The audial essence of pure black evil. I write for The Independent & play in Scritti Politti. Used to be moderately funny once.
No longer the case. Unfollow.
Not really, no.
I think they might want cars.
You know you're in Mayfair when window shopping provokes bleeding from the eyes.
I consider maps that don't have North pointing upwards to be a personal affront. Up yours, TfL!
A festive display at M&S, Exeter Services. Note date: 18th September. 18th September.
Cornwall was beautiful earlier on.
Barn dance yourself dizzy.
You'll find me in the kitchen in Truro at parties in Truro.
Simon Bookish. Leafcutter John. My car. Solstice services, Wiltshire.
The children of today will never know the true meaning of pop music.
A woman just knocked on my door, selling her self-published novel for £4.50. I bought it. I now await karmic payback.
I went for a drink with @mylifeyourhands. The man with the most famous torso on Twitter.
Cheers, from a wedding reception.
Look, @wowser. A monument to you.
This is not my bedroom. It's a Lincolnshire bedroom.
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