Da Funk Pt. 149

What a difference a week makes, blah bah blah. This time last week Nick Clegg was a stupid sounding name and nothing more. Now I know he was Louis Theroux's fag at public school, whatever that entails. I am sure it isn't as gross as it sounds. My girlfriend tells me I have until the end of today to register to vote else I won't be allowed. I have never voted in my life, FYI. The first year I was eligible, Tony Blair's Neo Labour won. I didn't feel my vote was necessary. Soon after that I decided that mainstream politics was a farce that I would never legitimise.

If I am being honest, my main concern has always been that if I put myself on the electoral roll I will be inundated by debt collectors, which says a lot more about me than it does mainstream politics. But every time I hear one of those shucksters' lying voices oozing out of the speakers I know in my heart I am right... The only thing worth saying about Labour is that they are not the Tories... but a tiny part of me is still considering legitimising this foul sham with my very first X for one reason - Clegg's lot are promising to get rid of the Digital Economy Bill.

Either way, that troublesome volcano should be serving as a handy metaphor right about now, but most of us miss the point, as ever. I, like Clegg, have family marooned in Spain. Naturally, my reaction was along the lines of, well, there are worse places to be stuck... and now I hear Our Government are sending their beastly battleships to pick up my Mum and my Uncle and my Auntie and everybody else. I am reminded, as I so often am, of Jeff Wayne's War Of The Worlds. "Come on Thunderchild!", crooned David Essex, around which time one of those giant three legged alien pod things appeared over the horizon and set good ole Thunderchild on fire with its awesome Heat Ray. Glub glub glub. Not that I am fearing a Martian sequel to the Icelandic volcano or anything. I'm just saying.

Can you tell I am in A Funk? It has been creeping around my periphery for a little while now, and today it has me firmly in its grasp. I felt devastated earlier, as sleep defiantly fled my tired old body, leaving me gasping and shuddering like some shipwrecked castaway who expected a desert island and instead found himself spread eagled on a slicked-black shore of foaming scum and screaming gulls, their necks trapped in plastic six pack rings.

Right now, in my swivel chair, I feel resigned to my situation. What else can I do? I know that I have many many many reasons to be entirely joyful. I am not starving. Both my legs work, most my senses... I will find a way.

Hey! Here's a bit of a beat I was working on last night. I like it, anyway.


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.


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.


After a nice little rest, I am back in London with a pink pack of eyeballs on my case. That shit looked nice on IE, but fucked up Mozilla. I don't know what it was doing to Macs. So he will live to the right. Read a bunch of Hilaire Belloc's The History Of England Vol XI, From The First Invasion By The Romans To The Ascension Of King George The Fifth on the train. I now realise that we are living in an oligarchy. Well, a strange, new fangled sort of oligarchy masked as a democracy. With a bit of a monarchy. But it is an oligarchy, nonetheless.

This book was published in 1915, and, interestingly, predicted that Russia would do what America has. The author is also in favour of true aristocracy, and I can see his point.