So, we failed to play the first Akira The Don show last night. All you who came down for that, and endured an awful lot of fraudulent, misplaced nostalgia, I can but offer my sympathy.

I spent all day and night yesterday rehearsing, alone for an afternoon, then with Birddogg and my new Donettes. Brand new to the game, they faced a difficult task – but by 1am we were ready. Tight, dynamic, matching in outfit and overcome with a great joy and excitement, we hopped in a taxi and turned up at The Mad Old George just in time to catch the end of The… The Somethings’ set. I don’t know who they were. The stage was awash with sixteen year old girls and straw-thatched boys of indeterminate age – they often look haggard in their late teens, this “new” breed of rock people.

Anyway. Wade was topless and tearful, the bar had been drunk dry, Sean McLusky wore an expression of resigned dread, and the soundman looked ready to Do Murder. And the six bands, all of whom finished their sets with stage invasions, had managed to kill all the mikes. They blamed their fans. To be honest, I remember Crack Village wrecking a fair few mikes, and blaming fans.

So, we couldn’t play. Which was sad, especially for The Donettes, who had worked so hard. But, it will only make the Academy sow on the 15th even better. I am so looking forward to that now. It is going to be well amazing.

Anyway, a bunch of us went back to Sophie’s, where I utilised her CD player and front room to do a mini gig, and, when the CD player failed, as they often will, freestyled some stuff about booze (which I steered pretty much clear of yesterday. It has been making me ill). And there were Ritz crackers and good company and chatter, and I failed to get to bed at a decent time. But it was nice. Jeremys, a Luke. Luke comes out with classic shit like, “I’m sick of gallivanting. I’m sick of going to shitty places where everyone’s prowling like drippy cocked dogs.”

Which is true.

But really, those bloody Libertines have a lot to answer for. Scruffy “The” bands selling smack to children is one thing, but messing with my shit is quite another. Anymore of this, and there will be Beef.

Ho ho. I peep my emails today and find one from the fragrant Ebony, vaguely clarifying that Andre 3000 stuff I was worrying about. Apparently he was at the Republican convention making a documentary, and has yet to decide who to vote for.

Cos it is such a hard choice.

Although I did hear an interesting argument for Ralph Nader last night. And speaking of three party ideals, I read that the Lib Dems are to “move to the right” in order to become electable. This is the dumbest thing I have ever heard. Michael Howard will be forced right round the other side, and come out as a gay black or something. Which would upset the balance of things. Someone needs to sort that lot out. They are an open-goal missing embarassment.

In other news, we are underway with this video, and shall be emailing you lot soon. The standard of entries has been so high I think we’re going to extend the number of winners from 1 to 5. Or maybe 10. Time depending, we have three days to do this bugger.

— Saturday, September 4th, 2004

I was alarmed to awake in the back of a white van today. Not as alarmed as the geezer who owned it, mind.

Ho ho. Your Drinking Competition entries are amusing me, through the thick veil of my hangover. I would write more, but I am late for rehearsal, and must dash, like Damon.

I will hopefully see some of you at this gig tonight, eh?

Safe.

— Friday, September 3rd, 2004

HAPPY BIRTHDAY BIRDDOGG!

Say we all. Because that is what you do on someone’s birthday. Especially when that someone is your dear DJ, collaborator, genius, and friend. Birddogg totally kicks ass. Look at his lovely head!

Meanwhile, me and Zef are making an animated video for my drinking Song, and YOU CAN BE IN IT! Go here for how.

Jeres and I went to see Mark Lannegan last night. He looked at the floor a lot. I upset a lady from Rough Trade enquiring about their selling heroin to children and stuff.

Anyway, Melissa, I think it was her anyway, put this really neat CD on, by some guy from Iceland called Gisli. He’s wicked, a bit like Evan Dando doing old Adam Green songs, with shades of Queens Of The Stone Age and JTWR, weirdly.

— Thursday, September 2nd, 2004

So. Since when was violently protesting a murderous and illegal occupation “terrorism”?

That tried and tested violence deterrent, um, violence was unleashed on a suspecting Palestine this morning, with LOTS MORE TO FOLLOW! Olive Trees fall as I type.

And Arnie got up and cracked jokes last night, eh? And what jokes! Bush will “terminate terrorism”, he deadpanned. I’m sure he was deadpanning. His wife has twitchy eyeballs, I saw. And that Laura Bush has a twitchy neck. They are all pissing themselves, internally. I hear that’s poisonous. Ha ha ha.

I shall play my first UK show on Friday, by the way. It’s going to be at The Mad George Tavern in London’s East End. Them Krays had their wake there, I am told. The place is an old-fashioned boozer nightclub with a lit up dance floor, like Saturday Night Fever. Also playing are The Rakes, The Others, Cazals, and Doctor Wade Crescent.

Right now I am being mad impressed by 65 Days Of Static, who are huge and barbed and awesome and live somewhere between Mogwai and drone king Mothboy. A noisy place!

— Wednesday, September 1st, 2004