Giving it the BIG spuds.

When BIG is not sitting at home watching the Tom Hanks classic 'BIG' (on repeat) or frequenting student bars with enough K cider cans in his rucksack to last him until bog-it-o-clock, he spends his time climbing walls, fences and drainpipes on a relentless quest to vandalise our fair city. 

I first met BIG during my cricket days circa 98'. BIG was the county's finest batsmen and I was a 90 mph seamer. I turned to writing speed garage bars and he turned to graff. The rest is history.

I caught up with BIG for a chat about his nihilistic activities but he was too spangled on K cider and shots of Toilet Duck to string together a single sentence. He tried to tag my face with a rusty K cider can so I confiscated his fake ID and gave him a verbal warning. 

Check him out.



Amid the bicycle ridden streets of Cambridge Mr Penfold lurks. Observing characters, then re-creating them on walls and canvas’.

Using strong linear elements against organic outlines with an overly scientific approach to colour, Penfold works with record labels, promoters and clothing companies and has also appeared in a range of magazines such as Graphotism, K Mag and Don’t Panic!

Penfold is one of Cambridge’s hidden gems.


Putting his perfectionist skills to good use (and his trusted colour wheel), Mr Penfold intends to make The Frontroom hum with lines of clashimentary colour.

Amongst the lines, characters will be loitering with intent, interacting with the undeviating forms and generally enjoying their stay.




Requiems and Epitaphs

Crossbows and Catapults

Zenomorph hyperlinks and half hearted antidotes

Amongst the sundries - A flea market forager

Foraging through memories and funeral suits

Harpsichord wind whistles tickle my mind bristles frivolous

swept over pastures like metal detectors over sand dunes in summertime

This is how my heart behaves

A dictator inside my sinews like Alligators in the sewer pipes

The last laugher laughing



To say that Fliptrix is on the grind is an understatement. Here is the second video from his sophomore release 'Theory of Rhyme'.

His latest effort does not disappoint.



Just about.

To commemorate such a momentous occasion said gang are plotting an Easter bash to celebrate 5 years of debauched tomfoolery, pickled egg freestyle cyphers, eurospanning mega rinse outs and the resurrection of our holy father all in equal measure.

You can expect an array of brilliance all under one roof. Line up is yet to be confirmed 100% and party hats still have to be decorated with tinsel and glitter and sparklers. Here is a video of the last night we put on, only two people came but we still vibed out.


Being a vegetarian does not stop me from appreciating the almost limitless potential for using meat products as accessories for 21st century living. Apparently Sales of CJ Corporation's snack sausages are on the increase in South Korea because of the cold weather and personally I can see why.


I occasionally used to dabble in the odd vandalism blaow-fest here and there. I wont reveal what I used to write because I am confident that a) no-one would have seen or heard of me and b) I will be heckled from all angles for being one of the least prolific and most retarded graffiti writers of all time.

Let's just say that if I did reveal what I used to write that the authorities would not deploy a fleet of airborne choppers FOR SHIT. The trouble with the whole graff thing is that I don't have the balls for it. The adrenalin rush was all too much for me and that made my efforts even worse than what would be described as an absolutely cataclysmic piles of mess by all onlookers anyway.

Myself + a bag of paint x by an L-patch = prang out extraordinaire.

These guys do not share the same paranoia (and essentially bitch) related problems that cut my insipidly short lived dabblings within the graff world to an abrupt end. Are the authorities in Russia ruthlessly short of numbers? Or are this gang mental-do-not-give-a-flying-fuck-die-for-the-cause-whole-car-nutbars? The piece is pretty awful but that does not take anything away from them painting it during the rush hour commute.



If I am not mistaken this is one of the most mindbogglingly jokes music videos ever created. The video is better than the tune but the tune is still FOG ON THE TYNE IS ALL MINE ALL MINE FOG ON THE TYNE IS ALL MAIIIYYYNNNEEEEEEEE.

Directed by Eric Wareheim (Tim & Eric) in association with Warp Records and Warp Films. Music by Flying Lotus. Co Directed/ Animation by Devin Flynn. Co Directed/ Edited by Eric Fensler. More info at


A fin whale has beached on the coast of Cornwall. But where has the 56ft beast come from? And what will happen if it explodes?

The mystery of the 100-tonne whale

Of all the deputations from the deep, a beached whale is the most ­astounding. Not just because of its size, but also because of the terrors it holds for the humans who may confront it. A stranded whale was once regarded as an ill omen; a right whale that stranded in the Thames in 1658 was widely seen as an augury of the death of Oliver Cromwell. Even now, the arrival this week of a 100-tonne, 56ft (16.9m) fin whale on Portowan Beach in Cornwall is a remarkable phenomenon – not least because Balaenoptera physalus is second only to the blue whale in size, reaching up to 85ft in length.

It belongs to the family of rorqual whales, so-called for the pleated ridges (from the Norwegian for furrow) that line their bellies. Foraging entirely on small fish, fin whales take great gulps of sea water to trap their prey, ­expanding their stomachs like concertinas and filtering their food through plates of baleen in their mouths (the whalebone once prized by corset-makers). Fin whales are unique among whales in being assymmetrically marked: the ­righthand side of their lower parts is a soft, dove-like grey; the left, much darker. Scientists hypothesise that the whales use this pale side to "flash" their prey and herd them into place.

I've seen these animals many times off Provincetown, Cape Cod: to have one swim under the boat is a deeply strange feeling. Diving below, the creature never seems to end, until it emerges at the other side with an explosive whoosh! from its twin blowholes. Watching its sleek dorsal fin scythe through the water, I'm always reminded that fin whales are the ­fastest of all great whales, dubbed the greyhounds of the sea and able to swim at 24 knots.

Too fast for 19th-century hunters of Herman Melville's era; only with the invention of the grenade harpoon did these speedy cetaceans (the name for this suborder) come within reach. The 20th century saw an ­unprecedented cull of rorqual whales in the Southern Ocean, by factory ships from the Falklands and South Georgia, as well as Norwegian, Soviet and Japanese fleets. And fin whales suffered the worst casualties of all: 720,000 were killed in the Southern Hemisphere alone.

This particular animal probably died as a result of a shipstrike in the Bay of Biscay – where lucky ferry passengers may occasionally see these ­leviathans swimming across the bows. The skeleton of one such casualty, found in Andalucia, was used by the contemporary Mexican artist Gabriel Orozoco in an installation in London's White Cube gallery in 2006. The Cornish whale, however, has drifted into royal hands. Extraordinarily, a still extant 14th- century edict determines that any whale, dolphin, sturgeon or porpoise washed on to English shores is the property of the monarch, a relic of an age when a whale represented great wealth.

Since whales are of little use to Buckingham Palace these days, that responsibility now devolves to the Receiver of Wreck, Alison Kentuck. From her office in Southampton, Kentuck tells me that the whale, a female, had been seen floating at sea for a day or so, and is now in a rocky, inaccessible cove. "We're waiting for a predicated storm to come along and wash it along to somewhere where it will be easier to deal with," she says. "It's already quite badly decayed – apparently you can smell it from the clifftop. Although since it's now on Duchy of Cornwall land, it's actually the property of the Prince of Wales – or perhaps that should be the Prince of Whales?"

Apart from cracking bad jokes, one of Kentuck's tasks is to prevent public interaction with beached whales. The carcasses can communicate zoonotic, or inter-species disease (as can live whales, a warning for anyone within spouting distance of a cetacean), or worse. The buildup of gases in an animal's stomach can cause a whale to expand to bursting point – in 1617, a sperm whale beached at Scheveningen in the Netherlands exploded, fatally infecting bystanders. Indeed, the artist Albrecht Dürer, in his eagerness to reach a similarly stranded whale on Denmark's Zealand coast, caught a fever from the marsh, and likewise perished as a result. It seems that in the case of the whale, the meeting of human history and natural history is seldom a happy one.

Kentuck's first duty is to offer a beached whale to the Natural History Museum; a necropsy may be carried out by the Zoological Society of London. But generally, the animal is destined for the dump. In the past, Kentuck has ordered plant machinery to tear the carcasses into ­manageable chunks before disposal in a local landfill. It is an ignominous end for such an exquisite creature; but perhaps a better fate than that ­facing its cousins in the Southern Ocean where, under the guise of "scientific research", a Japanese whaling fleet is even now harpooning fin whales destined not for the laboratory, but for the supermarket counter.



I get enough beef from enough mans who tell me that my love for the beautiful game is sacriligiously gay. I just laugh it off and then head to the pub to clock Super Sunday.

This video is for all the haters - as I have always said, football and rap goes together like peas and carrots.

Clint Dempsey plays for Fulham and the U S of A - he also raps EXPLOSIVE DYNAMITE BARS.

The only problem is that he appears to buy those 20 dollar beats off my space.

Contact Play LIVE. Plymouth, 17th March.

Looks like it's going to be a good couple of months. I'm already feeling very gang about R. A. this Sunday. AND we're going to be supporting Souls Of Mischief at the White Rabbit in Plymouth on St. Patrick's Day. Have a go on this as well.


Clock this Parisian joker. Absolutely smashing it on the tape scratch.




This is SMBTV Episode three. Features a snippet of us rehearsing for a show where dike drops a verse off his forthcoming sophomore album Constant Dikestar, and key being a premium weird bastard.


Oliver the van is coming to a crack house near you. It is fair to say that there is not a single safe strip of tar mac left on the planet.

I spent a chunk of my Sunday driving around the countryside on a mission to find a farm in a village called 'Washaway'. Once said farm had been located the hidden treasures that unsurfaced did not disappoint.

Aside from the van itself being a pile of vehicular rudeness, I found myself immersed in all sorts of strange signs and signals that were screaming out to me BUY THIS VAN AND BUY IT NOW.

The dude in the picture is called Oliver AND SO IS THE VAN!!!!!!

enough said.



Revel in the unadulterated majesty of the freshly purchased Contact Play van.... Look at it. Look at it again. Soon the brass New Zealand flag will have been turfed from the side to make way for a stunningly realistic image of a mans face, beaten to a pulp by twenty sovereign ringed fists, and the empty space inside will be replaced by one hundred goons. If you see it rolling through your ends, I suggest you run for your life and call the authorities, as we would most likely be about to commit a stunningly accurate egg and cod drive-by on the latest chief who we deem to have disrespected our hustle. GANG.

Gang!: Sex Money Murder

This week, Sex Money Murder are my chosen gang... Gang... Gang... Gang... S.M.M. or $.M.M. are a few nice guys from the Bronx. Their hobbies include: Drug Trafficking, Racketeering, Armed Robbery, Assault, Conspiracy, Attempted Murder and the ever popular Murder.

This is a few members in their mum's bedroom, dancing and basically giving it the big spuds.

For more information go here or maybe here.



Check out this mentalist. He clocks a space and then paints himself to fit in with the background. I would very much like to meet him but the chances are I WOULDN'T BE ABLE TO FIND HIM THOUGH!!!!!


Hoggle has got the right idea. Why waste your rohypnol on Archer shots at the bar when you can stick that shit straight in an actual peach? Sarah has a fucking whale of a time anyway. Masked balls and Bowie giving her the evil rangoose.

It is all about the date rape tag team. Bowie + 5 quid x hoggle / by a handshake = foolproof, risk free smashing.

She does end up in a rubbish tip of depression though.



I just received this remarkable assortment of words in my fassbook inbox from a long time bredrin and associate of mine J Milly, currently womanising his way through Argentina:

He was completely cured after just eight short months at the institution.
Contrary to initial expectations, he wowed the team of specialists assigned to his case, previously unanimously convinced that progress was impossible.
His rapid rehabilitation cast doubt on a number of studies in the field, previously upheld as irrefutable fact, and became the subject of numerous case studies by young upsarts writing their doctorates, eager to challenge accepted truths in their subject.
His recovery even attracted some media attention, and his picture appeared in newspapers amongst a swarm of grinning physicians.
For these reasons, notwithstanding his undeniable visible and documented improvements, he was discharged from the institution back into the community, and even given his old job back at the fun-fair, operating the merry-go-round.
Then the children started going missing again.



Dike also went through extensive therapy to deal with his addiction to the Nintendo Wii. His therapist, Dr dikesacock concluded that the root of the problem was probably linked to his dog trying to bang him everytime he got to level 5.




This is from back in the day. I don't know how many of you know a strange place Iselham (a pony village on the outskirts of Cambridge). Anyway, this place is inhabited by nuff emo's that play a fuck load of Call Of Duty. Dirty Dike hails from Iselham and used to play up to 17 hours straight. That is, until, he fell out of love with the franchise after playing the sequel to the original classic release.

Dike will hate me for putting this up as it will almost make him relapse back to the mammoth sessions that once dominated his life, but I do not care...


PS - Get a haircut.


If i had extendable Dhalsim arm apparatus that could extend somewhere in the region of 330 miles I would bitch slap your face into an irreversibly fucked state.

Oh hang on it already is.

Ed scissor tongue.

you pretentious fuck. what are you fucking banging on about. you should be banned from this blog. fuck off back to the imaginary rose garden in that chorus you wrote in that gay bar with the balcony.
left handed vegetarian.


Sincerely lost - an animal that stalks the bars of a rusty cage booth cotch
Underneath the moss heap a sparkling sediment embossed

Weaving black widow messages - deceiving seasons screen the truth behind the whistles
A landlubber - a great decree - languishing in laughter - isolated editors bash buttons on enigma machines
The wail of banshee boardwalks inside the tap dancer's dungeon orchestrate the climbing of white willow trees under a full moon fulcrum

But how long will this last?

Without a hope in the widest of worlds the human fly climbs higher than a sky rocket made of stone to build his home
A place where carrier pigeons battle storks to deliver good news to the waiting populous below

Twiddling thumbs through the light shards of Avalon - a main frame epitaph that radiates the rain clouds active

The night stars converse with the space rubbish

A man on his knees tries to fathom the warmth that he feels in his heart
The words that ignite the coals of his being burn with more passion than the patterns of a life long activist

The revolution dances on his finger tips televised - his finger tips glow monotone - dabbling with chaos - and as the minutes start to blossom lost the channel hopping overflows

Staring at a ceefax test card





Mr. Melonskin: "Oi pete bruv, would you rather fuck a dead pig or a dead woman?"

Pete decibel: "Dead pigs got more tits"

Mr. Melonskin: "True say, true say"


The World spins out of time

Elliptical games of snakes and ladders brandish jokers in every flop

An onlooker stares

Wishful thinking - dream like conclaves - from someone who simply cannot find the words to write his bilingual requiems

Thomas taps a forceful source - and strides the high wire vacant - he ponders thoughts like cosmonauts - bending the universe

Each word scribed like gravestone inscriptions - embossed into dusty memories - the trench foot forager falls deeper than harpoon struck anenomies and settles like the morning frost

You have no power over me

A wonderful moment disappears from the front line of everything gracious that I hold in my heart

The palpitations burn forcefields between the portals - a tangent universe reflects what I've lost

The philosophy of time travel


I'm torn between this one..

and this one..

Fuck... this one too... theres too many...




Should this be part of the National Curriculum?

This whole street drumming thing is far too alien in my opinion. Why oh why does this not happen on every street corner in every city EVERYWHERE?

There is some old twat in Cambridge city centre who does the whole one man band thing with a border collie sat on a chair howling all day and looking well miserable, but I would swap him for any one of these drummer mans in the blink of an eye. Imagine spotting one of these dudes on the market square hammering the shit into a sulo bin.

Cyphering potential = endless.



Has there ever been a verse written in the belly of the history of wordplay as dope as Mr Monch's on this track? seriously though? From the efforts of the Insane Clown Posse to the sonnets of William Shakespeare to whoever wrote the G-O-D verses for the Sister Act 2 script - can anyone front on that verse?

I rekkers NO...


FUCK THAT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Blu - presents - MOTU

As all mans are already aware, the smoke my beef blog is fundamentally a place for people to meet, discuss, peruse and fondle different shaped and textured meat products. Bloody, medium-rare or plain crucified, this blog invites meat related contributions of all shapes and sizes. Most significantly, this blog is designed to strengthen the already iron-clad links between meat product appreciation and the 4 elements of hip hop. As a sub-basement, under the underground movement which has been bubbling like t-bone steaks in the kitchens of any self respecting humanoid, and taken to new heights by the SMB gang, we all know that a freestyle cypher, b-boy circle or train yard invasion is best complemented by a sizzling George Foreman soundtrack.

Just to emphasise this point, here is a fine picture of a fucking massive steak being eaten by a rapper.

Now - I know that it is good to be open and honest about things and as I see it this blog is as good a place as any to keep it incredibly real. Both myself and my Contact Play goons decided to keep this on the downlow as we knew that it would result in mass riots, accusations of being fucking frauds and would ultimately result in no respect being given to us on any level of the game from the moment that this information leaked. The trouble is, I just cannot go on any longer with this burden on my shoulder plates.

I hate to say it world, but the time has come to announce that Edward Scissortongue is a vegetarian.

Just to take the edge off this devastating revelation I would also like to announce that fellow CP member Mr Key used to keep it extremely herbivorous. However, Mr Key knew that in order to roll deeper than batcaves within the SMB ranks he was going to have to sizzle more bacon at some point in his life. To cut a long story short, Mr Key's new best mate is his local butcher.

Beef Wellington was born...

As a result of this confession I have taken it upon myself to inject new life into this dripping blog. Mans can talk about meats all they like, but I have to be true to myself and mouth off about some other shit true to my heart and incredibly open arteries. For example, nang Scalextrix whips, different types of cake, poetry jams frequented by vietnamese midgets and David Hasselhoff's musical career in Bavaria.

So, without further ado, here is Bologna born street artist Blu's next level, groundbreaking animation 'Motu'. This piece of work is fucking huge and I bet most mans have seen it before, but, if anyone has missed the net then here it is.



Plucked from a forgotten time when you could actually wear just a t-shirt outside, this video is actually a massive uncontrollable pile of jokes. Old as fuck but definitely worth a second watch. I just watched it and both laughed and cringed in equal measure.

Dirty aint so dirty!!! i should of pissed on her.

After getting completely parred in public by this girl i was trying to impress by threatening to piss on her in the smoking area of lakota, she fucking rinsed me in this song she wrote and sung about the entire situation. i know people like hearing girls ripping the piss out of me so here you go. its the first song on her page titled "Dirty aint so dirty"



The most Useless Machine Ever (with instructions)...

Want to build one? Have nothing better to do?

Lost & ffffound

If you pick an image that interests you on the homepage of and then subsequently click another image linked to the image you first chose you can construct a completely random image chain in a similar fashion to this...

The Dead Flag Blues

'Godspeed You Black Emporer' are a post rock band that hail from Quebec. I cannot describe how nang this band are. They make instrumental tunes (most of the time) but occasionally smack some lyrics into the core of their existentialisms. The passage below is taken from the opening track of their second studio release 'F♯A♯∞'. If anyone can find a passage of words that are doper than this then I would very much like to hear/read/think and see them NOW!!!!!!!!!!


The car's on fire and there's no driver at the wheel
and the sewers are all muddied with a thousand lonely suicides
and a dark wind blows
the government is corrupt
and we're on so many drugs
with the radio on and the curtains drawn

we're trapped in the belly of this horrible machine
and the machine is bleeding to death

the sun has fallen down
and the billboards are all leering
and the flags are all dead at the top of their poles

it went like this:

the buildings tumbled in on themselves
mothers clutching babies picked through the rubble
and pulled out their hair

the skyline was beautiful on fire
all twisted metal stretching upwards
everything washed in a thin orange haze

i said: "kiss me, you're beautiful -
these are truly the last days"

you grabbed my hand and we fell into it
like a daydream or a fever

we woke up one morning and fell a little further down -
for sure it's the valley of death

i open up my wallet
and it's full of blood


New cover art from sexy man bloke BIG TAM aka MR SORN.

"ADR001 Hosts BMK's 'Twilight' as its first release with a stunning remix by the king of soulful Drum and Bass 'Utah Jazz'. This track has been supported by Grooverider, Fabio, Dan Marshall and D-Code to name a few and looks set to be a smash early 2010. BMK is an upcoming producer who has had releases on many other labels and is set to be a rising star for 2010. With the backing of Utah Jazz on this formidable release, it has set the scene for Audio Danger Records."

Out next month on Audio Danger Records
Check them bad boys out, they dangerous. I ain't lying.


Papercuts – inkspills vibes over subject matter
tic-a-tape remnances represent his last attempt
head nod copperpot - pen cracks page on a beat pattern boom bap
sounding out his avenues - gun turret echo hammer

Attempts to tap into cerebrals – rust covered armour creak - Fighting for lines in a likely story
The trouble is a lifetime of level ups levelheadedness and heavy stress - abacus additions - insomnia gameshows and light spangled etiquette

I consume mind numbing compounds
periodic table snot fodder white collar worker snout candy at the same very time as attempting to indulge my database enter data in a stormcloud of energy
If you could see me now – 7 hours later with a 16 bar monologue coughing up the same old subject matter jargon at a heap of pretenders bent backwards - you would probably on first listen rate me a lost soul wickerman flaming like a rocket pack tickling odder days and occasions.

Autobiographical ensembles – a selection of moments in time frozen - nothing more or less
Steeplechasing punchlines that wind me up
Formulas for now - these tethers these streets these storm ravaged wind snapping lives bruised and battered
I speak and shuffle letterforms for the smacked up muddy souled pie charts facts and figures skeletal
A heart palpitation short of the rigormort.

Cause that's entertainment even though its not entertaining to see a man put his soul into the pattern matter even if the patterns matter not - I still step to stuff like a fairground powercut - plotting to shoot down in flames the way in which your brain breathes in and out.

We are the world champions of nothing
Man made moon matter sprinkled on your sundaes
Scissortongue – ghost ship lieutenant – dancing on your front lawn – grave digging death linen.

The last few years vaguely summed up by a selection of pictures.