Don’t chat to me about science, mini Ghandi

You aren’t very clever, are you?

If possible, my flatmate looks even more retarded than this

I hate being patronised. But I positively despise being patronised someone who is not as clever as me, especially when they are talking shite, or stating the blindingly obvious. Like when a helpful carrot lump told me Mexico City was in Mexico. Like when a helpful moose in my job centre asked if I had a CV (knowing I was a graduate). Like when mini Ghandi, my infuriatingly wooden flatmate, told me to watch out with a tea towel on the outside of the oven as “the whole shop could go up”. Now I know that given fuel, heat and oxygen a fire can occur under the right conditions. These weren’t the right conditions. That tea towel was as likely to catch fire as it was to grow legs and lead a coup in in a small African country. Do shut up Ghandi boy.


Have a gander at my holiday video, yeah? We cut up a fish:

The Libertines

And so the Libertines return. Long-awaited, apparently. They’re doing a warm-up gig for their Reading/Leeds shows at Kentish Town Forum. The problem I have with this somewhat overhyped reunion is that it’s not really about the music, which is where it all started. It’s not even about seeing how fucked up on the grand fuckedupometer of skag Peter Doherty is (I’m going for somewhere between George Best and a tranquilised panda). At £30 a pop for tickets for the warm-up, and whatever extortionate fee they’re getting for the festivals, this is all about the dollar. Oh well, at least Pete can aim for Jim Morrison on the fuckedupometer.

Monkey Tennis

Partridge would be proud

And speaking of Partridge:

In other news

-Forest and Lincoln? FFS.

-J’aime la pluie.

-Fucking washing.

Balls. Ballsy balls balls.