Ruddy hell, I really do have rather a lot to catch up on. Forgive my tardiness, Pop Kids, but Mrs Selection Box went and done gone popped one of them babies out of her selection box, so time spent writing blogs is time which could be spent sleeping or else improving the already first rate thousand yard stare. However, it does mean that the listener figures for my show have increased, albeit by only one.
So, in the interim we’ve had the usual mix of splendid tunes, my self-imposed embargo of the phrase “so, yes” and the annual delve into Christmas tunes, which is now about as relevant to proceedings as Tony Blair’s comments about Iran were to the question of whether or not he is a lying bastard. Ooh, lidlbiddapolitics.
We also seem to have lost young mentalist Adam Wells from BCB in the last few weeks, which I didn’t know anything about until reading it here. It appears he’s swanned off to my old stomping ground of That Fancy London. So long Adam, and thanks for all the gin.
Anyway, this isn’t about that. It’s about this: