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NME review courtesy of the wonderful Sonic Broom:

Mighty Nibus - Sludgecore Dronefest, Iceland - Slough 14/06/07
What to say about legendary Sludgecore sextet Mighty Nibus? They've made a career out of playing one note, and in a festival of various imitators it could be difficult to stand out.

But that would be to write off Mighty Nibus too soon. Opening (and closing, and inbetween) song "Rotting Flesh Chanson Number 6" opts for G#, considered by many to be the quintessential note of drone sludge. That they take this note, play it for two hours and yet STILL no-one loses patience is testament both to the skill of the band and the massively high nature of the audience.

At one point, Mighty Nibus himself surprises everyone by changing from Railway Tickets Jammed in a Keyboard, to the Ukelele for a more light hearted passage. It doesn't go unnoticed, and the crowd go partially less comatose.

this is drone at its very best. DROOOOOOONE.

4.5/5





nibus's Profile Page

Me on last.fm

Grunty gave me this (finally!):


for this

and this




Freebs made me this cos he is great:







Bela Lugosi's Dad gave me this, because no-one else was interested:


Fortunately, I live in Slough, where there are lovely pubs and stuff.

I don't think there's anything else to say.

Here is me not dressed as Mephistopheles. I'm the one in the middle.



Proud director of




I did this: The Random Times

And these (don't look at them all at once):



























Recent front page messages:

I'll just add this here

(Tue 13th Apr 2010, 11:47, More)

J Peasmade Gruntfuttock

(Mon 16th Nov 2009, 12:42, More)

new range

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stupid monkey antidote

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(Thu 3rd May 2007, 15:04, More)

more crap jesus stuff


savioury rice
(Sat 1st Oct 2005, 21:23, More)

Best answers to questions:

» Caught!

How long have you got?
I spent 5 years of the 1980s at a slightly famous public (boarding) school in Scotland; a school that, predictably, was full of privileged twats (I suppose in relative terms you could include me in that - and indeed the point of this story is me being a twat) - offspring of minor celebrities and royals, etc. To succeed in such a place you needed to be either a) academically bright, b) particularly good at sport, or c) rich. I wasn't any of these, because I am naturally lazy and spend an awful lot of time pissing about - hence why b3ta has such appeal (and I have about £3 to my name). I spent my first two years there realising that I wasn't academically bright enough, so I resigned myself to getting by on the bare minimum. The spare time previously invested in academic effort would now be invested in pissing about.

The new intake of kids in 1987 brought a new guy, Paul, straight into the 5th form (15/16). He was rather odd: his 'music' collection consisted of a complete set of Churchill's speeches and nothing else, and he had a thing for knives, but nevertheless we got on because he was a) academically lazy, and b) spent all his time pissing about. We soon found out that two people can do much more pissing about than one person.

At that time drinking and smoking at school was completely banned - get caught 3 times and you'd be out. The height of rebellion was to acquire a single(!) B&H and sneak off into the woods with your 8 mates, and share it - then return to a ritual of chewing gum and dousing yourself in deodorant - as much to say "Look, I've just been for a fag, I'm well hard" as to say "I haven't been smoking, honest sir".

Not for us - too boring. In our final 2 years there, Paul and I embarked on what we would have said was a trail of destruction, but in fact was a string of petty, minor 'offences'. We started with the easy stuff: letting teachers' car tyres down. Phoning teachers at 3am (and 3.30am, and 4am...etc.). Ordering them pizza. Ringing the chapel bell at night (a long-standing challenge: see how many rings you can do before a teacher turns up and you have to leg it). We put on balaclavas and spent the occasional Saturday evening jumping up and down on the roof of the detention block until the teacher came out - then we'd soak him with water pistols. We bugged (thanks to some friends who were in the electronics club) the staffroom and our housemaster's office, listening in on 108.8 FM - range of about 250 metres.

So far, so petty. Soon it expanded to the slightly more serious. The fairly large school grounds were next to an RAF base. Paul had a plan for it. We donned our balaclavas and...er...camo gear, and armed with a pair of wire cutters (where did he get this stuff?) we sneaked off, snipped the wire and went trespassing. Outside one of the hangars was a Hawk - a training jet, same kind as the Red Arrows use - which was the 'victim' of stage 2 of our plan. We'd brought with us a shoebox covered in brown paper, with BOMB written on it. We gaffer taped it to the plane's canopy and legged it. The massive rush of adrenaline we got soon faded - we were disappointed that there was no comeback; no mention of a bomb scare, no RAF people at the school asking for an inquiry. No satisfaction of thinking "Yeah, we did that".

We upped the stakes a bit. A new boarding house - strictly off-limits - was being built. We investigated it quite often at night - but one evening we found a 2-ton dumper truck (one with the skip on the front) on the site, and - oh dear - the key was in the ignition. We started it; fucking hell, what a noise - and took it for a spin round the site. They're not easy to drive, but they are easy to drive into trees. And also remarkably resilient when being driven into trees. After about 20 minutes we got a bit scared that someone would turn up because of the noise, so we decided to call it day - only the fucking thing wouldn't stop. We turned the ignition off but no luck, it was still grinding away. We tried to stall it - put it in 4th and drop the clutch. No difference. In the end we just left it in neutral. It was still idling away the next morning when the site staff arrived.

The next day, at morning assembly, the headmaster strolled up to the lectern. If that happened, you could guarantee that something serious was up, and indeed it was - he gave it the "own up and your punishment will be lessened" treatment. Paul and I sat poker-faced and anonymous among the 500 or so other pupils as he read out the details. The "own up" tactic was an empty hand - they hadn't a clue who'd done it. We got away with it.

We also got away with stealing and joyriding a school minibus - the keys were kept in the staffroom which was always unlocked (duh!). Neither of us had a licence. I'm aware that this probably would have got us a criminal record had we been caught; I'm in equal parts proud (for sticking up two fingers to public schools) and ashamed of it. This was another one for the "own up" speech in assembly.

In my final term we got a bit creative: one of the things at school which gave you some kudos was having a treehouse (sounds a bit childish now!). A friend of ours was doing Woodwork A-level and had a key for the workshops, which we stole from him while he was asleep, and helped ourselves to supplies. We ran a cable from our treehouse to the canteen (about 150 metres away), plugging the extension in behind a freezer so we could have a TV in the treehouse. It was on this occasion that we noticed an opportunity to liberate as much chocolate as we could possibly eat, as we found out the location of the (locked) canteen storeroom.

We broke in through a skylight, then in through the crawlspace above the false ceiling - polystyrene tiles. It appeared to be the EU Chocolate Mountain, and we nicked it, along with - for some reason - a box of forks (curse you, forks!). We ferried the boxes of Mars bars, Marathons (those were the days) etc. back to the treehouse. Into assembly the next day and we managed not to smirk as an increasingly frustrated headmaster let us know that someone had burgled the canteen and they ought to own up.

About a month after this I accidentally (honest!) set my bedsit on fire (I wasn't in it at the time); I left a lamp on which had fallen over and set fire to the curtains. I remember hearing the house fire alarm and seeing the fire engines roll up, then going to see what was going on, only to find them pumping water through my bedsit window. Everything was ruined - either burnt or had water damage, including my precious Sisters of Mercy 12"s.

The next day I was in the housemaster's office.

"Ah, Nibus. The fire crew found these in your study. Can you explain?"

He handed me a small box. In it were 8 forks. The same forks I'd stolen from the canteen and which had eventually made their way, stupidly, back to my now burnt-out bedsit. Fuck.

"Ahhh, errr, I don't know where they came from sir."

"Well I'll tell you. They're from the canteen. I think you know exactly how they got into your study."

Fuck it - he had me. He'd caught me on the hop enough for "I don't know sir" to hold no water. He'd searched Paul's study as well and found a rather large amount of chocolate, plus Paul's ever-increasing collection of knives (which were also contraband).

We were both expelled the next day. The housemaster had been after us for a while - he'd twigged we were up to something - and he'd finally got us. He could pin all the chocolate on Paul (and of course his knives) but all he had on me was the fucking forks! Expelled for 8 fucking forks!

That was it for my criminal career, and a good thing too. Paul, however, is due for release in 3 years' time. Convicted in 1994 for a £300k armed robbery that went wrong, he served 8 years. He'd been out for a year when he was up before the High Court in Aberdeen accused of a stabbing and firearms offences. He got 15 years, reduced to 10 on appeal.

I eat my dinners with a knife and spoon now.

Length: I'm sorry.
(Tue 8th Jun 2010, 20:39, More)

» Weddings

kids r us
Last year, at a friend's wedding (genuinely nice guy, dreadful domineering wife) ceremony, Maidenhead registry office (like the living room of an old folks' home), the bride's mother, real hello-trees-hello-sky character, stands up to read classic AA Milne poem.

Us in the back row (average age 28) were taken completely unawares by the first line:

"Wherever I am, there's always Pooh"

Cue general red-faced collapse, suppressed snorting and silent tears of mirth.

As we sat quaking with ill-disguised spasms, row of 9-year olds in front of us turns to give us dagger-looks which say "Don't be so childish"...
(Fri 15th Jul 2005, 11:25, More)

» That's me on TV!

Crash TV
In 1990 I witnessed an air crash (there's not much to do in the north of Scotland).

Local TV news cameras arrived the next day and interview me:

"It was very quick - there was a big bang and a fireball" I say

They interview my mum

"It was just like a sunset" she says, wistfully

They interview my dad (who at that time was a fairly well-respected local figure)

"I didn't see it - I was in the toilet" he says

My dad got top billing when it aired - I was last
(Thu 11th Jun 2009, 14:25, More)

» Vomit Pt2

There's something in the toilet
In 1990 (20 years ago? Fuck!) I worked here, as a 'tour guide', which involved pointing at old things and lying. I was paid the mighty sum of £2.30 an hour, with which I did what any bored 17-year-old in the wastes of northern Scotland would do: spent it on booze and dead things masquerading as kebabs.

My initiation into the world of pubs, drunks and hangovers started at the easy-listening end: Guinness and whisky. I decided quite quickly that I didn't like either, but I also decided I didn't want to be called a poof for drinking anything else. So down it went.

One evening I was introduced to what my mates called a 'Robert Johnson' - Guinness with Bailey's. This made Guinness much more palatable for me, so I had more than I should. I can't remember how I got home, but when I woke up the next morning I felt like a pig had shat in my head, and I had to go to work.

Off I went on my moped (top speed 29.8 mph) and I expect I was still over the limit, but I got there in one piece but feeling worse because my stomach had been lurching about on the way.

Anyway, I was on duty in the blue bedroom (four-poster bed, watercolours, Victorian/Edwardian furniture). As the morning went on I felt worse and worse, to the point where standing up began to make me want to throw up. Luckily it was quiet, so I decided to lie down. What if I lie down on the bed and fall asleep? I'll get the sack if anyone comes round. I know! I'll lie *under* the bed, nobody can see me there. So I did, and I fell asleep.

I woke myself up probably only a few minutes later with the urge to throw up. Looking out from underneath the valance, I make eye contact with the first visitor that's been round this morning. He looks at me blankly. "Er...I lost some money under here," I say weakly. I get out from under the bed and the room starts spinning uncontrollably, followed by my stomach. I have to go.

On the 2nd floor of the castle there is a nice, pristine, spotless, clean, white, Victorian bathroom. It's part of the tour so it's never used as a bathroom. It's the nearest thing to receive the rising contents of my stomach. I kneel before the porcelain throne, with my foot on the door (there's no lock) so no-one can get in. Here it comes - the worst bit about being sick - the waiting. I am salivating like a dog with a hot sausage. Oh god, this must be how Robert Johnson died. Here it comes - WHAM. A massive spasmy gush of black stuff - and again. Christ. I am going to die like Robert Johnson and Elvis. Then - it's gone.

The damage is an extensive tarry black splat in the previously nice, pristine, spotless, clean, white, Victorian WC. It's like a lumpy mix of soil, bitumen and treacle, and it stinks like cat shit. Thank fuck it didn't go on the carpet (who puts carpet in a bathroom? Victorians, that's who).

I wobblily get up to flush. Flush, I said. FLUSH. I pump the handle. FLUSH YOU FUCKER. There's no flush. It's a show bathroom only and there's a sign on the door saying so. Nothing works. FUCK. There's no water in the cistern. Bollocks. I turn the taps on. Dribbles, no good. The stink from the treacly sick monster is spreading.

I rush to the nearest water source, the staff kitchen on the 3rd floor. I come back with a teacup full of hot water.

The visitor who saw me under the bed is just coming out of the bathroom. He looks at me again. He clearly thinks the nightmare in the pan has come out of my arse.

It takes me half an hour to clean it, relaying teacupfuls of hot water. I have never touched Guinness since, but I have listened to a lot of Robert Johnson.
(Wed 13th Jan 2010, 12:20, More)

» The Worst Journey in the World

Dorchester to Toulouse
This is not very spectacular, but easily the worst journey I've ever had, mostly due to my blasť lack of forward planning and ability to attract weirdos.

It's the summer of 1993 and I've just finished 6 weeks of archaeological dig in deepest Dorset. I have to get from the tiny one-goat village I'm camping in to the tiny one-goat village in the south of France where my parents have helpfully moved to.

After 6 weeks' camping I am filthy and suffering from prolonged camping food symptoms. It's hot and I am dressed like Carl McCoy from Fields of the Nephilim (yes, I know). I decide the best way 'home' is to get the bus to Bournemouth, pick up my stuff, then get the bus to Southampton, ferry to Cherbourg, then train to Toulouse. Easy.

Tiny one-goat bus arrives and I get on it with my stinking bag of unwashed clothes. Change (bus) at Dorchester, get bus to Bournemouth. It's hot and sweaty all the way. 2 hours later, arrive Bournemouth. Walk 3 miles back to my student house to pick up stuff. Decide to take enormous stereo and (separate) CD player, and whatever clean clothes I can find (half a sock). Heavy, but manageable on rickety plastic trolley. Walk back to bus station. I am the only person in Bournemouth wearing a long coat and scarecrow hat.

Bus arrives in Southampton in the early evening. I have to get the ferry but I have no idea where Southampton docks are. Someone tells me it's an hour's walk. I start walking. 20 minutes later, wheel falls off trolley. Arsebiscuits. Stuff too heavy to carry for longer than 3 minutes at a time. I panic. Find phone box, ring my mum. She rings my uncle who lives in Southampton. I haven't seen him for 15 years, due to him being a nutcase and/or Hitler. He turns up, says 'Get in' and drives me to the docks without a word. I get out with my stuff and he drives off before I can close the door. I lug my stuff onto the ferry and collapse in a stinky corner. I am copiously sick for most of the crossing due to stress and the heat. Still got my hat on, though.

Ferry arrives at Cherbourg, by which time I have patched up trolley wheel. Ferry terminal is miles from train station. I walk. I just make the train, but not before putting a dent in my stereo in the rush. Train to Toulouse goes via Paris, so I have to change. Change stations. Arses. After some disorientation I get on the Metro to the Gare Austerlitz. I look and smell like a corpse, especially as I notice there is sick on my hat. People start to avoid me - except for one half-dressed freak who starts to hassle me for money. He doesn't have any teeth. The carriage is packed so I tell him to piss off. He just stares at me. The carriage starts to empty over a series of stops. The guy is still staring at me with his hand out. I get worried - it's two stops till I have to get off. He gives up, and gets off with one stop to go. I'm so relieved I take my hat off.

I get to Gare Austerlitz and I've missed the Toulouse train. ARSES. It's 5 hours till the next one. I collapse in a corner. The gendarmes eye me suspiciously. Also eyeing me suspiciously is a very well-dressed man. He comes over and asks me if I'm ok - I tell him I'm just tired. He twigs I'm British and gives me a funny look, then he asks me to go for a coffee. I (stupidly) accept. It turns out he's an automatic door salesman from Versailles. He wants me to go and live with him. I tell him I'm going home but he won't have it. He becomes faintly aggressive and goes on about how lonely he is. He keeps staring oddly at my luggage, and tells me I 'must go' with him. I stand up to get away; he stands up too. I tell him I have to go to the toilet (with my luggage). His face lights up. I shit myself.

I get to the toilet as quickly as I can without running. Shit - he's following me. I get through the door, lock myself inside a cubicle and brace the door with my feet and luggage. I stay there for 3 hours. Periodically, someone pushes silently against the door. I get worried that I'll miss the train, so I have to come out. He's gone. I get the train.

I get out at Toulouse. While I'm waiting, I see my parents go past, slowly, in the car. They see me but it doesn't register. I look like an exhumed Edward Scissorhands with a hat on. They come past again - I see my mum mouth "is that him?" through the car window. I've been travelling for 28 hours and I can only just manage to say hello.

On the way back to Britain, I get the plane. At no point do I shit myself.

length etc.
(Tue 12th Sep 2006, 10:12, More)
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