Buffy

The last episode in a series of Buffy The Vampire Slayer is always a let down.Big up everybody who came to the Slaughtered Lamb on Friday. I had a wonderful time, thank you, even after the amp blew up and the noises stopped. And last night was fun too. Cibelle was fucking incredible. I got that stuttering belly thing. My little brother DJed an awesome neo folk/dark wave/euoro metal set to a room full of confused/retarded/terrified children and their parents, waiting tragically for tragic Pete Doherty to haul his tragic translucent junky ass down from his 5 star hotel room to entertain their tragic souls. With tragedy. And do you think he did?

Did!

He!

Fuck!

No. He is a loser. He can but lose. Actually, the lumpy faced father (FATHER!) just about managed to go up and down in the lifts for twenty five minutes, clutching his guitar with one set of nasty clammy finger pipes, groping in confusion at his fluorescent orange wristband with the other, fat yellow tongue, sticky with goo, bitty and forlorn like a turd rolled in a hoover bag, occasionally venturing from the stinky prison of his mouth to collect some dead skinflakes from its pursed, grim corners. FORSOOTH!

I didn't see him, Nonny did. I was busy doing things, like running up and down stairs with bits of paper and not playing. And getting set upon by Pete Doherty fans. "Pete is an incredible person," beamed one girl beamishly from somewhere inside a set of gunged up braces. "He's so real. My Mum loves him too. He's not some fake rock star. He cares."

"There is no way in hell that wet sack of shit is doing anything tonight, least of all caring," I said. "Perhaps he will do some self mythologising, and crack, in the luxury of his suite. Leave me alone. It has nothing to do with me. I quit."

And if I wasn't being asked by Pete Doherty fans about Pete Doherty and when he was playing, I was being asked by clever people when I was, and the answer to which ("Oneish") turned out to be false, and I never got to play at all, for which I am sorry, especially you who came from Betws Y Coed and you who came from Tipton.

I liked Erol's Beyond The Wizard's Sleeve room the best, that was lovely. It was full of Psych.

Anyway. That is done now. This week I'm finding somewhere to record my album. Then I'll do it. In January I shall play those shows with Pop Will Eat Itself, a Firetrap party, and possibly something at 93 Feet East in London. But mainly it will be album.

OH BY THE WAY. I'm doing a New Year New Shit mixtape, if I get time, so please send me stuff I might like. There's so much dope stuff about! I got the new Undercover today - the CD has some hot shit on it, go pick it up.

Anyway, must dash, sorry, thank you, I love you, goodbye.