Whaddyamean, it is fucking hot in London tonight! And this mixtape Mark Ronson hit me off with when I visited him in his Chinatown studio last week is HOT like FIY-AH! Similarly hot is a beat he hit me off with, the beginning of which I used as my intro music at that Club NME gig last night. Man, that was some crazy ish. I used to go to that place when it was the Camden Palace back in the day. It hasn’t really changed, apart from they’ve renamed it Koko and painted it all red, so there’s this extra-psychotic air hanging over the place. I have never seen so many drunk children in my life. Well, not since I was a drunk child. Anyway, I rocked solo last night, did Liverpool, Clones, London, Cut You In The Face and Oh! and shit was beautiful. Did battle with some beer throwing heckling meatheads (you London dude’s aint got shit on my rowdy Welsh bredren!), did some of that Morrissey hand touching weirdness with my peoples in the front row, played with my vocal effects stomp box, and scuffed my trainers. BITCH!

Whaddya mean bloody Babyshambles left fucking torched up bacofoil all over backstage? Losers! I’m told by my boy Golden their drummer is a safe non-crackhead good-tug getting a deposit together for a house, so I’ll leave dude out of that. The rest of you cats is fools! REAL! I met a bunch of your fucking followers last night, fucking cheruby little teenagers talking about crack like it was fucking lollipops. You people are lucky there isn’t a hell! You’d SO BE THERE! But then again, you ARE… I guess. Poor you. Problem is, you don’t burn bright with a fucking glass cock in your face dude. You shrivel like boozey cocks at 6am.

Speaking of which…

HAHAHAHA! My glasses is all bust up. I look like a catfish, serious. I got some blood on my hat too. Blood! That’s no good. I dunno how this shit comes to pass. I blame the rum.

Oh, and you can call me all the paranoid freaks under the sun, but seriously people, don’t let your babies out of your site. Because They will break their brains.

Oh, and that poor mangled little dude at the top there? That’s one of our little brothers just born into the new Iraq. Aren’t we amazing? I bet that crazy Sky God is pleased! A miracle! Praise be to the big beard in the clouds, we rule!

So, I am busy doing promoey things right now - I did an interview for the NME yesterday, with, like, this really fucking safe dude, and did the photoshoot today with a safe dude and safe lady who knows Wade, cos everybody knows Wade.

Also soundchecked for tonight’s NME gig at Coco in Bumden. IT WAS GOOD! BIG PLACE! I am on at 11:15, so come and hear my awesome new sounds. I shall be all alone and sans Birddogg, as he missed soundcheck, the big flappy tweeter. I do have a vocal effects pedal thing though. Maybe I can fuck that up, hmm?

PS - I am sharing a dressing room with Babyshambles. So I am not leaving anything in my dressing room. The soundman was like, really, I wouldn’t advide it. They like to party hard, maybe they wouldn’t nick stuff, but they would break it. NO SHIT!!!!

Did I mention that? I can’t remeber if I did. But it is. It is so awesome. It is the best looking movie I have seen since fucking It’s a Wonderful LIfe or something. It is so lush. SO so so so so so so so so so so so so so LUSH.

UNLUSH! They’re on about privatising al-Zazeera! Piss off! It get’s 40 million viewers, you know. That’s more than Sky News.

HAHAHA!

Sky News.

So, toryscum.com has nice pictures of defaced “are you thinking what we’re thinking” posters, but none of them are as funny as that Private Eye gag with Michael Howard thinking about fresh blood or whatver it was. Anyway, from my recent research, it seems that most right wing leaders think about little other than prepubecent children. So I hope none of you are thinking what they’re thinking. Cos that wuld make you SICK.

I AM BACK.

It’s OK I suppose.

Hahaha. Let’s go for drinks, fam.

My bandwith’s all dissapearing like Britney’s nose cartelidge, and I have found the reason - bloody The Others fans flocking en masse to get pissed off and mail me angriness, failing to see that I DO NOT HATE THAT SINGER BEACUSE HE IS GAY (duh!), but because he insists on SELLING CRACK AND HEROIN TO BABY CHIDDLERS… and the line “get that cock out your gob drop the lighter” reffers to his hugely self-publicised crack habbit. DUH! So stop emailing me silly questions now The Others fans please, and email some sensible ones, like, how can we help the blessed poo-wer? ANSWER: stop spending thousands and thousands of pounds on fucking CRACK and fucking HEROIN and fucking GIVE IT TO THEM!

In case you are confused, the kerfuffle reffers to that relatively new MP3 on the music page called Rick Witter. The Others are a fairly competent English band with a very bad singer who tells lies about the Trash club in London and sets a terrible example to his exteremly young fan base what with his scaggery and all.

I’m reading Shane MacGowan’s biography at the moment, it is quite amazing. He had dreams like me as a baban, and the IRA used to hide behind his uncle’s piss pots.

So, we’ve nearly finished London. James is sussing out the “could’vedoneshould’vedones”, then I shall return to Brooklyn for my last night, and fly back to Llindain at 6 on the morrow.

Today my elbow is a raw wound, my right knee is twice the size it usually is, my back appears to have been stomped upon, a strange bruise illuminates my right cheek, and numerous aches and pains plague my bones. Last night was, obviously ace. It was so ace, I remember most of it, and despite feeling like fluey shit all day yesterday, last night was fucking AMAZING. I had the best time. I basically played my favourite records ALL NIGHT… and did some rapping. I played A 15 minute live set, airing out the new versions of Liverpool, London, and Oh! (What A Glorious Thing), and Clones got its first airing. IT WAS DOPE! After Spiky and David Deejayed for a bit, and then I did again, and I freestyled over the Pet Shop Boys and Ozzy and Nirvana and Lil Flip and PRIME WU… and people went off it to Chris De Burgh and 99 red Balloons and that Sage/Verve mashup and danced right to the end. Safesafesafe. I wanna do that every day.

So, I’m with James and Jeff in this nice studio in Manhattan, and Liverpool’s basically DONE, and it sounds amazing, so there.

Whaddya mean I left my laptop charger there though? Gayme.

OK, I know from experience reading Nicholas Stix is stupid, but for some reason I did again. I should have guessed he’d have an opinion on Palestine, but what an opinion! I haven’t seen such a spastic and folorn arrangement of words since I read the lyrics to that The Others album.

Many happy returns to my little brother Zef, who goes to school AND does all my animatey things, so fucking safe at him innit. See you when I get back from Yankland wee bro.

So not only does this new pope look JUST LIKE THAT FREAK OUT OF LOST HIGHWAY (above), he’s a Nazi. An Actual, goddamned NAZI! He’s all, oh, I was 14, it was a mistake. Whatever man. That’s as may be, but where were you between ‘41 and ‘45, hmm? NOBODY KNOWS! What the fuck is with that?

Nuts, huh? So, anyway. My laptop is having trouble communicating with the world, although it did suddenly work this morning when I was lost on 3rd ave, having missplaced the studio in which we are being awesome. All of a sudden my boy Luke’s all pinging messneger at me from London, and he knows where the fucking studio is! Sheeet!

So, we were shooting this Patrick video yesterday, that was pretty fresh. The dudes I’m doing it with are fucking safe, we went all over Brooklyn, by the water, hit the Z train, and we even got done by the pigs, who objected to my riding around Brooklyn on the bonnet of Carter’s jeep with no ID. Sheeeeet.

I became very fucking tired last night, after we’d spent the rest of the afternoon flyering our party on Saturday round Manhattan and the lower east side. Flyering is totally fun, but we kind of only hit the hot girls, but that shouldn’t be a problem.

Still, its not like there’s a shortage of hot girls in this crazy city. I mean, there are enough of them where I’m staying, getting their hair cut by Amy. I could hang out in that place all day, but it’s still SUMMER, so when I am not in the studio, I am keeping the fuck outside, bubba.

AND! Oh! Whoo! We got kids. Six kids! I’ve just been told. They are going to sing on that silly song of mine about it being a glorious thing, all that getting up in the am. WHICH IS TRUE! I get up at 9/10 every day therse, um , days. It’s wicked.

Today I am enjoying the finest studio and mike sound I have ever experienced, it is quite awesome. I am in The Shed, which is in Manhattan, recording with James Brown, who is a very fucking professional and dry person. He is doing fucking dope shit with my, um, shit, which seems to be hitting not just the next level, but a few rungs above that. We have jumped, is what it is.

So that’s safe. These past few days I have been wandering about in a vest in the boiling New York sunshine, rubbernecking like a motherfucker because EVERYBODY IS INCREDIBLY FIT… I have been meeting all manner of amazing, and fucking NUTS, people, buying comics, and getting lost (as usual). Happily there are lots of nice Latinos and Italians and people from the Yeomen (I bet I spelt that wrong) who are only too happy to help a short arsed Limey and tell him mad stories.

Strangely, though, my sleep has been haunted, and I have had a pair of intense nightmares both nights I have slept in the big blow up double bed facing out the doors to the balcony in Spiky and Amy and Cherry’s incredible loft. Now, you know I never remember my dreams, but these I remember pretty well, and I have, on both nights, been unable to go back to sleep after the second one. The second are the ones I remember best. Last night I saw soldiers scorch the sky, tearing strips out of it and leaving nothing but TV static…. and as this happened, marines stormed the cities, confiscating everybody’s weapons, rounding up any who objected… “STAY INSIDE YOUR HOMES!”

I realised all the communication equipment was reporting directly to the cunts in charge, and that we were all trapped. Mothboy rang me, going, “isn’t it worse that we KNEW this was going to happen? What they’re doing?” Because everybody else was just freaking out, because they didn’t known what the fuck was going on. I woke up when I suddenly saw this huge gold statue of Baby Bush all Nazied up, bombers whooshing into the tar streaked static sky behind. I sat up then, drenched, shaking. It was nuts. I’ve never had a dream like that before. It used to just be, like, midgety goblin monsters and shit.

Gay me! So I juts wrote a huge thing about my vontinuing adventures and crazy fortune, then the silly windows gayness decided it wanted to update it weirdo ass, and restart, and I LOST IT! Oh, I do lose things.

And I find them. Marek does too. I went to bed at 6 after all that crap, and got up less than three hours later, but Marek stayed up, and wizarded my stuff back from the dead. Four times he wiped that harddrive, and yet still he saved it! What an incredible br’er.

And I made my flight with time to sapre, enjoyed the company of Donna and Jane and their hubbies on the plane, read National Geographic, drew cartoons into my laptop. I was met at the airport by a man with a pice of card bearing my name, and now I am sat on Spiky and Amy’s balcony in Brooklyn in the glorious sunshine writing you this letter. Tommorrow I am recording songs, zooooooooooo-laaaaaaaaaaaah!

Oh, we’re having a party a Tribeca Grand oin Saturday, yo. Come! It will be fun!

My brother, the computer genius, has deleted every song I ever made up until a few months back.

I have lost all my songs.

And all the cartoons I drew over the past few years, and all the writing I did, and all the weird little plug ins I’d gotten, and all my photos, and god knows what else.

All the stuff I did in Crack Village, between 2001 and 2004.

My flyers and poster and T Shirt design things, my diaries, my schemes.

He says I told him he could.

Why the fuck would I do that?

I already lost all the stuff I did while I was at PlayLouder, another case of me apparently telling another computer genius to wipe my fucking hard drive.

When I got back from America last year, I returned to PlayLouder’s offices to find all my letters, drawings, photos, and personal effects, mysteriously disappeared.

I left my CD walkman and my brand new amazing headphones the the other week and they up and vanished too.

I imagine I shall return from America this time to a burgled house.

Oh, and I just found out I’ve somehow lost seven hundred and fifty pounds from my bank, also.

WAH! WOE! SOB!

I sort of wandered about my room for a little while when I first found out. Marek says I guided him through the fucking backup of the thing. I swear, he must be on fucking drugs. Maybe I’ve gone mad. Have I been going into weirdo Tyler Durden episodes and trying sabotage myself?

I haven’t been to sleep for a long time now. The day before yesterday it was. I was so happy! Wade and me sat in my room like it was an office, on computers, me drawing cartoons all day long, him doing email business, listening to amazing songs. I kept saying, wow, I’m so happy!

I was! I felt so great!

I kind of burst into tears a little bit ago. Had a tiny shout at the ceiling. You know. I didn’t shout at Marek. it’s not like he did it on purpose. Well, I mean he did, but you know what I mean.

Birddogg seems allergic to his telephone and aswereth me not.

I rang wade but he was in a club and sort of shouted something at me about texting him or something.

I’m kind of scared to go to sleep now because I might not wake up and I’ll miss my flight. So I figured I’d go to Jeremy’s and he could make sure I get up, cos noone’s here, but I lost my phone didn’t I and don’t have his number on my new one. I rang Luke for it but he picked up and hung up on me.

I bought a pack of cigarettes and smoked them, and drank some beer and vodka, because that’s the stupid shit you do when you’re fucking stupid I guess. Now my room smells of cigarettes and so do I. I quit cigarettes two years ago. Two years! It doesn’t seem that long. Life fucking accelerates like a motherfucker.

But, excuse all this swearing, but, fuck it.

It’s gonna make the recording we’re supposed to be doing in New York difficult, but, SO WHAT! I can make new songs! My new songs are awesome! They shit on most of those old songs! Screw those songs! Who needs them! Not me! I’ve got an amazing studio in my fucking bedroom! I’ve got a fucking laptop and a fucking tablet! I have all the suff I anted so i could make things, and I am fucking making fucking loads of things, so FUCK IT!

Wasn’t I saying, like nearly this time yesterday morning that I don’t really think about old shit? I DO NOT REMINISCE! I MOVE FORWARD! I BIG ROBOT MAN BOOM! ARGH!

Damn, I was all like, FUCKING MAREK earlier, but now I’m Okaying out a bit. Like, I don’t want to be pissed off with him anyway. We’ve always kind of been a bit clashy with each other, but when he stayed recently it was ace, I really missed him when he was gone. And it was nice chatting with him on the phone the other day. He called me “bruvva”! Which is TRUE! I love all my brothers! They’re amazing!

Wow, now I’m all welling up again. This has been an emotional couple of days.

Shit, I really should go to bed I think.

G’night.

Because I am going to America on Saturday, and their backwards time thing, it seems OK that I am awake at 5:43 am, drawing ET and Michael Jackson and listening to RA The Rugged Man and Slick Rick and Morrissey and Meatloaf and MF Doom, whist reading about Kurt’s so-called suicide, and the efforts of Tom Grant, who’s done a very fucking thorough job in investigating the thing.

I may have mentioned before the importance of the boy Cobain to the boy me. I remember where I was when he died (in a car, on a motorway, with my Auntie Sheila), and I don’t remember much of anything. I will perhaps write at some point about why he was important, and what he did, and how it helped, but given how much I loved his music, it seems strange to me now what little energies and thought I payed him after he was murdered. (For murdered he was).

I have never been the sort of music fan to obsess over a Person, find out what pets they have, where they were born, all that. But you’d think I’d have maybe read a book about his death before or something, at some point over the past decade. But I have never been one to dwell on the past, which is perhaps why I remember so little of it.

But I am supposed to be one of those that thinks. I was raised by books thanks to my Mother’s disdain for television. I was taught to think. Nobody is taught to think anymore. People are taught to respond. So if lucky me doesn’t question, if lucky me accepts these statements in the “news”- Kurt shot himself, Hunter shot himself, Michael Hutchence hung himself in sex act, blah blah - then who won’t?

Kurt was full of enough heroin to sink an elephant when he supposedly pulled the trigger. Hunter was in the middle of a pretty dry conversation with his wife, and Michael had a broken nose and arm and all sorts of shit, yet somehow, we are told, he managed to hang himself off the back of a door.

These things pop out of the papers and become fact, and hilarious GLC songs.

Yesterday Rupert Murdoch and Rebbecka Wade continued their assault on my brothers and my sisters with some typically frantic “SANDNIGGERS ARE PLOTTING TO MURDER YOU ALL!” shit, regarding Kamel Bourgass, this guy who killed Steven Oake, a Policeman and was apparently building poison kits in his yard. Somewhere amidst the fearmongering, the tiny voices of the dead Policeman’s family made the only sense. “The family has forgiven the person who killed him,” said his widow. “We have no revenge in our hearts. I just feel quite sad that things had gone so wrong for this person.”

Steven Oake’s widow, Lesley, is my fucking hero. I just typed that and my stupid face tightened and my eyeballs were suddenly swimming, so it must be fucking true. Sometimes it seems that we’re in a world of reactionary assholes, but we’re not at all - it’s a fucking beautiful world, full of fucking beautiful people, its just the ugly ones make the most noise sometimes, and work really fucking hard to make us all feel as ugly as they are.

They use all they can. They don’t give a fuck! They’ll even use little girls, like they used Britney. A lady called Rahni is another new hero of mine. She wrote an excellent webpage about that poor symbol for what we are becoming, or what we have become. They gave her plastic tits at seventeen, for fuck’s sake, as if the whole schoolgirl thing wasn’t fucked up enough. Britney will be lucky to see thirty, and they did that to her on purpose and they did it to her to do it to us, and they did it to Courtney, so she did it to Kurt, and we are all being done to, every second of the day, everytime we look out the window even, unless we live in the countryside, which perhaps then we all should. Poor Britney. Poor all of us.

But no. Fuck them. Really fuck them. Just because they used TV to make drooling, terrified morons where could have walked Gods doesn’t mean any of us should even think about giving up. That is why (aside from all the fucking evidence) I know Kurt, Hunter, Michael, and the rest did not go by choice. They knew that. They loved what we can be, and they were doing what they could to help more of us be what we can be, not what They make us be, all so They can continue in the sick vein to which They, through theft and murder and rape, grew so accustomed, a billisecond in the earth’s lifetime ago.

Erol made this film, beacuse he knows it too, like we all do, really, deep down. Life is beautiful. It doesn’t matter how much foul excretion they pile on top. We are like the Princess and that pea. We know we were fucked, that it was you that fucked us. It was nonconcensual and that is rape.

One day we will find you and we will tear out your throats.

Man, ATD8 is gonna be the best mixtape EVER. Serious. As you can SEE (fucking future to fuck, I am still shocked by this cameraphone shit, gay or not), Bashy is up in my yard dropping an intensely sick verse on the New York New York beat…

We’re gonna do something else in a little bit, once I’ve done my shit on this. If it turns out as sick as I’m imagining, I will fucking retire.

The internet amazes and amuses me daily. From some messageboard debate regarding MIA:

Galang Galang.
Yay!
revolution will be dressed like Neneh Cherry !!!!!!

Man, those internet dudes are so serious about MIA, its nuts. Yeah, I have opinions on this (stop emailing me about it!), but having not heard all the LP… I’ll save them…

And so it came to pass that another brother left me and my sofa, and did return whence he came.

Well, he’s off in an hour. BYE ZEF! That video isn’t quite done though, but he has to go to school, so we shall finish it via MSN.

Now, thank you for all your nice emails regarding my discourse with that Tory MP, but stop moaning about my spilling and grandma. I am not the one claiming to be the saviour of our children. As I said to Lluke. Not yet, anyway. And - Hey, that Tory emailed me back! He wrote:

Oh f**k it! I knew I shouldn’t have listened to my adviser.

Now where did I put Daffy Duck’s telephone number?

Now, did that make much sense to you? Me neither. I have kind of warmed to the freak a little. If you’d like to email him and ask him WHAT THE GOSH HE IS ON, his email is: ertan.hurer@btclick.com.

I get the best emails off of Mothboy. Peep:

http://americawestandasone.com/video.html

stupid fucking cockwipe , apparantly this isnt a pisstake (which i thought it was) the guy is Dennis Madalone: The Star Trek stunt coordinator who is now on a mission for God and America! fucking hilarious… ridiculous nationalism. someone should sample the cunt..

Simon Mothboy - >>>>

EDIT: Zef and I played that song every day for a week. It is genius, barkingly narrow worldview aside…. Actually, I shall play it again now. It cheers me.

Poor Wade! I was mean to scorn and make him get up and clean his sick. He was so ill! I was a little worried by the middle of yesterday, he looked like he might die. His eyes were sunken in black pits, he was cold and clammy, and he wouldn’t stop with the vomiting, bottom and top. Poor Wade!

He seems a little better now. And so am I. We shared distress, for as he suffered with horrors, so too did I. Foster’s been round helping me finalise my studio, and there was much worry about a non working sound card. It is a long story, but we couldn;t get ti to work, and ended up having to wipe my new harddrive, losing all the noises I have made over the past week or so forever. That was last night. I got over that pretty quick, I can make new noises. But today… it still didn’t work! Oh lord, I was upset. I shouted at my brother Marek who built it and everything. And then, as despair nearly drove me to whisky and cigarettes, we tried swapping the firewire cable for another.

And it worked.

ARGH!

Knowing not whether to laugh, or cry, I opted to smash my head a bit with my wardrobe doors, then get on with business. So now we are ready for a blistering week of recording, before I go to New York next weekend. For a blistering week of recording. ZOO-LAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Zef is still here, sleeping at the foot of my bed, and making an excellent job of this new video. I’ll post some stills tomorrow to get you excited. I am excited, as Bashy is coming round to do raps. Bashy is amazing. Go get his Wiley diss off of Limewire. That shit is cold. Probably the best British diss record of all time. Mind, Face’s So Solid one came close, and speaking of whom, dude’s gearing up to finish off the aforementioned Eski-”boy”, after rubbishly dissed him on wax and said he kicked him off his bike in Nappa. Nobody kicked Face off any bikes in Nappa. Dude was too busy chopping up an old mate of mister Kit’s.

Dark out.

Yo, what the fuck are Sony doing with JTWR? Someone get dude to holla at your man, I’ll sort him out some shine. Him and Sov. Fuck Def Jam baby, shit’s gonna be fucking safe.

And yo, where’s Stoosh?

Gade is back!

We know Gade is back as he woke me up at seven this morning arriving home ina state of sicky revelrey, and when I got up the milk was all gone. I found the milk in the bathroom - it had turned into lots of sick. It is odd bit, no matter how long one showers for in a room that smells of milky sick, one will never feel clean.

Zef helped me fold all my washing this morning, and we listened to Tom Petty. Matt is coming over in a sec to help me with my albuming. Huw Stevens played one of my new songs on his Radio 1 show last night. I know because I have all these emails from people saying they like it. Safe you Huw!

Yesterday, by the way, Holly Rose Wood took photos of me. She is awesome, but you know that from the last lot. She brings out my inner Christ. So, we went to Stoke NEwington cemmetry to do some, and it really Is full of furtive homos! Some of them licked their lips at me! It was NUTS! We saw roughly fourty men and two women. And four coppers. It was a lovely day.

Exuse my spilling, I gad to rattle this out very quick, la.

Stupid Gade running up a huge phone bill then not paying it and leaving it for me to not notice until they cut us off then spend 4 and a bit hours on the phone trying to pay it then the internet not working even though I managed GADE. He’s back from Yankland tommorrow. I shall batter him.

I have not slept so I feel a bit funny and agro. I have been storming about braying at people. Zef has come to stay! Another brother on the sofa. It has become a tradition.

Ugh, have you seent hose Potential Popes? They’re all fucking nuts, spa! One of them says when he sees menfolk with pony tails and earings he wants to douse them in holy water. MENTALIST! Why are these superstitious freaks allowed power? It is fucking NUTS! NUTS IN MAY I TELL YOU! THERE WILL BE FUCKING CARNAGE! ARGH!

The Pope is dead…