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.

Why I Didn't Eat Jimmy Iovine's Ice Cream

That up there? That's me, at the second Crack Village gig at Cargo back in 2001. It is the subject of a CAPTION CONTEST on my Facebook page, but feel free to leave nentreis here if you can't be arsed with that thing. It's sure been pissing em off lately. I log in to admion my page, and I am presented with a liost fo all the crappy articles my friends have been reading, like some amped up Daily Mail sidebar it is shameful.

Still, Facebook remains a good place for connecting with fellow humans, and fielding enquiries. Looky Khan asks via my wall:

I want to ask u a question. 'way back home' you said "I said yes to the deal, and no to the ice cream" the ice cream is a metaphor, this I know, but what? Was Jimmy lovine asking you to sell your soul to the devil??

Well, I suppose he was, but the ice cream was entirely literal. After sitting on a vast leather sofa in the room next to his office - which looked like the room Mr I Was Very Very Drunk from The Fast Show sits in - admiring his collection of framed letters from Tupac ("thank you dear Jimmy") and signed guitars and things, I was summon-ed. We went out on his balcony, overlooking LA, and, after blowing some smoke up my ass ("you've changed music forever! I knew the next seismic shift in rap would come from the UK! I want to put you in the studio with Dr Dre and Snoop Dogg!") he asked me if I wanted any ice cream. He said he had the finest ice cream know to man. I was like, "nah, I'm alright". It was obviously a massive foux par, as everybody got all weird and nervous. "You could have blown that!" squealed the guy helping broker the deal later, who we'd affectionately christened Ratboy. "You don't turn down ice cream from Jimmy Iovine!"

In retrospect I have no idea why I turned it down, other than I just wasn't particularly hungry, and whilst I am a lot of things, I am no glutton for sweets. I like Ice Cream - who, save the intolerant of lactose, does not? He also offered me run of the stock cupboard and I accepted that gladly. I left the Interscope offices laden with CDs - Guns 'n' Roses, Dr Dre Instrumentals, Gilbert & Sullivan's The Pirates of Penzance cast recordings... But that ice cream will forever remain a mystery.

So, I spent an intense weekend recording Christmas music for my Xmas LP (with occasional JD and Coke fuelled diversions into San Andreas), which I am now mixing. My Logic skills are coming on in leaps and moon vaults, and I have been amassing some useful information, a little of whihc I thought I should share today, in case any of you ever have the same problem. See, Logic, unlike Acid, has no autosave, and late on Sunday I was sat in the candle light, cheeks wet with tears, having just spent half an hour recording a particularly emotional number, when disaster struck - an obnoxious little window popped up on screen decalring, rudely, "COULDN"R CREAT REGION ERROR"! A stab of sickness penetrated my belly, unleashing swarm of butterflies, and panic flooded my loungs as I desperately clicked around the screen trying to reactive the page, all to no avail. "Ping!" went the error noise "Piiiing!" This ensued for a long time, and I started to fear that I would have to force-quit Logic (the deadlier Mac equivalent of Control Alt & Delete), thus losing all that work.

I was saved, however, by some internet detective work on the Logic forums.

The fix: Simply go to "Window", then click "Cycle through windows". Once you do that, you can go to File and the save options are going to be enabled. Then, once saved, you'll need to force quit to be able to get Logic working again. When opened you should have the project you saved available wherever you decided to save it as.

Hallelujah! Praise Xenu! Praise R kelly! Praise the helpful humans of the Logic forums! It worked! And my work was saved!

And soon, you will hear it. Alongside a whole flipping Christmas album, we're having Advent on, and it's going to be a beautiful, bountiful affair. It all starts on December 1st, with the Nothing Lasts Forever video. it is my best video ever, and I can't ewait for you to see it.

Meanwhile, the ATD XMAS SHOP is officially OPEN FOR BUSINESS ! Amongst many wonderful things, you can buy your very own custom Don Doodle for just £5!

Joy to the world!

Going Back To V

Hi. I'm Akira The Don. 10 years ago I went to the V festval, and swore never to return. Now, a decade down the line, I am on a train, on my way to that very same V festival, where I have been hired to perform as Master Of Vibes backstage at the Virgin Media Tent. I am sat on a Virgin train, but I'm not using Virgin Wi-Fi as it costs an extortionate £4 an hour, and is slower than my dongle as it is shared by three first class carriages full of executives. My dongle is doing pretty good actually.

Anyway. As I said, it's been a decade since I swore never to return to the V festival. but things are different now.

Last time I went to the V festival I was a 21 year old web-superstar music journalist with a photographer in tow, both of us well paid and well prepared, pharmaceutically, at least. I was there to review the bands and Edd was there to take photos. With us was my good friend Jeres, also on reviewing duty. We couldn't have been there fifteen minutes before we blagged ourselves some VIP passes and into one of the many free booze tents to be found at what was then a festival on the cutting edge of commerciality. The V Festival created the template for all modern festivals. Every aspect of it was sponsored. Adverts covered every free space. The backstage was a multi-tired labyrinth of free booze opportunities. And we took as many as we could.

By the second day I'd found myself a plum spot in one of the many VIP areas on site. This one was holding a celebrity five a side football match, and had waitresses wandering around with trays of rum and energy drinks. I reclined on a deck chair, from which I could see the stage I was supposed to be reviewing, and smoked spliffs and drank rum until the Stereophonics came on, at which point I got up and had a wonder around my enclosure. The five aside match was being hosted by glamour-model-turned reality TV and trash magazine mainstay Jordan, now known as Katie Price, who clasped me tightly to her bossom as a crowd cheered for telling her I could introduce her to Travis frontman Frank Healy. It wasn't a complete lie. I had interviewed him a few months back, and he liked me so much he gave me a carton of 200 cigarettes.

Edd, meanwhile, had gotten access to the Bicardi Breezer tent, which was full of fridges packed with bottles of alcopops and spirits. Jeres and I helped him to get a lot of them over a wall, and we wandered around the site selling them for £2 each and used the money to buy drugs.

Ah, those were the days. Well, they were days, anyway. Interesting, strange, wild days, the likes of which might never be seen again, but I am not too sad about it. I swore never to return to the V festival as I objected heartily to its all encompassing commercialization, and now 10 years later it seems the whole world is that way, and  am returning to Master The Vibes in the Virgin Media VIP tent, which is not a tent at all, but a purpose built house complete with kitchen, bedroom and garden, to go with Virgin Media's Our House motif, bought from a band I used to love when I was nine years old called Madness.

Who would have thought it, all those years ago? And what will the world look like in a another decade, and another still? I cannot begin to predict. Life moves pretty fast, as another of my boyhood heroes noted. If you don't take a job as Master Of Vibes at a British music festival when you're offered one, you could miss it.

If you're at the V festival in Stafford this weekend, do come and find me. I will be having a whale of a time, talking over the no doubt excellent music provided by the resident Clash DJs and special guests including Frankmusic and Ellie Goulding. There are going to be a load of big foam hands for me to hand out (hahaha. "hand out"), and othersuch fun fripperies. I wonder if I can get hold of a klaxon. Either way, you should definitely come and hang out. It will be fun. Many people predicted The Death of Fun by this point, but they were wrong. Humans will always find ways to have Fun, no mater how the world is organised. It is one of our purest purposes.

The Kidnapping Prints Out Now!

That's right ladies and Gs, up there you can see a little snippet of the intensely professional process that went into creating the excellent artwork for The Kidnapping Of Akira The Don By Joey2tits. Birmingham native and Class-A G Andrew Bainbridge helmed the shoot, assisted by the lovely James Harrison, with set dressing and prop design by Set Dressing Tim. For my sins, I spent an hour or so tied to a chair, and another couple of hours lying on the floor, and in the boot of our huge shiny Saab. (Joey actually managed to lock me in that boot with the keys still in my hand "by accident" during the recording of the skits. It took me 15 minutes to work out an ingenious, Houdini-esque escape, while Joey laughed like a Hyena trapped down a drain for the duration, and let me tell you right now, 15 minutes is a long-ass time when you're locked in a cot-damned boot)

As you can see, it was all worth it, as the results the results were amazing. And now, you can hang those results on your wall, by buying a beautiful, glossy, high quality, limited edition PRINT of one of those magnicicent artworks.This one, to be specific:

Yeah, that's the hotness. Look at that detail! In case you couldn't work it out, Andrew paints on top of the photos once they're done, and I'll let him explain why:

When people see a photograph they think they see a witness: they know I was there, and believe that the image captures something real. But then I overlay another, unnatural layer onto the image trying to pull that certainty apart and reveal some of the more mysterious elements of the human condition.

Exactly. Each print is just £10 and comes with a free digital download of the acclaimed masterwork The Kidnapping Of Akira The Don By Joey2tits. In addition, each print will be signed personally by myself and Joey. Here's some lovely photos taken with my telephone of us signing some of the peorders:


In KIDNAPPING T-SHIRT news, my supplier tells me they will be in "Thursday, Friday at the latest". I have a industrial post-nag full of jiffys and 5 rolls of sellotape at the ready for a day of hardcore DON FACTORY ACTION!

OK then! It's a beautiful, snow sodden day here in London, and I have an appointment with THE DENTIST in just under an hour, to sort my front tooth out, the one that's discoloured because it's DEAD, And has been ever since a day much like today, way back in 1994, when I was just thirteen years old. The netball courts in the school had frozen over with ice, and were all skidding around at high speeds like, well, children and I skipped and fell - SMACK! - on my face, and smashed half my front tooth off. They pulled it down with a brace and leveled it off, but it died that day, and never came back to life.


The Secret Of The Mighty Calves

jimbob Well if you didn't notice, I have a brand new shop, which took me quite a while to build, during my week of being ill, but rah, it's pretty cool, and it's got CDs and MP3s and T-Shirts with accurate size information and Don Shoes and canvas prints AND original artwork from years and years back in it, so it's pretty much a high end boutique or something by this point. You can buy multiple things at once! The MP3s get sent out STRAIGHT AWAY! Truly it is a thing of futuristic wonder.

So, yeah. Go and have a poke around. You might find some entertainment in my product descriptions, if it's entertainment you require.

So, yeah, that up there is a picture of Jimbob from out of Carter USM rocking his I Am Not Dead (Yeah!) T-Shirt onstage with Chris T-T at the Carter aftershow on Saturday. I was meant to be there, but I was ill. Lame! Still, it's pritty, pritty awesome to have a guy who used to adorn the cover of my Welsh textbook rocking one of my lovely garms at his reunion show. He bought it from my shop too! I didn't even notice, so I must have signed his poster "James", or something. Which reminds me - do feel free to add notes with your orders to remind me of who you are if I know you. Actually, feel free to add notes if I don't know you. Brightens up my post days.

So, I am approaching the realms of the Better, which is exciting, and lucky, as I am off to see my little common-law niece this weekend, and I'd hate to be anything other than a robust, energetic, action packed Uncle Adam for her. I might have to do some exercise in preparation. Last time I saw her she had me chasing a balloon around a living room for 5 hours or something. I may not be an old man yet, but I am certainly not a teenager anymore, although saying that I wasn't the most active of teenagers, as the stinky-jockstrap school-sports culture created a vast and frightening aversion to Physical Activity in me, sending me off round the back of the mobile teaching units with the other scrotes to smoke cigarettes and plot mischief. However, I did live over half an hour from the nearest bus-stop, and 40 minutes from the phonebox, so I did a great deal of walking along a windswept coastline singing Radiohead's Creep to myself  on my way to phone my girlfriend. I could't phone her from the landline - my Dad would pick up the phone downstairs and make smoochy noises, and my little brothers would hang around outside the door giggling. Hence my mighty calves. You could smash skulls with my calves.

OK, I am off to post Don Shoes to four corners of the Earth. Literally. With any luck I'll finish the Dead remix video afterwards. Either way, there's gonna be some swell audio visual for your asses tomorrow, so keep it locked.



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.