So...now it is time to engage with those essential inessentials of the pop music industry: Promotional Doodah. The first of these are fine T-shirts comissioned by the Maleficent Mr Coles emblazoned in gold and of the finest persian hessian. 200 Turkistani grandmothers lost their eyesight stitching these babies -I tellya! No, not really -they're really made from bits of twig and earth aereated by consenting worms who had access to cable tv and a games room.

I'm still sleeping in 'Naked Apes' promo t-shirts from the mid 90's so I can vouch for the staying power of Shriekback-related garments.

Get 'em at Malicious Damage HQ. .

AND -Veils fans may now shake their heads in awed wonder at the Renaissance Man breadth and depth of Mr Finn Andrews- the lad directed a short promo for us last week: 'The Bride Stripped Bare'. When I say directed I'm not talking cherrypickers and helicopter shots of course but I am talking visual stimulation on what is bound to be a hallucinogenic level.

Opting (wisely- given no-budget) for what Derek Jarman once called a 'cinema of small gestures' he had me building a vile sculpture out of a Barbie head, scrap wood and wire (the camera studying minute movements of finger-tip, hammer and angle-grinder), and emoting till I had a semi-coronary in the depths of Savernake Forest at midnight. (My son would, I feel, give Fassbinder a run for his money when it comes to his ruthless demands on actors).Lit only by the car's headlights, in the depths of this ancient forest, I was encouraged to cavort with hysterical intensity, then he examined vegetation, micro and macro, in obsessive detail till my (i insist) healthy paranoia of forest rangers, cops and drunken Marlborough geezers- 'and what we got here, lads?'- brought us safe back to Nan's house for an exegesis of Susan Sontags' posthumous essays and bits of Twelfth Night on video. A family of terrible aesthetes? Well, yes. Yes we are.

It was a nostalgic moment for me, since, when he was little, making films together was a thing we did, long before music interested him (he was precociously aware of Tim Burtons' crane-shots, CG magic and the Simpsons' cinematic parodies way before he looked like accepting my dubious inheritance of studios, hotels and soundchecks). So it was with a paternal glow -as well as a splitting headache and compost in my shoes- that I saw him off at the station as he returned to London to perform his alchemy on this brute material. We hope to display it here and on YouTube and every other dam' place as soon as we can. Finn meanwhile will no doubt be getting up a head of steam for the Veils gig at the Islington Academy on Wed 25th. See you in the moshpit. err moshing.