| In the name of Satan's portion... Dani´s Inferno Chapter Two - A Cat Amongst A Haunt Of Wolves Greetings from my deathbead. Normally I would appreciate the rampant ovation that accompanies such a statement, but my head is feeling like one of those Japanese paper lanterns today and about as stable as the fission reactor at Chernobyl was seconds prior to meltdown. In short, I am obviously terminally ill, so please honour a dying man's wish by bearing with me, because the paragraphs that lie ahead are rocky and fraught with danger and according to my Penguin Book Of Serious Ailments, I am suffering from excessive evacuation of verbal faeces - only I'm not just talking shit, but I'm passing it unbottled as well. This month's classic adventure in Chunderland comes courtesy of that which is usually strictly anathema to the hallowed pages of Metal Hammer - the Kerrang! Music Awards. Taboo-pooper that I am (and because Music For Nations had kindly gotten the Right Reverend Nicholas Bastard and myself invitations for the evening), I decided that it would be an ideal opportunity for me to do a bit of investigative journalism, get exceedingly drunk and annoy as many of my potential peers as possible. Well, two out of thre would still make for an interesting evening...I've never been much of a journo, so I borrowed a few introductory cards from flame-haired reviews guru Dan Silver, adding the word 'Filth' to his name in biro for further effect. Dan 'Silver' Filth. Sounded good - very metal, and dead suave to boot. I broke my dictaphone out of perpetual retirement (ie I put some batteries in it) and like a gangly-legged spider, scurried out with the intention of ensnaring anyone of notoriety that came withing my curious grasp. And would you Adam and Eve it, it bloody well worked. Despite the same crappy question, "Can I ask what you thought of the Kerrang! Awards tonight?", I had brief but eloquent conversations with a plethora of exotic stars, most of whom were unaware of my true identity as Chaos Lord Thule, Progenitor and Archdeacon Of Fear to Hell and all it's tireless minions. Among those worth hollering about were Page 3 dream queen Jo Guest (her "it was really nice" hardly reeks of verbosity, but as someone witty once said, "Who wants to shag Bamber Gascoigne?), Joe Elliott (complete with new frightwig), Julia Valet (I could've been cruel and asked her about music), Lemmy, LG Petrov (who was nursing a hangover at the beginning of the evening), Jonathan Davis, Bruce Dickenson, etc. Former Big Breakfast host Zoe Ball was obviously having herself a good time, judging by the comment she made that she was feeling "loose" - something, admittedly, she did correct rather quickly, bless her heart... though you should've been witness to the expectant rapture that came across our drummer's suddenly cherubic face for a few magical moments. I won't bore you frigid with the awards results themselves, but the usual slew of artistes gathered their trophies: Jon Bum Gravy, Marilyn Manson, The Prodigy, et al. Although some of the bigger names didn't pick them up in person, they did interrupt their holidays to grace us with a little speech on the video wall (and that's possibly why there were very few spare invites floating around for the likes of me). Fair enough, I am being sarcastic, although by no means am I attempting an underhanded slur on Kerrang! or the awards ceremony at all... For the most part, it was an extremely prestigious event; the atmosphere was eclectic, the food, and edspecially the drink, was abundant, and most importantly, everybody appeared to be having an enjoyable time, which is the main reason that we're in this fair game, industry, press and bands alike (although, you might argue, cash 'n' all.) I would conjecture that all's well that ended well, but it seems somewhat ironic that if I hadn't been mixing my drinks like henbane and rue for a good 11 hours that night, I might very well have felt human today. So, before I depart to view whatever fresh cruelties nature has inflicted upon my insides (via my mouth, of course), I will finale with two further items of interest. Firstly; early morning-ish, Columbia Hotel, Hyde Park, Henry from pist.on (our table companions for the show) slaps Ricky Warwick for telling him to keep his noise down at so late an hour... (well, I thought it was funny). And secondly... Does anybody remember the altercation 'twixt Cradle Of Filth and the band formally known as Manhole? There's no point in resurrecting it now, but let's just say Nasty Spice Tairrie B was one of my targets for questioning. And instead of the rottweiler-on-Red-Bull attitude trip I had come to expect, I found her to be sweet and charming. Thereupon, we sorted out all differences and kissed and made up (sorry, Mr. Bell, the man to my perpetual left, just a slip of the tongue). Anyway, all is now well, so I guess it's time to refrain from being so frightfully nice and start making a few new enemies... (apart from my liver - a this precise moment, I really need to improve my relationship with that part of my body). Until next time we sail upon the blighted hulk ship 'Psychobabble', Your fiend, Dani |