Rats In The Gutter

Like they’ve never done before (cough) the rats talk about democracy’s failings and how its formal and informal elements need to be kept distinct enough we have a functioning society, which anyone with a semi-functioning only marginally divergent brain can see we currently don’t have (or worse, are in the agony stages of losing permanently; use it or lose it!). but on a lighter note . . . eugenics! Sydney Sweeney’s been accused of pimping herself out to an optics of white supremacy, and while the rats are concerned they are also NOT concerned because people are literally dying and an object scientists thought was an asteroid might actually be hostile aliens and will be here by Xmas. It’s kinda hard to no where one’s priorities should be in such trying times. If Auckland had more options these rats might be prioritising getting laid. But unfortunately the wider population doesn’t share their enthusiasm for the orgy at the end of the world, and maybe won’t until it’s too late and we’re all getting lethally probed on a Y2K mothership with Giger-nightmares, no lube. Also on a lusciously varied agenda this week; when road rage is xenophobia, body horror, the alluringly unyielding embrace of a reformer pilates machine, and the lost art of disappearing completely!

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The clubs that raised us! The rats get nostalgic about a time when all venues were open til six AM, where supper clubs could serve you a pre-work night cap at eight, and the shame flowed as thick and hot as mid morning vodka red bulls. It’s a time that seems comparatively free and footloose, where the youths of today wouldn’t hit the club without checking their weekly schedule for important obligations that would otherwise be disrupted by a bender—whereas millennials saw the chic and beauty in premature death, a romantic strain now dead and gone (replaced by mogging mewing looks-maxing and biohacking; yuck!). Also also, LOVE IS BULLSHIT, is something the rats are spilt on—there’s the need for validation and the need for dick, and never the twain shall meet, despite society’s best but misplaced efforts. Was romantic coupling invented by a society geared towards maximal individual productivity and consumerism? Maybe. Finally pidgeons. Johanna has a fantastic fear of our urban companions, a hardy species that, despite raising the eco-diversity of any given city, are also fetid carriers of disease and ill repute. Cute though. Anyway, hear her talk about how they ruin her otherwise pristine cafe experience in Point Chev.

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Okay, so the Katy Perry abuse might’ve crossed over into primal woman-hate; on a local scale we mean. Like, it’s overkill at this point. In this being the rats dissect where the admittedly gleeful train of celebrity hate might accidentally be a mouthpiece for systemic misogyny; or worse, a cultural loathing of brunettes. And what vivisection of the bittersweet phenom known as Katy Perry would be complete without a full chronology of her famous Taylor Swift beef (because, you know, we’re in the mood for some dated trivia). Slightly less dated is Ireland, as both place and concept. They’re on the rats fevered minds this week for two reasons; one, their fabulous Occupied Territories Bill which has Washington shitting itself (rightly so); and two, known bad person Conor McGregor (still hot though) has been named and shamed by Azealia Banks after misguidedly sending her the world’s loudest BPD-sufferer his nudes (*mouth waters). Yes he’s a terrible guy but I bet his rabid psychosis and jacked physique has a nice pink Ireland-reared torpedo to boot; the only missile the British Empire has ever let Ireland have, ironically (and tragically). Press play for all this and more.

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For some reason, or perhaps because a show about surviving late-stage capitalism with your friends and sanity intact is relevant now, the rats revisit some ancient Buffy lore. Or perhaps it’s because a show about the undead resonates with recent national conversations (in actual mainstream media) about resurrecting the moa, or the kiwi when it’s finally extinct; because apparently conservation is redundant when we can just clone back whatever species we accidentally annihilate. It’s important to note that Buffy is not a show about non-violence; rather, it’s about building community and then weaponising that community against the evils of the corporate state (read; the undead). In that vein, maybe we should all be dying our hair blonde and sharpening our stakes because Doctor Hammond’s got his ostrich eggs and syringes ready and the shit’s about to hit the genetically re-engineered fan lol. Also; if this were Dune Northland is Arrakis and Wellington is Caladan (weather wise).

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Twinks; what even are they? This is just one of many hard hitting questions the rats tackle in this week’s free to air (fuckin freeloaders) episode. They don’t come to a conclusion mostly because doing so is grossly homophobic (or do they?). Also on the agenda is whether or not David Seymour should unalive himself which, as always, the rats are pretty strongly in favour of, if only because he represents reddit adjacent vitriol which our spineless PM and the National party broadly has allowed to enter the mainstream chat with the same negligence as America (and we all know how that’s going).

All things considered it’s a rough and tumble world out there at the moment, which is something most women know already. Which is why both rats feel that the quote unquote ‘nice woman’ is not aspirational in this or any climate. I mean, if women have been forced to adopt malicious strategies towards survival because it’s a man’s world and so often global games of dick measuring means mushroom clouds and mass graves, then who can blame the ‘difficult woman’ for being so. Not only is She completely understandable; the rats find her enviable, and seek her out like the Virgin Mary’s older cooler sister who would never lie about a ‘divine pregnancy’ because she’s already nipped the problem in the bud (she knows people). A mixed bag this week.

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SORRY FOLKS - this ep is coming out about a week late due to a technical error

If the rising seas don’t vanish Venice then surely Jeff Bezos’ repugnantly lavish wedding and its vile attendees will sink it faster than nineties-sized Oprah on a boogie board. So hypothesise the rats. Also, Lorde’s Virgin is finally here and so the rats share their initial impressions, and relief that Ella’s stepped away from NZ-tourism adjacent guitar pop and given us something ornate and vaguely menacing, like she’s oh so good at. Also also, the importance of European snobbery comes up as a threshold for good taste globally; naturally, Sabine makes a guest appearance and looks down her very long very French nose at the conspicuous consumption of the mega rich and poo-poos the gauche-ness of extreme wealth, as we all should. In fact, like French peasants and the majority of folk traditions that have come before, we should all probably seek out the embattled grimoires of feudalisms past and hire demon agents to topple the modern-day castles; it’s the purpose witchcraft has served in the past, and the rats concur that vintage is the new Y2k. An infernal curse to give anyone earning over a hundred mil a sentient face-goiter? Tick.

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This ep is proudly sponsored by One Percent Collective: opc.nz/RATS

Reality bends, warps, is vulnerable to liberal edits by every twelve year old with an iPhone, and is the worse off for it. That’s what we’re dealing with, collective sanity taking an extended sabbatical. And that’s the exact tone the rats take with its free-to-you ep this week, a shame-free fact-free spiral down various rabbit holes including Philip K Dick’s absurd declaration of female pop singers being emissaries of a supreme alien intelligence (The Logos), inter-dimensional travellers cleaning up after humanity’s nuclear mishaps, and whether or not Crushes has the best scented candles money can buy (which they do). Though they’d consider themselves empiricists the rats take a break from dialectical methods and explore the ‘what ifs’ of alien disclosure, which famous prophetess Baba Yaga predicted for this year, and which a new doco just premiered at Sundance called Age of Disclosure seems to herald. Are they here already? Do they mean us ill? Considering imminent nuclear holocaust, the rats take a more optimistic view that the aliens want to slow the roll out of total warfare because they can hear it through the interstellar wall, and would prefer we keep the noise down.

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The rats have contracted a mental illness whereby they can’t stop name dropping. Symptoms include swapping stories about famous people who may or may not hate them. Also, seasonal depression is getting mixed up with the existential dread of democracy’s very violent and drawn out end, which the rats have various strategies for combatting; like keto friendly sweet treats courtesy of local brand Justine’s, which Sam has seriously considered emailing with a message of profound gratitude.

Also, the country’s best in-store New World deli is aflame! The rats wonder whether they’ll still be able to get chicken sandwiches and hard boiled eggs on tap once the flames have been extinguished, while also being very grateful that first responders managed to get the flames under control (after several hours, cough). Also also, the rats finally give clarity to the age old question; what IS the difference between a chowder, a bouillabaisse, and a bisque? It all tastes like hot sick anyway, but we still think you’d like to know.

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There seems to be a lot of negative chat re Sabrina Carpenter’s new album cover, and while at least one of the rats thinks Sabrina is the pop world’s most beige offering since Missy Higgins, they both agree that women policing women isn’t on; unless it’s a grown woman advising another grown woman to keep her love of Taylor Swift on the d-low (because like every conservative grifter with a secret Grindr account knows, not all guilty pleasures are quote-unquote innocent). Also; Sam complains (again) about having his expensive douche bottle stolen and renounces Queen Street City Fitness, scene of the crime in question.

He also wonders why the thief would take his douche over his bank card and Blunt umbrella (the rats decide this is yet another act of public desperation motivated by our national cost of living crisis). Finally, the rats are again in awe at people’s lack of capacity for satire, and in the same breath reconsider Michel Houellebecq’s Submission; though of course Houellebecq is a one-note writer, that note being the seemingly endless ballad of a sad white middle-aged man who’s never gotten laid in the way he’d like. His loathing of the middle class and France as a whole is just superb though, and the rats would recommend. Finally, the rats interrogate male laxity around having their mink blankets regularly laundered. As winter staples, it’s a unanimously timely and hard-hitting probing of a fractious and highly politicised topic (spoiler; you should wash your mink blankets every two weeks AT LEAST).

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