Talking bollocks? No, just a laughable penis! It's...

Dani's Inferno

Pact Eighteen - Untitled for want of a better title

My monthly emissions are always red (but probably never read). Suffice to say this statement doesn't actually mean that I undergo periodical bleeding of the vulva, it means that I am loathe to write my column with about three hours to spare before the magazine goes to print, leaving me having to write a seemingly non-related load of old rollocks, like the six, maybe seven, lines you've just ingested (in order just to fill space). Henceforth my patience wears thinner than the pitiful excuse used to 'postpone' the English Ozzfest and temper simmers at about one shade lighter than supernova (my apologies - that would mean my monthly emissions were actually yellow and my vulva rife with gonorrhea, which would mean at least, if anything, I'm infectious).
So, if you're listening, Grand Overlord Robyn Doreian, and if you're not to taken with storming about 'Hammer Towers' punishing cringing minions with a lash of your mutated claw-like fronds, then I, Keeper Of The Cupboard Infernale, require some form of stability. I do not possess a Jedi's ability to predict the near future , nor is my name Bruce Foresight. All I require is an advance warning of deadlines, so that I might aspire to writing a font of wisdom (rather than a well of wank) for my devout congregation. I dream, nay I... I... I... euurghh!! (cough, choke, the sound of a sinuous talon being dragged across backbone)... yesss mistress, I will crawl back to the hole that spawned me. No, I won't dare speak ill of you again or, under any circumstances (lest you repeatedly play me the new Def Leppard album all the way through) will I tell my readers how the Ozzfest had only sold a few thousand tickets anyway, and that it may have sold more had the original 'proposed' Iron Maiden line-up been confirmed as the special guests ... oh, you tire of my torture now and intend giving me to your fledgling vivisectrix Val Ium instead? Well, in that case...
As well as suffering from various Val Iergies (one in particular, involving stiletto-sized stigmata all over my testicles, making for uncomfortable mountain biking), I have also been prone to a nasty bout of technofear of late, hence my computer, very much like me at the Metal Hammer offices, being confined to an unproductive life under the stairs. Which makes it even harder, attempting to write this free-hand, when one has just spent a birthday weekend in London, getting cuntoxed. My hands are actually still shaking (fair enough, the right one because I masturbate continuously while I'm trying to be creative), although not from the DT's born of a three-day boozing spree, but from the cost of getting a decent round in. No wonder I choose to live in the countryside; you need the equivalent of a Third World National Debt just to get significantly ratted in the smoke. Two pauhned eighty for a facking Guinness, guv'na? Not on your Jellied Eels.
Which brings me to the hub of this issue's less-than-perfect verbal expulsion - The 'Grasspop music Festival Mishap', scarring as always, Cradle Of Filth. Now, I know I've been relatively cruel about Belgium within these fair pages in the past (something about it's population hung upside-down on crosses with their faces put to fire, or some such harmless reproach, but I must congratulate it's existence for what turned out to be quite an adventure. The festival itself routine, loads of top bands - Danzig, Immortal, Mercyful Fate to name but a few - rainfall on a biblical scale, portaloos crammed with foul-smelling foreign meaty poos and, of course, the aftershow Rudas Priest entertainment at the aftershow bar. in essence Heavy Metal Pancake Day. However, dear old dribbling Rudas is not this tale's star. Remember me mentioning a new drummer who couldn't, for various reasons, be as yet named? Well, for the sake of his identity, we shall refer to him solely as Adrian From At The Dates™.
On our return to the hotel (a few of us seeking further lubrication at an all-night bar) and finding the rest of our troupe smoking weed in the lobby, we decided with sozzled logic, not only to rearrange the furniture, but to barricade a snoring Rudas in his room, after burying him muddily under as many plants as we could pull from their pots. Painting, cabinets, even the hotel's cigarette machine joined the makeshift wall, as we scoured the corridoors looking for fresh heavyweight objects, crippled with hysterics. It was only when we took the destruction back to the lobby that Adrian From At The Gates™ noticed the Securicam and decided that, to avoid morning incrimination, he should rip it from the wall, which seemed a brilliant idea - until the actual morning when we, nursing hangovers, were being questioned by the Belgian Police (well, all save Rudas, now back to Lez, who from being freed from his room had fled, having been smuggled into Europe without his mislaid passport in our coaches hold, and subsequently didn't want arresting...).
Of course, we all blamed imaginary bands called 'Obsession' and 'Horrible Angel' (from Lithuania) for the carnage, and Adrian From At The Gates™ belived he'd got away with destroying the camera, until dragged off to a backroom and being shown videotaped footage of his heinous deed by two unamused looking cops. Talk about You've Been Framed... on second thoughts, don't bother. 'Who's Been Maimed' would be more watchable.
Well, that's shit for another calendar month. So, until next we meet, twelve hundred quid down for criminal damage, sleep tight and don't let the bed bugs bite (let alone bury you in potted plants and barricade the doors)...

Your Fiend,
Dani