Hip hop isn't all about being street. In fact, most of the time, it's pretending to be street when in fact you have a massive house in the Hollywood Hills, a fleet of cars that would make the CEO of Thrifty Hire blush and the ecological footprint of an Imperial Deathstar. So it is in fact a breath of fresh air, when you get guys like Looptroop, Dizraeli, Doc Syntax and others who are just the most amazingly level-headed guys in the game, pushing lyricism and the form as far as it can go, ignoring the more negative, materialist aspect of Hip Hop.
Of course, sometimes it does get a little ridiculous, and Queens English is no stranger to drama - or 'Am. Dram. Soc.' as it's known in the home counties. In the early hours of this morning, I made off with the personal diary of SherlQck, MC, producer and erstwhile frog-handler for Queens English. What follows are some of his deepest and innermost thoughts and goings on (well, from one day, anyway...):
Saturday 1st May
4:48AM Was awoken by what I thought was sleep aponea - you know, when you kind of half wake up and it feels like someone's sitting on your chest and you can't get up? Except this time, someone one was on my chest - my manager, Mr Shwinn - staring silently with that bright-toothed, manic grin that makes you want to roundly punch him in the pancreas repeatedly. He had, however, gaffa taped me to my new Sleep-Ez mattress, so the best I could manage was to turn my head and weep softly to myself while he showered me in loose change. He says its for my own good, but I suspect its more for his own sadistic brown-man pleasure. After half an hour or so, he gets bored and wanders off to drink some of the rum that I brought myself to comfort me through my next failed relationship. I drift off into a troubled sleep about my compliment of Ikea furniture and Peter Jones designer pyjamas.
10:15AM My phone rings, and I spend the next few seconds frantically trying to wriggle out of the plastic prison that Shwinn has created for me. Thankfully I moisturised the night before, making the ordeal less tortuous. I just about make it to the phone, after slipping and catching my ear on my japanese teak nightstand. It's Shwinn. He want's to know if I've started work on the new track with Rhymes yet. I try to tell him that I've only had four hour's sleep, but he launches into a tirade only half of which is intelligible. I make out, 'Foreign Beggars', 'gypsum going to landfill', 'Bryan Harvey's cocaine habit' and something relating to the ghost of Geoffery Sinclair. He hangs up mid-sentence, just as I begin to wonder why I'm still in this band.
11:00AM I can hear Something Else, my producer partner padding about in the office, momentarily grumbling to himself about some Goose Liver paté that's gone missing. Seconds later he's hammering on my door, letting me know that we've only got three hours left till we have to submit the commission for the new Tampax website. I scrabble about the office for my flash drive only to find it in my Thai Bamboo ashtray rolled up in a king-sized blue rizla. I suspect Pikey might have something to do with this, but without any concrete proof, I risk another public 'switch-whipping'.
11:15AM After several minutes of fevered work, my eyes are beginning to strain, and I have to lay down again. I stumble, half-dazed by the early-afternoon sun towards my room only to discover that Shwinn has somehow plastered the hall, my bedroom door and in fact most of my bedroom with post-it notes, all of which have painstakingly-made insults writted in Shakespearean calligraphy...I don't know how this is meant to encourage me to be a better rapper. It takes a good twenty minutes to clear up the mess and I collapse exhausted onto my persian linen.
12:30PM - I wake up again to Something Else screaming obscenities in Hebrew through my keyhole. I snap upright to realise that Shwinn has again broken into my room and covered it in post-it notes. I haven't the energy to cope with this. I've got to get this commission finished. I quickly log onto the BBC Sports website to catch up on the day's events - shit, it's Arsenal v Blackburn tomorrow...better get my fantasy team sorted - I can't believe that [lots of guff here about football which is utterly fucking boring, so I've cut it - Shwinn]...
2:30PM - Decide it's probably about time to load up Photoshop and start working. Something Else and I then spend the next 40 minutes arguing over the aesthetic pros and cons of Helvetica Sans Serif vs. Raptor Sans. Something Else tells me I can take my classic typeface and shove it up my jaxxi - i ask him, due to the nature of the commission, if that's not the point. He proceeds to club me over the head with the remains of his Madeiran breadstick...
3:30PM - We've missed the deadline, and Tampax have taken a submission from an undisclosed supplier. However, I have reason to believe that it might be the illegal immigrant from India we got to code all our frontend data management programmes. We paid him £20 and a packet of bourbon creames. However, I think that in the process he made off with my Rolodex, and Jaeger laptop bag. I try and cheer myself up by leafing through the Habitat 2009 Peruvian Collection catalogue. When I feel down, I always find that expensive bric-a-brac modelled by waify models in long skirts is just the best tonic. No tits and booty-poon for me...
4:30PM - Rhymes gets home from work to find me crying, covered in breadcrumbs and goose-liver paté. We decide that it's probably best we record some vocals so the day isn't a complete shambles. I upload the clips to my secret soundcloud account that Shwinn doesn't know the password to [I do - Shwinn]...
9:00PM I decide to go to Gourmet Burger Kitchen for a quick and tasty meal. Midway through my Blue Cheese burger, Shwinn shows up, makes me buy him two burgers and a side of fries, 'borrows' my iPhone and walks out the restaurant. I quickly pay the bill, to avoid any embarrasment and make my way home to bed. I get home and realise that Shwinn’s taken my keys and has locked me out of my own house. I can hear him and Something Else laughing upstairs, tearing pages from my beloved catalogues. I slump exhausted to the stone-cold slab paving. I would quit this band if I knew that Shwinn wouldn’t hunt me down, bully and berate mefor the rest of my life upon this mortal plane. He’d probably give up if I committed suicide, but I think that’s just the optimist in me talking...
- Uploaded by Mr Shwinn, without the prior knowledge or consent of SherlQck
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