Have we become a nation of habitual texters, or is this modern method far too transitory to ever be seriously considered as a worthwhile and enduring method of communication?

Let us examine firstly the problem with SMS translation or “text speak” as it commonly known.

To illustrate the point, consider the following circumstances; would an entire army of British have risen up and fought voraciously to the death for their beloved empire when Sir Winston Churchill uttered “Victory at all costs - Victory in spite of all terrors - Victory, however long and hard the road may be, for without victory there is no survival.”, as part of his famous Blood, Sweat and Tears speech in 1940? Or instead, should the character-limited SMS medium of communication have been available, would thousands of soldiers similarly have fought heroically to the death, dimly-lit Nokias or Samsungs clutched tightly to their mud-stained uniforms with this somewhat incomprehensible message in their inbox being their only driving force.. “4 w/o victrY ther iz n survivL”...

Secondly, there's the problem of ambiguity.

Consider the phrase “you’re dead!” received as a text.

How many ways can this be interpreted? Is the person jovial?, to what ends have they been involved in your ongoing exchange? Are they now looking forward to grinning, punching you on the arm and buying you a beer after work, or are they, in fact, currently standing in a deserted car park in Fyshwick speaking to a heavyset man named Tony regarding the purchase of a semi-automatic weapon. Were you the recipient of the above text, you may never know until it’s too late.

This, however amusing it may seem, is ambiguity at its most unpleasant, and an ongoing consequence of SMS.

In conclusion, the inescapable fact remains that civilised, lucid conversation is as vital to our everyday communication with others as the actual information we pass on. Though spoken conversations tend to be somewhat less formal than traditional written correspondences such as letters, these conventions of politeness and formality remain necessary in today’s civilised society.

5.Rest assured, the crew member that pushed for this cover shot is the same one that masturbated into the lycra unitard left behind by the drummer in the trailer after the show.
If history teaches us anything, it's that he probably went on to kill him and use his beard as a merkin on weekends.




4.Sure, Joyce might look like someone that would enjoy crashing funerals, is a wizz with a bedazzler and has a porcelain doll collection to rival Waylon Smithers, but honestly, you know in your heart of hearts that she'd deepthroat like a fucking champ.




3."Hey kids, it's your old friend, Mr. Bat! Who wants to sing a song into my special pink microphone?"

Currently still listed in the Yellow Pages under 'F' for 'Fucking Scary Paedophile Clowns, or 'S' for 'Show Me On The Dolly Where He Touched You'.




2.Okay, so we'll assume 'Mongo' at the back there may have been hit with something heavy as a child (possibly a goods train), which resulted in his unfortunate ocular defect and probably suggests that that even on a good day he's confused by the 4 reflections he sees staring back at him from in the mirror.
However, this doesn't explain what the fuck the rest of the cast of 'Toupee Troop' were thinking, with the worst offender being the gentleman at the front left who appears to have bought The Toupee That Elvis Died In, and intends to wear it until the same fate befalls him.
We can only hope.




1.Seriously, what on earth would possess you to put an image of a hairy, disgusting, unkempt, filthy animal on the front cover of your album?

Still, the pig was a good idea though.

I stand, eyes closed, oblivious to nothing other than what some Gen X-ers may call 'The Vibe'; my concentration focussed on an indefinable, intangible aspect of social interaction.

The next choice, all those that have come before it, and all that follow, must be carefully considered. Each must flow, must travel, must have substance, but most importantly, must evoke.

I choose.

Sounds fuse together. A symbiotic relationship is born as each becomes intrinsic to the other. The foundations of one is the basis of the next. For some, hands raise in elated recognition; for others, blissful oblivion. Communication exists via this rhythmic electronic language, and everyone is listening.

Bodies glide together in motion, captured in the white-hot arc of light. Frozen instants of infatuation. Confusion. Flirtation. Frustration.

The tempo rises, all influenced by it oblivious.

This is my passion. My element. Here, I am complete.

In an age where digital data is commonplace, 3-d television is just around the corner and a lifetime of memories are available at the touch of an ergonomic button, I am naught but a Luddite. A technological throwback.

I do not long for my precious memories to be stored on high density DVD and played back with an accompanying dreamy soundtrack. Nor do I have a catalogued and indexed mini-SD tape collection with my children's birthdays in chronological order.
No, I have something far more technologically advanced. My mind's eye.

Before you cut and paste this article into your iPhone for later perusal, consider this. If we, as individuals, are afforded the luxury of total digital recall, then primarily from a neuro-cognitive perspective, we are not regularly exercising that part of the brain (the hippocampus), that allows us to recall these memories effectively. In other words, we're getting lazy. Why bother expending energy recalling that camping trip in year 12 when your best friend realised he had pitched his tent on a fire ant's nest when you can just pull up a few photos instead?
The difference? There's no feeling. No involvement. It's a 2-dimensional image, and unfortunately, so are the resulting emotions.

So you see, I want to hold fast to my version; the real 3-D, surround sound, ultra-high definition version that will be forever embedded in my memories.

I fall off my bike. Feel the gravel on my burning hands and see small birds flying across the horizon from where I lay. Best friend dies. Hate the pointed finality of a silently closing door at a church. The rain on my face as we walk to a car. The windows gather condensation as we sit and hold each other in silence. My first kiss. I sit in a darkened basement. Hear the thud of parent's shoes on the wooden floor above, feel my hands shake and see the half-lit face of a doll sitting perched on a rocking chair in the corner.

The ability to be instantly transported to that mental snapshot, with all the sounds, smells, feelings and nuances that made that occasion unforgettable in it's own way, is something we should strive to never lose. For if we lose this, then what is left? A digital representation of ourselves? These memories are what hold us together, create who we are, our reactions, our ideas, our passions.

Consider for a moment the 'Observer Effect' in physics, which states that "the act of observation will make changes on the phenomenon being observed". Being in a situation where someone pauses, tells everyone to wait while they retrieve a camera, effectively kills a beautiful, spontaneous moment.

So next time you want to capture something, don't rely on your digital toys.
Stop, immerse yourself in the moment, take in the sounds, the laughter, the tears and everything in between, and let it become a part of you forever.

I want to write.

All the time.

Subjects flit in and out of the periphery of my consciousness, to be replaced, overlapped and fused together by others.

I sit, silently cursing my nonchalant, arrogant response to what one could consider the seed of a brilliant insightful piece; the literary equivalent of a butterfly catcher devoid of a net, that awakens to find himself in a field in springtime and can only watch as everything he has ever desired swirls around him, yet can do nothing but watch helplessly.

At times I wonder if the humorous overtones that I so deftly deploy in the majority of what I produce serves not only to avoid serious criticism from the audience, but as a smokescreen to my own flailing self-confidence. A topic of utmost gravity becomes a shadowy figure of it's own possibility, not only in my mind, but the mind of the reader, and sometimes I am powerless to stop it.

The meandering, verbal journeys produced by those butterflies should at times be allowed to roam free, no matter what the subject, or the cost.

At times I want to write for nothing other than the sheer joy of creating. I simply long for the journey. Not for the destination, or the origin, but the meandering sprawl of everything in between. To walk slowly along a stream; to stand silently, omnipotently above a neon city at night; to lay sprawled on dusty, red clay as we did as children and watch ants scurry; to touch someone's hand for the first breathless time, and everything in between.

All I need is a net.

The rest is up to me.

I figured it was time my rather languid-looking LiveJournal got a facelift, so after much deliberation, and a plethora of what were they thinking-type designs perused, here is the end result.


Also, I've just started my own DJ School here in Canberra, so I'll be including all the information about what's going on with this venture here.

More information to follow shortly...

For those of you that have ever seen a movie entitled 'Office Space' wherein a fiercely annoying lump of a woman proclaims to anyone with less than a rictus grin that they appear to have a 'case of the Mondays', I, today, am a thoroughly suitable candidate.

Having had a weekend which I considered to be wholly enjoyable, I appear to have woken up this morning in a mood diametrically opposed to the general bonhomie I have experienced over the past two days.
In short, I am completely devoid of mirth.

Perhaps this is the non-pharmaceutical version of 'Suicidal Tuesday', that well-known period following an ecstasy-fuelled weekend, whereupon you awaken feeling like you've just been dumped by Tila Tequila because you weren't smart/tall enough.
In short, you have no logical reason to continue living.

Today I articulate this by staring hatefully into the soulless eyes of any public servant (yes, I do realise the irony), that comes within striking distance of me.

Fear my caffeine-deprived wrath..somewhat.


"When the blood burns, how prodigal the soul lends the tongue vows".. - Hamlet, Act I, iii

I'm not exactly sure where to start with the "dining experience" I had recently. I was told Element was one of the best restaurants Canberra had to offer, but

Most of the meals (we chose the Deg menu; $98 inclusive per head including wine), were disappointingly devoid of flavour, but when it came to the dessert, well, this deserves it's own explanation.

My partner had the Vanilla Brulee, and I chose the rather exotic-sounding "Chilli Chocolate Mud Cake".
Now, I do consider myself to have a fairly mature palate with respect to all things edible, but to say that the chef was a little heavy-handed with the chilli would be like saying Dannii Minogue has had a 'little work done'. I've consumed Vindaloo Curries with less kick than this.
After draining the contents of my partner's water glass and a nearby vase, I waited for the steam to clear so we could converse further.

Suggesting that we depart (in order for me to head home to apply aloe vera to my now rather numb mouth), we made our way to the cashier, who (before the transaction had taken place), inquired as to our meal. My partner advised him of the wait between courses and also the molten mud cake.

His response? "Thanks, I'll let the chef know. That'll be $197 thanks".

To sum up, I am reminded of something my mother used to say to me, 'I'm not angry, I'm just incredibly disappointed'.

And I was.

Picture an irregular circle of teenage girls and guys, all in various positions of repose and post-pubescent development, surrounding an empty decanter of cheap Chardonnay.
One leans forward and deftly twirls the container.
The majority of the assembled crowd collectively lean forward as one, whilst others test the capabilities of their peripheral vision to breaking point in an effort to view the results whilst feigning disinterest in this whole childish charade.

After what seems like an eternity, it stops. As does time, hearts (albeit briefly), and an ability to communicate with the opposite sex.

Welcome, my friends, to yours truly's initiation to 'Spin The Bottle'.

So there I am, a 13-year old, slightly (and I use the technical term here), 'spazzy', kid, alternately looking down at the Bottleneck Of Destiny (which now points in my direction), and subsequently across at a girl whose looks I could only describe as 'interesting*'.
My initial thought is to calmly and quietly inhale my own tongue, but this is quickly replaced by the infinitely more cunning 'get up and run away'.

However, before either of these devastatingly brilliant plans can be put into action, I am snapped out of my reverie by an announcement from the ringleader of this alcopop-fuelled excuse for human debasement.

"Ok Sally, you have to kiss Miles"

I glance over, and for some reason she's staring at me with a quizzical look.
A thousand thoughts begin to run through my head (along with the 30 litres of pure testosterone and half a West Coast Cooler).
What is she like to kiss?
what if she sticks her tongue in? (I've never actually done that before)
what if she bites me?
what did she have for lunch?

Realising that the sooner I get this over with, the sooner I can go back to sitting on the carpet looking windswept and interesting, I stand up and walk nonchalantly over to her.
She rises as well, all glasses, teased hair and bangles, and takes a step in my direction.
We are now only inches apart.

I lean in slightly, hoping that this herculean effort on my part will be enough to tip the balance and initiate some sort of physical contact.
She opens her mouth slightly. My eyes close in anticipation..

After a few seconds, my wait is rewarded.

"Okay, there is no fucking way I'm kissing that guy", she says, and sits down, leaving me standing alone in the midst of a giggling circle of my peers..

Ow.


There are (at the time), insignificant events in our lives that affect us more than we will ever realise, and shape us into becoming the person that we are today.
Our thoughts, habits and psyche are all moulded from these insular bubbles of interaction that occur at regular intervals throughout our lives, and from my own understanding, knowing why you are is a step towards realising who you are.




* Interesting like Darryl Somer's jumpers

Last night, as I sat, motionless from the thumbs down, thrashing buttons on a popular video game controller and fantasising that I may have in fact been raised by ninjas, I was blindsided by an odd thought.

Given the ever-increasing amount of people on this planet, and the staggeringly large amount of ideas that just one person can generate, just how many of these viewpoints or theories are truly original?

Surely even those ridiculously obscure thoughts that we have regarding fairy penguins, digging your way to China or where the miniaturisation of technology is ultimately leading us have all been thought of by someone else.
Has the capacity for originality of the human brain finally been reached due to the exponential increase in knowledge-sharing, and this thing we call the 'Interweb'?.

In short, is it actually possible that everything we think has already been thought?.

To add weight to this theory, look at the predictions of such sci-fi luminaries as Heinlein, Dick or Asimov; all exponents of ideas born way before the inception of cyberpunk and society's subsequent predilection for all things Matrix.

In his book, "Do Androids Dream Of Electric Sheep", Dick describes how families are allocated androids (or "andys"), as an incentive to move to off-world colonies in an effort to preserve the human race. The futuristic (and at the time, frighteningly original), idea of every family owning a robot is something that, in today's technological culture, even infants take for granted.
We now live in a world of robot dogs, vacuum cleaners with a disturbingly high level of Artificial Intelligence, and children's toys that can beat us at chess without breaking a virtual sweat.

So where to from here?

Will the Interweb somehow spawn a neatly packaged and PDF'ed version of mass consciousness? Will the overwhelming desire to think decrease until Google replaces an individuals identity?
It appears it may have started already. Hikikomori is becoming a more prevalent issue in Japan than ever before, and a casual search will also show that essentially the same phenomenon is also found in the US, Australia, Canada and Britain.

Oh, and just to add a little icing on the proverbial cake, I Googled this very topic and got over 17,000 responses.

Does this make me an iconoclast? I hope not.

There are times when you feel ten feet tall and bulletproof, and others where the slightest provocation can send you spiralling into an abyss of negativity and illogical conclusions.
Due to extenuating circumstances in my relationship, I have, in the past two months, traversed these two paths perpetually.
To wit, I am now (as they say), sans partner.

Lately, however, (due in part to the anodyne effects of time), these pendulous changes have been replaced with quiet conviction, and the realisation that everything happens for a reason.
At a cursory glance, not everything is always able to be explained logically or rationally, but recognition of this fact seems to be the means that justify the end.
On the upside, I believe I am a quick learner, and hope to make this ruthless and unkind mode of education mercifully short.

It has, however, raised some interesting questions for me.

Is being possessive of someone a sign of insecurity?, or is it merely the wiles of human nature and it's insulating mentality at work? Should you profess to not care, and therefore give a falsely negative impression that you, in fact, don't?

Should having children preclude you from retaining a social identity? When deciding on this permanently life-altering option, should you also consider that you and perhaps a large part of this identity will cease to exist, or is it in fact possible to maintain the two exclusively?

As a final thought, speaking introspectively, my personal and emotional goals have not shifted, but they have (to use the corporate vernacular), horizontally diversified.

Oh yes, I'd also like it if you bought my car.

It looks like this:


and it goes "Vvrrrrooooooooooooommmmm!!"...

Things I'm really liking at the moment :

Cyanide and Happiness

Fresh Vegemite toast

Viceland

Cool t-shirts

60-second science

Steve, don't eat it!


It's also been way too long, so a renewed, reinvigorated (and any other 're' word I can think of that seems applicable), hello is due to the following people..

plane_watcher

-Asta La Nachos

I've been in a new role for about 5 months, and the initial lustre has most definitely worn off. Everything is now faded and a little dull, and this has raised genuine concern on my part as I seem to be taking on this particular complexion as well. Not to say the joy I get from writing or spending time with my family has lessened, just that my desire to learn new activities and put forward ideas has decreased as a direct result of my current apathetic existence. And that concerns me.
Initially, I was meant to monitor and investigate critical IIS situations and their possible cataclysmic results within the organisation.
However, this is genuinely not the case. As of late, the 'monitoring and investigation' content of my role comprises a daily perusal of the SMH, drafting emails to errant colleagues and friends (68 today), and counting down the hours till I leave. To some people, this would be a dream job.
Unfortunately, I'm not one of them.

To add to my already prominent discomfort, it is apparent my joie de vivre for those corporate trappings has all but disappeared, and with it my own personal motivation and desire to climb the Executive Ladder.

I want to be successful, and this is not the way it's going to happen.

So, 'there's no point complaining', I hear you say. Exactly right.

Time to take life by the horns and do something about it.

Stay tuned.

There are days when the plethora of information that constantly revolves around my addled brain seems to require one of those futuristic virtual computers where gesticulating in the air induces some sort of pseudo-psychic interface that manages to translate the verbal maze in your brain into a neat typewritten sheet.
Unfortunately, reality tends to dictate otherwise.

Consider this. Your behaviour is a result of your immediate musical environment, and your iPod is indirectly responsible for the bizarre discourse that confronts you when you least expect it.

For example, let's say your initial intention is to perhaps write a paragraph or two about your friend's new partner, or why you decided to get a tattoo on the weekend (and why you're going to cut back on drinking Tequila with strangers), or maybe how anyone could ever enjoy eating those black jellybeans that taste suspiciously like roll-on deodorant.
However, despite all best intentions, what usually results is 15 paragraphs about the girl you met in Bali that fateful summer, or alternatively, a heartfelt confessional about the ongoing destruction of our planet or the epic futility of existence.

Here's why. Don't listen to emotive music while you write.

Don't believe me? Here's a simple experiment. Try writing anything that's intended to be light and humourous whilst listening to 'The Scientist'.
Finished?
Ok, now kill the iPod for a sec and re-read what you just wrote.

Staring back at you will be a tear-stained diatribe on why your last relationship should never have ended (Oh God, it was so wrong but it was so right..), all those wonderful things you used to do together (that thing we used to do at that cafe we both loved), and why you ever let them go in the first place (they cheated on you with your flatmate, dumb ass).
Congratulations, you've just been emotionally hijacked by Chris Martin.

Oh, and while you're at it, quit staring at your mobile. You know they stopped returning your calls months ago.

You get a similar result listening to Marilyn Manson. Ten seconds into the opening strains "If I Was Your Vampire", and your writing has probably stopped altogether because you're now Googling 'Euthanasia for Young Adults', or possibly carving the words 'kill me' into your forearm with a letter opener.
Interestingly enough, research has shown that a similar 'Google' search response occurs when listening to Frente, but this appears to be motivated more by the extreme desire to never have to listen to that shit again.

However, on the flipside (to use the vernacular), there are tracks out there that consistently uplift the soul, cause light to shine through the darkest of moods, and conjure images worthy of a hastily-scribbled letter to Penthouse Forum.

From a DJ's perspective, here are my own personal selections.

If you've never heard them, go buy them.

Sunworshipper - Milo
You..a sun-drenched beach, glistening bodies recline on the white sand...the sun reflecting off the the waves of the limpid, turquoise water. A salt encrusted cocktail in your hand...

Lovin' You More (Mosquito Chill Remix) - Steve Mac
Lazy Sundays in bed on a warm summer day, french doors open to the ocean, white sheets, croissants, coffee....

Blue Monday - Nouvelle Vague
A dimly lit secluded club, a glance across a room, eyes communicating more than words could ever express.
A mental snapshot that will never ever fade.

Boogie 2Nite (Big Love Remix) - Bootyluv
Don't think.
Don't talk.
Take their hand.
Never look back.

Fly Away - Jean Claude Ades
It's 2AM. Everyone looks incredible...hands are raised to the ceiling...you are transported.
This track always gives me goosebumps.
Listen to it loud.

At Night (Afterlife Remix) - Shakedown
Recumbent on a couch in a dark corner. There is no one else in the world at this moment. A single touch takes my breath away...
Latin atmosphere perfected.

I was chatting with a mate of mine who's recently single about dates we'd been on, and it reminded me of a horror encounter I had a few years ago. So I thought I'd share.

DJ'ing in a bar in Paddington a few years back, this rather attractive girl that had been making eye contact and doing a little flirting throughout the course of the night finally comes up at the end of the evening and asks if she can call me sometime.

She initially came across as a rather nice girl, so I gave her my number and we agreed to meet for a coffee somewhere.
Anyway, she calls me the next morning (some may say this is a little too eager, but I'm not that judgemental), and we arranged that she would pick me up at 5pm at my place in Surry Hills and go to a cafe at Fox Studios the following night.

The next day, she arrives at my place half an hour late with no explanation or apology, but I don't bother saying anything as I had no other plans so technically it hasn't really inconvenienced me that much. Also, I didn't really want to start the date off on a bad note.

So anyway, I'm now sitting in her car. She guns the motor of this poor little Holden Astra like a rally driver with ADD, and we leave the kerb doing about 90kph. Shooting out of a side road into Crown St. without so much as a sideways glance, we proceed to weave in and out of traffic like a couple of extras in a Dukes of Hazzard episode.

At this point, I'm seriously starting to wonder whether she chose a sunroof over the more luxurious (and obviously pointless), options such as 'brakes' when she bought the vehicle.

After proceeding to almost tear a hole in the very fabric of space and time, we screech into Fox Studios (I was half expecting her to slide sideways into a parking space, but disappointingly it didn't happen).

The whole ride there, all I could think of was that old line from 'Shitscared' off the Late Show on ABC..

"Were you scared Rob?"
"I'm not wearing the brown underpants for nothing Tommy".

So I finally make it to the cafe/bar alive, and order a coffee. The waiter then asks madam what she would like.
"A toblerone", she replies.
For those that haven't had one of these particular conconctions before, they're a heady mixture of Frangelico, Baileys, Kahlua and cream.
Oh, and they're also $15 a pop.

During the next 90 minutes of her berating me about how 'high maintenance she is' (yes, she actually told me that), how she 'doesn't sleep with guys until she's known them for at least six months', that she's 'looking for someone that "ticks all the boxes"', she proceeds to drink six of these cocktails, whilst yours truly has two lattes.
In hindsight I probably should have consumed some form of hard liquor to stop my hands from shaking, but nevertheless..

As we were sitting on a couch in front of the open fire, the conversation eventually degenerated into me staring into the flames pondering possible escape routes while she waffled on about her perfect man, her nail art and various other riveting topics.
Eventually my ears start to bleed, so I decide to tell her I have to work that night so we might need to get going.

So now the bill arrives, and it's close to $100.

She's now sitting there staring at her nails (with half-glazed eyes), at this point, obviously expecting me to pay, so I do the chivalrous thing and put a ten dollar note on the bill tray, tell her I'm going to the bathroom and I'll see her outside.
In the bathroom, I call my best mate to come and get me as there's no way I'm getting a lift home from this (now extremely inebriated), lunatic. Before I know it, I start telling him about the whole horror scenario, and after he's stopped laughing hysterically, I realise I've been on the phone for about 20 minutes.

I walk out of the bathroom after this extended delay to find my 'date' (and I do use the term loosely), now asleep on the couch in front of the fire.

Being the gentleman that I am, I hurriedly retrieve a post-it note from one of the bar staff, scribble "THANKS FOR THE COFFEE", and gently place it on her forehead, before hightailing it to my friend's waiting car.

All fun and games.

Let me just say, Ben is a friend of mine, and a really great guy. I like him.

But on the weekend, he made what I would term a 'slight error in judgement'.

You see, Ben went out on Saturday with his friends, but made the mistake of falling asleep before anyone else did.

Poor Ben.

..I am so fucking normal it's not funny.

http://grouphug.us/

This is the most weird/scary/funny/disturbing/unusual stuff I've read in a long time.


You have been warned.

Boy, am I tired. I hate starting off Mondays like this. The kids stayed over last night, and Pip (my 2yr. old), decided at 2:20 in the morning that she wasn't really interested in sleeping any more and would prefer to wake up the entire apartment by repeatedly kicking the wall next to the bed whilst requesting various flavours of cordial in an increasingly whiny voice.

*thump*
"Can I have some Strawberry?"........"Go to sleep Pippa"
*thump*
"Straaawwwwwbeerrrrreeeeeeeee!"........"We don't have any Strawberry Pip"
*thump*
*thump*
*thump*
"Raspberry!"........"GO. TO. SLEEP!"
"Oran.."........"NO!"
*thump*
*thump*
*thump*
*thump*
*thump*

This assailment lasted for 45 minutes before she fell asleep exhausted.

Lucky for me I managed to stay awake for the next half hour thinking about what I had to do today.

Somehow, Connor managed to sleep through the whole thing. What a gift.

Being the absolute trooper that I am, even in this sleep-deprived state I will soldier on regardless. Therefore (inkeeping with the true spirit of the Australian public service work ethic), I have read my emails, drunk 2 cups of coffee and surfed numerous pages on the Interweb trying to find a new set of tail lights for my car. I think I want the LED ones.

---

B-Bar was fun on Saturday. Went a bit hard after 2AM and dragged out stuff like Sander Kleinenberg's Remix of 'Muscle Car', and the Axwell & Ingrosso version of Hi-Tack's 'SOS'. Seemed to go down pretty well 'cos we didn't close till about half 3. Was Timmy's birthday and also his last weekend in the 'Berra, so I'm glad it all turned out nice 'n that. Apparently he was last seen running naked down the main street of Kingston yelling something about "hating Rolf Harris and his fucking jukebox"..

I've also promised myself I'm going to put together a new CD this week with all the dirtiest tracks I've got (think along the lines of 'Club Therapy' by Peace Division if you know it). This should keep seb happy for a while at least.

Keep on truckin'.