First, because it has been sitting patiently in my e-mail queue like a not-quite-empty bottle of vodka just waiting to be finished off and busted across the middle so it can cut a guy —
The ambition of every young bottle of vodka: just ask those bitty ones on an airplane. They’re all about about growing up big and strong into 750 ml so they can mess up a guy and taste human blood. Go on, ask ’em. Bloody mary mix is just practice.
— Cherrybombed, the internetty home of the one and only DJ Cherrybomb, for whom bloody mary mix is also just practice (miss you and the crazy Sea-Town kids, baby).
And here is Allumination, the new blog of the man responsible for me having the following conversation with a minicab driver at midnight on a Sunday:
MCD: Were you at the club that was on fire?
Me: It wasn’t on fire. They just cranked up a smoke machine at the end of the last set.
MCD: But there was so much smoke pouring out the door…
Me: You should have seen the inside.
Also there were chainsaws, making a Faust concert quite possibly the safest place in to be in the event of a zombie attack.