Vhere is the clickr on dis thing?

Dammit-a-whole-big-lot-of-dumbness!!

I'm certain I've just multiple posted a reply on D-man's site because I didn't hear the faint click noise (akin to a Crcket snapping a lock of his hair) that my laptop makes when I click on a button.

Now who's going to look like the special one at the back of the school bus?

NB, before you ask, yes, Crickets DO have hair.

I direct your attention to the 1940 documentary about a boy by the name of Pinnochio in which his personal assistant and confidant was played by a Mr Jiminy Cricket Esq. a notable motivational speaker and self help guru of that era.

My life is empty without substance of time,
Shoes pinned to the floor waiting in line.
Thousands in front and thousands behind,
Granite for legs, like dust in my mind.

Faceless neighbours blurred by the signs,
Grey and toxic, expectant like mines.
My number is up and I reach the fold,
I hand over my ticket and do as I’m told.

Awaiting my moment that I’ll no doubt miss,
Teetering on the edge, of life’s great abyss.
If I am thrust over, will others care?
Or will they just pause to watch and to stare.

My question is answered as now I am heaved
Over the edge, and out of the diseased.
The group slips past but I no longer try,
I wait for the impact, the moment I’ll die.

The faces peer over and watch as I fall,
No one is bothered as I lose it all.
Air rushes round me as I hear it screech,
Help that I’ve needed is now out of reach.

I violently convulse uncertain anymore,
Reassuring myself I won’t hit the floor.
My soul loses hope and a weep forms inside,
When out of the fathoms I discover I glide.

My arms become wings that shake off their rust,
As cruising I rise, up out of the dust.
The dark skies once crushing are swelling to burst
With opulent light rays that glisten like thirst.

I ascend with a pace that pulls tears down my face,
And look back to the floor, which shrinks without trace.
As now I have risen miles above the below,
Almost with haste I return to the plateau.

The faces are staring all aghast with my gift.
Weightless and graceful I just seem to drift.
The shrouded figures are forcing right through
Of the group that has stopped to admire their view.

I hesitate back repulsed by their need,
To push past my neighbours with such utter greed.
Hands thrust out from the groups now aware,
Reaching for hope that I show is now there.

A burning begins in the depths of my chest,
As my rib cage expands like a nuclear test.
The seams of my body can hold back no more,
As the essence within me erupts from my core.

I realise myself and re-open newborn eyes,
I now see the truth and discard the old lies.
Raising hands into view I look to my palms,
Within my clutches I hold the world’s charms.

The beauty is opened and light pours around,
But the bright is not painful and carries no sound.
The shadows amongst us are enveloped by peace,
When clouds are relinquished and the skies can un-crease.

I reach for the nearest and deftly touch their side,
And watch as the gold light transcends from my pride.
The numbers all brighten and look up from the ground,
There is understanding without any sound.

All others rise and lift from their stations,
One become hundreds, in the air is elation.
We rise as a flock and leave behind squalor,
Far below us in shadow comes a weak distant holler.

The truth is upon us and it feels oh so right,
Our end is uncertain as we soar through the night.
The horizon has warm heat that draws us all in,
As all those young saviours leave behind their old sins.

The eclipse is a spectacle that’s nirvana to feel,
And the presence around us reminds how to heal.
Free from the shackles no longer devoid,
I thank what’s within us and pass away overjoyed.

Milky'08

MIA

I was lost but now am found...

The Two x Two Towers

Always look on the dark side of life

Name: Trevor Lesley Vader
Age: 47
Height: 6’05”
Employment: All day Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and a half day shift on Sunday.
Ambitions: To re-establish the Empire (which is still heavily dependant on the outcome of his current county court case against an entertainment magazine by the same name) …and to introduce a line of Sushi restaurants in his home town of Sunnydale.
Likes: The colour black, the word Extinction, all things evil and bottle nose Dolphins.
Dislikes: The colour white, the word Rebellion, all things good and wet trays.

A day in the life

Trevor’s room is small, it’s too small. In truth it’s actually his Sister’s room. This would explain why his size 13 feet are protruding from the end of the bed, poking out past the “My Little Pony” bed cover. He’s asleep, on his back, and above him are his Sister’s glow in the dark moon and stars, stuck onto the wood chip ceiling paper.

Trevor’s Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles 3D alarm clock suddenly bursts into life with the almost too loud “Teenage mutant ninja turtles, teenage mutant ninja turtles, teenage mutant ninja turtles, hero’s in a half shell, turtle power!”

Trev, as his Uncle Angus likes to call him, much to his own loathing, turns slowly in the bed and swats vainly towards Shredder’s face which he is required to strike to de-activate the alarm. After his fifth swing he manages it and relaxes back into the ridiculously undersized bedding, just as his Mother’s voice shrieks up the stairs.

“TU-REV-A!! (the way she’s always pronounced his name) ARE YOU UP YET ? YOUR BREAKFAST IS READY, COME GET IT WHILE IT’S HOT… TU-REV-A ?”

Despite his previous requests that she not call out loud enough for the Henderson’s to hear next door, she still did, and he knew she would continue to do so until he answered.

“Mother (Trevor breathes in, KUPPF, and then breathes out, PSSSH) I have awoken and shall be joining you shortly.”

Trevor swung his large frame over the edge of the bed. Neatly folded on the chair by the foot of the bed, was his pure black uniform that he always wore. The shined black imperial boots, black full body long johns, black anti chafe trousers (with the detachable key chain hoop), the non regulation black utility belt, black roll neck long sleeve top, polished black breast plate with his recently altered breathing regulator, his gleaming black helmet which had now become an integral part of his respiratory system since the attack of the clones a few years back, and finally his pride and joy his black full length fire retardant cloak (although it did have the recent addition of a melted corner due to his Mother’s over zealous ironing one evening during the Coronation street omnibus).

Trevor took great pride in his appearance and stood dressing for the next few minutes. He admired his attire in the mirror, having to squat slightly to get the whole of his large frame into the warped reflective glass.

Begrudgingly he made his way downstairs for breakfast, a farcical ceremony that he loathed, and only took part in for his ageing Mother’s piece of mind. As he entered the kitchen his imperial boots began to make a sticking sound as he paced across the yellow patch work lino.

Falling down

“TU-REV-A, what have I told you about wearing your boots in the house??”

Trevor didn’t even have chance to draw breath to respond, his Mother did so on his behalf.

“Not in the kitchen, if we want this lino to last, we’ve got to look after it!”

Trevor sighed and retraced his steps back out of the kitchen and slipped his boots off. Positioning them neatly by the cupboard under the stairs where his Father kept his home brew. Trevor walked back into the kitchen towards the breakfast table. He had made no more than two steps when his polyester socks gave up their fight for grip and Trevor went sprawling to the floor.

Trevor didn’t immediately fall. That would deem it less gravitas than his fall deserves. As Trevor’s socks forced him to do the dance of “the 100 metres sprint on the spot” his now flailing arms caught on the side of his cloak bringing it up over his head. As the cloak swung down over his helmet he clipped the stove with his gloved left hand projecting the warm beans that were gently simmering in a saucepan, out of their cooking receptacle and across the room onto his Sister’s latest finger painting that was stuck to the front of the fridge via the use of an “I love Jesus” fridge magnet.

As he untangled himself from his newly found seated position on the floor, he discovered his Mother standing by the sink tsking him.

“Oh, TU-REV-A when will you learn. You’re such a clumsy thing. Your porridge is on the table.”

Porridge problems

Trevor picked himself up off the floor, dusted down his anti chafe trousers and plopped himself down in his chair. He groaned as he saw the bowl of steaming porridge in front of him. He hated porridge more than… well let’s just say he hated porridge a lot.

“TU-REV-A, how many times have I told you? Take that bicycle helmet off when you’re at the breakfast table.”

“Mother, it is not a bicycle helmet. It is an imperial lord’s helmet and I require it to assist in my breathing as I no longer possess lungs that enable me to survive in this atmosphere.”

“Oh, alright leave it on, but mark my words; I’ll be having words with your Father about these bad habits you keep picking up.”

Trevor contemplated answering back but decided against it as he was all too aware of how dangerous the wrath of his Mother could be before her weekly hairdressers’ appointment. He spooned the warm oats and milk mush around the bowl until his Mother waddled out into the back garden to place some tins in the recycling bin.

He seized his opportunity, using more care then earlier, he tip toed to the cupboard under the stairs. Inside the darkened space he selected his old black wellies. He brought one back to the breakfast table and proceeded to empty the contents into its material lined innards.

As the last remnants of the now congealing goo slopped into the toe area, he heard his Mother on her final approach to the back door. He dashed across the room and placed the wellie back into its allotted space and returned to his chair just in time, as his Mother re-entered the house.

“Well done Tu-rev-a, that’s a good boy, it’ll help you grow big and strong.”

“Yes, quite.”

“Tu-rev-a Lesley Vader, are you being trite with me?”

(Uh-oh, Trevor thought, his Mother only used his full name when she was or had begun to get angry).

“No, Mother, I was merely pointing out that at the age of 47 I don’t believe I have much more growing to do.”

“Never mind that, chop chop, or you’ll be late for work. You don’t want to be late for work again, remember what Mr Habogad said to me about your time keeping? If you’re late once more this week, he’ll have to inform your supervisor.”

Trevor sighed; he hated it when his Mother was right. He hated porridge and he hated when his Mother was right. He said goodbye to his Mother, stooped to collect his boots and as he passed the front room said good bye to his Father. An unintelligible grunt was the reply that emanated from the darkened room.

He collected his door key from the dish next to the phone and made his way into the porch area where he sat and began to put on his skates.

Trevor had never been able to master the fine art of driving and as a result he had recently taken to roller skating into work as his road racer bicycle had another puncture on it.

Trevor didn’t mind skating to work. The yellow and orange Fisher Price skates had two positives that his bicycle did not. Firstly, he didn’t have to take his boots off as the skates clipped on over them and secondly he no longer had to worry about his cloak becoming entwined in the greasy gears of his bicycle.

Trevor left the house with real purpose that morning, he felt good about the day. Having managed to successfully side step having to consume his Mother’s granite like porridge he felt certain that the day would go well.

Close calls

Trevor always took the same route to work, the clocking-in machine on the wall by the staff canteen almost called out to him, like there was some kind of shared force drawing the two together.

Today was no different, as he was acutely aware from the robust Casio wrist watch attached to his arm (with stop watch and five separate alarms) he had only 7 minutes to get to work. He tucked his cloak into the back of his utility belt and attempted to assume the position of a downhill skier as he teetered over the brow of the hill at the summit of his road.

At first, his Fisher Price skates, seemed to not wish to create the break neck speeds he was usually capable of reaching most mornings. Some with less trust in their equipment would have given up and attempted a mock ice-skaters push-off. Trevor knew better than this, he waited patiently as his skates began to roll ever so slowly down the start of the mammoth paved gradient.

They began to pick up speed, and he soon found he was flashing past parked cars and neighbours as he sped without fear or reproach towards the by-pass at the bottom of his road.

All vehicles usually aired on the side of caution and came to a stop at the junction to the by-pass, for many articulated lorries used lane one to navigate their way to the local ferry port.

Trevor, on the other hand, part man, part machine held no fear of death via a thirty seven tonne eighteen wheeler baring a load of granite and adult nappies. Trevor had a confidence never before seen on shoulders so senior.

He traversed the junction with style, panache and daring. Cruising out into the rush hour traffic at a ground speed of 56 miles per hour. All seemed to have gone well, he had joined the traffic, picked a lane and was close to taking hold of a nearby artic when matters took a distinct turn for the worse.

Unbeknownst to Trevor, his cape had become loose and was flapping precariously close to the tail light of a large haulage truck in the adjacent lane. All too suddenly his cape snagged on a sharp edged corner of the trucks offside brake light. There was little Trevor could do, as the Truck joined the fast lane and began to pick up speed. Spinning a helpless Trevor round, he now faced the oncoming traffic as he swung his arms around violently like a humming bird with no sense of shame.

There he was forced to stay for the next six miles.

Needless to say, Trevor was 45 minutes late for work that morning.

The Salad Bar

Trevor was a highly trained Grade 1 shelf replenishment assistant, monetary handling operative and also worked on occasions in the salad bar.

Trevor was fortunate enough to have gained employment at his local Sainsbury’s.

Today, unluckily for him, the salad bar was in pandemonium, both Tracy and Shazney had forgotten to inform the management that they were both attending their “anti-natal for under achievers” classes that day.

Subsequently, Trevor was plucked from the biscuits and crackers aisle and thrust into the blinding lights of the salad counter.

How Trevor hated to work behind the salad counter. Continually having to spoon new vegetable concoctions into the mouths of eager senior citizens as they wished to sample the latest in Sainsbury’s side bowl salads. He shuddered at the thought, as he disinfected his black gloves and placed a ridiculously under sized hat over his gleaming black helmet.

For the next four hours he remained elbow deep in brightly coloured remnants of what appeared to have been some kind of horrific vegetable war.

After what felt like a life time, Malcolm, from the Fish counter arrived stating he was doing the afternoon shift in the salad counter.

Trevor skulked off into the warehouse towards the staff cafeteria, muttering under his breath, picking morsels of cucumber from the edge of his gloves.

He hated the salad bar.

Lunchtime blues

Trevor made his way up the dimly lit staircase, dragging his large imperial boots over each metal edged step.

Trevor had come to hate lunchtimes at work as well. He used to enjoy them, but since he had throttled the fresh meat counters manager with a death grip and tossed him from the roof after losing a game of cards, he had found that he had been somewhat ostracized.

A hushed silence fell upon the cafeteria as Trevor entered. How he despised the segregation that was ever present between the checkout staff and the grocery staff.

Since the aforementioned incident, Trevor had been relegated to eating his lunch in a small darkened musty room at the end of the cafeteria just by the coke machine or the staff smoking room as it had been more aptly titled.

Although the smoke within the room played havoc with Trevor’s respiratory systems, he would often spend almost his entire unpaid food break in there. Where he would share stories of his colourful and somewhat chequered past with Marcus and Lupa (the two heaviest smokers that worked at the store).

The other reason Trevor favoured the smoking room for lunch hour was that he was able to eat his rather unusual sustenance unmolested.

Isosceles, Equilateral and Scalene shaped food

Due to Trevor’s unusual head adornment he did find that he suffered when it came to selecting favourable food stuffs.

Essentially, he had discovered that the only types of food he could fit through the fine filter at the front of his black helmet were all triangular.

This meant that Trevor’s lunch consisted of…

shortly followed by…

then normally…

and…

then…

Not as square a meal as Trevor’s mother would have preferred, but close enough.

Homeward bound

After toiling at work all day, in the storage warehouse, Trevor returned home, via the safer option of roller skating upon the pavement. A task he found immensely more difficult than it should have been due to the high winds and pouring rain.

Stumbling precariously through the porch door into the pot plant filled entrance hall, Trevor pulled the skates from his aching feet. He re-checked his Casio wrist watch, and discovered that despite the wet conditions he had managed to achieve his third best return time from work. He made a mental note to record this in his diary before he went to bed.

Trevor, pulled his key from his utility belt and cursed the day his Uncle Angus had gifted him the rabbit’s ear that now hung from it. He had never been able to question him about the reasons behind him receiving a rabbit’s ear for good luck rather than the normal and more widely accepted rabbit’s foot. Although to his recollection, upon his Mother’s insistence, he had still sent a hand written thank you letter.

Board of games

Since Trevor could remember, Christmas 1974, he had always enjoyed playing board games. To be fair, his original enjoyment of some of the games, was not the taking part but the winning.

His Mother had always attempted to instill in him, the well known saying of, It's not the winning, it's the taking part that counts. But Trevor was all to aware of the relative truth that only the losers Mothers told them that so they wouldn't feel so dispirited by the mocking shouts of the actual winners.

A regular domestic routine for his Father and him upon his return home from work was game of cards, battleships or chess. Although recently the games Trevor was willing to play had dwindled slightly.

Over the past months, Trevor had noted that his Father was what he would regard as somewhat of a demon card player. No matter what game they played, whether it was snap, poker or trumps, he always seemed one step ahead of him. It was perplexing to say the least, even to a man as well educated as Trev. (He went to RADA, for christ's sake!)

Trevor soon saw the light though, literally. Whilst flossing his teeth one morning he took exception to the amount of glare he was getting reflected from the front of his helmet. It was then that it struck him. Not his helmet, the realisation that his helmet was so highly polished that its surface was very similar to the mirror he was stood in front of.

The following evening’s card games confirmed this for Trevor, with his Father's continual glances at Trevor's down turned head. Needless to say they did not play cards again, or Battleships. Which was a real shame because Trevor had the highly collectable Battlestar Gallatica set.

They now, instead, settled for chess. I say chess, they did in fact use the chess pieces to play draughts. Although more often than not a great number of their pitched battles would end in a stalemate as both were hugely competitive.

His evening was usually concluded when Newsnight came on, for Trevor could not stand to watch his older and apparently more successful brother on television so this was normally his opportunity to slip off to bed.

Once changed into his jammies, he would glide into bed, although at the moment it was more of a yoga-type-fold to negotiate entry into his Sister's minuscule bed. Once settled, as well as he could be, he would drift off to sleep, occasionally jerking body parts as he dreamt of days gone by.

Aggravation

It gripes when you spend two hours sorting out an entry, and go to the trouble of spell checking it. Then opt to move all the text into a word document so that it can be spell checked in an English dictionary rather than a Yankie doodle dictionary which appears to remove every u and s to leave them out or replace them with an extra o or a z. To then find that when the whole thing is placed back in blogger the links to the pictures have all been spirited away.

/ sigh /

Patience, a virtue I am beginning to wish I had more of.

A Dog's Life

I'm aware there's been a slight leave of absence, but I always like to think it's the quantity not the quality that counts.

The next few entries may well appear in a rag tag kind of order, it's merely artistic licence rather than my inability to recall events in a coordinated order.

Park Life

The following is a mainly pictorial record of how a recent day's exercise went with Barley, Briggsy's dog.

Things of note:

Barley is a girl.
Barley likes finding Tennis balls.
Barley likes finding anything that can then be thrown for her.
Barley likes swimming.
Barley likes digging.
Barley whimpers if she's not doing one of the above.

Inactivity is not an option.

My mission objective was - WEAR THE PUPPY OUT.

The day started rather ominously. Upon arrival at the park the clouds were low and dark and hinted at rain threatening later. Fortunately we both had our coats on.

First off, there was some tennis ball chucking, for about twenty minutes the ball flew across the large open space only to be brought back within 20 seconds, for me throw again. I began to realise that this was not going to be as easy as I had foolishly hoped.

Next we headed for water.

I say we, in actual fact on one of my last throws, Barley opted to return the ball via the nearby lake.

And so began the episode we shall refer to as chucking the ball in the water.

* NB * by now my left arm was two thirds longer than my right, and Barley looked like this -

After almost a half hours worth of swimming we returned to the car. At this point it should be noted that Barley was looking a tad panicky. At the start of the morning I had promised her a full workout, and as we headed back towards the car park I noticed Barley began to trail behind.

How her face re-energised when I swapped the tennis ball for my bicycle.

* A point of note for any new dog owners * this does not mean I then threw my bicycle for Barley to collect. That would be fool hardy and dangerous, plus I don't believe Barley would be able to negotiate the racing gear levers without any opposable thumbs making hill climbs very difficult.

We began with earnest, to circumnavigate the perimeter of the park, deviating from our route only when the path cut back into the park or when I couldn't physically lift my bicycle over anymore small wooden railings.

Sometimes we sprinted, sometimes we travelled at a rather more sedate speed, and on a couple of occasions one of us kept watch for joggers while the other went for a wee in the leaves near big oak trees.

As we began to turn back towards the car park area of the park, we stopped for some more ball throwing within a large copse of trees that provided some shelter from the now bitterly cold wind. Whilst there Barley opted to dig -

So engrossed were we in our digging, Barley with her paws and me with my bucket and spade, I almost failed to notice a Stag and doe nearby that had wandered over to see what was causing such a flurry of mud and grass tufts to scatter into the air.

This Stag was called John and had interests in ornithology, the Catholic Church between the 17th and 18th century and eating grass roots.

The weather seemed to have cleared and the only suggestion of what was to come was the howling wind that was beginning to push menacing clouds across the sky towards the park.

The following photo took about 27 attempts, the other 26 consist of a tree stump and a flash of white paw jumping out of shot -

A Stormy Exit

It was shortly after this photo that the weather decided to end our day outside.

The clouds over head stopped moving past quite so quickly and the wind dropped to a light breeze. There followed a moment when both Barley and I paused to look up at the sky.

There then began light rain which very swiftly escalated to heavy rain and climaxed in a downfall of monsoon proportions.

So heavy was the downpour that on our route back to the car, Barley was running ahead to sit in the dried brown bracken either side of the path to shelter from the rain. Until I neared her position at which time she would run ahead again to find another suitable port from the storm.

By the time we got back to the car, the car park was empty.

I opened the door for Barley and in she hopped. I ran round to my side and opened my door, only to have a small pug dog jump in and sit down in the driver’s seat.

Bemused I scanned the park for a dog walker as drenched as me.

From the cover of a nearby tree, there emerged a very apologetic lady calling out the name Archie. The pug dog hesitated before jumping from the protection of my car, before scampering off towards it’s owner.

I climbed in and squelched down onto my now soaked chair and we sat in the car both shivering and sopping wet awaiting the welcome heat of the cars blower heater things.

Upon our return home, we both washed and then dried ourselves with the hair dryer. Taking turns to comb each others hair to get the twigs, leaves and mud out.

At the end of the day I believe I achieved my aim, albeit at the cost of my own energy as well.

We were both cream crackered and slept very well that night.

On the other hand

I recently had the pleasure of enjoying a drink with two of the good guys from work. The drink was originally offered to all in sundry that work on the team but it was rudely rejected by most and those that remained, feared the potentially good night that was planned. That diminished the numbers to just D and me.

Whilst sounding out another colleague about his plans for that evening, he very graciously picked up on my thinly veiled plead and invited D and myself along to his plans. It therefore resulted in the trio of D, T and I guzzling our way through countless pints of Pride and entertaining many varied subjects of conversation.

It should be noted that many of the topics that are discussed at a time of complete intoxication, when the bar seems suitable to support your now slouched frame and the simple becomes the nigh on impossible, are usually important and pristine visions of a possible future for all man kind.

And then at other times the absurdly ridiculous becomes a point of fascination.

This occasion swung more wildly and more heavily towards the second of these two types of dialogue. I am not certain who first introduced the following subject and even if my beer quaffing blurred brain could recall whom it was I don’t feel it would be appropriate to repeat it in their absence.

The concluding line of an amusing anecdote told by one of us ended with the words “and the fingers on one of his hands was shorter than the other!”At which point D offered the following small nugget of random trivia “You know Jeremy Beadle’s only got half a hand. I mean he’s got stumpy fingers on one hand.” Both T and I agreed this was something we had noticed when he was still a popular entity on television many moons ago.

It was at this point that the conversation became slightly confused, due mainly to two factors. T’s partner, L, approached so he began to talk with her and secondly D was already sh1t faced so the conversation so far had been a minor miracle.

I still felt I had something to add to the subject of“freaky small handedness” so I offered the small utterance of “You know D, Chris Tarrant has a Beadlehand as well.” D turned to me in his drunken stupour, “Really?!”“Oh yes“, said I, “have you not noticed how he always used to sort of sit on one of his hands while he did W.W.T.B.A.Millionaire.”

“No, no I hadn’t. Really?!”

“Ask T, he’s a man of the world, he would probably know.”

“Hang on," said D. "Are you having me on?”

“No not at all, ask T”

“No, wait a minute, you are having me on. Is L’s last name Tarrant.”(A mental leap which I assume was obvious to D at the time.)

“What? No, just ask him.”

And so with a mildly humorous inevitability D turned to T and L, interrupted their conversation and asked

“L-is-your-last-name-Tarrant?”

L, “Err no.”

D towards T “T, did you know Chris Tarrant had a Beadle hand?”

I could do nothing more than stand behind D furiously crying with laughter as T shot me a bemused look as he tried to fathom what direction the conversation had taken since his presence in it moments before.

“He. Tarrant. What the? Milky what did you tell him?”

I shared my knowledge of Mr Tarrant’s limbs with T to which he replied “Really, I hadn’t noticed.” (he’s a little more trusting and less dramatic than D). I then pushed the boat out with my big finish of “And Tony Head, the actor who plays the Prime Minister in Little Britain has a Beadle hand as well.”

“The Prime Minister?” echoed D.

“Yep.”

“Really?! I’ll have to watch that again now.”

The whole night consisted of numerous conversations between the three of us which all essentially sounded like this. It was a good evening despite the lack lustre turn-out which D and T more than made up for.

I also seem to remember that the Live band were extremely good, if you’re ever in Twickenham on a Friday night and fancy listening to a decent guitar band playing songs by The Killers, ‘Phonics, U2, Kaiser Chiefs and the like, then set your sites towards the Twickenham Tup.

I enjoyed it and you just might.