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Thursday 6th Sept 2001: ...diary begins... Had a promo night at Club Noir (at Gossip's, Soho, London). Got up late then popped down to the Earache office to pick up CDs for giveaways including the first finished copies of the "Superpower" CD - looks nice to me. Also got some filthy lucre to enhance the days adventure. Met my Webmistress down at the station then off to the train - arrived in London five minutes late due to an "emergency speed restriction" - they put the smokers in the front carriage now so in the case of an accident we would be the first to be KCCCCRRRMMPPP'ed! But I guess you need a bit of a deathwish to smoke anyway...Met up with our friend Catrina then "Taxi Soho, mate." Had a few drinks outside a place called Bar Logic on Argyl Street - nice decor but shite house music - sometimes there is no escape from this loud form of musical wallpaper. Hit Club Noir - never been there before. It's pretty dark and loud and I guess the capacity is around 200. Sat around chatting to my mate Sarah (out of the The Horratii), Rog Grinder, Alex out of Leech Woman and Rex Full Tilt. The band Katscan did a cool set and then it was giveaway time. Frankie D (the promoter) thought we should do a raffle but I had other ideas - I compered a quiz in the style of a Northern comic. The first question was:
Which one of these animals has the longest ears?
a/Domestic cat
b/Dog
c/Rabbit
The flopsy won it and the Q's were all downhill from there! Then it was time to DJ - I'm not really a proper DJ - just play CDs but managed to get the floor going nicely - special respect to the guy who came dressed as a "droog" from The Clockwork Orange - baseball bat and all! The sound was a bit quiet to start with so I got Frankie to find the in-house volume limiter and crank it. Felt the bass in my stomach and that's good enough for me. Hung out drinking until too late then back to Catrina's for wine. She played "Psycho Drama" on her £3000 stereo (it wasn't my idea!) I hadn't heard it for about four years - didn't think it had dated too much just some of the beats are a bit plodding and a few of the voiceovers are a bit naff. Stumbled to bed.
Friday 7th Sept 2001: Got up about 2ish and went to "train journey from hell." I had such a bitch of a hangover...my head throbbing, body sweating, skin a funny colour and a washing machine in my stomach. Fucking horrid mobile phone noises galore which didn't help. Got home and went back to bed.
Saturday 8th Sept 2001: Went down to Nightmare, a industrial/electro club in Nottingham. Good music - a bit slower then I really like and some retro stuff but a good atmosphere overall. Respect to whoever spun "Injected With A Poison" by Pravda Khan - haven't heard that in yonks. Met up with Digby from Earache and Trev from Nightbreed. Records as well as Clive and Lisa (replete with funky red tie) from Cyberpolis. Scored a promo night in their club next week (check gigs & releases/links). Drank loads, talked shite can't remember much else.
Sunday 9th Sept 2001: Watched Superbikes on TV then went mountain biking with Digby. Unfortunately, due to last night's excesses I was violently sick five minutes before he came over. Still did about 20 miles and two pubs. The first (in a village called Cropwell Bishop) has a new hairdresser next door called "Crop-Well" - that gave us a cheap laugh. Tried doing bunny hops round gates - but no sense of balance = no joy in that department. Hit the Ferry Inn, told stupid jokes and trundled back home.
Monday 10th Sept 2001: Album launch day. You may expect pomp, circumstance and trumpets but being an obscure techno artist on an indie label it doesn't really happen like that. I should really be doing live dates around now but Rog Grinder (UV angle grinder) was meant to be in the US so they got put back. Satisfied myself with a nice cruise on my road bike - did 20.53 miles averaging 16.92mph. I fucking hate it when I get back and the cycling computer reads under 18 but considering my recent lifestyle it's hardly surprising. Also it was windy, hilly and the dog ate my homework...Spent the ride singing "Injected With A Poison" to myself and thinking about what to write in my diary. Which brings us up to date.
Tuesday 11th Sept: Woken up by Radio 4 informing me of planes hitting tall buildings - watch the TV coverage all afternoon. It's shocking, depressing and spectacular all at once. I go out walking to Earche to pick up some CDs and get interrupted by joyriders in a car park doing doughnuts and shit - have to double back to avoid being run over! Cue apocalypse fantasies. Get to Earache and notice that the Superpower CD inlay is a little "unfortunate" to say the least - when it comes out in the States some lunatic is bound to think I did it on purpose. Go to my Mum's and lose at Scrabble - there have been better days.
Wednesday 12th Sept: I do a phone interview with a nice man called Niklas from Finland. Unfortunately the first question is "So, Johnny, what do you think of the events of yesterday?" What's my name fucking Yassar Arafat or "NY Fire Chief"? Seriously I really didn't want to comment so I didn't. The BBC coverage here has been excellent except for when the "rent-a-mouths" come on talking shite, normally:
A/ How terrible it all is
B/ Cue controversial opinion
C/ How terrible it all is
D/ Cue ominous closing statement (there must be some kind of prize going for "most ominous.")
I don't know why they bother - is it to further their own careers or ,even worse, do they think their little viewpoints actually have any relevance to a tragedy of this magnitude? I don't know, but I'm certainly not joining them. The rest of the interview was fine, though. Watch "Further Tales of the Riverbank" in the evening.
Thursday 13th Sept: Was going to go for long cycle ride but the weather was shite. Joined "E Heads Must Die" - a Yahoo UV club - see links. A guy called Martin has started an argument with me about geckos. Looks like the Full Tilt promo night will include a short live set (instead of a DJ set) so I have to make loads of phone calls to make this possible. Beat my Webmistress at scrabble 370/330ish. Ha!
Friday 14th Sept: Managed a quick road ride despite the weather - 14.08 miles@17.88mph - better. Got a few encouraging e-mails about the website - thanks! Not much else going on.
Saturday 15th Sept: Grand Prix weekend from Monza the fastest circuit in F1. The tempo changes in my track "Race Face" are all accurately modelled on a quick lap - kph=bpm - many hours spent - so I know the circuit quite well from that and all the video games that it features in (Ferrari F355 challenge is my favourite). Ironically, Ferrari have taken off their death-inducing fag adverts from their cars as a mark of respect for last Tuesday - the cars look seriously crap - black nose cone or not. Nice to see J P Montoya qualify P1 - Schumacher's my fave driver but JP's got a fucking cool attitude. Barricello doesn't wear his sponsorship hat in the press conference and I was quite surprised that no-one shouted out "baldie!" I make arrangements for the evening's Cyberpolis fun - Digby seems to have a "hangover of death" - this is at about 6.30pm! He comes to pick up me and my Webmistress at 8 then we go down our local pub - The Wolds. Taxi into Nottingham is fucking late and we get cold. Meet up with my mate Paul Overall and Fahid and hit the 'polis. DJ Clive plays some smart industrial/electro/gabber stuff. Unfortunately, Lisa 'polis forgot her red tie but I'll live! Do the competition in the style of a northern comic again - but this time there's no microphone so I guess half the club didn't know what was going on. Hit them with some tough questions this time (such as "what is the diameter of a 12" single?") and move on to the DJing - think I might have drank too much (just for a change) but it seems to go well. Try to bribe DJ Clive into finding and tweaking the club's sound limiter for more volume but he's not playing ball. Digby, Paul and Fahid all disappear after my set - the fuck knows where they went. More drinks then stumble home.
Sunday 16th Sept: Race day. The build up is kind of weird as Schumacher (big) walks up and down the grid trying to encourage the drivers not to race each other around the first two corners! He doesn't normally come across as a tosser at all but everyone must have off days...if he didn't want to be there to race he should've stayed at home - it's hardly like someone's got a gun to his head or he's gonna get the sack. It's motor sport not a geo-political convention. Quite a good race, though with a lot of midfield overtaking and a few minor accidents. Montoya wins his first GP. Maximum respect. And he admits he's pleased about it instead of being "worthy." Double respect!
Have to tidy up in the afternoon as electricians are coming next week to do rewiring. Wait 'til they get a load of my recording studio - one plug into 25 pieces of hardcore machinery...they're gonna love me.
Sunday 16th Sept (part 2): Wrote up the diary (see above) at 10pm when my Webmistress came over to find an injured cat sitting by our gate. The fuck! Went to see our local "cat lady" over the road (who said I was "a very nice lad, really", ahem), phoned the emergency vet and borrowed a basket. Big fat silver tabby cat looked like his leg was broken (probably hit by a car). So we stroked it while the vet got to the vet's then went off in the car to the vet's. Wasn't as bad as it looked - probably just bruising. He soon started gobbling down the Whiskas - saved the miaow and lost the cow! Monday'll have to be spent tracking down the owners (no collar/e-tag). The fuck and bollocks!

Monday 17th Sept: After a sound one hour's sleep I bound out of bed (8.30am) to greet the electricians. They seem to know what they're doing so I try to catch some serious slumber. Unfortunately I am "banged up" half an hour later to discover they're doing the whole house at once - not room by room. Oh dear. The dining room seems a bit quiet though so I drink tea/smoke fags and listen the Needleye's demo. It's pretty intense industrial/hard techno with mega-heavy guitars, some doom-laden power synths and generic-Earache band style vocals. For a demo it sounds excellent- just the vocals could do with a bit more production and the 303 (acid) sounds layered over guitars are getting a bit cliched nowadays. I look forward to catching them live.
The electricians are now competing with Needleye in the industrial noise department - one more fag then lycra on for a cycle ride. Do 28 odd road miles pretty quick - but I nearly fall asleep at the bars. Get back and there's still no word from the vet about the cat - it's been in the "holding cell" (which isn't as bad as it sounds) all night and I don't know how long the vet will hold onto it before passing it on to the RSPCA for a possible KERRRCHUMP! We can't have it here this week as half the floorboards have been pulled up to expose live electric cables - mioawcczzzZzZzZZZ! At 3.00 my Webmistress comes over with a load of leaflets describing the "large, adult" silver tabby miaowser. So I phone the vet before we go distribute. Fucking ace! A cat fitting the above description has been reported missing a couple of streets away but they haven't collected it yet so we drop leaflets at the local supermarket, post office and pet shop. A lady in the pet shop is buying food for her new kitten and asks the shopkeeper for advice. "Whiskas kitten food is the best", he tells her in a heavy Nottingham accent. "Chicken is the most popular flavour. Yes definitely chicken. And we also sell it with duck or rabbit!" Fuck me! That shop's got it's own eco-system going on! So we laugh our way over the road to The Wolds for Kronnenberg. Too tired to talk any sense I look at the food menu which includes in it's "main dishes" sections "Scampi (half-portion), chips and peas." So I interrogate the barmaid about this. Apparently, that is only half the menu - the other half also contains scampi (full portion) as a separate dish. So I'm glad that one’s cleared up. Get home to discover a message to say the cat has now been reunited with it's owners - result!
Tuesday 18th Sept: Manage two hours sleep but waking up at around 5.30am. Think "fuck this" at 7.30 and plan a fifty mile bike ride (Newark and back.) Get out of the house to find a bottle of wine and a "thank you" card from the cat people - nice. Get as far as Radcliffe-on-Trent (5 miles) to discover that I forgot my tyre levers (implements for removing a tyre in the event of a puncture). Tempted to carry on regardless, but I don't really want to be stuck five miles from anywhere in shoes I can't walk in, so I turn tail for a few "hot laps" of Holme Pierpoint (National Watersports Centre). .Cycling computer buggers up (Sigma 800 cordless, in case you were thinking of buying one) - it's still useable but dead fiddley. Might be a good excuse to by one with a heart-rate monitor and altimeter that you can plug into the PC for fancy graphs and shit - I could post them on this site. You thought my cycling adventures go on too long as it is. Be afraid. Actually, they're £200 so I don't think I'll bother. I spend the day at my Webmistress's house. It turns out I'm definitely doing a live show at Full Tilt on Friday so I have to spend a ages talking shite on the phone to organise it. Yawn. Watch a cool "borg" episode of Star Trek: Voyager, drink loads of wine and stuff like that.
Wednesday 19th September: Another two hour's sleep. Spend another day at my Webmistress's. Don't really remember much else (I'm writing this the following Monday due to lack of computer access). Was pretty braindead.
Thursday 20th September: Up with the larks again for a thirty miler. Have to pick up some things from Earache for the next day's event. I phone up Jo Earache from a place called Long Eaton to warn her of my impending arrival. "Hi it's Johnny - I'm just nine miles away so give me about half-an-hour." But the God-of-anti-smugness-and-showing-off intervenes and I find myself heading towards a pile of broken glass with no time to stop and no room to swerve. Psss-sss-sss-sss-SSSSSS! Puncture time! Fortunately I've got all the stuff to fix it and this only takes 10 mins or so. But I decide to stay for a fag as fixing punctures REALLY FUCKING WINDS ME UP. Get to Earache - no-one notices that I'm late. Digby's been reading my diary (Sunday edition) so inquires about the cat. Go to Webmistress's house for an abortive attempt at sleep. She comes back and kindly offers to go out for food - but she refuses to buy battery eggs. Hit her with a quick "only coup 'em if you chomp 'em" style comment (which she agrees with). Gobble something or other then it's off down Rubber Biscuit Studios to prepare a backing track for tomorrow. Decide to play "Sex", "Hardcore Motherfucker", "Elektra" and "E-Heads Must Die." OK, the set's definitely a crowd-pleaser but I like pleasing crowds so that's that. Takes a bit longer to do than expected as my usual engineer (John-Paul) is of on tour but thanks a lot to Ben for doing it at such short notice. It's late so we head down Pappa's kebab shop. I have a doner and my Webmistress has chicken.
Friday 21st Sept: Slightly more sleep than recent nights. Off down the hairdresser for a KERRRCHOP to make sure no-one thinks I've become a hippy. I pretend to be in a "real hurry" as I get so fucking bored hanging around with scissors floating round my head. Then it's off down the train station for the 17.33 to London. We normally have to take a car for gigs but Rex Full Tilt has let me borrow his keyboards/DAT machine. Meet up with singer Katty who's just got back from Greece singing for someone else. Bah! Digby unexpectedly turns up as well - he's been in the pub all afternoon with his new Webmaster but doesn't seem as drunk as you might think. Down the platform to the smoking carriage - I'm the only one of us who smokes so I suppose this might be a little mean, but if I don't smoke I turn into a big red monster and start to KERCHOMP innocents. Katty seems a bit worried the train might be hijacked so it's time for the obligatory twin towers conversation. I crack a couple of "rubbish" Bin Laden jokes, cutting the seriousness short then it's time for Stella (for me and Digby) and a game of animal/things to do with animals hangman. I set the ball rolling with Killer Whale then it's Fox (Digby), Pack of Wolves (Webmistress), Red Squirrel (Katty), Coral Reef (me), Barbary Ape (Webmistress), Polar Bear (Katty, I think) and finishing off with Veal Cutlets (Digby). I spend the entire taxi journey to Camden telling Northern Comic jokes. It's only takes ten minutes so I don't really get on anyone's nerves (hopefully!) Lucky Digby's off to see a heavy metal band and we've got an hour to kill so we go down The World's End pub. Meet up with Sarah Earache who seems pretty chirpy and Catrina who seems extra specially chirpy - she's wearing fishnet tights and has just met her friend Heathcliffe (really) so that might explain it. Hook up with a lookin' fine Rosi the dancer (who seems to have forgiven me for phoning her up in the style of a Dutch porn producer at midnight a couple of weeks back) and hit the Electric Ballroom at 9 for soundcheck, which is surprisingly painless. Katty's voice is sounding better than ever - I thought someone had put on the original CD by mistake. Have to hang around to organise other stuff - without beer. Probably a good thing - if I consume more than about six pints before a show I tend to fall over. Catch Ion's soundcheck - can't believe how much they've improved since they supported me at Slimelight in '99 - they're going places, I hope. Mashing industrial doom. All done and back down The World's End for alcohol. Yum yum. Back down the Ballroom. Meet up with a few people I know for nice chats. Get introduced to some people I don't know and pretend to be a Dutch porn producer. This is met with offence by some people (who don't know I'm joking) but most find it/pretend to find it hilarious. Roj the grinder turns up and we have an important conversation about Gran Turismo 3. Apparently he's just souped up a 1000hp Lotus - nice one. 1am and it's stage time. Rosi has been joined by dancer no2 Laura who looks a bit funky. I want to introduce myself (to the audience) by saying (in a Dutch accent) "Hi my name's Johnny from Assen, Holland. For sure I have the hardest cock in porn but I also make techno. This is called Sex." Unfortunately someone starts the backing prematurely so I don't - maybe it's for the best! Show goes excellently with lots of insane dancing and applause. "Full Tilt motherfuckers - bass - C’MON!" When I say things like that and the bass kicks in and crowd goes wild I feel like I'm piloting a fast jet. I find live shows cathartic and genuinely fun at the same time. In the more emotional songs I sometimes want to cry - but that’s not on the agenda tonight. Strobes buzz, sparks fly - I’m on top of the world. “Thanks a lot Full Tilt and good fuckin’ night.” BANG! Finish all 18'37" (shortest UV show ever) and go back to the dressing room. Get drunk, talk shite, tell jokes, wind people up. My adrenaline's still running by the litre and I'm having fun. Say "bye"s and "thanks" then it's taxi to Catrina's for loads of red wine and bed (about 5ish). Hit the pillow and drop down dead.
Saturday 21st September: Resurrected around 12.45 - Catrina brings Burger King and we go down the pub. Nice day - sit outside and I pounce on the fact that one of Catrina's single friends sounds a bit like a warthog. Invent a small ad - "Lovesick warthog seeks strong leopard to eat her. GSOH." Car to station - Webmistress does some ace Archers (BBC Radio 4 soap set on a farm) impressions. Get train. manage a quick game of bear/bear related hangman. I nearly get hung by "koala" so I'm probably still a bit too tired. Home to bed.
Sunday 22nd September: Slob out in front of TV. Cool documentary on the subject "Do Sharks Eat People On Purpose Or Not?" The conclusion appears to be the latter as we are normally mistaken for seals or turtles when we're KERCHOMPed. Also, about one person a year dies from a shark attack - if we were being deliberately hunted the figure would be more like one a minute. That's some KERCHOMPing - perhaps I should revise the interests/animals section.
Monday 23rd September: Electricians haven't left yet so it's up by 8.45 for bootcamp. It's been raining all night and the ground outside looks well slimey so I decide to take out the mountain bike. The last time I rode in these conditions I jumped off a curb (outside a Nottingham's Ocean nightclub) in the dark - crossing the handlebars to give the punters a facefull of 12.5watt halogen lights. Landed in the slippery stuff and went flying. Banged my chest up real bad and was ill for a couple of weeks. That and the internal bruising. So I don't fancy riding the road bike with it's 23mm wide tyres in these conditions. Off I go. I get to Wollaton Park (about 4 miles) and I spot an obese people carrier lumbering it’s way towards the park’s golf course stringently obeying the 15mph speed limit. My course of action is clear - going into turbo mode I come up right behind doing about 20mph (this is probably an exaggeration) then swerve for the overtaking manoeuvre. The front wheel washes out on the gunk and before I know what’s happening I’m sideways on the road sans bike. The fuck! I slide along for a bit (collecting rotting leaves) then stop. I get up slowly as to discover I’m not hurt at all! Luckily, the gunk and slime that had me off also saved me from “tarmac in limbs.” So I get right back on and continue to the exit on the other side. It’s locked with a sign saying:“Deer are calfing and can be VERY aggressive.” So I go to the next exit to read the same sign again. Have visions of a comedic deer-bicycle chase. I don’t know why they don’t just reintroduce wolves to keep the deer population down and to save me from getting GALLLLOPPPPed! So I go on to find the third exit which has a disinfectant bath to stop the spread of foot and mouth disease. So now I understand. After a road or two I reach north Nottingham’s canal network and get home a couple of hours later with thirty miles under my belt (probably competing with my blubber for space!) Spend the afternoon looking at the massive lump that will turn into bruise on my leg and writing up this diary.. I’m just halfway through today’s entry when CCCRRRRCCCHHHHUUUMMPPPPP! The fucking hard drive on my PC fails and won’t reboot…so…
Tuesday 24th Sept: Spent last night worrying about losing stuff but it looks like it’s OK - the diary has been recovered and we’ll be posting it on the site tonight if we can upload other stuff. So, if you’re reading this on the above date it worked. If you’ve spent the past three weeks thinking “that bastard never updates his site” then it didn’t. I’m writing this at my Webmistress’s and now I’m off for beer.
Tuesday 24th Sept (cont): I'm writing this on Friday's train journey to London (see Friday) and I can't remember what I wrote about Tuesday on Tuesday (see Tuesday). This is the cause of any repetition. So, I took the (bastard) computer to Millenium Music Software (see links, if they do a good job) and explained the problem to Aftab the "tech-man".
"Two weeks" he told me, "we have a backlog of nine computers at the moment." Bah! Being in my position (signed, selling CDs but not charting) it's hard to know whether to state "I AM Ultraviolence" or not. If someone's heard of me I get top service. If not I get labelled as "wanker" and so the reverse applies. I decided to abstain but mentioned that the website/e-mails are really important. Fortunately, I haven't been writing music since I bought the thing a few months ago - that could've been a serious bitch, as I gather that hard drive recoveries can be a bit hit and miss. Aftab reckons fixed by Friday which isn't too bad. My mum lives near the shop so I dropped in for a game of scrabble. Two games - 370/290ish to her and 390/310ish to me. Hang on, I'll try phoning her for a more accurate version...no, she's out, never mind. Went to my Webmistress's house to try to download the site onto her computer...no luck. Back to mine for Pizza Hut and red wine. Got drunk.
Wednesday 25th Sept: I intended to spend this week writing up the interests and biography sections of the site, but as that's been castrated and because of the godawful weather, I languished hungover in bed until 4 when Frank from Flag promotions phoned me up.
"How you doing, man?" I asked him.
"Not that great" he snuffled, "I've got the flu. What are you doing on Friday?"
"Nothing for nosies" I didn't reply.
"It's just Lords of Acid have pulled out of a club I'm doing - Hellfire. So I was wandering..."
So I phoned Roger and Katty - Roger was avaliable but Katty wasn't as she's got a gig in Manchester. Annoyingly enough Tee (who sings on "Separation and is also my "back-up" live singer) also plays in her band (The Herb Birds). Rosi was also busy. So I decided the best thing would be a DJ set with angle grinding - better a class A DJ set than a class B live show - that's my motto. God, I hate writing with paper and pen and I've got a fucking sore hand so that's enough Wednesday.
Thursday 26th Sept: My hand's still sore so I'll be brief;
a/ Went cycling.
b/ Started organising Bristol gig.
c/ Genius Webmistress managed to update site.
d/ Got drunk and watched "The Sopranos" series two, final episode.
Friday 27th Sept: OK, it's competition time. Question - "Which part of my body hurts real bad?"
a/Foot
b/Mouth
c/Hand
The first person to post the correct answer to this immense puzzler on the Yahoo UV club board (see links) wins a signed 3 track promo CD (featuring exclusive remix of "Sex") and another UV CD of your choice. You'll know if you've won when you get there - if you have mail me your address. Please try to be British to keep my postal bills down.
So anyway, earlier today Ian from Disillution in Sheffield phoned me up. I'm playing a gig for him supporting (bah!) Covenant next month. I've never heard their music but I hear they're pretty good. First person there to buy me beer wins a promo CD and a diary mention. The train's getting close to London now so I'll conclude today's adventures later. Hopefully on a keyboard.

STOP PRESS! For reasons that will become apparent I haven't been keeping the diary lately so here are some edited and (probably) inaccurate highlights of the last few weeks.
Friday 27th Sept(cont):
· Get fucking slow tube to Brixton.
· Hang around the venue - no-one's there.
· Get let in. Venue is massive great big church with maze-like corridors and stairs to get lost in and fall down.
· Watch Katscan's soundcheck. Ask them if they fancy a UV remix.
· Meet Rog Grinder and Sarah Earache. Hit pub 'til 1am.
· Back to the venue - show has been put back to 3am.
· Throw an artistic tantrum about lack of beer. Feel a bit silly afterwards.
· Meet Mark out of Cubenate - he's given up the drink and looks about ten years younger than he has any right to do.
· Do DJ set + Northern comic routine. Goes OK except I think some people really wanted to see Lords of Acid and there's a slight stage invasion of dancers in varying states of inebriation.
· Hang around 'til 6am talking shite.
· Get tube and train back to Nottingham. Webmistress kindly picks me up as I'm a bit fucked to say the least.
· Go to bed (11am)
Sunday 29th Sept:
· Hakkinen wins US GP.
· Develop nasty big spot on leg so no cycling.
Weds 3rd Oct - Thurs 11th Oct:
· Spot goes to be replaced by totally fucking evil cough and cold.
· Do nothing all week - lie in bed watching shite TV and listening to the news which just seems to go talibantalibanTALIBANTALIBANT-A-L-I-B-A-NanthraxTTAALLIIBBAANNNNN!!!! in my fucking face, constantly trying to hypnotise me. I SUBMIT! I WILL DIE!
Friday 12th Oct:
· Get up early (12ish) for recording studio to do backing for Saturday's London gig.
· Beat Ferrari F355 Challenge's championship mode - well chuffed. See interests/videogames when I get that far down the alphabet.
· Giles (journalist/Needleye's manager/rudest person I know) phones me up. "Your website is the most self-indulgent thing I've ever read!" he says, going on to snout for a Needleye quote from me.
"Well, you it's free and you don't have to read it!" I reply, thinking of a few self-indulgent things to write about him. But luckily I've forgotten them all.
· Decide to "will" myself better by cycling to the studio - doesn't work - just cough and sweat more than ever.
· John Paul's back off tour so engineers the session. He entertains me by quoting his fave videogame, Hogs of War. "Die little piggy" he screams "little piggy sizzle and make bacon!" he continues all the way to the pub. Ace!
· Backing track sounds excellent - best UV set ever easily.
· Go home for a healthy meal of kebabs.
Saturday 13th Oct:
It's gig day so obviously I must be conscientious. So it's up at 5.30am to check the Grand Prix qualifying. Actually, I'm not that heroic as I fall asleep half way through. Schumacher is in pole I gather later. Good. Fast forward to 2pm and we're off down the M1 (long, hypnotic and ultimately evil UK motorway from Nottingham to London) to get our 5pm soundcheck. John Paul is doing the sound tonight and is in good form:
"Fry barbie FRY!" he states to innocent service station customers "Sianara little piggies!" he continues until we're coffeed and fagged up enough to leave. Get to the venue on time to be greeted by rudeboy Giles who uses his sophisticated social skills to introduce me to Needleye's singer:
"This is the guy who wrote that your vocals are cliched!" he tells him.
"Hello" I vocally fumble before running off to soundcheck. With JP doing the sound the whole process takes around ten minutes - the only hiccup is that when I start shouting into the microphone my chest feels like it's just been shot out and the ribcage removed. Total pain for around 30 secs then I'm OK. The promoter, Frank D pays me early so I hope I don't collapse and die before the performance. So off down the pub for drinks, then. Have a couple but still feel like shite. Hotfoot it back to the venue to checkout Needleye. As I thought they're much better live than their demo suggests - it's a bit like early Misery Loves Co only updated with more extreme electronic sounds - can't really tell about the songwriting but that's just missing the point. Back down the pub for a pre-destined meeting with Adam. He is 6'2" of pure booking agent. I really need an agent as (as you may have noticed) my gigs have been a bit thin on the ground of late. I've had quite a lot of mails asking me to play here-there-and-everywhere and the reason I haven't been playing in your designated zones isn't because I hate you - merely because I've been booking all gigs myself. If you've got this far into the diary section you will have realised by now that I am EXTREMELY lazy when it comes to anything that involves "real life" - so few gigs. However, Adam seems really cool and if next year I'm playing places near you you'll know he's doing a good job.
Time flies when you're in the pub so off at 9.30 for 10.00 stage time. Gig seems to go really well but I have moments of profound illness whilst onstage - my proclamations of angst are not confined to "existential" pain. In fact, I nearly think of getting someone to call "medic" halfway through but I'm OK. The track "Separation" makes me cry (but only in an "existential" sense!) No-one notices as I'm wearing shades. We hang around and talk shite for a while then back up the M1 (arrghh!) for Nottingham. Give JP an ace game of Sega Rally (one-all) in the services while Katty and Webmistress (who's been driving in fog for 4 (FOUR!) fucking hours) help themselves to some well earned M1 breakfast grub. Then it's home for wine and bed(?)
Sunday 14th Oct:
Stay up 'till 7am for the GP but fall asleep again. Watch the full rerun in the afternoon. Schumacher blitzs the opposition - a fitting end to a slightly prolonged season. Feeling real shit and do nothing else today or tommorow.
Tuesday 16th Oct:
Lied up in bed so figure out how to spend Saturday's filthy lucre:
a/save it
b/spend it on a "turbo trainer" (fancy exercise bike to keep me fit all winter)
c/buy Playstaion 2/Gran Turismo 3 racing pack + memory card + extra controller.
I decide to do the sensible thing...
Wednesday 17th Oct:
First impressions - the intro sequence sure is great until the godawful "rawk" music kicks in. Give Webmistress a few two player games until she goes to bed - now it's time for a serious road test. As GT2 was my favourite game ever and I've just shelled out £270 for the same thing with better graphics it's bound to be a slight anti-climax. However, I'm having fucking excellent fun. Watch out for full GT3 review/dork stuff in Interests/videogames - coming soon, as we say.
Thursday 25th October:
Still not very well at all - had a couple of aerobic (ie slow and boring) cycle rides in the week to try and perk myself up. Nothing else to report and I don't feel any better at all. Catrina has agreed to drive us for today's gig in Southampton so at 1.30pm her, me, Katty and her mate Jaz set off. We think up a cool name for Catrina's ensuing racing team: "REENA SPEED/C.A.T. MOTORSPORT" - don't get as far as deciding what C.A.T. stands for but the fun's there. Maybe "Catrina Automotive Transport" - a made up HGV business. Most motor racing teams have extremely run-of-the-mill backers - Ferrari are basically Fiat in disguise, for example. How sad is that? And Benneton, anyone? Anyway, after the first M42 "pitstop" Jaz gets his smelling salts out. "Try this" he says "it really clears your system out." I've never tried smelling salts before so give it a whirl - imagine having a kebab skewer shoved down your left nostril with accompanying feeling of nausea to replicate the effect. Not pleasant.
"This is fucking horrible!" I complain to Jaz's amusement, "fuck this - fucking DISGUSTING!" I continue. However, by the next pitstop I've forgotten all about it as my chest feels like it's gonna explode into a terminal heart attack. I look at all the vehicles entering and leaving the services then more distant yet more noisy motorway then at Catrina leaving the service shops and think how it would be if this was the last thing I ever saw. However, obviously it wasn't. I extinguish my cigarette and return to the car feeling worried and humbled by the feeling of how little it would affect that around me if I were to die. The merry-go-round continues to swing. Jaz cheers me up a bit:
"You know that twat Pete Waterman?" he asks
"Yes." Pete Waterman is a co-judge on a mildly diverting TV show called "Pop Idol" on ITV - his job (as is three others) is to pick would-be-stars from auditions of thousands to be whittled down to 50. They then are subjected to a viewers vote. The winner gets recording/management contract for a year. God knows what kind of contract - but they'll be famous. Ace!
"He thinks he's the shit and deserves a slap" Jaz continues. The consensus in the car seems to be that, in the context of "Pop Idol" Pete Waterman is "the shit" as he's produced/written tens/hundreds of hit singles. The problem Jaz has, and shares with a lot of others, is the rudeness and perceived arrogance of Pete and his fellow judges. I don't consider it a problem. It's merely useful preparation. I've known people in the music business purposefully lie, mislead, backstab and even blatantly steal whilst metaphorically hand shaking/back slapping. If you can't take a bit of harsh criticism then you're simply better off out of it. Would it were not so.
So, approaching Southampton, then. The place is a serious one-way-system maze. Get to the venue 45 minutes late after several abortive phone calls/asking strangers for directions. I probably should be stressed but experience - rightly - tells me not to be. When we arrive we are offered coffee/beer and invited to sit in the dressing room whilst the sound engineer fixes a lead. Eventual soundcheck is fine and we partake of fine Southampton pizza hospitality before hitting a few pubs. Ten minutes before supposed stage time Roger and Rosi show up Rosi is sporting a charismatic black jacket with an impressive red armband sort of arrangement.
"Have you become a Nazi?" I ask, doing my best impersonation of child-like innocence.
"No, I haven't. Of course I'm not a Nazi," she replies.
"Oh, sorry, I just thought…" Of course I'm just playing around and being silly. Even more silly am I when I go down the street (the stagetime has been delayed so it's back to the pub) singing "Sieg Heil, Deustchland!" in a comedy German accent. It's really fucked up that I have to put in a disclaimer here to say I'm not a fascist/Nazi at all - but the tongues of idiots wag so I just did.
Enough of the rant. Show is ace but a bit quieter than I like. People up front do a "Let's All Chant" style "Oo Oo" during "E-Heads Must Die" - bizarre yet fun. Get hunted down backstage afterwards for an autograph/FAQ session - fine with me. People pay for my gigs/records so two minutes of my time is hardly a problem. Funniest comments goes to a "slightly" inebriated girl. "I think you should carry on doing gigs and making albums!" she tells me several times with subtle variations. Advice noted!
Bye then to the friendly and nice Southampton posse and back to three hours full on motorway action. Jaz and Katty fall asleep so, ironically, me and Catrina have a cool conversation about nightmares and play word games. Back in Nottingham we wake up Webmistress, drink wine, talk shite and go to sleep.
Saturday 27th October:
Feeling a lot better after mucho sleep yesterday - actually want to get out of bed and see people which makes a change from the last few weeks. Rog is driving us up to Sheffield in his van and so we await him - he's stuck in gridlock just outside London. Oh dear! Do we wait for him or go in Webmistress's car? We're either gonna be late or waste £30 on petrol driving up only for the soundcheck to be delayed. Experience tells me the former so we wait. By fluke or divine intervention we (me, Webmistress, Rog, Katty and her boyfriend Shaun) actually arrive on time only to be told that the headline act (Covenant) are only just starting their soundcheck - there you go! Earwig a hilarious conversation between (presumably) Covenant's (Swedish) manager and co-promoter Katherine. "Zis" he says, holding a cardboard box full of tin cans, "zis is no goot! We want proper Coke - not zis de-caf diet sheet!" So to the pub, then. It's 6pm. I E.T.A. soundcheck at 7.45 (doors are at 8) - no one believes me, though.
7.45pm - don't really like being right on these occasions but our soundcheck has just begun. Everyone around me seems wound up but I don't really see the point. It's best just to get on with it. Which we do and we're finished in around half an hour (the doors are held back.) Meet up with our mate Claire-Lise and her and Webmistress go off on a dancer hunt (Rosi couldn't make it.) They come back with three cool looking girls who we get backstage and ply with beer. They are all dead cool and "up for it" Respect to them and especially Jen - thanks for the photos - we'll post 'em soon. We take to the stage early (9.22pm) and I don't expect much. We're supporting (although billed as "special guests" which is normally just an ego-massage) and it's really too early for people to get off their tits to my music. However, I'm really pleasantly surprised as it turns out to be our best gig of the year so far. Most people are standing at the bar as we start but by the end we have a sweating throng at our fingertips. I once again cry during "Separation" (my favourite track I've ever written) and take my glasses off - parading my pain. Not sure if anyone notices, though. Stick around and meet Covenant, who seem like cool people and Ian and Katherine (the promoters, who did an excellent job) then bored with backstage we head to the bar. I realise that Chris from Infest (Industrial/Electro festival) owes me a drink. "Triple vodka and orange" I tell him. I haven't drunk vodka for three years - the last time I put my left hand through a window. Luckily the window came off worse. Several triples later we're back in the van.
"Bass for your face, motherfucker!" I yell at the top of my voice (quoting that mega Public Domain track). No-one takes any notice. "Bass for your face, MOTHERFUCKER!!!" I scream. Still no response. We stop at an M1 service station which has a shooting game for two players.
"C'mon Rog," I shout, "I kill your family, your fucking friends, your associates then finally you! I kill you with this fucking gun, " brandishing the plastic pink semblance of a killing machine in his face whilst slobbering pound coins into the slot. We play. I lose. He then takes on Claire-Lise, who has been looking on. "Hey, fucking look at them," I yelp to anyone who'll listen in an anti-social fashion, "it's fucking Chris from The Soprano's and Seven of Nine!" (Which is actually quite accurate.) They finish their game - can't remember who won. Everyone is calmly drinking coffee now. "Hey, who wants to see my impression of an upside down beetle?" I taunt, rolling around on the floor on my back flailing my limbs around. "I am a godamn upside down beetle" I continue. I notice the service station security man eyeing me up so I approach him. "I'm sorry!" I say "just having fun. Do you want me to leave?"
"No, you're alright" the friendly 50-something man smiles back. That was really nice of him - he had every cause to chuck me out but instead chose just to be ten times cooler than I'm being. So back in the van then…
"Bass for your face, MOTHERFUCKER" I scream at the top of my lungs, gulping down what must be around my 12th bottle of beer. Once again, I get no-one's attendance so I up the ante. "This fucking war" I say, "what kind of a fucking war is it when we're just drinking and having fun and innocent people are being bombed to bits! So they're on the other side of the fucking world so we should sleep the fuck good! What the fuck good is that? I don't wanna fucking bomb anyone! What the fuck?" I get subdued murmurs of approval but that's not enough. I continue this tirade right back to Nottingham with various decibel levels of shouting. So I'm in a band, in a van, off my face and making incoherent anti-war statements? Grow my hair long and I'll be a hippy!
We drop off a (probably thankful-it's-over) Katty and Shaun then it's back to mine for more drinks. I challenge Rog to a game of Gran Turismo 3. "You will lose!" I state repeatedly in a Russian accent (quoting Rocky IV) before losing really badly. Eventually Rog and Claire-Lise leave and Webmistress goes to bed leaving me with my last lines of attack - wine and mobile phone. Probably going through my entire address book I phone people up (it's now 4ish am) and bug them. ["I love you man....I really love you" - as heard by me from the bedroom - Webmistress] Can't really remember much else about it but I think most of the above is fairly accurate. Moral of the tale? If your name's Johnny and you play hardcore then "lay off the fuckin' booze, why doncha?" (Quote from "Day of the Dead.)
Friday 16th November:
"Who the fuck do you think you're looking at? No, don't ignore me. I said "who the fuck do you your stinking fucking eyes think they're observing right now?" That's not what I said? So fuck you. You like this gun? You like it in your face? Did I say gun? No, I just ran out of ammo. So here's a fucking baseball bat. Make you look pretty like a peach or a fucking watermelon, cocksucker!" THWACK!
As you may have gathered by now I've just spent the previous three weeks playing Grand Theft Auto 3 (gangster simulating game) on my Playstation 2. It's fucking ace - possibly the most immersive videogame I've ever played. In fact, I've been playing it so much that when I close my eyes I am IN the game. And in the last three weeks I have done zilch else noteworthy - but today is a gig day so I'm up five hours earlier than normal - midday. Katty's due over at 1.30 so I spend some time playing Grand Theft Auto 3. Katty arrives on time and I really should load the car up to go. However;
"Yo Katty check this out" I yelp, strangely animated for this time of day, ushering her to the lounge and drawing her attention to the oversized television that dominates the room. "You wanna see this fuckin' game before we leave."
"OK, then" she replies. I go to my lockup and produce a tank. I drive up a ramp to the street which contains police cars, taxis, other civilian vehicles and pedestrians.
"Watch this!" I proceed to destroy several innocent motorists with cannonfire and squish a few urban ramblers under my metal tracks. The police are now on my trail so I exit the 16 ton motherfucker and equip the rocket launcher. "Watch this!" I shoot and bring down a police helicopter then steal a police car, do several handbrake turns etc, run over more civilians until my virtual squad car is in flames. I exit, only to be burnt to a crisp by it's inevitable BOOOM!!! "Motherfucking!" I proclaim.
"That's really excellent!" Katty says "just like being in a film!" Which it nearly is - gimme ten years fast forward and it will be. So I load the car with Webmistress and off we drive to Bristol. Get stuck in traffic a lot - I maintain contact with the promoter, Ant, although I know there's really no need - bloody mobile phones - the symptom. The cause? Nervous waffle or people pretending to be busy - either way a waste of time. Anyway, we get there a bit late but the PA isn't set up anyway. Ant seems like a really nice bloke and directs us to the nearest pub - all of twenty paces - nice! Unfortunately that convenience makes us easy to find so it's back to the venue again for soundcheck. I set up the backing track and it's blasting out but sounds a little dull. I ask the sound engineer (who speaks like an extra from The Archers (UK farming radio drama/soap) for his opinion. "Ah" he says to me "now I don't want to sound offensive but have you had a little drink today?"
"Yes," I reply, "half a pint of lager" wishing I'd had more.
"Now you see" he continues "if you have been drinking your ears suffer and you can't hear some of the frequencies!"
"That's true" I reply, "but I haven't been drinking. Is there any other reason it might sound like I can't hear properly?"
"Well, we had a band in recently who blew a couple of the mid-range speakers so that might be that it suppose!"
And so it continues for the next hour until we have an acceptable level of audio coherence. We're kindly offered a Chinese meal which Katty has. I abstain as I feel bloated eating before gigs and drag Webmistress back to the pub. Shortly we return to the venue to find the rider all in order so I drink in a kind of introverted/nervous way. I get chatting to Ross from the support band, Gotecki, about backing tracks. I always use DAT (Digital Audio Tape) but I worry that it might fuck up (tapes snap/heads go) so am considering using mini-disc instead. Ross informs me that they did a gig using mini-disc and it skipped. AGGHHHH! They're now using an MP3 player but the hard drive is apparently a bit erratic. No easy solution, then. I later decide to continue with DAT as it hasn't let me down - yet. I live in fear…
Rosi and Rog arrive after prolonged (6 hour!) trips from London and stage time arrives. The place is heaving - I'm kind of guilty of liking quiet places when I'm out just for fun but I love it when I'm playing somewhere busy to over capacity. I commence the hour's full on hardcore fun with my Northern Comic routine and give away some CDs.
"Question number one" I start (people in the front row look at me like they can't believe it's me - maybe they should log on to this page more often!) "which one of these animals lives in the sea - a/elephant b/giraffe or c/porpoise." I continue for three CDs worth then onto the main course. The gig is a bit fucking mad with lots of slam dancing/standing on speakers etc. Great for me but I suppose small people pay for tickets too! I end the gig by "competitioning" away one of my trashed keyboards. I learn later that it's the birthday of the girl who won it. Nice and ahhh! So backstage again and time to get properly pissed. Sucking up Stella by the litre someone from the venue approaches me. "There's some people who'd really like to meet you - it'd make their night" I am informed.
"BAH" I summon from my enlarged gut "send them to me!"
A troop of four slightly gothic beings arrive and we are introduced - they seem quite friendly so they stay for a chat. "Can I have a diary mention?" one of them asks.
"Yes you can" I reply. "Write your names on this piece of paper." He writes and passes it back. It reads Greedy Bi, Chris, James and Rob. It is noticed that the reverse side of the paper contains an advert for a lost cat (see September.)
"So you really did find a lost cat? I thought it was all made up."
"No. None of the diary is made up. I just use flowery language so it probably sounds made up." Note - If it was made up I'd probably be flying F16's or going into space or some shit.
And so we leave the friendly Bristol posse and to be honest I'm absolutely blitzed from alcohol and hardcore. I strike up a conversation with poor Katty about lesbians while she passes me can after can of Stella and Webmistress listens helplessly to my incoherent rantings. The journey passes quicker for me than anyone else and we're back in Nottingham to meet up with Rog who's staying over for the weekend. We play a bit of Gran Turismo 3 and he phones up Claire-Lise, who can't join us as she's got to work at 8 in the morning. (It's currently about 3.30.)
"Give the phone over here" I yelp with enthusiasm "c'mon come over - you can miss work can't you. What the fuck are you doing - come round and get drunk and play Gran Turismo - it's dead fucking good!" I guess she's had better offers so me and Rog play whilst a disgusted Webmistress pops off to bed. Can't really remember who won but I wouldn't exactly put money on myself. Virtually and in reality I crash…
Saturday 22nd December:
So a month later, then. Nothing of note to report except for furious "'til 7.30am" playing of Tony Hawk's Pro Skater 3 sessions. I (or Webmistress (can't remember)) bought this game without reading a review 'cos we loved TH2 on the Dreamcast so much. I used never to buy games without reading reviews but now most of the magazines seem to have a direct relation between "score for game" and "advertising revenue from games company"…so the only mags I really trust are Edge (which is ace - although a little dorkworthy at times) and Channel 4's teletext service. So how chuffed am I to discover that TH3 is totally fucking amazing…get it now as recommended by TeamUVR.com…sponsored by Activision…just kidding. The soundtrack is noteworthy from the outset…Motorhead playing "The Ace Of Spades" - how cool is that? (Very, to me anyway). Buried beneath the usual generic college rock/skatepunk dirge of the rest is an ace KRS1 track (I'm a longtime fan of his) and some "song" that starts exactly like Atari Teenage Riot and then goes into the usual college rock/skatepunk dirge…weird shit, man. What next…an Ultraviolence remix of a Blink 182 track? Um, no. It would more "cheque out" than "check out." Anyway, can anyone beat my 850,000+ score on the Cruise Ship level? Post it on the message board if you're hard enough.
With no gigs planned 'til May I have been slacking a bit - well, a lot. I've got loads of ideas for new material but my studio's still in bits - I can see it right now - it's all unplugged cables and shiny new black boxes to learn - AGHHH! Really better get my head together and get on with it, though…
So back to the date in question…9.30pm and I've just finished dinner. Well, probably more drinks than dinner but there you go. Webmistress is a bit tired so I order a taxi to take me to the Nightbreed Xmas party at the Old Vic. It arrives at 10.30 and I'm completely fucking bladdered. The taxi stops outside the venue in question and I stumble out…stupefied…my mate Mark, Nightbreed's accountant is on the door so I'm allowed in free. "They just played Elektra" he tells me "it went down really well." This comment penetrates my alcoholic daze and pleases me. I enter the venue and, after buying myself a drink, get chatting with Clive and Lisa (the red tie returns) from Cyberpolis…they both seem well and happy which is nothing short of good. Then I spy Digby from Earache with his new bird Tammi in tow. "Ha ha" I shout, approaching him from the left side of the bar "how are you?"
"Good, Johnny, good" he says, "they just played Elektra in here…it went down so well it's embarrassing!" Hmm…
The drinks start flowing in true hardcore style. The rest of the evening I spend honestly more the fuck off my face than in quite long time…I talk to people but don't remember who they are or what I've said only seconds after the conversation ceases to exist…or did it exist? Um, dunno otherwise I might have typed up a couple of them. Tammi drags me onto the dance floor. I haven't danced for eons so I start doing karate kicks instead. I learn later they're about waist high so considering that Tammi must be about 5'6" it's less than impressive. And so the blur continues until the 2am closing time when I find myself in a darkened street with about ten other people looking for taxis. "This is how to catch a fucking taxi!" I yelp, swaying into oncoming traffic with my arm in the air. None of them stop, preferring to swerve to avoid the uncontrolled body in their path. So I start walking home whilst continuing the hazardous tactic. Eventually a grey saloon car pulls up.
"Where do you want to go, mate?"
"Um…West Bridgford, please."
"That'll be five pounds."
"Yeah, fine."
"I need it upfront, mate."
Nothing strikes me as unusual about this as I produce my wallet and begin to pull out a note…then the driver's hand exits the indow…SNATCH…VROOOMMMMM Silence. It's amazing how fast crime happens…no dramatic music…no camera angles…nothing. Just so quick and I'm left walletless and dazed and everything seems so quiet. So I carry on walking home occasionally tapping the pocket where my wallet was…checking/wishing the whole thing had been a drunken hallucination. Eventually I flag down a "real" taxi…I explain my situation and that I have money at home but the driver seems much more interested in the possibility of fraud.
"You pay me, mate" he says repeatedly before he escorts me to my front door where I have to ding-dong the bell a fucking lot before my poor father comes to answer. The experience has quite sobered me up so I'm persuaded to call the police who are quite nice about the whole thing…I feel like a complete fucking twat for being so stupid and gullible…which is the last thing I am when sober but what the fuck…it happened. Always victims of crime (which I'm not with a capital V and C but I am "a victim" nonetheless) feel like it was their fault but it really wasn't my fucking fault…I'm not some kind of SCUMBAG COCKSUCKER that cruises round town looking for people to rip off, mug, deceive or anything remotely similar…I just want to get on with my life and if that means getting too pissed too be in control then it's up to me…I'm not harming anyone. When you consider that the perpetrator was driving (presumably) his own car it just gets worse. I doubt if I could afford a fucking car (Gran Turismo excepted) even if I wanted one so it's not exactly Robin Hood. Maybe if it had been someone genuinely destitute I would say "enjoy the £50 cash, enjoy the Blockbuster video card and it's not so bad that it costs £80 to have a lock changed…" but that's not what happened…I just think "fuck you…I don't care if you're alive or dead…I don't care what happens to you…I don't care if you have feelings or not…your whole life has been defined to me by one action…" Lack of empathy, like violence, global or local, is contagious. A waste.