| The current affairs column with the biggest fattest tits and arse. It's... Dani's Inferno Pact Twenty-One - Wank, Suck and Fuck With Me Salutations from the sewer creepy-crawlers, underworld trawlers and fellow coprophagists, I trust that your Halloween was as unconvincing as my own, despite the fact that at the time of writing it hasn't even occurred yet; such is the urgency o fdelivering my goetry and prose to you every month, my humble but fleet-footed flock. No grisly yet beautiful teen murders, no bobbing for severed heads, no insurrection of the walking dead? Obviously no fucking fun then... Forgive me my trespasses (but the windows were unlocked), I know I'm a total cynic when it comes to predicting much-touted future events -possibly something to do with a scuffed crystal ball and too many towers in my tarot - but it's as plain as the witch teat on your thigh that the millennium will come and go a disappointemnt and All-Hallows Eve, that most ardent of non-Xmas festivals, will have been celebrated by no more than a two pence-off-a-Guinness - offer, a few manky pumpkins and a passing cheesy grin from a Hammer film. Here in good ol' England we seem to pride ourselves on our lack of enthusiasm for this sort of thing, preferring to let the pomp and ceremony that the Americans bestow upon Halloween pass us by, while all the time pining the values that apparently once made this country great. Bollocks. It's all bollocks. In fact it reminds me of a saying that we used to share as children, as we humped huge vats of boiling pitch to the edge of the castle ramparts to see off wondering friars and taxmen... "Sod your Epiphany, your Advent, your Lent, Pancake's day is shallow and Easter is bent. Give us three witches, hobgobbles and frights, for Christmass is ages and the rest of the year's shite." Traditional. Put a marked improvement for All Hollow's Eve in your constitutional mandate Labour government and you've got my vote. Maybe call it 'The Blair Witch Project'? Back on the subject of millennial brain fever, someone was adjudged insane enough to include our new video in the Millennium Dome Experience - I kid you not. Apparently, to co-demonstrate the use of eloquent language in youth culture (?), a part of the film will be shown to the unwitting public when it eventually opens on the Eve of the forth millennium. Talk about Jeckyl and Heidi. Anyway, it's not as if the words will be that apparent from the video anyway - we're hardly S-Club Seven (more the Cess Pub Six). In hindsight it's a pity we didn't shoot a promo for the EP track 'Of Dark Blood And Fucking'...now that would have been worth seeing, if not starring in. Move shitly on and to put the intended record straight, Cradle Of Filth have parted company with long term guitarist Stuart Antis and everybody's favourite pastor of disaster, Lecter (whose triple exploits have long defaced the annals of the cupboard 'infernal') due to increasing personal differences, including that of a common musical goal. Like and expensive sex toy, I thought it well worth bringing to the public attention seeing as the much-loathed industry gossip-mongers have already vultured enough rumours about their departure to warrant a novella, an idea, which, like the tory, tickles me pink every time I dwell on it, especially the imaginary first chapter heading of 'Stress, and how to deal with the bullshit'. Like the aforementioned genital pleasure, Stuart and Lez will be sorely missed, after all, replacing Rudas was always going to be sticky (unless of course TV's Father Jack is available, conscious and a grade eith pianist), but the guitarist situation has been righted by the gaudy return of the swashbuckling Gian Pyres and 'The Principal Of Evil Made Flesh's' valiant Paul A. So, onwards and upwards as the vicar instructed the petulant choirboy. Finally, on a lighter, more sensual note...If you're looking for nothing better than suicidal and fucking savage underwater massacre this weekend (as you do), then check out the Jaws wannabe Deep Blue Sea at your local flicks. Lacking all the suspense of Spilberg's original fishy masterpiece, Deep Blue Sea swims around the ludicrous plot of an undersea research team attempting to 'train' great white sharks. Pony, I know. Where it wins you however are the extremely grpahic shark attacks and especially the death of lead honcho Samuel L. Jackson, which could turn out to be a piece of schlock-cinema history. Halfway through the film, Jackson, sho up to now has been team-leader, is just sinking his teeth into a rousing, survivalist speech worthy of a cheap Grammy (a hammy), when a fuck off Great White bursts out of the water and sinks it's teet basically all over him. He is then promptly dragged below and torn in bloody two. Hoorah! Either he couldn't stomach the plot (not that he had much of a stomach left) or he appeared for half his normal fee, but either way, what an exit. Which is where I am prone to falter... I would write more this issue, but I have a certain crawling Miss Luna bashing at my ankles with a walk-along Goofy, builders are about to take the roof off my kitchen and I have a driving lesson in Ipswich within the hour. How could Hell be any worse? (Wll, other than Luna not being there). Your comtemplating the new cradle line-up changing it's name to 'Insanus'... Dani |