Ah, so August 9th was the full moon. No wonder I was feeling so luna. It was still very beautiful last night, hanging huge and low in the sky near our fire on the meadows. Apparently the way the moon looks so much bigger when it's nearer the horizon is an optical illusion, a trick of the eye, as it's really always the same size, the same distance from the earth. You realise when you try and photograph it.

Hot DAMN I love this woman. So does Rollins :)

Someone's put a video of the early morning ElectroRaga event we went to at Chorlton Water Park on YouTube. The event was part of Futuresonic - the audience a collection of musos, rinsers and chorltonites, lazing around a little muted but good humoured in the dawn haze. The synths and sitars were an other-worldly accompaniment to the skeins of geese flying low over the water. The egg was swimming, I drifted in and out of consciousness.

Just before we set off for home, a crack scally with two big sticks ran up off the estate at the back and began threatening all and sundry with extreme violence. It all turned out ok, the rozzers appeared etc. 'Only in Manchester' everyone said, agreeing it hadn't ruined the vibes. The group also performed at a red light district I see; perhaps the locals there were more appreciative, less likely to have been in bed.

Me suda la polla [bothered]



I know it's the day before my period when i wake to feel an inner flux, as if millions of tiny bots are rushing round my system doing me good. My skin's baby soft, i feel happy and full of beans. Maybe that's where the expression comes from. It reminds me of a trashy horror i read once, maybe stephen king... about helpful little alien bots inside people, that turn nasty when the rules are broken.

And of course that amazing scene in jeff noon's Vurt. Crusty lovers with intertwined hair in a future manchester: their nanosham containing millions of tiny computers that create data from dirt, droidlocks from dreads... a dreamy hairwash somehow akin to sex.

Well perhaps it's melodrama, but it felt like the bite marks he left on my body that weekend sank inside and turned septic. The bots couldn't do anything and stayed away. Two courses of antibiotics, but it was a catalan devil dance that finally cleared my chest of all the mank. I hope they come back this month.

So it's been a while, and I barely know where to begin. Perhaps I should start with today...

I feel like a mousing cat this evening for some reason; all round black hunting eyes and darting tail. With a bit of a hyper go go remix; maybe of a dodgy pop dance chart tune you'd never own up to liking: frenetic, cheesy, euphoric. The energy's coming direct from my gut ...yet I could feel it in the wind earlier. Vibes in abundance... odd occurrences, too many little synchronicities... I'm not sure where the divide is between the worlds. Is it simply post-aftermath chemical bounce back from D-Percussion? All the spiritual awakening that's been going on amongst the women I'm aquainted with? Just feeling alive again after a holiday? Well, whatever it is, there be magic afoot.

Earlier on I sat in Jam Street writing up case studies about parental involvement in Wythenshawe schools. Two young-ish guys in suits blew in and introduced themselves before offering me a job on the spot as PA to Max, the younger of the two. I mean perhaps I looked a bit scruffy and broke, but wtf? Their new business venture, to be launched soonish at the new Manchester Hilton at the top of the Beetham Tower, is the Manchester franchise of the Ibiza Angels . From what I can fathom the angels are troupes of girls in white thai pants providing 'T'ai Chi' massage to beautiful people at vapid London media events & shite corporate Ibizan clubs.

Max showed me a powerpoint presentation whilst standing up. I noticed he didn't connect up somehow in the way he ordered his speech, like someone with mild mania. They kept saying their heads were all over the place. Apparently Kate went to their last party in London. They bought me drinks and literally offered me the T shirt, complete with winged lady design moniker, all the contacts I could possibly want from their glib PR-speak-infused world, plus a fairly crap wage, in exchange for some afternoons of emailing and phone calls. I played along.

Daryl recognised me from the door of the Bothered Tsunami bash at the Southern (wtf). He seemed so local, oddly familiar with all my usual reference points. All this, yet still not quite tripping the alarm bells. In someone with antennae sharpened by teenage waiting around Blackpool bus station, that's quite a feat. And despite clocking him watching me at a different cafe last week, marking him down as some ageing chorlton sauncer

Anyway I blew the job when I asked Max (model looks, absolutely no idea) why he'd not taken the opportunity to shoot James Blunt in the face when he was star guest at an event they'd organised in Ibiza. Oh well never mind eh. So why did the whole episode feel like some kind of surreal test? Kind of scripted, even expected, like deja-vu.

Similar themes ensued, repeating themselves throughout the day in other combinations.

Call yourself a gentleman? Although you have the bluest eyes, you are oft to repeat yourself. Please don't forget that I am not just like everyone else. And that I might of heard this story before.

My favourite phrase of yours is "How dare you?'. I love the way you say it. I love the way it taunts me. And in relation to the way I find you behaving it's a calmly measured joke to say it back to you. How dare you indeed.

It was mentioned that he might be a Byronic man - cutting "a sexual swathe that still astonishes by its sheer brazenness and multiplicity" to quote Wikipedia. (A source I usually find a little trite but in this case, I don't think it could be any more spot on.)

Your body, my eggs

my egg

Les flores del chi chi

So the heron has returned to being a hero, for now. He redeemed himself by lying on my floor and telling me stories about Peter Cook and Dudley Moore. (We'd both caught a late night screening of Bedazzled a few days previously). We drank whiskey, talked about wolves and the devil and went to bed. Splendid.

New Peaches album, 'Impeach my Bush', is getting better and better with every listen. (Plus best album title I've heard for a while.) Not sure whether a third effort into her, now well known, style would work, but it's better than ever. Sexee and funny, just like the lady herself, it's a fucking triumph. Can't wait for the live shows.



I'd also like to thank her for inspiring my new haircut.