Sweating the sweat of the distinctly unrighteous, I contemplate my First Big Weekend back on the booze, rendered distinctly old school by my unhappy lack of a Home. My person, as one would expect, is peppered with a bright galaxy of nicks and cuts and bruises. My mouth is not a wonderful place to be. My socks are stiff, my hair lank, my smile crooked and my eyes sore. I had a lovely time, thank you. I danced the dance, engaged in the rich tapestry of humanity.

Friday was a huge success – my brother Wade and I Djed at the Great Eastern’s final “beach party”, then later I emceed over a bunch of tunes, some fast, some slow, some pumping, some slumping, some something. Birddog showed up fresh from Bath and just in time to add scratchedy mix stuff. Parties went on in hotel rooms until it was light, when some of us collapsed in a heap on a bed for a little sleep. One of us was a kind of a Kill Bill heroine, a master of some form of fighting with swords of bamboo. “One cut, one kill,” she said. Was it kendo? It seems a while ago, so I am unsure.

And we went to the TDK X festival or whatever it was called, and that was lovely. Erol is a genius. He DJed with his foot. Good times. Old pals. Swimming in booze. Same the next day, 2 Many DJs and what have you. One day we ended up back at Blue’s uncle’s. Blue’s uncle’s is an Aladdin’s Cave of wonderful and weird art.

We managed carnival on Monday. I love Carnival. Then Trash. Old school! Today wake up in mate’s, blinking boozey sleep, 16 year old bedroom wilfully retained in all of its happy glory. Nudey Phil Bush, sunshine, pub lunch, wet shit, warm beer, terrible burger, five chips, banter.

I missed banter the most. I was a hermit for 14 months, I suppose. I am glad. I learnt to make music. I didn’t miss the furry tongue. It was a big wet weekend, awash with booze, and Wade and I lay on our backs in the cemetery at 8 in the morning basking in the sunshine, noticing how far we have not travelled. We are still homeless, still silly, still skint. Life is fabulous, and we are lucky boys. I shall not be drinking booze tonight, I shall watch a video or something.

I was described as a moustachioed oddball rapper in the Evening Standard the other day. It is true! I am! Hooray for me!

Anyway, they cancelled Reggae In The Park. This is not a good thing. Also bad is that the Reading Crowd, a tolerant and delightful bunch historically, bottled 50 and The Rasmus off. LAME.

Dizzee Rascal is so the greatest, and the Nick Cave album is awesome. My boy Jeres has given up beer. Wise in his old age is he getting.

Whaddya mean Laura Bush wouldn’t have her photo tooken with P Diddy? I would I have been warming to Diddy of late. He means well, I think.

I fear Eminem’s brother also. I wonder if he is a good rapper. I hope he is. It would be sad if he sucked. Either way, he will be dissed. Poor lad.

I got well pissed last night. Today my head hurts and my wagon seems very far away. I am drinking lots of water and listening to my mixtape. It is wicked!

Tonight I think I will join my mate Wade at his indoor Beach Party at the Great Eastern Hotel, and rap over some of his records. I like to rap.

It is raining here in Llindain by the way. Ever since I got back from the States I’ve been waiting for Summer to kick in, but now I realise that it won’t. I missed it.

The papers remain droll. Here in the UK a poll today finds that one in three British teens wants cosmetic surgery. The Sun continues its mission to fuck on the Scouse pride, hounding eighteen year old Liverpudlian wunderkind Wayne Rooney, the nation’s most brilliant young footballer, away from his home team and into Hell. BA thinks it “normal” that 150 of their staff gave so little a fuck about the company they work for that failed to turn up for work yesterday. Still the “liberating” west fails to do anything about Sudan. Jim Davidson nicks crap “new” comedian’s crap joke. Mark Thatcher embarrasses Mummy when he is arrested for his involvement in an attempt at an oil related Coup. Locusts swarm. Crops fail.

Oh, and Can a Plaid Cymru MP impeach Tony Blair for going to war in Iraq?

I took over page 9 of the North Wales Daily Post today as well. They spelt my surname right and everything.

But yesterday Gwilym took me up Llanberis slate mine.

Writes Gwyl, who has a better memory than me:

“Llanberis slate mine/quarry was at one point the second largest slate mine in the world (not sure where the biggest was - maybe Ffestyniog). Inside the mountain Elidir Fawr (the one the quarry is on) is an underground hydro electric power station… miles of MASSIVE tunnels and a man-made cavern big enough to fit St Pauls Cathedral (the whole thing) inside! Safe.”

Safe indeed. I have spent these past few days being entirely awestruck by the great majesty and thunderous beauty of this land in which I was raised. Why didn’t I notice at the time? Why did I mock my Mother’s beloved “views” and long for a life amongst Smog? Nothing matches the giant brilliance of the slate mountains amid those natural, nothing I have seen.

I spent a lot of my youth in tunnels, being dripped on, chasing bats, hoping not to fall down holes. The tunnels in the great mines of Llanberis perfectly fit my Liliputian frame, for so too were the Welsh of old happy short-arses. Gwil bumps his tall head. Ha ha.

I have fine calves, by the way, utterly at odds with my otherwise pale and scrawny mess of a machine. These are due entirely to a youth spent traversing North Wales’ hilly periphery, a great and natural gym. Today I walked through the villages of my very-youth, Llangoed, Beaumaris, and I felt those old muscles ripple and hum, bones singing in glad recognition of the place that forged them. Everything the body needs. Everywhere a painting, a masterpiece, a joy, a wonder.

Gwil didn’t appreciate this wonder around him when he was little either. He says he started to notice in his late teens. And I, only now. I was preoccupied so long. Now I feel that a whole new world is opening up to me.

My last night in London, by the way, was super-lush. By the way. That was a little while ago now. But I remember.

I don’t remember much. But stuff keeps coming back here in Bangor. I went to school here, after all. Here I suffered my greatest indignacies.

And here, many years since my last visit, I find a thriving rap scene, proud, inventive, representitive of its culture and its peoples’ past.Today I met local lads Gwil Glyndwr, Will Smack Crack, and Gareth Glitter, of North Welsh rap heroes LlanfaerGlyndwr, who, despite a penchant for profanity quite indicative of the land, find themselves all over Welsh radio.

“What it is is,” said emcee Pedr Pymf, “Is, nobody knows the real North Wales, apart from us. People, when they think of Wales, think of those soft cunts from down South, with their melodic accent and their fockin’ shit dragons. The North Welsh always had the hardest dragons so it’s no surpeise that we’re the best rappers an’ all. Conts Fockin Gwyrion, am byth.”

Yesterday I rode backwards on a train through North Wales, the ugliest way imaginable to enter such a lovely land. From Crewe to Bangor the journey is wraught with tragedy, taking one as it does through the thirty mile caravan (my Us chums read Trailer) park, many wet miles of bog and broken down machinery, sheep and bracken and falling down chrches and general poverty. But that is looking out of one side of the train. Through the opposite window, one sees sea for miles, the sunset, bloody, gulls and the pebbles on the beach. A sky like thunder, bruised, on fire.

Bangor is teeming with townies, a feature more exagerated than when last I visited three years ago or so. They are small, tense, and plentiful, and gob and squall en masse.

“Mam, I fockin hay choow.”
“Yoo fockin wot?”
“Don tark li’that t’yore Muvver.”
“Fockin slag.”
“She’s a one, no?”
“Yeah no?”
“No yeah.”

Bangor has a little more night life than when I lived here, and my brother takes me to Time, a sort of an indieish club with bad bands, and a DJ that plays Fun Lovin’ Criminals and Shed 7 and Cornershop and The Strokes. My old mate Gwilym shows, and regales me with tales of school, when he dislocatd my arm and me and fraggle boy Halliday got covered with bees and had a fight in the computer room, and whaddya mean Halliday has Spawned, siored a a baby fraggle! Dear Lord, why, in the name of Christ and all the lepers?

After back to Buff’s. Buff has taken over his Mammy’s old flat, so it’s just like old times. Weed and ‘Im Your Man.’ Buff’s Mammy focked off to an island off of Amsterdam to live in an art gallery with a genius, and makes flags, or something. I am so not surpried.

Whaddya mean, Andre 3000’s doing a gig for the Republicans at the GOP convention in New York next Sunday?

WEIRD, huh? Maybe it is an untruth.

But maybe not. I saw the dude on TV the other week saying he wasn’t sure who to vote for. Like, duh! Vote Nader! Go on! Make a REALLY STUPID POINT!

I mean, we all know Kerry is an inherently wrong Zionist freak.

But he is not Dick Cheney’s retarded monkey.

Speaking of whom, here’s Captain Douche admitting the truth about his domestic policy the other week:

“Our enemies are innovative and resourceful, and so are we. They never stop thinking about new ways to harm our country and our people, and neither do we.”

HAHAHA! Watch him say it in real life here, and cop Dr Evil on the left wince when he drops the clanger…

Anyway, I was thinking about buying a book, and somehow ended up here. Whoah! What a load of freaks!

Yeah, you can see it’s new. I posted something about that at 6am. But Jozef deleted it, whist impoving a few niggley things. So a write anew.

Jozef and I spent all day and night yesterday doing this, and we are pleased with the results. It is prettier, and easy to nvigate now. See all those links on the left! You can easily read my horrible adventures!

Yes, it is good. And now I am in London for two days. I type this from PlayLouder towers, where Jeres has me helping him with news. Jay-Z and R Kelly are going on tour.

Anyway, I suggest you all save that nice picture of the Two Xanders, for when you are miserable, because it will cheer you up. Look at them! Looks at their happy silly faces! Yes yes.

My man Hugo Chavez continues to kick ass. The Venezuelian President just won his refferendum, taking 58.26% of the vote, the result of a record 94.7% voter turnout. The opposition are now in a big raggedy mess, and Washington, which backed the ugly, but ultimately unsucessful coup staged by said opposition a few years ago, has been forced to recognize Chavez’s victory.

“We… join the Group of Friends of Venezuela in acknowledging the preliminary results of the referendum and noting that they show that President Chavez received the support of the majority of voters,” said They.

They had to say this after the referendum “was given a clean bill of health by electoral observers, including former US president Jimmy Carter and the Friends of Venezuela group made up of officials from Brazil, Chile, Mexico, Portugal, Spain and the United States.”

Some of you may remember a few years back, with the full backing of the Bush administration, the CIA caused a big murderous riot in order to create the right atmosphere for that failed coup, using snipers to turn peacful crowds of Chavez and Opposition supporters against each other. And then came the tanks, and the US helicopters, to take Chavez to an island and stick a nice US backed intermim government in…

But Chavez survived, when the US backed big business freaks tried to punk him, because Venezuela’s people refused to take it. His people, his soldiers, staff, all stood by him, and within days he was running things again, and Bush and crew, who’d publicly praised the coup (”government change”, as they had it) looked very stupid and evil indeed.

Chavez’s crime? Selling oil to Castro, charging the US more for oil than they wanted to pay, and redistributing Venezuaela’s oil wealth amongst its poor. When previously 80% of the population lived in abject poverty, since Chavez took power in ‘98 a million of the country’s poorest children now get a free education. 1.2 million illiterate adults can now read and write. 11,000 clinics have been opened in the country’s poorest villages and shanty towns, and the 10,000 cuban doctors sent to work in them have transformed the lives of the country’s poor… PLUS! 2,262,476 hectacres of land has been taken from greedy landlords and redistributed to 116,899 families. Ah ha.

Chavez has done all this and a lot more, despite constant pressure from the bullies in Washington, and the cash crazed opposition who own all the country’s media, but still can’t fool the majority of the people. This gives me tremendous hope.

So, it always takes a little longer than I think it will. But it is done. Sadly technicalities prevented a Birddogg contribution, and not having a mike here at me Mammy’s prevented a load of freestyles, but the end result is tight regardless. Highlights include my Giorgio Moroder/Phil Oakey/Dizzee rascal/MOP/CNN mashup, my Piranha Deathray remix, lots of Skinnyman, and a really really old Wu freestyle, on which Ghostface doesn’t sound like Ghostface, but Meth does. Sound like Meth that is. Go to the music bit and cop that shit.

Oh, and the thing is 40meg, which is actually pretty small for the length of the swine. I’ll be sticking up a higher quality one tomorrow…

Last night my little brothers had a party, and the house was full of drunken children. I must confess that I myself had a couple of glasses of red wine, and, before I went and made myself a bed in the scratchy insulation in the attic, I clattered the following into this computer:

“Is itpoossible to describe then gatruybess of thus mannor? Joe isndeunk an bed and hismamtes wreef all sick,. Alesx and marek are in bed with will topyunf and soke rioyfh tarts anllm ruwdy. Ne in the attic.
Gat hayg gay!” Today I felt quite awful, another painful reminder of why I quit booze in the first place.

So, I am very tired, but ATD the mixtape 3 is all but done - I am waiting for Birddogg to email his contribution, and that will be that. I had no microphone or place of actual residence this time, so there aren’t many fresh freestyle cyphers (by “not many”, I mean “not any”), but there are some fresh exclusives, like a few headphones raps, my heartbreaking (!) Piranah Death Ray remix, and a bunch of stories…

Anyway, I must be off. I have to get this cartooon biography done by tomorrow as well. And the mixtape’s sleeve. And stuff. ut, yes, check here for noises on the morrow, you will like.