Holding out the begging cup again

staff meeting

Those of you even remotely interested in the affairs of state of Demon Pigeon Dot Com will have noticed a resurgence of late, a general tilting at the windmills of the internet. We’ve been posting a lot. You get the drift. But rather than shoot our literary load and then go into hibernation for an extended period (a tactic that has proved so spectacularly successful for us in the past), we’d really like to be able to keep going, feel the impetus beneath our feet. But to do that, we need some fresh blood. We need you. Well maybe not you, but possibly you.

We have a pretty healthy crop of damn fine writers, but they all do this for free, and we don’t want to work them too hard or they’ll all go away. So we are looking to bolster our stable with some new writers who would like to see the prestigious title of ‘ex-writer for Demon Pigeon’ clutter up their CV at some unspecified future date.

We can’t offer you any money. Sorry about that. We can’t offer you fame. We can’t even offer guarantees of free stuff, seeing as most PR agencies don’t really like us very much any more. What we can offer you is…um….

Well here’s the thing. We like writing here, and if you are the sort of person who likes writing, then chances are you’ll like writing for us. If you are unfamiliar with our work to date, feel free to have a click around the site to see the kinds of things we do. Some good examples might be here, here, here, here, here and here. We don’t have a manifesto as such, because that would be ridiculous, but we care about the content of our articles. What we really want is to move away from the standard ‘reviews and interviews’ bread and butter of music blogging, and do more interesting things.

Join us at Demon Pigeon and as long as your writing is up to scratch we are very flexible about what you might want to write about. We may primarily a website that caters to the tastes of children (heavy metal, computer games etc) but there’s not a lot that will remain off the table subject wise.

If you’re serious about writing, and you want to bulk out your portfolio with interesting and varied articles then this might be an opportunity for you. We have a healthy and diverse audience, and some of our writers have already moved on to loftier heights. We haven’t because we’re scared of heights, but that’s a different story.

So if you have the ability to make words form sentences in a way that is both delightful and legible, an interest in music, film, comics and other trivialities of modern life that extends beyond the legally advisable and preferably a very low sense of self worth that will allow your new overlords to bully you into working long into the night for the aforementioned zero pay, please get in contact.

If you are interested you can email coop@demonpigeon.com, telling us what kind of thing you’d like to write about, and attaching a sample of your work. We are especially looking for female writers because we’d like to have a bit more balance in that area than we currently enjoy.

We cannot guarantee responses because if you are awful, well then that’s just awkward.

Good luck!



Chapter One

Amstrad Arkady adjusted the fit of his Sennheisers and hyped the amplitude of the twitchy glitchcore that spasmed in his ear canals. He’d been listening to progressive chipstep earlier, but the defining moment of his day was nearly on him and he couldn’t afford to drop brain cycles on digesting those chewy morsels of 8-bit goodness. Shit was about to go crunch time and Amstrad knew he had to be ready. He felt like Neo at the decision point, confronted with an OR gate marked redpill/bluepill. Blue was not an option. He wasn’t interested in finding the princess in another castle. There was only one castle he cared about. It was his World 1-1.

Oinku.jp. The sickest private torrent tracker ever to ride the series of tubes. The go to site for rippers, crackers, hackers, scanners, zero-dayers, zero-payers and netizens-to-know. The internet elite. And it wasn’t just about the content, either. With an Oinku account came a forums membership. Not even 404chan could outmatch the pace and ruthlessness of the Oinku forum meme cycle. Acceptance there meant you’d made it. After that, there was nowhere else worth visiting. You’d won the internet, for serial.

There were people trading sexual favours via Craigslist for invites, Amstrad had read. He thought about that a lot. He was prepared to take that step, but circumstances complicated things. That was why he was sweating, pearly droplets clouded with the reflected glow of his widescreen Lacey, as he idled in #oinkuinvites. When his handle ticked to the top of the list, he’d get a PM from the admin. Then he’d take a grilling on lossless formats, bitrates, encoders, metadata and ripping techniques. If he didn’t display an epic mastery of all relevant nodes, he’d be done. Perma’d. But if he Tony Hawked his way through – and he prayed to Miyamoto himself that he could – he’d have the golden ticket. And in the future, that meant invites of his own, to bestow at his whim. He’d fapped himself sore thinking about answering some of those Craigslist ads. He’d already emailed a few, speculatively, requesting tits or n00dz, to no avail. He needed something to back it up with.

But that was all froth on the Mt Dew. The real prize was that precious invite. The ping of his homebrew IRC client slotted itself into a gap in the glitchscape, indicating a new PM.

It was showtime.

Excerpt from BAD RIP, an imaginary novel not currently being written by Noel Oxford.

An Auditory Experience

Every now and again here at Pigeon Towers, usually while we are cleaning out the cages of those ex writers who cannot again face the outside world, we attempt to have some kind of editorial meeting.

Sometimes these affairs take the form of long despondent howls of ennui towards the moon that form a kind of mantra, the end result of which is a vague agreement that we need to do stuff. Sometimes these are full on enthusiasm rages that produce reams of notes on things that we can do to envelop the planet with the brand of Demon Pigeon. All of which, naturally, come to nothing. Which is why you have yet to see Demon Pigeon flavoured condoms, Demon Pigeon thongs or a great big zeppelin hovering over the great metropolis of Swindon playing both halves of the new UFOmammut album on constant repeat through a series of antiquated speaker systems.

At one of these such meetings, the idea surfaced briefly of us doing a podcast. This idea was shot down fairly quickly in a flurry of protests, most of them quite legitimate. We are singularly incapable of creating anything more complex than stream-of-consciousness ramblings in type. We cannot use technology (remember when we said we were going to redesign the site?) and we are, all in all, far too shambolic in our engagement to put our minds to such a task. It was folly.

But now, while a Demon Pigeon Auditory Experience is no closer to reality than Jesus, one of our fine scribes (Mr Will Downes of making Testament fans angry fame) has gone and found some people who aren’t quite so utterly incapable of facing the world and gone and made a podcast with them. We would say that we’re jealous, but the truth is we are all just relieved that this means we won’t have to do it.

The podcast is called Meavy Hetal and you can find the first episode below, and ‘like’ them on ‘the Facebook’ here. In the first episode there’s some very good songs from the likes of Origin, Testament and other such bands, there’s an interview with York based up and comers RSJ, and some general banter and stuff. I think it is very good, and not just because I hope that if I say that then they’ll invite me on next week and allow me to play a 20 minute long Colour Haze song and a 30 second long Pig Destroyer one.

The Pusillanimous Pulloverine: Part Four

Heroic Lol Loxby has undergone a strenuous Jägermeister-fuelled transformation into the “being” soon to be dubbed the Pulloverine. His first selfless act, rescuing a gormless hipster from certain death, has resulted in an untimely squashing, leaving him buried beneath flaming wreckage. The Panic Cell concert is now a smog-choked disaster, having been literally electrified by seeping Jäger from idiot Luke Bell’s stupid fucking bottle microphone.

(Click to enlarge)