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So Aaron thinks the rude tone and vicious lies in my last diary entry were uncalled for.

I told him to stay the fuck out of my affairs, but he insisted I go up-beat for this one, just to preserve the balance of forces in the universe, or some shit. Fortunately, that job is made very easy by the various fine qualities of our first show.

Holy fucking shit! Have you BEEN to The Windmill (22 Blenhiem Gardens, Brixton, London, UK)? Fucking go there NOW!
It’s a nuts and bolts rock dive, a grisly-old-man pub and a social hub for the young and fashionable all rolled into one small greasy brick box. But that’s not all.

Oh Lord no.

They have dogs! Huge, goofy, lick-your-face dogs that lick your face!
...and a sweet scummy beer garden full of refuse and old picnic tables....and dogs! Huge fucking dogs! One of them lives on the fucking roof!! Huge fucking Rottweiler on the fucking roof!

...and a super-sweet garage that’s been converted into a suburban death-metal bong cave for smoking “reefer” on rainy nights.

Serious props to the staff, with special big-ups to Tim the booker.

There was a bit of a tussle with local shred/bash/yell crew “Cold In Berlin” (check ‘em!) for second spot on the bill, which we of course won, due to a combination of my physical strength and Aarons’ terrifying, unblinking serial-killer stare. But by the time the dust settled there was no time for a sound check.

So we was very loud and messy. But damn it, we cranked through our half-hour set like a two man Green Beret amphibious hit squad and I think people got the message. That guy Greg who bought a seven inch off us sure as hell got the message.
Hi Greg. How’s that little round bugger sounding?

The Whigs of course beat every ones skulls with their signature blend of sweet melody and brute he-man rock power and there was a general air of satisfaction in the house as the proceedings wound down.

This morning brought the predictable problems (double vision, tinnitus, migraine) and I kicked the bathroom door off its’ hinges when I looked up to find that Ivan “Who’s blood am I using today?” Basso stomped the field on stage 19 of the Giro and Cadel “It’s not fucking FAIR” Evans lost all hope of wearing pink. But the 3 grams of paracetamol I took half an hour ago is kicking in, so me and Aaron will probably start running our gruelling fitness drills, to stay cut and frosty for our next onslaught in Hamburg on Wednesday.

Oh yeah, that reminds me. Apologies to any Hamburgers offended by the belligerent and abusive tone of the last diary entry. I hear nothing but the finest things about your fair city (not joking, EVERYONE says Hamburg slays) and I’m sure that if your reading this you are not wearing Urban Outfitters cycling pants. Fuck it, even if you are, just come to the gig and we’ll do our best to impress.
See you there, un-squares!!

Until then, we’ve got abs to blast.

P.S Apologies also to the inestimable Andy Inglis (pronounced Ingles). To the best of my knowledge he has never tortured an animal, except in the course of his important medical research which will one day put athletes foot in the garbage can of history, along with scurvy and rickets.



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