I have been devoid of wife for a week now. It's no big deal. I'm doing perfectly well, thank you. I have no idea why people keep sending me messages like, "have you eaten a meal?" and "set yourself on fire yet lol". The cheek! I'd already left home by the morning of my 16th birthday and I survived perfectly well on my own for a whole decade (despite all that pesky near-prison and near-death), before a chance encounter with a sexy lady on some stairs at a Super Furry Animals concert lead to my current state of marital bliss.

I mean, I was coming down with something, then I did make myself sick with booze, then I did only eat Pringles and Haribo and cashew nuts for 24 hours, then I did stay up for 21 hours watching dystopian movies and weird shit on youtube researching ATD27, then I did smoke fucking shitloads of ganja and it didn't cure my already violent illness and I did retreat to my bed for 24 hours only emerging to vomit etc., and I did somehow break the washing machine and flood the kitchen and the shop downstairs...

But I am great now thanks and full of health and vitality and speak and my coat is shiny and I'm juicing and everything. I had flipping beetroot and carrot and apples and celery and broccoli and cabbage in a goddamn pint glass yesterday and I am about to do it again, in the exact manner of the head of a company. And you know what else I did? Sorry, what else I achieved? I killed Alduin. Level 13. Yeah, you heard me. Fucking AK Dovahkiin merked the boss of all boss dragons on level 13.




I also negotiated rent increase with my landlord  - he said he wanted £15o a month more, I said that seemed like quite a lot, he said that would still mean our place was considerably cheaper than the going rate for this area, I googled a bit, and was forced to agree with him. I also got a plumber-slash-handiman round. The plumber, a hairy, squat eastern european gentleman with an omnipresent smirk and flickering eyes like those of a hungry newt, took one look at the washing machine and declared it dead for ever. "No good, get new one," he said. "Are you sure?" I demanded, "you haven't even touched it!" "I know," he smirked, newtishly, "I know it is gone."

That sort of stumped me rather (alongside filling me with existential dread) and then he shrugged away the lack of hot water in the shower, a very recent development and one not mirrored in any of the other rooms, by running the warm but in no goddamn way hot water on his hand and smiling, "it is OK, yes, it is OK".

"It isn't OK though," I protested. "It's not hot. A shower is supposed to be hot. It was hot last week. It's hot in the kitchen, I nearly burn my bloody hands off every time I try and wash up. Why isn't it hot?"

"Boiler," he smiled, shruggishly. "No good. Get a new one. It is gone."

He couldn't fix the hole in the wall by the door that happened when some gypsy fellows knocked next door down with a massive pice of metal on a chain swinging off a crane either. In fact he claimed an inability to do anything whatsoever, apart from smell weed. "You smoking eh?" he grinned, shit-eatishly. "How much you pay? I get you good shit. Many smokes. Fifteen pounds."

Presently I was alone, and aware that I had somehow been sold drugs by the plumber-slash-handiman yet had nothing plumbed nor handied. I kicked the washing machine in frustration, BANG, a nice proper painful kick that hurt my foot and made me go, "MOTHERFUCKER!"


The machine sputtered back into life, and hasn't stopped since, as I had about three weeks worth of washing to do and I was terrified it would stop working again.

So there you go. I learned a thing! Violence is sometimes HEALING and MOTHERFUCKER is a magic word. Amen.

See? I am fine! Stop worrying! No more messages like, "have you tried to bleach your hair with toilet bleach again lol" or "want me to bring you round some food fam"! I AM A MIGHTY SLAYER OF DRAGONS AND A FIXER OF WASHING MACHINES USING ONLY VIOLENCE AND MAGIC WORDS!

I also made a roast dinner on Sunday and I've still got potatoes left goddamnit.

I also have Saint's Row 3. Tonight, I am going through my files, sorting out potential LP3 songs. It is very exciting. I have XXX songs for LP3. I know what it's called. It know what it's about. I always have.

When I have completed my tasks, I shall play some celebratory Saint's Row 3. If you;re on Xbox, my handle is AK Donovan, let's go shoot up a petrol station or something.


Thank you Jennifer Starr, Holly Sellors, Kody Tryton and Daniel McKnight for answering my Facebook call and making all the great ATD washing machine artwork. You all have very majestic names.

This post, and this song goes out to Bill Jones from Bristol, who's surfing the cosmos with Bill Hicks and Anna Nicole Smith.

Godspeed brother.


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.