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This is a question Mix Tapes

Everyone's made a mix tape (or CD, USB stick, or whatever kids do these days). Mostly to get in someone else's pants, but we're sure there are other, lesser, reasons too.

So, who did you make it for and why?
And... what was on it?

(, Thu 7 Feb 2008, 13:41)
Pages: Latest, 15, 14, 13, 12, 11, ... 1

This question is now closed.

No woman, no cry


Hi there, I’ve been lurking almost a year now, trying to get up the bottle to post my one and only story worth telling and I think I’ve found just the QOTW to do it. I will apologise in advance for any excessive length and also for any slurring which may occur - this is due to Dutch courage in the form of Scottish Water. It is on topic, but you’ll have to stick with it.

Well, where to begin? (not so easy this is it?)

How about 1978? I was 17 and while not a geek - I’ve never been a geek - I was a nerd. Kind of. I was into Punk but wasn’t really a punk, I was tall and a bit spotty and I liked maths. My best friend Nick however, was cool. He was a ladies man and bass guitarist with a post-punk band. We’d known each other since junior school and had become best friends in about the 3rd year.

I was more political than him, thanks to my elder brother. I went on marches a lot and in the holidays I got together with like minded friends from school and we’d volunteer down at the Anti-Nazi League HQ, stuffing envelopes etc. We were keen and our hearts were in the right place. I also got to mix with girls, though I was yet to have a girlfriend, and one of the girls was Manisha. She was a year younger than me - still in the 5th form, but would soon be a lower-6th former. She was born in South Africa and was a ‘Cape coloured’, i.e. her parents’ families came originally from India. The whole family was heavily involved in the struggle against apartheid: her grandfather and uncle were lawyers and belonged to the same practise as Nelson Mandela (before his imprisonment, that is); her auntie had been imprisoned for a time in Robben Island. When Manisha and her brother Anand were 6 and 4, the family had fled to the UK where they claimed political asylum. Ten years on the family were still not UK citizens but ‘stateless’ i.e. they had no passports.

As well as being highly political aware, Manisha was a peach and I fancied her silently but fervently from afar. We got on very well and soon we were both part of a tight group of mates. This was great until the tragedy stuck; she and Nick fell in love. It was full-blown teenage love and I made the best of things, i.e. suffered silently and became a much bruised gooseberry.

I got a Saturday job in a department store restaurant kitchen and when Manisha was looking for a job too, I put in a good word for her and she got a job as a waitress. This gave me more opportunity to eat my heart out, but it also gave us time to get to know each other better. As the ‘middle-man’, I could give sound relationship advice, listen to her moans and gripes etc. I found it easy to talk to her and we became very good friends.

Then the two of them broke up. I had both of them crying on my shoulders - I’ve always been a good listener, but this tried my patience somewhat. Anyway, it meant that we saw less of each other except at work. I didn’t want to be disloyal to Nick.

I’ll skip forward here to 1980. I’d got decent grades for Maths, Further Maths, Economics and Government & Politics A Levels and was now an accounting student at Southampton University. I managed to lose the ‘V-plates’ at long last [thanks Trish!] and was a studious student as those things go. My musical taste was a bit left-of-centre, more punk and reggae than heavy metal and I was pathetically glad to be ‘interesting’ as far as accountancy students go - and believe me, that’s not far.

Half way through the year I got a letter from Manisha! She was thinking of going to Southampton too and wanted to visit. Fine! She came down, but with some boyfriend in tow. I spent a day showing them round before they went back to London.

The next time I saw her was a scene straight out of ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’ - the one where George Bailey meets Mary at the college party - except this time it was the freshers’ ball. She’d finished with the boyfriend by then and at 18 she looked sensational. I mean jaw-droppingly gorgeous. No, that doesn’t even come close. Well, you’ve all been in love at 19 haven’t you? Is there anything better in the whole world? We spent that night in my room in the house I was sharing with two other guys from our school and a friend of ours. That year, she hardly spent a single night in her room in halls. I’ll leave the details to your over-fertile imaginations, this isn’t the place. She loved teasing me though, in more ways than one, and used to call me ‘Beenie Man’ - the reggae lovin’ bean counter.

Things went smoothly, I graduated with a first after a final year in which we’d shared our own flat - just like an old married couple. Our musical tastes coincided exactly, and one of the happiest days I can remember was when Clint Eastwood and General Saint played at the Uni. We were both right down at the front, lightly stoned, grooving away as if…sod it, can’t think of a good analogy, but you get the picture. In contrast, although I can’t remember where I was when I heard John Lennon was dead, I can picture exactly the scene as we sat up in bed listening to Radio 1 when it was announced that Bob Marley had died. We put ‘Redemption Song’ on so loud I couldn’t hear her crying. We loved that album, and I’d tease her sometimes when she took an age to get ready or something: “Bob’s right you know - ‘no woman, no cry’. Get a bloody move on!”

“I like a man who cries,” she’d say,

“OK, you can stay.”

The next year I moved back to London and rented a flat in Walthamstow. Manisha came up to stay weekends and holidays and had a room in halls for week days. I’d got a job with one of the ‘Big Five’ accounting firms and was also taking an MBA. They sponsored it and gave me time off too, I was earning good money and was happy.

As soon as Manisha graduated (History and Politics) we got married. Just a small registry office thing. Her parents were devout communists, and I’m a non-practising reform Jew. Now she could finally get a passport as she was a UK citizen. We used it first time for our honeymoon in the Maldives.

Although house prices were rising fast in London by then - this was 1983 - we were both working and we found a real do-er up-er round the corner within our limit.

Skip again a couple of years and 1986, Manisha became pregnant. I’d got my MBA and a promotion and we decided she should take a couple of years off work to be a Mum. She was working for the GLC and it was about to be abolished anyway, so we thought it must be fate.

Now, if you or your partner has been pregnant you will know about the changes the female body goes through. One of them is the enlargement of the breasts - this is necessary to produce milk of course - but Manisha had a large birthmark on her left breast. It was made up of lots of tiny moles really close together, making a dark, raised area, looking something like a relief map of Crete but about four or five inches across. As her breasts grew, so did this birthmark, and it started to itch too. It had never caused any sort of bother before, but this was a bit disturbing, so off to the GP we went. She took a look, asked some questions and said that it was probably nothing to worry about but she’d make a note to take another look after the baby was born.

This is where the mix tape comes in for the first time. From other posts, this seems to be fairly common - I think that’s down to Dr Miriam Stoppard and her babycare/pregnancy books. I think it was in her checklist of things to put in the ‘birthing bag’. Anyway, on this little beauty was a load of reggae of course: Marley, Culture, Burning Spear, Misty in Roots, plus a load of punk tracks like Buzzcocks - ‘Ever fallen in love with someone’; Ian Dury - ‘Reasons to be Cheerful’; Xtc ‘Making plans for nigel’; Ruts ‘Babylon’s burning’; The Higsons ‘Conspiracy’; Madness ‘My girl’s mad at me’; Elvis Costello ‘(Idon’t want to go to) Chelsea’ etc etc. I won’t bore you with the full listing.

August 1987 she was born - our little Jasmine - and you know when I mentioned 19 year olds in love earlier - well that was as nothing compared to the feeling you get holding your own tiny little child in your arms, well not quite, but different. I can’t explain it to you if you’ve not got any kids, and if you have, then I don’t need to .

All was well at bean-counting towers. I took a couple of weeks off work and we adjusted to the little one, she seemed to like us…

…in September, the doctor sent a letter reminding us about checking out the birthmark. This time, she suggested a specialist look at it, and the best place would be the Royal Marsden. OK, well, hmmm, I suppose that’s the best place, you know best etc. The doctor arranged it and in early February 1988 she went in for a biopsy. Now I didn’t know what this meant and was scared to ask really, but Manisha said they’d look at the birthmark and see whether it was benign or malign. No point worrying til then. I hadn’t realised they would cut the whole thing out!

She went in with an over-night bag, including tape and walkman, by taxi - she didn’t want us dropping her off as Jazzy would be asleep. I kissed her goodbye and arranged to visit the next day which would be February 13th - I promised to bring some flowers and the baby.

When we arrived at the ward the next afternoon in visiting time laden down with a dozen red roses and a bundled up baby I was shocked. All the other women on the ward looked to be in a really bad way. Quite a few were bald from chemotherapy, lots looking not just old but ancient, wasted, drained, all life sapped away. And there was Manisha, propped up in bed, a huge bandage on her chest under her nightgown. Jaz spotted her and reached her tiny arms out towards her, but a nurse swooped down on us, saying, something like: let me take her for a minute while you two have a talk - before snatching her away, cooing in her 6-month old adorable face passing her around the nurses and patients as if we weren’t there. It’s true that, like a fairy drawing colour with a wand in a black and white cartoon, her presence created smiles, spreading down the ward in her wake.

With one eye on the nurse, I went to talk with Manisha, who was a bit upset not to have Jasmine in her arms, but otherwise seemed OK. They didn’t have the results of the test yet and she’d have to stay another night, but all being well would be home in a couple of days. I found a vase for the roses, reclaimed the baby, chatted about this and that and when visiting ended at 5.30, off we went.

The phone was ringing as I opened the front door - not an easy manoeuvre with a bundle of baby on your hip and a bag of nappies etc. in the other hand. It was still ringing though and I reached it in time to answer.

“Mr Bean-counter?”
“It’s the Royal Marsden here,”
“Oh yes,” Jasmine was wanting to be put down so I said, “just a sec,” while I put her down.
“Mr Bean-counter,”
“It’s about your wife,”
“There’s been a complication,” possibly the four most horrible words in the English language.
“Yes,” my brain had frozen and my body was shutting down, “what is it?”
“It was just after you left. She suffered a pulmonary embolism - a blood clot lodged in her pulmonary artery and cut off the blood supply to her lungs. The thing is, she had her Walkman on and her eyes closed and by the time the nurse noticed and called the doctor I’m afraid it was too late. She died just after 6.00pm. I’m so very sorry Mr Bean-counter.”

Even today, there are tears running down my face and dripping into the whiskey glass shaking in my hand. The shock at that time was total - luckily, it numbed some of the pain, and time passed in a fog. I couldn’t describe the next few weeks even if I wanted to. My Mum came to stay and looked after Jasmine while I was sorting out things and crying myself to sleep. I took a month off work to think what to do, anyway, I could barely count to ten.

I found a nursery that would take Jasmine while I was at work, but after two weeks I handed in my resignation. The people at work were great but I just didn’t want to be there, I couldn’t bear to leave Jasmine at the nursery in the mornings. I decided to move to Southampton and set up as a self-employed accountant. That way I could work from home. At least I didn’t have to worry about money for a while. The life insurance paid off the mortgage, I put the house on the market. In the short time we’d been there the value had shot up, I sold up and bought a big place in Southampton which would serve as home and office.

I played that tape I’d made for her over and over again. The first track was ‘No woman, no cry’. By the way, Bob was wrong, so very, very wrong. I just tried holding on to the lines that said “Everything’s going to be alright”, but it was a damned close run thing at times. By the time Jasmine was a year old, she must have heard the tape over a hundred times, and “Don’t worry, Jaz, everything’s going to be alright” was a kind of mantra of mine.

You have to pull yourself together when you’re looking after a baby, and if there was one thing keeping me going it was Jasmine. There was so much of Manisha’s face in hers…

God, I wish that was the end of my story.

Briefly, over the next few years, I built up a business doing books for small and medium sized businesses in the area. I could do it virtually in my sleep which was good, and it kept me busy, which was also good. I made some friends, got recommended. One of my old housemates still lived in Southampton and taught at the University and Manisha’s family (especially Anand and his wife) as well as my family visited a lot, so I had plenty of human contact. Quite a few of my clients were self-employed builders and tradesmen, one was Steve who was a plumber. When his daughter Michelle wanted to open a hairdressing salon, he asked me to look after the finances for her. Steve and his mates did the place up for her for the cost of the materials and she’d done an apprenticeship, had HND and whatnot, she was in her mid-20s, pretty, unattached; I was in my early thirties by this time and hadn’t wanted or sought out female company since Manisha died six or so years previously.

You may doubt this was so, but firstly, my heart was burnt to ashes, secondly, I’d turned off this part of my life and thirdly, I was a single Dad with a little kid - not so easy to do anything about it, even if I wanted to. But, little by little, I got friendly with Michelle. She was…undemanding company but she actually made me laugh and I could tell she liked me. She got me to bring Jasmine to her shop and did her hair for her which thrilled her, as I was her usual hairdresser at that time. I still didn’t make any move though and it was her idea in the end - she invited both of us for dinner at her place…

…Six months on and she’d come and stay at our place at weekends. She left womanly bits and pieces in the bathroom, took over a couple of drawers in my bedroom. I went along with things, maybe I shouldn’t have.

It was a couple of weeks before Valentine’s Day. You can imagine how I felt about that date. She wanted to go out to a restaurant but I told her not to come the following week as we wanted to be alone and we’d be up in London, visiting Kew Gardens, where Manisha’s ashes were scattered in the bluebell wood. I suppose she felt it was time for me to ‘get over it’ and get on with life. I disagreed, we went to bed in foul moods and woke up the same way. At breakfast, Jasmine was acting up; I was making a pot of coffee, so I didn’t see what happened but Michelle started shouting at Jasmine. As I turned round, Jasmine threw a spoonful of cereal at Michelle and Michelle pulled her out of her seat and smacked her on the bum… …before I knew what was happening, I’d pulled Michelle’s arm round with my left hand and smacked her across the face with the flat of my right hand, then I was shouting in her face “IF YOU SO MUCH AS EVER TOUCH ONE HAIR OF THAT CHILD’S HEAD AGAIN, SO HELP ME, I’LL KILL YOU”

I bent down and gathered up the screaming Jasmine in my arms, ran out of the kitchen and up to her room, murmuring “Don’t worry Jaz, everything’s going to be alright.” When she’d calmed down a bit I said “OK Jaz, we’re going out for the day, get yourself dressed, I’ll be back up in a minute”

Back in the kitchen, Michelle was looking furious but hadn’t moved. “OK,” I said, “I’m really sorry I hit you, but this isn’t working. It was never going to work. I’m taking Jasmine out, clear all your stuff out before we get back.”

“You’re fucking dead you. I’m gonna tell my Dad you slimeball and you’re gonna wish you’d never been born.”

“Too fucking late for that you cow, been there, done it. Just be gone or you’ll be the sorry one.”

I took Jasmine to the seaside. We had a favourite place where there was a café and some shops on the front and a good long beach. At times of stress I still sometimes fall back on cigarettes, at that time I did. I very rarely smoke in front of Jaz but I did then. We went into the café, got a table by the window, I got me a large black coffee and a hot chocolate and a cake for Jaz and I smoked, staring out of the window at the cold blustery February morning.

“Daddy, what was Mummy really like?” Jasmine asked as I lit a second cigarette. I couldn’t get a word out at first, but the tears started again. She came round the table and gave me a huge hug, “Don’t worry Daddy, everything’s going to be alright,” she said.

“That’s right Jaz,” I said, “everything’s going to be alright. Let’s take a walk on the beach, and I’ll tell you all about Mummy.” We spent a couple of hours walking along the beach, throwing stones in the water, picking up shells, and I told her stories about when the two of us were young students, or when we were working together as 6th formers and when we were newlyweds before she was born.

When we got back to the house the front door was wide open. Shit.

I went inside first and made Jasmine wait just outside the front door. I stopped in the doorway to the living room. Inside, all of the photos of me and Manisha had been smashed and crumpled or torn and all over the room was tape. She’d taken the special tape and pulled it all out of the cassette, stretching it and tying it around things, yards and yards of thin brown tape, totally beyond repair. I stumbled out and into the rest of the rooms; the bedroom was a mess and all over the house the photos had been broken. Luckily that was all.

I had re-prints made of all the photos from the negatives and I made the tape again. I knew the order of songs off by heart and still had most of them on disc, though some now had scratches and jumps where they hadn’t the first time I’d taped them.

I’ve met a few women since, but I’ve not brought them home. I’ve not met anyone I’d trust that far. Jaz knows that I’m always there for her. A couple of years ago she went off to university and it was as if I’d lost an arm; I’m still trying to get used to it. The house is so damned quiet all the time. She knows if she’s feeling low, I’ll drive the 450 mile round trip to bring her home at a minute’s notice.

Each February at the nearest weekend, we go to the same beach, come rain or shine and I tell her stories about her Mum. The next day we drive up to London, with the tape on the player and we wander round the woods at Kew and I tell her more stories. As she’s got older, I find I can tell her different stories, I think she knows her Mum pretty well now.

Thanks for listening - I don’t feel any better yet, but I can see that I will do soon. Sorry it was so long.
(, Tue 12 Feb 2008, 10:17, 60 replies)
Rocky goes for a jog

I put a collection of uplifting, motivational music on my ipod, that i listened to while jogging around a local park in the evenings. Mostly completely shocking things like The Final Countdown, the new batman theme and some crap euro football song called campione.

Which resulted in me fighting off a mugger to Eye of the Tiger playing in my ears.

It was the single, greatest moment of my life.

Lost my wallet though.
(, Thu 7 Feb 2008, 17:11, 3 replies)
I was always making my own obsessively-indexed mix tapes. I started off by taping the Top 40 off the radio, becoming highly skilled with the pause button, enabling me to cut out any trace of Tony Blackburn from the finished product

Soon, I started making them for friends.

Presently, I found myself so hopelessly in love with a certain young lady from college, and it was only a matter of time before I would offer her my services with a C-90.

"Tell you what," I said on a chaperoned visit to a local public house where she drunk me to poverty on diet coke, "I'll make you a mix tape so we can see what kind of music we both like."

This - an offer to the girl who obsessed over Stevie Wonder's 'I just called to say I love you' - was doomed from the start.

Overtaken by hormones and the fiery desires of my loins, I decided to put in a short - and, in retrospect, decidedly sad spoken interlude halfway through side two.

The gist of it was "Debbie, I want to see you with very few clothes on."

I gave her a few days to let the message - mixed together with my irresistible choice of 80s New Rom standards - sink in, before giving her a call:

"Hey Debbie, did you listen to that tape I made you?"

"I didn't have time. I gave it to my brother."


"He's joining the RAF Regiment. I thought it would be nice to give him something to listen to in his barrack room."


I was so scared I spent the weekend mulching into my trousers like Monty Don on an acid trip.

The full 12" remix version of this tale of woe can be found HERE. That is all.
(, Thu 7 Feb 2008, 15:12, 3 replies)
'I want you, I want you, I want you'
A lad in my class used to make me tapes of Prince albums (so perhaps a tenuous entry for this QOTW) but they became the stuff of legend in our school due to the 'extras' added to the spare tape at the end of each album.

The lad concerned didn't have many friends at school, due to him being a Vegan Doctor Who fanatic who wore a single BMX glove and used to wander off into the fields at lunch time to boogaloo alone to music in his head inbetween wolfing down mouthfuls of animal free slop. He also built his own computers from scratch and once invited me into his bedroom/workshop, where he'd glued empty crisp boxes to the wall in lieu of shelves and filled them with motherboards, defaced photos of Maggie Thatcher and half eaten tins of treacle. I ended up befriending him as I was almost as unpopular and socially inept as he was and we bonded over a love of Prince (I also developed a fine business selling him the porn mags that I stole from the Esso garage, which has some bearing on his later antics).

He started off adding idle bits of quite amusing banter to the end of each tape, normally involving him talking to a tape recording of himself, singing songs, pretending to be drunk or reading from biology texts (I have no idea why he did the last one) but eventually he got daring and blew his load all in one go.

On the end of one tape (a copy of 'Dirty Mind' as it happens) he added a reading from the letters page of one of the magazines I'd sold him. Nothing too filthy but delivered with a fevered relish and a lot of unusual flapping noises so slightly unusual.

He then raised the bar when he followed this up by performing a lecture posing as a philosopher named Sigmund Foond, in which he discussed the sexual merits of some girls in our class. He went into vivid detail (during which he confessed to stroking himself and licking his tie) and wandered off into dream scenarios about men fighting to the death for their favours in the middle ages.

He finished off the tape with his finest moment, a song he'd written about these girls. The tune wasn't up to much, coming across like an increasing excitable version of Madonna's 'Erotica' if it was performed by a teenage lunatic from Warrington thrashing his leg with a tie, but the lyrics were disturbingly memorable. Especially the final ones:

Ooh, Mavis come to me
Vicky, Clare and Gaynor too
Tie me in a sack
jack me off
jack me off
whip me, kick me, kick me baby
I want your whips tonight
Under the stars
Under the night
I want you baby
Every night
I want you, I want you, I want you

The last line was particularly powerful as it was delivered with a heroic orgasmic grunt just as the tape ran out.

Being a teenager, and therefore something of a cunt, I took it into school and played it to the girls concerned, who understandably went ballistic at him, slapping him violently until they realised he was enjoying it.

He suffered the humiliation with great humour as it happened and didn't even seem to mind when a bootleg of it (there were plenty about, many perplexingly remixed with samples of 'Also Sprach Zarahustra') was played on the coach during a field trip.

The last time I saw him was in 1994. He appeared to have glued sprigs of hair all over his face and was scrutinising the rice puddings in the Co-op.

I want to see him now. Really badly.
(, Thu 7 Feb 2008, 17:00, 4 replies)
Following my post earlier...
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you 1990.

Proto-PJM is sixteen years old and grappling with teenage angst. Or more likely grappling with himself, frequently. Despite the ever present concerns over ever getting laid or too much masturbation being detrimental to one's health, the soundtrack to proto-PJM's year was beginning to take shape.


Almost killed by a falling barn roof during a hurricane strength storm on his way home from school (the very same one which lobotomized Gordon Kaye), PJM wastes no time chain smoking his way through a month of high stakes card games (a whole box of matches was played for and won) instead of revising for his GCSEs.

Some of his cohorts during this time are a bunch of heavy rockers and metallers, with hair and acne to go round. Despite the overwhelming deluge of Metallica, Iron Maiden and for those metallers seeking easy listening; Guns n Roses, PJM seeks musical sanctuary elsewhere, with FPI Project, De La Soul and Electronic.


More of the same. PJM is poorly and at home from school one Monday morning watching news footage of an elderly but unbowed future statesman being release from a long jail sentence.

Beats International (Lindy Layton... Ooooh Lindy Layton), Depeche Mode and a smattering of S-Express accompany PJM while deadlines for coursework submission pass by with scant notice. Coursework? By next Tuesday sir. Study was most definitely not a Mantra for a State of Mind.


Guru Josh is officially the coolest man ever to be called "Josh'. Snap power their way (see what I did there?) to a UK hit, while PJM bops away to the B52s while he thinks no-one is looking.

Meanwhile, across Britain resentment to the hugely unpopular Poll Tax builds to flashpoint. Brixton is sealed off as the mother of all punch ups ensue, which ultimately spills over into the "second battle of Trafalgar". Two of PJM's comrades are involved in town centre rioting, both claiming an unconscious copper each. Yep, I just saw one of them. It was flying, mate. And oinking.

The verse “She’s gonna step on you again…” becomes a metaphor for the mood of the working classes, sensing a moral victory for the first time in over a decade.


The warm spring is a foreboding of a hot, sticky summer. The moody beats of Adamski, the melodies of Jesus Jones (the frontman is now a mountain biking journalist) and the Rebel MC accompany lazy evenings lounging around in grassy green fields, smoking, talking about the future in acts of small rebellion in contrast to the prisoners at Strangeways, tearing the roof down on the six o clock news.

Despite all this, I was carefree and most definitely feeling Real, Real, Real.


The first of PJM’s GCSE exams are met with a level of preparedness akin to taking a lino onboard the Titanic. A warm April gave way to a grey and dank May, which did little to dampen my spirits. The trippiness of Primal Scream accompanied me to and from exam halls. I certainly wasn’t fighting it, I was feeling it!

Kicking back post exams consisted of slouching around under trees drinking bottles of cheap cider and smoking from matt-black packs of JPS. I became aware of a new and somewhat sober public mood, yep we were off to play football again…


For the first and only time in my memory, the weeks of boredom and sphincter clenching press jingoism that usually accompany England to any football tournament were muted. A new, post soccer violence mood had taken grip of the nation, who better than New Order with World in Motion. Okay, the guys who once brought you Temptation and She’s Lost Control were selling out monumentally and some dumbass thought “Great! Lets get John Barnes to do some more of his rapping!”. Fuck me, I wouldn’t let John Barnes (w)rap my nieces Christmas present.

The long and angst ridden years of repulsion to the female of the species was brought to an abrupt end when a lady appeared on the scene. Any notion of steamy romance being accompanied by Lil Louis French Kissing his way through an allegro beat with a breathy gallic strumpet were wide of the mark though. More tonsil tennis and chaste fumblings in hot, badly ventilated bedrooms. Clearly, Linekar et al were scoring much more than I was.


The England dream was over as Gazza paraded through London on a double decker bus wearing rubber tits while the smug Germans go home knowing that it’s their year. The East Germans have something to cheer about too, for it’s goodbye to Trabants and Oost-Marks.

A sudden storm broke the sultry July heat, however, I still wasn’t quite dancing Naked in the Rain. G/f at the time made it clear MC Hammer style – U Can’t Touch This. So I didn’t. Nessun Dorma (or “None Shall Sleep”) I don’t think.


“I’m Free!” I was able to proclaim in chorus with the Soup Dragons. My somewhat demure and naively sweet g/f proved as clingy as a North Sea limpet, her proposal of marriage dampened my sixteen year old ardour rapidly. Might sound harsh, but at that age to settle down and for her to be The Only One I Know would be disastrous.

Saddam Hussein in a bid to make Hitler look like a second grade amateur turned his conquest toward the tiny emirate of Kuwait. Another barking dictator was fighting a rearguard action as pressure in the House of Commons mounted on Margaret Thatcher to move sideways after the Poll Tax debacle.

One summer morning I opened a brown envelope, bearing the bad news of my exam results. Shit, I’d practically come bottom in the whole world. What a Killer.

I’d hooked up with another lady at a party but something didn’t quite gel right for me, so unlike Betty Boo I wasn’t Doin’ the Do, perhaps quite rightly so.


Starting college was the beginning of a new and slightly more serious era. Carefree days of frivolity were slipping away almost imperceptibly but my music tastes began to take a comparative turn too. I don’t recall there being much in the news, except for some Liberian bloke being executed.

Growing tired of my anticlimactic college lovelife (like an England match, all buildup but a lacklustre show on the field) I began to ask What Time is Love? A Suicide Blonde caught my eye (dyed by her own hand), but the party invites kept on a-flowing. Saturday nights would reward with a Fascinating Rhythm or two.


I took A Little Time and gradually the college grades I needed started to come my way. At last I think I had begun to realise that I should stop being The Joker and make an effort. I’d previously found study to be So Hard.

Politically, the landscape of Europe had changed once again. Germany had reunified and Mikhail Gorbachev wins a Nobel prize.


Ding dong the witch is dead, driven away crying from number 10. It was almost Unbelievable. PJM was sat in a history class when he heard the news and to a man every individual in the room cheered. Except one, who cradled his head in his arms and sobbed. He was the only person in the room to react with any semblance of Sadness.


The final dying embers of a Crazy year to remember for the rest of my life, with momentous happenings in both my personal life and in the history books. “Are You Dreaming?” I really Had The Time of My Life.

Xmas parties were spent collecting hugs and kisses from every International Bright Young Thing I could find. I was clearly revelling in it.

Britain and France became All Together Now several hundreds of feet below the English Channel as the first segment of the channel tunnel met in the middle.

(, Fri 8 Feb 2008, 1:17, 9 replies)
Put your hands in the air for the church organ massive
I've only made one in the last ten years. It lives in the car and it's actually a CD (natch). It is played very rarely.

Its sole purpose is so that, when I'm sitting in a traffic jam and a chav in a Corsa draws up alongside with doof-doof-doof-doof coming out of the speakers, I can ram it in the CD player, roll down the windows and roof on my slightly effeminate Citroen convertible (a C3 Pluriel, essentially a 2CV for the 21st century), and put the volume up to maximum.

- Transports de Joie - Messiaen (iTunes linky). Very very heavy music indeed. Very very heavy church organ music, that is.
- Myddyfycys yn Bob Man - MC Mabon (iTunes linky). Happy bouncy Welsh-language rap randomly interpersed with the words "myddyfycys" (not quite pronounced as it looks) and "you son of a bitch".
- Martyn Bennett (mp3 clip). Banging techno. On bagpipes.

There's a bit of the really obscene pre-signing Goldie Lookin Chain on there too, "It's Grim Up North" by the KLF, a lot more organ music, and so on.

What usually happens that the chav puts their windows up - mission accomplished - and mouths the word "weirdo". I can cope with that.

Acknowledgement - I got the idea from a friend who, fed up of seeing chavs drive round and round Cambridge Market Place circa 1992 with doof-doof-doof blaring out, got a tape of Vivaldi's Four Seasons, loaded it into his rather battered old Metro and started doing the same. Very slowly.
(, Sun 10 Feb 2008, 18:15, 4 replies)
I made a CD for my best friend, who used to go running every morning. With some simple sound editing software, I threw in a few car screeches, horns, people shouting his name out, all in amongst the songs. Drove him insane. He doesn't talk to me as much as he used to.
(, Thu 7 Feb 2008, 22:41, 3 replies)
We’ve got a love that can never be, an impossible dream…but If only they could see….that you’re boooootiful….to me.

As a young teen I was a slightly awkward bum-nugget of a boy… with my curly brown hair straggling in the way of my tortoiseshell jam jar NHS specs that were so thick, if you looked at me directly you could see right through my head. I walked with a gangly stride yet sported a gelatinous pot belly that made me look as if I already had a healthy 10 pint-a-night Stella habit.

I was understandably unpopular, and none of my other school chums considered me to be any sort of threat as our hormones began to collectively burst from the sanctity of our scrotes and went on the prowl for girls.

My school days rolled on as uneventfully as this QOTW.

But one wonderful day all of that changed…A new girl started school. I saw her, and I was entranced…captivated.

Her name was Ermintrude (or Trudy for short), and her face radiated beauty…from the wart on her chin that looked suspiciously like Russ Abbot; to the Calligraphy style self-carved tattoo on her forehead that said ‘SKINS’. It was like an angel had fallen from heaven. Although I knew she was way out of my league, I HAD to get her attention…

I was too shy to approach and speak to her outright – my 79 consecutive rejections from other girls that month and her insistence on the sole use of swearwords and cockney rhyming slang in conversation put pay to proper communication… the only way I could speak directly to her heart was in the time-honoured tradition of making her a mix tape.

I yearned to say so much, yet had so little space on the C15 I blagged from the tape deck of one of the school’s BBC Micros. I knew thieving was wrong, but I felt my adoration for Trudy held a higher purpose and was way more important than some little runt playing another game of ‘Planetoid’.

Knowing that the justice of lurve was on my side, I swiped the tape and sprinted home to my sister’s tape-to tape deck, all the while Trudy’s perfect image was burning into my eyes and brain like a fruits of the forest scented mace spray.

Money was tight in my house, so when I arrived home and gushed to my parents about my love for Ermintrude and my mix tape plan…they kindly allowed me use of 7 minutes of electricity - enough to record 2 songs…and this of course was at a sacrifice of my bedroom’s heat ration for the rest of the week. I hugged them both tightly for their generosity but realised that deep down, their charity showed they must have understood the intensity of my emotions.

I knew it was going to be worth it as I ventured into my sister’s room and heard my parents flick the power switch on…I had thought long and hard…what two tracks could I use to express my desire and passion, yet show her I was sensitive, tender, understanding to her needs and all-round charming company to be with? There was an almost infinite library to choose from…this could be the most important decision of my life…

I finally chose Ivor Biggun’s ‘I’m a wanker’ , and ‘Dolly Parton’s Tits’ by Roy Chubby Brown. I stand by my decision.

I couldn’t sleep that night as I rehearsed over and over what I was going to say as I handed the tape over…and each time I pictured the scene I could hear the theme from ‘Love Story’ playing in my head like a clichéd movie soundtrack as we ran into each other’s arms and I frantically tried to remove my Y-fronts using only my teeth

After what seemed like an eternity, I watched the fiery fingers of dawn start to stretch across the sky and pierce the inch thick glass of my spectacles. I knew my moment of truth would soon be upon me…

I can’t remember any of the journey to school – I was too focussed on the single matter that was going to shape my destiny.

I felt as if my heart was going to leap from my chest as I bumped into her at school the next day…well, to be more accurate she bumped into me – as her glass eye gave her limited vision on the left side (but I digress). I plucked up every ounce of courage in my body (which totalled about one ounce), as I picked myself up from the floor, tried to ignore the strange smell of methane, looked deeply into her good eye…and said….

“Erm, you can have this if you like, I…er…made it for you”

“Fuckin' Shabba!" (Shabba Ranks – Thanks) she retorted. She started to smile, and I noticed that three of her nine teeth were glistening with saliva mixed with black lipstick as she clasped the C15 in her huge chubby digits and waddled away…leaving me there…alone…open mouthed and confused.

As she turned the corner, I watched her pop the tape into her Walkman – she had one of the brand new ones, mind – it must have only been about 12 inches long and six inches wide.

It took almost 2 hours for me to find out what she thought of it.

I was sat on my own during break time with my head in my hands, contemplating a million different scenarios and how I would have to face up to yet another rejection when I suddenly felt a tongue pushing itself into my ear like a doped-up slug that had been dipped in treacle – it was one of the most romantic experiences of my life.

Then she spoke: “You’re fuckin’ fire (fire and ice – nice), wanna Donald?” (oh, you work it out)

I didn’t understand but nodded my head and trembled like a rabbit caught in the headlights. We arranged to meet after school. My life was complete.

I never bore witness to what happened later in the day but reports say Trudy skipped to her next class as if she was floating on air – joyously singing the tunes from the tape I had made. When the teacher asked her to stop, she refused and sang even louder…she was promptly sent to the headmaster’s office and defiantly sang her way through her disciplinary...

‘I’m a wanker, I’m a wanker’ she screeched at the top of her voice.

She was expelled on the spot. Her parents were called in and as they were informed of the school's decision, announced that they were going to move away from the area forever. The grim realisation hit home...not only that Trudy and I were never going to be, but that we would never see each other again…

With tears in her real eye, she ran out of the office. The teachers and her parents looked all over but couldn’t find her. As they left the building someone spotted her; stood on the top of the 9 storey technology block, screaming incoherent swears and dancing a jig with her Walkman on.

Then she jumped.

The last sound anybody heard from her was: ‘Cos they’re so big and soft and round…’

They put a bench with a little plaque in the crater she made.

I hope you now all know why this QOTW touched a nerve with me.

They say it’s better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all? Well I can vouch for that…just those few fleeting moments with my Ermintrude can make up for a lifetime of being a lonely Pooflake.

Length?…9 storeys…weren't you paying attention?

Apologies for everything else and thanks to Frankspencer for the inspiration.
(, Wed 13 Feb 2008, 19:05, 8 replies)
I made my very own mini mix tape for you all
(, Sun 10 Feb 2008, 18:38, 8 replies)
Heavy Metal Boy Racer
So there I am, Colchester's only 'heavy metal boy racer'. I'm 20. I have the long hair, the sleeveless Iron Maiden T-shirt, the faded jeans with big belt buckle. The sun is blazing, my car is freshly polished, windows wound down, one arm out of the window with tats on show. 'Smurfs Metal Mix Tape' is blasting from the Stereo. Metallica, Maiden, Slipknot, AC/DC, Biohazard, Megadeth, trying to educate the general public in good music. I'm oh so cool.

Cue group of rock chicks walking on the pavement. Smurf lazily drives past, 'Wait & Bleed' pumping from the speakers. Rock chicks cheer. Rock chicks whistle. Rock chicks wave. They've got to be worth another pass haven't they?

Find a side street, turn around, start driving back. 'Wait & Bleed' finishes. Draw level with rock chicks. 'Barbie Girl' by Aqua starts. Loudly. Rock chicks look at me oddly. Cue mass acceleration and never driving down that road again.

Bastard. To this day I do not know why I decided to include that in my Metal Mix (which I still have 10 years on).

(, Tue 12 Feb 2008, 12:14, Reply)
I was arrested for drink-driving a couple of years ago
We'd been out all day, bank holiday jobby with lots of live bands we liked. I think I had 8 or 9 pints of hairy-arsed real ale on an empty stomach (see the *cleverness* - colour it in with a crayon of your choice). I'm in the 5' gang, and slightly built.

I'm a twat for being late (ask Davros' Granddad or Legless) so, not wanting to miss the 2pm band (at 2:35pm) I said to Davs, "look love, I've bollocksed up AGAIN - I'll drive to the pub, we'll walk home and pick the wheels up tomorrow".

Four bands and plural beers later, I realised I was feckin HANK (Marvin, not Williams). Hail the burger van, conveniently situated outside; capriciously flirting with my senses; adroitly thrusting the tempting scent of caramelised (that's posh for "burnt") onions up my nose....

We purchased the establishment's finest half pound cheeseburgers with bacon, then having spent so long in the queue for said sustenance, realised we were a tad on the chilly side. "D'OH! We have nice warm jackets in the car - let's skip over and don them for the homeward toddle."

Then I made the most monuMENTALly fuckwitted descision. Having unlocked said vehicle, and clutching the keys in my sticky little hand, I had also donned a metaphorical Jackie Stewart tartan hatband...
"It's only a 3 minute drive home (10-15 minute walk too, I hasten to add) I'm fine to get behind the wheel. The beer in there's watered down anyway, so it's no sweat to drive."
I was utterly cunt-lashed, spackaad, trousered etc. So was Davros' Granddad, so his normally good judgement had gone out of the window with Hitler's cadetteship.
Luckily I only drove 50 yards around the corner before spotting blue lights in the mirror.
My innards turned to Happy Shopper cottage cheese. I pulls over.

"We have apprehended your vehicle madam, as we observed you did not appear to be wearing your safety belt."
(Being vertically challenged, I have to tuck the seatbelt under my arm, otherwise it sits across my sweary neck.)

"Also, you failed to stop at a red signal." (Fuck-splash! Hadn't noticed traffic lights, was too busy looking at pretty flashy lights in mirror.)
Then the nice policeman smelled all that beer on my breath.

"Have you been drinking madam?"

(Bless him for calling me that - I felt more like a receiver of *care in the community* by that time.)

"How much have you had to drink madam?"

"Too much", I sobbed.

So, I spent a night at The Grey Bar Hotel, courtesy of Her Majesty. I could reem out several more chapters about the experience, but that would be REALLY digressing.

On my release the following day, I phone DG to please come and pick me up from HM Hotel.
DG is kind, supportive, warm, fab, the best egg ever. I love him more than chips AND gravy, put together. He had made a *MIX TAPE* to play in the car for our homeward journey to the cold, flacid, homogeonised 'fast' food we didn't get to consume on the night of my crime. (Burgers were on the back seat & therefore confiscated with the car.)

First song on the tape was...

"Fun Lovin' Criminal"
by The Fun Loving Criminals

N.B. This sorry tale in no way glamorises or condones driving with excess alcohol. The truth is, I will be eternally gratefull to the two PC's who stopped me that night. I was 3.5 times over the limit. I could have killed somebody. I could have crashed and killed myself, leaving my son an orphan. The very thought makes my blood run cold. It's all too easy to have an extra one, go on then, another half won't do any harm etc.

I wonder what Jeremy Kyle would throw at me for this behaviour?

Bring it on Jez! I deserve it!
(, Fri 8 Feb 2008, 3:34, 13 replies)
I made tapes of CDs in the 80s...
Also of LPs (yes, I remember vinyl very fondly), so that I could have music at work. I spent many hours taping things so I could drown out the other office noises while I was drafting.

The only problem was that my kids had a Fisher-Price Sing-A-Long tape player that they loved to play with, and my wife would give them one of my tapes to put in it. And when they used the microphone on it, the sounds got recorded right over the music.

So here I am at work, listening to Clapton, when suddenly I hear infantile belming roar from the speakers, with my wife in the background gossiping with a friend on the phone. Then Clapton comes back on for a few seconds, then more belming. Furious, I pop out the tape and put in another one- and find that it too has been recorded over.

On arriving home that night I told my wife that I would appreciate it if she didn't give the kids my tapes. I said this in a reasonable but irritated voice, which I thought was appropriate- and she blew up at me, saying "Well, I guess none of the rest of us are allowed to use anything around here!"

So that weekend I gave the kids some of her tapes to play with, and put the rest of mine in my car to take to work.

I like to think that the kids actually improved Billy Joel's music, but she didn't think so.
(, Thu 7 Feb 2008, 15:34, 5 replies)
Made the wrong mistake
In more youthful days, I had a fledgling relationship with a wee cutie. One month in, whilst round at her mum's I pulled out a tape and began to explain that the song that was on it would go some way in explaining just how much I felt for her. Said girl was flattered, impressed and intrigued by this 'romantic' gesture and put the tape on, pressed play and sat on my lap waiting to hear my expression of love.
At this point Akinyele's 'Put It In Your Mouth' blares out. Girl gets cross. Girl's mum walks in. Girl's mum hears song and isn't impressed. Joke backfires. She doesn't 'put it in her mouth'.......ever.
(, Thu 7 Feb 2008, 14:31, Reply)
Another "not a mix tape" story
When I was about 14, my sister borrowed a book of mine and wouldn't give it back. So I cannibalized a cassette tape, and turned it into a 5 second loop of me saying "Can I have my book back now please?" Then I left it playing outside her bedroom door.

I didn't get my book back, but my Dad did tell me in no uncertain terms to shut the damn thing up, after a scant 5 minutes or so.
(, Thu 7 Feb 2008, 14:18, 1 reply)
This isn't strictly speaking about mix-tapes since they're for you oldies out there...
but a few months ago I was seeing a girl and the time came to compare musical tastes in the form of her bringing her ipod over to mine where we would copy the contents of each others onto our own.

All was going well, I had increased my album stock by a good 50 albums or so whilst simultaneuosly getting her down to her underwear, and so came the time for my music to go on hers. We couldn't be arsed to do it manually due to both of us wanting to do 'ahem' other things, so I just set it to transfer automatically. Which would have been fine had it not been for the immense amount of porn that was in the video's section that had also decided to make the leap.

This was not realised until a few weeks later when she just flicked onto her videos on a whim during a lecture and was met with Oily Slappers 6 and the like.
(, Thu 7 Feb 2008, 17:43, 1 reply)
I've kept a lot of the listings of my mixtapes over the years, and the modern equivalent seems to have now manifested as a compulsion to create iTunes playlists. I now pretty much create them for me rather than anyone else, being 33 and all that.

Reviewing old mix tape listings thought, I noticed a worrying trend on pretty much all of them. I would usually start out by thinking of one song I know she'd have liked and would start off all sensitive - "What do I think she'll like that will make her think I'm in touch with the modern woman" etc. Most of these were stolen from the Woman To Woman complilation album, circa 1994.

I would play the track and make sure the lyrics were suitable and basically said "I respect you as a woman" rather than "I would like to fuck you in every orifice". Then choose the second song as the one that pops into my head on completion of playback of the 1st. This would continue for a while and then slowly but inexorably, decline. At somepoint I would lose all interest in making the tape for someone else and it just turned in to a load of songs i liked listening to at the time. This is why Clare at University who I fancied for years got this tape:

1. Neneh Cherry - Womans World
2. Sophie b Hawkins - Damn I Wish I was your lover
3. Tasmin Archer - Sleeping Satellite
4. Joan Armatrading - Love and Affection
5. Cyndi lauper - Time After Time
6. Motley Crue - Dr Feelgood
7. Suzanne Vega - Marlene on the Wall
8. Shakespear's Sister - Stay
9. Cathy Dennis - Waterloo Sunset
10. Metallica - Nothing Else Matters
11. Metallica - Through The Never
12. Metallica - Wherever you may Roam
13. Metallica - Dont Tread on Me
14. Metallica - Sad But True
15. Metallica - Ride The Lightning
16. Slayer - Reign In Blood
17. Sade - Smooth Operator
18. Ozzy Ozbourne - No More Tears (big finish)
(, Thu 7 Feb 2008, 15:31, 2 replies)
I spent most of my formative years making mixtapes
but I rarely made them for other people, they were just for my own pleasure. Mostly because I have the BEST WALKMAN EVER


I still use it sometimes, but the sound has gone very wobbly now.

The tapes were mostly comprised of britpop, but there was a lot of stuff off the radio too. I spent many an evening pretending to do my homework, poised over the record button, waiting for Mr Peel or Mr Lamacq to announce the latest joy. Happy days, when you felt genuinely involved, and the thrill of discovering a new band meant rushing down to Our Price the next Saturday to spend your hard-earned pocket money.

And then there was the art of the actual mixtape, with CDs and records strewn across your bedroom floor, carefully judging what track follows on best, and how to make the transition from britpop to triphop, and wether you've put too much Blur on or not enough.

And what do we have now? The internet, which makes discovering new music so easy it doesn't seem fun any more. And instant downloads, which take all the tactile joys out of owning tunes, cataloguing them into dull, soulless icons. iTunes, which just creates a playlist for you removing the need for ever listening and involving yourself with the delicate intracacies of ordering and compiling. And the new, glossy, teen-mag NME, which is SO SHITE I COULD SCREAM.

I weep, b3ta. I weep.
(, Tue 12 Feb 2008, 14:52, 10 replies)
Not a mix tape story
because that's a really crap boring QOTW.

I'm going to post a boring yet true story. It does involve tapes though.

My flatmate from years back enjoyed skip-surfing, and once arrived back, blootered, with not one but TWO cases of cassette tapes. And written on those little cardboard insert things were film titles!!!

Upon listening to them, however, it was clear that someone had parked a cheap, nasty cassette recorder in front of a cheap, nasty TV and recorded, well, the film that was on telly. If you could stand the arse-clenching boredom for long enough, you'd be rewarded with a distant cough, fart or sniff, usually followed with a 'shhhhh!'.

One tape even had a lady memorably barging in and asking loudly, "d'you wanna cuppa tea, Kev?" followed by a hissed "fucks sake!" followed by "ooh sorry".

(, Tue 12 Feb 2008, 11:39, 1 reply)
in South Africa in the 80s
it was illegal to use the phrase 'mix tapes'. You had to call them "Tape Coloureds".
(, Sun 10 Feb 2008, 18:57, 4 replies)
I did a mix tape for me!
Back in 'the day' I used to frequent a nightclub in Sheffield called REBELS. Many many many drunken weekends were lost in that place. It was a complete crap-hole, but it was (at the time) OUR crap-hole :-)

Anyhoo...I was feeling a little nostalgic for those days not so long ago and I put an MP3 CD together of just a few of the tracks played there. Some of these I like, some of them I don't, pretty representative, I reckon!

So heres the track listing in all its unashamed glory :-)

ACDC - Highway To Hell
ACDC - Thunderstruck
ACDC - Whole Lotta Rosie
Aerosmith & Run DMC - Walk This Way
Aerosmith - Dude (looks like a lady)
Aerosmith - Livin on the edge
Aerosmith - Love in an elevator
Aerosmith - Rag doll
Alice Cooper - Poison
Alice In Chains - Them Bones
Anthrax - I Am The Law_0
Black Sabbath - War Pigs
Bon Jovi - Livin' On A Prayer
Bon Jovi - You Give Love A Bad Name
Boston - More Than A Feeling
Bryan Adams - Summer Of '69
David Lee Roth - Just Like Paradise
David Lee Roth - Just a Gigolo-I Ain't Got Nobody
Def Leppard - Love Bites
Def Leppard - Pour Some Sugar On Me
Europe - The Final Countdown
Extreme - Get The Funk Out
Extreme - More Than Words
Faith No More - Epic
Faith No More - Falling To Pieces
Faith No More - From Out Of Nowhere
Faith No More - We Care A Lot
Firehouse - Don't Treat Me Bad
Free - All Right Now
Gary Moore - Out in the fields
Golden Earring - Radar Love
Great White - Once Bitten Twice Shy
Guns N' Roses - Paradise City
Guns N' Roses - Sweet Child O'Mine
Guns N' Roses - Welcome to the Jungle
Guns n Roses - Mama Kin
Hanoi Rocks - Up around the bend
Iron Maiden - Aces High
Jane's Addiction - Been Caught Stealing
Jesus Jones - Real Real
Joan Jett - I Love Rock n' Roll
Judas Priest - Breaking the law
Judas Priest - Turbo lover
KLF - Last Train to Trancentral
Kiss - Deuce
Kiss - God Gave Rock And Roll To You
Kiss - Lick It Up
L7 - Pretend We're Dead
Led Zeppelin - Rock and Roll
Lita Ford - Kiss Me Deadly
Love Hate - Blackout in the red room
Love Hate - Why do you think they call it dope
Metallica - For Whom The Bell Tolls
Metallica - Master Of Puppets
Motley Crue - Wild Side
Motorhead - Ace of Spades
M”tley Cr?e - Girls, Girls, Girls
M”tley Cr?e - Smokin' In The Boys Room
NIN - Head like a hole
New Model Army - 51st State
Nirvana - Smells Like Teen Spirit
Ozzy Osbourne - Mr. Crowley
Pearl Jam - Alive
Poison - Talk dirty to me
Poison - Unskinny Bop
Queensryche - Eyes of a stranger
Queensryche - Jet City Woman
Rage Against the Machine - Bullet in the Head
Rage Against the Machine - Killing in the Name
Rainbow - I surrender
Rainbow - Since You've Been Gone
Ram Jam - Black Betty
Ratt - Lay It Down
Ratt - Round and Round
Red Hot Chili Peppers - Give It Away
Rod Stewart - Hot legs
Rod Stewart - Stay with me
Sex Pistols - Pretty vacant
Sigue Sigue Sputnik - Love missile f1-11
Siouxie - Hong Kong Garden
Sisters of Mercy - This Corrosion
Skid Row - 18 and Life
Skid Row-Youth Gone Wild
Skunk Anansie - Weak
Smashed Gladys - Legs Up
Soundgarden - Black Hole Sun
The Black Crowes - Hard to Handle
The Cult - Lil' Devil
The Cult - Love Removal Machine
The Cult - She Sells Sanctuary
The Dogs D'Amour - Debauchery
The Dogs D'Amour - How Come It Never Rains
The Dogs D'Amour - I Don't I Want You To Go
The Levellers - One Way
The Quireboys - Hey You
The Wildhearts - I Wanna Go Where The People Go
The Wildhearts - Just In Lust
The Wildhearts - Red Light - Green Light
Thunder - Dirty Love
Tigertailz - Love Bomb Baby
Transvision Vamp - Baby I Don't Care
Transvision Vamp - I want your love
Twisted Sister - I Am (I'm Me)
Twisted Sister - We're Not Gonna Take It
Tyketto - Forever Young
Ugly Kid Joe - I Hate Everything About You
Van Halen - Panama
Van Halen - Why can't this be love
Van Helen - Jump
Warrant - Cherry Pie
Whitesnake - Here I go again
Whitesnake - Still of the night
Winger - Can't Get Enuff
Y&T - Rescue Me
Zodiac Mindwarp - Prime Mover

One or two of these in retrospect may be post-Rebels, but hey....what you gonna do?
(, Fri 8 Feb 2008, 10:38, 23 replies)
language tape remix

The year was 1993. Our english teacher (i´m from mexico) who was almost always hungover, loved to play those tapes from hell while you had to write down whatever john was saying to lucie about the fuckin weather. She usualy dosed off for the better part of a half hour. A friend came up with the idea of taking one of the tapes for the next chapter and record some sepultura or something on it. So we did.
I was at that age when you discover..well.. PrOn.
Cue the next day, as usual, books out, tape in, john starts asking some girl for the time... and she replies with a superb moan! john says thank you! so the conversations went from normal to multiorgasmic seemlesly, until i got lazy and just recorded 10 minutes of 8 people going at it.
She didn´t wake up... but the adjacent classrooms were bursting with laughter.
good times!
(, Fri 8 Feb 2008, 1:35, Reply)
Che reminded me
of the last time I made a mix tape.

Heavily pregnant and hormonal as hell, I made the most god-awful tape, everything from slushy luuurve songs and 80's pop to a wee spot of 60's rock. With a side trip down Meat Loaf lane.

*hangs head in shame*

Duly went into labour, off to the hospital. Several long painful hours later, I've succumbed to the lure of the epidural (after first working my way through the rest of the drugs cupboard) and am resting fairly comfortably. Watching the telly.

Bit later, the epidural has worn off and (with my agreement) won't be topped up. I'm about ready to push - or kill someone. Either is possible.

Just as the third stage begins MrWitch remembers the tape. He offers to put it on. I agree (I was actually past caring) and he bungs it on, volume fairly low.

Some time later, as the pushing (and it's bloody hard work) is getting serious, the tape player increases the volume all by itself, and out blasts a bit of Wham! Wake me up before you go go? Not a bloody chance, George!

MrWitch was instructed in no uncertain terms to turn off the fecking tape RIGHT NOW! He shot over and hit the stop button - which fell off. He fumbled around with the thing, hitting all the buttons in turn, before eventually yanking the power cable out. Silence! However briefly, I was happy.

Nature took its course, a healthy baby girl arrived, and I was up and walking around in no time at all. Okay, I was walking like a giraffe taking a drink, but give me credit, I was vertical.

I have never made a mix tape since, and still cannot hear that particular Wham song without being mentally transported back to the delivery room. So you can safely say it's not my favourite tune any more.

As for getting into someone's pants, that was the midwife's job. If I'd stayed out of someone else's pants, I wouldn't have been in labour!
(, Thu 7 Feb 2008, 14:23, 1 reply)
Not really a mix tape...
But when i first started Uni i had real trouble getting up in the mornings for lectures (something to do with the endless drinking and partying no doubt)

To counteract this i recorded my mum yelling at me to get up in the morning and set my stereo as my alarm, you know the usual "GET OUT OF BED YOU LAZY FUCKER! YOU'RE GOING TO BE LATE AGAIN!!!"

This was followed by the classic 'Philadelphia' by Bruce Springsteen, just to bring me back off the ceiling after the harsh wake up...

Every time i hear the drums at the beginning of that song i get flashbacks...

Still got the tape now, I use it to annoy my housemate in the early mornings if he's kept me up late...

Length? About 10 minutes in total...
(, Thu 7 Feb 2008, 14:05, 2 replies)
Music to flick beans by
A friend of mine is a wonderfully tomboyish lady. One horrific night, when our inhibitions were laying bleeding and ragged on the floor of the pub, we discussed music that might be good to masturbate to. "Flight of the bumblebee" by Rimsky-Korsakov was mentioned, as was "Mars" by Holst. I have to confess that I quite liked the idea of the Spiderman theme tune from the sixties ("Go web go!").

Sadly, she is now emigrating. I'd like to make her a wanking mix tape as a goodbye present. Any suggestions would be entirely welcome.

Length: oooh, maybe seven minutes per track, with a rousing crescendo at about five and a half minutes would be ideal.
(, Sat 9 Feb 2008, 7:57, 19 replies)
I officialy have the weakest reason
I used to play the tapes in my 2cv with a (get the power) 2 watt stereo! wooha feel the base! Aaaaanyhoo, I had a bit of a thing for naming them for what I was using them for, so there was holiday, driving, going to work...

I found one when clearing out at the weekend, and this is the truth. I had a tape called (drum roll)

Going to Guildford

I am so ashamed.
(, Fri 8 Feb 2008, 11:04, 3 replies)
"This is Radio Me, and it's the luurrve hour..."
It may have been mentioned at some point, but when I was younger I was a bit (OK, a lot) rubbish with girls. The school I went to (like most other schools, I dare say) had a bit of a hierarchy going on, and I most certainly wasn’t amongst the higher echelons of that particular social order.

My ability to converse with any girl was seriously hampered by a mess of blond hair that would do nothing except hang in a side-parting (God knows I tried to make it in to curtains. But, without fail, it never would. Until I left school and gave up caring, curiously…), glasses that were seemingly half an inch thick (and that I mistakenly believed looked like Pilots glasses… bloody idiot), and an affinity towards the, shall we say, geekier subjects. I actively enjoyed Drama and English. I lived for Physics. IT (such as it was in the early 90’s) was a joy for me, and you couldn’t keep me away from Geography. I even liked P.E, and was fairly good at some things, and being able to play Rugby at Fly Half spared me a few kickings in my time.

To begin with I was (as I am now), horribly shy. Those who know me would be surprised by that, as I can be loud and bolshy as hell with my friends – but put me in a situation I don’t like and I go to pieces (hence why I’m worried about the QOTW bash!) This quickly escalated in to me becoming a gibbering wreck any time anyone who didn’t have a penis was within 500 feet of me.

And then Karen (after all that back story), entered my life. She was tall, she was graceful, she had a shock of bouncy brown hair, and she played hockey. She was elegant, and funny, and she had a laugh that sounded like spring morning. I would gaze longingly at her in Business Studies, watching as the sun played on her hair and lit up her radiant cheeks. I was in Love, in a strange and uncomplicated 14-year-old way. I knew, at this point, the next few months of my life would be crucial to my future development. She had to be mine. Oh, the things we would do together – we might hold hands, or even kiss! The Little Devil made grumblings that this wasn’t enough to satisfy his thirst – but I ignored him. “Baby steps,” I told him, “let’s not get ahead of ourselves – we’re not going out with her yet.”

Did you hear that? “Yet”. O, foul and inconsiderate boyhood!

Knowing that I couldn’t approach the object of my affection, lest I dribble on her shoes and scare her off, I had to come up with a subtle and romantic way to reach out to her. I would be Cyrano De Bergerac, and she would be my Roxane. All I needed was a way to make her notice me. I sat in my room for hours, wracking my brains for the answer. I tossed (easy now) and turned that night, waiting for my idea to hit me. Then suddenly, in the early hours of the morning, it did just that.

“A mix tape!” I cried, safe and secure in the knowledge that the ladies find a sensitive man with an appreciation for music attractive. Feverishly, I took down the CD/Tape deck, and a pile of CD’s, a TDK90 – and I set about my work.

This, friends, is where I made my first mistake. You see, I had not developed a personal taste in music yet, so the music I liked was mainly old school rock music. And being Essex in the early 90’s, everyone else liked hardcore and whistles and such. So, my mix tape consisted of the following songs (from memory, there were more) as an example:

1) Nights in White Satin – Moody Blues
2) Is it Mine? – Supertramp
3) This Thing Called Love – Queen
4) Peaceful Easy Feeling – Eagles
5) Whole Lotta Love – Led Zeppelin

And then there was side 2. I worked hard on this side – knowing that side 1 was ‘my type’ of thing; I took a wild stab at what I figured she would like. Again, this is 1994, so:

1) All that She Wants – Ace of Base
2) All for Love – Bryan Adams, Rod Stewart & Sting
3) The Most Beautiful Girl in the World – Prince (will he sue for that?)
4) Mmm Mmm Mmm Mmm – Crash Test Dummies
5) Regulate – Warren G & Nate Dogg (no, I don’t understand why I did that either…)

I know it’s been a long time, I’ll be done soon. Anyway, I listened back to the tape, and realized it was missing a certain… oh, I don’t know, je ne sais quoi

So, I wiped the tape. Started again, same songs, but with a crucial difference. I had dug a microphone out, and had made my own little ‘Radio Show’ mix tape, dedicated to Karen.

“Hi, this is DJ “Devil In Tights”, and welcome to Radio Me! If you’re just joining us, it’s time for the Love hour, and today, it’s all for Karen…”

(I cringe writing that…)

The climax to this story is, unfortunately, a bit of a damp squib. For some reason as yet fathomed by me, I decided to play it in the car on the way to school. My Mum (God bless her), refused to give the tape back to me, citing “my son is not going to make an idiot of himself” as a reason.

I am, and will remain, eternally grateful for that. Though I sometimes wonder what would have happened if I went through with my plan…

(PS – 12 years later, one of my internet friends started sending me mix CD’s… we met up… and now we’ve been together 2 years, and are getting married! So mix tapes do work!)
(, Thu 7 Feb 2008, 17:27, 3 replies)
Here's a nice story
I made a mix tape once. It was in 1987 and I called it 'Various Soothing Stuff'. On it were: Brian Eno - various from 'Another Green World', Steve Harley's 'Understand', Peter Gabriel - 'Here comes the flood', more Eno, Bowie's 'Letter to Hermione', Peter Sartedt's 'Where do you go to my lovely', 'Redemption Song' by Bob Marley, and 'Love and Affection' by Joan Armatrading.

I made it for Xena to take into hospital when she gave birth to our dear Sprog, to listen to on her Walkman (well, mine, but I didn't mind lending).

Come the hour, music was the last thing on her mind, in fact I can clearly remember her last words as they wheeled her into the delivery ward at just gone 10pm on that fateful night:

"Give me a fucking epidural!!!"

Anyway, all went well, and at 3.00am I was summarily kicked out of the hospital to take the night bus back to Hounslow. We did use that tape though, often, over the years, usually as a background to making lurrrve...

...fast forward 20-odd years, to Christmas 2007 in fact. And what did Che present to Xena as a present? You guessed it - a c.d. of 'Various Soothing Songs' compiled thanks to i-tunes.

Oh yes.
(, Thu 7 Feb 2008, 13:49, Reply)
not so subliminal messages...
Back in 2001 I found out that my then girlfriend had been cheating on me with a close mutual friend - so close, in fact, that we'd decided (along with another friend) to all go on holiday to a small cottage on Loch Ness together. I offered to make a mix tape for the journey (coming up from Darlington would take, oh I dunno, 16 hours or something). The tracklist was as follows:

'How long has this been going on' - Paul Carrack.

On loop.

Both sides.

A great journey and an even better week's holiday.
(, Fri 8 Feb 2008, 13:17, Reply)
DJ tapes
I must be 100, because when we made mix tapes we didn't have two tape players attached to one another - you had to play one, and press record on the other one and pause just at the right time.

I remember being quite awestruck when I was told "BE QUIET! Your sister is recording".

But the ultimate age for mixtapes was about 9, when the world is impossibly exciting and hilarious.

My friend and I would tape songs from the radio and have a short DJ-style chat between each one.

The only one I remember is when my friend Richard said "Coming up...Harold Faltermeyer's Axel F. But first, I have a problem. I want to be a policeman but I don't have a hat"

"No problem" I said, "Just paint that tit on your head blue".

This made us laugh til our stomachs hurt.
(, Fri 8 Feb 2008, 12:27, 2 replies)

This question is now closed.

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