Wet knees, caves of treasure

It doesn’t matter which way it works. There is so much madness to listen to – its unlikely that you coincide unless its the magic times when we all sing in tune, when we all buy the album, when we discuss each track and the way it fades out or the saxophone.

I think most of us are in the grit with ours knees wet, sieving though a valley of gold – finding rubies and gems, in random orders, making our own caves of treasure.

I get annoyed when people try and discredit someone’s favourite songs – hearing peoples eyes drop and seeing the embarrassment, the cunt looking all smug and ‘who has the power now.’ fuCK THat. because I believe in the weird collections and the strange assortments, no sleeve notes but just the history in your head, the mother fucking drunk busker living in your speaker box.