Tag Archives: press

When we first established Clinicality Press, we were fairly clueless about things like web design, and if we’re honest, we didn’t know much about publishing either. By much, we mean anything at all. But since 2007 we’ve managed to fumble our way through to achieve the level of slickness that’s come to define this operation.

In setting up the website, we went with Microsoft’s Office Live Small Business because it was inexpensive and easy to use, and we were a (very) small business. This was a good thing, as it meant we could keep everything in-house and control the look of the site (to the best of our limited technical abilities) and besides, we didn’t have the funds to pay someone else to do it.

Some time ago, Microsoft announced it was discontinuing Office Live Small Business, and replacing it with Office Live 365 with effect from 30th April 2012. Unsurprisingly, the new version actually has less of the functionality of its predecessor (for instance, we find the real-time reports and attendant details extremely useful) and costs more. Instead of offering up to 25 emails per domain, domains are charged per email account, and each email address costs more than the old OLSB domain.

The ‘easy’ ‘migration’ from the old OLSB to Office 365 proved to be anything but, and rather than simply upgrade an existing account, users are required to rebuild their pages from scratch.

Then there was the whole deal of having to reassign the domain name. We didn’t have the foggiest about DSN and this code and the other, and spent a lot of time trying to figure it out. Perhaps we slipped up somewhere, or perhaps we didn’t, but having decided, perhaps against our better judgement, to take advantage of Microsoft’s generous offer of a six-month free trial of the new platform in order to give us time to decide what to do next. Unfortunately, thanks to Microsoft (or their needlessly complex and technical ‘migration’ process), we’ve found ourselves without a domain host sooner than anticipated. This morning we discovered that had disappeared. We’re not entirely sure what happened. is no more.

We’ve lost a lot of pages. Having just published our latest title – and we only put out 2 or 3 a year – the timing couldn’t have been much worse. The plan had been to transfer to Office 365, reassign the domain name and keep the transition as smooth as possible, using it as an opportunity to tweak the site design along the way.

In the event, it wasn’t to be. We decided to cut our losses and move the whole operation to WordPress, and having acquired (the annual hosting costs less than the monthly hosting for maintaining the domain through Microsoft), we are now in the process of rebuilding the entire site. We do still have the text for the Clinical, Brutal interview series, and will be reinstating them and everything else as is humanly possible.

There’s a lot of work to do. If we’re slow to reply to any messages, that’s because we’re busy. Thankfully, we can still access our domain-specific emails. But please, do message us. And do buy our books. The titles already out there are still available through most channels, and we’ll have our own on-line store back up and running as soon as possible.

Meanwhile, keep it brutal.

I’ve got some gigs to review: three nights in a row’s worth, no less. I’m struggling to remember the night before, and the other two had faded to a blur the moment I’d left the venue. I’m shit at taking notes, too. It’s pointless. When I do take notes, I struggle to read them the next morning. My room is littered with scraps of paper, torn, crumpled and beer-stained, with runs of dark ink smeared across them that are supposed to tell me who I’ve watched and what songs they’ve played. Sometimes I manage to bag set lists, but they’re often equally useless because bands usually use abbreviations or private codes when putting song titles down. Besides, if I don’t know whose set list it is, it’s no fucking use anyway, just one more piece of paper cluttering my manky hovel of a space. In a hovel of a bed / I will scream in vain / Oh please Miss Lane / Leave me with some pain…. Yes, song lyrics haunt me, permeate my thought processes. Songs and bands, good, bad and indifferent… I can’t tell the real from reflection. I can’t always remember the songs, let alone the bands. In my room, I keep the curtains drawn most of the time, and it probably stinks, but like I give a fuck. I’m busy, I like to keep it dark and, well, really, who cares? My girlfriend, Laura – she’s rabid in ecstasy – sometimes suggests opening the window when she comes round, but usually she’s content with me lighting some incense, and that’s cool with me.

I turn on the PC. I roll and light a cigarette while it boots up. I usually try to intersperse ‘real’ cigarettes with rollies for economy’s sake. Have another cigarette and have another cigarette, in a room where lovers go, talking on the telephone… Music is my life. I’m not as much lost in music, as made of music. It flows through me. I like a lot of old stuff. Punk, new wave. I’m loathe to say indie, but then indie means different things to different people. To me, it’s not a genre of 90s shit as represented by Blur, Oasis and myriad nameless generic tossbag bands who’ve nicked bits of The Smiths, The Stone Roses and whatnot to create some mediocre, jangly wank that’s brought us to Razorlight and The Wombats and Hard-Fi and Elliot Minor and One Night Only, The Cribs, The Bees, The Definite Article Followed by Forgettable Plural Noun Ad Nauseaum Bag of Spunk in Skinny Jeans and Top Man T-Shirt Playing Flaccid, Poppy Bilge That I Can’t Believe Anyone Gives a Flying Fuck About Given That I’ve Forgotten the Song Before The Second Chorus… the list is as endless as it is forgettable, and would be longer if the bands weren’t all so completely anonymous and generic that their names can’t only escape my recollection.

I sit down, ready to work, but before I can even open a window, there’s a gurgling in my guts and I have to peg it to the bathroom, kicking CDs across the floor on the way. Thankfully, it’s unoccupied. I expel a massive runny beery shit into the pan before my cheeks even hit the seat. Holy fuck! It was a close call. My ring stings like fuck and that’s what I get for having a curry for tea and ten pints on top of it. I wipe, flush and make a hasty exit: I’ve stunk the place out bigstyle, to the extent that the honk makes me want to hurl.

I manage to keep my toast and coffee down and return to my room. I bung a CD picked up off the floor at random  into the player and stare blankly into space. I should find this easy. I’ve been doing it for years, and it’s the job I always dreamed of doing ever since I was a teenager reading Melody Maker and Sounds. But if anything, it gets harder. Harder to write something original, harder to discern the good from the bad from the indifferent, harder not to become so jaded that the whole thing gets depressing, harder to simply keep going. The late nights and long hours take their toll.

Another knock at the door. Dan again.

‘Thought you’d gone out,’ I said.

‘Forgot my baccy,’ he replies. ‘And my wallet. Been cracking one off?’

‘Moron,’ I josh. ‘I was taking a shit. You’d probably….’

‘Yeah, yeah, I’d forget my cock if it wasn’t attached,’ he says, rolling his eyes.

‘I know, it comes in handy a lot of the time,’ I reply. ‘You can leave it home when you think it’s gonna get you in trouble, or you can rent it out, when you don’t need it. But now and then you go to a party, get drunk, and the next morning you can’t for the life of you remember what you did with it. And you really don’t like being without your penis for too long. It makes you feel like less of a man, and you really hate having to sit down every time I take a leak.’

‘Are you finished? Fucking lunatic,’ Dan grizzled. I’ve probably played him King Missile’s Happy Hour album more times than he can remember, and more times than he wants to. But it’s a great album and so I make no apology for it.

I don’t get it with you, Dan had said recently. You’re a reviewer, you should be playing me “important” albums and being superior about it. Y’know, “classic” stuff like Beatles and Bowie or the Beach Boys, or landmark alternative releases, underground classics like Suicide and that sort of thing. But instead you just play endless weird obscure shit like it’s the coolest, most important fucking album on the planet. It is to me, I’d told him. Fuck stereotypes. There’s music for everyone, and I stake my slender reputation on not towing the Q, Mojo, NME line. Which probably explains why I’m still scraping away at the bottom of the ladder, but hey, at least I’m sincere and true to myself and the music. And no, not the band The Music. They’re gash.

‘Yeah, go on,’ I say.

‘Anyway, I was going to say, Amy’s coming round later on, she might be here before I get back. Can you let her in?’

‘Nope, I’m going to leave her on the doorstep, even if it’s pissing it down with rain. I don’t like your girlfriend, I think she’s a slag and I don’t like her in my house.’ He knows I’m kidding: Amy and I get on really well. What he doesn’t know is that I have a bit of a crush on her, which isn’t something I let on to anyone. No good could come of it, and since I can’t do anything about it and as far as I know it’s not reciprocal, there’s no point.

‘I just meant to listen out for the door. I know you can’t always hear the doorbell when you’ve got music on.’

‘Doorbell’s bust,’ I remind him.

‘Oh yeah. Shit.’

He leaves once more and I resume staring into space. I can’t tell if it’s writer’s block, a lack of inspiring subject matter or fatigue. I have a headache and my eyes are so weary I can barely focus on the screen. I light another cigarette and cruise for porn. Inspiration will come in its own sweet time.



Hack is scheduled for publication by Clinicality Press in December