Straight Outta Bethnal

Collins you got jacked. Well not really... This is just the full un-edited version of Fiddy & Collins " Straight Outta Shoreditch... but we ain't no twats motherfuckers" which was then renamed "Straight Outta Bethnal" cause we were begging the Shoreditch location. Then, as is inevitable in the crazy world of magazines (especially those whose pages are A5), our column saw the receiving end of Turnbull's sharp claws. What happened to the word count you crazy bitch? It took us like timeeeeee to get to 800 Anyway we look forward to reading the hate male (sp deliberate)* copyright that to Collins. Thanks and all that (most of you appear either plain sexist or closet nancy boys). Also should point out that despite the Good For Nothing title, this column is not a strictly grime thing - it was more us out and about, whatever takes our fancy... which assuming our suggested groupie roles, is quite a lot.

Before you try giving us air on the roads to flick through the rest of the fashion bollacks, stop Hammer, time! We’re Fiddy and Collins and for years people have been saying we’re good for nothing – and what? – we’re pleased that finally a magazine has had the sense to name themselves after us. Basically we’re here to tell you how WE run the roads. Talking of which go buy Volume 2, pricks. We went down to the RWD cover shoot and it was great to see so many young buffers under one roof. JME, I’ll give you serious, serious you BMX bandit. We wouldn’t mind you showing us how to drop one on the half-pipe. And as for Doctor – come on, we’re ready for our internal examinations. Left No Lay to it – one listen to that unorthodox chick and you know not to ramp. (Plus gave up on girls after Lady Sovereign denied us. Again.) Fiddy f'd off later that eve to RTR at Fabric. Following his super-man-dread drop kick on a door in Germany (check LOTD3) Jammer attempted a repeat performance onstage but miscalculated and took a tumble. K-Lash’ed ras claart necks off (and no this ain’t no Jafaican thing, go check the lyrics) and Roll Deep warmed up well for their TOTP performance. Who’d a thought it, Riko and Trim throwing shapes on primetime TV? Artwork still sucks but album is so biggle our underwear remains on heavy rotation (Note to RD: Don’t ring us regarding the graphics. It sucks. You know. We know it. The world of graphic design knows it. But we love you. Lots). Saw the crew the day before down at The Premises where they were munching on lamb and pasta cos chicken wings are officially out. Also in the ends was Ms Dynamite who ordered a lasagne (can’t verify at this point whether it was veggie) and Anastacia who likes a good banger, apparently. (With mash. Perv). Not only experimenting with new culinary experiences, Danny Weed has even developed a taste for red wine while Wiley prefers the soft bouquet of Blossom Hill. Lethal Bizzle on the other hand doesn’t care what he drinks as long as it’s free. Shottie joined the Bizz on Virgin’s voyage to Live 8 Edinburgh. With free drinks on tap thanks to Branston, we got pickled. Brrrrrrrrrap! Keeping it gangster, stock control on VS800 was a little light on arrival cos no one smuggles champers like we do in East. Bumped into Noel Gallagher and his kid (the actual result of his and Matthews love juice, not monkey-boy), who grumpily posed with Lethal for pix. Pow! Give Oasis ASBO’s and leave us alone - hoodies read Observer Music Monthly too, twat. Talking of twats, we feel like right ones for paying £45 a ticket – each! – to watch 45 minutes of Lauren Hill (do the math, bitch, that’s £1 a friggin’ minute). L Boogie forgot her words, reeled off a bunch of ‘izms’ and ‘ists’ under the guide of poetry before clawing it back at the end with a Fugee’s medley. Not that we’re haters. We’re lovers. Not like that, you fucking.... Hang on, think we’re nearly at the word-count. 544, bollocks, no we’re not. One final thought then as we get our SJP on. What is it with girls fancying ugly rappers? The Game looks like a close relation of Crazy Titch’s bulldog Romeo but the girls can’t get enough. When I say girls, we mean we. And that’s not the worst of it. Current fixations include 19-year-old weed-dealers who play basketball with their tops off. Come shoot your loads in our baskets. Now that’s the kind of slam-dunk we’re talking about.