National Pride

The Olympics seems to be finishing up, at least until the Paras kick off in a few weeks. I can tell because the stadium is particularly noisy tonight, and lots of humans are swarming out of the train station, presumably off to Victoria Park to watch the closing ceremony on giant screens. One of the helicopters is back, circling noisily above,  but it's nothing like that first night on July 27th, or the 5 nights previous, when Hackney Wick felt like a Vietnam movie.

People ask me often what it's like living next to The Olympic stadium, expecting tales of madness and frivolity and brushes with celebrities and things of that nature, but there hasn't been much to report, apart from those Yankee chaplins I met the other week. The organisers have done a very good job of making it so that everybody enters the stadium via the massive Westfield, their great big fuck off Church Of Consumption, and goes nowhere near we locals. Most of them won't even see old Stratford, the traffic is routed so firmly. I sold some Fuck The Olympics shirts to a local shopkeeper last week, who told me about the hundreds of thousands of shoppers she was told by local authorities to expect, and how when it came down to it there was actually less footfall than usual, as people had been scared into staying home and not going anywhere near this part of London for fear of being stampeded or killed by snipers.

From those that read newspapers and watch television, I hear rumours of a shift in the national mood, but I haven't personally noticed any change in the attitudes of the humans I speak to. People seem much the same. Maybe its because I take the time to talk to people while I'm on the train or in the Post Office queue or wherever, regardless of what's going on in the area of Sporting Events Occult Mega Rituals, but I find that folks are usually pretty nice, friendly, and a lot more cheerful than you'd expect people living in a police state to be.

Perhaps the biggest difference round these parts has been Stratford Station itself, which has had its interior wallpapered with McDonalds murals and logos, and the outside covered in a gigantic bank advert. A one way system has been set up inside, and a number of stairways closed down, making traversing the place something of a Krypton Challenge, and there are fat bald men in fluorescent orange flack jackets at the mouth of the platform erecting similarly hued plastic gates to stop people running for trains as they're about to depart and barking unintelligible gibberish through bullhorns. Outside the front of station, the area I have inaffectionatly called The Hellmouth since that obscenity of a Westfield opened up last september, representatives of seemingly every religion on earth scream and holler and hustle, waving ominous placards and making rude and outlandish proclamations. "YOU'LL REMBER MY FACE WHEN YOU GET TO HELL!" raged one lost soul at a hundred or so of us funneled into some plastic fences as we tried to cross a road.

Amidst them soldiers mill about, as do "tit-headed" (as an old lady on the train laughed this afternoon) British polices armed with disproportionately huge and ridiculous weaponry, while poorly disguised undercover American agency types with massive forearms and Matrix sunglasses  stride backwards and forwards, repeatedly shoulder barging the "Team Muslim" representatives and snarling at the flower vendors. It isn't a very pleasant scene, if I am being honest. I suppose that makes me a negative nancy.

Being shouted at, being intimidated, being made to feel an unwelcome inconvenience in my own home. Having that home vandalised by poisoners and thieves and swine. These are the things I will remember about the XXX Olympiad. But then, I didn't watch any TV or read any newspapers. So if there has been a national mood change, then the propagandists and social engineers must be doing their jobs well.

Anyway. I just looked out my window to see what's making this new bull-horn-sounding racket, only to see a fresh wave of humans streaming out of the station, amongst them some bright orange ladies in union jack dresses. Apparently a reformed Spice Girls are playing this closing ceremony. They must be very happy to be living under Tory occupation once more, for all the difference it makes. I think I'm getting that "deja vu" thingy. Last time I remember seing so many union jacks around the place was just before we invaded Iraq. Energy flows where attention goes," as someone said on that amazing mixtape I dropped last Thursday. I wonder what our custodians plan to do with all this "national pride".

NEW SONG: Akira The Don - Lemmings

As promised, it is my pleasure to present to you a brand new song...


It's from my next mixtape, ATD28: Unkillable Thunder Christ, which comes out on May 7th. You can preorder it here right now! Glory!

Lemmings was produced by me, Akira The Don and mastered by Gaz Williams, who is out in Paris working 14 hour days on an opera but still comes through for me like a G.

Respect and thanks to the mighty Tim Wright and DMA Design, who brightened our universe with their beautiful computer game and went on to become ROCKSTARS.


some idiot from the coalition got the people in a panic over petrol Like its going missing its like they hear but they dont listen Spending every penny fillin up that pot they aint got to piss in pourin petrol down their dumb selves screaming in a blaze of gory dictionary definition gassed s'why you shouldnt vote tory me I didnt vote none of them if I had I'd be part of the problem i refuse to legitimise what I see to be a completely corrupt system that's me though and I aint asking you to follow me though i just want you to think when somebody tells you to jump of a bridge


now I wont say the name but theres a newswebiste that can take the blame for trolling people up on twitter into bullying dames I seen it happen time and time and time again it goes: publish an obviously inflammatory page tweet that shit then wait for the rage so self righteus "how could she write this" ching ching ching ker ching and get paid it works every time clockwork, maths, its the perfect crime cos when the lemmins see the other lemmins ready to sign they'll be screaming out "show me the dotted line!" like that phony baloney Kony prank where 20 mili lemmings spread a piece of propaganda some plum said guns'll bring peace to uganda turns out he was a wanker



Emotionally Manipulative Video Raises $15 Million In A Week, Net Back In Don Studios

Invisible Children, the organization behind the emotionally manipulative Kony 2012 video I aired my extreme misgivings about recently bought in £15 million last week, after claiming to have sold 500,000 "propaganda action kits" at £30 a pop. What will they do with it all? “Thirty-seven percent of our budget goes directly to central African-related programs," says Jedidiah Jenkins, Invisible Children’s Director of Ideology, "about 20 percent goes to salaries and overhead, and the remaining 43 percent goes to our awareness programs. […] But aside from that, the truth about Invisible Children is that we are not an aid organization, and we don’t intend to be. I think people think we’re over there delivering shoes or food. But we are an advocacy and awareness organization.”

From the horse's mouth: The majority of the money will go on Propaganda. Although how they plan to top last week's Geobbelian feat is beyond me. A full blown Hollywood movie starring Angelina Joelie and Brad Pitt?

Much more over here, where Dr Oyston is doing a fine job of keeping abreast of much of the rottery. Also worth checking os Charlie Brooker's take, which raises the terrifying Evangelical Christian Manipulation angle I hadn't seen with my own eyes previously.

Internet is back on in Don Studios. To be honest, I was rather enjoying only having it on my phone. I liked having to go to the Hackney Pearl to work, and I liked how not having the internet forced me to use it wisely when I did have it, to plan what information and materials I would need to gather in advance, and to action those plans. (In the manner of a the leader of a group of humans.)

Not having the internet also revealed to me how horribly addicted I've become to social media. Whatever I'm doing, if there's any lag time whatsoever - say, rendering a file, or ending an email with an attachment, or loading  a web page with lots of big pictures on it - I find myself instinctively clicking over to Tweetdeck to see what's going on in my many columns of human activity, in the twitchy manner of a crack fiend. Even though I filter very careful, most of it is useless - how much can really be gleaned from multiple instances of 140 characters, over than a noisy overview? How much time, I wonder, have I really spent gazing at the live stream of visible human consciousness, these past few years? What might I have accomplished otherwise?

I know that without internet on 24 hours a day, I did an awful lot of very constructive work on my next Narrative Mixtape, and I also, seemingly perversely, read more meaty online articles. This was on my telephone, during particularly long rendering times. I don't know why I found myself more inclined to read articles I might have otherwise open tabbed then never got round to reading whilst on the computer, but so it went. I also read actual paper books, which is a lovely thing to do. You should try it, it is most soothing And invigorating. Magical, in fact.

Hopefully I will take something form this experience, like when I used to drink a  bottle of Jamesons every morning, then I quit booze for two years, and when I started drinking again it was in the true sense of what people mean when they say Moderation. Apart from the occasional accidental bender, obviously.

Incidentally, last I dreamed Lana Del Ray came round ton record a song. She was made up in full blackface, and she sat on my desk and was rude and not at all open to constructive criticism. What does it all mean? And what did YOU dream about?


Reading The Signs

Ho ho ho.

Truth be told, I have never voted Labour, or anyone else either. I refuse to legitimise this farcical circus of nincompoops. I also have had debt collectors up my ass since I was 17, so I don't like to be on the electoral roll.

This one time, I was working for some totally bogus company called Calortex ("it's Calor gas and Texaco, two brands you can trust!") convincing people to swap their gas supplier, and me and this lad I was tag-teaming round Birmingham with conned a whole street full of old ladies into doing it, and figured we deserved the afternoon off, so we went to the pub and got mashup, then this lad convinced me to get a store card from Top Man and blow the £400 card limit. Which I did. I wasn't even a Topman sort of a dude - I was rocking PVC trousers and fluorescent orange goggles in those days, but I still managed to drunkenly blow £400 in a matter of minutes. I got a great big camouflage print bubble jacket. I think I got my mean white top from there too. You know - the mean white top wot zipped to my left shoulder blade:

Yeah, I miss that mean white top. And, true talk, I felt like I'd just got paid that day. HEY! But as it was, all those old ladies we thought we'd convinced to switch from British gas to Calortex sent back their contracts with covering letters accusing us of LYING about how much money they were gonna save, just like we'd been taught to, and our wages got docked, which totally screwed up my repayment plan. I quit soon after that and moved to London, where I avoided all letters that came in buff  brown envelopes, and got an administration gig at a book PR, where I overheard intense conversations between my boss and Mohamed al Fayed about the royal family's homicidal tendencies. But that's another story.

I should make a list of these stories. In case you weren't tuned into last week's Doncast, I have deduced that a comic strip a day is too tall an order even for a superhero like me, so one a week is gonna have to do. And that worked out pretty well this week - I got to put a lot more time into my Death's Head strip than all those that preceded it, and it's been linked all over the place. Why, it showed up on Robot 6 tonight! I'll have you know that getting on Robot 6 was one of my GOALS this year! BLAOW!

I did a really good impression of an air-horn when I saw that. I might show it you on Wednesday, when The All New Weekly Doncast happens. 5pm GMT! If it's anything like last week, it'll be awesome! You better axe somebody!

I used to think that's what the young Snoop Doggy Dogg kid said in that skit on Doggystyle. "Axe somebody." Rah, I thought to myself, lil' kids is raw out in LA! In my school the worst that happened was a teacher got stabbed. And you know what? That's pretty bad. If that happened now, there'd be a load of outrage in the papers about how effed the effed up this new generation is. Well sod that brothers and sisters. My generation was some raw ass monkeys. I remember when I was in primary school Simon Waskiewicz (yeah, there was two of us in that class of 16 in that lil Welsh village with crazy Polish surnames) wiled out and threw a whole damn table at Miss Roberts. That dude was crazy, because Miss Roberts was the scariest person in the world as far as I could tell. She used to make me feel sick just looking at me. Everyone used to say she had evil powers because she never got married and she was a virgin, but none of us really knew what being a virgin entailed at that point. We thought erections were for pissing through letterboxes with.

Sheee-it. What a waste of a story. I could have turned that into a comic. Look at me, dropping gems like a butterfingered watchmaker! Shout out Curren$y for that one. I am gonna leave you with a photo of my new clock. CLOCK, I said! I got three of these. I bought them for a pound each from the Poundland in Stratford that used to be Woolies, and stuck pictures of rappers in them. They're for telling the time in different parts of the world. This one's set to New York. I got the picture from The Gangsta Rap Coloring Book. I got two copies of that thing. Martin Carr got me one for my birthday the other year, then my Dad got me one for Christmas. Thanks, dudes! See how you make my life better!