Stabbings at swedish house mafia gig in uk

spankysue wrote: »

If you listen to Swedish House Mafia songs backwards, they tell you to bring a knife

ArtSmart wrote: »

I know there's a 'bit' of history there - but visiting John Waters on them???


Glanced at his diatribe - the evils/disenchantment of materialism/ consumerism - this is the same man who explained how he overcame his guilt in buying a 100e shirt (might have been pounds) and then went on to explain the validity of consumerism on some TV show.

stopped reading him during his 'denial of the roightes of Men' nonsense

he is beyond vile.



EDIT. ARGGHHHH. READ THE WHOLE ARTICLE. WHAT A FUKING CNUT TOSSER FUKHEAD HE IS. UTTER **** BAG.

The last time I was on the Late Late (before my current flirtation
with an icy demise) was six months ago, that early summer night when
Eoghan Harris, Eamon Dunphy and myself fought over the mind and
meaning of Bertie, and Harris nudged history a little off course,
writes John Waters

Sinead O'Connor sang I Don't Know How to Love Him as only she can
sing. Dunphy and I had a bet on air that Harris helped me win, and
Katy French flirted for charity with a python, some maggots and
miscellaneous unthinkables as only Katy could flirt.

I was drawn to her afterwards. We shook hands, said hello and she was
gone. It was to be the only time we would meet but it got her into my
head. God, she was beautiful. I don't mean just physically.

She had a beauty that suggested itself as emanating from an infinity
within. She seemed to believe anything was possible and her smile
convinced you, for an instant, that she was right. I wanted her dreams
to come true.

She was a child. She was my daughter and Eoghan's daughter and Eamon's
daughter and Pat's daughter and Bertie's daughter. She was your
daughter, your little sister. She was a child of Ireland in the time
of its rebirth.

I am crying, writing this. How can you cry for someone you've only
once said hello to? Katy was the daughter of our dreams, in the sense
that it was the dreams of her people that gave birth to what is
tritely called her celebrity. We have these words to box off the
lucky/unlucky ones who act out our fantasies, while we stick safely to
the grandstand. We refer to them as celebs, implying a different
species. But they are human beings, filled like the rest of us with
desire, distinguished only by willingness/ opportunity to rush in
where others fear to tread.

The old saw has it wrong: those who volunteer to act out our fantasies
in public are both fools and angels. Driven by longing beyond knowing,
their folly arises from a failure of awareness, experience, wisdom.

Driven by angelic recall, they plod on clay feet into the mire of
three-dimensional reality. They do not know, are not conscious, that
their appetites are infinitely greater than the world's capacity to
satisfy them.

Katy French was a personification of our fantasies, of our sense of
what we were becoming, of how we might unfold ourselves. She was not
the only one, but in the immediate past was perhaps the most
spectacular light on the skyline, a meteorite of desire plummeting
through the Irish zeitgeist. You may dismiss it as frivolity but only,
with respect, if you think in cliches and fixate on the superficial.
For most of us, it is not wisdom that keeps us from danger, but lack
of opportunity, or fear, or a deadly piety posing as virtue. Katy had
found a way of being that promised her it could slake all her human
cravings. She had manoeuvred herself into a position where everything
humanly desirable seemed to be within reach, and was careering forward
on the path opening up in front of her.

She did not, other than literally, die of whatever it will say on her
death certificate. She died of desire, of being utterly human.

What can I say? The dream is over.

As for lessons, I don't know. In the past decade, we have, most of us,
conducted searches for meaning in places previously inaccessible to
us. We acquired means and freedom beyond our wildest.

We knew that money couldn't buy us love, but still gave it a shot. We
sensed that freedom is a complicated word, but tried to keep it
simple. Be, for tomorrow we die.

As Pope Benedict reminds us in his new encyclical, we have no idea
what we would really like. "We do not know this reality at all; even
in those moments when we think we can reach out and touch it, it
eludes us." All we know is that it is not what we have.

God is a concept by which we measure our longings.

I'll say it again.

God is a concept by which we measure our longings.

As Katy did not comprehend the limits of her human capacity to pursue
her angelic yearnings, neither, anymore, do the rest of us. If we did,
she might be alive. Our culture left her struggling for life, because
we have neglected to keep it alive with the knowledge of what it means
to be human.

Katy's death was the result not just of her foolishness, but of our
collective helplessness. We do not know what to say to our children as
we kiss their brows before allowing them into a world utterly,
terribly changed, because that is what we desired. We do not
understand the meaning of freedom.

And so, dear friends, we'll just have to think it up all over again.
The dream is over. Our daughter Katy is dead. And so too, and not by
the way, are our sons Kevin Doyle and John Grey. The dream is over.
(c) 2007 The Irish Times

Pace2008 wrote: »

This should act as a rough wake-up call for kids who think it's "cool" to smoke ecstasy tablets.

Chuck Stone wrote: »

If you listen to a Daniel O'Donnell song backwards it will tell you to have tea and cake.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4HyEOiBQZUw