Monthly Archives: January 2011

mortgag

On Wednesday IC and I met the mortgage broker in a bespoke fasthotlunch eatery for office types. Spurning the speedy pasta dishes and virtually-instant hot sandwiches we three sat down for coffee in our stark, plastic surroundings and went through the relative paperwork.

The broker, wider than The Grand Canyon, was a friendly cheery type. He came highly recommended via a friend of IC’s and within minutes we had a deal pretty much nailed down. After more positive banter I could feel the weight evaporating off our shoulders as if hot breath on a cold January morn, say.

That evening, with knitted brow and the first drink since Sunday, I got to work scanning the necessary documents and sending them over to the broker for the morning. It took me about 2 hours to sort, when done I began to relax a bit, but not that much.

During work yesterday a few more mortgage-related questions arose and were dealt with pretty much on the spot. All was going rather well until a solicitor called and quoted me the wrong figure for the purchase of the intended gaff, it was wrong by about -70k. Turned out that I’d fucked up when filling out a form, instead of giving the purchase price for the intended flat I’d given the purchase price of my shit-hole in Sarf Landan.

I immediately informed the broker who seemed a little disappointed by this revelation but reassured me that it’d be okay anyway, though I wasn’t entirely convinced.

Without putting too fine a point on things I’m sat here with my guts in knots trying not to chew off my fucking knuckles with a hangover, of course.

Chart, (fucking lovely (sorry about the bloody advert)) choon, Help.

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE Last Week Weeks On High Pos

30 Hurts Stay 23 15 1
29 Frankie And The Heartstrings Hunger NE 1 29
28 British Sea Power Living Is So Easy NE 1 28
27 Hurts All I Want For Christmas Is New Year’s Day 17 7 5
26 Neon Trees Animal 30 2 26
25 The Vaccines Wreckin’ Bar (Ra Ra Ra) 18 8 6
24 Adele Rolling In The Deep 24 6 9
23 Black Keys Tighten Up NE 1 23
22 Bullet For My Valentine Bittersweet Memories 14 9 5
21 Beady Eye The Roller 29 2 21
20 The Naked And Famous Punching In A Dream 15 6 15
19 Band Of Horses Dilly NE 1 19
18 Courteeners Scratch Your Name Across My Lips 10 11 2
17 Architects Learn To Live 22 2 17
16 Martin Solveig ft Dragonette Hello 19 3 16
15 Pendulum Crush 16 4 15
14 Chapel Club Surfacing 20 2 14
13 Mona Trouble On The Way 7 8 4
12 Nero Me And You 12 5 12
11 30 Seconds To Mars Hurricane 11 5 11
10 PJ Harvey The Words ThatMaketh Murder 26 2 10
9 Funeral Party Finale 8 4 8
8 Motorhead Get Back In Line 9 5 8
7 Chase And Status Blind Faith 6 5 6
6 Two Door Cinema Club What You Know 13 3 6
5 Crystal Castles ft R Smith Not In Love 3 11 1
4 The Vaccines Post Break-Up Sex 5 4 4
3 The Pretty Reckless Just Tonight 2 8 1
2 The Wombats Jump Into The Fog 4 6 2
1 White Lies Bigger Than Us 1 8 1


slipereedodar

IC’s return a couple of weeks ago coincided with a vicious week at work, in which I was forced into going to my workplace more regularly than anticipated after I declared myself self-employed last year. It’s fucking dreadful, Johnston just isn’t up to the job of going through the city (all the stop/starting plays havoc with his little clutch) so I’ve been a-forced onto la transport publique.

As I may or may not have mentioned it’s not as time consuming as it was before I began using the overground from Hackney Downs, it’s just labour intensive, expensive and in part, enough to inspire bum-shedding terror. In order, 5 different trains (overland, tube, tube, overland, tube) about 10 quid there and back and the central line from Liverpool street to Bank is more overcrowded than a Hajj chod bin. This part of the journey is more harrowing than thought of seeing Susan Boyle’s perineum. One has to quite literally key oneself into what spaces that exist between commuters shoulders and hips, once there breathing becomes theoretical. It’s so bad, in fact, I’d rather be flying with Ryanair, at least they’ve got wine and mini chedders.

But not even this is the worst part of public transportation. Allow me to indulge you. I’m going to anyway.

You may be aware that the whole of the network system involves bespoke flooring surfaces, whether it be that highly polished granite stuff at Waterloo, Liverpool Street etc., or that bizarre (shiny) thick linoleum stuff in tube and (most) overground trains. When dry it works like a floor, but the merest splash of rainwater, or piss, vomit, and it’s like walking on ballbearings. A few years I watched a bloke in a suit slip on the floor at Wimbledon and trip over the ‘Caution. Slippery Surface!’ sign they erect to prevent litigation. Obviously I laughed and pointed because he looked like a fucking tool, but that was before one of my vertebrae in my lower back decided to burst. Anyway, so long as he was hurt.

Not so funny when it happens to oneself. I don’t need to fall base over apex, just the slip/prevention act will see my spine snap out of shape like an MP’s whip. Over the past few years I’ve grown accustom to walking about the transport system as if coming home from a night underneath Uncle Monty, but I wasn’t expecting the sole of my trusty Converse to open up at the front and bite the corner of the stair I was about the place under my foot at Hackney Downs.

I lurched forward at the angle of a slash mark and managed to bring the delayed foot onto the following stair which only served to retain my unsustainable angle. I managed a couple more stairs before they ran out, at which point I was propelled at great speed into an oncoming wall. Since then I’ve been hobbling about the place like a geriatric with peeled ginger up his arse and my wrist feels a bit, well, broken.

Still, it’s not all bad, at least we’re not about to be chucked out on our respective ears a couple of months before we get married, eh.

Check out these cunts!


blurbiton

That bank holiday evening pretty much set the precedence of the week IC was away.

Tuesday was blander than a nuns knicker drawer, so on Wednesday I met up with my bro again and we repeated the Monday’s excesses, though this time without eating a kebab horizontally. Thursday was spent in splendid (hungover) isolation but on Friday I caught up with Mr. Dodo who was in town for a couple of nights.

Unfortunately the only convenient place in which to meet was Surbiton, a place too close to my folks with mixed memories of days past. Like most small towns, Surbiton retains a sense of artificial-nostalgia, its non-progressive, it grasps onto the past unwilling to let it go in case something awful happens to it. Like multiculturalism, god forbid.

Save the new odd shop and minus the occasional building it remains as if locked in the 1970’s, or 60’s or fucking 30’s for all I know, or care. Within this stale dynamic the people also seem unchanged; as always, a palpable sense of sexual frustration and the real possibility of random violence prevails. You may not believe me if I were tell you that there is more of a chance of an unprovoked kicking in Surbiton than in somewhere like Dalston, but really, there is.

The only good thing about the place was a boozer called The Southhampton by the station, it was a bikers (with small ‘b’) pub and had the occasional live rock band. The Southhampton used to be a hotel and once upon a time my granddad managed it, but that’s a different story and not one for here. Of course they got rid of it, I’d already skipped town when they did, and turned it into something completely nondescript. I passed by it on my way to the chosen venue for our meeting without evening noticing.

Dodo and I arranged to meet in the Wetherspoons, the fact this was the best choice says more about Surbiton than the above ever could. In fairness though, it’s a large attractive building with a homely interior containing a range of tasty and very moderately priced beers, but it’s still a Wetherspoons. It still has Wetherspoons men in it, all fat, all bald, all soul-grindingly lonely. All white.

I watched them for a while waiting for Dodo to arrive. One man per table, all silent, all drinking, all staring out the rain-lashed window. Occasionally one would go outside for a fag (Mayfair) all the while nervously glancing indoors at his solitary pint like a greasy, grubby Meerkat. By the time Dodo arrived I was considering cutting my throat with a shard from my empty glass.

Despite all this, we had a splendid evening, we took a long, steady while to catch up and cheerfully recalled past days in this minor part of South London. After we parted I rolled back to town feeling cheered by seeing an old mate, the knowledge IC was home the following day and that every second that past the further away I was from That Place.

Since then things have been tickety-boo, or rather they were. Honestly, I’d just being saying to IC last Sunday how I thought we’d finally settled into our gaff when I get a phone call from the landlord on the Monday serving us notice. With reference to my last post this is as about as convenient as first-date Diarrhea and I’ve no idea what the fuck we’re going to do. In addition to this I also learnt my ex-council reckon I owe them £1000, and believe it or not, due to one thing and another, they’ve a leg to stand on, apparently.

Chart, tune, mah…

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE Last Week Weeks On High Pos
30 Neon Trees Animal NE 1 30
29 Beady Eye The Roller NE 1 29
28 Arcade Fire The Suburbs 22 7 14
27 Pulled Apart By Horses Yeah Buddy 20 10 1
26 PJ Harvey The Words That Maketh Murder NE 1 26
25 Fenech Soler Demons 29 2 25
24 Adele Rolling In The Deep 16 5 9
23 Hurts Stay 18 14 1
22 Architects Learn To Live NE 1 22
21 My Chemical Romance Sing 15 7 11
20 Chapel Club Surfacing NE 1 20
19 Martin Solveig ft Dragonette Hello 26 2 19
18 The Vaccines Wreckin’ Bar (Ra Ra Ra) 13 7 6
17 Hurts All I Want For Christmas Is New Year’s Day 8 6 5
16 Pendulum Crush 23 3 16
15 The Naked And Famous Punching In A Dream 19 5 15
14 Bullet For My Valentine Bittersweet Memories 9 8 5
13 Two Door Cinema Club What You Know 24 2 13
12 Nero Me And You 17 4 12
11 30 Seconds To Mars Hurricane 12 4 11
10 Courteeners Scratch Your Name Across My Lips 5 10 2
9 Motorhead Get Back In Line 11 4 9
8 Funeral Party Finale 14 3 8
7 Mona Trouble On The Way 4 7 4
6 Chase And Status Blind Faith 7 4 6
5 The Vaccines Post Break-Up Sex 10 3 5
4 The Wombats Jump Into The Fog 6 5 4
3 Crystal Castles ft R Smith Not In Love 3 10 1
2 The Pretty Reckless Just Tonight 1 7 1
1 White Lies Bigger Than Us 2 7 1


nupchewlz

All these bloody priests (actually, they’ve all been rather nice, not one of them has tried to touch me downstairs) and the simple fact that ‘Piqued’’Priests’ don’t really sit that happily side by side, has sort of given the game away. A few knew already, a few guessed… I’m making an honest woman of IC in May before she gets deported.

Of course that’s not true; one of the Priests did try and grab my balls.

So far we’ve got a reception venue (it’s the place we had lunch on my birthday as it happens) and a church in which to do the whole ‘I do’ bit. I’d have been happy with Hackney Town Hall but IC’s family wouldn’t have been too impressed, unimpressed in a horses- head- in- the- bed way, so I thought I’d pop my post-theist sensibilities aside and take the Catholic thing on the chin (anyway it’s not as if there will be any divine retribution and besides, I quite like the church idea, it’s tradition innit).

Outside of wedding stuff, since returning from Italy, things have been rather busy. We were home late on the 28th and did a second Christmas with my family on the 29th (very nice, there were no arsehole uncles and I could understand everyone). The 30th was a quiet day with IC, we had dinner in the evening, and then New Years Eve was on us. Instead of watching London skies catch fire from the balcony we made a weak decision to meet up with some pals, first to Paul’s gaff nearby which was perfectly fine, then off to some pop-up club under a dismal arch in Bethnal Green.

In fairness it was okay, I knew most of the people there, it wasn’t too packed but we weren’t really in the mood. There was also the small matter of the availability of wine.

I can do beer, of course, but it has an unfortunate side effect (apart from making me fart). It may have become apparent over the years that one thing I excel at is drinking. But way before I opened my bowels to the few bods that read this, I undertook the decision to cut down on beer in favour of wine.

These days if I drink more than 5 pints of beer, my legs get all pissed, whilst I can be okay from the waist up, below, I’m moving around like Julian Assange. This meant that by midnight I was scooting all over the place like possessed wheelchair but my head remained relatively sober. IC and danced a bit, made our way round the club to say hello to our pals but by 2.30 I was actually in danger of falling over, a good time to call it a night and get the night bus home, farting. Of course, once there we stayed up a little while longer successfully ballsing up New Years Day in the bargain but we were okay in the evening for a few rounds of Shithead with my brother.

On Sunday IC, Mary, Patti and I went to Shoreditch to investigate a few sales, I bought a shirt but my heart wasn’t in it. IC was due to bugger off to Malaysia in the wee hours and I was already mourning her absence. We had a final drink in a cocktail lounge that evening and at 3am she was bloody gone.

The week that followed was predictable enough, though I wasn’t expecting the cock-up that was Bank Holiday Monday. I’d arranged to go to an autojumble with dad in Newbury so I boarded Johnston, who took fucking ages to kick start, and then promptly ran out of petrol before I’d made it to the A3.

I walked to the nearest petrol station (about 30 mins away) bought a can, filled it, trudged back to the bike, filled that, discarded the 10 quid can and carried on to my folks in the freezing wind. After arriving at realising my new exhaust pipes didn’t bloody fit we set off in the car for the hour and half journey to Newbury race course. As we arrived it began to snow and what stands there were began to pack up, but only after we’d paid a tenner to get in. It was even worse inside, a few lousy bikes, one of them a Yamaha TDM (which is about as classic as a Jim Davidson joke) and stands selling ‘I’m with idiot’ tees. Diabolical, we had chicken pasty and fucked off home. Needless to say, that evening I got paralytic with my brother, I deserved it.

Thought it best to work from home Tuesday.


vick

The church was very beautiful. But as IC and I weren’t there as mere mortal sightseers I couldn’t help feel a tad anxious, I’ve heard some very distasteful things about these Catholics and I wasn’t overly happy being guided to some sort of inner sanctum after our entering via heavy studded doors, doors that faced the vast glittering alter. The alter of sacrifice. Shit….

We entered a crepuscular chapel-sized room lined with walnut panelling on which hung violent, moody, antique paintings featuring celestial trauma; all close to being masterpieces in their own right, just not quite. Our silent pilots invited us to sit at a large oak table under the pained gaze of a 15 foot high sculpture of Jesus getting knacked on the cross at Golgotha, now this piece was very nice indeed, I wonder if I could sneak it out…

The doors at the farther end of the room creaked open and a priest stood black in the doorway, candle light flickered from behind, he approached, he looked like a short, fat Count Dracula but more pissed off. Christ, my garlic…

Malevolently eyeing IC and I up and down as he arrived at the table I considered making a break for the holy water in the font… but it was too late. The priest sat down, down his arse went. Down towards the depths of hell.

Nice bloke as it turned out, we chatted a while then left for home and roasted rabbit and polenta, knackered by the day we took ourselves off to our (bloody respective) beds quite early and slept like the dead. (But just before I fell asleep it occurred to me that it was 21 years since I was 21. I was a little bit sick in my mouth then I fell asleep.)

On the penultimate day we drove towards the mountains to visit IC’s uncle (not the non-related fart from Christmas) but her late dad’s brother who I like, I hasten to add. He lives with his missus and son who has a young family of his own. His kids, bar one 7 year old, and his wife were off visiting other relatives so it was just the 7 of us.

IC’s Uncle, aunt and son (and his wife as it happens) are all doctors; they run a pharmacy which is sort of attached to the side of their house. The pharmacy shut at 1pm so we all went off to a local restaurant for lunch. It was highly recommended I had the tagliatelle with ragu for primo and duck for secondo. It was, of course, ridiculously good, and I managed to get a few (local) wines in to boot.

A few hours later we arrived back at their house, sated, and it was here I recalled, to my joy, they all smoke. The men favour pipes while Auntie smokes cocktail fags. After a period of conversation and a few smokes, IC’s uncle walked me to the drinks cabinet and invited me to help myself, smashing bloke, and his brandy was smoother than a fairies tights an’ all. Magnifico.

Last part of this balls next week then its business as usual, as it were. Here, take Gerry’s chart and a tune before fucking Vevo (who the fuck are they? I though youtube was free) disallow it.

THE CHART – WEEK ENDING: 15/01/11
NO ARTIST SONG TITLE Last Week Weeks On High Pos
30 Skunk Anansie Over The Love 24 11 5
29 Fenech Soler Demons NE 1 29
28 Manic Street Preachers Some Kind Of Nothingness 26 8 6
27 Paramore Playing God 20 8 9
26 Martin Solveig ft Dragonette Hello NE 1 26
25 Japanese Voyeurs Milk Teeth 22 7 10
24 Two Door Cinema Club What You Know NE 1 24
23 Pendulum Crush 27 2 23
22 Arcade Fire The Suburbs 18 6 14
21 Beady Eye Bring The Light 17 7 5
20 Pulled Apart By Horses Yeah Buddy 12 9 1
19 The Naked And Famous Punching In A Dream 21 4 19
18 Hurts Stay 14 13 1
17 Nero Me And You 25 3 17
16 Adele Rolling In The Deep 10 4 9
15 My Chemical Romance Sing 11 6 11
14 Funeral Party Finale 19 2 14
13 The Vaccines Wreckin’ Bar (Ra Ra Ra) 8 6 6
12 30 Seconds To Mars Hurricane 15 3 12
11 Motorhead Get Back In Line 16 3 11
10 The Vaccines Post Break-Up Sex 23 2 10
9 Bullet For My Valentine Bittersweet Memories 6 7 5
8 Hurts All I Want For Christmas Is New Year’s Day 5 5 5
7 Chase And Status Blind Faith 13 3 7
6 The Wombats Jump Into The Fog 9 4 6
5 The Courteeners Scratch Your Name Upon My Lips 4 9 2
4 Mona Trouble On The Way 7 6 4
3 Crystal Castles ft R Smith Not In Love 2 9 1
2 White Lies Bigger Than Us 3 6 2
1 The Pretty Reckless Just Tonight 1 6 1

(chose a non-Vevo version, that lot can cunt off)


birthfood

My day of birth got into gear with a splendid breakfast of parmesan and Ranchers (a savoury snack a lot like Frazzles but hardier, they’re excellent) and IC and I set off by car to the Lake of Garda and the venue for my birthday lunch, sort of.

It was drizzling when we arrived yet this did nothing to diminish the splendour of the desired location, the 13th century castle -almost a fairytale cliché- presided over medieval streets and buildings as the lake enthusiastically chewed the sea walls.

We took in the town; sublime doesn’t really do it justice (despite the damp atmosphere) and walked to the restaurant where we were booked for lunch at 1pm. On entering I knew I was out of my depth. The bright interior was lined with a pedantic designer distress that echoed a refined nautical polemic, within this, tables suffocated under rippling white- crisp linen that seemed to elevate the filigree silver perched atop. It was right fucking nice. Almost, but not too much.

We were greeted by three immaculate waiters; one took our coats whilst the remaining two directed us to our table by the window facing the blue grey water and distant snow-topped mountains. In unison they seated us and pulled in our chairs. If it wasn’t for the manager appearing with a beatific smile that I almost believed genuine I would’ve screamed the ‘f’ word and run out using the plural version of the ‘c’ one. That and the fact that all we were about to eat and drink would be free of any charges.

The manager was actually disarmingly likeable; he didn’t seem at all full of himself, despite his 3 Michelin stars, and he was very helpful in deciding what we might like to eat as most of the menu contained stuff I’ve ever heard about on BBC4. A wine list the size of a cathedral bible was bought over for a laugh (the cellar had bottles worth over 2 fucking grand) and we were offered a selection of different mineral waters. Really.

I’m positive the wine the manager chose for us was their common or garden house red yet it was sensational. Food arrived and was ceremoniously presented by two waiters who removed each cloche at the exact same time, it felt almost absurd (bearing in mind I was dressed like The Ramones) but what was revealed soon put pay to any of that nonsense. The food was frankly unbelievable, it should’ve been a £100 a pop yet we were eating gratis.

In all we had five courses, including two sweets. I’m not going to sit here and describe everything we had due to time constraints but let me put it like this, it was simply one of the best meals I’ve had. Actually if it wasn’t for the meal I had on my birthday last year it’d be numero one.

Each course came with its own wine so by the end of it I was feeling rather jolly (though IC had to take it a little easier as she was driving). The meal concluded with a torte containing a firework gushing silver, the plate bore my name written in chocolate and wishing me a happy birthday. Before we left I rather sheepishly asked the manager if he’d like me correct some of the English in the English menu. To say he was delighted is something of an understatement, in fact he was so grateful he insisted IC and I stay as long as we wished with unlimited Cognac as his guest.

But we couldn’t stay too long as we had an appointment with a priest, in a cloak, in a church.


feastor

The flight wasn’t too bad. I’m much better with this air/tube deal that I used to be, I’ve learnt that in-flight drinking and eating isn’t just essential, it’s a religion.

It was mid afternoon when we landed at Milan, we took the coach to Brescia and IC’s mum picked us up and took us back home. After washing up and a splendid supper of pasta (quite unusual this as it’s more common for Italians to eat this stuff at lunch) ham and fennel, IC and I decided it would be rude if we didn’t go out and greet some old pals, in a bar, like.

It’s worth noting that booze in Italy is far superior to the sorts of things on offer over here, except the beer and scotch of course. Italian beer is like fizzy petrol and regarding the latter it’s Chivas Regal (Scottish pus) or nout. The wine and liqueurs though, that’s another game entirely, and it’s remarkably cheap as you’re very likely to be drinking a tipple made locally. But the pressure to imbibe furiously is curiously (for me anyway) absent, for a kick off at nearly every bar you enter food will be available -half the time it’s complimentary- and because these places generally stay open until after 1am you can take your time, pace yourself (kinda.)

That evening we met up with Massimo and Fabio, the usual bout of non-comprehensible banter kicked off as I desperately tried to keep up with the conversation with the aid of IC. Despite this I was quite happy sitting there letting it, and the wine, soak in. After an hour or so I’d decided that I definitely liked these blokes and in particular, Fabio and his jumper. I mentioned this to IC, who mentioned it to the owner of said dark-red cashmere attire. Without a word the jumper was lifted off his person and placed in my hands. ‘Buone Natale,’ he said with a wink. I was dead chuffed. I’m wearing it as I type this crap.

We stayed until 3 drinking with Gavino after Massimo and Fabio left, it was an excellent evening all told, but took its toll on Christmas Eve morning when visiting the local Supermarket. It’s worth noting that Italian Supermarkets are far less commonplace than they are in the UK, shops there are more likely to be sole-trade product-specific -grocers, tobacconist, newsagent, butchers etc.- so the supermarkets they do have are markets with the emphasis on ‘super.’ I bloody love them.

In addition to being vast most of the produce is fresh, and in the case of the one in Brescia, stocked with a ton of locally produced items, from the cured meats, cheeses, to the wines and liqueurs with huge stocks of fresh meat and fish. For greedy buggers like me they’re a slice of heaven, and they’re so much easier on the wallet to boot.

We returned for lunch with the dongle to use on the PC IC had brought over from London and Skyped IC’s sisters in a snowy New York as we digested fresh fried fish. I read a while (‘The Atheists Guide to Christmas’ which had to have the jacket removed on account of the word ‘atheist.’ IC’s mum cant understand a word of English (you could say ‘fucking cunt’ to her face and she’d be none the wiser) but IC said that word would be translatable, and wouldn’t go down well in the Catholic household) and then she and I went out again to grab the last dregs of the Christmas shopping.

Before we went home for risotto at 9 we stopped for Apperativo, then it was time to go to Mass, the part of the holiday I was dreading for fairly obvious reasons. Christ, it was stultifying dull. To make matters worse all the bars had shut early so after mass we were forced to go home. After IC’s mum had popped off we played chess and enjoyed a few stolen glasses of obscure liquor from the drinks cabinet.

I was up mid morning on Christmas day, I took a bath and we headed off to IC’s Aunts place for lunch, a sprawling split level mansion in the hills. IC’s Aunt is IC’s mum’s sister; her short-arsed uncle isn’t a blood relative. He’s a very successful, angry little man who speaks to his wife like she’s the Ebola virus. When it first happened a few minutes after our arrival I thought he was joking, sadly he wasn’t. He was also tight on the booze, but the food that arrived for lunch was sensational. I must’ve eaten Old MacDonald’s Farm in the space of an hour.

There were 15 of us for lunch and despite uncle fester (and the lack of vino) it was a presentable afternoon, aside from the food the highlight for me was IC’s 92-year-old blind great auntie announcing she was pissed. What booze there was got necked by her Elphick-style.

We got back home and played a few board games and squeezed in a few glasses of wine before heading out to the favoured bar where we settled in with a few mates. It was a lovely evening, at some point I turned 42 and a load of fizzy stuff appeared, cheerfully smashed IC and I walked home with a balloon that had appeared in my hand.

Tune in to continue these barely recalled holiday ramblings, but first, why not peruse Gerry’s chart and take in a song after, it’s a stunner an’ all.

Good weekends all. Now fuck off.

THE CHART – WEEK ENDING: 08/01/11

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE Last Week Weeks On High Pos
30 Two Door Cinema Club I Can Talk 25 12 2
29 Kings Of Leon Pyro 27 7 14
28 Blood Red Shoes Light It Up 21 8 11
27 Pendulum Crush NE 1 27
26 Manic Street Preachers Some Kind Of Nothingness 19 7 6
25 Nero Me And You 30 2 25
24 Skunk Anansie Over The Love 17 10 5
23 The Vaccines Post Break-Up Sex NE 1 23
22 Japanese Voyeurs Milk Teeth 16 6 10
21 The Naked And Famous Punching In A Dream 23 3 21
20 Paramore Playing God 13 7 9
19 Funeral Party Finale NE 1 19
18 Arcade Fire The Suburbs 14 5 14
17 Beady Eye Bring The Light 10 6 5
16 Motorhead Get Back In Line 24 2 16
15 30 Seconds To Mars Hurricane 22 2 15
14 Hurts Stay 12 12 1
13 Chase And Status Blind Faith 20 2 13
12 Pulled Apart By Horses Yeah Buddy 8 8 1
11 My Chemical Romance Sing 15 5 11
10 Adele Rolling In The Deep 9 3 9
9 The Wombats Jump Into The Fog 18 3 9
8 The Vaccines Wreckin’ Bar (Ra Ra Ra) 6 5 6
7 Mona Trouble On The Way 11 5 7
6 Bullet For My Valentine Bittersweet Memories 5 6 5
5 Hurts All I Want For Christmas Is New Year’s Day 7 4 5
4 The Courteeners Scratch Your Name Upon My Lips 4 8 2
3 White Lies Bigger Than Us 3 5 3
2 Crystal Castles ft R Smith Not In Love 1 8 1
1 The Pretty Reckless Just Tonight 2 5 1