The Real Ghostbusters Book Of Things To Make Out Of Bits And Pieces

When I'm putting together packages  to send to the fine customers of Akira The Don's Little Shop of Awesome, oftentimes I'll rummage in the middle drawer of my scrappy little old Ikea chest of drawers and see if there's something extra I can put in, like a doodle or a setlist or a lyric sheet. Famous Los Angelino JJ Fabulous ended up with the lyric sheet for Sky, spilling misstakes and all, and she writes:

I framed my beautiful lyrics sheet! We're breakin' it in by using it as a surface to break on weed before I hang it. Yeah! It's awsome! Here's a picture.

Which is nice. Reminds me of a great picture of Raekwon I saw once.

Good ole Rae.

So, I was stood on my doorstep earlier, not stinking out the house, and it struck me: where the fuck is Gremlins 3? I mean, it just doesn't make any sense. The original Gremlins was genuinely scary black comedy classic, and the hilarious Gremlins 2 - The New Batch opened the thing wide for unlimited sequel and merchandising opportunities.

That's from the Gameboy game, for example. Anyway. 1990's aforementioned Gremlins 2 was awesome and hugely popular, yet since then there has been nothing. Well, nothing except for this BT advert:

The internets says Gremlins 3 is happening - in 3D, natch...  but series director Joe Dante isn't having anything to do with it.  “They did that once, they won’t do it again,” Dante told Bloody Disgusting, laughing. “They made that mistake once. Its a moot point, they won’t be coming to me. I can tell you that for a fact.

When asked to elaborate, Dante only grinned, saying, “I don’t have to. See Looney Tunes: Back in Action and I think that will explain it. That was not a pleasant experience.

Still, Dante believes GREMLINS 3 will happen one of these days, whether he’s involved or not. “I find it hard to believe that they won’t make a GREMLINS 3 because they’re remaking ADVENTURES IN BABYSITTING. I mean, they’re gonna remake everything."

Not that that need necessarily be a bad thing. Pacino's Scarface was a remake, after all. Even Bill Murray's been talking about doing Ghostbusters 3. "I was down in Austin at South by Southwest," he told GQ. "I got into it one night with a bunch of younger people who were like, Oh, I love Peter Venkman! I grew up with Peter Venkman! We got to talking, and the more we talked about it, the more I thought, Oh Christ, I should just do this thing."

Praise Jah, huh? One of the iller ideas as to how to approach the movie involves Venkman being dead, and thus a ghost.

"Well, I hadn't wanted to do the movie," Murray told GQ. "They kept asking, and I kept saying no. So once upon a time I said, just joking: "If you kill me off in the first reel, then fine, I'll do it." And then supposedly they came up with an idea where they kill me off and I was a ghost in the movie. Kinda clever, really."

See, Ghostbusters wasn't just two great movies, it was a brilliant animated series and accompanying Ladybird book line. The first magazine I remember making was a Real Ghostbusters how to guide, in which I showed the reader how to make action figures out of OXO Cube boxes and glue. It had staples in it and everything, when I was 7 or something, as it goes. I've still got that somewhere, I should dig it out.


Ah, here it is!

The Real Ghostbusters Book Of Things To Make Out Of Bits And Pieces

Back in the day, if you wanted an expanse of black in a picture, you had to use a whole felt pen up scribbling. Man, if you'd told me back then they were gonna invent Photoshop I might have combusted or something. You can click on that and read the whole thing if you like. It plays you a song when you make it fullscreen. I like it. What do you think of that magazine player anyway? I'm thinking of doing a fanzine with it.


While I was looking for that, I also found this picture I did of some GREMLINS when I was 9. I think I did most of it on a train. Notice the similarity to my Street Fighter sleeve.

Meanwhile back in 2010, I am recording ATD25. LITF!

A New Oven

Did I mention that our oven packed in about a month ago? Because it did, and we have been eating off the stove ever since. This has meant no pizza, and no pie, and a lot of pasta and noodles and chili and lightly dry-fried bagels. I had gotten pretty used to it by the end, but now we have a brand new oven and I wonder how long it will take to fill with crumbs and blackness. I must have a handheld Dirt Devil, and soon. I miss that thing. My life is all the lesser without it. The oven is being installed by my landlord and some muscular hired help. They are currently talking about contraception. I wish they would get on with it so I could have my second shower of the day and practice my raps before this afternoon's rehearsal. That stuff is important. Ask the Wu - or rather, don't ask the Wu, as they obviously partook not one single rehearsal for their Mef-less shambles at Brixton Academy the other night. One couldn't really blame them for the sound, as the sound in Brixton Academy is always a treacle thick bottom heavy sludge through which one must wade in order to find a single audible line... but they didn't help matters, with their slurred/barked delivery and refusal to engage with each other or the crowd, for the most part. The only two with any chemistry were - predictably - Rae and Ghost, who hung out together and for the most part actually looked each other in the eye once or twice. For the rest it was all seething resentment and petty one-upmanship. RZA's best rap? U God shouts all over it. U God's moment to shine? Cut the song off.

If we were to be in the mood for grumpery we might also mention stink of testosterone from the 90% male audience, and the incessant cries of "who remembers real hip-hop" from the support DJ, but we are in no such mood as it goes, and anyway, the Royal We witnessed the flipping WU, and no amount of shonky sound and onstage bickery can stand in the way of that simple, glorious, unfuckwithable FACT. So thank you Set Dressing Tim for taking me, and thank you THE WU for all the joy you have bestowed upon me over the years.

Lucky Mud

the-boxers-son Few things smell nicer than a lady, I can tell you that much.

It made me sad to leave her, so beautiful she is, smiling, sleeping - but I didn't want to wake her up with my noisy typing.

I type with the forefinger of each hand, in a very fast stabbing motion - clackaclackaclacka! I do a lot of things the wrong way, because I was never taught, or at least, I would never be taught, and insisted on finding my own way.

When I was 17, I was living above chip shop in Smethwick in a single room with no hot water or heating, and working in a record shop and a pub. It was a dream come true. I used to snog a sweet, beamish girl called Katie sometimes, when our gang went back to her house after a hard night dancing to indie records in Snobs (50p a shot and mixer). We cuddled on the sofa and smoked spliffs and watched Rumblefish. We were like children. One day she gave me a thin yellow paperback called Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas. The following afternoon, after I'd finished flogging marked-up radio-promos to 911 fans, I took myself up to the top if New Street, and sat on a statue of a lion, and read the whole thing.

Never before had I identified so thoroughly with another human.

I never took all those drugs I took between 1997 and 2003 because of Hunter S Thompson, but I did want to be just like him. I wrote a horrid little column for Playlouder for a few years, all about my adventures in london, with the booze and the acid and the cocaine and the vomiting on strangers. I behaved unconscionably, and tormented my friends for the sake of the "story." I used words like "swine", "pigfucker", and "rotten", because they were the sort of mean, ugly little words Hunter liked to "lash together", to get his point across. I must admit, it took me quite a while to realise that I wasn't actually all that much like Hunter Thompson at all.

I am a peculiarly cheery, optimistic person, if I am to be honest with myself. Where Hunter saw doom and despair, I see beauty, and potential. Sometime over Christmas, after I'd left Wales to visit My Mother's Side, in the Midlands, my beautiful girlfriend's similarly lovely sister observed that I seem to "love everybody", and I think that I must, for good or ill (another of Hunter's favourites, that last one). Even that zit-pocked wretch of a busdriver that told me to get off his "fucking bus" last night when I took too long to find my Oystercard. Even Carl Rove. Even Lonely Blair. Even John Power from Cast.

When I was 17 I made up a bunch of T-Shirts that had "John Power Is A Cunt" scrawled across the breast. I wandered around Selly Oak at 4 in the morning, kicking peoples walls down. I started fights I knew I couldn't win with mods and rockers, because I considered them to be culturally backwards, and against progress. I raged for a future I felt owed to me, and caused more harm than good.

All my hate is gone now. I have not one drop left. I have outrage, I have sadness, I have frustration, even a little regret. But no hate is left. One day, sometime after 2004, it rose up from deep within my ass, drifted away, and evaporated. Like a fart.

I love everyone that I meet, and I especially love the people who made it possible for me to breath this foul London air, whether they meant to or otherwise. I love my mother and my father, unconditionally. Two children who raised four incredible children, with very little money, and no formal training. What awesome magic is that?

I love my blood brothers - Zef, who made my website, Alex, who made smile, Marek, who made me check my fool self. I love my friends, and I love my girl. I love the pyjama bottoms she bought me for Christmas. They have "Crack!" and "Kazam!" printed all over them.

These days I see magic in raindrops, sometimes when I try hard, and sometimes by accident. I smile at old ladies on buses, and mean-faced children on trains. Yesterday I burst into tears 30 seconds into the first song on Andrew WK's new album, a boisterous and joyful collection of of Japanese pop songs. I didn't mean to, nor expect to, but I did, and I am glad. Soon I will be old, and then I will be dead, and even though there is still so much I long to accomplish, to see, to feel... even if every day from now until then is an orgy of horror and misfortune, even if I am battered to death tomorrow morning with a tire iron on my way to buy gas, I will feel like the luckiest boy that ever drew breath. All my boyhood dreams came true. I made music that was worth a damn to someone, I travelled to distant lands, I met amazing people, I fell in love, and was loved in return.

I was blessed.

Lucky me! Lucky mud!


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.