soweold

I saw Philadelphia last night for the first time. It wasn’t planned, I’d just eaten a vast quantity of roast pork, roast potatoes, broccoli and gravy and there it was, on, and with shit all else available I let myself go. For those of you that haven’t seen it, and I should imagine that applies to the most of the remaining few of you that still read this crap, it’s about Tom Hanks catching the AIDS and losing his job and suing his employers. He dies in the end. Look, I’ll level with you, it had me in tears but it’s no way as good as the French original, Boursin.

I’d met up with Frank earlier; I walked to the pub in the most horrendous thunderstorm and walked back in sunshine. It’s burning hot this morning. English weather eh? You couldn’t make it up. Though the fucking BBC weather forecast does. According to them, as I type this, it’s ‘light showers’ yet the sky is bluer than a Swedish skin flick and it’s hotter than Darfur.

Despite the day at the office, demoralising and dull, I went to bed feeling rather chuffed. There is now a big red ‘sold’ sign outside my gaff and on my desk is a letter from the buyers solicitors explaining that things are moving ahead. It looks as if I’m finally free of that prehistoric arsehole who dwells below me and not a moment too soon. In all fairness he’s been much quieter since he got smacked about after gobbing off to some kids on the streets of Sarf Landan but because he’s less idea of hygiene than a shit-eating sewer rat the communal hallway which leads to our respective front doors hums like a hookers flannel.

Oh, an apology to those that heeded the news last week of a new podcast on WWM, basically, Swineshead, Napoleon and I did record one last Thursday but sadly, for technical reasons, it wasn’t good enough for broadcast. We’re having another shot at it tomorrow evening.

I’m thoroughly enjoying the new album by the way…