Samuel Lear: Just The Facts

Samuel Lear is the erstwhile Editor-in-Chief of Redbrick, the University of Birmingham's student newspaper. In return for the stellar work he's done in the past year, I've decided to immortalise him in the only way I know how. No holds barred, Pulitzer-worthy, face-punching journalism! I proudly! But apologetically, present: Samuel Lear's Man-Facts!

***

Samuel Lear writes 200-character tweets and Twitter doesn't fucking dare stop him.

Irony cannot define Samuel Lear.

Samuel Lear once got an iPad pregnant because millions of years of evolution weren't looking.

Being editor has a few privileges. Being Samuel Lear has all the privileges. 

Samuel Lear's regal nature actually echoes back through time, inspiring Shakespeare when he was on a really sweet opium trip.

Samuel Lear has a book containing over 2000 personal pick-up lines. But the use of any by anyone not medically classified as Samuel Lear will increase the sale of rape alarms by 400% nationwide.

... ladies.

The sun cannot look directly at Samuel Lear.

Samuel Lear's CV is just a mugshot of himself attached to his Criminal Record. I'd like to see the Editor that doesn't fucking hire him.

Every single time Samuel Lear cracks a joke, the corpse of Bill Hicks shoots its hand up for a high five.

Samuel Lear's headlines are so manly, just reading one will make a woman limp for days.

When you're tired of respecting Samuel Lear, you're tired of not living in constant, agonising pain.

The secrets to true happiness, man's existence and to beating Mike Tyson's Punch Out came to Samuel Lear in a dream. Unfortunately, he forgot them in another dream.

This game was just ludicrously racist. I mean, Mickey Rooney in Breakfast at Tiffany's racist.

Samuel Lear framed Roger Rabbit.

If you're reading this in the dark, Samuel Lear is standing behind you right goddamn now.

Samuel Lear has never once called tech support. His laptop is simply too afraid of him to break.

In 1925, Parliament passed a law preventing Samuel Lear from ever taking part in a game of Trivial Pursuit. Because he always won in like 6 moves, it was just unfair to everyone else.

Samuel Lear sleeps with both eyes and the Guardian open.

Samuel Lear is so sexually charged, his erection can only point towards magnetic north.

Saying Samuel Lear's real name out loud will open a portal t- Christ! I just said it! Why?! Why can't I type in my head?! I can't help loving the sound of my own voice! God forgive me! My hubris has doomed us all!

No 'journalists' were harmed in the writing of this article. Well, not many anyway.

Whaling Under The Influence: A Drunk's Guide To Negotiating Sex With Fat Chicks

Do you crave companionship? Do you feel you say just the wrong thing at just the wrong time? Do you want to jam your dick in a woman that could be confused for a manatee, even by a shark? God's only creation known to boast Olympic Golds in Whale Detection and Murder? [While we're on the subject, seriously, fuck sharks. Why don't people realise they're the Creator's way of saying: "See, this is why I gave you legs. Stay the fuck out of my oceans." Makes you wonder what he's keeping out there. Meth lab probably, how else do you explain Australia?] Anyway, if so, are you in luck! Let's be honest though, you're toasted, you need to get this thing done quick before irreversible chromosomal damage or worse, whiskey dick. To hell with what Science or Religion might say! Those prudish fucks don't know how to have fun anyway! You my friend, are getting laid tonight!

***

You've probably heard that statistically, as a nation, fuck - as a species, we're getting fatter. But actually finding a woman that you could lose your phone, wallet and keys in is pretty tough. Large women rarely congregate. They're like Will Smith in that film, except instead of drinking scotch in the street and generally acting like a bitchy queen, they do something meaningful with their lives. Like gargling your balls for a packet of Iced Gems. HANCOCK. That was the film. Seriously, the only thing that could have stopped that movie sucking harder than a Dyson somehow engineered with pornstar DNA, would have been Charlize Theron taking her bra off. Seriously, has Will Smith ever been involved in anything more shameful?

Oh, right.

Even in crowded rooms fat chicks have a knack for blending in (it's a vestigial behaviour from back when they needed to to camouflage themselves in packs of cave-men in order to hunt). A neat trick is to scatter a handful of small objects into the air (carpet tacks usually work well) and see if a prime specimen's gravitational field draws them into orbit. Once you've picked out your chosen cetacean, wade through the school of ladies to reach it - they have a symbiotic relationship, like those birds that clean crocodile teeth for amnesty from a swift, violent death. A lot like that now that I think about it.

How's your gag reflex?

The plus size woman is a notoriously elusive creature, prone to random, crippling attacks of paranoia and easily spooked by strange objects like salad forks and penises. Despite this, they have surprisingly short attention spans, so if you don't keep one constantly focused and engaged, they may forget who you are or wander off into traffic. For that reason it's important to bring a large supply of Ritalin, but disguise them as raisins. Like pheasants, fat chicks go wild for raisins [NB: if you got that reference, congratulations on having a successful and rewarding childhood]. I've also found a lot of success baiting bear traps with take out Wagamamas.

It's unlikely that you'd have to talk to the creature, in our early stages of evolution, we were too busy doing awesome shit like killing mammoths with sharp rocks, or carving rudimentary pornography on cave walls to invent ear muffs. Naturally, God stepped in (like the gentleman that he clearly is) and fixed things so that the first place you put weight on is the subcutaneous tissue of the inner ear. Obviously, the kind of girl you're looking for thinks exercise is an archaic form of masturbation. Which is fine, only she couldn't find her G-spot with an oil rig and 2 rows of flood lights. So she hasn't heard anything clearly since her GP told her that 25% of her blood was butter when she was in primary school. If you're going to say anything, remember to focus on a point somewhere above her head so you're not speaking directly into her face, you wouldn't want her to mistake all the tequila on your breath for halitosis. Not that she would know what that is.

Knowing what this abomination is would also prove you had a more literary childhood than me.  

It gets pretty simple from here, just slip the bitch some roofies (disguised as raisins remember) and chaperon it back to your godawful apartment or whatever hovel you're currently living/squatting in. Now you've just got to get busy, gettin' busy. Mixing food with fat sex is a logical fallacy. But nothing is more awesome than fat sex, so if you try to mix it with anything else, no matter how awesome that thing might be (gin, LSD, videogames, whatever) you are diluting fat sex. However, it is also dangerous, common injuries include: crushed pelvis, punctured lung and catastrophic internal haemorrhaging. Therefore, it is vitally important to agree on a safe word or phrase that could not be confused for the conventional pillow talk/smack talk/screams of horror that usually accompany intercourse. Some examples of what not to use are below:

'I... I can't breathe'


'You sure have a lot of orifices'


'OH GOD! MY BONES!'

Something Else That Isn't An Essay

I feel like I should apologise to those of you who read yesterday's post who didn't have a near-academic knowledge of Pokemon but I'm sure you can empathise. When you have a deadline towering over you it's natural that you'd turn to something your mind naturally drifts to when looking for another way to occupy your time. On that note, here are ten other things I'd rather do than work.

***

10. Spend 10 minutes on the phone to any company's customer assistance department.

9. Co-write a screenplay with M. Night Shyamalan.

8. Lunge wildly at the Pope.

Look at him. He's just begging you to do it.

7. Slap-box a lion wearing Lady Gaga's meat costume.

6. Drink 'responsibly'.

This guy knows what I'm talking about.

5. Furiously defecate on the White House lawn. Dressed like a ghost.

4. Do jumping jacks on a prayer mat, stopping every 30 seconds to call Allah a pussy.

3. Put my dick in a blender. Or Ke$ha.

2. Be violently sodomised by a prison inmate named Scrunchie.

You want to know how he got the name? So does he.

1. Get punched in the testicles by Martha Stewart. Just because there's the added horror that when she finishes, she'd lean down and whisper: 'your genitals are now a rippling puddle between your legs, it's a good thing.'

Losing a (Pokemon) Battle to Dignity

You awake in a daze in a beret that's seen better years and little else. It would seem you are lying face down on the dusty floor of a tool shed, which would certainly explain all the tools. But not the upturned bucket with the cat sitting on it staring at you like it knows. Like it knows all the terrible things you did last night. 

And I got it all on tape.

You give the shed door a half-hearted push and it gives under your shaking hands with a sinister creak. You risk a tentative peek outside. The morning sun is gloriously bright. With a girlish squeal [well I suppose you could be a girl, I didn't exactly specify your gender yet. Honestly though? I really don't care. I don't need your life story here) you clutch your eyes, praying your scorched retinas can recover from this onslaught of IR rays. Gradually, the fireworks show going on inside your eyelids begins to slow and you can finally get a decent look at where you are.

Rolling, verdant fields stretch as far as the (granted over-exposure-fucked) eyes can see. Against your better judgement, you begin to grin inanely, stepping out onto the luscious emerald turf and gamboling away from the shed. THUMP. You taste grass and the bitter aftertaste of humiliation which allows follows a fall. You must have tripped on something, craning your neck back you see the cause of your current horizontal stance. Some kind of hole, maybe a badger run? No you're pretty sure badgers aren't 4 and a half inches or so wide. Also they don't lay eggs (you're less sure about that one though). Wait, they're not eggs. They're golf balls. How the John-Malkovich-in-Burn-After-Reading did you end up on a golf course?

A rich source of broken teeth.

Vvvvvvvv-vvvvv-vvvvvv. Holy Zombie Jesus, what now? Ah, it's your Xtransreciever, it's ringing. Man, why couldn't you have got a phone with a normal name? Like 4110 or Razzberry? You should probably answer it. Hey! It's that passive-aggressive bitch! You know, your mother! And there's nothing you can do about me calling her that because I'm the narrator! Suck it! She wants to know where you are.Where you've been for the past 72 hours and why there's a Virgin Media technician unconscious in her back garden. You feign ignorance and make your excuses as acerbic as possible. It's clear to your mother that you're in one of those moods, and reminds you that if you can't say anything nice don't say anything at all. You curtly hang up on the promiscuous harpy and smartly toss the crappy Korean toy into a nearby bush. The bush gives a baritone moan and a rustle. You've definitely disturbed something!

A wild Screaminghobo appeared! Lord Have Some Fucking Mercy! Screaminghobo uses Urine Stream! It's super awkward! But after some mild thrashing and flailing you get away safely, pride mostly, intact. The Screamingobo retreats to its bush, but what's this on the floor? You found a half-litre of hyper-gin! You chug it with some relish, it tastes like peppery shame! Holy Bat Balls! You've leveled up!

Gintuition +1
Ginnovation +1
Ginspiration +1
Gintegrity -1 (You did steal it from a homeless guy after all)

You're trying to learn Clumsily Pickpocket! But you already know 4 moves.
1...2...Tada! You forgot Basic Arithematic... and learned Clumsily Pickpocket!

The world is no longer shaking violently before your eyes - as the horror of that Listerine-inflicted (?) hangover begins to wane - but has begun to merely shimmer, like this WASP-exclusive golf club vista was painted (crudely) onto silk fluttering in a light breeze. God this light breeze is awful, you need to get out of here. There's a bus stop in the distance, and Holy Beast of the Underdark! There's the number 82B! Lucky you're wearing your Running Shoes eh? You sprint for the stop and leap athletically onto the bus. You don't pay. Because you're just like that I guess.

A few short stops later and you're back in the city. The bus kindly deposits you outside a Starbuck's. Which is just perfect. You don't need a coffee or anything, but all that gin has left you with an overwhelming urge to swing something blunt and heavy into someone self-righteous looking. And let's be honest, this is where you're likely to find one. You saunter in and shout out at the top of your lungs, I DON'T AGREE WITH ANY CHARITABLE ORGANISATION DOING ANYTHING, ANYWHERE! That should turn some heads.

You are challenged by hipster Nathaniel! Score one for intolerance! Nathaniel sends out Macbookair! But it's not very effective, at anything. You use Ultra-Fisting Fist! Against the Macbook's puny defense stat it's super effective! The surrounding customers are showered with cheap off-white plastic and shattered motherboard componenets and Nathaniel screams in rage and grief. It sounds like seals barking. You got some Petty Cash for winning! Well, you weren't so much awarded that as you essentially just rifled through the tip jar before making a run for the Fire Exit.

You find yourself in the dingy back alley behind Starbuck's, you take a moment to consider what an awesome day this has been so far, when...

A wild Twitchjunkie appeared! Great Gorgoth The Eviscerator's Ghost! Where did he come from?! It's 10.34am! Twitchjunkie uses Mildy Intimidating Glare! You use Coin Toss! While he's fumbling around on the floor trying desperately to scoop up all the loose change you threw in his general direction, you fish around in the pockets of his mouldy jacket. Nice job! You found a Rare Candy! Wait. No. It's 8 grams of rock. You hit that shit up on the spot and finish it like a champ.

May cause some undocumented side effects.

You leveled up! So many times! There's no stopping you now! You're winning at life now motherfucker! Maybe even in some way twice!

Tiger Blood +100

Outer Realm Brain +100

Fire-Breathing Fists +100

Leaving the junkie howling in the alley, you stroll away. Man you feel great, you haven't flown this high in... like... at least 6 hours! Jesus Rollerblading, virgin-deflowering, Alzheimer's-mocking Christ! You're just like that guy! You know that crappy B-movie actor with an utterly inflated sense of self-worth? Dammit, what was his name again? Wait, I've got it! YOU'RE JUST LIKE BILL PAXTON!

Baby if it'll get you in bed with me, then I'm bi-whatever.

On the Art of getting Film References into your Dubstep

So, dubstep, heard of it? Of course you haven’t, it’s a Bristol thing (Deep Meditations of Mike Grocott; 2008), but should you be familiar have you ever noticed the exorbitant amount of film references and samples in the genre? Well I have, and I’ve taken time out my packed-out schedule (7 hours of lectures a week - weep, for you have nothing to live for) to educate you.

 Because of its massive current popularity, people are wont to forget that the genre’s been around for years and aspects of it were evident in the work of visionaries like Burial, way before the 2007 FabricLive compilation by Caspa and Rusko that shot the sound into the public consciousness like an intergalactic money shot [citation needed].

So, dubstep standard procedure: first of all, you’ll need to find a film you like (Guy Ritchie’s always a good start) and cut out a nice chunk of script. Slap a fat bass line under that and you’re sorted, just sit back and wait for the cocaine money to roll in, right? Well sometimes, there’s also going to be some people with this approach but the big fish in the pond swim there rightfully unlike some (sorry Tinie Tempah, I didn't see you come in), being able to elegantly craft ass-shaking wonderment into neat 4 minute packages, for easy in-club consumption.

Don’t forget though, that film sampling’s nothing new either. Look at DJ Shadow’s Endtroducing… an album composed entirely of samples, or even further back, to De La Soul's tongue-in-cheek hip-hop/soul. Those guys barely found time to fit recording in between bong-hits and yet managed to cram 3 Feet High And Rising with pop culture references.

So what sort of thing is infecting dubstep? I mentioned Guy Ritchie, which was kind of a misnomer because anything remotely cockney is fair game in Rusko’s eyes, but is he cockney? That would explain it neatly but no, he’s not even from London. You’re probably not going to like this but Christoper Mercer, i.e. industry juggernaut Rusko, is, from Yorkshire. Cockney Thug would be quite different had he stuck with his roots. Alright, so can Caspa redeem him? For that purpose I present Born To Do It, containing excerpts from the original (and genius) Willy Wonka & The Chocolate Factory and Lion’s Roar, based on a scene from the cult/parody hit Kung Fu Hustle. Both are great songs constructed around great film quotes purely on the basis of being what they are, a wee bit different.

Some samples are far more esoteric though, Cragga's remix of Mr Postman would be a good, albeit obvious example, but for a truly inspired premise I have to give credit to the (as yet un-credited) producer of the Lloyds TSB Dubstep Mix. Taking an already catchy advert jingle with gigantic daily exposure and transfiguring it into a monstrously woozy head-nodder was a Nobel-Prize-worthy idea.


The reason pop culture samples are so prevalent in dubstep is that it's just too easy. The basic conventions of the genre are so simple that without some kind of hook, it would never have become so popular in the first place. Vocals just don't provide the kind of pure interest that samples do, though Magnetic Man have been very successful, their vocals are insipid, predictable and just plain dull. They only made it initially because of the weight behind the group's names, particularly Skream and Benga and managed to streamline typical dubstep sound into more refined pop. But it's the inherent simplicity of dubstep that makes it such a rich source, you need only look at the horde of remixes for proof of that. They cover almost all the major schools of music, obviously pop gets the most attention, but there are indie, electro, hip-hop, drum and bass and even occasional folk mixes and all benefit from the treatment. It's rare that a true, blue muso would love a song that at some point got a dubstep remix, but the blander and more banal a paint-by-numbers pop song is, the more it shines with a little filthy dubstep fusion. 

A Campaign Manifesto From A Mentally Unstable Guild Candidate

Hello Students, my name is William and I'm just like you. Except richer, better looking and rather better with the ladies, what with my medically mystifying pheromones. [Ed: That's probably the worst opening statement I've ever seen, I may not have ever done this before but I'm pretty sure you're not winning many voters this way.] But I'm not here to talk about me, well I am, but I'm here to talk about all the ways I can help you out as a Guild Candidate. You may not have seen my posters, flyers or screaming minions around campus or even know that there are Elections going on. But that's because I don't have any. And because you're a drooling fucktard that's one more unprovoked attack away from being put down. [Ed: I didn't think it was possible, but this is actually worse. Is this really what you want to say? That the voter is a mindless animal constantly leaking bodily fluids? How badly are you trying to fail at this?] You see the Guild only offers you £500 (maybe? It's not like I, you know, checked) to cover the costs of printing and MacGuyvering douchey costumes and you'd be surprised how little bourbon and bumper value pack Vicodin you can get for half a ton. Barely a weekend's worth. Man is the economy ever fucked. Not even buying in bulk gets you value for money.

But that leads me neatly to my first pledge as candidate for whatever position needs filling, (let's say all of them). [Ed: If you swallow a jigsaw puzzle later and then promptly died, the coroner's report on your stomach contents would have a better structure than this article. Don't try and do that though, swallow a whole jigsaw, I mean.] Real funny Ed, here I am trying to help out the average student and you're making jokes at my expense.You know what? You can fuck right off. [Ed: I retract my previous statement, please, please try and swallow a 500-piece puzzle. The coroner's report would then also be more entertaining than this article.] Alright I'm just going to ignore you. Here I go. Just going at my own pace here. Not paying you any attention. You lonely yet, Ed?

A vote for William is a vote for Steak & Hookers Tuesday, a hallowed institution and national holiday that's criminally overlooked not just by the University, but seemingly everyone outside my bedsit in [Ed: look man I'm not sure you want to be revealing that kind of personal information. Especially because the cops would know where to come looking for your body. And neither of us want that.] S&HT will bring much needed publicity and revenue to the Guild in these financially troubling times, mostly because it's weekly but also because my understanding of micro-economics doesn't stretch further than: More Vicodin for Less Money, Equals Good.

Now I don't want to fan the flames of hatred or anything, I don't even want slander my totally "reputable" opponents, but seriously, most of them weren't hugged enough as children.

And some too much

Sure they're just using the elections as an opportunity to prove how terribly popular they are and how much they care about the University (I BOUGHT THE SWEATSHIRT! LOOK AT MY DEDICATION!) but is this really a reason to hate them? Yes. Yes it is. And here's another. Unlike those other oxygen thieves I haven't made a thinly-veiled reference to some pop culture buzzword out of my name. I've simply opted for the far less humour-murdering epithet: William 'Couldn't Think Of Anything Funny Here' Franklin. Now, some might say (I'm looking at you, Ed) that by making a reference to the prevalence of poor satirical references in my comedic area of choice I am parodying an already poor parody and therefore making an even douchier joke myself. Possibly measuring anywhere as low as a 4.8 on the Cheezburger Scale of MegaLols. To which I would say, fuck you. Fuck you all the way to the bank.

Where you can open up a FUCK YOU SIDEWAYS account with excellent rates of EAT A DICK interest.

Why vote anyone else for anything? Most of my rivals are terrorists trying to facilitate the spread of super-syphilis anyway, and when you write puns as piss-poor as they do, each flyer you print them on should come with an apology from the doctor that failed to surgically reattach your dick. I've seen better gags in The Pianist than on campus during elections. [Ed: Are you going to say anything here that isn't deeply offensive, generalised libel?] Hmmm, I'm still feeling a little on edge, clearly the last of the Vicodin still hasn't kicked in. Maybe I shouldn't have taken all that coke beforehand. [Ed: Wonderful. This can only get better.]

Powdered Self-Esteem

I don't want to have to resort to violence to get your vote. But I will. I'm sure I don't need to detail all the terrible dick-kicking punishments I'd exact but suffice to say, those witnesses will never be done with therapy. Damn that is good blow. You know what? I changed my mind. I'm pretty sure all I want now is to describe in graphic, pant-shitting detail what I'm about to do to your spine. I'M GOING TO RIP IT FROM YOUR QUIVERING FLESH AND USE IT AS A CHAIN FLAIL TO DISFIGURE YOUR GIRLFRIEND AND YOU'LL STILL BE ALIVE TO SEE IT BECAUSE I AM SO FUCKING FAST. HOW DOES THAT TASTE, ED?!

If you imagine every character in Mortal Kombat was on coke, the game starts to make a lot more sense.

(Ed: Look bro, my name isn't Ed. It's short for Editor, you know? The guy you payed half a bottle of bourbon to proof-read this septic shit-pile you call a campaign manifesto? I describe it thusly as you have yet to suggest anything you would actually do if elected to a position you've still failed to decide on. Other than calling Tuesday Steak and Hookers day, though you have failed to explain how forcing every member of the student body to eat under-cooked meat and fuck squawking street-walkers is going to help anything. Or, if the students actually get access to said steak and prostitutes. I'm not sure whether you really do have a moron's understanding of the Guild's financial input/output, or if you just really like Steak and Hookers. Now I may just be a simple country alcoholic with a competent grasp of the English language, but I honestly believe allowing any of this 'work' into any form of physical print is ethically equivalent to a war crime.] 

Dearest Ed, I will anger-fuck your eye sockets so deep the attack will constitute statutory rape of your neo-cortex.

[Ed: I still get my bourbon though right?]

Jukebox 4/3

Radiohead - Little By Little
The King of Limbs is predictably unpredictable. Like most (if not all) Radiohead albums, initial listens are a chore, requiring repeated attempts to peel back the layers of neurotic noise to reveal the juicy sonic wonders below. Little By Little though, immediately jumps to attention, leaping into your consciousness and stubbornly burying itself there with it's Dylan-on-ether guitar, come-hither lyrics (I know, I always assumed Thom Yorke was asexual, like some kind of misanthropic amoeba) and jangling percussion ripped straight from the outakes of The Eraser. While the rest of Radiohead's latest album still labours in mediocrity, waiting for the moment when everything falls into it's right place, LBL continues to shine as the diamond in the (hopefully temporary) rough.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8vMDKg4MMN8

Four Tet - Pinnacles
Released in tandem with Snaith's latest self-reinvention (see below), Pinnacles is short on suprises at first. The first three minutes go to all the familiar places, echoey beats pound out an unobtrusive rhythm and a basic, lonesome synth pattern gleams with regularity, not ingenuity. But then the piano comes crashing in, the drums rise ecstatically and that simple country synth pattern is transformed into a dazzling cyborg bird call. Tet's clearly still got some tricks up his sleeve.
http://soundcloud.com/search?q[fulltext]=four+tet+pinnacles&q[type]=&q[duration]=

Daphni - Ye Ye
The artist formerly known as Caribou (and before that Manitoba) has taken a pretty unexpected change of direction, eschewing the crystal clear instrumental electronica that made his release Swim last year such a treat for the ears, apparently in favour of a more synthetic, industrial style. Opening with a techno-101 beat it quickly snowballs into towering Orbital-esque trance, with a healthy dose of reverberating house thumps thrown in.
http://soundcloud.com/search?q[fulltext]=four+tet+pinnacles&q[type]=&q[duration]=

Toro Y Moi - New Beat
No more chillwave I'm afraid. Chaz Bundick has moved on to sonic pastures new, tightened and streamlined, New Beat is a bouncey disco jam. But the laissez-faire production values that graced Causers of This refuse to be ironed out. The synths are far more polished and refined, but there's just enough spacey distort on the vocals to dull the otherwise squeaky-clean pop veneer. Which is definitely a good thing.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dNcYDwo9ksA

Tyler, The Creator - Yonkers
Riding on a lurching, staggered beat, Odd Future's mostly critically revered member, Tyler The Creator anger-fucks your ears with some of the most volatile battle-raps in recent memory while he 'mocks deaf rock stars' and 'stabs Bruno Mars in his goddamn oesophagus'. You will fear him. The prophecy is fulfilled, no pop star is safe. He also crashes Hayley William's plane. Ok. I laughed at that one.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XSbZidsgMfw