Boom boom boom boom boom boom boom.

Not Basil Brush at a rave – another little chav in a Saxo pumping out low frequencies at me while he sits around waiting for the lights nearby to change.

Thanks a cocking bunch you selfish little anus, I’m glad I spent a small fortune on a decent home cinema setup.

I should try to find a DVD of “Stockport By Night”(if such a thing exists) so that I can fully relax and immerse myself in the quality of the sound emanating from all around me, willingly suspend my disbelief and bask in the glorious quality of my audio gear -”it’s so good you can almost feel the bass from a scrote driving past in a small shit car with some 16 year old mother of 3″, “the realism is amazing”.

‘spose the only consolation is that they’ll be deaf in later life and thinking on I should maybe get some Dylan-esque cards made up with a series of expletives on so that I can continue to bait them when the time comes.

…and a spare for Bob Dylan while we’re on the subject. Sounds like a stoned bee trapped in a drainpipe. Yes, I’m sure his lyrics are mindblowing and inspirational but he bores me to tears.

If you want to hear some dull old pisswit bang on about the state of things, just check back here instead. Quicker, quieter, less nasal and much more to the point.

I feel better now.

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