The Opposite Of Shoplifting

The fucking weirdest thing happened to me yesterday. I was in Stratford, ostensibly to deliver parcels of swag to my friends, and was taking my traditional naughty detour into Smiths to look at comics and music and art magazines. I picked up the new issue of Computer Music, one of my few guilty pleasures, then started thinking about bananas and pineapples and what sort of juice I could make, and before I knew it I was at the fruit and veg stall outside about to buy fruit, magazine still in hand. I had totally walked out without paying by complete accident.

My brain fizzed slightly, and, calmly, I walked back into WH Smiths and paid for the magazine. Somewhere in the time stream, fourteen year old me was apoplectic with rage and confusion.

As you might know, I was a notorious shoplifter in my youth. And one of my favourite things to do, from when I was 10 or so, was to wander into a branch of WH Smiths, peruse the magazines, then walk out with one. It was a foolproof strategy because, if a security guard ever collared me, I would just say, "oh, wow! I forgot I was holding that!" This became even more plausible once they invented mobile phones, as one could start talking to an imaginary person on one's phone and stride out of the shop, magazine in hand, with a great purpose, then blame the distraction for your negligence to pay if collared.

Of course, no one ever did collar me for stealing magazines from Smiths, as my scheme was so airtight my confidence worked as some kind of Jedi Mind trick on all of Smiths' security guards, from around 1991, when I started shoplifting, to 2010, when I last stole a magazine from Smiths (that last time was the first for a good decade, and no more than a queer experiment, an attempt of reclaiming an almost forgotten feeling. I'm actually not entirely sure). However I got caught in Woolies multiple times, in multiple branches - Bangor, Birmingham... along with a Superdrug, a Safeways, and some other places I forget now. This seems like a lot, but I was literally shoplifting on a daily basis for most of the nineties. And outside of Smiths, I had no plan other than to slit a big hole in my trench coat and pile in the goods, and I was never fully convinced I wasn't being observed, hence no Jedi Mind Trick. Without the Jedi Mind Trick a man falls victim to the odds.

That image up top, by the way, is from a comic I was illustrating that my little brother Ali wrote. I hope to finish it one day.



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.


Exciting American Opportunities

Today I worked on my swaggy new video, then I left the house in the freezing cold on my bicycle (finally, cold has arrived in the English winter!) I visited a Post Office, wherein I sent massive parcels to the four corners of the Earth - Sweden, America, Germany and Wales - then I went to the gym, ON MY OWN, and the spa, ON MY OWN. Usually I go with Jeres, and we talk about manly matters, but he has quit, as it is pretty expensive, and he's already in another gym that has one of those tectonic plate thingamajigs in it.

I enjoined my lone spa. The place was pretty much deserted for some reason, and I did some pretty good thinking as I flitted between the minty super hot steam room and the ice cold plunge pool and the sauna, stopping every now and again to yank a big metal chain and upend a barrel full of ice water on my head. The sauna made me think of Shandaken, where I lived for a short while. Long time readers of this site might remember that strange episode. While we waited for my Interscope deal to sort itself out, myself and my friends rented a great big fuck off house up the side of a mountain in Upstate New York. It had a jacuzzi and a sauna in it, amongst loads of other weird things - like a porno with pictures of my old Camden flatmate in it, and weird and distressing diary notes purportedly written by a 14 year old alluding to deviant and illegal sexual activities that took place on the premises... they told me Bob Dylan lived there once, and the place was surrounded on all sides by angry and cacophonous racoons and other strange animals. Bears used to run off with our rubbish bags, tear them open and strew the contents around the mountainside. I mentioned it on one of my favorite songs that I did last year:

My American adventure feels like a long time ago now, and I have been missing that country of late. I was pondering this at the weekend, then suddenly a pair of Exciting American Opportunities presented themselves to me - entirely separate , yet rooted in the same city... a city I once got kicked out of a nightclub in at 7am by a stoney faced, Batman-jawed Lesbrarian, who told me to get my cigarette stinking Limey face out of her face before she set the seven foot hunk of bricks to her right on my pisstaking ass.

Two clues:


Tomorrow I will reveal the artwork for my next single, and details on how you can pr-order some rare Akira The Don art. I might also post a picture of me in a rabbit mask wielding a firearm. Peace be upon you, friend.

I Believe The Children Are Our Future. Lead Them Well And let Them Show The Way. Swag.

It's FRIDAY! And like I always do about this time, I'm thinking that I desperately need to write a super-catchy and amazing pop song called FRIDAY in order to replace poor doomed Rebecca Black's version... if only in my own poor brain, which by this point is as tired of hearing the Ark Music contempi-classic to the point of near madness.

Rebecca Black gives kids a bad name anyway, with her lack of basic road safety and obsession with "haters" and red carpets and being famous. As if they didn't have bad enough PR already. People who watch television and read newspapers seem to think that all children are vicious feral animals that'll shoot you as soon as look as you. Completely normal childish behaviour is reinterpreted and exaggerated by the perma-hyserical media as proof of a society wide youth sickness that can only be treated with drugs and television.

They are also under the queer impression that bad and disrespectful behaviour amongst the youth was a purely modern phenomena, as if Just William and his pals weren't constantly breaking and entering and throwing rocks at policemen and blacking fat men's faces with boot polish back in 1922.

They are idiots, of course. All children are ace - or least, all children are ace until idiot adults smash all the love and joy our of them with their rules and their bad attitudes and their lack of patience or capacity for creative thought. Show me a kid that isn't ace and I'll show you a tragic victim of the rotten culture of Adulthood.



Of course, most of these people who are convinced that children are all evil monsters that need locking up in dungeons and force feeding prescription medication until they shut up and stop having fun haven't tried talking to any. If you take the time to talk to a kid, as if he or she were an actual human, like you, and not some weird little doll for you to patronise, you will find them to be most agreeable and excellent company. I met a bunch yesterday whilst out taking photos with Dr Ev, and they were all entirely ace - happy, funny, polite (waiting for us to finish snapping before waling past the camera, for instance), complimentary of my moustache, full of useful information ("there's a really good place to take photos just over there," offered one, and he was right), and pretty much just plain overjoyed to be.

They were down in London from Geordie land on a school trip, I believe, to visit the 2012 Olympic site that's sprung up in my backyard over the past few years. It is pretty exciting to have the 2012 Olympic site spring up in one's backyard, to be honest. I can see the main arena/alien landing pad from my studio window, and it is a fine, futuristic sight. It reminds me of those paintings that came with the LP of Jeff Wayne's War of The Worlds, one of the greatest feats of audio storytelling of all time... or at least of the feelings those paintings inspired in me when I first looked upon them, when I was about 6. War Of The Worlds and the concept of an alien invasion scared the crap out of me when I was small, but now I'm big I know full well that yes, monsters exists, but they walk among us already, wearing suits and ties... but if you smile at them they freak out and their brains malfunction, so they're not really all that scary at all.

Joy to the future!




Going Back To Bangor

I type from the thunderous sanctuary of a conservatory in Abergele, North Wales, upon which the pregnant Welsh skies are emptying with a great and vengeful ferocity. Indeed, it is rajjing it down, as we used to say bombing down the hill from Upper Bangor after school in the pissing rain on our way to buy (in my case rob) sweets from Woolies and swarm through the legendary Cob records like a blizzard of music-hungry teenaged locusts.

I hear Cob Records is shutting down, which is sad news (and not just because I was hoping they'd stock my album). I shed no tears when Reddington's Rare Records of Birmingham shut down, as it was a sweaty den of theives and charlatans, a rip-off factory selling hastily assembled "presentation frames", and ludicrously overpriced Radio Promo CDs, preying upon the ignorance and enthusasm of music lovers. Cob, on the otherhand, was that rarest of things - an excellent record shop, staffed by knowledgeable and friendly humans where many similar places had grumpy, rude, misogynist smart arses. I spent innumerable joyful hours in that warm, poster-wallpapered place, rifling through vinyl, flipping through CDs, swapping crap old cassettes I'd stolen from the bargain bin in Woolies for 99p slabs of sexy 7" vinyl. Sometimes I was accompanied on those post-school record shop runs by a pretty young thing called Charlotte, who on one occasion bought a bright yellow 7" by an English indie band called Shed Seven with no knowledge of them whatsoever because she though it was "pretty" and I'd assured her the band were "dead cool". I married that pretty young girl in London last year, and if only we could have been able to remember which Shed Seven song it was, that might have been our first dance. As it was we went for I'm Your Man by Loenard Cohen. So it goes.

(Charlotte just remembered that it was Going For Gold, which wasn't their greatest song, but added that she was with me when she bought Hometown Unicorn by The Super Furry Animals, which would have been prety glorious)

I also bought the ticket to my very first club night from Cob Records, for a princely £5, when I was 14 years old, and yesterday we drove past the site of said illegal escapades, the former Student Union, later rebranded as Amser (Time, in Welsh) and it had been unceremoniously bulldozed into the dirt, along with Theatre Gwynedd next door, where our school performed it's annual Christmas play, and I was once moved to tears by an all-Welsh langage performance of The Snow Spider.

We had less than an hour in Bangor, but we still managed to do some nostalgic sightseeing. We passed my first bedsit - as described in my song Security. We passed the church outside which I smoked my first joint - as described in a song I haven't written yet and pictured above. We went to Morrisson's, formerly Safeways, the scene of that arrest I suffered on the morning of my 15th birthday where I'd been shoplifting celebratory sweets - as detailed on my classic song Liverpool. One of the checkout girls in the Supermarket eyed me suspiciously, and I vaguely recognised her features from school, although she looked much older now, and was conspicuously devoid of Spark. I was most excited to visit the supermarket toilets, where as a teenager I spent many happy afternoons sat reading books I'd stolen from WH Smiths, instead of going to school. I once read half of Trainspotting in there, sat in a cubicle sipping on stolen Pepsi and munching my way through a great big bag of Woolie's fines Pick 'n' Mix, mouthing the phonetic Scottish to myself and dreaming of escaping to London and an exciting future or art and adventure.

Poetically, while I was visiting the scene of former crimes, my art was adventuring out there in the world of today, the glorious future of which I dreamed. H&M on Oxford Street were playing my music, righteous and well crafted blog sites were posting my music, and a brilliant musician from San Francisco was announcing an imminent release of music we will make together, over the seas, through the wires, bouncing off of satellites.

The first sign you see when your drive in to Bangor from a certain direction says BANGOR, and the second says CREMATORIUM. It was there that we assembled to say goodbye to my Auntie Pat. It was a beautiful service, which I spent much of gazing up at the rafters, thinking about how ace my Auntie at was, imagining her disembodied essence gazing down at the congregation, and how funny humans must seem to any and all former-and non-humans alike. We sang some hymns, which my wife did a much better job of than I, and afterwards we trooped up a hill near Pat's house in Abergwyngregyn, in the shadow of the Skyrimesqe glory of the Welsh mountainside, to a meeting room above a cafe where metal rimmed chairs framed a banqueting table covered with plates of bread and scones (which I pronounce sc-oh-ne, in case you were curious). Five generations of humans united by a common emotion drank coffee from delicate white cups, ate tiny triangular sandwiches and talked about those that they loved.

Godspeed Auntie Pat. You will be greatly missed, because you were Great.

While we were at Pat's Wake, Charlotte's old school friend Polly gave birth to a seven pound baby girl called Naomi .

What a world she has been born into! What wonders she will see!

I wish baby Naomi Ffion all the love in the world.

Joy to the future!

I Got 99 Acapellas And I Don't Say Bitch In One. I Think.

I've had lots of people asking me for acapellas lately, so I have had a little splurge and uploaded a bunch. I haven't found anywhere official to house them on the site yet, so here will have to do. I am going to add some more over the next few days - and find somewhere official for them to live - so let me know in the comments or via The Channels what songs you'd like acapellas for.

DOWNLOAD: Akira The Don - Fist of The North Star ft Littles Acapella DOWNLOAD: Akira The Don - We Won't Be Broke Forever Baby ft Gruff Rhys Acapella DOWNLOAD: Akira The Don - I Am not Dead YEAH Acapella 105 DOWNLOAD: Akira The Don - Nothing Lasts Forever ft Envy Acapella 105 DOWNLOAD: Akira The Don - Video Highway Acapella DOWNLOAD: Akira The Don - We Are Not Alone Acapella 125


So, yesterday DC's new toilet-lid logo had me choking up my casserole, and today it's Jay-Z, who has reportedly written (or most likely dictated, since he hates pens) a wovewy ickle poemy weomey about how he's not going to say mean things about ladies anymore since he's just spawned one. It goes a little something like this:

"Before I got in the game, made a change, and got rich/I didn’t think hard about using the word bitch/I rapped, I flipped it, I sold it, I lived it/Now with my daughter in this world I curse those that give it/I never realized while on the fast track that I'd give riddance to the word bitch/To leave her innocence intact/No man will degrade her, or call her name/Forever young you may pass/Blue Ivy Carter, my angel."

If true, this is a level of fuckery hitherto unimaginable in rap. Is Sean Carter really saying that, despite having enjoyed the company and the love of a mother and a beautiful wife, it didn't occur to him that disrespecting females might be the opposite of the righteous path until he actually sired one of his own? That it was not until he saw those big brown eyes peering back into his, those little camel nostrils flexing in rhythm with his own, as if looking into some sort of magic mirror, that he though, "sheeeee-it, this is one of those Bitch things I've been hating on and mocking in my excellent and clever raps all these years? But it's so much like me! How coud I possibly disrespect something so much like me? I must stop at once! Especially as I don't really need to call anyone a bitch anymore so as to appear hard and street, since I am a legitimate business man these days and I hang out with Donald Trump and Bono who neither expect nor require me to call anybody a bitch. Or a ho. Amen."

The credibility of the source is suspect, however, as the source is the NME, who have not been shy about making things up in the past (word to Morrissey). If false, Jay-Z will have to sue, else open himself up for a future plagued with god-awful poetry accredited to his name spattering the internet like flecks of baby sick. "No your honour," he will say, "I do not intend on ceasing my use of the word bitch at all, despite having fathered female young. It is a goodly word and perfectly suits my descriptive purposes. As I said on my song with Kanye West, 'That's My Bitch', a bitch is a dog and a dog is an animal and an animal is nature and nature is beautiful so actually it's a compliment. Neither will I cease to refer to young ladies as hoes, your honour, for hoes are real, and it would be remiss of me to pretend otherwise."

EDIT: The poem was indeed bogus, as confirmed by this Tweet from The Roots' Questlove:

What a funny old world it is. Thank goodness for Lil B. We're this close to a rap Glad To Be Gay at this point, and it couldn't have come a moment sooner.



Speaking of which, the author of that mighty anthem, one of my childhood heroes, Tom Robinson, give Video Highway the thumbs up this morning:


Thank you Tom! You are a legend and I am truly honoured!

I was on Tom's show a few years back. I did a live version of Thanks for All The AIDS with Joey Driscol doing beatbox. I wonder if it's out there on the internets anywhere. A shiny ATD T-shirt to the brave soul that can find it for me! Go!

Right, I must dash, I have a video script to finalise. We Won't Be broke Forever, the third and final act in the Life Equation Trilogy is coming on february 6th!

I will leave you with this beautiful little story, from my Facebook page.


ADVENT 7: Don Doodles, And My Granddad

http://youtu.be/XZABPu0WOKo HAI ALL! Advent is running a bit late as video rendering has been making big mess of my schedule. Specifically Nothing Lasts Forever video rendering. And editing. And making be in synch. And rendering again. Anyway, you'll be glad to know that after making 23 seperate upload attempts yestreday, the perfect result was finally acheived, and it's uploading now, all 2 gig of it, so it will be with us...

Then! Amen!

Meanwhile, I spent some time last night drawing people's Don Doodles, and took the opportunity to film the process. Up there you can see me speed-drawing three Don Doodles, which can be bought for a limited time in my Xmas shop for a mere £5 ($7.8225). I drew the pictures to their purchasers' exact specifications with Sharpies  and Dr pens on a fine thick sketch pad I got from WH Smiths. Drawing is always fun, but drawing on the spot to a deadline (15 minutes) with no preparation and no pencils is fun AND exciting, so thanks for the opportunity.

Speaking of art, me and Eddie Argos' Axl Rose comic is part of an art exhibition that opened in Belgium last night. This is very exciting for me as I have never been exhibited before, and it makes me feel like a proper artist, like the ones in that bit in ferris Bueller where they play the Dream academy's version of Please Please Please let Me Get What I Want and Cameron falls into his existential wormhole. I like the thought of Belgians falling into existential wormholes gazing at the glory of my Axl Rose comic.

The exhibition is called  Guns 'N Fucking Roses, and its curator, Jan Van Woensel, descibes it thusly:

Guns ’N Fucking Roses is the first exhibition that brings homage to one of the greatest hard rock bands of all times: Guns ‘N Roses. Guns 'N Fucking Roses is not just another exhibition that illustrates the obvious relationship between art and music. Instead, this project keeps the middle between an art exhibition and a gloomy teenager’s bedroom. Within this setting, Guns 'N Fucking Roses exposes both the worldwide success and the tragic breakdown of the band and displays a selection of Guns ‘N Roses inspired contemporary artworks amidst an audiovisual chaos of videos and music.

Curated by Jan Van Woensel, an international curator widely known for his itinerant group exhibition Bad Moon Rising (San Francisco, CA; New York City, NY; Saint Louis, MO; Brussels, Belgium; Oslo, Norway; London, UK) and numerous projects in collaboration with artist, musician, writer, poet and publisher Lee Ranaldo (Sonic Youth), Guns 'N Fucking Roses is a project in preparation of the curator’s upcoming, ambitious Axl Rose exhibition (TBA).

You can read more about it here.

In other good news, I got played by Jo Wiley on Radio 2! As far as I know this is the first time I have been played on Radio 2 (which  I believe is the UK's most listened to music station), and this is especially exciting as it was the station my granddad used to listen to, and I have been dreaming about him again lately. He visits me, and gives me advice. Back when I was little I used to go and stay with my Granddad in his bungalow in Redditch, and he would make me ham sandwiches with a Mr Kipling cake on the side, and we would watch westerns and Neighbours then I would sit on the carpet and draw while he watched Horse Racing results on teletext and we both listened to Radio 2, which at the time played a lot of classical music and show tunes.

Now it plays ME, and my Granddad is riding horses across the cosmos with John Wayne and Bouncer. One of the last times I remember seing my Granddad I was 16 and he was very angry with me, and accosted me on the steps outside Our Price where me and my degenerate speed-addled teenage friends were hanging out, and shook my by the shoulders and told me what a disgrace I was and how much better my mother had raised me. I cried when he'd left, because he was right, and I resolved to leave Redditch and to mend my ways.

I stopped selling speed and moved to Birmingham, where I working in a record shop and a bar and started a fanzine. My Granddad died a few months later and I was late to his funeral. At the wake his Brummy Budgie, that sounded just like him, escaped from its cage and tore frenziedly around my Uncle and Auntie's front room, feathers flying everywhere. I tried to catch it, in my typically clumsy manner, and my uncle and cousin flew into a rage and hurled accusations of degeneracy in my mournful direction. The wake then descended into a near brawl when my Dad shocked me by storming to my defence. The last time I could remember him sticking up for me quite so violently and proudly was when I got teased and beaten up for apparently having AIDS at school after I picked up  from the playground floor what I thought was a balloon and was in fact a condom. My Dad rolled up his shirt sleeves and stormed off down to the school in search of the ringleader of my tormentors, a prematurely hairy gorilla of a child who was 11 and looked thirty, and his father, who looked about the same and had just gotten out of prison for armed robbery of a local Spar, or at least that was the rumour.

I can't remember what happend with my Dad and the gorillas, but I do remember now that I think of it that it was the same Gorilla that broke my arm when I was 7 by hanging me from the goalposts on the playing fields, pulling me back, and letting me go. I went flying into the ground like a little speccy rocket and landed with an almighty crack, and spent the next month in a plastercast that I still have, adorned with good-wishes and Garfield sketches, in my Box Of Life. My Granddad was looking after us that week, as my parents were away somewhere, and he was fraught with worry and nausea that such a thing had happened while I was in his care.

My Granddad was called Enoch Smallman, and he fought in a war and worked in a mine. He was a good man and a massive influence on me, and more often than not when I think of him my eyes fill with tears, as they do now, because he died before I could make him proud of me.

So thank you Jo Wiley for playing my song on Radio 2, and thank you BigJimCambo, who requested the song. And thank you Granddad, for raising my Mum on your own and for shaking the shit out of me outside Our Price that day and saving my life.

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 akirathedon.com, 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!

Balance, Rudeboy

Bill Hicks would have been 49 today.

That's young. How tragic that Bill Hicks is not around and Jimmy Carr is. Do we have a contemporary equivalent for Bill Hicks? As I've mentioned previously, there's Doug Stanhope, within whom the Hicks is most definitely strong, but the hope seems lacking. Hicks balanced his righteous ire out with a pure and beautiful hope for a better world, a thing that illuminated work that otherwise might have been little more than #RAGE. Rage, whilst undeniably an energy, like it's pothead cousin anger, is ultimately limp without hope. You end up like Alex Jones or something. Not that I delight in casting aspersions upon the much maligned Texan professional bullhornist, but I had to stop listening to him some years ago when the two dimensional nature of his schtick became too much to bear. People like him had me with my head entrenched firmly in a sandpit of my own devisings for a long time.

I certainly got a lot less stick in the sandpit. I forget how much stick I used to get. Or sticks. Enough sticks to make a house that a pig could live in and a wolf could blow down. It is strange how one's beliefs can upset those that don't share them so much. I don't give a crap if you believe in a 5000 year old earth made by a white guy with a beard (although I do mind if you try and teach that to my kids as fact). But there they fly, those outrageous beliefs, charging around the globe at the speed of hate, pressing people's dislike buttons. I have no desire to press buttons. I don't say what I think because I want to upset people. I say what I think because I remember how it felt when it seemed there was nobody alive in the world that thought like I did.

I try very hard to be honest, and unfiltered, which is nigh on impossible, but it is a good goal. I am fully aware that by doing so I alienate some people, that I become uncool in the eyes of others, and I appear ignorant and foolish in the eyes of more. I am comfortable with that. I don't need everybody to like me. I think I was cool for about two weeks once about a decade ago, but it was pretty lame all in all. And as for appearing ignorant and foolish, I am ignorant and foolish. I wish upon bended knee with my fists in the air that I knew and understood more... If knowledge is an ocean, I am a cracked teacup, if wisdom is a cardigan, I am leaning to knit, and if there's an award for shitty metaphors, I am not going to get it because mine are just too durned pedestrian, AND THAT IS OK, because I am trying very hard in all areas, and have been for as long as I can remember, and I believe that one day I will reach the summit of the mountain.

(And I don't have anywhere to put an award anyway. Which means that I need to make some room, a little wisdom my old manager blessed me with shortly before I decided I didn't need his services any more.)

If I have any advice at all, it is throw your telly away, and don't read newspapers, especially the free ones they litter cities with. Now, I don't mind if you don't take that advice, nor would I call you an asshole in public (or private) for not doing so either. I might get annoyed with you for constantly tweeting about X-factor or something, but really I should know better than to look at Twitter when X-Factor's on, or I should file you away into a column I don't have to look at in Tweetdeck, or something.

I just this moment cast my eyeballs across Tweetdeck, and lots of people seem to be watching a show called Come Dine With Me. I have never seen it, bit I know that it's a reality-based TV show about food, and that there's a woman on it who's breasts "look like a boot." That last one I got from Narstie. Cheers, Narstie. Narstie was watching Jeremy Kyle earlier, from the stinky safety of his sickbed. That happened to me once too, in an Irish hotel, and it scarred me for life like 2 Girls One Cup. That pain will never leave me, and I have only myself to blame for letting it into my head, from which it has been drip-drip-dripping into my conscious and my unconscious ever since, like piss into a bog.

For the most part, it looks like we must all accept full responsibility for that which we let affect us, and for what we then choose to do with that infection. German pop star Nadja Benaissa got a two year suspended sentence and 300 hours of community service for knowingly infecting a man with HIV, while whole towns are coming down with archaic diseases because we're just too damn clean nowadays. I am not, as I have recently been accused, railing at politicians and and royals and newsreaders because of "perceived privileges afforded to them by their class". I want balance.


RIP Steven Wells: The Best That Ever Did It.

SWELLS! The greatest music writer that ever did it is dead.

Load of fucking DICK.

Reports the meeja:

"Steven Wells died on Tuesday after finally losing his fight against cancer."

Of course, Swells wouldn't have said that. Writing about his experience with the disease in The Philadelphia Weekly a few years back, he put it like this:

“No one ever 'battles bravely against cancer'. This is utter bullshit. You do your chemo, take your drugs and hang on for dear life.”

I fucking love that dude.

Steven "Susan" Wells made me want to be a music journalist. He was brilliant, funny, and entirely uncompromising. When I was running my fanzine, Chemical Nation, back in '97, I wote to him, and he let me serialise his novel, Tits-Out Teenage Terror Totty, for free. Later that year I traveled down from the Midlands to London, and he met me for coffee in Carnaby Street, and gave me excellent advice.

Swells and I disagreed on the relative merits of The Smiths, and had many fine arguments about them, but we  loved a lot of the same music - Digital Hardcore, Slayer, pop, girlgroups. Around '98, or '99, we joined forces to campaign for Daphne And Celeste's inclusion on that year's Reading bill, and were totally fucking surprised, and awed, when we won. We watched the girls being driven off to the stage together with pride, and were disgusted when the hordes of misogynist neanderthals threw bottles off piss, bags of coins and a fucking spear at them. But the girls loved the experience, and thanked us for our support.

Years later when I was editing PlayLouder, I was lucky enough to have a budget sufficient to be able to hire Swells as a weekly columnist, and he wrote some fucking amazing stuff for us. When I was out in America getting signed to Interscope, he rang me, and invited me to come and visit him at his new home in Philadelphia, as long as I didn't try and play any "fucking Smiths". At one point Interscope were going to pay him $5000 to write my biography. When that thing fell through, the Swells biography was one of the few things I was sad about missing out on. I respected dude too much to ask him to do it for free.

One of the things Swells and I used to argue about was beards, and, inevitably, we wrote an article together, arguing our cases for, and against beards. So I shall reprint that here for you now.

RIP Swells: The Best That Ever Did It.




STEeeeeVEN WEeeeeeLLSaaah!*

"...the male beard communicates an heroic image of the independent, sturdy, and resourceful pioneer, ready, willing and able to do manly things" claims the website All About Beards.

Bollocks. Does it fuck! The beard indicates that the wearer is a sexless weirdo.

A big, bushy beard suggests that you're one of those horrible hale and hearty posh explorer types - probably called Ralph Twistelthwaite Fffeines or something equally stupid.

A creepy, neat little beard indicates that you're Noel Edmonds. Or possibly a geography teacher. Or a paedophile.

And a scraggy, unkempt beard just means that you're a lazy bastard who can't be arsed shaving. I give you Kurt Cobain, I give you Badly Drawn Boy - filthy disgusting, depressing, miserable can't-be-arsed hippy losers.

Beards suck. They ming. They are nature's way of saying - avoid this man, for he is a tosser.

Alsatian dog-headed punk rock singer, music journalist and bodybuilder John Robb has got this theory. He reckons that youth culture suffers from a crippling inertia - which is why it naturally tend towards the slackarsed and the sloppy. Hence the slacker, the hippy, the grebo, the indie scruff and the disgusting noveau tramps of the so-called new Acoustic Movement.

All these disgustingly scruffy subcultures are, of course, the products of laziness and cultural cowardice. Scared of people laughing at your clothes? Then dress "street". Scared of being thought naïve? Just mumble and shrug so everyone thinks you're "deep". Scared of failure? Then go the piss-easy shooting-fish-in-a-barrel route and whack out tuneless dirges about how depressed and fucking miserable you are. And while you're at it, fuck, might as well stop shaving, maaaaan! It's such a hassle.

But now and then, of course, something genuinely fresh and exciting roars out of this abyss. I give you punk. I give you mod. And what did punk and mod have in common? Yes, that's right - speed, aggression, style and a total and utter revulsion for all and any facial hair.

Now I suspect that bumfluffed Betty Alpha over in the pro-beard camp is going to trot out some tired old crap about Jesus, Karl Marks and Che Guevara. OK, yes they were all good blokes. And yes, they all had beards. But that was then - back when they were dodging the pigs and stirring up revolution and tossing the moneychangers out of the temple and overthrowing US backed fascist governments and writing Das Kapital and shit.

They didn't have time to shave, man. And when they did it was just to throw the pigs off the scent. I'd go further. I'd say there is only one sort of man who doesn't look like complete shit with a beard.

I am talking of course of Really Hard Blokes.

Front line infantry who've been so busy stabbing foreigners and shitting themselves in terror that they've not had time to even look in a mirror, never mind shave. Vikings, bikers, Huns Visigoths, Motorhead and other barbarians - shit, these dudes even look cool with ponytails. And deities, ie Odin, Thor, Zeus, Jehovah and Satan etc. And Brad Pitt. Obviously.

On all these chaps beards look just fine and dandy. But for everyone else - fuck off! Who do you think you're kidding? You've got hot water, you've got access to a razor, you live in the 21st century - you've got no excuse. You're not a barbarian. You're not a God. You're just a scruff. A lazy bastard. A stinking hippy. A beardie-weirdie. A freak. You're doing it on purpose. You're making a statement. That statement being - look at me everybody, I am a horrible, stinking can't-be-arsed fucking shit-cunt.

Look at the cringingly socially inadequate collection of deluded bores who comprise Mensa (ie Garry Bushell) - beards! Look at your woman-hating, mass-murdering psychopathic scumbags - Manson, Shipman, Suttcliffe - beards, beards, beards! Check out the sex offenders list - it's beard city, man.

OK, so you're not convinced. Here's the killer anecdote. I used to direct rock videos. I had this idea which involved using a really seedy Soho strip club. So I went to one.

And I looked at the audience - and nearly puked in horror. Every single one of the sad inadequate sweaty bastards sat there nervously biting his lip and avoiding all possible eye contact was sporting a hideous, dead rat coloured beard. Every. Single. Fucking. One.

A wise man once wrote - "A chap might as well tattoo the phrase 'I suck dog's cocks for pennies' on his forehead with a rusty compass as grow a beard".

And that wise man was me. And I was right. I always am. It's the cross I have to bear.

And so, to conclude - Oi! Alphabet! Fuck off and shave! You lazy, dirty, disgusting, filthy, rotten little hippy bastard.

Ow! That STUNG! Goddamn, that man may be old, but he sure hits HARD! How will Alphabet cope? Eh?!



ADAaaaaaM ALPHABETaaaaaaaah!*

I just watched a rather dull and drizzly movie called The Perfect Storm on Channel 4, I am afraid. An ugly, clumsy, and cringe making script, lots of capitalist Americans on a boat, and shit music - but there was one thing worth sitting through the thing for, and that, intelligent reader, was beards.

Ah, Beards. God's great gift to a species already gifted beyond the dreams of mere beasts. The all-purpose, creative extra that really does separate the men from the boys. Beards are so dope God Himself grew one, and it was so big that most of the world set about worshipping the swine immediately, despite the disease, pestilence, drought and misery he bestowed upon them mightily on a daily basis. He was, and remains, an utter shit, and were it not for his mighty beard we would certainly wouldn't be building huge temples and slaughtering each other for the bastard.

It is no coincidence that the God hating, capitalist, false idolising leaders of the Western World ALL SHAVE. CLOSELY. Never will a hair be allowed any more than 0.00000001 centimetres out of their faces, just to spite Him.

Ho, ho. Why is it, do you think, that the crew on that boat in the shit movie based on a true story grew beards? Because they couldn't be arsed to shave? Yeah? Shaving isn't fun, is it? That burning, searing, itching, cutting... No one looks good after a shave except people in Gillette ads. Real people look like raw meat, and, they are just as sensitive to salt. (Something to bear in mind, when a friend or relative's insistence on shaving all the fucking time starts to piss you off.)

Western Society deems beards unacceptable. The bad guy in the movies always has a beard of some kind. That he is also brown is no coincidence. Western Society equates beards with "foreigners" and "foreigners" is something Western Society does not like. Ugh! Outside people! Sick! We are a nation of inbreds, are we not? And inbreds hate beards. Even though the often physically deformed inbred would often benefit from the growth of a beard. Ladies have make-up, gentlemen have beards. Sadly, Western Society forbids such things, and we are forced to bear witness to massively repulsive, naked faces every bastard day. Ugh! Have you been on public transport lately? Have you noticed the buggers in the street? They are hideous and offensive, and they are everywhere.

I feel glad when I see a man with a beard - it is a symbol of freedom, and revolution. Of course Che Guevara had a beard. And of course Tony Blair is shaven.

Vikings had beards because they were hardcore, and so did the Celts, and the Egyptians, and almost every other decent or significant culture recorded by history. Apart from: The Romans.

And the Romans, despite their aqueducts and their roads and their shiny garrison and their skirts, were BASTARDS. They tried to kill Asterix, repeatedly. They killed Jesus (who had a beard)! And now clean shaven Western Civilisation is doing the same thing, only more so - the current raping and pillaging is beyond even the wildest dreams of Caligula, and he was a serious and dedicated Bastard. Indeed.

Ho, ho. These are serious words, but this is a serious business, and we are serious people. And this beard hating is an ugly business, and blaming it on hippies and David Badiel isn't good enough. To hate a beard is to hate man - it is indicative of a brutish, aggressive and destructive society, full of a violent fear and hatred directed at that which they cannot understand. To hate the Beard is to hate oneself, and if one hates oneself one cannot Love. And what are we without Love?

We are nothing without Love.



And so the rain pours down outside this gentle libary in which I type, more by feel than sight, in front of a screen that throbs and pulses quesily, an unclear mesh of half formed characters and bright colours. I close one eye in order to focus on the errors I just typed, then unclose, because the other sarts to dry quickly, causing stabbing pains and more confusion than is needed at this juncture. No I am not on drugs, dear reader. Drugs are for children and pensioners. I am just half blind again. Is all.

Low as I was, I was not expecting the intense and pathetic dose of poor fortune that accosted me last night. I know I wrote a few weeks ago of The Balance - for every bad a good... but I wasn't expecting to be assaulted by that force with such relentless ferocity. Ho hum.

See, I was initially going to hitch back to New York from Shandaken today. I have just under ten dollars, and the bus is $29, or thereabouts. But then the guy who's renting us this big old dusty stone house up this lonely mountain rang and said he was driving that way, should anyone want a lift. And I did. He said he'd be round later, but, at seven or so, halfway through a particularly sdurreal episode of The Simpsons (rendered nigh on unwatchable thanks to Fox's freakish ad frequency) he called to say he was ready to depart, but I'd have to make my own way to where he was, which was Woodstock. Since there are no buses after 6pm around these parts, I figured the only way was to hitch. I used to hitch a fair bit in my youth, back in North Wales, where the terrain was similar and so was the frequency of the public transport. And my financial means.

So hitch I did. Out onto the open road I headed, dragging behind me my life in a granny cart, trundle trundle, left arm peaking with an angled thumb, and ten or so minutes into my stride, a kindly old gent pulled over and offered me a lift as far as Fenechia, a few miles down the road. He said he used to be a ballet dancer. And upon being dropped in Fanechia, I wandred a further twenty minutes or so, before being picked up by some hippies. Sadly, the hippes were only going another mile in the direction I was, and dropped me at a sharp turning that said , "Woodstock 14 Miles". I wandered up that turning, which soon became a pitch black and narrow old windy road, much like those back in the Wales of my youth, and was soon overcome with a familiar feeling. A sickness in the belly spread as I wandered this funny lane, and day became night. I passed abandoned old shacks, upon the porches of which lay torn furniture, brokebn electricals, sodden shirts. I came acros a gang of little hick local children, who looked straight out of Deliverance, and tried to give me trouble. There was a small scuffle, some words exchanged. I think my englishness ended up going in my favour, as did some assumed feigned bravado and insolence.

So. Some time later, it now was, and I'd been walking for a long time now. I didn't know how long. I had not a watch, a phone, none of that. The road was black and I could hear nothing over the rumble of my granny cart. No cars came. Houses were few, and lights infrequent. Bugs feasted on my bare shoulders. Rain dribbled between the trees, that towered on either side of the knackered old road, pointing into the night sky like spears. My trainers tore into my sockless feet mercilessly. A single car passed, and did not slow down.

Later I saw a little light, a welcome sight to me. I had passed one pain barrier, and was now into another kind of barrier. I was talking to myself, cursing, grunting, offering occasional cries into the night. And I saw this light. Blinking. And closer it came. And then I saw it was a roadblock, and I was ovrcome with despair.

So no wonder there had been no cars to give me lifts. The road was blocked. I fell to my knees. And shouted something into the trees. And then I saw another light. A little house. It looked cosy. The windows a mesh of bug-keep-awayer. I knocked on the door. A portly bearded old man answere, and told me the roadblock was nothing to worry about, but to keep to the right, as they were digging up the left side of the road. I used his phone to try and ring Shandaken, to get Gerard who was giving me the lift's number. I had been andering many, many hours. Woodstock, I was told, was another eight miles. "Downhill, mind, if that's a comfort!"

But the line was engaged, with that primitive dial up that's been plagueing everybody. So I headed back out into the night, throguh the barrier. Over gravel, I felt my way through the blackness.

And a squelch.

A wet foot.

A tumbling of rocks, a fall, a sharp pain, a deep wetness.

And me in a big sludgy hole, with stones and wet gravel slapping the back of my head.

Keep to the right my fucking ARSE!

I screamed.

And clambered out. Temporarily losing a shoe.

But out I got. And on I trudged.

After a while, there were a few cars. One, then two, did not slow, laughed in my pitiful face, calling stuff I could not quite catch out of their windows. The rain was falling harder now, and I, sweating trickles of salt water, was thankfull. Then another car. It slowed down. Nearly stopped. A great big silly grin broke out across my wet red bug assaulted face.

Sweet Releif.


Cackles of laughter, the screetch of rubber on loose road, and the car was gone, and so too my hopes for a lift on this ugly black night. I called out into that blackness, laughed bitterly, licked a splash of sweat off my arm, tasting salt and bug, and soldiered onward, downhill, into the black.

At one point I stumbled, and fell down a little hill on the side of the road, and tumbled into a stream. There I lay a little while, scooping up water in my hands and pouring it over my head, down my throat, praising nature for her bounty. A while I lay, listeneing to the night, a welcome respite from the dull roar of the granny cart. And then I up and on, on, on, on, for a long, long time.

Dogs chased me a little later. Big ol' dogs. Where the energy came from I know not, spent as I felt, but I hoofed that great granny cart up in my arms and sprinted down the mountain, big barking beasts behind me. I ran a good while, until I was sure I was alone again, alone with the crickets and the hungry bugs that I batted off my wet shoulders. And I later came upon the little town of... Bearsville? Bear something. A man told me I was two miles from Woodstock. My heart soared.

That last stretch was easy. I was limping now, feet bloody stumps angled inward to avoid further damage, granny cart rumbling, belching, bouncing along, eyes so wide the left contact popped out, three weeks old, into the air... sweat pouring, veins bulging, I near flew down that road, that final stretch. And in no time, I saw the big blue house, my detination, my goal, and fell to the ground in front of it, panting, grinning, sticky and spent.

I rapped on the door. And waited.




Dude's big American truck was gone, I realised.

Knock knock.

Knock knock.


I tried the door. And it opened. And there lay a note for me, explaining that he'd been able to wait no longer, and there was a matress and blankets for me, and to get some sleep. I fumbled about in the dark of this foreign home, unable to find the light swicth, but eventually happening upon the phone. I rang Shandaken, and James anwered, and said it was nearly midnight, and Spiky and Amy had been out in the car looking for me for hours.

I found a light. I peeled off my trainers, and saw bloodied, and somehow bitten feet, arms and shoulders thick with similarly huge bites, their surface yellow and red and bubbling. I washed in the sink, and fell into the matress, and today I awoke in a strange place with the rain falling outside, and rethought my plans.


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.