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The Day That Supergrass Split Up!

Oh no! You guys! SUPERGRASS HAVE SPLIT!

What tragedy!

Now, true, I have not listened to a Supergrass album since their second one, In It For The Money, a dissapointingly serious affair after the punk rock exuberance of their awesome debut, I Should Coco. I nicked it from an Our Price in Redditch, I think, which says something about just how long ago it was that Supergrass released their second album. Indeed, it was that halycon summer of 1997, the year before Freeserve introduced the internets to the country and everything changed, forever.

That year I was in Redditch. We did a lot of hedge jumping to that Richard The Third joint. 10 years later me and Bizzle supported them at the Dublin Castle in Camden. Warners were considering signing me at the time, and me and my band came on in crazy ninja wrestling masks and scared them off.  I got everyone in the crowd to turn around and swear at Wade, then chastised them for doing something soc ruel just because someone told them to.

What a mean thing to do to an audience!

Anyway. Yesterday's post about Penmon prompted the following from Iwan Roberts on Facebook:

Waaaw i was working on the roof there not so long ago! A french woman lives there now!

I was like, "Really?! Ooh la la! How's the roof?"

Iwan Roberts was all like, "The roof = Not well! The atic sees more light then a ty gwydyr lol"

I was like, daaaaaamn!

There's some roof-wrecking French woman living in my old house!

That's eerie, bubba!

"Ty gwydyr," is Welsh for Green House, in case you were wondering.

So, those awesome Superhero Music T-shirts are packaged up and ready to fly. My packaging game went up a levl today, look forward to that. AM getting this ish down to a FINE ART. Shout out Adam Walton who played Fly Aready! from that Superhero Music on his BBC Radio Wales show last night! Blaow!

ORDER MP3 & T!

ORDER MP3!

SUPERHERO MUSIC

[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.

BLAAAAAAAAAAAAAP!

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.

Rick Ross Rumbled, Unrepentant, "Laughing At The Blogs"

So, it seems that photo was not fake, and Rick "The Boss" Ross was indeed a correctional officer once upon a time.

From The Smoking Gun:

Ross (real name: William Leonard Roberts) was appointed a prison guard in December 1995 at a salary of $22,913.54, according to the below personnel record, which was provided to TSG by Jo Ellyn Rackleff, a DoC spokesperson. The rapper’s social security number is identical to that of the jail guard. According to the official document, Ross was earning $25,794.34 when he left the department in June 1997. After graduating from the DoC training academy, Ross was assigned to the South Florida Reception Center in Dade County (the lockup is one of three statewide that serves as an intake facility for new prisoners).

Oh Ricky! After that "my life is 100% real" denial the other day this stuff looks very bad. Something tells me this is gonna have more impact than Akon's revealed fabrications, mainly becuse Ross is a rapper, not a singer, and no one really checks for Akon records because of his mythical criminal past.  But did anyone ever really believe Ross was ever a big time drug kingpin, as he raps so often, and so beautifully? As Miss Info notes:

Clearly Rick Ross claimed his “role” more than others (Too Short and Luke are quick to say they’re not flesh peddlers in real life)…but there’s heavy demand for new rapper “realness” in this biz…maybe he’s like the musical equivalent of a method actor. Didn’t Daniel Day Lewis really think he was Bill the Butcher for a couple months back during “Gangs of New York”? (I think that really creeped out Cameron Diaz.)

Anyway. Ross dropped a freestyle claiming not to give two craps about what people say on the internets last night. "Bitch I'm the boss and I'm laughing at your blogs!" He says something about being inspired by Too $hort, which is interesting given the context. Check it. I'm checking it. I like Ross' music, and am, as you know, able to separate artists from their art. That's why I still bump R Kelly records. Sorry MarvJackTego!

PS - Funniest response from the comments sections of the blogs (yeah I totally read them all) comes from one LandLORD:

… my father was a C.O. …. Brooklyn House Of Detention … no shame in that … but this nigga lied ….

… never trust a bearded man with big breasts to tell the truth …

Etheration.

Zzz

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.

Appologies

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.

Lush

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.