So, I have just been informed that those of you with WAP enabled mobile phones can go to a special MTV WAP page all about my ass, where you can get a free songs for your phone (So, Be There, & Hypocrite), ringtones, screen savers, and animated thingies. Pritty future, non? Point your browsage to wap.mtvmobile.com.

You can also, if you haven’t already, listen to my album in its entiritey over at MTV.co.uk. Click here.

In other multimedia news, the Hypocrite video is now frontpage on Newgrounds, and has thusfar been viewed 14,54 times, and has an average rating of 4.14/5.00, which is pritty good! It’ll be on Youtube soon, I am promised.

So, I am off back to London soon. The sun just came out, so I shall have a pretty taxi ride to the airport, with all that nice light reflecting off of the puddles. I am totally into that sort of thing you know.

OK, I go now.

Pax!

If I have gathered anything from these past few days, it is that Berliners are a rude and noisy race, but then so are the English. The English may pretend to be polite, on occasion, but their falsity is more disgusting than their beer, and when the Great Scorer comes to judge their existences they will have as much of a hope of entering the Kingdom Of Joy as a Hindu cow, or a cauliflower, or Osma bin Laden.

Do you remember him? Some of my younger readers may be shrugging their empty little heads off of their sloping, acne-pocked shoulders, but six years ago he was the most terrifying man in our world, and his shadow hung thick and stinking over our heads like LA air.

Last most people heard of bin Laden was when he spookily turned up on TV right before the 2004 US elections to help little George Bush out. Where is he now? We are still at war, but we have no proper enemy. This is demoralising indeed. We have nothing to hate but ourselves, so we are forced to terrorise poor, innocent little pop stars, like Britney Spears.

But so what? A strange and beautiful girl lies sleeping behind me, and I suspect my clattering to be an obtrusion to her sleep, even if it is quieter than the revelous Germans outside this ceiling high window. You get two single duvets to one king-sized bed in this country, or at least this hotel. That makes the chance of an argument about duvet-stealing as doomed as a pig in the desert, but it also makes for less flesh on flesh, given the instinctive burrowing nature of the human animal, and flesh on flesh is what most of us live for, for good or ill.

On these things shall I brood, as I burrow in my single duvet, and listen to the revelous Germans. Nos da i pawb.

Go here.

And vote 5.

Dr Wonchop Of The Monkeymen and Akira The Me have made a brand new animated video for the song, Hypocrite, from my debut LP, When We Were Young. We hope you like it.

Hello you all. I am in Berlin. Berlin rules. Yesterday we rented bikes and cycled around it for hours and hours, and drank fine whiskeys and ate steaks and things. I met a Turbonegro fan, and offical Turbo Jugend member. This is always good. I will write more on the morrow though, I have to do lots of funny internet business, and this keyboard is all crazy. It is not a Qwerty, but a Qwertzu! The Y is at the bottom! Amaying.

So there.

Liverpool were pretty ace last night too.

And Voxtrot weren’t bad neither.

A good night all in all.

I still haven’t got my communications. But that’s OK. I have a more pressing issue now. Where the hell is my passport?

Wah.

So. Gwil writes:

It’s finally happened.

We’ve got one.

COLLOSAL SQUID!

Firstly: HAPPY BIRTHDAY BIG JACK NIMBLE!

Imagine! He was a baby once. What a mother. Praise that mother! Nerves of steel, surely.

So, I got this email from my buddy Luke, who is a music journalist. It was a press release. It read:

>Chris de Burgh – releases his new single Raqing Storm on 12th March –
>It’s a duet featuring 22 year old busker of the year winner Kristyna Miles…
>taken from his current album The Storyman.
>
>Chris has recently become a United Nations Goodwill Ambassador
>supporting IIMSAM (the Intergovernmental Institute for the use of Micro-Algae
>Spirulina against Malnutrition).
>
>He lives in County Wicklow, Ireland with his 3 kids –
>Rosanna – who was Miss World in 2003, sons
>Michael, Hubie and his wife Diane.
>He collects sculptures which he commissions and Beryl Cook paintings
>(I think I counted 5 originals when I was there…).
>
>He’s a huge Liverpool FC supporter, and loves golf.
>
> He’s available for Q & A type interviews or anything to do with sport….
>
>Let me know if you’re up for doing something with him
>or if you would like a review or competition
>copies of his current album – The Storyman,
>Or a review copy of the single.
>
>Cheers,
>
>Sharon

I read it, and I said, loudly, making the man next sat next to me jump - OMFG!

Then I rang Luke. “Hullo!” said Luke.

“OMFG!” said I.

“Omf?” said Luke.

“OMFG!” said I. Eventually he got the gist.

Exciting news, huh, oh my peoples? I am going to interview that Chris de Burgh, learn from him, bask in his wisdom, and maybe get to the bottom of his Thanks For All The AIDS sample deniance. This could be incredible. Hell, he might even lay his healing hands on my weary back and make me all springy again.

OMFG!

Yes indeed. It is a good day to be a Donovan. I paid my rent, mixed the Hypocrite remix, did the recycling, and witnessed a merry crew of Polish boys and girls storming the gym next door. I’d heard about these Poles. Jeremy used to love the gym next door, as it is usually pretty empty, and populated mainly by wobbly bottomed thirty somethings. But recently, as predicted by The Sun, and all the other right wing press sheets, Stoke Newington has become quite inundated with Poles, and they do love to be fit!

“It’s terrible,” said Jeres, despondently, on coming back from his exercises one day recently. “They sweat all over the crash matts and they’re huge! They work in squads and do weird exercises and punch each other really hard. They frighten me.”

Being part Polish myself, I think this is wonderful. I shall rejoin that gym post haste and befriend them. I noticed a Polish grocery store opened up the road the other day. None of the products sold inside have English writing on them. It is fantastic, and the place seems to be run by a quite scarish crew of handsome Polish ladies. Polish ladies sure are handsome. I prefer pretty, usually, but there is definitely room round these bougie parts for strapping handsome Polish ladies punching each other in the stomachs and scaring Jeres. All hail the European Union!

PS - It is pancake day. I can’t eat pancakes, right? Stupid wheat. Why did God decide to make everything yummy out of animals and meat? Stupid God. A pox on his face.

PPS -Ali and I watched Signs last night. It was pretty good. Mel Gibson is so hilarious. What a fucking massive filtrum he has! I am quite convinced that there is a Hollywood filtrum conspiracy. They all have massive filtrums, They scare me. Saying that, Tracey Emin has no filtrum at all, and I know who I’d rather watch blowing people up and stuff. NOT HER!

Yes.

PPPS - So, the night before last, we watched Little Miss Sunshine. It was pretty neat. I liked the emo kid, but the smack snorting granddad was best, and they killed him off pretty early in it. Chloe from 24 was in it too! Doing exactly the same stupid face she does in 24! I love her. Anyway. Watching Signs last night, I was all like, oh my God, Mel Gibson’s daughter in Signs is so that little girl from Little Miss Sunshine. Ali was, like, no she isn’t. I’m like, yes she is, and there’s no such thing as coincidence. Anyway, I just checked IMBD, and it was totally the same girl - she’s called Abigail Breslin. So there you go. I have no idea what it all means, but it sure means something.

PPPPS - Game’s verse on the Pain In My Life remix has made me finally admit he SUCKS. I dunno why I hung onto my hope for The Game for so long. Maybe I kind of empathise with duke. Still tho, this verse is totally shitty. Half of it doesn’t even rhyme. And he manages seven wack ass name drops in his sixteen bars. Wasteman. Saigon’s isn’t too hot either. BG makes them both look like Abigail Breslin. And HE sucks ass too. Waste!

STILL! No internet.

STILL! No proper phone wat I paid for.

STILL! Totally behind on my internet business.

STILL! Weird shit going on in Oz.

STILL! Them goonish swine insist on fucking with Iran.

Still. We have just about finished the Hyporite video. I have just about finished work on Lethal B’s LP. So, a few loose ends to tie up, and we can get on with this new LP, eh?

Class. Also! New mixtape on the way. Expect new bangers, remixes of When We Were Young tracks feat. all your favourite rappers. And some explosions. BOOM!

So while you d bags were sat indoors with a pile of bears watching The Devil Wears Prada, or whatever it is you do, I was in London town watching Shakespeare with a hot girl and Michael Hesseltine. Nullus.

Ahem. I shall quit the Bol impressions now. But it’s true. I did take a hot girl to see the all-male Propeller company’s performance of Twelfth Night at The Old Vic. And Michael Hesseltine was sat behind us. Sat in front of us was that old dude from Are You Being Served. He kept falling asleep. Fool! For t’was the finest, most gut-bustingly funny performance of the bard’s cross dressing caper that e’er I did clap eyeballs on. I urge everyone to go and see it right away. I had no idea there was more laffs to be squeezed out of that old fruit, but, lo, squeeze them Propeller boys did, like Vinnie Jones did testicles. Especially great was the finely bearded man playing Sir Toby Belch (who reminded me a lot of Jeres - plus the guy playing Viola reminded me totally of my cross-dressing brother Alex). Malvolio was also quite awesomely conducted and realised, and his cross-gartered yellow tights and codpiece were awesome.

So, afterwards, we’re sat in the bar, and my hot date notices the guy who played Viola fawning over Michael Hesseltine, all like, “ooh, such an honor to meet you sir,” and all that. We lamented the tragic monied poshness of the acting tradition, and my hot date suggested I go and barge into Hesseltine. I stood up to go to the toilet, and WHO DO I ACCIDENTALLY, AND IMMEDIATELY SHOULDER BARGE?

Indeed. Michael Hesseltine.

“Sohreh,” he said.

He never said that to all those Argies he had popped.

Anyway, I went for a piss, and in the toilet was dude who was playing the count Orsino> I congratulated him. “It is always nice,” he said, “To be paid a compliment while one has one’s cock in one’s hand.”

Which is true.

Have at ye an inspirational still from the Hypocrite video. Coming Monday.

x

The weird thing about internet cafes is the occasional glimpse into the world of the last person to use the computer you’re on. For instance: today, I sat at this rotten little desk, to find an internet explorer page open with “hung angels ladyboy escort servivces” emblazoned accross the top. Another revealed the previous user to have been investigating “wild trannies”. But who am I to judge? I have just been reading, with some wild glee, about the features on hand in the all new FL Studio 7 update. NEW FRUITY LOOPS! GEDDIN!

Ahem.

PS - Having bein engging with the internet purely out of neccessity of later, I have neglected my old pal Jeff Wells. Go read him being insightful about Anna and Marilyn and the Kennedys and that awful swine Sinatra here.

RIP Anna Nicole. You was a straight up G. I hated Howard Sterne for that brromcupboard shit. Screw that with a Black N Decker. Pax.

Saturday, oh my folks, was a blast, and I thank you. Big up Mary, Jeres, Morty, Dego, Magnum PI, Ginge and his sax, big up Ellie who did us some sound, my pops, and big up all of the y’all, specially dude who came all the way from Newcastle. Safety.

OK, I still aint got internet at home - expect the return of the old-style reportage in about 4 days. In the meanwhile, I’m finishing up Lethal B’s LP, this new animated video, and getting on with LP 2 and the new mixtape. Look out for news of exciting gigs, ETC, very soon.

Love is love, and I am a bit wet.

PS - Wonchop, he say: “I submitted an NG Alpha: http://www.newgrounds.com/ngmag/alphas/alpha/2069

Boy oh boy, it has been beautiful here in snow drenched Stoke Newington today. I had two snowball fights before breakfast! It was fully ace.

However, with the snow comes great sadness. Today we were to clamber aboard the bard’s trusty transit van, and make out merry way to Liverpool to play a show. But the gloriful snowfall has made this hazardous, and Jeres, for one, does not want to die. I personally don’t mind dying very much, but aside from dying, there is a very real danger of the van not making it, and if it does, us not being able to get back tomorrow when the freezey night forcasted has turned all the snow to ice, so we have had to cancel. WAH!

We were very much looking forward to visiting our Scouse friends. It is sad. If you were going to that show, hit me and email, and I’ll send you a song or something. AND! We will be back!

In other news, due to drum sharing amongst Damn Arms and RataTatT, we will be headlining London’s Barfly this coming Saturday, February 10th. We will be playing songs from When We Were Young, and a new one, or two. First ten to hit me back get a discountey list thing.

Salutations!

ax

Whaddya mean, Bulldog mailed me today saying I owe them money for this month, in which they’ve NOT GIVEN ME ANY INTERNET?

Dear Mr. narkiewicz, said they.

The balance of £ 34.28, from your December bill, is now overdue for payment.
We should be grateful if you would pay the overdue amount within the next seven days.

I would have been grateful if they’d given me some internet!

Dear Bulldog machine, replied I.

I have already told you, I am not paying you anymore. I moved house last month, you were no help in changing over, despite me contacting you a month prior, and due to your lack of service skills, I have been without internet for three weeks so far, which is hugely rubbish as I work from home. I have no idea why you expect me to pay you for not giving me any service, it is quite silly. Kindly refrain from bothering me any further.

Adam

ANYWAY! Hello. I have a new phone now. It has the same number,however, I have none of YOUR numbers. Plese email them to me, or send me a text or something.

Thanks!

In other news, we had lots of fun in Cardiff and Brummageham, and shall be heading up to Liverpool to play for you tommorrow. I am a little closer to getting broadbandage in my new home, and shall shortly be resuming normal service. In the meanwhile, here’s a picture of Jeres and me and Fancy Dan from the last tour, taken by young Mary.

Living on a high street is odd. I was sat on the sofa, watching My Name Is Earl, blown up the size of God via the grace of my projector and my well angled wall. It’s always loud on a high street. I’m getting used to it. But a bloodcurdling, Tom Waitsian roar was coming through my High Street stained windows. The roar of a man, wet with booze, parched from a lack of love. So I though. My instinct was to get up and see what the fuck was going on, but the sleeping head of the girl lay in my lap, and it was the most beautiful thing I thought I’d ever seen. My heart went out to the shrieking, gurgling, retching man on my high street, and my brain flipped back to Earl.

After a while, the fragility of the Digital Video Disc, or whatever that acronym is really for, put paid to my enjoyment of the episode in which Earl makes a child scared of The Boogeyman, and Randy gets to bounce on a bounceycastle*. Within arms reach I found some jumpers and vests to replace my lap, and rose myself, to do some drawing. As I stood, another roar came from the street Outside of my window, and in front of the Draculian Natwest steps a pair of men brawled and rolled about, a shopping bag rolling at their Siamese side. A black cab was waiting, its passenger holding open the door, summoning one of the men. One, bald, casually dressed, was on the floor. Another, hairslicked and suited, was on top of him. I rooted for the bald man, who eventually managed to drag his way up the side of a car against which they embraced, terribly. Headlocks were exchanged and the cab pulled away. I looked for my camera, but when I got back to the window it was all over - the bald man had picked up his shopping bag and was walking purposefully away, whole his suited assailant crossed the road, a little behind him, and continued to shout strange guttural obscenities that neither suited, nor matched, his sloaned head.

I looked at the sleeping thing, and it breathed contentedly. I put a Tom Waits LP on, lit a cigarette, poured myself a glass of whiskey and Coke, sat myself down at my swively chair, and drew a picture of myself discarding the smoking carcass of a pink blob, emerging from an inferno, smiling.

* I didn’t fully get Chilly’s trampoline thing. I think I do now. He said, “What colour is YOUR parachute? Well it seems to be green/ you keep running to the bank machine/ you keep flipping through a magazine/ you should be flipping on a trampoline.”

I am on tour.

And my phone got nicked.

I am in Brummageham today.

Come say hi!

@!