Foxtons led me through to the front room of the house, at which time I realised where all that noise was coming from. A man with severe asthma was standing on a dilapidated, orange arm-chair playing a clarinet, whilst another played percussion and occasionally poked the keys of an accordion with a stick. Rounding out the trio, sitting on a three-legged stool facing the wall babbling incoherently to herself was a woman of indeterminate age who can't have washed her hair since the day Monk died. She had a mouse living in her pocket and some basidiomycete fungus growing out of her head. Boy did that room stink.

The walking urine tambourine from Foxtons seemed not to notice the musicians in the room, even when he tripped over their tape recorder as he crossed the room to stand in front of a stain on the wall. “I think someone was bludgeoned to death with a spanner in this room” he said, “which explains those weird noises you might be able to hear, I think the house is haunted or something. But don't worry” he continued “because we have Max Von Sydow on a retainer and he'll pop round on the day you move in to get rid of any residual phantasmagoric activity.”

I can't tell you what the kitchen was like in that house as the boundaries of the English language would have to be redefined in order to adequately describe how filthy it was.

“What do you think mate?” the unutterably vile fuckbulb from Foxtons asked me as we stood on the pavement outside.

“I've got a few other places to see today but I'll get definitely get back to you sometime this week” I said.

I never did.

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