Friday, 19 November 2010

I love that there is a film coming out about those big hulkin' linotype machines, but I wish the trailer sneaky peeked the results that sprung from such dinosaurs. For those who like a little drama in their type:

"Linotype: The Film" Official Trailer from Linotype: The Film on Vimeo.

Via I Love Typography.

There is also some sickeningly beautiful new Seb Lester work gone up there too, complete with workings out. FIT.

Tuesday, 31 August 2010


Psyched on getting an illustration in the new Mercy E-Zine, and that we'll be playing a show for them in an old paint shop on the street that nearly forgot its own name.


I was Tuesday evening blue with a pain flower in dull bloom just left of my stage-right hip bone. The dog in the next yard shookah-shook a yard dog’s day from his shoulders and watched the lock on the gate to the alleyway. “All your months will begin on a Sunday” said the boy in black to a girl in grey who maybe then got home without her keys. I was heavy eyes under weekend weight, and I held my hands to sleep.

Friday, 13 August 2010

You know you're going to make a good record when...

a partner in crime sends a message that reads "The drum sound on Physical Graffiti is mega!"

Couldn't agree more.

Monday, 2 August 2010


Caught Rob Penn's Ride of My Life on BBC 4. He bolted about the world buying bits to make his dream bicycle. Some good enough moments, but did a rather bad job of feigning super-loco enthusiasm at every turn (For fuck's sake Rob, it's only a fucking headset), as well as confusing most of his interviewees by pissing himself at really odd moments. He came out with a Campag Record groupset on a Rourke frame with Cinelli bars, a Brooks seat and a Chris King Headset and rode off into the distance with his wallet some 5 grand lighter.

Wimbledon-bound tomorrow, with a pit stop in Camden, followed by some summer rain in Anglesey with the Crash Gang.

Obsessed with Exciter's "I HATE SCHOOL RULES"

And the less said about the album cover, the better.

Thursday, 15 July 2010

Back in Black(pool)

Work has been getting all up in my time and shit, hence the no-post. Did a UK legger with my mates for 5 weeks and we're still mates and so we're writing another record so that the exercise can be repeated until we are older men than we are right now.

The severe weather warnings of the weekend saw myself, Dunc and the Brown Town swerve the fuck out of our coast to coast jaunt. We got up with the larks and instead rode up to Blackpool and back instead. The thing about Blackpool is that everything there is disgusting. The food is disgusting and Blackpool tower is disgusting. Everyone that you look at with your eyes is disgusting and disgusted by the disgusting people that they look at with their own disgusting eyes. Still, despite a windy and rainy day, I managed to catch a touch of sunburn and a feigned smile smack bang in the middle of our very own Las Vegas.

So yeah. New work:

Should be seeing the light of day in mainland Europe as September trips over October's welcome mat, and I dare say we'll be tripping up drunk across Germany for as long as they can stand us to.

And if Contador wins the tour due to today's tangled code of honour, will the Yellow Jersey offer him any piece of mind at all?

Friday, 11 June 2010

NEVER interrupt de black man or a sleeping bassist.

The dogs started barking up the alleyway at half 7 this morning. It's quarter past 12 and they're still at it. It's akin to knobhead festival-goers screaming "bollocks!" into the messy night. I think if I'd bought a dog and it reckoned it urgently needed to be in the house, I'd just let it in. Saying that, the dogs round here are souped-up on the devil and put to work on each other in the bowls of Bootle skateparks. 1 and a half weeks into the tour and I got the grump of a nocturnal rock musician. Rough with the smooth. Rob's coffee this morning has got my nails down to the quick.

Instant chat-a-like makes it all worthwhile:


it was a weird night, after we left the gig berni got chatted up buy this alcoholic and i heard the most crazy sentence I have ever heard.


What was it?


'your exposed ankles are taking me to a new Babylon, i bet you've got a punani dats a real crispy'


she literally ran away

the weird thing was James went 'what are you saying mate' and he goes 'NEVER interrupt de black man'

Sunday, 30 May 2010

Free the Pterodactyl 3

Joe Tucker made this with the help of Liam and Heather. Heather, sorry we broke your door. I hope you're enjoying your new lock:

Now the rain was laced with pity. The beaches met the coastal roads and street lamps led them blind into the city fast asleep. And the wind carried the curses of collisions in the darkness and the accidental crunch of devil's purses underfoot. I was thinking who out of us all I thought would grow up and just how right and wrong I'd been in equal measure. She is buried treasure. She is bored. Butterflies will die towards the end of summer years, and apparently she's just ignoring them. A friend, he put it simply "If I understood, then I could understand..." These blue eyes grow ageless. The sky feels contagious when the stars recall spots on those teenager's faces who come down here after dark to learn how to fall apart, to dance with the devil until they become free of God's will again. We have surnames for the taking but the girls don't understand the men with guilt the shape of local police stations and the last train home. She settled down and said 'goodnight', never said 'goodnight' and went out in a blaze of glory in a bar room full of history, hope and pity. If I understood, then I could understand. The blue eyes grow ageless. The sky feels contagious. If you were the stars that means I was the places that we went.

Saturday, 29 May 2010

Liam's Blog

Joe was telling me about a restraunt deep in Cheshire he visited with the inlaws. I pissed myself when he told me about 'Liam's Blog'. I wanted to try and describe the concept, but figured that Joe would do a far better job himself. He is the king of the story:

Recently I was in a pub in Cheshire when I spotted something that I can only describe as absolutely wonderful. When I say ‘pub’, it was in fact what most pubs in Cheshire have now become – a pub-restaurant. An aspirational pub-restaurant. Where once patrons ordered pints of Stella, now they’re just as likely to order cappuccinos or the limited edition produce of a local microbrewery. Where once customers were happy with an egg and cress sandwich, now they demand ciabattas; The menus bandy about terms like ‘pan-fried’; They’ve installed a massive sofa; There’s a room called ‘The Library’. Of course it’s all bollocks – the customers may want all the trappings but there’s still a deep resentment for all things cosmopolitan. Yes, we may watch Sex and the City but we still hate gays and the EU. Go and have a closer look at the books on The Library’s shelves – they’re all just Jeffrey Archer novels and Good Pub guides from 1986. The dickhead in the kitchen might offer to rustle you up a Pak Choi salad but he’d never eat that kind of food himself – he’s just saving up for alloy wheels.

Anyway, I was in a prime example of such a pub – maybe the best I’ve ever been in. The menu kept banging on about ‘organic produce’ and referring to the chef by name – Liam. Then I noticed a small blackboard high up on a wall. It was perhaps not much bigger than an A4 piece of paper and read, bafflingly, ‘Liam’s blog’. That bit was painted on, permanently. Then, below it, written in chalk, clearly in the handwriting of a sixteen year old girl, it said something like, ‘Chantenay carrots coming through nicely in the organic vegetable plot’. It was pretty clear this sentiment had not come from Liam. Liam was a front.

But still, I was intrigued – ‘Liam’s blog’. What did it mean? Did Liam have an online existence where he waxed lyrical about the comings and goings of life as a chef in a provincial pub-restaurant - the ‘best bits’ of which later made it on to the blackboard I was now looking at? I can imagine this – I’ve seen other pub-restaurants misguidedly go overboard with their online infrastructure, ie, “The Nag’s Head –don’t forget to visit our website / forum / facebook group”. But a quick internet search on my phone for the name of the pub throws up no such thing.

Let me be clear about this: The small blackboard I am looking at proclaiming itself to be ‘Liam’s blog’ has no online presence. The startlingly abstract reality of the situation finally dawns on me – the blackboard itself, in the minds of the people who run this pub, is ‘the blog.’ This instantly threw up a matrix of questions – what do these people think a ‘blog’ actually is? Maybe they don’t think words need clear definitions? When they write something on this particular blackboard do they imagine they’re writing a ‘blog post’? I imagine the bar manager handing a stick of chalk to a young member of casual staff whilst telling them to “go and update Liam’s blog”.

The only conclusion I can sensibly reach is this, and it’s incredible – the people who run this pub have heard scant mention of this word, ‘blog’. They don’t know exactly what it means but they know it lies in the same strata as ciabatta and quinoa and frappuccino – and those are things that people now want, or, more specifically, want the option to turn down in favour of a ‘gut-busting 12oz Angus Beef burger’. The people who run this pub are so progressive that barely have they heard mention, let alone proper explanation, of an exotic new idea, than they have unselfconsciously run with their own interpretation of it, even at the very real risk of making total fools of themselves, their staff and their entire establishment. I want to find the manager and shake him by the lapels of his jacket and shout in his face until he’s rudely brought up to speed with common knowledge. But then a deeper, pervading sense of sadness – a sort of desperate protectiveness - overcomes me and now I want to find the manager and I want say to him, “Something is coming to you about which you currently haven’t the slightest clue. The world is going to tell you that ‘Liam’s blog’ is wrong - so very wrong, in ways you haven’t imagined. And I want you to know that, whatever they say, it isn’t wrong. I want you to keep ‘posting’ to Liam’s blog, I want you to keep ‘updating’ it, keep ‘uploading’ it. I want you to know and understand that, as far as I’m concerned, that blackboard is Liam’s blog and I want it to remain so for ever more.”

What else?

Watched East Bound and Down in its entirety again, which sent me on the second David Gordon Green bender of the year. The male relationships throughout his stuff are so monstrously well-observed (see Kenny Powers and his brother Dustin or Schneider's gang in All the Real Girls). There's a warmth and fondess between the men, but executed with the flippancy and irreverance that only years in each other's pockets can produce.

Thursday, 20 May 2010

Gettin' Down With Your Royal Badness.

Bendal Interlude day. Bass, guitar and drums for 7 songs in one day. Drummer told band 8.30am so that band arrive for 9am. Heavy metal cunning. Spotted guitarist Stu-pot out in the street at one o'clock last night post Sound City shows. Naughty. Swerved Max Tundra but I'm psyched on Field Music this evening. I'll try and not turn my conversation with Brewis-squared like an interview for Sound On Sound/Tape Op.

Been learning Down With Prince by Hot Chip for Moshi's 100th record release show.

"I'm sick of motherfuckers tryna' tell me that they're down with Prince."

Tuesday, 18 May 2010

Congratulations, your childhood hero hates you.

So here's Dirk Benedict looking a fair bit like my childhood guitar teacher. He didn't look all that much like him when I met him the other day in Blackpool after seeing him playing the part of Lt. Columbo in a stage interpretation of the pilot episode of Columbo. Well, not enough to think of it, anyway.

So what happens when you're known through your 20's as The Face Man? A cool headed van-driving fuck machine, jumping and diving almost unscathed from explosions and bedrooms? What happens when America tells you that you're the hottest shit available for the majority of the 1980's? What happens to a guy who "met Mr T back in '83... No, wait... it was '82"?

You apparently read the Daily Mail, moan about the treatment of Victoria Beckham in the press, whinge about dog shit on Blackpool prom and praise David Cameron. Maybe mistake the British political system for a presidential one and punctuate your point with the phrase "NEXT QUESTION!" You get pissed at me bringing up that Dave Egger's paragraph about Mr T cutting down those trees, deny it, then re-tell it almost word for word, complete with added phone call: "So Mr T, he calls me and he's giggling. Mr T, man! He's a giggler!"

Thoroughly psyched on being an audience to Mr Benedict in the theatre bar. Particularly enjoyed one employee's assumption that Dirk would give a shit about what he had to say:

"My dad owns a block of flats which I actually live in and look after for him..."

Later on, the same employee (who was the kind of guy who probably equates his theories on the final series of Lost to The Big Bang, closes his eyes as he explains) muttered in passing, "Finally met my childhood hero... That's one the perks of working in show business."

Well, congratulations. Your childhood hero hates you.

Thursday, 6 May 2010

Artist Versus Engineer.

Must Read Daniel Levitin's book about the brain and the process of recording music. This Is Your Brain On Music: The Science Of A Human Obsession. He has a band with some other professors on his campus called Diminished Faculties, which is obviously ace. The interview in Tape Op last month is peppered with giggles and insightful summaries. Talking about Macca reading his book and his refusal to learn anything in the way of music theory throughout his 600 year long music career, Levitin says, "Engineers and artists are really ultimately different in one respect, in that I think that artists are more in touch with "the mystery" and it's an engineers job to make sure there is none."

Ride Your Bike To Your Local Bicycle Shop

It's 8:20am and there's a man over the other side of the alleyway puking in his dog shit-infested back yard. Sounds like vultures gulping.

Made a vid for this jam on Monday and Tuesday with the creative powerhouse that is Joe Fucker. Masonic tux-wearing drummer boy marker penathon. Shoot was great; filled with a pouring open endedness as Joe figured out how the fuck it'd work.

In the process of making something nice t-shirt wise for my local bicycle shop. If you're in Liverpool and need a friendly, experienced and knowledgable bicycle mechanic, you'd be a dumb punk not to head straight over to Picton Cycles.

And when I colour it in, I'm swerving red and blue.

Election day. I'll be spending the evening with a friend helping me through a midlife crisis. The results of which will be posted here, I suppose. I hope that no one is stupid enough to help vote in a Conservative government, we already have a BNP Euro MP.

Monday, 26 April 2010

The Madness of Bootle Indoor Market

April Ain't The Cruelest Month

Tonite I will be locking up a new bike with a Miche Primato chain ring.

Thieves like me and you belong to morbid days in Bootle.

Pistachio Party.

Jonty's Hut - KEEP OUT.


Friday, 23 April 2010

Hi Jim

Hi Jim,

This all sounds great. However, something has come up. Please call me urgently.



Thursday, 22 April 2010

Jim Demitriou

Googlemail is a mess. I get emails for 300 Paul Raffertys that aren't me every 30 seconds or some shit. Love this uptight dude attempting to organise a relaxing golf trip with his mate Raffo. I suspect he'd like the army more than having a laugh:

From: jim demitriou []
Sent: 22 April 2010 17:28
To: Paul Rafferty
Subject: Golf on Monday

The Shire London Golf Club. EN5 4RE

If we go M1 1hr 30mins

If we go A14 – A1 2hrs but less traffic

Pick me up 7.15-7.30 I guess.

Arrive 9.30-10

Bacon Rolls & Tea 10am

Start 11.30 finish 4.30

4.30-6 drinks and awards

6-7.30 Dinner

Trousers and collared shirts for golf

Smart casual in the club house, smart jeans allowed.

I live in broughton Astley.


Station Road

LE9 ---


Jim Demitriou

Head of Sales

Church of LA

Guildan had better do this colour of shirt, otherwise they're DEAD.

The Stag's Head

Most of my friends tend to be reasonable people which is perhaps why I have never had the opportunity to lay my eyes on an image like the above. I have a few married friends, but I can guarantee that none of their stag party invites looked anything like this. The invite, sent via email, was coupled with a bastardization of a Rudyard Kipling poem which makes next to no sense, much like the image. Apparently a man who works in a bank made it. He has reached abstraction.

My favourite bits:

Writing "BOSS WOZ ERE" in Comic Sans on a girl's bottom. The crude replacement of the stag's head for a woman's left breast. The use of the term "lucky neegs" and the addition of a complex arrow (when a simple straight diagonal one would suffice) pointing at a black man chatting with a group of attractive women. The addition of an extendable pink tongue protruding from the stag's mouth and entering into a woman's anus.

Thanks so much, Joe. Can't wait to muse on 'Liam's Blog'.

Early Doors Variations

My friend Chris in Edinburgh gets people to go to a club to listen to him play records! He has the best flat in the whole of the UK. Seriously, his flat made me not have a nervous breakdown once. I like designing for Chris. He's like "I NEED THIS FOR THE END OF THE WEEK!" but not in capitals because he is too nice for that, and I'm all like "OK!"

Continuous variations on the Wolf Party identity I did earlier this year.

Tuesday, 20 April 2010

The New Navigationaries

And this will be what the new thing might look like when the thing we made goes live, live live. I'm in the process of trying to make this type into a font that you can type out with your fingers for free-as-fuck download but I don't know how to do that yet. I'm learning and learning is fun. Sometimes learning is long and sometimes longing is boring.

Monday, 19 April 2010

Get High, Stay Low

Get high.
Stay low.
Leave a dumb note for some folks you know:
"I've left to join the Wild Boys and when you read this I'll be far from home"
where the beach meets the tide and the water is black with dull desire
and the pylons hum a secret hymn for the kids in need of quiet time.
The motorway is not as free as the freeways in the films we see
where no-one learns to live alone and choose friendly roads that take them home.
1. There's tails.
2. There's legs.
Insert the first between the next.
Get in late and sleep to death:
There's sanctity in single beds.

Corporate Identathon.

Whilst redesigning some navigation for a new simplistic Hot Club web existence, I fell upon/into some type inspired by some ancient stenciling on an iron door at the Liver Grease factory off Jamaica Street.

Sunday, 18 April 2010

Burn Down The Disco

I love it when a business burns down and the uninvolved spastics simply assume it's an insurance job. "Insurance job do you reckon?" they say.

"Yeah, deffo."

The worst was the celebratory Facefuck status commentaries as though all those people we know (who actually do good work there) will crawl away from the disaster financially unscathed. Heartless cunts.

A text joke darted about Liverpool yesterday in the wake of Korova's demise:

"Gig tonight at Korova. The Little Flames supported by Hot Club."

Got a giggle out of me.

Anyway. Long live the Korova days, I guess. A small but fun chapter in Liverpool's musical history.

Saturday, 17 April 2010

Hercules in Manchester

Luke bought a Hercules and finally 'gets the bike thing'. Great news for me. I forsee some Barcelona bicycle times in a summer coming soon. Luke found out about his new bike and found a lovely monument to Hercules along the way:

I just remembered how funny Hercules in New York is.

Friday, 16 April 2010

Sleep Is Death

I just bought my copy of Sleep Is Death. Waiting for the download code. Not been excited about a computer game since forever. I have a feeling that this game is going to be slightly mega for generating words for songs and other pursuits.

Thursday, 15 April 2010

Dock Road Bridge Happenings/Sexual Justice

Listening to a new Hot Club recording on XFM. Their compressors are fucking RELENTLESS. Sounds like a distorted stereo taking a turn on a twatted-in trampoline. John Kennedy just said "Paul Rafferty on Thunderbroom", which eases the pain a little.

Thursday night ride was PITIFUL.

They've closed down the footpaths either side of the battered-off bridge and erected a plywood tunnel through a usually bollarded middle. A terrified man sat on a mountain bike on the north side was peering down the tunnel and as we passed, muttered "Where does that lead?" in a shaky baritone as though he'd found himself at the gates of some kind of Fuck-Hell. Later, a man (who I expect is a total tit) was pulling wheelies on some souped-up motorcycle whilst his mate stood on the pavement listening to Rhianna out-loud on his phone. I have no idea why these dudes were not balls deep in a gang of decent sluts. There really is no sexual justice.

FAO Dombey Street Dog Owners

One of you has a dog that has been howling like an AIDS-ridden wolf for over an hour in your stupid piss-pot of a back yard. Let him in the house you fuck-plank.

Cycling Was His Life

Reading my friend's copy of Tommy Simpson's autobiography Cycling Is My Life. I didn't realise that he'd inscribed in the front "Dear Paul, our bikes could be your life." Sort of means I can't loan it to anyone ever just in case I never get it back. It's pretty inspiring to read of the Yorkshire man struggling on through the uncharted culture of the amateur cycling world of mainland Europe in the mid 50's. A catalogue of misunderstanding, he shrugs his shoulders time again and exclaims "I felt like a right nit! Anyway, the next day I caught a train to Belgium..." Also a good insight into the birth of darkness in a shadowy sport; He died at 29 of drugging-related complications halfway up a mountain with his hands wrapped around his handlebars.

Tuesday, 13 April 2010


He's calling a sex chat line.

Telephones Times 2

Easter is creepy
(in TK MAXX)

Deviant gay men have OK handwriting.

Get your bike to the beach
(Liverpool to Formby)

Sad pringle.
(RIP Christian's Square).

This guy is just stoked to be here.
(Cains Brewery Tap)

Telephone Times 1

Chorely and Cheshire hit Bootle and wait a while for Canada's company.

Upper Parliament can-bang.

Rob Whitely looks the spit of Earl Grey.

THE most tatty Garfield I have EVER seen. I fucking love him.

Saturday, 10 April 2010

Kicks above the skatepark and everyone I have ever lived with

The entries for Lost Art's Fluff Book comp are looking smashing and daft in equal measure. Liverpool summed up with skateboards, tramps, theives and sunsets. One of my favourites was this guy above by Adam McAleavey. Discarded Vans above New Bird skatepark. I see them every day on blurry rides to work.

I lost my tooth to a sandwich the other day. Feel old enough to write a list of everyone I have ever lived with:

Eric Rafferty
Anne Rafferty
Stephen Rafferty
Ricky Morrow
Stavros Louizu
Kieran ?
Andrew Bennett
Clara Hazleton
Tots Baber
Tim Ellis
Matthew Dolan
Duncan Ingram
Emily Austin
Claire Bussey
Natasha Jordan
Matthew Critchley
Jim Robinson
Faye Wagstaffe
Christopher Smith
Sean Grieves
Robert Whiteley
Matthew Smith
Alasdair Smith


Thursday, 8 April 2010

Tunic Rock

And we all know the kids want to look like they're as ace at communism as the Great Leader.

Monday, 5 April 2010

6 years of seduction

Remember when this was at the end of all your mixtapes?

Rodney Alcala

Huntington Beach Police have released some personal photographs of the serial killer Rodney James Alcala. He was quite the photographer and now Police are looking to find the people he pointed his camera at. The full set is on the LA Times site. Via Reference Library. Totally not nice.

Wednesday, 31 March 2010

Bicycle Headtube Badges

Got my e-balls round these kids over at Fixed Gear Switzerland. How the dick do you make one of these?

Legging it.

Thanks, Genevieve.

Mint Imperials

Right up my frig-alley, for sure. I'm that guy who is always siked on scrolls and paper planes. Via FLWRIDER.

The weather is so mean. I could actually lean on the northerly wind at the Upper Parliament crossroads this morning once my early-doors puncture party had ended. Got a nasty snakebite bad guy all up in my tube after recording some new Cold Ones demos until super dumb o'clock last night. Sounds brazenly radical; Suicidal meets FEAR meets Dead Kennedys (actually so) meets The Who.

A little boy threw Mint Imperials at a window pane in a friend's dream during last night's hailstorm.

Monday, 29 March 2010

The Rise and Inevitable Fall of The High School Suicide Cluster Band

Totally putting out a new record in May. It'll look like this and will feel like reverse board and the vinyl inside should weigh 180g. As its Moshi's 100th record they're doing 5 GOLD vinyls Will Wonka-style. Maybe the winner gets a day out in a pressing plant in the Czech Republic.

We were loading out of The Stag's Head the other night. I was carrying Al's fan and some guy said to a girl I suspect he was failing to have sex with "That's their biggest fan." Dad jokes are like nails in coffins. And mate, its not our biggest fan. My mother is, you prick.

Bargain/16 Channels/Dog/Budgie

Bargain. I can't tell if I like this or if it just looks fucking grubby.

Added 8 more channels to my 8 channel recording rig. Doing a session with Cold Ones tomorrow. Psyched.

A dog was going bonkers in the alley whilst I was taking out the rubbish this afternoon. He kept popping his tiny head through the perfectly square hole the rats have chewed into the bottom of the door and barking. "Hey! You there! I'm over here!" I assume he was saying.

Al went to buy a budgie today. I'm happy for him. The last one he owned brought him the most insane amount of joy. "I used to pretend to people that I'd trained him. Get on my head, I'd say and he'd do it."

Friday, 26 March 2010


Next time I'm struggling, remind me how ace the detail on the Nebraska scroll is. Via Draplin.

Wednesday, 24 March 2010

Harry Main vs Voo

Harry Main section up on the Nike site. I just realised whilst watching it, it was myself and some mates who provided the 'nah nah nah nah nahs' in a house where I now live.

Punk Rock Piss Shot.

Fat Mike has lost his shit a bit. Words.

Vegan Mushroom Risotto Recipe

Is there a reason you're not already frying a chopped onion and some fucking garlic in a pot? Get some OLIVE OIL and do it, just like you would when you make any other other meal in the world that's worth fucking eating. Throw in the mushrooms, bird brain. WAIT! ha! You're using dried mushrooms from that cess-pit of a world food shop in your vile little city? LET ME haven't soaked them yet? REWIND, EINSTEIN. Do that before you do anything else.

A risotto is made of Arborio rice. Sometimes in supermarkets they call it "Risotto Rice" or they'll at least write "THIS RICE IS FOR FUCKING RISOTTOS, DICK-EATER" underneath whatever dick-suck font they've written 'Arborio Rice' in on the packet. It'll probably tell you how much to put in as well, per person. If it doesn't, trying taking a fucking chance on fate and stop being a pussy. Guesswork is what made this country great, not crying like a little girl in a PINK dress in a student kitchen.

If you're a pisshead you'll have some dogshit week-old white wine sitting in your fridge. Take it out. Swig from the bottle. If that mouthful feels like the jigsaw piece that's been missing from your day then DON'T WORRY; It just so happens that you've been doing the right thing for far too long and that the rest of the world can't keep up with your awesomeness. Phone your boss. Quit your job. Pour in some wine, but leave just enough so you piss your pants and panic-phone your old boyfriend/girlfriend later on in the evening. Get one of those vegetable stock cubes that your retarded friend tried to smoke at your last FAILED house party. It'll come in handy seeing as you're about to make some stock. There will be instructions on the back of the box that will tell you how to make it. If you can't read them, like your retarded friend, call your mother. Tell her that you were a fucking mistake.

Now, I know you're a keen little sort; always sticking your dick in things that aren't people and showing your poetry to girls who you will never get to fuck, but this next step will require a little PATIENCE. As you add the stock, the rice will begin to absorb it. If you add too much stock your rice will go to shit. Wait for the stock to be absorbed then add a little more. Use a fucking ladle or whatever. Repeat until the rice is all plump and tender and represents something you might want to eat, not something you have already eaten.

Remember those mushrooms you were soaking? Of course you do, Kim Peek. Drain them and chop them up. Throw them in the pot. This bit is easy and requires little brain power, so maybe you could have a little think about why your older brother or sister is far more successful than you. Maybe you could also do us all a favour and plan to remove all those pathetic photos you took of yourself and posted on Facebook.

Holy fuck! Does it smell good? It should do if you've done everything right. All that's left to do before you and your friends fill your cretinous faces is to add a handful of fresh parsley and a knob of dairy-free margarine. Check that you laughed at the word 'knob', string up a noose and use the fuck out of it. If however, you didn't, stir in some salt and black pepper, serve in a bowl, and for fuck's sake, try not to eat it with your hands. Oh, and if your non-vegan friends want to sprinkle a little Parmesan cheese on the top, you should let them. Do not call them rapists. They'll be needing no encouragement in thinking that you're a total wanker.

Tuesday, 23 March 2010

Get free trainers or die trying.

My friends have got this band called Voo and some dudes what ride BMX's reckon that their instrumental song SCHNICK SCHNACK SCHNUCK would make their videos of them riding their BMX's look totally great. It's for some guys called NIKE! I reckon 2010 might be their year.

Anyway, Voo are flinging this particular song all up in Itunes in the next few days and wanted me to throw something together super-swiftly based on some type design I have done for them in the past.

The video will be up tomorrow over here. Here's a toast to bicycles and free trainers.

Lost Art Masonic Lodge

The Illuminati are recruiting skaters gone conspiracy theorists. 4 possible colourways. Let's see what happens, and if it happens, did it really happen?