We have deputised all the coat hooks and the coal scuttle.

Of course you can't make a mountain out of a molehill. I've got your shovel, what are you going to use, a spoon? Pathetic. That's what I told him but he would not believe a word of it. Off he goes in his little twaty hat, spoon slung over his shoulder and a jaunty whistle on his dumb twat lips. What can he expect to happen, honestly? That there will be a field with so many molehills in it he can scrape them all together to form a mountain? What will the moles say? Of course, he might be trying to attract a giant mole so that he can dig to San Tropez, where I hear someone owes him money.

Despite this, we got the new Car Crash played on the radio again! And of course we missed it! I tried to use the BBC radio listen back thing to hear what Mr Walton, for it was his show, had to say, but the Beeb had obviously employed a crack addicted snake for recording purposes that night because after half an hour it all descends into endless aggressive sheet metal hisses.

We should be playing some gigs soon, provisionally one supporting the Kings of Despair on the 26th of January in the No Sign Wine Bar on Wind Street, and another in the Tavern supporting Satori at a date yet to be confirmed. I suppose if I call Satori Fleet Command, they will tell me. That is what I will do then, when I get back from work. I'm telling you so that you will remind me. Because you're thoughtful like that.

There he is now, covered in mud and moles, look they're biting him and he is rolling on the floor trying to squash them. Everyone knows you can't squash a mole! They're made out of sponge! Ha ha ha, look he's bleeding and crying, bleeding because of the bites and crying because of the shame! Bitten by a flock of moles! Ha ha ha ha ha.