Da Funk Pt. 149

What a difference a week makes, blah bah blah. This time last week Nick Clegg was a stupid sounding name and nothing more. Now I know he was Louis Theroux's fag at public school, whatever that entails. I am sure it isn't as gross as it sounds. My girlfriend tells me I have until the end of today to register to vote else I won't be allowed. I have never voted in my life, FYI. The first year I was eligible, Tony Blair's Neo Labour won. I didn't feel my vote was necessary. Soon after that I decided that mainstream politics was a farce that I would never legitimise.

If I am being honest, my main concern has always been that if I put myself on the electoral roll I will be inundated by debt collectors, which says a lot more about me than it does mainstream politics. But every time I hear one of those shucksters' lying voices oozing out of the speakers I know in my heart I am right... The only thing worth saying about Labour is that they are not the Tories... but a tiny part of me is still considering legitimising this foul sham with my very first X for one reason - Clegg's lot are promising to get rid of the Digital Economy Bill.

Either way, that troublesome volcano should be serving as a handy metaphor right about now, but most of us miss the point, as ever. I, like Clegg, have family marooned in Spain. Naturally, my reaction was along the lines of, well, there are worse places to be stuck... and now I hear Our Government are sending their beastly battleships to pick up my Mum and my Uncle and my Auntie and everybody else. I am reminded, as I so often am, of Jeff Wayne's War Of The Worlds. "Come on Thunderchild!", crooned David Essex, around which time one of those giant three legged alien pod things appeared over the horizon and set good ole Thunderchild on fire with its awesome Heat Ray. Glub glub glub. Not that I am fearing a Martian sequel to the Icelandic volcano or anything. I'm just saying.

Can you tell I am in A Funk? It has been creeping around my periphery for a little while now, and today it has me firmly in its grasp. I felt devastated earlier, as sleep defiantly fled my tired old body, leaving me gasping and shuddering like some shipwrecked castaway who expected a desert island and instead found himself spread eagled on a slicked-black shore of foaming scum and screaming gulls, their necks trapped in plastic six pack rings.

Right now, in my swivel chair, I feel resigned to my situation. What else can I do? I know that I have many many many reasons to be entirely joyful. I am not starving. Both my legs work, most my senses... I will find a way.

Hey! Here's a bit of a beat I was working on last night. I like it, anyway.


So, there were a bunch of updates and pictures and things, and they got wiped! Oh, the tragedy. So, a recap. On my last day on Rivington Street I saw a white thug in an open-top Hummer drive by blasting out 'I Want The One I Can't Have' and nodding along with a serious expression about his face.

Then we went.

Wade and I ended up on the coach, as there was no room in the van, or car. We got there early, and checked out the scene. The scene is small.

We don't actually live in Woodstock. We live in Shandaken, outside. Well, just outside. Half way up a mountain, hidden away by forest, amongst bears and chipmunks and what have you. In a big old dusty house full of weird porn and broken stuff, with brown water and giant ants. Like, there's a jacuzzi, but it doesn't seem to work. There is the biggest TV you've ever seen, but it's got a big black tear across the front and doesn't tune properly. It's a two hour walk to the nearest shop, whihc is a petrol station, and does a good line in biscuits. The local girl's got a lot of guns.

It is very lovely to look at up in Shandaken. Mountains covered in trees, mainly. Streams. Clouds so low you can jump up and punch them.

I miss Wade, who is back in London sorting out affairs. All my stuff is in boxes.


So I fell alseep on the sofa after 5, and was awakened gently by Super Phil at 6:20, and it transpired Bird left my bag with my passport in it at the venue last night. But Bird's got me another ID card, so we're outside waiting for Jeff to pick us up at 6:30. And at midday we're in LA, and soon after that we're in Interscope's offices,and I'm filling a bag with Nirvana, Guns N Roses, Gilbert And Sullivan, Dre, Peter Gabriel, Police and other such back catalogue. Jimmy Iovine has a signed letter from Tupac and a video console that won't switch on. And loads of ideas. A balcony. A lush view. LA is lush to look at, from these places of advantage. Like, later we visit Jeff and Trent's, and there's this fucking alien cat that loves me, and an incredible, incredible view, of this desolate wilderness spattered with money.

It was a lovely day.

But in the nighttime it is hard not to see that LA is awash with cunts. It is a sad and massive amount of cunts, and I am not sure whether it is sad because this is what the world did to them, or because this is what they do to the world, or because they are cunts, and you can see their faces rotting right in front of your eyes.