| Go Go Gadget Verbicide! It's... Dani's Inferno Pact Twenty-Two - Game, Set And Snatch This month's rpride through the cake-filled colon of Hell comes courtesy of a three-week month crammed with more ups and downs than a liftshaft fuckathon, which thankfully left most of the wankers I've dealt with on the ground floor awaiting come-uppance. (Now, you know me. I have a big bowl of moral fibre for breakfast every morning. So I refuse to sink to 'their' level and mention any names, but nature being what it is, one hefty bowel to sink to 'their' level and mention any names, but nature being what it is, one hefty bowel movement and it all may very well come out...) Firstly, the thinning of the band that I delicately touched upon last issue was further rubbed the wrong way when a rival magazine (which, for legal purposes, we shall refer to as 'Meringue!') decided on a course of paparazzi-style provocative journalism by phoning me at home ithe night prior to when their poop-scoop with our former guitarist was to be printed. The journo in disrepute - we'll refur to as 'mud' - felt it absolutely necessary to tell me all of the bad things spat about me just before my response, obviously in the vain hope that I'd verbally retailiate, and therefore create them a rather contentious and contemptible news piece. Thankfully, I didn't rise to the challenge, remaining as tight-lipped as a lezzer in Burtons (a crude analogy I know, but after all the things I've been dubbed in the past month, being branded a homophobic, on top of everything else, would be about as unpleasant as handing back the golden ticket to Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory...), which I did by keeping my head down, trying not to rock the throat and praying that a sticky situation wouldn't come out of it. It didn't , or at least no further fuel was added to the pyre, until 'Meringue!'s cover story with C.O.F a fortnight later (supposedly pivoting around a bright new future, and not the events surrounding the shite now past) which, surprise, it did in typically sensational style. An apparently harmless photo shoot werewolfed into what can best be described as a very obvious dig a the Ex-Wives Club ('Dani Shoots Back') and the interview... well, let's just say that the ten minutes spent sidestepping the recent rather shady issues fleshed out the bone of the write-up, whilst the other good two ours spent in-depth chatting about the new line up ended up being dead time on a dictaphone. Talk about soap opera. This was getting worse than Falcon Crest. Luckily for all concerned, holding such a prominent position as I enjoy at Hammer HQ (next to the spare Hoover bags and a nestful of spiders) I am able once and for all to lay bad ghosts to rest (my witch-doctor always pushing me to exorcise). Firstly, and definitely foremost, my jokes are bloody terrible, and secondly, the parting with old band mates is totally amicable. There are no grudges or pithy last comments, at least not from our side of the proverbial grave. We actually wish those departed well and no amount of shit-raking guttersnipe journalism will sect respect their readership enough not to have them bombarded with lewd, tenuous hype and personal propaganda - an if you don't believe, check out next issue somewhere between the ads, the posters and the 72-page Slipknot feature, Douche!!! Apologies must be made to that most illustrious of rock DJs, Tommy Vance, who bravely invited Adrian, Paul and I onto a recent episode of his VH1 rock show, where it may have appeared that we were taking the right royal piss. I can assure you, we weren't. Five whiskey and cokes apiece, before going on left us a tad more inebriated than we first gave credit for, and subsequently we appeared on TV as three rather slow, dim-witted characters. It didn't help matters that we were wearing all the same clothing, which, by chance configuration of ill-fated stares that morning, gave us the appearance of the three mongoloid stooges. Poor Mr. Vance seemed at a loss to know what to do with us, whilst all we could do to redeem the situation was to have him repeat his time-honoured phrase 'rockkkk!' and 'Gillette - the best a man can get' in his low down grunt of a voice. I even went on to express the opinion that he would have made a more convincing narrator for Walking With The Dinosaurs (the natural history program and not another documentary on Black Sabbath) then Kenneth Branagh - an act deserving of 'imbecilic comment of the millennium' alongside Jesus Of Galilee's "come on the, I fucking dare you" when he knew damn well it was easter weekend. Last month also bore manna for me with a role being offered for a bloodthirsty gangster movie entitled Glass House, in which I'll be playing an evil little fucker (hmm - sounds familiar) called Christ (so named for his penchant for wearing all white, and the fact that his shot-through hands resemble stigmata). But of course I'll keep you up to date as things develop. No, not the genital warts, the film... And finally, this months reading recommendation comes courtesy of Deborah Addington's frank yet sensuously elegant 'A Hand In The Bush ' The Fine Art Of Vaginal Fisting', available now via the Greenery Press. All you've ever wanted to know abut this somewhat sticky I slovingly handled through step-by-step instructions and diaphragms (sorry, diagrams) and over 30 graceful line drawings to ease you past your initial discomfort and into a newfound euphoria. All in, this is an essential read for all, but don't just take my word for it. The former Albanian Missionary once described the book as 'uplifting', whilst both HRH Princess Ann and Dame Thora Hird declared publicly that "It fucking pisses on the bible"...which in all fairness is quite some selling point. Until the next millennium, if we're not wondering scorched earth, suffering from radiation sickness. Your F..F..F..Fiend, Dani |