"The idiot savant Sutcliffe did this a couple of weeks ago (can't remember the name of the thread, but do a Ctrl+F "Reynolds" search and you should find it). If you are indeed Sutcliffe trying this tired schtick again, please try and find something more constructive to do with your life."
Mr. Carlin,
I stated on a previous thread some time ago that I had said all I will ever say about Simon Reynolds. And, yes, I meant what I said.
So my response to your unwarranted hostility includes the following:
1) Unlike vertain immature assholes who inhabit this forum, I have never misrepresented myself, nor have I dared to sink to the contemptibly low depths of creating posts in someone else's name - quite unlike those at ILM (whoever he/she/they are) who have had zero qualms over posting IN MY NAME.
2) "Idiot savant". Well, fuck a duck, guess I've been sufficently admonished, clever boy that you are. If you read my posts, I've stuck to the issues at hand, never turning this into a personal attack on other ILM posters (unlike, say, YOU).
Let me tell you about a concept known as relativity. If I happened to take shots at one of your sacred cows, get over it, Mr. Carlin. It's not directed at you personally; if you are incapable of carrying on an objective discussion, then take your hostility elsewhere. Or, in terms you may understand more clearly, get it the fuck out of my face.
3) "...please try and find something more constructive to do with your life."
Magnificent advice from someone who knows not of what he speaks. It's quite extraordinary how you've managed to acquire such an amazing degree of insight and prescience into ... no, you're mistaken, sir, as it appears that your assumptions are solely a product of your projection.
As for finding more constructive things to do, why don't we compare the number of posts at this forum under your name and mine (not counting the faux-Sutcliffe posts, of course), and let the numbers speak for themselves. I think you'd find that you've wasted a hell of a lot more time at ILM than most others have.
― J Sutcliffe, Saturday, 9 March 2002 01:00 (twenty-four years ago)
If, dear reader, you are returning to I Love Music after a short
absence (a languid dalliance with some gilded ephebe, possibly, or
perhaps you got locked in the outside khazi at the Men’s Patriotic
Club, Barrow-in-Furness) allow me to reassure you: this IS I Love
Music.
I know it looks like a war zone. I realise there’s broken glass all
over the floor and pool cues wrapped round the rafters. I am well
aware that every stick of furniture has been reduced to splinters.
You do not have to tell me that it looks as if Tom Ewing and Peter
Baran have been having a minor dispute over a question of global
statecraft.
But you are just going to have to get used to the following
formula: ‘Excuse the mess, but we’ve had the Sutcliffes in.’
A few wary souls have already noticed the arrival of a swaggering
lout calling himself ‘J Sutcliffe.' A sneering, hyperactive low-life
who styled himself ‘a philosophy lecturer’ erupted from nowhere and
darted around, kicking shins, gobbing in faces, smashing
irreplaceable classical statuary carved from authentic polystyrene by
the legendary Daran of Skuk (floruit circa 1961)!
The ILers were in disarray. Flailing and thrashing, they blustered in
outrage like the 89-year-old retired colonels they truly are beneath
their veneer of postmodern cool.
‘Brrr-brrr’ went the crimson emergency phone in the Inner Sanctum at
the ILM Research Complex (N.B. I have gone to considerable trouble
and expense to authenticate this sound effect).
The Direktor of Everything reached for it with his habitual easy
grace.
‘Hey, chill out, chicky baby,’ he drawled.
‘Fuck off!’ snarled the unmistakable voice of the Chairman-for-
Eternity, a former Curator of Porcelain at the Fitzwilliam Museum,
Cambridge. ‘I dunno wot your lads are playin’ at, but it’s all gorn
bleedin’ pear-shaped down ’ere!’
Five minutes later the Research Complex was in frenzy. Teams of
scholars, analysts, software experts and opinionated bastards from
all over Europe hurled themselves into the fight to answer what was
suddenly the only question that mattered: what kind of nutcase is
doing this to us?
By ten o'clock on Monday morning, they had their answer.
Mr Sutcliffe established his 'credentials' by unleashing a merciless
attack on the work, name and character of the writer Simon Reynolds,
listing unfavourable comparisons with the perceived failure of his
own philosophy classes. His obsesssion with the imagined damage
caused to him and his livelihood by what he viewed as Mr Reynolds'
wilful misconstruing and disordered regurgitation of fashionable
philosophical conceits was considerable and evident.
I submit that the above-named Mr Sutcliffe's newest post, with its
condensed language, controlled illiteracy and incongruous literary
allusion, bears comparison with the work of Simon Reynolds.
To me, one conclusion is irresistible. The Russians are trying to
control our minds with radio waves. But I think it also possible that
Messrs Sutcliffe and Reynolds are one and the same.
Were this not to be the case, then the fundamental questions remain;
namely, who is Mr Sutcliffe, what does he want, and is he going to go
away when he’s got it?
In any instance, Mr Sutcliffe, we belatedly say thank you, and
welcome. ILM must seem a tad poky and primitive after those lavish,
brass-and-marble, joint-venture fora to which you are used. You’ll
have to make your own cocoa, and if you want soap or lightbulbs
you’ll need to phone out to the village. But we like it here; it’s
home to us; and you’ll find we’re friendly people when our medication
kicks in.
And, speaking man to man, as a fellow ex-philosophy student whose
life didn’t exactly turn out as predicted: give ’em hell, tiger!
― Marcello Carlin, Monday, 11 March 2002 01:00 (twenty-four years ago)