Late Avatar Win!

avatars Remember ages and ages ago I had a competition wherein I asked you to come up with working titles for my second album, and I was going to draw avatars for the winners?

Well I didn't!

Not until last night, when I was looking for an email from Wonchop, and I came across this email:

Thanks for choosing me. :3 Anyhoo, can I have one of my monkey dood, Wonchop, prefferably doin some kind of swell aerobatics and kicking some guys ass. And remember, he has hands for feet. And where's gloves on them.

I was confused for a second, then I remembered. Crap! Ages ago I promised people avatars, and I never delivered!

I felt awful, oh my brothers and sisters.

That is why I have spent today drawing the promised avatars. There's Neko on the left, who entered "The Hermit Crawls From His Cave And Shouts "TITS!" which was awesome. There's

Wonchop in the middle - no acrobatics or feet, cos its an avatar, and those things gotta be tiny - for "Akira The Don VS The World". And there's Laura on the right, the girlfriend of Mark Bell, who came up with "Thriller 2". I hope they're still together!

As far as I can remember, there are more to do, but I can't find them in my inbox, and I can't find the original post on here either. Can anyone remember what the post was called?

Thanks to Lacey, I now have the full list. And I have Bloodred and the aforementioned to draw. Pow!



Silentbob done a new podcast! This one's got TV themes in it, apparently. When I've finished listening to Tim Westwood and Soulja Boy being FUCKING HILARIOUS on 1xtra I'm a check it. Westwood's telling Soulja Boy that Leonard Cohen is making up rumours about how he's making a record with him. Soulja doesn't know who Leonard Cohen is. In the words of Westwood, Westwood is so crazy right now.

Honestly, I Am Not Ignoring You!

1712_fd52 So, last night, I realised that for the past week or so none of my text messages have sent. I had 87 text messages in the outbox. So if youlve texted me, and I havent replied, that is why. I thought I did.

No wonder my girl was feeling unappreciated! Damn!

So, phone is a bit crap for communicated right now. Go with the email. The email is good.

By the way, I jacked that picture from this great website.

That is all for right now, I am ill. Keep it locked though, you're getting a mixtape and a video this week.

Love to you all!

London, Mi-lan, Paris, New Yich, or How I Managed To Judge The Gonzales VS Andrew Wk Piano Battle

plane2 So, yeah. Like I said. I AM BACK.

Which is more of an achievement than one might imagine. That I got to New York at all is pretty amazing. You already knew I'd been through a week of foul adversity before I left. Who knew there was more to come? Who knew that getting Akira The Don out to New York to judge an Awesome Piano Battle between Chilly Gonzales and Andrew W.K. was going to be such a fucking epic struggle?

Perhaps I should have. That Ignorant Old Testament Skygod was testing me, brothers and sisters, that was clear from the start. And so it was to continue. If there was a thing to go wrong on that outward journey, then it would. While my acting debut was a success of Olympian proportions, what was to follow was like something from John Cleese's Clockwork.

First off my flight from London to Milan was delayed. Not too much, but enough to get me antsy. Enough to tighten the stomach and shorted the fingernails. I knew Milan was trouble when we arrived and I tripped over my shoelace and hit myself in the back of the head with my brown leather sports bag. And when security wouldn't let me through the gate and told me to go upstairs to check in, a cold sweat crept across my forehead and prickled my palms. I tore through that rotten place - yellowed, musty, and foul of carpet, like an airport from The Seventies - but when I got to check in, it was empty, and nobody knew any English, or at least pretended they didn't. I dashed around the airport in what could only be described truthfully as "a tizzy", eventually finding the ticket office for the company behind my precious flight to New York.

The woman behind the counter, who looked like she had just stepped out of a seventies holiday camp, and eyed me with a languid, suspicious derision, took twenty five (25) minutes to come to the conclusion that I would not be allowed onto my flight (which departed for New York City but fifteen minutes after that swineheaded decision) as the security "should" have let me through downstairs, and I "should" never have set foot in the main terminal.

"But... but... but it's not my FAULT!" I wailed, deep from the glacial insides of my tragic World Of Anguish. Seventies Lady didn't care. I wasn't getting on that flight. And her shoddy-ass airline wasn't flying again until tomorrow.

"But... but... but I need to be in New York city by 11! Tomorrow Andrew W.K. and Chilly Gonzales won't be battling anymore!" I cried, nay, warbled, desperately. "It'll be too late! This isn't fair! It's your airport's fault! You must sort this out!"

She eyed me coldly, like that dinosaur in Jurassic Park eyeballed the fat guy from Sinefeld before it grew giant bat ears and sprayed him with black acid. Then she sighed, and explained: No they would Not be putting me on a rival's airplane, under any circumstances. Anyway, she said, there were only two other airlines flying to NY from Milan that afternoon, and the "cheapest" was going to cost £780.


A great white rage filled my brain. Then I headbutted her desk.

Seventies lady shrugged her shoulders, and wandered off out back.

Another fucking ticket. ANOTHER FUCKING PLANE TICKET! That would be the fifth one now. 5th. 5. Five. FIVE FUCKING PLANE TICKETS and I couldn't afford my fucking RENT oh dear shitting Christ what the FUCK! WHY ME, what did I EVER DO, apart from that one thing but that could have happened to ANYONE right? Well OK there was that other thing but I was ONLY SIXTEEN GIVE ME A BREAK I wasn't THINKING STRAIGHT was I oh WAH WAH WAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

I paced around in a frenzy for some time, before deciding to do what any other mildly-sane late twenties male would do in such a situation - I  called my girlfriend, and said, "WAH! WAH! Wah-wah WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

Then my money ran out.

Then I begged an Italian lady who could hardly understand me to change my fiver into some euro coins, and she laughed at me. I didn't realise how totally worthless the pound had become of late. So, I ran, with all the grace of a crippled pelican, to...

Oh, bugger it. That's enough. To cut a long ass story a bit shorter my Mother ended up lending me the money to get another flight to NY. It was actually closer to £500 than £800 in the end, but still. I banished all thoughts of rent and bills and insolvency and exhaled a sigh of relief so huge and pointed it might have taken someone's eye out, had they been in the way.

So, me and the great big lump on my head flew to New York, via Paris, whose airport looked like something out of a glamorous near future, and didn't have a single fast food joint in it - just an uber-posh restaurant section, which I resented as I could not afford to eat in it. They also had a relatively luxurious-looking smoking bar, which I also resented, as I No Longer Smoke. Oh, and the swine stoke my deodorant! Foolishness on their part, given the stress levels I was under. I'd already changed my top twice.I was wringing wet when I left Milan, and a sodden dishrag by the time I got out of Paris.

Still. I got to JFK airport at 9:30, and got to the front of the que of America's scary-as-ever security pretty quickly. Last time I came, the latest addition to their arsenal was an eyeball scanner. They now have a bleeping, flashing green digital fingerprint machine that scared the utter crap out of me, for reasons some of you may understand, and the rest of you will have to guess at. But the bleeping stayed civil, and they let me through. Only for me to go and outdo my self by getting into what the New Yorkers call a "gypsy cab", which took over an an hour and a half to make the half an hour journey to Joe's Pub in Manhattan. It was gone eleven when we arrived, and when the incompetent, George Michael-bearded, Keanou-In-The-Matrix-Sunglasses-wearing, stop-and-take-a-piss-up-a-firehydrant-when-he-knew-damn-well-I-was-in-a-rush, piss-taking asshole fake-cabbie said, with a straight face, "that'll be $97 plus tip," it was all I could do to stop myself from tearing his smug face off with my bare hands and strangling him with it. As it was, I threw $40 at him and said, "$97?! Don't you dare take the piss out of me my brother! I have been here before! I am not a fucking mug! This is all you're getting and more than you deserve!" Then I slammed the door and legged it into the venue, heart beating out of my fucking sweat-sodden T shirt.

Ba-dum. Ba-dum.

A jovial bouncer greeted me.

"The Gonzales show? Sorry man, you missed it."

I gawped at him.

"A ha ha ha! Only joking man! Come on through!"

Seven and a half minutes later I was sat in a nice, yellow-lit backstage room with Gonzales and Andrew W.K., drinking a cold Guiness out of a flute-glass, smoking a cigarette (which I don't do anymore) and discussing score-taking etiquette.Everything was OK now. We were going to have fun.

That's all for now kids! Check back tomorrow to find out what happened next!

Remote Control Venetian Blinds


Day 5 of being a man wot does not smoke - it is a good day.

I bought a magazine today, and read it on a bench. I wandered the earth (well, Stratford) like Cain, and made a hard life changing decision.

I made it, and now I stand alone. Well, as alone as person with lots of ace friends can be.

It says much about me that, in order to find peace of mind and clarity, I chose to wander around a filthy East End shopping centre for hours on end. I spent 45 minutes of that just in WH Smiths, pacing up and down the paper isle.

When I was a little boy I lived in the wilderness, and I dreamed of cities.

But you knew that, right?

What you DON'T know, perhaps is that Batman & Robin # 2 came out, and that I read it, and it is ACE.

There's a panel from it up top.

Know what else? Final Crisis, probably the best comic book of last year, Grant Morrison's love song to the multiverse, well, that's being serialised over here in the UK in those big-ass Panini comics collections you can get in Smiths. It looks so much better in real life than it did on my laptop screen.

Also, I bet you didn't know that Robbie Williams heard my second album, The Life Equation last night, and loved it.



Happy Birthday To The Zombiehamster!

Happy Birthday! EYYYY!

Our buddy Colin, AKA The Zombiehamster gone done got another year older today. DAMN!

So, for you, our buddy Colin, AKA The Zombiehamster, here's a picture of your creation Godzilla Boy bursting out of a cake.


Happy birthday to everybody else too. You're special.

So, anyone else that was in Hackney Wick yesterday will back me up on this, crazy as it sounds, but yesterday, right, I thought the frickin' work was ending, serious as funk, because, right, one minute it was all lush and sunny, and me and my boo were preparing a picnic to take to the park, then suddenly



That happened (yeah, I took that photo with my G1, daps!), the sky opened up, and a torrential downpour of fucking HUGE BLOCKS OF ICE came pouring down, and didn't stop for half an hour.

Seriously, it was nuts. Them shits were like rocks. Honest to God. Bouncing off the floor like ping pong balls they were. I have never seen anything like it.

Some other shit happened, but I can't remember now, that was just too much. What next, frogs?

All Eyes On Box

sf4art Aight gang - through the red mist I have hooked up what can only be described as a MASSIVE POP SONG... and you Omega Sanction preodrderers will be getting that in your inboxes in the next five minutes got that in your inbox.

All hands on deck.

And I'll write more later.

I am off for a wee lie down, my Polish heed is too massive and heavy for my weak neck to hold up this long...




Gonna let that one percolate before I unleash it fully. In the meanwhile, me and my shit neck that's making me look like Lady Di are working HARD on this Sanction. I'm chucking lots of stuff up on the Blobblog to keep you entertained though, nice sort that I am.

So, a couple of nice things happened yesterday. Capcom sent me some original concept/development art from Street Fighter 4 as a thank you for that Streetfighter tune that they loved so much. And a red Street Fighter 2 Turbo battle vinyl.

Street Fighter 2 turbo Battle Vinyl!

Lucky mud!


I got my data back.

Most of it, anyway.

Which is good news for a whole bunch of people.

I also got an email from a theatre director about turning my wah-ey blog post into some kind of performance. What a magical fox that was!

Speaking of which, I think there may be something for me to take from the following, left in yesterday's comments:

I have a theory… perhaps the fox was magical and PERHAPS you were meant to follow it but maybe you were being taught a lesson rather than him showing up in your world simply to show you the way home. He led you to a 10ft fence in order that you learn the lesson of turning back if you realise that you’ve gone down a road that you don’t want to, or shouldn’t be on. This theory is supported by the fact that you ended up in pretty much the same place i.e. you did not learn the lesson and you were not rewarded for not doing so, in fact, you were punished. I wonder if you’ve learnt the lesson for next time

I suppose I have. I am not a little boy no longer. Those days really are gone. Curse my linear perception of time! Still. I am sure adulthood holds many wonders.

Thanks for sharing all your stories, as well. Kept a pained bed-ridden old man entertained, so you did.


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.