| Somewhere between Heaven and the Tesco's cheese counter it's... Dani's Inferno Pact Twenty-Three - A Marriage Made By Seven I take a brief slaycation from the perils and the pitbulls of professional journalism and what transpires in my absence? Inhuman kind enters its final millennium, and if that wasn't bad enough my T.A.R.D.I.S. (Time Amid Rural Dementia In Suffolk) materialises at what is supposed to be Hammer Towers, only to find the broom cupboard infernal swept, free of Deathwatch beetle, and currently storing back issues of Paperclip Weekly. As it goes, it would seem that the stench of bureaucacy has once again permeated the seance between us. A staff meeting in a boardroom long since exorcised of breathable air confirmed the worst. The Imperial Daemonarch, Robyn Doreian, vast leathery wings unfurling to knock the Lemsip from Malcolm Dome's hoof, announced a takeover bid by another publishing group based in Bath, which therefore meant immediate relocation of the magazine or (and this is where eyes went a ravenign black...) voluntary redundancy. Now, no offense to the illustrious city but Bath is hardly the Mecca of rock, and despite it's overpriced, overpopulated, over-polluted and 'over there - just near the Thames River, you can't miss it, mate' - drawbacks, being based in London did allow for once Cyclopean eye to be kept on the very heart of gigs and begwig ligs. Which is exactly where you'd expect to find the world's biggest monthly metal publication and not, as stuffy executive wank managers decree it be, in sodding Bath. Now, if it were Nottingham on the other hand, it would be a completely different Cradle Of Fish altgether as a recent wedding we attended there was to testify. The place just reeks of nostalgia for the ageing metal fanatic. Mullets roam the city in much the same way as migrating shoals of Bill Wards might have once done in the late Cretaceous era, whilst bullet belted thrash fanatics rub boulders with preened and predatory glamsters just like the good ol' days of the burgeoning '80s. (Brief pause for a recollective weep). One such watering hole for these creatures, the extremely welcoming 'Tab And Tumbler' was fortunately just outside our hotel, whilst the rear of the building and our room afforted views of the myriad rooftops of Rottingham Knock City - easily the best club on these fair shores. The wedding itself, that of one Willy Evans (one of the 'little' people from our last promo video) and his bride-to-be Stephanie was surreality itself and despirte a late night and a 9ammm roll call for the cathedral next morning, it proved to be one of those rare precious memories you take to the grave. The band invite was only accepted by three of the Filth -Adrian, Gian and myself accompanied by my wife-to-be Mizz Filth who drove; the marriage held in Nottingham, because of the pantomime 'Snow White And The Seven Dwarvers' (that Willie was performing in at the Theatre Royal). This meant that many of the guests were either co-stars or held some connection with the industry, hence an invite being extended to Alex 'Out Of Hand' Chandon and chums, whom we'd arranged to fandango with up there. In fact, we gave it so much large the night before at a lethal mix of pub 'n' party; the only thing holding us up the next morning was the bravado of our cheap suits. Alex, who'd evidently been on everything other than sleep, burst into director mode on arrival and proceeded as if the ceremony itself was his next film, resulting in a steam of madcap incidents like standing on the bride's train, close-up filming of ex-page three girl Linda Lusardi's enormo-cleavage, the heckling of panto star Lionel Blair as he finished his speech (though obviously Lionel didn't view the festivities as much to make a song and dance about, and so forsook his infamous patent leather white shoes), the circling of the wedding party like crow whilst they addressed their vows and, finally, bursting into tears at what Alex described as "the sheer emotion of it all." As further psychosis ensued, he would take that carmera to the city centre and film himself sexually abusing modern sculpture, being run down by oncoming traffic and shouting at shoppers and fellow drinkers. A good friend he my abe, but buying him vodka is akin to leaving your kids with Myra fucking Hindley! All in all, the wedding was very light-hearted - the service itself undertaken mostly in costume, Willy and Steph being accompanied by six other little men and a sparkling Snow White. In fact, my highlight (other than falling down the stairs into the reception) was at the end when the bridal entourage trooped out to panto music and just when the procession drew alongside our relatively blackened few pews, Willy, hand on hips, groin thrust our in our general direction should out "Filth" in tee of the gathered TV cameras. A little star like him deserved the top day it turned out to be. And lastly...whilst wedding pics were being snapped, two of Alex's tribe, Dom and Matt, stole back into the church entrance to look over a small art exhibition being displayed there. The priest joined and talked them through the paintings that appeared to them rather too tortuous for a cathedral, proclaiming that, funds allowing, he was going to relocate and hang them closer to the front. However, on closer scrutiny they discovered the artist somewhat unhinged. In one written self-observation, he described the world being 'as a diseased egg, that begs to be cleansed', and in another (a Boschian hellscape). Heaven being a place he likened to 'a mutual mass gang-rape'. They didn't let on... Until we meet again, lashed together on an alter of maddness - get three fucking wed!!! Dani |