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In the name of Satan's portion...
Pact Two - A Cat Amongst A Haunt Of Wolves
Greetings from my deathbed.
Normally I would appreciate the rampant ovation that accompanies such a
statement, but my head is feeling like one of those Japanese paper
lanterns today and about as stable as the fission reactor at Chernobyl
was seconds prior to meltdown. In short, I am obviously terminally ill,
so please honor a dying man's wish by bearing with me, because the
paragraphs that lie ahead are rocky and fraught with danger and
according to my Penguin Book Of Serious Ailments, I am suffering from
excessive evacuation of verbal faeces - only I'm not just talking shit,
but I'm passing it unbottled as well.
This month's classic adventure in Chunderland comes courtesy of that
which is usually strictly anathema to the hallowed pages of Metal Hammer
- the Kerrang! Music Awards. Taboo-pooper that I am (and because Music
For Nations had kindly gotten the Right Reverend Nicholas Bastard and
myself invitations for the evening), I decided that it would be an ideal
opportunity for me to do a bit of investigative journalism, get
exceedingly drunk and annoy as many of my potential peers as possible.
Well, two out of three would still make for an interesting
evening...I've never been much of a journo, so I borrowed a few
introductory cards from flame-haired reviews guru Dan Silver, adding the
word 'Filth' to his name in biro for further effect. Dan 'Silver' Filth.
Sounded good - very metal, and dead suave to boot. I broke my Dictaphone
out of perpetual retirement (i.e. I put some batteries in it) and like a
gangly-legged spider, scurried out with the intention of ensnaring
anyone of notoriety that came writhing my curious grasp. And would you
Adam and Eve it, it bloody well worked.
Despite the same crappy question, "Can I ask what you thought of the
Kerrang! Awards tonight?", I had brief but eloquent conversations with a
plethora of exotic stars, most of whom were unaware of my true identity
as Chaos Lord Thule, Progenitor and Archdeacon Of Fear to Hell and all
it's tireless minions.
Among those worth hollering about were Page 3 dream queen Jo Guest (her
"it was really nice" hardly reeks of verbosity, but as someone witty
once said, "Who wants to shag Bamber Gascoigne?), Joe Elliott (complete
with new frightwig), Julia Valet (I could've been cruel and asked her
about music), Lemmy, LG Petrov (who was nursing a hangover at the
beginning of the evening), Jonathan Davis, Bruce Dickenson, etc.
Former Big Breakfast host Zoe Ball was obviously having herself a good
time, judging by the comment she made that she was feeling "loose" -
something, admittedly, she did correct rather quickly, bless her
heart... though you should've been witness to the expectant rapture that
came across our drummer's suddenly cherubic face for a few magical
moments.
I won't bore you frigid with the awards results themselves, but the
usual slew of artistes gathered their trophies: Jon Bum Gravy, Marilyn
Manson, The Prodigy, et al. Although some of the bigger names didn't
pick them up in person, they did interrupt their holidays to grace us
with a little speech on the video wall (and that's possibly why there
were very few spare invites floating around for the likes of me).
Fair enough, I am being sarcastic, although by no means am I attempting
an underhanded slur on Kerrang! or the awards ceremony at all... For the
most part, it was an extremely prestigious event; the atmosphere was
eclectic, the food, and especially the drink, was abundant, and most
importantly, everybody appeared to be having an enjoyable time, which is
the main reason that we're in this fair game, industry, press and bands
alike (although, you might argue, cash 'n' all.)
I would conjecture that all's well that ended well, but it seems
somewhat ironic that if I hadn't been mixing my drinks like henbane and
rue for a good 11 hours that night, I might very well have felt human
today. So, before I depart to view whatever fresh cruelties nature has
inflicted upon my insides (via my mouth, of course), I will finale with
two further items of interest.
Firstly; early morning-ish, Columbia Hotel, Hyde Park, Henry from
pist.on (our table companions for the show) slaps Ricky Warwick for
telling him to keep his noise down at so late an hour... (well, I
thought it was funny). And secondly...
Does anybody remember the altercation 'twixt Cradle Of Filth and the
band formally known as Manhole? There's no point in resurrecting it now,
but let's just say Nasty Spice Tairrie B was one of my targets for
questioning. And instead of the rottweiler-on-Red-Bull attitude trip I
had come to expect, I found her to be sweet and charming. Thereupon, we
sorted out all differences and kissed and made up (sorry, Mr. Bell, the
man to my perpetual left, just a slip of the tongue).
Anyway, all is now well, so I guess it's time to refrain from being so
frightfully nice and start making a few new enemies... (Apart from my
liver - at this precise moment, I really need to improve my relationship
with that part of my body).
Until next time we sail upon the blighted hulk ship 'Psychobabble',
Your fiend,
Dani
TO TOP
My God, the ants! They're enormous!
it's...
Pact Eight - Coming Clean With The Filth
The night is cold, dark and mercenary, the moon hangs in the clouded sky
like a rotted wedge of cheese. The wind throws the gnarled, twisted
branches of trees into a frenzy, their skeletal fingers claw against
your windows like a necrophile buried alive, scratching at the lid of
his rigid lover's coffin. You stoke the open fire from ember, sending a
blaze of glowing sprites scurrying up the narrow chimney and into the
dark beyond, their swiftly snuffed trails of indication to whatever
horrors are abroad that tonight, on this Eve of Dead Souls, you're home
alone. Soon, you fear, those unseen terrors that prowl the perimeters of
your foulest dreams will know your flesh - from the inside out.
Desperately trying to keep your imagination from straying off its leash,
you attempt a whisper of interest in the current issue of Metal Hammer,
thumbing through its crinkled pages (the result of a date in the lav
with dominatrix Val Ium) in the vain hope that another interview with
Dave Mustaine might deliver you swiftly to the oblivion of sleep. But
alas, even mister mundane seems to quicken your pulse tonight - so much
so, you toss his semblance on the floor (please...this is meant to be
dramatic), silently cursing the Elizabeth Taylor rehab center as the
cause of his once-great band's decline.
Strange then, that whilst your eyes glance over the words of Dani's
Inferno that read like hieroglyphs drawn by a spastic Pharaoh, the all
too familiar stench of shit should assail the remainder of you senses,
before...TOO LATE! you realize that, in your terror at Metal Hammer's
favorite guest column (by default only; unfortunately I don't possess a
pair of breasts), you have inadvertently crapped yourself.
Now, as if in mocking response, the elements renew their fearful
clangour, the sickly moon begins howling in her axis whilst arcane
symbols scrawled in blood appear on walls and windows... and as the
final candle winks out and plunges you into jet black darkness, your
last trace of sanity screams out, over and over again like the thin red
repeats of a butcher's knife, the guttural words, 'column fucking eight
and it's still a bunch of old arrrrrsse...'
I must apologize for the length of introduction but I do like a big
entrance (and more often or not, the tradesman's), so now I'd better
finish this as painlessly as possible if I'm to catch last orders.
Right, here you go you merciless bastards...
Since the event has long since troubled anything other than my damaged
pride, my esteemed counsel (the Rev. Rudus Priest) has convinced me with
his almost fanatical faith in the Lord to confess to the facts (and not
the flimsy cover up) concerning last year's Venom launch party in
London. Those of you without brains caved in by glue and ganja may
recall the story surrounding the car crash suffered by Nicholas Bastard
and myself, on our return by car down a dark country lane.
It is true that the police escorted us to Colchester hospital, where
Nick was treated for a cracked egg (sorry, I meant head), and I was
prodded for concussion. However, the facts beg quite a different
explanation concerning the cause of our injuries.
Grimewatch now reports...
That evening we arrived at the Venom club in Soho with the band's
American drum tech and my girlfriend Toni. As any denizen of the
countryside will tell you, if someone invites you to the Big Smoke for a
night of free booze and metal - the action is go! And you invariably end
up both rowdy and pissed, which of course (only five weeks prior we were
tied like a gimp to album rehearsals) we undertook with near fatal
expertise. Cue Nicholas Bastard, now on his 12the tequila slammer and
slightly uncoordinated, bringing the glass down violently on his hand -
whereupon it smashed and slits open three of his fingers, spilling blood
everywhere (highlight of the party if you ask me).
A bouncer then takes him next door to a convenience store with the
intention of getting his hand bandaged before calling an ambulance.
However, Americans being the lovable loudmouths they are (even more so
after supping three pints of vodka), our drum tech lurches after them
and accuses the six-foot something bouncer of throwing Nicholas out with
a non-optional beating.
Luckily, after salvaging our relationship from the brink of near divorce
(having publicly argued about how drunk one another were), my girlfriend
and I stumble out and manage to salvage the situation before it goes
red, promising to get Nick to a hospital just as soon as we escaped
London.
Drunk beyond measure and a tad disappointed at the lackluster of what
promised to be a good do, we teetered off through the throng of late
night revelers until, five minutes up the road and less than two beggars
from a tube, disaster struck Nicholas over the head with a Grolsch.
Take one pissed-up twat with a gang of equally smashed mates, a
derogatory comment, an exchange of words that culminates in blows and
abracadabra: you have a one-sided fight that results in a brave but
unfortunately, vicious and rather bloody defeat.
We regroup further along Charing Cross Road with my girlfriend, who
thankfully had walked on blissfully unaware and was now convincing Nick
that somewhere midst the drama, a glass bottle had been smashed over his
head. Hence the blood-streaming impression of a Cenobite from Hellraiser
(guesses, please, on a postcard to...)
So, to cut a long story short, it was a miracle of Rudus Priest's god
how we managed to get from Central London to Colchester hospital without
Nicholas bleeding to death, although at one point there was enough blood
on the train carriage floor for me to slip on and it and black my other
eye.
It was then that Toni had the driver tear through several stops so we
might reach our police escort to hospital before Nick ran dry.
I hope people will forgive us our trespasses in respect of our little
white lie, but the truth was concealed out of pride... dramatically, a
high speed car smash lends itself to being far more metal than having
your cunt kicked off. Until the next time I have my monthly emission...
Dani
TO TOP
More rotten than a month old corpse its...
Part Fifteen-Video Nasty
As you puny Earth-monkeys hadn't drunk enough from the golden font that
is Cradle of Filth for one issue, up pops my column once again like some
bi-monthly time machine bringing alien fauna and flora to a barren
planet rock. Leaping deftly from the early-80s thrash movement and
stopping for nothing, save a red vinyl import of "Reign In Blood"(a much
needed antidote for the current metal world's decline), the Starship
Inferno touches down, all too unfamiliar terrain - the making of our
first official video, 'From The Cradle To Enslave'.
Now, when I'm probed by Joe Public in the street on the subject, no
longer do I scream, turn heel and wobble away like some great tide bound
jellyfish; I reply, "Yes for the love of all the screws in Prisoner Cell
Block H, we have a fucking video!" Christ alive, the mere discussion of
it with three young lovelies the other weekend in Camden practically
ensured a four-way fandango for our director Alex. Well almost, though
I'm sure twixt the folds of his highly fertile imagination it was gonna
be tits, clits and twister boards. Anyway
Y'see, Alex 'Hand' Shandon, the aforementioned director of what can only
be describes as the weirdest promo this year, is utterly butterly mad.
Per example, not two weeks ago he was filming a shoal of children from a
friend's balcony while urging them to chorus, "Cradle Of Filth are
fucking great", when an adjacent window opened and a furious mum
appeared. Subsequently, the chant became "Cradle Of Filth are effing
great", with Alex being heard to mutter, "A month to submission and
we're already under censorship!"
Not only did he have the better part of the band tortured or killed,
coax a female actress into 50 gallons of cold, sloppy blood and secure a
6:66pm appointment with the Devil, he also helped assemble a jamboree of
little people, amputees, and a curiosity robbed from a raid on Roswell
for the shoot. Mr. Shandon, star in the ascendant, I take my skin off to
you and the rest of the 30-strong crew who fetched, filmed, propped and
slopped their way through umpteen litres of blood and a million monster
makeovers. The smack obviously works
So, is the finished short movie an abortion, worth a portion, or the
money spent on it extortion? Personally I think it's a roller coaster
ride full of macabre ideals vexed to sinister life. It's the video Geri
Halliwell should have made to poo-poo the trappings of her nice-girl
image. It's the video the Lice Boys had to make.
The storyboard reads thus: band enters a temple of madness sunk deep 'neath
the bowels of a church wherein instruments are discovered on a vast dais
inscribed with a goat's head insignia. The band begin to play within the
confines of this seal, as strange misshapen creatures who've been
watching from the shadows start the cogs whirring of ancient hidden
mechanics, which in turn drag a huge demonic presence into view (at this
point a parody of a monk slips between the freaks and the darkness, and
lights six white tapers, presumably representing the players).
The band are evidently performing for the demon, who in turn gazes deep
into the psyches of each individual. Six successive scenes are then
played out, each linked by their courtship of horror and by the goat's
head symbol carved into the floor. For example, in once scene this
symbol is discovered upon the body of a busty, witchy nymphets, who is
promptly tied to a stake, fondled by leggy inquisitors and beheaded by
our new drummer, Dave C**t (as opposed to the former Nicholas Bastard).
Pleased by the level of depravity the demon unveils in each of our
minds, a signal is given to the ever-congregating mass of inhumanoids
who brave the edge of the circle to watch the temple floor, in a blaze
of mephitic unlight, drop away, carting the approved band straight off
to the pleasures of Hell. The monk reappears, the candles are snuffed,
the horrors retreat and the floor reascends to leave the viewers staring
(or gaping) at the solitary goat's head symbol. Magic. Along the way we
meet an obviously unqualified Zombie dentist, and amid the hubbub of
little people, a bum faced dwarf who, on the day of shooting was intent
on calling Louie (the one-legged amputee and a man nearly thrice the
others' stature) "Capitain Pugwash". There's also a veritable boudoir of
sexy sirens, including Emily Bouffante (star of Pervirella) and
Razorblade Smile darling Eileen Daly (which I'm not at all surprised she
does, judging by the weight of her two big hits) and finally, several
myth-making nasties which were brought to life by the SPFX Frankenstein
responsible for the schlock Aphex Twin 'Come To Daddy' video. Much of
the blood was left over from the filming of Event Horizon, the fake
chest I had to don for the scene in which my heart is torn out and
forced down my throat was a cast of Robert De Niro's (and subsequently
too big for me); props were borrowed from the set of The Legend Of
Sleepy Hollow; another FX fellow, whose expertise in prosthetics earned
him work on the Hellraiser series, worked on set just for the love of
scary forces; and I'm pretty sure we had the run of Bow Church based on
a capital lie. I could sit here and sell you the video all day, but I
have to pick my bribe up from the record company. All said and done it
will delight some, sicken others and hopefully marvel more. Beam me up,
Spotty..
Dani
TO TOP
Trinkets and strangely shaped baubles for all... it's
Pact Sixteen - Heavy Metal Xmas
This month's sojourn into mental suffering comes courtesy of the
three-day Dynamo extravaganza in Holland and the inevitable kidney
failure that followed. Upon this particular crest in rock pisstory, over
80 bands took to four stages whilst a record 45,000 fans converged to
eat, sleep and shit that most poignant of Hermaphrodisiacs - Heavy Metal
Music. This pursuit obviously sat hand in leather gauntlet with that of
lager, drugs and shouting (well it did in the backstage area, at least)
but as the Shite Rev. Rudas Priest (alias Lez, Lector, knackered ol'
cunt and one still commiserating the death of Sir Ollie Reed in similar
fashion) so expertly diagnosed, since the demise of that other
celebrated boozeatheon Donington, the annual Dynamo music festival has
taken over definitely as Heavy Metal Christmas.
I certainly managed to iceberg the proverbial boat and of the six bands
I actually dragged my sorry carcass to see, five, - Marduk, Sodom,
Biohazard, Monster Magnet and S.O.D. were right crackers, whilst
Metallica, headlining what must have been Heavy Metal Boxing Day, were
definitely a roast prize-winning turkey. Hearsay that they were paid a
$250,000 to perform aside, not only did they play a relatively snoozy
set, but they also had a dozen tour buses, including ours, relocated
from behind stage to what seemed like the border of Belgium, just so
that their fleet of hairdressing salons could be tailored in (for legal
persuasions, that may be an exaggeration).
Attempting to return to our travel-coffins after our post-show
piss-ups), myself and new drummer Dave tried a shortcut by clinging to
the rigging of a passing P.A. truck, only to bail out 30-odd meters up
the road when the bloody thing sped to a breathtaking ten maybe 15 miles
per hour. Imagine our embarrassment on picking ourselves up off the
asphalt only to find ourselves at the feet of a few fans who'd obviously
used their initiative to stand by a festival bus stop! Such blatant
twattery on our behalf was fuelled further by making an introduction.
"Hello (adopting novelty English gentry voice), we're from (hic) Cradle
Of Filth don't you know?"
"Yes (responding in a relatively normal English accent) we (hic)
guessed." Ironically though, Metallica still had to endure the ten-ton
heap of twiggy compost that had been thoughtfully dropped in the bus
park, deliciously fragrant on that first day's hot summer air when the
only thing between it and our tour bus was another tour bus and our
namesake Cradle Of Filth cast our personal hygiene into another light,
especially when friends and staff had to brave the flies to visit. In
all truth, the whole site had a faint pongy whiff to her, nestled as she
was between countryside, golf course and silage dump. And Every now and
then, when another punter walkway needed some more muddy stuff underfoot
just in case it should rain (which thankfully it didn't), a JCB digger
would come, eat a bit, then disappear whilst a fresh load was delivered
by truck. Bizarre. Pervaded by shit the breeze may have been. Pervaded
with shit the actual weekend wasn't. Of the many incidents I amazingly
can still remember, there were several incidents worth mentioning.
Firstly, standing a tad too close while singing to flame cannon as they
lit up front stage and then pretending not to lose the contents of my
poo-tract in the process (my eyebrows would have been a bonus); drinking
with the tallest man in Holland and miraculously convincing a few
drunker people that he was my son (despite his age and let alone his
height); watching Manowar prepare to go onstage after us riding four
Harley Davidsons (whilst we gleaned clearance to use two golf carts for
the job, right up until they obviously got wind of your comical little
scheme - which was a pity, imagining the metal warriorness of it all,
spiky guitars held aloft to a thundergods whilst we pootled in on
electric two-seaters!); the undertaking of a brief photo shoot in the
driving seat of a new VW Bug Dutch police car with pockets crammed with
class A weed; S.O.D.'s faintly xenophobic 'Speak English Or Die' being
played to a vast crowd, 99 per cent non-compliant; falling into a ditch,
pissed midafternoon on the Sunday, attempting to cross it to get to the
loos; and finally, though the mental list goes on... seeing a coachful
of children who'd alighted from the ferry gantry directly before us,
being frisked while our busload of dirty metal hybrids, no doubt
returning from Holland laden with goodies was spared ever a second
glance. As hinted at earlier, the first faint strains of chaos calling,
Lez's alter ego Rudas Priest made an unsurprising appearance Heavy Metal
Xmas Eve. Stumbling round the backstage bars with Anathema keyboardist
Martin, declaring to all and sundry that he and his mate alone harnessed
the true power of rock (organs being the new guitars in metal - his
slurs, not mine) whilst the next couple of nights, Heavy Metal presents
obviously opened and forgotten, bore witness to a self-declaration of
benderness, an attack on a fishy wheelie bin with Martin inside it and
'incidents' involving wrestling innocent by-standers to the ground
including several bemused girls. Thankfully now back in England, Lez has
man-handled the sodden priest back into his box where he sits, rocking
back and forth, awaiting Cradle Of Filth's next European campaign, which
would presumably be Heavy Metal's New Year's or Easter... Until next we
mate, Eighties disco dancing on a Sealink dance floor,
Your fiend,
Dani
TO TOP
Sifting the cods from the wallop, it's... it's
Pact Seventeen
Maybe it's the heat (my brains, usually a coagulating stew on simmer,
now drying under the summer sun to the consistency of Weetabix) that has
edged your favorite mud-slinger, Monsieur Filth, into mentalism, or
perhaps it's the two-years-out-of-date Nicorette® patch I slapped on my
arse this morning (to avoid smoking myself into my Father's Kingdom a
few years too early) that has whetted my fever - I don't know and I
don't really care.
Points of origin have never really been a primary concern of mine; I
have never doubted a Big Mac, couldn't give a shit about Brian Warner, I
still adore black pudding, and have certainly never divined the future
by examining my own poo in the bog-pan.
All I know is that a calendar month has passed since I last put the fear
of God into you (and Christ alone knows how much my nob hurt after
that...) and in that time, despite Prince Edward capturing the nation's
heart by marrying the Jill Dando/Princess Diana look-alike (luckily for
him, public opinion hadn't ebbed ow enough to warrant him wedding a
Mother Theresa), England failing at football, and the Aussies scooping
the cricket (no change there then), I have nothing of real merit to
report, other than the replacement of Dave Cunt by a sleeker, more
experienced drummer (whose identity for the sake of the universe must
remain anonymous at this present moment... and no, it's not Darth Vader)
and 30-odd days of odder dazes, full-moon phases and swear-heavy
phrases. The UN may have delivered the Serbs a hefty kick in the Balkans
of late, but my proverbial balls have rarely left their pockets; it
seems that only my marbles have gone astray. (Astray? Sounds like
"ashtray". Eurggh" Damn you to hell, Nicorette® patch, you and your ten
milligrams of insidious venom...)
The catalyst for this, my squillionth attempt at quitting fags (cigs not
men, though Lecter tells me that the latter sit for longer in our mouth)
has more to do with smoking dope than straights. This self-ultimatum
thrust itself on me (leave it) one evening, when, after a hefty session
of Dynamo skunk, none other than Tony Iommi, bedecked in an angel's
finery, appeared to me, and haven given me the stiff middle finger (oh,
where will this end?) bequeathed the revelation that Sabbath's
forthcoming shows in England will be their last. Of course I knew I had
taken leave of my senses (better for me to take leave of the Senses)
after mulling over His Lordship's words, for who in their right mind
would believe me? Last shows indeed! Whatever next, Ozzy on the wagon?
Fuck off!
So, pursuing the old saying, 'One thing leads to another' (another of
Lecter's), I am now a few days into kicking the habit, preferring now to
extricate my lungs and beat them soundly with a stick in order to relax
(these previous weeks had been so maddening that I'd started a 20-a-day
routine... plus I'd been smoking...), thus benefiting my voice, and in
respect of the ganja, my, um...er, what's it called..um...memory.
Anyway, where were we? Ah yes, fleeing the asylum grounds... This month
has been seminally weird, although not very exciting, the highlight
being my purchase of an original John Wayne Gacy painting for my
daughter's nursery. And if this particular artist is as far away in
recognition for you as Cradle Of Filth are from a healthy chart entry,
then let me enlighten you. Gacy, (also dubbed the "Killer Clown") was a
serial killer who still holds the official (ie, proven) all-time USA
Body Count Championship for his rather impressive, but naturally sick,
33 slayings of male victims whom he disposed of by burial in and around
his Chicago home, having lured them under false pretenses only to
chloroform and buttfuck them before counseling them in biblical merits
while he strangled their still-pleading carcasses. Pleasant I know, but
little Luna loves his almost child-like artistic integrity, even at the
tender age of five months. Trust me, I can tell; I'm her doting daddy.
Purchasing this requisite didn't come cheap, for despite the asking
price, myself and my lovely girlfriend Toni had to spend a night in the
company of our good mate, the video director Alex Chandon (see Pact
Fifteen for phenomenal horror rating). Not that his company isn't
marveloso - it is - but the weekend jaunt involved to separate fines for
supposed fare evasion from the wanker Travel Police (20 notes for
dodging 50 pee), another journey into Hell (though at the time it was
hilarious) wherein Alex, on returning to his gaff, decided to ride
bareback through Hampstead atop his friend's vulva (sorry, Volvo)
screaming, "I'll kill you, all you filthy motherfuckers." Finally,
arising clammy-mouthed and bleary next morning, only to be subjected to
a selection of his private reading material (two titles standing out in
particular: the £85-a-throw Prosthetic Rehabilitation, which he
'borrowed' with lithe precision from a renowned medical books supplier,
and in direct contrast. though not in subject matter, the utterly
essential coffee table browser, Color Atlas Of Rheumatoid Hand Surgery,
which he picked up in a car boot sale for £1...). All this made me
wonder if I'd be better off with a collage of bogeys and dog cum by
Chandon than the oily monsters painted by Gacy. After all, there's
plenty of time for Alex to begin a lengthier murder spree, if he hasn't
already. As noted, last month was a headfuck, but at least I got to see
the new Star Wars movie five or ten times on pirate. I would review it
in this issue, but I don't really want George Lucas on my arse (he's a
tad overweight and hairy). So, until next week, lightsabre duelling on
the dust planet of Tatooine. May the sauce be with you...
Dani
TO TOP
Talking bollocks? No, just a laughable penis! It's...
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 corridors 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™ believed 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 bedbugs bite (let alone bury you in potted plants and barricade the
doors)...
Your Fiend,
Dani
TO TOP
Filling The Heavens With Dirty Great Balls it's...
Pact Nineteen - Eclipsing All Else
August. Hardly a majestic or venerable month, inscribed as it was with a
tyrannous nature more in keeping with namesake Caesar assailing us with
hails (geddit?), earthquakes, floods, twisters, heat waves... if I
didn't know better I'd say Ming The Merciless was abroad with a target:
Earth Death Ray.
There was the solar eclipse on the 11th, which in all fairness, and
despite garnering profound astrological significance, was about as
exciting as wiping your arse with your other hand. In truth, the more I
think about it the more it seems that prophet Nostradamus has got
something there ... wiping your (or 'thy', as I believe he phrased) arse
with the other hand can be fairly revelatory, especially if your
imagination lends credence to the fact that this rarely performed act
could actually be someone else wiping your bum for you. So with this in
mind (after sitting on my digits for 20 minutes for that benumbing
authenticity), first up with the job with the slidy school toilet paper
(or better still, the new Coal Chamber album) would have to be Patrick
Moore, for all his bumbling eclipse rhetoric over the passing few moons
(I'd certainly log onto his Website). Jack Koschick - promoter of this
years Milwaukee Metalfest, who didn't even have the decency to provide a
rider, or the venue with a PA that worked. And finally (for the
perviness of it all), Jane Seymour, who could pamper me like a baby
whilst tending to any other basic necessities I so desired...
Mmm, Jane Seymour. Doctor Quinn.
Anyway, dickstrations aside, August was a relatively extreme few weeks
all round, and it hardly seems appropriate that I should ramble on about
myself and my experiences in lieu of the recent devastation caused by
the earthquakes in Turkey. But I will. It's my fucking column!
Not one usually to sit at home blowing my own trumpet but, if
anthropologists are to be beloved, that one restrictive little vertebrae
in the male spine is the next thing to go in the evolutionary chain,
thus rendering most men hermitic and women unneeded (though this is
where Val Ium interjects by mentioning the dildo...), but last month was
a blinder. Then again, perhaps I shouldn't have stared so vehemently at
the eclipse, but I didn't want to miss it and there was this big fucking
round thing in the way, and by the time it drifted past the eclipse was
over. Typical. Patrick Moore, wipe my arse.
Things didn't exactly get off to a flying start when two little hoodlums
pranged my girlfriend's brand new car, and then grew progressively worse
when their parents claimed I'd assaulted the brats with their own
football boots! Now you know as well as I do I'd never stoop to such a
thing (possibly because they were about the same height as me), but the
general animosity soon simmered down and the matter was resolved, at
least I don't expect the six sets of graves to be stumbled upon just
yet...
Lughnasadh gone, the great witchy periodical Lammas found the band
ensconced in the great USA for not only the Metalfest, but a string of
club dates, culminating over the Canadian border in Toronto. I remember
this day vividly, because of the advance Misfits album I received from
Roadrunner, which rocks like King Kong in a cage (and the new Coal
Chamber, which is not so much a roller coaster as a coffee coaster), and
the fact that this was the beginning of a week's worth of anti-gravity,
depravity and snorting in the lavatory. Well, just about doing anything,
and everything, including the rare onboard-a-tour bus phenomenon of
taking a poo. Oh yes, our bus was like a three-star of David Hotel in
heaven compared to the traveling hippy commune we're familiar with in
Europe. Air-con, two full entertainment systems, rear lounge,
kitchenette - it was enough to bring rudas out from the husk of his
keeper, take three acid blots and hide himself in what was a more than
ample sized closet for storage.
Still reeling from jetlag and duty free, we literally had to be peeled
from bed the next morning after our return to face an in-store signing
session as part and parcel of another magazines award week. We weren't
alone - we would sign; Feeder, 3 Colors Red and 'A' would play, and
after watching the Circus Of Horrors perform, all would regroup for a
Barbie on the rooftop patio. Good plan in theory, but never grant
near-dead menthe promise of booze... especially that which is free.
Two hours is a long time for anyone sitting, signing and swilling a
lethal concoction of Absolute and JD, and by the time we eventually made
it back to our (which according to Music Week and The Daily Star - must
be true! - we wreaked, having all ready tossed pictures out into the
street below, narrowly missing security and a distressed store rep...)
there was a spreading pool of pee in the corner of the Video Department,
two bemused and abused Deejays who'd attempted interviews, and a drummer
so drunken that he was wobbling astride industry people's tables at the
barbecue screaming "Wankers!", and throwing the universal sign of metal
in their astonished faces. Police and the Fire Department were
eventually alerted, whether it was for us of the Circus, who's also
revolted, I can't rightly remember - we made good our escape during the
mêlée.
And finally, the awards ceremony itself. Not much to say here, apart
from an impressively spooky decor and an abundance of people with colds
in the toilets... though it does show the current clime in our beloved
scene when B-movie actor David Soul received the loudest response of the
evening!
'Til next time we meet, dwelling on reasons why there appears to be too
many pop bands winning awards from heavy metal magazines...
Yours in disgust
Your fiend,
Dani
TO TOP
Bi or just curious? It's...
Pact Twenty - Alcoholocaust
Following 'Er next door's sporadic but commendable thesis on female
hatred last issue, I was aroused enough by the full use of her eloquent
tongue to get something similar nature off my tiny-titted, yet highly
sensitive chest this month. Whereas Val despises women, I , on the other
have a deep throated (sorry, rooted) hatred of men. Not any breed in
particular, just the whole fucking deal. Men are libidinous, obnoxious,
and chauvinistic...and if that's not enough they're hairy, rough,
muscular and endowed. No, I hate them. Give me a good-looking woman any
day...actually strike that comment, cap'n - just any kind of woman any
day (mantelpieces et al). So you're not alone, young lady. Calm down,
perhaps take a valium or two and learn to vent your anger elsewhere
(Crack! Brzzzzzz! Sudden sounds of bullwhip and a 13-inch anal
desecrator revving up, minus the fizz of amyl-nitrate for comfort).
Limping on, though eager not to suffer a similar fate, I must also
commend the words of the headmistress for the kind words in her
editorial last month. Firstly, I never cackle demonically (well, not
unless I'm hunched over a light box on behalf of Metal Hammer, scouring
for photos of rock stars looking chubby...), and secondly, my column was
late because I genuinely had a kidney infection. No shit! Plenty of pee
though, and I was half tempted to send in a vial of it as proof. 85%
fuckin' proof!
Anyway, more on the subject of alcohol abuse later, but for now just
abuse, for also in her editorial, the grand inquisitor branded me as an
arsehole, which given the circumstances I've just described is, I think,
a little unfair...I'm actually a total wanker. Evidence of this can be
found not only be catching having a quick five-to-one with 'Palm of the
Handerson' in the church every Sunday (come on, isn't that the sole
reason priest have you close your eyes and bow your heads for prayer -
so they can ease the old fellow out of the cassock and toss at the
choirboys?), but also on a new T-shirt by Glue Grape in America with my
face on it and the word 'wanker'. Charmed I'm sure. Wanker, maybe;
arsehole, not. That term is exclusively reserved for PROPER journalists.
Take one particular specimen who I shall refer to as 'P.E.' (for his
initials are this).
First off, on a recent homeward-bound plane journey, much throwing of
the horns and head banging was undertaking when we realized we were
traveling at 666mph. Our friend Lex then coined the phrase "faster than
the speed of evil" when our velocity increased. As bands are prone to
do, the phrase was bandied around with much mirth. And that's how, at a
certain awards ceremony, Shane Embury (of Napalm Death) was able to joke
with said journalist, 'P.E.', that he was currently listening to what
would surely become a monster hit album, 'Faster Than The Speed Of Evil'
by (the fictitious) Absolute Power.
And lo and behold, what appeared on 'P.E.''s personal play list the
following week but 'Faster Than The Speed Of Evil' by (you guessed it)
Absolute Power. Advance demo version. How hip. Sounds like Dan Silver.
Secondly, the same journalist reviews our 'PanDaemonAeon' video release
a week later, this time for Q magazine, which obviously being a
non-metal publication requires a more cooler-than-thou mentality. Hence,
it's a touch sarcastic, culminating in the statement that: "low budget
it may be, but The Blair Witch Project it is not," implying that, well,
it's just not scary.
Fair enuff, he's entitled to his own opinion, but has he actually seen
Blair Witch, or is he just going on hearsay from Stateside, where the
movie is currently showing (it doesn't come out here until October
29...)? Because I've seen it and - oh God! - how I wanted this film to
live up to its boast of being the most frightening movie since The
Exorcist, leaving American audiences speechless and aghast. Well,
speechless only because American audiences must be dumb! I'm sorry, but
how anyone can rate this film is beyond me. I was praying that the
student union cast would be killed off every step of the way - it was
either that, or put out my own eyes to relieve boredom.
OK, perhaps there were a few moments of suspense, but my main point here
is: don't believer everything you read, especially when it's from the
inkwell of someone who writes out of their arse. What next, COF involved
in gay porno? Oops!
Finally onto the promise of alcohol. No, it's not my round; I'm to
relate to you the perils of Red Bull and vodka on special offer, hence
the aforementioned big, bad kidney incident. It was a foggy moonless
Eve...sorry. Luna was at her Grandma's and seeing as it was our night
off, Tone and I decided to get horribly drunk. However, I'd forgotten
about the Red Bull and voddy binge in Salzburg a few years back that the
band barely lived through, which had culminated in a full bus brawl and
our tour manager having a nervous breakdown. I'd sworn and oath never to
touch the lethal brew again... This palatable warning drifting back to
me the following morning when I awoke to what looked like a Bosnian
bombsite and a pounding ache in my lower back.
Apparently, on returning home late I had dozed off in the shower,
deciding at about four or five in the morning to crawl out and listen to
Slayer. Two tracks into 'Show No Mercy' there was an almighty crash
likened to several hundred CDs falling to the ground and a dull,
resigned thud. When Toni thundered downstairs to witness what fresh
idiocies I'd inflicted (and no doubt to turn the taps off and punch my
lights in), there was I, buried under a mountain of shelves and discs,
most of which I'd collapsed upon, after pulling them down by walking
into a wall.
There's definitely another lesson to be learned here, but seeing as it
was the first time in my boozing career that I'd blacked out, I couldn't
possibly remember what it could possibly be. Ah that's it...don't try
this at home, kids - go round someone else's.
Yours desperate for a less destructive vice, perhaps heroin or murder,
Dani
TO TOP
The current affairs column with the biggest fattest tits
and arse. It's
Pact Twenty-One - Wank, Suck and Fuck With Me
Salutations from the sewer creepy-crawlers, underworld trawlers and
fellow coprophagists, I trust that your Halloween was as unconvincing as
my own, despite the fact that at the time of writing it hasn't even
occurred yet; such is the urgency of delivering my goetry and prose to
you every month, my humble but fleet-footed flock. No grisly yet
beautiful teen murders, no bobbing for severed heads, no insurrection of
the walking dead? Obviously no fucking fun then...
Forgive me my trespasses (but the windows were unlocked), I know I'm a
total cynic when it comes to predicting much-touted future events
-possibly something to do with a scuffed crystal ball and too many
towers in my tarot - but it's as plain as the witch teat on your thigh
that the millennium will come and go a disappointment and All-Hallows
Eve, that most ardent of non-Xmas festivals, will have been celebrated
by no more than a two pence-off-a-Guinness - offer, a few manky pumpkins
and a passing cheesy grin from a Hammer film. Here in good ol' England
we seem to pride ourselves on our lack of enthusiasm for this sort of
thing, preferring to let the pomp and ceremony that the Americans bestow
upon Halloween pass us by, while all the time pining the values that
apparently once made this country great. Bollocks. It's all bollocks.
In fact it reminds me of a saying that we used to share as children, as
we humped huge vats of boiling pitch to the edge of the castle ramparts
to see off wondering friars and taxmen...
"Sod your Epiphany, your Advent, your Lent, Pancake's day is shallow and
Easter is bent.
Give us three witches, hob gobbles and frights, for Christmas is ages
and the rest of the year's shite."
Traditional.
Put a marked improvement for All Hollow's Eve in your constitutional
mandate Labour government and you've got my vote. Maybe call it 'The
Blair Witch Project'?
Back on the subject of millennial brain fever, someone was adjudged
insane enough to include our new video in the Millennium Dome Experience
- I kid you not. Apparently, to co-demonstrate the use of eloquent
language in youth culture (?), a part of the film will be shown to the
unwitting public when it eventually opens on the Eve of the forth
millennium. Talk about Jeckyl and Heidi. Anyway, it's not as if the
words will be that apparent from the video anyway - we're hardly S-Club
Seven (more the Cess Pub Six). In hindsight it's a pity we didn't shoot
a promo for the EP track 'Of Dark Blood And Fucking'...now that would
have been worth seeing, if not starring in.
Move shitly on and to put the intended record straight, Cradle Of Filth
have parted company with long term guitarist Stuart Antis and
everybody's favorite pastor of disaster, Lecter (whose triple exploits
have long defaced the annals of the cupboard 'infernal') due to
increasing personal differences, including that of a common musical
goal. Like and expensive sex toy, I thought it well worth bringing to
the public attention seeing as the much-loathed industry gossip-mongers
have already vultured enough rumors about their departure to warrant a
novella, an idea, which, like the tory, tickles me pink every time I
dwell on it, especially the imaginary first chapter heading of 'Stress,
and how to deal with the bullshit'. Like the aforementioned genital
pleasure, Stuart and Lez will be sorely missed, after all, replacing
Rudas was always going to be sticky (unless of course TV's Father Jack
is available, conscious and a grade eith pianist), but the guitarist
situation has been righted by the gaudy return of the swashbuckling Gian
Pyres and 'The Principal Of Evil Made Flesh's' valiant Paul A. So,
onwards and upwards as the vicar instructed the petulant choirboy.
Finally, on a lighter, more sensual note...If you're looking for nothing
better than suicidal and fucking savage underwater massacre this weekend
(as you do), then check out the Jaws wannabe Deep Blue Sea at your local
flicks. Lacking all the suspense of Spilberg's original fishy
masterpiece, Deep Blue Sea swims around the ludicrous plot of an
undersea research team attempting to 'train' great white sharks. Pony, I
know.
Where it wins you however are the extremely graphic shark attacks and
especially the death of lead honcho Samuel L. Jackson, which could turn
out to be a piece of schlock-cinema history. Halfway through the film,
Jackson, sho up to now has been team-leader, is just sinking his teeth
into a rousing, survivalist speech worthy of a cheap Grammy (a hammy),
when a fuck off Great White bursts out of the water and sinks it's teeth
basically all over him.
He is then promptly dragged below and torn in bloody two. Hoorah!
Either he couldn't stomach the plot (not that he had much of a stomach
left) or he appeared for half his normal fee, but either way, what an
exit. Which is where I am prone to falter...
I would write more this issue, but I have a certain crawling Miss Luna
bashing at my ankles with a walk-along Goofy, builders are about to take
the roof off my kitchen and I have a driving lesson in Ipswich within
the hour. How could Hell be any worse? (Wll, other than Luna not being
there).
Your contemplating the new cradle line-up changing it's name to 'Insanus'...
Dani
TO TOP
Go Go Gadget Verbicide! It's...
Pact Twenty-Two - Game, Set And Snatch
This month's rpride through the cake-filled colon of Hell comes courtesy
of a three-week month crammed with more ups and downs than a liftshaft
fuckathon, which thankfully left most of the wankers I've dealt with on
the ground floor awaiting come-uppance.
(Now, you know me. I have a big bowl of moral fibre for breakfast every
morning. So I refuse to sink to 'their' level and mention any names, but
nature being what it is, one hefty bowel to sink to 'their' level and
mention any names, but nature being what it is, one hefty bowel movement
and it all may very well come out...)
Firstly, the thinning of the band that I delicately touched upon last
issue was further rubbed the wrong way when a rival magazine (which, for
legal purposes, we shall refer to as 'Meringue!') decided on a course of
paparazzi-style provocative journalism by phoning me at home the night
prior to when their poop-scoop with our former guitarist was to be
printed. The journo in disrepute - we'll refer to as 'mud' - felt it
absolutely necessary to tell me all of the bad things spat about me just
before my response, obviously in the vain hope that I'd verbally
retaliate, and therefore create them a rather contentious and
contemptible news piece.
Thankfully, I didn't rise to the challenge, remaining as tight-lipped as
a lezzer in Burtons (a crude analogy I know, but after all the things
I've been dubbed in the past month, being branded a homophobic, on top
of everything else, would be about as unpleasant as handing back the
golden ticket to Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory...), which I did by
keeping my head down, trying not to rock the throat and praying that a
sticky situation wouldn't come out of it. It didn’t, or at least no
further fuel was added to the pyre, until 'Meringue!'s cover story with
C.O.F a fortnight later (supposedly pivoting around a bright new future,
and not the events surrounding the shite now past) which, surprise, it
did in typically sensational style.
An apparently harmless photo shoot werewolfed into what can best be
described as a very obvious dig a the Ex-Wives Club ('Dani Shoots Back')
and the interview... well, let's just say that the ten minutes spent
sidestepping the recent rather shady issues fleshed out the bone of the
write-up, whilst the other good two ours spent in-depth chatting about
the new line up ended up being dead time on a Dictaphone.
Talk about soap opera. This was getting worse than Falcon Crest.
Luckily for all concerned, holding such a prominent position as I enjoy
at Hammer HQ (next to the spare Hoover bags and a nestful of spiders) I
am able once and for all to lay bad ghosts to rest (my witch-doctor
always pushing me to exorcise).
Firstly, and definitely foremost, my jokes are bloody terrible, and
secondly, the parting with old band mates is totally amicable. There are
no grudges or pithy last comments, at least not from our side of the
proverbial grave.
We actually wish those departed well and no amount of shit-raking
guttersnipe journalism will sect respect their readership enough not to
have them bombarded with lewd, tenuous hype and personal propaganda - an
if you don't believe, check out next issue somewhere between the ads,
the posters and the 72-page Slipknot feature, Douche!!!
Apologies must be made to that most illustrious of rock DJs, Tommy
Vance, who bravely invited Adrian, Paul and I onto a recent episode of
his VH1 rock show, where it may have appeared that we were taking the
right royal piss. I can assure you, we weren't. Five whiskey and cokes
apiece, before going on left us a tad more inebriated than we first gave
credit for, and subsequently we appeared on TV as three rather slow,
dim-witted characters. It didn't help matters that we were wearing all
the same clothing, which, by chance configuration of ill-fated stares
that morning, gave us the appearance of the three mongoloid stooges.
Poor Mr. Vance seemed at a loss to know what to do with us, whilst all
we could do to redeem the situation was to have him repeat his
time-honored phrase 'rockkkk!' and 'Gillette - the best a man can get'
in his low down grunt of a voice. I even went on to express the opinion
that he would have made a more convincing narrator for Walking With The
Dinosaurs (the natural history program and not another documentary on
Black Sabbath) then Kenneth Branagh - an act deserving of 'imbecilic
comment of the millennium' alongside Jesus Of Galilee's "come on the, I
fucking dare you" when he knew damn well it was Easter weekend.
Last month also bore manna for me with a role being offered for a
bloodthirsty gangster movie entitled Glass House, in which I'll be
playing an evil little fucker (hmm - sounds familiar) called Christ (so
named for his penchant for wearing all white, and the fact that his
shot-through hands resemble stigmata). But of course I'll keep you up to
date as things develop. No, not the genital warts, the film...
And finally, this months reading recommendation comes courtesy of
Deborah Addington's frank yet sensuously elegant 'A Hand In The Bush '
The Fine Art Of Vaginal Fisting', available now via the Greenery Press.
All you've ever wanted to know abut this somewhat sticky I slovenly
handled through step-by-step instructions and diaphragms (sorry,
diagrams) and over 30 graceful line drawings to ease you past your
initial discomfort and into a newfound euphoria. All in, this is an
essential read for all, but don't just take my word for it. The former
Albanian Missionary once described the book as 'uplifting', whilst both
HRH Princess Ann and Dame Thora Hird declared publicly that "It fucking
pisses on the bible"...which in all fairness is quite some selling
point.
Until the next millennium, if we're not wondering scorched earth,
suffering from radiation sickness.
Your F..F..F..Fiend,
Dani
TO TOP
Somewhere between Heaven and the Tesco's cheese counter
it's...
Pact Twenty-Three - A Marriage Made By Seven
I take a brief slaycation from the perils and the pitbulls of
professional journalism and what transpires in my absence? Inhuman kind
enters its final millennium, and if that wasn't bad enough my
T.A.R.D.I.S. (Time Amid Rural Dementia In Suffolk) materializes at what
is supposed to be Hammer Towers, only to find the broom cupboard
infernal swept, free of Deathwatch beetle, and currently storing back
issues of Paperclip Weekly.
As it goes, it would seem that the stench of bureaucracy has once again
permeated the séance between us. A staff meeting in a boardroom long
since exorcised of breathable air confirmed the worst. The Imperial
Daemonarch, Robyn Doreian, vast leathery wings unfurling to knock the
Lemsip from Malcolm Dome's hoof, announced a takeover bid by another
publishing group based in Bath, which therefore meant immediate
relocation of the magazine or (and this is where eyes went a ravening
black...) voluntary redundancy.
Now, no offense to the illustrious city but Bath is hardly the Mecca of
rock, and despite it's overpriced, overpopulated, over-polluted and
'over there - just near the Thames River, you can't miss it, mate' -
drawbacks, being based in London did allow for once Cyclopean eye to be
kept on the very heart of gigs and begwig ligs. Which is exactly where
you'd expect to find the world's biggest monthly metal publication and
not, as stuffy executive wank managers decree it be, in sodding Bath.
Now, if it were Nottingham on the other hand, it would be a completely
different Cradle Of Fish altogether as a recent wedding we attended
there was to testify. The place just reeks of nostalgia for the ageing
metal fanatic. Mullets roam the city in much the same way as migrating
shoals of Bill Wards might have once done in the late Cretaceous era,
whilst bullet belted thrash fanatics rub boulders with preened and
predatory glamsters just like the good ol' days of the burgeoning '80s.
(Brief pause for a recollective weep).
One such watering hole for these creatures, the extremely welcoming 'Tab
And Tumbler' was fortunately just outside our hotel, whilst the rear of
the building and our room afforted views of the myriad rooftops of
Rottingham Knock City - easily the best club on these fair shores.
The wedding itself, that of one Willy Evans (one of the 'little' people
from our last promo video) and his bride-to-be Stephanie was surreality
itself and despite a late night and a 9ammm roll call for the cathedral
next morning, it proved to be one of those rare precious memories you
take to the grave.
The band invite was only accepted by three of the Filth -Adrian, Gian
and myself accompanied by my wife-to-be Mizz Filth who drove; the
marriage held in Nottingham, because of the pantomime 'Snow White And
The Seven Dwarvers' (that Willie was performing in at the Theatre
Royal). This meant that many of the guests were either co-stars or held
some connection with the industry, hence an invite being extended to
Alex 'Out Of Hand' Chandon and chums, whom we'd arranged to fandango
with up there. In fact, we gave it so much large the night before at a
lethal mix of pub 'n' party; the only thing holding us up the next
morning was the bravado of our cheap suits.
Alex, who'd evidently been on everything other than sleep, burst into
director mode on arrival and proceeded as if the ceremony itself was his
next film, resulting in a steam of madcap incidents like standing on the
bride's train, close-up filming of ex-page three girl Linda Lusardi's
enormo-cleavage, the heckling of panto star Lionel Blair as he finished
his speech (though obviously Lionel didn't view the festivities as much
to make a song and dance about, and so forsook his infamous patent
leather white shoes), the circling of the wedding party like crow whilst
they addressed their vows and, finally, bursting into tears at what Alex
described as "the sheer emotion of it all."
As further psychosis ensued, he would take that camera to the city
centre and film himself sexually abusing modern sculpture, being run
down by oncoming traffic and shouting at shoppers and fellow drinkers. A
good friend he my abe, but buying him vodka is akin to leaving your kids
with Myra fucking Hindley!
All in all, the wedding was very light-hearted - the service itself
undertaken mostly in costume, Willy and Steph being accompanied by six
other little men and a sparkling Snow White. In fact, my highlight
(other than falling down the stairs into the reception) was at the end
when the bridal entourage trooped out to panto music and just when the
procession drew alongside our relatively blackened few pews, Willy, hand
on hips, groin thrust our in our general direction should out "Filth" in
tee of the gathered TV cameras. A little star like him deserved the top
day it turned out to be.
And lastly...whilst wedding pics were being snapped, two of Alex's
tribe, Dom and Matt, stole back into the church entrance to look over a
small art exhibition being displayed there. The priest joined and talked
them through the paintings that appeared to them rather too tortuous for
a cathedral, proclaiming that, funds allowing, he was going to relocate
and hang them closer to the front. However, on closer scrutiny they
discovered the artist somewhat unhinged. In one written
self-observation, he described the world being 'as a diseased egg, that
begs to be cleansed', and in another (a Boschian hellscape). Heaven
being a place he likened to 'a mutual mass gang-rape'. They didn't let
on...
Until we meet again, lashed together on an alter of madness - get three
fucking wed!!!
Dani
TO TOP
I am the God of Hellfire and I bring you...
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’t 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-monthly, 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 eviler 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 crème-de-la-menses to his latest endeavor,
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) materialized 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 stand- 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 for paperclips 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
pop tart ´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.
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More fun than an open-casket funeral (but not by much),
it's...
Pact Twenty-Five
Greetings from all nice concentric circles of Hell, ten if you include,
the M25 (Beelzebub himself presiding over the Brentford turn-off). Time
once again to pull my insides outside my mouth and decorate these
wipe-free pages with astral vomit, pith and nails, lactiferous outbursts
and ectoplasm wrung from a soul sick with -fuck, cunt, shit-Torte’s
Syndrome.
Fuck.
So welcome scum, and welcome to the column that pushes boundaries of
shitdom to the very blink of feasibility, siphons it through the
hairline cracks in sanity and then drops the whole steaming cess into
the tiny manipulative hand of children everywhere.
Bow then (and while you're down there...), before the dark and ever
shifting mirror that is the Inferno. Pray Enter...
This past month trespassing both March and April like some myxomatosed
Easter Bunny - has had its fair share of ups and downs (NB - must oil
that squeaking bedspring). The worst has been payment for three years'
income tax to the parasitic Inland Revenue, which saw the small fortune
I'd amassed for a boob job (just an inconspicuous one sewn on somewhere
to toy with in privacy) whittled down from one handful to another, this
time to the price in pence of a Big Mac, which ironically (and
allegedly) is also made with silicone. As well as all the other
appendages some witless fucks require inflating - lips, cheeks, teats
and eyelids (whereas I would rather settle for my bank account).
There was also another late night excursion to A&E (that's accident and
emergency you sick puppies) when baby Luna undertook her bi-monthly
plummet on the head, though it was third time unlucky - she didn't get a
lollypop despite having to undergo another X-ray to see if, like her
father, she actually possesses a brain at all. Not the most thrilling of
nights out; hours slouched abut staring at sick and injured people might
be your idea of entertainment, but I'd rushed out without a packed
lunch.
Still, compensation was accrued via a bout of about 13-month-old
(unlucky for mum) madness, when Luna decided to destroy the children's
waiting room, much to the horror of parents and their brats alike, and
the increasingly hard-to-stifle amusement of myself and Toni, who
repeatedly had to stop her wadding over to a child nearly thrice her age
and lobbing plastic bricks at his face. Oh the wondrous joys of
parenthood! On the plus side, this month did bless me with two rather
biblical revelations.
Firstly (and obviously by the grace of God because my father used to
know him), I passed my driving test with flying colors (rather than
flying pedestrians), a feat that has opened up a whole new chapter in my
life, one that is entitled 'Car Keys', and how to snatch them from my
girlfriend's purse! No, she hasn't taken to secreting them between her
legs to foil me, though it would make for an interesting discourse
should I have to retrieve them without her knowledge. It's just that she
needs the car on a daily basis for work etc, and I just wanna burn
rubber baby! And until I buy another Munster mobile, completion for its
use will be stiff and usually resulting in a toss-off, (I told you she
was good at persuasion...)
Armed with ten years' hindsight, I would've learnt to drive a damn sight
quicker had I become as dependent on it as I undoubtedly am now. Whereas
before, if anything was required of the village shops (for example-shouls
we need candles, bread, a replacement child and so on), I'd probably
walk, jog -hell even unicycle- the 50 or so yards. Not so now. At the
slightest sniff of an opening (oo-er!) to use the car, the tan-backed
driving gloves are ferreted out, the CD player's put in, the seat and
mirror are adjusted (I still drive like Mr. Magoo) and finally after
edging out of the parking space smaller than the actual car itself, I'm
off...only to repeat the procedure 30 seconds later down the road parked
outside the Co-op. I can't help it-the driving bug has bitten a B-road
right up my inside leg and grabbed me firmly by the short and curlies.
The car is now an extension of my psyche. It's independence, it's
freedom, it's ripping from the stereo thinking I'm mean motherfucking
Nigel Schumacher. And what's a handbrake turn like at 60?
In short I'm addicted and I'm telling you (although legally only if
you're old enough to believe me), smack would be safer. Anyroad...
The second wonder was that our year-long search pimping estate agents
for a new home was over when we found a house in our favor and price
range. the downside is (we are due to sign papers soon and seeing as my
soul already belongs to another, I have to claim one on tick...) that
we'll be moving from my beloved countryside to the smoke. The plus side
is that the new house is by far big enough to accommodate the
rollerdisks I've long since hankered for and the sanctuary for diabetic
Shetland ponies that sensibility just demands I establish (proving they
graze in a room 13x12).
Finally, some foreplay for the Cradle Of Fear film I touch upon briefly
last month from the knackered biro of slaughter-auteur Alex Chandon:
"Cradle Of Fear is surprisingly enough, a twisted, deliriously sick 'n'
sexy anthology horror film. Five tales of urban terror. A nightmarish
tapestry of monsters and demons, killers and sadists, sex and lots of
wet, red violence filmed in evil".
Shooting begins by the time the next column is milked onto paper, so
maybe I'll have something decent to write about for a change. Probably
not...Still, if it's any consolation, at least I still get paid for this
crap, but only bad pennies and a nudey mag from the hairy '70s - still
it's a living!
Your friend,
Dani
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Enough to make your knickers wet with foreign juices,
it's...
Pact: Twenty sicks: Here comes the scum...
So summer is upon us again, descending like some flame-wreathed phoenix
from the severed heavens, mantled in swelter welts and higher mortgage
rates of cancer. Time once more for nonchalant sunglass fever, backdoor
barbecues and Deejays regurgitating sad mantras about Ibiza and other
atrocities. All radios double in volume and bass level. The breeze,
thick with humidity unright for our climate is suddenly sickly sweet
with the reek of factor fifteen on sagging cleavage, the youth become
Californian, the elderly wear white in favour of grey. Squealing tyres,
petrol mowers and carrion, migrant birds hog the roads and air. Pent up,
cooked hormones congeal in flesh receptacles, a clicking insect libido
when the lights and tights go down. Cabin fever. Bermuda contagion.
Cloying sweat leaps from man to man as too does the notion that every
woman in anything less than a late nineteenth century diving suit
demands their utmost lecherous intent. Cities acquire the stench of
abattoirs, brazen meat markets simmering to Maggotropolis. Coastline
resorts threaten to break off under unwelcome attention and drift off
into the ocean, leaving the Great British Isles with more the appearance
of a basking beached whale than the temperated Dragon rampart the Euros
once economically feared. Rover and Ford falter for not spewing out
enough soft-tops geared toward the Internet Shares investor at this time
of year, less informative highways crawl to a standstill with tin-opened
BMW, VW and sporty, foreign fuck you's blaring the latest
Speedhousedubgaragetechnodance craze, backseat speakers rife with
electro-chitteringnonsense interrupted only by the microwave fuzz of
in-car/in-ear/in-sane mobile drones. Even our beloved Metal scene seems
to undergo a near-complete refurbishment beneath the glare of seasonal
scrutiny. The Top Forty suddenly bears witness to an influx of pop-metal
combos such as Terrorvision and Skunk 'n' Onion (sorry Skunk Anansie, it
was just that I got a whiff of my summer armpits...!) all masquerading
as alternative crossover. Don't get me wrong, they're good at what they
do and, hell, I'd rather listen to them (well, bar that 'Tequila'
abortion than something like say, Christina Agui- I'd have to remove my
tongue to pronounce it properly-laryasshole, but at the end of the day,
it's an embarrassment. Maybe I'm just riled because at last years
'Meringue' Awards Ceremony, Cradle of Filth came second to the jangly
wet Stereophonics in the best British band category (which says a lot
for said readership, voting for both of us!), but I believe (and say
this with inward-studded codpiece thrust satanically towards an
Apocalypse-ridden horizon-a sincerity beyond common sense) that metal
need not prostitute itself unduly, if at all, just because everybody's
walking around with sunstroke-etched grins and deeper tans from a
bottle. Okay, so it darkens later and Angels always fall in love with
the Humans in summer, but is this any need for more Fear Factory dance
remix albums per normal one of their albums? Metal clubs incessantly
spinning Travis and Oasis releases, badass dogtown attitude and
keychains, Limp Wizzdick and, above all else of fate, Fucking Groop
Dogrill? I think not.
Or is it because at the tender age of TwentySix, Six, Six, I'm just too
old for this constant reinvention malarkey. Maybe that's why I've spent
the last 500 words dissing the fortuitous shift in season, and why
possibly my band will forever be nothing more than a sour taste in the
Balearics to the majority of you. Perhaps I'm gay. Perhaps I don't
appreciate the sight of naked nymphettes flaunting their ladylike bits
openly in the street, the gaps in their cleavages glistening with beads
of moist perspiration like a throat of low hung jewels, the sway of
their barely covered hips a mesmeric pendulum inviting later appraisal
in porcelain washrooms?
Perhaps I should just shut up...
I'm not going to be paid fully unless I end on a high note, or write at
least nine hundred words, so I've opted for the latter and decided to
introduce Cradle's latest acquisition-our new organist, Mike Powell, who
is definitely The Man to usurp the throne of the late, great Shite Rev
Rudas Priest. Being an eight-grade Pianist aside, Martin (formally of
Scouse Scallywags, Anathema not only fills our precious keyboardist's
shoes to near perfection, but urinates in them as well. Is it a case of
guitar-envy or inherent musical brain damage that motivates the Rock
Ivorytinkler to surpass decency, who knows or cares? Mr. Powell has
lived up to the newly acquired moniker of 'Saint Disgustus' withour the
faintest whiff or morality, or regard for personal hygiene. He first
impressed me backstage at last year's Dynamo festival when he took my
whole load in his mouth...Sorry, when he allowed himself to be thrust
inside a fishy wheelie bin and then set on fire, but since becoming the
Sixth Sense in the band, not only has he head banged solidity for six
weeks, but in near white-out states of drunkenness we have bone witness
to him licking kebab fat off the pavement, flossing his teeth with
another's stalwart pubic hair (plucked from the back garden so to
speak), eating lard sandwiches and, if that wasn't enough for the Plucky
Northern dervish, devouring our bassist's birthday chunder for the
paltry sum of sixty quid. The guy's a fucking animal. And there was I
worrying...
Yours, brain friend to a sun-ripened raisin,
Dani
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