What's The Haps With The Chaps? Envelope Us! News to Come of Hugs Past Hear the Sounds of Breaking Omelettes Friends of Hug The Gospel According to Hug


Insidious Junk Box

Tired of self-important genetic wrong-turns moidering on about what's rocking their Carricot this week/month/lunch-hour?

Well, here's some selections eating into our ears right now.*

Yaaard - Odem EP (UF Records)
Magic Arm - Make Lists, Do Something (Switchflicker)
Dead Mellotron - Ghost Light Constellation (MySpace download)
Super Furry Animals - Dark Days/Light Years (Rough Trade)
Yeah Yeah Yeahs - It's Blitz! (Polydor)
Kate Bush - Never Forever (EMI)
Vivian Girls - Vivian Girls (Mauled By Tigers)
Bat For Lashes - Two Suns (Parlophone)
The Horrors - Primary Colours (XL)
Dj Scotch Egg - Drumized (Load)
Zomby - Where Were You in '92? (Werk)
Section 25 - From The Hip (Factory)
The Chap - Mega Breakfast (Lo Recordings)
Titus Andronicus - The Airing of Grievances (XL Recordings)
Passion Pit - Chunk of Change EP (French Kiss)
Diplo/Santogold - Top Rankin' Mixtape (Mad Decent)
Benga - Diary of an Afro Warrior (Ammunitions Promotions)
Ragga Twins - Step Out (Soul Jazz)
Daft Punk - Homework (Virgin)
Yeasayer - All Hour Cymbals (We Are Free)
Grizzly Bear   - Veckatimest (Warp)
Godspeed, You Black Emperor! - F#a#Infinity (Constellation)
The Good, the Bad & The Queen - Eponymous (Honest Jon's)
Neu! - Neu! 75 (Virgin)
Black Dice - Repo (Paw Tracks)
Black Dice - Load Blown (Paw Tracks)
The Nightjars - The Nightjars (NJR)
Various Artists - The Future's Bright ... The Future's Cloudy (CloudSounds)
Project Polaroid - Eponymous (Threshold)
Benge - Twenty Systems (Expanding)
Cut Copy - In Ghost Colours (Modular)
Boom Bip & Dose One - Circle (Mush)
Mogwai - The Hawk Is Howling (Wall of Sound)
No Age - Nouns (SubPop)
Deerhunter - Microcastle (4AD)
Animal Collective - Merriweather Post Pavillion (Domino)
Primal Scream - Primal Scream (Creation)
Pit Er Pat - High Time (Thrill Jockey)
School of Seven Bells - Alpinisms (Full Time Hobby)
Stereolab - Chemical Chords (4AD)
Sebastian Tellier - Sexuality (Lucky Number)
Japancakes - Loveless (Darla)

* Self-depreciation: she come easy; humility takes a little more work.

Haps with the Chaps

hammers on myspace

group hug on myspace

hammers on FACEBOOK

Previous Haps
March to May 2005
June to August 2005
September to December 2005
January to March 2006
April to June 2006
July to September 2006
October to December 2006
January to March 2007
April to September 2007
October to December 2007
January to December 2008

Europe Cowers Under Vague Odour of Cheese

7 Mehefin 2009, 21:54 - Taurus Heights, West Deadsbury

Footrubs in the afterlife all round, yeah?

Once more we are nibbling the English Channel, leaving little Hammer toothmarks in the chalk, tiny orange turds in the tangy reservoirs. But the iron content will be lower this time round, as world-renowned vegetarian MC CocOen, he of the impressive prehensile liver, will be trekking down on his tod. On his TOD!!! He will climb the infinite ladder of success as far as oxygen will allow, clutching an iPod in his knotted fist, before diving like a Japanese blowtorch into the crowd below. It will be a thin crowd, so casualties will be minimal.

His excitement palps even further at the thought of the Dream of All The Talents along which he will perform. Firstly, Talibam!, who sound not unlike the complete history of rock music being kicked out of a kamakaze helicopter into a vat of excellence. All kinds of noises, thoughts and inspirations minced together into a blood pudding of genius. There's a trio of BoMo's finest jazz-minded, impro-thunkers (who were originally called Future Crystal Vision, I think), including the glistening drool of the Boy/Stump, Yaaaaaard. Listeners will be expected to crane forwards on their bleeding knees, tongues out as if for the wafer, feeling the burn of the recreational noise acid turning their tastebuds to meatballs of pain. Finally, Alpine Lager is a sharpened splinter of noisenik bullyboys, Sunshine Republic. Sounds twitch with a geiger fear, every tiny metal tension amplified to an nth degree squared. My bowels growl forward to it.

And there are some stubborn Hampshire farmhands that won't move their tractors off the Green, but we won't give them much publicity.

Vote love, people!

Religious Headlines Symbol Of Decline In Brainstem Activity

25 Mai 2009, 08:45 - Taurus Heights, West Deadsbury

Crushing individual braincells against the wall of reality will only get you so far, my friend!

Another CitySwap successfully negotiated. If we thought that we were tickled like gods when we played FutureSonic, what with the decent sound and friendly atmosphere and newly-won audience, we knew nothing! They are still scrubbing rose petals from the tarmac on the M5 near Michael Wood services. It was like being in an actual band! We were paid actual folding, paper money! We were given rock&roll hotel rooms, which we shared with our girlfriends and preceded to trash by leaving towels that we hadn't even used in the bath-tub, and occasionally farting. The bar has been raised; but not so high that we can't still order drinks. We even got free food.

Bristol too was warm and inviting. Dr Lou has now decided that she will drive Coc down there to lodge amongst its rolling academic hillocks like a reluctant, shitty-tailed lambling. When we finished playing, not to jump the gun too solidly, we were taken to a charmingly run-down bar called Mother's Ruin with its distressed carpets and its cheeky wee upstairs disco and its barstaff's facial topiary. Further drinking did nothing to dampen our collective enthusiasm for the place. We even ate very bad chicken.

But enough of this travelogue! What of the gig itself? A weirdly boutique affair, truth be told. The crowd was a strange mix of Shameful! extremely posh types (including a dickwad blunderbuss of a man in RayBans entitled Dom that was a self-proclaimed ex-geek and Master of the Universe who congratulated us on our sixth-form "cleverness") and some crustier-looking musically-curious types. Initial negotiations with the soundman were a little fraught, as he seemed a bit bogged down in his ideas and experience. Or perhaps that was only Coc's fragile ego-creaking, as he made some kind of crack about singers? The velvet cushions twitched with our showbiz pulse that night, however, and we struck all the right poses. There was pieces of admiration sticking all over us. Some stunned member of the public approached us and told us how sweet and natural and personable we were as a performative experience, and who were we to disagree? We were the fucking band!

It was effectively a greatest hits set, bolting the mammoth twenty-five minutes we'd been peddling of late together with a tattered scrapbook of fading classics like "Moon in Aries" and "Peanut Butter Zombie". We even managed to stitch in some semi-improvised "Harmony" into the back end of the set. Everything we touched turned to Hammers, it felt. Take a look at our Facebook page for more evidence.

It was all so beautiful and sunny, hangovers left almost all of us completely untouched. All but Ringo. His diaphragm got some work out. Coc & Lw steamed on (slow puncture included) to Royal Leamington Spa to smash more pub quiz free beer. Loopol & J-Ko headed to the surf. A shining weekend that stretched from Friday lunchtime to Tuesday morning.

Now Hammers rest a wee while. But June has a CocAttack instore.

Eat your fucking belt, yeah?

God Weakened By Tricky Philosophical Virus

19 Mai 2009, 18:05 - Taurus Heights, West Deadsbury

Scent of smoke burning hard into his notrils, the polyBuddha took aim at the streets below and splattered them with his ravenous puke, chunky with pieces of talent and criss-crossed with cable-like hairs of inspiration.

Mixed streams of news trickle from the drains this week, chums. Due to overcrowding of calendars, there will be no new wooden stage in the Green Crafts Field from Noisy Logs this year, and therefore no Glasto Hug. Hrumph! (Though to be fair, Coc is so close to falling out of his own dusty pockets that he wouldn't be able to keep himself sufficiently doused in Brothers Pear anyway.)

Futuresonic was some princely shit, however. Not only did David "Peggy" Sue have us highlighted as the "Gig of the Week" in City Life that afternoon, but we felt a warm, fuzzy fellowship that put us at our ease. We boiled with Mad. As. Cheese. (Not pictured).charm, we fizzed with relaxicity. Technology wove towards us like a drunken wedding guest, left us stranded over  the high watermark once or twice. Footage has been captured and is being kept alive on a YouTube life support machine. So you can take a look at it there, if you like.

We drank deeply from the draught of being pleased with ourselves. Snowflake were also ace, including using one of those tenori-on things that Little Boots has. Silverclub were a sleek wee bunch of bastards as well, silvery liquid oozling into little metal buckets, which then powered a small mill grinding the everyday gristle into party powder.Shmoo sounded like an eighties Porsche hugging the corners in a synthesizer factory during an episode of "Tomorrows World". And they're nice guys, those Newport brothers. And we didn't get them closed down by the Noise Police this time either.

Bristol next! Wire up the horses!

Zombie Jesus Tipped For Success

13 Ebrill 2009, 12:51 - Hammer HQ, Manchorlton

"There ain't the stone cave built that can hold me," laughed the Christ.

We are crossing all of the organs we have in and around our bodies that are longer than they are wide in the hope that the gods may ignore our jibes about the Christlkind and grant us a patch of the green fields at Pilton to spread houseband Hammermagik across its quivering blades. (Some sentence, eh?)

Lord Ringo has committed his proposal to the etherweb only a day or two ago, only a fortnight or so after the deadline. CocOen has tapered his jobless vacation plans to fit in a state visit to G-land on his return from Portugal and just before he needs to sign on. Loopol has been gutting Easter car boot sales for Kate Bush, The Cult and Roxy Music vinyl to sharpen his aesthetic senses. Master Egg is scraping together the drugs fudge from under his fingernails to get the blood pumping round his Midsummer synapses. As a loosely-dangled collective, Hammers have been exploring new musical avenues - a bit dubby here, a bit afrobeaty there. There's a song about maggots doing their work experience at the Treasury in there somewhere, but we haven't needled it out yet. There is a song we made up on Spy Wednesday called "Jelly Moulds" that we're quite pleased about.

Anyway, the point is this. We propose that all Hug-fearing individuals put their teeth to the leather and ask their local councillors to tilt any relevant bribes in the direction of the Fates. Glastonbury is plainly in need of our softly-worded juju, snagging the stone-hearted pill casualties as they drift toward the stone circle and filling them with the shining glory of polite middle-class noodling. And we're going to be in a nice big yurt specially constructed by Noisy Logs, our semi-Hammer brethren, who will co-ordinate the beasts of the field to complete the construction. Oxen raising the ashen shafts, woodlice rolling in tiny pieces of carpet, squirrels at the velvet rope.

And now that Ringo has slipped from his twenties, we are really old and need hope... Will you be our sugar-cousins? Group Hug for Glastonbury! Group Hug for Glastonbury! Get out your prayer beads, and chant along! Group Hug for Glastonbury! A platform for whoever wanders past, powered by human movement (via a lorry battery).

Hail to the Keith!

Surge In Tweed Sales As Dalai Lama Moves To Rutland

29 Mawrth 2009, 03:11 - Hammer HQ, Manchorlton

In which your heroes set light to the stars and drink the salty seas to a shimmering puddle.

There was a point last night, where we Hammers feared for our ability to stare down insalubrious circumstances. Heap after heap of steaming indie land-fill had rolled down the hillside, direct from the semen-scented bedrooms of the Unabrowed. One lumped knuckle after another was brushed against guitar-strings. One Stella-ravaged vocal chord after another vibrated meaninglessly, firing us impossible orders to dance to their slumping sludge. The hands-behind-the-back shuffling was as relentless as a pulsing ocean of nuclear waste, the discarded syringes bobbing up and down in chorus. It was so bad, Loop and Coc skipped over the road to Playtime to take a look at what the Bohemians were up to. We were shocked to observe that Ginger Joel had undergone a significant haircut, and looked quite the Hip-2B-Squared. There was some shouty big-lady-voice indie riffola from Birds v Planes, but it wasn't quite our specialist subject. We returned to the sweaty Abode with heavy hearts. But we need not have worried so much.

We'd been described as an "oddball electronic/poetry/pop party Gestapo" and what tiny Anti-Heckler Juice Libation reputation we enjoyed had been sketched out in opposition to anything that sounds a bit Quoasis-y. There were sound problems, which meant Goatboy couldn't really hear himself at any point; but by the time we took to the corner of the room (and stood behind some massive, shiny new bass-bins, which we tried really hard not to bust with our sonic magnificence) our artsy posse had established themselves and the majority of the neo-Mods had fucked off to New Brighton sands. The mood was good. Coc's voice kept within the bag, and the lone toothless heckler was dealt with such suave pleasantry that he clamped his gob within a couple of tunes. We fuzzy felt the auld sense of improbable victory, and the gates of perception were swinging from their hinges. Complicated handshakes were exchanged with new Hammerfans, and The Canteen told us we were welcome any time, even if we had cut down their closing DJ set to naught but a tune or two.

We've been horribly ungrateful in our description of the other bands to be honest, we know that. But it's a therapeutic outpouring, you understand? You can find out more about The Canteen here. It's only been trucking since the year turned 9, so a few more months of shaking itself like a polaroid picture should result in some interesting developments.


Credit Crunch Fucks Moose In Car Park

22 Chwefror 2009, 12:16 - Hammer HQ, Manchorlton

Break out the jim-jams, motherlickers!

Antifolk, Antifolk, Antifolk. Whisper the word three times in the mirror, and Hermes Trismegus will appear, carve his initials into your quivering pelvis and pin you to the wall with his human cannon. Or somesuch. But before the he/she godling leaves, she/he will lean into your ear and whisper a terrible tale about the time the Cymro-Norman hybrids swept down from the high country and laid waste to the cramped cafes and grubby newsagents of the Charing Cross Road.

London has been reduced to a smoking ruin once again by our terrible wrath. We gripped the attention of those peepers and lugholes with our unique brand of bad jazz/folk/hip-hop/punk/spoken puke fusion. We were a stage packed with Welsh John Cooper Clarkes, noodling on bass guitars, pushing out the warped funk and the needling think. Sweat dripped from every cabaret-infected pore. Tendons stretched to tearing point, as we muscularly shepherded discordant genres into a happy whole. Unfortunately, our blazing trail along the FutureMusik autobahn slid into the gravel track with another burst voicebox. This is becoming tiresome, my young Jedi. Perhaps some poodle rock voice coaching is in order. Maybe I should send a distress pigeon to the waddling heart attack that is Meatloaf. We're just short-changing the kids, you know?

It was a highly illustrative trip however. Not so much for the music this time, as we played the cunt hand very heavily and spent the entire pre-set period drinking and chatting with seldom-seen friends in a room with a pool table. And it was nice to travel there and back in the same vehicle again, rather than helicoptering in with our girlfriends and wives like the crownly-princed supergroupsters we am't. No, the extra dimension came from a visit to a studio in Ladbroke Grove (a scion of the Londinium geographical cult based in a clay-line basin close to the continental European states). There we met with one Jamie T and his producer (an eEat my dripping cunt, Augustus! rstwhile Snowdonia-rambling chum of the many-headed Polyteknikon by the name of Tom Stanley) and whet our brainbuds with a taste of the limp regime of the recording lounge. Tom seemed one of nature's gentleman. Apparently, he formerly engineered for Stephen Street, and is now rolling up a significant chunk of Chewits in a respectable ball of a portfolio. There was even a guy to make the tea, though he didn't seem to be watching the correct amount of porn to be doing his job properly.

Tom slapped on the demo that Loopol had been slaving over in his Wilson-esque way in the front room at Apple Tree Studios for days and days. "It Dont Matter Know" and "That Fat Little Emperor!" were played and deemed "bonkers". It didn't sound too bad, truth be told, but no copy was requested, and no sweaty management company has 'phoned us in the last few hours, promising to make us the next Bay City Rollers. Tears have soaked our collective pillow over that; you can only imagine the volume of them.

Then it was just time for an overnight stop at Big Willy's, friend of Cassetteboy on the Champion Hill in Camberwell, and a spot of pub cricket on the bus back to Bloomsbury, where the police had pulled over the Hondamaschine "shit-heap" and shown us a weirdly corkscrew subterreanean parking place where we wouldn't offend the neighbours.

Perhaps not the usual intellectual spoils from a trip to the Capital, but always more than worthwhile nonetheless. That stuff about a torched district of the West End was indulgence of the old poetic jazzmatazz,, you understand.

Flame on!

Jeff Bridges Starts Second Career As Industrial Dentist

13 Chwefror 2009, 12:40 - Taurus Heights, West Deadsbury

Gum up your hippy mouths, ya fucksticks, and herald the hoover of the Lord!

Gwyneth Paltrow is an attractive woman. Scarlett Johanssen is a devastatingly beautiful woman. Tom Hanks is a dough-faced aberration. One of those kids are doing their own thing; and so are we Hammers.

With Coc currently taking multitasking to new depths, simultaneously doing no work for no pay whilst also doing nothing of any real creative worth, Delicate Hammers are reaching out across Offa's Dyke, touching fingers to the fronds and mossy beach-heads of the home country. Wales. Wales is the country to which we refer.

Another night of playing music in the long-established band format, this time at the newly-located wellspring of the burgeoning Trof empire, situated off the student hump in Fallowfield. We were supporting visiting Cardiff scenesters and all-round nice wrestlers, King Alexander, who recommended that we try and get in touch with some venues in Cardiff about a triumphal return to the Land of Our Mithers. They were noisy and cute and clever and sounding a bit like Young Knives if they'd come from Olympia, WA, and their CDs had penises drawn all over them, which you might not have expected. Who could've expected that? Apparently they are only intermittently involved with Clwb Ifor Bach and all that stuff, but if there's ever anyone wants to see women playing music in Wales, their cords are tugged. Them and Katherine Jenkins presumably. That was the chat.

Our own set went OK. We were a little like caged mammoths, blaring our tusky cacophony in the face of some quiet drinkers. Even the cabaret lounge stuff didn't so much go over people's heads as shockwave their scalps off. It took an age and a day to get the monitors working, but Trof is a nice wee venue. Hope we draw straws there again someday.

Isn't it your time for Fiddler's Green?

Love Letters To God Found In Disused Portacabin

1 Chwefror 2009, 16:15 - Hammer HQ, Manchorlton

The anoraks are dead; long live the anoraks!

Before time rolls the boulder shut on another Hammer escapade, please allow us to describe the events of the Blowout just gone, this last Saturday at the Irish Centre.

We were effectively headlining. We had set aside a full forty minutes or so of tunes with which to entertain and appal those assembled. We shat muddy rainbows of hopeful expectation after our wall-to-wall media coverage on the preceding Friday. Coc in particular felt foreshadowed and a little brow-beaten by his own appearance in the MEN, stalked by shadowy images of knuckle-sweeping Dry-lizards bellowing their love of Those Unabrowed Fucks From The Lumpen North.  The guys at Blowout thought our landfill-taunting was hilarious, chortling on the bus as we offered to publically separate The Courteeners from their shoulders. We were itching to pump open some large balloons, and were hoping we'd enjoy an audience to match. We hoped a tiny legend would be born that night. We were the secondmost successful performance on the night.

First prize, a trip for two to Weston-super-Mare incidentally, went to these young shining buckstags, The HeebieJeebies from Rotherham, England. They had the kind of jumping jive that the Kidz want these days. They were scruffy and hairy and skinny, but not in that annoying way that tossbags in the high street do it. There was that small African flavour that leaks everywhere these days, but I couldn't hold that against them. It was understandable that they might be standing on the shoulder of Monkeys; but they wore the trackie tops lightly and with energy and fun, and - why do I feel as though I'm writing some kind of end-of-term assessment on some glossy-eyed adolescent?

On the other hand, Yer Hammers didn't quite clinch the many-fingered prize as adeptly as we'd hoped. There's something about hanging around for ages before you play that we haven't quiet gotten the smell of yet. There's some thread that we haven't teased out yet, that we haven't been able to throw out to the adoring audience and draw them in when we play for longer than a few tunes. Are we a novelty comedy band? Questions, questions - raining down. Blowout was another one of those nights - there were icy cool patches were we piqued the interest of the Tuborg-quaffing masses, but there were fogs too. And the words dried up a little, formed an unprotective skin on top. That rarely happens, and it never helps.

So we look to the seagull-splattered horizon again. Later this month, we slip into the dry dock at The 12 Bar again as part of the Winter Anti-Folk Festival. Thundering down the M1 we will be. We'll tear those downtown sophisticates a new arthole, we will.

Watch for the smoke signals.

Man Found Morally Undermined By B of the Brown

24 Ionawr 2009, 16:15 - Hammer HQ, Manchorlton

Dark cherry centres swirl about the yoghurt with evil intent.

Every eighteen months or so, Mistress Fortune approaches your shiny Hammers and offers us some shiny bright jewel. In 2006, it was Rob da Bank, his ponytail obviously tied a little too tight. In 2007, we pranced about outside Hammer HQ and had our picture taken alongside an article for the lustily-headlined South Manchester Reporter. 2008 kind of slipped us by a little, as we continued to scratch out some gigs (some good, some excellent) and record more music that is waiting to be mixed. Now, in 2009, we make our entrance on the Manchester Evening News stage. You can read all about everything here.

We're not sure we quite agreed with everything David Sue had to say about us. We're not quite sure that we agree with everything David Sue said that we had to say about us. "Kings for the night"? Sheesh, and sheesh again, our brothers. But the spite we spit, buddies, is genuine; the acid we keep behind our tongues to swill all over our enemies, The Cunteeners, Twisted Sister Wheel, Quoasis, is still rotting away our blunt, grey fillings. When will we get to clear our throats? We are Iron Men! We've got fat troughs in the palms of our sweaty hands, slowly dripping lines of history. Our private jet has pulled in on the tarmac, but we are still waiting to tumble out and kiss the black stuff before climbing into our HumdrumVees and plunging the thumbs back in our puckering arses. The momentum will fade away again, and it has always faded away.

But in the meantime, we have at least a small amount of history to stow in our tiny treasure chests. The Fiction Non Fiction gig went none too badly, though unfortunately The Generalissimos were absent, due to the Gaz 500 blinding himself in one eye either with a tiny bit of metal or a haemorrhageous hangover, depending on who you believe. The Yellhounds played the usual dirty junkyard blues that middle-aged men with interesting facial hair spend hour after hour perfecting in overly-ventilated garages. Then they go out and find some funky hat to wear or something. So we'll forget about that.

Only Those 1,2,3,4s (or The One Thousand Two Hundred And Thirty-Four Ess, as my Abode Speakmistress calls it) fulfilled the inches that their promise pinches. Past escapades had been a little within the orchestral pop boundaries, but The Tiger Lounge perhaps had wallpaper that inspired clearer ideas. The backline thumped and crashed with a Zeppelin pomp. Vocals rippled smooth and sweetly over the top. All clicked.

As for us, I managed to keep my vocal box in one piece, there was some drinking. Our latest tune "Donkey Duty" went pretty nicely. And we appreciated all the practice we'd got playing "It Dont Matter, No" over and over again for some recording at Grey Larry's last October. Shit was tight.

Allah be correctly priced.

If Delicate Hammers Played in Dartmouth, Massachusetts...

20 Ionawr 2009, 15:03 - Hammer HQ, Manchorlton

Pardon us while we plaster on a false consciousness and plough through all this one more time.

We've all heard the rumours. A superintelligent race blown down from the stars like dandelion seeds, priming the earth below to belch furiously forth with the horrible, horrible future. We know how this story smells, and it sets the thick hairs standing up at the back of our knees.

Well, maybe this time we'd do well to believe. OK, so the eyes of the world are on Washington DC right now. Maybe that is exactly the moment that our watchful prodders into glory have been waiting for. A watched kettle never shifts between shimmering dimensions, does it?

Maybe the real revolution happens in the elsewhere. Maybe the fly-bloated, cash-sick, hope-strewn corpse of Mancunian creativity is the real maggot-bed for future wriggling life. Why not think about that for a moment or two?

In some ways, a great many of the auld voices have fallen silent over the fading years, blood in their wallets and puke running from the pockets of their retro-parkas. They are the mods, are they? Club them all to death with Ghanian sculptures, with million year old eggs found deep in the permafrozen Himalayan stretches! Show them the broad and mighty palm of this, our universe; let it flick their tiny ossified skeletons and rush our their innards into a broken champagne stain, a fleeting discoloration on the impassive flesh of time ignoble.

Here is the future! Here! Look! In the pages of City Life this Friday (23eg Ionawr) and on the bent wood of the Tiger Lounge tonight. We are the true Obamas; we are the big Kahuanas! We are Delicate Hamas! We are the tanks they sent into Tianneman Square to clear up all the chairs that got left behind after that big meeting everybody had in 1989, all those smashed femurs they used to build the Olympic Palace. We are the Tuborg-soaked velveteen curtains at the Irish Club, dripping with juju and boncontent.

So, go and take a gander, point a goose at City Life on Friday to trace the patterns of the gravy stains on our minds. Go and see Hammers smash the air about them together with shimmery pop experiments The 1234s, hairy terrorists in the pay of punky chaos The Generalissimos (now with added Ted!) and the enigmatic Yellhounds at Fiction Non Fiction tonight at Tiger Lounge. Go and witness another Blowout blowing out, taking our shredded faces along with the rest of the collaterol damage.

Alternatively, if the laws of time and space and inertia prevent any of this from happening, please have a listen to the latest Cloudsounds podcast, which is here and opens with another beautiful twist in our melons, "Cloud Sounds Jingell". And, let's be honest, it is a far-reaching and staunch outpost of the emissary of good taste and bitter thinks.

There are no pictures yet, but the "Manlier Sparks" will rise again.

Kiss, kiss. xx