Abolish the Rules Made of Stone

Another weekend; another shit load of alcohol consumed. As undoubtedly you know it was the Eurovision Song Contest last Saturday. The highlight of the musical calendar, the shining moment for Europe (and America in it's Israeli guise) to parade the pinnacle of popular troubadours. This is what the year builds up to and each day that passes means it's one day less to the next Eurovision (362 today...). This is the only legitimate time that one can be racist and get away with it. We can all laugh at the beetroot smeared faces of the Moldovan contestants and feel smug about the out of tune Wops and Diego's. Oh what a night! I usually attend a party of some sort (sometimes just drinking heavily whilst shouting at the TV on my own) and this Saturday was no different. Moogdroog was throwing a Eurovision spectacular at her pile and I was cordially invited. But... before I'd even left my house the Ukrainian Butchers forced a third of a bottle of vodka down me. I was literally threatened at knife point to drink the liquor (well, I wasn't, but it adds a dramatic effect to the story), so I arrived already half cut and the show hadn't even started yet. I have very fragmentary memory of what happened after and had to be filled in on the highlights by Dr Clay the next day. He also presented me with a list of people I had to apologise to, including Chris, Moogdroog's American friend who I had accused of being racist because he'd said Asian girls didn't do it for him. I couldn't even remember who had won the contest the next morning so I must have had a few...

And the winner is... I can't fucking remember...

I was awoken at the crack of sparrows on Sunday morning by the aforementioned Butchers having a rather loud and involved conversation in Russian outside my door. So I was tired before I'd even left for Logan Josh's barbecue on Sunday evening. Again, Clay, Moogdroog and I had been cordially invited into the upper echelons of Yorkian Royalty. We arrived with a sky scudded with black clouds menacingly eager to tip it down on us. It, thankfully, didn't rain but the wind howled and threatened to blow the marquee, barbecue and guests into the Ouse. Logan's wife, Cath refused to allow us to go into the house despite the sub-zero temperatures and frostbite that had crept into many of us, she had barred the doors and windows with furniture to impede our egress. Finally, she relented and the 'wusses' were allowed inside, a title to which I readily answered as I strived to regain feeling in my fingers. I was also brow beaten and chastised for wanting to go home to sleep as I had a two hour car journey ahead of me the following night. Josh fed me more beer than a single human can even take and I eventually got to bed two hours after I got up the next morning.

I think it might need some more coals...

The two hour journey in question was in order to go and see Slayer at Nottingham Rock City. I haven't seen Slayer since 1991 on their Seasons in the Abyss tour, so I was really looking forward to the show. Fuck me, I wasn't disappointed. They were top shit alright, even with Tom Araya's recent back surgery. They played through a few new tunes and then explored their old catalogue for the rest of the show. Angel of Death was a classic finisher.

FUCKING SLAYER!!!!!!!!!!!