Tonka's Week - Too Hot For TV

< > I've been getting into sadomasochism this week, ladies and gentlemen. I had a wank on Wednesday morning over the thought of choking a little Japanese bird, biting her boobs, booting the fuck out of her and telling her off in a German accent whilst a glamorous granny forced an aerosol can up my arse, spanked my arse and shouted about how fat my arse was in a rough-as-arseholes Tipton accent. I don't know why I was using a German accent. I think it made me sound more solemn and (clever, this) if the imaginary Japanese woman wanted to report me to the imaginary police, she'd be describing a German man, so I'd never get caught. Winking smiley face.

I’m always thinking.

< > Grace Jones has got a brand new box set coming out on the 4 May 2015 (on Universal) that is ramma-jamma full of brand new material, I mean, dead old disco stuff that she released in the 1970s and is now re-releasing to cash in on the new disco revival that's finally kicking off in the West Midlands, I think. Disco was big in London about seven years ago, so it must have reached Kings Heath and Moseley by now.

That makes me sound cynical, but I’m not. The Disco Years box set by Grace Jones is fucking perfect for eating your dinner to, dusting your mantelpiece and coffee tables to and for sometimes getting saucy with yourself to whilst imagining what it must have been like to have been lucky enough to have had a two-in-a-bed sex romp with Grace Jones in her Amazonian pomp. She would have fucking eaten me alive, lads. Talk about Demolition Man! LOLoutLOUD.

< > I know I usually BANG on about hard house, minimal techno, techno, minimal, gangster rap, shoulder pad techno, industrial techno and mid-90s vocal hard bag but one of the best records I’ve heard in ages is a post-punk, mutant disco, dub, funk and electro compilation of tracks produced or remixed by Adrian Sherwood – a dub reggae bloke I’d never fucking heard of until Postman Pat squeezed twelve inches of his work though my twelve and a quarter inch letter box.
Sherwood At The Controls Volume 1: 1979 – 1984 is out now. The cheapest I could find it on CD is at for £8.99. I’ve already got it on vinyl now so if you want it on that format, you’ll have to shop around yourself.

By the by, Sherwood At The Controls Volume 1: 1979 – 1984 is not a continuation of the much loved At The Controls series on Resist – the best one being, M.A.N.D.Y. Draper was trying to tell me otherwise, but I’ve double-checked on Discogs and, as usual, Draper is talking out of his fucking hole again.
< > Is there anyone else watching these General Election telly debates sitting on a sofa with a cup of tea in one hand, custard cream in the other, tongue hanging out, eyes all crossed and wondering what the fucking hell they’re all going on about, or is it just me? Honestly, I put the Jeremy Paxman one on the other week and all I could make out was David Cameron and Ed Miliband being nagged by a bored looking, grey haired old cunt who kept going on about one of them not looking hard enough to iron Putin out in his own back garden! Does Jeremy Paxman reckon politicians actually have proper fights or something?

Jezza – I know you read Ran$om Note. The only thing politicians do when they’re together, mate, is sit down in offices and talk about stuff none of us have got a clue about. If you think Ed Miliband – or ANY party leader – is going to storm over to Moscow and smash the fuck out of Putin, you’re a bit fucking simple.

The one where there were about twenty of them standing in front of that short haired trendy glasses bit of fluff that nobody had heard of was even more confusing. Nick Clegg was chatting about policies I didn’t understand, Ed Miliband kept talking at me through the camera – which was creepy, the Scottish woman wouldn’t shut up, David Cameron popped up every now and again, the Welsh one was boring and the New Zealand Green Party bird who looked like she might (MIGHT) have been a bit (BIT) fit about twenty years ago was boring and all. The only one who made any sense, and talked in a language YOU and I can understand (English) was Nigel Farage.

< > Nigel makes things plain and simple: kick all the foreigners out of GREAT Britain, STOP foreign aid to foreign countries, frog-march the medical tourist foreigners with AIDS out of OUR English hospitals and remove ALL of the black from the Union Jack.

I’m not saying I agree with what Nige is saying, but he makes it plain and fucking simple. Know what I mean? So, I’m not racist, but I know who I’ll be voting for on the 7 May, and it won’t be that Scottish bird who can’t seem to keep her FOREIGN nose out of OUR business.
< > I bought a new badge off of the internet the other day. It goes great with my West Brom top, cardinal red braces, stone-wash Firetrap denim jeans, tidy haircut and black Brandit Gladiator vintage 20 eyelet steel toecap boots. It was only fifty pence and I felt dead proud and trendy as I rained down blows on the back of the poor QPR fan’s head as his dad tried to drag him away from the pack. He was only about fourteen, bless him.

Well, these teams will beat my team so you have to take the anger out somehow, don’t you? If I didn’t cave that kid’s skull in with my football mates, I would have taken it out on the missus, or the imaginary Japanese bondage girl I’ve been rattling in my head.

Until the next time, dance fans...

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BONUS MATERIAL: The Anal Sex/Mint Choc Chip Anecdote (2014).

< > I was stood on the platform at Greenford station watching two pigeons kissing on the wall of the bridge whilst Return of the Space Cowboy blared out of my black 8gb iPod Nano in-ear speakers. I could feel people tutting around me but I didn’t give a shit; you don’t turn down a Jamiroquai song when one comes on, especially one of their all-time greats. As I stared down the oncoming central line train chugging along the track, it got me thinking about the time I wore a strawberry flavoured condom on my cock to have sex with a woman who loved strawberries. It was bright red and stunk of strawberries. As soon I’d finished doing my business up her and shot my load inside the bag, I rushed to the bog to take it off and have a piss only to be followed by the woman I’d just impaled. She was licking her lips and salivating. She said, “Tonka, don’t chuck that condom away, mate. You know how much I love strawberries.”

I nonchalantly peeled off the blob and handed it over. She then sunk to her knees on the shit-house floor and proceeded to lick, suck and kiss the sperm-filled condom whilst I had one of those pisses where the jet goes everywhere. Know what I mean, lads? I said, “Babe, this reminds me of the time I smashed your sister’s back doors in wearing a green, apple flavoured condom because she said she loves mint choc chip.” She said, “If she loves mint choc chip, why were you squeezing it in with an apple condom?” I said, laughing out loud, “Babes, she was just recovering from acute fecal incontinence so it was apple when it went in, mint choc chip when it came out, know what I mean?”

We both giggled, went back to bed and fell asleep in one another’s arms.