What could be a better start to an album than a hearty cry of COFFEE!

Looks like Wifeswap spawned a whole new range of these household documentaries. Where we take a peek into Joe Blogg’s home and watch ‘people like us’, as opposed to the nutters on Big Brother. Or so I thought. Personal Services Required … just where do they find these people? Did they advertise in Nouveau Chav magazine?

RUSSIANS!

What an intro!

At long last! Something new from Belfast’s bestest electropopsters! Quick, everyone gather round and adore this band! If you like synths and perfect pop songs, you will love this. No really, you bloody well will.

I think I am addicted to weeklies. It all started quite innocently with fishing out a copy of Love It! Magazine to read in the bath. Next was Take A Break, followed by Real People and there isn’t an end in sight.

… so how can you beat it?

Sounds helpful enough, doesn’t it?

Keep reading …

Up until now I didn’t even know this venue existed. Looks like the evil Barfly people are expanding left, right and centre. The venue is okay, if a little small and the sound is abysmal. Mind you, never trust a sound engineer with dreadlocks.

I'll begin with the promotional literature because it left me fairly confused. In a bid to be whimsically clever it manages to tell me nothing about the band except that they dislike Bono and Johnny Borrell and (presumably) they hate writing biographies. Don't we all, but this doesn't give you carte blanche to write something as bad as this:

Superman Revenge Squad is one man, formerly half of Nosferatu D2, formerly a third of Tempertwig, so clearly worthy of attention. One man and a guitar is generally not the most arresting of things musically and even the best songsmiths can be rendered dull and empty by the process, but SRS avoids this somehow.

Christmas! The time where most people visit their parents for the holidays. Like some twisted new episode of Back To The Future, we end up in our former bedrooms. Only that they’re no longer our bedrooms. No time was wasted to transform the bunkbedded, postered havens of our childhood into guestrooms (but why. Parents’ visitors don’t stay over night, do they?). Mine’s now ‘the library’. Even the bed has gone. I am reduced to sleeping on the sofa in my own bloody room.