The finger through my throat

At four in the morning, the Red Room begins to throb. The coalescence of sound and light, leaves tangible arcs of matter suspended in the air around us. These ephemeral creatures take hours to dissipate and dance on our retinas for days afterwards. We hang from our bottles of Fink as if they've been cemented in space, and we've snagged on them accidentally like so many novelty balloons caught in the rafters of Waterloo Station. There is only one law that propels us, the Old Law, our private mantra - One Song-One Song. He follows her then it's him then it's me, the genre simple enough to define. I call it electrotechnohiphoptwostepdubstepdancehallgrimeandthattunehemadeonabletonlive.

Strcprstskrskrk, it's your song.

B

Like a Pounding Hammer to the skull

'Alcohol oh alcohol, I love you in my brain/Alcohol oh alcohol, I never want you again, YOU MAKE ME SICK.' So sang Charged GBH at the end of their seminal (in every sense of the word) first album 'City Baby attacked by Rats.' I have a similar opinion of the devil liquor, having smashed champagne, beer, red wine, white wine and gin into my face on Friday evening at Benjamo's Birthday soiree. The unassuming pub on the ground floor made the magic grotto at the top of the stairs all the more surprising. With crystal rocks imbedded in the walls and elaborate candelabras sweating wax by the bucketload, the restuarant area had an otherworldly quality which took on Middle Earth proportions after several bottles of champers. Into this cave of delights tripped the improbably gorgeous Eurocrew(TM) late as usual but golly who cares when this lot are about. We took to the vast table with hearty abandon and tasty morsels and fermented grapes poured into our mouths from...a...giant funnel in the sky (I may have hallucinated that last bit) Speeches were made, chairs were stood on and hands and heads were waved frantically about for no apparant reason other than perhaps to maintain balance, some of the party having had the odd tipple that afternoon, ahEM. I thank God I was not of their number as I truly cannot imagine what additional drinking would have done to my hangover which was anyway ENORMOUSLY HUGE AND BIG. I was partially mollified by the news that the b'boy also suffered in extremis, though as is tradition with this drug, after one day of abstinence I was soon chugging down the Riesling like a fule. Happy Birthday Ben, now please stop aging, it's killing the rest of us.

B

Bastard Sons of Abasement

The two gurning idiots in the front of this picture are obviously responding ecstatically to yet another suave mix by the Bastard Sons of Bass, or at least one of them, the other son appears to be picking nits off the gurner's head like the Silverback he is. I can now confirm reports that Gane put the 'shame' into 'Shameless populism' by sneaking in his diabolical re-mix of 'Billie Jean'. Though key members of the Phat Black were itching for their coats on hearing this, the crowd seemed to like it, and much stomping and gyrating took place. Oddly enough, there has been no response from the venue regarding future gigs. Could it be *gasp* that they didn't like us? Nay, it cannot be so, for verily, we rocked the place, despite requests for both 'Take that' and 'Kylie' which clearly indicate the clientele we were dealing with. Apologies to loved ones who had to sit around for five hours of cheese, beforing sitting around at the post mortem gathering for yet more hours, enduring crazed robots; such is the life of a booth babe.

B

Cool Blue

It is grey and drizzling, I stare blankly at this picture hoping to gradually discern the face of Christ, Mother Theresa, or perhaps Moe from the Simpsons. Nope, all I'm getting is a raging thirst.

B

It's great when you're Tate, yeah.

Today I really can't write, but will fight through regardless. I went to see Martin Kippenberger at the Tate Modern, on the recommendation of my artist friend Collie. I thought perhaps it would provide an insight into the febrile workings of his own mind, but I'm none the wiser for the experience. Kippers was prolific in his short time on earth, though it strikes me as a tad cheeky to get an assistant to churn out a sizeable chunk of your stuff, no matter. I feel I should be providing some pithy commentary on the retrospective, but I'm a bit tired after walking the dog this morning, and nothing profound is leaping to mind. I do think though, I should take a few self portraits of me in me large grundies as this look really rocks. In the end, the Members' bar proved far more gratifying, especially after three glasses of a very nice Clare Valley Reisling, and golly don't I sound poncey. Despite Artic winds, the sun was actually shining as you can see, and provided an artful backdrop to our artless boozing. Next week I think I'll drink my way around the Bauhaus thing; art and alcohol, such delightful bedfellows.

B