North South Collide – Episode 16

STOP THE PRESS! It’s returned! The boys are back in town with an all new podcast for your ears to please themselves to.

See if you can spot the sound of beer cans being cracked open mid-recording. As we like to remind you continuously throughout this series, standards, and quality accorded to the North South Collide podcast in general, is very much average at best.

“They’d listen to 5 minutes of this podcast and you’d be unemployable, pal” – Josh, on the impact of the podcast on the success of Dylan’s employability.


How to get declined at an interview for flatmates

Dylan Yates | Mike goes ‘in utero’ on the job at hand

Looking into the mirror Mike decided he only had one shot at completing this interview. It had to go well, at ALL costs. At 52 years he was perhaps a little too old for this sort of shenanigans, but no-one could convince him of that at this point.

Languid and forlorn looking, Mike was one of those with a weasely-demeanour, rat brow, thick spectacles, and Louis Theroux nose. Yes, that’s right, a Louis Theroux.

By day he watched back to back episodes of HIGNFY and drew pictures of the spiked Louis Vuittons. There’s a lot to be said about the comparisons between Louis Vuitton and Mike. Anyway, back to matters. He was here on a date with a select committee from the Stothard House Benefits Association. Namely, he was here on the premise of acquiring accommodation.

Strolling along his designated route, he stopped by the basketball courts to analyse the situation. A fat, blonde monkey-like youth was eying him suspiciously while aiming a slingshot in his direction. Should he pass, Mike thought, or take the bait?

Deciding that a quick burst of pace could turn his stroll into a trot that in this instance might prove to be the desired approach to the pressing danger, he did so. The blonde lad looked churlishly into the ground and seemed to think better of any slingshot ideas. ‘Victory,’ Mike thought gleefully. He meandered on across to the foot of the house where the committee was due to start proceedings. Gulping, he stepped tentatively to the front door and with a hand balled into a fist, rapped softly.


The committee was a bunch of mainly young looking men and women, some twirling jazz cigarettes, some with spiked Louis Vuittons, some with absolutely no idea whatsoever how to dress, and some who looked like they’d forgotten what the practical use for clothes even is.

Some Louis Armstrong played gently in the background and half-full bottles of wine lit the interior with bohemian warmth. The first thing about the room that struck Mike (there were a few things to visibly strike him on that initial entrance) was how un-decided everyone appeared to be. Bearing in mind he had to convince these people to let him live with them, their apathetic state didn’t seem the perfect situe in which to conduct an appeal.

One chap, for example, was sat passed out on a white Lamé-faced sofa, in the back of the room. With a Donald Glover mask over his private Ryan’s. Mike was alarmed, but didn’t let a trace of it leak into his face (quietly humming eE´‰‰E´e´to himself was enough).

Swallowing, he introduced himself to the glowering room.

“Hi everybody, my name’s Mike.”

A particularly shifty looking girl with Philomena arms invited Mike to sit down. She was wearing a low-cut purple blouse that Mike got a cheeky look down the top of as he did so and was very pleased with what was glimpsed. Little Mike smiled with him.

The scene was lavishly painted. The man facing Mike was wearing black Gazelle frames and a stare colder than December. The first question rocked Mikey a little.

“Why are you wearing a suit?”

Mike thought for a moment, looking around for a clue, a chink in their armour perhaps. Well, anything!

“Come on you little turd, think” said Mike, to himself, but in such a fashion (ie, aloud) that the comment looked like it was directed to the room at large.

That was it: They had him by the Jim Jarmusch’s. What was it to be?

He eyed the room nervously, salivating to the point of dog-like excitement. Why were they all watching him so fervently?

Exclaiming a wail of terror, Mike leapt out of his seat and pounded a hefty retreat back out the hole in the wall from whence he had entered.

That was interview one out of the way, next stop, Fort Chompingdale.


Maybe it’s the feminist literature I’m into so deeply at the moment that’s making me off-putting, but you know, generally, I’ve found the stuff really inspiring. Being comfortable with my boobs, you know, that sort of thing.

I think I’m going to cut my hair into a bob and start dressing like a lesbian. A ‘Mummy’s boy’ dilemma, the therapists call it. (Note to self – maybe this is a good title for my new album).  OK, I know women who shave their head with a razor and get inked up and down their body aren’t exactly the spitting image of my mum, but the instinct is basically there. Once she called me a shit-arse and refused to clean my bed after I soiled it. I was like, 24, but still. The principle of the matter is the same.

On the subject of which, there is, in my opinion, too many ‘likes’ in contemporary parlance. I mean, I know I use it, and in some ways it’s not even a bad preposition if only for the cadence of one’s sentence, but I’m not really down with these public school types who preface every sentence with ‘Like’. (Yes that’s you Donald!) Example:

‘What’s the water like down there Miles?’

(and here, think thick royal counties accent): “Liiiiiiiiike, it’s cold, but like not that cold, Hubert”.

It seeps into like, everything though. I suppose it’s parenting. I mean, everyone wonders why I write like a 13-year-old American schoolgirl but really they should get a look at my childhood. I mean God, you should see what momo used to do to me and Elliot in (clothes I’m on about, mother, we’ll leave your culinary deficiencies for another time).

Today I was listening to some Drake music and after that I basically started jumping around the house singing and dancing then took a picture of myself with a caption that read, ‘and im like, ‘fella, wot!’’ I wanted to tag Elliot, but you know, I don’t think daddy’s quite there yet. If Marie-Antoinette can do it (and by God, I think the young girl just might’ve) then so can I. While I realise second-guessing what Mazza would or wouldn’t have done isn’t exactly valediction for a selfie (or, actually, normal, productive behaviour) it’s a damn sight better than the sort of nonsense Pop is sending me down the snapchat vine these days.

I actually wait to get into an empty room to open one of his messages, just in case someone on the tube looking over my shoulder gets the wrong impression and thinks that bald homosexuals on sex offender lists are sending me profile pics via Grinder. I swear the man’s got issues. Each picture is grimmer than the next. He doesn’t seem to have mastered the fact that actually, if he wants to send a message, there’s whatsapp, and that taking a picture of his face and typing over the top of it, ‘just waxed my balls’ is a bit unnecessary. I mean the message was about a new haircut, but, well, you get the point.

OK, diary, signing off for the night, gonna crawl through more youtube interviews with Lena Dunham and get some advice on being a strong independent woman. Word up momo. Night.

North South Collide – Episode 15

Quite frankly this episode lacks pace, panache, and lucidity. Why even bother listening, I hear the braver amoungst you ask? If you’ll allow me to be perfectly truthful about things, I ponder the same point myself. In fact, I don’t think there’s a good answer.

The symmetrically appealing 30:30 duration that this episode clocks in at might be reason enough for you to give it a whirl. If you were to do so you’d be treated to the sort of nonsensical drivel regular listeners will now be accustomed to. Oh, and we have some new sound effects in this episode! Perhaps that is reason enough. The boys cover such topics as embarrassment, humiliation and getting older, and at one point even question the identity of their respective fathers.

“All you need to say is you’re ill, don’t you…I don’t think you need to start inventing deaths’ – Dylan on pulling ‘the sickie’.