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Well, I suppose it finally had to happen... I have discovered the fascinating world of online auctions. In particular... eBay.

How much fun is that? You can buy all sorts of crapola that other people don't seem to want and flog shite to unsuspecting idiots. So far, I have sold one of those throwaway camera with all its film taken and CD that I found and got a complete stranger to sign.

And I'm running on profit. Which is good as my journalistic endeavours are rather dry at the moment. So I'm currently surviving on poker winnings, the gullibility of online buyers and designing websites for bands.

So, any offers of utterly dumb stuff I can find, make, create, and sell on eBay, please tmail me and I'll keep you posted with my adventures.

Well, it's good to hear that eating meat from cloned animals doesn't make your mobile rot your brains.

There's something wrong with science. Always reminds me of those old B&W 50's B-Movies... "You're meddling with things you cannot even begin to comprehend."

How do we know that there are no long-term effects on using mobile phones? Because science told us... How do we know that GM food won't make our grandchildren allergic to the very air they breathe? Because science tells us... And why are drugs that suppress the symptoms are better than therapies that deal with the problem? Because science tells us...

Boffins eggheads, crackpots. People seem to believe that scientists are NICE PEOPLE. All scientists are helping the world become a better place.

Sorry Bubba, you're wrong and a grotesquely ugly freak. Scientists are NOT NICE PEOPLE. Scientists are evil. Films protray them as evil, harnessing nature for nefarious purposes. Nazi scientists poured boiling water into the brains of Jews  just to see what would happen. they genetically mix cats with birds, make drugs that suppress humanity at is spiritual level, create and develop new and interesting was of removing humanity from this world.

so remember, when you see those adverts saying that BRAND NEW PANTERA [shampoo product] with NEW IMPROVED GLOBULUM-8 [made up word that means nothing but they have to make it sound better than it is] making it 23% [insert unproveable statistic to make it sound whizzy] stronger than any other leading brand...

...scientists made it out of the blood of the innocent. go and see you apocathary and get a dose of leeches.

It's a very important day to day across the country; flags are being raised, shoes polished, teeth cleaned, ties straightened, lines drawn. THe country is bursting with pride and the gods have looked down upon us and blessed us with a perfect cyan sky.

why?

The Grand National. Bunch of horses pissing round a track for the amusement of the rich. Forty horses, ridden by midgets from the Emerald Isles, past the aristocracy so they can pass vast amounts of money between them.

I am, but then I'm a sucker for throwing my money away. Aintree racecourse will be full of alcohol, hats and 'fa-fa-fah's' until the last horse falls only to get shot out in the paddock and ground into GM burgers for the French.

So, I'm off to shout at horses.

Oh, and some members of the royal family are marrying each other in the vain hope that they'll preed themselves out of humanity.

The race is on. I was in the pub when the news came through. I was attempting to interview Raymond Faust, a local eccentric obsessed with collecting decks of cards, when John Snow blurted out over the tranny [transistor radio--not fetishist with fashion leanings towards the opposite sex] in the corner of the bar, "Tony Blair has announced that this years election will be on May 5th."

"Fuck it!" I screamed, yanking away the Playboy deck I had used to entice the old freak, and leapt for the door. This was NEWS. The country has a month to get the political war on the map, and it's going to be a dirty fight.

Let me explain something about British politics: it's fucking dull and nothing ever happens. Lots of people walk around in suit, smiling and shaking hands with the working class and kissing babies. Then on election night whoever is in power stays in power, or they get ousted by another party who does exactly what the previous party did and ignoring any of their manifesto that got them there in the first place.

But it will still be a vicious fight. John Prescott won't back down as Number 2 without punching the fuck out of another Welshman. Tony Bliar will creep about leaving his trail of slime all over his photo album of Emperor Bush and Michael Howard will hire gangs of thugs to work over old ladies and foreigners to win the big fat seat.

For all those that have no fucking clue as to what goes on in the UK, here is the Idiot's Guide to UK Politics:

[1] There are only 2 parties Labour and the Conservatives. Any other parties you might hear about are not worth talking about or have been made up.

[2] The leader of the Labour Party is Tony Blair. Their Colour is Red. They are a bit like Democrats... Democrats that can organise a piss up in a brewery. They are currently in charge. He does what Emperor Bush tells him what to do [wouldn't you side with the most powerful and insane nation on earth if it was pointing a gun or a series of trade embargoes at you?] The Labour Party used to stand for the rights of the Unions and the Working Class, the Labour Class, if you wish. Recently, they have disbanded most powerful unions and generally ignore the working class as they're not good for capitalism, industry and clog up hospitals. The Labour Party are now right of centre in the political line. They used to hang out with the dictator of Zimbabwe, who now won't let them have their cricket ball back.

[3] THe leader of the Conservative Party is Michael Howard. He can't say "people" properly. He says "peepul". Their colour is Blue. Margaret Thatcher used to be a Conservative and hang out with Ronald Regan in a big White House. They haven't been in power since 1997 when Labour won the right to rule the country and live in a terraced house in Downing Street. The Conservative Party are a bit like Republicans that don't believe in guns. They do believe in industry, capitalism and making vast amounts of money. And if you don't they'll tax you. [If you do, they'll tax you too but look you in the eye while they do it]. They usually have poncy names like Tarquin and Lord Rothermere and shoot peasants on Sundays after church. They look after the upper classes by ignoring the working classes as they're not good for capitalism, industry and clog up hospitals. Foreigners are a no-no. They don't work, can't speak all proper, smell funny and try and steal the lead off the church roof. Don't let them in. In fact, seal off the Channel Tunnel and close all the airports. The Conservative Party are right of the Labour Party, Hitler, Bush, Mussolini, you name it. They sold Saddam Hussein the weapons of mass destruction that he used on the Iranians and the Kurds.

[4] The UK gets one month of pimping from these buffoons and then you have to go to a run-down church or village hall to tick a box. It always seems on a Thursday. So everybody is at work and can't be arsed to go.

[5] You can only vote for your local representative of each party. I couldn't vote for Tony Blair, even if I wanted to--i'd have to vote for some tit called Miriam because she's the Labour Rep in my area.

[6] Nobody votes. Last time only about 38% of the population [of 66 million] went and put an X in a box.

[7] THe evening of the election half the population will go home and drink beer in front of the football. The other half will go home and drink beer infront of the election results.

[8] For the next four years it will feel like nothing has changed.

ANY QUESTIONS ABOUT UK POLITICS, SEE ME AFTER CLASS.

It’s been a long time since the days of hairspray, black velvet, black leather and black heads, but the other night I braved the world of darkness once again to go to a Goth gig.

Soon as I walked into the place I knocked into about eight people I knew--looming out of the dry ice like wraiths--before I hit the bar. Literally; and then proceeded to drink it devoid of life.

These fractured people; shot through with amphetamine, jarring like mannequins to the electro feedback and wailing femme fatale crammed into a corset that a Baz Luhrman movie would die for. Inkubus Sukkubus rocked. Bass lines that remoulded your metabolism, spidery hands sketching pagan signs in the air as the band played on. A couple of songs I recognised from way back. Plus a fantastic version of the Stone's Paint It Black, when, for a split second they were the best band on the planet.

It's not as much fun reviewing a good band, so lets just say that they rocked, as did Abigail's Mercy. They had ROCK all over them. And YET ANOTHER corset-riddled Goth girl wailing in the foreground, hanging onto the key as if her career depended upon it. They totally looked the part, but the image was ruined as I saw the girl collect her lyrics from her Fiat Uno outside. Should have been a hearse.

I'd like to talk about the support: they call themselves Caudia Pavonis, I'd call them something far less savoury. Not from round these parts, I collared what I hoped was a local Goth and bothered him about them.

"They're THE local Goth band, see there: Singing Sue and Drumming Dave. Everybody round here loves them," he intoned before tearing free of my grasp and hurling himself at a drunk Gothette who was having trouble keeping it together, upright and in her corset. I wondered if i could complete the quartet with Bessie Bassist. Turns out they are Chris and Jess respectively.

He was right; the moshpit was throbbing with bodies hurling each other round the sampled drumming. Even the token psycho was muttering "It’s a Bad Omen" in rhythm to their cheap sequencer.

I failed to see the point. But then that's just me. I like all sorts of music so my range is wide but thin, I just thought the body was willing, but the spirit was clichéd.

I did a little research, this basically involved buying drinks for people taller and scarier than I and assaulting people younger and weaker than I. it’s a successful technique I picked up when researching locations of the local Masonic societies when I was living down in South London: new Bassist. Cute, huge breasts, seemed a little surprised that there was a bass slung across her front as she delicately plucked at a few notes that were lost amongst the military precise drumming. Guitarist looked the part. Oozed of Bauhaus androgyny, more human than human. Dave Wainright, maestro extraordinaire on skins. The band is his baby, you can tell. it reeks of I’ll tell you all what to play and how. And Su out on front looking like a crazed Cathy Burke and sounding like Andrew Eldritch passing by on a Harley D.

Put it all together and you get a very keen cliché that makes a few good songs that all sound the same.

When the dry ice cleared, I had to make good w/ my legs and flee. I'd spotted Scotty, a guy I used to liberate recreational pharmaceuticals from. He was under the misapprehension that I owed him drug money and disliked it when I reminded him he owed me 6 months of my life for fleeing the scene of a crime. A brief conversation later and I left him collecting his thought through the blood miasma a broken nose generates.

All in all... an experience to reflect over a pint of snakebite and black.

The ailing Pope is in my thoughts at this time; for several reasons.

[1] Human Illness and suffering is the bane of our world and I wouldn't wish this on my worst enemies. I hope he recovers and leads a relatively happy life in his twilight years with plenty of love, company and laughter.

[2] If God gives you flu, then pneumonia, then a heart attack, it's usually his way of telling you to come visit him.

[3] I have him in my dead pool and I may become £25 better off... unless Boris Yeltsin gets mown down by an errant Chechen Rebel.

You know that feeling that you get AFTER THE INCIDENT where you come up with all the witty shitty remarks that make you the donkey with the biggest dick in the field. Happened to me a couple of nights back.

I popped out to see a mate of mine in a place called Bristol down in the dustbowl of the UK. She lives in a beautiful old Georgian Terrace on a hill. Place is probably worth a million alone. Took me quite a few hours to get there in my bodykitted jet-back Landrover Defender. Pissing down the M5 at all of 60 MPH. Looks good, drives good. Steers like a bitch.

Anyways, I pull up at this million pound house and notice several things: it's dark, it's raining, there's no fucking roadside parking. Can you believe it? All these expensive houses and no fucking parking. So I pull up to a row of garages and park outside of the one that DOESN'T have the DO NOT PARK IN FRONT OF THIS GARAGE I AM A DOCTOR AND NEED 24 HOURS ENTRANCE AND EGRESS and go and see my mate. It's the only space for miles.

'bout 10 minutes later I get a phone call from Rich, my local policeman back home. A good friend in the battle against stupidity, he excels as putting people who ought to know better behind bars in the vain attempt to clear out the gene pool. It's like trying to brush out the tide. Without a brush.

Anyways, he gives me a word about this prick that has rung up the police because MY 4x4 is blocking his drive. He's asked them to trace my registration plate and my details came up. I'm a generally polite person, I thought, I'll move it.

Standing in the road, on his phone to the police [apparently he's refused to hang-up until this issue has been resolved] is this Office Jock.

An office jock is that sort of wet arrogant cunt that thinks he's the biggest fish in the pond. He probably is, but it's a pretty fucking small pond, and he only got there by bullying, delegation and stealing other people's ideas. And he's a total tosser. AND he's going bald. Patronising cunt. This is the conversation:

TOSSER [to phone]: Oh, he's here. Stay on the line. [to me] What number do you live at?

GONZO.ID: None of your business.

TOSSER: Haven't I told you about parking here before?

GONZO.ID: No, I don't live here.

TOSSER: I think I have. Why did you parked in front of my garage?

GONZO.ID: Because there were no parking spaces and your garage was the only garage without a no parking sign.

TOSSER: That's not very logical now, is it?

GONZO.ID: I didn't profess to posessing any form of logic.

TOSSER [to phone]: yes, hold on... I'm just telling him off.

GONZO.ID: Are you going to get out of the way so i can move my fucking car?

TOSSER: Now, I'd really appreciate it if you never parked in front of this garage again.

GONZO.ID gets in big-ass Landrover, slaps reverse lights on, and attempts to reverse into TOSSERS car as it's BLOCKING EGRESS. TOSSER eventually moves it and GONZO.ID parks Landrover 20 yards further away.

The tosser is still trying to talk to me as I'm walking off. About 10 minutes later I'm thinking of all the really cool things I could have said, like "Fuck You, you dappy bastard, my car is bigger than yours and I'm not some sad twat that's overly obsessive about out-superioring every daft bugger on this planet." And other sentences to that effect.

Luckily, revenge was sweet. By the time I'd left my mate's house SOMEBODY ELSE had parked in front of this guy's garage... a van. So I let down the tyres and superglued a sign to the windscreen saying DON'T PARK IN FRONT OF MY FUCKING GARAGE.

Guy who owns the van is gonna beat the cunt to death.

I keep checking the papers...

I'm at home this week. Thank fuck for that, spending my time scrabbling about the country, the world has left its toll on me and so this week, i've done sweet fuck all.

That's not actually true, I've sat in the garden in my special hammock and watched the world go by over the top of a whole swathe of rum and cokes. The grass is growing, the trees are beginning to bud and flower and the sky is going on forever.

A couple of time I had to threaten ramblers that think the footpath that goes ALONG my property actually cuts right across the land to the hills over yonder. Experience has taught me that if you threaten with a shotgun they flee. And since I'm a friend of the local plod, the ramblers ALWAYS get done for trespass.

Other than relaxing in the sun, I've scoured the world news for unusual UFO sightings, child deaths and the slow steady collapse of democracy around the world. Just in case. Trust me.

Also, continued my writing of the book Fuck You and All You Stand For: My Experiences In A World Grown Up Wrong. Doubleday are interested, except they think I should change the title to: Living Under the New World Order.

On Friday I had the privilige of being backstage [sorry, 'off floor' in BBC lingo] at this year's Comic Relief.

For those that don't know: Comic Relief is the UK's way of saying thank you to all those starving foreigners and underpriviliged children the world over for keeping hippies / lesbian housewives / chronic lefties / men in sandals in business as unusually specific charitable organisations. [you know the sort: Blind left-handed children from Lemuria Foundation, February 29th Survivors Group, Sudanese Nazi Liberation Front--Jewish Chapter, etc.]

It's a time for humour, with a serious message. It's a time to laugh and donate to charity. It's a time when Robbie Williams dresses up as the dame to appear on England's Funniest Show^[tm] , Little Britain. And, it's a time when they pull out all the old shows they cancelled years back to do a Comic Relief Special.

It was really exciting, for the limited amount of time that I was there. Y'see, I had a little bit of a disagreement with Richard Curtis.

Richard Curtis wrote Blackadder, Mr Bean, Not the Nine O'Clock News, and Spitting Image. All of which are hillarious, genius cutting edge humour. He's a good man, funny, articulate, witty, and a good friend of a good friend.

He also did 4 Weddings and A Funeral and Notting Hill, which are acceptable. They're ok-ay.

I cannot forgive him for that sugary, drippy, shitly-written, unfunny abortion called Love, Actually. That fucker. It even takes place at Christmas so the fucking networks can't get enough of the snow.  So when I was introduced to him I asked him why he was such a cunt for making Love, Actually. He took offence to this and tried to remove the bottle of Wild Turkey I had snuck in to 'pep-up' the watered-down drinks the BBC favours. To which I replied, in kind, by attempting to remove his nose with my fingers.

Ejection followed shortly afterwards.

Richard, if you're reading this, apologies about the nose, but if I even smell a Love, Actually 2 on the horizon it ain't gonna be your nose I'll try and rip off.

It's about 2.30am and I'm totally shattered. I've been playing Monster Magnet as loud as my brand spanking new Sony SupaSexyMp3DVD-ROMBass KingCD-RW_AM/FM/DABTunerS tereo HiFiSoundSystem can play it. I used to have it on Vinyl but not even my new Sony can handle that. It can handle a decibel level that could raze entire forests with a sub-subsonic woofer that the US millitary would die for. But with the likes of Space Lord and Look to your Orb for the Warning it is only succeeding in pissing the neighbours off. 2KM away.

I'm up this late because I'm trying to fix my fucking computer. One of the other treats I bought myself was a brand spanking new HP colour printer. It worked for two days, then bit the fat one. While it was still light outside I rang up their helpdesk and after a wonderful 23 minute rendition of In the Air Tonight [Phil Collins] the monkey that was on the end of the phone told me that error message #324b23c2dee123412.124134b was because my brand spanking new printer was out of blue ink.

I haven't yes used any blue to print, so how can it be out of blue? Bloke down pub had the answer. My local brewhouse is filled with the ne'er-do-wells of ALL strata's of society; lawyers swap tricks with lockpicks whilst the poacher in the corner it flogging dead pheasants to the worst reformed gambler in the world. so bloke down pub will know. And he did.

"Fucking HP have written a code to their paint pots you get w/ the printer. it's a perfect fucking scam. Swish Dave apparently came up with the idea."

Swish Dave hasn't been seen round these parts since he was caught flogging laptop casings filled with potatoes to gullible students.

"They put this code in their printers and then flog 'em off really cheap so that loads of people buy them, but their sensors tell you that you've run out of ink even when you haven't. And so HP rake it in on the flogging of new ink cartridges. Genius really."

I worked it out on the back of a napkin as bloke down pub got in another round of wifebeater [read: Stella Artois]. it's about £40 for a colour printer and if the chip tells you x much, y often then we're looking at...

...

...almost £1,800 a year to run the fucker. Cheapest printer in the world my arse. Luckily for me my new stereo can print stuff on it. So I'm using that. My vinyl? That's been delegated to target practice... Y'see, I also bought an old Winchester .303...

I've got to write fast today, so apologies for being scrappy in my grammar and eloquence. That and the Dancehall I've got blaring on my RumblePackmp3RecordoAmpoP ersonalisator^[TM] is so fucking cool sounding, I've not got the concentration. Oh, and the Yardies are after me.

I've had to sneak into an internet cafe in Bristol, UK to gibber at you. It's a good a place as any... I've been down here seeing a mate of mine: Becky Price, Jordan's sister.

Becks is lovely, total opposite of her whorish, giant-breasted sibling: not a glamour [read sex] model like her sister in any way. And she's clever too... also not like here sister...and she's not engaged to Peter Andre. In fact, you can barely tell they're related except maybe in those big beautiful eyes.

Anyways, she's a mate and I've been hanging out in Bristol with her because she has an enourmous capacity to consume vodka, and she's been telling me about the Eurovision Song Contest.

"...and so these countries big themseves up ever year by playing crap pop ditties in some godawful backwater capital in Latvia and then vote utterly politically. Norway never gives points to Sweden, Israel and Turkey don't even piss in the same building, and all the Baltic States slap each other on the back. The music's second place... the amount of money that changes hands..." She's got a mouth on her.

Y'see, her sister is one of the nominees to sing the UK Eurovision song. Along with 3 failed pop idols and a gang of metrosexuals that would allow themselves to be buggered by you as long as you voted for them so that in three years time they have their own camp daytime TV show about designing pet hospitals or something.

"She's only doing it 'coz Pete's a singer and she's got this 'I've gotta prove myself' in her. It's gonna be terrible, no matter what, but she'll have fun, and thats good..."

Anyway, Yardies. What I didn't know is that Bristol has the largest number of Jamaican gangsters outside of Kingstown. Kingstown, Jamaica. And every single one of those homophobic, psychopathic, drug dealing, mentalists is currently scouring Bristol looking for the WhiteMan. Me.

The reason? Awkward questions at a Dancehall. There I was at a Dancehall lesson being taught how to 'brush the flies' and 'stroke them down' and numerous other dancehall moves, possibly invented to fleece the money from respectable [but fucking annoying] middle-cla ss students who have suddenly decided that black is back and are heading towards the ghettos in droves to be part of this weeks In Crowd.

First guy I spoke to was some relative of Beenie Man, I believe. His accent was so rich that it was difficult to understand, but warm and mellow and made me think of beaches, rum and vast amounts of 'erb.

I will not attempt dialogue, just to say that he was pissed that the dancehall stars [Elephant Man, Sizzla, Bounty Killer and suchlike] were checked at immigration control, regularly refused work permits and deported more often that the drug-mules on the same flight. The government have been denying any involvement.

Gay rights groups have come out [pun totally intended] against the homophobic lyrics of these artists and have been boycotting gigs under the banner of 'Stop Murder Music' of those ghetto stars that haven't been refused entry and complaining to the part of the music industry that seems to have control over this. And what have these record companies done? gone along w/ the gay rights campaigners. Suppressing their own artists.

2pac never had this trouble. But then 2pac never sounded like this:

"A yah mi born, a yah mi live an mi a stay 
An from mi little bit a yasso mi dey play 
An mi nuh see nuh bwoi fi mek mi run away 
Caw mi nuh punk bo yah an man nuh gay"

[Silent Violence, Beenie Man]

Quite.

Better be off back to my farmstead across the country, my £5 for 30 minutes is nearly up and there's a couple of dreads across the street who have suddenly taken an interest in net caffs.