31 August 2005


We are preparing for London. Two gigs to play and no rehearal.

"Rehearsal is bourgeous," I said.

"Bollocks," said the others.

"Come on then," I said.

They beat me up, plunging shards of smashed drum sticks into my soft and fleshy parts.

So now the graveyard shift beckons - a midnight thrash through in a run down industrial unit, all so tired we can barely stand. And why? So we can play like the world's ending; so you can hear me scream through the smoke and wreckage, screaming as if I'm staked out on the floor and the stage is on fire and only punk rock can save us.

Perhaps it can.....


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