I have been hammered two days in a row. Hammered in Camden, in fact. Hammered in Camden, in Coco. It is shocking. Seems to have damaged my eye worse than usual. The bugger hurts, yo. Still. I had a nice night. Went to The Purple Turtle to see Marv The Marsh and Jack Nimble with the rest of the Why Lout? fam, save Pixel - wherefore art though Pixel? Come home all is forgiven! And, yeah, that was ace. Marv's new songs are awesome, especially the one about his brother and the one about his shit jobs. I wanna do a remix of both of them, specially the brothers one though. Marv's is about how he needs to beat his brother up. Mine will be different. I love my brothers. They're ace. It was little Zef's birthday yesterday. He was 18! 18! Not so little no more, I guess. He's got a girlfriend and a skin head and everything. It is kind of upsetting. I hooked up with my boy Goblin Baz and his Goblin Bride To Be after that, and we went to see The Boyfriends play the G Bar, which used to be the O Bar, or something. It is red now, and has Scarface paintings everywhere. It is still pretty shit. The Boyfriends were surprisingly ace though. I only went to laugh at my mate Gay Barnett, who plays bass for them. Whaddyou mean, they've got, like, five huge pop songs? Shocks, shocks. You should probably read Barnett's tour diary from last week, when they supported Morrissey round Europe. It is funny.

After that we went to bloody Coco, but it was OK. I bumped into my old friend Gem, of whom I am very proud - She's all grown up now and manages a shop! I also suffered the evil of Young Tom, and met lots of safe kids who love Thanks For All The AIDS. No one can dance in there. Still.

A few of you have been emailing complaining about my horribly out of date press page. This is fair. I need to sit my ass down and sort it properly, as there are a great number of articles to stick up, but in the meantime, here's a few bits from this week:

A PlayLouder football interview with me and lots of other people. The best bit is when they ask Martin Carr "what would you do to make football better?"

Martin says, "Shoot all the players in the face."

What else. An interview with me on Boobytrap's site about holidays and burglary.

Oh yeah, an amusing interview I did with UK Dynasty wherein they complained I use too many long words. Waste!

Apparently the interview I did for Kruger's new interview is shocks, but I haven't seen it yet. It concerns the role of the female in horror movies. They're all extended rape metaphors, essentially. Right? Right.

[The Boyfriends] Oh, and my favourite newspaper (haha) The Guardian today calls me "weird, wonderful and utterly compelling", in a review of that gig we did the other night in Bumden. I should, however, mention, that it was written by Sophie Heawood, who i lived with for a while. Most people wouldn't tell you that. They'd be like, wow, the Guardian loves me, I am so cool, nothing to do with the fact I know the writer, oh no. I mean, I don't doubt that Sophie thinks I'm weird, wonderful, and compelling. I am. But I think we should all be real about these things.


Wow, I am well loving Green Day today. Trey is coming over with weed and whiskey, and we are going to make bootlegs. It's nearly seven o clock, and its still sunny outside. Fucka bloodeye. Life is beautiful.

This is a poem my little brother Alex wrote when he was 15 or something. It is called

Wine not blood

Isn’t the barmaid lovely? With her unwound cassette ribbon curls And her cheeky wink And watered-down drinks From the taps in the White Pike Tavern.

She giggles like a schoolgirl And fights like a boxer And once a month the old man locks her in the cellar And hangs pictures on the wall of the Second World War And hangs fishing nets on the feeling But never speaks of how he’s feeling And she takes them down when he lets her out And I’ve seen them argue But she never shouts And isn’t she ever so lovely? With her tousled tresses and gypsy dresses And her penchant for Queen’s Greatest Hits.

Perhaps her only fault is she puts too much salt On the chips in the White Pike Tavern. Because she knows what makes us thirsty And she swears she’s not a day past thirty And the old man says that she is his wife But she must be his daughter It just isn’t right And she sometimes wears those earrings I bought her And I know when I saw her washing her hands It was wine not blood As rain soaked my hood That ran down the sink As I stood in the car park in the puddles on the tarmac And she didn’t see me looking And although I’ve heard nothing Of the men who are missing Who I saw her kissing I’m not scared They could have gone anywhere So I’ll try not to stare At the beautiful barmaid in the White Pike Tavern Because I have an ‘overactive imagination’.