Although it is not often, if at all, discussed among his devoted scholars and biographers, H.P. Lovecraft’s description of the townsfolk of Dunwich in his classic short ‘The Dunwich Horror’ leave one with little doubt that the writer must have visited Sunderland at some point:

“Two centuries ago, when talk of witch-blood, Satan-worship and strange forest presences were not laughed at, it was the custom to give reasons for avoiding the locality. In our sensible age [. . .] people shun it without knowing exactly why. Perhaps one reason – though it cannot apply to uninformed strangers – is that the natives are now repellently decadent, having gone far along the path of retrogression [. . .] They have come to form a race by themselves, with the well-defined mental and physical stigmata of degeneracy and inbreeding. The average of their intelligence is woefully low, whilst their annals reek of overt viciousness and of half-ridden murders, incests and deeds of almost unnameable violence and perversity.” (2007: 180)

Sound like Mackems to me!


Lovecraft, H.P. (2007) ‘The Dunwich Horror,’ The Whisperer in Darkness Ware, Herts.:Wordsworth Editions Ltd. pp178-216


Correspondence: Anonymous Stokes Croft Twat

Readers from the South West,

If for whatever reason you fail to loathe the tie-dyed snot-rags-posing-as-humans that parade around the Stokes Croft area of Bristol vomiting cliché upon cliché, trying to dress up their attention-seeking loud-mouthery as social conscience as much as I do, today I found something which may push you in the right direction. On visiting a local internet cafe I noticed some utter twat had left this hippie tripe on the computer:

“Strange Bedfellows

Perhaps it’s the seashell logo. Snow stained black. That year environmentalists staged a die-in protest. On the floor humans dressed as the tundra’s furred giants. On the walls photographs of tigers, hippos small insects. Because all life is important. Snap.

Searching for lost prey
exhausted bears heave ashore.
Winter land dwindles.

Our museum’s caved mouth drinks visitors. Looking back from the stone wall, a furry ball of monkey perches on a branch. Moustache like an old man. The Evening Post’s photographer poses us on the steps. We protest the Veolia Environment, proffer fliers. People stop and chat or snarl, pull back shocked. Identify us by anorak markings. Boycott Israel tee-shirts. Find us dangerous as a half-starved bear.

Venomous reptiles
in a suburban garden.
Do not lift the rock.

Our leaflets show that Veolia furthers an apartheid system. Provides buses for illegal settlements. A series of maps reveal a land breaking into chunks like melting ice caps. Endangered Palestinians fast disappearing. Best kept in a zoo. Caged or behind walls. Catch the moment before it disappears.”

Wow, deep. Ha! Who is this person?! Come clean. We need to track this cunt down and name and shame them. “Find us dangerous as a half-starved bear”! No one finds you dangerous mate, just really fucking lame. Fuck off back to your squat and gas yourself.

Brown Ale Trainers

The good people at Nike have decked out staff at NOTA HQ in their “Newcastle” Dunk Low SB Premium trainers to show their support for our well documented coverage Shearer’s campaign to raise awareness of poor military funding by bedding a staggering 206 record-breaking slags. The training shoes were inspired by Newcastle Brown Ale and, I’m fairly sure, the Queen Mum would have loved them. For the Boys!

McCoy Speaks!

Just found this fascinating interview with the legendary massage parlour reviewer – and hero to all at NOTA HQ – George McCoy by Sunday Mercury‘s Ben Goldby from wayback in July. Thought the Boys might enjoy it!

And if you are feeling somewhat keen at investigate further then why not check out the McCoy guide online, I mean, pretty sure that’s what the Boys would do . . . I know I would!