Pinks and punks.

I make a tit out of myself way more than anyone should be even allowed to, which is most likely the reason why I won the prize for ‘Most Likely To Sell the Big Issue’ in my end-of-school yearbook.
To be honest I wasn’t too bothered about it. I mean, a dude in The King Blues used to sell it right? Now, he’s on the front cover of it in impeccable Inspector Morse fashion.



Today I cocked up at the laundrette like a massive erect pink. To save my embarrassment and potential loss of what dignity I have left to lose, I’ll write this: it’s true what they say about mixing colours in a ‘warm wash’, and nobody likes it when a student type asks them for 2p that he lacks in washing funds.

Needless to say, I can now wear underwear which doesn’t smell like Big Foot’s dick.



'Thou shalt not commit laundry.' I need to get my priorities straight huh, Milo.

I still always feel a bit hollow when I think about the show I went to see in a boxing club on Watford high street on my 15th birthday: Captain Everything!, Gallows, Latterman, Tellison.



I wrote a song yesterday about trains and buses and 2006-esque Watford punk rock.
The day I stop getting that shining feeling when I play a song is the day that my bed-sit falls into the sea. Or maybe I’ll just quit. Fucking up is pretty easy anyway.

In a bit.