Up. Face like Marty Feldman passing a golf ball-sized gall stone. Hair like the rough surrounding a municipal golf course in Kabul. Voice like the dimpled ball from a Daly drive ricocheting through a Madame Tussaud hall of mirrors.. Morning.

Up. Face like it’s been used to remove Artex. Hair like the clumps Sarah Ferguson will have torn out this morning. Voice like the sound of cement being mixed. Morning.

Up. Face like a constipated gargoyle. Hair like it was pressed flat by a truck stop diner’s rusty waffle iron. Voice like Nigel Farage on his first full day in Hell, being rogered by the red-hot telegraph pole Satan playfully calls ‘The Brexit’. Morning.

Up. Face like a marzipan pizza left out in the rain. Up. Hair like a quilt made from the wigs of three Boney M tribute acts. Voice like I'm in skin-tight lederhosen, recovering from a boot in the baws by Kendo Nagasaki. Morning.

A STATEMENT FROM THE ESTATE OF DAVID F ROSS LTD: Out of respect for our founder’s ‘death’ (in 2002) today’s Up / Mourning has been cancelled. He died (apparently), trampled to death by a horde of bagpipe-playing marchers during the NYC Tartan Day Parade.

This is an amazing book. A real testament to Dan Jennings interviewing style, making everyone (especially Paul Weller) feel completely comfortable and relaxed in recalling stories and events that bind them to the life-affirming impact Paul’s music has had, and continues to have.

There’s a possibility this news might be overshadowed by the Trump UK vacation, and Oti’s debut novel, but…. nonetheless, it’s USA/Canada Publication Day for @orendabooks.bsky.social THE WEEKENDERS; a book about the unholy alliance of wealth and power, strangely enough. Oh say, can you see?

Up. Face like an innocent golfer accused of aiming a 3-wood at a deluded moron. Hair like the moron’s divots, collected as evidence. Voice like a gaggle of gormless gophers giving FBI witness statements under caution. Morning. *misty memories of the way we are.

Cool time @bloodyscotland.bsky.social this weekend. Also nice to hang out with the @orendabooks.bsky.social squad for a wee while. US & Canada Publication Day for The Weekenders tomorrow. Off to California next week to try and find myself, so to speak.

Up. Face like Marty Feldman reflected in a concave Rolls Royce hub-cap. Hair like a cottage thatched with Bobby Charlton wigs. Voice like Russell Martin facing a paintball firing squad coached by Nico Raskin. Morning.

Up. Face like the remnants of an impromptu prison riot. Hair like a single milk-sodden Weetabix slowly sliding down a beige wall of flaking eggshell paint. Voice like a drunk Peter Mandelson dictating CV edits to ChatGPT. Morning.

Full house @bloodyscotland.bsky.social for the BRILLIANT In the Shadows of War panel with Jacky Collins chatting to Alan J Parks, Dom Nolan and our own @dfr10.bsky.social 🔥

Today 2pm @bloodyscotland.bsky.social

After a contentious debate lasting well into the night, today’s ‘Up/Morning’ has been prorogued. The Hair lost yet another vote of no confidence, and the Face and the Voice have both resigned*, leaving their constituencies facing by-elections. *but still draw the salary

Trying to comprehend the amount of times ‘Will Harry meet Charlie?’ will be posed by Royal-obsessed journalists during the coming days. I’m guessing that if the phrase was bricks and mortar, Prince William could cure homelessness with it.

THE WEEKENDERS @bloodyscotland.bsky.social This Friday 2pm bloodyscotland.com/event/in-the...

Up. Face like a bucket of papier-mâché, dropped from the top of the Blackpool Tower. Hair like the hastily shredded deeds to a hastily bought Clacton home. Voice like Andrea Jenkyns’ constipated karaoke turn. Morning.

Up. Face like a destitute dermatologist’s carpet. Hair like a scarecrow’s intestines. Voice like Salmonella raging through a yodeller’s convention. Morning.

So chuffed to have contributed some thoughts to this amazing book. Dancing Through The Fire @paulwellehq.bsky.social Written by Dan Jennings Out on Thursday paulwellerfanpodcast.com/paul-weller-...

Up. Face like it's been rattled full on by a Mitre Mouldmaster 5*. Hair like Catweazle's skanky dog. Voice like Betty Boop on helium. Morning. *an old style 70s moulded football with dimples and ridges. Sore as fuck! Not the latest hip-hop/grime sensation from Brooklyn Heights.

Up. Face, Hair and Voice like a repurposed Nadine Dorries resurrected and reborn as a recycled recalcitrant asking ChatGPT ‘how much does a Reform UK groupie earn?” Morning.

Given all the justifiable criticism aimed at the Tories for their self-interest and total lack of empathy whilst in Government, you’d think Labour politicians would’ve known they’d have to be above reproach in both regards in order to rebuild public trust in political leadership.

Up. Face like a frustrated ‘cuddle therapist’ confined to permanent lockdown in Siberia. Hair like a homeless Billy Ray Cyrus. Voice like Geddy Lee running barefoot across a festival stage made of flaming hot coals. Morning.

Up. Face like Fatty Arbuckle’s twisted melons (man). Hair like the inside of Larry Blackmon’s codpiece after a lock-in at a sauna. Voice like the mad ones in Liz Truss’s head that tell her ‘The comeback’s on. Throw your cat in the ring!’ Morning.

A fantastic, balanced piece of writing about a complex and often contradictory individual, written such that it perfectly mirrors the national context that Nicola Sturgeon’s memoir is set against. Brilliant by @danigaravelli.bsky.social

Up. Face like Quasimodo’s sex gurn. Hair like Giant Haystacks’ lifetime collection of belly button fluff. Voice like Transfer Deadline Day devotees following yet another descending window of discontent. Morning.

Up. Face like the ridged, prolapsed surface of Uranus. Hair like it has been combed by a medieval plough. Voice like air being forced out of an official ‘#Trump2028’ commemorative whoopee cushion (RRP: $199). Morning.

Up. Face like Bob Todd locked in a fast spin washing machine cycle. Hair like Top Cat being tasered by an itchy-fingered Officer Dibble. Voice like the cast of a Haribo advert wrap party, high on super-strength Calpol. Morning.

BREAKING: THE ANSWER TO EVERYTHING…. Updated, since I shamefully fielded a couple of ineligible doublers. Jimi and The Small Faces called off the bench. Hope this tactical fuck-up hasn’t spoiled your listening pleasure. Dx music.apple.com/gb/playlist/...

Up. Face like the burst open contents of a ‘Carbonara-in-a-can’ supermarket aisle stock collision. Hair like 1G AstroTurf trimmed by a blunt-bladed combine harvester. Voice like a gallimaufry of simultaneous groin strain sufferers. Morning.

Made a playlist of my favourite music and before I knew it, it’d reached 250 songs (only 1 per artist*) But that’s okay because no matter what fucked-up shit is happening THIS IS THE ANSWER TO EVERYTHING. Hope you like it, and let me know what you think I’ve missed. music.apple.com/gb/playlist/...

Up. Face like an Iggy Pop skin peel stretched across a pin cushion. Hair like the base of a half-cut hamster’s cage. Voice like a busted carburettor on a 70s ice cream van being pursued by the Carlton Cops for selling Sherbet Dope-Dabs. Morning.

Up. Face like a Michelangelo test sketch of a cherub, discarded for being too unfeasibly beautiful. Hair like the cut Stuart Armstrong’s wants to be when it grows (up). Voice like Mahalia Jackson’s and Caruso’s had a vocal baby. Good morning, all*

Up. Face like minced beef malleted into the shape of Ailsa Craig. Hair like the detritus from a blocked washing machine filter. Voice like the collapsing scrum of a naked Twister final held in the back room of a Barrmill boozer. Morning.

Up. Face like a Sunday League keeper, caked in the dogshit mud of a 9-0 defeat. Hair like the baldy, puddled goalmouth he’s rooted in. Voice like the thunderous blame of 18 spectators … 10 of them wearing the same strip. Morning* *Normal service resumed. Co-pilot sacked.

Jesus…! That’s better than anything I could do. A.I. has made me redundant right in front of my own eyes. A sad day for the Marty Feldman Appreciation Society.

Up. Face like Broxi Bear running barefoot across a pitch of hot coals. Hair like the waste bin of a backstreet electrolysist. Voice like a drunk Baillieston budgie called Boab. Morning.

Cubist architecture

Up. Face like Nigel Farage’s pre-ejaculation sex grimace. Hair like it was permed by Greg(g) Wallace’s rusty food mixer. Voice like a Swiss yodelling convention suffering a botulism outbreak. Morning.

I worry that I could be posting this annually until the end of (my) time.

No amount of satirical fiction could match the calamitous start to the season that #Rangers have made. Unless you count… THERE’S ONLY ONE DANNY GARVEY Shortlisted for Scottish Fiction Book of the Year 2021: The incredible story of the greatest fall and rise in football history.

Dig this👇🏻 @bloodyscotland.bsky.social 12th September 2pm The Golden Lion with @domnolan.bsky.social @alanparks.bsky.social and Jacky Collins There might be pyro………

Up. (Slept in…) Face like Elon Musk being anally probed by angry Martians with ‘STOP THE SMALL ROCKETS’ placards. Hair like the tangled cables of a Polyphonic Spree gig. Voice like a hiccuping Foghorn Leghorn. Morning.

Up. Face like a constipated Mick Jagger, laxatives providing no satisfaction. Hair like the shredded first drafts of ‘Frankly’. Voice like the pain of a Mitre 5 free-kick bursting a wall of piles. Morning.

Up. Face like the front grille on a rusting 1970s Vauxhall Velox. Hair like it was crimped by a faulty waffle iron. Voice like Tom Waits gargling Castrol GTX and broken glass. Morning.

Up. Face like a fresco of Marty Feldman pained by a stoned chimpanzee. Hair like a wig made of tufts of 1G AstroTurf recovered from a skip. Voice like a hungover SAT-NAV proposing to a disinterested ALEXA. Morning.

Up. Face like MacArthur Park, melting in the rain, all the sweet green icing flowing down... Hair like a used Brillo pad. Voice like a stoned Sid James singing Edelweiss. Morning.

Up. Face like a child’s Etch-a-Sketch doodle of Greg(g) Wallace. Hair like a burnt stash of his out-of-date Pot Noodle recipe. Voice like JD Vance on the cludgie after a Cotswolds night out of multi Vindaloo and Vat 69 cocktail chasers. Morning.

Exam Results Day … a staple of breakfast tv scheduling. Underwriting the flawed idea that personal value is wrapped up in the ability to memorise enough stuff to pass a test on a given day. But don’t worry, a hotline is available for those who fail. Education as a driving test.