What does your desktop image say about you?

A recent study conducted by nobody has suggested that the images selected by computer users as their desktop background can reveal intimate psychological details about the individual. By analyzing your desktop image it may be possible to reveal your emotional state, prowess in the bedroom and the likelihood that you will one day become rich and famous. Beirut Beat has decided to put this to the test by scrutinizing four recent desktop background images.

1) The Shark

This is my current desktop image, the smiling face that greets me every afternoon when I get up. The photo itself I find absolutely beautiful; the rays of light breaking the water, the geometric perfection of the great fish, the shadow it casts on the sand. But my feelings about this photograph run much deeper than its aesthetics.

As a self-employed writer, this image presents a direct threat to me when I open my laptop. It is a warning not to simply paddle around on the internet or write silly blog posts about what image I have on my desktop screen. If I allow myself to just drift along I will be eaten alive.

Despite this, the shark does not actually scare me as it might if I were to encounter it in real life. To me, he is a grunting drag racer, ready to accelerate towards me. The cold dead look in his eyes – that of a brutish, moronic bully – makes me want to stand up for myself and rise to the confrontation. He, like all of life’s challenges, is much bigger and stronger than I am. Yet since they plan to come at me with their sharp teeth anyway, I have nothing to lose by taking them on at full speed.

2) The Kitten

I took this photo. Everything that makes it aesthetically pleasing – the paw in dead center, the mimicking shadow, the hints of brown on the concrete that remind of his fur – all total accidents. This was the image on my office computer when I was writing copy for an agency in Beirut. Previously, I had decorated my computer screen with tasteful black and white photographs of beautiful women. You know the sort; a moody looking chick in her twenties, smoking a cigarette as she stares from her balcony at trendy Parisian neighborhood.

These photos were not simply a hipster version of hanging a nudey calendar on the wall. There was a distinct attitude of aspiration. It was an allusion to the old days, when US soldiers in Vietnam would be treated to some light entertainment followed by the parading of an attractive female model. The compere would tell them ‘This is what you are fighting for boys!’ I suppose I was trying to remind myself ‘This is what I am writing for.’

The problem with this is that it left me with a vague sense of longing for something that didn’t really exist. Then the kitten came along.

I found him under a bin by Spinney’s supermarket when I was wandering round one Sunday, more hungover than your granddad on Boxing Day. It was underweight and in desperate need of care. Rather than being frightened of me, the kitten literally jumped into my arms. I took him back to the flat and within about 10 minutes he owned the place. The picture above captures perfectly the way he would prowl around and guard his territory.

I became a parent to that little beast; he would follow me around the flat crying for attention whenever I wasn’t holding him like a baby. I couldn’t even make him sleep in his basket, only hiding under the covers of my bed would do. When I put his picture on my desktop background something changed in me. I didn’t have time to chase fictional women anymore; I had someone to look after. This, I thought, is what I am writing for.

NB: The kitten was called Jean Paul Catre. When I left Beirut I gave him to my neighbors. I hope he is doing OK.

3) The Lake

That’s me in the center of the picture. Look at those big strong arms, those broad shoulders. What a hunk.

This photo was taken by a dear friend of mine, using an old-fashioned film camera. The depth and perspective, the colors, the grainy texture – they aren’t from some filter you can just wack on with your iphone. That is proper photographic technique.

I had spent most of the afternoon sitting on that shaded patch of grass in the foreground, drinking cold beers and reading. After taking a swim in that lake we went and made some simple home-cooked food. That evening we broke into a music festival by sneaking under the fence. The security guards chased us but we got away into the crowd. I looked up on the stage and Pet Shop Boys were playing. But I wasn’t on holiday. I was actually homeless and nearly broke.

When I first used this as my desktop image I thought it was just a classic case of remembering the good times. But I later realized it meant much more to me. Hippies and Buddhists tell us that we should live in the moment and always appreciate what is going on around us. Unfortunately, if real people actually lived like this then nothing would ever get done. I am constantly planning ahead, worrying about money, trying to predict the future. It’s what you have to do to prevent yourself getting eaten by the sharks of this world.

In retrospect, looking at this photo reminds me that this was a rare occasion where I wasn’t thinking about what tomorrow would bring. I wasn’t thinking about anything at all. I was just doing. And if I never get to live another day of my life in that mindset, I will be eternally thankful for that memory.

4) The Goldfish

Another fish, albeit a slightly less threatening one. I love the colors in this picture, the deep snooty blues. To those of you who have never had the pleasure of visiting God’s chosen Isle, this is what a British summer day look like. Cloudy and dark. I like the swell on the sea too. It reminds of surfing in the rain in Cornwall, an experience I would wholeheartedly recommend.

This was my laptop background in the latter stages of my time in Beirut. Those British hues connected with my homesickness (which didn’t last for long when I got back!) and gave me something to aim at. But, as you may have guessed, there was something greater going on with this picture too.

This fish appears to be utterly mortified, and my instinctual feeling is that he has just taken a look at what is behind him. The great sea is very much like his own little environment, only much vaster, terrifyingly so for such a tiny guy. Wherever I am in the world and whatever I am doing, I manage to get stuck in my own little habitat. Perhaps you do too. Occasionally this little bubble will pop, and you are forced to confront the enormous reality of life. This can be shocking for an individual, as expressed on the lips of my little orange friend.

Jean Paul Satre wrote of the nauseating effect of contemplating the infinite possibilities of existence and I agree with him. However I regard this kind of reality check in the same manner as taking physical exercise; it maybe be painful at the time, but it is something you should do occasionally to keep yourself healthy.

Analysis

-Three of the four pictures have animals. One representing my fear of life (shark), one representing my parental instinct (kitten) one representing me and my relative ignorance of the world (goldfish).

-Two of the animals are fish and three of the pictures feature water. I am a Pisces and I certainly drink like a fish.

-Jean Paul Satre is name-dropped twice, indicating that I am a bit pretentious.

-Major themes include: fear of failure, confrontation, responsibility, challenge of life, living with consequence, acting without thinking.

-The whole article represents how my desire to be creative is at odds with my indulgence in procrastination, as I promised myself I would spend the day working on the book I am writing yet have managed to get no further than my desktop photo.

So, what does your desktop photo say about you?

Blinded by the Lights (a short story)

Tommy stared around his dressing room. After so many years on the circuit the routine had all but lost its magic. Everything was there as normal. The rider of bottled water and chilled melon, the fresh flowers, his sequin cape. But something was missing.

He stared into the large mirror and began to reminisce.

He thought of the glory days, when he first made the big time. Back then, he remembered, the cheer of the crowd was all he needed. There were the parties, the drugs, the sex, friends and acquaintances. But the cries of excitement from his fans, screaming for the encore, calling out his name? Nothing, really nothing could rival that feeling.

All the loneliness in his heart would dissolve as he stepped out onto the stage, blinded by the lights and the attention. So what had changed?

A single tear rolled down his face, guided by the deep scar which ran from his left ear across his cheek, and disappeared as it dropped onto the nest of chest hair poking from his purple waist coat. He closed his eyes and thought of Gloria.

When they were still young, Tommy and Gloria had performed as a double act. ‘Tommy Twinkle and Gloria de Glorious’ posters plastered the toilet walls of gay clubs and sea side resorts. They had it all. Two young starlets, enchanting performers, crowd pleasers, passionate lovers. It had to end of course. Even then, Tommy knew it could never last.

 ‘Beauty blooms when there’s no more to lose, and wilts like a sculptor who longs for his muse…’

Gloria could never have known at the time, but every song he had ever written was about her. He would shrug off her questions about his lyrics, pretending the lines were inspired by the silent movies she never cared for. Gloria was too young to remember the old classics, and although he was desperate to tell her, he feared his true feelings would corrupt their union. How could he announce to the one he loved that every night, as she slept in his arms, he shuddered with the thought that their love would one day wither and die. 

There was a knock on the door.

Startled from his daydream, Tommy opened his eyes and looked round. ‘Tommy?’ It was Pistol Paul, Tommy’s new manager.

‘Just a minute Paul ..’ said Tommy, drying his cheeks and wiping away the smudged mascara. Pistol Paul opened the dressing room door, and realising what was happening walked over and threw an arm around Tommy.

‘Tommy boy, come on..’ he said warmly, ‘not again eh? I know it’s hard Tommy, but you need to forget her. Lousy transvestite never loved anyone but herself. And you’re the star, listen…’ he raised a theatrical arm in the direction of the open door. The crowd were chanting from the ballroom.

‘Tomm-ee! Tomm-ee! Tomm-ee!’

Tommy was silent for a moment, then jumped to his feet, straightened himself and inhaled deeply though his nostrils. ‘Thanks Paul,’ he said throwing on his sequin cape. ‘From now on, it’s for me!’ He smiled bravely and marched out of the dressing room as Pistol Paul held his arms high and beamed with encouragement.

As soon as Tommy left the room Pistol Paul’s arms dropped down to his side and the expression of great enthusiasm disappeared from his face. He sat down in front of the mirror, picked up a cigarette and tapped it on the dressing table, as if deep in thought. As the opening lines of the first song could be heard from the ballroom he lit the cigarette and hummed along to the tune.

For a few minutes he sat silently in front of the mirror and mulled away to himself. The crowd continued to cheer from the ballroom. Pistol Paul put down his cigarette and reached into his back pocket for his wallet. He counted the notes inside, looked up at the mirror and smiled across at his own reflection.    

 

The Party: A North Wales Horror Story

The party

Easter weekend in Wetherspoons is not a particularly fastidious occasion. The flashing gambling machines still flirt their usual neon jackpots. The pints of lager still taste like cold piss. The local funboys are still boasting about their latest fad. Steroids or whippets or Nintendo Wii.

It was nearing closing time that night, although nobody would have known from the spirit of the customers, supping away and talking in consolatory tones. (Probably about a lack of steroids, whippets or Nintendo Wiis.)

X leaned over with his mobile phone in his hand. ‘There’s a party after this at some girl’s house.’ There seemed no reason not to attend. I had less than 24 hours left in this old town before that train was to whisk me somewhere else. My mum’s gin would still be sitting where she had hidden it when I returned. We poured the last of our pints down our necks.     

I know now, and even knew then, that had I been sober I would have left the party immediately upon arriving, pretended to make a phone call then walked straight home. 

The kitchen was full of local funboys. Some of them I recognized as people who in the past had robbed or assaulted friends of mine, my brother, even X who had brought us here. He didn’t seem to mind, so I followed suit. The etiquette was to behave as though you were disappointed but cheerfully realistic. Everyone in the kitchen was taking cheap speed or base.

I was ushered into the living room by the 19 year old hostess, who was really quite pleasant and friendly. I noticed a tiny baby trying to sleep in a car seat positioned next to a speaker playing very loud electronic music. It was the hostess’ son, 9 months old. She was very proud.

I suppose the effects of earlier consumption had begun to kick in and I started to notice things about the party in a very dramatic way. Above my head on the ceiling was a smoke alarm that had been covered by a plastic shower cap. ‘It’s so the cig smoke dunt set off the alarms’ informed the hostess. I suggested that we should probably remove the shower cap and even offered to do it myself after the hostess said she was too short to reach. But apparently this would be pointless as the batteries had been removed to power the DVD player remote control.

I went back into the kitchen and listened to autobiographic stories with violent punch lines.

Then suddenly everyone left.

The last person out of the door was the hostess. They were all going to get some more cheap speed or base. Back in a minute. Would we mind keeping an eye on the baby?

I don’t really know how to explain how odd the next 20 minutes were, sat in a living room in a seedy flat with a nine month old baby, head spinning, crap techno blaring. The little thing was quite cute too, without the usual snot pipes or puke stained blanket. It kept reaching out and opening its hands wanting to grasp something, probably a bit pleased that someone else was still up at 3am.

‘Shall we take it,’ said X, ‘Shall we take it somewhere safe, away from here?’ I thought about this for a while but decided that abducting an infant and wandering the streets in a less than sober state looking for an orphanage, with a rabid pack of local jailbirds in hot pursuit was not advisable. Not on Easter weekend. But it was OK. The unlocked door swung open and the party recommenced. 

There was now an esteemed guest at the party, a local TV star. Our man had been on The Jeremy Kyle Show, a national chat programme that specialised in ridiculing people from disadvantaged backgrounds. He had perhaps inseminated a woman whilst being involved with many other women, or been involved with a woman who had been inseminated by many other men. Or both. 

My head was really starting to spin as X explained to me, for what felt like hours, that the guest of honour was a father himself, but for various reasons was not allowed to see his child. His paternal instincts, however, were rather strong and at this point being directed at the infant in the car seat. After taking a large swig of whiskey he picked up the baby and started swinging it round by the arms. Even I know you are not supposed to do that with a 9 month old.

The hostess started screaming at the TV star, trying to claw the baby away from him. I snuck away to the kitchen and X followed.  

The kitchen felt much smaller than before. The walls were bulging and the surfaces dripping with alcohol spillages speckled with cigarette ash. Every conversation I entered with a funboy felt like a downhill slalom at 80mph, desperately avoiding the little red flags that could easily cause a brawl. I looked at my fists and they seemed tiny.

X had apparently brushed against one of these flags on his own downhill run and was making excuses with a particularly notorious funboy, a stout and muscular beast with tribal tattoos on his neck. I rescued him by announcing that his presence was required in the living room.

The baby argument had apparently worked itself out. The infant was back in its car seat and the celebrity was charming the pants of some girl from the comfort of an armchair dotted with cigarette burns. The hostess was showing off the DVD player. X and I looked at each other. We needed to leave the party but we didn’t know how. Then the floor started shaking.

Smiling politely and excusing herself from a conversation the hostess stood in the middle of the room and started stomping on the floor with her slippered foot. ‘SHUT THE FUCK UUUUP’. But person in the flat below kept thumping his ceiling with a blunt object.

‘That bastard downstairs,’ explained the hostess. ‘E was in Iraq and e’s got that Gulf War Syndrome’. The thumping continued and she ran out to the front door and began screaming down the staircase. The clock on the DVD player told me it was 4am.

The police would obviously be on their way and there was no way I was going to be here when they arrived. I threw a theatrical yawn, out-stretched arms and all, and announced it was past my bedtime. The hostess gave me a hug and told me I was ‘a really nice lad, like’ and that she was glad I had come round.     

In the street outside there was a car waiting by the house with its headlights off. I thought perhaps it was the police. The car crawled up the street after us, picking up pace as we got to the corner. We jumped over a garden fence and ran up an alley to the main road.   

 

Arabic Hip Hop – Thakirat mouwatin

Utterly no idea what this gent is saying. Anyone care to translate?

Illegitimate mind disorder –  Thakirat mouwatin

Great sample though.

If you are in the Middle of East (especially Beirut) and want to hear more of this kind of aural pleasure you should follow the 7Keeleh facebook page and go to one of their poetry / music nights.

Work for Beirut Beat!

Have you lost the respect of your friends and family since you were made redundant from your part time job as a door to door dental floss salesman?

Looking for a new career to help pay off your plastic surgery bills and buy yourself a new set of skype headphones?

Well look no further! Here at Beirut Beat we don’t know the meaning of recession. No longer just your favourite online magazine, we have now branched out into a range of new industries and have plenty of exciting vacancies to fill.

UNDERWEAR FLAMMABILITY INSPECTOR  (male only).

Job description

To satisfy the legal requirements of a recent law suit, Beirut Beat now must ensure that all our branded underwear products are 50% more fire resistant. Proving that our jockstraps do not randomly burst into flames could be your newest role.

Qualifications and abilities

3 years experience in a jockstrap setting

PhD in Thermodynamics

Ability to work under pressure / with a flaming crotch

ARTIFICIAL INSEMINATION UNIT- EXTRACTION SPECIALIST

Job description

Based in the new Beirut Beat sperm bank facility, your role will involve encouraging participants to provide samples as quickly as possible and with the minimum of fuss.

Qualifications and abilities

Possession of your own milk maid uniform

A forklift truck licence

Ability to work well alone or as a member of a team.

GRAPHIC DESIGNERS (unpaid)

Job description

Beirut Beat are currently looking for several graphic designers to crudely photoshop our logo onto various products which we can then pass off as our own. We can’t afford to pay you for this work (if you can call graphic design work) but this will look great on your otherwise bare CV.

Qualifications and abilities

Your own Macbook pro which you will leave in the office overnight.

All applications in pdf format to beirutbeat@gmail.com

New electronic music: Jad Atoui

At the tender age of 18 it is safe to say that Jad Atoui is one of the most interesting young electronic music producers in the Middle East.

Atoui’s tracks combine brooding basslines and ethereal skyscraping synths with a breed of flittering insect-winged beats that Geir Jenssen would be proud of.

If you ever get stuck on that 4am bus back to the center of the universe I can recommend no better soundtrack to keep you company on the way.

You can listen to more of Atoui’s work on soundcloud  or catch him live as part of Beirut’s foremost electronic music collective Acousmatik Soundsystem.

This is not me (the fuckers stole my name)

I look far more like a prostitute than she does.

And I cost more too.

I do like the little flick of the hair at 0:12 but frankly my logo pisses over theirs from a gargantuan height.

Chopsticks

Highway robbery

As was the usual affair at this time in the evening, the streets of Gemmezeh were lined full of cars, packed in like sardines outside the glowing bars that go on for miles into the night. These parking spaces were officially free for any old fellow to sneak into, but unofficially there was a different set of rules.

For as the sun went down the valet boys would carve up this road between them, monopolizing each piece of turf and demanding money to leave your vehicle in what very much was a public street. It was a crude sort of racket, run by men whose dead, white shark eyes bore back into their heads, to a time where they could kill freely.

Crabby loved the nudist beach

And it was as she stared into a set of this black holes that Emma decided for once she would not be handing over a fist full of change for the privilege of not having her window broken or wing mirror torn off. It was true that if she was to join her friends in the restaurant across the street that one or both of these things would happen. But to give this man money, or move so he could demand it from somebody else was simply not on the cards. She would at least waste as much of his time as possible. She didn’t feel like going to the restaurant anyway.

Smoking cigarettes as she played with her phone, Emma occasionally glanced up at the old killer and smiled, hoping to see signs of frustration in his face. But looking at him was like staring into a stagnant pond, a pool of dead, grey water where even algae and reeds would not grow. It was fine though, she wasn’t yet ready to leave. And neither was he.

The electricity bill must be enormous.

When eventually she did get bored, Emma casually pulled on her seatbelt, looked for her keys despite knowing where they were, tried out a few radio stations and even changed her sweater before starting the car. She was hungry now, attempting to bore this valet to death requiring more energy than one might think. Her belly was rumbling for Chinese food and this meant a trip to Hamra.

With the light of the blue mosque fading out of view, her car descended into the tunnel. Ahead of her a battered moped was carrying two young men in dirty clothes, with a stack of plastic chairs tied to the back. If this kind of motoring was not common practice in this city, and indeed if they had not looked so hilarious as they both tried to hang on for dear life, it would have been worrying to watch these men swaying from side to side, the one at the back occasionally being wacked by the chairs as they went over every bump in the concrete. They had almost certainly stolen the furniture from outside a shop in Ashrafieh, a pair of comedian thieves from the age of silent movies.

You will want to read this story again in about an hour.

Emma pulled up outside Chopsticks. The street that the Chinese restaurant occupied was conspicuously free of valets on this particular evening. You won’t be getting my money tonight, thought Emma. She went inside, heading straight for her favorite seats upstairs, barely noticing that the restaurant was completely deserted.

Upstairs this fact began to dawn on her. There was usually a woman who would take you to a table and a man mixing drinks behind the bar. The lights were on and music was playing loudly. Every single table in the place had been set up with starter plates. Emma wanted to leave, but knew this was ridiculous. Why would they leave the restaurant open and go home?  Slowly she walked around towards the kitchen.

The only thing moving in the entire room were the live crabs in the fish tank. For a moment feeling as though they might be able to explain what was going on, Emma went over to the tank and stared though the glass. Through the bubbling water she could see something moving. But this shape was not inside the aquarium but behind it.

Tuesdays is no shirt night in Chopsticks

Emma screamed as the man in the mask jumped out towards her. Yet suddenly the room was full of people surrounding her with their faces obscured.

SURPRISE!!! They called out in unison.

For a few seconds everyone stood in silence, until the door swung open and the girl whose secret birthday party it was walked in.

An aging waitress who either did not know or care what had happened swung through the kitchen doors with a sullen face and a plate in one hand. She held the plate in the air.

‘Spring rolls?’

Things that will NOT be big in 2012.

Ed Sheeran's début album has 400 Brit Award nominations

My prediction for 2012 is that things will happen. Pop singers will gyrate their toned bodies on television screens, films featuring Adam Sandler tripping over things will play on trans-Atlantic flights, books will be written by Dan Brown. Other things will happen too, all of them bad. Huge cultural turds will wash into your eyes and ears and people who work in the media will tell you why you should swallow them up like hungry bears.

There are two main ways with which you can approach this problem. Firstly, you could lay awake at night, with the naive but optimistic hope that somehow the entire western entertainment industry will be wiped out by the genetically enhanced virus that Beirut Beat is culturing in the test tubes of our mind.

But in the meantime, you can look to the past and smile as you think of a more peaceful time, when the currency of fame was dealt in talent.

Here are a list of things that will NOT be big in 2012…

Under Milk Wood will NOT be drama of the year.

This 90 minute, sprawling lyrical master peace may well be the best script that has ever been written. The deliciously dark story of the residents of the fictional Welsh town of Llareggub (read it backwards) was written as a radio play, later adapted for the stage, capturing both the cynical nosiness, bitter hatred and tender affections that people in rural village communities feel for one another. It doesn’t have Daniel Ratcliff in it either.

‘Come now, drift up the dark. Come up the drifting sea dark street now, in the dark night see-sawing like the sea…’

Buy it here for under 2 pounds.

‘Exile On Main Street’ will NOT be album of the year.

In 2011, Adele had the biggest selling album of the year, closely followed by Michael Buble’s Christmas toss rag and another piece of electronic scat from Lady Gaga. Exile on Main Street by the Rolling Stones was not number one in 2011. But neither was it the number album in 1972, the year of its birth. That was because 1972 was also the year that Harvest by Neil Young, Ziggy Stardust by David Bowie and Paul Simon’s debut solo album were released. Does that make you feel sick? Well unless your name is Adele, it should.

Buy Exile on Main Street here, it is probably the best rock album of all time.

‘It was a good day’ will NOT be hip hop track of the year.

I shouldn’t really be including this, not after the way in which Mr Cube has slipped into the sewage of mainstream American family comedies. Perhaps he spent all his money on bandanas and couldn’t afford to pay the swimming pool cleaning bill? Who can tell. Apart from the glorious ‘Footsteps in the dark’ sample, the catchy beat and plodding bass, what I really enjoy about this track is the uneventful storyline.

First of all, Ice Cube apparently lives with his Mum, who presumably shouts at him for leaving AK-47s all over his bedroom when she is hoovering up. His perfect day involves playing basketball, having sex with a skank, getting pissed and going to Fat Burger. Plus there is a dirty bit at 2.55 that makes me giggle. Because I am a child. He also not appears to have understood the concept of irony. Great tune.

‘It’s ironic, I had the brew she had the chronic, the Lakers beat the Supersonics..’

‘Rocket from the tombs’ will NOT headline summer festivals.

I don’t know how I came across this filth. Rocket from the Tombs existed as a group for barely a year in the mid 1970s, their lead singer Peter Laghner dead aged 24 two years later. Although most of the lyrics are impossible to decipher, the sheer energy, anger and force of these tracks actually make The Stooges look like Coldplay. This track features one of the most disgustingly fine guitar solos in history, with sounds that must surely have been created by electrifying one, if not several, live cats.

Buy the dirtiest record in the world here.

I must leave you now to continue digging Ed Sheeran’s grave, but any suggestions for a continuation of this article are welcome.

The Fear

Another short story by Beirut Beat…

‘Ring ring, ring ring’

Came the noise from the phone that sits before me. Has it been hours, or days or months since it began? Four hard walls, a desk and nothing more in this dungeon, it has been decided that I can do without even a chair. The Chief prefers me to stand.

 

‘Ring ring, ring ring’

As it calls I grip the pencil with which I am to record my orders, yet the page in my book contains not a word. For I fear what the voice on the line will ask for, and though I beg only for silence, I cannot reach for that phone.

‘Ring ring, ring ring’

Beads of sweat stain the page like tears on a love letter. The heat from the next room where great fires do burn. And inside men in blue uniforms are busy with actions. Red stains mark their clothing as they work with sharp knives.

‘Ring ring, ring ring’

From the corner of the room a camera is recording. For my safety, they told me when I first walked through that door. Someone is watching, on a screen or computer, as I pace round in circles, leaving trails on the floor.

‘Ring ring, ring ring’

 I try to remember a time before all this torture, but somehow my memory has washed into a blur. There is nothing in my mind but this constant bell ringing, and the faint smell of burning that seeps in from the next room.

‘Ring ring, ring ring’

Now the handle on the door is twisting and turning, and I know he is coming, for I have been bad. As it swings open the door brings with it illumination, not daylight but strip lights that blind my tired eyes.

‘Ring ring, ring ring’

Standing before me, and as angry as I predicted, The Chief, his uniform perfect and pristine. His face is like a gravestone that reads my own epitaph, in one hand a bag of money, in the other some keys. We stare at each, for seconds or hours, until silence is broken by the sound of a phone.

‘Ring ring, ring ring’

I do not dare say a word, for I know what is coming. He wants me to do it, but without being asked. Perhaps if I refuse, he will put me out of my misery. But he wants me, no, needs me to sit in this room. With a sigh and a smile he whispers with venom. ‘Answer. The. Phone.’

 

Ring ring, ring ring’

 My quivering fingers slide onto the receiver, slippery with sweat and fear and despair. The terrible process is about to begin again. But there is still a chance for it to wail one last time.

 

‘Ring ring, ring ri…’

With a deep breath I am ready to take down instructions. But first, there is something I am required to say. I close both my eyes and my lips begin moving. Down on both knees I silently pray.

‘Hello, Dominoes Pizza. Can I take your order?’

Soul singers hit by impotence

Bill has withered

Scientists in New Orleans have identified a new form of erectile dysfunction which selectively occurs in aging black soul singers.

The disease, known as Bill Withers, is thought to be the greatest threat to African American music since Will Smith.

A sufferer of the disorder, who wished to remain anonymous, explained to Beirut Beat how the problem had all but ruined his love life.

‘Well when I got ma laydee and its just the two of us, she asks to lean on me or says she wants me to use me and I just go soft as if the thang is being held in ma grandma’s hands, maaan.’

The discovery comes at a bad time for the soul community, who had only just begun to recover from a virulent strain of pre-mature ejaculation known as Stevie One Minute Wonder.

Swastikas in Beirut

(Brace yourselves because this is actually a semi-informative article, with 30% less sarcasm that your average post).

This is a swastika. It is right outside my house in Ashrafieh. It is not the only one. Ten minutes’ walk away in Mar Mikhael there is a 10 foot memorial of a soldier throwing a Nazi salute. I would have taken a photo of that too, but it is right outside my ex-girlfriend’s house, and I promised the judge I would stop hanging around there with a camera.

If you were wandering around Beirut and happened to see one of these things you could be forgiven for thinking that you were about to wander into a very confused (Arab) white supremacist district. That is unless you had learned a few things about Beirut’s recent history. Gather round children, Beirut Beat is about to tell you a little story…

Pierre Gemayel: An artist's impression.

Once upon a time, in 1936, a young pharmacist by the name of Pierre Gemayel travelled Berlin to watch the Olympics as the captain the Lebanese football team. Gemayel, a man of grand political ambition, was truly impressed by the order and discipline of the blossoming authoritarian regime. In an interview with the superb Robert Fisk, Gemayel explained how he thought fascism was exactly what Lebanon needed.

‘I was the captain of the Lebanese football team and the president of the Lebanese Football federation. We went to the Olympic Games of 1936 in Berlin. And I saw then this discipline and order. And I said to myself: “Why can’t we do the same thing in Lebanon?” So when we came back to Lebanon, we created this youth movement. When I was in Berlin then, Nazism did not have the reputation which it has now. Nazism? In every system in the world, you can find something good. But Nazism was not Nazism at all. The word came afterwards. In their system, I saw discipline. And we in the Middle East, we need discipline more than anything else.’    

Fisk, R. (1990). Pity the Nation, the abduction of Lebanon.

Kataeb party logo in Ashrafieh

After returning from the games (the Gold medal for football being awarded to Italy in case you were wondering) Gemayel and four of his chums (namely Charles Helou, Shafic Nassif, Emile Yared and Georges Naccache) founded the Kataeb Party, sometimes known as the Phalangist Party, with the goal of bringing order and achieving an independent and sovereign Lebanon free of all foreign influence.

Whilst the party never had the same fascist intentions as the Nazi’s, they borrowed the brown uniforms, one arm salute and use of swastika as their unofficial symbol. The rest, as they say, is history but now is not the time to continue with that story.

Instead I will let you wonder what on Earth Hitler would have made of Beirut’s dubstep music scene…

Hitler prefers emo to dubstep.

Beirut Street Children

At night, the streets of Hamra and Gemmeyzeh are lined with expensive cars. People of all ages can enjoy alcoholic beverages in bars playing the latest R n B musical ‘songs’. These streets are also occupied by young children trying to sell flowers and chewing gum.

At first,I found the contrast between smooth rolling Mercedes and glimmering iPhones next to 10 year old kids trying to sell roses to be disturbing. In fact it still disturbs me. And so it should.

I developed an interesting bond with some of these young fellows after I started taking my guitar out into the street to perform. I never do it for the cash, I just like playing the guitar. The flower seller kids usually gather round, try to encourage passers-by to give me money and generally seem to enjoy that someone else is trying to whore themselves out for public enjoyment.

There is one kid who thinks he is 50 Cent and likes to rap over my guitar playing. He is about 14. After one particularly successful jam session (think Jimmy page meets Puff Daddy meets several bottles of Famous Grouse whisky) I tried to give little Busta Rhymes the money we had made (about 20,000LL). He refused to take it.

No idea who this kid is. Found the pic on google.

I don’t think anyone is under the impression that these children are actually ‘homeless’ and sleep in dark alleyways. But I at least had never given much thought as to who they actually work for. Until last Friday that is.

On a one man mission to prove that Bob Dylan is better than Lady Gaga, I was belting out the tunes accompanied by my usual flower selling chums. 50 Cent kid shows up, walking with a golf umbrella like a cane. Total pimp.  I must have looked like the Fagin of the iPod generation.

As one of the kids was trying to explain (in Arabic) that I should push the guitar case further into the street to get more money, a strange character walked past.

Me on a Friday night.

He was built like the terminator, biceps bigger than my thighs, hair scraped back into a ponytail. He grunted an order at the flower boys. The kids  jumped up, literally terrified of him, and ran off to their previous positions with their roses.

Muscle head looked me in the eyes, smiled, put his hands together as if saying a prayer then strutted off down the street.

Perhaps he was their Dad?

Perhaps not.

‘You don’t need a weather man to know which way the wind blows.’

Bob Dylan

 

G Bar: Hamra Whorehouse?

This is a genuine call for information. You all know where this place is, nestled into the fabric of Hamra between Le Beirut and Bricks. There is always on old man sitting outside on a chair who says ‘Hi’. The door is always ajar, but never open. Dim red light is always seeping out into the street like gunge from a wound. Everything about the place screams ‘whore house’ at the top of its nicotine ruined lungs.

Now I know I have developed a small reputation, fighting with cab drivers, sticking my arm down toilets and posting incongruous sex listings on Craigslist, but I have to level with you and be honest. As much as I want to check this place out, I have never been into G Bar.

Reason? I am too scared.

I popped my head in the door once. Sitting on the bar was an enormously obese woman with surgically enhanced lips that looked like sausage skin filled with too much miscellaneous meat. She stared at me like a sea creature I had discovered under a rock. I didn’t even get a look around the place, I just ran away.

I want to go back though, but not to have sex with rancid sea creatures. My plan is to go in, dressed up like a tourist, with a map and money bag, and ask to see the wine list. Of course I will never do this, I don’t want to end up chained to a radiator with a manoushe stuffed in my mouth.

But someone, somewhere must have been in there.

Anyone care to enlighten me?

I won’t tell your mothers. Honestly…

10 Species to Spot at a Dubstep Night

Find all ten and win a rubber stamp mark on your wrist that will never come off. EVER!

1 The Whiteboy Dreads Nothing seems to bring the fairtrade krusties out in force like a good old fashioned dubstep night. Apparently it’s the noise of broken chainsaws, malfunctioning industrial blenders, exploding fax machines and other sounds loosely associated with work (something the trust fund sadly excludes one from enjoying) that gets them all excited and ready for a groove on a sticky dance floor. A word of warning, these creatures have a tendency to get shirtless.

                  

2 The Party Girl Pretending To Enjoy Herself This species comes in several varieties, but whether they are hipster, Friend-of-Dread (FoD) or magazine editor/blogger the result is always the same. Behind the moody expression and fashionable outfit there is a pair of sad eyes desperate to be anywhere else. Watching them quietly suffer can make you feel as though you are in a Smiths song. Just without the Johnny Mar melody. Or the Morrisey warbling. Or Andy Rourke rolling bass lines. Get in quick ‘cos these chicks aren’t sticking round for the encore.

3 The Pill Junkie This one is actually really easy to spot. Just scan the room for a sweaty, gurning Neanderthal flailing their arms around like a new born baby on the roof of a hot car. Narrow it down? Not really. But look more closely. Amongst the ravers who appear to be struggling to throw a steady Sieg Heil! due to the effects of early-onset Parkinson’s disease, you may spot the odd fellow dancing away to a completely different rhythm. After popping enough pills to raise a corpse, this specimen’s brain has simply rejected his environment. He is now back in Ibiza 1996, dancing on a beach and wearing those shit round sunglasses that Lady Gaga has brought back into fashion. Acid on the rocks?

4 The Lothario You have to give this guy some credit. He was going to stay at home tonight and save his energy for the schoolgirl party tomorrow. But his penis had other plans. ‘I’m staying in!’ said the Lothario. ‘But why?’ begged his penis. ‘Because it’s a dubstep party, no-one gets laid at dubstep.’ said the Lothario, putting his foot down for once. But the next thing he knew, he was mingling around the fringes of the dance floor, wearing a pair of side pipe jeans and drenched in Paco Rabanne aftershave. Some people just can’t stop giving.

5 The Ageing hippie The name of this specimen may be misleading. He is not your average lifelong hippy. Those guys are so confused by acid flashbacks that they are too busy trying to peel an imaginary hash pancake off the ceiling of their living room. This group is more the wife-left-me-for-the-mailman-so-im-going-back-to-the-good-old-days type of ageing hippie. And your friendly neighbourhood dubstep party is exactly the place to throw on a pair of psychedelic sunglasses and get back to your youth. And they are the perfect customer for group 6…

6 The Drug Dealer More so than most clubs, the dubstep drug dealer is most likely to be found hanging out by the toilets. The reason being that on the dance floor, no matter how loud you shout ‘DO YOU WANT SOME DRUGS’ you will inevitably be drowned out by the unsynchronised robotic fart noises emanating at 5 million decibels from the PA speakers. And the naive desperation of the ageing hippie is exactly what will pay the bills this week. ‘I’ve got these new drugs, yeah. Look like Tic Tacs, smell like Tick Tacs, taste like Tic Tacs, and they cost $40 each. And a guy as cool as you should take at least 5. Cash only, yeah’.

7 You

8 Where’s Wally Like our Lothario, Wally had planned to stay in tonight. His days of being seen everywhere were behind him. A whole evening of watching of Friends DVDs and ironing stripy red and white tops and gay little matching hats lay ahead. But then a call from Tintin changed everything. ‘You’ve got to come out man,’ said Tintin, ‘Asterisk and Obelix have got back together, we’re all going to dubstep to celebrate!’ ‘I dunno’, said Wally, polishing his John Lennon specs. ‘Come on, it’s gonna be banging!’ screamed Tinitin down the phone. ‘I’ve got Snowy with me’.

9 More Dreads. It appears somebody has left the gate at the zoo open. These things are now everywhere, grazing on plastic beer glasses and performing campfire rituals around the DJ booth. I can feel a stampede brewing. Someone call the World Health Organisation. Or at least give me a Stetson and a lasso.

10 The Drunk Lost Guy Trying To Get home Many a great man has in his day attempted to overcome adversity with alcohol. The philosophy is as follows; This situation is not to my taste, I will improve it by adding booze. But the dubstep venue can be a labyrinth. You left a trail of breadcrumbs back to the exit but the Dreads ate them all. Are you on the dance floor, or in the toilets? Is it the girls, or the boys? Nobody can quite tell. You’re on your own son. You’re on your own…

PS. If this is me please find the name tag and address attached to my wrist and return me in a taxi

 

by Beirut Beat