| I am the God of Hellfire and I bring you... Dani´s Inferno Pact Twenty Phwoarrl - Fresh Fruit For Rotten Vegetables Greetings from the pit, fellow suffers! Back on the games with a bigger set of balls and a more convincing pheromone aftershave, I return... The Witchfucker General. Bad Manns from Heaven. So damned evil, even the light bulbs in my toilet are black, which wouldn account for the damp floor and the smelly brown smear down the back of my sheepskin leggings. And no, just because I went AHOL last issue, it doesn´t mean I´ve turned bi-montly, quite the cuntrary. I definitely know which side my bread is buggered, and from henceforth the ´inferno´ shall be as regular as cockwork. My previous month´s absence was due to my system still reeling from the departure of the Grand Despot, Mistress Doreian, from the Hammer Tower throne room, having rapidly resigned bodily functions just in time to see her winging her way violently back to Maggotropolis London, the carcass of a juvenile Cryptoclidus lodged, firmly in her craw. Oh and her leaving bash... which doesn´t immediately imply that I had a marathon hangover afterwards, because the chance would have been a fine thing had me and my swarthy bunch of angelic upstarts not arrived at exactly the precise moment the free drinks petered out and Londaan paab prices went into effect. Fortunately, Chris Ingham was propped at the bar with the company credit card, and it was all thanks to him that the night sallied along relatively shamously. Incidentally, I´d always wondered what Chris Ingham looked like (one of my naffer millennium resolutions, I know), mainly because I was under the impression (under Robyn´s tyrannous regime, it was demanded of him to wear a cordoroy face muzzle about the dungeon at all times) that he was hideously deformed, part man, part massive sex sprat - but I was thoroughly pisstaken. He looks like a cross betwixt Dexter Holland and a younger Avon from ´Blake´s Seven´. I hear Miss Guy quite fancies him. I certainly do. And so does our boyfriend, Grahame Bent. Anyway, when the eviller me has finished trying to wreck this month´s column with her garrulous gibbery (I suffer from Jeckyl & Heidi syndrome) I shall mourn our previous editor´s passing for another 50, maybe 60, words and then her ravening appetite for cleaving nipples off by post abated, move onto less venomous topics. Like Serial murder. In all seriousness though, good luck to Robyn in whatever she pursues next, I dare say she could do with a break after five years´ hard graft working Metal Hammer out of the gutter (the complete opposite to me, although I prefer the neo-gothicism of calling it a storm drain), we (and I certainly speak on behalf of myself, the dungeon cat, Dave Ling and some earwigs I´m attempting to bring back to life via Tantric Sex) wish her all the very best, and hope that Mick Taylor upholds her lotty standards of metal that fans have come to expect, nay demand! Cue Harrier flypast, Cue Manowar-style magnificent foppery, and cue a Viking send off. Cue change of subject... Not much of significance has transpired since last we met, much of my time being meted out in pursuit of our new album ´Midian´. When one half practically wrote itself, the band decided to have a go at other, a decision costing us much of our usual time sitting around idly fingering wank mags. Little Luna has learnt to walk, and so have our keys, wallets, phones, etc. all by themselves! Alex Chandon has just put the creme-de-la-menses to his latest endeavour, Cradle Of Fear - a full lenght British horrorfest in which, guess who star? Alex´s first official comment regarding the censorship surrounding much of his work, and possibly this, was that he isn´t so much concerned with being banned from film distribution as he is from his local pub - The Beard & Clam. I also had a strange experience on the stroke of the thirteenth hour of Leap Year´s Day when the space/time continuum wefted and I was thrown back to the fourth line of my last column (Pact Twenty Three), six words in and forsaking the comma...´ and if that wasn´t bad enough, my T.A.R.D.I.S (Time Amid Rural Dementis In Suffolk) materialised at what was supposed to be Hammer Towers, only to find the broom cupboard swept free of Deathwatch Beetle and currently storing back copies of Paper Clip Weekly´. Had I taken one too many capsules and snoozed right through to an age governed by office tidy tactile primates? No, I remembered that their bid for evolutionary dominance had ended with our previous guitarists. Anyway, by this time I´d noticed the eight-page Coal Chamber featurette in said magazine and a quote lifted from the text had distracted my erection... "I thought that our strand- in bassist Nadja Porombka was the perfect full-time replacement for Rayna. I just remembered thinking back then that Rayna wasn´t gonna have much time forpaperclips once the baby arrived..." Dez Falafel. Jeez, some people. They´ll undertake anything to get in the public eye. Incidentally, did I mention that during my leave I reviewed (alongside poptart ´Lolly´ and Matthew from ´EastEnders´) the new Oasis album for Select undertook a band ´at home´with Playstation magazine (issue 56), stripped naked for a US goth rag (thankfully not a very well printed one), and played one of the best April Fool jokes ever conceived in a rival publication? I didn´t We´re on a different subject? I did the T.A.R.D.I.S.play on words bit? Knackers!!! Yours, tempted to change the band´s name to ´Fisted Sister´. Dani PS: A brief film review for Luc Besson´s period Joan of Arc romp... Joan of Arse. |