< > I couldn't write any Tonka's Week last week because I was at a wedding. Draper married his missus, Joanne. They've been going out with one another for about fifteen years now and, after fourteen and a half years of pressure from Joanne, they finally tied the knot in West Bromwich Town Hall last Saturday afternoon. It was a lovely affair. All of their kids were there. Joanne had done her hair. Something something something fair. It was a fucking brilliant day and EVERYONE was happy for them. Draper Punk’d me the week before by telling me he’d asked Micky John to be his best man. After I’d finished smashing my Nan’s kitchen up, he put his arm around my shoulder and started SCREAMING with laughter. Howling, he was. Like a bad wolf. Anyway, I was proud to not only be asked to be Draper’s best man, but to also be asked to DJ at the reception.
< > I hung a little chalk board above the booth I'd created with a trestle table that read, NO REQUESTS. The fucking tunes I knocked out at Draper and Joanne’s wedding reception. I’ve always known that I’d one day be asked to play at a wedding reception, so I’ve been keeping all of them Harangue The DJ things from the Guardian Guide from the last six years and I simply played all of the What You Would Play At Your Auntie’s Wedding tracks. It was proper trendy, whilst also being quite ironic and intentionally rubbish. LOLoutLOUD.
Joanne told me to play something by Adele for the first dance, but Draper told me to play ANYTHING BUT Adele for the first dance, so when the time came, and Draper and Joanne were stood in the middle of the hall, gazing into one another’s eyes, a jubilant and refreshed congregation gathered around the happy couple, forming a circle of affection, I scratched the intro of Guilty Conscience by Eminem over a sample of church bells before spinning the track back and letting Guilty Conscience play out in full.
And if you think the punchline to that anecdote is that Joanne screamed at me to put something more suitable on for their first dance, you’re wrong, because everyone thought it was a great choice and fucking EVERYONE started dancing to it.
< > Speaking of celebrations, Donald Trump gets the keys to whatever the fucking hell the equivalent of 10 Downing Street is in America today. White House. The White House. That’s it. ROFLOFL. He’s the fucking President of America now! Can you believe it? I can, because it’s on the news.
One of the things I like about Donald Trump is his positivity. He’s always putting his thumbs up when someone takes a photo of him. You don’t ever see photos of Barack Obama sticking his thumbs up. Tony B.Liar never used to put his thumbs up. Neither did Adolf Hitler. Theresa May never puts her thumbs up for the camera. Have you ever seen Barack Obama doing a double thumbs up? No. Oh, I’ve already done him. Have you ever seen #JezWeCan doing a double thumbs up? No.
All I’m saying is this: he can’t be that bad a bloke because his natural reaction to someone taking a photo of him is to stick his thumbs up. Give the bloke a chance. He’s probably a good bloke.
< > Manni Dee releases his new EP on Perc Trax next week. It is called Throbs of Discontent, and it’s fucking brilliant. If you haven’t listened to it yet, I’ll describe it for you now. The first two tracks, London Isn't England Feat. Ewa Justka and Mephi, sound exactly like hard house, but the high-pitched vocals, the 16-bar snare fills, the hoovers, the jaunty melodies and the overbearingly high in the mix kick-drums have been replaced by brilliant sounding industrial techno soundscapes and a load of angry-sounding ker kouhhhhhhh uproar. The closing track on the EP, Adorable Disorder, is the best landscape ambient noise house tool I’ve ever fucking heard in my life, I’ll be honest with you. It’s the yang to the yang, the bish to the bash and the bosh, and it’s the Cannon to the rest of the EP’s Ball. It’s quite simply beautiful, like my face, whereas the first two tracks on Throbs of Discomfort are quite simply rough as arseholes, like your granddad’s arsehole after he’s had the top boy’s sledgehammer chucked up it in prison. And that’s no bad thing.
Let me tell you this: if you don’t buy Throbs of Discontent by Manni Dee, on Perc Tracks, I mean, Trax, Perc Trax, I’m going to crawl through THIS computer screen, slither all over your keyboard, land on your lap and then reanimate into a panther and eat you alive. I’ll then melt back into THIS computer screen and nobody will ever know what happened to you, because nobody ever reads Tonka’s Week.
You can pre-order Throbs of Discontent NOW, on this link here, or you can start banging on the door of Phonica Records on Friday 27 January 2017. I haven’t got online clips of this yet, so have a listen to one of my earlier favourites of his…
< > This has been a really bad week. A really bad Tonka’s Week. Fuck me. What else have I done? Err…
…yesterday, I drank an espresso for the first time in seven years. Are they SUPPOSED to taste like burned dog shit and smoke? It was fucking disgusting, and it hardly kept me awake on the drive up to West Bromwich. Thankfully, when the police pulled me over for drink driving, they had FUCK ALL on me, because I hadn’t been boozing that time. It was an espresso and about seven hot chocolates that didn’t keep me awake on the motorway, not lager. I do usually like a bit of lager when I’m driving, but I’d drunk about twelve cans of 1664 the night before with Joa…I mean, Mickey John, and I couldn’t hack any more. My tummy was right fucked up because of all that lager, so I wanted to try an espresso, but I instantly regretted it because it tasted like burned dog shit and, fuck me, this is rubbish. Sorry.