The Stool Pigeon, PO Box 52129, London, E2 7XY
editor at thestoolpigeon dot co dot uk
Sir, I was in the pub by myself and I needed to go to the toilet, but it meant I’d lose my table, so I did a noisy wee on the carpet. I read The Stool Pigeon.
(Name withheld)
Shoes With Rockets,
London Pub Reviews
Sir, Selfish Cunt supported ARE Weapons last night and, recognising me as a Stool Pigeon writer, Martin Tomlinson vented his displeasure at that live review in the last issue.
Exhibit 1: During a song called ‘I See a Rat’, Martin pointedly aimed ominous-sounding lyrics directly at me (“She knows where you live!” or somesuch).
Exhibit 2: In a gap between songs, he pointedly remarked, “Sorry for the technical hitch. It’s nothing people can’t write about…”
Exhibit 3: Later, he repeatedly sang, “Fuck all the journalists. Fuck all the whores.”
Exhibit 4: On leaving the stage, he approached me and playfully flourished his fists before heading backstage.
And I didn’t even write the review.
Selfish Cunt were brilliant, by the way - stole the show. Perhaps you’ve inspired them.
Niall O’Keeffe,
London
Sir,
ello
geeze a big kiss
i love you
my beautiful paper
know thine NME
then
crush it with your little pinky toe as you stand mountainous above their tired and weary words
if it’s thee new musical express
then
thee stool pigeon HAS to be
thee new musical bullet-train
YES
they must hate you chaps/chapettes for writing so readably.
asking great and relevant questions (not spouting some bucket o’ BOLLOCKS for half a page without a hint of any point what-so-ever damn it!!)
interesting lay oot
don’t always like it but sometimes i love it
my heart actually beats that little bit faster when i get my first sighting of the new you on the studio floor
rushing as though to thee love o’ my life
arms wide awaiting
thee embrace
thee odour
thee life that’s inside
if your paper was an emotion
to me
right noo
it’d be
x
xx
Bliss
With love,
i, monsteros,
Glasgow
Sir, congratulations on being the best music publication I can find anywhere.
Kid Harpoon,
London
Sir, I sent you a copy of my first single and you didn’t review it. I was disappointed, you could even say I harboured some hate for your newspaper. Please review this second single, from Edinburgh’s rub a dub soundsystem. I still have faith in you and your demo review staff, but don’t fuck with my emotions a second time.
(Name withheld)
Edinburgh
Sir, Ipso Facto played last week and they were the most empty pretentious pile of STINKING BULLSHIT I have ever seen in my fucking life. Thirty minutes of embarrassing self-conscious cringey tripe. Uuuuuggghhhhhh. WHHHYYYYYY??????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Jake Simons,
Surrey
Sir, your new issue is about the single best thing I have ever read. EVER.
Liam,
Glasgow
Sir, almost choked on my yoghurt and mint dip when I noticed Mr Jack Peñate eulogising on hoodies in your December issue. Can you try and interview someone on social responsibility who doesn’t dribble at the sight of cocaine?
(Name withheld)
Via email
Sir, spent Saturday in bed and read the Pigeon front to back. Just about every little exercise in there is a splendour.
Was always the Maker for me. You’re probably too young to remember; greeted each Wednesday by Roberts, Reynolds, Turner’s ‘Orbit’ column, Lester, a heritage of writers which continued right up through to Price, Kulkarni, Moran, Parkes… and the ever present Gerry. NME just couldn’t match, though it still had its graces till 10 years back. An awful fall since.
Anyway, you’re creating something special in music publishing.
Good on you.
Peter Cleak,
Central St. Martins College of Art and Design,
London
Sir, paper. Just got it for the first time from the Scritti gig at the Luminaire. Absolute breath of fresh air (the paper and the gig as it happens). Nice one.
Lance Baldock,
London
SIR, why do the tabloid press find it so fascinating to follow a bouffanted crack head around town? Is it because, jaded as she is, Winehouse offers us a glimpse of what we really want from our musical heroes, all tragedy, bad hair and death wishes? Entertainment truly is in a sorrowful state when tabloid column inches are dominated by the size of Doherty’s wasteline. It’s embarrassing watching The Sun and NME bicker over exclusives like a couple of trannies at a shoe sale. And I’m bored of tiresome little drainpipe-wearing tossers like Foals moaning about what a drag it is being this week’s hip new things. Trust me boys, I grew up in the eighties and you’re neither hip or new. Don’t get ideas above your station. Even for Oxford graduates it ain’t rocket science: you’re in a pop band.
Mickey G,
Art Dept
