Mixing, touring and face-palming. It's a CC life.

Among the eight of you reading this, there may be one or two who feel inclined to ask...

"What the fuck happened? Why the five month holiday from posting, you lazy, bass-plonking pigfucker. What happened to esprit de corps/the show must go on/duty to the customer (ect), you slack piece of shit?!?" 

Artists impression of what everyone assumes my life is like in Barcelona.

The answer is a long one of a highly personal nature. Let's just say I was "sad".

-Not the kind of sad you get when you find out the Easter bunny isn't real or that "Metro Station" exist.

-More your "screaming-into-a rolled-up-towel-so-the-neighbours-wont-hear" kind of sad. 

You know, the really good stuff.

Stare at this picture and get in touch with your innermost feelings. Even worse than that.

Aaaaaannnnyyhhooooooooo......

..... in coming posts I'll try to backtrack occasionaly and pick out a few of the humiliating lowlights of our last tour and bring some closure to the cruelly interrupted "Bushweek" saga. But right now it's all about right now, at the moment now...

...or at least the last couple of weeks. As I mentioned last post, things are back in full swing here at Civic HQ, with many irons in the fire and the constant wailing of sirens and roaring of heavy machinery keeping us up all night and grinding our nerves down to a fine edge. 

The general mood can be neatly summed up as.......

....ish. 

The Baaron and myself are currently locked in a deep subteranian recording pit somewhere in the City of London, mixing our DEBUT ALBUM (which will shatter the minds of the weak, uplift the souls of the strong and make grumpy, cancer ridden old women stage-dive off the cash-registers at Carrefour).

Every 6 hours a microwaved pizza and a bottle of generic cola is lowered down to us in a wire basket by a short, unpleasant woman called Gina. She's the abrasive, short tempered immigrant who the Baaron rescued from a savage rape/mugging in Hyde Park and who now works as his P.A. and housekeeper.

She yells encouragement, tells us what day it is and reads our email to us in her thick Maltese accent. She is a good woman, at heart. Hideously ugly and socially inept, but loyal and hard-working.

So the mood in the studio is upbeat and energetic, as you can see from this happy-snap taken only hours ago.

Fact: A volcano of terror and ugliness erupted late last week when our master hard drive "shat itself" in a shower of sparks and purple smoke, and the back-up drive proved to be missing many key audio files. The album appeared doomed, but the Baaron has many strange contacts in the shadowy world of tech-nerdism and after a few hours screaming into his phone he had the name and whereabouts of a semi-vampiric, drug-saturated studio-tech gothwizard with legendry powers of data recovery.

Two grams and a pack of Camels later, the album is back from the dead!

Fact: Our show at the Shacklewell Arms in Dalston (innit) was a "hoot". We played along side notorious Norsk prog fucks "Ungdomskulen" and the gig was loud, stupid, boozy, well attended and included an ultra-exclusive, Retards-Only aftershow discoteque hosted by the 'Skulens themselves, with only me and two drunk chicks to back them up.

This video, taken by a Japanese tourist who got lost trying to find the Victoria Albert Museum, fails to capture the dizzying heights of SPACK that were reached, but I include it for scholarly reference.

All this dance-tastic action had to go down without the Baaron, who had drunk himself into a dribbling stupor before the gig. He guzzled two litres of Baileys Irish Cream in the car-park and fell asleep in the middle of the show, just like Mark Knopfler!

Quick! Someone wake up the Baaron! He's missing his own guitar solo!

In honor of this fine performance, I am seriously thinking about upgrading him from Baaron to Sultaan.

Hangovers bedamned, the very next day we stuffed the cruel and devious Andy Inglis (pronounced Ingles) into a big black duffle bag, loaded him into our well appointed hire-car and set sail on the Dover fucking ferry for motherfucking France, to lay some heavy noise trips and bad vibes on those stinky, lazy, wine-sucking fucks. 

Andy kicked and struggled and cursed, but the Baaron applied his freakishly long index finger to a pressure point near Andys' jugular, paralysing  him from the neck down, and we didn't hear another peep out of him until we'd hit Dover and cleared customs.

But Inglis recovered nicely once on-board and we strolled the upper decks to get some crisp sea air and score pills from a gang of dirty, scary teenagers who were smoking mushrooms in the stern and trying to burn cigarette holes in the life-boats.

But that's a long and turgid tale in itself, so just count yourself lucky and go do something usefull. I'll find you when I need you to spell-check the next post for me.

Until then, straighten up and fly right, losers! You're not fooling anyone but yourselves!!!!

P.S. Check our LATEST SINGLE the fuck out and leave some childish, abusive comments. LOL.