Right, I'm Curly Wurly'd up, watching Blue Peter and ready to roar. Yep, Its your favourite cheeky chappy drummer, Phil Collins. Alwight, I'm shit I am, oi oi watch your pockets, I'll ave em - little bit whoa little bit whey - oi oi missus, get me a fax machine, you're dumped -

What a cock. Phil Collins. Sorry there people, off to the Church next week, but these possessions just keep coming. I'll be working at my desk one minute, minding my own business, then I'll jump up and start singing in this fucking god awful voice that isn't my own - singing about something coming in the air tonight and not hurrying love. All a bit suspect, but then I say something, and all that comes out is projectile fucking shit, spewing to the far wall. Its bloody horrible. There's no trigger though, the guys at work try to pin me down and tape a pampaers onto my face, but by the time they jump to my aid, Devil Phil has moved on to some other poor wretched soul.

Still, could be worse. My mate gets Sting. Self righteous cunt. As for Sting...Fuck it, he's a cock too.

See, this is why I never write here, I had good intentions - honest - I was going to talk about the last gig, and what we're doing at the moment, then my fingers take over, and I have no control.

I apologise, I do. Well, until Brown comes back

Toodle pip!