Hilarious Lookalikes 2015

Fucking hell, you can tell that I'm struggling for original material because I'm wheeling out some Hilarious Lookalikes already, and WRDM is only two posts in this year! Luckily for you that when it comes to delivering Hilarious Lookalikes on the internet, I'm the master.

So, sit back, relax, strap your sides together and LOOK at the fucking state of THESE:

No, I can't do any Hilarious Lookalikes today. Sorry. I've just been on Resident Advisor to look for DJs to Google Image and nothing is standing out. RL Grime doesn't look like anyone, DJ Rolando doesn't look like anyone, Maya Jane Coles doesn't look like anyone and neither does Truss. Maria New Yen might be the best looking DJ I've seen in ages, but she doesn't look like anyone. Upside down smiley face. It might be a short one this week, lads, so I can't see Resident Advisor sticking this on the Feed, unfortunately.

One day, I was talking to someone at Resident Advisor. I'd just finished discussing the future of music journalism with Dan BeaumontThunder Miles, Ian McQuaid, Naomi 'Daft Punk UK PR' Williams and the Godfather of UK house and acid, Terry Francis, I mean Farley; Terry Farley in front of a live studio audience at the London Electronic Music Event 2014 (LEME) and I was on one of those post-gig highs, know what I mean? All the saddos networked around me as I nonchalantly sat on the edge of the stage in my own silent, reflective solitude, glugging on Glens vodka in a plastic Volvic water bottle as my legs and feet wobbled and bobbled beneath me (I was secretly drinking vodka because it helps with the nerves and stage-fright - I learned that from Oliver Reed).

A strong, tall and handsome young man called NAME OBSCURED OUT OF KINDNESS BY ME bravely approached me and said that he was a fan of the Weekly Review of Dance Music and Tonka's Week on Ran$om Note. I said, "thanks, mate. What's your name?" He said, "NAME OBSCURED OUT OF KINDNESS BY ME and I write reviews on Resident Advisor." The plucky upstart then told me that if I change my style of writing slightly and assume a different pseudonym, I'd probably be able to get paid for reviewing songs on RA. At the time, I said something like, "thanks, but fuck off. My name is Tonka, I am Tonka, I will always be Tonka" before fucking off myself...to do some networking, brown-nosing and palm-pressing of my own.

October 2014. A few months had passed, the summer had ended and the rush of pretending to be a music journalist on stage with some proper people in the music industry fell away suddenly like when you stop being high at about 11.15am on a Sunday morning after you've been sniffing crushed-up ecstasy E tablets up your nostrils since the club shut it's doors and you're sat on the cold laminate floor of your living room wishing that your mates would fuck off home and leave you alone so that you can try and wank over the mucky magazines you've got stashed in your wardrobe before attempting to sleep and you end up on your little single bed in the box room until gone 5pm annihilating the rubbery semi-hard worm in your hand whilst imagining that it's YOU in the pages getting your face sat on and your make-believe twelve inch sledge-hammer of a cock battered by the two blonde bisexual lesbian cheerleaders and the only way you can end up cumming is by ramming a ripe banana up your ring piece and thinking back to the only time you've actually had sex for real three years previously with a real person for real in reality instead of the majority of the time you spend cooped up in your day dream world of fantasy fucks and pretend orgies with super models and colleagues and neighbours and lady DJs and soap stars and friends and non-blood related relatives and when you finally release that tear drop of spunk from the tip of your red raw bell end you breathe a sorry sigh of relief and fall backwards on to the mattress and snooze until you have to get up for work on Monday morning promising that pale-faced, dead-eyed twat in the mirror that you'll never get that fucked up before the start of a new term again, but you know you've already got your tickets booked for Sonar, Farr, Bestival, a couple of Electric Minds, Bloc and the next few Bugged Outs. I soon came to realise that I'm not a proper music journalist, I'm a fucking blogger who writes TRUTH about his (my) life and some of the best music reviews this side of the Grand Canyon, plus some cracking interviews.

Can you imagine me writing long and intellectual articles about DJs and artists you've never heard of or probably won't remember in six months time like Philip Sherburne does or trying to make out like the upcoming Carl Cox / Mixmag CD is anything other than a balls-up in Mixmag's programming department?

Fucking hell. I bet this was Chubby Funster's fault. LOLoutLOUD. They're making you pay for a magazine with a CD on the cover that, unless I've got the wrong end of the stick here, was given away on a copy of Mixmag eight fucking years ago and making out like they're pushing it for reasons of nostalgia, rather than the MASSIVE main course drop by one of the should-soon-be-sacked Storm Troopers that it is. They need someone like me on board, I reckon. Mixmag, I know that at least one of you reads the world famous Weekly Review of Dance Music, so get in touch and I'll do a few articles for you. For money.

I forgot what the point of this week's post is now. Oh yeah, someone said that I could write some reviews on Resident Advisor if I changed my name and style of writing. What I should have said then was, "if you really want someone with a different name and a different style of writing to mine to write reviews on your website, why don't you go and trawl the internet for the thousands of Hilarious Lookalike dance music websites and blogs and pick some fucker at random", but I always think of great responses like that six months after I should have said them. There are fucking LOADS of them, I should have probably continued, saying the same things in the same style and it's all as boring as this post is now getting to me. Most of them have exactly the same content (written by the same PR people) and the droids who put their names to a lot of these sites are the same desperate wankers you bump into at the various press launch events that promise LOADS but never, ever deliver or are as important to real people as they are to the people paid to promote them, like Google's night club history mapping thing with Danny Rampling a couple of years ago. Remember that? I remember the press launch because it had free drinks and hamburgers, but I don't ever remember seeing any Google+ nightclub stuff being shared on any of my timelines.

I shouldn't knock people for having ideas and trying new things though.

I'll be back next Tuesday with lots, loads and an enormous amount of brand new content.

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Fuck me, why do I do this? Here's the Carl Cox 'retro' stream: