Believe it or not, I have just returned from an afternoon spent forraging for wild berries.  No, that is not a metaphor for some kind of sordid, communal sex gathering but merely a pre-cursor for an evening of, how can I put this? Chutney making?  These are truly regrettable times indeed when the simple description of the preparation of a tangy, fruit based preserve cannot be made without conjuring nightmarish images of dimly lit public facilities.  Anyway, I digress...

I am currently cocooned in womb-like comfort at my family home in rural Aberdeenshire where I am recovering from a particularly painful fractured rib. Or was it heart? I'm still trying to work that one out actually.  However, the Lourdes-esque healing powers of simple pleasures such as home-made sweet potato soup and showering with adequate water pressure cannot be under-estimated and are already going a long way to help fuse together my broken bones (and organs).

Self-restoration apart, this Zeppelin III style escape to the country is also serving as a welcome break from the rigours of contemporary urban exictence.  Despite my interest in Tolkein having plateaued somewhat since an exhaustive viewing of "The Return of the King's" comprehensive DVD extras, I am nevetheless, a firm believer that periodic immersion in bucolic surroundings can only good for the soul. And heart. And ribs?

While Page and Plant used the countryside's idyllic surroundings as dubious inspiration for their mostly lamentable (yet pompously enjoyable) foray into the world of Prog-folk, work on Nacional's debut continues to (hopefully) strike more relevant notes.  With the "Mother" himself, Sam Smith guiding us with the aura of an 18-30 rep leading a group of coked up, breezer swilling lads from Guildford to the happy hour at the "Prince William" pub in Magaluf, I am more confident than ever that the finished product will in fact not be shit.

On the live front, the dust has just about settled on our triumphant gig at King Tuts last Saturday when,  for the first time in our careers we were handed clean, fluffy white towels at the end of the show. As I dabbed at the perspiration on my brow with the fabric softened material I couldnt help feeling a little bit like Bono.

Well, due to the glaring fact that this chutney is by no means going to make itself, I'm heading downstairs to the kitchen to spend the next few hours sweating while leaning over a hot stove... 

Viva Fox Hunting!

Jamie x