I’m tired trying to look interested. You could forgive all the bullshit backstage if the culprits weren’t so entrenched in nothing but pussy and bits of arse.

“Hey give me a fucking line of that ketamine Tom, you know I spent all my gig money on world hunger and relief efforts in the Sudan” piped up Dreier to my surprise.

Richie Hawtin is balancing out his carbon footprint. Credit where credit is due. Commendable for a man already very busy balancing every drug-muddled boy and girl on his ching sprinkled cock. Actually Minus seems hell-bent on saving the planet with Troy Pierce and Magda also trying to save the Whales.

“It’s not even a cause to these guys, it’s just another hobbie, they give everything of themselves even in their spare time, they’re our modern day super heros” chimed one drug-muddled arse-sore waste of space.

I admit it. I was actively seeking out hollow driftwood when I pushed play on this self-titled sadness. It was the first record I’d touched from a new batch of promos that had slimmed in under my door.

A “I promise I’m not faking Sebo honey” orgasmic female vocal punctuates the bitter bounce as delays add spunkless rivers of tired sand to awkward hi-hat reverbs. An apologetic reversed cymbal crash is lost in the dullness of the experience. It’s the mournful highlight though so be sure and strain to hear it.

Why was I seeking out hollow driftwood? I was chatting with some people over at the Weekend Club about playing there, they asked me to put together a mix CD they might find interesting.

Sebo K – Diva / Listen / 1 out of 5.

So where have I been all those lazy summer afternoons while you were sitting in Treptower Park, sipping Club Mate and planning orgies with 5-year old lesbians who should know better? Well early one Winter morning in 2007 I was cycling to Kaisers. I was trying not to be impressed with some of the wanky bikes I saw being cycled from all possible leg angles.

Hannes Stöhr appears on my phone (it was on silent since some daft bitch had been ringing me all night crying ‘troubled childhood’ tears for my cock). What could this well-to-do gremlin want?

After I’d hurried the call along to the point of hanging up before he could squeak good-bye I found myself on my way to sign a contract to be the ‘Historical Advisor’ on this heap of shit film.

I think his main objective was to try and add some substance to the mundane life of a Berlin DJ – showing our hero crying after a threesome and taking the flak for mixing in a happy hardcore record that his brother died making. Close but no weiner schnitzel, Hannes.

Panorama staff in constant mourning

Tonight I burned all my black clothes (my whole wardrobe) when I heard it was fancy dress at the Sicilian Funeral Party at Villa. I didn’t want any excuse to end up there at 7a.m. wondering why it’s so easy to get my dick sucked. So we’ve managed to avoid the mid-week emo skull-fuck, what’s happening this weekend?

On Friday 17/10 it might be nice to sit out at the Berghain Kantine and listen to some housey techno and imagine you give a shit about what the next records going to be. Playing are Michael Placke, Aaron Hedges and Hintergrundrauschen. Dixon then later in Panorama Bar. Hey, who knows, maybe this time you will score an Asian in there.

On Saturday 18/10 I don’t know what to recommend so it’s looking like you’re staying in with your boyfriend. If you’re stuck you might want to try a few bars for a change. Maybe leave your apartment before midnight for once. Maybe try to listen to what your friends are saying without constantly thinking about what you’re going to say next. Maybe spike the third drink she orders and not the first.

Just home from the last ever Bar25, god it feels weird, on my way out I glanced back to see if it was on fire. It wasn’t.

The whole weekend was a human-train of the infamous and the ‘I thought you were dead’, mostly too scared to look away from the girl getting molested on the podium (barrel). “Hey meine dude, I vas just up there. She totally strvoked mein boner”. Look out San Francisco.

The highlight was Matt John molesting the decks like they were his own cattle. I remember at one point thinking “god if he fucks up one more mix it might take the attention off the music” continuing to think “and that’d be a good thing” lastly screaming aloud “YEAH MATT WE LOVE YOU!” because I think I saw his girlfriend by the bar and the last time we met she promised me a warm-up slot at Watergate.

What Matt doesn’t know is that I already warmed up her slot last week in the toilets of the Ballhaus Ost.