First off, I can't post this in the gigs section yet cos I can't have more than one gig at any one time without the site breaking (Zeeeeeeef!) but you need to know cos it's in a month:
I AM PLAYING A BRITISH FESTIVAL!
Early evening slot, Saturday. Welsh border. Magic Numbers are playing too. It is gonna be a really beautiful thing, and I'd love for you ALL to come. Details are here.
OK. You coming or what?!
Second, as promised yesterday, up top there is my remix of Si Cranstoun's Dynamo. Enjoy, I did. And do. Shit goes bump in the day AND the night. It's out later this month, I believe. Si's the guy on the right with the excellent tan, and the dude on the left is my ole pal Jamie Dananananananana-NAN, sometime PR, record label boss, and script writer - he had a hand in that AAA pilot I was involved in. I can't find the pictures I took of Mr Braydz, but you can see some, and hear his music, here.
In other news, I am happy to say that I know more about giraffes right now than I did when I woke up, and its all thanks to Twitter. Today I learned that giraffes communicate on a frequency lower than our human ears can register. AND that 93% of giraffes indulge in gay orgies. Thanks internets, for giving me fresh wisdom daily! I have also seen Jamie Oliver's head spray painted on an X-Box, loads of alternative Wonder Woman costume designs that are all better than the stupid new one, and I heard this ace song in a Sonic The Hedgehog advert. PLUS I emailed lots of journalists and packaged up lots of T shirts and I am off to the post office with them now. I am running seriously low on stock on everything right now. There's only, like, 5 pairs of Don Shoes left, 4 iANDY Ts, 8 Security Ts... I am going to have to do a proper stock count. And do some new Ts and stuff. I have never done a yellow T shirt, have I? Maybe we need one of those. What other sort of stuff do you want?
EDIT: What a palava! So, I cycled to the Post Office in the Heaving Mugg, which was a little like cycling through water, if water was a lot more dense, wherein I was greeted by a Line, as my American friends say, snaking out the door and down the pavement. I enjoyed a 26 minute queue (what a crazy word to have to spell that is!), most of that spent in a two foot wide isle made of stacked up detergent boxes and canned fruit, during which time I met a baby, who was a very polite for a baby, in that she gurgled appreciation when I fanned her with a receipt I found on top of a box of cereal on the top shelf. So thankful was she, in fact, that she let out a mighty trump, so we all had something more interesting and fruity than washing powder to smell. And not only did we, The Brave Queue Of Hommerton have fine fruity scents to breathe in, but we were serenaded by a loud, tanned man in wrap around shades and fatigues, who barked such wisdoms as, "they have mosques AND churches in Poland!" and "how many oranges could you eat before you made a big Orange sick puddle like a monkey?" to all and sundry.
Indeed, they more we ignored him, the louder he got - I say "they" because I smiled at him a few times. "Don't encourage him!" cried the lady behind the counter. "The devil will never be good!" replied Tanned-shades Man, enigmatically.
Actually, I recorded a bit of him with my telephone. Check him out:
Yeah, he was great. Anyway, when I tried to pay for my Voluptuous Parcels, my card was declined, so I had to cycle home to get my other card and back again at top speed. In such a rush was I that I dropped half my bike lock, key and all, through the big metal gate it was tied to. No, I couldn't reach it. No, I couldn't climb it - for it was too tall, and there was nothing to grip. So I spent 20 odd minutes walking around and around this block, trying to find an entrance to back of this big ass gate. It turned out I'd dropped my keys into the back garden of the local Outreach Centre, and they didn't take too fondly to me breaking their trellis and climbing all over their roof trying to get into their back garden. Problem was, they didn't have any access to the back garden bit, had no back door, and their windows only opened 2 inches because it's a bloody Outreach Centre full of suicidal people - although the ones I met were all ever so nice and smiley, and very helpful also, apart from the one old lady who clawed at my arm with a hand like Freddie's and hissed something about "inappropriate shorts" at me.
Eventually I was saved by a forlorn and stressed looking Rastafarian, who said he could help me just as soon as he'd sorted out some business. Turns out the business was dealing with a lady who'd illegally parked in the staff car park and gotten herself a clamp, which he did with admirable tact and aplomb. Then he strode through the Lodge's doors, and returned ten minutes later with my bike lock and key, and the same sad, pained expression. I almost hugged him, then stopped myself, then felt bad about it half the way home, until two crazy little white girls with braces ran out in front of me waving fistfuls of sherbet tubes and liquorice bootlaces screaming what sounded like aboriginal war chants and nearly made me swerve into a lorry.