BEHIND TH' ZINES WITH 'ARRY

Rip It Up, Issue 86, 1 September 1984, Page 34

BEHIND TH' ZINES WITH 'ARRY

“ 'Scuse me, will someone fix the vertical 'old on the telly?” "Do it yourself ’Arry.” “Hmmmm ... bloody thing • 1 WALLOP. And so that’s when the TV said ‘‘Fuck it I ain’t working for you no more." Goddam it, The Untouchables is on in five minutes. Gotta find another telly I mean 'ow can a guy go without 'is Elliot Ness, or any telly for that matter? But ’old on, you don't really need to watch it to see it... there’s enough of it around otherwise. Take M.A.S.H. for example throw in an advert every five minutes and you’ve got Rip It Up... 'Olding things together is Col. Sherman Cammick overworked, overbigmacked, overvitamined, overcoffeed, and understaffed. At 'is side are the trusty B.J. (beer and joints, that is) Brown 'e usually looks sick but if 'e looks well 'e really is sick and lan ‘Hawkeye’ Dalziel, the man 'oo injects 'is dazzling wit into paste-up, gaffer-up and balls-up alike. There's ICOR always ruining all the fun by examining their bank statements and general operations everywhere they go. And always saying “No! Wrong way.” Right, so much for the

credits, on with the show. At the top of three flights of stairs a figure emerges, rattling a ring of keys 'eavy enough to immobilise a tank. Still wearing the boot polish from the previous night’s spinning discs at Zanzibar, Sherm Cammick 'eads for the stereo, via a cup of coffee. A loud thudding shakes the walls no, it's not the new Afrika Bambaata record, it’s choppers with incoming wounded. Kerrash! And B.J. Brown stumbles in, covered in battlescars from the night before. “Christ,” thinks Cammick as 'e lies the wounded man on the operating table. But six shots of Vitamin B, three of Vitamin C and a cup of coffee later 'e's up and at ’em and into post-op with 'is typewriter. Next casualty: Hawkeye Dalziel walks in and cops the worst of the lot McDonalds and James Brown. Two other proven drugs. “High ho, high ho, it’s off to work we go!” sings Cammick to the tune of the new Nona Hendryx single. “Raart on!” The casualties pour in about three hours after everyone else, as usual, it's Snake T-Shirts, but they’ve got their own doctors and pharmaceutical ware’ouse anyway. Pity the RIU advertisers and contributors 'aven’t got the same. The ChaCha team is wheeled in, wrapped in bandages or is it a dress from Soo Kim? Cammick turns round to see BJ putting a drip feed of

Steinlager into the arm of war photographer Kerry Brown, 'oo appears to ’ave ’ad one charwarma too many. “What are you doing there?” 'e asks. “Brain surgery,” BJ answers grimly. AD BREAK: Vim, Honda, Thibenzole, Honda, Thibenzole, Vim. Back to the operating table and Brown’s busy slicing up Ice'ouse with 'is bloodstained Olivetti. The patient dies and 'e’s not allowed to do the lobotomy on U2 after a 11... At the next table Hawkeye Dalziel works feverishly and the kidney basin fills up with Dun’ill butts. “This sure is an untidy layout,” ’e says, pushing another corpse to the floor. “Lay out laid out— geddit?” AD BREAK: Records, record shops, the Mockers, another Flying Nun ad, booze ... Col Cammick is on the wireless: “ 'Arry, where’s ya column? Kerry, where's ya photos? Mark, where’s ya reviews? Advertisers where’s ya money? Where's ma coffee?” The rest of the crew stumble back in the door, drunk and waving parking tickets and garage and panelbeating bills. B.J. explains that he’s lost another tape recorder... “This is too much.” More vitamins. “OK, go 'ome you lot, I've got to organise things ... now, if I can just... oh shit, it's the 6.30 news.” Same time, same channel, next month. 'ARRY