If I Was A Sculptor

I am so excited by my work today I have perhaps foolishly taken a little piece of it and placed it on this here internet for you to look at. IT IS ACE! And after a few missfires in my brain, I have sussed my LP cover. My LP cover is so the shit. If I saw my LP in a shop, and I had no idea who Akira The Don was, I would think, 'wow, what a fucking awesome sleeve, there is no way the record can be as good as that sleeve.' And I would be WRONG. My album is amazing.

I had a good day, thank you, nobody drove a tank through my flat, and I did loads of drawing, and achieved all the things I was meant to. I was worrying I might not be able to make my mate Baz's stag-do this weekend, but maybe I will after all now. We shall see. I have a 16 page booklet to illustrate, a Boom remix to helm, 747s remix to complete, a video to script, storyboard, and do a good quarter of the drawings for...


I am suddenly less hopefull. We shall see. I have other matters to attend to also. Matters of great, great importance!

My boy Dego was about earlier, someone'sskygodblesshissocks, and he's off to see his boy on the morrow. Luke's thinking of more than one now (greedy!). Chandra and Erol are about to start spawning. Boys, boys, and girls, girls, all over. I might maybe have some little babans one day, and teach them to eat vegetables at an early age, and watch out for swine, but then again I might contract cancer of the balls or get eaten alive by a lemur.

I quit smoking again today, which initially appeared to be a piece of cherry favoured piss, then only went and transpired to be quite worse than any of my three previous attempts. Or was it two? Either way, I found myself driven into quite a substantial rage by silliness, shouting at my computer AND my little brother, who is on holiday with his sweetheart in North Wales, and is probably not looking forward to having to come back down here and work on my next video. Oops.

I don't know what's going on, but a great many of you have written to me over the past week telling sorrowful tales of being dumped. I don't really have much in the way of advice on the matter, to be truthful - I might be pretty good at making new songs and pictures out of other people's old songs and pictures, but I am pretty crap at making lasting muticity out of flesh and poetry. In my experience, if the ones you rather fancy aren't boffing idiots called things like Daff or James or Ishmael or Prince Imraan Ballyhoop The Third then they're drooling acid and going at your neck with scissors, or sneakily turning into your Mum. This one time I thought I saw some kind of middle ground, but it turned out to be a bubble in my right eyeball caused by flouride build up on the inside of my over-worn contact lenses, and I had to spend all night in Moorfeild's eye hospital squinting at Lil' Kim's freakish visage in The Source - which might be shit this month, but it was even shitter on that one - while a fat lady with eyes as thick as porridge and a hide the colour of bile wailed at all and sundry for the duration about the mystifying gall her husband had had to run off with her cousin Thelma. And what that has to do with anything I will never know, but have you ever heard of anybody called Thelma outside of a cartoon about a pussyfied dog and a bunch of hippies in a van running into random politicians and pillars of society dressed up as pederasts and chat show hosts? Me neither.

Oh yeah - don't worry. You're going to have loads of ace things happen to you (alongside loads of crappy things, but that's OK, in fact, that is NECESSARY for the enjoyment of the ace), for the REST OF YOUR LIFE. SWEET!