New ways, new ways I dream of wires

You know something really fucking weird? I can still remember the names of all three members of And Why Not? thirty-six years after they failed to have anything significantly resembling a hit fucking single.

I may "retweet" this ad nauseam till the end of time.

I've never had nor wanted an Audible account and I fucking worked for them for six years.

You know, a bus home from Kennington on a Saturday evening is a really odd time and place to find out that Kissing The Pink put out a new album yesterday without anybody knowing about it. And when I say "anybody", I mean "me", obviously.

Jonathan Morris hits a new bar of wrong.

The joy of a young reader who knows how to pronounce "lieutenant".

The shirt is not the issue.

Sturm "Phew, My Leg Hurts" Graz.

What do you know, Morgan Gibbs-White agrees with me.

It's for my team and even I think that's not a penalty in any sane world but here we are.

Trying to work out why Forest can't wear red and white against a team all dressed in black. Given this is on a day on which was revealed yet another Scotland strip with blue fucking shorts and blue fuxking socks I'm aware I'm shouting into a void but AAAAAAARGH

Can we just have the prick stripped of oxygen? That will finish off any doubt.

I'm not saying Brendan Rodgers has Hearts on his coupon. That would be actionable. What I'm saying is that if that story ever leaked in the fullness of time, I would not struggle to believe it.

I really should remember to only go to Union Chapel between March and September.

Leeds United and Scotland forward Arthur Graham.

Fuck me, is that real? It looks like some shit off of Babylon fucking 5. In the name of Christ.

Anyone told the stiffy joke?

That's the first inkling I had Harry Maguire was even in Liverpool today.

If the referee would only gather the two captains just after they've tossed the coin and tell them "a single one of your tosspot players waggles his finger at me, he's off and so are you*, the practice could be stamped out in a weekend.

A fine afternoon for the first Brave of autumn.

Frog on chair.

My phone just played me Not If You Were The Last Junkie On Earth which I cannot possibly have heard this century. There's a thing.

Control yourself. Love is all you need.

If anything, that was better than the results against Spain or Norway.

We are somehow 3-1 up. We should be two down. I can't believe what I'm watching. Fuck me.

Still, at least Gareth Bale is losing. I know he's not there any more, but they need a much longer period of apology than that. And possibly to send diamonds and blow jobs direct to my front door.

Bless him for many things, but the notion that Kenny McLean is one of Scotland's big hopes from the bench is bringing back massive Tosh McKinlay flashbacks.

I see where Rangers have sacked their manager at half nine on Sunday evening.

Every now and then watching football in this pub, on comes one of a short collection of Sainsbury's ads filmed literally across the road.

I just did three gigs in three nights, the middle one of which (and only that one) was in bloody Liverpool. All was great but I am, not to put too fine a point on it, way too old for this shit.

Well, tonight. Let it be my night.

Oh God, I want to sleep for ten hours, like I used to be able to. So much.

Still, at least Liverpool got it up the wrong 'un.

All referees should have been shot at birth.

In whatever that trailer is with Stephen Graham is, he looks like Mr Smart off or Grange Hill.

Surely the perfect solution is to set fire to all Lime bikes, ideally with a rider still atop.

If you vote for Reform, if you think they have a point, if you are even considering voting for them, you're a racist. No excuses, no exceptions. Fucking sick of it. Own what you are.

The (very) lesser-spotted A New Morning fanclub gig t-shirt...

Another day in studio - it's been a long time since this specific thing happened - with a reader who gave me profuse thanks for my endless patience. I told him he should try to help me convince my family and friends of that...

I have never, for a fraction of a second, given one fuck about immigration.

Shed Another Six.

The sole useful thing about that cunt who got shot is enabling you to see what cunts to block. Wahey.

Make a band singular: Ultravoc.

I'm very conscious there's a ten year old Arsenal fan in the pub just as I call the referee a fucking arsehole and tell him to shove his whistle up his fucking arse.

Charlie Kirk's widow has spoken out publicly for the first time since her husband's death. "I came so hard, it hit the lampshade."

Brian McClair

A yard is not a measure of either time or velocity.

There's a subset of people, mainly English, who seem to be terrified of a fairly standard "a" vowel sound. Rawlston. Capawldi. ??? Call them by their actual names, it's not difficult or uncouth.

I always vocally insist that I listen to albums all the way through, but my faintly weepy response to the second and (especially) third albums by A Flock Of Seagulls just now suggests it may have been longer than it should...