Boys, Back, In, Town


No, really. I did. Oh You Tee. In Old Street. Many reunions. And a mission to NOT GET DRUNK AND WRITE OFF THE WEEKEND. Could it be done?

Well, it started with the gym. Actually, it started with me rushing out the house late for the gym, then getting upset cos I hadn't had time to put Jackie Chain's Haze on my Z Phone, and that was what I wanted in my ears. Then I was like, HANG ON, I AM IN THE FUTURE, so I pulled it up on Youtube on my phone while I waited for the train to come. Then I downloaded it on the bus. It took less time to download than it took to write a tweet about how I was downloading it.


Yes. So I was in a good mood when I met Jeres outside the gym, and we did 300 reps on The Machines and 100 sit ups on the big bouncy balls, then we went back to Jeres' gaff, where he made me fried haloumi baguette and I schooled John Doran from The Quietus on Lil B, swag, cooking, and Alabama hip-hop. I know my shit. He was appreciative, and I felt like a fountain of knowledge, which is a good feeling. Henrik Palmgen must feel great all day, that dude is like a little Swedish encyclopedia.

Oh, and Jeres has, typically for Jeres, become a filthy gym addict. He's a member of two gyms now, and goes at lunchtime and in the evening. He is on some three month quest to become a HENCH MAN. Not a henchman, that wouldn't suit him. He's more supervillain material really.

Anyway. Serendipitous synchronicity occurred in the Old Blue Last, when I bumped into one of my new PR dudes after just finalising the deal with his boss a few hours earlier. We were in the Old Blue Last to see my old buddy Nik Moore, himself a press officer, one of the first people who kinda took me under his wing a bit and gave me advice and stuff when I came to London. He used to look after Motorhead, and always PRed mental rawk bands called things like Powerhawk. On this particular occasion the band he had playing was called Turbowolf. You couldn't make it up. Or maybe you could. I sometimes think Nik Moore creates these outfits by sheer will. This lot were a swirling frenzy of tie-dyed eyeball vests and 70s moustaches. Their amp kept blowing up, but they crowdsurfed regardless. And this was the top room of a pub, one must doff one's cap in such instances.

Never mind that though, guess who's back?

Lacey's back.

Mister Lacey. Back. From his 4 year adventure in Los Angeles after a spectacular clusterfuck of a breakdown of the life he'd built for himself. He met us outside the pub with his trusty steed JCB in tow, and it was like he'd never left, bless his heart. He was wide eyed, head spinning like a top. "Where are all the hot Mexican chicks?" he kept stammering. "This is weird!"

Down the road, at Camp, the Southern Hospitality boys where hosting the second Player's Ball, and they'd promised me they'd play that Jackie Chain record if I came.  So off we went. Pixel was in Camden celebrating his birthday, so we hollered at that lot and lo they came too. So there was a big ass mob of us hanging out by the cloakroom, going apeshit every time a banger came on, which was roughly every 3 minutes.

The Players' Ball is the club night I've been wanting in London as long as I can remember. They play those great big down South ANTHEMS I love so dearly. They play relatively obscure mixtape tracks. They play Waka Flocka Flame and Rick Ross and Cam'ron and UGK. Hell, they even dropped a lil' Lil B in the early part of the night. I was in swag heaven. I spent a great deal of the night stood on a chair so I could talk to ten foot mountain beast Tego Seigel about rap music while I did my Don Dance (I shall have make one of those instructional videos for Don Dancing one of these days, but it basically involves working your elbows and your shoulders and rocking what Pixel calls "and edgy pout"). I did a lil' bit of cooking too.

Yeah, we had a grand ole time. And guess what?

Two whiskey and cokes and one shot of something aniseedey.


I did miss my stop reading about a Ja Rule video on my Z Phone (yeah, I know), necessitating a half hour walk home in the drizzle. But I enjoyed that.

Saturday I spent working my ass off till 5 am and listening to the new Yelawolf/Trae Tha Truth record on repeat.

And Sunday?

Sunday saw the musical reunion of me, Lace, and Pix.




Looks like ATD25 is go. I wasn't planning on that just yet, to tell you the truth. But according to this text file I've got on my desktop, I'm 5 songs deep already. DAMN!

PS: OK, you eagle eyed winners can buy that incredible and legendary ATD1 T shirt. YESSSSSSSSSSSSS!


[sleeve id="8455"] WOOOO HOOO!

It is all but done!

I am giving it a once over now, then I'm gonna play it on the Doncast at 5pm GMT!

Then I am gonna do a final master tweak, render it and chop it and tag it and zip it and up it to preorderers. And finish the art. Then up the stream.


The All New Weekly Doncast # 3

BACK! All looks like it should work! Although I gotta reinstall some software still. TOUCH WOODEN OBJECTS! I am off to post the rest of your Security Ts! SEE YOU IN A FEW HOURS!

Well, THAT was more stressful and mess-up ridden than the first one! This new computer installation has a long way to go. I shall do my best to get it sussed for next week. In the meanwhile, I shall upload this video. That, I can control.

KIMOTA! Marvelman's Back!

kidmarvelman Yep. The big news from this year's Comic-con concerns the aquisition by Marvel comics of Marvelman, renamed Mircaleman on its 80s release because Marvel objected to a comic book character with Marvel in his name existing (for the full convoluted backhistory you could do worse than checking here). Damn! Marvelman, in case you didn't know, was the comic book that invented Grant Morrison, amonst other things. It was one of the first things Alan Moore wrote, way back in '82, before I could read. A little like Watchmen, it's about what would happen if there really was a Superman - the title character is a little bit of Ozymandias AND Doc Manhattan... but it's much better than Watchmen. It's more honest, less pretentious, and way more sinister.

(That up there is a quick sketch I just did of the series main "bad guy", Kid Miracleman, by the way. He lives in an 8 year old boy's head and enjoys hands-on genocide.)

You know how in comic books, when say, Doomsday attacks Metropolis, then Superman comes along and kicks his butt, the place looks a bit like there's been a minir earth tremor or something?

In Miracleman that happened in London, and it looked like this.





Yeah, Alan Moore wrote it for 16 issues, which are the sixteen I read, and basically took the whole idea to its logical conclusion: which was facism. Then he buggered off to do Watchmen, and Neil Gaiman took over. Neil got halfway through his proposed three stories, then the books publisher filed for bancruptcy. That was 20 odd years ago. Now Marvel has the rights to the thing, and say "we are talking to all the people involved in the '80s/'90s material. Alan (Moore), Neil (Gaiman), Mark Buckingham."

Like I said, I didn't read the Gaiman parts. The Moore bit was perfect as it was. I probably will now. But I really don't see how Marvelman fits into the Marvel universe at all. I know they're missing a Superman archetype in their roster, but I really can NOT see Mick Moran trading wisecracks with Spider-Man. Eugh.

Hide The Nukes - Blair's BACK!!!


Oh goody!

From the BBC:

Tony Blair will be the UK's official candidate for EU president, Baroness Kinnock has apparently confirmed.

Argh! EU president? Shit! Since when was there one of them? And how many bombs do them EUs got between them anyway? Fuck!

"The UK government is supporting Tony Blair's candidature for president of the Council [of EU governments]," said Lady Kinnock. "It is the government's position. I am sure they would not do that without asking him. People know who he is, and he could step into this new role with a lot of respect and he would be generally welcomed."

Damn right people know who he is! He is a world famous mass murderer, a filthy lying swineherd with the instincts of a hyena and the manners of a billygoat. He posseses of the most demonic smile this side of grant Morrisson's Joker. Yeah we know this punk - but what kind of freak will welcome him? Who invites a vampire into their house, but a drooling waterhead who deserves everything that's coming to him? Ye gods!

The precise role of the EU president has not been laid out. The Swedish government, which currently holds the six-month EU presidency, has suggested drawing up a proper job description before seeing which available political figure fits it best.

Good thinking, Swedes! Anyone else in this barmy EU with any sense?

Ireland was the only EU member state to hold a public vote on the treaty, which must be ratified by all 27 countries. The treaty was rejected in that referendum last June. It will hold a second referendum in the autumn. The post will only be created if the Lisbon Treaty is ratified by all EU states - Ireland is to hold a second referendum in October.

Oh good lord. Oh sweet shitting Jesus and the orphans. Do they got Diebold over there? Why do they gots to say no twice? This is horrorful! My Irish friends! Our future is in your hands! DON'T LET US DOWN!


The Wheels Of Doom.... Um, Change. Hope. Whatever.

Ola, my friends. I write to you via telephone from the back of a grimy ole train headed to London Victoria, where I shall rendezvous with my fine female companion and attend an election party. I imagine everybody there will be whooping it up in support of The Obama Man, and it will be hard for me to keep such soul destroying observations as "he will still nuke Iran" to myself. Nobody wants to hear this stuff - not even me. I want to believe everything will be glorious tomorrow, but I am a student of history, and there wont no Superman be saving anybodies Metropolis any time soon. The wheels of doom will keep rolling. Shit, even children too young to remember Nevermind coming out know what happened after Tony Blair was crowned our glorious saviour.

My woman, along with everyone else I spoke today, is confident of a democratic victory for The Democrats. But only a fool would count that vengefull Stingray extra McPain out at this juncture. Even a blind pig finds an acorn once in a while... And The Swine do own the paper-trail-free digital voting machines, after all. And all they have to do is blame the disparity between the exit polls and the election results on racist white folks, then declare marshal law when the peacenicks, the beatniks, the freaks and darkies begin to riot. It'll be just like the arse end of the sixties all over again.

Christ! Did I just write that? What a rotten trip to lay on a hopeful people, now, of all times.

Anyway. My American friends: how are you feeling right now? Did you vote? And for who? Was it easy? Was it hard? Did the machine wink at you?

For good or ill, I am very interested.


fuckeye I am not in Spain anymore. When I left Spain, there was but one baby cloud floating tinily across an ocean of blue, the sun burning down with joy and grace. I returned to a typically sodden London, its sky one giant bruise, spittle flecking from its bitter chin. The electricity had gone in our flat, and the freezer and its contents had defrosted, including a large chunk of tuna and a bit of salmon.

Its better now. I suppose, after a day, I have gotten used to it all again. Humans are great like that. Radio 4 is on, coffee is brewing, I am fucking freezing, and getting about my day. Ola hey!

Last night I dreamt that I managed to upset some hardcore Catholics, by standing in the prayer area in the middle of a nightclub pointing out to some girls that they were not evil, and neither was I. A fat lad in the company of Mike Skinner threw a glass at my head, so I returned the favour, causing Skinner to demand I buy him a drink. I was later stabbed, slowly, in a twisting motion, by a man in a trenchcoat who told my my head had become too big, and I needed bringing back down to earth.

Acapellas coming later on, anyway. Fare thee well.


So, I got some (ha!) sleep, and I listened to the noises Birddogg was making up here while I was down in New York, doing whatever it was I was doing in New York. Like, there's some ill stuff. But one in particular is just tremendous. it is mighty. It fills my heart. And prefectly fits so many of the raps I was writing in New York, tempom flow, everything. So, what I've done, is draw various raps, and bits of raps, together, to create this New York song that's been brewing all the time I've been here. It is best I get it out now, before I FORGET. Annoyingly, the necassary component is missing. So piss.

Bad: All the stuff I bought last week - food, drink, socks, weed - is gone. Mostly. I got a lot of Ritz crackers, peanut butter and macaroni. Good: There's a Death's Head Moth on my window. (See right) Bad: There is animal shit by my window. Good: The air outside is fresh and envigorating. Bad: The air in the top level of the house, in which I am supposed to be dwelling, is thick with the stink of animal and of animal excrement.

I went to turn on the sauna earlier, and nearly trod in cat shit. Or dog shit. It could be both. Whatever. It's like, wow, sauna! Oh, catshit. Wow! Oh. Wow! Oh. Etc. So, I wanted to go into town and get a job today, to pay for my ticket back to New York, but waited about for people to come with me rather than just doing it, and the end result is it's super late now, too late to get a job anywhere, and everyone's going into town to go out, save me, who must stay at home cos he has no ID (this is a worry), and it's too far to chance not being allowed in anywhere.

A ha!

So I should write more now. I wrote a bunch earlier. Phil is worrying that Amy has forotten his ass, as she went in her tiny car to take Cecelia and James over an hour ago. But she hasn't forgotten him. It's just miles from ShanGayKen to Woodstoock! A HA!

I just asked Spiky if he has a message for the world. He said, "spitroast!" So there you go.


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.


After a nice little rest, I am back in London with a pink pack of eyeballs on my case. That shit looked nice on IE, but fucked up Mozilla. I don't know what it was doing to Macs. So he will live to the right. Read a bunch of Hilaire Belloc's The History Of England Vol XI, From The First Invasion By The Romans To The Ascension Of King George The Fifth on the train. I now realise that we are living in an oligarchy. Well, a strange, new fangled sort of oligarchy masked as a democracy. With a bit of a monarchy. But it is an oligarchy, nonetheless.

This book was published in 1915, and, interestingly, predicted that Russia would do what America has. The author is also in favour of true aristocracy, and I can see his point.