Beef Punk

As the volume of life's seasonal coke advertisement (The Holidays Are Coming!) steadily increases and the celebratory atmosphere conjured by recent Kylie TV and BBC Doctor Who In Need trundles inevitably towards its anticlimactic crescendo, it's time for a quick run-down of recent events that were more edible than a finger lickin' chicken stuffin' sandwich.

With the shocking news that the Co-Op has hired the only man in the country with an accent that can rhyme 'good' with 'food' ringing in our holes, we gathered up all our strength & bits and carefully followed the comics & booze snail-trail through London. We happened upon Kate Moss's Hall of Bush to witness this year's bout of topical Radio 2 comedy, featuring Richard Herring-Not-Hammond & the cruelly discarded, former narrator of 'Celebrity' Hairdoers. This episode featured Rudyard's folly, blasphemous virgin-baiting and an oogedy-boogedy, anti-Semitic slip of the teeth.

Back in Bournemouth the fractured psyche of Bill Bailey took our minds off the horror of Leona's endless bleating sheep. 'Unforeseen circumstances' in Salisbury meant our light supper of folky troubadours was cancelled in favour of a warm buffet of Elizabethan racism. But all was saved by the fabulous and well gay Mika bringing his green love to Wednesdays everywhere. We could all be green, as the big golden angel opened the show from her egg. The evil honk made her presence felt with added xylophone. Big, inflatable girls were indeed beautiful, if a little wonky & handy with their elbows.

Tune in next week for the first, exciting instalment of the Albums of the Year saga.


Currently listening: The Movie by Clare & the Reasons

Kate Moss presents: The Beetroot Lift Incident

They are calling, bellowing, even, below the knee. Through the gloomy, day-for-night light, She approaches with her outstretched hands full of colourful, cow treats. Underground, a suit paired with an earring appears to scream 'estate agent'. Armpit to armpit, 'beetroot' is a funny word when abruptly mentioned in a moving room. 1'6d for a pint of whelks, governor. And then. I fell foul of an unexpected step.

A random, anemic Tom sidles into view at Amy Winehouse's favourite bar, the glow of his white face reflecting in the pretty trails of duffel coat sputum. I smooth his fag and it arouses me. Faithful Fluffel rebuffs the consistent wineular advances and plumps for a hoegaarden. An aural blast of power courduroy booms from the top floor, as She looks up from her wood pulp home.

Mr UEA Norwich has a big head. The view of vampires is heavily restricted, until one last nasal explosion persuades the furry Shins into a spot of uplifting board treading. We cheer. It is not enough.

The drunky unLondoners vigorously discuss the evening's merits. Madonna is crowned the lady-King of Hammersmith, gobble gobble gobble. Her personal lady-bouncer brings an end to the proceedings by spicily pointing in the direction of the honk stop. It is the end of the road.

The haze of booze begins to clear and all that can be remembered are these few, short snatches of incoherence. They are my gift to you.


Currently listening: Cease to Begin by Band of Horses