Pucker Playlist: June 2014

A collection of songs I’ve found myself listening to. I don’t know if my cup has been half empty recently or whether I even have one anymore but regardless, these songs have been circulating. None are particularly new, all are particularly good.

1. Toro y Moi – Say That

Video above, I mean, that dance in the chorus right? Great glasses bro.

2. G-Easy – Far Alone (Feat. E-40 & Jay Ant)

So fucking ghetto innit.

3.  Chet Faker – Talk is Cheap (Ta-ku Remix)

You know when you call your girlfriend fat and you can just hear the last words tumble out of your mouth and everything slows down to almost nothing and it is everything you can do to hope that the world will open up and engulf you? That.

4. Funkineven & Fatima – Phone Line

Wassup girl.

5. Sylvan Esso – Hey Mami

I remember kissing a danish girl in my car so long ago who was so incredibly beautiful she made my stomach ache. We spoke for so long and I felt like I hand’t been closer to anyone for the longest time. All I wanted to do was kiss her and feel her against me. In the end I reached across and kissed her fully expecting my world to implode. It turned out to be one of the worst kisses I have ever been involved in.

6. The Slackers – Alone Again

Sometimes being alone isn’t so bad. For three blithe minutes, this song certainly thinks so.

7. The Notorious BIG – Ten Crack Commandments

I spoke to some guy about East coast and West Coast and he spoke at length as to why Biggie was inferior to Pac. I nodded and listened and let him be. What a fucking twat.

8. Jaw Jam – Tha One I See In My Fantasies When Im Dreaming (Mix II)

Old school garage that’s not old school garage. You know what I mean right? Can’t find the youtube link for this. Soundcloud it, you wankers.

9. How to Dress Well – Repeat Pleasure

I think this is a trilogy? I mean, what’s the fucking point. Why not just write another song? It’s not a fucking film. You cunts.

10. D’Angelo – Spanish Joint (Osage Remix)

Afrobeat is one of the best things to have happened to music. I guess I don’t know whether this is afrobeat but the statement still stands.


The flowers, the glass.


My mother was upset so whilst I was gardening (guerilla) I collected some little white flowers with thorns in their stems, chopped them up and put them in a vase for her. Not because I’m nice, but it is apparently a nice thing to do. I think she liked them but I can’t be sure because I had my earphones in.



They smell pretty darn good too people. If you have a friend, or significant other, or a mother, perhaps you could do the same. Also, if anyone knows what flowers these are – please tell me.

The flowers, the glass.

Team ChainLUBE



Team ChainLUBE are a cycle group of my friends; Dan, Rafe, Peter and I. I am not my own friend but I am part of the group. Pete is also not pictured unfortunately. Obviously I am taking the picture. As the group’s weakest member, I feel that I should do what I can to increase our profile and so here I am writing words about West London’s greatest weekend interracial cycling team.

We cycled the London to Brighton route yesterday and the above picture was taken at our first stop at Richmond Park. The weather was glorious and the Sun had put his fucking hat on. Oddly enough, there were few people who accompanied us on the journey down though there seemed to be many on the opposite side. The roads were quiet enough and I have to say, I had forgotten how beautiful Sussex can be. Village after quaint village was traversed and bar the odd industrial estate, there was nothing to shade the eyes from. We passed some horses, cows and sheep if that’s your thing. Some manure too. I love the smell of manure. I could literally sit in a barn full of that shit (pun intended) and be abundantly happy with life.

I like to think that we made our own little Tour as we tumbled through southern England. In honesty it was almost a permanent breakaway pack with Ralph and Dan ahead and myself leading a lonely one-man peloton. I need to get better quickly. Nowhere was that more apparent than the Beacon Hill.

The Ditchling Beacon, for those of you that don’t know it, is the big fuck off hill that one must climb before the descent into Brighton. Marking an ascent of some 248m, perhaps it is not much for those of you seasoned cyclists, but for poseurs like myself with A FUCKING ILIOTIBIAL BAND (yes, yes I know everyone has one) it is a literal mind and body fuck. I guestimate that I made it to about 200 odd metres to the main vantage point and the glorious view bellow before my leg gave away and I am ashamed to admit I walked the rest. My compardres, seasoned cyclists that they were, climbed the hill without issue and I have promised myself that on my next attempt, I will piss all over it. It was the only hill I had to walk for and for now, I will satisfy myself that for a first attempt, I was quite happy to get to where I did. My ITBS playing up today was testament to my tribulations yesterday.

We finally rolled in Brighton, some 6 hours and 60 odd miles later. It was a lovely climax looking out onto the English Channel and there were many who had come to welcome us into the town. Maybe not, but there were many people there. We collapsed onto the rocks, I took a few lacklustre pictures and we made moves for some food. An hour or so later, we jumped on the train back to Victoria and enjoyed a well deserved rest. All in all we covered some 70-80 miles which should be good enough, in the way of practice for the intimidating John O Groats to Lands End ride we will be doing shortly. What – did I not tell you? Yeah, we’re doing that. Stay tuned.




Note to self: it is. 0217 (it is 0327) and there is no time for waiting on motorways because those raindrops DO NOT LOOK like Sierpinski or his damned beautiful pyramid and there is no romance to sitting in metal shells whilst the smoke is still warm and the road runs black and cold and a broken chest somewhere struggles to rise. The sun also rises.


Brave New World

Are you prepared to trade that all in, and for what? Men of principle will die under the cries of rhetoric and today they come in the most evil of embraces. The man with an international peace prize is holding a gun at your mother. Your neighbour is watching his son die and you are being peered upon from up high, lest you protest. Gather up your voices and channel them toward something worth fighting for. Free Manning. Save Snowdon. Swartz is dead, your country is killing you.