"Artists use lies to tell the truth"
Thanks to all and sundry who repped at Fabric and made lots of noise with the singing and the shouting and all that. I have never seen so many rolley eyeballs in my life. It was like walking onto the set of some disco version of Dawn Of The Dead. It was ace. I couldn't hear a word I was saying/singing throughout, for some reason, and was convinced I was thus out of tune the whole time, but seemingly this was not so, and shit was bomb. Big up Martin The Bravecaptain, whose first gig it was, killing it on the keys, Dear Jeres, fresh from wrapping up the inevitably classic Piranha Deathray LP, mere hours previously, and Dark Mary, a birthday girl reaping The Sewn. Big up DJ Swamp, setting shit on fire (literally), you lot at the front whose chorus on AIDS I could hear above my own, dude who did the lights wot were mental, Danna for wit, amusement, and fun prior (and dope shoes), Sean for looking after us with water, whoever rearranged the sofas in the dressing room and fucked my head up, Trey and that spliff he gave me that did the same thing, Mary Captain for safeness beyond the call of duty, the kids on the stairs with the standing ovation, everyone who bought me a drink, everyone who didn't. And Well done Jeff for finding those fucking masks. The Future Is Ours. "If you don't know by now You never will..."
I have had a very Chris de Burgh weekend. I dreamt about the man on Thursday - the first dream I've had in as long as I can recall right now that wasn't a nightmare. He was really nice to me and said I could sample him anytime he liked, and we made a song and he played piano and I rapped and we sang together. On Friday I realised that for every romantic feeling a man can posses, Chris de Burgh has a song. The gamut of emotions, situations, circumstance and outcome is covered, with humour, feeling, and a deep insight. Bam. Bam.
I realised today he has a song for all the rest too. For admiration, for lust, for passion, for the humbling respect of intellect, for beauty, for breasts. For friends, for family, for the forgotten, the forlorn, and the foolish. Y'all can shut the fuck up about irony. Man is a God.
We were looking at the deer and the bunnies and the birds in the park yesterday. I might as well have been in Uganda. It felt an age away from London. There's an aviary in my park, a strange thing, a cage so small for an animal so needy of freedom. We are strange beasts. As are roosters. Their heads look plastic.
People always ask me if I am excited before gigs. I sort of aren't usually. But I was very excited about going to see V For Vendetta, yesterday. Charlotte and I went to the 8:30 showing at the Leicester Square Odeon, and got a bin full of popcorn. I was hopping about the place like a tree-kangaroo.
I am afraid that, while much of it is awesome, I was ultimately upset and annoyed by V For Vendetta primarily for the liberties it took with the peerless source material, the useless, besides-the-point romantic love angle it tacked on... Maybe, have you not read the original, it will be amazing. Certainly, there were some brilliant moments. The Valerie part bought tears to my eyes and made my chest spaz out a bit. The fights are cool. The explosions explosive. The prescient, disease-by-government angle. Certainly, it pulled few punches. Certainly, there is some necessary wisdom, and some perception within it. Certainly, its fundamental idea, and purpose, is powerful, timely, right, and needed, in this retarded Time Of Man. But once again, the Brute Hollywood has raped a dream, and left it trembling and guilty, a sham-ed shadow of what it might have been.
Saying that, if I hasn't read the comic, maybe I'd be saying it's the best thing I ever saw. For a broad range of oppinions, by real people, check here.
Aslo, I've already had a few emails about the "wanky fritter", as served by V and Stephen Fry in the film, of which I've made some mention in the past. It is a delicious and simple creation - you bite a hole in a piece of bread, stick it, with some fat, in a frying pan, and a crack an egg on top. Fry, flip, fry, serve. Lush. And possibly ruinous, in abundance.