Rangy Manatee

The returning smell of the cajun chicken sandwich I ate for lunch today reverberates around my room – no, takes its toll on my room. It commands the attention of all who are present. And thank christ no one else is here, for the words “dude, that is sick, you’re going straight to hell” would pollute the room, and yet we all know that is rubbish because hell doesn’t exist, and if it did it probably wouldn’t be all that bad, right?

As long as I had my MD player and at least 15 discs on long play function, I’d be reet.

The choppy, chubby beats of the new Hood album are swarming around the space that my gastric relief occupied only moments ago. I shift in my chair, my back aching quite badly (caused by years of poor posture and a speech impediment).

Ooh, the song’s changed…violins…nice. That last one was a bit boring.

Wait, Chris Adam’s voice actually sounds quite good on this one. Cool. They’re pretty good live too, which is handy as they’re a band.

Why did The Wire never return my calls? I’m a wicked music journalist.

The NME didn’t return my calls either but they did fax me a picture of a boy with a gun in his mouth and the words “smoking is cool” scrawled in crayon next to it. Bless.