Conan, by Robert E. Howard – First created in 1932.

The slavering jaws closed on the arm Conan flung up to guard his throat, but the monster made no effort to secure a death grip. Over his mangled arm it glared fiendishly into the king’s eyes, in which there began to be mirrored a likeness of horror which stared from the dead eyes of Ascalante. Conan felt his soul shrivel and begin to be drawn out of his body, to drown in the yellow wells of cosmic horror which glimmered spectrally in the formless chaos that was growing about him and engulfing all life and sanity. Those eyes grew and became gigantic, and in them the Cimmerian glimpsed the reality of all the abysmal and blasphemous horrors that lurk in the outer darkness of formless voids and nighted gulfs.

893 more pages of this. Yes.

Overtipped the caffeine balance this morning. This has been keeping me entertained for at least two and a half hours.

Peace out mortals, See you on the Astral plaines.

Olfsig the Black Theurge

RockGroup Exhibition. Niort, France. Artist Reception -- October 2nd.

S’gunna rule.

‘Away from it all, the Hell’s Angels set the scene for a weekend in the country…’

Take 24 minutes and watch one of the most indepth, insightful and revealing documentaries on the original British chapter of the Hell’s Angels. Watch as they prepare their bikes for a ride, annoy their ex-wives, borrow their portable TVs off their Mums, get lost somewhere outside of Aylesbury, nearly smash up a café and then watch an episode of Dr. Who - here.

I have a favourite bar, a couple of blocks from my flat. I drink in this bar maybe three times a week. Sometimes just for a quick one, sometimes for extended, bleeding-eye drunken episodes that turn into lost weekends.

This is the juke box at this bar. It is full of great music – From ZZ Top, Black Sabbath and AC/DC to JJ Cale, Joe Walsh and The Band. There are hundreds of tunes to choose from. Muddy waters. BB King. Albert King. Tony Joe White. Cash. Brownie McGhee. Booker T. Hank Williams. Hank Williams Jnr. Hank Williams III. Son House. Terry Reid. Ike and Tina… If you can think of it, it’s probably in there.

One thing of the many things I can rely on when I visit this place (there will be a girl crying in the rest-room, all the booths will be taken, they’ve run out of Black Patron and the card machine is broken, cash only), is that at some point in the evening, I will hear Stairway to Heaven.

So, this is an open plea to anyone who might wander into a bar, find an amazing Juke and put a nugget in the slot – Please, it might be a classic, you know everyone will love it, and there’s no denying it’s a killer song, but for the sake of the locals, skip over Led Zeppelin.

Roll the dice, close your eyes and pin the tail on the donkey – select something you’ve never heard before, the barmaids will love you for it.

Crooked Vultures last night. Amazing, long show, with a couple of tracks I hadn’t heard before…

Still can’t hear properly.

Go see it Vogels. It’s in your neighbourhood.

Soccer Officially Announces It Is Gay

First post on the new Lodges. Been a while. London sleeps.

Saw Dead Meadow play at Bush Hall recently. Wall to wall Orange amps, 3 Kings projected across the walls, and it was Steve Kille’s birthday – Jameson’s drunk on stage all night. Rad.

Going to be a good summer – next up, Black Mountain at the Lexington, and then Electric Wizard in October. Most excellent.

See you at the bar…