There’s some dudes on scaffolding out my window messing with the glass or something. I am making a tune and they’re sort of bobbing about in time to the beat. It is sweet.

The tune is a thing called Dead Babies I half wrote a long time ago, when I was still in my old band. They didn’t like it much, as was the pattern. It is a difficult thing to do, to be honest. Its easy to write about the evils of others.

Like, I wrote this massive diatribe last night before I went to bed, but forgot to post it, and didn’t save. I never learn. The main point was this horror in New Orleans. And how, as with seemingly every vile thing to curse our people in recent years, we can blame Bush, and we can blame the Bankers.

It never ceases to amaze me how much money we pump into war, yet how little there ever seems to be for our people. And how this is never bought up in conversation. Bird Flu, as we have known for a long time, is on its way. And there is a vaccine. Red Ken’s people have it. Blair, and Bush’s people have it. The rest of us don’t. And won’t, until 2007, by which time many millions of us will be dead.

I can barely type right now, due to the rigorous upper boddy workout my man Taz put me and Jeff through at the gym earlier. Strapped up to all these metal machines, that looked like torture devices, yanking and tearing at the spoils of our vices. Skreeeeesh.

I couldn’t eat my meat afterwards, and could barely lift the ice cold glass to my quivering lips. I felt like I’d done too much drugs - that horrorful point where you know you went too far, and you have to just hang in there, and hope it fades.

Which it has, a little. I am still juddery, but the nausea has gone. Tomorrow will be more hardcore, I imagine, but if I am to tour and what have you, then I cannot be in the piss poor shape I have been pretty happy in for the majority of my life.

So it goes. Bankers is sounding fat. James has been prepping in his crib, and sent me an MP3. I keep changing that song, because it has to be right. It’s looking like it might get to the level I envisaged, however. It’s looking like this album is going to be of some worth. Which is all I can hope for, really.

Actually, its going to be fucking awesome.

Whoo!

By the way. You might want to read my man Jeff Wells’ take here. And read the comments, as ever illuminating and contrary in equal turn.

Oh Lord Save Me, I Sinned. What it is, and - sorry Jeres, but I am going to have to “go on” about my surroundings again, you slag - I moved into this apartment today. First I was in the studio with my boy James “James” Brown. No, first I was in a hotel. Then I was in that The Shed. Then I was here, which is, crazily, by the Virgin and the cinema in Union Square, which some of you may remember me falling for last year. Serious!

So I have been sat here on my sofa blowing smoke rings and listening to Felt and writing. Then I ordered a beef sandwitch and some vegetable juice (yum yum honey), and allowed the TV to beam forth. And from it, into my retinas burned Pat Robertson! Argh!

Argh!

Serious! Last week he was calling for the assassination of my boy Chavez, for giving the people some Skygoshdarned LAND that wasn’t being USED!

This week he is calling a twice democratically, OVERWHELMINGLY elected man a dictator and Saying he’s mates with Adam Hussein! Or equally ludicrous! And that - he says - GOD’S CHOICE, Bush, needs to run up on those heathens with some BOMBS!

Ugh!
Nah!

He wants to roll in a mountain of dead Venezuelan babies! HE IS A FREAK!

Oh help us!

He is a nutpole! He is a dingbat! He says he speaks for the Skygod! He says we should pray for George Bush to achieve his wicked despotian plan to further unbalance the Senate! If he believes himself he is certifiable! If he does not, he is maniacal! He says he is a Methodist. His method ist madness!

HAHAHAHAHA!

I SO FUNNY!

But serious! Don’t listen Skygod! Them’s trying to Cheat! Have you heard not the prayers of the fine and wise gentleman, my boy LaRouche? HE SEES A WAY OUT OF THIS AWFUL CRAZINESS!

LISTEN TO HIM, SKYGOD! NOT THE DOUCHES! He remembers what happened LAST WEEK! And in 1903! Do YOU?

(They just had an ad - “share the path, and share the glory” it said. Elitism! A pox on your crappy house!)

Those douches are gonna let untold thousands die in New Orleans! Come on you crazy swine, don’t be listening to them! Strike that Pat Buchanan! Smite that swine in the FACE! Or at least let your peoples know HE IS NOT SPEAKING FOR YOU, or if he is, THAT HE IS THEN, and that son of yours was a HIPPIE LIAR and you are a BIG MEANIE!

For a wise man was he, that boy of thine, of ours, of the earth, a wise man of many, silenced and stolen and twisted into that which it sought to lift us as a people above.

Serious!

Oh, Lord, the doucheyness. Save us from the doucheyness. Or else we might have to think about, like, doing it ourselves.

I leave you with some words from Pat:

“A young Christian friend of mine, Al Thyberg, owned a rough campsite up near New Preston, Connecticut, where he took boys from the New York area for summer retreats. He had just purchased an abandoned farm adjoining the camp, and we asked if we could take our sleeping bags, drive up, and spend a few days seeking the face of the Lord in the empty farmhouse. He graciously consented.

He fairly pulled us down a small path. Running through the underbrush, we suddenly came to a tiny clearing in the middle of which was a stone monument. I ran around to the front and read the inscription: BIRTHPLACE OF CHARLES G. FINNEY 1792 Attorney, Evangelist, College President Man of God It was as though we were on holy ground, and we kicked off our shoes and began laughing and praising God. I knew the Holy Spirit had allowed us to come to this place for a sign. He was about to pour Himself out on us even as He did on Finney.”

ARGH!

Serious!

Doesn’t that just make your BLOOD RUN COLD and your STOMACH tear up inside your ASS is sheer, lip-bursting, eye-gouging TERROR?! Or WHAT?

Gosh darn it, I must stop this gibberish right away.
OFF with the television.

Phew.

Holly and three of her friends are here to watch the MTV Awards.

Kanye West just shouted, “say WE WANT FREEDOM!”

And the crowd shouted, “WE WANT FREEDOM!”

As the roar peaked, the space was illuminated as an explosion of cash tore the pink air asunder.

And I was blown back into my chair, as if by cannonball, and was filled with a deep and powerful dread, and awe.

We are watching the MTV Awards. It’s fucking, nuts, people. NO WAY! Dane Cook is telling a terrible peedo joke and Johnny Knoxville was shown in the crowd comforting a visibly distraught six year old girl. WOW.

UGH! Those rotten Killers just won something! The mormon is gurning with grotesque glee and saying they have made history! Bishop Magic Mong is on! Ugh! Rotters!

Mariah Carey is freaking us out because you never get to see the left side of her face. SERIOUS! EVER! It is weird. At least Beavis And Butt Head are sort of funny.

So, they cut Shakira’s nose off. It is sad. I still love you baby, but I miss your nose, it was an ace nose.

You know what the best thing I’ve seen tonight is? An advert for a Hummer, with a big robot and a big dinosaur mashing up a city then falling in love to beautiful music. It said so much.

Everybody’s like, “oh my God, 50 is so gay.”

“Fag wifebeater,” shouted one of the ladies.

I like his belt buckle, personally. Anyway, My Chemical Romance are gayer. That porky singer looks like Adam West in Michael Keaton’s batsuit. Cradle Of Filth must be livid. This is shocking.

And Puffy won’t shut up about his friends in high places. And Bow Wow and Paris Hilton are bickering about who’s jewelry is the most expensive. He is a handsome lad, but his bragging about wearing $200,000 around his neack is ugly. This - is aspiration.

And no one, not even Green Day, has taken the opportunity to say anything about Iraq, Iran, Guantanamo, actually, anything of use to anybody. Apart from Jacob The Jeweler, he’s got more airtime than Pepsi, and they’re sponsoring it.

“If we can make it,” says one of Destiny’s Child, “any of you can make it.” Green Day are thanking Warner Brothers. And they mention Iraq. “Let’s bring our troops home safely.”

And then.

They big up Live 8.

WHOO!

“What’s live 8?” asks one of Holly’s peoples.

Well, quite.

Hey! Puffy’s wearing a “God is the greatest” T Shirt!

Wow.

Not only is my hotel room incredibly posh, and equipped with a fax machine. Not only does it have super fast wifi and a video and a DVD player and Bose ampspeakerything that my laptop is currently jammed into, spraying forth the mighty GLC into the ether. Not only is there hair conditioner in the bathroom, which gets replaced every day. Not only is there a telly in the bathroom. Not only is there a rack of CDs for me to listen to, and a very comfortable dressing gown and a swively chair. Not only does not only start to stop making sense when you’ve typed it out too many times. But I have developed super powers.

Serious! I think they’re connected to my moustache in some way, but I also think I might be able to mentally detach them as t’were, and maybe still have them when the tache is unwaxed. I shall pop down to the bar after this and check.

So, I have been out, which is unlike me. Holly took me up a building on Friday, and we stood atop a roof and heard dual drummers fail to drown out a hipster (I love that word!) take on death metal. What were they called? Burmese, I think. Yes.

I spent Saturday atop another roof, this one in the middle of Manhattan, filled with poshers and free booze and food and boobs and babies. Babies are so dope in the context of a day party. Anyway. I had good hummus and met a bunch of safe clarts and saw Spiky and went on a mission. Bannana’s brother, a fine southern gentleman called Charles and an animated and razor-spectacled chap called Kyle (who was raised a Mormon, but has only hung onto the Bigamist angle) and I dined on tiered mini Burgers downstairs, you know. It was there I noticed the super powers. We were all entirely amazed at our super powers. Then we went out, via another roof. And danced. And today I have a hangover. And tomorrow I start my working out stuff. I wonder if that will enhance these super powers. And I wonder if they’ll work in the UK. I don’t get hay fever over here you know.

Boy, I keep meeting young Bankers too.
“What do you do?” asked one.
“I make stuff,” I said. “You?”
“Stocks and bonds,” he replied.
“How’s that working out?” I enquired.
“How the fuck d’you think?!” he grinned, thickly. “WHOO HOO! TOP OF THE FUCKIN’ WORLD!”

Mothboy sent me this, then. I laughed at it. And it is true. I am glad I am not a baban in Kansas. Intelligent design is about the least intelligent thing I can think of right now. Apart from Pat Buchanan.

I write to you from the external stirwell of one of New York’s gothic monoliths. Below my feel I see people, walking, cars, thusting. I am on the 8th floor. I I fell I mightn’t make a sound.

The flight from LA to New York went by in no time, thanks to the company of a safe and entertaining Australian lady (and Jeff). I didn’t even watch a film or nuffink. New York arrived in a blaze of light, then we waited for a cab for an hour or so and I DJed at the airport off of my laptop. A cabbie was totally feeling Bruza. Then I checked into my hotel, which was just like that place in that David Lynch movie where there’s, like, three or four stories set in one hotel over the course of, like, a hunnerd years or suttin. Only smaller. Hotels make me lonesome, which is sometimes nice, in a bittersweet fashion, but it gives me too much room to think. I took a walk about the locale, which I know so well now - visited my old internet cafe on Ludlow, my old pizza place near Rivington. Met a safe old dread who used to be in BAD. Met some rotten soriety (is that the right word?) girls. Read about murder in the local paper. Walked New York, as I used to, full of wonder and joy and sweet sadness.

I was lonesome in my hotel that night, and the TV made me very sad. I saw four girls competing for the attention of some douche, vowing to get surgery to please him, slagging each other off mercilessly for the cameras, while Oprah rejoiced at “equality” on the other channel.

I got The Fear, you know. The TV was full of my enemies. When it was off, the room was too. Swirling around like vicious ghosts. A man missing, I’d heard, last heard from fleeing through a canyon in LA with a pack of dogs after him, their masters baying for his blood. He’d lost his glasses, and someone said a shoe. Never heard from again. Police searching his hard drive for clues. Nothing but an answerphone message filled with screams and barking.

So I slept, and I dreamed lucidly, and with clarity, and I dreamed somebody loved me. And we held each other, and the walls bled, and the universe turned, and the sky roared with static.

When her hair turned black in my hands I didn’t even blink. As the blood rose to our shoulders, all I knew was she wanted a Ribena, so I swam to a shop and got her one.

I awoke bathed in reality, and it smelt like my dream.

We had lunch with James, and I am moving into a new hotel today, because my little Lynchian nightmare has no wifi. So to the Tribeka, and poshness.

Manyana.

So, my little brother Ally has set up some personality test, wherein you find out which of his gay demons you are most like. I, apparently, am most like Yoink.

You are most like Yoink. At first you seem like the ideal companion, bright,
cute, cheery, patient and humble. However, there really is a limited use for you. You haven’t as many talents as others and although
you are intelligent enough, your capacity for
thought is hindered by your willingness to
believe and/or agree with anything people tell
you. You are not only gullible, but also malleable as
putty. You are not very good at standing up for yourself
and it is quite likely that when you are upset
nobody cares, because nobody knows. Problems aside, you are a welcome addition to any
party and at least you have ideas of things you
would like to do with your life, even if you
are unlikely to ever achieve them.

Which demon are you?

Bollocks, in fact. Well, sort of. YOU didn’t notice when I was upset, did you? But never mind that. Today was beautiful again in LA. I went into Interscope to meet folks, and that was most enjoyable and informative. (I notice Gavin Rosdale has ripped of that Guiness ad for his new band’s artwork. Good one lad!)

Oh, but it is hardcore and mean at the top. Keep your head up Marshall.

After that I did a photoshoot with an immensely talented gentleman, which involved his studio and a lush brown background, then to the beach, where I splashed about in the sea in Santa shorts with a surfboard, and played Lego in the sand in a wetsuit. HOW DOPE IS THAT?! I love Lego. And never have I done any of that. So many firsts! Truly this is a place of wonder.

I am back up at Danny Saber’s now, finishing some shit off, before I fly to New York on the morrow. But I will be back. There is much more of this La La business explore.

Hey! Who’d have thunk the origins of Mormon were so well hidden? To the scores of you that mailed today confessing no prior knowledge, I urge you to investigate further. These people are Skygoddamn hilarious.

“Austin Mitchell, the colourful Labour MP, has fallen victim to computer hackers. His outspoken weblog has been replaced by a picture of a young man in a gas mask, boasting of how he has taken over the site.

This means visitors can no longer read Mitchell’s story about the government whip who keeps a picture of Blackfriars bridge on his office wall alongside a photograph of Roberto Calvi, the Italian banker found hanging there in 1982 amid mysterious circumstances. “If the government loses a vote,” the whip told Mitchell, “that’s what will happen to me.”

The site is back online, minus that particular item. Similarly missing is the Times story that reported on it.

So, I saw my first The Killers video last night. What a pile of horse shit. Someone needs to put a bullet between that Skygoddamned Mormon’s fucking eyes. That was gross. It made me ill.

You know anything about Mormons? I would suggest they might be the stupidest people on Earth, but as we know, it is a big old World. I conclude that they are just fucking stupid.

The church was founded by a Joseph Smith in the early 1800s. Smith, the son of a fortune teller, claimed to have been visited by an angel, who directed him to a place where he dug up a stone box containing some gold plates, inscribed with Egyptian writings, and “a sort of wonderful pair of spectacles - two crystals set in a silver bow”, through which the illiterate Smith could translate the markings.

This only worked, said Smith, when the plates were completely deprived of light, so he had to put them inside a big hat, into which he would cram his magic-spectacled head, and dictate the translations to a friend, who wrote it down. No sooner were the plates translated, than an angel appear-ed, and flew away with the plates and the spectacles.

So was born The Book Of Mormon!

And, to any of you smirking out there, wipe that thing off your visage. If you think your religion is any worthier, and was conceived in an less a fraudulent manner, well, I think you might well be living in the land of Dreams, and you should wake the fuck up now. Serious. You are holding us all back with your unthinking, selfish idiocy. And just because Pat Robertson is quite evidently rotten, a liar, a murderer, a douche - he is not so different from you.

“When you call yourself an Indian or a Muslim or a Christian or a European, or anything else, you are being violent. Do you see why it is violent? Because you are separating yourself from the rest of mankind. When you separate yourself by belief, by nationality, by tradition, it breeds violence. So a man who is seeking to understand violence does not belong to any country, to any religion, to any political party or partial system; he is concerned with the total understanding of mankind.”
J. Krishnamurti

Amen.

You know, there are 5,000,000 of these Mormons - 26,000 of those wondering about under the mantle of “active missionaries.” My favourite kinds of people. Apart from Scientologists. Banned from France, you know. They sent Tom Cruise over to convince those evil French to reconsider. Weirdly, they did not. Do they not respect the awesome power of The Cruise, lately to be found leaping atop sofas on Merkin telly to proclaim his love for that lady that was a bit crap in the new Batman movie? What are they, STUPID?

In the face of it all, sometimes I can but laugh.

Bwah-ha. Ha. Ha.

My life is pretty amazing you know. I am not bragging. I am AWED. Seriously. I am up a mountain in LA making songs, for Skygod’s sake. Danny’s got a fucking ton of vinyl and noise making machines and wooden things, so when we’re done with these three I made previously, we shall make a BRAND NEW ONE. I love new best, always did.

So Dr Saber gave me a big ol’ pile of circular plastic ealier to listen at. I found this amazing Charlie Manson song and a recording of four groupies from the 60s, talking about their lives. There’s this amazing quote from one, seventeen years old, about how these supposedly anti establishment types just made a new establishment, with new leaders, a new elite. New groupies. NOTHING CHANGES!

Really rotten things is, these are all super smart girls. Yet they still felt love and acceptance came in being cum receptacles for assholes. They all got beat up, mangled, and torn. They were all thrown away when the tour ended. I wonder where they are now.

I got an email off a girl I used to go to primary school with today. Way back in the day, in Llangoed, a pretty little village on Anglesey.

“Dunno if you remember me and the sisters Jones,” she wrote. “I’d hope you do, as a many a long hour was whiled away at your house playing lego and such like…. those were the days. One distinct memory is when Meredydd broke your arm in Primary, you were on his shoulders swinging from the goalpost (you always were a short arse!) and you fell.”

I don’t remember her being involved in my youthful Lego. But I remember the goalpost. And I remember her being sweet when everyone else was mean. So big up Anna. Love to Llangoed. I could burst into tears just thinking about the place sometimes, for some good, but mainly ill. Those were the days. The horrorful, wishful, dumb failed-romantic days when I used to walk for miles to wander past Ellie’s house on the weekends and got beat up every weekday.

Danny’s awesome wife met Hunter at a Fear And Loathing set-party, she told me. She freaked him out, and he called her answerphone. How ace is that?

I fucking miss Hunter and I never met him. But I can’t imagine I’d be up here without him.

Bravecapatin, in one of the best and most beautiful emails I ever got (which I shall take proper time to respond to in the morning) wrote: “i was wanting to write something about the uk today and all the wonderfully terrifying that are going on, i think that chaos is the only bed that man will ever lie in. you must embrace it and maybe even start to enjoy it because if not, if you think that one day everyone will walk around free and equal in empathetic harmony, you are wasting your life and everybody else’s time. hunter believed that, as did nelson algren. i truly believe that and yet i fight for harmony and empathy every day; as they did. as you do. i’m not sure what kind of confused idiot that makes us.”

Me neither. But I am glad I am that kind of idiot. It is a nicer life than the Other. Those freaks sob themselves to sleep every night on cancerous pillows. Their muscles creak with cysts. Their daughters loathe them, and their poor mothers die new and painful deaths every day. And their eyes - I am seeing this every day on Fox “news” panel discussions - are glazed and empty. They are dead already. The walking dead. And that is their lot, for there is nothing else. No hell, no heaven. Just one life, one life they lived dead.

It is all in the eyes, brothers and sisters. Find some eyes you can swim in. That is what it is all about. That and being up mountains making things that bring you joy.

This is Danny Saber’s palace, where I am currently recording and sleeping. That thing was there when he moved in. Neat, huh?

THE MUSIC IS DOPE.

Jeff Wayne Dope.

Wagner Dope.

TV just tried to sell me teenage girls getting porno whilst pissed, then make me watch young men beat each other into hamburger.

There is - get this - an eye on the rooftop.

Photo in the morning.

Head up Skinny. Fuck that. Your time’s coming.

I just had jerk salmon and corn on the cob in a glorious beachside restaurant in Malibu. In a minute Jeff’s driving me up those Hollywood mountains to Danny Saber’s and lo, we shall make history. Danny is fucking safer than fuck. He digs Adam And The Ants.

Might post some video footage of studio stuff later. Jeff’s getting a video, so we can make stuff for my DVD. It’s gonna be an amazing DVD, swear down. Have I mentioned that Clones - The Cartoon - is looking amazing? Oh, OK then. How about that Miranda Richardson was on my plane? She smiled at me. YUH!

Mothboy sent me this. I fucking pissed myself. Old Tories are the craziest people in the world.

Dear You

What a lovely day it has been!

For me.

I can read about Luke Haines in the car on the way to the mountains.

Oh, gadgetry. How I will miss you.

She used to live by me. I saw her put the bins out. The wind blew her hair away, and she smiled.

What was it I read last week in a letter in The Independent? “Robin gone, only Mo Mowlam and Clare Short to go.”

Don’t go anywhere remote, or get on any small airyplanes. Lock your doors, Claire. History is calling. And you were right about page 3.

I had totally forgotten about American TV. I mean, I don’t have a TV back in London. I see it, sometimes, in other places. And it shocks, and appals, and upsets me.

But the stuff over here is just nuts. I mean, you know that. They know that. Adverts every seven minutes. The most bizzare, collagen-spoiled men and ladies in the world, telling, not lies, because they’re not even paying attention… just… telling. What they’re told to tell. Through plastic mouths. It is beautiful, in a weird way.

LA is lush today. Probably it is lush most days. You can never see much further than your immediate periphery, due to the car pollution, but what you can see - mainly movie-set houses and the craziest trees in the world - is Tim Burton-beautiful.

Anyway, given that I am where I am, I felt it fitting to take up Jeff’s lady Lorrie’s offer of a free sunbed, at her place of work. I have never had one before. It was very enjoyable, all windy and hot and flourecent. Oh, the horrorful decadence.

Anyhow. I am off to make music. Which is what I am here for, after all.

Man, that stigmata is serious. I got the plane, and my feet blew up like fake tits. I feel like I’m wallking on goddamned Pigs

So. 4 hours sleep. A third of the video done. Usual panick. Best cabbie ever, takes me to Heathrow, tells me about Poland, his Jamaican girlfriend, loves James Whale too. Airport. Ticket issue. Caramel Machiatowhatsit. Long, long journey. Movies not working. Seriously dark BBC2 “comedy”. Lovely hardcore jewish lady. “These days people are either left or right wing. I am right on the right wing, saying, you’re too left wing.” Very lovely lady. From Sweden. Tells me when there are mountains. Arrive in La. No armed coppers. Really safe people checking passports. Walk outside. Sunshine! Smog! Smiling faces! Hot security: “Wow, those are amazing glasses.” Gives me lighter and hair advice. Is called Misty. Noone is called Misty. Jeff shows. “WORD!” Drive through pollution. Jeff has lush new house. Shower. Plot. American The Office. Big pile of chicken.

Going round Danny Saber’s on the morrow to record my “stop worrying about bizzaro shit like heaven and live NOW you SPAZZES” song. HYPE.

Why is everyone blahblahing about that lame Common album when PE’s new record is so fucking good?

Common album - Bland.

PE album - Hardcore.

Common album - produced by Kanye. Lush in places.

PE album - Produced by Paris. Serious FUNK throughout.

Common album - Lyrically bland and mainstream fancying cautious.

PE album - Uncompromisingly acurate street and world reportage.

Anyway. I am far too busy right now to be meandering over such things. Check the PE LP though, me and my little brother love it.

Things to do in the next 12 hours before I get my plane:

Get as far through the animated Clones flick as possible.
Finish rendering audio as seperate bits for the mixing.
Backup.
Make song with Bashy.
Pack.
Get all my files off of my old old hardrive.
Notice that tonight appears to be the end of a chapter, and that the morrow brings another.
Panick.
Calm.
Advance.

Bzzzkt! I AM SECRET MESSAGE IN THE TEXT! YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND ME COS YOU ARE NOT REALLY THAT FUSSED ARE YOU?

Anyway. I was just outside and got bitten on my FEETS by bugs and Zef says it looks like I have stigmata, so maybe that is the problem. Maybe it wasn’t bugs at all, it was JESUS.

Although, I’d argue the Lord has better things to be doing than smiting my feets. Like doing good works through post-grads. Why does he have to do them through post grads? Can’t he just, like, do them? Is he LAZY? Does he actually consider our peoples in Africa to be weird scum that need Kroyst (Brummy pronounciation) introduced to them by Skygoddamned uppity children? Do dead babies go to hell or limbo? How do they get out of Limbo? Do they crawl?

Oh, Imperialism. Will we ever be rid of your rotten claw?

I am busy. Have a cartoon instead of words. It is HILARIOUS!

BALANCE, bubba, that and context. Otherwise one could quite easilly become Wobbly Headed Bob.

So, what have you heard of Avian FLu?

Cheep. Cheep. Kaw. Kaw.

“Now you can say that I’ve grown bitter but of this you may be sure
The rich have got their channels in the bedrooms of the poor”

Big Brother final tonight! Get your popcorn! See as they wish you to see! En masse! Give a shit!

I was just sick two and a half times. I am gutted. Mindfull of my poor diet and the lack of useful ingredients in my stupid husk, twice I did walk to the shop and buy smoothies. And now they are on their way to dirty the sea some more, and not helping the husk at all.

So now I hurt the husk with a cigarette and ponder in the sun, between animated takes, as twere. Zef and I have a lot to do. The filmed Clones video is on hold pending new direction, dispicably, so all rests on us. As ever. We shall win, always we win. I am good at things I know I have control over.

Robin Cook was right, of course. “So long as the struggle against terrorism is conceived as a war that can be won by military means, it is doomed to fail. The more the west emphasises confrontation, the more it silences moderate voices in the Muslim world who want to speak up for cooperation.”

A monkey could tell you that. They don’t want any cooperation. Jeff Wells is right. “There will be no “Please Stand By” for America. No on/off toggle for totalitarianism will be thrown with Martial Law, and those expecting one may find themselves saying “Hey, this isn’t so bad.” America is passing through gradations of grey, the next nearly indistinguishable from the last. It’s only in stepping back, in comparing now to then - five years ago; 10, 25 or 50 - that you realize how your eyes have adjusted to the dark.”

Mine hurt, baby. I should wear sunglasses but I can’t now.

I didn’t realise I was short sighted until I was, like, 8 or something. My uncle spotted it, when I couldn’t read a sign from a distance, I think it was. Prior to that day, things were warm and fuzzy. After that day, I could see all the little bits of dirt amongst the grass, all the tiny, scary bugs. And I was stuck wearing these silly big goggles with a flourecent cord attached. And from then of people looked at me different, and some of them mocked me.

But I didn’t take them off. I know people that did, and do. I don’t judge those people. It’s just I don’t want to not see the dirt and bugs, as horrid as they are. Seeing them gives me a weird, not comfort, just cognisance… although I know the human eyeball to be a limited instrument. Even with glasses, I can’t see things as they really are, and I never will.

And some folks don’t like dirt, or bugs, and would just rather not see them.
Some folks might not want to be seen with a boy in glasses.

I don’t mind so much though. That is up to them. There is very little I can do about it anyway.

“…there’s a mighty judgement coming, but I may be wrong
You see, you hear these funny voices
In the Tower of Song”

PS! I just heard James’ final mixes of Clones, with added Mary and seemingly more Oomph. They are fucking ace. Dear James, I love you.

If I had a gun today I wuld have shot some dugs. So it is good I don’t have no gun. There would be dead dugs. Poor dugs. It is not their fault my mam’s freakish next door blimp neighbours live in a pile of shit and abuse the five dugs and seven rabbits and innumerable mutated furry things so they engage in a hellish cacophony at ungodly hours of the day. It is those blimps. That woman looks like Rose West. Their fifteen year old daughter ran away with a 29 year old nutbar she met on the internet. I am not surprised. Skygod help those that remain. If they were found in three years underneath all the dug shite and the patio I wouldn’t blink. If I was good at that sort of thing I would hook up my Mam’s toilet to their letterbox. I bet they wouldn’t even notice.

Prases be for the GLC. I am listebing to them in the garden and singing along at the dugs.

“THE BADBOY! THE BADBOY LIMP! A LITTLE BIT OF GRAVEL MAKES YOU WALK LIKE A PIMP!”

Ally is cheery and awake and making me coffee. He is happy cos he said he thought I was a husk.

I AM NOT A HUSK!

Sometimes, you get hit by a bus.

And it is NOT YOUR FAULT, bubba, if you get hit by a bus. And they don’t care if you were on your way down the Co Op to pick up your Nan’s pills or whatever. Buses don’t care, and buses don’t discriminate. When buses run people over, they don’t check if those people happen to be particularly busy or anything. They just run them over. POW!

I saw a guy on a bike get hit by a bus once actually. Well, he went under it. It was not pretty.

So there dies that terrible analogy. Suffice to say, I am feeling a little queer, compared to my usual. Perhaps it is sing hosanna ACES and perhaps it is BAD with flashing lights and a helicopter chasing after it. How would I know? I know very little, in the piffling scheme of things, let alone that Grand one.

But hey! I know when I am leaving now. Forsooth:

NARKCIEWICZ/ADAM

ATTN:TRINKA BAGGETTA
INTERSCOPE

2220 COLORADO AVE

SANTA MONICA CA 90404

VIEW TRIP NBR….WFQ6XS

17 AUG 05 - WEDNESDAY
UNITED 925 COACH CLASS EQUIP-PLANE CHANGE
LV: LON / HEATHROW 435P ONE STOP MILES- 5456 CONFIRMED
AR: LOS ANGELES 1205A ELAPSED TIME-15:30 ARVL DATE-18 AUG
SEAT-23B/ 9D DINNER-SNACK-MOVIE
CONFIRMED AISLE SEATS

Yeah isle seats on a long flight (but I do love gazing with awe out the window), BOO spelling my government name wrong. See why I rarely use it?

I will though.

By the way - as I travel through the internet, I make notes in Notepad to remind myself of where to send gently encourage you to read. Cos I am collapsing now, today I post raw notes:

BULLSHITTING!

STOLEN!

SAFE FUTURE!

UNSAFE FUTURE!

DISS!

(And if you only read one, read this one:)

CHAUVINISTS!

My bones ache. Goodnight and Skygod Bless. Allah Bless. Fonz Bless. Everybody, who is in the position to - Bless. Each and every one. It helps. While some of us can sleep with soppy smiles on big pillows, others twist and turn in beds of tears and shit. I wish it were not so. But so it is. So at the very least, BLESS.

Nos da pobl.

STOP PRESS! They changed my flight and now I am on Virgin. WHOO! Loads of ace movies and Streetfighter 2 and socks and toothbrushes and a little notebook and pencil in a translucent green bag! BOSH! IN THE HOUSE!

I have been making a video with young Zef and wading through acres of Doublethink. I am muddy with Doublethink, it drips from my elbows, heavies my steps and burns my eyeballs.

This douche tells me Monbiot is a CIA spook. Monbiot confirms my suspicion that the 90s was the weirdest blip in the history of humanity, a queer period of our existence in which a significant portion of the populace basked in the warm glow of forgotten consequence, and thought themselves to be gods.

That all seems a terribly long time ago now. Now nuclear war is once again our reality. Buses kills you. People carrying stuff kills you. British guitar music is as bad as it has ever been. They’ll ostracise you, or put you in a hole in the ground if you complain.

Big Brother is real! As real as you or I, its populace retarding, soul dissolving, neon visage pumping forth from silver boxes like the most regrettable and dull sex you ever had, forever and ever Amen. The ticker spouts Newspeak, and the victims spout theirs, and girls starve to death on the covers of freakish modern bibles. Nobody notices.

Time has been speeding up, I have noticed. I wonder if that is a brick wall ahead, or one of those paper ones Run DMC tore through in the Walk This Way video.

(When I was little I really identified with Spider-Man, and especially admired one panel in a Todd McFarlane issue where he put his fist through the side of a house. POW!)

I mean, I have no clue. I don’t know Shit about world affairs, and I certainly don’t know Shit about aliens. But this is a lovely piece of writing.

Those that have been paying attention for a while will know White Mike, at least a very little. Those newer on this ugly scene - meet Mike White.

You’ll be hearing from him soon.

OK. That’s that. Read this gorgeous little thing about humans.

They say it was heart disease wot killed Cocky Robin, now. Not the fucking eight foot ridge he fell down. Bloody heart disease. Thanks for all the bottles of heart disease. And the falling in the holes.

Maybe. I, obviously, know nothing. But he was a noisy swine was Robin. A clever, noisy swine. They all get shut up in the end.

Aswat?

“Who killed Cock Robin?” “I,” said the Sparrow,
“With my bow and arrow, I killed Cock Robin.”
“Who saw him die?” “I,” said the Fly,
“With my little eye, I saw him die.”
“Who caught his blood?” “I,” said the Fish,
“With my little dish, I caught his blood.”
“Who’ll make the shroud?” “I,” said the Beetle,
“With my thread and needle, I’ll make the shroud.”
“Who’ll dig his grave?” “I,” said the Owl,
“With my pick and shovel, I’ll dig his grave.”
“Who’ll be the parson?” “I,” said the Rook,
“With my little book, I’ll be the parson.”
“Who’ll be the clerk?” “I,” said the Lark,
“If it’s not in the dark, I’ll be the clerk.”
“Who’ll carry the link?” “I,” said the Linnet,
“I’ll fetch it in a minute, I’ll carry the link.”
“Who’ll be chief mourner?” “I,” said the Dove,
“I mourn for my love, I’ll be chief mourner.”
“Who’ll carry the coffin?” “I,” said the Kite,
“If it’s not through the night, I’ll carry the coffin.”
“Who’ll bear the pall? “We,” said the Wren,
“Both the cock and the hen, we’ll bear the pall.”
“Who’ll sing a psalm?” “I,” said the Thrush,
“As she sat on a bush, I’ll sing a psalm.”
“Who’ll toll the bell?” “I,” said the bull,
“Because I can pull, I’ll toll the bell.”
All the birds of the air fell a-sighing and a-sobbing,
When they heard the bell toll for poor Cock Robin.

Lalalalalalala, this is my job, lalalalalalala.

See, you have to fucking love the crazy brain of R Kelly. Watch the five videos. 1,2 and 4 are the monsters, 4 ’specially. 5 is just a let down. To me. Maybe you like it best. But you’re wrong. Like Alex was wrong when he said Road Trip was better than Harold and Kumar. It so wasn’t.

Here, this is hilarious. And so’s this. Butter up, buttercup, here’s you Orwellian Word Of The Day. Pay attention baby, this is for you!

Crimestop: “The faculty of stopping short, as though by instinct, at the threshold of any dangerous thought. It includes the power of not grasping analogies, of failing to perceive logical errors, of misunderstanding the simplest arguments if they are inimical to Ingsoc, and of being bored or repelled by any train of thought which is capable of leading in a heretical direction. In short….protective stupidity.”

My old man was watching UK-population-horror-and-retardation-acceptance experiment Big Brother (the telly show) earlier. I had my back to it, bit I heard it, and was filled with a powerful dread, and a great sorrow. I am very glad I don’t have a television now. The speed with which I have seen people sucked back into that crazy bullshit is fucking phenomenal. Honestly, throw it out of the fucking window. You won’t miss anything.

Out here in the country the night is as black as sin and indoors is cosy with the sound of Taroting and Gregorian chanting on the silver ceedee business. Earlier Ally and I were outside shooting cans off of tree trunks with the old man’s shotgun, which was rather idylic. Ally kept knocking cans off and I didn’t hit a single one!

But then Ally read my Tarot, which I never had happen before, and it was right about my past, in which I was upside down Satan and there was the girl and the death. And I had loads of cups. And no pentangles. And the Emperor right in the middle, and then the SUN. Basically it says shit has been dark, then there was big createy whoosh, now it is going ace, there are recent brain difficulties, but shit is going to be amazing and I am going to have a love and go somewhere hot and make a choice to avoid a triangle and then be mad sucessful and have a time of joy, then comes personal doubt, and then people are going to try and kill me for a bit and that will be super dark and horrid, but I come out of the other side “in the best state possible” and it will be glorious, aparently, and a new age of LOVE and PRIZES and MAKING STUFF. So it says.

After that I get a moon, which some say means dreams and reality becoming one, and others say means death.

So it goes.

The new GLC album is the best single body of recorded work I have this year.

SERIOUS!

It is INCREDIBLE.

On a strictly musical level it shits on every album to have come out of this country in ten years. The production is goliath. It’s the Bomb Squad, Phil Spector, Jim Steinman, Brian Wilson and Kanye West headed by the RZA. Rap Unicron. SERIOUS!

Oh to hear Busta, Gonzo, Snoop, Skinny, Bashy, Bruza, Nas or Sov on any of this. But me, I Like GLC’s rapping. It’s like Biz, or Slick Ricky, or Ice Cube even, back in the day. And not only is it fucking spot on and piss funny, but it is on the bloodied knuckle Chris Morris could but dream of, whilst being sharper than a sack of South Parks, warmer (and cleverer) than a cannon of Commons, and even scary at times.

CCTV
CCTV
CCTV
CCTV…

Drones a chorus.

Quickly…

Newport’s In The House - Kool Keef VS Beasties. Raw.
Bad Boy Limp - MF Doom VS Tribe. Wu vibes. Grower.
Your Missus Is A Nutter - Fucking Incredible beat. Kanye, Eminem, Kiss, CdeB. Filters. Glorious. True.
Charmschool - Pete Rock gets Grange Hill. Hussein classic. Safeness in exelsiss (sic).
R ‘n’ B - Heavenly. Spearhead, Extreme, fuckin Pharel. Stomach wrenching harmonies. Wisdom inherent.
HRT - Fucking TURBOFUNK-WU! With Pete Rock soul! And Necroic sinister undertones! Serious and important message within. Truth in jest! IMPORTANT, you DRONES, to recognise you can have both! It doesn’t have to be fucking Coldplay OR Bloc Party OR just DPZ fool! Dope shit is dope shit, you get that head out of your ass son! Culture cannot be judged on freak perceptions of acceptability, nor will boundaries ever set us free. GET ME!!!!
Maggot At Midnight - Kanye-Wu-Willowthewisp creep-banger. Inspired.
Shit Song - maybe the best electrorapbassbitch beat I have heard since DPZ’s Hip-Hop. Serious.
Monkey Love - A GLC classic from back in the day. Beautifully, and mournfully, produced.
Short Term - A Cuban Links-era minor masterpiece detailing beautifully something I understand only too well.
Paranoia - Aled Jones riffing, uber-para caper banger. Magical production. Ghost would love it.
Sister - this is just triumph, this is. This is like them Super Furries did a song with Madness then that Dob Bylan turned up. Serious. And it’s dead clever, cos the choruses are the best choruses you can get, and they, evilly only do them once, so you have to sit about pressing rewind all day and night and sing it in the shower like I have been.

Basically, Dwain P Xain or whatever the fuck it is, holla at your boy. We need to do an album. I’ll get Chris de Burgh and Howard Jones in on it. And Ghost. Shit’ll be incredible.

WORD FOR WINDOWS!

Leonard is always right. There is is a crack in everything. That is how the light comes in. I know this, because after a month of what seemed at times like abject darkness, one appeared, crack! in my gnarled old periphery, and now I am being flooded with the stuff.

I look at the future with the eyeballs of a child awaiting Santa. I am hyped. I am going to take a fuckwad of the Bankers’ cash, and use it on babans. Peter Doherty, please stop with that druggist nonsense, and spend it on babans. You too Moss, you too McGee, Kelly, Hucknal, Gillespe, you fucking silly hypocrite. Lead us, you have the power!

Me, I had a nice dinner and a whisky and a talking with a man called Mark this evening, after a wonderful and long day of communicating and listening to beats and drawing blobs. And then Luke took me to a sweaty hell hole to watch some muppets regurgitate The Faint and Bloc Party and Atari Teenage Riot, to some pathetic effect, but it was ace cos Luke is. In the autumn he is going to take me to Epping Forrest to amble amongst dead leaves. That’s it up there.

When I was little I had no time for such things, and my Mammy said I had no soul. She knew I did really though. I do. My clever brother Marek may not believe in such things, but I think I do. I don’t know much, but I know I love you, you people that enriched my life and made me. Buzz buzz pop! go the electrics.

I am going to buy Luke a train set with the Bankers’ money. And houses for my benefactors, and computers and schools for the babans. And Marek, my dear clever brother, we are going to have to build an internet for everybody, because Dubya owns this one, or claims to, and I imagine that will be very expensive, but the Bankers have loads of cash and they throw it about like monkeys do excrement.

Darkness is coming. I have been reading about those last days of Rome again, and they’re making a mockery of us, with wine bottles up our sisters, and Heat magazine, and GTA, so fun to play… but there is is a crack, and the light is warm, and won’t blind us.

I know of late I have given you little but horror, and I have no solutions yet. But do me a favour, dear my peoples. Go here and give these people £15 of your monthly salary. They will do a lot more with it than you will, with your chips and your fags and your porno! They will help babans have lives with it. Forsooth! And if you are scoffing about drops of water in oceans, you at at the back there, remember the wise words of my boy Chris de Burgh:

Every drop of rain
Many drops can someday make a river
Many rivers roll down to the sea
And the sea rolls on forever
Forever

Bask in that wisdom, brothers and sisters, and bid me sweet dreams, as I shall you.

x

Anthem

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in.
That’s how the light gets in.
That’s how the light gets in.

“It was all a dream!”

Said Biggie.

But it wasn’t!

Which is odd.

So you stay up till 5 having hardcore actual human communication with newfangled technology. Then you get up at ten as a result of more human communication via slightly less newfangled technology, after lounging around in bed half asleep listening to Radio 3 for an hour or so. And you have a weak shower (but a shower nonetheless), the result of old technology, and coffee, with your laptop outside in the sun and the clouds, where you listen to a bunch of beats sent to you via electricity and the air, or something, from Scotland, whilst drawing with a plastic pen on a plastic board directly into said laptop, and doing more of the newfangled communicating.

You go, shit, future. But it is now. And you know that one day they’ll take this all away. You know what the bad people are up to. You know social engineering exists, and that’s why school was as it was, and that’s why the funny boy got stomped and the pretty girl got sick. You know that nothing lasts forever, even cold November rain. But you don’t care at all.

Sometimes I don’t mind that they’re going to turn this earth into wet rock, because I figure, whatever, we will survive, because we do. But that isn’t fair on the little green bugs that won’t exist. But then maybe we won’t either.

But we had a go.

Life finds a way.

I had one of those amazing days where I rose early and much was achieved, and most of that went right, yesterday. Finished a song. Drew pictures. Listened to music (Hiz’s mixtape is fucking ace) Sorted emails (I still have 300 odd to deal with, but it is a happier figure than that I was facing). Communicated with members of my family (my old Man didn’t like my version of Lucretia… by the way. I don’t think Luke or my little brother did, but I DO!). And spent a delightful evening down Rotter’s Golfclub in Keith Tenniswood’s underground bunker, checking out his three (!) remixes of my song, Liverpool and some of his new stuff. And inventing a new mixtape genre. It is like screwed and chopped in that involves fucking with records, but we are calling it Ketamine (despite Keith’s hatred of the stuff), as what it does is it makes records sound like Ketamine. Via ramming things throguh chorus filters and shit. It is amazing.

I didn’t rise so early today, unhappily, but I do have Keith’s remixes, and Matt’s ideas for the live action Clones video are taking excellent shape.

Oh piss! My cofee has gone cold. Never mind. One of my American readers peoples mailed to tell me he was driving in a car with his Mammy and our version of Dreams came on and they nearly crashed. No crashing is good, and so is yankee airplay of British emcees. BIG UP!

I said this to Mary, because it is true, and I forgot - if ever one is depressed, and is unhappy with said depression (some people love it you know), make a tune. A complete thing, with a start and an end. It can be someone else’s tune, and you can make your own version. And you will feel like a God. As I did, earlier, when this thing I have done started to come together. There is nothing on earth like it. Nothing I know, anyway. That I can do this now, this weird execution, makes it all OK - nay, beautiful. And I know it is beautiful - but sometimes it takes bowel rupturing kick drums to make fools such as I take note.

So make a song. Or a book, or a play, or nice rock, or a spoon, or a valley. Make love. Whatever you like. But take time out to make something with that that you are.

I am going to bed now, in order that I might wake up early and finish my thing. So that will be my wittering for the day. Look at this - a new month. A clean slate. No mile of ugly text, no horror. Just a blank, some might say virtual, I would argue real, canvas. Let us hope it fills with something Sweeter, and of more use, than Shit.