Dan’s Foreword for Nathan’s trashbat museum booklet
Trashbat? Let me tell you about Trashbat and the Idiots.
The Idiots first rode into Hoxditch on their little plastic tractors; honking, lobotimised, identikit cock-farts, totally oblivious to their uniform individuality. Each Idiot considered himself unique in his choice of zappu-latte-cino and twat-to-the-bollock designer trainers, blithering incessantly at overbearing volume into his WASP T-12 Palm-Shuffle about his latest media shit-slick.
Chief amongst these Idiots was a self-facilitating media bell-end: Nathan Barley. Barley gradually recruited equally empty-headed, amoebic disciples through his moronic ‘trashbat.co.uk’ website. As trashbat.co.uk quickly infected the burgeoning mass of over-affluent twunts like an untreated venereal disease, so Hoxditch continued its descent until it became little more than a giant playpen for similarly ovine, talentless poseurs.
The Idiots had risen up and taken over. These consumer-slave gush-spouts strutted about the streets in their carefully spray-painted, low-slung, ball-hugging denims, smearing their excremental irony across gallery walls, public spaces and computer screens in a desperate attempt to grab the attentions of Charlotte Street media executives. Unfortunately, most of them succeeded.
This ‘museum’ is a pitiful record of how this once original-thinking and creative area of East London spiraled into a vapid, swing-cock-saturated berk-circus for the inane and the stupid. It does not deserve reverence. It’s a history of Hoxditch seen through the eyes of a syphilitic, masturbating baboon on crack.
Do me a favour - buy some matches and set fire to this pile of rancid badger shit then blow the ashes up the nearest Idiot’s arse with a trumpet. Look! There’s probably one standing right next to you, babbling into their Bluetooth headset and filming it on a chick-pea sized camera-phone, then downloading it to their solipsistic wanksite. You’ll be there, thinking you’re having a discreet pick of your nose at this atrocity of dim-witted bullshit then discover your nostril-tweaking antics have been streamed around the globe on an unrelenting loop of video humiliation; ridiculed, replayed and remixed to some cool-as-smack beatz for the amusement of obnoxious, bibble-brained fuckwits with one blistered hand on their fetid, wank-sore dicks and another on a contract for their own pilot TV show. All of this will happen before you’ve reached the end of this paragraph.
This is trashbat’s legacy. That was the Idiot Apocalypse.
Now show me the exit.
Dan Ashcroft, Hoxditch, August 2007.