Monthly Archives: November 2010


It took me a while to work out what it was. Why were some fans of popular music trio The Motorheads so unusually restless and, if I’m to be brutally honest, carrying on like pricks? The last few times I’ve had the honour of seeing these gentlemen the audience has been relatively sedate but this evening loads of middle-aged men, most with shaven heads, were engaged in the pre-mosh activity of wrecking. Why was this? Why?

Then I noticed, it wasn’t just gentle English types, there were Northern people, the Scotch were there, but most overwhelmingly, German types.

It was a Saturday, I couldn’t think of the last time I’d been to a gig on Saturday. Now these fellows had all day to get to Brixton safe in the knowledge a lazy Sunday laid ahead. This had inspired these blokes to let down their proverbial comb-overs, they could wheeze-out with impunity then recover before work on Monday…

Aside from this the evening was marvellous. Apart from not being let out to smoke for twenty fucking minutes after the support had cavorted off. Two clearly unwell old women were holding back 500 hairy-arsed headbangers as their colleagues prevaricated over crowd barriers with a view to sorting out an enclave for the smokers whilst simultaneously preventing passing people from slipping into the venue for nout. It was appalling actually, I told one of the security staff that it wasn’t really fair to put two old dears in charge of the doors with hundreds of angry men bearing down on them. He looked at me as if I was ET lap dancing.

But it was still a splendid night, they played all their hits and despite the drummer nipping off for a pee mid way through the set, you’d never know they’re almost due for their bus passes.

The weekend had got off to a cracking start, one of IC’s mates was staying with us from Italy so it seemed rude to not take him out, get him plastered and make him eat a big pile of Thai food. We didn’t over do it mind, to my surprise I was in bed and up relatively early and we headed off to Oxford Street with Patti in tow. It was only when we got there it dawned on me that I a. didn’t want to be there and b. had no reason to be there either. Shit.

To make matters considerably more dreadful Oxford Street had started Christmas in earnest -brass-blowing Santa’s playing carols, wankers in big-head costumes ‘for the kids,’ steel bands, choirs etc. -and thousands of pushy, dour-faced shoppers running about like Cholera. IC and Patti were shopping in earnest, the former looking for shoes, the latter for a dress as I slouched along, cold, annoyed and getting increasingly hungry. More out of boredom than anything I popped into GAP to see if they had any black hoodies, seduced by a miserable Morrissey song I hung around longer than I should and lo and behold I didn’t just find a black hoody, I found one that was lined for extra warmth. It’s worth harping on about this item, so long as you wear a half decent jacket over it, you need no more than a tee underneath for maximum seasonal weather-beating warmth. It’s marvellous.

I felt much better after my purchase, even more so after pork and tofu soup at the Japanese eatery we found ourselves in prior to departing for home. I waited for Lenny to get back from the West-End and we set off at 6-ish. After arriving at Brixton we met up with Ned and Frank in a packed-pub, it took me so long to get served we actually left and managed to find a half empty gaff with good food on offer, Lenny ate and we drank beer until it was time to go to see the band.

After the gig we lucked out again. We were ushered into a bar, again, half empty, and invited to have a few drinks before saying farewell to Frank. Ned and Lenny joined me on the bus and we went home where IC and Sue were waiting for us. A small impromptu party happened and we saw the day off at 4-ish.

Sunday IC and I made a bit of a mistake. It was beautiful day so on the way to the park decided to have a pub lunch, wine happened, my bro joined us a few hours later and we stayed until dark. The weekend was seen off in front of the telly with pizzas and more flaming wine. When will I learn eh, reader

Here is that miserable Morrissey song, in my opinion the only good thing the bugger has done.


I tried Mary and Patti’s place, as it was the closest to the heel bar. No luck. My final hope before heading to London Bridge was to cycle a mile to Swineshead’s gaff, though I wasn’t entirely sure if he was in or, indeed, what number he was potentially in at. In previous visits IC has led the way while I’ve been enjoying the benefits of Cabernet Sauvignon. I arrived at the assumed address and yelled his name… nothing, I did it again and after a few minutes, and to my joy, the front door opened to reveal a perplexed SH.

I babbled an explanation and we went indoors. Now I had access to a phone, the Internet, warmth and most importantly, tobacco. I called IC who decided the best thing to do was pay for a bike courier to pick the keys from her place and deliver them to mine. In the meantime SH and I had a very civilised afternoon smoking, drinking tea and watching Sarah Silverman, which was splendid.

The courier took a fucking age, not that I that fussed, I was home by 5 following an awful cycle back in the freezing rain and vowed never to mount a velocipede ever again. Fortunately, after getting home at 7 or so, IC was keen to visit the local to discuss a few pressing matters and the horrors of the day were gently overwhelmed and pissed from the system.

I woke on Wednesday feeling properly excited, despite being due in the office. I was finally going to ride Johnston, all I had to do was fit the bulb and ride away. The bulb was fitted in minutes and Johnston started on the third kick, which when you consider it hadn’t been touched for 3 odd weeks (and it was fucking cold) I was sufficiently impressed to let out a ‘woot.’ I was just about to set off when the engine spluttered to a stop, I kicked it, it started. Then stopped. Cunts!

For almost 45 minutes I pounded the kick-start with no joy. By the time I gave up I was both furious and drenched in sweat. By now the battery was barely alive so I removed it and took it into the flat after re-parking the bike and covering it up. Then remembered I didn’t have a battery charger anymore.

But fate has a funny way of resolving things.

Before I headed for the bus I noticed a text from a camera shop regarding a (physically) large item I’d ordered for IC, it was ready for pick-up, which was very convenient. The pick-up place was located near the office in fucking Wimbledon, I was prepared to make a special trip to fetch it, now Johnston wouldn’t start and I was forced onto public transport, I could kill two birds with one stone.

On my way to work I suddenly realised I could stop at the bike shop in Shoreditch and pick up a battery charger. I alighted by the church and walked to the shop, to my delight they had a pile of the buggers under half price! Things were looking up.

After more busses and tubes I arrived at the camera shop to pick up the item I’d ordered, specifically an astrological telescope that I’d managed to get cheap. I knew from pictures the telescope was large but I wasn’t expecting two people appearing from the back of shop carrying something the size of a fucking armchair.

‘How the fuck am I supposed to get that home!’ I said loudly, the person in the queue behind me melted away.

‘Put it under your arm, sir.’ Said one of the men, visibly annoyed by my outburst.

That was not going to work, but maybe if I carried it as if hugging,, well, an armchair. I experimented; the bugger weighed the same as, well, an armchair but I could get it off the ground. After moaning about the lack of handles to the tit in the shop I paid and left, almost immediately I had to put the box down, it was both heavy and awkward to manoeuvre. 50 yards took me 5 minutes.

I made it to the station and took the tube a couple of stops. I wrestled the ‘Scope out the carriage and dragged it up the stairs before having to carry it a quarter of a mile to the office. The 5 minute walk took me almost half and hour. By the time I arrived at the office I was in agony and shattered shitless.

I left the office at 3-ish as I intended to both cadge a lift to the station with a colleague and avoid the rush hour. By now I’d made a makeshift handle to make things slightly easier so, after getting dropped off and onto the platform, I parked the ‘Scope on the tube and forgot about it, until my stop came. Now I had to get the fucker from one tube line to the other. The platform and stairs were packed solid, how on earth I managed to get the bugger down the platform, let alone up the flight of stairs to the central line is anyone’s guess. Only one bloke helped and that was half-arsed, still, I was grateful enough to scream ‘thank you,’ to his face.

The last part of the journey required me to lug the ‘Scope to the bus stop and from the bus stop to home. It took me an age. I can’t tell you how chuffed I was when I got back but I’ll try. I was jolly chuffed. IC was jolly chuffed too.

So there you have it, I’m seeing pop combo The Motorheads tomorrow with some pals, so join me next week when I try and remember what the fuck happened.

Gerry’s chart first, then a great tune. Have fun, yeah.

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE Last Week Weeks On High Pos
30 Paramore Playing God NE 1 30
29 Brandon Flowers Only The Young NE 1 29
28 Plan B The Recluse 18 8 10
27 Gorillaz Doncamatic NE 1 27
26 Kings Of Leon Pyro NE 1 26
25 Clare Maguire Ain’t Nobody 13 6 5
24 Apocalyptica ft Brent Smith Not Strong Enough30 2 24
23 Manic Street Preachers Some Kind Of NothingnessNE 1 23
22 Blood Red Shoes Light It Up 28 2 22
21 Enter Shikari Destabilise 17 3 17
20 Escape The Fate Issues 24 2 20
19 Young Guns Weight Of The World 11 6 11
18 Tinie Tempah Written In The Stars 8 7 2
17 Crystal Castles ft Robert Smith Not In Love 27 2 17
16 Killing Joke European Super State 9 10 1
15 The View Sunday 22 2 15
14 Eels Baby Loves Me 16 3 14
13 The National Terrible Love 14 3 13
12 Biffy Clyro Booooom Blast And Ruin 7 5 7
11 IsobelCampbell/MarkLanegan YouWon’tLetMeDownAgain152 11
10 Grinderman Worm Tamer 10 3 10
9 We Are Scientists I Don’t Bite 4 7 4
8 The Courteeners Scratch My Name Upon Your Lips19 2 8
7 Alice In Chains Lesson Learned 5 4 5
6 Skunk Anansie Over The Love 12 4 6
5 Frankie And The Heartstrings Ungrateful 3 8 3
4 Pulled Apart By Horses Yeah Buddy 21 2 4
3 Sleigh Bells Infinity Guitars 6 4 3
2 Two Door Cinema Club I Can Talk 2 6 2
1 Hurts Stay 1 6 1


Pete showed up at 4 pm bearing two bottles of wine. He noted my comprised state and opened them on the spot, 10 minutes later I was back to normal. We spent a hilarious couple of hours catching up, generally reviewing the year since we last saw each other before Ned and James arrived and we headed off to the pub. Despite being drunk I ordered more wine that set off a war of attrition with my balance, I only won the battle an hour or so later after Ned went off home and we three settled into a Turkish restaurant and rammed our faces with whitebait, bread, meat and meat. More wine happened, one of the four bottles we’d bought for later broke under the table and soaked the shoes of our neighbouring diners. Why on earth we went back to the pub afterwards to carry on drinking before we went home to do more of the same remains shrouded in mystery.

By midnight we were arseholed beyond belief, Pete crashed and James and I stayed up drinking and chatting until I’ve no idea at all…

Sunday was fucking horrific, we three had breakfast with Mary and Patti who were passing by and my brothers in arms took themselves off to their respective homes. I spent a miserable afternoon cooking, cleaning and swallowing back bile before my bro joined me for a spot of Walking Dead and a horror film, both went some way to cheering me up (as did the large pile of spaghetti bolognaise I’d made) my brothers departure didn’t. I went to bed still dire.

Monday was only saved by the return of IC. Thank fuck for that. She had some thrilling news, it may be divulged later on, and we ate fisherman’s pie and watched a spot of telly.

On Tuesday I worked from home in the morning and went to the gym at lunch. On the way back, after un-locking my bike (dropping the lock with my keys in it, remember that bit for later) I peddled home all sweaty and chuffed I’d made it there, locked my bike (dropped the lock again with my keys still in it, remember now…) I went to my front door to notice my key was fucking bent (this is why I suggested you remember the dropping of my lock bit) and following one careful attempt to straighten it the cunt snapped in twain.

There I was in full smack gear without a phone, money and a fucked key to my world.

My mind raced for sanity, what to do? I had a few options, cycle to IC’s workplace, which would take an hour there and most likely two back, get the key fixed and leave my I-pod in lieu of payment, or three hope someone is in.

I wasn’t prepared to cycle to IC’s workplace, it was cold and I wasn’t dressed for such a task, in addition I was knackered from the gym. The best bet was the fix-key idea so I alighted my fucking bicycle and cycled to the heel and key bar a mile away before realised I’d lost the broken bit of the key.

I could’ve wept.


Friday, 6pm, I met Den and one of his colleagues for a pint in Soho, Harry joined us, then Rob and finally Bill with his agent and assistant. Bill was over from New York to shoot a famous person (not with a gun like a machine gun, pistol or a gun. A camera) and we’d all arranged to meet up, like.

We’d decided to go to Cafe Boheme, not my first choice of eatery but I knew the food and immediate company would be more than acceptable. The place was jammed to the rafters with sods, awful rich types, not the sort of media-trustafarians one finds round my way, no, balls out poshopricks. It took ages to get to the back where our table was waiting because these people are so bloody rude they just refused to respond to polite ‘excuse me’s and ‘pardon you cunt’s.’ I was relieved to discover our fellow diners were a little more civilised.

My bro joined us presently and we began, my starter of duck terrine and main of pork belly was marvellous and wine began to flow, not in vast quantities but sufficiently, along with the banter. After paying the bill (place is very reasonable as it goes, which was handy as I’m not particularly flush at the moment) Bill paid for more wine at The Coach and Horses down the road, we stayed outside as everyone was keener to smoke than be warm, it seemed.

As Bill was leaving for home the following day he was keen the remaining revellers’, of which I was one, pop back to his hotel round the corner. With a moderately grand entrance, I wasn’t expecting the opulence contained within. This place was sublime. It managed to be discreetly luxurious, quintessentially ‘English,’ without being ostentatious or pretentious, think wood panelling, beautiful antique oil paintings and leather- bound books, and Colonel Mustard with a knife in his pee pee. The bathroom featured a marble bust of Hermes and an exceptional pen and ink portrait whose gazes colluded, conspired, to watch you micturate before following you round the room, bit rude and little bit sexy. And the drinks in the cabinet in the drawing room (and it was a drawing room, like off of the telly) were fucking free!

We didn’t outstay our welcome, Trish, Bill’s agent, lives nearby to my gaff in that East End so she called a cab. My bro decided to join us and at 1am we were heading East Side, but not before the driver threatened to chuck me out when I bollocked him for texting and driving. I reminded the driver that I was a lawyer and he shut up and did his job with his phone switched firmly off.

A home my bro crashed straight away and I went down at 4-ish following a music session. Subsequently I wasn’t ideally suited to deal with all the stuff I had to do on Saturday and the last thing I wanted was to do was cycle. So I cycled to Argos in Dalston to take back a faulty camera I’d bought for IC, Christ it was awful. Getting the refund on the camera wasn’t easy other, they were happy to exchange but I wanted my money back. I was forced to resort to ‘come on mate’ tactics before gently reminding him I knew my rights, after ten bloody minutes he folded and I wobbled off feeling both happy and pig-sick.

My next destination was the auto factors, annoyingly that’d shut down so I puffed my way home without the rear bulb for Johnston. As I wasn’t entirely convinced Johnston’s rear bulb had blown (it’s rare for both filaments to go so I suspected a loose wire causing the lack of illumination) I dismantled the rear light unit to find both an intact rear light bulb and, lo and behold, a detached wire! With a joyful heart, though still feeling dreadful, I had just started to assemble the unit when the little boy from over the way rushed over to say ‘hello,’ and trod on the fucking bulb. I managed to keep calm, poor little bugger looked petrified and even went so far as to say I had loads more bulbs, loads… which of course, I didn’t, or don’t.

More of this crap tomorrow, in the meantime. This…


It’s one of the most beautiful days we’ve had in weeks, one of those crispy winter fellows with lemon sharp sunshine, ice blue skies and a retreating fog, virgin white, all fluffy and shit. But I’ve just had a thoroughly miserable journey into the office and IC is away this weekend, the flavour of the occasion is dulled before it starts.

If it hadn’t been for the sensational vapours this morning I’d have thrown myself under a bus. I had to come into the office by public transport this morning, as I’m straight out after work, so I decided to come in via an alternative route. Indulge me if you will, there are about 14 ways of getting from my gaff in the east to this Turd in southwest. Most are either too long, too expensive or it involves a protracted amount of time jammed below on a tube, which is unacceptable.

A colleague suggested I go to London Bridge and instead of fannying about after the bus journey from Hackney (tube, train and tube again) I get the overland direct to a station near to my destination. All good on paper.

I arrived at London Bridge and located the station in question on the board, which helpfully had written next to it ‘see a member of staff.’ Every other destination, over 100 of them, had a platform number. The first member of staff I tried to consult was too busy shouting to a mate about how he was going to arrest ‘that cunt in the wheelchair what gave me the finger,’ the other waved in the direction of a distant corner of the station and muttered something about ‘on the left.’

After 15 minutes I found a platform that featured a station that would connect me to the right train, I waited 10 minutes and boarded. It took nearly 30 mins to get to the connection, instead of the usual London buzz one finds on the Waterloo to Wimbledon it was like sitting on the 10.40 to Treblinka. It was a thoroughly miserable trip through industrial estates, shit housing and scraggy wasteland; though occasionally pretty (largely due to sunlight/trees) it was deadly, deadly dull.

I alighted at Tulse Hill and waited on a soulless platform for another 20 fucking minutes before the train crapped into view. This final leg was the worst part as I had to snake around my old neighbourhood, which caused much snarling and gnashing of teeth. The final insult was the 20-minute walk from the station to the office past rotten little buildings with rotten window frames and stone cladding. The entire journey had taken 3 hours. THREE!

Right, rant over, it’s still number one! It’s still Top of the… er, chart time. Have good weekends, I hope I do.

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE Last Week Weeks On High Pos
30 Apocalyptica ft Brent Smith Not Strong Enough NE 1 30
29 My Chemical Romance Na Na Na (Na Na Na Na Na Na)17 2
28 Blood Red Shoes Light It Up NE 1 28
27 Crystal Castles ft Robert Smith Not In Love NE 1 27
26 Jimmy Eat World My Best Theory 15 12 1
25 Tame Impala Sundown Syndrome 27 2 25
24 Escape The Fate Issues NE 1 24
23 30 Seconds To Mars Search And Destroy 17 5 17
22 The View Sunday NE 1 22
21 Pulled Apart By Horses Yeah Buddy NE 1 21
20 OK Go White Knuckles 10 7 3
19 The Courteeners Scratch My Name Upon Your Lips NE 1 19
18 Plan B The Recluse 12 7 11
17 Enter Shikari Destabilise 22 2 17
16 Eels Baby Loves Me 23 2 16
15 Isobel Campbell Mark Lanegan YouWon’tLetMeDownAgain NE 1 15
14 The National Terrible Love 20 2 14
13 Clare Maguire Ain’t Nobody 7 5 5
12 Skunk Anansie Over The Love 18 3 12
11 Young Guns Weight Of The World 13 5 11
10 Grinderman Worm Tamer 19 2 10
9 Killing Joke European Super State 5 9 1
8 Tinie Tempah Written In The Stars 4 6 2
7 Biffy Clyro Booooom Blast And Ruin 9 4 7
6 Sleigh Bells Infinity Guitars 14 3 6
5 Alice In Chains Lesson Learned 8 3 5
4 We Are Scientists I Don’t Bite 6 6 4
3 Frankie And The Heartstrings Ungrateful 3 7 3
2 Two Door Cinema Club I Can Talk 2 5 2
1 Hurts Stay 1 5 1


Due to the horrors of employment, IC was late arriving at the pub near Liverpool Street on Thursday evening. I thought I’d selected my establishment wisely, I was keen to avoid the sharp-suited sneering city types, but I failed. Unconvinced anywhere else would be better I grabbed a stool (the none faecal kind) and a pint and settled down with a battered copy of Bike.

The group of cunts stood next to me were just the types I’d sought to keep my distance from. Vile, reprehensible shits shouting loudly with the sort of language that would make a docker blush. I’m not known for colourless language at the best if times but screaming obscenities aggressively across the bar is just appalling. I was subject to this for a good hour; by the time I left to meet IC outside it became apparent that these young buggers were sparring for a punch-up. Awful types.

IC and I arrived at the restaurant in Whitechapel dead on 8.30, the place was half empty which was surprising as it’s new, very reasonably priced and already has an excellent reputation. I had the Guinea Fowl, IC the sea bass, and we drank a decent wine over conversation, it was a jolly nice evening and the food stunning. On the way to the bus stop I was asked for change four times in under a minute as a skinhead vomited copiously on the pavement. Good old Whitechapel.

By the time we arrived back at Hackney it was still a little too early for home, so we nipped to our local. Unexpectedly a large goth chap recognised us from the gym (of all places) and ushered us to the regulars space by the bar. At 3am we were still there following the pub singing ‘happy birthday’ to IC and free cake courtesy of the Italian chef (nor the one from The Muppets)

We didn’t resume birthday celebrations until lunch the following day, we went to a cafe in Victoria Park and I indulged in a fry-up, then we went to Shoreditch to see Mick Rock’s photographs of rock royalty. As it happened the great man was there, I would’ve barged in to the room where he was giving an interview but thought better of it at the last second. Some of the shots of Syd Barrett and The Ramones brought a lump to the throat… do go, free entry an’all.

By now it was mid afternoon; we had to be at Farringdon for 4 because Mary had invited IC and I over for a bit of hair-cutting action. We grabbed the bus and made it with 5 mins to spare, after an hour of chopping we were back on the bus, suitably shorn, aimed squarely for the doors of a small cocktail lounge itself on the way to the designated boozer for the evenings indulgencies. By 8pm IC was surrounded by well-wishing pals and I was well on my way. I thought I was too tired, I wasn’t, in fact after the pub we invited a few friends back to the flat and carried on until the smallest of hours.

Saturday lunch saw the second fry-up in as many days, but only after IC and I visited a person whose identity I’m not at liberty to disclose, it was a harrowfying ordeal as well, and you’d fucking love it too… oh well. I have to say I was feeling a little ropey before I ate, especially after the dreadful ordeal, but I left the cafe in much better condition. We meandered home via the shops and watched Frantic when we got in. By the time that was done it was dark, we had plans for the evening so we slowly got ourselves ready and prepped to go out.

I wasn’t in the mood for a club but I’d had a few stiff drinks to take the edge off proceedings, we strolled to Dalston mentally preparing ourselves for the sweating throngs within the destined club at 10. As it turned out the joint was quite empty when we arrived, this allowed me time to make my acquaintance with a couple of the bar staff in order to increase my presence when the place packed out later. Believe me, it works.

An hour later the club was solid, Mary had played a marvellous set during which I was knocked flat to the ground by a fat bird that had leapt off a ledge and missed her fucking boyfriend stood to my right. I wasn’t happy and swear words came out of my mouth in a long, loud stream. A few drinks later and I was as right as rain and, to my surprise, having a splendid time. I think it was 3am when the houselights came on and we blinked our way into the cold, wet evening and buggered about all the way home with a few mates. I recall running, I’m not one for running.

I suppose it’s fairly obvious what happened next, in fact you might have to remind me because I was told by IC that I went to bed at 8am. The following afternoon I was surprised to learn that my brother had stayed over, and then Mary called IC and suggested we meet in a pub. Now it should be fairly apparent that I’m not one to shun a drink, but even I thought this was ridiculous. Not that much mind, an hour later I was second glass in and drunkenly talking to a local at the bar about motorcycle boots.

We didn’t stay too long, Patti had offered to come over to the flat to cook stuffed squid for my bro, IC, Mary and I. She arrived looking decidedly the worse for wear; in fact she cooked the food and fucked off without eating a mouthful. We four saw the weekend off with Goodfellas, well sort of, I could barely see anything.


For those of you with a keen eye, you may have noticed the long dangling addition to today’s post contains what looks suspiciously like Gerry’s chart, more often than not published on Friday.

No, your eyes don’t deceive, the chart is here today for a very good reason. It’s IC’s birthday tomorrow (legal at last thank fuck) so I’ll not be in a position to post. In addition to the likelihood I’ll contain a hangover on account of the warm-up celebrations taking place this very eve, I don’t think writing yet another entry to this tired old blog on the day of her birth will go down very well. Cavorting about that there London seems a far more sensible way to proceed, so we’ll be doing precisely that.

I’ve been going to the gym during lunchtime lately, not everyday you’ll understand, that’d be obscene. There is a marked difference between those that go in the evenings and those attending during the day. Whilst you could describe the former as eclectic the lunch lot are polarised into two definitive camps. Fat old women and balls-out body builders (check out that alliteration) and obviously me as an impartial observer as I weakly pull/push the hurty levers, but for the purposes of making sweeping, judgemental statements, I don’t count.

The female contingent sit at machines nonchalantly rotating limbs as they watch the bank of TV’s that occupy one side of the room, to be honest it looks like an utter waste of time but at least the intention is there and they’re trying to achieve something.

The body builders are a pole apart. Brick-built men pounding about enormous weights with veins popping out of their flesh like attacking vipers, these fellows don’t just grunt, occasionally they’ll actually scream. One bloke in particular looked fit to explode; red-faced and drenched in sweat he didn’t pause for a second for the entire time I was present, not for a second. He’d lift dumbbells the size of motorcycles before running to the multi-gym, there he worked as if trying to pull Susan Boyle onto a bucking horse, before rushing back to the filthy pain of the weights. I was exhausted just watching him before getting genuinely concerned he was going to fucking die and hand me the baton of posttraumatic stress. What a selfish tit.

I suppose I should apologise for the lack of activity on here this week, if you want more hurry over to Watch With Mothers (link right) and read my article on Coppers, a TV Show Monday nights on Channel 4.

Right, chart, tune and do feel free to wish the better half a happy birthday by hook or by crook. Cheerio.

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE Last Week Weeks On High Pos
30 Interpol Barricades 22 10 2
29 Bullet For My Valentine Fever 19 7 7
28 Good Charlotte Like It’s Her Birthday 26 3 26
27 Tame Impala Sundown Syndrome NE 1 27
26 The Wombats Tokyo (Vampires And Wolves) 18 8 2
25 Bryan Ferry Shameless 28 2 25
24 Kings Of Leon Radioactive 17 9 5
23 Eels Baby Loves Me NE 1 23
22 Enter Shikari Destabilise NE 1 22
21 A-Ha Butterfly Butterfly……. 16 6 12
20 The National Terrible Love NE 1 20
19 Grinderman Worm Tamer NE 1 19
18 Skunk Anansie Over The Love 25 2 18
17 30 Seconds To Mars Search And Destroy 21 4 17
16 Carl Barat Run With The Boys 13 5 13
15 Jimmy Eat World My Best Theory 10 11 1
14 Sleigh Bells Infinity Guitars 24 2 14
13 Young Guns Weight Of The World 15 4 13
12 Plan B The Recluse 11 6 10
11 My Chemical Romance Na Na Na (Na Na Na Na Na Na) 7 6 2
10 OK Go White Knuckles 6 6 3
9 Biffy Clyro Booooom Blast And Ruin 12 3 9
8 Alice In Chains Lesson Learned 14 2 8
7 Clare Maguire Ain’t Nobody 5 4 5
6 We Are Scientists I Don’t Bite 8 5 6
5 Killing Joke European Super State 3 8 1
4 Tinie Tempah Written In The Stars 2 5 2
3 Frankie And The Heartstrings Ungrateful 4 6 3
2 Two Door Cinema Club I Can Talk 9 4 2
1 Hurts Stay 1 4 1