Those bastard farmers stole an hour off of me! How dare they! The human body is an amazing thing. A few weeks ago mine was a complete mess, and didn't know whether it was coming, or gone. After merely a fortnight of scrambled eggs and a vaguely regimented bedtime pattern, it now wakes up like clockwork at 8am, no matter how drunk it had gotten last night (it was very drunk last night as well, cursed whisky. It always thinks it is perfectly fine and righteous and in a perfect state to conduct meaningful conversation, despite years of evidence suggesting the contrary. It is a fool, run by a fool, for foolish reasons).

Anyway, Today I awoke at 8, in a little pain, but it was in fact 9. Farming swine! This has fucked me right up. Now it says on my machine that it is nearly seven so I have to run down to Brixton, when really it should be nearly six, plenty of time to eat pasta and faff about with socks and the like.

Still. Masked And Anonymous, Dob Bylan's much maligned American allegory, is ace. It's got John Goodman and Jeff Bridges in it. It's funny. It's true. It kind of works like an album. I think it might have been written like an album. You will like it, I am sure. Bear in mind its happening in America, now. Then it will make sense.