Doughboy.

Just when I master Twitter, they drop this shit on me.
Another morning spent listening to some Northern Soul footstompers. Standard.

Another morning spent listening to some Northern Soul footstompers. Standard.

By ‘eck Maroon 5 are shit. Put a shirt on and leave Mick Jagger out of this you penis.

Norman Stanley Fletcher, working class hero. I love being British, me.

Norman Stanley Fletcher, working class hero. I love being British, me.

Good God.

Looking around this site, it’s size intimidates me. How am I supposed to make a difference? When a world full of hipsters are reblogging pictures of their pierced gooches and their boring fucking gap year, where does that leave me? So amma just stand here outside the giant Tumblr gates and yell and moan like a five year old. Fight the power.

A Tribe Called Quest. These chaps are the greatest, of all time. That is all.

A Tribe Called Quest. These chaps are the greatest, of all time. That is all.

Hello?

Is anybody out there?

Melancholic 60’s pop. The chorus has been dipped in honey and coated in sugar for your enjoyment. I must have some sort of past life/nostalgia disorder, because these melodies make more sense to me than anything produced in the last 20 years. Today I will mostly be listening to Lesley Gore, The Shirelles, The Ronnettes and The Shangri-La’s.

Just watched Casino again. You can talk about Japanese and European cinema until your blue in the face, but as far as I’m concerned, yank legends like Scorsese and De Palma have got banging soundtracks, deep characters and cathartic violence locked down. All hail the masters.

Just watched Casino again. You can talk about Japanese and European cinema until your blue in the face, but as far as I’m concerned, yank legends like Scorsese and De Palma have got banging soundtracks, deep characters and cathartic violence locked down. All hail the masters.

Fuck LoveFilm

 On hold for 63 years, listening to the same ‘smooth’ sax on loop. Part of me starts to wonder if this is what Lionel Richie’s farts sound like. Suddenly someone finally answers and I start to wonder if the whole thing is an elaborate prank that started three months back and is just culminating now. I look around for Jeremy Beadle, host of Beadle’s about. I remember Beadle’s is dead, I get sad. Rest in peace Beadle’s.

 As I repeat my post code for the ninth time and try not to cry I think the asian chap on the other end of the phone senses my mood. Does he try to speed the whole thing up? does he balls. He twists the knife then pours vinegar in the wound by begging me not to close my account. As I politely decline time and time again, he goes through an array of emotions. At first he’s hurt, I think it’s going to be him crying instead. Then he’s confused. Before long his arms are wrapped around my leg like a needy girlfriend and as I head for the door he bawls that no one will ever love me like he did. Then he hangs out the window shouting profanities as I walk down the street, saying how his brothers are going to beat me up.

Eventually we get to the part where I can put the phone down. I swear I hear him mutter ‘prick’ as he does so. But anyway, yeah. Don’t join LoveFilm, especially on any ‘special introductory offer’ because they are shite and not at all what they promise them to be. Infact…