Time For Insomnia

Some nights, especially when its hot, I can’t sleep. So, I pick up an iPad, no no not that, and I start trawling through ebay without any intention to buy anything, I simply gaze in bewilderment. I do this sometimes for hours until I am hypnotised by the sheer vastness of it. So much stuff, and all of it destined for landfill. How awful, how does that help me sleep? I am not certain but just thinking about each item for a few seconds and pondering why it exists slowly wears down my mind and I slip into a coma, just like watching the news with the sound off.

So then, here for you delectation is another small selection of soporific books and Cd’s that have stood out for their dizzying powers as part of my sleep aid.


Don’t forget your toothbrush, 

bible, mosquito net, blunderbuss


  Looking at those trees behind him I think he should start to worry a lot 
  about ecology 



 Toff Gun?

A season to discover and kill? This is an example of why the English are loved 

and vehemently hated


  This CD title is one of the worst puns since … Toff Gun
 What on earth is going on here?



Cut out the middleman and toss this compacted pulp straight back on the compost


 For some reason this makes feel rather sad. Has the father died. Is it he, Ben Hatch, taking the picture? Or, is the mother, Dinah Hatch, now with a woman who is taking the picture? Is it just a professional set up, are they all actors set against a Green Screen in a sterile studio? 
 There’s too much to think about and I’m getting woozy. Whatever it is I can’t look at it without a sinking sense of melancholy

This is more of the same. 
 This one makes me blissfully aware that I have no children. I’d rather be dead than wear those clothes. Looking at that chap’s expression I’d suggest he’s thinking the same




This looks to me like pure filth
 Shame on you Keith Waterhouse (Dead writer & Soho Soak)


 50 Shades of wrong here. What on earth is this picture trying to convey? Perhaps that she is hundreds of miles away from a television and wishes to discover one nearby to study? Is she in an amature dramatic group adaptation of Nicolas Roeg’s film Walkabout? No, it is of course just a typical gratuitous shot. Given the book’s subject, and that it comes from the BFI, you’d think they’d be fully aware that this cover image is ridiculously irrelevant

 Nighty night sleep tight











100 Things I Love (Part 6)

26. I love not having or owning children.


It was a choice I made early. The world doesn’t need another Half Of ME. 


Oddly, people always asume it was a choice and not the consequence of something else. 


Do what?

I have never been asked about my fertility. I’ll never know the answer.


So, I’m only responsible for myself and everything I say and do to the entire world.

27. I love shopping alphabetically. Food shopping can get dull.


So this week I am only buying things that start with the letter A.


You can lose weight on some letters. 

I also do it by packaging. Next week only tins, mnnn. 


Tins! Yes!


Oh Jesus

28. I love having my head scratched. 


Fingernails comb my brain stems into flowing streams of enlightened consciousness. 


I think pets are onto something.



29. I love Custard. Not to eat, you crazy fools. I like playing with it. You get a bowl of the powder then add small amounts of water until is a very thick mud. Then you scoop some out and squeeze it. It magically turns into a solid. Then as you let it go it returns to a liquid, you can have hours of stoner fun.


Try it in wanky restaurants. 

30. I love looking for things to put in the Trash on my computer.


After a good forage I hit the empty Trash button and I feel as if I have lifted a small burden from the world’s digital shoulders.


Despite billions of dollars being spent to create English language versions of computer operating shitstems we still have American Trash instead of English Rubbish. 


Shovel this down your gullet you plonker

Fergus Henderson Is Trying To Murder Me

Do you know this man?

His name is Fergus Henderson. I hardly know him. I met him a few times at his restaurant, St. John in St. John Street. He seemed like a nice chap for a restauranteur but alas I was mistaken.

Examine closely the photo below. He is quite clearly contemplating murder and the possibility of light rain.

Why me you may be asking? Well to cut a long story short he seems to have decided to poison me for no apparent reason.


It all started when I innocently picked up this book written by the lunacidal maniac Henderson himself.

Or …




Amongst all his goulishly macabre food goings on, is one recipe that particularly raised hells alarm bells. A recipe for a sinister cocktail.

It professed to be a hangover cure. “Poppycock, Snake Oil” I cried.

Here are the two satanic ingredients

Only a meat cleaver wielding maniac wearing David Hockney's glasses would mix these two together. He tells the reader not to be “put off by the colour.” No wonder, when mixed it turns to a vile shade of gangrenous swamp syrup, and upon first taste one is convinced that a sadistic practical joke has been played.

And indeed it has.

Because it bloody well works. The hangover disappears as if by Black Magic. It works so well that anybody who tries it will be placed under the spell of Fergus The Poisoner.

I am now a slave to its toxic allure. This fatal elixir was passed on to a younger Fergus Henderson by his father, who may or may not be a Doctor, and may or may not have created it in a medical lavatory. Fergus has now come up with an icecream version so that he can kill your children.

Be warned

Below is a poster for the sort of film Fergus might dream of appearing in, or it might be just something made up using a shitty free app on an iPhone.




A Minor Alteration (Brutal Tailoring in Andaluz)

It doesn't happen too often thankfully, given my propensity for frequenting bars of notoriety, that I get into an unresolvable disagreement with a fellow fool. Thus it was last Saturday that a gentlemanly disagreement compelled me to turn a chair over a chap of minimimilist logic. He left quickly.

I felt badly afterwards but felt much worse when a fellow patron of the bar pointed out the poorly executed alteration the fleeing fuck-wit had made to my jacket. I was however relieved that I managed retain some dignity; my silk pocket square stayed in place during the entire cuffufle.

I usually remove my hat before embarkation, as this usually signals to any fellow wrangler of my unhappy intentions, i.e. To instill a firm understanding of “The Gooobye Look.” He shall be hearing from my Tailor!


An Unnatural Alliance

Apologies to anybody who gives a shit about what I post, but I have not had much desire to use the internet in the last few months due probably to enjoying a more visceral and less virtual life. No disrespect to WWW intended.

This rather poor photograph details a strange incident a week or so ago when I found myself accidentally managing a Tribute to Manchester United Football Team in Spain, makes a welcome change from another Fink Ployd, Ned Zeplin or Arcade Monkeys.

I am sporting what I consider to be respectable atirment for the position. I can be seen swigging from a bottle of budget flavoured rum I retrived from the icup they are holding. My training of the team and tactical methods were brutal and basically involved group Cruz Campo Lager drinking before and during the match, but forboten alcohol post match. Thus the team Imbibed like Trojans, and of course we won. I loath football but always enjoy a good win.