This week's Weekly Review of Dance Music is coming at ya (you) live from the insides of my mind, and it's inside my mind where you'll come (not cum) across things like my memories and bits of brain (my brain). Can you imagine what it's like inside of my brain? I can because it's my mind and everything inside of my brain is just for me, except for when I share selected items from my brain mind and transfer it on to the cyber pages of the world famous Weekly Review of Dance Music. I love telling you about things that have happened in my past because, in a literal kind of way, I'm indulging in nostalgia, and nostalgia is a big market at the moment.

A big fucking market, and I'm getting paid fuck all for anything lately; that Mixmag job offer didn't come to anything, my quarterly Google AdSense cheque isn't half as much as I expected after the DJ Harvey interview, the WRDMHQ boiler needs fixing, we've got damp under the stairs and Meoko still owe me seventy five quid for something I did for them a year ago.


To be honest, ladies and gentlemen, WRDMHQ Capital Holdings Ltd. in Northolt is currently in a state of regrettable restructure. I've had to let go of three of my red hot teenage German bisexual lesbian typists as part of the first phase of cost-cutting exercises and I can see more job losses on the horizon. Maybe I need to clean my act up so that I can get paid to write about the clubs YOU need to go to over the weekend in the Friday edition of Metro, or something. The other week I had a PEER to PEER with a Guardian journalist slip through my fingers because of a blue routine I performed on the Ran$om Note. She didn't like the anal sex/mint choc chip condom anecdote any more than anyone else did and reneged on our interview. I don't fucking blame her. Who's going to throw money at me and fly Tonka off to LA to chat with the two remaining Beastie Boys after reading about me shit stabbing a wench I picked up in Walsall back in the day? Who's going to buy a feature on early noughties hard house anymore? Who wants to read about how I can ecstasy E tablet ANYBODY under the table, even Shabs off of Channel 4 Drugs Live?

This website (I can't even say its name right now, I'm that angry) is a fat and greasy receptacle for all that's bad about dance music journalism (sometimes). It's ramma-jamma full of crap stories, needless swearing, excessive use of brackets and capital letters, total disregard for ANYONE else in the music journalism universe, shameless promotion of people I'm friendly with on social media and desperately transparent, long-winded 'articles' about how I want WRDM to be taken seriously alongside pseudo-intellectual-bum-tonguing-sub-cheeky interviews with artists I want to associate myself with and, lately, PROPER journalists I'm cynically shining a light on in order to have a larger light shone back on me in my PEER to PEER series! It's a fucking shambles, to be honest, and I'm embarrassed at myself. Who'd fucking read this, eh? I'm not being funny, but it's fucking rubbish and I'm quitting being Tonka as of today. Somebody else can do it from now on because I'm finished. As of now!





Only joking! LOLoutLOUD. The Weekly Review of Dance Music is fucking brilliant and it always will be. PEER to PEER with the brand new, and very well deserving, North American editor of Resident Advisor, Andrew Ryce, is coming sooooooooooooooooooooooooon.

My nose is fucking filthy.

And it stinks of shit.

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