Go East


We will go our way.


We’ll never leave; no way.


In shit vintage Ray Bans.


We’ll buy organic brands.



We will ride our bikes.


We’ll wear jeans so tight.


We’ll start life anew.


That’s what the fuck we’ll do.


Go East!

Life is awesome there.

Go East!

The men have facial hair.

Go East!

Where the brogues are blue.

Go East!

And bring So Solid Crew.



We will wear shit hats.


We will all own cats.


Change our pace of life.


We’ll eat quinoa, not rice.


Go East!

Life is mental there.

Go East!

No need for underwear.

Go East!

Baby, you and me.

Go East!

We’ll eat some halloumi.


Go East!

Get wankered all the time.

Go East!

There is lots of wine.

Go East!

Bring a barbeque.

Go East!

We’ll wear shit jumpers too.


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Dear Easyjet


I wrote this last week while stranded in an airport. I’m sharing it with you as part of my healing process…

Dear Easyjet,

I hope this note finds you well, you deplorable bunch of orange shitheads.

As I write this, Easyjet, I’m stranded at gate E28 in Milan airport (you know the one: it’s like the world’s most depressing stationery cupboard). I’m stranded here because you had to divert your flight from London to Egypt, Easyjet, due to a minor technical difficulty.

Now, Easyjet, I appreciate these things can’t be helped, and as a nervous flyer – I applaud your dedication to air safety. But the story doesn’t end there, does it Easyjet, you horrible low-cost fuckface titbags.

Having made us all get off the plane, Easyjet, so you could monitor the minor technical issue (which apparently “resolved itself” as soon as we landed), around 200 of us have been sat here for four hours without food, water and most importantly: booze. I know what you’re thinking, Easyjet, you clever little “come on; let’s fly” bastards: why not nip to the bar or the pizzeria or buy some treats from the vending machine? Well, Easyjet, you dick, that would require Euros. And between the 200 of us, we have about as many euros as we have gold Wonka bars.

We are trapped here, Easyjet, like an infestation of mice in a KFC kitchen. We’re not allowed outside, Easyjet. We’re like Tom Hanks, Easyjet, in that shit film about Tom Hanks being stranded in a shit airport.

So as I write this, Easyjet, you diabolical orange knobheads, I’m about to visit the men’s toilets for a lovely refreshing cocktail of tap water topped off by the smell of piss.

I know what you’re thinking, Easyjet, you  wise old cuntpuffins: why not just ask the gate controller for a drink of water? Oh we have, Easyjet. Here’s what he told me: “I ask for water but they send me a bus.”

And to be clear Easyjet, you terrible low-price arse, there are elderly people, kids, and diafuckingbetics here, Easyjet; who are currently having the shittest holiday ever (not to mention my massive hangover from your overpriced shit wine, Easyjet).

But perhaps the most unbelievable thing about your behaviour today, Easyjet you prick, is the fact that not one of you are here to talk to us. You are hiding in some kind of Easyjet VIP lounge, Easyjet, like an even more orange cast of TOWIE.

Nothing has been easy about today, Easyjet. You should change your name to Hardjet, Easyjet. Or Big Orange Penisjet, Easyjet.

How spineless and unhelpful you are, Easyjet. What a big orange shit you are, Easyjet.

Right, must dash, Easyjet – I’m due another handful of toilet water.

Thanks for everything.

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Oh Twitter

The thing I suppose about being on Twitter,

Is you could be on Facebook which would be shitter.

But what sometimes makes me feel a bit bitter,

Is that interesting things happen in real life too.

Twitter is lovely,

Twitter is nice,

Twitter is tasty like hot egg fried rice.

Twitter is crazy,

Twitter is fit,

But outside the door there’s some pretty cool shit.

A hashtag is nice but it can’t hold your hand,

A retweet is cool but what’s cooler is sand.

A favourite is flattering,

A mention is great,

But it won’t poach you eggs or wank-off your mate.

Yes it is fun to see what is trending,

But riding a horse may be time more worth spending.

Yes, it is nice to do some top tweeting,

But would it be nicer to do Ronan Keating?

“WTF” may sound good but it’s no KFC,

“OMG” makes you smile but fuck, it’s not brie.

Follow-Friday is cool but I’ll tell you what’s better,

A tree or a hedge or a big chunk of feta.

So next time that tweeting leaves you a bit hollow,

Sack off the hashtags and give LIFE a follow.

Or write a shit poem about Twitter.

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This morning as I ate a Nutra Grain and looked at flowers,

I wondered what it must be like to be the man Dane Bowers.

Would I lick you up and down until you’ve had enough?

Or would I go and stick my big fat toe up Jordan’s muff?

Would I get it fights with guys in Nando’s when I’m drunk?

Or would I harmonise on R&B boyband sex-funk?

Would I DJ nightclubs in Doncaster and Skegness?

Or would I pose for pictures when my hair’s a fucking mess?

Would my voice be angel-like despite my plumber’s face?

Or would I sing with shit people like Posh Spice just in case?

The one thing that I know for sure,

Is that Dane’s a lucky devil.

He takes the scale of alpha male,

To another fucking level.

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Why Man Goes to Nando’s

Nando’s, Nando’s, oh Portuguese Nando’s. You knows and I knows
why man goes to Nando’s.

My nan goes, Hassan goes, Dan goes and Stan goes. Japan goes and Fran
goes and ladies-man Juan goes.  The man who fake-tans Ed Sheer-an
goes to Nando’s cos everyone knows that man goes to Nando’s.

Duran Duran, Manfred Man; will.i.am goes to Nando’s. Even Beyonce’s gran knows that man goes to Nando’s.

Forget about quangos and bollocks to mangos, these things are nothing
like going to Nando’s.

Shush about Tango’s and sod Marlon Brando’s, these things are nothing like
going to Nando’s.

Balls to Orlando and foot-ball-er Fernando’s, these things are nothing
like going to Nando’s.

Don’t ask if I want to dance the fandangos, that would be shit unlike going
to Nando’s.

I’m not busy tonight; I’ll see how the plan goes. But you can bet your hot sauce, I’ll be going to Nando’s.


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A Little Drink


Scary, hairy, lairy, quite contrary, Mariah Carey,

And smelly widescreen-telly, petroleum-jelly-belly R Kelly,

Went for a little drink.

“Scary, weary, low-fat-dairy Mariah Carey?”, said R Kelly.

“Yes, R Kelly, my tagliatelle, my Nelly, my Fonzarelli?”

“How did we, both you and me, get so very weird?”

“The thing you see, with you and me,” said hairy Mrs Carey.

“Is that we sing, you see, that R&B and people find it scary.”

And you like to piss on teenagers.

Delhi-belly, tagliatelle, Fonzarelli-jelly R Kelly said:,

“Ah yes, contrary, lairy, hairy, scary Mariah Carey.”

Good point.

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Why Being in a Band is Actually Shit

KnobIf you asked Bolton’s lankiest sex-text maniac, Vernon Kay, to survey 1000 people on Family Fortunes, asking them: “What is the best job in the world?”, the survey would say: “Being in a band.” But it’s not true. Being a spaceman, javelin thrower or supermodel-fluffer are cool jobs; being in a band is actually quite shit.

For years now, normal people with normal day-jobs and normal Oyster Cards have presumed that belonging to a tribe of song-makers goes hand-in-hand with shagging groupies, throwing tigers out of windows and eating chang-on-toast for breakfast, day in, day out, until your pancreas explodes. But no. Being in a band is mostly about rotting rehearsal rooms, pointless Facebook posts and occasional gigs in venues that have things like: “Give us a bum or I’ll slash your face in” scrawled on the walls in blood, snot and tears.

Even if you’re just a new semi-acoustic-Dubstep trio from Stoke Newington, people will still assume that on your way to meet them for a pint, you got noshed-off by a Geldof in a recording studio or shagged a buff fashion photographer in Soho House; all lubricated by the constant flow of frothy Bollinger and weapons-grade happy pills. Bollocks? Yes my friend, bollocks.

Behold the actual ingredients in the life of an average band member:

Rehearsing. And more bloody rehearsing:

Bands need to rehearse. Lots and lots of rehearsing. The ones who tell you they don’t rehearse much (“we kinda just freestyle it out at gigs really,”) are lying: those dicks rehearse even more. Learning and re-learning to play your own songs in a cold, lifeless rehearsal room is just like doing exam revision or practicing a presentation for work: dull, monotonous and at times makes you want to beat yourself to death with a Twix. Particularly when the room stinks of piss and failure.

MySpace (yes, really):

Every band needs a MySpace. The rest of the planet might have moved onto less geriatric social-networks but bands haven’t. So each and every band must invest hours laboriously updating lack-of-gig listings, photos of drunk band members’ arses and blog posts about absolutely fucking nothing (“Why I love bagels [posted at 03.12am]”)

Facebooking and Tweeting ALL THE TIME:

Not content with posting rubbish on MySpace, bands must also constantly keep their 84 followers up to speed about their lack of progress on Facebook and Twitter too. Again, this takes time. And again, it can feel self-bogwash-inflictingly worthless (until someone from Denmark posts a winking-smiley on your wall – yay!).


Soundchecks are boring as balls and last for weeks. Having to endure the drummer hitting the snare for 45 minutes just so the soundguy can apply just the right amount of reverb (that nobody will notice) feels like actual torture. There’s also a strange territorial stand-off that happens between bands at soundchecks – with band members feeling compelled to play their most impressive licks, just so their opposite member from the other bands, who stand and pretend not to watch, know what they’re up against. This is not unlike how I imagine shower-time on a first day in prison.

All this being said, I’d like to add that I play in a band myself and am actually really cool. This blog-post is about other people’s bands. Not mine. Losers.

Right, time for band practice…

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