Jambo! Let me just put down this ancient Chinese burial mask I collected at masturbation camp in Tibet next to my mp5 player (yeah, it's not available to the General Public yet). And while I'm here I may as well take off this wig made from the dreams of Barack Obama and sit down on this chair that was hewn from a single rock of Lance Armstrong's self-belief.

You see... Actually wait, sorry, let me just put down this ivory pipe I found while trekking through the jungles of Tanganyika in search of Patung, the golden eagle. Oh, of course I smoke hemlock, don't you? Got a bit of a bite, but its really quite scrumptious once you get into it.

There are only so many ways that you can be featured on Internet-Webby-Sites that take pictures of cool kids hanging around and then post them online like they mean something. And one of those ways is to be interesting. Of course, we here at HEADLINE payoff aren't totally shallow and solely concerned with looks, we care about your insides too.
(On that note, please, eat fibre – for your health).
So not only will I be sharing with you how to be more interesting on the outside, I'll share with you how to be interesting on the inside. It was a skill I picked up when I hitch-hiked all the way to the foot of Uluru with just a watch-strap, two pieces of cheese, 48000 Dollars and an expert guide. It was just something I had to do, you understand? To find myself.

I'll just put these Wayfarers worn by James Dean himself when he wrapped himself around a tree, down and get to point number one, that would be prudent.

Uno
Is not only something you have to shout while playing a certain branded card game. It is also our first point. Find an object, or a story, that you could use to let other people know how mind-bendingly interesting you are. Do you think I got that Obama wig for fun? No Sir (or Ma'am), I got it because I knew that it would be a Talking Point. That chair made from Lance Armstrong's self-belief? I hate the thing. It's ugly and about as comfortable as sitting on a leathery (unbalanced) ball-bag.

See, kids, it pays to have a little anecdote to drop out of your pocket like a silk handkerchief woven from the strands of Madonna's kindness. You wonder why the handkerchief is so light – have you seen how kind Madonna actually is?

Zimbini
Have a great personality. It doesn't have to be real, don't worry. Personalities can be faked easily enough with bright colours, acting as if you are interested in what the person you are speaking to is interested in and dancing around like a frozen jellyfish. To dance around like a frozen jellyfish, imagine what it is like to be totally boneless and then, act as if all your limbs have then become frozen. This dichotomy between flaccidity and rigidity should make you more interesting than an episode of Top Gear with hardcore sex in it. (Another way to feign personality is to just discuss the latest episode of Top Gear, or who The Stig REALLY is – some say he made cheese from mixing the milk from both Russell Brand's and Russell Crowe's nipples and others say that he made out with Jeremy Clarkson and actually managed to get his tongue past those yellowing, snaggled gravestones that pass for teeth, but all I know is that I don't give a flying Belinda who some guy who can drive fast is – but really, Top Gear. What a conversation starter.)

San
You may have espied some particularly frilly and ostentatious words littered throughout my prose like little lustrous jewels nonpareil. Yes, by Yahweh's fine whiskers! Give your tongue a top-hat and a cane and teach it to twiddle around like a prawn on a fish-hook. If you can't impress people with your lexical prowess then you may as well exsanguinate yourself until you expire.

Vier
Dress funny. It'll make you look like an individual. Trust yourself on this one. I won't give you tips, other than the tip of my boot that my great-great-great-grandfather wore in the Austro-Hungarian Sex-With-Icecream-Wars.

Cinq
Use foreign words. You might notice, if you are one of those people who has eyes, mental imaging faculties, the ability to read and cognate visual signifiers with their signified forms and the understanding of foreign languages that I have not used English numbering for any of these points. That was just something I did to make this more interesting. You can borrow that, if you like. Feel free to write long sentences that might or might not make sense too.

Prämie
That's German for Premium, just in case you didn't know. As this is a little bonus or “тантьема” in Russian, I thought I'd share just one more way to make yourself seem more interesting. And that, friends, is to tell jokes. You may remember some knock-knock jokes I shared with you a few months ago and I thought I'd pull some more out of my knock-knock bag. The one I won in a bet with Sweden about who could pickle the best chocolate.

Knock knock.
Who's there?
The financial crisis.
The financial crisis who?
Give me all your stuff, I'm repossessing your ass.

Knock Knock.
Who's there?
Peter Smith.
Peter Smith who?
Your neighbour.

Knock knock.
Who's there?
Euripides.
Euripides who?
Euripides jeans, Eumendides jeans.

Knock knock.
Who's there?
A termite.
A termite who?
A termite who just ate your damn door up.

Yours waving theatrically from atop a pink pachyderm,
Paeioul Whaeioute

As you may be aware, the soccer world cup is fast approaching here in South Africa and as far as the majority of South Africans are concerned it really does seem to be equal in importance with the second coming of Christ (as if that's going to happen). Yes, soccer balls may float on water. And the old J-man could do that too, so maybe there's something there. Whatever puts the ice-cream in your soda float.

To warm ourselves up for 'ama-sho sho-ya chesa!-hola 7-yoh!-hayibo-seriaaaaaas-shibobo-diski-grand grand-sharpsharp-2010' we are having the Confederations Cup here in South Africa at present. Now, other than certain girly-boy soccer players that make me a little confused in my pants (like Torres) there is someone who just inspires me to break out my pun gun and shoot myself in the head. And that, friends, is Kaka. I know that Kaka is a great soccer player, in fact – one of the best (and definitely not as violently irritating as Cristiano Ronaldo) but... his name is Kaka. Given that 2010 is coming, I thought I'd just get all of my childish Kaka jokes out of my system now so I don't carry on. Because I might just spend months amusing myself at the expense of almost every person I know.

It all started with this:
Poor Kaka, he knows he's the shit, but everyone thinks he's number two.

And that got me into the Kaka. Please look at my list of Kaka jokes (toilet paper will be provided at the end).

No one in the Brazilian team wants to shower when there's Kaka on the floor.

Soccer is the only sport on the planet where you are meant to run away from your team when you score. If you're Kaka, your team runs away from you.

Was that Kaka that just skidded across the grass?

Don't poo-poo Kaka when he's trying to talk to you.

Kaka doesn't give a crap whether you're the best goalkeeper in the world. He'll bring the big stink.

Kaka buys all kinds of shit with his soccer-money.

When Kaka tried to blow a vuvuzela, he just made a terrible farting noise.

No one likes it when there's a Kaka on the back seat of the bus.

Kaka made so much money he bought a river. He forgot an oar though, and was up Kaka Creek without a paddle.

When the room got too hot, Kaka hit the fan. Then it started working.

There are no flies on Ronaldinho, but there's a swarm all over Kaka.

When Kaka was just a wee boy, people looked at him with such confusion, but he couldn't understand why.

Kaka's brother is called Peepee. He's into watersports.

When Kaka was a child, he became lost at a shopping centre, and hid in the bathroom. On finding him, his mother said: Who left Kaka in the toilet?

When Kaka gets sick, he often looks quite flushed.

A rival defender complained to the referee because he had Kaka smeared on him when he ran past to score a goal.

Please feel free to add any of your own Kaka jokes. It'll be all web 2.0 and shit.

Get it?

Hola Seven etc.
Goal White

Being a human person is not always easy. Sometimes, we are confronted with things that make us uncomfortable (like badly-designed chairs or watching your parents have sex) and perhaps something that dogs us from an early age is the need or want to fit in. To be accepted into a specific social grouping. Recently, Cape Town's Indie scene had its skinny jeans pulled down and its underpants quite firmly hoiked upwards by cevron, an anonymous critic. Cevron has since given up their one-person-crusade because of too much drama.

For an interesting read and an example of Internet fighting – the comments section of cevron's final blog - click here. Again, we are shown not only how lame Internet fighting really is, but how someone attacking your scene, your social-grouping, the very tags that you assign to your life can be so upsetting. I still subscribe to what my mom told me all those years ago: If you don't have something nice to say, then rather don't say anything at all. That's why I try to aim my word-gun at sweeping generalisations, rather than individual people. It's not fun if someone's upset. So, please, let's hold hands and have a little look at how we can all fit in more in the modern era.

Some people might say things like: be yourself. This is a lie perpetuated by capitalism. No one really wants you to be yourself for any other reason than the more individual you are, the more crap you need to buy in order to prove your individuality, isn't that so, comrade? Now please, pass the vodka – these Russian winters cut through to my bones and the Okhrana constantly breathing down my neck makes me nervous.

Fitting in is dependent on where exactly you plan to insert yourself. If you are the pencil-thin, black-painted penis of gothdom, inserting yourself into the hairy, rubbed-raw vagina of the outdoor enthusiast you are going to have a few problems. See, as humans, in order to be 'interesting' we have to try and assign ourselves a defining characteristic or characteristics. I play the role of the slightly touched writer quite well and have amassed quite a collection of elbow-padded tweed-jackets, antique pipes and aloof attitudes. My collection of disdain is something I plan on expanding in the very near future, if only people weren't so damn stupid and getting in my way.

Obviously, the more niched your social grouping or personality the more interesting you'll be. On the other hand, you could aim to join and become accepted into a larger group (see: jocks / B.Com students / art-fags / those quirky class-clown people who come from broken homes). That's a little boring for me to explain though and on a scale of one to exciting, is sitting somewhere around the porridge mark (sans syrup, cinnamon or peanut butter). Rather, I'll give you some tips on how to fit in with smaller, more ridiculous social groups.

People with chronic illnesses, who struggle on valiantly
Here's a great differentiating factor for yourself – a chronic illness. Think something sexy and edgy, but not too disgusting. Having leprosy is perhaps going a little too far, not to mention messy. Think epilepsy, or an interesting allergy (like latex). You can announce to the world that you have this problem, and then milk sympathy from the teat of human kindness with your hungry teeth. (Where do you think the milk of human kindness comes from in the first place?) Just imagine the joy of joining a support group, so you can bitch yourself into ecstasy four times a month. It's almost orgasmic.

People who write letters to newspapers
Bored? Retired? Wanting to fight the power, but feeling a little toothless? There's nothing like a snooty little letter fired off from belligerent fingers. Neighbours taking a little longer than expected to clear their building rubble or dogs barking too much? You know what to do, Sir or Ma'am - write to the paper. Writing to the paper is not only exciting because you get to see your name in print (without being paid a cent), but also because you can force your viewpoints onto the rest of the world. No longer will you be sitting at home, brewing in indignation because you saw an advert for condoms in (Shock! Shock! Horror! Horror!) a family newspaper, now you can spread your feelings all over anyone who can read, like warm, salty piss.

People with 'religious views'
Oh, it doesn't matter what religion you choose. Any old one will do. It is suggested that your choice  is informed by whichever religion makes you feel the most self-important, or allows you to look down on anyone who doesn't belong to yours. Many people who seem to have 'religious views' appear to have gone through some sort of trauma – resulting in their needing an external crutch to cope with their lives, rather than relying on their inner rationality or personal fortitude, so that is one way to enter into this group. On the other hand, religion can be seen as an accident of birth, so if you lack reasoning faculties or original thought and were born into a family that raised you in a particular religion, why not just carry on the tradition? Don't forget that almost any religion you choose will place impossible moral obligations upon you, in order that you get to some sort of Nirvana. That's correct, live as miserable a life as possible here, so you can achieve paradise and scoff at all the people burning in hell. Not that there's any proof of that happening.

Yes, it's a gamble, and you could be entirely wrong about which religion out of the thousands and thousands upon on this earth was the right one to choose (most of them are quite exclusive of any outside groups and presume that them, and only them, are on the path to salvation). You might be really upset if those eighty people in Papua New Guinea who were worshipping a rancid coconut were the true chosen ones, but that's part of the deal.

Happy religioning!

Unfortunately, the sun is setting on this piece, and I don't want it to go on any longer than it should, lest I fall into the group of aloof-writers who hold your attention for just too long. That would be terrible.

Ta-ta, and all,
Paul White

Modern science is great. It has allowed us to live longer, become stronger, abort foetuses that don't suit us too much, stave off cancer and whiten our teeth. Unfortunately, modern science and medical advancements have resulted in a rather frightening phenomenon: a plethora of old people. Everywhere I look, they are shuffling around; smelling of mothballs and wee, complaining under their breath about the good old days. I'm sure some of the more PC among you are wringing your rose-scented hands and I'm waiting until someone says, “Wait until you get old, Paul. You just wait. There'll be some snotty fuckbitch like you complaining about yourself while you piss yourself quietly in the corner, gibbering about the war.”

(Actually, you probably wouldn't have said that last sentence because it's not very PC.)

I think it boils down to the following: attitude. I remember a rather frustrating Afrikaans teacher from my high school who had an amazingly huge ass for her size and seemed to wear a rather bad wig, who had written on her whiteboard, in I assume permanent marker, the following: It is your attitude and not your aptitude that determines your altitude. Yes, it is rather twee and saccharine, but it makes sense if you rip off all the motivational piss. You may ask how you can rip piss off of something if its liquid – have you ever heard of freezers? Exactly.

The vast majority of old people I've met have been entirely uninteresting. Old men are the worst. Shorn of dignity and respect, they dodder through life assuming that they are owed some sort of kowtowing. I say – watch me run around you while I pull rude signs at you with my fingers old man, try and catch me on that walker while I hurl insults at you from my nimble lips. At least older women can act sweet. Older men just hang around with red cheeks, yellow teeth and rheumy eyes. I can understand their anger, their frustration at their de-tusking, but perhaps if they were less pissy about it, they would be easier to deal with.

Old people might very well be our connection to the past, but I've yet to meet any of them that dress like native Americans and smoke peace pipes. Most of them just drink tea, garden and read newspapers. Towards the end of last year, I went on a trip with my father to Northern England, very close to the Scottish border – to see where his grandfather came from. I can honestly say I felt nothing, as did my father. My great grandfather was a mine-foreman type person I never met who very kindly passed on his genetic material to me. Indeed, I said in my twenty first speech that I was grateful to my parents for fucking, and that gratitude extends all the way back to that girl monkey who thought that boy monkey's big pink ass was impressive all those millions of years ago, but in reality – I feel more of a pull to Africa or African landscapes than I do to rolling British hills, no matter how verdant.

Anyway, I'm babbling. Next thing I'm going to start repeating myself, forget who you are and demand that you change my adult nappy, floundering against my shrunken flanks. The point I'm trying to make is that if old people would just shut the fuck up for a while, smile and stop complaining I'm sure I'd like them a lot more. I can also assure you, hand-wringer (if you haven't navigated away to a page of bunnies and kitties 69-ing each other) that when I get old I'll do my best to stay interesting. I intend to grow old disgracefully. To shout and swear and dress funny as much as I possibly can. I understand totally that there physical changes one undergoes as one ages (such as your balls ending up around your knees) but I intend to do my best to cope with these changes (like invent a ball-bra). If I can carry on being irreverent and can hit people in the shins with my walking stick with the skull for a handle, then I should be fine. As long as I'm laughing at the time and not being a misery, fuck their shins.

Because, for god's sake, if I'm not having fun then what am I doing even bothering to be alive?

For those of you who don't believe me about old people, let's take a look at this list of pros and cons I've compiled. Get your reading glasses, dear.

Cons
The smells. (Wee, mothballs, cabbage.)
The slow-walking.
The complaining.
The slow (and dangerous) driving.
The hearkening back to old times.

Pros
If you're nice to one, they might give you a boiled sweet.

So, perhaps if we can all commit to not being boring old farts, we can at least commit to being interesting old maladies of digestive origin.

I'm going for burps and general throat gurgles.

Paul S. White Esquire.

In the interests of being akin to a locally applied cream, rather than orally administered medication, I have delved into my spy network (not unlike a farmer artificially inseminating a horse) to find the answer to a question that has been burning through people's fingertips here in Internetland.

That question is not: How does Noel Fielding get his hair like that?

That question is: Who is cevron?

For anyone who hasn't been touched by the flames pulsing through local IP addresses, cevron is the founder and writer of a blog called 8-bit city. 8-bit city has recently caused a slight furore amongst the hipster set in Cape Town, with its snarky comments and social commentaries. Towards the end of last week, it disappeared – causing much wailing and gnashing of teeth over lattes at the Vida in Kloof Street. I have heard unconfirmed reports that some people even lowered their Rayban Wayfarers to show their darkened, hungover eyes while discussing it.

Rather than disappearing forever, cevron has reinvented him (or her) self and started a new blog. Think of their absence as a pause to straighten their hair, or browse for clothes in second hand shops in Cape Town. Just so you know, the new blog can be found at:

http://cevroncity.blogspot.com/

Without saying anything that might incite a flame war, let me now share the knowledge that popped out of that metaphorical horse's ass after my sperm-questions had formed foetuses. While (hopefully) we will never know who cevron is, we can always speculate. Indeed, it would be a little boring if we found out who they were. It's like finding out that the tooth fairy is just some drag-queen who studied dentistry.

So, without further ado, here are some possibilities for cevron's identity:

Joost van der Westhuizen: Joost has been very quiet lately, what with doing-coke-and-going-down-on-some-girl-gate. As far as I know, it hasn't been proved one way or the other, but it has been suggested that he has moved to Cape Town and reinvented himself as a hipster (otherwise, how could he infiltrate all the parties?)

Dame Judi Dench: When last did you see her in a movie? All you need to see is how she can make her mouth look so mean to know that there is a huge possibility that she could be cevron.

Tony Leon: Poor Tony Leon, he gave up being the leader of the official opposition in South African politics and now he has nothing to do. Helen Zille has taken his job and is now premier of the Western Cape. I'm sure I've seen a middle-aged, democratic looking man in a suit sitting in the booths at The Assembly before.

Heath Ledger: (Is it too soon? Ah fuck it.) Elvis? John Lennon? They're not really dead. Ditto Heath Ledger. He finally shaved his head to hide his baldness, put on an 80s inspired teased wig and some spray on jeans and has been moonlighting as cevron ever since.

That little tokoloshe girl/boy thing that hangs around Leon Schuster: There isn't a Zulu on my stoep, it's a cevron. You may have thought that strange looking person with the soul-chilling laugh and the seventy centimetre platform boots was a fashion icon, but they could also be the elusive cevron.

Kim Jong-Il: Not only the dictator of North Korea, greatest player of the piano ever, wearer of the silliest spectacles ever, donner of the most inappropriate military garb ever, best tiddly-winker ever born (ever), grand prince of rice paddies, eternal protector of communism and all-round nice guy, but perhaps also a certain blogger from Cape Town?

Tom Selleck's moustache: When last did you see it? It could be living on anyone right now, sneaking off at night and writing blogs. Don't scoff. Stranger things have happened. Like Lady Gaga.

And finally... you: It could be you. Or even you. Maybe not you. Probably not you. But very possibly you, with the dirty smile and knowing looks. Or someone else.

Yours yoursly,
Hp

P.S. If you would like to follow us on twitter, point your Internet-ship in this direction: http://www.twitter.com/headlinepayoff and if you would like to follow cevron, point it in this direction: http://twitter.com/cevroncity

Dear non-denominational deity, if you exist (and even are formed enough as a concept to be considered a “you”), I hope you might look kindly on this collection of words. I hope that you exist, not really because of any jumped-up pride I may have about being descended from monkeys, lizards and fish, but rather because I would be infinitely disappointed if I found out that I was nothing but a collection of chemical processes, colluding to produce this walking, talking machine who thinks that it thinks its own thoughts. In fact, you don't even have to be a formed deity. Deity is the wrong word. I'd be very happy with a self-sufficient energy net that is imbued with even the tiniest iota of benevolence. Indeed, maybe the title (borrowed from one of my favourite poems, thank you Mr Thomas) leads us in the wrong direction already, but for now we will keep it as it stands because it alludes to a mutually understandable place, where things are better than they are here.

If there is no heaven then, that's fine, but please can there be some sort of soul waiting-room where I can not only catch my breath but also catch up on all my reading?

Before I get there though (and hopefully that won't be any time soon, because I still have a fairly long to-do list), I was hoping I could receive some help.

Please help me to retain that popping, sizzling fire that gnaws into my stomach at night, when I can't sleep and my brain zings with excitement at ideas still to take form out of the nothingness.
Please let that fire fill me up, and keep me grasping for brilliance. And when I grab a-fleeting-hold of it, please let me suck the juice from the pulp until it is absolutely dry. And when that is done, please remind me that there is still more to be had and that I can make a perfectly serviceable man-kini out of the peel of the fruit. And when that man-kini is no longer serviceable, let me remember that the next jolt of brilliance is on its way. I just need to receive it.
On top of that, I remind myself that the person I am now, in my 23rd year to heaven, is who I was always meant to become. I do not regret the things that have happened before, because if they did not happen I would be somebody else. If I met myself sans life-experiences I would probably find myself rather boring.
Please help me to like myself. Just a little.
Please help me to come to terms with my own body. I've been living inside it for 23 years now, and I'm still trying.
Beauty, in all its transcendent forms exists. It still exists. Let my eyes be open to it; from a fatherly pat on the head to a holy mountain that chokes me with majesty.
Teach me and remind me that emotion is necessary. That I need it to be a human, and being a human is the best thing to be.
Give me the courage to wear my heart on my sleeve sometimes. To admit weakness. I'm not a robot and I'm not an automaton. On that note, let me place this collection into the public sphere without fear of being mocked, or derided. May anyone who reads this approach it with the innocence I have tried to tap into.
On the subject of my lost innocence, I knew it had to go and I wish it could have stayed with me longer. One can't hold onto it forever, but please let me be able to tap into it when I need it.
I know that I'm allergic to negative energy. Please allow me to become a little more immune.
I've been imbued, somehow, with the optimistic sense that, “it doesn't have to be like this.” Please let me never lose that. As much as it twists my insides and comes crushing down on me when I turn off the lights and the walls around me shoot off into the distance.
Remind me, always, that I have the ability to stand next to myself and assess my own actions. In this way, I can act in the best possible way for not only myself, but other people too.
On the sense of doom that gnaws at my ankles, please help me to kick back at it and leave it behind on the ground, because it can't survive without a host. If I'm inclined to look back it, to watch it writhe in the dust, please let me think of Lot and Orpheus, not for the fact that I will lose it forever, but because that pillar of salt, that denizen of the underworld, needs the tiniest amount of attention in order for it to reattach itself.
I know, to quote again, that the world doesn't end with bang. It ends with wide-eyed, whimpering, gibbering fear. But please, let me experience as much of the bang as I can before I need to whimper.


If I seem verbose, pompous, self-serving, I apologise non-denominational-deity/energy net/construction of my hope – I realise that this list is not really meant for you. It is meant for me.

Yours in ibuprofen and diazepam,
Paul White

Holy fuck. Holy fuckin' fuck.

If Heresy from Nine Inch Nails was something that I was afraid to listen to, Antichrist Superstar embodied everything that I was aiming for in my new found open-mindedness. It's name was enough to draw me, and then there was the album cover art.

As far as I understand it, because us South Africans are a little more relaxed than the mainstream conservatism that courses through America's veins like triglycerides and transfats, we got the original cover – Marilyn Manson, skinny (wasted even), tattooed and grinning maniacally, with a huge set of angel wings stretched out behind him. The back of the album features a picture of him with some sort of metal contraption over his dick and two of the band members on their knees, pipes connecting their mouths to his metallic codpiece. It's brilliant. It's confrontational. It sticks its fingers up your nose, twiddles them around and just waits for you to become offended. It's not necessary to mention the offence that was taken by America and the world at large, I'm sure you've heard of it.

Then of course there was the naming of the members of Marilyn Manson's band – The first name of a beauty queen and the surname of a serial killer. Marilyn Manson, Twiggy Ramirez, Madonna Wayne-Gacy. How fuckin' cool! How fuckin' badass!

There are three ways to look at Marilyn Manson's agenda. One: He's inviting you to become offended, because he is trying his hardest to shock you and hence to make you question things. Two: He actually believes all of his shock-rock. Three: He wants you to think that he's not as evil as he is, but in fact he is as evil as you think he is. In fact, part of his scheme is to make you think that he's harmless, lull you into a false sense of security and somehow dedicate your soul to that little red man with the big bum who lives just a few levels below us.

Remember kids: The greatest trick the devil ever played on humanity was to make us all believe that he didn't exist. So what Marilyn Manson is really trying to do is convince us that he's harmless so that he can sell our souls.

Personally, I go with option number one.

I remember quite soon after I bought this album, back when Marilyn Manson fever was at an all time high, I was on holiday with my family. Strange that Marilyn Manson should feature so prominently in a story about “not” my first kiss, but why not take my hand and follow me into this flashback.

I was on holiday at the Wild Coast, a stretch of touristy beaches in Natal. There was a certain girl there who took a shine to me, and we would stay up late (sometimes until twelve 'o clock) talking. She was from Gonubie. I can't remember her name any more. She wore glasses. She was pretty. One night, as we sat talking in the communal TV lounge, complete with creaky wicker chairs, the subject turned to Marilyn Manson.

“I heard that he's going to have all his teeth pulled out, and have them replaced with wooden teeth.” she said, blinking myopically.

Knowing me, I probably frowned and said, “Well. That sounds a little like a rumour, don't you think? And what about the fact that his mouth would become full of splinters?”

She thought for a second. “Well. I heard that he's going to have one of his legs amputated, and then he's going to get a false one.”

(The interesting thing is that Marilyn Manson actually does have a prosthetic limb collection.)

“That's just silly.” I said, scratching at my chin.

“Okay, okay, how about this,” she said, turning to face me, her green eyes magnified by the lenses of her glasses (they really were quite petite glasses, feminine), “I heard that he had some of his ribs removed so he could give himself a... you know... a blowjob.”

I ruminated on that. There aren't many men who haven't thought about it. Or tried it. I probably laughed a little nervously. Lips and cocks hadn't yet even visited the same continent in my world yet.

“Again. It's just a silly rumour. Do you really think anyone would be so stupid?” I asked, incredulously. From there, the conversation moved onto other fripperies, which I can't remember. Later on in the night, with a nondescript Eighties action movie playing in the background, the talking petered out and she fixed me with her concave gaze. I wasn't yet wearing my glasses full-time then, so I returned it with my innocent brown irises. I was aware of an electricity. An air of expectance. If only I had known at the time that the universe was throwing me a rather perfectly spiralling ball. I fucked it up royally.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Uh... nothing.” she said, leaning a little closer.

“No really, what is it?”

“Nothing.” she said, returning to her original stance, the rustling crack of the wicker taunting me. Laughing at me. I would only recognise the sound later, when I hit my forehead with the heel of my hand and thought – FUCK! I flubbed it!

It would be a while before I would dance that bilingual dance, heralded by a line that I still stand by. I was at a house party and this girl's friend had groomed us both – telling us both that the other wanted to kiss them when neither of us had even thought of it.

It worked.

I sat down next to her on a low wall, next to a swimming pool and said, “So, I heard the bushes are good this time of year.”

It worked.

But enough of my romantic life. We came here to speak about Marilyn Manson. For me, this album still stands as his most powerful. It was the album that broke him to the masses. This was Manson at his most vitriolic, screaming and railing against American culture, he goes as far as to sing about how he is anti everything – and what did they do? Exactly what he wanted them to.

What irony? They didn't even pick it up when he sang,

“Anti-gay and anti-dope. I am the faggot anti-Pope.”

They hated him. They blamed him for teen suicides. And eventually they tried to blame him for Columbine. Anyone who's seen the documentary Bowling for Columbine would probably remember his quote, when asked what he would have said to the killers.

“I wouldn't have said anything. I would have listened.”

 I remember the images of his live shows, as he stood behind a lectern, with a Nazi/Satanism inspired lightning bolt in a circle on it. Of course, there was outcry over that too. The logo appeared on the CD as well. If we scratch a little deeper at the Satanism allegations, we find that the Satanic Church ordained him as a minister. What the media does not like to add to that is the belief system of these modern Satanists. They themselves don't believe in Satan. They believe in nothing.

The people who tell you that Satanists only say they believe in nothing in order to steal your soul are probably also the people who will tell you that Satan planted dinosaur skeletons in the ground in order to lead us astray.

Because if you believe in nothing, nothing is taboo. It means nothing to Marilyn Manson to tattoo devils and 666's on his arms, because as far as he's concerned – it's all a bunch of bullshit.

P
S
White

P.S. When I did finally get to the bushes I had to contend not only with braces, but soggy, muddy ground. But at least I had finally scored.

Hello everyone. Actually wait, let me try that again with a little more British flavour.

(Wearing a bowler hat with a cane in hand) Hullo everyone.

I trust that this piece of writing finds you all happy. Or if not happy, at least wealthy. And if not wealthy, then at least healthy. And if not healthy, I hope you're having sex. If you're not having sex, you could always just be masturbating though, right? See, it's not so bad. You can happily twiddle yourself away into Xanadu while thinking those thoughts about conkers and assorted orifices. I don't mind. Hell, why not just reach down close to yourself and give yourself a little slappy around the naughty bits? I'm not stopping you.

Feel better?

The reason I'm here, is because I've recently received a highly-classified document from Mr Internet. Some of you may have thought that the Internet was broken, or that someone had downloaded it, or even broken it (there are many ways that this can happen), but in fact it is alive and well. I'm quite sure you've heard of this new Internet-Phenomenon sweeping through your information superhighway like a Kenyan through a middle-distance race – Twitter, but what I'm quite sure you haven't heard of is all of the new incarnations Twitter is thinking of in order to cater to those a little more “niche”.

Herewith (in a most nostalgic style) follows a list of all of the new Twitter sites bound to pop up soon:

1.a. Titter
Titter is perhaps a little better than Twitter because people can only communicate via either pictures of their own boobs or pictures of other people's boobs. This means that we can skip a fair pile of hairy man-mammaries (mannaries), but a few now and then probably wouldn't hurt for those men who wanted to share their milky pecs.

A sample update from Titter: Mr Mannaries is ( . )( . )

1.b. Titter
Titter can only be used by gay men. Every status update has to end with “tee hee!”

A sample update from Titter: Twinky69 just lay down on a Bear rug!!!11 Tee hee!

2. Bitter
A great place to let all of your feelings of misery out, Bitter is your one stop shop where you can write very short, pointed notes – aimed at your parents, siblings, ex-lovers, dogs, cats or perhaps even neighbour's ex-lover's dog's owner's sister's mother – that one who teaches piano to deaf kids.

A sample update from Bitter: DivorcedDiana is entirely pissed off dat she has the kids AGAIN dis weekend, reminds her hwy she divorced him in da first place!

3. Shitter
Like Twitter. But worse.

A sample of an update from Shitter just wasn't worth it.

4. Quitter
Can't finish what you start? Still trying to kick those cancer sticks in the filter? Heroin? Addicted to riding a horse and wearing silly pants and smelling funny and sticking stupid posters all over your room and always having a large bag of sugar lumps and carrots on you at all times? Quitter is exactly what you're looking for. While a real blog may allow you to really moan about your withdrawal symptoms, Quitter only allows you 140 characters in which to do it, making it infinitely easier for all of the people that know you.

A sample update from Quitter: Fred Simpkins promises that things will get better. He didn't mean to say you were fat. It was the booze talking.

5. Zitter
Social networking site for teenagers.

A sample update from Zitter: Rosie 'Cutiepiebabykat' Smith is thankin all her friends f0r c0min wit her to da movies. H0lla at my galzz! Dat b0y in da fr0nt r0w was s000 h0t!!1111

6. Knitter
Does your Internet situation often sound like this?

What? Is this thing on? Where are the pedals? Where's my tea? You call this a teacup? Huh. This never would have happened when Daddy was still alive. Oh how I miss him so. My war wound! Why are my pants wet? I made a self-shame all up on myself! Of course I want my food liquidized! Why are you so small? Are you made out of cheese?

Well, you should probably join Knitter, a great place to babble incoherently, but just not for too long.

A sample update from Knitter: Rosemary Atkinson is tttiiiieerreeddd of haiiaaavinnnngngggg Parkkiihhnnnssoonnnsss!!!12222

7. Clitter
A great place for uneducated men to go and learn some things about some things.

A sample update from Clitter: Rosepetal Lothario 696969 can tie a knot in a cherry-stalk with his tongue. Any ladies wanna get hottttt tonight? Must be your place. I live at home. XXX

8. Hitter
Should you feel lacking in the testosterone department, or alternatively, feel that you suffer from an overabundance of said hormone, Hitter is the perfect place for you. At Hitter you can connect with other men who feel that it is necessary to express themselves through violence and intimidation. You can connect with other men who feel that the circumference of their biceps/cost of their car/length of their dick makes them better than everyone else. Hellcakes, maybe you can even get into an Internet fight. Who said you could only fight IRL?

A sample update from Hitter: Roland Warren is tired of chinas saying his surname is a first name and he's gonna flatten the next oke that tunes him otherwise!

9. Glitter
Glitter is quite closely related to Titter, but perhaps just a little more technically savvy. It allows sparkle-graphics and morphing .gifs of course, sillybuns!

A sample update from Glitter: Gary Golding can't wait to show you how his face can turn into a lime green buttplug! Glittertime!

10. Witter
Witter is designed for smarmy assholes like me who think they're too clever for everyone else.

A sample update from Witter: Paul White is writing a status update?

Thank you everyone, that concludes our evening. Please leave quietly and disguised as doorknobs.

Yours within 140 characters,
Paul White

If you liked this piece (all 5948 characters of it and counting), why not make friends with/add/follow/whatever us on Twitter. Our url is http://www.twitter.com/headlinepayoff – we would love to join up with you throw glittery oranges at each other until the cows come home.

Hello everyone. It's true – there is a new podcast out and it's all about periods, for men. Click on these words to find out about it.

HEADLINE payoff 

I got this album when I was in Standard Five, which meant I was twelve. I would see sullen-looking teens wearing these black tee-shirts with NIN written on them, the second 'N' reversed and I knew it was some sort of secret club I wanted in on. I used to buy old American music magazines at the Kilo Book Shop and I knew who Nine Inch Nails were, but I had never heard them. For some reason, I mostly saw these people with their tee-shirts at craft markets. Don't ask me why.

I can't remember if I bought my copy of The Downward Spiral at a craft market or at a music shop, but where I got it is fairly immaterial now. As with much of the music I bought as a younger person, I “got”' it, but I didn't really understand it until later. Back when I first got it, I was still just in awe of the lyrics from Closer. If you don't know them, that's all right, I'll quote them for you.

“I want to fuck you like an animal
I want to feel you from the inside.”

At the time, I think that was one of the biggest pulls of the album. As a twelve year old, that's just unbelievable. To be honest, at twenty three, I still think it's awesome. It's one of those songs that is timeless. It's also one of the most honest expressions of sexuality I've ever experienced (other than KoRn's Kill You, but that's from another album for another time (and is a little more intense, for reasons that will be revealed to you in the future)). It takes balls to sing those lyrics. And mean them. And not be embarrassed. At the time, many of my friends were quite easily influenced and I can imagine there are at least three or four people with Nine Inch Nails and Marilyn Manson CDs right now, sticking out in their CD collections like Satan's big red ass. It's okay. At least I tried. There's always Nickelback.

Closer was another one of those songs that I used to listen to quietly, in the hopes that my mother wouldn't hear the lyrics. While she may have taken on Offspring as her own, which I really don't mind, I hope I never hear her singing the chorus to Closer. There was a song on this album though, that I would specifically avoid. That song was Heresy.

As I mentioned previously, I was raised as a Catholic. That all stopped when I was about ten or eleven, for various reasons, but the feeling of this god that could condemn you to hell for all eternity scared me to no end. When I was about six or seven, I was sitting in class, colouring in, learning how to read – the usual things someone that age would do (unlike the unusual things – like the Chinese kid who pissed in his chairbag), and this thought popped into my head as if a demon had whispered in my ear. Some, more believing people might say it was a demon. Jung might say it was my subconscious. Freud might say I want to fuck my mother. Either way, what it said was this:

“To hell with Jesus.”

The thought repulsed me. It scared me. I didn't know how it fell into my head. I spent the rest of the day in a state, aware that god – all-knowing, all-powerful – was very, very aware of what I had thought. And, the more I thought about not thinking about it – that phrase – the more I thought about it. It was as if each time those words fell into place in that order, my soul became exponentially more condemned. Obviously, I hadn't gotten so far as to actually give voice to these words, but thinking them was enough. I came home from school, and spent the afternoon worried, until it became evening and I couldn't take it any longer. I stumbled into the kitchen and said,
“Mom. There's something I have to tell you.”

“What is it?” she replied, hanging the drying-up cloth on the back of the chair. Shame, she probably thought it was something really bad.

“I was sitting in class today and I thought: To hell with Jesus. Now I don't know what to do.”

“Well, all you can do is pray. Say you're sorry.”

I probably nodded in my serious way, as I'm prone to do, and walked slowly back to my room. I remember lying in my bed, praying about it – apologising profusely. Afterwards, I felt better. Really, I did. I wrote those words down now without a twinge of guilt.

It was that part of me that wouldn't even allow myself to listen to Heresy. As a child, if I saw anything relating to Satanism, I couldn't sleep. I would feel sick to my stomach. I remember watching a Sunday night documentary about Satanic churches, some or other witch-hunt and it really affected me. Similarly, I was subscribed to a magazine called “Quest”, which added new parts to an encyclopaedia of sorts, and came with a folder, so you could build it as you went along. I used to love it, reading about things I knew nothing about until I saw a piece on magic and Satanic churches. I remember the picture clearly – someone in a dark blue hooded robe, facing an altar with a picture of Baphomet above it. I never read it again. The folder sat on my bookshelf and I would lie on my bed, staring at it, afraid to even open it, in case I saw the picture again.

As I know now, Heresy is not Satanic at all. It is more Trent Reznor asking questions of Christianity.

“God is dead and no one cares
If there is a hell I'll see you there.”

That 'if', is the crux of what he's saying, I just couldn't hear it at the time. It took me years, but now I can listen to Heresy without fear and sing along with it happily. Merrily even.

“The Downward Spiral” is a concept album. It follows a man (Trent Reznor, has since admitted it was himself) through depression, covering the rage, frustration, hope and apathy that depression encompasses. It is huge and powerful and soft and beautiful. And it is honest. Oh, it is honest. I have still not heard an album that captures and crystallises depression like this album does. I love it to pieces and it will stay with me always.

Incidentally, it was recorded in the house where Sharon Tate was murdered by Charlie Manson's followers. Reznor said in an interview he didn't realise how insensitive it was to record there until he spoke to Sharon Tate's sister. He just saw it as a quirky piece of American history. The fact that someone's sister was murdered there and the idea that it could have been his own sister, brought everything into focus for him and consequently he helped the authorities to knock it down.

While this album may be fifteen years old, it is still vitally relevant to me. In the past few months, a certain lyric from I Do Not Want This has been fluttering through my head and it is painfully relevant to how I feel at the moment. The feeling of intense yearning.

“I want to know everything
I want to be everywhere
I want to fuck everyone in the world
I want to do something that matters.”

PaulStephenWhite

P.S. Marilyn Manson – Antichrist Superstar next. Produced by Trent Reznor and therefore the next logical step. After that: KoRn – Life is Peachy.

P.P.S. For the video to Closer click here.  I love the nineties aesthetics, the monkeys on crosses, the pigs heads, the beating hearts and Trent Reznor floating around like a fucking sex-god in his big leather boots. I think this video sums up so much of what appeals to me aesthetically that it proves I am definitely a nineties person – the scratched out film and deconstructed images make me want to touch myself – no slick design anywhere in sight. Yum.