Tag Archives: the fucking cunts treat us like pricks

Flux Of Pink Indians*1

THANKS to the wonders of the modern mechanical webnet, I can tell you with some certainty that the following interview took place on Sunday, August 25, 1984 at the Leadmill in Sheffield.

I can’t tell you much else about it though. Flux didn’t like specific quotes being attributed to individual members in their interviews, so who says what will have to remain a mystery – though I do remember that Col Latter and Derek Birkett seemed to do most of the talking.

Flux had just released The Fucking Cunts Treat Us Like Pricks a few months before and were just about to release a brace of singles in the shape of Fuck Off Thatcher and Taking A Liberty. We spoke midway through their miners’ strike benefit tour alongside Chumbawamba, D&V and KUKL.

Reading it now, like so many of the interviews I did back in fanzine land, it seems like something of a missed opportunity. If I’d spent more time thinking about what Flux were trying to say and less time being deliberately obnoxious, we might have got somewhere – but I didn’t.

Don’t judge me. It was a long time ago.

* * *

DO YOU think Fuck Off Thatcher or anything like it will ever change anyone’s opinion of Thatcher?

“Well, why won’t it? I mean, the way you emphasise the way it’s presented ..”

I’m talking about little old ladies who go down to Conservative Club bridge evenings.
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Filed under expletive undeleted, interviews

The Fucking Cunts Treat Us Like Pricks by Flux Of Pink Indians (Spiderleg Records)

I WATCH the postman wheel his cart down the other side of our road and wonder if eil.com can have got my order to me by today. I get a bit excited all of a sudden.

A few minutes later, he’s coming back down our side of the street. He’s a couple of houses away. I hold my breath. Come on lad, I think, you can do it.

The buzzer goes. “Package for you,” it says in a metallic Mancunian monotone.

Two seconds and three storeys later, I open the front door and take the 12-inch cardboard mailer from the unsuspecting postie. If only you knew what you‘re delivering, I think to myself, idiotically, as I thank him.

I make myself walk back up the stairs at a more sedate pace. It’s a big effort. When I get back in the flat I sit on the settee, open the package and slide the album out of its protective sleeve to reveal the savagely androgynous figures on the cover, still every bit as striking, ugly, perverse and compelling as the first day I saw them.

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Filed under hip replacement, punk rock