The label that is 5 Feet Under Records has been taking acoustic laxatives of late and has starting paying the price by evacuating doofing bowels and dumping forth several piles of rhythmic defecation.   As an assessing fly with a rather curious buzz in the flapping membranes I find myself drawn to the sonic stench emanated and now and again, end up digesting some of the material and laying eggs of a somewhat assessing leaning.  The eggs hatch, there be words and sentences inside - here is what I can make of them.

Kiova hail from Finland (Oulu/Turku/Tampere to be more precise) and create sonic violence via their one and only offering namely 'This Uncomfortable Skin' a demon-banishing blow-out built on heavy bass carriages running along bone-jarring trackways with all those willing to join in the ride destined to be shaking up and forced to shit out a response.  I have only brought a weekly saver, taken several journeys and come out the other end with the following thoughts.  The trip lasts too long, at times there is a wavering from the direct course and I am duly distracted.  Heavy industrial sonic dirt-biking is the name of the game with the compact substrate ripped up, scrambled and sprayed in your on-looking mug.  At times one can follow the direction, at others one gets bewildered by the general shit splatter.  For me, intensity of this kind must come in short, sharp nuclear explosions and not be delivered in many drawn-out bomb blasts - tis a personal taste but there ya go, my punk instinct likes tonal tersity and although this is a well-played mush I am a trifle out of sync.  Verdict – derailed.

Cold Hell * Electric Hobo jump up next, offer up 4 songs 3 of which I notice to be rather short spurts (fingers crossed for some thrillers).  'Cold Hobo, Electric Hell' let’s flop a sludgy shit-spasm of crudded nightmares with the heaving effluence initially exhibiting itself in a suffocating and sickly way.  Constipation dictates, I await a laxative release and so hold back any positivity.  I find myself dragged through an abhorrence and have no reason to scribble down anything inspiring.  This is a horrible bout of dried up dung, I hope and pray it is a mere instrumentalised intro.  The final flush comes, the dirty debris is flushed away, thank fuck.  'Gifts' is more like it, a Satanic overspill of pebble-dashing filth that cracks your cranial basin and leaves one bleeding.  This is muscular music played by cacophonic cavemen relying on their instinct to clobber their way to the final silence.  The instruments are the wild animals, the players the Neanderthal tamers, we witness a violent coming together and an end outpouring that indicates bloodshed - nice.

The Promise Of Ruin' is a 32 second snippet of maniacal release that begins with a twinge, a reaction and finalises itself with unchecked inner pain.  In between a crazed avalanche of reckless primeval sound wanking comes with no apologies made and no decency attempted.   This is veritable nasty rhythmic porn for animals on heat - the only problem for those aroused is how they will stop their genitals from being truly ruined.  I fully advocate anyone chancing their privates here, don't blame me for the outcome.

We close with 'Bombs For Pastimes Sake'.  This one has the most riffing rhythm and starts with something akin to 'normalcy'.   No sooner had I suggested this state of affairs than the song collapses into the usual manure wallowing mire where limbs are flung, anal muscles collapse, minds are melted and a stench is well and truly kicked up.  The main part of the snippet is taken up by a confounding corrupted wind down that is merely a noise-scape of suffering - is this music borne from a Hell on Earth and destined for the other inferno below?  I think it could well be.

5 tracks, hit and miss feedback but with some ill-tempered teasers to keep one on red alert.  I can take or leave this stuff, it is of a very specific niche but when played short and loud can be a great tonic.  Now go and get your underparts exposed and pressed close up to a speaker and get this disc rotating - let me know how you get on! 



My mate manages Kid Klumsy and is forever singing their praises and pushing their wares - this review will be unaffected by that!   The lads in the band are a nice bunch, the lead singer is a particularly lovable gent but, as per, the review will be untainted by any false favour.  So far Kid Klumsy have been viewed in the flesh, played a couple of Fungal shows and have grown in stature and the impression they have made on the old myco-sozzled belfry is choice - this will not affect what I scribble here.  I am currently suffering from STP syndrome - Sudden Todger Protrusions - this may in fact interfere with what comes next - read on, you may agree, disagree or find something to be aroused by - here's hoping for all 3.

The first track and as I sit at my workstation I glance and duly glimpse the dangled sonic 'Boobs' and drink deeply of the lactating lilt - well, who wouldn't.  For me, this opening burst is as wonderful as the teets envisioned and has a fullness of acoustic bosom as well as a distinct cheekiness that many will be able to relate to.   The long school days of flaccid lessons were only enlivened by the stiffening of the shaft due to the ample chest appendages of the tasty teacher that surely increased the hormonal acne of many a pimpled soul.  The opening bass tickle is followed by a lovely lilt and sunshine twing-twang.  The vocal addition is perfectly light and innocent with a glint in the inflection of impish joy.  The song flows well, has bursts of weighty effect and all the while gets one indulged, singing-along and...perhaps most importantly...smiling.  'Don't Count On Me' is a solid chaser, twilight touches inward, skips on floated feet and then gets truly moving.  The excuses spill from an eternal promiser of assistance and it seems we are dealing with the consistent let down who talks the talk but never walks the walk.  You know the fuckers - all mouth and empty trousers - wankers.  Again the band find a fluffy flow and swan along with holler invasives giving the whole escapade welly and allowing the potential crowd to join in - and why the fuck not?  Not a bad second punch out this, one that gets better and better with each spin but never attains the heights of the first song - well, that one was a beauty!

'Little Boy Thursday' chants in, creeps along with a head down focus before adopting a scheming and planning inflection.  The song however is a lovey-dovey dangler with a heart donated to a cherished one via a tune that sticks to the regimentation set with a brief inner spurt of string wanking thrown in for good measure.   As a whole, this construction is of a simple formula, comes and goes in the spasmodic twitch of an assessing eye and leaves an impression that is decent but easily forgotten - I think more could have been done here, the backbone was there to be built upon, what we get feels like a cacophonic carcass that needs a little more meat on the bone.  'Lost Art' has more clout and material to get one's choppers into.  The effort deals with the PC situation, the spiteful and the utter twats always looking to upset and pass judgement - fuck em' all to fuckin' fuckery I say.   There is a streak of venom in the oral delivery, the chorus message is blatant and necessary and when all components are weighed up we have a fair helping of sound to masticate upon and then spit in the faces of those doubting deadheads.  I like the screwed up accents of this one, the nasty streak but the sound ethos - Kid Klumsy do this kind of shit well, I advance further with my testes bouncing. 

'Soup' is dished up, I wanted thick creamy warmth to roll down my aural passage and bring great comfort.  What I got was a thick lumpy produce filled with indigestible sonic gristle and many cacophonic croutons that I was far from impressed with.  I find this one an uncomfortable meal with no real separation of the flavours and making for one confused taste-fest.  It does have good animation and is played in a somewhat nebulous tight fashion - I get out my wooden spoon though and wallop down a dollop of disagreement - ooh heck, I bet I get asked to leave the table.   'Caravan Of Love' is the final serving and is the veritable cheese and crackers with heavy emphasis on the 'cheese'.  This is a pure bad taste move but, may I be forgiven for saying, suits the bands style and approach and is delivered with such good sincerity as to be utterly enjoyable.  I think the band throw in a gratifying curve-ball here and rather than cover a uniformed punk song they pick out something different and, to be perfectly honest, nail it.  Many may suggest that I should hang my head in shame at liking this - fuck em'.

We have a secret extra bonus track, I am not keen but am equally unsure of my judgement, I bail out and leave this one for you to decide - I gotta be fair tha' knows.

Again I have done my bit, again I have stuck to my ethos and I hope, along the way I have tempted and teased, been fair and given a little insight into a band who are doing 'alright'.  I like these 6 trackers, they are good bite-size mouthfuls to leave one wanting more - bring on the next one please but keep it easy on the cheddar! 



From the great musical beyond the Burnt Tapes cross my radar again via a promotional dabbler who is seeking out reviews.  The last time I indulged some time listening to the lilts and leanings of this lot was a few years back now, I am clueless as to what my end opinion was but this, I find, is a fuckin' good thing.  There is not much I can add at this point only the band come from the Big Smoke, have been around the block several times and profess to play Melodic Punk Rock with emphasis on various emotive states - I crack on, taking things in my stuttering stride.

'Dynasty, Die With Me' is honest music with a fine blend of all components immediately apparent.  The opening oral harmonies are straight out of the rhythmic draw from where these music-makers are happy to place themselves.   The inflection is tinted with poignancy, a slight hint of sadness but all the while contrasted with an obvious streak of hope.  The structure is pliable with no defining rigidity, a state which some are not in tune with and which some utterly adore (such is the musical realm).  Personally I am not a throbbing fan ready to ejaculate great spurts of praise but am happy to toss off the wrists a fair compliment and move on.   The song is well played, clear and of the said 'ilk' -  I progress to track the second.

'Get It, Got It, Good' sharply penetrates, pushes along with a scrunched mid-paced flow and is easily digestible fodder for those who like things tuneful, with a slight edge and somewhat inoffensive.  Those looking for DIY warts and other such enhancing blemishes will need to look elsewhere.  There is a good clean style to the delivery, all areas are lively, effective and moulded together to make for a fairly composed and sanguine listen.  The harmonised moments work well and overall the piece is fluent and tidy - I still reckon this is a mood piece though, especially for the older scuzz buckets like me - as is the norm, some will disagree, some may agree, I have tried my best to be honest.

'Greek Wood' has an attractive opening texture, progresses with a certain musical comfort and opens its ear with a really harmonious honesty.   The emotive accents, the strong flow and the soft tint of sadness and disappointment all travel through the tonal network paraded and create a certain individual life.  A switch down in the form of a brief fracture comes and goes with the thread of the flow soon recaptured.  We fly along on muscular sonic uplifts and overall I am feeling buoyant and happy to soar up in the stratosphere chosen - not a bad inclusion at all.

The final song of the 4 proffered, 'Yuzi Acoustic', a somewhat simplified ditty with a multi-cultural feel as well as having the obvious folk'ed campfire suggestions.  All matters are kept crisp, clear, precise and with a fair liquidity.  I find this too lightly shaded and somewhat vague of pronouncement and so designate to the file marked 'fungally unfavourable'.  I am not saying it lacks talent, doesn't have its place on this CD and isn't of a sweet poetical slant, I am merely certain in my belief that I just don't like it - hey fuckin' ho.

Overall the CD has many meritorious points, many indications of a band in their own groove and with a certain joy in what they are doing.  My feelings are mixed and I can't say I am fanatical about what I have heard but each to their own as it should be and there are many who will really enjoy this - and ruddy good on em’ too. 



The eternal dabbler Brian Bordello is at it again, this time with an album that was recorded on an old 4 track in an off-the-cuff, 'fuck and see' manner.  This is no bad thing and even if the songs are deemed shite the fact is there is something fundamentally punk here and that should never be underestimated.   Of course it goes without saying, some will never get this trait and in truth - why should they.  I could go on here, but I won't - let us just see what unravels and what I make of it shall we.

'Banana Splits' meanders inward, makes no apology for looking backwards and considering fonder times through glasses of a favourable shade.  As per, the BB man is in no rush, under no pressure and happy to play out his creations in his own style and at his own pace.  I like this open sub-silent sussuration, it almost cradle rocks me back to the embryonic post womb scenario when life was a TV tickle, cheap and innocent and with less complications.  I am not a nostalgia nut, I do have both horrible and fine memories and the here and now is the most important aspect but this doesn't stop me realising that this is a charming opening number with a specific niavete - grand stuff.

Track two - a soothing poser put forth with a mind considerate and still challenging.  'Changing Minds Through Song', is a charming song that competes with 2 frames of emotion - one seemingly giving up, one still persisting in 'having a go'.  The 'plug in and play' honesty and the tranquil subtle impromptu suggestion all equates to an end sonic sum that drifts along with a quite embracing mien.  The whole scenario is serene and milky-warm and is leaked from a donating breast that really does seem to care for the listener - I latch on and glug with quiet glee.  'God Bless You Jesus' is a swimmingly soothing song with a theme of unbelieving neatly intertwined amid a yearning to grasp at any dangled straws of salvation.  The lick in the lullaby lilt is magnetising in a persuasive kind of way (unlike the Jehovah's Witnesses who knocked on your door), the overall essence is borne from a mind that has been dwelling and the delivery ticks the boxes of being uncomplicated but marvellously exact.  You can easily sing along to this one, enjoy the gentle resistance and not get too ruffled under the collar.

Next, 'In My Dreams', a look into escapism, a participation of things almost void which, in itself, can be no bad thing.  As Poe once said, these are 'little slices of death' and I reckon are times of great healing and recovery.  Here we see a plucker almost in love with the all-consuming emptiness where a re-set has been had and we can begin the day anew.  Mr Bordello has a certain gift for making a paradoxical entanglement of things soporific but yet which keep one wide awake and intrigued - I am happy with all that has travelled past my radar thus far - onwards.  I am not keen on 'Lone Piper', I find it a Dirge-esque song with a lack of variation and a sadness that is just inescapable.  The usual accents are found within the weft of the wallowing but at this stage something a little more chipper was needed and something with a little more positivity.  I listen in several times, there are no flaws or open sores, it is simply a matter of personal taste here and that, in many ways, is all what anyone can offer.

4 swift snatches at the sonic servings next with 'Mother Fucker' a mere tickling trinket that comes and goes in the squinting of a nasty eye and merely relies on a repeat-loop formula that states the damning title over and over whilst asking who the fuck indeed is the criminal prodding its parent.  I consign this one to a simple mid-point tickle that does no harm and is just a primitive release of some inner angst.  'Nostalgia Is In The Air' has a sweet regret that pervades and tugs at heartstrings easily trembled.  The vocal style is caressing, utterly minimal and perfect for the modus operandi set.   For me, the glimpse over the shoulder comes via a contented eye that also has a softly colliding sense of loss.  The talent exposed is thoughtful and happy to let things pour naturally - I am quite taken by this little snippet.  'Paint Yourself' is a light, effortless breeze of boosting that comes on straight ahead strums.  The motif is regular, the advice given is punk pure and asks you, in a sweet roundabout way, to be yourself and celebrate it.  Life is filled with many colours, don't ignore them, enjoy them.  I like this minor tweak of the idling nipples and the soft nudge up the posterior - we have to be alert and most importantly, be ourselves.  The last of the quick quartet is entitled 'Rock And Roll Is Dead' a moribund monody that laments the passing of Old Father Rhythm and his hip-gyrating ways.  The man at the helm is draped in dreary wretchedness, it seems that to admit to this sonic passing is all a little too much and portrays a position perhaps of emptiness and desolation.  The tones are sombre, the whole arrangement somewhat acceptant of a situation shitty.  This may not be everyone's cup of cha' but it has its place on here and shows a different emotive angle - it emphasises the power of noise in a rather dumbed down kinda way.

'Scarlet Blue' next and what a treat!  A lesson in how to keep things minimal, rely on the most intrinsically basic motifs and to stay unplugged and let it flow.  Again I am won over by Mr Bordello's DIY persistence and belief in what he is doing.  For the punks this may not be what they want but hey, songs about war, the police, smashing the rules and being punk as fuck all become par for the course and one thing the DIY spiked genre must be is varied - I am more than happy with this latest inclusion. 'Sing Along' is a slow plodder, it needs a little adjusting to and will test the resolve of those who like things a little more feisty.  I tune in, take the travelling road and in truth, speed on ahead with impatience.  This one is a little to ponderous and self-wallowing for me and, although offering a different subtle toning, I feel a little more could have been done with the whole inclusion.  A personal taste thing of course but...there ya go!  I expect little different from the following song which is entitled 'So, So Sad' but am quietly surprised by the honesty and open-hearted confession that surely appeals to a part of each and every one of us.  We live in a world where honesty and full transparency are abused and anyone trying to be crystal clear and open are truly in for a manipulated test.   Our artiste in command here takes a look a little more deeply, brings to the fore a blatant tragedy that has existed since the beginning of time.  I like the content, I think the pace is appropriate to give one thinking time alongside the drift and I think we need more fuckin' clarity in a world of shady shits and hidden fears.  I indulge some more, think some more and strive some more - job done.

'The Velvet Underground' is an homage to a band and frontman who came, upset the applecart and threw forth many curveballs and resonating angles.   The VU tribe combined art, psychedelia, DIY and music into one experimental package and came out with a sound very much their own.  Here the crew are held up and brought to the fore so we don't forget what they did and their eventual influence.  This is a straight forward song, no fuss, no thrill, just a quick 'thank you' to tonal dabblers that have gone before - I have no reason to disagree with the intent.   The finale comes 'True For You' escorts us to the shutdown with little fuss.  A sober, sweet and sour serenade with vocal vibrations soothing but touched with a hint of sadness, and the wire work considerably tender.  This is a lovely way to finish what has been a very pleasurable CD with more hits and shits, more flips rather than flops.

Mr Bordello will continue regardless of what I have written here, he is just that type of bloke and thank goodness for that.   A review can only be honest, transparent, helpful and critical but it shouldn't detract from the creators focus or what they do.  If it helps fine tune a few points, gets the noggin thinking outside the box then that will do for me - we are all trying in our own humble way. 



Ah I remember when The Webb first started and they were struggling to get gigs and I was more than happy to throw them in the mix.  I was delighted by the two perverse tinker’s attitude and their sound was right up my eclectic street.   They went on to play several more Fungalised gigs and every time added great colour, angles and sonic goodness to the blend.  Since then they have made good contacts, grand impressions and are doing alright for themselves - long may it continue.  Here I have a 4-track bite-size offering, a style that suits what the band do, down to a tee.  They stick to what they know and bring things weird, absurd, haunted and unhinged - and why not.

The title track opens, 'Haunted House' is just that, a trip to destination disturbia with the walls tilting, closing in and shape-shifting with utter electro-perilous effect.  The opening shift sets the scary scene before a grip on a precarious handrail is had and we cling on for dear sane life.  The multi-faceted techno-wank weirdness works with incessant and somewhat vindictive delight with an utterly absorbent accent drawing one's cerebral focus ever closer to the nucleus of the lunacy.  The lead lilting imp skips across the acoustic web-wires, weaves a somewhat deeply etched patternation above the reactive underflow of sparking mischief and, as a result, we get a combination to...fascinate.  Pseudo-religious incantations and sinister summons transcend the tonal peripheries and gives us a glimpse into the phantasmagorical world in which this dabbling duo dwell - it seems like a lovely place for all the freakoid and weirdos to peregrinate to.  On this evidence I am convinced and have my tickets booked.

'Tonight' solar shifts with misfiring sunbursts that welcome us into an opening oral escapade that is utterly clockwork and stripped down to its melodic conkers.  This spartan and somewhat regimented counterpunch is socked back via a stated underscore of facts and then a pseudo-Bush-esque terse escalation of lilted madness.   Throughout the opposing blend is a message of 'having had enough'.  A disgruntlement with the holistic situation is apparent and maybe this discontent is the causal agent of such crooked, contorted and somewhat tortured tinklings.  Fragrances are thrown into the general pot-pourri of sound with the mix forever confounding and, strange as it may seem, pleasing.  I think the duo have me won over here - I am not ashamed to admit it.

'Real World' is my favourite song, the Banshee'd crispness and gothic edge along with the 80's synth smoothness all work together with the surged and greatly urged pulsar beam rushes that are a pure amphetamine time-travelling delight that take one’s musical soul to a place that ‘was’, a place that ‘still is’ and a place that ‘will be’.  Futurised surrealistic shadings are splashed across the walls of your cognisant consciousness with the garish urgency quite a delight to get vandalised by.  I feel my words are reactions to the radiations, I make comparisons to things retro, things sub-Epoxian and things similar to twisted metal - how odd?

We close with the patient and exacting creeper called 'Shock'.  Pinhead welcomes, the lead lady takes us by the clammy hand and leads the way into a stated structure of strict angularity and an all-consuming demand that you 'think' and realise all is not as hunky-dory as you would believe it.  The damning fact is that all is pointless and when the world stops where the fuck does that leave all your opinions, egotistic bollocks and general tit-for-tat tomfoolery.  This is a contemplative moment that is shot through with severe cerebral flashes and a creepy persuasion you would be wise not to take too lightly.  It rounds off the CD in a cute unhinged style and throws in something a little different.

The Webb are doing what they do in their own style and making their own noisy impression.  They are a worthy addition to the general cacophonic cake, a splashed multi-flavoured goodness to a recipe that can become a little too predictable.  What is not to like - 2 decent peeps having a go, not following the usual route and enjoying themselves.  If you like it or loathe it, you have to give due credit - I do just that and reckon this is a sweet CD with just the right amount perversity.


REAL(S) - D. S. L. B.

Art is noise, noise is art, silence is the crucial shadow - and here we have many shadows, many noises and much artistry.  Real (s) have a made a transmission, it comes via a debut album filled with off the cuff, well-practiced, unpredictable resonations that border on things surreal, fantastic and at times wrong.  I am always ready to step outside the sonic boundaries - the in-genre duped say thout should not trespass, so I duly will.

Track the first, 'Sleazer' - a sub-function feedback injection comes before a lick is captured and squeezed out through a misfiring sound system deliberately off the wall.  A piss-squirting fuzz-fest of fiery tones that copulate, steam, sweat and eventually...indulge is ours to savour.   Within the dirty dabblings sonic sensations arise and disappear with much concentration needed to fully appreciate and no thought at all needed if one needs to feel the naturalness.   I have a fondness for surfy scurfy spoil heaps where I can disrobe, delve and become infected.  I am naked here, ploughing through the muck and amidst great plumes of detritus that I am happy to be choked by.  Yeah - this is a fine toxic opener, isn't the finale quite beautiful  - let us see what comes next!  Sludge heavy toxins are tipped from a weighty cavern barrel and bring visions of a puking fatman with much indigestible cacophonic fodder to get off his chest.  The vibrating vomit of 'Stop Freakin' Out' is garish, fluent and reeking of multi-flavoured messiness whilst all the while a certain routine and direction is embraced and hammered at.  The full-incandescence is thermally dynamic, the billowing folds of the cacophonic energy are rippled with good muscularity and although this is, when dissected, seen to be a somewhat simple construction, the heave-ho the band put in, the way the product is propelled and the end mix all make for a minor success.

'Wilhelm Scream' pronounces, parades, has a grandiose aspect with mid-70's nuances tattooed throughout the understrain of sonic goodness.  Something sub-lullaby pervades as well as a pure tint of soppy soap early punk love vibes.  There is a definite comparison to make here and the look-a-like lilt I am looking for eludes my cranial grasp.  Besides this niggle we have a song that is highly listenable, cacophonically condensed and with a sweet melodic strain so as to capture listeners so far not ensnared - tis no bad thing.  'Up The Slopes' begins with a dramatic pronouncement and then changes tack and goes for a softer approach with one long, drawn out pleasure trip that floats along over a period of 4 minutes 39 seconds and leaves one wondering 'what was all that about'.  The tonal quality is consistent throughout, the journey is swifter than it seems and the shading between each application is smooth.  The creation eventually drifts into pseudo 80's dreamlands were bands self-indulged and I ran for the hills - I am not keen here, the brassage tempts me to take further time but at the end of the running period I am convinced this is not for me!

Almost at once 'From The Seed' grabs the radars, bends them to the source of the bright-eyed sound and has one captivated.  Psychedelic turns, pastures of promised land essences and overhead skies of illuminating clarity come, we have a drift to fall right into here and...disappear.  I am taken on an updraft of joy although I do feel as though those opening tones could have been used more and more throughout the course of this presentation and really accentuated the whole end vibe.  Nevertheless, this is still a lovely waft of something utterly elevating and I use it to keep my head refreshed, thinking and shimmering with hope.  'Dark Web Messiah' is a more sinister mover of greying tones and of a certain flat-line arrangement.  It never real sparks and so I feel somewhat deflated from the start right through to the finish.  I listen in several times over and fail to find any real note of inspiring interest and so duly label this as the weakest track thus far.  These things happen, they are nothing to get too bogged down by and shouldn’t detract from the surrounding goodness.


Side B and 'Radiation' has slightly haunted tones held aloft on a foundation of shimmers and rich bass lines.  The sonic situation set is very retro and dips into a varied hotchpotch of decades whilst adding something a touch experimental and modernised.   The mechanoid structures are not lost, the certainty of the dabbling is imprinted with great belief and the exactness of each and every tone rings true, albeit in an overstated way.  When the leash is loosened during the chorus cuts the feeling of space and liberation is accentuated and provides a nice compliment to the more rigid verses - I rate this one 'not bad'.

'Rausch' rolls in with good bounce.  Smoothly surges down a furrow of well-planed sound before accentuating itself with a decent space-age gothika that transcends the pathway taken.  When the song really takes flight the impression is very appealing and again the sound radiated full-on and complete.  We fall in amongst the trappings of the swirling sonic montage and come out a little shaken, a little stirred, a little wealthier for the experience.   'Heaven' is a better song, it radiates an instantaneous freshness and open-air feeling that is awash with positive encouragement and feel-good sounds.  The early drift is crystal clear, takes a moments respite before reaching new heights with a simple statement of sagacious advice that pervades the doubting soul and brings it to a whole new level of sanguinity.  In the main this is an uncomplicated creation, the target zones aimed for more than a little obvious but, if one takes things for what they works and works mighty well.

The final two and huge monolithic futuristic statements welcome 'M. I. C. Blasters' before a trundling machine-like efficiency consumes.  There is a good weight to the noise and those open wire bends are laden with electro thirst waiting to feed on any stray pulsations and unwary passers-by.  The push is lush, the multihued delivery aesthetically pleasurable in many ways and with an abundance of influences thrown forth for the listener to dissect and identify there is a good longevity about this number.  It goes without saying that this isn’t for everyone and for some, it may take a little adjusting to but, patience is a virtue and here it pays good dividends.  The closure is named 'For All Eternity' a song that drifts in with utterances barely rising above distant Ice Cream Men.  The creation unfolds, the seller of things chilled disappears into the void whilst a warmth comes via an homage to love and adoration.  This is a slightly different approach by the crew, an unexpected way to finish but I am happy to sit back and wallow in the lovey-dovey goings on and let the music wash over me.  It isn't a bad way to finish at all and it leaves me with little else to add - that is no bad thing.

Real(s) come, offer a range of sound and blend many essences into a melting pot I am happy to dip into.  This has been a very interesting listening experience and has left me wondering where the band will go next - I am happy to say I haven’t a clue - wonderful isn't it!  



A new release from Rites of Hadda, a band I have been rather taken with and am happy to help move further into the musical mush and disseminate their discordance.  The tonal happenings are heavy, thoughtful and coming from a variety of nooks and crannies that some may have left unexplored, be it on purpose or by accident - either way tis unforgiveable.  I am pregnant with expectation here and am hoping for some serious bowel blowing moments with a pot pourri of essences borne from musical belfries clanged by the age-old battered clappers.  My fingers are crossed that all will ring true and just to be certain I have put a knot in my todge - and why the Hell not?

The blasphemous opening strides in with certain pronunciations that are both imposing, bleak and, most blatantly, threatening.  The threat attacks your sense of decency, perhaps even more so if your submerged safety net is of a delicate construct.  'Miscarriage Of Justice' throws a curveball into the belief system of many although stays too Christian for my liking.  I feel the assault should be more multi-pronged and confront all forms of religion rather than the easy option that has been whipped ragged by many similar bands.  The music however is fine, it is a looming noise that moves within deliberate darkness and leaves one quaking.  Rites of Hadda aim to punch hard here and do so with a Foreman-esque weightiness that judders rather than knocks one clean out.  It is a severely bruising beating and I am very much a willing victim.  A solid start for sure.

The pertinent and perhaps highly necessary 'It's Time To Riot' follows with a great bass driven gumption gusto that gets the jowls salivating in great need of something highly orgasmic.  The initial verse is in a narrow groove and flies along with inescapable breathlessness with the words rolling out and dealing with many aspects of situations gone sorely wrong.  The band force the issues, ride a precipice before tumbling down through a chorus burst that just (and I mean 'just') holds itself together and keeps things rolling. Several spins are need to fully capture this ditty and when duly caught the impact is utterly worthwhile.  The main note to heed here is 'take your time dear listener'.

'The Right Time To Die' is a long procession of multi-flavoured happenings with the crew at the helm showcasing their eclectic natures and 'difficult to pigeonhole' beauty.  The song slowly and steadily walks forward, takes the stage and presents itself in an unrushed manner with a tale to unfold before an audience who may need a little extra persuasion than at first deemed.  At 6 minutes the rhythmic ritual that unfolds needs concentration and a certain ease of mind - a combination that can be quite tricky to attain.  I hang loose, zone in the cranial gunk and feel a well-played song with varied accents comes.  The tones complement and keep the lugs involved although all colours are low on the spectrum and not as garish as encountered elsewhere.  The creativity has consistency, the main blip is that there is no defining high to embolden all parts and the immediacy of the number is perhaps diluted.  This is the seemingly most prepared piece, for some that will be a good thing, for this lover of DIY naturalness it just takes off the edge - I gotta be honest tha' knows.

'Sun And Storm' and a sharp spiralling twinge twist comes, the flesh is duly opened up and impregnated as a militarised drum beat assists and makes sure the zone of pain is well and truly punctured.  This is a stunning sunlight dazzle that takes its times, exudes strong restraint and makes sure the impact is not soon forgotten.  Heavy bass adds bruising and then the commanding gob enters and delivers its verbal arrangement with sub-spoken word authority.   All the while the underscore of sound naturally reacts, electro-zeniths, attains an unaffected level of power-thirsting stature.   A self-feeding, eternal greeding roll around comes, it envelops the concentrated juices of the mind and tosses them slowly into a cocktail of considerable appreciation.  A climatic song, a leaf blower, a sun-dazzler, a shape-shifting movement - the band are absorbed, and you should be too.

We close with 'The Ending Ritual' a blend of 3 songs, namely 'Filth, Indian Nationalist and The Horned God'.  This is a delectable trio of paganistic power-mongering, rhythmic rebellion and at one point - out and out possession.   The opening riff is a joy, the bass demanding, the guitar scything and the stick work encouraging.   The vocals ooze resistance and refuse to be molested by the powers that be - they stay in command of the task, they are a perfect accompaniment and add to the overall rising pressure and help one bounce around in unison with the sounds emanated.   This is lively, happening music played from level zero by people in the mush - tis inspiring.  The move from part one to part two is liquid, the emotional switch done without flaw and we are soon plunged into a creamy, dreamy swirl of blame, regret, suffering and head-nagging trouble.  It seems a relationship has upended, the heart is an open wound and a soul is bared.  The song goes with the agonised flow and contributes to a feeling of abandonment, detachment, perhaps fatal acceptance.  We leave on the rumble of a thoughtful 4-wired trundle; a new invigoration is found as one turns to the dark side.  The final segment of this stunning saga gallops from the forests of absorption and ensnares one further with a full-on commitment to the worship with all areas fully focused, eternally zoned-in to the naturalness and real life out there.  The band set the fare, feast on the fodder and puke up a great multi-stinking fountain of celebration to Mother Nature, her horny helper and all those wisps of the woods that keep things rotating and genuine.  This is a fuckin' mammoth piece of noise - clashing and concentrated for your delectation - go get fat and think you bastards.   The finale is akin to a Satanic collapse where the party of sound breakdown in bestial submission - it is highly infective.

I have bitten off a mighty chunk of sound here, nibbled, chomped and swallowed like the glutton of noise that I am.   You know what - I have belched and farted and belly-griped along the way and have come out the other end absolutely thrilled.  This is a sensational listening experience and has me bursting to book this band again as soon as possible.  There is something finely tuned here but which, all the while, is without affect.  The band have their own niche, fuck this, I am going to play this disc over and over again.



Some good to honest rock and roll vibes are expected here, driven forth from a garage of high credentials before the accelerator of impression is pressed and the whole shebang hits your cranial sensors.  I have reviewed this lot on two previous occasions, so far so good and I head on into this lengthy mix with hopes held high.  14 tracks await listening examination and then the final dissection - you know how I roll by now - if you don't well what can I do?

'This Time I Know I'm Right' starts the show with great eagerness and magnetising zest in the delivery.  The first verse swings with a general prosperity of tone and a juicy pizzazz in the melody with an overall feeling of great ambition and positivity emanated.  The chorus cements matters and brings to the table an undeniable sanguinity and further uplifting forcefulness whilst all the while avoiding anything vulgar and brash.  Tis honest rock and roll to be fair, in a style that we should be jolly well attuned to.  Nice!  'I’m Your Man' oozes gumption from the off with a good arse kicking vibration getting the inner core pulsing and the outer shell jitterbugging.   A writhing lick keeps the electric action forever fidgeted and frisky with the whole escapade accentuated by a perfectly complimentary mix ideal for noise of this kind.  The string manipulators are allowed enough space to flamboyantly flourish, the slap happy chappy is regulated but given room to splash and trash with abandon whilst the grooved up gob pours forth the wordage with quite noticeable relish.  This is souped up pub rock of the highest order - there can be no greater compliment than that.

The third track sees 'Too Soon To Fall In Love' lush things up and become all sugar soaked and rather soppy.  The middling pace, the lilt in the swing and the jukebox retro feel brings visions of seaside pondering within a cafe overlooking a promenade and a solitary figure dreaming of a loved one and the situations it could bring.  Something pure and innocent comes, we saunter along and move into a fun fair of uplift where a carousel slowly swirls and keeps the ticker alive and fresh - to complete the feeling I order a banana milkshake, sit back and play all over again.  'Strange Waves' alters tack with a slightly darker edge to the tonality and a more noir-esque accent that flows along with insistent cymbal tickings and a steady skin smack.  The glinting guitars and the easy verbals combine to make a reclined rhythm that the listener will easily embrace.   The whole composite is entire and this is a quite convincing song without doing anything overly flamboyant.

'Mint Condition' grooves on down, follows many strains set but has its own lilt and leaning to make it a very likeable number.  This is a simple composition with a basic verse and a relieving chorus cut done and dusted without extravagance.  Sometimes these uncomplicated numbers are overlooked and not given credit where credit is due - not so here, my advice - play over and over and lap up the goodness.  'Sunny Feeling' is an upbeat and bright excerpt without being a brazen dazzler.   The key to the shine factor is the relaxed way the band roll and those juicy chorus cuts that are veritable zephyrs blessing the lugholes.  The glint and grow approach wraps tendrils around ones hopeful side and I feel that if one is willing to walk on the solar rays sent one’s  way then we are set to duly arrive in a far better place than when we took the initial step into this musical treat.  The song is awash with retro nuances and is a highly polished piece to be enthused by - come on  Next and the cock-sure strut of 'Don't Start Running Away' - a mithering song that pleads for you to stay put and perhaps...listen up good now.  A ditty built on persistent nervous niggle noise that pecks, pokes, prods and eventually...persuades.   As a stand alone this may be one of the least impacting tracks but when in the midst of this magnetising CD the offering displays vim and vigour and helps one maintain the foot-tapping involvement and keeps one taking good heed.  Again, nothing profound and intricate comes and in truth that kind of bollocks isn't needed here - the crew know their style and nail it...big time.

A tumble down, a more garaged sound, lots of lo-fi lilting done with solid emphasis and with the usual gratifying essences.  'Messed Up Mary' sounds like a right bugger and is paid homage here via a decent tune that just gets on with matters, offers nothing new and just keeps the decent rhythm feisty.  Tis an easy song to pick up, play and toss to one side, in the midst of the rotations one can easily jig too - bonus.  'The Way It Was Before' is a crisp and harmonic touch of gentle pseudo-crooning with a dew-eyed drifting that I find to be not to my taste.   A bit too weak-willied for me, a bit too soppy-arsed and lacking any chomp that I am always hungry for.  Don't get me wrong, this inclusion is necessary to vary the flavour, it will no doubt magnetise a few extra lugs but it does sour bugger all for me - I make no apology for my honesty, tis the only tool I have.

A snatch of 2 - 'Cupid's Not A Friend Of Mine' is good value and moves with a furrowed brow from the off before opening up, swinging with strong sensation and rattling the inner core with good energising vibrations.  The collaboration of all components displays a strong unity, the work in the production room accentuates each player’s output and infuses with new life - ruddy rollicking good stuff this is.  'Loneliness' is a smoother and more sharply suited mover and if all other tracks are the finished article then this is the same with nobs on.  This is a joyous moment with an ease of delivery akin to a well-buttered pregnant woman dropping forth her heavy load.  The ticking understroke, the swinging guitar lilt and the just unflustered and unconvoluted composition make this a winner for me - spot on squires.

'Good Enough' is controlled mover, has a pleading lilt in the question naggingly asked.  The mid-paced waltz is a little too repetitive for its own good but the trimmings added by the band offer some salvation and therefore helps me avoid from hastily writing this one off as the weakest runt in the pack of prize tunes.  I spin over and over, I am not overly keen on this one if the truth be known.  'Act Fast' is a far better song, has greater depth and intrigue levels therefore increasing the longevity factor.   The main route followed is less orthodox than the previous track and the tonal textures and general goodness of the gist are highly appealing.  The stature and groovy happening delivery make this a real sinewy morsel to get your choppers buried into - I am loving it.  We shut down and enter the final silence with the clattering 'Break It All', an almost eager beaver overspill that sees the band celebrate all that has been and all that is to come with emphasis on getting you, the passerby...involved.    This final flourish is done with yet more convincing acoustic acumen and a thriving appetite for making music highly twanged and tanged.  Yes, this is a decent zested finish to another accomplished CD filled with accumulated Joie de vivre - tis ruddy excellent to witness.

A band alive and kicking with an album to suit - I have very little to add at this point only thanks to the music makers under the spotlight and the label pushing this kind of sonic shizzle (Dirty Water Records) - tis worth the effort that is for sure. 



Idea.  Action.  Impregnation.

Rehearsals.  Experimentation.  Birth.

Shape-shift - settle - shape-shift...the players involved copulate, they are fidgety blighters and ping here and there and everywhere.  Here, under the guise of Activistas, we have a release, I know what to expect as much as I don't know what to expect - I have no idea anymore if this is a good or a bad thing.

Here are my dissecting notes on what I have been given, forgive me oh God of Music for I am about to sin again.

'Boris Is A Twat' lullabies in before opting for a machine-like delivery of the obvious with great venom, offbeat lunacy and embracing unity all combining to make for a sing-a-long jerk off.  I have witnessed this relentless spillage of toxicity on several occasions; I am still dragged into the flow and in accordance with the intent.  It is a threaded and wankily woven pattern that is easily followed - do not underestimate its accuracy and potency.  'Black Dog Blues' is the better song with gruff and growing bursts of oral aggravation intermixed with lunatic gatherings of suffering souls who take the opportunity to highlight the nipping cur and its positive-humping desires that are quite a task to subdue.  Victims from the peril of the sable head-fucking mongrel are beckoned forth, here is a chance to banish some demons and do so in an unprofessional manner without the use of pills (unless you like to odd pick-me-up).  The flow is uneven at times, just like the mental condition - within that similarity there is great apposite pertinence.

'Badger Baiter Masturbator' is an ad-hoc rehearsal tumbledown wank spill that sees the protagonists of misfiring mayhem seemingly operate from individual stages and just take the chance that all will fall into some kind of coherence.  The result scrapes by and is surely deserved of applause from any DIY pervert.  The ethos behind the work is admirable and anyone in disagreement with the verbals is indeed the ultimate wanker.  

So far I am liking the jangle angle that doth dangle and I await the next sonic wangle that may breathe further life or indeed...strangle.

'Product Placement In Reverse' nails the big companies who kill to profit, who advertise to create the consumer.  The whole shebang of the cleansing and disinfecting designers is built on many dubious foundations and all the while we have to be on our guard against putting brass where it really shouldn't be.  The keyed crank circus touches and the nebulous tangibility of the delivery once again indicate a band not playing by the rules (whatever they are) and destine themselves never to be considered 'a regular band'.  There is more going on here than given credit for, I am rather pleased with what I am hearing.

'Star Man' is an undoubted pinnacle, a great escapist peregrination that goes beyond despair and perpetually rolls on, falls, dusts down and gets on with it.  The whole drift is ruddy sanguinity floated to the fore of your receptors with such elevated transparency and fresh-blown innocence.  This is one for the bewildered, the battling, the blues bitten buggers who feel like they are walking headlong into a shitstorm - think on folks, all is not lost.   The delicacy of delivery, the just gentle earthy goodness pervades my being and makes me reel with satisfaction - the CD's zenith - massive.

A lament next, a hard reading that lays out the doom that is coming for all the fat-pig consumers and those who really don't give a fuck.  'Mother Earth Is Dying' is a tale of damnation, a damnation deserved and one that will ultimately prove that ignorance is indeed piss.  We have a world to admire and take care of and yet so many just couldn't care less.  They wake up, don masks of consideration, cough up fine talk and make token gestures but all the while - self and sheen is top of the agenda.  This poetical sermon will no doubt fall on deaf hears, I am listening and listening big and...appreciating - thank you, the design is perfect, the theme utterly embraced and delivered with looming intent.

'This Land Is Your Land' is a beauty, tis a song I have recently chosen as Song of the Month on my website - the reason - tis a political pip delivered by hearts who believe and who are trying.  I enjoy once again, I am totally convinced by my initial judgment and reinforce it here with great Fungal spirit - a quite momentous song for a greatly improving CD - tune in, wake up, kick that needful nature and consider others - ta!

'Take My Hand' bass farts in with a suggestive buoyancy, a promised uplift that is soon fulfilled with a sweetly bobbing synthed up jaunt that rides the waves of life and makes good headway.  The lifeblood of the throw-back keys are essential and the gob-givers at the fore harmonise in typical loose and approachable fashion thus making for a very inviting sing-a-long.  There is warmth radiated, a slowly magnetising quality that sticks in the pubic fuzz of the brain and makes for a really sticky mess - I am not complaining - head-fuck indeed.

The finale comes via 'They Haven't Been Fucked Since Cromwell' with another political jangle that is paradoxically polite and insulting all in one fun-fair mix.  The carousel turns, the finger points at the puddings in power and the comfy state they are in whilst the rest of the land gets tossed about and tossed off.  The sonic postal service comes up with another DIY package of surprises and gets the juices of this underground loving lout...flowing.  Again the band grasp their identity, state their caring case, waltz with ease and have me convinced - a fine full stop.

Activistas have done a good job here - said what they need to say, have shown no shame in their warts, have weaved a merry path and...produced a real good listening piece.  Over the years, in various guises, I have always been honest with the players involved, sometimes agreeable, sometimes not, but all the while truthful - here I continue the theme - this is a beauty!



The seasoned Spunkers under the spotlight still keep me in the loop and here is another take on some more of the sonic spillage proffered.  You should now all be up to speed with who the fuck these lot are and if not, well get off your jacksie and do some research, it will be worth your time.  I am as keen as mustard to do my bit as per, but not so keen as to be all silly and gush for the sake of it - that would be the behavior of a prize eavesdropping pillock, there are enough of them about as it is.

The gates are opened, in comes the vibes of 'Broken Hearts Make Better Songs' - a fine song that is crisp, lucid, done in the familiar way in which these operators function.  'Whoa hoa's' welcome, a scene is set via the first verse, we come to realise that the gist of the song is about wallowing in a desired mire so as to make music with more meaning and feeling.   A man abandoned is injured, the first place he turns to is his beloved music and here is the result.   The smooth and slowly snagging slant of the faux-serenade touches the ticker and makes one instantly take note of this moment and, what the CD will bring.   The follow-up is a song I have recently reviewed, namely 'Football In The Sun'.  Rather than repeat myself like some overstuffed belching pig I will leave you to chase up the aforementioned assessment but what I can add is that this nostalgic piece is better than I originally deemed and makes a reappearance here like a friendly face from the misted past.  It lifts ones spirits, has a carefree element to be embraced – it is rather lovely.

'Soldier On' walks into a headwind.  The struggle met is uphill, a feeling that many of us encounter in this lunatic lottery known as 'life'.  Mistakes come, moments of regret take the legs from beneath us and we are soon drawn into a cloying, debilitating web that stops us from making progress and staying focused.  Sometimes all we need is a nudge in the right direction and thankfully this song can be used as such a kick up the ‘arris.  The pace is below middling but the weight and impact is still of resounding value and these alterations of impetus and emotive content are what keep things compelling and stimulating.  3 tracks in, no fault found and the best track so far comes with the brutal bulldoze of 'Hard As Nails.  A song about a cunt to be fair, a cunt who is nothing more than a fuckin' idiot with an ability to waste energy of proving his machismo nature rather than doing something positive.  In truth though, there are many heads that need cracking out there and if one goon is willing to have a go and make sure he busts the right belfries than so be it.  The song here hurtles along, puts a size 12 boot in the midriff whilst numerous follow-up fists pepper the bloodied carcass - by heck, beatings like this are fuckin' wonderful.  This is a powerful blasting – accept it!

'Swiss Army Dick Head' flourishes from the off, has great heavy hands delivering the sonic goodness.  The opening verbal attack is swift, takes no nonsense and gets its message slapped down onto the melted wax of your lugs.  Solid gale force wafts come from a band blowing out a song in double quick time with melody and tonality still held onto whilst the power is lavished throughout in great huge fistfuls - fine stuff but one to play several times over to get the full wallop.   To lighter tones we neatly peregrinate next with 'I Should Have Seen It Coming' a tidily fluffed up sour/sweet serving that flows along without hindrance and showcases the Spunkoids softer side.  Although the blend is gentler and the approach less clod-hopping the fact remains that all areas show good muscularity, a great sense of rhythm and move with eye-catching smoothness - almost like a weight-lifting sex God but with bigger bollocks in this instance methinks - (ooh me globes).

On I go, into a very rewarding mix of noise with the nasty slam down of 'Little Red Buggy' being squeezed out, smeared all over my imagination and then left for me to still smell even when the song is over and done with.  This is a short look-back at a pedaling shit-arsed kid going Hell for leather on his mode of transport whilst all the while the defecation is ignored (the dirty cunt).  The thriving glory taken in the despicable act is a delight and surely if any song deserves to be accompanied by a 'scratch and sniff' card' this is it.  1 minute and 27 seconds of hard hitting shit - I wouldn't have it any other way.  'Magic Manikin' has a gusted, well-thrusted opening sequence that instantly snags the attention and has one listening with a distinct keenness.  A pause and what blossoms is a pseudo-love song with a twisted underscore that sees a mind possibly unhinged.  A long time ago, in the times of a murky past, I once watch a programme called 'Journey Into The Unknown' - one episode was called 'Eve' and starred Denis Waterman, please try and find and watch and then play this quite lovely song.  I like the thinking off the imaginary cuff here, tossing one out with utter fantasy the driving force - there are never any rules and the odd episode of strangeness is always welcome.  The regulated crispness of the music is just expected icing oozing out from another good slice of cacophonic cake.

With a thirst growing I am tempted by the foul filth called 'Council Pop'.  This liquid salvation was duly drunk from a fountain we had on a park near us whilst in our embryonic years.  Many got cold sores and have since suffered from bow-legs - I am not surprised.  This one refuses to sing any praises of Adam’s Ale and nails it as pure shite - especially when warmed by the solar spite.  This ditty is another one that hits the mark, rattles away with a theme many should be familiar with - young, potless, scarred by simple things and left to carry on regardless - oh the good old days, well not always.

Into the final five and 'Looking For Something' is a refreshed and rhythmically active mover that keeps this jaded old joint of jangling bones enthused.   The initial flourish is salved via a comfy chorus that sees the band glide along without any serious threat of rupturing a gonad.  The chorus is equally strain-free and pleasing with no uncomfortable snags or testing thrusts of angularity.  I don't mind being rogered sideways by unorthodox tuneage but now and again tis good to have a regular bumming too - this acoustic predator delivers just that!

'This Is Fucking Shit' nails a fact-based episode that indicates the problem with too many people - unhappy bastards stuck in a misery and with no insight, gumption and wherewithal to get out of it.  The procedure has been swallowed, the situation is void of creativity and the horror it emanates is too much for the plucking bastards at the sonic helm.  The fury is one I recognise, there were reasons I opted out of the routine when leaving school - 17 years drifting had meaning, here I am reminded of why I was in such a quandary and state of loss.  I love this vicious tune and what it says - fuckin' suck shit you unthinking cunts.

'Only Got Eyes For You' is tonally caressed with hues of sadness and imbued with life via a convincing loyalty shown.  I like the style here, again the band jump from one direction to another with little fuss, it goes without saying they are a very adept bunch.  This I feel is a sleeper, a zombie in the pack waiting to be reignited and to jump up and throttle out a very positive reaction.  I could add here what a well-played song it is, how easy on the lugs it is but what would be the point - it is par for the course with this lot now - clever twats.  'Tomorrows Promises' slips into a subtle stealth mode, progresses with honest minimalism before splashing and pronouncing before going back to situation'same'.  A song to give the vocalist more room, to expose the mixing accuracy and the finer points of a band too easily labeled as 'just punk'.  Too often bands with ingrained culture and insight get diluted by this flimsy tag, it irritates me no end.  This song is a peach and yet even this is outshone by a wonderfully transparent heart exposure known as 'Caving In'.   A composite of stark relief, naked soul baring, emotive depth and invading eruptions of power, this is a genuinely gargantuan touch and a very brave way on which to end a CD.  The extreme profundity of a head gone AWOL with despair a damning dictator is all-pervading and for me, the band take on a mighty task here and fuckin' nail it - well done lads.

The best CD the band have produced so far?  Of course?   Are Spunk Volcano a punk band?  Get to fuck, they are too good to be limited by a pigeonhole?  Is there more to come?  I fuckin' hope so?   Any further Fungal advice?  Yes - get this, the back catalogue and fuckin' well have it!

PS - Barry Milner - what a roundabout!

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