| Sifting the cods from the wallop, it's... it's Dani's Inferno Pact Seventeen Maybe it's the heat (my brains, usually a coagulating stew on simmer, now drying under the summer sun to the consistency of Weetabix) that has edged your favourite mud-slinger, Monsieur Filth, into mentalism, or perhaps it's the two-years-out-of-date Nicorette® patch I slapped on my arse this morning (to avoid smoking myself into my Father's Kingdom a few years too early) that has whetted my fever - I don't know and I don't really care. Points of origin have never really been a primary concern of mine; I have never doubted a Big Mac, couldn't give a shit about Brian Warner, I still adore black pudding, and have certainly never divined the future by examining my own poo in the bog-pan. All I know is that a calendar month has passed since I last put the fear of God into you (and Christ alone knows how much my nob hurt after that...) and in that time, despite Prince Edward capturing the nation's heart by marrying the Jill Dando/Princess Diana lookalike (luckily for him, public opinion hadn't ebbed ow enough to warrant him wedding a Mother Theresa), England failing at football, and the Aussies scooping the cricket (no change there then), I have nothing of real merit to report, other than the replacement of Dave Cunt by a sleeker, more experienced drummer (whose identity for the sake of the universe must remain anonymous at this present moment... and no, it's not Darth Vader) and 30-odd days of odder dazes, full-moon phases and swear-heavy phrases. The UN may have delivered the Serbs a hefty kick in the Balkans of late, but my proverbial balls have rarely left their pockets; it seems that only my marbles have gone astray. (Astray? Sounds like "ashtray". Eurggh" Damn you to hell, Nicorette® patch, you and your ten milligrams of insidious venom...) The catalyst for this, my squillionth attempt at quitting fags (cigs not men, though Lecter tells me that the latter sit for longer in our mouth) has more to do with smoking dope than straights. This self-ultimatum thrust itself on me (leave it) one evening, when, after a hefty session of Dynamo skunk, none other than Tony Iommi, bedecked in an angel's finery, appeared to me, and haven given me the stiff middle finger (oh, where will this end?) bequeathed the revelation that Sabbath's forthcoming shows in England will be their last. Of course I knew I had taken leave of my senses (better for me to take leave of the Sensi) after mulling over His Lordship's words, for who in their right mind would belive me? Last shows indeed! Whatever next, Ozzy on the wagon? Fuck off! So, pursuing the old saying, 'One thing leads to another' (another of Lecter's), I am now a few days into kicking the habit, preferring now to extricate my lungs and beat them soundly with a stick in order to relax (these previous weeks had been so maddening that I'd started a 20-a-day routine... plus I'd been smoking...), thus benefiting my voice, and in respect of the ganja, my, um...er, what's it called..um...memory. Anyway, where were we? Ah yes, fleeing the asylum grounds... This month has been seminally weird, although not very exciting, the highlight being my purchase of an original John Wayne Gacy painting for my daughter's nursery. And if this particular artist is as far away in recognition for you as Cradle Of Filth are from a healthy chart entry, then let me enlighten you. Gacy,(also dubbed the "Killer Clown") was a serial killer who still holds the official (ie, proven) all-time USA Body Count Championship for his rather impressive, but naturally sick, 33 slayings of male victims whom he disposed of by burial in and around his Chicago home, having lured them under false pretenses only to chloroform and buttfuck them before counseling them in biblical merits while he strangled their still-pleading carcasses. Pleasant I know, but little Luna loves his almost child-like artistic integrity, even at the tender age of five months. Trust me, I can tell, I'm her doting daddy. Purchasing this requisite didn't come cheap, for despite the asking price, myself and my lovely girlfriend Toni had to spend a night in the company of our good mate, the video director Alex Chandon (see Pact Fifteen for phenomenal horror rating). Not that his company isn't marveloso - it is - but the weekend jaunt involved to separate fines for supposed fare evasion from the wanker Travel Police (20 notes for dodging 50 pee), another journey into Hell (though at the time it was hilarious) wherein Alex, on returning to his gaff, decided to ride bareback through Hampstead atop his friend's vulva (sorry, Volvo) screaming, "I'll kill you, all you filthy motherfuckers." Finally, arising clammy-mouthed and bleary next morning, only to be subjected to a selection of his private reading material (two titles standing out in particular: the £85-a-throw Prosthetic Rehabilitation, which he 'borrowed' with lithe precision from a renowned medical books supplier, and in direct contrast. though not in subject matter, the utterly essential coffee table browser, Colour Atlas Of Rheumatoid Hand Surgery, which he picked up in a car boot sale for £1...). All this made me wonder if I'd be better off with a collage of bogeys and dog cum by Chandon than the oily monsters painted by Gacy. After all, there's plenty of time for Alex to begin a lengthier murder spree, if he hasn't already. As noted, last month was a headfuck, but at least I got to see the new Star Wars movie five or ten times on pirate. I would review it in this issue, but I don't really want George Lucas on my arse (he's a tad overweight and hairy). So, until next week, lightsabre duelling on the dust planet of Tatooine. May the sauce be with you... Dani |