Yesterday a balloon flew over our house, and narrowly missed the trees, huffing the gas as Benny barked the fuck out of it. Get out of my sky strange thing, and why advertise vauxhall? Its not for me to say, I’m not in charge, of anything, it seems, being micro managed to the most tiniest of things by the most bloated and circular of managers, spherical and shiny, like an oily snooker ball, which is a shit thing. As the Balloon flew over us and into the distance, at the second field suddenly a fire broke out and towers of black acrid smoke blew into the air (I say Acrid, but it was more of a perception of it being acrid form my point of view because I was at least a mile away, and the tyres that the farmer burns close by are no less smelly). It was funny to see a placid contraption laying waste to the countryside, the clown with napalm balloons, or equivalent.

Its important to note that I’m not afraid of my new boss but am circumventing his communications by starting really bloody early, staying up really bloody late and not getting enough sleep. Last night I fell asleep on the sofa at about 4pm and then after cooking at about 9pm and crawled into bed at 11pm, being woken up by the sudden intense heat we seem to be experiencing here in Blighty, specifically North Clifton; Mrs T kicking off all the sheets, where I would have preferred a compromise, that is what marriage is all about after all. If you’re listening Mrs T? which I know you’re not because I’ve been shaking you (not in a threatening and abusive way ) for an hour of so now to get to bed.

So let the theme of the year and every year before now continue and we shall all say that music is indeed the food of love and the cure for everything, no matter what the ailment, especially if it comes in vinyl form, which for the younger viewers is s record or a massive cd, but better, much better.

Love you all you mentalists, and I’ll possibly see you in April.