MARCH 25th 2005
Good Shit – Folks Dig The Duke, Don’t You Know?
Well holy Mother of Mary, man.
Dig this shit would you ever? Just this week The Weblog
Review sang The Duke’s praises by way of This Review Of Mondo
Irlando. In case you don’t know, what has occurred is that
first The Weblog Review quite liked me, then they Hated Me,
and now they love me. I’m thinking this is a good turn of
events in so far as the “business” is concerned. I think
having folks love a fella is preferable to folks saying you
made them physically sick, almost.
And then, what shows up on Blogcritics tonight but This
Review of The Duke’s Fifth New-Record. As part of Jon Sobel’s
Weekly Indie Round-Up, he scribbled a couple paragraphs
regarding Songs From The Back Room. Not only this, but he
said really nice things. Things like this – “With nothing but
a creaky Shane McGowan baritone and a few chords strummed on
an acoustic guitar, Aaron McMullan conjures a world of lonely
streets and lost loves.” Did you see that? “A creaky Shane
McGowan baritone” no less.
In case you didn’t know, Shane MacGowan is The Duke’s
favourite musician / singer / songwriter / poet of all
fucking ever. In case you didn’t know, Jon Sobel made a
fellas motherfucking day.
Which is good, since check out this motherfucking barrel of
Bad Shit – I Smell Emo
I can smell it in the air, is what, all around, all this
whining and pissing and moaning, songs about Feeling Down
(And Also Shit) and all that crap, all that fucking
detestable balls. All those Blink 180 chords, or whoever the
fuck those sons a bitches were, running around in the buff.
At least the Blink 82’s knew how to crack a smile, man. At
least they knew how to reach up inside their assholes and
pull out a big old handful of stupid fucker now and again.
Right now, it pains me to relate, I’m feeling all minor
chord, is the truth of the situation. I’m feeling all
frustrated, and angry, even, but not angry enough to be
overly loud, just enough so as you know it’s GENIUNE or
whatever. And just sad and lovesick, kinda, too.
Y’see, what happened today was that a motherfucker caught a
glimpse of TXT Woman. If you’ve been paying attention, and I
know you have, since look, you even left some nice messages
once upon a time in The Duke’s Guestbook, then you’ll know
that once upon a couple weeks back The Duke waxed imbecilic
to said lady with regards the seeing, the touching, the
poetic misery of it all.
Anyway, nothing came of it, to be all too honest. I ain’t too
manly for to admit that, prior to that phonecall, man, I was
feeling all John Cusack in Say Anything. I was ready for to
stand outside the window with a tape-recorder from out the
1980’s, except probably I’d have picked a better song to
play. Fuck Peter Gabriel, is what I would’ve deduced. How
bout a song where Bright Eyes talks about “I love you wah wah
wah why won’t you maybe do some filth with me wah wah wah and
then I’ll just hang around your apartment feeling empty and
miserable, cause really what’s the point, at the end of the
day? Also, wah wah wah”. You know the kinda shit young Connor
gets up to now and again. Maybe some GG Allin, even. Maybe
Gypsy Motherfucker or one of his other ballads. Maybe Cunt
Anyway, once said conversation was born and then slaughtered
with the crushing, soul-searing announcement that no, she’s
“seeing someone”, I just accepted it, man. This ain’t gonna
go no place. Ain’t no way in God’s holy rectum that I can do
any damn thing whatsoever for to alter the situation. Best
forget all about it.
But you need to grasp hold a these here facts, man. For one
damn thing, The Duke was just fresh from being shat out the
arse of a five-year relationship. An engagement, no fucking
less, with bank account's and brochures about honeymoons and
all sortsa jazz. These things don’t leave a man in the best
of mind for much of anything. Chances are the last thing he
needs is to jump straight into another for to try and numb
the memories, and all that horse shit. Chances are, if a man
needs any sort of contact whatsoever, it’s of the casual two-
minutes-in-a-cubicle kind, except a motherfucker like The
Duke is so pathetically, sickeningly “romantic” that these
notions inevitably spawn all sorts of sepia-toned fantasies
about writing poetry beside a canal someplace whilst
prostitutes wander past, drunk on wine plucked from the fists
of vagrants, and this muse of mine resting her wasted head on
my elegantly dishevelled shoulder. You know how these things
work themselves out, man.
Anyhow, what the fuck need I worry, she was in no position
for to grant these tragi-comic scenes a stage, so fair
enough, fuck it, I tried forgetting all about it.
After a while, a fella has trouble even really remembering
what the person looked like. For sure, he’d know if he saw
her, but he ain’t gonna, most likely, since look, when was
the last time you saw her? That time you pretended you
didn't, that’s when.
And then today, there she was. And on her own, too. I don’t
think she’d have noticed, but truth be told, I felt like I
stood there for an hour, two, the length of a motherfucking
Bergman film about divorcing couples hating each other.
Chances are, physically, I didn’t flinch. In the mentals,
though, a man was doing motherfucking back-flips.
A smile can cut a fella deep, like I said in a song about her
that I never really liked.
So, the conclusion has been reached. I have decided to sit in
a room listening to emo.
No, not really man. Shit, the fuck good could come of that? A
buncha no good bullshit is all.
But certainly I intend to avoid 98% of humanity for a time.
What good can come from seeing folks you can’t have, man?
What good can come of it? What good can come from her smiling
at you and her eyes doin’ that sun-kissed twinkle thing? None
good, that’s how much good. As much good as comes from a
drunken fuck with a pelican. Nothing whatsoever. Just has a
man wishin, and hoping, and cursing, and writing songs about
“wah wah wah she looked at me and then what happened was I
looked back and then smiled and then wished I’d smiled a bit
different wah wah wah” and so on.
Buncha bullshit is what it is. When a fella wants to touch
somebody’s hand, man, but no. Ain’t no hand gonna be touched.
That time you touched it in the past, you better remember it,
you fucker, since look, this hand ain’t nowhere near you, and
ain’t gonna be. You better remember this smile, you cunt,
since it’s the last you’ll probably ever see it blessin my
face, and you with your oh-so-tortured whining all over your
“home page”. A “home page” that not only have I never seen,
but that I don’t even know exists, even though you put all
those adverts up, and even though in the back of your head
you thought about maybe I would see it and go online and hear
your whining pish about “wah wah wah I’m so blue cause I
really, really, really dig you something mad, and yet shit,
“seeing someone” wah wah wah”. Of course I would know Take
This Song and the chorus of You, Yeah You are about me, if I
ever heard them, which I won’t, so fuck you. I know that I'm
that "Ocean that's visible only in dreamtime", and that when
you said "I'm scared to wake up" what you really meant was,
"I'm scared to have to see you again, and see you smiling at
me, and have to smile back without weeping." I know that
"waking up" means accepting this sorta shit, and that seeing
me sitting there on my own, and you having to wave and fake a
smile like anyone else, that right there is the biggest slap
in the face a sleepin' fucker like you could have. And I know
you wanna write my name out loads and just write it over and
over and over but you get as far as K and then the thought of
a sneaky Google throwing the page in my face scares you
She’s gonna be gone soon, too. What the fuck can a man do?
I'd give her my spine if she let me take a photograph of that
Buncha no good bullshit.
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
MARCH 20th 2005
So what it is, is I’ve stumbled across some sort of
realisation of some sort. I believe, in the cold light of
day, the evidence points in only one direction. I’m nothing
more than a man-hating lesbian.
Except, I don’t hate “men” as such, I just despise the idea
of the “lad”, and this, therefore, colours my perception of a
vast majority of individuals existing in the same gender box
Fact is, the majority of my bestest ever mates of all ever
are male. But not “lads”, by any stretch of the imagination.
In addition, loads of my favourite people; Woody Allen, Shane
MacGowan, Billy Bragg, Various Libertines, Johnny Depp, Chuck
Palahniuk, Madonna, all sorts of individuals, are, in fact,
Again; Not Lads.
I imagine possibly 89 or 90% of my bitterness, resentment and
general disgust stems from my own jealousy. I’m man enough to
admit this. But not lad enough to go hurling obscenities at
groups of folks in the motherfucking street.
What I’ll do is complain in print, as has been the backbone
of so many noted historical movements, from Christianity to
the National Viewers And Listeners Association to The
Coventry Hovercraft Appreciation Society.
Thing is, man, I’m sure some of my acquaintances, fine
individuals all, would fit into this “lad” category, if maybe
a survey was carried out at an inappropriate time and you
wanna say about “Fuck off, would you ever?” but it’s a lass
with a very endearing accent, and so what can a man do but
tick the stupid boxes answering stupid questions about bank
accounts or, even worse, “How my community views itself.”
I don’t know how my community views itself, man. I don’t even
know how it views me. Certainly I know that I view my
community through the window of the back room, terrified that
anyone might ever class me part of them.
And my community glances from its own back window, terrified
that that foul mouthed fucker across the street might be
taken into consideration when the property is valued.
Whatever, the point of it all is that I despise the typesa
inexplicably popular sonsabitches who maybe watch porn
because it’s what lads are meant to do, instead of it’s
because their soul is screaming in agony and all a man can do
is take a cold bath and weep into some back issues of The
Vigilant Loner or whatever the fuck whilst Debbie Does Cuba
plays in the background.
The types who talk about “birds”. The types who scoffed when
Nadia was on Big Brother, and referred to her as “him”. The
types who laugh and point when anyone else is offering some
kind of solidarity or companionship to someone who feels like
a bag of used cack. The types who, sure, are all “sensitive”
when the time suits them, but most of the time it don’t suit
them one bit, not when there’s Abi Tittmus to be discussed,
not when there’s some moronic thumping cacophonous shite to
be bled through amphetamine-charged sound systems. The types
who aren’t racist but hey, here’s this joke about a Pakistani
I heard off some Roy Chubby Brown stand-up video.
The types who say “It was alright, I suppose, but it was
The types for whom feminism is something to be mocked, that
assume men can’t be feminists, since it’s only for women.
What are you, some kinda fuckin queer or something?
The types who say “I don’t care what they do, long as they
don’t come near me.”
Thing is, man, I’m not even sure these people exist. There
are hints of these characteristics in folks, for sure, and
there are undoubtedly folks who exhibit each and every one of
them, but a man has to be fit for to give folks the right to
be wrong. A man can’t lambaste others for lack of tolerance
whilst dripping in that self same defect. These things don’t
work like that, is what I’ve discovered from years of
And fuck it, maybe if they all walked around single, and
maybe if i didn't, I wouldn't give a shit.
Jealousy, man. Ain’t nothing like it for giving the fuck you-
glands a kick in the nuts.
See, The Duke, it may amaze you to learn, is far from
perfect. While most of the time I’m a fairly pleasant sorta
motherfucker, I’m sure there are times when I’ve said things
I shouldn’t have said. In fact I know there are. Some of them
even involved wank jokes.
I’m incredibly anal. I have ridiculous hair. I smoke too much
and I consume too much caffeine in an evening. I’m lazy as
fuck. These things are most definitely Characteristics De
But rather than fix that shit, I’ll just sit and growl in the
direction of an imaginary group of people who don’t actually,
in reality, exist outside of Loaded Magazine.
Nobody’s black and white, man. Ain’t nobody all bad or all
good, with the possible exception of, say, Hitler on the
“bad” side of things, and Jesus Christ and Kirsten Dunst, on
But a man feels secure with his prejudices. It’s even better
that, as I said, I don’t know anybody who truly exists as a
“lad”, since if I did, I’d have to go about confronting my
own insecurities expressed as blind resentment, and that
would do nothing but fuck with my plans for the evening,
truth be told.
MARCH 16th 2005
You ever get that, when everything’s goin grand and then the
slightest, stupidest thing throws you totally off balance?
Right now I’m on one leg, man, and it’s a strong wind’s
blowin, make no mistake.
This is gonna be an onslaught of misery, most likely, so you
might wanna maybe go do something more amusing like Read
Temple Stark’s Fantastic Appraisal Of The Mondo Podcast Radio
I ain’t been in this kinda mood for so long, man. I know
maybe this is the last thing folks wanna be reading, and come
the fuck on The Duke, where’s the hilarious articles about
some film you seen or some shit? Where’s the jokes about
I don’t buy that self-pitying kinda nonsense, either, so this
becomes all the more wretched. What it is, is yackin tends to
make things better, so they say, and since it’s 3 A.M, ain’t
a motherfucker for to yack to. So I gotta yack on here.
To be perfectly honest, I feel like tearin every one of those
EP things off the site, too. I probably won’t, but I think
this was meant to be a haven of hilarity, not a haven of
weeping and moaning and pissing and general whining.
There’s a certain amount of self-loathing going on here, and
a hell of a lot of self-obsession. It ain’t pretty seeing
someone wank in public, as someone on Blogcritics pointed out
a while back.
Unless maybe it was Pauly Shore or something. Then it’d be
the height of hilarity, I’m guessing.
I dunno folks. Maybe I just spend too much time on my own.
Maybe I need to allocate some more hours in the day to
actually interacting with folks again. As Aldous Huxley once
pointed out, you don’t get clean by rolling around in the mud.
I would probably have used the word “shite”. Points lost
MARCH 11th 2005
Who the hell would’ve imagined it, man?
As of today, being the 11th March 2005, Mondo Irlando is One
Motherfucking Year Old. Like most one year olds, it probably
stinks of shit and vomit, but my God, man, look how cute is,
If you don’t believe me, if maybe you’re thinking about “Oh
come on now, I can buy the fact that you liked Exorcist – The
Beginning, but if you expect me to accept that Mondo Irlando
is one year old without pumping my fist, then think the fuck
again”, then what I advise you to do is Note The Date On This
Here Post From Blogcritics.org.
That post told of “The brand new extra-cool Mondo Irlando”,
and what that is, is this right here, i.e, what you’re
looking at. See, it was a one-page type deal for a time,
hosted by those Blogspot folks, but then what happened was
The Duke decided that his ego just couldn’t be held on one
damn page. So here it is with many pages. A bit like when
newspapers had to be handed around on big blocks of concrete,
and then folks invented paper, and everyone said about how it
was much better, and much easier to find what they were
And still I struggle.
Anyhow, mentioning Blogcritics.org, I thought this shit right
here might amuse you.
When I posted The Duke’s Open Letter To George Lucas on
there, some folks left some great comments. A character by
the name of Alienboy, for example, started a whole debate
about what sci-fi books folks might wanna see filmed. Eric
Berlin and DrPat made some grand suggestions, but the fuck
The Duke knows about the sci-fi. Is Mona Lisa Smile sci-fi? I
But then, into all this, there wanders a gun-slinging type by
the name of WXYZ. What WXYZ has to say for himself is this
“Suggestion for The Duke (and others who's "lives" revolve
1. Go to park and play a sport. There are rumors that this
helps your body and keeps you healthy.
2. Go on a date. Ask a woman or man to go a place for dinner
or recreation. Just dont go see a film. Esp. a Lucasfilm.
3. Replace your Star Wars DVDs with novels. I suggest novels
by Richard Wright, William Faulkner, James Baldwin or John
Grisham. And the novelization of the Empire Strikes Back DOES
4. Go out and help someone. There are plenty of people on
Earth who need help. You can start with yourself.
5. Make your own movie. All you need is a camera and talent.
Well...you can buy a camera.”
Obviously this moved me considerably, and I had to
immediately offer my heartfelt thanks for this life-altering
bout of snarky muck-flinging;
I just wanted to thank you so, so much for what you did.
Would you believe I was just about to watch a movie? Can you
BELIEVE that shit? I was just about to put in this flick by
the name of Persona (it's this cat Bergman, but what does it
matter. I mean come on, it's hardly a NOVEL. Unless maybe
foreign movies are ok. Sorry, foreign "films". Does it help
if it's black and white? How does this elitism work, anyhow?)
when I thought, wait a minute, what was it WXYZ advised?
I remembered, and what I did was I picked up a novel. It was
a novel by John Grisham and it was fucking shit. I set it
down, and went ahead and read some Shakespeare. Turned out to
be that one about THE RAPE OF SOMEBODY OR OTHER. I didn't
like it very much. So then I thought does any book at all
count, or does it have to be a good one? Cause really, if
just any old book counted, well then that would be fucking
stupid, to be honest. Really, that'd be like assuming the
best Woody Allen picture is inferior to, say, The Turner
Diaries. I'm sorry WXYZ but I can't bring myself to assume
that kinda nonsense.
And then I figured, well, I’ll go do that other thing. Get a
date, maybe. So what I did was I went and had a five year
relationship, got engaged and then watched it crumble to
fuck. Thanks a fucking bunch WXYZ.
And then I noted that probably, if caring about film is an
incredibly pointless pursuit, then really, Plato, Socrates,
all those fuckers who waxed on and off about drama and
catharsis and so on, they were just wasting their time. And
inadvertently, they wasted MY time, since I went and picked
up a couple of their books on your recommendation.
Then I thought about the people I had counseled here and
there. That recommendation was pretty good, WXYZ, and thank
fuck the folks who in turn helped sort me out read it also.
In conclusion, thank you for making my life that bit more
meaningful. And to think, I could've been watching Citizen
Kane or Crossfire or some shit while all this was going on. I
could've been writing another one of those NOVELS you
mention, like the three I did a while back. I could've been
doing all sortsa shit. Thank fuck my existence is summed up
in its entirety by this here hilarious post, so that you were
able to correct it bit by bit.
Hopefully you folks can get something worthwhile from all
that, too. Maybe you can be as enlightened as I was. We can
Why Not Leave A Congratulatory Birthday Message
In The Mondo Guestbook?
(Please slide a fiver inside message, or, failing this, a
MARCH 4th 2005
When, might I enquire, did every motherfucker start seeing
someone all of a sudden? What the fuck's this shit, anyhow?
Pray tell, various deities, since when in the sweet hills of
Hades did “seeing someone” become the stock response to every
request uttered from every conceivable hole in one’s face?
“How bout we maybe…”
“Hey, I hear GG Allin is…”
Matilda enthroned, is all. Colour The Duke perplexed as sweet
The Duke, high on the giddy candies of insanity, yacks pathetic
into a phonecall-making device of some sort. It might’ve been a
phone, it might’ve been an oven. Who knows these days? Txt
Woman answers, The Duke lays out some deeply poetic bollocks
about “um, ah, um” and so on, before eventually spitting some
sort of proposition into said lady’s earhole, to be countered
with the disarmingly casual response; “I’m seeing someone.”
All well and good. “Have a good weekend”, they advise. I note
this down. Seems like an idea worth exploring, is what I’ve
Then, this very eve, The Duke, high on the giddy candies of
insanity, waxes ridiculous into a text-message sending device
of some sort. Perhaps a mobile phone, perhaps a tin of carrots.
Who but the Lord can say? Film Noir Woman receives said
declaration of lustful intent, and counters with the
disarmingly casual response; “I’m seeing someone.”
“Have a good weekend” she advises.
I didn’t note this. I already had the note from the last time.
Seemed like a waste of fucking paper, to tell you the truth.
But consider this, like Michael Stipe said one time, the time
he lost The Bible or whatever. Back in the days of The Duke’s
wreckless youth, many such propositions were flung in his
direction, believe or not as thou wilt. What can a fella say?
He shrugs, he smiles, probably says something comforting. Maybe
even “have a nice weekend”. Who knows?
Maybe I gave the person a hug and said something along the
lines of shucks, I’d love to but I’m seeing someone.
Seeing my arsehole reflected in their eyes, is what I was
seeing, mouthing hollow bollocks from out my face just so as
the person didn’t feel bad.
I mean come on, takes a lot of effort to approach a character
such as oneself, what with the cutting wit and the abundance of
fucks and the fifty or twelve jokes about wanking. You don’t
wanna be a nasty son of a bitch, why would you? You feel all
the flattered in the world, is what, unless, I might add,
you're a certain lady sitting behind somebody in a maths class
four or seven years ago laughing aloud at such a sentiment.
Forget? I can’t even remember what the word means.
So anyway, what I’d like to imagine is that certain folks,
folks by the name of maybe Msg Woman or Crime Cinema Woman, are
beside themselves with the guilt, because there they are, lying
next to some chancer or other, or Chaucer, perhaps, who would
be surprised, and all they can think is “Shit, if only I were
free to maybe hear some more of those jokes about The Pope what
he told me via the text message.”
In reality, though, most likely these folks ain’t lying with
nobody. It’s just nicer than laughing in a fella’s virtual
teeth, is all.
Take fucking note, oh Siren of First Year Maths.
Every motherfucker’s seeing some other motherfucker of some
shape, that’s how it goes nowadays. What’s a man to do but put
on one of those early Bright Eyes records where he just squawks
endlessly about why won’t you go out with me blah blah I’m out
of my face with the hurt of it all blah blah blah.
A man’s this close to thinking emo might be a good idea.
Just joking, man. When is that shit ever a good idea? Step
back, man, it’s ok. Put down that record about Hate Myself
(Quite A Bit, Actually) or whatever. Nothings worth that shit.
Nothings worth a whinging motherfucker whining in your ear over
some shit Husker Du wouldn’t have wiped their self-spun sauce
with back in the day.
Best look towards pastures new, best take a wander over those
fields right over there, them ones filled to the balls with the
corn and the barley or whatever grows in fields that isn’t
grass or cows. Potatoes, maybe.
A Zen Aside – A man walked into a tavern. “Have you any beer”,
he asked? “My fingers are tartan” said the barman.
The Duke De Mondo
FLING THE DUKE AN EMAIL
FEBRUARY 26th 2005
Dreams What Were In My Skull
So there I am, sleeping and such, except no, what’s really
happening is I'm in a room filled with thousands of religious
icons. Statues line the walls, looking down on The Duke, with
those freaky glazed-expressions they got goin on. In the
middle of this room is a throne, and on said throne sits GG
For some reason, I know instinctively that GG is gonna tell me
my future, so I approach him, and I say about “Hey, GG, hows
about you tell me what the fuck might go down in the future-
GG stands up and takes a shit right there on the floor, then
punches me upside the teeth. The blood pours from my lip, and
lands in the fresh concoction spat forth from out GG’s arsehole.
Some other fella arrives, might’ve been David Essex, although also
looked a bit like this girl I used to know from up the road.
Anyway, this visitor reaches GG a stick, and he pokes it into the
dung / blood mixture, mixing it round a bit, spreading it over the
floor. For a second he gets down and rolls around in it. GG does
fucked-up shit like that sometimes.
GG tells me that what the shit says, is that I’m gonna wake up in
the morning with a head full of notions regarding GG Allin and a
freaky David Essex type character. He says I might write about it
and put it up on my website. He says most likely I’ll forget about
the vagina beast, and then have to make an amendment later on.
Also, before all this happens, a vagina beast arrives. What it is,
is a creature with the head of a fly and the body of Jeff Fahey,
with the word VAGINA tattooed across its knees. One knee says VAG,
the other says INA. The INA one is one the left side, so it takes
me a while to work it out. Also, it announces itself by saying “I
am the Vagina Beast, and I have Vagina written on my knees,
although it’s a bit messed up”. This helps to decipher the
The Vagina Beast also says that I’m far too quick to get obsessed
with stuff. It says that just because a girl has a really breath-
taking smile and gorgeous eyes, doesn’t mean I should be up till
six writing songs that are fit only for wiping GG’s crud from
someone else’s shoulders. It says that really, The Duke, you’ve
got enough to worry about, what with the Vagina Beast dreams and
The Vagina Beast leaves only after being smacked in the Fly-Head
by a tennis ball. The ball lands at my feet, shimmering, and I
reach down to lift it, only for a siren to ring out from
someplace, startling me momentarily.
I forget what happens next. Something about a sea of dead
GG tells me that before I wake up I should know a couple things.
Number One, he says, is that it’s ok, The Duke, you’re only
dreaming. Don’t be thinking that you have to listen to a damn word
The Vagina Beast might have said, or some garbled cock I ramble
after poking about in my own cack.
Number Eight, he says, is that really, The Duke, how the fuck
could you have liked White Noise?
I told GG to shut the fuck up, that it was Michael Fucking Keaton
for crying out loud, that what the hell does he know about Keaton
anyhow? Next to nothing, I’m guessing.
Fuck off, Mystical GG. When I want a critique of the culture I’ll
get it from someone living, and someone living who isn’t up to his
neck in skittery arse-paste.
The Duke De Mondo
Fling The Duke An Email
FEBRUARY 19th 2005
Audioblog #2 - The Duke In “Music Movies I Wanna See”
What this is, is another Audio Blog deal on account of the 23rd
century technology and so on. What this lecture concerns is Music
Movies I Wanna See.
Just left-click to hear online, or right-click if you wanna save
it someplace nice for later on.
The Duke In Music Movies I Wanna See.mp3
FEBRUARY 10th 2005
Audioblog #1 - The Duke In “Phone Crisis”
What happened for the last week or so is that, following the
completion of The Duke’s Fourth EP, being a heart-wrenching
catalogue of emotional torment, I kinda went into hibernation
for a day or two, in so far as “doing stuff” is concerned.
Anyway, what this is, is that underneath this text here what
serves as an introduction, don’t you know, you’ll find two MP3’
s, being Parts One And Two of The Duke in “Phone Crisis”. What
you’ll hear therein is, first of all, a very, very nervous Duke
preparing to make a very important phone call, a phone two-
years in development, and trying to get my head in some sort of
straight-and-narrow state so as I might conduct the resulting
conversation with at least 46% less fucks, um’s, ah’s and
nervous giggles than would otherwise be the case.
Part Two details the aftermath. What happened, man, you’ll be
thinking. Whatever became of said phone call? Both are
authentic right-before and right-after deals. It’s like Reality
TV, except there’s no visuals, and there’s more swearing.
Seriously, folks, I was beside myself with nerves, and I ain’t
a stranger to a cuss at the best of times. Riddled with
anxiety, I can barely get a fuck out my mouth without flinging
two or three fucks in the middle.
It was maybe an attempt to disassociate myself from the reality
of what I was doing. I imagine it may come as a shock, but The
Duke is actually a cripplingly shy fella, truth be told.
Anyway, hopefully my misery will provide ten minutes or so of
entertainment. Oh, and there’s a song at the end of part 2,
courtesy of the ever wonderful The Magnetic Fields. Left-click
to listen online, or right-click if for some reason you wanna
The Duke In Phone Crisis Part One.mp3
The Duke In Phone Crisis Part Two.mp3
The Duke De Mondo
Fling The Duke An Email
FEBRUARY 5th 2005
What I’ve been up to of late, is being a busy motherfucker, is
what. Following the horrific personal trauma what you may have
heard about here and there on the site, I found myself
stricken with a bizarre urge for to get stuff done. There’s a
book being put together, tentatively titled A Year In Cinema
And So On, that has a bunch of writings from the site plus a
sort of narrative thing running through, and then there’s
another thing going on with the wonderful folks at
Blogcritics.org, and on top of all this I’m in the final
stages of flinging EP #4 together.
In fact, as far as the musical tomfoolery is concerned,
there's yet another set ready to go up, consisting of stuff I
never put on the others. Stuff Fit For Nothin is the title,
and hopefully it’ll appear shortly.
Incidentally, has anyone any ideas on how to get folks
attention with regards the release of these things?
Technically, they are releases, right? They’re digital, and
they’re free, and they’re The Duke, but they’re still
“released”? If you’ve any ideas on how to make a big
motherfucking noise, or even a whisper heard by the right
folks, Fling The Duke An Email.
Another musical thing involves a collaboration of sorts that
may be occurring in the near-future between a fella by the
name of Darren Worth and Yours Truly, ie, The Duke. You’ll get
to hear some of Darren’s stuff on the next MP3 Digest, when an
Unsigned section will be added in alongside the illegal stuff
you know and love.
Mentioning love, one of the new songs I’m working on tells the
tale of The Kirsten Dunst Tennis Ball. In case you didn’t
know, what happened was that Kirsten signed a tennis ball,
probably on the set of Wimbledon, and The Duke paid some of
the green for to own it. In my bedroom, man, there rests a
piece of sporting paraphernalia that Kirsten Dunst has fucking
touched with Her hands. And a pen, also. I’m scared to breathe
in that fucking bedroom, is what.
I been meaning to get the interview I did with the incredibly
cool Steve from One Star Hotel up, too, so hopefully I’ll get
that done before the weekend’s over.
And if you’re a fan of the Region 1 DVD’s, then you’ll wanna
be seeing This Week’s Releases what I wrote up for
Blogcritics. Also, there's a thing I wrote for Blogcritics
called Thoughts On Homosexuality By The Non-Homosexual Duke.
Why not read it, too?
As far as The Skull De Duke is concerned, I think I’m in a
good place. It’s a frustrating place. Folks won’t answer text
messages. Folks won’t answer emails. Folks won’t offer The
Duke a quick, easy way for to get very attractive very
quickly. Folks won’t stop talking shit and folks like The Duke
need to pray for said motherfuckers so I don’t go insane and
attack them in the street with a motherfucking brick.
A good place, man, but a fucked-up, unfathomable one none the
less. But keep going, is all, and a man ain’t got time for to
The Duke De Mondo
Fling The Duke An Email
JANUARY 21st 2005
So what it is, is The Duke’s feelin’ all fucked up left and
right and sideways right about now, on account of the L word,
as in the one that rhymes with Dove, or maybe Alcove if you
play with the syllables in a Dylan-esque manner.
What I was doin’ till 6 in the AM this morning, was going
through the mountains of MP3’s stored on the old hard-drive,
with the idea of compiling a sort of left-off’s thingy for the
EP Page, except at the minute it’s 20 tracks long. It’s stuff
that just wasn’t fit for to go on whatever I was doing at the
time, but some of it I quite like, and some of it’s from back
when The Duke was making CD demos to send to folks, as opposed
to the virtual variety now that it’s all 22nd century or
Here’s one of em, a song called Silences that I always liked,
but some motherfucker was flying around on a motorbike outside
the window during the recording. Ironic that a song called
Silences gets blighted by outside noise, I guess.
Silences.mp3 by The Duke.
Here’s something I just flung onto Blogcritics a minute ago.
Enjoy this here, is what I would suggest;
Vincent Gallo Waxes Ridiculous Regarding Kirsten
So what it is, is The Duke was intended to do some light-weight
shit, and then next thing I know I’m alerted to a spot of news
via some good folks on Kirsten-Dunst.org. What that there is, is
a “website” all about Kirsten Dunst, photos of Kirsten Dunst,
forums all about “hey guys I love Kirsten can I get her email
thanks” and so on.
Turns out Kirsten was scheduled to appear briefly in loveable
rogue Vincent Gallo’s much-praised, critically-lauded,
universally-admired The Brown Bunny, until, for some
inexplicable reason, Kirsten decided She would rather not, in
fact, be involved with Gallo’s magnum opus.
Here’s a buncha text what I just ripped the fuck off of MSN.COM
“Gallo tells the New York Post that Dunst agreed to appear
briefly at the beginning of his orally fixated flick, which
Roger Ebert called "the worst film in the history" of the Cannes
Film Festival, but her agent phoned shortly before cameras were
set to roll to say she was bailing out.
The acerbic auteur tells the paper he called Dunst and
"expressed to her that I was displeased that she had abandoned
me on the day she was supposed to film." According to Gallo, she
"became another person. She was a cold, curt, nasty little witch
of a brat on the phone."
Dunst's agent tells the Post that the actress jumped ship once
her people realized the production didn't conform to SAG
guidelines, insisting, "[Gallo] can say anything he wants. She
did nothing wrong."
Gallo, ever the gentleman, says there are no hard feelings. "If
she wants to do lame, stupid movies, it's great. I respect her,"
he tells the paper. "I was very angry for a really long time,
but at this point I just think she's a talented, pretty person
and I only wish good things for her."
In incurring Gallo's wrath, Dunst has joined an ever-expanding
club whose members include Christina Ricci and Roger Ebert. Of
his "Buffalo '66" leading lady, Gallo said, "I don't like her.
But it's okay. She's basically a puppet. I told her what to do,
and she did it." Sadly, Ricci got off light compared to Ebert.
Gallo's revenge for the man who boiled his "Bunny" in print
included referring to him as a "fat pig" and putting a "black
magic hex" on him so he'd develop prostate cancer. Ebert,
coincidentally, was later diagnosed with salivary cancer.
While the two later kissed and made up (sort of), we urge
Kirsten to watch her back -- and have regular check-ups.”
Let’s be honest here, Gallo is fulla shit, but he’s never less
than entertaining. And to be a bit more honest even, if I had
scheduled Kirsten to star in my film about blow-jobs and
driving, probably I’d be annoyed if She didn’t turn up the day
She was supposed to.
On the other hand, how the hell could he blame Kirsten for it
all? Have some dignity, man. Blame fucking Will Smith or some
shit. Gallo Slams Smith For Kirsten’s Good Sense would be a much
preferable headline for to read of a morning.
And what about that “lame, stupid movies” remark? What the fuck,
Gallo? How many Eternal Sunshine’s are in your filmography? When
was the last time a Virgin Suicides fell out your asshole? And I
ain’t ever in my life heard so much as a Cat’s Non-Committed
Sigh from you, never mind a Meow. You’re good at yacking
sentiments like “Bring it on, motherfucker”, but you ain’t got
two Bring It On’s for to rub together.
He’s a bit like Morrissey except without the excessive talent.
You just hope he’s gonna wake up pissed-off and there’s gonna be
a reporter near-by, so as he can open his window and scream
about whatever motherfucker done pissed him off, and here’s what
he’s gonna do about it, and here’s what he wishes happened to
said motherfucker, up-to-and-including any and all bizarre
equatorial viruses they hopefully catch.
Buffalo 66 was a fine flick, though, and Christina Ricci was
just about amazing, as she usually is, in fact. If only any
motherfuckers could pronounce her surname properly, she might
even get an Oscar one of these days.
Thanks Kirsten. And also Roswell Crash Survivor, who went ahead
and alerted The Duke to this development.
The Duke De Mondo
Fling The Duke An Email
JANUARY 17TH 2005
Right about now, what’s going on in the World De Duke is some
fucked-up shit I’d rather not deal with, shit that adversely
affects the old “prolific nature” and such of yours truly.
What's happening, though, is that The Duke is attempting to bury
himself in the old text, copy and paste, typing etc, so
hopefully you’ll see things getting back to normal, IE, sixty
updates an hour. I got some reviews of the computer games
waiting to go up, The Duke’s effortless motherfuckery being
translated into a whole nother medium. Prepare for to be
stunned, is what I’d wager.
Last night, I set about arranging The Duke’s 3 EP’s into some
sort of findable order, so now there’s a page with Them All
Listed, Complete With The Covers, for maximum convenience.
You're welcome folks. All in an afternoon’s work.
Some other stuff to look forward to is the appearance of Flix
Wizard – Hollywood Hard-Ass, who’ll be showing up shortly for to
swear his way across the site, and also some more from that
Ignorant Git should be due shortly.
A whole heap of fucking nonsense to be getting on with, in the
At the minute, what I’m doing is recording some more shit for
another EP. Seems to be that, although the old writing and such
is adversely affected, the old whining and moaning seems to
flourish in times of such fuckery, so there’s a whole bunch of
moaning to be recorded. Moan moan moan, then maybe a change to G
and some more moaning, and back to C. you know the motherfucking
formula by now.
Over the festive season, what occurred was that The Duke came
into possession of an iPod, and so I been rediscovering records
I never really gave much time to, and yet put on the iPod for
some damn reason. Alarmingly, records I despised, like The
Eminem Show, have become favourites. How the hell could this
have happened? Maybe I just needed a year to get used to it all,
since let’s face it, it’s pretty different, sonically speaking,
from the likes of The Marshall Mathers LP. There’s still some
crud on there, though, but that line about “Like my mother
always said / wahh wahh wahh wahh wahh wahh wahh” and so on, in
My Dad's Gone Crazy, makes everything worthwhile.
There’ll be a new MP3 Digest tomorrow at the latest, but in the
meantime, here’s a bit of Dukery for to listen to, by way of A
Different Version Of “Even Though” From EP2. The one that made
it on there always pained me to listen to, to be honest. Very,
very bitter affair is what it was, and probably not about what
it says it’s about on The EP Page. So what I tried to do was
write different words. Never came of anything though,
languishing on the hard-drive until right the hell now.
The Duke De Mondo
Fling The Duke An Email
JANUARY 13TH 2005
Of all the aspects of Mondo Irlando, The Duke’s Journals has
been the most neglected, mostly on account of anything
worthwhile that’s to be said is said in the reviews and such.
But what I decided is to give this a proper old go and such,
and see if something decent can’t be drawn from out its guts.
In case you didn’t know, what has occurred is that The Duke’s
Third EP is now on the site, and if you click the link what
you'll get is five songs about moan, moan, Kirsten Dunst, moan
moan. Have a listen anyway. Who knows what could happen?
There were six tracks, incidentally, if by chance you saw it
the night I uploaded it, but on account of one of them was
unbelievably awful, I deleted it the fuck off the site.
That right there, in fact, the ability for to fling one’s
musical nonsense onto the old web-net and have folks say “yes,
I like that particular bit” or “no, it fucking sucks rancid
goat-spunk” is one of the joys of this day and age, is what. A
fella can hide away behind a screen and an avalanche of
motherfucks, and never has to actually face the folks who
invariably choke on the mediocrity of ones dabblings.
What has happened of late, is that The Duke was stricken with
a severe bout of writers block, accounting for the absence of
a terrible lot of updating and so on. In a way, I imagine that
this journal malarkey might keep shit like that from
happening, since when there’s no “cause” for ones ramblings,
one can ramble without fear of fucking it up. Who wouldn’t
shatter under the weight of reviewing the latest Scorsese, for
example? A fella has to do shit like that justice. This here,
though. This I can fuck the hell up till my hearts content.
Actually, during the worst of the block, what I did was force
myself to scribble the following, on New Years Eve no less,
which is printed here for educational purposes only;
Thoughts On The Block By The Motherfucking Duke De Mondo
Warning – Self Indulgence Afoot –
See, what it is, is a fella falls out of the groove and such.
A fella exists within a beat, beating away in a rhythmical
manner, as is a beat’s wont, or indeed, the wont of sexing
Catholics, or so I’ve been told. And then all of a sudden what
happens is holy shit, man, the motherfucking beat has gone
ahead and changed tempo all of a sudden, and now, well, my
elbow seems to be in time, but the rest of me is so far out of
time as to be 1698 or some shit, and let’s note; a man can get
burned in these times for much less than writing a review of
But I digress.
Because the point is that I don’t know what the point is.
Right now, with neither rhyme nor reason nor other stuff
meaning “purpose”, what I can do is batter away on the keys,
most likely producing words, sentences, other grammatical
entities. The very second, though, that a “purpose” looks set
to appear, my hands lock, usually around a tin of Red Bull and
a cigarette, and what happens is I stare at the white enclaves
of Microsoft Word and see the little flashing thing and feel
like Nicholas Cage at the start of Adaptation.
Truth be told, I’d rather feel like Nicholas Cage in Con Air,
but beggars can’t be chewing or something.
Lay off the motherfucking teddy bear, motherfucker.
What I find is that shit like the Best Of 2004 lists that
languish on the old hard drive, needing no more than a couple
syllables and maybe a joke for to be filed within the files
marked “complete”, these things seem impenetrable. An article
concerning my adventures within the world of Doom 3 looks
ridiculous, a series of scarcely connected lines about
motherfuck and Martians. It looks like a dot-to-dot with all
the numbers on top of one another so the motherfucking thing
is impossible to dot with any confidence.
And the thoughts arising from it all are; what the hell’s
So what this is, is an exercise in getting one’s brain
functioning again, and then an additional exercise in getting
ones hand to hit the old “upload” thing without running off
into the corner like a rat what just trod on a wasp.
I find that the things garnering my attention are things I
should allow to enter my consciousness for not one iota of a
moment’s breath. Things like the dream I had last night were I
was going out with Brody Dalle from The Distillers, and now
I'm listening to I Am A Revenant and it’s like we’re boyfriend
and girlfriend, although I’m not sure what The Duchess makes
of it all.
I didn’t even really bother much with The Distillers before.
Now it’s like they’re the greatest band ever. It’s like when
you have a dream one night that you’re playing a Super
Nintendo (or SNES, motherfucker), and even though you never
gave a shit about the damn things hitherto the unconscious
episode, now they seem like the only thing that’ll make your
Not that Brody Dalle is the only thing that would make my
existence complete. Metaphors, motherfucker. Or similes. Some
such shit, anyhow.
Earlier today, listening to the radio, taunting me, a
motherfucker reading his best of 2004 list as if to say “Yeah,
you son of a bitch, I’ve got mine finished, and in order of
preference and everything”, and then he has the audacity to
say “Oh, I never saw that” when another fella mentions some
other flick. If a man could just compile lists without having
all the evidence laid out before him then I guess I could have
done mine in fucking March. It’s like folks who say “This year
was shit for flicks / music / miscellaneous” and you say, “Oh,
but what about The Passion / The Libertines / The Doom
Motherfucking 3?” and they go on about “I didn’t see that /
hear that / play that”. If you didn’t hear / see / play, then
you ain’t got a lick of the credibility, so shut your fucking
Here I am, up to all hours in order to fit in any possible
flicks that may have escaped my eyes these past twelve months,
just so as The Duke’s Best Of 2004 can be as accurate as
possible, and this motherfucker on the radio reads his list
like it doesn’t even matter that he saw about 11% of
everything. I never saw Oldboy, he supposes, so therefore it
doesn’t matter that it’s brilliant, I’ll just leave it off my
list anyhow. Mind you, Oldboy was technically 2003, but
released in the United UK this year.
Hilariously enough, this is all turning out to be scarily
close to what “outsiders” assume Blogs to be.
“You ever read such and such a blog?”
“A blog? What the fucks that shit? It’s just a load of shit
about oh, today I fed my fucking cat and took a shit. Who the
That’s what this post is turning out like. This could be a big
ironic joke on my behalf, but to be honest, I’m far too fucked
in the mentals for to be so satirical.
And here it is, man. New Years Eve. What it amounts to, is The
Duke is sitting in the house because, I don’t know if you know
this or not, but I like you and you make me feel
sophisticated, so I’ll tell you this shit right here. It takes
about four weeks for anti-depressants to get into a fellas
system. Hilariously enough, it seems to take about seven hours
for them to fuck the hell off, so on account of I forgot to
order a prescription a couple days ago, until about six o’
clock this evening I felt like I was walking underwater. What
this means is I feel too fucking miserable to do much of
anything, and also, The Duchess has exams and such, so we’re
I feel good though, man, and a good whine is all a fella needs
for to get the old cogs cogging about once more. What I think
I’ll do is watch the Harry Potter DVD what The Duchess got me.
Also, I might throw on some Derek And Clive calling each other
cunts. Always brings a smile to a fellas face.
Writers block, man. What the fuck.
The Duke De Mondo
Fling The Duke An Email