i have drunk many-a wine and beer and cognac with bloated liver impunity. i have smoked and fucked and shrugged, unshaven and rumpled and now dear sirs i am back refreshed and enlightened and ready to foam and cuss and type drunkenly and (il)logicaly unt

well on the inside at least. just not in real life, tragic boating accident, orange in mouth, tess’ favourite stockings wrapped round his swanlike neck, paroxysms of orgasm and death shudders wracking his right bobby dazzler rangy fleshsack.

oh sweet jeebus the endtimes are a-knocking at my door, sordid and well hung, stinking of semen and ozone. i’m wet, on scabbed knees, praying for that big fucking bang. i want those cern bastards smashing particle beams like porno supersymmetryists

i cut my teeth on touch & go and dischord and amphetamine reptile and as sure as kenyans love machetes that’s what it sounds like. i hope nobody would be offended if i mentioned sleater kinney (with boys) or sonic youth or fugazi or helmet

the new mothlite record in which i described it as “aurally seducing me to a gibbering moist wreck” (no hyperbole here you understand) i had a brief opportunity to gibber moistly in the direction of daniel o’sullivan, one half of the mothlite beast.

so basically if yr interested in self-mutilating cartoon animals with an odd abstract pop art feel and vaguely rock aural attention deficit recordings then this is monkeystabbingly ideal.

black vinyl. nine tracks. white label. sticker. that’s it. it’s the dirtbombs. you need know no more.