Hour back... Get it?

1. Played a gig with my new band, The Extraordinary Gentlemen, and much adulation ensued.

2. My left knee is now merely the size of a small Mexican boy. I have named it Tiago Rodrigues.

3. Skyfail, more like. It never hits the heights of the mediocre title song. Javier Bardem as Silva hams it up more than a horribly mutated, genetically modified pig. He gives a magnificently camp, rip-roaring performance. He's amazing considering what little he's given to work with.

4. Jimmy Saville, eh? Who saw that coming? Actually, Jerry Sadowitz did. Back in 1987. 25 years ago he suggested Uncle Jimmy was a paedophile who used his charity work as a cover for his evil deeds. Jerry had to withdraw the CD from sale when the threat of a libel action reared its head. Jerry Sadowitz once won a bet with fellow comedians at the Comedy Store by saying to the audience of the celebrated, at the time, Robben Island inmate: "Nelson Mandela, what a cunt. You lend some people a fiver and you never see them again."

His BBC Television series The Pall Bearer's Revue, which featured magic tricks, sketches and stand-up routines, received a record number of complaints and the Beeb have promised never to repeat it or release it on DVD. A tad hypocritical given the criminal barbarity of Russell Kane on BBC3's Unzipped. The only thing I really remember from this series was a sketch in the final episode in which Sadowitz, playing the role of a US Army General, suggests that a strategic nuclear strike against himself and Andrew 'Dice' Clay is the only way to make the world a better place.

I was in a bar with a friend and his American girlfriend when I told her how much I liked Andrew 'Dice' Clay. Incensed, she spat her drink out in classic Hollywood slapstick style and then began rummaging in her handbag for a napkin as she mumbled about what a jerk he was and what an idiot I must be. I got the distinct impression that she was contemplating punching me in the face.

What to say about Andrew 'Dice' Clay..? I've always regarded him as the Italian-American version of Barry Humphries' Sir Les Patterson. A hideously hilarious caricature. Less enlightened people, or morons if you prefer, have convinced themselves that he is deadly serious and that the Diceman is not a brilliantly grotesque invention. I became aware of Dice for the first time when a Channel 4 arts programme featured excerpts from his live act to illustrate how utterly repellant he was. He was legitimised as an artist, in my eyes, when he starred in a film (The Adventure Of Ford Fairlane) which featured both Morris Day and Sheila E: acolytes of Prince's Minneapolis Funk sound. It was directed by Renny Harlin who had come straight from abandoning work Alien 3 and, on the strength of his work on this feature, went on to direct Die Hard 2.

Dice will forever be known for being the only comedian to sell out two nights at Madison Square Garden and his adult Nursery Rhymes ("Mother Goose? I fucked her"). I would contest that he should also be known for recording perhaps one of the greatest comedy albums of all time: The Day The Laughter Died.

Unlike the scripted profanity of his other albums, this one, produced by the incredible Rick Rubin (Red Hot Chilli Peppers, Adele, Johnny Cash, Metallica, Nine Inch Nails, Jay Z, Justin Timberlake) was entirely improvised. It's like a jazz album. Across an hour and a half, Dice describes a thrilling organic arc of a performance: starting off tentatively and disinterestedly describing his first Christmas kiss and ending with the rousing finale of the piano accompanied Something Soft via conversations with a sparse audience which sees their number dwindling as people walk out in disgust. Genius. 

I've got a Richard Pryor boxset which collects all seven of his albums for Warner Brothers and they're a laugh riot: filled with pathos (his Mudbone character especially), sagacity and a razor sharp wit, but there's nothing which matches the surreal absurdity of Dice's Hour Back... Get It? routine;

"Ya know, this could take anywhere from fifteen minutes to an hour... Back! Get it?It could be a minute. It could be a half-hour, or an hour... Back! Get it? Hour Back!Ya don't get this bit? D'ya think I do? Think about it, I'll wait... Take an hour... Back! Get it?"

The present equivalent of Jerry Sadowitz is Frankie Boyle - Jerry Sadowitz calls Mr Boyle a tribute act - who recently won a libel case against the Daily Mirror who had called him a "racist comedian". He won his case, which seems fair enough. He's a lot more politically astute than his digs at Rebecca Adlington and Katie Price would indicate. In episode 4 of Tramadol Nights, which was cited in the case, he succinctly summarises British Foreign Policy:

"We're fighting a couple of wars now. Well, we call them wars basically we're just murdering a whole bunch of fucking shepherds. And what gets me is our callousness as a society, when we read out our dead on the news first because our lives are more important. Other people's lives aren't worth as much. 'A bomb went off in Kandahar today killing 2 British Servicemen, 3 UN relief workers and a whole bunch of Pakis.'"

Mr Boyle ends the show with a routine which analyses the results of his wife getting fucked by a Black Cock. As this could constitute a clumsy male compliment does that mean it isn't racist. Think about it, I'll wait. Get back to me in an hour. Back. Get it? No. Neither do I.

My struggles with the truth

THE FOLLOWING BLOG CONTAINS THEMES AND LANGUAGE WHICH SOME READERS MAY FIND DISTURBING. INTENDED FOR MATURE READERS ONLY.

I made reference to the peerless Cyrille Regis in my last post. He was a late 70s striker who played for West Bromwich Albion and, alongside Laurie Cunninham and Brendan Batson, was one of Ron Atkinson's pioneering Three Degrees. This clip on YouTube shows them destroying Man U in the 78-79  season, the black footballers being booed every time they touched the ball. So things have moved on considerably, but I'd like to say a heartfelt "Well done" to Jason Roberts and Rio Ferdinand for their actions this weekend in not wearing the Kick It Out anti-racism campaign T-shirt. It looks like Rio's going to get a good kicking from Sir Alex Ferguson. SAF described Rio's actions as "embarrassing" and promised "He'll be dealt with it, don't worry about that".

Roberts and Ferdinand are protesting what they perceive to be a lack of action by the 'Kick It Out' organisation in combating racism in football. In light of the high-profile Suarez and Terry cases and what happened in Serbia it's time for something more than words on a t-shirt. I hope they get the opportunity to explain their positions rather than being vilified for rejecting the prevailing orthodoxy.

The reaction of the Serbian FA to the criticism they've received for their monkey chanting fans has been curious. They posted a heavily edited video on youTube suggesting that Danny Rose is lying when he says that he was the subject of racist abuse. It's pathetic, asinine, utterly witless and smacks of a Lance Armstrong style two-fingered denial.

There's a lot of that denial stuff floating about. I was on a sports news website and was perturbed by the amount of racist abuse offered by Football fans in defence of John Terry, which, of course, I had to challenge. There was one fella who had an onscreen name of THE TRUTH. The following are all pretty awful, but illustrate that racism is alive and well. I've copied and pasted his posts without editing or correction:

THE TRUTH

WHY DO NIG_GERS CARRY A TURD IN THERE WALLETS ?

 I.D.

THE TRUTH

WHY DO MONKEYS LOOK SO WORRIED ?

BECAUSE THEY KNOW THAT IN A MILLION YEARS THEY WILL EVOLVE INTO NIG_GERS.

THE TRUTH

WHY DID STEVEY WONDER ALWAYS LOOK SO HAPPY ?

BECAUSE NO ONE TOLD HIM HE WAS BLACK.

THE TRUTH

WHY DO NIG_GERS STINK ?

SO THAT BLIND PEOPLE CAN HATE THEM AS WELL.

THE TRUTH

THE DISCOVERER OF DNA DR JAMES WATSON SAID BLACK NEGROS

HAVE A VERY LOW IQ AND PREFER TO DANCE AROUND TO BONGO DRUMS

AND MOST SCIENTISTS BELIEVE THIS TO BE TRUE.

THE TRUTH

WHAT DO YOU DO WHEN YOU SEE A NIG_GER WITH ONE LEG ?

STOP LAUGHING AND RE-LOAD.

THE TRUTH

MOST SCIENTISTS THINK NEGROS HAVE THE IQ OF SMALL CHILDREN AND THE ONLY WAY TO CONTROL THEM

 IS TO GIVE THEM A GOOD THRASHING

THE TRUTH

ITS AN ""INCONVIENIENT TRUTH""

NO ONE WANTS NIG_GERS OR PAKIS HERE

THEY ARE SUB HUMAN IN EVERY WAY

ITS NOTHING PERSONAL

ITS JUST THE TRUTH

THE TRUTH

YOU HAVE ALREADY LOST THE ARGUMENT IF YOU TRY AND BAN SOMETHING..

WHICH MEANS YOU ARE UNABLE TO ARGUE YOUR POINT FOR OR AGAINST

THE TRUTH

ANYONE NOTICE HOW BLACKS ARE ENGLISH WHEN THEY WANT TO BE

AND SUDDENLY CHANGE TO  AFRICAN VICTIMS WHEN THEY WANT TO BE

THE TRUTH

 80% OF  AFRICAN NIG_GERS ARE HIV POSITIVE

 AND THE REASON IS THEY TAKE IT UP THE ARSE

 STRANGE BUT TRUE CHECK IT OUT

THE TRUTH

DARWINS LAW 

SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST

WHITES ARE FIT 

NIG_GERS ARE  S_H_I_T

Horrified, I asked, quite reasonably, what the fuck the moderators were doing allowing this vile filth to be posted without censure or sanction as it indicated that they agreed with these views. There were those who posted that, like many "People of colour", I was being too sensitive, or actually a bit of  a bigot for wanting to restrict THE TRUTH's right to free speech.

In celebration of my love for Gene Simmons my e-mail addy bears a "Demon" reference, which inspired the THE TRUTH to respond:

THE TRUTH

HAVE YOU NOTICED ITS ONLY NIG_GERS AND FAGSTHAT WANT TO BAN ME

OTHER MAY NOT AGREE WITH ME, BUT THEY RESPECT MY RIGHT TO FREE SPEECH

DEMONFAG.... ITS CALLED FREEDOM OF SPEECH

COS YOU CANT HANDLE THE TRUTH

This was a step too far for me. I channeled the spirit of Malcolm Tucker and offered a brusque riposte:

Do not address me, you f@%king moron. You're a waste of skin, rather like the useless moderators who've allowed you to say stuff that you should be arrested for. And what's with the 'fag' reference? Scared of the big black dick, are we? If I'd known you were going to turn out this way, I would have insisted your Mother swallow instead of...

Despite the warning in red at the top of this page I cannot reproduce the concluding thoughts of my rant. If you can bear to, read this imbecile's crass posts again. They pinpoint precisely why wearing a t-shirt is not enough. Kick It Out need to do more than offer slogans and promotional t-shirts, because racism is still a very real problem.

Bringing you up to speed

Sudden realisation can have a profound physical effect. You read about it in books and see it on TV and it seems so hammy and cliché, but it's true. Try this for size.

I used to play as a striker for the British Council football team. I modelled myself after Cyrille Regis: muscular, powerful and quick. Very quick. My scoring record was pretty good: better than a goal every two games. My favourite goal saw me run from midway inside my own half, head the ball past the last defender, dummy the keeper and roll the ball into the bottom left hand corner of the goal. I was so elated I ran off to celebrate with the two casual bystanders who were watching by the corner flag. It later turned out that they'd pissed all over my kit bag and my copy of Vibe magazine which featured a Public Enemy cover story. Bastards.

A couple of weeks later I scored a 25 yard screamer which curved outrageously as it arrowed into the top corner of the net. Buoyed by having notched what was obviously the goal of the season I found an extra enthusiasm. An exuberance which gave me an extra yard of pace as I chased our opponent's playmaker back towards the centre circle. I executed a perfect sliding tackle, gathered possession of the ball and passed it back to our holding midfielder before sprinting my way back upfront for the next phase of play.

As I ran I became aware that my left hand felt weird. I figured it must have been caught underneath me as I slid in to win the ball. I looked down and saw my thumb bent back on itself at a grotesque angle, as if it had decided independently to pack up and emigrate to my elbow. I knew immediately that it was dislocated and ran to the referee to ask him if he would pop it back into place. His response, after a wince which pulled his face into a horrified 'O' was, "You've been watching too many movies, mate. I can't do fuck all about that. You'll need to go to hospital."

The understanding that my injury was serious and wasn't a Mel Gibson in Lethal Weapon momentary inconvenience acted as the trigger for the physical response referred to above. Not, as you'd imagine, one of excruciating pain, but a wave of nausea the like of which I've never experienced, even after a dodgy kebab which is the exclusive fare of my local high street eaterie. My legs were suddenly unable to bear my weight, I swooned and collapsed like a 19th Century woman suffering an attack of the vapours. I was helped back to the dressing room by a couple of colleagues where I waited for an ambulance to arrive.

I had a similar revelatory experience this week. About 3 months ago I had an appalling day at work. I finally gave up smacking my head against the brick wall at about 7pm and, in a supremely bad mood, drove home. A month later that I received a letter advising that I'd been caught by a speed camera doing 36mph in a 30mph zone. I was so angry at myself, but hey, that'll teach me. I'll be paying much more attention when I get behind the steering wheel from now on. Luckily I was given the option of attending a speed awareness course rather than have to pay a fine and accept a 3 points penalty on my licence. So that's what I was doing on Tuesday morning.

There were 24 of us in a room being looked after by 2 facilitators, one of whom had the demeanour of a sorrowful, empathic, avuncular prison officer, the other the gloomy aspect of an undertaker from Rotherham: each one of his anecdotes ending with, "Ploughed straight into 'em. Never stood a chance."

I saw this course as an opportunity to reappraise my attitude to driving and get back into the good habits that I'd long slipped out of. The other people there...? Hmmmm... Not so much.

The first question was offered by the sad Uncle: what is the speed limit in built-up areas? Easy. That's 30mph. Although in some circumstances the police will apply a formula (the speed limit + 10% + 9) that gives drivers some leeway up to 42mph. Interesting, no?

Second question. What is the speed limit on motorways? That's right, 70mph. Use the formula and you get 86mph. A middle-aged woman with badly died hair (she had plainly forgotten to do her roots) and who steadfastly refused to take her brown anorak off said, "Well the limit's going to be 80 soon anyway. So..."

"Yes, but the limit is still seventy miles per hour," said the doleful trainer. The funeral director was out of the room.

"They'll put it up to eighty. They have to," said a bloke in a chunky grey pullover which looked as if it was rather itchy. The whole room shifted its attention to him. "The government want us to drive faster so we use more fuel and give them more money in taxes."

His pronouncement was met with silence. Apart from me. I coughed up a giggle. His stern face told me he wasn't joking. I stopped laughing. This fella's enunciation of his conspiracy theory was the cue for everyone else to give voice to their sense of injustice.

A woman at the back with her glasses perched on the end of her nose said, "The thing you don't appreciate is that society moves much faster now. We all work, we're all pressed for time and for the most part we're all being penalised for just keeping up with the flow of traffic."

"They friggin' trapped me - excuse my language. They were hiding behind the bushes with a speed gun," said a woman in a nurse's uniform.

"I'd like to see the breakdown of deaths on the road. I bet most of 'em are just ordinary people in a hurry to get to work," said a man in a tracksuit at my table.

A woman with a number two haircut and very pink, shiny skin - which reminded me of spam - got very animated and punctuated her shrill speech with a jabbing index finger. "Right. Let's get right to the crutch(!) of the matter," she hissed, flecks of spittle spraying from her downturned mouth. "You lot want us to speed so we can keep you in a job. We have to speed," which sounded a lot like the same conspiracy theme enunciated by the grey pullover: as if David Cameron had clamped their foot to the accelerator pedal.

Many whiney voices were raised at this point, crashing around the room in a bitter cacophony, but I tuned out as I began to swoon with the realisation that I may well be a misanthrope. Suddenly X Factor and 50 Shades Of Grey made perfect sense. I spend most of my life fully engaged in responsibility avoidance (I construct my own little world within which I can draw upon resources to help me remain creative - that's my excuse anyway), but even I accept that the reason I received a speeding ticket is because I was driving like a wanker and I could have hurt, or even killed, someone.

I'm aware it's a bit of a touchy feely notion, but we are all of us connected. Whatever I do, or don't do, has an impact on the wider society. A more apposite example of this is our lust for the new iPhone 5. The working conditions in the Foxconn plant where they are manufactured are so awful there was a spate of suicides. In reaction to this the employee dormitories are now equipped with safety nets to catch those who might want to jump. Earlier this year around 150 workers threatened to commit suicide by leaping from the factory roof in protest at their working conditions. This is emblematic of life in the Western world: poor foreign workers, stripped of their rights and dignity, and forced to make gadgets for the wealthy (ie. us). We point to our gadgets as a sign of the advancement of the human race and this is true, but at what cost.

These workers do not receive what any person would consider a living wage. A Foxconn production line worker would have to work 60,000 years to earn what Tim Cook, CEO of Apple, takes home in 365 days.

And the wider implications if we cede our responsibilities to each other are manifest. We end up in a special relationship with a rapacious America who's foreign policy in the Middle East is clearly delineated by the scary and comical John Bolton, but no-one gives a flying finger of fudge:

"...Persian Gulf, the critical oil and natural gas producing region that we fought so many wars to try to protect our economy from the adverse impact of losing that supply or having it available only at very high prices."

So, what have I learned this week?

1) I'll be sticking with my iPhone 4 for a while. Well, at least until my present contract runs out.

and

2) Only a fool breaks the 2 second rule. Unless the police take time out from tasering blind people of pensionable age and force you to drive faster.

Lost in the Hustle

So, I popped into HMV to acquire the new KISS album and, (sigh...), well... Despite hitting No. 3 in the US Billboard Album Chart, it has to be said that the first few spins reveal a rather sub-par attempt. It sounds more underwhelming than I'd expected: the tired efforts of 4 old men surfing the wave of brand recognition onto an increasingly deserted beach. A re-tread of overly familiar riffs accompanied by lyrics so bad they could have been penned by any 6 year old who has English as their second, or indeed third, language. There aren't even any extras to mitigate the disappointment. Their last album, Sonic Boom, came with an extra CD of re-tooled KISS Klassics and a DVD which featured a live performance from Argentina.

But what does it matter? This stopped being about the music long ago. The 3D cover looks pretty fantastic.

My week was saved by my sister, who finally returned my Hustle DVDs. I'm watching the final ever episode as I type this. Hustle is right up there with The Persuaders in the fun, timeless, slick entertainment stakes. The style, the gloss, the plot twists, the breaking of the fourth wall, the lavish London locations, the guest stars, the sharp suits, the gratuitous tap-dance routines and Napoleon Solo from The Man From U.N.C.L.E. rendered this a supreme televisual experience.

It's a massive shame they won't be making any further episodes as there haven't been too many BBC series with a Black British lead, but it does mean that Adrian Lester - the real reason why I watched this programme - can get back to ripping it up on stage. He's doing Othello at the National next year and I can't wait to see what he does with Shakespeare's Moor.

In the meantime Mr Lester is warming up by winning rave reviews for his performance in Red Velvet at the Tricycle Theatre. Written by his other half, the playwright Lolita Chakrabarti, it concerns the celebrated 19th century black American actor Ira Aldridge: the first actor to play Othello who didn't have to black up. At the time of Aldridge's first performance the abolition of the slave trade had just been enforced, but racist attitudes still prevailed and thus he attracted a vicious ire from the press based solely on his complexion. Described as "Gentleman of colour," and an “unseemly nigger”, The Times said of him,

“Owing to the shape of his lips it is utterly impossible for him to pronounce English.” 

The scathing reviews saw the London theatres block his further employment and so he made his career in regional theatre before eventually leaving England to become a star in Eastern Europe and one of the world's most celebrated actors, receiving £60 per performance.

Two ironies here;

1) 147 years after Ira's death Eastern Europe is a far less racially tolerant place, as evinced by the monkey chanting Serbian football fans at the recent England's Under 21 match.

2) Attitudes here have changed little. This weekend will see Premiership striker Jason Roberts of Reading boycott the Kick It Out campaign in protest of the leniency shown towards John Terry after he racially abused Anton Ferdinand. And ethnic minorities are still referred to as "People of colour," because, of course, Caucasian Pink isn't a colour, it's the default setting.

3) Whereas Ira came to England from America to sustain his art, British Black actors are travelling in the opposite direction for roles of substance. Morgan Freeman suggests, "The British film (and television) industry needs to catch up with the times."

Mr Lester has intimated that he'd like to get back into film, which means he too will be disappearing across the Atlantic pretty soon following Parminder Nagra, Chiwetel Ejiofor, David Oyelowo, David Harewood, Marianne Jean-Baptiste, and Idris 'The Man' Elba.

Upcoming band stuff means I won't make it to the Tricycle Theatre before the present run of Red Velvet finishes, but I'll be cheering Mr Lester on when he takes on Othello, wishing him bon voyage and keeping my fingers crossed for a Hollywood career which is bound to include the big screen adaptation of Hustle.

KISS and sell-out

So, I'm watching the movie Ted and I squeal with pleasure when I see a KISS poster on the titular teddy bear's bedroom wall. I LOOOOOVE KISS. Always have. In 1994 they released an album entitled Kiss My Ass on which Lenny Kravitz, Stevie Wonder, Tom Morello and Maynard James Keenan paid tribute to the self-proclaimed Gods Of Thunder. Seth McFarlane and I are not the only celebrities who love them.

The day I encountered KISS for the first time changed my life. It was at my baby sister's birthday party and one of the guests brought a couple of KISS discs to rock the house. The covers alone intrigued me. I guess it was because they looked so different and were utterly unapologetic. It was something with which I could identify and, weirdly, they were a source of strength when everything went a little bit Nazi at school. I have KISS to thank for my desire to make music, and Gene Simmons to thank for the thrilling dexterity and flexibility of my expert tongue.

The brilliant thing about KISS is that even though their songs are utterly peerless - sticking rigidly to the pop template set out by The Beatles, but with heavy, overdriven guitars - you don't have to like the band to dig their live show. For example, you've got to really enjoy Bono's preening sanctimony to derive any sort of pleasure from a U2 concert. Whereas with KISS, well, "You wanted the best, you got the best!" has always been their battle cry (the rabidly dedicated fans are called the KISS Army). Who amongst us doesn't love guitars which shoot rockets, drums which levitate 50 feet in the air, singers who fly over the heads of the audience, or blood spitting, batwinged demons sporting dragon platform boots who breathe fire? Sufuckingperb!

They have sold more than 100 million records and have officially licensed over 3,000 products since their bigger-than-The Beatles 1970s heyday including KISS Marvel comics; KISS credit cards; KISS condoms; KISS Him and KISS Her fragrances; KISS action figures; the KISS Kasket (a coffin featuring pictures of the band and a tasteful logo); KISS Monster Mini-Golf Amusement Center in Las Vegas; KISS pinball machines; the KISS Coffeehouse; and emblazoning Hello Kitty and Family Guy merchandise with KISS imagery.

KISS were the very first Rock Brand and a marketing strategist's wet dream. They opened the door for non-entities like Tulisa from X-Factor to have her own perfume.

"I wanted a fragrance that I could relate to. Something powerful without losing its girlieness. I wanted to be able to wear it day and night. This fragrance will really give the girls the confidence to show those boys who is boss!"

And we all know that the latest James Bond movie (heard the Adele tune yet? What the fuck is a "Skyfow"? Or a "Crumbow"? It's truly dreadfow) will be a product placement fest. A quick scan of the website reveals that they're selling bottles of 007 Bollinger Champagne for £150 and there's a list of products which have been featured in previous movies;

"In the movie GoldenEye Bond is drinking Jack Daniel's whiskey with M in her office. The bottle can be seen on the counter, at around 49 minutes into the movie." 

Anyway, I was buying my Sean John (the clothing and fragrance company of Sean 'P Diddy' Combs) I Am King Eau De Toilette in the Skelmersdale Concourse last week and I noticed that on one of the top shelves of the Mens section, next to the cut price Beckham Instinct they had a bottle of Sex Pistols fragrance which proclaimed "Certainly, there's a revolution in this bottle." How punk is that? Almost as punk as John Lydon saying about the Palestinians "If Elvis-fucking-Costello wants to pull out of a gig in Israel because he's suddenly got this compassion for Palestinians, then good on him, but I have absolutely one rule, right? Until I see an Arab country, a Muslim country, with a democracy, I won't understand how anyone can have a problem with how they're treated."

Butter selling tosser. You are the antichrist indeed.

Despite having KISS action figures in my attic (you're officially sad if you keep them in their boxes, so I bought 2 sets: 1 to recreate their classic concerts and 1 which will stay sealed to form the better part of my estate once I'm dead) and the impending release of their 20th studio album Monster, I've reached an impasse. One which might see me officially revoke my membership of the KISS Army and go AWOL.

Slavishly adhering to the "If something's worth doing, it's worth overdoing," mantra KISS recently released an autographed photo book priced at a trouser-filling, wait for it... $4,250. Let me just write that in words: four thousand, two hundred and fifty dollars. For a book. A book! If I was laying out that amount of do$h I'd need to be able to drive that sucker to work. At a time when many of us are struggling to get by, it's aberrant that a band which purports to be of the people would put out something like this, which is obviously skewed towards their weekend golfing buddies.

"We understand it’s not for everybody, but it wouldn’t be fair to the people who can afford it and appreciate it to not put it out.  It’s something for a select few.  One size doesn’t fit all with KISS.  Just like those people who have the front row seats, this is a book for people who can afford it."

They're officially the Marie Antoinette of Rock 'n' Roll and chillingly echo the acidic sentiments of Mitt Romney:

"There are 47 percent of the people who will vote for the president no matter what. All right, there are 47 percent who are with him, who are dependent upon government, who believe that they are victims, who believe the government has a responsibility to care for them, who believe that they are entitled to health care, to food, to housing, to you-name-it... My job is not to worry about those people. I'll never convince them they should take personal responsibility and care for their lives."

Little wonder Gene's rooting for Mitt in the upcoming election. As I'm typing this paragraph, my sister's just sent me a text which says, "Ahhh. KISS! Special memories." And she's right. There are whole swathes of my life which have a KISS soundtrack. Songs which have a special significance and transport me back to a specific time and place. I became The World's Greatest Drummer® by playing along to KISS records: slowing them down so I could work out how Peter Criss played his Jazz-flavoured fills. Any time I play a show I channel the spirit of Gene Simmons and gather darkness to please me.

The thing is, on reflection, KISS never had any integrity. They've never even pretended to have any integrity. They had a go once (the glorious prog rock misstep which was The Elder), fell flat on their faces and never tried again. Indeed their whole career has been a long, slow, deep fucking of integrity's ass. So this book thing is no surprise really... And you never just fall out of love, do you? It's impossible...

Anyone want to lend me $4,250?