I'm at Sickboy's palatial squat, overlooking the Schelde in Antwerp; while Jurgen's 2005 Ghost of Mercury cassette plays in the background, we convulse in the throes of impending mayhem. We're off in a few hours to retrieve Joke Lanz; Lille's CCL awaits. Jet-lag really fucked me this time, so yesterday I was unable to scratch my arse, much less compose an intelligible SMS or post. After seven hours' rest and a jolt of caffeine, I'm slowly returning to my normal, disreputable self.
More soon from the crime scene,