Tomorrow we will be headlining at the Shipping Forecast (which you may have worked out from the big flyer at the top of this page). Looking forward to it.

I'll forewarn you: there are some breasts in this video.

JAUNT

Few things to reflect on, now that Sunday is behind us and we plough on into the final week before the clocks change and we all have to accept that it's glove time. And yes, this is your early warning on that one. No excuses, paperboys/girls, I'm telling you now that BST ends in six days and I don't want next week's Observer arriving any later than my courgette fritter hitting the oil. It's all there in black and white and orange and don't you dare distrust the government.

The only place you'll find sympathy is in the dictionary, right between shit and syphilis. When the mighty red men were felled (unjustly, obviously) to nine, a four goal thumping on away-day-pastures pushes my patience. So, to gloat. Shipping six in front of an audience that is heavily weighted towards friends (rather than foes) is a bit of an embarrassment. Monday mornings can prompt people to cower from contact for various reasons, but believe me, the daft amongst you will want to avoid my path for a week or two, 'cos uze are getting it.

Serious thanks to Digby and Alex for their hospitality over the last couple of days. A weekend spent on and around the veranda of a shed studio deep in Farnham Woods is a good one, and that's what those kind brothers have provided us with. I'd put us at six furlongs from home, so the whip can now be unreservedly wielded with no fear of retribution form the Horse Authority. Tolerate my attempts at topicality, and your reward will be tinned tropicality. The more LA Noire amongst you will be on to my allusions: fresh beats imminent. Yeaaah, buddy.

High Spirits, Suffocative, etc.

The highest, in fact. Immediately below: today's feature sound, background music to enjoy while you read the text follows immediately below it. D'yer follow? It's going to be an assault on the senses, just roll with it.

If you will suck my soul, I will lick your funky emotions, and all that. I can't speak highly enough of Funkadelic.

I was going to talk about Friday night, when we played the Mojo and hit the town, but looks like I've been beaten to it. And it's been done well, so I wont dwell. For the record I will object to the harsh language, though. I'll also add that I had nothing to do with that drink what throws a bottle of VK on top of a four-fold Vodkat measure. No dig. Re: thanks - what he said.

That base being covered, what contemporary sociological thematic area of the outfield should I occupy? Luckily, I'm a cultured soul. I was in FACT yesterday, twenty minutes early for a screening with just enough time to enjoy the installation in their downstairs gallery, it turns out. I thought it was going to be this (new tab this, don't stop the funk), Gormley's Blind Light effort from a few years ago, one that I missed at the time and have always been hoping to be revived. As per usual I went nowhere near any research, and what we got was different all together: a white room, a truck load of dry ice, ambient soundscapes and a strobe light to give you cataracts. It was great. A different sort of great to what I was expecting, sure, but as every bit as intense and bad-tasting as we were told it would be before they let us loose in that weird blind triangular space. I lasted the whole twelve minutes; others in the group bailed before five had passed and I can understand why: as one half of a pair I had an accomplice with whom to share the panic when too far from the rope. Telling, that the token loner misc-European was amongst the early escapees. Deffo go.

Lastly my thanks to all who have tolerated my banging on about the marathon for the last six months and moreover the last seven days. It was huge, and I thoroughly enjoyed my day. I couldn't have done it without the yeas and nays of the sayers.

That's it. Enjoy whatever's left of the way back yonder funk and this picture of what wasn't my Sunday evening.

Carry on Regardless

What a night. A totally bodacious gig at Mojo preceded what can only be described as an exceptional carry-on 'round the best and worst watering holes of the Slater Street gauntlet.  Giddy from the sonic fumes of Valet Dukes, Muto Leo and MinionTV we failed to overlook such armpits as Faculty, but never mind, sanctuary was found by way of quad-vods; an effective anesthetic to foul beats and a sea of mutton dressed mutton.  Sadly our lack-luster herding skills were ineffective in such an establishment, so on to Santa Chupito's where far more success was had, allowing for the creamiest of endings - make of that what you will.

The biggest of up's to Sam Garlick and the rest of the Everisland team for a well considered and sincerely promoted event, we look forward to playing another in the near future.  I hope their forthcoming nights continue with the same success.

Running the Snickers & other things

Large online congratulations are due with respect to Mr. Thomas J Byrne's marathon success yesterday. Whilst Facey laid down some drum tracks for our ongoing recording endeavours and others slept off the night's antics, Tom's sexy pegs brought him home in an impressively punctual 3 hours and 56 minutes. He becomes the 3rd generation of Byrne to smash the Merseyside course, which returned this year after 18 years of scousers being fat lazy bastards. He is the deserved receptacle of our appreciation and admiration for doing something as stupid as running 26 miles & 385 yards for apparently no reason whatsoever.

In other news we shall be playing at MOJO in Liverpool this Friday. If you'd like to come, why not publicise your intentions by attending the facebook event here.

Having recorded the drum parts for a new track, we'll soon be heading down south for some much anticipated studio time so watch this space ------->         <-------- this one right here.

We Need To Talk?

Well, yeah, we do. Mercifully, the recent trend leans towards the concise, and although my natural preference is to swim upstream on most matters, sometimes I prefer more to live a life of ease than one that advocates the devil, moreover when I really need to be sleeping. So brevity is the order of the hour.

I tend to try to present news, as well as mindless garble; but the simple fact is that there aint much news to report. The show must go on, though. Slow news days dont mean double Simpsons or a literal stopping of presses - the latter is of course reserved for big news days, if cliche be believed - so here I lie, punching at keys until something half-satisfactory appears. I'm prepared to resort to wishing Facey a happy birthday, as I never did at the time: happy birthday, Facey. There's also the hot goss (that's Latin, you know) that we practiced in a new room this week. It did the job. And that's everything - it really has been that boring round these ways. A busy weekend coming up. Honest. Yawn. Enough.

A song from someone else, then. Introduction credits to A.Nunn.