At 7:30am yesterday with a bag full of futuristic technology and another full of fly ass threads, and set off on anew adventure. 27 hours later I fell asleep sat up at my laptop in the midde of preparing a bit of a DJ set in an opulent half-panoramal suite at The Hard Rock Hotel, beneath the beatific gaze of Jimmi Hendrix.

Here are some photos my HTC One X took during the day.

MorrisonCon kicks off at 3pm. SEE YOU LATER!



I Will Not Be Appearing At "Steal This Gig" On Saturday

Brothers and sisters,

I am sorry to announce that I can no longer appear at the Steal This Gig event scheduled for this coming Saturday. Apologies to anyone that was going and looking forward to seeing me.

I hope everyone that IS still going has a lovely time. Full gig details including new venue and line up should be over here.

In other news, the V Festival footage is coming together. I sent the first draft to the client yesterday, so we should all be able to marvel at the glory of the Peak Experience soon.

Here is some Peak Experience:

Meanwhile, a cornucopia of collaborative ATD projects are underway. I am currently working on music with humans including, but not limited to:

Envy Issue Time Littles Big Narstie Eddie Argos TKO Capone

I am also working on a number of solo projects. Expect new material for you to get down to shortly...

Finally this, retweeted by Grant Morrison last night, should provide a clue as to what I am going to be doing on the weekend of September 28th...


Life's Great Rewards Part 245

Having mixed two more songs for UNKILLABLE THUNDERCHRIST I figured I deserved a reward, and an energy infusion. So I purchased a large pineapple from downstairs for £1.40, skinned it with this big shiny kitchen knife (a very useful and appreciated wedding present) and mashed it into The Juicer - another very useful and much appreciated wedding present.

I then poured the resulting jug full of fresh pineapple juice into The Blender - yes, another very useful and much appreciated wedding present - wherein I added a fistful of frozen blueberries and some ice. Three minutes smashing around inside that blender on maxium later and I was rewarded with the following tasty concoction:

I feel like I could wrestle a tiger right about now. Ahhhh, life's great rewards.

Speaking of which, the song I just finished mixing is a cover... and it's so beautiful I've had it on loop for the past half an hour since its completion. Pure, unadulterated gorgeousness and gorgeousity.

Hold tight for new music - I'm gonna drop a song as soon as it comes back from mastering. Unkillable Thunderchrist is on track for Monday. Get your preorders in here.

Hey! I'll be landing at San Francisco airport this time next week. Holy crap!


Yeah! It's me!

These were all taken at the Oxjam gig the other day by the deeply talented Harriet Armstrong. Look out for the first sneaky peek at an AKIRA THE DON MANGA MUSIC HOODIE in the WIILD!

Thanks again to everyone for helping us have such an ace time.

Meanwhile, I am getting back to laying out this MANGA MUSIC. I was up till 9am this morning finishing the mixes, and now I am in possession of the masters and they are SO CHOICE!

For Our Next Trick...

I spent yesterday afternoon in Basildon with Dr Aaron Shrimpton and Tom Coles, director and DOP of the celebrated Babydoll video, plotting what we're up to next. And what we're up to next, ladies and gentlemen, is a trilogy. Three interlinking videos that work in sequence and tell a story. We're gonna shoot them in a month. I am very very excited.

What songs will the vides be for? Will there be guest stars? Can YOU be in them? All these answers will be revealled. But right now I have to get a load of swag bags and other shop stuff down the post office. So have some photos from the Babydoll shoot.




Just back from Hackey. Mare Street was a mess of broken glass and smashed bricks. Masked kids wandered around lazilly smashing windows and peeling off metal shutters like margarine tub lids. The only police I saw for 8 blocks were guarding the JD Sports. "Bethnal Green next!" shouted some kids, and ran north. "I'm fucked!" crowed a chubby crackhead-looking lady with four bottles of under her arm. She wasn't lying.

I met some nice people as I cycled through my dystopia. Shout out them. I also took some shitty photos with my telephone. Forsooth:


It's Monday, 13:33pm London time, and I'm propped up at my desk listening to Elliott Wilson's OF special and necking Ibuprofen.

This time on Saturday I was drinking Guiness in a pig mask in sometime Krays-hotspot The Ten Bells on the first stop of the #DONSTAG, which was basically a stag party with extra swag in it, organised with no input from me whatsoever by The Best Jeremys, my twin-human Best Man superteam.

Turns out they'd put together a historical tour of East London that they joyfully dubbed "The Route of All Evil", which lead us from Shoreditch to Wapping and back again, on a journey that would prove to enlighten, astonish, and thoroughly inebriate. A gang of my favorite dudes showed up, including ALL OF MY BROTHERS (see above), and lo, we did proceed to have a beautiful day.



Around this point it gets hazy, which 12 hours of drinking will do to a person. All I know is that at some point in the early hours, we were leaving a club, and according to witnesses, I appeared at the top of the stairs, grinning manically amidst the crowd of bustling departees, and decided that in my faded and enlightened state that laws of physicas did not apply to me, and that i knew a way out that didn't involve shuffling slowly downstairs with the herd. And lo, I did raise my superman fists, raised myself above the crowd for a few, glorious seconds, in which my mental self image was probably something like this:

Then, a swoosh, and an almighty CRACK at the bottom of the stairs.

"Oh shit, he's getting married in a bodycast," groaned Tim.

But not so! The magical forcefield of booze appeared to have averted that potentiality, as sooner than one might manage to cry, "an ambulance for that drunk!" I was running around the the middle of the road dodging buses and demanding spliffs.

Now, I'm not running anywhere right now. I am, as I said, necking Ibuprofen and wincing in pain every time I move.

But I had a lovely time.

Thanks you guys.





The Tour The Tour, Day Eighteen: Slam Dunk Leeds

You get used to waking up in strange places. To the point where the only weird thing you could possibly see when you woke up would be your own walls.

Tim was getting dressed. It was eight thirty, or something like that. He was going to the car rental place to pick up the rental car we’d been promised, so we could get the heck out of doge and back up north, specifically to the Slam Dunk Festival, where we had the tasty 6:15 slot on the Front magazine dance stage. I was so excited. So excited I happily dozed right back off as soon as Brave And Noble Tim had left the doorframe behind him.

I woke a little while later to the sound of ringing telephones. Jack threw me mine. He had his Here We Go Again face on.

“Sprrfsh vrrrpsh vrrrp.” said the phone. “Sprrrk sppsh vo faaaargh. There is no car.”

“Whaddya mean there is no car?” I demanded, half askeep. “They promised us car!”

“There is no car,” said Tim, grimly.

"Fuck," I said, eloquently.

There was no train either. Well, no train that cost less than £300.

“We’re going to have to take the L,” said Jack, who, as he tells us often, is a Realist. “Get back to London, sort out shit out, be at the festival site in Hatfield tomorrow, ready.”

“Never,” I said. “People are going there to see us! They’re sending me messages about how excited they are! We will not let them down! We will make it! I have faith! And blind faith has got us this far. Let’s ask Twitter.”

I then remembered that, just last night, before we went to bed, CharCharGabor82, who was a real person I’d put on the guest list for the Nottingham show because I’d seen her on Twitter saying how sad she was that she couldn’t afford to come to the show, had, via Twitter, offered to drive down to where we were from Nottingham and drive us all the way to Leeds.

I opened up my raptop, still as pleasing a sensation as when I bought it nine weeks ago. "Fwup," it said, languidly. In my DM comumn in Tweetdeck were the following two messages, from CharCharGabor82:

Still haven't figured out if you want me to get u haha. I'm road trip ready if u do.

My numero is 0********** if u need a chauffer. I might even don a hat.

“We’re saved!” I exclaimed, with vast joy. “Look! That’s why out of all the billions of tweets in my Home column I saw that one and put her on the list! So she could save the day and drive us to Slam Dunk! Sweet serendipity!”

I phoned CHarCharGabor82 on the number she’d DMed me.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hello,” I said, remembering I’d read somewhere that the word hello was invented specifically as something for people to say when they greeted each other on the telephone. “This is Akira The Don. We would love to accept your generous offer of a lift to Leeds.”

“I shall be there in a jiffy,” said CharCharGabor82, or something like that. Perhaps she said “in three shakes of a lambs tail”. I can’t remember. Something to the effect of “soon.” I put the phone down and beamed triumphantly at Jack.

It was around ten am by this point. Soon Tim came back, and I told him the good news. He, like Jack, was cautious. “Is she in that little car that went ‘poor poot’ when we saw her leave  in it after the gig in Nottingham? Has she left already? It takes 4 hours minimum to get to Leeds. We need to be there to line check at 5:30. It’ll take up to half an hour to get on site. So we need to leave here at 1 at the latest. Is she driving from Nottingham? Has she left yet?”

“Yes,” I said, in the manner one would say, well duh, as if they were the stupidest questions I'd ever heard. “It will be fine.”

We watched a little Russia Today, and Jack made some coffee. About twenty minutes or so later I got a text from CharCharGaboer82 saying she was about to leave.

“How far is Nottingham from here?” asked Tim.

Here was 3 hours from Nottingham.

Here was Bridgwater.

“Bridgwater is the country’s suicide capital,” said Jack, incorrectly. “Don’t quote me on that.”

Charlotte had sent me a photo of my cactus. It was flowering.

We left the hotel at miday, as is right and polite, and wandered into town, beneath the doleful calm a thick, damp tramp's blanket of doughy cloud. We passed the shit cinimea we saw on the way in, that looked like a crack house, or something that had gotten bombed in the war and never rebuilt. We passed the café we’d played in last night, the café we’d gone through hell and high water and a seven hour journey in the wrong direction to get to. The café Tim’s car had died trying to reach.

“Ho ho ho,” I said.

“Ho ho ho,” said Tim.

Jack smiled, beatifically. He seemed very calm. We all did. Our lives were not in our hands. It was OK.

We’d been sat in the Costa Coffee on Bridgwater High Street for a few hours, before that stated to change. I’d observed a middle aged woman telling some friends how it was her decision if she wanted to have sex with other men, and that her husband would have to deal with it. Jack and Tim had discussed things of great manly import, or so it appeared from where I was sat, clattering away furiously at my raptop. I suppose they might have been talking about comics, They usually were, now I come to think of it.

I had written most of the Manchester and Bridgwater blogs. It was half one. Four hours till load in. The occasional hopeful and cheery text would come in from CharCharGabor82, who had been stuck in terrible traffic for many hours. I spoke to her, and she said something about a possible shortcut. I pictured her spinning the steering wheel and abandoning the motorway, driving through rolling Postman Pat fields at breakneck speed.

“This is very much like Clockwork,” said Jack, who was still very calm. I was lesscalm. I had a sort of tragic desperation about me. I refused to believe that all was lost. I concocted many ways we could get there in time, mostly involving speeding and Luck.

“All is not lost!” I said, finally.

Jack and Tim went for a walk. It was Two-ish. Hope was draining from my pores like ghostly sweatbeads in a backwards gravity spaceship. I sat in the Costa like a sad pink island, surrounded by a sea of bags of cables and decks and socks and things, and finally, head bowed, accepted my fate.

I would not entertain the men and women of Leeds.

It was OK.

“Wah,” I said, sadly to myself, and drew a message on my fingers to post on the internet by way of apology.

At around three or so, CharCHarGabor82 rang, excitedly. “I’m nearly here!” she said, “We’re going to make it!” I knew that wer were not, but I thought it best not to say just yet. I didn’t want to crush that hope, and for her to crash in the last stretch, out of sheer sadness or something. I might have, were it me.

Presently, Jack and Tim returned.

“I just saw one of the most heinous  and grimy things I saw in my life,” said Jack, excitedly. “I just saw a kid with one bottle of generic Tesco energy drink, pouring the bottle of energy drink into a bottle of Scrumpy jack. It’s 2 in the afternoon. That’s deep shit.”

I agreed. That was some heinous shit.

“Anyway, we got you something,” said Jack, and gave me a hug, and a large-headed Spider-man toy.

“We weren’t supposed to go, obviously,” reasoned Tim. “We could have got in a car and had an accident There’s no way of knowing we’d be in Leeds now. We might be dead.”

Jack nodded, sagely, and Tim burst into song: “There is no earthly way of knooooowing!”

Presently ChaChaGabor82 phoned. She was opposite the shit cinema by the hotel. “I’m opposite a really horrible looking cinema!” she said.

We found her, our knight in a tiny shiny car that went ‘poot poot’. I was sad that we had to tell her we weren’t going to make it to Leeds.

“Oh no!” she said.

“Will you drive us to London?” asked Tim, with his cheeky face.

“Yes,” said Char CharGabor82, which was an awfully nice thing for a person who’d just driven for four and a half hours to pick up a band to take them to a festival only to find out they weren’t going to a festival at all.

We didn’t go straight away, obviously. We walked back through town, showing CharCharGabor82 the sights, like the shit cinema, and the café we’d played in, and went back to Costa, our new home, with our sea of bags, and made a new island.

I clattered away on my raptop a bit more, and rang my girl to tell her I’d be home that evening. She didn't sound as excited at the prospect as I’d hoped.

“You’re not supposed to be back till tomorrow!” she said flusteredly. “I have to paint! My sister’s here! We’re planning the wedding!”

“Fine, I’ll find somewhere else to sleep!” I stropped, teenagishly. “See you tomorrow!”

I hung up and gazed mournfully at my sharpie stained hand. I supposed that she probably had an awful lot planned to do today, before I was supposed to go back. I figured I would stay at Tim's or something.

Charlotte rang back.

“I’m sorry, it was just unexpected,” she said. “Of course I'm excited to see you. I love you!”

I shed a sneaky little tear, and returned to the party. They were discussing pound shops.

A waitress dropped some cups. People went, "ooooh!" Eventually, we left Costa. I was glad to see the back of it.

We got into CharCharGabor82’s little car, which was no mean feat and reminded me of those jokes about Minis and elephants, and set off home. With the weight of expectation, and Not Knowing gone, everybody was suddenly in fine spirits.

We listened to CharChargabor82’s iPod, and bantered, merrily. Tim’s car, which was supposed to have been taken back to his old man’s house by the AA, had gone missing. This was potentially good news for Tim, who’d recently had a laptop stolen, out of the car and lost an iPod in the car, as if they had indeed lost the car he would get the insurance, and a new car, rather than having to deal with a dead car that needed scrapping, and maybe even a new laptop and iPod too.

We stopped at a services for food. I, foolishly, chose the KFC bucket, and suffered the consequences. Tim went for the lab shank.

“Ah, life” he beamed through his magnificent mutton chops.

“Ah, life,” I agreed. Jack smiled, nibbling on a sandwich. He looked as calm and comfy as he had all tour. A realist, I supposed, is rarely disappointed.



It was dark when we got back to Hackney Wick. Tim and Jack helped me carry my stuff up the metal stairs to my door. It felt like along time since I’d seen those stairs. The fairy lights twinkled up the metal hand rail all the way up to the top, where My tiger was sat at the top, waiting for me, surrounded by balloons.

Charlotte’s sister answered the door, grinning mischievously. Charlotte was getting changed, or in the shower, or something exciting and girlish like that. The house was all shiny and painted and new and full of pink balloons.  They were for my birthday. I’d forgotten I had a birthday.

I dropped a second sneaky tear, and got rid of it just in time to meet the rocket ship embrace of my beloved.  It was like the first time. My heart was full. I could have died there and then.


But I didn’t.



The Tour The Tour Day Eight: Northampton, Alan Mooretown

All of a sudden, I was alone. Where once there had been four, there was now just me. After yesterday’s tragic Mixer Mishap, wherein my Motu bag containing Jack’s mixer, all his wires and leads, my Lars Attack T-Shirt AND MY COWBELL had accidentally stayed on the train to Manchester when we changed at Bristol, it had been decided that Jack would have to return to London to get another, and I would travel to Northampton solo.

I was excited to go and play in Northampton. Alan Moore lives there. It’s the oldest city in the country (I think). It has a strange magic and mystery about it. So I did a reckie on the Travelodge, counted my bags, checked my pockets, and called a cab. 27 minutes later my cab arrived, and 12 minutes after THAT I was frantically trying to get the stupid bloody ticket machine to give me my prebooked ticket as my train made ominous About To Leave noises. 2 minutes later me and my many bags were flying down a flight of stairs and through the closing train doors, and the thing heaved off with me collapsed on a table panting like a lapdog in the desert.

I only had to change once, which gave me the perfect opportunity to drop my coffee on the platform like a fucking wet BOMB, and I did a lot of work on the trains with my magical Dongle, which pleased me greatly. I also met a self-professed Nomad, whose brother did sound at the venue we were going to be playing at that night, so I gave her a CD to help her on her travels.

Jack, meanwhile, had got to London, and had gotten to his mixer and wires and leads, but was finding it difficult getting hold of his lift back. I said, “don’t worry G, everything will be awesome,” because I think that to be true.

Northampton greeted me with a thick wet sky the colour and consistency of porridge, and a hill stretching out into infinity. So up the hill I went, me and my bags, like Dorothy up the Yellow Brick Road, observing the many sights and sounds and smells of this new place, and after 20 minutes I happened upon a troupe of Amateur Dramaticians, who introduced me to The Legendary Roadmenders, our venue for the night.

The Legendary Roadmenders is a colossal, labyrinthine collection of rooms of varying sizes, some containing stages, some containing speakers, some containing bongos and crisps. I realsied that I had seen the place before, recently – in a very vivid and detailed dream, so make of that what you will. At any rate, it wasn’t long before I got the sad news: Jack was stuck in London, and would not be able to play with us tonight.

"OH NOES!" I thought.

“Where’s Jack?” said Lars.

“Jack’s coming back, right?” said Tour Managing Fireball Thrower Ryu.

“Oh no, that sucks for Jack,” said Weerd Science, sadly.

“What are you going to do without Jack?” asked MC Kal.

It was a good question. But we are resourceful people, and we come prepared, so OF COURSE I have all my instrumentals on my laptop, and OF COURSE Jack bought me a toy robot for my birthday, and if you are confused as to how a toy robot could help in such a situation, first you must be made aware that what many people love about our show on this tour is our rapport. “I love the way you and Jack Nimble talk to each other during the set, it’s so funny,” said Lars after the first night, and variations on that righteous statement occur nightly.

And so, I took that yellow robot that talks when you squeeze his hand out onstage with me that night, dear reader, and lo he did keep me company up there, and his banter was pretty good, but not a patch on Jack’s, obviously, and he DID start singing and refused to stop at one point, so I had to chuck him on the drums and leave him be.

And yes, it was pretty tricky up there with no DJ having to press laptop buttons all the time and stuff, AND it was a pretty quiet night as far as numbers of people in the building were concerned, but those that WERE there were awesome, and as you ought to know by now, I am a G, and I smash the crap out of stages, and I bring the party, and lo, I did smash the crap out of the stage AND I bought the party. Here's me doing Thanks For All The AIDS, courtesy of Ben Sorrie's magical camera:

MC Chris continued the party, and did a good job of dealing with a large, bearded heckler/loudmouth, deflecting his crudery with wittery, and giving the best performance of that song about Neville Longbottom of the tour thusfar.

MC Lars and Weerd Science were brilliant yet again, and turned a small room of people into a zoo. Science then told the zoo how sad he was that Jack Nimble was stuck in London, and how much we all missed him, and how we were a family now, and how being on this tour was like being on tour with your best friends, and everyone went, “WHOOOOOOOOO! JACK NIMBLE!” and lo the Northamptpn Magic I’d been wondering about on the train did make itself very apparent, and lo, we did boogie, in honour of our absent friend.

The Legendary #WELOVEJAPAN Gig: Review And Photos

So, Pixel sent me a load of photos of last Saturday's gig the other day, but I got them too late to use in the post I wrote about the gig. I have been looking for a reason to post them, and now I have one, in the beautiful shape of Planetnotion's singingly put and factually accurate review. POW!

The bill for Saturday’s We Love Japan benefit at the (cough) “Relentless” Garage had been put together hurredly but with vigour, as is usually the case for such rapidly-announced charity gigs. All credit to the organisers of the night, who not only secured a plethora of bourgeois swag for the evening’s inevitable raffle but who had also coaxed out a rare solo gig out of, and I hasten to repeat the words, 70′s glam legend Adam Ant. I wouldn’t want to be glib, or offer too ready an embrace of kitsch- but gods! I’d come to check out Akira the Don, who had initially been booked to headline- but now I’m seeing an Adam Ant gig! Potential for rock star anecdotes to tell my dad just went through the roof!

Anyway, we’d not come to see the Ant- or that guy from E4 cast as the night’s awkward compere (how do you strike the right tone between recognition of utter tragedy and the desire to have a good night out?)- tonight promised only the opportunity of a rare live outing for the Hackney-based rap-tastic Akira The Don.

This gig, albeit a benefit slot, came at a good time for The Don- shortly after the release of the 25th free mixtape via his website, and before the release of his second proper album, The Life Equation. That mixtape, ATD25- is a phenomenally enjoyable thing- a unstoppable barrage of rapid verses, stupidly good sampling (their remix of Marina and The Diamonds ‘I am not a robot’ is a work of breathtaking alchemy), complementary guest verses and taut production smacking of professionalism and potential. Such sonic results demonstrate well why Akira was initially booked for the night’s main slot. That being said, and making do- a half hour set was more than enough for this enigmatic hip-hop artist to bring his particular ruckus to an audience left tender by the ear-shattering heavy metal band that had preceded (note: that’s not a criticism per se: I think ‘ear-shattering’ is firmly in the mandate for heavy metal bands- central to their raison d’etre, if you will).

Donned in an authentically ‘back in the day’ Wu Tang jumper (from the Iron Flag tour, OG auditers- but besides, what’s with everyone hating on Iron Flag anyway? Ok, it’s not traditional Wu- but it’s got some solid tunes! Akira knows…) and with the help of DJ friend Jack Nimble (who was given his props, no doubt) Akira tore through a set that reflected much of his back catalogue at it’s finest. Old school number “Living in the Future’ was performed with it’s trademark innocence remixed and Akira bouncing around the stage with a glee that was infectious. The beautifully summer ready ‘Oh! What a glorious day!’ gave opportunity for some bona fide sentimentalism, a sing-along in the chorus bracketing odes to cycling down the Kingsland Road in the sun. Pausing between numbers to orate in his uniquely enthused manner (after climbing up a side-stage ladder, noting to himself with excitement ‘Ok, wow- that’s a good climbing ladder..’)- there’s something that’s plain irresistible about the kind of hip-hop Akira the Don is making and all his swagger is ultimately endearing. Calling onstage a troupe of “hip-hop superfriends” (Pixel, Littles, Big Narstie, Marvin the Martian) for the closing number ‘Big Iron’, a standout track from ATD25- the song had the feel of a special moment. The track bounces and jangles like something the RZA might have produced on an upbeat day- and along the finest teachings of the Wu, each verse is magnificent, each rapper’s tone and flow complementing as well as drawing distinction from those around it. And that was that- the support slot feeling all too brief, all too enjoyable.

-Amir Adhamy

Read on to discover what Adam Ant did next here. Shout out Amir Adhamy, a human being blessed with Great Wisdom! Now enjoy these legendary photographs, couresty of the Real Magnum, Ben and Tego.

Garage: Rocked.

You know how they say nothing rhymes with Orange? Well, Lozenge kind of rhymes with orange. So that is bunkum. Syringe also, if your accent fits. But I cannot think of a single thing that even comes close to rhyming with ridicule. Pitiful? Minuscule? No. Not good enough...

These things keep me awake at night. For those of us that deal in the arrangement of words, this is serious business. The quest for the ark:

"Dead in the middle of Little Italy little did he know that he riddled with middle men who didn't know diddly."


A litany of literary litter in its wake.

Show me a rapper that hasn't rhymed cool, school, and fool, and I'll show you a cube without corners.

That picture up there was taken by Miss_Lucifer, who posted it on Twitter while we were onstage at The Garage on Saturday night.

It must have been ages since I've played, because I don't remember being able to see photos and feedback from a gig as soon as one has left the stage.

Narstie pointed this out. We were chilling at the bar after the gig, and he had his face in his phone. What the fuck are you doing? I asked him. He was looking at photos from the show.

Like this, posted by @gdpreston:

...and this, posted by @Svend_SPOnG:

Yes, that's right ladies and Gs, I was joined onstage, NOT JUST BY THE MIGHTY DJ JACK NIMBLE, who held me down like a weapon, but by my rap superfriends Pixel, Littles, Lacey, Big Narstie and Marvin The Martian. DAAAAAAMN! I told you it was gonna be some legendary shit.

When we got offstage Adam Ant was waiting for us, offering strange, thin menthol cigarettes. Truly, he was the personification of Charm. Lacey had a little omfgasm, and Narstie had no idea who he was. Narstie enjoyed a little of Adam's solo performance later though. Well, he liked the "ridicule is nothing to be scared of" line, anyway.

Shout out everyone involved for a thoroughly Great night. We made a shit-ton of money for Japan! The bands were all brilliant, the organisation was impeccable, and the dude helping get the bands onstage was a righteous G, who gave me piggyback. Shout out the righteous ladies and Gs copying my improvised dance movies in the crowd. Shout out the dude who did an awesome speed drawing of me which I will post tomorrow when I get it back from Nonny who was kind enough to take my bags home for me fearing I might lose them in a bout of post-gig drunkeness. Shout out to the guy guarding the stage door, a Wu-Tang fan who looked a bit like Prodigy from Mobb Deep. That dude loved the show and it makes me very proud when dudes who love Wu dig what I do.

Damn, that rhymed! That sounds like some Dr Seuss shit. Maybe its time for me to write my children's book...

Rah though, I gotta shoot now. I am off to Camden to do an interview with Who's Jack, and I need to do seventeen tons of washing and write a video treatment first. May all your endeavours be fruitful. Enjoy the blob blog. And please find me a word that rhymes with ridicule.


Good Times At Don Studios IV

Hello, good evening, and welcome!

My name is Akira The Don. I am also known as Adam Anunnaki, of The Adamu. I am what the Italians call "creativo". I was sent here by the starchildren to create feelings of joy and wonder and freedom. My favourite condiment right now is Nando's Garlic Peri-Peri Sauce. My favourite producer today is DJ Burn One. I love my woman, my family, my friends, and my people. I have John Cooper Clarke's immortal Chickentown framed on my wall. There are four glasses, a mug, and a plate on my desk. I have lived in London for two thirds of the time I lived in Wales. I can still speak a little Welsh.

This week, amongst many things, me and my friends accidentally started a new mixtape.

And damn, this accidental mixtape sure is coming together nicely.

The day before yesterday I was blessed with the preence of Pixel, Marvin The Martian AND Littles in Don Studios IV, who were lacing a couple of my exquisite productions with vocal glory. Here's a nice set of cause and effect flicks I took with my schmexy Z Phone:

I can reveal that the first joint will drop next week. Actually, if Narstie sticks to his promise and gets over here at 11 am tomorrow morning to finish his bits, you'll have it tomorrow afternoon. FINGERS CROSSED! It's a big one! Raps of thunder! Drums of death! Protect your necks, ladies and Gs, they might get to snapping!

Here's some more flicks, courtesy of Pixel. Pixel just bought himslef a fisheye lens off of the internet, that's gonna be well fun.

So, last night Jeres and I hosted our lil pop quiz at Pub On The Park in London fields. We had the room upstairs all to ourselves, it was ever so cosy. Two open fires! Christmas lights! Friends! Drinks, alcoholic and not so much! I played records that I like (Waren Zevon, Yelawolf, Tyler, The Creator, Earl Sweatshirt, Lil B, Chilly Gonzales, Tra Tha Truth, Aphex Twin, Adam And The Ants, etc), and Jeres blossomed as a quizmaster. I did a round also, which was fiendishly difficult, and featured lots of audio. I dubbed it The Kenneth Tong Dont Feed The Trolls Round, and themed the questions accordingly.

We might be doing it again next month. February 9th is the provisional date, so keep that free if you fancy a merry night of pop quizzage.

Right then. I am off to the Postie's to send out the first wave of ATD1 shirts. Keep those fingers crossed for Narstie's safe arrival tomorrow!

Christmas In Hackney

With a week left before it really is Christmas, I was delighted to wake up today to a blizzard going on outside my window. Now, this year's snow has caused me all manner of problems, from outlandish gas bills to majorly delayed T-shirt deliveries, but I still love it, and I was secretly glad that public transport had ground to a standstill and I couldn't cycle, as it necessitated a nice long walk to the gym. I loaded up my Desire Z with Cocaine Blunts' Best Rap Of 2010, set the camera mode to "warm vintage", slung my mother's scarf around my neck, and set out into London's Historic East.

You know that snow is serious when it starts sticking to walls, and you know its really serious when it starts sticking to horizontal metal objects, like road signs.

Similarly, you can tell that you're in some kind of winter wonderland when buses zoom past and drench you, not with puddle-water, but with a thick splat of pure wet snow. Its way better than the usual routine, despite ultimately achieving the same result.

Jeres was not, as advertised, at the gym, but in Primark buying gloves, so I wandered down to Hackney central to meet him. I passed a park, blanketed in unsoiled white. I was tempted to vault over the fence and run around the thing in circles like a big vandal, until a little bird caught my eye and made me think better of it.

I found Jeres fresh from Primark with a bag full of underpants, but no gloves. It dawned on me that I have not bought any underpants since those Spider-man ones I got in New York in 2007. My girl's sister always buys me underpants for Christmas. Her Mum too , now I come to think of it. How undignified. I am going to buy myself some off of the internets as soon as I've finished this drop.

Jeres, as you might be able able to tell from the evil glint in his ye in the picture above, has been infused with some weird exercise-demon, so we ended up going a bit harder in the gym than usual: 20 minutes on the running machine, 300 reps on the upper body machines, 100 on the ab machines, 50 sit ups on the big comedy rubber balls and 50 dumbbells "because  450 is a stupid number."

Afterwards we copped squishees from the newsagent and posed for a photo and had snowballs thrown at us by pesky rudeboys. Their aim was comically rubbish, so they tried their luck at close range on a small Chinese lady, who transformed into a terrifying vision of  fervent rage and sent them scuttling off like squirrels.

On the way home it dawned on me that I used to smoke a shit ton of fags every single day of my life. It's been a year and a half since I quit, which isn't all that long in the context of a lifetime. I wonder what I won't be doing in another 18 months that I am now. I hope its not waffles, I really like waffles at the moment.

It's been 18 years since I quit church, which is a better percentage. I still love churches though, and they look especially dope under a gang of snow.

I found this disgusting looking creature a few yards down from the weird Masonic lodge round the corner from my place. Its either the result of some dastardly experiment, or a sandbag with some snow and twigs on it. I refuse to believe the latter.

After the run in with the crappy-aim rudeboys outside the gym, I had decided to attempt preventive measures, by wandering along bouncing a big shiny wedge of hard-packed snow up and down in my palm, like a cricket ball. Its effect was incredible. Regular humans eyed me warily, and active snowballists nodded at me respectfully all the way home.

About three seconds after I snapped the shot above this kid got a lump of snow the size of a basketball upside the back of his head. It was beautiful.

This guy wanders around Hackney Wick all day with three plastic bags full of paper cups. He reeks so thoroughly of piss you can be in the shop on Eastway buying gas and smell him walking up Chapman Road three blocks away. He lives in the old people's home with the old blonde lady who falls into uncontrollable pearls of cackling laughter whenever she sees me. I wonder what they do of an evening.

I don't know why some had decided to erect a giant snow testicle in the middle of the road outside the Hackney Pearl but they did. And I aint mad at them.

I took this snap a few moments after the kid in the blue hoody had been told by his mother to "stop that right now."

I took this snap a few moments before the kid in the blue hoody caught his mother around the side of the head with a big-ass snowball, and got dragged across the road by his ear. I could read his mind. "It was worth it," he repeated. "It was worth it."

And that? That was my third Preventative Snowball. More of a snow egg, now I look at it. Regardless, it kept me safe from attack, safe from wet-neck, free to live another day, and for that I am thankful. If you try this method yourself - I am going to call it The Cold War Method - do let me know how you get on, but remember! I only invented it today, and it has therefore not been rigorously tested. Don't blame me if it goes horribly wrong, like when my mate Danny started carrying a swiss army knife around.


Peeling Celing

Wandering home at 1am or whatever it was this morning as the snow cascaded down in great clumps, I looked up into the sky and felt blessed.

This morning my hangover and the sub-zero temperature inspired a somewhat less grateful response. Our house, full of holes and cracks as it is since next door got knocked down by a goddamn steel boulder on a chain, cannot contain heat for more than an hour, and we've never been able to work out how to automate the central heating, so mornings are intense affairs these days. But never mind that: snow is fucking with our T shirts! This just in from my supplier:

Hey, everything is on standby due to the snow. Plain tees can't come in and nothing can get collected. More snow is forecasted, so it's with the gods I'm afraid. Sorry for not letting you know sooner.

This country's inability to deal with cold weather every goddamn year is yet another example of how crap our so-called civilisation really is. Now I'm going to have to get some special extra stuff together to put in your packages when the things finally arrive to make up for the delay. Cot-damnit!

Still, productivity is high like Giraffe vajayjay over here, and exciting stuff happens every second. We had a meeting to organise The Life Equation's sleeve shoot last night, which is going to be a thing of intense beauty and a timeless work of art. And when I got home Mary Wycherley had sent me through the photos she took of me a few weeks back and they are ace. Some of them are downright incredible. Not only that, but I got the thumbnails for The Life Equation's first video through from Jorden. Did I mention me and Jorden Oliwa are working on the video for the first single from The Life Equation? Well, I have now. Here's a picture of him drawing the thumbnails:

You can see more of those, and marvel at dude's incredible work over on his blog. This, for example, is a video he did for an Evelyn Evelyn song:

Interestingly, this is not the only animated video I am working on right now, and Jorden is not the only the only animator I'm working with. More on that soon... suffice to say I am REALLY EXCITED.

Yeeeeah. So, shout out whoever put together the music for Beyond Walford - Roxy Mitchel, which was on the telly the other day. They used three (3!) of my songs! Ching! Shout out everyone that texted, emailed tweeted me in excitement also. It's nice having music on the telly. I dunno why. I haven't time to ponder the psychological ramifications. It just is.

So. you know I went back to that ghetto dentist in Homerton the other day? I was getting a wee filling, right, and I was lying down in the chair, staring at the yellowed, peeling ceiling, my face just having been paralysed by some kind of rude electric shock type thing, and my dissaproving, locustlike, mildly sinister dentist let out a squeaky, sneaky, and worst of all stinky fart RIGHT BY MY HEAD, I went, "mmmrrrrfffwgh!" in protest, and he ignored me. Foul! I have no idea why I go there, I really don't. I didn't even get NHS prices, because I missed my last appointment. My girl thinks I am nuts. There's a posh dentist she goes to in the centre of town that I signed up with but its too far, and posh dentists weird me out a bit. There is something perversely comforting in the squalor of mine.

My first dentist, back in Wales during the 80s and apartheid was a creepy white South African who used to stick his big sausage fingers in my mouth with no gloves on. I could see the tiny bits of dirt stuck in his pores as the big nail-bitten sausage fingers went in, and I would squirm and heave a little, but I tried my very best to be brave. I have always tried my very best to be brave.

OK, I am off to the post office now to deliver people's PRINTS. Stay safe out there!


The Kidnapping Prints Out Now!

That's right ladies and Gs, up there you can see a little snippet of the intensely professional process that went into creating the excellent artwork for The Kidnapping Of Akira The Don By Joey2tits. Birmingham native and Class-A G Andrew Bainbridge helmed the shoot, assisted by the lovely James Harrison, with set dressing and prop design by Set Dressing Tim. For my sins, I spent an hour or so tied to a chair, and another couple of hours lying on the floor, and in the boot of our huge shiny Saab. (Joey actually managed to lock me in that boot with the keys still in my hand "by accident" during the recording of the skits. It took me 15 minutes to work out an ingenious, Houdini-esque escape, while Joey laughed like a Hyena trapped down a drain for the duration, and let me tell you right now, 15 minutes is a long-ass time when you're locked in a cot-damned boot)

As you can see, it was all worth it, as the results the results were amazing. And now, you can hang those results on your wall, by buying a beautiful, glossy, high quality, limited edition PRINT of one of those magnicicent artworks.This one, to be specific:

Yeah, that's the hotness. Look at that detail! In case you couldn't work it out, Andrew paints on top of the photos once they're done, and I'll let him explain why:

When people see a photograph they think they see a witness: they know I was there, and believe that the image captures something real. But then I overlay another, unnatural layer onto the image trying to pull that certainty apart and reveal some of the more mysterious elements of the human condition.

Exactly. Each print is just £10 and comes with a free digital download of the acclaimed masterwork The Kidnapping Of Akira The Don By Joey2tits. In addition, each print will be signed personally by myself and Joey. Here's some lovely photos taken with my telephone of us signing some of the peorders:


In KIDNAPPING T-SHIRT news, my supplier tells me they will be in "Thursday, Friday at the latest". I have a industrial post-nag full of jiffys and 5 rolls of sellotape at the ready for a day of hardcore DON FACTORY ACTION!

OK then! It's a beautiful, snow sodden day here in London, and I have an appointment with THE DENTIST in just under an hour, to sort my front tooth out, the one that's discoloured because it's DEAD, And has been ever since a day much like today, way back in 1994, when I was just thirteen years old. The netball courts in the school had frozen over with ice, and were all skidding around at high speeds like, well, children and I skipped and fell - SMACK! - on my face, and smashed half my front tooth off. They pulled it down with a brace and leveled it off, but it died that day, and never came back to life.



Boulangerie indeed, ladies and Gs, and merry Christmas too while we're at it. Yes, it is true, I surprised my beloved with a trip to Paris last week, which is a brilliant and super-romantic thing to do and I urge you all to do it, as we really did have a gay old time.

As you know from when I was leaving, my girl knew nothing about it and thus went out and got flipping slaughtered, and she was still pissed when we boarded the plane. Tragically for her, the inevitable hangover kicked in with all the brute f0rce of a fleet of cotdang TANKS just before we landed, but the excitement carried her through and she did not punch anyone in the eye or anything. My good buddy superproducer Stephen "Winlord" Hague had hooked us up with some sweet ass digs bang in the heart of the city, and advised us to take cabs everywhere because "they're piss cheap". It was when the cabbie's meter crossed the €50 line that I remembered that Stephen and I exist in different tax brackets for now. Nothing in Paris is cheap (apart from shoes) - we got licked €6.10 for a half liter bottle of water in one joint. "These Parisians are crazy!" I said, tapping my head, which was an hilarious Asterix joke that only I got.

Still, my girl was so happy to have been taken to Paris she let my bad jokes pass without comment for the whole first day. Here she is, bowling merrily down Rue Des Archives, like that Haters Gonna Hate guy.

That was on route to the Gay bit and the Jew bit, which are handily right next to each other, and equally splendid. The Jew bit in particular was super awesome. We enjoyed the Best Ice Cream In The World (they use a flipping spatula to carve a multi-flavoured ice cream sculpture atop the cone, sod your gaudy scoop), and I picked up not one, but TWO pairs of amazing steel toe-capped cowboy boots from a nice little clothes spot called The King Of Fripp, an incredible bargain at just €50 for the pair, the result of some dope ass Pigeon-French haggling from me and the Parisian nonchalance of the dude behind the counter, who was immersed in French versions of popular rap songs and that piss-awful Jay-Z version of Forever Young.

Indeed, the middle bit of France that we were in was dead posh and classy, and everyone you saw looked like they'd stepped out of bloody Vogue or something. All the men had curly brown hair and sunglasses and a four-day-old dusting of Beard, and the women all looked like they'd been taught to walk. Well, obviously they'd all been taught to walk, but you know what I mean. The women of Paris on the whole are a very pretty and bosomy lot, so my girl fitted right in. My beard was far too awesome to blend in, however, and I suffered many long, envious stares from men on motorbikes with ladies sat behind them chain smoking cigarettes. Paris is fill of men and women riding around in pairs on motorcycles, chain smoking cigarettes.

I was excited to discover that Parisians really do love wine a whole bloody lot, as evidenced above. We had lots of wine while we were out there, and it was all grayte, thanks very much. I was also amazed to discover that Phil Collins still has a big ass career over there. He was on the radio in the taxi on the way from the airport, and Paris was covered in big ass posters advertising his new album and accompanying tour. He was in all the magazines as well, boasting about his many wives and his incomparable musical ability. The magazines were full of tits actually, and they even adorned the covers of the gossip rags! Here are Daisy Lowe's:


You know what else I found odd about Paris? All the cop cars are knackered. Like, proper knackered. Like, losing a wanted level on GTA4 knackered. I met a policeman, he was actually very nice. We were cycling the wrong way down a road at midnight on one of those awesome bikes they have everywhere that you can rent for a single euro, thus avoiding those "piss cheap" cabs and having a proper adventure type thing, and I styled it out by doing my confused Englishman thing - "mon applogie, je suis un spasteeque angletere" - eliciting a frown, followed by a smile and a dismissal.

The bikes were actually our favourite thing about Paris. They're dead easy to hire, when you read the instructions - you just stick your debit card in a slot and type in a bunch of numbers and presto! Beeciclete! They are smaller than London's "Boris Bikes" as well, and they don't have adverts all over them. We rode ours all over the shop, escaping our posh hood to explore the hills and the river and and the bits Jeres described as, "a little rough and ready but that's where real people are and you can buy second hand shoes for one euro." That was Sacre Coeur, and while it didn't seem particularly rough to me, it did remind me of how I felt when I first walked across Brooklyn, and that heady, joyous rush is a thing I will never forget. I bloody loved it up there, and would move there in an instant, although I'd have to learn French first, obviously, as mine is bloody appalling. I spent a whole day saying "Bonsoir" to people, after hearing it the previous evening and thinking it to be a cooler way of saying hello than "Bonjour". My beloved declined to tell me it meant "good evening" until day three, for reasons best known to her self.

Still, I only made a bit of a tit of myself, and in the main I think we were both tres cool and awesome. I thought pretty much everything was "fantastique", much to my girl's amusement, but it was, and I say that anyway, so there. Nobody seemed to mind, and people kept stopping me to tell me how ace my shoes were, and a whole boatload of people waved at me from a bridge,and I got lost and found my way back using only French words and grunting whilst remaining totally supercool, so I felt like I was "walking with Allah", (as Malcolm X would have it). Indeed, I had many signs that we were "walking with Allah", (as Malcolm X would have it), like when I reclined on the bed in our hotel with the reflective ceiling and switched the telly on, and the first thing I saw was an advert for some chicken soundracked by Chilly Gonzales' Working Together.

French TV on Sunday afternoon is mental, full of superviolent gun dramas with comical blood effects, whole families getting merked, and loads of F-bombs. Flick through a gang of channels full of that stuff and you get some respite in the form of a similarly mental sit-down variety show full of old men crooning weird rock 'n' roll and torch ballads to a reception fit for Le Beatles Dans Le Sixties, bright orange 30-something ladies doing pretty 9 minute folk songs to what might generously be described as A Polite Smattering Of Applause, and crazy nutjobs in thunderbirds glasses, red bowties, braces and little straw butchers hats perched jauntily atop their bouncy dark curls, singing hardcore fucking SOUL MUSIC. To the sort of applause one might expect in a Roman amphitheatre just after the lions eat the slaves.

(Oh, and those last two plurals were really singulars, but I was deep within the flow, and this blog post has already taken far too much of my Sunday as it is)

The show's edits are really big on reaction shots from the other guests, who try to look enthusiastic, until everybody goes genuinely apeshit when some lithe young fellow with half a tub of bryclream on his head busts out The Longest And Most Vigorous Down On Knees Sax Solo I have seen since fucking Lost Boys, and that wasn't live.

I actually watched more TV in Paris than I have in years, but that's mainly because I stayed up until 3am one night watching the pop music video channel. They seem to enjoy a healthy mix of French VS English language stuff in their charts, a decidedly unhealthy amount of Black Eyed Peas And David Guetta songs, and a whole lot of nostalgia - I counted 9 songs in the top twenty that were direct pastiches of sixties and seventies records. And while the lyrical content seemed a pretty typical mix of Boy Meets Girl and I Just Wanna Party, the number one song was about a Black Panther.

I said, "it doesn't feel like being in the new Nazi Germany, does it?" as we passed a gypsy begging on the side of the road. "Not really," said Charlotte, who'd just had her hair straightened, and as the granddaughter of a Romany Gypsy was essentially in disguise. We noticed that Parisian cleaners are mostly black, just like ours (but much better at their jobs - Paris is spotless, all the time). I wondered how long it would be until the tables turned once more, and how long it had really been since they were last the other way around. We argued about Aboriginals, who I pointed out were still hunted by whites in Australia as game as recently as the fifties or something. "They're not black!" protested Charlotte, with indignation. "What are they?" I demanded, "Blue?"

We didn't see the sex-contortion exhibition up by the Moulin Rouge, but we looked in the window. It was a beautiful day. Charlotte bought some flip flops for €5 (shoes, after all, being the only cheap things in Paris), and I binged on fizzy pop (€1.70 a can), knowing that I would be quitting the stuff on my return to England. We walked for hours, taking in the scenery, marvelling at the architecture, glad in the knowledge that there's a truly amazing (like New York is truly amazing) city practically on our doorstep, there for us to visit whenever we like, with the possibility of moving there so long as I can stay off the fizzy pop and learn the lingo, and Charlotte can afford to keep getting her hair straightened.

We got the train to Charles De Gaulles, which was cheap and fun and informative. I read a French magazine and understood a great deal of it, and Charlotte watched the pretty late-summer scenery fly by. Soon we were flying home - not on the big Air France super-plane we'd been expecting, but on a propeller powered sardine can no bigger than a school bus that resembled bloody Spitfire, and couldn't land for some reason, necessitating a 45 minute lap around Heathrow's airspace before we could make our bouncy decent (not that I minded, I was enthralled with my copy of Sci-Fi Art Essentials, from the makers of Imagine FX). When we got out our nostrils were filled with stink, and our eyes boggled at the filth that covers London's streets. What a dirty city this is! We'd better get our act together in time for the Staged Alien Invasion olympics, else it won't just be creepy and laughable cardinals slagging us off.

Thanks to the great Dr Hague & Dana, Jeres, and the staff of the Hotel du Vieux Saule, which has the illest shower I have ever seen. And thank you for keeping each other entertained with dope stuff in the comments. Winners will be announced tomorrow.


That is full of Whiskey and Coke. I have two of those mugs now. Amazing.

So what it was was, it got to Friday afternoon just gone (my birthday was on Sunday, right) and I hadn't sorted anything out at all. The previous night my Mum had come down to London and took me to a most delicious burger joint in Old Street, and I was very happy about that. Plus my girl had promised to take me to see Iron Man 2 on the Saturday. I'd been looking forward to that for ages. But serious, I'd been so deep in all that Street Fighter business (The Guardian just dropped something on the subject, actually... they called me a "UK hop hop artist". AMAZING!) that I just hadn't got round to sorting any kind of social action around my cotdanged 30th.

So late on Friday afternoon I cobbled together a little Facebook event, which kept going wrong - I had to click everyone I was inviting individually twice cos it crashed, and then I accidentally made it public anyway. Massive fail. By Saturday morning 4 people said they were coming to my hastily arranged afternoon in a pub, and one of them was me. Another was my girl who, true to her word, took me to see Iron Man 2. I enjoyed it thoroughly and felt very lucky to be eating mixed popcorn with chocolate and crisps in it with my beautiful girl in Leicester Square.

Afterwards we were supposed to be meeting BJ and Mika in Dalston, but they rang saying they were having trouble with their kid, and would we mind meeting them in the Hackney Pearl later? I was mildly miffed, and set about ringing people to see if they were going to come on Sunday. My Dad answered from some noisy-ass place, saying he was watching the football and telling me to bugger off. I out the phone down and was going to ring my brother Marek, until my girl told me to stop hassling my family and leave everybody alone. I had a little sulk.

As we approached the Pearl, I saw BJ's blonde mane through the window. "He's early!" I exclaimed, merrily. As we got closer, I saw another face I recognised on the other side of the bar. It was one of Charlotte's friends. "What a coincidence!" I thought, idiotically. Amazingly, I did not twig what was going on until I got right up to the window.


My London friends! School friends I hadn't seen since I was at school! My old Crack Village buddies! My bandmates from over the ages! My old manager and record label boss and their families! My old man and my brothers! All manner of awesome people I love from all over the cotdang shop who'd never been in a room together! Even Stephen Hague and Dana came down from bloody Hastings! I was amazed and full of awe and tears!

And, of course, not long after I was full of booze, and making a big rambly speech and going, "wah! no one's ever done anything like this for me! Wah!"

Ben Offish checks his watch during my awesome and rambling speech

How lucky! Lucky lucky lucky mud! How happy was I! Just over a decade ago I was living in a squat and sleeping on a filthy old mattress! Now look at me! How sweet life is! I well up thinking about it. What wonderful friends I have. What great fortune. And I got the best girl in the whole wide world. You could run me over tomorrow and I could die happy cos I already lived an amazing life.

Yes. Anyway, the night was glorifull. Many of us ended up back at our little flat, which was pretty funny. It got covered in broken glass and Black Grape, which is a bugger to get off of one's keyboard, but it was worth it, obvs.

So, you'd have thought that was enough awesome for one birthday, right? Yes you would. And you'd have been right. But I didn't just get the best party, courtesy of the best girl, and the best friends... I got the BEST CAKE EVER:

Illest Cake Of All Time.

Lookit that thing. My MUM made that! BEST CAKE EVER!


And the dope don't stop. The Street Fighter Mixtape continues to take over the world. It's done over 21,000 streams on Sound Cloud, over 5000 downloads on Usershare, and its embedded on around 100 websites, that I am aware of. The reaction has been beyond my humble expectations and I am overjoyed.

On Thursday my girl's Mum is flying us out to Malta. We're gonna get SUNSHINE. We might find a boat and film a Rick Ross-styled pop video. Or we might just hang out and have FUN for 4 days.

Speaking of which, last night me and Littles went down the Legion in Old Street to listen to Examples album. And eat free Nandos. Well, I ate free Nandos, Littles isn't feeling their chicken. You gotta worry about chickens whose wings have that much meat on. Those things look like Big Narstie's fists. Normal chickens don't have wings like that.

I wasn't feeling all the chicken bones on the floor in The Legion either, to be honest, but Example's album? That thing is a flipping straight up singles compilation, I cannot front for a second, on some Now That's What I Call Music Summer 2010 ish. Everything on it sounds big. The production is overboard. And I gotta say, my favourite stuff on there is the most pop, where Ex dispenses with rapping altogether and croons his big ole spiky head off.

Two years ago Example told me he was going to do this. Exactly, to the word. And he has. Dude envisaged, and created the whole thing. When The Beats collapsed he didn't sit around crying about how his label let him down, he didn't sit around waiting for someone to come along and do it for him. He made it happen. That's a beautiful thing, and, oh man, wait for it... an example to us all...


But it is true!

Dream it, and you can do it. Book them and they will come. Decide that you want to make music and draw comics and find true love, and that's yours, bubba.

Yes indeed. So again, thank you all, each and every one of you reading this. I'm the luckest mud in town. My life right now is exactly what I dreamed up all those years ago, when I was the angsty lil speckster in the middle of this:

Three decades of Don


And on that BOMBSHELL, lets play out this drop with the best audio moment of Saturday Night, and contender for the song of the YEAR...

Photos courtesy of James Harrison, Victoria Keeble and My Mum.