We can't stop here...

Velvet Acid Christ. The track is apparently called: "Fun with drugs."

Aggies

I never understood this until now. I didn't used to think much of America. It was just another big country somewhere. Then I started listening to ZZTop, and went to New York and saw that horrible hole and then I drove through New Hampshire.

Live Free Or Die! I understand that. Ned Kelly understood that. Lord Denning understood that, in his own very British way.

Then I started to realize that the best thing in the world is to be an American.

And there's only one thing better than being an American. That's being a Texan:

Today they join the rank and file of an endless legion of Texas Aggie bandsmen whose dignified footsteps echoing brass and thunderous cadences have filled this landmark stadium for decades past. May each senior know that because of their spirit of unity, dignity, self discipline and enduring pride that they each were good enough and proud enough and tough enough to be called the Noble Men of Kyle.

And now forming at the north end of Kyle Field, the nationally famous Fightin' Texas Aggie Band...

These guys used to choose the best fighter amongst them to be drum major. That shit makes me weep with joy. It really does.

In other news I just took delivery of the most perfect geek porn. It is a solar powered bluetooth GPS receiver. It was ferried to me from Hong Kong in what appears to be two metric days. It had six airmail stickers on it, one on each face of the package (more stickers, more speed). A trinket of such exquisite precision, and ultimately useless. I never get lost.

I see that dtb04 has made a proposal and that, incredibly, this has been accepted.

 

This is good news and long overdue.  It does of course have the unfortunate side effect of taking one hot Czech girl out of the potential pool of available girls on a final and confirmed basis.  This is not good news.  But we can live in hope of some weird polygamist cult getting hold of them.

We must ban all chemicals of any kind immediately, with retrospective effect

This is a quote from an article in the NY Times:

... Iraqi phosgene, a volatile, highly poisonous chemical made of carbon monoxide and chlorine...

Chemistry is one of the most holy disciplines that a man can follow. It is rigorous and unforgiving. There is only one answer, but infinite paths lead you there. Charlatans are immediately obvious. The truth is all that matters. The truth cannot be diluted or disguised. Chemistry is chemistry.

And so - phosgene is phosgene. It is nothing else, and nothing else but phosgene is phosgene. There is not, as with beer, a variety of phosgene. There is no such fucking thing as Iraqi phosgene. Phosgene does not care about such artificial constructs as Iraq. It is a stable molecule. I dunno exactly how stable, but I'd guess that its stable enough that a molecule somewhere will have outlasted Gilgamesh and fucking Saddam Hussein.

Carbonyl Chloride is its real name. It is useful in industry in making plastics. It will kill humans, however. In fact it will kill 50% of a population of humans at a concentration of 800 parts per million. You get it in your eyes, it does nothing. Much like the goggles. You get it on your skin, it does nothing. Breath it in, you're fucked. If your lung capacity is 5L, then inhaling 4 mL at a time as a gas (about the amount of smoke that fills just the filter part of a cigarette) will kill you stone dead 50% of the time and if it doesn't the next breath will. Of pulmonary edema. I'm a chemist, not a doctor, but I think pulmonary edema sucks. Blood comes out your lungs till you die, or something.

The common name comes from the fact that it was first synthesized by exposing a mixture of carbon monoxide (what comes out of your car exhaust) and chlorine (green gas you get from fucking with pool chemicals) to sunlight (light that comes from the sun). It is not hard to make. It is so easy to make that an Iraqi could do it. An American could do it. Even a journalist working at the New York Times could do it.

"made of carbon monoxide and chlorine"! Makes it sound like fucking Lego. Put them in a bowl and mix them. Bah. It's not like baking fucking cookies. You need to break bonds and move electrons. Its easy to do but it isn't simple. Its art.

Anyway, I don't know why the fuss. You're allowed to have up to 500 pounds of the shit if you want. What they found in NY was the size of a coke can. You don't even have to tell anybody in post 9/11 NY that you've released any amount up to 10 pounds. And its not like it was smuggled in by tearists. Fucking weapons inspectors put it there 11 years ago. Dickheads. Phosgene eats metal, unless its gold or platinum and other rare and fabulous substances.

Chemistry has a similar power over the muggle mind to The Law. Some malign force that comes into your life and fucks your shit up and there's not a goddamn thing you can do about it cause its The Law. You're in more danger from dickheads than you are from chemicals or The Law. Stay away from dickheads.

I will always walk alone

Liverpool is full of scousers. Scousers all suck, and thieve shit for no reason. They are thieving cunts.

I went to Liverpool yesterday. Ostensibly in order to attend Creamfields in the VIP lounge. But in fact it was to be taught a series of bitter lessons.

The trip started badly. Macgastro the tardy retard kept us well behind schedule and so we encountered a mind boggling traffic jam. We stopped at some services for nicotine and caffeine, and saw a girl wearing a pair of micro hot pants and a hot pink fishnet body stocking and fuckall else. Face like a prolapsed anus. We got back on the motorway just in time to watch a helicopter land on the road to collect the broken corpse of a motor cycle enthusiast who we'd seen earlier on a very tasty Harley.

We played frisbee in the breakdown lane while he breathed his last.

When we got to the gig the Reid-O-Matic 4000 demanded that we engage in rigmarole and faff and circumnavigate the entire fucking festival from the obscurity of the service roads surrounding the VIP lounge. We almost made it through a tent flap, but had to stop when we were blocked by the back of the DJ and a view over his shoulder of a thousand gurning fucking scousers. I got a brief feeling of what its like to be master of a zombie horde.

We saw a drug deal going down as a bloke was dragged out of the crowd, brane clearly fried. The irrevocable damage was so great that the astonished scouse first aider laughed as the guy fell pole axed onto his face, lay still for a bit, then tried to stand, only to fall right back over on his arse and crack his head on a pole holding the tent up. That cracked the first aider right up. A while later Macgastro and I watched a girl collapse and endure a proper grand mal. Her whole body rictus pulled her knees wide apart and up to her chest while the rest of her became cornholio. A horrible mixture of snatch and twitch.

This finally got the better of Macgastro and me. We fled to the relative sanity of the VIP lounge. We sat there amongst hideously corpulent 50 somethings slowly and slickly stroking each other, and drank vodka and pomegranate juice. Even this was a grim reminder of the ghost of senescence to come. We were bitter, delusional and proper mellow.

The Reid-O-Matic 4000 lost his mind entirely, confessed to horrible crimes against the soul, ran off with a Huddersfield lass with a vast supply of coke and wasn't seen for hours. He came back sore, infected and bereft of all his technology and refused to speak any further about his ordeal.

I took a photo of a girl. It is reproduced below, raw from my phone. Make of that what you will. I say I was haunted by Satan himself last night.



I mean look at it. An elfin girl with Devil eyes. And look to the right. An ectoplasm with large nose and one nostril. Thick fleshy lips. An elongated head, surely a sign of malignant evil and bestial intelligence. A single ominous eye is visible, the other is in shadow. Small horns where the ears ought to be.

Others of you simply see a hot chick throwing a typical raver pose upon sight of a camera phone.

After the Reid-O-Matic's brutal rape, around 4am, we all tried to find solace in a giant blue tent with some brilliant Finns who mixed without headphones. Mental.

On the way in some scouser cunt robbed the hat off my head. I was well beyond caring. I was haunted by Satan, and a theiving scouser cunt held no fright for me. Have the fucking hat, you prick. About an hour later I needed to piss, and tried to leave by the same route I'd taken in. I was confronted by a trio of thieving scouser cunts.

"ya reet thar, pal? Where's yar oi day?! Ye ghaern't com out without yar oi day!" Threatening jabs in the sternum from the woman, with her stumpy, thick fore-finger. Rubbish fake nails. Too square. French polish, as in furniture wax.

Apparently I was supposed to produce my wallet for inspection. When it became apparent that either I didn't speak scouse, or was otherwise not going to be immediately compliant, a fourth scouser about 6' 3" grabbed me from behind and twisted my wrist up behind my back. He was a big bastard, but not very strong. As I casually pushed him back his other hand was trying to grab the glasses off my face.

We danced a bit more, then fled. Sunrise accompanied by Death in Vegas seemed right: Aisha, I'm a murderer. I played frisbee while a man died. I was offended by a dying woman's pulsations, amused by a deranged drug fiend, persecuted by Beelzebub, robbed and violated by scouser cunts. Poisonned by a thousand cigarettes, bad chewing gum and liters of fucking Smirnoff fucking Ice, scoured by caustic arse-crack sweat.

I haven't slept yet. I read too much H. P. Lovecraft to fall for that shit. I'm gonna smoke a monster blunt now and watch porn until Cthulhu comes or fatigue takes me. It's the only thing left in my power to scrub the grim memories of the past 24 hours.

The trains known as national rail,
Are piss weak, dire, shitty and pale,
They're always so late,
Chiltern's lamentable state
'S made me ride home on a big fucken snail.

METALLICA rocks beyond Wembley and earth,
Metal's solution's muscle and mirth,
El diablo is cool,
Graduated from school,
Threatens coach drivers with unholy girth:

'Take me home forthwith to that place
Where I'm known by my horns and my face
Or I'll fuck you in half
My cock's gonna barf
Its all spiky like a big fucken mace.'

As transport, this mollusc's no good,
Like a toy horse that's made out of wood.
But its faster than trains
Electrically running on mains
And everything else that's south of Sherwood.

High wycombe's announcer's a cunt,
His delivery's stupid and blunt,
We're here in the rain
Wishing him endless pain
And hoping the next train's gotta shunt.
------------------

In the words of saint Matthew, Christ, what a fucking week. New PM, the windies learned and forgot how to play cricket, Britain's largest indie record shop goes broke, there's terror in London and Glasgow, and Simon Le Bon sings at a gig for princess Diana.
I celebrated this weirdness with a cigar at a rebel pub with some sweet pretty acid house country gospel music. If I want consciousness expansion I go to my local tabernacle and I *sing*.
Friday was cocktails till dawn in Leeds. Yesterday was rum and expensive steak.
I've got a few days to hook up with an old ex-pat mate of mine I haven't seen in half a decade before the METALLICA

\m/ 0.o \m/

gig on Sunday at Wembley. Last time I saw this degenerate bastard we got so bombed he thought I'd drowned in his swimming pool. Fuckers never heard of short range free diving. I was looking for cracks in the structure. Testing. Resting underwater. An innocent submarine snooze.
Wonder if he's still sporting dreadlocks...
Bah... I can't get past the reverend D-Wayne Love's third step...