Up. Face like I've just heard a new Anthrax LP. Hair like a brushed-up bucketful of Rod Stewart’s torn out extensions. Voice like Chewbacca chewing crack. Morning.

Looking back at SLR 2025: 1 single and 10 albums. 9 new releases, 1 comp, 1 reissue. 6 albums co-released with awesome labels/pals. 2 stellar debut albums, 1 fantastic reunion. 1 flexi, 4 tapes, 0 minidiscs. Counting the days to 2026! slumberlandrecs.bandcamp.com

Up. Face like a course of unanaesthetised root canal treatment. Hair, cut by a blunt Edward Scissorhands. Voice like Barbapapa with burst piles from a fall onto an upturned rake. Morning.

Up. Face like the Ghost of Christmas Brexit. Hair like a glue-lacquered Greg(g) Wallace in a feather-filled wind tunnel. Voice like Michelle Mone’s conscience. Morning.

Up. Face like Zelda from Terrahawks after a ten-hour sauna session. Hair like a Trump-style combover of loft insulation quilt recovered from a Saltcoats skip. Voice like a helium-high Joey Barton guesting on Loose Women. Morning.

Up. Face like 340 million residents realising their country has been renamed ‘Trumpica’ overnight. Hair like Lady Liberty’s strands reshaped into a concrete orange combover. Voice like the redacted howls of protest dubbed to chant ‘Hail To The Thief’ Good Morning, America.

Up. Face like a rearranged Jake Paul jawline. Hair like the swept-up remnants of a Love Island aftershow party. Voice like a latter-day PPE Medpro investor. Morning.

There’s a kind of Caligula-type spiralling descent that Trump is displaying now, isn’t there? That whole ‘one of us’ mentality, but the ‘us’ is getting smaller by the day. Only the truly mad cultists or the self-invested back-stabbing opportunists are still about now, right?

Up. Face like a pug-nosed 60s bankrobber sheathed in American Tan. Hair like a typhoon-ravaged Arizona cornfield. Voice like Satan's bagpipes heralding the impending incoming of DJT. Morning.

Up. Face like....ach, fuck it! You leave everything lying at your arse. You never replace the toilet rolls. And the milk carton has a lid for a reason! Fill in your own description in the space provided. Face: Hair: Voice: I’m sick fed up having to do everything for you. Morning.

Up. Face like an Egg McMuffin made by a disinterested work experience trainee. Hair like a 60s free love festival. Voice like the sound of a mini tactics board being crushed by a refuse compactor. Morning.

Up. Face like a child’s papier-mâché balloon head, dusted in vermicelli. Hair like it was crimped by a Wyoming waffle iron. Voice like a stag party of drunk SAT-NAVs tying the SAT-NAV groom-to-be to a cargo ship and turning off his GPS. Morning.

Up. Face like Infantino after making 2000 ‘number not found’ calls. Hair like the ragged tawes of an overused ‘70s schoolteacher’s belt. Voice like the one in Pete Hegseth’s hidden earpiece screaming “Stop fucking talking … YES/NO answers, remember!?” Morning.

Sad news about Frank Gehry. Met him in Meier’s office in New York in the late 90s. Magnetic, charismatic personality. And a creative genius, obviously.

Up. Face like a plasterer’s radio. Hair like the Barshaw Bridge FC pitch, mid-January. Voice like Frankenstein being chased from his zero hours contract job as a lollipop man by red-faced, pitchfork-wielding English nationalists because he sounds ‘a bit foreign’. Morning.

Up. Face like a frazzled White House intern stapling a ‘loopholes for liars’ appendix to the Geneva Convention. Hair like an oil/sweat/booze-soaked Hegseth presser. Voice like a deluded Trump denying knowledge of boats. And drugs. And Venezuela. Morning.

Monorail turns 23 years old today. Thanks to all our customers here in Glasgow and across the world - we're honoured to still be your record store of choice. Love and gratitude from Stephen, Dep, MK, Russell, Lauren, Emily, Mark, Laura and Lizzie.

Curtis - debut solo album from Curtis Mayfield, heralding a series of great albums. My number 1 #5debutalbums7074

Disco Fall Islands Welcome Only Dead Weekenders T-shirt idea.

Up, Face like a condemned Shortlees single-end. Hair like a scarecrow's intestines. Voice like a decapitated draw-string Action Man. Morning. Today's 'Up' was brought to you by Horlicks; the evergreen route to a good night's sleep for terror-addicted insomniacs everywhere

Up. Face like a drunk, ah-say drunk … Foghorn Leghorn on a magic mushrooms trip. Hair like a Branch Davidian membership’s PUNGENT shower drain blockage. Voice like a lapsed WeightWatchers celebratory orgy. Morning.

Up. Face like a condemned 60s brutalist concrete high rise. Hair like the neglected wig of a faded 70s light entertainment star. Voice like 80 E-riddled kids yelling 'No-one quite like Granma'. Morning.

Up. Face like a failed Biactol prototype experiment. Hair like the sweaty remnants from a Free Love Festival. Voice like a leper’s bell. Morning.

Up. Face like a melted Grateful Dead picture disc. Hair like the inside of Larry Blackmon’s codpiece post-sauna. Voice like a Yorkshire gurning champion celebrating with a Highland Chew. Morning.

A soulless, heartless fuckwit. Imagine this balloon governing what the public can watch. Never has the phrase ‘politics is showbusiness for ugly-hearted people’ had a more apt example.

Up. Face like the ones Stephen King dreams about. Hair like it was cut by a combine harvester driven by Ted Kennedy. Voice like an Action Man drawstring doll with a wonky Chic Murray vocal. Morning.

Up. Face like Marty Feldman superglu’ed to the front of a Japanese bullet train. Hair like a sweaty oxter from the first Summer of Love. Voice like Nigel Farage being fired across the Channel from a giant catapult (broadcast live on the BBC). Morning.

Up. Face like a Donald Trump police mugshot collage spliced together from different federal charge sheets. Hair like half-eaten Toblerone peaks. Voice like my defence lawyer when he reads the first sentence. Morning.

Up. Face like a Tutankhamen death mask made of marzipan. Hair like strings of Ken Dodd’s used dental floss. Voice like Donald Trump drowning in an impartial and finely balanced vat of chocolate orange-flavoured spray tan. Morning.

The BBC being held to a completely different standard than other media outlets by that paragon of honesty and integrity, Kelvin McKenzie. That said, a monumental cock-up to have allowed Trump and all these arse-licking liars to claim a morale high ground.

“I used to make drawings…”

Up, Face like a Petershill pizza dusted with the fag-ash of a hundred Embassy Regal. Hair like a Dennistoun deck access washing line. Voice like a dirty Hieland whelp (Nickety nackety noo, noo. noo) Morning.

Up. Face, Hair and Voice like Marty Feldman escaping (to victory) from a Barlinnie Special Unit by crawling the length of Hampden Park through a six-inch sewer pipe connected to the local community outfall during a prolonged widespread dysentery epidemic. Morning.

T-shirt by @weare1of100.bsky.social Sentiment by The Bluebells Graphic by Robert Hodgens Smoulder … model’s own

Up. Face like a toddler's Etch-A-Sketch portrait of Marty Feldman. Hair like it was made out of grey Sticklebricks. Voice like a dial-up modem. Morning.

Up. Face like the losers in an 18th Century Yorkshire gurning competition. Hair like a hill of discarded 1G AstroTurf. Voice like Quasimodo going at it over an etching of Esmeralda. Morning.

Up. Face like a haemorrhoid's hangover. Hair like an unwound C-90 cassette tape. Voice of the Windsor Town Crier proclaiming the Royal eviction like a devastated crack-addled busker waiting for his man. Morning

Up. Face like a Halloween pumpkin carved by Stevie Wonder. Hair like a bunkered Trump, devoid of mirrors and Cossack. Voice like Danilo’s dad after a triple Harthill tray bake. Morning.

On this day in Up/Morning history.: Copyright theft as Twitter’s AI trolled me with my own tweet. It was an Interesting development. ‘In case I missed it’…!? I fucking wrote it, mate!

Up. Face like a prison riot. Hair like a Parkhead skip overflowing with cut-price January Sales regrets. Voice like a 70s ice cream van being crushed in a squeaky compactor. Morning.

Up. Face like a rusty Honda Civic wrapped around a Gorgie lamppost. Hair like a fistful of mouldy cheese strings. Voice like a macerated carburettor. Morning. *’A Fistful of Mouldy Cheese Strings’ the new LP by the Macerated Carburettors. Out now!

Eight albums www.davidfross.co.uk/eight-albums/

Up. Face like a well-skelped arse. Hair like a lank 70s mullet sieved through a colander. Voice like the sound of teenage dreams being ripped at the seams. Morning.

Up. Face like Marty Feldman as the Turin Shroud on a Dennistoun dishtowel. Hair like a topiary Mohawk. Voice like thin ice cracking under the weight of Prince Andrew’s dishonesty. Morning.

Up. Face like it's gone ten rounds with the Raving Bonkers. Hair like a broken second-hand Ker-Plunk circuit. Voice like the aftermath of a Buckaroo boot in the chankers. Morning.* *script reveal for the new John Lewis Xmas Ad Campaign (Song: Dead Kennedys ‘Too Drunk To Fuck’)

Up. Face like a charred Haribo pizza. Hair like a Vietnam forest after a napalm strike. Voice like an acid-infused Freddie 'Parrot-Face' Davies. Morning.

Up. Face like the newly-born child of Hagrid and Zelda from Terrahawks. Hair like the shredded tape from an unwound C90. Voice like an angry drunken budgie, squawking abuse from a verandah in Springboig. Morning.

I’m gearing up for the Glasgow Print Fair at @thepyramidg38ds.bsky.social on the 25th October. I’ll have this Brutal Glasgow print available, with some concrete inspired totes, tea towels and prints. It’s the print event of the year!

Up. Face like Plug from the Bash Street Kids, seeing his reflection in an oily puddle. Hair like a sheep-dipped 80s mullet. Voice like the Smash robots digging up a King Edward. Morning.