Nicko & Joe Articles/Reviews

[dermo]

Just to prove that my column isn't always about Paul McDermott

Oh I do like to be beside the seaside

There must be a million clichés written about the beach. Wondrous images of crashing waves and soft warm sand, cool sea breezes and courting couples walking hand in hand under that big old sliver moon. These depictions would surely stir up romantic feelings in even the stoniest of hearts. Except mine.

The more I read these idyllic notions of the beach the more it becomes apparent that people who have lived nowhere near a sandpit let alone the ocean create these fanciful depictions. Beaches are death traps; they are breeding grounds for bacteria as well as dumping grounds for human faeces, used condoms and toxic waste.

For every courting couple holding hands under the big old silver moon there’s a collection of sea fleas jumping with excitement at the thought of their next bare ankled feast. The sound of crashing waves may fill tourists with excitement but to those who live on the coastline it’s the sound of a cruel and mocking sea. It laughs at us, slowly eroding the barriers of protection we feebly erect, threatening to devalue our properties with salty subsidence.

On warm nights you can’t move for adventurous couples “coupling” in rock pools and hideholes. Why some find the lure of sex on the beach irresistible is beyond me. My idea of romantic lovemaking has never involved sandy crevices, being tangled in seaweed and having my performance scrutinised by crabs and bewildered seagulls.

The summer months can be hell for those of us living in seaside towns. Hordes of flabby white families’ flock to our front doors armed with their sticky children and drip ice cream onto our pavements. They make it almost impossible to get from one shop another other without sustaining some kind of severe candy floss injury.

The sun only has to peek his head out from behind a cloud and they swarm and circle like a shiver of sharks getting their first scent of a stranded surfers leg. Residents become more and more frustrated as they get snarled in the perpetual hell of slow moving traffic. They sit patiently behind cars filled to the brim with inflatable novelties, hyperactive kids and yet more candy floss as they try wearily to make their way home.

Contrary to what you might think, I do actually like the beach. I do not, however, like it for the rippling reflections of the moon at night or the whisper a sea breeze in the early evening. I like it because it takes me back to my adolescence. It reminds me of nights spent building fires, drinking cheap alcohol and revelling in the companionship of like-minded youth. What I object to is the romanticising of the beach by people who don’t understand how dangerous and disgusting it can be. It’s full of strange looking creatures that want to bite or sting you or worse – was nobody else paying attention during the Jaws films?

These fluffy rose tinted depictions serve only to entice the stupid into premature and watery graves. Nearly once a week the coastguard is alerted to rescue some imbecile who thought drinking too much beer and falling asleep in a rubber dingy was a good idea. Legions of idiots are swept away by strong currents, they get stranded on rocks, they go swimming after eating truckloads of sugary seaside snacks and drown or they swim out too far and get decapitated by the propellers of passing boats.

So let’s start writing about the real ocean shall we? Let’s replace, ‘the softly licking surf’ with, ‘crashing waves of poop infested waters’. Let’s replace, ‘the beach was dotted with crustaceans and brightly coloured seashells’ to, ‘miles of sand littered with dead jellyfish and rusty soda cans’. And let’s replace, ‘the calm enchanting ocean’ to, ‘wavy, unpredictable, death trap of doom’. When the sun comes out take my advice, sit in the back garden with a beer and a good book, trust me, it’s safer.

[Vagrant]

I live ten minutes away from the beach

You've just made me paranoid

Have to admit, there's rarely a month goes by when we don't publish a story about a fisherman who was dragged from rocks and drowned or was lost at sea.

We don't get jellyfish however, just bluebottles...nice

swim out too far and get decapitated by the propellers of passing boats.

HAHAHA

When the sun comes out take my advice, sit in the back garden with a beer and a good book, trust me, it’s safer.

Can't argue with a good book, no sir!


Hehe, great article

[Ginger_bread_gurl]

Indeed

[dermo]

Thank you muchly

[JayDee]

I was thinking momentarily today, in the sunshine, that it's almost beach weather. I love the beach, love the ocean. I actually enjoy being thrashed around by waves. Recently I've been reading Lovecraft, and I don't particularly like the idea of the 'deep blue.'

Do you still have people going to the beach in Wales? I'd have thought summer was drawing to a close. Then again, it only Autumn or something.

[dermo]

Autumn and winter are the times I go to the beach, it's nice to walk along in a big coat. I am not a fan of the beach in the summer months.. I am with Bill Hicks on that, "everybody at the beach has tan skin and white teeth, I have white skin tan teeth..I;m staying in this year, at least then I get to listen to music I like".

[pixieDAAS]

Who do you write for Dermo?

[dermo]

I write for a lot of people, do freelance stuff for various websites and mags. The column is no big deal, it's for a kinda student publication thing in the UK..if it wasn't for the fuss made when the paul McDermott article went on my website, I would never have mentioned it. Am stopping for a while in a month or so to write a book..nothing special...just one of those small paperback numbers.

[Spawn of Satan]

ah, nothing qiute beats having sand in every orifice. the good ole' days

SoS

[Sam]

Bloody top article - your style is great, reminds me of me own style. Doesn't matter who you write for, you're getting it published and that's what counts. I gave up freelancing after the last mob accepted my 5 page article and photos - like an idiot I sent off the stuff and waited for my cheque, and waited and waited. Finally when I approached this company they basically told me to piss off and bad luck. BAH HUMBUG!
Oh the beach, quite like the beach, as long as no sand sticks to mois or my hair gets wet, other than that, I LOVE IT.

[dermo]

My latest article has just been put on the website if you wanna take a look:o)

http://www.nickoandjoe.com/bonfire.html

[sooty]

*sniggle* i loved it! specially the bit about the 'tainted effigy' (I'll let people read it for themselves), although I do have two queries...1: I searched high and low but could not find the first '*' in the piece even though it was referenced, and 2: you wrote display twice in a row.
Aside from that, heehee, very funny....maybe we can have our own variation of Guy Fawkes...*starts thinking about that guy who ran a fourwheel drive into parliament house*

[dermo]

Thanks muchly :o)

*shakes fist at viv* I haven't even seen it on the website yet, it was put on there by Viv who thinks its much better to type it out from the magazine than wait a day or two till i can forward her the actual article..cut and past is a wonderful thing...

**goes off to see what's happened in a kind of 'do it myself way'

Should be fixed now

[dermo]

I lost my copy so I typed it out from the magazine..if you spot any errors I know you'll tell me

http://www.nickoandjoe.com/country.html

[unfrufru]

http://www.theage.com.au/articles/20...544678057.html

Genius of femininity gone wrongReviewer Helen Razer
April 5, 2004

The Kransky Sisters' "world of vintage Butterrick patterns gone horribly wrong must be seen to be appreciated".

COMEDY FESTIVAL

NICKO & JOE in SONGS WE THINK WE KNOW, Club UK, Exhibition Street, until April 17

PERINEUM MILLENNIUM: THE IN-BETWEEN YEARS, The Butterfly Club, Bank Street, South Melbourne, until April 16

KRANSKY SISTERS: WE DON'T HAVE HUSBANDS, Duckboard House, Flinders Lane, until April 18

If, like your reviewer, you have the attention span of a chipmunk on No-Doze, the very thought of musical comedy may deaden you. Comic songs can take an eternity, or thereabouts, to resolve. Many restless punters prefer jokes resolved in less than 30 seconds to elaborate gags that rely on stringed instruments and paying attention.

It's an immense relief, therefore, to find yourself laughing throughout three shows almost entirely fuelled by song.

Nicko and Joe are a British duo whose genuine comic expertise turns out to be a line of disaffected, middle-class filth. Upholding an honourable British tradition, these palatably peculiar poms do not shy away from jokes about bottoms, toilets nor - ahem - sex.

From a heartfelt ballad about internet pornography to a narrative that describes the intimacy between robots, Nicko and Joe tickle their audience with a droll pomposity and some terrific one-liners.

Nicko maintains a hilarious self-importance throughout the set. She addresses the audience as "Melbourne" rather as if she were presiding at a sumptuous concert hall. Actually, there's a dozen of us crammed into an over-heated bunker with a tin-pot public address system, the worst sight-lines in the Southern Hemisphere and a few hours' worth of neglected pint glasses. No matter - the audience is still Melbourne. And this duo deserves more wholesome amenities and a much bigger crowd.

Tim Minchin's foray into anguish, Perineum Millennium, cleverly veers from cheese to unease in the wink of a pianist's eye. With a brain roughly the size of a bookstore's cultural studies section and a vocabulary to match, Minchin blends smut with smarts.

It is an unusual, unlikely pleasure to hear thunderous Cole Porter-esque piano stylings accompanying fierce obscenity. It is equally extraordinary to watch a routine about postmodern readings of Freud and find it as funny as a bottom joke. Minchin is indisputably chucklesome.

The Kransky Sisters have emerged from an Oedipal nightmare to change the songs of Michael Jackson forever. Looking like pill-addled bank tellers circa 1981 and sounding like a sherry-addled Country Women's Association musical auxiliary, the Kransky Sisters cannot be adequately described in text.

If they were a smell, it would be naphthalene flakes and sausage mince. If they were a flavour, it would be lard, tea-cakes and fear.

Alleged natives of unremarkable Queensland burg, Esk, these girls offer a seamless performance and an entirely new spin on drag. Their views on femininity, pop culture and the nuances of gravy are extraordinary and bust-a-gut, shed-a-tear, sputteringly funny.

The Kranskys' world of doilies, repression and vintage Butterrick patterns gone horribly wrong must be seen to be appreciated. This twisted representation of suburban Australian femininity is up there with Dame Edna - they are that good. Don't even think about missing this show.