I'd just made myself a brown sauce sandwich on brown bread. Two mouthfuls in I smiled, placed the sandwich down on my favourite brown plate and typed in my Twitter username and password into the relevant fields.


One or two controversial/predictable Tweets from Doug Stanhope about that young chap in America who terminated them young women for not getting off with him. Everyone from Mixmag hyping one another up MASSIVELY and showing off. My dear friends at Defected enjoying themselves in Ibiza. Me being nice and promoting others over my own. Everyone from Mixmag having a lovely time in Ibiza and showing off about it. Ran$om Note notes about brilliant things I've never heard of and beautifully written articles. A picture of Ania and Shabs from Channel 4 Drugs Live exploring a Brixton nightclub without me that made me feel sad. Attack Magazine posting seven page articles about drum machines. More pictures of my chums at Defected partying all night long in Ibiza without me. Announcements from junior Mixmag staff about their impending arrival in Paris for a dance festival I'd not been invited to, let alone heard of. Pittsburgh Track Authority in Detroit. De-fucking-De-fucking-troit without me.

I forced the rest of my brown sauce sandwich into my mouth and went cross-eyed with rage. Gagging on a brown sauce sandwich and violently shaking my shoulders, I put my fist through the black Samsung laptop that sat there laughing at me, smashing a hole through the display screen just wide enough for me to put my other fist through. After that, I spat on the keyboard, head-butted the Backspace key and then head-butted the F, U, C, K, O, F and F keys before screaming like a dog klaxon at the mirror on my ceiling, shattering it on purpose and using the shards of glass to scratch at the remains of the laptop display screen. I did not want to see any more holiday photos of people at Mixmag and Defected. I did not want to read any more pretentious ramblings from Andrew Fucking Ryce, that bloke who used to do Minimal Messages and Todd L Burns. I did not want to see Viz scanning the entire contents of their current edition after I'd already bought it. I did not want to see. You know? Do you? Do ya?

Every drop of bile in my body came out of my eyes as I folded myself up onto my brown kitchen floor and cried, desperately trying to swallow the crusts of my brown sauce sandwich with shattered glass, bits of laptop and bitter memories surrounding my sorry, sat down body.

Even for a shop, I thought enviously to myself, that Defected shop on Brick Lane was fucking commercial. Still, I got loads of free Red Stripe out of it and it was a chance to catch up with my great pals at the label. That thought cheered me up no end so I went to the shops in Northolt, bought myself a brand new black Samsung laptop and Tweeted about it.

I'm writing this post with a cup of tea in one hand, a Tesco split pot strawberry yoghurt in the other, Black Mahogani on the stereo and a pair of dotty socks on my feet. Does life get any better?

What a return to form that post was, eh? Be sure to come back next week for either MASSIVE QUESTIONS with ANNE SAVAGE, an exciting announcement, the second Monthly Review of Dance Music podcast or MASSIVE QUESTIONS with SOUL CLAP. I'm not sure which one of those it'll be yet so please bear with me. Thank you.

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