The Glory Of Akira The Don Fan Art Look at that dope video I just made! Well, WE made, me and all you awesome drawers. HIGH FIVE!

Hold tight for the next one, and send your amazing creations to akirathedon at And you've got until I wake up to get your questions for The Donnish Inquisition 2 in.



Oh No, No! The Ants INVASION!

Photo by Charlotte Whewell

First off then, thanks to everybody that helped make Friday's show such a great time. The first Don Show with NO BEATS, and we pulled it off like a sticker on a CD. Jeres and Mary and Jim and me, reunited for the first time in years. Joey2tits on the balcony, armed with one of his many weapons. A tiny, tall stage up at which the people peered in wonder, able to hear my great excellent voice as clear as crystal for pretty much the first time EVAH.

Damn homie!

No beats.

Well, until right at the end when I plugged in my phone and we did Steven Wells (He Was The Greatest).

Here, have a setlist:

Yeah, was crazytime! Damn, that gig seems a long time ago! Still, it will live forever, and not just in the hearts and souls of those that witnessed it, but on THE INTERENETS 'cos Joey filmed it. With his schmexy video camera device. Really! This is exciting, non?


Anyway. I had an exciting weekend after that. I spent Saturday daytime recording white hot post-pop outfit The Killer Knits, which was a pretty ill experience. Their singer is ten, and sounds like a young Mark E Smith. More on them soon enough.

That night my buddy Luke "Hullo" Turner took me to Church - and whilst his father IS a preacher, it was not for a sermon. Not a typical sermon anyway. It was to see an olde movie film from 1986 (the first year I actively remember) called Comrades about the Tolpuddle Martyrs, a bunch of farm labourers from Dorset who formed a union in the early 1800s in a valiant attempt to get paid more than the price of a dozen turnips a week for their back breaking work. Naturally, living under a Tory government as they were, the men found themselves arrested and sent to Australia to break rocks.

The film was 3 hours in duration, which is a very long time to be sat on a pew, but I did find a rather fetching cross-stitched cushion to rest my simian bubble butt on, and both the ale they were serving and the whiskey Luke had in his hip-flask did a fine job of raising my spirits exponentially throughout - in tandem with the film itself, as it went. By the end of it, having witnessed some truly awe inspiring Triumph Over Adversity, I was whooping and hollering like a cotdamn ectomorphic Revivalist.

On Sunday me and my gyaldem washed the car and drove down to the Surrey Quays ulytaplex to gorge our chops on popcorn and coke and ice cream and Munchies watch The Nolan Dynasty's latest ruminative legosmasher, Inception (I'm not the only one for whom the title took a long time to stick, am I?). Now, I love a good ultraplex, and me and my gyaldem have romantic history with regards to this particular Church Of Western Art, but this joint was rammed beyond comfortability, to the point where we were being told we couldn't sit together! Young lovers, kept apart by, like, other motherfuckers! Tragedy! So we found a lone seat right at the front, and my gyaldem sat on the floor between my legs, which is obviously super romantic and just the sort of thing people do in the comfort of their homes whilst watching ultra expensive mental legosmashers on Ninjavideo torrents. Problem was, we were not in the comfort of our own homes. We were in a cotdang ULTRAPLEX with about A THOUSAND OTHER MOTHERFUCKERS, all of them chomping sugary treats. Of course we were gonna get swarmed by ants.

Yeah, that's right brothers and sisters. My poor pretty gyaldem had only been sat on her pert buttocks for the duration of the what remained of the trailers when what felt to her like CREATURES started CRAWLING all OVER her. At first she thought she was imagining it. Then, after slapping at her legs and arms, she killed one, arching with dread as she hold it up in the light between thumb and forefinger. Quick as a flash, she disappeared a few rows back to sit on her own - well, on her own next to a noisy couple who talked all through the movie and breathed on her hotly, and loudly - leaving me with a full bucket of popcorn. I felt bad for her. But I had my own problems.

In my mind the ants were tiny and few. But there wasn't that much distance between the floor and my cushioned perch, and soon I knew the truth. An itch on my forearm and a subsequent slap form my left hand revealed that ugly truth: yeah, there were ants. But they weren't small and few. They were BIG and FAT and BLACK AS ORIGINAL SIN and they were fucking MANY, and lo they did proceed to swarm over my person for the next two hours. Two hours I spent kicking and jumping and wringing under the bombardment of this terrible army of FAT BLACK POPCORN MUNCHING ANTS, crawling up my legs and my arms and my fucking THROAT... which naturally played havoc with my concentration and enjoyment of the Nolan Dynasty's super literal - and lateral - dream within a dream within a dream within a DREAM caper. Just typing this is making me itch. And if that wasn't bad enough, the capacity audience, when they weren't giggling inappropriately, chewing as loudly as their open mouths could muster and rustling en masse like a fucking rickshaw made from of half a ton of decade old jizz tissue, well, they were were only lambasting the tragic couple on screen during their most tender moment.

Dream Within A Dream Within A Dream Actress: "B... b.. but you promised we'd always be together!"

Eediot a few rows behind me: "Shat ap you prick!"

Eediot girls throughout the theatre: "Hee hee hee hee hee hee! Rustle rustle rustle!"

Aware of how much I'd paid, the time we'd invested getting to the bloody cinema (that was a fucking arduous nightmare in itself, but one far too boring to go into here), and entirely unwilling to be driven from My Church by cotdamned micro animals, I suffered through regardless, found things to enjoy, and afterwards I went and complained to the manager ("I did not pay 30 quid to have ants crawl all over me for 2 hours!") and got us some "free" guest passes to the Odeon of our choice. So we're gonna see Toy Story in 3D at the biggest Odeon in all of London next Friday afternoon. And if there is a moral to that story I have yet to pick up on it frankly, and anyway, I am going to have to go and have another shower now, because all this talk of ants has made me itch like a baby in a barrel full of crabs on a hot Summers evening. Like, those crabs that have hair on them and live on the lips of sewer pipes. Ah, evolution, you cruel slattern.


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.