Sorry I’ve been silent here.
Had a theory about bedwetters and The Von Bondies to work out.

Had to work out the best way of explaining the scouring, cleansing power of Surf…I mean, Kaito.

Had to bring on board our new media editor, Katrina Dixon, and re-introduce her to the delights of Brighton at night. Andrew Claire’s already mentioned the Wrong Music night at the Free Butt last Wednesday but…whoa!

I missed DJ Smallcock’s glass-eating performance, but Master were scary and fun in the same way I found Withnail And I to be a deeply distressing and ugly film, with their banjo and clarinet and songs about how their roommates should “stop wearing my clothes, you bastard”, and the rather graphic “now I’m singing/NOW I’M SHOUTING” one. Katrina was excited to meet my celebrity pal Captain Sensible, but Ray was too concerned with examining Terminal Output’s impressive collection of effects pedals for embarrassment, and rightly so because TO played 25 minutes of solid, wall-of-feedback and thunder, not even interrupted by Danya trying to claim centre-stage from the audience by snogging the guitarist full-on in the middle of a riff, and sounded…well, nothing like Syd Barrett, despite the good Captain’s claims, but more like My Bloody Valentine in tune-up mode, only fresh and of 2004 of course.

The Sound Of Giant Reptiles Belching (another band) was precisely that, except they appeared to be two or three prone small females. What a night!

In other news, we now are proud slaves to a sulky, affectionate, moody, beautiful cat Poppy. The spinach has shot up overnight, the rosemary is in full flower and I’m still better than my younger brother at table-tennis. Score!