The Perils of Validating Unpopularity


More often than not, the truth is horrendously painful and frustrating. I’d go as far as saying that the truth is unpopular. There are many examples of this in life, but sport, especially football, illustrates my point vividly. Take the highly publicised 2013 Champions League second-leg clash between Manchester United and Real Madrid. After the match, Jose Mourinho (at his cringe inducing best) said, “Independent of the decision, the best team lost”, but what he meant to say was, “It was probably the correct decision, but the best club lost”. That sly little silver fox was, without doubt, carefully spraying his bizarre scent around Old Trafford; stinking up the place with his faux-humble aroma in order to stay in the Man U good books, or should I say ON THE CARDS.
I fucking loved it when the most insanely truthful of all the ITV pundits, Roy Keane, showed his support for the referee – admitting he thought that showing Nani the red card was the right decision – HILARIOUS. It’s funny because it’s true. Nani is a fucking embarrassment to the human race. It was a blatant yellow card, arguably a straight red, but in addition to this, the pillock seemed to think that if he could just remain on the floor for long enough after making that stupid challenge he might somehow evade getting booked. I honestly believe that if he would’ve just got straight up then the ref may only have given him a yellow. I actually wanted United to win, but after that happened, well, I just couldn’t be arsed with it anymore. Don’t get me wrong, it can be fun to fabricate, now and then, but it really depends on the situation. I hate the stench of corruption, but it’s almost impossible to shield your nose from the reeking mass of corruption that is humanity. But, dear friends, let’s not get too misanthropic here, not just yet anyway. I feel like I should attempt to lighten the mood a little bit now but that might be too much of a challenge. The best I can do right now is break up the form by typing up verbatim some of the frantically scrawled notes that are laid out on the desk in front of me:

“Blocker Corner. NITRO-WARTS. Lucky? The definition of absinthe. Most countries have no definition of absinthe. The shrub wormwood. An essence. Learning on the job. Fear the truth. What kind of psycho… Truth death. David Kelly. Should remain classified for 70 years. ITV. Stourbridge F.C. – Should I try to speak to Dave? Onion. National institution. What’s the band called? Used to be a group in the early 1990s. Crazy Robbo named it. 1000% Funny how it trolls off the tongue now. MEAT FLAG INTRO. Clean bedroom windows and backroom wall. That Victor band – what a fucking joke. Pathetic whores. Cocker’s ugly swollen pig face. Nobodies. Horse fear. Scottish power. Countrywide. South Staffs Water. Am I on the verge of death or just insanity? Hate to break it to ya. Next week. Gentrification. Sophomore. Mild drinking problem in this band. Understatement. Garlic. Onions. Update notes plus ‘real’ notes. My name’s Jesus Christ and I’ve come to have sex with your mind. My penis feels like and owl’s vagina. Fake Evil vs Fake Good. Fake Meat. Milligan. Miliband. Halliwell. Gastric Band. 4 trick pony. Chicken experiment. Conceal ability to float in dreams. Scoop the Polyfilla out the bog. What the fuck was Cyril thinking?”


“Since pornography seems out of the question I browse through Light Comedy and, feeling ripped off, settle for a Woody Allen movie but I’m still not satisfied. I want something else. I pass through the Rock Musical section–nothing–then find myself in Horror Comedy–ditto–and suddenly I’m seized by a minor anxiety attack. There are too many fucking movies to choose from.” – Patrick Bateman

There are various reasons for inserting a quote like that into this meandering and festeringly internecine piece of pseudo-salvo-journalism (give me a break, OK? FFS! I’m only experimenting); the most truthful reason being I’m about to start re-reading Bret Easton Ellis’s American Psycho and I was in desperate need of a catalyst – a springboard if you like. I just had a quick flick through and straightaway those lines seemed to jump out at me – attack me. I can imagine someone posting a similar sort of ‘Batemanesque’ thing on Facebook; struggling through Netflix, giving into the urge to inform the world of their indecisiveness, caused by an overwhelming choice of mediocrity, desperately hoping for someone, anyone, to respond, concur, sympathise with them – VALIDATE THEM.
I can’t help being too cool for this shitty school. Yeah, you read that right, DORKS! I’m waaayyy to fucking GROOVY to openly mingle and publicly converse / concur with any pathetic online leeches. I mean, FUCKING CHRIST, some of the shit you dirty little bloodsuckers share and blab on about – it’s enough to make me want to drink a pint of absinthe, and I’m supposed to be cutting back on the booze! Please stop sharing the love of the already over-loved. Nobody wants to be educated in this way.
Look, I know some of you feel the need to ‘share’ the things that are ‘inspiring’ or ‘funny’ or ‘shocking’ but, from what I’ve seen, most of it is terribly dull; almost coma-inducing actually. Why do you insist on clogging up the internet with this cack? If you feel so strongly about something (which has usually already been promoted and exposed to high heaven) please put a little bit more effort into writing about it. People need to realise that they come across like pathetic little whore-demons when they insist on posting / re-posting such minuscule bits of unnecessary dick-sucking. I don’t mind it as much for lesser known items, but come on, you know what I mean – get a fucking life, berks!

I suppose this thing that I’m typing now could be seen as nothing but the extreme ravings and cynical opinions of a man with some serious (possibly terminal) mental health issues. What if I’m just as bad as some of you? What if I’m WORSE? Am I just a more extreme, highly concentrated version? Is this piece nothing more than a great big contradiction? Quite possibly. So what if it is? I’m having fun writing it but are you having fun reading it? I’ve just spent the last thirty seconds or so practicing typing the word “unnecessary” because I’m sick of spelling it wrong and correcting it with the spellchecker. Sometimes you just have to make the effort in order to retain your dignity. I like to keep the fun flowing, but this is SERIOUS BUSINESS. It’s hard not to worry about hurting people’s feelings, or offending them, even when you’re just having a bit of a laugh. Pointing out how comment sections, facebook updates, twitter trends, tags, even most blogs and articles, are mainly full of nothing but hot air and slag-speak can be quite risky. I hope you will be able to forgive me for being such a nasty bastard, the same as I forgive you for being such fucking dullards. I’d like to think that I function pretty well as some kind of counterbalance. Is it wise for me to claim that I’m really a misunderstood professional post-ego-anthropologist? No? OK, well, I must be something along those lines – anyway, EGO-DEATH is on its way, take my bitter and twisted words for it:

“The two hundred and twenty seven Horsemen of the Ego-Apocalypse are a gallopin’ towards us from more than one direction. In fact, we’re fuckin’ surrounded by those mirror shatterin’ monsters. They’re gonna give us a real good whippin’, boy! The brain-food chains are a rattlin’. They might break us but they won’t blind us. Just gotta get used to seeing ourselves in smaller pieces…”


Retaliation is a must
Watch your back
Stay on cue
Shudda never fucked with us
Now you got me after you
Devious and beady eyes
Quick to jump and take your life
What the hell you think this is?” – from the song “Retaliate” by Anybody Killa

It’s easier for me to cope with the relentless posting of bullshit than it is for me to be left hanging and waiting for certain cretins to respond to my messages and emails. I don’t understand how public correspondence trumps private, professional and punctual messages. Am I THICK? Am I just TOO CRAZY? SCARY? ATAVISTIC? No, the painful truth is that I’m very UNPOPULAR – cool as fucking liquid nitrogen, but UN-POP-U-LAR – adj. Lacking general approval or acceptance. This has always been the case and I have absolutely no idea why.
My major downfall is being far too caring. I have too much love in my heart, for all of you. This might be hard to believe, but I’m actually not a very cynical person at all… OK, maybe I can be a little bit cynical, occasionally, but I can be pretty easy going on some days in the real world – at least when I’m not in an awfully foul mood, or when I’m the right amount of drunk, or stuffed with delicious food or drugs or electric shocks to the brain. I’m a lovely guy, a benevolent spirit, honestly. Just don’t fuck me about. I like to play alongside straight-shooters in this highly corrupted game. I respect people with guts. Being a smart-arse won’t automatically win you my respect. I can usually tell the difference between a shy person and a lazy one, in fact, I’d go as far as saying that I’m an expert Lazy Slag Spotter. More often than not, I see those ugly, cowardly little twerps coming from a mile off.

Ah yes, COWARDS – those who lack the courage to do or endure dangerous or unpleasant things. We all have moments of cowardice, now and then, but there are those who, for whatever reason, spend their entire lives acting in a cowardly way. There is one specific breed of coward that I detest more than the rest – THE CONFIDENT COWARD. They are more common than you might think and are extremely dangerous, vicious little creatures. They range from suicide bombers to manipulative marketing experts, child molesters to cheating politicians, murderers and muggers to paedo priests and preachers, hit-and-runners, rapists, juvenile bullies to spiteful old bats, media hacks to corrupt cops, knife wielding thugs to over-educated snobs, fraudsters to anonymous trolls… the list goes on and on. The weird thing is, you’ve got to be pretty fucking brave to openly admit to being a coward. Perhaps that’s a bit of a cop-out. I can’t put my finger on it. Sometimes we need an enemy; someone to hate, abuse, attack – torture. Indeed, the highly subjective definition of the word doesn’t really help us in our quest to solve the mystery of evil. Nature itself sometimes appears to show signs of being both fearless and cowardly, good and evil, on what we assume is an unselfconscious level. I’m getting disturbing visions of Hyenas again. Now I’m experiencing a VERY unpleasant hallucination; some sort of human-horse that appears to be wearing a Union Flag dress is being crucified! Oh My God! That is fucking CRUEL! Why are all those people laughing at it? Are they fucking SICK? It seems to me like we will never get away from the paradoxical nature of truth despite our apparently highly developed sense of “self-awareness” and poor attempts at “humour”. We are nothing but a few moral teardrops in the amoral ocean. Still, it can be quite thrilling to square-up to evil and cowardly animals when it’s safe to do so. I booted a German Shepherd in the face yesterday through a metal fence with my steel toe caps because it went berserk at me as I walked past its owner’s driveway. I kicked it right on the nose and it ran off squeaking. I laughed maniacally at it and boomed out “Call that a guard dog? It’s a fucking FAGGOT!” even though the owner was nowhere to be seen.

Anyway, enough of this anthropomorphic claptrap, and enough of this ball-ache of a tangent. I couldn’t quite write my way out of that one. It happens sometimes, but I’ll leave it in because there’s some good stuff in there. I need to move on, stop picking at it – just go with the flow, besides, Cyril has nearly finished putting the lining paper up downstairs and I need to go and buy ten litres of Vinyl Matt Paint. I think I’ll go with Magnolia. WHAT? I can’t be fucking dangerous and crazy all the bloody time you know! Believe it or not, I am capable of being innocuous, even quite plain and outright dull occasionally! In any case, once I’ve completed my boring tasks we can tear into something a little spicier (but still reasonably digestible and linked tenuously to the concept of DIY) for the remainder of the piece. Yep, it’ll be time to get seriously revved up for an independent rock n roll noise-fest extravaganza: A Very Good Contaminated Friday…

Miss Halliwell Poster

…And by “revved up” I mean like a Reverend. I demand respect! Hahah, as if I’m gonna get any. The whole thing is fucking doomed to failure as always. It’s bad enough I’ve had to lower my guard and join up to bloody Facebook in a shit attempt at enticing people into my world of Entertaintment. I feel dirty. Soiled. Creeping and crawling back to that ugly realm has left scars of hate all over my precious brain. It has to be one of (if not THE most) juvenile, vain, perfidious and pretentious ways of communicating and presenting one’s self in the history of mankind. But, alas, I needed to use it in order to start ‘playing the game’ again. Fucking shit game as it is, it has to be played sometimes, even from an obtuse perspective like mine. Virtual mind-games don’t suit me. I’ve never had a particularly good relationship with numbers either. Facebook seems to be built upon virtual mind-games AND numbers – so it looks like I’m pretty fucked there. Oh well, I’d better just hope that I can still pull off the right kind of moves in the physical world, as well as trying to wrestle the virtual one to the ground. I’d like to think that I’ll carry on doing this crazy shit for years to come; playing and recording excruciatingly fun music and having a good old time with words and pictures whenever this strange and unpredictable life allows me to – but who knows? Maybe I’ve had my chance? Perhaps I have blown it? Is Miles “The Soldier” Perhower really such a perfidious persona? Could it be that he’s become a permanent pariah? It’s hard to gauge. I know Miles can sometimes be as subtle as a medieval armed horseman, but his fearless energy and constant, perverse bravery, should be acknowledged, surely?

…What in Christ’s name is THAT noise? Hmmm, there’s a very queer thumping sound coming from the attic, or is it coming from inside my own head? I swear I can hear some sort of ghostly remix of Land of Hope and Glory leaking through the ceiling. Shit! That sounds fuckin’ warped… It seems to be mashed up with, no joke, It’s Raining Men! My skull is vibrating. I can smell paint.

“There are only three things in life: to be born, have your own show, and die.” – Bernard Manning

You can shove this tired form of chummy virtual reality popularity up your digital arses because I’m fucking sick of it. It’s fucking dead anyway. I was right all along. I’m all about the fleshy, sweaty interaction, no matter how small-scale it might be. You can’t fool me with your lame social network tricks. I’ve always had the right attitude to deal with this flimsy verisimilitude. Give me quality over quantity. Let us feast upon the flavoursome. May the stimulating organic stench of reality overpower the soul-rotting synthetic fumes of geeked-up Hyper-Interactivity! Oh Lord, give me the strength to survive the interminable postings of ostentatious, obsequious sewage. Allow me this chance to lampoon the goons; the parasitical, intestinal internet worms will finally be made to squirm. Or maybe they won’t? What if i’m just typing this for my own entertainment? Am I nothing more than a masturbating demagogue? The truth is uncertain, but what is fairly certain, right now, is that this match between Manchester City and Aston Villa will continue to be relentlessly boring. It’s like listening to paint dry. To make matters worse it’s on 5 live with Robbie Savage, though to be fair to Robbie it’s the bloke who’s doing the commentary that’s making it even worse. I’m actually craving Savage during the tedious periods when the other tosser is talking. Give me talkSPORT coverage over this dross any day of the week. Talking of talkSPORT, I’m turning into a bit of a Hawksbee and Jacobs fan. I heard them interview Simon Fowler the other week – what a total embarrassment, I felt sorry for them. I don’t know if he was stoned or just nervous or perhaps he’s just terminally dull? I also like to listen to Drive-time with Adrian Durham and Darren Gough – a genuinely bizarre mix of retardation and sporadically intelligent and provocative radio. The adverts do start to get on my nerves after a while though. Durham is very good at his job, but I thought he came across like a frightened child when he interviewed Bruce Willis during Bruce’s now infamous promotional rampage for A Good Day to Die Hard. I’d love to interview Bruce Willis. I’d snort a little bit of ketamine beforehand, put on a gimp mask and smuggle a staple-gun in with me – so I could get up in the middle of the interview and attempt to start stapling some specially prepared pictures of Hans Gruber all over the walls. To be fair, I doubt whether I’d be able to control my body enough to do any of those things, but it would be fun to watch me try. I’d be viewing the whole thing through the lens of an imaginary CCTV camera lodged up the corner of the room, occasionally asking Bruce in an unintelligible voice, “Youuu maaiii niiggggerrrr?”.

Regardless of this overtly sociopathic media ‘satire’, and the hard-to-swallow, semi-suicidal, borderline fascist, bridge-burning invective, which has, let’s face it, polluted the entire piece from start to finish, I think it’s important for you to know, dear readers, that I do understand that much of this social network malarkey is quite simply a platform for friends, peers and acquaintances to ‘connect’ with each other without having to leave the comfort of their homes, their phones, or the office. It is certainly not a place where you can take anything too seriously, on a professional level anyway. It is a place for consumers and amateurs to ‘share’ things. Still, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with attempting to infiltrate the local consciousness via Mr Zuckerberg’s often unreadable Book of Faeces, for a short while anyway. But you have to move on at some point, don’t you? Maybe it’s time to start experimenting with more accepted brainwashing channels? Maybe it’s time to start looking people in the eye again? We just need to keep playing to our strengths. Perhaps it’s only fair to consider giving my Definitive Squad a final, very real (yet inescapably virtual) identity that they feel truly comfortable with? Enough time has passed, but it hasn’t been as long as you might think. It feels like twenty years, but it’s actually been less than two. CN Support will forgive me, I hope. He once forgave me for almost shooting him in the face with a gun; the sharpened metal pellet narrowly missed his head and violently PINGED off the wall instead – so I can’t imagine that ridiculously tall, Yankee bastard, having too much of a problem forgiving me for resurrecting Miss Halliwell without him. It will be weird not having CN on stage as part of Miss H, but then again, it was weird with him there. Don’t expect us to play much (if any) ‘old material’ but, as always, we’ll be well-armed with explosive new tunes and bold new visions. I look forward to slaughtering the naysayers and contaminating the pure supply. I’m so hungry for the stage I could eat a pantomime horse!
This is not the first time I’ve found myself on the verge of getting into serious trouble involving caricatured animals. A few years ago, in a shabby little office on the Pensnett Trading Estate, I ended up being heavily scrutinised by a circle of strange Judges, which, I seem to remember, included a former chief of police and various other “important senior figures” from the West Midlands. It was a very weird scene; all these serious suits glaring at me, quizzing me, “Have you erased those…er..things we had a problem with?” and “What about that cartoon Owl? The one holding a gun to its head, have you got rid of it?”. Fuck me, I had no choice but to answer affirmatively, even though I had not, in fact, removed any of those items. Luckily, nobody checked, but I decided it would be in everyone’s interest for me to redesign the whole thing in the tentative days that followed. I had finally gained the Prince’s trust. The rest, as they often say, is history.

“See, my servant shall prosper, she shall be raised high and greatly exalted.”

Miss Halliwell 2013

I had planned on building this wildly disjointed collection of kamikaze ravings up to a blistering crescendo; foolishly admitting to how I don’t give a fuck about coming across like a dangerously paranoid mental person (or, here comes that word again: PSYCHOPATH?) – bragging about how ‘easily’ I cope with that perception – constantly playing it down – rambling on about “getting into character”. I was going to petulantly jabber about how I pride myself on taking all forms of communication seriously “regardless of the platform” and spew yet more verbal diarrhoea about this “precious gift” that should be “respected and never neglected or devalued” – “Language,” I was going to claim, “is a powerful truth-weapon that’s manufactured in the mind and deployed via the fingertips and vocal chords…” – And, AND!!! most shockingly of all, I even came close to sending out a message to all the ignorant, flagrantly snubbing little brainless fucktard whore-cowards who have had the nerve to rip me off, blank me, or foolishly dismiss me over the last few years, but something stopped me in my tracks. I think it was DIVINE INTERVENTION. It could equally have been SATANIC MOLESTATION – which reminds me, I went to see the doctor last week because of the mole on the end of my penis. I pulled my pants down and stood very still so that he could examine me properly. “That’s DISGUSTING!” he said, shocked. “I’ll have to report you to the RSPCA!”

Trail off. Avoid the news. Can’t. Evil blossomed too close to home…incinerate the feral scum…calm down…don’t jump to conclusions…execute him…wrong words…tragedy…wrong words…rendered insignificant…justice…familiar roads…cleanse ourselves of evil…unifying force…not quite able…evil jungle…demon runts…symptoms…ignore this terrible thug…starve him to death…please…beg for forgiveness…please be careful…word nukes…punish…innocent…chance war…joke prophecy…game…dream…ending…hieroglyphs…unnecessary…failed…used spell-check…the death of innocence…for no good reason…at war with existence…Father forgive them, for they know not what they do…bullshit…My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?  


About Miles Perhower

Miles Perhower (aka Matthew Philip Hale, born 23rd August 1985) is a contemporary English bandleader, composer, producer, writer / lyricist and visual artist. After many turbulent years of stubborn DIY graft with a band called Miss Halliwell, MPH continues on his deranged musical mission with an outfit known as The Day Ends...
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