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Self-Googler of the day

50-cent-i-get-money

 

Author : Pete C (IP: 88.104.29.194 , 88-104-29-194.dynamic.dsl.as9105.com)

E-mail : Pete@c.com

URL    :

Whois  : http://ws.arin.net/cgi-bin/whois.pl?queryinput=88.104.29.194

Comment:

And yet I’m getting steady paid and you’re not. That’s even funnier.

Which is a comment Petey left on our Rap Critic of the Day post from a week ago, after Googling the phrase “pete cashmore nme”. What’s odd is that he made it all the way to ILB, being as the first response that comes up from that search term is this Livejournal community dedicated to sexual fantasies about NME journalists (other than “beating Alex Miller to death with a lead phallus”), and this wonderful “rap” written by Prime Minister Pete Scheiß about sexual escapes with NME hacks. Sample line: 

Pat Long’s fat dong elicited moans

And then I got my fuck on with the man Tim Jonze

 

Fantastic. If you want to know what MC Paul Barman is up to these days, don’t. He died of stomach cancer in 2005.

Most people probably know Cashmore for this spectacularly ill-advised piece of “humour” writing circa Black Brad Friedel’s Glastonbury run-out. See Ich Luge Bullets passim for other writings on how the UK music crit community – which up until this point had showed about as much interest in the career of Jay-Z as it had, say, the career of the bassist from Witness – suddenly decided that anyone who didn’t like Hov was actually a racist, but at least they didn’t stoop to Cashmore’s sub-Vince Powell bullshit. The whole piece rarely rises above “Haha, that Jay-Z sure is black!” levels (and can anyone really picturing Jigga saying “mofo”? Or indeed anyone in 2008 other than Kid Rock?), but, man… “There’s no Roscoe’s House of Chicken’n’Waffles anywhere on site. They lied to me!”.

I mean, leaving aside the fact that Roscoe’s is a West Coast institution, with its headquarters situated a mere 2,803 miles away from the Marcy Projects… surely someone, somewhere, of any stripe would have had the insight to say “Pete… your comedy here revolves around the idea of a black man being very upset that he doesn’t have some fried chicken… this seems a little… I mean, most right thinking people will… you know what, never mind.”

It’s no surprise Cashmore’s a little screwy, though. He’s a former Countdown champion.The only former Countdown champion I’ve ever met was through playing on the London Scrabble League. A confirmed bachelor, his “pad” consisted of lots of wall shots of burlesque models, cheesecake pin-ups, and Girls Aloud calendars. A classy act. The living room was, however, dominated by one photo of slightly dumpy (read “English”) looking girl in a green harem bra’n’knickers set, giving it the Bettie Page “O” mouth. Noticing me gazing uncertainly at it, the guy went on to say “Oh, that’s a photo of my daughter, Susan”.

Former Countdown champions: a great bunch of lads.

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