Modesty, a lack of pomposity, humility. Skipping through a field of stiff upper lips with a twinkle in the eye, this is how the true Ninj likes to see him or herself. Ego squashed beneath rigor and correctitude. Masked, clothing fashionably but unobtrusively black. Understated.

Tenth anniversary? Pah, old hat, been done (to death) by everybody else already - eight hundred CDs belched from the depths of a marketing man's torrid night-time cum-hither fantasy. Now That's What I Call A Bunch Of Old Ravers/Jazzers/IndustryTarts Cashing In Number 4080…

But hey, we're due a new Ninja Cuts anyway. Why not tie it in a little? Come up with a high-concept title - XEN - in gold leaf lettering, just for a larf like? Why not? Keep it short, sweet and see what happens?

The grand old heads meet and agree the principle - ad hoc stylee. The new Ninja Cuts is born.

But baby Xen is not like other compilations. While the Ninja do their ninjy thing (y'know, with those little stars and all of that), baby Xen starts sucking stuff in, feeding, feeding, a black hole in the corner of the office, forever sucking. Insatiable.

It's just a single CD of new material.

Growing…

It's a double CD of new material and singles tracks.

More…

It's a double CD of new material and singles tracks plus a third CD of 'missed, skipped and flipped' something like that tunes.

And suddenly, the Ninja look up from their desks and in the corner of the room is Xen-Elvis in the Laos/Vegas phase, a huge, sparkling, bloated fucking monster of a compilation, surrounded by four hundred dancing girls (policitcally correct, o'course), four hundred dancing boys (anatomically
correct, o'course), pyrotechnics, a Noah's ark of performing animals, great skipfuls of fattening food and a pantheon of two-headed gods, all smiling beatifically and setting their bellies wiggling in time with a multiplicity of beats. All giving off this weird glow - buddhist technicolor.

And the buildings are trembling, cracks appearing in the walls, spangly stars flying out of every orifice of the screaming office Ninj, swirling up and round Xenelvis as he begins to puke out great swathes of music. Stylistically.